Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Blood-Soaked Prayer Shawls

Blood-Soaked Prayer Shawls
by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
Nov. 19, 2014


Monday evening a group of us went to see a movie at the Framingham AMC theaters. Part of the Boston Jewish Film Festival, “Run Boy, Run” was the final entry of the festival.  The theater was nearly full; there were many who came on their own, others who came as organized groups, such as the dozen or so of us from Congregation B’nai Torah.

The film is based on a true story.  It’s about a child, about nine years old, who survives the Holocaust by quite literally running from one hiding place to another, working, foraging and stealing for food and shelter.  But the story isn’t only about his physical survival.  It’s also about the survival of his Jewish soul, his Jewish identity.

Many left the theater in tears, many others in deep thought.

The next morning, we all awoke to the terrible and tragic news from Israel.  Four rabbis were murdered while praying in a synagogue in Jerusalem.  Many others were injured.  The Druze policeman who ran to their defense was gravely injured—shot in the head—and later that day died too.

That same day, a rabbi on his way to cancer treatment in Brooklyn, New York, was ruthlessly beaten by thugs who first wanted his money, then worse.  He was insulted, cursed, called “dirty, bloody Jew” among others.

Not even 70 years have passed since the end of World War II and the Holocaust, but the world’s worst hatred continues. 

Let there be no doubt about it.  It isn’t only hatred of Israel that motivates these attacks.  It’s hatred of the Jew, wherever he might be.  It isn’t the Land of Israel that people want us to vacate; it’s the entire world.

We need not have worried about the loss of our identity.  The world will not let us forget it.

The four rabbis in Jerusalem were brutally slain while they were praying.  Quite literally, they were in the midst of Kiddush ha-Shem, meditating over God’s holiness in a holy sanctuary.  That didn’t stop the terrorists, it only incited them further.  It wasn’t Israelis they were killing.  It was Jews.

And what Jews!  Rabbis!  The best of the best!  Educated, kind, enlightened, devoted to goodness and holiness, to Tikkun Olam, making this world a better place.  Pure in thought and deed, they never preached hatred; they never sullied their language with epithets or curses.  They only sought to bring light to this world.  Wrapped in tallitot, the traditional payer shawls, and with t’fillin straps wound around arm and forehead, they were sanctifying God’s name, confirming God’s unity in the heavens as on earth.

70 years ago, the Jewish people nearly disappeared.  Instead, we multiplied and greatly increased.  Our influence in education, law, medicine, technology and entertainment has only grown and broadened.  The tragic murder of the four rabbis in Jerusalem—one of them the grandson of the founder of the Maimonides School in Brookline, a great Hassidic master whose legacy is vast and legendary—will not stop us today either.  Their light will go on shining through the generations.  Pages upon pages of Torah and Talmud will be studied in their memory.  Hatred cannot put a stop to holiness.

Our heartfelt condolences are extended to the bereaved families.  Our prayers for refuah sh’leima—a speedy and full recovery—go to those who were wounded in the terrible attacks.

And to the family of the Druze policeman who heroically sought to defend those who were praying in the synagogue and whose actions prevented further harm—our thanks and deepest condolences.  His funeral was attended by thousands—including the President of the State of Israel—who came from all over Israel to pay their last respects. 

May we all find solace in the midst of all the grief and pain that surrounds us today.  We pray that our deeds might lead to greater peace in this world; God knows there is already way too much hatred and violence.



© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman

Friday, November 14, 2014

A Timeless Bridge: Chayei Sarah

A Timeless Bridge
D’var Torah for Parashat Chayei Sarah
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman


It’s interesting that in the first 24 chapters of the Book of Genesis, almost a full half of the book and spanning 21 generations, the term ahava, love, appears only once, and that only in the very last verse of chapter 24.

The subject of love in the Bible is way too huge to deal with in a short Shabbat sermon.  Suffice it to say that though the word used in many different contexts, it always indicates a deep and binding emotion.  Love comes from deep within you but doesn’t stay there; it’s an emotion that transcends personal boundaries, linking you to something or someone far beyond yourself.  Whether for a friend, spouse, teacher or for God, love is a compelling feeling that inextricably binds soul to soul and body to body.

How fascinating then, that in Abraham’s story, the word never appears once.  Loyalty, justice, faith, sacrifice—these are the passions we associate with Abraham.  But not love.  Yet Abraham must have felt love for his family—not only for his wife but also for his extended family.  It must have been with a heavy heart that he left his native land, his culture and his father’s home.  It was deep compassion that led him to take Lot, his deceased brother’s son, with him on that journey.  Surely it was love for Lot that motivated Abraham to chase after the armies that captured his nephew and to rescue him from captivity.

And what deep, searing love he must have felt for Isaac when he looked down on his son, bound up on the altar, about to become a sacrifice to a terrifying and inscrutable God.

Yet the word “love” never appears in Abraham’s story. 

And Sarah?  Her deep loyalty to her husband made her follow him unquestioningly.  Her desire to give him a son meant that she was willing to share her status and place in the household with her servant, Hagar.  But her protectiveness toward Isaac, once he was born, was fierce enough to demand that Hagar and Ishmael be cast out of the house.  Surely these are signs of a great love.

Yet even in Sarah’s story, neither the word nor the emotion behind it is ever mentioned.

It’s Rebecca who brings love into the story and into Isaac’s life. 

In this week’s Torah portion, Chayei Sarah (“The Life of Sarah,” Genesis 23:1—25:18) we learn much about Rebecca.  We know from the moment we meet her, watering her flock at the village well, that she is beautiful, strong, smart, generous, courageous and faithful.

Isaac, however, knows none of this.  He has never met her.  Isaac first sees her in the distance as she arrives on camelback, part of a caravan making its way from the east.  Yet even from far away, he recognizes something special in her.  Maybe there was a certain aura about her; perhaps it’s Isaac’s own inner sense that tells him that this person was his “bashert,” his intended.  As Abraham’s servant tells Isaac how matters transpired to bring Rebecca here, Isaac is probably not even listening.  One could say that from the moment he was almost sacrificed, Isaac no longer saw or heard ordinary conversation and ordinary behavior.  Today we would say that he probably suffered from PTSD, but all the Torah tells us is that on that day, as he was wandering alone in the wilderness, he suddenly lifts up his eyes and sees the caravan that was bringing his future wife to his doorstep.  He couldn’t even see her face—in accordance with the laws of modesty, Rebecca had veiled herself.  She was a mystery to him.

Yet he loved her, וַיֶּאֱהָבֶהָ.

What was it that Isaac saw in Rebecca?  That’s the whole point of love, that it is blind.  When we love, we do it unconditionally.  It’s a spiritual bonding as much as physical.  It’s a connection that cannot be explained, that goes back generations and helps us identify elements in the other person that we had always known about ourselves yet had managed to forget.  It’s a homecoming that connects us with the past but which also leads us forward into the future.  Love is timeless.

How do we know real love?  This is a question that can only be asked by someone who has never truly loved.  Real love simply is, and you know it when it’s there.  You let it lead you without question, without hesitation, wherever it might take you.

Real love is all about equality. In real love, there is no disparity.  There’s neither the need to be self-deprecating, nor the desire to prove you’re better or stronger or wiser. 

A popular novel once made its point that “love means never having to say you’re sorry.”  But that’s not always true.  We all make mistakes, and saying “I’m sorry” is as important as “I love you.” 

Having left her family home, Rebecca comes to Isaac.  Isaac takes Rebecca to his home, to the tent he had left behind and thought that he would never see again.  In the new home that they create for themselves, they comfort one another. Isaac gives Rebecca the love that she needs; Rebecca cooks for Isaac the foods he loves, that taste and smell of the wild yet that also have a touch of home about them.  Maybe it’s the spices, or maybe it’s the date-honey.  Understanding their common roots, their common losses and their common fate, they will start a new family and create their own future.  Love is more than a chemical reaction.  For Isaac and Rebecca, love is a forceful bond that unites their hearts and lives, a bridge that reaches far into their past but also looks forward, with hope, to the future.



© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman







Friday, October 31, 2014

Spirits of the Dark: Halloween Eve 2014

Spirits of the Dark
Sermon for Halloween Eve
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
Shabbat Lech L’cha, 5775

Though there are many theories about the origins of Halloween, one thing is certain:  It is NOT a Jewish holiday.  Of course, one could say that Sukkot shares a few elements with Halloween.  Both are fall festivals, both mark the end of the harvest season and the beginning of the period of shorter days and longer nights.  In ancient times, in a world awash with ignorance and superstition, fall was the time of year in which malignant and malicious spirits were more prone to emerge from the darkness, from under the foggy underbrush of a world that science could not yet explain.

Some beliefs held that these malicious spirits of the underworld needed appeasement in the form of acts or gifts that would bring about their favor and avert divine retribution. A treat, if you will, to ward off the trick.

The Jewish world that emerged out of the superstitious murk of ancient cultures is not devoid of spirits and ghosts.  The Patriarch Jacob, for example, on several occasions, sees spirits.  At the time of his return to his homeland, following a 20 year exile, he has an overnight wrestling match with someone or something that was both more and less than human, a being that could cause harm but could also bestow blessings; a creature that could appear powerful at night, but for whom exposure to sunlight brought terrible consequences.

The custom of appeasing one’s demons could also explain Jacob’s act of sending generous gifts of livestock and money to Esau before his reunion with the dreaded twin brother who, twenty years earlier, had sworn to kill Jacob.

And though the modern world associates witchcraft mostly with women, in ancient time this was far from a female-dominated realm.  Goblins, gnomes and elves were often of the male variety of demons; and Satan, of course, the head honcho of all evil spirits, was definitely male.  If he weren’t, Rosemary would never have her baby and the entire genre of horror movies would look very different today.

In the world of Jewish demonology, in fact, Satan is not a fallen angel.  He is the cynic, the one who has little faith in the creatures called human beings.  To prove that, Satan—whose name means “the one who misdirects”—tempts people, throwing obstacles and enticements in their way so as to prove to God that God’s faith in us was misdirected from the start, that the chance God took in creating a being that could destroy as carelessly and gleefully as he could create, was a bad choice.

In Jewish folklore, the underworld over which Satan rules is made up of little trolls whose job it is not only to keep the flames of hell burning, but also to entice and tempt people, to play with and cause them to trip up. Far from being demons or devils, Satan and his little helpers are not excused from God’s laws; then must even observe Shabbat, giving all tortured souls a day-off from the eternal flames of Gehennom, the place where souls were scrubbed clean before they returned to the loving embrace of the Heavenly Creator of all souls.

But the Torah is full of witches and sorcery, as is obvious from the commandments stated in Leviticus and Deuteronomy:  “Thou shalt not permit a witch to live.”  Witches negated the God-given gift of choice and free will.  Associated with the dead, having the power to communicate with the world beyond, with channeling the immortal souls of dead people, witches had unique and undue power over the living.

The most famous witch in the Bible is probably the Witch of Endor.  As told in the book of Samuel, King Saul took it as one of his holy missions to exterminate all witches from his kingdom.  Yet one somehow survived, and it is this witch that Saul goes to visit and consult with before his final battle with the Philistines.  He asks her to raise the spirit of the prophet Samuel.  In those days, it was the belief that for commoners, the spirits of the dead appeared upside-down.  Only for royalty, presumably out of respect, did they appear right side up.  So when Samuel’s spirit appeared upright from within the smoke of her cauldron, the witch knew that her anonymous visitor was King Saul, and she is terrified that he will kill her now as he had done to all the other witches of the land. 

Samuel has some pretty harsh words to say to his erstwhile protégé, and the king, ashen and downfallen, returns home without doing the Witch of Endor any further harm.


The Talmud and Midrash, Judaism’s great texts of the first millennium of the Common Era, also speak of witches and other spirits of the Other World, as well as of their evil influence on the Real World.  Chief among those was Lilith, a night spirit who, in one ancient text, appears as Adam’s first wife (a version derived from the two seemingly separate stories of the creation of woman in the story of Genesis).  Lilith, it seems, was a bit too adventurous for some prudish rabbis who saw her as sexually promiscuous and domineering.  In speaking of Lilith in such a way, these early Rabbis took an even earlier belief and wove stories that helped shape Jewish gender ethics for the next two thousand years.

The red string of Kabbalah, the red ribbon or string tied to the post of a male baby’s crib, are among the amulets and antidotes that are said to ward off the malicious Lilith, whose revenge for being cast out in favor of Eve was her insatiable demand for male babies and for the seed ejected in nocturnal emissions.

Ghosts and evil spirits also appear in Jewish folklore, among them dybbuks, ru'aḥ tezazit and ru’ach ra’ah.  All of these are disembodied spirits that invade living bodies, taking control of them and acting out their own desires through the possessed body.  The mystic philosophy, Kabbalah, contains many rituals and protocols relating to exorcism of a dybbuk. 

Then, of course, to counterbalance the soul-without-a-body, cue the golem, which is a body without a soul.  In modern retellings, the soul is replaced by a brain, but originally it was a soul that the creature lacked.  An effective retelling of this story can be found in the Kaddish episode of the TV series “The X-Files.”

In our own time and place, Halloween has lost much of its religious connotations.  I suppose we can thank Hallmark and the candy industry for this particular transformation—though it is just as likely that science and secularism are as guilty of this as anything else.  Yet, superstitions still abound, especially around cemeteries and graveyards.  Despite the huge advances in knowledge and learning, fear of the unknown is still prominent in the human psyche.  Laughing in the face of darkness is just one way in which we ward off the dangers.  Taking delight in tricking malicious spirits is our way of showing them who’s in charge in this world.

And treating with sweets and candies those little children who appear at our doorsteps, dressed in the most creative, imaginative and colorful costumes, is but one way in which we adults attempt to propitiate and pacify a frightening future. 


The historical roots of Halloween are, indeed, not Jewish.  However, the spiritual world is actually deeply interwoven with the Jewish world.  And though some rabbis forbid any and all customs and celebrations associated with Halloween, it’s probably the least harmful way in which we can try to ward off darkness and fear.  At least this way we make our children happy, as we teach them that, though there ARE legitimate fears in the world, they CAN be conquered, that we have unbound abilities that far outpace the malicious scheming of any number of goblins and demons.  God knows the terrors of the real world are not half so easy to placate, but the children don’t need to know that.  Not yet at any rate.  Let them remain innocent but a while longer.

May the taste of Torah always be as sweet as candy in our lives and in the lives of our children.

Kein y’hi ratzon—may this be God’s will.



© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman


Thursday, October 16, 2014

Alone But Secure: D'var Torah for V'zot Ha-Bracha

Alone But Secure
D’var Torah for Parashat V’zot Ha-Bracha
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman


The holiday of Sukkot has undergone many transformations through the ages.  The name “Sukkot” first appears in the book of Exodus, where it indicates a location, the first place where the Israelites encamped following the Exodus from Egypt.

We are also told that we celebrate Sukkot in order to remember the flimsy huts in which our people dwelled during their 40-year trek through the Sinai Wilderness. 

But then, once they had settled in the Promised Land, Sukkot was transformed yet again, turning into a harvest and thanksgiving festival.  Once again the ancient Israelites dwelled in fragile booths, both to escape the heat of the last days of summer and to finish gathering the harvest before the cooling rains came.  

The association with water has remained part of the holiday of Sukkot, our celebration of renewed life.  In ancient Israel, Simchat Beit Ha-sho’eiva (Rejoicing at the Wellhouse) was a famously joyous festival that centered around the water wells that were beginning to fill and overflow again at this season.  When the Temple was yet standing, during the holiday of Sukkot not only was there abundant sacrifice of animals (mostly to feed the large numbers of pilgrims that converged on the city for the holiday), but in addition to the traditional wine libation prescribed by the Torah, water was also offered on the altar.

This rejoicing at the replenished source of life that water was (and, of course, still is) is possibly one reason why, at the end of the holiday of Sukkot, we celebrate Simchat Torah, the festival of Rejoicing With the Torah.  Water and Torah both represent the life-blessing of God.  One physical, the other more spiritual, both are necessary for survival, and the gift of both is therefore cause for rejoicing.  Around this time of the seasons’ turning, the two symbols unite, converging into one thanksgiving celebration.

On Simchat Torah we celebrate the many blessings that the Torah brings into our life. It is at this festival that we conclude the annual cycle of the reading of the Torah and immediately begin it anew.  V’zot Ha-Bracha, comprising the last two chapters of the book of Deuteronomy (chapters 33 and 34), is read on this holiday, immediately followed by the first few verses of B’reishit, Genesis.

V’zot Ha-Bracha contains the blessings Moses gives the People of Israel just prior to his death.  In a scene reminiscent of the blessings given to his sons by Jacob at his deathbed, Moses addresses each tribe.  In beautiful and exalted poetry, he foresees their future.  It isn’t always rosy.  There will be difficult times ahead, though much glory as well.  Moses then blesses the people of Israel as a whole, foretelling its future:  “Israel then shall dwell in safety alone” (Deut. 33:28).  Alone and apart (badad), but also safe and secure (betach).

It’s hard to reconcile these two adjectives.  Yet history has proven Moses a true prophet.  Israel’s history has shown the thread of our existence often weaving in and out of the history of other peoples.  Our exodus from Egypt was our first emergence onto the world stage as an independent people.  Since then, our lives have interwoven with those of the Persians, Greeks and Romans, to name but a few.  In our wanderings throughout the world, there were times when we seemingly merged with other nations; paradoxically, however, we always also stayed ourselves.  We remained Jews.  Wherever we went, we took our traditions with us.  We took our Torah and all our holy books with us.  We took our prayerbooks, candlesticks, and even our foods.  We took our language, and even though at times it too merged with other languages—Yiddish and Ladino are but two examples—Hebrew remained protected, tucked safely inside our holy books, in our prayers and within our hearts.

Even today, this prophecy of Moses stands true.  Israel has emerged yet again from the furnace into which it was thrown, its traditions intact, its soul and spirit undaunted, its language still thriving.

Long ago, Moses foresaw the struggles his people would have to endure; yet he also knew with unbound certainty that God would always ensure their survival.  Provided, of course, that they continued following God, teaching God’s law, practicing justice, equality and compassion.  No matter how many enemies rise up against Israel, Moses promises that in the end Israel will remain secure because of our faith in God.  Alone and separate, but secure.

It is at this point, with his task at last fully accomplished, that Moses climbs up his final mountain, Nebo.  From this peak he sees the Promised Land from end to end.  He sees the peaks of the northern mountains as well as the depths of the valley of Jericho.  He sees the region of Judah (and, presumably, the future city of Jerusalem) extending all the way to the Negev Desert and the Mediterranean Sea.  And then, still full of strength and vigor despite his 120 years, Moses dies. 

For Israel, it’s a new beginning.  Joshua, Moses’s disciple from his youth, takes over at this point, the People of Israel promising to follow him as they had followed Moses.  It will be Joshua who will lead them into the Promised Land, Joshua who will help them conquer it and make it their national home for all ages.

Thanks to Moses, however, the Israelites can look forward with confidence to a bright future.  They know the dangers and difficulties that loom ahead, yet they are unafraid.  Once a tribe of some 70 families, they have emerged from wretched slavery and become a splendid people.  Bound by an eternal Covenant to be God’s partners in the ongoing, sacred work of Creation, they can now open a new chapter in their history, and so they do, mi-b’reishit, from the beginning.

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



© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman