“It is difficult to make predictions, especially about the future.” While at first this proverb feels like something Yogi Berra may have said, it is actually credited to Niels Bohr, a Danish physicist.
By all measures, Niels Bohr had a predictable life. For starters, he was a physicist. His job was to predict how the universe would interact. He was so good at this predicting that he won the 1922 Nobel Prize in Physics for his work on atomic structures.
His mother was Ellen Adler, a member of a prominent Jewish banking family. Bohr did not necessarily consider himself Jewish, having been christened in the Lutheran church. His wealth and privilege afforded him an education though, which would have been a good enough indicator of his future success. Paired with his innate ability, perhaps it was predictable that he’d achieve such academic and public success.
But what made him remarkable is what happened after the predictable timeline. As the Nazis rose to power in the 1930’s, Bohr chose to use his prestige to save many Jewish lives. As you may be aware, in 1933, the Rockefeller Foundation created a fund to help support refugee academics – particularly Jewish ones - who were at greatest risk. Bohr met with the President of the Rockefeller Foundation, Max Mason, during a visit to the United States and secured a plan. Bohr offered the refugees temporary jobs at his institute, providing them with financial support and arranging for them to be awarded fellowships from the Rockefeller Foundation. Ultimately it was all with the goal of placing them at institutions around the world, shepherding them to safety. He saved hundreds of lives.
Predictably or not, in 1940, his own life came into danger. The Nazis invaded Denmark and Bohr got word that the Nazis considered him Jewish on account of his mother. Like many Danish Jews, he fled to Sweden by way of fishing boat and he was able to find passage to the US. Yet he refused to leave Sweden until he had had an opportunity to meet with King Gustav V, whom he helped persuade to make public Sweden’s willingness to provide a refuge to Danish Jews. Soon after, in early October 1943, the great exodus of 7,800 Jews across the Oresund Sea took place.
When Niels arrived in the US, he became part of the Manhattan Project. Yet even from there he took yet another unexpected turn. He was an early defector from using nuclear technology for weapons and directed his energy toward peaceful applications.
If Niels’ life is any indicator, it is indeed hard to make predictions, particularly about the future. His life story is an example of how one may try to predict a great many outcomes, but it is the choices we make in the face of unpredictable challenges that dictate what the future will hold. The future cannot be predicted, it can only be directed by our actions.
Judaism, ancient and modern, follows this wisdom. Time and again, our texts reject divination and magic. These fantastical shortcuts, tradition says, seek to access the Divine realm in order to understand God’s design. Any human who claims to be able to do this is nothing more than a charlatan. Even the prophets - who “saw” the future - were really just mouthpieces for God. They had no innate power. Even Joseph, the great predictor, was a dream interpreter, not some magical seer.
But there’s a wrinkle to this logic in this week’s Torah portion. In it, we receive a description of Aaron the High Priest’s uniform - an ornate and essential get-up that is as full of symbolism.
Central to the uniform is “the breastpiece of decision:” a metalpiece with 12 stones mounted in a grid. Each stone represents one of the 12 tribes. Wearing this, “Aaron shall carry the names of the sons of Israel on the breastpiece of decision over his heart, when he enters the sanctuary, for remembrance before GOD at all times.” The point is clear: Aaron, or any High Priest, is just a vessel. In doing his holy work, he should never forget the people he represents before God. The power lies with the people, not within him or in the sacred objects he handles.
But then the wrinkle: “Inside the breastpiece of decision you shall place the Urim and Thummim, so that they are over Aaron’s heart when he comes before GOD. Thus Aaron shall carry the instrument of decision for the Israelites over his heart before GOD at all times.”
Scholars and sages alike are stumped when it comes to these Urim and Thummin. On a basic level, we know that they are two stones that help the community make decisions. The physical maneuvering and how they functioned remains a mystery though. Many believe that they served as a sort of proto-Ouija board. There are theories that the stones were peered through, and something about the light’s shining off or through them held significance. However they worked, it seems safe to say that the Urim and Thummim stones were some sort of mystical tools to decode prophecy and help point the community in the right direction.
Somewhere along the way, they fell out of vogue and their function was lost to history. Maybe because our ancestors felt, much like many of us, that this feels like a whole lot of superstitious gibberish.
But let’s give them a little bit more credit. Rather than being just primitive, ancient magical divination tools, perhaps the Urim and Thummim were symbolic in the way the priest’s breastpiece was symbolic.
Perhaps more than a physical lens, the stones were a “values lens,” encouraging humans to weigh their choices before them and choose wisely. By sanctioning the handling of the Urim and Thummim stones, perhaps God is saying, “the future is literally in your hands” - weigh it, wave it, handle it carefully.
Monday night, the holiday of Purim will begin. The word Purim means “lots.” It refers to the lottery system the villain Haman used to determine the date for annihilating the Jews. The Persian Jews’ future was literally determined in a crapshoot. And for most of the Purim story, it looks like the future has been irrevocably predicted by these inanimate objects. The lots fell a certain way and the Jews’ fate was sealed.
And yet, that’s not how the story goes. Fate flips. The 14th of Adar becomes not a day of annihilation, but a day of exaltation and joy. And most notably, it does not turn because of Divine intervention - not explicitly at least. God splits no seas. No, fate turns because of the actions of the story’s humans! Mordechai overhearing the plans to kill the king. Esther, bravely deciding to disclose her identity. It is the choices we make in the face of unpredictable challenges that dictate what the future will hold. Purim teaches loudly: the future cannot be predicted, it can only be directed by our actions.
Niels Bohrs’ contemporary, Albert Einstein famously said that "God does not play dice with the universe.” He and Niels often disagreed, mainly because Einstein objected to the inherent randomness that Bohr promoted. Einstein believed in order, not chance.
Perhaps God doesn’t play dice with the universe, but whatever God’s plan is, we certainly don’t know it. No matter the scientific breakthroughs, no matter the art and philosophy we develop, we can only catch glimpses of the Divine plan - if there even is one. So let us use the tools we have - our hearts and minds and hands - to take the chaos thrown at us and resolve to make a future of our choosing. A good future, a just one, full of compassion and repair. We may not be able to predict it, but we can create it.
Saturday, February 28, 2026
Sunday, February 8, 2026
Why a Bat Mitzvah?
Drash given on the Friday evening of the weekend my daughter became bat mitzvah.
13 years ago, a parenting blog appeared in the NYTimes by best-selling author KJ Dell’Antonia. I was paying attention because, well, 13 years ago, I was about to become a parent and I had time to care about parenting blogs.
Dell’Antonia wrote a compelling piece on why she and her husband were decidedly NOT raising their child with religion. She presented the idea of two axes of connection - a vertical one that connects a person to their family and history, and a horizontal one, that connects a person to other communities in the here and now. She sees “organized religion” as existing to “sure up” the vertical axis and then makes a case for why people shouldn’t feel badly about abandoning this project. In her words:
“[there is the] fear that without a shared religion, a child will fail to feel a connection to her family and her history…That connection, though, can be found in different places. It can be found in stories of family history and family resilience shared around a dinner table, or in a sport, a hometown or a cause. There are many ways to deepen a vertical connection. What matters is to find and strengthen those things that are important to your family rather than regretting those things that have worked for other families in other times…
…Parents need to release our grip on the vertical and recognize that finding or embracing those horizontal identities is crucial to our children. As important as the family identity is, we need to leave room for the identities — religious or otherwise — that we don’t “give.””
I see what she’s saying. Religion is not the only pathway to tradition and a meaningful life. And I agree that paying attention to the horizontal axis is crucial. We must make room for our children to seek community in places and spaces where one feels most authentically themselves.
But her antipathy toward religion’s impact on the vertical axis bothered me. Her description of religion, or a strong connection to ancestral traditions, felt shallow. Her dismissive note about “what worked for other families in other times,” felt short-sighted. It marks religion as primitive and focused on the past, mired in conservative obstinacy. In our modern world, this is a common accusation against “organized religion.”
As an endorser of organized religion, as a progressive person, as a Jew, I often find myself feeling tremendously misunderstood by these characterizations.
Then I came across a response to Dell’Antonia’s piece by Reverend Nurya Love Parish, an Episcopal priest, that articulated my critique even better and helped me to feel seen:
“Religion, as described by Dell’Antonia, is not a meaning-making language necessary for a full life, not a set of practices for the growth of the soul, not an irreplaceable force for good in the world. Religion is roughly equivalent to “community.” Because Dell’Antonia understands religion as community, it is optional. People can find their way into any community they choose. There is no significant difference between a religious community and any other community.”
“Contrary to Dell’Antonia’s assumptions,” she continues, ““Religion” and ”community” are not synonyms. Religion is a way of making meaning of life. Religions endure because they successfully enable generation after generation to celebrate the beauty and wrestle with the agony of human existence. Religious communities are not an end in themselves. Their purpose is to practice the religion they profess. By the practice of their faith, they seek a depth of soul and connection to the Divine that is impossible to achieve any other way. Religious communities exist to connect human beings with God, the Eternal.”
I’ve sat with these two pieces for 13 years now, and given the events of this weekend - our eldest child becoming a bat mitzvah - I dug them out of my files, drawn by some important personal questions: “why IS this weekend so important to our family?” “why DO we care so much about raising our child in a faith?”
I mean, I’m a rabbi. My husband Mark is also a Jewish professional. It was sort of a given that our children would be enmeshed in a synagogue and attend religious school, and that one day they would become B-Mitzvah (and continue to Confirmation and Graduation). But being a rabbi, being Jews, we, like everyone else, also needed to ask, “but why?!”
I’ll start with a disclaimer: I don’t think a child’s upbringing is “deficient” in any way if they aren’t raised in a faith. I also believe, importantly, that a person should not be burdened or saddled with a faith. We have seen too many examples of where that leads to abuse and emotional anguish. Fundamentalist reads that propagate self-hate, or hatred towards others, or that stifle one’s social, emotional, and physical freedom are problematic.
I do see raising a child in a dynamic, loving faith, however, as a potential gift. It is a gift of a “religious toolbox.” This toolbox contains the vocabulary, experiences, and rituals that help one to experience life's highs and lows, its twists and turns. A religious toolbox includes a vocabulary of gratitude, which promotes emotional and physical well-being.
It provides one with intentional fortitude and motivation to participate in the world, no matter its uncertainty or ugliness. It contains handbooks for survival, promoting determination and grit.
A religious toolbox drives us to act justly, it has tools for empowerment. And while both gratitude and a sense of justice can happen outside the bounds of a religious faith, our faith is what makes it obligatory.
Religious life counteracts feeling adrift. It is about manifesting sacredness by accessing the sanctity around us. When done with intention, integrity, and a strong sense of personal freedom, religion can provide a bedrock in which one can drop an anchor, offering support in the vastness of the human experience. It is the gift of feeling connected to something greater than ourselves.
That “something greater” can be many different things: a body of wisdom, a sense of wonder, a God-concept, or, to come full circle, a community.
So we’re back at the vertical axis, and the pejorative “what’s worked for other families in other times.” We Jews call this Torah. Torah is what’s worked for the Jewish family over time.
The Torah, we say, is a tree of life - with a strong, robust, vertical trunk that is always responding, always growing. By Jewish standards, the story of our people is a growing, living thing, dynamic and conversational.
The metaphor is rich: the tree's trunk has many layers, formed by the rings inside. There are thick layers for years in which the tree receives more nourishment and support. They become thinner during years of challenge. Rings are lighter in color during significant growth and darker during seasons filled with more comfort and uniformity. So too has our tradition expanded and constricted, made adjustments due to time and place. It has branched out and it has weathered many storms.
This is not a relic that tethers us to the past, but a living framework that has given generations the courage, language, and moral imagination to meet the future.
On Yom Kippur morning, one of my favorite readings ends with,
“The words are old and the language was theirs,
but the call is real and the message is ours:
Take hold of your life while you still have the chance!”
And you better believe we do this in community, sacred community. This is a sacred and human struggle to do what is right - for ourselves and for others. And this is precisely why our daughter will stand on this bimah tomorrow morning and read from the Torah.
She will be given many gifts tomorrow and throughout her life, but the biggest one will be that Torah itself - the skills and stories that motivate her to assert her own worth and insist that she act to assert the worth and dignity of others as well. Her destiny is knit up with others’ from the past, present and future, and knowing that, the decisions she makes matter.
I can’t think of a more empowering gift - the gift of knowing that life is sacred and that she is never, ever alone. We are never alone. We matter. Always.
On Wednesday evening, we had our rehearsal with Cantor Jenna. The cantor took the Torah out of the ark and handed it to Noah, who now, old enough, held it alone for the very first time in her life. That was when I cried.
She’s heard it, seen it, even touched it, but now it is entrusted to her. Why would we hand over the keys to the tradition to a 13 year old? Because the rabbis were keen observers of human development, and they intuitively knew what modern science shows: the pre-frontal cortex of a teen is still forming. In its growth state, it is pliable and ready to choose a path. At this moment of great change and exploration, it is crucial we develop and then hand over the toolbox for meaningful living. It is the gift of empowerment, the gift of dynamic, purposeful connection at a stage of development where one might feel alone and unsure of who they are and what they stand for.
It’s not just connection, it’s not just community, it’s covenant. This covenant is established in this week’s Torah portion in the uttering of the 10 Commandments. Through these laws, rituals, and relationship God says, אַתֶּם תִּהְיוּ־לִי מַמְלֶכֶת כֹּהֲנִים וְגוֹי קָדוֹשׁ (you will be to me a kingdom of priests, a holy nation!), people who know their worth and the worth of others.
Source of Life,
We thank You for the gift of a living tradition—
for words older than us that still call us forward,
for rituals that steady us when the world feels uncertain,
And for a covenant that breathes life into each of us and into Your creation.
On this weekend of my daughter’s bat mitzvah, I am grateful for the sacred gift that I was given, and the privilege and freedom to pass it to her. In doing so, may we continue to be agents of love and life, individually, together, and as a community. Amen.
13 years ago, a parenting blog appeared in the NYTimes by best-selling author KJ Dell’Antonia. I was paying attention because, well, 13 years ago, I was about to become a parent and I had time to care about parenting blogs.
Dell’Antonia wrote a compelling piece on why she and her husband were decidedly NOT raising their child with religion. She presented the idea of two axes of connection - a vertical one that connects a person to their family and history, and a horizontal one, that connects a person to other communities in the here and now. She sees “organized religion” as existing to “sure up” the vertical axis and then makes a case for why people shouldn’t feel badly about abandoning this project. In her words:
“[there is the] fear that without a shared religion, a child will fail to feel a connection to her family and her history…That connection, though, can be found in different places. It can be found in stories of family history and family resilience shared around a dinner table, or in a sport, a hometown or a cause. There are many ways to deepen a vertical connection. What matters is to find and strengthen those things that are important to your family rather than regretting those things that have worked for other families in other times…
…Parents need to release our grip on the vertical and recognize that finding or embracing those horizontal identities is crucial to our children. As important as the family identity is, we need to leave room for the identities — religious or otherwise — that we don’t “give.””
I see what she’s saying. Religion is not the only pathway to tradition and a meaningful life. And I agree that paying attention to the horizontal axis is crucial. We must make room for our children to seek community in places and spaces where one feels most authentically themselves.
But her antipathy toward religion’s impact on the vertical axis bothered me. Her description of religion, or a strong connection to ancestral traditions, felt shallow. Her dismissive note about “what worked for other families in other times,” felt short-sighted. It marks religion as primitive and focused on the past, mired in conservative obstinacy. In our modern world, this is a common accusation against “organized religion.”
As an endorser of organized religion, as a progressive person, as a Jew, I often find myself feeling tremendously misunderstood by these characterizations.
Then I came across a response to Dell’Antonia’s piece by Reverend Nurya Love Parish, an Episcopal priest, that articulated my critique even better and helped me to feel seen:
“Religion, as described by Dell’Antonia, is not a meaning-making language necessary for a full life, not a set of practices for the growth of the soul, not an irreplaceable force for good in the world. Religion is roughly equivalent to “community.” Because Dell’Antonia understands religion as community, it is optional. People can find their way into any community they choose. There is no significant difference between a religious community and any other community.”
“Contrary to Dell’Antonia’s assumptions,” she continues, ““Religion” and ”community” are not synonyms. Religion is a way of making meaning of life. Religions endure because they successfully enable generation after generation to celebrate the beauty and wrestle with the agony of human existence. Religious communities are not an end in themselves. Their purpose is to practice the religion they profess. By the practice of their faith, they seek a depth of soul and connection to the Divine that is impossible to achieve any other way. Religious communities exist to connect human beings with God, the Eternal.”
I’ve sat with these two pieces for 13 years now, and given the events of this weekend - our eldest child becoming a bat mitzvah - I dug them out of my files, drawn by some important personal questions: “why IS this weekend so important to our family?” “why DO we care so much about raising our child in a faith?”
I mean, I’m a rabbi. My husband Mark is also a Jewish professional. It was sort of a given that our children would be enmeshed in a synagogue and attend religious school, and that one day they would become B-Mitzvah (and continue to Confirmation and Graduation). But being a rabbi, being Jews, we, like everyone else, also needed to ask, “but why?!”
I’ll start with a disclaimer: I don’t think a child’s upbringing is “deficient” in any way if they aren’t raised in a faith. I also believe, importantly, that a person should not be burdened or saddled with a faith. We have seen too many examples of where that leads to abuse and emotional anguish. Fundamentalist reads that propagate self-hate, or hatred towards others, or that stifle one’s social, emotional, and physical freedom are problematic.
I do see raising a child in a dynamic, loving faith, however, as a potential gift. It is a gift of a “religious toolbox.” This toolbox contains the vocabulary, experiences, and rituals that help one to experience life's highs and lows, its twists and turns. A religious toolbox includes a vocabulary of gratitude, which promotes emotional and physical well-being.
It provides one with intentional fortitude and motivation to participate in the world, no matter its uncertainty or ugliness. It contains handbooks for survival, promoting determination and grit.
A religious toolbox drives us to act justly, it has tools for empowerment. And while both gratitude and a sense of justice can happen outside the bounds of a religious faith, our faith is what makes it obligatory.
Religious life counteracts feeling adrift. It is about manifesting sacredness by accessing the sanctity around us. When done with intention, integrity, and a strong sense of personal freedom, religion can provide a bedrock in which one can drop an anchor, offering support in the vastness of the human experience. It is the gift of feeling connected to something greater than ourselves.
That “something greater” can be many different things: a body of wisdom, a sense of wonder, a God-concept, or, to come full circle, a community.
So we’re back at the vertical axis, and the pejorative “what’s worked for other families in other times.” We Jews call this Torah. Torah is what’s worked for the Jewish family over time.
The Torah, we say, is a tree of life - with a strong, robust, vertical trunk that is always responding, always growing. By Jewish standards, the story of our people is a growing, living thing, dynamic and conversational.
The metaphor is rich: the tree's trunk has many layers, formed by the rings inside. There are thick layers for years in which the tree receives more nourishment and support. They become thinner during years of challenge. Rings are lighter in color during significant growth and darker during seasons filled with more comfort and uniformity. So too has our tradition expanded and constricted, made adjustments due to time and place. It has branched out and it has weathered many storms.
This is not a relic that tethers us to the past, but a living framework that has given generations the courage, language, and moral imagination to meet the future.
On Yom Kippur morning, one of my favorite readings ends with,
“The words are old and the language was theirs,
but the call is real and the message is ours:
Take hold of your life while you still have the chance!”
And you better believe we do this in community, sacred community. This is a sacred and human struggle to do what is right - for ourselves and for others. And this is precisely why our daughter will stand on this bimah tomorrow morning and read from the Torah.
She will be given many gifts tomorrow and throughout her life, but the biggest one will be that Torah itself - the skills and stories that motivate her to assert her own worth and insist that she act to assert the worth and dignity of others as well. Her destiny is knit up with others’ from the past, present and future, and knowing that, the decisions she makes matter.
I can’t think of a more empowering gift - the gift of knowing that life is sacred and that she is never, ever alone. We are never alone. We matter. Always.
On Wednesday evening, we had our rehearsal with Cantor Jenna. The cantor took the Torah out of the ark and handed it to Noah, who now, old enough, held it alone for the very first time in her life. That was when I cried.
She’s heard it, seen it, even touched it, but now it is entrusted to her. Why would we hand over the keys to the tradition to a 13 year old? Because the rabbis were keen observers of human development, and they intuitively knew what modern science shows: the pre-frontal cortex of a teen is still forming. In its growth state, it is pliable and ready to choose a path. At this moment of great change and exploration, it is crucial we develop and then hand over the toolbox for meaningful living. It is the gift of empowerment, the gift of dynamic, purposeful connection at a stage of development where one might feel alone and unsure of who they are and what they stand for.
It’s not just connection, it’s not just community, it’s covenant. This covenant is established in this week’s Torah portion in the uttering of the 10 Commandments. Through these laws, rituals, and relationship God says, אַתֶּם תִּהְיוּ־לִי מַמְלֶכֶת כֹּהֲנִים וְגוֹי קָדוֹשׁ (you will be to me a kingdom of priests, a holy nation!), people who know their worth and the worth of others.
Source of Life,
We thank You for the gift of a living tradition—
for words older than us that still call us forward,
for rituals that steady us when the world feels uncertain,
And for a covenant that breathes life into each of us and into Your creation.
On this weekend of my daughter’s bat mitzvah, I am grateful for the sacred gift that I was given, and the privilege and freedom to pass it to her. In doing so, may we continue to be agents of love and life, individually, together, and as a community. Amen.
Tuesday, February 3, 2026
The NEW Colossus
Lady Liberty - one of the most powerful symbols of our country.
Liberty of course, is her defining feature
Liberty - the hope that was uttered to her in prayer from the incoming migrants
But Emma Lazarus, a Jew, a poet was not so literal.
Within her poem lies a protest.
Have you ever stopped to think about the TITLE?
Have you paused on the first couplet before reciting the poem’s most famous lines?
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command…
This statue is NOT Colossus, she says, the brazen giant of Greek fame
The statue of Helios in Rhodes’ harbor,
built in 280 BC to commemorate the successful defense against military attack.
He stood arrogant, his masculine might exposed, muscle on display
and an earthquake brought him down.
Some records say that the fallen giant was pillaged by Arabs
and the scrap metal was sold to a “certain Jew”
(You can hear the derision dripping from the pen of the Byzantine historian)
This statue, says Lazarus, is NOT THAT.
She is not here to intimidate - she is here to welcome.
Not cocky, hateful history behind her.
She looks toward the horizon,
the moral arc of the universe,
longing.
She is NOT military and conquest,
She is hope, compassion, a MOTHER.
A Mother of EXILES, even.
Not history’s victors.
If anything, she calls to those who have lost.
Because not all of history’s victors are winners
And its losers are not waste.
In fact, if we follow the horizon,
the moral arc of history long enough,
we will see it is the tempest-tossed,
the tired, the poor, the huddled masses
Who make history,
Who build society,
Who write the poems
and build the movements.
With her mild eyes, she commands
the air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
You know who had mild eyes?
Our foremother Leah,
The less loved, the rejected
And yet she too birthed our people.
And so now, a new generation seeks
what so many others have sought,
To build a life of liberty,
To step through the golden door of possibility.
Whether travelling from far beyond our shores
Or already within our borders
May the most vulnerable be met with compassion.
May protest remain a protected right
May the law of our land be upheld with dignity
And should we need to defend, let us defend with dignity
May every official, every enforcement officer,
Every citizen and every resident
Live each day in such a way that they can hold their head high
Like Lady Liberty does.
Her torch’s flame possesses lightening
But the lightning is never dispatched. It is restrained.
