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. 

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.

Sermon given January 24, 2026 I thought long and hard about what to focus on in the sermon today, and I couldn’t land on one best choice. So, first, sure, let’s talk about the parasha. Let’s talk about parashat Bo, where we see the culmination of the plagues God sends to Egypt as signs that our ancestors, the Israelites, must be freed from their unjust captivity. Specifically, we can call our attention to the story of the plague of darkness: וַיֹּ֨אמֶר יְהֹוָ֜ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֗ה נְטֵ֤ה יָֽדְךָ֙ עַל־הַשָּׁמַ֔יִם וִ֥יהִי חֹ֖שֶׁךְ עַל־אֶ֣רֶץ מִצְרָ֑יִם וְיָמֵ֖שׁ חֹֽשֶׁךְ׃ And God said to Moses, put out your hand towards the heavens and a darkness will descend, a darkness that is tangible. The Midrash of Exodus Rabbah 14 explains that this tangible, touchable aspect of the darkness meant it was so thick, “of such a double character”, that it physically impacted everything around it. But I am certain that all of those exposed to such deep and penetrating emptiness would have surely been impacted emotionally. The devastation-- the loneliness-- the panic-- would have been profound. And I think there are those of us today, here in person or online, and certainly there are those sheltering in place in our city, scared to go to work, scared to go to school…. who have felt that way, this week-- felt like there was a darkness closing in, something impacting all aspects of our lives, thick, and heavy. I know that at moments, I have felt that way. Perhaps you have, too. Scripture teaches us that the only ones who were not enveloped by this darkness, and not surrounded by its tangible despair, were the ones who believed in something greater, the ones who maintained hope, the ones who wanted freedom-- that is to say, our ancestors, the Israelites. This is the first lesson that it is important to highlight in this sermon-- the fact that ours is a tradition of stubbornly nurturing light in the face of looming and penetrating darkness. But there are a few other stories I need to share with you today, too. First, a small yet agonizing story from our history as Jews and as Americans, one that it is important we never forget, immortalized in the words of Rabbi Joseph Telushkin, writing about one specific event during the Holocaust: “No instance better summarizes America’s and President Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s reaction to the Jewish situation than the fate of the SS St Louis, whose seemingly endless trip from Germany to North America and back became known as the ‘voyage of the damned.’ The St. Louis set sail from Germany in May 1939, some six months after Kristallnacht. Aboard were 937 Jews, almost all of whom held visas for Cuba. While en route, there was a change of government in Havana, and the new administration refused to honor the visas. For days, the St Louis remained docked in Havana’s harbor, as representatives of international Jewish organizations tried moral suasion, and then bribery, to influence Cuba’s leaders to admit the ship-- to no avail. American Jews likewise tried to influence their government to admit the refugees, and also had no success; the United States would not accept any of the Jews on the ship. Indeed, in 1989, I spoke to a survivor of the St Louis who told me that when the ship neared the territorial waters of Florida, the Coast Guard fired a warning shot in its direction. Hitler, meanwhile, was ecstatic. For all that world leaders publicly attacked antisemitism, they clearly did not want the Jews any more than he did. The St Louis finally started its tragic journey back to Germany. In the interim, several European countries, England, Belgium, Holland, and France, agreed to admit the passengers. Those fortunate enough to be admitted to England survived the war, but those who received visas for Belgium, Holland, and France lived securely only for a short time. By 1940, the Nazis had occupied all three countries: it can be surmised that most of the passengers on the voyage of the damned were murdered in Nazi concentration camps. The sheer pointlessness of these deaths was underscored by the survivor of the ship mentioned previously (she and her family had been admitted to England.) “We were so close to Havana we could see the city clearly”, she told me. That tantalizing and agonizing recollection undoubtedly accompanied many of the former St Louis passengers on their trips to the death camps.” This is the second important lesson to highlight in this sermon-- that in addition to being inheritors of a tradition that urges us to resist looming darkness, we are also descendants of people who have been targeted, rejected, chased, murdered, and tortured just for being who we are. We are a people made up of refugees, of asylum seekers, and we know, keenly, what it is like to be told in word and in action by the rest of the world that we are not worthy of the dignity of a life free from fear. And that painful inheritance can also be a source of immense power, and immense empathy, if we let it move us and shape our conscience, and then our actions. So now, it is time to move on to the third story of our sermon. After the story of the plague of darkness, thousands of years ago, and the story of the SS St Louis, less than a century ago, we move ahead to to this past week. A priest, a reverend, and a rabbi walked into a factory. But this was no joke. There was no punchline. In that factory, the three of us met with business leaders, workers, asylum seekers, and retired law enforcement. What took place was a secret and painful logistical discussion. Though all the workers were here legally, the factory had been notified that it might be a target for federal agents. Questions were asked that should not have to be asked, and answers were given that should never have to be given. At the end of the meeting, though, our mission as clergy was clear. The next day, the priest picked up a bright orange vest and handed it to me. “It’s an honor to give this to you, rabbi,” he said. “And it’s an honor to receive it from you, Father”, I replied. And then we joined our clergy partners, over half a dozen other members of the cloth, Catholic, Episcopalian, Quaker, UCC, and more, who had heeded our call. We stood in a line, with our backs to the factory, feeling with each Signal notification and unmarked SUV that sped by the weight of our sacred responsibility. Parked cars with masked agents appeared at the factory and the workers, dozens of asylum seekers and new immigrants, sheltered in place. I observed our line of bodies, singing songs of spirit and protest, shielding the bodies of the workers, the immigrants, the asylum seekers, who were hurrying behind us into and out of the factory, just trying to get home and back to their families without being attacked. Sometimes, especially that first night, they moved as close to the ground as they could, fully aware that there were individuals in cars nearby who wanted to kidnap them, divide their families, and worse. One of them had a member of their household taken. And every shift, my heart was broken wide open. And every shift, it was also filled with the immense bravery and courage and strength of these fellow humans, humans just trying to live, humans just trying to work and earn a living, humans just trying to be safe in a world that has rejected them. We are only privy to a fraction of what these new Mainers must be going through-- the fear, the stress, the secrets, the mistrust, the sense of being trapped and hunted-- but as Jews, we should be able to honor and understand it. And we do not have to know every detail of their lives to know that they are human beings, that they are deserving of the same dignity as every other person, and that our God commands us to love the stranger, for we ourselves know what it is like to be strangers.  As Jews, we do not get the luxury of pretending that evil does not exist in this world. We don’t get to pretend that humans can do evil. We don’t get the luxury of being bystanders. Because we were strangers in Egypt. Because we were targeted, and harmed, and killed, in Egypt. I know that I am not the only person in this room, or listening to this sermon online, whose heart has been broken again, and again, and again this week. I don’t often share the fact that part of why I became a member of the clergy was not a love of rules or hymns or challah, but rather because I have spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about mortality, and about how we each have one life to live on this Earth. Judaism’s insistence that we embrace both creative work (aka malacha) and also embrace intentionally moral, connection-nurturing actions (aka mitzvot) appeals to me for many reasons. One of these reasons is that Judaism gives me the tools, with each prayer and each command, to imbue my life with sanctity and to do my tiny party to help bring healing and love to this hurting world. I went to that parking lot, and that factory, and I sang and prayed and shielded those workers alongside my interfaith colleagues this week, because I know that I have a finite time on this Earth to try and help others, and I literally do not know how I could function if I did not at the least try contribute to being the solution or the help to fix even one tiny part of the immense brokenness which is around us. Mishna Sanhedrin teaches us that judges spoke to witnesses before they would testify in ancient cases, reminding them that with their words and actions, they had great power. They spoke, quote, “To teach…that whoever destroys one life is considered by the Torah as if he destroyed an entire world, and whoever saves one life is considered by the Torah as if he saved an entire world.” We can each help save an entire world, whether with our bodies, or our titles, or our homes, or our money, or our time, or our prayers, or our words, or something else. Each of us, in our own way. Every little bit matters. I want to speak from the bottom of my heart when I say how moved I have been, this week, to see the absolute outpouring of care and volunteering and donating and showing up and outreach and prayer that Temple Beth El and the greater Portland Interfaith Community have shown one another as our own looming darkness, our own tangible, touchable threat, has settled onto our streets. I want to specifically name how our incredible staff and lay leadership has pivoted, adapted, implemented new safety protocols, and had difficult conversations at all hours of the day, all while urging one another to remember to practice self-care and show ourselves grace. I want to thank the congregants who showed up to volunteer and teach and do jobs others had to drop to go and attend to urgent need. I’m here today less as your rabbi and more as a fellow human being and as a witness, this week, to some of the best and the worst that we as humans have to offer. We are in the thick of it, my friends, And we are not alone. We are never, ever, alone. This darkness that has descended is, indeed, tangible. It has grabbed our hearts and our neighbors. It threatens to overshadow our joy and our hope. But we are the descendants of a people that has insistently, stubbornly, and heroically insisted on responding to darkness with light, again and again throughout history. And now it is our time. It is our time to go out into the tangible darkness, and let our tangible love, and our tangible light, SHINE. Shabbat shalom.

Sermon given January 17, 2026 Shabbat shalom, everybody. Once upon a time, there was a country. The country had a rich culture, powerful rulers, religion, culinary delights, the works. The country was full of people, and as tends to be the case, some of these people were born in the country, and some were not. When the people from elsewhere first came to the country, they were welcomed. But then after a generation or two or three had passed, leadership changed, and the new leadership did not know, or want to know, the people whose grandparents and great-grandparents had first come to the country. These people were seen as “outsiders”, as not truly belonging, and they were subjected to different treatment by those in power. The leadership in the country began to mistreat these second, third, and fourth-generation immigrants, first in small ways, but then, over time, in bigger ways. At first, they were only allowed to work in hard labor without prestige, in jobs the “real” citizens of the land did not want. Then, they were judged for having different religious practices than those around them, and for looking a little different. But things escalated. Those in power began to physically harm these minorities and target them, even sometimes for death. And it’s important to note that these changes, and this aggression towards the minority groups did not happen overnight. It was gradual. It happened bit by bit, out in the open and normalized by those in power, absorbed into the daily lives of both those who were targeted and those complicit in the oppression. Some of these complicit people agreed with the aggression, and prayed to their gods for their regime’s success. Some disagreed, and prayed to their Gods for mercy for those who were being targeted. Some did not believe that religion and politics should ever mix, and so they did not pray to their Gods about it, at all. But-- regardless of what their Gods said -- it was all technically legal, because those in power are the ones who get to make the laws. And if the laws say that one group is worthy of being beaten, worthy of being subjugated, worthy of being murdered just for being who they are, then going against such actions, and resisting those actions, and acting with compassion and inclusion, suddenly becomes …illegal. So what are we supposed to do, when a leader tells us to do something that our hearts know is very, very wrong? What are we supposed to do, when the actions that align with our conscience no longer align with the rules and laws we are being told to follow? Thankfully, our Torah has an answer, and that answer is deeply embedded in the saga we are currently reading, in the first parashiot of the book of Exodus. When we tell our children the story of what happened to our ancestors in ancient Egypt-- which, of course, is the country we were just talking about ….. When we tell those stories in synagogue each year, a familiar picture begins to emerge, one worthy of closer examination. And it is a picture illustrating how not only has legality never been synonymous with morality, but how sometimes, resisting unjust laws and unjust rulers can, in fact, be the most moral course of action, and indeed, the course of action supported by God. To quote Jewish Enlightenment philosopher Moses Mendelssohn, “The only way of amending unwise laws is by deviating from them”-- and we see precisely this principle in action in the story of the Exodus. In the story of the Exodus, Pharoah-- aka, the person making the laws-- is clearly the villain. He unjustly hurts the Israelites and treats them differently from other people living in Egypt. He is a bigot. He makes the lives of our ancestors bitter, Scripture teaches us; not because they had committed crimes but rather because he was afraid of the demographic changes they heralded.  הִנֵּ֗ה עַ֚ם בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל רַ֥ב וְעָצ֖וּם מִמֶּֽנּוּ׃ Look at these people of Israel, Pharoah says. They are becoming greater and more mighty than us! And so, Pharoah oppresses the Israelites and forces them to construct cities for him, ultimately ordering that it be LAW that the innocent baby Israelite boys be killed. Luckily, our story is also full of heroes of all shapes and sizes. If Shifra and Puah, the two midwives we met in last week’s parasha, had not made the brave choice to act illegally and save Israelite newborns, breaking Pharoah’s laws, even more innocent life would have been lost. We should note that Shifra and Puah were not acting on a macro scale as they resisted Pharoah. They knew that they alone did not have the resources or the might to remove Pharoah from power. But that did not deter them from listening to the still, small voice inside of their hearts, from identifying what was inDEED within their power to do, and then doing it. Shifra and Puah are two of the most important heroes in this story, but they are far from the only ones. If Moses’ mother Yocheved had not been brave and defied the law of the land by not letting her son be killed, our people’s history would have been very different. Similarly, if Moses’ sister Miriam had not lied to the Egyptian princess-- our story would have been different. And if Batya herself, the Egyptian princess, had not taken a stand and chosen to defend that one Israelite baby from her father’s evil policies, using her power and prestige to shield him, our story would be very, very different. These acts of resistance may seem small on a global scale, but they were crucial in bringing about our peoples’ eventual liberation, and they were sacred. They helped save our people. And they demonstrated that individuals working within the scope and limits of our own realistic agency, working concurrently, can indeed make a significant difference in the face of horror on a wider scale. They remind us that no matter how bad things seem, no matter when in history we are living, we are not powerless. In this week’s Torah portion, we see Moses. He is, of course, destined to be Moshe Rabbeinu, our hero, but we see him at the beginning of this week’s parasha not yet as a rescuer or leader, but rather just as a human being who is terrified of going up against a corrupt and ruthless Pharoah. אֵיךְ֙ יִשְׁמָעֵ֣נִי פַרְעֹ֔ה וַֽאֲנִ֖י עֲרַ֥ל שְׂפָתָֽיִם: How will Pharoah listen to me? Moses asks. I am not a talented speaker. We can all understand Moses’ reluctance to take on the mantle of leadership against a foe with more resources, more connections, more clout. Any of us would probably feel similarly. Moses pleads with God to send someone else, anyone else. And it is another compassionate hero from our story-- Moses’ brother Aaron-- whose presence, and companionship, and solidarity with Moses, is what gives Moses the strength to persist and do what he has to do. Aaron’s willingness to speak truth to those who promoted lies and to use his words to corral and encourage the Israelites was another crucial, and distinct, act of resistance that helped birth our people. No one person did the work. Everyone had a role to play. Now, this whole story, with its corruption, its fear and slavery, its quiet heroism and its persistent faith and bravery, is part of our spiritual inheritance as Jews. And when we read this story, as American Jews in 2026, we have a choice of how to let the words and the message affect us. If we want, we can hold the story at arm’s length, and not identify with the characters, not see ourselves and our own troubles reflected in them. We can harden our hearts, so to speak, and tell ourselves that the world is so very different today than it was for the Israelites living under Pharoah that the takeaway of this story cannot possibly be the same for us as it was for our ancestors. We can tell ourselves that this is just a story. Or. Instead of hardening our hearts, instead of shying away from the parallels between our own world and the world of Scripture, we can soften and open our hearts to the very real suffering around us today, we can see the unjust laws being enacted, and we can feel that pain, and let that pain inspire us to act, like Shifra and Puah and Miriam and Moses and Yocheved and Aaron and Batya and so many others. We, too, can listen to the still small voice, and we can let it shake us, and bother us, and then spur us to action, just like it did them. We can-- and, one could argue, we must. Now. This can be scary, scary to even consider. We take our place among countless others throughout history, including our own ancestors, who resisted injustice. Writing from his cell in the Birmingham jail, where he was being held for resisting unjust laws, Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr, whom we will honor this week, did not mince his words. He wrote, quote, “there are two types of laws: just and unjust. I would be the first to advocate obeying just laws. One has not only a legal but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. Conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws.” He later continues, “We should never forget that everything Adolf Hitler did in Germany was “legal”... [and that] It was “illegal” to aid and comfort a Jew in Hitler’s Germany.” His words and his example should shake us and inspire us. There is a traditional tale that tells of a Jew reaching out to God and sharing the frustration she is feeling with the Divine. Lord, she says, this world is plagued with anguish, hopelessness, malevolence, depression, and despair. Why do you not send help? And of course, God replies, and says: My friend, I did send help. I sent you. This is our world. This world. This city. Exactly the way it is, in all its beauty and in all its pain. Our world, like the world of the Torah, has real villains in it. And that means that when we see injustice, which we are indeed seeing every single day, it is up to us, as God’s partners, to also make the choice to be everyday heroes, to be brave and to act in the name of humanity and compassion in whichever way we each individually realistically can. One day, we will all be someone’s ancestors. When they invoke us, what story will they tell? In Chapter 8 of Mishnah Sotah, the rabbis describe how when there is a מִלְחֶמֶת מִצְוָה, literally a war of a commandment, nobody is exempt from the fight. Not the groom, not the newlywedded bride. Everyone must come together and do their part to prevail. And while the meaning of the phrase milchemet mitzvah is debated by our sages-- does this mean a defensive war? A war specifically named in the Torah? A war that is in the name of a specific mitzvah?-- No matter how we translate the phrase milchemet mitzvah, the holy sense of shared responsibility in defense of justice is the same. All of us, each and every one of us, is called on by our tradition to find a way to work together when the cause is in defense of a mitzvah-- and Lord knows that welcoming the stranger, supporting the orphan and the widow, loving our neighbors as ourselves, and having fair laws that apply equitably to all are core, guiding mitzvot for us as Jews. We are living in our own milchemet mitzvah, and none of us are exempt from it. It can be intimidating to try and think about what each of us, as normal humans living our everyday lives, can actually do to make a difference against the acts of violence and abuse we are seeing on a larger scale in our society. But part of the beauty of the story arc of the Exodus from Egypt, part of the gift that our tradition is giving us with this story, is that it demonstrates and models for us that there are countless ways to help bend the arc of history towards justice, and how quite often, the difference between success and failure comes down to the everyday actions of everyday people, like us, just trying to do their best to help. On a larger scale, some of us will resist injustice through work as politicians and policy-makers, and go face off in debates and elections and help rewrite policy. Just as Moses went toe-to-toe with Pharoah, some of us, too, will resist on a more macro level. That’s one way to pursue justice, as Scripture commands. Some of us will give sermons. Many of us will find other ways to contribute and resist using resources available to us like money and time. Some of us will write checks to causes we believe in--like the ongoing food drive here at TBE which started after SNAP benefits were decreased, which has now helped feed hungry households across Maine. Some of us will show up at protests and vigils-- like the weekly interfaith prayer vigil Wednesdays outside of the detention center downtown, offering support to those taken by ICE, or like the mass walkout organized by Portland students several weeks ago-- persistently and publicly modeling solidarity and commitment to mutual care and responsibility, and refusing to be silenced. Some of us, like Batya, will acknowledge our privilege, and we will use it to document injustice when we see it happening, and to do anything we can to thwart and disrupt oppression when it occurs. But for some of us, these actions also won’t feel right. Like Shifra and Puah, the resistance some of us will have to offer is more personal, individual, and intimate. Some of us will resist injustice by talking to our friends and neighbors, by supporting each other and reminding each other of what’s worth fighting for, especially in the difficult months to come. We will remind each other why the pain of the struggle is worth it, and we will be each others’ safe harbor and open embrace. For those on the front lines of this fight, having a support system is crucial. We can reach out and offer to be that support system. Some of us will commit to protecting members of the LGBTQ+ community, especially trans youth, who are being turned out from their homes and experience suicidality at higher rates, and who are currently being targeted with abuse and attacks on their dignity, from those in power. Again and again we will reaffirm that all people, regardless of gender or sexual orientation, are made in the image of God. Our proactive and consistent welcome will help save lives. Some of us will continue to check on our friends, neighbors, coworkers, and community members whose racial and ethnic demographics are being targeted unjustly. We will ask our neighbors-- what do you need? What is something concrete I can do to support you? If they don’t feel safe going to the grocery store, we can offer to get their groceries. If they have an appointment, we can offer to go with them. Our outreach and physical presence will remind them that they are not alone. Some of us will write poems and songs, and paint pictures, and inspire others whose hearts are aching in these troubled times. Our creations will remind each other that despite these difficult times, there is beauty in this world, and it is worth fighting for. The list could go on and on, but the message is clear: it all counts, and we each must do our part. To paraphrase Rabbi Tarfon’s famous sentence, it is not upon us to finish the work individually, but neither may any of us sit this one out. I believe that we can do this. I believe in this community, and this city, and this state. If we believe that only resistance on a macro level “counts”, we’ll feel paralyzed and powerless as individuals. But the truth is that every little bit of sacred resistance against the Pharoahs of the world counts. And if we internalize this, then we empower ourselves and each other to work together to bring about real change. And-- we can help each other to identify what our role will be in the days to come. We are in this together. We are not alone. We are each others’ keepers. I wonder, sometimes, what dinners were like in the households of Shifra and Puah. What did they talk about with their families? What worried whispers did they confide in their partners late at night? What anguished decisions did they have to reach, what plans for escape did they have to hold in their back pockets, should their actions come back to bite them? The Torah doesn’t say. But what we know is that when the still, small voice spoke to Shifra and Puah, they listened, and they acted on it. And in doing so, they became our teachers, thousands of years later. We, too, must listen to that same small voice, to the voice that reminds us that legality is not the same as morality and that when it comes to a milchemet mitzvah, to a fight for our core values, nobody is exempt. We must listen, and then we must let ourselves be moved and troubled by what we hear, and then, inspired by the everyday bravery of Shifra and Puah, by the chutzpah of Batya, and yes, even by the initial reluctance of Moshe-- we must each be moved to action, however we can. My friends, said God-- I did send help. I sent you. Shabbat shalom.

Sermon given January 3, 2026 Shana tova, everybody! Happy New Year’s. ארבעה ראשי שנים הם teaches the Mishna. There are actually FOUR different times of the year that count as “new years”: The first of Nisan is the new year for measuring the length of the reign of kings and for counting how many festivals have passed since we made vow; the first of Elul is the new year for the tithe of beasts, for when we count who counts as a “yearling” for sacrifice; the first of Tishrei is the new year for counting years of the world, for shmita and yovel, for planting and tithing and forgiving debts; and the first of Shevat is the new year for trees and for tithing fruits, according to Beit Shammai (although of course, as is tradition, Beit Hillel disagreed.) You’ll note that the Mishna does not mention January first at all. But clearly, the rabbis cared about when the new year– or the four different new years– occurred, and this recurring theme of newness pervades the Jewish calendar. Of course, this means that measuring and counting and keeping track of the various parts of our lives can get very complicated as Jews, and that’s before we even try to factor in the Gregorian Calendar and its New Year, which we just celebrated this week. When we then add in our individual birthdays, and romantic anniversaries, and Yahrzeiten of those who have passed– and secular school years– and fiscal years– the list of types of years and new years gets very, very long. This means that on any given day– SOMEthing, SOME year or another, is bound to be ending, or beginning, or about to end, or about to begin. Each of our lives is bound up in multiple overlapping annual cycles. I’ve always found it fascinating how much of an emphasis is put on secular New years, and that people of all backgrounds count down to midnight on December 31st, and make resolutions– even though studies have shown again and again that we overwhelmingly stop following these resolutions by the end of January. But it seems that there is a power in newness, and a power in celebrating new beginnings, and though this power transcends any one religion or culture, it’s worth asking ourselves– why should, or could, New Years matter to us as Jews? How can we, as Jews, take advantage of what this unique holiday has to offer? We’re going to look at three answers to these questions today, and I’ll tell you before we even start– there are more than three answers. I’ll look forward to your reflections at kiddush lunch or beyond about why New Year’s is important to YOU, as a person and as a Jew– but hopefully, this will provide us with a good start. The first reason why newness, and specifically New Years, is so important is because by labeling something as “new”, it allos us to also label something else as “old”, and therefore easier to let go of. It can be incredibly freeing to say that who we were before is now old “old”, and no longer who we are– which then clears the way to identify who we DO want to be, moving forward. By societally agreeing that a specific second – Midnight on December 31st– will mark a change from the old to the new, we also communally give each other permission to reinvent ourselves, to reevaluate our priorities, and to redefine ourselves going forward. Being able to let go of past versions of ourselves is also important for us Jewishly. I’ve spoken in this space before about how one of our names for God is HaMavdil, the one who sanctifies transitions, and the transition from the old year to the New Year is one such holy moment. Transitioning from an old year to a new year allows us the opportunity to recommit to being the kind of Jews we want to be, and living the Jewish lives we want to live. Though Judaism does not formally encourage the writing of resolutions, we do indeed encourage one another to mark the passage of the year by annually trying again to become the people we know we should be. For example, before Rosh Hashanah, we bring conflicts into the open, resolve disputes and let go of anger, and forgive. But there is also the potential, at the secular New Years, for our Jewish values to also play a role in any resolutions we might want to make for this year. We can forgive ourselves for lapses in our observance from the past year, label those as “old”, and set new goals for this year. Perhaps we want to recommit to saying the Shema each night, or to volunteering on a committee, or to making challah for Shabbat. Perhaps we want to come to services once a month, or try a new level of observing kashrut. The arrival of New Year’s is a reminder, for both or secular and our spiritual selves, that we now have a chance, again, to try and live lives we are proud of. That’s reason number one about why New Years is so important: it allows us to let go of who we were, and focus on who we want to be. Reason two for why New Year’s is important to us as Jews is a bit more paradoxical, and it’s well illustrated by an example from our weekly Friday night Kabbalat Shabbat service. Every Friday at Kabbalat Shabbat, we sing through a series of psalms designed to get us into a Shabbat mindset, a mindset of rest, of praise, of gratitude– and a mindset of spiritual reset at the end of a week of regular life. שִׁ֣ירוּ לַ֭יהֹוָה שִׁ֣יר חָדָ֑שׁ שִׁ֥ירוּ לַ֝יהֹוָ֗ה כׇּל־הָאָֽרֶץ So begin several of the psalms of the Kabbalat Shabbat service. Sing a NEW song to Adonai, they tell us. Sing a NEW song, all of the Earth. And yet, this is a paradoxical thing to tell us to do, because it is with ancient words that we proclaim the importance of singing a new song. How are we supposed to make something new from something so old? Given that generations and generations have sung these exact same Hebrew words– shiru l’adonai shir chadash– the moral of the story can’t be that we need to literally rewrite the book of psalms to make it “new”. Rather, the psalms of Kabbalat Shabbat seem to be urging us, as individual Jews, to take true ownership of our spiritual experiences, to make it personal, to make living Jewishly new in a way that is both rooted in the old and uniquely ours, today, in 2026. This means that the arrival of New Year’s, a day to focus in on newness, is also important because it gives us the opportunity to ask ourselves not just which rituals or prayers or practices or observances we are ready to embrace this year, but also what do these rituals and words really MEAN to us? Are they really ours? Do they feel new? Are we doing enough to make them new, for ourselves, for our children? This is the second reason, then, why the New Year matters to us as Jews. Yes, New Years is an opportunity to let go of the old and aspire to something better– that was reason one– but it is also a charge and a challenge to take true ownership of our Judaism, to analyze why we do what we do, and what it means to us to find newness in the old. The oldness of Judaism is a beautiful and grounding thing. But New Years can remind us– if our Judaism never feels new to us, is it ever really ours? That is the second reason we’ll name today. For the third and final reason, we’ll pull a quote from the beginning of the Torah portion we just read: וַיְחִ֤י יַֽעֲקֹב֙ בְּאֶ֣רֶץ מִצְרַ֔יִם שְׁבַ֥ע עֶשְׂרֵ֖ה שָׁנָ֑ה וַיְהִ֤י יְמֵי־יַֽעֲקֹב֙ שְׁנֵ֣י חַיָּ֔יו שֶׁ֣בַע שָׁנִ֔ים וְאַרְבָּעִ֥ים וּמְאַ֖ת שָׁנָֽה: וַיִּקְרְב֣וּ יְמֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵל֘ לָמוּת֒ And Jacob lived in Egypt for 17 years. And the years of Jacob’s life numbered 147 years. And the time drew near for Israel to die. So. Our Torah LOVES counting and naming how long people live. Now, I don’t know what Methuselah was like as a person, or what he accomplished in his life, or whether he had a sense of humor, because our Torah didn’t record those details– but what our Torah DID record is that Methuselah lived to be 969. Noah lived to be 950, Enoch lived to be 365, and Moses lived to be 120. Sarah lived to be 127. The Rabbis agree that Rebekah died at 133, though the Torah does not mention a specific age. And there are many, many more examples of very specific ages that our tradition has preserved and passed down for generations. It’s not that any of these specific ages are of particular note– it’s the fact that our Torah makes a point of marking down how long people live, again and again, and reminding us of the finite time that each of us has on this planet. The fact that the numbers of the years our ancestors lived are not uniform is also significant: The Torah reminds us that even among our leaders and our most important teachers, there is not a guaranteed period we are given on this Earth. And, when we read these numbers, just like when we mark the passing of another year each December 31st, we can’t help but be reminded that just like our ancestors, we are also mortal. And just like them, we don’t live our lives knowing exactly how many times we will get to mark a new year, or a new chapter, or a new month, or even a new day. New Years is a reminder of our mortality. But of course, we also know that we can’t dwell on our mortality all of the time. We wouldn’t be able to function if we did that, and to celebrate the joy and beauty in this world, and the mystery of spirituality. We wouldn’t be able to do the malacha, the creative tasks that we need to do in this life, to be God’s partners in Creation, if we spent all of our time thinking about the fact that one day, there won’t be another New Year’s. One January first will be our last January first. One Rosh Hashanah will be our last Rosh Hashanah. And that’s OK. We have to be able to set our mortality aside, most of the time, in order to be able to truly live. But reading again and again the verses in the Torah that list the length of our ancestors’ lives, just like the arrival each year of January 1st, gives us a nudge, and gives us permission, to dwell for a second on our mortality, and to remember that the time we are given on this Earth is both finite and precious. So. If the first reason why New Years matters is because it allows us to let go of the old and start over, and the second reason why New Years matters is because it allows us to take true ownership of how we are living our lives, then the third reason why New Years matters is because it is a reminder that, like it or not, for better for worse, time is marching on, and it won’t march on forever. Some day, each of us will have completed our lives, and others will be able to attach a number to our years, just like our ancestors in the Torah. Each New Year’s is a reminder that time, no matter how we measure it, no matter which “new year” we are measuring, each measure of life has value, and the mystery and unknown about how many of those years each of us will get is important. Time moves on, so we had best make sure we are living the Jewish lives we want to be living, and owning our Judaism. So, as we move together into the year 2026 of the Common Era, here in the midst of the year 5786 on the Jewish Calendar, I’d like to offer us all a blessing: May this be a year of healing and of teamwork; Of friendship and of growth; A year of bravery, compassion, and wonder; A year of acceptance and gratitude. May this be a year where we practice poteach et yadecha, opening our hands to let go of the past; And in doing so, may our hands and hearts remain open to receiving the blessings and potential of the new year. May this be a year of laughter and of hope. And finally, may this be a year where we approach ourselves and each other with compassion and empathy as we recommit ourselves, yet again, to being the Jews, and the people, that this world needs us to be. Shabbat shalom, and Happy New Year.