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

This week our nation marks 250 years since the signing of the Declaration of Independence. A quarter of a millennium is worth celebrating. It’s also worth reflecting on. 

The American story has never been simple; it’s a story of breathtaking ideals and painful contradictions. A nation founded on liberty that tolerated slavery. A country that has expanded rights for generations while still wrestling with inequality, polarization, and the question of what freedom actually demands of us. Freedom, it turns out, is easier to declare than to sustain. 

That complexity makes this year’s Parshat Pinchas feel surprisingly timely. Pinchas begins with a shocking act of zealotry. It moves quickly into a census, preparing a new generation to enter the Land of Israel. There are laws of inheritance as the daughters of Tzelofchad courageously reshape the future. Joshua is appointed as Moses’s successor. And the parshah concludes with the rhythm of communal offerings that will anchor Israel’s spiritual life. 

On the surface, these stories seem disconnected. But they share a common thread: a people learning that building a nation requires far more than winning freedom. 

To paraphrase a great quote that’s often attributed to the preacher George Morrison: The Exodus got the Israelites out of Egypt. The wilderness was meant to get Egypt out of the Israelites. Freedom was never simply about crossing a sea; it was about learning how to build a society worthy of that freedom. 

Notice what dominates the parshah. Not military victories. Not miraculous plagues. Instead, we find census-taking, legal reform, leadership transition, and shared ritual. In other words: institutions. Responsibilities. Systems that outlast any one generation. 

That is the quiet genius of Torah. It reminds us that nations are not held together by moments of inspiration alone. They endure because ordinary people keep choosing covenant over chaos. 

That feels especially relevant today. The headlines can leave us exhausted. Political division, war abroad, rising antisemitism, anxiety about the future—it’s tempting to believe the center cannot hold. Yet Jewish history teaches otherwise. We’ve lived through empires rising and falling. We’ve seen democracies flourish and falter. We know that hope is not optimism; hope is a discipline. 

As America celebrates 250 years, there’s no need to pretend our country is perfect to be grateful for it. Patriotism, like love, is mature enough to celebrate what is beautiful while working honestly to repair what is broken. 

This week, let us borrow Moses’ wisdom. Invest in the next generation. Like the daughters of Tzelofchad, speak up when justice requires it. Like Joshua, lead with humility. And remember that freedom is not measured only by the rights we claim, but by the responsibilities we willingly carry for one another. 

That may be the most enduring lesson of Pinchas: the promise of a nation is never finished. Every generation inherits it, shapes it, and then places it into the hands of those who come next. May we prove worthy of the freedom we have received, and courageous enough to leave it stronger than we found it. 

Time management at work isn’t usually a challenge for me, but when it comes to home life—in particular getting ready for a multiday Jewish holiday—I find there’s never enough time. I’m easily on time to services (thank goodness) and welcoming the holiday with ritual in the synagogue, but getting my kitchen ready often ends up a last-minute affair. Sometimes holiness comes not from a dramatic act, but from quiet preparation. Eiruv Tavshilin, a ritual many might overlook, is one of those moments: a small act that invites us to be mindful of our boundaries and our intentions. This week’s parshah, Pinchas, offers a powerful reflection on those very themes—boundaries, legacy, and readiness—and what it means to sanctify time and space with purpose.

Parshat Pinchas begins with God rewarding Pinchas (Aaron’s grandson) for his zealous act in the previous parshah, granting him a brit shalom, a “covenant of peace.” The parshah then moves to a census of the Israelites, preparing them for the next phase of their journey. We read of the daughters of Tzelophechad, who boldly challenge inheritance norms and secure their place in the future of the community. Moses, upon realizing he will not lead the people into the Promised Land, asks God to appoint a successor, and Joshua is chosen. The parshah concludes with a detailed description of the sacrificial offerings for daily use, Shabbat, and festivals.

Eiruv Tavshilin is a rabbinic institution that allows for the preparation of food on a yom tov for Shabbat. By beginning our Shabbat preparations before the holiday begins, we symbolically link the two days, maintaining Shabbat’s primacy and avoiding the confusion of boundaries.

However, Pinchas reminds us that not all boundaries are fixed. The daughters of Tzelophechad respectfully fight the limits of inheritance law, and their plea is affirmed. Moses doesn’t cling to power, but prepares for transition by securing a future leader. And in instituting the festival offerings, God is drawing lines in time, making each day holy by what we do in advance to prepare for it.

Like Eiruv Tavshilin, these stories are about the holiness that comes from crossing boundaries with intention. It’s not about transgressing limits—it’s about preparing for what comes next, with respect and purpose.

We live in a world that rushes from moment to moment, holiday to deadline, without pause. The practice of an Eiruv Tavshilin calls us to stop, prepare, and mark the space between what was and what’s coming. Parshat Pinchas teaches us that transitions—between leaders, generations, even days—require forethought, grace, and ritual. May we step into each threshold—whether of time, responsibility, or community—with the wisdom of Pinchas, the courage of the daughters of Tzelophechad, and the quiet mindfulness of Eiruv Tavshilin.

One of my favorite parts of teaching is the check-in that precedes the work of the day. When I was in the classroom daily, I would start with a brief check-in question to see where students were at, what was going on, and what support they might need. When I shifted to the pulpit, I started using this technique differently, but still find it equally important. 

Whatever group you’re addressing, whether it’s a class, a congregation, or a team meeting, ask how everyone is. It shows you care as a teacher and leader. If someone is having a bad day, I want to know. That might change the way they participate in the session. At the same time, if someone is in a phenomenal mood, that has an effect on the learning as well. You never really know until you ask, and this I learned from the Torah. 

This week we read Parshat Pinchas, which begins with the story of Pinchas (identified as Aaron’s grandson) and the extreme action he took toward those who defied the prohibition against idolatry. Then we move to the daughters of Zelophechad (Joseph’s great-great-great-grandson), who want to inherit land after their father’s death because he had no sons. Then Joshua is appointed Moshe’s successor, and we end with the sacrifices we are to make for Rosh Chodesh and the holidays. 

What struck me in reading the text this week is that we once again begin with a census. Didn’t the book of Bamidbar (Numbers) begin with a census? Why do we need another one? The answer is simple: it’s a check-in. Each time we read about a census, that’s our clue that time has moved on, that people have changed, and that a check-in, or a check-on, is in order. Specifically at this point in the narrative, we know that all the Israelites who left Egypt were to die before they made it to Israel, and that requires a pretty significant status check. 

The repeated check-in might seem frivolous, but as the parshah teaches us, we receive lists for every holiday and for each month. The purpose is to connect us to the moment. In this case, the census is to remind us of who we are, where we’ve been, and how we’ve grown and changed. Small talk can make a big impact, and sometimes it’s these exact types of questions that remind us to pay attention to those around us. 

Do you have a will? How about an advance medical directive? Do you have an estate plan? Have you shared your burial wishes with someone, in writing? I’m asking this of every adult over the age of 18. If you answered “yes,” then mazel tov, and thank you for planning ahead. If the answer is “no,” let’s have a chat. I know that these questions can be uncomfortable to answer, as they immediately remind us that our time on earth is finite, but it’s imperative to make these plans not just for your own peace of mind, but also as an act of love and respect to those who will be alive and carry on in your absence. As it is often said, it won’t kill you to talk about death (but planning can potentially improve the lives of others).

You may be asking why I, just shy of my 41st birthday, am so passionate about this topic. For starters, my mother is a CPA who specializes in estates and trusts, so some of the need to prepare runs in the family. Secondly, it may seem obvious, but our children and our dog need to be cared for in the event of our passing, and that’s not a decision we wanted to postpone. Finally, I plan for the future because the Torah tells me to.

Parshat Pinchas includes the narrative of the daughters of Zelophechad still stands as an important case for Jewish inheritance law. It wasn’t until they spoke up that God and Moses recognized the need for guidance and provisions for all children, not just the sons. At this moment, God changes the law to make sure that these daughters are cared for. If you argued that the strictures associated with the laws about things like who they could marry were unjust, you’d certainly win; later rabbinic authorities pushed even further in the Talmud and then the Shulchan Aruch to permit daughters to inherit half of what sons would. And when that wasn’t good enough, Rabbi Ben-Zion Hai Ouziel, the Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Israel from 1939 to 1953, believed even in the early 20th century that women could vote and be elected, serve as judges, and use birth control for health reasons. He made an enactment in Israel that put a daughter’s inheritance on equal footing with a son’s. 

The Torah and subsequent legal texts spend a great deal of time establishing inheritance and plans for the end of life because they’re essential to keeping a semblance of peace during an incredibly emotional time. We cannot know one’s thoughts or intentions after they’ve died, so planning ahead is the only way to be clear and fair. Plus, preplanning for your burial not only saves a lot of stressful decision-making, but also ensures that you can ask for Jewish burial rituals like taharah, the ritual preparation of the body. And while it may sound a little crass, the reality is that prepaying for your own arrangements means you can use those credit card points or miles to take a vacation you actually get to enjoy.

Writing your advance medical directive and making sure your next of kin are aware of your desires takes the guesswork out of what is already a traumatic process. Having a will allows you to share the ways in which you want your property divided and can save a lot of family strife. But beyond the physical items you’ll distribute or your wishes for end-of-life care, writing an ethical will is a way in which your values and ethics can be cherished and passed down for generations to come. Parshat Pinchas guides us in this essential aspect of life – preparing for death – and there’s hardly a more compassionate, caring gift you can give.

I love watching award shows. In particular, I love watching the joy on people’s faces as they win, seeing the way they cheer for one another, and of course the fashion on display. But if I’m being honest, I’m a little jealous of the after parties. The award show itself is broadcast for the public to enjoy. It’s intended for the fans almost as much as it is for the nominees and recipients. The parties that follow, however, are for those involved. We may see short clips on the evening news, but that’s about it. These soirées are for the elite and their guests, which might feel exclusive, but for good reason. It’s an intimate opportunity for people with shared experiences to come together. 

There’s an after party in the Torah, which we celebrate every year. We learn about this moment from our Torah portion this week, Pinchas. Parshat Pinchas begins with the story of Pinchas (identified as Aaron’s grandson) and the extreme action he took toward those who defied the prohibition against idolatry. Then we move to the daughters of Zelophechad (Joseph’s great-great-great-grandson), who want to inherit land after their father’s death because he had no sons. Then Joshua is appointed Moshe’s successor, and we end with the sacrifices we are to make for Rosh Chodesh and other holidays.

As we read through lists and lists of how to celebrate each holiday, it becomes clear how God defines the “invitees” for these celebrations. For the most part, they’re meant to be open festivals where all the people would gather to celebrate. There was minimal exclusion among the nations. That is, until we read the final directions for Sukkot. 

We’re first told that Sukkot, the festival of booths, is a seven-day holiday. Then, in chapter 30, we read about this mysterious eighth day of gathering known as Shemini Atzeret. On this day there are fewer offerings to God and a bit more intimacy involved. This is the after party. The Talmud in tractate Sukkot 55b imagines God as a host, welcoming representatives of all nations who have come to pay homage on Sukkot. As the festival ends and the other nations depart, God invites the Israelites to gather just one more day for this intimate, more exclusive time.

With most celebrations, the more the merrier. However, this description of Shemini Atzeret in the Torah is a helpful reminder that gathering together for a specific purpose can be beautiful and holy. Especially during these past couple of years, one of the lessons we’ve learned is that taking the time to focus on the needs of our households and our more immediate circles is a sacred and precious duty, and something to hold onto even in a post-pandemic world.