Va-era D'var by taylor silverman

In this week’s parsha, Va’era, we have the famous promise from God: “Say, therefore, to the Israelite people: I am HaShem. I will free you from the labors of the Egyptians and deliver you from their bondage. I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and through extraordinary chastisements. And I will take you to be My people, and I will be your God. And you shall know that I, the Eternal One, am your God who freed you from the labors of the Egyptians.” It’s as if God is saying we aren’t promised a life without hardship, but that we will always get through it somehow.
When Moses told this to the Israelites, they would not listen to Moses, their spirits crushed by cruel bondage. The Israelites were so consumed by the darkness and hardship that they couldn’t see the light at the end. The TLDR of this, if you want to get out of Egypt, you are going to have to confront your limiting beliefs.
Rabbi asked me if I wanted to lead this week’s parsha, and as I read the teachings, I thought how ironic—as even I, someone who has worked in the Jewish community for 10+ years, still gets nervous to share my Torah. “Will I say it correctly? Will it be thoughtful enough? Do I have anything new to even add?” And then I caught myself—this is exactly what the parsha is trying to preach. And we all need mentors, even us “grown-ups,” need mentors who remind us that we can do hard, uncomfortable things.
This past winter break, I had the privilege of going to Israel for the first time since 10/7. To share vulnerably, I was scared. For the past two years, I have been so busy responding to protests, social media statements, and safety concerns that I haven’t yet paused. In reality, I think  I was scared to. The “noise” of it all was a distraction from my own processing—something that, as a giver and doer, I’d much rather focus on others’ needs than confront my own.
And so, a few weeks ago, I found myself in the LAX airport with my husband, awaiting to board our flight. Anxiety, excitement, nervousness, comfort—all swirled in my brain. We landed at Ben Gurion, and we both took a collective pause and a deep breath. We made it. It was a shehecheyanu moment—the first time we ever went together and the first time I’d come back since 10/7.
In near-perfect parallel to this week’s parsha, I saw firsthand how, somehow, after all the heartbreak, loss, and tragedy, life had continued on. The shuks buzzed before Shabbat, the beach had surfers and soft beach music playing on the shore, the bars vibrated with DJs and dancing.
After my week with my husband, I continued on to a professional development trip through Hillel International, entitled “Sipurim,” or “stories.” The trip was a testament to the collective strength of Israel and our Jewish peoplehood. Story after story of loss and grief. Parents who lost children. Children who lost parents. Spouses who lost spouses. I wouldn’t be transparent if I didn’t say that at a certain point, you couldn’t listen anymore.
However, I started to notice an emerging thread. Despite the grief and the pain, people still held hope. They believe that this truly horrific period will too shall pass, and some day, it will be of distant memory.
Viktor Frankl, a Holocaust survivor and psychotherapist, and the writer of Man’s Search for Meaning, reminds us that while we can’t control what happens, we can control how we respond—and that response becomes our story. Despite life’s greatest adversities, Frankl states that “those who have a why to live, can bear almost any how.”
On our first day, we had the honor of meeting Jon and Rachel Goldberg Polin (Hersh Polin’s parents—Hersh was murdered in Gaza). One line from them has stayed with me: “To be miserable and hopeful is mandatory in the Jewish peoplehood. We must believe there is light through the darkness.” After losing their most precious light, Rachel and Jon somehow still continue on. They went on to add “We don’t want revenge. Or imprisonment. Nothing will bring Hersh back. We just want the government to take accountability, to say, ‘we failed.’” That’s just one story of the dozens we heard along the journey.
I still can’t comprehend the devastation that struck Israel and reverberated into the Jewish diaspora. I don’t know if, as humans, we can ever comprehend it. But I can say for certain—adversity has always been part of the Jewish experience. It is our duty to carry the weight of our ancestors’ history, and yes, while it may be heavy at times, I see it as a unique privilege to carry that memory through.
And as for lives here and now, I want to encourage you to think about the stories you tell yourself. What may be holding you back? What is that narrative you’ve held onto for years that is no longer serving you? As I mentioned, the nervousness of sharing my Torah is definitely one for me, and my math capabilities (that one I still cannot kick). But I think that’s what is so special about our Hillel community. You can come as you are, baggage and all. You can try on new skillsets, new mindsets, new friends —and no one is going to judge you.
I can’t promise you a journey without hardship, but I can promise you that I, and the rest of the staff, will be here walking alongside you every step of the way during your time here.