This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on March 6, 2026.

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 Every generation likes to think that idolatry is a practice we outgrew in biblical times. After all, most of us are not melting down jewelry and building golden statues in our living rooms. Yet idolatry doesn’t require physical graven images at all. It’s about what happens when we place something—or someone—beyond accountability. 

Just keep an eye on current events, and you’ll see what happens whenever leaders are treated as untouchable simply because enough people agree with them. When loyalty to ideology becomes so strong that we excuse wrongdoing, justify cruelty, or look away from corruption, we begin to elevate human beings to a place that belongs only to God. It’s tempting, isn’t it? When someone represents what we care about, we want them to succeed. But Torah asks us to be careful about what we are really worshipping. 

Parshat Ki Tissa contains one of the most dramatic episodes in the Torah: the sin of the Golden Calf. While Moses is on Mount Sinai receiving the commandments, the people grow anxious. They ask Aaron to make them a god to lead them. Aaron gathers their gold, fashions the calf, and the people proclaim, “This is your god, O Israel, who brought you up from the land of Egypt.” 

When Moses descends the mountain and sees the people dancing around the idol, he shatters the tablets in anger. The covenant itself is literally and figuratively broken. Yet the story does not end there. Moses confronts the people, calls them back to accountability, and ultimately returns to the mountain to renew the covenant. 

The medieval commentator Ramban (you may also know him by his Greek-influenced name Nachmanides) suggests that the people were not trying to reject God outright. They were searching for something visible to lead them in Moses’s absence. Their mistake was not simply making something shiny—it was transferring all the authority and trust they had placed in God to something they could control. 

That impulse is alive and well today. Idolatry often looks like placing our hopes entirely in charismatic leaders, cultural figures, or even political movements themselves. When we abandon trust and reason for the shiny object or shiny person, we risk excusing behavior we would condemn in anyone else. In those moments, we stop asking moral questions. And that is when leadership becomes a golden calf. 

Torah insists that no human being stands above the law—not kings, not prophets, not leaders. The challenge of Ki Tissa is not simply to avoid idols made of gold. It is to resist the quieter forms of idolatry that appear in our own lives. 

We can admire people. We can support causes passionately. But Judaism demands something more: that we remain morally awake. To hold even those we agree with to the standards of justice, humility, and accountability. Because the moment we stop asking questions, the moment loyalty replaces conscience, we risk dancing around a golden calf of our own making. And the Torah reminds us again and again that our highest loyalty must always be to tzedek/justice and to the God who demands it. 

Which smells are the ones that evoke specific memories for you? Perhaps it’s the waft of chicken soup that brings you back to your grandmother’s kitchen, or a trace of the cologne that reminds you of an old boyfriend. It’s amazing how strong the sense of smell is connected to memory. 

Parshat Ki Tissa introduces us to the ketoret, the sacred incense offering, which played a central role in the Mishkan. This fragrant blend of certain spices was burned daily, filling the space with a holy and unique aroma. More than just a pleasing scent, the ketoret symbolized connection, transformation, and spiritual elevation.

Scent is one of the most powerful triggers of memory and emotion, and just as a familiar fragrance can instantly transport us back in time, bringing comfort, joy, or even inspiration, the burning of the ketoret reminds us that holiness is not just about ritual action but about engaging all our senses in sacred service.

This idea has a direct parallel in modern Jewish practice: the blessing that ends “borei minei besamim” (“who creates various kinds of spices”). We say this blessing during Havdalah when we transition from Shabbat into the week ahead. The spices serve as a sensory reminder of the sweetness of Shabbat, lingering with us as we re-enter the mundane world. Just as the ketoret sanctified the Mishkan, the fragrance of Havdalah spices sanctifies our memories, helping us carry holiness into our daily lives.

But why the emphasis on this tie-in to smell in the first place? Why does it play a role in both the Mishkan and our weekly ritual practice? Midrash (Bamidbar Rabbah 18:8) teaches that while other senses—sight, hearing, touch, and taste—were affected by human sin, smell remained spiritually pure. When Adam and Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge, they saw, touched, and tasted the forbidden fruit, but smell was not involved. This may explain why the ketoret, and by extension the Havdalah spices, have a unique spiritual power—they remind us of a state of purity and closeness to God that transcends human imperfection.

As we read Ki Tissa and reflect on the power of the ketoret, we’re reminded that holiness isn’t just something we encounter in grand moments—it can linger with us, just like a sweet scent. May we each find ways to carry the fragrance of sanctity into the week ahead, allowing the echoes of Shabbat, Torah, and divine connection to guide us forward.

In a world with surveillance video, body cams, and 4K-capable mobile phones, it has become commonplace for news stories to be accompanied by video footage of every type of event, aired for the entire public to see. Before we had cameras everywhere, the only way to truly know what happened in a specific incident was through eyewitness accounts. We had to rely on people telling the story. That often left room for conjecture, embellishment, hiding facts, and other roadblocks in the way of the “whole truth.” The only way to have a complete story is to be fully (or at least virtually) present when something happens, and now that we have Ring doorbells and security cameras, it’s impossible to go back to a time of having to remember or guess what may have happened. 

Despite the creative imaginations that have conjured up artistically rendered selfies of biblical characters (you may have seen these passed around social media), we don’t have the benefit of video footage of anything that occurred in the Torah. As we read the narrative of the Israelite nation, there are many times when we read about events that seem to only be possible outside the scope of rationality. If certain events in the Torah seem improbable, maybe that calls into question the entire document. Faith usually means believing without seeing. However, our Torah portion this week includes a commandment from God about the obligation to see things for ourselves. 

Parshat Ki Tissa greets us in the desert, where the Israelites have received the Ten Commandments, and they are now set to continue on their journey, with Moshe and God leading the way. But Moshe is delayed in coming down from the mountain, and the people are scared, unsure of this God that they have yet to trust. So they gather their gold, make an idol, and turn their attention to something tangible.

While he’s on top of the mountain in his session with the Divine, Moshe hears from God about the Golden Calf and how the Israelites have already broken the laws they only recently received. Even though furious at their actions, God implores Moshe not to condemn them from afar, but to hurry down the mountain to see for himself. 

Why doesn’t Moshe reflect God’s anger until he returns to the people? It’s because here we receive the legal and communal precedent to actually see for ourselves the entirety of the situation before rushing to condemnation. It’s human (and even Godly) nature to form an opinion based on the biases that we carry, but it is our duty to recognize those biases and fight against them rather than act without all the information.

I have a few favorite teachings from the Torah, one of which is in the Torah portion this week, when we hear about the census of the Israelites. This week’s portion is Ki Tissa, and a word used in the beginning of the text is v’natnu, which means “and they gave.” In Hebrew, this word is a palindrome, and this fact is often used to explain that giving is cyclical; sometimes we give, sometimes we receive. The circle works because we’re equally committed to opening ourselves to both experiences. 

Here’s where we are in the story: the Israelites are in the desert, they have received the 10 Commandments, and they’re set to continue on their journey, with Moshe and God leading the way. But Moshe is delayed in coming down from the mountaintop. This makes the Israelites scared and unsure of this God that they have yet to trust, so they gather their gold, make an idol, and turn their attention to something tangible.

Their journey is about more than just covering ground; it’s an emotional journey as well. On this journey they’re learning to accept help and to live in the unknown, neither of which is an easy task. They’ve put their trust in Moshe, the one who led them out and has kept them relatively safe. So, when Moshe doesn’t come back as quickly as they expected, that trust turns into fear, and the Israelites respond by doing one of the last things Moshe asked of them, by giving gold. Just a few chapters before, the Israelites were generous in giving gold and other materials so they could build the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, and start working on priestly garments. Now, they apparently turn to what they know, but this time for the wrong reasons. 

The Jerusalem Talmud in Shekalim 1:1 posits that this makes the Israelites a peculiar people. How could they honor the God they believe in, who just a few chapters before told them no idols, and then flip and donate with the same honor to an idol, the exact object that was forbidden? When I read this section it makes me wonder if perhaps the Israelites were just looking for any type of connection, no matter the cost. Giving can feel good, and creating can feel validating, but doing so without a purpose is as fruitless as idol worship. 

Our narrative reminds us that giving and receiving both have many benefits. However, we also learn that we must be discerning about how we use our precious resources so that they go towards good, towards building holiness rather than breaking it down. When we have in mind the results we’d like to achieve, that’s when the giving is truly beneficial.  

I’ve been a rabbi for well over a decade, but I still get nervous before I lead almost any service or lifecycle event. Yes, even after all these years. On the one hand, it helps me stay present, it keeps me focused, and it keeps me fresh and on top of my game. To help offset the nerves, I have what I call my “pregame ritual.” Before I lead, I get a hug from my kiddos and do a run-through with Duncan. That touchpoint of confidence and support can clear my head and give me the little love boost I need. 

Everyone has their own rituals to manage nerves, from athletes on the field to office employees preparing a presentation. However, these little moments are helpful anytime, not only before a “performance.” A quick touchpoint of love and connection can turn around even the worst day.

This human need to be embraced in the spirit of belief is exhibited even by Moses, the leader of the Israelite nation. This week we read Parshat Ki Tissa from the story of the Exodus. The Israelites are in the desert, they have received the 10 Commandments, and they are now set to continue on their journey, with Moshe and God leading the way. Moshe is on top of the mountain, and he’s delayed in coming down. The Israelites are worried, scared, and unsure of this God that they have yet to trust, so they gather their gold, make an idol, and turn their attention to something tangible.

How will Moshe return to his people after this rebellion has angered both himself and God? How will he continue to lead with this mistrust hanging over them? Moshe needs some kind of reassurance, not only that he can lead, but that God will be with him. God understands this need and instructs Moses to return to the mountaintop for a private meeting. In this meeting, Moshe and God, in a sense, create art together. They rewrite the tablets in a moment of intimacy, connection, promise, and reset. 

Who serves this role in your life? Is it a partner or other family member? Is it the neighbor or friend you can call anytime? As humans, we’re at our absolute best when we hold each other up and create together. Parshat Ki Tissa is an extra reminder, especially while we’re still trying to navigate life in a pandemic, that even the simplest of connections can make the biggest difference.