A D’var Torah / Essay based on Parashat Va’etchanan
- The Parsha Is About Oaths—and the Cost of Keeping Them
Parashat Va’etchanan opens with one of the most intimate and painful moments in Torah. Moshe, after leading Bnei Yisrael for forty years, pleads with God for one thing: to be allowed to enter the Land.
“וָאֶתְחַנַּן אֶל־ה’ בָּעֵת הַהִוא…”
“And I pleaded with Hashem at that time…” — Devarim 3:23
But God answers:
“רַב־לָךְ… אַל תּוֹסֶף דַּבֵּר אֵלַי עוֹד בַּדָּבָר הַזֶּה”
“Enough. Do not speak to Me further about this matter.” — Devarim 3:26
According to Devarim Rabbah 2:9, Moshe turns to the people and says:
“I prayed for you—why didn’t you pray for me?”
Moshe’s punishment wasn’t failure—it was sacrifice. He upheld his oath to protect the people, even at the cost of his own dream. His silence was his final act of leadership. His oath held—even when it hurt.
- I Took an Oath Too
I grew up in the mountains of rural Appalachia—raised by a single mother, daughter of a blue-collar car mechanic who died young. I became an epidemiologist because I believed public health could fix the same disparities and adverse events that shaped my childhood.
The night before I was given the lowest possible performance rating, I didn’t go home.
I slept two hours on the floor of an empty office.
Then I got up, went back to my desk, and kept working—hoping it would be enough.
It wasn’t.
Later, I requested time off for sacred holidays. CDC policy allows those hours to be repaid over 13 pay periods. But I was told I had to repay them in one week, at 7 a.m., under conditions no one else was subjected to.
That’s not accommodation. That’s coercion.
I broke halacha that day—not because I stopped believing, but because I was cornered.
Just to hold on. Just to survive.
And still—I went back to work.
Because that’s what people like me do.
III. The Constitution Has an Invisible Word: “All”
When I started in civilian service, I took an oath. My oath was to defend the Constitution of the United States. But there’s an invisible word in that oath: All.
Not just white Americans. Not just straight, cis, comfortable Americans.
All includes:
- The queer kid in hiding
- The abused woman
- The child in foster care
- The trans woman on a waitlist
- The Black man with a Bible in one hand and a target on his back
These are today’s almana v’yatom—the widow and orphan the Torah commands us to protect.
There is no escape clause in my oath.
Not “when it’s easy.”
Not “when it’s safe.”
Not “when it’s comfortable.”
There is no room in my oath for white silence or white women’s tears.
Because truth is the ultimate defense.
- Why I Sent It Unencrypted
I sent my writing without encryption because I knew the risk—and I did it anyway.
In a time when telling the truth can cost you your career, your protection, your peace—telling it anyway is holy.
I believed if I just worked harder, things would get better. That if I didn’t cause trouble, I’d be protected.
But I’ve learned that silence isn’t safety.
Silence is complicity.
And I choose truth.
- The Fire This Time
“כִּי ה’ אֱלֹהֶיךָ אֵשׁ אֹכְלָה הוּא…”
“For Hashem your God is a consuming fire…” — Devarim 4:24
Sixteen years ago, I gave birth and nearly died. I had done everything “right.” None of it protected me.
“That was the night the Blue Collar Daughter burned.”
The girl who believed that being polite, prepared, small, and sweet would keep her safe—she didn’t survive.
And thank God.
That fire didn’t destroy me. It refined me.
It gave me a new Torah—of being a mother—written in scar tissue and survival.
- I Didn’t Like My Name—Until I Grew Into It
My Hebrew name is Yiskah bat Talia.
For a long time, I hated it.
It made me feel more “other.” One more thing to explain in a town where my mother and I were the only Jews.
But in Judaism, names aren’t given to make us comfortable.
They are invitations to become someone who sees.
Yiskah means “to see.”
The Midrash says she saw with divine inspiration. Some say she was Sarah Imeinu.
I didn’t like my name when I thought it was a burden.
I love it now that I know it’s a mission.
Now I carry it the way it was meant to be carried:
Out loud.
VII. The Shema: A Whisper from the Fire
“שְׁמַע יִשְׂרָאֵל… וְאָהַבְתָּ אֵת ה’ אֱלֹהֶיךָ…”
“Hear O Israel… You shall love Hashem your God…” — Devarim 6:4–5
I have whispered the Shema through fear and fury.
Through betrayal. Through bureaucracy. Through burnout. Through broken halacha I never wanted to break.
Still, I say it.
Still, I stay.
Still, I love.
Because even scorched faith is still sacred.
And even when I break—I do not break my oath.
VIII. Freedom Is Just Another Word…
“Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose.”
— Janis Joplin
My formative youth was shaped but Janis Joplin, Marianne Faithful, and the Velvet Underground.
That line from Joplin’s “Me and Bobby McGee, That line stays with me.
Sometimes the only thing left is the truth—and that’s when you speak.
Because truth isn’t safe.
But it is holy.
- Closing Thought
“I still believe in the mission. But belief isn’t enough without protection. Without justice. Without change.”
I’m not sharing this for pity.
I’m sharing it because I know I’m not the only one.
Someone else is skipping meals.
Someone else is breaking down behind a muted Zoom screen—and still showing up.
We deserve better.
I deserve better.
And I will not stop until we get it.
Because I took an oath.
I keep it.
And I will not be erased.
A Call to Courage
Moshe wasn’t just denied.
He was asked to sacrifice—to give up the promise for the sake of the people.
And he did.
“May I die, and 100 like me, if not a fingernail of Israel shall be harmed.”
— Midrash Tanchuma, Va’etchanan
I am not Moshe.
But I have also been asked to give something up—to break in quiet places, to be faithful in the dark.
And I said yes.
Not because it was easy, but because it was holy.
Now I’m asking you:
Be brave.
Choose to stand even when it’s not safe.
Choose to speak even when it costs you.
Choose the kind of faith that requires action, risk, and sometimes even loss.
There is no Torah without fire.
No freedom without sacrifice.
And no oath that means anything unless we are willing to live it out loud.
We do not need perfection.
We need courage.
Courage like Moshe.
Courage like truth.
Courage like yours.
Yiskah bat Talia (Jessica S. Rogers Brown) is a Jewish writer, epidemiologist, and former educator at Congregation Bet Haverim in Atlanta. Raised in Appalachia, she writes at the intersection of faith, trauma, and justice. Her work blends Chabad spiritual depth with Reconstructionist inclusivity—and speaks for those walking through fire while holding onto sacred truth.
