By Hazzan Jenna Greenberg.
In Parashat Beshallach, the Pesach story picks up from last week’s episode, where Pharoah, after 10 plagues, finally agrees to let B’nai Israel go free. The Israelites gather what they can quickly, escaping from enslavement under the Pharaoh’s regime. In the climatic cinematic moment, Moshe, with God’s help, splits the Sea of Reeds into two walls of water, allowing an escape route for all of B’nai Israel to finally return home.
This biblical miracle of freedom for our people is so essential that this scene is not only read this week, but we say these words from Shirat haYam, the Song of the Sea, every morning of the year. This biblical, historic and miraculous moment is referenced every day because had our ancestors not been freed, we would not be here to tell this story every year, over and over again at our Pesach Seders. We would not be here to celebrate Shabbat and every other holiday. Our freedom is essential to our people’s story, to our very existence.
Of all the weeks in the year, how incredibly beshert (meant to be) it is that the last remaining hostage, Ran Gvili z”l, was found and brought home to Israel during the very same week in which we read this Torah portion. 843 days in captivity felt as long, if not longer, than the 400 years that our ancestors were slaves in Egypt, especially to the Gvili family. And even one of our own staff members at Beth El has a personal connection to the Gvili’s, as Jane Adler’s family hosted Shaked, a cousin of Ran’s, this past summer. This hits home for her, for our entire Beth El community and for Jews around the world, as we have been a people in crisis since Simchat Torah of 5784.
We will mark this moment ritually on our bima this Shabbat. The absence of the yellow chair, which represented the hostages taken by Hamas on October 7th, 2023, will raise many emotions in those attending services: relief that they are all home; sadness this ever happened; hope that we can move forward as a people; gratitude to have closure.
Mitzrayim (Egypt) is a word derived from the root Tzar, meaning narrow place. We have all been constricted as a people since October 7th, but especially those who were literally captured, tortured, and killed have never felt such suffering until the Hamas attack.
In our parasha, prior to the final escape of our ancestors, Amalek, depicted as the quintessential enemy of the Israelites, attacked them after their Exodus from Egypt. And yet they still made it out to become B’nai Chorin, a free people, who returned back to Cana’an, later to be known as Israel, the home to all Jews around the world to this day. They also finally came home.
As we continue to mourn the tragic losses of so many over the past 843 days, Am Yisrael, the entire Jewish family, can also breathe a sigh of relief, albeit a muted celebration, that no hostages remain in Gaza. For the first time in two and half years, we can have closure on this horrific chapter in Israel’s history, in our people’s history. We have finally all made it out of the narrow place, and will hopefully never experience such trauma again.
They are all finally home.
By Hazzan Jacob Sandler.
While working with this week’s Bar Mitzvah boy, I kept getting excited by familiar verses in his Torah readings, pausing to ask if he recognized them. Of course, like many – including my own family – they do their seder in mostly English, so he didn’t right away. But when I translated them, and showed my student the Haggadah, he agreed that it’s pretty cool that the seder quotes his Bar Mitzvah portion!
Where? None other than the Four Children. The wise, the so-called wicked, the simple, and the one who doesn’t even know how to ask a question. They each have their chance to ask their question, and they each get an answer. Most of the questions and answers are from Parashat Bo.
According to the haggadah, the wise child asks, [and I’m paraphrasing], “What’s with all these rules and laws?” This is the question that comes later in the book of Deuteronomy. The answer? You should teach them all the laws of Passover, down to the Afikomen.
The wicked child has an attitude, and asks (again paraphrasing), “What’s it to you?” And the Rabbis highlight the word ‘to you’ and suggest that he excludes himself and therefore would not have been redeemed had he been there. To him we say “It is because of what Hashem did for me when I came out of Egypt” (Ex. 13:8 – parashat Bo).
The simple one simply asks, “What is this?” To that one, we respond, “With a mighty hand, Hashem brought us out of Egypt, out of the house of bondage.” (Ex. 13:14 – parashat Bo)
Ironically, the one who can’t even ask a question gets the same quote as the Wicked child. But this time, it is not to emphasize the ‘me’ but to model that we should each see ourselves as having left Egypt personally.
This section of the haggadah is based primarily on the Jerusalem Talmud (as opposed to Babylonian Talmud which is a bit more familiar to most). But the Talmud version and the haggadah version have some discrepancies.
For one, the simple one is referred to as “the stupid one” – which I’m glad was changed. As an educator I know that one should not be labelled in such a way, as we all have different kinds of intelligences, and not one of us can be reduced to just “stupid.” That’s a lesson in and of itself.
The other discrepancy I want to share is that the answers given to Wise and the Simple are flipped from the Talmud to the Haggadah. Why might that be?
To the simple child, who asks “What is this?” we begin with the laws and rules of Passover. Because sometimes, before we can fully grasp why we do something, we must be sure we understand how to do something. Na’aseh v’nishma – we will do and then understand. This is how we teach tefillot in the religious school – first we learn how to sing the prayers, then as they get better at reading we read them as we sing, and as they get older we dive deeper into the meaning and personal connection to those words. Of course we mix it all in at different levels, but we want them to have the practical skill and that often comes before the personal meaning.
And why do we answer the wise one with something so simple as “with a might hand…”? It is easy, when looking at the 4 labels to assume the Wise child is the ideal one. Who wouldn’t want to be the ‘wise’ if the other options are wicked, simple (or even stupid) or not knowing how to ask? But perhaps all the children have strengths and weaknesses. The wise one may agonize over the intellectual side of the rules, and completely miss out on the emotional depth available. To that one, we zoom out and show the bigger picture.
Perhaps the haggadah includes all four children precisely so that we each get the answers we need to hear for the various aspects of ourselves. If we think ourselves wise we should be humble and recognize the wisdom of simple truths. If we think ourselves simple, we should stretch ourselves to embrace the details and scour them for meaning. If we find ourselves disengaging, we should be inspired by those who feel it so deeply and personally. And if we’re not sure how to ask, we should be grateful for others’ questions and answers. Eventually, ours will come too.
By Rabbi Alex Freedman.
When we are young and first hear about the Ten Plagues, it’s the most incredible thing. We imagine these 10 divine miracles which preceded our people’s freedom in vivid color. When G-d broke the laws of nature to demonstrate His presence and power. It must have been like a Hollywood movie, we think; no wonder film directors have turned to it again and again.
But as we get older, we are inevitably exposed to a different line of reasoning. One that explains these plagues as natural, not supernatural. As within the laws of nature, and not beyond. For example, here is our own Etz Hayyim Humash commentary explaining the first plague, turning the Nile to blood:
“This plague has been explained as the intensification of a phenomenon that occurs periodically in the Nile valley. The river is fed by melting snow and summer rains that pour down from the highlands of Ethiopia and carry with them sediment from the tropical red earth of that region. And abnormally heavy rainfall would lead to an excessively high rise of the Nile and wash down into it inordinate amounts of the red sediment. Thus, the river, unable to absorb the substance as it would during a gradual rise of its waters, takes on a bloody hue.”
You get the idea. Each of the plagues can likewise be explained according to the rules of nature (although I’m not sure how academics explain the death of the firstborn).
Doesn’t this second line of reasoning, which appeals to modern sensibilities, remove G-d from the picture? Put this way, they don’t sound like miracles at all! The plagues sound like a coincidence or a chance event. It sounds like G-d isn’t even there, which sort of defeats the whole purpose of the plagues. The whole takeaway for Egypt and Israel was that G-d was there and was on the side of freedom. Is there a way to resolve this tension, to harmonize G-d and the rules of nature?
I believe there is, and it’s Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, of blessed memory, who says it best:
“The plagues themselves occupy the borderline, so common to the Torah, between the natural and the supernatural. Commentators have been divided between those who emphasize their miraculous character and others who have sought to provide a scientific account of the disasters in terms of a series of chain reactions to an initial ecological disaster, possibly the appearance of algae in the Nile which turned the water red and caused the fish to die. Which view speaks more compellingly to us will depend on whether we understand by the word ‘miracle’ – a suspension of the laws of nature, or any event which occurs within nature, but by happening, when and to whom it does, reveals a providential pattern in history.”
He doesn’t pick a side here but explains that either take – the supernatural or the natural – reveal the hand of G-d. When a swarm of locusts makes its way across a plain and consumes everything on trees, that’s just nature at work. But when those locusts consume everything in the exact place and the exact time for the exact reason that G-d determines and Moses announces, that’s not a coincidence. That is G-d, the supernatural, using the laws of nature to prove that G-d is beyond nature. Even for those of us who are convinced that the Nile turning to blood was really just about the algae, to quote Fiddler on the Roof, that was a miracle too.
By Hazzan Jenna Greenberg.
While several of our prayers quote biblical texts, this week’s parasha, Shemot, is where we get a very famous passage from the beginning of each Amida that we say three times a day every day. In Exodus 3:6, we read about God’s revelation at the burning bush. God said: “I am the God of your father, God of Abraham, God of Isaac, and God of Jacob.” You are likely to recognize the Hebrew of the latter part of this verse as well: Elohei Avraham, Elohei Yitzchak, v’Elohei Ya’akov.
When we speak to God in the Amida, we use these words, God’s own words from when God spoke to Moshe for the very first time. But why was God so repetitive? Why not simply say “God of” once and then list our ancestors’ names?
One reason may be to remind ourselves of this incredible and holy encounter at the burning bush, the first time this phrase is ever used in the Torah. It is subsequently repeated two more times in this Torah portion: again in 3:15 after revealing God’s unique name to Moshe; and once more in 4:5 when, with God’s assistance, Moshe produces the first sign to Pharaoh, the rod becoming a snake, in his first attempt to have Pharaoh let B’nai Israel go free.
I would like to think of this phrasing including “God of” / “Elohei” three times in each of the three moments in two ways. One, God is eternal throughout time, throughout every generation, both for those ancestors that came before us (Avraham, Yitzchak and Ya’akov), and those descendents that will follow us in the future. And two, each of our ancestors had unique experiences with God. While God is One, each of our experiences with the Divine is unique and individualized. Just as God is unique, so is each of our relationships with God.
Repetition in the Torah is always there for a reason, to inspire us to ask these kinds of questions. As we begin the new secular year with a new book of the Torah, this is our opportunity to ask ourselves: what will my relationship with God look like moving forward? Perhaps just as Moshe grows as a leader throughout this parasha and the rest of the Torah, maybe we too can be strengthened by our relationship to the divine in this next chapter of the Torah and of our lives.
Shabbat Shalom.
By Hazzan Jacob Sandler.
This week’s parasha is Vayechi, and it is the not-so-epic conclusion of the book of Genesis. With the drama of Joseph and his brothers resolved last week, and the family reunited in the region of Goshen, Egypt our parasha is full of endings, and new beginning.
In a way, that makes it the perfect parasha to bridge us from the end of the calendar year into the beginning of 2026. As Jacob prepares to go the way of his fathers, he gathers his sons around him to bestow a final blessing upon each of them. This mirrors how the entire Torah ends – with Moshe blessing B’nai Yisrael before he dies and the people prepare to go into the land.
In this time, when many of us are setting out New Year’s resolutions, which by and large are known to fizzle out by mid-February, perhaps we can take the changing of the year as an opportunity to transition the way our Torah shows us how. Yes we can always make resolutions – I know I will, and I hope they stick. But perhaps this is a time for us to bestow blessings like Moshe and Jacob before us. We can gather those we love (physically or virtually), and bless them as we all go into the next year.
Like Jacob on his deathbed, or Moshe at Mt. Nebo, we don’t know what the next chapter brings. But what better way to arm ourselves against the mystery ahead than with blessings. And my blessing for you is that this should be a good year — one with joyful moments, good health, loving relationships, successful endeavors and, with God’s help, some lasting peace in our world. Happy [secular] New Year!
By Rabbi Alex Freedman.
Who’s ready for Winter Break? Who’s not ready for Winter Break?
So many of us are ready for some time off from school and work, for things to slow down for a few days, and maybe for a well-earned vacation.
As you make your plans, make a plan to visit a synagogue wherever you go. The farther away from home, the better.
Many years ago my family visited Venice, Italy, over Winter Break. I have fond memories of delicious food, gondolas, more food, spectacular glass artwork, and going to shul. And no, I wasn’t a rabbi yet.
On a Friday my family toured the Venice ghetto, the first in Europe, and we walked through a 500-year-old synagogue whose architecture was something I had never seen. It looked like an antique – beautiful, fragile, and impractical for use today. At the end, the tour guide mentioned this shul was in use on Shabbat morning, and we decided to return the next day.
As we entered the towering sanctuary on Shabbat morning, the place came alive. It was full of people, full of singing, and full of energy. I didn’t know a word of Italian, they didn’t speak English, yet I felt at home. I sang along because I knew the tunes from the Siddur. I followed along with the Torah reading because I could read Hebrew (I learned a few Italian names that day: Abramo, Isacco, Giacobbi, Giuseppe). I had never experienced this before. I was in a new place and knew nobody, but I felt at home. The universality of the Siddur made this possible, making me feel that the people around me were not total strangers but just cousins I hadn’t yet met.
The home is obviously where one’s Jewish foundation is set. But there are some things one can understand only by leaving home.
I know I’m not the only one to experience this. If you are traveling abroad, going to synagogue on Shabbat will be something unforgettable the family can do together. No tickets, lines, or gift shops necessary. And if you’re stateside, you can probably find a service nearby too. If not, write to me and I’ll help with this.
In one sense, the place makes the people. Our shul makes people feel inspired, connected, spiritual. But the place also brings the people. The Hebrew for synagogue is Beit Knesset, which means “house of gathering.” It’s a place to meet others with the same traditions and values. Mostly, though, the people make the place.
The Shma prayer instructs us to speak of Torah and Jewish traditions “BShivt’ha Bveitecha Uvlecht’ha Vaderech – at home and on the road.” I usually think of this as pushing us to be proud Jews both in private (at home) and in public (on the road). But I also read this verse as instructing us to be active Jews when we’re going about our routine (at home) and when we travel (on the road).
An empty synagogue, like the gorgeous one in Venice, is a deserted museum. But when people fill it up, it becomes a vibrant hub for Jewish life. Anywhere at all.
By Hazzan Jenna Greenberg.
In Parashat Vayeshev, one of the main characters is Yehudah, whose name is connected to the Hebrew root YUD-DALET-HEH, meaning “to give thanks.” Biblical names almost always have additional meaning beyond just being a name. And we know from last week’s parasha that this was the meaning of Yehudah’s name when his mother gave thanks to God at his birth.
While we are known by many names, B’nai Yisrael, Ivrim, the Hebrew word for Jews is Yehudim, from this same Hebrew root. We are the people who give thanks, we show our gratitude to God through so many of our traditional prayers, and even in our spontaneous prayers as well. We thank God daily for many things, and in particular, for the everyday miracles in our lives: that we wake up each morning, that our bodies work, that we are Jews, among a much longer list.
We are in the season of miracles, as the 25th of Kislev is approaching quickly, the first night of Chanukah. Among the many themes of this Festival of Lights is miracles: the miracle of yet another famous Yehuda and his Maccabee army being small and mighty, yet still victorious nevertheless over their enemies; and the miracle of a little bit of oil that lasted much longer than anyone would have ever expected.
How appropriate then that during Chanukah, we insert the special prayer Al haNissim (on these miracles) into the Birkat Hoda’ah (from the same Hebrew root above), the blessing of gratitude that we say as the third to last blessing of every Amida. Gratitude and miracles are intertwined. They go together like dreidels and gelt, like latkes and sufganiot! But truly, to celebrate both the everyday miracles in our present lives and the grand miracles of our ancestors requires much gratitude and appreciation.
May we always show our gratitude for the miracles in our lives, not only on Chanukah, but every day of the year.
Shabbat Shalom and an early Chag Urim Sameach!!
By Hazzan Sandler.
In Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, Juliet uses the phrase to argue that Romeo’s last name, Montague, is an irrelevant label for him as an individual. She famously says, “That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet,” to make the point that the name itself has no intrinsic meaning compared to the actual quality of the thing it names. And in a way she’s right – a rose would be a rose even if I called it a chrysanthemum. But the Jewish tradition sees names as so much more.
In the Garden of Eden, Adam names all the animals. He attempts to understand their essence and name them accordingly, all while realizing that none of these creatures are a fitting mate for him. The commentators note that giving something a name is a way we exercise dominion or power of that which we are naming. And though names are powerful, they can be so much more.
