Gut Yontif! Preparing for my d’var was probably one of the harder elements of this b’nai mitzvah process. My initial framework included a loose scaffolding of attempting to say something smart about the parashah, maybe tell a story, definitely quote a rabbi, and exit stage left before people check the time. When I met with Rabbi Adam, he told me a good d’var does include those things; however, it should answer two questions: “So what?” and “Now what?” or why does this teaching matter and what is the call to action?
Given that, let me begin with a story.
This last February I ran a half marathon wearing a shirt I designed: a graphic mashup of Mt. Fuji and the Kotel. Across the Kotel I wrote one word in Hebrew: “Sababa,” which is Israeli slang for cool, awesome, or great. Around mile 10, a man ran up next to me and said, “Sababa! So you speak Hebrew?”
I answered:
כן, אני מבין עברית
The problem for me was, he responded with something lengthy in Hebrew, but I had nothing left, both physically because I was running a half marathon, and linguistically because to that point I had only studied a mere 2 semesters of biblical (not modern) Hebrew.
He ran ahead and I waved an enthusiastic:
יאללה
It was a moment of recognition but a complete failure to sustain a meaningful connection. Coincidentally, the race was held following the Shabbat in which we read Parshat Bo. In that reading we heard about the plagues in Egypt where, during the ninth plague, the Torah tells us: “No man could see his brother… but for the Children of Israel there was light.” Rabbi Adam explained that this darkness was not merely physical but a spiritual and communal disconnection caused by a lack of shared identity. I read additional commentary on this verse which described the darkness as “contact without connection” – not too dissimilar from my interaction during the half marathon.
Now fast forward in the Torah from Parsha Bo to the Sinai narrative. The Jewish people are transient, standing in the desert, in the middle of a journey, and they receive the Torah.
After a dramatic scene of thunder, lightning, smoke, shofars blowing, Moses going up and down the mountain a few times, the Aseret ha-Dibrot, or 10 statements, begin:
אנכי יהוה אלהיך אשר הוצאתיך מארץ מצרים מבית עבדים
The opening is not: “I am the Lord your G-d who created the universe” but rather “Who took you out of Egypt.” By emphasizing the Egypt narrative, rather than other abstract theology, G-d made a meaningful and shared connection that was lived and felt by everybody present. It is important to note, Midrash describes every one of us: past, present, and future as having stood at the base of Sinai with Moishe.
In the words of Moishe, “It was not with our ancestors that G-d made this covenant, but with us, the living, every one of us who is here today. Face to face G-d spoke to you on the mountain out of the fire.” And Maimonides, “Our eyes saw, and not a stranger’s. Our ears heard and not another’s.”
And that raises a question: if Sinai is shared memory, what allows that memory to remain alive rather than fading into abstraction? What allows for our Sinai contact with G-d to continue with connection?
This question underscores a point that I am trying to make which is Jewish identity can’t be sustained by inspiration alone. It requires practice and continuity across generations. Which brings me back to mile 10 of my race. A shared word sparked recognition. But without shared fluency, it could not continue.
In his book “A Letter in the Scroll” Rabbi Jonathan Sacks presents an idea that the Jewish People are like a living Sefer Torah. Each Jew is a letter. Each family a word. Each community a sentence. And the Jewish people at any moment are a paragraph in a much larger scroll.
But a Sefer Torah is only valid if every letter is clear and intact. If letters fade, the scroll cannot be read.
Think about the letters the scholars talk about as each member of our village, all of whom are indispensable during our short time on this life’s journey.
As I reflect on my B’nai Mitzvah process I am brought back to two memories of when I first joined this shul. The first person to greet and welcome me, learn my name, and orient me to this village was a 90 year old man named Al, may his memory be a blessing. My second memory was an observation I made while standing adjacent to the bimah during new member aliyah. When I looked out at the congregation I saw someone canting the Torah portion from memory along with the Torah reader. My assumption was that the reading was her Bat Mitzvah portion.
Having spent months preparing for my own adult bar mitzvah, I realized something profound: the B’nai Mitzvah system imprints a collective ledger of Torah onto a community. It would be an interesting exercise to arrange ourselves not in height order from tallest to shortest, but rather in parsha order from Bereshit (בראשית) to V’Zot HaBerachah (וזאת הברכה) to see how much of the Torah we have covered as a village.
Communities are strengthened by shared competencies, namely rituals, language, memory practiced together; however, generations do yield to the next as our time in this life’s marathon is temporary.
The Shema commands (action and thought – a literal binding on the hand and placement between the eyes):
וקשרתם לאות על־ידך והיו לטטפת בין עיניך
And Ashrei says (generation to generation):
דור לדור ישבח מעשיך וגבורתיך יגידו
When we gather here to read Torah, to keep Shabbat, or engage in an Adult B’nai Mitzvah program, we are not just people with heritage, we are participating in a system designed to prevent that darkness and isolation Rabbi Adam spoke about during the 9th plague. We are making sure kin can recognize kin. This system is intended to be passed on – from Sinai to a people, and from generation to generation.
So, the now what I am proposing is this. We each have a responsibility to choose to become fluent enough in our traditions that connection can be sustained, not just sparked. We should strive to become bold letters in the Jewish scroll, because the strength of our paragraph depends on the clarity of each letter. We can start this process by picking a practice to deepen: from lighting Shabbat candles to maybe even learning the difference between an “etnachta” and a “sof pasuk.”