Joseph and Judah: A Tale Of Two Brothers, One Religion (Vayigash.20)

 Joseph and Judah: A Tale Of Two Brothers, One Religion

D’var Torah for Parashat Vayigash

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

December 25, 2020

This week’s Torah portion, Vayigash (Genesis 44:18-47:27), contains the tearful climax of the story of Joseph and his brothers. It also presents us with the dual aspects of the Jewish religion, faith and action, and has us consider the role that each plays in our life.

The story line is famous. Joseph, as we remember, was Jacob’s favorite son, first born of his beloved wife Rachel. Jacob’s preferential treatment, however, works (as expected) in a divisive manner, causing jealousy and hatred. Sent by Jacob to inquire about his brothers’ welfare, Joseph heads for Shechem, only to find them gone. Lost in the fields, he encounters a stranger who tells him that his brothers have moved on to Dothan along with their flocks. Joseph proceeds to find them there.

But upon seeing him from a distance, the brothers come up with their own ideas—first to murder him, and then, on rethinking, to sell him as a slave to a caravan of Ishmaelite traders. 

Joseph finds himself in Egypt, where his knack for interpreting dreams lands him in Pharaoh’s palace—and with a job he could only dream of, overlord over the entire Egyptian population, second in power only to Pharaoh himself.

One of those famines of Biblical scale ensues, forcing all those affected to go to Egypt and purchase food at the hands of Joseph. Among them is Joseph’s family. The brothers do not recognize him. Years have passed; the boy he once was has grown up and now appears before them in full royal regalia. Joseph, however, immediately recognizes them. We can only imagine what goes on in his mind at that moment.

Faced with the two options of revenge or reconciliation, Joseph sets his brothers up for all sorts of misadventures. He secretly returns their money, forces them to bring Benjamin—his younger brother, also born of Rachel—to him, then accuses Benjamin of theft and the rest of them of espionage and treason. The calamity forces Judah—who, years earlier, had come up with the idea of selling Joseph into slavery in the first place—to confess. But rather than asking for mercy for himself and his brothers, Judah asks Joseph to show pity for Jacob, who now stands to lose the second of his most beloved children. The realization that Judah’s remorse is sincere leads Joseph to tearfully reveal his true identity to his brothers. Comforting them, he says,  “Do not be distressed and do not be angry with yourselves for selling me here, because it was to save lives that God sent me ahead of you” (Gen. 45:5, NIV). 

While reminding his brothers of their wrongdoing, Joseph also invokes his deep belief that it was all God’s doing. Every step of the journey was pre-determined, programmed by Providence to save the life of the family—and thus also of the entire Jewish People.

The belief in Providence (hashgacha in Hebrew) is deeply embedded within every religion. God’s power over all life is complete and pre-determined. Yes, we still have choice, but it is limited to two possibilities: we can give ourselves freely to God’s will, or rebel against it. Joseph comforts his brothers, yet his message contains a troubling thought: that our choices do not matter. God has set everything up, and willy-nilly we end up doing exactly what God had meant us to do all along.

Judah, however, has a different viewpoint. Over the course of his life, from that first moment when he chose to sell Joseph to the Ishmaelites through the shameful incident with his daughter-in-law Tamar, Judah has finally reached a different kind of wisdom. Remorse has led him to understand that our actions carry consequences. At this point of the story, he isn’t so much concerned with pre-determination. It’s Jacob’s grief, caused by his—Judah’s—wrongdoings, that he cannot bear any longer. 

As this Torah portion begins, Judah steps forward (the meaning of the Hebrew word vayigash). He realizes that the only way out of the predicament is to make public confession and offer reparation. Judah’s series of actions—stepping up, owning his mistakes and trying to make amends—is essential to Jewish belief, perhaps even more so than Joseph’s belief in an all-controlling and manipulating God.

To be sure, Joseph’s belief does offer hope to humanity. All that suffering, all that sadness and pain that fill our life, all have a place in God’s inscrutable plan. 

But Judaism—the belief of Judah—goes beyond this simplistic view. It places much of the responsibility on our shoulders. Yes, there is suffering and great misery, and only God knows why; however, relief and consolation are in our power. We can bring solace and comfort. We can alleviate some of that pain. Hope and Redemption are not only in God’s hands; they are equally within our own, human, abilities.

These two philosophies are at the wellspring of every religion. Some faiths focus more on one or the other. Judaism, however, combines them into one. Judaism’s understanding of causality leads us to the awareness of God’s power not only to create but also to set up a multitude of possibilities, each with its own set of consequences. But simultaneously, Judaism places the responsibility for our choices squarely upon our shoulders. While Joseph’s beliefs lead to a more messianic approach to life—that all is in God’s hands—Judah’s insight is more practical and hands-on. His perspective gives us human beings a far greater role in what happens to us.

In some ways, the story of Joseph and Judah is the story of religion itself. Throughout human history, the two ways of believing have given rise to conflicts, war and terror. The invaluable lesson that Vayigash would have us learn, however, is that the two are not mutually exclusive. Faith does not stand alone; it should lead us to acts of love, reconciliation and responsibility. And while righteous behavior does not necessarily have to come from faith, invariably it leads to it.

There are factual and historical reasons behind the name that we Jews give our religion. But there is also another reason. Joseph may have saved the Jewish People, but it was Judah who instilled within us the seeds of our religion, a combination of faith and action that has proven its success and truth throughout our history. 

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Seventh Candle: Hanukkah.20

 

Hanukkah: The Seventh Candle 

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

December 16, 2020

A few moments ago I lit the seventh candle of Hanukkah on the chanukiah (the Hanukkah candelabra) perched on my study’s windowsill. This year’s celebration of the holiday is nearly over (one more candle to be lit), but its spirit still survives, as it has for nearly 2200 years now.

Hanukkah was born in darkness, out of war, oppression and prejudice. What had started as a rebellion against a cruel tyrant  turned into a war of survival—not the first nor the last for the Jewish People. The victory of Judah the Maccabee became the stuff legends are made of. As we know and retell it, Judah entered Jerusalem and quickly made his way to the Holy Temple, which he found desolate and desecrated. Judah cleansed the Temple, rebuilt the sacrificial altar, and rededicated it (chanukah is the Hebrew word for dedication). But when he came to light the menorah—the seven-branch, gold candelabra that stood at the entrance to the Temple—they couldn’t find any  pure olive oil for its lights. After searching all over, the Maccabees finally discovered one sealed cruse of oil that still had the stamp of the High Priest on it. In it was enough oil for one night; yet by a miracle, this small amount lasted eight nights instead.

At least, so goes the legend.

The real story behind the rededication of the Temple is more complicated.  At least two versions of events exist—the first in the apocryphal Books of the Maccabees, the other in Antiquities of the Jews, history as told by Josephus Flavius, a Judean expatriate who lived in Rome in the first century CE. 

But the famous miracle of the oil makes its first appearance even later than that, in a tractate of the Talmud.

Since then, the meaning of the holiday and its wonders has continued to evolve. The appellation “Hellenizer” (at first applied to those Judeans who, for one reason or another, sided with the Greeks) was a pejorative tag used to describe one group after another, while “the Faithful” (a self-applied designation, obviously) always stood for those who stood bravely and heroically, against assimilation or defeatism. Even today this division exists among groups of the Jewish People, a cause of friction and endless antagonism between factions and sects.

One lesson of Hanukkah, however, comes to us from across the ages pure and untarnished, emerging as the most important wonder of all: the will of the Jews to survive not only as a religion, but also as a people with a valuable message to proclaim.

This meaning of Hanukkah is highlighted by Josephus, who refers to the holiday it by its other name—the Festival of Lights (possibly referring to an even more ancient, pagan, festivity related to the winter solstice). In his Antiquities, Josephus writes: “And from that time to this we celebrate this [holiday], because, I imagine, beyond our hopes this right was brought to light, and so this name was placed on the festival.” 

The “right” Josephus speaks of is basic. It’s a human right, the right to worship freely. Enshrined today in the United States Constitution, two thousand years ago this right was already put in writing, by a Jewish historian addressing a Roman emperor.  

And this is what Hanukkah has come to mean ever since.  

The war of the Maccabees against the ancient Greeks wasn’t the first existential war the Jews have fought. Alas, there have been many, down to our own day. But whereas other wars may be about territory, or money, or even women, what the Maccabean revolt stood for was religious freedom. Hanukkah stands for the right of Jews—indeed, of every human being—to worship in their own way, according to their own beliefs, as long as this does not infringe on anybody else’s right. 

A miracle is a story that tries to expand on history—to capture not only events themselves but also their meaning in a larger narrative. When we explain the Eight Days of Hanukkah, we don’t delve into history. We refer to the miracle. We let the candles tell the story. Each one reminds us of the victory of the Maccabee, yet also stands for something greater: a value we uphold, a life we recall, an act of courage and heroism that we admire.  

In many homes it has become traditional for every member of a Jewish family to have and light their own menorah. With each additional night, we add a candle. And the collected light, reflected from countless windows and porches, grows exponentially larger than any one of us. And that’s the miracle. That for thousands of years, the Jewish People have upheld basic human rights: to food and water, shelter, health and safety; and the even greater freedoms of knowledge, understanding and belief.

Hanukkah is the miracle of a small people holding up, fighting for, dying for, the flame of freedom. Hanukkah tells the story of Jewish resistance to oppression, ignorance, and hatred. Somehow, despite all currents and winds, despite all, even when some of the other lights disappear, this is the spark that remains, a reminder of the Menorah that was lit by the Maccabees so long ago. 

It’s a light that many have tried to extinguish, yet still glows brightly. 

And that is a miracle worth retelling.

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

Tales of Struggle And Survival: Va-Yishlach 2020

 Tales of Struggle And Survival: Va-Yishlach

December 3, 2020

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

History sometimes is depicted in large brush strokes, as a series of monumental events populated by larger-than-life heroes. Reality, however, is different. It’s made of deeds carried out by ordinary people, often through incidents that, in themselves, do not amount to much.

The decision of 29 November 1947, taken at the United Nations and known as the UN General Assembly Resolution 181 is one of the former kind. By a vote of 33 to 13 and with 10 abstentions, the UN decided to partition the land that up until then was widely known as Palestine into two states—one Jewish, one Arab.  

This historical vote was preceded by an almost endless chain of political maneuvering. Partially it was motivated by the awakening that the world came to after the Holocaust. However to a much greater extent it represents a wave that began many years earlier: the rise of Zionism and the return of the Jews to their ancient homeland, Israel.

But for a much smaller group, now consisting only of a few hundred people, November 29 holds a more personal significance. 

In 1942, a group of Jewish youth from Zaglembia—a region in Poland—began meeting regularly, mostly for social reasons, but also because they were forbidden to meet anywhere else. Prohibited from attending schools and other social events, these young men and women—most of them still in their teens—gathered to discuss politics, culture, religion, and the Zionist ideal of moving to Israel.

But that was before the Nazis began deporting the Jews of Poland to death camps. 

Once the deportations began—and it was clear where they were going: Auschwitz was less than 25 miles away—the purpose of these meetings changed. Thus was born the group whose members called it Nasza Grupa (“Our Group”). For a while, they debated whether they should focus on escape or resistance. Inspired by a visit by Mordechai Anielewicz, who later led the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, their final decision was unanimous: They would fight. 

Members of the group were assigned to small units—3 or 4 at a time—to steal weapons, forge documents, discover escape routes, and bribe officials and border smugglers. “One for all” became their motto, as they helped not only themselves, but also each other. An orphaned child (and there were so many!) became everyone’s child; a bereaved parent became everyone’s father or mother. 

One such unit was assigned to carry out a particularly dangerous mission. A Jewish man was discovered to be a Nazi collaborator. Accused of turning in Jews to the Nazis, he was judged in absentia and condemned to death. A squad of three—two men and a woman—was sent to carry out the sentence. Unfortunately, they were caught. Tortured until they confessed, the three were sentenced to be hanged, with the date of execution set for November 29.

On November 29, however, just two hours before the execution, the Russians arrived and liberated the prison. All three survived. 

Coincidentally, November 29 was also the birthday of one of them.

About 50 of the original members of the Nasza Grupa survived the Holocaust. My mother is one of them. And November 29 became their annual day of remembrance. For decades, the survivors—and later, their children, grandchildren and now even great-grandchildren—have been meeting on that date every year, to remember, to celebrate, to pass on the tales of heroism, of struggle and survival.

The victory of the Nasza Grupa isn’t told in any movie. A few of the survivors wrote their memoirs; some gave testimony or donated artifacts to Yad Vashem (the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem), the US Holocaust Museum, and the Spielberg Foundation, among others. Their stories are far from complete, however. There are still many missing pieces to the puzzle. 

What we do know, however, can tell us much about the courage and the sheer determination to live that characterized this group. Though many were killed by the Germans and their accomplices, the survivors found their way to Israel and began new lives there. Some served in the Israel Defense Forces, reaching high ranks and earning the highest awards for bravery. 

One became a Supreme Court judge. Yet another joined the Mossad (Israel’s fabled security and intelligence agency) and headed the secret operation to bring the Jews of Morocco to Israel. Still another was instrumental in the hunt and capture of the mastermind of the Holocaust, Adolf Eichmann (of cursed memory), and bringing him to justice in Israel.

One of the three who were liberated on that fateful 29th of November, Esther Herzberg, the one whose birthday it was, was awarded the President’s Medal for her volunteer work in impoverished neighborhoods and for establishing the first after-school club for children in Israel. 

Was it luck that sustained the Nasza Grupa? What accounts for their success, both during the terrible years of the Holocaust, and later, as they began new lives? Was it their friendship? Their vow to be there for one another? 

Maybe it was the very struggle that made them so strong. 

Viewed through this lens, that’s how I understand the message of this week’s Torah portion, Va-Yishlach (Genesis 32:4—36:43). This portion tells of the Jewish Patriarch Jacob’s terrible ordeals as he returns to his homeland after being away for nearly 20 years—his wrestling with an angel, the reunion with his vengeful brother Esau, the rape of his daughter, Dina, and the loss of his beloved wife Rachel. Each battle, no matter how difficult, how dangerous, how tragic, strengthened Jacob and made him even more determined to survive. 

The name given to Jacob at the end of this portion, “Israel,” denotes struggle and victory. It has become a paradigm for Jewish history. We aren’t born heroes: our struggles, however, make us that. As long as we don’t give up, each step forward, no matter how small, is another victory. It’s only when we look back that we realize that with every decision and every deed, we shape the stories that, one day, our children and grandchildren will read about in their history books. 

For me, November 29 isn’t just another day on the calendar, and never will be. For me this date symbolizes all Jewish history, our struggles, our hopes, and ultimately our survival. 

As our weekly portion, Va-Yishlach, tells us, “for we have striven with God and with men, and we have prevailed.”

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

 The Honey And The Sting: Thanksgiving 2020

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

By now, all the shopping is done, in fact some of the cooking is done, right? Or are you—like me—one of those who realizes halfway through a recipe that there’s one ingredient you forgot to buy and feel the urgent need to go to the store and get it?

Yes, it’s Thanksgiving time!

But oh my! How different this Thanksgiving is from all others! 

I don’t know how you are going to celebrate it. I know I’m preparing my usual: butternut squash soup (that’s the one item I was talking about that I forgot to buy—the squash!), smoked turkey breast with mashed potatoes, green beans topped with toasted almonds; and for dessert, pumpkin pie. No cranberry sauce this year, as I’m the only one who appreciates this delicacy in my house, and it’s only going to be Sally and I at the table (and Trapper under, waiting for anything that “falls” from our plates).

And there’s the rub! 

How strange not to be sitting around a table with a host of friends and family, sharing stories, joking, laughing, enjoying a meal that everybody contributes to! The very thought of this saddens me to no end.

So how will Sally and I deal with this strange meal? We’ll open a bottle of wine and enjoy each other’s company. We will reminisce about past Thanksgivings and then we’ll talk about how we will celebrate next year.

Because that’s the whole point. “This year”—in the words of the Passover Haggadah—“we are in the land of Mitzrayim [the place of narrowness and confinement]. Next year, in Jerusalem!” This year we won’t go anywhere, we won’t join a circle of family or friends, so that we can do exactly that next year! We cannot risk our own health or the health of any of our loved ones, no matter how strong the urge.

And instead of giving in to gloom, we will light extra candles, decorate our table and take out the nice dishes. We will express our gratitude for what we have right now—our health, our lives, good food, each other. We will say a prayer thanking God for this moment—and ask for strength and hope to keep us going. 

In one of our prayerbook meditations, we read about the sadness that entraps us when we miss someone terribly. “Give me away,” is the concluding line. If we can’t share the moment with loved ones this Thanksgiving, perhaps we can share some of our blessings with others in other ways. Give extra, unneeded winter coats with the homeless; share extra food (you know there’s going to be lots of leftovers!) or dessert with first responders. Bring food to food banks, donate Thanksgiving dinners to rescue missions and neighbors who live alone. 

Psalm 121 in our Holy Scriptures opens with the words, “I lift up my eyes to the mountains—where does my help come from? My help comes from Adonai, Maker of heaven and earth.” For, as we look up to the snow-covered peaks, we sense not only our own minuteness but also grandeur and hope. Let the mountains that surround us remind us of the resilience and strength embedded in all of us. Yes, the holidays coming up will be different this year, but we will come up with different ways to exchange gifts. Yes, we will miss terribly being with beloved friends and family, but we will connect through various apps and devices. It may not feel the same, but it’s as good as it gets this year, and that’s good enough!

So go ahead and make those phone calls; connect on FaceTime or Zoom; leave a note on your neighbor’s door. Ask if there is anything you can do to help. Accept help if you need it.

That’s the kind of thanksgiving God would expect of us this year. 

I wish you the happiest, warmest, most delicious Thanksgiving! And may we all celebrate properly next year, in joy and good health.

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Choices We Make, The Faith We Keep: Toldot 2020

 The Choices We Make, The Faith We Keep: Toldot 2020

By Rabbi Boaz Heilman

November 20, 2020

Deep water hides dangerous currents.  The household that Isaac and Rebecca established must have held its share of turbulence, if to judge by the outcome of events that we read about in this week’s Torah portion, Toldot (Genesis 25:19-28:9).

At the end of the previous portion, Isaac and Rebecca marry and move into Sarah’s tent, a move that is symbolic both of the ongoing, powerful legacy of Sarah, but possibly also of the estrangement Isaac must have felt from his father, Abraham. As Toldot begins, twenty years have elapsed, and the couple is still childless. After Isaac entreats God on behalf of Rebecca—whose sorrow he must have seen and shared—Rebecca becomes pregnant and finds out she is to be the mother of twins.

The strong bond Rebecca develops with one of the two children—the younger, Jacob—contrasts with the preference Isaac shows for the first-born, Esau. This is due not to any sentimental or spiritual reasons, mind you, but rather because Isaac likes Esau’s cooking better. Esau is a hunter, and the food he cooks for his father reminds Isaac of the wild outdoors, his preferred roving grounds. 

Since the binding and near sacrifice on the top of Mt. Moriah, Isaac’s relationship with Abraham must have become very strained. We don’t read of any interaction between the two after that harrowing experience. Nor does Isaac converse with or even seek God; he has already seen too much, and the further away Isaac can get from the strict demands of his father’s God, the freer he must have felt.

The marriage to Rebecca, however, must have changed some things. Seeing her sorrow at not being able to become pregnant, Isaac turns to God and prays, for her sake. Not to be outdone, Rebecca too establishes a relationship with God, seeking advice and guidance as she assumes the role not only of wife, but also of mother. But there the similarities end. The tensions grow deeper and wider as Rebecca prefers Jacob and his mild manners, while Isaac prefers the wilder Esau.

The break appears at that famous moment when Jacob tricks his brother into selling him the birthright for a bowl of stew. When Esau realizes the consequences of his rashness, he takes an oath to kill Jacob. Hoping that somehow the relationships might mend in time, Rebecca persuades Isaac to allow Jacob to leave home and go stay with Rebecca’s family in Aram.

We know little about how Isaac must have felt all this time. Having grown blind, he seems completely oblivious of what is happening in his own home. He does harbor suspicions, however. When Jacob appears at his doorstep, offering a meal just as Esau would have prepared, Isaac’s doubts rise to the surface. He relies on his still-strong senses of touch, smell and hearing to determine which of the twins is now seeking his blessing. Yet despite his misgivings (“The voice is the voice of Jacob, but the hands are the hands of Esau”) he agrees to give Jacob his blessing.  

Throughout his life, Isaac found himself a plaything in the hands of greater forces. Be they his father, his half-brother Ishmael, his wife Rebecca, and now his younger son, Isaac remains compliant and obedient. Some may see that as weakness, yet there is untapped strength within Isaac, both physical and moral. And at this crucial moment, when he has to make a hugely important choice, between blessing Jacob or Esau, he knows what his mission in life is. Isaac blesses Jacob, more than likely with the knowledge that he is setting himself and his family on a new path in history, one that will not always be peaceful or calm.

Despite his past efforts to escape the demands of his father’s traditions, Isaac learns to appreciate them instead. The story of his search for meaning and faith is also told in this portion, and the successful outcome of this search is perhaps at the root of his decision to bestow his blessing on Jacob.

Like his father before him, Isaac leads a nomadic life. His wanderings in the land of Canaan take him to the vicinity of the Philistines—a Greek tribe that had settled along the south-eastern shore of the Mediterranean. Isaac’s success among them, however, breeds jealousy, and the Philistines chase Isaac out of their midst. And the animosity does not stop there. As Isaac digs wells for the precious water needed to quench the thirst of his flocks, the Philistines hurry to fill them in again. This happens several times until peace is finally reached. The seventh—and final—well turns out a good source of water, and Isaac names it Beer Sheva—the very name Abraham had used when he made peace with another quarrelsome tribe, one generation earlier.

In the Torah, the allegorical use both of wells and the number seven indicates the presence of God. Isaac’s digging of the seven wells thus symbolizes his search for God. Tellingly, some of the wells he dug had originally been dug by Abraham. Perhaps through neglect, perhaps for other reasons, these wells were no longer productive. Isaac’s work—searching, discovering and digging, restored their strength. Through this entire process Isaac was learning about his tradition. It wasn’t enough to rely on Abraham’s relationship with God; Isaac had to find his own path, his own understanding of God, and it wasn’t easy.

Yet, once discovered, the relationship grew strong, and God blesses Isaac. This is the source of Isaac’s strength. This is what convinces him that Jacob would be the proper recipient of his blessing. He allows himself to be deceived, knowing fully well that greater forces are at play again, and that once again he is at the center of all this action. His faith convinces him that the tradition established by his father, Abraham, must continue from this point on through Jacob.

Like Isaac, we aren’t always aware of the important role we play in life.  Our deeds sometimes seem trivial. In the larger scope of things, what we do, what we say, don’t always amount to much. And yet, with each choice we make, through everything we do and every word we utter, we make a difference in the world. Our search for truth is not without meaning. As we dig our own wells, as we learn about our traditions, we find both blessing and the strength to carry on, despite all difficulties and challenges. The faith that sustained Isaac through his life is the same faith that went on to uphold the myriads of generations that came after him. And it is this same faith that keeps us strong, as we, like Isaac, reaffirm our Covenant with the God who promised to be there for us more than three thousand years ago, and is still here for us today.

May our faith fill our homes with peace, love and health; may God keep us all safe and strong through these turbulent times.

© 2020 by Boaz Heilman

 Rejection and Jealousy: The Ancient Roots of Hatred

D’var Torah for Parashat Vayeira

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

November 6, 2020

Of all the terrible and disturbing things that take place in the Torah’s first book, Genesis, one that’s way up there takes place in this week’s portion, Vayeira (“And he saw,” Gen. 18:1-22:24). So maybe it isn’t the humongous flood that destroyed almost all life on earth; and it isn’t even the dramatic destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. On a grand scale, the episode I’m referring to is just one small incident. But the consequences last to this day.

It’s the story of Abraham casting Hagar and Ishmael out into the wilderness.

Favoritism is a recurring motif in Genesis. God starts it out by choosing Abel over Cain, and we know what that led to. Then, not quite having learned the lesson, God chooses Noah and kills everyone else. The yet-to-come story of Jacob and Esau, in which Jacob becomes the favorite son while Esau is left out in the cold is yet another example; and this sequence will continue with the story of Joseph and his brothers. It seems that no one learns the real lesson here, the one that underlies many broken families, that is the cause of racism and bigotry, as well as of almost all historic hatreds that to this day pit nation against nation.

Favoritism is a huge motif in a tragedy that plays itself out over and over. Nothing hurts quite so much as rejection; nothing leaves such an indelible mark on a person’s soul, causing confusion, displacement, loss of identity, and even death.

I happened to watch a short film the other day, “Trevor.” This 1994 Academy-Award-winning film is corny yet charming; it’s funny but painful; it’s hopeful, yet not altogether realistic.

In this coming-of-age story, Trevor is a young teen who realizes that he is gay. Rejected by friends and family, he attempts suicide while listening to his “fave,” Diana Ross. Spoiler alert: Trevor survives. He is befriended by a gay hospital volunteer who invites him to a Diana Ross concert, and it’s a new dawn for Trevor.

Unfortunately, this isn’t always how these stories end. Statistics paint a much darker picture. While suicide is the second leading cause of death among young people ages 10-24, LGBTQ youth are almost five times as likely to have attempted suicide compared to heterosexual youth, and almost five times as likely to require medical treatment. Moreover, LGBTQ youth who come from highly rejecting families are almost 10 times as likely to attempt suicide as their peers who reported no or low levels of family rejection. 

This shocking reality is what makes The Trevor Project such an important organizations in the United States today, providing crisis counseling and suicide prevention services to LGBTQ people under 25. 

It doesn’t take more than one or two personal experiences to understand the vital work of the Trevor Project.

The truth is that we are all born unique, different and special in our own way. Each of us has gifts and talents that make us valuable individuals. Sometimes we don’t recognize this truth—either about ourselves or about others. Fear of ostracism and violence, as well as social, cultural and religious pressures, bear heavily on us, forcing us to conform. For many young people who may be questioning their identity and sexual orientation, the challenges these restrictions pose are complex and often disabling.

Fortunately, much has changed for the LGBTQ community over the past few years. The Center for Disease Control reports that the US suicide rate dropped last year for the first time in more than a decade.  

Family rejection is also less common today than in the past. 

Yet, despite new recognition and acceptance of gender diversity, the struggle for equality and for the chance to live free from fear are far from over. The uncertainties caused by COVID and the recent elections have caused a spike in anxiety among endangered youth, particularly among the Black community. In Washington, D.C., The US Supreme Court has taken up once again an LGBTQ case that pits freedom of conscience against the rights of minority groups, and the recent swearing-in of Judge Amy Coney Barrett could reverse the trend in recent years of advancing protections for all minority groups.  

Sometimes I wonder what the world would look like today if Ishmael had not been cast out of Abraham and Sarah’s tent. Would the two boys, half-brothers Ishmael and Isaac, have learned to live with one another? Would they have learned to accept their differences and respect the Divine Image in one another?

Or would jealousy and stigmas still remain, causing even more mockery, oppression and persecution?

The purpose of Biblical stories is to teach us life-long lessons. Yet they also shape us, giving form and direction to our existence. It’s also possible of course that they are no more than a reflection of our innate human condition, set deep in our genes and DNA. Either way, bigotry and prejudice are a part of who and what we are, and we will forever be wrestling with them, forever on a quest to reach equality, acceptance and mutual respect.

We are living through challenging times today. It will take the effort and contribution of each of us if we are to surmount the many obstacles that stand before us. Let us hope that we learn from our past mistakes, so that the future we hand to our children will be more promising than it seems right now. The path to unity begins with each one of us, with the understanding that no one is better than another, that we are all created with the Divine Image embedded within us, and that each of us, regardless of color, race, or gender identity, has an equally important role to play and an equally worthy goal to reach.

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

 Elections, Not Civil War: Ruminations On the Eve of Election Day

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Monday, November 2, 2020, 9 pm Mountain Time

Out here in Colorado, it’s the last few hours in the last day of campaigning. This is the eve of Election Day in the United States, and one as important as this one deserves and demands special thoughts and prayers.

First: Let us recognize that voting is a unique right we enjoy as citizens. It is also a privilege. In many other countries, your vote doesn’t count. Or else it’s forced upon you. In America, yes, you are bombarded by messages from all sides, each trying to influence you and tell you that they are the best product. But, based on all that you hear and learn, when it comes to marking the ballot, you are free to make your own decision, free to choose the candidate you think is best for the country.

At the same time, however, we all recognize that the November 2020 election is probably the most divisive one that of us have ever experienced. 

The hostility did not stop with words. At times it escalated into violence. Some of the most hateful features of humanity—hatred, bigotry and anti-Semitism—have been given image and voice. At times we sense a tangible threat in the way some groups act.

And that is why tomorrow is such an important day. A sense of what America is and of what it can be must prevail. We owe ourselves that, and we owe that to the world.

What will happen the day after tomorrow is what will truly matter. How we handle ourselves as individuals, as communities and as a nation will say more about America than any flag waving or military parade. If we are able to keep the peace among ourselves, we will provide proof that we are, indeed, one nation. One people.

Restoring and maintaining civility among ourselves is essential, both tomorrow—election day—and in the days and weeks after that.

For better or for worse, America has served as a symbol and a beacon for all humanity for more than two centuries now. The true test of what this country stands for will be in our ability to show strength through unity. Yes, we are a diverse concoction of humanity. We are of different colors, origins, faiths and genders. We argue and even fight among ourselves. And yes, our system isn’t always fair or just. But at the end of the day, we are one nation. We are there not only for ourselves, but also for one another. Especially at challenging times such as those we are going through now.

There will be many problems to resolve in the next few months. If we fight among ourselves, we will become distracted from the true goals we need to achieve: 1) universal health and freedom from the COVID pandemic; 2) ways to deal with climate change and the extreme effects it has on all parts of the world.

We don’t have the luxury of being bystanders in these immensely important endeavors. Each of us is affected. 

I offer a prayer for peace and healing; for strength and unity. May it be so. 

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

Messianic Failures: Noach.20

 Messianic Failures: D’var Torah for Parashat Noach

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 23, 2020

I’ve heard it said that we can hope for the Messiah to arrive—only not in our day and time!

Not that we couldn’t use a messiah today! Between the plagues of fire and smoke, a tragic and devastating pandemic, disastrous climate change, faltering economy, and social and political mayhem, how wonderful it would be if someone with supernatural powers would show up and either wave a magic wand or chant a magic incantation, and somehow just make it all go away!

Alas, the possibility of this happening is quite remote, and frankly, I for one am glad for it.  

Messiahs have a bad track record. They appear at the worst possible times, and somehow only succeed in making things worse.

Since the beginning of time, we human beings have longed for relief from the exhausting burdens and demands placed on us.  The first messianic figure to make an appearance in our texts is Noah. Arriving 10 generations after Adam and Eve, there were great expectations when Noah was born. Even his name (Noach in Hebrew) comes from the root N.Ch, meaning rest or respite. At the end of chapter 5 in the book of Genesis, we are told how he got his name: “This one will comfort us [y’nachameinu] concerning our work and the toil of our hands, because of the ground which the Lord has cursed” (Genesis 5:20, NKJV).

Of course it’s all God’s fault. Since the Garden of Eden, and still to this day, we don’t like accepting blame for our actions; rather, we would rather to point to others. It all started with Eve, who blamed the snake; Then Adam blamed Eve, and it all went downhill from there. 

Little did humanity remember that the earth was cursed because of Adam and Eve’s failure to obey God in the first place. Actions carry consequences, and in this case, the curse was that from then on, we would have to toil for our bread, that the earth would no longer just magically produce it for us.  

Soon, whether through frustration or greed, “The earth was filled with violence.” Idolatry, ignorance and superstition blinded people to any sense of what was appropriate, moral or good. That’s when God repented of Creation as a whole, and decided to start all over.

Only Noah was to be spared—and along with him and his family, a tiny smattering of other creatures.

Amazingly, throughout the story, Noah was silent. He was silent when as he witnessed the violence around him; silent when God told him to build an ark the size of a football field; silent when God told him to load the ark with pairs of animals; silent when told to leave behind other living creatures—animals, men, women, infants, all doomed to drown in the raging flood.

Ironically, by following God’s orders to the most minute detail, Noah failed to fulfill the messianic expectations placed upon him. 

Only later, once the waters began to rise, when he heard the shrieks of horror, the banging on the wooden hull of his lifeboat, the crying, the begging—only then did he begin to understand the enormity of his failure.

One can only imagine the toils he was subjected to for the next few months—feeding the animals, keeping them healthy, cleaning up after them. Perhaps that was when remorse began to flood his heart, when he began to understand that his silence in the face of God’s anger amounted to consent, that by his silence he became an accomplice to the suffering and destruction.

A simple action illustrates how guilt had transformed Noah: when, after releasing the dove with his prayers and hopes, Noah looks for it, desperate for a sign of dry land; when he finally spies the bird, it was struggling against the wind and rain, with its last bit of strength aiming for the tiny window that beckoned to safety and warmth. Filled with pity, Noah extends his hand, reaches for the exhausted dove, and then, shielding its tiny, shaking body, he takes it inside the ark with him. Only now, at this late point in his life, does Noah show kindness; only now does he offer comfort and rest to one small creature—a tiny fraction of what had been expected of him when he was young.

Noah was the first but by far not the last. Many other messianic figures appear throughout Jewish history, only to disappear in flames and disgrace: There were those who surfaced when the Roman empire was disintegrating, dragging into the abyss the kingdom of Judea and its capital, Jerusalem; Bar Kochba, the Judean general whom Rabbi Akiva declared the Messiah but who was killed by the Romans in the year 135 CE, taking with him the last hope for a liberated Judea. Some 1500 years later, a man who named himself—or was named by others—Shabbetai Tzvi, claiming to be the long-hoped-for Messiah, caused spiritual ecstasy and religious frenzy throughout Europe. But when he was finally taken captive in Turkey and offered the choice between death or conversion to Islam, he chose the latter, leaving hundreds of thousands of his followers homeless and devoid of any faith or hope.

The problem with Messiahs is that they leave behind them a trail of tragedy and destruction. 

This is exactly how the story of  Noah ends too. Haunted by guilt and what today we would call PTSD, Noah takes to drinking. One night, along in his tent, something terrible happens. Noah’s youngest son, Ham, walks in and does something so unspeakable that even the Torah refuses to give it a name. Upon awakening and seeing what was done to him, Noah utters the only words he speaks throughout the portion, cursing Ham and setting him slave to his brothers. 

The portion begins with a curse, and ends with a curse. Yet lessons are learned. Noah understands that blind obedience is worthless to anyone. God learns that, left to our own devices, without correction or supervision, humanity is doomed to repeat its mistakes over and over. From that point on, God will give guidance and offer direction.

With a little bit of luck and understanding, we can all learn from our mistakes. What I and many others learned from these experiences is that messiahs are no more than just so much wishful thinking. Redemption won’t come through one individual, or even a hundred. Only through the work of our all-too-human hands, through the compassion in our hearts, and through words of encouragement and support, can we hope to make the world better. It’s not up to God to lift the curse, nor up to any angel, messiah or messenger. It’s all up to us.

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

The 614th Commandment: Yom Kippur.20

 The 614th Commandment

A Sermon for Yom Kippur 5781

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 28, 2020

We stand on the shoulders of our predecessors. No better proof of this can be found than in the legacy of Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. A brilliant jurist as well as civil rights and gender equality activist, the cases that Justice Ginsburg argued form the basis of much that we take for granted today. Reproductive rights, acceptance of women into military academies, equal pay, and marriage equality are among her many contributions to our society and nation.

In her own words, Justice Ginsburg attributed her career and accomplishments to her Jewish background. Though she was not observant (causing The Guardian in its first, un-redacted, obituary to claim falsely that she had abandoned her religion), she actually prided herself on her background. As she herself pointed out, a silver mezuzah adorned her Supreme Court chamber door, and the reminder from Deuteronomy, tzedek tzedek tirdof—“justice, justice shall you pursue”—hung on her wall, reminding her every day of her Jewish heritage and obligation. She visited Israel several times, met with members of Israel’s Supreme Court, and ultimately refused Israel’s highest humanitarian honor—the Genesis Prize—because she felt it would appear to be conflict of interest.

Possibly because of her views, and certainly because of her religion, a day after her death, a New York City subway poster honoring Justice Ginsburg was defaced with graffiti including a swastika and profanity-laced language, a stark reminder to anyone who is still in doubt about anti-Semitism today, that the world’s oldest scourge is still around and is actually in the midst of an historical upswing.

For some of us, this fact is part of our new normal. In Colorado alone, anti-Semitic incidents increased by 56% last year, with more than 2100 acts of vandalism, assault and harassment reported across the United States. 

While we are not completely surprised to see this hatred in extremist right-wing groups, the barefaced brazenness displayed by torch-bearing white nationalists, marching in Charlottesville displaying swastikas and chanting slogans such as “Jews will not replace us” has shocked us into new awareness and understanding. 

For many of us, however, even more alarming than the revival of right-wing anti-Semitism is its appearance among left-wing liberals.

Jews have long been active in liberal causes in America, from workers’ rights and labor unions to civil rights and gender equality. In recent decades, social activism and a passion for righteousness have motivated Jews to support liberal politics. Today, however, more and more American Jews are being excluded from participation in liberal events and public discussions. This phenomenon started with BDS on college campuses and spread to pop culture, with anti-Semitic voices also heard more recently among groups like Occupy, Antifa and Black Lives Matter. 

While there are many reasons for this rise of anti-Semitism on the Left, one is the grafting onto the liberal agenda of Islamic anti-Zionism, and the traditionally anti-Semitic and anti-Israel theories espoused by socialist-Marxists, all under the guise of intersectionality.

As with The Guardian’s obituary of Justice Ginsburg, criticism of Israel today is often based on claims that Israel has abandoned its Jewish values. But then it goes further with even more blatantly anti-Semitic tropes and the outrageous claim that Israel is at fault and deserves all the terror attacks launched against her by her enemies, and is consequently responsible for much of the violence that engulfs the Middle East and at times expands also to Europe and America. 

Finally, the assertion that Israel has no legal basis for existence has gained traction among those who are either ignorant of history or for other reasons are opposed to its existence.

For a generation born after the Holocaust, there is little understanding of the need of safe harbor for Jews, who for millennia, on every continent, were at the mercy of rulers who alternately expelled us, jailed us in ghettoes, and physically or spiritually destroyed entire Jewish communities. In a culture such as ours today, in which religion and rationalism are often at violent odds, the historical and cultural ties that bind Jews to Israel as their traditional homeland are seen by some as fictitious and absurd. For Jewish young men and women who grew up strong, confident and self-reliant, who never experienced discrimination, who were never turned away from hospitals, never excluded from country clubs, Ivy-League schools and tony neighborhoods, there is little if any comprehension that it is actually Israel that empowers them, and that in fact it is a strong and independent State of Israel that enables them to feel so carefree and proud today.

The recent trend to rewrite history at times draws dangerously close to erasing it altogether. It’s therefore essential for 21st century American Jews, to make up for lost time. For too long we’ve taken for granted that Jerusalem, the Western Wall and Masada are all we need to know about Jewish history. What we’ve left out is the part of the story where we reclaimed ownership of our homeland. We need to learn—or relearn—how exactly the creation of the State of Israel came about, a series of events that go back to the time when Israel—or Palestine, as the world called it then—was part of the Ottoman Turkish Empire. Several years ago, a fifth grader in a class I was teaching marched into class and announced, “The Jews just walked into Palestine and kicked out the Arabs.” I was astounded. Where did he learn that completely false retelling of the history of Israel? Regardless of the source, however, that is quickly becoming the accepted narrative. Never mind the continuous presence since ancient times of Jews in the Land of Israel; or the purchase, at exorbitant prices, of swamps, desert dunes, and nonarable lands from the Turkish landlords; the negotiations that took place in the halls of the League of Nations; the discussions that ensued in the White House and the State Department; and the decision on Israel’s borders taken in the United Nations in November of 1947.    

Forgotten is the fact that Egypt and Syria launched a coordinated attack on Israel exactly 43 years ago to the day by the Hebrew calendar, the Yom Kippur War. Or the Second Intifada that started 20 years ago on this very day on the general calendar, September 28, 2000, and caused the death of over 1000 civilians—men, women and children.

Not mentioned, or whitewashed, are Israel’s technological and ecological, medical and humanitarian contributions to the world’s well-being. Or its absorption of three-quarters of a million Jews expelled from Iran, Iraq and other Arab countries, as well as millions of refugees from the ex-Soviet Union, from Ethiopia, Latin America and other countries around the world.

The danger that this erasure of history poses today is much more serious than most of us dare to consider. Anti-Zionism IS anti-Semitism, a hate-filled prejudice that draws from many poisonous sources and takes many outwardly forms. Its blatant rise on both ends of the political spectrum is alarming and must be confronted. Never Again is not, and can never be, an empty slogan. 

Yom Kippur, the most sacred day in the Jewish People’s calendar, is much more than only about seeking forgiveness from God. It’s also about the unity of our people. As we heard in this morning’s Torah reading, on this day we all stand together. We are all responsible not only for our ethics and righteous behavior, but also for our very survival as a people. 

For some, that is the 614th Commandment.

The late, great Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, of blessed memory, set an example for us all. She was not only a fierce fighter for human rights—she was a Jew. Proud of her heritage and legacy, she left us an important message and lesson: Let our ideals be our motivation, but at the same time let us not forget who we are and how we became that. 

Loss of faith is not our enemy; forgetfulness is. We will best honor her legacy not only by continuing to pursue justice and equality for all, but also by keeping before our eyes our commitment to our people, to our heritage, to our homeland, and to our survival.

© 2020 by Boaz Heilman

 The Role of One, The Power of Many

     Sermon for Kol Nidrei 2020, 5781

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Maybe it’s because of the unusual circumstances of these Holy Days, but this year an odd incongruity struck me—and you as well, I am sure. And that is that even though we have come together virtually to pray as one community, the reality is that each of us is actually alone, or perhaps with our “nuclear family,” in our own separate homes. And yet, something draws us all together, connecting us in some mysterious way. How is this possible? Was it actually always so, and only this year became apparent to us? 

I suspect so. Yom Kippur is there for all of us, but it is also about me, and you, and each and every one of us. Unetaneh Tokef, one of the most powerful prayers in the entire service, presents the dramatic image of how, on this most sacred of days, every individual is called to the Heavenly Court, where, one by one, all our deeds of the past year are recounted from the Book of Memories, playing themselves out before our astonished eyes.  

And yet, as we go through the prayers, we realize that almost to a one, they are all in the plural: WE have sinned, WE have transgressed, WE have caused harm. Even Kol Nidrei, the prayer that gives the entire Yom Kippur evening service its name, is all about the long list of vows and oaths that WE might have made and failed to fulfill.

In ancient days it was expected that, for our prayers to be accepted, we had to bring a sacrifice to the Temple. Whether it was a lamb, a handful of flour, or a pinch of salt, each individual was responsible for his or her offering. But on Yom Kippur, this was reversed. On this day, it was only one person’s duty—the High Priest—to bring the sacrifice, and up to him to achieve purification for the entire congregation. All that would be expected of us, the people assembled in the Temple courtyard, was to fast and show contrition for our sins. 

Unlike any other occasion or holiday, then and now, Yom Kippur was always meant to be a collective experience, an affirmation of the relationship between the People of Israel and our God. 

But this unity can be misleading. Surrounded by our community, reminded that we are all experiencing the transformative nature of atonement, it’s easy to disappear into the crowd. If God forgives us all, then by the nature of the service, I am forgiven too, no matter what sin and transgression I might be harboring deep within my heart and soul. 

As early as the 6th century BCE, the Prophet Isaiah called out a warning against this kind of thinking, when he taught that no sacrifice and no fast could do what deeds of righteousness would: “Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen,” he exclaimed, “To loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke; to set the oppressed free and break every yoke?  Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter? When you see the naked, to clothe them, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?” (Isaiah 58:6-7 NIV translation). 

Reaffirming Isaiah’s warning, Rabbi Elazar ben Azaria, one of the greatest of the early rabbis, formulated the famous teaching that while Yom Kippur has the power to atone for wrongs between people and God, it does not atone for transgressions between a person and their fellow human being until the one who was wronged has been pacified. We simply cannot proceed with the rituals of this Holy Day without first seeking forgiveness from our fellow human beings.

The responsibility of every individual to evaluate his or her behavior is an essential part of Yom Kippur. Because while guilt is a heavy enough burden for any one person, it also has ramifications for the rest of the community.

We know from hurts we have felt that a disparaging word or one spoken in anger can leave a deep scar in a person’s soul. No sacrifice to God, no matter how showy or expensive, can fix this kind of hurt, as will a simple apology. Saying “I am sorry” can go a long way; and once repair is done, once peace is restored, we can move on with our lives with a clear conscience and a lighter step.

Hurt isn’t always caused intentionally or with malicious forethought. Our language sometimes conveys subtexts that we may not even be aware of. Few people use jew as a verb anymore, but gypped is still common, as are other terms that derive from racial or ethnic slurs. In the past few months we came to understand that even images can hurt, such as the false image of the kindly Black cook who just loves to flip pancakes for us White folks; or the beautiful, white-columned plantation used as a setting for a classic Southern wedding. Rather than romanticizing antebellum, Gone-With-The-Wind times, this façade should remind us of the brutal practice of slavery that propped it up in the first place.

Attitudes can change imperceptibly, becoming ingrained over time. Since the birth of the American nation, knowingly or not, intentionally or not, our ideals have become tarnished, as we turned from the vision of “one nation under God” into the painful reality of a two-tiered society, where some have access to excellent healthcare, can attend the best schools and enjoy unlimited economic opportunities, while others—to put it simply—cannot. In such cases, our sins are collective, and communal atonement is required from all of us.

Sometimes it isn’t others that we owe an apology to, but ourselves. We transgress against ourselves when we allow others to demean us for our color, size, shape or faith. When we belittle and berate ourselves. When we let a bully tell us that we are worthless and deserving of pain or abuse. We shortchange ourselves when we start believing that we can’t turn our lives around. 

And yet, one of the biggest lessons we have learned this year is that each of us does have a voice, and an important function in society. We may be quarantined instead of gathering in our sanctuary on this holy day, but that’s because we understand the role of each individual in slowing or even stopping the spread of COVID. Yet that doesn’t stop us from being a community, from taking care of one another, whether by phone call or a drive-by. We deliver a challah for Shabbat, or the Torah to someone who feels the need to touch it. We care for the sick, comfort the mourner and rejoice with those celebrating the joyous moments of life. 

Because that’s what communities do. We reach out to each other; we are there for each other.

As a nation, in the past few years—and particularly since the COVID pandemic began—we have seen racial, economic and cultural divides widen and turn into ugly chasms. While this caused soul searching among many of us, some of us allowed ourselves to become discouraged, feeling that there is little we can do about poverty and hunger, racism, or divisive and corrupt politicians. 

Let us, however, not forget that 2020 is an election year, and I can’t emphasize enough the privilege and power that each person’s vote represents. To sit out this election, whether because we feel our voice doesn’t matter or because we are told our vote is invalid, is tantamount to giving in to cynicism—a sin against God, ourselves and the larger community. Every vote does count, and every voice deserves to be heard and considered.

Because as a nation, we all need to participate in the care and upkeep of the political, judicial and social system of which we are part.

The kind of atonement that Yom Kippur calls for isn’t only about whether we brought the right sacrifice to God; it’s more about examining our attitudes and behavior; it’s asking ourselves whether we did the right thing by one another; whether we let wrongs fester—or took action to make us, as individuals, as a community and as a nation, whole again.

And that’s why the Yom Kippur prayers are in plural. There is no community without “U” and “I.” For our prayers to be heard, for forgiveness and redemption to ensue, none of us can hide or disappear in the crowd. It takes the hard work and effort of each and every one of us to make it work, to make things right again.

May God grant us health and strength this year to do our part in repairing our world.  May we all be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life for a sweet and healthy New Year.  Amen.

© 2020 by Boaz Heilman

The Final Question: Rosh Hashana.20

 The Final Question: Sermon for Rosh Hashanah 5781

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 19, 2020

Of all the images associated with Rosh Hashanah—apples and honey, round challahs, shofars of all sizes and shapes—the one that I personally find most meaningful is that of gates. The gates of prayer, the gates of repentance; gates opening and gates closing—these images fill our prayerbooks and strike both fear and awe in our hearts. In ancient days, the gates of the Temple in Jerusalem must have been formidable and awe-inspiring; how much more so, the gates of heaven!

But this grand image has a double, a thumbnail reflection, of a gate meant not for hundreds or thousands of pilgrims, nor for millions of prayers clamoring to find their way in, but rather is custom sized for just one person at a time. Not ornate or in any other way ostentatious, this simple and narrow gate opens not at dawn, but instead, at the darkest hours. This is, of course, the gateway to our souls, the one that lets us see ourselves as we truly are—not the public face we show to the outside world, but rather the self we face when we are alone, when we can’t sleep, when our most secretive thoughts and fears come calling, unannounced and unmasked. 

Having to go through that gate can be daunting. We judge ourselves, and mostly we tend to see our faults and failings. And so we find ways that skirt it. Anything to avoid going there, to have to face this gate or go through it. Still, sometimes, in the dark of  night, when even cowering under the blankets doesn’t help, the doubts rise to trouble us. But eventually we manage to fall asleep again, and the next morning everything seems so much brighter! And that’s the way it is for most of the year. 

But during one season, in the fall, the High Holy Days arrive, and with them the specter of the dreaded gates of judgment, and fear and trepidation are there with us all day long. There’s nowhere to run or hide. For well we know, on these days, each of us is called by name and made to walk through this gateway to our souls. One by one, we are summoned before a Heavenly Court where our lives and deeds are measured by standards that, left to our own devices, we sometimes overlook or disregard.

Normally, this experience would be dayenu—enough already—if it only came once a year. This year, however, has been anything BUT normal. For months now we have been spiraling from one unending crisis to the next, from one disaster to the next, watching history unfold before our eyes. All of us have been affected, no one has been spared. And along the way we have had to answer some pretty tough questions. What we’ve learned about ourselves has at times been both shocking and painful.

5780—known in the general world as 2020—will always be remembered as the year when several huge forces converged, like a perfect storm. COVID; extreme weather with monstrous hurricanes, unprecedented heat waves and historic wildfires; a rollercoaster economy and unemployment numbers unmatched since the Great Depression; social, political and racial reckoning; all came together, forcing us to look at ourselves in ways we never had to before. And what we saw wasn’t always pretty.

Having to face such enormous forces led many of us to see ourselves from a different and perhaps less egocentric perspective. Yes, some people showed greed. Frustration and anger often erupted into ugly behavior and at times, violence. Runs on supermarkets in search of toilet-paper and hand-sanitizer, and the unaccustomed sight of empty shelves, shocked us into thinking of this year as not merely unusual, but actually apocalyptic. 

On the other hand, who can forget serenades sung from balconies in Italy and Spain? Or orchestras and choirs managing to pull off entire concerts not from symphony halls but from individual living rooms? Communities, neighbors and friends reaching out to help one another? Or those touching and shining moments of humanity—people helping people: first responders and healthcare workers stretching themselves to the limit in caring for the sick; or the newspaper delivery person who realized how many elderly people on his route all of a sudden found themselves desperate and hungry, so he decided to deliver groceries to their doorstep, and enlisted others—teenagers, workers laid off from their jobs—to help in similar ways? 

In our own individual microcosms, being quarantined alone or with our nuclear family has taught us to redefine our roles, and to share time and space in a totally different way than we had been accustomed to. Yes, it was hard, but we found ways to cope; we found moments and corners that we could retreat to when we needed some time for ourselves. Many of us actually adopted pets this year, feeling the need to show love and care to creatures who were in the same boat as us, but without the ability to understand the whys or wherefores.

These situations may or may not have prepared us for what came next, but seeing the horrific brutality with which some police officers treated fellow Americans whose skin color happened to be black or brown made us ask different questions, requiring that we appraise not only our nation and society to see whether racism in America is systemic, but also ourselves, to examine whether we unknowingly might be harboring racism and prejudice. We learned that there was a difference between being not-racist and anti-racist. We realized that seeking what was best for us and our families wasn’t always in line with what we had learned about justice and equality, about loving our neighbor as ourselves. 

Like the movie Groundhog Day, 2020 has been one long, interminable Rosh Hashanah, only without the apples and honey. In the past, it was enough that we reflected on ourselves, on our own behavior. In the year 5780, we found ourselves needing to look at a much larger canvas, forced to redefine our place, role and function in the world at large; to refocus and see ourselves not merely as insignificant particles in an infinite universe, but also as unique individuals with unique gifts and talents who can—and must—make a difference in the world in which we live.

And now, today, once again we find ourselves standing before that terrifying gate, the one that opens to our souls on one side, and to the Heavenly Court on the other. A long line of souls stretches ahead, and an even longer one behind us. One by one, as names are called, we approach the bench, our caps—or our kippahs—clenched tightly in our sweaty palms. And then we are there, standing before the Heavenly Tribunal. The Judges peruse through a thick book lying open before them, and we feel our hearts beating faster and louder than could possibly be healthy for them. A nod here, a “tsk-tsk” accompanied by a head shake there, and finally a voice: “We have some questions for you.” Nervously, we nod. What could these questions be? What could the Supreme Judge of all beings NOT know about us already? And what could we answer to save our souls?

“In the past year, did you offer to help anyone less fortunate than you?”

We stop breathing. Surely we must have! 

And the Judge continues, the voice as deep as the ocean, as resonant as the sky itself, “Did you say ‘thank you’ often enough?”

Quickly, we try to remember—did we?

But before we can answer, the voice resumes, “Did you say ‘I love you’ enough?”

“And one final question.” The Judge’s eyes are raised from the book, looking deeply into ours, and our hearts nearly faint. 

“And what exactly are you going to do about that in 5781?”

May we all be prepared this year to give the right answers.  And may we all be inscribed in the Book of Life for a good and sweet New Year, L’shana tova tikateivu. 

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

 Kadkod Stones: A Sermon For Rosh Hashana Eve

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 18, 2020

In 1967, Israel’s most famous song writer, Naomi Shemer, wrote “Jerusalem of Gold,” a song that within weeks became wildly popular all over the world. The lyrics are rich in Biblical and Rabbinic allusions, but at the same time refer to the colors that reflect off Jerusalem’s famous white stones at dawn and at dusk, the light painting the city in rich hues of copper and gold.

This glow, however, wasn’t always there. After the Babylonian destruction in 586 BCE, and then again after the year 70 CE, when the Roman legions burnt the city, Jerusalem was a heap of ruins, covered in a mournful blanket of ash and debris. It stood that way for nearly 2000 years, more a dream or a vision than anything resembling its former glory.

The prophet Isaiah, in offering comfort to his people, spoke of the wonders and grandeur of a rebuilt Jerusalem in days to come. The streets would be paved with sapphires, he prophesied, and the walls inlaid with precious stones. There would be no need for artificial illumination, and even the sun and the moon would pale next to the splendor that would shine from deep inside the precious stones.

In these prophecies, Isaiah mentions by name half a dozen gems and precious stones—all of which I am sure the people of his time recognized, but which, over the years, were renamed several times over, so that the references are no longer as clear as they once were. Over the centuries, commentators, linguists and editors have done their best to identify these gems, but in the end these explanations remain no more than guesses and conjectures.

In one of my favorite Midrash stories, a famous Talmudic scholar of the 3rd century, Rabbi Joshua ben Levi—was walking along the Carmel Mountain when he came upon the Prophet Elijah. “Master,” exclaimed Rabbi Joshua, “won’t you show me the gems called kadkod, which, according to Isaiah, will illuminate Jerusalem in the Days-To-Come?” Elijah agrees to the request and sets up a miracle in order to show them to Rabbi Joshua.

As it happened, at that very moment, a merchant ship was about to set sail, carrying casks of wine and spices to far off lands. All its sailors were heathens, but there was among them one young Jewish lad. Elijah appeared to the boy and said to him, “I need you to run an errand for me. In three days’ time, a great storm will arise, and the boat will founder and begin to sink. You can save it, however, along with all who are aboard it.” “How?” asked the boy.  “By diving down to the bottom of the sea,” answered Elijah. “There I will show you kadkod stones. You will need to take them and show them to Rabbi Joshua ben Levi. Only don’t show him the stones in public. Take him to a cave that is three miles away.” “But,” protested, the boy, “Rabbi Joshua is the most famous scholar in the world! Why would he follow me?” Elijah responded, “Yes, he is a great scholar, but he will follow you because he is well known for his humility.” 

Despite his fear and misgivings, the boy agreed to go on the mission, and sure enough, just as foretold, a great storm arose at mid-sea and the ship began to take on water. When a great wave suddenly appeared, the boy let it sweep him into the swirling water. He felt himself drawn into the dark depths, but just as he began to lose hope, he saw a great light shining. With the last of his strength he swam to the sea floor, where he saw stones that glowed with such brilliance that they caused light to shine all around them. Putting a few in his pocket, he prayed to God to be rescued and felt himself being drawn up and back to safety again.  Within moments he found himself on shore again, and he immediately set out to find Rabbi Joshua ben Levi.

The famous scholar was seated on his chair in the great academy of Lydda, teaching the very chapter in the book of Isaiah wherein the prophet spoke of the gems that would provide light for the days to come. “I have something to show you,” said the lad. “But you have to follow me, for so I have been instructed.”

Without a word, the great rabbi rose and followed the boy a distance of three miles, to a cave few people knew about. There the boy took the stones out of his pocket and handed them to Rabbi Joshua. Immediately the stones began to glow brilliantly. Rabbi Joshua’s eyes filled with tears, and he was so shaken that his hands began to tremble, and the stones fell to the ground, where they immediately disappeared. At that moment, the boy and the teacher heard a voice calling out, “Light is sown for the righteous.” Just as suddenly, the earth began to tremble and they barely had time to escape before a rockslide sealed the entrance to the cave, and it is still so to this very day.

Like all legends, this beautiful story has a kernel of truth. Like the hero in the midrash, we too have a task—to find the hidden precious stones. But there is no mysterious cave: they are actually right there, in plain sight. We only have to open our eyes to find them in our traditions; in old, worn-out prayerbooks; in prayers and blessings we say over candles, wine and sweet challah bread. 

We see their glow when we bring our children to religious school and raise them to become b’nai mitzvah—when, like Rabbi Joshua ben Levi, our eyes, too, fill with tears. 

When we teach or study words of Torah, the very letters on the parchment begin to glow. 

When we support one another and the community that we are part of; when we set aside food or clothing for the needy; when we remember those who are no longer with us and recall, with gratitude, the love and caring they had once shared with us, we bring light even into the darkest room.  

The foods we eat on our holy days, the music that makes our souls dance, the art with which we decorate our homes, and above all, our sacred texts—all these contain the precious lights of which Isaiah spoke, and which we are asked to bring to our darkened world to make it better. 

And that is why we are here tonight. Because tonight, Jews all over the world are hearing the shofar’s call, and together we remember the mission we accepted so long ago. Like the boy in the midrash story, when we overcome our fears, when we let faith and hope guide us, we can search for—and find—those elusive kadkod stones, and with their glow we can bring light to the darkness that at times seems to overwhelm the world. 

Much of our ancient nation’s capital of Jerusalem has now been rebuilt. Much more still lies buried underground. As Naomi Shemer’s song, “Jerusalem of Gold,” reminds us, the sun’s glow again reflects brilliantly off the city’s historic walls, as well as from the many new and modern buildings that have come up within its bounds. Yet we are still far from those radiant days of which Isaiah prophesied. The legendary kadkod stones still are hidden, still waiting for those who are fearless and faithful enough to find them. May we be among those who, stirred by deeds of righteousness and compassion, will set the brilliant gems high on posts along the path to the wondrous day of which the prophet spoke, a time when “All your children shall be taught by Adonai, and great shall be the peace of your children.” 

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

Welcome Steps Towards Peace In The Middle East

Welcome Steps Towards Peace In The Middle East

by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 11, 2020

In a year that has been clamoring for good news, the peace agreement between Israel and the United Arab Emirates and the just-announced news of the normalization of relations between Israel and Bahrain certainly come at an opportune time. What better answer to our thrice-daily, 24/7, prayers for peace?

When these agreements are signed, they will be a landmark in a process that has taken many years to reach. For over 100 years, Arabs have resisted the idea of a Jewish state in the Middle East. They have waged war against Israel time and time again, engaged and supported innumerable, tragic acts of terror, and pursued many other means to vilify and delegitimize Israel.

So why the change now?

Two answers come to mind immediately: Iran and common sense.

Iran is currently the world’s leading exporter of war and terror. The Iran ayatollah regime has spared no effort—monetary or otherwise—to wage and support violence against its own people, its neighbors, the United States, and all of western Europe. Iranian-funded and armed militias have been waging war against Israel (in Lebanon through Hezbollah, in Gaza through Hamas) as well as against Saudi Arabia (through the Houthi militias in Yemen), against Iraq and the Syrian people. Fear of further aggression and expansionistic wars have prompted some Arab leaders to ally with Israel, rich in technological, intelligence and military superiority.

A new Arab bloc is being formed to stand against the Iranian threat, and Israel is being recognized as an important partner in this alliance.

But Israel has much more to offer its neighbors than just military support. Israel is a major world force in medicine, education, culture, business, hi-tech, and environmental science—to name but a few areas. At a time when the Internet has made news and information accessible to almost all people around the world, people who have been suppressed for decades under benighted and totalitarian regimes are seething against their governments. If for that reason alone, some leaders, fearful of domestic violence and uprisings, find themselves leaning towards more liberal and humanitarian policies.

Cooperation with Israel will undoubtedly be a boon to progress and peace both regionally and internationally. With all other attitudes and methods failing, peace is the only sane alternative. With COVID still raging, with overpopulation and global warming becoming greater threats than ever to human survival, coexistence is the only remaining viable option.

President Trump and the State Department deserve our support, praise and thanks for the major events that these steps toward world peace represent. Hopefully other countries will follow the courageous example shown by the UAE and Bahrain.

As we look forward to the onset of a New Year, we can certainly be more grateful and optimistic than 2020 has so far allowed us to be.

From Dream To Reality: Shoftim.20

From Dream To Reality: Shoftim

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 21, 2020

As the Jewish year comes to a close (Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, is just about a month away) so does our cycle of weekly Torah readings. This cycle starts anew every fall, reminding us not only of the beginning of the year, but also of our origins and obligations as a people.

Deuteronomy, the fifth and final book of the Torah, is thus both a summary of the first four books and a distillation of how we view ourselves and our relationship with God.

Deuteronomy is structured as a series of sermons delivered by Moses as the Israelites, after forty years of wandering in the wilderness, finally reach their goal and destination, the Promised Land. It’s a look back, a recounting of the hardships endured and lessons learned along the journey. But at the same time it also offers insight into the future, a foretelling of historical events to come—the battles that will be fought as the Israelites settle in Canaan and the social, religious and political dilemmas that they will be facing.

Most of all, however, Deuteronomy is a collection of laws. About one-third of the Torah’s 613 Commandments are found in this book.

Why so many?

Laws are not necessary where the population is sparse. Where there is little traffic and few intersections, there is no need for stop signs. The number of laws in Deuteronomy—and the many different situations these cover—reflect the time and place in which they were legislated.  There are laws about warfare—a sure sign that the Middle East never was and probably never will be a haven of peace. Rules limiting the power and wealth of a king likewise indicate a political and social reality. The focus in this week’s portion (Shoftim, “Judges,” Deut. 16:18—21:9), is on the need to establish a judicial system, necessary for any civilization and culture to exist and prosper. First steps are also taken toward the centralization of religious practice and authority, enabling the nascent Jewish religion to survive in the Middle East, a place where the world’s major trade routes intersect—and with them, the cultural and religious influences of many lands and peoples.

Some of the laws in Shoftim strive to control human passions such as sexual lust, hunger for power, and the brutal urge for blood vengeance.

As the last of the Five Books of Moses, we would expect Deuteronomy to offer denouement, a satisfying conclusion tying together all the loose ends, all the storylines that interweave and leave us wanting more. As a work of theology, one could expect some answers about God, God’s nature, and the nature of God’s relationship with humanity. We could be pardoned for wanting to know more about our role and place in the universe, to see the larger picture, with all the whys and wherefores answered.

Yet exactly the opposite happens. No explanations, no sweet resolutions.  Ironically, even though it is part of a religious text, Deuteronomy says little about the nature of God’s divinity and is actually a roadmap into the human soul. Rather than explain why God or the Universe are the way they are, Deuteronomy actually helps us understand ourselves, the complex entity that we human beings are—that I am, that you are, that each individual is, in his/her/their own and unique way.

Deuteronomy isn’t about God at all. Rather, it’s about you and me. Every law in Shoftim is addressed to the individual, taking the form of the singular “you,” the “thou.” That’s what it all comes down to. There is no grand finale, no revelation of things or days to come. Everything is up to you.

Maybe that’s why Deuteronomy is read during Elul, the last month of the Jewish year. As we begin to reflect on the year that is now ending and as we begin to look, with hopes and expectations, toward the new year, we are reminded that so much depends on what our choices are going to be.

Yes, prayer is good. Prayer expresses the deepest longings in our hearts and souls—for peace, for health, for satisfaction, for a good job, for love. But prayer by itself is no more than wishful thinking. It’s what we do that complements and completes prayer.

If we want peace, we must work towards it, and not strive for destruction.

If we want to be treated with dignity and kindness, we have to treat others in exactly the same way.

If we want to live in a just world, then we need look no further than to the words that open this week’s portion: “Justice, justice shall you pursue.” The doubling of the word justice has been taught as a reminder that we must judge others as we judge ourselves, no more and no less.

And lastly, if we want to live in a world where all people—regardless of race, color, creed or gender—are treated equally, then we must tear down walls of prejudice, fear and hatred and replace them instead with fair and equitable systems and practices. No one, no matter how rich or powerful, is above the law; we are all—president or ordinary citizen, rich or poor, subject to a higher power, a higher authority, a higher and ultimate Judge.

Deuteronomy is set in the days immediately prior to the People of Israel’s crossing the Jordan River into the Promised Land. As we read it now, facing a new year, new opportunities and new challenges, these chapters remind us to see ourselves as our ancestors must have: Our fear mingled with faith, our doubts replaced with resolve. Our dreams of a Promised Land remain unfulfilled until we—you and I—take action to make them real.

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman