God's Light in the Darkness: Vaeira.25

God’s Light in the Darkness

D’var Torah on Parashat Va’eira

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

January 23, 2025

Faith, like justice, is blind. I know that’s something of a mixed metaphor—“blind” means something different in each of these. Blind faith indicates the immeasurability of belief. Yes, you either believe or you don’t, but the depth and extent of one’s faith varies from one individual to the next. Some see miracles and wonders everywhere; others need more proof. Justice, on the other hand, is “blind” in an almost entirely different sense, in the expectation that judges must not be swayed by what they see—color, race, ethnicity, social status or any other markers that might affect fair and honest judgment. 

Yet both faith and justice need proof. Are we so wrong when we ask for it, as some seem to think?

Noah didn’t ask God why God was planning to flood the earth; God’s explanation came as part of the command to build an ark: “The end of all flesh has come before Me, for the earth is filled with violence through them” (Gen. 6:13, NKJV). Yet the Torah seems to imply that this kind of blind faith is not what God desires. On the whole (and there are some opposing views), Judaism prefers Abraham’s questioning of God’s intentions, as with the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah (Gen. 18); or his need to see some proof of God’s promise, “But Abram said, Sovereign Lord, how can I know that I will gain possession of [the Promised Land]” (Gen. 15:8, NIV).

Isaac was blind—though we don’t know whether the term applies to a physical or spiritual disability. In any case, Isaac asks no questions; he is a willing participant in all the tests he has to endure.

Jacob however does more than ask; he gives voice to his doubts. “If God will be with me and will watch over me on this journey I am taking…” (Gen. 28:20, NIV, italics added). In this case, contrary to our expectations, God does not respond but simply continues to show up, sometimes when least expected. Seeing is believing, and there are times in our life when we need to see God’s Presence in a more tangible way. And then—surprise!—like Jacob, we realize that God has been there all along, only we didn’t know it.

Yet Moses’s complaint, “O Adonai, why did You bring harm upon this people? Why did You send me?” (Ex. 5:22, Sefaria) makes us gasp. Does Moses exceed Abraham’s request for proof? Is Moses crossing the line as he seems to blame God for the evil he sees befalling God’s People? Is his doubt more about himself or about God?

Some Rabbinic commentators are appalled by Moses’s request. Rashi quotes the Talmud’s teaching (BT Sanhedrin 111a) that this momentary loss of faith (not the first or last time) is the real reason why Moses is not allowed to enter the Promised Land.

Other rabbis however (e.g. Rabbi Levi Yitzchok of Berditchev, known as the Holy Berditchev Rebbe, 1740-1809) have a different understanding of Moses’s question. It isn’t doubt that Moses expresses. Rather, in his perceived role of Defender of the People, Moses, like Abraham, insists that God act with justice and compassion. “Why did you send me” isn’t admission of his failure (Job, Jonah and  Jeremiah will all express similar reservations) but rather Moses’s search for meaning. It is as though he were saying to God, “I need to know why I’m doing this; because if everything that I do only brings more hardship upon the Israelites, then count me out of Your plan. I must have misunderstood You and the mission You sent me on. Teach me Your purpose! Show me the light—Your Holy Presence—in all these terrible things that are happening all around!” In the teaching of the Holy Berditchev Rebbe, Moses isn’t doubting God’s work; rather, he only seeks to understand the reason for the suffering the Israelites had to endure. He needs to see compassion as one of God’s traits. This was no more and no less than what Abraham requested—and was granted—centuries ago. 

With all due respect to the early Sages, who lived through the terrible persecution of Israel by the Romans and the Nations of the world, God does not admonish or punish Moses. Rather, God agrees with him and gives him the proof he so desires. Yes, God seems to say, conditions have gotten worse. But it is always darkest before the dawn. The evil you speak of is only the prelude to the great light that the Israelites are about to behold. 

Further, God strengthens Moses by telling him that it will be through his words and deeds that God’s infinite Presence will be revealed to the Jewish People and the entire world. Up until now, God appeared on an individual basis. God could come and go, appear or even—seemingly—“hide His face.” From now on, however, all will see and know that God is there for us at every moment in life, both at times of light and celebration (the metaphoric “green pastures”) and even—perhaps especially—when we find ourselves walking “Through the valley of the shadow of death” (Ps. 23, KJV). This is the point, teaches the Rebbe, when God becomes The Eternal, whose very name expresses omnipresence infinitely, for all eternity.

It's precisely the encouragement that Moses—and the Israelites—need at this dark moment. If not on account of the paucity of our own good deeds, then perhaps due instead to the merit of our ancestors, rabbis and teachers, the light will certainly appear in the midst of the darkness, and Redemption will happen.

© 2025 by Boaz D. Heilman

Redeeming Captives: Shemot.25

Redeeming Captives

D’var Torah on Parashat Shemot

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

January 16, 2025

Three of the most famous words in the entire Bible appear in this week’s Torah portion, (Shemot, “Names”, Exodus 1:1—6:1): Shalach et ami: “Let my people go” (Ex. 5:1). One reason for this is that these words express a basic human right—a right not granted to everyone, but that all strive for: to be free. As the story of the Redemption of the Israelites from slavery in Egypt begins, the phrase is spoken forcefully by Moses to Pharaoh. But beyond that moment it has resonated for all humanity throughout the ages. However for Jews, these words have held even more special meaning. They have always served to sound the alarm—not only in ancient times, but also in our own day and time. 

Exiled in ancient Babylon, confined and bolted in European ghettoes, segregated and humiliated as second-class citizens in Arab countries, the Jews are familiar with captivity.

In the Middle Ages it was not uncommon for famous rabbis and other community leaders to be captured and held for ransom. Redeeming the captives was considered such a great mitzvah (holy commandment) that Jewish communities rarely failed to follow through and come up with the money. The mitzvah was given special emphasis in the 12th century by Maimonides, who wrote, “There is no greater mitzvah than redeeming captives”(Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Matanot Aniyim 8:10-11). Maimonides based his ruling on a passage from the Talmud that teaches, “The sword is worse than death…Famine is worse than the sword… And captivity is worse than all of them as it includes all of them” (Bava Batra 8b).

In more modern times, the phrase became especially meaningful during the struggle to free Soviet Jews. And it certainly resonates powerfully today, a year and three months after nearly 250 Israelis were taken hostage by Hamas terrorists. 

We are now told that 33 of these hostages are to be freed within “hours or days.” One can only hope. And yet the price that Israel will pay for their freedom will be enormous. Thousands of terrorists imprisoned in Israel, including many with blood on their hands, will be released. It’s a high price, but one that Israel feels morally obligated to pay. 

Negotiations for the release of the hostages are proceeding at a snail’s pace in Doha, Qatar, and—as has happened before—might fall through at any moment. At any moment someone, somewhere, might decide not to go through with whatever agreements may have already been reached. Last minute violence might turn the tables. Political maneuverings by individuals seeking personal gain or advantage might derail the entire process. Both in Israel and in Gaza, it’s in the power of a single vote and voice to swing the pendulum one way or another.

Beyond the screaming—and often misleading—headlines, it’s hard to remember that human lives, broken bodies and souls, are at stake.

The war has caused incalculable suffering and damage to Israel as well as the Gazan population. The evil of antisemitism—which for some time lurked in the festering sewers of society—has become open, accepted and even mainstream again. Israel is, in a sense, being held captive by world opinion as well as by its own ideals, torn between its two most important goals and purposes: 1) guaranteeing safety and security for its citizens, and 2) being a “light unto the nations.” 

It’s all part of the dialogue (and often diatribe) surrounding those three most important words,  Shalach et ami: “Let my people go.”

In the story of the Exodus from Egypt, the miraculous escape of the Israelites is capped by Miriam’s Song, also known as Shirat Ha-Yam, “The Song of the Sea.” I doubt that many will be singing any song at this point. There will instead be tears—tears both of relief and happiness, but also of sorrow and anger. Lives and souls will have to be healed, and families as well as homes will need to be rebuilt. Only when that is done will a new song arise.

But first—and most important of all—uniting Jews in Israel and all over the world, will be the prayer and blessing we will all say: בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם מַתִּיר אֲסוּרִים, Baruch Ata Adonai, Eloheynu Melech Ha-olam, matir assurim, “Blessed are You Adonai, Sovereign of the Universe, who frees the captive.”

© 2025 by Boaz D. Heilman

Vayechi.25: Shepherd, Kingmaker, Candlestick Maker

Shepherd, Kingmaker, Candlestick Maker: Vayechi.25

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

January 9, 2025

This week's portion (Va-yechi, Genesis 47:28--50:26) brings to a close the first book of the Torah, Genesis. It also offers a fulfilling conclusion to the stories of Jacob, the third Patriarch of the Jewish People, and of Joseph and his Brothers. It’s a happy ending of sorts ("happily ever after" only works in legends and fairy tales), but at the same time it also opens the door not only to the next book, Exodus, but actually to the unfolding of the entire history and philosophy of Judaism.

The main characters of these chapters—Jacob, Joseph and Judah—all grow and develop through their respective stories. Each learns something important about themselves and their place and role in the world. Jacob—the erstwhile doubter—now at the end of his life and ready to give his children his death-bed blessing, expresses his new understanding of God's Presence: "The God who has been my shepherd all my life to this day" (Gen. 48:15, NIV). Jacob’s faith is no longer riddled with doubts. He has come to understand and accept the role that God has had in his life, guarding and guiding him yet leaving him free to make his own choices and decisions. 

Jacob’s understanding of God is very different from Joseph's. Earlier in his life Joseph prided himself on his God-given gift as interpreter of dreams. He saw himself as The Blessed One among his brothers, the focus not only of Jacob’s love but also of God’s attention. Now however, also nearing the end of his life, Joseph’s vision has become even grander. Even as he forgives his brothers for everything they had done to him, he tells them, "Although you intended me harm, God intended it for good, so as to bring about the present result--the survival of many people" (Gen. 50:20). What we do or say doesn't matter, he implies; it's God who pulls the strings, God who controls and even manipulates history and life. It wasn’t the brothers’ fault that they sold him into slavery. It was God’s intention all along. Joseph’s view enables him to see his years of exile and suffering as part of God’s larger—and unknowable—plan, and this gives him a measure of comfort and consolation.

Unlike Jacob and Joseph, we don’t hear much about Judah’s relationship with God. He is more of a doer than a believer, one whose feet are firmly planted on the ground and who relies on the work of his hands to shape his life. His life journey, however, has taught him a valuable lesson: What you do and say matters, with consequences that often last well into the future. Stepping up to defend and protect Benjamin, along with his confession and sincere repentance (see last week’s portion, Vayigash) make the entire story’s resolution possible. His words and deeds hold the key to his own, personal, redemption, but simultaneously also shed light on an ethical and moral way of life—the substance of Judaism from that point on.

There is no "winner take all" as this philosophical discussion concludes. Each of these three perspectives is interwoven into Jewish philosophy. Jacob's view is perhaps the most subtle, yet also more complete, of the three. Throughout our history we, B'nai Yisrael, the children of Jacob/Israel, aka the Jewish People, have seen God's guiding hand in our lives. God has indeed been our Shepherd, so beautifully expressed in Psalm 23, "Adonai is my Shepherd, I shall not want." For thousands of years this Psalm has given us solace as well as purpose. Yet it does not offer excuses for our mistakes. This is where Judah's view comes into our faith: We are individually responsible for our own actions. Our words and deeds shape our lives. We all make mistakes, but forgiveness and redemption are possible—not only through God's Grace, but as a result, once again, of what we say and do. The focus in Judah's worldview is on our humanity. Our weaknesses and our strengths form us; our choices give us purpose and direct us onto the path that is our life. 

And Joseph? He represents a perfect ideal, the messianic hope that lies within each of us, that God not only guides, God actually shapes the course of our life, leading us to a predestined goal, a state of completion and holiness.

In this week's portion, however, we also find an epilogue to Joseph’s story, one that contains a cautionary warning: As viceroy of Egypt, Joseph turns all the Egyptians into Pharaoh's serfs. The lesson this part of the story teaches is that a certain danger lies in Joseph's worldview. To be sure, the messianic ideal is part of Judaism. The prophet Isaiah describes it in his beautiful vision: “The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them (Is. 11:6, KJV). We have always striven to achieve harmony with the world around us, to find our own place and role not only in our private lives, but also in the life of the cosmos. Our hope and purpose have always been to heal that which we see broken, to make the world whole again—or at the very least, better than how we found it. That is the essence of messianism. Yet there is a lurking danger in this philosophy: It's a perspective that emerges from, and often leads to, gross overestimation of ourselves. Messianism—the idea of a divine goal and purpose to existence—is one thing; messiahs and messianic figures are something different altogether. World (and Jewish) history is filled with people who thought so highly of themselves that they managed to convince themselves as well as others of their divine origin and purpose. Such a view, warns the Torah, is dangerous. It inevitably ends up enslaving others. It diminishes human potential and deprives people of essential human rights and freedoms. The kind of absolute devotion that messianic figures demand and command is not different from any other kind of totalitarianism. It is, for all intents and purposes, tyranny. Sadly, history—past and present—is filled with examples of this danger.

The three different perspectives that the Torah offers us have become inseparable parts of Judaism, parts of who each of us is and hopes to be. Within each of us we find the dreamer as well as the doer, even as we come to realize that we have not been walking the path alone—that God's Presence has always been there alongside us, Shepherding us through deep shadows as well as sunlit meadows.

© 2025 by Boaz D. Heilman

Judah’s Redemption: Vayigash.25

Judah’s Redemption: Vayigash.25

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

January 2, 2025

In classical music there’s a form called “sonata-allegro,” a structure consisting of three parts: exposition, development and recapitulation (aka “recap”). Motifs and melodies are presented in the first part, worked out in the second, and finally restated—often with greater emotional impact—in the third. Definitively set and expanded by 18th and 19th composers such as Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, this form is still frequently used today, though evidence of much earlier use—in literature if not necessarily in music—can possibly be discerned in the story of Joseph and his Brothers, consisting of chapters 37-50 in the first book of the Torah, Genesis.

By now most of us are familiar with the story. Joseph is set apart from—and above—his brothers by their father, Jacob. Presented with extra privileges (and an expensive robe that signifies power and authority) Joseph grows to be hated by his brothers. The fault doesn’t only lie in Jacob’s preferential treatment of Joseph; Joseph himself is filled with visions of power which he doesn’t bother to hide, and he is both a braggart and a tattler. The opportunity for comeuppance arrives one day when Jacob sends Joseph out to inquire about the brothers’ welfare—they had wandered far off from home in tending the flocks. Seeing the boy from afar (and undoubtedly recognizing his splendid coat) they decide to kill him while laying the blame on a wild animal. Joseph is spared only by the opportune arrival of a caravan of Midianite traders who buy him for the paltry sum of 20 pieces of silver. 

End exposition. 

Joseph is sold to a powerful man in Egypt and—as usual—finds success in everything he does. However, about two years into his servitude he is unjustly accused of attempted rape (of his master’s wife no less!) and is thrown into a dungeon. But even there he is successful, interpreting the dreams and correctly predicting the fate of two fellow prisoners, Pharaoh’s chief baker and the chief cupbearer. Later he is called upon to interpret disturbing dreams Pharaoh himself has had, and is raised to the position of viceroy of all Egypt. As a terrible famine spreads all over the world, Joseph’s brothers—among others—come to purchase food from the storehouses that Joseph had filled with provisions during the seven years of plenty. They don’t recognize him, but Joseph has perhaps been on the lookout for them, and he definitely recognizes them.  With so much power over his brothers—the fulfillment of his dreams—Joseph debates within himself their fate, and decides to test them to see whether they feel any remorse for their past actions.

End of development.

The recap comes in this week’s Torah portion, Va-Yigash (“[Judah] drew near,” Genesis 44:18—47:27).  In music, the sonata-allegro form is more than just structure. The form is used to convey both story line and emotions. And so it is with the story of Joseph and his Brothers. That is certainly true for Joseph himself, who shows growth and maturity as he falls from grace and then rises again. But it is even more so for Judah. Throughout the story, we watch Judah’s character evolve from villain to hero. It was Judah, after all, who suggested that Joseph be sold to the Midianites, along with a cynical show of compassion: “After all, he is our brother, our own flesh and blood” (Gen. 37:27). However, in the intervening 20 years or so (there is some disagreement in the sources about the exact number of years), Judah has come to understand the extent of his wrongdoing. From the lesson taught him by his daughter-in-law, Tamar, he has learned about responsibility and keeping promises. With the deaths of two of his sons, Er and Onan, he learns about loss and grief. And true compassion finally is awakened within him as he realizes that all he has left is his last surviving son, Shela, who, at the telling of the story, is yet a young child.

At this point in the story, all these life-lessons come together to motivate Judah to step up to Joseph and retell almost the entire story (though leaving out a few salient facts about his own role in it; presumably the shame and guilt he must be feeling are too great and personal to share). As Joseph listens, one can almost sense the turbulence in his heart. Waves of memories flood Joseph, filling him with complex emotions—self-pity, anger, perhaps even hatred, and a burning desire for vengeance. 

And yet one other emotion rises unexpectedly and overcomes all the negative feelings, one Joseph had long suppressed: love. 

Key to Judah’s confession is his reference to Jacob as “father,” 14 times in 16 verses. In the first five of these he uses the term objectively: “A father” and “his father.” Then nine times more, perhaps reflecting, even at this extreme moment, Judah’s deepening grasp of the grief he had caused Jacob, Judah refers to Jacob in a more personal way: “Our father” and, ultimately, “my father.”

The emotional buildup suggested by these verses overcomes Joseph—and the reader of the story as well. Yet Joseph is able to hold back his tears until he hears Judah’s last cry of anguish: “For how can I go up to my father if the boy is not with me? Let me not witness the  calamity that would befall my father!” (Gen. 44:34, translation adapted from Chabad website https://www.chabad.org/parshah/torahreading.asp?aid=2492540&tdate=01-04-2025&p=complete&jewish=Vayigash-Torah-Reading.htm). It is this outcry that finally convinces Joseph. That, after all, was the farthest thought in Judah’s mind when he suggested selling Joseph into slavery. Judah’s transformation is now complete, and he is ready to assume the new position and role God—and history—hold out for him.

There will be an epilogue to this story (a “coda” to use the musical term), but that is part of next week’s portion, the last in the book of Genesis.

© 2025 by Boaz D. Heilman