Reflections on Yom Ha-Shoah v'Ha-Gevurah 2025

Yom Ha-Shoah v'Ha-Gevurah

Reflections by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

April 24, 2025

Today is Yom Ha-Shoah v'Ha-Gevurah, the Day of Commemoration of the Holocaust and Heroism. The Hebrew term shoah literally means disaster and destruction; today, it is used only to describe the most terrible disaster to befall the Jewish People in the last two thousand years. Yet our minds find it impossible to describe in words something quite so terrible. No word or thought can begin to contain the depth of suffering of those who lived through and experienced—directly or indirectly—the greatest of horrors that humanity could invent or inflict upon others, helpless, defenseless men, women and infants. The world has not been the same since the Shoah. No one who has ever seen a picture or heard a witness's story can ever erase the effect on their soul of such evil. When the State of Israel instituted this day of commemoration, it chose the day on which the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising began, on the holiday of Passover in 1943. The symbolism of this choice could not be more relevant today, when the Jewish People are once again subjected to the oldest hatred and prejudice, as we witness the greatest surge of antisemitism since the Shoah ended in 1945. The common (somehow humorous, somehow sarcastic) saying in Israel today is: we survived Pharaoh; we will survive this too. 

But commemoration is never enough; in time it tends to become formalized and lose its original meaning and purpose. Thus the need to think about the "Gevurah" part of the name of this day. Gevurah means heroism. But like all words that are meant to be a symbol, in this particular case too, gevurah is inadequate. On the one hand we see, imprinted in our minds and souls, the lines of Jewish men, women and children forced to board the trains that will take them to Auschwitz; we hear the deafening silence imposed upon them as they wait in line to enter the gas chambers. On the other hand, we learn of the uprisings in Treblinka, Sobibor, and Auschwitz. We learn about the partisans (my mother, of blessed memory, along with many of her friends, was one of those heroes), and those of many nations who resisted the Nazis and their accomplices. 

Yet even that doesn't begin to encompass the actual heroism: The defiance—even when the world was silent; the strong will to survive—despite the impossible and improbable hardships and challenges; the love and compassion shown by many ghetto and camp inmates to one another, standing in such great contrast to the evil that surrounded them; and the survival of faith, even in the death camps. These are the broad categories within which we can begin to understand the heroism—the gevurah—of the victims and survivors of the Shoah.

When I was growing up in Israel, almost all the adults I knew were survivors. Most of them had lost their faith in God. And yet, even they persisted in carrying on holiday and cultural traditions. Through the years, many of them (and their children, of whom I am one), rediscovered their faith, reclaimed the belief in a merciful and compassionate God. Today we hear a reflection of that in the stories of some of the Gaza hostages who said that it was faith that helped them survive the physical and emotional abuse that was inflicted on them by the evil terrorists. One helped reconstruct—in captivity!—a Passover seder for herself and some of her fellow captives; another started saying the Sh'ma every day; still another recently returned to the shelter that failed him and from which he was abducted, to wrap tefillin around his arm and repeat the words of the Sh'ma, expressing his belief in the eternal Covenant between God and the Jewish People. The strength to tell and retell—over and over again, to whoever would listen—their stories of horror, tragedy and survival takes tremendous strength. The will to continue living, despite the loss of family, spouses and children, brothers and sisters, takes tremendous strength and faith.

That is the gevurah—the Heroism—that we are asked (in fact, commanded!) to remember today. The common perception in the days, weeks and even years that immediately followed the Shoah is that the Jews allowed themselves to be led to the slaughter "like sheep." Far from it. Faith strengthened us then and continues to do so today. In his important book Faith After the Holocaust, the great Rabbi Eliezer Berkovitz (1908-1992) writes: "He who demands justice of God must give up man; he who asks for God's love and mercy beyond justice must accept suffering." 

May the memories of those who perished in the Shoah—Jews, non-Jews, homosexuals, Roma and so many others—live on deep in our hearts, minds and souls. May the Divine Presence embrace with warmth and love the souls of our brothers and sisters who, in death, commanded us to live and to remember.

May God grant us strength; may God bless us with peace.

© 2025 by Boaz D. Heilman

Shemini.25: Intents and Purposes

Intents and Purposes: Shemini.25

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

April 24, 2025

Two sets of brothers, Moses and Aaron on the one hand and Nadav and Avihu on the other, are at the center (actually, polar opposites) of this week's Torah portion, Shemini ("On the Eighth Day," Leviticus 9:1--11:47). In this portion, the narrative of the Dedication of the Tabernacle reaches its climax. Following seven days of preparation, the eighth day begins joyfully enough, with the sacrifices offered by Aaron accepted by God, and Moses and Aaron coming out of the Tent of Meeting and blessing the people. But then catastrophe strikes. Two of Aaron's four sons, Nadav and Avihu, go beyond what they were instructed to do and bring forth "a strange fire unauthorized by God." Almost instantaneously they are consumed by a flareup of God's wrath. The Torah doesn't explain the exact nature of this "strange fire," or why it brought about such terrible consequences. However, based on the purposeful vagueness of the text, several explanations are offered by the Sages. One is that Nadav and Avihu were intoxicated and became carried away by the "spiritual" uplift. Another is that they were trying to outdo (and perhaps rebel against) their uncle and father, the God-appointed leaders of the people. Yet another possibility is based on a theme that runs throughout the Torah--the relationship between brothers. In Lev. 10:1 we find the clue: "Aaron's sons Nadav and Avihu each took his fire pan." The Sages explain: "Each by himself; they did not take counsel from each other" (Sifra, Acharei Mot Section 1).

Whether they worked against Moses and Aaron or against one another, whatever Nadav and Avihu did wrong elicited an immediate and terrible response from God: "And fire came forth from Adonai and consumed them; thus they died at the instance of Adonai" (Lev. 10:2). 

This shocking incident leads to yet another confrontation between brothers, this time Moses and Aaron. Following the horrifying conflagration, Moses instructs Aaron not to show any grief in public, as that might lead the people to construe that Aaron was refusing to accept the righteousness of God's judgment. In his role as High Priest, it was Aaron's highest and most difficult duty to justify God in whatever God chose to do. Aaron accepts that, although inside he must have been seething with anger and grief. Following Moses's instructions, he keeps these feelings deep within himself.

What happens next, however, is of immense importance to our understanding of the relationship between these Moses and Aaron, so very different from that of Nadav and Avihu. The order of the sacrifices that had to be offered at this point included a sin offering. A sin offering, meant to purify the people of guilt, was intended to be part of a meal eaten privately, only by the priest who offered it, and only in the "most sacred" area of the Tabernacle. However, Aaron does not eat of it; instead, he lets it burn completely at the altar. Afraid that his brother might be punished by God for this infraction, Moses chides Aaron. But Aaron responds, "Such things have befallen me! Had I eaten [of the] sin offering today, would Adonai have approved?" (Lev. 11:19). Aaron's explanation is deep and moving. This sacrifice was too closely associated for him with the sin of his two sons, Nadav and Avihu. How could he possibly have eaten of it? How could he possibly have taken any physical enjoyment or pleasure from it? At that moment Aaron understood something extremely deep and important: To follow the instructions verbatim would have clashed with his strong feelings at the moment--his intense grief, guilt, and (even though kept inside him) his anger with God. For Aaron, these all-too-human emotions conflicted with--and overpowered--the letter of the law. For his own part and to his great credit, after hearing Aaron out, Moses understands and accepts Aaron's explanation. 

This story isn't only about two sets of brothers and their totally different relationship to one another. It's about kavannah--the intent or purpose with which we surround the performance of a ritual or mitzvah. Nadav and Avihu's kavannah was self-advancement; they sought power and glory for themselves. Aaron's kavannah on the other hand was his humanity and humility. It was one thing not to show grief on the outside, but another thing altogether to deny his deepest emotions. How could he possibly do or be something other than--greater than--what he was at that moment: a grieving father? Surely God would understand and accept this, he tells his brother, Moses. 

Moses, the great law giver, understands this and responds to Aaron not with anger, but rather with  compassion. "Va-yishma Moshe, va-yitav b'einav;" Moses heard, and he deemed it right, good and even holy.

In Judaism, justice and mercy go hand in hand. Shemini teaches us that the letter of the law must always be considered in light of the proper kavannah--the right purpose and intent. We are, after all, human beings, not robots who obey orders mindlessly. 

© 2025 by Boaz D. Heilman

Tzav.25: Wood for the Fire

Wood for the Fire: Tzav

Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

April 16, 2025

Leviticus, the third book of the Torah, seems to have a double focus: the first is on the duties of  the Levitical priests; the other is on the everyday behavior of the rest of the people. There is nothing “ordinary” about the duties of the priests: sacrifices to God involved a great deal of preparation and attention. That’s understandable. Additionally however, what’s remarkable in this book is the great emphasis that it places on the everyday behavior of the average individual, be it at home, on the street or at the workplace. 

A common theme runs through both narratives: attention to detail. Carelessness never pays off. When offering sacrifices, mistakes may result in disaster. Among ourselves, peace and accord depend on our behavior and how we go about living our lives.

But—and this is typical for the way the Torah works and teaches its lessons—there is a more sublime message that can be perceived in this week’s portion, Tzav (“Command,” Lev. 6:1—8:36). There really is no double focus: Our personal interactions and our relationship with God are actually not different or separate. Rather, they form a continuum. God’s work can be discerned wherever we look; so too with us. Our work, the work of our hands, leaves an imprint not only on our own lives, but also on the life of the world around us.

In the first part of Tzav, we learn more about the types of sacrifices and how they are to be offered (this continues the list of sacrifices begun in last week’s portion). The second part picks up with where we had previously left off in the storyline. Now that the work of the construction of the Tabernacle is finally completed, Aaron and his sons are to be ordained as priests, clothed in the special priestly garb and anointed with the sacred oil. Next, they must offer an “ordination sacrifice” on their own behalf, and finally they must sit at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting for seven days, forming a human bridge between God and the Congregation, between the holy and the ordinary.

Following the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple in 70 CE, the role of the priests has become limited and mostly symbolic. After the reading of the Torah on Shabbat and the holy days (most spectacularly on the holidays of pilgrimage known as Shalosh Regalim), the Kohanim offer a blessing known as the Priestly Benediction (Numbers 6:24-26). It is a symbolic gesture, yet one that still carries the same significance: to form a bridge between the sacred and the profane.

This teaching, the holy connection between God and humanity, is found in every aspect of Judaism. This week, as we celebrate Passover and with the Haggadah still fresh in our minds, we recall that it wasn’t only God who brought about the miracle of our Redemption. True, the Haggadah assiduously avoids mentioning Moses; yet the very absence of the man who stood up to Pharaoh and delivered God’s message only serves to underscore his vital role. And there were others: Pharaoh’s daughter, who in adopting Moses, clearly a Hebrew boy, defied her own father; the women who supported and buoyed their husbands’ flagging spirit and strength; the Hebrew midwives, who refused to participate in the killing of Jewish babies; and so many others who played a role in the slave rebellion. 

Perhaps the purpose of the omission of all these heroes was to emphasize the power of God’s hand (and the rabbis spare no detail in describing what that was like). But while the Haggadah itself is all about the first Passover, the one we reenact every year, it also offers a course of action for all the rest of us throughout our generations, past, present and future.

“In each and every generation, each one of us must see ourselves as though we ourselves had come out of Egypt.”

How do we do that? There were times when this teaching was more than a suggestion. During the Holocaust, finding flour to bake matzah turned the distant memory into a painful reality. No maror was needed to produce bitter tears. But today? Even though today we see tyrants once again rising and threatening to annihilate us; even though we see antisemitism, that ancient scourge, escalating menacingly like a dark and frightening tide; yet still, despite all that, almost of us find the wherewithal to conduct a joyous Seder, to eat matzah along with bitter herbs, sing  songs of wonderment and praise, and eat delicious meals made with careful attention to detail and tradition. But is that “Dayenu,” enough?

There were days when a bare minimum was sufficient to fulfill the Hagaddah’s teaching. “Pesach, matzah and maror,” ruled Rabban Gamliel, grandson of the great Hillel and a leading first-century rabbinic authority in his own right. 

Today, however, we need more. 

Our Torah portion provides us with a clue: In Lev. 6:5 (6:12 in English translations including the King James) we read: “The fire burning on the altar must not be allowed to go out. The priest must kindle wood upon it every morning.” The Rabbis’ interpretation of this verse is found in the Talmud (Eruvin 63a): “Although fire descends from Heaven, it is nonetheless a mitzvah to bring ordinary fire.”

With no Temple or High Priest, no altar or sacrifices, the message is now intended for us, the ordinary folks. It isn’t the priest, but rather WE who must bring provide wood for the fire “every morning.” It is now our responsibility, eternally linked with that of God. God provides the fire; we provide the wood. We have become the bridge between the sacred and the profane.

The thing about that joyful and memorable Seder song, Dayenu, is that it is ongoing. God’s miracles accrue: God has brought us out of Egypt, parted the Red Sea for us, given us the Torah, given us the Sabbath… and so much more. In the song, our response to each of these gifts comes in one word: Dayenu! “It would have been enough!” But the commandment to “see ourselves as though we ourselves had come out of Egypt,” calls for more. It’s up to us to keep the fire going. Today we do that through observing Commandments, by studying our texts and delving into our rich heritage, and by pursuing the ideals and values we took upon ourselves thousands of years ago.

It's a continuum, an ongoing story in which God calls and we respond, each in our own, unique way, each one of us a priest responsible for maintaining the fire of holiness in the life of the world.

© 2025 by Boaz Heilman

Our Story, Their Story: Passover.25

Our Story, Their Story

Passover 2025

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

“In each and every generation, we are obligated to see ourselves as though we had left Egypt” 

(from the Passover Haggadah)

With Passover starting this Saturday evening, there's a lot to think about and be grateful for. We have been re-enacting the Exodus from Egypt for thousands of years now. The service may have changed somewhat—certainly from Temple times to post-Temple times, and to this day. In ancient days, sacrifices were offered at the Temple in Jerusalem; Passover was one of the Shalosh Regalim (the three pilgrimage holidays), which made it not only a family feast but also one in which the entire community and even nation participated. And though the content and order of the Seder (Seder actually means "order") were compiled over the first three centuries of the Common Era, the text we know as The Haggadah first appeared in the 9th century. Since then, and especially over the last one hundred years, the Haggadah has seen many modifications. We've shortened it for the sake of young children, translated it and added our own family histories. Today the Haggadah is published in more languages and editions than any other book in the world! And yet the essential storyline remains the same; the symbolic foods on our Seder plates remain the same; the traditional menu items, passed down from generation to generation, remain the same.

All that is because the story of the ancient Israelites leaving Egyptian slavery and marching towards freedom is still our story today. Nations have come and gone; empires have fallen by the wayside; tyrants have risen—in every generation, as the Haggadah reminds us—to annihilate us. Yet, through God's grace and miracles, we are still here, still on our historic path towards a promised land.

There have been setbacks. There have been expulsions, pogroms, Inquisitions and forced conversions. Even when the Shoah--the Holocaust--ended, leaving only a fraction of our people still alive, we still picked up and, as in previous times, started anew. In the 80 years since the end of the Shoah, with each passing year and decade, we felt stronger and more confident. Some of us even thought that the hate and violence were behind us, never to be repeated. Tragically however, just over 18 months ago, on Oct. 7 2023, the dream that some of us had proved an illusion. The latest war on Israel and the Jews (and it isn't only about Israel, make no mistake about it), as well as the incredible surge in antisemitism that we are witnessing on college campuses, city squares and elsewhere all over the world, have awakened many of us to a new-old reality. 

Passover this year will be sadder for many families. There are still hostages languishing in captivity in dark tunnels. There are still bodies held for ransom by evil terrorists. This year, too many families will be sitting down to a Seder meal with sadness in their hearts. Too many festive tables will be surrounded by empty chairs waiting for the hostages' return, or else serving as a sad memorial for the thousands who were murdered on that dark Saturday, a day that was supposed to be a joyful holiday but which turned instead so tragic and horrific.

Our singing of Dayenu this year will gain new meaning. In addition to "it would have been enough," this time it will also mean, "enough already!" And yet, even as we sing about one miraculous Redemption after another, we will remind ourselves that though our journey is not yet complete, we can—and must!—expect miracles. This isn't only faith. It's our history. It's our story, the ongoing story of the Jewish People.

As in all previous generations, our youngest child will begin the Seder with questions. And we will answer. We will respond with increased confidence and joy. We will carry on our people's and family traditions, and add to them our own stories. Because we are still here. The march towards freedom began more than 3000 years ago, and we are the newest generation to set foot on the path forward, still emerging from darkness to light, from a "narrow place" (Mitzrayim, the Hebrew name for Egypt) to the wide open and free spaces (Merchav-Yah, Ps. 118:5) promised by God to our ancestors, to us and to our children.

May we continue to rise from sorrow to joy, united in faith and love. A zissen Pesach! May our Passover be sweet and joyful. 

© 2025 by Boaz D. Heilman

I and i: VaYikra.25

 I and i

D’var Torah on Parashat Va-Yikra

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

April 4, 2025

For students of the Hebrew language, or at least those who want to study Torah, the Torah scroll is probably not the best place to begin. For one thing, the hand-written text contains no vowels and no punctuation. Paragraphs may sometimes be indicated by a wider space between the words, but chapter headings or parshiyot—the division into weekly reading portions—are a later addition to the text, and the scroll itself shows no sign of these.

Still, there are some cues that help us find where we are in the reading. A vertical space of about two finger widths separates between the individual books. Additionally, certain letters in the text are written larger or smaller than others—all following very exact rules specified by Jewish law (Halakha)—and all bearing various explanations for the variances.

A prominent example is found in this week’s Torah portion, Va-Yikra (“[God] called,” Leviticus 1:1—5:26). In the very first word of the text, the final letter, א, (aleph) is smaller than the first four: ויקרא. Several explanations are given for this.

First is the understanding we gain from the narrative itself. At the end of the book of Exodus (last week’s portion) we read of the completion of the Tabernacle. Even though it is a conclusion, it is also a beginning, as when one first sits down to a game of chess and views the board. All the pieces are in their proper places; everyone knows their role and function. The Tabernacle is the result of the contributions made by every Israelite, each according to their talent and ability, and at this point they all stand at a respectful distance, waiting to see what might happen next. God’s Presence, in the form of a cloud, then descends upon the Tabernacle, while Moses—who gets all the credit for this sacred task—waits patiently outside, waiting to hear God’s call to enter. The end.

Now, as the third book, Leviticus, begins, God indeed “calls” Moses. So why the small letter, א? This invitation to enter the sacred space in which God’s Presence dwells should be the jewel in Moses’s crown, yet for some reason it is diminished. Some rabbis propose that this is an illustration of Moses’s humility. In no way, shape or manner is Moses to be equated with God, and no one understands that—or desires to transmit this understanding—better than Moses himself.

For other commentators, the small aleph indicates that in obeying God’s commandments we must be as diligent with the larger principle as with the smallest details. With this in mind, it became a tradition hundreds of years ago to begin teaching the Torah to young children starting with the book of Leviticus. Let them start when they are small, and they will grow to perform great mitzvot.

A simple search will come up with other, equally wonderful, interpretations. But they all become distilled into one teaching: the difference between God and humans begins right here.

It’s a difference that in ancient times often was blurred. Kings and emperors would cloak themselves with the features and powers of gods. In some cultures and religions, a prophet was often conflated with a divine being, or at least was presumed to be a welcome and frequent visitor to the heavenly court.

Theology aside, within the constraints of the human race, we still find those who fancy themselves more powerful than others. Many of us measure our worth by the money, women or cars we possess, or by the number of followers and likes we get on the social media.

And maybe that’s another reason for the small aleph in the title of this week’s Torah portion—to remind us that our egotism and conceit are no more than an empty shell, an image we fashion to mask our fears and insecurities.

Of course we must not minimize the effect of our contributions. Eradicating diseases, bringing knowledge and opportunity to the disadvantaged, sheltering the homeless and refugees from war, poverty and persecution—these are the true values by which we should measure our worth. These are the true answer to God’s calling to us, our truest response to God’s command that we be holy. 

As many of our prophets—Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Amos among others—have taught, God doesn’t need our offerings of food or drink. In all cultures, sacrifices were seen as a way of reaching the realms of the divine. So too, in the Torah, the book of Leviticus contains detailed lists and instructions for the sacrifices we are required to offer. In Jewish thinking, however, sacrifices are not offered simply to pacify the wily gods, or get them drunk or fattened enough so they go to sleep and leave us alone, at least for a while. As defined in Leviticus, sacrifices have many reasons and purposes. But one of the most important lessons is that when we offer something meaningful, something we value, no matter how small, to the betterment of society or the world, we are actually removing from our faces the masks of egotism and selfishness. By giving of ourselves, we gain so much more in return. We gain the gratitude of our community; and we gain God’s blessing.

Aleph is the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet; everything else flows from this humble beginning. Aleph, of course, is also the first letter in the name we use to address God when we pray or say a blessing. But aleph is also the first letter in the word ani, the word I use in referring to me. When God speaks, as it were, the aleph in God’s name is capitalized. But when on the other hand we respond to God’s call, each of us should see ourselves as a lower case i, a small aleph, following the example set for us so long ago by Moses, the greatest law-giver of all time, and yet the one described by God’s own words as, “Very humble, more than all men who were on the face of the earth (Num 12:3, NKJV).”

© 2025 by Boaz D. Heilman