toratmoshe

Parashta Lech Lecha - The Land That I Will Show You

2006-11-03T01:14:00.000-05:00

BS”D

Bereshit 12:3 “… and all families of the Earth shall be blessed in you.”
Rashi: “A man says to his son: ‘Be like Abraham.’”

In many ways, Shabbat Lech Lecha is really the first Shabbos of the year. Jewish children traditionally start learning Torah from Parashat Lech Lecha, because this is really the beginning of our story. Bereshit is the cosmic background; Noach is the moral precursor. But it is at Lech Lecha that G-d introduces the concept that provides the link from the human to the Divine, which is also the pinnacle of human philosophy: the Halacha.

There is no Halacha in Bereshit. HKB”H relies on the G-dliness embedded in Creation to lead all things to right behavior. They should just know. Adam and Chava have rules, but rules are not Halacha. One rule they keep – Peru u-Revu. One rule, they don’t. Don’t eat the fruit. – Oops…

There is no Halachah in Noach. Noach is designed from birth to perform a task. G-d gives Noach orders, but orders are not Halacha. Noach is an exquisite computer, programmed with a Tzaddik chip, and compulsion is not Halacha. But the Human lurks within. And when, after six hundred years of waiting, and after finally exiting the Ark, Noach at last breaks his silence, it is to give full and ugly vent to the most animal of human emotions. He gets drunk, he behaves lewdly, he curses his own children.

In Parashat Lech Lecha, G-d takes a huge risk. Where Adam and Chava were left alone, Abram is cast out into the world before his adventure even begins – stranded by his father’s crackpot dream of some vague Destiny that awaited them in a land none of them has ever seen, Abram can not go back to Ur Kasdim, but neither does he know of any reason to go forward. Where Noach is Designed, Abram is Destined. G-d takes note of the particular human feature of Free Choice, and G-d takes a chance. “Lech lecha,” G-d exhorts Abram. “You there! Get up and go!” This is the voice of a parent tossing the young out of the nest. The Rebbe turning away from his Chassid, telling him it is time to go out into the world. This is Tough Love. Tough on Abram – but also tough on HKB”H. Ha-kol be-yedei shamayim hutz mi-yirat shamayim – Everything is in the hands of Heaven but the fear of heaven.

Will Abram choose to come to G-d on his own? Or will Abram merely follow his appetites? The odds do not appear favorable, considering all of human history up to this point. The Hassidic masters tell us that the greatness of Abraham is not that Abraham had this quality or that quality, not that Abraham was wise, or powerful, or faithful, or steadfast. The greatness of Abraham, I heard in the name of the Lubavicher Rebbe, is that G-d chose him. All else pales beside that fact. Once cast out into the world, Abraham’s task is to spread the teachings of his Rebbe, to pass them on to his family, to his descendants, and to the world.

Abraham Avinu and HKB”H – what a Chassid! What a Rebbe!

And what is Halacha, and how does it interact in human existence? Lech Lecha. “Go your own way.” Later, G-d will instruct Abraham to “stand on his own two feet”: Hithalech lefanai... Halacha is Comportment. Behavior. How we make our way through the world. And, as every traveler needs a map, we have Halacha as a guide. But, just as every map shows multiple routes to the same destination, the Halacha interacts with our Free Choice, leading us all along infinite branching paths. All of them are G-d’s paths, yet each of us goes our own way.

Lech Lecha. Le-Halacha.

In communities where unmarried men do not own a tallit, they must borrow one when they are called to the Torah. If they take a tallit that belongs to the shul – which is under communal ownership – they make a Beracha before putting on the tallit. However, on a borrowed tallit, no Beracha is made. The Pasuk states:

Ve-haya lachem le-tzitzit

Lachem - Yours. The proper performance of the Mitzvah requires that one own one's Tallit.

The mitzvah of Tzitzit is in the same category as Lulav – ve-lakachtem lachem ba-yom ha-rishon… One can only perform the mitzvah of lulav with a lulav that one owns, not with a borrowed lulav.

Lech Lecha – Go. You – You go. This is an act that only you can perform, and that you must perform for your own self. No one else can fulfill your destiny, Abraham, which is to teach the world that each of us is uniquely responsible for our own spiritual life. We can not bring others to Torah except by example. We can not create a Just Society, except by our own effort, within our own Daled Amot. One just person at a time.

Go forth, Abraham, for no one else can take on your destiny.

But, as Rashi points out – and as the text shows over and over again in a major motif that runs throughout Chumash – people try to.
Bereshit 12:3 “… and all families of the Earth shall be blessed in you.”
Rashi: “A man says to his son: ‘Be like Abraham.’”
Rashi makes it clear that our assignment and Berachah is to emulate Abraham.

This becomes major theme throughout Torah – and throughout human history! Because just as we want to strive to become like Abraham, others want to share in the blessings of Abraham – to become partners, or even to supplant him. And in so doing, they mistake the outer Abraham for the inner struggle of the Tzaddik, the Halachic philosopher who strives at all moments to approach HKB”H. What Rav Soloveitchik calls Halachic Man. They mistakenly grab at the Destination, when it is really only the Journey that matters.

Terach takes his family from Ur Kasdim, heading towards Canaan. Inexplicably, they stop along the way, and – like Moshe who also does not make it to Canaan – Terach dies at Charan. Yet at the Brit bein Ha-Betarim – 15:7 – G-d says “I am H’ who took you [singular] out of Ur Kasdim.” But Terah took him out! No – G-d tells Abram: look for My hand underlying all the workings of the Cosmos. Perhaps Terach believed that it was on his own initiative and inspiration that they came to Haran, but Abraham must look to G-d’s unifying and guiding hand in all that he encounters.

Terach had an inkling of the Beracha. He tried to reap the destiny of Abraham. Terah foresaw that destiny and tried to jump start it – to make it his own.

Now, in this week’s Parasha, Lot tries to copy his uncle – at Bereshit 12:5 we read “And Abram took… and Lot… and all the souls that they made in Haran…” Rashi: Abraham converted the men, Sarai converted the women. And Lot? Whom did he convert? Implicit is that Lot emulated Abraham – a kind of Bizzarro Abraham, like the cracked world of the old Superman comic books. A theme that arises continually throughout Humash. The exodus from Haran towards Canaan is the first “Erev Rav” – Like Abram, Lot too brought out his own supporters, people fashioned in the image of his own gods.

To underscore the parallels, other striking images of Mizraim appear. At the Brit bein ha-Betarim, Abram is led by Smoke and Fire. Indeed, the relationship of Sara and Hagar establishes the intertwined destinies of their two peoples – Sarah the Hebrew; Hagar the Egyptian.

More people try to emulate story of Abraham. In spiritual terms, these people exist on very high plane. On a level of prophecy, or of near-prophecy, full of resonances of the great destiny that awaits.

Nahor – has 12 sons; 8 with his wife, 4 with his handmaid.
Ishmael – has 12 sons.
Hagar and Ishmael – leave Sarah’s encampment and go off to the wilderness where they try to willingly sacrifice Abraham’s son – Ishmael – who is already a grown man.

And while all this is unfolding, Abraham is also trying to figure out what his Destiny is. He has human wishes and longings and desires, but his Halachic relationship with G-d continues to grow stronger, crying out for fulfillment. How is Abraham to know which is his true Destiny? Unlike all those who mimic him, Abraham keeps returning to G-d and seeking, asking for answers, asking to be guided and corrected.

13:7 - “there was strife between the herdsmen of Abram’s cattle and the herdsmen of Lot’s cattle…”
Rashi: Lot’s shepherds said: Abram is old and Lot is his heir, so we are not stealing, as this land will very soon belong to our master…” This is a double whammy: it is not only a cracked mirroring of the destiny of Abraham, but also compare it to the very first Rashi, which comments on G-d’s act of Creation of the cosmos and its implications for Klal Israel taking possession of the Land of Israel. These are people who have hold of a powerful and eternal truth. Yet, like Babel at the end of Parashat Noach, what they build around it is false. In general, this exercise is undertaken with passionate intensity, no less so today than in Biblical times.

Abraham continually, patiently seeks clarity, all the while doing what is needed, all the while seeking G-d’s inner message. Is Lot , in fact, supposed to inherit from him? Where did Lot’s herdsmen get that idea from?

Why, when Haran dies, does Terach take Abram and Lot – why not Nahor? Abram has become Lot’s surrogate father. Is there, perhaps, more to this?

After War of the Four Kings against the Five, at 14:21-22, Abraham rejects the notion of taking possession of the property of those he has defeated. “… whether [not] a thread nor a shoe-latch…” such odd language. It echoes the Halachic practice of Halitza. Can it be that Abraham is renouncing the notion of Levirate marriage, of raising up his deceased brother’s son? Perhaps, under the practice of the clan of Terach, Abraham was Lot’s biological father? Under such circumstances, it is understandable that Abram might believe Lot is destined to inherit from him.

But Abram sees by his surrogate son’s behavior that it is not meant to be. The shepherds fight – surely they take after their master, just as Rashi tells us the shepherds of Abram take after theirs – and when Abram tells Lot “Go ahead, you take what you want, and I’ll be content with what’s left over, (another message of Lech Lecha – use your power of Free Choice) what is Lot’s reaction? He chooses and goes, with neither argument nor thanks.

Now Abraham complains to G-d that the steward of his household will inherit from him – this was actually common in the ancient Near East, as people legally made household servants into family members, sometimes marrying them – or marrying them to their children – and explicitly settling inheritances on favored slaves.

But G-d tells him “No, Abraham, you will have your own descendants to inherit.”

And then Ishmael is born. But G-d says “not this one.”

All of this was within Abraham’s aspect of Greatness merely at being chosen by G-d to be called out, to be sent forth with “Lech Lecha”.

All this was Lo Le-Shemah

Rashi at 12:7
Bereshit 12:7 “… le-zaracha eten et ha-aretz ha-zot…” Abram builds a Mizbeach. Says Rashi: “Because of the news of Children, and because of the news of the Land.” G-d has promised Abram children and real estate. Abram reciprocates by building a sacrificial altar. He is his father’s son after all, for this looks awfully close to Idol Worship and Avoda Zara.

But alongside this very human aspect of Abraham, he also embraces the Halachic process as the key to life, embraces Yirat Shamayim as the fundamental attitude to life as he comes to realize that his Destiny is, in every sense of the word, his own responsibility. That he can embrace it. Even change it.

The Apotheosis of Abraham is the Akeidah, which is 100% lishmah – which is why G-d no longer speaks to him after. Abraham has Gotten It – he gets the message. However many trials Abraham may still face, he has internalized the Halacha as the way to interact with G-d, who runs the world. G-d now recognizes that Abraham is doing everything lishmah – so no more need to communicate.

All along the way, Abraham has asked for guidance. Why will You destroy the cities? Who is supposed to inherit from me? You promised me children, where are they? You promised me the Land, which part of it is to be my dwelling? By the time of the Akeidah, Abraham may not have resolved his human issues, but he has embraced the behavioral and moral imperative of the Mitzvot.

To some, the attitude of Abraham towards the life of his own son looks like that of the proud father of a suicide bomber. But remember the Rebbe’s Vort: that the greatness of Abraham resides in the mere fact that G-d chose him. All the rest, as the Rambam tells us, any human being can aspire to and accomplish. The Torah is teaching us – Abraham Avinu is teaching us – that even the most important things in our lives are only ours because G-d has chosen to give them to us. That we must value our most precious things – our children, our wives and husbands, our life itself – not because they are intrinsically precious, though they are, but because G-d has chosen to entrust them to our care. Now, how much more precious – how infinitely precious do these mere human things become! And when G-d decides to take them away, we do not suffer any less human pain, but we relate to our pain from a profound depth of meaning and with the knowledge that, for all the pain that resides in this sad and beautiful world, HKB”H is the Ba’al ha-Rachamim, weeping for us. Weeping with us.

The difference between a Tzaddik – a righteous person – and a Rasha – a wicked person – is that the Rasha knows that he or she is doing exactly what G-d wants. That G-d approves of the Rasha. “I don’t need religion to be a good person.” How often do we hear it? “All religion has ever done is create hatred and bloodshed. G-d just wants us to be moral people.” The Rasha’s relationship with G-d is all right, all of the time. G-d approves of the Rasha.

The Tzaddik is a different story. The Tzaddik – his house is a wreck, his relationship with G-d is a mess and will always be a mess. His efforts at helping people are weak and pathetic and ineffectual and even the smallest bit of progress requires infinite patience. There is nothing for the Tzaddik to do but try to serve G-d and be constantly aware that really all we can achieve is the effort. The Tzaddik stumbles through life, always trying to alleviate human suffering – it’s a fundamental Halacha – always trying to bring joy into the world – it’s a fundamental Mitzvah – always trying in every moment and in every way, big and small, to make the world a better place – it’s a basic Halacha. The Mishna says: Bishvili nivra ha-olam – The world was created for me. It’s Mashma that each one of us is personally responsible for taking care of the world.

The Gemara in Berachot (33B) says Makom she-baalei teshuvah omdim, tzaddikim gemurim einam omdim sham – IN the place where Baalei Teshuva stand, Perfect Tzddikim do not stand there. We all know Pshat on this – and it’s wrong. The Apter Rov says: the Baal Teshuva has attained a goal, which is why he or she rests there, on the spot. They have reached their destination. But the Tzaddik - ? A Tzaddik, says the Apter, never stands still. It is in the nature of the Tzaddik to constantly be on the move. Searching. Yearning. Striving. Most of us set goals and strive to achieve them. For the Tzaddik, there is no such thing as Accomplishment – only a burning desire to reach higher. To find Ha-Aretz asher er’eka – The Land that I will show you.

It is told by a talmid of the Chofetz Chayim that he once heard his Rav sitting up late at night in his private study, deep in Hitbodedut with HKB”H. The Chofetz Chayim had said Tehilim, had said Tikkun Hatzot. Now, his Talmid overheard him pleading: G-d, you have given me so much. You have sent me Talmidim, you have sent Jews from all over the world with whom I have spoken words of your Torah. You made me Zocheh to write the Mishna Berurah! Now, G-d, please, I keep asking you – when will You ever answer me? I keep begging you to tell me: G-d, you have given me so much, so very much. What can I do for you?

Yours for a better world

Dust to Dust

2006-10-13T09:08:00.000-04:00

BS”D

Dust to Dust: Hirhurim on the Fifth Perek of the Rambam’s Hilchot Teshuvah

by Rabbi Moshe Silver

(Text of Derash given at Princeton University Center for Jewish Life – Shabbat Shuva – 5767 – 30 September 2006)

Shabbat Shuva – we are on the cusp of Kippur, the moment where we seek final return to G-d, where we seek to cleave to HKB”H in an ultimate experience of reconciliation, of acceptance, of forgiveness. We have been building towards this moment since Rosh Chodesh Elul. In intensified prayer, in Selichot, in daily blowing of the shofar. And in the awesome and overwhelming days of Rosh HaShana. We are taught that G-d is at all times and in all places unchangeable. Indeed, it is incorrect to speak of G-d as being in time or space. Nonetheless, the Rabbis tell us that we should rise before the morning star, especially during the month of Elul, and pray for forgiveness for all Israel. The hours between midnight and the rising of the morning star is the time when G-d flies around the earth, when G-d rises and walks the cosmos alone, weeping for the destruction of the Beit Ha-Mikdash – the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. Dirshu Ha-Shem be-himatz’o – Search for G-d where G-d is to be found.

As a guide to the process of Teshuvah, the Rambam wrote his Hilchot Teshuvah, the Laws of Repentance. It is a short treatise, yet immense in its power and in its insight into human nature. Intended, as are all of Rambam’s writings, to be the definitive work on the topic, Holchot Teshuvah is structured in ten chapters, and many people have the custom to read and dwell upon one chapter each of the Ten Days of Repentance from Rosh HaShana to Yom Kippur. This short work contains passages that Rav Soloveitchik calls the most beautiful and majestic in all of Mishne Torah. But if there can be said to be a focus and a core message to this work, it lies in the fifth Perek, which deals with Free Will. Speaking of Free Will, the Rambam writes: this matter is an essential principle, and it is a pillar of Torah and Mitzvot, as it is written:

ראה נתתי לפניך היום את-החיים ואת-הטוב ואת-המות ואת-הרע

דברים ל" ט"ו

The Rambam brings a Pasuk from Parashat Nitzavim. This is significant, because this Parasha is always read at the beginning of the ‘Aseret Yemei HaTeshuvah. Significant, because this Parasha begins the coda of Torah. Leaving aside the dispute as to whether the final eight verses of the Torah were written by Moshe himself, or by Yehoshua – from the first words of Nitzavim, through to the end of VeZot HaBeracha, is all the action of a single day. Moshe Rabbeinu’s birthday, in fact, as well as the last day of his life. “Ha-Yom” says the text in two significant places, both at the beginning of Nitzavim, and at the beginning of Va-Yelech. Further, the Zohar ties the “Ha-Yom” in Nitzavim to the day of Yom Kippur.

And what is significant about “Ha-Yom” – about this day? The Rambam tells us: it is our freedom to choose.

Just by the way, it appears that Pharaoh and Moshe are the only persons in all of Torah whose birthdays are recorded. (See Shemot 40:20 – “And it was on the third day [from the recounting of their dreams], Pharaoh’s birthday, he made a drinking party for all his servants, and he raised up the head of his Wine Steward and the head of his Chief Baker in the midst of his servants.”) We shall return to speak of this at the Grand Finale of our talk, IY”H.

“See, I have placed before you TODAY (ha-yom) Life and the Good, and Death and the Bad.”

What is the significance of this pair or pairs? Of Life / Good, and Death / Bad? How does it tie into Yom Kippur, into the process of Teshuvah?

The Midrash says “teshuvah kadmah ha-olam” – Teshuva existed before the world came into being. That HKB”H looked at the world to be and realized that it would not be able to stand without Teshuva. Just as a house requires a foundation, HKB”H laid down Teshuva, as it were, deep in the ground. Before the cosmos came to be, G-d dug deep and poured a foundation of Teshuva. We are not aware of it – we can not see it, or even sense its presence. But it is what holds up the edifice of the Universe.

Why is this process called Teshuvah? There are other words in the Hebrew language that apply to the process which we call Repentance. Kapparah – atonement. Mechilah – forgiveness of outstanding obligation. Selichah – begging for pardon. All these are merely elements of the process known as Teshuvah.

ראה נתתי לפניך היום את-החיים ואת-הטוב ואת-המות ואת-הרע

דברים ל" ט"ו

Life and the Good; Death and the Bad. The Torah is using simplistic language, because in engaging in Teshuva, we are returning to basics. Rav Kook writes that even Sin is also necessary, that the spiritual growth of the world unfolds along lines laid down by G-d in nature. And our nature comprises Sin. More, it is our nature to exercise our free choice. To follow our impulses. And so we come to realize that Good and Bad, Life and Death, Sin and Teshuvah – these are the poles between which the cosmos is suspended.

ראה נתתי לפניך היום את-החיים ואת-הטוב ואת-המות ואת-הרע

The Rambam brings a simple and straightforward Pasuk to reveal a subject that is so vast, and that lies at the very heart of what it means to live a life of Torah.

The word Teshuva, as everyone knows, means “return”, and it is translated into English as “repentance”. But let us explore the origin of this word.

The root “shuv” from which “Teshuvah” and all related words derive, appears for the first time in Bereshit 3:19:

בזעת אפיך תאכל לחם עד שובך אל-האדמה כי ממנה לקחת כי-עפר אתה ואל-עפר
תשוב

The origins of Teshuvah are borne out in the Tefillah of this season. In the Yom Kippur Tefillah we say: “I am dust in my lifetime – how much moreso in my death?” And this draws us back to the Rambam’s pasuk. The twinned notions of birth and death, of creation and annihilation inhabit the concept of Teshuva. It is much to take on, much to confront, and much to bear responsibility for, as partners in G-d’s Creation, but Teshuvah is the process whereby we transform the world. Indeed, Teshuvah is fundamental to Tikkun ‘Olam, to our ongoing role in Maaseh Bereshit – the continuous and ceaseless Act of Creation. And so too it is at every moment fundamental to Torah, to what is unique to Judaism.

Teshuvah is not a “return”, in the sense of coming back to the starting point. Life flows not in circles, but in spirals. Sometimes Ch”VeSh” we return to a place lower than where we started out, sometimes BS”D to a much higher place. But the nature of life is that we never, never come back to exactly where we were before. It is the famous Socratic paradox – Plato’s spoof of Heraclitus: Change is the only constant in the world, and we are very much of this world. To Heraclitus’ statement that one can not step in the same stream twice, Socrates counters: No – you can not even step in the same stream once. But we are Torah-ists, not Platonists or Socratics. And through the process of Teshuvah, we ourselves effect a constant change in the Cosmos. Meanwhile, through our relationship to HKB”H, we inject a constant – nay, an Eternal – into the dialogue.

Rav Kook points to the course of nature itself as the evolutionary process whereby, sooner or later, we must come to the transformative process of Teshuvah. To return to our philosophers: the stream is a natural phenomenon. But in fact, the argument whether one can step into a “same stream” once – or not at all – is itself meaningless. We need neither Torah nor Greek philosophy to teach us that Change is constant in the universe. What Torah demands of us is not change, but transformation. The stream is G-d’s, and in that, it is profoundly unchanging. It is the nature of the stream to constantly change, but it is our duty to transform the stream by stepping into it. We are G-d’s deputies, the Divine placeholder on Earth. We are the catalyst whereby the world is made whole.

My first teacher and Rav, Rabbi Shlomo Riskin, taught me that the task and destiny of Klal Israel is summed up in the Aleinu prayer, which we say three times a day: Le-taqen ‘olam be-malchut Sha-k-ai – to repair the world in the kingship of the Almighty. As Jews, our primary role is to transform the world and sanctify it. We take an animal skin and make it into a Sefer Torah. We take candles and a glass of wine and use them to bring palpable sanctity down from Shamayim to the earth. We take Saturday and turn it into Shabbat. As the things of this world of Time, Space and Motion move along according to their nature, Teshuva opens the way for us to perform Tikkum ‘Olam. It is the means whereby Torah brings us to active participation in the natural process whereby we grow, flourish, then decay and die, ultimately to return to the dust. If we live without Teshuva, we are victims of life, and we will become part of the dust.

[Rambam: Hilchot Teshuvah: Perek 5, Paragraph Aleph (translating freely)] Permission is given to each human: if the person wishes to turn himself towards the good path and be a Tzaddik – the permission is in his hand. And is she wishes to turn herself toward the bad path and be a wicked person [Rasha’] – the permission is in her hand. This is that which is written in the Torah: “Thus the Human will become like one of us, to know Good and Evil.” [Bereshit 3:22] As it is said: Thus, this Species of Humanity is unique in the world and there is no other species that resembles it in this matter: that the Human being is sufficient unto itself, in its knowledge and in its thinking, to know what is Good and what is Evil and to do all which it desires, and there is none to withhold the hand of a human being from doing either Good or Bad. Therefore it says thus: “Lest he put forth his hand…”

When we die, we shall return to the Earth and deconstruct our human selves back into the chemical components. Back, as Rambam says (in Holchot Yesodei Torah, chapter 4), into the Elements from which we are constructed. But if we live in the world of Teshuva, then we have the opportunity to enter into a creative partnership with HKB”H, and our return to dust will be an important transition in our own project of being Metaken ‘Olam be-Malchut Sha-k-ai. Indeed, we can say that our lives do not merely end at the moment where we revert to dust, but we build our own ‘Olam Ha-Ba in the form of the legacy we fashion in the way we live our lives. Thus, Plato appears to have gotten it the wrong way around. It is not the river which is either changing, or constant, or constantly changing – or changingly constant. Rather, it is G-d and Torah which are eternal. Everything else – including our own lives – is fundamentally illusory. The human mind is not capable of grasping the notion of G-d the Unchanging. So that, by analogy, we believe that we are the constant – that the river is in flux. And yet, to the extent that, through the process of Teshuva and working constantly on ourselves, we manage to live a life of Torah, then we can become the constant, regardless of how many streams we step in in the course of our lives.

It is this transformative process that our Pasuk points to:

ראה נתתי לפניך היום את-החיים ואת-הטוב ואת-המות ואת-הרע

[Rambam, Hilchot Teshuvah, Perek 5, Paragraph 3] And this matter [free choice] is a great principle and is a pillar of the Torah and of the Mitzvot, as it is said: “Behold, I have placed before you today Life and the Good, and Death and the Bad.” And it is written: “Look, I place before you today a Blessing and a Curse.” As it is said: For the permission is in your hands, and let every person doo all that a person wishes to do, that is within the power of a human being to do – whether that person’s actions be good or bad. And regarding this matter it is said: “Who can be sure that their heart will remain…?” As it is said: For the Creator does not force people, nor does the Creator decree regarding them, to make them do Good or Evil – rather, all is given over to humans.”

How do we choose “life and the good”? Rav Soloveitchik discusses Rambam’s two aspects of faith: (On Repentance, p. 129 ff) ‘When speaking of the existence of God, which is the content of the first positive commandment, he [Rambam] declares, in Sefer Hamitzvot (“Book of Commandments,” which is in the way of an introduction to the Mishne Torah), that we are commanded “to believe in the Divine”; on the other hand, in the “Laws of the Principles of Faith” in the Mishne Torah, Maimonides does not use the same word “to believe” (le-ha’amin) but rather the word “to know” (lei’da). He writes thus: “The foundation and mainstay of all wisdom is to know (lei’da) that there is a Primary Being who is the Creator.”’

Rav Soloveitchik goes on to elaborate a theory of the Knowledge of G-d, which he introduces with the dismissive – and anyway problematic statement: “The meaning of ‘to believe’ is evident to us…”

‘Ini? Is it so?

I would suggest that a useful way to understand Rambam’s double mitzvah – to Believe in G-d, and to Know G-d – is in the realm of emotion and intellect. Belief is emotive. By definition, we believe in what we can not know. Indeed, when we believe in something, we may actually encounter it, yet never know it for what it is.

ChaZaL tell us that a child is born with only a Yetzer HaRa’ – translated as the “Evil Inclination”. Actually, the word Yetzer means: creative force; ability to form things. In its meaning of “inclination,” it is an active principle, not a predilection. Only when the child attains the age of Bat or Bar Mitzvah does the child acquire a Yetzer Tov – a “Good Inclination”. We generally view these two forces as opponents, warring with one another for control of our immortal soul, like the angel and devil sitting on cartoon characters’ shoulders and whispering in their ears “Eat the cake!” “Don’t eat the cake!”

Because the Yetzer Ha-Ra’ and the Yetzer Tov are two aspects of the soul, it is not our duty to destroy the Yetzer Ha-Ra’. Rebbe Nachman says that, if a person does not have a Yetzer Ha-Ra’, then one’s service of G-d is not complete. Rav Shlomo Carlebach brings that the ultimate wiping out of Amalek is not a military victory, not genocide, H”V, but comes about when the descendants of Amalek are sitting in the Yeshivot of Bnei Brak in Tzitzit and Pe’ot, wearing Tallit and Tefillin and learning Torah.

Together, the Yetzer Tov and the Yetzer Ra’ make up the Human Being. Karl Marx wrote with great admiration – even astonishment – of the boundless creativity of the Bourgeoisie, even as he was mapping their destruction. For, though he regarded the Bourgeoisie as a malignant force, his hope was that their creative powers would be harnessed for social good. Similarly, it is our job to harmonize the Yetzer Ha-Ra’ with the Yetzer Tov, harnessing the dynamic power of the Yetzer Ha-Ra’ to be the driving engine for a life of Torah, in joyous subservience to the Yetzer Tov.

Belief engenders Doubt. And Doubt, in its turn, gives rise to Faith, which is the reaffirmation of Belief after it has been tested by Doubt. Faith can not thrive without a pillar of doubt to lean against for support.

It is Belief that cries out in the Selichot prayer “G-d, show us a sign!” And it is Faith that tells us that, even if we do not see it, the sign is forever there before us.

And what of Knowledge? Each day in the morning service, we say the line from Tehillim – the Book of Psalms – (147:4) “[G-d] counts the number of the stars; G-d calls them all by name.” Rambam’s primary dictum, in Hilchot Yesodei Ha-Torah, is to know that there exists a G-d. Just as Belief gives rise to Doubt, and Doubt to Faith, so does mere knowledge of the existence of G-d drive us to a need for intimacy, to a thirst for a knowledge of G-d. As HKB”H has this intimate knowledge of the world – knowing each star by name – we yearn for a direct, intimate relationship with G-d. G-d provides for us Hasgachah Pratit – Personal Divine Providence – and we offer G-d “hoda’ah pratit”, a unique relationship of thanksgiving, of praise, and of deep emotional content. This personal knowledge of one being for another is the outgrowth of the knowledge that Rambam demands of us. Belief gives rise to Faith; Knowledge gives rise to Knowing. Knowledge is the intimate inner core around which Belief wraps itself. Spiritual practice pales as Belief encounters Doubt. In order to strengthen its Faith, Belief turns to Knowledge – which for Jews is based in Halachah and Talmud Torah. It is when the Emotional and the Intellectual are reconciled and unified that we begin to attain our potential as human beings; for our selves, vis-à-vis other people, and in our relationship to G-d.

The successful combination of Belief and Knowledge rests on our ability to recognize and use our emotions – an intellectual ability and requires a lifetime of training and vigilance. We are trained to reject the notion of proceeding from our emotions as something bad; as an inferior process. Feelings are associated with an anti-intellectual strain within Judaism.

Because human beings are “Rational Animals”. What is pshat of this phrase? It is not that our Animal side is dominated by the Rational. Rather, we are animals – creatures of feeling and of instinct – and we are burdened with self awareness and the driving need to analyze and understand both our world, and ourselves. The reality is that all human motivation is driven by feelings: primary among them is the avoidance of pain; secondary is the seeking of pleasure; and mixed in and among these two major sectors of emotion are appetites, addictions, irritations, and anger. The Animal and the Rational are uncomfortable roommates occupying cramped quarters.

Feelings: le-ha’amin (to believe); middot (good personal qualities); appetites and impulses: the Yetzer Ha-Ra’.

Intellect: leida’ (to know); halachah (Torah and Rabbinic law); self-assessment and self-control; the Yetzer Tov.

Teshuvah is the act of bringing these two aspects together. Of Returning to where we belong; for we dwell all our lives in Galut – in exile. It is fundamental to the Jewish experience. Exile is the natural state of Klal Israel – an experience that has been the crux of our historical identity ever since we left Mizraim (Egypt), and to this day. Even in the city of Jerusalem, at the end of Kippur after the last shofar blast has died away, they will be singing “Le-shanah ha-ba be-Yerushalayim” – Next Year in Jerusalem…

Paradoxically, the Rabbis tell us that it is only in the Wilderness that we can hear the Word of G-d – only in the experience of Exile after the Exodus from Egypt. Ba-Midbar: In the Wilderness. Be-medaber – in the act of speaking. Galut – Exile. “Gal-ut”, the act or state of being Galui – revealed.

The result of the mystical experience of the Desert, of the revelation at Sinai, is our way of life, as embodied in the Halachah. The Halachah teaches us to reconcile our emotional imperatives with our intellectual skepticism. It is Halachah that provides a safe, controlled environment within which we can give free rein to our emotions. And ultimately, it is Halachah that enables us to strip away the layers of self-delusion and – even if only once a year – to reconnect to HKB”H in the most fundamental way humanly possible.

The period of Teshuvah is long and intense. For all Jews it starts, in one form or another, at the beginning of Elul. For Sefardim, the Selichot prayers begin then. For Ashkenazim, the shofar is sounded every morning until Yom Kippur. Tomorrow night we will eat our Seudah Mafsaqet IY”H, then we will put on our white robes and go off to shul to immerse ourselves in twenty-five hours of intense Teshuvah. If Teshuvah has been on sale, so to speak, for the past month and a half, now is the moment when the season-ending specials are brought out. In the marketplace for Teshuvah and Mitzvot, Kippur is the category-killer.

But what then?

Once we have prayed, and fasted, and filled ourselves up with the powerful feelings of the day – what then? For, then we must return to the world, and we must live through another year without the sweetness and the intimacy of these days to sustain us.

What then?

Those of us who have been attempting to follow the Daf Yomi schedule are now learning the first perek of Masechet Sukkah. It is all about measurements. The transition from the spiritual to the mundane – from standing wrapped in our tallit, surrounded by hundreds praying and swaying, singing and weeping – is eased by our passage, both physical and spiritual, through the Sukkah.

In discussing the measurements of the Sukkah, the Gemara invokes the Halachic principle of Tafasta merubbeh, lo tafasta. Tafasta mu’at, tafasta. This is not merely a Halachah; it is Aleph to living a life of Halachah.

We can become addicted to Teshuvah. To the emotional uplift of this time of year. The Kloysenberger Rebbe says: Do Teshuvah five minutes at a time. There is a reason that so many Jews attend shul only on Rosh HaShana and Kippur: it feels so good – and you can not get that same feeling any other time of year.

And so, what then?

Life is lived day by day. The Rambam is telling us: it is our choice – but look at the choice that is before us. If we strive to live in accordance with our Yetzer Tov – Chayim – Life. And if we permit our Yetzer HaRa’ to dominate – Mavet – Death. And there is the difference, right before our eyes: living the life of Torah requires effort. Living a life without Torah requires… nothing.

[Rambam, Hilchot Teshuvah – Chapter 5, Paragraph 5] There is no power within us to understand how G-d knows all creatures and all actions; but we must know without a doubt that the actions of an individual are in the hand of the individual, and G-d neither drags a person, nor decrees regarding a person, to do as the person does. And this this is not known merely from religious tradition, but it is also clearly explained in the words of Wisdom traditions [Philosophy], that all are judged according to their actions qua actions: whether they be good or bad – and this is the crux upon which depend all words of prophecy.

Rav Shlomo Carlebach has a teaching on Shimi Atzeret, with the prayer for rain – Tefillat Geshem.

We recognize that the Sukkah is – not the outside world, but the Prozdor, the vestibule to the outside world – and we are taking the holiness that we have stored up during the previous two months, and preparing to bring it into the world. Into our daily lives.

And in the real world, what is our Torah duty? Le-taqen ‘olam be-malchut Sh-k-ai. This is not just clever homiletics; it is a Halachah straight from Shulchan Aruch. Ma she-efshar letaken – metaken! If it’s possible to fix something, you have to fix it.

How do we Metaken? Not by grand and sweeping emotional gestures; not only by deep and Gevaldig spiritual experiences, but through Halachah, one small step at a time. The Month of Elul. Rosh HaShana. Yom Kippur. All of these charge our batteries – but we tend to spend that charge all too quickly, rather than storing it up to run the engine of our soul for the rest of the year. Shlomo says – mashiv ha-ruach u-morid ha-geshem? It’s not about the weather. It is about people going from the intense high of emotional holiness, to the mundane but very necessary daily routine of sanctification through Halachah. Mashiv ha-ruach – the Ruchni, the Spiritual is blown away. Morid ha-geshem. The Gashmi – the physical – comes down to earth. With a thud.

And what then?

Torah – Judaism – Yiddishkei – are ultimately about the drawing together of what has been estranged, about the reconciliation of seeming opposites. Because that’s all they really are: Seeming opposites. Chassidim and Misnagdim. Ashkenazim and Sefardim. Klal Israel and G-d.

The child does not have a Yetzer Tov, but is in the grip of the Yetzer Ha-Ra’ – is a creature of pure appetite and desire. Indeed, we define “childish” behavior as the inability to stand having one’s desires thwarted; as the inability to postpone gratification. “Adult” behavior is exactly the opposite. It is the ability to temper feeling with reason – ultimately, ideally, to do so without engendering anger and resentment. We call this “maturity”.

In the mature individual, where both Yetzer Tov and Yetzer HaRa’ have a home, the two Yetzrim pass through cycles. Now this one dominates the other, now the other dominates. In the mature adult, these forces rarely are at outright war with one another; rather, they interact. They hand over dominance to one another. They tag-team the domination of our soul. And remember that the word Yezter, insofar as it means “Inclination”, is inherently a creative force. It is the essence of our created-ness The Creative Force for Bad, and the Creative Force for Good.

And so we pray: ve-chof et yitzri le-hishta’abed lach – “… and force my Yetzer to serve you…”

Why do children below the age of Bat or Bar Mitzvah not fast on Yom Kippur? Indeed, if they do fast for the purposes of Chinuch – education – it must be up to a point where they feel good about the experience, and not to the point where they become overwhelmed by physical suffering. The Yetzer Ra’ is pure appetite. Yet, physical hunger can be tempered by other appetites: by the good feeling the child gets from knowing that her parents, and the other adults in the community, look with approval on the child’s attempts to fast, and that the child will be praised for these efforts. This is pure Yetzer HaRa’ at work. But see, that it is in the service of the Yetzer Tov. Indeed, when the child attains the age of Halachic majority, she or he is said to possess the ability to use the Yetzer Tov to convert the rumblings of the Yetzer HaRa’ to the good.

Let us return to the problematic origins of the word Teshuvah. For there is one final aspect that we have not touched on. We must take the dust of which we are formed and sanctify that, too.

And what is this Dust? The Pasuk we quoted above is actually the second mention of the word “’Afar” – Dust – in Torah. The first mention is at Bereshit 2:7.

וייצר ה" אלקים את-האדם עפר מן-האדמה ויפח באפיו נשמת חיים ויהי האדם לנפש חים

“And G-d the L-rd fashioned the Human dust from the earth and blew into the Human’s nostrils the soul of life…”

Here is our first encounter with the Dust. It is our first, and closest encounter with HKB”H. It is our most intimate contact with G-d. The Ba’al Ha-Tanya says that the “blowing” in this verse is not mere huffing and puffing, but – like the Ba’al Tokeiah, the Shofar Blower, putting the very last dregs of breath into the wordless cry for G-d’s mercy – he equates this “blowing” to G-d digging deep into G-d’s own innermost essence and imparting of that very essence to humans. If this is the dust from whence we came, then returning to that state becomes the very highest fate and destiny we could pray for.

And now we know, by the way, why Moshe Rabbeinu’s birthday is mentioned. We Jews observe the anniversary of the death of our loved ones. In Yiddish, it is called Jahrzeit, Season. In Hebrew, the anniversaries of those who are great in Torah and Mitzvot are called Hillulah – Celebration. Because our job is not merely to be born into this world. Rather, it is to live our lives in such a way as to transform the world. Shlomo Carlebach says that when we die, we are led into a dark room. Before our eyes, two movie screens light up. On one screen, we see the film of our life the way HKB”H intended us to live. On the other screen, we see the life we actually lived. If the two movies are the same, that’s Heaven.

Moshe Rabbeinu, at the end of the Torah, is given the special honor of having his birthday recorded, as well as the day of his death. Unlike Pharaoh – whose sole duty was to be born into this world – Moshe had to struggle and strive every moment to maintain his personal Madrega – his own level, his lofty standards, both as a leader of his people, and as a person working hard at his relationship with G-d. The Torah is telling us that, in Moshe’s case, both movies are the same. No human being could aspire to any greater outcome.

This Yom HaKippurim, may we be Zocheh to embrace, and to return to the Dust from whence we came. It is the moment we come to be. The irreplaceable and unrepeatable moment of our first, and purest, encounter with G-d. Never again will we be on more intimate terms with our Creator. Yet – and here is the profound message, the true secret of Teshuvah. The ability of Teshuvah is to reconstruct ourselves, to strip down all that we have accrued unnecessarily, all the Falsehoods we have taken on, the lies we have become, or merely the mistakes we have made, and made ourselves believe that we have to live with them. Other peoples believe that they do something wrong, then they sincerely repent. Yesterday, I did something bad. Today, I repent. Now yesterday’s actions have been put in a box and they never need be looked at again. Forgive and forget.

Not so in the world of Torah. As Rav Soloveitchik points out, the process has the astonishing effect of re-creating who we are.

[Soloveitchik on Repentance; Pinchas Peli: Page 35] Repentance creates and shapes time – in all its tenses – and gives it an image and character in the order of future-past-present. The past returns to life in the light of the future. Occasionally, life is short – as in the case of the dry bones resurrected by Ezekiel in the Valley of Dura who, according to one opinion among the Sages (Sanh. 92, b), stood on their feet, sang for a short while and immediately returned to the dead. In this case, though the penitent revisits his sinful past, in his confrontation with it he immediately uproots and destroys it, thoroughly erasing it from his personality.

It is the first prayer with which we start each day: the opening Berakhot of the Arvit service, the evening prayer: We invoke G-d as me-shaneh ‘ittim u-mechalif et ha-zemanim… G-d who “alters around times and interchanges the seasons…” Each day, our first act of awareness of G-d is the knowledge that G-d determines the course of nature. That the most fundamental and fixed aspect of nature – the cycles of night and day, of day and year and season and time itself and the very passing of human lives – all this, which appears to us as so fixed and immutable – all is at the constant will of HKB”H.

And we are given the ability to partner with G-d to change that, even that most immutable aspect of our lives. To re-create our past.

Teshuvah enables us to roll the film backwards, to un-squeeze the toothpaste back into the tube. To re-form of our two warring aspects – Rational and Animal, Tov and Ra’ – a unified and whole human being. In the Image of G-d. Through this process, we do not merely to transform ourselves, but we return to the moment we were created and re-make ourselves anew. And if you believe that G-d is distant, that G-d requires too much of us, that G-d is cold and remote and immotile – you have only to contemplate how much G-d has already given us. All that G-d requests of us is one step. Just one small step. Return to the Dust, G-d beckons, and I will be there to blow into you the breath of My very essence. The Breath of Life. The Spirit of HKB”H.

“I have run so far to be with you”, says G-d. “So very, very far. Please,” G-d is begging us, “take but one step.”

Shuvu elai ve-ashuva eleichem.

Yours for a better world -

Parashat Bo' - I, and Not an Emissary; I, and Not a Messenger

2006-02-07T10:51:00.000-05:00

BS”D

The Ralbag – Rabbi Levi ben Gershon, (Languedoc, Southern France, 1288-1344) known to the non-Jewish world as Gersonides – comments on the odd language in the first Pasuk of our Parasha (10:1). Translated freely, the Pasuk reads: “And G-d said to Moshe, come to Pharaoh. Because I have hardened his heart and the heart of his servants, in order to place these signs of mine in their midst.” The Ralbag questions the word “Come” – should it not be “Go”? Does G-d stand at the throne of Pharaoh? Also, the Hebrew says ki ‘ani hichbadeti et libo – For I have hardened his heart. The verb form is sufficient to indicate first person singular, yet the Pasuk also uses the pronoun ‘ani – I – really as if to say “because I… I have hardened his heart…” Perhaps the still more profound question is: why does G-d need to tell Moshe anyway? Do we not know that everything that happens comes from G-d? Why is G-d spending all this time telling Moshe “I have done this” and especially, telling Moshe – “I was the one who did this. Me!”

The Ralbag, explaining Peshat in the Pasuk, explains that G-d forewarned Moshe that he would be rejected. But Pharaoh has rejected Moshe countless times, through signs and wonders, and through seven plagues. Why should Moshe expect different treatment this time? The difference, the Ralbag tells us, is that now G-d has stepped in. Indeed, it is in this Pasuk (10:1) that G-d announces for the first time “I have done this.” As we have seen, Pharaoh did not need any assistance in hardening his own heart against Bnei Israel. He carried on his own escalating stubbornness through the plague of the cattle. It is only after the boils that the text tells us that G-d hardened Pharaoh’s heart (Parashat Va’era, chapter 9, verse 12). And only now, at 10:1, that G-d informs Moshe that it is fact G-d who is causing this to happen.

But is G-d purposely sending Moshe to fail? The Ralbag’s explanation is that G-d requires Moshe to go and stand before Pharaoh, because now Pharaoh’s natural resistance, his ongoing rejection of Moshe’s plea, has been transcended, and G-d is involved for the specific reason – stated numerous times in this narrative – of causing G-d’s power to be seen, G-d’s name to be glorified.

The verb Bo’ appears in other expressions in ways that seem odd to us. Bereshit 28:11: “… and he [Yaakov] spent the night there, ki va’ ha-shemesh – because the sun had set…” Chazal explain that the setting sun is returning to G-d, to be renewed and sent forth again the next morning, and that when phenomena move in a direction away from G-d, their action is described as Going; when they approach, or return to G-d, they are said to Come. Pharaoh, too, was on the wane, just as the setting sun flares up, then dips behind the horizon and is gone. And G-d is, in a sense, where Pharaoh sits, because G-d must be involved in making the miracle.

We should make further observations about the language in the Pasuk. Throughout the narrative, the text has had G-d using the words Kaved lev – translated here as “Hardening of the heart.” But the words themselves have other meanings. Kaved – the word translated as “Hard” – means “heavy”. And rabbinic commentators have pointed out on numerous occasions that the word Lev – “Heart” – in Biblical usage is properly translated not as Heart, but as Mind. Mind, to be sure, in its broadest sense, but it is not until the writings of the Chassidic masters that the dichotomy of Heart / Mind is brought to the fore. The Tanya is, in one aspect, a discourse on the opposition of Heart to Mind as representing Consciousness and Emotion, and ways to bring them into harmony, and to bring both into the service of G-d. Thus, the notion of Hardening Pharaoh’s Heart primarily means making his mind heavy.

The first occurrence of Pharaoh’s rejection of Moshe’s plea is at 7:13, where the text states va-yechezak lev par’oh – And Pharaoh’s heart was strengthened, from the root chazak, meaning “strong”. Every occurrence thereafter uses the word kaved or verbs derived from that root meaning “heavy”. The first time, Pharaoh’s resolve is strengthened. Subsequently, his thought process becomes sclerotic. He will not allow himself to free himself from the decision he has made. His thinking has become weighted down by the need to be consistent, to adhere blindly to his pre-set course. A powerful ruler does not change his mind. Pharaoh, who is both the temporal ruler and the earthly deity of Mizraim, can not give in to coercion. We have never negotiated with terrorists, Pharaoh is saying, and we are not about to give in this time. I will not move.

Counter to the immovableness of Pharaoh, Moshe is struggling to break the bonds that tie him to old ways of thinking, old behaviors. If he is to realize his potential – both as a human being, and especially as leader of Klal Israel – he must step into the full blossom of his own power, must embrace it. Must wear it like a garment. Must become it. G-d has been urging Moshe to this all along, but it is a difficult thing. More difficult to give in to the pressure to debase ourselves is the struggle to allow ourselves to soar, to allow free rein to all our powers and potential. It is so much easier to live of life of If Only than to take control and live a life of I Shall, Because I Must.

