Manifesting Holiness: Mishpatim.22

 Manifesting Holiness: D’var Torah for Parashat Mishpatim

Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

January 26, 2022

How do we see God?

This is one of the questions I hear most-often, especially from children. The answer, of course is that we can’t. God has no body, shape or form. At times we can perhaps sense God’s Presence. We can sense holiness. We see God’s Creation and are filled with a sense of awe. But we can’t see God. 

But just once, a Revelation of God did manifest itself to all humanity, or at least to the People of Israel. This was when God spoke to Moses at Mount Sinai, teaching him the Laws and inscribing them on the tablets of stone that Moses then brought down to the Israelites.

This most awesome moment is described in this week’s Torah portion, Mishpatim (“Laws,” Exodus 21:1-24:18). God commands Moses to climb to the top of the holy mountain, accompanied by Joshua, Aaron and seventy select elders. Only Moses will be called to God’s Presence, but the others—including the entire People of Israel who remain at the foot of the mountain—will witness God’s glory: “And they saw the God of Israel; under His feet there was the likeness of a pavement of sapphire, like the very sky for purity” (Ex. 24:10).

In our sacred texts we read of many other occasions when God speaks to prophets, appearing in dreams, visions, or in a bat-kol—an echo of a heavenly voice. This one time, however, God’s Glory appears to the entire people. 

This vision remains indelibly etched in our collective souls, a one-time event that took place more than 3000 years ago yet left its impact for all eternity.

Yet in this portion, the description of God’s Revelation, for all its grandeur, is described in only a few short verses. The rest of the portion contains laws and commandments—53 to be precise—ranging from the treatment of slaves (considered an economic necessity in those days) to crimes of passion and violence; from agricultural restrictions (letting the land lie fallow every seventh year) to dietary laws (“You shall not boil a kid in its mother’s milk”). Yet as much as these commandments deal with ethics and justice, they also require us to be compassionate and empathetic—particularly the stranger, the poor, the widow and the orphan. 

Mishpatim teaches a valuable moral: God’s Presence can be perceived through our own deeds. That one time at Mount Sinai, God’s Presence appeared to us all. It was, after all, the moment when Israel and God agree to abide by a sacred Covenant, and all parties, including God as it were, had to be present for the signing. But from that moment on, at such times when we long for a glimpse of God’s Glory, rather than search elsewhere we must look at ourselves and our own behavior. Mishpatim teaches us that God’s Presence becomes manifest through our conduct. Holiness is not restricted to the heavens above—it appears whenever we show kindness, when we treat others, animals as well as humans, with fairness, kindness and respect.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Reacting To the Rising Tide of Hatred: Sermon for Shabbat Yitro.22

 

Reacting To the Rising Tide of Hatred

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

January 21, 2022

Many articles, op-ed pieces and online conversations appeared in the aftermath of last Saturday’s hostage-taking attack in a Texas synagogue. Filled with outrage and anxiety, there were two themes common to all of them: First, this isn’t the first—and at this point, probably not the last either—in a rising tide of anti-Semitic incidents; and second, what can we do about it.

Well into the evening, as the hostage situation in Texas ended, Jews everywhere felt a sense of relief, but not of ease. Only three years ago a mass shooting at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh ended very differently. Eleven worshippers were murdered where they were standing in prayer, while six more were wounded. More recently, a shooting in a San Diego synagogue left one person dead with three others injured. And last August a young man, student at a Denver yeshiva, was murdered just a few moments after he exited the school building. And there were others—desecration and arson at synagogues and other Jewish establishments, beatings of easy-to-identify Orthodox Jews, profanity- and hate-filled rants spouted at Jews.

Even if it weren’t for fear of being infected with the COVID-19 virus, Jews understandably are expressing anxiety about attending services and social events at our houses of worship. On college campuses and other public places, we have learned to hide any external identifying marks of our Judaism. Kippot are replaced by baseball caps; Jewish stars are hidden inside our clothing. At entrances to synagogues and other Jewish institutes, we are no longer surprised— or are we? —at the sight of security personnel, or when we are asked to show identification.

On Tuesday morning I attended a briefing organized by Jewish-Colorado and the RMRC—the Rocky Mountain Rabbis and Cantors organization. The discussion focused on safety and security resources available to the community. Jewish-Colorado now has as part of its staff a Regional Safety and Security Initiative director, a highly qualified and dedicated individual who, during the past two years, has worked with hundreds of individuals and Jewish institutions in Colorado. He also maintains close ties with the Denver Police, the FBI and the ADL, as well as with an organization called Secure Community Network (SCN), a national consortium dedicated exclusively to the safety and security of the American Jewish Community.    

While it’s good to know that these organizations exist, that isn’t enough. In the next few weeks our temple—like many others all over the United States and elsewhere—will discuss further precautions we can take. We’ll conduct site assessments and arrange training exercises such as that which proved so effective last Saturday.

We live today through turmoil such as we haven’t seen in decades. Especially at such times, deranged individuals take aim at those whom they see as responsible for their discontent. Political and religious extremists take it upon themselves to brings a semblance of order—order as THEY see it—to society. The Internet, intended to bring us together as one human race, instead serves to sow distrust and fear. The media, focused on ratings and profits, enable and perhaps even encourage hate speech. The result is that we are constantly surrounded by the rasp of hate and the threat of violence.

To remedy this situation, society as a whole must come together—now more than ever—to stamp out the hatred. Those who sow distrust and divisiveness must be held accountable for their words and actions. Bigotry in any form must not become the acceptable norm in social, educational, religious or any other setting. It is vital that we all stand together on this principle.

It will take education—at homes, schools and at the various houses of worship. It will take a sense of community involvement. We must be there for one another. 

On the same day as the safety and security briefing, I also attended a communal interfaith gathering in response to the synagogue attack. I listened intently as one elected official after another promised support. I was moved when representatives of various houses of worship, religions and denominations, promised their community’s support and love. Each had their own story to tell of prejudice, vandalism, hate and violence, reminding us that we are not standing alone. It felt good and right to stand shoulder to shoulder.

Yet we are well aware that prejudice and bigotry still exist, endemic in our society. Change is slow to come. 

So what do we do in the meanwhile? 

There were times when we firmly believed in miracles. Yet, regarding this belief, a Talmudic rabbi of the 3rd century, Rabbi Yannai, taught a valuable lesson. He said, “A person should never stand in a place of danger and say, ‘A miracle will be performed for me [and I will be saved]’, lest a miracle will not be performed for him [and he will perish].” Likewise today, we cannot expect miracles to save us; they are too far and few between.

There were times when we acquiesced. We lowered our heads, averted our eyes, we kept silent. This must not be our reaction today. Strengthened with the support of the larger community, we will not allow ourselves to be cowed into submission or fear. We will take whatever precautions we must; we will stay alert even as we hold on to our faith’s traditions of generosity and hospitality.

We remain hopeful that this period of turmoil and confusion will pass soon, and that a measure of normalcy will soon return to our lives. We look forward to a time when we no longer will have to look around us with apprehension, when the doors to our synagogue will not have to be locked during services, when we will be able to welcome the stranger once again without suspicion or concern. May peace and tranquility soon be found again in our homes, towns, and houses of worship.

May this be God’s will.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Guns In The House Of God: Yitro.22

 Guns In The House Of God

D’var Torah Shabbat Yitro

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week’s Torah portion is Yitro (Jethro), Exodus 18:1-20:23. This is the portion where Moses brings the Ten Commandments to the Israelites at Mount Sinai. This is such an important moment in our history, that when we read these verses during services, the entire congregation rises to its feet, reliving the moment when God’s Presence was revealed to us.

While the Commandments themselves warrant hours of discussion, today I would like to focus on another verse from this important portion: “And when you make for Me an altar of stones, you shall not build them of hewn stones, lest you wield your sword upon it and desecrate it” (Ex. 20:22 in the Hebrew Bible, 20:25 in the Christian versions).  

The sword—tool of warfare and suffering—may not be used in the service of God. It’s a powerful lesson especially this week, a week that saw a synagogue hostage situation with a terrorist holding a gun against a rabbi and three of his congregants.

I remember a “M*A*S*H” episode that aired on TV almost exactly 40 years ago. Titled “A Holy Mess,” in this episode an agitated soldier holds Father Mulcahy hostage. Outraged, the good priest exclaims, “How dare you! You seek refuge in this house of the Lord when it serves your purpose. Then when it’s no longer convenient, you desecrate it by pointing a deadly weapon at another human being. Private, a faith of convenience is a hollow faith.” 

The terrorist who entered the house of God in Colleyville, Texas, last Sabbath, seemed to be in a similar state of mind. Distraught, he sought shelter from the cold and asked for something to drink. The rabbi let him in and proceeded to prepare some hot tea for this individual. At that very moment, the terrorist pulled a gun from inside his coat, beginning an eleven-hour ordeal that kept us all in a state of horrified suspense.

This wasn’t the first time a synagogue became setting for terror. We recall vividly the mass murder of eleven worshippers at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh only two years ago. Nor, to be sure, is this kind of terror limited to Jewish houses of worship. Churches, mosques and Hindu temples were similarly attacked in recent years.

We live at a time punctuated by too many of these tragic and horrendous events. We witness them at city squares, schools, and at movie theaters—any place where people congregate en masse, providing an easy target for deranged individuals or others, moved by extremist philosophies and beliefs.

The Ten Commandments represent the most basic laws of civilization. For bloodshed and violence to take place in plain view of the commandment “Thou shalt not murder” is more than irony. It is desecration of everything human beings hold holy. A faith that calls for such acts is indeed a hollow faith, used to further selfish and evil purposes. 

A house of worship is a place dedicated to peace. It’s where we come to find solace and comfort, purpose and meaning. To bring violence to such a place is ultimate sacrilege and profanity. It demeans the highest values to which we ascribe. Today as thousands of years ago, in America, at Sinai or elsewhere in the world, to wield a sword or a gun in a House of God is an unforgivable crime as well as sin.

May we reach a time when the true aim of faith becomes our purpose in life—to bring kindness and peace to the world, not yet more violence and havoc. That is my dream and highest hope.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Making Miracles Happen: B'Shalach.22

 

Making Miracles Happen

D’var Torah for Parashat B’shalach

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

When we speak of “the Rabbis,” we generally refer to the early (1st-3rd centuries CE) leaders of the Jewish People, scholars of the Torah who adapted Judaism to a new, post-Temple era. Some of them are famous—and rightly so: Rabbi Akiva, whose students numbered in the thousands; Hillel and Shammai, whose decisions on Jewish law still stand to this day; and many others whose maxims, teachings and sayings are preserved in the Talmud and Midrash.

In at least one midrash related to this week’s Torah portion (B’shalach, Exodus 13:17-17:16), we can clearly see the hand of the Rabbis as they transform the familiar story of the Exodus, adding what they see as a missing element.

As told in the Torah, not long after they leave Egypt, the Israelites find themselves trapped. The Red Sea is before them; the chariots of Pharaoh are quickly catching up from behind; an endless desert extends to one side of the camp, and a deep chasm opens on the other. Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, the bewildered Israelites complain, accusing Moses of leading them not to freedom, but rather to die in the desert. Moses, in turn, prays to God, and God tells Moses to hold his staff out over the Red Sea. Next thing we know, the Sea parts and the Israelites cross over on dry ground.

So goes the story in the Torah. The Rabbis, however, have more to say about this. In a famous midrash, the Rabbis tell that in their panic, the Israelites began to bicker about who should go first into the Red Sea. While they argue, the chieftain of the tribe of Judah, a man named Nachshon ben Aminadav, takes matters into his own hands and leaps into the sea. And it was at that precise moment, says the midrash, with God causing a mighty east wind to blow, with Moses’s arm and staff extended over the Red Sea, and with Nachshon diving into the water, that the sea parted.

The addition of Nachshon ben Aminadav’s heroic act is a teaching moment. What the Rabbis tell us here is that our actions matter. God may do God’s part; our teachers and prophets also do all they can—but without our own active participation, these are not enough. We—ordinary men, women and children—cannot be merely beneficiaries of God’s blessings. We too an important a role to play in making miracles happen.

This is one of the key innovations that the Rabbis introduce into Judaism. The Torah’s lesson is that, as long as the Israelites fulfilled their ritual duties, God would respond favorably. The rain would come in its season, the earth would yield its bounty, and as certainly as the sun comes up in the morning, the people would gather the grain, new wine and oil.

Once the Temple was destroyed however, the entire system collapsed. Sacrifices could no longer be offered, and the once-sure blessings of God now seemed doubtful.

And that’s where the story of Nachshon ben Aminadav comes in. What the Rabbis taught is that while faith in God is integral to Judaism, the work of our own hands is just as vital.  

In the larger picture of Jewish history, we can see many miracles. Our very survival despite all odds is a miracle unto itself. However, in daily life, our deeds can determine the course of events. What we do matters. We can’t rely only on God. We must be active participants in making miracles happen. It’s a powerful lesson for all of us.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Freedom to Be Just: Bo.21

 The Freedom to Be Just

D’var Torah for Parashat Bo

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week’s Torah portion (“Bo,” Exodus 10:1—13:16) contains several important stories and lessons. In this portion we read of the last three plagues which God inflicts on Pharaoh and the Egyptians. Locust is not unknown in the Middle East. I remember as a young child in Israel seeing the swarms of a locust infestation. They were like enormous clouds that covered sky and earth. As told in this portion, the eighth plague describes this phenomenon well! 

The plague of darkness is another story, however. This was no mere solar eclipse. The Torah tells that it was so dark that people couldn’t see each other. And even more amazing—the blinding darkness only affected the Egyptians. Wherever the Israelites dwelled, there was light!

And finally, the tenth and most terrible plague of all—the death of every Egyptian first-born, from animals to humans, from the lowliest slave to Pharaoh’s own first-born son!

The Ten Plagues have been subject to discussion and argument throughout the ages. Some have sought to explain them as natural phenomena. Some see them as symbolic allegories, while others take them quite literally. Regardless of how we try to explain them, one thing is certain: The Ten Plagues are meant as proof of God’s control over all nature. The Egyptians, like almost all other ancient civilizations, were polytheists. Various gods were thought to be in control of nature. In this Torah portion, however, it is God who is in charge. Light and dark, life and death, storms, diseases, even the mighty Nile River itself, thought by the Egyptians to be the source of all life, are but playthings in God’s hands.

No matter how we understand these events, the Exodus represents a turning point in human history and philosophy. It isn’t only a unique historical event—the emergence of the Jewish People as a civilization; it’s also a huge step toward our understanding of God and God’s role in history. From this point on, God will be seen not only as the one, all-powerful, source of all existence, but also as the ultimate source of morality and justice. In this portion, God and Moses command the Israelites to remember this lesson and to celebrate it annually every Passover. The Exodus isn’t only about freedom from physical slavery; it’s also about the freedom to think and to reason rationally. Our life and happiness no longer have to depend on the moods and emotions of the gods. The choice is ours—to follow God’s laws and live a purposeful and meaningful life, or alternatively, to give in to our baser instincts (as did Pharaoh and his people) and suffer the inevitable consequences: corruption and ultimate destruction.

It’s a powerful lesson, one we are commanded not only to remember ourselves, but also to teach to our children and children’s children. It’s the key to our survival.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman