The Responsibility of Individual Memory
D’var Torah for Parashat Bo
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
January 27, 2012
The Hebrew word zachor appears only a handful of times in the Torah. The command mode of “remember,” the grammatical form of zachor addresses us individually, commanding each of us, individually and personally, to remember. The memory is to be more than a collective one; it is always to be also a personal memory, connected somehow to our own personal story.
The first time zachor appears, it is in context of the Sabbath. Even though Shabbat is a collective holiday, observed and celebrated by the Jewish people as a whole, it is also meant to establish an individual connection between God and each one of us. It reminds us that the image of God, the Creator, is embedded in each and every human being. It isn’t enough that other Jews celebrate Shabbat; I need to observe it. Holiness isn’t achieved only by association, but also through a unique and personal connection with God.
Another collective memory that is given personal context in the Torah is that of the evil tribe of Amalek. One of the enemies that the Israelite people encountered during the forty years of wandering in the Sinai Wilderness, the Amalekites attacked the rear of the Israelite camp, decimating the very people that God commands us to help—the women and children, the sick, the old, the weary and the despondent. In this context, the personal form of zachor carries a powerful message: Evil, even when perpetrated against someone else—and particularly the weak—is an assault against all of us and, simultaneously, against each one of us.
In this week’s Torah portion, “Bo,” (Exodus 10:1-13:16) the word zachor appears once again.
In the midst of the upheaval caused by the final three plagues that strike the Egyptians (locust, pitch darkness and the death of the first-born), the Israelites are commanded to prepare for the exodus. Collectively (yet by households), they are told to slaughter a lamb and cook it, use some of its blood to mark their doorposts as a sign for the Destroyer to pass over their houses, even to mark this very day as a day of remembrance for all times and generations. The emergence of the Israelite people is forever to be marked in our calendars as a national holiday marked by communal ritual and celebration.
Yet immediately following these community commands, Moses turns to each Israelite and, using the personal form of the verb “remember,” zachor, commands each and every one of us to take individual responsibility in this commemoration, to see this not only as a collective story of redemption, but rather as our own, personal redemption from slavery (Ex. 13:3).
It is a command reiterated in the Passover Haggadah: In every generation, every person must see him- or herself as if he or she had personally left Egypt.
This doesn’t mean merely that if our ancestors had stayed in Egypt, we, their descendants would still be slaves. It is that, yet more, too. What this teaching has us remember is that freedom carries with it individual responsibility. We are—each of us—responsible for ourselves but, additionally, also for one another and for the nation as a whole.
That we have internalized this commandment is evident in our reaction whenever we hear of the accomplishments of a fellow Jew. We are quick to take collective pride in his or her success. On the other hand, we cringe when we read of the misdeeds of a fellow Jew. The shame spreads quickly among all of us. The same sort of community consciousness is behind our collective efforts to help other people—Jewish or not—who may find themselves endangered or oppressed. It isn’t by coincidence that we see Jews active in every struggle for human rights. It wasn’t only the fall of the Soviet Union that brought the release of over a million and a half Jews from Soviet captivity. It was the hard and courageous work carried out by many of our brethren in Israel and America and elsewhere in the world.
The command “zachor” that we encounter in this week’s portion carries an important message. Coming between the commandment to distinguish between the holiness of Shabbat and the evil of Pharaoh (who, as you might remember, not only enslaved our people but also carried out a genocide against it, drowning male newborns in the Nile River), the purpose of the individual command here is to make a similar distinction in our own lives. Free people—which we were, at that moment, becoming—have the power to choose. Imbued with equal capacities for evil as for holiness, each of us has the power to decide which path he or she will follow.
It isn’t—God forbid!—mass murder that the Torah would have us stay away from. Evil doesn’t always express itself in the most extreme way. It is enough to ignore the cry of the broken-hearted, to turn a deaf ear to the pleas of oppressed; it is enough to blame someone else for the hurt we ourselves may have caused; it is enough to judge someone for their color, religion, gender or gender identification.
Freedom means we have the choice of helping or hurting. It’s as simple as that. The singular form of the command to remember this, zachor, has us bear in mind that we can’t merely depend on someone else to fulfill this sacred mission. It’s the responsibility that from now on each of us must shoulder. Each human being is accountable for his or her choices, for better or for worse.
It’s an awesome task, a sacred task.
Remember this.
© 2012 by Boaz D. Heilman
Friday, January 27, 2012
Saturday, January 21, 2012
The Key To Redemption
The Key To Redemption
D’var Torah for Parashat Va-eira
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
January 20, 2012
In this week’s Torah portion, Va-eira (Ex. 6:2—9:35), the Egyptians are inflicted with the first seven of the Ten Plagues.
Told in advance that God will “harden Pharaoh’s heart… but that Pharaoh will not heed you” (Ex. 7:3-4), Moses knows—as do we all—that God is set to go the whole nine (ten?) yards, without fail.
Hardening one’s heart is the Hebrew idiom for making someone stubborn and obdurate, unable to change his feelings. In effect, what God is doing to Pharaoh is take away his freedom of choice.
Even with the understanding that God is unfathomable (God, after all is so enormous, and our brains, along with all our powers of imagination, allow for no more than a minimal understanding of the working of God’s mind); and even with the foregone conclusion that God is the ultimate power, with no one to tell God what to do or not to do, we may still be allowed to ask why God takes away Pharaoh’s freedom of choice. Wasn’t that, after all, God’s gift to all humanity? Isn’t the power to do t’shuva—return, repentance—given us to the last moment?
So how to answer this baffling question?
Of course, one can always claim that the structure of the story demands ten plagues, and ten plagues it is, not seven, eight or nine. Ten as in a minyan; ten as in a minimal quantity that yet constitutes a single unit (and as such, of course, the basis of the decimal system).
God’s and the Torah’s answer is that through this multitude of plagues God’s might will become known and apparent throughout the world, even to the toughest doubter and skeptic.
The philosophy of fatalism (submission to fate or God’s will) is a large part of any religion. Even in Judaism, with its emphasis on free will and the ability to argue with God, there is a strong thread of this philosophy. The tension between the two—submitting to God’s will and the right to question it—leaves us all in a perpetual spiritual struggle.
So, yes, God’s will is strong in this section of the Torah, and even if one were to plead for mercy, there is no turning back on God’s determination to prove His superior strength.
And yet, as we read the passage carefully, we see that Pharaoh is given several chances to repent. After the second and fourth plagues (frogs and vermin), Pharaoh promises to set the Israelites free but then changes his mind. So close….
Then, right before the seventh plague—hail—Moses warns Pharaoh that this affliction will be most severe. Mixed with fire, this hail will be the most brutal ever witnessed in Egypt, since the very first days of the kingdom; it will kill any living being left outdoors, plant tree or vegetable, animal and human. Moses warns Pharaoh and all the Egyptians that they must protect and gather into their homes everything that is alive so that it is not killed by the large hailstones.
It is to Pharaoh’s compassion that God and Moses appeal. Yet Pharaoh refuses. It was his last chance to repent. After this one will come the last and most severe of all the plagues, with no further chance of forgiveness or redemption. Yet Pharaoh fails.
Was it God who “hardened Pharaoh’s heart” so that the last doorway to forgiveness was shut? Or was it Pharaoh’s own pride and cruelty?
Tyranny has a way of turning upon itself, of inflicting the tyrant with his or her own kind of terror. Paranoia turns the tyrant not only against strangers, but also against his own people, even his own family. It’s a madness that poisons and destroys the very mind, soul and body—and even the house—of the person it possesses.
Tyranny stems from the failure to acknowledge that there is a power higher than oneself, a power which one day will demand an accounting of one’s actions and choices. To one who has put himself so much higher than any morality, the world becomes a set of traps, with spies and enemies lurking behind every twist and turn.
Such a person can show no compassion, because that would be seen as a sign of weakness.
Moses appeals to Pharaoh this one last time, but by this point Pharaoh has gone too far. Redemption is not possible for him. Yes, the story would have it this way; yes, the philosophy of fatalism allows no question. Yet the Torah does offer this last chance, even as we know that it is beyond Pharaoh’s—or any human—ability and power to change matters.
Compassion is the key to the human heart.
With this key, we can open our hearts to one another. We can “hear” another’s pain, feel their suffering, relieve them of some of their burden of anguish. Without it, our hearts close, and the beat of life ceases.
It was ultimately Pharaoh, not God, who turned the key on his own heart and threw it into the Nile. It was Pharaoh who, by his own choice, established the inevitability of his own fall—and, tragically, the consequent suffering of all his people, innocent and guilty alike.
Rejecting the call of compassion was his own human choice, and he chose wrong.
© 2012 by Boaz D. Heilman
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D’var Torah for Parashat Va-eira
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
January 20, 2012
In this week’s Torah portion, Va-eira (Ex. 6:2—9:35), the Egyptians are inflicted with the first seven of the Ten Plagues.
Told in advance that God will “harden Pharaoh’s heart… but that Pharaoh will not heed you” (Ex. 7:3-4), Moses knows—as do we all—that God is set to go the whole nine (ten?) yards, without fail.
Hardening one’s heart is the Hebrew idiom for making someone stubborn and obdurate, unable to change his feelings. In effect, what God is doing to Pharaoh is take away his freedom of choice.
Even with the understanding that God is unfathomable (God, after all is so enormous, and our brains, along with all our powers of imagination, allow for no more than a minimal understanding of the working of God’s mind); and even with the foregone conclusion that God is the ultimate power, with no one to tell God what to do or not to do, we may still be allowed to ask why God takes away Pharaoh’s freedom of choice. Wasn’t that, after all, God’s gift to all humanity? Isn’t the power to do t’shuva—return, repentance—given us to the last moment?
So how to answer this baffling question?
Of course, one can always claim that the structure of the story demands ten plagues, and ten plagues it is, not seven, eight or nine. Ten as in a minyan; ten as in a minimal quantity that yet constitutes a single unit (and as such, of course, the basis of the decimal system).
God’s and the Torah’s answer is that through this multitude of plagues God’s might will become known and apparent throughout the world, even to the toughest doubter and skeptic.
The philosophy of fatalism (submission to fate or God’s will) is a large part of any religion. Even in Judaism, with its emphasis on free will and the ability to argue with God, there is a strong thread of this philosophy. The tension between the two—submitting to God’s will and the right to question it—leaves us all in a perpetual spiritual struggle.
So, yes, God’s will is strong in this section of the Torah, and even if one were to plead for mercy, there is no turning back on God’s determination to prove His superior strength.
And yet, as we read the passage carefully, we see that Pharaoh is given several chances to repent. After the second and fourth plagues (frogs and vermin), Pharaoh promises to set the Israelites free but then changes his mind. So close….
Then, right before the seventh plague—hail—Moses warns Pharaoh that this affliction will be most severe. Mixed with fire, this hail will be the most brutal ever witnessed in Egypt, since the very first days of the kingdom; it will kill any living being left outdoors, plant tree or vegetable, animal and human. Moses warns Pharaoh and all the Egyptians that they must protect and gather into their homes everything that is alive so that it is not killed by the large hailstones.
It is to Pharaoh’s compassion that God and Moses appeal. Yet Pharaoh refuses. It was his last chance to repent. After this one will come the last and most severe of all the plagues, with no further chance of forgiveness or redemption. Yet Pharaoh fails.
Was it God who “hardened Pharaoh’s heart” so that the last doorway to forgiveness was shut? Or was it Pharaoh’s own pride and cruelty?
Tyranny has a way of turning upon itself, of inflicting the tyrant with his or her own kind of terror. Paranoia turns the tyrant not only against strangers, but also against his own people, even his own family. It’s a madness that poisons and destroys the very mind, soul and body—and even the house—of the person it possesses.
Tyranny stems from the failure to acknowledge that there is a power higher than oneself, a power which one day will demand an accounting of one’s actions and choices. To one who has put himself so much higher than any morality, the world becomes a set of traps, with spies and enemies lurking behind every twist and turn.
Such a person can show no compassion, because that would be seen as a sign of weakness.
Moses appeals to Pharaoh this one last time, but by this point Pharaoh has gone too far. Redemption is not possible for him. Yes, the story would have it this way; yes, the philosophy of fatalism allows no question. Yet the Torah does offer this last chance, even as we know that it is beyond Pharaoh’s—or any human—ability and power to change matters.
Compassion is the key to the human heart.
With this key, we can open our hearts to one another. We can “hear” another’s pain, feel their suffering, relieve them of some of their burden of anguish. Without it, our hearts close, and the beat of life ceases.
It was ultimately Pharaoh, not God, who turned the key on his own heart and threw it into the Nile. It was Pharaoh who, by his own choice, established the inevitability of his own fall—and, tragically, the consequent suffering of all his people, innocent and guilty alike.
Rejecting the call of compassion was his own human choice, and he chose wrong.
© 2012 by Boaz D. Heilman
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Friday, January 13, 2012
Learning to Recognize the Burning Bush
Learning to Recognize the Burning Bush
D’var Torah for Parashat Shemot
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
January 13, 2012
If the overarching lesson of Genesis is accepting responsibility for one another, Exodus is about accepting responsibility for a whole people. The relationships in the first book are mostly one-on-one. Noah, of course, is a large exception to this rule, as he is given the larger challenge of saving the remnants of all life. But within this framework, Noah fails a large part of the test: he does not plead the cause of all life before God the Creator. It remains for the second book of the Chumash—the Five Books of Moses, the Torah—for this challenge to be faced once again, this time culminating in a huge success.
Exodus, as much as it is about God’s intervention in world history, is also the story of an individual, Moses. This week’s Torah portion (Shemot, Ex. 1:1 – 6:1) takes us from Moses’ birth to his encounter with God at the Burning Bush. We learn of his humble origins as the child of a persecuted tribe of slaves; we learn of his mother’s and sister’s desperate attempt to save him from the rampaging henchmen of Pharaoh out to kill Israelite male infants. We read of his rescue at the edge of the River Nile by none but a daughter of Pharaoh.
Nurtured by his birthmother, raised by his Egyptian stepmother, Moses can choose between the two ways of life open to him—slave or Egyptian prince. But the one value that he has learned from both his mothers, compassion, leads him more and more to reach for his own brethren, to witness their heavy suffering at the hands of their Egyptian overlords.
One day Moses sees an Egyptian mercilessly beating an Israelite. Giving in to frustration and rage, Moses kills the Egyptian.
But to every action, even those of heroes, there are consequences, and Moses soon finds himself on the run. He flees to the Sinai Wilderness, where he meets upon the Midianites and binds his life with theirs. Once again, a life of peace—and ignorance—can be his for the asking. However, while shepherding his father-in-law’s sheep one day, Moses encounters the Burning Bush. It is, of course, symbolic of God’s presence, and there God calls upon Moses to accept a position of national responsibility.
“Go stand up to Pharaoh and free the Israelites from their slavery,” God basically says.
Now Abraham would have no problem with this command. He’d pack up his belongings and early the next morning would set out for Egypt. Not so Moses, however. He is afraid of his own impulses; he is keenly aware of a speech impediment he has that makes verbal communication difficult for him. Moses argues with God: “Why me? Is there no one more suitable for the job?”
With each attempt to resist the call, God comes up with more reassurances. I will be with you; there will be miracles, all sorts of signs and wonders; your brother, Aaron, will speak for you. But finally even God has had enough. Impatiently, God says to Moses, “Who has made man’s mouth? Or who makes the mute, the deaf, the seeing, or the blind? Have not I, Adonai? Now therefore, go, and I will be with your mouth and teach you what you shall say” (Ex. 4:11-12).
Where so many would have taken advantage of such a call to initiate a power grab, Moses tries to shirk responsibility. He blames his weaknesses. And the lesson that he learns is that that is precisely where each of us must start. The weaknesses that drag us down may ultimately be our undoing. However, overcoming them at every opportunity is how we achieve true greatness.
Detractors of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., have always enjoyed pointing to his flaws. From his name, to his writings, to the speeches he gave, even to his personal life—every aspect of his identity and personality has been attacked. There may actually be some truth to some of the accusations, for, after all, no human being is unflawed. If Martin Luther King had been perfect, he would be an object of faith and religious adoration today. But instead, the reasons why Rev. King’s memory is celebrated are not personal. His greatness is not in his personal habits, but rather in the words he spoke and the message he so eloquently delivered.
Spoken with profound belief and faith, the message of Dr. King’s speeches is God’s own word, the message of Redemption. It was first spoken to Moses from the Burning Bush—a bush that burned but was not consumed, that existed thousands of years ago and still does today, symbol of God’s eternal moral lesson.
As first described by the book of Exodus, the Israelites were a people who “swarmed” in the land like insects and just so much vermin. To redeem them would mean not only to unshackle them from bondage. Redemption means restoring value. God may have created the mouth, the eyes and the ears; but along with their imperfections, God also teaches us how to use these very organs so as to rise from the earth, to become more than just dust particles, to become partners with the very Creator who made us.
Redemption is about finding meaning in life, about learning to respect both oneself and others. In the book of Genesis, Judah exemplified this by accepting responsibility for his brothers. Joseph joined Judah in this sacred task. In Exodus, it is the unassuming Moses who—along with his brother Aaron and sister Miriam—will be working together to bring freedom and value to the life of all their people, all Israel.
In our own day, it took a visionary—the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.—and a whole nation to overcome the prejudice and contempt that kept African Americans a downtrodden people. It is an unfinished task. In many cases they are still considered second-class citizens at best.
And then, there’s the rest of Humanity. Like Creation—left unfinished by God—the redemption of all Humanity, in all its colors, races, gender identification, beliefs and choices, is not yet complete. Yet, each of us can gaze at the bush that still burns out there, that still voices the hope and the promise, that still issues the challenge. We will then learn not to point to one another’s faults, or even to our own, but rather to the possibility and potential that each of us represents, to the Divine Image that burns unconsumed within each one of us human beings.
©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman
D’var Torah for Parashat Shemot
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
January 13, 2012
If the overarching lesson of Genesis is accepting responsibility for one another, Exodus is about accepting responsibility for a whole people. The relationships in the first book are mostly one-on-one. Noah, of course, is a large exception to this rule, as he is given the larger challenge of saving the remnants of all life. But within this framework, Noah fails a large part of the test: he does not plead the cause of all life before God the Creator. It remains for the second book of the Chumash—the Five Books of Moses, the Torah—for this challenge to be faced once again, this time culminating in a huge success.
Exodus, as much as it is about God’s intervention in world history, is also the story of an individual, Moses. This week’s Torah portion (Shemot, Ex. 1:1 – 6:1) takes us from Moses’ birth to his encounter with God at the Burning Bush. We learn of his humble origins as the child of a persecuted tribe of slaves; we learn of his mother’s and sister’s desperate attempt to save him from the rampaging henchmen of Pharaoh out to kill Israelite male infants. We read of his rescue at the edge of the River Nile by none but a daughter of Pharaoh.
Nurtured by his birthmother, raised by his Egyptian stepmother, Moses can choose between the two ways of life open to him—slave or Egyptian prince. But the one value that he has learned from both his mothers, compassion, leads him more and more to reach for his own brethren, to witness their heavy suffering at the hands of their Egyptian overlords.
One day Moses sees an Egyptian mercilessly beating an Israelite. Giving in to frustration and rage, Moses kills the Egyptian.
But to every action, even those of heroes, there are consequences, and Moses soon finds himself on the run. He flees to the Sinai Wilderness, where he meets upon the Midianites and binds his life with theirs. Once again, a life of peace—and ignorance—can be his for the asking. However, while shepherding his father-in-law’s sheep one day, Moses encounters the Burning Bush. It is, of course, symbolic of God’s presence, and there God calls upon Moses to accept a position of national responsibility.
“Go stand up to Pharaoh and free the Israelites from their slavery,” God basically says.
Now Abraham would have no problem with this command. He’d pack up his belongings and early the next morning would set out for Egypt. Not so Moses, however. He is afraid of his own impulses; he is keenly aware of a speech impediment he has that makes verbal communication difficult for him. Moses argues with God: “Why me? Is there no one more suitable for the job?”
With each attempt to resist the call, God comes up with more reassurances. I will be with you; there will be miracles, all sorts of signs and wonders; your brother, Aaron, will speak for you. But finally even God has had enough. Impatiently, God says to Moses, “Who has made man’s mouth? Or who makes the mute, the deaf, the seeing, or the blind? Have not I, Adonai? Now therefore, go, and I will be with your mouth and teach you what you shall say” (Ex. 4:11-12).
Where so many would have taken advantage of such a call to initiate a power grab, Moses tries to shirk responsibility. He blames his weaknesses. And the lesson that he learns is that that is precisely where each of us must start. The weaknesses that drag us down may ultimately be our undoing. However, overcoming them at every opportunity is how we achieve true greatness.
Detractors of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., have always enjoyed pointing to his flaws. From his name, to his writings, to the speeches he gave, even to his personal life—every aspect of his identity and personality has been attacked. There may actually be some truth to some of the accusations, for, after all, no human being is unflawed. If Martin Luther King had been perfect, he would be an object of faith and religious adoration today. But instead, the reasons why Rev. King’s memory is celebrated are not personal. His greatness is not in his personal habits, but rather in the words he spoke and the message he so eloquently delivered.
Spoken with profound belief and faith, the message of Dr. King’s speeches is God’s own word, the message of Redemption. It was first spoken to Moses from the Burning Bush—a bush that burned but was not consumed, that existed thousands of years ago and still does today, symbol of God’s eternal moral lesson.
As first described by the book of Exodus, the Israelites were a people who “swarmed” in the land like insects and just so much vermin. To redeem them would mean not only to unshackle them from bondage. Redemption means restoring value. God may have created the mouth, the eyes and the ears; but along with their imperfections, God also teaches us how to use these very organs so as to rise from the earth, to become more than just dust particles, to become partners with the very Creator who made us.
Redemption is about finding meaning in life, about learning to respect both oneself and others. In the book of Genesis, Judah exemplified this by accepting responsibility for his brothers. Joseph joined Judah in this sacred task. In Exodus, it is the unassuming Moses who—along with his brother Aaron and sister Miriam—will be working together to bring freedom and value to the life of all their people, all Israel.
In our own day, it took a visionary—the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.—and a whole nation to overcome the prejudice and contempt that kept African Americans a downtrodden people. It is an unfinished task. In many cases they are still considered second-class citizens at best.
And then, there’s the rest of Humanity. Like Creation—left unfinished by God—the redemption of all Humanity, in all its colors, races, gender identification, beliefs and choices, is not yet complete. Yet, each of us can gaze at the bush that still burns out there, that still voices the hope and the promise, that still issues the challenge. We will then learn not to point to one another’s faults, or even to our own, but rather to the possibility and potential that each of us represents, to the Divine Image that burns unconsumed within each one of us human beings.
©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman
Friday, January 6, 2012
Standing At The Crossroads of Life--Vayechi
Standing At The Crossroads of Life
D’var Torah for Parashat Vayechi
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
I am writing this during the last few hours of my current visit to Israel. I love visiting my family here. We usually don't do much traveling, just between my mother's flat in Haifa and my brother's house near Tel Aviv. Yesterday, however, we went to the Armored Corps Memorial in Latrun, near Jerusalem. It was a moving and impressive experience. Tanks and armored troop carriers from World War I and up through the most recent clashes are represented there. A memorial wall inscribed with the names of the fallen soldiers who served in the Armored Corps cuts through the heart of the memorial. At the center of the complex stands an old building--a combined police station and prison compound--built by the British during the Mandate period. The British chose this spot because of its strategic location--on a high hilltop overlooking the road to Jerusalem.
During the war for Israel's independence, the Jordanians overran the hill. In attempting to retake it, many Israelis lost their lives. Though they did not succeed in recapturing the building, the Israeli forces at least managed to keep the Jordanian forces enclosed in the building, unable to join their fellow Arabs in the struggle. It wasn't until 1967, during the Six Day War, that the old police station finally fell into Israeli hands. The museum and memorial were built over a period of some 10 years, concluding only recently. Expansion plans for the future include a museum for the Jewish soldiers who fought during World War Two.
By coincidence, as we were visiting there yesterday, a large unit of soldiers was rehearsing for the closing ceremony of their basic training. Later that evening, in a formal and highly impressive ceremony, they would take their oath as the newest members of the Armored Corps. As we watched from the observation balcony high ontop the old British police station, the drill sergeant made them repeat their moves over and over until he was finally somewhat satisfied.
At one point, the soldiers drilled their entrance from two opposite sides of the amphitheater. As the sergeant called out directions, a military march blasted from loudspeakers, reverberating throughout the site, echoing from tank to tank. At that very moment, at the Trappist monastery across the road, church bells began to sound the hour. It was a jarring experience--listening to the modern sounds of the march, watching the newest and most up-to-date soldiers about to take their place in the ranks of the Israeli Defense Forces, and hearing the ancient bells of the monastery as they called the faithful to prayer.
This overlay of times and cultures typifies Israel. Modern and ancient roads overlap; new--and not so new--villages lie on top of mounds in which are buried remains of ancient civilizations. It was easy to imagine this very spot where we were standing as a military outpost where peoples struggled throughout history. It's possible that the Biblical King Saul had established a fort on this very spot as he tried to force the Philistines back to the strip of land along the southern Mediterranean from which they expanded into the heart of the Israelite territory. Certainly the Babylonians had gathered their armies there as they laid siege on Jerusalem, as did the Romans nearly six hundred years later.
History repeats itself in an endless loop. Only the names and weapons change. We modern Israelis carry our past with us--sometimes with honor and pride, sometimes less so.
It's the same with our Jewish tradition. Wherever we are, Jerusalem or Boston, Tel Aviv or Sudbury, though we always modernize and always adapt to new times, philosophies, languages and customs, we still carry our identify as Jews. We carry our past invisibly within us, and our past shapes us as much as does our present. Taking our traditions along with us on all our paths, we carve new paths into the future, creating new customs along the way.
This layering of history and cultures is reflected in this week's Torah portion, Vayechi (Genesis 47:28—50:26). This parasha brings to a close the story of Jacob. Before he dies, Jacob calls Joseph to him and asks to see Joseph's two sons, Menashe and Ephraim, born to Joseph in Egypt. Jacob blesses them, allotting to them an equal portion among his own sons, uniting tribes and generations and making sure the legacy of Abraham and Isaac continues securely into the future.
Then, calling in each of his other sons, Jacob blesses them. He does not forget their past. He remembers the pride, the violence and even the treachery that was a part of their past. But he also knows that the future will be shaped by their choices from this point on. He knows that the reconciliation between Joseph and his brothers was the first step toward redemption. Jacob understands Judah's role in taking responsibility for Benjamin and leading his brothers, and he calls upon Judah to continue doing so.
With full clarity, Jacob realizes that his children are now wiser for their cumulative experience. From this vantage point, as the past closes in on the present and as the future begins to unfold, Jacob can predict the paths upon which life--and God--will lead B'nai Yisrael, the children of Israel, the People of Israel.
With similar perspective, when we stand at the crossroads of life, when we can see the past and the present merge and become one, we too can understand better the road that we are on. Refreshed and strengthened, our spirit regenerated, we can march onward without fear or trepidation, knowing that with every step we take, we fulfill the obligations and duties entrusted to us by the past.
Jacob learned the lessons of life the hard way; each moment, each turn in the path brought its own lessons. In blessing his sons, Jacob knows the path ahead of them is not going to be any easier than his own. For a moment, this knowledge almost overwhelms him. Yet, as his joy at seeing Joseph is surpassed by the added pleasure of seeing Joseph’s two sons, he becomes certain of yet another truth. He now knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that the blessing bestowed by God upon him and his forefathers will remain the heritage of B’nai Yisrael, the People of Israel, far into the future, from generation to generation, down to our day and even beyond. It is with this knowledge that the future of his people is secure that Jacob can finally breathe his last. His story is concluded; the story of Israel can now begin.
© 2012 by Boaz D. Heilman
D’var Torah for Parashat Vayechi
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
I am writing this during the last few hours of my current visit to Israel. I love visiting my family here. We usually don't do much traveling, just between my mother's flat in Haifa and my brother's house near Tel Aviv. Yesterday, however, we went to the Armored Corps Memorial in Latrun, near Jerusalem. It was a moving and impressive experience. Tanks and armored troop carriers from World War I and up through the most recent clashes are represented there. A memorial wall inscribed with the names of the fallen soldiers who served in the Armored Corps cuts through the heart of the memorial. At the center of the complex stands an old building--a combined police station and prison compound--built by the British during the Mandate period. The British chose this spot because of its strategic location--on a high hilltop overlooking the road to Jerusalem.
During the war for Israel's independence, the Jordanians overran the hill. In attempting to retake it, many Israelis lost their lives. Though they did not succeed in recapturing the building, the Israeli forces at least managed to keep the Jordanian forces enclosed in the building, unable to join their fellow Arabs in the struggle. It wasn't until 1967, during the Six Day War, that the old police station finally fell into Israeli hands. The museum and memorial were built over a period of some 10 years, concluding only recently. Expansion plans for the future include a museum for the Jewish soldiers who fought during World War Two.
By coincidence, as we were visiting there yesterday, a large unit of soldiers was rehearsing for the closing ceremony of their basic training. Later that evening, in a formal and highly impressive ceremony, they would take their oath as the newest members of the Armored Corps. As we watched from the observation balcony high ontop the old British police station, the drill sergeant made them repeat their moves over and over until he was finally somewhat satisfied.
At one point, the soldiers drilled their entrance from two opposite sides of the amphitheater. As the sergeant called out directions, a military march blasted from loudspeakers, reverberating throughout the site, echoing from tank to tank. At that very moment, at the Trappist monastery across the road, church bells began to sound the hour. It was a jarring experience--listening to the modern sounds of the march, watching the newest and most up-to-date soldiers about to take their place in the ranks of the Israeli Defense Forces, and hearing the ancient bells of the monastery as they called the faithful to prayer.
This overlay of times and cultures typifies Israel. Modern and ancient roads overlap; new--and not so new--villages lie on top of mounds in which are buried remains of ancient civilizations. It was easy to imagine this very spot where we were standing as a military outpost where peoples struggled throughout history. It's possible that the Biblical King Saul had established a fort on this very spot as he tried to force the Philistines back to the strip of land along the southern Mediterranean from which they expanded into the heart of the Israelite territory. Certainly the Babylonians had gathered their armies there as they laid siege on Jerusalem, as did the Romans nearly six hundred years later.
History repeats itself in an endless loop. Only the names and weapons change. We modern Israelis carry our past with us--sometimes with honor and pride, sometimes less so.
It's the same with our Jewish tradition. Wherever we are, Jerusalem or Boston, Tel Aviv or Sudbury, though we always modernize and always adapt to new times, philosophies, languages and customs, we still carry our identify as Jews. We carry our past invisibly within us, and our past shapes us as much as does our present. Taking our traditions along with us on all our paths, we carve new paths into the future, creating new customs along the way.
This layering of history and cultures is reflected in this week's Torah portion, Vayechi (Genesis 47:28—50:26). This parasha brings to a close the story of Jacob. Before he dies, Jacob calls Joseph to him and asks to see Joseph's two sons, Menashe and Ephraim, born to Joseph in Egypt. Jacob blesses them, allotting to them an equal portion among his own sons, uniting tribes and generations and making sure the legacy of Abraham and Isaac continues securely into the future.
Then, calling in each of his other sons, Jacob blesses them. He does not forget their past. He remembers the pride, the violence and even the treachery that was a part of their past. But he also knows that the future will be shaped by their choices from this point on. He knows that the reconciliation between Joseph and his brothers was the first step toward redemption. Jacob understands Judah's role in taking responsibility for Benjamin and leading his brothers, and he calls upon Judah to continue doing so.
With full clarity, Jacob realizes that his children are now wiser for their cumulative experience. From this vantage point, as the past closes in on the present and as the future begins to unfold, Jacob can predict the paths upon which life--and God--will lead B'nai Yisrael, the children of Israel, the People of Israel.
With similar perspective, when we stand at the crossroads of life, when we can see the past and the present merge and become one, we too can understand better the road that we are on. Refreshed and strengthened, our spirit regenerated, we can march onward without fear or trepidation, knowing that with every step we take, we fulfill the obligations and duties entrusted to us by the past.
Jacob learned the lessons of life the hard way; each moment, each turn in the path brought its own lessons. In blessing his sons, Jacob knows the path ahead of them is not going to be any easier than his own. For a moment, this knowledge almost overwhelms him. Yet, as his joy at seeing Joseph is surpassed by the added pleasure of seeing Joseph’s two sons, he becomes certain of yet another truth. He now knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that the blessing bestowed by God upon him and his forefathers will remain the heritage of B’nai Yisrael, the People of Israel, far into the future, from generation to generation, down to our day and even beyond. It is with this knowledge that the future of his people is secure that Jacob can finally breathe his last. His story is concluded; the story of Israel can now begin.
© 2012 by Boaz D. Heilman
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