Friday, March 22, 2024

The Imperative of Staying Alive: Purim 2024

 The Imperative of Staying Alive: Purim 2024

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s worth fighting for. 

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



© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman



Friday, February 23, 2024

A Light for the Generations: Tetzaveh.24

 A Light for the Generations: Tetzaveh

D’var Torah by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

February 23, 2024


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman





Friday, January 5, 2024

The Many Names of God: Shemot.24

 The Many Names of God

D'var Torah for Parashat Shemot

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

January 5, 2024


In Memory of Ruth Heilman and Elaine D. Finestone


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman


Friday, December 15, 2023

Impressions of Hanukkah 2023

Impressions of Hanukkah 2023

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

December 15, 2023


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

This year it’s different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let the light increase.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



© 2023 by Boaz D. Heilman



Friday, November 24, 2023

Giving Thanks at Times of Darkness: Thanksgiving.23

Giving Thanks at Times of Darkness

Sermon by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

November 24, 2023


So how are you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what can we be thankful for this Thanksgiving?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.



© 2023 by Boaz D. Heilman


Friday, October 20, 2023

Redefining Evil: Hamas’s War Against Civilization

 Redefining Evil: Hamas’s War Against Civilization

Sermon by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 20, 2023


In this week’s Torah portion, Noach (Genesis 6:9—11:32), we read that the reason God decides to flood the earth and destroy all life was that the world was filled with violence. “Violence:” that’s the most frequent English translation of the Hebrew word hamas. The Amplified Bible, however, which incorporates explanations and interpretations into its translation, defines hamas as “desecration, infringement, outrage, assault, and lust for power.”

How ironic that in the last two weeks, the term has reentered our spoken lexicon. 

Now of course, hamas in the Bible and Hamas, the terrorist organization, are not one and the same. The words may sound the same, but that’s a mere coincidence.

Still, in this case, the shoe fits. In both situations, it represents evil—evil enough to break the heart, evil enough to cause destruction death and destruction.

In the past, I defined evil in context of the Biblical history of Amalek and its war against the Israelites. The Amalekites were a tribe that roamed in the Sinai Wilderness and the southern regions of the Negev, subsisting to a large extent on robbing and looting. Deuteronomy 25:17-18 describes the first encounter between Israel and Amalek. Having just left Egypt, the Israelites were weary, disorganized and not yet trained in war or self-defense. Seizing the opportunity, the wily Amalekites attacked by stealth, by night, targeting the rear of the camp. 

Attacking the weak, despondent and helpless is indeed evil—the very opposite of what we consider a sacred mitzvah. But this definition is not complete. The horrendous attack on Israel two weeks ago mandates that we redefine the term.

Orchestrated by the malicious axis of Iran, Russia and the terrorist organization Hamas, the surprise attack which took place on October 7, a Sabbath and a Sacred Day in our calendar, has so far taken the lives of over 1400 civilians—men, women, children, infants and the aged. I won’t go into detail on how they were killed. Additionally, more than 200 were taken hostage, and the estimate is that, tragically, at least half of them are no longer alive. 

But committing these atrocities wasn’t the only goal of Hamas.

When the IDF—the Israel Defense Force—fights, its main purpose is to protect Israel and its civilian population. Hamas on the other hand uses its own people as human shields. To make matters even that much worse however, is the reality that Hamas doesn’t use the Gazan population merely as human shields, but rather also as human bait. 

Hamas knew very well what would happen as a result of its vicious attack. There could be no other possible outcome but a full reckoning. As in past conflicts, Hamas expected—and even hoped—that thousands of its own population would be killed and wounded. Relying on world sympathy, Hamas has been using this tactic ruthlessly and cynically for years now. Turning the definition of oppressed on its head, the goal of Arab leaders has always been to keep their own people captive in fear, poverty and misery, and turn Israel into the victimizer. Untold millions of dollars have poured into Gaza since Hamas violently took control of it in 2007. Not surprisingly, very little of that money ever reached the Gazan population. Most of it went either to finance the luxurious lifestyle of Hamas leaders, or to purchase weapons and dig attack tunnels that reach deep into Israel proper. 

The stated goal of Hamas is to “liberate” Israel and give its land back to the poor displaced Arabs. But that, like everything else Hamas purports to be and do, is subterfuge and a lie. Their real goal is to spread the rule of radical Islam (and along the way, make its leaders powerful multi-billionaires). Make no mistake about it: Hamas is ISIS, a mutated deadly virus that will do anything—and stop at nothing—in order to reach its goal of world domination.

Last Tuesday, an explosion at a Gaza hospital reportedly left hundreds of civilians injured and dead. The world and international news organizations pounced on the opportunity to accuse Israel of this atrocity, without stopping for a moment to check the facts on the ground. Now it turns out that the explosion was caused by an errant missile fired by Hamas from a cemetery adjoining the hospital. By the way, this wasn’t the only example of this tactic. Hamas commonly uses high-rise apartment buildings, schools, kindergartens and mosques to launch missiles against Israel, hoping for the inescapable result, retaliation that would cause loss of life to its own population and the inevitable condemnation of Israel. And, of course, even more blood money to pour in, in the guise of humanitarian aid. The bombing of the Gaza hospital was the moment Hamas was waiting and hoping for. Mongering fear and horror while appealing for sympathy is how Hamas aims to spread its reign of terror. First Israel, then the rest of the world. 

Hamas does not represent the majority of Palestinians. Frankly, it couldn’t care less about them. Nor does it represent the Gazan population that they control through oppression and tyranny. In addition to murdering, kidnapping and raping Jews, Hamas is willing to kill its own people and sacrifice Gazan children for its own vile purposes. And that is what makes Hamas so evil, and that’s why Hamas has to be eradicated. 

Evil can no longer be defined only as hurting the weak and defenseless. This definition must be expanded to include the cynical use of men, women and children, infants and the aged as human shields and human bait. 

It turns out that the explanation offered by the Amplified Bible is pretty accurate: “desecration, infringement, outrage, assault, and lust for power” describe both the Biblical word hamas and the goals and methods of the terror organization that today is the very personification of that evil. 

How sad that, thousands of years after the Israelites first encountered the vicious tribe called Amalek, the Torah’s warning still remains valid today: “Remember what Amalek did to you on the way as you were coming out of Egypt, how he met you on the way and attacked your rear ranks, all the stragglers at your rear, when you were tired and weary; and he did not fear God” (Deut. 25:17-18 NKJV).

Tonight we pray for the wounded civilians and soldiers, as well as the hostages held by Hamas in Gaza. We pray for the souls of the innocent men, women and children—entire families—who were so brutally murdered two weeks ago, on the Sabbath, on a day set aside for holiness and rejoicing. We pray for the return of peace to the region, so that evil and suffering may be eradicated from the earth. 

Adonai ‘oz l’amo yitein, Adonai y’varech ‘et ‘amo bashalom—May God grant us strength, may God bless us with peace. Amen.



© 2023 by Boaz D. Heilman


Saturday, October 14, 2023

Eradicating Evil: Israel's War Against Hamas

 Eradicating Evil

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 14, 2023


I’d like first of all to thank all of you who are here today. This gathering isn’t meant to be a political rally. We’re not here to discuss political issues—we are here to show unity and solidarity in the face of evil.

Let us not be mistaken: what happened a week ago today in Israel was not part of a regional conflict. It wasn’t tit for tat, one in a series of attacks and counterattacks. This was not merely an act of war. It was the essence of evil itself.

The atrocities we witnessed, the savage murder of over 1200 innocent men, women, children, infants and the aged, are unspeakable. They belong in horror movies or history books—the acts of barbarians and hordes that come riding across continents, slaughtering any and all who stand in their way.

The Jewish People, tragically, are not unfamiliar with terror and massacres. We first encountered it three thousand years ago, having just come out of Egypt, unprepared for war or conflict, when we were assailed by the Amalekites, a vicious and bloodthirsty desert tribe that attacked us at night, by stealth—and most treacherously, that targeted the rear of the camp, where the weary, dispirited, and sick were lagging behind.

At that time, God and Moses declared an eternal war against the Amalekites and the evil that they represented.

The Amalekites are long gone, but not so the evil. We saw it again and again, perpetrated by nations and nationalist fanatics who took the sword against us, forcing us to convert or be killed. 

The horror that was perpetrated last Shabbat was the most recent in this long line of attacks. But let us be clear: This massacre was not intended against Israel alone. It was far and beyond part of the “cycle of violence,” part of the regional conflict between Israel and the Palestinians. Taking place on the Sabbath—and, most significantly, on Simchat Torah, the day set apart thousands of years ago to celebrate our Covenant with God—this was an attack against all Jews, an attack against Judaism itself.

And in truth, it was even broader than that. The massacre was meant to send a signal to the entire world: “We,” said Hamas, “are coming after all of you. Jews, Christians, and anyone else who may not be a follower of Allah,” their god. 

Who and what is Hamas? 

Hamas is the blood sister of ISIS, whose stated purpose is to establish a Muslim califate over the entire Middle East—and then spread to the rest of the world.

Hamas claims to represent the Palestinians. That is a lie. They couldn’t care less about the Palestinians. They claim to be the liberators of conquered lands—and that’s a lie too. Their true intention is to subject all lands to Sharia Law. The Jews in Israel represent only the first target on their target list of those destined for annihilation and destruction.

Hamas has always stated their intention: Their national covenant calls for the elimination of Jewish presence in Israel. For 1500 years, their version of Islam has shown its true bloody, murderous purpose in Iran and Iraq, in Yemen, Turkey, Egypt and Syria, among many other lands. 

There are those in this country and elsewhere who see last week’s massacre as the result of oppression and occupation. Those pseudo-liberals who live in ivory towers, in academia, in bastions of liberal politics, who claim to stand for freedom for the oppressed—have had their minds stolen by religious fanatics who are only too happy to teach them that pent up rage results in righteous self-defense.

But righteousness doesn’t—by any stretch of the imagination and definition—include acts of barbaric violence such as were committed last week. 

Righteousness, by any standards, does not include the indiscriminate murder of men, women and children. It does not include the desecration and mutilation of bodies. It does not include rape, beheadings and burning of babies, slitting of throats of defenseless youth, the mass shootings and setting on fire of entire families and communities. Such acts are nothing less than evil. They represent the choice some people make, to do the very worst that human beings are capable of. By the definition set by Moses and God thousands of years ago, these acts are evil.

Today is Shabbat, and we are taught not to mourn on Shabbat, but this is no ordinary Sabbath. This is a Sabbath of mourning and commemoration. It is a Sabbath of unity, reflection, and prayer: Prayers for the souls of those who were murdered in cold blood; prayers that we may forget the images we have seen, not hear again the screams of terror and agony; prayers for unity; prayers for the moral courage and strength to eliminate and eradicate evil and all evildoers.

There will yet be a time for political reckoning in Israel. The country’s leaders let Israel down. They failed us; they failed in their mission, stated over and over; they failed to demonstrate the proof of the oath we repeat: Never Again. And they will pay the price for this failure.

But this isn’t the time for that. For now, we must face the evil that was unleashed upon us. It has affected each and every one of us, regardless of nationality, religion, or political affiliation as inhumanity and evil inevitably do. 

Over the past few days, I’ve struggled both with words and with prayers. How could God let this happen again—especially on the day celebrating our Covenant with God?

The only prayer that comes to my mind at this moment is Adonai oz l’amo yiten, Adonai yevarech et ‘amo bashalom: “God give us strength, God bless us with peace.” We need to be strong. Only then will peace follow. It will take what it will take, and undoubtedly Israel will be condemned for disproportionate reaction, war crimes and crimes against humanity. Because this is the nature of anti-Semitism and hypocrisy. The world at large shows the Jews pity when we are slaughtered, but none when we hit back. That luxury—a right given to every other nation and people and nation in the world, is not one allowed the Jews.

Tragically, however, it is exactly this kind of force and strength that Israel must now show, no matter how prolific be the crocodile tears shed by pop artists, hypocritical and ignorant academics, pseudo-liberal students and hardcore anti-Semites who crawl from the swamp or occupy gilded seats of power.

Am Yisrael Chai—the People of Israel lives. Our history offers unassailable proof that no matter how many times we are attacked, exiled, humiliated and murdered, burnt alive or drowned in the deep seas, we rise up again and again. We shall rise again after this demonstration of evil and hatred too, but first we must teach the perpetrators a lesson they will never forget. It’s our moral duty and responsibility.

And so help us God. 



© 2023 by Boaz D. Heilman