Rabbi Rachel Simmons (they/she)
How to Contact Rabbi Simmons:
Rabbi Rachel A. Simmons was ordained at the Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies in Los Angeles, California, in spring 2022. From graduation until June 2025, they served as the associate rabbi of Congregation Har Shalom in Potomac, Maryland. As of July 2025, they serve as rabbi of Temple Beth El.
Originally hailing from Alexandria, Virginia, Rabbi Simmons completed her undergraduate studies in 2009 with a distinction of magna cum laude from the College of William and Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia, with a dual degree in linguistics and German studies. Following the completion of her BA, she spent several years of her living abroad in Germany, Austria, Costa Rica, and Israel. She speaks German and Spanish, plays guitar and piano, and prior to entering seminary, she worked as a preschool teacher at the DC Jewish Community Center.
Rabbi Simmons finds great joy in leading prayer, providing pastoral care, and developing personal connections to Jewish rituals. She believes it is crucial to identify core communal values and help each other live by them as an embodiment of the Jewish teaching "And you shall love your neighbor as yourself." (Leviticus 19:18)
In her free time, you can find Rabbi Simmons doing yoga, painting, reading sci-fi and fantasy novels, cooking, and hanging out with her two rescue cats, Kohelet and Galilee.
Rabbi Simmons' Selected Writings
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.
Sermon given December 27, 2025 In Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare famously points out to us that that which we call a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet. If you’ll indulge the playful linguist in me for a second, on the one hand, Shakespeare had it right. A “ro-se” is just a set of sounds we have assigned to a specific flower. We could have just as easily called it a bloopty-bloop or a foghorn, right? Names, at the end of the day, are just words, which are just sounds we make, and sounds have their limits in utility and specificity. Shakespeare loved playing with words and names, loved using them to point out patterns and jokes and hypocrisy, reflecting the futility and the fun of language back at the audience, making us think about the sounds we assign to each other and to objects and feelings in this world. This is how we get tongue twisters-- like, “there’s an enemy anemone in the olive oil aisle”-- and this is how we get nonsense words like humbug and balderdash. Another fun thing we humans do with sounds is assign specific sounds to the other humans around us, sounds like Bob and Rabbi and Jaqueline and Rufus and spouse and Jew and Gentile and Tabitha. And that’s just the ENGLISH words and sounds and names that we know. When, as American Jews, we add in the significance of our Hebrew names and titles and liturgy to the discussion, everything becomes even MORE complex and interesting. It’s not just that we Jews love words-- though we do. It’s that so much of who we are, so much of our identity, is bound up in these words and in the sanctity and power of their many layers of meaning. The kabbalists developed the concept of PARDES, interpreting each word of Torah as having multiple potential levels, the Pshat, Remez, Drash, and Sod-- that is, as its basic meaning, its hint, its midrashic meaning, and finally its secret, esoteric, mysterious meaning. Through this lens of Pardes, every word in the Torah has been given to us with great intent and significance. There’s literally no chance of any given word being “just” a word for us. Similarly, there’s no chance of a name being “just” a name. Yosef is an “Additional” son. “Yitzchak” brought laughter. “Adam” is red like the Earth. Names, for us, aren’t just sounds-- they offer layers of meaning. It’s a beautiful thing, when I sit with Jewish parents who are trying to find just the right Hebrew name to bestow upon their new child, and they say things like “we’d like a name that embodies joy, and bravery, and hope-- things we want her to bring to the world”, or “they’re being named after their uncle, who was so curious and loved to learn-- what name captures that feeling?” And this power behind Jewish names is clear from the beginning of the sacred story told in the Torah. Adam HaRishon, the first human, is invited into this sacred word-process and given an important task at the very beginning of Genesis-- naming each animal on Earth, assigning titles to the life God has created. This power of naming is also symbolic because it cements humanity’s role as God’s partners in ruling over the rest of life. That’s because bestowing a name also includes within it a sense of a responsibility and knowledge of the individual receiving the name. As we just mentioned, this naming power is also mirrored in every parent’s job of gifting a name to their children, and for us Jews, building into that name the names of ancestors who have passed away-- a unique and beautiful tradition that means that that when Jews are called to the Torah, we go up accompanied by and carrying the sacred names of our ancestors. Many converts symbolically take the names Avraham v’Sarah for this precise reason-- words and names have power and bind us to others in our tradition and signify belonging. But all of these examples are also starting to dance around the limits of names, and the challenge of names, and the gray area between the names we are given, the names we choose, and what it means to navigate the different parts of our own identities. There are limits to how well a new parent can know their brand-new child, for example. We also can’t know ahead of time what’s going to happen to us in our lives, and what new names or titles might come our way. Romeo and Juliet were challenged by their names, because the names assigned to them by their families also represented two warring factions. But they loved each other, and so their names, mired in conflict, did not suit them. And they rejected those names for that reason, though they could not reject who they were or where they came from. But there are many other situations in real life where we may, indeed, choose to change our names, whether our English names or our Hebrew names. Perhaps we realize as we grow that the identity given to us by our family and society isn’t an accurate representation of who we are. Perhaps we marry someone and want to build a new family with them, and want to share their name or choose a new one together. Perhaps we go through an illness that changes our outlook so intensely that we add a name to how we are called to the Torah, or perhaps we go to rabbinical school or cantorial school and our name is similarly augmented, permanently. No matter the reason, chosen names matter too, just like given names matter. And because both kinds of names matter, we each have the power to commit to affirming and embracing each others’ names, because to do so is to honor all of the aspects of that person as they see them: the entire pardes-- the basic meaning, the suggested meaning, the more complex and interpretative meaning, and then the deepest, secretive meaning, the one we are not all privy to. Not respecting, and not honoring, a person’s chosen name, or a movement’s chosen name, or a community’s chosen name, is tantamount to rejecting that person, or that community’s, sense of self. Which brings us back to our Torah, and to the role of names in our Torah. We know that as humans, we already give each other names with lots of meanings and complexity. So what are we supposed to do when an Angel, or when God, God’s self, swoops in and informs us that our name has suddenly changed-- or that we suddenly have an additional name or title? What does our Torah teach us about reconciling the different parts and names we carry? For our ancestors, this isn’t a theoretical question-- it happens several times in our Torah. Famously, God changes Abram and Sarai’s names to Abraham and Sarah, transforming them into the patriarch and matriarch of our people. This name shift isn’t one they discover or choose themselves, but it is indeed one that they embrace in the new chapter of their lives as they leave behind both the home they have always known and the names they have always carried. A few weeks ago in parashat Lech Lecha, in Genesis 17:4, God explains that the establishment of the Covenant and the changing of Abram and Sarai’s names go hand in hand, quote, “This is my covenant with you: I will make you the father of a multitude of nations! What’s more, I am changing your name. It will no longer be Abram. Instead, you will be called Abraham, for you will be the father of many nations.” There we go. Pretty straightforward. Abraham’s role in our people’s history is bound into the name he is given. Similarly- but not identically, several weeks ago in Parashat Vayishlach, our patriarch Jacob wrestled with an angel on the way to meet his brother Esau. For his struggles, Jacob demands a blessing, and is given the name Israel. In Genesis 32: 28, we read that, quote, ““Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you have struggled with God and with humans and have overcome.” Israel-- the one who struggles with God--has become a word synonymous with our people, with the Jewish love for learning, for growing, for pushing each other to become ever-better versions of ourselves. Our identity has become bound into the name our patriarch was given. However, while both of these name changes--- Abram to Abraham, and Jacob to Israel-- were significant for our people’s story, they meant widely different things for the two men they most affected. Our commentator Sforno points out that in regards to the change from Abram to Abraham, the shift was complete, permanent, and instant, quote ““the significance of this name change will commence as of this day.” From then on, in our Scripture, Abram is only referred to as Abraham, and we see no evidence that this shift poses a hardship for him. However, in contrast, Sforno points out that when Jacob was accorded the name Israel,, quote, “That name (Israel) was an additional name which did not replace his original name, Jacob.” This dual identity is borne out in the subsequent verses and chapters, where we see our text utilizing in some moments the name Yaakov to refer to Jacob, and in others the word Yisrael- sometimes going back and forth within the same narrative structure. Unlike Abraham, who sheds his Abram identity completely to move forward, Jacob-- no, Yaakov-- no, Yisrael-- embodies the conflict of the multiple identities within him. He does indeed move forward, but he does so as a divided person, as a person in the throes of ongoing self-reflection. We then approach this week’s Torah portion, Vayigash. Vayigash brings us the moment, finally, where we see Jacob’s multiple identities crash together as the story arc of his son, Joseph, nears its conclusion. In parashat Vayigash, Jacob is older, broken, and uncertain. He barely resembles the man who bravely wrestled an angel. Instead, he clings to his youngest son, Benjamin, with a love that has grown unhealthy and fearful. In the face of years of pain at the loss of his beloved son Joseph, Jacob has dug his heels in and is too scared to part from Benjamin at any cost. In Genesis 44:30, the Torah explains that “Jacob’s soul was bound to Benjamin’s soul”, but it is clear that this connection had reached an injurious level. Jacob keeps Benjamin close to him, refusing to let the young man live his own life for fear of losing him. The Jacob we see in the beginning of Vayigash struggles with inner demons, unable to fulfill his role as father, family leader, or man of God. And throughout this chapter of life, he bears the name “Jacob”, as he had before wrestling with God. He bears the name of a brother who stole a birthright, of a young man who could not communicate effectively or own up to his own actions. But suddenly, in this week’s torah portion, a momentous shift takes place both in Jacob’s mental state and in his identity. Quote, “And they, Joseph’s brothers, told him (Jacob) all the words of Joseph, which he had said unto them: and when he saw the wagons which Joseph had sent to carry him, the spirit of Jacob their father revived. And Israel said, It is enough; Joseph my son is yet alive: I will go and see him before I die.” Did you hear that? In the space of a sentence, Jacob’s name changed. The spirit of Jacob their father revived. And Israel said: it is enough. In a matter of a moment, Jacob’s name changes once again. The Israel identity, which was hidden deep within Jacob, was brought forth in that moment, replacing someone who felt helpless with someone who saw a path forward. Jacob saw hope again, and became Israel, again. And by wrestling with that part of himself, Jacob finds peace. Interestingly, this time, no angel was needed to bequeath a new name upon Israel; he simply needed to choose to embrace who he was, and choose a path forward, instead of remaining stuck in a cycle of despair. Along the way, he listened to his children, listened to the world around him, and listened to his own heart. He looked within himself and he found, again, the part of his identity that he needed to embrace in the next chapter, and in doing so, he modeled for us both the importance, and the limits, of names. Jacob was Israel throughout our entire parashah, but he did not embrace it until that one moment, when he looked at his sons and said: It is enough. So. What’s in a name? Our tradition offers us several different models here of how to approach facing the arrival of a new identity: that of Abraham, who attempts to move forward fully embracing his new self, and that of Jacob, whose discontent seems to supersede any name he is given. We also should not forget Sarah’s example--- Sarah, whose personal experience of name change our tradition leaves largely unexamined. Like most women throughout history, her own name was subsumed into the dreams and stories of the men around her-- but the fact that her name had to change, too, from Sarai to Sarah, means she is far more than just a supporting character in Abraham’s story. Her identity mattered, too. And therefore, her identity had to change, too. But it is Jacob’s conflicted identity, torn between Yisrael and Ya’akov, that I want to leave us with today, as a seed to consider as we move about our own lives and examine the different parts of our ownselves. As Jews and Americans, as Mainers and from-away-ers, as human beings, we also carry multiple identities. Each of us, as we sit here in this room today, as we watch online, as we are called to the Torah, as we chat on the internet using different aliases and nicknames, as we navigate personal and professional titles-- each of us, as we navigate the names we are given and the names we choose, the names we run from and the names we embrace-- each of us has the opportunity to take note of Jacob’s example, of Yaakov’s example, and of Yisrael’s example, at the same time. Wrestling with our identity does not mean we do not know who we are-- to the contrary. Like we see with our patriarch Jacob, there can be a deep holiness in the discernment process of figuring out who we really are, in our own time. A name is a gift, a hope, a label- but Jacob’s story reminds us that nobody-- no parent, not even an angel-- can dictate which names will speak most clearly to each human heart. That is something we each get to do, individually, and we get to support each other on that journey of discovery. So. What’s in a name? A whole lot. The good news is that we can commit, together, to making this the sort of sacred space where our entire selves are welcome and celebrated. Shabbat shalom.
Sermon given December 13, 2025 The concept of L’Dor Va’dor, passing our values from generation to generation, runs very deep in Judaism. Saying that it runs deep feels like quite the understatement, even. Passing down everything from rituals to values to tefillin to names to recipes… this spirit of “l’dor va’dor” ensures that the chain of Jewish life and learning never breaks. This year, L’dor va’dor is the theme of KBE, our religious school. The kids are exploring their family trees, learning about their personal ancestors, and also learning about where we as modern Jews collectively fit on the ancient family tree of our people, that started back with either Abraham or Adam and Eve, depending on how you look at it. The last few weeks, we’ve also been talking in services about what gets passed down from generation to generation, albeit through a different lens. In the stories we’ve focused in on, about Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebecca, and now Jacob, Leah, Rachel, and their sons, many important things are shared l’dor va’dor– specifically, a relationship to God, and a sense of obligation and responsibility for future generations. Each of these sets of parents passed along to their children how important it was to continue being connected to God and to try and live godly lives. But that’s not all that was passed down, of course. As we’ve been talking about the last few Shabbatot, intergenerational trauma also got passed down. Favoritism, spite, and jealousy also got passed down. Sibling rivalries got passed down. Last week we talked again about Jacob and Esau finally making peace after immense discord which all started when their parents pitted them against one another– but then what do we see this week? We see that very same Jacob doting and fawning all over one of his sons, Joseph, causing yet another generation of jealous siblings to cause trouble. This, too, is an example of something being passed down l’dor va’dor– but something damaging, instead of holy. None of this, I think, is what our tradition is hoping for when we invoke the concept of “l’dor va’dor”. And yet, if we focus in on these imperfections, it can actually make our ancestors even more relatable, and even more real, to us. Because for us as modern Jews, we are also human, and we also pass both the good and the bad to the next generation, l’dor va’dor. We’re both trying to pass down the awesome stuff about being Jewish, the rituals we love, and the responsibility we feel to those who went before us, and those after us– but we also, unintentionally, pass along our own intergenerational traumas, fears, guilts, and even prejudices to our children. For example: A grandchild might refuse to try attending a specific shul because her grandfather had a negative experience at the shul 60 years ago and has been badmouthing the congregation ever since. Ever heard of something like that happening? Or how about: In response to a natural question from a child about the different denominations and what they mean, an adult Jew might perpetuate negative and oversimplified stereotypes, saying that Conservative Jews are in the middle and don’t really take a stand on anything, Reform Jews only really talk about Tikkun Olam, Orthodox Jews don’t give rights to women, and so on. And sometimes, we also pass along fears bred of very real dangers we have faced in our own lives. We might reactively urge our children to avoid certain neighborhoods or wearing certain clothing, or to hide their magen david necklaces when there is an antisemitic attack in the news– even if it didn’t happen nearby. We might advise them not to share that they are Jewish immediately if they meet new people. Ever heard of parents saying these things? The list goes on and on. And when we do each of these things, we are transmitting our values and our fears, l’dor va’dor. We are transmitting our pride and our pain. We are transmitting our accomplishments and our losses. And we are transmitting our shared and ongoing vulnerability in a world that has hurt our people many times. Transmitting these things is neither good nor bad– it just is a natural part of being in a community like ours. But especially when we talk about the uncomfortable and painful topics, it behooves Jewish adults to acknowledge the power of the choices we make, and the words we use, and the rituals we observe, on the next generation. One of the most painful things about being a rabbi is when I talk to the kids and teens about antisemitism. I tell them that I wish more than anything that I could give them a world without Jew Hatred in it; that I could promise that they would be safe outside of the walls of the synagogue. For parents and grandparents, too, this is one of the most painful conversations we have to have with our kids. L’dor va’dor, we are their role models and guides as they come to the realization that there are places in this world and people in this world that are safe for us as Jews, and people and places in this world that are not safe for us as Jews. From us, the next generation learns about how precious it is to have safe Jewish spaces that nurture the Jewish spark within each of us, and how to walk the line, the blurry boundary, between what it means to be a Jew here, at Temple Beth El, and what it means to be a Jew outside of these walls, in a world where antisemitism is a real and scary thing. I’d be willing to bet that for many of us here today, we feel a palpable difference right now between when we are inside these walls, with this congregation, and what we feel most other places. The specifics of the many lives we each lead might be different, but there is a common anchor, here, in the Jewish communal life that we have built together. Here, just being in the presence of other Jews– Here, inside these solid walls, built with Jewish love and vision– Here, where we do not have to defend or explain our right to be who we are openly, and proudly, and without caveat– Here, where we are surrounded by others who know, when Antisemitism veers its ugly head, that we will have each others’ backs, no matter what, and that love and support are things we will never take for granted. Here, shevet achim gam yachad. Here, we are all family, sitting together, bound by a common fate and purpose. The beauty of this space is something we must commit to transmitting, l’dor va’dor. In a time when it feels like so many others in the world are not able to hold space for the trauma and grief the Jewish people are experiencing– or worse, when some are denying us dignity, and denying us safety– it makes sense that entering this building might feel like a sigh of relief, or like finally getting to relax a little. When politicians casually dismiss Jewish agency and safety, when graffiti haunts our neighborhoods, when our kids find swastikas at school– this is a place we can come to step away from that pain, and find strength in each other and our tradition. Navigating the boundary between the Jewish life we live publicly and the Jewish life we live privately has always been a delicate balance, but it has gotten even more challenging since October 7, and then during the ensuing War. Antisemitic incidents have spiked in the United States, with some happening here in Maine. I’ve spoken with several KBE parents who are wrestling with how to approach discussing antisemitism and safety with their kids. Especially with Hanukkah approaching next week, the question of how to navigate our public and private Jewish lives is coming to a head. For some of us, being more visibly and outwardly identifiable as Jewish right now is an act of strength and protest and love, a statement of solidarity with our ancestors who also sought light in the darkness. For others among us, the opposite is true– it hasn’t felt safe, for some of us, to wear outwardly Jewish symbols or to put up signs in our yards, and the thought of having a Hanukkiah in our window may sound scary. And I want to name that this is OK, and that both of these stances have been felt by Jews throughout history. This isn’t the first time we Jews have felt such concerns. Historically, there have been numerous situations over the centuries where being visibly outwardly identifiable as Jewish was dangerous or stressful. Generations of Jews before us have also found themselves having to make difficult decisions about kippot, mezuzot, menorot, and other visible Jewish identifiers. In celebrating Hanukkah, we light a menorah. But how publicly should we display it, the rabbis ask? Do we put the menorah where everyone can see it, loud and proud? Or do we keep it inside where it’s less obvious and perhaps safer? And the answer is: Yes. The answer is, yes, either of these options is valid, depending on the circumstances and depending on safety. Because of course, of COURSE, it’s a mitzvah to be proudly Jewish. Arukh HaShulchan says: מעיקר הדין מדליקין בפתח הסמוך לרשות הרבים The best option is for us to light the menorah by the doorway, as close to public view as possible. But, says the Shulchan Aruch: ובשעת הסכנה שאינו רשאי לקים המצוה מניחו על שלחנו ודיו In an hour of danger, when you can’t fulfill the mitzvah (by putting the menorah outside), place it on the table inside and that is enough. Enough. What a powerful word, and a powerful reminder. Sometimes, especially if we are talking about in times we feel fear, it is OK to just do enough, and not to do the ideal. Sometimes, it is OK to be enough, and it is OK if that is a value we teach to our children, too. The last thing we need to be doing is beating ourselves up for being Jewish in a way that makes us comfortable, or for taking care of our very real concerns about safety in a world where antisemitism is again on the rise. The level of comfort each of us feels in being publicly Jewish right now is going to vary based on a wide variety of factors. The face we are showing to the rest of the world is going to vary widely. But our tradition is big enough and wise enough to reassure is that this is OK, and that we don’t need to beat ourselves up for taking the route of safety in extenuating circumstances. It’s OK– As long as, within this communal Jewish life we share, our commitment to each other remains strong, and our support of each other does not waiver. It’s OK, to prioritize self-care and not fight every single individual fight that is out there with every single individual wrong person on your Facebook Feed. As long as, within this communal Jewish life we share, we are clear that our health and safety as Jews are non-negotiable, and that we will donate whatever resources we can to supporting Am Yisrael around the world. Interestingly, TBE has a public and a private life, too– publicly, we are the Conservative shul in southern Maine, we have a park that neighborhood kids play in, we host speakers and events, we run food drives. But the world at large, the world outside, doesn’t get to see and feel the private life of Temple Beth El. The outside world doesn’t get to share in the same safety and Jewish solidarity that we feel when we are together, that same sigh of relief when we come through those doors. They aren’t privy to the vulnerable, emotional conversations that have been happening since October 7, that take place in our Israel: Hard Conversations class, or to the uniquely Jewish pain that we feel when faced with antisemitic chants and publications and graffiti. They don’t get to feel the same primal power of dancing with Torah scrolls, of immersing in the mikveh, of the sweet smell of b’samim. That life, that life we live together, is ours. And making sure we celebrate that life in whatever way feels authentic to us is more important than ever. As we prepare to light the candles this Hanukkah season, I offer the kavvanah, the intention, of l’dor va’dor. Hanukkah gives us an opportunity to re-examine and re-affirm the messages about who we are that we transmit to ourselves and to others. So- What values are we transmitting by lighting the candles? What does it mean to us to be part of this ancient chain? What does it mean to us to put the menorah on the window, or at the door- or on the table? What does it mean to us to prioritize our schedules to allow us to come together as a community for an epic Hanukkah party? And what does it mean to us to intentionally invite our neighbors, interfaith partners, and non-Jewish elected officials into this space for that party, too, sharing in our Jewish identity with them? No matter how you choose to celebrate, you are part of the chain. We are each others’ teachers, and each others’ guardians and keepers, and we are each helping shape what the future of Judaism will look like. L’dor va’dor, nagid godlekha. From generation to generation, we will talk of Your power, and embrace our role in the sacred chain. Shabbat shalom.
Sermon given December 6, 2025 Two weeks ago, I stood on this bimah and shared with you a story about a potato, an egg, and a knife. Now, I know not everyone was here that week, and I know that even for those of us who were here, a refresher can be helpful, so here’s the long and the short version: Each of these items was exposed to the same substance-- boiling water-- and each was affected in a different way. The potato went from firm to soft, the egg went from soft to firm, and the knife, though visibly and texturally unchanged, emerged kasher. This story, we said, could also be read as a metaphor for living a life of Torah. Being immersed in Torah, like being immersed in boiling water, can affect different people, and different moments, in different ways, making us stronger, or more vulnerable, or more holy. We concluded that, to an extent, we can choose to what level we let Torah transform us, and what lessons we take from it. Two weeks ago, we also looked at the stories of Rebekah and Isaac and their embattled sons Jacob and Esau. We talked about the metaphorical boiled water they were placed in-- about the prophecy God gave Rebekah before Jacob and Esau were born, predicting that the younger son would rule over the older son-- and then we examined the choices that each character made, independent of the prophecy, that affected the story’s outcome. What we discovered was that even though Jacob and Esau didn’t get to choose the unhealthy family dynamics they were raised in, or the prophecy their parents were given, they did get to choose how they would act when they met again as adults years later. And in this week’s Torah portion, Vayishlach, we get to zoom in on the end of that story, to zoom in on that moment of choice, and see that transformation and sanctification play out in front of us. The scene in today’s Parashah opens with Jacob, nervous at the prospect of seeing his brother Esau again, the brother whom he had wronged years ago. Jacob is clearly still carrying years-old guilt with him over the incident, and is preparing to humble himself before his brother. He sends messengers and gifts ahead of him-- a first volley of communication, in which he names himself his brother’s servant, and states his desire for reconciliation. He says that he hopes that his apology will be met with chen, with grace, by Esau. Upon learning, however, that his brother is approaching with a small army in tow, Jacob’s nerves turn to panic. Frantically, he makes the decision to split his family and flocks in half, putting one portion closer to Esau’s troops than the other in the hopes that if Esau attacks, as Jacob apparently thinks is a real possibility, perhaps at least a portion of Jacob’s entourage might escape alive. In his panic, Jacob also reaches out to God, praying, reminding God of God’s promises of protection, and supplicating himself, saying: קָטֹ֜נְתִּי מִכֹּ֤ל הַֽחֲסָדִים֙ וּמִכָּל־הָ֣אֱמֶ֔ת אֲשֶׁ֥ר עָשִׂ֖יתָ אֶת־עַבְדֶּ֑ךָ …וְעַתָּ֥ה הָיִ֖יתִי לִשְׁנֵ֥י מַֽחֲנֽוֹת: “O God, I have become small-- I have become humbled-- from all of the goodness and truth you have done with me, your servant…. And now, I have become two camps.” God, he says, help me. I have become two camps. From our perspective today, with the whole Torah in front of us, we know how Jacob and Esau’s story ends. We know how it plays out. We know that Esau isn’t going to attack, and that in the end, the two brothers will reconcile and will bring their best selves to that crucial moment, embracing each other, weeping. But in that moment of truth at the beginning of our Parashah today, Jacob himself doesn't have the benefit of foresight. He doesn’t know how it’s all going to play out. All he knows is that he feels, both emotionally and in a very literal physical way, split in two. He is torn. Literally and physically, he has split his family and herds into two groups, two camps, and one camp is more vulnerable, out in front, ready to face whatever is coming-- while the other is holding back, keeping at a safer distance, watching, waiting, protecting itself against a worst-case scenario. Emotionally, he has become two camps in the sense that part of him wants to reconcile with his brother, and part of him is scared and defensive. Part of him, the first camp, wants to trust in goodness, trust in forgiveness, trust in mercy, and trust in what God has promised for him. That part is ready to be vulnerable. And the other part, the second camp, still holds the pain of his past mistakes, the voice that keeps piping up inside of him and saying “maybe this will all crash and burn.” That part is ready to cut his losses and run. Have any of you ever had the experience of feeling like this? Of feeling like you, inside of your own head, inside of your own heart, have become two camps instead of one? How many moments have we all had in life where we stood at a tipping point, a point of change, where we had multiple voices inside of ourselves, and we weren’t sure which voice to listen to? If you think back, this isn’t the first time that we have seen Jacob at a crossroads like this, with a significant choice in front of him. Following his betrayal of his brother Esau and his theft of his father’s blessing, Jacob has a choice-- do I stay, and own up to what I did, or do I run away? And what does he do? He runs away. He doesn’t stay to face the music. Later in life, after Jacob has grown and wandered and met Laban, been tricked into a marriage he didn’t intend to enter into, worked for years for his father-in-law and felt mistreated throughout, he also has a choice of how to respond: to raise the issue, to call Laban out, or to run away. And what choice does he make? He runs away again! And now, this week, we see Jacob, yet again, facing a crucial choice, and feeling torn. “I am two camps”, he cries out plaintively to God. But something is different, this time. Something allows Jacob to stand his ground, instead of running, enables him to own up to his past mistakes. Something allows him to say: this time, I will choose the path that leads, at least, to the possibility of peace. This time, I choose the path with the greater possibility for love, and connection. Somewhere in these precious few verses, a third voice-- perhaps, the still small voice inside of Jacob-- begins to speak. And this still, small voice says: “Hey, that Jacob you were before, maybe that’s not who you want to be anymore. Maybe this time, let’s try acting like the Jacob you want to be.” And that brave and habit-breaking decision changes Jacob’s life, and changes our people’s story, for the better. I love that we get to see this growth, this character arc as it were, for one of our greatest patriarchs. I love that in today’s story, we get to see Jacob embodying and role modeling one of the most beautiful and crucial and difficult parts of being a human, and frankly, being a Jew: he learns. He grows. He apologizes. He makes teshuvah. He stops running from his past, and instead starts running towards his future. So. I ask us all, here, today: What are we, in our hearts, still running from? What might we perhaps want to run towards, instead? Because, this story could apply to all kinds of situations in our personal and communal lives, to our relationships. The divisions in this story can apply to us as individual people, and they can apply to us collectively, as Jews. The Ramban asserts that the situation facing Jacob in this week’s parashah, and his decision to split himself into two camps, one at greater risk and the other ready to flee, plays out metaphorically throughout the history of the Jewish people. He writes, “Our Rabbis… saw that this chapter alludes also to the future generations [of our people].” That is to say that, just as Jacob splits himself in two, so too the Jewish people would go on to split ourselves: some of us would stay in Eretz Yisrael and face a multitude of dangers in order to be in the Promised Land, and others leave, journeying into the Diaspora, surviving at a distance. Inevitable tensions, both political and cultural, have erupted from this distance, from this split existence. In some ways, in the Diaspora, modern Jewish life and culture is richer and more full of possibility than ever before-- and in other ways, as a result of us being spread out around the globe, a unified sense of Jewish identity might be more challenging to feel than ever before. This is to say nothing of the deeply polarizing and widely varied opinions and stances among Jews ourselves relating to Zionism, Gaza, the West Bank and settlers, and more. We, like Jacob, have divided into camps. And those divisions keep multiplying-- Orthodox and liberal, egalitarian and non-egalitarian, one-State and two-State solutions, the list goes on. We can’t even agree on who counts as a Jew in specific situations. We are divided. We all share a common past, but we aren’t sure what the future is that we want to move towards, together. And just like it was for Jacob, in that moment of truth on the road, it might be nerve-wracking for us at this moment in our history, or even scary, to think about possible outcomes for the Jewish people, should our divisions only deepen over time, and should the distance between our camps only become farther and farther apart. So where is our still, small voice? Where is the voice that isn’t telling us to stand our ground-- and isn’t telling us to run-- but is instead encouraging us as a people, and telling us to work towards becoming the best version of ourselves that we can be? I don’t honestly know. But. Thanks to Jacob and Esau, I have hope. Thanks to Jacob and Esau, I know that our people has faced deep, deep divisions before, and we have come out of the other side renewed. I have hope that, following Jacob and Esau’s example, our people will learn from our past decisions, the good and the bad, and learn from everything we have gained over our decades spread across the globe, at a distance from one another. I have hope that we will never lose sight of the past that binds us together, of our common roots and our common bond. I have hope that, just like Jacob and Esau, we are moving closer and closer to a day of reconciliation, whatever that reconciliation might look like: that one day, on a desert road, the camps of our people will choose courage, and choose peace: that we will meet, and embrace, and move forward, together, supporting and celebrating one another, as family. Shabbat shalom.
Sermon given November 22, 2025 Shabbat shalom, everybody. Once upon a time a daughter complained to her mother that life wasn’t fair. “I feel like I can’t control anything”, she said. Her mother, a chef, didn’t say anything. Instead, she took her out to the kitchen. She took three identical pots, filled them each with the same amount of water, and brought the water to a boil over the fire. Into the first pot, her mother dropped a raw potato. Into the second pot, her mother delicately placed a raw egg. And into the final pot, she slipped a steel chopping knife. A few minutes later, her mother carefully took the pots off of the fire. She put the egg and the potato on a plate and handed it all to her daughter. She took out the knife and lay it on the table. Then she asked, “Daughter, what do you see?” “I see a potato, an egg, and a knife” the daughter replied. “Look closer” her mother said, “and touch the potato.” The daughter did and she noticed that even though the potato had started out hard, in the boiling water it had become soft and mushy. She then touched the egg and noticed that though it had once been fragile, in the boiling water it had become hard and strong. “You see?” said the mother. “The same boiling water affected the potato and the egg in different ways. Life is like the boiling water: It is what we are given. We can’t control where we are born or what we are taught as young children. But we can sometimes influence how we respond to what life gives us-- what we do with the experiences life offers. We can choose, sometimes, whether we want to grow softer, like the potato, or harder, like the egg. “I understand, mother”, said the daughter. “But what about the knife? It is just as hard, and just as sharp, right now, as before it went into the boiling water. It didn’t change, like the potato or egg. ” “Ah”, said the mother. “But the boiling water DID change the knife. The knife is now kasher.” Now. On a basic level, for the purposes of this drash, Torah is like the boiling water in the story. Torah is given to us, as Jews. Torah also impacts ours lives in many ways: it is our sometimes confusing, sometimes frustrating guide; it is our font of spiritual nourishment; and it is an ongoing, mysterious, powerful source for inspiration and change and wrestling. And, just like the boiling water, which causes the potato to soften, the egg to harden, and the knife to become mysteriously kosher again, the Torah can influence different people, different situations, and different moments differently. Two Jews can interpret the same Jewish lessons or Torah stories in very different ways, ending up on different sides of the political or halachic spectrum. And yet-- even with all of our differences-- the boiling water that is Torah remains the same for all of us. The question is: To what extent, and in what fashion, do we let the sacred words of Torah mold us, shape us, influence us, and guide us in the world? How do we know when we are supposed to stand our ground, to dig in our heels, to strengthen ourselves like that egg in the boiling water, to stick to our guns, to hold the line? How do we know when we are supposed to soak in the Torah and let it soften us and make us malleable and vulnerable, like the potato, make us more open? How do we know when we’re supposed to sit with the Torah and let it transform us together into something arguably even more wonderful than we were before, like the coffee, let it help us grow? And how do we know when we are supposed to be transformed on a spiritual level, not on a physical level, like the knife: to surrender to the power of faith, and the knowledge that while we may not understand everything about the Torah, following its lessons makes us holy, makes us kasher, like that knife, and that this holiness is, in and of itself, worth it? These are questions at the core of our theology, as a people who value both our sacred and ancient traditions and wanting to exist honestly in the modern world. These questions provide the basis for why we have such a variety of belief and practice within any Jewish community, to say nothing of our various denominational differences. And they are also questions that pulse throughout the stories in our Torah. The story in today’s Torah portion about Isaac and Rebekah’s sons is no exception. Jacob and Esau, as far as siblings go, are famous. Or perhaps more accurately, they are infamous. Theirs is a story of brotherly conflict: Like almost all of our biblical family stories, it’s a masterclass in how not to communicate and how not to build healthy relationships. It’s also a fantastic example, over time, of watching how one family evolves in their relationship to the world around them, and begins to take ownership over the choices they are making. Now, whenever I read this story, I also always end up thinking something like “Wait a minute. Didn’t God set this all up? Didn’t God predetermine the entire mess before the boys were even born? Did they actually have any hope at all of NOT turning out this way?” Because, to quote, in Genesis 25, verse 23, after Rebekah has reached out to God because she is suffering through a difficult pregnancy, God says: שְׁנֵ֤י () [גוֹיִם֙] בְּבִטְנֵ֔ךְ “Two nations are in your womb, and two kingdoms will separate from you, and one kingdom will become mightier than the other, and the elder will serve the younger.” See? There! Like I was saying! God knew, right? It was all foretold, it was all fate. Jacob had to plot for the birthright. There was clearly no other option. Jacob had to let life harden him. ……or did he? In the subsequent verses, we read about the boys’ birth, about their complexions, about their talents-- and then, we read that the parents do not love them equally. Isaac loves Esau (though our commentator Sforno reassures us he also loved Jacob, just that our text omits this). Rebekah, on the other hand, clearly favors Jacob (our commentator Chizkuni tells us that Jacob took care of Rebekah’s animals, and it is the way of women to love those who take care of domesticated animals). Ok. Good to know. It’s clear that affections weren’t shared equally among the brothers. Favoring and favoritism were happening. Now, how much of this favoring was preordained because of what God said while Rebekah was pregnant, and how much was the choice of the parents? We don’t know, we really don’t. One could make the argument that Rebekah was strategically favoring Jacob because she believed that he would be the more important son later on in life. Or that she was, piously, trying to bring God’s words into fruition. Or, perhaps, she honestly didn’t think about God’s prediction much, ‘cause she had her hands full with two twin babies, and she just genuinely had a special connection with Jacob, and Isaac, a special connection with Esau. We don’t know. All we know is what is reported to us: that they clearly and openly favored one child over the other, and developed imbalanced relationships that were clearly seen by the children themselves. But the important thing to note is that these somewhat twisted relationships, and their nuances, were not actually in the prediction foretold by God. All God said was that there would be a difference in power between the two children struggling in Rebekah’s womb. Later in our parashah, we see the fateful interaction between Esau and Jacob, where Jacob withholds food from his hungry brother until his brother swears away his birthright. Which begs the questions-- Why in the world would Esau take such an oath-- his birthright!-- so lightly? Alternately, if he was truly on death’s door, and food was being withheld, would an oath extracted under such duress even count? Besides, hadn’t Rebekah and Isaac taught their sons ANYTHING about their responsibilities to each other and to the family? It sure doesn’t seem like it. This was every son for himself-- and this drama was in no way contained within God’s prediction for the brothers. The specifics were all on them. We can only imagine what deeply ingrained wounds and bitterness must have already festered between the siblings-- for a long time-- in order for Jacob to torment his brother with a bowl of lentils. But the story isn’t over. Because, when Jacob has completed his subterfuge and received the blessing meant for his brother, their father Isaac continues to make inexplicably damaging choices. For some reason, Isaac couldn’t find it in him to give Esau a wholehearted and positive blessing, albeit a different one than he had originally intended. Isaac could not find it within himself to give a blessing of love, of hope, of reconciliation. As a final layer of pain, Isaac and Rebekah then make the choice to send Jacob away in fear, instead of working to heal the wrong that had been done within their family. Why did they choose to encourage distance instead of communication? Why couldn’t they own the poisonous atmosphere they themselves had contributed to, and try to fix it? Why did they take a painful promise and make it so much worse than it had to be? Again and again, in this week’s parashah, we see our ancestors making imperfect human decisions that don’t foster unity, that don’t strengthen the family, and that don’t promote communication and peace. They chose to be hardened by life, instead of being transformed by it and made holier by it. They chose to be the egg, not the potato- and certainly not the knife. The tantalizing flipside, though, is this: What would it have looked like if Isaac and Rebekah had chosen to approach God’s prediction about their twins differently? What would have happened if they had chosen to interpret and react to God’s prediction from a different angle, from an angle of connection, and softening, and vulnerability, instead of with favoritism and hardened hearts? What if they had risen to meet the challenge of God’s painful prediction as a team instead of pitting each other against one another? We can’t know for sure. And yet, I can’t believe that we were created to sit back and simply take what life gives us, to not try to better ourselves, to not try to work for the ideals that our Torah so values. Jacob and Esau didn’t choose to be born as twins into a family that had received that challenging prophecy. They didn’t choose to have parents who developed biased relationships with them, rife with favoritism, and who didn’t ingrain in them the values and practices that might have led to a different outcome. That prophecy, and that family, is one they were born into. That prophecy, and that family, to return to our story from the beginning of this drash, was their boiling water. And just like the potato, and the egg, and the coffee grounds, that boiling water shaped them. It made Jacob willing to lie and cheat; it made Esau unwilling to properly value his birthright; it embittered their parents and lessened the possibility of balanced connections to their children. It pitted brother against brother, even while it fulfilled God’s promise of the younger ruling over the elder. And our story could end there-- with Jacob and Esau hardening like eggs-- except that thankfully, there is more to the tale. Because, while we didn’t read about it in this week’s Torah portion, the fact is that later in life, the brothers did indeed choose to take matters into their own hands and hearts, and to ultimately have a different relationship with the story they were born into. Years later, far removed from their childhood squabbles, Jacob and Esau meet, again, on a road. And this time, instead of hardening like eggs, they choose to soften, like a potato. The brothers are scared. This is a more vulnerable path. But they persevere. And Jacob sends gifts of apology. And Esau and Jacob embrace. וַׄיִּׄשָּׁׄקֵ֑ׄהׄוּׄ וַיִּבְכּֽוּ׃ Our text tells us. They kiss each other, and they weep together. And in that moment, the story changes. In that moment, they are no longer hardened, but softened; no longer fighting, but loving. In that moment, their relationship transcends the very real wounds they carry, and provides a tiny bit of tikkun, of healing, into this world. That moment was kasher. They were still the same men, still born from that same messy situation, still caught in that boiling water, but something invisible, something deeper, happened. And here’s the kicker: That forgiveness wasn’t in God’s prophecy at the beginning of our story today. God predicted that they would fight, that they would argue, that the younger would rule the older one: but Their forgiveness wasn’t commanded to them, or handed to them. Their forgiveness was a choice, and a choice they both made, despite the challenges they faced. They chose, in that moment, to tap into something bigger than themselves: to tap into the holy undercurrent of peace, the potential for harmony, that surrounds us, and that is there, I would argue, in every word of our sacred Torah. The current of potential for change is always there, even in our most difficult moments-- but it is up to us to open ourselves to it. And like the knife in the boiling water, when we open ourselves up to being vulnerable and healing together, though we may not change externally, we become holy. We grow internally. But we are also Jews, which means we are also given Torah. Sometimes, the lessons from the Torah will strengthen our resolve and make us hard, like a boiled egg; and sometimes, they will make us feel soft and vulnerable, like a boiled potato. But sometimes, if we let it, Torah can transform us in ways we couldn’t have imagined, like Esau and Jacob at the end of their story. Just as they ultimately made their lives kasher by letting themselves be transformed, we, too, can make our lives kasher, like the boiled knife. The question is not what challenges are placed before us-- the question is, what do we let them do to us? Are we the egg? Are we the potato? Or are we the knife? Shabbat shalom.
Sermon given October 25, 2025 Shabbat shalom, everybody. This is the week we learn about Noach, the week we learn about the flood. This is the week where we read about a world completely out of control. וַתִּשָּׁחֵ֥ת הָאָ֖רֶץ לִפְנֵ֣י הָֽאֱלֹהִ֑ים וַתִּמָּלֵ֥א הָאָ֖רֶץ חָמָֽס: The world had become corrupted before God, and filled with Chamas, with violence and lawlessness. This week, we read about God becoming so angry with our ancestors that the only acceptable answer seemed to be to annihilate our species. קֵ֤ץ כָּל־בָּשָׂר֙, God tells Noach. It’s time to put an end to all flesh. This is also the week where we read about the floating oasis that was Noah’s ark: a very large and very special boat, with specific compartments and a waterproof insulation and skylight in the ceiling. This special boat was created to hold Noah, his sons and their families, and two of every species of creepy-crawly-fluffy-scaly-flying-burrowing creature inhabiting this planet. And on this week of all weeks, on this animal-filled week of Scripture, on this week where I am just now returning from four days in the forests in the northwestern portion of this incredible state, I want nothing less than to give a sermon about all of the amazing specimens of the animal kingdom that I saw. I want to stand here before you and expound about the first time this week that I saw a wild turkey, then a second wild turkey, then a flock of them, and then how I got kinda bored of wild turkeys. I’d like to speak rabbinically about the beauty of the birds of prey I saw swooping over the landscape, bringers of death and of wonder, and about the tenacious and tiny mice and voles I saw, and about the endlessly bounding and grass-chewing grey-brown deer with, apparently, absolutely no fear of humans. And more than ANYthing, I want to spend this sermon describing in the strongest spiritual terms possible the moment I came around a corner on a small gravel road and came face-to-face with a bull moose, with a full rack of antlers, standing in the middle of the road and staring at me. For the record, I can only imagine how HE felt, when this odd shiny blue creature in the shape of a Hyundai hybrid sedan appeared out of nowhere. I want to tell you all about the incredible awe I felt, and how it was a holy and terrifying moment of beauty, and how that moment transformed the rest of my trip into a meditation of sorts, a meditation on the nature and spirituality of fear and awe. I spent a lot of this week thinking about awe, and what we mean when we say we feel awe, especially in relation to God. Often, what we mean when we say “awe” in reference to God has to do with the most impressive and moving things in this world, the things that make us say “wow”: things like double rainbows and childbirth and true love and meteor showers. But the word “awe” also has another aspect, a part we often forget is included in our tradition: awe can also mean healthy, humble FEAR. Awe can be a reminder that at the end of the day, we are not in charge. When talking about God using the Hebrew word for awe, we say that God is “El Nora”. But when we use this phrase, both in our Amidah and at the end of the High Holidays as the metaphorical gates swing shut, if we just mean that God is AWEsome, we are omitting an entire layer of the word’s message. Because calling God El Nora means that God is both truly Awesome and truly AWEful. And alone in the woods several miles from the nearest paved road or, as far as I knew, another human, coming face-to-face with that moose was one of the closest memories I’ve ever had to understanding true Awe. I will always be grateful to God– and grateful to that moose, who must have been just as surprised as I was– for that moment. Now. That’s the sermon I wanted to give you, a sermon about the miracle of God’s creation and our place as humans in it among all of the other creatures, a sermon about awe and wonder and humility. But the fact of the matter is that there are many, many possible takeaways from this week and from the Scripture we just read. And while I just so happened to have a powerful personal experience in nature a few days ago, that experience did not stop the rest of the stories and machinations and conflicts of the world from continuing to unfold, and it did not stop us rabbis from feeling immense pressure to respond. I came back from the forest and returned to my emails, to my facebook feed, to the various rabbinic listservs I am a part of. And I learned, when I began catching up on all of the messages from the past few days, that many of my rabbinic colleagues have spent this week caught up in a discussion and debate very, very different from what had been going through my own head and heart. And so that, my friends, is what the rest of this sermon is about today. Some of you may or may not have heard that a week ago, my colleague Rabbi Elliot Cosgrove at Park Avenue Synagogue in New York City made a notable choice. During an election season, he gave a sermon in which he called out a democratic New York mayoral candidate by name and said that that candidate, quote, “poses a danger to the security of the New York Jewish community”. Rabbi Cosgrove proceeded also stated that he believes voting for the republican candidate, instead of the other Democratic candidate, would be tantamount to supporting the candidate he was urging his congregants to oppose. This sermon, given to a large congregation by a prominent rabbi, has set off a bit of a firestorm online. There is now a letter going around signed by over 1,000 rabbis calling on Jews and non-Jews alike to reject candidates who promote antiZionist rhetoric and calling out the same candidate by name. Though the letter does not go as far as Rabbi Cosgrove did in suggesting for whom congregants should vote, it was inspired by, and quotes, the sermon. Now. Both on my Conservative rabbinic groups and my cross-denominational groups, opinions on Rabbi Cosgrove’s sermon and on the letter it inspired run deep. Some, including several of my own teachers and mentors, are proudly standing behind their signatures on the letter and their support of Rabbi Cosgrove making recommendations openly about whom his congregants should vote for. They are proud of their signatures, ostensibly, because they believe that this particular politician does, indeed, pose a real threat to the many Jews who live in New York and beyond, and because they feel that the level of antisemitic and antiZionist discourse has reached dangerous levels in this country. In terms of this week’s Torah portion, it appears that these rabbis are concerned that the arc of history is once again bending not towards justice, as we would hope, but rather towards Chamas, towards violence and lawlessness, and they feel a responsibility to speak up and change the tide. They see this election as a bellwether of sorts, an embodiment of deeply concerning trends on the rise, At the same time, other colleagues, including several more of my teachers and mentors, are adamant that a rabbi should never openly endorse candidates or attempt to influence their congregants’ voting decisions, and are horrified by Rabbi Cosgrove’s sermon and the letter based off of it. In terms of this week’s Torah portion, this second group of rabbis see this particular candidate not as a symbol of violence and lawlessness, but rather as an imperfect, flawed politician who is running in a fraught municipal election. They agree that violence and lawlessness are a problem, but do not feel that the appropriate way to address them is by signing on to this letter or attempting to influence congregants’ votes from the pulpit. Another colleague, who did sign the letter but requested anonymity for the purpose of this sermon, described signing it as akin to breaking a Shabbat rule in order to honor pikuach nefesh, the Jewish value of saving a life over observing all other mitzvot. That is to say, they wish they did not feel a need to sign this letter, and it is in a way breaking a personal rule for them to do so, but they still felt that it was necessary to add their signature because it was so important to do so. Still other rabbis have offered strong support of this particular candidate, and find him in no way dangerous. Writing for the Jewish Telegraphic Agency a few days after the letter quoting Rabbi Cosgrove began to make its rounds, Rabbi Shira Koch Epstein reflected on the immense impact of the sermon and the letter and the incredible pressure such moments put on rabbis as spiritual leaders. Rabbi Epstein writes, quote, “when a letter like this appears, rabbis can face a no-win choice: risk alienating some of the people they serve, or risk being seen as abandoning our people altogether.” She is right. That is a risk that every rabbi faces. That is a risk that I face, too. I will share with you in plain and simple terms that I, personally, will not be signing the letter. However, I also want to state clearly that I respect my colleagues who did sign the letter, because they followed the still, small voice within their hearts, as our tradition calls on us to do. They saw where they believed they had to draw a line in the sand, and they did so. That takes moral courage. It also takes moral courage to not sign a letter that so many colleagues have put their names on. This is all to say that while I disagree with Rabbi Cosgrove’s choice to use his pulpit to recommend that his congregants vote a certain way, and while I promise this community that I will never endorse a candidate or suggest how you should vote, I do believe that he acted from a place of deep wrestling, devotion, and love for humanity and the Jewish people. He just showed it in a different way than I choose to. Because in the end, even if we show our devotion in different ways, the path that allows Judaism to survive– and thrive– is the path where we commit to supporting each other in our journeys and in our myriad ways of communicating and taking stands, even when, and especially when, those ways differ. This is how strong community forms, and how strong community stays connected. Rabbi Epstein, later in her article, alludes to the power of uniting relationally through diverse opinions, stating that “The letter that so many rabbis signed is, at heart, a call to defend the Jewish future. But the Jewish future will not be defended by uniformity. It will be defended by the strength of our relationships.” And in this, I think she hits the nail on the head. Because relationships are what this is all about, at the end of the day; Relationships with each other, with congregants, with interfaith partners, with family and friends; relationships with political foes and allies alike; relationships with our ancestors and descendants, with God, with Israel, and with our own self-conscience. The relationships my colleagues are nurturing in our heart-to-hearts this week matter. The relationships the TBE Board nurtures when it agrees and when it disagrees within itself matter. The relationships each member of TBE nurtures when you reach out to share your opinions, to ask questions, to offer help, to sympathize, to share a concern– these matter. Relationships, by nature dynamic and evolving things, are at the heart of all we do as people and as Jews, and moments like this, and the choices we all make, impact our relationships, for better, for worse, and often, for both. And in today’s Torah portion, relationships are what fall apart. All humans have turned into such bastions of lawlessness and violence that it sounds as if trust and empathy and love are no longer left on the Earth. There could no longer be healthy interpersonal relationships of any kind. And most painfully, it is GOD who decides that all Divine-human relationships will be nullified, and wiped out, via the flood. It is GOD who says, no, we have reached a point of no return, I cannot do this anymore, I will not do this anymore, there is no way back from this precipice. Ouch. But then: it is ALSO God who realizes, after the flood, that giving up on those relationships was something that must never happen, ever, ever again. It is God who promises, to never, ever again approach conflict, and anger, in this destructive way. It is God who, in this Torah portion, says HINENI, here I am, making a brit, a covenant with all humans and animals on this Earth, that I will not give up on you, and that I hope you will not give up on me, or on each other, again. As we move forward together, I am prepared to judge you erring on the side of love. And committing to judge one another erring on the side of love is exactly what all of us have to do, again, and again, and again. There is a principle in Pirkei Avot that is similar to the conclusion that God comes to in this week’s parasha. Pirkei Avot teaches that when you judge a person, you should do so l’kaf zchut, according to their merit. That is to say that if, say, there was a set of scales of our good and bad deeds, and they were equal, we should err on the side of the good deeds. Or if a person has ulterior and healthy motives for doing something, we should focus on the good motives. Essentially, the principle of judging l’kaf zchut acknowledges the imperfection inherent within each of us, and requires us to give each other the benefit of the doubt. As the rabbinic controversy has unfolded this week after Rabbi Cosgrove’s sermon and the letter’s circulation, I have been reminded that among rabbis, like among all other people, our choices about where and when to draw a line in the sand, where and when to take a stand, will differ. I have also been reminded that in those moments when our stands differ, it is our sacred duty to judge each other l’kaf z’chut, to remember that we became rabbis because we love Judaism and our sacred tradition, not because we wanted to agree on everything. This sacred duty to judge l’kaf z’chut in times of disagreement also applies to us here at TBE as we navigate our personal, religious, and–yes– even political differences. In principle, it would be lovely to never have politics touch our relationships here at TBE– but the reality is that the values that guide our souls and the values that guide our votes do indeed overlap. Even making the choice not to ever talk politics is a political choice, and when the content of our sacred texts mirrors the content of the ballot, we religiously observant folks have a difficult line to walk, and it is a lime we walk in diverse ways. However, just like the word “Awe”, the word “diverse” also has multiple meanings. On the one hand, honoring diversity means supporting the marginalized and making sure all of our community members are actively included, and finding appropriate accommodations where necessary. Yet at the same time, honoring diversity also means honoring the dignity of those who disagree with you, and defending their right to disagree with you. Honoring diversity means arguing, not with the goal of proving that you are right, and that the other person is wrong, but with the goal of understanding one another . Honoring diversity means not writing someone off because of one belief, but judging them l’kaf z’chut, trying to see the big picture, and remembering their merit, and their worth. I have been humbled, this week, to see judgement l’kaf z’chut being modeled among many of my colleagues. I have similarly been humbled again and again by members of this community, who have gone the extra mile and had difficult and heartfelt conversations, not because it was easy or clear-cut, but because it was holy, and because it was how to ensure that our community stays strong. Perhaps, if our ancestors had been able to do this, things would never have gotten so bad. Perhaps, if our ancestors had learned to judge one another l’kaf z’chut, the world would not have devolved into utter lawlessness and violence. Perhaps the ark would never have had to be built. Perhaps, God wouldn’t have given up on us. Perhaps, WE wouldn’t have given up on us. I’m not sure. But what I am sure of is that none of us here today, or watching online, or reading these words, have given up. We are making the choice to actively be in community together, hearing one another, being vulnerable with one another, and trying again and again to judge each other l’kaf z’chut, according to our merit. I don’t know what the next flood will be. But I am heartened to know that we will be facing it together as a community, strengthened not only in spite of our diverse opinions, but because of them. Shabbat shalom.
