Parashat Mishpatim, Exodus 21:1-24:18

Slavery is an affront to God.

Some things in the Torah are tough to take. Women feel left out of the text in certain regards. And gays read specific verses as a denial of their essential nature. This week we come across such an item that makes every modern Jew uncomfortable.

The very first set of laws in parashat Mishpatim deals with, umm, slavery. That's right, slavery. Here we are in the year 5768, commonly known as 2008, and we are reading about how to treat your slave. Two weeks after the American commemoration of Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.'s birth we read about slavery. The Torah portion following the revelation at Sinai, where we are reminded that God freed us from the house of bondage (Exodus 20:2), we read about the eved ivri, the Hebrew slave. Technically we would call this unfortunate person an indentured servant. This is the individual who cannot make restitution for having stolen some items (Exodus 22:2) or has sold himself because of extreme poverty (Leviticus 25:39). Later in the Torah we will read about non-Hebrew slaves as well.

Perusing the classical Jewish commentaries, one finds nothing about the institution of slavery. It was a part of life.

Slavery was known throughout antiquity, as far back as the fourth millennium. The Torah deals with it as a fact of life—one, however, that involved a basic contradiction: while in many ways treated as a chattel (a “thing”), a slave was also a human being. The Torah did not resolve this contradiction and therefore did not portray slavery as something inherently evil.

W. Gunther Plaut, The Torah: A Modern Commentary

Our post-Biblical ancestors dealt with this text within the bounds of their time and place. While much of what they say makes us uncomfortable, there is still a lesson to be learned from their words. For example, Maimonides explains that, as we are servants to God, we must follow God's example in treating others:

It is permissible to work a servant harshly. Yet, although this is the law, the way of the pious and the wise is to be compassionate and to pursue justice, not to overburden or oppress a servant, and to provide them from every dish and every drink. The early sages would give their servants from every dish on their table. …you should not denigrate a servant, neither physically nor verbally. The Torah made him your servant to do work, not to be disgraced. Do not treat him with constant screaming and anger, rather speak with him pleasantly and listen to his complaints.

Mishneh Torah, Avadim, 9:8

Substitute the word worker, housekeeper, employee, or hired hand for servant, and we get a modern lesson in proper treatment of those whom we hire.

I don't know about you, but I'm still uncomfortable with this entire issue. Especially given the fact that we just read the Ten Commandments last week: 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 the Lord your God: you shall not do any work — you, your son or daughter, your male or female slave… (Exodus 20:8-10) Did I miss the mention of slaves before, or was I so taken in by the command that Shabbat is for everyone? Why must I be reminded that Shabbat is all-inclusive? Is there a danger that I would see my servant as a commodity and not a living being, a human being? In so doing I would ultimately disrespect the covenant and offend God.

An echo of the Ten Commandments is found at the beginning of our parashah, where it says When you acquire a Hebrew slave, he shall serve six years; in the seventh year he shall go free, without payment. (Exodus 21:2) The Hebrew word for "go free" is yatsah, which has the same root as the verb "to bring out," found in the first commandment: I the Lord am your God who brought you out (hotseiticha) of the land of Egypt, the house of bondage. It is the same root as in the term "Exodus (yetsiat) from Egypt." This "going free" is the desired state for the individual; it is what God strove to do for us. Indentured servitude is an affront to God.

An example of callousness to another's humanity has come to my attention from an unlikely source. A popular late night comedy show (The Colbert Report, Jan. 22, 2008) recently showed part of a documentary film called I Am Somebody directed by Madeline Anderson. The film is about the April 1969 strike of hospital workers against the Medical College Hospital in Charleston, South Carolina. Four hundred workers, all black and mainly women, were off the job for one hundred days fighting for equal pay for equal work. The strikers from District 1199 faced hostile neighbors and a hostile government. Civil rights leaders came to their aid, and what began as a labor dispute ended up as a struggle for social equality. At a press conference after the settlement, a reporter asked one of the workers what the strike had accomplished. Her powerful reply still echoes in my ears: "We gained recognition as human beings."

How does this fit in with the parashat Mishpatim?

It may be said that the Torah viewed slavery as an institution that needed humanizing. This became practical because the ancient Near East was populated on the whole by small free-holders, who treated a serf generally as a member of the family. A serf was a domestic servant rather than an indentured slave (as in Roman or early American society). In contrast to other contemporary or even later cultures, the Torah insisted on stressing the humanity of the serf, a person endowed with rights and entitled to dignity.

W. Gunther Plaut, The Torah: A Modern Commentary

Mishpatim is just the beginning, the baby step that would eventually be the giant leap for all humanity: the recognition of the eved as a human being. The book of Exodus is starting point, there is more discomforting material in Leviticus and Deuteronomy. Nonetheless, it is in this latter book that the offense of the institution of slavery becomes even clearer, for here the indentured servant is called achicha, your brother (Deuteronomy 15:12).

Given all of this, we can claim that the Torah is describing an institution that existed in ancient times. We can say that there was an emphasis on the slave as a person not as property. In spite of this, we are still left with a most uncomfortable feeling in our kishkes (guts): Our beloved Torah deals with a matter that we find morally repugnant.

Our covenant dealing with the treatment of others is based on the memory of Egyptian bondage. Simply put, we are not to do that to others. Pesach is z'man heruteinu, the season of our freedom – what greater reminder do we need of this basic dignity that God has lovingly bestowed upon us?

What can we do when we are faced with such an obstacle? We must wrestle with the text. The beauty of Torah is that each generation can find something that speaks to it in Torah, something that was always there, but waiting for the right moment to be discovered. Waiting for humanity to mature and a particular sensibility to arise in us, thus making it possible to teach us a new lesson that was there all along, just waiting for the right moment to be revealed. After all the discussion about the treatment of slaves and indentured servants, one of the most powerful statements on freedom in the Torah is found in Deuteronomy: You shall not turn over to his master a slave who seeks refuge with you from his master. He shall live with you in any place he may choose among the settlements in your midst, wherever he pleases; you must not ill-treat him. (Deuteronomy 23:16-17). We cannot turn our backs on someone seeking freedom. A slave in ancient times, an oppressed individual today – we are commanded to act on behalf of all people created in the Divine image. That is how we serve God.

How are we doing? According to the iAbolish American Anti-slavery Group there are 27 million people in the world who will not have a taste of anything close to Shabbat rest, this week or any time in the foreseeable future. The stories on this website are horrifying, as are those at the Center of the Modern American Abolitionist Movement website Free the Slaves.

The discomfort of knowing that the Torah deals with slavery is nothing in comparison to knowing we live in a world where this institution still exists. Every Shabbat we recite the Kiddush recalling our Exodus from Egypt. It is only because we are free that we can celebrate this sacred day. Shabbat cannot be fully realized until every person is able to celebrate their own freedom.

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Yitro, Exodus 18:1-20:23

This parasha has been generously sponsored by Susan Kitchell, for Shabbat, January 26, 2008 in memory of her beloved mother Dora Kitchell z"l whose Yahrzeit is Tu B'Shvat.

We rarely think of memory as something that carries us into the future.

Like many of you, I have recently been under the weather. Unable to do a good deal of work, or even much reading, I have spent time dozing or "channel surfing." This latter time-wasting activity brought to mind the Bruce Springsteen song 57 Channels (and Nothing On) . Sixteen years after it was written, Springsteen's gripe still holds true, even though it should be updated to 500 channels.

More and more stations seem devoted to rerunning both the hits and misses of the past. There are the usual sitcoms, cop shows, and medical dramas. One channel promises nothing but game shows. (Personally, I'm waiting for the station that will show nothing but old commercials without commercial interruption.) These cable channels market this stuff as though they are fulfilling a deeply felt need, satiating a longing for an idealized past. In marketing nostalgia, they raise the desire to regain something that never truly existed. The programs that delighted me in my youth are corny and dated. The clothes and hairstyles that were so fashionable are comic. This is not what I remember.

Perhaps such nostalgia works better with a different memory trigger. The archetype of such a trigger is provided by Marcel Proust in Remembrance of Things Past, where a taste of a tea-soaked biscuit is the key to his narrator's childhood memory:

And once I had recognized the taste of the crumb of madeleine soaked in her decoction of lime-flowers which my aunt used to give me … the whole of Combray and of its surroundings, taking their proper shapes and growing solid, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea.

(Overture, Swann's Way, Remembrance of Things Past, vol. 1)

In this multi-volume work, Proust's narrator is trying to recapture lost time, to re-experience the past in a qualitative fashion. Proust termed this "involuntary memory." A "voluntary" memory recalls the facts of the past. When an involuntary memory is triggered, sensations are experienced giving texture to the memory.

Anything can be a trigger, and it is frequently unpredictable. Proust's narrator found out that experience waned the second or third time around. Others are more hopeful. I wear my mother's ring because it does indeed manage to conjure up unexpected memories. A friend of mine recently purchased a coat, in part because the texture of the material brought back memories of her grandmother. These items are keys to unlocking a treasure box of emotions and sensations that preserve memory.

Memory is an essential component in Jewish practice. This week, as we stand at the foot of Mount Sinai, we are commanded zachor (remember) Shabbat. In a few months, when we read the book of Deuteronomy, the same Ten Commandments will exhort us to shamor (keep or observe) Shabbat. Tradition tells us that these are two sides of the same coin, as described in the Shabbat song Lecha Dodi: "Keep and remember in one utterance". Rashi maintains that shamor is a commandment to refrain from action, while zachor is the use of action to sanctify the occasion.

Of these two aspects of the Shabbat mitzvah (commandment), shamor, that is "keeping" or "observing" Shabbat, is probably the easier to fulfill. There are lists of actions permitted and prohibited on Shabbat. These "how to" guides for observing Shabbat cover the spectrum from traditionalist to edgy. But what on earth does it mean to remember Shabbat and how do we fulfill this commandment? Is it a matter of putting it in my Blackberry so that I get a reminder on Friday to buy the necessary items, make preparations and clear the calendar for Saturday? Surely Shabbat is important enough that I am as aware of its imminent arrival as I am of its departure!

For some of our ancestors that was not enough. Shammai the Elder would have Shabbat uppermost in his mind every day of the week. That way, when he saw an item of food that would enhance Shabbat, he would set it aside for Shabbat. If later in the week he saw a better item, he would put that aside and eat the first selection (Talmud, Beitsa 16a). More than this, to Shammai Shabbat shaped the week and his purpose for the week. He would fulfill the mitzvah of Shabbat, even when not actually observing Shabbat by actions that showed he "remembered" Shabbat.

Rashbam views remembering differently, pointing out that the word zachor always refers to something in the past. This is how it used in Deuteronomy 9:7 Remember, never forget, how you provoked the Lord your God to anger in the wilderness, and in Deuteronomy 32:7 Remember the days of old,/Consider the years of ages past;/Ask your father, he will inform you,/Your elders, they will tell you.

Reading the different commentaries on the Shabbat commandments, I would describe shamor as representing voluntary memory and zachor as being involuntary memory. Each aspect has a modern problem: Memory isn't what it used to be. We don't need to remember things like we used to on account of the many technological aides we have to help us remember: computers, blackberries, PVRs, and DVDs. These devices have brought us to the point where we are often so busy creating memories that we don't have time to experience the actual events. How many of us witness significant events in the lives of loved ones through the filter of a camera lens or video screen? How can we conjure up the texture of a memory when we are so busy taking pictures of the cookie dipped in tea that we fail to taste the actual cookie?

Memory used to be a lot better, not just when we were personally younger, but back in history. In the days before recording devices, various techniques were used to aid memory. The Talmud suggests five items to help strengthen memory: "Wheaten bread and much more so wheat itself, eating a roasted egg without salt, frequent consumption of olive oil, frequent indulgence in wine and spices, and the drinking of water that has remained from kneading. Others say: Dipping one's finger in salt and eating is also included." (Talmud, Horayot 13b) Rhymes were used in ancient times, as were mnemonic devices (a number of which can be found in the Talmud). "Memory theater" was a visualization technique dating back to classical times that was used to memorize vast amounts of material:

The material to be memorised was supposed to be conceived of as a familiar location. This could take the form of all or part of a building: an arch, a corner, an entrance hall, and so on.
… the process of memorising would involve the memoriser in a mental walk through the building. The route should be one which was logical and habitual, so that it might be easily and naturally recalled. The theatre was now ready to be filled with the material to be memorised. This material took the form of mental images representing the different elements to be recalled.
…strong images were the best, so reasons should be found to make the data stand out.

James Burke, The Day the Universe Changed

These are the types of techniques that helped me get through high school chemistry and have helped countless others on tests and exams. Memory aids to recall "just the facts, ma'am," useful in remembering the details of shamor, observing Shabbat. But memory is a funny thing, especially when you get past the facts. Maurice Chevalier and Hermione Gingold reminiscing about their youthful romance thought they "remembered it well" in the Lerner and Loewe musical Gigi. Instead, the factual details of their memories were flawed, but the emotional essence, the zachor, remained. Such memory is not a photograph of what has occurred; it is a painting done in each individual's artistic style.

Does this mean that a lousy memory makes it more difficult for us to fulfill the commandment of remembering Shabbat? A friend once told me that when he in university, he "remembered" Shabbat. That is to say, he observed it but not fully in the way he would have liked. He looked forward to the time when it would be possible to observe Shabbat as he remembered it, surrounded by family and observing the customs particular to his family. He was finally able to do this once he had a family of his own. Zachor, "remembering" Shabbat, goes a step beyond Rashbam's concept of remembering the past. It even goes beyond the textured memory brought about by the play of light on a mother's ring or the particular softness of bubbie's (grandma's) coat, which link the past to the present. In my friend's Shabbat, zachor was the link between past and future.

We rarely think of memory as something that carries us into the future. How can it, when we, who remember, are living in the present? Yet, each time we "make shabbes," we are clearing a path towards that future memory.

Shabbat encompasses and encapsulates all who observe it: those in the past, the present, and the future. My friend may long for a childhood experience of Shabbat, I may long for a particular Shabbat memory, and you may too. We know full well we cannot recreate it. But we can take elements of those memories, treasure them, and incorporate them into the Shabbatot (Sabbaths) we share with our loved ones, hoping these elements will be meaningful for them, so that it in time these customs will trigger their own memories of Shabbat. We are creating future memories and future observances.

Resh Lakish taught that on Shabbat we each receive an extra soul (Talmud, Beitsa 16a). I like to think of that as a composite of all the souls that have had a part in sharing, shaping and elevating my celebration of Shabbat, without whom I could not fulfill the commandment zachor, remembering Shabbat. No doubt my Shabbat observance is totally different from that of my ancestors, even of that of my grandparents and parents, but elements of what they did is found in what I do. It is the legacy they bestowed on me, as I hope to bestow it on my children and grandchildren. They have helped me understand that "one who celebrates Shabbat will be given an inheritance beyond limitation." (Talmud, Shabbat 118a) May the investment we make in shamor, observing Shabbat, lead to a rich legacy of zachor, remembering Shabbat, for those who follow us.

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Beshalach, Exodus 13:17-17:16

This parashah has been generously sponsored by Karen Gold, in loving memory of Melvin Gold.

We have a different understanding of miracles than did our ancestors.

Why aren't there any miracles in our day? Although this question is often asked in our day, it already appears in the Talmud (Berachot 20a). The desire for miracles is deeply ingrained within us. Perhaps if we experienced a miracle, that nagging doubt would turn into to unshakable faith.

By that standard, our ancestors had an easier time of it. The book of Exodus so far has been one miracle after another: the burning bush, the ten plagues, the Exodus from Egypt and this week's parting of yam suf, the Sea of Reeds. So many miracles! Yet despite all that God did for our ancestors, belief was hard to come by. Even as our ancestors approached the Sea of Reeds, midrash reminds us that they were reluctant to "test the waters." It was only after one brave soul, Nachshon son of Aminadav, literally took the plunge that the sea parted. The euphoria following this redemption was deeply felt:

Who is like You, O Lord, among the celestials;
Who is like You, majestic in holiness,
Awesome in splendor, working wonders!

Exodus 15:11

Shirat Ha-yam, the Song at the Sea praising God for redeeming us, is such an important symbol of our relationship with God that it is included in our daily liturgy. But our ancestors' memory was short. By the end of the same chapter in Exodus (15:24), they are complaining about the lack of water, and in the following chapter they long for the fleshpots of Egypt (Exodus 16:3). God provides food and drink, as well as constant reminders of the miracles they had experienced, but our ancestors' attitude does not change. Could it be that too many miracles become ordinary?

Perhaps that is why the rabbis in the Talmud warn against relying on miracles. Rabbi Yannai cautions in Shabbat 32a not to remain in a dangerous place, hoping for a miraculous rescue. In fact, such a hope could count against you! In Bava Metzia 59b, the Talmudic rabbis, in what should be considered the definition of chutzpah, ignore a series of miracles:

In the whole of rabbinic literature there is not one single instance on record that a rabbi was ever asked by his colleagues to demonstrate the soundness of his doctrine, or the truth of a disputed halakhic case, by performing a miracle. Only once do we hear of a rabbi who had recourse to miracles for the purpose of showing that his conception of a certain halakhah was a right one. And in this solitary instance the majority declined to accept the miraculous intervention as a demonstration of truth and decided against the rabbi who appealed to it.

Solomon Schechter, Aspects of Rabbinic Theology

If, alas, by Rabbinic times the age of miracles had passed, what hope is there for us? Not only are we far removed from miracles, we have a different understanding of miracles than did our ancestors. Other than a prophetic calling, such as what happened to Moses at the burning bush, miracles were public events, not something that happens to one person, the knowledge of which is disseminated through the tabloid at the supermarket checkout.

How times have changed! Modern miracles, or events we like to term miracles, are very personal in nature, a one-on-one between moi and you-know-Who. Perhaps this is a reflection of our society, where individualism permeates everything. Why should religious belief be any different?

The individual is important in Judaism specifically because we don't rely on miracles. Every person has the opportunity to make a difference. God has provided us with that most wonderful gift: free will. It comes with a few bonus features such as independence, self-reliance, responsibility and an assortment of personal attributes. Exercising these various elements empowers us to interact with the world that God has created. Some of our medieval philosophers, Maimonides for example, believed that our scientific analysis of the world around us would lead us to a greater understanding of God. Today, there are those who would say that such knowledge has actually destroyed our sense of wonder. Nothing is miraculous because we can analyze pretty much everything and even create things that were unimaginable just a few short years ago. There are no more miracles because everything can be stamped "man-made."

Still, we also have another interpretation of the miraculous, best exemplified by a popular song performed by Sarah McLachlin:

It's not that unusual
When everything is beautiful
It's just another
Ordinary miracle today

The sky knows when it's time to snow
Don't need to teach a seed to grow
It's just another
Ordinary miracle today…

Glen Ballard and Dave Stewart, Ordinary Miracle

The concept of an ordinary miracle is found within Judaism. Perhaps these songwriters were channeling the Baal Shem Tov who reportedly said "The world is full of wonders and miracles, but we take our little hands and we cover our eyes and see nothing."

The wonders and miracles mentioned by the Hasidic master are not the special effects of biblical times. Rather, they are the result of increased sensitivity to that which surrounds us that is beyond our control.

The most beautiful and deepest experience one can have is the sense of the mysterious... To sense that behind anything that can be experienced there is a something that our mind cannot grasp and whose beauty and sublimity reaches us only indirectly and as a feeble reflection, this is religiousness. In this sense I am religious.

Albert Einstein

I do not know if Einstein was referring to the mysteries of the universe that can only be perceived by the greatest minds —such as his or Maimonides'. I do know that we can all sensitize ourselves to the myriad mysteries that surround us everyday, those so-called ordinary miracles. In the daily service we thank God for the "miracles that are with us each day and for the wonders and goodness at all times…" Tradition teaches us that we should say 100 blessings every day, affording us the chance to do so whenever and wherever holiness touches us on a daily basis. All we need to do is be open to the opportunities for wonder around us.

Teach me, my God, blessing and prayer —
for the secret of the withered leaf, the brightness of the ripened fruit,
for this freedom to see, to sense, to breathe,
to know, to wish, to fail.

Teach my lips a blessing, a song of praise
in renewal of your day, each morning and eve.
That my today not be like all my yesterdays;
that my day not be — merely routine.

Leah Goldberg (translation: Rabbi Ronald Aigen, Siddur Hadesh Yameinu)

Miracles may be a thing of the past but an appreciation of God's wonder and mystery is always within our reach.

Shabbat Shalom,
MS

Parashat Bo, Exodus 10:1-13:16

It is up to us to navigate through the darkness.

I've never been one for cliffhangers, be it on the silver screen or the written page. Perhaps that is why the story of the ten plagues has always raised a question in my mind. Why is it divided over two parashiyot (Torah portions)? Last week we read about seven of the plagues. This week in parashat Bo we read about the final three followed by the Exodus from Egypt. If the rabbis in ancient days wanted to leave us with a cliffhanger, why did they choose hail as the final plague for last week's reading? Does it make for a dramatic closing; and is this week's first plague – locusts –really a dramatic opening?

The plagues have been divided in all sorts of ways. Some mimic naturally occurring events and others –such as the death of the first born –cannot be explained in that way. There are those who divide the plagues into three groups of three and then add the final one. However we distribute the plagues, it doesn't explain why the last three were left for this week's reading.

There is one difference between the first seven and the last three. The plagues we read about this week all share the element of darkness. Plague number eight involves locusts. We are told that Locusts invaded all the land of Egypt and settled within all the territory of Egypt in a thick mass; never before had there been so many, nor will there ever be so many again. They hid all the land from view, and the land was darkened… (Exodus 10:14-15). The ninth plague is the actual plague of darkness, but this is no ordinary darkness. Then the Lord said to Moses, "Hold out your arm toward the sky that there may be darkness upon the land of Egypt, a darkness that can be touched." Moses held out his arm toward the sky and thick darkness descended upon all the land of Egypt for three days (Exodus 10:21-22). The final plague, the death of the firstborn sons, occurs in the dark. Moses said, "Thus says the Lord: Toward midnight I will go forth among the Egyptians… (Exodus 11:4). The blanket of darkness encompasses the terror of all three plagues.

Darkness is alien to us. Unless you are deep in the backwoods during a cloudy night, there is always some light somewhere, or a light readily available at the flip of a switch. We are not at the mercy of darkness, though we still have remnants of the fear and helplessness associated with the dark. Perhaps that's why so many horror films have the word "dark" in their titles.

We find remnants of this fear in Judaism. The hashkiveinu prayer recited as part of the evening service asks for God's protection from all sorts of terrible things that can happen at night. In midrash, night often symbolizes a time of oppression; and Rabbinic Judaism frequently refers to the long night of exile. Exodus Rabbah (14:2) describes the ninth plague as a primordial darkness that existed before God said "Let there be light," a darkness that is confined to Gehinnom (Gehenna). In our own day, Elie Wiesel titled his autobiography of survival in the death camps Night.

The Etz Hayim commentary sheds a modern light on the plague of darkness, seeing it as a psychological or even spiritual darkness.

Perhaps the Egyptians were depressed by the series of calamities that had struck them or by the realization of how much their own comfort depended on the enslavement of others. The person who cannot see his neighbor is incapable of spiritual growth, incapable of rising from where he is currently. In Jewish legal discussion defining how early one may recite the morning prayers, “dawn” is defined as “when one can recognize the face of a friend” (BT Ber. 9b). When one can see other people and recognize them as friends, the darkness has begun to lift.

Etz Hayim p. 377

It is the lack of concern for others that plagued the Egyptians, a callous darkness that engulfed their souls and could only be pierced when the terrible last plague struck those whom they loved.

This final dreadful plague occurs in the middle of the night. As it is set into motion and Israel prepares for the great Exodus, we are told: That was for the Lord a night of vigil to bring them out of the land of Egypt; that same night is the Lord's… (Exodus 12:42). Rashi picks up on the phrase "that same night," explaining that this was the night that God had spoken of to Abraham, that long-ago promise to the patriarch now being fulfilled.

Rashi's comment points to another view of darkness: Night also cradles hope and anticipation. How many poems and love songs eagerly anticipate the night? That fair lady Eliza Doolittle could have "danced all night." Tony and Maria in "West Side Story" found what they were looking for "Tonight." Jewishly, our days begin at night. Many holidays include a nighttime study session; Shavuot being the most well-known of these. Midrash Tehillim gives us the familiar statement that it is darkest before dawn–but this is something to anticipate:

At night, though it be night, one has the light of the moon, the stars, the planets. Then when is it really dark? Just before dawn! After the moon sets and the stars set and the planets vanish, there is no darkness deeper than the hour before dawn. And in that hour the Holy One answers the world and all that are in it: out of the darkness He brings forth the dawn and gives light to the world.

Midrash Tehillim 22 as quoted in The Book of Legends, 761:18

Yet our alienation from complete darkness means that we have lost numerous opportunities for powerful experiences, those breathtaking moments that Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel termed "radical amazement." In most places, we can no longer lift our eyes and see the countless stars that our patriarch Abraham saw. You have to get pretty far away from civilization to see the Milky Way caress the sky. Could it be that in making such experiences extinct, light has distanced us from God?

The middle of the night can either be the darkest, most dreadful time when everything is shadowy and things appear at their worst, or it can be the turning point that leads towards the light of dawn. It is up to us to navigate through the darkness. Fortunately, God has given us the tools to do so: Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path. (Psalm 119:105)

Our challenge is to be able to walk along God's path at any time, whether the way is illuminated or not. Some find it hard to reach out to God when they face personal darkness. Our ancestors in Egypt had to wait for God to reach out to them. Others find it easy to stray from the path in broad daylight, when things are going well. Our ancestors were warned of this possibility once they neared the Promised Land. Squinting in the brightness of the day, does it matter that we can't see God in the distance? The task we face is realizing that God is there, no matter what time of day, no matter what point in our lives –whether we feel powerless and struggling, preparing for Exodus, wandering in the wilderness or nearing the Promised Land. Each step has its obstacles but also opportunities as we are reminded every Shabbat:
It is good to give thanks to Adonai
To sing hymns to your name, O Most High
To proclaim your lovingkindness in the morning
Your faithfulness at night.
(Psalm 92:2-3)

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Va'era, Exodus 6:2-9:35

What’s in a name?

In the famous balcony scene from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet the heroine declares: "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."(Romeo and Juliet, Act 2 scene 2). After all, it is their family names that are the lovers' biggest obstacles. While poets and artists would agree with this Shakespearean sentiment on nomenclature, some scientists would not.

Foremost among those concerned with names would be Carl Linnaeus, the "Father of Taxonomy." This 18th century scientist developed the system of binomial nomenclature, the genus and species names of a plant or animal, such as Homo sapiens, now familiar to any high school biology student. Linnaeus thought that by identifying and naming all life forms, he could uncover God's grand design. Others before him also believed that scientific study would bring them closer to a knowledge of God. These included such luminaries as Thomas Aquinas and our very own Moses Maimonides, aka Rambam. Where Linnaeus differed was in his insistence on naming and categorizing: "Without names, our knowledge of things would also perish."

Naming establishes context and relationship. It is no accident that the human is asked to name the animals in Genesis 2:20, thereby discovering that it was without a partner. Naming becomes quite a challenge when it comes to a relationship with God. How do you refer to God? Do you have the chutzpah to name God? Hagar did (Genesis 16:13), but she was unusual in that regard.

The dilemma is that we want to say a great deal about God. At the same time, we want to preserve that transcendent quality that makes Him inaccessible to ordinary language. The alternatives are to remain silent or to reduce God to merely human or natural terms, which is idolatry, the cardinal theological sin.

Neil Gillman, Sacred Fragments: Recovering Theology for the Modern Jew

Normally, it is God who identifies the Divine self in a relationship with us. This week's parasha, Va'era, continues this long-standing tradition: God spoke to Moses and said to him, "I am the Lord. I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as El Shaddai, but I did not make Myself known to them by My name YHVH." (Exodus 6:2-3)

Yet having just completed the book of Genesis, we are all aware that throughout the Torah, God is referred to by the ineffable name, the Tetragrammaton, the four-letter Hebrew Divine name normally pronounced Adonai and usually translated as "Lord." In fact, calling God by name goes back to the days of Adam and Eve's grandson: And to Seth, in turn, a son was born, and he named him Enosh. It was then that men began to invoke the Lord by name (Genesis 4:26). So what are we to make of the statement that God was known to the Patriarchs as El Shaddai?

Commentators explain that God's relationship with the patriarchs was different than the one with Moses and the different Divine names symbolize these relationships. Ramban points out that God appeared to the patriarchs in visions at night but dealt with Moses face to face. He further says that the patriarchs saw God acting in nature whereas in this new relationship there would be supernatural acts.

Rashi takes a different view, saying the Divine name reveals an aspect not made known to the patriarchs, which is God's "complete truthfulness and reliability which is represented by the Tetragrammaton. For I made them promises but did not fulfill them." (These promises will be fulfilled for their descendants.) Sforno adds that this name must become known to the children of Israel so "they can become My people and be redeemed." Adding to our confusion is the fact that in last week's portion God has already revealed a different name to Moses. (This theophany at the burning bush has been discussed in a previous commentary.)

One midrash provides some insight:

According to Rabbi Abba bar Mamal, the Holy Blessed One said to Moses: You want to know My Name. I am called by My deeds, El Shaddai, Tsevaot, Elohim, Adonai. When I judge creatures, I am called Elohim (God). When I wage war against the wicked, I am called Tsevaot (Hosts). When I suspend judgment of a person’s sins, I am called El Shaddai (Almighty). And when I have mercy on My world, I am called Adonai.

Exodus Rabbah 3:6

Back to Juliet's question: What’s in a name? The midrash gives us some insight into God's names. The poet Zelda helps us understand our own:

Each of us has a name
given by God
and given by our parents

Each of us has a name
given by our stature and our smile
and given by what we wear

Each of us has a name
given by the mountains
and given by our walls

Each of us has a name
given by the stars
and given by our neighbors

Each of us has a name
given by our sins
and given by our longing

Each of us has a name
given by our enemies
and given by our love

Each of us has a name
given by our celebrations
and given by our work

Each of us has a name
given by the seasons
and given by our blindness

Each of us has a name
given by the sea
and given by
our death.

Zelda, Each of Us has a Name (translation: Marcia Falk)

Kohelet teaches that a good name is better than fragrant oil (Ecclesiastes 7:1). May our deeds be such that they earn us a fine name and that most precious of God's blessings:
The Lord bless you and protect you!
The Lord deal kindly and graciously with you!
The Lord bestow His favor upon you and grant you peace!
Thus they shall link My name with the people of Israel, and I will bless them.
Numbers 6:24-27

Shabbat shalom,
MS