Shabbat Shalom from Camp Interlaken.

This week’s Torah portion, Pinchas, gives us one of the most powerful phrases in Jewish life: brit shalom — a covenant of peace.

At camp, peace is an interesting word.

Camp is not quiet. Camp is not calm in the way people usually imagine peace. Camp is singing in the Chadar Ochel, cheering on the courts, laughter from cabins, splashing at the lake, feet running down paths, staff voices calling out instructions, and at least once a day, someone yelling, “WHO TOOK MY TOWEL?”

So if peace means silence, camp may not be the best place to find it.

But in Torah, shalom means something much deeper than quiet. Shalom is wholeness. It is the feeling that the pieces of a community belong together. It is not the absence of noise. It is the presence of trust, purpose, responsibility, and care.

That kind of peace is not passive. It has to be built.

And this week’s parsha shows us how.

In Pinchas, we meet five sisters: Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah, the daughters of Zelophehad. Their father dies, and according to the rules of the time, they have no clear path to inherit land because they are daughters.

But instead of disappearing quietly from the story, they step forward.

They stand before Moses, before the leaders, before the entire community, and they say: something is incomplete. Our father’s name should not disappear. We deserve a place in the future of our people.

That moment takes courage.

And just as important, Moses listens.

He does not dismiss them. He does not hide behind the way things have always been done. He brings their question before God, and God says, “The daughters of Zelophehad are right.”

That sentence matters.

They are right.

The people asking about the future are right. The people who care enough to speak are right. The people who notice that the story is not yet complete are right.

That is not disruption for the sake of disruption. That is love for the community expressed through courage.

And that is what real peace looks like.

Not pretending everything is already whole.

Not protecting comfort at the expense of growth.

Not confusing tradition with standing still.

Real peace means honoring the story we have inherited while accepting responsibility for the story we are still writing.

That feels especially meaningful this Shabbat, as we welcome members of our Camp Committee and celebrate the many people who have helped make Camp Interlaken what it is.

Camp does not happen by accident.

It exists because generations of people believed in it before we arrived. Directors, staff, lay leaders, donors, parents, alumni, rabbis, maintenance teams, kitchen teams, medical teams, volunteers, and families all helped build this place. Every path, every cabin, every song, every tradition, every Shabbat on the hill carries the fingerprints of people who loved camp enough to invest in its future.

That history matters.

It deserves gratitude. It deserves respect. It deserves to be protected.

And it also deserves to keep growing.

Because the best way to honor a place like Camp Interlaken is not simply to preserve it exactly as it was.

The best way to honor it is to keep asking how it can become even more whole.

How do we make camp stronger?

How do we help more campers feel the magic that generations before them have felt?

How do we support staff not just as workers, but as educators, role models, and future Jewish leaders?

How do we build a community where joy is serious work, where safety and fun belong together, where Jewish life feels alive, and where every summer adds another chapter to a story much bigger than any one of us?

Those are leadership questions.

They are also Torah questions.

The daughters of Zelophehad teach us that a sacred community must be brave enough to look forward. Moses teaches us that leadership requires humility — the willingness to listen, to learn, and to let the future speak.

And camp teaches us that legacy is not a museum piece. Legacy is something living.

It is carried in the voices of campers singing on Friday night.

It is carried in the counselor who realizes, maybe for the first time, that they have the power to shape a child’s life.

It is carried in the alumni who come back and still remember exactly how camp made them feel.

It is carried in the parents who trust us with their children.

It is carried in the committee members who give their time, wisdom, and heart because they know this place matters.

And it is carried in the sacred responsibility of leadership: to love what has been built, to listen deeply, and to help guide what comes next.

That is what I feel so strongly this summer.

Camp Interlaken has a rich and beautiful history. I feel it every day. I feel it when I walk through camp. I feel it when I hear old stories. I feel it when alumni return. I feel it when campers make a tradition their own without even realizing they are stepping into something generations old.

But I also feel the future.

I see it in our campers. I see it in our staff. I see it in the energy of this summer. I see it in the questions we are asking, the standards we are setting, the joy we are creating, and the community we are building together.

This is the work of shalom.

Not quiet.

Wholeness.

A whole camp honors its past and builds its future.

A whole camp protects tradition and welcomes growth.

A whole camp remembers who built it and asks who still needs it.

A whole camp understands that Jewish life is not separate from camp life — it is woven through the way we gather, sing, play, lead, forgive, celebrate, and care for one another.

This week, when we say Shabbat shalom, we are not wishing for a quiet camp.

We are blessing the work of making camp whole.

May we honor the generations who brought us here.

May we lead with humility, courage, and joy.

May we build a camp worthy of its history and ready for its future.

And may Camp Interlaken continue to be what it has always been at its best: a place where Jewish community is not just taught, but lived.

Shabbat shalom.