Blessings of the Past, Blessings of the Future: Va-Yechi.18

Blessings of the Past, Blessings of the Future

D’var Torah for Parashat Va-yechi

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week’s Torah portion, Va-yechi(Genesis 47:28—50:26) brings to a close the first book of the Torah, Genesis.  With this portion we reach also the end of the saga of Jacob’s life. A new eon in Israel’s history is about to begin, along with a transformation that transcends time and tradition.

Knowing that he is about to die, Jacob calls in his sons for his final blessing, promising to tell them their future. It is one of the most poetic and beautiful of all portions in the Bible—and also one of the most difficult to understand. Many of the words have multiple and esoteric meanings. The writing relies on poetic devices such as alliteration, word-play and symbolism rather than literalism and clarity. What emerges is a mysterious reckoning in which past, present and future intertwine. Rather than fortune telling, what Jacob actually does is show his sons a path—a road map if you will—into the future, giving them direction, goal and purpose. The future, Jacob seems to say, is based on our past; at the same time, however, if it is to emerge and take shape as we would wish, it will depend in no small measure on our own actions and behavior going forward.

As his twelve sons approach one by one, Jacob reminds them of things they themselves may have forgotten. There’s Reuben, the first born and therefore—at least by ancient tradition—first in line for leadership. Jacob, however, admonishes Reuben; he is hasty and impatient; he is overzealous and fails to carry through even the best of intentions. At his worst, he is immoral and unethical. He will be passed over for the position of leadership. Next come Simeon and Levi, but they too have serious hurdles to overcome: past experience proves that they rely too much on their sword and are too given to anger, excitement and violence.  Even Judah, the fourth son—and here Jacob seems to tell Judah that he knows fully well how he had betrayed his brother, Joseph, and sold him to slave traders—has much of the blood-thirsty animal in him. Yet Judah, unlike his brothers, has repented for his misdeeds; he has accepted responsibility not only for past sins, but also for the future well-being of the entire family. In his blessing, Jacob portrays Judah as a lion, fierce not only in the pursuit of food, but also in defense of his pride and people. It is Judah, Jacob foretells, who will become the leader of the Israelites, and who will show them the path forward through strength, courage and faith.

Each of the brothers is recognized for specific abilities; each is empowered by Jacob’s blessing to persevere in his path; each is encouraged to retain his uniqueness and individuality while yet continuing to contribute to the welfare of the entire people.

In this respect, Jacob’s blessing transcends that of his fathers. Unlike Abraham and Isaac, who bestowed their final blessing on only one of two sons (Abraham had exiled Ishmael, and Isaac has little to offer Esau after giving Jacob the birthright and blessing of God), Jacob offers his blessing to allhis sons, forging a bond between them that even history will not be able to break.

Biblical scholars and commentators argue over the specific content and meaning of Jacob’s blessings. Yet what does emerge as clear as light from this beautiful portion is the image of Jacob’s humility, of his ultimate humanity. Of the three Patriarchs of the Jewish People, Jacob is the one most like us. Maybe that’s why in this portion he is referred to almost exclusively as Israel, the name given to him by God and the name by which we, his descendants, will be known, rather than as Jacob, the name given him at birth.

In his own story, Abraham appears almost superhuman. He walks with God, he talks with God, he even argueswith God. A man of powerful faith, Abraham’s heroism and prowess make him legendary in his own time, a figure of astonishment and admiration. Even today he is seen as the founder of three of the world’s major faiths—Judaism, Christianity and Islam.

Isaac, on the other hand, is wounded; he is a damaged hero, long-suffering, malleable and acquiescent. He does not rebel; he does as he is told, fully aware that he is no more than an instrument in the hands of God and people. 

But Jacob comes off as the most realistically drawn of the three. He has his strengths, to be sure, but also weaknesses. We can identify with his evolution, his transformation from youth to old age, from self-sufficiency to dependence, from doubt to faith. The journey that is Jacob’s life is one that each of us must traverse.  He is not without faults, yet he learns from his mistakes. He attempts to repair any damage he may have caused. At times he succeeds, yet at other times he can’t help but pass down deep-seated habits and traits. Having taken advantage of parental preference (his mother always didlove him best), he continues this unfair practice, promising both Joseph andJudah a royal and even messianic future, thus practically guaranteeing that the rivalry between them will continue well into the future. Old habits are hard to break.

Jacob is the eternal Jew, an everyman for all seasons. At his deathbed, he is overcome by the emotion and love he feels for his family; and then, sensing his vitality slipping away, he prays to God for just a bit more time, for sustenance, for deliverance. 

Jacob’s final blessing is the blessing of strength. He has learned that God is the ultimate source of courage and hope, yet he also knows that true strength must come also from within the individual, as well as from his surrounding community. In order to survive, he tells his sons, they must be strong.

From his own experience, he knows that the flip side of success is jealousy. Years earlier, he had seen hatred directed at him because of his own talents and abilities. Later, he wasn’t blind to the loathing that Josephs’ brothers felt for the son he had favored. At this point, at the close of his life, even with Joseph at the pinnacle of his career, Jacob senses the resentment that the Egyptians feel toward Joseph and his brothers. Power is fickle, he knows: here today, gone tomorrow. Jacob’s message, his living will to his family and people, is to remain strong and unified. Only so will they overcome the dangers that loom ahead. The people’s survival may depend on God’s grace. Their strength, however, will come from their unity, from their single-minded purposefulness.

It is to that end that Jacob bestows his final blessing on allhis children, even going so far as to include Joseph’s two children, born in the Diaspora and shaped by their life as young princes, carefree, culturally assimilated and spoiled by power and riches.

Israel’s endurance as a people is a promise made by God to a lonely and aged visionary, long ago on top of a bare mountain. Repeated and reinforced countless times since then, this promise still holds true. Yet history has proven to us that our survival does not depend only on God. Nor is it guaranteed by our good deeds. Righteousness carries into the future, yes, but perseverance is as much the outcome of strength and unity as it is the fulfillment of misty-eyed visions. It is up to us, as individuals and as a people, to fulfill not only our spiritual duty to God, but also our physical obligation to Life. Our continuity depends on our strength and our unity.

Jacob’s last moments represent the end of an era in our People’s life. A new stage of our history is about to begin. Israel, the man, is about to become Israel, the People. Inspired by the principles of justice and compassion, this nation will forever be guided by an image of life not only as it is, but also as it canbe. The messianic ideal envisioned by Jacob will always be there before our eyes, teaching us to see the potential implanted in every living being; to recognize the ability within each of us to fall—and then to rise again; to overcome failure—and find ourselves stronger for it, always and forever reaching for the highest ideals. 

Chazak chazak v’nit-chazek: May we be strong and of good courage. May we continue to  strengthen one another with the blessings of the past and the blessings of the future.

KYR, may this be God’s will.

© 2018 by Boaz D. Heilman

Living Lights: A Hanukkah Story

Living Lights

A Hanukkah Story

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

“Our eyes register the light of dead stars.” So begins one of the most powerful books I ever read, The Last of the Just, by Andre Schwarz-Bart. What the author meant, of course, is that when we look up at the beautiful night skies, the lights we see up there—the stars in their constellations, the galaxy our own planet resides in, and other, more distant stars and planets—are nothing but reminders of what once was, but is no more. What we see is light that has traveled for eons before it finally reaches our eyes.

These tiny lights that pierce the darkness are actually all that remains of huge, mega-explosions that, because of their great distance, seem no more than tiny pin pricks in the dark cover that surrounds our own planet, Earth.

The little Hanukkah candles that we lit tonight are a bit like that. We see little lights, each burning for perhaps twenty minutes.  Yet when we put them all together, as we did here earlier tonight, how brightly they shine—how much light they actually shed! Their tiny flames join together into a great light, spreading warmth and happiness all around.  Sometimes, sitting around the menorah and looking at these dancing lights, we can almost hear them tell their stories, tales of wars and heroes, of darkness and light, of fear and redemption.

The first Hanukkah, more than two thousand years ago, didn’t start out a holiday. It was a war. A terrible and cruel war in which people did terrible things to one another.  It was the middle of winter, a cold winter at that, and throughout the land, oil—used to cook and provide light—was getting scarce. Many of the trees had been cut down, both to serve as fuel and to make weapons out of.  The meager few trees that remained weren’t watered or nourished properly, and many died because of disease.  Food was in short supply. It was a difficult time for all.  From the higher hilltops you could see villages all around that had been set afire by the Greeks. Everywhere, you heard stories of how it was forbidden to teach Hebrew, to sing Hebrew songs, to learn Torah.

Little by little, the people of Judea began to lose hope, and one by one, lights went out. First it was that window that remained dark at night, then another, and another, until in the end every village was dark, and quiet, and hopeless.

It wasn’t only the Greeks that Judah the Maccabee had to fight. It was also the hopelessness he saw all around.  “You can’t win,” people said to him.  “The Greeks are giants! They ride elephants! They have armor that arrows cannot pierce! There are too many of them!”

And everywhere he went Judah tried to convince the Jews that they should never lose hope, that God will yet lead them to victory and to freedom.  Perhaps here and there a person would stop and listen.  A child would not her head and say, “We can do it, Judah, I believe in you.”

There were many tough battles. Many brave Jews were badly injured and had to be carried off the field. Some luckier ones limped back to their homes, leaning on the stronger arms or shoulders of their still-standing fellow soldiers.  Still, little by little, Judah made his way to Jerusalem, leading his brave brothers and the small but dedicated army they were able to gather around themselves.

One dark, moonless and starless night, Judah set out by himself to spy on the Greek armies that had occupied Jerusalem.  He left his horse tethered to a tree a few hundred yards back, walked as quietly as he could until he had to stop, not wanting to be seen by guards. From afar he could tell that the Temple wasn’t in good repair.  On a good day during peaceful times, you could see all the way from Modi’in, Judah’s home village, the smoke cloud that hovered over the Temple. It was the smoke of the many sacrifices the priests were offering day and night. This night, however, from his hiding spot behind some rocks, the only smoke Judah could see was from the many campfires the Greeks had set on the Temple mount.  Some time ago already, they had used up the last of the Temple’s precious supply of pure olive oil.  Now they were burning looted furniture from abandoned homes—empty cupboards, broken tables, chairs left behind in a panic.  Creeping ever closer, Judah could hear the sound of breaking glass, the raucous laughter and lewd songs of the drunken soldiers.

At one point Judah had gotten dangerously close to one of the guards the Greeks had posted around the city. At that distance, he could have easily picked him off. But the sentry’s absence the next day would have been noticed, giving warning to the Greeks that all was not as secure as they had deluded themselves into believing.

Judah knew his small army wasn’t ready yet for the big battle.  Yes, God was on our side, but that wouldn’t be enough in facing the two full garrisons of heavily armed Greeks that Antiochus, the mad Syrian king, had placed in the Temple compound.  If Judah and his Maccabees were going to win this one—and it was essential that they did—they would have to rely on the element of surprise.  So Judah held his breath while the Greek guard walked by, just a few yards away.  There were others, Judah knew.  From his nightly vigil and from the reports of other spies, Judah knew that the guards were posted in groups of four or five; that every few minutes they huddled together for some warmth, then would resume their watch.  And so he crouched silently behind the craggy rock, quiet as a mouse.

Just for fun, he picked up a stone, measured in his mind the distance between him and the guard now pacing away from him, then threw it towards the Greek.  The stone flew the measured distance and landed in a small bush just a few inches away from the soldier. Two birds that had taken refuge in it for the night took sudden flight, crying out in their panic.  Judah saw the Greek soldier jump and practically faint of fear.  He held back his laughter, watching as the Greek swore, took out his sword and started waving it at the darkness, cutting nothing but air.  Two of his fellow guardsmen ran to him, making a racket with their clattering shields and swords, scattering rocks and mice along the way. Judah felt nothing but contempt for them.

When the three soldiers were satisfied that there was no danger there, they laughed in some embarrassment. Then they decided they had had it for one night.  They sat down under a tree and took out a skin of wine, passing it from one to the other.  They talked a little bit about how boring this war had become.  Then one of them began to sing softly a song of the home country.  It told of the quiet hills of Greece, where their homes and families were waiting for them, where a pretty young girl was standing at the shore of the sea, looking out toward the horizon, hoping to see the white sails that meant her sweetheart was coming home to her.  Pretty soon, soothed by the wine and the song, they fell asleep.

Judah stood tall.  For a moment he thought whether to leave a sign that he was there.  Something small—perhaps just take some of their armor or weapons so that, when they woke up the next morning, they would wonder whether any of it had happened, who was there, and whether they might be in trouble with their captain.  But he decided not to do even that.  The less they knew, the less prepared they would be for the battle when it came.

Many days later, when Judah had entered Jerusalem at the head of his army, when he proudly lit the Temple menorah with that last can of untainted oil that he had found, he thought of that night.  He remembered the darkness and the cold he had felt hiding behind the big rock. For a moment he felt ashamed.  A man shouldn’t have to hide who he is or what he is.  No man named Judah, no proud daughter of Israel, must ever hide in fear again.  Looking at the bright lights dancing over the menorah, Judah took an oath.  Never again would people be afraid to study Torah. Never again would Hebrew be a forgotten language.  Never again would Jews cower like mice in the dark and cold.  Not the lights of long-dead stars, but rather the great light of the menorah would remind them.  Tomorrow, the next day and the day after that.  As Judah watched the flames and the halos that surrounded them, he knew this:  That year after year, century after century, Jews will remember this night, when the Temple menorah burnt bright again.  That thousands of years from now, they would celebrate this night with family and friends, with songs and good food, and that they would never be afraid again.

The war wasn’t over yet, Judah was well aware of that.  There was much to do yet before the last Greek soldier was chased out of Judea. But Judah’s heart was filled with gladness and hope.  Jerusalem was in the hands of the Jewish People again.

Judah lifted his voice in prayer and song, thanking God for always being there for us.  

© 2018 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Hot Meal At The End Of The Day: Vayeitzei.18

A Hot Meal At The End Of The Day

D’var Torah for Parashat Vayeitzei

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

November 16, 2018

When my children were young, we loved reading books together.  One of our favorites was Where The Wild Things Are, by the wonderful author and illustrator Maurice Sendak. When we got to the page where Max commands, “Let the rumpus start!” we would let loose with a five-minute cacophony of jungle calls and cries. Only then, exhilarated and completely out of breath, would we go on and read the rest of the story. Somehow that brief jungle interlude made the ending even more satisfying, as Max returns into “His very own room where he found his supper waiting for him and it was still hot.”

Sendak’s book is wonderful fantasy, one that enables children to experience escape, adventure and safe return, all in context of a story line that begins with rebellion and ends happily with reconciliation.

As such, Where The Wild Things Are shares much in common with this week’s Torah portion, Vayeitzei (“And Jacob left,” Genesis 28:10—32:3). This portion begins with Jacob packing up hurriedly and leaving the safety of home after tricking his twin brother, Esau, out of the blessing of the firstborn. Fearing Esau’s violent rage, yet braced by the blessing of Isaac and Rebecca, Jacob, whom the Torah describes as “a dweller in tents,” faces his first night away from home. 

That night, sleeping alone on a barren mountain, with the cold earth as his bed and a rock replacing his soft feather pillow, Jacob has his famous dream of the ladder with its top in the heavens. He sees angels going up and down the ladder and has a vision of God, who promises always to be there for Jacob, to protect him and see to his safe return home. Jacob awakens with awe in his heart, but he is only partially reassured by God’s promise. Jacob does not yet know the power of dreams, nor is his faith fully formed yet.

Yet, as Jacob is about to face the uncertainties and dangers of reality, all that is about to change.

Life, as they say, is the best school of all, and Jacob is a fast learner. He almost immediately falls in love, and soon finds himself at the head of a bustling household. Jacob becomes a successful entrepreneur, but along with success he also encounters treachery, jealousy and hatred. His father-in-law and brothers-in-law accuse Jacob of unfair business practices and of taking more than his share of the family wealth. Jacob’s reaction, two decades after his first flight from danger, is to flee once again. Taking all his possessions and his family—now consisting of two wives, two concubines and twelve children—Jacob sets out on his return journey, back to his family home in Canaan.

In light of the future history of his descendants, it isn’t hard to recognize the seeds of anti-Semitism in the accusations that Laban and his sons direct at Jacob. 

Anti-Semitism has always been intricately interwoven with societal change. Invariably, throughout Jewish history, economic and political upheaval resulted in massacres and expulsions. However, along with pain and misery, each disaster also brought about reflection and evaluation. Each new conquest, each revolution and pogrom caused Jews to examine and redefine our relationship with God. The Babylonian destruction of Jerusalem and the First Temple resulted in the writing of the Torah; the second destruction, by the Romans, brought about the Bible and the Talmud. The Zohar, the most important work of Jewish mysticism, came about following the expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492.  

Though we now have statistics by which to measure these seismic convulsions, we really cannot call the latest anti-Semitic episodes—including the murders in Pittsburgh—new or unexpected. That, however, does not diminish their effect, the horror and shock that they evoke within us. The Jewish world is small and closely connected, and many of us feel personally affected by each and every attack, whether it be in Tel Aviv, at a kosher supermarket in France, on the streets of New York, or on a college campus just about anywhere in the United States.

The mass murder at the Tree of Life Synagogue elicited warm support from the larger non-Jewish community. The countless messages of love and sympathy that many of us received provided comfort—but little consolation. The Jewish People are too familiar with the long and painful history of the hatred directed at us. To our dismay, what we have now come to understand is that there is, indeed, nothing new under the sun.

What did surprise me, however, was the number of people who, following the Pittsburgh tragedy, have approached me for spiritual guidance. It was mostly, though not exclusively, young people, college students or recent graduates, for whom this was the first, and most disturbing, example of a phenomenon they had never witnessed before. Swastikas scratched on bathroom walls is one thing. Jewish blood, shed during Sabbath prayer in a synagogue, is another matter altogether.

Maybe, in the relative calm that followed the Holocaust, we have grown too comfortable; maybe the protection promised us by the ADL and other watchdog organizations made us feel too safe. Sadly, we grew accustomed to hearing about violence in Israel; but instead of seeing it as another form of the global war waged against the Jews, we came to accept the terror and the wars as no more than a regional conflict. Anti-Semitic attacks in Europe were also distant from us. Europe, after all, was “the old world.” America was different. 

Or so we thought.

What I have perceived in the many questions that were addressed to me is the shock of awakening to a new-old reality. Young or old, many of us have come to realize the hard truth that Jews in America are not isolated from the rest of our people anywhere else in the world. We are one people. We are not privileged witnesses of the dawning of some new, miraculous age of love and tolerance. The Messiah is in fact still a long way off.

The truth is that we have been deceiving ourselves all along. And it was all so easy to do.

Young men and women have approached me in tears, anger and disbelief. Not unexpectedly, they are wondering about their future and deliberating their choices. They are questioning their faith and pondering their relationship to God and the Jewish People. Like Jacob in Haran, they are wondering if the time has come to go back home to Israel—the national, historic home of the Jewish People. 

Reexamining our Judaism and pondering our path forward is nothing new for our people. We’ve been doing it for thousands of years. Vayeitzei—the story of Jacob’s many travails and close escapes—is the story of the entire People of Israel. Each new chapter, each murder, pogrom or street beating brings about questions about what it means to be Jewish. Some of us inevitably will try to hide or reject their identity. Others, on the other hand, will turn to tradition and explore ways to combine new and old, looking for new meaning in the ancient customs and rituals of our people. 

Jacob’s journey toward God and faith is an evolving and unending process. At every step, after each tragedy in his life, he questions God’s purpose—and finds new answers, new meaning to life and faith. So too, do we, Jacob’s descendants. Jacob’s journey is our journey; his story is our story. It is our history. 

Hopefully, like Max in Where The Wild Things Are, we too will find our way back to our room, where we will find our supper waiting for us, and, like Max’s it too will still be hot.

© 2018 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Legacy And Promise Of America: Chayei Sarah.18

The Legacy And Promise Of America

D’var Torah for Shabbat Chayei Sarah

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Nov. 2, 2018

Honorable guests and community members, fellow clergy and educators, neighbors and friends: Shabbat shalom!

We are humbled by your presence and grateful for the message of hope, strength and solidarity that your presence here tonight brings us. 

By some strange coincidence, this Sabbath is actually an anniversary for me.  On a Sabbath exactly 56 years ago, I stood on a bimah—a synagogue podium—for the first time, on the occasion of my bar mitzvah.

A bar mitzvah is a ceremony that marks the beginning, the very first steps, of adulthood.  To tell the truth, however, I was far from being an adult that day. Having only recently come to the United States from Israel, my chief concerns then were making friends and learning just enough English to get passing grades and not have to go to summer school.  And my chief prayer at the moment was, Oh God, please don’t let me mess up, in front of everybody here!

Skip ahead 56 years, almost to the day, and by the quirks of the calendar, the Torah portion—the weekly reading from our Scriptures—that I chanted that very day, on my bar mitzvah, is also this week’s portion, read on this Shabbat at every synagogue, temple and shul around the world: Chayei Sarah, “The Life of Sarah.” 

At thirteen, however, while I understood the basic storyline, I had no inkling of the lessons that this portion would hold out for me for the rest of my life.  Over the years, I kept coming back to it, and at each new stage of life I found new lessons. The past week has been no different. The horrific event at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh added yet one more layer to my understanding of my Torah portion. 

Despite its title, Chayei Sarah, “The life of Sarah” (Genesis 23:1—25:18), this portion isn’t at all about Sarah’s life. Rather, it’s about Sarah’s death, and about Abraham facing the last two great missions of his life. (You may remember that Abraham and Sarah are the first Hebrews, the first generation and earliest ancestors of the Jewish People.) We are told that Abraham mourns for Sarah, and that when the mourning period is over, he negotiates with one of his neighbors, a wealthy landowner named Ephron, for a cemetery plot—no more than a cave actually—in which to bury Sarah. After this, there remains only one last task he must complete: to find a wife for his son, Isaac. One more negotiation takes place—this time not for land, but rather for the girl’s hand: Rebecca. Happily, Rebecca agrees to marry Isaac, and the future of the Jewish People is secure.  Only now, confident that his legacy is safe-guarded and that the future of his family is on solid ground, only now can Abraham  finally rest. 

Like Abraham, this week we too mourned our dead. We mourned for the tragic loss of life at a Kroger’s Supermarket in Jeffersontown, KY, where a white supremacist took the life of two African Americans, after trying—and failing—to enter a predominantly black church nearby. And we also mourned for the victims of the mass shooting in Pittsburgh, where a neo-Nazi, carrying an assault rifle and three handguns, entered a synagogue during Shabbat services and murdered eleven men and women sitting in prayer, while wounding six more, including four police officers.

The Jewish People is well acquainted with evil.  We recognized this murder for what it was.  

But in addition to the anguish we felt, this hate crime also raised memories and fears that we thought we had left far behind. 

For 500 years, Jews have been coming to America seeking refuge and shelter. Fleeing the Inquisition in Spain; expelled from France, England, and from dozens of other towns and countries; escaping murderous pogroms in eastern Europe, we made our way to new shores of hope, a new promised land, a New World. And then, only one generation ago, six million of our people were murdered in the Holocaust, and even more refugees arrived, each of them a survivor, all still trembling with searing memories of the nightmare they had seen and lived through.

In America we found a safe haven from the ancient, evil hatred we know as anti-Semitism. 

Until recently.

Along with steep escalation in anti-Semitic violence across Europe and elsewhere in the world, we have also seen a 57% increase in anti-Semitic incidents in the United States, the largest recorded rise in 40 years. These include bomb threats, graffiti, hate speech and physical violence. Safe space has increasingly been denied to Jewish students in many colleges and universities across the country. Synagogues and cemeteries have been desecrated. At a parade at the University of Virginia, white supremacists, many of them wearing shirts emblazoned with Nazi swastikas, marched with burning torches and shouted, “Jews will not replace us.” Hate stickers have been found on cars, park benches and even at children’s playgrounds.  Needless to say, the social media have proven rich ground for even more hate speech and abuse. 

The terror attack in Pittsburgh, however, has taken all this to a totally new place, a place we never dreamed we’d find ourselves in.  Along with waves of grief and anger, for the first time in decades we also felt afraid and isolated, filled with doubt and uncertainty.

I am sure you’ve all seen that bumper sticker that, through the use of various images, spells out  the word “coexist.” It’s a beautiful sentiment; but reality isn’t so simple. Coexistence doesn’t just happen. It takes effort; it takes give and take. For coexistence to be and to endure, it has to be negotiated, and its rules must be respected. 

Maybe that’s why, in this week’s Torah portion, Abraham insists that his land purchase be done in the open. With all the townspeople as witnesses, the full price, as asked, was paid; and the field with the burial cave was turned over to Abraham and his descendants.  Yet what was sealed at that moment was more than just a real-estate deal. It was no less than a sacred covenant, a sacred bond between Abraham and his neighbors. This spot would forever remain sacred, a sanctuary never to be disturbed, never desecrated. Those were the terms; that was the agreement.

And that’s what made the atrocity in the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh so horrific. Yes, it was brutal mass murder and a hate crime. But in addition, it was a violation of a sacred trust.  It was breaking faith, intended not only to cause terror and pain, but also meant to tear us apart.  

But in that respect evil did not win out.

Over the past few days, we at TBI have received countless emails, calls, hugs, and messages of support. I have heard from colleagues and friends from all around the country telling me about vigils and services that had overflow attendance, bringing together entire communities. Now that’s the right kind of response! That’s how faith and trust are restored and rebuilt.

We live in unsettled times. War, terrorism and injustice threaten the fragile peace that exists between nations. Climate change, drought and monstrous storms have caused millions of people to lose their homes and possessions, and seek shelter elsewhere. If our nation, our people, are to meet and overcome these challenges, we must never allow hate to come between us. Love your neighbor, our Scriptures teach us; do not hate him or her in your heart. That is the key to our strength and survival. 

Shabbat—the Sabbath—is sacred time. It is right that we are all gathered here tonight, to show our unity and purpose in the face of evil and hate. A synagogue, a temple, church, or mosque—these are the sacred places in our midst. Like the burial cave that Abraham purchased, they are intended to be places where a person can seek God’s presence, and expect to find shelter, peace, tranquility. 

Our united presence here tonight reinforces the holiness not only of this time and place, but also of the bond between us as neighbors and friends. Only with this faith restored can we look forward to a better future, a more secure future, for our children and grandchildren. Like Father Abraham, we can only rest, reassured and confident, when we know that our children can grow up free from fear, at home in a land where all people are considered equal, regardless of their faith, color or gender.

My friends, I recently had occasion to re-read the letter that President George Washington sent to the Hebrew Congregation at Newport, RI. It is well worth quoting from today. Asked to reaffirm America’s covenant with the Jews, President Washington wrote: “May the children of the stock of Abraham who dwell in this land continue to merit and enjoy the good will of the other inhabitants—while every one shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree and there shall be none to make him afraid.” 

That IS America’s legacy; that is the sacred ground upon which its future rests.

God bless America; may God bless us all with peace and tranquility. 

© 2018 by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The World We Choose To Live In: Domestic Terrorism And The USA

The World We Choose To Live In

Domestic Terrorism And The USA

Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 26, 2018

Before we begin this service, I want to put in a word of gratitude.

I am—we all are—deeply indebted to this country for the many gifts and freedoms it has granted us. For the Jewish People, this isn’t something that we take for granted. Our history has taught us that freedom and security are often at the whim of a land baron, tyrant or emperor.

I am—we all are—grateful to the United States security agencies for apprehending a suspect in the recent spate of IED’s—pipe bombs that were mailed to people who have served our country in the highest positions of government: Presidents Barack Obama and Bill Clinton, former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, former Attorney General Eric Holder and former CIA Director John Brennan, among others.

It’s easy—too easy—to blame one person, a group or an entire political party based on the actions of one cowardly and crazed individual. But before we do that, let us remember that violence is, unfortunately, a hallmark of the human race. From the earliest times of humanity, from the first set of brothers in the Bible, Cain and Abel, we find violence and murder. 

For better or for worse, our country is infatuated with violence. We glorify the weapons and uniforms of our military and police. In a different category, we idealize and idolize violence and crime, from Billy The Kid to Bonnie and Clyde; from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid to Al Capone and—more recently—James “Whitey” Bulger.

You could even say that our country was born through violence, and that it survived through violence—the Revolution and the Civil War, respectively.

In the 1960’s we saw violence perpetrated by the Radical Left—the Weather Underground and the Symbionese Liberation Army among others.

We’ve witnessed assassinations of national, religious and political leaders.

We’ve seen lone-wolf violence and mass shootings at schools, movie theaters, and concert arenas.

More recently, there has been a surge of violence from the Alt Right, groups aligned with neo-Nazis, racists, misogynists and homophobes. The pipe bombs sent to Democratic Party leaders are only the latest example of this violence.  

We are a nation steeped in violence.

Perhaps we are no different from any other group of human beings anywhere else on the globe.  

But we believe that we are different, that we are better, that we live in a country of law, justice and order, in a country where people respect the freedoms of speech and expression.

And as long as we believe that, we must try to live up to our own expectations.  

I’m not talking about restricting any freedoms, including the freedom to bear arms. I’m talking about trained behavior, educated behavior, compassionate behavior, respectful behavior.

Evidently humanity isn’t born to be gentle and compassionate. These are traits that must be learned and practiced daily in order to become inherent in our society.

But that’s not what we are seeing in our movie theaters, in our video games, in the news that we are presented every day, morning noon and night.  All these are permeated with shootings and explosions, bloodshed and murder, violence and intimidation.

If that’s who and what we choose to be, then we are on the right track.  But if we are going to try to live up to the ideals of the United States of America, then we need to do something about the culture we live in.

We need to retrain ourselves to respect one another even if we disagree; we need to listen to one another even if our opinions differ. 

V’ahavta l’rei-acha kamocha, “love your neighbor as yourself,” the Torah teaches us, and we need not only to memorize these words, but to practice them on a daily basis, on a moment-by-moment basis.  

Only so will we begin to see a change in the public atmosphere, in the social discourse around us, in the behavior that we see and follow by example.

We are grateful that the dozen or so pipe bombs that were sent to public leaders this time did not explode. We are lucky in that way, because God knows what that would have led to in these troubled times.

We are grateful that the post office workers, the police, FBI and other security agencies acted together and with due speed to capture the man suspected of mailing these bombs. We salute the men and women who acted unhesitatingly to ensure the safety and security of our people and our land.

We can only pray that this violence will cease and disappear. We can only hope and pray for better, more peaceful and loving times.

© 2018 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Prayer for Pittsburgh

A Prayer for Pittsburgh

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 27, 2018

Another active shooting scene. 

Sabbath peace broken, Sabbath holiness desecrated.  

There are no words, no words of consolation. There are no prayers, even God is mute tonight.

The Talmud teaches that we should not comfort the mourners at the time of their most intense grief. Indeed, there is no—there CAN be—no consolation tonight for an ongoing crime of hatred. Today’s terror attack may be over, but anti-Semitism is an ongoing crime; it’s been ongoing for thousands of years now. 

I do not call for revenge. Sometimes even justice seems impossible. We will need time to digest what happened today: an assault rifle—reportedly an AK 47—and three handguns used to spread death in the Tree of Life Synagogue. 

To bring mayhem, murder, and violence into a house of prayer chills us all, Jews and non-Jews alike. A house of prayer is a place we go to in order to find safety, sanctuary, peace; to find oneself; to find God.

We’ve seen other attacks on houses of worship and community centers in America: Sikh and Buddhist temples, African-American churches, Muslim mosques, Baptist churches. They are all crimes of heinous hate. As with all those others, so we here today will have to find a way to move on, to absorb our sorrow, to put it all in some sort of perspective.  But I’m afraid that tonight I just don’t know how to do that.

I don’t know how to quell the anger I feel within me as I witness yet again the hatred that still continues, the hatred that killed so many of my own family, along with six million other Jews just one generation ago, in the accursed Holocaust.

I don’t know what to do with the horror; the fear; with the memories, still so recent, still alive, of Jews being killed, tortured, burned alive in their synagogues, that today’s hate attack awakens in so many of us. 

I don’t know how to handle the grief I feel tonight, for the eleven men and women (so far “only” eleven, with at least two more still in surgery, still fighting for their lives tonight), whose lives were so cruelly cut short today, for the only crime that they were Jews. At this point we don’t know yet how many men, how many women; we only know there were—thank God—no children among the dead.

I would like to start some sort of healing process by feeling and expressing gratitude: for the first responders, Pittsburgh Police officers, FBI agents, and SWAT teams that acted heroically, rushing into the synagogue selflessly, heroically, despite the live fire that was directed against them.  I am grateful for the ER doctors and nurses who responded swiftly, showing up within minutes and beginning to treat the wounded where they lay, in the pews, on the floor. I am grateful to the surgeons and other medical workers who continued the caretaking of the injured in the area’s excellent hospitals.

I am grateful for the unity and community support I sense around me. We are all in this together. When our days of grief and mourning will be over, we will need to gather yet again, at homes, schools, at houses of worship; to discuss how we’ve come to this point. We’ll need to talk about the hatred, the radicalization, the incitement to violence that we see and hear around us today.

But at this point all we can do is sit in silence. We need to take a moment to reflect on the terrible events that transpired today at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, PA, but whose implications will continue to reverberate in our society for a long time yet to come. In our silence, let us feel not anger, not vengeance, not even fear. Let us feel, rather, love, and pity. Love—for one another; for the community and families of the victims of today’s mass shooting. And pity—for our nation and the current state of our nation. Let us reflect.

My friends, during the next few days we will pray not only for God’s comfort and consolation, we will also pray to find within us the strength to end the hatred, to silence the hateful rhetoric we hear all around us; to put an end to the anti-Semitism, the racism, xenophobia, homophobia and misogyny that poison our nation.  May we all come to comprehend fully the power that words have on us—the power to move us to love, help and support; but also the power to provoke hatred, violence and bloodshed. May our thoughts and prayers tonight be accompanied by acts of loving-kindness and righteousness.

May God bless us all with safety, security and peace. 

May God comfort all mourners and console all the bereaved among us, to which we say, Amen.

Lessons Our Fathers Taught Us: Vayeira 2018

Lessons Our Fathers Taught Us: Vayeira 2018

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

We rabbis often display a keen sense of righteousness.  We know what’s right, we speak of it often, and we do so with weighty authority. Somewhere along the way, whether yet in rabbinic school or through listening to other, more worthy preachers, we also pick up a certain voice, a rhythm and cadence that manage to convince everyone that we know whereof we speak.

Well, tonight I choose to speak of something that—for a change—I know very little about: Raising children.

I do that because this week’s Torah portion, Vayeira(Genesis 18:1—22:24) includes the story of the Binding of Isaac, the harrowing drama of the child born to Abraham and Sarah and then nearly offered by his father as sacrifice to God. This story has been visited and revisited countless times. It’s been topic of endless discussions, and still remains mysterious and unresolved to this day. What was God’s purpose in requesting this sacrifice—after promising Abraham progeny and seemingly fulfilling the promise through Isaac’s birth? What was Abraham thinking in agreeing? Was it all some great hoax? A misunderstanding, as some propose? Additionally, there’s Sarah’s silence. Did Abraham leave her guessing, as he does with all the other characters in the story?  And—most urgently—why did Abraham not protest, as he had done just earlier in the portion, when God informs him of  His intention to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah?

The Midrash teaches that the Binding of Isaac was the tenth and most challenging test of faith that God put Abraham through. If so, it was a cruel gesture, one that led to heartbreak and tragedy. How could God be so vicious and heartless?

In lieu of trying yet again to solve these puzzles, I want to approach the subject from a different perspective. Rather than this being a test of the relationship between God and Abraham, can this story be a lesson that Abraham might have been trying to teach Isaac?  A lesson about life, or perhaps about faith and God?

In earlier Torah portions and stories, we’ve seen several examples of parents—or other teachers—failing to teach their children and pupils. Adam never tells Cain that killing his brother is wrong. Noah doesn’t begin to warn his neighbors about their violent ways; nor does he clarify for his sons the rights and wrongs of sexual ethics. 

We don’t know much about the way Isaac is brought up or taught by his parents. Born to aged parents after years of inability to conceive, presumably, in their eyes, he can do no wrong. Isaac is protected by his mother’s eagle-sharp eyes. That much we know with certainty. But we hear not a word about what his father might be teaching Isaac about God, or about life and the challenges of living as an outsider, a foreigner, follower of a different religion, different in so many ways from his friends and neighbors.  

Perhaps the ordeal at the mountain was Abraham’s way of introducing Isaac to God? 

But if so, what kind of God was he showing his son? A cruel, intimidating master, not to be questioned, one whose will was, is and forever will be inscrutable and impenetrable.

Abraham could not have known in advance that God would stay his hand and forbid forever the practice of child sacrifice. Nor could either he or Isaac have known the power of tears or prayer to reach Heaven’s gate and to change God’s will—a concept that would become key in Jewish philosophy and, in the future, play a preeminent role in our Yom Kippur liturgy.

So what exactly was Abraham trying to teach his son, Isaac?

What do we, parents, grandparents and teachers, try to teach our children? What are some of the most important lessons we try to impart to them?

We try to give them survival tools; to teach them a trade; to advise them of life’s dangers and pitfalls, and how to be prepared for the many challenges that are bound to come up. We teach them about right and wrong, and about being loving and helpful to family and community. We teach them to become responsible adults rather than remain adolescents, forever demanding more.

Ultimately, however, more than anything else, we try to teach them to be independent. We don’t want our children to constantly look to us to hold their hand or be there for them at every moment.  Inevitably, the time will come when we won’t be there, when there will be no one to phone or text with a question or request. And then what? If we don’t teach our children how to find their own truth in a complex world, how will they know what to do when the need arises, as it inevitably will?

In our own day, much has been written about the longer adolescence that millennials are enjoying. This is due both to better health and nutrition, but also because of societal expectations. It isn’t that we coddle and shield our children so much as we are reluctant to let go and let them grow up. Even without becoming helicopter parents, we protect and shelter them probably longer than is necessary, for the simple reason that we can, and because we love them and are hesitant to let them fend for themselves in a dangerous world. 

On the other hand, the shortage of affordable housing and a tighter job market mean that many of us have to go on supporting our offspring for longer than ever. It isn’t choice so much anymore, as necessity. Politicians and sociologists go back and forth blaming, on the one hand, excessive permissiveness and, on the other, a starker reality.

Ultimately, though, we have to admit that we just don’t know.  After all, what is so wrong with helping out and being there for our children for as long as we can, and they need us?  Is it such a disservice to them, especially at a time of great social and economic change, to support them economically, emotionally or in any other way we can?  Is there such a thing as too much love?

The story of the Binding of Isaac, as it appears in the Torah (Gen. 22:1-19), is short and cryptic, told in a few masterful brushstrokes. Yet we learn so much from the few words exchanged between father and son; we infer even that much more from the silences between the words. Isaac is no fool. He sees the tools for the sacrifices and inquires about the missing lamb. Abraham responds by saying that God will see to the lamb. Isaac understands. He wonders about the love his father has for him, but is reassured by the tears he sees coursing down the aged, furrowed cheeks. Yet ultimately he is placed and bound upon the altar, and then he knows for certain. He understands that he has entered a new stage in his life, one in which he can no longer depend on his father, one in which he will question even God’s will and ability to protect and defend him. At that moment, not knowing whether he will live or die, Isaac understands, more than ever before, that he is no longer a child. Something has changed, and he comprehends fully the lonely isolation inherent in existence and life. 

At the next moment, however, both Isaac and Abraham learn a fateful lesson: the power of prayer. 

There is no certainty in prayer, but there is faith and hope.

After this momentous experience, Abraham names the mountain Adonai Yir’eh—the place where God sees. At this moment, Abraham understands and teaches Isaac that God is not heartless, that God sees the tears of the suffering and lonely, that God hears the prayer of the needy and destitute. Even without any words exchanged, Isaac understands. However, he also recognizes another truth: that from now on he must fend for himself. Nothing can be taken for granted, not a father’s love, nor even God’s promise of protection. We must be strong in ourselves, because there are no guarantees in life, no exchanges and no returns.

For the rest of his days, Isaac will wonder and reflect about the meaning of love, trust and faith. He will forever try to comprehend fully the lesson he learned that day on the Mountain of Seeing. 

As for Abraham—his story is now nearly done. There are a few duties left to be fulfilled, but as far as teaching his son about God and life, he has done all he could and more. He has taught Isaac all he knew. His heart now filled with a stronger, yet sadder, faith than ever, Abraham is ready to face the last years of his life.

And we—Abraham’s descendants? Are we doing all we can? Are we being over-protective? Have we done enough to provide our children with the tools they will need to face an uncertain and even dangerous world? 

We can only hope so. 

But at this time, wise words attributed to many and various sources come to mind: Give your children roots and wings. Roots to know where home is; wings to soar with, to imagine, and to create new worlds.

And may we all find the wisdom to know both how to love our children and protect them, but also how to give them freedom, strength and independence. 

© 2018 by Boaz D. Heilman