The Calling

Shabbat Shalom - Parsha Va'era - 1.16.2026

What does it mean to be called?

This week’s Torah portion, Va’era, opens with Moses and Aaron standing before Pharaoh. Again and again, they ask: “Let my people go, so that they may serve God in the wilderness.” And again and again, Pharaoh refuses. Even as plagues strike Egypt, Pharaoh’s heart continues to harden.

Which raises a harder question in this portion. Why would God call someone to do holy work, and then make it difficult?

When I started Jewish Joy, I didn’t do it with a grant or institutional backing. I did it with my own money, money I earned from my books. I have never paid myself a salary. Though everyone who works for Jewish Joy is paid—fairly and consistently. In fact, every dollar we make is reinvested into building, scaling, and sustaining this work. Yet, when I lie awake at night, I don’t ask myself why I’m doing this. I know exactly why. It’s because I know what it feels like to be targeted as a Jewish artist, and then left alone.

I have never really been able to talk about this publicly, or specifically, because I’m afraid of larger legal implications--but I was the victim of antisemitism meant to damage my career. At the time, there was no hotline to call. No institution that stepped in. No safety net to wrap me up in their network. I was expected to absorb it, survive it, and move on.

And so, I felt called to build the thing that did not exist.

Jewish Joy was not born out of branding, or some desire to sell more books. It was born out of absence. Out of the recognition that Jewish creatives, brands, and businesses need more than applause. They need infrastructure. They need financial support. They need community that does not disappear when the work gets hard, when they are blamed unfairly for what’s happening politically, when they make people uncomfortable simply for existing in their joy.

Va’era reminds me that callings are not a single moment. They unfold slowly, through people who refuse to walk away. Even when Pharaoh says no, when hope feels thin, and when the cost is personal. Because what happens to one of us, happens to all.

I'm here for my community. I'm here for my people. And I'm not going anywhere.

Shabbat Shalom.