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

Rebuilding the Ruins: Yom Kippur. 24

 Rebuilding the Ruins

Sermon for Yom Kippur 2024

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

As has been my custom for many years, on Yom Kippur I always speak about Israel. Last year, I focused on the 50th anniversary of the 1973 Yom Kippur War. It was an important anniversary, and I wanted to mark it by looking not only at the remarkable victory that it was, but also at what led up to it. 

I find myself in a similar position today, as I think about the October 7 War, just one year after that awful, dark Shabbat, a day that will forever be etched in our memory.

A few days ago I happened to hear the beautiful Joni Mitchell song “Both Sides Now.” The words “Well, something’s lost but something’s gained in living every day” have always been meaningful to me and, through the years, never lost their relevance for me. But as I was hearing the song for the umpteenth time just the other day, I couldn’t help but think about the past year—how much was lost, and what was gained since October 7, 2023. Some things just can’t be measured and maybe that’s the way it should be. But I know that this year something deep and fundamental within me has felt broken, and though I’ve been trying to rebuild, I find myself a lot less confident than I was before. In this terrible and challenging year we’ve all learned some valuable lessons about the Jewish People, the State of Israel, and about antisemitism, the oldest hatred in human history, and it has shaken us to the core.

Though the October 7 War isn’t over yet, we can probably be pretty certain of at least three things: First: Israel will win this war. It will win because it has no choice. Secondly: If we were ever in doubt, this past year has given us plenty of proof that Israel is still surrounded by enemies sworn to destroy it, and unless something drastic happens, will remain so—at least for the foreseeable future. And third: That antisemitism, the world’s longest and most violent hatred, which for a while seemed to have gone underground, is back, more virulent and widespread than ever. It never left us, and apparently, never will.

It began in the predawn hours with a horrendous massacre, a sickening crime against humanity, and specifically the Jewish People, so horrible and evil that it’s still impossible to describe it in words. The sheer numbers of the men, women, infants and the elderly who were kidnapped, brutalized and killed in the most horrific ways, say much in themselves; but the personal stories of their lives, encompass whole worlds. And still it continues. Hundreds of rockets and missiles still rain on Israel every day while worldwide, the finger-pointing and blame directed at Israel also continue unabated, both on the street level and from international bodies and governments.

What are the repercussions of all this for us, American Jews?

On Yom Kippur we speak of engaging in cheshbon ha-nefesh, an accounting of the soul. We assess not our possessions and material worth, but our spiritual wellness. Traditionally, this day is about us and our relationship to God. God asks us to account for our lives, and we must answer. Today, however, on this particular Yom Kippur, we too have some penetrating questions to ask—not only of ourselves, but also of God, and Israel.

Israel has always claimed that its most important purpose is to defend the Jewish People. On October 7th 2023, Israel failed to do that. Only days before the onslaught of terror, on Yom Kippur exactly one year ago, I said from this bimah, “Despite the current infighting within Israel itself, Israel’s political and military leaders have learned to cooperate more fully among themselves… Israel will never again be caught unprepared.” Well, I was wrong. In the months before October 7, 2023, political strife and social discord in Israel were at fever pitch. Demonstrations for and against the government were taking place almost daily. In the K’nesset—Israel’s parliament— harsh rhetoric over proposed legal reforms threatened to bring the government down, and only some pretty devious political machinations saved it, with the appointment of several arrogant and self-serving politicians to powerful cabinet positions for which they were, in an understatement, unqualified. The social, cultural and economic fissures in Israel’s society seemed wider and deeper than ever, and more than once turned violent. Distracted by all that was happening, Israel paid no attention to the gathering storm. It’s no wonder that Israel’s enemies saw this as a sign of weakness, and took advantage of it. 

A year ago I failed to see the obvious, and so did Israel.

Despite the lessons learned from the Yom Kippur War, Israel found itself unprepared for the October 7 attack. To be sure, there were signs, gathered for weeks in advance, both through direct visual observation and data analysis. But they were ignored, or as the government claimed, “misinterpreted.” We will never understand why, for example, the authorities permitted a mass dance party to take place when—even given some reasonable doubt—we knew that terrorists were gathering by the thousands a mere three miles away. We will also probably never know why emergency calls weren’t answered, and why it took the IDF hours to arrive on the scene of the party and at the kibbutzim that were also ravaged that morning. 

Today we see the heroism of the IDF soldiers. We witness daily evidence of their astounding courage, motivation and self-sacrifice. We marvel at the exploits of the Mossad, Israel’s intelligence agency, when thousands of pagers explode simultaneously in the hands of terrorists, and when terrorist leaders are pinpointed with absolute precision for attack and elimination. With deep appreciation and gratitude we also know exactly to what extent Israel was given life-saving support by President Biden and the United States. That will never be forgotten. 

Still, when this war is finally over, when the horror ends and the grief turns to rage, there will be some serious cheshbon ha-nefesh, with Israel having to answer and account for its earlier failures. 

And the time will also come when we, American Jews, will have to ask ourselves some difficult questions. Jews have always been divided in our views about Israel. There was a time when Reform Judaism abrogated altogether the two-thousand-year-old Zionist principle of a return to Israel, and, in at least one infamous case, expelled from its ranks three rabbis who dared to express their opinion that Zionism was a valid form of Jewish self-expression. Today, we need to ask ourselves where we stand on this issue. 76 years after the historic establishment of the State of Israel, at a time when Israel’s very existence is questioned and attacked, what should our response be? Shall we hide? Pretend we aren’t affected? Or stand up for the only Jewish state in the world, for the only country that—as a nation—upholds the same ideals and principles that we do? 

When we hold up signs and banners that say “Never Again,” what exactly do we mean? Is it a theoretical postulate or a call to action? We Jews have always prided ourselves on our idealism, on our commitment to the highest values of humanitarianism. Yet when we see the tragedies unfolding daily in our own, historical, ancient homeland, do we turn a blind eye? Where do we stand when it comes to self-defense?

Ironically, the Oct. 7 War has failed to draw Israelis together. Strident rallies and demonstrations are still taking place; dividing lines are still clear and obvious. On the first anniversary of the war’s outbreak only a few days ago, there were actually TWO memorial services in Israel, one organized by the government, the other by its opponents. Still, maybe because we are such a small people; maybe because of our common history and fate; and maybe because we realize the seriousness of the existential threat that Israel is facing, Israelis today are more determined than ever. Along with the slogan Am Yisrael Chai, “the People of Israel lives,” the most common and frequently heard theme in Israel today is ביחד ננצח, “together we will win.” This call for unity is found in popular songs, in art, in memes and even on stickers you can order online.

Whether we, Diaspora Jews, uphold the same ideal, ביחד—together—alongside our brothers and sisters in Israel is a question that all of us need to ask ourselves today. When the war is over—and God willing, may that be soon! — will we be there for Israel, as Israel until now, has been there for us? Today Israel needs us more than ever. It needs us for moral support. It’s in desperate need of our loving embrace and understanding of what it has been going through every day for more than a year now. And even without considering the tragic loss in life; the broken lives, families and homes; the missing hostages; the empty seats around the holiday and Shabbat tables, when this war is over Israel will need our help to rebuild. Israel’s prosperous economy has taken a huge hit. Tourism, one of Israel’s chief industries, is basically non-existent at this point. With ordinary civilians mobilizing in huge numbers in response to the tzav sh’mone—the call to military duty—that they’ve received, factories, restaurants and stores have had to shut down. Homes, neighborhoods, kibbutzim and other settlements that were destroyed by missiles and fires will have to be rebuilt. Fields and orchards will have to be replanted. Physical and emotional care for the returning fighters will take years—and millions of dollars, not to mention the blessed work provided by doctors, nurses and other caretakers who are critically overburdened at this point as is. Will we be there to help Israel recuperate and get on its feet again? 

The answer has to be clear and obvious to all of us. Hineni—here I am.

And then, with all that in mind, there’s still one question we need an answer for, one cheshbon—account—to settle. This one is with God. Every year on Yom Kippur we hear God’s call for us to return, and year after year, we obey. Today a call comes from deep within us. עד מתי? How long, O God? When will the hate and persecution end? How many more lives will it take? 

I guess I won’t hold my breath for this one. Bigger, better and smarter people than I have been asking this same question for millennia now. And the answer is always the same. It’s either, “What do you know—or expect to know—about Me and My plans?” Or: “I’ve given you all the tools you need; now go and make it happen yourselves.”

The first answer is almost useless to me. I don’t know what’s in God’s mind; I won’t pretend that I do. We do, however, have all the tools we need. We just have to learn how to use them. 

“Well, something’s gained and something’s lost in living every day.

It’s been one year since the Oct. 7 onslaught of terror, 370 days to be exact. 51 years since the Yom Kippur War; 79 years since the Shoah. And now what? What have we learned?

Only the future will tell, a future we can help shape and form by the choices we make today.

Am Yisrael chai—the People of Israel lives. Adonai oz l’amo yiten; Adonai y’varech et amo bashalom: May God give us strength; may God also bless us with peace. Ken y’hi ratzon—may this be God’s will.

L’shana tova tikavevu t’teichateimu—may we all be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life for a year of health, strength, love and peace.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Strength Within Us: Rosh Hashanah sermon.24

The Strength Within Us

Sermon for Rosh HaShanah 5785

October 3, 2024

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Flying into Israel has always been an exciting and emotional event. In the last half hour or so of the flight, conversation among the passengers slowly ceases. Everyone is immersed in their own thoughts and feelings. Once you get closer, at night, the shoreline is easy to detect, outlined with bright yellow lights from north to south; in the day, fog or low clouds sometimes obscure the view until you are almost on top of it. From above, ironically, Tel Aviv seems so orderly and organized—the epitome of what Theodore Herzl thought of when he wrote about the rebirth of a Jewish state in our ancestral homeland. Sometimes the plane descends directly into Ben Gurion airport. Other times it flies further east, over the Judea Mountains, and circles back for the landing. By now the silence in the plane is complete. Then, as the plane touches down, applause breaks out spontaneously throughout the cabin.

The applause discloses relief at the safe landing after a long flight. But it also comes from somewhere deeper, inside one’s heart and soul. It’s a surge of joy combined with tears, the indescribable feeling one gets when hope and ancient prayers are fulfilled. Elie Wiesel wrote, “One doesn’t go to Jerusalem, one returns to it.” Whether it’s one’s first trip to Israel or one hundredth, it’s always a homecoming.

For me, of course, flying to Israel has always been a homecoming. Israel always was, and always will be, my home. I was born there, I lived there, I served in the IDF, and even after many years in the US, returning to Israel meant seeing my family.

But things were different when I was there in May. My mother, z”l, wasn’t waiting for me at the airport. My trip this time would be short—ten days instead of the usual month or so. There was a special purpose to this particular trip: my grand-nephew’s bar mitzvah. Ours is a small family. The Shoah left only a small fraction of what had once been—and now was no more. And so we, the remnants, have been there for each other at almost every event—joyous or sad. This time the trip held mixed emotions for me.

This time there was no applause as the plane landed. I’m sure we all felt the usual relief, but mixed in with all our other emotions was the sad—and frightening—knowledge that Israel was at war. The heaviness was palpable.

By that time the war had lasted already seven months. Of course, we couldn’t know that, as of today, almost exactly one year since the war began, it would still be going on.

Nothing could have prepared us for the shock and brutality with which this war started, the October 7 attack from Gaza; or the pain and tragedies of the hostages and their families; or the suffering among the innocent Gaza civilians whom Hamas uses as human shields. Only those living day after day, week after week, month after month, through these horrors can understand the tragedy and scale of this terrible war. 

What none of us, anywhere in the world, could foresee, was not the almost-immediate worldwide condemnation of Israel defending itself—that we’re pretty much used to by now—but rather the extent and virulence of the antisemitism that erupted shortly after the war began.

Only a few days ago the FBI released a report registering a 21% rise in anti-Jewish hate crimes over last year. Since October 7, 67% of all reported religiously motivated hate crimes were directed against Jews—a people that in the US numbers less than 2.4% of the general population.

Directly or indirectly, consciously or not, we are all affected by the poisonous character of this hatred that we witness on college campuses, in the news, over the internet, and at political rallies and demonstrations. Even in K-12 schools, Jewish students—our children, grandchildren, our future! —have been harassed and attacked.

Since October 7, we have seen synagogues torched; businesses trashed and vandalized; Jews wearing kippot or Jewish stars, or speaking Hebrew, physically assaulted. While some of the perpetrators claimed to be moved by pro-Palestinian or pro-Gaza sentiments, many blatantly expressed antisemitic tropes, modern-day variants of the blood libel.

Jews have long been wary of right-wing antisemitism. The evidence there is abounding. But what—for me at least—has been the most shocking revelation of all is the surge of this most ancient hatred among liberals, the “woke” and the so-called “progressives.” 

Historically, Jews have been among the most active supporters of liberal causes. All of a sudden, we find ourselves ostracized and even locked out by groups that in the past we’ve lived—and died—for: Black Lives Matter; LGBTQ; climate activists, and feminist movements that remained notoriously silent for the longest time, even in the face of hard evidence, of the horrifying, gender-based violence perpetrated against Jewish women and men by the Hamas terrorists on October 7.

While we are seeing some corrective measures in some city governments and on some colleges (definitely not all), there’s still a long way to go before we return to a more “normal” situation. However, until then, we cannot remain silent. There’s much we need to do to counter this dangerous trend.

First of all, we need to discover the strength that lies within us. Physically, emotionally and spiritually, we need to be there, as strong and resilient as possible, both for ourselves and for our families. 

For our own sake and for our children’s benefit, we need to study the facts, to learn about the history of Zionism and how the State of Israel came to be. We need to know what to say when confronted by haters, and be able to answer the false, and evil, accusations of Israeli apartheid and genocide. 

And we also need to be there for—and with—the rest of our community. Since our earliest days as a people we’ve recognized our uniqueness among the nations: “A people dwelling alone, not reckoning itself among the nations” (Num. 23:9, NKJV). History has shown this to be true. We go by many names that identify us as members of any other nations and traditions. We call ourselves American Jews, French Jews, Iraqi Jews, and so many more. Here we are “JewishColorado.” Throughout our history, our rights may have been taken away, trampled, constrained, or restored again. The one marker we never lost however, is our identity as Jews—embedded in our souls, stamped into our passports, clothes and even our skin. At a time like today, we must turn to one another for support. We may have our political and cultural differences. We may call ourselves religionists, atheists or agnostic. We even argue about the right way of cooking traditional foods. Yet one thing is indisputable: We are Jews, members of an ancient people going back more than 3600 years. One of the chief goals of antisemitism is the erasure of Jewish identity and history. For us, cancel culture is as dangerous as any ghetto or edict of intolerance. We must never again allow that to happen. Our congregations and synagogues must be more than only houses of worship. In Hebrew, they are call batei k’nesset, essentially community centers, where we can not only pray, but also study and celebrate our rich heritage, where we can safely gather and discuss our concerns and fears, and learn how best to handle them.

We must never again allow ourselves to hide or cower in fear. Today, thankfully, we have law-enforcement agencies that can help us stand up to the dangers and threats. The FBI and CIA work closely with Jewish organizations such as the ADL, the AJC—American Jewish Committee—and the Secure Community Network, the official security and safety institution of the Jewish community in North America. Sharp-as-a-tack organizations such as StandWithUs help fight antisemitism on a more local and even personal level, in schools and the workplace. Hillel and Faculty Against Antisemitism are among several groups that address antisemitism and anti-Zionism on college campuses. Additionally, various media-watch groups scrutinize the Internet and other news outlets, calling for corrections whenever and wherever misleading and erroneous information is found.

Of course we can also counter the lies and misinformation ourselves, by becoming active in local government and by serving on school boards, where decisions are made about which textbooks to use and whose “narrative” to teach. 

Today the Jewish community in the United States and elsewhere around the world is at an important historical juncture. Every one of us needs to make difficult decisions as we weigh our traditional social and political alliances against the need to remain proud, visible and valued members of society. While holding on to our ideals, it’s crucial that we support groups and individuals that support us, and call out those that oppose us. 

Israel has been at war for an entire year now. As Jews we’ve been defining and defending our Jewish identity for almost 4000 years. We will overcome the current outbreak of Jew-hatred too. The question is, where will our help come from. The truth is, it will come from many sources. Traditionally, our strength has always come from God and our faith. Thankfully, we also have many friends and allies around the globe and across the political spectrum. But for the first time in almost 2000 years, we—you and I—are privileged to have a say in it too. Our strength comes from inside each of us: In our determination to defend our heritage and identity, and in our resolve to stand up to those who wish to destroy us and and our historic national homeland.  

Thousands of years ago, the prophet Jeremiah proclaimed, "Do not fear, O My servant Jacob… nor be dismayed, O Israel; for behold, I [Adonai] will save you from afar, and your seed from the land of their captivity" (Jer. 30:10, NKJV). Today, more than three and a half thousand years after these words were written, we know this to be a truth. 

So, chazak chazak v’nit’chazek—be strong, be of good courage, and together we shall be strengthened. Am Yisrael Chai—the People of Israel yet lives!

L’shana tova, may 5785 be a year of growth, health, love and peace, and may God bless us all.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

To Be a Blessing: Rosh Hashana Eve Sermon.24

To Be a Blessing

Erev Rosh Ha-Shanah Sermon

Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 2, 2024

At a certain rehab facility, two men were assigned to the same room, and they soon became friends. After all, when your eyes are bandaged or your heart works erratically at best, when life’s distractions are kept far outside your door, when the TV only gives you football and world news and the only visitors you get are doctors and nurses who check on you periodically, poke you, sponge bathe you and administer your meds, there’s not a whole lot else to do but get to know your neighbor better. 

Every morning the man whose eyes were bandaged would ask his neighbor what he saw outside the window at his bedside. “It’s raining,” the other would answer, or “the mountains are particularly clear today.” He would describe the traffic outside the facility, and even what the campus across the highway looked like on any particular day. “Must be homecoming,” he said one day as he related the crowded presence of students and parents in the main quad. The sound of the band practicing on the football field wafted in, and they both agreed that it would be so good to be out there, mingling with the crowd, enjoying the cool fall temps after the long, hot summer.

But one day, the description from the man who lay across the room stopped. The man with the bandaged eyes called out his name, but there was no answer. When the nurse came in, he asked about the man and why he didn’t answer. “Oh,” came the answer, “he passed away.”

“Oh!” the bandaged man cried out in obvious pain. “That is so sad! We became friends. He would tell me every morning what he saw outside his window—the weather, the traffic, everything!”

“He did??” asked the nurse incredulously. 

“I can’t see anymore, and he was my connection to the outside.”

“But…” the nurse stammered, “he couldn’t have!”

“Why not?”

“Because there is no window at his bedside. Just a wall.”

Taking this information in, the blind man lay there in silence for a few minutes. Not long after, the family of the man who had died came in to collect his belongings. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said to them. “But why did he lie to me?”

“He didn’t lie,” they responded. “You see, he was blind too, just like you. He was blinded in a work accident years ago. But he never let that stop him from imagining. In his mind he saw everything that he remembered from his past, and he made it live again. And then he would relate it to anyone who would listen. He rebuilt his own beautiful past from memory, and kept all of it alive in his mind. And that way, he gave all of us, too, hope and purpose. He inspired us, and often asked us to help him in his efforts to rebuild. And so we did. We donated to the city’s parks and recreation department. We helped build a playground in the park across from us and planted trees around it. We supported the college he went to, and always took him to the homecoming game. It was his way of telling us never to give up hope, to continue making the world better.”

The blind man lay quietly. “He turned his memories into blessings,” he said after a few moments. “He did,” the family agreed. Then they collected their father’s belongings and left, promising to come visit soon and often again.

I’ve always been struck with this story (and I am sorry--I cannot find its source, I hope they will forgive my using it in this sermon). No matter how many times I read it, it has never failed to move me. 

And through the years, it has helped me chart and understand the many ways we use the word blessing. Sometimes we fall into the trap of using it almost casually, as when life, a coincidence or some random event works in our favor. In a more secular setting, when we say of a particular project that it had “the blessing of the authorities,” what we are actually saying is that it got the approval of the individual or committee in charge. 

In Hebrew, the word b’racha always carries religious overtones. Judaism teaches that blessings are the bridge that connects us with God. In fact, the ancient Rabbis instruct that we should say a minimum of 100 blessings every day, reminding us that we should take nothing for granted. And so we say a blessing when we rise in the morning and when we go to bed at night, and at every moment in between. It isn’t only God Who sanctifies us—we sanctify God in return through the blessings we say and the gratitude we express.

With some blessings we actually participate, and in a small way even become partners with God. While fruit can be easily plucked from a tree, and the blessing is therefore simple and direct, the prayer we say when we break bread, Ha-motzi lechem min ha-aretz, (“who brings bread forth from the ground”) is much more complex. Ha-motzi, as we know it, comprises not only our gratitude for the wheat, that does grow from the ground (no small miracle in itself), but additionally this b’racha also recognizes our role in this process—the work involved in sowing and harvesting, milling, grinding and finally baking the flour into bread.

Blessings bring holiness—and a measure of eternity—into our lives. They are like a river, with a source and a goal. The mightiest river may start as a trickle, but along its path it gathers power and strength. We can cross or navigate it. But we’ve also learned to control a river’s force and channel its course. And we can use it for any number of purposes—to provide water for ourselves or our animals; to irrigate fields and crops; to produce electricity; or even just to refresh and restore ourselves physically, emotionally or spiritually. Without water, nothing would live, and the earth would shrink into nothingness. So too with blessings.

The Torah gives us an example of the highest form that a blessing can take. In parashat Lech L’cha (“Go forth”), one of the early portions in the first book of the Torah, Genesis, God commands Abram to leave his homeland and go to a new land, which God will show him. There, God promises, “I will make you a great nation and you shall be a blessing.” Rashi, the great Jewish-French commentator of the 11th century, explains this verse as follows: “You shall be a blessing: Blessings are entrusted to you; until now they were in My power—I blessed Adam and Noah—but from now on you shall bless whomsoever you wish.” 

God empowers Abram—and us, Abraham’s followers—to become, if not a source, then at least conduits of blessings.

When we take upon ourselves the mitzvot—the commandments—of pursuing justice; of teaching our children or students ethics and morality; when we say a kind word or extend a helping hand, we follow Abraham’s lead. There’s even a blessing we say when we comfort the bereaved, “May the memory of your loved one be a blessing,” by which we share our faith and hope that grief at some point will turn to gratitude. In time we learn to draw inspiration from our loved one’s victories and even from their failures. Through the memories left to us, we become better people, and we inspire others to follow us. The memories indeed become a blessing.

An Israeli sculptor who recently posted pictures of his work online evoked this reaction from one of his followers: “The soul of an artist never ceases to amaze me—to see what some would call junk and, through your artist eyes, to see what it can and must be: that moves me more than anything else.” 

To see what is, and then imagine and create what it can and must be, that is the real message of Rosh Ha-Shanah. 

A greeting for the New Year, found in a piyyut—a religious poem—that is recited in many congregations on Rosh Ha-Shanah Eve is, “May this year and its curses end soon, may the new year bring us blessings instead.” This saying is particularly relevant tonight. The past year presented us, individually and collectively, with tremendous challenges. What we must find now, in the year that begins tonight, is the strength to turn these challenges into successes. The curses into blessings. 

We do so by following the teaching and law that we took upon ourselves thousands of years ago: to be a blessing. If not a source of blessing, recognition reserved to only a handful of the most righteous among us every few generations, then at least a participant in its course, something each of us is capable of being. Blessings and mitzvot—the sacred commandments—are more than a way of connecting with God. They help make the world better, especially during dark times. Each kind word or good deed brings light in, no matter how small and insignificant it seems to us at the moment. Like a river, the blessings grow and flourish.

In this new year, may recognition of the many gifts in our lives stir us to speak words of gratitude. May the world’s brokenness inspire us to participate in tikkun olam—repair and redemption. May we continue our sacred work of making the dreams and visions of our prophets come real. And may we, like Abraham, be a blessing for all that was, is, and that can yet be. 

L’shanah tova tikatevu—may our deeds and words be inscribed in the Book of Life, and may we be remembered and blessed for a sweet, happy and healthy New Year. Amen.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

Six Murdered Hostages

Six Murdered Hostages

Reflections by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 6, 2024

This week has been one of the saddest and most difficult weeks of the past year, and until now I had no words with which to express the many emotions within me. The following will have to do. For now.

We woke up Monday morning only to be reminded of the cruelty and evil that still surround us, filling our days and nights with anger and frustration as well as heartbreak and grief. Since then we have come to know almost personally the six hostages--six among the 251 men, women, children and elderly people abducted by Hamas 11 months ago--who were murdered in cold blood only hours before the IDF could rescue them. The names of Carmel Gat, Eden Yerushalmi, Hersh Goldberg-Polin, Alexander Lobanov, Almog Sarusi and Master Sgt. Ori Danino at this point are so much more than just labels. They have come to represent the horrors unleashed on October 7 on the State of Israel and the entire Jewish People. 

Each of the six victims of Hamas terror had not only a name. They had families—now broken physically as well as emotionally. They had dreams and ambitions that now will never be fulfilled.

The parents of Israeli-American Hersh Goldberg-Polin, Jon and Rachel, spoke at the Democratic National Convention last month, and a video of Rachel calling out to him on a loudspeaker circulated widely on the Internet just a day or two before his body was discovered. President Biden reminded us all that during the attack, Hersh "lost his arm while helping friends and strangers during Hamas' savage massacre." 

Carmel Gat was visiting her parents at their home in Kibbutz Be'eri on that dark Saturday morning. The terrorists murdered Carmel's elderly mother, Kinneret, on the spot and abducted Carmel. Yet even in captivity, inside the cavernous tunnels where Hamas held and continue to hold their victims, Carmel helped other hostages and kept them by her side when darkness and terror loomed ahead. 

Master Sgt. Ori Danino had already saved some of those who were attacked in the early morning massacre and went back to help others when he himself was kidnapped. 

Alexander Lobanov is survived by his two-year-old child and five-month-old children, the youngest having been born while he was in captivity in Gaza.

Almog Sarusi and his sister were at the Nova music festival. Almog was kidnapped even as he was helping his sister, Shahar, who was wounded in the attack and did not survive. Almog was described on the Hostages and Missing Families Forum’s Instagram page as “A vibrant, positive person who loved traveling around Israel in his white jeep with his guitar. 

Like so many of those who were murdered or kidnapped from the music festival, Eden Yerushalmi was only in her 20’s. She spent her 24th birthday in captivity. Eden was a Tel Avivian who loved going to the beach, and whose plans included becoming a Pilates instructor.

A day after the bodies were recovered, Hamas released a series of videos showing the hostages delivering what became their final messages to their families. "I barely recognized her," Eden Yerushalmi's aunt told Israeli media. "She looked extinguished." “I am strong,” Carmel Gat says; “I hope I have a family to return to.” The six hostages had not been able to take a shower in weeks or months, and their bodies showed proof of ill-treatment and neglect. 

That is the face of evil. Lest we forget. At this time of heartbreak and rage, even as we hold the families of these murdered young men and women close to our heart, we must always remember the difference between love and hate, between goodness and evil. 

And as we pray for the safety, health and strength of the remaining 101hostages still held in captivity in Gaza, we send our heartfelt condolences to all the hurting families. May God’s Presence bring you comfort and consolation. May your loved ones’ memories be a blessing.

Matot-Massei: Tribes, Travels and Tribulations

Tribes, Travels and Tribulations

D’var Torah for Parashat Matot-Massei

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

August 2, 2024

With this week’s Torah reading (actually a double portion, Matot -Mass’ei—"Tribes and Travels,” Numbers 30:2—36:13) we conclude the fourth book of the Torah, Numbers. As is true for so much of the rest of the Torah, the topics covered in these portions are still relevant today. First addressed here is the issue of women’s rights (a follow-up to the story of the Daughters of Zelofehad, who argued for the right to inherit their father’s property). The specific topic this time is vows, promises we make—to ourselves, to others and to God—that are so important that breaking them entails harsh penalties (though we are still given the right to revoke them through an elaborate ritual). The question that comes up in Num. 30 is whether vows made by women are valid, and if so, who has the right to revoke them.

The answer—at least by our modern sensibilities—is incomplete. Yes, vows made by women are valid; but no, they do not have the right to revoke them unless the particular woman is divorced or widowed. Married women and those who still live with their families need to rely on the male head of the household to undo their vow. 

While we may think that this is unfair—and of course we would be right—let us remember that in modern-day America women did not have the right to open a credit card in their own names until half a century ago, and that later this month, on August 26, we will be marking the 104th anniversary of the ratification of 19th amendment, granting women the right to vote. And still today, some of the most divisive issues facing us as a nation, have to do with women’s rights.

The Torah’s law regarding breaking a vow is a what today we would call a split decision, and while unsatisfactory—again, by contemporary standards—it does open the door to reconsideration of women’s legal status, a long process that begins in the Torah but unfortunately is still incomplete.

The second major event covered in these chapters is the request by the tribes of Reuben and Gad and half the tribe of Menashe to settle on the eastern shore of the Jordan River, specifically in the area that today constitutes the Golan Heights. Moses at first is enraged by this request. Why, he asks, did we have to go through all the trouble to get here, if you decide not to enter the Promised Land? Why are you cutting yourselves off from the rest of the People?

The tribes’ response actually reassures Moses: They will remain loyal to the Covenant with God and will come to the assistance of the other tribes in times of trouble and/or wars. Only once this vow is declared does Moses acquiesce and allow them to settle in the fertile lands of the Golan.

Jews have resided in lands all over the world since the beginning of our history. Our connection to our ancestral homeland, however, was never in doubt. Still, the question of coming to the aid of other Jewish individuals and communities must have been a contentious one for centuries. In the 12th century already, Maimonides, to this day still considered the most important compiler of Jewish Law, ruled that “It is a mitzvah for all Jews who are able to come and help defend their brethren to do so, and it is forbidden to delay their coming until after Shabbat” (Mishne Torah, “Laws of Shabbat” 2:23). 

In this ruling, Moses Maimonides follows the precedent established by the Prophet Moses, while also adding to it the rabbinic injunction (BT Eruvin 45a) that it is even permissible to break the Sabbath in order to fulfill this most important commandment.

Finally, as the Book of Numbers concludes, we have a recap of our travels and tribulations in the Sinai Wilderness, 40 years in total from the Exodus to the point where the Israelites are poised to enter the Promised Land. 

As we reflect on our long and rich history, both ancient and more modern, we realize how relevant the Torah is still today. The long list of encampments enumerated in the final two portions of Numbers help us remember the long history of the Jewish People. Our journeys have taken us to just about every corner of the world. We all have our stories, told and retold by our parents, grandparents, or going even further into the past. Some stations along the way were like oases in the desert; others were bitter experiences. 

And yet, we still adhere to the ancient vows taken by our ancestors so long ago. And while our relationship to the modern State of Israel is questioned, debated—and fought over—both among the nations of the world and even among ourselves, the rejoinder offered by Moses more than three thousand years ago, and its development as reviewed and ruled upon by Maimonides 800 years ago, remind us of the seriousness of the obligation we took upon ourselves then, and which still binds us today. One people, one God, one land.

We are one. Yet our culture is multilayered and varied, and our traditions reflect our interaction with the many peoples among whom we’ve lived. Yet we are still bound by the same vows we took thousands of years ago, following the same rituals and laws commanded us by God and Moses. How we adapt them to our lives is a matter of personal reflection and decision; yet we still always carry our past with us, even as we look toward the future. Our Covenant still governs our identity as Jews; the Commandments still direct our everyday behavior. And our deep attachment to our homeland, Israel, is still at the foundation of our relationship with God and our people.

We may argue and debate just about every issue under the sun. Yet the laws given us thousands of years ago still give inform our lives today. ‘Od Avinu chai—our ancestors still live, through us and our children. Am Yisrael Chai—the People of Israel still lives. 

Chazak chazak v’nit-chazek: Let us be strong and of good courage, let us strengthen one another and together we shall be strengthened. These words are traditionally spoken as we conclude reading each book of the Torah. At the same time, they also are the lights that guide us toward the future. May they continue to shine brightly through our words, thoughts and deeds.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Inevitable Law of Life and Death: Chukat.24

 

The Inevitable Law of Life and Death

D’var Torah for Parashat Chukat

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

July 13, 2024

Life and death, both fused into one image: A perfectly red heifer. This is the first topic that appears in this week’s Torah portion, Chukat ("Law," Numbers 19:1—22:1). 

The ritual of the Red Heifer (parah aduma) has puzzled commentators for centuries and has come to represent the ultimate unknown and unexplainable. Probably going back to the earliest days of humanity, the concept embodied by the red heifer is baffling in itself. The very name of the animal (parah—the Hebrew word for cow) means alive and fruitful. Conversely, adumah—the color red—represents both blood, the life stream of all that is alive, as well as all that is evil. Adom (the color red in Hebrew) is the thread that connects us both to the best and worst within us: Adam is not only the first human being, but also the father of all humanity; adama is the Earth itself. Adom stands not only for life and love, but also for hate and lust. In folklore and superstition, a crimson thread is often used to ward off evil. In the Torah, Edom, a word derived from the same root, is cited as one of the names of Esau and his descendants. Esau, as we might recall, is the twin brother of Jacob, born to Isaac and Rebecca. As a result of Jacob’s stealing the birthright (a harsh word for what actually transpired, but seen that way by Esau), Esau takes an oath to kill Jacob. For the early Rabbis, Esau’s name became synonymous first with the Greeks and Romans, and ultimately with all others intent on killing Jews and obliterating Judaism. 

In the Torah, the ritual of the red heifer is the most extraordinary of all sacrifices. Most unusually, it was not performed at the altar, but rather outside the Israelite settlement. Additionally, unlike all other sacrifices—which were performed either by the High Priest (on Yom Kippur) or by other priests (on all other occasions)—the killing and burning of the red heifer were carried out by a non-priest. A priest, however, was to add hyssop, cedar wood and crimson yarn to the fire. The ashes were then mixed with water and set aside “in a pure place outside the camp.” The mixture had one specific purpose: to purify a person who had come in immediate or even casual contact with death. 

Finally, every officiant in this ritual was deemed ritually “impure,” unable to participate in religious and social events for the rest of the day.

In every respect, this complicated ritual fuses elements of the holy and profane. Well into the first millennium BCE, death was seen not only as the end of life, but also as the limit and extent of God’s Presence. In other ancient religions, Death was the realm of another deity. The living had no access to the dead, and the dead had no recourse to the Divine. In Psalms 6:6 (in English translations, 6:5) we read: “For in death there is no remembrance of You; in the grave who will give You thanks?” Likewise in Ps. 115:17: “The dead do not praise [Adonai], nor any who go down into silence” (NKJV).  

In I Samuel we read of King Saul—with the help of the Witch of Endor—evoking the spirit of the dead prophet Samuel. This fits into the belief of the time that the spirits of the dead resided in a nether region of the world, unreachable except by magic powers. However, as Jewish philosophy expanded beyond pagan beliefs so did Judaism broaden the realm of God’s Presence.

All that, however, is conjecture. Anything beyond reason and ration, anything that could not be explained, was up to speculation and philosophy. Yet death was—and is—real. The grief, shock and all other emotions that it raises in us are real and lasting. These can be devastating and debilitating, but just as powerful is the realistic need to move on, to carry on with life alongside all its obligations and responsibilities, as well as its blessings and joys.

With the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem the sacrifice system ended. The need to recuperate and rise from mourning and grief, however, did not cease. Jewish tradition evolved into the process we follow today—shiv’a (the first seven days of intense grief), sh’loshim (the first month, a time of transitioning back to “regular” life), followed by yahrzeit, the annual commemoration of the anniversary of the passing. Grief specialists may be called on to help those who are unable to let go of their grief even after this process.

Such is the depth and extent of grief, which places an individual outside and apart from their community; an emotion that one is often incapable of surmounting alone, that necessitates rituals and the consolation offered by an outside source—be it priest or layman, an individual and/or the community.

Humanity is a blend of the holy and profane. The ritual of the Red Heifer reflects this complexity. Life and death, love and hate, lust and repulsion, all were merged together in order to create a path forward, to enable us to affirm life alongside all its paradoxes and contradictions.  

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman