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My Sermon on Ki Tavo Delivered Friday evening August 29, 2026

I opened the sermon by singing a small section of the Garden Song:

Shabbat Shalom.

There is something very powerful about the opening of Parashat Ki Tavo. Moses speaks to the Israelites about the day when they will finally enter the Promised Land. After forty years of wandering, they will plant fields, grow crops, build homes, raise families, and establish a society.

And then Moses gives them a very simple instruction.

When the first fruits of the harvest appear, take them and bring them to the priest.

But that is not all.

When you bring your basket of first fruits, you must tell a story.

You must remember.  The farmer is instructed to say:

“My father was a wandering Aramean…”

And then the farmer recounts the entire story: our ancestors went down to Egypt, they suffered there, they cried out to God, God brought us out with a mighty hand, and God brought us into this land.

Only after telling the story does the farmer say:

“And now, behold, I have brought the first fruits of the soil which You, Adonai, have given me.”

There is a remarkable lesson here.

The farmer has worked the land. He has planted the seeds. He has tended the crops. He has harvested the fruit.

Yet the Torah does not allow him to say, “Look what I accomplished.”

Instead, he says, essentially:

Look what I have been given.

That distinction is at the heart of Ki Tavo.

We often think of gratitude as simply saying “thank you.”

But Judaism teaches us that gratitude begins with something deeper:

memory.

Before we can truly appreciate what we have, we need to remember where we came from.

The farmer remembers Egypt.  He remembers slavery.  He remembers wandering.  He remembers the generations who came before him.

And then he looks at the basket of fruit in his hands and realizes:

I did not begin this story.  I am part of a story.  That is a very Jewish understanding of life.  We are always standing on the shoulders of those who came before us.

We inherit traditions from our parents and grandparents. We inherit words of Torah from generations of teachers. We inherit songs, prayers, customs, values, and memories.  And we inherit responsibilities.

One of the dangers of success is that we can begin to believe that everything we have is entirely the result of our own efforts.

Ki Tavo reminds us otherwise.

There is always a history behind the blessing.  “My Father Was a Wandering Aramean” Think about the opening words of the declaration:  “My father was a wandering Aramean.” The farmer standing in the Temple is surrounded by evidence of stability. He has land.  He has a harvest.  He has a home.  He has security.  And yet he is told to remember that his ancestors were once wandering and vulnerable.

Why?

Because remembering vulnerability makes us more compassionate.

When we remember that we, or those who came before us, once needed help, we become more willing to help others.  When we remember that our ancestors were strangers, we are more likely to welcome the stranger.  When we remember that our ancestors suffered, we become more sensitive to the suffering of others.

Memory is not merely about the past.  Memory shapes how we behave in the present. 

There is another important lesson in Ki Tavo.

The parashah contains one of the Torah’s great collections of blessings—and then one of its most difficult passages, the Tochachah, the curses that describe what can happen when society loses its moral direction.

The contrast is striking. 

The Torah is telling us that blessings are not simply possessions.  Blessings carry responsibilities.  If we have been blessed with enough, what do we do with what we have? 

If we have been blessed with education, whom do we teach?  If we have been blessed with strength, whom do we support?  If we have been blessed with a loving community, how do we make sure that someone else does not feel alone?

The Jewish response to blessing is not simply celebration.  It is responsibility.

This message is especially meaningful for us as a synagogue community.  Every congregation has a history.  There were people who came before us who built this community, supported it, taught in it, prayed in it, sang in it, and cared for it.  Some of them are still here.  Others are no longer with us.  But their fingerprints are everywhere.

Every siddur we open, every melody we sing, every Torah scroll we read, every holiday we celebrate carries something of the people who came before us.  We are the beneficiaries of their efforts.  And someday, others will inherit what we do today.

That means the question is not simply:

What do I get from my synagogue?

The deeper question is:

What am I leaving behind?  What will the next generation inherit from us?  Will they inherit a congregation that is welcoming?  Will they inherit a community that cares for people when they are sick or grieving?  Will they inherit a Judaism that is alive, joyful, meaningful, and compassionate?  Will they inherit songs worth singing?  Will they inherit traditions worth preserving—and the courage to create new ones when necessary?

That is the challenge of Ki Tavo.

Later in the parashah, Moses says something fascinating:

“Today you have become a people.”  But haven’t they already been a people?  They have been Israelites throughout the wilderness.  Why does Moses say “today”?  Perhaps because becoming a people is something we have to do again and again.

A Jewish community is never finished.  Every generation has to decide:  Will we care for one another?  Will we teach the next generation?  Will we welcome those who are searching?  Will we preserve what is precious?  Will we make Judaism meaningful in our own time?  We become a people not merely because we share a history, but because we accept a shared responsibility.

As We Approach the High Holy Days

There is an especially beautiful connection between Ki Tavo and the season in which we read it.  We are approaching Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  The High Holy Days are a time of remembering.  We remember the year that has passed.  We remember the people who have touched our lives.  We remember mistakes we have made.  We remember opportunities we missed.  We remember acts of kindness that sustained us.

And we ask ourselves:

What will I do differently in the year ahead?

Perhaps Ki Tavo offers us a simple spiritual practice for this season.

Take an imaginary basket.  Put into it the blessings of the past year.  The people who loved you.  The friends who stood beside you.  The moments of joy.  The meals shared with family.  The prayers that gave you strength.  The music that lifted your spirit.  The community that gave you a place to belong.

And then, before asking God for more, stop and say:

Thank You.

Thank You for what I have received.  Thank You for those who came before me.  Thank You for those who walk beside me.  And help me use what I have received to bless someone else.

Each of us comes to synagogue carrying an invisible basket.  Inside are our memories.  Our families.  Our traditions.  Our joys.  Our disappointments.  Our losses.  Our hopes.  And our blessings.  Ki Tavo teaches us not to hide that basket.  Bring it forward. Acknowledge what is in it.  Give thanks.

And then ask what we can do with it.

Because Judaism does not ask us simply to count our blessings.

It asks us to transform our blessings into blessings for others.  That may be the real meaning of the first fruits.  The first fruits are not simply the best part of the harvest.  They are the part we are willing to give away.  And perhaps that is the ultimate challenge of Ki Tavo:

What are we willing to give?

Our time.  Our compassion.  Our attention.  Our talents.  Our generosity.  Our forgiveness.  Our songs.  Our prayers.  Our presence.

As we enter the High Holy Day season, may we remember how much we have received.

May we appreciate the people who have made our lives richer.  May we recognize the blessings that surround us.  And may we have the wisdom to understand that every blessing carries a responsibility.  May the baskets we bring before God this year be filled not only with what we have received, but also with what we have given.  And may the year ahead be one in which our gratitude becomes action, our memories become wisdom, and our blessings become blessings for others.    Shabbat Shalom.

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My Sermon on Ki Teitzei August 21, 2026

Shabbat Shalom.

Parashat Ki Teitzei is one of the most challenging portions in the Torah.  It contains more mitzvot than almost any other parashah—laws about marriage, family, workers, business practices, lost property, the poor, the stranger, and the treatment of animals.

At first, these laws can seem like a long list of unrelated instructions.  But I believe there is a thread connecting many of them.  It is a simple idea:  Do not look away.

In Deuteronomy we read:

“If you see your fellow’s ox or sheep gone astray, do not ignore it. You must take it back to your fellow.”  The Hebrew expression is particularly powerful: lo tuchal l’hitalem—”you shall not be able to hide yourself.”  The Torah is telling us that once we see something that needs our attention, we have a responsibility.

  • We cannot simply say, “It’s not my problem.”
  • We cannot pretend that we didn’t notice.
  • And perhaps most importantly, we cannot convince ourselves that someone else’s suffering has nothing to do with us.

Seeing creates responsibility.

Think about how often we encounter situations in everyday life where we have a choice.

  • We see someone sitting alone.
  • Do we walk past—or do we say hello?
  • We know someone is going through a difficult time.
  • Do we wait for them to call—or do we call them?
  • We notice that someone in our community has quietly withdrawn.
  • Do we assume that someone else will take care of it—or do we reach out?

These may seem like small things.  But Judaism teaches that small things are often where our values become real.

Ki Teitzei tells us that holiness is not confined to prayer, Torah study, or the synagogue. 

  • Holiness can be found in returning a lost object.
  • Holiness can be found in paying a worker on time.
  • Holiness can be found in using honest weights and measures.
  • Holiness can be found in helping someone whose animal has fallen beneath its burden.
  • And holiness can be found in noticing the person who is carrying a burden that we cannot see.

There is another remarkable teaching in this week’s parashah.

The Torah says that a worker must be paid on time because “he is needy and urgently depends upon it.”  The Torah could simply have said, “Pay your workers.”  Instead, it explains why.

  • Because there is a human being on the other side of the transaction.
  • Behind the paycheck is a family.
  • Behind the bill is a person.
  • Behind every economic decision is a human life.
  • That is an important lesson for all of us.
  • It is easy to reduce people to categories.
  • Customer.
  • Employee.
  • Neighbor.
  • Stranger.
  • Member.
  • Visitor.

But Judaism insists that before a person is any of those things, that person is a human being created b’tzelem Elohim—in the image of God.

The Torah asks us to see the person, not merely the circumstance.

There is another phrase that appears repeatedly in Ki Teitzei:

“Remember that you were a slave in Egypt.”  Why does the Torah keep reminding us of Egypt?  Because memory is supposed to change behavior.  We were strangers.  Therefore, we should understand the stranger.  We were vulnerable.  Therefore, we should protect the vulnerable.  We suffered.  Therefore, we should not become indifferent to the suffering of others.  Jewish memory is not meant to remain in the past.  Memory is supposed to become morality.

That is an extraordinary Jewish idea.  We don’t simply remember what happened to us.  We ask what that memory requires us to do.  And perhaps this is especially important today, when we are surrounded by so much information.

Every day we see photographs and videos of suffering around the world.  We hear stories of people experiencing poverty, war, loneliness, displacement, and fear.  The danger is that we can become overwhelmed.  We see so much that eventually we stop seeing.

The Torah’s message is different.

It says:

  • You don’t have to solve everything.
  • But don’t look away from everything.
  • You may not be able to change the entire world.
  • But you can change someone’s experience of the world.
  • You can make the phone call.
  • You can make the visit.
  • You can invite someone to sit with you.
  • You can offer a ride.
  • You can listen.
  • You can notice.

And sometimes the most important thing we can give another person is not an answer.

It is the assurance:

“I see you.”

There is one more difficult teaching at the end of Ki Teitzei.

The Torah tells us to remember Amalek—the nation that attacked Israel from behind, particularly targeting the vulnerable.  It is a difficult passage because we are asked to remember hatred and violence without allowing hatred and violence to consume us.  But perhaps that is another form of “do not look away.”  We must not forget evil.  We must remember history.  We must remember what happens when the vulnerable are abandoned and when cruelty becomes acceptable.

But remembering is not the same as living in hatred.  Our task is to transform memory into wisdom.  We remember so that we can build a world in which such cruelty becomes less likely—not so that we perpetuate the cycle of hatred.

So what does Ki Teitzei ask of us this Shabbat?

Perhaps it asks us three questions.

  • What do we see?
  • What do we choose not to see?
  • And what will we do about what we see?

Those questions are not merely philosophical.  They are deeply Jewish questions.  When we see someone in need, Judaism says: Don’t look away.

  • When we see injustice, don’t look away.
  • When we see loneliness, don’t look away.
  • When we see a person who has become invisible to everyone else, don’t look away.
  • And when we look in the mirror and see our own shortcomings, don’t look away from those either.

Because the same Torah that asks us to recognize the dignity of others asks us to become better people ourselves.  The world does not need us to be perfect.  It needs us to be present.  It needs us to notice.  It needs us to care.  And it needs us to act.

Perhaps that is the real lesson of Ki Teitzei.  A Jewish life is built one moment at a time.

  • One person notices.
  • One person cares.
  • One person reaches out.
  • One person helps carry the burden.
  • And one small act of kindness becomes part of the work of tikkun olam—repairing our world.

May we have the courage this Shabbat not to look away.  May we have the eyes to see those who need us.  May we have the hearts to care.  And may we have the strength to turn what we see into action.

Shabbat Shalom.

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Can Music Enhance Memory (From a newsletter article Summer of 2025 at North Shore Synagogue written by me)

Can music enhance memory?  Go back to your first experience you can remember of being in a Synagogue.  It could be one of the High Holy Days, a Holiday like Purim, Chanukkah, or Passover, Religious School, and even Shabbat.  What do you remember?  When asked that question, my response is always the music, how the prayers were sung.  Those melodies touch something deep inside of us.  Not only in the Synagogue do these songs, these melodies resonate, but also from Passover Seders, Chanukah, even in our secular lives. 

From our early years we all remember the melody to the “A, B, Cs”; “Itsy Bitsy Spider”, and others.  Many of those melodies have made it into our Prayers.  Those melodies continue to resonate with us every Shabbat and Holiday.

“Since earliest times, music has universally been a part of G-ds’s creatures’ worship of their Creator.  From the very beginning of our national existence, the worship pf G-d with Prayer and sacrifice has been accompanied by music (noted in Exodus 15: 12, 20) and music played an important part of the Temple service as well.” (source: A Guide to Jewish Prayer pg. 370) In Chronicles, David commands the priests to sing to the Lord with instruments of music, with trumpets and cymbals and harps.

“Sing to G-d a new Song…”(Psalm 96)  The sounds and tones of music weave through Jewish life as a thread through a tapestry.  This tapestry is rich and vibrant, much like Joseph’s coat of many colors.   But instead of colors, we have tones and harmonies which can lift us up and raise our spiritual identity, helping to fill us with sweet sounds.  We only have to listen, and let ourselves be carried away by these sweet sounds. 

Growing up going to Shul I would look forward to attending services along with the Cantor and the Congregation.  There truly was and still is something very spiritual that happens when we all join together singing the prayers.  That sense of our community, not only here at North Shore Synagogue, but the entire Jewish community coming together through the words of our Prayers utilizing music.  Sometimes our melodies differ slightly from Synagogue to Synagogue.  Sometimes the melodies might be completely different.  However the result is still the same, as we join together in song.  Our spirits are lifted, and no matter how you enter our Friday night service, our joyous praise lifts us all up.  

“Clap your hands, all peoples!…” (Psalm 41)Today, many of the melodies for our prayers represent our differing cultures, blending together different musical Minhagim (traditions).  Throughout our services here at North Shore Synagogue you can hear the Ashkenazic melodies which many of us grew up with.  You can also hear strains of Sefardic melodies.  There are also the melodies from Contemporary Composers like Debbie Friedman (z”l), Dan Nichols, Rick Recht, and many others.  Etz Chaim,which we sing prior to the closing of the Ark at the end of the Torah Service, is sung to the melody of HaTikvah.  And as stated above some nursery rhyme music has entered our services, or is it Mozart?!

Many times we introduce new melodies into our services.  These melodies might take a little bit to grow on us, but those melodies bring a fresh perspective on the Prayer. 

Our music is another way we represent L’dor Vador – Generation to Generation.  We pass on these melodies to our children and others, and the next generation takes those melodies to heart.  As each generation grows into those songs, many come up with new melodies for the Prayers, taking their own personal perspective and becoming a new part of the tapestry of song.  “Make music to G-d…with trumpets and the blast of the ram’s horn …! (Psalm 98)

Whether you’ve had a good week or one of challenges, come join us on a Friday night this summer and experience 60 minutes of food for your soul.  Who knows? Maybe you’ll be humming all week!  May we all continue to be a part of that musical tapestry that is our tradition, new and old. Type / to choose a block

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Kol Nidre: The Gift of Forgiveness

There are few moments in the Jewish year as powerful as the opening of Kol Nidre. As the congregation gathers on Erev Yom Kippur, the familiar melody begins, the Torah scrolls are held before us, and the words of Kol Nidre fill the sanctuary. It is a moment that touches something deep within us.

Kol Nidre literally means “All Vows.” At its most basic level, the prayer concerns vows and promises that we may have made and failed to fulfill. But its emotional power reaches far beyond the technical meaning of the words. It reminds us of something profoundly human: we are not perfect, and neither are the people around us.

Yom Kippur gives us an opportunity to acknowledge our mistakes, seek forgiveness, and begin again. Yet Jewish tradition makes an important distinction. We cannot simply ask God to forgive us for hurting another person. If our actions have caused pain, we must make the effort to seek forgiveness from the person we have wronged. The Mishnah teaches that Yom Kippur does not atone for sins between one person and another until forgiveness has been sought.

That teaching can be challenging. Sometimes saying “I’m sorry” is difficult. Sometimes we believe the other person should apologize first. Sometimes an old disagreement has gone on for so long that we cannot even remember how it began.

But Kol Nidre invites us to take the first step.

Forgiveness does not mean pretending that nothing happened. It does not mean saying that hurtful behavior was acceptable. And forgiveness does not always mean restoring a relationship to exactly what it was before. Rather, forgiveness can mean choosing not to allow anger, resentment, or an old wound to control our lives any longer.

There is also another side to forgiveness: forgiving ourselves.

Many of us carry regrets into the High Holy Days. We remember words we wish we had never spoken, opportunities we wish we had taken, relationships we wish we had handled differently. We may look back and think, “If only I had known then what I know now.”

But that is part of being human. Jewish tradition calls us toward teshuvah—turning, returning, and changing our direction. We acknowledge what we have done, make amends when possible, learn from our mistakes, and try to become better people.

Perhaps this is one of the deeper messages of Kol Nidre. We enter Yom Kippur recognizing our human frailty. We know that we have failed in ways large and small. We also know that others have failed us. Yet we gather together as a community and say, in effect: we will not give up on ourselves, and we will not give up on one another.

Immediately following Kol Nidre, the congregation traditionally proclaims the biblical words, “May the entire congregation of Israel be forgiven,” emphasizing that forgiveness belongs to the whole community. The message is one of inclusion: there is room for all of us, even with our imperfections, mistakes, and shortcomings.

As we prepare for Kol Nidre this year, perhaps we can ask ourselves three simple questions:

Whom do I need to forgive?

From whom do I need to ask forgiveness?

What do I need to forgive myself for?

We may not be able to resolve every hurt or repair every relationship. But we can take a step. We can make a phone call. We can send a message. We can say, “I’m sorry.” We can say, “I forgive you.” Or perhaps we can simply make the quiet decision in our own hearts to let go of something we have carried for too long.

When the Kol Nidre melody rises through our sanctuary along with our quartet, the cello, and our accompanist Zvi Klein, may we hear more than the words of an ancient prayer. May we hear an invitation—to release the past, to repair what can be repaired, to forgive where we can forgive, and to enter the New Year with lighter hearts.

G’mar Chatimah Tovah. May we all be sealed for a year of peace, health, kindness, and forgiveness.

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