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

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 Shmot, Exodus 1:1-6:1

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 Vayishlach, Genesis 32:4-36:43

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 Yitro, Exodus 18:1-20:23

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

James Burke, The Day the Universe Changed

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom,
MS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat shalom,
MS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This according to conference organizer, Rabbi Eliyahu Stern.

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

Shabbat shalom,
MS