Passover 2024: Night of Broken Matzahs

Night of Broken Matzahs: Passover 2024

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Approximately 3,250 years ago a new people was born. They emerged from physical and spiritual bondage and set out toward a future they knew nothing about. They called themselves Israel, after one of their ancestors, holding deep in their hearts faith in a power stronger than any human being, king or emperor, and the belief that this power would lead them to a better place, a promised land.

It would prove a long and difficult journey. With little more to unite them other than their identity, they agreed to follow an aged leader who would often disappear for days at a time, yet who constantly pointed up and forward, towards God and the rising sun. 

Ever since then, we’ve celebrated Passover to remind us of that moment in our history and of the journey we undertook and are still on. But unlike our ancient ancestors, today we have a roadmap. Today we know where that promised land lies, and we know how to get there. And, once a year—twice for those of us who follow the tradition of repeating the Seder on the second night of the holiday—we review the map. We call it the Haggadah.

The Haggadah was created by the early Rabbis who had seen the destruction of the Second Temple and the subsequent dispersal of the Jewish People to all corners of the earth. Containing 15 steps, the Haggadah—our narration—begins with the earliest days of our past, long before we became slaves, when our third Patriarch, Jacob, who later became Israel, was fleeing from Laban. (How often in our history it seems that we have been fleeing from oppressors!). We read passages from the Torah that relate the miracle of our escape from Pharaoh—the hard labor, the drowning of male newborns, the ten plagues, the parting of the Red Sea. And we discuss, along with the Rabbis of old, the timing and manner in which our Redemption took place—in the midst of the terrible darkness that seemed to swallow the entire world.

And then, of course, we eat. We eat symbolic foods—items that remind us of the tears of bitterness, of the mortar we used in building those vast storehouses for Pharaoh, and of course matzah, the bread of poverty, that recalls the hurry with which we left Egypt. 

Over time, our foods became part of this roadmap. Every region of the world where our path took us is represented in the menu. There’s the Iraqi version of charoset, made with date honey and walnuts; and Ashkenazi charoset—apples, walnuts, cinnamon and sweet wine. There’s Persian charoset, and Indian; Moroccan, Italian and Mexican. Matzah balls and gefilte fish represent eastern Europe—the recipe changing just slightly from one region to another. Today of course, we have fusion cuisine, but there are also families that hold on with almost fanatic tenacity to the traditions they have always followed, from generation to generation.

The Passover Haggadah comes in more editions and translations than any other book in the world, yet all follow the same order, the same 15 steps. Seder, after all, means order, and by following it we express our deep-seated belief that in our sometimes-chaotic world, order still exists. There is a beginning and a goal, and a road that leads us there. In some households, the Seder can last for hours, though most rabbis recommend that it not go past midnight. Children are encouraged to stay awake for the entire thing. There are songs, games and puzzles that help.

Why the children? Partially to observe the commandment, “And when your children ask you, ‘what do you mean by this service?’ you shall say, ‘It is the Passover sacrifice to Adonai, who passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt when smiting the Egyptians, but saved our houses” (Ex. 12:26-27).

But why only the children? Isn’t the Seder there to remind all of us of that miracle of our existence and survival?

One answer of course is that they may yet not know or understand our history and its implications for their lives. But there is another answer too. Our journey does not stop with the past; it runs through our own lives and then, into the unforeseeable future. 

So what exactly do we teach our children? Certainly not just another miracle story, just another example of “they tried to kill us, they failed, let’s eat!”

If there is a common theme that runs through all our Passover traditions, it is hope. Our history is often bright and fun, filled with delicious foods and meaningful customs. But it is also marked by dark nights, by times when we had every reason to give up—but didn’t.

One of the songs we sing during the Seder is Dayeinu, “It would have been enough.” Though today at most tables, only four or five of its stanzas are sung, the song actually consists of 15 sections, just like our Haggadah. This piyyut, or religious poem, goes back some two thousand years, listing a series of blessings that begin with our Redemption from Egypt and end with the building of the Temple in Jerusalem. Each stanza, each blessing, reminds us of a need we experienced, and the gift we received from God. Each step leads us forward, to a higher spiritual level than ever before. What Dayeinu is really about, is never losing hope, even—and especially—when all hope seems lost. 

A story is told  about an incident that took place in a concentration camp during the Shoah—the Holocaust—the darkest time in recent Jewish history. A rabbi bribed a guard into allowing a certain amount of flour to be smuggled in. “We’re not asking for extra food,” he explained. “We just want to be able to fulfill our Passover duties.” Amazingly, the guard permitted it, and a small amount of flour was procured and handed over to the rabbi. Not to lose a moment, the internees hurried to build a makeshift oven—for no one knew when their endeavor might be discovered and foiled! They followed the traditions: the whole process of mixing the flour with water and then baking it into matzahs had to take no more than 18 minutes. The result however was disappointing—just a few meager matzahs for the hundreds of hungry, despairing Jews. For some time they discussed who should get the matzahs, but finally it was decided: the children. So that they should know not only the taste of the bread of poverty and misery, but also of hope and redemption.

So too today, when we break the middle matzah during the Seder, we hide the larger part of it—the afikomen—and let the children find it towards the end of the evening. There is a lesson in this that they will need to understand and then teach to their children in their own time. Hope is never lost, as long as we keep our memories of the past alive, as long as we hold on to our faith, and, like Moses and our ancestors of long ago, look up to heaven and forward towards the rising sun.

This year, even as we remember those whose lives were so horribly taken from them on October 7; even as we think of the war still going on between Israel and its enemies, and the terrible toll it continues to exact; even as we pray for the safety and health—and, God willing, the safe return to their families—of the men, women and children who are still held hostage by terrorists in Gaza; we must keep in mind that brighter days are yet ahead, days when we will yet dance again, praise God again, and sing Dayeinu in joyous harmony. Like our ancient ancestors, we hold on to our faith and hope. Like them we know that the most important thing is not to be afraid, not to despair, but to stay on the path, step by step, until we get there.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

Unholy Fires: Shemini.24

Unholy Fires: Shemini

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

April 5, 2024

In this week’s Torah portion, Shemini (“On the Eighth Day,” Leviticus 9:1—11:47) a disastrous event is described: the sudden death of two of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu.

The cause of their death is as mysterious as what led up to it.  The Torah sums it up in two verses: the two brothers offered “strange fire before the Lord, which He commanded them not. And fire came out from the presence of the Lord and consumed them, and they died before the Lord” (Lev. 10:1-2, NIV).  

There are many rabbinic commentaries on this disturbing yet puzzling event. Some Rabbis say that it was simply overzealousness that drove Nadav and Avihu to disobey. They were over-eager and took a few shortcuts around some rules. Other rabbis focus instead on the “strange” fire that the brothers brought, and propose various theories as to what that might have been. 

In any case, the Torah offers this story as an example of the wrong ways to offer sacrifices, when there is, of course, only one right way, exemplified by another set of two brothers: Moses and Aaron. In the world of the Torah, there is no room for moral relativism. Right is always right, and wrong is always wrong. 

Of course, we know that in reality life isn’t always black and white. Sometimes we need to bend the rules a bit and deviate from norms that, under other circumstances, we would never even question. Towards the end of World War Two, some Jewish survivors of the Shoah formed a group called in Hebrew Ha-Nokmim, “the avengers,” with the purpose of exacting vengeance on Nazis and their partners. At the time, their deeds may have seemed justified in light of their suffering, as well as the immense suffering of the Jewish People as a whole. Yet toward the end of their lives, most expressed remorse for their actions. Taking a life invariably diminishes our own humanity. We can never again regain the innocence that had characterized our lives previously. Wrong is wrong, no matter the circumstances. The consequences can be sudden, as was the fire that burst out and consumed Nadav and Avihu, or appear much later, when we have had time to reflect on our lives.

That’s why the passage from our Torah portion is so purposefully vague: not only to make us stop and ponder about what might have happened 3000 or more years ago, but also to make us think about the many choices that we have to make every day, lest we, like Nadav and Avihu, bring “strange” fire to our efforts, no matter how well-intentioned these might be.

Among the meanings the early rabbis assign to this story, there are at least four theories about what might have happened. Rabbi Akiva taught that the fire was brought in from the kitchen, not the sanctioned source that had to be used for rituals and sacrifices. Another rabbi suggests that the brothers were drunk. Yet a third—that they sought to unseat and replace Moses and Aaron themselves. And a fourth, that they did not consult one another; each tried to outdo the other, each tried to prove himself superior to the other. 

Unlike Moses and Aaron, whose relationship the Torah presents as the example of doing things right, it was Nadav and Avihu’s pride and arrogance that led to their downfall.

Now, fomenting rebellion against recognized and approved authority is always inherently dangerous. If that was Nadav and Avihu’s purpose, they definitely had their punishment coming to them. But bringing fire from the kitchen? Why would Rabbi Akiva see that as wrong? Is it because the kitchen is where life is taken and blood is spilled? Yet, in this respect the kitchen is not unlike the sacred altar, where countless animals were slaughtered on a daily basis. And isn’t the hearth also often the heart within our homes, the place where families and friends gather to celebrate and share life and love? What makes the kitchen profane and the altar holy?

Perhaps it’s that the rules for sacrificing at the altar were strictly prescribed and observed by the priests, while the kitchen is more commonly a place where improvisation takes over, where temptations can lead us astray—taste this, lick that, try a new recipe, or a different spice. Or as my cardiologist said to me just the other day after reviewing my lab numbers, “If it tastes good, it’s bad for you.” In the kitchen you aim for what tastes and looks good, not what is inherently good for you. In the kitchen, it’s easy to forget what’s kosher and what isn’t.

Despite the Torah’s injunction against entering the Tent of Meeting drunk, the idea that Aaron’s two sons were inebriated is also a matter of debate among rabbis. Some actually see spiritual elevation as a positive result of this state. Yet there is no doubt in anyone’s mind that alcohol hampers us physically and mentally. A person can see themselves as completely bright and competent, yet the confusion that accompanies intoxication can lead them to a totally wrong conclusion and outcome. This might have been the case on the night of October 6, just prior to the most traumatic event to befall the Jewish People since the Holocaust. There is no doubt about the absolute evil that was perpetrated by the Hamas terrorists. Yet prior intelligence reports did indicate that the terror organization was planning something big. But what followed was miscalculation and wrong analysis of the signs. Maybe it was sheer carelessness, or that dizzying feeling of carefree lightness, a form of intoxication. In any event, the intelligence reports were ignored, and the disastrous results were quick to follow.

