Parshat Lech Lecha: Hearing the Call of Good over Evil

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We hear nothing about Avraham’s faith or righteousness before God calls to him, “Lech lecha.” So why was he chosen? The midrashim fill in the story, portraying Avraham’s moral clarity and spiritual courage, yet the pshat itself offers a quieter but powerful lesson—about standing up with faith and conviction for Jews and Israel today.

Bereshit Rabbah teaches that Avraham once saw a palace in flames and cried out, “How can it be that this palace has no leader?” God replied, “I am the master of this palace.” Avraham’s faith was born through questioning, through refusing to accept a world that made no moral sense. As Rabbi Sacks zt”l wrote: “For Abraham, faith began in cognitive dissonance. There is only one way of resolving this dissonance: by protesting evil and fighting it… It is as if God were saying to Abraham: I need you to help Me to put out the flames.”

Avraham’s distinctiveness may also be alluded to when he is later called “ha-ivri,” which means “the Hebrew” or “from the other side.” One midrashic opinion explains: “The entire world stood on one side, and he on the other.” This image feels especially relevant today, reminding us to speak truth and uphold moral clarity even when it defies popular opinion.

Perhaps the plainest reason God chose Avraham was because he responded to God’s call “Lech lecha…” Avraham answers the call fully even though it involves uncertainty and sacrifice. This too, is the story of the Jewish people and their love and commitment to Israel through the ages. As the world watches the elections in New York this coming week, we can learn from Avraham about the power of each individual to stand up and voice moral clarity about good and evil. Shabbat Shalom -Karen Miller Jackson

Parshat Noah: Windows & The World

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Why does God command Noah to build a “tzohar” (opening) on the ark? The tevah was meant to enclose and protect those inside so they could survive the flood. What purpose, then, would an opening serve? The interpretations of the tzohar provide a model for how we might view our own homes and places of prayer today.

The word tzohar appears only once in Tanach, making it difficult to define. Rashi, citing midrash, offers two explanations: (1) a window, or (2) a precious stone that emitted light. Both explain how Noah and his family—confined in the ark for a year—had light and could distinguish between day and night. Yet the difference is telling: a stone brings light inward but offers no view outward, while a window lets light in and allows one to look out and connect with the world beyond. Hizkuni identifies this tzohar as the very window through which Noah sent the raven, a moment marking his first reconnection with the outside world. 

Windows also carry symbolic meaning in our prayer spaces and homes. Talmud Berachot, based on Daniel, teaches that one should pray in a bayit with windows—a law later codified in halakha. Some rishonim explain that natural light or a view of the heavens enhances kavanah (concentration). Rav Kook adds that a person who has the most heartfelt  prayers, but is disconnected from the outside world is not achieving the full purpose of tefilla. By davening in a room with a view of the outside, a person will be inspired to positively influence and do good in the world s/he inhabits. 

Like Noah’s tevah, our homes and shuls are a space to protect and nurture ourselves, to build up our faith and inner light. Yet if we never look outward, our spiritual lives remain incomplete. The window reminds us that faith is not only about shelter, but about shining light into the world beyond. Shabbat Shalom -Karen Miller Jackson

Bereshit: Faith and Gratitude

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“Each and every blade of grass has a special song of its own.” – Naomi Shemer, based on Rebbe Nachman of Breslav

In the midst of the creation narrative, before humankind even enters the scene, parshat Bereishit offers a lesson about the power of faith and gratitude, one we have witnessed so vividly in each and every hostage who, thank God, has returned home. 

In the retelling of creation in Bereishit, chapter 2, just before Adam is formed, the Torah states: “When no shrub of the field was yet on earth and no grasses of the field had yet sprouted, because God had not sent rain upon the earth and there were no human beings to till the soil.” Why did God withhold the rain? And why are two reasons given for why the vegetation had not grown? Rashi connects these two explanations: God withheld the rain because there were not yet human beings who could be makir tov (to appreciate the rain). Only once Adam sensed the world’s need for sustenance did he pray for rain, and it was that prayer that brought the grasses and trees to life.

Rashi’s insight highlights several key ideas. First, Adam prays not only for himself, but for the sake of the world. Second, tefilla cultivates within us the capacity to be makir tov — to feel and express gratitude to God and to others for the good we receive. Finally, the world itself reached its completion — the grasses only began to grow — when Adam prayed. Our very sustenance, and the flourishing of the world, depend on our tefillot.

This message finds powerful expression in the chatufim, who have shown almost superhuman strength, faith, and gratitude. With radiant smiles, wrapped in Israeli flags, and in their renewed embrace of mitzvot like tefillin and tefilla. Their example is not only a source of inspiration but also a wellspring of strength — one that will help us recreate, renew, and heal Israeli society. Shabbat Shalom – Karen Miller Jackson

Parshat Ha’azinu & Sukkot: Strength from Former Hostages

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The poetic parsha of Ha’azinu, which we will read just before Sukkot, reminds us of the blessings God has bestowed upon the people of Israel throughout history. By recalling both our failures and our faith, Ha’azinu becomes a verbal act of hakarat hatov, gratitude for all the good God has granted us.

The Midrash Sifrei teaches that this song encompasses the past, present, and future of the Jewish people. Ramban adds that it is both our testimony about God’s benevolence to us and God’s testimony about Israel—that even when we stray, God will forgive and return to us.

The mitzvah of sitting in the sukkah carries a similar message. The Torah commands us to dwell in sukkot “so that future generations will know that I caused the Israelites to dwell in booths” after the Exodus (Vayikra 23). Yet the Torah never describes these sukkot explicitly, leading to a rabbinic debate about whether they were physical booths, or the ananei hakavod—the Clouds of Glory—symbolizing divine protection. Whether they were actual shelters or the miraculous clouds, the sukkah teaches that it is precisely in moments of fragility and uncertainty that we are reminded to rely on God’s care.

We have also learned this lesson from many former hostages—may the remaining ones come home soon. In his book, Eli Sharabi describes how, at his most vulnerable, in the dark, cramped, airless tunnels of Gaza, he drew strength from the words of Kiddush and Shema. Ha’azinu and the sukkah together remind us that as we emerge from this month of chagim, when we feel most attuned to God’s presence, we can strive to hold on to these reminders of faith and protection throughout the year ahead. Shabbat Shalom -Karen Miller Jackson

Parshat Ki Tissa & Purim: Modern Day Esthers

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As we enter Shabbat Ki Tissa, which coincides with Purim, a common theme emerges: finding faith in moments of crisis and ensuring its message endures l’dorot, for generations to come.

The sin of the Golden Calf stands as one of Am Yisrael’s greatest failings, to the point that God initially intends to destroy them. Moshe pleads for their salvation, even offering to be erased from the Torah. The Sages teach that its effects linger in every generation: “There is no generation that does not bear an ounce of the sin of the Golden Calf.” Many commentaries see the Mishkan as a tikkun (atonement) – particularly through the donation of gold, transforming the very substance of their downfall into a means of holiness. Yet, the lasting message is clear: do not lose faith so swiftly when Moshe and God’s presence seem out of reach.

Similarly, according to the Talmud, Esther had to persuade the Sages to record her story for future generations (kitvuni l’dorot). While they hesitated, she understood the ongoing relevance of Megillat Esther: a model of faith when the face of God seems hidden. Perhaps for this reason, the laws of Megillah reading are so stringent. Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi teaches that the obligation to read it twice—once at night and once in the day—is derived from the verse in Psalms: “O my God, I call by day but You do not answer; and at night, and there is no respite for me.” Reading the Megillah serves as an antidote to the natural feeling of divine abandonment. It is a written reminder for every generation of God’s hidden presence, even in the darkest times.

Today, returned hostages who have shared stories of bravery and faith, despite overwhelming despair, serve as a modern manifestation of kitvuni l’dorot. Like Esther, they remind us of the power of faith, even when redemption seems distant. Purim Sameach and Shabbat Shalom🎭🇮🇱-Karen Miller Jackson

Va’etchanan: Shema and Enduring Faith

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The unique status of the Shema prayer is not immediately apparent from its original context in parshat Va’etchanan. However, the interpretation of just two words helps us understand why it has become such a cherished prayer and a powerful symbol of enduring hope.

There is a well-known tannaitic debate regarding the words “בְּשָׁכְבְּךָ וּבְקוּמֶךָ” (“when you lie down and when you get up”). Beit Shammai taught that one must literally lie down at night and stand up in the morning while saying Shema. Rabbi Tarfon once followed this opinion and endangered himself while traveling at night. In contrast, Beit Hillel interpreted these words as referring to the times of recitation: “at the time” when people typically lie down (evening) and rise (morning). The law is decided according to Beit Hillel, who understood the essence of Shema as framing our days and nights. It also rejects the notion that the Shema should be a separate moment from life each day. Instead, it suggests that Shema embodies an enduring faith that flows through the everyday moments of our busy lives.

These same words are used to explain why the Oral Torah begins with the question: “From when does one recite the evening Shema?” Why does the Mishna start with the nighttime Shema before discussing the morning Shema? The main proof-text for this order is indeed “when you lie down and when you get up.” As Rav Yehuda Brandes points out, the timing for Shema is determined not by objective astronomical signs, but rather by the subjective daily rhythm of human beings. Moreover, this pattern reflects the rhythm of Jewish history: holding onto faith through the dark nights of persecution and challenges, and then emerging into the light of independence and redemption.
With each passing day, amidst the hovering threats, the Shema remains a steady anchor of faith. We continue to pray that each new day brings light and redemption—for the hostages and for all of Am Yisrael. Shabbat Shalom -Karen Miller Jackson

Parshat Bo: Enduring Faith

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Did the Exodus from Egypt take place during the day or night? The commentaries on parshat Bo find meaning in this ambiguity. It is a symbol of enduring faith through difficult times.

First, God promises to bring the plague against the first-born at around mid-night (“k’chatzot”) after which the people would leave Egypt. Then, God’s promise is fulfilled in the middle of the night (“b’chatzi halayla”). Pharaoh, in response to the suffering, commands Moshe to take the Israelites out in the night. However, Moshe had instructed the people not to leave their homes until the morning. It also states that God took them out of Egypt on “that very day,” understood by some commentaries to mean in full daylight. Light is associated with redemption in rabbinic thought. Bereshit Rabbah understands the words “And there was light,” from the creation story, as “corresponding to the book of Exodus in which Israel emerged from darkness to light.” Daylight brings a new day and with it the potential to reaffirm our faith in God and experience redemption. 

Ramban resolves the ambiguity of the timing of the Exodus as follows: B’nei Yisrael left Egypt in the daytime, so all could see, but the process of geula began at night. Mid-night then is a turning point, when the seeds of potential for redemption begin. This association of midnight as the beginning of the redemption process is reinforced in the midrash about King David, who would learn Torah until midnight (for protection) and from then on sing songs of praise to God. According to this reading, redemption begins even while we experience darkness, when we can’t see clearly or know when the light will begin to rise.

Similarly, Talmud Berakhot praises those who conclude the Shema with sunrise and “juxtapose redemption to prayer.” The image of preparing for redemption from midnight and of standing in prayer before sunrise has carried the Jewish people through periods of darkness before and will carry us through the challenges we face today. Shabbat Shalom – Karen Miller Jackson

Vayigash: Achdut

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Vayigash is the parsha of achdut (Jewish unity). Before Oct. 7th we longed for more achdut. Since Oct. 7th we have been carried by the spirit of our people’s togetherness. Going forward, how do we preserve this achdut in Israeli society despite our differences? The approach of Yehuda toward Yosef provides some insight.

“Then Yehuda approached him [Yosef]…” This was a pivotal moment in the story of Yaacov’s sons. At their lowest point, the brothers could not speak peaceably with Yosef. Rashi characterizes their feelings of disdain as having “moved on from all feelings of brotherhood.” In parshat Vayigash, Yehuda (who doesn’t realize that he is speaking to his brother) speaks at length to Yosef, in the hopes of saving Binyamin as he had promised his father. 

Bereshit Rabbah likens this encounter to a well with good, cold water at the bottom, which is out of reach until someone ties rope to rope and draws from it and drinks. So too, Yehuda approached Yosef with many words until he found the ones which touched Yosef’s heart. The physical approach, along with words, communication, are the keys to bridging deep divides. 

The haftorah too, contains a vision for Jewish unity, particularly for modern Israel. Yechezkel is told by God to take two sticks and write on one the name Yosef (Ephraim and the tribes of Yisrael) and the other Yehuda and then, “Bring them close to each other, so that they become one stick.” Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaCohen Kook quoted this prophecy in his eulogy for Theodor Herzl and calls the secular Zionist movement the footsteps of the messiah son of Yosef. 

Rav Kook was a model for approaching and drawing closer to parts of Israeli society who thought and lived differently. How can we walk in the footsteps of Yehuda, Yechezkel and Rav Kook? By seeing what they all saw – we are one people. Shabbat Shalom -Karen Miller Jackson

Miketz: Faith and Effort

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Yosef has experienced a number of lows in his life by the time we encounter him in parshat Miketz. He was thrown into a pit, brought down to Egypt and then imprisoned. The commentaries draw insights from Yosef about enduring hardship, balancing faith in God with human hishtadlut (effort) and how not to give into despair.

Yosef, in the hope of going free, asks the chief butler: “But remember me when all is well with you again, and do me the kindness of remembering me to Pharaoh…” However, says the Torah, the chief butler “did not remember him…he forgot him.” Numerous commentaries read this double language as deep forgetting – he removed Yosef’s suffering from his mind and his heart. 

Rashi, citing Bereshit Rabbah, teaches that Yosef remained in prison an extra two years because he put his trust in the chief butler. The repetition refers to forgetting him on that day and also thereafter. The midrash reinforces this through a verse from Tehillim: “Happy is the man who makes the Lord his trust, who turns not to the arrogant…” If this is so, what need is there for us to do our part, our hishtadlut, to bring about our freedom? Other sources emphasize Yosef’s mistake was putting too much faith in outside help. The Kli Yakar comments that when he used conditional language (“but remember me…) it indicates that otherwise he would lose hope. 

The combination of physical effort and spiritual faith is a defining characteristic of Hanukkah. The Hasmoneans did their part and God brought the miracles. As Rabbi Sacks writes: “We need both: human effort and Divine favor. We have to be, in a certain sense, patient and impatient – impatient with ourselves but patient in waiting for God to bless our endeavors.”

May we follow in Yosef’s footsteps and keep up the incredible efforts and deep faith we are seeing around us and may we merit remembrance and miracles, salvation and victory. Shabbat Shalom -Karen Miller Jackson