When You Arrive—Remember Where You Came From!

When You Arrive—Remember Where You Came From!
D’var Torah on Parashat Ki Tavo, Deuteronomy 26:1—29:8
by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

For my brother, Ariel, on the anniversary of his bar mitzvah 51 years ago

The climax of every Jewish wedding is the smashing of the glass. The months of preparation and organization, the thousands of details, the tension that rises alarmingly in direct relation to the number of days and hours before the wedding, all become transformed at that instant. All eyes turn to the ground, to the glass covered in thin white cloth and the shoe that is about to come down on it. The rejoicing begins immediately, as everybody cries out “Mazal tov,” the musicians break into a joyful tune, and the newlyweds exchange their first kiss as a married couple.

In some communities, it isn’t a glass that’s broken, but rather an expensive dish. The idea, however, is the same. The custom is there to remind us of several things, but above all else, of the many tragedies in our past, both long ago and more recent: Of the destroyed Temple in Jerusalem… of the many other destructions that followed… of the people and communities left behind in the smoke and ashes of the Holocaust… of the miracle of our survival despite all that.

This week’s Torah portion, Ki Tavo, contains one of the earliest and oldest rituals of Judaism. Set at the time of the first harvest, the portion instructs us to bring the first fruits “of the ground, which you will bring from your land which the Lord your God is giving you” (Deut. 26:2). Like all our celebrations, however, this joyful moment too, while filled with joy and gratitude for the gifts of food, land and security, is already mixed with sadness. For at the very moment in which they handed the gift baskets over to the priests at the Temple in Jerusalem, the people were instructed to repeat a familiar history: “My father was a fugitive Aramean…”

If these words sound familiar, it is because they also form the basis for the narrative we recite at the joyful celebration of the Passover Seder, the Haggadah, a recitation that reminds us of exile, slavery and genocide before we were redeemed by God’s hand.

Jacob, later renamed Israel, is the refugee the passage refers to. First fleeing from his murderous twin brother, Esau, then from his Aramean father-in-law, Laban, and his sons—some of the first anti-Semites ever recorded—Jacob’s story epitomizes Jewish history. At a young age he has to leave home and become a wanderer. Starting a family and building a fortune in his adopted homeland does not assure him of safety and security, and he has to flee again. Returning home, he loses his beloved wife; then a son. The family will only be reunited years later—in yet another foreign land. Though his remains will be buried in Israel, Jacob will never see the Land of his ancestors again.

Cut to 1946.

I can only imagine the pride, the joy, the disbelief and the amazement with which my brother, Ariel, was greeted when he was born. Barely a year after the end of the Holocaust, my mother—a Holocaust refugee herself—and my father, who had by then received a letter describing in detail the murder of his entire family at the hands of the Nazis—began a new life together in the Land of Israel. The world still called it “Palestine,” but my parents and their whole generation of survivors knew better. For them it was always Eretz Yisrael, the Land of Israel. My parents named their first born son Ariel, a Biblical name which the prophets Isaiah and Ezekiel associated with Jerusalem and the Temple. I am sure that my father, who was very well versed in Bible, knew by heart Isaiah chapter 29 and its predictions of the sadness and destruction that would befall Jerusalem—but also of the ultimate glorious and joyful triumph of survival that were sure to follow.

It must have been planned, or at least fore-ordained, that thirteen years later, my brother’s bar mitzvah haftarah, also from the book of Isaiah, chapter 60, would speak of the magnificent and splendid light that would bathe Jerusalem and all Israel in those triumphant future days.

My brother, Ariel, is one of the miraculous generation that represents the amazing survival and rebirth of our people following the Destruction, the Shoah.

This Shabbat marks the 51st anniversary of my brother’s bar mitzvah. More than half a century later, I can still remember the words and melody with which he chanted the verses of his haftarah: Kumi, ‘ori, ki vah ‘orech—“Arise, shine for thy light has come.” It is these very words that begin this week’s haftarah, the Scriptural reading that always follows parashat Ki Tavo. To me, this haftarah symbolizes our return to our homeland, the pride, the joy, the amazement—but also the sorrow associated with the great tragedy we had just emerged from.

Living in Israel, today my brother is the coordinator of youth and public events for the city of Ramat Gan. The many certificates and plaques of recognition he has received—from the city, its mayor, and from the many groups and individuals he has taught and encouraged throughout his lifetime of work—could well represent the opening words of Ki Tavo: “And it will be, when you come to the land which the Lord, your God, gives you for an inheritance, and you possess it and settle in it, that you shall take of the first of all the fruit of the ground, which you will bring from your land, which the Lord, your God, is giving you…”.

Through his life and work, my brother fulfills the purpose of this commandment. As the parashah continues, we learn that this offering of first fruit isn’t only for us to enjoy; nor is its purpose merely to fill the government’s treasury. Rather, it is for the entire people to enjoy, with a good part of it set aside especially for the weak, the hungry, for the many survivors and their children.

That is the source of Israel’s strength. That is what Ki Tavo and its accompanying haftarah, Isaiah 60:1-22, are all about.

Mazal Tov, Ariel! May the fruit of your labor continue to enrich our Land and our People for many years to come.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Learning To Rise Above the Hatred

Learning To Rise Above the Hatred

D'var Torah on Parashat Ki Teitzei--Deuteronomy 21:10--25:19

by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

A “limited war” is defined as the opposite of an all-out, total war. With less manpower and equipment resources going in and with goals defined as less than total destruction of the enemy, limited wars have been the norm during the second half of the 20^th century. Korea, Vietnam, the Arab-Israeli conflicts and the Iraq War are examples of “limited wars.”

Perhaps this style of warfare emerged as a result of the two world wars and the unimaginable destruction they brought about. The Cold War, in which the world’s superpowers squared off with neither side yielding to the other, preferring instead to duke it out in local, regional confrontations, led to at least some of these outbreaks of limited war.

But the term is misleading. First of all, it implies some sort of limit or conclusion. Yet, with the possible exception of the Vietnam War, none of the other limited wars of the 20^th century has come to any sort of conclusion. These regional conflicts still continue on an almost daily basis.

Secondly, even if “limited” refers to hoped-for boundaries or scope of the conflict, the term certainly doesn’t hold true when it comes to the unspeakable brutality and the immeasurable pain that are the result of even the most limited war.

Of all creatures of the earth, sky and water, not one other has begun to plumb the depths of depravity and cruelty we human beings have. Yes, we are capable of exalted achievements. We can create magnificent edifices of engineering, culture and art, of literature, architecture and science; but we also have invented an unbounded number of ways to torture, destroy and turn progress back to chaos.

I have been spared the direct effects of war. I was born after World War Two, after the Holocaust. Though I served in Zahal, the Israel Defense Force, I did so during a time of relative peace. I personally saw no “action.” However, even though I was a young child then, I do remember the Sinai Campaign of 1956, of having to shutter our windows, taping and covering them at night so no light shone out; I remember being awakened one night by an air-raid siren warning of an Egyptian aircraft that had reached Netanya, the city we lived in. I was almost seven, but the memory is still there. I also remember June, 1967, even though I was in the US by then. It was the first war my brother fought in, and I remember the sleepless nights my parents sat at the kitchen table in our Los Angeles apartment, waiting for a word from him. I was in Israel again for the War of ’73, the so–called Yom Kippur War, and the second war my brother fought in. There were the Intifadahs; the #37 bus in Haifa that my parents nearly took on the day that a terrorist detonated a bomb on it, killing seventeen people (most of them school children) and injuring 53 others. I remember the Gulf War, and the Second Lebanon War with its rain of Hizbollah-launched missiles falling all over Northern Israel—including Haifa, where I was that summer. And I remember “Red color,” the alert signal that sent the citizens of Sderot in the Negev scurrying for cover during the 7 years of incessant missile bombardment by Hamas terrorists.

The terrors and horrors of being witness to the brutalities of war are etched deeply in my soul.

I remember the hatred and intense desire for revenge I felt when a suicide bomber killed three little girls in a Tel Aviv shopping center during the holiday of Purim, 1996. I was at services at Hebrew Union College that morning when the news was announced. The rage I felt made my whole body tremble for a few moments—and then I understood. To the core of my being I began to comprehend a lesson I had learned earlier that day—how the Torah and the rabbis tried to control rage, forbidding blood-vengeance, placing limits and boundaries on the evil cravings that war and bloodshed bring out in us. It was a process that began with this week’s Torah portion, Ki Teitzei (“When you go out to wage war”), Deuteronomy 21:10—25:19.

Still, this parashah isn’t only about war. It’s also about how to be a human being—a mensch—invested and ennobled by God’s image of justice and compassion. It’s only the outer parts of the portion—the first few verses and the last—that actually deal with forbidden behavior during war. The rest of the portion gives scores of other examples, other times and occasions when we’re tempted by our basic instinct to take the easy—but wrong—path. Such as when we see a lost animal and think we can claim ownership; when we see a bird and its eggs in a nest on the ground—and think we can take both; or when the poor come to us in need and we think we can prey on them because, after all, they are weak and defenseless.

Yet, after all these commandments of noble—even holy—deeds, the parashah does return to the opening theme of war. Only this time, it’s a type of war that truly is limitless, without bounds. This is the war against Amalek, the tribe that attacked the Israelites during our wanderings in the Sinai Wilderness, concentrating their attacks on the rear of the camp, where the weak, the sick and the helpless were. “Remember that which Amalek did to you,” the Torah admonishes us. For the opposite of holy is evil, and the war on true evil, whether it comes from within ourselves or from some outside source, can never be “limited.” Evil knows no bounds; there is no finite limit to its depth or depravity. Our war against evil must know no bounds either.

Ki Teitzei is like an exercise regimen. It teaches us to hold back our rage. At the same time, this portion makes us practice acts of kindness repeatedly, in one case after another, until we realize that menschlichkeit, the ability to remain human despite all the evil we see around us, comes only when we learn to be in charge of our emotions.

This is no easy task for us human beings, so easily manipulated by charismatic leaders, so simply swayed by our passions. It isn’t enough to merely control our hatred. We have to counter the hate with love. We have to balance—and even overcome—the injustice with compassion. And that takes constant training.

© 2010 by Boaz Heilman

Have Torah, Will Travel

Have Torah, Will Travel

D’var Torah for Parashat Shoftim: Deuteronomy 16:18--21:9

by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

No passage in the whole Torah can be any clearer than the words of this portion. The laws are clear, unambiguous, even incisive. The language can hardly be misunderstood. Tzedek, tzedek tirdof, “justice, justice shall you pursue,” (Deut. 16:20) is an obvious example. The precision of the phrasing and the driving rhythm in which it is spoken leave us in no doubt. Many of the other commandments of this parashah are as clearly phrased. This portion was no doubt intended as a constitution, a set of basic laws which stand at the foundation of a much larger system. Meant to maximize the stability of the structure, these laws must be profound and unshakable.

That they are all that comes as no surprise. Yet, wiggle room—the freedom to interpret and adapt—is somehow still built into this complex codex or body of laws.

One of the phrases by which this book of the Torah is identified (Deuteronomy) is based on an ancient Greek translation of the phrase mishne ha-Torah (appearing in this parashah in chapter 17, verse 18). The Hebrew phrase could be interpreted either as a second Torah, or as a copy of the Torah; the difference is subtle but important, having to do with literal accuracy. Rashi, the great commentator of the 11th century, explains mishne ha-Torah through a metaphor, saying that every king has to have two copies of the Torah; one which stays treasured at home, the other which he takes with him on his journeys. The one serves as the unchanging proof text, while the other holds the infinite ways in which the original can be interpreted.

Thus even the phrase Tzedek, tzedek tirdof, “justice, justice shall you pursue,” as unambiguous and imperative as it seems, lends itself to several teachings. The bottom line is that justice is one of the most basic values in all Judaism, indeed in all humanity. Moses was not the first to institute laws. He was only the first to make Justice a divine attribute. In pre-existing codes of law (such as Hammurabi’s), the king was the source of the law. As such, he was actually above the law. But in Moses’s concept, even a king was subject to God’s law, to God’s system of justice. Indeed, Abraham even holds God to account, as he calls out in Genesis 18:25: “Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?!” Justice, justice indeed! Justice below, justice above.

Yet, the human element carries doubt with it. It’s all fine and good as far as ideals go, but true justice isn’t always so obvious to us humans. As the opening passage from this week’s parashah continues, we are therefore warned to follow a due process of vigorous investigation and to steer away from bribery and perversion of justice. The reliability of witnesses, too, is brought into question, as we are told, at least in capital cases, to follow the testimony of two or three witnesses, not only one. Viewed from different angles, we might get a better perspective of what really happened.

Justice is elusive, hence the need to pursue it. Yet, unlike Inspector Javert of Les Miserables or Marshal Sam Gerard in The Fugitive, we must not get lost in the act of pursuit. Justice is a goal that needs to be tempered with understanding, with compassion—with the understanding that to be human means we can fail, but also that we can rise again; that we can be guilty, but that all the same we can also be forgiven.

Rashi, in his commentary on the doubling of the word tzedek, “justice,” quotes early sources and says, “Seek out a good [or fair] court.” In other words, as we pursue justice, we must also do it with justice. There are fair practices and procedures that need to be followed. The very course of investigation that we follow can lead us astray, if we give in to the easy temptations along the way: A few minor indiscretions here, a couple of unimportant ordinances sidestepped, details and trivial infractions that can be swept under the rug, covered up, never to leave a trace.

One thing leads to another, and before we know it we have Watergate on our hands.

Tzedek, tzedek, “justice, justice.” There’s the ideal, and then there’s reality. How we apply each of these to our lives is key to the kind of person we are and the kind of society we create.

Tirdof, “you shall pursue.” How we follow this huge ideal—so important that we demand that even God be held accountable—is fundamental to our civilization. How we apply it is crucial to our humanity. It is true at home and along the path. It is a goal and the means. From end to end, all must be just—and our goal is not only to seek justice, but to live it. It takes practice and vigilance, mind and heart.

To be just is to be Divine.

To be just is to be Human.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Re’eh: When Seeing Is Believing

Re’eh: When Seeing Is Believing

D'var Torah for Parashat Re'eh, Deuteronomy 11:26--16:17

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Recently a Facebook friend sent me a link to a site of photographs taken during the Great Depression. These amazing photos show the effects of the Depression on America’s rural and small town populations. The color photographs are really an amazing portrait of how stark and difficult life was for so many people in those difficult days. What struck me most, however, was the look on the faces of those people. Their gaze is honest, steady and unwavering. They don’t smile. Many of the faces are carved with hardship. Their bodies gleam with the dirt and sweat of their labors. The African Americans among them show that though times and styles may have changed, not much else in American attitudes towards them had progressed since pre-Civil-War days.

Amazingly, as the people in the pictures gaze at the camera, they seem to look right through the years, towards the future. Times may have been difficult, they seem to say, but they weren’t about to give up. No matter what the future would hold, that much was clear.

This week’s Torah portion, Re’eh (“see” or “behold”) seems to deliver a similarly clear message. Times were indeed difficult: The Assyrians had overrun the northern kingdom of Israel and were now threatening the southern kingdom of Judah. The surrounding cultures and their immoral, superstition-filled beliefs were slowly eating away at the fabric of Judaism. Cruelty seemed the order of the day—as is evidenced from the many commandments directing us to live justly, mercifully and compassionately. The road ahead was clear: “See [Re’eh], I set before you today a blessing and a curse. The blessing, that you will heed the commandments of the Lord your God, which I command you today; and the curse, if you will not heed the commandments of the Lord your God, but turn away from the way I command you this day, to follow other gods, which you did not know” (Deut. 11:26-28).

The parashah is filled with crystal-clear laws. They are down-to-earth and tangible, associating and anchoring the People of Israel with each other and with their Land. In order to deserve continued life and security in our Land, we must follow the path God sets out for us. It’s a clear and logical path, one of behavior and consequence. We must show compassion to the orphan, the widow and the stranger among us; we must give generously to the poor and set free the enslaved, sending them forth with sufficient hope and means to start off their new life. Even what we eat is regulated according to laws of morality—no bottom feeders or carrion scavengers, no animals that hunt and kill for their food. This portion contains one of the three pronouncements of the mitzvah (commandment) that we must not “boil a kid in its mother’s milk,” but rather show compassion and understanding for the grief of the bereaved parent, animal though it might be.

Our demeanor and religious behavior cannot be violent (to ourselves or to others), as was the custom of the neighboring people, who often gouged and gashed themselves or sacrificed their own children to their blood-thirsty gods.

It was clear to see that the “blessing” or the “curse” was not only a result of our actions, but inherent in our very behavior. How we lived WAS the blessing or the curse. Nothing could be more obvious or clear (no mean feat in those days of ignorance and superstition). All we had to do was open our eyes and see life around us. The promise of a secure future was also clear. If we followed God’s path of righteousness and mercy, we would survive. Like the people in the photographs, the Deuteronomist looks ahead unflinchingly.

Yet, with all that clarity and certainty, one element in this Torah portion remains elusive, unseen, not named.

Jerusalem.

Though by the time this book of the Torah appeared (around 621 BCE), the Temple had already stood at the center of Jewish life for 350 years, the portion still refers to this core of our life and culture as “The place which the Lord your God shall choose from all your tribes to set His name there.” This phrase recurs thirteen times in Re’eh! Not once is it named.

Is it merely that Jerusalem is so obviously the intended site that its name is left out? Is the omission no more than a stylistic anachronism? After all, these chapters are set in a time and place just before the Israelites enter the Promised Land—a good two centuries before King David would turn Jerusalem into his capital, his son Solomon to build the Temple there! Yet for a document that could peer into the future and see it without a doubt, and for an author (Moses) who, we are told by our ancient rabbis, would be sitting in and observing a Torah class taught by Rabbi Akiva in the second century CE—would such uncertainty be reasonable?

Why would a Torah portion called “See” or “Behold” conceal such an exalted goal?

Again, for the answer I look at the people inhabiting the photographs. They are gazing at no more than a camera and a photographer standing before them. Yet their piercing look meets our eyes and enters our souls, our very presence today. Likewise does Re’eh looks ahead to an eternal, infinite future.

Life is a blessing or a curse, depending on the road we choose to follow. Jerusalem is the goal of all roads that follow the path of blessing. There is a physical city, ancient, modern, exhausted, invigorating, beautiful and majestic, that sits atop a mountain in the region of Judah. But there is also a metaphysical Jerusalem, just as ancient, just as new, that we are all gazing at through our soul’s eye with hope, longing, courage and determination. It has no name just as it has all names. It is our future. To see it built all we have to do is follow the clear path God maps out for us in Re’eh. To get there, we have to behave in a moral, just and compassionate manner.

And one more thing:

To see it, we have to believe.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman