Defend Israel's Democracy
From the outside it continues to face lethal terrorist attacks and the specter of an increasingly emboldened and nuclear Iran. From within it faces something which has long been simmering but has now found voices of legitimacy within the current ruling coalition.
Israel is on fire from within and from without.
From the outside it continues to face lethal terrorist attacks and the specter of an increasingly emboldened and nuclear Iran. From within it faces something which has long been simmering but has now found voices of legitimacy within the current ruling coalition.
I mourn the deaths. Their numbers increase. Two young brothers, Hillel and Yagel Yaniv, were recently murdered when traveling to their home. Elan Ganeles, an American who had made aliyah, was also murdered. He was on his way to a friend’s wedding. Rockets are fired from Gaza at Israeli towns. Terrorism continues.
Israel responds with force. Its soldiers kill terrorists. Its police continue to thwart planned attacks. Fierce fighting was reported in Jenin. Settlers rioted in the town of Huwara. They burned hundreds of homes. A Palestinian was killed. Sameh Aqtesh. I grieve over the deaths of innocent Palestinians.
During these riots, Israeli soldiers rescued Palestinians from their burning homes. Their commanding officer called the settlers’ rampage a pogrom....
Secure the Soul
Purim is celebrated on Monday evening. With its penchant for costumes and carnivals, it is a day typically relegated to children. And yet the rabbis imagined otherwise…
Purim is celebrated on Monday evening. With its penchant for costumes and carnivals, it is a day typically relegated to children. And yet the rabbis imagined otherwise. The Talmud commands: “A person is obligated to get drunk until they do not know the difference between 'cursed is Haman' and 'Blessed is Mordechai.'” (Megillah 7b)
This is derived from the concluding lines of the Book of Esther: “The same days on which the Jews enjoyed relief from their enemies and the same month which had been transformed from one of grief and mourning into one of festive joy, they were now to observe them as days of feasting and merrymaking.” (Esther 9). Nothing suggests feasting and merrymaking more than abundant food and most especially, plenty of wine and spirits.
Still, it is a curious commandment and gives one pause. This is how we are supposed to commemorate a victory over antisemitism? We are supposed to get wasted? This is counterintuitive. The only way to achieve victory over antisemites is by remaining clear headed. The essence of confronting evil and hate lies in the ability to draw distinctions. When we get drunk nothing is clear. Often the lines between right and wrong become blurred. And we must keep these straight. We must remain clear eyed if we are to face today’s threats.
Antisemitism threatens us in two ways. One is the obvious. Throughout our long history, and especially our more recent history, antisemites have succeeded in carrying out their lethal threats. We have been gunned down in synagogues and supermarkets. We have been murdered in Nazi concentration camps and chased from cities and villages. The list is lengthy. It is painful to enumerate. What began with Haman did not end with Mordecai’s victory. This threat remains forever clear.
The other danger is blurred. Antisemites threaten our soul. We can become consumed by the fear antisemitism ingenerates. Take our response to last weekend’s so called “Day of Hate” as but one example. The Jewish community, its leaders and members, discussed this in more detail and at greater length than the Nazis who promoted this day. (There is nothing neo about people who call themselves Nazis!). We became consumed by fear.
I understand the worry. I hear the nervousness. I am attuned to the fears. Still, I wonder. What is the cost of these worries to our spirits? What happens to a people who is forever on guard, who fears what dangers might lie in wait around every corner, who worries what threats may lurk beneath every word?
What about the security of the soul? How might we better attend to our embattled souls?
Just as we can become consumed by overindulging in the alcohol that our Purim celebrations demand, so too can we become consumed by our fears. On this Purim, I wonder if this was the hidden message contained in the rabbis’ command.
Antisemitism is real. Its threats are not unfounded. Let us recognize that its dangers remain twofold. The danger about which we can exert the most control we are the least attentive. It is within our power to banish fear. We worry about guards and cameras, doors and safe rooms and will continue to do so. We ignore the needs of the soul.
Take a cue from our tradition and Purim’s message.
Feast. Rejoice. Celebrate Jewish life.
And then perhaps the soul will feel more secure.
Building the Sanctuary of the Heart
The Hasidic movement was founded by Rabbi Israel ben Eliezer in eighteenth century Ukraine. It was a radical departure from traditional norms in which rabbinic leadership was predicated on scholarship and in particular mastery of the Talmud. Rabbi Israel, who later became known as the Baal Shem Tov…
The Hasidic movement was founded by Rabbi Israel ben Eliezer in eighteenth century Ukraine. It was a radical departure from traditional norms in which rabbinic leadership was predicated on scholarship and in particular mastery of the Talmud.
Rabbi Israel, who later became known as the Baal Shem Tov, was a schoolteacher and laborer. He was more enamored of mystical texts such as the Zohar than classical rabbinic texts. He loved meditating rather than studying. Unlike other rabbis he did not spend his days poring over traditional passages. Instead, he would spend considerable time wandering in the woods. He taught that the spiritual path was a mystical road open to anyone.
The secret is not, the Hasidic masters taught, mastery of chapter and verse, but instead in finding a teacher, a rebbe. Follow in his footsteps. Sing wordless melodies (niggunim) by his side. These were always the best medicine and the recipe Hasidism offered to the Jewish masses hungry for spirituality but unable to devote hours to study and learning.
Each of the Hasidic masters who followed Rabbi Israel offered nuanced perspectives. They developed competing schools of thought. Each generation refined their masters’ teachings and sometimes offered insights not heretofore known. Some took their master’s teachings in new and unfound directions.
Rabbi Menahem Mendel of Kotzk drew a sharp contrast with his predecessors. Whereas the Baal Shem Tov was forgiving in his approach and emphasized God’s compassion, the Kotzker rebbe as he later became known, was obsessed with God’s justice. In fact, he was so intoxicated with truth that he burned nearly all of his writings. Nothing a person writes could ever really approximate God’s truth.
Too often the outer life veils the inner. We spend our days dwelling on appearances and outer trappings rather than focusing on mastering the spirit.
Abraham Joshua Heschel observes:
If he were alive today, the Kotzker would look aghast at the replacement of spirituality by aesthetics, spontaneity by decorum. Like Kierkegaard he would vehemently condemn an aesthetic concept of Judaism acted out in customs, ceremonies, sentimental celebrations and polished oratory, as well as in decorative representations of God in terms of grandiose temples. He would also reject the reduction of Judaism to an outward compliance with ritual laws, strict observance mingled with dishonesty, the pedantic performance of rituals as a form of opportunism. (A Passion for Truth)
Menahem Mendel was unforgiving. He burned with truth. For the last twenty years of his life the rebbe lived in seclusion. Truth sometimes makes us abandon friends. Hard truths exile friendship.
The Torah commands: “Let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25)
Rabbi Menahem Mendel of Kotzk comments: “It says ‘among them’ and not ‘among it,’ to teach you that each person must build the sanctuary in his own heart; then God will dwell among them.”
It is not enough to build synagogues or temples, institutions or organizations. What matters instead is the sanctuary we build within. It is the truth we hold in our hearts.
Heschel again:
The Kotzker would call upon us to be uneasy about our situation, to feel ashamed of our peace of mind, of our spiritual stagnation. One’s integrity must constantly be examined. In his view, self-assurance, smug certainty of one’s honesty was as objectionable as brazen dishonesty. A moderately clean heart was like a moderately foul egg. Lukewarm Judaism would be as effective in purging our character as a lukewarm furnace in melting steel.
How do can we ignite the furnace in our hearts?
How can we live with truth and not as well live alone?
Why Study Chemistry? Why Study Torah?
Recently my seventh graders engaged in a heated discussion about the virtues of the subjects they are studying in school. I asked them which class they liked the best. “Math,” said one. “FCS,” said another one. “What is FCS?…
Recently my seventh graders engaged in a heated discussion about the virtues of the subjects they are studying in school. I asked them which class they liked the best. “Math,” said one. “FCS,” said another one. “What is FCS?” I asked. “Family and Consumer Science,” they answered. “What is “Family and Consumer Science?” I responded. “We learn how to cook and sew,” a student chimed in.
All their answers hinged on the subjects’ apparent usefulness. They reasoned they should know how to balance a checkbook and cook dinner. Learning about American history was another matter. Studying the periodic table did not make much sense. I offered, “Isn’t there value in learning for learning’s sake? Isn’t their merit in learning how to think? Isn’t there interest in finding meaning and inspiration in something as small as an atom?”
This week, I open the Torah to a flurry of laws. I read:
When an ox gores a man or a woman to death, the ox shall be stoned and its flesh shall not be eaten, but the owner of the ox is not to be punished. If, however, that ox has been in the habit of goring, and its owner, though warned, has failed to guard it, and it kills a man or a woman—the ox shall be stoned and its owner, too, shall be put to death. (Exodus 21)
I hear my seventh grader’s questions. “What does a goring ox have to do with me? No one, I know, even owns an ox.”
The renowned biblical scholar, Nahum Sarna, suggests that the Torah’s laws are unique and stand apart from other ancient near eastern law codes. Other ancient codes made distinctions between the human life that was taken. In other words, there was a guilty party received greater punishment if the person killed or injured was a prince. A wealthy person’s life was accorded more weight. In the bible’s estimation, no distinction can be made between people.
Sarna writes: “The sanctity of human life is such as to make bloodshed the consummate offense, one viewed with unspeakable horror. Neither man nor beast that destroys a life can remain thereafter untainted.” All human life is precious. All people are created in God’s image.
It is not about the ox. It is instead about human life.
And it is about our responsibility to others. Each of us must protect the wellbeing of those around us.
It may appear irrelevant, but this is perhaps as important as O2 and H2O.
The laws about a goring ox can provide us with needed sustenance.
Give Me Some Rest
Recently my seventh graders engaged in a heated discussion about the virtues of the subjects they are studying in school. I asked them which class they liked the best. “Math,” said one. “FCS,” said another one. “What is FCS?…
People often say they are spiritual and not religious. “Rabbi, I am not really into organized religion. I am spiritual.” Sometimes I respond, “You do recognize that you are talking to one of the organizers.” Most of the time, I offer an understanding nod and ask them to tell me more. They suggest that they find spirituality and meaning in nature. They believe in the Ten Commandments. By this they mean the ethical precepts such as, “You shall not murder. You shall not steal.”
I do not have the heart to remind them about the fourth commandment, “Remember the sabbath day and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath of Lord your God: you shall not do any work.” (Exodus 20)
In the early 1970’s Princeton University conducted a study of its seminary students. All the students were of course familiar with the story from Christian scriptures about the Good Samaritan from which the law protecting someone who stops to help another derives. This tale emphasizes that it is often ordinary people, not devout or holy people, who help those in need.
All the students were told that they had to travel to another campus building where they would partner with a fellow student on a sermon. They then divided the group into three. The first group was told that they had little time and they should rush across campus. The second was told that although they were not rushed, they needed to arrive promptly. The third was told that they could take their time and there was no sense of urgency regarding their arrival.
On their way to the other building, all the students confronted a stranger who appeared desperate and in need. Here is what the study revealed. 63% of those who did not feel rushed stopped to help. 45% of the participants who felt slightly rushed stopped. And only 10% of those students who believed that they were running late offered help to the stranger.
And here is the lesson. There is an ethical dimension to feeling rested. When one feels hurried there feels little time to do anything else. There is little room for others.
The tradition teaches that Shabbat is an expression of our freedom from slavery. Time is a gift given to free people. Judaism sanctifies time. It values time because it restores the soul. Shabbat is a vacation for the soul.
In New York everything seems rushed. Time is not something to hold sacred. Instead, it is something to conquer. “Did you take the LIE or the Northern State?” Time is not restorative. Instead, it is something wasted. “Can you believe the airlines? My flight was delayed for two hours.” We can never rest.
Our cellphones interrupt our meals. They intrude in our time with family. How many conversations were recently interrupted by someone who looked up from their phone’s notification and blurted out, “We shot that Chinese balloon down!” People interrupt others midsentence to share news items. Does it really matter when we find out such news?
We can never relax.
Judith Shulevitz writes in her breathtaking book, The Sabbath World: Glimpses of a Different Order of Time:
There is only one way to discover this. It is about feeling rested.
Put the cellphone down if not for the day, then at least for the day’s appointed meal.
Become attuned to the soul’s need for rest.
Breathe in the gift Shabbat provides.
I do not have the heart to remind them about the fourth commandment, “Remember the sabbath day and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath of Lord your God: you shall not do any work.” (Exodus 20)
In the early 1970’s Princeton University conducted a study of its seminary students. All the students were of course familiar with the story from Christian scriptures about the Good Samaritan from which the law protecting someone who stops to help another derives. This tale emphasizes that it is often ordinary people, not devout or holy people, who help those in need.
All the students were told that they had to travel to another campus building where they would partner with a fellow student on a sermon. They then divided the group into three. The first group was told that they had little time and they should rush across campus. The second was told that although they were not rushed, they needed to arrive promptly. The third was told that they could take their time and there was no sense of urgency regarding their arrival.
On their way to the other building, all the students confronted a stranger who appeared desperate and in need. Here is what the study revealed. 63% of those who did not feel rushed stopped to help. 45% of the participants who felt slightly rushed stopped. And only 10% of those students who believed that they were running late offered help to the stranger.
And here is the lesson. There is an ethical dimension to feeling rested. When one feels hurried there feels little time to do anything else. There is little room for others.
The tradition teaches that Shabbat is an expression of our freedom from slavery. Time is a gift given to free people. Judaism sanctifies time. It values time because it restores the soul. Shabbat is a vacation for the soul.
In New York everything seems rushed. Time is not something to hold sacred. Instead, it is something to conquer. “Did you take the LIE or the Northern State?” Time is not restorative. Instead, it is something wasted. “Can you believe the airlines? My flight was delayed for two hours.” We can never rest.
Our cellphones interrupt our meals. They intrude in our time with family. How many conversations were recently interrupted by someone who looked up from their phone’s notification and blurted out, “We shot that Chinese balloon down!” People interrupt others midsentence to share news items. Does it really matter when we find out such news?
We can never relax.
Judith Shulevitz writes in her breathtaking book, The Sabbath World: Glimpses of a Different Order of Time:
In a world of brightness and portability and instantaneous intimacy, the Sabbath foists on the consciousness the blackness of night, the heaviness of objects, the miles that keep us apart. The Sabbath prefers natural to artificial light. If we want to travel, it would make us walk, though not too far. If we long for social interaction, it would have us meet our fellow man and woman face-to-face. If we wish to bend the world to our will, it would insist that we forgo the vast majority of the devices that extend our reach and multiply our efficacy.Perhaps the message, and import, of Shabbat is not so much about its seeming organization but instead about making room for others.
There is only one way to discover this. It is about feeling rested.
Put the cellphone down if not for the day, then at least for the day’s appointed meal.
Become attuned to the soul’s need for rest.
Breathe in the gift Shabbat provides.
I am grateful to the inspiration discovered for this article from Ezra Klein Interviews Judith Shulevitz on The Ezra Klein Show podcast.
Why the Journey Is So Long and Hard
Many suggest that God’s concern was practical. If the people traveled through what is today the Gaza Strip, an area then controlled by the Philistines, they would most assuredly confront war. This of course might give them pause…
The Torah relates: “God did not lead them by way of the land of the Philistines, although it was nearer.” (Exodus 13)
Why? Why not take the more direct route? Why lead the Israelites on a roundabout path? The commentators debate this question.
Many suggest that God’s concern was practical. If the people traveled through what is today the Gaza Strip, an area then controlled by the Philistines, they would most assuredly confront war. This of course might give them pause. They might have a change of heart and want to return to slavery. The Torah agrees: “God said, ‘The people may have a change of heart when they see war and return to Egypt.’” The medieval commentators Rashi and Nachmanides concur.
On the literal level this makes sense. Then again God parts the Sea of Reeds. The sea is divided so that the Israelites might escape the advancing Egyptians. In the beautiful poem “Song of the Sea,” that includes our Mi Chamocha prayer, the Israelites exclaim: “Pharaoh’s chariots and his army God has cast into the sea; and the pick of his officers are drowned in the Sea of Reeds.” (Exodus 15) So why would God not fight the battles with the Philistines as well?
Perhaps the stated reason does not offer the more important lesson.
The commentators Ibn Ezra and Maimonides offer more interesting explanations. Ibn Ezra suggests that the Israelites first had to sense freedom before claiming the land of Israel as their own. They needed to live as a free people, wandering throughout the wilderness, before establishing freedom in the land of Israel. Maimonides, on the other hand, suggests that the Israelites needed to take this roundabout route so that they might experience hardship. The hunger and pain, rebellions and complaining, offer important lessons for these former slaves. Only after taking these lessons to heart will they be able establish their own nation.
The easy path rarely offers the greatest lessons. When things are given to us without struggle, or even suffering, we do not always appreciate them as we should. What we earn through hardship and pain is sometimes more meaningful than even the most valuable gifts.
What is truly priceless is that which we craft with our own hands through struggle and sacrifice. That is what we most prize!
And it is about these we most often sing God’s blessings: “Mi chamochah ba-eilim, Adonai! Who is like You, O God, among the gods that are worshipped? Who is like You, majestic in holiness, awesome in splendor, working wonders? (Exodus 15)
Why? Why not take the more direct route? Why lead the Israelites on a roundabout path? The commentators debate this question.
Many suggest that God’s concern was practical. If the people traveled through what is today the Gaza Strip, an area then controlled by the Philistines, they would most assuredly confront war. This of course might give them pause. They might have a change of heart and want to return to slavery. The Torah agrees: “God said, ‘The people may have a change of heart when they see war and return to Egypt.’” The medieval commentators Rashi and Nachmanides concur.
On the literal level this makes sense. Then again God parts the Sea of Reeds. The sea is divided so that the Israelites might escape the advancing Egyptians. In the beautiful poem “Song of the Sea,” that includes our Mi Chamocha prayer, the Israelites exclaim: “Pharaoh’s chariots and his army God has cast into the sea; and the pick of his officers are drowned in the Sea of Reeds.” (Exodus 15) So why would God not fight the battles with the Philistines as well?
Perhaps the stated reason does not offer the more important lesson.
The commentators Ibn Ezra and Maimonides offer more interesting explanations. Ibn Ezra suggests that the Israelites first had to sense freedom before claiming the land of Israel as their own. They needed to live as a free people, wandering throughout the wilderness, before establishing freedom in the land of Israel. Maimonides, on the other hand, suggests that the Israelites needed to take this roundabout route so that they might experience hardship. The hunger and pain, rebellions and complaining, offer important lessons for these former slaves. Only after taking these lessons to heart will they be able establish their own nation.
The easy path rarely offers the greatest lessons. When things are given to us without struggle, or even suffering, we do not always appreciate them as we should. What we earn through hardship and pain is sometimes more meaningful than even the most valuable gifts.
What is truly priceless is that which we craft with our own hands through struggle and sacrifice. That is what we most prize!
And it is about these we most often sing God’s blessings: “Mi chamochah ba-eilim, Adonai! Who is like You, O God, among the gods that are worshipped? Who is like You, majestic in holiness, awesome in splendor, working wonders? (Exodus 15)
Taste the Wonder
When I was young and we would go out for a nice dinner with my grandparents, towards the end of the meal when everyone was sharing their delight about the restaurant and raving about this dish or that, my Nana would quietly sit there…
When I was young and we would go out for a nice dinner with my grandparents, towards the end of the meal when everyone was sharing their delight about the restaurant and raving about this dish or that, my Nana would quietly sit there. I would then invariably ask her, “Nana what did you think about dinner?” And she would respond, “It was tasty.”
Her response never wavered. It could be the best meal or the worst, the most expensive restaurant, or the least. Food was tasty, never delicious. Meals were not deserving of accolades unless of course she was related to the cook and then superlatives could be showered on my mom or dad or even me when I cooked the one thing I could make as a child, an omelet.
On Monday we entered the Hebrew month of Shevat. In two weeks, we will celebrate Tu B’Shevat (the fifteenth of the month), the day on which we mark the new year of the trees. This month is associated with the faint beginnings of spring. In the land of Israel trees begin to blossom, most particularly the beautiful, pink flowers of almond trees.
And the Jewish mystics associated this month of Shevat with taste.
The only time I ever recall my Nana offering something other than her usual tasty judgment about was when she told me about her first bite of a tomato. Soon after arriving in America from Eastern Europe someone gave her a tomato to eat. The vegetable was unfamiliar to her, and she thought it was an apple. When she bit into it and the tomato exploded, she spit it out. She hated it. The taste did not mirror the expectation.
Sweet, sour, salty, bitter and savory are the different types of taste, although some experts suggest there are more. (I am sure the family experts will weigh in on this debate and my son, and probably my mother, and perhaps even my nephew will suggest corrections.) What makes chefs celebrated masters are how they finesse these tastes and conjure flavors from ingredients that in other people’s hands taste ordinary and familiar.
On our recent congregational trip to Israel our best adventures were often unplanned and unexpected, and they frequently involved food. We arrived at a hummus restaurant to discover that it had lost electricity moments beforehand and yet we discovered the most delicious hummus many of us have ever tasted. Was it because our expectations were diminished by the darkened surroundings?
On another occasion we decided to stop for lunch at a goat farm where they make many different varieties of goat cheese. We were apprehensive about bringing so many young children to a restaurant that serves only goat cheese. They devoured the goat cheese pizzas. Susie and I enjoyed goat cheese rice pudding after savoring the best cheeses we ever tasted. Again, I wonder. Is taste more a matter of expectations than reality? Did our apprehension awaken our taste buds to unexpected surprises? Is this what makes cooking more of an art?
So much of taste is driven by what we know and what we expect. Familiarity too often guides are cooking habits and restaurant choices.
Defy expectations and it becomes a luxury.
My Nana knew hunger. She recalled times without enough food to calm her hunger pains. For her, could eating ever be transformed and become something more than tasty? Then again perhaps tasty is the highest praise she could offer.
And perhaps taste is a luxury everyone can enjoy and appreciate. Let go of expectations.
The mystics were right. Savor every morsel. Allow the faint beginnings of spring heralded by this month of Shevat to awaken your senses.
Let us taste its wonder.
Her response never wavered. It could be the best meal or the worst, the most expensive restaurant, or the least. Food was tasty, never delicious. Meals were not deserving of accolades unless of course she was related to the cook and then superlatives could be showered on my mom or dad or even me when I cooked the one thing I could make as a child, an omelet.
On Monday we entered the Hebrew month of Shevat. In two weeks, we will celebrate Tu B’Shevat (the fifteenth of the month), the day on which we mark the new year of the trees. This month is associated with the faint beginnings of spring. In the land of Israel trees begin to blossom, most particularly the beautiful, pink flowers of almond trees.
And the Jewish mystics associated this month of Shevat with taste.
The only time I ever recall my Nana offering something other than her usual tasty judgment about was when she told me about her first bite of a tomato. Soon after arriving in America from Eastern Europe someone gave her a tomato to eat. The vegetable was unfamiliar to her, and she thought it was an apple. When she bit into it and the tomato exploded, she spit it out. She hated it. The taste did not mirror the expectation.
Sweet, sour, salty, bitter and savory are the different types of taste, although some experts suggest there are more. (I am sure the family experts will weigh in on this debate and my son, and probably my mother, and perhaps even my nephew will suggest corrections.) What makes chefs celebrated masters are how they finesse these tastes and conjure flavors from ingredients that in other people’s hands taste ordinary and familiar.
On our recent congregational trip to Israel our best adventures were often unplanned and unexpected, and they frequently involved food. We arrived at a hummus restaurant to discover that it had lost electricity moments beforehand and yet we discovered the most delicious hummus many of us have ever tasted. Was it because our expectations were diminished by the darkened surroundings?
On another occasion we decided to stop for lunch at a goat farm where they make many different varieties of goat cheese. We were apprehensive about bringing so many young children to a restaurant that serves only goat cheese. They devoured the goat cheese pizzas. Susie and I enjoyed goat cheese rice pudding after savoring the best cheeses we ever tasted. Again, I wonder. Is taste more a matter of expectations than reality? Did our apprehension awaken our taste buds to unexpected surprises? Is this what makes cooking more of an art?
So much of taste is driven by what we know and what we expect. Familiarity too often guides are cooking habits and restaurant choices.
Defy expectations and it becomes a luxury.
My Nana knew hunger. She recalled times without enough food to calm her hunger pains. For her, could eating ever be transformed and become something more than tasty? Then again perhaps tasty is the highest praise she could offer.
And perhaps taste is a luxury everyone can enjoy and appreciate. Let go of expectations.
The mystics were right. Savor every morsel. Allow the faint beginnings of spring heralded by this month of Shevat to awaken your senses.
Let us taste its wonder.
Take a Breath
Before God brings down the plagues on Egypt, Moses tells the people they will soon be freed from slavery and delivered to the promised land…
Before God brings down the plagues on Egypt, Moses tells the people they will soon be freed from slavery and delivered to the promised land. The Torah relates: “But when Moses told this to the Israelites, they would not listen to Moses, their spirits crushed by cruel bondage.” (Exodus 6)
A story. One winter evening, during the darkest days of the Holocaust when Hugo Gryn and his father were imprisoned by the Nazis, Gryn’s father instructed him to come to a quiet corner of the barrack. His father said, “My son, tonight is the first night of Hanukkah. Hugo then watched in astonishment as his father plucked a few threads from his tattered prison uniform in order to create makeshift wicks for the Hanukkah lights. He then gently placed these in several days’ miniscule margarine ration.
Hugo became incensed with his father. “You did not eat your margarine. You need those calories to survive. We could have even spread it on that measly crust of bread they gave us. Instead, you saved it to kindle Hanukkah lights?” Hugo’s father turned to him and said, “My dear son, you and I have seen that it is possible to live a very, very long time without food. But Hugo, a person cannot live, for even a day, without hope.”
I have often told this story. It is inspiring. It seems almost super-human. How can someone stave off hunger for the sake of lighting a candle? How can anyone be hopeful in the midst of such extraordinary cruelty and death?
The Israelites’ reaction seems the more understandable.
The Hebrew can be translated as follows: “They would not listen to Moses; their spirits were shortened (m’kotzer ruach) and their servitude hard.” What does it mean for our spirits to be shortened? How do we become so dispirited?
It all depends on how one feeds the soul and nourishes the spirit. For Hugo Gryn’s father it only required saving some margarine. For others it might require more. How do we instill hope in our hearts? How can we fortify our souls? Is it possible to lengthen our spirits?
The medieval commentator, Rashi, reads ruach not as spirit but more literally as breath and suggests: “If one is in anguish his breath comes in short gasps and he cannot draw long breaths.” Perhaps it is a simple as drawing long breaths.
One can perseverate over the difficulties in one’s life or the many catastrophes the world faces or one can breathe in the beauty of the world—however obscured it may sometimes appear and the gift of our lives—however challenging they may be, and say thank You, God. Blessed be God’s name.
“Blessed are You Adonai in whose hand is every living soul and the breath of all flesh.” the morning prayer suggests.
The long breath. Or the short breath. Many times that choice is within our grasp.
A story. One winter evening, during the darkest days of the Holocaust when Hugo Gryn and his father were imprisoned by the Nazis, Gryn’s father instructed him to come to a quiet corner of the barrack. His father said, “My son, tonight is the first night of Hanukkah. Hugo then watched in astonishment as his father plucked a few threads from his tattered prison uniform in order to create makeshift wicks for the Hanukkah lights. He then gently placed these in several days’ miniscule margarine ration.
Hugo became incensed with his father. “You did not eat your margarine. You need those calories to survive. We could have even spread it on that measly crust of bread they gave us. Instead, you saved it to kindle Hanukkah lights?” Hugo’s father turned to him and said, “My dear son, you and I have seen that it is possible to live a very, very long time without food. But Hugo, a person cannot live, for even a day, without hope.”
I have often told this story. It is inspiring. It seems almost super-human. How can someone stave off hunger for the sake of lighting a candle? How can anyone be hopeful in the midst of such extraordinary cruelty and death?
The Israelites’ reaction seems the more understandable.
The Hebrew can be translated as follows: “They would not listen to Moses; their spirits were shortened (m’kotzer ruach) and their servitude hard.” What does it mean for our spirits to be shortened? How do we become so dispirited?
It all depends on how one feeds the soul and nourishes the spirit. For Hugo Gryn’s father it only required saving some margarine. For others it might require more. How do we instill hope in our hearts? How can we fortify our souls? Is it possible to lengthen our spirits?
The medieval commentator, Rashi, reads ruach not as spirit but more literally as breath and suggests: “If one is in anguish his breath comes in short gasps and he cannot draw long breaths.” Perhaps it is a simple as drawing long breaths.
One can perseverate over the difficulties in one’s life or the many catastrophes the world faces or one can breathe in the beauty of the world—however obscured it may sometimes appear and the gift of our lives—however challenging they may be, and say thank You, God. Blessed be God’s name.
“Blessed are You Adonai in whose hand is every living soul and the breath of all flesh.” the morning prayer suggests.
The long breath. Or the short breath. Many times that choice is within our grasp.
Rise Up and Take Note
This weekend we mark Martin Luther King Jr Day and so I wish to reflect on the lessons we can, and should, draw from Reverend King’s example…
My sermon in honor of Martin Luther King Jr Day. Discrimination is real. Racism in America is a pervasive force. What are we to do? We must rise up and take note!
A few years ago, I travelled with a number of rabbis to Montgomery, Alabama to visit the Legacy Museum and the National Memorial for Peace and Justice. This remarkable, and stirring, museum was inspired by Bryan Stevenson who founded the Equal Justice Initiative that fights for those who are wrongly incarcerated. Among its more startling exhibits are soil remains from sites where Blacks were lynched and terrorized. There were photographs on the museum walls showing how snacks were distributed to those who attended these lynchings. Children were brought by parents to these hangings as if these acts of terror constituted proper entertainment. Such lynchings occurred in our country into the 1950’s.
As one leaves the museum and memorial, one confronts rows of copper metal slabs with the names of Southern towns etched on their surface. These are where such horrors occurred. These bear witness to the locations of past lynchings. A sign indicates the purpose and intention of these rows and rows of slabs. They are for the towns to claim and erect in their squares. Then they might confront their past. Only by acknowledging past wrongs can we build the better future that Martin Luther King dreamed about. None of these has yet to be claimed. Bryan Stevenson remarked, “I’m not interested in talking about America’s history because I want to punish America. I want to liberate America.”
We have much work to be done. Our nation can do better. It must do better. The fight against injustice continues. It did not end when Martin Luther King gave his famous “I Have a Dream Speech.” It did not end when George Floyd was killed and many of us first started talking about the racial inequalities that undergird American society. The struggle did not begin in those moments. We became aware of the struggle. To be honest, most of us, including myself, have not even entered this struggle. It was something we were engaged with a few years ago but have by and large moved on from. The struggle continues. And so, on this Martin Luther King Jr Day I wish to reflect on our role in this ongoing struggle. Discrimination is real. Racism in America is a pervasive force. What are we to do?
My seventh graders tackled this question last night when we discussed Martin Luther King’s legacy. We spoke about what he was fighting for. I then asked them if they would be willing to get arrested like King did. They said, “No.” I was of course glad that was their answer, and I affirmed their commitments. I wonder. If we are not willing to get arrested, if we are not willing to take up the call of civil disobedience what can we do? As always, I turned to the Torah for some answers. Let us look to the Torah. This week we begin the Book of Exodus which tells many familiar stories. There are in fact several telling examples from this week’s portion. They point us in the direction of how we might begin to fight injustices.
The first example is that of the Hebrew midwives, Shifrah and Puah, who disobeyed Pharaoh’s edict to kill the Hebrew baby boys. Theirs is the first example of civil disobedience. They do not thunder like Reverend King about how wrong and immoral Pharaoh’s laws are. Instead, they simply disobey. They offer contrived excuses to Pharaoh when he confronts them. They say, “Before the midwife can come to the Hebrew women, they have given birth.” Why do they do this? The Torah explains why. They fear God. They fear, and revere, what you are supposed to. They look not to Pharaoh but instead to God. They do what is right. They save the children.
There are countless examples of people doing such acts throughout the world’s tortured history. In fact, the most common denominator among those who were righteous gentiles and saved Jews during the Holocaust was that they were simple, pious people. They were the ordinary folk and the ordinary heroes. It was not always the prophets who thundered about injustices. More often than not it was people such as Shifrah and Puah who just did the right thing and saved one soul.
The second is a counter example. When young Moses leaves the palace, he sees an Egyptian taskmaster beating a Hebrew slave. What does he do? He kills the taskmaster. Although his righteous anger is justified, his actions cannot serve as an example for us. We are not Moses.
We cannot, and must not, take the law into our own hands and most especially try to mete out punishment—however deserving it may be. That is for the courts—however imperfect they be. And that is for God—however mysterious God’s actions might appear.
Moses then runs from Egypt and makes his way to Midian. And there he defends seven women and offers us a third and oftentimes overlooked example. These women were being accosted by local shepherds who prevented them from drawing the water from the well. The Torah states: “Moses rose up and saved them, and he watered their flock.” This points us to an important character trait that we must foster if we are to stand up against injustice. That is rising up. Vayakom! Stand up. Take notice of when others are being hurt—or as my seventh graders suggested, stand up against bullying. Do something. It can be a simple as making sure these women had enough water to defending a friend, or a stranger, against hurtful words.
And this brings me to the Torah’s final example and the last bit of advice for this weekend’s sacred day. When Pharaoh proclaims that Hebrew boys must be drown in the Nile, Moses’ mother and sister wrap him in a basket after they realize they can hide him no longer. There he is found by none other than Pharaoh’s own daughter. When she discovers the child, she says the most remarkable of things. She opens the basket and states, “This must be a Hebrew child.” And since you have seen the movies, and read the book, you know what happens next. She then raises this baby as her own. The Torah makes explicit what we surmise. It states, “She takes pity on the child.” She does so even though knowing full well that it is contrary to her father’s rulings. She saves this slave child. She ensures that the Torah’s story is a story about salvation. It does begin with the saving of one soul.
Moreover, Pharaoh’s daughter is the one who names the hero of our entire Torah. She calls him, Moses, meaning he was drawn out of the water. Have you ever reflected on this? We read the Five Books of Moses. Moses is named by the daughter of the chief villain of our tale. And we never learn the name of Pharaoh’s daughter. She is our unnamed savior! And she is the person who ensures our redemption from Egypt.
Bryan Stevenson argues that the answer to injustices is that we must get proximate. He does not mean that we have to get near the problem, but instead that we have to get near the person. We have to take note of the person who is wronged or who is suffering. We have to take note like Pharaoh’s daughter did. She opened the basket and looked inside! We must draw near. We have to stand up like Moses did.
We can travel through our beloved Long Island pretending that such injustices do not exist. Or we can stand up and take note. We can think our homes small as we peruse the paper’s real estate section and say we don’t live in palace like Pharaoh’s daughter so how can her example apply to us? Or we can realize that our homes, and our privileges, and our luxuries, are far more than what billions of people throughout the world, and the millions in our nation, have and therefore take a cue from this unnamed princess. Rather than raise our voices, we can quietly help others.
Rise up. Take note. There is at least one soul that we can save. And even though your name might likewise remain unrecorded the book that soul writes might very well change the world.
May we find the strength to rise up and take note.
This weekend we mark Martin Luther King Jr Day and so I wish to reflect on the lessons we can, and should, draw from Reverend King’s example. He fought, and died, so that African Americans might achieve equal rights in this nation that promises equal rights for all. That struggle continues. The promise remains unfulfilled.
A few years ago, I travelled with a number of rabbis to Montgomery, Alabama to visit the Legacy Museum and the National Memorial for Peace and Justice. This remarkable, and stirring, museum was inspired by Bryan Stevenson who founded the Equal Justice Initiative that fights for those who are wrongly incarcerated. Among its more startling exhibits are soil remains from sites where Blacks were lynched and terrorized. There were photographs on the museum walls showing how snacks were distributed to those who attended these lynchings. Children were brought by parents to these hangings as if these acts of terror constituted proper entertainment. Such lynchings occurred in our country into the 1950’s.
As one leaves the museum and memorial, one confronts rows of copper metal slabs with the names of Southern towns etched on their surface. These are where such horrors occurred. These bear witness to the locations of past lynchings. A sign indicates the purpose and intention of these rows and rows of slabs. They are for the towns to claim and erect in their squares. Then they might confront their past. Only by acknowledging past wrongs can we build the better future that Martin Luther King dreamed about. None of these has yet to be claimed. Bryan Stevenson remarked, “I’m not interested in talking about America’s history because I want to punish America. I want to liberate America.”
We have much work to be done. Our nation can do better. It must do better. The fight against injustice continues. It did not end when Martin Luther King gave his famous “I Have a Dream Speech.” It did not end when George Floyd was killed and many of us first started talking about the racial inequalities that undergird American society. The struggle did not begin in those moments. We became aware of the struggle. To be honest, most of us, including myself, have not even entered this struggle. It was something we were engaged with a few years ago but have by and large moved on from. The struggle continues. And so, on this Martin Luther King Jr Day I wish to reflect on our role in this ongoing struggle. Discrimination is real. Racism in America is a pervasive force. What are we to do?
My seventh graders tackled this question last night when we discussed Martin Luther King’s legacy. We spoke about what he was fighting for. I then asked them if they would be willing to get arrested like King did. They said, “No.” I was of course glad that was their answer, and I affirmed their commitments. I wonder. If we are not willing to get arrested, if we are not willing to take up the call of civil disobedience what can we do? As always, I turned to the Torah for some answers. Let us look to the Torah. This week we begin the Book of Exodus which tells many familiar stories. There are in fact several telling examples from this week’s portion. They point us in the direction of how we might begin to fight injustices.
The first example is that of the Hebrew midwives, Shifrah and Puah, who disobeyed Pharaoh’s edict to kill the Hebrew baby boys. Theirs is the first example of civil disobedience. They do not thunder like Reverend King about how wrong and immoral Pharaoh’s laws are. Instead, they simply disobey. They offer contrived excuses to Pharaoh when he confronts them. They say, “Before the midwife can come to the Hebrew women, they have given birth.” Why do they do this? The Torah explains why. They fear God. They fear, and revere, what you are supposed to. They look not to Pharaoh but instead to God. They do what is right. They save the children.
There are countless examples of people doing such acts throughout the world’s tortured history. In fact, the most common denominator among those who were righteous gentiles and saved Jews during the Holocaust was that they were simple, pious people. They were the ordinary folk and the ordinary heroes. It was not always the prophets who thundered about injustices. More often than not it was people such as Shifrah and Puah who just did the right thing and saved one soul.
The second is a counter example. When young Moses leaves the palace, he sees an Egyptian taskmaster beating a Hebrew slave. What does he do? He kills the taskmaster. Although his righteous anger is justified, his actions cannot serve as an example for us. We are not Moses.
We cannot, and must not, take the law into our own hands and most especially try to mete out punishment—however deserving it may be. That is for the courts—however imperfect they be. And that is for God—however mysterious God’s actions might appear.
Moses then runs from Egypt and makes his way to Midian. And there he defends seven women and offers us a third and oftentimes overlooked example. These women were being accosted by local shepherds who prevented them from drawing the water from the well. The Torah states: “Moses rose up and saved them, and he watered their flock.” This points us to an important character trait that we must foster if we are to stand up against injustice. That is rising up. Vayakom! Stand up. Take notice of when others are being hurt—or as my seventh graders suggested, stand up against bullying. Do something. It can be a simple as making sure these women had enough water to defending a friend, or a stranger, against hurtful words.
And this brings me to the Torah’s final example and the last bit of advice for this weekend’s sacred day. When Pharaoh proclaims that Hebrew boys must be drown in the Nile, Moses’ mother and sister wrap him in a basket after they realize they can hide him no longer. There he is found by none other than Pharaoh’s own daughter. When she discovers the child, she says the most remarkable of things. She opens the basket and states, “This must be a Hebrew child.” And since you have seen the movies, and read the book, you know what happens next. She then raises this baby as her own. The Torah makes explicit what we surmise. It states, “She takes pity on the child.” She does so even though knowing full well that it is contrary to her father’s rulings. She saves this slave child. She ensures that the Torah’s story is a story about salvation. It does begin with the saving of one soul.
Moreover, Pharaoh’s daughter is the one who names the hero of our entire Torah. She calls him, Moses, meaning he was drawn out of the water. Have you ever reflected on this? We read the Five Books of Moses. Moses is named by the daughter of the chief villain of our tale. And we never learn the name of Pharaoh’s daughter. She is our unnamed savior! And she is the person who ensures our redemption from Egypt.
Bryan Stevenson argues that the answer to injustices is that we must get proximate. He does not mean that we have to get near the problem, but instead that we have to get near the person. We have to take note of the person who is wronged or who is suffering. We have to take note like Pharaoh’s daughter did. She opened the basket and looked inside! We must draw near. We have to stand up like Moses did.
We can travel through our beloved Long Island pretending that such injustices do not exist. Or we can stand up and take note. We can think our homes small as we peruse the paper’s real estate section and say we don’t live in palace like Pharaoh’s daughter so how can her example apply to us? Or we can realize that our homes, and our privileges, and our luxuries, are far more than what billions of people throughout the world, and the millions in our nation, have and therefore take a cue from this unnamed princess. Rather than raise our voices, we can quietly help others.
Rise up. Take note. There is at least one soul that we can save. And even though your name might likewise remain unrecorded the book that soul writes might very well change the world.
May we find the strength to rise up and take note.
Eternal Struggles
Leon Wieseltier writes:
The Bible details laws about how one must treat slaves. Hebrew slaves are accorded more rights than others. We read, “When you acquire a Hebrew slave, that person shall serve six years—and shall go free in the seventh year, without payment.” (Exodus 21) Slavery endures. It was not eradicated with the Exodus. Its abolition remains our sacred task.
Likewise, the civil war did not end discrimination against African Americans. Racism continues. The defeat of Nazi tyranny did not eliminate the hatred of Jews and Judaism. Antisemitism gains new life in our own day.
These are struggles that span generations. Wieseltier counsels that our error is treating these as problems for which we can find practical—or technological—fixes rather than girding ourselves for life-long fights. I ponder his advice.
Does this new-found revelation lead to despair? World War II was only a battle? The Civil War a skirmish? The magnitude of these struggles can lead to a despondent spirit. Where can I discover a measure of hopefulness?
History’s timeline is long and its struggles are mighty. I recognize that I may not see the day when slavery ends. I may not witness antisemitism eradicated. I may never behold a time when war and bloodshed cease.
Their absence remains my hope. The fight against discrimination, antisemitism and violence must forever remain our struggles.
This is why patience and character are the most necessary of requirements.
There are problems and there are struggles. Problems have solutions; struggles have outcomes. Problems are technical; struggles are historical. Problems recur; struggles persist. Problems teach impatience; struggles teach patience. Problems are fixed; struggles are fought. Problems require skill; struggles require character. Problems demand knowledge; struggles demand wisdom. Problems may end; struggles may not end. A problem that does not end is a defeat or a failure; a struggle that does not end is a responsibility and a legacy.We turn to the Book of Exodus. It details our enslavement in Egypt and then our miraculous rescue from slavery. And yet our freedom does not end the institution of slavery. In fact, the Bible’s record is mixed. Even though the injustice and cruelty of the Israelites’ slavery are remedied, slavery continues.
The Bible details laws about how one must treat slaves. Hebrew slaves are accorded more rights than others. We read, “When you acquire a Hebrew slave, that person shall serve six years—and shall go free in the seventh year, without payment.” (Exodus 21) Slavery endures. It was not eradicated with the Exodus. Its abolition remains our sacred task.
Likewise, the civil war did not end discrimination against African Americans. Racism continues. The defeat of Nazi tyranny did not eliminate the hatred of Jews and Judaism. Antisemitism gains new life in our own day.
These are struggles that span generations. Wieseltier counsels that our error is treating these as problems for which we can find practical—or technological—fixes rather than girding ourselves for life-long fights. I ponder his advice.
Does this new-found revelation lead to despair? World War II was only a battle? The Civil War a skirmish? The magnitude of these struggles can lead to a despondent spirit. Where can I discover a measure of hopefulness?
History’s timeline is long and its struggles are mighty. I recognize that I may not see the day when slavery ends. I may not witness antisemitism eradicated. I may never behold a time when war and bloodshed cease.
Their absence remains my hope. The fight against discrimination, antisemitism and violence must forever remain our struggles.
This is why patience and character are the most necessary of requirements.
Reverend Martin Luther King Jr thundered:
The dream continues. The struggle endures.
The responsibility is eternal.
Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quick sands of racial injustice to the solid rock of .brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.Now is still the time. Now will forever be the time.
The dream continues. The struggle endures.
The responsibility is eternal.
Our True Jewish Identity
The English term Jew originates in the Hebrew Yehudi, meaning from the tribe of Judah. This week we read, “The scepter shall not depart from Judah, nor the ruler’s staff from between his feet; so that tribute shall come to him, and the homage of peoples be his.” (Genesis 49)
Judah was one of Jacob’s eldest sons. Each of these sons gave birth to one of the twelve tribes. Some 3,000 year ago, after the death of King Solomon, the northern kingdom of Israel, comprising the territory of ten of these tribes, was conquered by the Assyrians, which led to their absorption into the Assyrian empire or their integration into the southern kingdom. This southern kingdom of Judah was formed by the combination of the tribes of Judah and Benjamin. Eventually the tribe of Benjamin was likewise absorbed and thus Judah’s descendants came to dominant the ancient landscape and the future Jewish story.
To be a Jew is to trace one’s lineage or connection to this tribe of Judah. To be Jewish is perhaps a different matter. It can be at times confusing and confounding.
George Santos, our rightfully embattled incoming representative, contorts the term, and defames those who take pride in their Jewish identities as well as those who believe honesty—at least about oneself—is a prerequisite to service, to mean that he is only somewhat Jewish. He appears to believe that an invented biographical detail about having one Jewish grandparent allows him to make a partial claim on being a Jew.
Can one’s Jewish identity be partial?
For millennia we have debated the meaning of these terms and argued about our identities. (This controversy did not start with Santos!) What does being Jewish mean? What does saying, “I am a Jew!” convey?
We can hear our brethren suggesting that some people are members of the tribe and others are not. In today’s Israel, these debates will soon emerge anew, and we will once again fight (and I expect, vociferously) about who is a Jew. Ultra-Orthodox rabbis will argue that only a person who is born to a Jewish mother or converted to Judaism according to the strictures of Jewish law should be welcomed as an immigrant in the State of Israel.
I have sometimes been called to attest to such matters. Recently I was asked to affirm the Jewish identity of a student who is making aliya and moving to Israel. I had to state that his mother is Jewish. I did so happily. And yet, this definition feels unsatisfactory. The rabbis authored this innovation some 2,000 years ago at a time when the mother’s identity was clear, but the father’s might be more difficult to ascertain. When Roman soldiers, for example, raped Jewish women, the rabbis’ decision to trace one’s lineage from the father to the mother was an act of compassion. It brought people into the community who otherwise would have been written out.
Now it may have the oppositive effect.
Recognizing this, the Reform movement shifted the emphasis from birth to practice in the 1980’s. It proclaimed that if someone has one Jewish parent and identifies as a Jew, they should be considered Jewish. And while this definition makes it more difficult to size people up and makes what was once a clear and decisive line gray, it is more in keeping with who we really are.
To be a Jew is about what we do. We are defined by our actions. Maybe we should spend less time sizing other people up and more time thinking about how we want to assert our own Jewish identities.
In Abraham’s time the term used was not “Yehudi—Jew” but instead, “Ivri—Hebrew”. This word is more about what defined Abraham rather than about his birth father or mother. Ivri comes from the term to cross over. Abraham and Sarah moved from Ur to the land of Canaan. He travelled from one place to another. Why?
Because God called to him and commanded him to go. In response, he moved to a better place. He found there a life of meaning—or perhaps he found this on the way. He took matters into his own hands. And he was defined by his journey.
Our Jewish identities might begin with what our parents give us (or they may not), but they must always be defined by what we do. It is not enough to call ourselves a Jew, or a member of the tribe. We must seek instead to move the world as Abraham’s journey did. We must be called Jew by the noble actions we perform.
Only then will tribute come to us and the homage of peoples be ours.
Judah was one of Jacob’s eldest sons. Each of these sons gave birth to one of the twelve tribes. Some 3,000 year ago, after the death of King Solomon, the northern kingdom of Israel, comprising the territory of ten of these tribes, was conquered by the Assyrians, which led to their absorption into the Assyrian empire or their integration into the southern kingdom. This southern kingdom of Judah was formed by the combination of the tribes of Judah and Benjamin. Eventually the tribe of Benjamin was likewise absorbed and thus Judah’s descendants came to dominant the ancient landscape and the future Jewish story.
To be a Jew is to trace one’s lineage or connection to this tribe of Judah. To be Jewish is perhaps a different matter. It can be at times confusing and confounding.
George Santos, our rightfully embattled incoming representative, contorts the term, and defames those who take pride in their Jewish identities as well as those who believe honesty—at least about oneself—is a prerequisite to service, to mean that he is only somewhat Jewish. He appears to believe that an invented biographical detail about having one Jewish grandparent allows him to make a partial claim on being a Jew.
Can one’s Jewish identity be partial?
For millennia we have debated the meaning of these terms and argued about our identities. (This controversy did not start with Santos!) What does being Jewish mean? What does saying, “I am a Jew!” convey?
We can hear our brethren suggesting that some people are members of the tribe and others are not. In today’s Israel, these debates will soon emerge anew, and we will once again fight (and I expect, vociferously) about who is a Jew. Ultra-Orthodox rabbis will argue that only a person who is born to a Jewish mother or converted to Judaism according to the strictures of Jewish law should be welcomed as an immigrant in the State of Israel.
I have sometimes been called to attest to such matters. Recently I was asked to affirm the Jewish identity of a student who is making aliya and moving to Israel. I had to state that his mother is Jewish. I did so happily. And yet, this definition feels unsatisfactory. The rabbis authored this innovation some 2,000 years ago at a time when the mother’s identity was clear, but the father’s might be more difficult to ascertain. When Roman soldiers, for example, raped Jewish women, the rabbis’ decision to trace one’s lineage from the father to the mother was an act of compassion. It brought people into the community who otherwise would have been written out.
Now it may have the oppositive effect.
Recognizing this, the Reform movement shifted the emphasis from birth to practice in the 1980’s. It proclaimed that if someone has one Jewish parent and identifies as a Jew, they should be considered Jewish. And while this definition makes it more difficult to size people up and makes what was once a clear and decisive line gray, it is more in keeping with who we really are.
To be a Jew is about what we do. We are defined by our actions. Maybe we should spend less time sizing other people up and more time thinking about how we want to assert our own Jewish identities.
In Abraham’s time the term used was not “Yehudi—Jew” but instead, “Ivri—Hebrew”. This word is more about what defined Abraham rather than about his birth father or mother. Ivri comes from the term to cross over. Abraham and Sarah moved from Ur to the land of Canaan. He travelled from one place to another. Why?
Because God called to him and commanded him to go. In response, he moved to a better place. He found there a life of meaning—or perhaps he found this on the way. He took matters into his own hands. And he was defined by his journey.
Our Jewish identities might begin with what our parents give us (or they may not), but they must always be defined by what we do. It is not enough to call ourselves a Jew, or a member of the tribe. We must seek instead to move the world as Abraham’s journey did. We must be called Jew by the noble actions we perform.
Only then will tribute come to us and the homage of peoples be ours.
Foreshadowing Our Concern
Joseph’s story mirrors what will soon happen to the Israelites. Joseph is imprisoned in Egypt. The Israelites are later enslaved by Pharaoh.
The Torah offers hints of what it is to come. The Book of Genesis foretells the travails of Exodus.
When Joseph realizes that his brothers have changed and this time stand up to protect their younger brother Benjamin rather than selling him into slavery as they did to Joseph earlier, Joseph breaks down and cries. He reveals himself to his brothers, saying, “I am your brother Joseph, he whom you sold into Egypt. Now, do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me here; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you.” (Genesis 45)
The Torah relates: “His sobs were so loud that the Egyptians could hear, and so the news reached Pharaoh’s palace.” Hints appear. They point toward later events.
In Exodus we read, “The Israelites were groaning under the bondage and cried out; and their cry for help from the bondage rose up to God.” (Exodus 2)
Look at the contrast. Take note of the hints.
Pharaoh ignores Joseph’s cries. He is indifferent to the Israelites’ pain. He turns aside from the suffering and pain he causes.
God is attuned to our pain. “God looked upon the Israelites, and God took notice of them.”
The Psalmist concurs: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; those crushed in spirit God delivers.” (Psalm 34)
And I am left wondering about these hints.
Are we more like Pharaoh who turns away from the cries around us? And are we likewise responsible for a measure of this suffering?
Or are we more like God who is forever attuned to the multitude of broken hearts?
Let us turn inward and resolve. Can we become more like God? Can we become more attentive to pain?
The Torah offers hints of what it is to come. The Book of Genesis foretells the travails of Exodus.
When Joseph realizes that his brothers have changed and this time stand up to protect their younger brother Benjamin rather than selling him into slavery as they did to Joseph earlier, Joseph breaks down and cries. He reveals himself to his brothers, saying, “I am your brother Joseph, he whom you sold into Egypt. Now, do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me here; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you.” (Genesis 45)
The Torah relates: “His sobs were so loud that the Egyptians could hear, and so the news reached Pharaoh’s palace.” Hints appear. They point toward later events.
In Exodus we read, “The Israelites were groaning under the bondage and cried out; and their cry for help from the bondage rose up to God.” (Exodus 2)
Look at the contrast. Take note of the hints.
Pharaoh ignores Joseph’s cries. He is indifferent to the Israelites’ pain. He turns aside from the suffering and pain he causes.
God is attuned to our pain. “God looked upon the Israelites, and God took notice of them.”
The Psalmist concurs: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; those crushed in spirit God delivers.” (Psalm 34)
And I am left wondering about these hints.
Are we more like Pharaoh who turns away from the cries around us? And are we likewise responsible for a measure of this suffering?
Or are we more like God who is forever attuned to the multitude of broken hearts?
Let us turn inward and resolve. Can we become more like God? Can we become more attentive to pain?
Hanukkah’s Unwanted Miracles
In Israel the dreidel’s phrase shifts. One word changes from there to here. It reads “a great miracle happened here.” There creates distance. Here denotes an intimacy with the events of the past. I am wondering if this is a good thing. When it comes to miracles does being “here” become intoxicating?
I am back where it all happened. And I have returned to where it is again happening. No matter how many times I visit Israel, it is a privilege to be here. It is an unparalleled blessing to live in this age alongside the sovereign Jewish state of Israel.
And yet, I find myself worrying. Can the past overwhelm the present and begin to suffocate the future?
There is a strain of Jewish thought that was once minor that I fear is becoming major. You can hear it in the medieval thinker Yehuda Halevi who argued that there is something special in the Jewish soul and that when combined with the land of Israel results in prophecy. It flows through Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook the first chief rabbi of British controlled Palestine who saw the holiness of the land above all else.
You hear their thinking more today. It is the result of what happens when the miracles of yesterday begin to be felt today…
I am back where it all happened. And I have returned to where it is again happening. No matter how many times I visit Israel, it is a privilege to be here. It is an unparalleled blessing to live in this age alongside the sovereign Jewish state of Israel.
And yet, I find myself worrying. Can the past overwhelm the present and begin to suffocate the future?
There is a strain of Jewish thought that was once minor that I fear is becoming major. You can hear it in the medieval thinker Yehuda Halevi who argued that there is something special in the Jewish soul and that when combined with the land of Israel results in prophecy. It flows through Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook the first chief rabbi of British controlled Palestine who saw the holiness of the land above all else.
You hear their thinking more today. It is the result of what happens when the miracles of yesterday begin to be felt today…
Hanukkah's Freedoms
A great miracle happened there. These words are part of Hanukkah’s essence and the phrase the dreidel’s letters point us toward.
Thousands of years ago the Maccabees fought against oppressors who persecuted our ancestors, prohibited Jewish practice and desecrated Jerusalem’s holy Temple. When the Maccabees succeeded in their fight, they rededicated the Temple to Jewish prayer and instituted our holiday of Hanukkah.
In their eight-day long dedication ceremony, they rejoiced that Jews could once again freely acknowledge their faith. We continue to celebrate the Maccabees’ achievements and mark this holiday of Hanukkah every year with the lighting of the menorah, the playing of dreidel and the eating of latkes or sufganiyot (jelly donuts).
On each successive night we light one more candle as the miracle increases. We recall that during Hanukkah’s first celebration we did not know if the oil would last for the requisite eight days. The increasing miracle, and the growing light, dispels our worries.
Hanukkah is about the freedom to celebrate our Judaism. Is this miracle enough? This holiday reminds us that we can proudly proclaim our Jewish faith in a world where our Jewish identities are sometimes demeaned, and other times begrudged us. In the face of mounting antisemitism and hate, this year’s Hanukkah has taken on new meaning and additional import. We must take up the Maccabees’ resolve.
On Saturday, the cantor and I participated in Oyster Bay’s holiday festival. The focus of the festivities was of course the lighting of the Christmas tree and as far as the hundreds of children in attendance were concerned, Santa Claus riding in on a fire truck. And yet, I remain grateful that town officials asked us to participate and wanted to display a Hanukkah menorah alongside the tree. I am grateful that they invited me to speak and the cantor to sing.
We can dwell on the alarming increase in antisemitism, or we can focus on Saturday’s events. In Oyster Bay our neighbors go to great effort to make us feel welcome. Here we are made to feel invited. We are asked to display a menorah. We are asked to erect the symbol of our faith alongside other people’s.
Here we can proudly declare our Jewish faith to others. On this Hanukkah we celebrate the freedom to celebrate our Jewish faith. We proclaim that in this blessed place we can celebrate all faiths. And when we are not made to feel welcome or when we notice other people’s faiths cast aside, we must take up the Maccabees’ cause and fight to make sure that all can freely celebrate their faiths.
That is Hanukkah’s true essence. And that miracle remains in our hands.
Thousands of years ago the Maccabees fought against oppressors who persecuted our ancestors, prohibited Jewish practice and desecrated Jerusalem’s holy Temple. When the Maccabees succeeded in their fight, they rededicated the Temple to Jewish prayer and instituted our holiday of Hanukkah.
In their eight-day long dedication ceremony, they rejoiced that Jews could once again freely acknowledge their faith. We continue to celebrate the Maccabees’ achievements and mark this holiday of Hanukkah every year with the lighting of the menorah, the playing of dreidel and the eating of latkes or sufganiyot (jelly donuts).
On each successive night we light one more candle as the miracle increases. We recall that during Hanukkah’s first celebration we did not know if the oil would last for the requisite eight days. The increasing miracle, and the growing light, dispels our worries.
Hanukkah is about the freedom to celebrate our Judaism. Is this miracle enough? This holiday reminds us that we can proudly proclaim our Jewish faith in a world where our Jewish identities are sometimes demeaned, and other times begrudged us. In the face of mounting antisemitism and hate, this year’s Hanukkah has taken on new meaning and additional import. We must take up the Maccabees’ resolve.
On Saturday, the cantor and I participated in Oyster Bay’s holiday festival. The focus of the festivities was of course the lighting of the Christmas tree and as far as the hundreds of children in attendance were concerned, Santa Claus riding in on a fire truck. And yet, I remain grateful that town officials asked us to participate and wanted to display a Hanukkah menorah alongside the tree. I am grateful that they invited me to speak and the cantor to sing.
We can dwell on the alarming increase in antisemitism, or we can focus on Saturday’s events. In Oyster Bay our neighbors go to great effort to make us feel welcome. Here we are made to feel invited. We are asked to display a menorah. We are asked to erect the symbol of our faith alongside other people’s.
Here we can proudly declare our Jewish faith to others. On this Hanukkah we celebrate the freedom to celebrate our Jewish faith. We proclaim that in this blessed place we can celebrate all faiths. And when we are not made to feel welcome or when we notice other people’s faiths cast aside, we must take up the Maccabees’ cause and fight to make sure that all can freely celebrate their faiths.
That is Hanukkah’s true essence. And that miracle remains in our hands.
Silenced No More
Dinah, Jacob’s only daughter, never speaks.
The Torah is also silent about the meaning of her name. When a son is born, we read for example the words of Leah, “God has given me a choice gift; this time my husband will exalt me for I have borne him six sons. So she named him Zebulun.” Regarding Dinah, the Torah is succinct. “Last, Leah bore Jacob a daughter, and named her Dinah.” (Genesis 30)
Our Bible silences Dinah.
This week we read a harrowing tale. We confront the story of how Dinah is raped.
“And Shechem son of Hamor the Hivite, the prince of the land, saw Dinah; he took her and lay with her: he forced her.” (Genesis 34)
Her father, and brothers, turn away from Dinah. They are filled with rage. They suggest that Shechem can marry Dinah if he and his fellow townsmen become circumcised. Shechem agrees. The townsmen follow their prince’s lead. Then when they are recovering from their circumcisions, the brothers kill Shechem and slaughter the townsmen.
And how does Jacob respond? He says to his sons, “You have stirred up disaster for me, making me reek among the people of the land. For I am few in number; they will band together against me and strike me, and I will be wiped out, I and my household!”
Jacob does not speak with Dinah. The brothers do not try to console their sister after she is raped. Our forefathers worry more about themselves and their own reputations.
Recently I watched the movie, “She Said,” about The New York Times investigation of Harvey Weinstein. The reporters, Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey, spend considerable time and energy convincing women to speak out and share their stories of rape and sexual harassment. These women are weary and trepidatious. They are silenced.
Few want to listen. The culture urges them to keep silent. Often, they feel they are somehow to blame for what was done to them. The enablers are many and varied.
The name Dinah means judgment.
I am left wondering.
Is judgment too often silenced?
Are we complicit in this silencing?
I resolve.
We must raise our voices and ask, "How can Dinah be heard?”
The Torah is also silent about the meaning of her name. When a son is born, we read for example the words of Leah, “God has given me a choice gift; this time my husband will exalt me for I have borne him six sons. So she named him Zebulun.” Regarding Dinah, the Torah is succinct. “Last, Leah bore Jacob a daughter, and named her Dinah.” (Genesis 30)
Our Bible silences Dinah.
This week we read a harrowing tale. We confront the story of how Dinah is raped.
“And Shechem son of Hamor the Hivite, the prince of the land, saw Dinah; he took her and lay with her: he forced her.” (Genesis 34)
Her father, and brothers, turn away from Dinah. They are filled with rage. They suggest that Shechem can marry Dinah if he and his fellow townsmen become circumcised. Shechem agrees. The townsmen follow their prince’s lead. Then when they are recovering from their circumcisions, the brothers kill Shechem and slaughter the townsmen.
And how does Jacob respond? He says to his sons, “You have stirred up disaster for me, making me reek among the people of the land. For I am few in number; they will band together against me and strike me, and I will be wiped out, I and my household!”
Jacob does not speak with Dinah. The brothers do not try to console their sister after she is raped. Our forefathers worry more about themselves and their own reputations.
Recently I watched the movie, “She Said,” about The New York Times investigation of Harvey Weinstein. The reporters, Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey, spend considerable time and energy convincing women to speak out and share their stories of rape and sexual harassment. These women are weary and trepidatious. They are silenced.
Few want to listen. The culture urges them to keep silent. Often, they feel they are somehow to blame for what was done to them. The enablers are many and varied.
The name Dinah means judgment.
I am left wondering.
Is judgment too often silenced?
Are we complicit in this silencing?
I resolve.
We must raise our voices and ask, "How can Dinah be heard?”
Journey Here, Journey Now
The poet David Whyte writes:
Pilgrim is a word that accurately describes the average human being; someone on their way somewhere else, but someone never quite knowing whether the destination or the path stands first in importance; someone who underneath it all doesn't quite understand from whence or from where their next bite of bread will come, someone dependent on help from absolute strangers and from those who travel with them. Most of all, a pilgrim is someone abroad in a world of impending revelation where something is about to happen.
Likewise, one of the Torah’s great themes is that of journeying. We are traveling to a place (the land of Israel) to which we never fully arrive. And when our patriarchs do arrive at this long sought-after destination their arrival proves only temporary.
Our arrival always remains unfulfilled. The destination remains but a dream.
This week, we discover Jacob who becomes Israel is forever journeying.
The young Jacob is now on the run after deceiving his father Isaac and tricking his brother Esau out of the birthright. He is rightly terrified Esau might kill him and so sets out on a journey to his mother’s hometown. Somewhere on his way to Haran from Beersheva, he stops for the night. God appears to him in a dream.
We do not know where Jacob stops. The Torah reports: “He came upon a certain place and stopped there for the night, for the sun had set.” (Genesis 28) And yet it is here, in this apparently nondescript place, that he experiences God and gains reassurance from God’s promise.
This place is of course not located in an ordinary place. It is found in the promised land of Israel. “The ground on which you are lying I will assign to you and to your offspring.” We do not know its GPS coordinates. We might not know where exactly Jacob rested for night and where he experienced God. We do know that it lies within the borders of the promised land.
Perhaps this place is not as nondescript as we were first led to believe.
The story concludes with the most curious of lines. “He named that site Bethel (meaning the house of God) but previously the name of the city had been Luz.”
Jacob arrived at a city? How did he not know this? Why did he sleep on the cold, desert floor when he was in fact in a city? Was he too exhausted to find lodging? Was he too distracted to search for bread from a stranger? Why is this detail only revealed in the story’s conclusion?
Did Jacob’s fear prevent him from seeing that he was within this city all along?
Perhaps the Torah’s message is that we have already arrived but don’t know it. Our fears prevent us from seeing. Again and again, we refuse to open our eyes to the revelations standing right in front of us.
Traveling is great. Our get-togethers with friends are often filled with such tales of adventure. “You have to go to Mexico City. Our trip to London was fantastic.” Often, we set out on such trips to discover meaning and find beauty.
Then again, maybe we are already where we need to travel.
Our journey is not about going somewhere. It is instead about discovering inspiration here and now.
The journey is where we stand. Now!
Our arrival always remains unfulfilled. The destination remains but a dream.
This week, we discover Jacob who becomes Israel is forever journeying.
The young Jacob is now on the run after deceiving his father Isaac and tricking his brother Esau out of the birthright. He is rightly terrified Esau might kill him and so sets out on a journey to his mother’s hometown. Somewhere on his way to Haran from Beersheva, he stops for the night. God appears to him in a dream.
We do not know where Jacob stops. The Torah reports: “He came upon a certain place and stopped there for the night, for the sun had set.” (Genesis 28) And yet it is here, in this apparently nondescript place, that he experiences God and gains reassurance from God’s promise.
This place is of course not located in an ordinary place. It is found in the promised land of Israel. “The ground on which you are lying I will assign to you and to your offspring.” We do not know its GPS coordinates. We might not know where exactly Jacob rested for night and where he experienced God. We do know that it lies within the borders of the promised land.
Perhaps this place is not as nondescript as we were first led to believe.
The story concludes with the most curious of lines. “He named that site Bethel (meaning the house of God) but previously the name of the city had been Luz.”
Jacob arrived at a city? How did he not know this? Why did he sleep on the cold, desert floor when he was in fact in a city? Was he too exhausted to find lodging? Was he too distracted to search for bread from a stranger? Why is this detail only revealed in the story’s conclusion?
Did Jacob’s fear prevent him from seeing that he was within this city all along?
Perhaps the Torah’s message is that we have already arrived but don’t know it. Our fears prevent us from seeing. Again and again, we refuse to open our eyes to the revelations standing right in front of us.
Traveling is great. Our get-togethers with friends are often filled with such tales of adventure. “You have to go to Mexico City. Our trip to London was fantastic.” Often, we set out on such trips to discover meaning and find beauty.
Then again, maybe we are already where we need to travel.
Our journey is not about going somewhere. It is instead about discovering inspiration here and now.
The journey is where we stand. Now!
The Question Is the Sermon
The Hebrew word for sermon is drasha. It is derived from “l’drosh” meaning “to inquire” or “to expound.”
The Torah relates: “The children struggled in Rebekah’s womb, and she said, “If so, why do I exist? She went to inquire (l’drosh) of the Lord.” (Genesis 25)
Like Sarah before her and Rachel after her, Rebekah faces difficulty conceiving a child. God likewise intervenes and she miraculously becomes pregnant. Rebekah carries twin boys: Jacob and Esau. Their struggles, and battles, with each other begin before they are even born. And this causes their mother pain.
Is her distress physical or emotional?
I wonder. Why is pain the motivation for Rebekah’s question? Why does her struggle turn her towards God? Why does pain send us searching for answers from an unknowable being? Why do our struggles make us question our existence?
God responds to her inquiry: “Two nations are in your womb, two separate peoples shall issue from your body; one people shall be mightier than the other, and the older shall serve the younger.”
I remain perplexed. This is an answer to her pain? This justifies the struggle between Jacob and Esau? How can Rebekah’s torment ever be assuaged?
We pine after answers that cannot, and will not, arrive. And yet we must continue the inquiry. The question is the essence of who we are. The asking is what defines us.
Peter Cole, observes in his poem, “Notes on Bewilderment”:
At the heart of every sermon is a question. The beginning of learning is asking, “Why?”
Indeed! Why do I exist?
The Torah relates: “The children struggled in Rebekah’s womb, and she said, “If so, why do I exist? She went to inquire (l’drosh) of the Lord.” (Genesis 25)
Like Sarah before her and Rachel after her, Rebekah faces difficulty conceiving a child. God likewise intervenes and she miraculously becomes pregnant. Rebekah carries twin boys: Jacob and Esau. Their struggles, and battles, with each other begin before they are even born. And this causes their mother pain.
Is her distress physical or emotional?
I wonder. Why is pain the motivation for Rebekah’s question? Why does her struggle turn her towards God? Why does pain send us searching for answers from an unknowable being? Why do our struggles make us question our existence?
God responds to her inquiry: “Two nations are in your womb, two separate peoples shall issue from your body; one people shall be mightier than the other, and the older shall serve the younger.”
I remain perplexed. This is an answer to her pain? This justifies the struggle between Jacob and Esau? How can Rebekah’s torment ever be assuaged?
We pine after answers that cannot, and will not, arrive. And yet we must continue the inquiry. The question is the essence of who we are. The asking is what defines us.
Peter Cole, observes in his poem, “Notes on Bewilderment”:
Lord, goes the prayer, keep me from delusion.We pretend that God answers. We speak with far too many exclamation points. We would be better served by concluding with question marks.
Which really means allow my mind to be open
to all that comes my way, without bringing
ruin upon me—through fusion of things that are
distinct at heart. Keep me from conclusion.
At the heart of every sermon is a question. The beginning of learning is asking, “Why?”
Indeed! Why do I exist?
Don't Ask Google, Ask Grandma
Rabbi Ben Zoma asks, “Who is wise?” He answers his own question and responds. “The person who learns from every human being.” (Avot 4)
I am thinking about Ben Zoma and his teaching these days. Every day we read about the arrogance of tech wizards. Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg, to name but two, seem to believe that the unparalleled successes of Tesla and Facebook make them experts in every manner of things.
Will they learn? There is something to be said for leaning into the expertise of others. No one is expert in everything. Even starting a phenomenal company does not mean you can take over and improve another. Even creating a platform for over a billion users does not mean it will be used for good or that people will prefer the metaverse over the real world.
Experience matters. Years and years of living, and working, offer wisdom. There is something to be said for leaning into the experience of those older than us.
That is our tradition’s posture. Consult first what was said, and taught, long ago.
This week we read about Abraham and Sarah’s deaths. Sarah dies at 127 years and Abraham at the age of 175. He is called zakein which is usually translated as old. That makes sense because 175 is old by anyone’s measure. The rabbis, however, suggest that the Hebrew letters spelling out zakein, namely zayin, koof and nun point to an acronym, zeh kanah hokhmah—this one has acquired wisdom. In our tradition’s view old is synonymous with wise.
The older the book the better. The older the person the more wise.
I love gadgets and technology, but they are not wise. Even the smartest of gadgets is rendered stupid if there is no power or internet.
Soon we will be gathering around our Thanksgiving tables. Rather than scrolling through the latest TikTok videos or Instagram posts, perhaps we should drink in the wisdom of those gathered around us. Instead of asking Google to solve a debate swirling around our tables. Ask an elder. Listen to others.
Who is wise? The person who learns from every human being.
I am thinking about Ben Zoma and his teaching these days. Every day we read about the arrogance of tech wizards. Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg, to name but two, seem to believe that the unparalleled successes of Tesla and Facebook make them experts in every manner of things.
Will they learn? There is something to be said for leaning into the expertise of others. No one is expert in everything. Even starting a phenomenal company does not mean you can take over and improve another. Even creating a platform for over a billion users does not mean it will be used for good or that people will prefer the metaverse over the real world.
Experience matters. Years and years of living, and working, offer wisdom. There is something to be said for leaning into the experience of those older than us.
That is our tradition’s posture. Consult first what was said, and taught, long ago.
This week we read about Abraham and Sarah’s deaths. Sarah dies at 127 years and Abraham at the age of 175. He is called zakein which is usually translated as old. That makes sense because 175 is old by anyone’s measure. The rabbis, however, suggest that the Hebrew letters spelling out zakein, namely zayin, koof and nun point to an acronym, zeh kanah hokhmah—this one has acquired wisdom. In our tradition’s view old is synonymous with wise.
The older the book the better. The older the person the more wise.
I love gadgets and technology, but they are not wise. Even the smartest of gadgets is rendered stupid if there is no power or internet.
Soon we will be gathering around our Thanksgiving tables. Rather than scrolling through the latest TikTok videos or Instagram posts, perhaps we should drink in the wisdom of those gathered around us. Instead of asking Google to solve a debate swirling around our tables. Ask an elder. Listen to others.
Who is wise? The person who learns from every human being.
Bringing Justice and Healing
There are no parallels in ancient near eastern literature to the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. The Bible’s tale stands apart. Moreover, this episode in which these sinful cities are completely destroyed is referenced not only in this week’s portion but in several other instances in the Torah.
Rabbi Gunther Plaut (1912-2012), a Reform rabbi and author of an exhaustive commentary, argues that “only a historic cataclysm of startling proportions could have impressed itself so deeply on popular memory.” These cities were situated at the southern end of the Dead Sea. There, even the air is thick with the smell of salt and sulfur from its mineral deposits and formations. Listen to the tale. “The Lord rained upon Sodom and Gomorrah sulfurous fire.”
In addition, a fault line runs through this area, extending from Armenia to Central Africa. Scholars suggest, the rift valley is the result of a catastrophic earthquake. If its magnitude was significant, the earthquake could have raised the Dead Sea’s waters and flooded the valley, including the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah.
Perhaps there are natural explanations for this story. That is not, however, how the Torah frames this tale. Instead, it offers two related lessons. On the one hand, it is an illustration of the closeness of Abraham and God’s relationship. God thinks, “Shall I hide from Abraham what I am about to do since Abraham is to become a great and populous nation and all the nations of the earth are to bless themselves by him?” (Genesis 18) Abraham and God are partners. God does not wish to do much without conferring with him (and his descendants).
On the other hand, the Torah emphasizes that God’s justice is exacting. Abraham asks, “Far be it from You to do such a thing, to bring death upon the innocent as well as the guilty, so that innocent and guilty fare alike. Far be it from You! Shall not the Judge of all the earth deal justly?” Thus, the only reason why these cities were destroyed is because every single resident town is bent on evil. All try to accost (rape!) the messengers who have taken up shelter in Abraham’s nephew Lot’s home.
I wonder. Was this story written to justify a Pompei-like destruction of these biblical cities? To the Bible’s authors only one thing could justify the utter destruction they witnessed or were told about. All were sinners. If God’s justice is exacting and perfect, then read the signs. The cities were destroyed. Blame its residents! Only those who are deserving receive such punishment—unless, and only if, God’s mercy intervenes. Or, as in the case of Jonah and Nineveh, the people repent of their evil ways.
And yet, life does not follow such neat categorizations. It is easy to point fingers at others and say, “They must have deserved such punishment.” But I want no part of such finger pointing and casting judgment on others. Life, with its ups and downs, pains and sufferings, successes and even rewards, are not evidence of God’s love or God’s perfect justice.
Life is uneven. Pain cannot be justified.
The Torah is not about earthquakes. Our faith cannot, and should not, seek to justify hurricanes. Instead, it teaches that if we want justice (or something approaching perfection) we must partner with God. We must be open to this conversation.
Like Abraham we must listen for God’s call to “do justice, love mercy and walk humbly with God.” (Micah)
It might look like God’s punishment. One might be tempted to say, “They must have deserved this.” Instead, we must avoid such temptations. We must be open to asking, “How can I partner with God and bring God’s healing to the pain I see raining down.”
It was up to Abraham. It is up to us.
Rabbi Gunther Plaut (1912-2012), a Reform rabbi and author of an exhaustive commentary, argues that “only a historic cataclysm of startling proportions could have impressed itself so deeply on popular memory.” These cities were situated at the southern end of the Dead Sea. There, even the air is thick with the smell of salt and sulfur from its mineral deposits and formations. Listen to the tale. “The Lord rained upon Sodom and Gomorrah sulfurous fire.”
In addition, a fault line runs through this area, extending from Armenia to Central Africa. Scholars suggest, the rift valley is the result of a catastrophic earthquake. If its magnitude was significant, the earthquake could have raised the Dead Sea’s waters and flooded the valley, including the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah.
Perhaps there are natural explanations for this story. That is not, however, how the Torah frames this tale. Instead, it offers two related lessons. On the one hand, it is an illustration of the closeness of Abraham and God’s relationship. God thinks, “Shall I hide from Abraham what I am about to do since Abraham is to become a great and populous nation and all the nations of the earth are to bless themselves by him?” (Genesis 18) Abraham and God are partners. God does not wish to do much without conferring with him (and his descendants).
On the other hand, the Torah emphasizes that God’s justice is exacting. Abraham asks, “Far be it from You to do such a thing, to bring death upon the innocent as well as the guilty, so that innocent and guilty fare alike. Far be it from You! Shall not the Judge of all the earth deal justly?” Thus, the only reason why these cities were destroyed is because every single resident town is bent on evil. All try to accost (rape!) the messengers who have taken up shelter in Abraham’s nephew Lot’s home.
I wonder. Was this story written to justify a Pompei-like destruction of these biblical cities? To the Bible’s authors only one thing could justify the utter destruction they witnessed or were told about. All were sinners. If God’s justice is exacting and perfect, then read the signs. The cities were destroyed. Blame its residents! Only those who are deserving receive such punishment—unless, and only if, God’s mercy intervenes. Or, as in the case of Jonah and Nineveh, the people repent of their evil ways.
And yet, life does not follow such neat categorizations. It is easy to point fingers at others and say, “They must have deserved such punishment.” But I want no part of such finger pointing and casting judgment on others. Life, with its ups and downs, pains and sufferings, successes and even rewards, are not evidence of God’s love or God’s perfect justice.
Life is uneven. Pain cannot be justified.
The Torah is not about earthquakes. Our faith cannot, and should not, seek to justify hurricanes. Instead, it teaches that if we want justice (or something approaching perfection) we must partner with God. We must be open to this conversation.
Like Abraham we must listen for God’s call to “do justice, love mercy and walk humbly with God.” (Micah)
It might look like God’s punishment. One might be tempted to say, “They must have deserved this.” Instead, we must avoid such temptations. We must be open to asking, “How can I partner with God and bring God’s healing to the pain I see raining down.”
It was up to Abraham. It is up to us.
Who Is (Really) Rich
My brother called me and excitedly screamed. “Steve, I bought a lottery ticket. It’s up to 1.2 billion dollars!” “That’s great,” I said. “I am sure if you win, you will share it with your brother.” He retorted, “No can do. I already promised to buy the cashier a new car with my winnings.”
Rabbi ben Zoma taught: “Who is rich? Those who are happy with their portion.” (Pirke Avot) For the ancient rabbis wealth is about perspective. Happiness is not a matter of winning the lottery. It is instead about being content with one’s lot. It is about not pining after what others have.
To be fair. My brother has not lost perspective. His heart is truly filled with gratitude. I have great admiration for how hope rules his thoughts (and guides many of his sermons). Even 300 million to one odds will not deter him!
The Torah calls to Abraham, “Lech lecha. Go forth from your native land.” (Genesis 12). It goes on to describes our forefather as wealthy. “Now Abram was very rich in cattle, silver and gold.” (The Hebrew uses a curious phrase. “Avram kaved maod…” A literal rendition might instead read: Abram was very heavy with cattle, silver and gold. The Hebrew adds a layer of meaning. It suggests he was weighed down by his riches.
The plain meaning is clear. The journey on which God sends Abraham is difficult not only because he must leave his ancestral home but also because of all the riches he must carry with him. It is not easy to travel across the desert with so many belongings. It is not easy to shepherd a flock across the wilderness. Better to travel light. Abraham is unable to do so. And thus, he travels in stages. “And he proceeded by stages from the Negev as far as Bethel.”
Perhaps there is an even greater truth hidden within this verse. How do our riches weigh us down? How do they prevent us from seeing beyond ourselves?
Holocaust survivors tend to accumulate portable wealth. Some lack faith in financial institutions. Many do not purchase valuable paintings and sculptures. Instead, they buy jewelry and watches. Such items can be carried on a person if one is forced to flee. Jewels can be sewed into jacket liners if one needs to secret a family across borders. Such are the scars that survivors carry. They are always ready to escape.
And yet wealth can often be a stumbling block to change. We do not march forward for fear that we might lose our precious possessions. We worry how each and every decision might effect our riches.
Wealth is a matter of a perspective. Who is rich? Those who are happy with their portion.
Abraham is called righteous. Why? Because his accumulated wealth does not prevent him changing. It does not stand in the way of leaving his home and answering God’s call. All the riches in the world do not deter him from setting out on the journey that forever defines the Jewish people.
The rabbis teach. Righteousness is when wealth is transformed into obligation. For the righteous, wealth is indeed weighty. It is a call to use our riches for others and not just ourselves.
Wealth is not a privilege. It is instead a challenge. It is a call. “Lech lecha—Go forth!”
And may the lottery winner shower the world with riches.
Rabbi ben Zoma taught: “Who is rich? Those who are happy with their portion.” (Pirke Avot) For the ancient rabbis wealth is about perspective. Happiness is not a matter of winning the lottery. It is instead about being content with one’s lot. It is about not pining after what others have.
To be fair. My brother has not lost perspective. His heart is truly filled with gratitude. I have great admiration for how hope rules his thoughts (and guides many of his sermons). Even 300 million to one odds will not deter him!
The Torah calls to Abraham, “Lech lecha. Go forth from your native land.” (Genesis 12). It goes on to describes our forefather as wealthy. “Now Abram was very rich in cattle, silver and gold.” (The Hebrew uses a curious phrase. “Avram kaved maod…” A literal rendition might instead read: Abram was very heavy with cattle, silver and gold. The Hebrew adds a layer of meaning. It suggests he was weighed down by his riches.
The plain meaning is clear. The journey on which God sends Abraham is difficult not only because he must leave his ancestral home but also because of all the riches he must carry with him. It is not easy to travel across the desert with so many belongings. It is not easy to shepherd a flock across the wilderness. Better to travel light. Abraham is unable to do so. And thus, he travels in stages. “And he proceeded by stages from the Negev as far as Bethel.”
Perhaps there is an even greater truth hidden within this verse. How do our riches weigh us down? How do they prevent us from seeing beyond ourselves?
Holocaust survivors tend to accumulate portable wealth. Some lack faith in financial institutions. Many do not purchase valuable paintings and sculptures. Instead, they buy jewelry and watches. Such items can be carried on a person if one is forced to flee. Jewels can be sewed into jacket liners if one needs to secret a family across borders. Such are the scars that survivors carry. They are always ready to escape.
And yet wealth can often be a stumbling block to change. We do not march forward for fear that we might lose our precious possessions. We worry how each and every decision might effect our riches.
Wealth is a matter of a perspective. Who is rich? Those who are happy with their portion.
Abraham is called righteous. Why? Because his accumulated wealth does not prevent him changing. It does not stand in the way of leaving his home and answering God’s call. All the riches in the world do not deter him from setting out on the journey that forever defines the Jewish people.
The rabbis teach. Righteousness is when wealth is transformed into obligation. For the righteous, wealth is indeed weighty. It is a call to use our riches for others and not just ourselves.
Wealth is not a privilege. It is instead a challenge. It is a call. “Lech lecha—Go forth!”
And may the lottery winner shower the world with riches.