Try again, you’re allowed to!

Parashat Behaalotecha, 2026

Last week’s parashah, Behaalotecha, contains one of the most tender and hopeful teachings in the whole Torah: the institution of Pesach Sheni, the Second Passover. And that is why I want to speak about that today, instead of the portion we’ve heard. Well, partly it’s that, but partly it’s because different traditions read different portions this week – so you get to have the best of all worlds.

A group of Israelites come to Moses with a problem: they were unable to bring the Passover offering at its proper time because they had become ritually impure through contact with the dead. They do not deny what has happened, and they do not pretend that they were ready when they were not. They simply ask, with remarkable honesty: “Why should we be kept from bringing the offering of the Eternal at its appointed time among the Israelites?”

In other words: must one missed opportunity become a permanent exclusion? Just because we were not able to take part then, are we to be left outside for ever?

Moses does not answer immediately. He says, “Stand and listen; I will hear what the Eternal commands concerning you.” And God’s answer is brilliant. Those who were unable to observe Pesach at the proper time are given another chance, one month later. Not a lesser festival. Not a token gesture. Not a grudging exception. A real opportunity to participate, and to remember liberation.

There is something remarkably compassionate about Pesach Sheni, that shows that sometimes the door that seemed closed was not locked after all.

We live, all of us, with missed moments. Words we should have spoken, apologies we delayed, family members we did not call, and chances we let pass us by because we were frightened, distracted, proud, tired, ashamed, or simply not ready. There are times when life itself makes participation impossible: grief, illness, confusion, or plenty of other circumstances beyond our control. And there are other times when we know, perhaps painfully so, that we could have done better.

The Torah does not pretend that time does not matter. Pesach has its appointed season. Moments do pass. Choices have consequences. But Pesach Sheni teaches that a missed first chance need not be the end of the story. The question is not only, “why were you absent?” but also, “do you still want to come close?”

The people who receive the chance for Pesach Sheni are not passive. They actively come forward, and they ask. They long to be included, so their desire itself becomes the beginning of repair. They teach us that redemption often begins with the courage to say: I missed it, but I still want to be part of it; I was distant, but I want to return. I was not able then; but perhaps I am able now.

Later in the same parashah, we encounter another story of exclusion and return: Miriam’s illness and healing. Miriam speaks against Moses and is stricken with a skin affliction. She is placed outside the camp for seven days. It really is a painful scene. Miriam, the prophetess who led the women in song at the Sea, who helped carry the people’s hope through the wilderness, now finds herself isolated.

But the response is deeply moving. The people do not abandon her, nor do they do not continue the journey without her. The text tells us that the people did not march on until Miriam was brought back in.

There is discipline here, but there is also loyalty. There is consequence, but also restoration. Miriam is not reduced for ever to the worst thing she has done. She is given time outside the camp, but the camp waits for her return.

That detail is something I think is super important. A community shaped by Torah must know how to hold people accountable without casting them away. It must know the difference between consequence and cruelty. Miriam needs healing, and the people need her back. The story is not complete until she returns.

Together, Pesach Sheni and Miriam’s healing offer us a clear theology of second chances. They tell us that holiness is not only found in getting everything right the first time. Holiness is also found in return, in repair, in asking again, in waiting for the wounded to heal, in making space for those who were absent, impure, ashamed, or outside the camp.

There is a profound Jewish realism here. We are not angels! We fail one another, miss sacred appointments, speak wrongly, waste and lose time, and we wander off course - but Judaism refuses to let failure have the final word. The path of teshuvah, of return, remains open.

And so the message of Behaalotecha is gentle and maybe a little demanding. Gentle, because it tells us: it is not too late. Demanding, because it asks us: what will you do with the second chance you are given?

Perhaps there is someone to whom we owe an apology. Perhaps there is a practice we have neglected, a relationship we have allowed to weaken, a part of ourselves we have exiled. Perhaps we have been waiting for permission to begin again.

This week, the Torah gives that permission.

The God of Israel is not only the God of first chances, perfect timing, and unbroken devotion. God is also the God of the second month, the delayed offering, the healing prayer, the waiting camp, and the road back home.

We need to have the courage to ask for another chance. We need to have the generosity to offer one when asked. And we need to learn, again and again, that redemption is still possible, forgiveness is still possible, and the journey does not move on until there is room for us to return.

Shabbat shalom.