Parashat Ki Tavo, Deuteronomy 26:1-29:8

On behalf of Jack and Sam Markle...in memory of their parents Bessie Slywowicz and Sam Markle.

This week we are given an additional memory, that of the eternal outsider.

In the Lerner and Loewe musical My Fair Lady, Eliza Doolittle complains to the man wooing her: "Words! Words! Words! I'm so sick of words! I get words all day through…" She dares her suitor to put his words into action as is indicated by the title of this song: Show Me. While Eliza's focus is romance, her challenge of transforming words into action is at the heart of a familiar phrase found in this week's parashah.

Three little words in Deuteronomy 26:5 contain within them the catalyst for transforming words into action: arami oved avi, a seemingly simple phrase that is among the more ambiguous ones in the Torah. (This verse has been analyzed in detail in an earlier parashat hashavua.) Translations include "my father was a wandering Aramean.," "my father was a fugitive Aramean," "an Aramean caused my father to be lost," and "an Aramean tried to destroy my father."

Who is the father? Is it Abraham, who sojourned in Egypt for a while? Is it Jacob, who went down to Egypt with his family, seventy people in all? And who is the Aramean? No Aramean pursued Abraham; Laban pursued Jacob, and he was the son of Bethuel the Aramean.

This trio of words, which forms a central part of the Haggadah, has been challenging us throughout history. In the actual Torah portion, they are part of a ritual formula recited by the ancient Israelite farmer when bringing the offering of first fruits to the sanctuary:

When you enter the land that Adonai your God is giving you as a heritage, and you possess it and settle in it, you shall take some of every first fruit of the soil, which you harvest from the land that Adonai your God is giving you, put it in a basket and go to the place where Adonai your God will choose to establish His name. You shall go to the priest in charge at that time and say to him, "I acknowledge this day before Adonai your God that I have entered the land that Adonai swore to our fathers to assign us."

The priest shall take the basket from your hand and set it down in front of the altar of Adonai your God.

You shall then recite as follows before Adonai your God: "My father was a fugitive Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried to Adonai, the God of our fathers, and Adonai heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression. Adonai freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, by an outstretched arm and awesome power, and by signs and portents. He brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Wherefore I now bring the first fruits of the soil which You, O Lord, have given me."

You shall leave it before Adonai your God and bow low before Adonai your God. And you shall enjoy, together with the Levite and the stranger in your midst, all the bounty that Adonai your God has bestowed upon you and your household. (Deut. 26:1-11)

Last week I referred to (1) the importance of historic memory in Judaism and (2) how history is seen as a record of the encounter between God and the Jewish people. The words spoken by the farmer when bringing the first fruit are crucial to this collective memory:

"Here, thanks­giving is to be rooted in the past, with its glories and its difficulties: The facts of near destruction in ages gone by (or in recent memory as the case may be) were set down, as necessary recollections for an Israelite’s thanksgiving. Whether the danger to survival came to an Abraham or to a Jacob, whether the ancestor was threatened or merely lost (physically? spiritually?) is less impor­tant than that the past needed to be seen as impinging on the present, and that God's beneficent guidance needed to be rehearsed from generation to generation. The very opaqueness of the language may in fact have prevented the obligation from being identified with the remote past only, and instead served to render it of continuing significance." (Rabbi W. Gunther Plaut, ed., The Torah: A Modern Commentary)

However one translates these three words, the message is clear: This formula recounts the essential action that God plays in history. But there is more to it as well. Arami oved avi is not a history lesson. It is essentially a prayer.

In Worship and Ethics, Rabbi Max Kadushin describes two different types of prayer. First, there is "phenomenal" prayer, wherein the blessing relates directly to the experience. This would be saying ha-motzi before eating a slice of bread. Then there is the "meditative" prayer, which builds on the basic experience. The example Kadushin uses is the birkat ha-mazon, the grace after meals, which offers thanks for food and then builds on that by thanking God for the land, for Torah, for God's role in history and concludes with a prayer for Jerusalem. Kadushin sees this as: "An actual concrete example of God's love, a phenomenal experience, here initiates the chain of religious experiences." Similarly, arami oved avi is more than collective memory; it is also a "meditative" prayer on the nature of God's role in history and our relationship with God.

There is one more crucial element in this formula and in prayer in general. Kadushin notes that in prayer we not only gain an awareness of ourselves "as an object of God's love, but an awareness of the self that includes society."

The formula arami oved avi impresses on the individual that he is the eternal stranger, that she is the symbolic other. In this regard arami oved avi builds on the message in last week's portion that taught us zachor - remember what Amalek did to you. Last week the lesson dealt with collective memory that is essential to our survival. This week we are given an additional memory, that of the eternal outsider. This memory is meant to raise within us an awareness outside ourselves, embracing and protecting those in society who our modern "Arameans," or who are vulnerable to attacks by modern-day "Amalek."

Memory, prayer, and action are threads within the formula first recited by our ancestors. Voicing these words today, we too experience the transformative potential of words. Perhaps this is best expressed by the writer Ingrid Bengis "For me, words are a form of action, capable of influencing change."

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Ki Tetze, Deuteronomy 21:10-25:19

This week’s parasha is in memory of Jane Potts, mother of Adrienne Rosen, Myra White and grandmother of Alana and Sally Rosenwhite.

Remembering Amalek has provided a model of for Jewish survival stretching back to the Bible, reaching out to recent history.

All cultures have ways of symbolizing evil. It could be a particular figure such as a caped villain tying the damsel in distress to the railroad track. It might be a particular color, a sound, or an ominous grouping of musical notes. For Jews, evil is traditionally epitomized by the deeds of Amalek, described at the very end of Ki Tetze:

Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey, after you left Egypt — how, undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear. Therefore, when the Lord your God grants you safety from all your enemies around you, in the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget! (Deut 25:17-19)

These words refer to an event mentioned In Exodus 17:8-13, but the details of Amalek's actions are left for this week's portion. The worst part of this encounter being the attack on the weakest in the group, those who are strategically placed at the rear so they may be protected.

While seemingly out of place with the rest of Ki Tetze, these last few verses dealing with Amalek tie in thematically with it and the many issues of social welfare raised in the Torah portion where the concern is for the weak, the stragglers, captives (especially women), slaves, the poor, and even animals.

Over the course of time, Amalek became synonymous with whatever individual or group posed a threat to Jewish survival. Through these encounters over the millennia, the commandment zachor became imbued with a transcendent vigilance.

Remembering in the Torah most often deals with the relationship between God and Israel. We are to remember all that God has done for us, taking us out of Egypt, ensuring our survival in the wilderness, leading us to the Promised Land. Remembering (zachor) is also a crucial aspect of the commandment dealing with Shabbat. God too remembers. God takes note (pakad) of Sarah, ensuring the continuity of the Covenant. God remembers (zachar) the covenant with our ancestors, takes notice of us and begins the chain of events that will free us from slavery (Ex. 2:24-5).

What are we to remember and how are we to remember? Our relationship to our past has been a crucial element in Judaism which strives to imbue history with transcendent meaning. God's purpose and will unfold through history and this is what we record in our holy works.

This approach to the past is analyzed in Yosef Hayyim Yerushalmi's masterpiece Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory where he describes the Jewish approach to history as "Divine challenge & human response." In the ancient world deities were experienced through nature; Jews encounter the Divine in time and history. We see that in our festivals which commemorate critical interactions with God rather see that in reenacting a primeval myth. It is also evident in the way God's self-description as the God of our ancestors, rather than as a god of creation.

According to Yerushalmi, we keep history alive through memory. As in all cases of remembering, it is a selective memory and we choose to remember God's intervention on our behalf. So the formative event in Judaism, the Exodus from Egypt, omits human heroes as our memory takes shape. Moses appears in the Torah but disappears in the Haggadah. There is only one hero, God.

History disappears with the Talmudic rabbis. They play with time and with characters. Thus the pastoral Isaac studies in a heavenly yeshiva, Moses visits a yeshiva in rabbinic times. They teach us that ein mukdam u-me'uchar ba'torah – there is no "before" or "after" in the Torah. As Yerushalmi points out, the rabbinic sages did not write the history of their own time; their objective was not to record event, but to explore their purpose and meaning.

In Rabbinic interpretation, history has a divine purpose; crucial to that pattern is the commandment to remember Amalek.

Naivete and amnesia always favor the aggressors, the Amalekites in particular. The Amalekites wanted to wipe out an entire people, memory and all; amnesia completes that undone job. Ingenuousness leads to lowering the guard, which encourages attempts at repetition. One of the classic evasions undergirding naivete is the claim that Amalek is long since gone. Only "primitive" people are so cruel, only madmen or people controlled by a Svengali/Hitler type would do such terrible things. The mitzvah of Zachor is a stern reminder that Amalek lives and must be fought. (Rabbi Irving Greenberg The Jewish Way p. 244)

Remembering Amalek has provided a model of for Jewish survival stretching back to the Bible, reaching out to recent history. But today, many in the Jewish community are questioning whether old models will carry us into the future. Just a month ago, a Jewish think tank put together by the Bronfman family met in Utah to ponder the question "Why be Jewish."

The ensuing discussions were wide ranging and often very personal, dealing with topics such as belief in redemption, the disintegration of communal responsibility, the appeal of ecstatic prayer and the deficiencies of existing communal structures.
Absent from the conversations were anti-Semitism, Israel and the Holocaust, the holy trinity of American Jewish identity for the past 60 years. …
"The big question this generation is asking is, 'Why should I be Jewish? How does Judaism influence my life?' The old 'peoplehood' argument doesn't resonate with them." (Sue Fishkoff, JTA Reporter's Notebook, August 3, 2007)

This according to conference organizer, Rabbi Eliyahu Stern.

Are we at a point where our tried-and-true model for Jewish survival has stopped working? Peoplehood is interwoven with historical memory; the latter cannot exist on an individual level. There is nothing wrong with personalizing the issue and attaining deep personal satisfaction from Judaism. But ultimately, Judaism is a communal covenant. Even the instructions in Ki Tetze, though they focus on individuals within a society, are meant to guarantee the stability of the entire community. Our challenge is to integrate the personal and communal, strengthening personal commitment while ensuring communal endurance. Zachor is not only what we remember but how we remember.

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Shoftim, Deuteronomy 16:18-21:9

This week’s parasha has been generously sponsored in loving memory of Meryl Gardner’s mother, Harriet H. Cohen. Kolel is grateful to Meryl for her ongoing support and appreciates its weekly sponsors.

We must always be aware of the obstacles along the path of life and personally overcome them in order to be just.

Among the most powerful words in the Torah are three words at the very beginning of Parshat Shoftim: "tsedek, tsedek tirdof" "Justice, justice shall you pursue" (Deut.16:20). These words at the foundation of the Torah's morality are deceptively straightforward.

Much has been written about why the word "justice" appears twice. A previous Parashat Hashavuah goes into greater detail about the many interpretations of justice in this verse. In brief, some rabbis believe the double use is for emphasis. The Talmud (Sanhedrin 32b) explains that each usage of the word indicates a qualitative difference: "…one refers to a decision based on strict law, the other to a compromise." I'm partial to Nachmanides’ explanation, which takes the first occurrence to mean justice established by the courts and the second one to refer to justice we personally pursue in our lives. More about this later…

Tirdof (“you shall pursue”) is a funny word. A variation of this word is found later in the parasha in the directions regarding a "manslayer," a person who has inadvertently killed another individual. We are instructed to set up cities of refuge for such individuals to protect them from the "blood-avenger" seeking revenge for the killing. "…the blood-avenger, pursuing the manslayer in hot anger, may overtake him and kill him; yet he [the manslayer] did not incur the death penalty, since he had never been the other's enemy" (Deut. 19:6).

In both occurrences in the parasha, "pursuit" is something that is done with great passion; arguably both cases deal with the course of justice. The important thing is to make sure the passion is directed constructively.

It is easy to come up with examples of pursuit taking place in a threatening manner. Every action movie has the obligatory car chase as the bad guys try to do away with the hero. In Judaism the rodef, "pursuer" is one who threatens an individual's life. After we cross the Sea of Reeds, our song of thanksgiving reminds us of this menacing aspect of pursuit: "The foe said I will pursue, I will overtake …" (Ex. 15:9). This type of pursuer is familiar in rabbinic literature. The person in danger can take steps against the rodef, actions that amount to self protection, including pre-emptive measures. Who can be categorized as a rodef has been interpreted in different ways. The sages viewed a fetus endangering a mother's life as a pursuer (Sanhedrin 72b). More recently, Yitzchak Rabin's assassin justified his horrible deed by saying that the prime minister was endangering Jewish lives through his actions in pursuit of peace.

Pursuers also have the potential for making dramatic, positive changes. As the same action film draws to its conclusion, the hero is the one giving chase to the bad guys. Similar examples are found in our tradition as well. Abram sets off in pursuit of those who kidnapped Lot in Genesis 14:15. The prophet Isaiah speaks of rodfei tsedek, “those who pursue justice” (Isa. 51:1). Psalm 34 teaches us bakesh shalom v’rodfehu, "seek peace and pursue it." Similarly, Aaron the high priest is referred to in the siddur as ohev shalom ve-rodef shalom, a lover of peace and a pursuer of peace. Fans of the Israeli singer Chava Alberstein can explore the many facets of "pursuit" in the Israeli song Mirdaf, which begins with a pursuit of self-defense and concludes with the pursuit of hope.

Why emphasize the pursuit of justice? Why not "keep" justice or "observe" justice as we are commanded to do with Shabbat? There is something elusive about justice. There is a danger of moral relativism masquerading as justice. I would push Nachmanides’ explanation of the justice we personally pursue in life as a lesson that personalizes justice for us. We must always be aware of the obstacles along the path of life and personally overcome them in order to be just.

Endulge me in a minor detour - I envision pursuit not as a chase but as a race, not the 10,000 meters but a sprint. You see your goal, focus and achieve it ASAP. That is the ideal. But we all know that things do not run that smoothly. Whether life is a sprint or a marathon, chances are the track has hurdles. Aficionados of track & field events know that running hurdles calls for a special mindset. I'm no expert, but Steve McGill, a high school track and field coach in Raleigh, North Carolina, is:

"The first thing I look for in identifying potential hurdlers is work ethic. The reason for this is because no matter how tall, how fast, how strong, or how quick an athlete is, he or she cannot be a hurdler without the willingness to put in a lot of hard work and to overcome a tremendous amount of frustration. Learning how to hurdle efficiently is a long, arduous process, so athletes who are looking for immediate results don’t need to be trying the hurdles. Also, in regards to work ethic, hurdlers have to do the running workouts that the rest of the team does, and they also have to do hurdle workouts to improve their technique, which means they are usually the last athletes on the team to leave the track at the end of every practice. Anyone not willing to do such work needs to just go ahead and sprint. For me, when I see an athlete who doesn’t back down from tough workouts, who is demonstrating a genuine desire to get better, I’ll ask that athlete if he or she wants to try the hurdles."

Strong work ethic, high standards, perseverance: These are the components that make a good hurdler. These are also the qualities demanded of us in Parashat Shoftim. In the words of the Sefat Emet: “We have to keep pursuing justice, knowing that we have not yet attained it.”

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Re'eh, Deuteronomy 11:26-16:17

This week’s parasha is in memory of Al Potts, father of Adrienne Rosen, Myra White and grandfather of Alana and Sally.

Our dependence on sight overwhelms our other senses and challenges our ability to believe in an invisible God.

I always thought that Shylock got it wrong when he began his famous speech with "Hath not a Jew eyes." After all, from a Jewish perspective it is not the eyes that are important, it is the ears. The words that we set upon our hearts are sh'ma yisrael, "Hear O Israel" (Deut. 6:4).

Then again, Shakespeare may have read this week's parasha which begins with the word re'eh, "See I set before you this day blessing and curse" (Deut. 11:26). If Billy the Bard knew Hebrew, he would notice the grammatical problem in this verse. The first word re'eh ("see") is in the singular, but the word for "before you" lifneykhem, is plural.

What's going on? The 11th century scholar Bachya ibn Paquda explained that the commandments were placed before the entire people, hence the plural; but the choice of fulfilling the mitzvot is left to the individual's free will.

Writing in The Call of the Torah, Rabbi Elie Munk delves more deeply into the issue of sight: "To clearly understand the problem of free will, one must be able to see into his own conscience. And so the Torah begins its considerations regarding this problem with the verb re'eh, see, which goes much deeper than the verb sh'ma, hear. Whereas hear implies an impression of external factors affecting one's life, see suggests an internal perception, penetrating deep into one's soul."

The idea of sight is woven throughout the parasha; and it is clearly intended to shift the focus from physical sight toward inward perception. Deuteronomy 12:2-3 instructs us to tear down the visible sites (unintentional pun) of other gods, as well as to cut down their images. Chapter 13:2 talks about false prophets who might arise giving us ottot u-moftim, “visible signs and portents,” in addition to the particular prophetic vision arising from dreaming dreams. (Interestingly, Onkelos who provides the Aramaic translation for the Bible, renders the word re'eh as hazei, related to the Hebrew word for a vision –hazon.)

Sight also affects behavior. We are instructed to be visibly different from others (Deut. 14:1). Visible signs also set apart slaves unwilling to go free (Deut. 15:16-17). Even much of the food that is declared kasher, fit to eat, is readily determined by looking at an animal's features (Deut. 14:6-7, 10).

Yet Re'eh also highlights a problem with sight. It has a powerful hold over us and so we are cautioned about each one of us doing what is "right in one’s own sight" (Deut. 12:8). This is the tension that brings us back to the very beginning of the parasha. While God sets the commandments before all of us, each one of us must make an individual choice. Doing what seems right to the individual can end up being harmful to the community. What is "right in one’s own sight" can lead to tunnel vision.

Sight – or lack thereof – plays a pivotal role in a number of important events in the Torah. Eve saw that the fruit was good for eating and "a delight to the eyes" (Gen 2:6). After Eve's snack, which she shared with Adam, "the eyes of both of them were opened" (Gen 2:7). Abraham lifted his eyes, seeing the ram and saving Isaac's life. Isaac's lack of sight meant that Jacob got the eldest's blessing. God uncovered Balaam's eyes, which eventually led him to bless Israel "with eyes unveiled" (Num. 24:4-5).

Sight can also be an obstacle. Most people rely on their eyes more than on any other sense. Yet we Jews believe in a God we cannot see. Our dependence on sight overwhelms our other senses and challenges our ability to believe in an invisible God. Even Moses, on top of Mount Sinai, closer to God than any other human, still requests to see God (Ex. 33:18-23). If Moses is so short-sighted, what hope is there for the rest of us?

The path from sight to perception to insight is the key to the parasha and to the lesson we uncover in it. "See, this day I set before you blessing and curse: blessing, if you obey the commandments of Adonai your God that I enjoin upon you this day; and curse, if you do not obey the commandments of Adonai your God, but turn away from the path that I enjoin upon you this day and follow other gods, whom you have not experienced" (Deut. 11:26-28). Everything is clearly spelled out for us. Seeing is the first step to experiencing; experience leads to internalization, which results in a visible behavioral change. In the words of Isaac Abravanel "Things seen will move the heart more than things heard."

Shabbat shalom,
MS