Captive in an Egyptian prison, Joseph’s ability to interpret dreams became the key to his freedom. What dreams did Joseph have during those long, uncertain years of captivity? Will dreams sustain those held in chains of oppression or illness today?

וַיְהִ֕י מִקֵּ֖ץ שְׁנָתַ֣יִם יָמִ֑ים וּפַרְעֹ֣ה חֹלֵ֔ם וְהִנֵּ֖ה עֹמֵ֥ד עַל־הַיְאֹֽר׃

Parshat Miketz begins; “After two years, Pharaoh dreamed he was standing by the Nile.”

Joseph interpreted Pharaoh’s dreams, predicting seven years of abundance followed by seven years of famine. Impressed by his wisdom, Pharaoh elevated Joseph to a high position, entrusting him to oversee a plan that would save Egypt. Remarkably, Pharaoh placed his faith in an enslaved Hebrew with nothing more than a reputation for understanding dreams.

While Joseph rose to prominence, we must not forget the years he spent languishing in prison. The Torah notes that God was with Joseph during this time, yet the pain of his incarceration cannot be overlooked. What dreams sustained him? How did God bring him comfort in his darkest moments? The text raises unanswered questions about Joseph’s mental and emotional state—questions that resonate even today.

This episode brings to my mind two thoughts. The first is of the 100 or more captives currently held in Gaza. What dreams sustain them in their captivity? What comfort do they cling to? I think of the unimaginable mental health challenges they endure—loneliness, claustrophobia, anxiety, degredation, and heartbreak. What will it take to secure their release? What skills, actions, and faith must we muster?

This reflection extends beyond physical captivity. Many today feel imprisoned by illness, disability, or the limitations of aging. These challenges have been a focus of my life’s work. And now, my own mother is facing physical incapacity and has no hope of full recovery and relies on oxycodone for comfort. For people facing these struggles, life can resemble captivity. What dreams give them hope? What comfort best helps them persevere? When might they just give up?

If empathy for the imprisoned still feels distant, consider this: You, too, might face some form of captivity in your lifetime—whether it’s short-lived or prolonged. (Remember the Covid epidemic?) It might come in the form of illness, loss of freedom, or confinement to a circumstance beyond your control. To prepare for that moment, you can begin by advocating for those already captive—whether they are prisoners of terror, illness, or circumstance. Concrete actions that demonstrate your concern send a powerful message to the world: This is how we wish to be treated in our own moments of vulnerability. We care about each person held captive, whatever the nature of the prison. Advocate for patients’ rights, prison reform, or rail against the laggard Government of Israel what has not follow the Torah that demands we prioritize the safe return of captives.

What will your dreams be if you ever lose freedom of movement or choice? Now is the time to dream boldly about the world you value most and take action to secure those rights—not just for yourself, but for everyone around you.

The story of Joseph offers a dramatic arc: a young man thrown into a pit, held in prison, and ultimately elevated to the heights of Egyptian power. Its happy ending lifts us up. But today, I find myself grappling with endings that feel far from happy. I wrestle with the reality of imprisonment—whether it’s within a prison cell or within the confines of our imperfect bodies.

Without the certainty that God will bring me comfort or that a fairy-tale ending awaits, I turn to you. I seek solidarity, I invite action, and I dream of a day when all forms of captivity will dissolve—like a bad dream finally giving way to the morning light.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

When getting a haircut recently, I shared my stress about the current state of our country, especially the radical elements. Post-election, the news has me worrying about my family’s well-being. Between snips, my stylist advised me to tune out the distressing headlines. “Just ignore it,” he said with a dismissive shrug. But his advice struck me as misguided. Ignoring the threatening elements of our nation feels dangerous, especially for vulnerable communities; Jews, Trans people, Blacks, and others. Willful ignorance enables hatred and emboldens vigilantes. Rather than withdraw, I want to face these anxieties with a plan.

This brings to mind a story from the Torah. When Jacob returns to Canaan after years away, he knows he must face his brother Esau, who once threatened to kill him. Jacob is understandably consumed by fear and anxiety: “Jacob was very afraid and distressed” (וַיִירָא יֲעֲקֹב מְאָד וַיֵצֶר לֹוֹ).

But Jacob does not allow his fear to paralyze him. Instead, he devises a plan. He divides his family, flocks, and herds into two camps, reasoning that if Esau attacks one, the other might escape. Later that evening, alone and wrestling with an angel, Jacob emerges from the encounter transformed, though he carries a limp as a reminder of the struggle.

The reunion between Jacob and Esau unfolds surprisingly peacefully. Esau embraces Jacob, seemingly letting go of his anger. Yet Jacob remains cautious, politely declining Esau’s invitation to live together and instead choosing a separate path. Though Esau’s intentions appear genuine, Jacob’s anxiety persists—a testament to how fear, whether real or imagined, shapes our perceptions and decisions.

Jacob’s story resonates deeply in today’s climate. His fear of Esau, rooted in past threats, mirrors the psychological insecurity many of us feel in uncertain times. For me, this insecurity stems from doubts about the dependability of my fellow “radicalized” Americans. Remember the shooting at the Tree of Life in Pittsburgh or the demonstrations in Charlottesville or the encampment at Columbia University? History reminds us to stay vigilant. Anti-Semitism has long existed in this country, and while we have not experienced something as catastrophic as Kristallnacht, recent surges in hate crimes and extremist rhetoric are alarming.

In times of heightened tension, comfort and security come from preparedness. Jacob’s response to his fear is instructive: he acknowledges his anxiety, devises a strategy, and takes steps to protect his family and resources. Ignoring one’s fears—as my stylist suggested—is not a viable solution for building safety or resilience.

Some may dismiss such caution as overreaction. After all, our nation has weathered storms of division before. Yet, insecurity is not purely rational; it’s an emotional response informed by history and the temperature of the times. For those of us in vulnerable communities, the stakes feel too high to simply “tune out” and hope for the best.

Like Jacob, I grapple with how to balance engagement with self-preservation. I want to be a cordial neighbor while maintaining vigilance and boundaries. For some, this might mean considering extreme measures like moving assets abroad or seeking refuge in another country. Others may find solace in local community-building or advocacy work. That is where I devote my energies. The paths vary, but the need for a plan remains constant.

Jacob’s story reminds us that fear can constrict our sense of judgment but also sharpen our instincts. His example encourages us to channel our anxieties into thoughtful preparation. In the face of uncertainty, we are called to protect what we value most while striving to create conditions for a safer, more equitable future.

Evan J. Krame, Rabbi

Molly Ivins famously observed, “The first rule of holes is, when you’re in one, stop digging.” Thomas Friedman added, “When you’re in three, bring a lot of shovels.” Reflecting on the story of Isaac in Genesis, I’m inclined to think Friedman was channeling the Torah.

Isaac faced adversarial neighbors who sought to undermine his survival. The Philistines stopped up the wells that his father, Abraham, had dug. In a harsh, arid landscape, obstructing a water source isn’t just an inconvenience; it’s an existential threat.

“Isaac dug anew the wells which had been dug in the days of his father Abraham and which the Philistines had stopped up after Abraham’s death, and he gave them the same names that his father had given them.” (Genesis 26:18)

Isaac’s actions were not about innovation but continuity. He wasn’t trying to build something new; he was restoring what had been lost. By redigging the wells, Isaac extended his father’s legacy and sustained his family and community.

In the Torah, wells represent more than just a source of water—they symbolize connection and gathering. Rebecca met Abraham’s servant at a well, Tzipporah encountered Moses at a well, and throughout Jewish tradition, wells are places of critical encounters and shared purpose.

Today, Isaac’s determination to reopen his father’s wells challenges us to reflect on the legacies we want to protect. Many of these legacies are at risk:

The legacy of Jewish comfort in America is being stopped up by rising anti-Semitism.
Doubts about our voting systems are threatening the foundation of our democracy.
Caring communities are dissolving as we retreat into online shopping, social media trolling, and TikTok distraction.

Isaac teaches us that there is a time for innovation and a time for restoration. Reopening the wells of our fathers—those symbolic fonts of civility, freedom, and connection—has never been more vital. Without them, the sources that sustain our society may collapse under the weight of discord, subjugation, and disconnection.

I offer an example.  I have devoted myself to fostering relationships with our African American neighbors in Maryland. Some question the value of these efforts. Alliances between Jewish Americans and other minority groups have frayed. After decades of interfaith work, skeptics point out that some allies have failed to support Jewish Americans in their concerns about Israel and the fight against anti-Semitism. But as I reflect on both the Torah and Tom Friedman’s advice, I believe this is precisely the moment to bring more shovels to the task. Relationships between groups is not a one time dig, but an ongoing process that requires opening and reopening.

Isaac’s story reminds us that progress is not always about creating something new. Sometimes, it’s about preserving and restoring the essential foundations that sustain life and community. In a world increasingly fragmented, reopening these wells of connection and understanding is not just a choice—it’s a necessity.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

After a vitriolic election, we should reflect on the issues motivating the electorate. Candidates appealed to voters with positions on economic reforms, immigration policy, and women’s rights. For Jews, I believe the most pressing issue was the sanctity of life. As democracy’s hallmarks guarantee safety for citizens, Jews supported defenders of democracy, would-be protectors of our lives and all human life.

Whenever Jews began to feel a semblance of comfort in a country, we were often jolted back to our foundational concern: the sanctity of life. Our sages advocated that life is sacred. However, the theological origins of that advocacy began in a dialogue between Abraham and God.

In Parshat Vayera, God reveals His intention to destroy the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah due to their pervasive evil. In a striking act of moral advocacy, Abraham argues for their salvation. Abraham understands life is sacred, exercising the democratic right of free speech to challenge God.

Abraham, an unpretentious shepherd, implored God to spare the cities even if there were only ten righteous people. In the face of overwhelming evil, Abraham’s passionate plea illustrated the sanctity of life and the responsibility to protect the innocent. Ten righteous souls were not found, yet Lot’s family was saved. The angels rescued Lot and his family, demonstrating that, even if only for a very few people, saving life is imperative. Just as God holds evil actors accountable, we advocate that innocent persons not be swept away too.

Protecting life reverberates throughout contemporary political discourse. Recognizing that Jewish lives have often been devalued in our history, we stand as witnesses to the importance of protecting life. Accordingly, today’s rabbinic voices echo Abraham’s advocacy, even extending it beyond our community to encompass all humanity. When the world acknowledges the sacredness of all life, Jews will also find safety. This hope underpins our historic commitment to human rights, rooted in the Torah, and reshaped into the framework of democracy.

Democratic values honor individuals as worthy of respect and protection. By championing these values, we transform freedoms from mere legal constructs into moral imperatives. For instance, the right to free speech is a cornerstone of our advocacy. After all, if Abraham could challenge the Almighty, then shouldn’t we have the right to express ourselves freely? Yet, the Torah also teaches that every moral principle has its limits.

The exchange between God and Abraham illustrates competing values can lead to complex moral dilemmas. God brings justice to the world, while Abraham channels temperance to protect the innocent.

Ultimately, all moral values encounter competing ethical considerations. For example, while we cherish free speech, we also condemn incitement to violence.

Today, the Jewish psyche grapples with existential challenges in American politics. Inflammatory rhetoric and incitement to violence threaten to undermine our democratic principles. The current discourse, marked by intimidation and incitement against political opponents, resonates deeply in our historical experience. Jews know that incendiary language can escalate into horrific realities. As we risk being victims to passions untethered to morality, our commitment to democracy must prevail.

To be Jewish in the legacy of Abraham is to advocate for life, to protect the innocent, to empower the vulnerable, and to defend the threatened. Our mission as Jews is to confront those in power just as Abraham did with God. That advocacy must propel the core principles of the Jewish faith: pursuing peace, respecting people, and protecting life. Democratic principles underscoring these Jewish values, began with Abraham’s advocacy.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

Stories of your childhood might include misadventures and outbursts. Every child acts up or acts out. Learning to respond to life’s challenges fosters our maturity. Frustration, anger, or disbelief will rile us our entire lives. Mature adults learn to control their impetuous or immature reactions. The Torah teaches us to live with maturity, repair, and morality.

The narrative of Genesis presents a complex view of God, revealing a Creator infused with childlike wonder and reactivity. God created the world and declared, “This is good.” Yet, as soon as there is a misadventure, God metes out justice. Because Adam and Eve disobeyed God’s rules, God banished them from paradise.

For a while, God seems pleased enough. Upon observing rampant corruption, God upended the gameboard, sparing Noah, his family, and animal representatives. In restoring order to the world, God set a rainbow in the sky, as a promise never to destroy the earth again.

Examining these stories, I first found a God created in the image of humans. God ventured on a journey of growth, models the maturing process for us. Yet, that is a simple and pediatric view of God framed by human impetuosity.  The mature observer sees design behind a seemingly impulsive source of Creation.

Consider the expulsion from Eden: without it, humanity as we know it might not exist. This event triggered a series of transformations that populated the world.

But what of a God who destroys life, sparing only a select few? If viewed merely as a myth, this story might serve as a cautionary tale about the consequences of corrupt behavior. Alternatively, a dogmatic interpretation could portray a harsh, omnipotent Creator to be feared. Yet the flood narrative offers an instructive, profound theology of mistakes and redemption.

I do not adhere to a literal understanding of the flood; instead, I am drawn to the deeper meaning of moral and emotional evolution. The flood story reminds us that corruption is deserving of consequences. But the Judge, should mete out appropriate punishment. Even the Judge can reconsider the impact of a ruling. God did it.

We can commit to personal growth, cultivate morality, and repair damage we caused, even if in the name of justice or righteousness. That is why God models flawed behavior, not perfect behavior, so that we can know that to emulate God is to be on a path of growth and maturity.

With every storm, there is the promise of a rainbow, symbolizing hope for the future born of the possibility that, like God, we can improve.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame