The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon.

Passover
Exodus 33:12-23

We arrive at a strange moment in the seder. We are telling a story about Egypt. About slavery. About Pharaoh. About brick and mortar. And suddenly, the haggadah interrupts itself:

“In every generation, those who hate the Jewish people rise up to destroy them.”

It feels out of place. We are no longer speaking about Egypt. We are speaking about something much larger, much darker, much more enduring. Why does the haggadah do this?

Not to deepen our sense of tragedy, but to deepen our understanding.

If we confined ourselves to Egypt, we would search for explanations within Egypt. We would say: “The Jews were enslaved because they were foreigners, or poor, or too distinct, or perhaps too successful.” Each explanation has its logic. None survives the test of history.

Antisemitism does not behave like other forms of conflict. It appears under conditions that contradict one another. Jews have been hated when they were poor and when they were prosperous, when they were segregated and when they were integrated, when they were powerless and when they wielded influence. It persists in exile, and it does not vanish even when Jews return to their own land.

The mind searches for a pattern, for a cause that will make sense of it. But the usual categories fail. The explanations contradict one another. The question deepens.

Imagine a doctor trying to understand a mysterious illness. In one city, he studies the afflicted and concludes: it must be the water — the supply is contaminated.

Then the same illness appears elsewhere, where the water is perfectly clean. So he revises his theory. Perhaps it is the climate — the cold, the harshness. But then the illness appears again, in a place warm and gentle, untouched by such extremes.

At that moment, if he is honest, he must change the question. No longer can he ask, “What is different here?” He must ask, “What is the same?” For when every condition changes and yet the phenomenon remains, the cause is not in what varies. It is in what endures.

So too with antisemitism.

If it were the result of poverty, it would vanish with prosperity. If it were the result of separateness, it would dissolve with integration. If it were the result of weakness, it would disappear with strength. But it does not. And so we are compelled to look deeper.

What is it that has remained constant? What is it that the Jewish people have carried with them through every land, under every condition? It is not power. It is not wealth. It is not land. It is something far more dangerous. It is an idea. A vision. A moral insistence that has entered history and refuses to leave.

From the days of Abraham and Sarah, the Jewish people have borne witness to truths that were, and remain, revolutionary:

That there is a God who stands above all human authority.

That no ruler is ultimate.

That every human being carries within them a sacred worth.

That justice is not the invention of kings but the demand of Heaven.

That conscience is not to be silenced, even in the presence of power.

These are not merely articles of faith. They are the foundation of a moral universe.

And precisely because they are so, they have always been unsettling.

Any system that seeks to make itself absolute, any regime that demands unquestioned allegiance, must find these ideas intolerable. They limit power. They challenge authority. They remind rulers that they, too, are judged.

And so, across centuries and civilizations, we see a recurring drama. Different empires, different languages, different doctrines, but a strikingly familiar response.

Pharaoh cannot tolerate it. Haman cannot tolerate it. The Inquisition cannot tolerate it. Hitler and Stalin cannot tolerate it. Nor can the Ayatollahs. Nor can Hamas.

Antisemitism is not random. It is a reaction to something that refuses to bend.

The Passover haggadah teaches us to see this. It takes the story of Egypt and sets it within a larger horizon. It tells us: Do not be misled by appearances. Do not imagine that this began here, or that it will end here. There is a deeper current at work. And so it declares: “In every generation, they rise against us to destroy us.”

Yet the haggadah does not end there. It adds: “But God saves us from their hand.”

Empires have risen with great force and declared themselves eternal. They have marshaled armies, issued decrees, built monuments to their own permanence. And they have passed. The Jewish people have remained.

The seder, therefore, leaves us not with fear, but with perspective. Do not define yourself by those who hate you. Antisemitism is not the essence of the Jewish story. It is the shadow cast by a light that has not gone out. The story is what you carry.

If one must draw meaning from it, let it be this: When the greatest tyrants in history hate you, it is a badge of honor.

To live as a Jew, then, is not merely to remember what has been done to us. It is to continue what has been entrusted to us. To carry forward a faith in justice, in the holiness of mitzvah, in the sacred worth of every human soul.

Hatred may rise. It does not have the final word. For the story of the Jewish people is not the story of those who sought to destroy them. It is the story of a people who endured. And of a truth that still lives.

The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon. 

Tzav
Leviticus 6:1−8:36

I was 13 years old when I witnessed the birth of the milk cow Annabelle. I looked on with rapt attention as I leaned on a corral fence at a summer camp.

The counselors told us to be quiet as Annabelle’s mother labored. Even though we were generally rambunctious kids, it was easy for us to stay silent. We all understood that there is something sacred about birth.

When Annabelle finally emerged from her mother, she fell to the ground, coated in the placenta.

She didn’t move. I had never seen a birth of any kind before, and my first thought was that Annabelle hadn’t survived, that something tragic had happened.

But eventually she started moving. 

I returned to summer camp for six more summers. One year, Annabelle was a creature about my size. The next, she was a massive animal that we were allowed to brush. She then became a cow that would happily munch on hay as children milked her.

I think of Annabelle this week as our Torah portion Tzav outlines the routine use of animals in the sacrifices to God made in the ancient Temple in Jerusalem. Of the five types of sacrifices we read about, four of them use animals. In Tzav, we read detailed instructions for sacrificing pigeons, turtledoves, sheep, goats — and cows.

As this week’s Torah portion makes clear, there are currents in our tradition that advocate for taking animal lives. There is also a current of thought in Judaism that looks hesitantly on doing so. 

In the Garden of Eden, God tells the first two humans that they should eat plants: “God said, ‘See, I give you every seed-bearing plant that is upon all the earth, and every tree that has seed-bearing fruit; they shall be yours for food.’” (Genesis 1:29)

God makes no mention of eating animals. Some in our tradition, including Rabbi Yitz Greenberg, believe this means that the ideal way of being is not to eat meat or animal products. According to this understanding, people eat meat only in the imperfect world we inhabit after banishment from the Garden of Eden. Greenberg further teaches that the laws of kosher eating offer us a way of limiting a practice that is flawed.

I think about the value of refraining from eating meat precisely because it is idealistic. In this era, it’s difficult for everything we do to be in line with our values. Many of us shop online in ways we’re not proud of. We buy products that were made overseas in bad labor conditions, and we use gasoline despite knowing it harms the planet. These small decisions that each of us make add up to collective wrongs, contributing to problems such as global warming, income inequality and the large-scale harm we do to animals.

In laying out the rules for different sacrifices, our portion this week outlines what should happen when the community as a whole makes a mistake.

Tzav continues the Book of Leviticus’ detailed descriptions of the chatat, the sacrifice made as expiation for the community’s collective sins. 

Of course, what is proposed is to offer an animal sacrifice, so we have to read this text with an acknowledgment that it emerges from one of the threads of the Jewish tradition that is OK with taking animal lives.

Still, it is moving to consider that this ancient text was open to the idea that the entire community could sin collectively.

Perhaps we can learn from this that it’s possible for an entire community to err — that we should heed that small voice of conscience inside of us that wonders about the ethics of a widespread community practice. 

For me, a turning point in listening to this voice took place the last time I saw Annabelle.

I returned to camp for a weekend when I was in my mid-20s. It was early summer, before the campers arrived. Annabelle had stopped producing milk like she used to, and the decision had been made to call a butcher.

As someone who ate meat at the time, I wanted to witness a slaughter to make sure I was comfortable enough with the practice.

The butcher arrived in a worn truck that carried a refrigerator for the eventual meat and a set of poles and wires that would lift the cow’s carcass for butchering.

Annabelle stood in the same corral where she was born. I wondered if Annabelle knew what was coming. I felt an instinct to comfort her.

The slaughterer acted quickly and professionally. He pulled out his rifle and pointed it at Annabelle. The man shot. Immediately, Annabelle dropped to the ground.

I didn’t know what to make of what I had seen, but I knew it was jarring to watch life leave Annabelle so quickly. 

Gradually over the next year, I decided to stop eating meat. I felt that listening to the small voice inside of me that wished to comfort Annabelle could make a difference for animals — and also for me. Not eating meat could be a practice. Every time I decided not to eat meat I would be choosing to believe in a better world, choosing to believe in a world where we do listen to that faint voice of conscience.

As we go about our everyday lives, I think it’s good to make as much room as we can for our voices of conscience.

It makes sense to be skeptical of what one consumer can accomplish. Does recycling a bottle do much to stop pollution? Does one person going to a co-op instead of a chain grocery store make a big difference? Does one person not eating meat matter in the grand scheme of things? 

One sometimes hears that these small actions add up to make a difference. That every recycled soda can matters. I honestly don’t know about that. What I do know is that we need to make as much room as we can in our souls for our sense of what’s right.

Not eating meat is one thing we can do to help build up this muscle of compassion. However we choose to do it, it’s upon us to make sure this muscle doesn’t atrophy. So much is at stake.

Vayikra
Leviticus 1:1-5:26

“The world is one-part wilderness, one-part settled land, and one-part sea. Said the sea: ‘Master of the Universe! The Torah will be given in the wilderness, the Holy Temple will be built on settled land, but what about me?’ Said God: ‘The people of Israel will offer your salt upon the Altar.’” — Yalkut HaReuveni midrash collection

As the Book of Leviticus begins, we meet the elaborate rules and procedures that became essential in the ancient Temple in Jerusalem, and there find this mitzvah: “You shall salt your every meal offering with salt; you may not discontinue the salt of your God’s covenant upon your meal offering — on your every offering shall you offer salt.” (Leviticus 2:13) 

That the Hebrew word “melach,” or “salt,” appears four times in one verse suggests the centrality of this practice. Salt was an essential ingredient in the recipe book for our Beit Hamikdash.

With the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE, Judaism evolved to regard the dining table as a suitable alternative to the once-central Temple altar. The Leviticus commandment is thus the reason why many Jews still salt their challah before Hamotzi, the blessing over bread, as they welcome Shabbat, and why salt is so often present on any table where food is shared.      

Why salt? By most reckonings, salt is undoubtedly positive. It adds flavor to foods, serves as a remarkably effective preservative, plays a major role in the kashering of meat and has numerous curative properties (think of gargling with salt water or soaking in a salt bath, for example). Its role in superstitions is well attested (after salt is spilled accidentally, some people toss a few grains over their shoulder to ward off evil). And describing anyone as “the salt of the Earth” is a compliment denoting goodness, loyalty and lack of pretense.

Salt is a ubiquitous symbol of hospitality and welcome. It is often given with wine and bread to friends moving into a new home, with the hope that they will receive many guests. One suggestion for why Lot’s wife became a pillar of salt when looking back on her ruined home (Genesis 19:26) is that she failed to show her guests proper hospitality, a primary theme of that tragic episode, by laying out sufficient food, drink and salt. An Arabic expression, “there is salt between us,” tethers a host and a guest in an unbreakable bond once they have shared a meal with salt.

A Middle Eastern tradition known as a Salt Covenant involved two parties meeting to establish a pact, with each bringing a bag of prized salt. (An Arabic word for “treaty” or “contract” is the same as “salt.”) The parties co-mingled their grains of salt in one vessel, declaring “may this bond last until these grains of salt can be separated and returned to their original owner.” Some modern weddings still feature a version of the Salt Covenant, where the marrying couple mixes colored salt in a transparent keepsake holder, symbolizing the unbreakable union they hope to create.  

And so, when we read of the Brit Melach, or Salt Covenant, between God and the Jewish people (also in Numbers 18:19 and 2 Chronicles 13:5), it suggests something enduring and preserved for all time. The rabbis likewise likened the Torah to salt because the world could not do without salt, nor could it do without the Torah. (Soferim 15:8)

But salt is also bitter, often representing tears. It can be destructive and corrosive, ruining land and plants. Diets high in sodium are known to be quite unhealthy. 

Ramban taught that the salt of the sacrificial offerings reminded us that, when performed correctly, the Temple service preserved Israel and its relationship with God. But when rituals were neglected, defeat and exile were the inevitable result. 

For many modern readers, the visceral, overpowering notion of animal sacrifice and its importance in the ancient world is too much to bear. But for those willing to grapple with this strange and wondrous book, Leviticus offers a way we might draw closer to holiness, in the truest sense of the Hebrew word for sacrifice, “korban,” with intention and commitment. 

We often speak of sacrifice negatively, as something precious we have to give up, yet that’s exactly how our tradition regards it. To give up something should involve taking something treasured and giving it up for a holy purpose.

The seminal but easily overlooked mitzvah of including salt with our sacrifices teaches that something seemingly ordinary can be mined for deep holiness. If we can add some “salt” to our daily lives, how much more meaningful might they become? As a devoted challah baker, I can also attest to the fact that omitting salt, which I did only once inadvertently, makes all the difference.

The kabbalists teach that when performing the salt with challah ritual, the bread should always be dipped into the salt, so that the sweetness of the bread dampens down any bitterness that the salt might represent. But it’s also a way to recognize that life contains both bitter and sweet; notably, the word for bread, “lechem,” and the word for salt, “melach,” contain the same Hebrew letters.    

As we begin the Book of Leviticus, we are also in the opening days of the month of Nisan. We are entering a veritable season of bread. In the weeks to come, we’ll clean out all the crumbs of the past year and revert to flat, unleavened matzah, the bread of potential, on Passover. We’ll count the Omer for seven weeks to commemorate the barley harvest and ascend to Shavuot, the joyful wheat harvest, when fully risen loaves were offered — with salt, of course! 

May our bread always be sweet, with just the right amount of salt, and may our offerings be brought, and received, with joy.

Vayakhel-Pekudei
Exodus 35:1-40:38

The public reading of the Torah this week features two portions that are thematically related. They speak of the fulfillment of the instructions given to Moses with respect to the Tabernacle and all of its accompanying articles. 

The actual instructions were laid out in the portions of Terumah and Tetzaveh, which we read a couple of weeks back. There is one major factor that God introduces in this week’s double portion. It is the assignment of leadership to ensure the success of the project. 

“Moses said to the Children of Israel, ‘See, God has called by name Betzalel son of Uri, son of Chur, of the tribe of Judah.’” (Exodus 35:30) Moses had informed the people that God had a particular individual whom he wanted to appoint for this operation. In fact, the language of “called by name” indicates that it was not just hinted at by God, but that God actually chose Betzalel as the chief architect. 

And what of Betzalel’s qualifications for the task at hand? The text tells us, “I have filled him with a godly spirit, with wisdom, discernment and knowledge, and with all of the skills.” God does not rely on the natural talent of Betzalel. He actually endows him with everything necessary to lead the effort. The verses continue listing the crafts, which include stone cutting, metal work (with gold, silver and copper) and even carpentry. (Exodus 35:31-33)

Building the Tabernacle was certainly a formidable task, and God did not stop at the appointment of just one leader. He also directly designated the second in command. Ohaliav, son of Achisamach, was appointed from the tribe of Dan. The verses have subtle nuances that suggest that there was a clear hierarchy and that Ohaliav was subservient to Betzalel.

“He filled them with wisdom of the heart to do all of the crafts of carving, designing and embroidery with the turquoise, purple and scarlet wool, and the linen, and to weave; the doers of every craft and designers of every design.” (Exodus 35:35) The skills that were necessary for the tapestry and the vestments of the priests were not just given to Ohaliav, but the pronoun “them” suggests that Betzalel was blessed with those talents as well. 

There was one other ability that was granted to Betzalel as well as Ohaliav: “And to instruct he placed in his heart, he as well as Ohaliav son of Achisamach of the tribe of Dan.” (Exodus 35:34) 

It is one thing for a person to have the talent to produce great work. It is a completely different skill to be able to instruct or teach others how to use their own abilities. 

Betzalel was a great-great-nephew of Moses himself. God was going to imbue him with everything necessary to accomplish the work, but Betzalel was also part of the leading family and was a beneficiary of the great merit accrued by his great-grandmother, Miriam, as well as that of his grandfather, Chur. Just to remind ourselves, Chur played a significant role just after the departure of the Israelites from Egypt. He was one of the two people who held up Moses’ hands during the battle with Amalek, and he was also appointed with Aaron to manage the people while Moses left for Mount Sinai.

According to a midrash in the Talmud (Sanhedrin 7), Chur actually attempted to stop the building of the golden calf. The midrash states that he was murdered by the perpetrators of the grievous sin, and hence, he is no longer mentioned. It is possible that granting such a prestigious position to Betzalel was a way to recognize Chur’s sacrifice.

There is another question that one could raise with respect to the choice of Betzalel. He is introduced as the son of Uri, who was the son of Chur. Why would God skip down to a younger generation and not enlist Uri as the chief architect of the Mishkan (Tabernacle)?

According to what was discussed in the midrash about the fate of Chur, it is possible that God did not want to have Uri because he was in a state of mourning for the loss of his father. The Tabernacle was the holiest place for the Israelites and should be constructed with great simcha, or jubilation. A mourner is not supposed to participate in such joy during the year of mourning for a parent. Betzalel was only a grandson and not required to observe the rituals of mourning.

In general, the observance of mitzvot should be done with joy. We can all learn that lesson from the appointment of Betzalel to this great opportunity he was given to serve God.

Ki Tisa

Exodus 30:11–34:35

Without question, the breakout star of the 2026 Winter Olympics was Bay Area native Alysa Liu. She grabbed headlines not only because of her flawless routines and Gen Z energy, but also because of the captivating, relatable details of her life journey. 

By now, most of us know the outlines of her burnout from pressure and her retirement after a sixth-place finish in the 2022 Winter Olympics. Eventually, though, Liu realized she missed the thrill of skating and returned to the ice — under the condition that she be given complete control of her preparations. 

Liu’s decision to return to skating coincided with an important self-discovery. After realizing she had more than 145 missing assignments in her senior year of high school, Liu was diagnosed with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. As she began to understand her diagnosis, Liu learned more about the ways that ADHD had shaped her. 

Often, she waited until the last minute to face tasks, making her life more chaotic. At the same time, her ability to hyperfocus allowed her to engage in extended practice sessions: falling again and again before finally landing a jump.

Remarkably, the people in her life listened. Her father gave her the space she needed, and her coaches let her take the lead. The results for the 20-year-old skater were undeniable: a performance that some have described as among the most joyful and free in Olympic history. 

I thought of Liu this week as I reread the famous story of the golden calf. The details are well known: God summons Moses to Mount Sinai to receive the law. While he is away, the Israelites — who feel abandoned in his absence and find themselves incapable of faith in a God they cannot see — compel Aaron to form an idol to worship. Appalled by what he sees upon his return, Moses shatters the Divine tablets in his arms. 

On its surface, the episode appears to be a physical manifestation of the spiritual rupture brought about by the Israelites’ sin. But the moment is actually revelatory about Moses. I suspect that people with ADHD may recognize it immediately. 

If we probe Moses’ life with curiosity rather than judgment, a familiar profile emerges. Without seeking to diagnose Moses, we can still observe patterns in his life that resonate with contemporary discussions of ADHD. 

Moses reacts with impulse in the face of injustice, such as shattering the tablets upon discovering the golden calf. Likewise, he sometimes acts without listening carefully. When God tells him to speak to the rock to bring forth water, he strikes it instead — an act that costs him entry into the Promised Land. And Moses struggles to organize administrative tasks: It takes Jethro to step in and show Moses how to arrange the judicial system so that Moses isn’t judging every dispute on his own from morning until night. 

Moses also has remarkable strengths. He is fiercely loyal to the Israelites. Despite their endless complaining, he never abandons them. He has an endless thirst to connect, grow and learn. He yearns to encounter God’s presence. And when needed, he can enter states of hyperfocus: Twice, he communes with God for weeks in isolation, learning all of the law. 

He thrives in chaos, providing steady leadership in the face of plagues, scarce resources and threatening nations. Even Jethro’s critique sheds light on Moses’ unique leadership qualities: He is willing to give all of himself to the people he loves. 

It is because of this, I think, that God loves Moses. God demonstrates this love by giving Moses the support he needs. God protects Moses from sensory overload, giving him a quiet space in the Tent of Meeting, and makes sure Aaron is there to offer support. Perhaps the most surprising thing, though, is that God — who Moses describes in this week’s portion as slow to anger — does not frequently punish Moses when he seems to miss the mark. Instead, God tries to understand it. 

Consider the broken tablets. According to the Talmud, the shattered remnants were ultimately placed in the Ark of the Covenant, alongside the second set of tablets that God gave Moses after the people repented. The broken tablets come to represent the community and God joined in failure. 

In shattering the tablets, Moses acts before God explicitly instructs him but as soon as he recognizes that the people are not ready to receive the law.  

The rabbis teach that God responds to this choice by offering Moses a rare blessing — “Yasher kochecha,”or “May your strength be affirmed.” It is striking to me that the blessing Jews offer one another for engaging in Torah study traces back to the moment when Moses recognized that the people’s ability to engage with the law was still beyond their grasp. 

Some recent research suggests that ADHD may be overrepresented in the Jewish community, perhaps because of Jewish histories of trauma, migration and reinvention. Yet our institutions often struggle to accommodate these children. While we reassure them that their differences do not define them, we are often reluctant to do the harder work required to truly include them.  

Liu’s story offers a different model. It shows what becomes possible when adults are willing to listen carefully to children and to adapt to their needs rather than demand conformity. 

Ki Tisa asks us to be the parent who steps back or the coach who makes space — or even be like God, who offers a blessing — so that our children can become the best versions of themselves. 

The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon.

Tetzaveh
Exodus 27:20-30:10

This week’s Torah portion, Tetzaveh, is the only Torah portion, from the beginning of Exodus through the end of Deuteronomy, from which Moses is completely absent. Everywhere else in Exodus, Numbers, Leviticus and Deuteronomy, the great prophet dominates the text. So it is very strange, and highly unusual, that Israel’s quintessential leader is absent from this week’s story.

Why is Moses missing from the narrative?

Rabbis and Biblical commentators throughout the centuries have offered a wide range of interpretations as to why a figure as central as Moses is completely absent from this Torah portion.

One view is that the omission is meant to acknowledge the anniversary of Moses’s death, which is said to have been on the seventh day of the Hebrew month of Adar, one week before Purim, which is coming up, this year, on March 2. This parashah is usually read just before the joyous spring holiday, which reinforces the chronology and the gravity of this time period. There is a hole in our annual celebration.

Another perspective is that Moses’ name is left out of this week’s parashah as a kind of Divine rebuke for his jealousy (according to some traditions) over his brother Aaron’s appointment as the high priest of the Israelite people. The ordination and consecration of Aaron and his sons as kohanim, priests, serve as the major feature in the rest of the Torah portion.

Still other commentators — in an interpretation that essentially opposes the one above — think that Moses, a Biblical character often known for his humility and self-effacement, constrains his personal ego and instead graciously cedes the role of high priest to his brother. In this way, Moses absents himself from the narrative and does not appear in the parashah.

While there is a difference of opinion as to the reaction of Moses when he learns that Aaron is to become the high priest rather than him, the story suggests that, although his name is not explicitly mentioned, Moses remains God’s messenger, the agent for all that is to happen.

This is made evident through an unusual grammatical formulation found several times in the Torah portion, as observed by the 16th-century commentator Rabbi Moshe Alshich.

The very first verse of the parashah says to Moses that “You, yourself, shall command the children of Israel.” (Exodus 27:20) A few verses later, it says “And you, bring near to yourself your brother Aaron, with his sons, from among the Israelites, to serve Me as priests.” (Exodus 28:1) And then, immediately afterward, the text says “You, yourself, speak to all who are skillful, whom I have endowed with the gift of skill, to make Aaron’s vestments.” (Exodus 28:3)

The rabbi suggests that this repeated double emphasis is, perhaps, meant to tell us that Moses is not absent from this story after all. Rather, the prophet’s presence is only momentarily diminished so that other leaders can step forward to serve the spiritual needs of the people.

These interpretations are all very interesting, but to me, the most intriguing and notable example of the absence of Moses occurs in the Passover Haggadah. When Jews around the world sit down at the seder table and recite the words of the Haggadah, as they have for many ages, Moses is barely mentioned — even though he is the central character in the Exodus narrative.

Why is Moses missing from the Passover story in such a seemingly deliberate way? One explanation, which I find particularly compelling, is that when the rabbinic sages composed the Haggadah and developed the seder, they strived to downplay Moses’ role in the liberation and future redemption of the Jewish people so as not to create a cult of personality.

If excessive focus on Moses’ power and greatness were to lead to his becoming a venerated and, over the millennia, possibly even deified being in the Jewish tradition, then Jews would risk crossing a theological line and descending into avodah zarah, idol worship, one of the most grievous sins in Judaism.

In conventional Jewish thought, however, Moses is not viewed as a demi-god nor a messiah nor a magician who works wonders through his own Divine capabilities. He is treated as a mortal man, a human being, born in the image of God but also flawed and imperfect like all the rest of us.

The glory of the Exodus belongs to God, not Moses.

This anti-idol idea, embedded deeply in the Jewish religion, may not be unique among the world’s many faith traditions and belief systems, but it is without doubt one of the most longstanding and defining aspects of Jewish theology, mythology and ritual. It is also an idea about which I, as a rabbi and a student of different religions, am most proud.

No human being can transcend his or her own mortality. None of us is above the values, rules and laws that serve as the moral bedrock of our society.

In today’s troubling era of autocrats and strong men who lead countries around the world, whose gargantuan egos and circles of sycophants make them see themselves as messiahs and demi-gods unbound by the constraints and limitations of others, this is a timely and critically important teaching to remember. And it traces its origin all the way back to the Torah.

The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon.

Terumah
Exodus 25:1–27:19

On a trip to Minneapolis in late January, this week’s Torah portion came to life for me in an entirely new way.

Parashat Terumah brings us the ultimate invitation to communal generosity in the Torah. God commands the Israelites to bring “terumah,” meaning “gifts” (literally, “something raised up”), for the construction of the Mishkan, the desert tabernacle, “from every person whose heart is so moved.” (Exodus 25:2) The people contribute many belongings, including works of their own hands, to provide for the construction of the Mishkan. God says, “Let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25:8)

The people step up with a remarkable array of objects — striking, given that they had just come out of slavery in Egypt — and fashion them just as they were commanded. These gifts contribute to the construction of a beautiful altar and for the indwelling of the Divine Presence amid the Israelite community. Eventually the people must be told to stop bringing gifts because no more donations are needed.

In a totally different context, I saw an extraordinary outpouring of personal gifts among the people of Minneapolis in January. The explicit goal was not to build a sanctuary or create space for the Divine, but to push back against the cruelty and dehumanization enacted by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement in their city since early December. The declared intention was to communicate that Minneapolis residents would not tolerate the demonization and abduction of their neighbors including those without legal status, those with pending or full legal status and naturalized citizens. The people of Minneapolis vowed to say “no” to ICE’s ruthless and mendacious onslaught, insisting on a return of humanity and the rule of law. 

The gifts that were brought were expressions of love. I learned that wide swaths of Minnesotans were buying and delivering groceries for families afraid to leave their homes, accompanying school children whose parents were afraid to step outside, patrolling areas around schools to try to prevent the abduction of parents and staff, driving around neighborhoods to alert neighbors when ICE vans approached, fundraising to support families whose primary breadwinner has been detained or deported, and much more. I know of one person that identified an underused apartment in their family and offered it to an immigrant who felt unsafe to return to her own home.

I heard of new no-cost medical clinics that were set up for immigrants in the basements of churches. I met a pastor, himself an immigrant, leading his church of mostly immigrant congregants to help one another to maintain a sense of joy and abundance. This church periodically has dance parties, to invite people out of fear and degradation and into joy.

We learned that virtually every neighborhood has its own WhatsApp group, enabling neighbors to coordinate the needs of immigrant families and their neighbors’ desire to help. Through these hyperlocal WhatsApp groups, a system was self-organized to coordinate those willing to follow large black vans with tinted glass and out-of-state license plates roaming the neighborhoods. 

A driver would text the license plate number of the van in front of them to a dispatcher, who could confirm from an improvised database whether or not this van was ICE. If it was, the driver would honk repeatedly, get out of the car and begin to whistle in order to alert immigrant neighbors (or those who might be mistaken for immigrants) to be careful, to stay inside and keep their kids safe until ICE had moved on. In one case, a young volunteer was happy to say that his intervention had allowed a woman and her young son to run into their home before ICE could reach them.

There were seemingly endless stories about the remarkable outpouring of love and care being offered by otherwise “ordinary” people to those closest to the pain. It was awe-inspiring and uplifting.

We went to synagogue on Shabbat morning on Jan. 24. It was clear that our friends were exhausted, traumatized and deeply in need of support. And then the news surfaced that the Veterans Administration nurse Alex Pretti had been shot to death by ICE that morning. The rabbi gently announced the news and led us in song and prayer. Looking around the sanctuary, I saw that many people were crying. Pretti was not Jewish nor, to my knowledge, the co-worker of anyone in that room. But in that sacred space, there was no separation. Everyone felt deeply connected to him and his family and to everyone else. The air was thick with love, anguish and prayer.

After Shabbat, we were invited to a small gathering. About 40 people stood in a circle around a fire in the frigid cold, singing and expressing gratitude for one another. There was a request for songs, so I led “This Little Light of Mine,” my 6-year-old granddaughter’s suggestion. The Shechinah, the Divine Presence, was palpably with us.

The people of Minneapolis built a beautiful sanctuary, which I was fortunate enough to visit, in the midst of the reign of ICE. They built it with their time, their care for their neighbors, their idealism, their humanity. Even in the midst of saying a resounding “no!” to ICE’s callous disregard for human life and the rule of law, they said “yes!” to their neighbors, to love and community. I will never forget the sacred scenes I witnessed there.

The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon.

Mishpatim
Exodus 21:1-24:18

If you watch the news, you have likely seen the same heartbreaking images again and again: a coastal town flattened by a hurricane or a Midwestern community torn apart by a tornado.

You watch families sift through the wreckage of their homes, salvaging photographs, a child’s toy or a piece of furniture that somehow survived. And then, astonishingly, they rebuild. In the same place. Only for disaster to strike again a few years later.

Almost inevitably, someone watching from a safe distance asks the question that seems so obvious: Why don’t they move?

The answer is rarely economic alone. It is deeper, more human and more revealing.

That place is home.

It is where memories live, where identities were formed, where people know who they are and how the world works. Leaving would not merely mean changing an address. It would mean stepping into emotionally unknown territory. And for human beings, the unfamiliar can feel more frightening than danger itself.

Something strikingly similar happened at the dawn of Jewish history.

After centuries of slavery, God took the Israelites out of Egypt with miracles, drama and Divine power. The plagues, the splitting of the sea, the collapse of Pharaoh’s empire — all of it should have marked the beginning of joy and gratitude.

Yet almost immediately, the complaints began: It is too hot. We are tired. We are hungry. The water is bitter. 

Again and again, the same refrain emerged: We should go back to Egypt.

It is one of the great psychological puzzles of the Bible. Why would a people who had tasted freedom want to return to oppression?

The answer is profound. Egypt was not just a place. It was a mindset. It was the only emotional world they had ever known. Their parents had been slaves. Their grandparents had been slaves. Freedom, responsibility and uncertainty felt frightening. Slavery, for all its cruelty, was familiar. It had rules. It had predictability. It felt, paradoxically, like home.

So when life became difficult, they instinctively wanted to return — not because Egypt was good, but because it was known.

We are quick to judge them. We shake our heads at their lack of faith. But if we are honest, we do the same thing — just in quieter, more respectable ways.

Each of us has an emotional home.

An emotional home is the inner place we return to when life gets stressful, confusing or painful. For some people, that home is optimism, trust and gratitude. For others, it may be worry, anger, resentment or sadness. It’s not necessarily where we want to live, but it’s where we’re used to living. We know the furniture. We know the lighting. We know exactly where everything is. And because it’s familiar, it feels safe — even when it isn’t good for us.

Here’s how you can see it in real life.

Imagine you’re meeting someone you care about for dinner. You arrive on time. They don’t. Ten minutes pass. Then 20. Then 30. You’re sitting there, scanning the room, checking your phone.

What happens inside you?

Some people immediately feel anger: They don’t respect me. I’m not important. This always happens.

Others feel worry: Maybe something went wrong. I hope they’re OK.

Same situation. Same facts. Completely different emotional experiences.

Why?

Because each person returned to their emotional home. One lives in a world where disappointment turns quickly into resentment. The other lives in a world where uncertainty awakens concern. The external event didn’t change. The inner world did.

Notice what happens next. When the late arrival finally walks in, the angry person makes the evening tense and uncomfortable. The worried person turns caring and compassionate. One dinner. Two entirely different realities.

This is the deeper lesson of the Exodus as it appears in this week’s portion.

God did not take the Jewish people out of Egypt only to change their circumstances. He took them out to change their inner lives, to help them stop seeing themselves as victims of history and to begin seeing themselves as agents of destiny. That transition is far harder than crossing a sea.

That’s why, embedded in the story, God commands the people to remember the Exodus and to mark it in the future. Not as nostalgia and not as ritual alone, but as emotional education. Don’t forget where you came from — and don’t rush back there emotionally when life gets hard. Egypt will always call to you. Not because it was good, but because it’s familiar.

The Torah is warning us: Freedom is not lost only through chains. It is lost when we retreat into old emotional patterns that once protected us but now imprison us.

The quality of our lives, in the end, is shaped less by what happens to us and more by where we live emotionally. If we live in fear, the world feels threatening. If we live in resentment, life feels unfair. If we live in gratitude, the world opens. If we live in trust, life becomes meaningful.

This week’s Torah portion is asking a quiet but radical question: Where is your emotional home? And just as importantly: Is it time to move?

Leaving Egypt was the beginning. Learning how not to go back is the work of a lifetime.

Learning to chant from the Torah has long been both a rite of passage and a source of anxiety.

Popular culture has captured this feeling, from the visibly terrified b’nai mitzvah kids in the TV show “Curb Your Enthusiasm” to the anxious preparations in the film “You Are So Not Invited to My Bat Mitzvah.” 

While Torah chanting goes back thousands of years, the way people today can learn how to do it is getting an update. Virtual Tikkun is a digital platform that allows people to practice their portions, or sections of Torah, using images of the actual scroll they’ll be using on the bimah. 

Synagogues generally keep several Torah scrolls in rotation, and both b’nai mitzvah students and the adults who chant on Shabbat and holidays don’t always know which scroll they’ll encounter, which can be intimidating and stressful. At home, they traditionally prepare with a standard printed version called a tikkun, but the transition to using the real thing can be a shock.

“Every Torah looks different,” said Rabbi Amanda Russell of San Francisco’s Congregation Beth Sholom. “You have different scripts, different sizes of writing. The words are maybe on different lines, and it would be really hard to prepare if you didn’t know what it looked like ahead of time.”

David Bayer, chair of the ritual committee at the Conservative synagogue, decided two years ago to create a solution to this ongoing issue. Using his background in tech, Bayer led the development and then the release last summer of Virtual Tikkun, which is designed to help people prepare and learn how to leyn, or read, using scans from their synagogue’s actual Torah scrolls.

Bayer starts by photographing all of the columns in a Torah scroll, then uses artificial intelligence to organize the images. The digital platform not only allows people to practice on the scroll they’ll be using in synagogue, but it also allows synagogues to rotate their Torahs more regularly, without throwing readers off their game.

“In order to keep a Torah healthy, kind of like a car, you have to start it up every once in a while,” Russell said. “If you leave the Torah in the back of the ark, and it hasn’t been unrolled or touched, then it actually gets ‘sicker quicker’ and it doesn’t hold up as well over time.”

Creating or repairing a Torah — all done by hand by trained scribes —  is costly and labor-intensive, as each scroll contains more than 300,000 letters. Russell said she was quoted about $30,000 to repair one of the Torahs back into usable condition, while commissioning a new one can range from $50,000 to $75,000. The most practical solution, Russell said, is to circulate all of the congregation’s scrolls that are considered kosher, or fit for ceremonial use.

As chair of the ritual committee, Bayer cares for Beth Sholom’s 11 Torah scrolls. When he began that position, five were no longer considered kosher for various reasons, including faded letters and tears in the parchment. 

“The genesis of the project was the motivation to increase the number of Torahs that we could use, and to really enable our lay Torah readers and our b’nai mitzvah students to be able to practice from the specific scroll that they were going to read from,” said Bayer, who is CEO of Virtual Tikkun, the company he has founded to undertake this work. 

The first version of Virtual Tikkun’s platform launched in June 2025. A 2.0 upgrade, which goes live on Wednesday, has several new features, he said.

The platform features a range of learning tools, including the ability to share audio files of tutors and students chanting an individual portion, color-coded trope (cues for chanting) and flash cards. Bayer said that Virtual Tikkun’s mission is to bring Torah-chanting skills and assistance to every community in support of “Jewish continuity and l’dor v’dor,” from generation to generation.

At least one other local synagogue has already begun using the platform. Bayer said Virtual Tikkun is working on building up its client base.

Susan Simon, education director at Conservative Temple Beth Abraham in Oakland, said that before her synagogue started using Virtual Tikkun last year she would regularly take photos of the exact column a student would read from and send the image ahead of time via cellphone. It worked but felt inefficient.

Simon said she’s had students who were so anxious they required multiple rehearsals in person with the Torah scroll. Virtual Tikkun “has the most impact on terrified students,” she said, “because it gives them a measure of confidence we couldn’t necessarily give them before.”

The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon.

Yitro
Exodus 18:1-20:23

This Torah portion, named for Moses’ father-in-law, reminds us of the great contribution that Yitro (or Jethro) made to the development of Israelite society. His influence continues until today.

In this portion, Moses explains to Yitro all that he has been doing — and how overwhelmed he feels. Yitro insists that Moses needs help to be a more effective leader. He instructs Moses to create a legal system in which judges will be able to adjudicate disputes between people. This ancient legal system is similar to our modern American judicial system. By creating a structure in which members of a society are responsible for ensuring that their aggrieved neighbors can be heard, we become responsible to each other for justice. 

The system that Yitro and Moses established is both practical and important. And how fascinating that this is the very first thing that happens in the development of our people after we are freed from slavery. In order to create a new and autonomous society, the first thing we needed was a system of law. 

Just last week, in Beshalach, the Israelites went free after 400 years of Egyptian slavery by crossing through the parted Red Sea. After 10 plagues, Pharaoh finally relented, agreeing that the Israelites could leave — but how would this happen? God instructed Moses to raise his arm, thereby parting the sea. And the Israelites would escape just before the sea closed, killing the Egyptian soldiers and horses who chased behind them. 

Imagine the fear and confusion our ancestors must have felt as they headed out at night toward the Red Sea. How would they cross? The Egyptian army was coming up behind them and the sea was impassable. How would they survive? It took a miracle. God made the sea part — and our story of survival began. The story of our miraculous exodus from Egypt is the foundation myth of our people, the basic story of our identity. It’s who we are. And everything we’ve done since came from this miracle. 

Once we crossed to the other side of the sea, however, the difficult work of forming a society would have to begin. After centuries of slavery, we had no laws of our own to guide us. We would need to build an autonomous society, in which we could begin the journey of becoming a free people. 

In this week’s portion, Yitro immediately helps Moses to set up a legal system for our newly freed ancestors: the basis of the society we would build. But what laws were they applying? Even before the establishment of all the laws that would come later in the Torah and Talmud, human encounters and human nature required a structure, a way to help people figure out how to live together fairly.

At the end of Yitro, the Ten Commandments are given. God sends an instruction to have the people prepare themselves to receive these fundamental laws. After three days, amid thunder and lightning, the Ten Commandments are delivered. And these 10 basic moral laws will allow for the development of our entire autonomous Israelite society. 

So why weren’t the Ten Commandments given at the very beginning of this Torah portion? Why did we need a legal system before having specific laws to apply? Though much has changed over the last thousands of years, some things have not. Human nature is still pretty much the same as it always was. Siblings still have a hard time getting along. Families still have jealousies and perceived blessings and curses. From the beginning of time until now, people have struggled with interpersonal relations. That’s human nature!

It’s interesting that our fundamental moral code came about after the development of our first legal system. Struggles between people are innate. The ways we deal with those struggles require intentional structures to allow us to interact. The rest of Jewish history from the Exodus until today has been about the ongoing refinement of laws which define who we really are as a people. 

This Torah portion allows us to witness the earliest moments of the development of our people. Yitro was a Midianite priest who had a huge influence on the creation of Israelite society. His inspiring vision immediately took us from slavery into a new reality — one in which people could speak freely and seek justice. From there, we’ve never stopped building on the laws that define who we are — and what we believe to be true.

The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon.

Beshalach
Exodus 13:17-17:16

A dear friend, who is a spiritual seeker and artist, shared with me recently that he feels most at home when he hears the hymns and prayers in Jewish synagogues and Black churches. He added that he had also been deeply moved by the music at an annual festival for Indigenous peoples.

Though identifying with none of those groups directly, he wondered aloud why these particular communities touched his soul so profoundly.

“Maybe it’s because, in defiance of absolutely everything that they’ve endured, they find a way to keep singing,” I ventured, eliciting tears from both of us.

In Beshalach, this week’s Torah portion, the Israelites arrive at the Sea of Reeds with Pharaoh’s thundering chariots in pursuit. Trapped, they cry out in terror. The Eternal directs Moses to stretch out his hand, and with the power of a Divine wind, the waters part, the freed slaves walk through to freedom, and the doomed Egyptians perish beneath the churning sea. It took unimaginable suffering and unnecessary loss of life, but the Israelites have been delivered.

“Then, Moses and the Children of Israel sang a song to the Eternal.” (Exodus 15:1)

I always imagine the moment before the Song of the Sea as a breathless, expectant pause, like when a conductor raises her baton and the orchestra sits in total stillness, awaiting the direction to begin. In that moment, after 25 generations of bondage, during which time we heard only cries of pain from the enslaved, a song of gratitude and exaltation rises from the wilderness.

The rabbis of the Talmud (Sotah 30b) have a spirited discussion about the way the song was intoned. Rabbi Eliezer suggests Moses sang each phrase and the congregation echoed him word for word. Rabbi Akiva offers that Moses moved through the song, and the people sang only a repeated refrain, such as “I will sing to God,” after each line. Rabbi Nehemiah imagines Moses beginning the song alone and the people singing the remainder together, in a miraculous moment of collective prophecy.

What resonates with me about the Talmudic debate is the contentions of Rabbis Akiva and Eliezer that the 18-verse song was sung antiphonally, leisurely and carefully as each phrase was heard and absorbed. For the first time in centuries, the people moved at their own pace, freed from the taskmasters’ whips and the unrelenting, grueling labor.

What could have been more perfect for the Torah to depict at that earth-shaking moment than a rousing choral event in the desert? So much research has proven that singing and making music, especially in a group, improves both physical and psychological health. These ancient activities help with relaxation and breathing, contribute to a healthy immune system, reduce stress, improve memory and increase participants’ sense of happiness and social connection.

As University of Oxford psychology researcher Jacques Launay writes succinctly, “Song is a powerful therapy indeed.”

Moses, Miriam and the newly freed Israelites seemed to know intuitively that their song would be the first needed step toward healing after indescribable trauma. 

But I can also imagine some among the vast assembly thinking: How can we sing after what we have just witnessed? Would not silence, formal prayer or more tears have been more appropriate? 

A well-known midrash describes God silencing the angels who rejoiced at the Egyptians’ downfall and declaring, “My creations are drowning in the sea, and you want to sing?” (Exodus Rabbah and Megillah 10b) We, too, embrace that Godly compassion for human suffering as we lessen our cups of joy at the Passover Seder by spilling drops of wine when the plagues are remembered. 

In the moment of deliverance, though, the people’s song is untempered and jubilant beyond measure. 

Truly, how could they keep from singing? As my sensitive friend noticed, the ability of persecuted people to continue to compose and share music, age after age, is a gift that can bring light in days of darkness and danger. Singing, especially, is often an act of courageous defiance in the midst of despair.A beloved hymn that encapsulates this idea, and one I take comfort in a lot these days, was sung often by the late, great Pete Seeger. “How Can I Keep from Singing?” acknowledges the impulse to sing that sometimes cannot be denied and encourages us to be secure in faith and the power of song, no matter what and whom we face.

Here are some excerpts from a version of the song edited by Doris Plenn:

My life flows on in endless song
Above earth’s lamentation.
I hear the real, though far-off hymn
That hails the new creation

Above the tumult and the strife,
I hear the music ringing;
It sounds an echo in my soul
How can I keep from singing?

What though the tempest loudly roars,
I hear the truth, it liveth.
What though the darkness round me close,
Songs in the night it giveth.

No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that rock I’m clinging.
Since love reigns over heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?

I can only surmise that the original lyricist, known only as Pauline T., was thinking of the Song of the Sea when she submitted her poem to The New York Observer, where it first appeared on Aug. 27, 1868. In it, I hear echoes of the ordeal of Egypt and the Exodus, as well as the promise of the new dawn that had risen. The Israelites would now need to lean on faith in God and each other and strengthen themselves for the road ahead. They did so with song. How could they not?

May we continue to sing songs of redemption.

The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon.

Bo
Exodus 10:1-13:16

In last week’s Torah portion, the showdown between Moses and Pharaoh was well underway. The first seven of the 10 plagues had already decimated most of Egypt, and the pressure was mounting for Pharaoh to release the Hebrews.

It is worth noting that the request made of Pharaoh was for a short respite to serve God. As Moses said to Pharaoh, “Let us go for a three-day journey in the wilderness, and we will offer sacrifices to HaShem our God. (Exodus 4:3)

Moses had not suggested that the Israelites were planning to leave altogether, even though God had clearly indicated to Moses that this was to be a complete redemption. In their conversation at the burning bush, God stated clearly, “I will descend to rescue [the nation] from the hand of Egypt and to bring it up from that land to a good and spacious land, to a land that flows with milk and honey….” (Exodus 3:8) 

Bo, this week’s Torah portion, opens with a directive from God to Moses, “Come to Pharaoh for I have made his heart and the heart of his servants heavy in order for me to put my signs in his midst, and so that you will tell over to your children and grandchildren that I made a mockery of Egypt and about the signs of mine that I put among them, and you will know that I am HaShem.” (Exodus 10:1-2) 

There is a lot of debate among the classic commentators of the Torah as to the nature of free will as it plays out in the Exodus. The term that God uses to describe affecting Pharaoh’s heart is kaved, which can be translated as heavy, meaning a stubborn heart, one that does not bend under pressure. A little bit further in the text, it states that God strengthened the heart of Pharaoh. (Exodus 10:20) There is clearly some interference on the part of God that looks like the manipulation of Pharaoh’s heart so that God can carry out his own agenda. 

Nachmanides (Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman, 1194-1270) and Rabbi Ovadia Sforno (1475–1550), two classic medieval commentators, both suggest that in reality, God was preserving the free will of Pharaoh. One can only imagine the pressure of the plagues. Blood, frogs, lice and pestilence are just some of what the Egyptians had to endure. A mere mortal king would certainly have capitulated under such an attack. By hardening or strengthening Pharaoh’s heart, God was allowing him to continue to exercise his free will even under duress. 

That interpretation is definitely convenient for those who want to defend the principle that our very humanity is defined by having free will to choose between what is right and wrong. One can certainly challenge the explanation and simply leave it as a form of manipulation on the part of God, which robbed Pharaoh of his own ability to choose. So which is it?

One indication comes from the first verse of the parashah, where we are told that God has made the heart of Pharaoh and the hearts of his servants heavy. What happens to those servants? 

“The servants of Pharaoh said to him, ‘Until when will this be a snare for us? Send out the men, and they will serve HaShem, their God. Do you not yet know that Egypt is lost?!’” (Exodus 10:7) This is the first time that we have seen the servants of Pharaoh protest. Suddenly, they acquire the courage to challenge their totalitarian ruler. What happened during the first seven plagues? Where were their voices then?

If you adopt the understanding of Nachmanides and Sforno, everything makes a lot of sense. The duress that they were under was the threat of the king’s wrath. Now that God was making their hearts heavy, they could choose to defy him. The result of the hardening of their hearts was the opposite of what Pharaoh experienced. It gave him the courage to continue refusing to send out the Israelites, while the servants gained the courage to stand up to Pharaoh. 

“Moses and Aaron were returned to Pharaoh, and he said to them, ‘Go and serve HaShem….’” (Exodus 10:8) The king had no choice but to respond to the impending mutiny. Pharaoh was clever enough to find a way to appease his servants by appearing cooperative, while still maintaining his position of refusal. 

We are all confronted with choices that challenge us in life. It would be easy to ask God to choose for us and remove our free will so that we do not end up with mistakes and regret. From this story it seems that it would actually be appropriate to ask God for the courage to make the right choice, even when the pressure to do the opposite seems too much to bear.

The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon.

Vaera
Exodus 6:2-9:35

In the early morning hours of Shabbat on May 21, 1754, the Jewish community of Prague experienced one of its worst nightmares: A fire broke out in the Jewish Quarter. The blaze was immense, and with only bucket brigades available to combat the flames, the destruction was catastrophic. By the time the fire was finally extinguished, 190 homes and six synagogues had been reduced to ash. 

The Jewish community was particularly devastated by the destruction of sacred ritual objects. A poem composed in the aftermath, preserved in a communal memorial volume, laments the loss of parochet (decorative, often highly embellished, curtains that hang in front of the ark), me’ilim (Torah scroll covers) and menorahs, comparing the destruction in Prague to the fall of the Jerusalem Temple itself. 

The grief is palpable — these sacred spaces, which had stood as silent witnesses to a community’s greatest challenges, tragedies, and joys for generations, sat in ruins. 

More than two centuries later, another Jewish community — this time in Jackson, Mississippi — awoke to a similarly gut-wrenching scene on Jan. 10. Beth Israel Congregation, a historic community and the city’s only synagogue, was left in ruins, apparently at the hands of an arsonist motivated by antisemitic hate. 

