Blessings of the Past, Blessings of the Future: Va-Yechi.18

Blessings of the Past, Blessings of the Future

D’var Torah for Parashat Va-yechi

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week’s Torah portion, Va-yechi(Genesis 47:28—50:26) brings to a close the first book of the Torah, Genesis.  With this portion we reach also the end of the saga of Jacob’s life. A new eon in Israel’s history is about to begin, along with a transformation that transcends time and tradition.

Knowing that he is about to die, Jacob calls in his sons for his final blessing, promising to tell them their future. It is one of the most poetic and beautiful of all portions in the Bible—and also one of the most difficult to understand. Many of the words have multiple and esoteric meanings. The writing relies on poetic devices such as alliteration, word-play and symbolism rather than literalism and clarity. What emerges is a mysterious reckoning in which past, present and future intertwine. Rather than fortune telling, what Jacob actually does is show his sons a path—a road map if you will—into the future, giving them direction, goal and purpose. The future, Jacob seems to say, is based on our past; at the same time, however, if it is to emerge and take shape as we would wish, it will depend in no small measure on our own actions and behavior going forward.

As his twelve sons approach one by one, Jacob reminds them of things they themselves may have forgotten. There’s Reuben, the first born and therefore—at least by ancient tradition—first in line for leadership. Jacob, however, admonishes Reuben; he is hasty and impatient; he is overzealous and fails to carry through even the best of intentions. At his worst, he is immoral and unethical. He will be passed over for the position of leadership. Next come Simeon and Levi, but they too have serious hurdles to overcome: past experience proves that they rely too much on their sword and are too given to anger, excitement and violence.  Even Judah, the fourth son—and here Jacob seems to tell Judah that he knows fully well how he had betrayed his brother, Joseph, and sold him to slave traders—has much of the blood-thirsty animal in him. Yet Judah, unlike his brothers, has repented for his misdeeds; he has accepted responsibility not only for past sins, but also for the future well-being of the entire family. In his blessing, Jacob portrays Judah as a lion, fierce not only in the pursuit of food, but also in defense of his pride and people. It is Judah, Jacob foretells, who will become the leader of the Israelites, and who will show them the path forward through strength, courage and faith.

Each of the brothers is recognized for specific abilities; each is empowered by Jacob’s blessing to persevere in his path; each is encouraged to retain his uniqueness and individuality while yet continuing to contribute to the welfare of the entire people.

In this respect, Jacob’s blessing transcends that of his fathers. Unlike Abraham and Isaac, who bestowed their final blessing on only one of two sons (Abraham had exiled Ishmael, and Isaac has little to offer Esau after giving Jacob the birthright and blessing of God), Jacob offers his blessing to allhis sons, forging a bond between them that even history will not be able to break.

Biblical scholars and commentators argue over the specific content and meaning of Jacob’s blessings. Yet what does emerge as clear as light from this beautiful portion is the image of Jacob’s humility, of his ultimate humanity. Of the three Patriarchs of the Jewish People, Jacob is the one most like us. Maybe that’s why in this portion he is referred to almost exclusively as Israel, the name given to him by God and the name by which we, his descendants, will be known, rather than as Jacob, the name given him at birth.

In his own story, Abraham appears almost superhuman. He walks with God, he talks with God, he even argueswith God. A man of powerful faith, Abraham’s heroism and prowess make him legendary in his own time, a figure of astonishment and admiration. Even today he is seen as the founder of three of the world’s major faiths—Judaism, Christianity and Islam.

Isaac, on the other hand, is wounded; he is a damaged hero, long-suffering, malleable and acquiescent. He does not rebel; he does as he is told, fully aware that he is no more than an instrument in the hands of God and people. 

But Jacob comes off as the most realistically drawn of the three. He has his strengths, to be sure, but also weaknesses. We can identify with his evolution, his transformation from youth to old age, from self-sufficiency to dependence, from doubt to faith. The journey that is Jacob’s life is one that each of us must traverse.  He is not without faults, yet he learns from his mistakes. He attempts to repair any damage he may have caused. At times he succeeds, yet at other times he can’t help but pass down deep-seated habits and traits. Having taken advantage of parental preference (his mother always didlove him best), he continues this unfair practice, promising both Joseph andJudah a royal and even messianic future, thus practically guaranteeing that the rivalry between them will continue well into the future. Old habits are hard to break.

Jacob is the eternal Jew, an everyman for all seasons. At his deathbed, he is overcome by the emotion and love he feels for his family; and then, sensing his vitality slipping away, he prays to God for just a bit more time, for sustenance, for deliverance. 

Jacob’s final blessing is the blessing of strength. He has learned that God is the ultimate source of courage and hope, yet he also knows that true strength must come also from within the individual, as well as from his surrounding community. In order to survive, he tells his sons, they must be strong.

From his own experience, he knows that the flip side of success is jealousy. Years earlier, he had seen hatred directed at him because of his own talents and abilities. Later, he wasn’t blind to the loathing that Josephs’ brothers felt for the son he had favored. At this point, at the close of his life, even with Joseph at the pinnacle of his career, Jacob senses the resentment that the Egyptians feel toward Joseph and his brothers. Power is fickle, he knows: here today, gone tomorrow. Jacob’s message, his living will to his family and people, is to remain strong and unified. Only so will they overcome the dangers that loom ahead. The people’s survival may depend on God’s grace. Their strength, however, will come from their unity, from their single-minded purposefulness.

It is to that end that Jacob bestows his final blessing on allhis children, even going so far as to include Joseph’s two children, born in the Diaspora and shaped by their life as young princes, carefree, culturally assimilated and spoiled by power and riches.

Israel’s endurance as a people is a promise made by God to a lonely and aged visionary, long ago on top of a bare mountain. Repeated and reinforced countless times since then, this promise still holds true. Yet history has proven to us that our survival does not depend only on God. Nor is it guaranteed by our good deeds. Righteousness carries into the future, yes, but perseverance is as much the outcome of strength and unity as it is the fulfillment of misty-eyed visions. It is up to us, as individuals and as a people, to fulfill not only our spiritual duty to God, but also our physical obligation to Life. Our continuity depends on our strength and our unity.

Jacob’s last moments represent the end of an era in our People’s life. A new stage of our history is about to begin. Israel, the man, is about to become Israel, the People. Inspired by the principles of justice and compassion, this nation will forever be guided by an image of life not only as it is, but also as it canbe. The messianic ideal envisioned by Jacob will always be there before our eyes, teaching us to see the potential implanted in every living being; to recognize the ability within each of us to fall—and then to rise again; to overcome failure—and find ourselves stronger for it, always and forever reaching for the highest ideals. 

Chazak chazak v’nit-chazek: May we be strong and of good courage. May we continue to  strengthen one another with the blessings of the past and the blessings of the future.

KYR, may this be God’s will.

© 2018 by Boaz D. Heilman

Living Lights: A Hanukkah Story

Living Lights

A Hanukkah Story

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

“Our eyes register the light of dead stars.” So begins one of the most powerful books I ever read, The Last of the Just, by Andre Schwarz-Bart. What the author meant, of course, is that when we look up at the beautiful night skies, the lights we see up there—the stars in their constellations, the galaxy our own planet resides in, and other, more distant stars and planets—are nothing but reminders of what once was, but is no more. What we see is light that has traveled for eons before it finally reaches our eyes.

These tiny lights that pierce the darkness are actually all that remains of huge, mega-explosions that, because of their great distance, seem no more than tiny pin pricks in the dark cover that surrounds our own planet, Earth.

The little Hanukkah candles that we lit tonight are a bit like that. We see little lights, each burning for perhaps twenty minutes.  Yet when we put them all together, as we did here earlier tonight, how brightly they shine—how much light they actually shed! Their tiny flames join together into a great light, spreading warmth and happiness all around.  Sometimes, sitting around the menorah and looking at these dancing lights, we can almost hear them tell their stories, tales of wars and heroes, of darkness and light, of fear and redemption.

The first Hanukkah, more than two thousand years ago, didn’t start out a holiday. It was a war. A terrible and cruel war in which people did terrible things to one another.  It was the middle of winter, a cold winter at that, and throughout the land, oil—used to cook and provide light—was getting scarce. Many of the trees had been cut down, both to serve as fuel and to make weapons out of.  The meager few trees that remained weren’t watered or nourished properly, and many died because of disease.  Food was in short supply. It was a difficult time for all.  From the higher hilltops you could see villages all around that had been set afire by the Greeks. Everywhere, you heard stories of how it was forbidden to teach Hebrew, to sing Hebrew songs, to learn Torah.

Little by little, the people of Judea began to lose hope, and one by one, lights went out. First it was that window that remained dark at night, then another, and another, until in the end every village was dark, and quiet, and hopeless.

It wasn’t only the Greeks that Judah the Maccabee had to fight. It was also the hopelessness he saw all around.  “You can’t win,” people said to him.  “The Greeks are giants! They ride elephants! They have armor that arrows cannot pierce! There are too many of them!”

And everywhere he went Judah tried to convince the Jews that they should never lose hope, that God will yet lead them to victory and to freedom.  Perhaps here and there a person would stop and listen.  A child would not her head and say, “We can do it, Judah, I believe in you.”

There were many tough battles. Many brave Jews were badly injured and had to be carried off the field. Some luckier ones limped back to their homes, leaning on the stronger arms or shoulders of their still-standing fellow soldiers.  Still, little by little, Judah made his way to Jerusalem, leading his brave brothers and the small but dedicated army they were able to gather around themselves.

One dark, moonless and starless night, Judah set out by himself to spy on the Greek armies that had occupied Jerusalem.  He left his horse tethered to a tree a few hundred yards back, walked as quietly as he could until he had to stop, not wanting to be seen by guards. From afar he could tell that the Temple wasn’t in good repair.  On a good day during peaceful times, you could see all the way from Modi’in, Judah’s home village, the smoke cloud that hovered over the Temple. It was the smoke of the many sacrifices the priests were offering day and night. This night, however, from his hiding spot behind some rocks, the only smoke Judah could see was from the many campfires the Greeks had set on the Temple mount.  Some time ago already, they had used up the last of the Temple’s precious supply of pure olive oil.  Now they were burning looted furniture from abandoned homes—empty cupboards, broken tables, chairs left behind in a panic.  Creeping ever closer, Judah could hear the sound of breaking glass, the raucous laughter and lewd songs of the drunken soldiers.

At one point Judah had gotten dangerously close to one of the guards the Greeks had posted around the city. At that distance, he could have easily picked him off. But the sentry’s absence the next day would have been noticed, giving warning to the Greeks that all was not as secure as they had deluded themselves into believing.

Judah knew his small army wasn’t ready yet for the big battle.  Yes, God was on our side, but that wouldn’t be enough in facing the two full garrisons of heavily armed Greeks that Antiochus, the mad Syrian king, had placed in the Temple compound.  If Judah and his Maccabees were going to win this one—and it was essential that they did—they would have to rely on the element of surprise.  So Judah held his breath while the Greek guard walked by, just a few yards away.  There were others, Judah knew.  From his nightly vigil and from the reports of other spies, Judah knew that the guards were posted in groups of four or five; that every few minutes they huddled together for some warmth, then would resume their watch.  And so he crouched silently behind the craggy rock, quiet as a mouse.

Just for fun, he picked up a stone, measured in his mind the distance between him and the guard now pacing away from him, then threw it towards the Greek.  The stone flew the measured distance and landed in a small bush just a few inches away from the soldier. Two birds that had taken refuge in it for the night took sudden flight, crying out in their panic.  Judah saw the Greek soldier jump and practically faint of fear.  He held back his laughter, watching as the Greek swore, took out his sword and started waving it at the darkness, cutting nothing but air.  Two of his fellow guardsmen ran to him, making a racket with their clattering shields and swords, scattering rocks and mice along the way. Judah felt nothing but contempt for them.

When the three soldiers were satisfied that there was no danger there, they laughed in some embarrassment. Then they decided they had had it for one night.  They sat down under a tree and took out a skin of wine, passing it from one to the other.  They talked a little bit about how boring this war had become.  Then one of them began to sing softly a song of the home country.  It told of the quiet hills of Greece, where their homes and families were waiting for them, where a pretty young girl was standing at the shore of the sea, looking out toward the horizon, hoping to see the white sails that meant her sweetheart was coming home to her.  Pretty soon, soothed by the wine and the song, they fell asleep.

Judah stood tall.  For a moment he thought whether to leave a sign that he was there.  Something small—perhaps just take some of their armor or weapons so that, when they woke up the next morning, they would wonder whether any of it had happened, who was there, and whether they might be in trouble with their captain.  But he decided not to do even that.  The less they knew, the less prepared they would be for the battle when it came.

Many days later, when Judah had entered Jerusalem at the head of his army, when he proudly lit the Temple menorah with that last can of untainted oil that he had found, he thought of that night.  He remembered the darkness and the cold he had felt hiding behind the big rock. For a moment he felt ashamed.  A man shouldn’t have to hide who he is or what he is.  No man named Judah, no proud daughter of Israel, must ever hide in fear again.  Looking at the bright lights dancing over the menorah, Judah took an oath.  Never again would people be afraid to study Torah. Never again would Hebrew be a forgotten language.  Never again would Jews cower like mice in the dark and cold.  Not the lights of long-dead stars, but rather the great light of the menorah would remind them.  Tomorrow, the next day and the day after that.  As Judah watched the flames and the halos that surrounded them, he knew this:  That year after year, century after century, Jews will remember this night, when the Temple menorah burnt bright again.  That thousands of years from now, they would celebrate this night with family and friends, with songs and good food, and that they would never be afraid again.

The war wasn’t over yet, Judah was well aware of that.  There was much to do yet before the last Greek soldier was chased out of Judea. But Judah’s heart was filled with gladness and hope.  Jerusalem was in the hands of the Jewish People again.

Judah lifted his voice in prayer and song, thanking God for always being there for us.  

© 2018 by Boaz D. Heilman