Sermons

We often talk about the Torah as a blueprint for righteous living. But if I’m being honest, most of us — myself included — haven’t studied it deeply enough to always know what that looks like in practice. The Torah rarely hands us neat moral lessons. More often, it shows very human, very flawed people slowly finding their way toward doing something right—and it’s on us to uncover the ethical teaching buried in the story.

This week’s portion is one of those moments. On a surface reading, it looks like a story about leadership and delegation—about Moses learning that he cannot do everything himself. That reading is real, and it matters. But if we slow down and pay attention, another lesson begins to emerge, one the Torah does not spell out for us. It has to be found.

The story takes place about two months after the Exodus. The people are no longer fleeing Egypt; they are free now, camped in the wilderness at the foot of a mountain we will come to know as Mount Sinai. They have no idea what is about to happen—that this quiet stretch of time will soon give way to thunder and lightning, to revelation, to the giving of the Ten Commandments.
But that’s not where our portion begins. Before the fireworks, before the awe, before the revelation—before this people can be ready to receive Torah—Moses’ father-in-law enters our story. Yitro brings Moses’ wife and two children to the camp, reuniting the family after Moses had sent them away for safety while he confronted Pharaoh on God’s behalf.

Before heading back home, Yitro watches Moses in action. Day after day, from morning until night, Moses listens to the people’s disputes. Most of us would look at that scene and think, “Moses must be exhausted.” And he probably is. But I don’t think exhaustion is Yitro’s primary concern.
What Yitro seems to notice is the community. He sees people standing in line all day, waiting their turn. They are doing exactly what they are supposed to do. They are not taking matters into their own hands. They are trusting the system. And the system, Yitro realizes, is slowly grinding them down.

This is where I think the deeper teaching lives. Yitro understands that justice isn’t only about impartial judgment or correct outcomes. It’s also about the process—about what it feels like to seek justice, about how people are treated along the way. When individuals are handled as cases to be managed rather than as people who matter, something essential is lost.

When I read this portion this year, I felt it viscerally. I couldn’t stop thinking about how vulnerable people are when they are trying to be heard, and how frightening it is when the system meant to protect them feels unreachable—or even hostile. When genuine consideration for people’s limits and needs disappears, it doesn’t only harm those standing in line. It corrodes the community itself.

Yitro advises Moses to change the structure. He tells him to delegate, to appoint capable leaders from all the tribes—leaders of thousands, hundreds, fifties, and tens. It’s easy to read this as a managerial solution, and on some level, it is. Moses cannot do this alone.
But the more significant shift is what this means for the people. Yitro is creating a system where seeking justice is less likely to be exhausting or impossible. With more leaders and more points of access, cases have a better chance of being heard earlier, closer to where people live, before frustration and despair take hold. Justice no longer bottlenecks at one overwhelmed figure; it can move through the community.

And even then, Yitro’s concern doesn’t seem to be efficiency for its own sake. The question hovering over this whole exchange is whether the community is being treated with care—whether people are recognized as human beings with limits, worthy of attention, rather than being worn down by procedure.

Whenever individuals are reduced to files, numbers, or problems to be processed, the system has lost its moral center.

And so it is no accident that this lesson appears right before revelation. Before Torah can be given, before covenant can begin, the people must show that they know how to live with one another. The Torah is not given to isolated individuals; it is given to a community. And God does not place divine law in the hands of a people who cannot yet sustain just and compassionate relationships among themselves.

That, at least, is how I am choosing to read this moment. Yitro’s insight is not accompanied by thunder or lightning. It arrives quietly, through careful attention to how people are treated. But without that lesson, Sinai cannot happen.

As we stand with Moses and the people on the threshold of revelation, it’s worth remembering: law without care and compassion for the human beings it governs is not law as it was meant to be. Let us never forget this lesson. Amen.

Parshat Bo – Strength, Limits, and the Courage to Ask

Parshat Bo is often remembered as the parashah of power—plagues, defiance, a dramatic showdown between God and Pharaoh. But if you listen carefully, Bo is also a story about limits. About what happens when limits are denied… and what becomes possible when they are finally acknowledged.

I want to come at this parashah from a very personal place.
I recently moved. And I discovered—somewhat to my surprise—that moving at this stage of my life is not the same as moving at earlier stages. I am, by nature, fiercely independent. I have never been comfortable asking for help, and even less comfortable accepting it. But I am about to turn 69. I have a bad back. I have less energy than I once did. And I work a lot.

