Stations Along the Journey

Stations Along the Journey
D’var Torah for Parashat Mass’ei
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

As holiday times approach, at our home we take out bags and bags of decorations that Hannah and Jonathan had made when they were little. Sally, who is the organizer in the family, keeps them all stacked, labeled and dated, all within easy reach. We love putting up these decorations, each of which reminds us of a specific time and place in our family life. Here is the “backpack” Chana made out of a paper shopping bag when she was in kindergarten and they pretended that they were Israelites leaving Egypt; there is the dreidle Yoni had made out of clay when he was about the same age. The decorations get more clever and sophisticated as the kids grow older. Each represents a stage in their development, steps along the road toward who they have become in time, the grown and mature young adults they are today.

We get a lot of pleasure as we look at these markers. They are filled with inventiveness, creativity and joy. There’s some nostalgia involved, to be sure, but in each we can already identify characteristics that will develop further with each year that passes. The decorations are a road map that helps us understand our children better even today.

Much in the same way, this week’s Torah portion, Mass’ei (“journeys,” the last portion in the book of Numbers, chapters 33-36), is a recap of all the stops that the Israelites had made during their years of wandering in the Sinai Wilderness. The indirect, meandering path they took from Egypt to the Promised Land was also a spiritual journey, an aliyah. Each of the forty-two stops mentioned in the Torah portion recalls a part of that journey; each is a stepping stone or a marker that represents not only a place in the map, but also a station in the growth and development of the Jewish People.

As we look at each of these stops, we recall the events that took place there. Some are joyful: The finding of water; the gift of manna; the gift of Torah itself. Other places remind us of failings and tragic events—the loss of hope; the death of Aaron; the quarrel at the Place of Bitter Waters.

While they are part of the specific story of the Exodus, the places and events symbolically also represent the life of each human being in all generations. The Lubavitcher Rebbe taught that “Pauses, interruptions and setbacks are an inadvertent part of a person’s sojourn on earth. But when everything a person does is towards the goal of attaining the ‘Holy Land’ – the sanctification of the material world—these, too, are ‘journeys.’”

Beyond recalling the roadmap, Parashat Mass’ei contains instructions for how the Israelites must live in the Promised Land once they get there. Judaism emerged from the primordial cultural muck that existed up until that time. The practices of the Canaanites—the people who dwelt in the Promised Land before the Israelites settled in it—were abhorrent to God not because of God’s jealous nature, but rather because they were immoral and brutal. Child sacrifice, injustice and abuse were normative among the Canaanites. In contrast, the Israelites are directed to establish different practices. The division of the Land is to be done according to each tribe’s size. No one tribe is to be allotted more or less than it needs. Above all, the Israelites are instructed to build six refuge cities, towns where an accused murderer could flee from the blood avenger until his case is judged by a proper court of justice. The shedding of innocent blood corrupts not only humanity, but also the earth itself.

The Promised Land is not a gift given lightly or arbitrarily. It’s a loan, replete with conditions of repayment of principal as well as accrued interest. Default—failure to maintain these conditions—means we lose our right to the land.

The road from “entitled” to “deserving” is not necessarily a straight or easy one. Just as children have to grow and mature, just as they must fall before they learn to walk on their own, so too must we learn that the blessings of life don’t become ours automatically. Along our own journeys, we grow from stage to stage, from station to station. I’m not sure if there are 42 stops or perhaps more. But in retrospect, as we retrace our steps, as we recall a particular song or dance, our first love, our first—or one hundredth—failure, the setbacks and successes along our lives, we realize that we too have matured along the way. Each step, each experience hopefully brings us closer to the Promised Land.


May we learn to take steps that lead us forthrightly, that add meaning, strength and purpose to our lives; may each stop along the way become filled with holiness. May our journeys brings us closer to our own Promised Land, and may we learn to enjoy its fruits in joy and peace.

Chazak chazak v’nit-cha-zek; let us be strong and of good courage, and may we all be thereby strengthened.



©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman

Like A Rose Among the Thorns

Like A Rose Among the Thorns
D'var Torah for Parashat Matot
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

I never fail to be astounded by the paradox that is called humanity. We can be so wonderful on the one hand, and so evil on the other. No better example of this can be found than in this week's Torah portion, Matot (Tribal Chieftains), Numbers 30:2—32:42.

The parasha can be divided into three sections. The outer parts of the portion reflect the highest ideals. Chapter 30 further expands women's rights, a development that was begun much earlier with the laws of the "Sotah," the woman suspected of infidelity to her husband. In a society where survival was often accompanied by unspeakable brutality, women's rights was not exactly a hot topic. Yet in this chapter, at least with regard to religious rituals, while the final say over the behavior of wife or daughter is still the father's or husband's, the woman's opinion on the matter must clearly be considered. (As always, a widowed or divorced woman had by far greater control over her own life and religious behavior.)

Another ideal this Torah portion strives for is the individual's responsibility towards family and community. Though this may seem to be an obvious and intrinsic value for all—or, at least, most—human beings, we must always remember the savagery and selfishness that people are also capable of. No law ever exists independently of prevalent conditions. A stop sign is posted only at dangerous intersections. Laws are enacted only in situations where danger is perceived. The harsh realities of life and the basic needs of survival create an environment where it becomes easy to overlook the greater good of the community. The final section of "Matot" relates the desire of two and a half tribes—Gad, Reuben and half of the tribe of Manasseh—to settle in the hilly and fertile region of Gilead, on the eastern shore of the Jordan River. In the request they submit to Moses, these tribesmen refer first to their vast herds of livestock, and only later to the need to protect their wives and children. Left out altogether is any mention of responsibility to the rest of the People of Israel.

Moses is infuriated by this display of selfishness. He reminds the tribesmen of their relationship to the rest of the people, making them take an oath to participate in the conquest of the Promised Land even if their own holdings are to remain outside the actual borders of this Land. He also reminds them of the proper order of their more personal responsibilities—first the women and children, and only then the vast herds of cattle and sheep. The tribesmen agree to both conditions, an important lesson for all of us.

These outer sections of "Matot" teach lessons in human rights and proper values. One would hope that the Torah would be only about that. But the Torah also reflects the time in which it appeared, and the human condition in general. We can be idealistic; we might be capable of the highest achievements. But human beings are also capable of unspeakable savagery and cruelty. The middle part of this portion, a command issued by Moses to exterminate the entire tribe of Midian—men, women, children and livestock alike—reflects a side of Moses that rarely appears in the Torah (in fact, many Biblical scholars believe that these orders, in effect amounting to total genocide, were a later addition to the Torah).

The ancient rabbis were quick to expound on this section, teaching that Moses could not have meant the genocidal annihilation of an entire people, but rather the destruction of the concept implied by the Hebrew meaning of the word Midian—divisiveness or causeless hatred.

That may be so, but nonetheless the literal meaning of Moses's command cannot be disputed.

Survival is the name of the game of Life we are all part of. Society has created a vast legal and social superstructure whose purpose is to control the behavior that follows our basic need to survive. When this superstructure collapses—as it does all too often—terrible things happen. The true miracle of Jewish survival is not that we are still here, a people nearly four millennia old, but rather that the moral and spiritual essence of Judaism has continued to flourish despite the grim realities of life and our history. That moral essence is like a rose among the thorns. It is our hope and beacon, the shining light by which we stride in spite of the many setbacks, by which we advance despite the forces of evil that all too often are found within us, part and parcel of our humanity—the forces that drag us down.

The marvel of Matot is that, from our earliest days, we Jews have learned that survival is accomplished not only through war and violence (essential though these sometimes are)—but rather also through spiritual transcendence. Striving for the ideals taught us by God, Moses and the Torah, we have learned to rise from the ashes of chaos and become followers and teachers of the Law of justice, love and compassion.

One can only hope the flower survives on, just as it has so far.

© 2011 by Boaz D. Heilman

Envisioning the Future in the Present

Envisioning the Future in the Present
D’var Torah for Parashat Pinchas (Numbers 25:10—30:1)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman


One of the moments I always look forward to with great anticipation whenever I fly to Israel is when I get my first glimpse of the Mediterranean coastline. If by night, that glimpse is always of the yellow lights that light up nearly the entire coast. If by day, the shore appears first through the haze, so thin you wonder if it’s your imagination playing tricks on you. But then, within moments, the line assumes form and depth, and you realize that you are being granted a vision of Israel that thousands of generations only dreamt of and never got to glimpse in their lifetimes.

Similarly, in this week’s Torah portion Moses is commanded to scale Mount Abarim, in Moab, just across the Jordan River, from where he will get a view of the Promised Land. He will not enter it, but he knows that the Children of Israel, the people he had led out of Egypt and then for forty years through the Wilderness, will.

His heart must be full of yearning and pining. The Midrash tells us that at that moment, Moses requested of God: “Oh Master of the Universe, I beseeched You to send someone else to Pharaoh instead of me; nor did I ask to lead this people, yet You insisted. Now that You decreed that not I, but another, should lead them into the Land, I beg You, do not do to him what You did to me….”

The fulfillment of one’s dream and lifework is a rare gift. Many leaders have set their nation on a sacred path only to have their life extinguished before seeing the goal realized. It’s the next generation that must continue the work—hoping to get it done or, at the very least, a few steps closer.

This is but one of the many examples in which the Torah reflects reality even as it tries to shape life and give it meaning and direction.

The jet flies over the coastline, all the while descending so that buildings, roads and cars begin to materialize. Sometimes the path to the runway is straight forward; othertimes, the plane flies further east, toward the Judean hills, then makes a sharp turn left, veers westward and comes in for a smooth landing. In the summer, the intense heat is the first sensation you feel. Then the reality of being in the Promised Land begins to set in.

Reality isn’t the dream, much as we would like it to be. People jostle while waiting in line to have their passports stamped, then wait again for their suitcases to arrive. The arrival hall is filled with noisy families, screaming children and countless drivers holding up signs with passengers’ names. Taxi drivers offer rides; pilgrims of various faiths, colors and garb mingle with weary business travelers impatient to come home. Tearful reunions mix with joyful welcomes and, if it so happens that a soccer team (or some famous rabbi) lands at around the same time as you, the reception by cheering supporters gets so loud you think you couldn’t possibly take in any more of this uproar.

And then you find yourself on the highway to wherever you are going—and even if you’ve never prayed before, you pray now for safe arrival as your ride winds in and out of lanes, avoiding taxis, trucks and countless motorcycles delivering pizzas or other takeout food and merchandise.

In the vein of art imitating life, Pinchas, this week’s Torah portion, reflects the reality of Jewish life as much as its ideals. Religious fanatics—represented by Pinchas himself, a grandson of Aaron the Priest, yet so far removed from his grandfather’s famous pacifism that he actually takes a spear and kills two people he thinks sin against God—abound in this Land. Not all are as zealous as Pinchas, thank God. However, there are some ultra-Orthodox Jews who would be glad to see Israel destroyed and parsed out to its enemies; and there are also those just slightly milder who throw stones, bottles, eggs and almost anything else handy at the police—enforcers of a secular law they see as not binding on them.

In this portion, the five daughters of Zelophechad demand due justice from Moses and God—and receive it after due consideration. That too reflects our people in Israel. There are few countries that take justice more seriously than Israel, where the law is argued and counter-argued not only by lawyers before a Supreme Court of Justice, but also by the common people who are as passionate about justice as they are about the unfairly high prices of cottage cheese and college tuition, about freedom of speech and the lack of affordable housing.

Politics in Israel mystify resident and stranger alike. The number of political parties, the constant shifting of the sands as factions and parties align and realign in a relentless quest of power and influence can leave you dizzy. Yet somehow a leader always emerges—as does a vocal opposition that spares no effort to bring that leader and his/her coalition down. In our Torah portion, as Moses begs God to appoint a good leader (yet another reason to pray in Israel), he asks for someone who will not allow himself to be swayed by either the masses or his own ambition, but rather one who will know both where the people must go and how to lead them there. In response, God tells Moses to appoint Joshua as this leader. Joshua is a warrior; at this moment of our people’s history, this is the kind of leader the people need—one who will lead them to victory and survival. So, too, is the case in modern-day Israel. Most of the nation’s leaders come from the ranks of Zahal, the Israel Defense Force. The war of survival is of primary concern to our people today no less so than when Moses was envisioning the future of his people from the top of the mountain in Moab.

Parashat Pinchas concludes with a reiteration of the rites and sacrifices that must be offered on the sacred holidays. A people whose leadership relies only on military might for its survival will not last long. Israel’s identity was always shaped by its belief in God. Our rituals may have changed; we no longer offer sacrifices at the Temple in Jerusalem. Yet, both in the Land of Israel and throughout the Diaspora, Jews celebrate their tradition and heritage in ways described in the Torah. Instead of animal sacrifice, we offer prayer, worship and the study of the ancient laws. That is what gives us meaning and direction; that has given our existence meaning during the days of slavery in the many Egypts in which we have dwelt; that has defined our relationship with one another and with our God during the many years we were wanderers in the Wilderness; that continues to give us purpose and direction even today, in the Promised Land.


Shabbat is nearly at hand in the Land of Israel. Stores have closed their doors as customers go home to prepare for this holy day of tradition, community and family. Tomorrow, my brother’s family will come up to Haifa to spend the day with my mother and me. We will eat traditional foods, relate memories and speak of future plans. The grandchildren—the future of our people—will continue to delight us with their joy of life and creative playfulness. The life of our people continues, its compass and directions set so long ago, its path appointed by God and envisioned by Moses from high ontop the mountain. It may not be perfect, but at least there’s hope that, if not in our day, then on some other day, we will yet make it so. But only if we follow the examples (minus the fanaticism) set by the Torah nearly four millennia ago.


©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman

Defying Death

Defying Death
D’var Torah for Parashat Chukat
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman


Dedicated to the memory of Barbara Levine, z”l


Parashat Chukat, Numbers 19:1-22:1, lists a series of tragic events that befall the Israelites on their way to the Land of Israel: Miriam dies; Aaron dies; and Moses, following a terrible bout with bitterness, anger and even momentary loss of faith, is told he will never enter the Promised Land along with the people he had led there.
As though in anticipation—and quite possibly with the intent of providing in advance the remedy for all the pain that must follow these events—the portion begins with a description of the ritual of the Red Heifer.

The sacrifice of the Red Heifer—a completely red cow, unblemished, possibly as young as a calf, certainly one that never has never been yoked to a plow—was meant to purify a person who had come in contact with a dead body. First commanded to Elazar, Aaron’s son who was elevated to his father’s position of High Priest after Aaron’s death, the ritual was one of the most intricate of all sacrifices. Obviously it was meant to counter the deep pain of loss and to ease the survivor’s reentry into the community.

A rare animal, that unblemished, perfectly red heifer! So rare, in fact, that according to one Talmudic sage, Rabbi Meir, the ritual was performed only seven times in all of Israel’s ancient history. According to other rabbis, it was actually offered nine times, with the tenth expected to be performed by the Messiah when he arrives.

As part of the ritual, the ashes of the sacrifice were mixed with fresh water (mayyim chayyim—“living waters”) and then sprinkled on the individual/s who had been touched by the death. Symbolically, the mixture represents the fusion of death and life. Its power stems from the profound understanding that a large part of our psychological and spiritual well being is dependent on the acceptance of death and life as parts of a larger whole.

Each of us experiences life in a unique and individual way. Similarly, we react to a close death with our own personal mix of feelings. Shock, pain, guilt, anger—and sometimes other emotions as well—often combine into a tangled web that we find difficult to extricate ourselves from. The journey back to life that each of us must then undergo is equally complex. But if we are to keep on existing as functioning, contributing members of society, we must learn to untangle our emotions and keep them under control.


During the years of the Holocaust, my father, of blessed memory, lived a fulfilling life in Israel. Building houses, paving roads and planting orange groves were to him the realization of the dreams and wishes of the entire Jewish People. Unbeknownst to him, however, during that same time his family was experiencing a different fate in Europe. Following the end of the war, my father received a letter from his brother. The uncle I never met wrote this letter as he was about to be deported to Auschwitz. The story he related was of the heroism, misery and death of my father’s entire immediate family— father and mother, another brother, a beloved sister.

By some coincidence, another person who lived on the same kibbutz received a similar letter on the same day. This person slashed his wrists after reading it.

My father swore to keep on living.

Many Holocaust survivors lost their faith in God during those terrible years, a phenomenon that continues with many Israelis to this day. They see themselves as part of the ongoing history; many even carry on the traditions and culture of Judaism. However, for them there is no God. Only life.

Of course, there were also those who held on to their faith, whose belief must have been shaken but who resisted living a life without God.

Yet others assimilated, hiding their past and their true identity.

How we relate to the tragedies around us and to the pain that comes in their wake may differ from one individual to another. What parashat Chukat (“The Law”) teaches is that we can best defy death by infusing purpose and meaning into our every breathing moment. Of course, this isn’t so simple. The challenge of bitterness and sorrow is sometimes too heavy a burden for us to bear. Personal tragedies have a way of changing us forever. Meaning is often lost in the confusion and disorder that ensue.

But that is precisely why the Red Heifer ritual was ordained: To give us a way to overcome our sorrows. Recognizing that life and death are parts of a larger whole is the first step. Immersing our bodies in a pool of fresh water, a mikveh, is the final rung. By engaging in this mitzvah, we let the blessing that is water surround us, comfort us, enfold us in its embrace.

The powerful force of life within us is kindled by the performance of mitzvot—the commandments. We overcome the challenge of death and chaos by bringing order and sanctity into life—ours as well as others’.

In a paper that my son, Jonathan, recently submitted, he wrote: “We comprehend the world by discovering what it is not, emerging from a life of chaos to a life of order and truth. It is impossible to exist without our counterparts. Without the other, we would never know the self. Without death, we would never know life.”

We challenge death when we permit the memory of our dead to become a blessing rather than a burden; when we dedicate the remainder of our own days to living a life of love, justice and sanctity. That is the significance of the well-digging song that appears near the end of this week’s portion: “Spring up, O well! All of you sing to it” (Num. 21:17). By the performance of mitzvot, by living a life of meaningful interaction with all around us, we live to the fullest. It is so that our life becomes the well that the Torah sings of, a source of blessing to all life around us.


©2011 Boaz D. Heilman