The Torah admonishes us against the dangers posed by arrogance, confusion and miscalculation. 

Torah doesn’t just tell tales. It teaches. The story of Nadav and Avihu teaches us that there is no such thing as moral relativism. A deep and wide gulf lies between right and wrong, sacred and profane, holy and evil.

Ultimately, “strange fire” may be our first impulse to cut corners as we strive for greatness and success. But in the end, without a doubt, it will consume us. It’s an unholy composite of arrogance and selfishness, ignorance and bigotry. These are the danger signs we have to watch out for within ourselves and in society around us. 

What we should aim for instead is to follow the teachings of the prophet Micah, who wrote that all that God wants of us, all that holiness really is, is “To act justly and love mercy and walk humbly with our God” (Micah 6:8). That is the difference between the “strange” fire which Nadav and Avihu brought to the sacrifice, and the sacred fire which we try to bring into our lives and to the life of the world around us, the light of holiness and God.

We must not—and may we never—forget this difference.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Imperative of Staying Alive: Purim 2024

 The Imperative of Staying Alive: Purim 2024

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The contributions of the Jewish People to civilization, throughout our history, have been immeasurable. From literature and literacy to music, art and entertainment; from philosophy and theology to business and law; from science and math to medicine, technology and the general betterment of humanity and all life—these are but some of the fields we have excelled in. The world today is unthinkable without past and present Jewish involvement and impact.

Through the centuries, when new lands and territories were opened, Jews were invited to play a part in their development. In the 9th century, Charlemagne brought Jewish merchants and scholars from Egypt and Iraq and settled them in France and Germany. Five hundred years later, King Casimir III of Poland, known as “the Great,” opened the eastern borderlands to “western” influence, enabling his kingdom to flourish from its interactions with Jews, who in turn found safe haven there from the Crusades, massacres and expulsions that were their fate in Western Europe.

On the heels of the Spanish Inquisition, Jews opened trade routes to the Far East and the New World, establishing important and thriving Jewish communities in Curacao and Cuba, as well as in Goa and Sumatra.

The number of Jewish Nobel Prize winners, representing the highest achievement in their chosen fields, is almost matched by the number of military heroes—from King David and Judah the Maccabee to Bar Kochba, general of a Jewish army that withstood the largest and most powerful army of the ancient world—the Romans—for three long years. After the destruction of Judea, Jewish fighters continued to reach officer ranks in other countries. In the 1300’s, a Jew, Samuel ibn Naghrilla, aka Shmuel Ha-Nagid, led the Muslim army of Grenada for 17 years. Alfred Dreyfuss, the French-Jewish officer at the heart of the antisemitic scandal that inspired Herzl to found modern Zionism, was only one of thousands of Jews who, in the mid-1800’s, served their countries as a sign of national, cultural and political allegiance.

But for more than 2000 years, one calling was always forbidden the Jews—self-defense. We could help defend others, but not ourselves.

The story of Jewish self-defense ends with the Romans in the year 135. 

After that, even the Hanukkah story of the military victory of Judah the Maccabee over the Greeks, was minimized. Relegated to the status of a “minor” holiday, Hanukkah was reduced to a child’s tale about a small can of oil that miraculously lasted for eight nights. Out of caution and fear, the ancient rabbis eliminated from their retold tales the story of the fierce battles that Judah and his brothers led, leaving in only the personal sacrifices they had to make in an effort to remain Jewish and keep Judaism alive.

The story of how Jewish privateers helped defend first Portuguese, then Dutch and British merchant and naval fleets, is not one we learn about in public or Jewish schools, yet is an important factor in modern European and early American history. Their stories have been popularized only recently, in the charmingly titled book by Edward Kritzler, Jewish Pirates of the Caribbean, described condescendingly on the Amazon website as “the tale of an unlikely group of swashbuckling Jews who ransacked the high seas.” Yet it’s a story that we should all be made aware of. 

Of course, in modern times there are many stories of Jewish heroes and heroism. Jewish soldiers distinguished themselves in many battles and wars all over the world, including the Civil War here in America. 

Yet the heroism of the Jewish soldiers who have fought for the right of the State of Israel to exist and thrive, is mostly silenced—except to their families and nation. Israel’s wars against terror and aggression have all too quickly turned into blood-libel accusations of genocide and massacres. “Certainly Israel has the right to defend [itself], but not to revenge,” is the latest statement from the European Union’s foreign policy chief with regards to the war against the terror organization Hamas. Meanwhile Canada has declared an embargo on selling weapons to Israel—though evidently buying military equipment from Israel, as it has, massively, in recent years, is OK. Next week’s edition of The Economist will feature on its cover the flag of Israel and the headline “Israel Alone,” highlighting Israel’s isolation from the rest of the world’s “civilized” nations.

Never mind that it isn’t Israel, but Hamas, that broke the ceasefire that held until October 6; never mind that Hamas calls specifically for the destruction of Israel. Never mind that immediately following the atrocities it committed on October 7, Hamas has vowed to repeat it "7 times, 10 times, a million times" over. And never mind that every bullet fired by an Israeli soldier is reviewed by a special court, and every bombing from the air is previewed by a special unit whose responsibility it is to ensure there are no children in a playground nearby.

The moral dilemma that every Israeli—soldier and civilian alike—faces every morning, day and night, is the painful and tragic knowledge that there are innocent victims in this war. And that is the opposite of genocide. Israel’s army strictly adheres to international laws of conventional warfare. We know of course that accidents happen, because the context of all war is chaos and bloodshed. There have always been, and always will be, innocent victims. But that is not genocide, especially knowing that Hamas uses its own population as human shields; shoots rockets from mosques, apartment buildings, kindergartens, schools and even cemeteries, and burrows its headquarters under hospitals, in the cynical knowledge that Israel would be reluctant to raid or bomb these. Because one thing that characterizes Jews in general and the State of Israel in particular is that we sanctify life, not death. 

What we have here actually is a modern-day Persian empire—Iran—its power swaying with the winds, exercising tyranny over—who else—the Jews, with a Haman—Yahya Sinwar—as a saber-wielding puppet on a string, along with Hezbollah in Lebanon and the Houthis in Yemen flailing their limp arms and chanting “Death to the Big Satan, death to the Little Satan.”

It’s funny, but with all our annual purimspiels and carnivals, with all our telling and retelling of “the whole Megillah”—the Scroll of Esther—we always leave out one little detail: The aftermath. In our hurry to get to chapter 9, where Mordechai and Esther mandate that Purim be an annual observance, we skip Chapter 8 almost wholly. What we leave out is the self-defense part. The part where, over two days, the Jews stand up and fight back. We barely mention, in an undertone as it were, the number of murderers, rapists and pillagers still intent on killing the Jews and seizing our property, whose fate is turned around on those very days and who are instead killed by Jews standing up for themselves in defiance and self-defense—510 on the first day, 75,300 on the second (and being scrupulous about taking no loot).

It's as though we are ashamed of what we had done, of what had to be done to stay alive. 

Or perhaps that we know better. The world doesn’t like powerful Jews. It ostracizes and isolates us; it BDS’s us and condemns us in the marble halls of the UN and the EU, on college campuses, in “progressive” guilds and raucous, hate-filled social media.

What we as well as the rest of the world need to remember is that Jews haven’t always been victims. That may be the way the world would prefer to see us. But sometimes, just sometimes, we fight back. And this year is one of those times.

The world at large may not like that, but sooner rather than later it will forget all that, because as much as the world likes to pity us, it needs us. It needs the advancements to humanity that Israel and the Jews offer. It needs our business and resourcefulness. It needs our constant reminders about true justice and just morality. It needs us and our constant commitment to life, health and well-being.

Much more than it needs the chaos, destruction and suffering that Hamas and its allies advocate.

And that’s worth fighting for. 

In the end, Purim isn’t only a holiday set aside for miracles and rejoicing. It’s about staying alive; it’s about strengthening and deepening our Jewish identity; it’s about standing up for our basic human right to live in safety and peace, free from bigotry and persecution. May we always remember that. May this Purim find us more united, more determined and more dedicated to the all-important cause of keeping Judaism alive.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Light for the Generations: Tetzaveh.24

 A Light for the Generations: Tetzaveh

D’var Torah by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

February 23, 2024

The opening verse of this week’s Torah portion reads: “And you shall command the children of Israel that they bring you pure oil of pressed olives for the light, to cause the lamp to burn continually” (NKJV).

It’s a verse that has stood the test of time, having given its readers purpose, meaning and direction since day one, while also presenting commentators and translators with a challenge that continues to this day. 

Every word and phrase of this verse deserves close examination, including the use of the word “pressed olives” [or "crushed," as it appears in some translations].

While the p’shat, the simple meaning of this phrase—is clear—referring to the method of extracting oil from the olive—the not-so-subtle implication that many have drawn is that it relates to the suffering which Jews have had to endure throughout our history. The purest and most precious oil is produced from the crushing blows that the olive receives. This, it follows, is also behind the many gifts that Jews and Judaism have given the world. 

The truth, of course, is that suffering isn’t restricted to Jews. Job may be a book in the Hebrew Bible, but neither Job nor his friends is Jewish. Suffering is universal, an unfortunate yet inescapable part of being alive. And so while there is some truth to this interpretation of the verse, and while it may give some of us a measure of comfort and meaning as we study—or live through—events in Jewish history, there are yet other reasons, besides suffering, for the many contributions we have made to humanity and civilization.

As I study this portion this time around, something else in this opening verse has me intrigued. It’s the word that gives the parasha its title: Tetzaveh (“Command,” Ex. 27:20-30:10). Derived from the same root that also gives us “mitzvah,” which means not only a commandment but also a good deed, an act of charity or good will, Tetzaveh is the continuous-command form: you shall command, give the order, now and for all generations.

The specific ritual that this refers to has to do with the procedure of lighting the menorah, the physical and metaphysical symbol of God’s presence amongst us. It is the ner tamid—the Eternal Light—that we are told to kindle here, a light that cannot and must not be extinguished, that requires special care and attention, so much so that the Talmud dedicates entire pages to it. 

And it's no wonder. As we study this, the first sentence of the portion, the opportunities to learn from it reveal themselves with every word, as though lit from the inside out. Let’s examine the King James Version, which reads: “And thou shalt command the children of Israel, that they bring thee pure oil olive beaten for the light, to cause the lamp to burn always.”

And thou shalt command: This is the word, tetzaveh, that gives the portion is title. Command. The “thou” in this case refers to Moses. This commandment must come from Moses, not from God! The difference cannot be underestimated. This is a mitzvah—a commandment—that is issued not by God, like all those others, but rather by Moses, a mere human being (albeit one imbued with the light and understanding of God’s wishes). Special emphasis is put on the word thou, you, v’atah.  The lesson for us today is that, just as it was Moses’s responsibility thousands of years ago, so today it is you, the singular individual, whose responsibility it must be to kindle the light by which all must see God.

It is Moses’s command that we—“The children of Israel”—must follow. We, the ordinary folk, are thus placed in a direct line with God and with Moses in performing a mitzvah that recognizes—and carries forward—God’s first act of Creation: light. During Temple times, it was the High Priest’s duty to use this oil for kindling the menorah. Today, through our deeds and words, it is we who must prepare and provide the oil, we who must set the match to it, we whose responsibility it is to see to it that the flame reaches upward—towards heaven—and that it shed its light all around us.

Ner tamid: Today we use this phrase to indicate the Eternal Light. But like the rest of this verse, it too receives a fair share of discussion among rabbis, commentators and translators. While ner can mean a candle, or any relatively small and self-contained source of light, the word tamid has many more possibilities. Some English translations render it not as “eternal,” but rather, “regular,” “continual” or “constant.” These obviously don’t share the poetic and metaphysical meaning of “eternal,” but rather steer us towards a more down-to-earth understanding. This light must be steady, not allowed to waver; it must be consistent—by ritual and pattern; and fixed—it must be lit at a certain set time every evening, just as darkness begins to fall. This is how it is to be done, now and always.

V’atah: Yet most unusual of all is the very first word of this verse: V’atah, “and you,” a word that conveys weight, strength and potency. The emphasis that the Torah places on this word makes it that much more imperative for us today to. It’s the teacher looking us in the eye, pointing a finger towards us, towards you and me individually. 

Maybe this is one of the reasons that so many Jews contribute in so many ways to humanity and civilization. We understand this commandment, we internalize it and take it personally. It isn’t enough to let some do the work while others sit idly by. The task is up to each one of us, to provide the fuel—and perhaps to be the fuel—for a light that is meant to last for all time, for all generations. It’s the meaning, the purpose of our existence as Jews.

May we continue to be sources of light for all, to set an example by how we live, the words we use and by our deeds.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Many Names of God: Shemot.24

 The Many Names of God

D'var Torah for Parashat Shemot

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

January 5, 2024

In Memory of Ruth Heilman and Elaine D. Finestone

In her famous poem, “Each of Us Has a Name,” the Hebrew poet known simply by her first name, Zelda, lists the many names which we acquire through our lifetime, starting with those given us by God, by our parents, by the work we do and the manner in which we live, and finally the name given to us by our death.

Our name identifies us. It labels and characterizes us. It reminds us of our past and our heritage. It describes our hopes and ambitions, our values and ideals.

It isn’t a coincidence that the second book of the Torah, which in English we know as Exodus, in Hebrew is called Shemot—names. It begins by listing the names of the children of Israel, who by this point in our history are more than individuals, but rather large tribes. “Israel”—the name given by God to our ancestor Jacob—now stands for the entire people that we, Jacob’s descendants, have become. But our evolution isn’t only in size and numbers. Four hundred years after first arriving in Egypt, each tribe has now assumed a role among the people, fulfilling the blessings given by Jacob on his deathbed, at the end of the first book of the Torah, Genesis. Judah has assumed leadership; Levi has become the storyteller, the teacher of Tradition and Religion; and Joseph is the bearer of hope and redemption. Every tribe, each household, has its role and place in society.

Not everyone in this book, however, is named. Pharaoh is never identified other than by his title. There is a Hebrew curse that is used after mentioning particular enemies of the Jewish People: Yimach Sh’mo—may his name be forgotten. In the book of Exodus, this curse comes true. The name of the evil tyrant of Egypt remains unknown. But this doesn’t explain why Pharaoh’s daughter’s name is not revealed either, despite the vital role she plays in the story of the Exodus. Batya, “Daughter of God”—is the name given her by the early rabbis—or possibly earlier, around the 4th century BCE.

Pharaoh’s Daughter does get to give Moses his Hebrew name, however—Moshe, drawn from the water—which is surprising considering that she probably didn’t know any Hebrew. More likely, Moses’s name is derived from ancient Egyptian, where Mose (or Moseh) served as either a complete name in itself, or at least a part of it, as in Rameses or Thutmose.

Names will continue to appear throughout the book of Exodus, and more and more they will begin to represent the values held high by the Jewish People: Tsuriel: God is my rock; Nachshon—devoted and faithful; Aminadav, a charitable people. 

Yet one name above all remains inscrutable: God’s. In the wonderful scene in which God commands Moses to return to Egypt and undertake the mission of freeing the Hebrew slaves, Moses asks to know God’s name. God answers: “Ehyeh asher ehyeh,” variously translated as “I am that which I am,” “I will be what I will be,” or even “I am the One who always will be there for you.” Based on this mysterious phrase, some Biblical scholars speculate that Ehyeh is God’s personal name, not Adonai—which is the title by which we address God.

Yet God’s unclear response actually leads to an infinite number of possibilities. The Midrash offers the following teaching: “God said to Moses: ‘You want to know My name? I am called by My deeds. I might be called El Shaddai, or Tzevaot, or Elohim, or Adonai [the Tetragrammaton, YHVH]. When I judge My creatures, I am called Elohim; when I wage war on the wicked, I am called Tzevaot; when I tolerate the sins of human beings, I am called Shaddai; when I show compassion on My world I am called Adonai” (Shemot Rabbah 3). 

The speculation does not end there, however. In the Kabbalah, starting around 1100 CE the term Ein Sof (Endless) appears in describing God. A 45-letter name is derived by some Kabbalists, while yet others deduce that God actually has 72 names. There is even one source, Sefer Yetzira, the Book of Formation, that says that all God’s names are comprised of 216 sacred letters, each taking its place in endless variations and permutations.

And still one of the most common names by which we call God even today is Shechinah—God’s Presence, often representing the more compassionate, even feminine and motherly, aspect of God.

There is obviously no end to it—and perhaps that’s the whole point. God’s name is unknowable. Names define and describe us, they give us characteristics, features and qualities. Drawing lines of demarcation, they separate one individual from another. When God created Adam, the first task God set out before the first human was to name the animals. But God is different. God cannot be named. God is endless, infinite. We humans can’t know God’s totality or even one part of it; we can only describe God’s attributes and characteristics: strength, judgment, compassion, presence, and no more than that. 

The wonderful response given by God to Moses empowers each one of us to see God in our own unique way, according to our own needs and experience. Ehyeh asher ehyeh. It’s as though God says, call me what you will, I will be there for you. At times of joy or sorrow; in need or abundance; when we need strength and courage, or respite, peace and consolation—God is always there for us and with us. Call God as you wish, the breath of life spells God’s Presence in our lives.

And we, finite, limited, imperfect, human beings? Our insignificant presence is limited by the time we are allotted on this earth. But our names tell the world, both now and after we are gone, who and what we were.

In the end, the poet Zelda’s list of names can be summed up with just two that matter most: the name you are given (or choose), and the name you make for yourself. May the former reach the hopes and expectations that come with it; and may the latter express deeds and accomplishments that we can all be proud for and be remembered by.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

Impressions of Hanukkah 2023

Impressions of Hanukkah 2023

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

December 15, 2023

Hanukkah is always a joyous holiday. The candles on the chanukiya—the Hanukkah menorah or candelabra—glow and bring a small—but bright—measure of light to our long and dark evenings. Sumptuous foods (of course), the company of friends and family—what more could one ask for?

This year it’s different.

This year it’s colder, darker and drearier than in previous years. 

I never thought it would be like this. I always thought of Hanukkah as a relatively minor holiday meant mostly for children, created long ago but enhanced for our own multicultural and materialistic time. However, this time around I came to understand the deeper essence of Hanukkah and the real miracle that the candles help us remember. 

This year the joy and light are dimmed by tears, by the enormity of evil and hate. The war between Israel and the terrorist organization Hamas isn’t over yet and shows no sign of ending any time soon. The Israeli news sources I follow are filled with sad stories: So many soldiers have fallen, so many wounded; so many sacrifices, and so much pain and longing. And how many will yet carry physical and emotional scars for the rest of their lives? I hear the stories of humiliation and hunger told by released hostages, and stories about those who will never be released. Over 100 are still held in captivity, not allowed visits by so-called humanitarian organizations that choose to criticize “the context” of their captivity instead of tending to their medical and other needs.

I also read and hear about the surge of antisemitism in the US, and I am grieved to know that this oldest, most vile, most dangerous and murderous hatred, is still with us.

And yet, as I look at the candles on my chanukiya I am filled with hope. Hanukkah this year has been more than special. It’s been extraordinary, and deeply moving and meaningful. Here are my impressions of Hanukkah 2023:

First candle: On the first evening of the holiday, we celebrated Hanukkah at my wife’s temple. Our grandson, Zev, now two years old, was a bit uncertain at first, but when he did warm up, he took to the bimah (the stage) and yelled into the microphone, “Happy Hanukkah” with so much joy that the old prophecy of Isaiah, “And a child shall lead them,” immediately came to mind and heart.

Second candle: Last Friday evening our own congregation held its annual Hanukkah celebration, and what a joyful event that was! Our sanctuary was filled to capacity with old members, new members, seniors, children, and many guests from the larger community! And as we lit our chanukiyot, the glow from all those candles was enough to fill all our hearts! The joy was enhanced by the wonderful companionship, the singing, and of course the delicious food.

Third candle: Saturday morning we had a guest speaker at the temple: the District Attorney from our region of the Denver Metro area. In a calm and quiet voice, our guest was able to reassure us of his personal and official support, as well as that of the local police force, easing some of the anxiety we’ve been feeling these last few weeks. We felt strengthened by his presentation.

Sunday, fourth candle: Our Religious School celebrated Hanukkah, and what a celebration THAT was! More latkes, more sufganiyot (jelly-filled donuts), spirited dreidel spinning, songs and decorations! The joy was evident on the faces of all the children and all others who were there, adding yet more gladness to our holiday and hearts.

Monday evening, fifth candle: an exceptional event organized by the US Attorney for Colorado and the ADL, with the participation of the Attorney General, several police chiefs and representatives of other law enforcement agencies, as well as members of quite a few communities of faiths, all coming together to discuss safety and security at houses of worship.

Years ago, in a book whose title and author escape my memory at the moment (perhaps someone reading this will remind me), I came upon a line that has stayed with me this whole time: That during the years of the Shoah, the Holocaust, under the Nazis and their associates, the Jews found ourselves “outside the protection of the law.” These safety and security events told me that things today—as sobering as they are—are nowhere near that state. How fortunate. The divisions in our society and culture today are deep and wide, but the Jewish community is not facing them alone. We have the support, the care and friendship of many in our wider communities.

Let the light increase.

Sixth candle: the new electric menorah I had ordered arrived just in time to be placed in the window, its light brighter than ever.

Seventh candle: Yet more latkes, and no noticeable weight gain. Small miracles are as appreciated as great ones. The wonder in Zevi’s eyes only increases, and now he is allowed—with his parents’ guidance—to light the candles in his own chanukiya. Unfortunately, he is also getting obsessed with presents, but hopefully he will learn that Hanukkah isn’t only about gifts—that it’s as much about giving as receiving.

Eighth candle: As Zev and I were sitting together last night, watching a Hanukkah video, he suddenly turned to me, his eyes as big and full as saucers, and said with all the love and intensity contained within his heart, “Happy Hanukkah, Saba!” And at that moment I understood better than ever, that the miracle of Hanukkah isn’t only about a little can of oil that was supposed to last for only one night but instead sufficed for eight nights. It’s an ongoing miracle, ancient and new at once, a miracle of small lights that have the power to chase away darkness.

No one knows what the future may bring. We know that the challenges ahead will be difficult and numerous. Without a doubt, there is still so much darkness around us. Even when the current fighting ends—and please God, may that be soon! —there will be grief and mourning. There will be a flood of rage directed at leaders who promised—but failed—to protect us, and against those false friends who abandoned us at our time of need and distress. And then, once these emotions are spent, the time will come for healing, for rebuilding homes and families, and for restoring a nation—united once again, rededicated to our common goals and ideals.

For that, after all, is the literal meaning of the word hanukkah—rededication.

The eight days of the Hanukkah are over now, but tonight I feel so much more confident than I did a week ago. And that’s what I took from this year’s holiday. More than ever, I understood the secret behind the miracle, the message encased in the treasured story we tell and retell. 

Just as the Maccabees did more than 2200 years ago, so too today, we, their descendants, have to rely on military power to overcome our enemies. But there is something else, a force greater than any other, that keeps us steady on our path, going forward from generation to generation. We read it in this week’s haftarah, in the book of Zechariah: “This is the word of God…: Not by might, nor by power, but by My spirit, said God of Hosts” (Zechariah 4:6). It’s the spirit of love; it’s the might of eight little candles to dispel hatred and banish darkness. 

It’s to this mission that we rededicate ourselves this year more than ever. May this be God’s will. Amen. 

© 2023 by Boaz D. Heilman

Giving Thanks at Times of Darkness: Thanksgiving.23

Giving Thanks at Times of Darkness

Sermon by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

November 24, 2023

So how are you?

Don’t answer—I know. We are tired. We are exhausted—and rightfully so. For the past seven weeks we’ve been on an emotional rollercoaster, swaying from disbelief to horror, from grief to rage, from despair to hope—and right back again. We haven’t had a decent night’s sleep all this time, hoping to rise in the morning if not exactly refreshed then at least strong enough to carry on with the day’s challenges and obligations.

We’re exhausted not only because of our attempts to follow—and understand—the news from Israel, but also because of the strange and fearful wake the war leaves in our own lives. The uncertainty, the fear for loved ones and friends, the horrors we’ve been trying to push out of our minds, the unimaginable rise we’re witnessing in anti-Semitic rhetoric and violence in our own backyards.

The humorous saying we often use to summarize Jewish history, “They tried to kill us; we survived; let’s eat!” isn’t so funny this year. 

And yet, here we are, American Jews, celebrating possibly the most American holiday of all (except of course, the Fourth of July and maybe Presidents’ Day), a holiday that truly represents what America is, or hopes to be: a nation of immigrants from all corners of the world, all trying to integrate while keeping some old-world traditions alive, struggling to create a new life, a new nation, with hopes for peace, security, and acceptance. Not so easy or simple when the differences between us outweigh the common goals: Skin color, language, nation of origin, religion and other barriers that often seem insurmountable.

Still, despite the violence that sometimes erupts along these lines of demarcation, we’ve managed to stay more or less unified. Until now, it seems.

Suddenly, a clear and wide divide has erupted between us. With hardly a heads up (at least for some of us; for others, the signs have been clear for a long time), what seems like a deafening silence has caused us to reevaluate who our friends are. We are confused. We find ourselves strange bedfellows with news outlets we normally scorn; with politicians and religious leaders we prefer to keep an arm’s distance from. We wonder how quickly political allies we once thought of as our partners have turned against us. Because it isn’t only Israel that is being widely criticized and attacked; the lines between anti-Zionism and anti-Semitism have become so faded as to become invisible. The two hatreds have become one, a throwback to times we thought we had left behind in “the old country.”

Worst of all, we have become fearful. Fearful to look too Jewish or exhibit outward signs of our Judaism or support of Israel. Fearful for ourselves, for our children in school, on college campuses, at the workplace, and on the street.

So what can we be thankful for this Thanksgiving?

For our food, for family love, warmth and companionship, of course. But there is yet more, so much more.

As Jews, we can be thankful for our unity as a people. We may at times quarrel and argue, but we are one family. Reaching out to—and for—one another has always been our strength. When so much of the world turns against us, we turn to one another. When no one else seems to care, we care more than ever.

We can be thankful for President Biden, whose unwavering support for Israel, both militarily and diplomatically, will probably cost him some votes, but whose bold and forthright standing as a friend of our people and homeland will enshrine him in our hearts forever.

We can be thankful for the larger community around us. In the past few weeks Congregation B’nai Torah has received numerous letters, emails and phone calls from total strangers, offering encouragement, support, and friendship. We’ve been invited to co-sponsor and participate in interfaith security events. Though not many clergy of other faiths have contacted us, we did hear from the CEO of the Interfaith Alliance of Colorado, who will also be present at our Hanukkah celebration in a couple of weeks. We’ve heard from friends, members of Westminster City Hall, as well as from the United States Attorney’s Office in Denver and the District Attorney of Broomfield and Westminster Counties, offering their support. I am thankful for all these expressions of caring and friendship.

A few days ago I attended a presentation by the ADL and the US Secret Service, at which the two agencies shared their strategies for protection of communities and houses of faith. I was frankly amazed at the scope of the plans as well as at the close working partnership they displayed. And I am grateful for that.

Last week’s pro-Israel rally in Washington DC showed me several things: First, the number of Israel supporters—nearly 300,000! —who came out to demonstrate, sing, wave Israeli flags and show the world that—in the Hebrew words, Am Yisrael Chai—the People of Israel is yet alive and strong. A strong showing by representatives from the entire spectrum of political, social and religious groups, spoke to the ideal stated by the U.S. Envoy to Monitor and Combat Antisemitism, Deborah Lipstadt, that “Hate and violence directed at any member of our society because of who they are is un-American and wrong.” 

And I was gratified to see how many young Jewish men and women were there. At a time when many Jewish American youth are ambivalent about their Jewish identity as well as their relationship to Israel, the presence of these young people demonstrated for me that theirs is NOT a lost generation. That our future is in strong hands—with God’s help. And I am grateful for this wide and diverse show of support.

Lastly at this point, and just as important as anything I’ve already said, I am gratified to have watched today—through many tears—the miracle of the release of 13 of the Israeli hostages and 11 foreign workers who taken by the Hamas terrorists 49 days ago—though I am still afraid (and yet hopeful) for the fate of the almost 200 others who are still in the clutches of those barbarian cannibals whose whole purpose in life is to kill, ravage and mutilate. I am grateful to all who negotiated this small step from despair to hope, from darkness to light; and above all, we all owe a huge debt of thanks that can never be repaid, to the scores of Israeli soldiers who sacrificed their lives so that this miracle could take place.

Israel is indeed a place where miracles happen every day—though often at no small cost to our people.

I am thankful and feel ever-so-blessed to be member of this ancient and resilient people that has somehow managed to rise from the ashes time and again; that has contributed so much to humanity and civilization and, against all odds, manages to remain a light unto the nations. I am gratified that, after nearly 2000 years, today we have an army—the most heroic, the most moral army in the world—to defend us and our inalienable human rights of existence and self-determination in our own ancient and rebuilt homeland.

This Thanksgiving, we truly have much to be thankful for. But one thing is clear: The work is far from over. During the next few months and possibly years, we will have to somehow bridge the cavernous chasms that have opened up in our own society and nation. We will have to rebuild relationships and restore trust. Above all, we must not let divisiveness tear us apart, nor let hate and fear hide the ideals for which the United States stands. Our strength is always in our unity.

In the next few weeks we will all be celebrating holy days that speak of light and peace. May the darkness of the season be dispelled by glowing lights of joy and thanksgiving. May all our hopes and prayers come true. 

Adonai ‘oz l’amo yitein; Adonai y’varech et amo bashalom: May God bless us with strength; may God bless us, one and all, with peace.

Amen.

© 2023 by Boaz D. Heilman