Vaera – “Va’era,” means “and I appeared”. This is God revealing Godself to Moses, making a promise of redemption using four verbs that are the source for the four cups on Pesach. The parsha continues with 7 of the 10 plagues, Moshe and Aharon coming to Pharaoh many times saying Let my people go. Blood, frogs, lice, wild animals, animal plague, boils, and hail follow.

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In this week’s parsha, we witness something strange. God commands Moshe to bring the first plague upon Egypt, but then says: “Say to Aharon: ‘Take your staff and stretch out your hand over the waters of Egypt.'” Why Aharon? Why not Moshe himself?

Rashi, quoting the midrash Shemot Rabbah, explains: “It is not proper that the waters which protected you when you were cast into the river should now be smitten by you.” The same with the third plague, lice – Aharon strikes the dust, not Moshe. This is because that dust once hid the body of the Egyptian Moshe had killed.

But here’s the question: The Nile is water. Dust is dirt. They have no consciousness, no memory, no feelings. They didn’t choose to save Moshe. So why does it matter? Why should Moshe be constrained by gratitude to inanimate objects?

The answer is that the Jewish value of Hakarat hatov – recognizing the good – isn’t about the recipient. It’s about the recognizer. It’s about who we become when we cultivate gratitude, and who we become when we don’t.

The Meiri on Bava Kamma teaches us that while we should be careful never to disgrace anyone, we must be especially careful regarding that which has honored us and from which we’ve benefited. To disgrace what helped us reveals, in his words, ‘פחיתות מדה’ – a lowliness of character, an inferior nature. As our sages said: ‘A well from which you drank water, do not throw a clod of dirt into it. It doesn’t matter if the Nile intended to save Moshe. What matters is that Moshe experienced being saved by the Nile. To strike it now would damage something essential in Moshe himself: his capacity to remember, to acknowledge, to honor what helped him.

Rav Eliyahu Dessler takes this further: A person with gratitude is someone capable of recognizing that they received something. Someone who denies gratitude, someone who says “I did this myself” or “it was just luck” or “it doesn’t matter”, that person is training themselves in a dangerous art: the art of forgetting. And the Jewish people are a people of memory, of remembering. The Midrash warns us: “Anyone who denies the good of his fellow will eventually deny the good of God.”

Think about what this means. Becoming ungrateful happensin, indeed, a process that we call slippery slope: if Moshe could strike the river that saved him, what’s next?

If this water that bore my basket means nothing, then maybe Yocheved’s and Miriam’s courage means nothing. Maybe Batya’s, the daughter of Pharaoh – maybe her compassion means nothing. Maybe even God’s intervention means nothing: maybe it was “just a coincidence”. Ingratitude is a slippery slope. It begins with “just water” and ends with “just my own efforts. My own bootstraps. I owe nothing to the world.”

So God doesn’t let Moshe strike the water. Not because the water would be hurt. But because Moshe would be hurt in his soul: his hakarat hatov – his character trait of gratitude – would be compromised. Diminished. And a leader without gratitude is a leader who will eventually believe their own power comes from themselves alone.

And there is another question: the Nile didn’t intend to save Moshe – but it did. And this opens us up a profound idea: We live in a web of unintended kindnesses. We marinate in love. Our very existence depends on a million things that didn’t try to help us, but helped us anyway.

The air you’re breathing right now didn’t decide to give you oxygen. The ground beneath your feet didn’t choose to hold you up. The sun didn’t vote on whether to shine this morning. Yet without these – without this complex choreography of elements and forces – you wouldn’t be here.

Jewish mysticism teaches us that everything in creation contains divine sparks. The water, the dust, the stones – all of it pulses with divine energy. When the Nile protected Moshe, it wasn’t random physics. It was the Nile fulfilling its purpose in the cosmic order, participating in the unfolding of redemption.

This is why Moshe cannot strike it. Because to strike the water is to deny that everything matters. It’s to say: “This was just matter in motion. This meant nothing.” But in a universe where everything is infused with divine purpose, nothing means nothing. The basket floating downstream wasn’t coincidence – it was God’s love disguised in a river. The reeds that held, the current that carried, the exact moment Batya came to bathe – all of it was part of a larger web of love.

When we practice hakarat hatov to the river, we’re not actually thanking the river itself – we’re recognizing God’s hand in unexpected places.  And when we don’t recognize the good in what seems small, unconscious, inanimate – we train ourselves to miss the miracles hiding in plain sight. It is easy to forget that in every moment of our lives, God is working through the natural world to sustain us, protect us, guide us.

So what does this mean for us, here, now?

It means we need to expand our circle of gratitude. We’re pretty good at thanking people who intentionally help us. We send thank-you notes, we buy gifts, we acknowledge acts of kindness. But what about the unintentional kindnesses? The infrastructure we inherit? The systems we didn’t build but benefit from? The people whose names we don’t know but whose work sustains us?

The teacher who taught your teacher. The person who translated the siddur you pray from. The ancestors who preserved Judaism through persecution so you could inherit it in peace. The earth that grows your food. The people who maintain the roads you drive on, the water you drink, the electricity that powers your life.

Or think about this: How many of us have left communities, institutions, teachers—left them with bitterness or dismissal, because we outgrew them or they disappointed us? We forget that they once sheltered us. They once were our Nile.

I think about my own journey sometimes. The communities that held me when I was just beginning. The teachers whose names I barely remember but whose words shaped me. The books I read once and never returned to, but that opened doors I still walk through. Do I honor them? Do I remember them with gratitude? Or do I just move on, striking the water that once saved me because now I’m swimming just fine on my own?

Hakarat hatov asks us to remember. Even when we’ve moved beyond. Even when we’ve been hurt. Even when the help was imperfect, unconscious, unintentional—we remember the good.

This week, I want to challenge you: Look at something ordinary in your life – your home, your car, the ground you walk on – and thank God for working through it. Not “thank you, house” but “Thank You, God, for sheltering me through this home.” “Thank You for getting me here safely through this car.” “Thank You for the food You provide through farmers and soil and rain.”

Look at your life – and do not take anything for granted. If you can recognize the good in the simple things, then you’re training yourself in a practice that will transform you – you are becoming someone who can see blessing everywhere. Someone who remembers the good. Someone whose power is tempered by gratitude.

Because that’s what God was teaching Moshe at the Nile: True strength isn’t about what you can destroy. It’s about what you remember, how you thank, what you don’t take for granted. It’s about recognizing that you didn’t get here alone – not even close. And that recognition, that hakarat hatov, makes you realize: we are all marinating in love. It is, indeed, the little things that matter.

Shabbat shalom.

Morning discussion:

~ From our reading, the four cups of wine for Passover are derived, through four different verbs. Can you find them? They are called “the four expressions of redemption”.

~ There is yet another expression for Eiahu’s cup, or Elija’s cup. Can you find it?

~ Who needs to know God, in our triennial reading? Why?

Vayechi: Summary

The name of the Parshah, “Vayechi,” means “And he lived”. Jacob lives the final 17 years of his life in Egypt. He asks Joseph to take an oath that he will bury him in eretz Israel. He blesses Joseph’s two sons, Manasseh and Ephraim, elevating them to the status of his own sons as tribes. He then calls his sons and givves them his last words. After his embalming, Yosef gers permission from Pharaoh to bury him, and with a huge funeral processionYaakov is buried in the Machpelah Cave in Hebron. The portion continues with the deaths of Yosef and all his brothers. Yosef also instructs that his bones be taken out of Egypt and buried in the Holy Land, but this would come to pass only with Moses, at least 200 years later.

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Vayechi literally means “and he lived.” But if you open to this portion, you discover immediately that Vayechi is the parashah of Jacob’s death. It chronicles his final days in Egypt, his deathbed blessings to his sons, his insistence on burial in the land of Canaan, and finally his death and the elaborate mourning that follows.

Why does the Torah do this? Why introduce a narrative about death with the word for life?

This isn’t the only time. Earlier in Bereshit, in Genesis, we have Chayei Sarah – “the life of Sarah.” The portion opens with those words: “Vayihiyu chayei Sarah” – “And the life of Sarah was one hundred and twenty-seven years.” And then, in the very next verse, we read: “And Sarah died.” The portion named for her life is really the portion of her death and burial.

The Torah is teaching us something profound. Death and life are not opposites. They are intertwined. And the awareness of our mortality – the confrontation with our finitude – is not separate from life but essential to understanding what it means to truly live.

For most of human history, people understood this intuitively. Because death happened at home. People died in their own beds, surrounded by family – children, grandchildren, siblings gathered around. Death was sad, painful even, yes, but it was witnessed. It was integrated into the fabric of daily life. Everyone understood that life had an ending because they had sat with the dying, heard their final words, held their hands as they slipped away.

But in our era, death has been removed. We die in hospitals, often isolated. We’ve excluded death from our homes – because, understandably, we want to avoid pain and extend life as long as possible. Yet by doing so, we’ve lost something crucial – the visceral reminder of our own mortality that once grounded every generation.

Meaning in life is tie to a meaningful death awareness

Look at what happens in Vayechi. Jacob doesn’t die privately. The text says: “Vayikrevu yemei Yisrael lamut” – “Israel’s days drew near to death,” and knowing this, and moe than knowing, accepting that as a reality, Jacob acts with urgency and clarity: he is called Israel precisely because he reaches to his overarching view of the future. He calls his sons to his bedside – all twelve of them – and speaks to each one individually. Intimate. Direct.

To Reuben, his firstborn, Jacob speaks harsh truth: “Unstable as water, you shall not excel.” These aren’t the words in a hallmark card. This is a father telling his son what he needs to hear, even when it’s difficult: ground yourself and don’t let desires destroy the best of what you can be.

Shimon and Levi are rebuked for their violence at Shechem: “In their anger they killed men.”

To Judah a prophecy: “The scepter shall not depart from Judah.” To each son, words that will shape the destiny of their clans and later, tribes. And they carry their weight not despite Jacob’s impending death, but because of it. There’s a tradition in Judaism that words spoken on one’s deathbed have special power. At the threshold of death, we speak truth. The masks fall away. What matters becomes clear.

Viktor Frankl understood this from the depths of Auschwitz. In Man’s Search for Meaning, he writes that it is our very finitude – the reality that our time is limited – that gives life its urgency and meaning. If we had infinite time, every choice would be reversible, every relationship could be postponed, every act of kindness could wait for tomorrow. But because our days are numbered, each one matters. Each choice is significant. Each moment with those we love is precious.

The awareness of death, Frankl teaches, is not morbid. It is clarifying.

And yet, we live in an age designed to help us avoid this awareness. Our phones offer infinite scrolling, endless content, perpetual connectivity. We can fill every quiet moment with noise. The algorithms feed us the illusion of infinite time – there’s always another episode, another article, another distraction waiting.

But Jacob in Vayechi has no such luxury. Time is finite, and that knowledge strips away everything trivial. He doesn’t scroll through meaningless content. He doesn’t put off difficult conversations. He calls his sons together and speaks truth to them. He arranges his burial. Every action matters because time has become precious.

Frankl would say we’ve created a culture of distraction precisely because we’re terrified of confronting what Jacob faced: our own finitude. We fill our calendars, our screens, our minds with noise to avoid the existential questions. But in doing so, we rob ourselves of exactly what gave Jacob’s final days their power – the clarity that comes from knowing our time is limited.

So here’s my challenge to us: What if we lived with a bit more of Vayechi’s awareness? Not morbidly, but honestly.

What if we asked ourselves: If these were my final weeks, what would I say to my children? What relationships would I heal? What would I stop putting off? What truth would I finally speak?

The rabbis could have called this portion by a neutral name, they could have chose the next word “Yaakov”. And yet they called it “Vayechi” – “and he lived” – because facing our finitude is what allows us to truly live. Jacob’s confrontation with death was not the end of his life; they are teaching us, it was the culmination of it. His final chapter, lived with full awareness that it was his final chapter, was perhaps his most authentic, most purposeful, most alive.

We cannot return to the era when death happened at home, when every generation witnessed mortality as part of daily life. But we can choose to stop hiding from the reality of our finitude. We can turn off the distractions, even if only for a moment of clarity, silence the noise for a few minutes every day, and sit with the questions that matter: How do we want to be remembered? What do we want to leave behind? What needs to be said while there’s still time?

The portion is called Vayechi because Jacob lived – fully, honestly, purposefully, striving to be his best – right up until his last breath. And the Torah invites us to do the same.

Shabbat shalom.

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~ Our triennial forces us to focus on the scene of the moment of awareness of Yaakov’s mortality, when he blesses Yosef’s two sons, Ephrayim and Menashe.

Notice the use of names of Yaakov and Israel. What do you make of it?

Awareness of national destiny

Israel’s eyes heavy from old age: reframing as all the sages sensing the Shechinah. The rabbis understand that to be a sage you have to strive for meaning above and beyond your personal drama.

Jacob begins aware of the mortality of his petty, small minded self first, and then pivots for the role of patriarch, seeing things in the long term.

Verse 8 – seen as a different document, or a redactor’s hand, but traditionally seen as the two sides of Yaakov, his Jacob side and his Israel side. The raising towards the long term view is such that he sees the two boys anew.

Parshat Vayigash

Summary: Vayigash,” means “And he approached”. This is Yehudah approaching Yosef to plead for the release of Binyamin, offering himself as a slave to the Egyptian ruler in Binyamin’s stead. When he sees this demonstration of loyalty to one another, Yosef reveals his identity to the brothers. “I am Yosef,” he declares. “Is my father still alive?” The brothers are overcome by shame and remorse, but Yosef tells them that this is all part of God’s plan. The brothers rush back to Canaan with the news. Yaakov at first refuses to believe but eventually the whole family comes down. Yosef then collects all the wealth of Egypt by selling food and seed during the famine. Pharaoh gives Jacob’s family the county of Goshen, the children of Israel prosper in their Egyptian exile.

There is a moment in this week’s parsha that takes your breath away. Yehudah steps forward—vayigash, he draws near—and begins to plead for his brother Benjamin. And Yosef, who has orchestrated this entire drama, who has watched his brothers squirm and tested them and pushed them to the breaking point, suddenly cannot hold it together anymore.

“Hotzi’u kol ish me’alay—Send everyone out!” he cries. And then, alone with his brothers, he weeps so loudly that all of Egypt can hear him, and he says those words that have echoed through the generations: “Ani Yosef. Ha’od avi chai?—I am Yosef. Is my father still alive?”

We often focus on Yosef’s magnanimity in this moment, his famous declaration that “it was not you who sent me here, but God.” But I want us to look more carefully at the geography of forgiveness in this scene—the physical and emotional distance that must be crossed.

The parsha is called Vayigash—”and he drew near.” Yehudah draws near to Yosef. But what kind of nearness is this? Rashi tells us that Yehudah approached “for war, for appeasement, or for prayer.” All three at once. He comes close enough to fight, close enough to beg, close enough to pray. This is the uncomfortable proximity that forgiveness requires.

Yosef makes everyone leave the room. The Sfat Emet asks: Why? If Yosef wanted to show his brothers that he forgave them, why not proclaim it publicly, in front of his entire court? Wouldn’t that be the greater act of magnanimity?

But the Sfat Emet teaches us something profound: Real forgiveness happens in privacy. It happens when there are no witnesses to applaud our virtue, no audience to admire our nobility. Yosef clears the room because forgiveness is not a performance. It is an intimate act, almost as intimate as the original wound.

And notice – Yosef doesn’t wait for his brothers to apologize. They don’t even know they need to apologize to him! They think he’s the Egyptian viceroy. The words “salachti – I forgive you” never appear in the text. Instead, Yosef says: Ani Yosef. I am Yosef. I am still here. I am still your brother.

This is perhaps the deepest teaching about forgiveness in our parsha: Forgiveness is not about erasing the past. It’s about revealing who we still are to each other, despite the past.

Let me share with you a story from the Hasidic tradition:

Reb Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev once had a terrible dispute with another rabbi in his community. The disagreement was bitter, and harsh words were exchanged. The two men stopped speaking to each other entirely.

Years passed. One Yom Kippur eve, just before Kol Nidre, Reb Levi Yitzchak stood before his congregation and said: “I cannot lead you in prayer tonight. There is a Jew in this town with whom I have been at odds, and I must seek reconciliation before I can stand before the Holy One.”

He walked through the streets to the other rabbi’s home and knocked on the door. When the rabbi answered, Reb Levi Yitzchak said: “I have come to ask your forgiveness.”

The other rabbi was shocked. “But Rebbe,” he said, “you were right in our argument! I was wrong. If anyone should apologize, it should be me!”

Reb Levi Yitzchak smiled. “Perhaps you are correct. Perhaps I was right, and perhaps you were wrong. But I will tell you what I have learned: There is a question that is more important than ‘Who was right?’—and that question is, “ווער וועט ערשטער ווידער ווערן אַ מענטש?”

“Ver vet ershter vider vern a mentsh?” ‘Who will be first to be human again?'” or Who will be the first to become a mentsch again?

Who will be first to be human again?

This is the question of Vayigash. Not who was right. Not even who should apologize first. But rather: Who will take the first step back toward relationship? Who will vayigash – draw near – across the chasm that betrayal has created?

Yosef takes that step. He reveals himself. And in that revelation, he makes reconciliation possible.

But notice what Yosef does after he reveals himself. The text tells us: ” He fell upon his brother Benjamin’s neck and wept.” And then: ” He kissed all his brothers and wept.” Only after the tears—only after the weeping—does it say: —And after this, his brothers spoke with him.”

The Hasidic master Reb Simcha Bunim of Peshischa teaches: Before words can flow, tears must flow first. Forgiveness begins not with explanations or justifications, but with the recognition of shared pain. Yosef weeps for what was lost—the years they could have been brothers, the father who mourned unnecessarily, the family that was torn apart. His brothers cannot speak until they, too, recognize what was lost. Tears create the common ground on which reconciliation can be built.

We live in a time when forgiveness seems almost countercultural. We are more practiced at call-out culture, at calling names to one another, at cancel culture, than at the culture of reconciliation. We are better at maintaining our walls than at building bridges. But Vayigash reminds us: Sometimes the holiest act is to clear the room, to create private space for the messy work of reconnection. Sometimes the bravest question is not “Who was right?” but “Who will be first to be human again?”

This doesn’t mean there are no real victims or that all wounds can be healed. Yosef’s slavery was real. The pit was real. The years of anguish were real. The text doesn’t erase any of that. But it does show us that even real wounds can become doorways to transformation, as long as one of the two parties is willing to draw near.

Redemption Vayigash tells us, begins with drawing near. It begins when someone takes the first step across the distance, when someone risks being a mentsch again.

May we all find the courage to draw near—vayigash—to those from whom we have been estranged. May we learn to clear the room of our own need to be right, so that we can discover who we still are to each other. And may we remember that sometimes the deepest truth we can speak is the simplest: Ani Yosef. I am still here. Ready to reconnect.

Shabbat Shalom.

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Shabbat morning

• Why do you think Yaakov does not believe his sons?
• What does it take, according to the text, for hm to believe?

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Bereshit Rabbah – “They went up from Egypt…. They told him, saying: Joseph is still alive…his heart was faint” – Rabbi Ḥiyya taught: What is the plight of the liar? Even if he says truthful matters, he is not believed.

The midrash speaks of Serah’s great beauty and wisdom: when Joseph was reunited with his brothers and sent them to the land of Canaan to bring his father Jacob to him in Egypt, he ordered them not to alarm their aged father. The brothers summoned Serah and asked her to sit before Jacob and play for him on the lyre, in this manner revealing to him that Joseph was still alive. Serah played well and sang gently: “Joseph my uncle did not die, he lives and rules all the land of Egypt.”

She played thus for Jacob two and three times, and he was pleased by what he heard. Joy filled his heart, the spirit of God rested on him, and he sensed the truth of her words. He bade her: “Continue to play for me, for you have heartened me with all that you said.” While he was speaking with her, his sons came to him with horses, chariots, and royal garments, with slaves running before them and told him: “[We bring] glad tidings, for Joseph still lives and he rules all the land of Egypt.” When Jacob saw all that Joseph had sent, he knew that they spoke truthfully. He was exceedingly happy and he said (Gen. 45:28): “[This is] enough [for me]! My son Joseph is still alive! I must go and see him before I die” (Sefer ha-Yashar, Vayigash, chap. 14).

== This is a midrash that brings alive names of women who just show up – Serach bat Asher is in the lists of coming down to Egypt and going back, 210 years later. So the blessing of Yaakov makes her live that long. But it is her own care and ability with granddad that brings the blessing upon her.

Another midrash says – the Shechinah had left Yaakov from the moment he had learned his son was dead. And now he received the news that it was not so, from Serach bat Asher, and the Shechinah came back.

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Next verse, cut from our triennial: Rav, says Yaakov – called here Yisrael – Israel said: Enough, Joseph my son is still alive; I will go and see him before I die” (Genesis 45:28).
“Israel said: Enough [rav]” – the power of my son Joseph is great [rav], as many troubles befell him, but still he remained in his righteousness much more than I did, as I sinned when I said: “My way is hidden from the Lord” (Isaiah 40:27). But I am certain that I have a portion in “how great is Your goodness” (Psalms 31:20)

Miketz – summary

Yosef interprets Pharaoh’s dreams of seven fat cows and seven thin cows, predicting seven years of abundance followed by seven years of famine. Pharaoh appoints Yosef as viceroy of Egypt, and Yosef stores grain during the abundant years. When famine strikes, Yosef’s brothers come to Egypt to buy food but don’t recognize him; he tests them by accusing them of being spies, keeping Shimon hostage, and demanding they bring Binyamin. When they return with Binyamin, Yosef frames him as a thief by planting his goblet in Binyamin’s sack, setting up the ultimate test of whether his brothers will abandon Binyamin as they once abandoned him.

This is also Shabbat of Chanukah, and the beginning of a new month, Tevet, so we read not from one, not from two, but from three scrolls!!!

Miketz – Yosef, God and God’s names

I want to open tonight by saying that Miketz is the first portion I ever learned. So I have a soft spot in my heart for MIketz, and every year I feel like I’m seeing an old friend when I read Miketz.

One of the intersting aspects of Miketz is that when Yosef stands before Pharaoh and interprets his dreams, he consistently uses the name Elohim for God: “Biladi Elohim ya’aneh et shlom Paro’ah” – “God will give Pharaoh a favorable answer” (Genesis 41:16). Not once does he use the Tetragrammaton, the name Havaya that represents God’s infinite mercy and transcendence. This is true throughout the Yosef saga.

This is not accidental. Yosef understood something profound about where he stood and whom he addressed.

Centuries later, when Moshe comes before another Pharaoh with God’s message, that Pharaoh will declare: “Lo yadati et Ad-nai” – “I do not know Ad-nai” (Exodus 5:2), using the Name of Four Letters, Yud and Hey and Vav and hey. Pharaoh knows and recognizes God as Elohim – the God of nature, of power, of judgment and limitation. But Yud Hey Vav and Hey, that is pronounced as Ad-nai or Havaya, is the name that speaks of God’s intimate presence, of transcendence beyond nature, of the One who was, is, and will be – this, Pharaoh cannot know.

Yosef, with the wisdom that makes him worthy to lead, speaks in the language his audience can hear. Elohim is the name associated with din, with judgment, with the forces of nature and governance. It represents God operating through the structures of the world – through cause and effect, through the seven years of plenty and seven years of famine. This is a God Pharaoh can understand: a God of order, of dreams that predict futures, of natural cycles.

But there’s something deeper here about Yosef himself.

Jewish mystical teachings see Yosef as a symbol of the Jewish soul in galut, in exile. The dungeon where he languished for years represents the darkness and constriction of this physical world, where the soul finds itself imprisoned in a body, surrounded by forces that seem to obscure the Divine light. And Pharaoh – not as villain, but as the structure of reality itself – represents those very limitations and difficulties through which we grow.

In Hasidic thought, we learn a paradox: it is specifically through tzimtzum, through divine constriction and concealment, that creation becomes possible. The infinite light had to contract to make space for finite beings. Similarly, it is through the gevurot, the forces of limitation and judgment represented by the name Elohim, that we develop and grow.

Rabbi Abraham Twerski taught a deep lesson about this through the life of a lobster. A lobster is a soft creature living inside a rigid shell. As the lobster grows, that shell becomes confining and uncomfortable. The lobster feels pressure and discomfort. It retreats under a rock for protection, sheds its shell, and grows a new one. Eventually, that shell too becomes uncomfortable, and the process repeats. The stimulus for growth is discomfort – the lobster only grows because it feels constricted.

So too with us. Without resistance, there can be no strength. Without darkness, we cannot learn to seek light. Without the pressure of limitation, we would never shed our old shells and grow into who we are meant to become.

This is the deep wisdom we acknowledge twice daily when we recite the Shema. “Shema Yisrael, Havaya Elokeinu, Havaya Echad” – Hear O Israel, Havaya is our Elohim, Havaya is One. We are declaring that the God of infinite transcendence (Yud-Hey-Vav-Hey) and the God of limitation and constriction (Elohim) are not two separate forces, but One. The very constrictions we experience, the very dificulties, the very gevurot that press against us like the lobster’s shell, are expressions of the same divine love that sustains us, that lovingly calls us to grow. Through recognizing this oneness – that Elohim is Havaya in concealment, that dificulties are love in disguise – we transform our struggles into catalysts for growth.

Yosef in the dungeon is each of us in this world. The descent is necessary for the ascent. Yosef had to go down to the pit, down to Egypt, down to the dungeon, precisely so that he could rise to become the sustainer of life during famine. His personal trials prepared him to save the world. The same thing happens to our souls: we need to descend and experience constrictions in order to grow. Constrictions are always there – it is in our hands how we respond to them. Can we see constrictions as coming from God’s love, from God’s invitation for our souls to grow?

When Yosef speaks of Elohim to Pharaoh, he is acknowledging this truth: we are in a world governed by Elohim-consciousness, by apparent limitation and natural law. But for one who has spiritual vision, we ,arinate in God’s love. Even the strictures and difficulties contain holiness. Even in the dungeon, God is present.

The difference between Yosef and the later Pharaoh of the Exodus is this: Yosef knows that Elohim is not separate from Yud-Hey-Vav and Hey. The God of nature and the God beyond nature are One. Limitation itself comes from infinite compassion. But Pharaoh, locked in his palace of power, can only see the surface – the name Elohim, the forces of control – and mistakes them for ultimate reality.

This is our goal: like Yosef, to recognize the divine even in the constriction, even in the darkness, even in our dificulties. To know that when we speak of Elohim in this world, we are really speaking about Havaya concealed in the garments of nature. The dungeon becomes a place of preparation. Egypt’s challenges become catalysts for growth. And we, like Yosef emerging from prison to palace, discover that the descent was always part of the ascent.

When we feel the pressure of our own confining shells, when life feels constricted and difficult, we can remember both the lobster and Yosef: the discomfort is not punishment but invitation. It’s time to grow. And in that moment of pressure, we proclaim: Echad – it is all One, all divine, all part of the journey from dungeon to palace, from constriction to expansion, from exile to redemption.

May this be a week in which we find ways of coming out of darkness and bringing light to the world, each of us, with the special and specific light of our own growth. Shabbat Shalom

Welcome  and Shabbat Shalom.  Thank you all for coming to share this special day with me.

My parashah is Vayishlach. You could say Vayishlach is basically the original WWE episode of the Torah.

Jacob — or Yaakov — is on his way home, stressed out because his twin brother, Esau, is coming to meet him after twenty years. That might sound nice, like a family reunion, except the last time they saw each other, Esau wanted to kill him. And now Esau is coming… with 400 men. That’s not a family reunion — that’s a battle scene.

So Jacob prepares. He sends gifts,  splits his camp,  and prays to God.  He’s anxious, unsure if this meeting will bring forgiveness or disaster. And then that night, something mysterious happens — Jacob wrestles with a man, or maybe an angel, until dawn.

Can you imagine what that looked like? Two guys rolling around in the desert all night.

If that happened today, it would definitely end up on YouTube with the title   “Angel vs. Patriarch: Who Will Win?”

In the end, Jacob wins — kind of. He’s limping, but he’s also transformed. The angel blesses him and gives him a new name: Yisrael, meaning “one who struggles with God and prevails.”

But here’s the part that matters most — what happens after the wrestling.  The next morning, Jacob meets Esau. After all that fear and planning, something amazing happens: Esau runs to him, embraces him, and they weep together. No battle,  no revenge — just two brothers finding peace after years of anger and pain.

To me, that’s the real heart of Vayishlach: reconciliation. It’s not just about wrestling; it’s about what comes after — the courage to forgive, to let go, and to start again.

We all wrestle with things in our own lives. Maybe not angels in the desert,  but definitely alarm clocks,  bad WiFi,  or people who take 18 items into the “10 items or less” line. [wait for laughs]

And sometimes, the hardest wrestling matches are with ourselves — our fears, doubts, and pride.

Like Jacob, we struggle through the night, and hopefully, by morning, we’ve grown just a little bit stronger or a little bit wiser.

But the story reminds us that the struggle isn’t just about winning.  It’s about finding peace — with others and within ourselves. It’s about saying,   “I’m sorry,” or “I forgive you,” or even just,     “Let’s start over.” That’s not weakness — that’s strength.

Being Jewish doesn’t mean we never struggle. It means we keep wrestling — with faith,  with courage, with forgiveness — and we still show up the next morning to try again.

So, whether you’re wrestling with your alarm clock, your homework, or your own heart,  remember Jacob.

Hold on, stay in the fight, and when the morning comes, you’ll walk away stronger — even if you’re limping to the coffee machine.

Becoming a Bat Mitzvah is a special moment in my life — a time when I begin to take responsibility for my own actions and choices as a Jewish person. When Yaakov receives a new name, Yisrael, that moment sparks a change in his life — a transformation that shows his strength, growth, and new sense of purpose.

I feel like my Bat Mitzvah is a little bit like that.  I may not be getting a new name, but I am stepping into a new identity — one where I take ownership of my Jewish values, my learning, and the kind of person I want to be.

Just like Yaakov’s new name connected him more deeply to his faith and to the future of the Jewish people, my Bat Mitzvah connects me more deeply to my community, my heritage, and my own journey.  It reminds me that being Jewish means striving, learning, and growing — just like Yaakov did.

This day celebrates not just what I’ve accomplished, but who I am becoming.

For my Bat Mitzvah project, I chose to raise money for guide dogs for the blind in Israel. This cause is especially close to my heart because my uncle Ken was blind, and I’ve seen how much independence and confidence guide dogs can give to people who can’t see. Through this project, I’ve learned that doing a mitzvah isn’t just about helping others — it’s also about showing love, compassion, and making a real difference in someone’s life.

My Bat Mitzvah reminds me that being Jewish means learning,  caring, and striving to be my best self. This moment connects me more deeply to my family, my community, and the generations before me. It’s both a celebration of who I am and a promise of who I want to become.

I want to thank all of you for being here.

Thank you to my mom and dad for helping me through this journey, to my siblings for always being there for me, to my teachers for their guidance and patience,

and to my friends at school and at Hebrew school for making every moment more fun. Thank you to Joanna for helping us organize this event, and last but not least, thank you to Sandra Beckman for helping me make and edit my speech.

Shabbat Shalom!

Vayetze – thick of Yaakov’s cycle. The famous dream of the stairs to heaven, marriages, children – 12 out of 13, flight from Lavan’s house after 20 years.

Our portion opens with Yaakov fleeing into the wilderness – alone, afraid, going into exile, leaving his family behind. He has nothing but his staff, used for walking and shepherding. He gathers stones fr a pillow and, exhausted, falls asleep. There, in that desolate place, he dreams one of the most famous and consequential dreams for the Jewish people in particular and for humanity in general:  a ladder connecting earth to heaven, with angels ascending and descending.

Notice: the angels go up first, then down. The movement begins from below, and then reaches heaven.

Viktor Frankl, who survived the darkness of Auschwitz, taught us something present in the kernel of Yaakov’s dream: idealists are the ultimate realists. Those who clung only to physical reality in the camps—who saw only the hunger, the cold, the cruelty—they often perished first. But those who held onto meaning, who found purpose even in suffering, who believed in something beyond the immediate horror—they were a lot more likely to endure and survive. Frakl was an example himself: he had his PhD thesis confiscated by the Nazis when he and his family were taken to the camps. He knew his father, mother and brother had died,but clung to two things: the possibility of his pregnant wife having survived and recreating his thesis in his mind while surviving four different camps.

Cynics call themselves realists. They see this broken world and say, “This is all there is.” They see human beings and say, “We are all only moved by selfish reasons”. But Yaakov and Frankl both show us a deeper reality, a meaningful one: even in our darkest wilderness, the ladder stands. Heaven and earth remain connected. The question isn’t whether the connection exists – it’s whether we choose to climb. The question isn’t if there is meaning in this existence – it’s whether we work internally enough to find meaning.

Frankl wrote that between any external stimulus and our response, there is a space – and in that space lies our freedom. It is the space of the moment of our personal choice: we chose our actions, our attitude, our mindset, we chose to follow our deepest yarnings, our soul. The ladder in the dream is that space made visible. It is asking Yaakov to respond to the question that life asks of us: what response will you chose? Who will you become, day after day, as you walk through life? We cannot control what happens to us, but we can always control whether we ascend or remain lying on stones.

So today, I want to invite you to

1. Find your “nevertheless.” Each day, identify one thing you’ll do not because the world is good, but to make it good. Visit someone lonely. Study one line of Torah. Perform one act of justice. Not because it’s easy or because you’ll be rewarded, but because meaning demands it.
2. Be an ascending soul. Share one story of hope, resilience, or goodness each week – with your children, your friends, our community, online. Not to deny the darkness, but to testify that the ladder still stands. When we bring light to despair, we ascend the ladder and bring heaven’s blessing down.

The scene of the dream ends with Yaakov awakening and saying, “God was in this place, and I did not know it.” Our work, like Yaakov’s, is to open our eyes and feel God’s presence. And then, with open eyes, to climb towards meaning.

Shabbat Shalom.

Shabbat morning:

Read the dream and its aftermath. What does it signal, to you – opinion – regarding Yaakov’s relationship with God?

When Moshe stands before Israel and declares in Deuteronomy 32:39, “See now that I, I am He, and there is no god beside Me,” Moshe is revealing something profound about the nature of reality itself.

The verse begins with an unusual doubling: “I, I am He” — ani ani hu in Hebrew. Why the repetition? Our tradition teaches that this isn’t stuttering; it’s emphasis on an overwhelming truth. God’s oneness is so complete that even language struggles to contain it.

Think about yourself, and your many names. I am sure you remember how you were called in your childhood, by your parents, by your friends. I know that you, most probably, had a name you were called by someone who loves or loved you romantically. I am sure at a certain point you were called by a title, whatever it is. In that case, dad, mom, gramps, pops and so on are titles too. And even though people relate to you differently, and these titles reflect a different you, you are you. You are able to say “I am I”. And still we feel those separations, and we walk in this world using those separations: our relationships are dependent on those names. We alone try to have a holistic view about ourselves – those of us who are aware. The same happens to God in the sense of the oneness – we relate to God in different ways, we give God different names, but God, as One, is a oneness so complete we cannot fathom.

When we recite the Shema — “Hear O Israel, Ad-nai our God, Ad-nai is One” — we’re not just proclaiming monotheism. We’re declaring that the Divine unity is absolute and indivisible. But here’s where it gets beautiful: if God is truly One, if there is nothing beside God, then where is God?

Our sages teach us that HaMakom — “The Place” — is one of God’s names. Why? Because, they explain, God is the place of the universe, but the universe is not God’s place. Think about that. The universe doesn’t contain God; God contains the universe. Every table, chairs, human, atom, star, even every breath you take exists within the Divine presence.

This is what Moses is telling us in Deuteronomy 32:39: “there is no god beside Me.” Not just that other gods don’t exist, but that there is no “beside” at all. There is no outside, no beyond, no separate realm. Everything exists within the One.

When we understand this — and when we truly feel it — our entire relationship with the world transforms. You as an individual can understand that you’re not separate from the sacred. You’re not trying to reach toward some distant deity. You’re already embraced, already held, already home. Every place you stand is holy ground because every place IS God’s place.

The Shema becomes not just a declaration but an invitation: Open your eyes. Listen deeply. The One you seek is not out there, over there. The One is here, now, in this breath, in this moment. You are not in the universe; you are marinating in God’s presence. We all are.

And in that recognition comes the deepest comfort Moses offers in that same verse: “I make die and I give life; I wounded and I will heal.” The same One who encompasses all also tends to each particular soul with infinite care. The Infinite is intimate. The Transcendent is present at every time.

This is why the Talmud, when discussing blessings, affirms that we are to bless God for both good news and bad. From the pages of the tractate Brachot come the words “baruch dayan haemet”, blessed be the true judge. And from those same pages, from that same discussion, come the words “baruch hatov vehametiv” blessed the one who does good and makes even more good. Because the rabbis challenge us – if God is one, all comes from God. Isaiah on chapter 45 says “I form the light, and create darkness; I make peace, and create evil; I am Ad-nai, the doer of all these things.”

This is not an easy concept, and yet – this is a concept present in our tradition since the days of Isaiah – and by the way, the consensus is that he lived sometime between 740 and 700 BCE, or 2,765 years ago more or less. In part because we have the impulse of equating God with good in our terms, we fall short from that vision. People often ask “why me?” when things are not good, when one wins the lottery they typically do not ask ‘why me?’

This is our inheritance, our truth: We live, move, and have our being within the One. May we have eyes to see it, hearts to feel it, and souls courageous enough to live from that awareness.

Haazinu – God is one

In the arc of the story, Moshe is giving his parting words to Bnei Israel. Haazinu is one of the last poems in the Torah. It is as if Moshe realizes he has to appeal to our emotions, too, not just our brains.

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In Parshat Ha’azinu, Moses opens with words that shake heaven and earth: “Give ear, O heavens, let me speak; hear, O earth, the words I utter!” (Deuteronomy 32:1)

Why does Moses call upon heaven and earth as witnesses? The simple reading suggests they’re eternal, enduring longer than any human generation. But the Lubavitcher Rebbe has a teaching that points to something far more personal, far more urgent.

Heaven and earth, the Rebbe teaches, are not parts of the reality summoned up because they will outlast us. They represent mitzvot in themselves – the commandments that structure our lives and relationships.

“Heaven”, in his reading, is a symbol for the mitzvot bein adam laMakom, between person and God: prayer, Shabbat, kashrut, tefillin, studying Torah – all those intimate moments when mitzvot are there to reinforce our relationship to the Transcendent, when we are reaching upward, doing certain things because they connect us to God.

“Earth” in this reading, represents the mitzvot bein adam lachavero, between person and person: tzedakah, honest business dealings, visiting the sick, feeding the hungry, loving your neighbor. This is when mitzvot are there to connect us laterally, to other people.

These are our witnesses. Not abstract principles, but the actual choices we make, the actual relationships we build, the actual holiness we create in this world.

There’s a beautiful story which I wanted to remind you of today, because I am sure you have heard it before:

In a certain kingdom, it was known: every time a person was summoned to the castle, to see the king, she or he would never come out of the castle ever again. No one really knew what happened to them. Not a single citizen ever came back to tell the tale.

A man received a summons from the king. He must appear before the throne. Naturally anxious, he turns to his three closest friends for support.

The first friend, one who the man considers his BFF – best friend for life! – the one he’s spent the most time with, invested in the most, perhaps even obsessed over – hears the request and refuses. “I’ll accompany you to the door of your house,” this friend says. “But no further.” Oh, the man is so disappointed. This is not the BFF he thought!!

The second friend, whom he also loves dearly, agrees to do a little more: “I’ll walk with you through the streets, even to the gate of the castle,” this friend promises. “But I cannot enter the king’s palace with you.” The man, again, feels disappointment and fear. He turns to the third friend, already  expecting disappointment.

The third friend was the one that the man didn’t really pay attention to. He neglected that friendship most in life, the one he didn’t always prioritize. So the man is obviously thinking: the two others didn’t come, of course this one will not. How surrised he is when the thirds friend says: “I will go with you all the way. I will stand with you before the king. I will even speak on your behalf.”

The first friend represents our material wealth, our possessions, all the things we accumulate. They come to the threshold of death and stop there. They cannot follow us. The second friend represents our family, our loved ones. They accompany us through life, they mourn us, they bury us—but they cannot stand beside us in the World to Come. The third and last friend is our mitzvot. Our good deeds. The Torah we studied. The kindness we showed. The prayers we whispered. The justice we pursued. The love we gave freely.

Heaven and earth—our mitzvot bein adam laMakom and bein adam lachavero—these are the witnesses Moses calls. They don’t just observe our lives; they defend us. They speak for us when we stand before the ultimate King.

When you embrace this teaching, you can hear that Moses isn’t threatening us. He’s empowering us. Every time you choose caring over indifference, you’re creating a witness who will testify on your behalf. Every time you make a moment holy with blessing, every brick you put in your own castle in time, you’re building a relationship that transcends death itself. Every act of integrity, every word of Torah, every gesture of genuine care—these become eternal companions.

The question isn’t whether we’ll be called before the King. We will. The question is: Who will walk with us? Who will we have befriended along the way?

Moses calls heaven and earth to remind us: You’re not building a life for yourself. You’re cultivating relationships that endure forever. The mitzvot you might think are burdens? They’re actually the truest friends you’ll ever have.

So invest in that third friend. Strengthen those relationships with heaven and earth. Because when push comes to shove – and for all of us, there is a day when we must go into the castle, you want witnesses who won’t just watch from a distance, but who will walk with you all the way home. So maybe tonight – choose a mitzvah you haven’t paid attention to. Choose a mitzvah between you and God, and one between you and people, and invest in that relationship.

May this be a week in which our true friendships are strenghtened. Shabbat Shalom.

Thank you for being here as we build these holy hours together, the castle of Yom Kippur, with all the other Jews in the world. Our services are made possible by many minds, hands and hearts: Cantor Re’ut Ben Ze’ev, our prayer leaders Ruth Borsuk and Richard Kamins, Leah Adler and the ritual committee, the board, Joanna Schnurman, Julio Ramos, Honor Edmands, and Officer Dave providing security outside. I appreciate the opportunity to share some thoughts with you this evening.

Every Shabbat morning, very early, Nugget the dog and I walk Main Street, sometimes with my youngest. At the end of May, I began finding brightly colored papers taped to the four round wooden poster posts on Main. “Dear Israel,” said the first one, “take your bloody hands out of my pockets. Love, America.”

I walk with my kippah at all times. Always have, since rabbinical school. Here in Middletown, I’ve only experienced curiosity and kindness. People ask nicely, and I have my response ready: “Yes, women can wear yarmulkes, and I’m also the rabbi here in Middletown.” I’ve experienced nothing but love for the Jewish people here, particularly after October 7^th.

So I cannot convey to you how shocked I was by those papers. Shocked, but not surprised.

It was Shabbat, and yet I took them down, carried them to the nearest trash can, and deposited them there, while explaining to my youngest the principle “vechai bahem” – observe the mitzvot and live by them. I cannot look at hate written toward my people and do nothing.

Every Shabbat since then includes walking to Main Street with Nugget, stopping at those posts, reading them, and taking them down. [PAUSE]

Why am I telling you this on Yom Kippur? Because tonight we need to talk about memory, about antisemitism, and about who we choose to be.

Some of you know—and now all of you will know—that my mother has been battling Alzheimer’s for at least twelve years. Alzheimer’s is winning, and my mother’s access to her memories is declining. She has progressively lost her identities: biologist, mother, animal lover. But her personality remains—gregarious, passionate, opinionated.

I’ve learned from researchers who study memory and identity that what we remember, when we remember it, and how we remember it—these are the building blocks of who we are.

Our identity is not a stable building with floors stacked one on top of another. We are more like a Lego creation. The blocks can be switched around, by therapy, by healing, by teshuvah, by events that change us. Sometimes the entire structure is remade with almost no resemblance to what it used to be. [PAUSE]

Zachor – remember. This appears in Torah as a commandment. Traditional siddurim list six memories that we as Jews must recall every day. These six collective memories are the building blocks of our tradition:

• We remember the Exodus—we know redemption from oppression
• We remember Shabbat—we rest and connect deeply once a week
• We remember Miriam—we guard our speech from gossip and vulgarity
• We remember receiving Torah—we study and learn our values
• We remember the Golden Calf—we acknowledge how catastrophically we can fail
• We remember Amalek—the enemy who attacked the weak and vulnerable, who destroyed for the pleasure of destroying Jews

These memories aren’t pleasant. But they’re essential to remaining Jewish. Zachor – remember – means understanding our history and culture enough to guide us toward a more meaningful present and future.

The rabbis said already in the year 200 CE that Amalek is no longer a specific people. Amalek is a tendency, a spirit, both outside and inside of us.

Inside, Amalek is the tendency to let go of Judaism and Jewish identity, to be cynically indifferent to the world’s suffering, to disconnect from our hearts and values. To give up being Jewish. It is the cooling of the Jewish soul.

Outside, Amalek is the spiritual force that fights Judaism and Jews. We call it antisemitism.

And just as our understanding of Amalek evolved through the centuries, antisemitism has evolved and adapted across millennia. We must zachor – we must remember Amalek.

Through history, antisemitism has created three templates that repeat across time and place. Understanding them helps us recognize what we face today.

In ancient times, Jews were viewed with suspicion for being different. One invisible God in societies where gods were many. Laws and practices that set us apart: not working on Shabbat, circumcising baby boys, not eating with others, refusing to kill weak infants, supporting beggars and the disabled.

The rise of Christianity transformed this into systematic persecution. Early Christian theology cast Jews as Christ-killers, rejected by God, partners with the devil, cursed to wander. This curse passed from parents to children, erasable only through baptism.

When Rome converted to Christianity in 312 CE, this crystallized into systematic oppression. Jews were banned from most professions, forbidden to own land, couldn’t build new synagogues. Medieval Europe birthed myths that persist today—chief among them the blood libel.

My first encounter with it was as a university student in Brazil. A friend told me how angry she was “at you Jews” because her aunt said “Jews use children’s blood on Passover for their wine”. I invited her to a seder. To her credit, she came and embraced that her aunt was wrong.

But this accusation, which first appeared in Norwich, England in 1144, is alive and kicking. The ADL documents current cartoons depicting blood libel.

Barred from most professions and forbidden to own land, Jews were pushed into moneylending—often the only occupation available. This created the first dangerous template: Jews as simultaneously powerless and threatening, outsiders who could be blamed for society’s problems while being denied the means to defend themselves.

As Europe became “enlightened” in the late 1700s, antisemitism transformed from prejudice to “science.”

Voltaire, champion of reason, wrote viciously against Jews, proving we are “an ignorant and barbarous people.” This intellectual antisemitism gave hatred a secular veneer.

The 19th century saw the emergence of race theory. Humans were divided into races, with whites at the top. Jews, surprisingly to some, were not considered white but a distinct race, inherently different and dangerous regardless of religious beliefs or assimilation.

This created a second template: the Jew as the would-be insider, able to hide behind the mask of assimilation, but intending to destroy the host nation from within.

This is what made the Dreyfus Affair such a scandal. Captain Alfred Dreyfus, a Jewish officer falsely accused of treason, divided French society. “Death to the Jews” echoed in riots across 55 cities, spreading even to Algeria.

The Dreyfus affair also introduced a third element: the replacement theory – Jews are bringing immigrants to replace Europeans.

In 1903, the same year as the brutal Kishinev pogrom, a Russian antisemitic newspaper published “The Protocols of the Elders of Zion,” claiming to have “discovered” a Jewish plan to control the world through manipulation of government, economy, and media. Though repeatedly exposed as a fraud, it has been translated into at least 16 languages. It remains influential among extremist groups worldwide, creating the myth of Jews as puppet masters controlling world events.

These three templates work together: Jews are dangerous outsiders (template one), but they can disguise themselves as insiders (template two), and they’re secretly controlling everything (template three).

American antisemitism followed a different trajectory but used the same templates.

Connecticut, for instance, forbade synagogues until 1843. Our own Puritan laws didn’t even allow Jews to have a cemetery.

As Jewish immigration increased in the late 1800s, familiar patterns emerged. The 1877 exclusion of the Seligman family from a hotel in Saratoga Springs marked the beginning of systematic discrimination. “Restricted” hotels, clubs, and neighborhoods became common. Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and our own Wesleyan all restricted Jewish students in the early 20th century, some continuing until the 1960s.

Henry Ford’s newspaper spread “Protocols” conspiracy theories to millions of Americans in the 1920s. Father Charles Coughlin’s radio broadcasts reached 40 million listeners with antisemitic conspiracy theories wrapped in populist religious rhetoric.

Most tragically, American antisemitism contributed to the abandonment of European Jews during the Holocaust. The MS St. Louis, carrying Jewish refugees fleeing Nazi persecution, was turned away from American shores. In 1938, 60% of Americans opposed allowing Jewish refugees into the country.

Unlike other forms of prejudice that typically target the powerless, antisemitism portrays Jews as secretly powerful and threatening. This “punching up” dynamic makes it appealing across the political spectrum. Both the far-left and the far-right can and do embrace antisemitic ideas.

Antisemitism is also remarkably adaptable. It begins as religious hatred, transforms into racial theory, adopts economic theories, and today manifests in rhetoric that often crosses into antisemitic territory.

When societies face crisis—economic collapse, military defeat, social change—Jews become convenient targets. We are small enough to attack, different enough to other, successful enough to resent.

Social media amplifies conspiracy theories. Medieval blood libels get updated for modern audiences. Economic conspiracy theories adapt for global capitalism. Holocaust denial spreads despite overwhelming evidence. Prominent Jews are accused of all three templates: greedy, powerful outsiders who want to dominate the world through their insiders, controlling banks, media, governments, wars.

The papers on Main Street? “Take your bloody hands out of my pockets”—that’s blood libel and greed together. A twofer, if you will.

A recent one explained that a certain Israeli politician is “as Jewish as a slab of bacon.” What’s insidious about that one is that the writer decides who is Jewish and who is not.

This leads to a fourth dynamic we must recognize: the “good Jew” versus the “bad Jew.”

When someone—anyone—decides they can brand someone as a good or bad Jew, they create a false binary dividing our people into “acceptable” versus “problematic.” On both the right and the left, there are tests you must pass to be accepted: loyalty tests, behavior tests, acceptable words to say or not.

Jewish identity becomes conditional on non-Jewish approval. This assumes we must prove our worthiness. It creates standards where some Jews are blamed regardless. It forces us as individuals to distance ourselves from stereotypes.

Are you for-that or against-that? Are you one of the good ones, or not?

The moment we accept this framing, we’ve already lost. Jews are as diverse as any group – racially, economically, politically. There are no “good” or “bad” Jews. There are just Jews.

How do we respond to this history of hatred?

First: Zachor—Remember

Ours is a long history, and memory is key to making our Jewishness meaningful. It is one of those large building blocks of identity. We study antisemitism not to despair but to recognize its patterns and respond effectively.

But memory alone is not enough.

Second: Build Alliances

Besides defending our buildings, we must build bridges. Antisemitism rarely exists in isolation—it’s the canary in the coal mine for other forms of hatred that threaten pluralism itself. When we stand against antisemitism, we defend not only ourselves but the principles of democracy and tolerance that protect all minorities.

The Jeruzalemska synagogue in Prague, built in 1908, has an inscription in three languages—Hebrew, Czech, and German: “Do we not all have one father?”

We create alliances by being unapologetically Jewish, by grounding our positions in Jewish values, by engaging with knowledge and accurate information. And we must not fall into the “good Jew” trap—instead, we remind people that Jews are as diverse as any group.

Third response: Invest in Education

Your own Jewish education. Your children’s and grandchildren’s. Know our history, culture, and traditions well enough to have informed dialogue with others. Ignorance breeds prejudice; knowledge builds empathy.

Specific actions you can take:

• Learn Jewish history—take a class, read a book, ask questions
• Speak up when you encounter antisemitic tropes, even subtle ones
• Support local and national organizations combating hate
• Build relationships across lines of difference
• Teach your children what antisemitism looks like and how to respond
• When you see something, say or do something – even if it’s just a colorful paper on a wooden post

The oldest synagogue in Connecticut, Beth Israel, has this inscription outside: Ner Hashem Nishmat Adam—”God’s candle is the human soul.”

Through centuries of persecution, our collective candle has flickered but never been extinguished. In every generation, we have found the strength to rebuild, to create, to contribute to human civilization despite efforts to destroy us.

We are not victims of history but its survivors and shapers. We remember the darkness not to dwell in it but to kindle the light that drives it away.

My mother is losing her memories. The building blocks of her identity are being taken apart. But her essence—her warmth, her passion, her love—remains. And I carry her memories now. I am part of her Lego creation, and she is part of mine.

This is what zachor means. We carry the memories of our people forward. We build with those blocks. We create something new while honoring what came before.

The same tradition that commands us to zachor also teaches us Tikkun Olam—repairing the world. Our response to antisemitism must not be merely defensive but constructive, working to build a world where ancient hatreds have no place to grow.

When I walk Main Street with Nugget and take down those papers, I am doing two things: I am removing hate from my community, and I am teaching my child that we don’t stand by. We act. We remember, and we build.

[PAUSE] This Yom Kippur, I ask you: What will you remember? What building blocks will you choose? How will you build your Jewish identity in the year ahead?

May we remember in ways that become a blessing. May our being Jewish be a light to all nations, this Yom Kippur and throughout the year.

G’mar Chatimah Tovah – may we all be sealed in the Book of Life, proudly and vitally Jewish.

Shalom shalom lekarov velarachok, as Isaiah says, Shalom shalom to those who are close and to those who are far. I’m grateful for this opportunity to talk to you today, and I thank you for being here as we share holy time, and spend hours together in the great castle of time, in the castle of Yom Kippur, which we are building together with all the other Jews in the world.

Our services are made possible by many minds, hands and hearts: Cantor Re’ut Ben Ze’ev, our prayer leaders Ruth Borsuk, Richard Kamins; Leah Adler and the ritual committee, the board, Joanna Schnurman, Julio Ramos, Honor Edmands, officer Dave with security outside. Each has played a fundamental role in bringing us together yesterday and today.

On Rosh Hashanah I spoke about faith, and I hope to have gotten the message across that faith cannot the same as certainty.

Faith is not a blind allegiance to tenets.

Faith is trust, sturbonness, courage all rolled into one. Faith is about staying in relationship even when things are hard, even when we can’t explain it all. Jewish faith is always aspiration: the hope for a different future, for a different way of bring, for yourself and for the world. None of those, some of you may say, is a truly intellectual approach. It is all faith based in emotions, it does not define God. And you’d be right.

Yet even intellectually, there is a strand in Jewish thought that says that the more you know about God, the less you actually know, when we arrive anywhere, we arrive at a position of ignorance. Just like a child, who knows nothing and is trying to understand the world, some Jewish philosophers understand that after years of studying, debating and questioning, we arrive at the same place: the not-knowing place. Faith as the embrace of the mystery.

Today is arguably the holiest day of the Jewish year. The vortex of Yom Kippur draws in people who would not be caught dead in a synagogue the rest of the year. As the Kol Nidrei prayer says: anu matirim lehitpalel im ha’avarianim – we all pray together. We all connect today, observant people and transgressors, believers and non-believers. Everyone is here, in this castle we build with time, this castle named Yom Kippur, built by generations past, by Jewish communities everywhere: some are approaching the end of the fast already, some have just began. Everyone is here – even those who are not.

A friend of mine from high school looks every year on the calendar for Yom Kippur. And then, precisely at midday, he orders, pays and eats a bacon cheeseburger. I’m not pulling your leg. He doesn’t know, I think, that he is here too – in his devoted practice of opposing what he learned Jewish tradition is.

He thinks he sits outside of the gates of the castle, but clearly he still needs the gate to know where to sit.

A few of you approached me this year to know exactly where, politically, I sit, because, confusingly, you have not heard me speak from the pulpit about my political stance. One said, “I don’t really know where you stand in anything, really, rabbi”.

So let me come out. My political stance is faith in our people. And in humanity. And in Torah. And in mitzvot. And in kindness. And in compassion. And in understanding. And in empathy. And in a better world. And in peace.

And I have faith that every single one of you stands for those same things, because I know you, and I know that your soul is aligned with goodness.

There is a wonderful story about the Kotzker rebbe, who is approached by a Jew who is in a crisis of faith. Rebbe, the student says, I don’t know if I believe in God. The Kotzker says “what do you care?” The student says “what do you mean, what do I care?! If there is no God, what is the Torah anyway?” The Kotzker says “nu, what do you care?” The student says “what do you mean, what do I care?! If there is no God, and I don’t know what the Torah is, what am I doing with my life?” The Kotzker says “ach, what do you care?” Finally the student starts screaming: “Rebbe, if there is no God, and I don’t know what the Torah is, and I don’t know what am I doing with my life, and I don’t know what the meaning of anything is, what do you mean ‘what do I care?!’ I care!!!!” The Kotzker says: “ah, do you care? Du bist a kshrer yid, you are a kosher Jew. You are a fine Jew.” Meaning, it’s not about having the answers and having certainty, it’s a passion about caring.

Because we have this infinite capacity to care, we can be easily swayed by what we see, read, and hear. We live in a reality where our attention has become currency — and keeping us cycling through anger and anguish, keeps us coming back. Those who create the feeds and articles aren’t just giving us information; they’re shaping our emotions. We need to embrace the difficult reality that what we know is filtered through someone’s interests. We need to be aware of that precisely because we care.

The Mishnah teaches us that Yom Kippur atones for sins between a person and God, but for sins between one person and another, forgiveness must first be sought from the one who was wronged. It has become easy to wrong people without even noticing. This world pushes us into our corners, demanding we take sides and have strident opinions about people we’ve never talked to and situations we’ve never experienced.

We can log onto social media, become beasts biting people’s heads off, log out, and continue as if nothing happened. Behind fake names and profiles, we forget we’re speaking to real human beings. And this year we have seen photographs curated to show a specific reality, one that exists, however, one of which the iconic photos were not really depicting. AND the furor they caused was real. The newsplatform did issue an apology – hidden somewhere in the internet. And now AI has made this worse – there are videos so convincing you need to remind yourself that a six-month-old cannot actually speak.

We need healthy skepticism, but emotions arrive first. And hate doesn’t only hurt those who receive it — it hurts those who put it out into the world.

The words make a mark. The anger seeps into our lives beyond the screen. We’ve been conditioned to see the world as binary, and when we feel impotent to change things, we lash out in big and small ways. We pass along the hurt  – some with words, some taking violent action.

Now our tradition holds disagreement for the sake of heaven, the “machloket l’shem shamayim” in very high regard. It is an enduring value. The classic example is the debates between Hillel and Shammai, two great sages and schools of thought who rarely agreed on matters of Jewish law, yet whose disputes enriched our tradition immeasurably.

On this Yom Kippur, I invite us to reflect on how we can disagree, work towards finding common ground and return to each other with love.

Today, as we gather as a community seeking forgiveness and renewal, we carry forward Jewish wisdom: one that reminds us that we are bound together not because we agree with each other, not by uniformity of thought, but because we care. We share deep threads that weave themselves through our shared story: our commitments to continuity, to justice, to our responsibility to one another, and to our hope for a better world.

Israel – Eretz Yisrael – occupies a unique place in Jewish consciousness. For thousands of years, it has been the focal point of our prayers, our dreams, and our longings. “If I forget you, O Jerusalem, may my right hand forget its cunning” – these words have echoed through generations of Jewish hearts, from Babylon to Brooklyn, from Spain to Stockholm.

This connection transcends politics. It lives in our liturgy, in our holidays, in the very rhythm of our spiritual lives.

When we break the glass at a wedding, we remember Jerusalem. When we celebrate Passover, we declare “Next year in Jerusalem.” Those same words will be said tonight before break the fast. When we mourn on Tisha B’Av, we recall the destruction of Jerusalem.

Today, Jews all around the world hold different opinions about the State of Israel – about its policies, its future, its relationship with its neighbors, its government. Some see it as the national liberation of the Jews from European antisemitism, as even before the Holocaust there were Jewish people striving to live in that land. Some see it as a miracle and a refuge born from the ashes of the Holocaust. Others view it as the fulfillment of ancient prophecies. Still others focus on its role as a center of the renewal of Jewish learning and culture.

From our love of that land and our despair of antisemitism came six different strands of Zionism, and there is still a seventh that says ‘who cares about ideas, beit yaakov lechu venelcha, let’s just go up already.’ And yes, many of us struggle with aspects of its current reality while struggling to maintain deep love for its promise.

These different perspectives don’t make any of us less Jewish or less connected to one another. Every single idea is rooted in our ability to care – for the 7.2 million Jews that live in Israel, for the 8.1 million Jews living in Diaspora. All those opinions about Israel reflect the complexity of being a people scattered across the world, yet bound by common memory, shared destiny, and our comitment to continue the light of the Jewish people. If you care, Du bist a kshrer yid – you are a kosher Jew.

In 70 CE, when Jerusalem was under siege by the Romans, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai saw the many political divisions inside the Jewish people. He knew – the unbending quality of each political camp was going to bring a destruction so profound that nothing would remain if he did not do something. So he asked for Yavneh and its scholars – he understood that Jewish continuity depends not on unanimity, not on carrying just one voice, but on our commitment to learning together, questioning together, and building community together.

The Mishnah teaches us about the students of Rabbi Akiva, who died because “they did not treat each other with respect.” The lesson isn’t about not having disagreements – it’s about maintaining honor and dignity in our disagreements, it’s about caring. If you care, Du bist a kshrer yid – you are a kosher Jew.

On Yom Kippur  we ask: What does this mean, maintaining honor and dignity while we disagree? As we beat our chests during the Vidui and confess our shortcomings, we must also examine how we treat each other when we profoundly disagree with them. Do we label them and close off dialogue? Do we despair of ever changing their minds and therefore do not even try? Do we try, for a moment even, to see and listen to what they see and listen? Or are we so certain of our own positions that any disruption to our system is dangerous, so we refuse to see and listen, content in our certainties?

Maintaining honor and dignity while we disagree means we can hold different views about Israeli policy while celebrating the revival of Hebrew as a living language. We can debate politics while taking pride in Israel’s contributions to medicine, technology, and human knowledge. We can dispute the responsibilities of power and powerlessness while embracing Israel as a center of revival of Jewish dance, theater, music, sports and spirituality. Precisely because Israel is not only war: Israel is the creative impulse of the Jewish people in all its glory, in all its creative tension.

I have seen too many families destroyed by conflict – and I am not talking about the war raging in the Middle East right now. The war I am talking about is the war I see in families, conflict that breaks apart familial bonds. It always begins with forgetting that we are all coming from a good place – we are all, with no exception, rooted in goodness.

Every generation has had conflicts. It used to be the place of women. It used to be interfaith marriages. It used to be LGBTQ acceptance.

Do you remember how bitter those fights were, and in some communities, still are? Families who survived those survived because of their faith on their relationships, their deep commitment to love, and were able to work their positions because they assumed that all involved were steeped in  commitments to continuity, to justice, to responsibility to one another, and to hope for a better world.

There is a profound teaching in our tradition, in which when we die we will be asked six things. Each and every one of these questions represents a probing not just of our accomplishments, but of our overall character.

1. Nasata venatata beemunah? Did you deal justly with other human beings in business? Meaning, would we define ourselves as givers, or takers? Were we generous with what God gave us?
2. Kavata zman letorah? Did we fix set times for studying Torah? Meaning, did we establish a discipline of life, whereby human needs, ours and other people’s, were intertwined with our spiritual pursuit?
3. Asakta befriah urviah? Did you participate in the commandment to be fruitful and multiply? Meaning, did we see ourselves as a finite end in and of itself, or rather as a link in the ongoing, eternal chain of the generations? Were we only for us, or were we genuinely concerned for others and their welfare? Did we restrict ourselves to self-indulgence, or did we find a way to make a difference in the world at large? If we personally were blessed with offspring, did we also lend a hand, a shoulder, an ear to others who were not so fortunate? Did we make life easier for the needy, so they would be able to maintain their families?
4. Pilpalta LeChochmah? Did you engage in the pursuit of wisdom? Meaning, did we engage in pursuing that which challenged our intellects, or did we spend too much time in mindless pursuits? Did we ask deep and important questions to ourselves, seeking answers that would give meaning to our life?
5. Yirata et hashem? Did you hold God in awe? Meaning, did we live with a daily awareness that this world in general and our existence in particular is perilous and precarious, held together only by divine kindness? Did we stand in awe and appreciation of the magnificent world which God provided us on a silver platter?
6. And finally, Tzipita le’yeshua? Did you antecipate redemption? In many translations, the last question is ‘did you wait for redemption’.

But Shai Held translates it differently: did you make pockets of redemption around you? Meaning – did you create a better world where you are? Did you help those around you? Were you able to seed this world with kindness? Were you able to have faith in those whom you love, and if you weren’t able to find common ground, at least treat them as fellow human beings rooted in goodness, just as you are? Were you able to fight the urge to scream your righteous position from the rooftops?

Now we know that seven is the “magic number” in Judaism. So I would like you to figure out what the seventh question should be. My seventh question would be: did you care about people’s suffering? Because I believe that the Torah, by opening with the idea that every human being is created in the image of God, betzelem e-lohim, commands, begs, reminds us, that we do care – about human suffering. All suffering. Jewish suffering, Palestinian suffering, human suffering. And in our current moment, even saying this — even saying I care about all people — can feel like I am taking sides. [lament] That itself is a real tragedy.

In our Shabbat morning services, a couple of months ago, we had a moment. Someone brought up Gaza in the discussion, someone else objected, emotionally and loudly. The discussion was dropped. All who were present saw that. What most did not see is that both of those involved hugged afterwards during kiddush. And on the next Shabbat, they hugged as well. I, personally, had not seen them hugging ever before.

The Talmud tells us that Jerusalem was destroyed because of sinat chinam – baseless hatred between Jews. The antidote isn’t enforced agreement; it’s cultivating ahavat chinam – baseless love, love that exists simply because we share this remarkable journey of being Jewish. This is the power of this community.

My greatest wish for all of us is that we see and embrace Adath Israel as a place for all Jews, one in which we are here to use the creative tension in conflict to grow.

As we seek forgiveness today, it means recognizing that the Jewish woman in Tel Aviv worried about her children’s safety, the Jewish student on campus facing antisemitism, and the Jewish activist concerned about justice are all part of our story. As is my religiously Yom Kippur bacon cheeseburger eating friend. Their experiences may be different, but their Jewish hearts beat with the same ancient rhythms.

On Yom Kippur, we acknowledge that we are all equally in need of compassion, understanding, and mercy, both divine and human. Our community’s strength lies not in thinking alike, but in caring about each other deeply enough to engage in these difficult conversations with respect and love. When we sit together at Pray Eat Sing, when we comfort each other in times of loss, when we celebrate each other’s joys – these moments matter more than our political agreements or disagreements.

I will close with a story. About a year ago, Clive Ch’itiz, father of fallen soldier Yaron Chitiz was traveling back to Israel from Heathrow. He was told that his Thursday night flight was delayed to Friday morning. When he showed up for the flight on Friday, as he was being checked in by the ElAl security representative, he told her that he really needed the flight to leave on time so he could make it back to his synagogue in Ra’anana for Shabbat so he could say the mourner’s kaddish for his fallen son. He explained that he promised himself that he’d say the kaddish at least once a day and because he was staying at a random hotel after the flight was delayed, he couldn’t say the kaddish, so he needed to be back on time. The representative explained to him that she’s only on the security team and she had no say or information about the flight’s departure. Clive thanked her and started walking toward the gate. A few minutes later, he got a phone call.

“Hi, this is Jasmine from security. To be honest, I didn’t even know what kaddish was, so I Googled it. I learned that to say the kaddish, you need 10 men above the age of 13. So I asked a few men to meet me by the gate so you can say kaddish before you board; at least that way you will fly with the peace of mind knowing that you already said kaddish today.”

Clive began to cry and ran towards the gate. When he got there, he did not find 10 men. He found EVERY SINGLE man above the age of 13 who was on the flight waiting for him at the gate. Religious. Ultra Orthodox. Secular. All waiting for him. They recited a few chapters of Psalms and he was able to recite the Kaddish for his son. If you know anything about the profound disagreements in Israeli politics today, you know how even more beautiful this story is. It is a reminder that we are all family. We may disagree, dispute, but we are all in this together.

The Talmud tells us that on Yom Kippur, Satan, the Accuser, has no power to accuse. On this day, we are given the gift of seeing ourselves and each other with new eyes, free from the harsh judgments that can divide us throughout the year.

As we face the complexities of our time, let us remember that we are part of a people that has survived and thrived precisely because we learned to hold multiple truths simultaneously. We are a people of questions as much as answers, of debate as much as consensus. And on this day of return, we commit to returning not just to God, but to each other. Let us use our holy time in the castle of Yom Kippur to commit to creating spaces where all members of our community can express their hopes and concerns about Israel, about Judaism, about our future. Let us listen to understand and to build, not just to respond. Let us assume good intentions even when we disagree with conclusions. This is the teshuvah we owe each other.

In Ne’ilah, in a few hours, we ask God to open several gates for us and all Israel: “light, blessing, joy, gladness, splendor, good counsel, merit, love, purity, salvation, atonement, kindness, pardon, consolation, forgiveness, help, prosperity, righteousness, uprightness, complete healing, peace, repentance.”

Today, let us also commit to keeping the gates of conversation open, the gates of compassion open, the gates of listening open, the gates of community open to all who seek to journey with us.

G’mar chatimah tovah – may we all be sealed in the Book of Life, together.