Dear Senator Leahy

March 30, 2016

Senator Patrick J. Leahy

199 Main Street, 4^th Floor

Burlington, VT 05401

Dear Senator Leahy,

I am writing to express my deep disappointment in the letter you signed requesting that the State Department investigate “gross violations of human rights” that the State of Israel may have committed.

I find your action deplorable in light of the political reality of the area.  Israel is in a position of having to defend itself against governments and organizations that for decades now have called for its annihilation. Iran recently launched missiles marked “Israel must be wiped out.”  Ongoing incitement in Arab mosques and schools teaches Palestinians of all ages—including children in preschool!—that they can reach the highest glory by killing Jews.  Corrupt regimes that thrive on graft and theft (where have all the millions of dollars in donations sent by world countries gone to? Palaces, Swiss bank accounts and attack tunnels, that’s where!) keep sending out terrorists to stab, shoot, stone and firebomb Israeli men, women, children and even babies (Americans among them, as I am sure you know). 

But you choose to investigate ISRAEL for “gross violations of human rights.”

Senator Leahy, you are an intelligent man.  I believe that because otherwise you would not have achieved your honorable status as US Senator and past President pro tempore of the United States Senate.  But if so, your letter shows either ignorance or prejudice (or worse).  It puts your entire party to shame, not to mention the US Government.

I have voted for the Democratic Party for nearly 50 years now.  I believe in the social agenda of the Democratic Party.  But for the past eight years (and in particular since the 2014 Israel-Gaza War) I have felt let down by its leadership.  Your letter caps it all.  I don’t know how I could possibly vote for a Republican this coming November, but I also don’t know how I could vote for a Democrat either.

Senator Leahy, I am a rabbi.  My Jewish heritage, which I have studied in depth and of which I am extremely proud, has taught me at least two things:

1) to be a good human being;

2) that I have a right to defend myself.

When I look at the State of Israel, I see it acting in accordance with these two major principles.  I will not claim that Israel is perfect.  It is not.  But it acts as a good will agent throughout the world.  I am sure I don’t need to point out the countless countries and peoples it has helped in agriculture, trade, technology, health and security, among others.  At times of disasters, both natural and man-made, Israel has been there to help (including New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina).

In terms of its humanity, Israel has been—and continues to be—a huge light unto the nations, particularly the other regimes of the area.

In defending itself, Israel has demonstrated time and time again its highest principles.  No other country in the world has tried so hard—and at such high cost of life and limb to its own soldiers and civilian population—to avoid committing “gross violations of human rights.”

Have there been times when violations of its highest principles occurred?  Without a doubt.  But these have nearly always been inadvertent; as a result of military decisions made by Israel’s enemies (such as launching rockets from densely populated areas, UNWRA-run schools and hospitals); and sometimes as a result of the emotions that come out during battle and war.  You only need ask any American veteran whether he or she has witnessed such violations during his or her service.  I am sure the answer will be the same.

As a child of Holocaust survivors, I learned that self-defense is not only a human reaction to violence, but a Commandment from God.  As a rabbi, I teach not only to be as good a person as you can be, but also to defend yourself as best as you can.

Senator Leahy, I urge you with all due respect to re-examine the facts and either rescind your letter or urge the US State Department also to undertake a thorough investigation of the “gross violations of human rights” committed against Israelis, Americans, Jews and non-Jews in Israel, the US, Argentina and elsewhere around the world; and against innocent Muslim men, women and children—all under the guise of “legitimate rights.”

Respectfully,

Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Dust Speck Into Star Dust: Esther’s Sacrifice (Vayikra)

Dust Speck Into Star Dust: Esther’s Sacrifice

D’var Torah for Parashat Vayikra

March 18, 2016

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

I know, I know.  It isn’t Purim yet.  The calendar says we have another few days before this joyous holiday begins.

So I hope if I’m forgiven if I get in the mood early.  I guess it’s only natural:  Nobody anticipates sad occasions; but happy ones?  Who can wait??

And, truth be told, I don’t really want to focus on the revelry the holiday calls for, nor on the miraculous nature of our people’s redemption.

