Disclaimer: A brief word before you begin: You may want to grab a cup of coffee—perhaps a large one. This week’s commentary runs a little longer than usual. As we close one year and prepare to enter another, the current state of our world compels us to look more closely at what the Torah teaches about times such as these. Its words felt too relevant and too important to hurry, and I felt compelled to speak out a little more than usual. The Torah has waited more than three thousand years to address this moment; the least we can do is give it a few extra minutes.

Opening Reflection — Stand Firm, Keep Moving

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The ground beneath us seems to be shifting faster than our institutions, alliances, and even our assumptions can keep pace. Each morning brings another headline suggesting that yesterday’s certainties may not survive until tomorrow. Nitzavim–Vayelech enters this unsettled week with two deceptively simple instructions.

Its two names contain the tension of our time. Nitzavim means standing firmly in place. Vayelech means moving forward.

Stand firm. Keep moving.

This is why Nitzavim–Vayelech is so important to us this week. Three thousand years ago, Moses spoke to a frightened people standing at the edge of an uncertain future. Their great leader was leaving them. Their enemies remained. The land ahead was filled with promise, danger, and responsibilities they did not yet fully understand.

We recognize that landscape because, in many ways, we are standing upon it again.

Israel faces enemies seeking its destruction while also confronting growing isolation from parts of the world that once understood its need for security. America is struggling to remember the shared principles that once held together people with very different political beliefs. Jewish students and educators increasingly wonder whether they can speak honestly about Israel—or even stand openly as Jews—without social, academic, or professional consequences. At the same time, many of us are asking whether the institutions and alliances we inherited will remain strong enough to protect the next generation.

This week’s Parsha Nitzavim–Vayelech speaks directly to this anxiety. It does not promise that uncertainty will disappear. It teaches us how to live faithfully within it.

Nitzavim tells us what must not move: our moral center, our covenant, our defense of life, our attachment to Israel, and our refusal to permit antisemitism to become acceptable again. Vayelech tells us what cannot remain frozen: our leadership, our institutions, our understanding of one another, and our willingness to repair what is broken.

Standing firm without moving forward becomes stubbornness. Moving forward without standing for anything becomes drift. Torah asks us to hold both truths at once: remain rooted enough to remember who we are, yet courageous enough to respond to the world as it is.

Moses did not promise the Israelites an easy road. He offered something far more enduring: a covenant, a choice, and the assurance that they would never walk alone. That is why words spoken more than three millennia ago make such extraordinary sense today. The weapons have changed, the borders have shifted, and the news now reaches us before wisdom has had time to put on its shoes. Yet the fundamental questions remain the same.

Who are we? What do we stand for? What must we defend? What must we change? And what will we leave for those who come after us?

Once again, missiles and military strikes have traveled in both directions across the Middle East. The United States recently struck Iranian targets on Larak Island; Iran answered with attacks against American bases in Jordan. The familiar vocabulary of retaliation has returned: response, deterrence, escalation, proportionality. Each side insists that its next strike will restore stability, although history has never been especially cooperative with that theory.

Israel remains surrounded by enemies who openly seek its destruction, yet it also faces a quieter and potentially more enduring danger: the gradual erosion of understanding among many of its traditional friends. In the United States, the relationship with Israel is changing. What was once a broadly shared national commitment is becoming another partisan loyalty test, another argument conducted through slogans, social media, and television panels where everyone speaks and remarkably few listen.

The change is particularly visible among younger Americans, some of whom know Israel only through images of war stripped of history and context. They see the smoke but not always the fire that preceded it; the response but not the attack; the soldier but not the family waiting in a shelter.

This growing divide is now entering our colleges, classrooms, teachers’ unions, and even the language used to determine which Jews are worthy of acceptance.

The recent ADL Campus Alert offers disturbing examples. Jewish educators report censoring themselves out of fear of professional consequences. Courses present disputed accusations against Israel as settled fact. Jewish students report harassment, physical intimidation, graffiti, and the disruption of their classes. At one California university, a complaint alleges that a school official distinguished between “good Jews” and “bad Jews” according to their views about Israel.

Apparently, after three thousand years, someone has once again appointed a committee to decide which Jews are acceptable. We were not consulted.

Criticism of Israeli policies is legitimate and often necessary. Israel is a democracy, and Israelis themselves have transformed political disagreement into something approaching a national sport. But criticism becomes something else when Jews are required to denounce Israel as the price of admission to a classroom, profession, social circle, or political movement.

Nitzavim–Vayelech reminds us that the answer to such a moment is neither retreat nor despair. We stand together, renew the covenant, choose life, and move forward.

A Synopsis of Nitzavim–Vayelech

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Nitzavim opens with one of the Torah’s most inclusive declarations:

          “You stand this day, all of you, before the Lord your G-d.”

Not merely the leaders, elders, priests, or scholars. Everyone stands within the covenant—the heads of the tribes, the children, the strangers, and even those whose daily work was to cut wood and draw water.

No one is spiritually expendable. No one is too prominent to be accountable, and no one is too ordinary to matter.

Moses warns that abandoning the covenant will bring hardship and exile. Yet the Torah does not leave us in despair. It promises that return is always possible. Even after failure, dispersion, and sorrow, G-d will gather the people and restore them.

Moses then tells us that the Torah is not beyond human reach:

          “It is not in heaven… Neither is it beyond the sea… The word is very near to you, in your mouth and in your             heart, that you may do it.”

We do not need to climb into heaven or cross an ocean to discover what G-d expects of us. We already know more than we sometimes pretend to know. The difficulty is rarely finding the right path. It is choosing it when another path appears easier, more popular, or more politically convenient.

The portion reaches its moral center when Moses places before the people life and death, blessing and curse, and commands:

          “Choose life, so that you and your children may live.”

Vayelech begins with Moses walking toward the final days of his life. At 120 years old, he transfers leadership to Joshua and tells both Joshua and the people to be strong and courageous. Moses understands that institutions, nations, and faiths cannot survive if they depend upon one personality, however gifted that person may be.

He commands that the Torah be read publicly at regular intervals before the entire nation. This gathering, known as Hakhel, was a ceremony of collective renewal. The covenant was not merely to be inherited. It had to be heard again, taught again, questioned again, and chosen again.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks described these final commandments as the Torah’s secret of immortality. Moses could not live forever, but he could teach the people how a civilization might remain young: by periodically remembering who it is, where it came from, and why it exists.

The Torah has survived for more than three thousand years not because the world has remained unchanged, but because human nature has.

We still struggle with power, fear, anger, loyalty, ambition, memory, and hope. Our missiles travel faster, our news arrives instantly, and our arguments now include emojis, but the human heart remains remarkably recognizable.

What This Means for Israel

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For Israel, Nitzavim begins with unity: “You stand this day, all of you.”

Not some of you. Not only those who voted as we did, pray as we do, or interpret Zionism through our particular political lens. All of you.

Israel must stand firmly against Iran, Hezbollah, Hamas, and every force that seeks its destruction. A nation has not only the right but the sacred obligation to protect its citizens. No moral society can ask parents to place their children in shelters indefinitely while reassuring them that restraint will eventually impress people who have already decided to misunderstand them.

Yet military strength alone cannot sustain Israel. Israel must also preserve the moral covenant that distinguishes the Jewish state from those who glorify death. “Choose life” is not a slogan of weakness. It is the most demanding form of strength.

Choosing life means defending Israelis without becoming indifferent to the lives of innocents. It means confronting terrorism while refusing to allow extremists—whether religious, political, or ideological—to define the Jewish character of the nation. It means acknowledging that security and morality are not competing responsibilities. Each depends upon the other.

Israel must also understand why parts of the American public are becoming distant. Some criticism grows from legitimate concern about Israeli policies. Some comes from incomplete knowledge. Some comes from highly selective teaching. And some is simply the oldest hatred wearing a university sweatshirt.

Israel cannot respond to every criticism as though it were antisemitism. Nor can America pretend that antisemitism has disappeared simply because it now borrows the language of human rights. Wisdom requires us to recognize both truths at once.

The covenant demands courage and humility: the courage to defend the nation and the humility to examine how that defense is conducted.

Israel is not simply another country navigating a dangerous neighborhood. It carries an ancient promise and an ancient burden—to demonstrate that power can be restrained by justice, sovereignty by holiness, and victory by humanity.

What This Means for the United States

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America, too, is a covenantal nation. Its founding documents are not sacred scripture, but they speak the language of moral responsibility, equality, liberty, and obligations extending beyond a single generation.

Our presidential inaugurations, national commemorations, and peaceful transfers of power have traditionally served as a kind of American Hakhel: occasions when we gather, remember the principles that bind us, and renew our national covenant.

Lately, however, we seem more interested in rehearsing our grievances than renewing our commitments. We divide ourselves into increasingly narrow tribes and then appear surprised when national unity becomes difficult. We have mistaken volume for conviction, outrage for courage, and social-media approval for moral authority.

The changing relationship between the United States and Israel is part of this larger drift. Americans have every right to question Israeli policies, just as Israelis question them—often loudly, vigorously, and with hand gestures that require no translation. But there is a profound difference between criticizing a government and denying a people’s history, safety, or right to national existence.

The examples described in the ADL Campus Alert demonstrate what happens when that distinction is lost.

At Macalester College, the outline for a course titled “Palestine” reportedly presents highly disputed claims about Israel as established fact and assigns writings by an author accused of invoking antisemitic themes. The concern is not that students are learning about Palestinian history or suffering; they should. The concern is whether a classroom intended for inquiry has become a place where conclusions are provided before the questions are asked.

The Torah tells us that its words are “very near to you, in your mouth and in your heart.” That does not mean education should tell students what to think. It means education should teach them how to think morally, honestly, and with enough humility to recognize that history rarely fits comfortably on a protest sign.

The newsletter also reports that 70 percent of the Jewish K–12 union members surveyed feared professional consequences for speaking about the treatment of Jews. If Jewish teachers believe that identifying antisemitism may endanger their careers, then silence has become the cost of professional acceptance.

Nitzavim rejects that bargain. “You stand this day, all of you.” The covenant does not divide Jews into the agreeable and disagreeable, the politically useful and politically inconvenient, the “good” and the “bad.” Every Jew stands within it.

At San José State University and San Francisco State University, federal investigations have opened into allegations that include physical attacks, disrupted classes, hostile conduct, graffiti reading “Kill all Jews,” and attempted break-ins targeting Jewish students. An investigation is not a finding of guilt, and fairness requires us to say so. But fairness also requires that allegations of this seriousness be examined rather than dismissed as political discomfort.

There are encouraging examples as well. Queens College, Baruch College, Brooklyn College, Rockland Community College, and New York University reportedly improved their campus environments through clearer policies, cultural changes, and deliberate efforts to protect Jewish students. Clark University has begun training administrators and mental-health professionals to understand how antisemitism affects Jewish students.

That, too, is Nitzavim–Vayelech.

The Torah does not assume that individuals or institutions will never fail. It teaches that we can recognize failure, return to our values, and begin again. Repentance is not merely saying that we are sorry. It is changing what we do next.

The United States must confront antisemitism from every direction. On the far right, it appears through conspiracy theories, racial nationalism, and ancient accusations dressed in modern clothing. On the far left, it sometimes hides behind rhetoric that holds every Jew responsible for Israel while granting every other group the dignity of individual identity.

Hatred does not become enlightened because it learns new vocabulary.

American democracy will not endure because the founders wrote eloquently 250 years ago. It will endure only if each generation renews the covenant and embraces their central insight: human beings are imperfect, power must be divided, rights must be protected, and citizenship carries duties as well as privileges.

What This Means for Ocean Reef

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At Ocean Reef, the troubles of the world can sometimes feel distant. The water remains beautiful. The palm trees continue their quiet ministry. Golf balls still disappear with an enthusiasm suggesting they have somewhere else to be.

Yet no community is truly separate from the world around it.

Many of us have children, grandchildren, and friends attending or teaching at American universities. When Jewish students feel compelled to hide a Star of David, avoid discussing Israel, or remain silent when classmates repeat ancient accusations, this is not someone else’s problem. They are our children. They are part of the “all of you” standing before Moses.

The ADL newsletter tells the story of Jennifer Locane, who returned to George Washington University more than 20 years after receiving her undergraduate degree and found a profoundly different environment for Jewish students. She concluded that gratitude for the campus she once knew carried with it a responsibility to protect the students experiencing what it had become.

That is precisely the moral movement of Vayelech. Memory must lead to action. It is not enough to fondly remember the institutions, freedoms, and Jewish life we inherited. We must help preserve them for those arriving after us.

Our Chapel offers something increasingly rare: four distinct congregations worshipping under one roof, each faithful to its own tradition while respecting the sacred path of the others. We do not surrender our differences. We bring them into relationship.

That is covenant.

At Ocean Reef, we can model what much of the world has forgotten: unity does not require uniformity. Jews and Christians can stand together without diminishing either faith. Political disagreement need not become personal hostility. Strength and kindness can occupy the same heart.

We can also use our experience, influence, philanthropy, and voices to support the universities and institutions that are courageously making needed changes. We can ask difficult questions of the schools our families attend and the organizations we support. We can ensure that Jewish students know they do not stand alone.

Most importantly, we can bring holiness beyond the walls of the Chapel—into our homes, meetings, friendships, charitable work, and even our disagreements. That is where Torah must live if it is to remain more than beautiful words resting in an ark.

Final Reflection — Stand Firm, Keep Moving

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Nitzavim–Vayelech does not ask us to choose between standing firm and moving forward. It asks us to do both.

We stand firm in our covenant, our values, our defense of Israel, our rejection of antisemitism, and our belief in the dignity of every human being.

Then we move forward—toward reconciliation where possible, accountability where necessary, and renewal everywhere.

Moses stood at the end of his journey, knowing he would not enter the Promised Land. He might understandably have spent his final days considering the unfairness of it all. After forty years of wandering, complaining, rebellion, manna, more complaining, and meetings that make our committee gatherings appear remarkably efficient, he would not cross the Jordan.

Yet Moses did not spend his final days nursing disappointment. He taught. He blessed. He prepared Joshua. He gathered the people. He placed the Torah into their hands and the future into their care.

That may be his final and greatest lesson.

We do not control whether we complete every journey. We control what we leave behind for those who continue it.

At sundown on September 11, we will welcome the Jewish New Year of 5787. Rosh Hashanah is not merely the turning of a calendar page. It is a sacred pause—a time to examine the lives we have lived, the choices we have made, and the difference we might make in the year ahead.

It asks each of us: What can I do to repair our world? How can I help another person? How can I strengthen my congregation and community? What role can I play in turning back the rising tide of antisemitism?

These are no longer questions we can assign to someone else.

I was born into an era of growing Jewish acceptance in America. It was a hopeful period when Jews increasingly found their place in every part of American life. Judaism was generally not regarded with scorn or mistrust, and Jewish citizens were not routinely asked to prove that their loyalty to America was compatible with their love for Israel.

We came to believe that this acceptance represented a permanent advance in American life. Perhaps we grew too comfortable. Perhaps we mistook a season for an enduring climate.

That cycle appears to be closing.

Ancient suspicions have returned wearing contemporary language. Conspiracy theories once pushed to society’s margins are again entering public conversation. Jewish students are pressured to conceal or condemn parts of their identity. Israel is judged by standards rarely applied to other nations, while Jews everywhere are held responsible for decisions made by an Israeli government they did not elect and do not control.

We should not respond with panic, but neither can we afford passivity. History has taught us that hatred rarely retreats on its own. It advances when good people remain silent, when institutions choose convenience over courage, and when falsehoods are repeated so frequently that they begin to sound like accepted truth.

It now falls upon us to become more active than we have been in many years. We must speak collectively, educate patiently, challenge false narratives, support Jewish students and teachers, strengthen our congregations, and stand beside those institutions courageous enough to defend truth and human dignity.

The danger extends beyond the Jewish people. The same false narratives and extremist ideologies that threaten Jews also threaten the democratic and Judeo-Christian values upon which Western civilization rests. Antisemitism has always been more than hatred directed at Jews. It is a warning light on the dashboard of civilization. When it begins to flash, the entire society is already in danger.

Our response must therefore be larger than self-protection. We must defend the principles that make pluralistic democracy possible: religious liberty, honest inquiry, equal citizenship, respect for human life, and the right of people to live openly in their faith without intimidation or fear.

The approaching New Year offers us the opportunity to renew that covenant. We may not reverse the tide of hatred in a single year, but we can refuse to be carried along by it. We can teach the next generation to recognize hatred, answer falsehood with truth, resist fear, and remain proudly rooted in who they are.

The world before us is uncertain, but uncertainty is not the same as hopelessness. The Torah does not promise that history will move in a straight line. It promises that return is always possible, renewal is always available, and the path of life remains open.

The covenant still calls across three thousand years—not from heaven, not from beyond the sea, but from very near: from our mouths, our hearts, our classrooms, our campuses, our congregations, and the choices we make each day.

As the New Year approaches, may we ask not merely what the coming year will bring, but what we will bring to it.

Stand firm. Keep moving. Choose life.

A Prayer for Strength, Wisdom, and Renewal

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Eternal G-d, as we stand at the threshold of a new year, help us remember who we are and whose covenant we carry.

Grant strength to the people of Israel, protection to all who defend the innocent, comfort to those who mourn, and healing to those wounded in body or spirit.

Guide the leaders of Israel and the United States with wisdom, humility, courage, and restraint. Help them choose the path that preserves life, advances justice, and leaves room for peace.

Watch over Jewish students, teachers, and families. Give them the courage to stand proudly in their identity and the assurance that they never stand alone. Guide our schools and universities to become places of honest inquiry, intellectual courage, and respect for every student.

Protect our communities from hatred and fear. Give us the strength to confront antisemitism wherever it appears and the wisdom never to answer hatred with hatred.

Bless our Ocean Reef community. May our Chapel remain a home of faith, friendship, understanding, and unity. Teach us to carry its holiness beyond its walls and into every part of our lives.

When the road ahead is uncertain, help us stand firmly in our values. When fear tempts us to remain frozen, give us the courage to move forward. When anger narrows our vision, open our hearts to hope.

Renew our days. Strengthen our covenant. Help us choose life—for ourselves, for our children, and for generations yet to come.

Amen.

Shabbat Shalom

Michael L. Weiss, Ph.D., HCCP

President, Congregation Ocean Reef