A Parent-Shaped Hole

Parashat Vayechi, Genesis 47:28–50:26

Matt Absolon, Beth T’filah, Miramar, FL

When Jacob finished commanding his sons, he drew up his feet into the bed and breathed his last and was gathered to his people. Then Joseph fell on his father's face and wept over him and kissed him. And Joseph commanded his servants the physicians to embalm his father. So the physicians embalmed Israel. (Genesis 49:33–50:2)

Among the many lessons to digest from the story of Jacob’s life is the critical importance of the relationship between parents and their children. More pointedly between a father and his son; and in Jacob‘s case between a father and his sons, plural. Nothing, it seems, is unidimensional in Jacob‘s life. 

At Jacob‘s death, we see the text uniquely focus on Joseph’s emotional response as he weeps over the loss of his father. Curiously, the Torah only records Joseph weeping at Jacob’s death. The brothers' responses are omitted. 

This passage and the curious omission regarding the brother’s responses is addressed in both the Jerusalem and Jonathan Targums. The former includes the whole gathered assembly weeping for Israel; the latter following the text more closely, only mentions Joseph weeping over his father. The 11th century commentator Radak (Rabbi David Kimhi) also suggests the eleven brothers were weeping, Joseph being the stand-in for the collective. 

In this reflection, I’d like to follow Targum Jonathan’s approach and explore the plain sense of the text in its omission of the eleven brothers and why, in this setting, the Torah draws our attention to Joseph.

Deep in the heart of every person is a parent-shaped hole, a void that can only be filled by one's father and mother. Joseph, in rather rapid succession, loses both of his parents as a young man. We estimate Joseph to be ten to thirteen when he loses his mother Rachel at Benjamin’s birth; and he was seventeen when he was sold as a slave to Midianite slave traders (Gen 37:2). He would not see his father again until his 39th year. 

It takes little imagination to empathize with the emotional trauma this must have been to Joseph. 

Torn from home, torn from family, torn from that paternal guidance of his father Jacob; Joseph was thrust into a strange land, with strange gods and even stranger customs. That vital chain of l’dor v’dor was in danger of being severed, endangering the birthright promise from Abraham to his great-grandson, Joseph. 

But, somehow, some way, Joseph was able to hold fast to the God of his father Jacob, such that his first words to Pharaoh were to witness of the power of God to interpret dreams (Gen 41:16). In the absence of his father Jacob, Joseph was able to develop the character of his Heavenly Father, and (if I may be anachronistic for just a moment), embody the spirit of the Lord’s Prayer “Our Father in Heaven…”. 

As essential as it may be for us to know God as our Father, that relationship is not meant to replace our natural maternal and paternal relationships. In its most optimal expression, our relationship with our Heavenly Father is meant to deepen and strengthen our relationship with our earthly parents. 

Returning to Joseph and his brothers, the text outlines two vastly different relationships between Jacob and Joseph vs Jacob and the rest of the brothers. Judah's monologue in Gen 44 outlines twenty-two years of pain, bitterness, and regret between Jacob and his sons—the fruit of their ghastly treachery towards both Joseph and Jacob. Joseph, however, carried a very different kind of pain in his heart. 

Dragged across the sands of the desert, standing on the auction block and sold as chattel, locked in the bowels of Pharaoh's prison, Joseph yearned for the embrace of his father. The one man who had the physical and spiritual means to ransom him, the one man who could stop the pain and guide him to safety, who could end the nightmare. 

Joseph had a father-shaped hole in his heart. 

As for the rest of the brothers, the Torah does not let us in on the whys and wherefores of their “coming clean” moment to Jacob. We do not get to see Jacob’s reaction upon discovering their barbarity towards Joseph and the subsequent cover-up. But what we do have is this curious silence in the text at the moment of Jacob’s death. Silence regarding the brothers. 

But Joseph wept. 

And in that weeping I see the years of brokenness, of loneliness, of yearning to be embraced once again by the one person who had Joseph’s best interests at heart, his father. The years of life lived without the steady voice of wisdom and reason, the years of wishing that he could consult with his abba, the years of pining for the opportunity to be a son once again. 

The relationship between parent and child is so pivotal to healthy spiritual development that it is enshrined in the fifth of the Ten Commandments. Nothing can fill that father- or mother-shaped hole in each of our hearts. In turn, when we become parents, we honor God as our father, by accepting just how important we are to the spiritual stability of our children. 

Joseph’s life, in both his grief and his virtuous example, offers a pathway forward for those among us who live with the parent-shaped hole in their hearts. To honor God as our father, to strive to embody the spirit of fatherhood in all its gentleness and care, and to find moments of redemption to turn that which is meant for evil into good. 

Joseph, himself knowing the pain of being fatherless, tells his brothers that God has made him a father to Pharaoh (45:8). In this way, Joseph embraces the path of redemption, as he embodies the character of his Heavenly Father and becomes a father to the fatherless. 

Like Joseph, we often have little say over the circumstances that can rob us of these important relationships; but like Joseph we can also strive to heal the breach by being a loving mother or father to those whom God has placed in our care.

Joseph: Instant Gratification vs Forgiveness

Parashat Vayigash, Genesis 44:18 - 47:27

Rachel Martins, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

What is true forgiveness? What does forgiveness look like and how can it bring about reconciliation?

As a mother to two small boys, teaching empathy and forgiveness can be a challenge when their sweet little minds are fueled by the need for instant gratification. “I want that toy now!” “I want cookies for dinner!” “That’s mine—give it back now!” No matter the circumstance, they want what they want, now.

But how much more do we as adults wrestle with this same selfish drive for instant gratification?

In today’s world, everything demands instant gratification. How can we detach from this mindset when every piece of technology, from television ads to social media, is designed to make us crave and obtain what we want immediately (or with two-day free shipping)?

The idea of a long process toward a distant goal feels daunting unless we’re rewarded along the way. What happened to perseverance—to enduring hardship so that, when we look back, we can see how much stronger we’ve become because of it? Why do we run from the internal struggles that surface as we push toward a goal? We tell ourselves, “It’s not worth it unless I get it right now. Why can’t it just be easy?”

In last week’s parasha, Miketz, we saw the end of Joseph’s trials and persecution in prison. Through perseverance, he rose to become second to Pharaoh, preparing Egypt for the coming famine. One can only imagine the thoughts that plagued Joseph’s mind during those long years behind bars. Yet Hashem was faithful to him, granting him favor in the eyes of the prison commander. Even so, he was forgotten by his fellow prisoners the cupbearer and the baker after interpreting their dreams.

Now, standing before his brothers in this week’s parasha, Joseph faced a choice. What instant gratification could Joseph have gotten in avenging his pain now? Joseph could have retaliated against his brothers for hating him, throwing him into an abandoned well, and selling him into slavery. And yet, he chose the opposite. How quickly this story could have changed had Joseph allowed anger and hatred to poison his heart. Instead of giving in to the temptation of revenge, he looked upon his brothers with compassion and empathy, because he had learned to fully trust Hashem and His ultimate plan.

In resisting the Now gratification Joseph responded to his brothers and said;

“I am Joseph! Is my father still alive?” But his brothers were unable to answer him, because they were terrified at his presence. Then Joseph said to his brothers, “Come close to me.” When they had done so, he said, “I am your brother Joseph, the one you sold into Egypt! And now, do not be distressed or angry with yourselves for selling me here, because it was to save lives that God sent me ahead of you. For two years now there has been famine in the land, and for the next five years there will be no plowing or reaping. But God sent me ahead of you to preserve for you a remnant on earth and to save your lives by a great deliverance. So then, it was not you who sent me here, but God. He made me father to Pharaoh, lord of his entire household and ruler of all Egypt.” (Gen  45:3–8)

What a powerful, selfless act—shown by a man who had every reason to return the rejection his brothers once showed him. Instead of the Now gratification of revenge, Joseph saw Hashem’s greater plan.

The Apostle Paul reminds us of this plan in Romans 8:28:

Now we know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to His purpose.

The plan that Joseph’s brothers had to destroy him, Hashem used for His greater plan and purpose. How can we not also wait to see and trust in the Lord and persevere through the hardship to see His perfect plan? Yeshua also physically displayed this empathy as He hung on the cross, paying the price for our sins with love and compassion. He prayed: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing” (Luke 23:34).

Instead of instant gratification of the Now, how can we step back and trust in Hashem as He instructs us? 

Trust in Adonai with all your heart, lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight. (Prov 3:5-6)

May we find rest in Hashem’s perfect timing, His restoration, and His purpose for our lives through Yeshua the Messiah. And may we learn to respond to others with empathy and love—choosing forgiveness over the fleeting satisfaction of Now.

All Scripture references are from the Tree of Life Version, TLV.

Suffering with Character, Rising with Hope

Parashat Miketz, Genesis 41:1–44:17
Benjamin Juster, Elim Messianic Congregation, Saint Johns, FL

Parashat Miketz—meaning “at the end”—opens with the words “At the end of two full years. . .” referring to the final stretch of Joseph’s imprisonment following the false accusations from Potiphar’s wife. But behind those two years lies a far longer story of waiting, injustice, disappointment, and perseverance.

Joseph was only seventeen when his brothers sold him into slavery. He spent years serving faithfully in Potiphar’s house before being falsely accused and sent to prison. Scholars estimate that by the time Pharaoh’s cupbearer remembered him (Gen 41:9-13)  Joseph had been imprisoned for up to twelve years.

Think of that: twelve years of suffering for righteousness. Twelve years of being forgotten. Twelve years with no guarantee of release.

And yet, what do we consistently see in Joseph’s response?

Integrity. Service. Faithfulness.

Not bitterness. Not self-pity. Not revenge.

Most of us don’t respond that way. When we’re mistreated, blamed unfairly, or overlooked, the first instinct is often anger, self-defense, or despair.

But Yeshua calls us to a different way:

• “Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you . . . on account of Me.” (Matt. 5:11–12) 

• “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” (Matt. 5:44)

• “Love your enemies . . . do good . . . expecting nothing in return.” (Luke 6:35)

Our response to suffering is not just an emotional reaction—it is a revelation of character. And it is precisely in these moments that the world sees what kind of followers of Yeshua or disciples we truly are.

There is a legendary oral tradition about the Chafetz Chaim, the influential Lithuanian Rabbi Yisrael Meir Kagan, who was once called to testify in a Polish courtroom. Before he spoke, the defense attorney offered an elaborate description of the rabbi’s righteousness through numerous accounts of mitzvot and wise counsel. The judge, unimpressed, assumed the stories must have been exaggerated to give the rabbi greater credibility. 

Sensing the judge’s doubt, the lawyer responded, “It may be that not every detail is perfectly accurate. But tell me, your honor—do people tell stories like this about you and me?”

The room was silent.

A person’s character, consistently lived out, leaves an unmistakable impression. Joseph had that kind of character. Yeshua embodied it perfectly. And we are called to walk in it. These are a few qualities that mark the disciples of Messiah:

1.   A Disciple Suffers with Character

Joseph’s life foreshadows the humility and obedience of Messiah:

“He humbled Himself—becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross” (Phil 2:8).

Yeshua’s path to exaltation passed through suffering. Joseph’s path to authority passed through suffering. Our path to spiritual maturity does the same.

2.   A Disciple Is Ready When God Calls

After two more years of waiting, Pharaoh dreams. The cupbearer remembers. Joseph is summoned. And what does Joseph say? “It is not in me; God will give Pharaoh the interpretation.”

That single sentence demonstrated such honesty and humility that Pharaoh trusted him with the entire nation. As Rabbi Chaim Shmuelevitz of the last century explained, Pharaoh saw one moment of integrity and extrapolated a lifetime of trustworthiness (Sichos Mussar, Ma’amar 11).

This is our calling: “Always be ready to give an answer . . . with humility and reverence . . . keeping a clear conscience” (1 Pet 3:15–16).

When God opens a door, character—not charisma—is what makes us ready.

3.   A Disciple Has Eternal Hope

Joseph never knew when—or if—freedom would come. He had no countdown clock on the wall of his cell. His hope was not in circumstances but in God’s promises.

Paul echoes this truth: “suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope” (Rom 5:3–4).

Hope comes after character is formed in adversity. Many of us know what it’s like to live through seasons that feel unjust:

• Losing a job.

• A medical crisis draining our savings.

• Broken relationships.

• Faithfulness met with hardship.

We cry out, “Why now? I’m doing everything right!” Joseph teaches us to see God’s hand even when nothing makes sense.

In a moment, everything can change. The Chofetz Chaim noted that when the moment of redemption came, Joseph wasn’t slowly transferred out of prison—he was rushed out in an instant. This, he said, is how final redemption will come: suddenly, decisively, in God’s perfect timing.

You may feel like you’re in the pit, the plantation, or the prison—but in one moment, God can move you closer to His promise.

What do we look for in the character of others? Pharaoh saw one small act of honesty and elevated Joseph. We often do the opposite—we see one flaw in someone and write them off. Look for small strengths in those around you, not small weaknesses. Encourage the good you see in them, and people will grow into it.

Later in the narrative, Joseph tests his brothers by recreating the original conditions of their sin. Would they betray a favored brother again? Instead, they prove they had changed. They were no longer envious, no longer driven by hatred. Not only did they demonstrate teshuvah, but transformation. True teshuvah shines when we face the same temptation and choose differently.

Where are you this week? 

Pit.
Potiphar’s house.
Prison.
Palace.

Wherever you are, Joseph’s life reminds us:

• God is forming your character

• God is preparing you for a moment of purpose

• God will redeem—suddenly, at the right time

• God works all things for good for those who love Him (Romans 8:28–29)

May this Shabbat anchor your hope, refine your character, and prepare your heart for the doors God is about to open.

More than the Oil

The True Meaning of Chanukah

Rabbi Isaac S. Roussel, Congregation Zera Avraham, Ann Arbor, MI

Chanukah is usually told as the story of a jar of oil. A single day’s supply—pure, undefiled—somehow burned for eight days until new oil could be procured. That image has shaped two thousand years of celebration: menorahs in windows, songs around the candles, gifts, latkes, and sufganiyot fried in bubbling oil.

Yet the oil miracle, beautiful as it is, appears only in the Talmud—recorded centuries after the Maccabean revolt. If we look more closely at the earliest sources, something surprising emerges. Chanukah was once focused not on the menorah, but on the altar.

There is a hint to this in the song Maoz Tzur—Rock of Ages. The hymn begins with triumph, praising God as the Fortress who saves Israel. But the final line shifts our attention:

אָז אֶגְמֹר בְּשִׁיר מִזְמוֹר חֲנֻכַּת הַמִּזְבֵּחַ 

Az egmor b’shir mizmor, chanukat ha-mizbeach. “Then I shall complete with a song of praise the dedication of the altar.”

The altar. Not the menorah.

Even the Torah readings during Chanukah revolve around the dedication of the Mishkan, the Temple, and its altar by Moses and the tribal leaders. Our liturgy has been quietly reminding us every year that Chanukah is, at its core, about rededication—not of the lampstand—but of the place of sacrifice.

So how did the menorah become the center?

To answer that, we have to return to the original story.

Antiochus IV did not simply oppress the Jewish people—he attempted to eradicate Judaism itself. On the 15th of Kislev, he erected an idol in the Temple. On the 25th of Kislev, he defiled the altar with pagan sacrifices. 

The Maccabees were a family of Jewish priests and the leaders of the successful revolt against him. They were led by the priest Mattathias and his son, Judas Maccabeus (whose nickname means "The Hammer"), a brilliant military strategist..

When the Maccabees reclaimed the Temple, they intentionally waited until that same date—25 Kislev—to rededicate it, reversing Antiochus’s desecration.

The Book of Maccabees (1 Maccabees 4:47, 50, and 52-53) describes their work in detail:

They took uncut stones, according to the Torah, and built a new altar like the former one. . . . They lighted the lamps on the lampstand, and these illuminated the Temple. . . . They rose early on the twenty-fifth day of the ninth month… and offered sacrifice according to the law on the new altar.

This was an altar-centered festival. But why choose eight days?

In Jewish history, eight-day dedications are not new.

• Moses dedicated the Mishkan over eight days. (Leviticus 8:33, 35; 9:1)

• Solomon dedicated the First Temple over eight days—timed with Sukkot. (2 Chronicles 7:9-10)

• Sukkot itself is an eight-day festival, originally tied to the autumn harvest and later to Israel’s wilderness journey. (Leviticus 23:36)

The Maccabees had not been able to celebrate Sukkot during the war. Once victorious, they rededicated the Temple and celebrated a delayed Sukkot.

A letter preserved in 2 Maccabees 1:18 makes this explicit:

We shall be celebrating the purification of the Temple on the twenty-fifth of Kislev . . . that you too may celebrate the Feast of Booths and of the fire that appeared in the days of Nehemiah.

Which brings us to another thread in this tapestry.

2 Maccabees 1:19-23 relates that before the destruction of the First Temple, the priests hid the sacred altar fire in a stone cistern, hoping it might someday be restored. When the returnees from Babylon sought it in Nehemiah’s day, they found only an oily residue. Nehemiah poured it onto the sacrifice—and as the sun rose, the fire leapt to life. The continuity of God’s presence was reaffirmed. 

Chanukah’s original focus on the altar fits neatly into this long arc of memory: fire preserved, found, renewed.

So why did the focus shift to oil?

One theory is elegantly simple.

Temple sacrifices can occur only at the Temple. After the destruction of the Second Temple, Jews could no longer reenact the altar’s dedication. But a menorah can be lit anywhere—even in exile.

The rabbis gave the people a way to celebrate at home. The candles symbolized the altar’s fire. The miracle story of the oil emerged later, reframing the holiday around light rather than sacrifice, devotion rather than bloodshed, hope rather than revolt.

For us Messianic Jews, Chanukah has an added resonance. It falls near the season when our Christian neighbors remember the birth of Yeshua. As we light our candles, we can recall that Messiah Yeshua is the Light of the World, the Light of Torah (John 10).

Our menorahs, however, point not only to the Temple lampstand, but also to Nehemiah’s pouring the residual oil on the altar; to sacrifice, not just light. 

Since Chanukah originally centered on the altar, another connection emerges. Yeshua is not only Light—He is also the sacrifice upon the altar, the offering whose power overcame death itself.

Just as Antiochus sought to extinguish the Jewish people, the forces of evil sought to extinguish Yeshua’s mission. Both failed. Through the resurrection, God vindicated His Son just as He restored His Temple.

In the church that our congregation used to rent from, during the Christmas season they had a cross and a manger on either side of the stage. They were proclaiming a profound truth: His birth is bound to His sacrifice. His life is one continual dedication—a personal Chanukah.

When we kindle our menorahs this year, we join a vast story stretching across millennia:

• Moses’ dedication of the Mishkan.

• Solomon’s dedication of the First Temple.

• Nehemiah’s restoration of the sacred fire.

• The Maccabees’ rededication of the altar after Antiochus’s desecration.

• Generations of Jews carrying light into exile.

• And Messiah Yeshua, whose life and death embody the ultimate dedication to God’s will.

The light we kindle is not only about the oil that burned beyond its natural limit. It is about the fire that has never gone out—not in our history, not in our Scriptures, not in the heart of God.

As we light our menorahs, we rededicate ourselves as well.

We remember our calling to bring the light of Torah into the world.

We remember Yeshua as both Light and Sacrifice.

And we remember Rav Shaul’s call that we be “living sacrifices” (Romans 12:1) — our own lives becoming small altars upon which we offer ourselves to God.

May we ponder these things in this season.

May we give thanks to the One who continues to save us in myriad ways—especially through the great salvation wrought through His Son.

And may we rededicate ourselves to His Torah, becoming not only light-bearers, but living offerings, devoted to the One who renews the altar of our hearts.

When Brothers Are Reconciled

Parashat Vayishlach, Genesis 32:3-36:43 

Lieutenant Junior Grade Jacob Landers, UMJC-Endorsed U.S. Navy Chaplain Candidate 

Kehilat Ariel Messianic Synagogue, San Diego

VaYishlach, the name of this week’s parasha, means “and he sent” and refers to the messengers that Yaakov sends to his brother, Esav, informing him that he does not want war but peace with his brother.  

As a father of two young boys, one of the most heart-wrenching moments for me is when my boys hurt each other, start a fight, take from the other, or even just have anger towards each other. I see the very best of them and get to bear witness to their moments of pure genius, joy, and enthusiasm, and I want them to see that in each other at all times. Conversely, one of the most kvelling moments I get is to see them recognize how the other is hurt, set aside their pride, hug it out, and then watch them encourage each other or share toys; an unprompted “I’m sorry, buddy” brings a joyful tear to my eye. 

In this parasha, Esav had every right to be angry with his brother, Yaakov. Yaakov bought Esav’s birthright for a bowl of pottage, deceived his father into giving him his blessing, and then made off to another land with the help of his mother. By these actions, “supplanter” seems like a worthy meaning for Yaakov’s name! 

At the same time, Yaakov had every right to be upset; his older brother, who is supposed to teach him through his actions how to be a good and noble man instead sells off his birthright for a snack; a snack that Rabbeinu Bahya tell us was the mourning meal for their grandfather, Abraham, deepening the disrespect (Rabbeinu Bahya, Bereshis 25:29:1).  Yaakov makes a mourning meal for their parents. Esav returns from hunting and, instead of caring for their parents, “gladly” sells the gift that God had given to him, so that he “spurned his birthright” (Gen 25:34 JPS). The commentators even note that “Esau committed five different sins that very day” (Bava Batra 16). In a blossoming theme by this point, the younger brother becomes more blessed than the “rightful” son. 

When the messengers returned to Yaakov, they told him that Esav was, indeed, coming to meet him but with a retinue of 400! (Gen 32:7). The Scripture explicitly tells us that Yaakov was afraid or “greatly frightened” (Gen 32:8).  Esav, it seems, was on the warpath.  Yaakov then does something that I often forget to do when about to face something terrifying; he prays. He asks Hashem for deliverance and blesses him for all the kindness (or faithfulness-חֲסָדִים) he has shown him.  “With my staff alone I crossed this Jordan, and now I have become two camps” (Gen 32:11).  So, Yaakov divided his camp, selected gifts for his brother to “propitiate him” (Gen 32:21), and sent them across the river.  

The next thing that happens I have often wondered about. The text tells us that “Jacob was left alone. And a figure wrestled with him until the break of dawn” (Gen 32:25). As perplexing as it sounds, the only real fact we are presented with is that a figure or angel, seemingly out of nowhere, simply approaches Yaakov and immediately they wrestle! But not only do they wrestle, they wrestle all night until the sun begins to dawn! Where did the figure come from? Was he lying in wait? Why, exactly, did they wrestle? It sounds both utterly confusing and, frankly, utterly hilarious, that a figure appears out of nowhere and just body-slams Yaakov to the ground where they wrestle all night. But, once the dawn breaks, the figure “wrenched Yaakov’s hip at its socket, so that the socket of his hip was strained as he wrestled with him” (Gen 32:26) But Yaakov did not let go.  Yaakov did not stop wrestling with the figure until he blessed him. It is here that something wonderful happens. 

The figure blesses Yaakov by telling him, “Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have struggled with God and with man, and have prevailed” (Gen 32:29, NKJV). Yaakov’s name is changed to Israel, a name that all of us are now under—Jews being naturally born as sons and daughters of the sons of Israel, and non-Jews being grafted into the commonwealth of Israel; adopted into the family. Equally amazing is that when Israel asked the name of the figure, the figure told him, “you must not ask my name!” (Gen 32:30). 

Finally comes my favorite part of this story: “Esav ran to greet him. He embraced him and, falling on his neck, he kissed him; and they wept” (Gen 33:4).  At last, the brothers are united and Esav, who was on the warpath, kisses his brother and they weep together. The images in my mind of my own toddler sons, reconciling to kiss one another, brings tears to my eyes. But in this story, there are a few lessons. 

First: Struggling with God is a holy endeavor.  We ought to be struggling with God and to continue struggling until we are blessed! In fact, as members of the family of Israel, we, most of all, ought to be struggling with God (and not against him). It is through the struggles that we truly live out our heritage and our commonwealth. 

Second, it is only after prayer and struggling with God that Yaakov/Israel is able to reconcile with his brother—not by his own efforts, but by asking God to intervene in his kindness and faithfulness. 

Finally, there is a blessed hope that is introduced later in this parasha.

Yaakov gave the site, where God had spoken to him, the name of Bethel. They set out from Bethel; but when they were still some distance short of Ephrath, Rachel was in childbirth, and she had hard labor. When her labor was at its hardest, the midwife said to her, “Have no fear, for it is another boy for you.” But as she breathed her last—for she was dying—she named him Ben-oni; but his father called him Benjamin. Thus Rachel died. She was buried on the road to Ephrath—now Bethlehem. (Gen 35:15—19)

The son of Yaakov’s favor, Benjamin (who we will see again in an important way in the story of Yosef) is born even though his mother dies. She means to call him Ben-Oni, son of my suffering, but Israel calls him Benjamin, son of my right hand; as if to say that the youngest son will become like the first-born—the highest position of honor.  Also, it is no coincidence that he was born in Beit-Lechem (or Bethlehem), the house of bread.  All these are Messianic allusions. 

We know that Messiah—in the image of Yosef—must suffer, be dropped into a pit, unrecognized by his own people, but will ascend to the right hand of the king; this is why he is called “Mashiach ben Yosef.” But this is the hope delivered through Israel: that the son that once was the son of my suffering has become the son of the right hand and his name is “salvation,” Yeshua. Born a son of Israel in Beit-Lechem, he suffered, died, and was buried, but conquered death—the ultimate struggle—and ascended to the right hand of the King of kings so that we may all be reconciled to God! As Rachel was comforted by the midwife, so may we be comforted: “have no fear, for you also will have this son!” 

Each of us will struggle with God, but hang on in your wrestling—don’t let go until you realize the blessing! Be reconciled. If you wronged someone, seek forgiveness; if you were wronged, give forgiveness freely without prompting. Finally, Pray. Pray for your leaders, for your congregation, for each other, for yourself, and for Israel to see the son of suffering and instead call him the son of the highest honor. 

Finding Our Rosebud

Parashat Vayetze, Genesis 28:10 – 32:3

Rabbi Paul L. Saal, Shuvah Yisrael, West  Hartford, CT

The movie Citizen Kane has been voted by many film academies and publications to be the greatest American movie of all time. Though the film’s cinematography was cutting edge in 1941, it is certainly not up to the technical capabilities of today’s films. Rather, it is the penetrating story that has kept this classic at the top of critics’ lists for more than half a century. Loosely based on the life of William Randolph Hearst, the film is ultimately a searing look into the human desire for love, acceptance, success, and peace.

Many are familiar with the famous final word of Citizen Kane: “Rosebud.” In the film, a reporter tries to decode Kane’s entire life through that mysterious word, only to conclude that no single key can explain a human being. But the audience eventually learns that Rosebud was simply the name of Kane’s childhood sled, an emblem of simpler days, a symbol of a time when he knew joy, safety, and belonging.

What makes that symbol powerful is not its sentimental value. It is what it represents: the longing for a spiritual home. A place, internal or external—where we feel rooted, held, and whole. A place we can return to in memory or in faith, especially when life becomes too complicated or burdensome.

This week’s parashah, Vayetze, centers on a figure who desperately needs such a grounding place: Jacob. Jacob is a schemer, a striver, a man who knows how to get what he wants—but always at a price. He outmaneuvers Esau for the birthright, deceives his father for the blessing, and then spends twenty years wrestling with the manipulations of his uncle Laban. His family becomes a source of tension, competition, and heartbreak. And yet Jacob keeps going. Despite the turmoil, he somehow has a center. Something he returns to—his own Rosebud.

That center is Hamakom, literally, “The Place.”

When Jacob flees his home, afraid of Esau and uncertain about his future, the Torah says not that Jacob arrived at a place, but that he encountered Hamakom—the place (Genesis 28:11). It is a complex word, pregnant with potential meaning. The rabbis note that Hamakom is one of the divine names: “the Omnipresent,” the One who is present everywhere yet also meets us somewhere specific, somewhere real and human (B’reishit Rabbah 68:9).

At Hamakom, Jacob dreams of a ladder connecting heaven and earth, with angels ascending and descending. God promises him protection, blessing, and return (28:13–15). Jacob wakes awestruck and declares this place to be “the house of God and the gate of heaven” (28:17). He sets up a pillar, makes a vow, and essentially marks it as the spiritual home he will carry with him.

Jacob’s life from this point forward is not easy. But he has Hamakom, an inner compass point he can return to. When he later says, “God has been with me”  (B’reishit 31:5, 35:3) it is probable he is remembering that moment, that place, the foundation that steadied him when everything else shifted.

The Fourth Gospel echoes this story in the encounter between Yeshua and Natan’el (Yochanan 1:43–51). When Yeshua says, “Behold, a true son of Israel in whom there is no deceit,” it recalls Jacob—Israel—whose life was defined by both guile and transformation. When Yeshua adds, “I saw you under the fig tree,” he is drawing on a rabbinic metaphor for studying Torah (e.g., Mishnah Avot 3:7). Many commentators suggest Natan’el had been studying the very story of Jacob at Hamakom. And when Yeshua declares that Natan’el will “see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending on the Son of Man,” he identifies himself as Hamakom, he is the point of meeting between heaven and earth, the place where God becomes knowable.

For Jacob, Hamakom became the touchstone that guided him back home. For Natan’el, his encounter with Yeshua became his spiritual grounding. For Kane, Rosebud was the lost memory of a home he never learned to return to.

And for us?

As we approach Thanksgiving, a holiday centered on homecoming, gratitude, and the joy of remembering—we may find ourselves asking similar questions. What is our Hamakom? What is our Rosebud? Where is that literal or spiritual place where we felt truly ourselves, truly connected, truly embraced by something larger than our endless striving?

Thanksgiving invites us to return home, not only geographically, but spiritually. It calls us to give thanks for the moments in our lives when we have and will encounter blessings, connection, and purpose. It reminds us that we are not defined solely by what we accomplish, accumulate, or outmaneuver, but by the places and relationships that root us, shape us, and sustain us.

Jacob eventually returns to the land of his childhood, but more importantly, he returns to the God of Hamakom. He returns to gratitude. To blessing. To the memory of a place where heaven touched earth.

As we gather around tables, travel home, or simply pause to reflect this week, we have the chance to do the same. To remember the moments that formed us. To honor the people who nurtured us. To cherish the encounters, holy or humble, that became our spiritual anchors. And to give thanks for the places, seen and unseen, where the Holy One met us, steadied us, and guided us forward.

May each of us rediscover our Hamakom, our grounding place. May we approach this season not only with gratitude for what we have, but with renewed clarity about where we belong and what truly matters. And may that homecoming, like Jacob’s, strengthen us for the journey still ahead.

Esau Have I Loved

Parashat Toldot, Genesis 25:19-28:9

Rabbi David Wein, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

A father has twins, Ed and Jay; more different, they couldn’t be. Jay prefers the indoors, and has some character issues: lying, manipulating, and going five miles under in the left lane. Fun fact: as a baby he would grab Ed’s heel! Nevertheless, today Jay values things of real worth, and his mind is intentional and strategic. A shrewd dude. Ed, on the other hand, is a seat-of-your-pants, outdoorsy, on-the-fly kind of guy. Even as a baby, he was quite rough and hairy—an outdoor baby, if you will. The two brothers were always fighting, and eventually they moved far from each other. 

The father thinks: “Jay and Ed have I both loved.” Now, how can I show each son that? Here’s what I will do. To Jay, I will remind him and everyone else that I’m always his dad. I will put my name, my reputation, on him. If anyone calls Jay a liar, I will say, “That’s my son you’re talking about.” Eventually, his heart will melt at my consistency, and he will grow in character to treat others with kindness and truth. As for Ed, I will tell everyone that I am from his country. Even when I rise to defend Jay, I will be coming from Ed’s house. In that way, everyone will know that I am also his dad. And Ed’s heart will melt and his character will grow to value the greater things.  And some day their hearts will melt toward each other and there will be shalom between brothers. 

I have always felt that Jacob’s story is more about God than it is about Jacob. The choosing of Jacob has been justified by scholars over time: “Well, he wasn’t that bad.” But instead of defending a man with dubious motives, let’s look at it from the other side: What does it mean that God is the “God of Jacob”? (Isaiah 2:3, Psalm 20:2, etc.) Any father who links his name and reputation to his son (no matter what the son does) shows the love and commitment of the father. It is this commitment and covenantal faithfulness that is designed to undo the heart of Jacob and his descendants.  No matter what, the Father has forever linked his reputation, his name, to Jacob, the Jewish people.  

Now, on to Ed (Edom), also known as Esau. Esau settles in the land of Seir, associated with Mount Paran. If the father in my opening story represents God, then how can we say that God is “from” somewhere? Well, this surprising idea crops up throughout the Hebrew Bible. Some examples: 

Deut 33:2

[Moses] said, “Adonai came from Sinai and dawned on Bnei-Yisrael from Seir. He shone forth from Mount Paran, and He came from the holy myriads— blazing fire for them from His right hand.”

Hab 3:3

God comes from Teman,

and the Holy One from Mount Paran. 

His majesty covers the heavens,

and His praise fills the earth.

Teman was a city in Southern Edom, again the land of Esau.  This is from the song of Deborah: 

Judges 5:4 

Adonai, when You came out from Seir, when You marched from Edom’s field, the earth trembled, the heavens also dropped, yes, the clouds dropped water.

This passage explains that the Lord came from the east, from Edom, to deliver Israel.  Here’s another from Isaiah 63:1

“Who is this coming from Edom,

in crimsoned garments from Bozrah?

This One splendid in His apparel,

    pressing forward in His great might?”

“It is I who speak in righteousness,

    mighty to save.”

The hints are there in the text: the Lord, who rescues Israel (Jacob), comes “from” Edom. The Scriptures are showing the Lord’s commitment to rescue Jacob, but coming out of the land of Esau. It reminds the descendants of Jacob that God loves Edom, He is connected with Esau, and He is interested in linking Jacob and Esau back together. 

“Edom” is a stand-in for the nations, as Jacob is the father of the people of Israel.  Alef Daled Mem spells Edom, but it also spells Adam, humanity. “Jacob have I loved. And Esau, the nations, have I also loved.” God’s love is specific, tailored to each brother in a way that will eventually bring wholeness. This is also how God loves us—intentionally, specifically.  It is also how we love; for example, I don’t love every person on the planet in the same way that I love and choose my wife. 

The destiny of these two brothers is irrevocably linked.  We see this in the apex of Esau’s pain, from this week’s parasha. Jacob leaves the presence of Isaac, taking the blessing, and Esau comes in and finds that he’s too late: 

When Esau heard his father’s words, he shouted with an intensely bitter groan. Then he said to his father, “Bless me, me too, my father!” 

Then he said, “Your brother came deceitfully and took your blessing.”

He said, “Is this why he was named Jacob—since he’s tricked me twice already? My birthright he’s taken. Look! Now he’s taken my blessing!” Then he said, “Haven’t you saved a blessing for me?”

 Isaac answered and said to Esau, “Behold, I’ve made him master over you, and all your brothers I’ve given to him as servants. I’ve provided him with grain and new wine. What then can I do for you, my son?”

Esau said to his father, “Do you just have one blessing, my father? Bless me too, my father!” And Esau lifted up his voice and wept. (Gen 27:34-38)

Visualize Esau for a moment in this story. “Father, where is my blessing? Haven’t you saved a blessing for me, Father? Why is there only one good one left?” On the one hand, Isaac is limited. He doesn’t really have another blessing for Esau, at least one that Esau longs to hear.  On the other hand, Isaac does indeed have a blessing for Esau—now it’s just tied to Jacob:

Then Isaac his father said to him,

“Behold, away from the land’s fatness shall your dwelling be,

    away from the dew of the sky above.

By your sword shall you live,

and your brother shall you serve.

But when you tear yourself loose,

you will tear his yoke off your neck.” (Gen 27:39-40)

By dealing with this relationship, the most painful one, Esau will eventually find freedom and blessing.  This is also true for Jacob.  He must turn toward Esau whom he wronged—wrestle it out with him—in order to experience blessing. When Jacob does turn toward his brother years later, he remarks that seeing his face is like seeing the face of God (Gen 33:10). 

The relationship between these two is a foundational relationship in the Scriptures: Israel and the Nations in shalom, under one Shepherd, sharing in each other's destinies through humility and turning toward the other. This is what Romans 9-11, Ephesians 2, John 10 and 17, and perhaps the whole narrative are about.  

I am the Good Shepherd. I know My own and My own know Me, just as the Father knows Me and I know the Father. And I lay down My life for the sheep. I have other sheep that are not from this fold; those also I must lead, and they will listen to My voice. So there shall be one flock, one Shepherd. (John 10:14-16)

In Mark 3:8, Idumeans come to hear and draw near to Yeshua.  Idumeans are descendants of Edom; the gospel account is highlighting that Esau is now turning toward the One-Man Israel. 

So now, who is your Esau?  How can we internalize God’s love for them, turn toward them, and realize that our blessing is wrapped up in theirs?  Isaac is limited as a father, but Hashem has enough blessing and love for both brothers, and we are made in His image.  Why not say a blessing over your Esau right now? A turn toward Esau is a turn toward the face of God.

Sarah: An Example to Every Generation

Chayei Sarah, Genesis 23:1-25:18

 Mary Haller, Tikvat Israel, Richmond, VA

Our parasha this week has impacted my soul in a way that no other portion has ever done. Each reading cycle I read through and process these words with the expectation of learning something new. This year the words of Chayei Sarah have resonated deeply within me in a way I am not sure I can describe.

Chayei Sarah touches my heart. It is a story of a woman’s life told in a way that reveals that Sarah was truly a normal human being and grew stronger and wiser over time. She eventually came to know, love, and trust God. The way her life changed over the years shows she invested herself in her life with Abraham and honored God by doing her best to honor Abraham. Living as she did also speaks to her trusting in what God was doing in, on, and through them as a couple.  

The parasha begins in Genesis 23 with the story of Sarah’s passing.  Abraham’s planning and purchasing of her burial place shows her value to him as well as to their community, to their legacy, and to God. Women were not typically honored in this way in our written scriptures.  

I can understand Sarah and relate to her as if I know her. There are times I think that if Sarah were alive today, we could have some great conversations regarding life, faith, and surrender. Perhaps we could discuss how consequences from poor decisions can be problematic. We might share how personal doubts and fears creep into the earthly journeys of women of every generation. I believe Sarah’s life in some way tells the story of every woman.  

Prior to this week’s portion we read about Sarah’s life struggles. Her life with Abraham didn’t appear to include a storybook-style romance or their equivalent of a luxury vacation. In Torah, Sarah was not considered property; she was a partner, a wife, although it appears Abraham treated Sarah as property, not once but twice. The first time in Genesis 12 during the famine in Egypt and again with King Abimelech in Gerar as recorded in Genesis 20. Both times Abraham was motivated by his own self-preservation. Thankfully, both times God intervened. As Paul reminds us, “Now we know that all things work together for good for those who love God, and are called according to His purpose” (Rom 8:28). 

They had no children in their early marriage. Time passed and still no children. When Abraham was about 75 (Genesis 12) and Sarah was about 65 God spoke to Abraham. God told Abraham to take his wife, his nephew Lot and some others along with a few things and leave his homeland for parts not yet known. God promised Abraham he would have many descendants.  

Sarah accompanied Abraham as a faithful wife and didn’t appear to protest when the suggestion of her being a sister not a wife was put into action. 

During her life time Sarah blossomed, going from a quiet woman to one who eventually spoke out and acted with strong conviction out of her own strength. This is evident when God spoke to Abraham saying “listen to her voice” when Sarah demanded that Abraham have Hagar and Ishmael leave their community (Gen 21:12). 

Many look and judge casting out Hagar and Ishmael as a harsh and unnecessary action. After all, it was Sarah’s idea for Abraham and Hagar to procreate. Well, as we now know, God knew Sarah’s heart. Sarah understood something deeper regarding the prophecy and where it would lead. Like Eve, Sarah was chosen to be Abraham’s helpmate.  

Imagine for a moment being told to hide your true identity because your husband is afraid he would be killed because your beauty. This request alone would challenge me to question the very God that had sent us on our trek. Then maybe this was part of what caused Sarah to grow closer to her God.  

After all, it definitely was the hardships and the challenges in my own life that caused me to cry out to God. My cries for wisdom, courage, and strength were met with mercy and grace. Perhaps it was the time with the Pharaoh and King Abimelech and how God protected Sarah during these times that helped her to know God and trust God.  

God honored His promise to Abraham and to Sarah in His time frame. The approximate 25-year wait for Sarah must have taken its toll on her entire life in ways we may never understand. The story reveals that Sarah was imperfect when she took matters into her own hands with Hagar. God still had His way for His people when the time was right, and when Sarah was ready Isaac was born. 

Sarah laughed because she knew having a child at 90 was unheard of, if not impossible.  That did not deter her God. The only way I understand it is our God, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob understands His human creation with a love no human can truly grasp. God knew Sarah’s heart and He knew it was in alignment with His plan.  

The Lord tells us, “For I am Adonai, I do not change” (Mal 3:6). The same God that protected Sarah, drew Sarah close and healed her barrenness, and knew every fiber of her being has not changed. Today God wants His plan for all of us.  

Sarah is a woman well worth remembering, one who continues to be an example to each generation. Sarah’s story is a picture of what it takes to journey through life as an imperfect human. All the while we seek God, He knows us, He knows our value to His plan.  

Sarah had to seek and surrender. Sarah’s life is a picture to be treasured and an example to be learned from and should be seen as valuable to every generation of God-seeking women, and men as well.

 Scripture references are from the Tree of Life Version, TLV.

A Rock Feels No Joy

Parashat Vayera, Genesis 18:1 - 22:24
Rabbi Paul L. Saal, Congregation Shuvah Yisrael, Avon, CT

Paul Simon once sang,

I am a rock, I am an island.
And a rock feels no pain, and an island never cries.

In those few lines, he captured something hauntingly prophetic — the isolation of the modern soul.

We are surrounded by technology that promises connection, and yet we often find ourselves more alone than ever. The screens that light our faces have dimmed our hearts.

But this week’s Torah portion, Vayera, offers a radically different image of what it means to be human — not a rock, not an island, but a bayit patuach, an open home. It’s the picture of Avraham Avinu sitting at his tent door in the heat of the day, healing from his circumcision, yet running to greet three strangers.

Abraham sits beneath the oaks of Mamre, in the region of Hebron — sacred ground where heaven and earth seem to touch. He’s 99 years old, weary and sore, resting in the midday heat. Yet when three travelers appear, he runs to meet them, bows low, and says, “My Lord, if I have found favor in your sight, do not pass by your servant” (Gen 18:3).

The rabbis in Bereshit Rabbah 48:9 note that Abraham left the Shekhinah — the Divine Presence that had appeared to him — to greet these strangers. From this they teach: “Greater is hospitality to guests than receiving the Divine Presence.”

It’s an astonishing claim: welcoming others is itself a way of welcoming God.

Abraham doesn’t wait for them to approach. He anticipates the need. He rushes to prepare food and water; Sarah kneads and bakes cakes. Together, they embody the mitzvah of hakhnasat orchim, the sacred duty of hospitality.

Rashi, commenting on Genesis 18:1, explains that Abraham’s tent was open on all four sides so that travelers from every direction could enter freely. His home was literally and spiritually open to the world.

Faith, then, is not only what we believe — it’s also how we treat others. It’s not about what we hold, but for whom we hold space. Abraham and Sarah remind us that the door of the tent is the gateway to the soul.

If Abraham and Sarah could see our world today, I think they might weep. We’ve traded tents for walls, and neighbors for networks. We are more “connected” than any generation before, yet loneliness has become the epidemic of our age.

We “friend” but rarely befriend. We “follow” but seldom walk alongside. We “like” but struggle to love.

We have institutionalized compassion. We’ve delegated care to agencies, community to programs, and moral formation to schools or screens. But no algorithm can replace the warmth of a human heart.

Pirkei Avot 1:5 teaches:

Let your home be wide open and let the poor be members of your household.

That’s Torah’s way of saying: don’t outsource compassion — live it.

Abraham’s tent was not efficient, but it was holy. And holiness often looks inefficient to the modern eye.

The Haftarah for Vayera tells of another open home — that of the Shunammite woman (2 Kings 4:8–37). Scripture calls her a “great woman,” but her greatness lies not in wealth or power; it lies in discernment and generosity.

She perceives that Elisha, the prophet, is a man of God, and without being asked, she persuades her husband to build an upper room — furnished simply with a bed, a table, a chair, and a lamp. That small gesture of kindness becomes a dwelling place for divine blessing.

Ramban (Commentary on Genesis 18:1) notes that her hospitality mirrors Abraham’s: both are visited by divine messengers, both receive the promise of a son, and both experience miraculous renewal of life. In both homes, human kindness becomes the soil for divine encounter.

Later, when the Shunammite’s child dies, her faith refuses to yield to despair. She travels to Elisha, believing that the God who gives life can restore it. Through her faith and the prophet’s intercession, the boy lives again.

The Midrash Tanchuma (Vayera 4) teaches that the Shunammite’s table, bed, chair, and lamp symbolize Torah and light — the study of Torah, good deeds, prayer, and the illumination of the soul. By welcoming the prophet, she welcomed God’s word into her home. Her simple hospitality opened a channel for resurrection power. When we make room for others, God makes room for miracles.

Yeshua of Nazareth embodied this same spirit of hakhnasat orchim. He ate with tax collectors and sinners, invited fishermen to follow Him, and broke bread with Pharisees who opposed Him. He welcomed children to His arms and healed the lepers whom society shunned.

In Matthew 25:35, he says, “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me.”
Hospitality is not peripheral to the gospel — it is the gospel lived out.

And in Revelation 3:20, Yeshua stands at the door and knocks, saying, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me.”

Every open home becomes a mikdash me’at,  a little sanctuary, a place where heaven touches earth.

The Zohar (I:102a) teaches, “when a person opens their home to guests, the Shekhinah dwells within.” Yeshua echoes this same truth: where love and hospitality abide, the presence of God is manifest.

True faith requires the risk of relationship. To love is to be vulnerable, but to refuse love is to be lifeless. Abraham ran toward relationship. The Shunammite woman built space for it. Yeshua offered his very life for it.

Let us, then, be people of open tents and open hearts — people who choose covenant over comfort, faith over fear, presence over protection. Let our homes be places where strangers become friends, and friends become family. Let us be known not for our walls, but for our doors.

Paul Simon’s rock never cries. But Abraham laughed, and so did Sarah. The Shunammite woman wept and rejoiced. And Yeshua, the image of the living God, wept and rejoiced with us.

A rock feels no pain, but a heart of flesh — that is where God chooses to dwell. As it is written in Ezekiel 36:26: “I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.”

May we live with hearts open to God and to one another.

May our tents be wide, our tables long, and our joy full.

Because an island never cries, but a family of faith, bound in love and hospitality, sings for joy.

Scripture citations are from the English Standard Version, ESV.

The People of Israel Are Alive and Well

Photo: Pinterest.com

Parashat Lech Lecha, Genesis 12–17

Matt Absolon, Beth Tfilah, Miramar, FL

After these things the word of the Lord came to Abram in a vision: “Fear not, Abram, I am your shield; your reward shall be very great.” But Abram said, “O Lord God, what will you give me, for I continue childless, and the heir of my house is Eliezer of Damascus?” And Abram said, “Behold, you have given me no offspring, and a member of my household will be my heir.” (Genesis 15:1–3)

Over the past two years, many of us have joined in that defiant and enduring declaration of our people, Am Yisrael Chai!, the people of Israel live! Those words have rung out across synagogues, rallies, and quiet living rooms alike, a statement of life pitched against the chants of genocide towards the Jewish people. Perhaps more than ever before, they have carried personal weight for me, both in prayer and in public life.

This week’s Torah portion turns our attention to one of the deepest truths of Jewish life: the sacred value of life nascent in the next generation. 

Abraham, still called Abram, looks upon all he has, yet feels it hollow, for he has no child to carry his name. In his eyes, even divine reward seems empty without children to inherit it. For Abraham, the fulfillment of divine blessings lay not in possessions but in posterity.

This devotion to children, to the continuation of life, is not merely biological; it is spiritual. 

Over the past few decades, sociologists have charted a sharp decline in birth rates throughout the Western world, even as wealth and comfort have increased beyond anything our ancestors could have imagined. One might think that greater prosperity would lead to greater openness to raising children, but the opposite has proven true.

According to the CDC, the birth rate for women aged 20–24 in the United States has fallen by 47% since 2007, and it continues to decline unabated. The same pattern is found across Europe, Australia, and Canada. Everywhere in the Western world—except Israel.

In the one place where life is lived daily under threat, where rockets, wars, and uncertainty are part of the national daily experience, Israel stands unique among western nations in maintaining a sustainable, even vibrant, birth rate—3.06 children per woman (Israel Hayom, 6/5/25). In a land surrounded by danger the Israeli people still choose life.

What does that say to us? 

For one thing, the Jewish commitment to children, to family, and to life itself, is not the product of a biological preservation, or “dancing to our genes” as evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins would say. It is a value, an act of faith, a commitment to l’dor v’dor, from generation to generation. And when we recite those words, they must not refer merely to outreach or growth programs (as needed as these programs are), but to our own homes. 

As the Shema reminds us: “You shall teach them diligently to your children.” L’Dor v’dor starts in the home.

In some respects, it has never been easier to raise children than today. Maternal and infant mortality are at historic lows, education and information are within everyone’s reach, and food security is higher than at any time in history. Yet in other ways, it has never been harder. The costs of housing, healthcare, and higher education are soaring. And perhaps most concerning of all, we live in an age of spiritual fatigue, a time where many have lost confidence in family, community, and faith itself.

And yet Israel, once again, gives us a pathway to follow.

Sociologist Leo Davids, writing in The Jerusalem Post, observes: “In the Jewish tradition, it is a mitzvah to bear children, a duty based on the divine commandment in Genesis 1:28 and 9:7. . . . People in Israel have a positive attitude toward children, exhibiting more patience and warmth than in other countries.”

Abraham’s yearning for posterity echoes these sentiments. He longed to take part in that mitzvah, to bring forth life and to be a blessing to future generations. For much of his recorded life, Abraham held fast to God’s promise: 

Behold, my covenant is with you, and you shall be the father of a multitude of nations. (Gen 17:4)

Through faith, Abraham received the promise of becoming the father to Isaac, and 3,500 years later, he remains endeared to us as Avraham Avinu, our father Abraham.

My prayer is that we, too, in the Diaspora, might reflect that same spirit of our Israeli family, the same spirit of our father Abraham. That we would hold children in warm regard, see family as a divine calling, and nurture a personal vision for the future centered on life. 

We do well to meditate on the words of our Master, Yeshua:

Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven. (Matt 19:14)

Shabbat Shalom.

Biblical citations are from the English Standard Version (ESV).

Sources:

• CDC: Birth Rates for Women Aged 20–24, 2007–2023

• Leo Davids, Jerusalem Post