Rabbi Dina Rosenberg

In this week’s parashah, Vayeshev, I find myself drawn to one quiet moment that feels deeply human. Joseph is lost, wandering in the fields, unsure where to go, when a stranger notices him. The Torah tells us simply, “a man came upon him wandering in the fields.” (Genesis 37:15). The man asks Joseph what he is looking for, listens to Joseph’s answer, and points him in the direction of his brothers. That is all. He offers no lecture, no prophecy—just presence and guidance. And then he disappears from the story.

But I can’t stop thinking about how much hangs on that brief encounter. Without that man, Joseph might have turned back home. Instead, he finds his brothers. He is betrayed, sold, and eventually brought to Egypt. That single conversation in an open field sets in motion the events that will shape Joseph’s life and ultimately lead our ancestors into Egypt. We are never told whether this man was an angel or simply a passerby, and we are left to wonder whether he had any sense of the consequences of his actions—or even whether what he offered was kindness at all. He simply noticed someone who was lost and chose to engage.

So many of us have moments like that—times when we cross paths with someone at just the right (or wrong) moment. A word we almost don’t say, an offer of help we almost withhold, a conversation we think is insignificant. This parashah reminds me that we rarely see the full impact of our actions in real time. And yet, for better or worse, one small choice can change a life, or even the course of history. May this moment in the Torah remind us to pay attention to the people we encounter, knowing that even a small act of presence can ripple far beyond what we can imagine.

As we begin Parashat Vayishlach this week, we meet Jacob at one of the most nervous moments of his life. He’s about to see his brother Esau after years of separation and after a betrayal that cut deeply. Jacob sends gifts ahead—herds and herds of animals—as a way of saying, “Please don’t be angry with me.” It’s touching, in a way, to see how much he wants to make things right. But it’s also hard to miss what isn’t there: we don’t hear Jacob say, “I’m sorry.” We don’t hear him name what he did. Instead, he hopes that generosity will do the talking for him.

And that raises a very human question: What actually helps rebuild trust after we’ve let someone down? Gifts may soften the edges, but they don’t heal the heart. Most of us, if we’ve been hurt, would rather hear an honest acknowledgment of what happened than receive something shiny or expensive. Real repair comes from vulnerability—from the courage to admit mistakes, to say plainly, “I know I hurt you, and I understand why that mattered.” A gift can open a door, but it usually can’t walk through it for us.

In our families, our friendships, and even in our community, rebuilding trust is slow, gentle work. It looks like clear communication, small steps forward, and showing through our actions that we’ve learned something. Sometimes it’s awkward, sometimes emotional, but it’s worth it. Jacob reminds us that wanting to repair is itself a holy instinct—but the deeper healing comes when we speak from the heart. May this week bring us the strength to mend what needs mending and to approach one another with honesty, softness, and hope.

In Genesis 28:20–21, Jacob responds to his powerful dream at Bethel — a vision filled with angels and God’s promise of protection — by making a vow: “If God will be with me… then the Lord shall be my God.” It is striking that even after such an extraordinary spiritual moment, Jacob still speaks in conditional terms. There is almost a sense of ingratitude in his response — as though the awe of the moment has not fully reached his heart. Why wouldn’t Jacob trust God in a situation where God has just offered blessing so freely? His hesitation reminds us that it is deeply human to approach relationships, even sacred ones, with an instinct toward negotiation.

That tendency often shows up in our family lives as well. And after Thanksgiving, many of us may have felt it more clearly than usual. Holidays bring people with different values, histories, and expectations into the same room. It’s easy for old habits to surface — the quiet keeping of score, the “you only help me if I help you” dynamic, the feeling that affection or effort must be earned. These patterns don’t make us bad people; they simply reveal how vulnerable family relationships can be.

But the Torah points us toward a different model. God does not respond to Jacob’s conditional vow with conditions of God’s own. Instead, God remains present, patient, and generous with Jacob, even before Jacob is ready to fully reciprocate. That divine steadiness invites us to loosen our grip on the scorecard and lead with patience and kindness.

As we move past Thanksgiving and back into our regular routines, maybe that’s the real spiritual work: to let gratitude replace scorekeeping, to show up for one another without needing everything to be perfectly mutual. When we do that, our relationships — like Jacob’s journey — have room to grow into something deeper, more faithful, and filled with blessing.

Parshat Toldot brings us right into one of the most familiar human dilemmas: when is it actually okay to lie? Earlier in Genesis, Abraham twice introduces Sarah as his sister, and this week Isaac does the same with Rebecca. They’re scared—convinced that telling the truth will put them in danger—so they bend the truth to protect themselves. But the lie ends up putting their wives at risk instead, which makes these stories hard to read without wincing.

What’s interesting is that the Torah never stops to say, “By the way, this was wrong.” There’s no divine critique, no moral footnote, just silence. Some readers take that silence as the Torah’s way of letting us feel the discomfort for ourselves. Others see it as a realistic reminder that fear can lead even good people to make ethically messy choices. The Torah isn’t offering easy answers—it’s giving us a story that sits with us and asks us to think.

Most of us aren’t navigating life-or-death situations, but we still deal with everyday “truth bending.” We tell a child their drawing is beautiful, we smooth over a social moment, we say we’re “fine” when we’re not. Sometimes those little white lies help keep peace and kindness in our relationships. But when a lie is really about protecting our own comfort or avoiding a hard conversation—and someone else ends up carrying the weight of it—that’s when it crosses the line.

In the end, Toldot reminds us that honesty is less about strict rules and more about responsibility. A helpful question to ask is: Who does this lie help, and who might it hurt? If the answer leaves us uneasy, that’s worth paying attention to. May this week’s parashah encourage us to choose honesty in ways that build trust, strengthen relationships, and reflect the kind of people we’re trying to become.

Our parsha this Shabbat begins with the announcement of Sarah’s death: “Sarah’s lifetime—the span of Sarah’s life—came to one hundred and twenty-seven years.” The Torah could simply have said, “Sarah died at 127,” yet it chooses a more layered, almost poetic phrasing. The rabbis teach that this repetition—chayei Sarah, the life of Sarah—is meant to draw our attention not to the fact of her death but to the fullness of her living. Her years were not a single block but a tapestry of moments, challenges, growth, and faith. By breaking apart the number into units—one hundred years, twenty years, seven years—the tradition suggests that each stage of her life had its own integrity, its own beauty, its own story. In remembering her this way, the Torah invites us to resist defining a person by a single chapter. A life is made of many pieces, and all of them matter.

This past week, I carried that message with me as I joined a retreat celebrating the 40th anniversary of women’s ordination in the Conservative Movement. Seventy-four of the four hundred female rabbis gathered—not just to commemorate a milestone, but to honor the many chapters of courage, perseverance, and vision that brought us here.

The stories shared by the vatikot, the pioneering women who first entered the rabbinate, were both haunting and inspiring. They spoke of the day the seminary faculty voted in 1985. Many professors supported them as individuals, yet hesitated at the idea of women rabbis. In response, these determined students quietly placed a heartfelt letter into every faculty mailbox—a reminder that this was not a theoretical debate but the lives and callings of real people who felt summoned to serve God. These women shattered ceilings with grace and grit. And even as we celebrate how far we’ve come, their stories remind us that the work of building a truly inclusive and equitable Jewish future continues.

This Shabbat, as we remember Sarah and celebrate the generations of women who have shaped our movement, let us commit to carrying their work forward. The Torah reminds us that a life is measured not only in years but in impact. May we use our days to lift one another up, to see each other’s wholeness, and to create a community where every voice is honored.

May the strength and vision of those who came before us inspire us to build a future worthy of their courage.

This week’s Torah portion, Vayera, offers a moment that always stops me in my tracks. God is about to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah but pauses and says, “Shall I hide from Abraham what I am about to do?”

It’s such a human question. God doesn’t need Abraham’s permission, but seems to feel a sense of responsibility toward him—a kind of moral accountability that comes with relationship. Abraham isn’t just a follower; he’s a partner in covenant. God has chosen him to teach justice and righteousness, and that partnership requires openness.

In that pause, we see something powerful about leadership. Leadership isn’t only about making decisions or setting direction. It’s also about trust, honesty, and the willingness to be transparent—even when it’s uncomfortable. Every leader wrestles with the question: What do I share, and what do I keep private? Too much secrecy erodes confidence. Too much openness can overwhelm. The challenge is to find that middle space where honesty builds trust rather than breaks it.

That same tension exists in all our relationships. Parents decide what to share with their children. Spouses weigh when to speak and when to listen. Friends and colleagues choose when to reveal their doubts or mistakes. In each case, the question is the same: what builds trust? What honors the relationship?

Maybe that’s what God models for Abraham—that real partnership means letting others in. It’s not weakness; it’s respect.

As we enter Shabbat, may we all find the wisdom to speak truth with care, and the courage to be open with those who rely on us.