Ki Tisa 5786
Rabbi Menachem Mirski
In Parashat Ki Tisa, we encounter one of the Torah’s most dramatic moments: the sin of the Golden Calf. The people, waiting for Moses on Mount Sinai, grow anxious and impatient. They turn to Aaron and say, “Make us a god who shall go before us” (Exodus 32:1). Aaron collects their gold, fashions the calf, and the people declare, “This is your god, O Israel, who brought you up from the land of Egypt!” (32:4). Chaos ensues—idolatry, revelry, divine anger, Moses’ fury breaking the tablets.
But amid this catastrophe, something profound happens. God reveals God’s self to Moses with the 13 Attributes of Mercy: “Adonai, Adonai, God compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in kindness and faithfulness…” (34:6-7). These words become the cornerstone of our High Holiday liturgy, a reminder that even after profound failure, renewal is possible. God doesn’t destroy the people; instead, God offers a path forward—new tablets, renewed covenant.
This week, I want to start with a lighter, more modern note that unexpectedly echoes this theme of imperfection and acceptance. In season 2 of the Netflix series Nobody Wants This, there’s a moment where Joanne—played by Kristen Bell—says something along the lines of: “In this relationship, there is room only for one perfect person—me.” It’s delivered with that signature wry humor, half-joking, half-serious, capturing Joanne’s self-aware defensiveness in her complicated romance with Noah, the rabbi.
The line lands because it’s relatable. We laugh because we have all felt it at some point: the quiet (or not-so-quiet) conviction that “I am the one who has it together”, who sees things clearly, who doesn’t need fixing—while the other person… Well, they have work to do. It’s a protective stance. If I’m the “perfect” one, then any problems must stem from them. It shields us from vulnerability.
But Parashat Ki Tisa flips that script entirely.
Look at the people at the foot of the mountain. They weren’t incarnations of evil, of course; they were scared, disoriented, freshly liberated slaves grasping for certainty in the absence of their leader. They wanted something tangible, controllable—a “perfect” stand-in for the invisible God. They projected their need for perfection onto a golden object. And Aaron? He too tried to manage the crowd’s anxiety, perhaps thinking he could contain the chaos by giving them what they demanded. Neither the people nor their leader claimed moral high ground; they were all deeply imperfect.
Moses himself isn’t flawless. He shatters the tablets in rage—a righteous anger, yes, but still a moment of loss of control. Yet God doesn’t demand perfection from any of them. Instead, God models something far more radical: mercy that embraces imperfection. The 13 Attributes aren’t a checklist for the flawless; they’re a divine commitment to patience, forgiveness, and second chances. “Slow to anger, abounding in chesed”—kindness that persists even when we have built our own golden calves.
In our Diaspora Jewish lives today, we face our own versions of the calf. We live in a culture obsessed with perfection: curated social media feeds, political purity tests, even within our communities—debates over Israel, observance levels, who “counts” as authentically Jewish. It’s easy to fall into the trap Joanne humorously names: insisting there’s only room for one perfect person—me, my ideology, my way of being Jewish. We point fingers at “those” Jews who are too assimilated or too zealous, too political or too apathetic. We build golden calves out of our certainties.
But Ki Tisa reminds us: the covenant isn’t sustained by perfection. It’s sustained by teshuvah—return—and by God’s willingness to renew the tablets even after they’ve been broken.Moses intercedes, the people repent, and the relationship is repaired—not because anyone becomes flawless, but because mercy creates space for growth. And as I argued last week—every performed mitzvah can be seen as a dedication to or renewal of our covenant, despite our current, imperfect state of mind or heart in terms of religious faith.
Think about our relationships—marital, familial, communal. How often do we quietly (or loudly) believe “there’s room for only one perfect person here”? It might feel empowering in the moment, but it closes off empathy. It blocks the 13 Attributes in our own lives. True partnership, like the renewed covenant, requires both sides to admit: neither of us is perfect, and that’s okay. There’s room for two imperfect people to build something holy together.
So today let’s borrow a bit of Joanne’s humor—and then go deeper. Laugh at our own tendencies to claim the “perfect” spot. Then look at the 13 Attributes and ask: How can I be slower to anger with my spouse, my kids, my fellow congregants? How can I abound in kindness when someone disappoints me? How can I make space in this relationship—personal, communal, with God—for more than one imperfect person?
Because in the end, the Torah doesn’t promise a world of perfect people. It promises a God who chooses relationships anyway—and invites us to do the same.
May we all find the courage to drop our golden calves and embrace our always a bit messy but merciful beauty of being human.
Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Mirski
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