"Turn it and turn it, for everything is in it"

Parashat Vayishlakh, 2024

Before we delve into this week’s Torah portion, I want to acknowledge something unique about our community’s Torah reading practice. As we gather only once a month, we have not been strictly following the traditional weekly cycle in perfect synchronicity.

Instead, we have the beautiful freedom to choose a selection of narratives that speak to our moment and our needs.

I find that this is not so much a wild departure from tradition, but an affirmation of the Torah's eternal relevance.

Rabbi Ben Bag-Bag famously said of Torah, "Turn it and turn it, for everything is in it" (Pirkei Avot 5:26). Our sacred text is not bound by time; it is a wellspring of wisdom for every generation, every season, and every place. By selecting portions that resonate most deeply with us, we honour the Torah as a living source of inspiration and learning—one that can meet us wherever we are in our journey.

And so, this month, we turn to Parashat Vayishlach.

Parashat Vayishlach offers us one of the most deeply personal and transformative moments in the entire Torah. Jacob, on the eve of his reunion with Esau, wrestles through the night with a mysterious being. It is a struggle both physical and spiritual, and Jacob emerges not only with a limp but also with a new identity. He is renamed Israel, "one who struggles with God." He then names the place P’niel, saying, "I have seen God face to face, and my life was spared" (Genesis 32:31).

What can we learn from Jacob’s act of naming the place where he wrestled with the divine? Well, this act isn’t just about marking the geography of an event; it’s about sanctifying the ordinary. By naming the place, Jacob transforms it into something sacred—a lasting testimony that God can be found even in the darkest, loneliest, most tumultuous places of our lives.

Our tradition teaches us that this ability to sanctify space is part of what it means to live a life connected to the divine. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel once wrote, “the higher goal of spiritual living is not to amass a wealth of information, but to face sacred moments” and so we can infer from that, that every place can be a P’niel if we have the courage to open our eyes and see the divine presence.

This sacred practice is one our ancestors have carried with them for millennia. They named places of significance—Be’er Sheva, Beth El, Jerusalem—not only to remember God’s presence but to bind themselves to the land in which they lived. Wherever Jews have wandered, whether in the Land of Israel or somewhere throughout the rest of the world, they have carried this instinct with them: to root themselves spiritually, to find God wherever they are, and to transform ordinary places into sacred spaces.

Here in Scandinavia, we are part of a tradition that predates even our Jewish story here. The ancient peoples of these lands also named their sacred places—groves, rivers, mountains—believing that the divine could be encountered in the natural world. As Scandinavian Jews, we inherit both of these traditions: the Jewish vision of imbuing the world with holiness and the Nordic reverence for the natural world’s inherent sanctity.

And what does this mean for us today? It means we are called to plant ourselves deeply, not just in the physical sense but in the spiritual sense.

Over the past 25 years, we have planted something beautiful here: a Jewish community that thrives in these lands. Like Jacob naming P’niel, we have declared this place sacred, a site where the divine is present in our prayers, our gatherings, and our lives.

But planting a tree is only the beginning. Rabbi Nachman of Breslov taught that “every blade of grass has its own song, and that song keeps it alive.” In other words, growth requires constant nurturing, constant renewal. We have spent 25 years tending this tree—building relationships, raising the next generation, teaching, and learning. We’ve nurtured its roots, but the work is not done.

For the next 25 years and more, our task is to ensure that this community continues to grow and thrive. Like Jacob wrestling for his blessing, we must wrestle with the challenges ahead—welcoming new members, strengthening Jewish education, and ensuring that this sacred space continues to be a beacon of light and life. Every effort we make is a new branch, a new blossom on the tree of our community.

We are, as we meet today, approaching the festival of Hanukkah, the Festival of Lights. The prophet Isaiah reminds us of our sacred mission: Or LaGoyim, “to be a light unto the nations” (Isaiah 42:6), but what does it mean to be such a light? It is not about asserting our greatness or demanding attention as others have so often claimed, rather it is about quietly, persistently bringing hope, justice, and kindness into a world that often feels overwhelmed by darkness.

Think of the menorah, lit long ago in the rededicated Temple. The light did not banish all darkness from the world. Instead, it offered a small, defiant glow in the midst of despair. That is our task. To carry the flame, even when the oil seems insufficient. To bring light into our own lives and the lives of those around us, even when the path ahead is uncertain.

Being a light unto the nations also requires humility. The great 20th-century philosopher Emmanuel Levinas reminds us that the light we bring is not for our own glory but for the good of others. He writes, “The true hero of ethics is the one who recognises the face of the other and responds to their need.” To be a light is to see the humanity in every person, to be a source of guidance and inspiration not just for ourselves but for everyone we meet.

This is no small task. But it is our task, handed down through generations of our people. Just as Jacob wrestled for his blessing, so must we wrestle with the challenge of carrying this light. And like the Maccabees who rekindled the menorah, we must light that first flame with faith that it will grow into something greater.

As we enter this season of growing light, let us embrace our dual heritage—Jewish and Scandinavian—and find the divine in every space we inhabit. Let us continue to nurture this community, ensuring its growth for generations to come. And let us remember that we are called to be a light, not just for ourselves but for the world.

Shabbat Shalom; may we all find the strength, and vision to see God wherever we are—and to bring light to wherever we go.