Chukat: A Law For All Time

Chukat:  A Law For All Time

D’var Torah by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

June 26, 2016

Senator Eldridge, Representative Gentile, Mrs. Gentile, Father Richard Erikson, the Rev. Joel Guillemette, Rabbi Finestone, Rabbi and Rabbi Eiduson, colleagues, Cantor, present and past presidents and members of the Board of Directors of Congregation B’nai Torah, congregants, distinguished guests and friends:

I seems that I am tasked at this point with the responsibility of giving a departing speech, a last sermon as it were.  I have already thanked so many of you this past Saturday, when you bestowed upon me immeasurable honors.  So my talk tonight will be of a more serious nature, my last formal address to this Congregation as its rabbi; the summation of my teaching to this community; my Charge to you.

My friends:

Eons come and go; generations come and go.  In the past 20 years as rabbi at Congregation B’nai Torah, I’ve seen an entire generation grow up.  From namings to b’nai mitzvah, through graduations to marriage, I’ve had the privilege of blessing and accompanying you and your families through many simchas (celebrations) as well as sadder times.  Twenty years—half of what it took Moses to bring his people to the Promised Land.

Are we there yet?

Oy.

So I have some good news and some bad news.  The good news is that we’re getting ever closer.  The bad news is that despite the distance we have already covered, we still have a long journey ahead of us.

In this week’s Torah portion, Chukat, Numbers chapters 19:1—22:1, the Israelites, after wandering in the Sinai Wilderness for nearly 40 years, are finally reaching the end of their stage of history.  They are within a stone’s throw of the Jordan River.

You’d think they would rejoice. 

But no; not atypically, they complain.

Why, one wonders, would they complain at this point in their journeys, with the goal so close at hand?

Because they are human beings.  Because they see with mortal eyes.  Limited by mind and concept, they were scared to look up.  Just like us today, the ancient Israelites were afraid of what lay ahead.  They were afraid of change.

Believe it or not, they just got used to the desert.  They learned to be smart, to participate in the common welfare; to fight wars when necessary; to effect repairs when things fell apart.  But the hurdles that lay ahead of them now were no less daunting. Would the new land accept them as legitimate heirs, or would it reject them as it had so many other conquerors throughout the centuries?

Moreover, at this point, with an uncertain future ahead, one by one, the old, familiar pillars of strength that they had relied on in the past were quickly disappearing. 

First, Miriam dies.  The sister of Moses and Aaron, Miriam was responsible for the new baby’s survival when Moses’s mother gently placed him in a tiny ark among the reeds of the Nile River.  After that, taking upon herself ever-greater responsibility, Miriam infused life into the Israelite People with faith, hope and music.  The Rabbis of old even teach us that as long as Miriam was alive, a well of fresh water accompanied the Israelites through their wanderings.  With her death, the well dried up and disappeared.

Water in the wilderness is a precious element.  Sometimes, so is faith.  Told to speak to a rock and command it to wield fresh water, Moses instead strikes the rock with his staff. For his failure to honor God’s word, Moses is told that he will not enter the Promised Land with the rest of his people.  He is to die in the wilderness, along with his brother, Aaron, the first High Priest of the Israelites.

Indeed, Aaron’s death immediately follows the rock incident. 

As though this were not dispiriting enough, a plague of snakes struck a portion of the Israelite camp, and thousands were dying. 

Thirst, loss, plagues!  Hardly a Promised Land.

But Moses and the Torah have a lesson to teach us about that.

No, it isn’t the Promised Land.

Yes, there is bitter thirst.  There is a thirst for a higher standard of morals and ethics than we have been seeing in social conduct and behavior. 

There’s a thirst for self-determination for oppressed people of diverse colors, nationalities and religions. There’s a thirst for freedom from fear, a thirst for common—community—celebration.  A thirst for peace and calm, a lull from anxiety.

For far-too-many of us, there is thirst for tolerance and acceptance, for a chance to love, to be free to enjoy the fruit of this world.

And there is loss.

We live with loss.  At every moment, we leave the past behind us.  What does loss feel like?  What do we leave behind and what do we take with us? There was unfinished business. Who will take care of those I leave behind?  For the bereft, there is a sorting of memories and objects, daily painful reminders of our loss.  Perhaps a photograph that had captured a moment.  Perhaps a special word.  Moving ahead is a challenge without the special support we’ve grown accustomed to, standing by our side.

There is also loss of trust, of hope, and loss of faith.

And there are snakes in the wilderness. 

Ancient symbol of evil, venomous snakes have always accompanied us along our trails.  Among them are the snakes of bigotry, cruelty and prejudice. Out on the streets of downtown Boston or inside a church in Charleston, the serpents of hatred and intolerance are never far away, only waiting for the right moment, for the perfect opportunity to strike.

But Torah means “teaching,” and this weekly portion, for all its tales of woe, would never leave us, its students, bereft of wise instruction: Here is how you stay alive; here’s how you preserve your humanity in the wilderness.  Here is how you keep the Divine Image alive and strong within you.

First, be practical.  When water is scarce, dig wells.

Chapter 21, verse 17, reads, “Arise O well!”  These are words to a song the Israelites sang when water bubbled up in a well they had just dug, bringing renewed life and hope to our people.  Never again would we rely solely on miracles to give us water from the rock.  We learned that what it means to be partners with God, is that much of the work that needs to be done in this world is ours, not God’s, to do.  Whenever and wherever we see thirst around us, it is up to us to provide the water.  Be it want of sustenance, for love or safe harbor, it becomes our responsibility, as individuals and as a community, to respond to the need.

Or, as the ancient sages teach, “In a place where there is no mensch, be a mensch.” 

Next, the Torah instructs us on how to deal with loss and change:  Find someone qualified to take your place and smooth the path for him or her.

With Aaron about to die, God instructs Moses to take Aaron’s priestly garments and place them on Eleazar, Aaron’s son.  An eternal line of succession is thus established, one which will be replaced by a line of rabbis, each one well-educated and trained to take the place of his or her predecessor, each prepared to answer both to God and the People. 

To counter the Plague of Snakes, Moses hews a new staff, unfurling a banner with an ancient symbol on it.  Originally a symbol of fear, in Moses’s hand it turns into an instrument of hope.  As long as people look up and see this banner waving, fear will fall from them and they will find new strength to ward off evil.  For us, its meaning is that, if we are to survive as a community—in fact as the human race—we must create bridges to unite us.  We are commanded to build institutions that will be infused with the values we call holy: Along with gratitude and appreciation for the magnificence and diversity of God’s Creation, respect for one another; equality alongside love; justice alongside compassion.  Our most glorious architectural wonders would not be zyggurats, pyramids, or great walls.  Our constructs would be hospitals, schools, courts, houses of worship, and seats of lawful government. 

This is the message of hope and encouragement that Moses gives the Israelites in the Steppes of Moab, as they prepare to reach the end of their forty years in the wilderness.  The future is no longer an unknown to be feared; the future is in our hands to create and defend.  It is a bright morning as the people lift up their eyes. They are no longer afraid of change.  Come what will, with a song and a blessing in their hearts, with the Torah on their shoulder, they are ready to face the future with a joyful heart.

May the next stage of the journey of this k’hilla, this Holy Congregation, be similarly blessed with hope and courage.  May God bless you and watch over you. May God bless Israel, the dawning of hope for all who seek peace.  May God bless America, Land of the Free.

Chazak chazak v’nitchazek; be strong, be of good courage, and we shall all be strengthened.

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

© 2015 by Boaz D. Heilman

Holding High The Torch of Freedom: Korach

Holding High The Torch of Freedom: Korach

D’var Torah in the aftermath of the killings in Charleston, S.C.

by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week’s Torah portion, Korach (Numbers 16:1—18:32), describes an early event in the history of the nascent Jewish People, then still wanderers in the Sinai wilderness.  Korach, a Levite, raises an army in rebellion against Moses and Aaron, demanding that they be removed from power, or at least, be forced to share their power with others.

Of all Biblical characters, Korach is particularly sinister.  He is insidious.  His arguments reek of duplicity and manipulation.  Born to the same powerful clan of Levites as Moses and Aaron, his goals are ultimately to replace his cousins at the helm.  While claiming that all he wants is a more even distribution of power, he fully knows that his extra share will ultimately result in total control. 

Korach wants supreme and exclusive powers.  Moreover, he is willing to get it with no regard to consequences.  As it turns out, before the day is done, some 15,000 people will die as a result of Korach’s uprising.

As for Korach himself, his fate is described in two short sentences in the portion that bears his name.  Quite simply, the earth opens up and swallows up—while still alive—Korach and all that was his, including men, women and children.

This kind of boundless lust for power is one of the most dangerous characteristics of human beings.  The Bible, Shakespeare and all history are full of tales of murders and wars that result from people trying to seize ultimate power, desirous to be not only king or emperor, but, ultimately, a god.

The problem is, this toxic facet of humanity has not faded and gone away in time.  We see it still today, wreaking havoc and destruction both globally and also more locally.

The tragic shooting on Wednesday at the Emanuel A.M.E. Church in Charleston, S.C., is just such an act of madness and hatred.  Spewing racist epithets during his shooting rampage, the accused murderer claimed that he did it to provoke a race war.

Killing a pastor and unarmed men and women engaged in Bible study is the ultimate rebellion against God. 

To execute, in a house of God, an act for the purpose of causing a race war; to cause bloodshed based on ancient but deeply held prejudice and hatred, is an act of the most reprehensible evil.

A similar event took place early Thursday morning in Israel.  Though no lives were taken, extremists set ablaze an ancient church seated on the shore of the Sea Galilee.  Built to commemorate a New Testament miracle, the Catholic Church of Multiplication was sprayed with quotes from Hebrew prayers and the Torah before it was set on fire.

Again, an act of blasphemy, of swearing falsely in God’s name and of the taking of God’s name in vain.  This was an act of hatred without regard for rationale or consequences.  Beyond any practical goals, no matter how negligible and idiotic, what could the vandals hope for?  What were they thinking? Did they stop to consider the global condemnation that would surely follow, directed not at them, but at the entire State of Israel—especially during this time of fragile relationships even among friends?  Did they stop to consider the calls that are without a doubt bound to come, for retaliation in in-kind retribution?

Did they stop for a moment to consider the political ramifications, the further harm done to those who hope, pray and work for peace in a region so exhausted, so ravaged by over a century of terror, bloodshed and wars?

This week’s portion, Korach, does contain one beautiful and highly evocative image.  It is that of Aaron, the High Priest, running at Moses’s command to help stop a conflagration caused by God to punish the sinners among the Israelites.  The section describes Aaron standing (Numbers 17:13) “between the dead and the living,” holding high his incense pan.  This act of heroism is one we all can learn from.

Aaron ran—he did not walk, saunter, or meander from his purpose.  He ran “into the midst of the assembly.”  Unafraid, raising the banner of hope, freedom and love, Aaron singlehandedly stopped the inferno from escalating.

So must we now all rally, like Aaron, to stop the blight of hatred and prejudice that seems to overtake us at every turn.  Expressing our love for the families of those whose lives were so cruelly taken at Emanuel AME Church, conveying our care for the whole Charleston community, and our concern for the entire American people, we must stand united to teach those who commit such heinous crimes, who hold such odious opinions, that hatred has no chance against love.  That domination and oppression have no chance against our cherished values of freedom and equality.

And it must start right here, between the dead and the living, in the midst of our assembly.  Because it is right here, not at some distant place across mountains, rivers or seas, that the danger lies.  If we say or do nothing, we are part of the problem, not the solution.  Love and acceptance for one another are the true answer that we must all find within our souls, the true goal towards which we must all aim and work tirelessly to make real around us.

Before it’s too late.

© 2015 by Boaz D. Heilman

Of Grasshoppers, Snails and Leviathans: Shelach Lecha

Of Grasshoppers, Snails and Leviathans

D’var Torah for Parashat Sh’lach L’cha

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

A familiar Jewish joke tells of a rabbi who gets so carried away with his own humility that during Yom Kippur services, he falls prostrate before the Holy Ark, proclaiming, “I am nothing before You, O God.  Likewise moved, the cantor throws himself to the floor beside the rabbi, proclaiming, “Oh, God! Before You, I am nothing!”  Seeing them both, Shmulewicz, the caretaker of the synagogue, also prostrates himself, crying out, “Oh God! Before You I am nothing.”  The cantor nudges the rabbi, whispering, “Look who thinks he’s nothing!”

Sometime between birth and high school, our egos take a beating.  Maybe it happens the moment we realize our parents are not merely an extension of us, but are actually giants that live in their own world, parts of which we happen to share.

Or maybe the crucial moment comes later, when we realize that we are in reality minuscule particles of a huge, complex and largely incomprehensible world.

It’s no wonder so many teen agers are so cynical.  In their own lives, they haven’t had a chance yet to test the values they had been taught; and in looking around they see so much hypocrisy and falseness that somewhere along the line faith becomes the first casualty of reality as they perceive it.

Such is the inconstancy of perception.  A small problem becomes insurmountable, a molehill becomes a mountain, and a temper tantrum becomes total meltdown.

Wisdom comes later, after we learn to measure ourselves not against others, but rather against our own abilities and accomplishments.

As this week’s Torah portion, Sh’lach L’cha (“Send for yourself,” Numbers 13:1—15:41) opens, Moses sends spies into the Promised Land, to scout out the land and its inhabitants.  Bringing back wondrous examples of the fruitful nature of the land, the spies nevertheless also report that there are giants in the land, and that in their own eyes, they—the spies themselves, each a leader of his own tribe among the Tribes of Israel—seemed as negligible and small as grasshoppers.

The report—and the ensuing inevitable rebellion against Moses—results in tit-for-tat consequences.  The Israelites are condemned to wandering in the wilderness for 40 years, one year for each day that the spies spent scouting the Promised Land.

Seemingly harsh punishment, yet it achieves the desired result.  The years spent in the wilderness toughen the newborn people.  Harsh conditions harden them, and the many encounters with other tribes, nationalities and religions—both peaceful and violent—teach the Israelites to see themselves in a different, more objective, light.

But confidence—just like fearfulness—can become excessive.  What we all have to learn along life’s adventures is that self-reliance has its limits.  It’s good to be bold, but it’s better to rely on others too.  We depend on our community to help us; we pray to God to give us strength.  It’s in the combination of these forces that we become the strongest we can be. 

Perhaps that is the reason that this Torah portion closes with a description of the tzitzit, the commandment to attach fringes to a garment of clothing (as well as to the four corners of the tallit, the prayer shawl worn at some services).  Among the threads we are commanded to weave into the tzitzit is a blue thread, p’til t’cheylet. In ancient days, this blue thread was embroidered into beautiful curtains that adorned the Tent of Meeting as well as the official clothing worn by the High Priest. 

Much controversy arose around the particular shade of blue that t’cheylet denotes.  Commonly thought to be obtained from a snail confined to a small habitat along the northern seacoast of the Israel, there is little agreement about either which specific snail it was or its exact hue.  In the Talmud (BT Sotah 17a) we read, “Rabbi Meir used to say, ‘Blue resembles [the color of] the sea, the sea resembles heaven, and heaven resembles the Throne of Glory.’” 

Interwoven with spun threads of gold and silver, the blue thread, p’til t’cheylet, reminds us of our role and position in the universe—somewhere between the secretion of a lowly snail and the jewel in the crown of God’s creation.

Perhaps the inclusion of the blue thread into the magnificent weaving of the Tabernacle, the High Priest’s clothing and the ordinary garments of Jews throughout the centuries is meant to remind us both of our humble origins and of our glorious aspirations. Sh’lach L’cha explains that when we see the blue thread in the fringes of our clothing we remember to follow God’s commandments. It is so that we bring holiness into our lives.

In the larger scheme, we are no more than a grasshopper.  At the same time, however, our potential is as exalted as heaven itself.  Sh’lach L’cha reminds us that it doesn’t take much to fell even the mightiest among us, but that even the lowliest creature can be raised to a standing of holiness. Our true worth lies not in how much gold and silver we amass, but rather in our ability to use the full range and extent of the gifts we have been granted.

May we come to see the holiness in ourselves as well as in one another, regardless of color, hue or form.

© 2015 by Boaz D. Heilman