On Being a Welcoming Inclusive Community

A D’var Torah by congregant Ariel Gold
15 Iyar 5786 (Saturday, May 2, 2026)

At the end of Parshat Emor is a jarring story: an unnamed man—born to an Israelite mother and an Egyptian father—is denied a place among his mother’s tribe. In pain and frustration, he curses the Divine, and for that, he is stoned to death by the community.

This story in Emor brings a central question into sharp focus: Who belongs? Who is left out? Who counts, who doesn’t—and it isn’t just ancient history. The inside-outside barriers we read in that story in Emor still echo today.

For example, let us consider Beta Israel—the Ethiopian Jewish community. Today, over 140,000 Ethiopian Jews live in Israel, most having been brought in daring rescue operations like Operation Moses in 1984 and Operation Solomon in 1991.

Yet the miracle of their rescue has been marred by the pain of prejudice and exclusion. Despite strict adherence to Halakah, many were required upon arrival to convert; women reported being given long-term contraceptive shots, and until 1996, it was the official policy of the state to discard blood donated by the Beta Israel community. 

The consequences are stark: Ethiopian Israelis today face incarceration rates 760% higher than their share of the population.

Unemployment remains much higher for them than for other Israelis, and their average household income is about 30% lower. These are not just numbers—they are stories of families, hopes, and heartbreak.

The Israelite community in Dimona, Southern Israel, which many here at Ahavas SHalom are connected to, has struggled for decades for recognition and inclusion. While many have been able to obtain citizenship, others—despite living in Israel for decades, despite being born and raised there—only hold the status of temporary resident. In both 2021 and 2023, deportation orders were issued to dozens despite the community’s entire lives being rooted in the land of Israel and Torah. 

Of course, it is not just an Israeli problem. Here in the U.S., 80% of Jews of Color—Black, Asian, Latino, multiracial Jews—report that they are asked in Jewish spaces intrusive, insulting questions about their Jewishness. Sometimes it is assumed that they are guests or nannies.

The black Jews in my own family have experienced this firsthand. We at Ahavas Shalom have experienced this and rejected it fully, something that makes me so proud to be a member.

All these stories—from the Beta Israel, to the Israelites of Dimona, to Jews of Color in the U.S.—point to a single, painful truth: that there can be gaps between our tradition’s ideals and our actions. Exclusion isn’t just about numbers or bad manners—it’s about justice.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, one of the most influential Jewish thinkers of our time, drew powerful lessons from Parshat Emor about leadership and moral responsibility. When our leaders, he says—be they presidents, prime ministers, or even rabbis—sin, it is not just a personal failing. Their actions have communal and spiritual consequences: either sanctifying God’s name (Kiddush Hashem) or desecrating it (Chillul Hashem), and Rabbi Elazar ben Azaria, of the 1st century, taught that Chillul Hashem is such a serious transgression that it cannot be atoned for by words or rituals alone.

Holiness requires courage and compassion—bringing justice off the page and into our lives. Maimonides taught that our everyday actions—how we treat others and how we speak—can either honor or desecrate God’s name. So I challenge all of us to think about the ways that we might be erecting boundaries that unjustly keep people out. Where do we let bias creep in?

Each of us has experienced moments of welcome and moments of exclusion. When have you felt truly included? When have you—or someone you love—felt pushed aside? How did those moments shape your sense of connection? What can each of us do to help every person feel they belong?

Reflecting on these questions leads us to a simple but profound imperative: Let us build communities where all are truly welcomed and valued.

Justice means opening our tent, acting in the tradition of Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heshel taught, who spoke of his crossing of the bridge from Selma to Montgomery with Dr. King as “praying with his feet.” And we must also think beyond just our Jewish communities, as Parshat Emor also includes the commandment: “There shall be one law for the citizen and for the stranger who dwells among you, for I, the Eternal, am your God.”

Let us answer our tradition’s call—not with empty words, but with bold action, by praying with our feet. May we build communities grounded in justice and holiness, places where all are truly welcomed and valued, where belonging and dignity replace indifference and exclusion, where Kiddush Hashem, the sanctification of God’s name, is practiced at all times.

Let us make our shul—a community that is the most diverse and welcoming I have ever experienced—a shining example for synagogues across the United States and Jewish communities here, in Israel, and everywhere in the world. May others look to Ahavas Shalom and see what is possible when we have the courage to live our highest values and the spirit of our Torah.