A Rock Known By Many Names: Va'eira

A Rock Known By Many Names

D’var Torah for Parashat Va’eira (Exodus 6:2—9:35)

                                 By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman        

History is made of layers piled one on top of another.  Like a rock that has been cut open and shows the geological striations that formed it, so does the study of history give us a glimpse not only of the past, but also of the mindset of the people who lived in any particular region or eon. 

A visitor to the Timna mines near Eilat, Israel, will learn that copper has been a prized metal going back at least six thousand years.  Forged in intense heat, the valuable ore was extracted from the rock in which it was embedded.  Then it was fashioned into jewelry and weapons, replacing stone as the preferred tool of ancient human beings.

Within a few hundred years, metallurgists learned to mix tin with the copper, producing bronze and initiating a period generally known as the Bronze Age.

Around the year 1600 BCE, iron replaced bronze, and yet a new page opened in human history.  Soon, however, the technology of combining iron with carbon, resulting in steel, was perfected, and modern civilization as we know it today came into being.

Copper may have turned inexpensive through the ages, replaced by a series of other metals, one stronger than another; yet it never ceased to be prized.  Archeological artifacts found in Timna give evidence that copper was mined there by the Edomites as far back as the 10th century BCE, then by Israelites (possibly under King Solomon, after whom the mines are named today), by the Romans as late as the 2nd century CE, and then by various Arab tribes until the ore became too scarce and the mines were abandoned.

It’s a cold history when viewed objectively, but when layered against Jewish history, it comes alive again.

At one region of the mines, a place of spectacular geological edifices today called Solomon’s Pillars, Egyptian carvings were discovered.  Not far from there, at the foot of the sheer, red cliffs, archeologists uncovered a temple dedicated to the goddess Hathor, where many of the miners of a particular period worshipped.  Dating back to the 6th century BCE, only a few hundred years before the Exodus, some of those miners may well have been Hebrew slaves.

Judaism consisted of little but ancient stories in those days.  Competing with many other gods and rituals, the belief in a God who, many centuries ago, promised deliverance—but had not yet delivered—was not a very popular religion.  Promises of hope can only hold out for so long before desperation and hopelessness set in.  And for a people long used to slavery and subjugation, there was little reason to hold on to a useless faith.

And yet, at that very same time, whether caused by drought or some other natural plague—locust, perhaps, or the onset of any number of mysterious and often fatal diseases—the ancient Egyptian civilization was slowly but surely crumbling.  Slave rebellions and popular unrest destabilized society and undermined the established hierarchy.  New, attractive, cultures were on the rise in Asia and Asia Minor.  Their influence was spreading by sea and land, gaining momentum and causing—no surprise to any student of history—a backlash of tyranny, oppression and cruelty as the ancient pharaohs attempted, unsuccessfully as it turned out, to stave off the total collapse of the ancient system.

It was a time of signs and portents, of visionaries and prophets.  As the authorities tried to crack down on these doomsayers, many were imprisoned; many others were killed along with their followers.  Blood flowed freely in the streets, mingling with the waters of the Nile and putrefying the canals that irrigated Egypt’s deserts.

Yet, despite the persecution and repression, the process of liberation, once begun, could not be stopped.  Long-forgotten tales of redemption were once again being told, gaining new strength with each retelling.  Belief in the God of Abraham surged, with many flocking to hear words that resounded with grandeur and expectation.

Suddenly new pride was discovered in ancient identity, as families began to trace their histories as far back into the past as they could.

The new ideology, based on equality and justice, caught fire in the hearts of a people used to degradation and poverty.  But it also caused a freezing chill to set in the veins of the once proud and mighty, the overlords who had for so long thought themselves supreme and invincible.

Suddenly a new people appeared on the stage of human history.  Once called Hebrews, they became known as B’nai Yisrael—Israelites.  Once few and afflicted, they became as numerous and luminous as the stars in the sky.  Once seemingly abandoned by their God, they were suddenly uplifted again.  Once doomed to destruction, they became eternal.

It was a transformation that had never been seen before, yet one that has accompanied Jews all along their history.  Like the ore once excavated in the mines of Timna, our people were often surpassed in power and strength.  Yet our value has never diminished.  The beauty of even-Eilat, the turquoise stone that, set in silver or gold, is the centerpiece of exquisite jewelry, can never be dulled or diminished.  It is as timeless as our God, as endless as eternity itself.

It contains the very energy of creation, ongoing, eternal and unequalled.

© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman

Finding Peace: Sh'mot

Finding Peace

D’var Torah for Parashat Sh’mot, Exodus 1:1—6:1

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

It was Moses’s misfortune to not belong.

Born an Israelite, he was torn from his family and community.  Discovered floating by the banks of the Nile, he was adopted and raised as an Egyptian by Pharaoh’s daughter.  Undoubtedly, growing up he was steeped in Egyptian culture.  Yet, he was also nursed (and presumably, culturally nurtured as well) by his biological mother, too.  The lullabies she sang and the bedtime stories she told him probably were filled with rich allusions to his ancient heritage.  He learned to hide this tradition behind Egyptian cloaks and ways.  But deep inside him, a spark was lit, one that refused to be extinguished.

Deeply conflicted, one day Moses gave in to his frustration when he saw an Egyptian taskmaster cruelly beating a Hebrew slave.  In anger, he slew the Egyptian.

Yet, the next day, when he realized that there were Hebrew witnesses to his act, he fled to the desert.  What was he afraid of?  Was it of Pharaoh’s retribution?  But Moses was a prince and could easily have gotten away with as little as a gentle reprimand. Was it his conscience that was troubling him?  If so, then why did he not come clean?  Why did he flee instead of turning himself in?  Did he not realize that by running away he actually sealed his own fate?  What was he running from?

Perhaps he was afraid of being “outed” by his own people, the Hebrews he both loathed and loved, afraid of being forced to choose sides and make decisions he was not prepared for.

A fugitive in the Sinai Wilderness, near a water well, Moses rescues a group of damsels in distress, and immediately is offered the hand of one of them as a wife.  He accepts and almost overnight assumes yet another identity, that of son-in-law of the high priest of Midian!  Dressed in Midianite garb, his skin darkened by exposure to the sun and wind, who could possibly recognize him here?  After all, he was deep in the desert, far from the scene of conflict, far from the cries of the afflicted slaves and the merry, insolent laughter of their oppressors.  It was the perfect disguise, the perfect hiding place.  Schooled in assimilation, Moses could easily blend in here and disappear forever.

Only his soul knew no peace.

Tending to his father-in-law’s herd of sheep, Moses would wander far into the desert, trying either to escape or to understand the fire that was in his soul, the turmoil that was so upsetting to his idyllic existence.  Tirelessly he explored the barren mountains, peering into dark crevices, climbing to the edge of the precipice before carefully retracing his steps back to the night encampment for yet another restless night of convoluted dreams.

At times he would give voice to his anguish, but all he would hear in return was an echo carried by the wind.

Until that one day that he heard a voice he had never heard before.

The sun plays tricks on you in the Sinai Mountains.  Its light turns from gold at sunrise to a blinding white glare at midday.  Towards evening, the red glow makes it seem as though the mountain itself were on fire.  But what Moses saw that day was totally different.  It was a scruffy bush from whose branches intense, bright light emanated. Moses recognized it as the mirror for his own soul and the fiery torment it was going through.

The Torah says that it was at that moment that God chose to speak to Moses.  Not for following the stray lamb—as an early Rabbinic midrash sweetly relates—but because Moses had turned aside to see this great vision. 

Sometimes, in our search for meaning, we lose our path.  We get distracted, as I often do when I go to the store and realize I left the shopping list at home.   So much to look at!  So many products and varieties, so many temptations to try!  I often have to call Sally and ask her to read me the list just so I can get the few items I came for in the first place!

Was the bush always there, tantalizingly close yet hidden from sight because of all the distractions of life?  Was Moses looking in all the wrong places, or was he simply not ready to see it until that moment?

It was now, and only now, when Moses turned from his usual path and looked beyond himself and his own conflicted heart, that he could perceive the miracle.  He was finally ready to hear and accept responsibility. 

Well—almost ready.

Moses still fought, still argued, whined, complained.  “Why me?” he cries out.

What Moses began to comprehend was that he never really had much of a choice.  It was this truth that he was running from.  It was this truth that he came to discover when he turned aside to gaze at the marvel of the burning bush, when he obeyed a call only he could hear, a voice so small that it could only be heard in the stillness of his own heart.  At that moment he attached himself to the eternal truth that would never take “no” for an answer.  He knew what he would have to do, and though he fought, he also knew it was a losing fight.  God could be very persuasive.

Having accepted his historic mission, Moses returns to Egypt—to the place he once called home but never would again.  He rejoins his real family, the people who had made his mission possible and the tradition that made his role inevitable.  At least for a while he would “belong” to them.  But the truth is that people like Moses belong to no time and no one in particular.  They are ageless, eternal, at home wherever they are welcomed.

Understanding this, at least for now, Moses was at peace with himself.

© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman

Why We Still Exist: Vayechi

Why We Still Exist

D’var Torah for Parashat Vayechi

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

As the first book of the Torah, Genesis, reaches its conclusion, it’s as though the original writer of the Holy Book realized that there are so many lessons left to teach, yet so few pages left in the scroll.   In Vayechi (Genesis 47:28—50:26, the last parasha of the book), three story lines come to an end:  Jacob dies; Joseph forgives his brothers; and, finally, Joseph himself dies.

At the same time, however, these three endings turn into new beginnings.  Jacob’s death prompts the blessing of his children; Joseph’s generous act of forgiveness will mean peace between the brothers; and his death contains hope for future redemption.

As Jacob is about to die, he bestows his blessings upon his sons.  It’s a curious reversal of the way Jacob had long ago won for himself the blessing of his father, Isaac.  Now old and worn out, Jacob, like Isaac, is blind.  But unlike Isaac, who was cheated by Jacob and Rebecca, Jacob is in charge of the blessing; he will not be tricked or manipulated.  He gets to determine who gets what blessing. 

Revealing to his sons his vision of the nation they will become, Jacob does not mince words.  He reminds them of their past wrongdoings; but he also foretells a future in which they become one nation, where each of them has a part to play.  It will be Judah’s role, he predicts, to rule over his brothers (a role Judah won when he stepped up and took responsibility for the safety of Benjamin).

Joseph receives a double portion of Jacob’s blessing.  It isn’t only God’s blessing that Joseph will enjoy (“The blessings of the heavens above, the blessings of the deep, lying below,” Gen. 49:25), but also of the blessing of his father and mother.  Joseph is granted Jacob’s deepest wish, the thing he longed for the most but never got:  a peaceful, loving home; a family where love flows abundant between parents and children.

Moreover, Jacob adopts Joseph’s two sons, Ephraim and Menashe, as his own and blesses them too.  In fact, Jacob ordains that it is so, with the same words, that all Jews will bless their own children, throughout the generations:  Y’simcha Elohim k’Efraim v’chi-Menashe, “May God bless you as Efraim and Menashe.”  These words, have, indeed, become the traditional blessings that parents give to their children every Friday evening, to this day.

The second storyline that ends in this portion is the story of Joseph and his brothers.  With Jacob dead, realignment of the tribes is necessary, and in that context Joseph’s act of forgiveness is a huge step toward reconciliation and peace.  For the moment, while they are all in Egypt, Joseph accepts responsibility for their caretaking.  However, in the larger picture he no longer sees himself as superior.  He has no more dreams of exaggerated power.  Instead, Joseph becomes simply one of the tribes, equal among equals.   From his original position as hated outcast, he has earned for himself an important role among them, though ultimately not that of lawgiver and ruler.

Finally, the Torah turns to Joseph’s death and its aftermath. 

It is at this point in the story of our people that the last member of Abraham’s immediate family dies.  With the passing of God’s blessing to all Israel, the collective households of Jacob’s sons become the People of Israel.  Joseph’s final request, though seemingly directed to his brothers, actually is an oath he makes all Israelites take:  “God will surely remember you, and you shall take up my bones out of here” (Gen. 50:25).   Joseph foresees the years of exile in Egypt, a dark time in which God will seem to have forgotten His people.  Yet after that time, Joseph promises, God will remember.  As God had remembered the promise to Abraham and Sarah that they would have a child, a new beginning, in their old age; as God had promised Abraham in that dread night of dark dreams, that after four hundred years of slavery, God will take note of His people and free them; so the time will most certainly come when God will remember and fulfill the promise and bring them out to freedom.

At that point, Joseph wants the Israelites to remember him, to remember their oath and take his remains with them.  Throughout the years of slavery and misery, Joseph’s remains will serve to remind them that God can bring new life to a forlorn people.  As long as they remember, they will never lose hope, no matter how dark the night might become.  Wherever they go, they must carry this memory with them. 

In due time, the Israelites, as we know, are indeed redeemed from slavery.  As they leave Egypt, they remember to take his embalmed body.  It is the last step in their own process of Redemption:  They had sold Joseph to slavery in Egypt; they now bring him back home. 

Today we no longer have this body.  The reputed place of Joseph’s burial, in the city of Shechem, today known as Nablus, is in a contested area of the Land of Israel.  However, we have never forgotten the oath we took back then, the oath to remember. 

It isn’t only Joseph we remember, however.  It is also of his brothers.  It’s the whole story we remember, a story of betrayal and abandonment, yet also a story of redemption and promises fulfilled.  It is the story of how twelve brothers all learned to live together, to respect one another, to always see themselves as one people, all descendants of one family that, long ago, took a vow to extend a hand to our fellow human being, to feed the hungry, to bring freedom to the oppressed.  As long as we have these oaths enshrined within our hearts, we live on as a people. 

It’s why we still exist.

Chazak chazak v’nit’chazek:  Be strong, be of courage, and we shall all be strengthened.

© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Light Unto the World: Va-yigash

A Light Unto the World

D’var Torah for Parashat Vayigash

By Boaz D. Heilman

As I was reflecting on the life, death and achievements of the late, great leader Nelson Mandela, I was struck by the timely coincidence of his death, so close upon the holiday of Hanukkah, and this week’s Torah portion, Vayigash.

In Vayigash (Genesis 44:18—47:27), we see the happy conclusion of the story of Joseph and his brothers.  It comes replete with the tearful reunion of father and long-lost son and the reunification of the long-torn family. 

Moreover, the portion teaches powerful lessons about compassion and forgiveness.

As last week’s portion concludes, Benjamin stands to be imprisoned for stealing Joseph’s divination goblet.  It was a baseless accusation, meant to bring Joseph’s brothers to the edge of the precipice.  Would they abandon Benjamin, Jacob and Rachel’s youngest (and, supposedly, only surviving) son, as they had once abandoned Joseph?  Or would someone take responsibility, own up to their collective sins and fulfill the commandment of being “my brother’s keeper.” 

It is to Judah’s eternal credit that he steps up (“Vayigash eilav Yehuda”).  Judah, who once so easily disposed of his brother by selling him to slave traders, that same Judah who saw only the profit from such a sale and not the suffering this would cause their father, Jacob, now shows how much he has changed in the intervening years.  Opening up to Joseph and revealing all the details of the family’s tragedies, Judah concludes by offering himself instead of Benjamin, “For how will I go up to my father if the boy is not with me?  Let me not see the misery that will befall my father” (Gen. 44:34).

It is literally a point of no return for Judah.  In the intervening years he has suffered terrible losses himself.  He has learned well the values of responsibility, of keeping one’s word, of being there for one’s family and community.  Moreover, life has taught him to feel compassion, to fully understand the pain of a father who has lost children.  It isn’t his honor and self respect he hopes to regain; his offer to remain as Joseph’s slave expresses his anguish, his understanding of how he has failed in the past and how much more grief is yet to come—not to him, for at this point he has lost all, but rather to his father, Jacob.

It is this, which brings down Joseph’s last barrier between him and his brothers.  Unable to contain his emotions, he reveals himself as their long-lost brother and, overcoming long-repressed anger and hatred, fully forgives his brothers.

The transformation of Judah and Joseph from bitter enemies to loving brothers is crucial to understanding the book of Genesis.  The Torah’s tragic story of humanity, after all, begins with fratricide, as Cain kills Abel.  Jealousy and greed led to this first murder; only overcoming these primal passions can bring about the redemption we human beings so deeply yearn for.  Compassion and forgiveness—these are the keys we must find within ourselves if we wish to see our dreams of harmony and peace come true.  With reconciliation now achieved, the full possibilities of the future can begin to unfold.

Nelson Mandela, who died on the last day of Hanukkah, is not unlike Joseph in some ways.  Born to a royal family, Mandela worked long and hard for his people.  Long suffering and oppressed, the black people of South Africa, despite being a numerical majority, were dispossessed not only of their freedom but also of their lands and property by the ruling white minority.  Mandela studied law and applied what he learned toward the goal of achieving equality for all South Africans, regardless of color and race.  When that didn’t work, and as he saw his people continually and ruthlessly mowed down, Mandela gave vent to his rage and turned to violence. 

Captured and sentenced to life imprisonment, Mandela spent 27 years in prison.  But during that time, reflecting on his life and the direction it had taken, gradually a transformation came about within him.  When he was finally released in 1990, riding on a wave of international popularity and support, Mandela could have established himself as autocratic a ruler as any of his predecessors.  Yet, instead of turning to revenge, Mandela sought reconciliation.  He worked with the existing government to abolish apartheid and, four years later, brought about the first multiracial election in his country.  As South Africa’s first black president, Mandela formed a government of national unity with the goal of diffusing racial tensions.  Refusing to run for a second term, Mandela then turned his attention to the larger causes of hunger, poverty and sickness all over the world.

Called the Father of his Nation, Mandela was much more than that; he became a light to all nations.  Focusing and addressing young people all over the world, Mandela did more than just free his own people:  He passed on the torch to all future generations.

Nelson Mandela was not above reproach.  There were occasions when his political leanings led him to support dictators and meet with less progressive leaders, among them Fidel Castro and Muammar Kaddafi.  But what the world will always admire in this modern Joseph is not only his struggle to achieve freedom for his people—a struggle that positions him among all modern Maccabees—but also his ability to change, to overcome his rage and bitterness, to free himself not only of the shackles of prison but also those of hatred and revenge. 

If peace is ever to be achieved anywhere in this world, it will only be on the basis of these three powerful human and Divine values:  freedom, forgiveness and compassion.

This is the message of Hanukkah, of Joseph, and now also of Nelson Mandela. 

May this message become a hallowed light throughout the world.

© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman