Kolel Parasha Study

Parashat Tazria-Metsora, Leviticus 12:1-15:33; Rosh Chodesh Iyar

2009-04-21T10:00:00.018-04:00

We are searching for transformational experiences.

One of them hit middle age, the other is pre-pubescent, both made headlines recently:
Barbie turned 50 this past March and Dora the Explorer is growing up. Both have had their share of controversy. In her fifty years, Barbie has changed little, other than a slight thickening at the waist which still leaves her with proportions not found in real life. Dora is trading in her shorts and t-shirt for a more fashionable look now that she is a 'tween. Is she following in Barbie's stiletto covered footsteps? Hard to believe but Barbie started off as a teenage doll.

The controversy surrounding both dolls is one of image. What is the message they are conveying to their faithful followers? Do these dolls influence the body image of the girls who play with them? Hard to say. Still, in the last few decades women have been working hard at changing their bodies to conform to unrealistic proportions. Clothing stores are carrying sizes that did not exist before. Size 0!? Whatever became of the perfect size 8? Today she's considered overweight. Look around and you'll see that people are getting younger. Botox injections are getting rid of the creases that have shaped your face through years of smiling and frowning. It's not only folks who are as old as Barbie who are using these techniques. Why are 30 year olds getting such injections? Do they want to look 14?
This seems to fulfill the words that Naomi Wolf wrote in The Beauty Myth:

When women adapt too well to the strictures of the industries, the weight or age that defines grace merely adjusts by plummeting: The models descend another 10 pounds, the surgeons lower the ‘preventative’ age for face-lift by another decade.
The Beauty Myth, Naomi Wolf, p. 102

In case you guys are feeling left out, consider the change in suit design that has occurred in the last couple of decades. The proportions on suits are changing: More suits are now wider at the chest and shoulder and narrower at the waist. Think superhero physique.

It is impossible to look at the human body objectively. Anthropologist Mary Douglas points out that the physical always carries a social aspect. "…the human body is always treated as an image of society…there can be no natural way of considering the body that does not involve at the same time a social dimension. …If there is no concern to preserve social boundaries, I would not expect to find concern with bodily boundaries." (Natural Symbols, p. 74)

For Jews it all started with noses. Modern rhinoplasty was invented by a nice Jewish doctor. In 1896 Berlin Dr. Jacques Joseph was dismissed from a group practice for operating on a child with protruding ears. The dismissal was on the grounds that the surgery was cosmetic rather than reconstructive. (Interestingly, a picture of Dr. Joseph shows him sporting a dueling scar.) Two years later the good doctor was approached by a man who wanted a nose job. He complied and reported his rationale to the medical society, stressing the fact that the physical surgery alleviated the patient's depression. As Sander Gilman explains, "The patient no longer felt himself marked by the form of his nose. He was cured of his 'disease,' which was his visibility.” (The Jew's Body, pp.184-5)

All this finally brings us to the double parashah Tazria-Metsora. The former parashah discusses the priestly diagnosis of various skin ailments and whether they make an individual ritually impure:

The priest shall examine the affection on the skin of his body: if hair in the affected patch has turned white and the affection appears to be deeper than the skin of his body, it is a leprous affection; when the priest sees it, he shall pronounce him unclean. But if it is a white discoloration on the skin of his body which does not appear to be deeper than the skin and the hair in it has not turned white, the priest shall isolate the affected person for seven days.
Leviticus 13:3-4

The latter Torah portion describes the treatment for an infected person to be re-introduced into the community. Once the individual has been examined by the priest and declared "clean," he or she must also undergo an elaborate ritual:

The priest shall take one of the male lambs and offer it with the log of oil as a guilt offering, and he shall elevate them as an elevation offering before the Lord. The lamb shall be slaughtered at the spot in the sacred area where the sin offering and the burnt offering are slaughtered. …The priest shall take some of the blood of the guilt offering, and the priest shall put it on the ridge of the right ear of him who is being cleansed, and on the thumb of his right hand, and on the big toe of his right foot. …
Leviticus 14:12-14

What on earth could be the cause of such priestly concern and such elaborate rituals? Rabbinic tradition opines that the affected individual is being punished for a wrong committed. Perhaps it was gossip or slander. The metsora, the infected person, is punned as being motsi ra, one who speaks evil. Alternatively, the person is said to have acted in a haughty manner; hence the lowly hyssop is used as an instrument in the purification ritual. Either way, the physical problem faced by the individual points to the social boundaries of the commentators' community.

Reading the text through modern eyes, we view the separation from the community at best as a quarantine and at worst as a punishment. We know that we would not treat individuals this way in modern society. We would pity them, while hoping they would do something to hide or change their appearance, for most likely, they would be scarred when re-entering the community. (Our reaction in itself says something about our bodily concerns and social boundaries as is evident by "makeover" television programs.)

Before we object to the guilt offering and accompanying rituals, realize that the ceremony parallels the priestly ordination ceremony (Leviticus 8:23-4). In both cases the individuals are separated from the community for seven days, must wash their clothes, bring similar sacrifices, and perform the same rites. This is not a ceremony of punishment but of acceptance.

Imagine the emotional and spiritual power that this ritual brought to the affected individual; the person who is both scared and scarred is welcomed back into the community and accepted before God. While we may only be cognizant of the physical change, the metsora is coaxed into a spiritual transformation.

Today we are searching for transformational experiences. We are constantly bombarded with messages that cosmetic treatments, diets, and intense exercise regiments will change the way we look and transform our lives as well. In reality, however, vanity of vanities all is vanity (Kohelet 1:2) . True transformation is the record of life and experience etched in the clay of the human body that molds the soul within.

What is man that You are mindful of him.
Mortal man that You have taken note of him,
That You have made him little less than divine
And adorned him with glory & majesty.
Psalm 8:5-6

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Shmini, Leviticus 9:1-11:47

2009-04-13T13:00:00.001-04:00

What can we learn from silence?

We are surrounded by sound. Shopping malls, restaurants, medical offices, all play specially designed programs, a sophisticated descendant of what was once called "elevator music,” sounds that are designed to convey a subtle message:

A business’s background music is like an aural pheromone. It attracts some customers and repels others, and it gives pedestrians walking past the front door an immediate clue about whether they belong inside.
The Soundtrack of Your Life: Muzak in the realm of retail theatre,
David Owen, The New Yorker, April 10, 2006

Silent films were shown with musical accompaniment; film soundtracks are still used to convey an added emotional dimension. Laugh tracks were created for to convince us that television comedies are truly funny. When you are put on hold during a phone call, you will hear something on the other end; often an irritating message about how busy the operators are but thanks for waiting, played ad infinitum.

We use sounds to drown out other sounds. Offices install white noise machinery that obscures the sounds of conversations in surrounding cubicles. Many of us carry our sound preferences with us, be they audio books or a personal music mix that we listen to on our ipods while walking, exercising, or taking public transportation.

The still of the night is not silent. City dwellers grow used to car alarms, buses, conversations of late night revelers. On truly quiet nights in the city or country, you will still hear animals, insects, and the wind blowing.

That is why it is so startling to be confronted by Paul Simon's old friend: The sound of silence. Sounds convey information, but what can we learn from silence?

This is the dilemma we face in Shmini. After the ordination of the priests, two of Aaron's sons, Nadav and Avihu, offered before the Lord alien fire, which He had not enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from the Lord and consumed them; thus they died at the instance of the Lord. (Leviticus 10:1-2) Moses attempts to explain the situation to Aaron: "This is what the Lord meant when He said: Through those near to Me I show Myself holy, / And gain glory before all the people." (Leviticus 10:3) How does Aaron respond? Va-yidom Aharon, And Aaron was silent. (Leviticus 10:3)

These two words va-yidom Aharon are the only description we are given of Aaron's reaction to what has taken place.

The Torah usually does not call attention to someone’s not speaking. What, then, is the unusual significance of Aaron’s silence? That he accepted God’s decree without protest? That his anguish was too great for him to put into words? That he was tempted to burst out in anger at the unfairness of what had happened to his family but was able to restrain himself? Perhaps the text is suggesting that there are more possibilities— and more power—in silence than in any words.
Etz Hayim: Torah and Commentary, David L. Lieber, senior editor, p. 634

Aaron's silence has been treated as a void which has been filled with much commentary.

Rashi understands this silence to be an acceptance of what has occurred. In fact, his reaction is rewarded according to Rashi: Aaron was rewarded for his silence because the next set of instructions (Leviticus 10:8-10) is addressed solely to him. Sforno understands Aaron's silence to indicate that he is comforting himself in the thought that God was sanctified through the death of his sons. Rashbam also believes that Aaron is accepting of God's decree though not without turmoil. According to Rashbam, Aaron silenced his mourning, suppressing his personal feelings. Nachmanides (Ramban) offers two explanations. According to the first, Aaron cries aloud and then falls silent. In his second interpretation, Ramban takes the word yidom to mean "he ceased," meaning that he stopped crying completely. In the first interpretation Aaron could still be struggling with what has happened and is mourning silently; in the second he has accepted the tragic event that has occurred.

All of these interpretations attempt to explain an incident that defies comprehension and in so doing try to bring a level of justification to it. A completely different viewpoint is expressed by Blu Greenberg who, having tragically lost an adult son, can empathize with Aaron:

Aaron’s response is the profoundest human and religious response to the reality that there are times when good people die unjustly or are consumed in tragedies that seem to be arbitrary, shocking, without justification, and with nothing to ameliorate the pain and loss of those who love them. ...

The Jewish laws of bereavement, so exquisitely tuned to the needs of the mourners, stipulate that the shiva visitor should not speak until the mourner speaks. I had always thought that the point of the precept was to ensure that the conversation would flow to the place the mourner needs it to reach. But I now understand that the halachah enjoining comforting visitors to hold back in silence serves a different function: to caution against offering a rationale for the decree of death. The deeper human religious response is to be silent, to live with the contradiction, and to affirm that we need not force meaning into tragedy. Sometimes, the deepest response of love is to be silent.
The Torah: A Women's Commentary,
Tamara Cohn Eskenazi and Andrea L. Weiss, editors, p. 633

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Shabbat Hol Ha-Mo'ed Pesach, Exodus 33:12 - 34:26, Numbers 28:19 - 28:25

2009-04-07T10:00:00.010-04:00

There are two sides to the humble matzah.

Browsing through a bookstore the other day, it was interesting to note that the most popular display was for board games. Remember those? There is no joystick, no remote control, no nunchuk, no hookup to a screen, and batteries aren't included because they're not necessary. Some of these games have been around for decades. The second most popular area in the store contained books and magazines about simplifying your life: i.e., getting by with less in tough economic times.

Welcome to Pesach. Despite the exorbitant grocery bill for kosher for Passover products, Pesach is about simplicity. At any rate, it used to be. The Torah reading for Shabbat Hol Ha-moed (the intermediate days of) Pesach simply instructs us: You shall observe the Feast of Unleavened Bread--eating unleavened bread for seven days, as I have commanded you… (Exodus 34:18). Unleavened bread is mentioned a second time in this portion: You shall not offer the blood of My sacrifice with anything leavened; and the sacrifice of the Feast of Passover shall not be left lying until morning (Exodus 34:25).

That's it. Nothing about sponge cake, macaroons, or the oxymoronic Passover bagels; just matzah plain and simple. Matzah is all about simplifying life. The Haggadah refers to it as ha-lachma anya, the bread of poverty. Nonetheless, there is actually something called matzah ashira meaning rich bread, and containing eggs, oil, and sometimes even a sweetener. However, the word matzah is quite literally simplicity itself.

By way of explanation, the Maharal of Prague, in Gevurot Hashem, his teachings on Pesach, draws our attention to a Talmudic passage describing animal hides:

Come and hear: Rabbi Hiyya ben Ammi said on Ulla's authority: There are three types of hide: matzah, hippa, and diftera. Matzah, as its name implies, is neither salted nor treated with flour or gall-nut .
Shabbat 79a

In this excerpt, matzah refers to the untreated animal hide, pure and simple.

The Maharal goes on to relate simplicity to freedom (Gevurot Hashem, 51). Ironically, a wealthy individual is burdened by his possessions and can be considered enslaved by them. In this view, it is only the individual who has no possessions who is truly free.

Well, I can't say that I fully agree. Poverty is also enslavement. When your belly is grumbling, it is difficult to think of anything other than finding a morsel to eat. No wonder when we eat the bread of poverty at the seder, we invite all who are hungry to come and eat.

Still, the idea of simplicity is an important one in a spiritual sense. Possessions do enslave us and distort our perception of things. When trying to keep up with the Joneses, we don't really get to know the Joneses at all; such competition stifles basic human contact. We see them for what they have, not for who they are.

Material simplicity brings with it a spiritual cleansing. Matzah is our back-to-basics reminder. Last week we touched upon a traditional view that matzah represents the yester ha-ra (evil inclination). One week a year, munching on matzah serves as a reminder to focus on ridding ourselves of all the bad habits that we have eased into over the course of the rest of the year.

But there are two sides to the humble matzah. It is also the bread of freedom, hurriedly baked in preparation for redemption. How you view unleavened bread depends on which side of the matzah you butter:

To be fully realized, an Exodus must include an inner voyage, not just a march on the road out of Egypt. The difference between slavery and freedom is not that slaves endure hard conditions while free people enjoy ease. The bread remained equally hard in both states, but the psychology of the Israelites shifted totally. When the hard crust was given to them by tyrannical masters, the matzah they ate in passivity was the bread of slavery. But when the Jews willingly went from green fertile deltas into the desert because they were determined to be free, when they refused to delay freedom and opted to eat unleavened bread rather than wait for it to rise, the hard crust became the bread of freedom. Out of fear and lack of responsibility, the slave accommodates to ill treatment. Out of dignity and determination to live free, the individual will shoulder any burden.
Irving Greenberg, The Jewish Way: Living the Holidays, p. 47

The irony is that we who live in freedom willingly accept the chains of possessions. Slowly, without our realizing it our materialism enslaves us. Funny, this sounds like a lesson about Sukkot. Isn't that the time of year when we remind ourselves that with the exception of some basic essentials, material possessions are trivial? Well, here is another week-long holiday half a year later which gives us the same message as "food for thought”: The material is immaterial.

Perhaps we need such a reminder twice a year. We're pretty forgetful. Just look at what happened after that wonderful redemption from Egypt: We melted our valuables and formed the Golden Calf, which led Moses to shatter the tablets and go back up Mount Sinai, where we find him this week in the Torah reading used for both Hol Ha-moed Pesach and Sukkot. Our actions post-redemption placed us in quite predicament, which Moses is trying to solve: Moses hastened to bow low to the ground in homage, and said, "If I have gained Your favor, O Lord, pray, let the Lord go in our midst, even though this is a stiffnecked people. Pardon our iniquity and our sin, and take us for Your own!" (Exodus 34:8-9)

How did we end up in that situation so little time after the euphoria of redemption? We were dependent on things, in this case on idols. What is the end of result? God forgives us and has Moses write another set of tablets containing the covenant. The covenantal ceremony between God and Israel will take place fifty days after Pesach on Shavuot. We're all invited.

As we munch on our matzah and detoxify for Shavuot, chew on this lesson: Possessions are meaningless, relationships are priceless.

Moadim le-simcha and Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Tzav, Leviticus 6:1-8:36, Shabbat HaGadol

2009-03-31T11:00:00.021-04:00

Holiness is maintained by a combination of attitude and action.

Some twenty-five years ago the city of New York was the testing ground for a social experiment called the "Broken Windows Theory." This experiment was developed by a movement that believes that environmental design can impact criminal behaviour. According to the Broken Windows Theory, if the community pays attention to small things such as fixing broken windows or removing graffiti, this will have a ripple effect and lead to a lessening of crime. Changing the environment sends a message that results in changed behaviour. New York started out by cleaning graffiti from all its subway cars, a project that took six years. It also arrested fare jumpers and others who committed misdemeanors. Fixing the small problems prevents the bigger ones. First proposed in the March, 1982 issue of The Atlantic, the Broken Windows Theory remains controversial today, even though it has been subject to testing.

The mindset of Leviticus may be viewed as an ancient precursor of the Broken Windows Theory with a slight twist. To understand it, we need to go back to the story of Creation When God began to create heaven and earth —the earth being unformed and void (Genesis 1:1-2). As God creates, structure is imposed on the world and chaos is brought under control. Yet, to the ancient mind the primordial chaos can reenter this world, as it threatened to do in the story of Noah when All the fountains of the great deep burst apart, /And the floodgates of the sky broke open (Genesis 7:11).

What do the events in Genesis have to do with Leviticus? Leviticus addresses concerns on a communal level. As with the Broken Windows Theory, the idea is to keeps society functioning properly by addressing problems in the environment as soon as they occur. The concern in Leviticus goes beyond graffiti or fare-jumping, it deals with kedusha, sacredness or holiness. If all functions as it should, chaos is kept at bay. The presence of sacredness in the here and now means that the world is functioning as it should, otherwise chaos could seep in and that would be dangerous.

As we see in this week's portion, Tzav, Leviticus sets boundaries separating the sacred from the profane and prescribes appropriate actions to correct situations when things go wrong. It comes down very hard on things that from our perspective appear to be trivial, such as a sacrifice that is eaten after its "use by" date: If any of the flesh of his sacrifice of well-being is eaten on the third day, it shall not be acceptable; it shall not count for him who offered it. It is an offensive thing (piggul), and the person who eats of it shall bear his guilt (Leviticus 7:18).

The Hebrew word piggul, "offensive thing" or "abomination," is a technical term referring specifically to the infraction of consuming this particular offering on the third day. This doesn't mean: "Oops, I forgot to burn the leftovers." Rather, as Rashi points out, the intention was to take home a doggy-bag with leftovers from the very beginning. It is the original mindset that invalidates the sacrifice. The wrong attitude is a threat to holiness.

Another threat to holiness is contact with impurities; such contact destroys protective boundaries and contaminates that which is sacred. Hence, there are grave consequences to these particular infractions:

Flesh that touches anything unclean shall not be eaten; it shall be consumed in fire. As for other flesh, only he who is clean may eat such flesh. But the person who, in a state of uncleanness, eats flesh from the Lord's sacrifices of well-being, that person shall be cut off from his kin. When a person touches anything unclean, be it human uncleanness or an unclean animal or any unclean creature, and eats flesh from the Lord's sacrifices of well-being, that person shall be cut off from his kin.
Leviticus 7:19-21

Holiness is maintained by a combination of attitude and action. It is so important that even the smallest infraction cannot be overlooked. Just as a minor cut can lead to a serious infection if not treated, or a broken window ignored can eventually lead to a crime-ridden neighborhood, the smallest transgression can erode sacredness.

While we no longer offer sacrifices, traces of the levitical worldview are reflected in our preparations for the upcoming holiday of Pesach. Hametz (leaven) was forbidden as part of the meal offerings in biblical times, and remains the central prohibition on Pesach. Hametz is a particularly virulent "contaminant," which the rabbinic sages symbolically associated with yetser ha-ra, the evil inclination.

The search for hametz must be extensive and intensive, for even the smallest particle of hametz in no matter how large a food mixture will corrupt. Similarly, no matter how small or deeply hidden the evil inclination is within us, it will fester and grow and eventually poison everything else. The process of removing hametz from the home is meant to arouse us to remove those negative inclinations within us as well.
The Jewish Holidays: A Guide and Commentary, Michael Strassfeld, pp. 40-1

Here too, sanctity is maintained by action and attitude. Talk about spring cleaning! The ritual of cleaning our home results in a cleansing of our souls. The end result of thinking and doing the right thing is described in the haftarah for this special Shabbat, Shabbat HaGadol: I will surely open the floodgates of the sky for you and pour down blessings on you (Malachi 3:10).

Shabbat shalom and chag kasher ve-sameach,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Vayikra, Leviticus 1:1-5:26

2009-03-24T10:00:00.008-04:00

This week's parsha sponsored in loving memory of Alan Newman by Joi Guttman-Young.

Our ancestors were stuck with an instruction book for obsolete tools.

On a foggy New England morning in January 1909, the RMS Republic collided with the SS Florida. As would happen on such tragic occasions in the future, the Republic sent out a distress call by wireless transmission: CDQ. This was the message that the Marconi International Marine Communication Company had put into effect five years previously, in 1904. Interestingly, just one year later, the German government adopted a distress sign more familiar to us, SOS, which would become the international standard six months before the Republic's transmission.

Confused? Full speed ahead to April 14, 1912, where in the darkness of night the RMS Titanic hits an iceberg. Sitting at the radio was Jack Phillips, who began to send out the distress signal used by British ships: CDQ. His junior operator suggested he use the newer "SOS," joking that this might be his only opportunity to use the new signal, and so Phillips alternated between the two.

Both the CDQ and SOS distress calls were received in New York City at a wireless office in the Wanamaker Department Store. Over the next few days, this small office would receive numerous bits of information in Morse Code, detailing casualty lists and other information about the doomed Titanic.

For most of the twentieth century, Morse Code was the fastest way to convey information, especially for those at sea. All this came to an end in 1999. Satellites, radio, and GPS made the system obsolete and it was replaced by the Global Maritime Distress Safety System. That's not to say that Morse Code is dead. It is still popular with ham radio operators and, in fact, a new sign was added in 2004 to represent @, so radio operators could exchange email addresses in Morse Code.

From our modern vantage point, it is hard to believe that Morse Code was at one time not only revolutionary but a necessity that could literally spell the difference between life and death. While it was available to all, in reality it was used by a few who acted as intermediaries between the sender and receiver. These intermediaries were trained in the correct language and procedure. They knew the code and the accompanying ritual.

This week we begin to read Vayikra (Leviticus), which—for the most part—is a code book we no longer understand. This central book of the Torah gives detailed instructions regarding the sacrificial cult, the proper occasions for the various sacrifices, and the correct rituals for cutting and dividing the animal, for wave offeringsand the sprinkling of blood in particular rites. This was essential information for our ancestors; it was a form of direct communication between them and God.

When any of you presents an offering of cattle to the Lord, he shall choose his offering from the herd or from the flock.
If his offering is a burnt offering from the herd, he shall make his offering a male without blemish. He shall bring it to the entrance of the Tent of Meeting, for acceptance in his behalf before the Lord. He shall lay his hand upon the head of the burnt offering, that it may be acceptable in his behalf, in expiation for him. The bull shall be slaughtered before the Lord; and Aaron's sons, the priests, shall offer the blood, dashing the blood against all sides of the altar which is at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting. The burnt offering shall be flayed and cut up into sections. The sons of Aaron the priest shall put fire on the altar and lay out wood upon the fire; and Aaron's sons, the priests, shall lay out the sections, with the head and the suet, on the wood that is on the fire upon the altar. Its entrails and legs shall be washed with water, and the priest shall turn the whole into smoke on the altar as a burnt offering, an offering by fire of pleasing odor to the Lord.
Leviticus 1:2-9

Well, that was great as long as the sacrificial system was the mode de jour for getting God's attention. That line of communication was cut when the Second Temple fell. Our ancestors were stuck with an instruction book for obsolete tools. So what did they do? They reinterpreted. Nechama Leibowitz has a wonderful study comparing how some of the medieval heavyweights viewed Vayikra.

In one corner is the great 12th century philosopher Maimonides (Rambam) who saw the sacrificial system as being a transitional method of communicating with God. According to Rambam, this system was actually more restrictive than the sacrificial cults of the cultures that surrounded our ancestors. The long-term plan was to eliminate sacrifices all together. The sacrificial system was a weaning away from one mode of relating to God to a more mature mode.

Not so according to Nachmanides (Ramban), the heavyweight champion of 13th century Spain. The sacrificial system concretized abstract concepts. You placed your hands on the animal and transferred your sin.

Seeing that human conduct is expressed in thought, speech and action, God instituted that a person who has committed a transgression and offers a sacrifice, shall place his hands on it—symbolizing the deed, make a confession—as a reminder of the misused power of speech, and burn with fire the bowels and kidneys—which are the organs of thought and lust, and the legs—symbol of the human hands and feet, instruments which serve man in all his activities. And the blood shall be sprinkled on the altar—representing his life-blood. All this should make him realize that having sinned against God with his body and soul, he would deserve to have his blood spilled and his body burned. However, God in his infinite mercy, accepts this substitute for an atonement, and its blood in lieu of his, its main organs in place of his, the portions (of the sacrifice eaten by the priests) so as to sustain the teachers of the Torah that they may pray for him. Accordingly, the daily sacrifice is offered up because of the masses who are constantly caught up in the web of sin.
Nachmanides on Lev 1:9, translation in Nechama Leibowitz,
New Studies in Vayikra, vol. 1, pp. 8-9

Think of the emotional effect of this ritual if you were able to so today. You would truly be removing a burden! What's more, Ramban believed that there was also a mystical aspect to the sacrifices, which is beyond the understanding of most of us.

Fast forward to our time: For the modern liberal reader Vayikra has gone the way of Morse Code. We know about it, although we never really understand it. For some it is quaint, for others somewhat embarrassing. There are many in the liberal denominations who devote little time to the early parts of Vayikra, because we cannot "relate" to this book. Rather, they focus on chapter 19, the Holiness code, or on chapter 23, which gives us the Jewish calendar, or on the end of the book, which discusses the land of Israel.

But the beginning of Leviticus is just as holy as the end, despite the fact that we no longer bring offerings to God nor look forward to the restoration of the sacrificial system. Our challenge is to find new meaning in the text, so it will resonate with us today. We must grapple with Vayikra, bringing it from the days of Jewish Morse Code to the Jewish internet age. It may no longer serve its original purpose, but we can find meaning in it that our ancestors could not have imagined. It is an ancient tool that can be used to express modern thoughts, just as Morse Code can be used to communicate email addresses.

This is not something new to us. In less than two weeks we will be observing Pesach (Passover). Interested in the Paschal sacrifice? You'd have to go to a Samaritan Pesach to see that. The central feature of the ancient Pesach observance was reinterpreted in Judaism long ago. A symbol of the sacrifice remains on the Seder plate and mention is made of it in the Haggadah, there is no lamb in the backyard that will end up on the holiday table. Changes in circumstance necessitated changes in approach and observance.

If we manage to read the Haggadah, why do we tend to struggle our way through Vayikra? Our first step is to accept the fact that Leviticus is unlike any other book of the Torah and must be approached with a different mindset. The very word for sacrifice, korban, comes from the root k-r-b, to bring close. The book of Exodus ends with the construction of the Tabernacle, which is meant to bring God into our midst. Leviticus begins with sacrifices, a way of drawing us closer to God; it is a guidebook for drawing near to God. What is the approach we need to have in reading this book?

If we say that Genesis and most of Exodus create a cascading river of narrative, then Leviticus is a still deep pool. Here, as at the end of Exodus, the Israelites remain camped in the Sinai wilderness, where they worked together to construct a portable sanctuary ( "Tabernacle" or "Tent of Meeting"). Nearly all of Leviticus presents itself as taking place at that sanctuary—where God spoke to Moses, giving instructions to be conveyed to the people of Israel.
The Torah: A Modern Commentary, revised edition, W. Gunther Plaut, p. 658

As we proceed through the book of Leviticus, forget about diving into the text, sit on the water's edge and contemplate the ripples.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Vayakhel-Pekudei, Exodus 35:1-40:38, Shabbat HaChodesh, Ex. 12:1-20

2009-03-17T10:00:00.009-04:00

Society objectifies, God individualizes.

1974 was a significant year, although I did not know it at the time. A mistake in a lab that year would eventually change the way we took notes. Nowadays, I don't know how I could survive without those technologically simple little yellow sticky pieces of paper. I have a to-do list stuck on the mirror, an appointment list on my pocket calendar. I no longer write notes in books, rather I have enough Post-it notes to make a new book. As I get older, I find that more and more of my house is wallpapered with these little informational storage units. What did people do before this unassuming little invention? They repeated things to themselves. That's a great way of committing items to memory. It is also a great way of stressing the importance of an item.

This is something to keep in mind as we look at this week's double Torah portion.
Vayakhel-Pekudei takes us to familiar territory: the building of the tabernacle, its implements, and the priestly garments, In fact, Vayakhel is pretty much a repeat of Exodus 25.

… Repetition occurs in ancient Near Eastern texts also in epic literature and certain poetic genres. …The biblical passages under consideration are largely of the archival type. Their meticulous method of accounting appeared like epic and poetic repetition and was equally familiar as a literary pattern.
We caution the reader not to approach these passages with modern stylistic prejudices. Repetition of words and terms, let alone whole sets of details, is nowadays considered tedious or unimaginative. However, a person of the ancient Near East—who was primarily a listener to and not a reader of traditional material—found repetition a welcome way of supporting familiarity with the text. In an age of relatively few written records, it gave added assurance that the tradition was transmitted as faithfully as possible.
The Torah: A Modern Commentary (Revised Edition), W. Gunther Plaut, p. 621

The end of the second book of the Torah contains more than words and repetitions. It follows a pattern that hearkens back to the very beginning of the Exodus. Eileh sh'mot, these are the names, are the very first words we read in Exodus (1:1), a list of the Israelites who made their way to Egypt. Now, in the very last portion of this book of the Torah we read (Exodus 40:21) eileh pekudei, these are the records, a detailed list of the items used in the construction of the Tabernacle.

The word pekudei can be translated in a number of ways. The root p-k-d is used to form words meaning to reckon, muster, count, recall, command, appoint, call to account, entrust, and attend to. While it appears here as "records," in last week's portion (Exodus 30:12) the same root was translated as the "enrollment" of the Israelite people for the census. Pikudei as "enrollment" is also found in the book of Numbers (see especially 1:44-49).

Despite popular belief, accounting was one of the oldest professions. This even extended to divine recordkeeping.

The idea of God recording the names of people in a book is part of a general Near Eastern belief in heavenly ledgers. The popular conception of such records no doubt is rooted in the practices of record keeping in the political and economic realms. Because census lists determined certain aspects, such as taxes and military service, of the fate of the individuals listed in them, they are likely to have been the models for the record books of deities, who were considered the deciders of destiny. References in cuneiform documents to celestial ledgers can be traced back to Sumerian times. These documents refer variously to "tablets of life" or "tablets of destiny." …
The Hebrew Bible shares this tradition. More than a dozen texts refer to heavenly ledgers, of which there are three different kinds: a book of divine decrees, in which God records the destinies of people (e.g., Psalm 139:16); a book of remembrance which keeps track of what people do (Malachi 3:16) and a book of life, or of the living.
Exodus, Carol Meyers, p. 261

For us this certainly calls to mind the recordkeeping associated with the High Holy Days when God notes and weighs the actions of each individual. As was noted in last year's study on this parashah, the root p-k-d is used in the Torah when God "takes note" (Genesis 21:1) or calls to account (Exodus 34:7).

Taking inventory appears to us to be an impersonal task. As it relates to the building of the tabernacle it is a record of the amount and type of items used in its construction. Jumping ahead to the book of Numbers, Sforno points out that the inventory of the same items found in Pekudei is presented differently: you shall list by name the objects (Numbers 4:32).

…each one of them (the articles counted) was worthy to be considered as important and to be called by its private (individual) name, not only as part of a generic group (category). This is certainly justified (regarding) each one of the holy vessels…
Sforno on Exodus 38:21, translation from Sforno: Commentary on the Torah,
Rabbi Raphael Pelcovitz

If within a category of inventory the individual item is not lost, how much more so with a human being than with an inanimate object. We often worry that society treats us as just another number, classifying us by common denominators. Not so with God. Society objectifies, God individualizes. With this comes the notion of God "keeping tabs" on each one of us; while it may make us uneasy, it should be comforting.

At the beginning of the Book of Exodus we were treated as objects in Pharaoh's inventory. God's redemption restored our humanity. To Pharaoh we were numbers in generic categories; to God we are holy vessels with individual names. This transformation carries a responsibility that should be used for the benefit of community and for service to God. Isn't it time we each took inventory of our abilities and put them to use for a holy purpose?

Shabbat shalom
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Ki Tisa, Exodus 30:11-34:35, Shabbat Parah, Numbers 19:1-22

2009-03-10T11:00:00.015-04:00

Parasha sponsored by the Sacks Family in honour of their father and grandfather –Morris Gainen

Moments of revelation are times of trepidation.

Art has often engendered controversy, sometimes deliberately, sometimes accidentally. There are people who question whether abstract painting can be called "art" because it departs from a realistic representation of objects. Then again, realistic depictions have also been contentious. Even today some question whether photography is art. Is the technology controlled by the artist, or does the technology make someone with passable talent and skill into a master?

Can a painting be too good? Dutch artist Johannes Vermeer had an amazing ability to capture the play of light in his paintings, as can be seen in the accompanying picture. The clarity of his work has been at the center of a dispute: Did technology help him achieve these brilliant results? Vermeer is believed to have viewed his subject matter with the aid of a camera obscura. A precursor of the modern camera, the camera obscura box allows light to enter through a small opening. The light rays focused on the opposite side produce an upside-down but accurate image of an object or scene; the smaller the opening, the sharper the image.

More familiar to some would be the pinhole camera, which many of us have used to view solar eclipses. Since it is dangerous to stare directly at the sun, viewing an eclipse with a pinhole camera allows you to see a shadow image of what is taking place. With both optical devices it is a case where less is more. The smaller the aperture, the greater the focus and detail. (Think of a magnifying glass that, in focusing rays of light, can start a fire.)

The idea of these devices, though not the objects themselves, can help us understand a curious situation that arises in Parashat Ki Tisa. When we encounter the intrepid Israelites this week, they are panic-stricken because Moses has not come back after spending weeks on Mount Sinai. In desperation they ask Aaron to create a god they can worship. The end result is the Golden Calf. With perfect timing, Moses arrives, Ten Commandments in hand, just as our ancestors have whipped themselves into an idolatrous frenzy. The end result is a slaughter of those who committed idolatry and a shattered set of commandments.

After the headache of the Golden Calf, Moses goes back up the mountain to take two more tablets, or more accurately, to make two more tablets. Here is where the curious incident takes place. Moses asks to see God but is told this is not possible: "you cannot see My face, for man may not see Me and live." (Exodus 33:20) God has a solution to this problem: "Station yourself on the rock and, as My Presence passes by, I will put you in a cleft of the rock and shield you with My hand until I have passed by. Then I will take My hand away and you will see My back; but My face must not be seen." (Exodus 33:21-23)

Moses' situation is comparable to the person experiencing a solar eclipse. There is great danger in exposure but the experience itself is still possible; Moses, squeezed into the narrow opening of the cleft, will see the "back" of God, the shadow image. This is the safe way to do it; being wedged into this tight space helps focus the experience.

As we can well imagine, this close encounter with God changes Moses forever. It is a visible change: So Moses came down from Mount Sinai. And as Moses came down from the mountain bearing the two tablets of the Pact, Moses was not aware that the skin of his face was radiant (karan)…(Exodus 34:29) Rashi, drawing on Midrash Tanhuma explains the source of Moses' radiance. Call it a Divine facial if you will, according to Rashi the radiance is a result of God's shielding Moses with the Divine "hand" as Moses was in the cleft of the rock. Furthermore, says Rashi, this radiance (karan) was actually in the form of horn-like (keren) rays of light.

Rays are the expression of a narrowing and intensifying of light, piercing through a crack, for instance. In the crevice in the rock, with God’s hand shielding his eyes, he achieves a moment of oblique vision. The nature of such a ray-like perception emerges most powerfully from the proof-text quoted in the midrash: “It is a brilliant light which gives off rays from His hand; and there His glory is hidden” (Habakkuk 3:4). God’s light is hidden, and that obstruction creates brilliant rays. Indeed, quite prosaically, human vision becomes possible only by a limiting of vision: too close, too bright, too total a light simply dazzles and blinds. A fissure in the rock yields piercing fragments of illumination which are not merely seen, but absorbed in the very fabric of Moses' being

The Particulars of Rapture: Reflections on Exodus,
Aviva Gottlieb Zornberg, pp. 445-6

This "fissure in the rock" is Moses' camera obscura, making it possible for him to see and therefore experience things as never before. In the Torah tight spots are the ones that provide these revelatory close encounters. Another example is the Sea of Reeds is. Wedged between an advancing Egyptian army and a foreboding body of water, this situation illuminates the necessity of action: Then Moses held out his arm over the sea and the Lord drove back the sea with a strong east wind all that night, and turned the sea into dry ground (Exodus 14:21). Trudging through a soggy seabed between two walls of water, the people went in as slaves and came out as free people. Sinai as experienced by Israel is not a Rocky Mountain high. These folks are at the bottom and in the shadow; similar to Moses holed up in the wedge of the rock. No wonder midrash states that the mountain is threateningly held over the people. Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place! Moments of revelation are times of trepidation.

Elsewhere we have talked before about how obstacles provide opportunities we could not have imagined. This is not to present a rosy Pollyannaish point of view. I personally hate the cliché about one door closing and another one opening. Sometimes a door closes and you're just stuck in a dark room unable to find your way out.

This was Moses' situation. The traumatic condition of the people reflected his personal need as well; stuck between an idolatrous nation and the God they spurned he strengthened the connection that could have been broken forever. And he did this by getting into an even tighter space: the cleft of a rock as God's glory passes by. It changed him forever.

Those times when life wedges us in the cleft of the rock change us too. Today, more and more people find themselves caught in the crevice between rock-solid unyielding forces. Tight spots put things in focus just like the camera obscura or the pinhole camera. They illumine what is important in our lives. Let us hope and pray that those experiencing such travail will, like Moses, experience God's caress, and emerge luminously changed.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Picture Credit: Johannes Vermeer, Milkmaid, Rijksmuseum,Netherlands
Image from: wikimedia.org

Parashat Tetzaveh, Exodus 27:20-30:10, Shabbat Zachor, Deuteronomy 25:17-19

2009-03-03T10:00:00.019-05:00

This Shabbat we struggle with two forms of memory.

Music has always had a mathematical component, but now it looks as if mathematics is shaping music. First there a musical intelligence software program that analyzes the likelihood of a song becoming a hit based on some thirty different factors. Now, for a small fee, you and your struggling band can submit a song to a number of companies for analysis. They can then advise you where to make changes that will result in a hit-producing mathematical pattern.

Currently, these cookie-cutter tune treatments only deal with the music. I've always been more of a lyrics person, and I'm waiting for the day when the focus will shift to dissecting the words of hit songs. "Love" is sure to be the most popular choice, but to my algorithmically challenged mind it is too obvious. Were I to try my hand at popular songwriting I would probably choose "remembering" or "memory" as a theme. There are nearly as many songs about remembering as there are about love, and it is a theme that is more diverse and subtler. It is found in words sung by Elvis Presley:
Memories, pressed between the pages of my mind
Memories, sweetened thru the ages just like wine
(Written by Bill Strange and Scott Davis)

As well as the poetry crooned by a cat:
Memory
All alone in the moonlight
I can smile at the old days
I was beautiful then
I remember the time I knew what happiness was
Let the memory live again
(Written by Trevor Nunn and Andrew Lloyd Webber, based on T.S. Eliot's "Rhapsody on a Windy Night")

Or echoing in the Oscar-winning Barbra Streisand hit "The Way We Were":
Memories,
Like the corners of my mind
Misty water-colored memories
Of the way we were
…Memories, may be beautiful and yet
What's too painful to remember
We simply choose to forget
(Written by Alan Bergman, Marilyn Bergman and Marvin Hamlisch)

We all know that memory can play tricks on us. Perhaps that’s what the Bergmans meant when they wrote: What's too painful to remember/We simply choose to forget. Really? What would it be like to have no memory? Would it be a blessing or a curse? Two recent examples from the media lead to the conclusion that it would be both. Last December, Henry Gustav Molaison died at the age of 82. Over half a century ago he underwent surgery for a seizure disorder. The operation left him unable to form new memories.

For the next 55 years, each time he met a friend, each time he ate a meal, each time he walked in the woods, it was as if for the first time.
And for those five decades, he was recognized as the most important patient in the history of brain science. As a participant in hundreds of studies, he helped scientists understand the biology of learning, memory and physical dexterity, as well as the fragile nature of human identity.
H. M., an Unforgettable Amnesiac, Dies at 82, Benedict Carey,
New York Times, December 5, 2008

Memories may be beautiful, but Henry Gustav Molaison was unable to know that.

Then there's the experimental use of the beta-blocker Propranolol, which has been found successful in treating Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Should it be used to erase painful memories, specifically those of elderly Holocaust survivors?

Simply put, how can we help those who have suffered in war, end their lives in peace?
In their extreme age, with the decline of short-term memory and the ravages of dementia, some survivors who enter hospital believe they are back in the camps.
In an institution, routine elements of care can trigger horrors from the past. They may be afraid of showers, suspicious of staff in uniform, even the sharp click of heels in a hallway prompted one woman to shout "heil Hitler" from her room. They resist injections, remembering the numbers tattooed on their arms. They refuse haircuts, because their heads were shaved in the camps.
What brings this issue to the fore is that drugs, which can blunt the force of an emotional memory, are now available and have been tested on rape and accident victims, war veterans and others who suffer post-traumatic stress disorder.
War memories raise ethical dilemma, Leslie Scrivener,
Toronto Star, November 10, 2008

How can we fail to ease the trauma of elderly survivors? Have they not had enough of remembering?

Ironically, this is Shabbat Zachor, the Shabbat of Remembrance, when we are admonished in the additional Torah reading to 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! (Deuteronomy 25:17-19)

The commandment to remember is incumbent upon the community. Certainly we can shoulder the burden of those who have spent their entire lives not only remembering but reliving. Zachor, remembering, is about transferring the responsibility from one generation to the next.

This week's parashah, Tetzaveh, is not about memories, though it hints at things that are or will be tantalizingly out of reach. It is the one parashah in the last four books of the Torah that does not mention Moses by name. Where elsewhere we find instructions to the people beginning with the form Adonai spoke to Moses saying, this structure is absent in Tetzaveh. As the twentieth century Bible scholar Umberto Cassuto points out regarding the beginning of the parashah: "This paragraph contains three allocutions to Moses, all of which begin with the word ve-atta… followed by a verb in the imperfect or imperative." (Translation: Israel Abrahams)

While he is not named, the use of ve-atta, "and you" certainly implies that Moses is to initiate what is instructed and then transfer the duties to others.

The portion is very much about the taking on of responsibility. All the preparations by the unnamed Moses are for the priestly ordination of Aaron and his sons that takes place at the end of the parashah: Thus you shall do to Aaron and his sons, just as I have commanded you. You shall ordain them through seven days…(Exodus 29:35). The unnamed Moses has a critical but temporary role:

For seven days, before "the eighth day" (Leviticus 9:1) on which Aaron and his sons took over the ritual duties, Moses would set up the tabernacle each day, bring the offerings, and in the evening he would take it down. On the eighth day – the 1st of Nissan – he set up the Tabernacle permanently, as described in [Exodus] 40:17-33. From this point on Aaron and his sons performed ritual duties.
Rashbam on Exodus 29:35, translation from The Commentators' Bible:
The JPS Miqraot Gedolot, Michael Carasik, translator and editor

Moses isn't gone. He has delegated responsibilities as per God's instructions. Omitting his name from this parashah allows the focus to be on others who must also play a crucial role in the community.

This Shabbat we struggle with two forms of memory. First, there is the longing for that elusive memory just over the horizon, so near and yet so far. It is the memory on the eighth day, as the priests take up their duties, of all that went on for the seven days before. This is the memory of Moses who performed these rituals until the priests were ready to do so; the same Moses whose presence is felt in the parashah, but whose name is absent. This is akin to the memory we feel on birthdays, anniversaries, or holidays when we gather for celebration, but there are empty seats at the table. We may now be sitting at the head of the table, leading the seder, or making the matzah balls, but the voice of a beloved parent or grandparent whispers the ritual instructions in our ears. These memories are beautiful, painful to remember, yet we would never forget them.

Then there is the memory that pierces us like a cold howling wind. This is the memory of what Amalek did to us. We must brace ourselves and remember. This ugly memory we may wish to forget, but tradition teaches us to do otherwise.

Jewish memory is communal. It is at once breathtakingly beautiful and hideously painful. Memory reminds of us of who we were, affirms who we are, and shapes who we will be. Jewish memory is our Yizkor (memorial) candle; it is also our ner tamid (eternal light) and we provide the clear oil of beaten olives to keep the lamp lit continually. (Exodus 27:20)

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Terumah, Exodus 25:1-27:19

2009-02-24T10:00:00.017-05:00

For liberal Jews, the connection to Tabernacle, Temple and sacrificial system is something we rejected long ago.

We recently observed the 200th anniversary of the birth of Charles Darwin. (Lovers of American history will note that this birth-date is shared by Abraham Lincoln.) I've always wondered if Darwin's interest in biology was hereditary or environmental. His grandfather, Erasmus Darwin, came up with his own theory on evolution, which he published in verse! Alas, the elder Darwin did not live to see his grandson, but it is nice to imagine that Erasmus' writings were cherished by young Charles.

We do, however, know that other people were very taken with the ideas of Erasmus Darwin. Among them was Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, who, spending a very rainy summer on Lake Geneva, whiled away the hours with her companions in conversation and storytelling. One of their more interesting topics of conversation was Erasmus Darwin, for according to reports he had animated dead matter.

This fired Mary's imagination that soggy summer and she came up with a story about the reanimation of dead matter. Published in 1818 under her married name of Mary Shelley, this tale is more familiar to us from film adaptations starring Boris Karloff and Christopher Lee. The actual title of the novel is Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus.

This fascination with giving life to dead matter is an interest that can be found in various cultures. Jewish folklore has the story of the golem. In the Talmud, Adam, formed from dust "kneaded into a shapeless mass" is described as being a golem at an early stage of creation before "a soul was infused into him." (Sanhedrin 38b, Soncino translation) The most well-known Jewish tale is the legend of the Golem of Prague. The idea of the golem has inspired many writers and film-makers who have entertained us with modern perspectives on this legend. Another tale about giving life to inanimate objects would be familiar to North Americans from a classic cartoon. Based on a poem by Goethe , 1940's Fantasia features Mickey Mouse as the Sorcerer's Apprentice, bringing broomsticks to life. Today, many of us feel we are on the verge of turning fiction into reality: whether it is through the creation of life in a biological lab or the eventual blurring of lines between human and artificial intelligence.

At first glance Parashat Terumah appears to be as removed from the creation of life as possible. It deals with the construction of the Tabernacle and its accoutrements, all of which is described in excruciating detail. Then again, the instructions are from God and so we had better get it right!

Yet from rabbinic midrash to modern biblical scholarship, we are given examples of how the building of the Tabernacle contains many similarities to the story of creation. Scholars such as Jon Levenson have analyzed the structure of the narrative that occupies the latter chapters of Exodus. The similarity in structure between Exodus 39-40, which details the building of the Tabernacle, and the story of creation is "powerful evidence that, as in many cultures, the Temple was conceived as a microcosm, a miniature world." (Jon Levenson, Creation and the Persistence of Evil, p, 86) The similarities are brought out strikingly in a midrash that Levenson quotes:

On the first day it is written: "In the beginning God created heaven and earth," [Genesis 1:] and it is written, "You spread the heavens like a tent cloth," [Psalm 104:2] and of the Tabernacle what is written? "You shall then make cloths of goat hair." [Exodus 26:7]
On the second day: "Let there be an expanse," and it speaks of a separation, as it says: "that it may separate [mabdil] water from water." [Genesis 1:6] And of the Tabernacle it is written: "so that the curtain shall serve you as a partition [hibdula]."[Exodus 26:33]
On the third day water is discussed, as it says: 'Let the water . . . be gathered." [Genesis 1:9] And of the Tabernacle it is written: "Make a laver [kiyor] of copper and a stand of copper for it. . . . Put water in it."[Exodus 30:18]
On the fourth day he created lights, as it is written: "Let there be lights in the expanse of the sky." [Genesis 1:14] And of the Tabernacle it is written: "You shall make a lampstand of pure gold." [Exodus 25:31] …
Jon Levenson, Creation and the Persistence of Evil, p, 97

Parashat Terumah also contains words that can be termed the language of creation: The verb used most frequently is asah, to make. This is the same verb that is used with the creation of humanity: Let us make (na'aseh) humanity (Genesis 1:26) More importantly, as was brought to my attention by my colleague Rabbi Debra Landsberg, these chapters that deal with inanimate objects use words that may be associated with living beings:
The walls of the tabernacle are called tselah, which is also the word for "rib." (See especially Exodus 26.) The word for the edge of a cloth is safah, "lip." (As in Exodus 26:4.) For the width of the enclosure on the front, or east side, fifty cubits: fifteen cubits of hangings on the one flank (la-katef) (Exodus 27:13-14), katef being the Hebrew word for shoulder. The description of how the cloths are connected is literally "as a woman is joined to her sister." (Exodus 26:3. See last year's commentary for more on this phrase.)

The terminology used in the building of the Tabernacle is reminiscent of that used for the creation of humanity. God breathed life into humanity and gave each one of us a soul; God's dwelling in our midst became the soul of the Tabernacle. Without the Divine Presence, the Tabernacle would have been as much of a golem as the soulless creature formed by human hands.

Many Jews still feel a living connection to the Tabernacle and its later version, the Temple. However, for liberal Jews, the connection to Tabernacle, Temple and sacrificial system is something we rejected long ago. What can we aspire to, those of us who do not draw a line from biblical Tabernacle to ancient Temples built and destroyed to a future Temple in a Messianic Age? What can we shape, form or build that will be infused with that Divine spirit? The answer is not new and it remains our most important, sacred long-range project:

And all your children shall be taught of Adonai, and great shall be the peace of your children. (Isaiah 54:13) Read not banayich (your children) but bonayich (your builders).
Berachot 64a

The next generation is our Divine building project. Whether by birth, adoption, through formal or informal teaching, or role-modeling, we all have a role in creating the Jewish future.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Mishpatim, Exodus 21:1-24:18, Shabbat Shekalim, Exodus 30:11-16

2009-02-17T10:00:00.015-05:00

Why on earth be active in the Jewish community if you do not believe?

If I had to do it all again I'd spend a lot of time practicing piano, violin, drawing, shooting baskets, whatever. While practice doesn't make perfect, it gets you pretty close. One of the most intriguing pieces of information in Malcolm Gladwell's book Outliers is the 10,000 hour rule; this being the amount of time you must spend doing something to be really good at it. The opportunity to have this much practice is more important than talent alone. If someone had told me this when I was ten, I would now be a terrific animator who just happened to play the banjo with ease and could speedskate with the best of them. There may still be a chance: five hours a day, five days a week and I could reach one of these goals in less than eight years. Nineteen years of practice for two hours a day, five days a week would allow me to be a pretty impressive baton twirler by the time I retire.

Even if I don't make the magic 10,000 hour mark, this bit of information revealed new insight into a well-known verse from Parashat Mishpatim. This portion covers a wide variety of rules (mishpatim) that God wants us to follow. At the very end of the parashah, Moses reads the covenant to the people of Israel, who respond:
All that the Lord has spoken we will faithfully do! (na'aseh ve-nishmah) (Exodus 24:7) The Hebrew na'aseh ve-nishmah has been translated in many ways; the nuances are best summarized by Ibn Ezra:

Literally, "We will do, and we will hear," adding "we will hear" to what they had already said in verse 3—we will do everything that is written down, and we will constantly hear them in that they will never be forgotten from our mouths. Saadia says that it is another case where the Torah is written out of chronological order, and what they really said was "We will hear and we will do." Or it might mean, "We will do" the commandments that are planted in our hearts, and "we will heed" the commandments that have been revealed to us. Or, "We will do" all the commandments He has given us so far, and "we will heed" the commandments that we will be given in the future. Or, "We will do" the positive commandments, and "we will heed" the prohibitions and not do them.
Ibn Ezra on Exodus 24:7 from The Commentators' Bible: The JPS Miqraot Gedolot, Michael Carasik, translator and editor

Na'aseh means “we will do.” Nishmah can mean “we will listen, we will heed, or we will learn.” Either way, one would think that the listening or learning precedes the doing, yet the order is reversed in this verse: Action leads to insight. This is the lesson of 10,000 hours of practice; it is reaching the point when you get so good at something that you are performing at a higher level. So too with mitzvot (commandments).

However, it is safe to say that within Jewish tradition the stress is on the importance of study as a catalyst to everything else. Let's eavesdrop on a rabbinic conversation:

Rabbi Tarfon and the Elders were once reclining in the upper storey of Nithza's house, in Lydda, when this question was raised before them: Is study greater, or practice? Rabbi Tarfon answered, saying: Practice is greater. Rabbi Akiba answered, saying: Study is greater, for it leads to practice. Then they all answered and said: Study is greater, for it leads to action.
Kiddushin 40b, Soncino translation

Or if you prefer, here is a similar teaching that has made its way from the Talmud (Shabbat 127a) to the siddur (prayerbook):

These are things that yield interest during your life, while the principal remains for you in the world-to-come: honoring your father and mother, doing kindness, arriving early to study morning and evening, welcoming strangers, visiting the sick, providing for the bride, burying the dead, paying attention to prayer, bringing peace between one person and another; and the study of Torah is like them all [talmud torah keneged kulam].
Translation from My People's Prayer Book, vol. 5: Birkhot HaShachar,
Lawrence Hoffman, ed.

Talmud torah keneged kulam, the study of Torah is equal to all the other mitzvot, is not that simple and not everyone agrees with it. Shimon ben Gamliel warns that "Study is not the primary thing but the doing." (Avot 1:17) Even study (nishmah) can be taken to its extreme and the deed (na'aseh) gets lost. Study without deed is meaningless. Rabbi Huna is even more adamant than Shimon ben Gamliel: "He who only occupies himself with the study of the Torah is as if he had no God." (Avodah Zarah 17b) Whoa! Too much Torah and you're the equivalent of an atheist?! Rabbi Huna certainly catches my attention with that!

His is a radical way of saying that Judaism is more concerned with the na'aseh then the nishmah. The doing takes precedence, and not only in the word order in this verse. As has often been said: Judaism is about deed not creed. While other religions worry about faith, our greatest concern is action. Let's call it living expression rather than giving expression. You can be a Jew and not believe. This is not easy for a rabbi to say, but we know our synagogues include members who are there for communal, cultural and ethnic reasons. You can be a Jew and question your beliefs. That's an even bigger part of our synagogue membership. Why on earth be active in the Jewish community if you do not believe? Because being part of a community matters. Deeds count. Na'aseh.

Sometime this month a new advertising campaign will begin on subway trains in Toronto. It is organized by an atheist organization and based on a similar campaign in London, England. Sponsored by the Freethought Association of Canada, it will feature posters such as: "There's probably no God. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life." (In England the campaign was in reaction to a Christian group's campaign that non-believers will end up in a lake of fire.) The idea behind the campaign is to promote dialogue.

In the past couple of weeks I've been getting calls from the media looking for reaction to this campaign. Frankly, I don't see how dialogue can take place on something we inherently disagree about. I can't prove God exists. How do you prove a relationship? They can't prove God doesn't –though the use of "probably" is more agnostic, than atheist. They're imagining a being, I'm dealing with relationship. In response to their campaign my billboard would quote Martin Buber:

God cannot be inferred in anything—in nature, say, as its author, or in history, as its master, or in the subject as the self that is thought in it. Something else is not "given" and God then elicited from it; but God is the Being that is directly, most nearly, and lastingly, over against us, that may only be addressed, not expressed.
Martin Buber, I and Thou, pp. 80-81

Okay, that's a bit wordy for a billboard. Perhaps an excerpt from Midrash Eichah Rabbah (proem 2) would be catchier in a rabbinic sort of way: "If only they had forsaken Me but kept My law." That's right, better to forget God, but keep on doing.

What's important is na'aseh, the doing, our doing. As long as folks live a civil, moral and ethical life, then let them believe what they like. As my friend's bubbie (grandmother) used to say, "They should live and be well."

For all of us na'aseh must be the first step; deeds are what sustain the world. For some of us this leads to nishmah: a soulful awareness of the reason for the deeds, an understanding which further enhances our lives and our appreciation for the world.

Na'aseh ve-nishmah allows me to engage life on so many more levels than na'aseh alone. I may never be a virtuoso musician, a world-class athlete, or a successful business-person no matter how many hours I allocate to these tasks. But every minute I devote to na'aseh, doing, gives me a deeper comprehension of life and the One who bestowed this precious gift on all of us.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Yitro, Exodus 18:1-20:23

2009-02-10T10:00:00.016-05:00

Being a workaholic is a no-no.

Among our most precious commodities is time. There never seems to be enough of it. Technological advances that promised to free us from the shackles of the analog clock have merely chained us to a digital timepiece. The pursuit of free time brings to mind a book I read in my youth called Cheaper by the Dozen. This was the biography of Frank Gilbreth Sr. and Lillian Gilbreth and their family of twelve children. The Gilbreths were efficiency experts and pioneers in what was called time and motion studies. Much of what they did would today be called ergonomics. They were looking for the most efficient ways to carry out tasks in order to increase productivity and save time. Frank had started life as a bricklayer. Through analyzing film of bricklayers at work, he and Lillian determined that the number of steps a person uses in laying bricks could be cut from 18 to about 4. In Cheaper by the Dozen, Frank explains why he wanted to save time. While I can't remember the quote exactly, it was something to the effect that people should have more time to do the things they wish to do, even should it be Mumblety-Peg. (This is a knife-throwing game that used to be played by boys. Recess ain't what it used to be.)

This week's parasha also contains an efficiency expert; in fact the portion bears his name: Yitro, or Jethro in English, is the father-in-law of Moses. He meets up with Moses after the latter has successfully led the Children of Israel out of Egypt and fought the Amalekites. Now they are settling into life in the wilderness. The purpose of Jethro’s journey is to reunite Moses with his family:

Jethro priest of Midian, Moses' father-in-law, heard all that God had done for Moses and for Israel His people, how the Lord had brought Israel out from Egypt. So Jethro, Moses' father-in-law, took Zipporah, Moses' wife, after she had been sent home, and her two sons — of whom one was named Gershom, that is to say, "I have been a stranger in a foreign land"; and the other was named Eliezer, meaning, "The God of my father was my help, and He delivered me from the sword of Pharaoh." Jethro, Moses' father-in-law, brought Moses' sons and wife to him in the wilderness, where he was encamped at the mountain of God. He sent word to Moses, "I, your father-in-law Jethro, am coming to you, with your wife and her two sons." Moses went out to meet his father-in-law; he bowed low and kissed him; each asked after the other's welfare, and they went into the tent.
Exodus 18: 1-7

This is the only snippet of information we have concerning Moses' relationship with his family. Unfortunately, it is not very positive. He needs to be told that his father-in-law is approaching with his wife and kids. Commentators question where they have been. What does it mean that Zipporah had been sent home? Ibn Ezra notes that the same language is used elsewhere in reference to divorce. Bekhor Shor explains that Moses is only reunited with his family after the Exodus. According to Sforno, they now have a place to stay. Most interesting is Hizkuni's comment that this meeting actually occurred after the revelation at Sinai. This would mean that Moses' sons were not present at the giving of the Torah!

Okay, Moses has been awfully busy. First there were all those meetings with Pharaoh, many of them outside of business hours. Subsequently, there were some plagues. Then there was the dramatic crossing of the Sea of Reeds. Just when it looks like things are quieting down, the Israelites grumble and the Amalekites attack. But surely with all this behind him, Moses can take a short break. Not quite. Jethro notices that Moses is overwhelmed with work, settling disputes from sun-up to sundown. Jethro the efficiency expert has a solution: delegate:

But Moses' father-in-law said to him, "The thing you are doing is not right; you will surely wear yourself out, and these people as well. For the task is too heavy for you; you cannot do it alone. Now listen to me. I will give you counsel, and God be with you! You represent the people before God: you bring the disputes before God, and enjoin upon them the laws and the teachings, and make known to them the way they are to go and the practices they are to follow. You shall also seek out from among all the people capable men who fear God, trustworthy men who spurn ill-gotten gain. Set these over them as chiefs of thousands, hundreds, fifties, and tens, and let them judge the people at all times. Have them bring every major dispute to you, but let them decide every minor dispute themselves. Make it easier for yourself by letting them share the burden with you. If you do this — and God so commands you — you will be able to bear up; and all these people too will go home unwearied."
Exodus 18:17-23

It's not just that life will be easier for Moses, or that the people will be empowered. What Jethro proposes is the biblical equivalent of striking a balance in life. Being a workaholic is a no-no. And Moses is to set the example in the Torah. Later in the Talmud, even God sets an example of efficient time management:

Rav Judah said in the name of Rav: "The day consists of twelve hours; during the first three hours the Holy One, Who is blessed, studies Torah, during the second three God sits in judgment on the whole world, and when God sees that the world is so guilty as to deserve destruction, God moves from the seat of Justice to the seat of Mercy; during the third quarter, God feeds the whole world, from the horned buffalo to the brood of vermin; during the fourth quarter God plays with the leviathan, as it is said, There is leviathan, whom You have formed to sport therewith (Psalm 104:26)."
Avodah Zarah 3b, Soncino translation

All of which brings us to the Ten Commandments and finding a balance in life. Did I forget to mention that the focal point of this parashah is the Revelation at Sinai? A parashah named after a Midianite priest, the father-in-law of Moses, a section that deals with the nitty-gritty of running the community concludes with God's Top Ten List. Our focus is number four:

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, or your cattle, or the stranger who is within your settlements. For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth and sea, and all that is in them, and He rested on the seventh day; therefore the Lord blessed the sabbath day and hallowed it.
Exodus 20:8-11

In the Mekhilta, Rabbi Yitzhak observes that in other societies days have names, whereas the Hebrew days are numbered in relation to Shabbat; the Jewish world, indeed Jewish time revolves around Shabbat. Sforno picks up on this when he comments that we must remember Shabbat all week when we focus on our mundane work. If we "take care of business" at the proper time and place, we can put it out of mind on Shabbat. Sforno teaches that the world does not revolve around us or our work, it revolves around Shabbat

Efficiency expert Frank Gilbreth, Sr., had Mumblety-Peg; God frolics with leviathan. What joy and fulfillment do you have in life? How much time can you devote to it? Jethro's message to Moses was: Make time for your family. The commandment of Shabbat is to set aside time. Setting something apart is a holy act; the basic meaning of the Hebrew word for holy, kadosh, is "set apart." The Ten Commandments, and the entire parashah, teach us that not only must we act responsibly, we must also rest responsibly.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Reminder: Unless otherwise noted all Bible translations quoted in the weekly studies are from the JPS Tanakh published by the Jewish Publication Society.

Parashat Beshalach, Exodus 13:17-17:16

2009-02-03T16:13:00.027-05:00

This week's parasha is generously sponsored by Karen Gold in memory of her father Melvin Gold.

For a long time we missed out on hearing women's voices as part of a community in prayer.

Barbra Streisand and Beverly Sills share more than a monogram. They each have the gift of a beautiful voice perfectly suited to a particular musical genre. How could they not excel as singers? They are part of a sisterhood of musically talented Jewish women which is breathtakingly diverse. It includes Britain's Amy Winehouse and Israel's Chava Alberstein. While we're at it let's toss in Bette Midler, Carly Simon and Dinah Shore. Go back a few centuries and you can add Madama Europa, sister of the Italian composer Salamone Rossi. Let's not forget the trailblazers in liturgical music: Barbara Ostfeld, of the Reform movement who was the first invested female cantor, Erica Lippitz and Marla Barugel the first two female cantors in the Conservative movement, and the influential singer/songwriter Debbie Friedman.

Then there's Miriam, remember her? We first met her as an unnamed child in chapter two of Exodus, keeping a watchful eye on her baby brother as he is put in a basket and floated down the Nile. When Pharaoh's daughter finds the basket, the young girl leaps into action: Then his sister said to Pharaoh's daughter, "Shall I go and get you a Hebrew nurse to suckle the child for you?" And Pharaoh's daughter answered, "Yes." So the girl went and called the child's mother. (Exodus 2:7-8) In this week's parashah, Miriam, now called a prophetess, is witness once again to an act where her people are saved through the medium of water: the parting of the Sea of Reeds.

This formative event in the relationship between God and Israel leads to a song of victory commonly known as Shirat Ha-Yam, the Song of the Sea, which gives this Shabbat its designation as Shabbat Shira, the Shabbat of Song. Upon witnessing God's might
… Moses and the Israelites sang this song to the Lord. They said:
I will sing to the Lord, for He has triumphed gloriously;
Horse and driver He has hurled into the sea. (Exodus 15:1)
The song continues in great detail for eighteen verses, after which
… Miriam the prophetess, Aaron's sister, took a timbrel in her hand, and all the women went out after her in dance with timbrels. And Miriam chanted for them:
Sing to the Lord, for He has triumphed gloriously;
Horse and driver He has hurled into the sea. (Exodus 15:20-21)

Is this plagiarism or sampling? Can't Miriam come up with an original song? Well, let's look at it closely. Commentators explain that this was a particular type of song. According to the first century writer Ph ilo (On the Life of Moses 1:180) there was a male chorus and a female chorus singing Shirat Ha-Yam. Moses led the men, and Miriam the women. The Hebrew reads va-ta'an Miriam. Though translated as "Miriam chanted," it can also be read as "Miriam responded," and in fact that is the choice given by Ibn Ezra. The twelfth century commentator Bekhor Shor understands the verb to mean that the entire song was repeated. Writing in the early twentieth century, Umberto Cassuto envisioned it somewhat differently, commenting that Miriam and the women sang antiphonally, responding "at the end of each strophe."

A very different perspective was put forward by biblical scholars Frank Moore Cross and David Noel Freedman in "The Song of Miriam" (1955). According to their analysis, what we call the "Song of the Sea" is actually the "Song of Miriam," which was eventually ascribed to Moses. In this view, the shorter text is the older and original piece. Why was it necessary to include the short mention of Miriam and her song unless this was the original version of the text? Other scholars following up on this hypothesis explain that the language used indicates that Miriam calls all the people to sing, hence the term Sing to the Lord (Exodus 15:21), at which point Moses and the people respond I will sing to the Lord (Exodus 15:1).

If this is true, the song as it appears in the Torah illustrates a modern problem that even the prophetess Miriam faced: the woman who is not heard. The linguist Deborah Tannen illustrates this phenomenon familiar to many women from business meetings:

Cynthia was a member of a committee to raise funds for a political candidate. Most of the committee members were focused on canvassing local businesses for support. When Cynthia suggested that they write directly to a list of former colleagues, friends, and supporters of the candidate, inviting them to join an honorary board (and inviting them to contribute), her suggestions was ignored. Later that same suggestion was made by another committee member, Barry. Suddenly, the group came alive, enthusiastically embracing and planning to implement "Barry's" idea.
Deborah Tannen, Talking from 9 to 5: Women and Men at Work, p. 277

Further support for Miriam's musical leadership role is found in the extent of her participation. In addition to leading the singing, she also drummed and danced. (Scholars point out that “timbrel” is not an accurate translation of the musical instrument tof, which was probably a hand-drum.) Women in ancient Israel were very much involved in making music, and we've got the archeological evidence to prove it, as the accompanying picture attests. According to Carol Meyers, figurines of ancient musicians only depict women as drummers.

Women in the biblical world apparently were expert percussionists. Because ancient Semitic music was more rhythmic than tonal or melodic, hand-drum skills would have made women essential for most musical performances. The victory song genre itself was exclusively female because of the performance context — that is, in the wake of a military victory. In a world with men as the primary combatants the women who remain behind typically are the ones to greet triumphant soldiers returning from battle. It is no wonder that the composition and performance of celebratory hymns became a women’s genre in ancient Israel.
…the performers of victory songs composed and performed hymns that were imbued with religious meaning, the celebration of God’s redeeming acts. The Song of the Sea, as one of the earliest theological statements in the Bible, therefore is arguably a contribution of female creativity.
Carol Meyers, New Cambridge Bible Commentary, Exodus, pp.117-18, 119

Why is it so important to determine Miriam's role in offering thanks to God at the Sea of Reeds? It is because her voice was muffled and the voices of her daughters eventually silenced. Somewhere between Miriam's joyful reaction to the act of redemption and Madama Europa's singing her brother's liturgical compositions in sixteenth century Italy, kol isha became the reason to deny women this religious outlet. The term kol isha, a woman's voice, comes from the Talmudic phrase kol be-isha erva, a woman's voice is indecent (Berachot 24a). The third century sage Samuel used this phrase to explain that the Sh'ma should not be recited while a woman was singing, because the lustiness of her voice would be a distraction from holy matters. From this developed the traditional prohibition against women's participation in music.

That is not to say that Jewish women stopped singing. Babies over the centuries have been lulled to sleep with the sound of a mother's lullaby. In many Jewish communities women were professional mourners. Women may have also been performers and teachers. But for a long time we missed out on hearing women's voices as part of a community in prayer. Think of it as the vocal equivalent of painting with only half the colours of the spectrum.

There is a reason Torah is chanted and tefillot (prayers) are sung. When words and music embrace, we encounter a new dimension of spirituality. For this reason it is so important to savour the words va-ta'an Miriam, Miriam responded. How fortunate we are that today men and women alike, laity and leaders, can strive to follow her example. Miriam was able to join a momentous occasion with a heartfelt response, creating a transformative experience. This is soul music in its truest sense; it is prayer.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Picture credit: Iron Age terracotta figurine of woman playing the drum excavated at Shiqmona, Israel, scanned from A Feminist Companion to Exodus to Deuteronomy, Athalya Brenner (ed.), p. 212. (Original photograph from the Israel Antiquities Authority, Jerusalem.)

Parashat Bo, Exodus 10:1-13:16

2009-01-27T11:00:00.007-05:00

As Pharaoh washes his hands of the Hebrew slaves, God embraces the nascent nation.

There is something fascinating about watching somebody karate chop a block in half. For one thing, we know it takes a great deal of training and concentration. (Don't try this at home!) It is an act that symbolizes both power and control. Too bad it is so often misused to sell everything from knives to super-sticky adhesives. Interesting too is that Karate means "empty hand," i.e., with no weapon. Everything is based on an individual's training and focus as the source of power.

The power concentrated in the hand, metaphorically speaking, comes to play in the arm-wrestling between God and Pharaoh. Before any of the plagues God says And the Egyptians shall know that I am the Lord, when I stretch out My hand over Egypt and bring out the Israelites from their midst. (Exodus 7:5) As the drama develops, Pharaoh's basic response is: "talk to the hand." The point at which a number of the plagues are initiated is when God asks Aaron or Moses to "lend a hand." Not only was this true in the plagues we read about last week, it is evident as well in plagues eight and nine this week in parashat Bo. For the plague of locusts God tells Moses …Hold out your arm over the land of Egypt (Exodus 10:12). (Albeit, Moses holds out his staff; we'll handle that discussion some other time.) For the ninth plague God instructs Moses "Hold out your arm toward the sky that there may be darkness upon the land of Egypt, a darkness that can be touched." (Exodus 10:21). But the final plague is untouched by human hands. It emanates solely from God. In the middle of the night the Lord struck down all the first-born in the land of Egypt. (Exodus 12:29)

In the Haggadah, after the spilling of ten drops of wine for the ten plagues, there is a discussion taken from the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Shimon focusing on the power of God's hand:

Rabbi Yosei the Galilean says: "How do we know that the Egyptians suffered ten plagues in Egypt and fifty plagues by the sea?" In Egypt – What does it say? 'The magicians told Pharaoh: This is the finger of God.' By the sea- What does it say? 'Israel saw the great hand that God wielded against Egypt, and the nation feared Adonai and believed in Adonai and in Moses his servant. If the Egyptians suffered ten plagues by God's finger in Egypt, they suffered fifty plagues by God's hand by the sea."
Translation from My People's Passover Haggadah: Traditional Texts, Modern Commentaries, vol. 2, Lawrence A. Hoffman and David Arnow (eds.), pp. 39-40

The discussion continues with the comments of Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Akiva, and the number of plagues, based on a selection of biblical verses and the imagery of fingers and hand, rises to a total of 250. The purpose of all this math is to increase the miraculous nature of what God had done.

But back to plague ten, which is totally hands-off: no Aaron, no Moses, and no mention of the hand of God either, although this is the plague that will crush the will of Pharaoh and prove God's might. It is the tenth plague that defines Passover: And Moses said to the people, "Remember this day, on which you went free from Egypt, the house of bondage, how the Lord freed you from it with a mighty hand: no leavened bread shall be eaten. (Exodus 13:3) Even though God's hand is not mentioned in the tenth plague, it is mentioned twice more in Exodus 13:9 and 13:11. And as a reminder we have the Jewish equivalent of tying a string around your finger: And this shall serve you as a sign on your hand and as a reminder on your forehead — in order that the Teaching of the Lord may be in your mouth — that with a mighty hand the Lord freed you from Egypt. (Exodus 13:9), or if you prefer And so it shall be as a sign upon your hand and as a symbol on your forehead that with a mighty hand the Lord freed us from Egypt. (Exodus 13:16)

It is the lack of any hand that is most striking (pun intended) about the tenth plague, because the tenth plague is the Divine equivalent of a karate-chop. This is based on the timing which is be-hatzi ha-laylah, in the middle of the night (Exodus 12:29). Earlier, Moses informed the Egyptian court that God planned to carry out this plague ka-hatzot ha-laylah, toward midnight (Exodus 11:4). What's the difference between the two, other than a Hebrew prefix? Be-hatzi is specific. It is the time when the night is half over. Reading it poetically, one can relate hatzi (half) to hatza (cut or cleave). In fact, Rashi (Exodus 11:4) understands it as being the time when the night is divided in half. With the tenth plague God cleaves the night.

This action has significance far beyond Pharaoh's arm being twisted to free the slaves. Yes, it is proof of God's power. But is also a symbol of a new relationship. As Pharaoh washes his hands of the Hebrew slaves, God embraces the nascent nation.

It all comes down to that chopping action, cleaving and dividing; this imagery appears in a number of places (though it should be noted that the Hebrew words are not the same). The first example comes from Genesis 15 in the story of the "Covenant between the Pieces." God instructs Abram to take a variety of animals, chop them in half and places these pieces facing one another. When the sun set and it was very dark, there appeared a smoking oven, and a flaming torch which passed between those pieces. On that day the Lord made a covenant with Abram (Genesis 15:17-18). It continues next week as the Children of Israel are at the Sea of Reeds. First there was the cloud with the darkness, and it cast a spell upon the night, so that the one could not come near the other all through the night (Exodus 14:20), and after the darkness the waters were split (Exodus 14:21) so that the freed people could cross in safety before Pharaoh and his army. Moses experiences it personally when God's glory passes before him. For his own protection God instructs Moses: I will put you in a cleft of the rock and shield you with My hand until I have passed by. Then I will take My hand away and you will see My back (Exodus 33:22-23). Interestingly, Ibn Ezra describes God's shielding Moses as being "like a cloud covering the light of the sun so that none can see it." (Ibn Ezra on Exodus 33:22)

Darkness, clefts, and God's protective presence: In Genesis God's covenant with Abram foretells the covenant with the Hebrew slaves, the Divine Presence passing in the divide created by the offerings. On the night of the Exodus God establishes this brit (covenant) with the people, cleaving the night as God's will is manifest and the promise to Abraham fulfilled. At the Sea of Reeds, it is the people who walk through the divide, thereby entering the brit with God. On Mount Sinai, the brit is strengthened after the incident of the Golden Calf, as Moses, representing the nation, settles into the cleft of the rock and God's glory passes by.

How interesting that in English, the word "cleave" can mean "divide" or "separate" as well as "adhere," for the latter is the intended result of the imagery found in the Torah. The divide that separates the Divine from humankind also clears a path for humanity to connect with God. The mighty arm that clears a path to freedom is the same outstretched hand ready to guide us when we stumble along the way.

I sing praises with joyful lips
…when I think of You in the watches of the night;
for You are my help,
…my soul cleaves to You;
Your right hand supports me.
Psalm 63:6-9

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

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

2009-01-20T11:00:00.007-05:00

What is the purpose of Pharaoh's stubborn hard-heartedness?

Back in the days before Nike referred to footwear, it was the name of one of the guardians of Zeus' throne. Nike personified victory, as is attested by her Roman name, Victoria. She had a bunch of siblings who were also part of this Olympian posse. Vicki's brother Zelos, for example, personified dedication and zeal (the word actually comes from the name Zelos). Lucky Zeus to have such wonderful bodyguards; he needed them given the ongoing "clash of the titans" that took place in the Olympian realm.

For whatever reason, we love pitting competitors against each other. Times change and so do the competitions: gladiators in the ancient coliseum, knights jousting, and professional wrestlers locked in a cage match. Our voyeurism is insatiable. Reality TV consists of pitting people against each other in unrealistic situations and seeing who can manipulate their way to victory.

Whether the competition is a sporting match or an attempt to be the last "survivor" on the island, the competitors prepare and brace themselves for the events that are to take place. In addition to the physical training is the mental and emotional preparation. This is evident in the most artificial of these events and even more so in real life struggles.

Such is the case in parashat Va'era. In one corner we have Pharaoh aka the king and god incarnate of Egypt. In the other corner we have Moses, whom the Divine has place in the role of God to Pharaoh. (Exodus 7:1) The competition is a grueling series of ten plagues. At stake is the reputation of Pharaoh versus God. The prize is nothing less than the future of an enslaved nation. Our saga this week consists of plagues one through seven, with the final three taking place in next week's episode. As with the best competitions each event is increasingly difficult. How will the contestants bear up under all that pressure?

The answer may be found in a series of phrases that recur throughout the saga. Every time there is a plague, Pharaoh becomes more adamant about not releasing the Hebrew slaves. Sometimes we are told that his heart is hardened, that he is stubborn, or in a beautiful translation by Everett Fox, Pharaoh's heart is "heavy with stubbornness" (the Hebrew root is kaved, heavy), and sometimes we are told it is stiffened (the Hebrew is from the root hazak, strong). With the first five plagues Pharaoh is solely responsible for his heart condition, with the latter five plagues God is doing this to Pharaoh.

What is the purpose of Pharaoh's stubborn hard-heartedness? Well, it does make for a great story. It also increases the dramatic build-up to that last plague, which cannot be matched by the Egyptian priests or explained by modern science. The more hard-hearted Pharaoh becomes, the greater God's victory. This is repeated a number of times. It occurs this week before the plagues begin: But I will harden Pharaoh's heart, that I may multiply My signs and marvels in the land of Egypt. When Pharaoh does not heed you, I will lay My hand upon Egypt and deliver My ranks, My people the Israelites, from the land of Egypt with extraordinary chastisements. And the Egyptians shall know that I am the Lord, when I stretch out My hand over Egypt and bring out the Israelites from their midst." (Exodus 7:3-5) It is reiterated next week at the plague of the first-born son: Now the Lord had said to Moses, "Pharaoh will not heed you, in order that My marvels may be multiplied in the land of Egypt." (Exodus 11:9) And once again, in two weeks when Pharaoh gives chase to the newly freed slaves: Then I will stiffen Pharaoh's heart and he will pursue them, that I may gain glory through Pharaoh and all his host; and the Egyptians shall know that I am the Lord. (Exodus 14:4)

Still, there is more to the story than that. Maimonides claims that what Pharaoh is undergoing is simply measure for measure; Pharaoh will get what he deserves. The 13th century French commentator Hizkuni says that the king's heart is hardened so he will suffer from the plagues (comment on Exodus 4:21). Sforno, commenting on the same verse, understands that Pharaoh's complete submission to God is necessary.

Let's call a timeout and focus a bit more on Pharaoh's heart. Remember that when the Hebrew word lev (heart) is used in the Bible, it does not have the modern emotional connotation. The biblical use of "heart" is the equivalent of the modern "mind"; it is the center of rational thought. This is crucial to Carol Meyer's explanation of Pharaoh's behavior:

… we see a pattern indicating that what may begin as the pharaoh’s resistance to doing something deemed against his or his nation’s best interests ultimately becomes an act produced by God. Divine causality, although in tension with human will, is understood as part of the human as well as the natural realm, that is, as part of the decisions that humans make as well as of the workings of nature. The fact that the "heart" which is consistently part of the idiom of the pharaoh’s resistance, represents all aspects of a person — cognitive and rational as well as affective — in the anthropology of the Hebrew Bible indicates that the pharaoh’s recalcitrant behavior is considered conscious and deliberate, affecting the course of events.
Carol Meyers, New Cambridge Bible Commentary, Exodus, pp 70-71

Pharaoh's problem is not that God is playing games, but that he is stuck in a rut, or more accurately, he's boxed in. How can he possibly imagine a power greater than his own? Leonardo DiCaprio may have voiced this, but Pharaoh knew that he was "king of the world." The problem is, there is a vast universe outside of that world and he couldn't see it; it was beyond his understanding. Our ancient king suffers from a very modern malady called the "curse of knowledge":

This so-called curse of knowledge, a phrase used in a 1989 paper in The Journal of Political Economy, means that once you’ve become an expert in a particular subject, it’s hard to imagine not knowing what you do. Your conversations with others in the field are peppered with catch phrases and jargon that are foreign to the uninitiated. When it’s time to accomplish a task — open a store, build a house, buy new cash registers, sell insurance — those in the know get it done the way it has always been done, stifling innovation as they barrel along the well-worn path.
Janet Rae Dupree, Innovative Minds Don’t Think Alike,
New York Times, December 30, 2007

While this article deals with engineering and marketing, it can also be applied to Pharaoh's heart. Pharaoh's problem was our ancestors' problem as well. It is not only Pharaoh or the Egyptians who needed to witness God's might. Our Israelite ancestors had yet to make God's acquaintance. They couldn't think outside the squalid box of slavery. Even when they were finally redeemed from bondage they still looked back to the "good old days" in Egypt.

Here's a "thinking outside the box" look at the struggle to free the Israelite slaves. It comes from a beautiful midrash on the Exodus story by the African-American writer Zora Neale Hurston. In her retelling of the tale, the struggle takes place on a number of levels: There is a personal struggle between Moses and Pharaoh, who had grown up as rivals in the Egyptian court. There is the struggle to show God's power; and there is the struggle to create a nation. As Moses explains to Aaron, he is counting on Pharaoh to be hard-hearted:

So the more he rears and pitches the more the people will believe when I whip him down. It ain’t just to get you all out of Egypt, it’s to make something out of you afterwards. That’s the main idea. If Pharaoh lets the Hebrews go peaceably it won’t be six months before they will be back here ready to serve him again. If I’m to make a nation of you, you’ve got to be cut loose forever.”
Zora Neale Hurston, Moses, Man of the Mountain, pp. 146-7

Pharaoh's hard-heartedness starts as fortitude on his part. Any competitor can understand this as "digging deep" and finding that "inner reservoir." Then it appears in part to be Divine manipulation, or strategic maneuvering. In the end, it has little to do with Pharaoh and everything to do with the transformation of a people from slavery to freedom. How odd that the mighty Pharaoh and the lowly slave were both afflicted by the same plague: the security of complacency that comes with the "curse of knowledge."

In the end, after a long struggle, it is the newly freed slaves who acquire the necessary change: a new way of thinking and behaving. This ongoing transformation served our ancestors in many different times and places. May we always be ready to engage in the struggle against hard-hearted complacency. Or as Zelos' footwear-branded sister might have said: Just do it!

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Shmot, Exodus 1:1-6:1

2009-01-13T11:00:00.009-05:00

No one wants to be forgotten.

Soup cans. That's what comes to mind when I think of Andy Warhol. Specifically, tomato soup in a well-known brand's white and red coloured label. Though looking more closely at his work, he also painted pea soup cans, chicken soup cans and lots more for a total of 32 cans in the series. Andy Warhol and soup cans. Well, there were also the multi-coloured Marilyn Monroe prints. But what hit me when I walked into a Chicago exhibit one cold fall afternoon many years ago came as a surprise: A series by Andy Warhol called Ten Portraits of Jews in the 20th Century. Whom would he choose? Whom would you choose? In the gallery were huge canvas portraits of, among others, Sigmund Freud, Golda Meir, the Marx Brothers, and Sarah Bernhardt. If not all these names mean something to you, it could be due to a phenomenon that was observed by Warhol in the 1960's when he said, "In the future, everyone will be world-famous for fifteen minutes." The individuals portrayed in the Warhol exhibit had a major influence on society in their time, but chances are that today many people don't recognize all the names.

Think of a similar example: an influential figure, one who strengthened a country's civil foundation, would be familiar to all for a generation but forgotten within two. This is not a new phenomenon. It happened to Joseph. Over the past few weeks we have been reading about how Joseph rose to success in Egypt and saved the Egyptian people and their neighbours from starvation. This week as we begin a new book of the Torah, Shmot (Exodus), we learn that A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph. (Exodus 1:8)

Who is this nameless king and how could he not know Joseph, who had done so much for Egypt? Rashi mentions an argument between the rabbinic sages Rav and Shmuel about whether this was actually a new king or an old king who just chose to forget all that Joseph had done. Ibn Ezra points out that the wording is very clear. The fact that it says arose means the new king is not the same as the old one who knew Joseph. Yet surely there would be some official record of all that Joseph had done? Sforno says that it would never occur to the king that the official who saved Egypt could have been a Hebrew. The key word is yada' (to know) a verb which, Nahum Sarna points out, appears more than twenty times in the first fourteen chapters of Exodus:

The usual rendering, "to know," hardly does justice to the richness of its semantic range. In the biblical conception, knowledge is not essentially or even primarily rooted in the intellect and mental activity. Rather, it is more experiential and is embedded in the emotions, so that it may encompass such qualities as contact, intimacy, concern, relatedness, and mutuality. Conversely, not to know is synonymous with dissociation, indifference, alienation, and estrangement; it culminates in callous disregard for another’s humanity.
Nahum Sarna, The JPS Torah Commentary: Exodus, p .5

Such callous disregard is evident in the pharaonic decrees mentioned in Shmot: Let us deal shrewdly with them, so that they may not increase; otherwise in the event of war they may join our enemies in fighting against us and rise from the ground." So they set taskmasters over them to oppress them with forced labor; and they built garrison cities for Pharaoh: Pithom and Raamses. (Exodus 1:10-11)

How interesting that Pharaoh is so intent on building these cities that will be a symbol of his power and help him spread his might and name throughout the ancient world. Yet, however long that Pharaoh's name was known in the ancient world, it is the equivalent of fifteen minutes of fame, since we don’t even know his name.

Pharaoh's mistake is the same one committed by the builders of the Tower of Babel who build a tower with its top in the sky, to make a name for ourselves (Genesis 11:4). Pharaoh's edifice rex ultimately ends up as edifice wrecks. Unfortunately, his callousness and selfishness destroys many lives along the way.

We see a similar phenomenon today, when people want to have their name known "out there." They accomplish this in many ways, but in the long run it turns out to be the fifteen minutes of fame predicted by Warhol. The outcome is vapid, superficial and disposable; it is the cultural equivalent of junk food. The pursuit of this goal ends up producing the opposite of what people desire: alienation rather than embrace. Taken to its extreme, the pursuit of the fifteen-minutes-of-fame goal results in Sarna's "callous disregard for another's humanity" and for one's own as well.

We are all aware of this and yet continue to fall under the spell of wanting to be a part of this fifteen minute hoopla. This too is not a new phenomenon. Shmot Rabbah teaches that after the death of Joseph we became enamoured with what we saw around us and did away with mitzvot (commandments) such as brit milah (circumcision). In this way we willingly gave up our legacy for a superficial immediate gratification.

To a certain extent, the desire to have your name known is something we can all understand. No one wants to be forgotten. But how do we ensure that we will be remembered? Is it by spending our lives building edifices that will satisfy us in the short time we spend here? Is it by emulating the latest media darling, or even following that person's fifteen minutes of exploits? Or is it by using our short time here to create a legacy that will outlive us by making a difference to others?

What Pharaoh did not "know" were Joseph's accomplishments. He might have read about them, but he didn't understand them. Joseph was not concerned with his name; he was concerned with the destiny of his people. It was not a painless task. As Joseph tells his brothers although you intended me harm, God intended it for good, so as to bring about the present result — the survival of many people. (Genesis 50:20) (This is reflected in the suffering of the people at the beginning of the book of Exodus. What Pharaoh intended for harm, God intend for good, which will be fulfilled under the leadership of Moses.)

How ironic that Pharaoh built edifices to keep his memory alive, yet his name is forgotten. It is Joseph's legacy that survives and is transformed in the book of Exodus. The story of Joseph is about destiny. The book of Exodus is the fulfillment of that destiny. In Exodus the personal becomes communal. In our lives as well, the personal is communal, and personal best is that which serves the needs of the community.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Vayechi, Genesis 47:28-50:26

2009-01-06T11:00:00.023-05:00

Though it is our adult nature to worry about "what if," we can gain so much more by treasuring what is.

Girls can be cruel. If you look different, don't wear the "right" clothes, have hair that cannot be styled to the latest look, have parents who speak with an accent or countless other superficial differences, the girls in school will let you know. You don't get invited to parties. You are the last one picked for a team in gym. That's grade school. It gets worse in high school. Janis Ian stated it so eloquently for those of us who couldn't come close to making cheerleader:

I learned the truth at seventeen
That love was meant for beauty queens
and high school girls with clear skinned smiles
who married young and then retired
The valentines I never knew
The Friday night charades of youth
were spent on one more beautiful
At seventeen I learned the truth
Janis Ian, At Seventeen

Boys don't have it any easier. Some of the problems are the same: wrong look, wrong family, and wrong interests. These lead to the same problems: Last one chosen for the team in gym; forget even trying out for the school team. You work up the courage to ask a girl out only to be rejected because you're not the football-player type.

The unfairness of seventeen is that life appears magical for some and cruel for others. What we come to see decades later is how much team captains and last-players-chosen have in common. How could we know at seventeen that those for whom everything went right would also face obstacles in their lives, situations that make us appreciate how we are blessed?

Joseph found out at seventeen (Genesis 37). He was the favoured son, the one with the fancy clothes. Joseph was the one who had an attitude: His dreams told him that everyone would bow down to him. At the same time the jealousy that he brought out in others brought him much suffering as he was sold into slavery and eventually imprisoned for years (Genesis 37, 39-40). Yes, he was blessed by God, but it was maturity that brought a noticeable change in attitude: a humility and gratefulness to God for the gifts bestowed upon him.

Seventeen is significant for Jacob as well, but for him those years are at the end of his life. Va-yehi Ya'akov, Jacob lived seventeen years in the land of Egypt (Genesis 47:28). What an odd way to begin a parashah that contains two deaths, that of Jacob and that of Joseph. Perhaps because we know these two events will occur here at the end of the book of Bereishit, the very word va-yehi stands out.

Jacob’s final period is described as a time of yeshiva and of hayyim,
settling down and of living. … it is Jacob, the mortal man, who is described at the opening of the Parsha as “living” in the land of Egypt, an apparent redundancy that releases unexpected resonances.

For if the English word “lived” is ambiguous, its meanings divide, in Hebrew, into the two connotations of “settled, resided” and “was alive.” Va-yehi, therefore, carries a peculiarly questioning ring, as if to impress a meaning of unexpected, almost incongruous vitality. After those many years of suspended vitality in the darkness of Joseph’s absence, Jacob’s life is rediscovered and sustained in the land of Egypt. This is the opening statement of the Parsha, its virtual redundancy belied by the force of the word va-yehi, “he lived.”
Aviva Gottlieb Zornberg, Genesis: The Beginning of Desire, p. 352

The Torah could have described Jacob's stay in other words: va-yeshev (he dwelled) or va-yagor (he sojourned). Yitzhak ben Moshe Arama, in his 15th century commentary Akedat Yitzhak, explores the choice of va-yehi. According to Arama this refers to the quality of Jacob's life in those last seventeen years. He found fulfillment during that time.

This is all the more surprising given Jacob's description of his life in last week's portion, a scant 21 verses ago:

Joseph then brought his father Jacob and presented him to Pharaoh; and Jacob greeted Pharaoh. Pharaoh asked Jacob, "How many are the years of your life?" And Jacob answered Pharaoh, "The years of my sojourn [on earth] are one hundred and thirty. Few and hard have been the years of my life, nor do they come up to the life spans of my fathers during their sojourns." Then Jacob bade Pharaoh farewell, and left Pharaoh's presence.
Genesis 47:7-10

He may come across as a kvetch (complainer), but Jacob discovers that life gets better. No, he's not channeling Pollyanna, nor is he seeing the world through rose-coloured bifocals. Surely Jacob had his share of difficulties in his latter years. We know that his sons were still unsure of their relationship with Joseph, because they verbalize their concerns that Joseph will seek vengeance once Jacob is dead: "What if Joseph still bears a grudge against us and pays us back for all the wrong that we did him!" (Genesis 50:15). We know you can't reach Jacob's age and not have physical issues. And life had taken an unexpected turn. He would live out his last days away from his homeland, a reluctant emigrant, an exile at the age of 130.

What changed between his meeting with Pharaoh and the end seventeen years later is his attitude. This is not to belittle any issue that he faced - or that any of us face. Jacob made some horrible mistakes and experienced profound loss. It is easy to empathize with his statement that Few and hard have been the years of my life (Genesis 47:9).

We know too well what he means. Today there are people who find themselves battered by economic situations beyond their control. There are always those who have been hit with ailments and infirmities that nobody deserves. There are situations that spiral out of control and rip families apart. There are so many ways in which we all can say Few and hard have been the years of my life.

But what a waste to dwell on that! If we look closely at those years we will find a kernel, a precious seed that can be sown and harvested in whatever time is allotted to us: the successes of a child, the growth of a grandchild, a new friendship, the devotion of a pet, even the seemingly clichéd joy of a hobby, the first snowfall, or the sunset whose beauty moves us no matter how many other sunsets we have experienced.

Two years ago, the Washington Post ran an experiment in the Washington DC subway system. One of the world's greatest violinists played some of the most beautiful and complex pieces of music on his $3.5 million Stradivarius for 45 minutes as people were rushing to work. This was a free public concert by Joshua Bell. The result?

In the three-quarters of an hour that Joshua Bell played, seven people stopped what they were doing to hang around and take in the performance, at least for a minute. Twenty-seven gave money, most of them on the run – for a total of $32 and change. That leaves the 1,070 people who hurried by, oblivious, many only three feet away, few even turning to look.

…But the behavior of one demographic remained absolutely consistent. Every single time a child walked past, he or she tried to stop and watch. And every single time, a parent scooted the kid away.
Gene Weingarten, Pearls Before Breakfast, Washington Post, April 8, 2007

Though it is our adult nature to worry about "what if," we can gain so much more by treasuring what is. Appreciating "what is" fertilizes the seeds that will nourish our lives.

For Jacob, the effect was profound. Those last seventeen years he lived a life so full of vitality that he was able to verbalize abundant blessings for his children and their children (Genesis 48-49). Perhaps it was nothing more than acceptance of his life "as is," and what a blessing this is in and of itself.

When you are young, seventeen years is such a long time. When you are older, it is precious, because it is so short. The blessing bestowed on Jacob in those last seventeen years was the ability to achieve the point of tranquility. This is a blessing in which we all can share no matter where we are in life:

Ben Zoma says:
Who is wise? The one who learns from all people…
Who is mighty? The one who conquers his desire…
Who is rich? The one who rejoices in his share…
Who is honored? The one who honors others…
Pirke Avot 4:1

Hazak, hazak ve-nithazek (may we go from strength to strength)
and Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Vayigash, Genesis 44:18-47:27

2008-12-28T21:55:00.001-05:00

This Parasha has been generously sponsored by Joi Guttman in loving memory of Macks Pearlman, Yahrzeit Tevet 7.

Jacob's passion for the Divine and the human are intertwined.

It's that time of year again, the season when Time Magazine reveals its person of the year. This has become such a cultural event that you can purchase a mirror that looks like the magazine cover and see your reflection as the person of the year. The interest goes beyond finding out who will be selected for the honour, especially since the winner is easy to predict in US election years. The magazine cover itself becomes important. How will the individual be portrayed? This is one of those times when a magazine is truly judged by its cover.

We are naturally drawn to the face found on the magazine cover; and we react to it. We know that photographs are airbrushed and manipulated and once in a while we protest. Remember the infamous OJ cover that was allegedly doctored to give a sinister impression? Why does a magazine choose a particular portrait, sometimes flattering sometimes not? No matter what, we are drawn to the human face. It is innate.

Faces become seared in our minds and influence us. The Great Depression of the 1930's can be summed up in one image called Migrant Mother taken by Dorothea Lange. It is a black and white portrait of a woman, with lines of worry etched into her face, looking out, as her children, facing away from the camera, lean against her for comfort. It is a face that once seen is never forgotten. In later years, Lange recalled how this image came about:

I saw and approached the hungry and desperate mother, as if drawn by a magnet. .... I did not ask her name or her history. She told me her age, that she was thirty-two. She said that they had been living on frozen vegetables from the surrounding fields, and birds that the children killed. She had just sold the tires of the car to buy food. There she sat in that lean-to tent with her children huddled around her…
Dorothea Lange, from Popular Photography, February, 1960, as quoted in eyewitnesstohistory.com

How powerful is the face of the Migrant Mother? It is said to have influenced John Steinbeck to write the Depression era classic Grapes of Wrath. Whether photographs or paintings, portraits affect us deeply. We ponder them, and they look right back at us and through us.

If such power can be found in a portrait, how much greater intensity is there in seeing an actual human face? "Face time" is a relatively new term describing real interactions as opposed to virtual ones. Forget Teletubbies, Sesame Street, Baby Einstein. We are told that the most important thing we can give a baby is "face time." "Face time" is so much more than seeing, it involves all the senses; it is an encounter. Not only for babies. Such "face time" is central to personal interactions as expounded by Martin Buber's I-Thou relationship or Emmanuel Levinas’ ethics of face-to-face encounters.

The shock of facing his brothers changes Joseph in last week's parashah and carries us into the week's tale. Vayigash Yehudah, Judah approached (Genesis 44:18) his brother Joseph, begging him to free Benjamin. His words are words of supplication, but vayigash “he approached” is intimate. The very word vayigash implies a personal encounter, face time. Beyond that, as Judah approached Joseph he asked to speak be-ozney adoni "in my lord's ears." You can’t get closer than that: no texting, no web cam, but a close encounter in the flesh.

The power of Judah's words causes Joseph to weep and brings about a reciprocal request of his brothers: g'shu na-elay (Genesis 45:4) “approach me/come close to me” and concluding: With that he embraced his brother Benjamin around the neck and wept, and Benjamin wept on his neck. He kissed all his brothers and wept upon them;(Genesis 45:14-15). Such is the power of a face-to-face encounter.

But this is only the beginning. When Jacob and his family arrive in Egypt, Joseph ordered his chariot and went to Goshen to meet his father Israel; he presented himself to him and, embracing him around the neck, he wept on his neck a good while. (Genesis 46:29) Joseph's encounter is so overwhelming he is moved to tears, the subject of a study last year.

What of Jacob, how is he moved by this reunion with the son he thought was dead? The Torah, in stating he wept on his neck means that only one of them wept during the encounter. Nachmanides, aka Ramban, takes the ambiguous "he" and decides it is clearly Jacob who is moved to tears:

…the text reminds us that as soon as he appeared to his father and his father was able to see him close up and recognize him, his father fell on his neck and wept even more…It is a well-known fact as to who sheds tears more easily. Is it the elderly father who finds his long-lost son alive after despairing and mourning for him; or is it the young son who governs?
Ramban on Genesis 46:29

According to Rashi, Jacob neither embraced Joseph nor kissed him. Citing the Talmudic sages, Rashi says Jacob was engaged in reciting the Sh'ma! The Maharal elaborates on this seemingly bizarre reaction: Jacob was so righteous that he served God at every opportunity. He channeled all his feelings at seeing Joseph into a passionate offering to God.

Face time is important for Jacob. This meeting with his son must have brought back memories. As Yogi Berra said "It's like déjà-vu all over again." This is the second time Jacob is traveling with his entire family and belongings from one country to another. The first was when he headed back home after serving Laban for so many years. Then he was apprehensive about the reunion with his brother Esau, who was setting out to meet him with an entourage of 400 men. What Jacob thought would be an "in your face" encounter, turned out to be the essence of "face time." …for to see your face is like seeing the face of God (Genesis 33:10); he cries when they reunite.

In parashat Vayigash, Jacob once again journeys with all of his family and all his possessions. At the moment that he encounters his long lost son: vayera eilav, Joseph appeared to him: as if in a dream, or in a vision. He says "Now I can die, having seen for myself that you are still alive." Or more literally: "after I have seen your face" (aharei re'oti et panecha). He just has this thing about faces.

The Maharal is on to something. Jacob is sensitive to the encounter represented by another's face. His passion for the Divine and the human are intertwined. Put another way, Jacob's reunion with Joseph was more than dramatic. More than passionate, it was a revelatory experience. Vayera eilav, Joseph appeared to him just as God appears to him in a night visions bi-marot ha-layla (Genesis 46:2) It is interesting how Jacob's Divine encounters are at night; and how they are followed by significant human encounters in the day. After his vision of the ladder (Genesis 28:11-19), Jacob encounters Rachel. After wrestling with a divine being (Genesis 32:23-32), Jacob reconciles with his brother, and after the night vision in this week's parashah (Genesis 46:2-3), the elderly Jacob is reunited with the son he thought was gone forever.

We often conclude that it is the Divine encounters that are the most significant ones in Jacob's life, but they are only the gateway that allows him to experience face-to-face encounters as revelatory. For Jacob, seeing one's face is like seeing the face of God. It is a life changing experience. How so? Next week we read va-yechi, Jacob lived in Egypt. He did more than dwell there, he lived. This is a life of depth, of texture, made possible by Jacob's face-to-face encounters we read about this week.

Such depth of experience that is available to every one of us. This is an experience that is available to every one of us. We often spend more time studying photographs or pictures on a screen than we do looking into the face of another individual. If we make time for "face time," devoting ourselves to these encounters, no matter how mundane they may appear, we will walk away understanding the words a young Jacob spoke as he set off on his life's journey, words whose meaning came into focus only later in his life: "Surely the Lord is present in this place, and I did not know it!" (Genesis 28:16)

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Picture credit: Migrant Mother by Dorothea Lange
Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, DC 20540
Digital ID: cph 3b41800

Parashat Miketz, Genesis 41:1-44:17, Rosh Chodesh Tevet, Shabbat Chanukah

2008-12-23T11:10:00.011-05:00

For Joseph outside pressures begat inner resolve.

There's a phenomenon that comes to the fore at this time of year because of the emphasis on gift-giving. Ask children or, better yet, adolescents what they want and chances are it is what their friends want or already have. If you share the latest video game, you can relate to each other. If you wear the season's hottest boots, you are accepted into the group. It is no surprise that everyone wants to fit in with a group. We have ways of identifying people who are like us. It could be a particular colour, or an item of clothing. It could be the language we use. A few years ago there was a TV ad that mentioned a schmeer of cream cheese. The MOTs (members of the tribe) got it. So did New Yorkers. Sometimes we use signals to find others like us. "Oy!" works for MOTs, "eh?" for Canadians.

Such group identification can also be a matter of life or death. Think skin colour, looks, ritual garments, yellow star. Even language can make a difference. In the Bible we read that the Ephraimites, descendents of Joseph's son Ephraim, could not pronounce "sh." This was no big deal, until a conflict broke out with the folks from Gilead, who soundly defeated the Ephraimites. As the Ephraimites tried to make their way back home, their language gave them away:

The Gileadites held the fords of the Jordan against the Ephraimites. And when the fugitive from Ephraim said, "Let me cross," the men of Gilead would ask him, "Are you an Ephraimite?"; if he said "No," they would say to him, "Then say shibboleth"; but he would say "sibboleth," not being able to pronounce it correctly. Thereupon they would seize him and slay him by the fords of the Jordan.
Judges 12:5-6

A more recent example comes from Vietnam-era prisoners of war. Those kept is solitary confinement communicated with each other by a tapping code. How did they identify other American POWs? One person would whistle or tap the simple ditty "Shave and a Haircut" leaving of the end. If he got the two-note or two-word response "two bits" he knew this was a fellow American and it was safe to communicate. This contact enabled these prisoners to survive years of confinement.

No such luck for our boy Joseph, who was wrongly imprisoned last week. The Egyptian prisoner who promised to remember him when released forgot Joseph. It takes years for the chief cupbearer to recall Joseph and he does so only because of a dream Pharaoh has that no one else can interpret. Because of an unseen Divine hand, when things are literally "the pits" for Joseph, they manage to get better. He has so many close shaves and yet emerges without a nick, and in the nick of time. A thirty year old Joseph is to be brought before Pharaoh in order to interpret Pharaoh's dreams. Naturally, he's got to look presentable, and so he undergoes a very quick makeover: He had his hair cut (va-yigalach) and changed his clothes, and he appeared before Pharaoh. (Genesis 41:14)

This little half verse presents information that is so mundane; one wonders why it is necessary. Of course he had his hair cut and his clothes changed! How else could he appear before Pharaoh? Duh!

There is little commentary on it. Onkelos translates va-yigalach into Aramaic as sapper, close to the modern Hebrew word for a haircut. Rashi, once again basing himself on midrash, saw fit to explain that the haircutting was necessary to honour Pharaoh. In reading ibn Ezra's one word comment, it becomes clear that the English translation above may not be the best. How was his hair cut? According to ibn Ezra, with a razor. The better translation for Genesis 41:14 would be: "He shaved and changed his clothes."

Why this concern for Joseph's hair? In commenting on the young Joseph, midrash Breishit Rabbah explains that his vanity is evident because he curls his hair. This week, it is another hairstyle, or lack thereof that becomes important. Perhaps Joseph’s motto for his amazing transformation should be "hair today, gone tomorrow." We all know that fashions in hairstyles change. Beards were big in the 60's, moustaches in the 70's, goatees very recently, and shaved heads are so popular today that you can even get special head shaving razors in the drugstore. Back in Joseph's day the members of his tribe ran around with beards and many of them had beards that were not rounded at the corners. Just look at frescoes, bas-reliefs and sculptures from the ancient Near East. Crew cuts were out; serious beards were in except for one not so tiny corner of the world: Egypt. These guys put their copper blades to good use. To be presentable and credible to Pharaoh, our boy Joe had to look like one of the king's homeboys.

Perhaps there's more to it. Pharaoh is not only king, he is also a god; Pharaoh's court is more than a court, it is a temple. To come before an Egyptian god meant that a person had to be in a state of ritual purity. This was certainly true of their priests and, frankly, it is not that different from the expectations of the Levitical priests:

Take the Levites from among the Israelites and cleanse them. This is what you shall do to them to cleanse them: sprinkle on them water of purification, and let them go over their whole body with a razor (ta'ar), and wash their clothes; thus they shall be cleansed.
Numbers 8:6-7

It sounds similar to what Joseph had to do, only our priests were not going before Pharaoh; this was the part of the priestly ordination. (Though I wonder if they used an actual razor or an item more akin to a strigil, a Roman tool for scraping off sweat and oil.)

Nonetheless, others have made the connection between the priestly purification and Joseph's preparation for his meeting with Pharaoh. Lisbeth S. Fried in an article called "Why did Joseph Shave?" quotes from the victory stele of King Piye (late 8th century BCE) to show that to be brought before Pharaoh, one not only had to be clean but ritually pure, the definition of which is quite interesting:

Now the kings and counts of Lower Egypt who came to see his majesty's beauty, their legs were the legs of women. They could not enter the palace because they were uncircumcised and eaters of fish, which was an abomination in the palace. But king Namart entered the palace because he was pure and did not eat fish. The three stood there while the one entered.
As quoted by Lisbeth S. Fried "Why did Joseph Shave?"
in Biblical Archeology Review, July/Aug 2007, pp. 40-41

Fried maintains that Joseph shaved because he was coming into the presence of a deity. He was entering into the house of an Egyptian god.

This is both intriguing and troubling. Joseph is doing God's will, even Pharaoh says so, but is he getting too caught up in his environment? It is obvious that Pharaoh favours him. He is given Egyptian clothes, an Egyptian wife –the daughter of a priest, no less – he is even given an Egyptian name: Zaphenath-paneah. We've had name changes before with Abraham and Jacob. Those came after encounters with God. Here, the name change comes from an Egyptian deity.

If we follow the principle of Occam's razor that the simplest solution is the best, we can reiterate that Joseph is doing God's will. But in doing God's will, Joseph is in a precarious position. He is so outwardly Egyptian even his own brothers don't recognize him.

On the other hand, he makes sure that when his family comes down to Egypt they are settled in an area where they can maintain their identity: You will dwell in the region of Goshen, where you will be near me — you and your children and your grandchildren, your flocks and herds, and all that is yours. (Genesis 45:10) In fact, it is all part of an elaborate plan he can implement because he is truly an insider in the pharaonic government:

Then Joseph said to his brothers and to his father's household, "I will go up and tell the news to Pharaoh, and say to him, 'My brothers and my father's household, who were in the land of Canaan, have come to me. The men are shepherds; they have always been breeders of livestock, and they have brought with them their flocks and herds and all that is theirs.' So when Pharaoh summons you and asks, 'What is your occupation?' you shall answer, 'Your servants have been breeders of livestock from the start until now, both we and our fathers' — so that you may stay in the region of Goshen. For all shepherds are abhorrent to Egyptians."
Genesis 46:31-34

Our celebration of Chanukah illumines Joseph's plight; parashat Miketz is always read on Shabbat Chanukah. How ironic that this, the story of our entry into Egypt aided by a Hebrew with an Egyptian name, Egyptian garb and Egyptian power, is read at the time of year when we rejoice in our victory over a power that lured so many of ancestors into assimilation.

What can Joseph teach us about Chanukah? Joseph grew adept at surviving in the pharaonic world, but he was not of it. To a certain extent, it was probably a balancing act for him, as it was for Court Jews in other times and places. Interestingly, what Joseph learned in Egypt was that all he had came from God. He never recognized this in Canaan; he never stopped acknowledging it in Egypt. It was only when confronted with the challenges of life in Egypt that he fulfilled his destiny of ensuring Jewish survival and continuity. For Joseph outside pressures begat inner resolve. Two events from very different times, the story of Joseph and that of the Maccabees each teaches us that the greatest challenge to our continuity is not what the outside world has to offer but how we react to it.

Shabbat shalom and chag ha-urim sameach,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Vayeishev, Genesis 37:1-40:23

2008-12-16T11:10:00.008-05:00

There is no doubt that Potiphar's wife plays a significant role not only in Joseph's life but in the history of our people.

Mata Hari was one. So was Delilah. Some folks put Cleopatra in this category as well. What were they all called? Each one of them was called a vamp, a vixen, or a femme fatale. Whatever the terminology, it refers to a woman with seductive powers who is the downfall of any man whom she desires. Ancient folklore has countless examples of this archetype, as does pulp fiction and modern film. Oftentimes she has a counterpart: the good girl.

In Parashat Vayeishev we come across two women who seem to be members of this girls’ club: Tamar and Potiphar's wife. The former is widowed and childless. Ancient law dictated that she marry her late husband's brother; so the offspring would be considered her late husband's issue. Well, after the death of Tamar’s husband, Er, his younger brother Onan does not perform his duty and also dies. Since his two oldest sons have already died while married to her, Judah, Tamar's father-in-law, withholds his youngest son from her. In desperation she disguises herself as a prostitute and becomes pregnant by her widowed father-in-law. In this case it turns out that the seemingly bad girl was actually doing good. As Judah realizes: "She is more in the right than I, inasmuch as I did not give her to my son Shelah." (Genesis 38:26)

The second example seems to be a bad girl through and through. We don't know her name. She is only identified as Potiphar's wife. (Sefer ha-Yashar calls her Zelikah or Zulaika.) Hubby is very high up in the Egyptian government. Oh yes, and he has purchased a slave, a young man named Joseph, who was sold into slavery by his jealous brothers. One little detail is added to the story (Genesis 39:6): Now Joseph was well built and handsome. You can imagine the effect this would have on a bored, desperate housewife:

After a time, his master's wife cast her eyes upon Joseph and said, "Lie with me." But he refused. He said to his master's wife, "Look, with me here, my master gives no thought to anything in this house, and all that he owns he has placed in my hands. He wields no more authority in this house than I, and he has withheld nothing from me except yourself, since you are his wife. How then could I do this most wicked thing, and sin before God?" And much as she coaxed Joseph day after day, he did not yield to her request to lie beside her, to be with her.
Genesis 39:7-10

The language does not carry the complete impact of Joseph's refusal. In the Torah the word for his refusal (va-yimaen) is marked by a shalshelet, a cantillation mark that looks like a zig-zag and appears only four times in the Torah, three of those in Genesis. It is chanted as a relatively long phrase. One can hear it as a clear and definite: no! One can also hear it as a wavering no.
Commentators are divided on this. The Netziv explains in his commentary Ha'emek Davar that Joseph does not need to give any reason for his refusal, the moral position is very clear. In fact, Joseph gives a three-fold reason for his refusal (Genesis 39:8-9), beginning with wronging his master and ending with wronging God:

In his response to Potiphar’s wife Joseph says ‘that yielding to her invitation to commit adultery would be a “sin against God” (Gen. 39:9). In many other cultures adultery was merely a proprietary misdemeanor; a wife was considered property, and injury to a man’s possessions drew punishment thought adequate to the act (Deut. 22:29). Joseph speaks in true accents of the Bible, which regards marriage as more than a relationship of civil law. Marital trust has divine sanction and is so fundamental to human relationships that Jewish tradition considers the command against adultery as one of the Noahide laws that every person is bound to observe.
W. Gunther Plaut, The Torah: A Modern Commentary, revised edition, p. 258

On the other hand, Midrash Breishit Rabbah, the Talmud (Sotah 36b) and Rashi claim that Joseph actually was quite willing to be seduced but at the last minute saw an image of his father which caused him to flee.

A vengeful Mrs. Potiphar keeps trying to seduce Joseph and finally accuses him of attempted rape which gets Joseph imprisoned. This woman exudes pure evil. Even a modern feminist reading cannot find anything redeeming about her:

Potiphar’s wife is overtly sensual and verbally aggressive. Like the negative archetype of the feminine in one passage of the book of Proverbs (7:1-23), she tempts the young man into sexual impropriety. Potiphar’s wife serves as a test in the initiation of Joseph, the young wisdom hero who refuses to allow a woman to make him unfaithful to his master.
Susan Niditch, The Torah: A Women's Commentary,
Tamara Cohen Eskenazi and Andrea L. Weiss, eds., p. 226

Which is why it is most interesting that she is presented in a more positive light rabbinically. First of all, there is this whole issue with pretty-boy Joseph who is so aware of his beauty that Midrash Tanhuma elaborates on his vanity. He was so taken in by his own beauty, even as a slave, that in Potiphar's house he spent time curling his hair. Breishit Rabbah (87:3) interprets the action of Potiphar's wife as being incited by God in order to teach Joseph a lesson. God made her do it, but does that change her inherent nature?

A second midrash claims that Mrs. Potiphar's intentions were honourable, in fact, she was as in the right as Tamar. This is used to explain why both stories are in this parashah:

Rabbi Samuel ben Nahman said: In order to bring the stories of Tamar and Potiphar's wife into proximity, thus teaching that as the former was actuated by a pure motive, so was the latter. For Rabbi Joshua ben Levi said: She [Potiphar's wife] saw by her astrological arts that she was to produce a child by him [Joseph], but she did not know whether it was to be from her or from her daughter.
Breishit Rabbah 85:2, Soncino translation

(Let's explain the last part about "her daughter." Joseph eventually marries Asenath, the daughter of an Egyptian priest named Poti-phera (Genesis 41:45). Since the priest's name is similar to Potiphar, Joseph's besherte (intended) is understood to be the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Potiphar. Mom just got it wrong and thought she was his intended!)

Overall, it is commonly accepted that Mrs. Potiphar is a vengeful individual who gives us the first example of sexual harassment in the Bible. Why is Joseph, accused of rape, only imprisoned and not killed? According to another midrash, it is because Mr. Potiphar knew his wife was lying.

Is she pure evil? Perhaps she is just the bored wife of a successful man. The most sympathetic portrayal comes from Lillie Devereux Blake, a nineteenth century American suffragette who commented in Elizabeth Cady Stanton's The Woman's Bible. As described in Let Her Speak for Herself: Nineteenth Century Women Writing on Women in the Bible (pp. 438-9) Blake notes that Potiphar is described as a eunuch and so the Potiphars were married in name only. (The Hebrew saris can be translated as eunuch or government official.) This certainly portrays the marriage in a tragic light.

However one views her, there is no doubt that Potiphar's wife plays a significant role not only in Joseph's life but in the history of our people:

Discussions of the Potiphar’s wife episode generally revolve around the foreign woman and her actions, but in fact, she is pivotal — as the story is transmitted — to the survival of the Hebrews in time of famine. … Despite her attempt at seduction, this woman fills a positive narrative role; she initiates the story line that will bring the Hebrews to Egypt thus setting the stage for the exodus — perhaps the most important event related in the Hebrew Bible.
Susan Tower Hollis, "Wife of Potiphar" in
Women in Scripture, Carol Meyers, ed., p. 184

Why does it matter what sort of person this woman was? Perhaps it is because she is a woman that I want to find something redeeming about her. I want to assume that life was not easy, that she was trapped by her situation. Yet it is obvious in the story that she was not powerless. Too often we fall into the trap of making excuses for why a person behaves in a particular manner. She is not the victim in this story. In fact, every person in this parashah who appears to be a victim is not. Tamar, Potiphar's wife, even Joseph the slave are free to act morally. In short, this parashah teaches us that there are no excuses. We are indeed responsible for our actions. If Mrs. Potiphar was enslaved by her circumstances, so too was Tamar, and Joseph the most. It is Joseph who teaches a vital lesson: Whatever your status you always have the free will to act morally.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Vayishlach, Genesis 32:4-36:43

2008-12-09T11:10:00.014-05:00

The meaning of our lives is measured by the difference we make in other lives.

As some of you may have gathered by now, I love movies, particularly older black and white films. These films have an energy and sensibility about them that exists in very few of their modern counterparts. This vitality is conveyed by the combination of writing, acting, directing and editing. Perhaps we have lost something through increased technology and our dependence on computer generated effects to create what we imagine.

One of the delights of black and white films is to be found in the casting. Yes, the old-time stars are wonderful, but I am thinking more of the bit players, the character actors. These are the faces you see over and over in different films, their roles may be small but these actors give additional depth and texture to the endeavor. Often, you only realize this in retrospect.

So too in life, we go about our daily tasks and people come in and out of our lives and we are not always aware of it. These individuals are not at the center of our lives, but they make our lives livable. Perhaps it is the person who is always ahead of you in the coffee shop with whom you occasionally exchange a few words. Or it is the server handing you that daily cup of java. Thirty seconds with a surly server can ruin your day, while a small compliment from the same individual can carry you through a difficult week. It could be the individual who ensures that the public washroom is clean, the person who sits next to you on the bus, or the one who delivers a package to you. A small interaction can have a lasting effect, but otherwise we take these folks for granted. They, and most of us, will not receive the page-long New York Times obituary. It will be a small paragraph in the local paper cut out and cherished by family and friends: an entire life edited in black and white, taking up a column inch.

Such is the case this week in parashat Vayishlach: Deborah, Rebekah's nurse, died, and was buried under the oak below Bethel; so it was named Allon-bacuth. One verse, Genesis 35:8 is all we have, but this one line conveys the importance of this woman. First of all she is named. How unusual this is in the Torah! (She is mentioned in Genesis 24:59 but is not named.) Second, she had an occupation. She was Rebekah's wet-nurse (meyaneket), her life devoted to the matriarch; even if we don't quite know what that entailed after the young Rebekah was weaned.

Deborah is the only servant in the Torah whose death and burial receive notice. Not even Abraham's chief servant, Eliezer, who arranges for Rebecca's marriage to his master's heir; not Bilhah and Zilpah, who bear four of Rebecca's grandsons, merit such recognition. In fact, even Rebecca's own death goes unmarked; only later, at Jacob's death, are we told of his mother's burial in the family cave of Machpelah.
Ellen Frankel, The Five Books of Miriam, p. 69.

Actually, earlier commentators use the verse about Deborah to draw attention to the matriarch. Rashi, basing his comments on midrash Tanhuma, says that this verse alludes to the death of Rebekah, who was buried in secret so Esau would not be present. Nachmanides also understands the verse to be an allusion to Rebekah's death, commenting that the circumstances of her burial are not discussed because no member of her family was present and she had to be buried by the Hittites. Both commentators base themselves on the place name of the burial site Allon-Bacuth, popularly understood to mean "the oak of weeping." Bacuth is read midrashically as bacoth,, a plural form of weeping. Hence, the weeping was for more than one person. Deborah is mentioned, Rebekah is implied. According to these lines of interpretation, the death of the supporting player draws our attention to that of the important character.

If you find these first two interpretations less than satisfying, Rashi brings another explanation to light, that of Moshe Ha-Darshan. This 11th century French scholar suggests that Rebekah had sent the nurse to bring Jacob back in fulfillment of Genesis 27:45 that she will bring him back home once it is safe to return.

Modern interpreters bring a different understanding to this verse. Nahum Sarna dismisses the traditional view that the former wet-nurse could be given the role of Rebekah's messenger.

… at age 130, Deborah would have been an unlikely candidate for such a mission. Clearly, the present notice is not in its proper chronological sequence, which makes the intrusive nature of verse 8 all the more perplexing.
The presumption seems unavoidable that traditions about Deborah, which would make the context of the present notice intelligible, were widely known to reader and Narrator alike in biblical times, but they were not included in the Torah. One such must have related to her association with a site south of Bethel where there was a prominent tree known as Allon-bacuth. This name was popularly interpreted to mean “the oak of weeping,” and folklore connected it with Deborah’s death because she was buried close by. Since Jacob arrived at the spot, and due to the similarity of fact and phrase—the burials “under the oak” (Heb. tahat ha-’allon) and “under the terebinth” (Heb. tahat ha‘elah) —the notice is inserted here. There may be a deeper purpose as well. With the purging of idolatry and the arrival at Bethel, the contacts with Mesopotamia, maintained by each of the patriarchs, are finally and decisively severed. The mention of the death of Deborah thus becomes appropriate here for she was a living symbol of that connection.
Nahum Sarna, The JPS Torah Commentary: Genesis, p 241.

A most interesting interpretation comes from an unusual source: Sisters Constance and Annie de Rothschild, whose work The History and Literature of the Israelites was published in 1870:

…At Beth-el, Deborah had died, the nurse of Rebekah, who had accompanied her mistress from Mesopotamia. She had been buried under the spreading branches of an oak, which was called the Oak of Weeping in commemoration of the event. Probably Jacob's caravan passed by the oak on their journey southward, and doubtless some herdsmen or other wanderers may have told them of the faithful and well-beloved servant resting beneath its shade.
Quoted in Let Her Speak for Herself: Nineteenth-Century Women Writing on Women in Genesis, Marion Ann Taylor and Heather E. Weir, eds, p. 376.

One verse, fourteen words in Hebrew, often overlooked, tantalizingly vague. The importance of Deborah's life, the importance of anyone's life – yours, mine, the bus passenger's, the delivery person’s, the washroom attendant’s, the coffee server’s – cannot be measured by what is written about us after we're gone. The importance of a life is more than a column inch in the paper, more than a verse in the Torah. The meaning of our lives is measured by the difference we make in other lives.

An extraordinary example would be the courageous nanny Sandra Samuel who rescued young Moshe Holzberg in Mumbai. Her action saved an innocent life and restored our faith in humanity. While this is a dramatic example, others are much more mundane.

Think about it. There are people whose paths crossed yours for a few years, a few months, weeks, days – even a single event for a few minutes – and that brief encounter made a lasting impression. These individuals give depth of meaning to our lives and probably don't even know it.

They are that single verse in the story of our lives that might be overwhelmed by the rest of the narrative, but which we can choose to stop and contemplate. We may not be able to thank them, but we can remember them appreciatively. In doing so, we find that they enrich our lives yet again.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Vayetze, Genesis 28:10-32:3

2008-12-02T11:10:00.011-05:00

The delight of being "heard and understood" is something essential to humanity.

You know how you sometimes realize just a moment too late that a mistake has been made? We experienced that in my family this past week. We finally broke down and bought a "smartphone," one of those contraptions that allow you to access the web 24/7. Such devices should come with a warning attached, similar to the warning about the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden. For the individual who mainly communicates by email, the smartphone can turn a tool of convenience into a source of addiction.

It is most astonishing how the internet, a form of communication less than 30 years old, is so much a part of our lives. The same observation was probably made about the telephone at one time. On that fateful March day in 1876, Alexander Graham Bell could not even begin to imagine how his successful experiment would transform the way we live. He did make a note in his journal that in hindsight reveals much, not about the invention itself, but about the inventors. In a journal entry dated March 10, 1876 Bell wrote: "I then shouted into M [the mouthpiece] the following sentence: 'Mr. Watson--come here--I want to see you.' To my delight he came and declared that he had heard and understood what I said."

The delight of being "heard and understood" is something essential to humanity. We all want to be heard, we all want to be understood. We send a message into the void, eagerly anticipating a reply. Over time, our eagerness has turned into impatience, as our modes of communication have become increasingly sophisticated. Responses need to be virtually instantaneous.

Being "heard and understood" is as old as the lessons in the Torah. Our patriarchs communicated with those around them but also had a special relationship with God. Rabbinic tradition (Berachot 26b) takes this relationship and develops it into a revolutionary form of communication with the Divine: the daily prayer services that replaced the sacrifices. The prooftext for Jacob's having instituted the Ma'ariv (evening) service is found at the very beginning of this week's parasha: He came upon (va-yifga) a certain place and stopped there for the night, for the sun had set. (Genesis 28:11) The Talmud connects va-yifga to a variation of the same root in Jeremiah 7:16, where the word tifga, to intercede, is related to prayer.

If we learn about the establishment of the prayer service from the patriarchs, we can also learn much about the essence of prayer from the matriarchs, and specifically from Leah and Rachel. These two sisters, both married to Jacob, appear to be in competition to see who can provide Jacob with the most offspring. Rachel even admits to this rivalry when she names one of the sons of her handmaiden, Bilhah: "A fateful contest I waged with my sister; yes, and I have prevailed." So she named him Naphtali. (Genesis 30:8)

Their prayers and the efficacy of those prayers come through in their desire to bear children. With Leah we are told that God heeded (va-yishma) Leah, and she conceived and bore him a fifth son. (Genesis 30:17) Similarly with Rachel we find out that…God remembered Rachel; God heeded (va-yishma) her and opened her womb. (Genesis 30:22)

Apparently God does a lot of listening with the matriarchs, especially as far as babies are concerned. First we have Sarah's laughter as a reaction to the news that she will bear a son. She denies laughing to herself, but God responds "You did laugh." (Genesis 18:14) Then Rebecca encounters difficulty in her pregnancy and turns to God: But the children struggled in her womb, and she said, "If so, why do I exist?" She went to inquire of the Lord, and the Lord answered her… (Genesis 25:22-3) Finally, we have the two sisters, whose private petitions we do not know, but we have the end result. In both cases God heard them, though we must bear in mind that the response was not instantaneous, neither for Leah nor certainly for Rachel.

There are other examples in the Torah of God heeding (va-yishma) human beings. God listens to Moses' plea not to destroy the people after the incident of the Golden Calf. (Deuteronomy 9:19 and 10:10) Later on, in the book of Judges (13:9), God listens to Manoah and provides him with a son, Samson.

How fortunate these individuals are to know that their prayers are heard and answered! In the Bible it is taken for granted that people have conversations with God. In rabbinic times our sages, struggling with the issue of having our prayers heard and answered, concluded that "One's prayer is heard if God is approached with heart in hand." (Ta'anit 8a) Certainly, in the instances quoted above, the fervency on the part of the person praying is evident. Yet we can all point to instances of deeply felt prayers that have had heartbreaking results. Too often, our attempts at dialogue with the Divine seem to end up as soliloquies.

Only inside can we feel if there is any reply. No activity in the world can conclusively demonstrate dialogue. Perhaps in the subjective chambers of the individual soul one may conclude that there was communication, but it is highly personal and ever uncertain. Everyone who prays struggles with the deep fear that this time, the only answer will be absence, silence.
Rabbi David Wolpe, The Healer of Shattered Hearts: A Jewish View of God

Is there a problem with us, with our mode of communication, or our expectations?

It is incorrect to describe prayer by analogy with human conversation; we do not communicate with God. We only make ourselves communicable to Him. …
Prayer is an answer to God: "Here am I. And this is the record of my days. Look in to my heart, into my hopes and my regrets." …
The purpose of prayer is to be brought to His attention, to be listened to, to be understood by Him; not to know Him but to be known to Him. To pray is to behold life not only as a result of His power, but as a concern of His will, or to strive to make our life a divine concern.
Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel , Man's Quest for God, as quoted in
Modern Thinkers Reflect on Jewish Prayer , myjewishlearning.com

To paraphrase the old telephone commercial: "Reach out and touch some One." We may not always get the response we seek; we may not even sense the acknowledgment. Then why bother to connect? Because this very act of yearning imbues our life with holy purpose.

Will you hear my voice, my distant one,
will you hear my voice, wherever you are —
a voice calling strong, a voice crying silently
and above time, commanding blessing?

…I shall wait for you until my life dims,
As Rachel awaited her lover.
Rachel, Sorrow Song (trans. Wendy Zierler),
in The Torah: A Women's Commentary, p. 182

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Toldot, Genesis 25:19-28:9

2008-11-25T11:34:00.016-05:00

In loving memory of Joel Michael Swirsky, by his loving family.

Despite all he has been through, Isaac is a hopeful, spiritual individual.

Film buffs will tell you that 1939 was a fabulous year for movies. Among the classics produced in that year were Gone with the Wind and The Wizard of Oz. Another memorable film from that same year was one of my mother's favorites, The Hunchback of Notre Dame with Charles Laughton. One of the most powerful scenes in the film contains a line I do not believe is in the book, but which my mother always quoted. When Quasimodo is tied to a wheel and lashed, to the delight of the mob, he suffers silently until Esmeralda takes pity on him and gives him a drink. After he is released from this torture, Quasimodo utters the powerful line: "She gave me water." This small gesture from Esmeralda has a powerful and lasting impact: She recognizes the hunchback's humanity.

North American tourists traipsing through Europe at times feel as though they too are subject to ridicule and abuse, and water often plays a role in this. How many of us have experienced the culture shock that occurs when asking for a glass of water in a restaurant on the continent? If you insist on a glass of actual tap water, the serving staff has a fit and might even refuse to serve you such a dangerous concoction. If you acquiesce to ordering a bottle of water, you are overwhelmed with the selection of waters: Artesian spring, well or glacier? Natural or carbonated? What mixture of minerals?

This is nothing compared to the challenges Isaac faces this week in his quest for water:

Isaac dug anew the wells which had been dug in the days of his father Abraham and which the Philistines had stopped up after Abraham's death; and he gave them the same names that his father had given them. But when Isaac's servants, digging in the wadi, found there a well of spring water, the herdsmen of Gerar quarreled with Isaac's herdsmen, saying, "The water is ours." He named that well Esek, because they contended with him. And when they dug another well, they disputed over that one also; so he named it Sitnah. He moved from there and dug yet another well, and they did not quarrel over it; so he called it Rehoboth, saying, "Now at last the Lord has granted us ample space to increase in the land."
Genesis 26:18-22

In the little we find out about Isaac in the Torah, we are given detailed information about his pursuit of water. This is certainly understandable given the geography and climate in which he lives. But we have encountered water related issues elsewhere in the Torah and know that it has a symbolic significance as well.
As discussed previously in greater detail, water is a sign of spirituality. We encounter this with Hagar's loss of hope, shedding tears as she sees her son's life ebbing away because of thirst. We will come across it again at the joy of crossing the Sea of Reeds and at the panic that ensues after Miriam dies and the people are left without water.

Beyond general spirituality, Rabbinic Judaism in a number of midrashim compares water to Torah:

As waters reach from one end of the world to the other, so Torah reaches from one end of the world to the other. As waters give life to the world, so Torah gives life to the world. As waters are given without cost to the world, so is Torah given without cost to the world. As waters are given from heaven, so is Torah given from heaven. As waters are given to the accompaniment of powerful thunderings, so was Torah given to the accompaniment of powerful thunderings. As waters restore a man’s spirit, so Torah restores a man’s spirit. As waters cleanse a man from uncleanness, so Torah cleanses an unclean person from his uncleanness. As waters come down in myriads of drops and become a multitude of brooks, so are words of Torah… As waters leave a high place and flow to a low place, so Torah leaves him whose opinion of himself is high and cleaves to him whose spirit is lowly.
Hayim Nahman Bialik and Yehoshua Hana Ravnitzky (eds.)
The Book of Legends, 404-5:22, translation William Braude

That Isaac spends so much time and effort digging for water, a symbol of spirituality, reveals much about his character. Despite all he has been through, he is a hopeful, spiritual individual. He opens wells that have been filled and he digs for new sources of water. The Talmud (Berachot 26b) informs us of his spirituality through the tradition that Isaac is responsible for the Mincha (afternoon) service. Through his focus on wells of water we can add another aspect to his spiritual endeavors. As Yalkut Shimoni (Shir 537) teaches: the Torah is a well of living waters.

Isaac is unique among the patriarchs. He is the only patriarch who remains in the land promised by God to Abraham. He is also the only patriarch not to have his name changed. Name changes take place in the Torah after a close encounter with the Divine. Surely, Isaac bound on the altar had an unimaginably intimate encounter with God, yet his name remains the same! Perhaps there is something spiritually different about Isaac, foretelling a different way of relating to God.

Isaac is sensitive to the holiness of normality. It is with Isaac that we first come across the word "love" in relation to another person: …he took Rebekah as his wife. Isaac loved her… (Genesis 24:67) He pleads with God on her behalf. (Genesis 25:21) It is Isaac who flirts and frolics with his wife. (Genesis 26:8) He is the one who enjoys a good meal and asks his son to make him his favourite dish. Despite, or perhaps because of his traumatic experience, he appreciates that daily routine is extraordinarily special. He can appreciate the transformative affect of giving someone a sip of water.

Isaac teaches us one more lesson about spirituality, a way of communicating with God that was bestowed upon him when he was named. Elie Wiesel muses about this patriarch's mundane but amusing name:

Why is the most tragic of our ancestors named Isaac, a name which evokes and signifies laughter? Here is why. As the first survivor, he had to teach us, the future survivors of Jewish history, that it is possible to suffer and despair an entire lifetime and still not give up the art of laughter.
Isaac, of course, never freed himself from the traumatizing scenes that violated his youth; the holocaust had marked him and continued to haunt him forever. Yet he remained capable of laughter. And in spite of everything, he did laugh.
Elie Wiesel, Messengers of God: Biblical Portraits & Legends, p. 97

From Isaac we learn that laughter is also prayer.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Chayei Sarah, Genesis 23:1-25:18

2008-11-18T11:32:00.013-05:00

Any mundane action harbors the seeds of a spiritual encounter.

Dozens of books have been written about negotiating, whether it be for the purchase of a car or real estate, for a better grade or a raise. While the Torah is not a how-to book of negotiating, in the beginning of parashat Chayei Sarah we find an example of skilled negotiation. Abraham's purchase of a burial place for his wife Sarah is told in great detail:

Then Abraham rose from beside his dead, and spoke to the Hittites, saying, "I am a resident alien among you; sell me a burial site among you, that I may remove my dead for burial." And the Hittites replied to Abraham, saying to him, "Hear us, my lord: you are the elect of God among us. Bury your dead in the choicest of our burial places; none of us will withhold his burial place from you for burying your dead." Thereupon Abraham bowed low to the people of the land, the Hittites, and he said to them, "If it is your wish that I remove my dead for burial, you must agree to intercede for me with Ephron son of Zohar. Let him sell me the cave of Machpelah that he owns, which is at the edge of his land. Let him sell it to me, at the full price, for a burial site in your midst."
Genesis 23:3-9

What is important is the manner in which Abraham acquires this burial plot. He enters into negotiations with the Hittites who ruled the area. Abraham begins by describing his position: "I am a resident alien (ger ve-toshav) among you; sell me a burial site among you, that I may remove my dead for burial." (Genesis 23:4) Rashi explains the use of ger ve-toshav as meaning that Abraham is negotiating as a stranger who has no claim to the land. However, if he is not given the land, he will take as a resident would , since this land is promised to Abraham and his descendents as part of God's covenant with him.

As the negotiations proceed, our commentators continue to provide play-by-play analysis.
According to Ha’amek Davar, Ephron's generous offer of gifting the cave and the land to Abraham (Genesis 23:10-11) was a show for the people, and Abraham understood this as he continued his part of the negotiations offering to buy the land rather than the cave. Ramban suggests that Abraham was offered both the cave and the field because it would not be acceptable for a person to own one and not the other. Other commentators view Abraham's language as a display of humility combined with a high level of etiquette.

What Abraham displays in this interplay with Ephron the Hittite goes beyond negotiating rituals and the display of etiquette. Abraham is entering into dialogue. As Martin Buber teaches us, each encounter is an opportunity to get to know another being. "All real life is meeting." (Martin Buber, I and Thou, p. 11)

Buber believes that dialogue alone is of value irrespective of anything that is achieved:

Genuine conversation, and therefore every actual fulfillment of relation between men, means acceptance of otherness. When two men inform one another of their basically different views about an object, each aiming to convince the other of the rightness of his own way of looking at the matter, everything depends so far as human life is concerned on whether each thinks of the other as the one he is, whether each, that is, with all his desire to influence the other, nevertheless unreservedly accepts and confirms him in his being this man and in his being made in this particular way.
Martin Buber, "Distance and Relation", The Knowledge of Man, p. 69

Of course, this is not always the case. If one of the partners is attempting to manipulate the other, as commentators suggest that Ephron is doing, the result is not dialogue but propaganda:

Opposed to this effort is the lust to make use of men by which the manipulator of 'propaganda' and 'suggestion' is possessed, in his relation to men remaining as in a relation to things, to things, moreover, with which he will never enter into relation…
Martin Buber, "Distance and Relation", The Knowledge of Man, p. 69

Within our tradition, the Akedah, which comes at the end of last week's parasha, is viewed as the last and most difficult of the ten tests of Abraham. In certain regards, the purchase of the Cave of Machpelah is a more difficult test. In fact, the Book of Jubilees claims it is the tenth test.

Why should this be so? For one thing, there is a tradition that says that Abraham failed the test of the Akedah. He misheard or misunderstood what was intended of him. However, if you look at the purchase of the Cave of Machpelah, Abraham did everything right. The details of the negotiations show this. He listened, he responded, he succeeded and was blessed.

The Akedah was an encounter with God, which, though often viewed as successful, failed on a number of levels. Somewhere along the way, the beloved son Isaac becomes the intended sacrifice, no longer a person but an object. It is therefore not surprising that after the Akedah God does not speak to Abraham again. Even less surprising is the fact that no more words are exchanged between Abraham and Isaac and certainly not between Abraham and Sarah, Hagar or Ishmael.

The next time we hear from Abraham is when he hopes to buy some property, the burial ground that is the Cave of Machpelah. The purchase of this cave provides him with a permanence that he otherwise lacks in life. More significantly, the negotiations provide Abraham the opportunity to experience a relationship.

Only after completing this transaction, experiencing this encounter, does Abraham's life take a dramatic shift. What happens next: Healing and relationship. He sends his servant Eliezer to find a wife for his beloved but estranged son, Isaac.

What can we take away from Abraham's experience? In all our encounters, be they personal, professional, or incidental, we must never forget that we are dealing with another human being. When we engage that other individual, the exchange becomes a dialogue. Without this engagement, we are guilty of manipulation; but when we are aware of the other, even mundane interactions become spiritual encounters. Think of it: Any mundane action harbors the seeds of a spiritual encounter. This holds true whether you are a patriarch purchasing a burial site, or a harried commuter buying a cup of coffee.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Vayera, Genesis 18:1-22:24

2008-11-11T10:34:00.020-05:00

This Parasha has been generously sponsored by Joi Guttman in loving memory of Stephen Istvan Guttman, Yahrzeit Cheshvan 15.

The simple mundane items in life become priceless treasures when we no longer have them.

What an incredible parasha we read this week! Vayera contains more action than most film trailers. There is the announcement and birth of Isaac, the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, Ishmael is sent away and almost dies, and Isaac is bound and almost sacrificed. One event is more dramatic than the next.

Yet the portion begins so simply and innocently. God appears to Abraham as he was sitting at the entrance of the tent as the day grew hot. (Genesis 18:1) Why this detail of ke-khom hayom, in the heat of the day? Years ago, my colleague, Rabbi Loraine Heller, presented a beautiful drasha on appreciating this seemingly insignificant bit of information. It is such a small detail, yet it becomes hauntingly significant knowing everything else that will occur.

Certain events at this time of year always make me appreciate small details. On November 11th we observed Remembrance Day. You may not have heard of John Babcock, but he is the last surviving Canadian veteran of World War I. Mr. Babcock joined up at the age of 15. He celebrated his 108th birthday this past July. He was fortunate enough never to make it to the front lines. Many others did and wrote of their experiences.

Alfred Anderson who died close to three years ago at the age of 105 was present on the Western Front during the famous "Christmas Truce" of 1914.

"I remember the silence, the eerie sound of silence…All I'd heard for two months in the trenches was the hissing, cracking and whining of bullets in flight, machine-gun fire and distant German voices,"
Last Survivor of 'Christmas Truce' Tells of his Sorrow, Lorna Martin,
The Observer, December 19, 2004 Guardian.co.uk

This silence was the World War I equivalent of ke-khom hayom, the heat of the day. It was something so mundane that in normal circumstances you would not be aware of it.

I am reminded as well of a book called Testament of Youth by Vera Brittain, which I read as an adolescent. This memoir described the childhood and early adulthood of this leading English pacifist. What made a lasting impression on me was the transformation from Victorian to Edwardian England as seen through the individual's realization of the reality of war and the post-war environment.

At first, taken in by her England's heroic view of war and battle, Vera encouraged her younger brother Edward to enlist. Her fiancé did so as well. In an instant, these two young men, along with so many other youths of their generation went from ke-khom hayom, an awareness of the soothing heat of the day, to the terror faced by Isaac at the akedah (binding). Nothing was ever the same again.

Only three weeks into the war Vera Brittain could sense the change between ke-khom hayom and what followed:

It was one of those shimmering autumn days when every leaf and flower seems to scintillate with light and I found it "very hard to believe that not far away men were being slain ruthlessly.... The destruction of men, as though beasts, whether they be English, French, German or anything else, seems a crime to the whole march of civilisation."
Vera Brittain, Testament of Youth, p. 97

The importance of ke-khom hayom, the simple mundane items in life that become priceless treasures when we no longer have them, was best expressed by those who were there:

… in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly...
Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow…

These words were placed in mouths of those who lie In Flanders Field by the poet John McCrae.

Others had their own memories:

Often a skylark sang sweetly when I went to tether the cows on their scanty pasture amongst the shell holes. Apparently the birds were unaffected by the firing. At times a kestrel hawk could be seen hovering over the desolate wastes that had once been fields. Then there was a thrush that called from the shattered branch of a roadside tree. Men might die, cities, towns, and villages might fall in ruin, but still the birds sang on!
T.S. Williams, Memories and Diaries: The Carnoy Cows, www.firstworldwar.com

This week marks ninety years since the end of the war to end all wars. While the poppies may still be blowing in Flanders Field, in Canada and across the world the flowers of that generation are withering. The few remaining veterans are older than Abraham was in parashat Vayera. We would hardly acknowledge them if we were to see them on the street. We certainly would not look twice at these gentlemen were they sitting at the entrance to a nursing home in the heat of the day.

How sad, for they have much to teach us about ke-khom ha-yom, appreciation for the mundane, that we fortunate recipients of their youthful sacrifice cannot comprehend. In addition to their appreciation for the mundane, many of these veterans had an encounter with the sacred as well. Some of these experiences were positive and others were traumatic. There is an old cliché that there are no atheists in a foxhole. Perhaps there were none in the World War I trenches either, though we know full well that the trauma of battle destroyed the faith of many on their return.

This brings us to an interesting verse in Vayera, one that is easy to ignore because it appears to be as minor a detail as ke-khom hayom: Abraham and Sarah are sojourning in Gerar where Avimelech, the king, takes Sarah, assuming that she is Abraham's sister. He finds out the truth in a dream.
But God came to Avimelech in a dream by night and said to him, "You are to die because of the woman that you have taken, for she is a married woman." (Genesis 20:3)

Commenting on the Avimelech's dream, Rabbi David Kimchi explains that God reaches us in two ways, one being through dreams (halomot), the other being through tribulations or chastisements (yissurim). As my colleague Rabbi Dow Marmur once put it, "God strokes or God strikes." While I disagree with the perspective that God is actively "putting us through our paces," I do see both positive and negative situations as way we can reach God.

We all understand the "stroking;" indeed, chances are that we all desire the "stroking." This is the derech noam, the pleasant way to God. We are also aware that life is not like that. Sometimes innocence fades overnight, as Vera Brittain discovered, and young men lie buried in Flanders Field.

Sometimes all is going well and accident, illness, or tragedy strikes, leaving the individual in intense pain and alone. Yet, this too is an opening for a divine encounter, as Abraham discovered sitting in front of his tent in the heat of the day, three days after undergoing circumcision.

Oftentimes things will get worse before they get better. Sarah will be threatened by Avimelech. Ishmael will nearly die. Isaac will be bound for sacrifice during the akedah. These events will bring pain and trauma far worse than Abraham can imagine in the heat of that day.

Harder still to comprehend is God’s presence at such times. Abraham’s suffering will raise his awareness, sensitivity, and desire to reach out to God. Too many Jews mistakenly think that the positive evaluation of suffering is solely a Christian concept. Certainly none of us desire to experience God through suffering. But in difficult times, and we all encounter such occasions, Vayera teaches us that God is there. The psalmist affirms this as well in writing
In distress I called out to Adonai
Adonai answered me by setting me free. (Psalms 118:5)
This is not a physical freedom but a spiritual encounter. As the psalmist concludes:
Adonai is at my side, I am not afraid. (Psalms 118:6)

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Lech Lecha, Genesis 12:1-17:27

2008-11-04T11:30:00.013-05:00

Lech lecha is a gamble.

Whenever I think of Abraham I think of vessels, as in containers, not ships. A midrash (Genesis Rabbah 38:13) everyone learns in religious school recounts how the young Abram smashed the clay idols in his father's shop. When asked to account for the smashed idols, he laid blame on one of the idols. His father countered that a clay idol could not do such a thing. Whereupon the youngster asked his father why one would then pray to a piece of clay. Another midrash seeks to explain why Abraham is asked to bind his son (in next week's parasha: Vayera). According to this story, Abraham himself is a clay vessel, the pottery lovingly created by the Divine potter. A potter does not test a flawed vessel, since he knows it would break. Only a vessel capable of standing stress is tested. Yet another midrash, in explaining the command to Abram to leave his home, compares the patriarch to a bottle of the finest perfume:

Said Rabbi Berekiah: What did Abraham resemble? A phial of myrrh closed with a tight- fitting lid and lying in a corner, so that its fragrance was not disseminated; as soon as it was taken up, however, its fragrance was disseminated. Similarly, the Holy One, blessed be He, said to Abraham: ‘Travel from place to place, and thy name will become great in the world’
Genesis Rabbah 39:2, Soncino translation

I've been thinking quite a bit about pottery recently. Well, not only pottery, but also dishes and glasses, and all other things fragile. Some of these we break on purpose, such as breaking a dish for tenaim, the Jewish engagement ceremony, or breaking a glass at the end of a wedding. Some vessels, tradition teaches, break because they cannot contain what is put into them. This is the basis of the mystical concept of shevirat ha-kelim, the breaking of the vessels, which is found in Lurianic Kabbalah:

Before the world was created, God occupied every inch of the universe. In order to make room for a world, God needed to contract, a process Luria called tzimtzum. After this contraction, God directed divine light into vessels, but the vessels couldn’t contain the light, and they broke, letting evil and imperfection into the world. The purpose of human history is tikkun, fixing the broken vessels. This is achieved by fulfilling the commandments of the Torah.
Overview: Kabbalah and Hassidism, myjewishlearning.com

Perhaps the symbolism of such fragile items is on my mind because this coming Sunday is the 70th anniversary of Kristallnacht, the "Night of Broken Glass" that marked a major escalation in Nazi persecution of German Jews. The lucky ones managed to leave. We know what happened to the rest.

According to the calendar I checked, Kristallnacht began on a Wednesday night, precariously perched between Lech lecha and Vayera. It will forever cast a shadow on the meaning of leaving your birthplace and offering your child.

In the Torah, lech lecha (go forth) is a gamble. Yes, it is a command from God, but where has this God been? After the story of Noah and the Tower of Babel there is Divine silence for ten generations, which continues into Abram’s lifetime; he is seventy-five years old when he is told lech lecha.

Lech lecha is a gamble because of what Abram gives up. Last year we touched upon the civilization of Abram's origin. Lech lecha me-artzecha, the text reads Go forth from your native land (Genesis 12:1) emphasizing what Abram is leaving behind.

Did the words lech lecha me-artzecha (go forth from your native land) echo in the ears of those fortunate enough to escape after Kristallnacht? Did they feel that God was guiding them as he guided Abram? Or was there only the same Divine silence that reverberated for ten generations from Noah and the Tower of Babel until God spoke to Abram?

Lech lecha in the Torah encompasses promise and fear beyond the imagination. Abram's journey is one of difficulty. Abram is promised a blessing that seems beyond his reach. He gains material wealth but faces mortal danger in his encounter with Pharaoh (Genesis 12:10-20). His kinsman Lot is kidnapped and he must fight to free him (Genesis 14:10-17). God promises Abram land and offspring but also tells him that his descendants will be enslaved for hundreds of years, the latter revealed to him in a covenantal ceremony where there appeared a smoking oven, and a flaming torch. (Genesis 15:17)

Lech lecha is the beginning of the Jewish people. It is a promise. It is potential. It is also peril. How lucky we are! While we have little difficulty in understanding promise and potential, many of us cannot comprehend the notion of a perilous journey. Abram, our ancestor, understood threats and experienced danger. So did our relatives seven decades ago.

Among them were some individuals who experienced their own lech lecha, a going forth with great potential and the gravest danger. The young Hannah Senesh moved from the European inferno to the Promised Land. Then she went back again hoping to help others make the same journey:

A voice called.
I went.
I went for it called.
I went lest I fall.
At the crossroads,
I blocked both ears with white frost
and cried for what I had lost.
Hannah Senesh, translation Ziva Shapiro

Parashat Lech lecha was the reading heard in German synagogues the Shabbat before these buildings were destroyed on Kristallnacht. Seventy years later we are grateful for those who escaped. But we also cry for whom and what we've lost.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel