Kol Rina An Independent Parashat – Zachor March 16, 2019 *** 9 Adar II, 5779

Purim is Coming to Kol Rina!! Wednesday Evening, March 20th at 7:30 PM Join your Kol Rina Friends for our annual Festive Celebration and the Megillah reading. Don't forget to bring a Delicious Dessert for our post Megillah party!! Today's Portions 1: 4:27-31...... p. 599 4: 5:11-13...... p. 603 7: 5:20-26…...... p. 604 2: 4:32-35...... p. 600 5: 5:14-16...... p. 603 maf: Deut. 25:17-19...... p. 1135 3: 5:1-10...... p. 601 6: 5:17-19...... p. 604 Haf:I Samuel15:2-15:34...p. 1280 Vayikra in a Nutshell www.chabad.org/parshah/article_cdo/aid/1480/jewish/Vayikra-in-a-Nutshell.htm G-d calls to Moses from the Tent of Meeting, and communicates to him the laws of the korbanot, the animal and meal offerings brought in the Sanctuary. These include: The "ascending offering" (olah) that is wholly raised to G-d by the fire atop the Altar; Five varieties of "meal offering" (minchah) prepared with fine flour, olive oil and frankincense; The "peace offering" (shelamim), whose meat was eaten by the one bringing the offering, after parts are burned on the Altar and parts are given to the Kohanim (priests); The different types of "sin offering" (chatat) brought to atone for transgressions committed erroneously by the High Priest, the entire community, the king, or the ordinary ; The "guilt offering" (asham) brought by one who has appropriated property of the Sanctuary, who is in doubt as to whether he transgressed a divine prohibition, or who has committed a "betrayal against G-d" by swearing falsely to defraud a fellow man. Haftarah for Shabbat Zachor in A Nutshell https://www.chabad.org/parshah/article_cdo/aid/73232/jewish/Zachor-in-a-Nutshell.htm This being the Shabbat before Purim, on which we celebrate the foiling of the Amalekite’s plot to destroy the Jewish people, the weekly Parshah is supplemented with the “Zachor” reading (Deuteronomy 25:17–19) in which we are commanded to remember the evil of and to eradicate it from the face of the earth. Remember what Amalek did to you on the road, on your way out of Egypt. That he encountered you on the way and cut off those lagging to your rear, when you were tired and exhausted; he did not fear G-d. And it shall come to pass, when the L-rd your G-d has given you rest from all your enemies round about, in the land which the L-rd your G-d is giving you for an inheritance to possess it, that you shall obliterate the memory of Amalek from under the heavens. Do not forget. The Pursuit of Meaning (Vayikra 5779) by Jonathan Sacks http://rabbisacks.org/vayikra5779/ The American Declaration of Independence speaks of the inalienable rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Recently, following the pioneering work of Martin Seligman, founder of Positive Psychology, there have been hundreds of books published on happiness. Yet there is something more fundamental still to the sense of a life well-lived, namely, meaning. The two seem similar. It’s easy to suppose that people who find meaning are happy, and people who are happy have found meaning. But the two are not the same, nor do they always overlap. Happiness is largely a matter of satisfying needs and wants. Meaning, by contrast, is about a sense of purpose in life, especially by making positive contributions to the lives of others. Happiness is largely about how you feel in the present. Meaning is about how you judge your life as a whole: past, present and future. Happiness is associated with taking, meaning with giving. Individuals who suffer stress, worry or anxiety are not happy, but they may be living lives rich with meaning. Past misfortunes reduce present happiness, but people often connect such moments with the discovery of meaning. Furthermore, happiness is not unique to humans. Animals also experience contentment when their wants and needs are satisfied. But meaning is a distinctively human phenomenon. It has to do not with nature but with culture. It is not about what happens to us, but about how we interpret what happens to us. There can be happiness without meaning, and there can be meaning in the absence of happiness, even in the midst of darkness and pain.[1] In a fascinating article in The Atlantic, ‘There’s more to life than being happy’[2], Emily Smith argued that the pursuit of happiness can result in a relatively shallow, self- absorbed, even selfish life. What makes the pursuit of meaning different is that it is about the search for something larger than the self. No one did more to put the question of meaning into modern discourse than the late Viktor Frankl. In the three years he spent in Auschwitz, Frankl survived and helped others to survive by inspiring them to discover a purpose in life even in the midst of hell on earth. It was there that he formulated the ideas he later turned into a new type of psychotherapy based on what he called “man’s search for meaning”. His book of that title, written in the course of nine days in 1946, has sold more than ten million copies throughout the world, and ranks as one of the most influential works of the twentieth century. Frankl knew that in the camps, those who lost the will to live died. He tells of how he helped two individuals to find a reason to survive. One, a woman, had a child waiting for her in another country. Another had written the first volumes of a series of travel books, and there were others yet to write. Both therefore had a reason to live. Frankl used to say that the way to find meaning was not to ask what we want from life. Instead we should ask what life wants from us. We are each, he said, unique: in our gifts, our abilities, our skills and talents, and in the circumstances of our life. For each of us, then, there is a task only we can do. This does not mean that we are better than others. But if we believe we are here for a reason, then there is a tikkun, a mending, only we can perform, a fragment of light only we can redeem, an act of kindness or courage, generosity or hospitality, even a word of encouragement or a smile, only we can perform, because we are here, in this place, at this time, facing this person at this moment in their lives. “Life is a task”, he used to say, and added, “The religious man differs from the apparently irreligious man only by experiencing his existence not simply as a task, but as a mission.” He or she is aware of being summoned, called, by a Source. “For thousands of years that source has been called God.”[3] That is the significance of the word that gives our parsha, and the third book of the , its name: Vayikra, “And He called.” The precise meaning of this opening verse is difficult to understand. Literally translated it reads: “And He called to Moses, and God spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting, saying …” The first phrase seems to be redundant. If we are told that God spoke to Moses, why say in addition, “And He called”? Rashi explains as follows: And He called to Moses: Every [time God communicated with Moses, whether signalled by the expression] “And He spoke”, or “and He said”, or “and He commanded”, it was always preceded by [God] calling [to Moses by name]. [4] “Calling” is an expression of endearment. It is the expression employed by the ministering angels, as it says, “And one called to the other…” (Isaiah 6:3). Vayikra, Rashi is telling us, means to be called to a task in love. This is the source of one of the key ideas of Western thought, namely the concept of a vocation or a calling, that is, the choice of a career or way of life not just because you want to do it, or because it offers certain benefits, but because you feel summoned to it. You feel this is your meaning and mission in life. This is what you were placed on earth to do. There are many such calls in Tanach. There was the call Abraham received, telling to leave his land and family. There was the call to Moses at the burning bush (Ex. 3:4). There was the one experienced by Isaiah when he saw in a mystical vision God enthroned and surrounded by angels: Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?” And I said, “Here am I. Send me!” (Isaiah 6:8) One of the most touching is the story of the young , dedicated by his mother Hannah to serve in the sanctuary at Shiloh where he acted as an assistant to Eli the priest. In bed at night he heard a voice calling his name. He assumed it was Eli. He ran to see what he wanted but Eli told him he had not called. This happened a second time and then a third, and by then Eli realised that it was God calling the child. He told Samuel that the next time the voice called his name, he should reply, ‘Speak, Lord, for Your servant is listening.’ It did not occur to the child that it might be God summoning him to a mission, but it was. Thus began his career as a prophet, judge and anointer of Israel’s first two kings, and David (1 Samuel 3). When we see a wrong to be righted, a sickness to be healed, a need to be met, and we feel it speaking to us, that is when we come as close as we can in a post- prophetic age to hearing Vayikra, God’s call. And why does the word appear here, at the beginning of the third and central book of the Torah? Because the book of Vayikra is about sacrifices, and a vocation is about sacrifices. We are willing to make sacrifices when we feel they are part of the task we are called on to do. From the perspective of eternity we may sometimes be overwhelmed by a sense of our own insignificance. We are no more than a wave in the ocean, a grain of sand on the sea shore, a speck of dust on the surface of infinity. Yet we are here because God wanted us to be, because there is a task He wants us to perform. The search for meaning is the quest for this task. Each of us is unique. Even genetically identical twins are different. There are things only we can do, we who are what we are, in this time, this place and these circumstances. For each of us God has a task: work to perform, a kindness to show, a gift to give, love to share, loneliness to ease, pain to heal, or broken lives to help mend. Discerning that task, hearing Vayikra, God’s call, is one of the great spiritual challenges for each of us. How do we know what it is? Some years ago, in To Heal a Fractured World, I offered this as a guide, and it still seems to me to make sense: Where what we want to do meets what needs to be done, that is where God wants us to be. 1] See Roy F. Baumeister, Kathleen D. Vohs, Jennifer Aaker, and Emily N.Garbinsky, ‘Some Key Differences between a Happy Life and a Meaningful Life’, Journal of Positive Psychology 2013, Vol. 8, Issue 6, Pages 505-516. [2] Emily Smith, ‘There’s more to life than being happy’, The Atlantic, 9 Jan. 2013. [3] Viktor Frankl, The Doctor and the Soul: from Psychotherapy to Logotherapy, New York: A.A. Knopf, 1965, 13. [4] Rashi to Vayikra 1:1. Simple Gifts by Rabbi Mordechai Silverstein, Conservative Yeshiva Faculty http://campaign.r20.constantcontact.com/render?m=1102506082947&ca=6d499286-d04b-4503-b865-2cf96cab4411 Sefer Vayikra opens with a survey of the voluntary/free-will sacrificial offerings. It begins with the largest, and seemingly most significant, offerings: bulls, sheep, and goats, continues with pigeons and doves, and finishes the survey with the mincha (grain) offering, seemingly the least impressive and least significant of the free-will offerings. It is easy to be unimpressed by the mincha offering, since it was the least expensive offering, and mostly brought by those with the least means. Oddly, the wording used to introduce the mincha offering was unique among these sacrifices. All of the other offerings are introduced with the phrase: "Should any adam (person) from you bring an offering" (1:2). But with regard to the mincha offering, the Torah uses the language: "Should a nefesh (person) bring forward a grain offering" (2:1). Why the change from "adam" to "nefesh?" While both mean "person," the word "nefesh" also means "self." The following picks up on this, reading the change from "adam" to "nefesh" as emphasizing the "will" of the person making the offering. It is essential for God that the mincha offering be brought with the "right will." The midrash moves the discussion of this idea through a number of subjects, in the end, winding its way back to the significance of the mincha sacrifice: Better is one who studies two orders (sedarim) of the and is conversant in them than one who studies halachot (laws) and is not conversant in them out of a desire to be known as one adept in halachot... Better is one who gives from money that is his own, than the one who goes and robs others in order to give tzedakah just so that he might be called a charitable person...better is a handful [of the flour] of the mincha offering of a poor man than the finely ground incense offering of the congregation...it carries with it expiation while the later does not. (abridged and adapted from Vayikra Rabbah 3:1 Margoliot ed. pp. 54-59) One might presume from the ordering of the sacrifices at the beginning of the Sefer Vayikra that bigger is better - the larger and more expensive the animal offered the greater its significance and potency. And this is, indeed, often true in the everyday human realm. Grand gestures are celebrated, while modest ones barely register. The goal is to make an impression. And indeed, without faith, what value is there in what goes unnoticed? If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is there to hear it, did it really make a sound? According to the midrash, the mincha offering provides a sharp rebuke to this way of thinking, reminding us that God notices. And unlike the society around us, God values quality over quantity, quiet competence over an inflated resume, a modest gift of what is truly yours over a grand gift made with resources that are stolen or otherwise unearned. Ultimately, the Torah teaches us that an act's significance does not lie in the impression it makes on others, but on the impression it makes on you. Conflicting Values: Shabbat Zachor Haftarah by Rabbi Mordechai Silverstein http://campaign.r20.constantcontact.com/render?m=1102506082947&ca=6d499286-d04b-4503-b865-2cf96cab4411 This Shabbat, Shabbat Zachor, is the second of four Shabbatot before Pesach where there is a special maftir Torah reading and haftarah. On this Shabbat before Purim, the maftir reading recounts the transgressions of the tribe of Amalek which viciously attacked the children of Israel in the desert after their exodus from Egyptian bondage. This week's haftarah offers a later episode in this saga from the generation of Shaul HaMelech, the first king of Israel. Shaul is commanded by God, through the prophet Shmuel, to totally proscribe the Amalekites, including their king and their property: "Now, go and strike down Amalek, and put under the ban everything that he has, you shall not spare him, and you shall put to death man and woman, infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel and donkey." (verse 3 - Alter translation) In the biblical telling of the story, Shaul gets himself in trouble with God and the prophet Shmuel because he only partially carries out God's command, sparing the life of Agag, the king of the Amalekites as well as the choicest of the Amalekite livestock. Shmuel calls Shaul to task for not abiding by God's word as commanded. For the modern reader, this is profoundly disturbing. The idea of a divine command to obliterate a people, combatants and innocents, is difficult to accept, no matter what the circumstances. Our conflicted feelings regarding this story are shared by the Sages who composed the following dialogue between Shaul and God (note the remarkable similarity to the conversation between God and Avraham about the Sodom and Gomorrah): Rabbi Mani said: 'When the Holy One, blessed be He, said to Shaul: Now go and smite Amalek, Shaul said: If on account of one person the Torah said: Perform the ceremony of the heifer whose neck is to be broken [on finding a murder victim] - (See Deut. 21), how much more [ought consideration be given] to all these lives! And if human beings sinned, what sin have the cattle committed; and if the adults have sinned, what have the children done? A divine voice came forth and said: 'Do not be overly righteous.' (Ecclesiastes 7:9)" (adapted from Yoma 22b) In this retelling of the story, Shaul takes up a moral argument with God. He confronts God about the injustice of collective punishment, bringing as support the "egla arufah" ritual from the Torah - in which a city's leaders must seek expiation from God for not having prevented the murder of a single innocent. Despite knowing how the story ends - with Shaul stripped of his kingship - Rabbi Mani felt compelled to challenge the justice of God's command. But the story ultimately ends with our being told not to be "overly righteous." Perhaps the midrash here is telling us not to expect clarity and certainty from our tradition - neither about what is right nor what is wrong. After all, our Torah is filled with contradictory models - the same Avraham that challenges God over the righteousness of wiping out Sodom readily acquiesces to God when told to sacrifice Isaac. The Torah does not help us escape the profound value tensions that are part of human existence - they sharpen them. Ultimately we must choose how to honor the complexity, even as we choose which stories, which values, to emphasize and privilege. Sacrificing Identities by Jason Rogoff http://www.jtsa.edu/sacrificing-identities The early rabbinic midrash on the Book of Leviticus (Sifra) begins its interpretation of our parashah by asking the critical question: Who is a Jew? The seek to clearly define who can participate in Temple worship and who cannot because the sacrifices are a key piece of the covenantal relationship with God. That means that participation in the sacrificial cult is emblematic of full Jewish citizenship and demarcates the borderlines between and others. The rabbinic definition of Jewish status is one of many voices in the highly contested debate over Jewish identity that erupts at the end of the period. This issue is perhaps most famously articulated in the Books of Acts in the Christian Bible. The followers of Jesus deliberate at the Council of over the requirement of circumcision for converts. Ultimately, the group privileges faith over the performance of commandments in what proves to be a critical step in the creation of Christianity as we know it today. We also find competing definitions in the writings of first- century historian Josephus Flavius, and in the Dead Sea Scrolls discovered in Qumran. The Rabbis use the second verse from our parashah in order to explore two possible paradigms for defining Jewish identity. The verse serves as an introduction to the sacrificial laws that are to follow: “Speak to the children of Israel, and say to them: When any of you presents an offering of cattle to the LORD, he shall choose his offering from the herd or from the flock.” The verse makes it clear that God’s laws of the sacrificial rite are intended exclusively for the Israelite people. This directive provides the Rabbis with the opportunity