By Hazzan Jacob Sandler.
This week’s parasha, Terumah, is the beginning of a very special building project – the construction of the Mishkan – the Tabernacle.
The Torah states:
דַּבֵּר֙ אֶל־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל וְיִקְחוּ־לִ֖י תְּרוּמָ֑ה מֵאֵ֤ת כׇּל־אִישׁ֙ אֲשֶׁ֣ר יִדְּבֶ֣נּוּ לִבּ֔וֹ תִּקְח֖וּ אֶת־תְּרוּמָתִֽי׃
“God spoke to Moses, saying: ‘Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart is so moved.’”
And let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.
The Mishkan literally means a ‘dwelling place.’ And the hope is that God will dwell not in the physical space but “among them” – AKA the Israelites themselves. When we create spaces for communal ritual and gathering, we invite God’s presence to dwell within each of us.
I had the privilege of attending Song Leader Boot Camp (SLBC) International Conference in St. Louis, MO earlier this week alongside about 20 Beth El members. Among them were middle schoolers, Teens (public school and day school), adults, staff, teachers and laypeople. We learned about the techniques, tools and best practices we can use to build sacred spaces — not just with brick and mortar, but with song, prayer, text, and, most importantly, people. We got a chance to be deeply inspired and connect with Jewish leaders of all ages from across the country and beyond. What we built there was beautiful in and of itself. But what we hope to bring back is a renewed sense of purpose and intention as we continue to contribute to Beth El’s musical, educational and ritual programming.
By Rabbi Freedman.
Hollywood will never produce a movie about Parashat Mishpatim. The big screens may feature all of Genesis and the first half of Exodus, as these parts of the Torah pulsate with timeless tales. But all that crashes to a halt with Mishpatim, which introduces laws – lots more laws. Indeed, the rest of the Torah is devoted more to laws than narrative.
Why does Judaism have so many rules anyway?
The best answer I’ve read comes from Rabbi Daniel Gordis’ book Becoming a Jewish Parent. While he is now known primarily as a writer and thinker about Israel, he was first a rabbi writing about Jewish life writ large. Geared for new parents who want to create a vibrant Jewish home, he writes a full chapter about our relationship with Judaism’s rules and Mitzvot.
Gordis writes: “So why the rules? Because ultimately the rules show that we’re serious. If we tell our kids not to hit other kids, but we don’t enforce it, we let them know that we really don’t care. The point is simple: What’s important has rules…The same with our Jewish lives. If we want to create a tradition of everyone being home for a Friday night Shabbat dinner together, then that’s the rule…If we’re serious about standards in Jewish life, then Jewish life has to have rules…It’s the regularity of the practice that makes it serious. And it’s seriousness that will ultimately communicate that we want this to be part of their core selves. Rules create regularity.”
I will add that rules, or Mitzvot, animate values. Just like muscles need to be strengthened by exercise, values need to be activated by habits. Values are determined by actions, not thoughts. For example, if one thinks going to the gym is one of her values but she never actually goes, then she doesn’t really value it.
The same is true with Tzedakah. The more and/or more frequently one gives Tzedakah, the more she values it. A person who tells herself she’ll give when she feels like it may or may not give. But a family with a rule where the children must give a portion of their allowance to Tzedakah; a family with a rule where one night of Hanukah the children forego their gifts and donate to others instead; a family with a rule where the adults donate 10% of their income to Tzedakah in the Mitzvah of Maaser Kesafim – this family will give charitably, this family will truly value Tzedakah. Habits create values. And rules create habits.
Of course rules are hard. Kids and adults find rules difficult. And parents find enforcing rules challenging. But a firm commitment creates a structure within which values are identifiable and practicable.
This week we read of the Israelites’ unwavering commitment to the rules of the Torah. They said, “Naase VNishma! – We will surely obey!” (Ex. 24:7). In the end, their commitment did waver, as people are people and are thus fallible. But their embrace of these rules opened them up to a life filled with meaning, traditions, and values. So may it be with us.
By Rabbi Michael Schwab.
Just last week our Torah reading cycle celebrated the Exodus and the Israelites’ miraculous crossing of the sea — once and for all leaving the slavery of Egypt behind. It was a glorious moment and the Torah relates that our people, led by Miriam, danced and sang in great joy. In a parallel fashion, this past week we marked the return of the last hostage, Ran Givili. Now there are no hostages left in Gaza for the first time since 2014. This momentous occasion was a cause for tears of joy shed by Jews around the world and it allowed our people to take a deep exhale.
And while it is critical to soak in moments of joy, success and relief, our Torah portion this morning reminds us that time always moves forward. The Israelites had to stop their dancing and singing and head towards Mt. Sinai. There, in a moment of great awe and seriousness they experienced revelation and were given the gift of the Torah. This was also an incredible moment. However there was a deep gravity to this moment of creating a covenant with Gd and taking on the obligations of the commandments. Liberation led to aspiration and obligation. This chain of events set our people on the course to becoming who we are today.
Now that the active war in Gaza has wound down and the last hostage has returned, our people must also move forward to the next chapter. What lies ahead is serious and heavy. Yet, like our ancestors we can use what came before to help lead us to greater heights in the future. Like Moses, we must be wise, optimistic and steadfast. We must be guided by our relationship with Gd and the values embedded in our tradition. And we must know that there is wilderness ahead but that we will once again arrive at our generation’s version of the Promised Land. If we keep alive Jewish hope and steer by the compass of our Torah we can go from strength to strength.
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, 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 recite 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!!
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