Sermon given February 14, 2026

Shabbat shalom, everybody.

Last week, we stood during the Torah service and listened, just as our ancestors did so long ago at Sinai, to aseret hadibrot, to the Ten Commandments which our tradition teaches us that God gave Moses at Sinai.

We stood, as we do each year, not only because the Ten Commandments are so important, and because receiving them was a significant milestone for us as a people, but also because the sages urge us to connect personally to the Sinai experience, not only to imagine what it would have felt like to have been there, but to believe that on some soulful level, in some shape or form, each of us WAS, indeed, present. 

It’s a dramatic story, and it can be a powerful experience to identify with what our ancestors must have gone through. Thunder crashes, the Torah tells us, the Earth shakes, lightning struck. I imagine that the people shook, too, from fear and wonder. I know that I, for one, have experienced earthquakes, seen volcanoes and forest fires and tropical storms, and I can definitely remember the awe I felt in witnessing those events-- awe in all senses of the word. I imagine that many of you, similarly, have lived through natural phenomena like this, and can also recall how it felt to have the world heaving and howling around you. We can feel this, personally.

But the more challenging part, for many of us, isn’t imagining what it would have been like in a sensory fashion, to be standing at Sinai. Instead, in 2026, it’s feeling truly and individually commanded that’s more difficult for us. Especially in an age where personal liberty is so central to our societal discourse, it can be difficult for us to feel a sense of personal connection to the rules given to our ancestors thousands of years ago. Feelings-- sure. Laws? Not so much.

We see this play out in the data. The most recent Pew study of American Jewish practice shows that while 70% of American Jews connect to our tradition by regularly or semi-regularly enjoying Jewish cuisine such as latkes and Kugel, neither of which are commanded in the Torah, only 17% keep kosher to any level at home, including not eating shellfish or pork, which is indeed commanded in the Torah. 

Similarly, while approximately 60% of American Jews have attended a Jewish lifecycle event such as B’nai Mitzvah in the year prior to the survey, only 20% of American Jews regularly mark Shabbat in a way that is meaningful to them-- a central Torah commandment, indeed, in the “Ten Ten.” 

This bifurcated modern diaspora Jewish reality hits us especially hard in a week like this, where we read parashat Mishpatim immediately on the heels of the Ten Commandments. Instead of getting a break from receiving laws, our Torah doubles down in parashat Mishpatim. The word “Mishpatim” literally means “laws” or “rules”, and it sure lives up to its name. 

וְאֵ֙לֶּה֙ הַמִּשְׁפָּטִ֔ים אֲשֶׁ֥ר תָּשִׂ֖ים לִפְנֵיהֶֽם׃

God says to Moses. “These are the laws you shall set before the Israelites.” And then, over the course of the parasha, we are told not ten, not twenty, but 53 separate mitzvot, or commandments, that our ancestors were expected to follow. (Fun fact: this actually isn’t the portion with the MOST mitzvot. That honor goes to Ki Teitzei, in the book of Deuteronomy, with 74 commandments in one Torah portion, as Moses recollects all of his teachings to our ancestors.)

So. I don’t know how any of you are feeling, after reading that many rules-- and we didn’t even go through all of them this week, because of the triennial cycle!-- but I’m willing to bet that for a lot of us in this room or online, there are some rules in this particular Torah portion that we don’t have a personal relationship with, and that perhaps, we not only struggle to connect with, but think don’t apply to us now, thousands of years later.

So what I’d like to do today is share with you my favorite mitzvah. My personal favorite, the one that I have a special relationship with, and it’s from this week’s Torah portion. I want to share my favorite mitzvah with you because it is personal to me, and because I want to encourage all of us, no matter our age, no matter our connection to the Torah, to try and engage in a real way with the words in this text, and to ask ourselves what these words could mean for us on a personal level, today. 

Now. This mitzvah is my favorite. I’m not saying it’s the most important mitzvah-- this isn’t the Ten Commandments, nor is it the portion with Love Your Neighbor As Yourself. It’s not even the mitzvah to treat strangers well, because we ourselves were strangers in Egypt-- a commandment which is, indeed, in this week’s portion.

No-- it’s a different mitzvah. And before I share with you which one it is, I need to tell you a quick story.

Once upon a time, there was a non-Jew named Rachel. Spoiler alert: that was me. I had started learning about Judaism, and started learning Hebrew, and was in the midst, in fact, of converting and joining the Jewish people-- binding my fate, permanently, in with this sacred tradition.

And after many months of study, there were so many feelings that I had, approaching the end of my conversion journey. There was joy, there were nerves, there was impatience, there was eagerness. There was, indeed, a feeling of loss at some of what I was giving up to become a Jew: some of the rituals I associated with home, and family, and childhood.  There was also excitement at the many rituals I was gaining, and the Jewish mishpacha I was joining. What I didn’t anticipate, though, was to feel disappointment at the conversion rituals being different for people with different bodies. 

I have all kinds of thoughts and feelings about brit milah-- about circumcision-- but that is not the focus of today’s sermon. The fact is simply that converts to Judaism with bodies like mine are not offered a traditional physical way to mark the transition into Am Yisrael. Though all converts go to mikveh, which is a physical process, part of the beauty of mikveh is that it is water, which both nurtures us and can be washed away. It doesn’t leave a mark, or even the memory of a sensation.   

And so, I went in search of a more permanent, lasting physical way to honor that moment of holy growth and belonging. I talked to Rabbis, I looked through books, I consulted with Rav Google, and ultimately, I found the answer I needed in the form of a mitzvah from this week’s parashah. 

וְאִם־אָמֹ֤ר יֹאמַר֙ הָעֶ֔בֶד אָהַ֙בְתִּי֙ אֶת־אֲדֹנִ֔י אֶת־אִשְׁתִּ֖י וְאֶת־בָּנָ֑י לֹ֥א אֵצֵ֖א חׇפְשִֽׁי׃

וְהִגִּישׁ֤וֹ אֲדֹנָיו֙ אֶל־הָ֣אֱלֹהִ֔ים וְהִגִּישׁוֹ֙ אֶל־הַדֶּ֔לֶת א֖וֹ אֶל־הַמְּזוּזָ֑ה וְרָצַ֨ע אֲדֹנָ֤יו אֶת־אׇזְנוֹ֙ בַּמַּרְצֵ֔עַ וַעֲבָד֖וֹ לְעֹלָֽם׃

“And if a slave says, I love my master, I love my wife, I love my children, and I do not wish to go free, then his master shall bring him before God. And he will be brought to the door of his master’s home, and there his master will pierce his ear, and he shall remain in his master’s household for his entire life.”

It was Rashi who later clarified that the ear in question was the right one. But the significance of specifically an ear piercing goes even deeper: our Midrash explains to us that not only must the slave who stays by choice be pierced, but specifically in the ear, in the organ that hears, in the body part we use when we say, “Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Ehad.” By piercing the slave’s ear, both the master and slave reaffirm the rules and commandments given at Sinai, and their own connection to them. They reaffirm that their choices, and their actions, are still bound by the same sacred covenant.

Now. I don’t know if any of you have noticed that I have a permanent piercing in my right ear. It was not, in fact, a fashion statement when I decided to get this piercing. Instead, it was a religious statement-- a statement of religious responsibility-- a statement of promising, to God and to myself, that for the rest of my life, Judaism would be my home, and that I would actively engage with that home and make it my own. Getting that earring, and seeing it each day, provides me with a reminder of the life I want to lead, and of the sacred, ancient tradition without which I would not be who I am today.

And that, then, is my favorite mitzvah. The slave who chooses to stay and gets an earring to show it. Is it a perfect mitzvah? No. I want to see a world where slavery doesn’t exist at all! But part of the beauty of engaging on a personal level with these mitzvot is that we can relate to them in a way that does, indeed, feel comfortable for us. And what’s comfortable for me about this commandment is the shared commitment by both the piercer and the piercee to creating, and building, a long-term home together. And, the fact that the choice, made by the slave with the option of freedom, was made out of a place of love-- as was my choice to become a Jew.

That said, my story is my own, and we are a widely variable people, each with our own stories and sensibilities. But if this particular mitzvah doesn’t speak to you, I have good news-- there are 612 other mitzvot to wrestle with, to relate to, and to incorporate into your life in one way or another. No matter where you start, whether with a rule that feels right to you or a rule that bothers you, engaging with these ancient laws in an honest and personal way can lead to a deeper, closer connection to our tradition.     

Parashat Mishpatim, as we discussed earlier, begins with God saying to Moses: These are the laws you shall set before the Israelites.” Rashi reflects that, quote, “the Torah states “that you shall set before them” like a fully laid table with everything ready for eating.” Our Torah gives us these rules, these mishpatim; it offers them to us on a metaphorical platter. But it is up to us with our hungry hearts to reach out, as we would reach for food for physical sustenance, and to also prioritize the unique spiritual sustenance that can come from engaging with these commandments on a real-life level.

The Torah, in all its glory, in all its messiness, in all its beauty, was not just given to our ancestors at Sinai.

It was, and is, given to us. Today. But it is up to us to choose to receive-- and accept-- it as our own.

Shabbat shalom.