Sermons
Selected Sermons by Rabbi Esther Jilovsky, PhD
23 June 2021
In the early days of the Covid pandemic, rainbows began to appear in front windows across Australia. As shops, schools, offices and airports closed indefinitely, much of our everyday lives suddenly disappeared. Our new reality comprised of lockdowns, home-schooling, working from home, and the ubiquitous online platform Zoom. The freedom to travel, which until so recently had allowed us to traverse our planet in 24 hours or so, was reduced to our house and our street, maybe our suburb if we were lucky.
Fifth Year Sermon: Finding our Inheritance
Toldot 5781
19 November 2020
Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion, Los Angeles
The Hebrew word for inheritance, נַחֲלָה, comes from the same shoresh as נַחַל, which means “a torrent of rushing water” or a “river.” An inheritance, whether tangible or intangible, signifies what we inherit from our ancestors. At first glance, a river, נַחַל, may seem nothing like an inheritance, נַחֲלָה. A river often begins high in the mountains, formed from melting snow that gathers pace as it trickles steeply down slopes, tumbles down waterfalls, gurgles through forests and farmlands, a glistening ribbon of life seeping across the landscape. A river sustains the people, flora and fauna that live along its route. A river might seem to be a static feature, but it is always flowing. And always in the same direction. Towards the sea.
VaEira Tetzaveh 5780
“Spiced Wine and Vinegar”: Remembering Amalek and Living our Lives
The pale yellow folder stares up at me from the bottom of the cardboard box, its rounded corners bent with age. I’ve never seen it before, but the handwriting scrawled across the front in blue ballpoint pen strikes me with a jolt. The curly cursive spells out three distinct words in German: “Meine goldene Mama”. Three simple words: “My golden mother” or “my wonderful Mum.” A phrase that communicates absolute adoration, longing, love. And the writing scribbled across the front, the handwriting I recognise instantly, though I have not set eyes upon it for over a decade. It’s the unmistakeable hand of my Grandpa, of blessed memory. My hands shake as I lift the folder from the box. I flip it open and pages flutter out, some as thin as tissue paper, others a little thicker.
9 June 2019
3 May 2019
14 July 2017