to ask: Who is considered an Israelite? The Rabbis’ exegesis of the verse is based, as it often is, on an apparent redundancy in the text. The verse begins with a declaration to the children of Israel that would seem to include the entire Israelite population. Why then must God again clarify and state, “any of you?” Are these not the same group of people? Let us examine a large selection of the midrash from the Sifra: [1] “Any” (Lev 1:2)—this incorporates the proselytes. [2] “Of you” (Lev 1:2)—this excludes the apostates… [3] What characterizes “Israel” is that they accept the yoke of the Covenant, this includes the proselytes, who accept the yoke of the Covenant, and excludes the apostates, for they do not accept the yoke of the Covenant. [4] Perhaps [you should say]: What characterizes “Israel” is that they are the descendants of those who accepted the yoke of the Covenant, and this includes the apostates, for they are the descendants of those who accepted the yoke of the Covenant, but excludes the proselytes, for they are not the descendants of those who accepted the yoke of the Covenant? [5] Scripture teaches: “Of you.” Therefore do not conclude so, but [as we said first]: What characterizes “Israel” is that they accept the yoke of the Covenant, this includes the proselytes, who accept the yoke of the Covenant, and excludes the apostates, for they do not accept the yoke of the Covenant. [6] And so does Scripture say: “The sacrifice of the wicked is an abomination, how much more when he brings it with evil intent” (Prov. 21:27). The midrash begins (section 1) by asserting that the redundancy is necessary in order to clarify that proselytes are included in the sacrificial rite even though they are not according to the strict literal definition, “Children of Israel.” The midrash continues (section 2) explaining that the words “of you” are intended to limit who may bring a sacrifice and come to exclude apostates—those who are born from Israelite parents but reject God and the Covenant. Section 3 explains the rationale behind the inclusion of proselytes and exclusion of apostates: Simply put, acceptance of the yoke of the Covenant is the essential identity marker of belonging in Israel. Section 4 pushes back on the assertion and suggests that the true marker of identity is biology: An Israelite born from an Israelite remains so regardless of belief. This, in turn, would exclude proselytes from the community of Israel. Section 5 rejects this suggestion and emphatically maintains that acceptance of the yoke of the Covenant is the true character trait of “you,” the Israelite nation. The Rabbis support this conclusion with their reading of the verse from Proverbs which indicates that the sacrifice of the wicked (i.e., apostates) will not be accepted by God. As Professor Adiel Schremer of Bar Ilan University explains in his article, “Thinking about Belonging” (JSJ43, 249-275), the two choices in the midrash represent two competing answers to the question of belonging in the Jewish community. Is Jewish identity determined solely by birth or is there an essential component of acceptance of God’s covenant in order to be a member of the Jewish community? The Rabbis argue vehemently for the latter. All who accept the yoke of God’s commandments may be called Israel, not just those with the proper lineage. The Rabbis’ definition of belonging sets an important example for us as we think about what makes each of us part of a larger community. This is true both for our local communities and our global responsibility as members of the Jewish people. The Rabbis demand that we ask ourselves: Do our behaviors and commitments clearly identify us as part of Israel? Can we respond to the call directed at “any of you” found in the verse from our parashah? God's Hidden Call – A Thought for Purim by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks http://rabbisacks.org/gods-hidden-call/ Chazal, our Sages, asked a strange question in the of Chullin (39b): Esther min haTorah minayin? “Where do we find a hint in the Torah to the book of Esther?”, the last book of Tanach to be canonised. The Gemara answers with the words, v’anochi haster astir panai, “I will hide my face on that day.” Hashem’s most fearful warning had always been that there would come a time when there would be hester panim, the concealed face of God, when it would look as if, God forbid, Hashem has stopped communicating with us. That is how Hazal found a hint of Esther. We know that Esther is one of the only two books in Tanach which don’t contain the name of Hashem, the other one being Shir HaShirim. But where as Shir HaShirim is a book about Hashem’s love for us, Esther is a fearful book because it records the moment when it was resolved Lehashmid laharog ule’abaid et kol hayehudim mina’ar v’ad zakein taf v’nashim beyom echad, “to destroy, to slay, and to exterminate all Jews, young and old, children and women, in a single day,” when the first warrant for genocide against the Jewish people was issued. Purim is the only festival in the Jewish year set entirely in Galut, in Exile. Every other festival is either based on an event that happened in Israel or on the journey toward Israel. Purim alone is set in the place of hester panim, when we are out of Israel and where it is harder to feel the presence of God. That is the book of Esther. It comes from an almost secularised world, where we search for the presence of God in history and we fail to find it. Yet there is one line in the megillah that cuts through me like a knife and represents the most powerful statement in I know that Hashem has not abandoned us. Towards the end of the fourth chapter, we find Esther telling her uncle Mordechai about all the problems there might be in interceding with King Achashverosh regarding the fate of the Jewish people. Mordechai listens and then responds to her with the famous words, Im haharesh tachrishi, ba’et hazot revach v’hatzla ya’amod layehudim mimakom acher, “If you are silent and you do nothing at this time somebody else will save the Jewish people.” U’mi yodeia im l’et kazot, higa’at lamalchut? “But who knows, was it not for just this moment that you became a Queen, with access to King Achashverosh in the royal palace?” This, for me, is the ultimate statement of hashgacha pratit, that wherever we are, sometimes Hashem is asking us to realise why He put us here, with these gifts, at this time, with these dangers, in this place. Hashgacha pratit is our fundamental belief that God never abandons us, that He puts us here with something to do. Even in the worst hiding of God, if you listen hard enough, you can hear Him calling to us as individuals, saying U’mi yodeia im l’et kazot higa’at lamalchut? “Was is not for this very challenge that you are here in this place at this time?” That is the essence of the first word of the third book of Torah [we started reading last Shabbat] – Vayikra. When you look in a Torah you will notice the word is written with a very small Aleph at the end. Commenting on this, Rashi draws a distinction between the phrases Vayikra el Moshe, “And He [Hashem] called to Moses” and Vayikar el Bilam“And He [Hashem] appeared to Bilam”. The , says Rashi, has two words that sound the same, but are in fact completely different, even opposite, mikraand mikreh. Mikreh is used to describe something that happens accidentally, that involves no Divine providence. Mikra, on the other hand, is used to describe a calling from Hashem, specific to you with a particular task involved. Why, then, is the Aleph – a letter which makes no sound – written small? To teach us that sometimes it can be very hard to hear Hashem’s call. It might even be a silent call. In Hebrew, this is a known as kol demama daka, a voice you can only hear if you are listening. Even in the worst hester panim, Hashem is always calling on us to do something. One of my great heroes was a man called Victor Frankl, I write about him often. Victor Frankl was a psychotherapist actually working with university students in Vienna and was taken to Auschwitz during the Second World War. There never was in all history greater hester panim than in . Yet Victor Frankl was a man of faith, and he knew Hashem was calling on him to do something even there, even at the gates of Hell itself. He asked himself, what does Hashem want of me, a psychotherapist, in the middle of Auschwitz? He came to the answer, Hashem wants me to give my fellow prisoners, my fellow Jews, a will to live, because only if they have that will, will they have the strength to survive. So he went around to each prisoner that he thought was about to fall into despair, and gave them a role in life, one they had yet to fulfil. This sense of renewed purpose helped force these men, women and children to stay alive, survive Auschwitz, be liberated and then go and do their calling. That is what Victor Frankl heard, even in Auschwitz, a Vayikra with a tiny Aleph. There is another story of a man named Eddie Jacobson. Eddie was an ordinary Jewish guy from the Lower East Side of New York. When Eddie was a child, his parents moved to Kansas City and there he met a child his own age. Soon they became close school friends, did military service together during the First World War, and decided that when the war was over they would go into business together. They set up a clothing store in Kansas City, but the business was not a great success and soon they drifted apart. Eddie Jacobson went on being a travelling salesman selling clothes. His friend, Harry S. Truman, took a slightly different route and landed up as president of the United States. In 1947-48, the Jews of the world needed the support of the United States of America for the state of Israel to be proclaimed and recognised. The State Department was against it and advised the president not to support the creation of the state of Israel. Jews and Jewish organisations tried their utmost to see the president in the White House, and every single attempt was refused. Even the leader of the Zionist movement, Chaim Weizmann, the man who would become the first president of the State of Israel, was refused a meeting. As time became desperate, somebody remembered that Harry S. Truman had a childhood friend called Eddie Jacobson. So they reached out to Eddie and asked if he could get the president of the United States to meet with Chaim Weizmann. So Eddie phoned up President Truman and said he had to come and see him. Truman’s officials tried to block the meeting, but Truman said “This is my old friend, Eddie, from school, Eddie, from the Army, Eddie, from our shop together! How can I not see this man?” When Eddie arrived at the White House, Truman said “Eddie, you can talk to me about anything, except Israel.” “Okay”, said Eddie and he stood in the Oval Office, in front of the president of the United States, and began to cry. “Eddie, why are you crying?” asked the president. Eddie pointed to a marble statue in the room and said “Who is that, Harry?” “That’s my hero, Andrew Jackson”, Truman replied. “You really admire this man?” asked Eddie. “Yes.” “And he had an influence over you?” “Yes” said Truman. Then, said Eddie, “I have a hero. His name is Chaim Weizmann. Harry, for my sake, see this man.” Harry looked at Eddie and he knew that he couldn’t say no to his old friend. That is how Chaim Weizmann got to see president Harry S. Truman, and that is how America voted in favour of the creation of the State of Israel. If they had not voted, Israel would not have been brought into being. What’s more, Harry S. Truman made the United States the first country in the world to recognise this State when David Ben Gurion pronounced it. I don’t know exactly how Hashem writes the script of history, but if it can happen to Eddie Jacobson it can happen to any one of us. U’mi yodeia im l’et kazot higa’at lamalchut? Hashem is calling on each of us, saying there is a reason why we are here, because He has something for us to do, something that only we can do. We can hear Hashem’s voice even when there’s hester panim, when He appears hidden, even when the call, Vayikra, is written with a very small Aleph that you can hardly see and hardly hear. In the third chapter of Hilchot Teshuva, The Laws of Repentance, Rambam teaches us how throughout the entire year, we should see ourselves as if we as individuals and the entire world collectively are evenly poised between merit and sin. Our next deed may tilt the balance of our life, it may tilt the balance of somebody else’s life, it may even tilt the balance of the world. We never know when an act of ours will have consequences. Did Esther, growing up with Mordechai, know that one day, the entire future of the Jewish people will rest with her? You never know what significance one friendship or one little moment might have for you and for somebody else that might just change the world. You don’t have to change the world to change the world. Let me explain. If we really believe, as the Mishna in Sandedrin, says Nefesh achat k’olam malei, that “A life is like a universe” then if you change one life, you can begin to change the universe the only way any of us can, one life at a time, one day at a time, one act at a time. We must always ask ourselves, what does Hashem want of me in this place, at this time? Because there is always something Hashem wants of us, and we don’t have to be anyone special to have a sacred task. We can just be a Jewish woman called Esther, or a Jewish man called Eddie, and yet, somehow or another, our acts might have consequences that we cannot even begin to imagine. Even though you may feel sometimes that this is a world and an age in which there is hester panim, where you look for Hashem and you can’t find him, He is still saying to us U’mi yodeia im l’et kazot higa’at lamalchut?, “Was it not for this moment that I placed you here on Earth?” When Hashem calls, may each of us have the courage to say to ‘Hineini, here I am, Hashem, tell me what to do and I will do it.’ May we go out into the world, walking tall as Jews, walking unafraid, as Jews, and may we be true to our faith and a blessing to others regardless of their faith. May we hear the call of Hashem and answer it. May we all bring blessing to the world.

Yahrtzeits Karen Brandis remembers her father Stanley Grossel (Shlomo Zalman) on Thursday March 21st (Adar II 14)