The Second Commandment is against idolatry. This does not just mean worshiping statues but ideology. We have to be careful not to allow our politics, or even our religious practice to make us lose site of the real goal. The Torah was given to make us better people.

Quick D’var Torah – The Second of the Aseret HaDibrot

The second of the Ten Commandments is usually summarized as “don’t make idols,” but there’s a lot of misunderstanding about what that actually means.
First of all, it is not anti-art. Judaism is not against art, beauty, or creativity.

There’s a famous story about Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook. During World War I, Rav Kook was stranded in London and couldn’t return to Eretz Yisrael. One of the things he did was spend time in the British Museum, especially studying the paintings of Rembrandt. Rav Kook said that Rembrandt possessed the light of the first day of creation—the אור הגנוז, the hidden light of understanding and holiness—and that you could actually feel God shining through his artwork.

A friend of mine once said that if he had to give evidence for the existence of God, he’d say Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart—because you simply can’t explain how someone that young produced music of such depth and genius without something divine behind it.

So the Torah is not worried about art. What it is worried about is worshiping the art—or turning anything into an idol.

And idols don’t have to be statues. They can be ideologies. Political ideologies. Even religious ideologies. When someone says, “This is my party, this is my system, this is my ideology—and everything else must bow to it,” that’s also a form of idolatry. The Torah wants you to think. God wants you to bring light into the world—not to surrender your mind to something just because it carries a label.

Even within religion, there’s a danger. People can get so caught up in the minutiae that they forget the big picture.

Take Mizmor Shir Leyom HaShabbat. Beautiful title—“A Song for the Day of Shabbat.” But if you look closely, nowhere else in the psalm does it even mention Shabbat. It’s almost as if King David is telling us: don’t get lost in the details. Remember what Shabbat is really about—a day to stop, reflect, and take stock of our lives.

And that’s the message of the second commandment. Serve God—but don’t turn anything else into God. Don’t let systems, objects, or even religious precision replace purpose.

The mitzvot weren’t given because God had nothing better to do. They were given to make us better people—to make us better Jews—and through that, to improve the world.

So instead of worrying about the government—joking aside—worry about yourself:

• Did I give tzedakah today?
• Did I daven?
• Was I pleasant to the people I met?
• Did I make someone’s world a little better by being in it?

That’s the real avodah.
And that’s what the second commandment is teaching us.

Something to think about.

The first “commandment” in the Decalogue is not a commandment but a statement. God is introducing Himself and pointing out that what comes next is not from man but from Him. That this was the purpose of the Exodus.

Quick D’var Torah – Parashat Yitro

This week’s parashah gives us the Aseret HaDibrot—the Ten Commandments. But it’s fascinating how they begin:

“Anochi Hashem Elokecha asher hotzeiticha me’eretz Mitzrayim” —
“I am the Lord your God who took you out of Egypt.”

That’s not a commandment. It’s a statement.

God is essentially saying: Whether you believe in Me or not, I am here. I am your God. I took you out of Egypt.
This opening frames everything that follows. These laws are not a human social contract—they are divine. They’re not based on convenience or politics, but on what God defines as right and just.

That already sets the Torah apart from ancient law codes. Human systems—like Hammurabi’s—were attempts to regulate society. The Torah does that too, but on an entirely different level: holiness, not expediency.

But there’s something deeper going on here.

God is telling the Jewish people:
Do you think I took you out of Egypt just because you were slaves? Just because I oppose slavery?
No. Slavery existed everywhere in the ancient world—and, tragically, well into modern times. God knows slavery will happen. But that’s not why He redeemed us.

He took us out for a purpose.

Freedom is not the goal; it’s the beginning. The purpose of the Exodus is mitzvot—to build a society grounded in justice, morality, and responsibility as God defines them. Not freedom from Egypt alone, but freedom for something higher.

And that leads to another radical difference between the Torah and ancient legal systems: equality before the law.
In many ancient codes, punishment depended on social class—rich and poor were judged differently. Not in the Torah. Before God’s law, everyone stands equal. Wealth, status, power—none of it matters.

That idea—equality before the law—doesn’t come from modern political theory. It comes from the Torah.

So now we understand why the Ten Commandments begin the way they do.
“I am the Lord your God who took you out of Egypt” isn’t background—it’s the foundation. Redemption wasn’t an end. It was the opening line of a mission.

Something to think about.

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Jethro arrives to the Israelite camp and gives Moses advice that entails the necessity of preparing the next generation of leaders. As it happens it is the Yahrzeit of my mother-in-law who was a teacher and felt this was her calling.

Quick D’var Torah – Parashat Yitro

Parashat Yitro is fascinating because the turning point comes from an outsider. Yitro isn’t part of the Jewish people when he approaches Moshe, yet he sees something everyone else has missed. Sometimes it takes someone standing on the outside to say, “This isn’t sustainable.”

Yitro watches Moshe judging the people from morning until night and says two critical things. First: you’re going to burn yourself out. A leader who tries to do everything alone will eventually collapse. And second—just as important—you’re not training the next generation. If everything depends on you, what happens when you’re no longer here?

So Yitro proposes a system: lower courts, developing judges, a pipeline of leadership. Moshe listens. And that moment becomes one of the foundations of Jewish continuity—not just law, but leadership transmission.

I mention this because today I davened from the amud on my mother-in-law’s yahrzeit—her tenth. She embodied this exact idea. She was an educator in every sense of the word. She didn’t just teach information; she prepared the next generation.

She wrote a book on Jewish etiquette. She had a long-running column in The Jewish Week—Ask Helen Latner—essentially the Jewish Dear Abby (and yes, Dear Abby was Jewish, as was Ann Landers—they were twins). But my mother-in-law brought a distinctly Jewish lens to guidance and values.

Together with my father-in-law, she helped preserve Jewish musical history. When he realized that Jewish recordings from the 1920s—great chazanut, recorded on fragile 78s—were disappearing, they started Collectors Guild. They rescued that music, re-recorded it, and re-released it on LPs. Thanks to that work, an entire chapter of Jewish cultural memory wasn’t lost.
(Though, as my wife will tell you, the basement filled up with records pretty quickly.)

Yet even while preserving the past, she was always focused on the future. She was an English teacher, later head of her department, an assistant principal—and when she retired, she didn’t stop. She kept writing, kept thinking, kept contributing. She lived to 97, sharp and present until the end. And that, truly, is one of the greatest berachot a person can have.

Parashat Yitro reminds us: leadership isn’t about doing everything yourself. It’s about building systems, teaching others, and ensuring continuity. That was Yitro’s wisdom—and it was my mother-in-law’s life.

May her memory continue to be a source of blessing and tikkun.

Jethro, Moses’s father-in-law, arrives and sizes up the situation. He sees that Moses has taken a lot on himself. He gives some constructive criticism for leadership. Moses realizes that this is all meant for the good and accepts it.

Parashat Yitro is fascinating because it contains what you might call Judaism’s core creed—the Aseret HaDibrot, the Ten Commandments. But what’s striking is how the parashah begins.

Before Sinai.
Before revelation.
Before thunder, lightning, and commandments carved in stone—

The Torah reintroduces us to Yitro, a non-Jew, who comes to observe what is happening with the Jewish people and with Moshe.

And Yitro doesn’t come with theology.
He comes with constructive criticism.

He sees Moshe judging the people from morning until night and says, in effect:
“This won’t last. You’ll burn yourself out—and worse, you’re not training the next generation. What happens when you’re no longer here?”

That insight is extraordinary. Yitro understands that leadership without delegation is not strength—it’s fragility.

Moshe listens. And that may be the most important leadership lesson in the parashah.

He accepts the advice and establishes a layered court system: lower courts handling routine cases, higher courts addressing more complex issues, and only the most difficult matters reaching Moshe himself. It’s a model we instantly recognize—very much like a modern court system, where only the most significant cases reach a supreme authority.

And here’s the key Torah point:

Before Sinai, we build structure.

The Torah deliberately places this episode before revelation to teach us something fundamental:
You can be deeply spiritual—but without structure, spirituality collapses.

Everyone becomes “spiritual in their own way,” norms dissolve, and society breaks down.

This is why, going all the way back to Noach, among the seven universal laws, the one positive commandment given to all humanity is to establish courts. A society cannot survive without law, order, and shared authority.

Only once that foundation exists can we go to Sinai and receive true holiness.

We see this in daily life as well. People often say, “Who are you to tell me what to do?”
The answer is simple: the law. Structure matters. Authority matters.

And finally, Moshe’s delegation teaches us another timeless lesson:
The most successful leaders—biblical or modern—are those who know they can’t do everything themselves. They share power, develop others, and prepare the next generation.

That’s not weakness.
That’s leadership.

Something very worth thinking about.

The week’s portion ends with the attack of Amalek. Amalek has no reason to attack the Jews. Just pure hatred. And they attack the weakest in society. That is why we have to defeat Amalek whenever they raise their hand against us.

Quick D’var Torah – Amalek at the End of Parashat Beshalach

Parashat Beshalach ends with the attack of Amalek, and it teaches us a crucial—and uncomfortable—lesson.

Amalek has no rational reason to hate the Jewish people. With Pharaoh, we can at least understand the logic. He wanted slaves. He benefited from us economically. When we asked to leave, he couldn’t grasp it—“Why would you leave such a good life as slaves?”—but at least there was something to negotiate.

With Amalek, there is no negotiation. He wants us dead. Period.

Notice the timing. Amalek waits until after Refidim—after the complaints about food and water, after internal dissension. He sees weakness and division and says: now is my moment. And how does he attack? Not head-on. He strikes the rear of the camp—the elderly, the weak, the women and children. His goal isn’t victory in battle; it’s to shatter morale.

That’s why the Torah describes Moshe with his hands raised. When his hands are up, Israel prevails; when they fall, Amalek gains ground. This isn’t magic. It’s psychology and leadership. The soldiers look up and see Moshe standing, invested, present—and they fight harder.

We’ve seen this before in history. During the Blitz in World War II, King George VI and Churchill would appear publicly, even on rooftops, during bombings. Why? To say: I’m here with you. I’m taking the risk too. Leadership matters.

Up until now, God has done almost everything for the Jewish people—Egypt, the plagues, the splitting of the sea. Here, it’s different. With Amalek, we must fight. No miracles. No shortcuts. We have to understand why we’re fighting and take responsibility.

And Amalek doesn’t disappear. He returns in every generation. That’s why we say in the Pesach Haggadah, “Shelo echad bilvad amad aleinu lechaloteinu”—in every generation, there are those who want to destroy us.

There’s a powerful modern illustration of this. In the early 2000s, the TV series Sleeper Cell featured terrorists planning attacks in the U.S. The cast was once asked: What would you do if you met your character in real life?
The American actors said: I’d talk to him. I’d reason with him.
The Israeli actor said: I’d kill him.
Why? Because he wants to kill me. There’s nothing to discuss.

You don’t negotiate with a rabid dog.

That’s the lesson of Amalek—and its modern heirs like Hamas. They didn’t target soldiers; they targeted civilians. They attacked the very communities that believed in coexistence. Aid, concessions, negotiations—none of it mattered.

Amalek is not about territory or policy. It’s about annihilation.

And when faced with Amalek, the Torah is clear: there is no negotiation. We must stand up, understand what we’re facing, and do the job ourselves.

Something to think about.

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Dotan & Aviram are two characters in the Torah who just want to cause trouble for Moses. They are agitators of the worst kind. They cause trouble and don’t take responsibility for their complaints.

Datan and Aviram: When Complaints Aren’t About the Problem

Early in the story of the Exodus, we are introduced to two figures who will become a recurring headache for Moshe throughout the Torah: Datan and Aviram.

We first meet them in Egypt, when Moshe intervenes to stop two Hebrews from fighting. Instead of welcoming peace, they sneer at him: “Who made you ruler and judge over us? Are you going to kill us like you killed the Egyptian?” From the very beginning, they have nothing constructive to say. They don’t want solutions; they want to undermine.

And sure enough, they reappear again and again—most notably at Refidim, where the people complain about the lack of water. On the surface, the complaint sounds reasonable. They’re thirsty. That’s real. But the Torah lets us see something deeper: Datan and Aviram are not interested in fixing the problem. They are agitators.

Their language is always the same:

• “Why did you take us out of Egypt?”
• “Weren’t there enough graves there?”
• “We were better off before.”

This isn’t desperation speaking. This is disruption.

What makes them especially dangerous is that their arguments sound logical. Thirst is real. Hunger is real. Fear is real. But their intent is not to improve the situation—it is to delegitimize leadership. They don’t care what happens next, as long as Moshe fails.

And this is one of the hardest lessons of leadership.

There are people who bring valid complaints. They come because something is genuinely wrong, and they want it fixed. A leader must listen to them carefully.

And then there are people who complain because that is their identity. They are against whoever is in charge. If Moshe succeeds, they lose relevance. If order is restored, they have nothing to say. So they push, provoke, and inflame—not because they want justice, but because they want collapse.

Datan and Aviram were not ordinary slaves in Egypt. Chazal tell us they were overseers—better off than most. Freedom didn’t elevate them; it threatened them. A system where everyone stands equal before God leaves no room for people who thrive on hierarchy and resentment.

That’s why they eventually resurface in the rebellion of Korach. And that’s why their story ends the way it does. A society cannot survive when disruption becomes a virtue and leadership itself is treated as illegitimate.

The Torah is warning us: not every complaint deserves the same response. Wisdom lies in discerning motive, not just content.

When we hear outrage, we must ask:

• Is this someone trying to repair the system?
• Or someone trying to break it?

That distinction matters—then, and now.

Something to think about.

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The crossing of the Sea of Reeds (Red Sea) is the seminal moment when the Jews realized what being free entails. We have to make our own decisions and act upon them.

Kriat Yam Suf: The Moment Freedom Begins

Up until Kriat Yam Suf, the splitting of the Sea of Reeds, God does everything for the Jewish people.
We sit back and watch: plagues, miracles, Exodus—no effort required.

Then suddenly, everything changes.

At the sea, nothing happens until someone steps forward.
The waters don’t split until a Jew walks in.

And that’s not a technical detail—that’s the point.

Slavery removes responsibility. A slave doesn’t decide, doesn’t initiate, doesn’t take risks.
The master provides food, shelter, direction—maybe poorly, but reliably. In return, the slave gives up agency. Every action, every failure, every success ultimately belongs to the master.

Freedom is terrifying because it demands responsibility.
A free person worries about the next meal.
A free person owns the consequences of their choices.

Kriat Yam Suf is the real beginning of freedom—not when we leave Egypt, but when we have to act.
God says, in effect: I will not carry you anymore. Walk.

That’s why Chazal say the sea didn’t split until someone jumped in. Freedom requires initiative.

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The American Echo

There’s a fascinating historical parallel.

In 1776, a committee was formed to design the seal of the United States. On it were Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, and John Adams.

Franklin’s proposal?
The Jews crossing the Red Sea, the Egyptian army drowning, and Pharaoh looking suspiciously like King George III. His suggested motto:
“Rebellion to tyranny is obedience to God.”

Jefferson proposed a different biblical image: the Jews in the wilderness, led by a pillar of fire—not arrived yet, but on the journey.

Congress ultimately rejected both and chose Adams’s design, which became the Great Seal of the United States.

But the symbolism matters.

Both Franklin and Jefferson instinctively turned to Exodus as the template for freedom. They understood something subtle and profound:

Freedom is not doing whatever you want.
That’s not liberty—that’s chaos.

True freedom requires structure, obligation, and moral restraint. Otherwise, liberty collapses into self-destruction.

For the Founding Fathers, that structure came from the Bible. They believed a free society could survive only if it was anchored in higher law.

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The Challenge of Freedom

That’s why Franklin chose the crossing of the sea.

Once we cross, there is no going back to Egypt.
But now, every choice matters. Every failure is ours. Every success is earned.

Freedom isn’t comfort.
Freedom is responsibility.

And that’s the hardest miracle of all.

Something to think about.

The final act of Moses in Egypt was to retrieve Joseph’s bones. This is because we do not leave anyone behind and we do not forget anyone. We take care of all in our nation.

Quick D’var Torah

You may have noticed that today we did not say the two chapters of Tehillim. We stopped saying them because the body of the last hostage was returned. And that fact is deeply significant—especially in light of this week’s parashah.

In Parashat Beshalach, while the Jewish people are running, gathering possessions, and finally leaving Egypt in a moment of chaos and relief, the Torah pauses to tell us something striking: Moshe takes the bones of Yosef. This is mentioned very early in the parashah. That is not accidental.

Moshe’s final act in Egypt was not about gold, silver, or escape. It was about making sure Yosef would not be forgotten.

And that brings us to the present moment.

People ask: Why was the return of the body such a deal-breaker for Israel? Why risk everything for someone who is no longer alive?
And the answer is simple—and fundamental: because we don’t abandon our dead.

In Judaism, this is called chesed shel emet—a true kindness. Most kindnesses come with some form of reciprocity. You help someone; someday they help you back. But when you take care of the dead, there is no payback. That person will never return the favor. That is why it is considered the purest mitzvah.

And here’s the deeper point:
If you don’t take care of the dead, you will eventually stop taking care of the living.

That’s why Moshe makes this his priority. That’s why Israel insisted on the return of the last body. It’s a guarantee to the Jewish people: You will never be abandoned—alive or dead.

There’s a famous story of Maharam of Rothenburg, who was imprisoned and held for ransom. He instructed the Jewish community not to redeem him, fearing it would encourage future kidnappings. He eventually died in prison. Years later, members of the community paid a ransom—not to free him, but to ensure he received a Jewish burial. Even in death, he would not be left behind.

Israel lives by this principle to this day. That’s why there is no Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Israel. No one who falls defending the state is ever “unknown.” Israel goes to extraordinary lengths to identify every fallen soldier.

And that is why the Torah tells us—at the very moment of redemption—that Moshe took Yosef’s bones.

Because Jewish freedom isn’t just about leaving slavery.
It’s about responsibility.
It’s about memory.
And it’s about never abandoning a Jew—no matter what.

Something to think about.

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Why did Pharaoh assume that the Jews would return after their festival? That is because he misunderstood that when Moses said that the Jews had to go out to serve God that it was about learning how to live, not just prayer. This is the major innovation of the Bible. Religion is not just for Synagogue but about life.

“Pharaoh Says: ‘Moshe Fooled Us’ — But How?”

One of the more puzzling lines in the Exodus story comes right after the Jews leave Egypt. Pharaoh suddenly declares, “Moshe fooled us — they’re running away!”

At first glance, this makes no sense.

Moshe never says the people are coming back. The idea of a permanent return to Egypt was never on the table. So why does Pharaoh assume this? Where does that expectation come from?

The answer lies in how the ancient world understood religion — and how radically different the Torah’s vision was.

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Religion in the Ancient World

In the ancient Near East, religion and morality were two completely separate spheres.

You didn’t pray to the gods in order to become a better person.
You didn’t worship in order to refine your character or reshape society.
Religion was transactional: you offered sacrifices, festivals, rituals — and the gods were expected to respond.

In fact, many ancient cultures believed the gods literally ate the offerings brought to them. That’s why sacrifices were described as “food for the gods.”

Contrast that with the Torah: nowhere does it say God eats the korbanot. The offerings aren’t for God’s benefit — they’re for ours.

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Why Pharaoh Assumed They’d Return

When Moshe repeatedly tells Pharaoh:

“Let My people go, that they may serve Me,”

Pharaoh hears this through his cultural lens.

To him, “serve God” means:

• Go out into the desert
• Hold a religious festival
• Perform rituals
• Then come back to normal life

That’s how religion worked. It was an event, not a transformation.

So Pharaoh assumes: Fine — they’ll pray, celebrate, and return to work.
When they don’t, he feels deceived.

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What Pharaoh Missed

What Pharaoh never grasped is that Torah isn’t about religious moments — it’s about a religious society.

“Serving God” doesn’t just mean festivals.
It means:

• How you treat other people
• How you run an economy
• How justice works
• How power is limited
• How dignity is protected

It’s not confined to the synagogue — it governs life outside the synagogue.

This is why Jewish prayer is so structured and formulaic. Not because God needs the words — but because we need them. The consistency shapes the person. The ritual reshapes the soul.

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A Revolutionary Idea

There was a TV series years ago called Rome. The actors were asked what was hardest to understand about Roman society. Their answer?
That religion and morality were totally disconnected.

You could be deeply religious — and morally corrupt — without contradiction.

The Torah comes to dismantle that worldview.

Judaism insists that religion without morality is meaningless — and morality without God lacks permanence.

That’s the revolution Pharaoh never saw coming.

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“I Was Fooled”

So when Pharaoh says, “Moshe fooled us,” he’s revealing more about himself than about Moshe.

He wasn’t tricked — he misunderstood.

He thought the Jews were leaving to perform a ritual.
In reality, they were leaving to become a people — with a new moral order, a new vision of humanity, and a new understanding of what it means to serve God.

That misunderstanding changed the course of history.

Something to think about.

The story of the crossing the Sea of Reeds (Red Sea) is the story of the Jewish people. We have to realize that in order to succeed we have to try. If we do not try, we will never succeed.

You Have to Step Into the Water

There’s a simple truth we all know from personal experience:
If you don’t try, you can’t succeed.
You may fail, sure—but without the attempt, success is literally impossible.

That idea sits at the heart of this week’s parashah.

The Jewish people have just left Egypt. Freedom is brand new, and already everything seems to go wrong. We find ourselves trapped at the Sea of Reeds. In front of us: water. Behind us: the Egyptian army charging full speed.

Panic sets in.

The Midrash tells us the people split into four camps:

• One group says, “Let’s go back to Egypt and be slaves again.”
• Another says, “Let’s fight the Egyptians.”
• A third says, “Let’s jump into the sea and end it all.”
• And Moshe turns to God in prayer.

God’s response is shocking:
“Why are you crying out to Me? Tell the people to move forward.”

In other words: Stop yelling. Start walking.

Only then does Nachshon ben Aminadav step forward. He enters the water. It rises—to his knees, his waist, his chest, up to his nose. And only then does the sea split.

The miracle does not come before the action.
It comes after the commitment.

God had already taken us out of Egypt. He had performed plagues, shattered an empire, and humiliated its gods. Now He asks one question:

What are you going to do to show Me you’re serious?

There’s an old joke about a deeply religious man who prays every day to win the lottery. Years pass. Finally, the angels ask God, “Why not let him win?” And God answers, “First, he has to buy a ticket.”

That’s the Sea of Reeds in a nutshell.

God doesn’t need us to perform mitzvot.
God doesn’t need our prayers.
We need them.

Our prayers are fixed and repetitive not because God needs to hear them said just right—but because we need to be shaped by them. Everything God commands us to do is for our benefit, not His.

Moshe makes this clear to the people:

• Going back to Egypt? Off the table.
• Fighting a professional army? Impossible.
• Suicide? Not an option—because there’s no future in it.

Judaism rejects the idea of sanctifying despair.

That’s why one of the most dangerous ideas ever spoken—especially during World War II—was the suggestion that Jews should commit suicide to awaken the world’s conscience. There is no redemption in self-destruction. Once you’re gone, the story is over.

Jews are not a people of victimhood.
Yes, terrible things have happened to us—but we do not live as victims.

Within three years of the Holocaust, the State of Israel was born. Jews fought, built, and created. We chose life and responsibility over despair.

That’s why the world pays attention to the Jewish people far beyond our numbers. We’re a fraction of a percent of humanity, yet our impact is outsized—because we don’t wallow. We act.

Like a quarterback who gets sacked: he gets up and runs the next play.

Standing at the Sea of Reeds, we didn’t wait to be rescued.
We stepped forward.

And that’s still our task today.

Individually and as a people, we make ourselves better not by waiting for miracles—but by walking into the water first.

Something to think about.

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