This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on January 16, 2026.

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Most of us know the feeling of trying to do the right thing and watching it backfire. You speak up, show up, follow through, and instead of things getting better, they get harder. The conversation goes sideways. The plan creates more stress. The trust you thought you had starts to crack. 

That is exactly where Parashat Va’era begins. 

Moses has done what God asked. He confronted Pharaoh. He told the truth. And the result? The Israelites’ suffering intensifies, and their disappointment turns toward Moses himself. “Why did you make things worse?” they ask. Trust, fragile to begin with, begins to unravel. 

God’s response is striking. Instead of changing course or dismissing the people’s pain, God repeats a steady refrain: I am Adonai. I am still here. I have not forgotten you. Even when trust feels thin, the relationship endures. 

Va’era teaches us that liberation is not only about breaking chains. It is about rebuilding trust. A people shaped by injustice cannot move toward freedom until something internal begins to heal, belief in leadership, in one another, and in the possibility that tomorrow can be different from today. 

The plagues come one by one, not all at once. Redemption unfolds gradually, asking the people to stay engaged, to listen again after disappointment, to risk hope when it would be easier to retreat. Torah insists that moral courage is not dramatic or instantaneous. It is relational. It is sustained. It is built over time. 

That message matters deeply in our fractured world. When injustice feels overwhelming, the temptation is to disengage, to decide that what is broken is too big, too entrenched, too exhausting to confront. But Torah will not let us off the hook so easily. As Martin Luther King Jr. taught, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” Va’era pushes us to understand that injustice, left unchallenged, corrodes the entire moral fabric of a community. 

Trust does not mean ignoring harm or rushing past pain. The Israelites’ anger is understandable. Their suffering is real. Trust begins when leaders listen, when communities hold space for truth, and when accountability replaces defensiveness. 

Building trust is sacred work. It is how Torah becomes a living moral compass, guiding us toward justice with courage, humility, and relationship at the center. Redemption does not arrive all at once. It begins when we choose, again and again, to stand together and refuse to accept a broken world as inevitable. 

As I’ve aged I’ve noticed and become much more grateful for the big stretch that I take each morning as I wake up. Especially as my joints and bones tend to creak in the damp winter months, getting out of bed and working my body from head to toe is essential to transition from the constrictions of slumber into the movement of my day.

This is precisely why the rabbis added a blessing to our morning liturgy reminding us to do exactly this stretch work:

Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech HaOlam, Zokef Kefufim.

“Blessed are You, Adonai, our God, Sovereign of the Universe, Who straightens the bent.”

This blessing, part of the morning Birkot HaShachar, is essential in its relation to our physical presence each day, but it also reflects the themes of liberation and the restoration of dignity present in Parshat Vaera, themes which are on our minds even more so this week with our hopeful eyes on Israel.

Parshat Vaera continues the story of the Exodus, emphasizing God’s power and the beginning of the plagues that challenge Pharaoh’s authority. Through the signs and wonders Moses performs, God asserts the Israelites’ worth and challenges the power structures keeping them enslaved. Blessed is the one who empowers the oppressed. 

In addition to the physical ways the blessing addresses our days, it also reminds us about the way the Israelites are downtrodden under the weight of slavery, and God’s actions in this parshah begin to “straighten” their burdens, paving the way for eventual freedom. Blessed is the one who strengthens the bent.

Moses also begins to gain confidence in his role as God’s agent, embodying the transformation from one who felt inadequate to one who stands tall in faith. Blessed is the one who strengthens resolve. 

Sometimes interacting in the world feels just as much like an emotional stretch as a physical one. May we regularly find strength in “unbending” ourselves from the burdens we carry so we can be our full outstretched selves.

Judaism offers us many opportunities to start fresh. In fact, there are four “new years” on the Jewish calendar: 1 Tishrei (Rosh Hashanah), 15 Shevat (Tu B’Shevat), 1 Nisan (the Exodus and birth of the Israelite nation), and 1 Elul (the tithing of cattle). Interestingly, the secular new year, Tu B’Shevat, and our reading about the Exodus in the Torah all happen around the same time, so needless to say fresh starts are on our minds in January.

Whether it’s a new food, a new exercise routine, or a new hobby, it’s helpful to have an excuse like the new year to explore those unchartered waters in our lives. And to a society that spent hundreds of years in bondage in Egypt, freedom was a completely new experience they didn’t know they were ready for. Parshat Vaera, this week’s portion, begins the Israelites’ journey away from Egypt. We find the Israelites in the midst of their transition from slavery to freedom. God reminds Moses about the covenant made with our forefathers and that redemption is in the near future. Moses tries to share this with the people Israel, but they aren’t ready to listen to him. And to be honest, Moses isn’t so sure of himself anyway.

So who is the most hesitant about this transition? Is it Moses, who’s afraid to take on the leadership of this nation in the desert without any real structure in place? Is it Pharaoh, who has to let go of an entire population of slave laborers? Is it the Israelites, who are afraid to leave because as bad as slavery was, at least they weren’t fearful of the unknown? Perhaps it is all three. 

It’s around the time of the fourth plague, when Pharoah is again faced with the decision of whether or not to let the Israelites go, that Moses suggests that he and Aaron – and perhaps all of Israel – leave temporarily. The purpose of this three-day excursion, at least according to Moses, is to be far enough away from the Egyptians to make a sacrifice to God. But could there be another reason? Could it be that Moses holds out hope that after three days he’ll feel more empowered to lead? Or is he trying to give the Israelites more time to realize the power of being free and to choose on their own volition not to return to slavery? 

Three days doesn’t sound like a long time in the grand scheme of 40 years in the desert, but maybe it was a “toe in the water” of freedom. Sometimes that’s all we need to realize the positive side of new experiences. Parshat Vaera reminds us that even though new adventures, foods, or friendships can be intimidating, it’s almost always impossible to know the outcome until you try. What will you try in 2024 for just one minute, for 10 minutes, for three days, or beyond?

As a child, one of my favorite nursery rhymes was “Little Bunny Foo Foo.” I’ll refresh your memory, with apologies in advance for the subsequent earworm: 

Little Bunny Foo Foo,
Hopping through the forest,
Scooping up the field mice,
And bopping them on the head.

(Spoken)
Down came the Good Fairy, and she said,

“Little Bunny Foo Foo,
I don’t want to see you,
Scooping up the field mice
And bopping them on the head.”

(Spoken)
“I’ll give you three chances,
And if you don’t behave,
I’m gonna turn you into a goon!”

This nursery rhyme, however silly it might seem, offers a lesson in patience and in setting expectations. The Good Fairy doesn’t just punish Little Bunny right away. Instead, she gives Little Bunny three chances to make a behavioral change. As one who works with learners of all ages (not to mention an avid Tigers baseball fan), the “three strikes and you’re out” rule is very familiar to me. 

Our Torah portion this week may have influenced this nursery rhyme to some degree. Parshat Vaera launches the Israelites’ journey away from Egypt. We find the Israelites in the midst of their transition from slavery to freedom. God reminds Moses about the covenant made with our forefathers and that redemption is in the near future. Moses tries to share this with the people Israel, but they aren’t ready to listen to him. And Moses isn’t so sure of himself anyway.

Throughout the text, we see the notion that “God hardened Pharaoh’s heart.” As human beings, we value our free will above all else, so this idea doesn’t sit well with everyone. If God caused the hardened heart, why is Pharaoh held responsible? If God did this, does that mean we have no free will? If God did this, does that mean that God wanted to punish the Egyptians? And so on.

As a rabbi and person who believes fiercely in free will, I myself struggled with this text until about a year ago, when I came across another interpretation. Perhaps the reason God kept hardening Pharaoh’s heart was to give “good Egyptians” the opportunity to step forward and demand an end to the cruelty and oppression. In this interpretation, we see God testing the people as God has done so many times before. In this case, it’s a test to see if there are any other upstanders. Remember, just last week we read about Moses standing up against injustice when no one else would. Maybe this moment of “hardening the heart” is a test to see if there are others who might find their voice and step up and speak out against injustice. The name of our parshah, Vaera, means “and he saw.” It’s a reminder that part of our job as human beings is to see one another, to speak up against injustice, to do the work to soften hearts so that oppression against any people is uncovered and vanquished. We’ve been given enough chances; now it’s time to change.

It’s difficult to recall the sensation of pain, even if the pain was incredibly traumatic at the time it occurred. After a physically painful event, including everything from childbirth down to a mild burn from hot coffee, our brains are wired to stop sending those pain signals eventually, even while memories of the event persist. Those memories can result in a behavior change without us having to physically relive the pain. For example, you’d probably remember to request a “mild level” of heat on your next order of Thai food without having to physically recall that time you ate a hot pepper by mistake.

But what happens when the physical or emotional pain doesn’t lead to changes in behavior? We see just such an example in the Torah this week from Pharaoh. 

Parshat Vaera, this week’s portion, begins the Israelites journey away from Egypt. This week we find the Israelites in the midst of their transition from slavery to freedom. God reminds Moses about the covenant made with our forefathers and that redemption is in the near future. Moses tries to share this with the people Israel, but they aren’t ready to listen to him. And Moses isn’t so sure of himself anyway.

Throughout the narrative in this week’s portion, we see the infamous back and forth of Pharaoh and Moses. The plagues inflict pain and suffering, and of course Pharaoh wants it to stop, so he relents and accepts Moses’s plea to let the people go. When he does, the suffering ends. Then, as the Israelites are preparing to leave and Pharaoh is no longer suffering, he changes his mind and makes them stay. On and on and on this little dance goes. 

When Pharaoh is in the midst of his pain, it seems as if he’s capable of human compassion, considering the suffering of the enslaved Israelite people. However, as he “recovers,” he loses that sense of compassion. In fact, in chapter 8, verse 28, Pharaoh actually hardens his own heart; he makes the distinct choice to inflict suffering on others when he himself is no longer in pain, and it’s ultimately to his detriment.

While it’s impossible to physically feel the exact same suffering as someone else, there’s an element of empathy that comes from experience. You don’t have to guess what a paper cut might feel like when someone else gets one; the wincing you do is because you’ve felt it in the past, and even though you can’t physically share that sensation in real time, you can appreciate what that person is going through.

Sadly, some of that empathy has been traded in for the convenience and artificial anonymity of being able to shout our opinions, insults, and conspiracy theories into the public arena without any concern for whom they hurt or what it feels like on the receiving end. My hope is that we use Parshat Vaera and the lesson of Pharaoh as a reminder that compassion is perhaps our most important human gift.