While I have never been to Jackson, the attack left me deeply upset. Perhaps that’s because I was quickly reminded of just how small the Jewish world really is. Though Beth Israel is a relatively small congregation, my father’s first cousin sits on its board, and a congregant’s daughter-in-law grew up in the community. 

These connections made the pain feel personal. But they also point to something deeper: They are among the cornerstones of Jewish resilience. 

“Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazehm — All of Israel is responsible for one another,” the Talmud teaches. That responsibility is not abstract; it is forged through the many deep and often surprising ties that link Jews to one another across geography and generations. We share in each other’s joys, and when a Jewish community suffers, we feel that pain as our own. 

This lesson stands at the center of this week’s Torah portion, Vaera. The portion opens with God’s declaration to Moses, a moment of revelation and responsibility: “I appeared to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob as El Shaddai, but I did not make myself known to them by my name YHWH.” In this exchange, God reveals to Moses his true nature and identity. 

Classical commentators have long struggled with this verse. Throughout the book of Genesis, YHWH is one of the many names used for God. What, then, could it mean that this name was unknown to the patriarchs? 

One mystical tradition suggests that God’s different names correspond to different divine attributes. YHWH represents God as sovereign of the nation of Israel. While the patriarchs knew God, their relationship was personal and immediate — shaped by individual encounters and promises. But now, in the nation-forming moment of Exodus, God reveals a previously unknown dimension: the aspect of divinity that guides and redeems an entire people. 

The lesson to Moses was clear: His concerns, too, had to shift. His life as a shepherd had been lived for himself, evading justice for the taskmaster he had killed and avoiding responsibility for his kinfolk in bondage. Now, however, God calls on Moses to step into a different role, one grounded in shared responsibility for his people. It is only through embracing that collective obligation that redemption becomes possible. 

While the Israelites were not always quick to take on the lessons God taught through Moses, this one has endured. Our concern extends beyond our particular and intimate worlds, not only to other Jews, but to all who find themselves in need. This sense of shared responsibility is one of the keys to Jewish resilience. It is one of the reasons Jews have been able not only to endure great tragedies, but to learn from them and to recover in ways that are often remarkable. 

This was certainly the case in Prague. The fire of 1754 motivated the community to launch substantial fundraising efforts. Not only did they rebuild, but they also recruited the famed Rabbi Yeḥezkel Landau to serve as chief rabbi. Under his guidance, the community grew significantly in the decades that followed. They recorded their shared loss in a communal memorial volume, ensuring that the memory of the fire and the lessons learned from it would not be forgotten. 

I know that we join in the shared prayer that Jackson will not only recover from this outrageous attack but experience renewal as the community rebuilds. What those who hate us fail to understand is that these attacks often inspire Jewish communities to draw on our shared strength, bringing together a global network of care and concern. In the face of devastation, we respond with connection, resilience and hope. In moments like these, we are reminded that we do not stand alone. We carry one another — in grief, in memory and, most of all, in the work of beginning again. 

The Goldring/Woldenberg Institute of Southern Jewish Life has encouraged those wishing to help to donate to Beth Israel’s rebuilding fund. 

The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon.

Shemot
Exodus 1:1-6:1

The Torah portion Shemot is one of my favorites in the Hebrew Bible, since it sets up the entire Exodus narrative that is to follow. In fact, its very name is identical with the name of the Biblical book of which it is a part, so there are many themes and directions one could go in writing a commentary based on this parashah.

The first book of the Torah, Genesis, is now over. No more Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, Noah and the flood. We are also now past the stories and lives of our patriarchs (Abraham, Isaac and Jacob) and matriarchs (Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah).

As a direct consequence of the intense family drama between Joseph and his brothers described at the end of Genesis, the book of Shemot — and this week’s parashah — opens with the Israelites in Egypt, toiling in bondage under a new and wicked Pharaoh.

We are back to the nuts-and-bolts narrative of an enslaved people yearning to be free, a tale we recount every year in the Haggadah at the start of the Passover seder.

In Shemot, we are introduced to Moses, their ultimate leader and a prophet of God. We see this reluctant man, a man who rejects God’s charge to lead no less than five times in this parashah, gain the insight and courage to help transform a ragtag band of slaves into a holy nation.

Shemot is the stage from which their freedom will ultimately emerge, the literary and historical context from which a journey through the desert wilderness will lead to the foot of Mount Sinai, where an eternal covenant is offered by God and accepted by the Israelites.

That is the defining moment that makes them Jews, a people with a sacred mission to both lead and follow, a people forever in an intimate relationship with Adonai.

There will be many struggles ahead, but in the end, the Torah will lead from that life-changing revelation and spiritual birth to a great redemption at the threshold of the Promised Land, a land that Moses will never enter — but that he will gain a vision of in all its glory before he dies.

This parashah, Shemot, is where this incredible and famous adventure begins.

At first, God seems to single out Moses as the exclusive and solitary leader of the people of Israel. God speaks to Moses through a burning bush:

“I have marked well the plight of My people in Egypt and have heeded their outcry because of their taskmasters; yes, I am mindful of their sufferings…. Now the cry of the Israelites has reached Me; moreover, I have seen how the Egyptians oppress them. Come, therefore, I will send you to Pharoah, and you shall free My people, the Israelites, from Egypt.” (Deuteronomy 3:7-10)

Moses, unlike many of today’s leaders, is humbled by his divine charge and responds with modesty: “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and free the Israelites from Egypt?” (Deuteronomy 3:11)

After God reassures Moses that God will be with him, the prophet learns that he will also have his brother Aaron by his side, as a partner in the process of liberating their people from bondage: “The Lord said to Aaron, ‘Go to meet Moses in the wilderness.’ He went and met him at the mountain of God, and he kissed him.” (Deuteronomy 4:27)

Moses accepts this arrangement without a word and, presumably, wholeheartedly. He knows that he needs help, and even though Moses will be the primary leader of the Israelites, he will not be alone. It isn’t ego that motivates him, but a desire to do what is best for his people.

Moses eventually succeeds in his task. The people of Israel are freed from slavery in Egypt and bear witness to the revelation of the Ten Commandments and the covenant at Mount Sinai.

Yet before that scene, Moses does one more thing that demonstrates his humble and pragmatic approach to his leadership role. At the suggestion of his Midianite father-in-law, Jethro, Moses delegates much of his responsibility for leading his people and resolving disputes to a group of morally upright and experienced elders. They will help him with his mission, and his burden.

Moses provides a model for all of us regarding how to be an effective and moral leader. He collaborates, he delegates, and, when it is clear that he will no longer be able to lead his people into the Promised Land, he makes sure that there is a suitable and transparent process of succession. Before he dies, Moses hands the mantle of leadership over to the young Joshua.

If only today’s political leaders would follow his lead.

The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon.

Vayechi
Genesis 47:28-50:26

Earlier in my career, I had the deep privilege of doing hospice work. I drove around from house to house to sit with people for whom death was near.

Friends often asked me whether the work was hard. It certainly was, but it was also a great blessing to be in spaces where the reality of death inspired reflection on what life is about. When you face death squarely, paradoxically, your values, priorities and sense of the meaning of life become vividly apparent.

When they knew that the end was near, some people were still able to think about what they had most treasured in their lives, whom they wanted to say goodbye to and what lessons they wanted to share with those they would leave behind.

Spending time with people who were living with keen awareness of mortality, I too became vibrantly aware of what was most true and precious to me. It was wonderful to be so awake in the middle of life. When I stopped doing hospice work, I needed to seek out reminders to live fully in different ways.

This week’s parashah, Vayechi, which means “And he [Jacob] lived,” is actually the story of two deaths — that of Jacob and of Joseph. In a way, it is two scenes of hospice.

RELATED: Bondi Beach reminds us how terror collapses geography

At the beginning of the parashah, we learn that Jacob is nearing death. He calls Joseph to his bedside and makes Joseph swear to bury Jacob’s remains in his homeland, in the family grave at the Cave of Machpelah. He is clearly engaged in a review of his life, contemplating his legacy to his children and the people who will carry his name, Israel. 

So, too, the end of the parashah brings us the news that Joseph is near death. It describes some of his preparations, including his wish that he not be permanently buried in Egypt but in his ancestral homeland.

For both Jacob and Joseph, what was most central was their concern for their legacy to their heirs, those who would lead their family to become the Israelite people. If you try to imagine yourself facing death (a long time from now!), what do you think might be most precious to you at that time? How would you want to spend your final days and weeks? What messages would you like to bequeath to your loved ones?

The memory of the Bondi Beach attack is still fresh. The pain and horror are vivid, the fear and sadness very much with us.

For the whole Jewish people, the massacre in Sydney catapulted all of us into the reality of death. This was not a natural death, of course, but horrific, violent death caused by deranged people full of hate. 

In the wake of this kind of inexplicable death born of hate, the impulse can be very strong to hate in response. Some of us have been moved to step into a familiar place: the conviction that antisemitism is everywhere and that violent attacks will always pursue our people. In this state of mind, we huddle more closely together with other Jews and brace ourselves for the next attack, assuming that hate is all around us. 

But there is another possible stance in response to death, violence and cruelty. Some of us, inspired by the imagery of Hanukkah, have been moved since Bondi to ask how we might create more light in the world and share it with others. Some of us wanted to take in the good will of non-Jews who sent kind messages of condolence or put images of menorahs on their front doors. We wanted to open our arms to other people who oppose bigotry and hate and to work together to breathe more light and love out into the world. 

In the wake of these terrible murders, we must ask ourselves the end-of-life question: What is most important to us? What do we most treasure? What do we want to savor and model for those who will come after us?

In the aftermath of a massacre of Jews, we must acknowledge our pain and ask ourselves who we want to be in the world, as Jews and as human beings. If we want to be people who seek a world free of violence against anyone, then we must use this terrible moment as an opportunity to join hands with others who seek to create communities that are more loving and embracing, where there is less space for hate.

I was deeply moved by reports of the celebration at Bondi Beach on the eighth night of Hanukkah. There were family members of those killed in the attack, and there were also first responders — not all of them Jewish — and civic leaders. Those closest to the pain of the attack opened the circle of grief to stand together with non-Jewish neighbors, to affirm their mutual commitment to a nation of inclusion and care.

As we continue to grieve the terrible events of Dec. 14, may we take the opportunity to rededicate ourselves to contributing to a world of love, kindness and mutual respect.

The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon.

Vayigash
Genesis 44:18-47:27

Few questions have shaped Jewish history more profoundly than one that emerged two centuries ago and has never lost its urgency: What does it mean to be Jewish in the modern world?

When the walls of the European ghettos were dismantled in the 19th century and Jews began to enter wider society, they encountered not only new freedoms but a deep moral and spiritual dilemma: Were Jews called primarily to preserve their distinctive way of life, or to bring their values into the broader human conversation? Were we meant to turn inward or outward?

From this tension arose two opposing schools of thought.

One insisted that the Jewish mission is universal. Jews, it argued, are called to be a light to the nations, bearers of an ethical vision meant for all humanity. Our task is tikkun olam, the repair of the world. To succeed in this mission, Judaism must emphasize its universal moral teachings and downplay the practices and boundaries that set Jews apart. The more we resemble the surrounding culture, the more effective our influence will be.

The other school argued precisely the opposite. Judaism, it maintained, is first and foremost a covenantal relationship with God, expressed through law, ritual and tradition. Jewish survival depends on strengthening families, communities, schools and synagogues. Engagement with the wider world, they feared, would dilute Jewish life. Better to withdraw, to create protective boundaries, even if that meant living apart from society.

Universalism and particularism. Engagement and withdrawal. For two centuries, Jewish thought has oscillated between these poles.

Yet this framing itself is mistaken. God did not ask the Jewish people to choose between faithfulness and responsibility, between distinctiveness and universality. That is a false choice. Our particular identity is not an obstacle to our universal calling; it is the source of it.

If Jewish life has nothing distinctive about it, then it has nothing distinctive to offer. If we are merely a reflection of the culture around us, we contribute nothing new to the moral conversation of humanity. Universality is not achieved by erasing difference, but by bringing the fullness of one’s own tradition into dialogue with others.

This truth is visible throughout human creativity. The greatest works of art, literature, and music are not universal because they are abstract or generic. They are universal because they are deeply rooted in a particular place, people and story. The novels of Dostoevsky speak powerfully across cultures precisely because they arise from an intimate knowledge of the Russian soul. The paintings of Monet and Renoir are loved worldwide because they are unmistakably French. Jazz became a global language because it was born from the specific historical experience of African Americans.

The world is enriched not when cultures abandon their uniqueness, but when they share it.

The same is true of the Jewish people. Only by being deeply rooted in our faith can we be a blessing to others. Only by preserving the sanctity of Jewish family life can we speak convincingly about the dignity of family. Only by investing passionately in Jewish education can we advocate credibly for the value of education. Only by living lives shaped by mitzvot — by Shabbat, charity, prayer and moral discipline — can we offer a compelling vision of spirituality in a secular age.

This synthesis of inward faith and outward responsibility is embodied with remarkable clarity in the biblical story of Joseph.

Joseph is the only one of the patriarchal family to live fully within a global civilization. He rises to power in Egypt, the superpower of the ancient world, yet never relinquishes his identity. His story begins with dreams — two of them — and they reveal everything.

In one dream, Joseph sees a sheaf of wheat (himself) standing upright while the sheaves around it (his brothers) bow before it. It is a vision of material success, leadership and economic authority. In the second, the sun, moon and stars bow to him, a dream of moral and spiritual influence. These are not competing visions. Together, they express Joseph’s intuition that it is possible to exercise worldly power while remaining faithful to God.

His brothers could not accept this idea. Shepherds living apart from society, they believed holiness required withdrawal. To them, Joseph’s dreams sounded like arrogance, even betrayal. They could not imagine a Judaism that flourished at the center of civilization without being corrupted by it.

Jacob, however, understood. The Torah tells us that he “kept the matter in mind.” He sensed that Joseph was destined for a role unlike any that had come before. That is why he gave him the multicolored coat.

Colors differ. They can clash. Yet when woven together into a single garment, they create beauty. The coat symbolized Joseph’s calling: to bring together difference and harmony, heaven and earth, the particular and the universal, within a single life.

Joseph’s later story vindicates that vision. He becomes the architect of Egypt’s economic survival, devising a long-term plan that saves an entire civilization from famine. Yet when Pharaoh praises his brilliance, Joseph deflects the credit. “It is not I,” he says. “God will answer.”

That moment is decisive. Joseph could have claimed the glory. Instead, he spoke openly of God in the halls of power. It was a risky choice. It could have ended his career, even his life. But Joseph understood something essential: a holy people does not fear bringing its faith into the shared spaces of humanity.

Joseph teaches us that Jewish history does not ask us to choose between the ghetto and the world. It asks us to live fully in both. To be rooted without being isolated, engaged without being absorbed. To carry our particular story with confidence, and in doing so, to speak to the universal human condition.

That task remains ours today.

The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon.

Miketz
Genesis 41:1−44:17

At the beginning of this week’s parasha Miketz, we read that Pharoah dreams that seven “gaunt and repulsive” cows eat seven cows that are “handsome and fat.” It’s a striking image. 

Joseph will interpret this dream and a similar one to mean that a famine will come to Egypt for seven years. The dreams alert Joseph that bad times are on the horizon.

Rereading the passage this year, the image of these objectionable cows consuming the good-looking cows stands out. In our time, one cannot be blamed for thinking that ugliness tends to consume the beautiful.

Regardless of where we sit along the political spectrum, many of us feel we’re living through an era in which the worst qualities of human nature are winning out, a time when a hammer of ugliness is coming down on the delicate beauty we have sought to create.

But our Torah teaches us that this is not an inevitability. 

Take Joseph’s story. In his youth, he rather obnoxiously declares his supremacy over his brothers. He then endures the terrible ordeal of being thrown into a pit and being sold into slavery. His life changes dramatically when he gains fortune and power in Egypt, culminating in Joseph showing a remarkable ability to forgive when he reconciles with his brothers.

Joseph’s father, Jacob, undergoes similarly marked growth. In his youth, he steals his brother Esau’s birthright and blessing, he flees, has children with four women and wrestles with a mysterious person, earning the name Israel. He then reconciles with his brother Esau. The ups and downs of his story continue. Jacob is a trickster at heart, but even he learns and evolves. The Torah tells the stories of flawed people — but they are still capable of growth.

At the same time, our sacred texts are unsparingly realistic in that they also show the human capacity to go astray. Noah, after the flood, becomes a drunkard who lies uncovered in his tent. In a more destructive example, King David orders the killings of large numbers of Philistines, Moabites and Edomites.

There is a truth at the heart of the Tanach’s portrayal of the possibilities of human morality: We can do tremendous good, we can do tremendous evil — but, most often, the sum total of our conduct is a mixed bag.

A remarkable recent study of human history bears out the Tanach’s insight into the wide spectrum of human potential.

Over 10 years, the anthropologist David Graeber and the archaeologist David Wengrow examined a huge amount of archaeological evidence on human existence dating back millennia. They asked fundamental questions about how humans have lived. Their book, “The Dawn of Everything,” looks at everything from the Fertile Crescent in the Middle East to the history of the Ohlone peoples of Northern California.

Instead of human civilization being a story of material determinism — of guns, germs and steel, as another popular book famously put it — Graeber and Wengrow argue that humans since the dawn of time have chosen how they want to live. For millennia, our ancestors have been consciously creating and forming their societies, choosing their lifestyles and purposes.

Joseph’s story offers an interesting example of what belief in a higher purpose can look like. When Joseph finally reconciles with his brothers, he says that all his travails ultimately happened for a higher purpose. “You intended evil against me,” Joseph says. “But God intended it for good, in order to bring about what is now: the survival of many.”

Joseph’s statement of faith is extreme. We know from our lives and history that not all bad things happen for a reason. Sometimes a tragedy is just a tragedy.

Still, through his actions, Joseph presents a model. He endures difficulty and presumably becomes aware of the potential ugliness of human action. He then balances an optimistic take on his life with playing an active role in making that a reality.

Similarly, we can be clear-eyed about the wide range of possible human outcomes, including the potential for ugliness to triumph over beauty. At the same time, we can cultivate an active optimism that harmony will win out.

Developing this type of faith is not easy. But we can begin by reminding ourselves of this truth: Despite the ugliness we have collectively wrought, we are nevertheless capable of creating beauty.

The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon.

Vayeshev
Genesis 37:1-40:23

As heirs to a grand tradition of laws and leaders, the Jewish people should be proud of our trail-blazing ancestors. We should look back to our forerunners’ stories and see only nobility, restraint and morality. 

Shouldn’t we? 

As the Joseph story begins in this week’s Torah portion, we instead recoil at the murderous intentions of Jacob’s sons toward their dream-sharing brother in his extravagant coat, a gift for that favored son from their overindulgent father. These fratricidal young men and undisciplined teenagers are our forebearers, and the Torah portrays them in all their glorious guilt and shame. 

Jacob and Leah’s fourth son Judah/Yehudah (from whom we get our name Yehudim/Jews) speaks for the first time in this portion as Joseph languishes in the pit his brothers threw him into. Judah’s words are disgraceful and sneering: “How will we profit if we kill our brother and cover up his blood? Let’s go and sell him to the Ishmaelites… after all, he is our brother, our own flesh.” (Genesis 37:26-27)

Judah’s charisma and sway are evident immediately. The brothers heed him, and Joseph is sold into slavery. Jacob is utterly bereaved, believing Joseph to have been gored by a wild animal after viewing his son’s coat, soaked by the brothers in the blood of a kid goat. 

And then, Judah parts from his brothers.

At first, chapter 38 seems a sharp deviation from the story we know so well from religious school and the Broadway stage. For many years, Judah creates an entirely different identity, raising a family of his own among people not of his clan and kin.

Thousands of years before Carl Gustav Jung (1875-1961), Swiss psychologist and the founder of analytical psychology, coined the term “individuation,” the Torah showed us exactly what that process looks like. Individuation is the quest toward “becoming your true, integrated self.” It “isn’t about becoming perfect or ‘self-improved’ in a superficial sense. It’s about discovering who you really are beneath social masks, habits, thoughts, and fears, and bringing hidden parts of yourself into harmony,” writes Dr. Erlend Slettevold.

