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