Sermon given January 31, 2026

When I was little, I loved to read the Redwall books by Brian Jacques. I don’t know if any of you have read them, but they’re these adorable stories where the characters are all animals, not humans-- mice, beavers, rabbits, badgers, all kinds of fluffy critters. They’re the first chapter books I remember really getting pulled into as a child, and I remember the giddy feeling I would get each time I started nearing the end of the book, right as the big battle scene would arrive where the hero mouse was fighting the big bad weasel, and where you KNOW, as the reader, that the good guy is going to win. You just know, because that’s how it’s supposed to be.

It felt so cozy to read those books and so reassuring to know that those cute little fluffy tiny mice could all band together and fight off the mean weasels attacking them. 

And then I grew up a little, and I read Harry Potter, and I grew up a little more, and I read Lord of the Rings, and so many other books, and of course, the same thing was true-- it’s literature 101-- the classic story arc is essentially as follows: You set the scene, you meet the characters, they have to face challenges, there’s a culmination or crisis, and then, it all resolves neatly and justice triumphs.

It feels good, right?

Similarly, every year when we get to this particular section of the Torah, I get all caught up in the drama of it all and that same kind of satisfying story arc that we tell and retell, both in shul and at our Passover seders. The story of the Exodus is our central narrative as a people, and it is truly an epic tale. Frankly, I’m surprised Peter Jackson hasn’t written a screenplay about it. (Or six screenplays.)

The story of the Exodus has everything in it-- as we’ve discussed these past few weeks, it has villains who choose to do harm and it has heroes-- like Shifra and Puah-- who choose to be compassionate; it has underdogs and it has teamwork; it has supernatural amazement, it has moments where we aren’t sure that victory will be achieved-- moments of fear and despair--- and it has those who had been undermined finally escaping the clutches of the evil ruler who has been tormenting them for generations. It has a truly magnificent-- and also satisfying-- story arc, from slavery to freedom, from persecution to liberty, from self-doubt to self-actualization. 

Just like the books I read as a kid, the story we have been reading for the past few weeks may also feel a bit cozy to us as Jews, and satisfying, because we are so familiar with it and because it reminds us, every year, of the power of faith and community and the triumph of freedom over slavery.   

If we zoom out, we could also look at our entire Torah through this same literary lens and find yet another dramatic and satisfying story arc. 

Genesis starts with tohu va’vohu, literal darkness and void, then describes our sacred connection to the Divine and introduces us to the core ancestors we invoke in our prayers and whose imperfect humanity guides and inspires us;

Exodus, which we are in right now, is our epic escape into the desert from Egypt;

Leviticus, as I taught in my senior sermon during Rabbinical School, is the story of our truly beginning to grow as a civilization and develop rules, and norms, and transform from a lost group into a people; 
Numbers sees the first growing pains of said civilization;

and Deuteronomy embodies our tradition of storytelling as Moses nears death, leadership is handed over, and our people prepare to finally enter the Promised Land, arriving at our destiny, standing at the edge of the Jordan.

Now. Whether secular, or spiritual, all of these satisfying story arcs are important, whether we’re talking about novels and kids books or whether we are talking about our holiest stories. 

The satisfying arcs are crucial, in fact, not just because they feel good to read or learn or experience in our own lives, but because they provide our hearts and souls with positive reinforcement for the hard work that goes into fighting for our own freedom, fighting for our own destiny, and fighting for our own peace in our own world. WE NEED THAT NOURISHMENT. They remind us that we are not alone and that if we try hard enough, we too can stand up against the weasels, or the Voldemorts, or the Saurons, or the Pharaohs of our own time. 

It is important that we enjoy and revel in these stories and claim them as our own, and teach them to our children. 

But of course-- there is also a flipside to these satisfying story arcs. 

There is always a flipside, because something always happens next. Though we have reached one satisfying resolution, the journey is not over. 

We see this painful truth in this week’s Torah portion. Our parasha, B’shallach, enshrines the part of the Exodus story where Pharoah finally releases the Israelites, who escape to the Sea of Reeds and are then saved from the encroaching Egyptian army by a Divine miracle. On the other side, Miriam breaks out her timbrel and our ancestors dance and sing, O’zi, v’zimrat yah, va’yhi li l’yishua! God is my help and my strength and deliverance!

That is supposed to be the satisfying end, right? We are free!

But instead, as we see in this week’s parasha, our ancestors are almost immediately set upon and attacked by the most heinous of enemies, Amalek. As we say, out of the frying pan and into the fire. Like Pharaoh, who wanted to kill Israelite babies, Amalek targets the weakest members of the Israelites-- the young and old and infirm. He is another prime example, like Pharaoh, of the potential for humans to make harmful choices instead of compassionate ones. And this one-two punch of Pharaoh followed by Amalek carries with it a sobering lesson:

 מִלְחָמָ֥ה לַֽיהֹוָ֖ה בַּֽעֲמָלֵ֑ק מִדֹּ֖ר דֹּֽר:

There will be a holy war against Amalek from generation to generation. 

Or, as we invoke in our Haggadot at Pesach, this is the lesson that in every generation-- at least once-- someone will rise up against us, to try and destroy us. Meaning that the sacred work, and the sacred journey, will actually never be completely over. True, lasting safety isn’t a sprint. It’s a long game.   

If we zoom out and look at the Torah as a whole, we can see evidence of the same painful lesson. Because, what happens on the other side of the Jordan, when our ancestors enter the Promised Land at the end of the book of Deuteronomy? Not peace.

In fact, there’s a whole lot of violence, and unrest, and power changing hands again and again, and then our forebears were largely expelled into the Diaspora. Over centuries, while powers like Rome and the Ottoman Empire and Britain jostled for control of the Holy Land, Jews were trying to survive, and othered, separated, attacked, and often treated badly around the world. 

But we did not give up. The sacred journey, and the sacred work, continued throughout all of that back and forth and up and down. For generation after generation, Jews committed to keeping our tradition, and our people, alive, and our stories, and our values, alive. In the ghettos and the shtetls, they told each other the stories with satisfying story arcs, like the story of the Exodus, and like the story of the entire Torah, precisely because they themselves needed the same human nourishment to the injustices of their own times that we need today. They did not get to experience the satisfying perfect story arc ending, but they knew that by doing the sacred work, they were becoming part of a bigger arc-- part of the long game.      

In the 19th and 20th centuries, we saw another, modern Jewish story arc. The rise of nationalism and the horrors of the Shoah were followed by, in 1948, what was seen widely as a modern Jewish miracle. The current state of Israel was formed. Finally, there was a place Jews could go when other countries rejected us. It felt like we had arrived and re-realized our destiny, and it was satisfying. We even added a prayer for the State of Israel to our liturgy, calling its founding reishit tzmichat geulateinu, the beginning of the shoots, the growth, of our redemption. 

But we also know now, in 2026, without going into too much detail, that the sacred work was still not over, and the sacred journey was not over, even after the founding of the modern state of Israel. Because the minute the modern state of Israel was founded, it was attacked. Over the years, again and again. And as we know all too painfully after October 7th and the ensuing war, the modern state of Israel, in addition to its own growing pains internally, is also surrounded by countries that do not wish for peace, and by groups like Hamas and Hezbollah whose mission is stated to destroy Israel.  מִדֹּ֖ר דֹּֽר: 

As our Torah portion said this week: from generation to generation, Israelis still have to fight for lasting safety.

Even the return of the body of the final hostage this week, of Rani Gvili, zichrono l’vracha, though it brings to an end one horrible, horrible arc, does not mean we have arrived at a lasting peace.

Lasting peace, too, is a long game. 

This means that WE, as Jews TODAY, understand, keenly, the lesson we say in our Haggadah. We know, keenly, what our ancestors learned in this week’s parashah, as they escaped from Pharoah only to come face-to-face with Amalek: the lesson that the sacred work never ends. The sacred journey never ends.  As long as humans are human-- that is to say, as long as each of us has the power to either choose to be compassionate, or choose to do harm-- we are going to have to actively choose to do our part, no matter which part of the story of history we are born into, to help bring about a world that more permanently, and more sustainably, reflects the human and Jewish values we hold most dear. We each have to choose to commit to being part of the long game.          

I have spoken passionately these last few weeks about the many ways that we can each do our part and step up to make a difference in our larger world and in our immediate community. Specifically, as immigrants in Portland have been targeted in a more focused way over the last two weeks, members of TBE and the interfaith community in this city have come together and helped provide food, solidarity, prayer, funds, and more to these fellow humans, many of whom have already fled war-torn countries or lands where it was not safe to be themselves and raise their families. 

Every one of us, as human beings, has a choice, to either be part of contributing harm to the world or contributing to compassion. Pharaoh and Amalek had that choice, and they chose to do harm. But I have been incredibly moved by how the members of TBE have showed up this week and chosen to add to the compassion in the world in so many ways. Together we have given tzedakah, done countless works of gmilut chasadim, and been part of a deep action of tikkun olam, attempting to repair brokenness in our world. We have invoked our Torah, which reminds us of the story of the Exodus, and that we must “love the stranger, for you yourselves were strangers in Egypt.” 

In helping these new Mainers achieve more safety, sustenance, and justice, we helped bend the arc of their story towards what will hopefully, one day, be a satisfying ending.

And at the same time, we, too, help bring ourselves, and our own story, closer to a similar place of resolution and justice-- both as Jews, and as part of the larger human family, and the larger arc we are all a part of.

We received welcome news this past Thursday that the immediate danger is abating. This one, intense story arc of the past two weeks has, for the time being, reached a conclusion-- and that conclusion was brought on, in part, by the brave acts of this immediate community, and by the wider Portland community.

But welcoming the stranger, like justice, and like sustainable peace, is also a long game.

And so, in this moment of relief and reflection, as we read our Torah portion this week and are reminded both of Miriam’s joy at freedom and of Amalek’s evil immediately thereafter, I urge us all to do two things:

1. First, we need to celebrate all that we have done as a community to help bring about this relief, and enjoy the feeling that comes with the end of this smaller story arc. We made a difference, together. This community, both congregants and staff and lay leaders, donated thousands of dollars and donated many hours of volunteering and cooking and teaching and outreach to help our most vulnerable neighbors this week. And that made a difference. Relish that feeling, and take heart from it. We are not powerless. I am grateful to all of you, and to God, that I get to serve this incredible synagogue family.   

2. But second, we have to simultaneously remember that this is not a sprint. This is a long game, and the clock is still going. 

I know we are tired. I know that, speaking purely for myself, there are moments of exhaustion where a part of me wishes for easy times, for “normalcy”, and wants to pretend that the pain of the wider country, and wider world, is something we are not a part of. 

But our history, and our sacred stories, remind us that this is not an option. As Jews, as Americans, as Mainers, as human beings-- we still have work to do. We cannot stop being proactive. We cannot stop opening our hearts. We cannot stop giving tzedakah, doing gmilut chasadim, and caring about tikkun olam. We cannot pretend that just because one Pharaoh surrenders, there will never be another Amalek. We are Jews. We know better.

Whether we are talking about justice, about peace, or about welcoming the stranger: the sacred work, and the sacred journey, are not over. This is a long game. 

But I am so happy, as your rabbi, that if it has to be a long game, that I get to be on YOUR team.

Shabbat shalom.