Not long ago, in an exchange about the Torah portions Acharei Mot–Kedoshim, Adam and I discussed the following question that is still echoing in my mind: “Do you think modern communities do enough to help people return from their ‘wilderness moments’?”
It’s a question worth holding for a while.
We know the wilderness well in our tradition. It’s the place where Israel wandered, lost and disoriented. A place of testing and trial, but also of revelation. Sinai happened in the wilderness, not in the comfort of a promised land. Elijah found God not in the fire or the storm, but in the still small voice, alone, broken, and afraid in the desert.
So, what does it mean for someone today to find themselves in such a wilderness?
It might be grief. Or shame. Or addiction. A moment of spiritual dislocation. A crisis in a relationship. A political or moral misstep. Or simply a slow, quiet drift away from the centre of community life. And often, the real pain isn’t the wilderness itself. It’s the sense that no one is waiting for you at the edge of it.
In ancient Israel, the scapegoat carried the people’s sins into the wilderness and was never meant to return. But we are not goats. And our tradition doesn’t end in Leviticus. It journeys through the prophets and into rabbinic Judaism, where repentance, teshuvah, is not only possible but essential. As the High Holy Day liturgy reminds us, gates of return remain open, even when we are closed off to ourselves.
But here’s the challenge: communities often struggle to embody that. We’re good at welcoming people in. But are we good at helping people back?
Adam made a clever link to the language of cancel culture. We are right, I think, to set boundaries when harm is done. And yes, there are times when stepping away from the centre is necessary for healing, for the individual and the community alike. But exile is not the end of the story. Or it shouldn’t be.
Teshuvah is more than saying “I’m sorry.” It’s about changed behaviour. It’s about building trust again, not just with others, but with ourselves and with God. And for that journey to be possible, there must be a path home.
So, what does a compassionate path back look like?
Perhaps it begins with not pretending to be surprised when people falter. Perhaps it looks like a hand gently extended, not only when someone is crawling back in tears, but even before they know they’ve lost their way. Adam offered a striking parallel. Just as God remained with Israel in the desert, not erasing their missteps, but guiding with a pillar of fire by night and cloud by day, so too might a community become that quiet presence beside someone searching for a way home. Not forcing return. Not abandoning either. It means not locking the gates behind those who step outside the camp, but standing near them, holding a lantern, saying: “When you’re ready, we’re still here.” Teshuvah is personal, but no one should have to walk it alone.
It also means accountability. Not all wounds are private. Some require public acknowledgement. Some paths back are winding and painful. But if we are to reflect the God we pray to, the One who is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and rich in kindness, then surely, we must learn to be the same.
The prophet Micah said, “What does God require of you? To do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God.” Justice and mercy. Not one without the other.
I wonder what it would feel like if every community had a visible way to accompany those in wilderness moments. Not just with slogans or ideals, but with real, lived practices of return. Quiet conversations. Restorative processes. Rituals that don’t erase the past but transform it into something teachable, even holy.
As summer begins, and our own synagogue life ebbs and flows with holidays, exams, and travels, maybe now is a good time to reflect: how can we prepare our own hearts, and our community, to be a place that believes in return? Not naively. Not recklessly. But with the dignity, discipline, and compassion our tradition calls for.
After all, Torah begins in a garden and ends on a mountain overlooking a land not yet entered. But every moment in between is wilderness. And somehow, it’s where we learned who we are.
L’Shalom
Rabbi Adrian
