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.

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.