The Year’s Labors Before Us: Nitzavim

The Year’s Labors Before Us

D’var Torah for Parashat Nitzavim

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

It’s Labor Day weekend, and it’s also Shabbat Nitzavim.  This combination can only signify one thing—the end of summer and the oncoming of the High Holy Days.  Parashat Nitzavim (Deut. 29:9—31:30) always comes around at this season, and indeed, in less than a week, we will be congregating for our Rosh HaShanah services, welcoming in the New Year with prayer, but also with apprehension. 

For who knows what the New Year will bring?

Unlike Rosh HaShanah, one of the oldest of all our holidays, Labor Day was established much more recently, in 1894.  And yet, for such a recent holiday, it has lost a good part of its original purpose.  Created in recognition of the contributions of workers to our society, Labor Day has become a calendar holiday, a de-facto declaration that summer is over.  Rather than celebrating and honoring workers, it’s a day for families to gather for one last barbecue, one last outing to our favorite vacation spot, whether it be the beach, a lake, mountainside or just the backyard.

And so it is good on this Labor Day to remember some of the original purpose for which it was created.  Today, there are still workers who are paid little more than minimum pay and yet are expected to survive and even get ahead in this society.  I wonder where health care is on their budget, and wholesome food (not the kind that they are hired to fry and serve), not to mention the clothes their children need for that all-important first day back at school.  As we speak, this weekend, fast-food workers throughout the country are staging a protest, demanding “living wage.”  Think about that as you get your Coke-burger-and-a-fry midnight snack at you local Burger King or McDonald’s drive-thru window tonight. 

How timely is the Torah’s reminder this week, that, in a few days time we will all be facing God’s scrutinizing judgment.  For with parashat  Nitzavim we find ourselves standing together, rich and poor alike, for the swearing-in ceremony.  We are gathered, at Moses’s command, to stand before God as we once stood at the foot of Mt. Sinai.  We, our ancestors as well as our descendants, from the most powerful down to the lowliest of menial workers, each of us on this day stands ready to enter into the Covenant between God and Israel.  It is to be an everlasting bond that will join us all, regardless of color, size or Klout score, and shape us into one community.  The Covenant will make of us one nation, one people, each of us responsible not only to his or her own task, but also to the fellow human beings standing before us, behind us, and to our sides. 

All equal before God’s presence.

The equality of all human beings and the communal responsibilities we owe one another are perhaps the two most important lessons of the Torah.

So on this Labor Day, as we gather with our families, yes, by all means, let us all enjoy this last fling with summer.  But let us keep in mind also that so much work, so much labor, yet remains ahead of us.  Facing the future, attentive to the command to be holy to our God, let’s pledge anew our purpose and mission as God’s People—to make this world a better place for all its inhabitants.  Not only for us, mind you, but for all its inhabitants. 

One and all, alike.

© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Ties That Bind Us: Ki Tavo

The Ties That Bind Us

D’var Torah for Parashat Ki Tavo

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Last week’s portion dealt with comings and goings, with those myriads of details that comprise daily life.  The perspective of this week’s reading, Ki Tavo (“When you come into the Land,” Deuteronomy 26:1—29:8), broadens out to give us the larger picture.  It isn’t about how we deal with any particular incident or situation, but rather about how we relate to the big themes of our existence.

As succinctly and precisely as it can (and, oh! how horribly graphic at times), Ki Tavo posits for us the three major tenets that make us a people: 

We are the People of Israel; we have a tradition, a past and a history that goes back to the earliest days, a history shaped not only by events but also by God. 

We have a Land.

We have the Torah.

These three themes intertwine, like the strands of the challah that we say a blessing over on Shabbat.  But each also stands on its own, each with its own requirements and obligations, each with its own incentive and recompense.

As a people, we are required to memorize and recount our history.  Our history is, after all, more than a story or myth.  It is at the core of our self-identity.  Our survival, in fact our very existence, depend on how well we remember our roots and our past.   Thus, every year we recite a passage from Ki Tavo, verses that trace our genesis.  “An Aramean [sought to] destroy my forefather,” Deut. 26: 5-8, is one of the oldest parts of our liturgy, recited annually at the Passover Seder.  All else—the matzah, the bitter herbs, the gefilteh fish and all the other traditions associated with the holiday—are but symbols and illustration of this account of our origin, colored by the various customs we bring with us.  But it’s these words that are at the heart of it all.  We are Israel, steeped in oppression, yet God rescues us time and again and brings us to this Promised Land.  This is the overarching story of our life.

Ki Tavo describes the Land of Israel as “A land flowing with milk and honey” (Deut. 26:9).  It produces a bounty of food, enough to feed not only oneself and one’s family, but also the rest of the community, including the Levites, the homeless and the needy.  It’s a land that offers safety and protection to its dwellers, a source of blessing for all humanity.  But it does require our faithful caretaking.  That means not only that we must tend to it, but also that we must not pollute it—physically or spiritually.  It is God’s Land; we are but its caretakers. 

Finally, we have the Torah.  A set of rules by which to live, the Torah is eternal, yet also must be written, heard and thoroughly explained.  It’s a teaching, after all, one that must be passed on throughout the generations.  The laws of righteousness are not necessarily obvious; they’re certainly not in the genes.  In fact, sometimes they seem to go contrary to natural instinct.  All too often it is easier to flee from the difficult tasks, to hide our face from poverty and misery (whether because of shame or guilt, or because of some unwarranted sense of superiority or relief). Yet the Torah calls on us to go the one step further, to carry justice on and forward, to work twice as hard to ease the suffering of the oppressed.  The Torah may be eternal, but it is up to us to make sure it passes from generation to generation.  We sustain it, and in return the Torah nourishes and maintains us through the ages.

These three pillars of our faith underlie our existence as much as they define our purpose.  We are, at every moment of our history, Israel, product of our past, the result not only of our interaction with the nations around us, but also stemming from our relationship with our God.

We are Jews because we come from the Land of Israel, once called Judea, and we are destined to return there en masse—a prophecy we have been blessed to see fulfilled in our own days. 

And it is with pride that we call ourselves—at this K’hillat Kodesh, a sacred community—B’nai Torah, the children of the Torah.  Here we study Torah and delve into its words as we strive to understand its higher meaning.  Here we teach Torah to our children and explain it well, lest it be forgotten and we cease to exist.

It is here that the three tenets of our faith intersect, keeping us alive, giving us purpose and context, imbuing our lives with meaning and holiness. 

It’s ours to maintain—with God’s Presence always at our side.

© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman

Discovering Holiness in the Ordinary: Ki Teitzei

Discovering Holiness in the Ordinary

D’var Torah for Parashat Ki Teitzei

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

I’ve always claimed that you don’t need stop signs in the wilderness.

You need them at the busy intersections of vibrant life.

This week’s Torah portion, Ki Teitzei (Deut. 21:10—25:19) is set in exactly such a busy juncture, a place where roads cross and intersect, some leading to a good place, others to a more dismal and dreary one.

There are 74 commandments in this portion, each referring to a specific situation one might encounter in life.  Even though the portion opens with warfare, most of these rules relate to more ordinary moments, those run-of-the-mill everyday events that happen all the time.  Some of these we react to automatically, almost instinctively.  Yet the portion teaches us to pay closer attention to them all, to make sure that the ordinary doesn’t turn immoral, but rather that we elevate the ordinary and, through our choices, make it special, extra-ordinary, even holy.

A favorite of mine is the law regarding the “Wayward and Rebellious Son.”  In an earlier section of the Torah (Exodus 21:15, 17), a parent was given permission to just go right ahead and kill a boy whose behavior is described by these terms.  In Ki Teitzei, however, the parents (both of them now, not only the father) must instead take him to court.  It’s out of their hands; from that moment on it’s the impartial court, not the overwrought parent, that has the power to execute or pardon.  This may not be an ideal solution to the eternal problem of slothful teenagers, but it’s still a big lesson in the art of parenting:  Step back from anger, let those overriding passions cool down before doing something you will later regret.

Some of the mitzvot of Ki Teitzei refer not to people but rather the animals you encounter along your way: the beast of burden that might have gotten lost, or a nesting bird you find along the path.  In each case, you are commanded to show compassion to the living creature.  The beast must be taken in, fed and sheltered—and then returned to its rightful owner.  The bird must be released—though the eggs are yours to keep.

“You shall not plow your field with an ox and a donkey together” (Deut. 22:10).  Divide the labor equally and fairly, the Torah gently teaches us.

Over and over, we are commanded to remember the hungry, the sick, the widow and the orphan.  Not to mention the Levites and the stranger amongst you.  For they depend on your support and generosity.  When you reap your crop, be sure to leave behind gleanings for the needy to harvest.  Not as degrading handouts, God forbid, but rather as morally granted, mandated by God, theirs for the harvesting.

A particular favorite of mine has always been the law telling you to pay a day laborer at the end of his day and not withhold payment until morning.  He might depend on it for his evening meal and shelter.

Large or small, the myriad details of life that Ki Teitzei addresses are actually a reflection of the way things really were in those days.  The Torah’s commandments come to stop mistreatment of people, animals and nature, to right wrongs and to set us instead on a better path, one based on dignity, respect, compassion and love.

Though written thousands of years ago, the situations Ki Teitzei addresses aren’t that different from life today. 

Then as now, laborers were often cheated of their pay. 

Lost animals—at least the kind you could use around the house—were kept, secreted and not returned. 

And the poor?  Let them take care of themselves!  “To each according to his labor and investment” was the prevalent philosophy then, and—but for somewhat more enlightened social philosophies—would still be the case today.

How sad that reality today isn’t all that much better than it was so long ago.

Except that it is better—in places where the laws and principles of Ki Teitzei are applied.

A society isn’t noble by nature.  Its basic purpose is primarily to provide food, safety and shelter to otherwise vulnerable individuals.  But a community can be made noble.  It can become honorable when the ethics we exercise in our choices and transactions, in our comings and goings, are also honorable.  When we relate one to another with care and respect; when we tend to nature not as if it were ours to do with as we pleased, but rather as its invited guests.  When we enjoy, not seize, earth’s hospitality.  When we realize that every human being is unique, and yet that humanity as a whole is only one species out of thousands on this planet, each deserving of its place and time.  That’s when we realize how truly blessed we are to be alive.

The commandments of Ki Teitzei are not merely warning signs in the busy loom of life.  To follow them would make life a blessing for you.  To disobey them would turn life into a dismal wilderness.

And the choice is yours.

© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman

When Seeing Is Believing: Re'eh

When Seeing Is Believing

D’var Torah for Parashat Re’eh

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

There are some movies that you enjoy watching again and again, even if you’ve seen them many times before.  You can anticipate lines, even quote them; you look forward to certain scenes and are delighted to realize they still have the power to move you, to make you cry or laugh.

For Sally and me, one of our favorite movies of this kind is the 1995 version of Sabrina.  The story is of a developing romance between the beautiful, smart and star-struck Sabrina and the successful, cold-hearted businessman Linus Larrabee (“the only living heart donor in the world”).  As Sabrina tries to awaken Linus to the beauty of life around him, she admonishes him for always chasing after material possessions.  “More isn’t always better, Linus,” she tells him.  “Sometimes it’s just more.”

I thought of this line as I read this week’s Torah portion, Re’eh (“Behold,” Deuteronomy 11:26—16:17).   The portion develops one of the major themes of Deuteronomy, blessings and curses—consequences of the choices we make in life.   Early on, Moses directs the Israelites to centralize their ritual in one place, “which Adonai your God will choose from all your tribes to set His name there”.  It is to this place that the people must bring all their sacrifices, not forgetting, of course, to feed the hungry, the homeless and the dispossessed.  “And there you shall eat before Adonai your God, and you shall rejoice in all your endeavors, you and your household, as Adonai, your God, has blessed you” (Deut. 12:7).

The idea that sacrifices appease the gods and make them more inclined to “bless” people with health and wealth is as ancient as humanity itself.  It is at the core of every cult and religious practice.   The Torah’s great innovation, however, is in its teaching that there is a direct connection between the sacred ritual of sacrifice (offering nourishment, as it were, to God) and the secular act of feeding the hungry.  In the Torah’s worldview, the two are not separate and distinct acts, but rather extensions of one sacred truth.

There is, of course, a sound sociological basis for this mitzvah.  Taking care of the needy is good not only for those on the receiving end; it’s good for the entire community.   Misery and need contribute to division and discord and ultimately lead to the collapse of the community.  However, when poverty is eliminated, when hunger is eradicated, society as a whole is stable and everybody is happy.

But there is a deeper and more personal truth behind the Torah’s instruction.  First, by teaching us to view feeding the hungry as a mitzvah, a sacred commandment, the Torah reminds us of the common fate that we all share.  We are all human, rich and poor alike.  All our power, all our riches and assets are but lent to us, momentary possessions that we cannot take with us at the end of our road.  This essential equality before God is one of the greatest gifts that the Torah gives us. 

And more:  Parashat Re’eh teaches us to understand our gifts as more than the result of appeasing the gods.  The wealth and health we view as blessings don’t come to us merely because we offered more sheep or fatter bulls.  We have moral responsibilities not only to ourselves and not even only to God but also to the world around us, of which we are a part, from which we take and to which we contribute.

Re’eh: See and behold!  We are parts of a larger cosmic whole.  Our happiness is bound with how well we fulfill the role we have been assigned.  Sometimes we make the mistake of believing that the more we have, the more blessed we are.  But, as Sabrina teaches Linus Larrabee, more is sometimes just more.  The real blessing is not in what or how much we accumulate, but rather in how we share; not only in how much we take, but also in how much we give back. 

Re’eh teaches us that sacrifices aren’t a way of appeasing angry gods, but rather a way of showing gratitude to Life.  It is “in that place,” at that moment when we have fulfilled our obligations to God and to the many people who have helped us shape our life that we find ourselves blessed.  When we repay our debt, when we give back to life even a small portion of what it has given us, that’s when our eyes are opened and we become aware of the many blessings in our life. 

© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman