B’reisheit October 17, 2009
Shabbat shalom.
B’reisheit. In the beginning. Genesis is about the creation of the universe and the introduction of the human species. It is also about our opportunity to begin again. We may sin or go astray, but, as we were reminded during the Yom Kippur services, God gives us the opportunity to return – in Hebrew t’shuvah – and start again. I’d like to explore with you different kinds of beginnings.
In the 1935 movie Swing Time, Ginger Rogers plays a dance instructor. Fred Astaire, trying to win her favor, pretends to be a clumsy student. He keeps falling down, on purpose. This sets the stage for the Jerome Kern, Dorothy Fields song “Pick Yourself Up.” Ginger sings:
Nothing’s impossible, I have found For when my chin is on the ground I pick myself up, dust myself off, Start all over again.
I like to think of these words when my chin is on the ground. But beginnings come in many shapes and sizes. The birth of a child or a grandchild, a marriage, graduation from high school or college, a move to a new home or a new city, the first day in a new job, the loss of a friend or loved one. These are all events that reshape our lives and our relationships with others. They represent the beginning of a new and different life.
A bar or bat mitzvah is a special kind of beginning. Last month marked the 55th anniversary of my bar mitzvah, in September 1954. It wasn’t in New York, Boston, Philadelphia or Chicago. It wasn’t even in Atlanta, Birmingham, Memphis or Houston. It was in Greenwood, Mississippi. Now Greenwood is not on the way to anyplace, unless you are going to Itta Bena (home of Marion Barry) or Belzoni (B.B. King Museum) or Clarksdale to visit Morgan Freeman’s restaurant Madidi. He lives in the country close by.
People ask me how Jews came to live in Greenwood. That’s the wrong question. Greenwood was a city of about 20,000 inhabitants. A better question is why Jews lived in Indianola, Moorhead, Sidon, Winona, Schlater, Coffeeville, Alligator, and other places -- some no bigger than a crossroads. I’m not kidding about Alligator. Aunt Jenny and Uncle Reuben lived there. The typical Jewish experience in this country is in the large city, mostly on the East and West Coast. Because of their sheer numbers, Jews living there are tempted to treat their experience as the norm.
My Jewish beginning was in Greenwood. Let’s take a walk down Howard Street, the main business street in Greenwood. The year is 1954. Most of the retail businesses are Jewish-owned. They included Weiler’s Jewelry (Millard Weiler and his sister Louise Thalheimer); Gelman’s Cafeteria (Meyer and Mabel Gelman); Wee Moderns and Jr. Miss (both owned by Mervyn and Ruth Glass); The Fashion Shop (Barney and Inez Schulman, with Inez’s brother Julius Hyman); and J. Kantor’s men’s store (Sol Kantor and Buddy Goodman). City Laundry, owned by Joe Wexler, was just off Howard. At the end of Howard Street was Goldberg’s Shoe Store (Harry and Esther Goldberg, Irwin and Ilse Goldberg and Eugene and Frieda Goldberg Erber). Down Carrollton Avenue were Bennett’s Mens Store; B&R Department Store (Louie Brody and Alex Rosenblum); and M. Diamond Department Store. Across Carrollton on Johnson Street, Kornfeld’s (Leslie and Gert Kornfeld), Stanley’s (my father’s store) and The Trading Post (Ben Auerbach). Then there were Gerald Jacobs, a cotton factor, and Charles Stern, who worked at the Cotton Exchange. Sam Kaplan was in the junk business and Marshall Levitt was in hides and furs.
Louie Brody and his wife Fannye, leaders of the Jewish community, were both immigrants from Lithuania. They met each other for the first time in this country. That was a special kind of beginning.
Most of the people I mentioned are deceased, and their memory is a blessing. Of all the businesses, only two survive today: Goldberg’s and Kornfelds. Ilse Goldberg escaped Nazi Germany as a young girl with her family. They lived in Shanghai a few years before moving to America. Today she is the family matriarch. “Bubba” Kornfeld has a thriving business in big and tall clothing and biker accessories. Check out his web page. The children of the owners of the other businesses moved away. Like me, they found a new beginning elsewhere.
In the 1990s, David Isay conducted a series of interviews for National Public Radio entitled Holding On that involved unusual people and places. In one segment he visited Greenwood and interviewed Leslie Kornfeld and Joe Martin Erber on the last Orthodox Jewish congregation in Mississippi, Ahavath Rayim. The audio and transcript are available on SoundPortraits.org.
There were two congregations in town. My family belonged to Beth Israel, the Reform temple. Services on Friday nights were led by members, and the same was true of the Sunday School. On High Holidays a student rabbi from Cincinnati came to officiate. The orthodox congregation had a larger membership and a full time Rabbi, Samuel Stone. When I was about ten, my parents encouraged me to attend cheder with Rabbi Stone and learn some Hebrew. When I was twelve Rabbi Stone asked if I would like to become a bar mitzvah. There were no bar mitzvahs in the Reform congregation. I agreed, and prepared with the Rabbi for a year. I was the only boy from the Reform congregation in Greenwood ever to become a bar mitzvah.
By the way, here is a conversation from that time: “Have you heard? In New York they are allowing girls to be bar mitzvah. They call it a bas mitzvah.”
Rabbi Stone asked only one thing: that I get up 30 minutes early every day, put on my tefillin and recite the morning prayers. And that I continue for at least a year after my bar mitzvah. I kept my promise for exactly one year and put away my tefillin in their velvet bag, where they remain to this day.
Over the years I longed for an opportunity to expand my modest grasp of Hebrew. It came four years ago when I joined Sandy Saydah’s class in Biblical Hebrew. We struggled with verbs, tenses, nouns, pronouns, possessives and all the rest. With each chapter there were a few verses of scripture. When the material included the B’reisheit, it was a moment of joy. All of a sudden, for the first time, I could read and understand. That was a beginning. So it is a special privilege for me to chant this passage from the Torah today.
In 1954, my classmate Joe Martin Erber wrote in my bar mitzvah guest book the following words: “Many happy returns of the day.” So thank you Joe Martin. This is a happy return of the day.
One more thing. Almost one year after my bar mitzvah a boy my age, 14 at the time, came from Chicago to visit his relatives in Money, Mississippi, eight miles from Greenwood. His name was Emmett Till. He was brutally murdered by J.W. Milam and Roy Bryant, who sold their story to Look magazine after they were acquitted by a jury and immune from further prosecution. Their businesses, out in the country, mostly catered to black sharecroppers. Unsurprisingly, they had to close their businesses for lack of customers and move away.
The Emmett Till story became one of the events that spurred the Civil Rights movement. It has escaped media notice that the story involved the first boycott of a business in protest against treatment of African Americans. That was also a beginning. The idea of boycotts later took hold across the South, bringing pressure on businesses, many of them Jewish owned, to change their hiring practices. Boycotts took a terrible toll on my father, including the summer of 1964, the summer Ilene and I were married.
I have many people to thank for their encouragement and support. First, my adult biblical Hebrew teacher Sandy Saydah and my classmates, Jan Moses, Lisa Szymanski, Kurt Ritter, Ina Strichartz, and Sandy Bogorad. Special thanks to Jonathan Kosarin, my tutor in Torah Cantillation. Also thanks to Rabbis Amy Schwartzman, Jeffrey Saxe and Marcus Burstein. To my wife Ilene, who insisted on taking a picture of me after my first day of Adult Hebrew school. And finally to my parents, my late father David Pachter, of blessed memory, and my mother Inez Pachter who is 91 and living in Savannah, Georgia.
May all our beginnings be a source of joy and wisdom. And, when things go wrong, may we learn how to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and start all over again.
Shabbat Shalom.
Vayeshev December 18, 2009
I’m sure you have marveled, as I have, at the astonishing economy of the Torah’s literary style. But Orthodox tradition forbids literary criticism of the Torah. The Torah is sacred, the word of God. Literary criticism is reserved for works written by mortals.
You would think that this hurdle would have been cast aside in our modern era. Yet it still lingers. In my admittedly brief foray into this subject, I encountered two authors who, it happens, chose the Joseph story for literary criticism.
The first is The Art of Biblical Narrative by Robert Alter. He writes that the Torah can best be understood by employing neglected techniques of literary criticism. His first example is the story of Tamar and Judah, an interlude between the selling of Joseph by his brothers and Joseph’s appearance as a slave in the household of Potiphar. Biblical scholars tend to view the episode as an independent story with no connection to the Joseph drama. Alter argues the opposite, pointing to similarity in motif and theme. We don’t have time today to discuss the Tamar and Judah interlude, but I do commend the Alter book to your reading.
In his book Messengers of God, Elie Wiesel is unsparing in his criticism of the Joseph story. He says “the literary flaws of the text are surprising. The narrative is too long, too slow, too transparent, it lacks both mystery and momentum.” Joseph, Wiesel writes, “has too many problems, involving so many people that the reader is at a loss as to which clue, which thread to follow to untangle the plot.” Wiesel even argues “The Aristotelian rules of theater are violated; there is no unity of time, place or action. What we have is an incredible epic, unfocused, panoramic, disdainful of detail and lacking the terseness and sobriety of a work of art.”
Now there’s literary criticism. But at least we can agree with Wiesel that the Joseph story “brings into play every facet of human passion: love and hate, ambition and jealousy, glory and spite.” No doubt, Joseph stirs our imagination. He was the first Jew to bridge two nations; the first to link Israel to the world. Everything happened to him on a grand scale. He is also a transitional figure. With Joseph, God is no longer present at each phase of the human adventure. Now our narrative enters secular history.
When the story begins, Joseph is, at seventeen, a spoiled bratty teenager – no hero. He is the favorite and 11th son of his father Jacob. Only Benjamin is younger. Did Jacob learn nothing from his mother Rebecca’s favoritism and the deception she practiced? After all, Rebecca helped young Jacob trick old Isaac into giving his blessing to Jacob instead of Jacob’s brother Esau, who was Isaac’s favorite. Here the Torah reminds us that patterns of favoritism and deception can be passed to generations within families, and we should be on guard.
Joseph, with his father’s gift of a special garment, flaunts his status. He tattles on his brothers. He tells them of his dreams that he will rule over them. He lives in a state of innocence. It invites his brothers’ wrath. First they conspire to kill him. Reuben intervenes and convinces the brothers to throw Joseph into a pit instead. They strip him of his special tunic. Then they sell him to merchants in a passing caravan, who take him to Egypt.
The brothers then slaughter a kid and dip the tunic in the blood. They take the bloodied garment to their father Jacob who is convinced Joseph was devoured by a savage beast. Now Jacob is deceived just as he deceived his father Isaac into believing Isaac was blessing his own favored son Esau. Jacob is plunged into despair because he believes his beloved son Joseph is dead. The brothers leave Jacob in his grief.
Remember that Jacob’s twelve sons are our nation builders. They will be the foundation for the 12 tribes of Israel. Here the Torah reminds us that nation building is a messy process and that political leaders have clay feet. Unfortunately a subject in our news every day.
Now in Egypt, Joseph is bought by Potiphar, the Pharoah’s chief steward. Joseph doesn’t complain and in fact the Torah says he is a success. But Joseph is well built and handsome, and Potiphar’s wife, whom the Torah does not identify by any other name, tries to seduce him. He resists. He would not betray his master’s trust.
Finally, Mrs. Potiphar grabs his coat and accuses him of attempting to seduce her. Potiphar, perhaps having reason to doubt his wife’s word, spares Joseph’s life and puts him in prison. There Joseph meets the king’s cupbearer and baker. Joseph successfully interprets their dreams, and at the end of our parsha Joseph remains in prison.
Joseph endures his trials without complaint. He descends to the lowest depths, teaching him humility in preparation for the challenges of leadership. He then ascends into the highest levels of Egyptian society, adding to his knowledge and sophistication.
In a parallel, Moses later is raised among Egyptian royalty and is forced to live for years in exile, preparing him for his leadership role. In these stories of exile and absorption into an alien culture, the Torah teaches that our fate is bound up with that of other nations. The book of Deuteronomy also states: “You shall not hate an Edomite, for he is your brother. You shall not hate an Egyptian for you were a stranger in his land.” (23:8)
Joseph was a dreamer, but he was also prepared to journey into the unknown. On that fateful day when his father Jacob sent him to the fields to bring news of his brothers for what would be the last time, Joseph said “Hineni,” here I am; I am ready. This was also Abraham’s response to God when commanded to sacrifice Isaac, and it was Moses’s response to God at the Burning Bush.
Joseph learned from his hardship. He matured into leadership so that he could rescue his family from famine and become reconciled with them. Not a bad record for a transitional figure.
The story of the Jewish people combines lofty dreams with hard-headed reality. May our own lives be fulfilled with dreams but with a steady eye on reality – and a willingness to say “Hineni” – “Here I am,” when called.
John Pachter April 17, 2010
Tazria/Metzorah Leviticus 12:1-13:59 Leviticus 14:1-15:33
In this week’s parsha we deal with the laws of family impurity. This is not a subject we talk about every day. But it’s in the Torah; it’s our portion for the week; we are in the synagogue; and I have volunteered. We’ll discuss these ancient laws, mention parallels in other ancient cultures, and consider what meaning we can draw for our own purposes today. Perhaps there may even be a surprise or two along the way.
Tazria and metzorah deal with times when a person’s condition requires separation, followed by reintegration into the community. Circumstances include, for example, separation of a woman from her husband after childbirth and during her menstrual period and for a time afterward, and for both sexes for prescribed conditions. The blessing of metzorah is that the period of separation is finite and the person returns from the place of alienation.
Childbirth is a time of intense creative output, beyond ordinary existence, beyond time and space, in which the woman participates in the act of bringing new life into being. Her separation following childbirth, then, is a retreat, a time of healing.
The words tumah and taharah, often translated as "unclean" and "clean," or "impure" and "pure," sometimes evoke a negative response. Why, we might ask, must a woman be considered tameh, "impure"? In fact, tumah and taharah are spiritual and not physical concepts. Tameh is an ancient term applied to anyone forbidden to have contact with sacred food or to enter the Temple precincts in Jerusalem.
In Chassidic teaching, tumah, "spiritual impurity," is the "absence of holiness." Holiness is "life," "vitality"; all that emanates from the source of all life, the Creator. That which is distant or separated from its source is called "death" and "impurity." According to Torah law, death is the principal cause of all tumah. Therefore, the highest magnitude of tumah comes from contact with a dead body. Does this suggest any disrespect for the deceased? No. To the contrary, care for the deceased is the highest mitzvah, because the person being served cannot say “thank you.”
Tumah and tahora are opposing realms, demonstrating that we have "free choice" in our behavior. By rejecting evil and choosing good, we elevate not only ourselves but the entire world. Tumah, the "other side," is not a hopeless state. It spurs us to achieve higher levels. In its descent, the soul finds hope. It may strive for and attain a more elevated rank than it had before.
There are two types of tumah, two types of "descent." There is the tumah that we create when we intentionally push away God’s presence and create a void; and there is the tumah that God creates as part of nature.
Spiritually speaking, what is most impure in a person is the assertion of self. It is the belief in our own self-importance. When we push away God’s presence we create a void. Again, the words “pure” and “impure” signify the presence or absence of holiness.
The tumah, the impurity that attaches to a sin is a void we create and by which we degrade ourselves. The tumah of niddah, or family purity, however, is a built-in part of a woman's natural monthly cycle. Her "descent" from a peak level of potential holiness (i.e., where the creation of a new life is possible) does not mean that she is "sinful" or "degraded," "inferior" or "stigmatized." In fact, as we will see, tumah can be viewed as a liberating concept for women.
The birth of a child involves one of the most sublime powers of God. After birth, according to Chasidic thought, this powerful force "departs" and there is greater potential for tumah. The same is true of a woman's monthly cycle: every month, this great potential for holiness, a woman's potential to engage in the power of creation, reaches a peak in her body (an "ascent"). When the potential is not fulfilled, the cast-off tissue leaves the body. And this "descent" is susceptible to tumah. But it is only because of the high level of Godliness in the procreative process that tumah can occur at all.
By the way, the concept of opposing but complementary forces appears elsewhere in ancient Oriental culture, including the Daoist concept of yin and yang in Chinese tradition. There the quest for balance presents an interesting counterpart to tumah and tahora. But we’ll leave that subject for now.
Chasidic teachers suggest that the monthly cycle of a woman may be compared to Shabbat and the weekly cycle of every Jew. The alternation of the holy day of Shabbat with the mundane days of the week is a cycle of ascent and descent -- reenacted every seven days. The six mundane days lead up to Shabbat. At that time the world becomes elevated and purified, and ascends to its source. Every Jew then receives an "extra soul," which we lose as Shabbat ends and we must "go down" again into the struggles of the coming week. The struggle we confront during the six days becomes elevated on Shabbat and enables us to ascend higher and higher every week.
According to Torah law, every person upon awakening should wash his hands, to remove the "impure spirit" that adheres during sleep. In sleep, there is a "departure of holiness" from the body. The soul "ascends to its source" above. Again, this "natural law" allows for impurity to set in. While our hands are tameh upon awakening, they are not "evil." The same is true of tumah during a woman's monthly "natural low." It is the result of a departure of holiness but not a state of degradation, inferiority or shame. The descent, then, is part of the journey, leading again to the spiritual ascent.
For Orthodox Jews, husband and wife are prohibited from having relations for twelve successive days each month. It so happens that the end of this prohibition corresponds with the height of the woman’s fertility. In the Torah, God commands us to “be fruitful and multiply.” But the Torah does not leave it to chance. The laws of family purity provide a road map to ensure that it happens.
If this seems outdated and unsuited to modern sensibilities, please consider that during her time of separation, the wife is not subject to the will of her husband. She has her own time of healing and recovery. This is a liberating concept when you consider that in ancient cultures, and indeed in some cultures today, the wife is considered the property of the husband.
While the Torah does not say in so many words that “abstinence makes the heart grow fonder,” surveys have shown a much higher satisfaction level of marriage among Orthodox Jews than the general population.
Anita Diamant, in her book The Red Tent, imagined a place where women would go in biblical times during their period of separation, to be waited on by young girls. In her research for the book she studied practices of other ancient cultures. She must have learned that in ancient India the Hindu religion observed a similar custom. Recognizing that a mother never had a day off, but was available to attend to her family 24 hours a day, they adopted the custom of giving women a holiday of three to four days a month in which they could rest and recoup their energy and be served hand and foot. Imagine the benefits if today’s mothers, with their intense schedules, could be blessed with such a restorative custom.
In our own descents, may we find time for spiritual retreat and an opportunity for renewal. And may we be inspired to reject evil, choose good, and elevate ourselves and by extension the entire world.
Shabbat Shalom
(Primary Source: On the Essence of Ritual Impurity, Susan Handelman, chabad.org )
Vayechi
Genesis 47:28-31
John Pachter
December 18, 2010 Parsha Vayechi concludes the book of Genesis with Jacob’s blessings and last words to his twelve sons, who become the leaders of the twelve tribes of Israel. Well, it’s a little more complicated than that, as we shall see. In any case, Jacob’s death in Egypt represents the end of the patriarchal age.
After their long separation, Jacob reunites with Joseph, and he asks Joseph to swear to bury him in the land of Israel. Jacob, now blind, gives Joseph's two sons, Menasse and Ephraim, a special blessing. Despite Joseph's protest, Jacob gives the younger Ephraim the right-hand position of primacy during the blessing. The story repeats, with a variation, the blessings given by Isaac to Jacob and his brother Esau. Recall that Jacob’s mother Rebecca tricked Isaac, then blind, into giving his blessing to Jacob, the younger son. Now Jacob is also blind. But, unlike his father Isaac, Jacob purposely gives his blessing to the younger son. Jacob also adopts Joseph’s two sons as his own, giving them an inheritance. That means Jacob now has fourteen sons. So how do we get twelve tribes named for twelve sons? I’ll come back to that.
Scholars tell us that the triumph of the younger brother over the older is the longest sustained theme in the Bible. It recurs in the stories of Ishmael and Isaac; Esau and Jacob; Reuben and Judah; Joseph and his brothers (only Benjamin was younger than Joseph); and here Ephraim and Menasseh. In addition, leadership will be conferred on the younger Moses, not his older brother Aaron, and King David will be the youngest among his brothers.
Underlying this theme is a powerful message. Primogeniture, the primacy of the first- born, was a fixture of the ancient world. In antiquity, the eldest son occupied a position of presumed merit. The Torah, however, portrays the younger sons as wiser and more deserving. The lesson would have had much more meaning to listeners in the ancient world where primogeniture was the norm.
Here the Torah cries out for reform. But what happened to primogeniture? It did not disappear. It held on through the centuries and was firmly entrenched in 18th century Europe in the form of noble birth rite and hereditary power. In England, primogeniture assured that the great estates would not be divided. Thomas Jefferson condemned the practice. In one of his early legislative achievements, Jefferson persuaded the Virginia legislature to abolish primogeniture. Many years later, in an 1813 letter to John Adams, Jefferson wrote that he had “laid the axe to the root of pseudoaristocracy.” In his autobiography, he wrote that the measure prevented an “aristocracy of wealth” and made “an opening for the aristocracy of virtue and talent.” So the plea for change in the first book of the Torah found expression and fruition many centuries later through the efforts of Thomas Jefferson.
What is the significance of twelve sons and twelve tribes? In the ancient world, certain numbers had meaning far beyond their utility for counting and measuring. In particular, ancient mathematicians and astronomers revered the number twelve. Some believed it had profound mystical meaning. What then is special about twelve? The number twelve divides into six, four, three and two, giving it a large number of uses involving whole numbers, from calendars to clocks.
Ancient astronomers divided the skies into twelve portions along with the months of year. So the number twelve became associated with superstitions (signs of the Zodiac) and, later, religious beliefs. The Zoroastrians had twelve commanders on the side of light -- a symbol for the sun. In the ancient Greek religion, the Twelve Olympians were the principal gods of the pantheon on Mount Olympus, and many Greek Gods had twelve sons. In Greek mythology, certain sun gods had twelve disciples to spread the message across the world that the sun was not dead; it was rising again in the sky in spring, after being defeated in autumn.
Mithraists, and then Christians, believed that their savior had twelve disciples, and Muslim Shi'as list twelve ruling Imams following Muhammad. The Gnostics understood the twelve disciples of Mithras to be symbolic of the stages of the waning and waxing sun throughout the year. Buddhists hold that life is composed of twelve stages, which together keep the wheel of life turning. In Hinduism, the sun god Surya has twelve names.
The chief Norse god, Odin, had twelve sons. Several sets of twelve cities are identified in history as a dodecapolis, the most familiar being the Etruscan League. The King Arthur legend holds that Arthur subdued twelve rebel princes and won twelve great battles against Saxon invaders.
The Chinese use a twelve-year cycle called Earthly Branches for reckoning time.
There are twenty-four hours in a day, with twelve hours for a half a day. The basic units of time (sixty seconds, sixty minutes, twenty-four hours) all perfectly divide by twelve.
With that background, let’s return to the twelve tribes. Now that we know something about the significance of the number twelve, we can better understand why it was important to have twelve tribes. It makes a much more compelling story given the convention of narratives in ancient times and the symbolic power of the number twelve.
Let’s take a closer look. Joseph’s inheritance is taken by his two sons, Menasse and Ephraim, who are adopted by their grandfather Jacob. So there is no tribe named for Joseph. He drops out. Fair enough, but when you subtract Joseph and add Menasse and Ephraim, you have thirteen sons. That’s one too many. No one wants a story about the thirteen tribes of Israel. How to solve this problem? The Levites, the tribe of Levi, were not assigned a territory. They were consecrated to service in the tabernacle. That honor was their inheritance. The listing of the tribes in the Torah is not always the same. But one thing is clear: there were twelve of them.
So much for the number twelve. Let’s talk about a different subject: the number seven. Joseph obeyed his father’s wishes, and after embalming Jacob in the Egyptian style, the brothers observed a seven-day mourning period, and buried Jacob as he requested. Here we have the origin of the practice of shiva, the Hebrew word for seven.
The number seven carries the connotation of completion, perfection or holiness. God created heaven and earth in six days. God rested on the seventh day and sanctified it. Today our week is seven days and we rest on the seventh day, the Sabbath, because it is holy. The Sabbatical year arrives every seventh year. Thus the Sabbatical is to the year what the Sabbath is to the week. Did you know that is why we call it a “sabbatical”?
Shiva, seven, is the number of days to complete the initial period of mourning.
The counting of the Omer leading up to the Giving of the Torah is expressed as "seven times seven weeks." The weekly Torah portion is divided into seven aliyahs. Seven blessings are recited under the chuppah during a Jewish wedding ceremony. The Menorah has seven branches.
The Israelites circled Jericho seven days and then the walls came a-tumbling down. Noah took into the ark every clean beast and every bird by sevens. And you thought it was all two-sie, two-sies? In seven days it rained. Jacob served seven years for Leah and seven years for Rachel. Egypt had seven years of plenty and seven years of famine.
***
Are you feeling weakened by all this numerology? Have faith. Vayechi, the last parashah in the book of Genesis, concludes with these words: Chazak chazak, v'nitchazek! "Be strong, be strong and let us strengthen one another." May we be too be strong and strengthen each other in our own day.
Shabbat Shalom
Terumah Exodus 25:1 February 16, 2013 John Pachter
Our torah portion, from Exodus, is Terumah, which means “gift” or “offering.” The parsha contains instructions for building the mishkan, the portable tabernacle that accompanied the people in their wanderings. The word mishkan means “dwelling place.” It has the same root as the word shechina, the Divine Presence of God. The same is true of v’shachanti, “I will dwell.” We will now consider the deeper meaning of these concepts. The content of Terumah is both contemporary and timeless. It also contains two passages that are closely associated with Temple Rodef Shalom, and with Rabbi Laszlo Berkowits. The first is the phrase over the entrance to our temple sanctuary, dedicated in honor of Rabbi Berkowits:
And let them make Me a sanctuary, that I may dwell 8 ח וְעָׂשּו לִי, מִקְדָׁש; וְׁשָכַנְתִי .among them ,בְתֹוכָם.
Here the word for sanctuary is mikdash, not mishkan. The words are sometimes used interchangeably, but there is a difference. Mikdash is a contraction of makom kodesh, which means “holy place,” while “mishkan” refers to a dwelling place. Our siddur, our prayer book, is entitled Mishkan T’fillah, meaning “dwelling place for prayer.” The message of these two words is that the book, like the tabernacle in Exodus, is portable. You can take it with you. You don’t need a special place to pray. All you need is a dwelling place for God in your hearts. The sanctuary can be in your heart, wherever you go.
Why then the commandment from God to build a sanctuary? Why does God need a sanctuary? If God is everywhere, as the psalmist says, why set aside a special place? The answer may be found in the rest of the phrase: “And let them make Me a sanctuary, that I may dwell among them.” Notice it does not say “that I may dwell in it,” in the sanctuary. Rather, the sanctuary reminds us of God’s presence. It is a sacred place where we go to be reminded, where we can let God in, to dwell among us.
So we come to synagogue not because God is missing elsewhere. We might look for God in the shopping center, but there would be distractions. We come here because in this sacred place we may somehow get closer, to “check in” with God, to have some “quality time” with God, to find a space in our heart for God. We come here to help find where are we in our search for God in our lives.
Still, the most important sanctuary is the one within ourselves. If we have a sacred place in our hearts for God, we can bring God with us wherever we go. Without a space in our heart for God, we will not be aware of God’s presence, even in the synagogue.
The second phrase in our parsha associated with Temple Rodef Shalom, and with Rabbi Berkowits, is that the terumah, the offering for the mikdash, the Sanctuary, should מֵאֵת כָל אִיׁש - אֲׁשֶׁריִדְבֶּׁנּו לִבֹו .come from those whose hearts so move them
In other words, the gift must be freely given, with a willing and open heart. In August 1964, Ilene and I were married while I was in law school. In our search for a temple for High Holy Day services, I called Temple Rodef Shalom to ask about tickets. Rabbi Berkowits answered the phone. He said “I’m going to send you two tickets. They are not free. You decide how much to give. I’m not concerned about the amount.” I know he had this Torah portion in mind because he has repeated the thought many times in different ways. “Make me an offering, every person whose heart is willing.” This has been a guiding principle of Rodef Shalom throughout its existence. That phone call with Rabbi Berkowits, my introduction to him, is one reason I am here, 49 years later.
Our Haftarah, from Kings I, reminds us that Solomon did not adhere to the commandment of a free offering when he ordered the First Temple in Jerusalem to be built. Instead, he resorted to mass conscription, forced labor, and heavy taxation. The abandonment by Solomon of the principle of volunteerism foreshadowed the collapse of the kingdom after his death, and the destruction of the temple at the hands of the Babylonians. In Exodus, the people wholeheartedly supported the building of the Tabernacle. Solomon’s temple, in contrast, was the product of coercion. It lacked popular support and did not survive. Solomon’s violation of God’s commandment in the Torah doomed his work to destruction.
May we find a makom kodesh, a sacred place, in our hearts. May we create a dwelling place for God in our synagogue. And may our hearts be moved to support our Temple with free will gifts, not only financial, but gifts of our time and energy, to ensure this sacred institution will be here for future generations.
Chukat (Numbers 19:1-22:1) June 15, 2013 John Pachter
The story of Moses is, more accurately, the story of Moses and Miriam. What did Moses and Miriam have in common? First, they led by example. Second, they chose to serve their people rather than rule them. Third, they followed God’s commandments rather than their personal choices. Nevertheless, at the end of our parsha, it is Moses’s failure to lead by example and to follow God’s commandment that leads to his undoing. How should we summarize Miriam’s significance? A passage in Michah marks her legacy: “And I brought you forth out of the land of Egypt, and redeemed you from the house of bondage, and I sent before you Moses, and Aaron, and Miriam.” (Micah 6:4) The symbolism of water dominates our parsha, both as it relates to the story of Miriam and as it culminates with Moses striking the rock. Water, the symbol of life, is closely associated with Miriam, the sustainer of life.
We encounter water at the beginning. In fact, Moses’ name means “drawn from” as in “drawn from the water.” Miriam, then a young child, hid her baby brother Moses by the side of the river to evade the Pharoah’s order to kill newborn Hebrew boys. She watched as Pharaoh’s daughter discovered the infant and decided to adopt him. Miriam then suggested that the princess take on a nurse for the child, and suggested Yocheved, her mother and Moses’ mother. So while Moses was raised in the Egyptian royal household, through his mother he knew his family and his identity. This paved the way for Moses’ destiny to leave Pharoah’s palace and become a leader of his people. An early example of diversity and multiculturalism.
The image of water again emerges when Miriam leads the women in song by the Red Sea. The miracle of Miriam’s well, which, according to a Midrash, traveled with the people in the desert, is also a testament to her merit. When Miriam dies, the well, which had sustained the people for forty years, is dry. The Torah, with its classic economy of style, says: "Miriam died there and was buried there, and the community was without water."
God tells Moses to talk to the rock to bring forth water. Moses disobeys in anger; he strikes the rock; and water comes forth. But Moses forfeits the chance to demonstrate God’s power to the people. Why does he do this? Perhaps Moses is distraught and emotional over Miriam’s death. Miriam had watched over him as a child, guided his development, supported him throughout the years, and helped him carry the burden of leadership. Now, at this critical moment, everything depends on his ability to maintain outward calm.
The people complain there is no water. Moses has faced tougher challenges. Yet he explodes in anger:
"Listen now, you rebels, shall we bring you water out of this rock?" Then Moses raised his arm and struck the rock twice with his staff. (Num. 20: 10-11) In this public display, Moses blames the people, calling them “rebels.” He asks “shall we bring you water,” taking God out of the picture. In this one brief moment, Moses risks his name and his reputation. Moses had completed his life’s work. He would have faded from view in any event. A new generation in the Promised Land required a new leader. Moses could have ended on a positive note, one that set a good example and encouraged the people to have faith in God as they entered the next chapter.
Moses was a charismatic leader, a diplomat who negotiated with pharaoh, a lawgiver who brought the Ten Commandments from Mount Sinai and established the judiciary, a spiritual leader who set up the tabernacle, and finally, a military commander. He had to discipline the people during their hardship in the desert and lead them in battle. But, as we know, it takes a lifetime to build a reputation and only a few minutes to destroy it.
Today’s corporate ethics programs emphasize “tone from the top.” The chief executive must set the standard for others to follow. This is especially true in the military. One general wrote: “Soldiers of an army invariably reflect the attitude of their general. The leader is the essence.” And: “Powerful as he may become in time of war, he still is not autocratic or absolute, he remains responsible before the bar of universal justice.” These were the words of General Douglas MacArthur. So Moses’s failure to follow God’s commandment was also a failure of leadership. He did not set a proper example for his people to follow. In return, God denied Moses the privilege of entering the promised land.
May we, in our own day, learn to speak to the rock, not to strike it; to be in touch with the needs of other people; to keep anger in check when making important decisions; to set an example for others to follow; and finally to obey God’s commandments.
Shemot Exodus 2:1-5 December 22, 2013 Last June, my parsha dealt with Miriam and Moses at the end of their lives. Today we go back to their beginnings. Here the principal actors are women. Pharoah issued a decree of death for Hebrew males. Moses’s mother and the Hebrew midwives risk their lives to save Moses. His mother hides him three months, then places him in a waterproofed basket in the Nile. The Torah then says “his sister stood far off, to know what would be done to him.” The sister was Miriam, a child of about seven. Next appears Pharoah’s daughter who had come with her handmaidens to bathe in the river Nile. Pharoah’s daughter notices the basket and sends her handmaiden to fetch it.
Here is where Moses gets his name. It means “taken from” – or “taken from” the Nile. Pharoah’s daughter recognizes the baby as a Hebrew child and has compassion for him. She also defies Pharoah’s decree. Then Miriam steps forward. She volunteers to find a Hebrew woman to nurse the child. Pharoah’s daughter says “Go,” and Miriam calls her own mother – Moses’s mother – to nurse the child.
Miriam’s decisive action, even as a child, is an early sign of her fearlessness and leadership. Because of her, Moses is reunited with his mother. Through his own mother, Moses is able to retain his heritage. This, combined with his education in the House of Pharoah, prepares him for leadership. And it is only made possible by Miriam’s quick thinking.
We next find Miriam leading the women in song when the waters close on Pharoah’s hosts and the people are safely on the opposite shore of the Red Sea. That passage in Exodus refers to Miriam as a “prophetess.” This is a clear indication that she had gained in stature. Miriam continues her leadership role in the desert. The naming of Miriam’s Well honors her as a source of vitality, as water is scarce and precious in the desert.
We know that Miriam’s place remained secure in the minds of the people. Several hundred years later, speaking through the prophet Micah, God reminds the people of their deliverance from Egyptian bondage, saying “And I sent before you Moses, Aaron, and Miriam" (Michah 6:4). In these words, Micah does not need to persuade his audience of Miriam’s prominence. They didn’t need to be convinced. He was reminding them what they already knew. So here is Miriam, not a shadowy figure in the background, but on equal footing with her brothers Moses and Aaron in shaping the consciousness of a people.
Let’s consider the modern device of literary criticism known as deconstruction. It does not mean tearing the pages out of the book, although some might think of it that way. One goal of deconstruction of a text is to identify the mechanisms of oppression within a patriarchal society. That is not necessary in Miriam’s case. Her significance does not need to be teased out of the biblical narrative. It is there in the open. Miriam is the oldest of the three siblings, Miriam, Aaron and Moses. She may also be the wisest. The Torah gives no indication that Miriam faltered in her loyalty and faithfulness. The Rabbis praise Miriam’s great trust in God and steadfast faith. The very act of taking timbrels on the journey out of Egypt meant that Miriam had confidence in a victorious outcome. She anticipated an occasion for joy and celebration. The Rabbis asked: “Whence did the Israelites have timbrels for dancing in the wilderness? Rather, the righteous trusted in God, they knew that God would perform miracles and mighty acts when they would go.”
In these Rabbinical commentaries, Miriam is a leader in the forefront. Moses is the lawgiver, Aaron is the High Priest, and Miriam is the prophetess and source of life and vitality. May we continue to find inspiration in Miriam’s life as an example of faith, loyalty and steadfast courage.
Parashat Korach
Numbers 16:1 – 18:32
June 21, 2014
Our Parshah, Korach, contains a potent blend of righteous indignation and jealousy. It illustrates how those impulses can be our undoing. Korach, a cousin of Moses, was a revolutionary who attempted to usurp the authority of Moses and Aaron. His rebellion came to a bitter end when the earth opened and swallowed Korach and his followers, demonstrating that since Moses and Aaron were chosen by God, their authority could not be questioned. The theme is a powerful one, and it is depicted in the fresco Punishment of the Rebels by Sandro Botticelli in the Sistine Chapel in Rome. There the message is “do not challenge the authority of the Pope.” So the story lends itself to different usages.
Korach was intelligent, powerful and gifted. He was the great-grandson of Levi, and had the support of “two hundred and fifty princes of the assembly, those summoned for meeting, men of renown.” A Levite by birth, he occupied a position of prominence and prestige within the community of Israel. Yet that wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He saw no reason why he, instead of Aaron, should not be the high priest, the kohen gadol. So he rallied a band of fellow Levites to challenge the leadership of Moses and the priesthood of Aaron.
Korach’s complaint was that since “we are all holy”, we are all elect of God, he Korach was as elect as Moses and Aaron. Why, Korach protested, “do you [Moses and Aaron] exalt yourselves over the congregation of the Lord?” All of us, he insisted, are in the service of God. Why, he asked, is there a need for the hierarchy of priests, and a high priest, when in effect every Jew is a priest and a high priest? Korach argued for equality, except that he wanted more of it for himself. It brings to mind the famous commandment in George Orwell’s satire Animal Farm: “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.”
Korach attempted to convince the people that Moses was somehow a threat to them and their own status. Moses begged Korach and his men to reconsider, to change their course of action. But when Korach refused to reconcile, Moses was forced to eliminate Korach’s rebellion because it was subversive -- it threatened the order and integrity of the Jewish people.
Moses saw the need to avoid the senseless hatred between brothers. He understood that if we weaken ourselves through internal warfare, others will exploit that weakness.
In responding to Korach, Moses says: “It is too much for you, O offspring of Levi.” In other words, can you not recognize the beauty of your own gifts? As a Levite, you are a keeper of the sanctuary. You are a respected dignitary. How could you be so discontent? Why must you insist on claiming the high priesthood for yourself?
But Korach’s begrudging spirit gave him no peace. In fact, it led to his downfall.
In the Pirke Avot, the tractate of the Talmud that deals with ethical and moral principles, the rabbis confront the question “Who is rich?” The answer: “the one who delights in his or her portion!” On Yom Kippur our prayer book gives an interpretive reading: “Who shall be poor in the midst of possessions?” and, “Who shall be rich, content with his lot?” The definition of rich is not material possessions. Nor is it glory or fame. It is to be content with your lot.
On Yom Kippur we also read in Leviticus 19:18: "and do not bear a grudge . . . love your neighbor as yourself". Finally, the Tenth Commandment instructs us not to covet anything that is our neighbor’s.
How tempting it is to wish to go where the grass is greener. How much more difficult, yet more rewarding, is it to find meaning, purpose, joy and fulfillment in the place where the grass is greenest of all: your own.
Did Korach not understand that being a high priest meant more than just fame, fortune, glory and privilege? Many sacred responsibilities came with the job. It was no easy task to be a kohen gadol. It is one thing to long for a life of sanctity, dedicated to the service of God. It is quite another to seek that goal at the expense of others and at risk to the integrity of the social fabric.
May each of us participate in our own way in seeking God’s purpose, in becoming a kingdom of priests. But let us do it responsibly and with integrity.
Vaera Exodus 6:2-6
Shabbat Shalom
L'dor vador. From generation to generation. It is the height of fulfillment when our children and grandchildren carry forward the love of Judaism we inherited. Only a week ago our granddaughter Sarah celebrated her bat mitzvah at Mainline Reform Temple near Philadelphia. Today I have the profound honor to share the bima with daughter Julie and granddaughter Rayna, and with Ilene for torah blessings and readings.
Our parsha today is vaera which means "and I appeared." God is speaking to Moses, saying that God had appeared to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, and now appears to Moses.
To begin, did you know that God is a verb? By that I mean the most familiar version of God's name is a verb. There are many names for God in the Torah. We will consider two of them. The first is in the story of the burning bush, earlier in Exodus. The second, and more familiar, is in our portion for today, when God prepares Moses for his encounter with Pharoah.
The Hebrew root of both words is "haya" – to be. In other words, to live. These words acknowledge God as the source of being, the source of life. Unlike the idols of ancient Egypt and Canaan, the God of the Israelites is not represented by an inert noun, but rather a verb – a becoming, evolving potential.
In the story of the burning bush, God tells Moses: "I will send you to Pharoah to let my people go from Egypt." Moses asks God, "When I speak to the children of Israel, and they ask who sent me, what shall I say?"
God responds, in one of the most discussed and debated phrases in the Torah:
אֶהְיֶה אֲשֶר אֶהְיֶה
This phrase is usually translated "I am that I am."
sent you. This is usually translated as "tell אֶהְיֶה Then God says to Moses: Tell them them 'I am' sent you." If this leaves you puzzled, you are not alone. A little knowledge of Hebrew will help us understand this passage and why a different translation might be more suitable.
Unlike English, which has many tenses, Biblical Hebrew has two main tenses: the Perfect, which refers to completed action, and the Imperfect, which refers to action not completed. The Imperfect tense corresponds most closely to the future tense in English. The word "ehyeh" is the first person singular imperfect of the verb hayah, meaning "to be." Ehyeh literally means "I will be" not "I am."
To repeat, the complete phrase is ehyeh asher ehyeh. So what does asher mean? Biblical Hebrew has a sparse vocabulary. To compensate, individual Hebrew words can have multiple meanings depending on context. Asher is an example. It can mean "that" "who" "which" or "where." The phrase ehyeh asher ehyeh could mean, among other possibilities:
I will be that I will be I will be who I will be I will be where I will be
Why, then, would the phrase be translated "I am that I am"? The rabbis taught that God does not exist in human time, and is beyond our ability to express in words. God is past, present and future, at once. Thus, the simplest expression – the one best understood in the English idiom – might be to say that God simply "is." But I agree with those who say the better translation is the literal one.
Martin Buber observed that twice, just before and after "ehyeh asher ehyeh" appears in the Torah, God says to Moses "I will be with you." Because the Children of Israel are hoping for word of their release from Egyptian bondage, the promise of future action would be more welcome to them than the static "I am." They want to know "what is going to happen to us?" In addition, "I will be" fits the context of the challenge God presents to Moses in the Torah portion. And we have noted that context is important in translating Biblical Hebrew.
In preparing my commentary, I decided to consult our Union for Reform Judaism translation of the Torah. The objective of its authors was a "sense-for-sense" rendering of the Hebrew, seeking the equivalent of the Hebrew in English idiom.1 Surely, I thought, I will find the definitive interpretation there. Here is the translation: Moses asks God, "when the Israelites ask for your name, what shall I say to them?” The text continues: "And God said to Moses, 'Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh,' continuing, 'Thus shall you say to the Israelites, 'Ehyeh sent me to you.'" And later: "This shall be My name forever.”
One thing we can say in defense of this translation is that it preserves the mystery in God's name, as well as its ambiguity. But is it a cop-out? What did we learn in school about a circular definition – one that defines a term by using the term itself? This translation assumes that the audience already knows the meaning of one of the most challenging phrases in the Torah.
Now let's turn to this week's Torah portion, and the second name of God we will discuss today. Here, God reveals the divine four-letter name YHVH to Moses. This is called the tetragrammaton, a fancy Greek word meaning "four letters." It is the ineffable name of God pronounced by the High Priest on Yom Kippur in the Holy of Holies in the Temple in Jerusalem. That custom ceased with the destruction of the Temple. We substitute Adonai (meaning "my Lord"), or, for the Orthodox, Ha Shem (the name). Scholars say the root of the four-letter name is the same hayah, meaning "to be" or the verb "will be" that is the root of the word ehyeh. Two words, one root.
Why does it matter that God's name is a verb, in particular the verb "to be"? Psychiatrists tell us that in worshipping idols we worship the alienated form of ourselves. Modern idols include material possessions and money. If we worship these things we are left empty and wanting. I once read a column about buying cars. The author's advice: "Don't fall in love with a car. It won't love you back."
This idea of God as an evolving life-giving being with potential was new and radical, and it changed the world. We envision God as a living being and the source of life. Since we are made b'tzelem Elohim, in God's image, we can see ourselves also as having potential. We are capable of moving to higher levels of accomplishment we never thought would be possible.
So it was with Moses. In our Torah portion, God tells Moses to go and tell Pharoah to let the Israelites depart from Egypt. But Moses complains: "The Israelites won't listen to me. How can you expect Pharoah to listen to a man with a speech impediment?" God responds, "That's easy, you and your brother Aaron both go." Still, Moses says "The job is too hard, I'm the wrong person, I'm not capable; I cannot speak fluently." Moses says "I want out. I'm disqualified. I'm not good enough. I can't make the team." God persists, saying: "Don't worry about that either, Aaron can speak for you." In essence, God is telling Moses you will be more than you are now; your potential will be more fully
1 Introduction by W. Gunther Plaut, xliii. realized. When we recall that God also said "I will be with you," it fits together. It is all about what is going to happen next.
How many of us, like Moses, are plagued by self-doubt? Some of our greatest leaders possessed severe self-doubt. George Washington, our American Moses, is a prime example. He led his people from British colonial rule to freedom. But he thought his talents were inferior, especially his lack of higher education. Other people, he believed, were better suited by education and experience for the difficult tasks thrust on him.
Thomas Jefferson suffered depression and migraine headaches that kept him indisposed for days at a time. Abraham Lincoln was often in the grip of depression, then known as melancholy. His law partner William Herndon said: "His melancholy dripped from him as he walked."2
This weekend we celebrate the life of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., another Moses. Like the Biblical Moses, he did not live to see the Promised Land. Dr. King faced hardships we can only imagine. He had a steadfast vision of a better world not only for African Americans but for everyone.
These leaders learned to face challenges despite the difficulties.
Moses, knowing that God would be with him, overcame his perceived shortcomings, challenged Pharoah, and led his people from Egyptian slavery to freedom. May we borrow from his example, look to the Source of Life, and find the strength to overcome the obstacles in our own lives.
Shabbat Shalom
John Pachter
Behar/Bechukotai Leviticus 25:1-4
2 In 2006, psychiatrists at the Duke University Medical Center published an article on American presidents from 1776 to 1974. Analyzing data on 37 presidents for symptoms of mental illness, they concluded that 49% of these former presidents experienced some form of mental illness. Depression was the most common. Others included anxiety, social phobia, substance abuse, and bipolar disorder.
May 16, 2015
Shabbat Shalom
The April 30, 2015 issue of Washington Jewish Week included a supplement on bar and bat mitzvah planning. In it was an article about a Jewish non-profit called Reboot, whose purpose is to assist Jews, especially those in their 20s and 30s who feel disconnected from Judaism and their Jewish identity. One of Reboot’s projects is called the reBar Mitzvah, to help those who view their b’nai mitzvah experiences as alienating, short on meaning or off-putting. According to a 2013 study by the Pew Research Center, only 68% of Jewish Millennials, born after 1980, identify as Jews by religion, compared to 84% of Baby Boomers and 93% of the Greatest Generation, those born 1914-1927.
The Reform movement leadership is keenly aware of these trends. The New York campus of Hebrew Union College/Jewish Institute of Religion recently opened a new facility dedicated to youth engagement. Our temple has vigorous programs to ensure that our kids will not feel a need to reboot or rebar. These include emphasis on community service projects in b’nai mitzvah training, along with N’tivot classes, as well as Confirmation. The objective is to reinforce Jewish values and a continuing sense of Jewish identity. For adults there are many educational programs and opportunities to serve. For me, the most meaningful way to connect to our Jewish heritage is through the study of Torah in the original Hebrew. This is the time-honored way to experience the Torah’s richness of expression and its high literary achievement. I’m especially grateful to Rabbi Jeff Saxe for encouraging lay participation in the parallel Shabbat service, and to Cantor Rachel Rhodes for leading today’s service.
Our parsha deals with the Sabbatical Year, in Hebrew the shmita or the Sabbath of the Land, and the Jubilee, or yovel, and related laws. The Sabbath of the Land occurs once every seven years. At the end of the sixth year, the land lies fallow for a year as an acknowledgment of God as the Creator. At the end of seven cycles of seven years, or 49 years, there is the "Jubilee" year. During that year the land also lies fallow, which means two consecutive years without sowing or reaping. During the Jubilee year, slaves go free, certain debts are canceled, and land returns to its original owners.
Other laws require helping people avoid debt-servitude, helping people to avoid losing their property, and helping others in need. Interest and oppressive financial practices are prohibited. The parsha ends with a reminder to keep God's laws, especially the Sabbath and the prohibition on idolatry.
Authorities tell us that the Sabbatical Year was observed for centuries despite the personal hardship of having no crops. Whether the Jubilee Year was observed is the subject of doubt and skepticism. One year without sowing or reaping crops would produce hardship. Two successive years would mean famine. The idea of forgiving debts, freeing slaves, and returning land to its original owners raises all kinds of questions of practical implementation. Nevertheless, with respect to land ownership, in the early stages there was emphasis on retention of family and tribal holdings.
Some scholars have concluded that the text is valuable primarily for its spiritual and inspirational meaning. The Torah does say the land belongs to God:
“The land must not be sold beyond reclaim, for the land is Mine; you are but strangers resident with Me. Throughout the land that you hold, you must provide for the redemption of the land.”
The spiritual foundation for this text formed the basis for the Jewish National Fund at the beginning of the 20th century. The Fund collected donations from Jews around the world to buy land in Ottoman controlled Palestine. The land was then made available for settlement by individuals and farming communes. The Fund reclaimed desert and swampland for public buildings and industrial development. Tenants may use the property but may not sell or mortgage it. Today, Israel is the only democratic country with an advanced economy where state or quasi-state agencies own most of the land area. This is driven by Israel’s small geographic size, its growing population and commitment to absorption of immigration, its nation-building ideology and its security needs.
The removal of most land in Israel from the commercial market means there is no speculation in land and no accumulation or control of land by the wealthy or by foreigners.
Our Torah portion also contains the famous phrase “Proclaim liberty throughout the land unto all the inhabitants thereof.” These words are engraved on the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia. The preceding phrase in the Torah states: "And you shall hallow the fiftieth year." It is no coincidence that the Pennsylvania Assembly ordered the Bell in 1751 to commemorate the 50-year – Jubilee – anniversary of William Penn's 1701 Charter of Privileges, Pennsylvania's original Constitution. The Torah, and the laws it influenced in this country, speaks of the rights and freedoms valued by people the world over.
Although the Torah does not condemn slavery, it calls for individual dignity and respect for each person, regardless of rank and birth, and a day of rest for all, including slaves. These ideas were revolutionary in their time when government control of individuals was absolute, and they are fundamentally incompatible with the notion that one person should own another. Eventually, as seen in the inscription on the Liberty Bell, the same ideas became the core of the American Constitutional form of government, and ultimately led to the abolition of slavery itself.
Let’s turn to another of the laws: "If your brother falls low, and his hand falters beside you, then you shall strengthen him--sojourner or resident--and he will live with you." (Leviticus 25:35) While this has been the subject of extensive commentary, all agree that willingness to help a person in need is a basic religious value, and that economic power brings with it the responsibility to act justly. The goal is to help that person be a productive member of the community. One commentary says that in the World to Come we will be questioned about all the observances we kept, but it will be a "great and terrible thing" when we are asked whether we kept the mitzvah of "strengthening one's brother" or sister.
Maimonides set forth eight levels of charity. The highest level is to help sustain a person by helping the person find employment or become established in business so there is no need to be dependent on others.
The word tzadik in Hebrew means “righteous one.” It is a high term of honor. The root of the word tzadik means “justice” or “righteousness.” The word tzedakah comes from the same root: “justice” or “righteousness.” So we see that tzedakah isn't just a nice gesture. It is the just and righteous thing to do. It is a call to action. This is an example of how a single word of Hebrew can embody many Jewish values and have multiple layers of meaning.
Tzedakah is not limited to gifts of money. Sharing time, expertise, or even a smile all count. They can uplift the spirit of another person. No matter how great or small our own blessings, we can always share with others.
May we find new meaning in the concepts of righteousness and justice in tzedakah. May we find ways to help others in need become productive members of society. And may we and our children be enriched by our Jewish experience and values, with no need to reboot or rebar.
John Pachter
Exodus 10:1-13:16
Parshat Bo
January 16, 2015
Today we will consider the narrative power of the Exodus story, how it influenced America’s beginnings, gave hope to the African slaves in America and inspired Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and his followers. Exodus, we will find, is the common theme that binds Thanksgiving Day, the Declaration of Independence, the King Holiday and Passover. We will consider what it means to be a covenantal society.
I want to acknowledge credit to two primary sources. First is the website of Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, former Chief Rabbi of the United Kingdom. His insightful remarks on the weekly parsha are published under the heading Covenant & Conversation. The second source is a remarkable book by Bruce Feiler entitled America’s Prophet: Moses and the American Story, generously loaned to me by Joel Breitner. In our Torah portion, Moses addresses his people on the brink of the Exodus. His words will influence the thought and conduct of generations. What will he say? He could choose a message of embitterment – one that that will leave his people prisoners of ancient grievances. Instead, he gives them a vision of hope based on belief in God. Three times he looks to the future and urges parents to educate their children: “When your children ask you, ‘What is this service to you?’ you shall answer, ‘It is the Passover service to God. God passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt when He struck the Egyptians, sparing our homes” (Ex. 12:25-27). “On that day, you shall tell your child, 'It is because of this that God acted for me when I left Egypt'" (Ex. 13:8). "Your child may later ask you, ‘What is this?' You shall answer, ‘With a show of power, God brought us out of Egypt, the place of slavery’” (Ex. 13:14).
Moses teaches that freedom can only be sustained through education, a dialogue between generations, in which children are encouraged to ask questions, and their questions are taken seriously. This becomes the work of many generations, with the Seder table as our seminar. Story-telling becomes fundamental to education of our children.
Moses is also the law-giver. We remember him for these twin pillars: freedom from bondage, but freedom under law. Moses understood that without an ordered society, freedom can descend into chaos and anarchy. The story of Moses continues its hold on the imagination of freedom loving people everywhere. In our tradition we refer to him as Moshe Rabbeinu – Moses our rabbi, our teacher. “Rabbi” means “my teacher.” We don’t have bishops, archbishops and cardinals. We have teachers. Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks stated: “By telling the Israelites to become a nation of educators, Moses turned a group of slaves into a people of eternity.”
How can we explain the continuing strength of the Exodus story? It links us to the past, guides us in the present, and provides our goal for the future. God, the supreme power, intervened in history to liberate the powerless, and bound us by covenant to create a society in which individuals are created in the image of God, where one day in seven is a day of rest, and where everyone deserves dignity and justice.
The Exodus has become a powerful and uplifting inspiration for millions of all faiths. It is the story of an insecure and reluctant leader, filled with self-doubt, in charge of an undisciplined people who were accustomed to four hundred years of slavery and who do not trust him. The story is filled with dramatic intensity and conflict. Yet, through trust in God, Moses becomes a revered leader. How could we not be drawn to such a story? In it we can see ourselves, challenged to become something bigger than we ever thought was possible.
Throughout American history the Exodus has rallied people to remain steadfast against forces stronger than their own. The Puritans saw themselves as re-enacting the story of the Israelites leaving Egypt and crossing the Red Sea (the Atlantic Ocean) to a new land. The notion of covenant was a central element in the Puritans’ social and theological life. Still on the Mayflower, they vowed to “covenant and combine ourselves together in a civil body politic.” Seventeenth-century New England churches were formed by voluntary agreement among the members, who elected their own ministers. Like the Israelites, they were a covenantal society, bound to God and each other.
Fascination with the Exodus story prompted a deeper study of the Hebrew Bible and a desire to understand it in the original language. In 1650, after finishing his chronicles of the hardships endured at Plymouth, William Bradford at age 60 took up the study of Hebrew. In his copy book he listed more than a thousand words and some common Hebrew phrases with English translations. Bradford explained:
Though I am growne aged, yet I have a longing desire to see, with my owne eyes, something of that most ancient language, and holy tongue, in which the law and Oracles of God were written; and in which God and angels spoke to the Holy Patriarcks of old time.
Is there a better way to explain why we study Torah?
All ten colleges founded in America before the Revolution offered instruction in Hebrew. The seals of Yale, Dartmouth and Harvard all include Hebrew. Some of the early valedictory addresses at Harvard and Yale were given in Hebrew. Pity the poor valedictorian. The Harvard commencement included a Hebrew oration every year until 1817. Imagine this, with no Jewish studies programs and not even any Jewish students.
The parallel between the Exodus story and America’s founding was repeated in sermons and symbols when the United States government was formed in the late 1700s. Benjamin Franklin suggested a design for the Great Seal of the United States, featuring Moses "lifting up his Wand, and dividing the Red Sea, and Pharaoh, in his Chariot overwhelmed with the Waters." Thomas Jefferson offered a similar image for the seal: "The children of Israel in the wilderness, led by a cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by night.”
Now, if you hear someone say this country is Christian in its origins, you can respond with confidence: “No, it is not. It’s Jewish.” Who knew?
The idea of Moses leading his people into the "Promised Land" has been linked to George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and Martin Luther King. Harriett Beecher Stowe said of Abraham Lincoln: "Like Moses leading his Israel through the wilderness, he has seen the day when every man seemed ready to stone him, and yet, with simple, wiry, steady perseverance, he has held on, conscious of honest intentions, and looking to God for help." Her brother the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher eulogized Lincoln by comparing him to Moses, saying first of Moses: "There is no historic figure more noble than that of the Jewish lawgiver." "There is scarcely another event in history more touching than his death." Of Lincoln, Beecher said: "Again a great leader of the people has passed through toil, sorrow, battle and war, and come near to the promised land of peace, into which he might not pass over."
Although the Exodus story sustained the Puritans in escaping oppressive rule in England and the colonists in throwing off the yoke of British rule, there was a bitter contradiction. Here African slaves had their own pharaoh – the slave master. Before and during the American Civil War, African-Americans adopted the Exodus as “the covenant of Black America.” In their spirituals they used the Exodus as code language for their freedom story, and often described Lincoln as their own Moses. The most famous of these spirituals was Go Down Moses, in which Israel is a symbol for the African slaves and Egypt is a symbol for the slave masters. The symbolism is powerful. Even the words “go down” recall the fate of slaves from the upper South who feared being “sold down the river” – down the Mississippi to a harsher life in the cotton plantations of the deep South. Let’s sing the first verse and the refrain:
When Israel was in Egypt's land: Let my people go, Oppress'd so hard they could not stand, Let my People go.
Refrain: Go down, Moses, Way down in Egypt's land, Tell old Pharaoh, Let my people go. But the promise of Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation and the Thirteen Amendment remained unfulfilled until Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. led the Civil Rights movement in the middle of the 20th century. Some people viewed Dr. King in his day as a revolutionary. But a revolutionary seeks to overthrow the established order and replace it. Instead, Dr. King challenged Americans to fulfill the values expressed in their own revolution against British rule. He often referred to the Declaration of Independence and the Emancipation Proclamation. In his speech, “I Have a Dream,” King sought to bring America closer to the ideal nation the founders had envisioned.
King reminded his followers that the Israelites suffered before gaining their freedom from the pharaoh. He asked his people not to be discouraged; their difficult trials were part of their quest for justice. His repetitive use of the phrase “children of God” reassured his followers that God would one day bring them freedom. As it has done for millions over the centuries, the Exodus narrative helped King’s supporters comprehend the past, present, and future of their movement; through that narrative they could see beyond their struggles.
The night before he was murdered, Dr. King concluded his speech in Memphis with a reference to Moses on Mount Nebo. King said: "I've been to the mountaintop." "Like anybody, I would like to live a long life....But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people will get to the promised land." Now we can understand the story of Exodus as a common theme, giving meaning and purpose to the Puritans, whose struggle we remember on Thanksgiving Day; to the founders of America, as they fought against oppressive British rule and expressed their lofty goals in the Declaration of Independence; to African slaves as they waited for their day of freedom; to Abraham Lincoln, their deliverer, as worked his way to the Emancipation Proclamation and beyond; to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. as he led his followers from degradation to freedom in the Civil Rights movement; and finally to the Jewish people as we prepare once more to celebrate the Exodus at Passover. In all of these memories and celebrations the leadership of Moses thousands of years ago provides the example and the inspiration. The power of his story continues to reveal itself in new settings.
Bruce Feiler’s book concludes with the following: “…the ultimate lesson of Moses’ life is that the dream does not die with the dreamer, the journey does not end on the mountaintop, and the true destination in a narrative of hope is not this year at all. But next.”
Today we face new challenges, with uncertainty and doubt, and no clear answers, but with the need, as great as ever, for a common purpose to unite us and help us see through our struggles. May the story of Moses and the Exodus continue to point the way through difficulty and the unknown toward a brighter future.
Ken y’hi ratzon May it be God’s will