Take Up Thy Staff

Take Up Thy Staff
D’var Torah for Parashat Va-‘era (Exodus 6:2—9:35)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Israel, Friday, late afternoon. The setting sun’s rays, peeking through the clouds, create a kaleidoscope of reds, oranges and pinks. A few moments earlier, a passing shower blessed the parched land with a few drops. Not enough to make much difference to the fields, but sufficient to clear the air some.

Shabbat is about to set in. Young couples, fathers with their children, walk to synagogues where they will sing their welcome to this blessed day of rest. With smiles on their faces, they seem confident of their way and faith. It must be because they live in Israel, the Promised Land. It’s a privilege they are certain of, one that lightens their heart as well as their step.

Yet, throughout our history, living in Israel had been a dream—or perhaps even less: a vision. Each year, at the end of the Passover seder, generations of Jews would proclaim their faith: Next year in Jerusalem! Sometimes this phrase would rise like a song—proud and joyful. Other times, it would be whispered secretively, with furtive glances thrown in every direction to see who might be listening.

There were times when doubt would silence the words altogether, when terrible suffering made the vision disappear behind a veil of tears. Here and there, a prayer would be uttered by an individual or two, almost desperately, while others around would cast accusing looks: How could prayer cut through the fires and clouds of smoke? Could a song—any song, let alone one expressing hope!—rise above the misery and not fall back down to earth as ashen flakes?

As this week’s parasha, Va-‘era (“I [God] appeared,” Ex. 6:2—9:35) opens, Moses expresses his doubts and weakness. How could he, a mere mortal (the Torah is careful to spell out his humble, human lineage), stand up to Pharaoh, born of the gods themselves? Moses’s first attempts had failed miserably. He sees the terrible suffering of the Israelites as Pharaoh rejects God’s call to let them go and, in fact, imposes even greater hardships on them. Worse yet, it isn’t only Pharaoh who refuses to listen to Moses; it’s the Israelites themselves: “But they did not heed Moses because of anguish of spirit and cruel bondage” (Ex. 6:9). And who could blame them?

Moses doesn’t doubt God. He saw the burning bush; he heard God’s voice speaking to him directly. It’s his own ability to make a difference that Moses doubts: “I speak with faltering lips” (Ex. 6:12, 6:30).

But God persists: I am the one who appeared to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Yes, answers Moses; but they were of impeccable faith, men who set an impossible example for the rest of us. Moreover, they weren’t enslaved, persecuted or hunted. Look around: When was the last time you appeared to these people, so oppressed that they are afraid to look up, let alone stand tall and free.

There is a time for everything—a time to argue, a time to be silent. Now comes the time for action. “Take up thy staff,” God orders. It’s time to show Pharaoh who’s boss.

The parasha progresses from plague to plague. The Nile turns into blood. Frogs overtake the land, followed by lice, wild beasts, pestilence, boils, then fiery hail. With each new disaster that befalls the Egyptians, however, something else happens to Moses: He grows more confident. Like a child learning to walk, at first he relies on the detailed instructions God gives him. But gradually he finds his own voice, bargaining with Pharaoh, then commanding; relenting and then once again pressing on with ever-growing strength.

Throughout the portion, the Israelites remain an unseen player, silent witness to this historic drama. Yet the struggle cannot be only between Moses and Pharaoh. Much of it happens within the people’s heart and spirit. Downtrodden and hopeless as the parasha begins, they, like Moses, begin to find their motivation. Looking at Moses, they understand that the first step towards freedom is finding one’s inner strength. “Take up thy staff!” The command must have echoed through every Hebrew home. Yes, there were skeptics, people whose doubt overpowered their hope, in whom desperation grew so strong that the dream grew dim and finally died. But once awakened, freedom’s heartbeat can’t be silenced.

In flames and clouds of smoke, the Jewish nation was born.

There would yet be more struggles. Each and every generation would see its own tyrant, raising the specter of that first Pharaoh. Oppression, persecution and danger would follow. But the spark that Moses lit inside the Jewish heart remains alive to this day. We have learned that simply waiting for promises to be fulfilled isn’t enough. Sometimes, in order to make a difference, we must take up our staff and point in the direction of freedom and survival.

That’s what welcoming Shabbat in Israel is all about. It’s about lighting candles and watching the light reflect in children’s eyes. It’s about sipping the strong wine; about dipping the sweet challah in salt; about understanding that, just as life’s sweetness is always tempered by tears, so can its doubts and bitterness be sweetened by the blessings of love and faith.

Shabbat shalom. May it be a Sabbath of peace for all.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Becoming Us: Shemot

Becoming Us
D’var Torah for Parashat Sh’mot (Exodus 1:1—6:1)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The story of the Exodus is fundamental to our understanding of the human condition. It is, of course, the cornerstone of the history of the Jewish People, but it has also served as a symbol for many oppressed minorities. Most recently, it was the model for the liberation of the African American People.

A magnificent story so full of special events that it was made into several movies—both live and animated—it’s a clash between two civilizations, two opposing cultures and two religions.

At the same time, this drama isn’t so much the doing of God—though God is given much of the credit (particularly in the Haggadah version). As the story unfolds, more and more it is people who take charge of their existence to give it direction and purpose. To be sure, the Exodus is about God redeeming Israel. But it’s also the story of a growing tide of actions by human characters, each realizing and acting out his or her role as it unfolds before their eyes.

Exodus is a co-production. God and humanity work together as partners. When God commands Moses to call for the liberation of the Israelites, Moses asks: “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh, and that I should take the children of Israel out of Egypt?” God responds: “For I will be with you” (Ex. 3:11-12). This theme is the recurrent message of Judaism. As individuals, we don’t amount to much. But together with God, we can achieve nearly impossible feats.

The Hebrew title of this book, the second book of the Torah, is Sh’mot, which means “names.” All the characters of this story are named, with one notable exception—Pharaoh’s daughter; the Rabbis much later will fix this, giving her the name of Batya, or “Daughter of God.” In fact, women are the true—and often unsung—heroes of Exodus. Whereas Moses begins his career as a cowardly whiner (“Send someone else—anybody!”), it is Moses’ mother, Yocheved, and his sister, Miriam, who will make sure that he survives. He will be rescued and raised by Pharaoh’s Daughter. Others heroes include the Hebrew midwives Shifra and Puah. As Pharaoh begins to carry out his genocidal plans against the Israelites, he commands the midwives to kill on the spot any new-born males. Shifra and Puah heroically refuse, and their names remain emblazoned in our memory and on the gates of the households they are blessed to establish.

Moses, on the other hand, has to be propped up to do his job. God gives him the powerful tools to perform all sorts of signs and wonders (although it will be God alone who will carry out the last, most terrible of the Ten Plagues). When Moses complains of being “slow of speech and of a slow tongue,” God assigns Aaron to be his spokesman.

And it will be Tzippora, Moses’ wife—dark-skinned daughter of the high priest of Midian—who will give Moses the final push he ultimately needs, as she demands that Moses give his whole-hearted commitment to the job he only half-heartedly accepted. She is yet one more individual who takes upon herself a role vital to the story, making sure that what needs to be done is, indeed, done.

As with many of the Torah’s tales of our ancestors, Exodus does not begin with glory. Joseph has been dead for nearly four centuries now. The Israelites, once free and proud, are enslaved. Our history as a nation begins poorly. Yes, the 70 households have grown to become a people of ½ million. Chapter 1 verse 7 describes the process: “The children of Israel were fruitful and swarmed and increased and became very, very strong, and the land became filled with them.” It is hardly a flattering description.

And indeed, what did the Israelites have to speak for themselves? As a religion, there wasn’t much there. In addition to some half-forgotten tales of long-ago ancestors, only circumcision—and their Hebrew names—remained as a legacy, reminding them of their connection to the past, to one another and to an unseen, unrecognized God. Without much history, without holidays or even Shabbat to call their own, their fate might have been like that of any other ancient tribe.

But there is a vast difference between a swarm and a people, and rising from the former and becoming the latter is one of the main messages of Judaism. In Exodus this is achieved when people take on an identity and fulfill the purpose that comes along with that. For the heroes of Exodus, this happens when they choose to rise against tyranny, each for his or her own reason. Moses’s family is first to be named: There is Amram, Moses’s father, whose name (“great people”) embodies the national pride he teaches his children. Yocheved has her maternal instinct that will move her to put the three-month-old infant Moses in a wicker basket and set it afloat on the Nile River (interestingly, the word for the basket—teivah—is the same word used for Noah’s ark!). Pharaoh’s daughter, as she draws the basket out of the water and comprehends the heartbreak behind this desperate act of preservation, is moved by compassion for the downtrodden Hebrews. Miriam, Moses’s sister, is consumed with sisterly care and concern, while Aaron, their brother, is filled with joy when, years later, he sees Moses returning to his old home, people and traditions.

Their names mark their roles for all eternity.

Even God’s name is discussed in this portion. Standing before the burning bush, Moses asks God for a name by which to announce Him to the Hebrews. God replies with a cryptic message (chapter 3, verses 14-15) that embodies all existence (“I shall be who I shall be”). In the next breath, however, God instructs Moses to tell the people that His name is Adonai (YHVH), the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. The difference between the two names is slight—a change in the tense of the verb “to be”—but it is of huge importance. Eh’yeh means “I shall be.” Adonai (the term used for God’s sacred and ineffable name in study and prayer) denotes God’s presence in the here and now. The difference is between “I shall be who I shall be” and “I am.” It’s all about God’s ability to intervene in history.

As with God, so too the meaning of our presence at this time and place is determined by the name and role we accept.

Exodus is about nations and peoples, but it is no less also about individuals and their personal struggles. It is the story of ordinary men and women who take a stand against tyranny and, by doing so, rise from the anonymous swarms and become immortal heroes.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Vayechi—Jacob’s Life; or: The End of the Beginning

Vayechi—Jacob’s Life; or: The End of the Beginning
D’var Torah for Parashat Vayechi
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

With this week’s parashah the first book of the Torah, Genesis, comes to a noble conclusion. It started with Creation; it ends with the death of Jacob. But while this is an ending, it is also a new beginning. The reconciliation between Joseph and his brothers and the reunification of Jacob’s family brings the First Family of Israel to a new level. They are ready to begin a new chapter, a new book. A new people.

Vayechi, (“Jacob lived,” Gen. 47:28-50:26) makes many connections between Jacob’s life and that of his forebears —Abraham and Sarah, Rebecca and Isaac. More than at any other time in his life, Jacob is in perfect spiritual alignment with them. Even the title reminds us of another, earlier parashah—Chayei Sarah, “Sarah’s Life.” It too begins with a death (Sarah’s) but then goes on to tell the story of the life of her progeny. Vayechi is the story of Jacob’s death; but more than that, it signifies also the beginning of the rest of Israel’s life.

For now, there is no more fleeing, conniving or fearing. Jacob has done all of that; he is done with it. His dying request of Joseph is to be buried in the Cave of Machpelah, the very one—he practically gives the address along with the zip code, just to make sure Joseph gets it—where Abraham and Isaac are buried.

It is at this point, having concluded all his earthly arrangements, that Jacob transcends and becomes Israel. Throughout the time that he was known by both names, the name his parents gave him represented the meek individual he was, bound to be manipulated, tricked and threatened. The name given to him by God, however, is a higher self, a superego that he strives toward. As this portion comes to its conclusion, however, Jacob becomes Israel. On his deathbed (how distant from the rocky bed he slept on when he first left his parental home, so many years ago!), now surrounded by all his sons and grandsons, Jacob has a vision of the future. Up until now he had dreams. Now the dream can become a vision of things that surely will come to be: His children no more, B’nai Yisrael become the People of Israel.

What has happened that changes everything so extremely?

Nothing and everything. At these last moments of his life, about to die, Jacob takes an account of the life he had lived. He measures himself up against the ideals he now understands his ancestors had held. With words, images and actions Jacob recalls scenes from his past. He understands the oath Abraham had exacted from his servant when Abraham sent the servant to look for a wife for Isaac. Jacob realizes that the blessing he thought he had won from Isaac by cheating and conniving—had come to him through an act of choice, not trickery: It was Isaac’s choice. Isaac may have been blind; but he wasn’t deaf. He knew then, just as surely as Jacob knows now as he crosses his hands over the heads of Joseph’s two children, Ephraim and Menashe, so as to bless them as he sees fit, not as Joseph sees it. Jacob takes his place next to Abraham and Isaac. And then he dies.

With barely a pause, his story also told, it now becomes Joseph’s turn to move on, to give way to the next chapter. He has done his part and played his role to the hilt. He has saved Egypt from famine; and along with Egypt, he has rescued from starvation peoples from the rest of the drought-stricken Near East. He has saved his own family and set them up for a long and fruitful stay in the Land of Goshen. It’s time.

History does not end with success. Like a wheel, what comes up must come down. The people of Egypt have become enslaved through the fees they had to pay Joseph for feeding them. Discontent is bound to set in. Jealousy at the successful Israelites, who seem only to have thrived during these many difficult years, is bound to turn to virulent hatred. A nervous future Pharaoh—fearful of an uprising by his own people no less than he is terrified by the idea of a rebellion by the many slaves his tyrannical regime keeps downtrodden—will look for a scapegoat to blame for the situation. This new Pharaoh will have forgotten Joseph’s past service, how he had not only saved Egypt but also elevated it to become the center of the ancient world. This new pharaoh…

But that’s another story already. For now, it is Joseph’s time to die, to become a memory of things past. In his last words to his people, he begs them to remember him, to hold the promise of forgiveness and grace he had held out to them. It is a tender moment when Joseph yields control of his fate completely and wholly over to God. This has been his journey too: From the self-centered youth he so enjoyed being, through the years of jealousy and hatred, the quick rise to success, to the unexpected encounter with his past. Throughout this journey, more and more he has learned to see God’s hand guiding him. Now he knows with calm certainty. That is what he wants his descendants to remember: To see the unseen hand, to feel against your back the silent ruach, the spirit that still hovers over the dark depths, guiding the sails of all Creation forward to an unknown but oh!-so-Promised Land.

Chazak chazak v’nit-cha-zek: Be strong, be strong and together we shall all be strengthened.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

On the Importance of Stepping Up

On the Importance of Stepping Up
D’var Torah on Parashat Vayigash—Genesis 44:18-47:27
Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Vayigash… Yehuda, “Judah drew near.” With these opening words of this week’s parashah, the process of reconciliation between Joseph and his brothers reaches its tearful climax.

Giving his brothers one last test of their faithfulness, Joseph announces that the youngest brother, Benjamin, must remain in Egypt as his slave. It is at this point that Judah draws near, taking the last step in his transformation from the person he was when he proposed that Joseph be sold into slavery—cynical, self-centered and mean—into the shining example that will make him worthy of the leadership of his people and of being credited as the founder of Judah-ism.

Life had taught Judah compassion. Having lost his first two sons and fearing the loss of his youngest, he has come to understand the agony and misery that his earlier misdeeds had caused Jacob. He can now understand fully Jacob’s terror at the prospect of losing Benjamin, the last survivor of Jacob’s love for Rachel. Overcoming his fear of the second most powerful man in all Egypt, Judah pleads for Benjamin’s freedom and offers himself as a slave instead: “For how will I go up to my father if the boy is not with me? Let me not see the misery that will befall my father!” (Gen. 44:34).

It is at this moment in the story that Joseph loses his composure. To be sure, he, too, was responsible for some of Jacob’s misery. He could have sent a message. Almost two decades had passed since the dreadful day he was torn from his father, a time span that Joseph employed to forget his past, rather than reconnect with it. Judah’s words bring home to Joseph the keen awareness of Jacob’s pain throughout this time—pain he could have eased, but didn’t.

Filled with guilt and remorse, Joseph sends out all the Egyptian courtiers. Alone with his brothers, he reveals his true identity: “I am Joseph.” Then, expressing his deepest concern, he asks, “Is my father still alive?” (Gen. 45:3). Did he wait too long? Was the connection with his past irretrievably lost? Was there still hope for t’shuva, for the possibility to repair at least some of the damage? Or had Jacob given up on him? Was it too late?

It is never too late to make amends, never too late to begin the process of t’shuva, of repairing the wrong. Joseph’s brothers are dumbfounded; but Joseph already knows the answer to his question. “Hurry,” he commands them, “hurry and bring my father down to me.”

One doesn’t need to imagine the shed tears. The scene is described beautifully in the parashah. It is one of great joy that is yet mingled with a deep sense of loss—the loss of so many years, the loss of love, innocence, faith and trust. Our days on earth are short, this story reminds us. In the best case, life is filled with trouble and hard work. Yet we are not helpless. Each of us has the ability to fill the moments we have allotted to us with love, joy and blessing. Why make life worse when we can make it better?

Judah steps up when he recognizes that up until this moment, his life was meaningless. It is only when measured against a higher ideal and a higher goal that Judah can begin to fill his life with true meaning. His was a long process of loss followed by small steps of enlightenment. He had started badly by abandoning Joseph to the care of slave traders. Uncaring and irresponsible, his only concern then was for the money he would be getting by selling the boy. Later, after the death of his sons Er and Onan, Judah let fear dictate his course of actions; his lack of concern for his personal worth, for the values his word and name stood for, caused him to forget his responsibilities to his daughter-in-law, Tamar, and for his youngest son. Now, however, facing the possibility of further misery and loss, Judah finds the strength to stop the downward spiral. He discovers within himself sufficient courage and determination to motivate him finally to do the right thing, to take that final step and make a real difference in life. And so Judah steps up. Vayigash… Yehuda, “And Judah drew near.” Filled with compassion for his father, with concern and care for his brothers, family and people, Judah steps up to Joseph and pleads their case, begging for justice and mercy.

The irony is obvious. Years earlier, Judah had failed to heed Joseph’s calls for mercy. Why should Joseph act differently now, with their fortunes reversed?

Yet, through his act of heroism, Judah not only redeems himself, but others as well. Judah’s courage and love cause Joseph to reveal his identity and forgive his brothers. At the same time, Judah inspires the rest of his brothers to step up as well. And so it is with all of us: with our actions we inspire others. If we are courageous, others around us will be the same; if we show compassion, others will follow suit. It is human nature.

And so the story reaches its conclusion. Joseph sends chariots and provisions for Jacob and all his family. Jacob, eager to see Joseph before he dies, leaves Canaan. His departure for Egypt signals both an ending to this chapter and a new beginning. Israel settles in the Land of Goshen—the land of “stepping forward,” “drawing near” and “stepping up.” It will be here that Israel will begin to find its identity as a nation and a people, but that’s another story altogether. For the time being, they live in happiness, together for the first time in many a year.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Joseph and His Brothers: Part II—Confrontations

Joseph and His Brothers: Part II—Confrontations
D’var Torah for Parashat Miketz (Genesis 41:1-44:17)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Miketz, this week’s Torah portion, is the story of Joseph and Judah. It’s a study in confrontations, as much a psychological thriller as a beautiful story of brothers reconciling.

Judah was responsible for getting Joseph sold into slavery. So if anyone ever had reason to hold a grudge, it was Joseph. Their hatred for one another sizzled. Yet at some point, they both must come to realize there was something out there that was bigger than either of them; something that called out to them, telling them to get over the petty stuff and start paying attention to the real business at hand: survival.

But the road to reconciliation would not be easy or simple.

If Judah (having lost already two of his three sons) is to survive as a family, let alone as a tribe, he must marry his youngest son to Tamar (re-read chapter 38 for that story). Judah fears this prospect but must confront it if there’s to be any hope of a future to his family and name. In standing true to his promise to Tamar, Judah transcends his fear and begins his route to redemption.

Joseph, too, realizes that he is holding in his hand nothing less than the fate of his family and people. Yet before he can act, he must confront his past. He worked hard to forget it during the first few years that he was in Egypt. At first it was the degradation of slavery, the many tasks that came his way, the abuse he must have endured. Then came success. Joseph is taken from prison, called up to Pharaoh to interpret Pharaoh’s famous two dreams: The one about seven fat cows being eaten by seven scrawny cows; and the other, where a healthy stalk of wheat bearing seven branches of grain, is overtaken by seven lean and withered stalks bearing no grain at all. No one throughout the land of Egypt could tell Pharaoh what these dreams meant. Imagine that.

But for Joseph, his reputation preceded him. In the words of Pharaoh: “They say that for you to hear a dream is to immediately understand it” (Gen. 41:15).

Success pulls Joseph even further from his past. He now commands power second only to that of Pharaoh. A little luxury sometimes goes a long way to help you forget what poverty feels like.

But you can’t run away from your past.

As the predicted famine deepens throughout Egypt and even spreads to other lands (including Canaan), Joseph’s brothers come to Egypt to buy food. Joseph confronts the ten (Benjamin, the youngest, had stayed at home with Jacob). He accuses them of being spies, untrustworthy. He plays with them pretty mercilessly, but in the end he sends them home with food—along with their money. In their defense, however, the brothers had mentioned Jacob, Joseph and Benjamin. The names must have jabbed at Joseph’s repressed memories. Moreover, while talking among themselves—and believing that Joseph couldn’t understand them—they recalled the way they had handled Joseph. The most dreadful moment of all, the betrayal, the tearing away of Joseph from his childhood, from his home and his dreams, from his father and the beautiful striped tunic he had given Joseph, was out there in the open, a guilty secret that couldn’t be contained any more, that burst out in all its incriminating self hatred.

The intensity of the moment leads Joseph to weep, a sure sign that he understood that running away from his past was no longer an option. Yet he makes one more demand: That the next time that the brothers come down to Egypt to procure food, they must bring Benjamin with them.

The brothers come home to Jacob, and all’s well at first. Until the food runs out. Milling about, they know what they must do, but they are afraid. It takes Jacob all the courage he can muster to face and charge them with the task of buying food. “Um, Dad…,” they stammer in reply. You can almost sense their consternation. It was a confrontation with their father they tried to avoid for almost 20 years.

But Jacob has no choice. He has to trust his ten untrustworthy sons. Judah makes the deal possible by offering collateral: Judah himself will guard the boy. If he fails and something bad—God forbid!—happens, Judah will stand guilty before his father for the rest of his life.

By accepting this burden, this responsibility, Judah moves another step up the ladder of Redemption.

Jacob had never learned to accept Joseph’s death. In his heart of hearts, he still had hope that Joseph might be alive somewhere. Was there any reason for him to suspect now, at this moment, that this Overlord of Egypt that his sons spoke of, the one who had inquired about an old father and a younger brother, might be his long lost son? None whatsoever. And yet, what the old man does next is nothing short of wondrous: He sends the youthful lord a food offering. “Take with you,” Jacob instructs his sons, “some of the choice products of the land…, a little balm and a little honey, wax and lotus, pistachios and almonds” (Gen. 43:11). Jacob sends Joseph a care package. Some of his favorite foods. A taste of the past.

At seeing his brother Benjamin (and, I’m sure, smelling the soup), Joseph weeps again.

But he is not convinced. Have his brothers truly repented for mistreating him and selling him into slavery? All his instincts cry out to him to forgive them, but he can’t. He has one more test for them. What would they do if they had the opportunity to get rid of Benjamin just as they got rid of Joseph? Would they give in again to the same impulses that drove them to the first family betrayal?

Making sure that Benjamin would not be harmed in the process, Joseph arranges this last test. He just has to know.

And so one last confrontation is set up: the one between Joseph and Judah.

For scenes from next week portion, please stay tuned.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Joseph and the Deadly Brothers: Part I

Joseph and the Deadly Brothers: Part I
D’var Torah on Parashat Vayeishev (Genesis 37:1—40:23)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The story of Vayeishev, this week’s Torah portion, picks up as Jacob is about to settle down in “the land of his father’s sojournings.”

There is both promise and foreboding in the opening sentence of the parasha. Jacob’s life up to that point had been anything but settled or peaceful. The words “his father’s sojournings” remind us that though Isaac, Jacob’s father, never ventured outside the Promised Land, he and the family nonetheless wandered about it extensively and restlessly. Would Jacob’s lot be any different now? As a child and as a young adult, strife and competition were common in Jacob’s life, often with him right in the middle of it all. His return home after 20 years in exile was fraught with strife, fear and tragedy. After the bloody Dinah affair, Jacob must have felt even less secure sharing his dwelling with his volatile and often violent sons. So, following the hopeful but uncertain opening verse of the portion, we are not surprised when things begin to slide rapidly downhill.

The well known story of Joseph and his brothers begins at this point. A true tear jerker, it is one of the most beautiful tales in the whole Torah. A story of love, brotherly hate and betrayal, adventure, discovery and ultimate redemption, it was turned into a multi-volume novel (by Thomas Mann); made into several films (both live and animated); at least one TV mini-series; and the famous musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.

In parashat Vayeishev, the first part of this story is told: Joseph’s status as Jacob’s favorite son is publicly established through the gift of a special coat or adorned tunic that Jacob gives him. Joseph abuses his privileged position, maligning his brothers to their father and belittling them through a series of dreams that he relates, in which they bow down to him.

Little wonder, then, that the brothers take the first opportunity to rid themselves of the little pest.

With the brothers away with their flocks on a particularly long journey, Joseph is sent by Jacob to inquire after their welfare. The brothers see him from afar and conspire against him. They capture Joseph and cast him into a dry water pit. At first intending to kill him, they are dissuaded by Reuben—who hopes secretly to release the boy.

It falls to Judah, however, to come up with the odious idea of selling Joseph into slavery. “What do we gain by killing him,” he asks just as a caravan of traders comes near, adding glibly, “He is, after all, our brother, our flesh.”

One can almost hear the snickering.

The trade is made—one boy in return for 20 pieces of silver. The brothers keep the adorned tunic Joseph wore.

On returning home, they show Jacob the tunic, torn and sullied with the blood of a goat they had killed. All at once, Jacob’s world collapses around him. He falls into a state of mourning, unable or unwilling to be consoled—perhaps holding in his heart of hearts the slimmest of all hope that Joseph might still be alive.

The reader knows well, of course, that Joseph is indeed alive, and that his own long journey toward redemption has only begun. Joseph’s narcissistic visions of grandeur have given way to a grim reality of slavery and abuse. Torn from the comforts of home, he becomes filled instead with resentment and ambition, motives he uses well—along with his charm and good looks—to get ahead in life.

It is at this point that a new hero rises in the story. It is Judah—the very same Judah who had suggested selling Joseph into slavery, abdicating any responsibility towards his brother; the very same Judah who, centuries later, will assume tribal leadership over his brothers; the very same Judah whose -ism we follow to this day. It’s a transformation that deserves its own chapter.

We can easily imagine the behavior of the brothers after they show Jacob the bloodied coat Joseph had worn. The guilty silences, the whispers, the downcast eyes, the lies—repeated and adorned through the weeks, months and years—which are like a festering wound. Judah finally breaks away from all this (or perhaps, according to some commentators, is cast out by his brothers who blame him for the disastrous state of affairs). He marries, fathers three sons and marries the eldest of them to a woman named Tamar. Sadly, however, the first son dies, and Judah has the second son marry Tamar with the purpose of fulfilling “levirate” duties (the ancient custom requiring a man to marry his brother’s widow if the dead brother was childless). This son, however, also dies. Fearful of losing his remaining son, Judah sends Tamar away, back to her father’s house, with the promise that when the young boy grows older, he will have her come back. Judah fails to keep his promise, however. Tamar tricks him into recognizing his responsibility—at which point Judah finally begins to comprehend the extent of pain and suffering he had caused his father and brother, among others. It is so that he first sets out on his road toward redemption, a journey that will ultimately earn him the right to represent and lead his brothers and people.

It doesn’t take much for repentance to begin. The first step is recognizing that we may have done something wrong. Fixing the wrongs is much tougher and may take a much longer route. It will take much work yet before Joseph and his brothers achieve reconciliation. For now, however, Joseph must continue his spiritual descent even as he sees growing success—first as a slave, then as slave maker to Pharaoh. The abused becomes abuser before he is redeemed. Judah, as yet unrepentant, must return to his father and brothers. The silent accusations will continue to fly like daggers among them.

And Jacob’s sorrow will continue unabated. At least until Part II is told.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Blessing of Being Israel

The Blessing of Being Israel
D’var Torah for Parashat Vayishlach (Genesis 32:4—36:43)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

In this week’s parashah, for the first time after fleeing from Esau some twenty years earlier, Jacob has to face his brother. His early fears—though not unfounded—seem positively trivial at this point. Then, he had little to lose (OK, Esau swore to kill him, but things could be worse). Now, however, he has a family. He has children, wives, cattle and sheep, many servants, much gold. Life has become precious to him over the years.

And the news is bad: Esau is coming toward him at the head of a full contingent of men armed to the teeth.

Twenty years earlier, Jacob could run. But now? Then, with his whole life yet ahead of him, Jacob, youthful, hopeful and confident, headed east towards Haran, the home of his mother’s family. But now, having left that home—where he had found not only love and wealth, but also jealousy, cheating in-laws and budding anti-Semitism—he can’t go back there anymore.

Jacob has run out of options. He can’t run any more.

More than ever before, Jacob knows he has to rely on his cleverness and cunning if he is going to survive the faceoff with his brother. He musters all his strength, physical as well as spiritual. Sending forth several herds of livestock as gifts for his brother (Vayishlach means “he sent forth”), Jacob divides the remainder of his camp into two—Leah and her children first, then Rachel and hers. He sends them all ahead, hoping against all hope that Esau won’t attack—but that if he does, at least the beloved Rachel might be spared.

That leaves Jacob alone, on the far shore of the Jordan River, alone to figure out what to do next.

Years ago, when I first saw the movie Exodus, I was deeply affected by it. One of the scenes that always stayed in my mind was the one when, in anticipation of an Arab attack on Kibbutz Gan Dafna, the order is given to evacuate the women and children. With loud Hebrew music playing as a diversionary tactic in the background, the children—their mouths sealed with masking tape—are silently carried out under cover of darkness. The remaining defenders, camouflaged, lying quietly on the watch for the impending attack, are left alone with their thoughts, their fears, their hopes and their prayers. Just like Jacob—who after this night will be known by the name of Israel.

That night, Jacob has to wrestle a mysterious being, variously explained as an angel, a demon, or as a personification of Jacob’s own personal fears. The fight lasts all night. Just before daybreak—when, as we know from countless vampire movies and books, demons must flee into the darkness—Jacob finds himself hurt. Yet he does not loosen his hold on his adversary. At the last possible moment, as recompense for letting the angel go, Jacob demands a blessing from him.

The angel responds by renaming Jacob: “Your name shall no longer be called Jacob but Israel, inasmuch as you have striven with God and with men, and you have prevailed” (Gen. 32:29). Filled with renewed confidence and hope, Jacob releases the angel and moves on with his life. He is hurt—as are we all by our struggles with our own angels and demons in life—but he does not let that stop him. If anything, his limp will continually remind him of this night and its successful outcome.

It may have taken 20 years to learn, but the message—for Jacob as for the rest of us—is a hard-won lesson. Running away from our issues and demons is not a solution. Yet, for so many of us, that is precisely what we do through most of our life, devoting immeasurable energy into avoidance and denial. When Jacob asks for his adversary’s name, the angel refuses to divulge it. And that is the way it should be. Each of us has individual fears, unique to our experience and our life. Often, our fears have no name. We sometimes conceal these inner terrors with extroverted macho behavior; sometimes we resort to drug or alcohol abuse. We may spend countless hours at work, or sometimes we “shop till we drop.”

But eventually we all have to come home.

Learning this lesson is not easy for any of us. We are afraid of the night and its creatures, even if some of them live only in our minds.

Sometimes the fears are real. There may indeed be real dangers and real enemies lurking in the dark. But, real or imaginary, running away is not the solution. We may get hurt along the way, but, just like Jacob, in facing our adversaries and in overcoming our adversities, we may also discover our strengths.

Up until that fateful night, in addition to his own cleverness, Jacob had relied on luck, magic and superstition. The night that Jacob became Israel, he learned to rely on God. He learned to pray—not only for things, not even for victory, but rather to pray in recognition and gratitude for the values he was so richly blessed with: kindness, love and generosity. He learned to understand that his strength lay not only in his own cleverness, but in these values. The blessing he had wrested from his brother and father was small in comparison to the blessing he won through his struggle with God and the angel. He now knew for a fact that God—as God had promised him twenty years earlier—would always be there for him and with him. Jacob finally learned—through his spiritual struggles—to integrate God into his life.

No longer afraid, Jacob limps slowly forward. He meets his brother Esau and asks for his forgiveness. He offers Esau half of all he owns. Generously, Esau forgives Jacob, as the two brothers reconcile (at least for now).

Jacob is ready to move on. No longer running away, he is deeply aware of the dangers that yet face him and his family. But he knows he will survive. He has wrestled with God and with humans before, and he prevailed. He will prevail again and again, no matter what battles lie ahead.

Life is a series of struggles. Yet, if we, like Jacob, unflinchingly face up to these, we can be sure that we, too, will prevail.

Maybe it’s embedded in our genes. I don’t know. I prefer to think of it as a blessing.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Simple Truth

A Simple Truth
D’var Torah on Parashat Vayeitze, Genesis 28:10—32:3
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

A person’s spiritual journey often mirrors his or her physical journey through life.

As the Biblical patriarch Jacob’s story begins, we find him a homeboy, cooking red lentil stew. Unlike his twin brother, Esau, Jacob does not venture far from home. He is described as an “ish tam,” a simple, whole or innocent man. The term reminds us of the third of the Four Sons that the Passover Haggada speaks of.

Yet, Jacob is far from simple. He is, in fact, cunning and shrewd. For better or for worse, he is lacking in one simple human quality—trust. We see proof of that as Jacob bargains with Esau for the birthright, where a simple “You got it” simply doesn’t cut it for him. “Swear to it!” Jacob demands, and Esau complies.

As this week’s parasha, Vayeitze, begins, Jacob sets out on the journey from his family home in Beer Sheba to his mother’s place of origin, Haran. He leaves with little more than the shirt on his back—symbolic of the emergency nature of his departure (after all, Esau has sworn to kill him). The dearth of physical comforts is paralleled by Jacob’s impoverished spiritual state. He has lost everything—home, love, security. As he lies down for his first night away from home ever, he uses a stone for a pillow. No goose down for him tonight. Jacob probably swears, as will the protagonist of another dramatic story from a much later time and place, that, as God is his witness, he will never go hungry again. But for now, he is going to have to rebuild his life from scratch.

Jacob has a dream. He sees angels going up and down a ladder; he sees God’s presence surrounding him, and he receives God’s promise to protect him along his journey and to see to it that Jacob returns home safely.

Now you and I might wake up after such a night feeling grateful and encouraged, but the practical Jacob needs more than a promise. “If you do that,” he replies, “if you safeguard me along my journeys and bring me back home safe and sound, if you do all that, then I will worship you as my God.” The sheer chutzpah takes one’s breath away.

Still, from this first encounter with God, Jacob is willing enough to learn a lesson: God is present in the least expected places. “There is a God here, and I did not know it” (Gen. 28:16). Yet he remains naive enough to believe that the very spot where he had his dream is God’s home. He has yet to learn that God is everywhere—a complex lesson that will come to him gradually during the course of this parasha and the rest of his life.

As children, our faith is similarly simple. The idea of God, even as it is mysterious and somewhat frightening, is also whole. As children, it is often clear to us what God expects of us—or at least, is made clear to us by parents and teachers. And we accept these simple truths.

I remember, as a child growing up in Israel, once praying and making a promise to God while walking somewhere. I wasn’t in the habit of wearing a yarmulke then (kippah is the Hebrew version of the word), but for days afterwards, whenever I passed by that spot, I covered my head with my hand, a simple and naïve gesture that brings to mind the physical gesture of bestowing a blessing.

Simple requests, simple gestures.

As our physical journey from childhood to maturity continues, so does our spiritual development. We leave home and encounter the world, complex, complicated, full of twists and turns and often problematic. The simplistic beliefs we had held as children are left behind. As we learn about ourselves and our growing role in life, we sometimes experiment with other spiritual paths. The many challenges of life, the losses and defeats we suffer sometimes leave us bereft of faith and trust—just like Jacob.

It’s naïve to expect that faith will protect us from all harm. The universe sometimes seems impersonal and in fact downright cruel. Life often takes away from us our most precious possessions, leaving us feeling as Jacob did that first night—alone, abandoned and hopeless.

It isn’t easy to rebuild faith or trust once they’ve been shattered. It’s easier to rebuild our lives—or at least the outer shell. Yet the void inside us cries out to us.

Among my friends and family in Israel, there are many who, following their experiences during the Holocaust, lost all faith in God. They managed to rebuild their lives, growing beautiful and vibrant families, businesses, professions. They may even celebrate holidays and follow some Jewish traditions. Yet new traditions, secular and worldly, have replaced many of the old customs. Thus, for example, in many communities in Israel, Yom Kippur isn’t a day spent in the confines of a synagogue. Rather, it is a day of going out to city streets and public squares on bicycles. With little or no business traffic going anywhere, streets get closed off to cars and are soon completely filled with children and adults alike, all on bikes. It’s an amazing phenomenon, but its purpose and function are as spiritual and meaningful as going to shul. The tragic losses of the past have been replaced by new life and new energy. Ancient rites have been replaced by new rituals, centered on family, community and new-found freedom in the Land of Israel.

Our physical and spiritual journey continues to develop throughout our life. It wasn’t until I was in college—five or six years after leaving Israel—that I first felt myself in exile. There was a physical sensation of being separated from home that was accompanied by a great emotional yearning. It took another couple of years, and another exile (leaving my parents’ home as I transferred to college in another city and state), before I began to discover my personal spiritual space, my home-away-from-home. Through various connections and turns of life, I found myself working as counselor at a Jewish summer camp in Utica, Mississippi. Shortly after I arrived, I was asked by the educational director of the camp, a rabbi, to officiate at a havdalah service. Not uncharacteristically for me, I accepted the challenge even before I asked what a havdalah service was. As the saying goes, there is no atheist in a foxhole…. That, in turn, led me to a road I followed on and off for close to thirty years, culminating in my ordination as rabbi. It’s a journey I am still on.

I discover God in places I never knew God was present: On the day I was married; in the birth of my children; in the everyday interactions between me and the world around me. I sense God’s presence when I study Torah and when I teach Jewish history; when I counsel a distraught individual or a couple lovingly preparing to join their lives together. I find God in the prayers I say, and in the questions I’m asked by simple, naïve children who just want to know if God can feel sick, and how do we know God can forgive.

We live in the house of God, and we did not even know it! It’s a place that sometimes we think we leave behind, and that, at other moments, we come back to. The truth is, however, that it always surrounds us and is always within us. We don’t ever have to feel estranged.

All we have to do is come home, back to our simpler selves.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Deeds of Our Parents

The Deeds of Our Parents
D’var Torah for Parashat Toldot, Genesis 25:10—28:9
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Parenting. It’s the hardest job in the world. Not only is it full time, we also never get a day off. Even if we aren’t supplying their every need, picking them up, dropping them off, they are always in our thoughts. When we go shopping for food or clothes, for holiday or birthday gifts—we always think of what they might like or need. Even when they leave the house—in fact, especially after they leave home—they are never far from our thoughts, as we worry about their ability to take care of themselves in this wild and unpredictable world.

As parents, we are always on call. We jump to the phone ringing at midnight, our heart skipping a beat in fright. How wonderful to let out the caught breath when we hear a question having to do with how to defrost meat (best in the fridge overnight), and can it be frozen again (no).

What makes it even more difficult is that not only are we the first teachers for our children, we are actually the most influential teachers. Long after we find ourselves unable to help them with their math or physics, we still find ourselves in the role of mentors. We may exclaim in wonder how much a baby may resemble a father or mother, but what truly amazes us is how much they are like us in personality—and how much we, in turn, are like our own parents.

The wise Sages of the Talmud taught: Maaseh avot siman l’banim—“the deeds of the parents are the model for the children.” Children learn more from the example set by the behavior of the parents than from all the verbiage we can offer as explanation. The way we react to life, whether in silence, with a sneer, with a smile, with an excuse or a kind word—these are lessons our children learn wordlessly from us by simply watching.

The first family of the Jewish people was far from exemplary. The zealotry of Abraham, the jealousy of Sarah; the preferential treatment that Jacob will display toward his favorite child, Joseph—these seem to follow patterns established by prior generations, precedents set by ancestors who didn’t think twice about their behavior and the impact it might have on the future.

In this week’s Torah portion, Toldot (“generations”), Genesis 25:10—28:9, Isaac and Rebecca find themselves parents of twin boys, Jacob and Esau. They each choose a favorite—Isaac prefers Esau, the hunter, the wild outdoorsman; Rebecca chooses Jacob, a meek and mild homeboy who prefers cooking lessons to archery. Isaac might be forgetting the jealousy that led his mother, Sarah, to demand that Ishmael—Abraham’s and Hagar’s son—be sent out of the house. Rebecca recognizes in Jacob—or perhaps instills in him—traits she learned in the bosom of her own family: Manipulation, wheeling and dealing, even cheating and stealing.

As Jacob follows the behavior modeled by his mother, he sets up repercussions for years to come.

We first encounter the jealousy between the twin brothers as Esau comes home one day, tired, hungry and thirsty after a wearying hunt. He happens upon Jacob, who is busy cooking some good-smelling stew. “Gimme some of that red stuff,” Esau manages to grunt. Jacob, seeing an opportunity, agrees to sell his brother a bowl of the stew—but at a steep price: the birthright. Esau, thinking himself at the point of death, blows off the implications and agrees to the deal.

All this is seemingly forgotten until many years later, when Isaac is on his deathbed and wishes to bestow the final blessing—the spiritual legacy that goes along with the material inheritance—to his favorite son, his oldest son (even if by a few moments), Esau.

Rebecca, overhearing Isaac’s request that Esau go hunt food for him in return for the blessing (a tradeoff that seems to be a family trait), urges Jacob to pretend to be Esau and secure the blessing for himself. Not protesting the immoral nature of the deed, Jacob recognizes only the difficulty of the task—“My brother Esau is a hairy man, whereas I am a smooth man!” Rebecca helps Jacob cheat Isaac, and the blessing is bestowed.

The consequences of these actions aren’t late in coming. Esau, realizing he has been cheated out of both blessing and inheritance, swears to kill Jacob. Fearful of her first-born’s son impetuous and violent nature, Rebecca arranges to send Jacob out to her family in Aram, where he would be staying with her brother, Laban. Any semblance of a happy household is shattered, as Jacob prepares to leave his childhood home—his childhood, in fact. Has he learned his lesson? Hardly. He is just starting off on a path that will be filled with people cheating him, where—among his own children—brother will set against brother, where he will be manipulated by almost anyone he comes in contact with.

Jacob’s life will be filled with sadness and tragedy. Much of that will be the consequence of behavior he had seen at home and followed innocently. He is as much a victim of his own choices and deeds as of those of his parents.

So much like us.

So where does this chain of events stop? How do we end the spiral? Are we all doomed to simply repeat the wrongdoings of the generations that preceded us?

If that were so, the Torah would be remiss. The lesson will come, albeit further down the story. It will appear at a moment of reckoning for one of Jacob’s sons who, all grown up and now a father himself, will come to realize that at some point we have to take life’s reins in hand and acknowledge responsibility for our own actions and behavior. Yes, there are patterns we follow, models and archetypes that shape so much of our personality and our life. Yet these cannot become an excuse for further wrongdoing.

I have always wondered about the Rabbinic phrase, Maaseh avot siman l’banim—“the deeds of the parents are the model for their children.” The word siman doesn’t mean only “model.” More strictly, it also means “a sign.” As such, the deeds of our ancestors shouldn’t be only a pattern we follow automatically. They should be a road sign to consider and learn from. No one is perfect—not even the first family of the Jewish people. Even they were only human and as such subject to human frailties. But just as they learned from their mistakes, so must we—from theirs as well as from ours. We are not merely following in the wake left behind by those who came before us. We can shape for ourselves the direction in which our life goes. What makes our work as parents so difficult is that we must remember that each choice we make, each action we pursue, is a signal left for our children and grandchildren, an opportunity for them to learn from. We never do stop teaching them.

It’s a heavy responsibility, but one we have no choice but to accept. The future depends on what we do today.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Flowering of Sarah’s Legacy

The Flowering of Sarah’s Legacy
D’var Torah on Parashat Chayei Sarah (Genesis 23:1—25:18)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Chayei Sarah—“Sarah’s Life”—is actually better translated as “Sarah’s Legacy.” This week’s Torah portion has actually very little to say about Sarah, except for a short epitaph: Sarah lived 127 years; Sarah died; Abraham mourned for her and sought a gravesite to bury Sarah.

A person lives, a person dies and is no more. In the words of Shakespeare, “The rest is silence.”

And yet, there is more.

48 years ago, Chayei Sarah was my bar mitzvah portion. I still see myself—it’s etched in my memory—as the small child that I was, standing on a step stool so that more than just the top of my head could be seen over the lectern. I chanted the entire portion, followed by the whole haftarah. No short cuts.

I came into the event resentful—resentful of the hours I had to spend learning the long readings; resentful of the seemingly mundane material they contained. I never met with the rabbi, so that even though I understood the Hebrew and the story line, I never got the import of the parasha’s message. I also intensely disliked my tutor. Added to that was the fact that I didn’t even get to write my own d’var—it was written for me.

In all fairness, there were other, much more pleasant moments to the event—it was actually the last time I saw my grandparents; they went back to Israel shortly after the bar mitzvah, and both died before I saw them again. This was a good time for the family and friends gathered for the simcha (the happy occasion).

Still, when I became a rabbi, I vowed that no child who becomes bar or bat mitzvah at Congregation B’nai Torah should feel as I did when I was thirteen—that the event was pretty much meaningless. As rabbi, I have tried my hardest to teach our students not only the stories of the portions, but also the lessons they contained. The kids who became b’nai mitzvah at CBT would be involved in the process; hopefully they would understand not only the Hebrew verses they chant, but also the role of this event in the larger picture of their own life and the life of our people.

Such is the legacy of my bar mitzvah. Not much of a story, but the long-term effect was—and continues to be—far reaching.

This week’s parasha isn’t about Sarah. Her voice, at times resentful and cynical, at times argumentative, at times authoritarian, is stilled by the time this portion begins. Beyond the first few verses, the portion is really about two business transactions: Abraham buys a piece of property as a gravesite; and he procures a wife for Isaac. Though mundane in detail, these negotiations are an accurate description of how business is still often done in the Near East.

That both Sarah and Isaac, who were, after all, the beneficiaries of these transactions, are totally absent from the discussions, is easily understood in the case of Sarah. Sarah, of course, was dead. Isaac, on the other hand, is a bit more of a mystery. Why was he absent from the negotiations for his own wife? Since the akeida—the near sacrifice that Isaac endured—Isaac had taken to wandering alone in the open fields, away from civilization. The next time we see him, it is towards the end of the portion: It is evening time and, seeing a caravan of camels in the distance, Isaac recognizes it as the one bearing his future wife, Rebecca.

Isaac is a passive player in most of the stories about his life. And this one, though Isaac is at its heart and center, is still about his parents’ legacy, not his own.

Abraham is the chief negotiator in the two business transactions. He deals directly with the Hittite landowner Ephron, from whom a burial cave is purchased for full price, with all the folk of the city as witnesses to the transfer of money and property. The negotiations for Rebecca are also directed by Abraham, though in actuality the transaction is faithfully carried out by his servant.

Abraham, whose faith in God was complete, understood that in securing the future, relying on God’s promises alone would probably not be enough. God had promised Abraham that the whole land of Canaan would one day belong to his descendants. The promise may have been enough to sustain Abraham, but well he knew that that would not be good enough for the general population. They would need documentation, and Abraham saw to it that the documentation was there—in duplicate!

So, too, in the negotiations for a wife for Isaac. God had promised Abraham that his descendants would be as numerous as the stars in the heavens. Maybe so, but when it came to character, Abraham took no chances. It would take a certain type of person to carry on the promise, to fulfill the legacy and mission that Abraham intended for his descendants. Only a person of certain characteristics would be suitable as Isaac’s wife and the second matriarch of the Hebrew people. That could not be left up to chance, or even divine intervention. Abraham’s last gift for Isaac was finding Rebecca.

So what was Sarah’s role in all this? What is her legacy? Why is the portion called Chayei Sarah?

The answer comes toward the end of the portion. Alone for all this time, Isaac wanders in the fields. Is he lost? Why is he staying away from his parents’ tents? It doesn’t take a PhD in psychology to understand why Isaac stays away from Abraham. The father figure he had relied on turned out to be not so reliable. His faith in God almost cost Isaac his life.

And Sarah? Her legacy was something Isaac could relate to: It was the fierce love she felt for Isaac, the child of her old age. God wouldn’t have stood a chance if He had demanded a similar sacrifice from Sarah! She would not have remained silent. She would have railed against the senseless decree. Sarah would have shaken her fist and said, in the name of all mothers: “Enough! No more suffering, no more killing or hurting the innocent!”

Isaac stayed away because he felt the emptiness in his heart and his life. It wasn’t only his mother’s love he missed. It was her voice; her intense protectiveness; the safety net she created for him.

Parashat Chayei Sarah ends with Isaac falling in love with Rebecca (the first time the concept enters Biblical storytelling) and bringing her home. She is going to occupy Sarah’s empty tent from now on. Sarah’s legacy takes new life and new form as a new generation starts upon its path.

Chayei Sarah: Sarah’s life and legacy are all about love and protection, but also about justice, about compassion and about the end of needless cruelty and suffering. It is a legacy that Rebecca will carry on with all her strength, heart and mind.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Vayera: Blinded by the Light of God’s Face

Vayera: Blinded by the Light of God’s Face
D’var Torah by Boaz D. Heilman

Twenty four hours ago my brother had open heart surgery.

He has had a malfunctioning mitral valve for some time now, and the doctors recommended surgery to repair it.

It almost didn’t happen. The surgery was postponed once due to an emergency that kept the operating room busy far beyond its original schedule. Finally, when the rescheduled day arrived, there were still some questions. My brother looked healthy. Years of physical activity—as an avid soccer and basketball player and coach, then as director of youth activities for the city of Ramat Gan—kept him physically strong and fit. His arteries passed inspection. He could wait for anywhere between half a year and two years.

Yet my brother opted to undergo surgery that very day. He was psychologically ready for it, he said.

Turned out a good thing, too. When the surgeon looked on it, my brother’s heart was already enlarged, and it was already showing some insufficiency.

Twenty four hours later, we are now all breathing more easily. The first 24 hours passed. Though in obvious pain, he was already sitting up. With God’s help, his recovery has begun.

Nearly 8,000 miles away, I tried to be with my family during this tough period. I called them several times. Obviously saying to my brother l’hitraot –“we will see each other again”—a few hours before the operation was difficult.

Much harder was talking to our mother throughout this ordeal. I could only imagine her fears and her own heartache.

Thank God my brother was already under anesthesia when the knife was raised, so that he couldn’t see it lowered.

It’s a parent’s worst nightmare, and one that no father or mother should ever experience.

My mother has had many tests of her faith in her life. This must have been the toughest.

In this week’s Torah portion, Vayera (Gen. 18:1-22:24), our Father Abraham also undergoes the toughest test of his faith. Life was not easy for him, either. He had followed his calling—a mysterious inner calling to recognize a Divine force much greater than any that anyone had imagined before him. A force that was so enormous that it could pitch both the sun and the moon into their respective orbits; yet gentle enough to have set him, Abraham, on his own lonely journey.

Time after time, he was asked to show his faith in this relentless God. Unquestioningly, he never flinched but always did the right thing.

Yet this tenth and final test must have been the most agonizing.

Abraham is told to put his own beloved son, Isaac, under the knife. His own knife. “Offer him to me as a sacrifice on the top of a mountain that I shall show you,” calls God. Wordlessly, Abraham packs the wood and silently puts it on his son’s shoulder. Then, taking the knife and the fire in his own hand, the two proceed together on a three-day walk.

It doesn’t say what went on in Abraham’s heart and mind during that period. A short conversation between father and son seem to reassure Isaac and give Abraham pause to question his trust in this God who had promised him a future through the very boy He was now asking for. “Father,” says Isaac, perhaps questioning the relationship. “Yes, son, here I am,” responds Abraham, affirming his love for his son. “Here are the wood, the knife and the fire for the sacrifice, but where is the lamb?” “God will see to the lamb, my son,” Abraham says, no doubt wondering if the lamb is indeed to be his own son.

Father binds son to the altar. The ritual proceeds.

What faith Abraham must have had at that moment! Could God promise and yet negate His own word?

As the knife begins its slow descent to the living flesh and spirit of his much-loved son, Abraham must have been blinded by tears, just as Isaac must have been blinded by the reflection of the sun on the gleaming blade now slowly making its way to his heart.

We don’t offer child sacrifice any more.

The story of the Akeida—“the Binding of Isaac”—as it is known, is possibly the most terrifying moment of all the stories in the Torah. It effectively put a stop to this horrible ritual that was rife in the ancient world (and, sadly, still is practiced by some people in various forms and shapes).

“Don’t harm that boy,” comes the command from heaven, and the knife stops in midair.

The faith of Abraham was rewarded. A sacrificial ram mysteriously appears, its horns locked in a bush. He was right: God would not—could not—in good conscience take away what He had promised, the essential blessing that Abraham craved more than anything else in the world: to be a father. He had already lost Ishmael, his first born. It was through Isaac, however, that Abraham’s heritage was to continue and flower, and God was as good as His word.

We don’t offer our children to God anymore. But we do dedicate their lives to the service of God. With trust, we teach and prepare them; with faith we launch them into life. We entrust them with the old mission begun with Abraham, to seek justice and to care for all of God’s creation.

Despite the many tests we as individuals and as a people have endured, our own trust has not diminished. Even as we part from them—whether to send them off to Hebrew school or (may none of us ever know this) to the care of a surgeon—we are filled with prayer and faith. Faith in the knowledge we have gained along the way; faith in the skill of doctors and teachers; faith in the promise we hold God true to: To protect us along the way, to see to it that we make it to the other shore, across oceans, deserts, rivers or sickness.

We are all tested. But we pray: May we all pass, no matter how tough the test. May our faith always be there to give us strength, to help us all get through this ordeal.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Tests of Faith: D’var Torah for Parashat Lekh L’cha (Genesis 12:1—17:27)

Tests of Faith: D’var Torah for Parashat Lekh L’cha (Genesis 12:1—17:27)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Every mythological hero has his tests—the proof of his mettle. Hercules had his twelve labors. Abraham had ten, more in line with the Jewish numbers system.

Of course, like so much else in the Torah, what exactly the ten are, is a matter of debate.

What I wonder, however, is why some of Abraham’s tests—at least that’s what they seem like to me—were not included on any of these lists. Why, for example, doesn’t the fact that, when he leaves the home of his ancestors on his journey to the Promised Land and takes Lot—his dead brother’s son—with him, that doesn’t make the top ten list. Is it such common decency to take special care of your nephews that, when Abraham does it, God merely smiles and says—yeah well you would have done exactly the same!

And what about that famous argument to save Sodom and Gomorrah from annihilation? God tells Abraham His plans and just waits for the argument to begin. Would God destroy the cities if there were 50 just people in it? Of course not! What about 45? Nope. 40? 35? 30? 20? 10? No to all. At that point God simply walks away, and Abraham is pretty certain he accomplished nothing. Maybe that’s why it doesn’t count. The cities will be destroyed. When Moses comes along, he will push the envelope even further and finish what Abraham failed to: God will promise to be compassionate, not merely just.

Perhaps when we look more closely at the rabbi-approved list of Abraham’s tests of faith we will be able to discern a common theme. Since this week’s portion only covers the first 6 of these tests, we will look only at those this time and leave the other four for next week’s d’var.

The Rambam (Moses Maimonides, 1135-1204), sees Abraham’s exile from his family and homeland as the first test. The second is his reaction to the famine in Canaan; the third is the moral corruption that he sees around him while in exile in Egypt; the fourth is his behavior in war; fifth is his marriage to Hagar after despairing of Sarah ever bearing a son for him; sixth is his act of self-circumcision.

Leaving home is always difficult. Especially at seventy-five, which, according to our text, was Abraham's age when he set out for the Promised Land. Even allowing for some literary license, he must have been quite old, established and rooted in his homeland. Now he had to uproot himself and his family, leave many of his relatives and certainly any property he must have owned, and go off to some misty far off land, following a voice only he could hear, there to start again, learn a new language, re-establish himself, plant new roots. Did anyone try to dissuade Abraham? Undoubtedly. Yet, without a word, he obeys God’s command to leave, taking his beloved wife (67 years old), his nephew, all his portable possessions, and simply leaves. No map in hand, no GPS on his camel, just following the stars and God’s directions.

Check. He passes that test.

Barely having reached the Land of Canaan, Abraham has to leave it again because of terrible drought and famine. I can hear the “I told you so’s” even now. But Abraham’s faith is such that he knows this is only a temporary diversion. God will bring him back; of that he has no doubt.

Check again.

When in Rome, do as the Romans, goes the popular saying. But not for Abraham. Egypt—rich, powerful, cosmopolitan—was quite the fleshpot. But Abraham understands that moral turpitude undermines our humanity and endangers the Divine image within us. Yet he is also fully aware of the dangers of standing out in the crowd. Deftly negotiating his way, Abraham again follows God’s directives. His faith is that God will protect him and defend the honor of his beautiful wife, Sarai. And for that, he is rewarded with blessings.

Check.

War. When they say “war is hell,” that’s not only because of the bad things we see around us. It’s because of the terrible things it brings out in us. The vicious hatred, the blood-lust, the desire for revenge, the temptation for easy booty—these are enticements that can bring down even the best of us. Yet Abraham remains single-minded and lofty in his objectives—to free his nephew, Lot, who was captured by a warring and cruel overlord. When he is offered a share of the loot, Abraham adamantly refuses to accept even a penny of it. None of the carefree windfall of war for him.

Check plus.

The tests get harder. Family problems at home. Abram and Sarai (as they were still known at that point in the story) have no children. Sarai has Abram take Hagar, Sarai’s maidservant and impregnate her. Sarai’s hope is to raise that child as her own. Abram agrees, but not without marrying Hagar first.

How does Abraham pass this test? What exactly was he thinking at that point? That bringing home a second wife would not be problematic? Why did he give in so easily to Sarai’s impatient and reckless desire for a son? Did he not have faith in God’s promise that he and Sarai would have a child of their own? Without a doubt, all these thoughts must have troubled him immensely. It wasn’t without misgivings that he embarked on this rocky and dangerous path. Yet when he did as his wife requested, he did so with love, compassion and respect for all involved. He didn’t impose himself on Hagar—he married her. Later, when trouble came, he tried to mediate, tried to find a way to resolve the jealousy, to bring harmony and peace back into the domicile. Ultimately, it would be his love for Sarah and his faith in God’s promise that Sarah will yet bear a son that would determine his decisions, painful as these were going to be.

That brings us to the 6th test, the final one for this portion: As God commands him, Abraham (now with an “H”) circumcises himself and all other males living in his household. Ishmael, Abraham and Hagar’s son and the future ancestor of the Arab nations, was 13. Abraham was 99.

Check plus plus.

Life is full of tests. So far, Abraham has proven himself a man of faith and love, a man of his word, a man of vision and hope. But the hardest test is yet to come.

©2010 Boaz D. Heilman

Not Good Enough: D’var Torah for Parashat Noah (Gen. 6:9—11: 32)

Not Good Enough: D’var Torah for Parashat Noah (Gen. 6:9—11: 32)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Last week’s Torah portion, B’reishit, introduced light and dark, black and white into the picture. This week’s portion, Noah, brings in shades of grey. “Noah was a just man and perfect in his generations” (Gen. 6:9). The ancient rabbis are quick to comment: “Perfect in his generations” means that for his time, he was righteous. If he had lived in Abraham’s generation, he would not be judged so wholesome.

But what was wrong with Noah? Don’t “just” and “perfect” mean anything? What about that ark, and saving all those animals? Didn’t he save all life and give it a second chance? Didn’t he take care of all those pairs of birds, animals, reptiles—in fact, of every living being on earth—providing for them during the many months they were shut in together in close quarters, with only one window (that couldn’t be opened because of the torrents of rain), with no sail, oars, or rudder? Think of the complaining, the whining, braying and roaring day in and day out (as though you could even tell when it was one and when, the other). Did they have composting yet back then? What DID Noah do with all the accumulated waste?

Truth be told, anybody else would have done something drastic long before the flood ended. But not Noah. Noah was just and perfect, doing exactly as God had told him: Build an ark (about a football field in length), gather pairs of animals, get yourself and your immediate family onboard, because I’m going to flood out the earth and kill everything on it. Everything. And oh yes, take care of and feed all those animals until I tell you it’s OK for you all to come out.

Noah did just so. And that’s where he failed.

When God told Abraham (in an upcoming parashah) about His plans to destroy those evil cities, Sodom and Gomorrah, Abraham objected relentlessly. What about the innocent ones? Would God destroy the innocent along with the wicked? Later, when the Israelites wandered in the Sinai Wilderness and worshipped a golden calf, God was about to smite them all, and it took all the persuasion, cajoling, smooth-talking and downright chutzpah before Moses was able to check God’s anger. But Noah? Noah did just so. Not a word, not a peep.

So is it all so wrong to follow God just so? Isn’t that the whole point of religion?

No, it isn’t! Not our religion. Judaism has a special role set aside for human beings, and it is exemplified by the behavior of Abraham, Moses, Job and other prophets. Even Tevya, the milkman, argues with God!

It doesn’t always help, but it can’t hurt; and in fact, as we see in one example after another, it’s the right thing to do. We don’t just accept things the way they seem to be. Not if there’s a chance to change them.

So Noah may have been a very good man; but compared to the truly righteous, he was only pretty good.

Yet, even in this story—one of the most well-known, sung-about, told about and illustrated of the many stories of Genesis—there’s always something new we can learn.

Noah changes along the way. Somewhere between the story’s beginning and its end, something happens inside him to make him realize where he had failed. Perhaps it was all the screaming and crying he must have heard coming in through the ark walls. Despite the pitch and tar with which the ark was waterproofed; despite the heavy rain, the thunder, the waves, the incessant noise inside, the terrible sounds must have come in. There was a whole humanity drowning out there. People lived to be quite old back then—he must have known quite a few of them for decades if not longer. There must have been children.

Did the animals onboard feel the same terror and grief he felt now? They say some animals sense emotions—would they be longing for lost companions? Parents? Offspring left behind?

The ensuing silence must have been even more terrifying.

At some point along the journey, a switch must have gone off and, for the first time, Noah must have sensed compassion. We know that to be so from a short verse that appears towards the end of the story. As we know, Noah sent out a dove to seek out dry land. Failing on its first try, the bird returns. Chapter 8 verse 9 tells us, “then he put forth his hand, and took her, and pulled her in unto him into the ark.” A tiny gesture, and yet so telling. Searching the grey, stormy skies, Noah spies the tiny bird fighting the winds, making its way with great effort back to the tiny window. Cold, wet, shivering, frightened, the dove must have been at the very end of her strength when she finally alighted on his outstretched finger. Gently Noah cups the bird in his palm, pulls her within his dry cloak, and brings her down into the warm compartments within. Was she breathing? Was that the merest breath of life—a gasp for air—coming from the dove? Did Noah say a blessing when he realized that it was? And then? He must have had a bowl of warm gruel fetched for her. The eyes of all were upon the tiny creature as it began to revive. Tears of gratitude must have streamed down his old, furrowed face.

Noah knew where he had failed. Walking with God isn’t good enough. Not when there is suffering around, when injustice abounds. Certainly it isn’t good enough to just say “yes” even to God, when God’s intentions are terrible—no matter how God-like, formidable and daunting He may appear to us.

Noah was a righteous man—for his times. He got much deserved credit. He did manage to bring a remnant of living creatures across an ocean of storms. But it would not be Noah who would get the credit for starting the Jewish People. Someone else—ten generations away yet—will be born courageous enough to argue with God, who will know the lasting value of justice and the importance of teaching it to his children. That person will be Abraham.

©2010 Boaz D. Heilman

All About Eve (and Adam and God)--B'reishit

All About Eve (and Adam and God)
D’var Torah on B’reishit, Gen. 1:1—6:8
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The first book of the Bible (also the first of the Five Books of Moses—the Torah), Genesis is quite probably the one most influential and widely discussed book in the world. Volumes have been written about it. Its texts and stories have been set to great masterpieces of art and music. Whole encyclopedias can be filled with commentaries and teachings based on its words.

There is a reason for that. More than any other book, Genesis changed the way in which human beings see themselves. Genesis enables us understand ourselves as something more than the microscopic dust speck that, in the larger picture, we must truly be.

Genesis does not pretend to be a scientific dissertation. Little was known about the universe some 3500 years ago, when the ideals and ideas of Judaism first began to appear and to take shape. But what was known then was so organized as to give meaning to human existence—and more than that, to provide a role for us in the ongoing act of creation.

The first few words of the book introduce the main event: Creation. Genesis has us recognize a divine Being so powerful that “He” can create the whole universe by uttering a single sound, a single syllable. Yet the source of this infinite power also has to be attentive, gentle and caring enough to notice and nurture the smallest of His creatures, providing all life with proper tools and sustenance. The God of Genesis, far from the zealous and raging God that some portray Him, not only imbues human beings with almost infinite creative abilities—He also gives us the equipment, tools and training to use our gifts in the best possible way.

God does not merely create. In almost the same breath, God considers, makes choices, separates, organizes and categorizes—setting an example for all human endeavor. Most importantly, God imposes a moral value on the universe. What more ancient civilizations (actually, the philosophy is still current today) called an amoral universe, is, in this book, anything but amoral. The world has both “good” and “bad” in it, and Genesis makes it quite clear which is which.

Torah means teaching. Genesis, the first book of the Torah, contains not only wonderful and imaginative stories; it also teaches. The study of Torah involves not only reading the narration, but also mining for the precious morals that each story contains. Some lessons lie close to the surface and are easy to understand. Yet, the more we study, the deeper we dig, the more lessons and the richer truths we find.

Often, the stories begin (or at least reach a climax) with failure. However, there’s always—or almost always—a way to begin again, to rise again. The gift of Genesis is a second chance to redeem the remainder of one’s life, to give it meaning and purpose.

The story of the Garden of Eden (Chapter 3) is a perfect example: Adam and Eve get a warning not to eat of a certain fruit. They disobey and eat of the fruit. They get expelled from God’s presence. Yet this exile is not final. It turns out that there are ways to get back to the garden—not in the full measure of what used to be, now a fabled and impossible dream, but rather within context of our own everyday, very real, lives.

By modeling our behavior after God’s, by choosing well (choosing “good”), we can earn back some of what we lost.

Another example is the story of Cain and Abel (Chapter 4). Cain kills Able. Cain is punished. Lesson: Don’t kill your brother. And yet more: This parable is also about making the right choices; about temptation and how we can control its lure (with difficulty, but it is possible). And then, too, it’s about the possibility of repentance and of being given a second chance.

Ultimately, this whole parashah, this first weekly portion of Genesis (called, after the Hebrew name of the book, B’reishit), is all about second chances. At its conclusion, in Chapter 6, we are introduced to Noah—and we already know about the flood. Noah is the one who will bring all life its redemption—its renewed opportunity to make the right choices, this time the better, the moral choices.

The broad lesson of the Torah is that humanity can regain God’s favor by modeling our behavior after God’s actions. In this, too, Genesis is a revolutionary book. The ancient gods, be they of Greek, Egyptian or Mesopotamian mythologies, are wily, jealous, abusive, even murderous. They may represent ideals, but justice is not one of those ideals. Neither is mercy. Yet these are the two most important qualities of the God that Genesis offers us human beings. In return, we are expected to be the same. By filling our lives with these attributes, we not only give our insignificant existence meaning, we also make it holy. The image of God, so universally touted, so universally argued over, turns out to be nothing physical at all. It’s in the traits which characterize us, in the moral decisions we make, in the goodness that we create.

©2010 Boaz D. Heilman

To Begin Yet Again: V'zot Habracha (Deut. 33:1--34:12)

As for every holiday and special occasion that coincides with Shabbat, there are special readings for this Shabbat too, the Sabbath of Sukkot. Yet somehow, the Torah portion that should be studied this week, V’zot Habracha (“This Is the Blessing”) gets relegated to a midweek celebration—Simchat Torah—when it will be read in conjunction with the opening verses of the Torah. Between the dancing, however, the festive mood, and the fact that everybody in the congregation—including children!—traditionally gets an “aliyah” (the opportunity to say the Torah blessings) on that occasion, V’zot Habracha, the final parasha of the Torah, rarely gets the in-depth study and review that it deserves.

Yet its beauty is breathtaking. Its vision, both literally and spiritually, is magnificent. It is, after all, the last portion of the whole Torah. It is the summing up, the bridge into the future. The whole of Deuteronomy speaks of the transition of the Exodus generation of Israelites to the new generation, who, led by Joshua, will enter the Promised Land. This portion, then, represents the arch through which the People of Israel go through as they turn from the promise to its fulfillment. V’zot Habracha is not unlike a magical looking glass; we see ourselves reflected in it—the people dusty and worn by our wanderings in the wilderness—but even as we gaze, we see ourselves transformed, changing before our very eyes into what we are about to become.

In content, this portion mirrors the concluding parasha of the book of Genesis, the first book of the Torah. There, as he lies dying, Jacob blesses his children, telling them of their future struggles and promises. Now, a full era forward, Moses is about to die, and just as he is given a vision of the land his descendants will inhabit, so he gives them a glimpse of their future.

The difference between the two central figures of these stories—Jacob and Moses—becomes clear through the parallels. Jacob sees a family; Moses sees a people. From a group of squabbling children, they have matured and become transformed into one people. Jacob cannot bring himself to forgive Levi, for example. His third son was, after all (along with his older brother Shimon) responsible for the horrible massacre at Shechem. But 400 years plus later, the tribe that descended from that violent man learned to transform their passion, to change their fierceness into zeal. Moses does not forget their basic nature, but his blessing to them is that they be able to transform this vehemence into love. They are to become priests and teachers, reminding anyone who will listen of the difference between the two aspects of human nature, and how everyone can transcend the basic, animalistic nature within them into something more exalted and sacred. From sons of Levi, they have become Levites.

Jacob recognizes the leadership potential in Judah. Generations down, Moses acknowledges that strength, but at the same time he sees the dangers that can result from too much power being concentrated in any one group. It isn’t only the tyrannical nature of the beast that such dominance brings out, but also an exaggerated belief in a one’s own might. Moses’s blessing is that Judah learn to recognize the true source of his strength—God. This blessing is good not only to temper one’s belief in oneself, but also to bolster confidence at times of trouble. “Hear O Lord, the voice of Judah; bring him in unto his people…You shall be a help against his adversaries.” Throughout the millennia of our existence, this has been at the core of Jewish survival: Even kings were not above the law; one people under God. Judah’s strength has always been there, but it was God who enabled it, God who controlled it. The connection to God was always there, too: It was in our prayer, embedded in Moses’s blessing: Sh’ma Adonai—“Hear, O Lord, Judah’s voice.”

And so it is with the other tribes as well. Each one has its own strength. Through the centuries, however, what they have learned is to live together. Supporting one another is what turned the tribes into one nation. Moses, who saw this transformation, is filled with hope and confidence. Granted a glimpse of the future, he sees the trials and tribulations that lie ahead in Israel’s future. Yet he also sees their eventual triumph: “Happy are thou, O Israel; who is like unto thee? A people saved by Adonai, the shield of thy help and the sword of thy excellence!” (Deut. 33:29).

“Who is like unto thee?” “Mi chamocha!” these are very words with which Moses sings God’s praise immediately after the exodus from Egypt. Now these words are used to describe God’s people. The connection is magnificent and telling. The eternity of God is the wellspring of our own historical and cultural achievement. It is from this source that we draw blessing.

As the Book of the Torah reaches its final verses, Moses can finally let go. He has taught his people well, and now it is our turn. He has given us the Torah to learn, to cherish, to live by. He has now turned it over to Joshua, his own disciple, with the instruction that it be passed down through the generations. Torah tziva lanu Moshe—“Moses commanded us a law, an inheritance of the congregation of Jacob” (Deut. 29:4), one of the first verses from the Torah that is ever taught little Jewish children. The melody of this line still rings in our ears, never forgotten even well into old age. It is more than our inheritance. It is our legacy. It is the source of our life, our strength, our existence. It is indeed our Eitz chayim, our “tree of life.”

Next week: back to the beginning. Genesis once again. Children, let us learn.

Thank God.

©2010 Boaz D. Heilman