And suddenly I was faced with a question that felt both practical and deeply spiritual:

Is it wiser to accept my limitations and ask for help—or to push through them, as I always have?

In my years as a rabbi, I’ve noticed something. People tend to fall into two broad categories.

There are those who accept their limitations. They pace themselves. They ask for help. They adapt. And then there are those who refuse. They insist on doing what they’ve always done, the way they’ve always done it—even when the cost is falling, injury, or worse.

We often admire the second group. We call them strong. Determined. Independent. But I’ve begun to wonder whether what we’re really seeing is not strength—but fear. Fear of becoming someone else. Fear of needing others. Fear that accepting help somehow means giving up.

That brings me back to Parshat Bo.

Pharaoh, in this parashah, is not a weak man. He is powerful beyond imagination. And yet, plague after plague, reality keeps changing—and Pharaoh cannot. Each moment calls for adaptation, for acknowledgment that what worked before no longer works now. And each time, Pharaoh refuses.
The Torah describes his heart as “hardened.” But perhaps what that really means is rigidity. Pharaoh cannot imagine a version of himself that must yield, adjust, or rely on forces beyond his own control. His downfall is not lack of strength—it is the inability to accept limits.
Contrast that with the Israelites.

They leave Egypt in haste, their dough not yet risen. They walk into uncertainty. They do not leave as self-sufficient individuals but as a people—dependent on one another, guided step by step, learning as they go. Their freedom begins not with mastery, but with trust. Not with independence, but with interdependence.

That is a hard lesson for us. Because we are taught—especially in this culture—that needing help is a failure. That accepting limits is surrender. That if we stop pushing, we are somehow giving up.

But Judaism suggests something else entirely.

Acceptance is not resignation. Acceptance is truth-telling.

Giving up says, “Nothing more is possible.”

Acceptance says, “Something different is now required.”

And those are not the same thing.

There are limits we are meant to fight—moral limits, spiritual limits, limits that tell us injustice is inevitable or that change is impossible. But there are also limits we are meant to respect. Bodies age. Energy shifts. Strength changes. Ignoring those limits is not courage; it is often self-harm disguised as virtue.

I am learning—slowly—that asking for help does not mean I am less capable. It means I am more honest about who I am now. It means I am choosing wisdom over pride, safety over stubbornness, connection over isolation.

Parshat Bo teaches us that redemption does not begin when we become invincible. It begins when we stop pretending that we are.

Pharaoh’s tragedy is that he never learns this. Israel’s freedom begins the moment they do.

May we have the courage to know which limits to resist—and which to honor.

May we learn that strength is not measured by how much we carry alone, but by our willingness to walk forward together.

Shabbat Shalom.

Parashat Va’eira takes place in a world where human beings have stopped being seen as human beings.
To Pharaoh, the Israelites are not parents, children, neighbors, or elders. They are a problem. A labor force. A threat. A number.

And the Torah teaches us something frightening: the moment people stop being seen as people, cruelty becomes easy. That is the real slavery of Egypt — not only chains on bodies, but blindness in the heart.

Pharaoh doesn’t begin with murder. He begins with dehumanization. Once a group is reduced to a category, anything can be justified. That danger is not ancient history. It is timeless.

Many of us come into synagogue this week carrying the weight of difficult news — violence, instability, suffering in different parts of the world. We don’t all agree on causes or solutions. But Torah doesn’t ask us to solve geopolitics. It asks us something more basic and more demanding: Will we see human beings as human beings — even when fear tempts us not to?

There is a poem many of us know, written after the Holocaust by Pastor Martin Niemöller.

It begins:

First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a socialist…

And it ends:
Then they came for me—
And there was no one left to speak for me.

This poem is not really about politics. It is about silence. It is about what happens when suffering becomes selective — when we decide that some pain counts and some pain doesn’t.

That is exactly the spiritual disease Egypt suffers from. Compassion becomes conditional. Outrage becomes selective. Empathy becomes tribal. And Torah tells us: that is how societies unravel.
In Va’eira, God says to Moses: “I have heard the cry of My people.” Before God brings plagues. Before God brings miracles. Before God brings freedom. God listens first.

Because redemption always begins with this question: Whose pain am I willing to hear? Not whose pain do I agree with. Not whose pain supports my worldview. But whose pain am I willing to acknowledge as real.

The great danger of our time is not disagreement. It is numbness. It is learning to scroll past suffering. It is getting used to cruelty. It is deciding that some lives matter less because they are farther away, different from us, or inconvenient to think about.

Pharaoh is not only a tyrant. Pharaoh is a warning. A warning of what happens when fear replaces moral imagination. When power forgets compassion. When people become problems instead of souls.
Judaism answers that danger with a radical claim: Every human being is created b’tzelem Elohim — in the image of God. Not only those we like. Not only those who vote like us. Not only those who look like us. Not only those who live near us. Everyone. And the moment we forget that, we begin walking the road back to Egypt.

So maybe this is what Va’eira asks of us this week: Not to solve the world’s conflicts. But to refuse to let our hearts harden. To refuse to let suffering become background noise. To refuse to let any group of people become invisible.

Because redemption does not begin with miracles. It begins when someone finally says: I see you. I hear you. You matter. And sometimes, that is the most powerful act of resistance there is.

A few years before either of my parents passed, my brother and I sat down with them to discuss their wishes. My father said he wanted to be cremated, and that when both he and my mother had passed, we should mix their ashes together. My mother was horrified: ‘What, you want me to have an eternal headache?’

It made me laugh, but it also highlighted how important it is to talk about these things. Even a little guidance—combined with love and humor—makes decisions easier for families navigating these moments.”

And this week’s portion, Vayechi, gives us a moving glimpse into Jacob’s life as he nears the end of his days. He blesses his children, offers guidance for the future, and specifies that he wants to be buried in the family burial place in Canaan, not in Egypt.

In these last moments, Jacob shows the value of planning ahead. He is thoughtful and intentional. Thinking about the next stage of life isn’t about fear—it’s about clarity, responsibility, and leaving a legacy that reflects who we are.

When parents don’t plan for what happens after their death, it can lead to confusion, hurt feelings, or even conflict among children over money, possessions, or other matters. Too often, I’ve seen these fights arise not from greed but from grief—misdirected pain turned into anger toward a sibling or another family member—all while the mourners are trying to grieve.

Jacob’s death, however, brought his sons together in a way they could not have been while he lived. His obvious favoritism and the rivalries it caused—though likely unintentional—kept the brothers divided for many years. After he passed, they finally confronted the past.

Joseph’s brothers feared that now that their father was gone, he might finally take the long-awaited revenge for being sold into slavery years earlier. When they cautiously approached him, Joseph responded: ‘You meant it for evil, but God meant it for good.

That one sentence transformed all of the negatives into something positive so that healing could take place. For the brothers, it meant letting go of guilt and fear, opening the door to reconciliation, and gaining the chance for emotional closure after years of tension and rivalry. In Joseph’s case, it allowed him to fulfill the dreams he had carried since his youth — to be a leader and guide for his family, using his position to protect and care for them. What was meant for harm was meant to be for the survival of his family and the preservation of the Israelite lineage.
As we grow older, it becomes increasingly important to have plans not only for end-of-life wishes, but also for health concerns, medical appointments, and unexpected illnesses. Thinking ahead can reduce stress, ensure timely care, and give both us and our families peace of mind.

To help us with this kind of planning, we are fortunate to have Sue D’Entrone with us. Sue works through Pap Corps to help patients set up expedited appointments at the University of Miami Cancer Center and Bascom Palmer Eye Center. She will briefly describe her services and answer questions.
After Sue speaks, our Caring Community Committee chair, Janis Collado will share a few words about a program we’re developing to help our members prepare for end-of-life decisions. Flyers and resources will also be available for anyone interested in learning more.

Here’s to planning ahead, keeping our families out of eternal headaches, and finding comfort—even in the serious conversations—along the way.

You probably remember the story behind this week’s Torah portion. Joseph—the youngest brother, the dreamer—was betrayed by his brothers years ago. They were so jealous they even thought about killing him, but instead they sold him to a group of traveling merchants on their way to Egypt, and when they returned home, they told their father he had died. Jacob was heartbroken and never really recovered from the loss.

Well, Joseph survived, of course, and rose to a position of great power in Egypt. Now, in Vayigash, there’s a devastating famine, and his brothers come to Egypt looking for food, not realizing who Joseph is. Joseph knows them immediately, and he tests them—he threatens to keep the youngest brother, Benjamin. And in that moment, it seems history might repeat itself.

But then—Judah steps forward. The Torah says, ‘Vayigash elav Yehudah’—‘Judah approached him.’ He tells Joseph that their father would be devastated if Benjamin doesn’t return. And then he does something extraordinary: he offers himself in Benjamin’s place.

You’ll remember, this is the same Judah who years earlier went along with the others when they wanted to get rid of Joseph. At that time, he didn’t stop the plan. Now, faced with a similar situation, he acts completely differently. And that’s what makes this moment so powerful.
The Torah doesn’t explain it. It doesn’t say, “Judah repented.” It just shows him stepping forward differently than before. That’s really what transformation looks like.

I thought about this recently because of someone I know. In her 20s, she worked in an office with a supervisor who picked on a co-worker, always criticizing and humiliating her for no good reason. She watched this behavior and felt uncomfortable, but said nothing. Not because she didn’t care, but because it felt too risky to speak up.

Years later, in a volunteer setting, the same pattern appeared. A leader was speaking harshly to someone who couldn’t defend herself. And my friend thought, I’ve been here before. I can’t just stay silent.

This time, she spoke up. She didn’t make a scene. She asked the leader if she could speak privately. Calmly and respectfully, she said, “I’d like to share my perspective. I think this could be handled differently, and here’s why…”
The conversation was short and discreet, but it made a difference. And afterward, she said, “I didn’t fix everything, but I did step forward differently.”

That’s Judah. The power isn’t in words or dramatic gestures—it’s in acting differently when it counts. Joseph sees this change, and only then does he reveal himself. Only then does reconciliation begin.

Vayigash reminds us that we are never frozen in our worst moments. We can grow, even later in life. And sometimes, the most meaningful courage is quiet, even private, but it is still courage.
Judah doesn’t erase the past or undo what happened; he simply responds differently. By the time this story reaches its end, he brings a depth and maturity that were not there before. And this is one of Torah’s most important teachings. Again and again in the Book of Genesis—and really throughout our tradition—we are shown that growth matters. People can change. People can become more than they once were. And as long as we are here, we too are still capable of becoming our best selves. May we each be blessed, in our own way and in our own time, to live into that possibility.

D’var Torah – Miketz & Chanukah: When the Oppressed Gain Power

Parshat Miketz opens with a miracle that doesn’t feel like one at first. Joseph wakes up in prison and, by the end of the day, he is second only to Pharaoh. From the pit to the palace in a single moment.

We know this story so well that we sometimes miss what the Torah is actually asking us to notice. Not that Joseph rises to power—but what he does once he has it.

Joseph has suffered enormously. He was abused by his brothers, sold, imprisoned, forgotten. And now he controls food, access, survival itself. He saves Egypt from famine—and in the process, he centralizes power so completely that the population becomes permanently dependent on the state. The Torah reports this without commentary, without judgment.

Which leaves us with an uncomfortable question:

Does suffering automatically make someone compassionate?

Or does it sometimes teach them how to survive—and how to control?

That tension sits at the heart of Miketz.

And it sits, quietly but unmistakably, at the heart of Chanukah as well.

Chanukah begins with a story we love to tell: a small, oppressed people resisting a brutal empire. The Seleucid Greeks desecrate the Temple, suppress Jewish practice, and attempt to erase Jewish identity. The Maccabees rise up—not for conquest, but for dignity, covenant, and survival.
It is one of the great moral victories of Jewish history.

But Jewish history, like Torah, refuses to end the story there.

Within a few generations, the Hasmonean dynasty—the very family that led the revolt—begins to change. Power consolidates. Kingship and priesthood are merged in ways our tradition warned against. Political opponents are no longer debated; they are silenced, even killed. Under rulers like Alexander Jannaeus, Jews persecute other Jews with a brutality that echoes the empires they once resisted.

The tragedy is not that the oppressed became powerful. The tragedy is that power was exercised without remembering what oppression felt like.

This is not unique to ancient history. Torah is pointing to a painful pattern: if we don’t reflect on what it felt like to be mistreated, we may end up repeating those behaviors when we’re in charge.
And yet, the story doesn’t stop there.

After Alexander Jannaeus dies, his wife, Salome Alexandra, takes the throne. Her reign is an attempt at repair. She restores legal balance, curbs violence, and shifts authority back toward learning and law rather than force. Her leadership reminds us that decline is not inevitable. Even late in the story, different choices are possible.

But after her death, her two sons turn on each other. Instead of resolving their conflict within the community, they appeal to an outside power—Rome. What started as a fight between brothers ended up giving an outside empire control over the Jewish people.

Joseph goes to Pharaoh.

Salome’s sons go to Rome.

In both cases, short-term rescue creates long-term bondage.

Which brings us back to Chanukah—and to the candles we light.

Chanukah is often described as a holiday of light driving away darkness. But perhaps it is also about light that reveals. Light that forces us to look honestly at what we do when we finally have power, safety, and choice.

The candles are lit slowly, one by one. Not all at once. Growth is gradual. Responsibility accumulates.

And we are commanded to place the light where others can see it—not hidden, not congratulatory, not private. Because memory is a moral obligation.

Miketz and Chanukah together ask us a hard and holy question:

What do we pass down—healing, or harm?
Memory, or resentment?
Wisdom, or control?

This is not about blaming our ancestors. Jewish history preserves our failures so we don’t have to repeat them.

Redemption is not the end of the story. It is the beginning of responsibility.

May the light we kindle this Chanukah help us remember not only where we came from—but who we are called to become.

You know, every family thinks their mishigas is unique… until they open Parshat Vayeishev. Then suddenly you realize, “Oh — compared to Jacob’s family, we’re basically the Waltons.”

In this week’s Torah portion, Joseph brings bad reports about his brothers to their father. You see, Joseph was that kid. The tattler. The golden child. The one who somehow always ended up with the new coat and the warm parental glow. Honestly, if the Smothers Brothers had been around in biblical times, the brothers wouldn’t even have needed to speak. They could have just stood in the field, arms crossed, muttering, “Mom always liked you best.” Except in this case it was Dad… and Dad didn’t exactly keep it subtle.

The Torah paints the picture clearly: Jacob favors Joseph. Joseph feels responsible for policing his brothers. And the brothers — already stung by the unfairness — grow more resentful with every report Joseph brings home.

But beneath all this family drama — the coat, the dreams, the jealousy — the Torah is inviting us to notice something very human.

Joseph isn’t acting out of malice. He’s being dutiful. He has learned that being good means telling his father when something isn’t right. But duty can have a shadow side. When it becomes the only thing you’re listening for, you miss everything else. He doesn’t notice Judah’s steadiness, or Reuben’s attempts at leadership, or even the easy laughter the brothers share with one another. He can name their flaws, but not their strengths. He can list what frustrates him, but not what he admires.

And it isn’t only Joseph. The brothers get caught in the narrow story of their hurt, and Jacob gets caught in the narrow story of his pride. Each stops noticing the rest. When that happens, we stop seeing people as multi-layered human beings. Our perspective collapses until we can see only the part that bothers us. Over time, that pulls us apart and makes it easy to forget the humanity of the other and to treat them as the problem.

And that is when relationships begin to fray, sometimes without anyone fully understanding why.
Because this isn’t just ancient history. This happens in every generation, in every living room, in every family, in every friendship: we get so wrapped up in our own hurt, or our own pride, or our own private story that we stop noticing what we appreciate or like in the other.
Modern psychology has a big fancy term for it — attentional bias — but you don’t need the term to know it’s true. We notice more of whatever we choose to pay attention to, and it changes the way we feel.

Look for insult? You’ll find it.

Look for warmth? It shows up more often than you think.

Look for connection? Sometimes it’s sitting right beside you… waiting for you to turn the volume up.
And for many people here, this matters even more. Life changes. Loved ones move away or pass on. Social circles get smaller. The days get quieter. The world — in ways that can feel both comforting and lonely — gets closer.

That makes something very simple deeply important: the relationships we still have — the friends in this building, the familiar faces in the dining room, the person you wave to in the hallway, the one who remembers how you like your tea — these are not “little things.” These are the whole fabric of the day.

A smile.

A “good morning.”

A seat saved.

A remembered story.

When we choose to notice those… our days feel different. When we miss them — even without meaning to — our days can feel heavier than they need to.

The Torah isn’t telling us to be perfect. It isn’t saying “Never get jealous,” or “Never get hurt,” or “Always see the good.” It’s simply inviting us: widen your field of vision. Notice more than just the hardest part of the story. Because what we choose to focus on shapes not only how we feel… but the community we build around us.

Joseph’s family is the cautionary tale that shows what happens when people get stuck in the negative: how misunderstanding hardens into resentment, and resentment into estrangement. And as we’ll see in the parshiyot ahead, it’s also the hopeful story of how people can heal when they finally begin to see each other again as whole, complicated, lovable human beings — how reconciliation can unfold in ways no one could have predicted.

So maybe the real family line isn’t, “Mom always liked you best.”

Maybe it’s something softer, something more generous:
“Sure… maybe she liked you best. But also… sometimes… maybe she liked me best too.”

And then you let the rest go.

Because in the end — what matters isn’t who had the nicest coat, or the warmest glow, or the loudest memory.

What matters is the relationships we choose to build now, right here, with the people beside us.
And that — that is something we can all do, every single day.

Shabbat shalom.