The Power to Change: Mikeitz.22

 The Power to Change

D’var Torah for Parashat Mikeitz

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

December 21, 2022

As this week’s Torah portion, Mikeitz (“At the End,” Genesis 41:1—44:17) begins, Joseph is released from the prison in which he was unjustly incarcerated, called upon to interpret Pharaoh’s dreams. Pharaoh recounts his disturbing dreams and the distressing fact that none of his magicians and sages has been able to interpret them.

I’ve always wondered about this part of the story. Maybe it’s because I’ve read it many times over (spoiler alert!) and know how it all ends. But—really now—are these dreams so hard to understand? Does it take a rocket scientist or Freudian analyst or to figure them out? Two dreams, each basically following the same pattern: In the first, seven fat and healthy cows appear by the riverside, only to get eaten up by seven skinny and sickly cows; and then the same with seven “healthy and good ears of grain growing on one stalk” that get swallowed up by seven thin stalks “beaten by the east wind.” 

And yet, “all the magicians of Egypt and all the wise men thereof” are completely stymied, 

Setting aside the comic aspect of this scene, maybe it isn’t the dreams that has them all scratching their heads. Maybe it’s what to do about the disaster they predict.

For aside from this being a colorful and dramatic yarn, the story of Joseph and his brothers brings up important questions. To what extent is human destiny pre-determined? How much free choice is there? Do we have any say about the outcome of events, or are we merely playthings in the hands of fickle gods?

Joseph’s cleverness isn’t made clear only by his ability to interpret dreams. It stands out boldly against the background of the prevailing belief in fatalism, the conviction that everything is predetermined by the fates, that whatever they predict must inevitably happen. In a society compelled by gods, priests and kings into believing that there’s nothing that can be done to change the course of history, there is no recourse and no free choice. What will be, will be. Que sera sera. In this kind of system, the best one can hope for is to get the gods to forget their original intent. Get them drunk enough, well-fed enough, entertained enough, and then pray that they look elsewhere for their malevolent and even perverse pleasures.

Joseph was of a different mindset. Everything he had learned from his parents, grandparents and great-grandparents convinced him that we can make a difference in the world. What makes Joseph seem such a wonder in the eyes of Pharaoh and his courtiers is not only his explanation of Pharaoh’s dreams, but also the simple solution he offers, something that none of them could even dream of: Store up the grain left over from the seven years of plenty and distribute it later, during the oncoming years of famine.

Joseph’s cleverness leads him to become the second most powerful man in Egypt, subject only to Pharaoh himself. Then, and only then, with his system is all set up, is Joseph able to turn his attention to that other pressing matter: settling the score with his brothers. And he does so with cunning and even cruelty, testing their honesty and remorse, pushing them to the point where they will break and reveal the secret they had been keeping for 22 years.

As is true with all the Torah’s lessons, marvelous stories contain within them powerful messages. Mikeitz tells us that we are not powerless even in the face of overwhelming odds. The possibility of change is contained within us, enabling each of us to bring about both personal growth and cultural progress. We can change the course of life and history.  We can make a difference in the world. We have the power.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Joseph and Judah: A Sacred Dialogue: Vayeishev.22

 Joseph and Judah: A Sacred Dialogue

D’var Torah for Parashat Vayeishev

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

December 13, 2022

In its first verse, this week’s Torah portion, Vayeishev (“And Jacob dwelled,” Genesis 37:1-40:23), implies a peaceful conclusion to Jacob’s travails. Unfortunately, that’s not the case.

This portion begins the saga of Joseph and his brothers, a well-known story retold in novels, movies and musicals. Joseph—the dreamer, the arrogant, the favorite son—will be forcefully degraded. The coat of many colors given him as a sign of his superiority by his father, Jacob, is torn and dipped in blood, then presented to Jacob as evidence that Joseph was devoured by a wild beast. (Which, in a sense, he was—the wild beast being his own brothers). However, he is not killed; at Judah’s suggestion, Joseph is instead sold to a caravan of Midianite traders who deliver him to the hands of a minister in Pharaoh’s court. Handsome and successful, Joseph is tempted by his master’s wife but does not give in. However, he is imprisoned after the woman falsely accuses him of attempted rape. In prison, Joseph again finds success and is put in charge of other prisoners. He turns out to be not only a dreamer but also an interpreter of dreams. It so “happens” that two of Pharaoh’s top ministers are imprisoned in the same prison. Joseph interprets their dreams correctly: One is executed, the other is released and restored to his important position. But he promptly forgets his promise to have Joseph released, and Joseph must languish in prison for a while longer.

Usually left out of the more popular versions of this story is the seemingly extraneous account of Judah and his daughter-in-law, Tamar. However, it’s actually an important tale, the turning point in Judah’s journey toward redemption.

The story of Joseph takes up nearly a quarter of the entire book of Genesis. That isn’t only because it is so well told. This story of pride, downfall and deliverance takes us from the humble tents of Jacob to the splendid court of the most powerful man in the ancient world—Pharaoh.  It includes a large and varied cast and features dramatic turns of events. As the story unfolds, the fascinating psychological journey taken by all its characters turns them all from shallow, cardboard figures into engrossing, three-dimensional individuals who hold within them the potential for both weakness and greatness. 

But there is yet more there than meets the eye.

The story of Joseph and his brothers actually sets the stage for an ideological dialogue that goes on to this day. The central conflict isn’t only between Joseph and Judah; it’s about the philosophy that each of them represents. Joseph stands for the belief that everything is pre-ordained, that God sets the stage and we, human beings, are merely the actors in this divine drama. In this narrative, Joseph is the lightening rod, the figurehead through which God’s will is done. Judah’s belief, on the other hand, is much more personal and practical. Judah’s contrition—both towards his father, his daughter-in-law Tamar, and the brother he had sold into slavery—leads to a complete reversal of character. Judah learns from his mistakes. He understands the consequences of his past bad choices and makes the effort to correct his ways. In this narrative, it is Judah, not Joseph, who is the true hero of the story. That’s why we, the Jewish People, follow the religion called Judaism. Judah’s belief in free-will, his understanding that God gives us the ability to turn our failures into triumphs, has become the foundation of our faith.

And yet, the messianic belief that Joseph represents—the belief that Redemption lies somewhere just beyond our reach but inevitably awaiting us—is there as well. It is this belief that has helped the Jewish People overcome all the struggles we have faced throughout our history. Joseph’s ability to understand the role God plays in our lives, his willingness to forgive (but not forget)—these are the characteristics that, right along with Judah’s practicality, will define Jewish faith and history for millennia to come.

It's a sacred dialogue.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Jacob’s Blessing: Vayishlach.22

 Jacob’s Blessing: Vayishlach

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

December 7, 2022

Vayishlach (“Jacob sent,” Genesis 32:4—36:43), this week’s Torah portion, recounts Jacob’s torturous path home after fleeing from his father-in-law’s house. It is one of the most tragic portions in the entire story, one that has prompted many commentaries and interpretations.

Shortly after leaving, Jacob receives word that his brother Esau is coming toward him with a legion of 400 armed men. It seems that twenty years later, the hatred for his brother still burns in Esau’s heart and he intends to wreak vengeance. 

Jacob sends messengers and a large contingent of animals as gifts for Esau, along with a contrite message. Just in case, however, he also divides his household—people and possessions—into two camps, hoping that if Esau does give in to his violent nature, only one group will be harmed while the other (including Rachel, Jacob’s beloved wife, and their only son so far, Joseph) remains safe. Under cover of night, he has the two camps cross the river into Canaan, while he himself stays behind.

That entire night, Jacob struggles with a mysterious being. The wrestling match remains undecided until dawn, when this being (now definitely described as an angel) begs to be allowed to depart. Jacob refuses, demanding a blessing in return. The angel agrees and informs Jacob that from now on his name will be known as “Israel,” meaning that Jacob has struggled with men and with divine beings and has prevailed. The sun rises and Jacob, limping and in pain, realizes that he has not come out of the struggle unscathed. (One of the dietary rules followed by observant Jews is to avoid eating the area of the sciatic nerve of an animal, in remembrance that this was the region where Jacob was hurt).

Jacob now has to face Esau in person, a meeting he has been dreading for twenty years. However, all goes well. Jacob’s plan of mollifying Esau has worked. Esau takes the offered gifts and—after offering “to accompany” Jacob for the rest of the journey, an offer Jacob wisely declines—Esau departs, letting Jacob proceed on his own.

But the hardships are far from over. Dinah, Jacob and Leah’s only daughter, leaves camp “to visit the daughters of the land.” She is seen by the prince of the city of Shechem who, overcome by lust, rapes her. Jacob’s sons, led by Simeon and Levi, exact terrible revenge on the men of Shechem, arousing Jacob’s anger, though he does nothing other than to reproach them. They respond bitterly, “Should our sister be treated like a whore?” Jacob is silent.

God instructs Jacob to go to Beth-El, the place where many years earlier he had his famous dream of the ladder and had sworn to offer a sacrifice to God. There God blesses Jacob, reinforcing the blessing first bestowed by the angel.

As Jacob slowly makes his way homeward, however, yet another tragedy befalls him. In giving birth to their second son, Benjamin, Rachel dies. Jacob buries her in Efrat, also known as Bethlehem. 

Jacob’s tragic story has been explained in several ways. It could be seen as a series of tests of faith. If so, I suspect a very cruel God is behind these tests.

This sad tale, however, could also be seen as an allegory. The moral here might be: as you have done, so it shall be done unto you. Jacob’s suffering is explained as punishment for his acts of cheating first his brother, then his father. He is cheated in return, first by Laban and then even by his own children. The subterfuge used by Simeon and Levi seem to indicate that dishonesty and deceit run in the family. But this explanation, too, raises questions: Is free will imbued within us after all? On the one hand Judaism teaches that we can improve our ways, that forgiveness and redemption are possible. On the other is the belief that humanity is set in its ways and that there is simply no possibility for us to change.

Both of these explanations make Vayishlach a particularly difficult portion. Is there really no way for us to learn from experience and a become better? Is everything really preordained? 

These questions have troubled humanity from the very beginning. The struggle between them still continues today, an even match that perhaps only a new dawn will resolve.

But we do not live without hope. The blessing that Jacob receives, first from the angel and then from God, is that in the end we will prevail. The lesson about survival that Jacob learns is that self-sufficiency is important, but that by itself it is not enough. We also need faith. This combination is what enables us, in the end, to overcome adversity. Jacob’s blessing enables us to rise from the ashes, wiser, better and stronger for the experience.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

November, The Darkest Month: A brief look at Jewish History of the 20th Century

 November, The Darkest Month: A brief look at Jewish History of the 20th Century

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

December 2, 2022

Notwithstanding the fact that my birthday—which I share with several family members and good friends—is in November, November is probably my least favorite month. Granted, it also has the holiday of Thanksgiving, but that hardly stands up to the shorter days and frigid temperatures that set in—seemingly with no end in sight.

Yet, for better or for worse, November is one of the most important months in Jewish history. Some have even suggested that it be designated Jewish History Month. Here, in order of appearance in the calendar, are just some of the dates we need to remember.

November 2, 1917: The Balfour Declaration. Written by Lord Alfred Balfour of Great Britain, the declaration states that “His Majesty’s Government view with favor the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people.” Hoping to gain Jewish support for the war against the Turkish Ottoman Empire, which had ruled over the Middle East for 500 years, the declaration fell short of Zionist hopes (and was summarily rejected by the Arabs) but following the conclusion of World War One it was accepted by the League of Nations and is an important step toward the founding of the modern State of Israel. 

November 4, 1995: Yitzhak Rabin, the Prime Minister of Israel, is assassinated. This murder sealed the deep rift between the right and left wings of Israel’s society. More than a quarter century later, the bitterness and accusations remain, symptomatic of a nation profoundly divided along ideological, political, cultural, religious and economic lines.

November 9, 1938: Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass, a pogrom perpetrated by Nazi forces along with members of the Hitlerjugend, the Hitler Youth. In total, 267 synagogues were destroyed, over 7,000 Jewish businesses were damaged or destroyed and some 30,000 Jews were arrested and sent to concentration camps . And oh yes, the Jews were forced to pay for the damage and cleanup. In the eyes of many, Kristallnacht signifies the starting point of the Holocaust. 

37 years to a day after Kristallnacht, on November 10, 1975, the United Nations General Assembly issued Resolution 3379, declaring that Zionism is racism. Though repealed 16 years later, this despicable falsehood became a mantra among the so-called political Progressives, and is still repeated on every possible occasion by them as well as by other groups. By the way, speaking of anti-Zionism in the United Nations, on November 30—only 2 days ago—the UN General Assembly condemned Israel in five separate resolutions, for a total of 15 so far this year targeting Israel, “compared to 13 on the rest of the world combined.”    

But I digress. There are three other November dates that are more important for us to note: November 21, 29 and 30.

On the 21st day of November 1984, Israel began a covert rescue mission that lasted seven weeks and involved 30 clandestine flights. Known as “Operation Moses,” Israel secretly airlifted over 8,000 Ethiopian Jews, victims of persecution, civil war and famine, transporting them via Sudan and Belgium to new homes in Israel. Operation Moses reminds us of one of the most important reasons the State of Israel was founded to begin with: To provide shelter for persecuted Jews from anywhere in the world.

Now, the 29th day of November is a complex date. In 1947, on that date, the United Nations adopted Resolution 181, also known as the Partition Plan, dividing the Land of Israel into two states, one Jewish and the other Arab. This two-state solution didn’t sit well with Arab countries, which immediately began expelling their Jewish citizens. Over 850,000 men, women and children were forced to leave lands they had lived in for hundreds and even thousands of years. Permitted to take almost nothing with them but the clothes on their backs, they came to Israel from Yemen, Iran, Iraq, Libya, Morocco, Syria, Lebanon and Egypt. In memory of this modern-day Exodus, in 2014 Israel’s legislature, the Knesset, designated November 30 as a day of remembrance of the collective trauma suffered by Mizrahi Jews, Jewish refugees from Iran and Arab lands.

But November 29 has yet another meaning for me, on a more personal level. This story goes back to the Holocaust and the Zionist youth group—Ha-No’ar Ha-Tziyoni—of which my mother, of blessed memory, was a member. Formed for the purpose of defense and escape, one of the actions that this youth group undertook was to seek revenge on Nazi collaborators. One unit comprising two men, Olek Guttman and Emil Brigg, and one woman, Danusha Firstenberg, set out to hunt down a notorious kapo, a Nazi collaborator who betrayed Jewish refugees to the Nazi murderers. The group accomplished their goal. Soon afterwards however they were caught. Interrogated and tortured for days, they somehow found the strength not to give up names and addresses the Nazis demanded. On November 28 they were told that the following day they would be executed. 

It didn’t happen.

As luck would have it, the jail where they were held was liberated by the Russians on the following day—you guessed it, November 29, 1944, two hours before the planned execution. Coincidentally, that was also Danusha’s birthday. All three later played important roles in the establishment and defense of the State of Israel. In honor of their miraculous escape, November 29 was chosen for the annual reunion of survivors of the group, known as Nasha Gruppa. My mother, who was unit leader for many of the group’s rescue missions, attended most of these gatherings and I got to know many of its members. Now, with few survivors left, 2nd, 3rd and 4th generation survivors are the ones who attend to tell and retell the stories of tragedy, heroism and survival. 

November 29 is thus embedded in my memory and soul as deeply as my own birthday. This day, more than almost any other, has defined my entire life and personal mission.

Should November be designated Jewish History Month, as some have proposed? If it leads us to learn more about the saga of Jewish heroism and survival, then the answer is yes. But for some of us it isn’t history. It’s the ongoing present, and it lasts much longer than 30 days.

Still, I’m glad that this month is over. Without a doubt, every day in the calendar holds its special moments and memories—some joyous, others less so. But there’s just too much darkness in November, and even the few rays of hope that shine through are tinged with sadness. I’ll take December, thank you! December’s eight-day Festival of Lights, Hanukkah, is a joyous celebration that helps us cross the winter solstice—the shortest day of the year—and sets us on course to the warmer, longer days of spring and summer. Now that’s something to look forward to!

And so, with November finally behind us, let’s dress warmer, light our candles, embrace the joyous season and, while yet recalling the past, always also look ahead to days and nights filled with awe, hope and wonder.

Happy December to one and all!

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Ladder to Heaven: Vayeitzei.22

 A Ladder to Heaven

D’var Torah for Parashat Vayeitzei

November 29, 2022

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week’s Torah portion, Vayeitzei (“And [Jacob] Left,” Genesis 28:10—32:3) covers the middle part of Jacob’s life, from the time he leaves home until he begins his journey back again.

As with many of the stories of Genesis, this one too is structured beautifully. Vayeitzei contains symmetry of form, heroic deeds, love and jealousy (even elements of early anti-Semitism) and, at the end, reconciliation. 

Fleeing from his twin brother Esau, on Jacob’s first night away from the comforts of home, Jacob faces the grim reality of his new life. That night, however, sleeping with a rock for a pillow, he dreams of angels. It is the famous scene of Jacob’s Ladder, where God appears to Jacob, promising to be there for him throughout his journeys.

Jacob, however, is only partially impressed. “If,” he responds, “If God will be with me… then this stone, which I have placed as a monument, shall be a house of God” (Gen. 28:20-22). 

Unlike his father and grandfather before him, Jacob’s faith in God is riddled with doubt. He relies more on his own cunning and self-sufficiency. It will be a long time before he realizes the full meaning of God’s promise. 

In Laban’s house, despite being family and despite being given Laban’s daughters Leah and Rachel (along with their two maids) as wives, Jacob is treated as a servant. The competition between the two sisters for Jacob’s love will result in the birth of twelve children, and—not unexpectedly—quite a bit of family drama. Jacob’s success as shepherd for his father-in-law’s herds will make him rich, but it will also arouse jealousy and hatred. Realizing that he has overstayed his welcome, Jacob—urged by yet another vision of angels—decides to return home. Without telling Laban, Jacob tells Rachel and Leah that God has instructed him to leave. They agree, and the journey homeward begins. 

Jacob’s Ladder has become a familiar metaphor for finding meaning and purpose in life. In Jacob’s dream, the ladder extends from “the place” (Ha-Makom, a concept that in the Torah stands for God’s Presence) where he sleeps all the way up to the heavens. Representing hope as well as aspiration and ambition, for Jacob, it is about his growing relationship with God.  

For many of us, Jacob’s Ladder is symbolic of life itself. We progress, step by step, rung by rung; we grow from innocent childhood to adulthood and—hopefully—to wisdom and maturity. We make our way toward our goals, often stumbling and then rising again, relying on our cunning and self-sufficiency. But at some point, like Jacob, we learn just how important faith is. It’s faith that gives us the hope and strength we need to overcome the constant challenges of life. 

Without faith, we are nothing but a speck of dust in a meaningless universe. Allowing God’s Presence into our life gives us purpose and meaning. and imbues our fleeting time on Earth with eternal holiness.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Moral Math: Toldot.22

 Moral Math: Toldot.22

Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

November 23, 2022

This week’s Torah portion, Toldot (“Generations,” Genesis 25:19-28:9) begins the account of the third Patriarch of the Jewish People, Jacob.

Of the three Patriarchs, Jacob is the most approachable, the one we can identify with best. Abraham exemplifies unmatched faith in God; Isaac is the silent hero, accepting his fate with both courage and resignation. Unlike them, however, Jacob is self-sufficient, relying on himself and his cleverness more than on the noble ideals taught him by his father and grandfather. 

In this portion we learn of the birth of Isaac and Rebecca’s two sons, the twins Esau and Jacob. From the start, it is not an easy pregnancy, and when Rebecca seeks the meaning of her condition, she is told by God that she is carrying twins. “One will become mightier than the other, [yet] the elder will serve the younger” (Gen. 25:23). It is a struggle that will continue beyond their birth. The Edomites—descendants of Esau, also called Edom (“the red one”), though brothers in relationship to Jacob/Israel, become allies of the Babylonians as they destroy Jerusalem, capturing, killing and selling into slavery hundreds of Judean refugees. Later, the Edomites become the figurative representatives of the cruel Roman Empire, and centuries after that, of the oppressive Roman Catholic Church.

In the Torah portion, Isaac, blind and feeble in his old age, asks Esau to bring him a meal made from the flesh of a hunted animal. In return, Isaac intends to give Esau the blessing of the firstborn. Rebecca, overhearing the conversation, employs Jacob in tricking Isaac. She dresses Jacob in a hairy garment meant to fool Isaac into believing he is Esau. Rebecca then hurries and cooks the dish that Isaac has requested. Isaac, however, is not easily fooled.  “The voice is the voice of Jacob, yet the hands are the hands of Esau,” he exclaims (Gen. 27:22). Yet he allows the masquerade to continue and bestows his blessing on Jacob, the younger of the two twin brothers.

Esau swears to kill Jacob for tricking him (even though Jacob had “bought” the right to the blessing from his brother for a bowl of red lentil soup), and Rebecca arranges for Jacob to flee to her family in her country of origin. Isaac, now understanding what has happened but refusing to take back his words, lets Jacob go with yet another blessing.

The scenario is a troubling one. A question recently raised by students in one of our Religious School classes addresses this issue. Is it OK to cheat in order to make someone do the right thing, they asked.

That is exactly the moral issue that this portion raises. Were Rebecca and Jacob right in deceiving Isaac and Esau? Are one’s integrity and honesty a fair price to pay—even for the sake of survival?

The easy answer, of course, is a firm “no.” A person’s word should be unassailable. It is their bond.

Yet Rebecca and Jacob—and later, Isaac—know that this ideal works only in a perfect world. For various reasons, Esau could not be trusted to take care of his brother, let alone be a Patriarch of the Jewish People. The recognition of this fact impels them to proceed with their ruse.

Yet Jacob will not get off so easily. For the rest of his life he will pay for this act of deception. As he has cheated, so will he be cheated, over and over again. His entire life will be full of trouble, sorrow and tragedy. His children will squabble among themselves. His beloved wife, Rachel, will die before her time. Joseph, the eldest of Rachel and Jacob’s two sons, will be sold into slavery by his own brothers, and Jacob will mourn the loss for many years.

Jacob’s innocence (Gen. 25:27 ish tam reflects simplicity, wholeness, a quiet character, but also innocence) is forever gone, and he will have to learn to live with the consequences of his actions.

Morals aren’t always perfect or simple. Throughout life we often need to make allowances, do the “moral math.” In a perfect world, this would never be necessary. In the real world in which we live, however, perfection is unrealistic. Sometimes, for the sake survival (and at times, not even then), we must make allowances. It’s a slippery slope and a fatal trap for many of us.

The moral of this story is that sometimes we must make difficult choices. Without a doubt, however, there will always be consequences. We will never be whole or perfect again. We will always have to live with the guilt and burden of our choices.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Silent Hero: Chayei Sarah.22

 The Silent Hero

D’var Torah for Chayei Sarah

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

November 16, 2022

This week’s Torah portion is Chayei Sarah (“The Life of Sarah,” Genesis 23:1—25:18). It’s a neatly put together portion, featuring symmetry, a love story and some of the most beautiful imagery one could hope for in an ancient scroll.

Chayei Sarah begins and ends with a death and a funeral. As the portion begins, Sarah dies and is buried by Abraham in the Machpelah Cave in Hebron. At the end of the portion, Abraham dies and is also buried in the same sacred burial space.

There are two detailed business negotiations in Chayei Sarah. In the first, Abraham purchases the plot of land that would serve as the final resting place for three generations of his family. The second is the negotiation not for land, but for a wife for Isaac.

The love story features Isaac and Rebecca—the first example of romantic love in the Torah. Their first meeting takes place as Isaac is taking a walk on a late afternoon, enjoying the cooling breeze as the sun is setting behind him. Lifting his eyes, he sees a far-off camel caravan and recognizes that it is bearing a beautiful woman. At the same instant, Rebecca sees Isaac and is informed that he is indeed her intended groom. Veiling herself—as was the custom at the time—Rebecca glides gracefully down from the camel’s back. When the couple finally meet, it is love at first sight. For the first time since his mother Sarah’s death, Isaac finds comfort and consolation, and he brings Rebecca home to his mother’s tent, where they live out their lives as a married couple.

There is a missing piece, however, in this otherwise beautifully constructed and told story. There’s a lot of talking in this portion: Abraham negotiates for the burial plot; then he gives specific and detailed instructions to his servant, Eliezer regarding finding the right person for Isaac. The servant negotiates at some length with Rebecca’s family. And finally Rebecca is asked whether she is willing to part with her family and marry Isaac. But through the entire portion, we don’t hear even one word from Isaac himself.

In fact, Isaac is a silent hero in his own story. The last words we heard from him were when he and his father, Abraham, were walking up the mountain where Isaac realizes that he, and not some lamb, is the intended sacrifice. The next words we hear from him will be spoken towards the end of his life—the blessing he had intended to give Esau but is tricked into giving to Jacob (next week’s portion, Toldot). 

Isaac’s silence is mystifying. Is it anger? Resentment? The trauma he must have suffered at the top of the mountain, seeing the glinting knife poised above his chest? And later, why is he silent as Abraham instructs his servant, Eliezer, to find a wife for Isaac? Unlike Rebecca, Isaac was never asked. His approval was taken for granted.

Throughout his life, Isaac was a willing accomplice to whatever befell him, never complaining, never asking why. Perhaps he had the same kind of faith that characterized his father, Abraham. Even when Isaac is tricked by Rebecca and Jacob, he accepts his fate and does not withdraw his blessing. Deep in his heart, he must have known all along that there were greater forces at play than he could perceive or argue with.

This acceptance of his fate became Isaac’s trademark. For some, the faith he demonstrated throughout his life was even greater than that of his father. Isaac becomes the model of the suffering servant, willing to undergo whatever God had intended for him.

His silence in the face of trauma and tragedy are not the signs not of a timid or oppressed spirit, but rather of his heroism and courage. It’s a trait that not many of us are blessed with, but one which proves Isaac worthy of being a patriarch of a long-suffering nation. With his silence, he earns the respect of people, angels and even God.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Turning Ordinary into Holy: Vayeira.22

 Turning Ordinary into Holy: Vayeira.22

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

November 8, 2022

This week’s Torah portion, Vayeira (“And He Saw,” Genesis 18:1—22:24) is filled with miracles and wonders. First, three angels appear to Abraham; they foretell the birth, in exactly one year’s time, of Abraham and Sarah’s child, Isaac. Then they tell him of God’s intention to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah. And finally we read about that ram, the one that famously gets its horns entangled in a bush just in time to stop Abraham from sacrificing his beloved son, Isaac.

There’s enough in this portion to spend an entire lifetime learning and discussing. Take that famous story of the near-sacrifice of Isaac, known in Hebrew as the Akeida (“the binding” of Isaac). How to understand this breathtaking, yet also tremendously disturbing story? Does God make a horrible mistake in commanding Abraham to do the unthinkable? Is Abraham wrong in not arguing with God—particularly after vigorously trying to defend Sodom and Gomorrah, despite the evil that is rampant in those two doomed cities? And where is Sarah’s voice in all this?

And what about that poor ram? How does a ram, intimately familiar with every rock, stone and bush within his grazing territory, get so terribly enmeshed and allows itself to be bound up and sacrificed?

The dozen or so verses that comprise the Akeida story have inspired countless books, articles, midrashim and rabbinic commentaries. This story, a traditional reading on Rosh Ha-Shanah, is one of the foundation stones of the Jewish Faith. 

None of the events described in this portion can be considered “everyday.” And yet for Abraham, arguably the ultimate Man of Faith who ever lived, that is exactly what they were. When Abraham first lifts up his eyes and sees the three angels, all he sees is human beings. No wings, no halos, no golden harps. Just tired, dusty, hungry and thirsty men—and an opportunity for Abraham to practice his beloved mitzvah of hospitality.

Arguing with God, for Abraham is “everyday.” Knowing when not to, is a sign of his constant faith.

What Abraham learns from the turn of these events—and through him, we too, Abraham’s descendants—is that “ordinary” isn’t necessarily right or correct.

In Abraham’s day, the destruction of entire cities was not extraordinary. Empires and conquerors striving for power and riches engaged in wholesale destruction; men enslaved one another; blood-thirsty gods and goddesses demanded the impossible of their human subjects. All these were considered “ordinary” in those horrible times.

The stories that we find in this portion are larger than life. They’re meant to be. The destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah makes wonderful fodder for Hollywood and evangelical television. Abraham looms impossibly huge in our culture both for at times standing up to God’s bloody intentions and at other times for not standing up. Everything in this portion is told the way it is because its lessons are meant to help us see the world in a different way. That to which we are accustomed, that which too often we see as “ordinary” simply because that’s the way it’s always been—isn’t necessarily the way it ought to be. 

The rampant immorality, injustice and cruelty of those days are not, and should never be, “ordinary.” We must never think of them as such. The lesson Abraham teaches us in this portion is to see the potential for “ordinary” to become “holy.” From Abraham we also learn that we must never think of ourselves as powerless before seemingly enormous forces. We must do whatever we can to root out evil from wherever we see it.

We can be better. We can do better. We, like Abraham, can transform the world by striving to make things better, by turning “ordinary” into “holy.”  

Such is the power of faith.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Standing Up to Hatred: Lech Lecha.22

 Standing Up to Hatred

Sermon on Shabbat Lech Lecha

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

November 2, 2022

In legends and myths, a hero’s character is judged by the tests they are expected to endure and overcome. Every epic follows this theme, the tests usually being of strength or courage. The twelve labors of Hercules are designed to prove his physical strength. Abraham, the first Patriarch of the Jewish People, is presented with ten tests. However, at the age of 75, these aren’t meant to gauge his physical stamina, but rather his moral courage and faith in God.

There is—not unexpectedly—some disagreement among Rabbinic commentators about what constitutes the first of these ten tests. Some say that it is in in this week’s Torah portion, Lech Lecha (“Go Forth,” Genesis 12:1—17:27), as God commands Abraham to “Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.”

Other commentators go further back. The Midrash, a collection of rabbinic stories from the second and third centuries C.E., addresses the question of what happened before that, what prompted God to issue his command in the first place. It interprets the name of Abraham’s home town, Ur of the Chaldeans, as “fire of the Chaldeans,” [in an early Semitic language ur also means “light” or “fire,” related to the Hebrew word for light, ‘or] and thus proposes that Abraham’s first test was actually an auto-da-fe, a trial by fire. For his defiant belief in the one supreme God, Abraham is condemned by the Chaldean king Nimrod to be cast into a fiery furnace.

For his constancy (in this Midrash, the first test of his faith), Abraham is saved by God, who promptly instructs him to leave and find blessing in another land.

This famous story is obviously rooted in a cultural experience the early Rabbis were already well aware of: Anti-Semitism. 

Anti-Semitism is not a new phenomenon. It was prevalent already in ancient days, centuries before it found its way into the New Testament and the Quran.

Founded on ignorance and prejudice and spread by folklore and through religious and social rituals, anti-Semitism is the oldest and deadliest hate in existence. 

Now, more and more, again, Jews are finding themselves under attack. Excluded from public debate, accused of undue force in defending ourselves, of owning the media, manipulating governments, or—as in the latest tweets by Kanye West—controlling the music industry, the anti-Semitic tropes are always the same. The same reasoning forms the basis of Pharoah’s rationale in enslaving the Hebrews and ordering the murder of all newborn males. It is behind Haman’s plot to murder all Jews in ancient Persia. The same libels and lies are behind the anti-Jewish attacks in ancient Alexandria and Syria, and—later—the pogroms in Russia, Poland and Ukraine. When they couldn’t kill the Jews, various factions tried exile and forced conversions. 

For a while, in a world shocked not by the horrors of the Holocaust but rather by its magnitude, anti-Semitism seemed to disappear. Now we realize that it has only temporarily faded, gone underground for a few decades. It is now soaring again, and no one should be surprised. 

It is true that the music industry—as with any industry—is profit-oriented. In this fiercely competitive field, only a tiny percentage of artists find the fame and fortune they seek. Many others are kept—like so many concubines in a harem—bound by legal contracts, just in case one of their songs catches on and becomes a hit. But that doesn’t mean that “the Jews” control the industry. Only in spheres where conspiracy theorists inhale fantasies and outright lies do “the Jews,” exclusive of anyone else, have this kind of power. To claim this in public is anti-Semitic fodder. To say that Jews have “Congress in their pocket,” as past-President Trump recently stated, is to accuse Jews of manipulating government to their own—and only their own—benefit. It is anti-Semitism.

There is no cabal, no mysterious organization conspiring to take over the world. 

Anti-Semitic beliefs are deeply entrenched in the human mind. Key phrases serve as code for those who would use these beliefs to gain power and control over vast segments of the population. In America, anti-Semitism does not come from the left or right wing of American politics. It comes from both. And ignoring it will not make it disappear. 

Like wildfire, hate spreads, causing destruction and loss of life. Kanye West’s deranged mind is no excuse. Political expediency is no excuse. Disagreement with Israel’s politics is no excuse. Nor is our current dependence on social media, the most prevalent venue today of hatred and ignorance. There are no innocent statements posing as truths—they all emerge from, and feed into, subconscious streams of hate and prejudice that—seemingly spontaneously—turn into violence of the kind we saw in the Tree of Life Synagogue massacre four years ago; at Congregation Beth Israel in Colleyville, Texas, only last year; and even in the vicious attack on Speaker Nancy Pelosi’s 82-year-old husband one week ago. 

We need to fight anti-Semitism in every form and venue in which it appears. The people who use it must be publicly exposed and their vile motives revealed. For this to happen, we as individuals must raise our voices in every public forum. Entire communities must organize and unite to tell perpetrators that there is absolutely no room for hate amongst us, not yesterday, not today, not ever. 

Abraham passed his first test of faith and survived, but not before God interfered and extricated him from the burning furnace. While, on the one hand, we must follow Abraham’s example and that of tens of thousands of generations of his descendants, who consistently and stubbornly refused to abandon our faith, we must never, ever, let our guard down. Our survival cannot be left to faith alone. “Never again” must not become an empty slogan. Jewish lives matter, and it is up to each of us—Jew or Gentile alike—to ensure that this hatred is not afforded free speech or given free reign. 

Let those individuals and groups that promote this hatred, understand this lesson well. 

Am Yisrael Chai—the Jewish People lives, and we are—and must continue to be—proof of this eternal truth.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Remembering the Rainbow: Noah.22

 Remembering the Rainbow

D’var Torah for Parashat Noah

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 26, 2022

Every season has its beauty, often expressed through colors. But the most wondrous of all natural phenomena is undoubtedly the rainbow. The rainbow is more than beautiful colors, however. It awakens in us a sense of awe and wonder. It stirs feelings of hope and gratitude. Yet at the same time, rainbows also bring up memories of dark clouds and storms. In the story of Noah and the flood (this week’s Torah portion, Noah, Genesis 6:9—11:32), the rainbow assumes yet another meaning: it stands for God’s promise never again to destroy all life. 

God establishes a covenant (b’rit) with Noah, the first of three that the Torah speaks of. The second covenant will be with Abraham, the third with Moses.

For God’s part in this covenant, God reaffirms Creation, establishing it forever. In our text, this is symbolized by the use of the number seven. Just as this number appears in the first story of creation, so it reappears in this portion to reinstate existence following its near annihilation. It is on “the seventh day” that the flood begins; on the 17th day of the 7th month does Noah’s ark come to a rest on top of Mount Ararat. Seven days Noah waits for the return of the dove with the olive branch in its beak. And then there are the seven (visible) colors of the rainbow. 

Throughout the Torah, the number seven symbolizes God’s Presence and involvement in all that exists. The story of Noah’s Flood is more than about God’s anger—it is also about the possibility of forgiveness and redemption

But in return for God’s promise, God expects something back from us. Grace is not a one-way street. For the first time, God establishes a moral code for all humanity, with the expectation that, as our role in the covenant, we live by it. The early rabbis deduced seven commandments from the blessings that were given to Noah and his descendants. Known as the Noahide Laws, these are:

    1. Establish courts of law.

    2. Do not practice idolatry.

    3. Do not curse God.

    4. Do not engage in forbidden sexual relations.

    5. Do not murder.

    6. Do not rob.

    7. Do not eat flesh from a living animal.

The rainbow that appears at the end of the flood signifies more than God’s oath: It reminds us of our moral obligations. Extending from one end of infinity to the other, it signifies the eternal bond that exists between us and the Creator, recalling to us not only the fear of the storm, but also of our sacred role in the ongoing process of Creation.

In the Jewish tradition, it is customary to say a blessing upon seeing a rainbow: Baruch ata Adoani, Eloheinu Melech ha’olam, zocheir ha-brit v’ne’eman bivrito v’kayam b’ma-amarav: “Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Eternal Sovereign of the Universe, who remembers the Covenant, is faithful to the Covenant, and keeps His promise.” It’s our way of saying, “Thank you for this message of hope; just as you remember, so do we, too, remember to follow your path and observe your commandments.”

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

 

Lessons For God’s Children: Bereishit.22

 Lessons For God’s Children

D’var Torah for Parashat Bereishit

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 19, 2022

The first parasha of the Torah, Bereishit (“In the Beginning,” Genesis 1:1—6:8) is possibly the most controversial portion in the entire Torah. Fundamentalists read it literally: This is how the world—and humanity—came to be. Others see it as a collection of stories—allegories—meant to explain not so much the “how” of Creation, but rather, the “why.”

Though the section of the portion that describes the Six Days of Creation is filled with active verbs (among them: God saw, God formed, God spoke, God called and of course God made), there is really no explanation of how—the method or means—that God used to make it all happen.

That is because the purpose of these stories is not to be an engineering DIY manual. They are there solely to demonstrate God’s power. Only God—by speech or thought—has the power to create something from nothing; and only God can instill the spirit (ru’ach) of life into inanimate matter and cause it to live. 

The story of Creation is the prelude to everything that follows. The big question it raises however, is Why. What is God’s reason for Creation, and why does God create Human Beings.

In fact, it seems that God had some second thoughts about this last part of Creation. “Na’aseh adam,” “Let us create Man,” God says before actually pulling together some mud for the project (see Chapter 2, a variance from the version given in Chapter 1). From the get-go, the Rabbis inquire to whom God is speaking. Why the “let us?” Who is arguing with God? And anyway, why does God need to consult with anyone about God’s intentions?

The hesitation seems to come from some misgivings about Humanity. According to Midrash, it is the angels who try to talk God out of this plan. “You know what they will be like,” the angels argue. “You know they will cause you to regret your decision.”

And yet God persists.

Why?

Perhaps it was out of loneliness. “One is the loneliest number,” say the lyrics of the song “One” by Harry Nilsson. Or maybe it was God’s need to be recognized. After all, what is a king without subjects to recognize his power? 

Or perhaps it was out of love and longing, the same powerful force that motivates us to give life and love to our children. God demonstrates a parent’s true purpose and role. It is powerful love that causes God to engage in the act of Creation.

The Torah represents only the beginning of Jewish thought. Yet within it lies the entirety of Jewish faith: God’s unity; God’s love; and God’s expectation that we, human beings, God’s children, prove ourselves worthy of God’s call to carry on the sacred work of Creation. 

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Mission and Blessing: V’zot Ha-Bracha.22

Mission and Blessing: V’zot Ha-Bracha

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 12, 2022

By some calendar coincidence—or perhaps intentionally—V’zot Ha-Bracha (“This Is the Blessing,” Deuteronomy 33:1—34:12), the last portion of the Torah, is not read on Saturday, but rather on whatever day of the week the holiday of Simchat Torah (Rejoicing with the Torah) occurs. Special readings for the holiday of Sukkot are read instead on the Sabbath during the Festival of Booths (Tabernacles).

It is fitting that the Torah concludes with Moses blessing the Tribes of Israel. In this, Moses follows the example set by the Patriarch Jacob at the conclusion of the first book of the Torah, Genesis.

But there are differences. Jacob is careful to bless his children in order of their birth. Moses seems to have a different agenda in mind. The tribe of Shimon is left out altogether. Reuven is given his fair share as the eldest, but he is immediately followed by Judah—the most numerous and powerful of the tribes. The Levites are recognized for their role in the ritual practices of the People of Israel, and so are the other tribes, each according to their strengths and contributions. Joseph (represented by the tribes of Efraim and Menashe) is given an extra portion of the blessings, in appreciation for his role as savior and protector of his family and people.

For various reasons, this portion is particularly difficult to understand, and many interpretations have been offered throughout the centuries. It is likely that Moses had in mind the role that each tribe would be playing during the next phase of Israel’s history—its establishment as a nation in its own land. 

In any case, the last part of V’zot Ha-Bracha is the most poignant. Moses is commanded by God to climb Mt. Eber—on the eastern shore of the Jordan River—where he is given the privilege of viewing the entirety of the Promised Land. He himself will not be allowed to enter the Land. The role of leadership will be passed on to Joshua. 

Moses’s burial place is unknown. His role in both Jewish and world history is not contained by any physical marker. His contribution goes beyond any specific bounds of time and place. The Torah is his gift to humanity; its lessons are infinite and ageless. Story and myth, vision and poetry embody moral lessons that transcend history itself.

The Torah is more than the story of the origin of the Jewish People. It marks a path towards a future where people—all people—treat one another with dignity and respect, with love and gratitude. A vision of the world as it can be, the Torah is more than a dream. It shows us a path to holiness. It acts as both guide and map to making the world a better place. For 3000 years the Torah has provided spiritual strength and sustenance to the Jewish People. Carrying it in our midst and ensuring that future generations will learn from it and then pass it on is both our mission and our blessing.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

 

For Our Children and Their Children After Them: Haazinu.22

 For Our Children and Their Children After Them

D’var Torah for Parashat Ha-azinu

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 6, 2022

Ha-azinu (“Listen,” Deuteronomy 32:1-52) is also known as The Song of Moses. A beautiful poem with stunning imagery, this portion presents yet another warning for the Israelites to obey God’s mitzvot (commandments) even after they have settled and grown comfortable in the Promised Land.

The common saying, that there is no atheist in a foxhole, is true. When all hope seems to be gone, only faith has the power to lift us up. The opposite, however, is also true. When danger seems to dissipate, we grow too comfortable, forgetting the dangers that are always there. “Jeshurun grew fat and kicked” (Deut. 32:15) is how Moses foresees the future of the people. Having gained control of the Land and reaped its fruit, Israel is destined to forget God’s ways and even rebel against God. The consequences are sure to follow—God’s anger will flare up, and the People will be dispersed from their Land.

Moses calls up the mountains and the heavens as witness to God’s faithfulness. He also reminds the people to heed the lessons of the past—how God saved them from the Egyptians and guided them across the desert to the Promised Land: “As an eagle awakens its nest, hovering over its fledglings, it spreads its wings, taking them and carrying them on its pinions” (Deut. 32:11). No bird carries its young on its wings; it shelters them beneath its wings. However, God provides shelter from below, warding off the danger presented the enemies down on the ground who may be shooting their arrows upward in an effort to destroy God’s chosen people.

For many of us, this vision, poetic and grand as it is, brings up doubts and misgivings. There have been too many times when this promise failed to materialize. 

While these questions persist, the long-range view gives us a different perspective. The Song of Moses was written about two and a half millennia ago. And yet we—the descendants of Moses and the ancient Israelites—are still here. With all the uncertainty that sometimes clouds our vision, the real proof of the truth of God’s promise is our miraculous survival through history. 

Ha-azinu, this week’s Torah portion, calls God the rock and foundation of all that exists. It is our faith and trust in God that keeps us going, no matter what.

Maybe it’s the precarious nature of life itself that has us holding on to the promise that God will always be there for us. Maybe it’s the richness of the teaching that the Torah offers, lending meaning, beauty and purpose during times when life seems both meaningless and futile. 

Whatever the reason, the Jewish faith persists to this day, as does the Jewish People.

At the end of this beautiful portion, God commands Moses to climb up Mount Eber—the last mountain Moses will ascend. From this peak, Moses will see the Promised Land, yet he will not enter it. So we, too, on rare occasions, are granted a glimpse of the future. Like Moses, we may not be able to witness the moment of the crossing over. But we are filled with faith that, as long as we teach the word of God to our children, at some point in their future, they will be granted this reward.

It is this hope that keeps us steady in our beliefs, that at some unspecified moment in the future, our descendants will reap the rewards of God’s promise. And so we take whatever small steps we can to help them reach that point. It’s the least we can do for our children and for their children after them.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Zionism: Making History. Yom Kippur.22

 Zionism: Making History

Sermon for Yom Kippur 5783

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Oct. 5, 2022

In a rare outing from his cluttered office, Albert Einstein and his wife once went to the mountains for a week of camping. On the first night, after pitching their tent, they ate a sumptuous dinner and drank a good bottle of wine. Then they wished each other good night and went to sleep. After a few hours, Mrs. Einstein wakes up and elbows her husband to wakefulness. “My dear husband,” she says, “look up to the sky and tell me what you see.” “Millions of stars,” answers the professor. “And what does that tell you?” his wife asks.” Einstein thinks for a moment. Then, in an effort to impress his wife, he says, “From an astronomer’s point of view it means that there are millions of galaxies, and potentially billions of planets. Chronologically speaking, I would estimate that it is nearly 3 am. Theologically, I understand that God is all-mighty and we humans are puny and insignificant. And from a meteorological perspective I would predict that tomorrow will be a fine, sunny day. But—” continues the esteemed physicist, “what do you see, my dear wife?” Mrs. Einstein waits a moment and then responds: “My dear husband, from one day to the next you are becoming more and more of an idiot. Our tent was stolen!”

Sometimes, caught up in the details of life, we neglect to see the obvious. Caught up with the life of our diverse communities, dispersed all over the world, we Jews sometimes forget that our homeland, Israel, was stolen from us.

Destroyed by the Romans and then run over by one occupying empire after another, for centuries the Land of our Ancestors was left bereft, overgrazed by nomadic tribes, forsaken and abandoned to the ravages of time. The Moslem hordes that overran the land in the 6th century killed or held for ransom most of those Jews who remained, forcing others to convert to Islam. Riding under the banner of the Cross, the Crusaders “washed the streets of Jerusalem with rivers of blood.” Under the Ottoman Turks, Israel became a cultural and economic backwater, traversed by dusty trade caravans, its holy sites visited only by pilgrims, while corrupt, absentee landlords leased any part of the Land that they could to impoverished villagers and goat herders. 

