A New Haggadah: Yom Hashoah Reflections

A New Haggadah: Retelling the Shoah

A Message for Holocaust Memorial Day

April 28, 2014

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Today we observe Yom Ha-Shoah V’ha-G’vurah—the Day of Remembrance of the Holocaust and Heroism—the single greatest catastrophe to befall the Jewish People in 2000 years.  

On this day, once again as she has for 70 years now, my mother is reliving her memories of the Shoah.  Not unscathed, she managed to escape, reaching Israel (then called “Palestine” and under the British mandate) on March 5, 1944.   Growing up, I heard bits and pieces of these accounts.  But it wasn’t until a few years ago that I finally heard the entire story of her harrowing journey.  What strikes me most is two things:  1) her recollection, sometimes triggered by the waning light on a late afternoon, of wondering where she would be sleeping that night; and 2) that of the four times that she managed to escape the clutches of the Nazis, twice she was let go by a Gestapo officer.

It’s a story of heroism, but also a story of friendship.  My mother was member of a Zionist youth group that banded early during those fateful years.  It was a tightly knit group, as close as family, if not closer.  They helped one another as well as each other’s friends and relatives.  Working together, they established an underground railroad that enabled most of them to survive.

Not all survived.  But those who did vowed never to forget.  They started new lives and new families.  They established homes and communities.  Many of them were among the first fighters for the State of Israel.  Some became members of K’nesset (Israel’s parliament); supreme-court justices; prominent lawyers, professors, teachers and business entrepreneurs.  But every year, on the 29th of November, they have been gathering for a joyful (and, often, tearful) reunion.  This was the date on which two members of this exceptional group were slated to be executed by the Nazis.  Coincidentally also the birthday of one of the two, they both survived because that very day, the prison they were held in was liberated by the Soviet Army.   Their annual get-together has become a tradition that now continues with their children, grandchildren and even great-grandchildren.

At first, the survivors’ stories were slow to come out.  Many wanted to leave those terrible times behind, preferring to live in the moment, not in the past.  Many found that what they told was received with disbelief (the ultimate insult) and so they stopped telling.

But as time marched on and as more and more survivors passed on, the need to tell the stories of heroism and survival became more and more compelling.  Even those who wished to forget found that they could not escape the past.  It came upon them stealthily, in fitful nightmares and in daytime terrors.

Many saw it as a sacred mission, a mitzvah, an eleventh commandment:  Never forget!

Each person is a story.  Every survivor has a harrowing tale to tell of miracles and unspeakable loss, of horrors only the most evil and corrupt of human hearts could devise and execute.  Six million souls can never tell their stories.  Of the two million who survived in Europe, too few have spoken, and for many it is now too late.

And what of us—the 2nd, 3rd and 4th generation survivors?  What is our obligation today?  What commandment must we uphold?

I would say there are two:  Never forget and Never again.

Like the story of our Exodus from Egypt, every year we must tell and retell the miracle of our survival.  Unlike Passover, however, we must tell our children that this modern-day miracle was wrought not only by the outstretched arm of God (and the Allies), but also by our own determination and heroism.  To live another day in the ghetto, to survive another night in the forests or to live in constant fear, cared for by courageous strangers, was an act of resistance, hope and resilience that bespeaks volumes.  To learn how to make a Molotov cocktail and use it well against a German tank; to smuggle a rusty gun through sewer tunnels and learn how to fire it accurately because there were only so few bullets you could buy, steal or beg; to share a single bowl of watery soup with your baby brother—these were daily acts of courage and heroism, no less miraculous than the Parting of the Red Sea.

We must never forget the people who made these miracles happen.

And never again must we allow such a catastrophe to befall our people.  Never.  For too long we have depended on others to protect and defend us; for too long we have wandered from country to country, saddled with memories and tragedies and little else.  We must now take upon ourselves the responsibility of defending ourselves.  To live in peace—that is our dream.  To live, to remember and to never let a Holocaust happen again—that is our sacred obligation.

Never again.  It’s an oath of holiness we must take upon ourselves, a covenant we must observe with all our heart, with all our soul, and with all our might.

© 2014 by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Reaching For the Highest: Kedoshim

Reaching For the Highest

D’var Torah for Parashat Kedoshim

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The parasha that we study this week, Kedoshim (Leviticus 19:1—20:27), contains the essence of the Jewish view on holiness.

Unlike the previous portion (Acharei Mot) with its worthy but impossible standards of being at one-ness with God, Kedoshim brings the bar a bit closer to our own, more human level.

In the Torah, the Hebrew word kadosh doesn’t only mean “holy.” Kadosh means that we are in a special relationship, in a state of personal dedication to and with something or someone else, be it a loved one or God.  K’dusha, holiness or sanctity, is a state of being, a condition that we can experience emotionally, physically and psychologically.  But k’dusha isn’t something we can dwell or exist in permanently.  Only God can do that.  All that we humans can do is try to bring it into our lives for a moment or two.  By doing something special for ourselves or for someone else, each of us can become kadosh for an infinite moment of sacred time.  Collectively, we can be k’doshim as we reach for the Eternal that is within and around us.

For Jews, holiness is a verb.  It isn’t about how we feel or what we believe, but rather about what we do. 

From the Torah’s perspective, to be holy doesn’t mean you have to give yourself totally to God.  Asceticism and seclusion may work for an individual here and there.  But for the larger community, holiness is found in the way we relate to one another, not only to God. 

Kedoshim has very little to say about how we must worship God, restricting itself to a couple of verses about sacrifice, about not worshipping idols and about keeping the Sabbath holy.  The rest of the portion details laws that regulate our behavior with other people.  Starting with honoring our parents, it quickly moves to the kind of respect we must show the elderly.

On Israeli busses, there are stickers that identify and reserve the first couple of rows of seats for the aged.  This isn’t state or civil law, however.  Common courtesy for some, for us it is holy to give our seat to the aged, to show them respect and to accommodate their needs before ours.  On the posted signs, words quoted from this portion affirm the sacred value:  Mip’nei seiva takum, “you shall rise before the aged” (Lev. 19:32).  It’s a value that as children we learned and discussed in school, a cultural and moral teaching that became ingrained in us.  As the Torah teaches us to see it, it’s more than just respectful to show thoughtfulness and consideration to the elderly, the weak and the tired.  It is holy.

Justice, fairness, compassion—these are the values that the Torah calls holy.  They are the means by which we can attain a kernel of God’s holiness and make it our own.

It’s the deeds, the actions, the behavior, that define “holiness” for us.  It’s in how we reach out to one another that we show our devoted and unwavering reach for God.  It’s in our deeds of kindness and generosity that we respond to and acknowledge God’s gifts to us. 

Holiness is a relationship, not a state of being.  It’s found in the space between our own, outstretched, hands and the hands of those around us.  As we reach out to one another, we also reach up, toward God.

Hidden behind and within these verses that we call “The Holiness Code” (and which we also read at afternoon services on Yom Kippur) we see a reflection of what life must have really been like when these rules first appeared, more than three thousand years ago.  Against this primeval background, we realize that Parashat Kedoshim has done more than just about any other reading in the Scriptures to define Judaism for us. 

It’s no wonder that Hillel, that ancient and venerable rabbi of the 1st century in Israel, chose a verse from this portion to define Torah and Judaism for a potential convert.  Responding to the man who wanted to learn the entire Torah while standing on one foot, Hillel quoted Leviticus chapter 19, verse 18:  “Love your neighbor as yourself.”  And, wisely, he added, “the rest is commentary; now go study it.” 

For Judaism, holiness is in in the learning.  It’s the reach.  It’s in the generosity, kindness and devotion that we extend to ourselves and as well as to the community around us.  It’s in our actions and behavior as we aim to raise the lowest standards of behavior to the highest. 

In a world of mortality, we Jews strive for morality.  Holiness, the Torah teaches, isn’t about survival at any means; rather, it’s about existence with meaning. 

To be kadosh, to be holy, we need to go beyond the momentary and reach for the eternal.   We do that when we see what needs to be done and do it.    When we take a need and fill it.  When we take a broken world and fix it.

For us, it isn’t only right.  For us, it is a holy thing.

© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Prayer for Passover, 2014

A Prayer for Passover, 2014

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Mah nishtanah halayla hazeh…   “Why is this night different from all other nights?”

With these words we open each Seder, our annual recitation of the Haggadah, the story of our redemption from Egyptian bondage.  Yet, these ancient words contain an eternal puzzle.  They may be thousands of years old; but, traditionally recited by the youngest member of the household, they also represent the newest, the freshest and the most innocent.

Since the day this formula was set, its words have never changed.  The story is pretty much the same it has been for over three thousand years.  Yet each Seder brings something new to us.  It isn’t only about ancient times; it’s also about today.

Much changes over time.  Generations come and go; cities are built, destroyed and are rebuilt again.  Yet our story doesn’t change.  It’s always about how we were slaves in Egypt and about how God redeemed us with marvels and miracles.  We count off the plagues; we sing of our gratitude—Dayenu!—for being spared, for being given the Torah, for being brought to the Promised Land.

Miraculously, the Red Sea always parts at the appointed time.

Sadly, some other things don’t change either.  How many times did we have to leave our homes and possessions behind?  How many times did we endure degradation and insult, exile, dispersal and expulsion?  How many pogroms?  How many men, women and children have chosen to die by the flame or the sword rather than submit to forced belief in gods they could not accept or believe in?

In the past few weeks, we have witnessed an almost weekly barrage of tragic shootings and killings.  We have seen a rise in violence such as hasn’t been seen in decades.  Only yesterday we marked the first anniversary of the Boston Marathon Bombing, in turn crying for the victims and cheering the progress of the survivors.

And only yesterday we witnessed yet another act of violence, as a hate-filled gunman killed three innocent people in Overland Park, Kansas.

Perhaps all these other shootings mark something new in our culture, a rise in frustration, overbearing anger that results in senseless violence and mass killings.

But the shooting in Kansas yesterday is really nothing new.  It represents the oldest hatred on this planet:  Anti-Semitism.  Hatred of the Jew.

That two of the victims, a grandfather and his grandson who had come to the Jewish Community Center for a talent audition, weren’t even Jewish doesn’t matter.  The shooter had thought them to be Jewish.  That they were there shows how intricately interwoven general life and Jewish life have become in America.  We’ve seen that kind of interweaving throughout our history.  It isn’t new.  And the hatred isn’t new either.

It seems that nothing has changed, nothing at all.

So how is this night different from all other nights?

Even as we sit at our Seder dinners tonight, even as we recite the ancient prayers, blessings and stories, something new always shines forth. 

It’s the hope, ever regenerated.

As the youngest child, he or she of the brightest eyes, dimpliest smile and sweetest voice, intones the ancient words, our hope rises yet again, new, renewed, restored.

We believe—despite it all.  We believe in Redemption.  We believe in a time-to-come when violence will disappear; when hatred will cease; when all humanity will be freed from the bondage of ignorance and prejudice.  We believe that a bright day will come when the sun’s rays will shine into the darkest corners of the human soul and bring love to the forlorn, joy to the dejected, acceptance to the forsaken.

As we look into the youngest child’s eyes, we see there a gateway to tomorrow, a day that has never yet been.  We see new possibilities where none existed before.  And that is the difference.  That is what marks this night from all other nights.  It really is the dawning of a new day.

Will the wine in Elijah’s cup tremble tonight?  Will it be missing a drop or two before the night is over?  Without a doubt, yes.

For that is our hope:  that one day there will be an end to the shootings, the knifings, the bombings.  That one day the hatred will disappear forever.

This night, let our hope dispel the darkness.  Let the newness of this moment last not only through this night, nor only for the next week, but for all future days.  Let its blessing be not only for us, but for all humanity.  Not only for our children, but for their children and their children after them.

May this be God’s will.

Chag sameach—a happy, joyous and sweet Passover to all!

(c) 2014 by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The Dilemma Of Being Human: Acharei Mot

The Dilemma Of Being Human

D’var Torah for Parashat Acharei-Mot

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

On years that don’t have the extra month of Adar (or an intervening holiday), this week’s Torah portion (Acharei-Mot) and next week’s (Kedoshim) are twinned, chanted on the same Shabbat. 

They belong together.  They complement one another.

Leviticus veered off its storyline somewhat in the two portions dealing with skin diseases and other bodily malfunctions.  Now it picks up where it left off—with the death of Nadav and Avihu, two of Aaron’s four sons.

The tragedy and loss of that disaster had left behind bitter and anguished questions, not only about what exactly the two young men had done wrong, but also about the swift ferocity of God’s response.  Before Noah’s flood, there came God’s command to build the ark and save at least some life; before the fiery destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, Abraham had plenty of time to raise several objections.  But in this case, the punishing flame was instantaneous.  Clearly something in the way the two men approached God (b’korvatam, “as they drew near”) was wrong.

Acharei-Mot, (“After the death,” Leviticus 16:1—18:30) gives instructions meant to protect us from similar retribution.  Here are commands that, if followed strictly, will act as a shield between us and God’s fierce vengeance.

It’s all in the manner in which we approach God, the Torah tells us.  It’s what we wear, what offering we bring, what we say; it’s about humility, even (or especially) if you are the high priest.  It’s about curbing our voracious appetites and striving for the highest standards in our relationships and ideals.

The problem is that the rules and regulations of Acharei-Mot are impossible to follow to perfection. 

A good chunk of the portion speaks of the process of atonement—the purification of our souls and bodies—that must precede our approach to God.   It’s a process we read about and try to follow at least once a year, on the Day of Atonement, Yom Kippur.  Our 24-hour fast finds its roots in this portion.  So does the description of the High Priest’s sacrificial ritual on that holiest of days, described to the minutest detail in our Yom Kippur afternoon service.   We can only imagine the overwhelming emotions that people must have felt back in the days when the ritual was actually practiced, when the Temple was yet standing in Jerusalem.

We read; we imagine; in our thoughts we go back to those days.  But the reality today is different, more complex.  Things have obviously changed, and atonement with God is somehow more difficult today.  Maybe we have too many unanswered questions today.  As it is, we can only look at the perfect rules given us in Acharei-Mot and sigh.  

It isn’t only the priest who is given such difficult responsibilities and obligations as he approaches God.  It’s about us, too, the rest of the people.  The ones who wrestle not only with God and God’s demands, but also with our all-too-human appetites and desires.

Acharei-Mot forbids us from eating meat with any blood left it in. Theoretically, that’s not impossible.  The shochet—the kosher butcher—has those laws covered.  He knows how to slaughter the animal while inflicting the least amount of pain, then how to drain its blood.  But there’s always some left behind.  And if it isn’t the actual blood itself—even after we soak and salt the meat, there’s some residual left—then it’s the guilt over the taking of a life.  It may be only an animal, but its life and soul, like ours, also came from God.  How do we justify killing it just to satisfy our lust for meat?

It’s too easy to enjoy the meal without thinking.  The prepackaged plastic trays are too convenient to stop and reflect about the conditions in which the animal was raised or killed.

Life is complex.  Can’t we just enjoy something without feeling guilty about something we may not have done just so?

And then, on top of it all, for the remainder of the portion, we have the sexual taboos and mores.  Some of them are easy enough to follow.  Our culture and society do not accept certain relationships, and it’s easy to understand why.  Relations with close family members can lead to all sorts of genetic and psychological problems.

Certainly bestiality is beyond the scope of all but the most perverted among us.

But relationships between two men?  Why are those in the same category?  Why are those forbidden by the Torah?

Surely Acharei-Mot refers not to loving relationships—which occur in many other examples throughout the Bible and our Jewish history and literature—but to the rapacious kind, the greedy and predatory variety in which one person imposes his will upon another, violating the most intimate and loving relationship that can exist between two human beings.

Yet the strict laws stand in place, an impossible standard that some people try to enforce on others, often driving them into unhappy and unhealthy relationships instead.

Yes, we can say that so much time has passed since the Torah first expressed its views on life and the way it should go.  We’ve learned so much about the human condition since those days.

But the words remain intact, an unreachable code of holiness that nobody can live up to without guilt, justified or not, atoneable or not. 

That’s why Kedoshim comes in immediately after this portion.  Its rules of holiness are easier to live by, easier to understand, easier to measure oneself and one’s behavior against. 

Still, in its own way Acharei-Mot makes us think about the way things are, and about the way they should be.  It is somewhere in-between those two extremes that we find ourselves, forever struggling between our basic instincts of greed, pleasure and satisfaction and the higher goals of holiness that God (or we, in our most exalted moments) would like to see in us.

We are by definition neither vegetable nor mineral, but rather animal.  An animal takes what it can and wants in order to satisfy its needs, following genetically ingrained rules (somewhat modified, perhaps, by human training).  But within us human beings lies something else—a seed of holiness, a spiritual essence that directs our thoughts and purposes in a loftier direction.  Even if it is an impossible goal, we still strive to make it our guiding star, our moral compass.

That we don’t always succeed is part of the human condition.  But we may never stop trying, either.  That’s part of the dilemma of being human.

© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman