Obligated by the King
By TBA Rabbinic Intern, Chayva Lehrman

What’s in a name? Well, when you have a unique name, the answer can actually be quite a bit. People ask me about my name, all the time, and truly, if you meet another, Chayva, please let me know. My name is my great grandmother’s name before she changed it at Ellis Island, but no one in my family knew until she became elderly and forgot to change her name in the stories that she told about herself. It slipped out one day in conversation. “Who’s Chayva?” my mother asked. “Oh! My. That was me!”

God presents God’s name to Moses in a much more intentional way in this week’s parasha. 

וָאֵרָ֗א אֶל־אַבְרָהָ֛ם אֶל־יִצְחָ֥ק וְאֶֽל־יַעֲקֹ֖ב בְּאֵ֣ל שַׁדָּ֑י וּשְׁמִ֣י יְהֹוָ֔ה לֹ֥א נוֹדַ֖עְתִּי לָהֶֽם׃

I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as El Shaddai, but I did not make Myself known to them by My name YHVH. (Exodus 6:3)

We have many names for God; El Shaddai and YHVH are hardly the only ones. Every day, in every blessing, we call God “Adonai, Eloheinu, Melech HaOlam,” “my Lord, our God, King of the world.” This week, we also blessed a king, an earthly king of a different type: Martin Luther King. In MLK Day, we celebrate the man who not only had the last name King, but had the initials that match the Hebrew root for king: מלך, melech.

Dr. King demanded a different world. He made some people uncomfortable and others empowered. He lived through a nightmare and because - not despite - that nightmare, he had a dream. That dream is often recounted, but more often than it should, it gets divorced from its religious foundation: the messianic vision of a Kingdom of God, a day in which all people would be equal and all systems equitable. 

MLK Day - King Day - is one of our yearly nudges to refocus ourselves on the unfinished work, which, as we know from Pirkei Avot, we are not obligated to complete but neither are we free to neglect. 

Every day in Shacharit, we commit ourselves to קבלת עול מלכות שמים, to receive upon ourselves the yoke of the kingdom of heaven. For Dr. King, this meant creating an equitable world in which the kingdom of God would become a reality. How will we take that mantle upon ourselves? How will we respond to the obligations given to us by both Dr. King and by the King of the World, Melech HaOlam, whom we bless by word and by deed?

At the Moment of Turning
By TBA Rabbinic Intern, Chayva Lehrman

In Yehuda Amichai’s poem שיר אינסופי, “A Never-Ending Poem,” Amichai writes:

Inside the brand new museum
There’s an old synagogue
Inside the synagogue
Is me
Inside me
my heart
Inside my heart
a museum
Inside the museum, a synagogue…

And thus the poem continues, in loops upon loops. As Amichai peels back each layer, he finds cycles of what came before and what will come after, each contained within ourselves and within the ways in which we preserve our stories.

Amichai’s holders of stories are museums, synagogues, and, of course, poetry. Torah also holds these layers of us and our Jewish stories. Amichai wrote his cyclical, circular poem to capture the kaleidoscopic layers of life; so, too, Ben Bag Bag addressed all of Torah in his oft-quoted aphorism, “Turn it and turn it, for everything is in it,” (Pirkei Avot 5:22).

Jacob feels this sense of turning in this week’s parashah, Vayechi, as he nears the end of his life. When Joseph is told that his father is not well, he brings his sons Menasheh and Ephraim to be blessed by Jacob. The narrative voice foreshadows the reversal of age order by referring to Ephraim first as they approach the moment of blessing, and sure enough, Jacob crosses his hands and blesses Menasheh with his right, as would usually befit the elder, and Ephraim with his left, and says,

בְּךָ֗ יְבָרֵ֤ךְ יִשְׂרָאֵל֙ לֵאמֹ֔ר יְשִֽׂמְךָ֣ אֱלֹהִ֔ים כְּאֶפְרַ֖יִם וְכִמְנַשֶּׁ֑ה

By you shall Israel invoke blessings, saying: God make you like Ephraim and Manasheh.
(Genesis 48:20)

Soon after, Jacob calls his sons to him. The ensuing poem is often referred to as Jacob’s blessing for his sons and their tribes, but Jacob himself does not call it a blessing as he does with Ephraim and Menasheh; rather, he says,

הֵאָֽסְפוּ֙ וְאַגִּ֣ידָה לָכֶ֔ם אֵ֛ת אֲשֶׁר־יִקְרָ֥א אֶתְכֶ֖ם בְּאַחֲרִ֥ית הַיָּמִֽים

Come together that I may tell you what is to befall you in days to come.
(Genesis 49:1)

Jacob clearly feels a need to foretell the ending he sees for his progeny, whether by blessing or by prophecy. 

The feeling of transition weighs heavily over this parashah, from Jacob’s foretelling to its position as the final parashah of Genesis. The feeling of transition also looms over this time of year, when the secular new year turns and we reflect upon what came before and what will come to be. Sometimes the discomfort of change can make us want to hurry time along, so that we can find out the ending and know what happens. But we are not Jacob - we will not know what 2023 will bring. 

Let us take wisdom from the title of the parashah, Vayechi ויחי, “he lived.” Life will go on with its surprises - such as Joseph’s younger son receiving the elder’s blessing - and its foregone conclusions, such as Jacob’s other sons are told. In the space between surprises and known results, we make our way. 

Like every book of Torah, upon concluding it we say חזק חזק ונתחזק, “Be strong, be strong, and we will be strengthened.” May we live through the ups and downs of 2023 with strength, by giving strength to each other, and thus may we, together, be strengthened.

Judah May Slumber—But Will Rise Again Soon
By Rabbi Adam Kligfeld

Stasis is illusory.  All wisdoms—philosophical, religious, modern and ancient—reinforce this. Change is not one of the realities. It is the only reality. We have all been dying since we were born. And our entire cellular structure is in constant regeneration.  While we sometimes stubbornly hold on to opinions and stances, we are literally not who we were yesterday, let alone last year. So why should we think and feel the same way?

What is true of the individual is true of any society.  The modern pace of life and media demands instant and abiding commentary on terrain whose sands are shifting all the time. By the time an article or opinion piece is submitted, the facts upon which said piece were based have changed.  We all would be wise to take the long view.  It will not only calm some of our anxieties—it will also lead us closer to truth.

I write this from Israel, where, after leading the Pressman Parent delegation, I am now serving as a Rabbinic Mentor on an inter-denominational trip that AIPAC runs for its Leffell Fellowship for Rabbinical students from rabbinical schools ranging from YU to HUC (with many “in between!”). It will come as no surprise that one of the underlying themes of nearly every encounter is the current Israeli political moment.  As many pundits are Chicken-Little-ing this moment, with doomsday predictions about the end of Israel, and/or of Israel’s democracy, so much of what we are witnessing is putting a lie to such facile thinking.  Including someone (from the Israeli political left) reminding us that when Menachem Begin was elected Prime Minister in the late ‘70s, that too was considered a watershed moment auguring the end of Israel as a liberal democracy. Of course, Begin then went and made what has turned out to be an enduring (albeit at times tepid) peace with our most intractable Arab enemy. The same denunciations and dour prophecies were uttered when Avigdor Lieberman, a right-wing secular politician, joined a previous Netanyahu government.  With today being the day that Israel’s new coalition and government will be sworn in, including two MK’s in particular who represent some of what is most odious in parts of the Zionist camp, it is tempting (but false) to presume that this supposed nadir will be determinative of an ongoing downturn in Israeli society.

The great Izhbitzer Rebbe, author of the commentary Mei HaShiloah, notes that one of the characterological hallmarks of Yehuda/Judah (referring both the brother of Yosef, and the Jewish people that bear Judah’s name to this day) is that our present is often hard to understand, and our future is hard to predict.  In next week’s parsha, Vayehi, Jacob’s blessing to Judah will be that even though he may כרע רבץ (kara ravatz), be seen to be crouching and cowering, כארי וכלביא מי יקימנו (k’ari ukh’lavi mi y’kimenu), he is like a lion and a lioness—who would are bother or rouse him? Meaning, when we are low, we may be about to rise. (And, yes, when we are soaring, there may be an Icarus-like downfall around the corner).  And in this week’s parsha, Vayiggash, Judah approaches the Egyptian viceroy (whom Judah does not realize is his brother Joseph) with confidence to resolve a sensitive situation, just verses after he seemed to express despair over his and his brothers’ circumstances.

In other words, don’t blink. While elections have ramifications, and while we all feel better when people who best represent our values hold power and authority—things rarely turn out as we confidently predict. And things will change, soon.

Judah may be seen to be slumbering. In an ethical or moral divot.  Before you know it, the Jewish (and Israeli) people will find its next way to defy expectations, confront internal rot, and rise again to new heights.

By Light, Not By Might
by TBA Rabbinic Intern, Chayva Lehrman

In the haftarah this week, an angel gives Zechariah a vision of a menorah and two olive trees, but Zechariah cannot interpret it. The angel, surprised, explains that it means, “‘Not by might and not by power, but by My spirit alone,’ said Adonai Tzevaot.” (Zechariah 4:6)

לֹ֤א בְחַ֙יִל֙ וְלֹ֣א בְכֹ֔חַ כִּ֣י אִם־בְּרוּחִ֔י אָמַ֖ר יְהֹוָ֥ה צְבָאֽוֹת׃

We see these themes of might and power everywhere this week: in Parshat Miketz, Joseph is given Pharaoh’s signet ring and thus power over all of Egypt. In celebrating Chanukah, we exalt in the Maccabees’ mighty fight for independence. Even the name of God used by Zechariah’s angel, Adonai Tzevaot, evokes military strength; it is often translated as LORD of Hosts, but Robert Alter translates it more directly as LORD of Armies.

And yet, Zechariah’s angel gives us a counterpoint against the celebration of might and power. When reading this line in isolation, we might find ourselves in Zechariah-like confusion: what is done not by might nor power? What does the angel want us to achieve by God’s spirit alone?

If you know Debbie Friedman’s musical setting of these lines, it’s already going through your head. She completed the sentence “shall we all live in peace,” which is a midrashic extension of the text. Her interpretation is a modern gloss drawn from context. Zechariah’s community witnessed the destruction of the First Temple and still aspires to rebuild it. One can imagine their dream that a reconstructed Temple would bring a time in which all will live in peace.

Robert Alter writes, “The golden lampstand, with its seven burning oil lamps, is to be a focal point in the Temple, its light a token of God’s radiant presence in His house, in the midst of His people. Thus the rebuilding of the Temple, in difficult material conditions and perhaps with some resistance from the Persian imperial power, will be consummated through God’s spirit, which is symbolized in the lampstand.”

The menorah in the Temple brought God’s spirit into the space, centering and elevating it above might and power. Similarly, when we light the chanukiah, we remember the divine miracle of the Chanukah story. Both the menorah and the chanukiah give us beautiful, momentary reminders of God’s spirit, divided across a growing number of flames. So too, in the world around us, we see God’s spirit in many places: in people who give deeply of themselves, in people who weather hardship with courage, in children who learn with eagerness, and in the faces of those whom we love. By God’s spirit alone, may we build the world we dream of seeing, and may our ability to see the light of God’s spirit always continue to grow.

And Now You Know the Rest of the Story
By Cantor Michelle Stone, TBA Ritual Innovator

Do you remember Paul Harvey’s The Rest of the Story?

The Rest of the Story was a regular radio segment that aired for an amazing 63 years, from 1946 until 2009. In the segments, Paul Harvey presented little known facts related to famous events or people. At the end of each segment, Paul Harvey famously intoned, “And now you know the rest of the story.” This week’s Torah portion, Vayeshev, includes some of the most popular stories of the Bible – Joseph and his dreams, his brothers selling him into slavery and Joseph’s resistance of temptation at the hands of Potiphar’s wife. You might expect a cantor to break into some Andrew Lloyd Webber at this point. But buried within these famous, Tony-award worthy stories is the lesser known story of Judah and Tamar.

Right after Joseph is sold by his brothers to the Ishmaelites, the Torah abruptly segues to the salacious story of Joseph’s older brother, Judah and his daughter-in-law, Tamar. Judah’s eldest son marries Tamar and then dies, leaving her childless. Tamar is then married off to Judah’s second son in accordance with the law of yibbum, or levirate marriage, whereby the childless widow of a deceased man is married to his younger brother. Well, Tamar’s new husband, Judah’s second son, also dies before she has any children. Judah has a third son who, according to law, is supposed to marry Tamar as well. But after the death of two of his sons while married to her, you can imagine that Judah was in no hurry to marry his last surviving son to Tamar.

Judah sends Tamar back to her father’s house and tells her to wait until his third son, Shelah, comes of age. After a while, Judah still has not sent for her. In the meantime, Tamar still technically belongs to Judah’s family and cannot remarry. So when Judah comes to town, Tamar disguises herself and dresses up as a “woman of the night.” Judah finds a hotel that rents by the hour, and he provides compensation in the form of his signet ring, cape, and staff. Tamar becomes pregnant with twins, and when Judah learns of this, he orders her to be burnt to death. She calmly and discreetly sends him his belongings and tells Judah that the father of her unborn children is the owner of these items. Judah recognized his payment and says, “tzadakah mimeni.” The Ramban and the Rashbam both read this statement to mean “she is MORE righteous than me.” Despite the indiscretions, the Torah and rabbinic tradition both view

Tamar clearly in the right. She did what she needed to do to in order to take her proper place in the world.

While it is uncomfortable to our modern sensibilities, women in ancient Israel had nothing if they were childless or husbandless. Once a woman left her parents’ home, she became the responsibility of her husband and his family. If she was sent away to return to her parents’ house, she was an extra mouth to feed, an extra body to clothe, and an extra burden for them to bear. Tamar takes control over her own destiny by ensuring herself offspring and a return to her father-in-law’s care. She reasserts her own worth, which had been forcibly taken from her, first by the death of her husbands, then by Judah in denying her right to his final son, Shelah. If you parse his name, Shelah can be read as Shel-Ah, meaning “belonging to her.” The text itself is telling us that Judah’s third son belongs to Tamar. Once she realized that Judah wasn’t going to fulfill his duty, she took it upon herself to advocate for herself. She showed courage of her conviction and spoke truth to power, not an easy task for a woman in ancient times. And our tradition rewarded her greatly for her courage. The Torah looks so favorably on Tamar’s gumption and advocacy that she merits being the primary ancestor to King David and the Messiah.

Tamar isn’t only remarkable because of her courage and prowess in speaking up for what she was owed, but also because of how she handles herself in the situation. Taking a stand for what is right doesn’t matter if you handle yourself in a boorish and disrespectful manner. Tamar fights for her rights with dignity. She doesn’t shame Judah publicly – she handles the situation discreetly, sending Judah his personal belongings privately. The circumstances called for discretion, and she shows her compassion in handling it as such. The Midrash says that Tamar would rather face the death sentence handed down to her than shame Judah in public. The Talmud, in three places no less, uses this episode to teach that it is preferable for one to cast himself into a fiery furnace than to publicly disgrace someone else.1 Through her humble and respectful behavior, Tamar furthers her own cause and shows that she has truly earned the honor our tradition bestows upon her.

As Jews, we have a duty to stand up and say, “hineni”. I am here. I am here to advocate for myself and for what I am due. Tamar is our model of how to do just that – how to be courageous, how to take a stand, how to speak truth to power, and how do it all with humility, grace and respect. And now you know the rest of the story.

Who is Your Biggest Support? Are They Also Your Papercut?
by Rabbi Rebecca Schatz

There are people in our life who lift us up. There are also, unfortunately, people in our life who break us down. And often, there are a select few people who do both and therefore the uplifting and the deflating is felt much stronger. Think of a person who can do very little for you and make you feel the happiest you have ever been. Is that same person the one who when they don’t call you back, or they don’t take out the trash, or they don’t provide you support in a moment that you need it most, you feel more broken than if someone else treated you the same way? Often that person is our partner, our parent, our best friend, our sibling or our closest colleague.

In Parashat VaYishlach Jacob and Esav reunite. It is a beautiful moment of two people who destroyed one another recognizing their need to love the other:

וַיָּ֨רׇץ עֵשָׂ֤ו לִקְרָאתוֹ֙ וַֽיְחַבְּקֵ֔הוּ וַיִּפֹּ֥ל עַל־צַוָּארָ֖ו וַׄיִּׄשָּׁׄקֵ֑ׄהׄוּׄ וַיִּבְכּֽוּ

Esav ran to greet him. He embraced him and, falling on his neck, he kissed him; and they wept.

Two people, who from the moment of conception, had been at odds with one another, realizing that they needed each other. They knew how to hurt the other because of their close bond. And so, they knew how to love the other without needing to process through the steps. They broke each other down better than anyone could AND they built each other up more successfully than anyone would. 

Before this incident, God tries to prepare Jacob for the reunion. Jacob responds with:

קָטֹ֜נְתִּי מִכֹּ֤ל הַחֲסָדִים֙ וּמִכׇּל־הָ֣אֱמֶ֔ת אֲשֶׁ֥ר עָשִׂ֖יתָ אֶת־עַבְדֶּ֑ךָ כִּ֣י בְמַקְלִ֗י עָבַ֙רְתִּי֙ אֶת־הַיַּרְדֵּ֣ן הַזֶּ֔ה וְעַתָּ֥ה הָיִ֖יתִי לִשְׁנֵ֥י מַחֲנֽוֹת׃ הַצִּילֵ֥נִי נָ֛א מִיַּ֥ד אָחִ֖י מִיַּ֣ד עֵשָׂ֑ו כִּֽי־יָרֵ֤א אָנֹכִי֙ אֹת֔וֹ פֶּן־יָב֣וֹא וְהִכַּ֔נִי אֵ֖ם עַל־בָּנִֽים׃

I am unworthy [or made small] of all the kindness that You, God, have so steadfastly shown Your servant: with my staff alone I crossed this Jordan, and now I have become two camps. Deliver me, I pray, from the hand of my brother, from the hand of Esav; else, I fear, he may come and strike me down, mothers and children alike.

Jacob was rightfully scared, but as we notice in the first word, Jacob already felt small. He is attributing this unworthiness or inadequacy to God, and all the good God has done for Jacob, making him feel small in God’s hands. But in fact, I think Jacob has been made to feel this way by missing his brother - his partner - the person who knows him best and therefore can hurt him and love him most. 

When there are people in our lives who can make us feel small, they are often the exact people we need to strengthen our relationship with to make us feel loved, supported, and strong. We feel unworthy because we are not receiving the words of affirmation or close connection we need from those people to feel prepared to take on this world. And yet, as soon as those people share their joy in our successes, tell us words of encouragement or run and hug us after a long time apart, our bucket is filled and we no longer feel inadequate. 

Jacob believes himself to be unworthy for all the love and strength God has provided and shown him. However, it has nothing to do with God. God is being supportive and loving - as God should, and as anyone should to a friend, colleague, partner, or family member. But God is not who Jacob needs to be lifted up by. Jacob recognizes in his reunion with Esav that his strength, his love, his need for support is wrapped up in the person who knows him best. The person who can hurt him most and love him deepest. 

I pray for us all this Shabbat that we lean into the relationships that build us up. That we recognize those people in our lives who support us, who make us better, who allow us to grow strong. They might not be close to you right now, or making you feel big at this moment; in fact, you might be feeling unworthy or small. So tell them. Remind those who love you strongest that that means that sometimes they can hurt you most deeply. Esav ran to greet Jacob, fell on his neck and they wept together. No words. Just feeling and understanding. Find that this Shabbat and build yourself up! We are each worthy of feeling strong, supported and loved! 

Listen here to a beautiful version of these verses by Yonatan Razel: יונתן רזאל - קטנתי (קליפ) - (Yonatan Razel Katonti (Video 

Surely God is Here- Do We Know it?
By TBA Rabbinic Intern, Ben Sigal

Mary Stevenson, a native of the Philadelphia suburbs, had a very difficult upbringing. At age six, her mother passed, leaving her father to raise her and her seven siblings alone. Having been born in the early 1920s, her mother’s passing was followed very quickly by the onset of the Great Depression, making her life even more complicated. While in her teenage years, she wrote the following poem:

One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord.
Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky.
In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand.
Sometimes there were two sets of footprints,
other times there were one set of footprints.

This bothered me because I noticed
that during the low periods of my life,
when I was suffering from
anguish, sorrow or defeat,
I could see only one set of footprints.

So I said to the Lord,
"You promised me Lord,
that if I followed you,
you would walk with me always.
But I have noticed that during
the most trying periods of my life
there have only been one
set of footprints in the sand.
Why, when I needed you most,
you have not been there for me?"

The Lord replied,
"The times when you have
seen only one set of footprints,
is when I carried you."

As I look back on the most challenging moments in my life, this rings so true. I’ve seen my family take on cancer, been inches away from a potentially life-altering car accident and have known other difficult challenges as well. In so many of those moments, I felt so alone. And yet, as I look back with perspective, I can see - my loneliness was not felt nearly as strongly as it could have been. And because of that, I know God was there.

Like Mary Stevenson’s dream, sometimes we feel totally alone, unaware that God is carrying us through the hard times.

In this week’s parsha, Vayetze, Jacob flees home, afraid of his brother. He comes to rest in a place which the midrash says will eventually be home to the Temple. There, he dreams of angels

ascending and descending up and down a ladder. Upon awaking from his dream, he says, “Surely God was in this place, and I did not know it.” Ibn Ezra comments that this tells us that there are places where miracles can be seen. According to him, there are places where we can fail to notice God’s presence despite God dwelling there. Surely if Jacob can initially miss God’s presence in the holiest location on earth, we too can miss God’s presence in the comparatively mundane places we may find ourselves.

In our lives, we face numerous challenges. No matter how much we may feel it, we are never quite as alone as we may think. Surely God is always there- the question is whether we know it. Like Jacob, may we all be blessed to open our eyes to God’s presence in our lives. May we be blessed to recognize that we walk beside God on the sand on the good days, and that God carries us on the bad. And on those bad days, I hope we can all lean into God’s embrace and let God carry us through.

Chayei Sarah: Telling Our Tale
November 18, 2022 – כ׳׳ד בחשון תשפ׳׳ג
Parashat Chayei Sarah – פרשת חיי שרה
By TBA Rabbinic Intern, Yael Aranoff

In the first episode of the podcast, “Serial”, Sarah Koenig shares with the listeners the following:

“I just want to point out something I'd never really thought about before I started working on this story. And that is, it's really hard to account for your time, in a detailed way, I mean.

How'd you get to work last Wednesday, for instance? Drive? Walk? Bike? Was it raining? Are you sure? Did you go to any stores that day? If so, what did you buy? Who did you talk to? The entire day, name every person you talked to. It's hard.”

The question of the reliability of memory will be one we will return to shortly.

This week’s parashah, Chayei Sarah–the life of Sarah–starts, of course, with the death of Sarah at 127 years old. There is then the account of Avraham buying the burial place for the family, the cave of Makhpelah. Next, we learn of the oath that Avraham has his senior servant swear to find a wife for Yitzhak. Which brings us to the encounter between this senior servant of Avraham and a woman at the well.

Pay attention to the following order of events. In the first account of their meeting, Avraham’s servant meets a woman at a well, and she gives him and his camels water, fulfilling the sign he had asked for from God to show him who he should choose for a wife for Yitzhak. Then, Avraham’s servant gives her gifts—a gold nose-ring and two gold bands for her arms. Next, Avraham’s servant asks her whose daughter she is and whether there is room in her father’s house for him to spend the night. She responds that she is “the daughter of Betuel, the son of Milcah, whom she bore to Nahor”. This is Rivkah, and she is checking all the boxes to be a suitable wife for Yitzhak.

Rivkah then goes home and tells her family about her encounter at the well. While we do not get her own version of what happened, we get a verse saying that she told all of this to her mother’s household. In the next verse, her brother, Lavan, runs out to meet Avraham’s servant at the water source. Lavan brings him to their home and a feast is served. When Avraham’s servant sees the food laid out in front of him, he says:

׳לֹ֣א אֹכַ֔ל עַ֥ד אִם־דִּבַּ֖רְתִּי דְּבָרָ֑י׳ (בראשית כ׳׳ד:ל׳׳ג)

“I will not eat until I have told my tale.” (Genesis 24:33)

He then shares his account of what happened when he met Rivkah at the well. In his retelling of their encounter, there is a change in chronology—first he asks her whose

daughter she is, and then he gives her the gold nose-ring and gold bands, flipping the order of events from the first account.

Going back to the questions posed by Sarah Koenig in her first episode of “Serial”, when I first noticed the change in the order of events, I found it relatable on a human level—as Sarah Koenig says, it’s hard to account for our time! Maybe that was Avraham’s servant’s best attempt at recounting the events and what we have here is a question of memory.

Some of the commentators of our tradition bring us different insights on this change in chronology. Rashi, the French 11th and 12th century commentator, writes:

“He changed the order of proceedings for in fact he had first given the presents and afterwards questioned her. But he did this in order that they should not catch him by his own words and say, ‘How could you give her anything when you did not yet know who she was!’”

According to Rashi, then, Avraham’s servant intentionally changed the order of events in the telling of his tale out of concern for how he would be perceived by Rivkah’s family. Perhaps he began to question whether it would have been better if he had done things in this revised order: first asking who she was and then giving her the gifts. Even if he was not questioning that, Rashi’s point is that the change in the order was purposeful and that purpose was connected to how Rivkah’s family would react.

Or HaChaim, the 18th century Moroccan commentator, agrees with Rashi that Avraham’s servant changed the chronology in his tale intentionally, yet Or HaChaim offers a different reason:

“He changed the sequence of events in his report so that Lavan and his father in their craftiness should not be able to claim these trinkets as belonging to Betuel since Rivkah had obtained them as reward for services rendered. If, however, Rivkah had obtained the jewelry only after she had identified herself as the daughter of Betuel, it was clear that they were meant to effect the betrothal between her and Yitzhak, her father not being able to claim them as belonging to him.”

Thus, Or HaChaim argues that the purpose of the change in the order of events is so that the gifts will not be misconstrued as payment for the water Rivkah gave at the well, but rather that they will signify the engagement between Rivkah and Yizhak.

If we are to understand this as an intentional narrative adjustment on the part of Avraham’s servant, as Rashi and Or HaChaim suggest, how do we understand that choice? Are there times when we intentionally rearrange the chronology of events in our own lives when we are asked to recount events? Is this an example of something that is permissible when we tell our own tales–like a white lie, which our tradition says is sometimes acceptable–or is this an example of something that we should not do, a lesson on how not to behave? And if we are to understand this as a question of memory, if Avraham’s servant struggled with memory on an individual level, how much the more so do we, as a people, struggle with communal memory? How does our communal memory shape the tales we tell of our people? This Shabbat, may we be mindful of how we tell and retell our tales.

The Avraham of the Beginning and The Avraham of the End
By Rabbi Rebecca Schatz

Our parasha begins with Avraham inviting three people to dine and schmooze with him and Sarah in his most uncomfortable of moments. Our parsha ends with God asking Avraham to take his son up a mountain to sacrifice him, and Avraham does so without question. Though Isaac is not sacrificed, it is clear that the Avraham of hachnasat orhim (hospitality) at the beginning of our story is different from the Avraham of the Akeidah at the end. Or is he? Has Avraham’s character changed from the first moment to the last? Are Avraham’s priorities different or are we just seeing his reverence for God from different angles…(or angels)?

Parashat Vayera is in my top three favorite parshiyot of Torah. There is SO much to dive deeply into and I am always sad when we move on from this parsha so quickly. So we will focus on the beginning and the end this week. Let’s start at the top.

וַיֵּרָ֤א אֵלָיו֙ יְהֹוָ֔ה בְּאֵלֹנֵ֖י מַמְרֵ֑א וְה֛וּא יֹשֵׁ֥ב פֶּֽתַח־הָאֹ֖הֶל כְּחֹ֥ם הַיּֽוֹם׃

וַיִּשָּׂ֤א עֵינָיו֙ וַיַּ֔רְא וְהִנֵּה֙ שְׁלֹשָׁ֣ה אֲנָשִׁ֔ים נִצָּבִ֖ים עָלָ֑יו וַיַּ֗רְא וַיָּ֤רׇץ לִקְרָאתָם֙ מִפֶּ֣תַח הָאֹ֔הֶל וַיִּשְׁתַּ֖חוּ אָֽרְצָה׃

וַיֹּאמַ֑ר אֲדֹנָ֗י אִם־נָ֨א מָצָ֤אתִי חֵן֙ בְּעֵינֶ֔יךָ אַל־נָ֥א תַעֲבֹ֖ר מֵעַ֥ל עַבְדֶּֽךָ׃

יֻקַּֽח־נָ֣א מְעַט־מַ֔יִם וְרַחֲצ֖וּ רַגְלֵיכֶ֑ם וְהִֽשָּׁעֲנ֖וּ תַּ֥חַת הָעֵֽץ׃

וְאֶקְחָ֨ה פַת־לֶ֜חֶם וְסַעֲד֤וּ לִבְּכֶם֙ אַחַ֣ר תַּעֲבֹ֔רוּ כִּֽי־עַל־כֵּ֥ן עֲבַרְתֶּ֖ם עַֽל־עַבְדְּכֶ֑ם וַיֹּ֣אמְר֔וּ כֵּ֥ן תַּעֲשֶׂ֖ה כַּאֲשֶׁ֥ר דִּבַּֽרְתָּ׃

וַיְמַהֵ֧ר אַבְרָהָ֛ם הָאֹ֖הֱלָה אֶל־שָׂרָ֑ה וַיֹּ֗אמֶר מַהֲרִ֞י שְׁלֹ֤שׁ סְאִים֙ קֶ֣מַח סֹ֔לֶת ל֖וּשִׁי וַעֲשִׂ֥י עֻגֽוֹת׃

וְאֶל־הַבָּקָ֖ר רָ֣ץ אַבְרָהָ֑ם וַיִּקַּ֨ח בֶּן־בָּקָ֜ר רַ֤ךְ וָטוֹב֙ וַיִּתֵּ֣ן אֶל־הַנַּ֔עַר וַיְמַהֵ֖ר לַעֲשׂ֥וֹת אֹתֽוֹ׃

וַיִּקַּ֨ח חֶמְאָ֜ה וְחָלָ֗ב וּבֶן־הַבָּקָר֙ אֲשֶׁ֣ר עָשָׂ֔ה וַיִּתֵּ֖ן לִפְנֵיהֶ֑ם וְהֽוּא־עֹמֵ֧ד עֲלֵיהֶ֛ם תַּ֥חַת הָעֵ֖ץ וַיֹּאכֵֽלוּ׃

“Avraham lifts his eyes, and he sees, and behold, three people standing on him. And Avraham saw and he ran to greet them from the opening of the tent and he bowed to the ground.” Avraham has just been circumcised, as an adult, and he is running to greet three people who he does not know. We read this as Avraham being a true mensch and someone who sees Godliness in the three people in front of him, whether or not they are actual angels. The story continues that Avraham washes their feet, gets them some bread, and then rushes to Sarah, to rush her, to make choice flour cakes. After giving her those instructions, Avraham runs to a young lad to ask him to rush and kill a choice animal and prepare it for the guests. Only after all of this running and rushing of the household does Avraham sit down and enjoy a meal with them. The ultimate balabusta we would say! 

The Or HaChaim comments that the word “nitzavim” implies that Avraham knew these were angels and so the presence of God was lingering over him. Because God was present, Avraham rushed and ran to be the best host, making sure that these angels were cared for. However, what if these anashim, these three people, who visited Avraham were just that, people visiting him. People who knew the pain he was in. People who knew that he and Sarah were trying for a baby. People who knew what the next part of his journey would entail in Sodom. People doing good for a man in pain, and therefore Godly - and Avraham noticed their Godly sparks and treated them as angels. 

So how does this Avraham change so drastically? Especially when in relationship with his own family, and specifically his son, at the time of the Akedah? Sure, Avraham is being tasked with an unimaginable challenge by God, but does Avraham not also see the Godliness in his own son and want to honor that? Why is Avraham only capable of seeing the Godliness in God in the story of the Akedah, but in the story of the three people, he can see Godliness in the strangers in front of him? Shouldn’t we be able to more easily recognize the Godliness in those we are closest to? 

I read a fascinating title, and then entire article (and encourage you to as well), from TheTorah.com, “Abraham Passes the Test of the Akedah But Fails as a Father.” The title intrigued me because of the questions I have just listed for you. Avraham passes the test in the eyes of God because at that moment Avraham only has eyes for God, but his son (and I would argue, SONS) deserve more from him as a parent. 

וַיְהִ֗י אַחַר֙ הַדְּבָרִ֣ים הָאֵ֔לֶּה וְהָ֣אֱלֹהִ֔ים נִסָּ֖ה אֶת־אַבְרָהָ֑ם וַיֹּ֣אמֶר אֵלָ֔יו אַבְרָהָ֖ם וַיֹּ֥אמֶר הִנֵּֽנִי׃

וַיֹּ֡אמֶר קַח־נָ֠א אֶת־בִּנְךָ֨ אֶת־יְחִֽידְךָ֤ אֲשֶׁר־אָהַ֙בְתָּ֙ אֶת־יִצְחָ֔ק וְלֶ֨ךְ־לְךָ֔ אֶל־אֶ֖רֶץ הַמֹּרִיָּ֑ה וְהַעֲלֵ֤הוּ שָׁם֙ לְעֹלָ֔ה עַ֚ל אַחַ֣ד הֶֽהָרִ֔ים אֲשֶׁ֖ר אֹמַ֥ר אֵלֶֽיךָ׃

וַיַּשְׁכֵּ֨ם אַבְרָהָ֜ם בַּבֹּ֗קֶר וַֽיַּחֲבֹשׁ֙ אֶת־חֲמֹר֔וֹ וַיִּקַּ֞ח אֶת־שְׁנֵ֤י נְעָרָיו֙ אִתּ֔וֹ וְאֵ֖ת יִצְחָ֣ק בְּנ֑וֹ וַיְבַקַּע֙ עֲצֵ֣י עֹלָ֔ה וַיָּ֣קׇם וַיֵּ֔לֶךְ אֶל־הַמָּק֖וֹם אֲשֶׁר־אָֽמַר־ל֥וֹ הָאֱלֹהִֽים׃

בַּיּ֣וֹם הַשְּׁלִישִׁ֗י וַיִּשָּׂ֨א אַבְרָהָ֧ם אֶת־עֵינָ֛יו וַיַּ֥רְא אֶת־הַמָּק֖וֹם מֵרָחֹֽק׃

וַיֹּ֨אמֶר אַבְרָהָ֜ם אֶל־נְעָרָ֗יו שְׁבוּ־לָכֶ֥ם פֹּה֙ עִֽם־הַחֲמ֔וֹר וַאֲנִ֣י וְהַנַּ֔עַר נֵלְכָ֖ה עַד־כֹּ֑ה וְנִֽשְׁתַּחֲוֶ֖ה וְנָשׁ֥וּבָה אֲלֵיכֶֽם׃

וַיִּקַּ֨ח אַבְרָהָ֜ם אֶת־עֲצֵ֣י הָעֹלָ֗ה וַיָּ֙שֶׂם֙ עַל־יִצְחָ֣ק בְּנ֔וֹ וַיִּקַּ֣ח בְּיָד֔וֹ אֶת־הָאֵ֖שׁ וְאֶת־הַֽמַּאֲכֶ֑לֶת וַיֵּלְכ֥וּ שְׁנֵיהֶ֖ם יַחְדָּֽו׃

וַיֹּ֨אמֶר יִצְחָ֜ק אֶל־אַבְרָהָ֤ם אָבִיו֙ וַיֹּ֣אמֶר אָבִ֔י וַיֹּ֖אמֶר הִנֶּ֣נִּֽי בְנִ֑י וַיֹּ֗אמֶר הִנֵּ֤ה הָאֵשׁ֙ וְהָ֣עֵצִ֔ים וְאַיֵּ֥ה הַשֶּׂ֖ה לְעֹלָֽה׃

God comes to Avraham and begins an “ask” with, “Avraham” and he responds “Hineini - here I am.” God asks him to take his son, his only one, the one he loves, Isaac, and lekh lekha, go for yourself, to the land of Moriah and offer him up there (as a sacrifice) on one of the mountains that I, God, will show you. Similar to the moments with the three visitors, after this “ask” from God, Avraham is quick to respond and prepare: Avraham gets up early, saddles the donkey, takes two young lads and Isaac, splits wood for the sacrifice, and gets up and walks to the place God told him to go. 

“On the third day, Avraham lifts his eyes and he sees the place from a distance.” Completely different than Avraham with the three visitors - in this moment he sees a location, in the moment at the beginning of our parasha, he sees people. How come he could not lift his eyes to see Isaac here? We know the rest of the story; but there is one more profound moment where Isaac, after walking together with his father, says to Avraham, “my father?!” And Avraham answers “here I am my son.” This is the moment immediately before Avraham takes the knife to sacrifice him. So is he saying “hineini” to Isaac or to God? 

We all go through profound moments of change, growth, spiritual relationship and connection, but it is my hope that we all continue to see Godliness in people. Avraham seems to pivot from someone who can see the Godliness in people to someone who only sees the Godliness in God. And perhaps that is because of the stories in between (Sodom and Gemora, Lot and his daughters, Hagar and Ishmael, etc) that have made him struggle and question. It is easier to be kind to strangers because it is not an “I Thou” relationship - there are no strings attached. It is easier to have a smile on your face and send a kind greeting to a Trader Joe’s cashier than to a partner or parent or child after a frustrating day. You want those closest to you to see your pain, to ask if you are ok, to be available to vent your feelings to, and you do not expect that from a stranger. The strangers that came to visit Avraham were just people trying to do good deeds and yet Avraham experienced them as angels. Yet after years and experiences of trauma and frustration, when tasked with sacrificing his son, he could only lift his eyes to follow God and was blind to the Godliness in his own creation. 

Avraham failed as a parent and passed the test - but to me that means that Avraham failed the most important test in life. The test that matters. The test that affects the people who love you and care for you and are supporting you. So whatever you are going through today, this week, this month or this year, remember to do good for our world, for our strangers and for those you meet along the way - you will be kind to a stranger, like Avraham, even in your deepest moments of pain. But remember to also be kind to those caring most for you in those moments. For it is those people who drive you the craziest, who push your buttons hardest, who you wish would do more or less, who deserve your ability to see the Godliness in them. Lift your eyes. See those you love in front of you - stranger or not - and say Hineini, I am here, as me, for you. 

¹ https://www.thetorah.com/article/abraham-passes-the-test-of-the-akedah-but-fails-as-a-father

Choosing God
Parashat Lekh Lekha
By Rabbi Hillary Chorny, Cantor

Next week, I’ll bring a candidate to beit din and, God-willing, mikvah as they’ve demonstrated readiness to convert to Judaism. The emotional valences of a conversion are many: pride, thrill, joy, and much more. I’m certain that candidates have their own private experiences of bittersweetness, a saying goodbye and closing of the chapter of their life as they shift identities and release fealty to any former religious ties.

There are also emotional experiences unique to the clergy who witness conversions. One of the feelings that arises within me as a rabbi is amazement. I look at the individual who is choosing Judaism with a sense of wonderment at their audacious conviction despite the many reasons one might not choose to convert: that antisemitism is crueler than ever; that our religion is one of obligation and commandments; that we are a complicated and complex tradition whose history and rules are anything but easy to learn. In the face of these challenges, I welcome new Jews with awe and gratitude that they have chosen to share a destiny with me, with us, with our people.

The first tale of conversion recorded in the Jewish canon is the story of Avram whom we meet in Parshat Lech Lecha. There is no beit din, no mikvah – no rabbis, after all! – but rather a mindful turning away from idolatrous worship as Avram appears to readily and willingly follow the call of a singular God to go forth to a new land. The ancient collection in Midrash Tanchuma records the response of Reish Lakish, a 3rd century rabbi in Judea, to the story of Avram’s conversion journey:

Rabbi Shimon ben Lakish said to him: “The

convert is more dear to the Holy One Blessed Be

God than those troops [forced laborers] who stood

at Mount Sinai. Why? Because had those same

troops not seen the thunder and the flashes and

the lightning and the quaking mountains and the

voice of shofarot [ram’s horns] they would not

have accepted the kingship of heaven, and this

one [the convert] did not see one of these

[wondrous signs] goes and gives themself to the

Holy One Blessed Be God and accept[ed] upon

themself the yolk of the kingship of heaven.

 

There is a possibility of reading Reish Lakish’s commentary unfavorably in two ways. First, as undue adulation of the convert: that there’s some kind of marked superiority of the convert over the Jew who is born Jewish. And second, that this might frame the Jewish people as enslaved to God, in service to their creator only under great duress and without free will.

I read this piece of Midrash more affectionately. Avram’s story echoes the narrative of the Holy One God’s self: In neither case do we find an origin story. In the beginning, God is simply there, speaking the world into being. And in the beginning of Lech Lecha, Avram is also just there, present and ready for a divine call. As someone who was born into a Jewish family, I tend to search for a reason why anyone would voluntarily differentiate themself as a Jew. The story of Avram is present for our annual rereading as a tender yet powerful reminder that we are not owed explanation for someone else’s choices, nor are there always rational explanations for the directions of the heart.

I am humbled each time I have the privilege to learn the intimate details of someone’s journey to Judaism. And thanks to the evergreen story of our first Jew, I’m reminded that sometimes the story is simply thus: God spoke to them and told them to go forth, and so they did, their story reverberating across the generations of Jews who have done just as they have.

Taste of Torah Parshat Noach
October 28, 2022

Seeking the Bavel of Discourse and Diversity
by TBA Rabbinic Intern Chayva Lehrman

Where in English do we find the linguistic echoes of the Tower of Babel? Perhaps in bevel: an instrument of two surfaces joined at an edge to angle surfaces apart. Perhaps in babble, indistinct and unintelligible verbal prattle. But no, bevel comes from *baivel (Modern French béveau, biveau), which is perhaps from bayer "to gape, yawn." And babble comes from an ancient onomatopoeic word for baby talk, which the Greeks applied to anyone who did not speak Greek, calling them “barbaros,” or barbarian.

It turns out that even when words coexist in the same language, they are more diverse than they seem. 

Torah also tries to explain the origin of a word:

(ז) הָ֚בָה נֵֽרְדָ֔ה וְנָבְלָ֥ה שָׁ֖ם שְׂפָתָ֑ם אֲשֶׁר֙ לֹ֣א יִשְׁמְע֔וּ אִ֖ישׁ שְׂפַ֥ת רֵעֵֽהוּ׃ (ח) וַיָּ֨פֶץ יי אֹתָ֛ם מִשָּׁ֖ם עַל־פְּנֵ֣י כׇל־הָאָ֑רֶץ וַֽיַּחְדְּל֖וּ לִבְנֹ֥ת הָעִֽיר׃ (ט) עַל־כֵּ֞ן קָרָ֤א שְׁמָהּ֙ בָּבֶ֔ל כִּי־שָׁ֛ם בָּלַ֥ל יי שְׂפַ֣ת כׇּל־הָאָ֑רֶץ וּמִשָּׁם֙ הֱפִיצָ֣ם יי עַל־פְּנֵ֖י כׇּל־הָאָֽרֶץ׃ {פ}

(7) Let us, then, go down and confound their speech there, so that they shall not understand one another’s speech.” (8) Thus God scattered them from there over the face of the whole earth; and they stopped building the city. (9) That is why it was called Bavel, because there God confounded the speech of the whole earth; and from there God scattered them over the face of the whole earth. [Genesis 11:7-9]

There are two places called Bavel, subtly drawn into one by these verses: the Bavel (Babylonia) of exile and later of the great Talmudic yeshivas recorded in the Babylonian Talmud; and the Bavel (Babel) of this story, where homogeneity gave way to hubris and ambition.

To paraphrase Walt Whitman, we contain multitudes, and surely we contain both types of Bavel. At our best, we are the Bavel of the yeshivas, honoring different points of view and different solutions to problems, hearing views other than our own without shaming or maligning them. In this Bavel, we see that everyone brings something, regardless of how they say it or how they appear. I see this often at Beth Am, from hosting Dorit Rabinyan to speak about her banned book to the denominationally diverse rabbinic interns and minyanim.

But we are human, and sometimes we prize the safety of uniformity and unanimity over the challenging richness of difference. As Rabbi Kligfeld said in his Rosh Hashanah sermon, sometimes we hold our beliefs so tightly that we cannot hold our people. We know this path can be dangerous: when the people of this story built the tower, their echo chamber of self-similar voices gave them a sense of self-importance that was ultimately their downfall.

And what did God do? God washed away their common thread, their shared language, just as God had washed away evil from the world of Noah’s generation. Indeed, when parsing the root of the word for flood מבול, Ibn Ezra connects it to both navlah נבלה, “we will confound,” and balal בלל “mixed” or “confounded.” Thus we realize that the Tower of Bavel story is much more closely related to the flood story than simply being back to back in the same parashah.

