In our Temple’s foyer stands a powerful symbol of Judaism—one found in synagogues around the world: the Tree of Life.

Synagogues express this symbol in different ways. Ours features leaves engraved with joyful milestones in our congregants' lives: a birth, a b’nai mitzvah, an anniversary, a special birthday. Nestled in its branches are birds bearing the names of Ruth Sherill Award recipients—individuals who have nurtured our community.

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Some synagogues place a verse from Proverbs above the ark: “It is a Tree of Life to those who hold it fast.” Every synagogue, including ours, sings these words during the Torah service as we return the scroll to the ark:

 

“Eitz chayyim hi la-machazikim bah, v’tom’cheha m’ushar. D’racheha darchei no’am, v’chol n’tivoteha shalom.”

“It is a Tree of Life to all who grasp it, and those who hold fast to it are happy. Its ways are ways of pleasantness, and all its paths are peace.” (Proverbs 3:17–18)

 

And yet—if Torah is a Tree of Life, if its ways are pleasant and its paths are peace—why do so many of its stories feel anything but?

Because in Jewish tradition, Etz Chayim—the Tree of Life—has come to symbolize the Torah itself. Torah is the Tree of Life. And yet, as we know, many of its words are far from peaceful—or even pleasant.

 

This tension is not new. For thousands of years, Jews have translated Torah into the vernacular so it could be understood—into Aramaic, into Greek, and into the languages of every generation.

 

But when we translate Torah fully, we come face-to-face with troubling passages: in Genesis, God floods the earth, destroying almost all life; in Numbers and Deuteronomy, there is violence against the inhabitants of Canaan; in Exodus, we encounter pages upon pages detailing the construction of the Tabernacle.

 

These are not the “ways of pleasantness” or the “paths of peace” that Proverbs promises.

In Orthodox Judaism, the entire Torah is read each year, word for word, in Hebrew. In Reform Judaism, we do things differently. Like Sally will do tomorrow as she becomes a bat mitzvah, we select a portion, read it in Hebrew, and offer a translation.

But what do we do with the difficult texts—the ones we would rather not hear aloud?

 

I have wrestled with this myself. I do not like to omit difficult passages. I believe Torah is meant to be heard and grappled with, studied and debated. It is not meant to comfort us—and that, too, is part of its power. We cannot fulfill Rabbi ben Bag Bag’s challenge—“Turn it and turn it, for everything is in it” (Avot 5:26)—if we discard the pieces we find uncomfortable.

 

So how do we respond to texts in Torah that disturb us?

 

We have several options:

 

We can accept them unquestioningly—believing the Torah is perfect, and if something feels wrong, the problem lies with us.

 

We can avoid them—choosing not to read them aloud.

 

We can explain them away—treating them as reflections of an ancient world, like the law in Deuteronomy 22 regarding the rebellious child, a text so extreme that later rabbinic tradition rendered it essentially impossible to carry out.

 

We can omit them entirely—creating a sanitized Torah, stripped of its most difficult passages.

 

We can dismiss them—treating Torah as literature rather than sacred text, because some of its ideas conflict with modern values.

 

Or we can engage with them.

We can read them. Share them. Argue with them. Throughout history, we have confronted misogyny, xenophobia, greed, and abuses of power. These texts do not hide those struggles—they expose them. And in doing so, they invite us to wrestle with the same questions in our own time.

 

This is how we affirm Torah as a living document.

 

Torah is not written to make us comfortable. It is a record of our people’s encounter with holiness—and the demands that encounter places upon us. It is a Tree of Life, not because it is simple or serene, but because it continues to grow with us, challenging us to transform even its hardest truths into paths of pleasantness and peace.

 

This is why we continue to read Torah. Why we interpret it. Why we sometimes argue with it—because our tradition demands moral engagement, not passive acceptance.

 

The alternative is a Torah that is nothing more than ink on a page—a Tree of Life that no longer lives.

So let us hear Torah in all its fullness. Let us turn it and turn it, from generation to generation. And may it lead us back to God:

 

Hashiveinu Adonai eilecha v’nashuvah, chaddeish yameinu k’kedem.
Return us to You, Adonai, and we shall return.

Renew our days as of old. (Lamentations 5:21)

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