The path can take decades or even a lifetime, and is often uncomfortable, since meaningful change usually is. Totally different from “individualism,” which technically refers to a self-centered rejection of past and society, individuation integrates the “shadow” or negative parts of one’s history and ingrained traits as the seeker learns to live with balance, self-awareness and curiosity. It almost always requires deep reflection and growth, usually with significant time away from the home and family of origin. 

“Shalom,” our word for wholeness, is the ultimate goal of a life lived with individuation. Through it, a person comes to appreciate humanity and one’s unique contribution to it, and to know, in Jung’s words, that “the privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are.”

The genius writers of the Torah knew that Judah, the powerful, emerging leader, had to leave his family and forge an identity of his own to become fully realized. His life among the Adullamites and Canaanites is, crucially, far from easy. He marries and sires three sons, and in a wink, they are grown and wed, the eldest to a woman named Tamar. 

Judah’s first-born dies, leaving his daughter-in-law Tamar childless. Judah gives his second son to Tamar to try for offspring, but he dies too. Judah then refrains from giving his third son to Tamar, for fear he would meet the same fate. 

After his own wife dies, Judah makes a trip. Tamar famously dresses as a prostitute and stations herself along the road to seduce her unwitting father-in-law. She secures a ransom of his signet ring, cord and staff until he would send a payment of a kid goat for her services. The kid is sent, but Tamar is nowhere to be found. 

When she falls pregnant by Judah, Tamar is accused of harlotry, with her father-in-law calling for her execution. She discreetly sends to Judah the items he left behind, saying “the man to whom these belong made me pregnant.” (Genesis 38:25) Judah, who must have been stunned and horrified, declares “‘She is right — they came from me, since I did not give her to my (third) son.’ And he was not intimate with her again.” (Genesis 38:26) 

Remarkably, some modern teachings on individuation include the need to leave “a ransom,” some kind of substitute as a person steps away to work on other key parts of their character. It’s a complex idea, but it’s astonishing that the Torah has Judah leaving unique pieces of himself with Tamar while he continues, even unconsciously, his journey of self. 

Tamar and Judah have twins, the elder of whom is Perez, the ancestor of both King David and the future messiah. But what resonates so strongly is that the authors of the Torah needed us to see Judah in this light — a man wrestling with his past and his shortcomings, branching out to make his own choices and mistakes, coming to terms with the consequences of his words and deeds. 

As Genesis moves forward, Judah will prove his worth to his father, his brother and to all of us, the Yehudim who bear his name. In his journey of individuation, when confronted by Tamar, he does not deny, deflect, delay or denigrate. He faces the totality of who he is at that moment, owns his responsibility and demonstrates growth, maturity and sobriety. He is becoming the kind of leader we deserve, and an ancestor of whom we can be very proud. May we merit to have more humble and courageous leaders like Judah (and Tamar) to carry us forward.

The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon.

Vayishlach
Genesis 32:4-36:43

There is a lot of attention placed on the name of our third patriarch, Jacob. In this week’s Torah portion, we actually have two accounts of the changing of Jacob’s name to Israel. 

Toward the beginning of our parashah, amid the famous struggle between the angel and Jacob (or Yaakov in Hebrew), the angel tells him, “They will not say that your name is Yaakov any longer, but rather, Yisrael (Israel) for you have striven with the Divine and with men and have overcome.’” (Genesis 32:29)

The second account is a more direct conversation between God and Jacob. “Then God said to him, ‘Your name is Yaakov. Your name shall no longer be called Yaakov, but Yisrael shall be your name,’ and he called his name Yisrael.” (Genesis 35:10)

Rashi, the foremost medieval commentator, quotes a Midrash suggesting that in the first instance, the angel was merely informing Jacob that his name would be changed in the future. When the angel remarks that “they will not say,” it implies that they will not use the name Jacob as a pejorative. That is, people will not say that Jacob took the blessings away from his brother through crookedness. The name Jacob is derived from the Hebrew word for “heel,” which has even made its way into English slang (according to “Green’s Dictionary of Slang”) with several negative definitions, including the “racket of stealing by sneaking.”

The conversation between God and Jacob further emphasizes this point. God states directly that his name is Jacob before telling him that he would no longer be called Jacob. Why would God have to open with a direct statement regarding his name? The commentators suggest that we are being taught that the change of Jacob to Israel is not as permanent as it is with the other name changes that we have encountered earlier in the Torah. (Babylonian Talmud, Brachot 12b) 

When Abraham’s name was changed from Abram to Abraham, for example, it was an eternal switch.

The Talmud shows us just how serious a matter the sages considered the changing of Abraham’s name: “Anyone who calls Avraham ‘Avram’ transgresses a positive commandment, as it is stated: ‘Your name will be Avraham.’” (Brachot 13b) 

Jacob continues to live with his original name, alongside his new identity. If one follows the episodes of his life, it is clear that each time he is identified as Israel, he is acting on the great legacy with which he was blessed. But, in the upcoming story of the sale of Joseph, we see that the name Jacob is used when his sons confront him with the bloody coat and ask him to identify it for them. (Genesis 37:34) 

Here, Jacob is reacting as a father would. His humanity shines forth as he grapples with the tragic loss of a son. The Torah continues to refer to him as Jacob throughout that episode until he finally awakens to his true calling upon hearing that his son is alive and ruling over Egypt: “And Israel said, ‘How great! My son Joseph is alive. I will go see him before I die.’” (Genesis 45:28) 

The descent into Egypt was supposed to be the precursor to a momentous deliverance. With Israel following the prescribed destiny, he manifests his new identity.

The reason that Jacob maintains both names is that he plays both roles. He remains true to his original character, alongside his great legacy. Abraham, by contrast, grew from being a young man surrounded by an idolatrous culture into God’s direct agent for change. He never reverted to his old self. 

This would explain why Jacob’s descendants are referred to as the Children of Israel. We are tasked at all times with continuing his mission in the world.

The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon.

Vayetzei
Genesis 28:10-32:3

When I was a student at the Jewish Theological Seminary of America, we often kvetched that one could spend six years in rabbinical school and still not know why Jews light candles on Shabbat or why we wear kippahs. This is not because JTS failed to provide us with a foundational education. Instead, the origins of some beloved customs, which are practiced by observant Jews without question, are simply not widely known. 

The mystery around the origin of the kippah even inspired a well-known (by some) joke about this week’s Torah portion, Vayetzei. The reading begins by describing Jacob’s flight from home after deceiving his father Isaac and stealing Esau’s blessing. 

“How do we know that Jacob wore a yarmulke?” the joke goes. “The Torah says, ‘And Jacob went forth from Be’er Sheva.’ Do you think his mother Rebecca would let him go out without a hat?” 

For centuries rabbis have debated whether Jews are obligated to cover their heads; hats seem to have been part of Jewish culture since antiquity. The Talmud famously teaches that Rav Huna ben Joshua wouldn’t walk four amot (about seven feet) without covering his head — a sign, he believed, that the Divine Presence rested above him. 

For much of Jewish history, though, our relationship with hats has been ambivalent. In medieval Europe, dress and head coverings were tied to social status and legally defined roles. Nobility, knights and clerics had distinctive garments and headwear. Jews — who often occupied a liminal social status — were also required by law to wear hats that marked their peculiar role as outsiders. 

In medieval manuscripts and art, Jews are easily identified by the pileus cornutus, a pointed, often conical hat that may have originated in Jewish communities of Greece, Babylonia or Rome. While scholars debate whether the hat initially emerged organically within the Jewish community, the laws that mandated it transformed it into a mark of shame. That humiliation was compounded when the hat became a tool for visual ridicule in Christian art and in public punishment rituals. 

In such art, the hat was often associated with those who tormented Jesus: the Roman governor Pontius Pilate, Caiaphas the priest and the Roman centurion who pierced Jesus on the cross are sometimes depicted wearing the pointed hat. Because it was shameful to be associated with Jews, other marginalized figures in the Holy Roman Empire — heretics, criminals, even people with dwarfism — were also sometimes forced to wear it. 

Perhaps the most infamous outsiders forced to wear the Jews’ Hat were those accused of sorcery. Punishment for such offenses often included donning the Judenhut (German for “Jews’ hat,” marking the alleged practitioner as spiritually deviant and permanently outside the boundaries of Christian society. This is why popular culture so often depicts wizards and witches with features shaped by anti-Jewish caricature: pointed noses, distorted faces and the iconic conical hat. 

That legacy of othering still leaves its mark on popular culture. Over the past week, millions flocked to movie theaters for part two of “Wicked,” Stephen Schwartz’s musical-turned-blockbuster. 

From birth, Elphaba — the so-called Wicked Witch of the West — is marked as different. Her green skin and pointed hat set her apart. The films trace her transformation as she struggles to reconcile the stigma society places on her with the truth she knows about herself. Ultimately, she finds strength by embracing her differences. “I’m through accepting limits,” she sings, “’cause someone says they’re so.” 

In interviews, Schwartz himself has noted that the story has particular resonance for Jews: Musicals often center on outsiders striving to belong, and “Wicked,” while not overtly Jewish, speaks to that experience. Often, that pathway to acceptance hinges on transforming the biases of others into a source of strength. That certainly has been the journey of the Jewish people — and of the kippah. 

In the 19th century, during the period of Jewish emancipation, many Jews abandoned ritual head coverings as they sought acceptance in broader Western society. Well into the 20th century, it was not uncommon even for Orthodox Jews to limit wearing head coverings to moments of prayer and study — occasions when the codes of Jewish law require them. 

This began to change in the 1960s. Inspired by the ways in which the Civil Rights Movement encouraged once-marginalized groups to embrace cultural identities, Jews began seeking outward ways to display Jewish pride. Kippot began appearing not just in synagogues or at religious gatherings, but also on the heads of college students as a visible marker of ethnic and religious solidarity. As the years progressed, what had once been a stigmatized brand meant to humiliate became a symbol of dignity and connection.  

Today, as we continue to grapple with the challenges of Jewish identity and an ever-increasing climate of anti-Jewish attitudes, the kippah stands as a powerful reminder: No matter what the world demands of us, we affirm our identity and will not hide who we are.