When I read this story through the lens of my linguistics and cognitive science degree, I see it as an origin story for linguistic diversity. At some point, people must have met other people who didn’t speak their language, and this was so baffling they needed a legend to explain it. Simple enough. But the more beautiful thing is that even as they explained how another human could be incomprehensible to them, they assumed that we all come from the same origin. That there must have been a time and place when we all understood each other without having to work so hard. Now we live in a world where we all speak differently, even within the same language. A world where we all think differently. As we go into a weekend of discourse between different ideas, and further into the world of divided opinions, may we find comfort and empowerment in remembering that despite our differences, underneath the surface we remain connected.

Comfort in the Unknown
By Rabbi Rebecca Schatz - Beresheet 2022

On Thursday morning, I attended a shiva in Jerusalem, via Zoom, to comfort my teacher and friend Reb Mimi Feigelson, on the death of her mother z”l. There were about 40 other Ziegler alumni and teachers present to sit, sing, and share words of condolences. Reb Mimi shared Torah that came from our parsha, speaking to the fragility and spirituality of breath. 

וְהָאָ֗רֶץ הָיְתָ֥ה תֹ֙הוּ֙ וָבֹ֔הוּ וְחֹ֖שֶׁךְ עַל־פְּנֵ֣י תְה֑וֹם וְר֣וּחַ אֱלֹהִ֔ים מְרַחֶ֖פֶת עַל־פְּנֵ֥י הַמָּֽיִם׃

The earth was formless and void and darkness was over the face of the deep and the spirit/breath/wind of God sweeping over the water 

It struck me, in listening to her words, that this is actually a calming phrase, not a chaotic phrase, like we often read it to be. It seems quiet - a blank canvass - a new start - a comforting newness. Breath, something we often take for granted, is what started creation. Creation of our world - barukh she’amar v’haya ha’olam (Blessed are the words that created the world). Creation of human beings - va’yipach b’apav nishmat hayim (and God blew into human’s nostrils the breath of life). Breath, as Reb Mimi mentioned, is also often our last form of communication with someone as they leave this earth. “Are they breathing?” “Are the breaths shallow?” “Can you see their chest rising and falling still?” Breath is central to creation - both in the first moments and last. 

In these past weeks, we have all been uprooted from regular routine. Often making many of us feel chaotic; even potentially out of breath. However, was that chaos defined as formless as a sign for potential and creation or was it darkness moving us to feel anxious, potentially depressed, and unhinged from regular life? Like the bamidbar, the wilderness that we traveled through to be birthed into a people, HaAmek Davar describes this tohu as the unknown that lasted with us for 2,000 years. The same commentary goes on to define vohu as something vast  with all the potential of everything in it - underneath the surface waiting to be discovered and built. And ruach Elohim, the commentary teaches, was a calm presence hovering, not a wind blowing to disrupt the creation. 

In any creation story there is tohu va’vohu, and we do not always realize that there is also ruach Elohim hovering with us. Creation is in art, life, relationships, professions, self-work - all of which create worlds. I would also argue that death is a type of creation - different for everyone, but something comes from the absence, and that is creation. 

I hope for each of us that we are able to start this new cycle, this new year, taking deep breaths and feeling the blanket of comfort and calm even when it is hardest. In this second sentence of our Torah, we know everything was unknown, and yet there was a support, there was a groundedness, an innovative energy to being in the darkness. The darkness was not sad or lonely, it was open and thrilling. How do we know? Because as soon as creation began, God said “let there be light” and we were able to begin seeing all that was possible. Take those deep breaths - but not for granted. Paint broad strokes on your blank canvas. Feel the blanket of support in the moments of unknown. And create worlds with your light! 

Faithful Observers: Living the Words of Ha’azinu
By TBA Rabbinic Intern, Ben Sigal

I was born in Minnesota, and there’s nothing I love more than a good game of Minnesota Twins baseball. My parents are Twins fans, as are my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. One of the oldest photos of me showcases my dad and I wearing matching Twins jerseys before a big game. Clearly, Minnesota sports run in my blood.

So imagine my surprise when, as a three-year-old, my parents and I moved from snowy Minneapolis to the slightly less snowy suburbs of Chicago. I found myself surrounded not by Twins fans, but by ardent supporters of the Chicago Cubs and White Sox instead. For years, I often felt like the odd one out. But no matter what, I could never abandon my love for the Twins. My parents were my role-models, and being a Twins fan was an important part of our family culture. My natural inclination was to emulate the people who raised me.

While reading this week’s parsha, Ha’azinu, I reflected on the many things parents transmit to their children. Not only can parents transmit a love of sporting teams, but also more important things like value and morals. In Deuteronomy 32:46 states, Moses tells the Israelites, “Enjoin them [the mitzvot] upon your children, that they may observe faithfully all the terms of this Teaching.” Sforno, a 16th century Italian rabbi, says that the phrase, “observe faithfully,” is actually referring to the parents. If the parents faithfully observe the mitzvot, then the children will see their parents being good role models and will do the same.

This powerful line from the Torah still rings true today. We are coming into the final week of the busiest time in the Jewish calendar. We’ve all spent plenty of time at synagogue, eating meals with friends, and generally engaging in Judaism. But what’s been most uplifting to me has been the tables I’ve sat around and the minyanim I’ve attended with kids. I really appreciated how Rabbi Schatz started her sermon the second day of Rosh Hashanah, welcoming kids to be present and not requiring their absolute silence. Having children feel at home at shul is part of what it means to build a growing Jewish community. That’s how we pass Judaism on to the next generation.

While it may feel more natural to verbally teach children about mitzvot by saying, “This is what you must do,” emulating behaviors goes far further. That’s why having the kids in the back of the prayer space goes so far. They may be playing, but they’re also noticing that showing up to synagogue on Rosh Hashanah is important to their parents. They’re taking in the incredible holy community that exists at Temple Beth Am. They’re noticing how we care for one another. How we discuss and grapple with the concepts of the Torah. Through a keen and discerning eye, they see our values. And they will carry those values with them well past today.

So to wrap things up, I guess I should mention that while I love the Minnesota Twins, I love Judaism more. I know I have my parents to thank for that. They never told me to be this way. But by watching and observing them through my childhood, they’ve shaped me to be the Jew I am today. Todah Rabah to all the parents who brought their children to shul through this high holiday season. You are truly living the words of Ha’azinu. You are giving your children a gift that will stay with them for a lifetime.