Throughout the Tanakh, names give us insight about the characters. Esther comes from the Hebrew meaning hidden, as she hides her Jewish identity from the king. Abram means father of Aram, but his name is changed to Abraham, meaning the father of multitudes of nations, which indeed is true. The name Yehudah (Judah) means ‘thanks’ and a core aspect of being Jewish (Yehudim) is to be grateful to God for all the blessings in our lives.
In this week’s parasha Vayishlach, Jacob is alone, afraid of how his reunion with Esau will go after all that happened in their childhood. And in the night he gets into an altercation with an angel of God. The story goes:
“When [The Angel] saw that he had not prevailed against [Jacob], he wrenched Jacob’s hip at its socket, so that the socket of his hip was strained as he wrestled with him. Then [The Angel] said, ‘Let me go, for dawn is breaking.’ But [Jacob] answered, ‘I will not let you go, unless you bless me.’ Said the [Angel], ‘What is your name?’
He replied, ‘Jacob.’ The Angel said, ‘Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with beings divine and human, and have prevailed.’ Jacob asked, ‘Pray tell me your name.’ But he said, ‘You must not ask my name!’ And he took leave of him there.”
From this we learn that names are also a kind of blessing. Indeed at baby naming ceremonies, we are reminded that our name is the first blessing we receive in life. Newborns are often named for loved ones who are no longer living with the hope that their best qualities will live on in the child as they grow. Throughout our lives we take on many names. Our given names express the hopes of our parents. Our surnames connect us to family. We might take on nicknames from friends or pet names from partners. There are titles we earn through training/degree programs – like Doctor, Professor, Rabbi or Hazzan. And there are titles we earn through our relationships like Mom, Dad, Bubbe, Grandpa, Sibling, Best Friend and so on.
In my own life, I was called Jacob throughout my childhood, Milk at Camp Ramah, Jake in college, and Hazzan Sandler (among other fun nicknames) here at Beth El. I often joke that I come from a long lineage of “Jacobs” with other names. What names do you have? Which did you earn? Which were given? And in a more idiomatic sense, what sort of name have you made for yourself? As it says in Kohelet 7:1, “Shem tov miShemen tov– A good name is better than good oil.” So what’s in a name? Perhaps more than just an assortment of sounds/letters that help someone get your attention in a crowd. Perhaps a name is a blessing. Perhaps your name helps to tell your story.
By Rabbi Alex Freedman.
By Hazzan Jenna Greenberg.
Last Shabbat we announced the upcoming month of Kislev, which begins tonight with our monthly gift of Rosh Chodesh. In other words, we are officially in the “Chanukah Zone!” As we countdown to our Festival of Lights, let us each take a moment to consider the meaning of this holiday’s name. The word Chanukah means dedication, and in reference to the holiday, we recall the re-dedication of the Temple after its destruction.
We also see this word in our daily morning liturgy, as we recite Psalm 30 every morning. It begins with the words Mizmor shir Chanukat ha bayit l’David, A Psalm, A song for the dedication of the house, for David. Added to the liturgy in the 17th century under the influence of Lurianic mysticism, it mentions the name of God ten times. Because of this repetition, there seems to be a theme of dedication not only to the Temple, the “house,” but to God as well.
In this sense, Chanukah, as it appears in this Psalm, as a holiday, and as a core Jewish value, reminds us to consistently dedicate ourselves to our holy spaces and ultimately to God. Its repetition in Psalm 30 reminds us not to forget this theme, as we recite these words each morning, every day of the year. Chanukah is the only holiday which spans two Hebrew months, as it begins at the end of Kislev, and continues through the first days of Tevet. This reminds us that dedication of ourselves to God and the wider community is an eternal, timeless gift.
As we enter the month of Kislev this evening, let this be a reminder, during our countdown to the holiday, to dedicate ourselves to setting new goals for ourselves, to deepening our relationships with our fellow Jews, and through these actions, to recognizing God’s presence in our lives.
To connect our more modern theme of giving gifts on this festival, let us consider the gift of re-dedicating our relationships to ourselves, our community, and to the Divine.
Chodesh Tov!
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