This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Saturday, October 24, 2026.

Most of us have said something out of fear that we would never have said otherwise. We leave out a detail. Shift responsibility. Tell ourselves that a small dishonesty will prevent a bigger problem. Fear has a remarkable ability to make a questionable choice sound perfectly reasonable, especially when we are the ones who stand to benefit.

In Parshat Lech Lecha, God calls Avram to leave his homeland and journey toward an unknown future. Avram goes, bringing Sarai and their household with him. He builds altars and follows God’s promise. But then famine forces them toward Egypt, and the man who courageously left everything familiar becomes frightened of what strangers might do.

Now, for the first time, the Torah lets us hear him speak. His first recorded speech is to Sarai. He fears the Egyptians will kill him because they desire her. His solution? Ask her to say she is his sister, “that my life may be spared because of you.” (Genesis 12:13)

Our introduction to Avram’s voice is a request that his wife conceal their marriage to protect him. What happens to the promise of becoming a blessing when fear makes our own survival the only thing we can see?

Ramban refuses to excuse Avram. Commenting on Genesis 12:10, he calls Avram’s decision a serious sin, committed unintentionally, because his fear for himself placed his righteous wife in danger. The ancestor of our people is accountable for the harm his fear produces.

That’s an uncomfortable, necessary teaching. Fear can be understandable, and our response can still be wrong. We can deserve compassion and owe someone an apology. Being afraid does not relieve us of responsibility for whom we put at risk.

Perhaps this is why Torah lets us hear these words. We need ancestors whose struggles help us recognize our own. The same person can answer God’s call with courage and, moments later, ask someone else to carry the cost of his fear.

This week, when fear begins writing our script, let us pause before speaking. Whose safety have I considered? Whose voice have I left out? Am I asking someone else to bear what I am unwilling to face? Lech Lecha asks us to move forward. May we take that next step with enough courage to tell the truth and enough care to notice who walks beside us.

This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Saturday, October 24, 2026.

Trust is one of those things we rarely notice until it breaks. We trust the GPS to get us there, and the surgeon to know what she’s doing. Sometimes we trust the group chat with information we absolutely should not. But the trust that shapes our lives is quieter. In whom do we confide? To whom do we hand our hopes? Whom do we let in, knowing they could let us down?

This week, in Parshat Lech Lecha, Abram makes the biggest trust decision in Jewish history. God says, “Lech lecha.” Go from your land, your birthplace, your father’s house, to a place I will show you. With no map and no itinerary, Abram goes. Along the way, famine sends him to Egypt, where fear takes over. He asks Sarai to say she is his sister, so that Pharaoh won’t kill him. Later, God promises descendants as numerous as the stars, and Abram asks, “How will I know?”

Here’s what strikes me: the man who trusted God enough to leave everything is the same man who didn’t trust God enough to protect him in Egypt. The Ramban is blunt about it, saying Abram sinned by not trusting that God would save him and Sarai. Yet the Torah also says of Abram, “V’he’emin baShem.” He believed in God, and God counted it as righteousness.”

So, which is it? I think the Torah is telling us that trust is not a personality trait. It’s a choice we make again and again, and we don’t make it perfectly. Notice that when Abram asks “How will I know?” God doesn’t rebuke him. God answers with a covenant. Trust, it turns out, does not mean the absence of questions. Healthy trust has room to ask.

Rashi reads “lech lecha” as “go for yourself,” for your own benefit. Maybe that’s the point. Trusting others, when we do it wisely, is how we become more fully ourselves. And protecting ourselves out of fear, as Abram did in Egypt, often costs us the very relationships we’re trying to guard.

So this week, consider two questions. First, where is fear making my choices for me? And second, who in my life has earned a leap of faith?

Trust the people who have shown up. Ask your questions out loud. Be honest when you’re afraid. And when you do take the leap, know that no one gets it right every time, not even Abraham.

Lech lecha. Take the step and go. And may we find people worthy of walking beside us.

Shabbat shalom.

I can’t quite remember when, but sometime around 30 years ago my father made me a small business card with the traveler’s prayer on it. It was on laminated yellow cardstock and has resided in my wallet ever since, growing tattered over the years. At some point, it fell apart and Duncan, knowing how much it meant to me, made a new set for me. My attachment to this distressed and faded yellow card was as much about the fact that my father gave it to me as it was about the narrative of protection on our journeys.

This week we read Parshat Lech Lecha, where God famously beckons Abraham to travel from the only place he’s known as home to a new place that Abraham has never seen before. I can only imagine how terrifying this might have been, and yet Abraham agrees to the journey. Why? Because God promises that he will be a blessing.  

Whether it’s a short trip from your home to camp in the summer, or venturing out to explore the world, the traveler’s prayer can connect us to our hearts, and the grounding of home.  

If you’d like to print your very own copy of the traveler’s prayer, PJ Library offers a cut-and-fold version in English that’s easy to take along: https://pjlibrary.org/beyond-books/pjblog/december-2018/printable-travel-blessing

יְהִי רָצוֹן מִלְּפָנֶיךָ ה’ אֱ-לֹהֵינוּ וֵא-לֹהֵי אֲבוֹתֵינוּ, שֶׁתּוֹלִיכֵנוּ לְשָׁלוֹם וְתַצְעִידֵנוּ לְשָׁלוֹם. וְתִסְמְכֵנוּ לְשָׁלוֹם. וְתַדְרִיכֵנוּ לְשָׁלוֹם. וְתַגִּיעֵנוּ לִמְחוֹז חֶפְצֵנוּ לְחַיִּים וּלְשִֹמְחָה וּלְשָׁלוֹם וְתַצִּילֵנוּ מִכַּף כָּל אוֹיֵב וְאוֹרֵב וְלִסְטִים וְחַיּוֹת רָעוֹת בַּדֶּרֶךְ וּמִכָּל מִינֵי פֻּרְעָנִיּוֹת הַמִּתְרַגְּשׁוֹת לָבוֹא לָעוֹלָם וְתִשְׁלַח בְּרָכָה בְּכָל מַעֲשֵֹה יָדֵינוּ, וְתִתְּנֵנוּ לְחֵן וּלְחֶסֶד וּלְרַחֲמִים בְעֵינֶיךָ וּבְעֵינֵי כָל רוֹאֵינוּ וְתִשְׁמַע קוֹל תַּחֲנוּנֵינוּ. כִּי אֵ-ל שׁוֹמֵעַ תְּפִלָּה וְתַחֲנוּן אָתָּה: בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה ה’, שׁוֹמֵעַ תְּפִלָּה.

There’s a persistent question that’s likely been on all of our minds for decades, but which has been particularly nagging over the past three weeks. Looking at the war in Israel and the antisemitism here and elsewhere, how often do you ask yourself if things will ever change? Even if (hopefully when) terrorist groups are taken down and eradicated, does antisemitism go away? Does anti-Israel sentiment go away? Is peace achieved? 

Lately, I’ve been wondering about the ability human beings have to change, to adapt, and to accept changes in others. There are the somewhat superficial changes, like the ease with which my kids can go from having a favorite food to absolutely despising that same food in the blink of an eye. Then there are the more significant, impactful changes, like the ways in which my personal theology, values, and style have shifted and morphed over the years. The arc of my life story is one that shows how very different the human being I am today is from the one I was thirty, twenty, or ten years ago. I’d venture to say that may be true for you as well, and it’s certainly true for the first patriarch in the Torah, Avram, as we read in this week’s parshah.

In Parshat Lech Lecha, we are finally introduced to Avram and Sarai – later Avraham and Sarah – who become the great patriarch and matriarch of the rest of our narrative. We learn that Avraham follows God with full intent, without questioning, and that Sarah goes with him, both of them acting through their faith in God and each other. The text from last week ends with the genealogy of the generations starting with Noah. Very little information is given about this time period other than these highlights: Avram and Sarai were married, Sarai could not have children, and Avram’s father took him and his family, including his grandson Lot, on a journey toward a new land. We also know that Terach, Avram’s father, was 205 when he died, and this time-based fact leaves a few unanswered questions. How old was Avram? Did they all go willingly? What were they doing in Haran? Was Avram happy there? Why did they leave?

You’ve probably heard the story from midrash (commentary on the Torah) that tells of Avram taking a stand against polytheism and smashing the idols his father made. But that story’s not in the text. All we know is that Avram went on a journey with his father and family, they stopped before they got the their final destination, and then his father died. The next line of the text is the beginning of Lech Lecha, where God is speaking directly to Avram and pushing him to go to the promised land, the land to which his father was en route. 

The first 75 or so years of Avram’s life are passed over without mention. The main parts of his story are shared when he begins to act on his own, with his own convictions and beliefs. Perhaps the midrash of smashing idols is so prevalent in our storytelling because it signifies the change that Avram wanted to make in his life, and it helps us reconcile the gap in the narrative and in Avram’s apparent frame of mind. One of the messages of Parshat Lech Lecha is that change is possible, and it can have enormous consequences, but it only happens when, individually, we decide the journey is worth it.