Because it is not a weapon but a beacon.
It is light.
Light, held—not hurled.
Light that beckons
Light that leads the way.
Dignity, life, shining.
Friday, January 9, 2026
The Start of the Exodus, 2026
"How it started vs. how it's going" is a popular social media trend. You post two contrasting images - one showing the beginning state of something, and one showing the current state of the thing, usually to show a decline or funny change.
The book of Exodus starts off in this manner. How’d it start? Jacob’s family is reunited. They migrate to Egypt to survive famine. They thrive. They multiply. “The land was filled with them,” the text says (Exod. 1:7).
And how’s it going? Well… “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.” He fears the Hebrews. He sets taskmasters over them and oppresses the Hebrews with forced labor. They’re forced to build garrison cities for Pharaoh. Life is made bitter and harsh.
So…bad. It's going badly.
But while Exodus opens with a brutal ‘how it started, how it’s going,’ we know the Torah never freezes. We’ll follow our enslaved ancestors out of Egypt and they will begin their desert journey. 40 chapters from now, we will witness them build the Tabernacle, the portable sanctuary where God’s presence dwells among the people.
This is the “how it started, how it's going” we really want to pay attention to. Think about it: Exodus begins with Egyptian oppression, the Israelites being forced to build garrison cities. By the end of the book, they’re still building. But this time, though, they’re not constructing military cities for an egomaniacal king. No, they’re building the Tabernacle. The Mishkan is a dwelling place for the Divine, where the Ten Commandments will rest, where communication with God will occur. The Israelites are building this sanctuary with their own free will and talents. God asks that everyone involved in the construction donate “as their hearts are so moved.” It’ll be made of precious metals and curtains and wood; wildly different from the brick and mortar slave-built cities of these first few chapters of Exodus.
And because the Mishkan is a communal project of authentic love, God’s presence will come to dwell in it - a beacon of light and hope in the midst of the camp. The last line of Exodus is: “For over the Tabernacle a cloud of יהוה rested by day, and fire would appear in it by night, in the view of all the House of Israel throughout their journeys” (Exodus 40:38).
This is God’s emanance appearing to guide the journey. And not just this Exodus journey that we are about to embark upon, but all the journeys our people will take.
The book of Exodus has many morals, but tonight, here at the start of 2026, it is important we highlight the Torah’s insistence that we have the power to shape the future for the better. No matter how terrible this particular moment may seem, bitterness can give way to holiness. Yes, miracles may move the story along, but redemption ultimately begins in our hands.
The book of Exodus is a polemic against futility. You may be chained and beaten, but you need not accept that as an eternal fate. Indeed, the only thing eternal is God.
The Talmud (Sotah 12a) presents a story about these early days in Egyptian slavery. Pharaoh decrees that when the midwives “deliver the Hebrew women, look at the birthstool: if it is a boy, kill him; if it is a girl, let her live.” When the midwives righteously refuse, Pharaoh tries again: charging all his people to make sure that every Hebrew boy that is born shall be thrown into the Nile.
In response to this state-sanctioned terror, a man named Amram, a well respected leader in the Hebrew community, decides the only way to avoid the decree is to stop producing children. He therefore separates from his wife, Yocheved. Others follow his lead, giving into the futility of the situation.
But Miriam, Amram and Yocheved’s young daughter, confronts him. She argues that Amram’s choice is more devastating than Pharaoh’s edict. Pharaoh targeted only boys, she explains. Amram’s decision erases all future children. Pharaoh’s decree threatens life in this world alone; Amram’s forecloses both this world and the world to come. And while Pharaoh’s decree may change or fail, a righteous person’s despair, once acted upon, is certain to shape reality.
Moved by her words, Amram reunites with his wife, the people do the same, and the future of Israel is restored—setting the stage for redemption to begin with Moses’ birth.
Miriam’s logic not only saved our people then, but it can inspire us now. Miriam is called a prophetess, not necessarily because she can see the future, but because she speaks and builds it into being.
Later in the story, when the Israelites flee through the parted Sea of Reeds, Miriam and the women will sing and dance with their timbrels. We have to ask: of all the things they brought, why their timbrels? They didn’t even have enough time for their dough to rise but they had enough time to grab their handrums?
They did this, the rabbis say, because they knew there would be a miracle. They knew there would be a time to celebrate. Miriam and the women knew they’d be singing songs of praise, so they put their timbrels at the top of liberation’s packing list.
So how about we do the same?
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote: “One of the most important distinctions I have learned in the course of reflection on Jewish history is the difference between optimism and hope. Optimism is the belief that things will get better. Hope is the belief that, together, we can make things better. Optimism is a passive virtue, hope an active one. It takes no courage to be an optimist, but it takes a great deal of courage to have hope.”
It’s the beginning of the book of Exodus, it’s Jan 2026. How’s it starting? It’s a mixed bag. Where’s it going? Well, that’s up to us. Let’s be brave, let’s make it not just a year of wandering, but a year of wondering, of dreaming, of building a sanctuary of well-being for ourselves, our families and all humankind. Amen.
The book of Exodus starts off in this manner. How’d it start? Jacob’s family is reunited. They migrate to Egypt to survive famine. They thrive. They multiply. “The land was filled with them,” the text says (Exod. 1:7).
And how’s it going? Well… “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.” He fears the Hebrews. He sets taskmasters over them and oppresses the Hebrews with forced labor. They’re forced to build garrison cities for Pharaoh. Life is made bitter and harsh.
So…bad. It's going badly.
But while Exodus opens with a brutal ‘how it started, how it’s going,’ we know the Torah never freezes. We’ll follow our enslaved ancestors out of Egypt and they will begin their desert journey. 40 chapters from now, we will witness them build the Tabernacle, the portable sanctuary where God’s presence dwells among the people.
This is the “how it started, how it's going” we really want to pay attention to. Think about it: Exodus begins with Egyptian oppression, the Israelites being forced to build garrison cities. By the end of the book, they’re still building. But this time, though, they’re not constructing military cities for an egomaniacal king. No, they’re building the Tabernacle. The Mishkan is a dwelling place for the Divine, where the Ten Commandments will rest, where communication with God will occur. The Israelites are building this sanctuary with their own free will and talents. God asks that everyone involved in the construction donate “as their hearts are so moved.” It’ll be made of precious metals and curtains and wood; wildly different from the brick and mortar slave-built cities of these first few chapters of Exodus.
And because the Mishkan is a communal project of authentic love, God’s presence will come to dwell in it - a beacon of light and hope in the midst of the camp. The last line of Exodus is: “For over the Tabernacle a cloud of יהוה rested by day, and fire would appear in it by night, in the view of all the House of Israel throughout their journeys” (Exodus 40:38).
This is God’s emanance appearing to guide the journey. And not just this Exodus journey that we are about to embark upon, but all the journeys our people will take.
The book of Exodus has many morals, but tonight, here at the start of 2026, it is important we highlight the Torah’s insistence that we have the power to shape the future for the better. No matter how terrible this particular moment may seem, bitterness can give way to holiness. Yes, miracles may move the story along, but redemption ultimately begins in our hands.
The book of Exodus is a polemic against futility. You may be chained and beaten, but you need not accept that as an eternal fate. Indeed, the only thing eternal is God.
The Talmud (Sotah 12a) presents a story about these early days in Egyptian slavery. Pharaoh decrees that when the midwives “deliver the Hebrew women, look at the birthstool: if it is a boy, kill him; if it is a girl, let her live.” When the midwives righteously refuse, Pharaoh tries again: charging all his people to make sure that every Hebrew boy that is born shall be thrown into the Nile.
In response to this state-sanctioned terror, a man named Amram, a well respected leader in the Hebrew community, decides the only way to avoid the decree is to stop producing children. He therefore separates from his wife, Yocheved. Others follow his lead, giving into the futility of the situation.
But Miriam, Amram and Yocheved’s young daughter, confronts him. She argues that Amram’s choice is more devastating than Pharaoh’s edict. Pharaoh targeted only boys, she explains. Amram’s decision erases all future children. Pharaoh’s decree threatens life in this world alone; Amram’s forecloses both this world and the world to come. And while Pharaoh’s decree may change or fail, a righteous person’s despair, once acted upon, is certain to shape reality.
Moved by her words, Amram reunites with his wife, the people do the same, and the future of Israel is restored—setting the stage for redemption to begin with Moses’ birth.
Miriam’s logic not only saved our people then, but it can inspire us now. Miriam is called a prophetess, not necessarily because she can see the future, but because she speaks and builds it into being.
Later in the story, when the Israelites flee through the parted Sea of Reeds, Miriam and the women will sing and dance with their timbrels. We have to ask: of all the things they brought, why their timbrels? They didn’t even have enough time for their dough to rise but they had enough time to grab their handrums?
They did this, the rabbis say, because they knew there would be a miracle. They knew there would be a time to celebrate. Miriam and the women knew they’d be singing songs of praise, so they put their timbrels at the top of liberation’s packing list.
So how about we do the same?
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote: “One of the most important distinctions I have learned in the course of reflection on Jewish history is the difference between optimism and hope. Optimism is the belief that things will get better. Hope is the belief that, together, we can make things better. Optimism is a passive virtue, hope an active one. It takes no courage to be an optimist, but it takes a great deal of courage to have hope.”
It’s the beginning of the book of Exodus, it’s Jan 2026. How’s it starting? It’s a mixed bag. Where’s it going? Well, that’s up to us. Let’s be brave, let’s make it not just a year of wandering, but a year of wondering, of dreaming, of building a sanctuary of well-being for ourselves, our families and all humankind. Amen.
Friday, December 19, 2025
Hanukkah Hope
Doughnuts, latkes…Hanukkah is all about oil! That’s because back in the day, lamps were not lit by candles but by olive oil. And indeed, that is the so-called miracle of Hanukkah - that when the Maccabees rededicated the temple and lit the holy menorah, they thought they only had enough holy oil for one day, but it lasted, miraculously, for eight days.
Oil was a precious commodity back in ancient times. It was used for everything - lighting, cooking, purifying, healing. Oil provided warmth, sustenance and light. Oil production and availability, meant culture, life, and communal vitality.
Ancient olive oil production is not too different from today, just with less mechanical tools. Here’s a crash course, should you want to become an olive oil producer:
Olives are crushed (with stone presses or by foot).
The pulp is pressed to release oil.
The oil is skimmed off and kept in vats.
Back in the day, only a very special, clear oil was used in sacred service at the Temple in Jerusalem, hence why there was only one little cruse of oil that could be used to light the menorah and rededicate the temple.
But this miracle we talk about? The 8 days? It makes a nice story, but I personally don’t think it gets to the real heart of the holiday. Tonight, I want to suggest to you that the true miracle of Hanukkah does not have to do with the oil’s ending, that is the miraculous lighting, but rather the oil’s beginning…that is, the pressing.
Like the Maccabees of 165 BCE, we Jews of 2025 CE feel like we are being pressed on all sides by anti-Jewish politics and anti-Jewish violence. We feel the foot of hatred and the stone press of despair bearing down upon us. It is hard to keep our spirits from being crushed.
And yet, 2200 years ago, the Maccabees were in a similar situation. They were oppressed, beaten and silenced, but their spirits were not crushed. In fact, in all the centuries between then and now, with all the trials and tragedy, the spirit of the Jewish people has not been crushed. Whether it be in the Maccabees’ caves, the secret study halls, or in the terror tunnels where our people have been held hostage, we have found ways to kindle light. Whether it be a physical or spiritual prison we have been thrust into, we have always sought the light of hope and we access this eternal flame, this perpetual hope, anytime we turn our hearts to each other…much like we have done tonight.
Writer Sarah Tuttle-Singer reflects: “Judaism is not only belief; it is practice under pressure. It is community created in impossible places. A circle formed in a tunnel. A flame lit not because it will save you, but because it reminds you who you are…that in a hellscape meant to erase [us], [the martyrs of our people have always made a] small Jewish room, and let light enter.”
“Judaism is not only belief; it is practice under pressure.” We are the oil! We are the agents of light and life produced under oppressive circumstances. Our existence is a miracle! Our gathering tonight is a miracle. Each one of you is a miracle.
So tonight I pray: Eternal Light of the Universe, “for the miracles and for the wonders and for the mighty deeds and for the salvations and for the victories that you wrought for our ancestors in their days and in this day, we give thanks and to praise your great name.” Reveal within this oppressive world a hidden love. Help us to find that last little cruse of hope. Awaken within us the strength to again shine bright, as an example to one another and to the world. Amen.
Friday, December 12, 2025
Cloud Dancer, Dream Interpreter - Parshat Vayeshev
I’m not sure if you heard, but Pantone announced their color of the year. Pantone has been announcing a color of the year since the year 2000, with the color that year being Cerulean Blue.
Who ordained Pantone to make such a determination? Well, Pantone of course. And does it really mean anything at the end of the day? No, not really.
That said, each year’s color is meant to capture a mood or theme in global culture. As an armchair anthropologist, I’m intrigued by the conceptual enterprise afoot here. That’s because design, aesthetics, color…it all speaks to the zeitgeist. It reflects who we are now and our collective dreams for our future.
So, what is it? What is the COLOR OF THE YEAR?! The Pantone color of 2026 is called…Cloud Dancer. That’s right, Cloud Dancer. Also known as…white.
Cloud Dancer, according to Pantone, is “a whisper of tranquility and peace in a noisy world. Cloud Dancer encourages true relaxation and focus, allowing the mind to wander and creativity to breathe, making room for innovation.”
Ok, so it’s not just white. It’s “day spa” white. It’s “yoga studio” white.
As you can probably guess by my tone, Cloud Dancer…aka white…was not received well. More than any other year, it sparked outrage, humor and just a whole lot of “huh?’s.
Some critics called the choice offensively tone-deaf. In a time when DEI initiatives are being dismantled and “White Nationalism” is holding the megaphone, some are saying, “white…really?”
That’s just one perspective, though. In a humorous, but not unserious conversation, the Style editors at the NYTimes reflected on the choice:
ALEX VADUKUL: Cloud Dancer. What’s going on there? Sounds like a 1980s one-hit wonder track.
CALLIE HOLTERMANN: This white, in particular, strikes me as a little flavorless. It’s the color of cottage cheese and dental floss, of marshmallows and AirPods. It reminds me of the clothes I put on when I’m in a rush and the foods I eat when I have a stomach ache.
The internet was quick to ask an even more important question: is white even a color?
Well, when you do a little digging, you find the answer is no…and yes.
First, artistically speaking, white is not a color because it indicates the absence of pigment. Pigments absorb some wavelengths and reflect others. White reflects almost all visible light, making it the absence of color.
That said, white gets used as a color and the brain perceives it as such. That’s because when it comes to physics and light, white is in fact a color. That is, white is what happens when all wavelengths of visible light combine. It’s the sum of all the colors, the whole rainbow combined.
With this definition, white isn’t just a color, it’s a SUPER color.
Not only that, symbolically, white is not as bland as we think. One of the NYTimes editors (Vanessa Friedman) rightfully argues that “White is a color replete with meanings.” Think about the white dove of peace, the baptismal gown, the wedding dress, the white T-shirt. In some Asian countries, white means mourning.
So can it be that Cloud Dancer defines our moment? Maybe! In such a dark, broken world, the lightness of white or the promise of a blank slate feels alluring, almost comforting; like a huge exhale and a wiping away of the disasters that permeate our everyday lives and the global reality. It’s the potential to start over.
And maybe Pantone was onto something with such a Rorschach test of a color this year, because the minute they put it out there, we heaped all kinds of anxieties and pre-conceptions onto its blank canvas. Turns out we can’t let anything breathe these days. Maybe that’s the deeper point.
If nothing else, the Cloud Dancer controversy reminds us how powerfully symbols can shape us. A color is never just a color; a garment is never just a garment.
That truth comes into sharp focus in this week’s parashah, Vayeshev. This is the portion in which Jacob gives his favorite son Joseph a special tunic, or k’tonet. The gift inspires jealousy within Joseph’s brothers, and their contempt pushes the story forward toward potential fratricide.
The tunic is described as “k’tonet passim,” passim being a word of uncertain meaning. Now, if you believe Andrew Lloyd Weber and Tim Rice, the k’tonet passim was in fact an Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, a name that reflects the bright, cinematic color palettes of the late 60’s and the Broadway stage. That was a cultural moment of bold art and experimentation and it got appropriately layered onto Joseph’s tunic.
But the garment as described in Torah? Probably not so technicolor. “Passim” is likely connected to the Biblical word for the palm of the hand. This seems to indicate that the tunic was embroidered, or handwoven, in an ornate, distinctive way. Was it stripped? Colorful? The sages are unsure but posit each of those ideas.
The Legends of the Jews has a particularly surprising take on the tunic that defies our technicolor expectations, using the “palm” as its source of inspiration. The story goes that, “as a token of his great love for Joseph, Jacob gave his favored son a coat of many colors, so light and delicate that it could be crushed and concealed in the closed palm of one hand.” Think: like a veil. Gossamer and delicate, unmoored by the grittiness of the world; a tunic fitting for royalty.
But, according to tradition, this was Jacob’s first parenting mistake. While Jacob sought to honor his son with such a beautiful garment, he was also holding him back. Such a coat would elevate his status, but it would also prevent authentic, brotherly connection.
Because Joseph’s family wasn’t royalty. They were shepherds. His brothers were rough and tumble men of the field; men who would run, jump, and playfully wrestle around with one another. They would sit around a campfire together swapping stories and jests. But Joseph, in his delicate, ornate tunic couldn’t do any of those things. The fabric would be too brittle, too prone to snag and ruin. The garment was too precious. And indeed, in Jacob’s mind, Joseph, the beloved son of Jacob’s favorite wife Rachel, was too precious for these earthly affairs. Yet his personal sensibility impacted the family unit negatively.
For sure, we can understand Jacob’s inclination to honor and protect someone who he loved so fiercely. But the Torah teaches that there’s a danger in that. Our desire to shield those we cherish can become a way of holding them back. It may be that we are shaping them into who we need them to be, rather than who they are.
How often in our own lives do we hold someone up on such a pedestal that we ignore their truth, or make it impossible for them to express their authentic experience of self for fear that it will disrupt our pristine image of them?
How often do we allow our own fear or insecurities to stitch a person in too tightly, holding them back from authentically learning and growing from their mistakes - from the skinned knees and heartaches that actually turn us into more mature, wizened people? How often do we hold them back from meeting new people and ideas that help them grow?
Which brings us back to Cloud Dancer. I’m compelled by the idea that white is a color - a supercolor - the whole rainbow condensed. It’s not a blank slate, it’s not pure or “untainted.” No, it’s all the colors, all the experiences, all the expressions lovingly folded together. It's the sum of all the possibilities.
In mystical texts like the Zohar, God’s emanation is light - bright, white light. Not white from lack of knowledge or experience, but white because of ALL the knowledge and experience. White is everything that is possible.
This Shabbat, I find myself returning to that image: white not as emptiness, but as fullness. Not as erasure, but as integration. Not as a denial of the world’s brokenness, but as the spiritual possibility that all our wounds, our wonders, our joys and our contradictions all have meaning and import.
As we head into this week, may we resist the urge to wrap one another in garments and expectations that limit. May we see the full spectrum inside each person we encounter, and even when looking within ourselves. Ken Y’hi Ratzon.
Who ordained Pantone to make such a determination? Well, Pantone of course. And does it really mean anything at the end of the day? No, not really.
That said, each year’s color is meant to capture a mood or theme in global culture. As an armchair anthropologist, I’m intrigued by the conceptual enterprise afoot here. That’s because design, aesthetics, color…it all speaks to the zeitgeist. It reflects who we are now and our collective dreams for our future.
So, what is it? What is the COLOR OF THE YEAR?! The Pantone color of 2026 is called…Cloud Dancer. That’s right, Cloud Dancer. Also known as…white.
Cloud Dancer, according to Pantone, is “a whisper of tranquility and peace in a noisy world. Cloud Dancer encourages true relaxation and focus, allowing the mind to wander and creativity to breathe, making room for innovation.”
Ok, so it’s not just white. It’s “day spa” white. It’s “yoga studio” white.
As you can probably guess by my tone, Cloud Dancer…aka white…was not received well. More than any other year, it sparked outrage, humor and just a whole lot of “huh?’s.
Some critics called the choice offensively tone-deaf. In a time when DEI initiatives are being dismantled and “White Nationalism” is holding the megaphone, some are saying, “white…really?”
That’s just one perspective, though. In a humorous, but not unserious conversation, the Style editors at the NYTimes reflected on the choice:
ALEX VADUKUL: Cloud Dancer. What’s going on there? Sounds like a 1980s one-hit wonder track.
CALLIE HOLTERMANN: This white, in particular, strikes me as a little flavorless. It’s the color of cottage cheese and dental floss, of marshmallows and AirPods. It reminds me of the clothes I put on when I’m in a rush and the foods I eat when I have a stomach ache.
The internet was quick to ask an even more important question: is white even a color?
Well, when you do a little digging, you find the answer is no…and yes.
First, artistically speaking, white is not a color because it indicates the absence of pigment. Pigments absorb some wavelengths and reflect others. White reflects almost all visible light, making it the absence of color.
That said, white gets used as a color and the brain perceives it as such. That’s because when it comes to physics and light, white is in fact a color. That is, white is what happens when all wavelengths of visible light combine. It’s the sum of all the colors, the whole rainbow combined.
With this definition, white isn’t just a color, it’s a SUPER color.
Not only that, symbolically, white is not as bland as we think. One of the NYTimes editors (Vanessa Friedman) rightfully argues that “White is a color replete with meanings.” Think about the white dove of peace, the baptismal gown, the wedding dress, the white T-shirt. In some Asian countries, white means mourning.
So can it be that Cloud Dancer defines our moment? Maybe! In such a dark, broken world, the lightness of white or the promise of a blank slate feels alluring, almost comforting; like a huge exhale and a wiping away of the disasters that permeate our everyday lives and the global reality. It’s the potential to start over.
And maybe Pantone was onto something with such a Rorschach test of a color this year, because the minute they put it out there, we heaped all kinds of anxieties and pre-conceptions onto its blank canvas. Turns out we can’t let anything breathe these days. Maybe that’s the deeper point.
If nothing else, the Cloud Dancer controversy reminds us how powerfully symbols can shape us. A color is never just a color; a garment is never just a garment.
That truth comes into sharp focus in this week’s parashah, Vayeshev. This is the portion in which Jacob gives his favorite son Joseph a special tunic, or k’tonet. The gift inspires jealousy within Joseph’s brothers, and their contempt pushes the story forward toward potential fratricide.
The tunic is described as “k’tonet passim,” passim being a word of uncertain meaning. Now, if you believe Andrew Lloyd Weber and Tim Rice, the k’tonet passim was in fact an Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, a name that reflects the bright, cinematic color palettes of the late 60’s and the Broadway stage. That was a cultural moment of bold art and experimentation and it got appropriately layered onto Joseph’s tunic.
But the garment as described in Torah? Probably not so technicolor. “Passim” is likely connected to the Biblical word for the palm of the hand. This seems to indicate that the tunic was embroidered, or handwoven, in an ornate, distinctive way. Was it stripped? Colorful? The sages are unsure but posit each of those ideas.
The Legends of the Jews has a particularly surprising take on the tunic that defies our technicolor expectations, using the “palm” as its source of inspiration. The story goes that, “as a token of his great love for Joseph, Jacob gave his favored son a coat of many colors, so light and delicate that it could be crushed and concealed in the closed palm of one hand.” Think: like a veil. Gossamer and delicate, unmoored by the grittiness of the world; a tunic fitting for royalty.
But, according to tradition, this was Jacob’s first parenting mistake. While Jacob sought to honor his son with such a beautiful garment, he was also holding him back. Such a coat would elevate his status, but it would also prevent authentic, brotherly connection.
Because Joseph’s family wasn’t royalty. They were shepherds. His brothers were rough and tumble men of the field; men who would run, jump, and playfully wrestle around with one another. They would sit around a campfire together swapping stories and jests. But Joseph, in his delicate, ornate tunic couldn’t do any of those things. The fabric would be too brittle, too prone to snag and ruin. The garment was too precious. And indeed, in Jacob’s mind, Joseph, the beloved son of Jacob’s favorite wife Rachel, was too precious for these earthly affairs. Yet his personal sensibility impacted the family unit negatively.
For sure, we can understand Jacob’s inclination to honor and protect someone who he loved so fiercely. But the Torah teaches that there’s a danger in that. Our desire to shield those we cherish can become a way of holding them back. It may be that we are shaping them into who we need them to be, rather than who they are.
How often in our own lives do we hold someone up on such a pedestal that we ignore their truth, or make it impossible for them to express their authentic experience of self for fear that it will disrupt our pristine image of them?
How often do we allow our own fear or insecurities to stitch a person in too tightly, holding them back from authentically learning and growing from their mistakes - from the skinned knees and heartaches that actually turn us into more mature, wizened people? How often do we hold them back from meeting new people and ideas that help them grow?
Which brings us back to Cloud Dancer. I’m compelled by the idea that white is a color - a supercolor - the whole rainbow condensed. It’s not a blank slate, it’s not pure or “untainted.” No, it’s all the colors, all the experiences, all the expressions lovingly folded together. It's the sum of all the possibilities.
In mystical texts like the Zohar, God’s emanation is light - bright, white light. Not white from lack of knowledge or experience, but white because of ALL the knowledge and experience. White is everything that is possible.
This Shabbat, I find myself returning to that image: white not as emptiness, but as fullness. Not as erasure, but as integration. Not as a denial of the world’s brokenness, but as the spiritual possibility that all our wounds, our wonders, our joys and our contradictions all have meaning and import.
As we head into this week, may we resist the urge to wrap one another in garments and expectations that limit. May we see the full spectrum inside each person we encounter, and even when looking within ourselves. Ken Y’hi Ratzon.
Friday, November 7, 2025
The City's Moral Tone - Parshat Vayera
One of the many powerful narratives in Parshat Vayera is the destruction of Sodom and Gemorrah. You’ve heard of Sodom and Gemorrah - the degenerate ancient metropolises that are utterly annihilated by God through burning sulfur raining from the sky.
Interestingly, if you inverse the fire for water, you’ll see that the cities’ destruction closely parallels the earlier flood narrative. They read similarly.
First, wickedness is endemic to humanity. In the flood narrative, for example, we learn that every single human was corrupt with “every plan devised by the human mind [being] nothing but evil all the time.” In the case of Sodom, Abraham famously bargains with God to save the city if he can find at least 10 good people within it. Yet despite his effort and optimism, it turns out the good can’t even make a minyan.
Then there’s the total deletion of the humans and vegetation in the area. The flood “blots out” all living things on earth while the sulfur rain annihilates all organic material in the Mesopotamian plain.
And finally both narratives share an account of a surviving father and his offspring (Noah and his sons; Lot and his daughters) who commit a terrible sin amid the post-apocalyptic emotional chaos.
It’s almost as if the Sodom and Gemorrah narrative comes to show us that while God vows to not destroy the ENTIRE world again, that won’t stop God from rendering judgement upon SOME of the world and taking appropriate action. Because humans, it turns out, still haven’t learned the lesson of the flood. Not in Sodom’s time, not in ours. No generation is immune from the moral decay that renders creation unstable and worthy of rebuke.
In parshat Vayera, three heavenly messengers depart from Abraham’s home. Abraham, not surprisingly, treated them with dignity befitting a guest. They head to Sodom, where Abraham’s nephew Lot takes them in. He knows how corrupt the city is and assures them it is for their own safety. The text says that the men of the city pursued the messengers, surrounding Lot’s house. They demand that Lot give up the messengers so they can rough them up. When Lot defends his guests, the men of the city mock him as a migrant saying “this guy came here as an alien, and already he acts the ruler to us!” Not only are they thugs - they’re bigoted thugs. Although what generation does NOT go after immigrants and when their power is in jeopardy?
I wonder, though, just who were these guys, these “men of Sodom”? The Hebrew actually refers to them with two names: אַנְשֵׁ֨י הָעִ֜יר אַנְשֵׁ֤י סְדֹם֙. A most faithful translation would say “the men of the city, the men of Sodom.” Linking these two similar designations together, though, the text probably intends to convey all of Sodom’s society, that is, the insignificant people and the influential alike. Turns out station in society doesn’t matter when the mob mentality takes over. Shared hate can be a really helpful glue between disparate people. That too, hasn’t changed.
Ok, so the Torah makes it clear that the whole city was corrupt. As I thought about this, I started to wonder if the “influential people” of the city included the leader of the city. Who was he anyway, and what hand did he play in the corruption and downfall of his city?
To answer that, we have to look back to last week’s parshah.
Torah says that in the days of Abram and his nephew Lot, a great conflict erupted in the Vale of Siddim, a valley near the Jordan River plain. For years, the cities of the plain — including the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah — had lived under the rule of the king of Elam. After thirteen years of tribute, they rebelled. A war ensues, known as the War of the Nine Kings - 5 allied kings against 4 allied kings. Two of those kings belong to Sodom and Gemorrah and they are named by the text: King Bera and King Birsha, respectively.
Bera, the rabbis say, is a name made by combining the words “ben” and “rah” - the son of evil. Berisha, therefore, is a mash up of “ben” and “risha” - the son of wickedness. These two men’s names indicate everything we need to know about them.
In the Talmud (Arachin 17a), the sages note how the demeanor of a people always follows the demeanor of the leader and vice versa, as one rabbi remarked, “The righteousness level of the generation follows the righteousness level of the leader,” while another says: “The level of the leader follows the level of his generation.” They reflect one another.
“But is this always the case?” the rabbis inquire. “Surely we can think of exceptions. Plenty of good people have ruled over scoundrels and plenty of scoundrels have ruled over good people.”
The Gemara clarifies: “What we’re really talking about is harshness and gentleness. One Sage holds that if the leader is harsh, then the generation will be harsh. If the leader is gentle and kind, the generation will be the same. The other Sage holds that if the people of a certain generation are harsh, they will have a harsh leader; if the generation is gentle and kind, the leader will be similar.”
It’s not so much about innate good or bad, the sages teach. It is about the tone. Whether it’s the leader influencing the people or the other way around, the lesson is the importance of creating a moral atmosphere - between leader and constituency and between all members of the citizenry.
The Talmud reminds us that a leader is not only in a position of authority, but their office is a shared reflection of who we are. Whether we’re talking about a king, a president or a mayor, we cannot forget that we are always engaging in an exchange of tone and spirit that shapes the moral temperature of our generation.
Sometimes leaders come along who make us feel hopeful; they champion the needs that have long been suppressed or ignored. Our leaders can also manifest our most base inclinations, inappropriately giving voice to the uglier parts of society. Ultimately, our tradition promotes kindness and inclusivity. Both ends of society, the leader and the people, have a right to ask this of one another.
Enter Abraham, humanity’s new standard-bearer. Abraham’s nephew Lot is the one who echoes Noah’s flaws. Notice how Abraham sets a new tone — not only by becoming the first Jew, but for showing a different way for heroes to engage with society.
Abraham’s narrative demonstrates how he knew when to press and he knew when to observe. He gained the acclaim of the people of the region for being diplomatic, pragmatic, and collaborative. It is important to note though, that even as adept as he was at collaboration and negotiation, he never settles when it comes to staking a claim in what is rightfully his and unapologetically protects his family’s future. That is also of utmost concern to him.
Abraham ultimately cannot save Sodom and Gemorrah. The cities were too entrenched in the old human tropes. What he does do, though, is show us there is another way forward.
So when a leader arises with whom we agree strongly or with whom we have major opposition, we must return to Abraham’s story. We must ask: What is our mission as Jews? What sets us apart? The answer, drawn from Abraham’s life is: We are here to spread kindness, peace, and safety for ourselves and for others.
Like Abraham, we pursue a “good name.” We endeavor to create an atmosphere of confident calm, a willingness to engage, and a commitment to balance our personal needs with the needs of the larger community, never losing the sense that we are just as deserving of protection as others.
Because we are not the children of Bera or Berisha, but the children of Abraham. And we, like Abraham, must pay close attention to what we are worshipping, not being afraid to break out of group-think or the generational norm. Emerson famously said, “A person will worship something, have no doubt about that…That which dominates our imaginations and our thoughts will determine our lives, and our character. Therefore, it behooves us to be careful what we worship, for what we are worshipping, we are becoming.”
If, as Emerson said, we become what we worship, then let us continue to worship the ideals Abraham embodied — hospitality, humility, and justice - for his own family and for others. We need not repeat the mistakes of the generations before us. In doing so, we become not the children of the flood, or the children of Sodom, but the heirs of Abraham’s vision for a kinder, steadier world, promoting that ideal in all cities, near and far.
Interestingly, if you inverse the fire for water, you’ll see that the cities’ destruction closely parallels the earlier flood narrative. They read similarly.
First, wickedness is endemic to humanity. In the flood narrative, for example, we learn that every single human was corrupt with “every plan devised by the human mind [being] nothing but evil all the time.” In the case of Sodom, Abraham famously bargains with God to save the city if he can find at least 10 good people within it. Yet despite his effort and optimism, it turns out the good can’t even make a minyan.
Then there’s the total deletion of the humans and vegetation in the area. The flood “blots out” all living things on earth while the sulfur rain annihilates all organic material in the Mesopotamian plain.
And finally both narratives share an account of a surviving father and his offspring (Noah and his sons; Lot and his daughters) who commit a terrible sin amid the post-apocalyptic emotional chaos.
It’s almost as if the Sodom and Gemorrah narrative comes to show us that while God vows to not destroy the ENTIRE world again, that won’t stop God from rendering judgement upon SOME of the world and taking appropriate action. Because humans, it turns out, still haven’t learned the lesson of the flood. Not in Sodom’s time, not in ours. No generation is immune from the moral decay that renders creation unstable and worthy of rebuke.
In parshat Vayera, three heavenly messengers depart from Abraham’s home. Abraham, not surprisingly, treated them with dignity befitting a guest. They head to Sodom, where Abraham’s nephew Lot takes them in. He knows how corrupt the city is and assures them it is for their own safety. The text says that the men of the city pursued the messengers, surrounding Lot’s house. They demand that Lot give up the messengers so they can rough them up. When Lot defends his guests, the men of the city mock him as a migrant saying “this guy came here as an alien, and already he acts the ruler to us!” Not only are they thugs - they’re bigoted thugs. Although what generation does NOT go after immigrants and when their power is in jeopardy?
I wonder, though, just who were these guys, these “men of Sodom”? The Hebrew actually refers to them with two names: אַנְשֵׁ֨י הָעִ֜יר אַנְשֵׁ֤י סְדֹם֙. A most faithful translation would say “the men of the city, the men of Sodom.” Linking these two similar designations together, though, the text probably intends to convey all of Sodom’s society, that is, the insignificant people and the influential alike. Turns out station in society doesn’t matter when the mob mentality takes over. Shared hate can be a really helpful glue between disparate people. That too, hasn’t changed.
Ok, so the Torah makes it clear that the whole city was corrupt. As I thought about this, I started to wonder if the “influential people” of the city included the leader of the city. Who was he anyway, and what hand did he play in the corruption and downfall of his city?
To answer that, we have to look back to last week’s parshah.
Torah says that in the days of Abram and his nephew Lot, a great conflict erupted in the Vale of Siddim, a valley near the Jordan River plain. For years, the cities of the plain — including the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah — had lived under the rule of the king of Elam. After thirteen years of tribute, they rebelled. A war ensues, known as the War of the Nine Kings - 5 allied kings against 4 allied kings. Two of those kings belong to Sodom and Gemorrah and they are named by the text: King Bera and King Birsha, respectively.
Bera, the rabbis say, is a name made by combining the words “ben” and “rah” - the son of evil. Berisha, therefore, is a mash up of “ben” and “risha” - the son of wickedness. These two men’s names indicate everything we need to know about them.
In the Talmud (Arachin 17a), the sages note how the demeanor of a people always follows the demeanor of the leader and vice versa, as one rabbi remarked, “The righteousness level of the generation follows the righteousness level of the leader,” while another says: “The level of the leader follows the level of his generation.” They reflect one another.
“But is this always the case?” the rabbis inquire. “Surely we can think of exceptions. Plenty of good people have ruled over scoundrels and plenty of scoundrels have ruled over good people.”
The Gemara clarifies: “What we’re really talking about is harshness and gentleness. One Sage holds that if the leader is harsh, then the generation will be harsh. If the leader is gentle and kind, the generation will be the same. The other Sage holds that if the people of a certain generation are harsh, they will have a harsh leader; if the generation is gentle and kind, the leader will be similar.”
It’s not so much about innate good or bad, the sages teach. It is about the tone. Whether it’s the leader influencing the people or the other way around, the lesson is the importance of creating a moral atmosphere - between leader and constituency and between all members of the citizenry.
The Talmud reminds us that a leader is not only in a position of authority, but their office is a shared reflection of who we are. Whether we’re talking about a king, a president or a mayor, we cannot forget that we are always engaging in an exchange of tone and spirit that shapes the moral temperature of our generation.
Sometimes leaders come along who make us feel hopeful; they champion the needs that have long been suppressed or ignored. Our leaders can also manifest our most base inclinations, inappropriately giving voice to the uglier parts of society. Ultimately, our tradition promotes kindness and inclusivity. Both ends of society, the leader and the people, have a right to ask this of one another.
Enter Abraham, humanity’s new standard-bearer. Abraham’s nephew Lot is the one who echoes Noah’s flaws. Notice how Abraham sets a new tone — not only by becoming the first Jew, but for showing a different way for heroes to engage with society.
Abraham’s narrative demonstrates how he knew when to press and he knew when to observe. He gained the acclaim of the people of the region for being diplomatic, pragmatic, and collaborative. It is important to note though, that even as adept as he was at collaboration and negotiation, he never settles when it comes to staking a claim in what is rightfully his and unapologetically protects his family’s future. That is also of utmost concern to him.
Abraham ultimately cannot save Sodom and Gemorrah. The cities were too entrenched in the old human tropes. What he does do, though, is show us there is another way forward.
So when a leader arises with whom we agree strongly or with whom we have major opposition, we must return to Abraham’s story. We must ask: What is our mission as Jews? What sets us apart? The answer, drawn from Abraham’s life is: We are here to spread kindness, peace, and safety for ourselves and for others.
Like Abraham, we pursue a “good name.” We endeavor to create an atmosphere of confident calm, a willingness to engage, and a commitment to balance our personal needs with the needs of the larger community, never losing the sense that we are just as deserving of protection as others.
Because we are not the children of Bera or Berisha, but the children of Abraham. And we, like Abraham, must pay close attention to what we are worshipping, not being afraid to break out of group-think or the generational norm. Emerson famously said, “A person will worship something, have no doubt about that…That which dominates our imaginations and our thoughts will determine our lives, and our character. Therefore, it behooves us to be careful what we worship, for what we are worshipping, we are becoming.”
If, as Emerson said, we become what we worship, then let us continue to worship the ideals Abraham embodied — hospitality, humility, and justice - for his own family and for others. We need not repeat the mistakes of the generations before us. In doing so, we become not the children of the flood, or the children of Sodom, but the heirs of Abraham’s vision for a kinder, steadier world, promoting that ideal in all cities, near and far.
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