From their very first encounter, G-d has been urging Moshe to recognize that he possesses all the power necessary to change the course of history. The literary theme by which this plays out is most strongly reflected in the use of Moshe’s staff. First, though, let us remember G-d’s very first instruction to Moshe: (Shemot 3:5) “Do not draw near hence; take off your shoes from upon your feet, because the place that you stand upon is holy ground.” If Moshe were being properly instructed, we might expect G-d to make sure he removed his shoes before he took his first step on the holy ground. Is the space of holiness so vast that it encompasses the entire mountain, but only was called to Moshe’s attention because of the appearance of the Bush? Did G-d need to test Moshe, to see whether he would approach the Bush?

More: does G-d need to ascertain whether Moshe would, in fact, stop and remove his shoes? Perhaps like Avram, Moshe is the right man in the right place and time, but not the only man in that place and time. The Chassidic masters say that G-d is always calling to all of us: Lech lecha – Come. But only one person in all of human history heard and heeded the call. Like Avram, Moshe is not merely placed face to face with Holiness; his actions and demeanor demonstrate that he recognizes Holiness. G-d’s stream of communication with all of Creation is constant and unceasing; it takes a rare person, though, to receive it.

Put off your shoes, G-d tells Moshe. Your own feet will lead your people out of Mizraim. A few lines later, at 3:10, G-d explains why it was important for Moshe to remove his shoes. “And now go, and I will send you to Pharaoh, and you shall take out my People, Bnei Israel, from Mizraim.” You, G-d says. You in your bare feet. You yourself. No tool, no weapon, no messenger, no intercessor. You, Moshe, the man who recognized Holiness when you saw it face to face.

But if the encounter at the Bush is akin to Chochmah – the Flash of Insight – Moshe now has the problem of being conscious of what he has just experienced, and the early stages of Binah – of Thought – are often a bar to action. Did I really experience this? Am I really going through with this? The phenomenon of Thinking as an act of self-stupefaction is touched on in certain Chassidic writings. Rav Kalonymos Kalman Shapira, the Piacezna Rebbe, wrote extensively on education and on processes of mind, and he describes in Zen-like terms the way in which thoughts lose their impact, their very meaning once we become aware of them. We are able to think only in images, he writes, and thus a pure thought – Chochmah – can not break through in all its breadth and profundity. Rather, the instant our mind becomes aware of a new presence (a thought arising from the unconscious) it grabs the intruder and clothes it in familiar garments. Thus, the mind forces new notions into old forms, and only thus can it deal with the strange, the new, the expansive: by forcing it to speak in the Mind’s constrained and meager learned vocabulary.

At Shemot 4:2, G-d asks, “What is that in your hand?” And Moshe answers, “A staff”. The first Sign is done with Moshe’s Staff. The second, with his Hand, which Moshe hides in his robes and withdraws, then hides again, where it heals of its leprosy.

And that is not all. Moshe, who is instructed to Walk and Talk, now complains that he can not speak. The text does not return to the imagery of Moshe’s feet, but it does focus on his inability to speak clearly as G-d assures Moshe that Aharon will speak in his stead. And so, at 4:21, G-d instructs Moshe to return to Mizraim: “… see all the wonders that I have placed in your hand, and do them before Pharaoh, and I will strengthen [‘achazek] his mind and he will not send out the people.” In the Yosef narrative, the literary use of imagery of the Hand refers to Pharaoh. Power resides In the Hand of Pharaoh, and the phrase repeats numerous times. Now, Pharaoh is about to lose control, his empire is about to be devastated by a force far greater than anything Mizraim could ever imagine. The power is moving from the Hand of Pharaoh to the Hand of Moshe.

But, like Yaakov and Yosef before him, Moshe must learn to wield his power. This, to return to the Ralbag’s Peshat, is the reason G-d sends Moshe in this manner: (10:1) Come to Pharaoh, because I have made his heart hard. This is the first time G-d explicitly tells Moshe, I have done this. Come, G-d says. I am waiting here, where I have accomplished this terrible miracle of robbing a human being of Free Choice. And because I have chosen, and made, that it be so, Pharaoh will reject your plea, and he will not listen, no matter what you do. And let us see then, says G-d, whether you can learn to wield your own power to become my partner. For ultimately, it is not any of Moshe’s actions that causes Mizraim to send us out, rather it is G-d’s direct intervention and the killing of the firstborn. The reason for forcing this escalating cycle of confrontation, the Ralbag says, is to demonstrate the glory and power of G-d.

Starting at Shemot 7:10, Moshe begins showing the Signs and Wonders. Per G-d’s deliberate instructions, the first of these are performed with the Staff. Very quickly, though, G-d tries to wean Moshe from the unnecessary instrument and transfer the power to Moshe himself, where it properly resides. By the third Sign, G-d says (7:19) “Take your Staff and lift up your hand upon the waters of Mizraim…” The word Lift up – neteh – is from the same root as the word for Staff – mateh – both coming from a root meaning To Lift. The Staff is so named because of its up-and-down orientation. It is a static physical representation of the act of moving up and down. How much more powerful is the hand of a person who carries that power within! Take your Staff, G-d tells Moshe, but lift your hand – for it is in your hand, in your self, that your power resides.

G-d gives one more lesson, to make sure Moshe gets it. At 8:1-2, G-d tells Moshe to instruct Aharon to lift up his hand with the staff. Aharon lifts up his hand – no mention of the Staff in verse 2 – and the frogs come up. Finally, at 8:12-13, Aharon strikes the dust with his staff and brings forth lice.

By chapter 9, G-d has taken off the gloves. G-d instructs Moshe (922) “Lift up your hand to the sky and there will be hail…” And Moshe lifts up… (9:23)… his Staff. And in this week’s Parasha, at 10:12-13, G-d instructs Moshe to raise his Hand in order to bring the Locusts, but Moshe uses the Staff.

Finally, at 10:21-22, G-d instructs Moshe to raise his hand, and Moshe raises his hand, bringing the Plague of Darkness. Now that Moshe has finally begun to learn to use his own power, now he – and through him, Klal Israel – can become a partner to G-d. The Rabbis say: as it is above, so it is below. What is often the case, though, is that it requires first an impetus from Below to invoke action from Above. Now, finally, G-d can enter the scene. Moshe may slide back, he will have his moments of doubt and frustration, but he has shown that he has learned G-d’s primary lesson: the power resides within him alone, and only by taking it upon himself to do this Thing, only by this will Bnei Israel become a free nation.

And now that G-d has a willing and able partner on Earth, G-d can move freely. G-d says: I will pass through the Land of Mizraim and I will execute judgments. I, G-d. As the Haggadah repeats: I, and not an emissary; I, and not a messenger. I. G-d. For G-d will not become directly involved in human affairs until we have prepared the ground. Yet, all it takes is one person. Noach was one. Avram was one. Moshe is one.

Introducing the final section of the Parasha, at the beginning of Chapter 12, are the verses which Rashi famously identifies as the true beginning of the Torah, the giving of the first law to Klal Israel: (12:2) This month is for you the beginning of months; it is the first for you of the months of the year.

The surface meaning of the text is that we must structure a different calendar. We are leaving a society where we lived as slaves. Our time was not our own, but we were tied to the whim and rhythm of our masters, all the way up the Mizri Great Chain of Being, from the overseers who beat us at the mud-pits, to Pharaoh himself. On a level of basic Peshat, this is seen as the commandment to fix a Jewish calendar.

Halachically, the use of the words lecha, lachem – yours, both singular and plural – is determinative. When a person borrows another person’s Tallit for an Aliyah, for example, the borrower is not permitted to make a Berachah on the Tallit. The Pasuk says – “… and they shall be lachem Tzitzit…” Yours. The Halacha is that one may only make a Beracha on one’s own Tallit.

Ha-Chodesh ha-zeh lachem… This month belongs to you. Previously, our lives belonged to other people. Now, our lives are our own. But we have no homeland in which to establish this way of life. Nonetheless, G-d tells us, our own time will become our home. The cycles of Shabbat and the holidays will create a sanctity that will spill over into the days and moments of our lives. Each moment, from now on, is only and all of what we make of it. In Mizraim, we could blame our masters for our losses. I had to sit all day in the market waiting for my mistress. I had to wait in line at the well waiting to water my master’s oxen. No more. Now, each moment belongs to us. To create in. To do. To cherish and to build a future.

Time, the days and moments of our lives, these are our own personal equivalents of Moshe’s Staff, Moshe’s Hand. The power lies within each of us. G-d has given us this freedom and this Torah in order that we may learn to exercise our power to the fullest. That, by becoming full partners with G-d, we can draw G-d down to become involved directly in human affairs. And unspoken, but clearly communicated, is the corollary to that notion: we shall be praised for each moment we create something of value in this world. And for each moment we waste, we shall be called to account.

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Vayigash - The Man Who Wasn't There

2006-01-16T14:26:00.000-05:00

BS”D

As I was walking on the stair
I met a man who wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there again today.
Oh, how I wish he’d go away.

Nursery Rhyme

Describing the aftermath of a violent storm that uprooted trees and laid waste to a village, novelist V.S. Naipaul writes, “The readiest emotion is anger.” This is the response to blind and unemotive forces of nature. As we come to the end of the Yosef narrative, we see Yosef’s life begin to coalesce into a whole, into a continuum where events lead inexorable into further events, into further events… and thus is Destiny fashioned.

Yosef’s life is a sequence of events for which the readiest of responses would naturally be Anger. Yosef, running off to make sure his brothers are safe, is tossed down a pit by those brothers, who then proceed to have a picnic while he screams in terror. He is sold into slavery and is sexually abused, first by master – Pharaoh’s Chief Butcher (or perhaps his Executioner) – then by his master’s wife, then by Pharaoh himself. He is thrust into this by the actions of his own dysfunctional father, who creates havoc within the family unit. Yaakov blatantly favors one wife, at the expense of the others. He blatantly disregards his own daughter, very nearly at the expense of all their lives. And he blatantly favors his youngest son, setting up a situation in which Yosef’s brothers can not but despise him.

If ever a man had cause for anger and resentment, it is Yosef. And, if ever a man achieved greatness (as opposed to being born great – like Abraham – or having greatness thrust upon him – like Yaakov) it is Yosef. Yosef achieves his own greatness, and he achieves it unaided. G-d spoke clearly to Abraham, to Yitzhak and to Yaakov. G-d will speak in face-to-face conversation with Moshe. But G-d says not a word to Yosef, but leaves him to work things out for himself. From a purely human perspective, Yosef is perhaps the greatest figure in TaNaCh, for he achieves his greatness on his own, with nothing but his own vile existence and his own perceptive insight to guide him.

When Reuven returns to the well, at 37:30, to find Yosef gone, he utters the sentence ha-yeled ‘einenu – The child is not. And this word – ‘einenu – He is not, will define Yosef for the rest of his days.

What does it mean to be “Not”? To not be present? Why is the Man Who Wasn’t There so very troubling?

The Gemara says that giving in to one’s own anger is Idol Worship. This sounds like neat homiletics, and it needs teasing-out if we are to read the true depth of it.

The Hebrew word for Anger – ‘af – literally means “nose”. The image is, perhaps, one of a snorting bull preparing to charge, or of a fire-breathing dragon shooting flames of ire and wrath.

But the word ‘af has a meaning at once simpler, and more profound. For it is through the ‘af that we receive life. At Bereshit 2:7 we are told that G-d fashined the first human from dust from the ground, va-yipach be-‘apav nishmat chayim – and G-d blew into the human’s nose the soul of life. As the Ba’al HaTanya expresses, it is through the nose that we receive G-d’s actual breath. This, the Tanya says, is not metaphoric, but G-d has imparted some actual part of G-d’s own self into us, the Divine Spark, through the process of imbuing us with life.

Thus, when we give into our own anger, we are blowing that very G-dly spirit out, spewing it out upon the world. And there is no power greater than the power of G-d. No force more destructive than the power of G-d unleashed with wanton rage. No power more destructive to those around us, nor any act more self destructive than losing the very Divine life-force that makes us human.

Idol Worship is characterized by asking for outcomes. One prays to an idol in order to obtain some thing, or in order to prevent some disaster from befalling. If it works, good. If not, we must pray harder next time, we must sacrifice something more precious. Our own children, perhaps.

Torah, on theother hand, is li-shmah – for its own sake. There is no more fundamental difference between ‘Avodah zara and ‘Avodat HaShem. And when we allow our own anger to guide our actions, we are worshiping the most egregious of all idols. For Anger is the most fundamental of appetites. It is a passion that seeks to fulfill itself for no good outcome. Unlike sexual passion – which leads to procreation – unlike appetites for food and drink – which sustain the body – Anger fills no creative, no life-sustaining function. It is pure and self-consuming appetite. Once vented, there is an irremediable void, and life-force has been expended for no good outcome.

We have discussed the notion of Greatness: of those, like Yaakov, who have Greatness thrust upon them. Of all the Great Men of Torah, perhaps none is so great as Yosef. For Yosef achieves his Greatness fom a human point of departure, and his humanness remains the base throughout his troubled life. It is his humanity, his wisdom and his personality, that make of his life, not a life of trouble and sorrow, but a life of achievement.

In Tibetan Buddhism there is a key practice known as Tong-Len, which essentially means “Giving and Taking”. It is a form of meditation in which the practitioner consciously draws in Evil and, through an inner focus, transforms the Evil into pure Good, which is then released back into the world. The imaginative aspect of this practice is to view the in-breath as a thick and putrid sludge of Evil, to view the holding of the breath as the transformative engine whereby the meditator’s own body filters out all impurities, and to view the releasing, the out-breath, as a sending forth of pure Goodness into the world.

How does one accomplish this? How do we overcome our own Anger. Especially when, like Yosef, we are more than justified in our rage?

Yosef has learned one thing – perhaps it is the gift that came to him when he experienced the boundless anger his own brothers felt towards him. Yosef has learned that there is, in fact, not “justifiable” anger. Anger must never be given its head, for it is a purely destructive force. It is the assertion that “I” am more important than anything else. And if I will give vent to my rage against my own family, why would I not also give vent to my anger, even against G-d? Even, in fact, against myself? And so Yosef recognizes that, to achieve the transformation the world so sorely needs, we must remove that “I” – that irascible, that self-justifying, that angry and wounded Self – from the equation.

We must become The Man Who Wasn’t There.

‘Einenu. He isn’t.

Time and again, Yosef is referred to with this name. Yosef is not master of his own fate. Fortunately for him – and for Klal Israel – he soon recognizes that no one is. ‘Einenu – he is not. Time and again, Yosef is able to remove his Ego, his Self from the situation and to deal from the perspective not of emotion, but of wisdom. Not of anger, but of insight.

At 37:33 Yaakov says tarof toraf Yosef – translated as “Surely, Yosef has been torn [by wild anmals].” In legalistic Hebrew, the word taraf can also mean Taken by force, seized in payment of an outstanding debt. And what debt is Yosef required to repay? Is it, perhaps, that of his own father? Or is it, in some larger sense, that Yosef foreshadows the Suffering Servant of Isaiah?

Yosef, the man who has spent his entire life working on himself. Yosef, who recognizes all too clearly the danger of giving in to appetites, who has experienced like no one else the full fury of the appetites of Mizraim. And when his brothers appear before him for the first time, in Parashat Miqqetz, Yosef chides them. At 42:9 Yosef says, “You have come to see the nakedness of the land.”

He is not accusing his brothers of being spies. That is merely the surface meaning, and it is false. But Yosef is saying: I see your anger, your appetites, your unexamined Selves are still bound up within you. I see that you have not begun to work on yourselves, not as I have. You have lived long years since you cast me down the pit, but you have learned nothing from that experience. All experience is good, if it leads to a good outcome. But only I have profited from all of this.

Yosef says: I saw the fruits of Anger, gagged their bitter juices and choked as the pulp and skin and rotten seeds were crammed down my throat. And I learned from that experience that no person dare fall victim to Anger. That, as justifiable as Anger may be, there is ultimately no Justice in it. But you – Yosef goes on – you are still slaves to your whims and appetites.

It is not for nothing that the story of Yehuda and Tamar is interposed within the Yosef narrative. For it is Yehuda who, through the teachings of the wise Tamar, arrives at the realization that appetites are destructive. That without self-mastery, we are nothing. It is Yehuda who, through learning to master himself, becomes capable of pleding himself to Yaakov for Binyamin’s safety. Who becomes able to stand and argue before Yosef. Who is ultimately worthy to lead Klal Israel.

And what is Yosef saying to his brothers? They have come to a market town. Like so many other traders and sellers and buyers, they are on the road and far from home. What will happen during their brief stay in Mizraim need not be talked about on their return. Mizraim – what happens here, stays here. And Mizraim is a nation of sexuality, of appetite and lust. ‘Erva – sexual impropriety. You have come to see the lewdness of this lewd nation, Yosef tells his brothers. You have not worked on yourselves at all, but even as you are looking for the best bargains on grain, you are thinking how you are going to spend your free afternoon with the local harlots. Have you learned nothing?

And his brothers do not get it. They reply – We are the sons of one man, and there is our youngest at home, and then there is The Man Who Isn’t There. They can not avoid mentioning him. Oh! How they wish he would go away!

At the beginning of chapter 45, Yosef can restrain himself no longer, and he reveals himself to his brothers. Yosef has given in to weeping before, but in secret. Now, as he makes himself known to his brothers, he gives full voice to his weeping. In a powerful and poetic moment, the text says (45:2) “And he gave over his voice to weeping, and Egypt heard, and the House of Pharaoh heard.” The act of weeping is variously described in Chumash as lifting up the voice. Here, and only here, we see a man who gives over his voice entirely to Weeping, and the resulting image is of Yosef’s weeping resonating over the land itself, as though not merely the woman at their kneading-boards, not merely the farmers in their fields or the laborers bearing their tools, but the very sand and rocks, the waters of the Nile, the dust of the air – all, all hung suspended, struck dumb and still by the force of Yosef’s weeping.

Notice that the only other one to weep is Benyamin. Yosef’s brothers are stock still as he weeps upon their necks. Even his father does not respond in kind when, at 46:29, Yosef comes running to embrace him and to weep upon him on his arrival in Goshen. Clearly, their guilt is too great to allow them to give vent to feelings of joy, of relief. Their feelings remain pent within them. Only Binyamin – who had no part in his brother’s tragedy – can weep freely on being reuinted with Yosef. And only Yosef, the man who has purged himself of petty anger, can weep freely at the sight of his long-lost family.

Yosef tries to educate his brothers, but he appears not to hold out too much hope. When he sends them back to bring Yaakov down to Mizraim, his one word of parting is (45:24) Do not fight among yourselves on the way.

But the outcome of all this will be that Yaakov and Yosef are reunited. And this is where the foundation will be laid for Klal Israel. Up until now, Bnei Israel have been exactly that: the sons of one man, Israel. A family, however dysfunctional. The definition of a family is biological. “We are all the sons of one man,” they say over and over again, as though that means anything. But we have seen they have no allegiance to one another. None, until Yehuda steps forward and tells Yaakov, (43:9) I will be an assurance for him. People are a family by accident. To become a nation, people require a common identiy, must have allegiance to one another. To that end, Yaakov is brought down to Mizraim in order to teach Yosef. And it is both a Teaching and a Learning for both of them.

In Parashat VaYeshev, when Yosef is taken down to Mizraim, it is by Ishmaelites who pass by at 37:25 bringing nechot u-tzri va-lot – “spicery and balm and ladanum.” The second of these – Tzri – is an ingredient of the incense used in the Beit HaMikdash. It would appear that all three are also used in the process of embalming corpses, as practiced by the Egyptians.

When Yaakov is preparing his sons to return to Mizraim, orders them to take back the money that was found in their sacks. He also sends with them a gift for the Man – for Yosef – consisting of (43:11) balm and honey, spicery and ladanum, pistachios and almonds. Yaakov sends the three objects that first accompanied Yosef to Mizraim – items that are used for enjoyment, but not nourishment – but he mixes with them fruits of the Land of Israel. Items that are nourishing as well as pleasing to the senses. Devash – date honey, as well as pistachios and almonds. He is reaching out to Yosef. Yosef, you have made your own way in the world, and no man has risen higher than you; yet, you need Torah to perfect yourself. I, on the other hand, have learned so much Torah, yet I have not had the courage or the wisdom to perfect myself as a human being. Yaakov recongizes that now, together, he and Yosef will be able to merge their greatnesses to a new and transcendent greatness.

Yosef, like all who truly achieve greatness, sees his entire life as of a piece, as a continuum leading to a Destiny. We see it on his first being reunited with his brothers in the marketplace. They bow down to him, and rather than feeling a sense of anger, or of revenge, he recalls his dreams of childhood and recognizes that they have begun to come true. For Yosef it is a clear sign that his life is coming to its apex.

At 45:8 he tells his brothers, It was not you who sent me here, but G-d. The Rambam rephrases this: You did not sell me here, rather, G-d sent me here. Yosef reads his ultimate Destiny in every occurrence of his life.

Now, reunited with his father, Yosef will have the opportunity to learn the basic things a father must teach his son, and that Yaakov neglected to teach Yosef. The first seventeen years of Yosef’s life were an emotional disaster – created by Yaakov – which resulted in Yosef being sent to Mizraim. Now, for the last seventeen years of Yaakov’s life, father and son are reunited.

I often hear Jews tell me, “I don’t need Torah to be a good person.” And it’s true. One must agree: it is possible to become a good person without Torah. We have seen Yosef elevate himself by dint of his own insight. No, we do not need Torah to become good people. We need Torah to perfect ourselves. As Jews, there is an avenue open to us that, while not closed to anyone, is accessible only to those who embrace it. As the Gemara teaches, Torah will perfect us, only to the extent we extinguish ourselves for its sake. A Jew who embraces Torah will improve, no matter how far that Jew has progressed along the path of Humanity. A Jew who rejects Torah will never attain full human potential, as hard as they may toil in the fields of Secular Humanism and social awareness.

Yaakov spent his childhood and youth in the Yeshiva of Shem and Eber, learning Torah behind its walls. But his Torah was sterile. ChaZaL exhort us over and over again to go out into the world, lest our Torah rot and putrify, and lest our rotten Torah rot out our souls too. Rather, we must take Torah into the world. We must live a life of Torah – openly, freely – seeking to perfect ourselves at all times. As much as Yaakov will teach Yosef the greatness of Torah, so Yosef will reveal to Yaakov the greatness of a man bent on not falling prey to the whims of emotion, of appetite. Of transforming destructive evil into creative good.

Yosef has lived the life of the Beinoni – the “In-Between Man” of the Tanya. While living surrounded by the rages and passions and desires and yearnings and desperate appetites and wrath and ravings of the world, Yosef has kept his actions free of taint. He has purged his actions of anger, of vengefulness, of appetite and guile. In his behavior he makes it clear that he wants only the very best for his brothers, as he did for the whole world when he was Chief Stweard of Mizraim. Now, his father’s Torah will hold up a mirror to that greatness and show Yosef the path to ever-greater transcendence. Together, they will transcend the mere bonds of birth and create a community based on love for one’s fellow. Based on Yehuda’s value of all Israel standing as guarantors for one another. This will be the end of the family of Yaakov, and the beginning of the Nation of Israel.

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Miqqetz - I Wake to Sleep

2006-01-02T16:23:00.000-05:00

BS”D

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I can not fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

(from “The Waking” by Theodore Roethke)

Va-yehi miqqetz shnatayim yamim – Bereshit 41:1. “And it was at the end of two years.” Mi-qetz, meaning “from the end”. Shnatayim, meaning “a pair of years.” Or – the words are spelled identically –: “And it was, upon awakening from a pair of sleeps…” Mi-qetz, meaning, “upon awakening”, and Shnatayim, a pair of sleeps. Twin sleeps. The sleep of Yaakov, wherein the sleeper sees vivid images, potent visions. Yet, upon waking, he does not know whether they were prophecy, or mere dreams. Now recast in the twin dream-sleeps of Pharaoh, sleeps from which he wakes twice.

Chapter 41, verses 1-4, recount the dream of the fat and the lean cattle. At verse 4, “and Pharaoh woke.” 5-7 recounts the dream of the fat and the lean stalks, whereupon, “and Pharaoh woke, and behold: a dream.” Two wakings, two sleeps, but only one dream.

Here begins the complex process of reuniting Yaakov and Yosef. Both father and son have had immense gifts of power foist upon them, and both have struggled and erred in trying to wield that power. Both, indeed start out unaware of the power that dwells in them. Yaakov, who never is quite certain whether G-d has made him a promise, or whether he is merely imagining things. Yosef, who foolishly shoots off his mouth, spilling his dreams before his brothers, swaggering before Potiphar’s wife and bragging that he is the most important man in the household – so important there is nothing he can not possess, except her. If the sin of Mizraim is taking what one sees, Yosef’s own version of this is that he speaks what arises in his mind, without an intervening process of contemplation.

The narrative parallels and inter-echoings of the Yaakov / Yosef story proliferate. Yaakov’s own life outside of Canaan is bracketed by a pair of dreams: the dream at the beginning of Parashat Vayetze, and the dream at the end of the Parasha wherein, Yaakov recounts to his wives, G-d tells him to return to Canaan. Yosef’s seven years plus seven years are foreshadowed in the two times seven years his father must slave for his two wives. Both father and son rise to prominence in a land ominated by another, and remain under the control of that other. Both men are separated from their own fathers for twenty-two years. Yosef is seventeen years old when he is sold into slavery in Mizraim. Yaakov is reunited with his son and spends the laft seventeen years of his life with Yosef in Mizraim. In both narratives, there is a significant – and nearly fatal – delay of two years. In Yaakov’s case, it is his settling in Shechem, rather than returning directly to his father’s side. In Yosef’s case, it is the two years spent in prison in Mizraim.

Yaakov’s successes happen at night. The whole of Parashat Vayetze is read, Midrashically, as a single long night, as a sustained dream. It opens at sunset, and closes at sunup. Yaakov’s twin awakenings are in space – he returns after his extended Night of the Soul and is astonished to run into a pack of angels, and he names the place Mahanaim. Yosef’s successes occur by day. He does not live in the world of dream, but in the retelling and the interpreting of dreams. His twin awakenings are in time – At the end of two years of days. Together – and only together – they are complete.

The Zohar quotes the word Qetz – the same root – from the Book of Job, 28:3. The first three verses of this chapter are images of the various metals yielded up by the earth – brought forth from below ground: silver, gold, iron and copper. These are, of course, the four metals representing the stages of the soul in Plato’s Republic. The bringing-forth from below ground is equivalent to the emergence of the philosopher from the darkness of the cave into the sunlight. From the relatively easy state of ignorance, to the highly confusing state of wisdom. The difference between Ignorance and Wisdom is characterized by the seeming simplicity of recognizing objects in the shadows of ignorance, versus the confusing diversity of the world when revealed by the light of day. Is equivalent to Yosef emerging from the hole where he has languished for two years. The Lubavitcher Rebbe points to the fact that Rashi, commenting on Yosef’s release from prison (41:14) emphasizes the use of the Hebrew word Bor – Pit, as being the same as the Pit into which Yosef’s brothers threw him, in that there was no water in it. Water, the image of Torah, was lacking from both the Pit in which Yosef almost died, and the Prison in which he likewise might have wasted away. The Lubavitcher Rebbe points out that, in one sense, Yosef’s brothers are bringing him down to their own level – while they were masters of Torah, Torah did not dwell in their hearts to the extent it dwelled in Yosef’s. In another sense, the salvation of Mizraim, which was ultimately to be the salvation of Bnei Israel, and the creation of ‘Am Israel, was contingent on Torah, on Yosef being restored to the Light of Day. A visionary needs light. A Jew needs Torah. In the Pit, there was neither. Yosef must be brought forth.

Why is Yosef brought forth, after all? Pharaoh is troubled by his dream and calls to his side all the counselors and magicians of Egypt. At 41:8 we are told, “no one would interpret them [the dreams] for him.” The text is always translated to state that no one knew how to interpret. But that is not what it says.

Clearly, the advisors and magicians know full well what Pharaoh’s dream means. Indeed, Pharaoh calls his wise men together, but does not demand an interpretation – the text tells us that Pharaoh was troubled by his dream, not that he did not understand its meaning.

Pharaoh is the temporal ruler, but also a divinity of Egypt. The Nile is the eternal divinity of Egypt. When the temporal divinity faces the Eternal Divinity, it is clear which shall dominate. Pharaoh is troubled because he knows he is faces forces he will not be able to control. And which of Pharaoh’s advisors wanted to be the one to step forward and tell Pharaoh, “Obviously, you’ve only got seven years left before you lose control of the kingdom”? But the word Poter – Interpret – is also used Talmudically in the sense of resolving a difficulty. Pharaoh was not looking for an interpretation – everyone knew the throne was precarious, and that a couple of years of bad weather would spell disaster for the royal house. No, he was looking for a way of preventing this from happening. For, in the world of agrarian Egypt, watered only by the Nile, a poor harvest – followed by social disaster – was a certainty. The issue confronting Pharaoh was not whether there would be a calamity, but how to prevent the consequences from destroying the social structure. And, especially, how to hold onto the throne.

It took a bold, a daring and brilliant upstart to hit on the solution. Someone with a sharp wit and nothing to lose.

When, at 41:9, the Cupbearer addresses Pharaoh, he gives us an insight into the tenuousness of earthly power. Why did Pharaoh throw the Cupbearer and the Baker into prison? And why into the prison belonging to the Chief Butcher? The Butcher, the Baker, the Royal Wine-Maker… what are we to make of this? The story suggests a palace intrigue, in which intimates, close members of Pharaoh’s household, who were attendant upon Pharaoh’s person, conspired together to do away with the monarch. Who would replace him on the throne? We know that this was not the only time in Egyptian history that this occurred. The Gemara quotes the tradition – also brought down in the Zohar – that the Pharaoh of the Exodus was not an hereditary king; that he was a military man who, after defeating the enemies of Mizraim, took the throne.

This fits nicely with what we know – or believe we know – about the Hyksos dynasties that ruled Egypt for over a century, culminating in the Egyptian victory and the final expulsion of the Hyksos from Egypt in 1567 BC. The Hyksos invaders had established dynasties ruling Egypt with what appears to have been a relatively enlightened attitude, maintaining the Egyptian language, culture and religion. Still, their presence irked the people of the land, and Egyptian nationalist and ethnic feeling brewed resentment that culminated in the successful military campaign of Ahmose I. It is likely that the Pharaoh of Yosef’s time was a Hyksos ruler, and consequently a man wise enough in the ways of statecraft to value an alliance with another obvious foreigner – valued it, indeed, to the extent of ordering Yosef to bring his extended family to settle in Egypt, where they could form a Fifth Column of support for the Throne. There is another aspect of this relationship, mirrored in the history plays of Shakespeare: hereditary kings – even those, like Prince Hal, of the first generation – wear their royalty differently from those who – like Hal’s father, Henry IV – took the throne by force. Hal, after becoming King Henry V, is permitted a long philosophical ramble on the vagaries of war – this while standing on the battlefield at Agincourt. But he would never have echoed his father’s famous line: Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. The Hyksos King understands the intricate chess game of power and statecraft; the successor, who took the throne by force, sees every man as a potential assassin.

And so Yosef is brought forth from the dungeon. In a scene to be replayed in the Esther narrative, he is shaved and bathed and dressed and dragged before Pharaoh, where the powerful sexual aspect of the story resurfaces. Pharaoh gives Yosef his ring. He then takes a special gold collar and places it around the neck of the nubile virgin – at 41:42 the gold chain is given with the definite article: clearly this is a symbol of known significance: Yosef is Pharaoh’s private property. Rashi blows this point wide open with his commentary on 41:45 – that Potiphar desired Yosef for himself for sex, and that Potiphar emasculated himself in despair after Pharaoh married Yosef to Osnat.

The name Pharaoh gives to Yosef – Tzaphnat-Pa’neah – is generally believed to be untranslatable. Rashi says it means “He explains hidden things,” but also says it is a hapax legomenon and can not be fully translated. The second part of the name – spelled Peh, Ayin, Nun, Het – is possibly linked with the word spelled Peh, Nun, Het, Yud, Aleph, derived from a Persian word meaning “Protection”. As to the first part of the name, the Gemara in Gittin (58a) recounts the story of a woman named Tzaphnat bat Peniel. “Tzaphnat,” meaning Bright. The Gemara says, because all men stared at her beauty, which is the paradigm of Yosef, Yefeh Toar – Beautiful of Form. Yosef, who is so beautiful that the Koran tells of women slicing their hands in a daze as they stare at him. Yosef, who is described at more than one place as Beautiful. Yosef, son of Yaakov. And the mysterious woman in the Gemara is Bat Peniel – the daughter of Peniel. Peniel, the place where Yaakov wrestles with the Man and is renamed Israel, and where he limps from the luxation in his thigh. Yosef is renamed Protected Beautiful Woman. The image of Yosef as Pharaoh’s concubine is too blatant. Yosef has been completely transformed, moreso than any man in history. He has changed his name, his clothing, his language, his sexual identity, his family. He has changed his nation. When his first son is born, Yosef severs the final link by naming him Menashe: “Because G-d made me forget all my hard toiling and all my father’s house.” He names his second son Ephraim, “Because G-d has made me fruitful in the land of my affliction.” And of course, the word for Affliction – ‘Onyi – is also the word for Rape, raising again the sexual brutality of Mizraim.

Yosef’s transformation is complete. And, as will happen with us as a nation, it is only when something has been completely destroyed that it is ready tobe redeemed. Yosef’s transformation and destruction have been accomplished. No sooner does he name his second son that the famine begins, and the next phase of his story begins, the beginning of his redemption.

Of the balance of the Parasha, we shall mentionm only one incident. There is ample narrative depth here to dwell profitably on this one Parasha for years. We will focus only on one action: the imprisonment of Shimon.

At 42:19, Yosef tells his brothers to pick one of their number to remain behind as hostage, while the others go tyo Canaan to bring back Binyamin. Why, then, at verse 24 does Yosef himself select Shimon?

The first answer is straightforward. Halachically, it is prohibited for Jews to select one of our own number for a punishment. If an army besieges a city and their leader calls out, “Send forth one of your citizens, and we will take that one and depart,” the inhabitants of the city are prohibited from selecting one of their number to be sacrificed. But if that same general calls out, “Send forth Ploni ben Amoni,” the inhabitants are permitted to expel him and buy their own survival with this victim.

Similarly, Yosef’s brothers would not be permitted to select one of their number to be bound. So Yosef mst make the selection for them.

But on a more profound level, Yosef says: I recognize you for what you are. You are the brothers who forget your own brothers. If I take one of your number, you will merely go back to your father and say, “We lost Yosef, and now we lost another one.” Alone among the Brothers, Shimon and Levi treat one another as brothers; they treat their sister, Dinah, as a sister. The other eight were also her brothers; why did only Shimon and Levi take revenge for the actions of Shechem?

By imprisoning Shimon, Yosef sets the stage for the Redemption. Though his immense power did not provent hiim from suffering tremendously, yet through his own suffering, he has learned to wield that power within the scope available to him. And, while it has not prevented him from suffering for many years, the ultimate outcome appears to make it all worthwhile. For, humans live for Moments. We have an ability to retroactively make the suffering, the years of wandering aimlessly, of loss and hardship and pain and rejection – of amking all that appear as prologue to our Moment of Glory. And now Yosef’s Moment comes. The brothers bow down to him in the marketplace and Yosef knows, with a clarity never granted to his father, that his dreams were, in fact, prophetic. He must rethink his entire life and read into every incident a greater level of meaning. And with that re-examination comes the beginning of Wisdom.

Shimon was the one who cast Yosef into the pit, Rashi tells us; - is it for this that Yosef imprisons him? Is it merely to take revenge? Rather, it is only through separating Levi from his brothers, from the one person in the family to whom he has a bond of love and identity, that Yosef can ensure that Levi will become the savior of Klal Israel. Amram and Yocheved come from Levi. Moshe, Aharon and Miriam come from Levi. Without the Tribe of Levi, there will be no Klal Israel. There will be no Kohanim, no Leviim, no Mishkan. No Beit HaMikdash. No Korbanot, no Yom HaKippurim. There will be no People to lead out of Mizraim – nor any leaders to lead them.

As Yaakov recognized, the working-out of Destiny requires two things: a clear Vision of that Destiny – the gift of prophecy, perhaps – and a willingness to throw oneself into working to make it come about. The desire to make a reality of a dream. Yaakov and Yosef are two men full of dreams. They are two men who live in a deep well of prophecy. Yet they also live in the world. The Zohar says that a dream uninterpreted is like a letter unopened: the message is there, but has no effect until it is read. But even Prophecy is merely a signpost. It says: if you take this road, this will be your destination. But it requires that we actively take the road.

Otherwise it is a letter that has been read, but not acted on.

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Vayeshev - The Blind Prophet

2005-12-29T09:16:00.000-05:00

BS”D

The Yosef narrative is one of the richest and most complex in all TaNaCh. These few Parshiyot – from Yaakov’s return to Canaan through to the end of Sefer Bereshit – contain enough depth and complexity to occupy several lifetimes. In this section, the themes of all of Sefer Bereshit come together, forming the nucleus of the cell from which shall emerge the Moshe story, and the future of Klal Israel. As we have seen, the Greatness of Yaakov is, at this stage, inchoate. To bring Yaakov to an awareness of, and thereby to a full exercise of his own greatness requires not merely a catalytic event, but in effect an entire catalytic lifetime. Yosef, no lesser in greatness than his father, requires no less jarring a sequence of life events, spread over a period of decades, to bring his own light burning to the surface. Yosef will bring to the fore his father’s painful struggle with dream and prophecy.

In Yosef, the prophetic power of Dream is fully realized; yet he suffers as does Prometheus, in that he can foretell the future for those around him, but – though he strives unerringly towards his greater Destiny – he is incapable of reading his own fate. There is a dispute between Rashi and the Ramban as to why Yosef proceeds to seek out his brothers at the beginning of the Parsha. Why does Yaakov send Yosef out? Apparently, Yosef is being dispatched on a mission to spy on his own brothers. At 37:12 we are told that Yosef’s brothers went to pasture their father’s flocks at Shechem, a town which was the scene of the bloody massacre inflicted by Shimon and Levi after the incident of Dina and Shechem, the son of Hamor. It is often observed that the residents of the surrounding countryside lived in fear of the brothers of Dina. But Yaakov is also concerned that, in response to the massacre, the other inhabitants of the land will rise up and slaugter him and his household. In light of Yaakov’s concern, it is perhaps more understandable that he sends Yosef to check on his sons and flocks.

Consider: Yaakov’s ten sons, together with the basis of his wealth, are sitting in a barren spot, surrounded by enemies. It is provocative, to say the least, as though to rub in the face of the rest of Canaan the slaughter of the inhabitants of Shechem. Yaakov sends Yosef to “look to the wellbeing of your brothers, and the wellbeing of the flocks” (37:14), a not unreasonable concern.

Yosef arrives at Shechemm to find the place deserted. He is apparently thrown into some confusion, and the text ties him in this moment to the Destiny of Abraham, and of Yaakov. In verse 15 we are told Yosef is to’eh ba-sadeh – erring about in the field. This is the same language used by Abraham, and echoed poetically by Yaakov, to describe wanderings. Specifically, to introduce the concept of being separated from the houses of their fathers – a fate which is about to befall Yosef.

The “man” who finds Yosef is taken to be the Angel Gabriel. Rashi states that Gabriel informs Yosef that his brothers have gone off to take counsel and come up with a legal rationale for putting him to death. The Ramban argues that this can not be the case, for Yosef would not have gone forward if he knew what fate awaited him. But perhaps both are true: Perhaps the Angel Gabriel does tell Yosef that his brothers are seeking legal grounds to kill him. And perhaps Yosef is aware that there is no legal justification for this action, and so he proceeds. And perhaps Yosef, as is true of so many prophets in world literature, is able to see quite clearly what will befall others, but can not perceive that his sentence of death will be commuted to life in the prison of Mizraim.

Mizraim is the highest attainment of human society. What, then, is the punishment in being sent to live there? In material terms, a slave in the house of Pharaoh is far better off than a shepherd in the Judaean desert. And this is, in fact, precisely the dichotomy: the same tension that drove Terach to flee Ur Kasdim; that drove Abram to the desert, leaving Lot to the cities; that will ultimately bring us Torah in the wilderness – this is at work here as well. There is a theme running through Torah of the difficulty of reaching spiritual goals in the city. Settled societies give rise to group values, often based on the gathering and protecting of assets, and not on a spiritual quest. Repeatedly, it is only when one is an outcast – whether in the wilderness, like Moshe and Klal Israel, or on the road, like Yaakov and Yehudah – that one has the possibility of spiritual awakening. Cities have their own gods; indeed, they become their own gods. Pharaoh is both temporal king and cosmic deity of Mizraim. Clearly, Torah can never be given in this setting.

What are the indicia of the greatness of Mizraim? Aside from the great engineering feats that are still known to us today, we have a clear demonstration from the Gemara. I owe this insight to Shmuel Yaakov Zeffren, my Chavrutah and my teacher, from whom I continue to learn so much. We are told that Pharaoh and Yosef were able to converse freely because Pharaoh knew all living languages, with the exception of Hebrew. Yosef’s intellectual greatness is that he speaks the Language of Creation, in addition to the languages of humanity. But Yosef learned the seventy languages while in prison in Mizraim. During his imprisonment, an angel came to him each day and taught him the languages of the world. But Pharaoh had no such angel to teach him. Rather, Pharaoh learned these languages as a result of his own intellectual prowess, and by dint of his own human effort. How much greater is the mind that can grasp things on its own, than the mind that receives its knowledge from an angel!

To what, then, does this advanced civilization aspire? Alas, it appears that intellectual sophistication, coupled with extraordinary achievements in science and engineering and social structure – all of these ultimately are placed at the service of nothing more exalted than human appetites. Like Shakespeare’s Venice, Mizraim is a society created for its own furtherance. It seeks achievement and attains achievement – in science and in commerce, in government, in city planning and in social programs. But ultimately, the presence of even a single outsider – be it Othello the Moslem, be it Shylock the Jew – brings the moral bankruptcy of the system rushing to the surface like an erupting geyser. For, in Egypt, all that people want – all that the power and powerfulness of this society is brought to bear upon – is the fulfillment of their appetites.

While the concept of Original Sin is foreign to us, we nonetheless acknowledge that there was an original sin: a point at which sin originates in the human narrative. This point was when Chava ate the fruit. We have observed elsewhere that G-d commanded only Adam not to eat the fruit; that when the serpent enters into dialogue with Chava, he is asking her a trick question: G-d only commanded Adam because at the time there was no one else. Chava, a distinct being, is perhaps not subject to the ban on eating from the Tree, or at any rate perhaps may believe the argument. Her sin consists in two actions (Bereshit 3:6): she sees the fruit, and she takes the fruit. The unmitigated, the unconsidered, the uncontemplated and un-moraled-out direct passage from desire to fulfillment is precisely the Matter that Torah comes to address. If humans act purely on appetite, purely on desire, then there is no hope for building a just and lasting society, no hope of bringing G-d into the world. No hope, ultimately, of attaining even our own truest and more meaningful desires for emotional and intellectual and spiritual fulfillment. The postponing of fulfillment is not only for those who wish to live a spiritually exalted life. It is the basic component of growing up.

The sin of Shechem is that he sees Dinah, and he takes her. Yehuda sees Tamar, and he approaches her. Yehuda is redeemed when he recognizes and acknowledges his own actions, and thus the redemption of the family of Yaakov begins. But, for the rest of the world, the morality of “If it feels good, do it,” continues to reign. The morality of Mizraim.

We have seen the origins of prayer in the story of Abraham’s servant, how he asks G-d for a speedy and successful journey. Perhaps he is merely lazy, for no sooner does he arrive in Haran than he asks that his trip be crowned with success. He does not even want to unpack the camels. And, indeed, the fulfillment of his prayer arrives even as the words are still in his mouth. But it is not the Servant’s request that constitutes prayer. Rather, as we have seen, it is the triple telling of the sequence of events: he asked G-d for help, he experienced the fulfillment of that request, and he tells over the experience of having G-d grant his wish. This is the basic structure of Jewish prayer: we do not ask for miracles; rather, we acknowlege that there have been miracles. That, as the Ramban points out forcefully, we live constantly surrounded by miracles, even if they are not visible to us as such. Our praise of G-d is not so much asking for new miracles as it is acknowledging, retelling and praising G-d for past and present miracles.

This week’s Parasha introduces us to the prayer of Mizraim. The prayer of Zuleika, the wife of Potiphar.

Rashi gives us a fascinating insight into the workings of Egyptian society when, in next week’s Parasha (41:42-45) Pharaoh gives Yosef a ring, then places “the” golden collar around his neck, then marries him to Osnat, daughter of Potiphar. The sexual imagery of the Yosef narrative is extremely frank. The collar which Pharaoh places on Yosef’s neck is clearly a specific and significant one; the ring and the collar are outward signs of two things: that Yosef bears Pharaoh’s authority, but also that Yosef is Pharaoh’s property. When Pharaoh marries Yosef to Osnat, Rashi tells us that Potiphar falls into despair and emasculates himself because he so passionately desired Yosef for himself as a sexual partner. In fact, the life of a slave in the ancient world included satisfying the master’s whims, which could also be sexual in nature. The story of Yosef and Mrs. Potiphar reveals her own deep despair. Potiphar is out of the house all day, every day. When she finds herself alone with Yosef, she – perhaps presumptuously – takes upon herself the rights of Owner and commands the household slave to lie with her, presumably as he is forced to lie with the master of the household. When the story reaches its high point, and Yosef flees the house, leaving his garment in her hands, she goes through the same three-stage formula we saw in the story of the Servant and Rivkah.

Prayer, in TaNaCh, comes primarily from women. And it has principally to do with bringing children into the world. The individuals who recognize G-d unbidden, who address G-d directly, are women. Chava is the first person (Bereshit 4:1) to utter the name of G-d. Hagar (Bereshit 16:13) addresses G-d by name, saying, “I recognize you. You’re the one who keeps coming around Abraham’s tent.” While we accept that Hannah is the originator of prayer as we know it, it has its deep origins in the tales of marriage and childbearing throughout Sefer Bereshit. When, at 25:22, Rivkah is experiencing a difficult pregnancy, she picks herself up and goes to speak with G-d, as one would visit the family doctor. When, at 29:32, Leah is the first to give birth, she echoes Chava and invokes the name of G-d in naming her firstborn son. The story of the Servant, which gives to prayer its original form, is the story of a man sent to find a wife for another man. Rachel asks her husband to pray that she, too, might have children, and Yaakov, at the end of his life, breaks down and admits to Yosef that he, Yaakov, was afraid to pray, and thus the birth of Yosef is all the more miraculous.

Rashi links Potiphar’s wife to this lineage, giving her the status of a Righteous Woman. He tells us that she foresaw that Yosef was destined to have children from her, and so she attempted to make it happen, not realizing that the prophecy applied not to herself, but to her daughter Osnat. If the Midrash is the inner psyche of Torah, this reading of the episode of Yosef and Potiphar's wife reveals a conflict that itself is worth a year on the analyst’s couch.

The Yosef narrative, as told in the Kor’an, is rich in sensual imagery. The Kor’an is much more frank about the power of Yosef’s physical beauty. Poriphar’s wife is given a name – Zuleika – and a personality to match. When she accuses Yosef of trying to rape her, her husband drags her out in public and calls her a liar. When the women of the town mock her for her infatuation with the Hebrew boy, she invites them to her house for a snack. She serves fresh oranges, handing them around with small sharp knives for the women to slice the fruits. Then, without warning, she draws aside a curtain and Yosef enters the room. The women are so struck by the power of his immense beauty that they lose themselves, and long moments pass before they realize that, in their sensual reverie under the sway of his potent beauty, they have each sliced through the fruits and right into their own palms, the blood flowing and dripping down their elbows, mingled with the juice of the oranges…

For what does a Mizri pray? Starting at 39:12, the triple narrative structure of prayer begins. Freely translating: 12: And she grabbed him by his garment saying, “Lie with me!” And he abandoned his garment in her hand and fled outside. 13: Then, as she saw that he had abandoned his garment in her hand and had fled outside, 14: then she called to the people of her household and spoke to them and said “Look! He has brought us this Hebrew man to Tsaheq us. He came to me to have sex with me, and I called out in a great voice, 15: and when he heard that I lifted up my voice and called out, he abandoned his garment with me and fled and went outside. She then retells the sequence of events once more when her husband returns home. The use of the word Tsaheq in verse 14 is, of course, evocative of the Yitzhak story. It appears in the interaction between Ishmael and his baby brother, and again in the interaction between Yitzhak and Rivkah, and clearly bears some incidental implication of an intimate relationship, if not an explicit connotation. Generally translated here as “to mock”, it certainly recalls to mind the sexual playfulness that led Avimelech immediately to recognize that Yitzhak and Rivkah were husband and wife. Zuleika’s prayer is the prayer of a woman who is bitterly disappointed.

We Jews are also familiar with this kind of prayer. We pray, on Tisha Be’Av, as we recall the devastation of Jerusalem, the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash, the slaughter and miserable deaths by starvation of millions of our ancestors. In the Ashkenazic Yom Kippur ritual, we recite the tragic slaughter of the holy martyrs. We beg G-d three times each day to return us to a world of righteous judgement, to accept our own personal Teshuva, to rebuild Jerusalem, to return us from exile and bring the ultimate redemption. All of these are things that have not happened. That, in a rational and atheistic view of the world, have no reason to happen. But we pray because, in our history, we know they have happened. Because our tradition teaches us that they will happen again. And, most powerfully, because, invisible and insensible though the process may be to our own perception, they are occurring right now. Constantly. Eternally.

Zuleika’s prayer is the bitter prayer of disappointment. And, by the way, here is another of the dysfunctional marriages the Torah is so chock-full of. Her husband is never around. When he is, he is too fixated on Yosef to pay any attention to his own wife. “The slave of my household?!” the Kor’an has him thundering at her in righteous wrath. And can’t you just hear her shouting back at him – “Potti! I have needs!” She desired Yosef. She was thwarted in her desire, and her mounting passion turned to bitterness and rage. Her prayer is the bitterness of impotent desire.

We may also not attain our wishes, our appetites may go unmet, our desires unfulfilled. We have suffered great calamity and tragedy in the past. G-d forbid, we may well suffer it again. Our lot is perhaps no better than that of any other group of people. Yet, we persist throughout human history, and the greatness that was Egypt now dwells in the museums of the West, in children’s picture books, and in expensive film productions. Torah is the lense through which we examine our lives. The interpreter that stands between us and the world. If all that Halachah accomplishes is to slow us down and make us ponder a moment before we act, it has attained its goal of transforming human existence.

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Vayishlach - First Light

2005-12-20T00:29:00.000-05:00

BS”D

Tonight, as I write these words, is the eve of 19 Kislev, the Jahrzeit of Rav Dov Baer, the Maggid of Meseritch. Rav Dov Baer was Rov of a swathe of territory which, over the past three centuries, has been variously Ukraine, Poland, and Russia, and which included his home towns of Meseritch and Rovno, the main city of the district of Volyhn, and home town of my own grandparents. Among the Talmidim of the Maggid was Rabbi Schneur Zalman, the Ba’al Ha-Tanya, proponent of ChaBaD Chassidus and founder of what was to become the dynasty and community of ChaBaD / Lubavitch. For the ChaBaD community, the 19th of Kislev is celebrated as the Rosh HaShana of Chassidus, for it is the day the Alter Rebbe was released after 52 days in a Tsarist prison and cleared of all charges. The experience transformed him. He saw a clear parallel between what was happening in this world and what was happening in the Upper Realms and was convinced that his liberation was a sign of his calling, a calling to spread Chassidus aggressively to a new generation of Rabbis and followers.

As Shakespeare tells us: some are born great, some achieve greatness, some have greatness thrust upon them. The greatness of the Chassidic leadership in the first generations was the greatness of those who knew the greatness of their mission, the greatness of their message. The greatness of their Torah.

While we can argue about whether Abraham or Yitzhak were born to greatness, or the circumstances and means whereby they achieved greatness, it is Yaakov who has greatness thrust upon him. And if there is a Key to Greatness, it is this: that the Great Ones have a keen awareness of their own greatness. Hillel comes to mind as a paragon of the particular Jewish form of humility that arises from blunt honesty about one’s own qualities. In truth, only those who are truly humble – who truly recognize their own abilities and limitations – are able to rise to true greatness.

Yet, in order for this to occur, the individual must recognize clearly and completely his or her own inner qualities. Yaakov has just come through a long and turbulent night. It is perhaps too much to expect him to be fully awake at this moment. There is, perhaps, a glimmer. Perhaps the first dawn of emerging awareness. At 32:32, after his struggle with the faceless angel, Yaakov arises to cross over the place, and the text tells us "And the sun rose for him." Not yet the flash of enlightenment, nor even the first ligthning bolt of Chochmah - the frst stage of ChaBaD (Chochmah, Binah, Da'at). But light, nonetheless, even if inchoate. As Robert Frost has it - "For once, then, something."

One of the keys to Yaakov’s greatness is the comprehensive nature of his destiny. Abraham and Yitzhak were forced to hand on their Blessing and legacy to only one of their sons. In order to do this, they had to forcibly deny their other son not only a portion in their inheritance, but even during their own lifetimes they became estranged. Yitzhak, who we are told explicitly loved Esav, sits helplessly by while his favorite son wails and weeps that his father has given away his Blessing for naught. Abraham sticks his fingers in his ears and refuses to listen when G-d tells him that Sarah is to give birth. Ishmael is good enough for me he tells G-d. I don’t need another son, he tells G-d. You have already kept your promise to me.

With the family of Yaakov the entire situation changes. Yaakov will transfer his Blessing to all of his sons. And the themes of Yaakov’s life will play out through the lives of his sons.

The seven years of joyous labor for Rachel, followed by seven years of bitter travail when his bride turns out to be Leah, are the paradigm for Yosef’s seven fat years and seven lean years. The shock of awakening on the first morning of Yaakov’s married life is mirrored in the encounter of Yehuda and Tamar. The goat and garment that Yaakov used to trick his father repeat in the goat and coat that his own sons bring in an attempt to trick him into believing Yosef has died, are the goat and garment Tamar sends to Yehuda when he is about to have her burned...

The psychological truth of this is that we do imprint ourselves upon our children, our legacy is bred in the bone and carried in the secret and unknowable places of the soul. Only a truly extraordinary parent recognizes the emotional legacy that is being passed on to her or his children, for good and for bad.

As Rabbi Dov Baer lay dying, among his very last words were a Vort on Parashat Vayishlach. He quoted Rashi, who says that Yaakov sent Malachim – Rashi says they are not mere Messengers, but Actual Angels. Rabbi Dov Baer says that the phsical beings of the Angels were sent along to encounter Esav, but that their spiritual essence remained with Yaakov. The Actuality of the Angels went along the road, their Spirituality remained with Yaakov.

Yaakov is a man divided. We see it blatantly in his behavior in this Parasha. He was split by life – the events of his own life point out clearly that Life is not what we hope, or envision, or expect to happen. Yaakov does not even have a single night of wedded happiness with the woman he loves, but must endure her hated sister, not merely for the week before he finally marries Rachel, but throughout his marriage to Rachel, and after her death. The “few days” that his mother counseled him to remain in Haran balloon out to over two decades. And hovering over all of this, over Yaakov’s whole life, is the uncertainty that emerged clearly at the beginning of last week’s Parasha – of never knowing whether what he is seeing is Prophecy, or mere dream.

The Abarbanel tells us that Yaakov proceeds despite his fear. This, says the Abarbanel, is the proof of Yaakov’s faith. And indeed, Yaakov’s life is beset by enough uncertainty that we would not be shocked if he merely withdrew to his tent. But not only does Yaakov persevere, he succeeds, he fights to gain and to keep what is his own. Writing in Catholic Spain on the eve of the consolidation of Catholic power over Moslem society – and on the eve of the Expulsion of the Iberian Jews – Abarbanel may be forgiven for taking up the Catholic paradigm of Faith as being grounded in Doubt. But yesh chochmah ba-goyim - Non-Jews also have wisdom. Just because Catholics say it, does not make it untrue.

Nehama Leibovitz points out that there are two people whom G-d tells explicitly not to fear: Moshe and Yaakov. And of course, whenever G-d tells you not to fear, the message is: you had better be afraid. She then ties this to the potent notion of the Tzaddik who persists in belief and observance, in Mitzvot and Torah despite absolutely knowing for a certainty that there is no guarantee of G-d’s protection in this life.

Belief in G-d, acceptance of Torah, passionately embracing a life of Mitzvot – all these must ultimately be LiShmah – for their own sake. If there is any hope of Reward, it diminshes the power of Torah. Ultimately, the notion of Reward and Punishment places Torah on the plane of Idol Worship.

Yaakov is tied literarily to Abraham. At 27:12 he tells his mother that his father will perceive hm as Meta’tea’ – from the same root as the word for Error. Abraham says to Avimelech “When G-d caused me to wander aimlessly (hit’u) from the house of my father…” And Yaakov, beginning his own wanderings, asks G-d to return him to his father’s house. Yet, once Yaakov has the opportunity to return to Yitzhak’s side, he delays, perhaps emotionally paralyzed. At 33:17 we learn that Yaakov dawdles at Shechem for eighteen months untilays the Midrash, G-d confronted him saying: “You extracted a promise from me, and you made a promise yourself, that you would return to your father’s house. Why then do you not return?” In one sense, the Midrash sees Yaakov’s own indecision as the cause for the rape of Dinah – the rape as punishment for Yaakov’s hesitation.

But is the uncertainty of Yaakov’s life his own doing? It is not. Yaakov is not the cause of his own fear, but it is his responsibility to confront and deal with his Fear, with the uncertainty of life. Yaakov, the first Existential hero.

When Yaakov comes face to face with his own uncertainty, he meets it in the form of a faceless man with whom he must wrestle in the dark. Yaakov, in whom all themes of the family of Abraham are to be united, is renamed Israel. Israel, we are told, because of Wrestling. But there are already two other words for Wrestling that the text has brought us. Rachel says Naftulei elokim – Great wrestlings. And in this week’s Parasha, the Man Ye’aveq – Wrestled with him, from a word meaning To kick up the dust. Why, then, does Gd not rename him Naftaliel? Avakiel? But G-d has broader and more exalted themes in mind.

Yaakov is renamed from the first member of our family who struggled with the consequences of the Covenant of Abraham: Sarah, whose same comes from the same verb root, Sin, Resh, meaning To fight, to struggle. Sarah, the mother of our tribulations and struggle, comes full circle. If not during her lifetime, at least in her grandson she is reunited with her husband.

And so we see in Yaakov the signs of dawning greatness. But, as we have said, in order to be great, the Great Ones also know their own greatness, they use it, they exercise it. This, Yaakov does not yet attain to.

To return to the narrative, Yaakov now buys land in Canaan, as did Abraham. Like Abraham, he now builds a Mizbeach – an altar used for slaughtering animals. Until now, Yaakov has only built Matzevot – pillars. The Mizbeach is, again, a word and an object from the Abraham narrative. And Abraham is the one who must lose his son, in order to gain a son.

Leah bears four sons in succession: Reuven, who will cast away the birthright of the firstborn by his behavior: who soils his father’s bed by having sex with his father’s concubine. This was an accepted practice in the ancient Near East, a mechanism whereby a son, after the death of his father, would publicly take over his father’s possessions. But to do so while the father was still alive is as harsh as Avshalom’s attempts to murder David.

Reuven, who will destroy the family by telling his brothers to throw Yosef down the pit. "You are the firstborn" the Midrash has his brothers wailing after the fact. "We listened to you. And if you had said to leave him alone, we would have left him alone."

Shimon and Levi, who will become the instruments of salvation of Israel. Levi, the tribe that will give us Moshe and Aharon, the Cohanim and Leviim. Shimon, whom Yosef imprisons because, of all the sons of Yaakov, Shimon and Levi are the only two who are referred to as Brothers. If there is any chance that someone will return to Egypt to free the captive, it rests exclusively with Levi, who will have to return to redeem his captive brother Shimon.

Yehuda, who will become the spiritual leader of Israel after he receives moral instruction at the hands of his Rebbe, Tamar.

And now Dinah goes out Lir’ot bevnot ha’aretz- literally, “To see among the daughters of the land.” To see. Or To be seen. Dinah, who just wants to be one of the local girls, gets far more than she bargains for. When her brothers intervene violently, Yaakov’s response is (34:30) You have made real trouble for me and made me odious to my neighbors, the Canaanites and Perizzites, and now they will gang up on me and destroy me.” Yaakov shows a singular coldness, a lack of vision for his family. And Shimon and Levi respond (34:31) Should he treat our sister like a whore?

Who is doing the treating? We always assume it is Shechem to whom they refer. But did not Yaakov’s grandfather sell his own wife twice, and pocket the proceeds? And did not Yaakov’s father sell his own wife? And perhaps it is only for lack of opportunity that Yaakov never did the same with his own wives. And perhaps Yaakov wanted the deal he was being offered, to share both land and daughters. The problem with that approach is, as the Grateful Dead express in their song Jack Straw: “We can share the women, we can share the wine. We can share what we got of yours, ‘cause we done shared all of mine…” Someone is going to feel deprived, and the political and social balance can not hold for long.

What is the sin of Shechem? Why is it so egregious, and what is Yaakov missing?

Shechem comes along at 34:2. He “saw her” [Dinah] and “he took her.” This is as close as Judaism comes to the notion of Original Sin.

The Sin of Eve and Adam originates at Bereshit 3:6. “The woman saw…”, “… and she took of the fruit and ate…” The immediate translation of Appetite into Consuption, of Seeing into Taking, this is precisely what Torah wants us to overcome. This is the behavior of Esav, the whole culture of Mizraim. And by acceding to Hamor’s proposition that the family of Yaakov settle and intermarry, Yaakov is buying into this notion as well, he is accepting the way of the world. Ultimately, he is acquiescing to a society in which, as Thyucidides describes the City of Melos, the Strong do what they wsh, the Weak do what they must. This is not the way of Torah.

And yet, when G-d comes and instructs Yaakov, Yaakov obeys at once. This, then, is the beginning of Yaakov’s Greatness. His awareness may not yet dawn upon him. Indeed, Yaakov’s greatness will flower forth only in the last seventeen years of his life, when he goes down to Mizraim to teach Yosef.

G-d has to step in, and at 35:1, G-d marches into the room and orders Yaakov to get up to Beit-el. It seems that Yaakov has waited for his Calling to return to him. To return him to life in the world. And all the travails and suffering he must bear from here on in – the death of his beloved Rachel, the loss of his beloved Yosef, exile from his homeland and, finally, dying in that exile – all these, Yaakov bears with growing dignity, with growing ease and wisdom. Truly, Yaakov will emerge as great among the Avot.

It is no accident we are known as Bnei Israel. For were we only children of Abraham, or of Yitzhak, we would live in the neediness of people used to being guided and cared for by G-d. At the end of his life, Yaakov will appreciate and embrace the Blessing G-d gave him on his way out of Canaan:

There is no certainty in life. You want a promise of wealth? Of happiness? I – says G-d – can promise you no such thing, for I did not create the world to run that way. You will live, G-d promises Yaakov, you will die. And all along the way, I will be with you.

This, ultimately, is the promise G-d makes to us, to the Jewish people. There will be misery and pain aplenty, there will be suffering and loss. All of this is nothing more than the Human Condition. And, as Jews, we have been trained for millennia to be keenly sensitive to the Human Condition. And so we feel our own pain more profoundly, perhaps, more poetically than many other peoples. Yaakov is the Jew who must learn to live in the world, in a permanent state of Exile, yet who must struggle to keep his own identity. It is not for nothing that Shakespeare has Shylock compare himself, not to Abraham, but to Yaakov.

And it is to this Promise that the Chassid clings so fervently. For, in all the uncertainty of our lives, the one certain thing is Torah. Torah, its very self. Torah without the hope of redemption or gifts or reward. Torah Lishmah.

Let us remember, with love and prayer, those who sought to bring Torah into the world. Let us pray for ourselves in the light of the memory of the Tzaddikim. Today, as we observe the Hilulah of Rabbi Dov Baer, as we celebrate the freeing of the Alter Rebbe, let us remember the pure joy, the reckless love of Torah that inspired these men and generations after them. When we pray every morning Veha’arev na… et divrei Toratchah – we are asking G-d to make the words of Torah sweet in our mouths. Meaning not that we shall speak words of Torah, but that we shall devour them. That Torah is our sustenance and our delight. That Torah itself is sufficient to create transcendent joy in our hearts – not G-d’s promise of a World to Come, not dreams of the Time of Mashiach, not the ceertainty that G-d will reward us for living a life of Miztvot. Just this: how sweet, sweet, how painfully and tragically and beautifully sweet are the words of Torah. And how they nourish us like no other sustenance.

And the lesson Yaakov will ultimately learn is that the mere fact of G-d being alongside us – not helping us, not doing for us, not giving us undue advantage; but suffering along with us, coating the ugly, blistered surface of our lives with a patina of compassion and love – this, and this alone, even only this is more than any human has a right to expect.

Yaakov lives in constant uncertainty and fear, in pain and loss. And he continues to practice Torah and Mitzvot. Lishmah.

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Vayetze - The Dark Night of the Soul

2005-12-15T22:59:00.000-05:00

BS”D

The departure of Yaakov from Canaan evokes in many details the departure of his grandfather Abram from Ur Kasdim. His brother Esav has already taken three wives, while Yaakov has none. Abram was the firstborn, but since he left his family property, there was little or nothing for him to inherit. Abram takes his patrimony with him, as it were, leaving with Terah – which may be part of the reason Terah brought Abram and not Nahor, the surviving younger brother; this way, there would be something for each. This further reinforces the notion we had back at the end of Parashat Noach that Terah leaves Ur Kasdim for moral reasons, because he finds the society of that city morally reprehensible and frightening.

Yaakov springs upon us now as an independent character, and three major themes emerge strongly in this Parasha. There are the conflicting images of sleep and sleeplessness, which has been commented on by Avivia Zornberg in her chapter on this Parasha. Tied closely to the theme of sleep is that of Dream. Yaakov is a man suspended between Dream and Reality. The Zohar says that Dream and Prophecy are two sides of a coin. We are unfortunate in never knowing which side we are looking at, and Yaakov lives his entire life in Fear – the third theme – largely because he can not rest faithful in the Promise of the Prophesy. To Abraham, G-d gave a blessed life. Twice blessed, because G-d made it known to Abraham that he was blessed. To Yitzhak, G-d gave shelter and protection and made no demands of him after he returned from the Akeidah. He spends his lfe digging wells, amassing large sums of money, and then, when his eyesight fails, he spends a few decades lying in bed where his older son feeds him choice cuts of fresh-killed venison.

By the way, I have never seen a Midrash stating that Rivkah had Yaakov bring the kids to make Yitzhak’s meal because she knew Esav would kill an animal with bow and arrow, whereas she knew Yaakov would Shecht them. The solemn moment of transferring the Blessing of Abraham calls for extra care and sanctity, and perhaps Rivkah feared that, if Yitzhak ate of Treifa it would invalidate the Blessing. In fact, the text tells us that Yitzhak loved Esav because he ate his venison – the venison that Esav hunted (25:27, 28). In the very next breath, we are told that Yaakov prepared some kind of vegetable stew. The flesh that the hunter feeds to his father is Tzaid - Tzadeh, Yud, Daled. The stew that Yaakov feedsto his brother is from the root Zayin, Yud Daled. The same word, with the initial sound softened. The messages in Torah fly like scurrying angels, from the shape of the letters, to the sounds of the words, to the words in the mouths of humans and G-d…

Mixed in with these poetic themes of the Yaakov narrative is the fact that Yaakov – and we know this about him already – is no respecter of persons. He only hesitates to violate social convention – even the sanctity of family – when he fears that he will be found out.

And so Yaakov sets out on his trip. It is intended to last “a few days”, but turns into an exile that lasts over two decades. In last week’s Parasha, Rivka (Bereshit 27:44) tells Yaakov to stay with her brother Laban yamim achadim – a few days. This same phrase will repeat in our Parasha, and perhaps the meanings are intertwined.

The language used to describe Yaakov’s first stop is unusual. At 28:11 the text tells us va-yifga’ ba-makom – almost: “And he crashed into the place.” And the word Makom – Place – is preceded by the definite article. This is not just any place. (And need we point out that HaMakom is an appelation of G-d? Yaakov bumped smack into the L-rd and had to stop.) Why does Yaakov stop? “Because the sun set.” The Midrash states that the sun set early that day, precisely to make Yaakov halt at this place. The Midrash is very concerned with this detail, in fact, and asks: If the sun set early that day, it means the sun owes the world the extra hours of daylight. The Midrash asks when the sun did – or will – return those hours to the world.

At 28:15, G-d blesses Yaakov, telling him that he will return. However, the wording again is complex. G-d states “I will bring you back el ha-adamah ha-zot” – To this earth. We would expect G-d to use the word Aretz – a Land, a Country. Instead, G-d uses the word meaning Earth, Dirt. And indeed, Yaakov’s final and ultimate return to Canaan is after he dies in Mizraim. G-d made a precisely-worded promise, and kept the promise exactly as it was spoken.

Yaakov, in response, vows an oath, at 28:20-22. These verses are often taken as proof of Yaakov’s chutzpah. Here G-d has just promised Yaakov a blessing, and Yaakov starts bargaining: If you give me food, and If you give me clothing, and If you bring me back in peace… but there are dark themes underlying this speech, and to attribute venality to Yaakov is to miss the boundlessness of Torah, both in the spiritual and in the literary frame.

First, remember that G-d appears to Yaakov in a dream. This is the first time Yaakov has actually seen or heard from G-d. Unlike his father and grandfather, he has lived a life unaided by direct Divine assistance of counsel. Now, when G-d finally does speak to Yaakov, it is in a dream. And the language points out that this is an actual dream. Bereshit 28:12: Va-yachalom. And he dreamed. When G-d appears to Abram at night – at the Brit Bein Ha-Betarim – it is in mysterious words of profound sleep, of impenetrable darkness. Not the language of mere human sleep and dream, as we have here with Yaakov. No wonder he does not trust the message. Did I really experience this, or was it a dream?

On a deep psychological level, Yaakov is also making a profound statement. What does he ask for? G-d has offered nothing material, but only the promise to go with Yaakov and bring him back to be buried in the land of his ancestors. Yaakov asks for three things: bread to eat, clothing to wear, and to return in peace to his father’s house.

This is Yaakov who, using Food and using Clothing, duped his own father, defrauded his own brother, and brought exile upon himself. Yaakov is begging that he be forgiven for the sin of the food with which he stole the birthright, the food with which he stole the blessing. Yaakov is begging that he be forgiven for clothing himself in his brother’s garment in order to trick their father. Yaakov is begging for his father to take him back again.

Yaakov is also now suddenly struck with the enormity of his deed, with the reprecussions. Please, he begs, echoing the plea of Cain, do not punish me as I deserve. For, G-d, if you will punish me with the instruments of my sin, then I will perish. If you punish me by taking away from me food and clothing – sustenance, and protection from the elements – then I am a dead man. Yaakov realizes to his horror that G-d’s promise to have him buried in Canaan may is in danger of being realized within a matter of days, if not hours.

Ths Zohar seems to be aware of this, as it comments that Yaakov tells G-d, I will not care if you turn Mercy into Stern Justice. No wonder the Zohar also tells us that Yaakov lives his entire life in fear.

No sooner does Yaakov fnish his first seven years of service than the entire situation deteriorates. And it happens quickly, irrevocably, devastatingly.

Yaakov serves Laban seven years for Rachel. Because of his love for her, those years are in his eyes as yamim achadim – a few days. The same expression Yaakov’s mother used when she sent him away. Just as the “few days” of his mother’s subtrefuge turn into a seven-year stint of indentured servitude, so too, Yaakov seems to have lived through this time as though it were a mere Few Days. He show no maturation through this time. Curiously, he has lived among these people for seven years, yet he is surprised when he discovers it is “not their custom” to give the younger daughter in marriage before the elder. It may be plausible that Yaakov never attended a wedding during this time, never socialized. More likely is the reading that he spent the entire time saying to himself “I’m going back to Canaan any day now.” It is as though he never fully unpacked his bags. Certainly, he has not unpacked his Baggage.

At 29:21 Yaakov uses startling and crude language. He turns to Laban, his prospective father-in-law, and says “Give me my wife, because may time is fulfilled, and now I am going to have sex with her.” This Simple Man, the Bocher from the Yeshiva of Shem and Ever, has revealed himself as a randy young buck. Perhaps it is the influence of the outside world. Perhaps, even while not consciously learing their ways, Yaakov has been profoundly influenced by these people. Or perhaps it is merely in keeping with his refusal to respect social conventions.

When Leah immediately gives birth to a succession of sons, Rachel goes to her husband and asks for a son of her own. It is always striking that Yaakov flies into a rage. And it is a rage with many sources and tributaries. Like the relationship of his grandparents, Yaakov has not been able to live in love with the woman he originally loved. Unlike Abraham and Sarah, Yaakov never had the opportunity to see his relatinship with his beloved Rachel deteriorate and become dysfunctional. His marriage was interrupted and ruined before the wedding.

Like Abraham, who asked G-d not to bother with bringing Yitzhak into the world, Yaakov flies into a rage. I am not my father, he is saying, not Yitzhak. I did not get to marry the woman I loved and llive in enjoyment with her. Yaakov, the man to whom G-d appears in a dream (Is it dream? Prophecy? On which side will the spinning coin fall?) is afraid to reach out to G-d. He refuses to pray – perhaps because he is afraid his prayers will not be answered; perhaps because he fears they will. Yitzhak prayed for Rivkah unbidden, and Yaakov was born. Yaakov, the child of prayer.

At the end of Yaakov’s life when he, like his own father, lies blind upon his bed, preparing to bless his sons, Yosef brings to him Ephraim and Menashe. At 48:11, Yaakov says four beautiful and poignant words to Yosef: Re’oh fanecha lo filalti. This is usually translated as “I never thought I would see your face,” an expression of the years where Yaakov mounred and longed for his son who was presumed dead. But the words actually mean something else. Re’oh faneicha – to see your face. Lo filalti – I did not pray. Indeed, Yaakov refuses to pray for Rachel to have a child. And despite his own drawing away from this, G-d grants her two sons, from one of whom the salvation of the family of Yaakov will come, from the other, Binyamin, the only surviving members of Israel.

And so Yaakov finally leaves Haran, after G-d addresses him at 31:3 talling him to return to Canaan. Curiously, although the text does not have it so in the instance, when Yaakov relates this to his wives at 31:11, he says it was in a dream.

And so Yaakov finally comes to the end of his sojourn. At the opening of the Parasha, the sun set, after which Yaakov gathered together stones into a heap, and then he awoke, to recognizethat G-d was there before him. Now, as he prepares to re-enter Canaan, Yaakov and Laban set up a heap of stones, after which the sun rises and Yaakov, crossing the border, runs into a troop of angels. The literary symmetry of the Parasha ties it into a great and grand package, filled with powerful emotional content and stunning language and imagery. Now, preparing to greet this new day, Yaakov renames the place where he first saw G-d. At the beginning of this single long night, when he awoke after sunset, Yaakov called the place Beit-El – the House of G-d. Yaakov, who says, if only I had not slept, I would have understood what was going on. And so, Midrashically, Yaakov remains awake for the next twenty years, hoping for clarity, but never receiving it until G-d comes and tells him to leave.

Mahanaim – A Pair of Encampments. Yaakov is no longer so sure of the world as he once was. The place is no longer a House, no longer a permanent structure. No longer a home.

Yaakov succeeds in commerce in the outside world, despite never losing his status as a Outsider – it is no accident that Shakespeare has Shylock compare himself to Yaakov. But he fails spiritually, he fails repeatedly. He gives lip service to the notion of G-d, but it is not until the end of his life, the last seventeen years that he spends with Yosef, that Yaakov’s spiritual greatness blossoms and he grows majestically into the role for which he was born. Until that time, Yaakov will spend the rest of his life in impermanence, suspended between the spiritual world and the world of the every day. In fear, never knowing whether it was a Promise, or merely “wish-fulfillment”, magical thinking. Never knowing whether it was Prophecy, or merely a Dream.

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Toldot - In Sheep's Clothing

2005-12-09T15:05:00.000-05:00

BS”D

Things are not what they seem. Or rather, as we have seen in the emergent pattern of the Promise and Destiny of Abraham, things continually seem, and we must act as best we can from one set of circumstances to another.

Among the greatest evils in the Gemara are such notions as Anger, Pride, Immodesty, and Flattery. Yet, these – and other equally vile concepts – are not counted among the 613 Mitzvot as Motzvot lo ta’aseh – prohibited actions. Rather, they are called Middot – Qualities. While it is a simple matter for the Torah to prohibit the eating of pigs, snakes and eagles, it is impossible to prohibit human beings from ever becoming angry, from ever falling victim to excessive pride, from ever toadying to someone more powerful than themselves. And further: the Middah itself is seen as evil – the Gemara likens Anger to Idol Worship – but the actions that flow from Anger are categorized simply as Permitted or Prohibited. It is prohibited to abuse one’s fellow – be that other person family, friend, or stranger. Thus we see that the concept of Middot is in many ways more subtle and complex than that of Mitzvot. Mitzvot are tabulated on a checklist of Do’s and Don’t’s, the measure of which is generally immediate and obvious. Put on Tallit and Tefillin, recite morning prayers. Make Kiddush on Friday night, don’t turn lights on and off. Walk to and from Shul on Shabbat morning, don’t turn on the ball game.

But how do we measure Middot? And what effect do they have? On the simplest, perhaps even simplistic level, our Mitzvot are meant to form our Middot. There are numerous passages in the Gemara which praise the performance of Mitzvot because it leads to better action in the world; which praise Torah study because it leads to good deeds, to living the right way.

The ultimate test of the concept of Middot is probably the punishment of Moshe and Aharon. Is it possible that, as human beings, they – even they – had a moment of less than perfect Faith? Is it possible that they, too, fell into Doubt, even if only for a moment? In Parashat Chukat, when Moshe strikes the rock, instead of speaking to it, G-d explicitly tells them (Bamidbar 20:12) they will not enter the Land because they did not believe. While the lack of belief led to an act that was counter to G-d’s command, it is not for the act that they are punished. If the punishment were tied only to the act of striking the rock, then only Moshe would be punished, for it was he alone who struck the rock. But G-d punishes both Moshe and Aharon. Further proof that it is faith that is at issue here, and not merely action, is the key word Ya’an – “Because” – that G-d uses to introduce the punishment. “BECAUSE you did not believe in me…” This word has its origin in the Akeidah, where it announces to Abraham “BECAUSE you listened to my voice…” At issue here is a sense of utter reliance. The inner working of Faith itself.

It also goes to the notion of carefulness in observance. Jews are not permitted to rely on non-Jews in certain matters of Kashrut, not because non-Jews are in some way impure, G-d forbid. Indeed, the Shulchan Aruch specifically permits certain aspects of Kashrut to be handled by non-Jews precisely because they are meticulous about cleanliness. Rather, the non-Jew just can not have the same sense of urgency, of awe, of trembling at the notion that a spoon might have ended up in the wrong sink. To the non-Jew, it is more like the notion of getting extra starch in one’s shirts, when one asked for no starch. You’ll get over it. A person who has not lived in Torah can perhaps never appreciate the love, the passion, and the care that go into each minute action that makes up this awesome relationship. And Moshe is a Levite, Aharon is Kohen Gadol, required to remain in a permanent state of Readiness. No lapses are permitted, alas. Not one.

Bereshit 25:19: “And these are the generations of Yitzhak, the Son of Abraham; Abraham begot Yitzhak.” Rashi comments that Yitzhak looked identical to his father; that Yitzhak was unmistakably the son – the inheritor – of Abraham. What is Rashi telling us?

From a broad perspective, the Parasha begins by establishing a single line. At the end of last week’s Parasha (25:12) we read: “And these are the generations of Ishmael, Son of Abraham, whom Hagar the Egyptian bore – the maidservant of Sarah – to Abraham.” In recounting the descendants of Ishmael, the Torah writes the word “generations” – Toldot – as Taf, Lamed, Daled, Taf. In our Parasha, Yitzhak’s “generations” are spelled Taf, Vav, Lamed, Daled, Taf. In Hebrew orthography this difference is called Defective and Full. The Generations of Yitzhak have something that the generations of Ishmael lack, and while Rashi does not comment on the difference, Biblical commentators generally derive moral lessons from these differences in spelling: words spelled Defectively are read as pointing to a spiritual or moral lack in the people they describe.

And what is Ishmael missing? How is he “defective”? Just like Yitzhak, he is Son of Abraham. Indeed, as we have seen, Abraham considered Ishmael his son, and it took some forcing and convincing on G-d’s part to make Abraham accept that the Destiny and Promise would pass not through Ishmael, but through Yitzhak. The literary contrast in the two Psukim is clear: “And these are the [defective] generations of Ishmael, Son of Abraham, whom Hagar the Egyptian bore – Sarah’s maidservant – to Abraham.” And: “And these are the [full] generations of Yitzhak, Son of Abraham; Abraham begot Yitzhak.” What is defective about Ishmael is his Egyptian mother.

We mentioned last week the Lubavitcher Rebbe’s comment – taken from solid Chassidish tradition – that Sarah represents the body, Abraham the soul. The Soul of Abraham in the Body of Mizraim – it can not work. As we shall see throughout the ensuing narrative, Mizraim is a nation that is focused on the flesh. Indeed, while we may quarrel with Abraham’s treatment of Sarah, his instincts in fearing for his own safety when they went to Mizraim appears sound. And the story plays out through the Yosef narrative, through the narrative of the generations of enslavement, through to the Exodus: Egypt is based on “I take what I see.” The text is telling us that Torah must be combined with Middot. Both are required in combination. Ishmael, great as he is, is destined by birth not to have this combination.

But where will the Promise and Destiny of Abraham belong after Yitzhak?

Unlike both his father and his son, Yitzhak wants his beloved wife to have children. No sooner are they married than Yitzhak goes unbidden to entreat G-d on her behalf. The word used (25:21) va-ye’tar – is derived from the root meaning Shovel. Yitzhak, the Digger of Wells, starts his career by digging deep for G-d’s mercy and grace. And he receives it in double portion.

Rivkah typifies the Torah’s view of women, certainly as expressed in Sefer Bereshit. When she experiences a tumultuous pregnancy, she does not ask her husband or her maidservant what to do – she goes right to G-d and asks “Why am I like this?” A question that expresses neither lack of Faith, nor the presence of Doubt. Rather, like Sarah before her, Rivkah is an Existentialist: she recognizes her own destiny in that of Abraham and his son, and she embraces it. Indeed, she runs to embrace it, for at 24:58, when asked if she wants to tarry a bit with her family before leving to be married to her cousin, she states flatly: I will go. Then, at 2465, as she approaches Yitzhak from afar and sees him for the first time, she covers her own face with her veil before they have even spoken to one another. Covering with a veil is a symbol of a married woman: thus, Rivkah affirmatively marries herself to Yitzhak before the union is formalized.

But to every generation there is a test, a moment when the individual is challenged to bring to bear the training of Torah and Middot, over the desires or comforts or pains of the flesh. And the crux of the test comes early in this Parasha. At 25:23, G-d explains to Rivkah that two nations are within her womb, two peoples will come forth from her belly. Ve-rav ya’avod tza’ir. “And the Elder the Younger shall serve.” This is always translated as: “And the elder shall serve the younger,” but both the grammar and the cantillation are ambiguous. The clause can equally mean: “And the Elder the Younger shall serve,” or: “And the Elder, the Younger shall serve.” It is by no means clear who is the subject of the verb.

And in one sense, they serve one another. Yaakov, it can be argued, serves Esav by taking from him a spiritual responsibility to which he is not equal. Esav – the beloved son of the most loving of the Patriarchs – Esav, who gets a bum rap in all the commentaries, whom the Rabbis of the Gemara were forced to admit is the epitome of the Mitzvah of Honoring one’s Parents. Esav is a jock. An outdoorsman who loves to hunt, then come home to share his catch with his beloved father before retiring to the tent of one or another of his wives. In our time we could easily see him flipping burgers and knockwurst on a grill in the parking lot outside Lambeau Field, a couple of cases of beer in the cooler, a cigar clenched between his teeth as he prepares a sumptuous tailgate feast for dozens of loving friends and relatives. He’d be well liked by all, a pillar of the community. Dependable, straightforward and completely without guile, he would probably own a string of successful car dealerships and be a stalwart of the local Rotary Club or Knights of Columbus. You would definitely feel comfortable buying a car from him.

Torah asks of us an intensity of soul, a moment-to-moment awareness of the nearness of G-d. Torah asks that we constantly be in the state of mind and emotion of one newly fallen in love. Shlomo Carlebach says our love for G-d should be as great as the passion a new lover feels for the beloved, that if someone shakes us awake at night and shouts “Who do you love?!” we should immediately, and without a moment’s thought or hesitation, shout back, “Ha Kadosh Baruch Hu!”

It takes some doing to get there.

The Zohar says Yaakov was tricky, duplicitous. That he dealt with each person on that person’s own terms. This is a common emotional affliction, readily observable in many people today: the emotional need to be liked, coupled with a hypersensitivity – perhaps born of that desperate need – to what makes other people tick. The ability to manipulate other emotionally to the point where they evidence their approval. At 25:29 – the verse on which the Zohar comments – Yaakov yazed… nazid – as the translation has it, he “sod pottage.” The root of this odd word is Zayin, Daled, which gives us Zed – Wicked (as in the blessing in the weekday Amidah: “Who destroys the Zedim.”) It also gives us the concept of Mezid – Premeditated. What did Yaakov do? He “Plotted, he surely plotted” as Hebrew duplicative verbs are to be read. Esav spends his days hunting. It is very predictable both as to when he will return, and in what frame of mind. He has had a good workout, now he wants a cold beer.

Esaz takes one look at the pot of stew and says, “Wow! Can I have a taste?” Yaakov names his price: the right of the firstborn. Esav’s response, by the way, is often mis-read. At 25:32 he is not saying “I am going to drop dead if I don’t eat.” Rather, he is saying “When you’re dead, you’re dead. What’s the ‘birthright’? Something for Posterity? Do they have beer in Posterity? Gimme that pot of soup!” And in verses 33 and 34, we see a rapid-fire string of action verbs: And he swore, and he sold, and he ate and he drank and he arose and he went, and he despised his birthright…” Esav, the man of action.

Why does G-d warn Yitzhak not to go to Egypt in the time of famine? Is it because the Karmic fate of the two nations has already been established by the actions of his own mother and father? Is G-d saying, “Your parents have already messed things up enough. Don’t you go running off too, or Yaakov will be ruined forever.” And in the midst of this comes the beautiful moment where Yitzhak, pretending, like his father, that Rivkah is his sister and not his wife, can’t keep his hands off her. Thinking they are alone, Yitzhak seems to be chasing her under the bushes. And there’s that verb again: he is metzaheq his wife (26:8). Unmistakably, they are husband and wife. Again, the danger Ishmael posed was not that he mocked his baby brother, but that he took such pleasure in showing his affection, and that Yizhak delighted in Ishmael’s open demonstrations of love. This is why Sarah ordered him removed.

Yaakov is a much more complex figure than his own father. Comes the moment to actually take hold of what he connived from his brother, he seems to lose heart. His mother pushes him to it, as though saying This is the moment you have been waiting for. And Yaakov appears suddenly – and a little inexplicably – struck by conscience. Actually, it is only fear. Fear that he will be found out.

In sheepherding societies, certain practices have persisted through millennia. Because they are effective, and because there is simply no substitute for certain natural processes.

Some female sheep and goats have a propensity to give birth to twins. These are highly sought after by herdsmen, because they help sustain the herds. In the case of twin births, it is common that one of the twins will die. Equally common is the death of a female during the birth process. When this happens, the newborn will also die unless it can be fed. Alas, in hircine society, mothers only tend to their own. A newborn kid will only be nrsed by its own mother. Any other female will ignore the newborn, and will actively spurn it if it tries to snuggle or nurse.

The way to save newborns whose mothers have perished is to take the dead twin and skin it, leaving the cuffs of the front and hid legs intact. The pelt is then fitted onto the orphan like a tight-fitting body sweater. Then the kid is shoved under the mother who gave birth to the twins. She smells her own pheremones in the coat of her deceased newborn and mistakes the intruder for her own. She then falls to nursing and caring for the orphan. After a few days, when the mother’s hormones are fully absorbed into the newborn’s system, the coat can be removed, for the orphan has now assimilated its new mother’s smell. Its identity has been changed, and to all outward appearances, the mother never knows.

Truly the Torah speaks the language of humans. And not merely in words and letters of the Hebrew language, but by striking us between the eyes with images so familiar as to have become invisible, until they are cast in a powerful new context.

And now the whole world changes.

When Hevel decided to bring offeringsto G-d, G-d accepted his kids and lambs, meanwhile rejecting Cain’s fruits and vegetables. To win favor, the sons of Yitzhak vie with one another to see who can bring the tastiest – and first – pot of meat stew. The Curse of Cain will work itself through our destiny for many generations to come: the goat that Yaakov used to trick his father and defraud his brother will be echoed in the goat that Yosef’s brothers slay for the blood to mark his coat, the goat that Tamara uses to trick Yehuda into confessing. In both of these narratives, the pairing of goat and garment are the crux of the story, they determine the destiny, not only of the individual, but of Klal Israel.

The first murder takes place over a kid. The destiny of the Jewish people hangs in so many places on a goat. In the Beit HaMikdash, it is a goat that is sent to the wilderness to atone for the sins of the nation.

When Yitzhak blesses Yaakov, it is a real blessing. When Esav comes in, Yitzhak tells him that he has already given his blessing. Now Esav suddenly and at last recognizes what he has lost. Now he cries out. Now, at 27:34, Esav cries out. Va-yitz’ak tze’aqa gedolah – and he cried out a great cry. The word is first used at 4:10 when G-d confronts Cain: What have you done, G-d asks. The blood of your brother cries out to me - tzo’akim elai – from the earth. Clearly, we are bound to a powerful Karma. This part of our destiny will require a great Tikkun – a repairing, a healing. An atonement. If for nothing else, we must cling to Torah and work on Middot.

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Hayei Sarah - A Thousand Pieces of Silver and the Origin of Prayer

2005-12-02T08:29:00.000-05:00

BS"D

It is the nature of spiritual experience that we arrive at a moment where we are swept up in a cosmic surf, startled and exhilarated and terrified and thrilled and energized by a powerful epiphany, we feel the thrill of weightlessness as we ascend through doors suddenly open where we did not even sense there was a wall.

Next comes the risk of profound disappointment when, in coming for a second time to the same set of circumstances, we do not experience the same exhilaration. The Buddhists are aware of this self-confusing nature of Mind – so much so that the Buddhist psychology recognizes six senses: the five known to Western science, plus Mind, an organ of perception no less than eye or tongue or skin. And as with the other senses, the proclivity of Mind is to be immediately convinced that what it is experiencing is objectively real. Do not believe everything you think.

Abraham, however briefly, had a direct relationship with G-d. He did not waver from his side of the relationship and, unless you follow the revisionist line we discussed last week, Abraham never did not understand G-d’s message to him.

Unlike the rest of his family.

When Sarah has an inkling that Abraham must have a son, she offers her maidservant, Hagar, not realizing that it is her own destiny to give birth to Yitzhak. When Hagar and Ishmael recognize that the next level in Abraham’s journey entails him sending his own son to die, mother and son walk off into the desert and Ishmael – now sixteen or seventeen years of age, a grown man, by the current standard – voluntarily lies down beneath a bush and waits to die of thirst. Finally, an angel comes and explains to Hagar that, no, this is not the Destiny of Abraham. And so Ishmael goes on to father twelve tribes – as does Abraham’s remaining brother, Nahor, by the way. As, obviously, does Yaakov. The themes of the Destiny and Promise of Abraham proliferate throughout Sefer Bereshit as those around Abraham are swept up in the cosmic surf.

But they keep coming out in unrecognizable patterns.

This week we see the first example of a person praying for success. It is a spiritual come-down, after Abraham’s intense yet familiar relationship with G-d, this mere asking for favors so one doesn’t have to work hard. Or is it?

Yet see, too, how the structure of the Parasha underscores the one-sidedness of Abraham. The Lubavitcher Rebbe explained that Sarah dies before Abraham because she represents the Body, whereas Abraham represents the Soul. And in Chassiddus, the body occupies a more exalted level than the Soul. For it is only through the body that the soul can participate in doing Mitzvot. It is only through the Body that the human Soul can perform ‘Avodat HaShem – divine service. Indeed, without Sarah, Abraham’s life peters out as ingloriously as water dripping from a cracked jug, as air seeping from a tiny puncture. He marries the mysterious Keturah – the ancestor of Moshe’s sons – the sons who become Priests of Belial at Shilo – Abraham has more children, but does not engage with them. As we saw last week, G-d ceases all contact with Abraham after commanding him to depart on the three-day journey that will lead to the Akeidah. In this week’s Parasha, everyone is killed off – clearly, the stage is being cleared for the next Act in the drama. The opening phrase – “And the life of Sarah…” with its immediate reversal – “And Sarah died…” is as startling as the opening line of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, where the actors come on stage and shout at the audience to leave the theater. As disorienting as the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, where the conductor gives a mighty downbeat, and there is silence.

The Parasha goes on to kill off Abraham and, for good measure, Ishmael. A simple arithmetical calculation will show that Abraham was still very much alive when Yaakov and Esav were born. Why do we never see them with their grandfather? Or with their uncle Ishmael, for that matter? The continuity of the themes, the Destiny and Promise, is not fixed. It must be regenerated, for it lies somewhat dormant. And Yitzhak must begin again. Alone.

This is why, in next week’s Parasha, Yitzhak will have to dig once again the wells his father had established. It is why, next week, G-d will have to reaffirm the Covenant and Promise of Abraham, this time to his son Yitzhak, using the same word of the Akeidah – a forceful reminder, even as it transfers the Blessing from generation to generation. Bereshit 26:5 – ‘Eikev – Because Abraham listened to my voice…

This Parasha, entitled “Life”, is bracketed by death. By the deaths of three of the most important figures in human history: Sarah, Abraham and Ishmael. In a literary mirroring, such as we have already come to see as a commonplace of Biblical narrative structure, The Torah clears the scene so that Yitzhak can start over from the very beginning. Next week’s Parasha opens ve-eleh. As Rashi, Ramban, and many other commentators point out, when a section begins eleh – “these are” – it replaces what has come before it. When a section begins ve-eleh – “and these are” – it builds upon what has gone before. The comparison to G-d’s first, second and third Creations is replayed now on a human level. But note: even G-d did not scrap the project completely. When G-d dismantled the Garden, the existing humans were not destroyed, but their roles and destinies changed. When G-d destroyed the whole world, the world itself remained, as did a man and his family. Even G-d, it seems, is bound by the consequences of having created this world of Space, Time, and Motion. Or: G-d has checked into the game. Like observant Jews who follow Halacha because we choose, G-d chooses to observe the Halacha of the system G-d has set in motion. On the level of pure human psychology and sociology, Shabbat is what novelist William Gibson calls a Consensual Hallucination. In order to make Torah work, G-d has chosen to participate in the hallucination as well.

Before we come to the origin of prayer, I have a conundrum that will not let me rest. In last week’s Parasha, Vayeira, Abraham took Sarah down to Gerar. Unlike the sojourn in Egypt, this side-trip has no clear impetus, no motivation. There is no famine, no military threat. Why does Abraham go there? And, once there, he immediately reverts to telling Sarah to pretend they are brother and sister.

In the first episode, in Mizraim, Abraham makes a startling admission – so unusual coming from a man who lives his entire life estranged from his own family, even as he dwells in their midst. In Lech Lecha, at 12:11, Abraham tells his wife: “I just realized that you are an attractive woman!” This is the sudden awareness of a man who, having won the bride, now dismisses her. This is a man who takes his wife for granted, at best. At worst, he believes she is inferior. Lucky for her that I married her, he thinks, otherwise she would have spent the rest of her life alone. It is more common than you may think. But now, out in the world, Abraham sees men stealing glimpses at Sarah. His passion is perhaps rekindled – though not, it would seem, his love.

Their brief stay in Gerar is different. When Abimelech realizes what has happened, he lets Abraham have it. He then turns to Sarah and speaks a sentence that has me bewildered. Bereshit 20:16. “And to Sarah he said: Look, I gave a thousand pieces of silver to your brother. Here, it is yours. A covering of the eye for all that is with you, and you are set right with everything.” This is usually translated as: “I gave the silver to Abraham, now let it be viewed as a rebuke to people who think I mistreated you.” This makes no sense. Clearly – the language in the Pasuk is plain – Abimelech is saying to Sarah: I give your brother a thousand pieces of silver, thinking I would buy you from him. Now that I recognize you are a married woman, I am ashamed at the very thought of this. Of course, your “brother” – and in the Pasuk, Abimelech uses the word “brother”, a rebuke at a man who still does not recognize how fortunate he is to have married Sarah – your brother can not keep the money, for it is not our way to permit husbands to sell their wives. But, Abimelech continues, I will not take back the money, for it would add shame to my shame, and it would shame you unnecessarily. Rather, you take the thousand pieces of silver. Let it ease your memory of all that you have undergone here, let it set everything right for you.

Sarah is now an independently wealthy woman. Compare: the four hundred pieces (shekel) of silver that Abraham ends up spending to buy the Cave of Machpelah is approximately equivalent to a quarter million dollars in today’s terms. Thus, Sara’s thousand pieces from Abimelech may be something on the order of six or seven hundred thousand dollars. A tidy sum for a woman to tuck away for a rainy day. And my question is: what happens to the money? A thousand pieces of silver do not just disappear.

If this Parasha is “about” anything, it is about the institution of prayer. Abraham’s Servant is the first person to pray for an outcome. Fortunately for him, his prayer is answered, and answered so immediately that ChaZaL refer to it as the single greatest prayer in all TaNaCh.

First, let us clarify a bit of Rabbinic revisionism.
Why are the Rabbis so bent on identifying Abraham’s servant with the figure of Eliezer? Eliezer is introduced in Abraham’s response (Resigned? Pathetic? Sarcastic?) at the beginning of the Covenant Between the Pieces, in Parashat Lech Lecha. At 15:2 Abram (his name will be changed in the course of this very scene) asks G-d” “what will you give me? And I continue childless. And the administrator of my household is Demeseq Eliezer.” The appelation is generally understood to mean Damascus, and translations call his Eliezer of Damascus. But the root of the word – Mem, Sin, Quf – is the same as the word translated in most versions (wrongly, it would seem) as “possessor” – ben-mesheq. Rashi says it means “administrator,” but it also carries meanings of Caretaker, Steward, and can generally mean a servant or slave. In the historical setting of the Abraham narrative, it was common for slaves to be legally taken into their families. Slaves could be made inheritors – could, in fact, be designated to receive the lot of the firstborn. Slaves were also married to their owners, or in other ways given legal status as family members. Thus, it is a normal response on Abram’s part to wonder aloud whether G-d merely intends for him to adopt Eliezer. Biologically, this would make sense – at Sarai’s and Abram’s advanced age – and we have already seen that the surrogacy of Lot was not a satisfactory father-soon relationship.

And so, not Eliezer. Throughout our Parasha, the Slave is not named. Rather, he is referred to repeatedly as Abraham’s Servant. Servant, Slave, take your pick, for the word carries both meanings equally.

And, as he is sub-servient to Abraham, so his relationship with G-d is on a lower level than his master’s. The Servant prays for an outcome. This is the first instance of prayer in the sense of bakashat tzrachim- asking to have one’s needs fulfilled. And it is answered immediately.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe says the Servant’s prayer was answered before he even finished it, to show that Rivka’s approach was actually not as an answer to the prayer – for G-d does not work in those ways. But the Rabbis in general accord to this prayer the single highest place in human history – the prayer that was answered while still on the lips of its speaker.

Which gives us a new insight into why the Servant repeats the entire story. Because our prayer – Tefillah – is made up of three parts: Praise, Requests, and Praises and Thanksgiving. The central blessings of the Amidah, the standard weekday prayer, are known as bakashat tzrachim – asking to have one’s needs fulfilled. They are also known as rachamei – the Mercies that G-d shows us.
Why do we ask for the same codified list of gifts? And why do we repeat this liturgy three times a day? Why not change, as our needs change? As our moods change?

One principal reason is that we are not asking for blessings. Though they do retain their character of Request, these central blessings are more Acknowledgements of G-d’s gifts. Gifts, if not to us, then to someone. If not to us now, then at some point in our lives. The Requests are all phrased in the plural. Clearly, we are not merely asking for our personal needs to be met. It is, rather, one of the principal attitudes of Judaism that, if the needs of Klal Israel are met, then our personal needs are satisfied.

And so we repeat the same blessings every day by way of acknowledging G-d’s beneficence. In another sense, each of the blessings is not even a request, not even an acknowledgement. It is, quite simply, another name of G-d. G-d is The One Who Is Gracious In Forgiveness. G-d is The One Who Heals The Sick. G-d is The One Who Rebuilds Jerusalem, The One Who Causes Salvation To Flourish. The One Who Hears Prayer.

And so the Servant’s retelling of his episode of prayer is, in a sense, the first real prayer, in the Jewish sense. Not his actual prayer, not his prayer spoken in the moments before Rivka approached. But, like Israel standing before the splitting of Yam Suf, he has witnessed the greatness of G-d’s mercy and bounty. And now, like us standing here so many thousands of years later, he recounts his experience, and that is the true origin of prayer. It takes a frightened person, a desperate person, a lazy person to ask G-d to intervene in the world. It takes a person of faith to retell the graciousness and generosity and mercifulness of G-d and make it as real in the retelling as it was in the moment. This, then, is the greatness of the Servant of Abraham. Less than Abraham – because, rather than accept G-d’s promises with silent faith, he asks G-d to intercede and make his task successful. But perhaps more than Abraham, too, because he took a principle from his experience and built a liturgy around it.

Abraham is revered as the great believer. As Kierkegaard calls him, “The Knight of Faith.” But how much faith does one require when one speaks daily and directly with G-d? Indeed, it was G-d who initiated the dialogue. The Servant, though, has learned well from his master. Faith is not “I believe something because G-d has told me.” Faith is, rather, “I know that G-d has always come through, and even though I have never seen G-d, G-d has never spoken to me, I have never experienced a miracle, still I know that G-d will see me through this moment. That whatever happens, it is what G-d wants.”

O Slave of Abraham! O true Knight of Faith!

In the Gemara in Shabbat – 30a – G-d tells David HaMelech that he will die on Shabbat. In the scene that ensues, David first asks to die on Sunday, and then on Friday. In responding to David’s request that he die one day later, G-d replies that it has already been ordained that the kingship of Shlomo is to begin that Motzaei Shabbat – at the end of Shabbat – and there can be no transfer of kingship while David remains alive. In response to David’s second request, to die a day earlier, G-d quotes David’s own words back to him. Taking the line from Tehillim 84:11, G-d says to David, “’For a day in your courts is better than a thousand.’ Better for me a single day where you sit and engage in Torah than the thousand offerings your son Shlomo is destined to offer before me upon the altar.”

G-d is telling David – “Was it not you who said ‘for a day in your courts is better than a thousand’? Was it not you who so adored, so clung to every moment of this relationship?” The Gemara is explained, in that David wanted Israel to be able to have the national experience of a full royal burial, which would not have been permitted had he died on Shabbat, for it was prohibited to keep the dead overnight in Jerusalem. Indeed, when, a few lines further, the Gemara recounts the scene of David’s death, Shlomo goes to Beit Din and asks to be permitted to move his father’s corpse, which is lying in the hot sun. He must place a loaf of bread upon the corpse, thereby making it into a bosis – a Halachic carrier for something permitted. Only then may he move it into the shade. But Shlomo must not take care of his father’s body, for it is Shabbat. In the same breath, the Beit Din commands Shlomo to feed the palace dogs.

Better is one day in the presence of G-d than ‘elef´- than a Thousand.

The first occurrence of the word ‘elef in all TaNaCh comes at the moment Abimelech talls Sarah “I have given your brother a thousand pieces of silver.”

David lives before G-d. Like Abraham, he enjoys a close personal relationship with G-d. Unlike Abraham, G-d stays by David’s side almost to his final breath. Sarah’s Thousand Pieces of Silver represent several things: they are worldly wealth, and therefore they are comfort and independence. They cover up her shame, foremost before her husband – so dismissive is Abimelech of Abraham, so disdainful of his treatment of Sarah, that he does not even call him her Husband, even after it has been revealed. “I gave your brother a thousand pieces of silver,” he tells her – and the joke, and the disgrace, is upon Abraham. “Here,” Abimelech tells her. “They are yours.” It is a grand gesture of apology.

And what do they mean now, Sarah’s thousand pieces of silver? We never hear of them again. Perhaps Sarah merely keeps them, locked away in some private casket in her tent. From time to time, she takes out the box and opens it, and she sits and stares at this great material wealth that was given her in a moment of extreme need. That, when she needed her own personal salvation, the Hand of G-d worked a private, personal miracle for Sarah through the generous hand of Avimelech.

David knows the secret of Sarah’s silver. The thousand pieces of silver are her own prayer, her own ongoing acknowledgement that G-d cares deeply for each of us. That, at certain rare moments, we experience this care and love in the profoundest and most powerful way. And the rest of the time – we must remember. We must recount. We must rely.

Remember G-d’s mercies. Recount G-d’s mercies. Thank G-d for every miracle, even if today they are not visibly granted to us.

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Vayera - The Consequences of the Covenant

2005-11-20T10:56:00.000-05:00

B"SD

G-d has come to terms with the Consequences of Creation. This is only temporary, as we shall see – over and over again, G-d will meddle, interfere, lose patience, come close to destroying all humanity, or simply storm off in disgust – but for the moment, G-d has decided to let the world march on. Indeed, it has come rather farther than G-d permitted either the first or second go-round. G-d, in fact, give us a turn and attempts to hand the entire mechanism of Creation over to humans.

When we read the Psukim deliberately, the opening sentences must strike us as strange. “And G-d appeared to him at the terebinths of Mamre…” (18:1) “… and behold: three men had planted themselves opposite him…” The opening Pasuk describes G-d as appearing to Abraham, but in less than a sentence, G-d is replaced by three men, and does not appear again until, provoked by Sarah’s laughter, G-d prods Abraham and asks (1:13) “Why did Sarah laugh?” In fact, the staging of this scene is forced. Sarah is in the tent, while Abraham and the three men / angels are outside. The men announce to Abraham that Sarah will have a child, and she – hiding in the tent and eavesdropping on the conversation – laughs to think that she, at her advanced age, will bear a child. Immediately G-d, who has done and said nothing all Parasha, jabs Abraham in the ribs and asks sharply, “what’s your old lady laughing at?” Sarah – still in the tent – objects “I did not laugh!” to which G-d replies, “Did too!” We can see G-d standing between Abraham and the closed tent flap, G-d’s head snapping back and forth from the man to the goatskin door of the tent. The three man / angels are still sitting beneath the terebinth tree eating their sumptuous picnic and Abraham, as far as we can tell, is still standing by. A very odd scene, indeed.

Odd, too, that the Torah tells us G-d appears to Abraham, and then G-d is replaced by the forms of three men who have stationed themselves before Abraham’s tent. Abraham, alone of his generation, has the gift of clarity of perception. We saw last week that he was the only one to hear G-d’s constant, repeated invitation to all Creation – Lech lecha – Abraham’s hearing is clear. His vision, too, is unparalleled. Abraham forges a Brit, a covenant, a unique relationship with G-d. But in the process, Abraham’s human relationships suffer. He is, by outward standards, a miserable father to his two sons, a poor and hurtfully neglectful husband to his wife, and not much of a son to his father, brother to his brother.

Abraham leaves Haran while his father Terach is still alive and does not return, not even to bury him. His relationship with his surviving brother terminates at the same time – it is not until the end of this Parasha that Abraham is told, as an aside really, by the way – your brother has twelve sons. It takes a good amount of time to father twelve children, spread as they are between two mothers. Where is the family link?

When Sarah sees she is not fertile, she finally prevails upon Abraham to impregnate Hagar, her handmaid. Within two Psukim (16:3-5) things have deteriorated so severely that Sarah (then still Sarai) tells Abram to send Hagar out to the wilderness. Chamasi ‘aleicha! Sarai tells him: “The wrong done me be upon you!” And the word Chamas indicates theft and violence. It is a strong word, expressing a violent emotion. I offered you my handmaid, Sarai is saying, but you did not have to agree so quickly. Clearly, Hagar’s behavior is condoned by Abram, if not actively encouraged. And the family strife occasioned here will have eternal implications.

When G-d appeared to Abram in a night vision and promised Abram offspring, a series of promises and predictions ensued. At 15:13, G-d tells Abram that his descendants shall be strangers in a land not their own. G-d does not identify the land, but tells Abram that the inhabitants of the land will “afflict” – ‘inu – his descendants. The word ‘inui – affliction – is intimately bound up with the Egyptian experience. At the Seder we begin by holding up the Matzah and chanting ha lachm ‘anya – from the same root – the Bread of Affliction. It is not a coincidence that Sarai flies into a rage against Hagar the Egyptian (16:3) and afflicts her (16:6 – va-t’aneha). The play of the word Afflict / Affliction around the all-too-intimate relationship between Abram and the woman of Egypt lays the karmic groundwork for the working-out of the promised tragic destiny of Abram’s descendants: as our mother afflicted the woman of Egypt, so the nation of Egypt shall become the instrument of our affliction.

Chamasi ‘aleicha. You bear the burden of the violent wrong done to me, the theft of my dignity. Let G-d judge between you and me. Harsh words indeed, between wife and husband. But G-d comes to reassure Abram. Sarai will bear you a son, G-d tells him. It is Abram, not Sarai, who laughs derisively, at 17:17. Then he turns to G-d and says: Let Ishmael live before you. That is enough. Abram is saying to G-d: you promised me a son, and I have a son, I have Ishmael. Don’t go muddying the waters with Sarai now that she is old and decrepit. But G-d forces the issue. No, G-d persists at 17:19, Sarai will bear a son, and you will name him Yitzhak, and I will establish my Brit with him as an eternal covenant for his seed after him. The destiny is already being pushed downstream. The Promise was made to Abram in the name of his descendants. Now G-d is telling Abram that the Promise will transfer to his son, the one yet to be born.

To touch briefly on the interlude of Sodom and Gomorrah, let us observe that, at 18:17, we are treated to that rarest of Biblical passages: G-d gives a soliloquy in which G-d, as surely as any Shakespearean character, ponders what is the right thing to do. And G-d finally decides: yes, G-d says, I will tell Abraham what I am about to do.

When G-d does announce to Abraham the pending fate of the two cities, Abraham immediately engages in a famous courtroom argument. In fact, the dialogue can be seen as a Socratic dispute. G-d, the innocent Sophist, says, “I have to kill them because they are unjust.” Abraham, stand-in for Socrates, argues: “You say you are a Just G-d. If so, then you must do Justice. Do you not agree?” And G-d agrees. “But to kill the innocent is not Just. Do you agree?” And G-d agrees. “And so, if there is a certain percentage of the population that is just, they should tip the scales to mercy, rather then permitting them to be swallowed up, the good along with the bad. Do you agree?” G-d, by this point over a barrel, has no choice but to agree.

The dialogue now begins to grow humorous. “OK,” Abraham says. “Now, work with me on this: if there are fifty just people, will you not destroy the cities?”

“OK,” G-d replies. “Fifty is a good number. For the sake of fifty, I will not destroy.”

Abraham, with a Socratic twinkle in his eye, casts a sly glance towards G-d and says, “Soooo… for, uh, like… for the sake of forty… maybe you won’t destroy?”

“OK,” says G-d. “Yeah. For forty just people, I won’t destroy the towns.”

“All right,” says Abraham. “Now, don’t get angry with me, but since you said forty would be OK… how about thirty?”

The scene goes on until Abraham bargains G-d down to ten, at which point G-d abruptly terminates the conversation. Like all of Socrates’ interlocutors, G-d knows that G-d has been bested in this debate. The only response is to storm off in enraged silence, for to speak another word is to lose altogether.

One odd note of the aftermath. Like Noach – in another literary recycling of themes so common to the structure of Torah – Lot is warned by G-d of the coming destruction, and told to flee with his family. Unlike Noach, Lot’s sons-in-law make fun of the old coot and refuse to budge. Like Abram’s relationship with Lot when he took him from Ur Kasdim, Lot’s own daughters will now be childless, their husbands dead, and Lot in some measure responsible for finding them men to father offspring. And like Noach, he will drink wine and fall asleep, and his children will uncover his nakedness. From this union will spring Moab, and from Moab will spring Ruth, and from Ruth, David HaMelech. And when, in Megillat Ruth, Naomi coaches Ruth on how to get her man, Boaz, she tells her to go down to the tent at night when Boaz is asleep, and to uncover his feet and lie there. After all, Naomi seems to be saying, that is how you people behave. It’s where you came from in the first place.

Abraham is a man who separates from his family. He separates from all human society in order to unite himself with G-d. In a striking literary curiosity, Abraham is the only male in the Abrahamic line throughout Sefer Bereshit whose name is not given a meaning. Yitzhak, from Laughter. Ya’akov, from the Heel. Yaakov’s twelve sons are named by their mothers, each one given an entire sentence to describe the origin of his name.

And Abraham? In Talmudic Hebrew, the word Burmah means “a wedge”, from the root Bet, Resh, Mem, meaning To Split, to divide. The name Abram can be read as a verb meaning “I shall split apart, I shall divide.” And Abram, enhanced to become Abraham, does in fact split his family. Indeed, he shatters it. He not only forsakes his father and brother, he also throws over his wife for the maid. We are disgusted when Lot offers his daughters to the crowd in order to protect his guests, but what of Abraham offering Sarah, first to Pharaoh, then to Abimelech, to save himself? Ramban, for one, excoriates Abraham for this double sin, but most Meforshim are not troubled by it.

In abandoning Sarah to her fate, Abraham also splits apart the very meaning of family relationships. She is my sister, he says. When Abimelech confronts him, Abraham – rather than merely saying that he feared for his own life – justifies his treachery by saying, Well, we really are related.

At the end of Lech lecha, when G-d tells Abram that Sarai will have a son, Abram does not tell her. Instead, he tells G-d not to bother. I have Ishmael, Abraham says. Here again, in this week’s Parasha, when the Angels tell Abraham that she will have a son, he does not rush into the tent to tell her the news. Abraham has long since ceased to regard Sarah as his wife.

But when Yitzhak is born, the first one in the family to express love for Yitzhak is his brother Ishmael. All the emotion surrounding the birth of Yitzhak has been narcissistic. Abraham wanting to keep status quo; Sarah, first enraged at Hagar’s attitude, and now reflecting on how people will treat her, now that she has a son of her own. At 21:9, during the feast celebrating Yitzhak’s weaning, Ishmael is seen Metzahek. This word means “making laugh”, from the same root as the name Yitzhak. It is usually translated as “Mocking”. But…

In Parashat Toledot, at 26:8, Yitzhak takes Rivkah to the land of Gerar. As his father before him, Yitzhak tells Abimelech, the king of Gerar, that she is his sister. Later, Abimelech happens to glance out his window and see that Yitzhak Metzahek et Rivkah ‘ishto – he is making her laugh, and in such a way that Abimelech immediately knows they are not sister and brother, but wife and husband. The same word as between Ishamel and Yitzhak. It is a word of intimacy, of a close loving bond, one with a physical aspect. Clearly, Ishmael is playing fondly with his baby brother and making Yitzhak feel loved. No wonder Sarah wants him thrown out.

When, in the ensuing drama, Hagar and Ishmael lie down to die, we witness a powerful foreshadowing of the Akeidah, as well as a distinct scene of members of Abraham’s family trying to take on the Destiny of Abraham.

Hagar lays Ishmael beneath a bush and goes a bow-shot distance away to let him die. Ishmael, let us remember, is sixteen or seventeen years old – the same age as Yosef when he was cast down the pit. Surely this youth must already be used to desert life, must be capable of taking care of himself. Why does he willingly lie down to die? Why does his mother not struggle to save him? Is it because they have a faulty vision, one that tells them that a son of Abraham will be sacrificed, and that his parent will stand by and do nothing?

However it may be, Hagar stands aside, and Ishmael lies down as though purposely intending to die of thirst, and would do so, but for the angel who appears to his mother and opens her vision to what has been there all along: a well. This scene pre-plays the ensuing drama of the Akeidah in all its particulars, tying Hagar and Ishmael to the Abraham narrative. It is a powerful example of characters who are peripheral to the main theme – the the story of Abraham, of Abraham’s descendants, of Abraham’s Promise and Blessing, and ultimately of the story of Klal Israel – and who fervently desire to link themselves to the Destiny of Abraham.

But it is not to be. Ki be-Yitzhak yikare lecha zera’ – “… for in Yitzhak our seed shall be called” (21:12). G-d explains to Abraham – several times, in fact – that G-d’s program is not Abraham’s program. Abraham, who makes the mistake of interpreting G-d’s plan through his own –Abraham’s – lens of human desire, needs to be corrected over and over. Abraham has a son, Ishmael, but G-d must remind him that Ishmael is not the son of G-d’s Promise.

And now, G-d must remind Abraham one last time, one powerful and heartrending time, of what else it is that Abraham has rejected, set aside. A-bram – I shall split apart.

Rashi’s famous commentary on the opening lines of the Akeidah quotes the Midrash which has Abraham playing a specious game with G-d. It is, in fact, a childish replay of the sophist argument we saw played out at Sodom and Gomorrah.

Take your son, G-d says, and Abraham coyly answers: I have two sons. Your only son, G-d explains, and Abraham says: but each one is an only son of his mother. And so on. But what is Rashi pointing to on a deeper level? The interplay of text and Midrash draws our attention to the human tragedy of Abraham’s life: that this man has sacrificed his family to his Destiny. Like so many successful people, Abraham placed his Life’s Work above the value of a happy home life. It is not only executives of Fortune 100 corporations, not only senior partners of major law firms, not only multimillion-dollar investment bankers who put in 120 hour weeks at the expense of their wives and children. With the exception of Yitzhak’s weaning, it is probably a safe bet that Abraham never attended one of his children’s birthday parties, probably never bought Sarah an anniversary gift. Indeed, the little dialogue we have between husband and wife is terse, angry, and singularly lacking in affection, or even in traces of a close relationship. “Fix supper for the guests,” Abraham orders her. “My suffering is your fault,” she upbraids him. “Let G-d be the judge between us.” Hardly the stuff of a happy marriage.

- Take your son.
- I have two sons.
- Your only son. Come on, Abraham, you know who I mean. Have I not said over and over that Yitzhak is the Son of your Destiny?
- “Only”? But each one is an only son – each of his own mother.
- Asher ahavta – The one you used to love…

G-d forces Abraham to confront his own human failings. Will you play word games with me?, G-d seems to say. But two can play at this. You, Abraham, who bested me at your childish philosopher’s dialogue – for I would not have wiped out your precious nephew at all events. I put you to the test, to see if you would stand up for what is right. You passed, but only so much. Moshe, who will come after you, will rightly claim that he outranks you for righteousness – for you, you argued for two cities for the sake of ten men, but Moshe will argue for an entire nation, and for the sale of none, and he shall win.

Two wives, Abraham? “Each is the only son of his mother” – this is your feeble attempt at arguing G-d into a corner? I will show you “which one”. The one you used to love (asher ahavta). The woman on whom you hung all your human hopes and longing and dreams, back when you still had human feelings. Before you became obsessed with your Destiny. With your Promise. Yes, G-d says, I promised you offspring. Yes, G-d says, I promised you a Destiny. But did I command you to forsake your own human relations to embrace the future? Remember, Abraham, how once you loved your young wife Sarai. Remember when she alone was sufficient for you, when love mattered more than children and inheritance and Land and Destiny. Remember, and weep, and take that son of shattered love and bring him up to Me upon the mountaintop. And there we shall see what we shall do.

So much depends upon our reading of the ensuing lines. So much commentary has been written – continues to be written – about this defining moment of Judaism, and of the stepchild faiths that have grafted themselves onto the root of Torah. Rather than argue or criticize or justify what Abraham does, or did, or may or may not have done, let us observe a few points in context.

Where things Divine are concerned, Abraham is gifted with clarity of perception. Yet he can not see in human terms. Hagar and Ishmael voluntarily go off to the desert. Ishmael lies down to die, for he seems to know that the next part of the Abraham destiny is that a parent will willingly see a child die, the child will willingly lay down his life. Hagar, despairing in the wilderness, is so bound to the suffering of her son. So much so that it takes a miracle, the intervention of an angel, for her to see what has been before her al this time: a well. With Abraham it is different. We read several times the phrase, “And Abraham lifted up his eyes and saw.” He saw the mountain – even though G-d stopped speaking to Abraham after the initial command to perform this act, Abraham understands that part of the message, he knows which mountain, and he goes there directly. After the encounter with the angels interrupts the Akeidah, he lifts his eyes and sees the ram. He does not need to be told it is there.

The Ralbag, perhaps alone among major Meforshim, seems to have a post-modern read of the Akeidah narrative, in which Abraham misunderstands G-d’s command. Other major commentators – notably the Ramban (Nachmanides) – have excoriated Abraham for his poor behavior. Now the Ralbag points out that the language G-d uses – “bring him up there for a bringing-up” – in no way implies slaughter. To “make of your son an offering” can just as easily be a formal act of presenting Yitzhak to G-d. A spiritual coming-out party. This is exactly what Moshe will do, for example, with Aharon and the Leviim, when he presents them physically as a Wave-Offering during the inauguration of the Mishkan.

Animal sacrifices were a human invention. The first animal offering was spontaneously hit upon by Hevel, wanting to imitate his brother Cain. We saw that G-d accepted Hevel’s offering, if only because G-d could not accept Cain’s, the reminder of the first Sin in the Cosmos. But humans were not yet permitted to eat animals. What, then, was Hevel doing as a sheep-herder? Was he merely grazing his flocks for wool and milk? And if he did not eat the meat of his charges, how did he bring himself to slaughter one as an offering to G-d? Or was this Gift also a live beast?

However it may have come about, we see that the first animal offering leads directly to the first murder. The second animal offering, likewise, is a human invention. Noach decides to sacrifice animals to G-d in thanksgiving for having come through the Flood. Rashi is clear on this point: Noach reasons that G-d must have told him to bring extra animals (seven pairs of Tahor animals, as opposed to one pair of the others) for the express purpose of bringing sacrifices. No sooner does Noach perform the act than G-d smells the smoke and, disgusted, reflects that the wickedness innate in human nature is in-conquerable and ineradicable. G-d seems to become resigned to this evil and decides to “un-curse” the Earth.

When G-d tells Abram he will have sons, Abram’s response is to build an altar and slaughter animals. (The Hebrew word Mizbeach comes from the root Zevach, meaning Slaughter. There are other words used for structures set up to praise G-d. Yaakov, for example, sets up a Matzeva – a “standing structure” – to signify his encounter with G-d.) G-d expresses repeated frustration with the human propensity to slaughter animals as an act of worship. The ultimate message of the Akeidah seems to be that bringing sacrificial offerings is a slippery slope. You want to kill in my name?, G-d asks. I will show you the ultimate outcome. And Abraham, who understands G-d’s language, but not the language of human relationships, passes the test on the Divine level, but must fail it on the human. For his test combines them – human and Divine.

Take your son, says G-d, and come to Me. In one simple way of approaching this command, we see that the plain meaning of the words – (22:2) ve-ha’alehu sham le’olah – comes out: “bring him up there to the offering.” Ultimately, and unwittingly, this is what Abraham does. He takes his son and brings him up the mountain. There, at the mountaintop, the ‘olah – the Burnt Offering – waits for them in the form of a ram trapped in the thicket. Some minor business intervenes, in which Abraham can not figure out the seeming paradox that his destiny is to be transmitted through this son, yet he, Abraham, is to slaughter this very son. This is not the paradox of faith, but merely the portrait of a man so blinded by his own zeal that he forgets his own human side.

The one you used to love, G-d says. Remember? Remember when you were more human, less Holy? But no, Abraham does not recall. And so G-d leaves him, never to speak with him again. G-d’s various promises are assured, and Abraham will live out his years in comfort and contentment. Perhaps he never will realize what was lost. The hint of his late awakening comes next week, when he invests tremendous time and care in securing a burial place for Sarah. If they could not live together, at least they shall remain together in death.

This Parasha begins with the transfer of Creative power from G-d to humans. The verb va-year takes the creative act of Seeing – the second of G-d’s four fundamental acts of Creation – and puts it in a human context. Abraham, throughout the Parasha, Sees. Hagar, as another example, does not see. Sarah becomes distressed at what she sees. Hagar almost allows her son to die because of what she does not see. The true creative aspect requires that we balance our perception of the Divine with our perception of the Human. This is a task that sometimes even the very greatest among us are not equal to.

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Lech Lecha - The Consequences of Creation III

2005-11-18T00:13:00.000-05:00

BS"D

The Kabbalists speak of the phenomenon of G-d hiding in order to create the World – that the very act of Creation rests on G-d’s withdrawing so as to permit the World to come into being. The word Tsimtsum – “contraction” – points to a metaphoric withdrawing. What is the mathematical measure of a quantity that is infinitesimally smaller than Infinity? The mathematical concept of Infinity is not, in fact, infinite. Nor, for that matter, is our physical and temporal universe. The physical universe is very, very large. The temporal one is quite old, and is likely to grow a good deal moreso. But it is not eternal. The simple lesson, for monotheists, is that only G-d is infinite; only G-d is eternal. And by going beyond the bounds of the measurable, G-d is no longer capable of being measured. The broad spectrum of Jewish thought – from the Rambam to the Ba’al HaTanya – rests on this principle.

Last week, G-d told Noach “I make my Covenant – Brit –with you. This week, G-d is rather more reticent to discuss with Abram / Abraham the inner workings of G-d’s own thought processes. We see G-d giving a soliloquy – something G-d has done only once before, and will never do again. Notably, G-d articulates inwardly that G-d has established a Brit with Abram, but does not speak the word to him. What is this Power of the Unspoken?

Lech lecha, G-d says to Abram. The Chassidic view of this incident is that it is by no means unique, neither to its time and place, nor especially to its protagonist. For G-d is always, and at all times and in all places and conditions, calling to each one of us: Lech lecha. Go. Come to me. Get up and move. Abram, alone in human history, heard the call.

There is an interesting Halachic aspect to this as well. When a man is called up to read the Torah, he will generally wear a Tallit. In some communities, unmarried men do not wear a Tallit – or even own one, for it is a gift from the bride’s parents. When a man who does not own a Tallit is called for an Aliyah, he will generally borrow his neighbor’s Tallit, and return it to him after he returns from the Bimah. One is not permitted to make a Beracha on a borrowed Tallit. The Pasuk explicitly states: And they shall be your Tzitzit… ve-haya lachem tzitzit… This is generally translated in somewhat confusing fashion as “And they shall be for you fringes…” but the literalism does some intellectual harm to the text. Halachically, any Mitzvah that reads lecha – “yours”, or lachem – “yours” (plural) requires that the object be owned in order for the individual to perform the Mitzvah. One may sit in someone else’s Sukkah and perform the Mitzvah, but in order to use someone else’s Lulav, the owner must make a gift of it to the other person. It is permitted to make the gift conditional – on the condition that you will return it to me by way of gift at a later time – but a legal transfer of ownership is required, because the Pasuk uses the word lachem – yours.

Lech lecha. Go – and this is a Mitzvah you can only do for your own self. Each of us is uniquely responsible for our own spiritual life. We can not bring other people to spirituality, to moral uplift, to Torah and Mitzvot, except perhaps by example. I can not perform your Mitzvot, nor does my own relationship with G-d suffice. Each one of us is personally responsible. Responsible for our own spiritual development. Responsible for our own study and performance of Torah and Mitzvot. Responsible for our own relationship with G-d. The Mishna states: “The world was created for my sake.” This is not mere homiletics, but a Halacha. Each one of us is the direct beneficiary of the Creation. Into each of our hands is placed the responsibility for caring for the entire Cosmos. Each one of us is G-d’s partner.

Go forth.

Just as G-d continually creates Creation – renewing the whole world in each moment and in each instant and in each infinitesimal and timeless segment of Time – so too, in each moment, we are G-d’s partners, bearing the constant and moment-to-moment responsibility for the wellbeing of G-d’s Creation.

And Abram heard the call.

Yet, before Abram came his father, Terach. Terach, in fact, is the one who first heard the call, or at least behaved outwardly as though he did. For it is Terach who Went Forth. At the end of Parashat Noach we learn that Terach took his children and left Ur Kasdim, headed for Canaan. Along the way, he stopped in Haran. Ultimately – decades later – he dies there. Rashi, Ramban and many others point out that Abram’s departure from Haran occurs during his father’s lifetime; yet, it is only after the text tells us that Terach died in Haran does it take up G-d’s exhortation to Abram to leave his father’s land. Because, so the Rabbis tell us, Terach was spiritually dead.

I humbly submit that Terach has gotten a bum rap.
It may not be on the exalted level of Abram’s connecting with G-d, but Terach’s motivation to leave Ur Kasdim seems to arise from some profound dissatisfaction with the life of the city. We are not told why Terach leaves, but we do know a few details about his family:

At the end of Parashat Noach (Bereshit 11:27 onwards) we read of the generations of Terach. Terach has three sons: Abram, Nahor and Haran. And, we are told, Haran begets Lot. And then Haran dies. It says (11:28) “And Haran died in the face of his father.” We have read the genealogies since the Creation, and there is only one other case where a child dies before his parent: the murder of Hevel. The Zohar points out that this is the first time in human history that a child dies of natural causes during the lifetime of the parents. The natural order has been violated and the world will never again be the same.

Terach may not have the greatness of Abram. He may not be on the cosmic wavelength that enables him to hear G-d’s voice calling, calling… “Go… go by yourself. Take your own self and go, for it begins and ends with you…” And yet, Terach knows something is profoundly wrong.

Ur Kasdim was a major city at the time of this narrative. A city of perhaps 250,000 inhabitants, and the capital city of Nannar, the Goddess of the Moon. Robert Graves has written extensively, both in theoretical works and in novels, of the war between Goddess religion and the religion of the Masculine god. The Male god ultimately won out, and the aftershocks of the clash continue to rock our world to this day.

But the origins of this narrative also seem to trace back to the time and place and society that gave rise to the Gilgamesh epic, which deals with sexuality, with the ability of powerful men to sexually exploit women in their social orbit. With the droit de seigneur – the right of the feudal lord of the manor to take virgins at whim. And maybe – just maybe – Terach was afraid that his son’s widow would be appropriated by the men of Ur Kasdim, now that she had no husband to protect her.

In this Parasha we see Abram begging Sarai to pretend they are brother and sister, for in strange lands, he knows men will kill him to take her away, but if they are siblings, they will pay him for her. This is, in fact, what happens. In one’s own home, though, the situation is reversed: the society enforces the sanctity of husband and wife. A woman who is married is accorded a modicum of protection respected even by the lowest members of the society. But an unmarried woman, no longer of an age or situation to be under her father’s roof and protection – she is cast to the whim of the Goddess, or of any man whose eye lights on her.

And so Terach sets out. He takes along Abram and Sarai, as well as Lot. No mention is made of Nahor, Abram’s middle – and now only – brother, but he resurfaces at the end of next week’s Parasha when Abraham is told that he has had children. Nahor’s wife, Milcah, is Haran’s daughter (which makes Nahor her uncle). Haran is called (11:29) “father of Milcah and father of Yiscah.” Yiscah, Rashi tells us, is Sarai. Which makes her Abram’s niece, as well as Lot’s sister.

Abraham in fact treats Lot as a son. There is clearly a surrogate father-son relationship between them, a relationship that is underscored by the language in Pasuk 14:23 after Abram intervenes in the War of the Four Kings against Five I order to save Lot. “I will not even take a thread or a shoe-latchet…” an image that echoes the ceremony in which a man refuses to perform Levirate marriage with his brother’s widow. For this is not the relationship that will bring about Abram’s destiny.

Abram was, in fact, aware of this. How odd that his herdsmen should fight with the herdsmen of Lot, his nephew, his surrogate son. When they fight over ownership of the wells, Lot’s herdsmen tell Abram’s, “Your master has no children, so our master will inherit everything from him. What does it matter if we jump the gun a little and help ourselves to the water now?” Small wonder then that Abram’s response is to tell Lot, “this desert isn’t big enough for the both of us.”

Starting in this Parasha, and continuing throughout Torah, is a human replaying of the overarching theme of the Consequences of Creation: that things don’t turn out the way we plan, the way we wish. The way we pray.

Throughout the generations of the family of Abraham, we see over and over again the attempts of people to participate in the Destiny of Abraham. Nahor, for example, will father twelve sons: eight from his wife, and four from a concubine. This presages the family of Ya’akov. And yet, Nahor does not share in Abraham’s destiny. Hagar, as we shall see next week, attempts to enact – to pre-act – the Sacrifice of Abraham and Isaac. Yet she also does not share the Destiny of Abraham, even though her son Ishmael also fathers twelve tribes.

Chapter 15 opens with the mysterious scene of the Covenant Between the Pieces. Here, G-d lays out for Abram the Promise that will sustain him: the promise of children, of descendants. If there is any notion of immortality in Judaism, it is the fervent prayer that our children flourish, and their children, and theirs… G-d promises Abram a great reward, and Abram immediately shoots back: what good is any reward, as I continue without children? At verse 15:2 Abram asks whether “Demesheq Eliezer” will inherit his house. The language is somewhat complex. “Ben Mesheq” is not merely a “possessor”, but also a steward. “Demesheq Eliezer,” usually translated “Eliezer of Damascus,” probably actually means “Eliezer, the Head Steward of my Household.” Abram is afraid that his Yosef will actually become Pharaoh.

And then G-d promises Abram a biological son. A true heir. “And he believed in G-d” we read at 15:6, “and he reckoned it up to him Righteousness.”

Let us observe two amazing points about this Pasuk: first, that the subject of the second clause is ambiguous. It is translated and interpreted to mean that G-d accounted Abram’s belief as Righteousness. But the logic of the prose seems to want the same person to be the subject of both halves of the sentence, to balance the clauses, rather than setting them in opposition. The traditional reading makes sense if we break the Pasuk in two, ending it after Abram’s believing, and beginning the next Pasuk with G-d reckoning up Abram’s righteousness. The versification actually turns this Pasuk around: Abram believed G-d’s promise, and Abram now was satisfied with the weight of G-d’s Righteousness.

More astonishing is the implication of this moment: that Abram chooses to ally himself with G-d because G-d has promised Abram children. Isn’t this the very mechanism and mentality of the Idol Worshiper? That we believe in the deity when the deity promises us good things? And that we cease believing the moment the deity fails to come through? But see that G-d is working hard at this relationship. Abraham is the first level of ‘Am Israel. Abraham is being introduced gently and gradually to the process of Lech lecha. G-d describes Abraham’s descendants as being enslaved. But you, G-d tells him, do not worry. You shall live a long and prosperous life and die in good old age. All this, and children too? What more could a man ask for?

G-d has taken three starts at Creation to finally get the cosmic ball rolling. Adam was pure and simple, and along came Free Choice and the whole project came crashing down. Noach was created in absolute Righteousness. And still, his human inclination drove him to slaughter animals on an altar, to curse his own progeny. Now, with Abram – now renamed Abraham – G-d has finally found the balance. G-d’s true partner on Earth. This is balanced by Abram’s three attempts at finding a son. Lot, his surrogate / Levirate son does not work out, for Lot is not wicked, but neither is he wise. Eliezer, under the laws and social practices current in that time, could actually inherit from Abram. Favored slaves could be legally adopted, could legitimately inherit. Could even marry their owners and become fully enfranchised. But for Abraham, as for G-d, the third time’s the charm.

Abraham circumcises himself, his son Ishmael, and all the men of his household. Amazing as it is to realize, this is the sole action G-d requires of him. In return for the promise of wealth, of power, of a long life, of sons, G-d requires only that Abraham and his male descendants forever be circumcised. Over the generations and over the centuries, we shall see the intricate and intimate connection between the physical and the spiritual of which Torah is uniquely capable. It is not, as some would say, that we imbue physical objects with sanctity by doing Mitzvot. Rather, we link the spiritual – which is a feeling – to the physical – which is an extension of our body – by action and speech. Which is G-d-like. Which is how we become G-d’s partners in Creation.

You are not like Noach, says G-d. Noach walked only by means of G-d’s support. This is the plain meaning of the words that describe him. Et ha-Elokim hithalech Noach. “Noach got himself walking y means of G-d.” Now, G-d commands Abraham, Hithalech lefanai vehyeh tamim. “Walk before me and be whole.” The same words, but with an entirely new meaning.

You must walk by yourself, G-d is saying, for I must hide a little bit. In order for there to be a relationship, you have to learn to trust me. And I, says G-d, must learn to trust you.

And what has intervened? Lech lecha. It is you who must take responsibility for becoming whole, for becoming righteous. For making yourself holy. In fact, this is perhaps the first great lesson learned by G-d, who is now coming to terms with the Consequences of Creation. That te relationship between G-d and G-d’s creation must be balanced, must be two-sided. That, just as G-d wants things a certain way, we too want things our way. Or we are not capable of making things be other than as they are. We are not capable of being other than what we are.

Which is why we need to be open to hearing G-d’s constant call. Listen. Can you hear it? It’s Ha-Kadosh Baruch-Hu. It’s G-d. Calling you name.

Lech lecha.

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Noach - The Consequences of Creation II

2005-11-13T21:11:00.000-05:00

BS”D

Bereshit 6:9 – Noach ‘ish tzadik tamim hayah be-dorotav. This opening clause is translated: “Noach was a righteous and perfect man in his generations.” ‘Et ha-Elokim hithalech Noach. “Noach walked with G-d.”

Or, we can read the words of the Hebrew on the level of simple meaning, out of their context. This worked brilliantly last week, when Cain’s famous quote, usually translated as “I do not know. Am I my brother’s keeper?” was seen to read equally well – and with more profound effect – as “I did not know that I am my brother’s keeper!” How does our friend Noach fare when subjected to the same treatment?

“Noach is a simply righteous man; he was in his generations. Noach made himself walk by means of G-d.” And there, I say, you have the whole story.

The Zohar, commenting on the notion that Noach was Tzaddik and Tamim – generally translated as Righteous and Perfect – tells us that Noach was born already circumcised. But Noach’s Righteousness is suspect: indeed, as Moshe stands in the hour of his own death, the Midrash tells us how he argued both with G-d and with all the righteous of Israel. Of Noach, Moshe says to G-d, “Do not mention me in the same breath as you name that wicked man!” Moshe reminds Noach that he, Noach, was told of the destruction of the world, yet spoke not a word to save anyone. Moshe, by contrast, was told repeatedly of the impending destruction of Klal Israel, yet every time he stepped boldly forward and argued to save us all.

Let us dissect this complex and mysterious hero.

First, to the notion of Tamim. The word is related to Tam, meaning Whole or Simple. Ya’akov will be described as ‘ish tam- a simple man, or perhaps, a quiet man. A dweller in tents. The word comes from the root meaning Whole, and actually signifies a closed circle. Tam – spelled Taf, Mem – is Simple. Tamim is Whole. Tamam is Perfect. Through consonantal substitution, a process not uncommon in the development of the Hebrew language, the word Tamei, spelled not with the letter Taf, but with Tet, also derives from the same root, and evokes an image of the edges of a hole swelling up until they seal the hole closed entirely. What are we to make of this?

When one is Tam, the circle is clear, is simple. The purpose of the circle is to create an emptiness, a space that invites. Invites what? Other peole? The Divine? But here is the crux of Tam: there is space in the center and one waits to be filled. When one is Tamim or Tamam, the circle begins to thrive, to take on a significance unto itself. Now the space at the center is no longer more important than the boundaries that form the circle. But what is a circle, if not merely an imagined limit to a round, empty space? When the Mishkan is build, G-d will speak to Moshe from the center of just such a circle. Yet, Noach did not have to build a Mishkan, for he was born in simple perfection.

Finally, when the circle becomes all-powerful, the center is closed off. Forgotten. Whatever inhabited that center space – other humans, family or society… G-d – gone, all of it crushed under the weight of the ego. Tam has transmuted into Tamei. Significantly, when one is Tamei, one must leave the circle, for the ritually impure – which is what the word means – are forced to leave the camp for a prescribed period, until they are cleansed of their impurity. Social groups take their identity in two basic ways: either by Inclusion, or by Exclusion. You are One of Us – or We are not allowed to become One of Them.

So was Noach. Born circumcised because, unlike the first Creation, G-d did not want to take the risk that Free Choice would bring the entire project tumbling down a second time. Creation was moving along just fine until Life entered the picture. So G-d decides to do away with all Life, selecting one man and his immediate family to be survivors. As G-d will strut and swoop and rage later on to impress the Egyptians, G-d here seems convinced that, if G-d can show one person concretely just how powerful G-d is – and if G-d can make just one person eternally grateful for that person’s relationship with G-d – then Free Choice will not be a threat to order. We say that G-d created the world for us, for each and every one of us. Noach was the only person for whose sake G-d destroyed the world. A bad point of departure, to be sure. But who knew?

It is a commonplace to say that this Parasha is a re-Creation; that Noach is Creation’s second chance. Perhaps the imagery is itself the message. At the beginning of Parashat Bereshit, we read that (1:2) “… the Spirit of G-d hovers on the face of the water…” There is water before the first Act of Creation. G-d’s first act – to speak – comes immediately after G-d’s spirit hovers on the waters. The very next Pasuk, in fact. Perhaps, then, the G-d who is the protagonist of this book perceives a world covered with water as a null point, a point of departure for Creation. In any event, this is exactly the situation G-d re-creates in this Parasha: the earth is covered with water, and from this primeval point, G-d launches the Second Act of Creation.

There is a poetic structure to the opening Parshiyot that underscores the intellectual and spiritual development of our tale – one could argue that it is G-d who is developing. As we shall see at the end of this Parasha, nothing about the world or humanity changes, for all the hard work G-d puts in, but we also see at the end of this Parasha that G-d learns a valuable lesson.

The opening Pasuk of our Parasha repeats the name Noach: ‘Eleh toledot Noach – Noach ‘ish tzaddik tamim haya be-dorotav. This mirrors the opening words of the first Parasha – Bereshit bara- where the three letters Beit, Resh, Aleph, repeat in successive words. Next week, of course, we shall read the opening words Lech lecha – spelled identically, pronounced differently. The poetic symmetry of this repetition – Bra / bra – Noach / Noach – Lech lecha – is undeniable. These three Parshiyot do repeat the fundamental theme of Creation. The first time, G-d creates humans with Free Choice, assuming that we shall naturally choose to do exactly as we are told. The second time – today’s Parasha – G-d removes Noach’s Free Choice, making him a perfect Tzaddik from the moment of birth.

The outcome is a failure – as should have been predictable. No sooner does Noach exit the Ark then he slaughters animals on an altar. Tellingly, Rashi says that Noach reasoned that G-d could only have told him to bring seven each of the Tahor (Pure) animals in order for him to bring sacrifices after the flood abated. And no sooner does G-d smell the smoke of the offerings than G-d rethinks the entire project of Creation. At 8:21, G-d smells the sacrifices and soliloquizes: I shall not curse the Earth for the sake of humans any longer – this is a literal retraction and reversal of the Curse of Adam, where G-d cursed the earth “for the sake of humans.” Here, now, G-d comes to an important realization: “For now I see that the imagination of the mind of humans is evil from youth.” The language is slightly ambiguous – it is not clear whether the antecedent of “from his youth” is the human, or the imagination of the human. The traditional translation is that the imagination of the mind of humans is evil from their childhood – the childhood of humans. This implies that we come up with wicked thoughts from the time we are able to think on our own. The second reading has G-d reflecting that the human imagination is intrinsically evil; that all our thoughts arise from an evil impetus. Either way, it is not felicitous. In fact, it is most probable that both readings are correct. It is most likely for this reason that Rashi comments on this verse as he does. Why does Rashi give us Noach’s thought process? By giving us this insight into Noach’s mind, Rashi is clearly pointing to the fact that G-d never commanded him to bring sacrifices – and to the likelihood that perhaps G-d never intended this. After all, humanity does not have a good track record where bringing offerings is concerned.

So G-d removes the curse of the earth, in effect relenting. G-d has learned that humans are incorrigible. That even destroying the entire world for the sake of one man does not buy Noach’s cooperation. On a homiletical level, just as G-d gave Cain the ‘ot – the Letter – this time, G-d placed Noach in a teva – a Word. It does not seem to have helped much. G-d recognizes that this is a difficult lesson to learn. I will place my bow in the heavens, G-d says, so that when I lose my temper, it will rise before my eyes and remind me. I make my Covenant with you, G-d says to Noach. Go ahead, G-d says, eat meat, take and dominate the Earth, for I realize that I can not prevent you. This theme will repeat, perhaps most notably when we are wandering in the Midbar and G-d gives us permission to eat Meat of Appetite. G-d has placed Free Choice into the mix. This remains the one aspect of Creation that G-d can not dominate. Indeed, G-d will repeatedly have tremendous difficulty coming to terms with it. If the rainbow does not appear in the sky, G-d says, if the bright flashing bow of light does not strike across my eyes, I may forget my Covenant, for all that I have sworn it.

Noach, who is famously silent throughout the Parasha, finally opens his mouth as a result of drinking wine. This is a repeat, of course, of the Chava and Adam tale with the forbidden fruit. Let us recall that the Gemara, in discussing the story of Adam and Chava in the Garden, argues about the identity of the fruit. One of the opinions is that it was grapes. Wine.

Noach’s first words are the curse he pronounces upon his own grandson, Cana’an, in the aftermath of his drunkenness. Echoing G-d’s first Act of Creation – introduced by the same Vayomer – And he said – Noach creates the situation that dominates our history to this day: the antagonistic relationship that is destined to prevail through all of human history between the sons of Shem and the sons of Cana’an. The curse of Noach will be mitigated from time to time by the blessings of Abraham, of Yitzhak, of Ya’akov upon their own children. But the scene has been set and will remain immutable for all time. It is for us to live with its consequences, to make the world perfect in spite of this.

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Bereshit - The Consequences of Creation

2005-10-30T18:48:00.000-05:00

BS”D

Rashi opens his commentary on Torah by quoting Rabbi Yitzhak: The Torah is a book of laws; as such, it should begin from Sefer Shemot 12:2: “This month shall be for you…” which is the first Law given to the Natikon of Israel. Why does it, rather, begin with the story of Creation?

Before addressing Rashi’s question, it is always important to ask ourselves why Rashi is asking a particular question. What is Rashi getting at when he raises this issue? Perhaps it is that the Torah is not a book of laws. Certainly, it is not merely a book of laws, but, as ChaZaL point out, it is a document whose purpose is to demonstrate the greatness, the incomprehensibleness, the vastness of G-d the Creator. This is the message of Torah, insofar as we humans can approach an understanding of G-d.

The very first Midrash opens and says that G-d looked into Torah and created the world. Like a contractor building a house from a blueprint, G-d formed the Cosmos, all the while looking into Torah. The Torah is both by G-d and about G-d. It is about G-d and us, about G-d’s relation to G-d’s Creation – and the converse. It is about us, about Klal Israel, and about all humanity. And it is about itself. As a work of meta-literature, the Torah is the first, the grandest and still the most profound literary work in history. From a perspective of literary structure, meta-literature, self-referential stylistics and internal poetic referential structure, it remains unsurpassed. Add to that the layer upon layer of exegesis: tens of thousands of the most brilliant, most spiritual, most dedicated people in human history have spent the last three thousand-plus years analyzing and examining every nuance and shade of meaning in this text. There is no more fertile ground in all of human endeavor.

We have just come through the holiday period: the period from Tisha Be’Av through to Yom Kippur that replays the history of the giving of Torah; the awesome days of Rosh HaShana, the reconciliation and drawing-close of Kippus, followed by Succot, which commemorates our wanderings in the Midbar; crowned by Simhat Torah, the day on which we finish – and start – reading the Torah. The crown of the Chagim; in many respects, the holiest day of the year.

In the prayer service of Succot and Simhat Torah we say, “… You have exalted us above all languages, and sanctified us with Your Mitzvot…” The relationship of Klal Israel to the Hebrew language, to the very act of speech and to the notion of language, is fundamental to our identity. And it is from our relationship to this text that the Mitzvot and our entire identity and way of life emanate. It is how we relate to the world. Millennia before Wittgenstein, before Austin, before Derrida and the Deconstructionists, the Jewish people were wrestling with the fact that language, our most sophisticated tool for communication, cloaks more than it reveals. And the Torah itself, as emphasized by the Rambam, by Rashi, and by so many of the great Rabbis, is a mass of images and metaphors. Rashi says of the opening verse of Torah, “This passage cries out for interpretation…” The same can be said of every verse in TaNaCh.

Let us examine the Act of Creation. G-d creates the world in a fourfold act, components of which repeat throughout Torah, with resonant effect.

Bereshit barah Elokim… “In the beginning G-d created…” The Ba’al HaTanya says that the verb barah is the moment of creation ex nihilo. What the Rabbis call yesh me-ayin. Something from nothing. It is the moment, he says, when Being separates from Nothingness. Indeed, after that infinitely minute moment, all has changed. For All has come to be. There is the Before – a time in which there is no Time, no before, no thing. And there is After – the moment the world of Space, Time and Motion comes into existence. The rest is development.

The word barah derives from the root R’AH meaning To see. At the Beginning the world was be-r’ah Elokim – “in vision” of G-d. The Cosmos was a vision in G-d’s mind. And then G-d acted to make it real.

As anyone who has ever written a poem can attest – as anyone who has ever composed a song, written a novel, painted a picture, raised a child – can tell you, projects do not always work out as we first envision them, but the realization is always different from the concept. Often so much so as to be unrecognizable. The text we are now embarking on resonates with this tension – sometimes to G-d’s delight; much more frequently to G-d’s disappointment and rage. If you are troubled by the Anthropomorphism of this approach, you need to recognize that, as Harold Bloom has observed, the text before us is, ultimately, the only means we have for relating to G-d. In human terms, the evidence for G-d’s personality, for G-d’s intent – indeed, for G-d’s very existence – is its own self. The Torah stands alone, aloof and lonely in human terms; magnificent and infinite and eternal in Cosmic terms. Chazal say that G-d and G-d’s Torah are one, yet the existence of the Torah is confusing to us humans. For we see the Torah, we can touch and hold and read and debate and interpret it. But G-d…? G-d is the unknowable presence that hovers over Torah. We can wrestle with the meanings of Torah, for they are expressed in language. And through trying to learn that language, we hope to come to communion with G-d.

G-d’s Acts of Creation are Four.

And G-d Said (Vayomer Elokim…) The verb used here, from the root amar, recurs throughout Torah, generally to introduce something new, as in the oft-repeated phrase Vayidebr HaShem el Moshe lemor – This phrase always introduces new commands, new Mitzvot. It is the ultimate sign that something new is about to come into existence.

The second Act of Creation is: And G-d Saw (Vayar Elokim et ha-or…) “And G-d saw the light…) After bringing something into existence, G-d contemplates it, as though studying it to glean its essence. This is not a random image, for the Bible itself tells us that the world was created with the attributes of Chochmah, Binah, and Da’at: Wisdom, Understanding, and Knowledge – the initials of these words give us the acronym ChaBaD, from which the Ba’al HaTanya derives his approach to Chassidus.

The third Act of Creation is: And G-d Separated (Vayavdel Elokim bein ha-or u-bein ha-choshech…) “And G-d divided between the light and the darkness…” The true wonder and miracle of existence is differentiation. The wonder of human existence: that so many living beings with nearly identical DNA structures are so very different. Neoplatonist thought, that so heavily influences the Kaballah, posits that the universe is perfect because it contains everything; that if it were possible for something to exist, and that thing did not exist, the universe would be less than perfect. The notion of differentiation leaps out at our perception as the most obvious and startling wonder of the world.

The fourth and final Act of Creation: And G-d Called (Vayikra Elokim et ha-or yom…) Or, as Aviva Zornberg points out, the expression can mean, equally, “And G-d read…” The same verb comprises both meanings. Now we are on the Torah’s home ground.

G-d Speaks, then Observes the result of this speech. After study, G-d Divides the results into discreet packages, then Calls them a name, thereby instructing them in how to behave. Or perhaps, then G-d Reads them in the Torah, to make sure the realization matches the concept from the blueprint. Rashi, on the phrase “And G-d called the Light, Day…” says that G-d calls out to the components of Creation, instructing them as to their tasks and responsibilities.

The creation of humans emerges along similar lines. We shall return to the crux of the problems that arise as the consequence of creation in a moment. First, though, let us notice how identity emerges.

G-d fashions the first human from the Earth, and we are told that the first person is called Adam, because G-d fashioned this person from the Earth (Hebrew: Adamah). The Hebrew language uses the final letter Heh to indicate possession or direction – movement towards (Mizraimah – Towards Egypt). Adam derives his identity as a human being from his relationship with the Earth. Adam / Adamah. It is only after the woman is created that his identity as a male is established. The text tells us that the first human was created Male and Female. After Chava is separated from Adam’s body, they then differentiate. She is Woman (Ishah) and he is Man (Ish). The identity of the Male emerges from his reflection in the existence of the Female, and this is explicit in the language. Ish comes from Ishah just as Adam derives from Adamah.

What is the root of the breakdown in the Creation story? Chava gets much bad press, as being the cause of the “Fall of Man.” And while she is not blameless in this matter, it is far more complex than her being the wicked seductress.

At chapter 1, verse 11, G-d instructs the Earth to put forth grass, vegetation, and trees. The trees are to be ‘Etz pri, ‘oseh pri´- “Wood of fruit, making fruit.” Rashi pounces on this expression and when, in the very next verse, the Earth puts forth ’Etz ‘oseh pri - “Trees [wood] making fruit…” Rashi points out that the Earth disobeyed G-d’s command. The trees were to be made of wood that tasted like the fruit they bore. Instead, they merely put forth the fruit, the wood tastes only like… wood. Rashi says that, for this disobedience, the Earth was cursed.

The Consequences of Creation emerge immediately. By the third day, when G-d introduces Life, things begin to get out of hand. Life. Unpredictable, self perpetuating. Life, an urgent, yearning and all-powerful force. Life, that seeks its own continuity in the face of every obstacle – even against the direct command of G-d. And within the first thirteen Psukim of Torah, we have Sin (verse 11) and its establishment in the world; we have, if not Forgiveness, still some measure of acceptance of a flawed world (verse 12: And G-d saw that it was good – G-d seems to accept this error on its own terms); and we have reconciliation. We have Atonement, as G-d puts the incident behind and moves forward: “And it was evening, and it was morning: a third day.” But it does not rest there, for G-d has a tendency to bear a grudge.

When Chava and Adam eat the fruit, they are eating the very instrument of Earth’s disobedience. The poetic justice of this comes full circle when, in punishing Adam, G-d punishes the Earth itself – at 3:17. More: how does G-d expect Adam not to be disobedient, seeing that Adam was created from 'adamah - Earth - the very first element in Creation to disobey the Creator?

What is the nature of this Forbidden Fruit? It has been said that Adam had only one Mitzvah – not to eat the fruit – and even that one he could not keep. This is a simple reading of the narrative. Rabbeinu Bachaye has a more subtle reading, and one which sheds light on the overall narrative. Adam actually had two Mitizvot.

At Bereshit 2:16, we have the first instance of G-d re-using the instrument of Creation to introduce a new concept. Vayitzav HaShem Elokim ‘al ha-adam lemor… “And G-d commanded Adam, saying…” The command is that Adam is to eat from all the trees of the garden. The duplicative verb form – ‘achol tochal – usually translated “You shall surely eat,” here makes its first appearance, and it is an order. In the very next Pasuk, Adam is likewise commanded not to eat from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Bad because, G-d says, on the day you eat from it, mot tamut. This last clause is usually translated “You shall surely die.” But this seems a misleading translation.

Chava gets a bum rap as being responsible for bringing Death into the world. A plain reading of the text indicates otherwise. Indeed, the entire traditional Jewish approach to the position of women emerges, not from the Torah itself, but is bound up with the practices of Islam and other earlier cultures and religions from that part of the world, from practices and cultural strictures that clearly predate the giving of Torah, where women were subjugated, sequestered, and forced into strictly-defined roles in religion, family and the society at large. The paradox of Judaism is that we were among the very first nations to free women from the oppression under which they labored – but that what was radically progressive then is now pathetically retrograde. We changed the world and freed women three thousand years ago – and they have held the same status ever since. Today, Frum young men are warned not to date women who wear seatbelts while riding in a car, because the belts crossing lap and torso emphasize the female form, something a woman of modesty would not allow.

At Bereshit 3:22, after the encounter between G-d and Adam, Chava and the Snake, G-d speaks to the Heavenly Court and says, we must do something, lest the humans now eat from the Tree of Life and live forever. It would seem, then, that immortality was not the original plan.

Perhaps the interpretation lies in the language itself. Indeed, as with all great poetry, if we are confused as to the meaning of a Pasuk, it is generally best to return to the words themselves. Just as G-d commanded Adam ‘achol tochal – You shall eat, so the repetitive form in the following Pasuk may indicate something other than certainty of outcome.

In the day you eat from the forbidden tree, says G-d, mot tamut – I will command you to die. Prior to gaining Knowledge, humans did not view Death with anything more than the passing interest with which a fox might regard a stone, a lion a branch on a tree. After gaining Knowledge of Good and Bad, humans have an existential fear of Death. We now view Death as something G-d has imposed upon us, and no longer as merely another aspect of life. Indeed, G-d has commanded us to die – and at the very end of the Torah, G-d will command Moshe to die. We just read this passage, and it is striking that G-d does not tell Moshe “You shall die there,” but rather, using the imperative, “And die there.” As G-d opens G-d’s relationship with humans, so G-d closes G-d’s relationship with the greatest human of all. Even Moshe is not immune from the Curse of Adam.

G-d has inflicted death upon us. In the aftermath of the Eating of the Fruit, we are commanded to die, no less than we are commanded to give charity, to pray each day, and to keep Shabbat. Death is the final Mitzvah.

Rabbeinu Bachaye says that Adam had two Mitzvot: to eat from the trees of the garden, and not to eat from the Tree of Knowledge. Immediately after giving these two Mitzvot, G-d decides to create Chava. These two Mitzvot, says Bachaye, exemplify all of Torah, which is composed of Mitzvot ‘aseh (positive commandments) and Mitzvot lo ta’aseh (negative commandments). But, he continues, Adam was not capable of carrying out the Mitzvot, for Adam was Reason (Sechel) – the trait that separates humans from the other animals. But Reason without physical being (Guf) is not capable of action. Bachaye points out that the human is a blend of – and a conflict between – Mind and Body. And note that he uses the word Reason (Sechel) and not Wisdom (Hochmah). For Wisdom, as any observer of human history can surely tell us, is a long time coming, if at all.

In the combined and conflicted entity that is the human being, each component has a task. If each component performs according to its task, the Whole functions in harmony and all is well. If not, there is the potential for delay and disaster.

When the Snake approaches Chava, she replies that she is not permitted to eat the fruit, nor even to touch it. It is obvious to all readers that G-d did not prohibit touching the fruit. Why is that phrase in Chava’s mouth? Perhaps it is in order to point out the deeper contradiction: G-d did not prohibit Chava from eating the Fruit, but only Adam. When they are punished, G-d asks Adam, using the singular mode of address, did you eat the fruit? But G-d makes no mention of Chava’s eating. It appears that Adam conveyed the message wrong, and that Chava took it at face value.

Adam made the common human error of assuming that his own condition was universal. And Chava made the typical human error of not probing beyond the surface layer of meaning. How differently might the tale have ended if Adam had thought clearly and if Chava had probed to understand the root meaning of G-d’s command!

And what is the nature of Good and Evil, in the Eden narrative? It is clearly embedded in the notion of nakedness versus modesty. Or perhaps that is the human misinterpretation of what is Good and what is Evil. The Serpent narrative is introduced by the Pasuk (2:25) that they were both naked (‘arumim) and they were not ashamed. At chapter 3, verse 1, we meet the Snake – the Nachash – who is more ‘arum than all the beasts of the field that G-d had made. The word ‘arum in this context is translated as “subtle” or “devious,” but comes from the same root as the word meaning Naked – underlying this root is the meaning of “bright”, “clear”, “shining.” When we are naked, we can either be unencumbered or, if we feel guilt, we can be encumbered. We are either free in our nudity, or we are prisoners of our nakedness. The outcome of eating the fruit is that Adam and Chava become aware of their nakedness and experience Shame.

Now we understand the Mitzvah of Death. We suffer from the knowledge that the world will goon without us. And so we seek immortality or some substitute – usually grounded in bending other people to our will. We are painfully aware of the human condition. We clothe ourselves to protect ourselves, not merely from the elements, but to put barriers between our Self and the opinions of others. To hide from G-d, and from ourselves. As Mark Twain puts it: “Man is the only animal that blushes – or needs to.”

But there is a further, and far greater Evil to be confronted in the next generation. Cain, the firstborn of the World, commits the first murder, performs the first act of contrition, and becomes the first hero in Torah.

Cain is the firstborn of humanity – a status not to be taken lightly, for we are all his nieces and nephews. And Cain, by gratitude, seeks to please G-d with a gift, a Freewill Offering.

At Bereshit 41:9, Parashat Miketz, Pharaoh’s Cupbearer approaches with trepidation to tell Pharaoh about Yosef. “I am reminding you of my sins today,” he says – please, he begs, don’t become angry with me all over again – in order to tell Pharaoh about Yosef, the Saar HaMashkim must remind Pharaoh that Pharaoh threw him into prison.

How was Cain to know that, by bringing G-d a gift of the Fruits of the Earth, he would be reminding G-d of the very first Sin in Creation, of the Earth’s disobedience? And G-d, unlike Pharaoh, does not have a penchant for being forgiving.

Unlike a human Monarch, G-d has no need of confederates, of Palace spies, of secret partisans to uphold his rule. G-d, as we shall see over and over throughout the Torah, becomes impatient very easily and, brushing aside those who don’t Get It right off the bat, is eager to move on to someone more compliant.

“What are you so upset about?” G-d asks Cain dismissively at Bereshit 4:6 and 7. “Isn’t it true that you can improve yourself if you try?” All this while, Cain is watching in dumbfounded anger as G-d slurps up the savory stew prepared by Hevel, the younger brother. Not for the last time, the second-born has usurped the place of the firstborn. Just as Ya’akov will steal the Berachah from his brother by bringing their father a pot of meat stew, Hevel has brushed his own brother aside by bringing G-d an offering from the flocks.

Esav swears to kill Ya’akov, but never carries out his plan. Cain, on the other hand, is quick to act and not fettered by notions of morality. The only thing humans are troubled by at this point in our history is nakedness.

It is only after the fact that both G-d and Cain are struck by the enormity of the deed. At Bereshit 4:9, G-d asks Cain where his brother is. The famous sentence of reply is capable of more than one reading, and I prefer to see it in what makes more sense to the narrative:

“I did not know that I am my brother’s keeper!”

Cain is in agony, because he has discovered, too late, that he was responsible to protect and care for his brother; that killing his own brother comes under the category of Bad. Indeed, G-d, too, is in agony. In G-d’s mind, notions of human Good and Bad come under control of appetites. Don’t eat the fruit. Don’t turn nakedness from the pure natural state into the state of lust and uncontrolled desire. But this? G-d never conceived that people would slay one another. “Your brother’s blood cries out to me from the earth!” G-d says, and G-d’s anguish and shock are on a par with Cain’s.

And now, for the first time, a human being suffers remorse and openly shrieks his agony before G-d, begging for help that he knows can never come.

When G-d asks Adam whether he ate the fruit, Adam is quick to point, first to G-d, then to Chava. “You gave me the woman, and she gave me the fruit!” Chava, likewise, points to the Snake.

Not so their firstborn. Cain has observed his parents’ naïve duplicity at close quarters, and he knows error in himself when he sees it. Now, immediately after the fact, he is horrified at his own actions – the irretrievability of it, the fact that, after all, just as his Father abandoned his Mother, just as his Mother failed his Father, so too Cain has failed his own closest flesh and blood. Like Yosef, who knows that his brothers will not stand for one another, Cain sees all too clearly the tragic wages of self-seeking pettiness, and his anguish at falling victim to the family Karma is every bit as great as his anguish at the act itself.

But Cain still has one remedy remaining. Unlike his parents, Cain steps up before G-d and wails acknowledgement of his act. He confesses his sin and asks, not for forgiveness – which he seems to recognize is an impossibility – but for some remedy in this, his life on earth. “I will be slain!” he sobs before G-d. Cain is the first human to do Teshuvah. He experiences Remorse, he Confesses his sin before G-d, and he has learned the lesson and Resolved that his future life will be different. At 4:13 he uses the word ‘avon, which translates as Iniquity, and represents sinful acts undertaken with the full knowledge that they are sinful, as opposed to chet, which is inadvertent sin.

G-d – the character in our text – has much to learn about the unpredictable nature of Life, and still more to learn about dealing with human beings. It will not be until G-d meets the ultimate Chavrusa – Moshe Rabbeinu – that the full relationship between G-d and G-d’s Creation will flourish. Still, G-d recognizes that humans need help.

Rashi tells us that G-d created the Torah two thousand years before G-d created the cosmos. And, as we have already seen, it is from the blueprint of Torah that the house of the World was built. G-d recognizes that humans need guidance. That G-d can not plant every possible thought and remedy to every possible contingency in the mind of every human being. That is the nature of Free Choice: that the error and thought and deviousness and self-delusion of the human mind are every bit as infinite as the mind of G-d.

But G-d can impart to us the blueprint of the house in which we dwell. And so, in response to Cain’s genuine remorse and Teshuvah, G-d begins the process of the giving-over of Torah. We are not yet at Sinai, we do not have a Moshe to stand between us and G-d and receive and convey, analyze and interpret and transmit Torah. Indeed, it may be that G-d has not yet decided to put Torah into human language – to give word to G-d’s Word. But clearly something must be done.

At Bereshit 4:15, G-d responds to Cain’s urgent plea. “Thus,” G-d says, “whoever kills Cain, it shall be established sevenfold.” Rashi tells us this means the vengeance of Cain will last seven generations. Or perhaps that it shall delay seven generations, but vengeance will surely come. G-d is making explicit the Torah’s version of the Law of Karma. What Goes Around, Comes Around.

And what does Cain receive from G-d? Va-yasem HaShem le-Cain ‘ot… “And G-d gave [or ‘placed upon’] Cain a sign…” The word ‘ot means “a sign.” And the traditional reading is that G-d placed a sign upon him – the so-called “mark of Cain.”

But this word also has another meaning: a letter.

We shall see next week that G-d goes still further with Noach. And ultimately, G-d fosters the creation of ‘Am Israel and through us gives the entire Torah to humanity. All bound up in language.

When we study Torah, we recognize that, in order to fully understand any one piece of Torah, we end up cycling through all of Torah. Do we have only one Pasuk? We must read all of Torah to fully understand it in context. Do we have only one word? Read it in its Pasuk, the Pasuk in its Parasha, and the Parasha in context of the entire work.

All that Cain receives in recompense for his tragedy, in recognition of his penitence, is a single letter. From it, he will have to derive all of Torah. It seems not much. But it will have to do.

Yours for a better world.

Ve-Zot Ha-Berachah - To Begin Again

2005-10-27T23:33:00.000-04:00

BS”D

Torah tzivah lanu Moshe – morashah kehillat Ya’akov.

“The Torah that Moshe commanded unto us – an inheritance for the congregation of Jacob.”

The Torah that Moshe commanded unto us? Is it not G-d who commanded the Torah to us? And does not G-d give the Congregation of Jacob its inheritance? In the ambiguity surrounding the authorship of Sefer Devarim, it is possible that Moshe chose to sing his own praises, to emphasize his own role as a member of the two-partner team that brought Torah to Am Israel. The ambiguity, rather, regarding the method of authorship. There are many shadings of interpretation as to just how Moshe “wrote” Sefer Devarim, but nearly all major Meforshim seem to agree that Moshe had more input into this Book than the other four. But, to magnify the praises heaped on Moshe in this final Parasha, the Midrash removes from Moshe all initiative in setting down these words and puts the action all in G-d’s hands.

We shall return BS”D at the end of this section to the matter of praising Moshe. First, we shall discuss what some Meforshim have focused on as the Missing Berachah.

The Torah always enumerates the sons of Ya’akov as Twelve. IN various configurations, and at various times and for varied purposes, the text chooses among the Tribes to come up with a listing of twelve. Generally, Menashe and Ephraim replace Yosef. In this context, they are referred to as “half-tribes”, so that the listing of thirteen names does not violate the integrity of twelve tribes being listed. In today’s Parasha, however, the list is configured differently. Shimon is missing, completely excluded from mention. Why is this? We shall touch on a few of the traditional explanations, then attempt to delve into this matter ourselves.

As yet another aside, let us also observe a few oddities about this Parasha: It is the only Parasha that does not have a Shabbat named for it, as it is never read on Shabbat. Presaging the Rabbinic holidays – Purim and Tisha Be’Av – it is the only Parasha read at night. True, the text is repeated the following morning, but like Megillat Esther and Eichah, the crux of the reading is the night. Although the holiday is one of rejoicing, the day is introduced with the reading of the death of Moshe. The transfer of authority to Yehoshua is a poor substitute, yet one we must learn to not only live with, but embrace fervently.

Is this, then, what we celebrate? That Moshe dies, punished – and G-d rubs his face in it one last time in the concluding verses – by being prevented from entering the Land? The majestic gift that G-d grants G-d’s great and cherished Servant, the panoramic view of Eretz Israel, is spoiled by G-d then mentioning to Moshe that he is forbidden entry because he sinned.

The Midrash tells us that, in this moment, G-d showed Moshe not only the entire Land of Israel, but also the entire future history of the People. We shall return to this shortly.

The history of Blessings in the lineage of Abraham is instructive, to say the least. Abraham, constrained to keep the son he did not want, and to banish the one he desired, dutifully allocates the blessing of the father to the firstborn. The text tells that he gave Ishmael gifts, which Rashi explains means that Abraham taught Ishmael the secret arts of magic.

Yitzhak, constrained to give the Blessing of the Firstborn, unburdens himself of the full blessing in the Name of G-d. When he realizes that he must give a second blessing, he gives certain of the key elements this second time as well – the dew of the heavens and the fat places of the earth – and this time he blesses in his own name only. Yitzhak, the most loving of the Avot, gives the first blessing as required – for he is also the most accepting – he gives the second out of pure love. Indeed, let us remember that the text, at Bereshit 25:28, explicitly tells us that Rivkah loved Yaakov, while Yitzhak loved Esav.

When Yaakov calls his sons to his bedside to be blessed, he is, for the first time, including all the family in the blessing. Now there will be no more exclusion. Ready or not, everyone in the Family of Jacob inherits the Blessing of Abraham. It is perhaps fitting, because there appears to be an evolving link between Blessing and Exile. And all the sons of Yaakov ultimately go into exile in Mizraim. Thus, perhaps for this reason, if no other, they merit the Berachah.

Yaakov stole the Blessing, then was promptly exiled from his home. Ultimately, he will die in exile, in Mizraim. Yosef and his brothers inherit the Blessing, and all of them die in Mizraim. Now, finally, at the end of the Torah, the Blessings are about to be handed on to the new generation. This time it is Moshe, the giver of the blessing, who will die in exile, while those who receive it shall march on to dwell in the Land.

How does Moshe react to this? One might imagine he would be depressed, perhaps angry that, at the end of his mighty task, G-d could not overlook a minor infraction. But the text does not bear this out. The Parasha begins “Ve-zot ha-berachah…” – “And this is the blessing…” The word Zot – This – is one of the words in Torah that can either separate or connect. Similar to the word Eleh – These. These are words that, when they begin a section, separate that section from what has come before. However, when these words are preceded by the conjunction “And” – Ve – they serve to connect the sections, rather than to differentiate. G-d has just finished telling Moshe that he will not live to enter the Land. That he will die here, in the Midbar, within sight of the Promised Land. And Moshe’s reaction? Ve-zot – unhesitating, with neither anger nor resentment, but with a pure exuberance at the knowledge that ‘Am Israel is about to enter the Land, Moshe launches into his own Blessing on the Tribes. Of all the People of Israel, Moshe is now the only one who shall not cross over. For the dying of the years of wandering is over and done. The punishment of the Spies has been played out, the toll exacted in full measure. And Moshe, knowing all this, accepts his lonesome and lonely fate.

As Yaakov included all his sons in his Blessing, Moshe goes one step further. For he gives one blessing to the nations. Ve-zot ha-berachah – and this is the blessing. Not multiple blessings, as Yaakov apportioned to his sons, but one blessing that changes form to fit the personalities of the tribes on whom it rests.

And so we return to our question: Why is Shimon excluded from the Blessing? The traditional explanation seems to rest on the historical notion that the Tribe of Shimon actually settles in the portion of Yehudah and, as the Torah always wants to list only twelve names, this was the most appropriate one to leave out.

But what else do we know about Shimon?

At Bereshit 42:24, Yosef takes Shimon from his brothers as a guaranty. He sends the other brothers away and locks Shimon in jail. (In the text, he is in the “pit” – “bor”) According to Rashi, it was Shimon who spoke up and suggested to his brothers that they throw Yosef down the pit. On the simplest level, Yosef is giving Shimon tit for tat, added to which is the common Biblical twist that, with Shimon out of the picture, his younger brother Levi supplants him.

But what else do we know about Shimon? What we know about all the brothers – and which Yosef knows only too well – is that they abandon one another. They have yet to learn the lesson that Yehudah will ultimately learn from Tamar, one of the great teachers in Biblical literature. They have yet to learn to stand for one another. The only brothers among the brethren who have shown evidence of sibling love are Shimon and Levi. If there is ever a chance that the brothers will return, Yosef knows only too well, the only brother who might care enough to come back is Levi. And, though ultimately their return to Mizraim is forced by famine, it is Levi who becomes the savior of the nation, through Moshe, Aharon and Miriam.

And, like Shimon, who has no portion in the Blessing, Levi has no portion in the Land. When will they be reunited? This unresolved tension in the apportioning of both physical and spiritual plenty is the underlying metaphor of the Jewish Nation. We are the People of Torah. It is our task and duty and blessing and burden to live by Torah – not behind closed doors, but to bring Torah out into the day-to-day world and transform the world and ourselves. Only when we fully live in and through and for and by Torah can we ultimately re-unite the physical with the spiritual. Only then will the separated halves be rejoined, and the unity restored. Only then can we ever hope to become whole.

And so to the death of Moshe.

And let us not dwell on the great and profound and poetic and moving poetry of the Midrash – the poignancy of death, of loss, of leaving behind this sad and beautiful world. But to give Moshe one final farewell.

G-d tells Moshe that he must die, for that is the fate of all living. Very well, says Moshe, but when I die, let the heavens and the deep open up and proclaim the unity of G-d, saying Ein ‘od – There is no other.

G-d says, I will do you better than that, Moshe. With your own words, I shall bless you. And so it is that we read, at Devarim 34:10, that there never arose again a Navi in Israel such as Moshe – ‘Od – never again.

But no, says Moshe. No, G-d. You’ve got it wrong. Moshe pleads, desperate to make G-d see his urgent meaning. For Moshe desires, not so much the praise of G-d, as to deliver a permanent and resounding message to ‘Am Israel that there is no other besides G-d. For Moshe still fears – nay, he knows – that we will break away from Torah and go lusting after other gods. Very well, Moshe says, if you will not announce Your greatness from the depths of Creation, then please promise me that you will prevent Israel from ever straying from your Torah.

But, G-d gently replies, they have Free Will.

On one level, Moshe is begging for a final affirmation. Will we leave the path he has striven to carve out for us? Now that he is leaving us, will we abandon Torah and follow our own whims? Now, in the final moments of his life, Moshe desperately asks for affirmation that he has not lived and striven in vain. And G-d – all G-d can do is gently and lovingly admonish Moshe that, just as G-d had to learn to accommodate the vagaries of Free Choice, so too, Moshe must have a certain faith in the Nation of Israel. And, beyond that, he must… let go.

Now, at the end of our tale, G-d is the teacher who gently reminds G-d’s finest pupil: These are the Consequences of Creation. These People you have led from slavery to nationhood, from agony to plenty, from deprivation and debasement to spiritual royalty. From blind and desperate obedience to the Rule of Law, from animality to the creation of a just society. These people, G-d reminds Moshe, they are only human. Some will follow, many will strive and struggle, but many will fail. All you can do, Moshe, is place your Torah before them and pray that, in whatever measure they are able, they will embrace it.

And so, as a final farewell to Moshe, and a final and powerful attestation of his greatness, Rashi quotes one last Midrash – that, upon the moment that Moshe dashed the first set of stone tablets to the ground, shattering them, G-d responded Yishar kochacha sheh-shibarta! – Good for you that you broke them!

For surely, if we have learned anything about Truth, about Wisdom, about Justice – indeed, about Torah – it is that we must each struggle with it, that each of us must wrestle with Torah and make it yield its meaning. Only then can we truly be said to possess Torah.

Torah can be won, Chazal say, only if we are willing to kill ourselves in the struggle to attain Torah. Through Chochmah – the flash of insight – and Binah – the rigorous intellectual struggle to understand – through Da’at – the contemplative and active process whereby Torah becomes ingrained in our very being, becomes internalized, becomes inseparable from us, and we from it – through total dedication, we can bring Torah into this world day by day, moment by moment. One life at a time.

It is up to us. For, if we have learned anything at all about Torah, it is this: It is not carved in stone.

Chazak!

Parashat Ha'azinu - The Song of Creation

2005-10-22T23:32:00.000-04:00

BS”D

And so the Torah has been given. Moshe, having charged us to “Be strong and brave”, prepares to take his leave on this, the last day of his life. Before he departs, he has one final gift for us. Having given us the Torah, Moshe now shows us how to use it. In this brief and intensely powerful poem, Moshe gives us the entire history of the cosmos, as seen from the perspective of ‘Am Israel.

As the Torah itself begins with Ma’aseh Bereshit, the Act of Creation, so Moshe’s song begins with a recap of the first week.

Bereshit 1:1 – G-d creates Heaven and Earth. Day One.
Ha’azinu – Shemot 32:1 – “Give ear, Heavens… and the Earth shall hear…”
Bereshit 1:6 – “And G-d separated between the Waters and the Waters…” Day Two.
Shemot 32:2 – “My doctrine will drop like Rain, my speaking distill like Dew; as light rain on Grass, and as showers on the Herb.” The Waters Above, and the Waters Below.
Bereshit 1:11 – G-d commands the Earth to put forth Grass and Herbs. Day Three.
Shemot 32:2 – “… on Grass… on Herb”
Bereshit 1:14 – “To be Days and Years…” Day Four.
Shemot 32:7 – “Remember the Days of the world; consider the Years generation by generation…”
Bereshit 1:20 – G-d creates birds of flight. Day Five.
Shemot 32:11 – “As an Eagle stirring up the nest…”
Bereshit 1:24 – G-d creates wild beasts and cattle. Day Six.
Shemot 32:14 – “Cattle… sheep… Lambs… Rams… Goats…”
Bereshit 1:26 – “Let us make Humans in our image…” Day Six.
Shemot 32:14, 15 – “… and the blood of the grape – you drank the best wine.”; “And Yeshurun grew fat…”

Note that the association of humans is negative from the beginning. Does G-d not observe, in Parashat Noach, that our inclination is wicked from the outset? The sins of the first humans, and the first leaders of humanity – of Adam and of Noach – were sins of appetite, were a kind of drunkenness. The sin of Noach comes from drunkenness – as does the sin of Lot and his daughters, itself a min-replay of the story of Noach and his sons. The Gemara, arguing on the identity of the fruit eaten by Eve and Adam, puts forth one opinion that it is the grape – wine. Further, the name Yeshurun has in it the particle “Y /SH/ R” meaning upright. Homo erectus.

Upright, in the physical sense. Now the challenge is to become Yashar – morally upright. Nehama Lebowitz quotes the Zohar saying that the opening image, in Pasuk 2, of rain and dew is a metaphor for the Written Torah (Rain) and the Oral Torah (Dew). The one comes down from Heaven, the other manifests on Earth. The Written Torah has been transcribed and handed to us by Moshe. At the same time, he has shown us the way to “do” Oral Torah – all of Sefer Devarim is Oral Torah, in the sense that it is Moshe’s own telling / re-telling of the second, third and fourth books of Torah. It is our task to reunite Heaven and Earth, to fuse them into a whole – to make the Universe whole again.

But we must also recall that Division, Differentiation, Separation (Hevdel) is itself one of the fundamental acts of Creation. How then are we to undo what G-d has put in place? Or is that our assignment?

The task of unification is not of undoing G-d’s own work – as though that were within our power to accomplish. Rather, it is to drill down to the fundamental level where the underlying unity of G-d’s universe emerges. Torah is one. Not Written and Oral. Not Written but not Oral. Not Written versus Oral. Just Torah.

We shall return to this theme in a moment. First, let us dwell for a moment on the message of Moshe’s Song.

For Moshe is telling us of a terrible fate that appears to await us. It is, he says, our ineluctible destiny. This is the destiny which G-d feared to reveal to Abram at the Brit Bein Ha-Betarim – the Covenant Between the Pieces. When G-d told Abram that his descendants would be enslaved, but would ultimately triumph and be led out into freedom and with great wealth. Having said as much, G-d immediately hastens to reassure Abram that he will live a long life, a good life, and will fie a good death. Who could ask for more?

Now, though, Moshe is giving it to us straight from the shoulder. We will suffer, he says. We will suffer great tragedy. We will be scattered and will come near to total extinction. In a brief passage, Moshe gives us our entire future tragic history in a nutshell. Do we still want to be Jews? But unlike G-d, who was lulling Abram with sweet promises, Moshe is rubbing our faces in the reality. It may be a reality we are unprepared for. The Midrash says that Moshe keeps begging G-d to allow him to live forever. Human desires for immortality aside, Moshe recognizes that, without his leadership, we may be doomed. Indeed, without Moshe to intercede, G-d may come to destroy us in a fit of peevishness. And this is the greatest looming tragedy of all.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Moshe is telling us. G-d is vengeful, Moshe says. G-d is capricious, he says, and will turn on you in a heartbeat. I had to tell you this story – all of Sefer Devarim – so that you would truly understand how many times you came to the brink of destruction, only to be rescued at the last minute by my intercession. Now, says Moshe, you no longer have me to step between you and the wrath of G-d. Beware, says Moshe. Study this Torah and take it to heart, and watch as the tragedy and suffering foretold in this, my Song, unfold throughout the generations of your future history.

And yet… In Chapter 32, verse 26, the text uses the words “Amarti af’eihem” – translated as “I thought [or Said] I will make an end of them…” Moshe reports G-d saying that G-d intended to make an end of us. But many commentators have picked up on the structure of the word Af’eihem – from the root PEH ALEPH HEH, from which is derived the word meaning Corner. Rashi, for example, says “I will scatter them into corners” as a punishment. The Sforno says “I will leave over of them only a corner.” But, with his breadth and profundity of insight, coupled with his unique historical perspective, the Abarbanel comes with the following interpretation.

The fate of Israel, says G-d, was to be cornered, to be driven into a corner and there to be destroyed. But I, says G-d (says Moshe), I will take mercy upon them at the last moment and instead, I will scatter them across the earth and there, spread throughout the lands and the peoples of the broad, wide world, ‘Am Israel will continue to exist, so that in all lands and in all places, in all times and in all conditions, they will continues to carry Torah among the nations.

For those who see in the cycles of history nothing but the repeated attempts of the Nations to destroy the People of Israel, the cynical response might be to quote Hemingway’s great and grand and bitter line: “Isn’t it pretty to think so.”

And then, of course, there are those who fervently believe that G-d acts at all times and in all ways in our direct best interest.

Which brings us back to the question of: What is the Torah really saying?

The argument over literal versus homiletical interpretation of Torah is a Klutz Kashe – a meaningless distinction, and a misleading one. The argument over Creationism versus Science has been much in the news lately. This is not an argument over whether to accept or reject the Bible. It is, rather, a dispute over whether to encourage people to embark on their own spiritual quest, or to tyrannize them with a form of spiritual fascism, enslaving them in the name of a god that is certainly not Divine.

The Torah speaks in the language of humans. If we did not have Rashi and Rambam to explain this to us, it would nonetheless be obvious by virtue of the mere fact that the Torah is written in Hebrew, in a language. A language spoken by humans. And even if we take the position that G-d created the cosmos by a First Utterance that was, itself, in Hebrew, we still are trapped in the reality of human use of language. In short: we can not claim that Torah only and always means precisely what it says, because the nature of language is such that there can never be universal consensus on the meaning of language.

Do I need Rambam to explain to me that the words “And Elo-k-im said ‘Let there be light!’, and there was light”, are a metaphor? Or am I to envision a large, transparent man with a white beard opening his mouth and uttering the formula? And just how large is this man? And what is he wearing – or is he naked? How do I know it was a man, and not a large, transparent woman? The Hebrew language gives gender not only to things, but to actions. Which drives us philosophically into a corner. There is not neutral gender in the Hebrew language. Every actor must be a male or female – and even each action is either a masculine or feminine action. Talk about a loaded situation!

Call me a heretic, but I am more comfortable setting aside the notion of a large, transparent human being – of either gender – as the Primum Mobile of the cosmos.

The great commentator Rav Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin – the Netziv – writes that the Torah is a poetic text, and even the prose in Torah must be read with a poet’s sensibility. Poetry – allusive and elusive, figurative and vague – must be interpreted, and not merely “read.” Thus, the Netziv seems to be saying that the homiletical meaning of the Torah is the Pshat – the plain meaning.

As has been quoted here before in the name of Rabbi Daniel Shevitz – and as Moshe plainly teaches us by giving us Sefer Devarim – the greatness of Torah is not what it does mean, but all the infinite things it can mean.

Which is why Moshe begins his Song with the recap of Creation. For it is up to each of us to re-Create, to make anew, to participate again and renewingly and constantly and while there is the least breath of life in us – to actively strive to be G-d’s partners in the ongoing Act of Creation whereby the world continues to exist. More – as we have seen – we often must stand in for G-d and keep the spheres turning, even when G-d seems to have left the scene.

And, while we may never be able to say for certainty what the Torah means – nor should we desire so narrow an outcome – we are blessed, as the Abarbanel has it, by being the vessels by which this eternal quest continues to be carried on. Even in the darkest times that have – or shall – come upon us, there is this: the Torah was given for all humankind. Yet it is only Israel that possesses it. This is not merely a gift, but a great responsibility, for we must store it up and care for it and keep it very much alive until the time comes when the rest of the world flocks to its Truth.

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Veyelech - Hazak Ve-'Ematz

2005-10-06T14:54:00.000-04:00

BS”D

Hazak ve-‘ematz, Moshe exhorts us. “Be strong and be brave.”

Last week, at Parashat Nitzavim, we saw that Rashi says the word Ha-Yom, “today,” comes to teach that this is the last day of Moshe’s life. In this week’s Parasha – and the two are commonly read together as a double Sedra – Moshe announces that this is the day of his birth. Chapter 31, verse 2, Moshe says, “I am one hundred an twenty years old today; I can no longer go out and come; and G-d has said to me ‘You will not cross this Jordan.’”

Why does Moshe die on his birthday? Why is the date of Moshe’s death important?

In the ‘Arvit service, the evening prayer, we say meshane ‘itim u-mehalif et ha-zemanim – “who changes hours and arranges the seasons”. And it is fundamental to all religious concepts that G-d’s Time is not human time. Indeed, Time itself does not exist until G-d creates it. The famous astronomer Steven Hawkings points out that, before the Big Bang, there was no Before. A thousand years before Steven Hawkings, the Rambam made the same observation. Notably, the Rambam did not claim that it was a Chidush – a startling new concept.

The Created cosmos is the world of Space, Time, and Motion, all of which require each other in order to exist. Planted at a focal point within the Cosmos, Humans are the observers that make all these have meaning. In this way – and with this gift – G-d makes us partners in Creation. And when G-d’s plan for us is fulfilled, we leave this plane of the cosmos and continue our partnership in another plane.

The notion of G-d’s omnipotence does not need to clash with the idea of human freedom of choice. First of all, the concept of Free Will may be slightly misleading. It may be more useful to use the phrase Free Choice, because most of what we face is a simple Either / Or decision. Our lives are bound by Conditions and, while we might prefer to be lying on the beach on the Island of Maui, few of us have that as an option. Rather, our actions are determined by the set of choices each moment, each situation presents us with. We follow the string of choices in our lives, making a sort of decision-tree pattern, for each choice necessarily leads to further sets of options. In some cases our process of choice-making comes to an end result that corresponds to G-d’s plan for us. This must be viewed as a successful life.

Moshe was born to die. He was born at a time when all newborn boys were to be thrown to the river. Originally, he was to have been strangled on the birthing-stool. This was Pharaoh’s instruction to Shifra and Puah, the midwives. When that did not work, the next order was to cast all males into the river. Thus, in a sense, Moshe should have died on the day he was born. Instead, he is cast into the river and rescued by Pharaoh’s daughter.

Then Moshe kills the Mizri. We know that he should have died for this act, because the Torah tells us at Bereshit 2:15 that Pharaoh heard about the incident, and tried to have Moshe put to death. But Moshe flees to Midian. Significantly, when G-d calls to Moshe at the bush, Moshe does not object that he, of all people, can not return to Egypt because there is a price on his head. Indeed, it is not until after he has not only consented to go, but publicly announced his intention to leave Midian and return to Mizraim that, at Bereshit 4:19, G-d tells Moshe that he is no longer in danger.

Moshe is fearless. Perhaps with the fearlessness of one born with the knowledge that all life is over in an instant. That that day of our birth may as well be the day of our death – that so many souls never are brought into the world at all. And that so many perish so quickly.

Moshe also fearlessly defends the Covenant between G-d and Israel. Defends it primarily in the face of G-d’s many outbursts of rage. Stand aside, G-d says over and over, and I will destroy them. Finally, after the sin of the Golden Calf, Moshe appears fed up with G-d’s tantrums and rants. At Shemot 32:32, in the aftermath of the sin of the Calf, Moshe famously says: “Please, erase me from the book you have written!”

Indeed.

What is the name of the leader of Israel? We know him as Moshe, from Bereshit 2:10. “She called his name Moshe and she said, ‘Because I drew him out [meshitihu] of the water.’” The speaker here is Pharaoh’s daughter, who spoke ancient Egyptian, not Hebrew. The name by which our leader is known to us, the political leader who created this nation in earthly terms, as surely as G-d formed us spiritually, is not his actual name. His true name, rather, is hidden from us, lost forever.

Similarly, we shall read at the end of Sefer Devarim, 34:6, that he was buried in a place in the Land of Moab, “… and no one knows his grave to this day.” The request Moshe makes of G-d has been fulfilled: he has been erased from the Torah.

Why does Moshe die on his birthday? It is as though he has vanished, the film has been run backwards. As though he had never been born. It is difficult to imagine that Moshe, of all people, did not lead a life that fulfilled G-d’s destiny for him. And so perhaps it was a blessing, and not a curse. Perhaps G-d was meshaneh ‘itim for Moshe – changed times around for him. Instead of perishing on the very day he was born, Moshe lived for 120 years, saved the Hebrew people from slavery, brought us the Torah and made a pack of miserable slaves into the Nation of Israel. Why does Moshe die on his birthday? Because – with a gap of 120 years – he was one of many thousands of Hebrew newborns slated for extermination.

Now, though, the stakes are different. Moshe has lived a long life and has the feelings and memories and insights that come along with that. Maybe, now that Klal Israel is about to enter the Land, Moshe feels he is entitled to a comfortable retirement. Let Yehoshua lead, I’ll go hang out at Sdeh Boker and drink tea with na’na’. Alas, in G-d’s world, the work is never finished.

The Midrashim on the death of Moshe contains some of the most poignant and poetic images in all world literature.

At 31:9, the text says, “And Moshe wrote this Torah and gave it to the Kohanim…” The Midrash expands this and says that Moshe actually wrote thirteen separate Sifrei Torah, one for each tribe, and one to go into the Aron Ha-‘Edut – the Ark of Testimony. At the heart of Moshe’s action, the Midrash finds a ruse: if he can keep writing these Sifrei Torah, the sun will set, and the ordained day of his death will pass. Once his ordained day passes, he will never die. And so, the Midrash concludes, G-d makes the sun stand still, stretching the day out endlessly until Moshe completes the task of writing the thirteenth Torah scroll. In fact, the Midrash also states that Moshe died on Shabbat. Is it not forbidden to write on Shabbat? But there is also a separate Mitzvah of violating Shabbat in order to save a life. Whose life was Moshe trying to save? Why, his own! Which should not detract from the importance of the Mitzvah.

Underlying all these Midrashim is Moshe’s desperate wish to remain alive. He goes so far as to ask for – or even assume he is entitled to – immortality. Rather than thinking of Moshe as falling prey to cowardice at the last moment – and which of us will face our own hour without a tremor? – let us recall the bravery, the utter disregard of his own life with which Moshe proceeds with his task. Is it too much to ask of our Leader that, in his final moments, he not also reveal himself as merely human?

Hazak ve-‘ematz, Moshe exhorts: “Be strong and courageous.” Underlying Moshe’s desperate wish to remain alive, there is also the very real concern that Bnei Israel will be lost without their leader. “Be strong” he repeats. At 31:6 he says, “Because G-d, your G-d, he is the one who is going with you. G-d will not let go and will not abandon you.” The emphasis is very strong in the original text: the cantillation on the Hebrew pronoun makes it a shout. “He is walking with you.” The verb structure of the verse underscores the meaning as well: “G-d is walking with you” – present continuous tense in the first clause. “G-d will not let you go and will not abandon you” – future tense in the final clause.

Moshe’s meaning is unmistakable: I am dying. Do not be afraid. In reality, it is G-d who is walking with you. Who has been walking with you all along. I am no more than the middleman.

From a literary perspective, the Midrash is touching something very different, but which also bears mention: the desire to keep on reading. The wish that one’s favorite book would never end. With the death of Moshe, the Torah is truly over. The history of ‘Am Israel will continue – or in a sense, it will begin with Sefer Yehoshua – but the story we have been so immersed in is over, and nothing can recreate the exhilaration of discovering a magnificent creation for the first time. As much as Moshe wants to keep on living, we too want him around. We want to follow his next adventure, and his next. Unlike every literary hero, from Tarzan to Harry Potter, the Torah does not have a sequel.

But Moshe will have a final aria in Parashat Ha’azinu.

Before that, let us share some images from the Midrash.

Of Moshe arguing with G-d, telling G-d that his – Moshe’s – merits are greater than any person’s have ever been. G-d replies: Did I tell you to kill the Mizri? And Moshe falls silent.

Of Moshe sitting at the summit of Mt. Sinai taking dictation from G-d. Remember that Moshe carried the first set of Luchot down from the mountain facing away from him, so that Bnei Israel would see them, and that he shattered them before he had a chance to read any of it. Thus, when he ascends and begins to write the second set himself, the words are new to him. As they come to the passage describing his own death, Moshe pauses. “Write!” G-d commands. And Moshe writes, tears streaming from his eyes.

Finally, there is the transfer of authority from Moshe to Yehoshua. Unprepared as he may be, the younger man must take on the leadership of Klal Israel. It is time. And Our Moment is, by definition, a moment for which we are never prepared. Think of all the things that happen in life for which we can not prepare. Think of being born, of falling in love. Think of giving birth, of the death of someone close to us. Think, finally, of your own death. The Zohar says that a person might live a thousand years, yet, on the last day of their life they would say “Oh, just one more day!”

And so Yehoshua stands before Klal Israel and prepares to assume the mantle of leadership. And in order for his leadership to take root, Yehoshua must perform the actions that Moshe performed for the People. Moshe lays his hands upon Yehoshua to begin the transfer of Wisdom, the true foundation of leadership. Then he steps to the side, and Yehoshua turns to the gathered nation and begins to teach. For the Jewish nation requires of its leaders, not that they be strategists or politicians, not fundraisers or inspiring public speakers. Klal Israel requires of our leaders that they be teachers, first and foremost. That they teach us in words, and show us in the actions of their lives, how to strive for perfection, to make this world a better place. To do Tikkun. Teachers in the mold of Moshe Rabbeinu (“Moshe our Teacher”) whose overriding human quality is his humility, and whose devotion to Torah and his caring for the People are total.

And so Yehoshua begins to teach. He is not teaching anything new – after Moshe there is nothing new to teach, but there are infinite ways and approaches to understanding the Torah that Moshe handed over to us. Yehoshua speaks clearly and simply, and all the while the transfer of Wisdom continues from Moshe to his protégé. And Yehoshua’s voice grows stronger, his presence more powerful, until he appears in the eyes of the People as a true leader, and they take from him inspiration and hope and Strength and Courage. And as Yehoshua’s words grow in wisdom, the wisdom drains away from his mentor until Moshe, standing at Yehoshua’s side, can no longer understand a word.

Moshe Rabbeinu, we shall take your words to heart and strive to be strong and courageous. Farewell, beloved Teacher.

Hadran Alach, Moshe Rabbeinu. We shall return to you.

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Nitzavim - All On That Day

2005-10-02T06:36:00.000-04:00

BS”D

Devarim 29:9: “You are standing here today…”

Rashi says that “today” is the last day of Moshe’s life; that, from here to the last words of the written Torah at the end of Parashat Ve-Zot Ha-Beracha constitutes a single uninterrupted narrative. Adding another dimension, the Zohar says that “today” was Rosh HaShana.

It is common, among commentaries on this week’s Parasha, to observe that the word Teshuva appears seven times in this Parasha, in one form or another. Teshuva. “Return.” Generally translated as “Repentance.”

This Parasha is read during the Season of Return – on the Shabbat before Rosh HaShana – and the powerful imagery and uses of the notion of Return are replayed throughout this Parasha in intricate and powerful counterpoint.

How does the Parasha open? With the words Atem Nitzavim – “You are standing.” In discussing Rosh HaShana and Yom Kippur, the Rabbis of the Talmud transpose the scene of Forgiveness and Cleansing from its original textual location, Parashat Shelach – where Moshe confronts G-d in the aftermath of the Sin o f the Spies – to Parashat Ki Tissa, after the Sin of the Golden Calf. In describing the process and act of Atonement – which we shall define closely in a moment – the Rabbis focus on the expression (Shemot 34:5) Va-yered H’ be-‘anan va-yityatzev ‘imo sham… - “And G-d came down in a cloud and stood with him there…” G-d stood and waited for Moshe. This is the interpretation given to this image by the Rabbis. It is the source of the notion of Atonement as “Seek G-d where G-d is to be found.” The verb va-yityatzev means “He stood,” but is a forceful standing, in the sense of: “And he planted himself.”

G-d is planted firmly, unmoving, waiting for Moshe to arrive. Waiting for the penitential process to take its effect. Then, G-d will dispense Atonement.

We call Kippur “Day of Atonement.” But it is not merely that we Atone. Rather, G-d offers us Atonement – the word can be read in either direction. The Hebrew word Kappara – Atonement – comes from a root meaning “Curved, rounded, cover over.” Indeed, the Covering for the Ark in the Tabernacle is called Kaporet, from the same root. And Atonement is a two-way act. Israel Atones for its sins; G-d grants Israel Atonement for sin. The notion of Relationship is fundamental to the concept of Atonement, (sometimes cleverly written out, in the English, as “At-one-ment”) which is why this week’s Parasha speaks of a Covenant. A renewed Covenant – reaffirming the relationship first established with Abraham.

In his discourses on Teshuva, Rabbi Soloveitchik analyzes Biblical source uses of the word Teshuva. He comes to the demonstrable conclusion that the word means, not merely to Go Back, but to Circle Back. The act of Return, as expressed in this word, means Coming Full Circle, returning to one’s original place. It is the image of the Penitent, we who know we have failed in certain aspects of our lives, and who seek to Return to a state before our failures. We want to Recycle our souls. Teshuva, Repentance, is not a straight line, not a back-and-forth. It is 360-degrees of self-examination, of hard work and self-transformation.

Perhaps the image is this: that we only truly perform the act of Teshuva after we have exhausted every other possibility. This image can only be represented in the form of a circle, literally “all-encompassing.” A straight line leaves too much out.

As G-d was Firmly Planted, standing and waiting for Moshe on that first Yom Kippur, so we are described as Nitzavim – we stand, firmly planted. Waiting for G-d to come to us, just as as G-d waited for Moshe.

The Zohar, again, says that this “Today” is Rosh HaShana. It is the day of G-d’s kingship, the birthday of the cosmos. Lest G-d come upon us unawares, we stand firmly in place, unwavering, prepared to receive the Monarch of Creation. Although we do not know the outcome of this confrontation, we do not shrink from it. It is a marvelous image, indeed, and one that clearly emerges from the text, bringing forward the use of the words va-yityatzev / nitzavim.

Today, we are Nitzavim. The Parasha’s opening phrases describe three types of Israelites. You – the ones Moshe is addressing –are Nitzavim: Planted firmly in place. But also, he says, I establish this Brit with (verse 14)” those of whom there are some here among us, standing (‘omed) today”, as well as (verse 14) “with whoever is not here (einenu) with us today.” In each case – Nitzavin, ‘Omed, Einenu – the word “Ha-yom” repeats. There are three ways in which we can approach G-d, three ways in which we receive G-d on this most awesome of days, Rosh HaShana. We plant ourselves firmly, unshakeably awaiting G-d’s approach, and ready to accept what comes to us. Or, we merely stand – perhaps trembling – stand in a way that, should the brunt of the onslaught strike us, we may fall, or be blown away. Or, we merely absent ourselves. G-d will arrive, and will search for us in vain. Yet, like Adam in the Garden, we will be found.

The commentators on this Parasha have much to say about the notion of individuals losing themselves in the crowd. The verses 29:17-20 describe one who rejects Torah, and the consequences. Examples of traditional commentaries are:

Akeidat Yitzhak, who says: This describes one who says to himself, ‘G-d only punishes those who reject the Covenant. But I have not even accepted it in the first place! I will be safe!’

Ramban, who says: This describes the one who says, ‘I will follow my own heart, and I will be all right.’

Ibn Ezra, who says: This describes the one who says, ‘Even though I personally reject Torah, I will be safe, because I am surrounded by those who accept the Torah.’

In fact, there are two fundamental concepts of Teshuva: there is National Teshuva, and there is Personal Teshuva. And there is the ultimate effect of Teshuva, which is the transformation of the cosmos.

Rabbi Soloveitchik discerningly parses out the distinction between individual and national Teshuva. Taking his lead from the dispute in the Gemara between Rebbi and the Rabbis, he pursues Rebbi’s statement that the Essence of Yom Kippur in and of itself – itzumo shel yom – is sufficient to effect Atonement for all Israel, even if individuals do not atone. To tie this to the commentaries on this week’s Parasha, let us observe that there is a certain validity to those who believe that all will be well with them, as long as they remain among the group of Klal Israel.

The ‘Ishah Shunamit – the Shunamite Woman – responding to the Prophet Elisha’s offer to repay her kindness, speaks the cryptic words, “Among my people I dwell.” This is one of the most commonly-cited texts for Rosh HaShana homilies, and it underscores the group aspect of the process of Teshuva.

While Rabbi Soloveitchik does not quote from this incident, he does lay out the distinction between Individual Repentance and Repentance for Kehilat Israel. The latter, he says, is the form of Atonement effected by Kippur itself, with no requirement for individual atonement.

The goat sent off into the wilderness on Yom Kippur is the agent that bears away our sins. In order for this to be effective, the Kohen must do atonement. But the entire nation is not required to repent. It would appear that at least one person must, but it is not clear how many are required for the group atonement to take effect. It is clear, though, that the notion of losing oneself among the “Multitude of the Just” is a valid one. Halachically, while each of us must repent and perform the specified acts of Teshuva for our individual sins, the itzumo shel yom – the Essence of the Day – performs, in our time, the function previously filled by the Scapegoat: it atones for Knesset Israel, for Kehillat Israel. For Klal Israel.

What is the transformative power of Teshuva?

It has to do with each one of us placing ourselves in a state of preparedness. To Return, one must be ready to return. We do not return to our point of origin by accident, by wandering aimlessly – indeed, if we wander unknowingly across our original place, we will as easily leave it again, never realizing where we have been. This is the case, for example, of Yaakov, who wakes from a dream and says (Bereshit 28:16) “G-d is surely in this place, and I did not know it.” Knowing where we came from, where we are, where we are going – these are all metaphors for our spiritual state. Yaakov did not know where he was going, hence he did not know where he was. Once he discovered where he was, he not only established his forward direction, but set in motion the process that would ultimately lead to his return.

In our Parasha, verse 14 ends, “… ve’et asher einennu po ‘imanu ha-yom…” – “… and with the one who is not here with us today.” In the narrative of Sefer Bereshit, the word “einennu”, meaning “he is not” is the epithet applied repeatedly to Yosef. His brothers are forever saying, We are twelve brothers, sons of one man. Our youngest is with his father, and another one “einenu” – as Dr. Seuss might have said: He just isn’t present. (“But you – you are you. Now isn’t that pleasant?”)

Three type of Jews go out to greet the Creator of the Universe on This Day – the awesome day of Rosh HaShana, which is also the final day of Moshe’s life. There are those who accept that they must take what comes, and steel themselves for it, knowing that one can spend a lifetime preparing, but the moment of readiness is what counts. There are those who, unsure of themselves, know that they are required to be there, but doubt that they will be equal to the task. And there are those who merely do not come, who hide like Adam in the Garden, afraid to show themselves naked before their Creator.

And yet, it is also this final group – the einenu – who have the ability to transform themselves. For they have given up all hope. Unlike the second group, who appear, but stand uncertainly, this last group know for a certainty that they can not face G-d. And it is only out of total destruction that rebirth can arise.

It is only when the Hebrews had been so beaten down that we forgot G-d, only then did G-d intervene and bring us out of Mizraim. Only when Abraham and Sarah had completely given up the notion of Sarah having children that G-d steps in and creates the miracle that bring Yitzhak into the world – which is the Torah reading of Rosh HaShana. And it is Yosef – and not his brothers – who, by planting himself firmly (Nitzavim…) in Mizraim, by giving up on the notion of ever returning to his family, to his home, to his father, then becomes the agent of the salvation of all Israel. And, though he does not return in his lifetime, Moshe has his bones brought up out of Mizraim to their final resting place in the city of Shechem.

Whether we are nitzacim, or ‘omdim, or einenu, we must prepare to greet G-d as G-d arrives on Rosh HaShana. When we receive G-d at the awesome moment of the birth of the cosmos, G-d will then receive us when we come searching, begging to be taken back into the close relationship we all yearn for. There are not coincidences in Torah, and grammar can sometimes be enlightening. Today, we are nitzavim – present tense. On Kippur, G-d will be yityatzev – future tense. As though to say that G-d’s unconditional acceptance of us is dependent, not on our perfected actions, not on our unflagging adherence to every Aleph of Halachah, but on our unconditional acceptance of G-d.

May all our prayers be accepted for the good. May the blessings of peace, of peacefulness, of peace of mind dwell among us and among all people. May this year be a year of health and prosperity, of laughter and rejoicing, of love and compassion, and may all blessings come to all Israel – and, as G-d promised us through Abraham: may all nations of the world bless themselves through us. May the Redemption come speedily and in our days, and if we can not hasten the Redemption, let us still never cease trying, not even for a moment, but always be in a state of Readiness. Readiness to reach out to hold one another up. Readiness to greet G-d. Readiness to Return.

Shana tova.

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Ki Tavo - O Taste and See

2005-09-27T09:50:00.000-04:00

BS”D

This week’s Parasha ends by tying together the major themes of the preceding several Parshiyot. Chapter 29 open with Moshe saying: (freely translating) “… you saw everything that G-d did before your eyes in the Land of Mizraim – to Pharaoh and to all his servants and to his entire land – the great trials that your eyes saw: these great signs and wonders. But G-d did not give you a mind to understand and eyes to see and ears to hear; not until this very day.”

The major theme running through the last several Parshiyot has been the role of the senses. Now Moshe has added the control factor of Mind – expressed in text by the Hebrew word Lev, Heart, which stands for the intellectual faculty, the reflective faculty. To the Buddhist science of Mind, there are six senses: Sight, Hearing, Touch, Taste, Smell, and Mind. It is Mind that gives meaning to all the other senses. A sensory input by itself means nothing. Sensory stimuli that process through the Mind come to mean very much indeed.

For the Buddhist, it is Mind that creates the world. Our world is entirely a product of our Mind – some would say, Of our Ignorance. In observance of the Dalai Lama’s birthday, and corresponding visit to America, let us remind ourselves that he stresses the wisdom of Buddhist science in the abstract: not as a means to draw others into Buddhism, but as a set of tools for enhancing our own way of life. For us Jews, the Buddhist Science of Mind yields fruitful insights. But the cosmos of the Buddhists is uncreated, with neither end nor beginning. For us, the Torah makes it explicit that the world is not merely created one time, but is sustained through G-d’s continuous act of Creation.

Which we ought not to forget.

Indeed, Moshe himself might find the Buddhist approach useful. After all, while we know the Cosmos to be the handiwork of the Creator, it is nonetheless obvious that our own private Worlds are largely the result of Ignorance and Disorganized Thought.

Now that we have been admonished repeatedly to beware relying overly on our own perceptions, what message does this Parasha bring? In what way does Parashat Ki Tavo tie it all together? For this is the last part of Moshe’s narrative. The next Parasha, Nitzavim, takes place on the last day of Moshe’s life. Thus, it is in our Parasha that we must look for a final message. We should, if we have been reading this narrative closely, expect to find some Culminating Message, some Bringing It All Together. Some philosophical synthesis of the notions and images that have carried the text hurtling forward since the beginning of Sefer Devarim.

We shall not be disappointed.

This final book of Chumash continually focuses its attention on our own sensory perceptions, our own thought processes. It is something of a User’s Manual to the rest of Torah. Again: Bereshit masterfully sets the scene, draws us in, makes of this book the family and personal narrative of each of us and thereby prompts us to take up the way of life, the philosophical stances, the moral attitudes promulgated in the central three books. Finally, by presenting itself as Moshe’s own interpretation, Sefer Devarim shows us a hands-on approach to living by Torah.

Last week’s Parasha ended with an admonition to remember, and not to forget. This week’s Parasha opens with a formula and a ritual practice that enforces our national act of remembering. In the retelling of the Exodus from Mizraim, and in the obligation to bring the Bikkurim – the First Fruits – in annual pilgrimage, we are not merely reminded to remember; we are also told explicitly how to perform the act of remembrance. And that the Fact of remembering is not sufficient, without the Act of remembering. We do not rely on Kavannah without Practice.

In fact, this week’s Parasha ends with a powerful poetic image of us returning to Mizraim in despair. At 28:60 we are told that G-d will bring back upon us all the sufferings of Mizraim. Not the sufferings endured by the Egyptians, but our own experience of suffering in Mizraim. Which is the suffering of Forgetting. In Mizraim, we forgot who we were, we forgot our relationship with G-d. Finally, our devastation and forgetting was so complete, it set the stage for G-d to become involved directly. “Paqod yifqod Elokim etchem…” says Yosef to his brothers: “G-d will surely intervene in your affairs.” The Hebrew word PQD is incredibly rich in meanings and has the sense of G-d becoming directly involved in human affairs when no one else will, thereby changing, or creating, the course of history.

We are to Remember. That may be the final and fundamental message that Moshe leaves us with before closing his narrative. Remember. Just this much: Always remember.

You have seen, says Moshe at the end of the Parasha, but you have not understood. And then he makes an odd statement at 29:5: “You did not eat bread, and you did not drink wine nor strong drink…”

To whom is Moshe saying these words? Here, on the eve of our entry into the Land, there are three people who remember Mizraim: Moshe, Yehoshua, and Caleb. The rest were all born in the Midbar. The rest – with the exception of Moshe, Yehoshua and Caleb – were raised on the Manna. In fact, it may be a true statement when in verse 5, Moshe says “You did not eat bread.”

The first taste of milk on the tongue of the newborn creates a lifelong bond. The milk that feeds us in our first days and months also binds us forever to our caregivers – in Moshe’s case, fortunately, it was his own mother. Yet, as time passes, we begin to burn, to urgently yearn for other experiences.

I remember my own infant son, who had his first taste of solid food at age six months. The urgency with which he strained towards the spoon, the trembling expectation as his tongue reached for his first taste of applesauce. The blissful aftermath as he lay back and not merely digested, but meditatively reflected on the experience of devouring a mash made of one-half of a baked apple.

When Moshe commands the People to bring the First Fruits to G-d, he is not only referring to the first of the annual crop. Taking the imagery of the Parasha to its poetic extreme: The fruits we taste in Eretz Israel will be, in fact, the First Fruits we come upon. Having been born in the Midbar, we were raised on Manna – it was mother’s milk to us. Now, like a child about to experience new tastes, new textures – about to experience directly what we have only known as the smells and colors of food – we tremble with excitement. We can not wait to taste these fruits. To make them part of our own experience.

Every wisdom tradition knows the danger of becoming enamored of the spiritual experience. Among all the other messages of this immensely important Parasha, Moshe is telling us something profound, something wise. Something eternal.

Do not take the taste of the fruit, the experience of tasting these foods for the first time, to be the norm. Spiritual experience comes, not in Spiritual Experiences, but in maintaining a sense of complete openness. We experience a set of feelings with the performance of an act. Once, and once only, do we have the flood of uplifting and expanding and mind-altering sensations that comes with a new spiritual experience. Our tendency is to expect that, each time we repeat the actions, we will experience the same set of feelings, sensations. The same elation. The same expansiveness. And when we do not, we believe there is something wrong with us. Or perhaps, that the experience itself is not genuine. Or that there is something flawed in the way the experience is taught to us.

Either we are at fault, or our Practice is at fault, or out Teacher is at fault.

Moshe says: do not think this way. This is the way most people think. The Torah is not an Experience. It is a way of life. The Halacha is not an Experience. It is a way to enter into dialogue with G-d, speaking G-d’s own language. Prayer is not an Experience. It is a way to isolate ourselves with our own selves, to enfold ourselves in G-d as in an embrace. To try to open the channel heart-to-heart, one-to-one. To come as close to G-d as is possible for a human being.

Remember this, Moshe is saying. You have seen, but you have not understood. Now, going forward, you must strive to understand, even if you do not comprehend. And understanding comes from Remembering. From Remembering our place in the Cosmos. From remembering our relationship with G-d. From remembering the primacy of Torah, even – or especially – in the midst of spiritual confusion. When Middot – Good Qualities – fail us, there is always the Halacha.

Give up your Experiences, says Moshe. Make of them, not gifts for yourselves. Make of them rather gifts for G-d. If we take the fruits and eat them ourselves, what will happen when we are disappointed by taste or texture? Is that not when we challenge G-d? Is that not when we say: G-d, you led me to have an expectation, and you are responsible to me for making up my loss.

The expectation of Reward is its own greatest Punishment.

In Pirkei Avot, we are reminded that we were given the greatest gift of all, in being created in the Image of G-d. And that we were then given a greater gift still, in that it was made known to us that we were created in the Image of G-d.

And now, on top of this, we demand that G-d give us a transcendent experience each time we Daven?

It is, literally, the Oldest Story in the Book. Bereshit 4:7: “Is it not so that, if you better yourself, you will be uplifted / accepted?...” The first offering in human history results in a tragedy, because the one bringing the offering does not do it li-shmah – For Its Own Sake – but in hope of acceptance.

It does not matter, says Moshe, whether G-d visibly accepts your offering. This is the offering of Klal Israel, brought in a large mass of people. Brought to the Cohen who happens to be officiating at the time, and not to a particular person with special qualifications of holiness or spiritual excellence.

One of the first years I davened with Shlomo Carlebach on Simhat Torah, he told over the story of Cain and Hevel. He told of the tragedy that arises when people think of their own outcome, and not of the outcome of their own brother. Shlomo said that Cain had the amazing opportunity to bless G-d. The opportunity to express gratitude that he, Cain, was worthy to be born the brother of one whose offering was accepted. Instead, he saw only G-d on the other side of the room enjoying a plate of steaming meat.

Here, finally, Cain and Hevel are reconciled. Here it is that we provide Cain with the redemption G-d promised him. The First Fruits will be brought – the offering of Cain. When we all bring them together, acting as Klal Israel, they are accepted. When we all bring them li-shmah, because it is the action we are set to perform, rather than for the spiritual uplift we expect to experience, they are accepted.

The suffering of Mizraim is Forgetting. When we act as one, making ourselves available for others to rely on, and not expecting or looking for reward – this is when we Remember who and what we are.

Remember, Moshe is saying – and do not Forget. Recite the formulas, perform the Actions. Sometimes you will feel uplifted – ha-lo im teteiv se’et? – sometimes others will feel uplifted. We have lived long enough in Exile. Let us now begin the ages-long process of Remembering, just this, of merely remembering who we are.

Let the Redemption begin.

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Ki Teitze - Remember to Remember

2005-09-16T13:46:00.000-04:00

BS”D
The Ba’al Shem Tov says: Forgetting is the beginning of Exile; Remembering is the beginning of Redemption.

This week’s Parasha ends with two Mitzvot – seemingly unconnected. And one is seemingly “minor”, the other is seen as so important that it is given its own special day in the calendar – Shabbat Zachor.

Prior to the commandment regarding remembering and forgetting Amalek, with which the Parasha closes, there is an admonition to have just weights and measures. There is an obvious social justice aspect to this Mitzvah, as to many of the other Mitzvot that are listed in this Parasha. Within the context of the Parasha, the theme of Weights and Measures appears to link to the overall theme of building a just society. Is there, perhaps, something more going on?

Of all the themes running through the Parasha, perhaps the most striking is that of marriage and divorce. There are five significant fact patterns laid out in the Parasha all having to do with marriage and divorce. Indeed, the Parasha opens with the case of a woman taken captive (21:11). She is described as ‘eshet yifat toar – “A woman beautiful of form.”

Both Sarah and Rivkah are described as yifat mar’eh – “beautiful to look at.” Rachel is described as yifat toar ve-yifat mar’eh. Echoing this language, Yosef rushes headlong to how downfall, at the hands of Potifar’s wife, after being described as yefeh to’ar viyfeh mar’eh – the same terms as are applied to his own mother – herself a manipulator and the child of a manipulator.

The echoes to the Avot and Imahot are not mere accidents of the limitations of the Hebrew vocabulary. The first case in this week’s Parasha is one of appetite, of lust: a man sees an attractive woman, over whom he exercises the power of life and death. Will she marry him? Perhaps most would, rather than risk being executed. Once having enjoyed the fruits of his conquest, though, the man spurns her.

A man has taken a foreign slave to wife. And later he spurns her. Yet, he can not sell her for money. And so he merely sends her on her way. Because, says the Torah, asher ‘initah – “because you raped her,” or, “because you afflicted her.”

The first person described in Torah with the verb signifying rape or affliction is Hagar, of whom the Torah says that Sarah ve-ta’aneha –“and she afflicted her.” Hagar, a foreign slave, is not sold for money, but is sent out into the wilderness. Set free, as it were, even if shetakes nothing of value with her.

The second case, brought immediately on the heels of this, is of a man who has married two wives: one beloved, one hated. This is the image of Yaakov, who loved Rachel and hated Leah. Further, the Halacha brought in this section goes to the rights of the firstborn, which Yaakov famously violated.

Chapter 22, starting at verse 13, discusses the case of motzi shem ra’ – a man who spreads a malicious tale that his wife was not a virgin. The Torah treats of how to handle this matter, both if it is true, and if it is false.

Chapter 24 starts with the example of a man who marries a woman, then divorces her because matza bah ‘ervat davar –“he found in her some immoral matter.” She goes forth and remarries, and her second husband then either divorces her, out of mere personal dislike, or dies. The first husband is not permitted to remarry her.

Finally, there are a series of scenarios dealing with variations on the theme of a man and woman having illicit sex, and the consequences tied to each permutation.

Why does the Torah make a literary reference to the families of Abraham and Sarah, of Yaakov and his wives and children? And how does this tie to Amalek?

The entire Book of Genesis, starting from Lech Lecha, is one long soap opera. The grand and petty passions, attachments, the fury and longing, the sorrow and bitter determination for success – these are all legitimate elements of melodrama. It is the literary genius of the Torah that they are laid on with so deft a hand as to be barely noticeable. Yet, the emotional impact of reading TaNaCh as a novel is very real. Viewed from the perspective of narrative, of character development and conflict, TaNaCh is a real potboiler. The philosophical and moral effect of this is to keep us reminded of Where We Came From, of Who We Are.

And of Who We Are Not.
We are not Mizraim – the people Abraham feared because of Sarah’s beauty. We are not the people who grab what they see, who act purely on appetite.

And yet, when faced with a difficult family situation, Abraham did not stand firm, did not protect his own son, but cast Yishmael out into the wilderness along with his mother, perhaps to die.

At the end of Abraham’s life, he marries a woman named Keturah, about whom nothing is known, save who her descendants are. The Midrash says that Keturah is Hagar, and that Abraham reconciled with her (some say it was Yitzhak who brought about the reconciliation) and remarried her.

And so the themes underlying this week’s Parasha begin to emerge.

There is a discussion in the Gemara about what should consistute grounds for divorce. The winning position is that of Rabbi Akiva, who says that a man may divorce his wife for no reason whatsoever. This is both a clear understanding of human nature – people act out of emotion; the “reasons” are often derived backwards as justifications; how much better to make us face our own acts directly! – as well as an acknowledgement that, if a reason had to be given for a divorce, it would forever serve as a reason for the woman no longer to be marriageable. If “he divorced her because she didn’t do…” or “because she did…” why, no man would want to marry such a woman, no matter what the complaint. But a woman who was once bound in marriage and is now back on the market…? Let’s face reality: the single greatest factor that men find attractive in women is: Availability.

And after she has become available to a man, and after the man has acted out his desire, the allure of distance no longer applies. How common is it to wish to discard something that no longer tempts us?

The Torah recognizes the need to protect women from the vagaries of the male-dominated society. Indeed, it attempts to run a broad gamut of scenarios to cover many contingencies.

The Eternal Torah – G-d’s Torah – contains all. All wisdom, all knowledge. But the Torah – our Torah, a book written in human language for human consumption (or, as some would say: written by humans, for humans) – can not possibly touch on every iteration of human existence. Which is why we have the Halacha, the living aspect of Torah that keeps pace with our lives, that keeps us in communication with G-d.

And what does the Halacha teach us?

Chapter 25, starting at verse 13: “Do not have two stones in your pocket: a large one and a small one. Do not have in your house two measures: a large one and a small one.” ‘even shelemah va-tzedek yehiyeh lach; eifah shelemah va-tzedek yehiyeh lach – “You shall have a full and just weighing-stone; you shall have a full and just measure.” The Torah’s concept of Justice includes the notion of Completeness.

The Torah’s concept of Justice also includes direct acknowledgement that G-d rules the universe: Bereshit 15:6: “And [Abram] trusted in G-d, and G-d counted to him Justice [tzedakah]”

And the Torah’s concept of justice includes a fundamental notion of fairness. Bereshit 18, starting at verse 17, presents an astonishing piece, so easy to overlook because it is so small. Yet, this is the only place in Torah (Chevra, correct me if I’m wrong here, please!) where G-d soliloquizes. It is a Shakespearean internal monologue in miniature, fraught with no less inner conflict than anything that has strutted and fretted it hour upon the stage.

Freely translating: “And G-d said: am I actually going to conceal from Abraham what I am about to do? Since Abraham is certainly going to become a great and mighty nation, and all nations of the world will bless through him? Since I know him so intimately, and that he will command his children and his household after him, and they will keep the way of G-d, to do Justice [tzedakah] and Right Judgment [mishpat], so that I, G-d, may bring upon Abraham that which I told him?”

The word tzedakah, by the way, appears three times in Chumash: these two instances regarding Abraham, and then in our Parasha.

How closely, then, is the Abraham narrative tied to this week’s Parasha! The images and literary references float on the surface, yet also form the undercurrent.

What is a Just Weight, a Just Measure?

The Torah commands us not to carry two different weights in our pocket; not to keep two different measures in our house.

When we are out in the world, we perforce accept the standards of society. When we sit in Shul, we daven with visible Kevanah, we are on best behavior, we are well thought of.

Reb Yonason Eybschutz tells the story of davening in a shul on Kippur. At Kal Nidrei, he was impressed to hear one of the men davening with powerful emotion, smiting his breast and sobbing “Ani ke-efar va-efer…” – “I am like dust and ashes…” (NB: also courtesy of Abraham!) The next day, on Yom Kippur, this same congregant became enraged during an argument over who got an Aliyah. In the middle of the davening, he screamed insults at the Gabbai. Later, Reb Yonason went over to him and said, “Reb Yid, I heard you davening last night Kol Nidrei – you had such Kevana – such hergish – so much feeling, saying how you were dust and ashes. So how come today you become so enraged over an Aliyah?” The man answered, “Compared to Ha-Kadosh Baruch-Hu, I’m afar ve-efer. But compared to this shammas?!”

Azoy.

In our secret times and places – in our pocket, in our house – in our real and private view of the world, we judge the world by our own standards. I see a woman who excites me; I have a certain power over her – good so. I take advantage of that power and act out my desire. I marry a woman who does not live up to my every expectation – shall I compromise? No! Better to dispose of her.

In public, we make our way through the life of our society by acting the role of a Pillar of the Community. And yet, how often, in private, do we disdain the very values and people we so strongly uphold in the eyes of others?

The world is not given to us to take great bites from, then discard like, like a fruit. The world depends so much, so very, very much on each of us accepting responsibility for balance.

Keep one single measure for both your public and private self. Do not appear to live by the world’s standard, all the while despising the world for the very behavior that you put on in order to get by.

The Gemara in Sukkah, and in Shabbat, for example, has extensive sections that discuss measurements. Heights of walls, what constitutes a wall, what a surface that qualifies as a separate domain. The underlying principle of measurements is that they are all Halacha le-Moshe mi-Sinai – they are a part of the Oral Law as expounded by G-d to Moshe. They are not relative, not even to one another.

Moral standards, Halachic standards, religious standards, social values – all of these, too, are not relative. As Abraham accepted the structure of the universe – with G-d at the pinnacle – so should we. The Torah recognizes human nature, and does not chide us for being prone to conflict. It takes us to task, though, when we consistently resolve the conflict in our own favor.

It is our nature to let ourselves slip below our own standards. It is also our nature to be dissatisfied with ourselves because we have slipped below our standards. The Torah is the champion of our Better Nature.

“Remember that which Amalek did to you on the road, when you were leaving Mizraim.” Because, when we are safe, when we are in positions of influence, when we have the illusion of being in control of our lives, we tend to believe that nothing bad can happen to us. “That was the past,” we say. “Things are different now.”

That’s what we say.

We apply our own measure, our own imperfectly-weighted stone to the equation. When the scales do not balance, we adamantly state that there must be something wrong with the scale itself. After all, we know.

The cantillation of the final two words of today’s Parasha leaves open two possible readings. “You shall not forget,” is the traditional understanding of this clause. We are being commanded to scrape off Amalek’s name from the Earth (The Hebrew word timcheh is often translated as “blot”, meaning to cover over or make illegible, but it means “to scrape off”, thus, Amalek is not “covered over and smudged,” but is removed from the page, as though he had never been there at all.) we are commanded to actively forget – to never stop forgetting Amalek. “Do not forget”, says the Torah – “do not forget to forget.”

One may read these last two words differently, however. “No; you shall forget.”

Freely re-translating the last few Psukim (starting at 19): “Do you mean to tell me that, once G-d has made your enemies stop troubling you from all around the Land that G-d is giving to you, for you to take possession of as an inheritance, that you will completely erase the memory of Amalek from under the heavens? No! You will forget!”

Don’t weigh with your own stone. Don’t rely on the illusory present situation. Once you are at safety, and in the Land, don’t think for a moment that you can scrape off Amalek’s name from the page, for in doing so, you will surely forget your history. You will surely forget that enemies surround us, you will surely forget what you had to go through to come to this moment. You will fall victim to the illusion that This Moment is eternal. That nothing can shake or assail us. That our own desires are more important than anyone else’s. That we are masters of our lives, free to take what we want, when we want, from whom we want.

That there are no consequences. Forgetting, says the Ba’al Shem Tov, is the beginning of Exile. Which is why the Torah goes through the tortuous wordplay of the final section: Remember to remember to forget, and do not forget.

Remembering, says the Ba’al Shem Tov, is the beginning of Redemption.

And, if we are willing to alter the Torah by excision of Amalek’s name, what else will we choose to erase?

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Shoftim - Within You and Without You

2005-09-09T12:41:00.000-04:00

BS”D

Moshe Rabbeinu – Moshe Our Teacher.

We remind ourselves that the Torah is a literary work, and that words and phrases accrete patinas of meaning that criss-cross from one end of TaNaCh to the other, spilling over into the rabbinic literature and down to today, making all our literature a palimpsest of itself. Just as, in studying passages of Torah, we seek out words in their first occurrence to determine underlying meanings, so too, we are aware that the Torah is the most self-referential of texts – the most meta-textual – and that when we read TaNaCh, echoes come to us not merely from the past, but from the future as well.

At chapter 1, verse 15, Moshe tells the people: “A prophet from your midst, from your brothers, like me, G-d will raise up for you – to him you shall listen.” At verse 18: “I will set up a Prophet for them from amongst their brothers, like you, and I will place my words in his mouth, and he shall speak to them all that I shall command him.”

The key word in these Psukim is “Kamoni” (“like me” – verse 15) and “Kamocha” (“like you” – verse 18).

At the very end of this amazing text that is the written Torah, (Devarim 34:10) we read “And there has not arisen a prophet in Israel again such as Moshe, whom G-d knew face to face.” Almost as if to say: There can be, will be other prophets, but none shall be K’moni, none of the type and level of the relationship that I, Moshe, have with G-d.

Responding to this, Rabbeinu Bachya says that the word K’moni relates to descent: that, like Moshe, the true prophets of the future will be of the lineage of Ya’akov and not Ishmael or Edom, who are also Bnei Abraham.

Viewed another way, the text here comes perhaps as close as it ever does to hinting at an eschatology. The notion of a prophet who is like Moshe implies the return to a time of closeness to G-d, a return to the pristine state of the Midbar. But the particle “ke-“ means “like”. And, as we say, “Ke-‘ilu is only ke-‘ilu” – “’As if’’ is only As If.”

Our text supports this distinction. In verse 18, G-d says “… I will put my words into his mouth and he shall speak to them all that I command him.” This is the paradigm of Bilam, not of Moshe. Rashi, on verse 20, lists three types of prophets whom we are commanded to put to death: A prophet who prophesies what he has not heard (i.e. from G-d); a prophet who prophesies using words told not to him, but to another; and one who prophesies in the name of Avodah zara – idol worship. If you believe this clarifies matters, then you must explain how it can possibly be known to anyone other than the false prophet that he did not, in fact, hear the Word of G-d. The same problem plagues the second type of false prophet, and is compounded. Now we must not merely determine that the prophet stole a prophecy from another person – and even in a court of law our degree of certainty is at best relative – but we must also ascertain that the words spoken were, in fact, the prophetic message delivered to the second person. By contrast, the announcing of prophecy in the names of idols is blatant. It is, in fact, the only of these three that we can practically carry out.

This entire Parasha is shot through with legalistic concepts, all grounded on the concept of Justice. The Chassidic reading of the opening verse – “Judges and policemen you shall set for yourself at all your gates…” is: guard your senses. Significantly, this Parasha, like the one before it, is couched primarily in the second person singular. This is Moshe speaking directly, not to Klal Israel, but to Reb Yid – to each Jew. As G-d learned with Moshe as his Chavrusa, so Moshe is now ours. The admonition to guard, first and foremost, our own senses is an admonition against the natural human tendency to assume that we are in the right. “Do not believe everything you think” is a cute, witty bumper-sticker slogan – but also a vitally important spiritual and social principle.

Put in broader context, we saw that Parashat Eikev addresses the sense of Hearing - not just hearing, but Listening. We saw that Parashat Re'eh addresses the sense of Sight - in the sense of the ability to See clearly what is before us; a gift that Abraham possessed, but that is otherwise exceedingly rare. And now we are told to place Judges and Court Enforcers at the Gates of Perception. Judges: we must correctly analyze the information we receive from the world. Enforcers: however much we are troubled by what we see and hear, however much it conflicts with our own preferred view of the world, we must face reality without the damaged filter of Ego. This, indeed, is the task of the Prophet. A Prophet does not tell what will happen in the distant future, but has the uncanny ability to see clearly what is going on Righ Now, an ability most of us lack. As is said in Tibetan Buddhism: if you wish to see the effect of your past actions, look at your present situation; if you wish to knwo your future situation, look at your present actions. It is amazing how very difficult this is to accomplish.

How do we guard against the natural self-deception that is our human lot? By constant vigilance. Chapter 16, verse 20 tells us famously, “Justice, justice shall you pursue…” In our discussion of Parashat Eikev, we touched on the Midrash that praises Peace as the highest of Mitzvot, because of the text from Tehillim that says “Bakesh shalom ve-rodfehu” – “Ask for Peace and chase after it.” We pointed out that we are commanded, too, to purse Justice. The difference, perhaps, is that we are not commanded to ask for it. The image from the Pasuk in Tehillim is that of the person who goes to ask forgiveness of a friend in the days before Rosh HaShana. The friend – rather, the former friend – rejects the overtures and importunings, and rather justifies his own behavior by saying, “I thought you were my friend, but someone who behaves like that is obviously not my friend.” And so the friend goes the important step further of being Rodef Shalom – of actively chasing after Peace. The Halacha states that if you ask for Mechilah – Forgiveness – three times and the individual still does not respond, you are then required to bring the person before a Beit Din and state the facts of the case, and once again, publicly and before witnesses, beg forgiveness. This, as you may imagine, is rarely done.

And what is Peace when tempered by Justice?

Two people who despise one another agree they will never speak to one another. Is this Peace? Certainly, they will never cause a ruckus in public. They will not disrupt a wedding, a funeral, a cocktail party, or synagogue services with public shouting and name-calling. Yet, within, each one seethes. “I hate you! I forbid you ever to speak to me again!” Is this Peace? Of a sort, and under a strict definition. What is missing?

The Pursuit of Justice commanded in this week’s Parasha is an underlying Torah concept. It is fundamental to the definition of a Jew. For one learns to actively chase after Justice first and only by applying that notion to oneself. It is the self-reflection, the self-honesty, the humility that recognizes that we are not always in the right, this attitude that enables us to create a just society. Without it, society seethes just beneath the surface with generations of stored-up hatreds and resentments, of self-justifications and a sense of angry superiority, of injustice grudgingly borne.

What, then, is the alternative?

How can we identify a False Prophet? How can we keep our society whole and ensure justice for all?

Perhaps what the Torah is pointing to with the words k’moni, kamocha, is the one personal quality that we know Moshe possesses: Humility. Devarim 12:3: “And the man Moshe was very humble, more than all people on the face of the Earth.” A prophet who is humble will not speak words he or she has not heard. A humble messenger will seek to remove his or her own personality from the message – the risk is of saying too little, rather than too much. A humble prophet would not steal another person’s prophesy. First, it is not proper. Second, it might not be true prophecy, then the false prophet would be wrong on two counts: that of theft, and that of leading people astray. If I steal an ox, not knowing it is a Mu’ad –an ox that habitually gores people to death – I become responsible for the damage it inflicts. If I am a rabbi, and I give an incorrect Psak – a Halachic ruling – I am doing damage to Klal Israel.

This occurs in cases seemingly minor, as well as major. If I prohibit a chicken that was actually Kosher, I have cost my congregant money – a form of theft. If I pronounce a Treif chicken Kosher, I may have caused my congregant to violate a Biblical prohibition. If I tell my congregants that no one else practices authentic Judaism, I severely damage Yiddishkeit. But if I place no boundaries at all, I have taught them to become Nothing.

How do we arrive at the level of wisdom where we can create both Peace and Justice?

In this period leading up to Rosh HaShana – starting with the Selichot and the sounding of the Shofar at the beginning of Elul – we are bidden to look within ourselves. It is at these times that perhaps even the False Prophet will Return – will do Teshuva – will acknowledge that, in his zeal for his mission, he permitted himself to say things that maybe he had not heard quite so clearly, or maybe only wished he had heard. It is not a crime to let one’s own fiery imagination spin off into the cosmos. But, as Rebbe Nachman says: interpret as widely and as wildly as you wish – just don’t change the Halacha. The highest level of learning Torah is to create one’s own Torah. That is, to struggle with the teachings that have come down to us and come up with our own insights. But that is not to say that our insights then replace, or even become The Torah.

It is a constant struggle, this life of Torah. And now, during Elul, more than ever, we are bound to struggle with our own learned behaviors, our personalities, our divided nature. We are given three tools to use at this juncture: Tefillah, Teshuvah, and Tzedaka. Prayer, Return, and Charity.

Charity – Tzedaka – we understand as a Putting-Right of society. The opening verses of this week’s Parasha stress that. It is our fundamental attitude.

Return – Teshuva. We may never return to the state we enjoyed in the Midbar, the unmitigatedness of our relationship with G-d, the powerful and comforting presence of Moshe to guide us. And if, today, in 21st-Century America, we long for those times and places, let us remind ourselves that, no sooner had we set foot in the sands of the Midbar, than we longed to return to Mizraim. We can not go back. We can only go forward. What we strive to return to is, rather, an inner pristine-ness, and inner clarity like that of The Time Before. And we believe that our process of Teshuva has the power, not merely to make up for wrongs and mistakes made in our past, but to literally create us anew.

It is a difficult process. How do we approach it?

Through Prayer – Tefilla. The Hebrew word le-hitpallel, is translated “to pray”. But Kabbalists sometimes take hold of words and transmute them into new forms.

In Bereshit 30:8, Rachel, upon the birth of a son to her maidservant Bilha, says, “Naftulei Elohim niftalti.” – “I have undergone tremendous wrestlings.” The two translations brought by Rashi are actually complementary: Ptil, meaning covered over, bound upon (the same word as in the Shema: Ptil tchelet, meaning, as Rashi says there, “bound around”) and Ptil meaning crooked and twisted.

One Kabbalistic reading is that the Ptil of the Tzitzit constantly twists itself - it is as though the word were being read as a verb, rather than a noun. In so doing, it maintains constant communication with G-d: literally keeps us tied to G-d. In its furthest writhing permutation, the very letters of the word Ptil twist themselves from PTL into the configuration TPL [read: TFL] hence, Ptil is transformed into Tefilla.

In wrestling, the combatants twist around one another, bind one another using their own bodies, and in the process become crooked and twisted. Remember, too, that our very name comes from a word meaning To Wrestle: Israel, which is ultimately cognate with Sarah, Struggle.

Now is the time – for, if not now, then when, indeed? – for us to wrestle with ourselves, to strive for our own absolute inner sense of Justice that can lead us to humility before Torah, before one another. This is a Just Society – a society of the humble.

Humble like Moshe.

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Re'eh - The Return

2005-09-02T10:35:00.000-04:00

BS"D

Let us remember that Sefer Devarim opens with a very specific description of place: that Moshe spoke these words “… on the other side of the Jordan, in the Midbar, in Aravah, opposite Suf, between Paran and Tophel and Lavan and Hatzerot and Di-Zahab, eleven days from Chorev, by way of Mt. Seir, to Kadesh Barnea…” The first observation we drew from this was that the entire Torah was written “on the other side of the Jordan”, meaning it was intended for those of us physically residing in the Land of Israel. There continues to be much debate as to whether there is a Mitzvah to live in Israel – or even as to the Torah-based validity of the existence of the State.

Those who argue against the validity of the State of Israel as a political entity quote, for example, the Rambam who does not list Yishuv Eretz Yisrael – Dwelling in the Land of Israel – among his 613 Mitzvot. The counter argument is that, like the commandment to Be Holy, the Rambam does not list as separate Mitzvot actions which are, themselves, preconditions for the Mitzvot.

Those of us who came to Judaism in the renaissance of observance during the last quarter of the twentieth century have been well indoctrinated with A.J. Heschel’s notion that Judaism sanctifies Time, unlike other religions which sanctify space or objects. Let us be careful how we view ourselves: the very first Rashi on the very first Pasuk in Bereshit speaks about our possession of the Land of Israel. The word Makom, meaning Place, appears 90 times in the first four books of the Chumash. In Sefer Devarim it appears 35 times, of which eighteen in this week’s Parasha alone. The tying-together of our spiritual development with the physical world proceeds at a rush, through this Parasha in particular.

As we saw last week, the word Eikev is related to the sense of hearing. It introduces blessings that will come to us because we listen, including the second portion of the Shema. In contrast, this week’s Parasha is called Re’eh – See. As we have learned through the experience in Mizraim, the danger in seeing too much is that we become fixated on what we see – we desire it. We take it. The act of seeing is intrinsically, if not devoid of morality, certainly problematic in its moral implications.

Which is why G-d tells us: “See, today I place before you a Blessing and a Curse.” To continue the Abraham parallel that has been a theme throughout the last several Parshiyot, the text goes on to state where the Blessing and Curse will be found: on Mt. Gerizim and Mt. Ebal, in the Land of the Canaanite, “… beside Elonei Moreh…” in other words, a return to the Place where Abraham first entered the Land. Bereshit 12:6: “And Abraham crossed into the Land until the place of Shechem, at Elon Moreh…” Once again, the text emphasizes that we are being brought full circle. We are returned physically. We are expected to be prepared spiritually.

What is the meaning of the Blessing and the Curse, and how do they relate to Possession of the Land? The text seems to indicate that the dangers that lie in wait for us, once we have crossed over the Jordan and taken possession of the Land, are dangers associated with the act of Seeing.

The Gemara in Megillah says that, at the Covenant Between the Pieces, Abraham feared that G-d’s promise to him, that the Land would belong to his descendants forever, was conditional on continued righteousness – both his own, and that of his descendants forever. This is the Gemara’s interpretive reading of G-d’s exhortation to Abram at Bereshit 15:1: “… ‘Do not fear, Abram. I am your shield; your reward is very great.’” G-d instructs Abraham to use animals for sacrifices, telling him that, by bringing these offerings, Abraham’s seed will continue to gain merit. Abraham counters: one day the Beit HaMikdash will be destroyed, and then there will be no more sacrifices, no more merit. Then we shall lose the Land? What then, asks Abraham. What then?

G-d assures Abraham that the recitation of the prayers, and the repeated listing of the Sacrifices in our prayers, will be counted as though we had brought the sacrifices themselves, and so we shall retain Merit throughout our generations. Abraham accepts this and carries out the Covenant Between the Pieces, leaving us with an eternal obligation to pray.

While we continue to dwell in our spiritual plane – enthused with A.J. Heschel’s notion of Sanctification of Time – let us recall that the life of a Jew in 21st Century America is fundamentally different from the lives of Jews everywhere else. In the civilized countries of Western Europe, Jews are again being made to feel unwelcome. The memory has not yet faded, the blood not dried on the hands of the murderers, and our sisters and brothers are again being told they are not welcome in countries they have inhabited for a thousand years or more. The fact that Arab populations also have legitimate grievances does not explain the failure of the Powers – the United Nations, the European Union – to force the issue from both sides. The travesty of the litany of blame laid at Israel’s door underscores the fact that so many of the Moral Leaders of this world, from the Pope to Nelson Mandela, have feet of clay. The refusal to support the Jewish People in anything but ambiguous terms – the need to embrace the likes of Yassir Arafat – all this proves that the lessons of history have been well learned: You can not stamp out the Jewish presence, so you have to keep trying. If anything is clear, it is that we continue to live as Jews at our peril. Many of us believe that G-d’s Plan for the world includes a special destiny for ‘Am Israel. That does not preclude us from having a state, a political entity. The notion of Mashiach does not preclude us from standing up for ourselves.

The Torah is in its entirety a book that makes the case that we belong in Eretz Israel, and that the Land of Israel belongs to us. There is no arguing that is what the Book is ultimately about. And the vastness and complexity of Torah is such that it makes the case on a Cosmic plane, on the plane of Divine Justice, on the level of Societal Worthiness, from perspectives of Manifest Destiny, and on multiple levels of family, social, and individual moral preparedness, spiritual imperative and, ultimately, historical inevitability.

Viewed as a work of propaganda, the Torah is masterfully structured. The entire Book of Genesis, as Rashi observes, is extraneous. It does not serve to teach laws. What it does, rather, is paint the deep background picture, the special relationship between G-d and the lineage of Sarah, the descendants of Ya’akov, that give us the spiritual and ultimate moral right to the Land. In short: if you accept the truth of Abrahamic religion, you must accept the notion that G-d gave this Land to us, Abraham’s descendants.

The Book of Deuteronomy is also not clearly part of G-d’s direct message, but comes cloaked as Moshe’s retelling of the three middle books of Chumash. In its character as One Man’s Derash on Torah, it contains plenty of fine polemic, especially as regards our taking possession of the Land. Clearly, Moshe qualifies as the first Religious Zionist.

From a perspective of spiritual development, we might even say that Shabbat and the ritual observances we learn in the Midbar are only geared to ensure that we remain morally suited to acquire the Land. The very notion of Shabbat does not appear until we are out of Mizraim. Abraham, Yitzhak, Ya’akov, Yosef, Moshe… none of these observed Shabbat. There was no additional tribulation added to the sufferings in Mizraim by our being forced to work on Shabbat. Now, in Sefer Devarim, we return to the original read of G-d’s message: the Torah is about Place. About a specific place.

And to those who argue that Living in the Land is a Mitzvah, we can counter: it is G-d’s guarantee, why do we need to make of it a Mitzvah?

Our relationship with G-d has become much more complex than ever it was between G-d and Abraham. The Land is G-d’s Promise to us. In return, the inheritors of Abraham’s Promise have also inherited Abraham’s side of the Covenant, that of maintaining Halacha, as well as moral perfection. This is the equivalent of children bearing the obligation to satisfy their father’s debts after his death, a topic on which the Gemara has much to say, including differentiating between land and moveable property in the obligation to satisfy the debts of an estate. It would seem that our obligations are now threefold: we must live in the Land, but in order to continue to merit living in the Land we must observe Mitzvot, and we must maintain a high moral standing as a people. Alas, killing animals at the altar is so much easier…!

Our Parasha instructs us to destroy and raze the places in which the Canaanites sacrificed to their gods, and to only bring offerings to G-d in specified places. The notion of sanctification of place is turned inside-out: it is not we who sanctify places by bringing offerings there; rather, it is G-d who directs us to a sacred spot, where we then bring our offerings. This, again, corresponds to Abraham who was told, at the Akeidah, to go to the Place which G-d will choose. For us, the map is much less clear. We must be extremely careful.

It may be forcing the interpretation to rely on the use of the word, but in Bereshit 4:3-5, the text states that G-d “turned towards” Hevel and his offering, but “did not turn” towards Cain and his offering. It does not use so many other words that might seem more logical: G-d does not Accept, or Favor, or Reward, or Love Hevel’s offering. Rather, the text paints the physical picture of G-d turning to face in one direction – and away from the other. G-d’s “attitude” towards humans is the physical relationship in which we stand, as much as it is spiritual. The corporealism of the Torah here underscores the moral and ethical relationship between G-d and Israel.

Let us examine one other aspect of this week’s Parasha, to see how it adds to the picture. Starting at 12:20, the Parasha discusses the new permission we are being granted to eat meat according to our appetite. This is analogous to the “permission” granted to Noach. The text in Parashat Noach makes it plain that G-d is not encouraging us to eat meat. Rather, G-d appears to be giving in to the inevitable: humans are evil (G-d’s own words, not mine) so I can’t stop them doing evil things; I might as well let them eat meat. Rather than actively sanctioning the killing of animals, G-d turns away, sadly perhaps, and permits what even G-d can not prevent.

In today’s Parasha, G-d does the same for Klal Israel, giving us blanket permission to slaughter animals for their meat. In the Midbar, animals could only be slaughtered for consecrated purposes, only at the designated spot at the Mizbeach, by the Cohen. Now that we are about to enter the Land, we are given permission to kill and eat animals for non-sacred purposes. As G-d “decriminalized” the eating of animal flesh by Noach and his descendants, now G-d recognizes that we will eat meat after we have spread out throughout the ,Land. The danger is that, in our effort to stick to accustomed practices, we will make ad-hoc altars and slaughter animals as sacrifices every time we want a Big Mac. We have just been commanded to destroy the places of idol worship, and not to choose our own places to sacrifice to G-d, but to bring offerings only where G-d instructs. G-d clearly recognizes that there’s no having it both ways.

So here we are. This is our Place – our Land. In our Land, we must try to be holy. Even outside of the Land, we must practice holiness.

Rashi, quoting the Sifrei on last week’s Parasha, indicates that there is a very real sense in which all Mitzvot we perform outside of the Land are merely practice, preparation for when we are where we are destined to be. Like Aharon, we must live our lives in constant readiness. Like Cain, we should bring offerings out of the desires of our hearts – but we must learn from his experience too; we can only give, we can not require that G-d accept us.

Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach ztz’l, speaking between Hakkafot one Simchat Torah, told the story of Cain and Hevel. He said that most people are like Cain. Cain, whose own merit was so great that he was actually the brother of the man whose offering was accepted by G-d! But Cain’s response, instead of gratitude, was of jealousy and rage. Of Hatred for no reason.

We have just come through Tisha Be’Av, the Beit HaMikdash destroyed through Sinat Hinam – Hatred for no Reason. And we have just seen the stirrings, in the historic events in Eretz Israel, of Ahavat Hinam – Love for no Reason. The message of Cain and Hevel is that we must bring the offerings whenever our hearts move us, and let the blessings fall where they may. The message of this week’s Parasha is that the Land is ours, whether we want it or not.

And we are G-d’s whether we act it or not.

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Eikev - The Beginning of Wisdom

2005-08-26T10:57:00.000-04:00

BS"D

“It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.”

Oscar Wilde

“All things are in the hands of Heaven, save the Fear of Heaven.”

Gemara – Berachot

“And now, Israel, what does the L-rd your G-d ask from you, but to fear the L-rd your G-d… for your own good.”

Parashat Eikev –
Devarim, 10:12, 13

The word Eikev – meaning “because” or “since” – occurs at two points of immense significance in the Torah. Words live by their contexts. Words, no less than humans, are communal beings. No less than ourselves, they draw their meaning from the contexts in which they appear. And, similar to the development of human personalities, the meanings of words accrete as they obtain new layers of significance.

The word Eikev appears for the first time in Parashat Vayeira, at the scene of the Akeidah – the Binding of Isaac. Bereshit 22:15-18: (my own free translation) And an Angel of G-d called to Abraham, a second [problem of the original language: A second Time (the usual translation)? A second Angel? A second Abraham?] one, from the sky and said: by my self I have sworn, the word of G-d, that because that you did this thing, and did not withhold your son, your only one, that I will surely bless you, and I will surely multiply your seed like the stars of the sky and like the sand that is on the seashore, and your seed shall inherit the gate of their enemy, and all the nations of the earth shall bless themselves in your seed, Eikev because that you listened to my voice.”

We have already seen that, as his career draws to a close, Moshe is compared to Abraham. There are both parallels and contrasts that make it clear the Torah is completing the Abraham story with the denouement of the Moshe story. In this context, the literary interplay of this brief text in the Moshe narrative is critical and forceful. In Bamidbar 20:12, G-d informs Moshe and Aharon of their punishment after the incident of striking the rock (Parashat Chukat). The reason Aharon and Moshe must die in the Wilderness is introduced with the Hebrew word Ya’an – also meaning “since” or “because”, and the other “because” word that has its origin in the Akeidah narrative. “… by my Self I have sworn, the Word of G-d, that Ya’an because you did this thing…” And, in Parashat Chukat: “… ya’an because you did not believe in me…”

The sequence in the Akeidah is: Ya’an because you took an action; and Eikev because you listened to my Voice. This is the pinnacle of ‘Am Israel’s devotion to Torah. On the eve of Moshe’s ascent of Sinai – the eve of the Giving of Torah – we stand up and announce (Shemot 24:7) Na’aseh ve-nishma’! “We will do and we will listen!” Let us not put too fine a point on the flaw in the Rabbinical interpretation of this passage, which sees in our unison shout an overwhelming zeal for Torah, such that we were willing to accept upon ourselves all the Mitzvot, even though we do not hear them until afterwards. (This is, in fact, the formula required of the Convert.) In the section in question – Parashat Mishpatim – we are told that Moshe wrote all the words of G-d in a book, and read the book before all the people, whereupon we responded “We shall do and we shall listen!” Only thereafter does Moshe ascend Sinai for his forty-day encounter. And this passage comes well after the Ten Commandments section in Parashat Yitro. If, like Ramban, we read the text sequentially, then we have already heard. Indeed, given Moshe’s redaction and reading-aloud, we have heard twice. It may be argued that we are not, in fact, throwing ourselves with wanton faith and love into the arms of a mysterious Torah - an attitude which strikes me as distinctly non-Jewish! Rather, we have already been introduced to proper instruction. Like Hillel’s converts, we have been shown the truth of Torah and said Na’aseh! And, like Hillel’s converts, we are eager to learn more. Nishma’!

And so we come to the opening of this week’s Parasha. “And it will be, eikev you will listen to these ordinances, and you will keep them and you will do them...” Action and listening. Hear and perform.

Abraham, too, heard, and acted thereafter. And G-d rewards him, first for the act itself, and only second for the hearing. Moshe and Aharon heard, but failed to act. G-d punishes them for the failure to act, then G-d tells us that G-d will keep G-d’s side of the contract if we keep ours. If we listen.

(Agenda alert: I have written elsewhere of the great use I have made of the ArtScroll publications in my coming to, and deepening into, Yiddishkeit. Unlike some, for whom the world is made up of Heroes and Villains, I believe there are many people who do a great deal of good, yet who also suffer from flaws. I am open to the possibility that I may be one of them: I hope and pray BS”D that the good I do will in some measure balance the rest of this tangle of personality G-d has seen fit to bless and curse me with! To point out people’s flaws is not to vitiate the value of their good works. Like the Truth and Reconciliation Commissions, Klal Israel would benefit enormously from a little self-honesty. From Letting The Sun Shine In. We can criticize faults without finding fault; we can reject problematic parts of a person’s makeup without rejecting the person. As Jews, I am bound for you, whether I admit it or not. It is my obligation to correct you with love. Vayikra 19:17 [quoting directly from the ArtScroll translation] “You shall not hate your brother in your heart; you shall reprove your fellow and do not bear a sin because of him.” And so I wish to point out – gently, not harshly, and with respect for the impact ArtScroll and Mesorah Publications have had on the world – that the translation of the first Pasuk of this week’s Parasha is very misleading. The ArtScroll translation reads, “This shall be the reward when you hearken to these ordinances…” Readers of Hebrew will note that there is no word “reward” in the original text. Granted, given the original source of Eikev, one can argue that the word itself is pregnant with the notion of Reward. I agree, I accept, yet I demur: a pregnancy is not a child. To be continued on the other side of the parenthesis…)

To the extent any Reward is offered, it is stated as nothing more than G-d’s keeping to G-d’s own side of the Brit, the Promise that was made to our ancestor, and that continues to apply to us.

Which brings us to our point.

In and among all the description of the Land we are about to inhabit, a small but critical piece of this week’s Parasha is the notion of Yirat Shemayim – the Fear of Heaven. Nehama Leibovitz quotes Yosef Albo saying that the soul inhabits the body for the unique purpose of acquiring Yirat Shamayim, and that, once this has been acquired, the soul is then prepared for eternal life. And, as last week’s Parasha drew a distinction between the Letter of the Law and the inner, abiding principle, it also appears that the notion of Fearing G-d, or Fear of Heaven, is given, both as a specific Mitzvah, and as a general principle.

The Rabbinic literature addresses the notion of Yirat Shamayim from two perspectives: there is the one who genuinely fears that G-d will punish the person who does not obey the Law – or even the one who tries, yet who obeys imperfectly. The general view of Chazal is that this type of attitude is better than no Yirat Shamayim at all: that, if it takes the threat of punishment to bring people to observance of Mitzvot, it is still better than if they do no Mitzvot. The corollary to this attitude is the person who performs Mitzvot out of hope of Reward, for Reward and Punishment are two sides of a coin, one which is of highly common circulation, yet of questionable value.

The second type of Yirat Shamayim is the sense of spiritual awe that we experience when we become cognizant of G-d’s vastness – or, conversely, which can be ignited by our becoming aware of our own insignificance. Most perfectly, I would argue, it is the sense of awe we experience when we become aware of our own very great importance, and yet G-d’s importance overshadows us infinitely – and yet, G-d has given us Torah and Halacha, this infinite gift, whereby we can commune directly with G-d, find our way back. The sense of awe we experience when we realize that G-d has offered us the ability to become G-d's partners in the vast enterprise of Torah and human history.

Let us postulate two types of Yirat Shemayim – Fear of Heaven. They may be categorized as the Fear of the Invisible, and the Fear of the Visible. This week’s Parasha mentions the miracle of the Man – the Manna – twice in close proximity: 8:3,: “And G-d afflicted you and made you hungry and made you eat the Man which you did not know, and which your ancestors did not know, in order to make it known to you that: Not by bread alone does the person live, but upon all that comes out of the mouth of G-d – from this does the person live.” And eight verses later, 8:16: “Who made you eat Man in the Wilderness, in order to afflict you and in order to test you in order to improve you at your end.” And, indeed, the Rabbis accept the notion that the Man is actually a Test, and not merely a gift.

Rabbeinu Bahaye says that, through being placed in a position of complete dependence upon G-d day by day, we are intended to come to trust that G-d will meet our needs the moment they are manifest – or perhaps before. This is the message of the Man, that we learn to trust in G-d. And it is the test: we initially fail it, when two people go out to collect Man on Shabbat.

The Ramban says that the purpose of visible miracles is to open our eyes to the hidden miracles. For the hidden miracles are around us all the time. The Hidden Miracles, writes the Ramban, are the foundation of all Torah. The Ramban goes so far as to state that no one has a portion in the Torah until and unless that person regards everything that happens as a miracle. This, then, is Fear of the Visible: Yirat Shamayim arising from the awareness of the Miraculous – of G-d’s influence or presence in all the world. And let us remember, too, that the word Yira comes from the word meaning To See.

What does this mean for us in practical terms? For the Torah is a book to live by, not merely a collection of pithy spiritual aphorisms. Reshit chochmah yirat Ha-Shem, it says in Tehillim: “The beginning of wisdom is fear of G-d…” This phrase is so ingrained in our belief that we teach it to our children before they can read. Before they can even speak intelligibly, our daughters and sons are mouthing this sentence.

What does it all mean?

As in last week’s Parasha, the command to Love G-d is repeated here. Significantly, the second paragraph of the Shema, which is found in our Parasha, opens: “And it will be, if you really listen…” – Im shamoa’ tishme’u. Again, the literary referent is reinforced: Eikev asher shama’ata… the word Eikev goes with Hearing, or Listening. (Let us also observe that one can hear without listening!)

Amid and among all the discussion in this week’s Parasha of the plenty to be found in the Land, amidst all the Promise of the blessed lives we will live once we enter the Land and take possession, there is a troubling undercurrent. Rashi quotes back-to-back passages from the Sifrei go to the heart of issues that have come to plague us throughout our history.

“… and you shall eat and you shall be satisfied…” says the passage at 11:15, part of the second paragraph of the Shema. The well-known text goes on to describe the ills that will befall if we turn away from G-d: G-d will starve us out, and will ultimately expel us from the Land. Then, verse 18: “And you will place these words of mine upon your heart and upon your soul, and you will tie them as a sign on your hands and they will be Totafot between your eyes.” First, the linguist in me needs to point out that the origin and precise meaning of the Hebrew word Totafot are not completely clear. We use this word to mean the Tefillin worn on the forehead. And of course, the Hebrew “ totafot bein eyneicha…” can mean either “between your eyes” or “among your eyes”… in other words: it is something Between Our Eyes, so that it can be Among Our Eyes: something we wear publicly, on the forehead, so that we can all see one another wearing it.

Rashi quotes a Sifrei on verse 17 relating the parable of a man whose son did not heed his warning, but ate and drank to excess in a public place, and ended up defiling the other guests and being flung into the road.

The very next verse, verse 18, Rashi quotes the Sifrei saying: you should continue to perform the Mitzvot of Tefilllin and Mezuzah, even in Exile, so that these Mitzvot should not seem strange to you when you return to the Land.

Gevalt!

There is a danger, Chazal are telling us, that we might believe we can only be Jews when we physically reside in the Land. Can it be that certain Mitzvot that we perform routinely are actually only for practice? Can it be that there is no actual Mitzvah to hang a Mezuzah on my doorpost in my home in New Jersey? If I sell my house, my family will not be able to redeem it in the Yovel year. Thus, perhaps it is not truly mine, in the full Torah sense of possession. If so, then I am hanging a Mezuzah out of an emotional attachment to what is past, and to what may be to come. But it is not a Mitzvah.

If that is the case, then why should women not wear Tefillin? It’s only a Minhag!

The ArtScroll footnote hurries to point out that “Ramban clarified this concept. The commandments apply equally everywhere, but the holiness of the Land is so great that their performance is more significant there.” I am not sure I agree. Rashi and Ramban are frequently on opposite sides of an argument. If Ramban is commenting on Rashi, more often than not, it is to contradict. Rashi says: Pshat in the text is: you will grab more than you are entitled to, the Land will spit you out – still, you should keep performing the Mitzvot because sooner or later you will return to the Land. One area in which Rashi and Ramban seem to agree: all of Jewish existence is an eternity of Exile, and Redemption, though to be prayed for, to be awaited, may be farther off than ever we could believe.

How does this bring us to the issue of Yirat Shamaym? How does the Fear of Heaven fit in with the notions of grabbing more than our fair share of the Land?

The view of Eretz Israel as being our Reward for performance of Mitzvot is one of the most dangerous concepts to arise in Jewish history. It is also, of course, the indestructible seed that gave rise to the State of Israel. It is poetic justice of a level worthy of the Torah itself that the State of Israel was created by non-religious – or even anti-religious – Jews. It is an irony worthy of Shakespeare that the eternal homeland of a nomadic people from what is today Iraq and Turkey has been established as a West European fortress, to the exclusion of the local culture. It is oddly cacaphonic to read the Rabbinic commentaries on this week’s Parasha making statements like, Eretz Israel is unique among nations in that it is self-sufficient. Unlike Egypt, which is only partly watered by the Nile, Eretz Israel is fully watered and grows abundant crops. Yes, that is true. Eretz Israel is fully irrigated. Or rather: the parts of Eretz Israel that are duly sanctioned by the Euro-centric and Anti-religious government are fully irrigated. With waters diverted from Jordan, from Syria, and from Israel’s own internal Arab population.

Still, it is a dose of perfection that this Land of the Torah was colonized and a polity finally established in modern times by the irreligious. Finally, all Jews are thrown together. If we listen to the message Rashi brings from the Sifrei, we should know that we must approach our ownership of the Land with humility. To whom was the father speaking? Was the gluttonous son Chareidi? Or Shalom Achshav? Whoever it was, notice that the one who made a pig of himself ruined the meal for everyone at the table. Is it possible to say that the ones who sieze what is not theirs will be flung into the road, while the others will remain at the table? That those who take the notion of Possession of theLand to excess will, themselves, be dispossessed, while the rest of Klal Israel retains its place and ownership, in G-d's longing and hope that evenetually some of us will get it right?

Yes, there is a tradition that the Land will be reconquered in the Days of Mashiach. But there is also a text – our text, the second paragraph in the Shema, which is found in this week’s Parasha – that warns us that the penalty for bowing to foreign gods is to be expelled from the Land.

The refreshing aspect of dealing with the secular government is that they do not claim to have G-d on their side. The problem with trying to run a political state on the basis of a religious text is: whose interpretation? Thank G-d that Jews are so damned argumentative, otherwise Israel would have become Talibanized years ago! Truly, this abrasive diversity is our great strength. It ensures that Judaism and Torah will continue to thrive, and BS”D will keep the State of Israel alive while we wait for Mashiach to come and settle the Open Questions.

Some of the former Gaza Settlers are now shaking their heads in disbelief, wondering that they embraced this plot of real estate with such religious fervor, neglecting and, indeed, debasing the rest of Israeli society and fundamental Jewish values in the precess. Some are wondering openly whether their own leaders – Rabbis and political leaders – have failed them, have sold them a bill of goods of religious extremism, bundled with the political expedient of needing pawns to sacrifice in the opening gambit. Some of the Former Settlers are wondering whether they, themselves, in effect bowed to foreign gods.

And what has it bought us? Arab parents exhort their children to resist. The children blow themselves up, killing Jews in the process. The IDF charges into the Gaza camps, guns and bulldozers ablaze. A dozen Arabs die, four houses are demolished. We call the Arabs “animals” and wonder how they can countenance allowing children to die for a worthless cause.

Urged on by rabbis who hate the secular government even more than they hate the Arabs, Jewish families move into the thick of 1.4 million hostile Arabs. The government denounces them in public, meanwhile diverting millions of dollars for construction and infrastructure. Despite warnings from the IDF and the clear knowledge that the Arabs consider their presence a provocation, parents send their young children on buses that cross from settlement to settlement. Arabs attack the buses whenever they can. Once in a while, they are successful. Jewish children are killed, are maimed. We call the Arabs “animals” and wonder how they can countenance allowing children to die for a worthless cause. Then the IDF charges into the Gaza camps, guns and bulldozers ablaze. A dozen Arabs die, four houses are demolished…

What does this have to do with Yirat Shamayim?

Yirat Shamayim is our sense of profound awe at the delicacy of every good and perfect and beautiful thing in G-d’s world. The abundance of commentary on this week’s Parasha – which is a Commentary of Abundance – is largely political grandstanding, intended to make Eretz Israel into something other than its reality. The amazing thing is: it worked! We believe that Jews have a special Beracha, a blessing, that we take abundance with us. That whatever we work hard at, we succeed at. And nothing has succeeded more than the State of Israel.

It has been written, by the historian Will Durant, that since human record-keeping began, there have been only twenty-nine years in all of recorded history during which there was not a war somewhere on Earth. I am only asking questions and do not claim to have an answer. But is there not some way we can interrupt the cycles of hate and destruction and rage? Let us now, just for a moment, rather than plunging the dagger again and again into the inert body of our enemy, stand in awe of just how delicate, just how fragile is our existence.

Let us reach out to one another first, as fellow Jews – Settler and Leftist and Shas and Neturei Karta and Likud and Modern Orthodox and Peace Now and Atheist… the world is full of enough hate, and enough of it is directed to us. Let us not add to that. Let us take one another by the hand and dwell on our common-ness. If we dwell on our samenesses, rather than our differences, perhaps BS”D G-d will show us the way to Peace.

The Midrash says that Peace is greater than all other Mitzvot, because of the line in Tehillim: “Bakesh shalom ve-rodfehu” – “Ask for Peace and pursue it.” It does not say “Pursue Tefillin,” “pursue Matzah”, “pursue Lulav.” I was perplexed by this Midrash, until I remembered that we are the inheritors of an oral tradition. I was perplexed because Shalom, Peace, is not the only Mitzvah we are commanded to pursue. The Torah tells us “Tzedek, tzedek tirdof…” – “Justice, justice you shall pursue…” But of course, the compilers of the Midrash would be quicker to jump on that than I. By leaving out the mention of the Pursuit of Justice, they brilliantly make it that more present. Peace and Justice. They must never be separated. And above all other Mitzvot, we are commanded to pursue them both.

The message Rashi brings to us from the Sifrei is, that we must dwell in the moment. That we carry our Mitzvot with us, and they are our Land. That Exile from Torah is the harshest Exile of all. That rather than living the fantasy of what some distant future may hold, we must get down to the business of living in the world, whether in the Land of Israel or out of it. Whether Jews should even believe in Mashiach is a question I will not enter into – except insofar as to state that it is a question. To hold out Mashiach as a standard, as something to aspire to, is to encourage Jews to build a perfect world, all the while accepting the World’s imperfections. To hold out Mashiach as an end, other than which nothing has any importance, is to rob the world of the Jewish contribution, to rob Jews of their own lives, and to rob us all of Torah. To cast us into Exile.

The words Reishit chochmah… usually translated as “the beginning of Wisdom,” can also have another meaning. The Hebrew expression Besamim rosh , literally “Head spices”, means the choicest of the spice-handler’s goods. Similarly, the expression Reishit chochmah – the word Reishit, Beginning, comes from Rosh, meaning Head – can be read to mean the Rarest Part of Wisdom. The purest, rarest and most exquisite part of Wisdom. This is Yirat Shamayim as Awe Before the Invisible.

The awesomeness of our lives resides nowhere more profoundly than in the ineffable fragility of all we are, all we believe, all we have built.

Treat one another kindly. We are all we have.

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Va'etchanan - In Defense of Tisha Be'Av

2005-08-16T21:20:00.000-04:00

BS"D

If any one thing can be said with certainty about the Torah, it is that none of us can truly state that we comprehend G-d’s meaning. As Jews, we recognize that we have an obligation to sanctify the world in G-d’s name, to make of this world a better world, a just world, a compassionate world. If Jews can agree on anything, at least as far as religious observance is concerned, we may be able to agree that our religious observance is based in the Halachah. For some – the Moderns, the Intellectuals – this may mean that it derives from Halachah. For others – the Ultras, the Ultra-Ultras – this may mean that we must keep every practice in form unchanged from Temple times.

Where do we begin? There is so much worthy of discussion in this week’s Parasha: the exposition of the eternal theme of Exile and Return, the restating of the Ten Commandments, the first paragraph of the Shema, the command to convey and teach Torah down through the generations. Where to begin? And where, indeed, to end?

Chapter 4, verse 2: in preparation for the restatement of Mattan Torah – the Giving of the Law, in the form of the Ten Commandments – Moshe enunciates a specific Halachah: a prohibition against adding to, or subtracting from the Torah.

There are those who claim that, by struggling to hold onto the Gaza settlements, Israel is committing the sin of “Lo tosifu” – adding to Torah. And of course, there are those who object that, by forcing the return of these captured territories to the Arabs from whom they were wrested – as legitimate trophies of conflict, many would add – that the secular State of Israel is committing the sin of “Lo tigre’u mimenu” – diminishing Torah.

The only thing I am willing to say for certain is that neither side in this argument knows The Truth, knows G-d’s Truth. And yet there are those who state publicly that they do. These people not only proceed at their own peril, they imperil the existence of Klal Israel and of the Torah. Do not misread my meaning: there are Zealots on both sides of this argument: there are those who defy any earthly government to Do Their Worst, clinging furiously to the certainty that G-d has commanded them – Them! – to march into Gaza and refuse to be dislodged. There are those who state that the notion of a G-d-centered polis is nonsense; that the Will Of The People must rule (“Vox populi, vox Dei” it reads: “The Voice of the People is the Voice of G-d.” One can hardly be more explicit.)

Each year at this season, the debate surfaces around the observance of Tisha Be’Av. The most frequently voiced position I hear against the observance of this fast is: now we have the State of Israel. Now things are different.

To which I can only comment: Lo tosifu: do not add to Torah.

In light of the truly “Biblical” timing of the Israeli government’s carrying-out of the Hitnakut – the Disengagement – the debate looms particularly massive this year.

Bereshit 1:1. Rashi asks why the Torah, a Book of Laws, begins with the beginning of Creation – an unnecessary point of departure, and one which requires that an entire book be written down before we come to our theme. Rashi tells us that future generations will rail against us. “You are thieves!” they will say, angry that we have stolen the Land of Israel from its inhabitants. “No!” we will reply, pointing to the opening verse of the Torah. “G-d made the World, and G-d gives the Land to whom G-d pleases. It pleased G-d to take the Land away from them and give it to us!”

Thank G-d for the existence of the State of Israel. But let us recall that inheritance and safety and ownership of the Land – all these are tied, in Torah and in the rest of the Bible – to a Moral Imperative. We are held to a moral standard. The message implicit in Rashi’s famous statement is: G-d can change G-d’s mind.

We believe in G-d’s Promise to Abraham: this Land is ours for all time. But there are Conditions. The Promise becomes part of the Covenant, and a Covenant is a contract which requires Performance of both parties. Our side of the Brit is to Be Holy and the Make the World Holy. G-d’s side is to continue to deliver on the Promises – and over time, G-d adds to these Promises. There is the Promise to Abraham, of an eternal possession of the Land. But when Rashi explains the Ner Tamid, the Eternal Flame, we learn that Perpetual does not literally mean At Every Moment; rather, the concept of Perpetual means Repeatedly. Are we to possess the Land repeatedly, gaining it and losing it, until we break through at some far-off End Of Days to take final possession in fulfillment of the Promise to Abraham?

There is the Promise to David of the Eternal Kingship.

Some argue that G-d has Promised us a Mashiach. Some are holding out for two Messiahs: Ben Aharon and Ben David. I am not sure which is the one on the billboard.

And so, let us ask again: What of Tisha Be’Av? Are we to continue to observe it? Or is it time to cast aside outmoded observances and embrace the Political Reality as evidence of the Earthly working-out of the Divine Plan? Can we now consider that G-d’s Promise has been kept?

If so, what of our side of the Covenant? Tread carefully, I beg you!

The Rabbis tell us that the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash – both the first and second – came about as a result of Sinat Hinam – Baseless Hatred. Indeed, is there any other kind?

The destruction of the Beit HaMikdash by the Romans, which led to two thousand years of dispersion, was the culmination of generations of Jews warring against Jews. From the destruction of the Kingdom of Israel, down to the expulsion of the Jews under the Romans, no people wrought more cruelty upon us than we managed to carry out on one another. This is not to minimize the horror of the Roman occupation, the near-destruction of the Jewish People. But it was we ourselves who opened the door to Rome, opened it by our own internal divisiveness.

Through the gift of technology, we can now watch, on our television screens, as the IDF and Israeli Police descend in vast numbers on the Gaza settlements. I can hardly recall an event on the world stage that has moved me as much as watching, reading about, or merely contemplating the events unfolding at this moment.

I am heartened to see IDF soldiers advancing slowly, unarmed, with neither helmets nor body armor. I am heartened to see combat troops locked in brotherly embrace with men wearing Pe’ot, and clad in Tallit and Tefillin. As heart-wrenching as the Hitnakut is, perhaps we are seeing the beginnings of Ahavat Hinam – of Freely-Given Love. My prayer is that his Love may continue. May we continue to love one another – fellow Jews. May Ahavat Yisrael become the foundation for a universal Ahavat Hinam.

Throughout the opening sections of Sefer Devarim, Moshe dwells, not on the Sin of the Golden Calf, but on the Sin of the Spies. In the Sin of the Calf, we did not believe what we did not see with our own eyes. When Moshe failed to return, we gave up hope. In the incident of the Spies, we refused to believe that which we did see with our own eyes: G-d had promised us this Land, G-d brought us to the borders of the Land, permitted us to walk the very roads and fields and mountains of the Land, to taste its fruits, to breathe its air. And we refused to go up.

G-d, as Rashi says, had been pleased to give the Land to us. And we did not take it. When we reject a gift, we reject also its Giver. When we refuse to accept a gift, saying it is False, we are also saying that the Giver is False.

In our Parasha – 4:25-28 – Moshe warns us that the price for our rejecting G-d will be Exile. Exile, accompanied by the dramatic reduction of our numbers. If we are to believe the evidence of our own eyes, we have certainly witnessed this in the course of history. When, in verse 30, Moshe reassures us that we shall return to G-d at the end of days, it is not a prediction of the Coming of Mashiach, but rather a reassurance that, when all our wanderings and our rage have finally worn us down, we shall recall that we have a Covenant with G-d. We shall then reach out and try to reconnect, to embrace that Covenant and beg G-d to take us back. And when that time does come, Moshe assures us, G-d will be waiting.

The Abarbanel, in a typically astonishing insight, tells us that the Exile from the Land is not the Punishment, nor is the decimation of our numbers, the living in poverty and misery and terror. The real Punishment, he says, is that we shall worship other gods. We shall know that G-d is Truth, yet we shall turn our backs on G-d and on Torah. Worshiping strange gods, says the Abarbanel, is not the cause of punishment: it is the punishment itself.

Let us not worship the false gods of our own rage, of our own close-mindedness. Lo tosifu ve-lo tigre’u. Let us neither add to, nor subtract from Torah. Let us, rather, admit that all our learning is emptiness and hollow, and let us strive to understand Torah. If we pray for anything at all, let us not pray for land, for wealth, for military victory. Let us pray for humility. Let us pray that, now that G-d has finally given us the Land, and we have accepted, we remain worthy of continuing to live in it. At peace with one another and, with G-d’s help, at peace with the world.

And Tisha Be’Av?

Let us always remember the high price of Pridefulness – for stony self-certainty is the very base of Baseless Hatred. In Parashat Zachor, we are exhorted to Remember, to make of our Remembering an active form of Forgetting. The dangers of Amalek lurk about us at all times. No less so, the dangers of Sinat Hinam. The whole tragedy of human history is reduced to the fable of Kamtsa and Bar Kamtsa. Jerusalem fell, the Temple was destroyed, three million Jews were massacred and two millennia of Exile were launched, all because one man didn’t want to invite another man to his birthday party.

Is it ever the Wrong Time to do Teshuvah?

Jews! Reach out and embrace one another! There is so much hatred in our world, we need not add to it by pretending to have an exclusive on G-d’s message. Even G-d tempers Stern Justice with Compassion and Mercy. Can we not offer one another a Kol she-hu of the same? A minimal amount?

I have been taught that the ultimate Good is to make the world a better place, one person at a time. In this lifetime, I am trying to make of myself that One Person. I urge you to do the same.

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Devarim - Down To Earth

2005-08-10T18:08:00.000-04:00

BS"D

There are those among us who crave symmetry, for whom the structure of life only makes sense when Life reveals itself to have an artistic structure. Human beings are, by our very nature, what has usefully been called "retroactive meaning-finders". There are those in the Jewish community who, influenced perhaps by the Zohar - or perhaps only by what they have been told is in the Zohar - read meaning into the very letters of Torah. The French intellectuals of the Twentieth Century did not invent Deconstructionism, they only resurrected an aspect of an ancient Jewish textual methodology. And, if the Torah is the ultimate text, then certainly G-d is the ultimate Author. What does this text tell us about its author? What are the conflicts and paradoxes underlying the words of G-d?

Il n'y a pas dehors texte wrote Jacques Derrida, the thinker most closely associated with Deconstructionism. And the Kabballah certainly agrees, at least in one aspect.

To bring this to our first question: Why does the Torah - the ultimate Book Of All Books - begin not with the first letter, Aleph, but with the second letter, Beit?

The answer, revealed in the self-referential structure of Torah itself, is: the Torah does begin with Aleph. And it begins here: Devarim 1:1: 'Eleh ha-devarim asher diber Moshe... "These [spelled Aleph, Lamed, Heh] are the words that Moshe spoke..."

The Rabbis call Sefer Devarim by the name "Mishne Torah" - the second Torah. As a restatement of the main themes of G-d's commands to the Jewish people, the Book of Devarim is, in a very real sense, the entire Torah. Remember that very first Rashi, at Bereshit 1:1. That the Torah is a book of laws, and as such it should begin with the Halacha of the New Moon - Shemot 12:2. Remember, too, Rashi tells us that Moshe read all of Sefer Bereshit to us on the eve of Mattan Torah, as prologue to the Law we were about to receive. It appears that the purpose of Sefer Bereshit is to introduce Torah's true message, which is directed to Klal Israel - an entity that only comes into existence through the process of the Exodus.

From Moshe's perspective - and from our own - this is the Torah. The Book of Deuteronomy is one man's retelling of Torah, and in retelling, Moshe interprets. Indeed, the whole of our history is an ongoing attempt to find new applications for this Text. The Midrashim surrounding Mattan Torah - the Giving of Torah at Sinai - make it clear that the words themselves are both a gift and a snare. The words of Torah are a gift: G-d gave humanity the blueprint for Creation, the Owner's Manual for life in the cosmos. And yet, once the concepts and images and thoughts moved from the Mind of G-d to the stones - and thence to the printed page - we all became prisoners of our own shades of meaning. "Two Jews," goes the saying, "three opinions." What do you expect? You have only to work your way through a Daf or two of Gemara to see that there is no such thing as Pshat - the "Simple Meaning" of a text.

Torah does, indeed, begin with Aleph. And Bereshit - what we call the beginning of Torah - begins with the letter Beit to show the relationship between Sefer Devarim and the first four books. This book, Moshe's book, is Our Torah. It is Torah brought down from the Heavens and placed in the hands of a man. Who thence passes it on to us. From our perspective, it is the first four books that are "add-ons". And let us also remember that, collectively, the five books are referred to as Torat Moshe - "Moshe's Torah".

The Dubner Maggid quotes a statement of the Vilna Gaon, the import of which appears to be that the first four books of Torah are G-d speaking directly, while the fifth book is Moshe speaking what he understands to be the words of G-d.

Everyone knew that Moshe had a serious speech impediment, which is why Aharon had to speak for him. Now that Aharon is dead, who does the speaking? The Maharal, echoing the Zohar, brings the image of Moshe "speaking" these words: the people heard words coming from Moshe's mouth, and they knew it could not be him.

The Or HaChaim seems to go so far as to state that "'eleh" - "these" words are distinct from all that came before: that "these" words were spoken by Moshe without being commanded by G-d.

Or perhaps Moshe received all the words of G-d's Torah - books one through four - and wrote them down, then just kept writing his own Gemara on the text, with G-d looking over his shoulder. "That's good," G-d seems to say. "Keep that in."

The phrase "Va-yidaber H' el Moshe lemor..." - "And G-d spoke to Moshe, saying..." does not occur in this book. There is a dual significance to this phenomenon. As we learned / will BS"D learn in our discussion of Parashat Bereshit, the act of Speech is one of the four fundamental Acts of Creation. "Va-yomer Elokim yehi Or - va-yehi Or." "And G-d said 'let there be light' - and there was light." G-d's first act of Creation is done through the verb 'AMR - Aleph, Mem, Resh. To speak, to say. And each time the phrase "Vayidaber H' el Moshe, lemor..." appears in the text, it is to introduce a new concept. The power of "Lemor" is the power to create, to make new, to introduce new concepts.

In contrast, the concepts in Sefer Devarim are Moshe's own. These are the words, not of G-d, but of a man who has seen G-d, who has spoken with G-d, learned Torah as G-d's Chavruta, and now turns to pass on to us what he has learned.

The literary markers in the text show us explicitly that this book is of an altogether different character from the preceding four. How do we begin to approach a work as vast as Sefer Devarim - a Parasha as rich as this? We shall touch on three Psukim, taking them - to make our point - in the reverse of the order in which they appear in the text. We hope from this to deconstruct somewhat the complexities of the relationship of G-d and Torah, of G-d and Torah and Moshe, of G-d and Torah and Moshe and Israel, and of G-d and Torah and Moshe and Klal Israel and each one of us.

Chapter 1, verse 5. "... Moshe began to explain this Torah, saying:" The word "Ho'il", here translated as "he began", contains multiple layers of meaning, including the sense of Willingness, Venturesomeness, Risk of failure. The word "Be'er" - "he explains" - comes from a root that can also mean To Engrave. Finally, the last word of the Pasuk is "Lemor" - the very Word with which G-d created the cosmos. Clearly, Humans have become the Creators. Consistent with the long-drawn process of the transfer of power and authority that we have followed through the text - starting in Sefer Shemot, but emerging powerfully in the final Parshiyot of Bamidbar - the final touch is the ultimate transfer of Torah from G-d to us. "Lo bashamayim hi" we shall read later in this same book: "It is not in the Heavens". Indeed. And what more powerful way to demonstrate this than to put all of Torah in Moshe's own stammering mouth, in his own human words, where he sits with us over the dog-eared pages of the well-worn book as Chavruta to Chavruta and tells over what he has learned.

The transfer, the giving-over of Torah - the engraving on our own souls, the explanation, requires a person who is willing to take the initiative to dive in. To be willing to begin, to take the risk of getting it wrong, and to revisit the text over and over again. Our entire history is one of attempting to tease the infititude of meanings from this text. As Rabbi Dan Shevitz (known to us as The RaDaSh - or, colloquially, The Radish) says: Not what the text does mean, but what it can mean.

Chapter 1, verse 3. "... Moshe spoke to Bnei Israel according to all that G-d had commanded him upon them." The word "Ki" is best translated "As" or "Like". The Pasuk says that Moshe spoke "Ke-kol" - as all. We would imagine that Moshe would speak "All," and not "as" or "like" all that G-d had commanded. The interjection of this tiny particle illuminates the entire Book of Deuteronomy: Moshe is doing his best to give a summary, a synopsis, a precis of G-d's commandments. Of what G-d commanded Moshe regarding Bnei Israel. The textual reference is, again, crystal clear: this is Moshe's version of the Torah. It is not for nothing that the Rabbis call this book "Mishei Torah" - the Second Torah.

Finally, Chapter 1, verse 1. "These are the words that Moshe spoke to all Israel on the other side of the Jordan, in the Wilderness, in Arabah, opposite Suf, between Paran and Tofel, and Lavan and Chatzerot and Di Zahav." The very fist phrase of this entire Book tells us an amazing Chiddush - a startling new principle: This book is written with the intent that it be read, not by the generation that enters the Land, but only by those who are, in fact, resident in the Land. Moshe speaks the words "... on the other side of the Jordan..." and again in verse 5: "On the other side of the Jordan..."

This is our Torah. It is Moshe's Torah, spoken by those who remained behind, and given over to those yet to be born. Spoken from the other side of the Jordan, and intended for those on this side. Spoken, simply, from The Other Side, and intended for the Here and Now. It is the Torah of Bnei Israel - the Torah of Humans, and not of G-d. We have seen how the less-than-perfect workings-out of G-d's plan have taken hold. Pinhas, despite his rashness - his very un-Aharon-like inability to control his wrath - becomes the bearer of the Kahuna. Yehoshua, despite his un-Moshe-like inability to immediately grasp what the People need, is deputized to become Leader in Moshe's stead. And now, the crowning touch, Moshe's own version of Torah becomes the basic text on which we shall build our nation. And it is the text, not for those who dwell in the Midbar, but for those who have crossed over.

The book of Devarim contains much that is Revisionist. The most blatant example is perhaps the retelling of the story of the Exodus - the text that we read in the Pesach Haggaddah comes from Devarim, where it is so different from the contemporaneous record in Sefer Shemot as to be almost unrecognizable. But this is our history. In order to build a nation, we need our own National Mythos. And myth, to be successful, nust be grounded in reality - in an interpretation of reality.

Moshe's parting gift to us is to give us the tools for creating our own private readings of Torah. Our own means for absorbing and internalizing and living by Torah - as individuals, as clustered groups within Klal Israel who gather around shared interpretations - as Sects or movements, as a Nation and as a People.

Ultimately, this entire book is our Torah. Not the "perfect" work handed down to us by G-d, but the human assessment - based on the process of Chochmah / Binah / Da'at [ChaBaD] - of Insight, Understanding, Internalization - whereby Torah becomes a living instrument, rather than a sterile historical document. Through the process of Halachah, we bring Torah constantly into our own lives. Moment by moment, we strive to understand and to apply all that G-d has given us, all that G-d expects of us. All the immensity of gifts and blessings that G-d constantly provides.

"Torat Ha-Shem temimah," we say: G-d's Torah is perfect. Yes. Which is why we live, not with G-d's Torah, but with what we continue to refer to as "Torat Moshe," the Torah of Moshe. G-d's ineffable Torah, whose infinite meanings are by definition beyond human reach. Torat Moshe - an admittedly incomplete working-out of G-d's message; the formulating of Halachah as the means for enabling us to live consistent with the fundamentals of G-d's message, to key ourselves into the blueprint of the cosmos.

What purpose do the first four books of Torah serve? Intellectually, they teach us how to approach text. Spiritually, they show us the requirement to seek out the miraculous in the world. Religiously, they state that there was an Eternal Presence before ever the world of Time, Space and Motion came into being, they explain to us that the purpose of Creation is to form a relationship between us and that Presence.

Finally, we need the first four books to make it clear that Moshe did not create Torah out of thin air: that Moshe's own Torah is suffused with the constant brightness of his encounter with the Eternal. This also teaches us a further vital lesson - an admonition against 'Avodah Zara - Idol Worship. That even Moshe, great as he was, could not create Torah out of thin air. Only G-d can create Yesh me-Ayin - Being from Nothingness. To say that we understand G-d's message is the height of Chutzpah, of hubris. Of 'Avodah Zara.

Here, on the eve of Tisha Be'Av - the time of year, incidentally, when Parashat Devarim is always read - we must ask ourselves: have we learned nothing at all from our own history? Jewish 'Avodah Zara did not die at Shilo, but is alive and thriving. "Alive and kicking," would perhaps be a better metaphor. Or maybe, "alive, and bearing arms." It is alive and seeking to slaughter people who maintain that the mere fact that their families have lived on a piece of real estate for over seven hundred years somehow entitles them to continue to occupy that piece of real estate. It is alive and kicking and placing placards on the West Side Highway that take the image of one of the truly great spiritual leaders in human history and make him into a Frum version of a Calvin Klein underwear advertisement. It is alive and thriving every time a Jew shuts up another Jew, every time a Jew uses the Torah as an excuse for social injustice, for morally reprehensible acts, whether those acts be depriving people of their homes, their lives, their livelihood, or refusing to permit their wives the freedom to divorce and proceed with their lives. Make no mistake: Judaism is in crisis. As Yeats wrote, at the hour of another nation's crisis: "The best lack all conviction, while the worst / Are full of passionate intensity." If we do not stand for reasonableness in the face of religious extremism - if we do not stand for Torah over Zealotry - then we have only ourselves to blame as the Rough Beat slouches towards Yerushalaim.

The Torah does, in fact, begin with Aleph. For Moshe's Torah is our point of departure. G-d's Torah comes second, because our only tool for comprehending it is our own human powers of comprehension. The Book of Devarim begins at the beginning, with Aleph. G-d's blueprint - Bereshit through Bamidbar - starts with Beit, shadowing, indicating, hinting, leading, correcting.

Imperfect as our own reading of Torah must remain, G-d has chosen to make do. It is time for the transfer to take place. Time for us, unprepared as we are, to enter the Land. Time for us, imperfect as we are, to make of the world a place perfected in the Image of G-d. Time for us, morally weak as we are, to rise to the destiny ofr becoming a Kingdom of Priests, a Holy Nation. Ultimately, as we shall be told: "Lo bashamiyim hi" - the Torah is no longer in the Heavens.

It is, rather, incredibly close upon us. Within our own hands.

To do.

Yours for a better world.

Remembering Rashi - 29 Tammuz

2005-08-05T08:59:00.000-04:00

BS"D

Chevra -

Today - 29 Tammuz / 5 August - marks the 900th anniversary of Rashi's passing: his Jahrzeit. Unlike other cultures, who mark the day of a person's birth, we commemorate the day of a person's passing. Birth is beyond our control. What counts is not the fact that we come into the world, a process over which we have no influence, but the state in which we leave the world.

There is a tale told of a man who rushed into a burning building and rescued a young boy, at great peril to his own life and safety. Once outside, the boy embraced the stranger and said, "Thank you for saving my life. How can I ever repay you?" The man looked into the lad's eyes and said, "Just make sure it was worth saving."

In Kohelet we read: "A Name is better than pleasant oil, and the day of death rather than the day of birth." The day and manner of our birth is like an olive: it springs from the bud in its own time. If not tended, it will ripen, then rot, dry and shrivel to nothing.

A pleasant oil is the result of intense care, careful tending, and a complex process. The olive must be properly shaded, tested daily to determine the precise moment to be harvested. It must be pressed and the oil extracted at just the right rate to cull only the finest first pressing. The oil must be mixed with spices in the right proportions, mixed neither too quickly nor too slowly, and stored at the right temperature and for the right period to ensure full development of the bouquet. The Gemara in Berashot tells of a particular spiced oil that was so highly prized it warranted a special Beracha.

What is the message? Why does the text compare fine oil to the day of a person's death?

Just as it takes extraordinary care - from cultivating the tree all the way through to the exact timing and temperature of the storage process - to ensure the oil reaches its optimal state of fragrance and pleasantness, so does the life each of us leads require constant tending: first, from our parents and teachers. Then, if we are fortunate and wise, we take on ourselves the responsibility to continue to perfect ourselves throughout our days.

Good is the day of a person's death. Good is the world Rashi left behind him 900 years ago on this day. Blessed is Rashi, who merited leaving the world on the eve of the Nine Days - immediately before the saddest period in our calendar.

David HaMelech died on Shabbat. And so, when Shabbat left the world, the sadness of saying farewell to Shabbat for the week was greatly augmented by the sadness of saying farewell to the King of Israel.

The Gemara relates that, when King David died, his son Shlomo was instructed to leave the body where it lay, that he could not move the corpse until Shabbat was over. The only way he could move it was to place a loaf of bread upon it, then, using the corpse of the King of Israel as a tray, carry the bread indoors. Clearly, we do not worship death, nor to we honor the earthly remains. Once we die, the greatness - or the pettiness - of the life we have lived becomes our memorial, our legacy and our shrine. King David's legacy was the greatness of the life he lived, both spiritually - as a man who struggled constantly and with great internal self-honesty, to perfect himself in the ways of Torah, as well as politically, as a man who strove to maintain the unity of Klal Israel. His son Shglomo, so relates the Gemara, says after his death: I see it is better to be a live dog than a dead lion.

Rashi died on the eve of Rosh Chodesh Av. And so the sadness of this period of mourning for our Nation is augmented by the sadness of losing one of the greatest intellectual and spiritual guides of Klal Israel. Yet, both the memory of King David and the memory of Rashi are a sweetness and a blessing for all our generations.

Light a Jahrzeit candle today. Light an extra candle for Shabbat tonight. Learn a little extra Torah this Shabbat and share in the blessing of Rashi's memory. Find a fascinating Rashi on the Parasha, or on Eicha - the Book of Lamentations, that we will read BS"D next week at Tisha Be'Av - and dwell on his insights.

Better than pleasant oil is the blessing of a Good Name. It is within our power - each and every one of us, BS"D - to ensure that, at the day of our passing ['ad me'ah ve'esrim] we leave this world a better place than when we entered. We have even been given a step-by-step How-To. A User's Manual. It is Torah, and Rashi is as good a guide as we will ever find.

Kids, please - please! - try this at home!

Shabbat Shalom.

Yours for a better world.

Parashat Mas'ei - Full Circle

2005-08-03T22:23:00.000-04:00

BS"D

This week's Parasha is effectively the end of the Torah. In literary terms, it is the end of the "omniscient narrator" version of the story of Klal Israel. Next week, with Parashat Devarim, we enter into a first-person retelling of the story from Moshe's POV. Before there was Modernist and Post-Modernist Meta-Literature, there was the Torah. The Torah as a literary work parallels and supports its internal Halachic processes: both the literary and the lawmaking functions are marked by an astounding economy of language and statement, and both narrative and Halachic passages are stated in ambiguous terms that are infinitely rich in interpretation and meaning.

As we bid farewell to the Omniscient Narrator ("ON") we are also transitioning, as we have seen over the last few Parshiyot, from a group led by fiat and designated leaders, to a society where individuals rise to the occasion, then take on responsibility, thereby becoming the new leadership. This was prominently exemplified by Pinhas - who has the zeal and passion, though not the self-control, to take on the Kahuna - and by Banot Tzelophechad, who change the course of human history by speaking up for what they believe is right. Their reward is to be singled out by name: twice in their own Parasha, then specifically at the very end of this week's Parasha. And so it is that the narrative ends with the names of five women who broke the mold and changed the world forever.

And where are we, now, at the end of the narrative?

In the profoundest sense, we are right back where we started. The literary parallel structure whereby Moshe mirrors Abraham has been pointed out. The ON's version of the story of 'Am Israel begins with Abram at Parashat Lech Lecha. At that point, Abram is about to pick up and leave Haran and enter the Land of Canaan. Remember that Haran was merely a resting place. It was Abram's father, Terach, who actually determined to set out from Ur Kasdim and take select members of his family along. On the way they paused at Haran, and ended up settling there. Rather too long, it turns out, for Terach dies there, and it is only with a further push from G-d that Abram continues on the path his father set out on many years before.

Similarly, we left Mizraim, headed for Canaan. It has taken us forty years, but now we are almost there. Like Abraham, we have been sidetracked. Like Abraham at Haran, we have put down roots in a place were we do not belong. Like Terach, those who set out on the first leg of the journey will not live to see its completion - rather, their children will complete it, and will gain much glory in the accomplishing. With few exceptions - Aharon, Miriam... Moshe - the exploits of our children will far outshine those of us who perish in the Midbar.

The recounting of the stages of our journeys through the Midbar makes an important point. Contrast it with the passage (33:54 notably) which describes the apportionment of the Land of Israel among the tribes. The message could not be more plain: in the Midbar, G-d has led us every step of the way (Rambam explicitly makes the point that our "Wanderings" were not mere stumblings-about, but that G-d led us with the Pillar of Smoke and the Pillar of Fire), our comings and goings were at the Divine word. Now, once we enter the Land, we are left to our own devices. G-d will not lead each tribe to its inheritance, but gives Moshe a general schematic for figuring it out. The message is coming through loud and clear: we are on our own.

This is not to say that G-d abandons us. But there is a handing-over of authority, a theme we have seen emerging since the beginning of Sefer Shemot. Just as Ya'akov is handed off from the Angels of Eretz Israel to the angels of Chutz La'Aretz - and then handed back again on his return - so too there appear to be aspects of G-d that traveled with us in the Midbar, but that will not accompany us into the Land.

We see from the Midrash that Miriam's Well dries up when she dies, that the Ananei HaKavod (Clouds of Glory) vanish with Aharon's passing. With the death of Moshe, a palpable link to G-d's authority, to G-d's presence will be severed. We will not have a single leader to dispense G-d's word to us. Not ever again. Lo kam be-Israel ke-Moshe 'od. There never arose again a Prophet in Israel like Moshe.

Now, coming as it does in the season of Tisha Be'Av, what links do we see in the Parasha to this time of year? And how does it tie back to the message of the Parasha: the end of the Torah. Again: when I use the phrase "the end of the Torah", it marks the ON leaving off, passing over the narrative to Moshe. Sefer Devarim - the Book of Deuteronomy - is also called "Mishnei Torah" the Second Torah. It is of a different character from the other four books. As we shall see, BS"D, the method of composition is different from the first four books. This is Moshe's story, his narrative, his voice. Like an operatic hero who has been stabbed in the heart, Moshe is given a thirty-minute aria before he is carted off the stage to thunderous applause.

Before we touch on the parallels to the Parasha, we should raise one concept. I warn you that we are about to enter a politically explosive area.

The Rambam makes a point of what he believes is our ultimate goal: a direct relationship with G-d. Discussing the Exodus, and the commandments regarding animal sacrifices to be brought in the Mishkan, the Rambam makes the observation that these rituals and practices are not for G-d, but for ourselves. We leave a country rich in tradition, in stylized and ritualistic behavior. A country where gods literally roam the earth - in the person of Pharaoh and his household - and in which religious symbolism is part of everyday life.

How are we, then, newly-liberated slaves, to establish a relationship with our newfound G-d?

Our path is obvious to us: a deity requires ritual, lore and infrastructure. To make sure we understood that we now have our own religion, G-d commanded upon us the construction of a sacred space (Mishkan), the performance of sacred rituals, using sacred objects, within that space, all to be ministered by a sacred family. Now that is something we can understand. Otherwise, it would be as though, Rambam says, G-d had commanded us to no longer wear Tefillin. "Not wear Tefillin?" you ask. "What kind of religion is that?!"

But our ultimate spiritual goal is not the wearing of Tefillin. It is the relationship with G-d. And while certain aspects of that relationship - like Torah study and Tzitzit - may be permanent aspects of our way of life, other parts of our practice are intended to fall away. It is a positive development that we no longer bring animal sacrifices; that we have replaced sacrifice with Tefilla - prayer. This, the Rambam would argue, constitutes Progress.

I put forth the suggestion that the contrasting of our wanderings, specifically guided by G-d, with the haphazard allocation of parcels of land, indicates that our true relationship with G-d is not tied to a piece of real estate. That it is when we are wandering that we can commune with G-d. This theme finds strong expression in Sefer Bereshit, where cities are explicitly tied to the evil that humans do - starting with Ur Kasdim - whereas the open spaces, the Midbar, is the place to which we must escape to find our soul.

There are two key links between the Parasha and the period of the Three Weeks, and both emanate from the Daughters of Tzelophechad who, in a very real sense, embody the new Klal Israel - the enthusiasm, the purity of intent, the volunteerism that will characterize the best of our nation as we go forward.

When, in Parashat Pinhas, G-d tells Moshe that he will not live to enter the Land (27:14 ff.) Moshe's response is to ask that G-d appoint a successor. The Midrash tells us that, just as G-d permitted Tzelophechad's Daughters to succeed him, so that his name could be carried on, Moshe was secretly hoping that his own sons would succeed him in the Leadership of Klal Israel. The unfortunate sequel to this secret prayer is that Moshe's grandsons do, in fact, become Priests - Priests of Ba'al serving the Idol Worship at Shilo.

Shilo is also the focus of the tragic story of the Tribe of Benjamin, which was all but exterminated by the other Tribes over the savage murder of the Pilegesh. In compassion, so that the Tribe not die out completely, the men of the other tribes brought their daughters to Shilo on Tu Be'Av and allowed the men of Benjamin to abduct them into marriage - a practice which still survives in certain central Asian cultures.

The Gemara in Ta'anit tells of two significant restrictions that were lifted on Tu Be'Av: the prohibition was lifted and the Tribe of Benjamin was brought back into the fold. Also on Tu Be'Av, the Daughters of Tzelophechad were permitted to marry men of their choosing, and not only men of their own tribe, as Moshe decrees at the end of this week's Parasha.

And Shilo is the place where animal sacrifice gives way to prayer. The story of Chana, the central image of the High Holy Days, is the story of the first person who substituted all-out fervent prayer for ritual, who substituted a broken-hearted crying out to G-d for the slitting of animals' throats, the dripping of blood on the altar. And what to we see is the ultimate fate of Shilo? The place itself becomes corrupted, becomes associated with Idol Worship. It is associated with Belial and with the birth of the enemy of the Men of Belial - the Prophet Shmuel.
Shilo - the birthplace both of Jewish prayer, and of Jewish Avodah Zara'.

Is it possible that we have mis-read Ya'akov's blessing? In Bereshit, 49:10, Ya'akov's blessing on Yehudah contains the phrase - 'Ad ki yavo shilo. This is generally interpreted as a prophesy foretelling the coming of Mashiach. "Until Shilo shall come..." But clearly Shilo represents a transitional stage, an inflection point. It is a historical place and time in which the future of Klal Israel truly was in doubt. It could have gone either way; and, for a significant moment, it did. It went the way of Idol Worship, only to be saved by the prayers of a broken-hearted woman who realized the emptiness and futility of ritual. An early student of the Rambam.

The word "Bo" - literally meaning "Come" - is also used at Bereshit 28:11. Ya'akov, fleeing from his brother, stops and spends the night - "Ki ba ha-shemesh" - "Because the sun had set."

Perhaps Ya'akov's blessing on Yehudah, the leader of the family, soon the be the leader of the nation, was not that some magical future moment would come. Perhaps Ya'akov's blessing is that Yehuda will weather all storms. That neither the authority of leadership, nor the guardianship of tradition and Torah wisdom shall depart from Yehudah, but he shall weather the storm, even until the going-down of Shilo. Then the ingathering of all nations shall be his.

It's just a thought, but it seems to me that is what true spiritual and moral leadership is all about.

****************************************************************************

And so Moshe's career comes to a close. And before he shuffles off this mortal coil, G-d gives him one final command. Chapter 35, starting at verse 15, constitutes the last Mitzvah, the final commandment given by G-d to Moshe. The coda of this Parasha, the instruction from Moshe to the Daughters of Tzelophechad, comes out of Moshe's own legal analysis, and from his consultation with G-d. But the final command given by G-d to Moshe is that of the Cities of Refuge.

Banot Tzelophechad step forward, the true inheritors of the spirit of Abraham Avinu. Like Abraham, they heard G-d's call. "Lech Lecha!" G-d calls: "Come for yourselves! Come to me!" And they step into the breach, taking on all the risks and all the consequences of their choice.

Pinhas takes up the role of Aharon and his sons. This man who is guided by a wrathful zeal - who can stand against him? Like the certain of the more strident fundamentalists in our own midst, we are uncomfortable in his presence, we wish he would go away. Yet, there is a sense in which we can not, in good faith, attack his fundamental position. G-d has done the best that could be done under the circumstances, by imposing upon Pinhas the Covenant of Peace. He is going to need it.

Moshe hands off to Yehoshua, who Moshe seems to think not fully up to the task.

And now, the final commandment closes the last literary loop. The Cities of Refuge are established for those who unwittingly kill someone. They are to flee there, and there they are to remain until the death of the Kohen Gadol, at which point they may re-enter society.

Moshe, too, started his career as an accidental murderer. His slaying of the Egyptian was an act of momentary passion, of Pinhas-like zeal. If, the next day, when Moshe sought to intervene between two Hebrews, they had listened to him, instead of "outing" him, the Redemption would have taken place on the spot. Instead, one of the men announced to the world that Moshe had killed a man.

And so he fled. Fled to Midian where he was to spend a lifetime, returning to Mizraim, his home, only after the death of "those who sought his life."

This, too, is embedded in our law. Not everyone who kills is on the level of Moshe Rabbeinu. But all who kill are entitled to a lifetime of contemplation of their act. Their remorse is a societal value, with perhaps a far greater societal effect in its compassion that the exaction of stern justice.

Moshe does his own penance. His early experience - when Gautama-like, he goes out of the Palace and sees how people actually live - turns him into a reluctant and highly effective leader. He does not act out of self interest - though there are those who speak of him as Casca and Cassius speak of Caesar - he does not lose sight of the goal. He argues with us for G-d's sake, and with G-d four our puny sakes.

And so the final Mitzvah is rendered in his honor. Moshe, who was a Stranger In A Strange Land, fled from one exile into another. We, who are not made of the same stuff, are given the mercy of being permitted to seek refuge among our own people. And just as we sit behind the walls of our City of Refuge and contemplate what we have done, our brethren on the outside must also contemplate what kind of society gives rise to murder, to the killing, literally of one family member by another.

The Gemara tells us that Rage is a form of Idol Worship.

The Rabbis tell us that the Beit HaMikdash was destroyed because of Sinat Hinam - Baseless Hatred. Is there really any other kind? Doesn't hatred stem from believing that we know what is right, and other people refuse to concede? Doesn't hatred arise when we create idols out of our own self-image, when we make our own peevishness and appetites and egos more important that peace and justice and compassion?

When is it time for the going-down of Shilo? For the creation of a Just Society? For us to become a Nation of Priests and a Holy People?

If not now, when?

Yours for a better world.

CHAZAK! CHAZAK! VE NITCHAZEK!

Haftarat Matot - When I Was a Child, I Spoke as a Child

2005-07-29T15:36:00.000-04:00

BS"D

The Prophet Yirmiahu (Jeremiah) begins his career by downplaying his own prophetic gift. His own first words are (1:6) "Oh! Lord G-d, here am I, not knowing how to speak, for I am a child." Yet, G-d reassures him and coaches him through the initial steps to his career as Prophet of Israel. As shall become clear, a child is exactly what is needed.

Yirmiahu undergoes an initial trial session, and his vision is succinct. When G-d asks, "What do you see?", Yirmiahu answers, "I see an almond [-wood] staff." And G-d commends Yirmiahu: "You have done well in your seeing." Many of us would have answered: "I see a piece of wood"; or "I see a wooden staff." The specificity of Yirmiahu's perception bespeaks his gift.

"A boiling pot" he responds when asked again. "Its spout turned from the north side."

The first chapter of Yirmiahu is read on the first Shabbat after the seventeenth of Tammuz, and introduces the string of Haftarot leading up to Tisha Be'Av. This year, we read the separate Haftara for Parashat Pinhas - the story of Eliahu at Horeb. But this is an unusual year in many respects, as regards the calendar. In most years, Parashat Pinhas is read after 17 Tammuz, and Matot and Mas'ei are read conjoined. In those years, the Eliahu story is omitted, and this Haftara is read for Pinhas, with the Haftara of Mas'ei being read for the double Sedra. Our tradition tells us that the Rabbis established all other Haftarot to correspond to the message of the Parasha - or sometimes to serve as a corrective to a common misinterpretation of the Parasha. The ten Haftarot between 17 Tammuz and Kippur, however, were intended to convey the message of the period in the calendar, and not necessarily to correspond to the Parasha.

Why did Chazal choose this section to introduce the tragic period of the three weeks - and, in larger context, to introduce the period of introspection that leads to Rosh HaShana and Yom Kippur? Three Haftarot are read between 17 Tammuz and 9 Av, collectively referred to (in Aramaic) as "Tlat de-pur'anuta" - the three of affliction. Seven are read between the Shabbat following 9 Av and Rosh HaShana, collectively referred to as "Sheva' de-nechamata" - the seven of consolation. There is a powerful double meaning in the Hebrew word "Nechama" - "Comfort" or "Consolation" - which is brought out in the Midrash on Tisha Be'Av. Because the root NHM means To Forbear, Withhold, and is first applied to G-d's own self control - to Divine Anger Management. We shall return to this BS"D in our discussion of Shabbat Nachamu.

To return to Yirmiahu: In the period of the Three Weeks, we are on the brink of national tragedy, of a military and societal defeat on a massive scale. It has been estimated that between two and three million Jews died during the Roman wars. These were soldiers slain in combat, civilians put to the sword, the followers of Rabbi Akiva, people who died of starvation, disease, exposure and the other trials of attempting to survive while fleeing or hiding for their lives. The Jewish People very nearly ceased to exist.

Indeed, during the three-week period we are now observing, the Romans massacred some hundred thousand within the walls of Jerusalem alone. The "Three Weeks" was not the amount of time it took them to travel from the breached city walls to the Beit HaMikdash - rather, it was the time it took them to accomplish the true goal of the occupation: to make Yerushalaim Judenrein - to cleanse it of its Jews.

This calls to mind an event from our earliest history in which the main actors, similarly, delayed. When a direct line to their destination would have taken them there so much sooner. Abraham Avinu, commanded to take Yitzhak to the top of Mt. Moriah, takes three days to travel from Hebron to Har HaBayit - the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. To arrive, in fact, not even at the mountain itself, but at a point from which the mountain may be seen. The text tells us explicitly that on the third day, Abraham saw the mountain from far off.

Perhaps Abraham spent three days walking slowly, taking deliberate steps, contemplating at each moment the enormity of the commitment he was about to take on. Perhaps it took him three days of prayer and meditation to internalize and fully comprehend G-d's message. Chazal tell us that Abraham knew all of Torah, even though the actual giving of Torah was hundreds of years in the future. Perhaps it is during these three days of reaching out, reaching and striving to understand G-d's message, that he received Torah, learned it, absorbed it. And at the end of this time, Abraham had fully established his relationship with G-d. So much so that he unhesitatingly carried through the actions commanded to him by G-d. The message is: he acted without hesitation, without doubt. Without thought. In Zen, there is the concept of the moon reflected in the water. The moment the moon rises, the water gives back its reflection. There is no moment during which the water questions what must be done; no moment during which the water hesitates, when it wonders or doubts what course of action to take; no moment during which the water is not conscious of the appearance and presence of the moon.

As Abraham had, so to speak, the Zen of his relationship with G-d - the Zen of Torah - so too, our enemies have the Zen of our destruction. There is no way in which our enemies can ever be brought to reflect on what they are doing. No way in which our enemies will ever be made to pause, to stand still for a moment and ask whether what they are doing makes sense, is right, is G-d's will, is in any way questionable. Today's Haftara suggests that, possibly, it is our own task to reflect on this: to reflect, even on the actions of our enemies. Even as they seek to destroy us.

We will have much occasion to visit the concept of Sinat Chinam - Baseless Hatred - during this period. I lay before you the following question: Is there any other kind?

The Three Days of Abraham - three days during which the relationship between G-d and a single human being was perfected. The Three Weeks from 17 Tammuz to 9 Av. Three weeks during which our enemies very nearly succeeded in destroying us, merely because we are descended from this man and the son he bore with him.

But, like Yitzhak, we did not die. The Midrash says that Yitzhak died, then was brought back to life. And modern rabbis often compare Yitzhak to Holocaust survivors. We, too, are survivors of multiple holocausts, which we here commemorate.

Nehama Leibowitz, in her commentary on today's Haftara, observes that the final Psukim of this Haftara are appended to give hope to Klal Israel - not to end on a negative note. The assignment of this particular Prophet is not a joyful one - there will be few uplifting moments in the book that bears his name. Further, we witness through his eyes, as it were, the destruction of Yerushalaim and the tragedy of Tisha Be'Av.

With so much destruction, such wanton killing, so much hatred spilling forth from every quarter, why did Chazal even bother with the uplift of the final Psukim? Why not, for once, allow us to end on a down note? To strike a mournful chord more appropriate to the season?

We are told that G-d created the world for the sake of Torah. The Zohar says that the world continues to stand each day, only for the sake of the voices of little children as they study and chant Torah aloud each day.

And did G-d, then, create the world for the sake of the Jewish People? Or did G-d create the Jewish People for the sake of Torah? While both of these positions have their adherents and apologists, let me suggest that perhaps the Jewish People emerged when it was our time. That our Chosenness is at once an accident of birth, and the result of our being prepared.

G-d addresses Yirmiahu and says, "Before I formed you in the belly, I knew you. And before you came forth from the womb, I made you holy. I set you as a prophet to the nations." To which Yirmiahu replies, "I do not know how to speak. I am just a boy."

The mystical poem Adon Olam, which we recite each day, addresses the utter and astonishing cosmic aloneness of G-d. And out of this aloneness comes the Creation. And after the Creation has ceased to be, still G-d will remain in G-d's aloneness. The poet calls G-d a King before, during, and after G-d's reign of the world of space, time and motion. If G-d created the world in order to enter into a relationship with that world - if the ultimate goal of human existence is to enter into a relationship with G-d - if 'Am Israel, through adherence to Torah and Mitzvot, has the singular opportunity to perfect the human relationship with G-d - then the three stages of G-d's kingship are different. For the purpose of relationships is to magnify the human experience. In this instance, to magnify the singe most important experience in Creation: the interaction between G-d and G-d's Creation.

As Jews, we have Torah to guide usw. And we agree that the truth of Torah is universal. To those other nations of the world, G-d has commanded us to be a Light Unto The Nations through our very behavior. The mere existence of Klala Israel is supposed to serve as a constant source of blessing for the World. It is as though the Torah is G-d's message to us; and we, in turn, are the Torah to the World.

We have a paradigm for the concept that even G-d's perspective may change through cosmic history.

After King Solomon was deposed, the text says he was King over his stick. Though he was alone, and old, and had been thrust from the throne to wander like a solitary beggar - still, he was Shlomo HaMelech. He was a king. "King over his stick" the text says. This is not a mere joke. Rather, it is the recognition that new relationships leave a permanent mark. That being a king, however briefly, effects a permanent change in a person.

Are we to believe any less of the most important relationship in Creation - the relationship of G-d to that very Creation? The relationship that hangs in the balance between G-d and Humanity, with Torah and the Jewish People as its poles, and with observance of the Halacha and the constant striving to achieve human justice as its moment-to-moment working out?

I had an inkling, G-d seems to be saying to Yirmiahu. It all comes down to the moment when one person is ready to hear My voice. It only takes one person, G-d says. I always knew someone would come along.

The Chassidish Peshat in Parashat Lech-Lecha is, not that G-d was speaking solely to Abram. G-d is always calling to all of us: Lech Lecha! Come to me! But in the world, and in his time and place, and in all of humanity, only Abram heard and acted on what he heard. Others may have heard, but did not realize it was meant for them. Others may have heard, but did not realize it was G-d's voice. Only Abraham, who combines insight with action - who joins recognition to action as seamlessly as the water reflecting the moon - only he took up the call. Which is why the tale begins with him.

Perhaps it is useful to read our history this way: that G-d created the world as a home and a laboratory for Torah. That G-d knew that - like the paradigm of the million monkeys who eventually write Hamlet - someone, somewhere would hear the call.

I can't do what is required, Yirmiahu objects. I am but a child.

A child is what is needed, G-d says. Do not think. Just act. Be the moon reflected in the water. You see what is before you so very clearly, in such detail, Yirmiahu. Yet, you can not figure out what lies beneath? G-d says: Yirmiahu, go forth and announce to all the world the images you see, and I will proclaim the truth which lies beneath. Go, says G-d, for I have made you a Prophet for all Nations.

How significant is this phrase: A Prophet for the Nations? In Sefer Shemot (Exodus), G-d tells Moshe that G-d will do wonders and miracles, "And Mizraim will know that I am G-d." G-d, in fact, never expresses concern that Israel will know. This is the inheritance of Abraham. This is Chosenness. We are stuck with our heritage and our destiny. It is not for us to accept or reject who and what we are. But, if we can see clearly, if we can find within our hearts the full acceptance of Torah - and if we can then, through the sanctity and justice of our own lives, serve as a Torah to the Nations - then we shall be living up to the requirements for which we were Chosen. Until then, G-d seems to be saying, I will have to resort to mere wonders, signs and miracles.

When will the Nations truly know that G-d is truly G-d? When they see 'Am Israel as we truly have the calling and the destiny and the gift and the ability to be: the paragon of justice, the beacon of holiness. It is not enough to Take Care Of One's Own. Charity begins at home, but if it remains at home, it is not Charity, but only self-dealing. The Rabbis of Pirkei Avot exhort us again and again to go out into the world, lest our Torah shrivel, rot and die.

The Haftara ends by affirming that, in the midst of despair and tragedy, G-d shares our suffering. When we invoke Bitachon - Reliance, Faith - we are not saying that we have Faith that G-d will save us, will protect us. The G-d of Judaism is not a G-d that works miracles at our behest. The faith of Abraham is the faith that G-d is with him - no matter what. Even in personal tragedy. The faith of the Jews is that G-d keeps our Destiny in readiness, and our Nation in readiness for that Destiny. When we suffer, G-d suffers, for G-d is Ba'al HaRachamim - the Master of Mercifulness. G-d, who shares our suffering, even as G-d does not intervene to prevent it.

Du sollst nisht meinen, az vos iz shayech zu Klal Yisroel, iz shayech zu Reb Yisroel. - "You should not believe that what is applicable to the Jewish Nation is also applicable to the individual Jew." We are Chosen. G-d's plan takes our people down to the far reaches of time, to the end of human history. It is in aligning ourselves with the Klal that we realize our personal destiny. And it is in striving to bring G-d's Torah into the world that we contribute to G-d's ultimate goal: That all Mizraim will know that G-d is, indeed, G-d.

"A child?" G-d asks Yirmiahu. "But this is just what is called for!" Because a child dwells in certainty. Because a child's world is unambiguous. To a child, whatever is going on appears to be eternal. Mommy and Daddy are here, I am fed, I have a home. The child will not have to think or ponder before reflecting the moon on the surface of the waters.

This child-like quality is the Greatness of Abraham. The unmitigated-ness of childhood. The immediacy.

And, even though the history of our relationship is fraught with tension, even though we complain bitterly throughout the years of our wandering - even though G-d grows angry repeatedly, repeatedly tells Moshe to step aside so that G-d can destroy us, can wipe the slate clean and start over - still, Moshe keeps the relationship together. It is as though G-d falls into the very pitfall that brings down Eliahu in last week's Haftara: Eliahu, who was so perfect that he called for punishment after punishment. So G-d, who is far more perfect than Eliahu, often loses patience with us when we do not live up to G-d's expectations. At these moments, it is Moshe who steps in and reminds G-d that any Relationship has two sides. That it takes both a Captain and a crew to sail the Ship of Relations. And that, ultimately, the relationship of G-d and Klal Israel is based on a natural intimacy that is more powerful even than love. On the natural and urgent yearning of a parent for a child, of a child for a parent.

Now, at the end of the Haftara, G-d reaches out to us through G-d's own sobbing and tears. "I will always remember your child-like love towards me," G-d says, weeping. "How you followed me, trusted me."

When you come home at the end of the day, does your daughter or son run to you with a gleeful shout? Or, perhaps, if they are "too old", you still recall that feeling. Are we to love G-d any less?

Finally, let us once again note that G-d tells Yirmiahu he is a Prophet to the Nations - and not merely to the Jews. G-d's message is one message - for all people and in all times and places.

G-d surely weeps at the destruction of Yerushalaim - surely weeps at the Churban Beit HaMikdash. From time to time, we meet those who say they can not believe in G-d after the Holocaust. For those - Rachmana letzlan - who actually experienced it, I have no words. For who can stand in their place? But for those who "experienced" the modern Churban, the Holocaust, through documentaries, through books and articles and "Schindler's List", and who have now chosen to reject their destiny of Chosenness, I say: you have not read the most basic history books. You can believe in G-d after the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash, the mass murder of millions - but you can not believe in G-d after the killing of six million in mid-twentieth century? Where have you been?

You can believe in G-d after the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash, after the Spanish Inquisition, after the Crusades, after the Pogroms, but not after the Holocaust?

Worse yet, how self-centered is our Humanism! How small-minded must we seem, even in our own eyes. How many times does the Torah exhort us to reach out to others in need - Jew and non-Jew alike - which is the direct legacy of our enslavement in Mizraim? To fail in this, is to fail in carrying out the mandate for which we were chosen: then will the Nations know that I am G-d.

You can believe in G-d after Cambodia? You can believe in G-d after Congo? You can believe in G-d after Armenia? After Algeria? After Guernica? After Dresden? After Afghanistan and Srebrenica and Darfur and Rwanda ?

But not after Auschwitz?

Yours for a better world.