Vayeshev. 24: Joseph and his Brothers, Part One: A Fall from Glory

Joseph and his Brothers, Part One: A Fall from Glory

D’var Torah on Parashat Vayeshev

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

December 20, 2024

Few of the Torah’s stories are as moving and rich in structure and detail as the one of Joseph and his brothers. Consisting of almost a third of the entire book of Genesis, this magnificent story contains several motifs that help weave its many parts together: clothing, seeing, remembering (and forgetting), and recognition are but some of these. Yet along with all these elements, this famous story is also key to understanding the development and philosophy of Judaism. 

While the larger conflict in the story is between Joseph and Judah, they each need to learn some important lessons about themselves. Each will go through painful ordeals that will help them grow personally, even as they come to understand the role they are destined to play in the larger drama and history of our People. 

The title of this week's Torah portion (Vayeshev—"Jacob settled," Genesis 37:1—40:23) is vastly misleading. Despite the fact that his brother Esau returns to Edom without making any further claim on Jacob’s share of the Promised Land, and despite the fact that Jacob is finally back in his father’s land and perhaps initially even feeling “at home”, Jacob's new home-life is anything but settled. Not uncharacteristically, Jacob manages to ratchet up the tension that so far has been smoldering just below the surface within his own family. The storyline is familiar: Jacob loves Joseph more than his other sons and is not afraid (or perhaps is naïve enough) to put his preference out on full display. He presents Joseph with a multi-colored (or striped—there are various interpretations of the Hebrew word) tunic that represents both favoritism and power. Joseph meanwhile has his own visions of power and glory. He has dreams—first the one set in a field, in which his brothers' sheaves of wheat bow down to his; and then another, now set in the heavens, in which the sun, moon and eleven stars bow down to him personally. At this point, the jealousy that Joseph's brothers have been harboring from day one turns murderous. One day, as they herd their sheep at some distance from home, Jacob sends Joseph (again—brazenly or naively) to inquire after their welfare. Seeing him from afar, and undoubtedly recognizing his multi-colored coat, the brothers plot to kill Joseph. They seize the boy and are about to dispatch him but are dissuaded first by Reuben, who intends to return him to Jacob unharmed, and then by Judah—who views the possibility of selling Joseph into slavery as more advantageous ("He is [after all,] our brother and our flesh” (Gen. 37:27)). The brothers take his advice, and Joseph is sold to a caravan of spice and slave traders making their way down to Egypt. 

At this point the Torah turns its full attention to Judah. This part isn't always told in the more popular retellings of the story, but is essential to understanding Judah and the personal  transformation he will need to undertake--from a despicable villain to the person destined to become the leader of his people, indeed the Father of Judah-ism. This transformation will be brought about through the agency of Tamar, Judah's daughter-in-law. After the death of Tamar's husband—Judah's first born, Er—Judah gives her to his second son, Onan. In doing so, Judah is following the custom of levirate marriage—meant to provide livelihood and legal protection to a widow. Onan however refuses to fulfill his duty and is smitten by God. Judah has one remaining son, but he is now afraid for the boy's life and sends Tamar back to her own family, promising to take her back when the boy is fully grown. However, Judah soon forgets his promise.

Some time later, Tamar learns that her father-in-law is in the vicinity. Dressing as a harlot and positioning herself at a major crossroads, she manages to seduce Judah--who (what a louse he proves to be!) is unable to pay her right away. Tamar instead asks for his staff and signet ring (OK—so he's more than a louse, he's also very stupid; the staff and signet ring are symbols of his identity and authority). Three months later, Judah hears that Tamar is pregnant. He orders that she be burnt at the stake for her infidelity. However, at the last moment Tamar produces the evidence and announces that the father is the none else but the owner of the staff and ring. Judah is publicly humiliated, but for once in his life makes the right—and ethical—choice: he admits his wrongs. “She has been more righteous than I," he proclaims (Gen. 38:26). He still has a long way to go, but this admission of guilt is the first step towards Judah's redemption. 

Turning back to Joseph, we now learn that he's been sold to a wealthy Egyptian—Potiphar—who gives Joseph the run of the house. Potiphar's wife is smitten by Joseph's good looks and attempts to seduce him. Joseph however manages to repel her, but at one point flees in a panic, leaving his tunic in her hand. Raising a hue and a cry, Potiphar’s wife accuses Joseph of attempting to rape her. Enraged, Potiphar has Joseph thrown in prison. But even there Joseph proves successful in everything he does—and keeps up his reputation as diviner of dreams.

However, the portion ends with Joseph still languishing in the dungeon, forgotten and with little hope for redemption and freedom.

To be continued.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

Jacob's Trail of Tears: Vayishlach.24

Jacob's Trail of Tears: Vayishlach

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

December 13, 2024

This week's Torah portion, Va-yishlach ("He sent messengers," Genesis 32:4--36:43), continues the tragic saga of Jacob, the third patriarch of the Jewish People. No longer pursued by Laban, his treacherous father-in-law, Jacob still has to face his first pursuer—his own twin brother, Esau. Jacob has left aspects of his past behind him several times. First, when he left his home (Genesis 28:10) to escape Esau's rage. A second time is his escape from Laban's house, where he had spent 20 years laboring for love and fortune. Now, however, as Jacob makes his way back to his homeland, he realizes that the past has no time limit. Esau is coming towards him along with 400 armed men. Jacob does all he can to protect himself and his family. He sends ahead messengers (mal’achim, the same word as “angels”) bearing lavish gifts along with the promise that more would be forthcoming. Then he divides his family and possessions into two camps, hoping that even if one is destroyed the other would still be safe. (Rachel and Joseph are in the latter camp of course, a gesture that no one in Jacob's family fails to notice and which will cause even more jealousy than already existed among them). Sending both camps ahead, Jacob remains alone on a mountaintop. 

There follows a mysterious encounter that turns into a wrestling match. The Torah first describes the confrontation as between Jacob and "a man," but then lets Jacob—and us—understand that this was a "divine being." Wrestling until the dawn breaks, Jacob is hurt, but not defeated. In return for releasing the angel, Jacob demands a blessing, which he receives along with a name change. Jacob now becomes Yisrael, meaning, "You have struggled with God and with men, and have prevailed" (Gen. 32:28 NKJV--it is verse 29 in the Hebrew version).  

Limping forward but heartened by the blessing, Jacob discovers within himself the courage to face Esau. Spoiler alert: The meeting between the two brothers goes well; Esau is appeased by Jacob's gifts and language--even if there was no actual apology in anything Jacob said. These are all the result of God's blessings, Jacob declares. Nothing has come to him from the (stolen) birthright blessings he had received from Isaac. Jacob's cleverness works once again, and Esau departs, letting Jacob proceed at his own pace to meet his own future. 

Sadly however, the future is anything but peaceful. Dina, the daughter born to Jacob and Leah, goes out "to see the daughters of the land" (Gen. 34:1). She is seized and raped by the prince of the city. Two of Jacob's sons, Shimon and Levi, are so enraged that they trick the men of the city into circumcising themselves. At night, as the men of Shechem are lying in agony, the two brothers fall upon them, slaughter all the men and seize their possessions. 

The tragedies continue: Deborah, Rebecca's nursemaid (who evidently joins Jacob's tribe, possibly to help with all the children), dies. Soon afterwards, in giving birth to Benjamin, the beloved Rachel dies too, and is buried along the way to Bethlehem. Step by tragic step, Jacob continues on his path home. When he finally gets there, he realizes that Rebecca, his mother, had died during the years he was away. He does manage to see his father, Isaac, but the Torah says nothing about this meeting, leaving it all up to our imagination.

On a somewhat hopeful note, when Isaac dies his two sons--Jacob AND Esau--come together to bury him. Peace, the Torah implies, even among sworn enemies, is possible when we recognize a mutual legacy. Fraught with errors and mistakes, our collective past is still what we have in common. Shalom--peace--is only possible when we join together broken pieces, fixing and making whole again that which was broken in the past.

It's a lesson that will be reinforced through the next story in the book of Genesis: the story of Joseph and his brothers.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

Discovering Faith on the Path of Life: Va-Yeitzei.24

Discovering Faith on the Path of Life: Va-Yeitzei

D’var Torah by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

December 5, 2024

My friend Reuven, a scholar, teacher and blogger whose wisdom and friendship have long enriched my life, likes to call the first book of the Torah, Genesis, "the book of beginnings." And of course he is right. Genesis is about the beginning of creation and civilization as we know them, as well as the beginning of the Jewish People and the Jewish way of life. With Abraham and Sarah, then Isaac and Rebecca, the book lays the foundation for Jewish belief. Now, as the story of Jacob and his wives Rachel and Leah begins, we learn of the origins of the Jewish People. 

All beginnings are chaotic. We start with raw material and then, hopefully, find inspiration, goal and direction. So it is also with Jacob, our third Patriarch. Va-Yeitzei, this week's Torah portion, Genesis 28:10—32:3, literally means “he set out,” and as the story begins, Jacob leaves his father's and mother's home, fleeing the murderous rage of his twin brother Esau. Young and naïve, not skilled with the hunter’s spear as his brother Esau, Jacob is filled with fear and dread. Even though God appears to him in a dream (the famous "Jacob's ladder" scene, Gen. 28:12-16) and promises protection along all his journeys, Jacob's faith is riddled with misgivings. When he arrives at his uncle Laban's house, his journey's goal, he is at first greeted with joy (and Rachel's love), but the joy proves fleeting. Cheating and conniving seem to run rampant in this family. Laban cheats Jacob several times over, and Jacob reciprocates by using magic to increase his wealth. At least that's what he thinks he is doing, though his later explanation of what exactly happened (Gen. 31:8-10) leaves us mystified--does he really believe his own story, or is he beginning to perceive God's hand in his success? Rachel--the beloved wife--and Leah, her unloved sister, compete for Jacob's love, and between them and their handmaidens give birth to eleven of the 12 sons who will become "B'nai Yisrael," the Children of Israel, aka the Jewish People. (There is also one daughter, Dina, whose tragic story and fate are part of next week’s portion). Meanwhile, with all the chaos, cheating and dishonesty in Laban’s household coming to a head, God appears to Jacob once again and commands him to return home. While keeping his father-in-law in the dark about his plans, Jacob gathers his family and all his accumulated wealth and possessions and--yet again--is forced to flee what has been his home for 20 years. Laban and his jealous, hate-filled sons (where have we heard this before??) give chase to the fugitives, but God warns them against causing any harm to Jacob or his family. As the portion ends, Jacob sees angels once again, reinforcing his growing understanding that God is not just some local deity, in conformity with other religious beliefs of the time and place, but rather is the One God whose sovereignty extends over all creation, the God of Israel.

Jacob is quite possibly the most "human" of the three Patriarchs, the one we can most relate to. Our journey in life, like Jacob's, is often dictated by forces outside our control, and we react as best as we can, using whatever talents and gifts we may possess. Our faith competes with reality until—sometimes sooner, sometimes later in life—we somehow find our way back to the beliefs of our ancestors and reclaim our roots. Like Jacob, perceiving the guiding hand of God in our life’s journey is a gradual process. It does not prevent or excuse us from making mistakes. These have to be corrected along the way, as we slowly come to see the story of our life unfold and reach its inevitable conclusion. Finding our way home is challenging, but it is not without rewards and blessings, if we but open our eyes and see God's angels accompanying us all along the way. 

May our path be less torturous and tragic than Jacob's.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

Rebecca's Role: Toldot.24

Rebecca's Role

D’var Torah on Parashat Toldot

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

November 29, 2024

This week's Torah portion, Toldot, Genesis 25:19--28:9, continues the saga of the First Family of the Jewish People. With Abraham and Sarah gone, it's Isaac and Rebecca who now will determine the future both of the Jewish people and of Jewish belief. Rebecca gives birth to twins--Esau and Jacob--whose struggles for control start even before they are born and continue even to this day. Recognizing that Jacob--the younger of the two--is the one who must carry on the family's traditions, Rebecca tricks Isaac into giving Jacob the Covenantal blessing, arousing Esau's rage and eternal hatred. As the portion ends, Jacob is forced to leave his home in search of his own future--and God's role in it.

The idea that our lives are--at least to some extent--controlled by God (or the gods) is at the basis of every religion. Human beings have always done their best to curry favor with the gods and at the same time to ward off their wiles and excesses, whether through prayer or sacrifice. Though in the long history of religions, Judaism is still relatively young ("only" 3,600 years old), its revolutionary ideas have never ceased to amaze people, or to arouse their curiosity or rage. We already find the first of these in the stories of the Patriarch Abraham, the first ancestor of the Jewish People. Abraham comes to understand that prayer and sacrifice are not enough; sometimes we must take matters into our own hands. Sarah--the first matriarch of our people--will offer yet another example of this innovative idea, as she first urges Abraham to father a child through her slave, Hagar, then, after the birth of Isaac, demands that he send both Hagar and the child (Ishmael) away. Ferociously protective of Isaac, Sarah will not put up with any competition from anywhere or anyone. Despite Abraham's objections, God approves of Sarah's demands, enabling Isaac to be the sole bearer of the blessings of the Covenant with God. Still, as he grows older, Isaac remains a somewhat passive actor in the Biblical stories. It will be Rebecca, the wife chosen for him, who will take the next steps in ensuring the continuity of the First Family of Judaism. First, troubled by a difficult pregnancy, Rebecca "goes to inquire of God" (and is thus credited by the Rabbis as the first Jew to understand the real power of prayer, not only to ask for something but to also seek answers and understanding). As the story unfolds, Rebecca goes further than Abraham and Sarah: she not only takes matters into her own hands; she actually manipulates and tricks both Isaac, her husband, and Jacob, her favorite son, into carrying out what she believes is God's intent. Possibly aware of Rebecca's intentions and actions (the text is intentionally ambiguous), Isaac nonetheless passes the Covenant blessings to Jacob rather than Esau. 

From the start, we recognize in Rebecca a precocious child, one to be reckoned with. She is not only beautiful but also physically strong and of high principles. She is anything but passive. At this point in the story, she outdoes even herself. While setting up a struggle that will last forever, Rebecca also ensures that Jacob will receive God’s blessing and carry forward the future of the Jewish People. Not without her faults (who is?), Rebecca thus earns her place as the second Matriarch of the Jewish People.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman 

 

To Carry on the Legacy: Chayei Sarah.24

To Carry on the Legacy

D’var Torah on Parashat Chayei Sarah

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

November 22, 2024

(In recognition of the 62nd anniversary of my bar mitzvah and the 61st anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy)

61 years ago, on November 22 1963, the 35 President of the United States, John F. Kennedy, was assassinated. For some of us, it’s more than history: We remember precisely where we were when we heard it. Whether it was his youthful good looks and charm, his humor, or his idealism—JFK proved an inspiration to most of us. I remember how—on a Sabbath morning in 1962, as my family and I were walking to temple to celebrate a family friend’s bar mitzvah—the President’s motorcade passed us on one of the thoroughfares that ran through our neighborhood in Los Angeles. We saw him clearly, and he saw us and waved, a gesture that remains embedded in my memory.

President Kennedy served barely over 1000 days. Yet his legacy is profound and lasting. Granted, history hasn’t always been kind to him. The Bay of Pigs invasion, an attempt to remove Fidel Castro and the Communist Party from power in Cuba, was badly botched, and to this day remains a black stain on US foreign policy. His extra-marital affairs are still fodder for tabloids and media pundits. 

Yet there was something there that, at least at the time, moved and enthralled us. The young family that played on the White House Lawn; the beautiful wife who led tours of the White House and invited leading musicians to play concerts there; and of course his famous call as part of his Inaugural Address, “Ask not what your country can do for you–ask what you can do for your country.” These weren’t empty words. Two months into his Presidency, President Kennedy established the Peace Corps. Since its inception, more than 240,000 Americans have joined the Peace Corps and served in 142 countries. 

John F. Kennedy was groomed for power from his earliest days. He came from a rich and powerful family. He could have merely used his office to enrich himself further. Yet he didn’t. He took his position seriously and believed he could make a difference in the world. Kennedy’s biography, published by the White House Historical Association, reads in part, “His administration… saw the beginning of new hope for both the equal rights of Americans and the peace of the world.”  

Today these words may elicit ironic chuckles from some of us, more jaded than others. Yet one cannot doubt their truth. Kennedy made us believe that we could make the world better, starting with our own country.

We know that goals aren’t reached overnight, especially when there are hurdles in the way. And sometimes we experience setbacks that may be gloomy and discouraging. We certainly seem to be going through one of these periods today.

Yet, to remember is to hold a candle to something that once was, and which can be again.

It is said that President Kennedy’s favorite musical was Camelot, based on the wonderful retelling of the King Arthur legends by T. H. White, The Once and Future King. People—simple people as well as presidents and kings—live and die. But ideals never die. King Arthur, according to legend, is destined to come back, along with his vision of a world—round like his Round Table—with no borders, no frontiers and no wars. It sounds impossible, but it is a vision worth living—and sometimes fighting—for. We must never give up the hope or stop working towards the ideals expressed by the world’s greatest teachers and leaders. 

This week’s Torah portion is Chayei Sarah (“The Life of Sarah,” Genesis 23:1-25:18). The storyline of the portion, however, has very little to do with her life; it begins with her death. Realizing that this follows immediately in the footsteps of the Akeda—the story of the near sacrifice of Isaac by his father, Abraham—the Rabbis of the first century felt the need to fill in the gap in the story. The midrash tells that at the time that Abraham was lifting his knife to slay Isaac, Satan appeared to Sarah (who had stayed back home) and told her of her beloved’s son’s fate. He of course left out the part where Abraham’s hand is stayed by the hand of God. Sarah, perhaps in horror, perhaps in grief, perhaps in rage, utters a cry and dies, never knowing what happens next. It’s a tragic ending—she will never see Isaac again, and Isaac has lost both his mother and his previously innocent faith. But Chayei Sarah isn’t about her. It’s about Sarah’s legacy. It’s about her fierce love for her son and family, and about her selfless pursuit of justice and righteousness—from God as well as people. The moral of the rabbinic midrash is that we must not give in to the same kind of fury and hopelessness that Sarah did. We must not let despair overcome our hopes. If we, the Jewish People, did that, we wouldn’t exist at this point. But instead, we light more candles, we read more books, we increase knowledge, and we never let hope die. 

At the end of this Torah portion, Isaac marries Rebecca, who picks up where Sarah left off. Rebecca works hard and tirelessly to ensure that Sarah’s legacy will continue into the future. Her determination to see things turn out right, as they are meant to, is the answer to Sarah’s grief. We can do no less.

May this be the lesson we carry forward with us at this time, remembering those who inspired us in the past and those who carry the message forward today. May we be counted among them.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

Abraham’s Faith: Lekh-Lekha.24

Abraham’s Faith

D’var Torah on Parashat Lekh Lekha

November 8, 2024

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Nearly three decades ago I fulfilled the requirement of delivering a “senior sermon” to the faculty and my fellow students at Hebrew Union College in New York City, where I received my rabbinic ordination the following year. The topic I was assigned was this week’s Torah portion, Lekh-Lekha (“Go forth,” Genesis 12:1—17:27). Preparing this sermon led me to question—and later, better to understand—Abraham’s faith. 

The title of this portion is part of God’s call to Abraham to leave his homeland and go forth to a land which “I [God] will show you.” These words mark the beginning not only of Abram’s travels (the “H” in his name will be added later in the portion), but also the beginning of the journey of the entire Jewish People through history. 

The motivating factor in both is Faith. But Abraham’s faith, unlike ours, his descendants and followers, was complete and unwavering. He is eager to follow God’s commands to the letter, with no delay. Even when told to offer his only beloved son, Isaac, as sacrifice to God, “Abraham rose early in the morning” (Gen. 22:3), not wanting to lose a moment in fulfilling God’s command. He does hesitate briefly however, when, due to a famine in Canaan, he is forced to go to Egypt, where food was plentiful, but which was also a place known for rampant immorality and abuse. “Tell them you are my sister,” Abraham asks Sarah, his wife, “so that I may live because of you. If the Egyptians see you, and think, ‘She is his wife,’ they will kill me and let you live. Please say that you are my sister, that it may go well with me because of you, and that I may remain alive thanks to you” (Gen. 12:12-13).

Naturally, as soon as Pharaoh sees Sarah he is smitten by her beauty and takes her to his palace, intending to make her his wife. Abraham must have had a premonition that this is exactly what would happen, and yet he went along with it. Pragmatic optimism, perhaps. 

But faith? Faith that somehow God would save Sarah? In Abraham’s case, the answer, of course, would have to be yes.

This was the extent Abraham’s faith. The same faith that led him to be willing to entrust his son Isaac to God’s will.

And yet, when Abraham’s nephew, Lot, was taken captive along with the entire population of Sodom, Abraham musters all his allies to chase the attackers who had captured them. Where was Abraham’s faith then, I asked in my sermon. Why did he not trust God to redeem Lot and the other captives? Why did he feel compelled to give pursuit and free them himself?

One answer could be that the Torah is teaching a moral lesson here: Freeing the captive is a time-bound mitzvah (a sacred commandment that must be fulfilled within a specific time frame). In the captives’ lives, time was of the essence. People were in imminent danger. Lives were at stake. It is as though God was telling Abraham (see also Mekhilta on Ex. 14:15), “This is not a time to pray. Now go forth and do what you must do!” 

Yet something continued to trouble me. At what point are we called upon to rely on our faith in God, and when does life compel us to rely instead on ourselves?

Why were Lot’s life and safety so much more pressing than Sarah’s and Isaac’s that Abraham was driven to action instead of prayer?

Perhaps Abraham, man of faith, also knew something about corruption and evil. Humanity was endowed with free choice to do both right and wrong, to do evil as well as to pursue justice. With some, however, evil becomes their pursuit, and they let nothing stand in their way. The Pharaoh in Abraham’s story was not the same Pharaoh as in Moses’s time. The latter “hardens his heart;” the former shows greater flexibility. He is not beyond redemption. He can still do the right thing, as long as he knows what that is. Abraham was taking a reasonable chance.

Moreover, the Zohar—the Book of Splendor, the ultimate text of Jewish mysticism—extols Sarah’s righteousness and its effect on Pharaoh: “Come and behold, the Shechinah [God’s Presence on earth] did not leave Sarah at all during that night. When Pharaoh approached her, an angel came and hit him. And whenever Sarah said, ‘Hit,’ he hit” (Zohar, Lech Lecha 13).

Abraham, praying throughout the night, knew how strong Sarah’s faith was, and he put his trust in that.

Similarly, Abraham must have been certain of Isaac’s faith. The short conversation between father and son (Gen. 22:7-8) as they walk together shows complete innocence, faith and trust. Abraham knew how strong the bond was between God and Isaac. He trusted his son’s faith enough to believe that it would match God’s faith. And so he didn’t argue, never said a word in reproach of a God who had promised that it would be through Isaac that the Covenant would be maintained (Gen. 17:21).

But Lot was another matter. Though raised in Abraham’s care, later on Lot preferred to live among the citizens of Sodom. Despite holding on to some of the values and traditions he picked up as a child, Lot’s faith in God was not whole, and Abraham was well aware of that. It would require more than prayer to save Lot.

From the first day that God commands Abraham to leave his homeland (and according to the Midrash, even earlier), Abraham’s faith is tested and proven. But then, so is God’s. The lesson we need to take from this portion is not only that Abraham had complete faith in God. We already knew that. What we learn in addition is about God’s faith in us. Faith is a two-way street, or if you will, a stream of energy and strength that we can depend on and become part of. 

Faith isn’t the same as certainty, but it does give us strength to overcome obstacles. Our faith may not be the same as Abraham’s; each of us creates a unique bond with our Creator, some stronger than others. We all hope however that God will hear our prayers and answer them. But sometimes, faith requires action as much—or even more than—merely faith.

It's up to each of us to determine how to move forward, how to proceed on our journey towards a better day and a promised land. One thing is certain though: What’s required is both faith and action, each in the right amount, each at the right place and time.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

 

Between Too Much and Not Enough: Noah.24

 Between Too Much and Not Enough

D’var Torah on Parashat Noach

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Several years ago, a message board in front of a neighborhood church declared, “You haven’t done enough.” The message was striking enough that it’s lasted with me all this time—perhaps ringing a somewhat familiar guilt bell within my soul. I’ve been known at times to push myself—and others—to do more than originally expected. At the very least, the sign raised a couple of good questions: Does anyone ever do “enough?” And when is “good enough” good enough? 

I guess the answer depends on the context. We probably all believe we do more than enough at work, and maybe not so much at home. My guess, however—since the sign was posted in front of a house of worship— is that in this framework the meaning was in terms of good deeds. That which in Judaism we call mitzvot, or tikkun olam, the repair of the brokenness we see in the world. 

The world in which this week’s Torah portion, Noach (Genesis 6:9—11:32) is set, is filled with evil. The earth itself is said to have become corrupt, defiled by violence and bloodshed. A common belief held by many in those days was that a curse had been placed on all life, but that at some point, a person of great spiritual power, a messiah of sorts, would appear and reverse the curse. 

Noach was expected to be such a person. 

But there was another one before him. The seventh generation after Adam: Enoch.

The similarity between them begins with their names; then, they are both said to have “walked with God.” And finally, both failed in their expected mission. 

The Torah doesn’t tell us much about Enoch. Everything it has to say about him is contained in a total of four verses in Genesis chapter 5. The rest of his deeds are told in fanciful tales that never made it into the Bible but are found in other texts, most famously in The Book of Enoch. The only clues regarding Enoch’s life that appear in Genesis are: 1) that he was the seventh generation after Adam (the number 7 being symbolic of the presence of God’s holiness). Then, 2), in 5:24-25, we read: “All the days of Enoch came to 365 years. Enoch walked with God; then he was no more, for God took him.” The perfect number of his years on Earth—equal to the number of days in a year—is significant: Enoch evidently had reached some sort of state of perfection. And then finally comes 3), the clincher: Enoch doesn’t die a natural death—or, for that matter, any death at all. He is “taken by God.” Any further mention of his life or deeds is stricken from the Torah.

What did Enoch do to deserve this fate? Only one other human being in the Bible is described similarly—the prophet Elijah, whose fanatic zealotry is recognized by God, and who is consequently whisked up to heaven in a chariot of fire, never to suffer physical death but instead become transformed into a spiritual bearer of hope and good tidings. But unlike Enoch, the deeds of Elijah fill four entire chapters in the Bible. Elijah—Eliyahu Ha-Navi— struggles against the Israelite King Ahab and his wicked Phoenician wife Jezebel, who had forcefully imposed the worship of the bloodthirsty god Ba’al, whose rituals included child sacrifice. Through various miracles and wonders, Elijah succeeds in establishing instead the worship of Ha-Shem—the Jewish God—among the tribes of Northern Israel. But Enoch? His entire story takes the space of four verses. Not much to see here, folks; not much to tell. To be sure, stories about Enoch were popular and circulated widely in second-and-third-century Israel, mostly relating his struggles with angels, giants and other fantastical creatures. His feats have become part of the mystic tradition, some even appearing in the Zohar, the Book of Splendor. So why does the Torah suppress these? The answer may lie in the traditional focus of Judaism on a person’s deeds on earth, on what they do for other people, not so much what he or she does for God and heaven alone. They can’t only “walk with God.” Enoch was completely and exclusively concerned with spiritual, not human, matters. Unwilling or unable to fulfill his messianic expectations, Enoch had perfected and even transcended his humanity to become part of the Divine Circle. 

Perfection is a realm that lies beyond ordinary human experience. 

Noach—the tenth generation from the creation of Adam (another symbolic number)—does show a little improvement in this respect. He at least saves the animals, keeping alive a remnant of God’s Creation. But as far as humanity goes, he too fails. No interaction is recorded between him and his neighbors, no effort to admonish or correct their ways. Noah doesn’t question God’s decision to destroy all life. Instead, he follows God’s directions to the letter: so many feet to his triple-decker, football-field-size ark. So many animals, both kosher and non-kosher, to bring aboard. And of course, in the process, to save himself and his family. And that’s it. Noah doesn’t go beyond these parameters. He shows no compassion. It’s a lesson that he will learn during the one year onboard his ark. But at this point in the story he doesn’t hesitate; he has no moral compunctions. He shows no signs of a conscience. 

If Enoch tried too hard to achieve perfection—and succeeded—Noach just didn’t go far enough. And so they both failed to meet humanity’s expectations and hopes.

Somewhere between these two options is where most of us find ourselves. There are those who feel compelled to sacrifice their all for the sake of others. But then there are also the grifters, the victimizers, those who only take, whose only concern is for what benefits them. Most of us, however, vacillate, sometimes leaning towards selfless altruism, at other times driven more by self-interest and selfishness. Sometimes we find ourselves torn. And then, like Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree, there are times when we feel that we’ve given so much of ourselves that we’re all “given out.” And so we withdraw, risking the danger of letting depression, anger or resentment control our lives.

The dilemma of how much we’re expected to do—too much or not enough—is up to each of us to resolve. The Torah allows us to search our conscience, to do what we can, but also to set boundaries. In accepting donations from the Israelites for the building of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle in the Wilderness, Moses is instructed by God to, “Accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart is so moved” (Ex. 25:2). The gift, and the amount, are both voluntary, both dictated by the heart.

The prophet Isaiah, on the other hand, warns us of the pitfalls of excessive faith. In chapter 58 of the book that bears his name, (the haftarah designated for Yom Kippur), Isaiah chastens the people for observing more scrupulously the rituals of fasting than the commandments—the moral and ethical obligations—to pursue justice and provide for the needy. Yet to this he also adds, “Nor [must you] ignore your own flesh and blood” (Is. 58:7). It isn’t only the needs of others that we need to concern ourselves with, but also with our own needs, as well those of our family and community. Faith only goes so far, he seems to say. Your deeds, the love and understanding you show other human beings matter at least as much. And not least, we all deserve—we all need—a little bit of what psychologists call “healthy selfishness.” (I am grateful to my father, z”l, for introducing me to this phrase years ago).

Finding the balance between giving all of ourselves and doing nothing isn’t always easy. Sometimes it’s a struggle. But how we respond is a measure of our humanity. We walk not with God, as did Enoch and Noach, but with people. But we do let God’s light—embedded within our heart and conscience—show us the way forward, towards giving, not withdrawing; towards heaven but without losing sight of earth.

That is our task and mission in life. May we be more successful at it than Enoch or Noach.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman