As I like to joke, Cantor Rabbi Bitton’s job is certainly safe with me around. But while I’m not known for my vocal skills, I’m comfortable in the music and melodies of our liturgy. If I had to pick one prayer that always feels easy and natural, it would be the Kiddush, the tunes for both Shabbat and for holidays. I hear my father’s voice in my head, and that always makes it a sacred moment for me. 

Beyond my personal memories, there’s something about the sound of Kiddush that evokes home. Whether it’s sung around a Shabbat table with a full spread or whispered beside a hospital bed with a mini challah and grape juice cup, the words of Kiddush root us. They declare that even when the week spins with demands, there is a sacred pause—an invitation to remember who we are and where we belong.

Parshat Vaetchanan is similarly packed with memory and meaning. After recounting his own plea to enter the Promised Land, Moses pivots to legacy. He repeats the Ten Commandments and delivers the Shema—foundational texts that anchor Jewish identity. It’s a parshah of retelling and reaffirming, of choosing covenant again and again. Amid all this, the holiness of Shabbat is once more commanded: “Guard the Sabbath day and keep it holy, as the Lord your God has commanded you” (Deuteronomy 5:12).

This verse differs subtly from its twin in Exodus, where we are told to “Remember (zachor) the Sabbath day.” Here in Deuteronomy, we are told to “guard” (shamor) it. Our tradition famously teaches that both words were spoken by God in a single utterance: zachor v’shamor b’dibbur echad. Kiddush, the sanctification of Shabbat, blends these themes. When we lift the wine and recite Kiddush, we remember the acts of creation and guard the sanctity of time through ritual and restraint.

Kiddush is more than a pre-dinner ritual. It’s a declaration of values. It reminds us that our worth isn’t measured by productivity, that time can be holy, and that rest is resistance in a world that demands constant motion. This Shabbat, I invite you to listen closely to Kiddush. Let it be more than a recitation; let it be a reset. A recommitment to living with intention, to protecting what is sacred, and to remembering that holiness doesn’t just happen—it’s something we choose to create, together.

I love visiting summer camps; it’s a highlight of every summer. I just visited Camp Solomon Schechter earlier this month, and walking through the gates of Schechter or BB Camp and seeing the vast expanse of nature and the cheerful sounds of joyful kids brings me peace and contentment on a whole other level. Do you know what’s funny about that? I hated being a camper at overnight camp. To clarify, I tolerated most of camp. From 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. I was a pretty happy camper. It’s just that by the end of the day, I was peopled out. Back in the 80s and 90s, we didn’t understand sensory processing disorders or introversion the way we do today. There was no safe place for me to take refuge when the noise and excitement of camp got too overwhelming for me. So while camp is supposed to be a refuge from the rest of the chaos in our world, it started out for me as its own chaotic space that just left me wanting for quiet.  

Yet, this time in my childhood represents one of my most important and treasured experiences because of the lesson it still provides. As a rabbi now, this is a constant reminder to me to hold the balance between the variety of needs our congregants have in order to feel a place of calm. It has often been said that we lead from the place of our own brokenness to create a new wholeness, that is indeed true not only of my own leadership, but of Moses as well.  

Parshat Vaetchanan continues with the retelling of the laws here again in the book of Deuteronomy. We also read about God’s persistent refusal to allow Moshe to enter the Land of Israel. The Torah then issues a caution to uphold the mitzvot as the key to building an Israelite society. Moshe then sets three cities of refuge, and we receive probably the most well-known instruction in the Torah, the Shema.  

In chapter 4, verses 41-42 the text reads: “Then Moses set aside three cities on the east side of the Jordan to which a manslayer could escape, one who unwittingly slew a fellow without having been hostile to him in the past; he could flee to one of these cities and live.” These verses follow an address but were not directly spoken by Moses; it’s simply narrative. Commentary asks the question “Why would this act be so important to Moses that it interrupts his address to the nation?” The answer is because Moses himself had to flee when he struck a man in Egypt. In other words, as a leader, Moses knows what it is to need a place of refuge to regroup and understands the importance of those places in a society. 

Parshat Vaetchanan makes it clear that a place of refuge can look different for each person. What matters is not what or where the place is, but how we can be supportive of the environment that allows for refuge to take place. As we move slowly to the final encampment of the Israelites in the land of Israel, Moses and the Torah give us this message: find your place, find your peace. 

“It wasn’t me.” It’s a common phrase among kids when a situation has gone south. However, adults seem to be just as guilty of passing blame when no one wants to take responsibility for what’s gone wrong. Why? Because as humans it’s usually in our nature to do that which is right, and we’ll try to avoid shame at all costs. It can be hard to tell when someone is ashamed because we humans have evolved into amazing actors. A dog puts their tail between their legs, but humans have a range of emotional subtleties and better mechanisms to hide our true feelings. Does that mean there’s some evolutionary reason behind passing the blame?

Avoiding responsibility could have any number of causes. Perhaps it’s the weight of feeling like you’ve let someone down. Perhaps you feel you did your part and it was someone else who didn’t, and there’s no easy way to say that. Whatever the circumstances, sharing blame always feels easier than shouldering that burden on our own. 

The Torah often gives us glimpses into understanding temptation and the motivation that goes with it, and this week’s Torah portion is no exception. Parshat Vaetchanan continues with the retelling of the laws here again in the book of Deuteronomy. We also read about God’s persistent refusal to allow Moses to enter the Land of Israel. The Torah then issues a caution to uphold the mitzvot as the key to building an Israelite society. Moses then sets three cities of refuge, and we receive probably the most well-known instruction in the Torah, the Shema. 

As Moses moves towards the end of his tenure as the leader of the Israelite nation, it’s clear that he is devoted to doing what is right for the people, but after so much time arguing on their behalf and defending them, he’s a little bit worn out. In chapter 4, verse 21 he suddenly changes his language. Instead of arguing for ALL the people, including himself, he argues “the Lord was angry with me on your account.” Such to say, God is mad at me because I am responsible for you. 

One could argue that it was Moses’s missteps as a leader that set him up to take responsibility for the missteps of the people in this text. Another argument could be that Moses did all he could to guide the people, and yet they still made mistakes, they didn’t listen, and they caused harm. But the bigger message here is that leaders, like Moses, do more than inspire or rally or blaze a trail. They are willing to accept responsibility, for better or worse.

Am I the only one who can’t keep certain foods in the house because I can’t keep myself from eating them? Pre-Covid, our house had just a small assortment of salty snacks, mostly because I simply could not eat them in moderation. When we found ourselves home all the time with two children who were constantly hungry for a snack, we quickly tired of constantly putting food in bowls and then washing those bowls. Instead, we opted for single serving packages of all their favorites (Chex Mix, potato chips, Cheez-Its, Cheetos) so we could put them in an easily accessible place and not have to spend the whole day portioning food. While we’ve gone back to bulk sizes to avoid waste, unfortunately now we’ve gotten in the habit of having all my favorite snack foods readily available at home, and I’ve had to find a way to keep myself from grazing on them all day every day. 

The truth is I’m a big believer in moderation and learning my limits, I just didn’t want to with these foods. My original plan of keeping minimal pantry items may have worked for me, but it wasn’t the right choice to keep them from my other family members who enjoy them. As with so many parts of our lives, temptation is best overcome by digging in and understanding our limits and boundaries. 

The Torah periodically shows us types of temptation to avoid, and each time is another reminder of how powerful our choices can be. Parshat Vaetchanan continues with the retelling of the laws here again in the book of Deuteronomy. We also read about God’s persistent refusal to allow Moshe to enter the Land of Israel. The Torah issues a caution to uphold the mitzvot as the key to building an Israelite society, Moshe sets three cities of refuge, and we receive what is the most well-known instruction in the Torah, the Shema. 

Among these rules and rehashing of appropriate worship, in chapter four we read about all the objects and beings of God’s creation. The sky, the sun and stars, animals, human kind. And, while talking about how awe-inspiring those creations are, the Torah tells us not to worship them. This is a warning against the sultry seduction of the idolatry practiced in the nations that surround the Israelites. But this section of text makes you wonder: if the Torah is concerned that we’ll stray from our worship of God to worshiping the natural world, why were these celestial bodies and earthly wonders even created? In other words, if I can’t keep my hands out of the bag of Cheetos, why keep them in the house?

For one thing, the rest of creation is critical to our survival. Clearly there’s a difference between humankind needing the sun’s light and my “needing” a bag of Cheetos. But even more than that, the gift of choice is one of the signs of the divine spark within us. The free will we have to choose to eat for nourishment (and maybe occasionally for pleasure) and to choose to maintain our faith is the true gift of life.

I’ve always been bothered by the end of the movie Titanic when Rose climbs on to the door in the middle of the North Atlantic Ocean after the ship goes down. There seems to be room for Jack to climb on top of the door with her, and yet he dies and she survives. Why do they both not get to make it and only one of them is pulled to safety? There has been much debate about this scene over the 24 years since the movie came out, including a segment on the television show Mythbusters that recreated the tragic ending with a replica of the door. The obvious answer is because it makes the story even more dramatic and moving, not to mention the tragedy of the Titanic isn’t a happy story to begin with. But if you prefer a bit of dark humor, you could say the reason is because Jack didn’t want to be the clingy one in this relationship. 

Of course in this memorable movie scene, “clinging” is a matter of life and death. However, when we turn the verb “cling” into the adjective “clingy” we’re usually referring to people, things, and ideas we hold onto for emotional reasons, not physical necessity. For example, there are some things that we cling to in order to give us hope or sustain us through a rocky patch. “The light at the end of the tunnel” is a cliché that reminds us that if we can just reach a certain point, a reward will follow. Or, as my trainer says, “You can do anything for 30 seconds.” It’s a little bit of hyperbole, but knowing that those 30 seconds will end is the hope I cling to in order to push through the last two minutes of holding a plank. What are some things you cling to? 

Parshat Vaetchanan, which we read this week, offers some insight into this concept. The Torah portion continues with the retelling of the laws here again in the book of Deuteronomy. We also read about God’s persistent refusal to allow Moshe to enter the Land of Israel. The Torah then issues a caution to uphold the mitzvot as the key to building the new Israelite society. Moshe then sets three cities of refuge, and we receive probably the most well-known instruction in the Torah, the Shema. 

In chapter four we receive a verse of Torah that is still used today in the congregation just before the reading of the Torah. “While you, who are clinging to the Lord your God, are all alive today.” In the midst of recounting the destruction of those who didn’t serve God, this verse tells us that Israel is alive today, and Judaism exists today because the people have “clung” to God. Faith, in a sense, is that floating door in Titanic, and that is how we survive. 

“Clinging” to faith looks different for each of us. Holding onto Judaism can look like maintaining multiple traditions over generations, or simply keeping a recipe as sacred to the family. Some of us cling to God, while others cling to the specific words of Torah that bring us meaning and comfort. However you interpret it, this idea of holding tightly to each other and to our tradition is the reason Judaism has survived, and if we remain clingy, it will continue to survive.