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

The View From the Mountain

The View From the Mountain
D’var Torah for Parashat Ha’azinu: Deuteronomy Chapter 32
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Though two chapters are still left in the book of Deuteronomy, this week’s portion (Ha’azinu, meaning “listen,” or “pay heed”), is the last parashah to be read at a Shabbat morning service before the whole cycle begins again. Chapters 34 and 35 (comprising the very last parashah) are read on the holiday of Simchat Torah, immediately followed by the first few verses of the book of Genesis.

With Ha’azinu, Moses nears the end of his own life’s journey. He is commanded by God to ascend the heights of Mount Nebo, from where he will be granted one final vision—the Land of Israel.

Moses is old and tired, but his vision is as clear as ever. Yet, at this moment, one that should be filled with breathtaking exultation, what he can see from the top of the mountain is not as rosy and positive as one would hope. Yes, he can see that God has indeed led the Israelites in the right direction. Moses is also confident that Joshua, his follower, will lead them on into the Land and continue guiding them by God’s light and direction. Yet, farther down the route, Moses can see also more distant days, when the Israelites will abandon God’s paths and veer toward idolatry.

Moses’s frustration at not being allowed to lead the Israelites into the Promised Land is coupled with sadness and disappointment as he realizes that history is bound to repeat itself. The previous forty years were not easy. In retrospect it seems that the Israelites rebelled against God’s commandments at every opportunity. It was lack of faith, in fact, that kept them from reaching the goal of their journey for these 40 years. The future, too, will contain rebellions and lapses in faith.

Ha’azinu, containing some of the Bible’s most powerful poetry, is filled with intense imagery. Moses calls upon the heaven and the earth to bear witness to God’s word and constancy. All Creation is God’s doing; it is God’s law that makes the rain fall and the dew appear. Just so, too, is Israel God’s creation. Set aside from other nations, watched over and protected as an eagle protects its young, Israel is nourished from the yield of the earth, given honey from the rock, fed with “The cream of cattle and the milk of sheep, with the fat of lambs and rams…” (32:13-14).

Yet—Moses sees further—Israel is bound to forget the true source of its bounty and security. At such times, Moses warns, God’s anger will flare, and Israel will be punished. But the Covenant between Israel and God cannot be broken. At the very moment that the Israelites repent, God will take them back, roll back their enemies and restore the People to their Land.

As Moses concludes his prophetic message, he warns the people to “Take to heart all the words with which I have warned you this day. Enjoin them upon your children, that they may observe faithfully all the terms of this Teaching. For this is not a trifling thing for you: It is your very life; through it you shall long endure on the land that you are to possess…” (Deut. 32:47-48).

This message, read every year on the Shabbat between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur (called Shabbat Shuva, the Sabbath of Repentance) contains the entire message of these Days of Awe. With this glorious and awesome prophecy, Moses reminds us that existence is meaningless if it is not filled with God’s purpose. The heaven and the earth are God’s creation, but their purpose is limited to two functions: to provide light and to set the seasons. They can do nothing other than follow their charted course through the universe. Yet what we human beings can do is so much greater: We can actually carry on God’s sacred work of creation. Created of the earth, humanity can transcend its lowly beginnings and achieve nearly divine heights.

It is an awesome responsibility, yet one we often fail to carry out—to disastrous results.

Each New Year, standing on the bridge between the past and the future, we gage how far we have come and what yet remains to be done. Still hanging on the wall of our kitchen is last year’s calendar. It’s all filled out now. The new calendar, set to replace the old one, is yet fresh and clean. How will its days be filled? Yes, there will be regular appointments, reminders of holidays and birthdays, perhaps even some vacation days to pencil in. But there’s something more important than any of these. Each day of the new year has to be filled with purpose and meaning. That’s how we infuse holiness into our lives. The choices we make will determine the quality of our life, for better or for worse.

It is an awesome view from the mountain. It fills us with hope, but also with trepidation. It makes our hearts soar with eagles, yet gravity pulls our gaze downwards. While longing for the green pastures ahead, we also see that the path there will not be smooth or easy. But in each generation we have a Joshua, a Samuel or a David to lead us onwards. Holding the Torah in our hearts and minds, we are filled with courage and faith. It truly is our life, filling our days and nights with light, direction and purpose.

One parashah or page at a time, one letter at a time, we are truly carried onwards as though on the wings of eagles.


©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Now Let Us Sing: Nitzavim-Vayelech

Now Let Us Sing
D’var Torah for Parashat Nitzavim-Vayelech - Deuteronomy 29:9-31:30
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman


As the book of Deuteronomy begins to draw to its close, so—we are well aware—does the year. Nitzavim-Vayelech (Deut. 29:9-31:30) is the last double portion that we will have this year, and it pretty much sums up not only Deuteronomy, but in fact, the whole Torah.

The power to choose is first given to us back in Genesis. Having eaten of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Bad, as long as we had become aware of the difference between the two, God figures we might as well learn what the one is and what the other, and what the consequences of each will be. The power to choose may be ours, but the end result is not. Each and every choice we make leads us in one direction or another. Ultimately, how far we get depends on how we got there, on the choices we made along the way.

The Torah is so much more than a collection of stories. It is even more than the 613 commandments that it contains. It really is a training manual. Following its regimen—not blindly, but rather through close examination and interpretation—makes us stronger as individuals and as a people. The Torah teaches us to stand firm with our beliefs and principles, but not without bending at times, if the winds call for flexibility. Each and every moral exercise we go through braces us for the next test life will throw in our way. We learn that choosing life sometimes means we have to offer up our own lives. We learn that hiding or running away from the calling we hear along the way serves no purpose at all. Inaction is not a choice.

Nitzavim, the near-to-last portion of Deuteronomy, written almost 3000 years ago, contains a glorious vision of Eternity: It is an image of the entire Jewish people, present past and future. The entire population—both leaders and followers, rich and poor, men women and children, born to the Jewish faith or having freely embraced it—finds itself standing together, attentive, purposeful, focused, at a moment that is both particular and universal. It is both the beginning of our history and at our goal. At that infinite and eternal moment, we face God, none of us shirking our duty, all nitzavim—standing at the ready. We had found our way through deserts and unfamiliar lands. We had crossed rivers and oceans, traversed time and place. We even explored the sacred space that exists between humanity and God. We are unafraid. Filled with the strongest force of all, the force of life, we are prepared to go forward at a moment’s notice, confident that no enemy, oppressor or aggressor, will ever stand in our way.

It is the moment Moses had been waiting for. He knew it would arrive; throughout the trials and tribulations of the last forty years, he had been arguing, defending, accusing, teaching—always teaching!—the rules of sacred living to this stubborn nation. At times he was frustrated, at times elated. He had given his all to this important mission. Now he saw it accomplished. His work was nearly done. It was nearly his duty at this point to transfer his power to the next generation.

But there was one commandment left to give. All 612 others had already been given (some twice or even more—for example not to shed innocent blood; not to boil a kid in its mother’s milk; to be just but also compassionate). Now the time came for the giving of the final mitzvah.

The people stand attentively. What could it possibly be? What was left out of forty years of training, teaching and interpreting?

This final commandment is as eternal as the moment in which it is given. It is a deed that we can start but that, having begun it, we cannot stop.

It is to teach the Torah and to perpetuate it. Assembling the people—men, women and children—to listen and understand its words; writing these words down so they do not disappear in the vagaries of time; and, most importantly, to make them real through our own lives and deeds. This is the final commandment of the Torah.

Chapter 31, verse 19 calls the Torah a song that we must learn and teach, one infinite act of joining ourselves with eternity: “And now, write for yourselves this song, and teach it to the Children of Israel. Place it into their mouths, in order that this song will be for Me as a witness for the children of Israel.”

This song isn’t only for us to hear. Its strains reach as far as the highest heavens, stirring even God’s heartstrings.

The learning, teaching and practicing of Torah are thus rolled into one action, one mitzvah. It may be the final mitzvah, the last of the 613 commandments in the Torah, but it is also the very first. We engage in it the moment we tell a child about Noah and the rainbow; each time we talk about the Parting of the Red Sea; every time we think of the Ten Commandments and their role in our lives.

We end as we begin—with a blessing, with a prayer, with a song. Blessed are you, Adonai our God, eternal ruler of the universe, for giving us the many opportunities to sense holiness—your mitzvot—and for this particular mitzvah: The commandment to sing your praise.
Now let us sing.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman