The Song of Days To Come: Ha'azinu

The Song of Days To Come

D’var Torah for Parashat Ha’azinu

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Parashat Ha’azinu (“Listen,” Deut. 32:1—32:52) almost always coincides with Shabbat Shuva—the Sabbath between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  Shuva (“return”) has two meanings.  Symbolically, it refers to the introspection, reflection and repentance that typify the Ten Days of Awe.  However, there is a more literal meaning to the word, too.  Shuva is the command form of the verb “to return.”   No matter how far we might have strayed from God’s path, during these ten days we are urged to return to our ancient, true ways, with the assurance that God will always take us back with love.

The portion contains powerful imagery (the eagle that soars high above the earth as it carries its young to safety) as well as graceful pastoral visions (gentle rains, dew appearing overnight on blades of grass).  It is truly some of the most beautiful poetry in the entire Bible; yet it isn’t art for art sake alone.  There is an important message here:  God’s protection of Israel is like that of the watchful eagle; God’s lessons are like the gentle rains that bring renewed life to the parched earth. 

Moses’s final vision is one of vast spaciousness.  He calls upon the heaven and the earth, as witnesses to God’s act of Creation, to testify to God’s purpose.  He envisions all the nations of the earth parting to make room for God’s chosen people, Israel.  Speaking to the Israelites who are about to enter the Promised Land, Moses urges them to seek the wisdom of the elders, to understand to what end they had been chosen and for what future purpose they are appointed.  It is a timeless revelation that spans all time and all creation.

Moses foresees the people forsaking God.  Having entered the Promised Land, they will forget their Covenant with the God who brought them there.  Instead, they will offer sacrifices to no-god demons, with disastrous results.  God’s rage will be like a firestorm, “consuming the earth along with its produce, setting aflame the foundations of the mountains” (Deut. 32:22).  The earth will turn sulfurous and cast the people out into exile.

It is a vision of terrors, yet there is recourse:  Returning to God.  It is for the sake of following God’s ways of justice and compassion that Israel was brought to the Land of Israel.  Teaching this to our children is the surest way of ensuring that they will survive, too. “It is your life, and through this thing, you will lengthen your days upon the land to which you are crossing over the Jordan, to possess it" (Deut. 32:47).

Israel’s history has born out Moses’s prophecy.  Israel’s longevity cannot be explained in any other way; it can only be ascribed to our devotion to the Torah and to a life of righteousness.  Despite the hatred often shown us, despite exiles, persecution and oppression, we are here, still heeding Moses’s words of caution.  We take the education of our children seriously; we study the lessons of our elders with careful attention.  That, after all, is our life.  It is these words, these teachings that give meaning and purpose to our existence on this earth and in our Land.

And so every year, at this season of nature’s renewal, we obey Moses’s call to return.  However far we may have wandered, both physically and spiritually, during these Days of Awe we gather with our families and communities and renew our Covenant with God, committing ourselves anew to our eternal purpose and mission.

As Parashat Ha’azinu comes to a close, Moses realizes that his work with his people is nearly done.  The glorious vision he has witnessed is already dimming.  As the vast expanse of time and space that he envisioned closes in around him, Moses finds himself strangely alone.  The clamor of the people has retreated and become a dull echo in the distance.  Yet, he is not really alone. Looking up, he suddenly finds himself on top of a mountain.  His vision clears and he sees a strange land before him, a land flowing with milk and honey, its hills covered with green grass, pastures and fields, orchards and vineyards extending in all directions.  A new sound reaches his ears:  It is the sound of children learning, the sound of teachers patiently correcting, explaining, expounding.  The words are oddly familiar, yet also new and as sweet as the morning dew. 

Puzzled, Moses turns and sees God standing beside him, smiling.  “Look around you,” says the kind, gentle voice that he hears inside his head.  “Look all around.  From north to south, from east to west—this is the Land your people are to inherit.”

“And the song I hear?”

“Don’t you recognize it? These are the words of Torah. They are studying your Torah, Moses.” 

Moses closes his eyes and listens.  He sees the future and is content.

© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Song of Torah: Nitzavim-Vayeilech

The Song of Torah

D’var Torah for Parashat Nitzavim-Vayeilech

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week, on the Shabbat before Rosh Hashanah, we read a double portion:  Nitzavim (“Standing,” Deut. 29:9—30:20) and Vayeilech (“He went,” Deut. 31:1-30).  With these chapters, Moses sums up his teaching as he reaches the last days of his life.  At 120 years (!) he is worn out and knows he can no longer lead the Israelites.  Moreover, God has announced that Moses would not proceed with his people, that he would not enter the Promised Land with them.

Moses has good reason to feel exhausted.  It has been a long journey, full of challenge and difficulty.  Confidence has never been his strong suit; yet, forty years earlier, with God at his side and with his brother Aaron as spokesman, Moses stood before Pharaoh and refused to cower.  Through all the journeys in the Sinai Wilderness, Moses continued to struggle, both with God and with the Israelites.  Now, at this supreme moment in his life, he is not about to give in to either fatigue or discouragement. In a supreme effort that shows how his faith and confidence have grown and deepened through the intervening years, Moses summons up his strength to address his people one last time. 

Standing there, at the intersection of what has been and what will yet come to pass, Moses has a vision.  With rare clarity he sees not only those people assembled and standing before him at that moment, but also those who are not.  His gaze reaches beyond space and time as he foretells what he knows the future will bring the Israelite people.

Moses’s vision of the future is dark. He knows that, once settled in their Land, the Israelites will be tempted to follow other gods.  He can foresee that, time and again, they will stray from God’s teachings and commandments. He tells the people that they will suffer the consequences for their actions, that they will be scattered among the nations, that they will be despised and reviled on all their exiles.

Yet, he also knows, with a perfect faith, that God will take the Israelites back in love and favor once they repent and return to God.

It will not happen automatically, however.  Repentance requires action.  It isn’t enough to just say, “I’m sorry.”  You have to prove it with your deeds.

That’s why Moses commands that the Torah be written down, that its commandments and regulations be taught and made as clear as can possibly be.  There’s nothing mysterious about these words, Moses says.  They are not beyond reach or comprehension.  But they do have to be learned and, in turn, be taught and taught again.  That’s how Israel’s future survival can be guaranteed.  The Torah becomes a lifeline, keeping the people alive despite the difficulties they will encounter.  “Choose life,” Moses charges us, “that you and your descendants may live” (Deut. 30:19).

Great leader that he is, however, Moses does not stop with this instruction.  He must demonstrate by example.  And so, taking pen to paper, he proceeds to write the whole Torah down himself, word by word.

Yet as he does so, as though by some magic or miracle, the words take wing.  The word Torah, meaning “teaching” or “instruction” becomes Shira, meaning “song.”

The dusty prose turns into polished, vibrant poetry:  “Then Moses spoke in the hearing of all the assembly of Israel the words of this song unto completion” (Deut. 31:30). 

What causes this great transformation?

It was an elevated moment, a moment of supreme exultation for Moses.  He was at the culmination of life’s mission, and his love and complete embrace of God, Torah and Israel lift him to greater heights than ever. The pen barely touches the paper, the ink quivers as it settles lightly on the pages of the book. And it was at that exact moment, emerging out of Moses’s great vision, that Torah, God and Israel all merged into one eternal presence and became transformed into song.

More than three thousand years later, it’s a song we still sing today.  It’s the Song that is our Torah.

© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman

Setting Limitless Boundaries: Ki Tavo

Setting Limitless Boundaries

D’var Torah for Parashat Ki Tavo

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Ki Tavo (Deuteronomy 26:1—29:8), this week’s Torah portion, picks up where last week’s portion left off.  Having had a chance to review the rules by which we interact with others, whether in war, love or business, Ki Tavo has us take a closer look at us, ourselves.  It’s about us as a community, as a people, and as a nation with a mission.

Ki Tavo (“When you arrive”) first defines our history.  As a people, we were redeemed by God from slavery in Egypt.  As a nation, we arrive at the Promised Land.   It is a broad arc of time, a swath that stretches across the centuries.  It’s our story, one we tell and retell (Deut. 26:5-10).  Originally this is what we proclaimed as we brought the first fruit of our labors to the Temple in Jerusalem.  Later on, these verses became the origin-story that we repeated and retold at the Passover Seder table.  As much history as parable, this section holds true at every age and generation.  For every exile, there is a return.  After every enslavement, there must be redemption and liberation.

Ki Tavo reminds us of God’s hand in the making of this history.  Moses’s name isn’t mentioned once here.  It’s God’s strong hand that redeems us from Egypt, God’s outstretched arm that brings us into the Promised Land.  It is to God that we bring our first fruit, in acknowledgment of the wonder and miracle of it all. 

At the same time, however, Ki Tavo teaches that being a community—even a Sacred Community—isn’t only about serving God.  It’s about helping the needy.  Our tithes, offerings and gifts aren’t offered to please God.  Our God needs no food; our God needs and requires us to feed the hungry, to strengthen the weak, to find shelter for the homeless.

This mission defines the Israelite People as much as our history.  God’s blessings come to us not because of some mystical connection that was once made, in a legendary, far-away time and place.  We must earn daily the right to enjoy the fruit of the earth.  The richness of the Promised Land—“a land flowing with milk and honey” (Deut. 26:9, 15)—is our remuneration, our wages, for the role we play in maintaining the land and for taking care of the needy among us. 

Setting aside food for the Levite, the stranger, the orphan and the widow become the preamble of this sacred Covenant that Israel now seals with God.  Fulfilling the vow and seeing to it that the hungry are fed first is the prerequisite for all the other commandments.

The extent and breadth of the Israelite community is as magnificent as are our history and mission.  Our responsibility extends to the Levite as well as to the stranger, to the most devoted to God’s teachings as well as to the one who is the least connected.  God’s blessings aren’t restricted only to this ultra-religious sect or another.  Faith is a rainbow that contains all shades of belief. 

Nor must the privileges of peoplehood, recognition as valid members of this nation, be restricted only to the rich and powerful.  Often relegated to the periphery of society, beyond our line of vision, are those who need our help most urgently:  the orphan and the widow.  They are truly the weakest links in our society, and therefore they must be strengthened. 

A nation is comprised of all its members, not only the preferred ones; we must support one another without prejudice or bias.

Parashat Ki Tavo then sets out one of the most important values of the Jewish people:  Education.  On entering the Promised Land, lest we forget, the words of the Covenant, of the Torah, must be repeated.  They must be written in stone, taught, spoken and explained well: Ba’er heitev (Deut. 27:8).  “Explicitly” and “clearly” is how two English translations explain these words.  Rashi, the famed 11^th century rabbi, teacher and Torah commentator, emphasizes: “In seventy languages,” thus expanding the physical, spiritual, geographical and cultural boundaries that define the Jewish people.

The irony of it all, however, is that the laws and rules which God gives us are ours to choose or reject.  Granted, there are consequences, even dire consequences, to our choices.  But we are free to decide our own way.  The entire second half of this portion has the Israelites agreeing to these rules, responding “Amen” after each and every commandment.  It’s a unanimous choice, a Covenant entered freely by the entire people.

Ki Tavo is one of Moses’s greatest visions, almost equal to the vision of God he experienced on Mt. Sinai:  A people united over time and space, bound by mutual and inclusive responsibility, charged with a holy task and mission, entrusted with cultural, ethical and moral values.

Despite the obstacles and challenges that Moses knows yet loom ahead, he can be confident.  He is certain that, as long as these words are repeated, ba’er heitev, the Israelite People will remain God’s people, “am segula,” consecrated, blessed and protected by God’s sheltering Presence.

© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman

Understanding the Divine Within Us: Ki Teitzei

Understanding the Divine Within Us

D’var Torah for Parashat Ki Teitzei

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The titles of this week’s and next week’s portions, Ki Teitzei and Ki Tavo, are often paired to form a linguistic idiom.  Appearing frequently both in ancient and modern Hebrew, the idiom means the everyday business of life, the comings and goings, the usual—and the exceptional—undertakings of everyday life.

Though no fewer than 74 commandments are listed in Ki Teitzei (Deut. 21:10—25:19), regulating many aspects of life isn’t the only concern of the portion. This isn’t merely yet another a legal code.  Ki Teitzei isn’t only about law, as important as that is in itself. The loftier goal of the portion is to make us think beyond what is right and wrong.  It’s about the three W’s:  WHY right is right; WHAT makes something wrong; and finally WHERE—what is the source of all these laws. 

The 74 commandments of Ki Teitzei have their own logic; they provide a structure for a good and productive life.  Just following them is good enough to result in a good life. If enough people keep repeating and practicing these laws on a daily basis, then we have the basis for a stable and peaceful society.  But being human means that it isn’t quite so simple.  It’s part of human nature also to rebel, to ask why, to retort in cynicism, to behave badly.  And though the majority of us are content (at least most of the time) to simply obey the law and go about life without making waves, there are also enough who prefer to upset the cart, to cause mischief, mayhem—and sometimes, to bring about chaos and destruction.

That’s why Ki Teitzei opens with the worst of all possible crimes and times:  war.

War makes the illegal legal.  War rewards acts that at other times would be considered wrong.  War makes the unthinkable, desirable.  War unleashes the worst within us and makes it praiseworthy.

Regulating these most powerful forces is thus the first order of business of Ki Teitzei.

For forty years, Moses has been instructing the people to think “different.”  He didn’t free us from slavery to Pharaoh merely to become slaves to another terrifying master.  Moses isn’t interested in automatons, unthinking creatures of obedience, habit and custom.  Moses wants his people to think, to reason, to ask WHY. To be human—even if it means making wrong choices and sometimes failing—is to exist on a higher plane than any other animal. To exercise choice means that we become closer to God.  To choose right is nothing short of the exercise of the Divine spirit that’s embedded within us.

But Ki Teitzei also teaches us WHAT it is that makes wrong so wrong. Not to feel another person’s pain, to be inconsiderate of what they might be feeling or going through, is wrong.  Ki Teitzei would have us put ourselves in another person’s shoes before we judge him or her.  True justice, Moses teaches us, isn’t only about blindly following the law; it’s just as much about being compassionate and fair, about listening to another person’s complaint, about knowing what hurts him or her.  It’s about commiserating with the downtrodden.

The example the Torah uses to teach this lesson is the worst that we human beings are capable of:  the capture and trafficking of women in war.

Tragically, in war women aren’t only the prize that goes to the victor.  As we see in contemporary headlines, in some cultures the kidnapping and raping of girls and women is an act of war in itself.  Child abuse—whether using children as a human shield or training them to be killers—is an act of “holy” war.  The Torah calls that absolutely wrong, even evil.  As a reminder, Ki Teitzei bids us to remember Amalek.  It was the Amalekites, you might remember, who attacked the weary Israelites not long after they left Egypt, targeting the weak, the sick, the hopeless and the forlorn at the rear of the camp.  If it’s a mitzvah, a righteous deed, to help the helpless, it is evil to kill, abuse and enslave them again.

That is the moral north that Ki Teitzei points to.  Everything else, every other direction we might turn to in the coming and going of life is based on this ethic, on this eternal lesson.

Our responsibility, however, does not stop with the weak among us.  The portion has us evaluate our relationships with one another—the more powerful as well as the less so.  Its lessons extend to the animals we use to help us in the cultivation of our fields and crops, to the laborers we employ, and finally to our families and loved ones.

Knowing why we do as we do, knowing what the right and wrong might be in any situation—these are the foundation of civilization.  Upon these two concepts we build our very lives and culture.

I was once asked if I thought it important to affix God’s seal of approval to these concepts.  Isn’t it enough to say that these are at the basis of our very humanity and then to behave accordingly?  Must we add God to the equation?

The answer is no, it isn’t enough.  Because deep within each of us also resides the ability to choose wrong.  To be bad is as human as to be good.  We can’t merely rely on natural instinct in making right choices.  It is as natural, as human and, at times, as instinctive to seek vengeance, to hate, to give in to lust and greed. What Ki Teitzei teaches us is that making the right choice is activating the powerful image of God within us. It empowers us to be more than we would normally choose to be.  In asking us to be the best we can, the Torah strengthens us in our everyday comings and goings, in all facets of our daily lives.

WHERE do these qualities, in which we take such pride, come from?  Are they merely innate, embedded within our genes and DNA?  Ki Teitzei teaches that they actually come from another and much more powerful source, one that resonates within us, but which also reaches far beyond our own mortal and limited spheres of existence.  These values, which we call holy, come from God.  They apply to the whole universe as much as to any single one of us.  They are the image of God within us.

© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman