Shabbat Shalom, everyone.

This past weekend, we were blessed to have multiple opportunities to sing and dance with Nefesh Mountain. A big thank you again to the Zipser Foundation and to the Peter and Clara Weisberg Concert Fund for allowing us such an incredible weekend. On Saturday night, we had a beautiful concert with dinner and Havdalah, and on Sunday morning, we came back together in the sanctuary to sing before heading to a big, beautiful brunch. The whole weekend was filled with smiling faces, music, happiness, and joy—it was wonderful. Truly wonderful. But the most important moment of the entire weekend could easily be overshadowed by those big successes.

I don’t want to let that happen because this is really important. On Shabbat morning, about 20 of us gathered in the library with Donnie and Eric and their three-year-old daughter, Willow. We listened to them play for a little bit, we sang together—but more importantly, we all sat around and talked. We talked about our loves, our fears, our blessings, the things we’re thankful for.

And then, we used those blessings to shape the music that came next. The result was some of our kids—not a ton, maybe 12 to 15—coming together on Shabbat to talk about their Judaism, to give voice to their Judaism, and to express their Judaism through music. It was really special. And I’m not being hyperbolic when I say that in the library, in the Beit Midrash, in just that short time, for one hour, there wasn’t a single dry eye.

Now, this may seem like a pretty self-evident and unnecessary reflection on the morning. “Yeah, Rabbi, darling, great. I’m glad you had fun and sang some songs.” But this is so much more than that, and I want to stress this morning why that is.

Our parsha this morning—here comes a very profound statement, get ready—our parsha this morning is wacky. It’s a wacky parsha. It’s one of my favorite Torah portions because it is jam-packed with difficult and controversial theology. It’s all over the place. But one moment in the narrative of the story is actually pretty clear, which is remarkable because clarity is not something our textual analysis is usually used to. But that’s what we have here. So if you turn with me to Exodus, chapter 10, starting with verse 7,

We are going to be on page 375.

The text reads as follows: Pharaoh’s courtiers said to him, “How long shall this one be a snare to us? Let the men go to worship the Lord their God. Are you not yet aware that Egypt is lost?” So Moses and Aaron were brought back to Pharaoh, and he said to them, “Go, worship the Lord your God. Who are the ones to go?” Moses replied, “We will all go—young and old. We will go with our sons and our daughters, our flocks and herds, for we must observe the Lord’s festival.” But Pharaoh said to them, “The Lord be with you the same as I mean to let your children go with you. Clearly, you are bent on mischief. No, you menfolk go and worship the Lord since that is what you want.” And they were expelled from Pharaoh’s presence.

Up until now in the story, Moshe and Aharon have approached Pharaoh, demanding that the Israelites be free to leave Egypt to serve God. Pharaoh has said no—complicated theology here, that’s for another time (the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart)—but he says no. Now, after seven plagues, here we are, and Pharaoh is beginning to capitulate. His courtiers say, “Let them go! Can’t you see what’s happening here?” And Pharaoh says, “Okay, you’re right.”

But when he acquiesces, he asks, “Okay, which Israelites are you bringing with you?” Assuming that Moshe and Aharon only want the adult men—probably not even the adult women, just the men—as this is supposed to be related to ritualized religious worship. But Moshe says, “All of us.” And he stresses one group in particular—not “our anew,” but our children, our young ones, our sons and our daughters.

When Pharaoh hears this, he loses his mind. He is filled with rage because both Moshe and Pharaoh know what this means. They both know what it represents. Children are the future. To Pharaoh, they represent the continuation of Hebrew servitude. To Moshe, they represent the future of the Jewish people.

But to both, they are the non-negotiable centerpiece of the Exodus story. And that is the heart of it all. A truth reaffirmed with the tenth and final plague—a plague that specifically targets children, the firstborn, the future. Now, I have a lot to say about that final plague, but again, that’s a conversation for another day. What is relevant to our conversation this morning, however, is what happens next.

Because it is the final blow to Pharaoh and the Egyptians that allows the Exodus to begin—a departure from foreign servitude, where our ancestors walk together toward the promise of a new and shared future. And marching alongside them, hand in hand, are the children. And this part is important because, as we’ll read next week, the climax of the story takes place right here, right now. There’s a whole other story after this, but this story—the story of the Exodus—peaks at a very particular moment. It peaks not with the miracle of the sea parting, not with the death and defeat of the pursuing Egyptians.

It peaks with a song.

There’s a lot of commentary and midrash on how this song begins—with Miriam and the women, with the angels, and with Kiyota Kodesh. But my favorite midrash is the midrash known as the 1998 DreamWorks classic The Prince of Egypt.

Because in this midrash, in this movie, one little girl begins to sing. She has this cute little kid voice and she starts singing:

Ashira l’Adonai shir ga’oh ga’ah
Ashira l’Adonai ki ga’oh ga’ah
Mi chamocha, ba’elim Adonai
Mi chamocha, nedar bakodesh

And then, all the other little kids start singing along. It gets louder and louder and louder. And that little girl’s melody is picked up by the other children, and then the adults start joining in. That’s my midrash. That’s the midrash that I love.

But regardless of the details, the takeaway is consistent. The future of who we are comes through the song that weaves throughout generations. It is the song of who we are that keeps us alive. Our future is written in the language of music.

It’s not easy. We’re not always in love with our tradition. We aren’t always moved. And we’re not always up for a song session. I get that. Most of us have had our own struggles with Jewish theology. But if we want a Jewish future, we have to keep singing. We have to teach our children not only the words of our tradition but the soul of it—the melody, the rhythm, the joy.

So, as we enter into this Shabbat, I encourage you: Sing. Even if it’s off-key. Even if you don’t know all the words. Sing because our ancestors sang. Sing because our children are listening. Sing because our future depends on it.

Shabbat Shalom.