In light of this week’s Torah portion—Vayikra (“God Called,” Lev. 1:1—5:26)—I want instead to focus on sacrifices, particularly the sacrifices offered by Mordechai, Esther and the rest of the Persian Jewish community as told in Megillat Esther, the Scroll of Esther.

At first reading, Esther is as different from Vayikra as night and day. There are no sacrifices mentioned in the Scroll.  In fact, The Scroll of Esther makes no mention of any religion, ritual, God or gods. The Hebrew word that today is used for “religion,” dat, appears perhaps half a dozen times, but in each case it refers to the king’s laws and has nothing at all to do with religion.

But there is more than God or religion that is missing in Esther.  There is no Jewish ritual at all—no sacrifice, prayer or holiday celebration.  Yes, Mordechai is called “Yehudi” (a Jew).  But the term refers not to his faith, but rather to his ethnicity.  He is Yehudi, a Judean, by nationality.  Mordechai is a high-ranking member of the Judean community that was exiled to Babylon from the Kingdom of Judea, one of the many who chose not to return to Judea even when the Persian kings Cyrus and Darius permitted the rebuilding of Jerusalem.

So what kind of sacrifice did he, Esther, or for that matter anyone else of their community—make?  They were successful; they did not have to ward off constant attacks; they were well integrated into the general population; they were comfortable.

Yet there was sacrifice.

Esther and Mordechai’s sacrifice was much more subtle than that of the rebuilders and defenders of Jerusalem.  Leviticus describes the spectacle that surrounded the ritual at the Temple.  There was no mistaking the blowing of trumpets, the smell of burning animal hide and flesh, the aromas of spices and incense that accompanied the offering.  The ministering priests wore the most ornate vestments; they followed the prescribed ritual to the letter, and the flames and smoke from the altar reached far and wide.

No such pageantry for the Jews of Persia, however.  Instead, their sacrifice consisted of those many little things that they did differently from their neighbors.  Perhaps not even in the food they ate, but rather in the customs and laws they followed; in the moral code they obeyed; and in the restraint they showed when everyone else lost themselves in the frenzy of drunkenness or fury of war. 

When Haman issues the edict condemning all Jews—men, women and children—to be killed, he doesn’t stop just there.  He permits and even encourages the looting of the Jews’ possessions.  When the tables are turned however, when the Jews rise to defend themselves, they control their desire for vengeance.  In self-defense, they kill only those who come to attack them; they do not attack women and children; and they do not engage in looting and pillaging.

The Jews prove themselves different in the moral and ethical choices they make.

But perhaps the most telling sacrifices in the story are the psychological ones.  For among other things, the Scroll of Esther is about pride and humility.

Haman is all about pride.  His quest for power is unquenchable.  It isn’t enough for Haman to be promoted to chief vizier; he craves the ultimate power—first of king, then of a god.  He practically makes a grab for Ahasuerus’s crown and royal garb.  He even tries to control fate, casting lots (“the pur”) to determine the precise date for his nefarious plot.  The culture to which Haman and Ahasuerus belong is one that worships power and lust.  Theirs was a society of greed, recognizing no bounds or restraints.  The gods they worshipped were nothing more than mere reflections of their own shortcomings.

Mordechai, on the other hand, reflects a much different attitude. He recognizes limits; he understands that control over events is not always possible; he admits his doubts and uncertainty.  Despite his high public position, Mordechai is not above humbling himself.  Facing a dangerous and uncertain fate, Mordechai puts on sackcloth and ashes (scandalizing Esther and the Court).  Mordechai recognizes the limits of his own power.  He is powerless over fate, he is even powerless before the young woman he had raised as his own daughter, whom he now has to ask, cajole and beg to act on behalf of the Jewish Nation.

“Who knows,” he says to Esther, “Who knows but that you were placed in this position for just such a purpose and obligation.”

Unlike the arrogant and foolish Haman, the humble and wise Mordechai truly understands the fundamental truth that nothing in this world is ever certain.  The best we can do is try to reach our goals, but in reality nothing is guaranteed.  There is a limit to human knowledge, understanding and even potential.

And what of Esther herself?  What sacrifices does she have to make?  Leaving her warm and secure home for the royal court, ever filled with intrigue, debauchery and immorality? Leaving behind friends and loving family? Having to hide her true identity, to watch every word she says, to think before she does anything lest she betray herself?  These are only some of the sacrifices Esther makes.  The truly remarkable one, however, comes when she accepts her fate and destiny, despite the grave danger.  Her three-day fast (which she imposes also on her court attendants as well as on the entire Jewish community of Shushan) is not so much a religious fast as it is symbolic of grief and mourning.  In agreeing to take her fate—and the fate of her entire people—into her hands, Esther’s recognizes and accepts the very real danger and possibility that she will be put to death.

The moment she faces and comes to terms with her own mortality is the moment that Esther transforms from victim—a mere trifle, a pawn in palace and political intrigues—to survivor.  It takes a real sacrifice to turn from a cartoon character into a real person.  It is the willingness to offer one’s own life on behalf of others that turns a person into a hero.  It is precisely that which makes a person truly great, turning him or her from a speck of dust into a true, shining star in the dark firmament.

The sacrifices that Parashat Vayikra asks from us, whether they be a ram, a lamb or a pinch of salt, pale by comparison.

    Acknowledgment:  For his keen understanding of the cultural milieu of Esther and Mordechai 

   Ha-Yehudim, I am indebted to Jon D. Levenson, Esther: A Commentary (Louisville, Kentucky:          Westminster John Knox Press, 1997).  

© 2016 by Boaz D. Heilman

Building A House United: Vayakhel

Building A House United: Vayakhel

D’var Torah by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The Book of Exodus, the second in the Five Book of Moses, is filled with miracles and marvels.  Its imagery has captivated humanity for thousands of years, reflected in works of art, sculpture, music, at least one opera and several movies.

There’s no question that the Ten Plagues and the Parting of the Red Sea, the highlights of Exodus, are some of the most brilliant scenes in all literature.  Certainly the giving of the Ten Commandments, incised by God’s own hand on two tablets of stone before an awe-struck Moses, is another such magnificent moment.

But there are other, somewhat less celebrated scenes.  Michaelangelo best captured Moses’s dismay when, descending from Mt. Sinai with the Two Tablets of the Law in his hands, Moses sees the downfall of his people.  Having lost faith in ever seeing Moses again, the Israelites constructed an image of God—a golden calf—and have begun celebrating and offering sacrifices to the idol.  In the famous statue by the great sculptor and architect, Moses’s face reflects anger and pain, but also disbelief.  Only a few weeks had passed since the Israelites saw God’s power and outstretched mighty hand, and already they are swayed in another, much more dangerous path.

The Torah does not give the name of the instigator who directed the ancient Israelites to their spiraling downfall in the desert; it does not identify the ringleader who led the people astray in search of a material god.  Doubtless it was some envious, power-hungry megalomaniac, who sensed the people’s frustration with what they perceived as lack of vision and direction.  Seeing Moses’s long absence as his opportunity to seize control, this false messiah suggested another path, one paved with hate, anger and resentment. Almost blindly, the Israelites began to follow him.  Yet in the end all he succeeded in doing was to cause chaos and destruction.  The rules that governed the young and fragile nation of Israel fell apart—or were set aside—in favor of lawlessness and immorality.  Israel was a house divided, sinking deeper into an abyss of its own creation.

Fortunately, the story of Exodus does not end there.  There are actually two redemptions in Exodus—one brought about by God, the other by Moses and the Israelites.  It’s easy to lose sight of the second redemption, which occurs at the end of the book, and there are a couple of reasons for that.  First, how can anything even begin to compare to the scene of the Red Sea parting?  The storytelling and the visual imagery are nothing short of magnificent, and everything else pales in comparison. But there’s another reason why we don’t always notice the second redemption:  Too many details. Sometimes one loses sight of the forest for the trees, and this is definitely a case in point.

I am speaking of the last four portions of the Book of Exodus, which deal with the construction of the Tabernacle, the portable temple that the Israelites will carry with them as they wander in the Sinai Wilderness for the next forty years.  Quite frankly, these portions are boring.  Step-by-step instructions are given, repeated and reiterated.  Precise measurements are painstakingly specified.  The materials to be used, the forms to be shaped—everything is meticulously detailed, described and labeled.  At first reading, this is no more than a glorified shopping list for a do-it-yourself Home Depot contractor.

And yet, between the lines, hidden in the scrupulous attention to detail and instruction, something truly miraculous begins to happen.

Beyond the magnificence and opulence of the Tabernacle, the most essential quality of this glorious edifice is that it be must be done through volunteerism and the generosity of the people.  No one is commanded to participate; no one is expected to contribute more than the uplift of spirit encourages him or her to do.

Amazingly, everyone has something that they can offer.  From the rarest and most expensive materials, metals and gems, down to the most ordinary resources readily available to everyone in the community; from the highest and most specialized artistry and craftsmanship down to the most common skills—everyone had something to offer, and everyone joyfully offered what they could. 

It was a true miracle!  The Israelites responded to the call for donations and volunteerism and in a way that never happened before or ever would again.  They gave more than was necessary.  Moses actually had to issue a call to halt the non-stop offering—there was already more than enough! 

Now there’s fundraising!  There’s community building!  There is nation building!

This is the story of the second redemption in the book of Exodus.  The first was the freeing of the Israelites from Egyptian bondage.  The second was their astounding rise from the terrible fall they brought upon themselves in the incident of the Golden Calf.  The first redemption was God-made; the second was of their own doing—and I wonder which is the greater.  After all, we can expect miracles from God.  But human-wrought wonders?  A much more difficult feat, in my opinion.

It is a magnificent story.  However, beyond being a tale of miracles and marvels, this week’s Torah portion, Vayakhel (Exodus 35:1—38:20), is also a cautionary tale.  It’s a lesson in good guidance versus dangerous, controlling and misleading leadership.  One leads to recovery and reclamation, the other to chaos and destruction.  It’s a lesson well wrought for our own times.

In this year of national elections, we have been witness to one of the most infantile, raucous and divisive campaigns.  One would expect Presidential candidates to model aspects of the important office of President of the United States of America. Yet what we have been seeing is adults behaving in a way that would not be tolerated in children.  The result has been not only ugly divisiveness but also a dangerous rise and reaffirmation of groups that espouse violence and hatred.  Based on past experiences and the lessons of history, these are dangerous signs.

Democracy may not be perfect, but it is the best system of government that humanity has thus far devised.  It enables every one of us to contribute in whatever way we can—with monetary contributions, with the work of our hands, or simply with words of support and encouragement.  The building and—as necessary—the repair work of our nation should never be disruptive or anarchic.  It should rather bring the people of our nation together.  Vayakhel does not mean merely to gather groups of people.  Rather, Vayakhel means to unite them, to give them purpose, to turn them into a nation.  Moses did that by giving the Israelites a sacred goal—the construction of the Tabernacle.  What he actually succeeded in doing was to bring out the best in each of us.  That is the sign of great leadership, and this is precisely what our leaders should be asking of us.  Not to shun, insult or push away those who disagree with us, but rather to engage us all in dialogue; to enable each of us to bring forth what we can for the common good; and to recognize and thank every citizen for his and her contributions—past and ongoing—to the building, maintenance and constant repair of our nation and country.

This is how you build a house united.  This is how you turn this country—and in fact, the entire world—into a sacred Tabernacle, a place where God’s glory can actually dwell in and be seen by all for all its beauty, grandeur and potential.

That is the true lesson not only of Vayakhel, but also of the entire Book of Exodus—a book that is all about what it means to be free. 

May the words of our mouths, the meditations of our hearts and the deeds of our hands be acceptable in the building of this ever-renewing Tabernacle unto our God.  Amen.

© 2016 by Boaz D. Heilman