Inheriting an Imperfect Legacy

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on January 3, 2026.

There’s something about the start of a new year that invites both hope and honesty. We make lists, set intentions, and imagine fresh beginnings, while quietly carrying the weight of what came before. Years don’t arrive with a clean slate; they arrive with history. Families. Communities. Stories we didn’t choose but nonetheless inherit. Parashat Vayechi, the closing chapter of Genesis, understands this deeply. It is a parshah about endings that shape beginnings, about blessings given with eyes wide open to imperfection. 

Vayechi finds Jacob at the end of his life. He gathers his children and grandchildren, blesses them, and offers words that are as much reckoning as they are hope. This is not a sentimental wrap-up. Jacob reopens old wounds, names past failures, and still insists on blessing. He crosses his hands to bless Ephraim over Menashe, disrupts expectations, and reminds us that the future is not a simple extension of the past. 

When Jacob blesses Joseph’s sons, Joseph tries to correct him. The elder should receive the greater blessing. Jacob refuses. He sees something Joseph does not. The Torah tells us, sikeil et yadav—he crossed his hands deliberately. Jacob is not confused or nostalgic. He is intentional. He knows this family’s story too well to pretend that legacy is neat or linear. Blessing, in his world, is not about perfection. It is about possibility. 

This feels especially resonant as we step into a new year. We inherit imperfect legacies, personal and communal. We carry the gifts of those who came before us alongside their mistakes. Judaism never asks us to erase that complexity. Instead, it asks us to bless within it. To tell the truth about where we’ve been and still say yes to where we’re going. 

Jacob blesses his progeny, knowing exactly who they are. Some are impulsive. Some are violent. Some are capable of greatness and harm in equal measure. And still, blessing. Not denial. Not absolution. Blessing as responsibility. Blessing as charge. 

As we begin this new year, Vayechi offers a quiet but powerful invitation: let what you inherit retain all its honest imperfections and complexities. Acknowledge the broken pieces without letting them define the future. Bless what is, even as we commit to shaping what could be. We are not asked to be perfect inheritors of our past, only faithful stewards of what comes next. May this year be one where we cross our hands when needed, bless with courage, and build forward with wisdom earned, not despite our imperfect legacy, but because we’ve learned from it. 

Pushing Boundaries on Hanukkah

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on December 19, 2025.

Sometimes the Torah portion and the calendar collide in ways that feel heartbreakingly on time. This Shabbat, as we read Miketz and kindle the lights of Ḥanukkah, our minds and hearts are pulled toward the shock of the antisemitic attack in Australia on the very first night of the holiday, and the steady rise in Jew hatred around the world. It would be easy to let fear define the moment. But our tradition refuses to let darkness have the last word.

Miketz opens with Yosef emerging from the depths, literally. After years in prison, after layers of betrayal and abandonment, he is suddenly lifted up to interpret Pharaoh’s dreams. The Torah signals the turning point with one small phrase: Miketz sh’natayim yamim. “At the end of two years.” But the medieval commentator Sforno notes that the word miketz also hints at something else: a boundary, the furthest edge to which suffering can extend. Yosef has reached the limit of his despair; a new chapter is forced open.

Ḥanukkah tells a similar story. The Maccabees didn’t begin their revolt because they were stronger than the empire. They began because they reached the ketz, the boundary. It’s the moment when hiding who they were was no longer bearable, when dimming their Jewish light felt like a greater danger than standing up to power. And then, the smallest flame became enough to push back a world of night.

This week, in the face of violence, threats, and the exhaustion that comes from being a visible Jew in a tense world, we might feel the weight Yosef carried or the fear the Maccabees knew. But our texts insist on something deeper: even when the world narrows, our story does not end there. Jewish history is a long arc of rising from pits, rekindling light, reclaiming voice, and insisting on hope when it is most countercultural.

So what is our charge on this Shabbat Ḥanukkah?

First: refuse to shrink. Light your menorah in your window — not as provocation, but as proclamation. Our presence is not a threat; it is a blessing.

Second: stay connected. Yosef’s redemption began when he used his gifts for others. The Maccabees prevailed because they fought as a community. We do not navigate fear alone.

And finally: trust that the boundary of this moment is not the boundary of our future. Darkness has a limit. Light does not.

May the flames we kindle lift us again into courage, resilience, and hope while they lead us toward wholeness.

Knowing Where We Come From

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There is a deceptively simple question underneath Parshat Vayeshev: Who belongs, and who gets to decide?

Vayeshev opens with a quiet but powerful line: “Vayeshev Yaakov b’eretz megurei aviv, b’eretz Canaan.” “Jacob settled in the land where his father had sojourned, in the land of Canaan.” The Torah does not rush past this. It names the land twice. Jacob is not just living somewhere; he is living where he comes from. And almost immediately, that sense of rootedness is challenged.

Joseph, Yaakov’s beloved son, dreams. He sees himself standing tall, recognized, destined. And the response from his brothers is swift and brutal. They strip him of his coat, throw him into a pit, and sell him away. Long before Joseph is physically exiled, he is symbolically erased; his belonging questioned, his place among them denied.

This pattern should feel uncomfortably familiar.

Joseph is not attacked for what he has done, but for what he represents. His dreams threaten the story the brothers want to tell about themselves. So they rewrite it. They recast Joseph not as kin, but as an outsider. Once he is no longer “one of us,” violence becomes possible and permissible. The Torah is warning us that the most dangerous act is not disagreement, but erasure.

This is the same dynamic we see today when the question “Where do Jews come from?” is distorted or avoided. The answer is not complicated. We come from the Land of Israel. Historically, spiritually, linguistically, and ritually, our story is rooted there. Zion is not an idea layered onto Jewish identity; it is its foundation.

Zionism, at its core, is simply the affirmation that the Jewish people have the right to live freely and safely in the land from which we come. And yet that affirmation is increasingly framed as immoral, colonial, or illegitimate, often through the language of human rights. But human rights language, when used to deny one people their indigeneity and their right to self-determination, stops being moral and starts being a weapon.

Like Joseph’s brothers, anti-Zionism often begins by stripping Jews of context: history, roots, and belonging. It recasts an indigenous people as interlopers, a native story as a conspiracy, a homecoming as a crime. And once belonging is denied, anything can be justified.

Let’s be clear, as our tradition demands honesty, criticizing Israeli policies is legitimate and necessary. Advocating for Palestinian dignity is essential. But denying Jewish peoplehood, history, and origin is something else entirely.

Joseph survives because the Torah refuses to erase him, even when his brothers try. His story continues. His dreams endure. And ultimately, it is Joseph’s rootedness, his unwavering sense of who he is, that saves his family.

Vayeshev challenges us to resist narratives that shrink identity and flatten history. It asks us to hold firm to truth, even when it is uncomfortable or unpopular. We know where we come from. And knowing that is not about supremacy; it is about survival. Shabbat shalom.

The Apology that Limped

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on December 5, 2025.

There are few Torah scenes as emotionally charged, or as painfully relatable, as the reunion between Jacob and Esau in Parashat Vayishlach. It’s the kind of moment that makes you want to reach for popcorn and tissues.

Remember: the last time these brothers saw each other, Jacob was running for his life after stealing Esau’s blessing. Not exactly an argument about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher. Decades pass. Jacob builds a family. Esau builds an army—at least, that’s how it looks when he approaches with 400 men.

The night before they meet, Jacob is left alone and wrestles with a mysterious figure until daybreak. He emerges with a limp and a blessing, but also with a new name: Yisrael. The one who wrestles. It’s as if Torah is telling us: “Before you face the person you hurt or who hurt you, you must first wrestle with yourself.”

Then dawn comes. Jacob limps forward. Esau runs toward him. And instead of revenge, Esau throws his arms around Jacob’s neck and weeps.

Here’s the part I find so moving: Esau does not give a polished apology. There’s no “I’ve been doing a lot of reflection, and I want to own my part in this conflict.” There’s no mutual processing with a box of tissues and a feelings wheel. There’s just an embrace. A gesture that says, “I missed you,” even if he never says the words “I’m sorry.”

And Jacob, who has every reason to be cautious, receives it. He allows that imperfect gesture to open the door to reconciliation, even if their paths ultimately diverge again.

So often we wait for the perfect apology, the one that hits all the right notes, includes footnotes and a bibliography, and arrives with a gift basket. But most human apologies are like Jacob’s limp: awkward, incomplete, evidence of a wound that’s still healing.

Vayishlach reminds us that apologizing requires courage, but so does accepting an apology that isn’t everything we hoped for. We mend relationships not because they’re perfect, but because we choose to step toward each other anyway.

May we learn to offer apologies that are brave, to receive apologies with generosity, and to trust that even imperfect steps can lead us toward wholeness.

Beneath the Mask

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on November 22, 2025.

We all wear masks. Some are subtle: a practiced smile, a calm tone when we’re anything but calm, the “I’m fine” we offer even when we’re overwhelmed. Others are more deliberate: the persona we step into at work, the identity we hold in certain circles, the version of ourselves we hope others will find easier to love. These masks aren’t always dishonest; often, they’re protective. But they can also keep us from being fully seen.

Parshat Toldot is a masterclass in masks and mistaken identities.

Jacob, urged on by Rebekah, disguises himself to receive the blessing meant for Esau. He puts on Esau’s clothes, covers his arms in goatskin, changes his voice enough—or maybe Isaac wants to believe enough—that the blessing is given. It’s a scene filled with tension, heartbreak, and a kind of spiritual claustrophobia. No one is being fully honest; no one is being fully themselves.

But the most striking line in the whole episode is Isaac’s vulnerable question:
“Ha’atah zeh b’ni Esav? — Are you really my son Esau?” (Gen. 27:24).

It’s a question that echoes far beyond the story. It’s the question we ask, consciously or not, every time we wonder who someone truly is beneath the layers they show the world. And it’s the question others ask of us—even when they don’t say it out loud.

Isaac is physically blind, but everyone else in the story is emotionally or spiritually blinded: by fear of the future, by favoritism, by the pressure to fulfill a promise. Masks become easier than vulnerability.

But here’s the twist: the blessing Jacob receives, intended for Esau, delivered under disguise, ultimately shapes Jacob into who he becomes. The Torah seems to say that even when we hide, even when we show only fragments of ourselves, God still sees us wholly. And eventually, we must learn to see one another fully, too.

The invitation of Toldot is to cultivate communities where people don’t need to hide, where we make the brave choice to see and be seen. Because when someone truly sees us, not the mask but the person beneath, something inside softens. The blessings become real. The relationships deepen. The story can move forward. This week, may we practice lifting the masks—our own and others’. May we ask with compassion, “Who are you, really?” And may we create spaces where the answer is safe, welcomed, and held with love.