For two thousand years, the Land of Israel was left in ruins, a lesson as it were, for the people who—as our enemies clamored—abandoned and rejected God. 

Only after the British became trustees of the Land, at the end of World War One, did the Land of Israel begin its modern transformation. 

Various dynamics colluded to bring about this change: Empires that had existed for hundreds of years were falling apart, replaced by nationalism—a political and cultural philosophy that inspired, among others, the Jewish People to reclaim their legacy and heritage. Deadly pogroms in eastern Europe and, simultaneously, the rise of anti-Semitism in western Europe, awakened many to the need for self-defense. Some came to Israel, purchasing from the Turkish landowners malaria-infested swamps and non-arable land for exorbitant prices, hoping to reclaim the land by the sweat of their brow.

At the same time, an assimilated Jewish reporter for a Viennese newspaper, Theodor Herzl, was sent to Paris, France, to report on the infamous Dreyfus Affair. Herzl was transformed by the anti-Semitic riots he witnessed there. He realized that assimilation, a process that he himself was part of, would not lead to greater acceptance of the Jews, and so from journalism Herzl turned to political activism. Herzl began to advocate a mass exodus of Jews from Europe, and, three years later, in 1897, succeeded in convening the First Zionist Congress. Two hundred participants came from seventeen countries, and political Zionism was launched on its historical course.

This version of Zionism, however, was not the first. The term Zion means “landmark,” and for thousands of years a hilltop named Zion in the Judean mountains was designated as a fortress and lookout point, overseeing the lucrative southern trade route between Asia and Africa. For one thousand years, re-named Jerusalem, it became the capital, seat of government and ritual, of the Kingdom of Judah and the Jewish People.

After the destruction of Judea by the Romans, Zionism became less of a political idea, and more of a spiritual one. Over the centuries, Jewish pilgrims would visit the ruins of the Holy Land. Some chose to stay, establishing communities in what became known as the Four Holy Cities: Jerusalem, Hebron, Tiberias and Safed—where, in the 1500’s Rabbi Isaac Luria, the ARI— “the Lion,” founder of the teaching known as Kabbalah—settled along with hundreds of the followers 

Throughout this time, periods of peaceful co-existence alternated with pogroms, anti-Semitic riots and forced expulsion. By the time Herzl began working for the reestablishment of a Jewish state in Israel, the Jewish communities in the Holy Land were impoverished and living in constant peril for their lives.

Theodor Herzl’s vision of the massive return of the Jews to their homeland was not going to be easy to achieve, Herzl knew that. He envisioned a land where Jews and Arabs toiled together to make the land prosper; where they would live together in peace, in the knowledge that only through their combined effort would the effort be successful. 

But Herzl realized that there would be political challenges—including the fact that the Ottoman Turkish Empire was still in control of the Land. There would also be theological problems, and so Herzl turned to Pope Pius X. But after their meeting, the Pope issued his final say: “The Jews have not recognized our Lord; we therefore cannot recognize the Jewish people.” 

Then too, the British were stirring up Arab nationalists, hoping to gain their loyalty in the war against Turkey. It was important for Zionism, too, to gain British recognition, and Britain was only too happy to play both parties off against each other.

The modern conflict between Jews and Arabs became inevitable. Periodic local violence turned to skirmishes and then a series of all-out wars. Yet throughout the entire process of establishing a Jewish state in the Land of Israel, most notably in 1922 and1947, at Camp David in 1978 and Oslo in 1993, the Jews offered to share the land between the two peoples—offers that Arab leaders rejected over and over again. It became clear that the fight was never about borders, territories, or settlements. It was all about the Jews’ right to settle in Israel, and Israel’s right to exist.

The wars that Israel fought guaranteed the State’s survival, and the government turned its attention to the main purpose of political Zionism: to gather the exiles. Israel became a shelter for Jews from all over the world. They came from Europe, refugees of the Shoah. They came from every place where Jews lived in fear of persecution: Russia, Latin America, and countries under Moslem and Arab control.

With each new wave of immigrants, the reborn State of Israel came alive again, and as it took giant steps forward, it instilled new-found pride among Jews around the world. The ‘60’s and ‘70’s in America were a haven for young American Jews finding their identity and liberty. 

Since the Six Day War, and particularly after the Yom Kippur War, as the Arabs realized that wars against a Jewish state in Israel couldn’t be won, they turned to terrorism. And when that didn’t work either, they turned to public opinion, through politically motivated news coverage, the BDS campaign, and of course the Internet.

As the Arab narrative took hold, it found support among new-old adherents. Anti-Zionists joined up with more traditional anti-Semites. The rise we’ve seen in anti-Semitic acts over the past few years is fed both by traditional hatred and by Islamic fervor. The two have become inseparable. Anti-Zionism IS anti-Semitism. Both profess the same philosophy of hate, denial and refusal: hate for the Jews; refusal to recognize the validity of our religion; and the denial of our inalienable right and responsibility—rights given to every other nation and group in the world—to determine the course of our history. 

Today, Zionism isn’t only about Israel. It is about Israel’s legitimate place among the nations, yes; but it’s also about the right of the entire Jewish People—wherever they are, in Israel or the Diaspora—to self-determination and self-defense. 

For more than 3000 years, Zion and Jerusalem have stood at the heart of our existence as a people. Today, Zion is no longer just a barren mountain overlooking a dusty trade route. Zionism is more than a dream. It’s a plan of action, meant to ensure the continuity of Jewish life through the ages. Today, perhaps more than at any time since the Romans destroyed Jerusalem 2000 years ago, it is our duty and responsibility, for our own sake as well as for all future generations, to protect the historical and cultural landmark that it is. Our ongoing existence depends not only on our determination to continue practicing our faith, traditions and way of life; but also on our commitment to defend and protect the State of Israel from all its enemies, all those whose sworn covenant calls for Israel’s destruction by war or public opinion.

May 5783 be a year of security and peace for Israel and all Jews, and may we be counted among those who make this prayer come true.

G’mar chatimah tova—may we all be sealed in the Book of Life for a joyous, healthy and sweet New Year. Amen.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Legacy to Live By: Kol Nidrei.22

 A Legacy to Live By

Sermon for Kol Nidre Eve

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 4, 2022

[To the Congregation:] With your permission, I would like to dedicate the following remarks to my grandson, Zev Simon, also called by his Hebrew name, Avraham Ze’ev ben Yonatan.

Dear Zevi:

One year ago tomorrow, on the afternoon of Yom Kippur, the most sacred day in the Jewish year, you came into our life, and you immediately captured our hearts. Watching you grow and develop has been a constant source of love and delight. Your most recent achievement has been mastering the art of walking—though not yet without the occasional stumble. As you will see, life is like that. It’s full of challenges, and once in a while we stumble. So, as you learn to negotiate the curves along the road, I would like to offer a few tips that will help you remain steady on your feet.  

Your parents named you Zev, after my father, z”l (of blessed memory). My father was the sole survivor of his family—the others were all murdered by the Nazis during the Shoah. Never one to give in to despair, he took upon himself the responsibility of rebuilding family and nation. An ardent lover of Israel, my father was on a flimsy boat that ran the British blockade, and on a dark night in April 1939 arrived on the shores of the Land of Israel. He found his way to a kibbutz, where, during the next few years, he helped build homes, pave roads and plant orchards. Together with your Savta Ruth—your great-grandmother Ruth—they built a home where they raised my brother and me. My father served in the Israel Defense Force, and later taught Hebrew, Jewish history, literature and Bible to generations of young men and women. 

My father’s name, Zev, means “wolf,” and while in some cultures the animal is associated with witchcraft, in others it carries the more positive connotations of bravery, loyalty, curiosity, intelligence, and a passion for freedom—all traits that my father possessed. And it’s these qualities we hope you will cultivate within yourself as you become the person you already are—and are still meant to become.

In some Jewish communities, a child is introduced to Hebrew at the age of five, or sometimes even younger. However, I’ve spoken and sung to you in Hebrew from that first day that you came into our lives. Today, one year later, your language skills are progressing beautifully. You love books and are quickly learning that everything has a name. Or two. One in Hebrew, one in English. You’ve always loved the English alphabet song. Now it’s time that you learned some of the Hebrew as well.

You are still young, and it’s almost your bedtime, so I won’t try to cover the entire set of Hebrew letters. I’m going to focus only on the first three: aleph, bet and gimmel. 

Now, Hebrew is different from most other languages. Not only does each letter have a sound, its name carries an image or idea that, like a seed, grows and develops, all the while carrying with it its original meaning and message.

Take Aleph, the first letter. Aleph signifies a ram, projecting confidence and excellence. It conveys authority and power while also reminding us that a true leader does not impose their will on others, but rather leads by teaching or setting an example. Words that stem from this letter include ulpan—a school for the intensive study of Hebrew; l’aleph—to teach or to train; and aluf—a champion (and also a general in the army).

Now, your dad is a swim and diving coach, and I’m sure that at least in his heart he hopes that one day you might become aluf—a medal-winning champion. For myself, however, I would be just as happy if you grow to know and be yourself, confident of your skills and abilities, and that you dedicate yourself in the best way you can to bettering yourself and the world around you. You will always be an aluf in my eyes.

Bet is the second letter in the Hebrew aleph-bet. Its name comes from the Hebrew word for house or home, bayit. Your home is where your family is. It is the place where you will always find love and support.

A home is a shelter not only for people, but also for things that are important. A home—bayit—can become a school—beit-sefer—if you fill it with books and learning.

Some say that the word for “book,” sefer, in beit-sefer, refers to the Torah, the book of the Jewish People. But there are also other books: books of general knowledge; books that will open your eyes to the wonders of nature; that will teach you about yourself, and which will provide you with the tools you will need to hone a skill. Let your home, too, be a beit-sefer—a shelter for books and knowledge. 

Bayit—a home—can also turn into a beit-knesset. That’s what this place is [gesture around]: A temple or synagogue. Since our earliest days, beit-knesset is where the Jewish People have always gathered to pray and study our texts. It’s where we come together to learn about our traditions and celebrate them. We come here to rejoice and, at times of sorrow and mourning, to be here for one another. Home of the Torah and other sacred texts, Beit-knesset is where we come for guidance, comfort and companionship. It’s our home, the place where the Jewish People’s heart has always resided. 

Gimmel, the third letter, comes from the ancient word for camel. In many places around the world, the camel was—and still is—used to transport people and cargo. Caravans would bring goods from one place to another, in return for money or other commodities. The letter gimmel has thus come to mean to share or trade, to offer and receive in return.  

In Judaism, g’millut chasadim, a concept that derives from this letter and meaning, is considered one of the most praiseworthy mitzvot, Commandments. The term describes acts of trust and loving-kindness: extending a hand to the needy; giving shelter, or sharing a meal or an item of clothing that we no longer need. Living a life of g’millut chasadim means that just as we offer kindness, so we can expect to receive it in return. G’millut chasadim is the building block of society; it’s the keystone to creating a better world. 

Each letter in the Hebrew aleph-bet contains a message, a lesson that will prove valuable in your life. But we learn best of all from our own experience, and from the people that we meet along our many paths.

Just a few months ago your Abba and Daddy took you to meet my mother, z”l, in Israel. There is a photo that was taken during that visit, a photo that captures a very special moment in your interaction with your Savta Ruth, your great-grandmother Ruth. As you look into each other’s eyes, a river of love and understanding flows unimpeded between you. In a show of caring and trust, your hand reaches out to her, and she is poised to take it in hers. It was a moment when trust and blessing met, one going out to meet the other.

My mother had many qualities: She was kind, loving and generous. Her fridge was always full, and one never walked away hungry from the kitchen table. But my mother also was a fighter. Through sheer strength and determination, she won every battle she ever fought. Her motto was, “We never give up.”

Holding you in her lap was proof that she lived up to that ideal, and won. 

It’s a lesson she taught all of us, her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and everyone else that she met and touched throughout her life. We never give up. I’m sure it’s a lesson she would also want you to always remember. We never give up.

Zevi, the hour is late, and though there is so much more that I would like to tell you, I think these few lessons are enough for one night. And so I’ll close now with a Native American story:

    An old man told his grandson: “My son, there is a battle between two wolves

    inside us all. One is Evil. It is anger and hate, jealousy and greed, resentment, lies and ego.

    The other is Good. It is joy and love, hope, peace, humility, kindness, empathy and truth.”

    The boy thought about it and asked:

    “Grandfather, which wolf wins?”

    The old man quietly replied: ‘The one you feed.’”

[To the Congregation:] On this night and day of fast and meditation, let these lessons be our food for thought. Life’s experiences shape us and give us direction, but the values we try to live by become our legacy, our gift to all who follow us. Living up to them becomes the proof that even as generations come and go, love and goodness are never gone from this world. By our words and deeds, we can feed the hungry, bring hope to the disheartened and light to those who are oppressed by darkness and despair.

This is the true purpose of Yom Kippur. We have this one day, 24 hours, to examine our lives and decide what values we want to live by and uphold. We may not always succeed, but that doesn’t stop us from trying and trying again. We pray for the courage and strength that we will need as we try to better ourselves and the world around us, this coming year and always.

G’mar chatima tova—may we all be sealed in the Book of Life for a year of health and joy. May 5783 be a year of gratitude, trust and blessing.  Amen.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Strength and Courage: Vayelech.22

 Strength and Courage

D’var Torah for Parashat Vayelech

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 28, 2022

Vayelech (“And he went,” Deuteronomy 31:1-30) brings us close to the conclusion of the Torah—it is the third portion from the end. At this point, at the full age of 120 years, Moses is given two last chores: First, he must complete writing the Torah and entrust it to the Levites, with the instruction that they read it publicly and teach it to the people—men, women and children, Jews and non-Jews alike. The Torah is not meant to be a book of secrets and mystery. Its message is for all people and for all eternity. God tells Moses that in future days, the Israelites will stray from God’s path. At such times, the Torah will serve as a beacon for them. Its light and message will call them back, and when they return, God will take them all back and provide shelter and protection once again.

Following this, Moses’s last task is to appoint Joshua his successor. It will be Joshua who will lead the Israelites as they enter the Promised Land. With all Israel there as witnesses, Moses blesses Joshua, saying chazak v’ematz, be strong and of good courage! It will take strength, yes, but also courage. Israel’s path through history will be not always be easy. There will be times when we will need all the strength and courage we can muster to survive. That’s when, Moses our Rabbi teaches, the light of the Torah will appear to us, and, responding to its call, we will rediscover God, the source of our might. The Torah is at the core of our strength. It’s the poem of Israel’s existence and history of survival. Today it is still found in every Sacred Ark in every synagogue and temple. Verses and chapters from it are still read at every Sabbath and at every holy day service.  As Moses instructed us, it is still taught and explained in such a way that both children and adults can understand its message, each according to their ability 

This is Moses’s legacy to us for all eternity, and when we study it and apply its laws to our lives, both we and the world are made better.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Journey Toward Holiness: Rosh HaShanah Sermon.22

 A Journey Toward Holiness

Rosh Ha-Shana 5783 Sermon

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 26, 2022

Using their own—and totally unscientific—methods, the ancient Rabbis calculated that on this day, 5783 years ago, God began creating the world.

Whether you agree with this number or not, the assumption behind the Rabbis’ account is that there is a God. Their conclusion faced little argument at the time. Belief wasn’t a matter of opinion, but rather, fact. Arguments and wars weren’t about whether you believed in God or not, but rather which gods you believed in. 

Since that time, however, our own observations, supported by science and reason, have come to cast doubt on God’s presence in the universe.

Yet, despite all arguments to the contrary, for more than 3600 years now, the Jewish People have insisted that in fact God does exist. They saw God’s hand everywhere: in larger and smaller everyday events, in nature and history, in ethics and morality, and in the governance of our own personal lives.

I admit, sometimes it’s difficult. We’ve looked far and deep into space and have found no evidence of heaven or angels. Down below, on our own home planet, we see undue pain and suffering. Tyrants seem to thrive, while for many, freedom and justice are, at best, a far-off dream. More and more we find ourselves asking where God’s compassionate hand is.

It is hard to believe in a God who seems distant or even absent from our lives. Judaism forbids creating any visual image of God, leaving us free not only to imagine what form or shape God might have, but also, ultimately, to ask whether God exists at all.

For some who do believe, God can be found in miracles they’ve experienced. As they see it, nothing happens by chance; everything happens for a reason or purpose. Life itself—birth, death and everything in between—is proof of God’s Presence. 

Curiosity and skepticism, however, appear early. We start asking questions when we are very young: Is God as big as a tall building? Does God have human features—as often portrayed in ancient and medieval art? 

Questions demand answers, and for me there are several.

I see God first of all in Nature. 

Once, years ago, when our children were yet very young, we took a trip to the Grand Canyon. Our son, Yoni, then 3 years old, looked at the steep and rough-hewn walls of the canyon, its almost-immeasurable depths, the amazing colors and the tall trees that seemed dwarfed from our perspective high above their canopies. Overcome, he exclaimed, “God must have worked very hard to create this!”

I see the ongoing work of Creation all around me. The mountains that seem to call and challenge us; the oceans with their non-stop heart beat; the colors of the sunrise and sunset; the chatter and song of all life around us—I feel God’s force within all that, Creation expanding from a single moment of light-burst to an infinite and diverse universe filled with possibility and actualization, a world that each of us is a part of, each with our own voice and role.

It's when I am surrounded by Nature that I feel most at peace. With artificial barriers gone, I am in harmony with all that exists, free—at least for a while—to hear God’s voice and personal message to me.

I find God in the universal laws that exist throughout nature: Life and death, growth and decay. These cycles appear everywhere, constant and eternal. 

Fractals, never-ending geometric designs, prove similar across nature and time. Pinecones, the marks on a tortoise’s shell, the swirling patterns at the heart of a sunflower disc, a rose bud opening, snowflakes and even tree bark, all appear to carry resemblance to each other. There seems to be infinite variety in nature, and yet through it all there is a uniformity that must be proof of one source, one beginning, and one designing mind behind it all. 

I find God’s Presence in Nature.

But I also see God’s hand in history. Though sometimes it’s hard to notice in the minutiae of everyday events, the larger arc of world events offers proof of a system of ethics and morality—of the existence of good and bad; of the ultimate victory of holiness in its battle against evil. At times the universe may seem uncaring, even amoral. But when viewed through the lens of justice and righteousness, a universal law emerges. The fall of tyrants and dictators is inevitably predictable. Similarly, freedom’s progress, albeit slow and often stalled by selfishness and greed, is also constant and unstoppable. It seems that the laws that govern the course of history also derive from one source. Justice and compassion are attributes of God that sometimes are eclipsed by human works and misdeeds, yet that reveal God’s intentions in no uncertain terms.

I see God’s power in the survival of the Jewish People.    Our history is riddled with exile, oppression and destruction. And yet, despite it all, we are still here. We may be one of the smallest ethnic groups—less than one quarter of one percent—of the world’s population—but we are among the longest-surviving people and culture, and certainly among the most successful. This may be due to our stubbornness—we ARE a stiff-necked people, even Moses recognized that. But I see more in this statistic. We’ve always understood our survival as tied by a Covenant to God’s protective nature. Empires have come and gone, individuals and institutions have tried to destroy us and take away our souls, and yet—'Am Yisrael Chai—the Jewish People still lives.

I see God’s Presence in our history.

I see traces of God the Creator in our creative impulse. Art, music, literature—from basic drumbeats and a shepherd’s song to symphonies and sublime art-songs; from primitive portraits of the hunt on cave walls to stunning works of art hanging in homes, museums and chapels—all come from a deep need we all have within us: to create, to bring order to chaos; like God, in whose image we are all created, to give form and shape to the formless void. 

Our thirst for knowledge is part of our humanity, yet for many, it is also synonymous with our need to understand God’s ways. Doubt and skepticism are NOT a sign of lack of faith—they are in fact the mark of a free and open mind. Curiosity is the gateway to a longing that exists deep within us—not only to grasp the mechanics—the facts and numbers—behind the world’s existence, but also to understand the meaning and reason for it all. 

All that we do and become is a journey toward holiness. When we let the voiceless call emerge from the depths of our soul. When we let our yearning turn into music and great art. When we open our hearts to the needy and oppressed. When we show love, caring and compassion to one another. When we pray and offer gratitude both for what is and for what yet might be. God exists in the moral choices we make.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter whether Creation began 5783 years ago or at some incalculable moment in the infinite past. Science and reason do not stand in opposition to faith. Rather, they march hand in hand, helping us overcome despair and hopelessness, enabling us to sense awe and holiness in our life. 

May our prayers and meditations today and always shine a bright light upon our path. May ignorance and fear be dispelled by learning and exploration, and bigotry driven out from this world through acts of loving-kindness. And may we, through our prayers and the work of our hands, continue to be the best proof of God’s existence in our lives and in the life of the universe around us.

L'shana tova tikatevu—may we all be inscribed in the Book of Life for life, blessing, and a good New Year. 

© 2022 By Boaz D. Heilman

Memories and Prayers: Rosh Ha-Shanah Eve.22

 Memories and Prayers

Erev Rosh Ha-Shanah Sermon 5783

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 25, 2022

One of the questions that Albert Einstein often had to answer wasn’t actually about science, but rather whether he believed in God.   Einstein’s usual reply was that he believed in the God of Spinoza.

This is one of the cleverest ways I know of avoiding a direct answer. For Spinoza’s view on God is not clear and has been debated for more than 300 years now. In his monumental work, Ethics, Spinoza famously uses the phrase “God or Nature,” meaning—perhaps—that the two—God and Nature—are one and the same. 

Where Spinoza, the ultimate rationalist, stopped, was in expressing belief in any force beyond nature, something or someone that in fact created Nature, put in place all   that we see and know, ordained bounds and regulations, and gave us human beings the Bible and the Commandments.

Faith and science are not always the same. Science relies on reason as it tries to explain what we see and know about the universe. Faith tries to go beyond that, reaching into a realm that cannot be proven by reason alone but that has to accepted, agreed upon, and commonly held.

For as long as it has existed, Judaism has found itself at the crossroads between these two concepts, between God and Nature, between faith and science. Hardcore believers see God’s hand in everything that happens. Rationalists, on the other hand, stop with Nature, though not without ceasing to wonder every once in a while if there actually might not be a God behind it all. 

Judaism does not impose a dogma, any one way of thinking or believing. From its very beginning, while holding on to its belief in a Creator, Judaism has also encouraged people to think for themselves, to explore, to learn, to expand our understanding of the universe. 

Regardless of our individual modes of believing and worshipping, most Jews accept that there are universal laws out there, laws that extend far beyond ourselves, even if we don’t know why they are there, or who or what set them there in the first place. 

In Jewish belief, eternity turned into time at the instant of the Big Bang, when God began to create Nature and set it on its infinite course. 

When Rosh Ha-Shanah was first set in our Jewish calendar over 3000 years ago, it wasn’t meant to carry the weight or meaning it does today. The Torah refers to it only as a “Day of Remembrance.” We are commanded never to forget or turn our backs on the God who not only created the world around us, but who also gave us moral and ethical laws, the Commandments, which to this day guide us through life’s many challenges.

But memories tend to accumulate. The universe isn’t inanimate. It is filled with life, light and love. Woven into the universal truths that Rosh Ha-Shanah has us remember are also the life stories of every single human being who ever lived. Unseen but not forgotten, told and retold, are the memories of our ancestors, to which, with every breath we take, we add our narratives too. 

I remember in particular one Rosh Ha-Shanah, when I was still a small child growing up in Israel. My family wasn’t religious; we observed many of the holiday traditions, but we didn’t make it a point to go to services. And so, perhaps out of curiosity, or perhaps something more, one year I went by myself, hoping to see for myself what the whole thing was all about. To this day, I still recall the strangeness of it all, the amassed crowd of men, what they wore and the unfamiliar smells that came from these clothes, so different from what they wore the rest of the year. I remember how they swayed, like the ocean, and the unfamiliar singsong of their prayers that rose and fell like waves. 

I remember being filled with a sense of unease. For one thing, I couldn’t understand the prayers. They were in Hebrew, yes, but it wasn’t the Hebrew that I knew from home or school. Years later I learned that many of these prayers go back to the 1st and 2nd centuries. Called piyyutim, or fervent religious poetry, they were meant to be enigmatic, intended to form mystical bridges between our own, physical, experience and the spiritual being we call God. It was the transcendent and timeless power of these prayers which moved the people around me to sway and surge as they did. 

And yet, even though I felt overwhelmed by the sights, smells and sounds that surrounded me, I knew even then that this was my people’s experience, a powerful encounter between a people and their God, between what is and what might be. And without knowing why or how, I also understood that one day, this experience would draw me in too, and become mine as well. 

This is one of my earliest memories of Rosh Ha-Shanah, and it is deeply embedded in my consciousness.

But there’s more to remember, so much more that Rosh Ha-Shanah is and encompasses today. Every family and every home has its own memories and traditions, its own special foods, recipes and smells, culled from our culture, from family and neighbors, and the part of the world we came from and live in today: The round challah, representing our hope for a full, round year of life and health; honey—for sweetness; and carrots—for fruitfulness and prosperity; apples of course, representing not only the abundance of nature, but also our constant thirst for knowledge and understanding. 

And, yes, we also remember the long hours spent in prayer at services; and the deeply moving music, some of which we hear only this one time during the year, on Rosh ha-Shanah.

And of course, with special awe we remember the sound of the shofar. 

A few years ago I visited an elderly patient in a memory unit. He had long forgotten many of the details of his life; yet when I blew the shofar, tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks. Who knows what memories the sound of the shofar evoked in his mind and heart. Ancient yet always also new, the shofar’s song is life—steady, at times broken-hearted, yet ultimately triumphant. Its echo takes us back both to our most ancient days but also far into the future. It reminds us of the Covenant between God and our People; of the ram caught in the thicket and offering its life for that of Isaac; and the tears of our ancestors whose children’s lives were not so spared. 

But the shofar’s deep and powerful sound also reassures us, reinforcing our fervent belief that it will be this sound—the shofar’s call—that will announce the coming of the Messiah—the end of days, when all questions will be answered, when war and privation, hunger and thirst, sickness and all suffering will at long-last disappear from the earth.

When the early Rabbis transformed Judaism into the religion and way of life that we know today, they added a new component to Rosh Ha-Shanah: From Yom Zikaron—Day of Remembrance—they turned it into a holiday celebrating the beginning of Creation. With that, they opened a new doorway for us, enabling us to look not only at the past, but also at our future selves. Whether we believe in God or science, on this day we measure our lives against a timeless course that we are part of. We scrutinize the choices and decisions we made in the past year and look to see how we can improve on them in the days and months ahead. We compare who and what we are today to the person we were hoping to be; how true we have been to ourselves? How far we have wandered from—or returned to—our People and traditions?

Whether we believe in the God of Abraham or the God of Einstein and Spinoza, in the laws of Nature or the Commandments of God: On Rosh Ha-Shanah we are given a chance not only to look back and remember, but also to contemplate the future and our role in it. However it came to be, for whatever reason or purpose, the gift this Sacred Day gives us is the awareness that we have the ability not only to obey our instincts and basic impulses, but also to make our own choices. We can continue to accept things as they always have been, or we can choose to make ourselves and the world around us better. 

On Rosh Ha-Shanah a window opens for us, and through it we can see a million stars: some that are now long gone, others that have yet to be. Each is both a memory but also a goal to aspire to. The constellations woven into the sky above us are like the many communities of our people all over the world. As individuals, we are here both for ourselves and for one another. Together, we are strengthened by our common vision and ideals.

May all our prayers on this Sacred Day of Remembrance be fulfilled. May this Rosh Ha-Shanah bring us the blessing of a bright new day, a new beginning filled with love, hope and good health.

L'shana tova tikatevu—May we be inscribed for a good New Year.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman