Jacob’s Faith--Vayishlach

Jacob’s Faith

D’var Torah for Parashat Vayishlach

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week’s parasha, Vayishlach (Genesis 32:4—36:43) is one of the most terrifying of all Torah portions.  Yes, towards the end of Deuteronomy, too, we find some pretty awful imagery; in Vayishlach, however the disasters and calamities that befall Jacob are not merely potential—they are all too real and present.

Having escaped yet again (this time from the treacherous scheming of his in-laws in Haran), Jacob finds himself approaching a face-off with Esau, his twin brother who, two decades earlier, had sworn to kill him.  Esau is, in fact, riding towards Jacob at the head of 400 armed men.

Jacob is forced to imagine the unimaginable, and he divides up his camp into two halves.  In case Esau strikes the first group, the second half of the family may yet escape and survive.

Alone at night, facing a morning devoid of hope, Jacob is besieged by some mysterious force—perhaps spirit, perhaps human, perhaps his own subconscious.  In the night-long struggle, Jacob is hurt.  However, he manages to maintain his hold on the stranger and finally, at daybreak, elicits a blessing from him.

“Your name,” says the angel, “shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel; for you have struggled with God and with men, and have prevailed” (Gen. 32:29).  Immediately after making this statement, the angel disappears and the sun emerges—for the first time in a very long time—for Jacob.

Even though the encounter with his Esau turns out fortunate, worse things happen as the story progresses.  Jacob’s only daughter, Dinah, is raped.  Levi and Shimon, Dinah’s brothers, exact brutal revenge.  On the way to Bethel to fulfill his vow to God and offer a sacrifice at the place he had called “the dwelling place of God,” Jacob finds that his children have turned to idolatry and have been sacrificing to false gods.  And finally—worst of worst—Rachel, Jacob’s beloved wife, for whose hand he had labored for 14 years, dies in childbirth.  Benjamin comes into this world just as Rachel leaves it.

Jacob’s life story, so full of agonies and tragedies, is what humanizes Jacob for us.  Abraham, though called avinu, “our father,” hardly seems real for us.  His overwhelming faith in God, his unquestioning faith that seems impracticable and even dangerous, distances him from us—as it must have for his own son, Isaac.

Nor is Isaac any more realistic as a role model for us, either.  He was, after all, somehow wounded—if not physically, then at least psychologically—by his father Abraham’s attempted sacrifice of his life.  Passive and naïve, Isaac lets himself be swayed by forces he feels too weak to ward off or defend himself from. 

The story of Jacob, on the other hand, is our story.  Jacob is everyman.  The dreadful things that happen to him happen to us.  OK, not all of them to each of us, thank God!  But they are things we read about in the paper every day, things that we know for a fact happen every day—if not to us, then to someone else that we may know.

The story of Vayishlach would be depressing beyond hope if we didn’t already know that Jacob’s life will have a happy ending.  This is what keeps us turning to the next page and the one after that.  We want to know how he gets to that blessed point.  We wonder where Jacob gets the strength to carry on, to push ahead, despite the terrors that life rolls his way.

The secret is in the angel’s blessing; Jacob’s strength is within him, implanted in his soul on the fateful night before he returns to his homeland:  “You have struggled with God and with men, and you have prevailed.”

Jacob’s faith is a new kind of faith.  He does not rely on God’s word alone.  Nor does he turn a blind eye to the dangers that surround him.  Rather, Jacob faces any situation he is in, assesses it and deals with it appropriately.  He knows enough to keep in mind the wise and moral lessons of his fathers.  Yet he also profoundly understands the ways and rules of realpolitik.  Despite the perils—perhaps emboldened by the blessing he was given, by the assurance that, in the end, he would prevail—Jacob does not shy from engaging in the fearful struggles of life.

Jacob turns into Israel, and we Jews are his rightful descendants.  Like our third—and most human—patriarch, we do not recoil.  We do not tremble at the thought of the difficulties or dangers that may face us, whether these be the struggles that we sometimes face within our families, the daily wrestling matches with our conscience, or the historic battles we fight for our causes of life, freedom, justice.  In facing the assaults of ignorance and prejudice, of disease and poverty, we do not cower.  Like Jacob, we may come out limping from the encounter, but daybreak will find us standing on our feet.

It’s good knowledge to own, this assurance that no matter what, we will prevail.  We don’t merely survive; that’s not good enough.  Our knowledge that terrors lie all around us does not make us run for cover.  Meaning for us is found in the understanding that we can do something about the situation, that we can make life better.  That’s what gives us purpose and reason to go on.  We struggle, but in the end we prevail.  There’s the difference.  For if we know that our efforts will, in the end, prove worthwhile—if not for us, then for future generations—then our hard work and sacrifices have meaning and are not in vain.

That is the faith that Jacob found—the trust both in God’s promise, but also in his own internal strength, in his God-given ability to change things, to make a difference, to improve the world. 

That’s what made Jacob Israel, and why we have inherited his name and his blessing.

©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Life of Jacob: Vayeitzei

The Life of Jacob

D’var Torah for Parashat Vayeitzei (Deut.  28:10—32:3)

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

I went to see Life of Pi yesterday.  I recommend it:  The acting is great, the story is exciting, the music is enthralling, and the visual effects are nothing short of spectacular.  Yet—and maybe because one of the main characters in the story is a tiger, and because of the nature of this story, it leads one to think of yet another tiger tale:  “The Lady, or the Tiger?” by Frank Stockton.

Actually, there seems to be a whole genre out there that could be described as “Alternative Endings,” or, more appropriately, “Alternative Realities.”  One of my favorite movies of this genre is Tim Burton’s “Big Fish.”  Then there’s also the heart-rending song from A Chorus Line, “At the Ballet.”

Without giving away too much of the movie’s plot, a major theme in Life of Pi is religion and the role of God in our lives.  One of the many secondary questions that arise is whether God is an invention of the human mind, or rather indeed something out there that somehow manages or even directs our life.  The adventures that Pi goes through as the lone survivor of a shipwreck (along with a handful of animals, including one mean tiger) can be understood as the result of some inborn survival mechanism; alternatively, they can be seen as steps, or even tests, along a spiritual journey.  It is not unlike the passage that is our whole life, from birth to the loss of innocence, and then from physical maturity to the understanding and acceptance that often grace the last part of one’s life. 

Psychologically, the phenomenon commonly known as “out of body experience” has been explained as an acute way in which the mind and/or body react to extreme physical effort or stress.  Frequently, this experience takes the form of a religious ecstatic event

.

In a way, this is what Jacob experiences on his first night away from home.

Driven away by his brother’s murderous hate, Jacob’s journey assumes cultural/religious significance from the start.  In order to separate between the two brothers, Rebecca sends Jacob to Haran, Rebecca’s homeland, there to find a wife and to establish himself.  The Canaanite women surrounding the patriarchal home are the wrong sort for Jacob to marry, and so Isaac bestows upon Jacob the blessing of God’s protection and sustenance.  Jacob leaves with naught but a staff—but imbued with a sacred blessing and a holy mission.

Jacob is keenly aware of the dangers that now surround him.  He’s not a hunter or a warrior, and his knowledge of self defense is probably minimal.  He hasn’t been around enough yet to know where his strengths lie or how to use them to survive.  And so, as the sun sets, we can only imagine the loneliness and terrifying darkness that surround him.

Far from the comforts of home, Jacob lies down on a bed of dirt and stone, with a rock serving him as a pillow.  And it is here and now, literally between a rock and a hard place, that he has his first vision of God.  Jacob dreams of a ladder that reaches all the way to heaven, with angels ascending and descending its rungs.  And then God appears at Jacob’s side and bestows a blessing on him, reaffirming all that Isaac had prophesied earlier, and promising to bring Jacob back safely to his homeland.

A dream, a vision, an hallucination, or perhaps an out-of-body experience—whatever it was, the encounter has the desired result.  Jacob finds his strength and completes his journey to Haran.

What has Jacob learned that on that night of terror and fright?

He learns of God’s existence and potential presence on Earth.  “Surely this is the dwelling of God, and this is the gate of Heaven!” he exclaims in the morning. 

But Jacob also realizes that heaven is no place for mortals.  No matter how fearful, our place is down on earth.  A more adventurous soul might have attempted to climb the ladder, to see what is above the clouds, beyond the earthly bounds of our existence.  But the angels—ascending from earth and descending back to it—teach Jacob that it is down on earth where his life’s journey must unfold. 

Jacob’s newfound understanding of religion lies at the foundation of Judaism.  Our role is to live out our lives on this earth, albeit in company with angels whose task it is to form a bridge between us and God.  Reaching for a higher state of existence is nothing more than escapism.  No matter the mechanism by which some people achieve that out-of-body sensation, it is within our bodies that our souls must remain.  Through the work of our hands, the thoughts of our mind and the emotions of our heart we become angel-like, ascending and descending the scale of holiness and bringing sanctity—sparks of God’s Presence—down to the ground.  It is within each of us that we can discover the dwelling place of God and the gateway to Heaven.  It is within our reach and abilities to become a source of holiness, a blessing to ourselves and to others.  Sleeping, standing or sitting on the earth from which we come, we are rooted in the soil that sprouts all life around us and which will enfold us even when our lives are done.

©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman                                                                             

Lessons I’ve Learned So Far: A D’var On The 50th anniversary Of My Bar Mitzvah

Lessons I’ve Learned So Far: A D’var On The 50^th anniversary Of My Bar Mitzvah

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Shabbat Chayei Sarah, 5773

Nov. 9, 2012

Lessons I’ve Learned So Far:

Do what you love doing for as long as you can

Do what you have to when you realize that you have to do it—and do it with as much dedication and with the same sense of fun and wonderment as before.

Love fully and learn to accept as much as you give—or to give back at least as much as you take, whichever the case may be.

Raising children is your next most important task in life, and it will take you the rest of your life.  Do your best and pray not to mess up; and when you do, pray that you can fix things and make them whole again.

That teaching with words isn’t complete—in fact is worthless unless you also set an example with action and deed.

That it’s possible to feel better than great.  That the key to happiness is to share what you have with others who do not have as much as you—but without making them feel the lesser for it.

That it’s important to study the Torah because it contains wonderful stories, but even more so because it holds vital information about life, survival and meaning.

That, no matter how much you study Torah and Talmud, God cannot be understood, and probably doesn’t care to be even if we had the brainpower to understand God.  It’s best to be cautious about an uncertain life than to pray for a certain future.

That repetition—whether of days, years, texts or shuffled papers—can improve you as it can improve that which you do.

That you must always say thank you, and never kick the chair you are sitting on.

That the body can break as easily as the heart. 

That both are hard to repair and therefore must be maintained at all cost.

That the senses are meant to help us enjoy life.

That the mind can help us understand who we are.

That the soul can help us understand where we are going.

That you can’t leave your past behind you.  That you can’t change it for better or worse.  That you can only do that to the present and future.

That you must never lose hope.

And that you must always pray, because that’s where hope is always to be found.

Shabbat shalom.

©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman

Sarah’s Love--Chayei Sarah

Sarah’s Love

D’var Torah for Parashat Chayei Sarah

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

In honor of the 50^th anniversary of my Bar Mitzvah, with thanks to God, to my mother and father with love and gratitude to my family and friends

We know precious little about the life of Sarah, our first Matriarch.  Once before, we hear her laughing when she overhears an angel announcing to Abraham the imminent arrival of Isaac.  Caught in the act, she fibs and denies laughing.  But the fact remains that she did, indeed, laugh, in disbelief and perhaps even with a momentary lapse of faith and belief.

We hear her suggesting that Abraham father a child with her handmaiden, Hagar, to be raised as Abraham and Sarah’s own.  She is silent at the indignities that she suffers as Hagar’s haughty demeanor toward her increases and intensifies.  But she spares no words or actions when she sees Ishmael—Hagar and Abraham’s son—playing with (and possibly abusing) Isaac—Abraham and Sarah’s own, longed-for and promised son, their progeny, child of their old age, bearer of their future destiny.

But those aside, we can only imagine the rest of Sarah’s life:  Traveling; meandering from land to land, from place to place; taken captive by Pharaoh in Egypt—whom does she speak with?  How does she interact with the people she meets on a daily basis?

We’re told nothing about any of this, so as this week’s Torah portion begins—Eileh chayei Sarah, “This is the life of Sarah” (Gen. 23:1-24:18)—we hope to learn more.  But instead, we hear of Sarah’s death.  As though nothing!—a girl grows, loves a man, raises a child, nurtures hope—and it’s over!  A life lived, and it’s done!  With nary so much as a thank you.

And yet, the ancient Rabbis taught that Sarah was more righteous than Abraham.

How could they know that?  What is there in the text—or perhaps purposely left out of the text—to indicate her righteousness? After all, wasn’t it Abraham whose faith was unflappable; Abraham who interacted with God, who interceded with God and advocated mercy for Sodom and Gomorrah; Abraham who spoke with God, who built altars to God’s name, who almost sacrificed his only beloved son, Isaac to his God? 

And maybe there’s the clue to our mystery.  It was easy for Abraham to be a righteous man.  His faith was unshakeable. 

Not so Sarah’s.  Between the two of them, she was the more realistic, the one who, in the middle of the night, was more often troubled by doubt.  Abraham may have gone off on any number of spiritual journeys at the call and behest of God.  But it was Sarah who stayed at home; Sarah who arranged the furniture and bought the food for that night’s dinner; Sarah who haggled with merchants when they tried to overcharge her because they knew she was rich; Sarah who had to deal with the servants, with the bills when they came due, with the children as they bickered and quarreled all day long.

And she did all that with hardly a complaint.

Of course it wasn’t Sarah that God commanded to bring Isaac as sacrifice.  God knew better than that.  With Abraham, a curious God kept testing his faith to see just how far he could stretch it.  With Sarah, God knew exactly where God stood. 

Don’t mess with Isaac.

Abraham didn’t tell Sarah what he was planning to do.  But when he came home after the incident on the mountain and saw her dead, in his heart of hearts he knew that she died of a broken heart—out of longing and love for the child he had taken from her.

That’s when Abraham realized what he needed to do next.  He had to pick up where his wife had left off—to find a wife for their son, Isaac.

When your children get married, you know you’re no longer young yourself.  There’s a new generation in the forming, and one sacred task left to do:  To transfer the legacy.  It becomes a matter of greater and greater urgency, pushing aside any other business and dealings.

Abraham knows where to find a girl fit to become Isaac’s wife.  He sends his trusted servant to merely take care of the details.  And even though the story of the rest of this portion is about the servant doing just so, we are left to wonder what Abraham must be pondering all this while back in his tent.  Is he writing a living will for his son and future daughter-in-law?  What instruction could he leave for Isaac that he had not yet given him?  Certainly not the fear of God.  That was made plainly clear for Isaac up on the top of the mountain, bound on the altar with the firewood laid beneath him.

During the weeks of his servant’s absence, waiting for his return, Abraham must have mulled over the nature of the legacy he would hand over to Isaac.   Then, bit by bit he comes to understand that he has actually known the answer all the time—since yet before Isaac was born and all the way to that awful moment on top of the mountain.  The lesson wouldn’t be about God or God’s harsh demands.  It would be about love.  The love of a father for his child, of a mother for her child.  The love of a man for a woman, for a beloved partner in life and life’s journeys.

The lesson was love.

Sarah was deemed more righteous than Abraham not because she never lost faith; which, as we know, she did, perhaps even more than once.  Rather, it was because her love never wavered.  Despite the harsh travails, the daily dealings with people whose morals and customs were often strange and anathema to her, despite the struggles in her own domicile, her love only grew and intensified.  It wasn’t Abraham’s hard-fought struggles with God, but rather Sarah’s undying love which would be Isaac’s inheritance and legacy.   

And that’s why this portion is called Chayei Sarah, “the Life of Sarah.” 

©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Jewish View on the “Death with Dignity” Initiative in Massachusetts

The Jewish View on the “Death with Dignity” Initiative

Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Oct. 28, 2012

The “Death with Dignity” Initiative on this year’s ballot raises many concerns, among them medical, legal, social, cultural, ethical and spiritual.  Whereas wide-spread discussions can look at the whole spectrum of issues and concerns, a specifically “Jewish perspective,” by definition, must focus only on the spiritual aspects.  These come down to two questions:

1)  If Life is God-given and therefore sacred, does anyone have the right to actively end life?

2)  As with other contractual agreements, if human beings are in a covenantal yet personal relationship with God, should they not have the right to end this relationship and exit of their own free will?

An examination of any issue through Jewish lens must take into account halakha, a text-based legal methodology that is founded on laws stated in the Torah, elucidated by the early (1-6^th centuries) rabbis in the Talmud, codified into Law Codes (10^th-15^th centuries) and applied to human experience through questions and answers collectively known as Responsa.

A second, more liberal, method of clarifying Jewish law has been proposed, in which the personal, human experience predominates over strict halakhic rulings.  “Covenantal ethics,” as this system has been termed, relies on a more direct relationship between human beings and God. While halakhic rulings are taken into consideration, a person who subscribes to this method of understanding Jewish law is bound less by loyalty to halakha as by his or her personal relationship with God. 

In the view of Judaism, life is God-given.  Moreover, human beings are endowed with tzelem Elohim—the image of God.  This position is at the basis our entire talionis punitive system.  Thus, in Gen. 9:6 we read: “Whoever sheds the blood of man through man shall his blood be shed, for in the image of God He made man.”

Exceptions to this law exist:  Killing in self defense is an obvious example.

More to the point of the argument surrounding the “Death with Dignity” Initiative, suicide is prohibited by tradition, custom and halakhic law as a violation of b’tzelem Elohim, the Divine Image.  Even here, however, there are exceptions.

King Saul, the first king of Israel, takes his own life after being mortally wounded in war against the Philistines.  While there is much argument regarding the permissibility of this act (Saul is not condemned by the Bible), it is generally interpreted as an extreme exception to the rule.  Yet the fact remains that Saul hastened his own death.  In extremis, a situation reflecting extreme pain, suffering, torture or humiliation, is, in fact, an argument by which halakha permits the burial of a suicide in a Jewish cemetery (in a sense, accepting the act as having been coerced upon its perpetrator and therefore not truly a voluntary violation of  the Divine Image).

Kiddush ha-Shem, the sanctification of God’s name (martyrdom), is another accepted—even venerated—form of suicide.  Throughout Jewish history, there have been tens of thousands who preferred to take their own lives rather than submit to torture, death or conversion at the hand of persecutors.  Massada, at which 1000 Jewish men, women and children gave their lives to God rather than submit to the Romans, was the model for many other such mass suicides.

Additionally, there are three commandments which may never be broken, even at pain of death.  Idolatry, murder and sexual immorality are seen as acts where death would be a preferable option.

But all these cases are seen as specific examples, not meant to be generalized to other cases.  Halakhically, in the set of circumstances described by the ballot initiative, these examples cannot be used as precedent.  They stand as sui generis, in a category all their own.

The issue of assisted dying (the terminology used to describe this act reflects a spectrum of opinions) comes up again and again in Jewish texts, showing deep concern for the suffering endured by a person at the end of life (whether as a function of old age, illness, or in extremis).

Jewish texts give three examples that can serve as a basis of argument—both for and against this initiative.  The first of these refers to the martyrdom of Rabbi Haninah ben Teradion, a rabbi of the second century who was arrested by the Romans for teaching Judaism and condemned to be burnt at the stake.  The Romans intentionally extended his suffering by wrapping him with wools soaked in water:

Rabbi Haninah ben Teradion was arrested by the Romans and, wrapped in a Torah, was burned at the stake.  His disciples said:  “Open your mouth so that the fire enters you.”  He replied, “Let Him who gave me [my soul] take it away, but no one should injure oneself.”  The Executioner then said to him, “Rabbi, if I raise the flame and take away the tufts of wool from over your heart, will you cause me to enter into the life to come?”  “Yes,” he replied.  “Then swear to me.”  [Rabbi Haninah] swore to him.  He thereupon raised the flame and removed the tufts of wool from over his heart, and his soul departed speedily.  The Executioner then jumped and threw himself into the fire.  And a bat kol [a heavenly voice] exclaimed:  “Rabbi Haninah ben Teradion and the Executioner have been assigned to the world to come.”

Though in this story Rabbi Haninah refuses to hasten his own death, he does not refuse someone else from removing the impediment to his death.  Is this the same as administering a fatal dose of medicine?  That depends on how one views the Executioner’s act.  If he was merely removing the impediment (the ancient world’s method of “unplugging” the patient) then this act was permissible.  If it was meant to speed the process of dying, it was not permissible.  Most rabbis agree that the former was the case.  However, there is no arguing with the next act of the Executioner.  By throwing himself into the fire, he commits suicide, and yet his soul is accepted in heaven—approved by the rabbis!  They could have seen this as Kiddush ha-Shem (martyrdom); yet a fine line is drawn here, one that could be used to illustrate one of the reasons cited most often by terminal patients who have chosen to take their own life in Oregon (one of two states in which this option is legal):  the loss of meaning in life.  The Executioner refused to hold on to a life devoid of meaning and chose to end it instead.

A second story examines a similar act of participation in the process of dying:

When Rabbi [Judah ha-Nassi, 2^nd century rabbi, compiler of the Mishna] was dying, the rabbis declared a public fast and offered prayers that God have mercy on him [and spare his life].  His maid went up to the roof and prayed:  “The angels want Rabbi to join them in heaven and the people want him to remain with them.  May it be the will of God that the prayer of the people overpower the prayer of the angels.”  However, when she saw how often he had to use the privy, each time painfully taking off his tefillin and putting them on again, she prayed:  “May it be the will of God that the angels overpower the people.”  As the rabbis continued to pray, however [thus not permitting Death to enter and take Rabbi], she took a jar and threw it from the roof of the house.  [At the sound of the shattering jar] the rabbis stopped praying, and at that moment, the soul of Rabbi departed.  Both Rabbi and the maid were praised in the World to Come.

Was the maid simply removing an impediment to death (the prayers of the students)?  Or was she actually enabling death to take its course?  Obviously she did not cause the death—that would be murder; yet her actions enabled the process to complete its inevitable course.  By breaking the jar, she caused death to occur.  It isn’t active euthanasia, yet it isn’t passive non-intervention either. 

In yet a third story, one can find an example perhaps more fitting to our modern-day case:

It happened that a woman who had aged considerably appeared before Rabbi Yose ben Halafta  (2^nd century).  She said, “Rabbi, I am much too old, life has become a burden for me.  I can no longer taste food or drink, and I wish to die.”  Rabbi Yose answered her, “To what do you ascribe your longevity?”  She answered that it was her habit to pray in the synagogue every morning, and despite occasional more pressing needs she never had missed a service.  Rabbi Yose advised her to refrain from attending services for three consecutive days.  She heeded his advice and on the third day she too ill and died.

Did Rabbi Yose give the woman a “prescription” for ending her life?  Once again, his actions could be interpreted as removing an impediment to death (not unlike removing breathing and feeding tubes from a terminal patient).  Yet there is no doubt that he also showed her a path of action (or rather, inaction) which would result in the ending of her own life. 

Though Reform Judaism does not subscribe to Orthodox halakha, it does have a committee whose mission is to develop a Reform halakha.  In a set of responsa from 1992, we find opposition to assisted dying for the following five reasons:

1.  Sanctity of life

“We see no good reason, first of all, to abandon the traditional Jewish teaching concerning the inestimable value of human life. If the doctrine of life's essential holiness means anything at all, it means that we must stand in reverence before the very fact of life, the gift of God that renders us human. And this reverence does not diminish as human strength declines, for the dying person still possesses life, a life stamped indelibly with the image of God until the moment of death.”

2.  Pain is not sufficient justification for killing a human being in the name of compassion

“ Even in debilitating illness, when our freedom of action is severely limited, we yet sanctify the divine name by living our relationship with God, by striving toward nobility of conduct and of purpose, by confronting our suffering with courage. To say this is not to ignore the agony of the dying but to recognize a fundamental truth: that even when we are dying we have the power to choose how we shall live. We can kill ourselves, thereby accepting the counsel of despair, or we can choose life, declaring through our actions that despite everything life--all of it--is blessed with the promise of ultimate meaning and fulfillment.”

3.  Quality of life is impossible to determine

“The quality of life by its nature is virtually impossible to determine.  That is to say, the decision that ‘my life is no longer worth living’ is an inescapably subjective one; it cannot be quantified, verified, or tested against any principle.”

4.  Our role is to heal the sick or care for them, not to kill them

“We believe that compassion toward the dying is a moral responsibility. But we also believe that this responsibility can and must be discharged without resort to assisted suicide and active euthanasia.”

5.  Expectation of the end of life is not exact

“Even if it is possible to determine precisely when a patient has reached this final extremity (and we are well aware that medicine is not a precise science), the patients who concern us here clearly have not reached it.”

           

In conclusion, there are two ways to determine the Jewish view/s on the issue of assisted suicide.  In the first, in accepting our relationship with God as our Creator, we also accept the concept of the sanctity of life.  Life is God-given; only God has the right to take it back, and only God can determine the time and way in which death comes to us.  Part of this covenant includes—and holds as sacred—the proposition that “we must hope for and await God's deliverance to the very last moment of our lives.”

The second way follows from a perspective that sees the covenant between God and humanity as a partnership agreement.  As partner with God, an individual has the right to make decisions in light of his or her understanding of the texts as well as in light of his/her perceived relationship to themselves, to their family, community, and God.

The Jewish view is neither unanimous nor compulsory (except to those who choose to see it as such).  But it does elicit consideration and thought about our role and course of action both in life and in death.  This discussion is as old as Judaism itself and will continue for as long as human beings continue reflecting on the meaning of life.

Bibliography and supplemental readings:

The Text of the Initiative:  Initiative Petition Information Sheet  http://www.mass.gov/ago/docs/government/2011-petitions/11-12.pdf

CCAR Responsa:  On the Treatment of the Terminally Ill (5754.14)

http://data.ccarnet.org/cgi-bin/respdisp.pl?file=14&year=5754

Peter Knobel, “Suicide, Assisted Suicide, Active Euthanasia: A Halakhic Inquiry” in Death and Euthanasia in Jewish Law:  Essays and Responsa, Edited by Walter Jacob and Moshe Zemer, Freehof Institute of Progressive Halakha; Pittsburgh and Tel Aviv:  Rodef Shalom Press, 1995

(http://sinaibrookline.org/wp2/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/Suicide-Assisted-Suicide-Euthanasia-P-Knobel.pdf)

In opposition of the Initiative:

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• The proposed safeguards against abuse are insufficient.  Enforcement provisions, investigation authority, oversight, or data verification are not included in the act. A witness to the patient’s signed request could also be an heir.

• Assisted suicide is not necessary to improve the quality of life at the end of life. Current law gives every patient the right to refuse lifesaving treatment, and to have adequate pain relief, including hospice and palliative sedation.

• Predicting the end of life within six months is difficult; sometimes the prediction is not accurate. From time to time, patients expected to be within months of their death have gone on to live many more months — or years. In one study, 17 percent of patients outlived their prognosis.

• Doctors should not participate in assisted suicide. The chief policy making body of the Massachusetts Medical Society has voted to oppose physician assisted suicide.

In support of the Initiative:

1.  Carol Trust, executive director of the Massachusetts chapter of the National Association of Social Workers, said in a statement. “I encourage Massachusetts voters to grant terminally-ill patients this choice.” She added, “Our support of Death with Dignity is guided by our Code of Ethics. We continually strive as social workers to promote the rights of our clients to self-determination and dignity.” 

2.  History and Opinion: 

“May Doctors Help You to Die?”  Marcia Angell, New York Review of Books, Oct. 11, 2012

http://www.nybooks.com/articles/archives/2012/oct/11/may-doctors-help-you-die/

3.  Julian J.Z. Prokopetz, B.A., and Lisa Soleymani Lehmann, M.D., Ph.D.:  “Redefining Physicians' Role in Assisted Dying” New England Journal of Medicine 2012;

http://www.nejm.org/doi/full/10.1056/NEJMp1205283?viewType=Print&viewClass=Print&&

Other interesting notes:

1.  Quality of Elderly Care:  Portland, Oregon offers the best senior living benefits in the U.S., according to a survey released in 2005 by Bankers Life and Casualty Company.  Seattle, WA has the second spot.  Boston is 8^th.

2.  In Oregon, primary end of life concerns were:  loss of autonomy (90.9%), inability to engage in activities that give their life meaning (88.3), and loss of dignity (82.7%).   “Being a burden:” 36%.

3.  An independent study published in the October 2007 issue of the Journal of Medical Ethics reports there was "no evidence of heightened risk for the elderly, women, the uninsured, people with low educational status, the poor, the physically disabled or chronically ill, minors, people with psychiatric illnesses including depression, or racial or ethnic minorities, compared with background populations."

  

Looking Up--Vayera

Looking Up

D’var Torah for Parashat Vayera

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

I like to read the newspaper advice columns in the morning, cup of coffee in hand.  It’s a short read; simple stories of complex relationships, all with one simple solution that could make everything right again.

It’s warm-up for the rest of the day.  The vignettes from human life are a part of who we are; they resonate within us for that simple reason.  Yet when we see them in print or watch them on a screen, they become simple.  Little lessons for the day ahead.

Though similar to situations in our life, the particular experiences aren’t ours.  They’re someone else’s.  Yet perhaps because of this objectivity, it’s easy to see the solution.  It’s tempting to just call it out:  Open your eyes—it’s all laid out for you.   Just look about you.  See the possibilities.

In this week’s portion, Vayera (“And God Appeared,” Genesis 18:1—22:24), there are several instances where life’s course changed when this advice was followed.

In the first, we have the famous scene of Abraham arguing with God about the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah.  God agrees to allow a minimum of ten righteous people save the entire wicked community—yet, as we know, even that number couldn't be found in the bastions of evil that the two cities represented, and their Biblical fate became proverbial.

But when Abraham goes on his way after this discussion of evil and righteousness, he sees a whole new realm.  The gods of his native land, Mesopotamia, were fickle, untrustworthy and even dangerous.  Abraham’s great discovery at that moment was of a God who could be reasoned with.  To a point.

Later in the portion, the situation at home becomes unbearable for our first great-great grandparents.   Childless, Abraham and Sarah decide to raise a child fathered (with Sarah’s approval) by Abraham with Sarah’s handmaiden, Hagar.

Needless to say, this doesn’t go anywhere good.  Abraham is forced to send Hagar and the boy, Ishmael, away into the wilderness.  Abraham is comforted by God telling him that Ishmael will be blessed.  Abraham, shutting his eyes (and heart) to the pain of separation, proceeds with what he believes God tells him to do.

Had he opened his eyes and seen the future—the wars between the descendants of his two sons—the Arabs, descendants of Ishmael, and the Jews, descendants of Isaac—would he still have sent mother and child away?

In the wilderness, Hagar and Ishmael are without water.  Parched and desperate, Hagar leaves the child under a scraggly bush and moves away so as not to hear his cries.  Bereft of any hope, Hagar suddenly hears an angel of God who tells her to look up and see a spring of water not far away.  A world of possibilities opens up as Hagar just opens her eyes.

Vayera is that great portion in the Torah where another terrible sacrifice almost takes place.    

                    

That God was telling Abraham to go and offer his son, Isaac, as a sacrifice, should have made Abraham’s heart go cold.  Yet, unlike the instance with Sodom and Gomorrah, Abraham does not argue with God.  He accepts what he believes is inevitable based on some irrational belief—that God simply couldn’t ask him to go through with it.  In a telling conversation between father and son, when Isaac asks Abraham, “Father, here is the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for the burnt offering,” Abrahams answers, “God will see to the lamb my son.” The ambiguity is couched in hope.  The sacrifice may be “my son,” or it may be something else that God will see to instead.

To the last moment, God holds off.  Abraham lays Isaac upon the altar, binds the boy to the wood, and is about to plunge the knife when an angel of God stays his hand.  “Look up,” he says.

Human sacrifice was common in those days.  Child sacrifice was honored.  When Abraham lifted his eyes and saw a ram caught by its horns in the thicket, he understood God better than ever, for in the strongest possible way God just taught him something huge:  Human sacrifice was abhorrent to God.  Child sacrifice was an abomination of the greatest degree.

And at that moment, too, Abraham saw his future role and understood his mission better than ever.  The akeida—the binding of Isaac—became a metaphor.  From now on, dedication to God would take a different path.  Instead of killing him, Abraham’s—as any parent’s—role, from that moment on, would be to raise the child, to prepare him for life, to make him feel secure and loved, to give him roots, to give him wings, to teach him or her all about God and how to argue with God about justice and compassion.

It was a new world, and all it took was looking up.

©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman