The Song of Freedom: B'Shallach

The Song of Freedom

D’var Torah for Parashat B’Shallach

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week’s Torah portion, B’shallach (Exodus 13:17—17:16) holds up one of the most spectacular images for us all to behold.  It is the parting of the Red Sea.

Every year we retell this wondrous story, and between the illustrations in the Haggadah that we use, and the movie versions we’ve watched, the imagery comes alive in our imagination.  The sight of the walls of water rearing backwards and upwards, the mighty current roaring its anger at being stopped mid-wave, combine with the crying and screaming of the Israelites, a sound that clashes with the clatter of the chariots, the yells of the charioteers and the snorting and whinnying of Pharaoh’s horses charging up from behind to create a moment unparalleled in history.

But did it really happen?

Biblical scholars, archeologists, historians and others have tried to chart the way of the Israelites as they left Egypt.  Perhaps their path took them through swamplands, or perhaps it was a narrow passage that only Moses (who, you remember, herded his father-in-law’s sheep through the desert and thus knew every pathway through it) recognized?

Not only scholars ask.  Just a couple of Friday evenings ago, when I was sitting down to a Shabbat meal with my family in Israel, one of the 9 year old twins asked her father:  “Abba, did the stories of the Torah really happen?”  Without a moment’s hesitation, the child’s father answered, “Of course.” 

Yet this wasn’t the first time a child asked this question.  In fact, it has become ritualized in our Passover Seder, in the section we call The Four Questions, usually recited or chanted by the youngest person seated at the table.

It turns out that questioning the veracity of miracles is not only permitted—it is encouraged.  Not so that another, negative, answer can be given, however.  No!  Rather, we ask so that the answer will always remain fresh, new, full of life’s force and energy.

It really doesn’t matter whether the Red Sea parted exactly as described in our Torah portion.  What matters is that something happened.  Something enormous and magnificent, something that turned around not only the course of the sea, but of all history.

The emergence of the Israelite People unto the world’s stage was not a mere trifle.  It went contrary to all ordinary laws and rules of nature.

The earliest extant evidence of the existence of the Israelites comes in the form of two documents.  One is the Mesha Stele—an inscribed stone set up by a Moabite king in the 9^th century BCE—describing how Israel was destroyed forever.  The other document—this time from Egypt—refers to the annihilation of a people called Israel by an attacking Pharaoh in the year 1205 BCE.

By all historical evidence, logic and reason, Israel and its people should have disappeared thousands of years ago.  Victorious empires made it their practice to slaughter whole populations, to move peoples around from one part of the empire to another so as to erase their natural roots and memories.  In the year 135 CE, the Roman emperor Hadrian destroyed the last vestige of the Judean revolt, killed hundreds of thousands of Jews and exiled at least as many to other parts of the Roman Empire.  To cap it all off, he renamed Israel “Palestine.”

That is the normal course of history, sadly repeated over and over again.

Yet, despite all claims to the contrary, Israel is still here—its land, people and God still vibrant and well, still a force to contend with after all these years.

Is that not a miracle?

That a people who emerged like the legendary phoenix from the ashes of the Holocaust could recreate themselves and become who we have become—is that not a true miracle?

The survivors of the concentration camps had nothing to their name.  Their homes and all their possessions had been taken away.  They were torn away from their past and future generations.  The tatters they were wearing on the day they were liberated constituted their only possession on this earth.  Yet, they arose and came home, home to their own land, to the only land they could call their own, to the only spot on earth where they could live as an independent people.  They came from all corners of Europe and, later, from all other parts of the world.  In our own age we have witnessed an exodus unparalleled in the annals of human existence. 

No sea could stop the people’s progress; no mountain stood in our way.  History parted to let us through.

A similar miracle happened in this week’s portion.  Some three and a half thousand years ago, too, a people emerged from a great holocaust.  Slavery, oppression and genocide (the drowning of all new-born baby boys) were left behind as the Israelites departed en masse, overnight. 

With God in our souls, showing us the way to freedom, with an eternal promise of safe haven to look forward to—and with a song of triumph on our lips—the Red Sea didn’t stand a chance.  Its growl turned into a whimper, and then even that was gone. 

Only once we reached the other shore, forever free, did the sea roar again, as it closed in one last time on our oppressors.

Did it really happen?

Yes.  Time and time again. 

It’s a story that never grows old.

© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Power of Words--Bo

The Power of Words

D’var Torah for Parashat Bo

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

In this week’s Torah portion, “Bo” (Exodus 10:1—13:16), Moses is instructed by God to bring about the final blows on Pharaoh—those last, devastating strikes that ultimately shattered Pharaoh’s hardened heart. The first seven plagues—blood, frogs, lice, wild beasts, pestilence, boils and hail—failed to cause the change of heart God was seeking. But these last three—locust, darkness and death of the first-born—brought such misery upon all the Egyptians, that the former slave owners were only too glad to see the Israelites off, even showering them with gold and other riches as they took off for liberation—and the desert beyond Egypt’s borders.

The might that Moses shows at this point in the story is indeed awesome. That he was bound for greatness was evident from the get-go: He was, after all, brought up in the household of Pharaoh, rich and pampered. But his first independent act was one of violence—killing the Egyptian guard who was beating the Israelite slave. Trying to bring law to the downtrodden slaves only resulted in ridicule for Moses, causing him to flee from Egypt and to run for his life, pursued not only by Pharaoh but also by his own people.

Moses’s transformation took a long time. The Burning Bush symbolizes that point in his life in which he realizes that he can no longer escape his fate. Afraid to assume the mantle of leadership thrust upon him, he is encouraged by God who promises to be at Moses’s side—along with Aaron, his brother—as they deliver the message to Pharaoh.

It took arguing, cajoling, pleading and much hand wringing. In his halting, hesitant speech, Moses begins speaking.  More eloquently then, Aaron reinforces the meaning behind Moses’s words. As proof of the truth of the message, the plagues begin to arrive, one after another. At this point in the story, with the last three plagues yet to be unleashed, power seems to flow from Moses effortlessly. There is no need for words or further iteration. Moses merely lifts his staff to the heavens, extends it over the land, and the devastation of Egypt begins.

Even as Moses resorts less and less to speech, the power of the word becomes more apparent. Yes, God is performing these wonders and miracles; it is all part of the process of liberation and redemption of the Israelites that God had promised Abraham. But God has a price for this gift.

We pay God back with some of God’s own gift. God freed us with words and deeds. We pay God back with our own words and deeds.

It doesn’t take the Torah long. In the second verse of the portion (Ex. 10:2) we read: “That you may tell your children and grandchildren how I dealt harshly with the Egyptians and how I performed my signs among them, and that you may know that I am the Lord.” Telling our children, teaching them about God’s presence in our lives, is God’s first demand.

Later on in the portion, Moses gives further instruction. He prepares the people for their night of liberation, telling them that it is to be a night of vigil, no one stirring from their house. Detailed instruction for the slaughter and preparation of the paschal lamb is given. The people are told to eat this meal standing up, in their traveling clothes, by family, by household, by clan and tribe. Some of the lamb’s blood is to be splattered on the doorsills as a sign for Death to bypass the Israelites’ homes.

And somewhat later again, we are told to turn this unique night into an annual ritual, a yearly reminder of the hardship of slavery and how its bitterness was turned to milk and honey when we were freed.  An annual recitation of the story of our liberation.

How ironic that a man who was, by his own description, hard-of-speech delivered the smashing blows to Pharaoh’s tyrannical heart of stone. But, of course, it wasn’t only Moses. Moses was a stutterer, after all. It was the words, the words themselves that, as they were freed from Moses’s lumbering mouth, took flight and brought about the liberation of the slaves. Freedom is ever God’s gift; it is the haggadah, our utterance of God’s liberating words, that makes this gift come true.

It was some 3000 years ago that the Hebrew slaves were freed. Yet throughout this time Moses’s words never lost their power, and their message resounds to this day. It’s no miracle. It is precisely because we continue to speak them, because we continue to retell the story of how freedom came into the world, that the words maintain their power to this very day.

It was the same liberating force that was unleashed by Martin Luther King 3000 years after Moses. Of course there were others who were active in the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960’s. There was W.E.B. du Bois; and Malcolm X, and Rosa Parks, and the millions who marched in Selma, Montgomery and Washington. But it was Martin Luther King’s words—his speeches, his sermons on the mount—that turned the tide.

Wrongs aren’t righted by the sword. Only justice can right wrongs, and justice is borne on the wings of words and is carried out in our everyday deeds.

There were other wrongs that the 20^th century saw righted through words and deeds. The return of the exiled Jews to their homeland is one such miracle of liberation.

And once again it was the vision expressed by Moses that bore the exiled people home by foot, train, boat or plane.

How sad that such events always were and always will be met by acts of violence. The plagues of indifference, hatred and prejudice engulf the land as a result of some people hardening their hearts and refusing to change. At the same time that Rev. King spoke of freedom, churches were being burned, children were being murdered along with their parents, and many more were beaten and killed simply for daring to believe in the equality of all humankind. The State of Israel is still facing its detractors and delegitimizers, enemies sworn to destroy it and kill its people to the very last child.

But freedom is unstoppable. As long as its message is told, from generation to generation, it is certain to spread across one boundary after another, until that promised day when all people will live in freedom, freed from every shackle, freed even from fear itself.

Does it take a Moses or a Martin Luther King to achieve this exalted goal? No! Each of us has this power, this gift. Awareness of it dictates that it be used. Eloquently or hesitating, in prose or poetry, freedom has to be declared. In great literature or in advice columns, it has to be told and taught, spoken or sung, from one mountain to the next, from one generation to the next.

As some of you may know, this week the great Pauline Phillips, aka “Dear Abby,” died. Ms. Phillips, or Abigail van Buren as she was known by her readers, once received to the following letter:

“Dear Abby: Two men who claim to be father and adopted son just bought an old mansion across the street and fixed it up. We notice a very suspicious mixture of company coming and going at all hours—blacks, whites, Orientals, women who look like men and men who look like women. … This has always been considered one of the finest sections of San Francisco, and these weirdos are giving it a bad name. How can we improve the neighborhood? --Nob Hill Residents.”

The sage advice Ms. Phillips gave: “You could move.”

Such is the freeing power of words, a treasure and gift that never fails.

May we be among those who speak of freedom and make it real for all who share this dream, for all who dwell upon this earth.

© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman

What’s In A Name

What’s In A Name

D’var Torah for Parashat Sh’mot

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

In Honor of the Board of Directors of Congregation B’nai Torah, Sudbury, MA

As this week’s parasha, Sh’mot (“Names”) opens, the text reiterates the names of the Israelites who came down to Egypt with Jacob (a list first given at the end of Genesis).  The Rabbis wonder about this seeming redundancy—and of course they offer several possible explanations.

It would be easy to see this repetition simply as a common thread that connects Genesis, the first book of the Torah, and Exodus, the second.  But for the Rabbis, nothing is ever as simple as it appears.  There are always additional meanings alluded to, hinted at, or cleverly hidden for the select few.

The Midrash—that great body of learning that emerged from the Land of Israel between the 1^st-10^th centuries—offers its opinion that the repetition of names teaches us that the Israelites came to deserve their redemption from Egyptian slavery primarily because they kept their Hebrew names.

So what’s in a name?

Names, of course, hold memories for us.  We are often given names that remind us of beloved relatives.  Names also safeguard our values.  One of the most popular names given to boys born in Israel after the 1973 Yom Kippur War was Shalom—peace. 

Names keep our national identity intact.  There are Jewish names just as there are Gaelic names, French names or Arabic names.

That the Children of Israel kept their Hebrew names during the 400 years that come between Genesis and Exodus proves that they actively maintained their national identity that whole time.

As I write these words, sitting in my brother’s house in Givatayim, near Tel Aviv, I see Hebrew all around me.  The newspaper screams its headlines in Hebrew.  Street signs are in Hebrew.  Obviously, names are Hebrew too. 

It’s easy to maintain your Jewish identity in Israel.  It’s part of the culture.  School children learn Jewish history along with world history.  They study Torah, the Prophets and Hebrew grammar.  Though many Israelis celebrate New Year’s Eve, they do so only as an excuse to party.  Rosh Ha-Shana is the real New Year in Israel, just as Hanukkah is the winter holiday they celebrate here, replete with family gatherings, traditional music and special foods.

It’s easy to remember you are Jewish here because of the many Holocaust survivors and their children, grandchildren and now even great-grandchildren. 

World anti-Semitism is always on the news media’s radar, and criticism (or approval) of Israel is often viewed here through the lens of the Jew’s role in world history. 

The vitriolic hatred spewed by Iran isn’t directed only at the State of Israel.  Jews throughout the world are targeted right along with Israelis.  The lines of demarcation blur after a while, reinforcing the impression that Israel is under attack for no other than reason than its Jewish identity.

More than all else, though, Shabbat in Israel is an experience you don’t get anywhere else.  It’s hard to describe.   Even if you aren’t religious, you simply feel it to your bones.  The insanely crowded roads, the edgy impatience that borders on rudeness—these become transformed into a peaceful calm that surrounds you, soothes you, imbues you with a sense of transcendent spirituality.  You thank God for Shabbat when you’re Jewish in Israel.

Not so in the Diaspora, however.  There you have to make an effort to be Jewish.  For many, especially in the US today, the Diaspora offers an opportunity to escape your Jewishness.  Being Jewish is optional. 

Not everyone has a Hebrew or Jewish name.  It marks you.  Like a hooked nose, it may make you a target, or at the least embarrass you.

It’s easy, in the Diaspora, for a Jew to disappear.

Knowing that, we often wonder and ask ourselves, why is Jewish survival such in imperative that we invest so much of ourselves—our minds, our money, our very being—into being Jewish?

It’s a question people have asked throughout history.  Could it be that the reason is beyond our comprehension?  Could it really be that there’s a force out there, so humongous and penetrating that it moves us, despite the difficulties, despite the dangers, towards a goal few of us understand?  Skeptics and scientists speak of embedded DNA codes that stem from our animalistic and biological need to survive.  But that hardly answers the question of Jewish survival. 

Whatever it is, there must be some reason that compels us to be Jewish, to carry on the customs and traditions of our people.  Why else would we risk and sacrifice so much?  Why else would we gather at temples, volunteer to sustain communities and houses of study?  Why else would we—would YOU—step up to make sure a congregation such as ours continues to thrive?

Perhaps it’s because we’ve chosen to remember our Jewish heritage, to nurture it and see that it flourishes into the future.  Congregation B’nai Torah—the children of the Torah—we are B’nai Yisrael, the children of Israel, the descendants of Jacob who, so long ago, went to Egypt, carrying a dream with them.  Through our sacred work here, we make the dream come true day after day—and often enough, late into the night.

So what’s in a name?  Everything, it seems.  Everything we’ve ever been, everything we ever hope to be.  Our names tell the story of our ancestors, wandering from one land to another, from one eon into another.

We are B’nai Torah.  Like the Torah, our story is still unfolding, and we are its authors.

Our name dictates our deeds.

©2013 by Boaz D. Heilman