The Never-Ending Song

The Never-Ending Song
D’var Torah for Parashat B’shalach
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman


As far as miracles go, they don’t get any more spectacular than the one we read about in this week’s Torah portion, B’shalach, Exodus 13:17—17:16. The parting of the Red Sea is nothing less than spectacular, a magnificent demonstration of history in the making.

I am tempted to call it a miracle of God’s doing, but it’s more than that. Yes, the miracle is partially the result of an eastern wind that God raises and causes to blow all night long. But it is also a masterpiece conducted by Moses as he holds his staff like a huge baton, stretched out over the vast and deep body of water, pointing at some indefinite point between heaven and sea.

The wise Rabbis of the first century added yet another element to the story of this miracle.

It wasn’t enough, the Rabbis taught, that God made the eastern wind blow; it wasn’t enough that Moses held his staff out over the water. One more player was needed to make this wonderful miracle take place. The Midrash teaches that as the Israelites were arguing over who would go into the Red Sea first, one person grew impatient and led the way, jumping into the water yet before dry land appeared. This was Nachshon ben Aminadav, the chief of the tribe of Judah. Thus, as the Rabbis retell this story, it took three to make the miracle happen: God, Moses, and a representative of the people. It’s an important addition to the Torah’s perspective, a lesson that sometimes we tend to overlook.

Like all miracles, the parting of the Red Sea is a fantastic story. Whether it happened exactly as described in the Torah or perhaps was embellished by generations of storytellers and wandering minstrels is not clear. However, the symbolic truth behind this miracle cannot be doubted. How else explain the miraculous survival of the Jews through the centuries? The Jewish people outlasted every tyrant, every empire from the ancient Egyptian, Accadian, Assyrian and Babylonian down to our own times. Yes, it’s a history that is drenched with blood—Jewish blood. Each eon is marked, like Cain, by its own catastrophe, whether it was the destruction of the Temples in Jerusalem, the crusades, blood libels and pogroms, the expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492, or our own modern-day Nazi Holocaust. Yet, despite the bloodshed and destruction, like a phoenix, the Jews always reappeared, miraculously alive, on the other side of destruction. Our life force was not diminished by the terrible ordeals we went through. In fact, we emerged from each devastation renewed, with far greater energy and vigor than ever before.

How else describe this miracle of endurance, this amazing parting of the tides of history? Is there some other—can there be some other?—more powerful vision than this, the parting of the Red Sea, to describe our survival despite all our oppressors?

It’s a miracle our people have always held before our eyes like some huge signpost. It is nothing less than the very foundation on which our faith in God rests. We have relied on this miracle to rally us forward, to drive us fearlessly into the unknown future without any regard for the dangers that lay around us. Time and again, we saw proof that this miracle was true.

But this blind reliance on God’s saving power was also sometimes a stumbling block before us. When we relied on prayer, hoping for a miracle; when we cowered in dark basements even as murderous marauders set fires to our villages and homes; when we believed that at any moment the Messiah would arrive and lead us, singing triumphantly, through miraculously parted waves, onward to some mysterious, peaceful and blessed land, leaving far behind us the terror and savage oppression that we knew all too well.

Too often through our long history, we forgot the lesson the Rabbis tried to teach us so long ago: That miracles sometimes require more than faith and prayer; sometimes they also call for action.

It’s a lesson even God would have us learn.

As this week’s parasha, B’shalach, opens, the Israelites seem trapped. Having just left Egypt, they find themselves surrounded: To either side of them lies the unforgiving wilderness. Ahead is the impenetrable Red Sea. And coming up from behind are Pharaoh, his horses, chariots and best soldiers. He can’t possibly know, however, what we, the readers of this story, are told at the very beginning of the parasha: That the trap is not for the Israelites; rather, it’s an ambush being laid by God for Pharaoh. The Israelites don’t know this either, however, and they cry out to Moses. Moses relays their cry to God, and God responds with this telling command: “And Adonai said to Moses, ‘Why do you cry to me? Tell the children of Israel to go forward’” (Ex. 14:15).

If there is any lesson that could be drawn from our modern-day Holocaust, it is this: That there is a time to pray and cry out, and there is a time to take action.

Sitting passively and hoping that the Messiah will come and save us is useless. It isn’t that we don’t believe in Redemption. We do. But this won’t happen by just sitting and complaining. Redemption—the age we Jews pray and hope for, a time of peace, equality and justice for all—isn’t going to just happen while we sleep. We have to get there step by step, deed by deed. The Red Sea may have tossed and stormed, its waves whipped into frenzy by the night-long, fiercely blowing east wind. Its waters may have even begun to gather as Moses gave the direction with his staff. But the Red Sea did not part until Nachshon ben Aminadav, chieftain of the Tribe of Judah, took action and dove into the water. Only then did the miracle we were hoping for come true.

Our three-plus millennia survival is, indeed, a miracle. We are still walking on dry ground, with two towering, thundering walls of water at either side of us. At any moment they might collapse in—or so it seems. But they are held, despite all odds, despite all laws of nature, physics and history, trembling and powerless against our on-going, never-ending song: The Song of the Sea. Mi Chamocha ba’eilim Adonai: Who is like you among the Divine Beings, O God!

How? Who knows! It’s a miracle.

©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman

Finding the Reset Button

Finding the Reset Button
D’var Torah for Parashat Bo (Exodus 10:1—13:16)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

When the wonderful animated feature Prince of Egypt was still playing in theaters, I went to see it at a matinee showing. There weren’t many in the theater that day; it almost felt like a private screening. Still, a few rows behind me sat a father with his young son. Every once in a while, the father’s voice came across the rows, quietly explaining what was going on. As the climactic moment neared when the Divine energy gathered into one powerful lightball right before the last plague, the Death of the First Born, the tension increased noticeably. Suddenly, a second before the lightball burst and the plague struck, the boy’s voice came across: “Can we go home now, Daddy?”

Sad and funny at the same time, the boy’s plea showed he got it. He fully understood the immensity of what was about to happen. And though he couldn’t yet comprehend the implications of the terrible disaster about to happen, he felt to his very essence how unspeakably fearsome it was going to be.

Parashat Bo (“Come,” Exodus 10:1—13:16) relates the final three of the Ten Plagues—locust, darkness and the terrible Death of the First Born Son. Yet, powerful as the story is, the narrator allows an interruption right before the climax, just before the last plague. Intruding into the narrative, the Torah inserts a section that contains two of the most important laws of Passover—not eating bread for seven days and telling the story of the Exodus to our children. The latter is, of course, the core of the Four Sons section of the Haggadah. Each of the four, in his own individual way, asks the same question, spelled out in this parasha (Ex. 12:26): “What is this service to you?” The wise son asks it with a sincere desire to learn the rules and regulations. The wicked son asks the question with derision and rejection; the simple son asks simply, “what is this?” while the one who does not know how to ask is silent, only looking at the proceedings with wide eyes.

The answer we give our children—each according to his abilities to understand—is that it was through these terrible acts that God forced Pharaoh to recognize and obey God. It was only after Pharaoh saw the full and awesome might of God that he finally caved in and let the Israelites go free.

Yet, there is another question implied in this terrifying story, one that deserves its own special answer: How was God able to distinguish between the Israelites and the Egyptians? With the Death of the First Born, it was the Israelites who defined their own boundaries by smearing blood on their doorposts. But how did the total darkness—the ninth plague—not extend into their homes? For three days the Egyptians couldn’t seen in front of their noses, but for the Israelites there was light. How was that possible?

While some people might try to provide an answer through some laws of physics or astronomy, it’s much more likely that the darkness was really symbolic. It was really all about fear—the kind of fear the boy in the theater must have felt. The kind of fear that immobilizes us, a dark hopelessness, a foreboding that makes us unable to see our way through to the light.

We all sense that fear at some point or another. It’s totally debilitating; it’s the stuff nightmares are made of, when we try to cry out and find out we can’t even do that.

So how do we break through that kind of darkness? Is there some reset button we can press to wake up?

Fortunately for us, there is. It’s called education. If darkness is also symbolic of ignorance, then knowledge is its antidote. That is why the narrative of the Ten Plagues is broken right before that last, most terrifying one. Our guide through the darkness is the set of instructions we receive on observing the Passover. By retelling the story “throughout your generations” (Ex. 12:14), by emphasizing our faith in God, by encouraging questioning, by our attempts to understand our place in the universe, we guarantee our ongoing existence as a people.

By denying his own people access to that light, Pharaoh doomed his whole culture.

The wicked son is the one who rejects instruction; the wise one is the one who seeks enlightenment through understanding those instructions.

That is why the Passover seder isn’t only about eating; it’s also about the history lesson.

Throughout the generations there have been tyrants who tried to control their people by denying them access to knowledge. Burning books, suppressing questioning and doubt, oppressing those who sought light, they brought about one Dark Age after another. We, on the other hand, send our children to schools. We encourage them to seek understanding and not merely accept what some people insist must be truth.

Freedom is all about searching for knowledge. Light and life are the byproduct of learning.

That one afternoon, the frightened child in the movie theater sensed the truth inherent in the story of the Exodus. He just didn’t know what to do with it. He thought going home—escape—would release him from the nightmare. His father’s instruction, however, would prove to be the right reset button. That teaching is what would enable him to grow, to go forward, to break through the boundaries of fear and ignorance.

And that is why we retell the story to our children, taking a pause now and then to study the laws, to think about them anew, to see them through our children’s eyes and then again through our own, to find eternity within the very act of learning. It’s our reset button.

©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman

Take Up Thy Staff

Take Up Thy Staff
D’var Torah for Parashat Va-‘era (Exodus 6:2—9:35)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Israel, Friday, late afternoon. The setting sun’s rays, peeking through the clouds, create a kaleidoscope of reds, oranges and pinks. A few moments earlier, a passing shower blessed the parched land with a few drops. Not enough to make much difference to the fields, but sufficient to clear the air some.

Shabbat is about to set in. Young couples, fathers with their children, walk to synagogues where they will sing their welcome to this blessed day of rest. With smiles on their faces, they seem confident of their way and faith. It must be because they live in Israel, the Promised Land. It’s a privilege they are certain of, one that lightens their heart as well as their step.

Yet, throughout our history, living in Israel had been a dream—or perhaps even less: a vision. Each year, at the end of the Passover seder, generations of Jews would proclaim their faith: Next year in Jerusalem! Sometimes this phrase would rise like a song—proud and joyful. Other times, it would be whispered secretively, with furtive glances thrown in every direction to see who might be listening.

There were times when doubt would silence the words altogether, when terrible suffering made the vision disappear behind a veil of tears. Here and there, a prayer would be uttered by an individual or two, almost desperately, while others around would cast accusing looks: How could prayer cut through the fires and clouds of smoke? Could a song—any song, let alone one expressing hope!—rise above the misery and not fall back down to earth as ashen flakes?

As this week’s parasha, Va-‘era (“I [God] appeared,” Ex. 6:2—9:35) opens, Moses expresses his doubts and weakness. How could he, a mere mortal (the Torah is careful to spell out his humble, human lineage), stand up to Pharaoh, born of the gods themselves? Moses’s first attempts had failed miserably. He sees the terrible suffering of the Israelites as Pharaoh rejects God’s call to let them go and, in fact, imposes even greater hardships on them. Worse yet, it isn’t only Pharaoh who refuses to listen to Moses; it’s the Israelites themselves: “But they did not heed Moses because of anguish of spirit and cruel bondage” (Ex. 6:9). And who could blame them?

Moses doesn’t doubt God. He saw the burning bush; he heard God’s voice speaking to him directly. It’s his own ability to make a difference that Moses doubts: “I speak with faltering lips” (Ex. 6:12, 6:30).

But God persists: I am the one who appeared to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Yes, answers Moses; but they were of impeccable faith, men who set an impossible example for the rest of us. Moreover, they weren’t enslaved, persecuted or hunted. Look around: When was the last time you appeared to these people, so oppressed that they are afraid to look up, let alone stand tall and free.

There is a time for everything—a time to argue, a time to be silent. Now comes the time for action. “Take up thy staff,” God orders. It’s time to show Pharaoh who’s boss.

The parasha progresses from plague to plague. The Nile turns into blood. Frogs overtake the land, followed by lice, wild beasts, pestilence, boils, then fiery hail. With each new disaster that befalls the Egyptians, however, something else happens to Moses: He grows more confident. Like a child learning to walk, at first he relies on the detailed instructions God gives him. But gradually he finds his own voice, bargaining with Pharaoh, then commanding; relenting and then once again pressing on with ever-growing strength.

Throughout the portion, the Israelites remain an unseen player, silent witness to this historic drama. Yet the struggle cannot be only between Moses and Pharaoh. Much of it happens within the people’s heart and spirit. Downtrodden and hopeless as the parasha begins, they, like Moses, begin to find their motivation. Looking at Moses, they understand that the first step towards freedom is finding one’s inner strength. “Take up thy staff!” The command must have echoed through every Hebrew home. Yes, there were skeptics, people whose doubt overpowered their hope, in whom desperation grew so strong that the dream grew dim and finally died. But once awakened, freedom’s heartbeat can’t be silenced.

In flames and clouds of smoke, the Jewish nation was born.

There would yet be more struggles. Each and every generation would see its own tyrant, raising the specter of that first Pharaoh. Oppression, persecution and danger would follow. But the spark that Moses lit inside the Jewish heart remains alive to this day. We have learned that simply waiting for promises to be fulfilled isn’t enough. Sometimes, in order to make a difference, we must take up our staff and point in the direction of freedom and survival.

That’s what welcoming Shabbat in Israel is all about. It’s about lighting candles and watching the light reflect in children’s eyes. It’s about sipping the strong wine; about dipping the sweet challah in salt; about understanding that, just as life’s sweetness is always tempered by tears, so can its doubts and bitterness be sweetened by the blessings of love and faith.

Shabbat shalom. May it be a Sabbath of peace for all.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Becoming Us: Shemot

Becoming Us
D’var Torah for Parashat Sh’mot (Exodus 1:1—6:1)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The story of the Exodus is fundamental to our understanding of the human condition. It is, of course, the cornerstone of the history of the Jewish People, but it has also served as a symbol for many oppressed minorities. Most recently, it was the model for the liberation of the African American People.

A magnificent story so full of special events that it was made into several movies—both live and animated—it’s a clash between two civilizations, two opposing cultures and two religions.

At the same time, this drama isn’t so much the doing of God—though God is given much of the credit (particularly in the Haggadah version). As the story unfolds, more and more it is people who take charge of their existence to give it direction and purpose. To be sure, the Exodus is about God redeeming Israel. But it’s also the story of a growing tide of actions by human characters, each realizing and acting out his or her role as it unfolds before their eyes.

Exodus is a co-production. God and humanity work together as partners. When God commands Moses to call for the liberation of the Israelites, Moses asks: “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh, and that I should take the children of Israel out of Egypt?” God responds: “For I will be with you” (Ex. 3:11-12). This theme is the recurrent message of Judaism. As individuals, we don’t amount to much. But together with God, we can achieve nearly impossible feats.

The Hebrew title of this book, the second book of the Torah, is Sh’mot, which means “names.” All the characters of this story are named, with one notable exception—Pharaoh’s daughter; the Rabbis much later will fix this, giving her the name of Batya, or “Daughter of God.” In fact, women are the true—and often unsung—heroes of Exodus. Whereas Moses begins his career as a cowardly whiner (“Send someone else—anybody!”), it is Moses’ mother, Yocheved, and his sister, Miriam, who will make sure that he survives. He will be rescued and raised by Pharaoh’s Daughter. Others heroes include the Hebrew midwives Shifra and Puah. As Pharaoh begins to carry out his genocidal plans against the Israelites, he commands the midwives to kill on the spot any new-born males. Shifra and Puah heroically refuse, and their names remain emblazoned in our memory and on the gates of the households they are blessed to establish.

Moses, on the other hand, has to be propped up to do his job. God gives him the powerful tools to perform all sorts of signs and wonders (although it will be God alone who will carry out the last, most terrible of the Ten Plagues). When Moses complains of being “slow of speech and of a slow tongue,” God assigns Aaron to be his spokesman.

And it will be Tzippora, Moses’ wife—dark-skinned daughter of the high priest of Midian—who will give Moses the final push he ultimately needs, as she demands that Moses give his whole-hearted commitment to the job he only half-heartedly accepted. She is yet one more individual who takes upon herself a role vital to the story, making sure that what needs to be done is, indeed, done.

As with many of the Torah’s tales of our ancestors, Exodus does not begin with glory. Joseph has been dead for nearly four centuries now. The Israelites, once free and proud, are enslaved. Our history as a nation begins poorly. Yes, the 70 households have grown to become a people of ½ million. Chapter 1 verse 7 describes the process: “The children of Israel were fruitful and swarmed and increased and became very, very strong, and the land became filled with them.” It is hardly a flattering description.

And indeed, what did the Israelites have to speak for themselves? As a religion, there wasn’t much there. In addition to some half-forgotten tales of long-ago ancestors, only circumcision—and their Hebrew names—remained as a legacy, reminding them of their connection to the past, to one another and to an unseen, unrecognized God. Without much history, without holidays or even Shabbat to call their own, their fate might have been like that of any other ancient tribe.

But there is a vast difference between a swarm and a people, and rising from the former and becoming the latter is one of the main messages of Judaism. In Exodus this is achieved when people take on an identity and fulfill the purpose that comes along with that. For the heroes of Exodus, this happens when they choose to rise against tyranny, each for his or her own reason. Moses’s family is first to be named: There is Amram, Moses’s father, whose name (“great people”) embodies the national pride he teaches his children. Yocheved has her maternal instinct that will move her to put the three-month-old infant Moses in a wicker basket and set it afloat on the Nile River (interestingly, the word for the basket—teivah—is the same word used for Noah’s ark!). Pharaoh’s daughter, as she draws the basket out of the water and comprehends the heartbreak behind this desperate act of preservation, is moved by compassion for the downtrodden Hebrews. Miriam, Moses’s sister, is consumed with sisterly care and concern, while Aaron, their brother, is filled with joy when, years later, he sees Moses returning to his old home, people and traditions.

Their names mark their roles for all eternity.

Even God’s name is discussed in this portion. Standing before the burning bush, Moses asks God for a name by which to announce Him to the Hebrews. God replies with a cryptic message (chapter 3, verses 14-15) that embodies all existence (“I shall be who I shall be”). In the next breath, however, God instructs Moses to tell the people that His name is Adonai (YHVH), the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. The difference between the two names is slight—a change in the tense of the verb “to be”—but it is of huge importance. Eh’yeh means “I shall be.” Adonai (the term used for God’s sacred and ineffable name in study and prayer) denotes God’s presence in the here and now. The difference is between “I shall be who I shall be” and “I am.” It’s all about God’s ability to intervene in history.

As with God, so too the meaning of our presence at this time and place is determined by the name and role we accept.

Exodus is about nations and peoples, but it is no less also about individuals and their personal struggles. It is the story of ordinary men and women who take a stand against tyranny and, by doing so, rise from the anonymous swarms and become immortal heroes.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Vayechi—Jacob’s Life; or: The End of the Beginning

Vayechi—Jacob’s Life; or: The End of the Beginning
D’var Torah for Parashat Vayechi
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

With this week’s parashah the first book of the Torah, Genesis, comes to a noble conclusion. It started with Creation; it ends with the death of Jacob. But while this is an ending, it is also a new beginning. The reconciliation between Joseph and his brothers and the reunification of Jacob’s family brings the First Family of Israel to a new level. They are ready to begin a new chapter, a new book. A new people.

Vayechi, (“Jacob lived,” Gen. 47:28-50:26) makes many connections between Jacob’s life and that of his forebears —Abraham and Sarah, Rebecca and Isaac. More than at any other time in his life, Jacob is in perfect spiritual alignment with them. Even the title reminds us of another, earlier parashah—Chayei Sarah, “Sarah’s Life.” It too begins with a death (Sarah’s) but then goes on to tell the story of the life of her progeny. Vayechi is the story of Jacob’s death; but more than that, it signifies also the beginning of the rest of Israel’s life.

For now, there is no more fleeing, conniving or fearing. Jacob has done all of that; he is done with it. His dying request of Joseph is to be buried in the Cave of Machpelah, the very one—he practically gives the address along with the zip code, just to make sure Joseph gets it—where Abraham and Isaac are buried.

It is at this point, having concluded all his earthly arrangements, that Jacob transcends and becomes Israel. Throughout the time that he was known by both names, the name his parents gave him represented the meek individual he was, bound to be manipulated, tricked and threatened. The name given to him by God, however, is a higher self, a superego that he strives toward. As this portion comes to its conclusion, however, Jacob becomes Israel. On his deathbed (how distant from the rocky bed he slept on when he first left his parental home, so many years ago!), now surrounded by all his sons and grandsons, Jacob has a vision of the future. Up until now he had dreams. Now the dream can become a vision of things that surely will come to be: His children no more, B’nai Yisrael become the People of Israel.

What has happened that changes everything so extremely?

Nothing and everything. At these last moments of his life, about to die, Jacob takes an account of the life he had lived. He measures himself up against the ideals he now understands his ancestors had held. With words, images and actions Jacob recalls scenes from his past. He understands the oath Abraham had exacted from his servant when Abraham sent the servant to look for a wife for Isaac. Jacob realizes that the blessing he thought he had won from Isaac by cheating and conniving—had come to him through an act of choice, not trickery: It was Isaac’s choice. Isaac may have been blind; but he wasn’t deaf. He knew then, just as surely as Jacob knows now as he crosses his hands over the heads of Joseph’s two children, Ephraim and Menashe, so as to bless them as he sees fit, not as Joseph sees it. Jacob takes his place next to Abraham and Isaac. And then he dies.

With barely a pause, his story also told, it now becomes Joseph’s turn to move on, to give way to the next chapter. He has done his part and played his role to the hilt. He has saved Egypt from famine; and along with Egypt, he has rescued from starvation peoples from the rest of the drought-stricken Near East. He has saved his own family and set them up for a long and fruitful stay in the Land of Goshen. It’s time.

History does not end with success. Like a wheel, what comes up must come down. The people of Egypt have become enslaved through the fees they had to pay Joseph for feeding them. Discontent is bound to set in. Jealousy at the successful Israelites, who seem only to have thrived during these many difficult years, is bound to turn to virulent hatred. A nervous future Pharaoh—fearful of an uprising by his own people no less than he is terrified by the idea of a rebellion by the many slaves his tyrannical regime keeps downtrodden—will look for a scapegoat to blame for the situation. This new Pharaoh will have forgotten Joseph’s past service, how he had not only saved Egypt but also elevated it to become the center of the ancient world. This new pharaoh…

But that’s another story already. For now, it is Joseph’s time to die, to become a memory of things past. In his last words to his people, he begs them to remember him, to hold the promise of forgiveness and grace he had held out to them. It is a tender moment when Joseph yields control of his fate completely and wholly over to God. This has been his journey too: From the self-centered youth he so enjoyed being, through the years of jealousy and hatred, the quick rise to success, to the unexpected encounter with his past. Throughout this journey, more and more he has learned to see God’s hand guiding him. Now he knows with calm certainty. That is what he wants his descendants to remember: To see the unseen hand, to feel against your back the silent ruach, the spirit that still hovers over the dark depths, guiding the sails of all Creation forward to an unknown but oh!-so-Promised Land.

Chazak chazak v’nit-cha-zek: Be strong, be strong and together we shall all be strengthened.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

On the Importance of Stepping Up

On the Importance of Stepping Up
D’var Torah on Parashat Vayigash—Genesis 44:18-47:27
Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Vayigash… Yehuda, “Judah drew near.” With these opening words of this week’s parashah, the process of reconciliation between Joseph and his brothers reaches its tearful climax.

Giving his brothers one last test of their faithfulness, Joseph announces that the youngest brother, Benjamin, must remain in Egypt as his slave. It is at this point that Judah draws near, taking the last step in his transformation from the person he was when he proposed that Joseph be sold into slavery—cynical, self-centered and mean—into the shining example that will make him worthy of the leadership of his people and of being credited as the founder of Judah-ism.

Life had taught Judah compassion. Having lost his first two sons and fearing the loss of his youngest, he has come to understand the agony and misery that his earlier misdeeds had caused Jacob. He can now understand fully Jacob’s terror at the prospect of losing Benjamin, the last survivor of Jacob’s love for Rachel. Overcoming his fear of the second most powerful man in all Egypt, Judah pleads for Benjamin’s freedom and offers himself as a slave instead: “For how will I go up to my father if the boy is not with me? Let me not see the misery that will befall my father!” (Gen. 44:34).

It is at this moment in the story that Joseph loses his composure. To be sure, he, too, was responsible for some of Jacob’s misery. He could have sent a message. Almost two decades had passed since the dreadful day he was torn from his father, a time span that Joseph employed to forget his past, rather than reconnect with it. Judah’s words bring home to Joseph the keen awareness of Jacob’s pain throughout this time—pain he could have eased, but didn’t.

Filled with guilt and remorse, Joseph sends out all the Egyptian courtiers. Alone with his brothers, he reveals his true identity: “I am Joseph.” Then, expressing his deepest concern, he asks, “Is my father still alive?” (Gen. 45:3). Did he wait too long? Was the connection with his past irretrievably lost? Was there still hope for t’shuva, for the possibility to repair at least some of the damage? Or had Jacob given up on him? Was it too late?

It is never too late to make amends, never too late to begin the process of t’shuva, of repairing the wrong. Joseph’s brothers are dumbfounded; but Joseph already knows the answer to his question. “Hurry,” he commands them, “hurry and bring my father down to me.”

One doesn’t need to imagine the shed tears. The scene is described beautifully in the parashah. It is one of great joy that is yet mingled with a deep sense of loss—the loss of so many years, the loss of love, innocence, faith and trust. Our days on earth are short, this story reminds us. In the best case, life is filled with trouble and hard work. Yet we are not helpless. Each of us has the ability to fill the moments we have allotted to us with love, joy and blessing. Why make life worse when we can make it better?

Judah steps up when he recognizes that up until this moment, his life was meaningless. It is only when measured against a higher ideal and a higher goal that Judah can begin to fill his life with true meaning. His was a long process of loss followed by small steps of enlightenment. He had started badly by abandoning Joseph to the care of slave traders. Uncaring and irresponsible, his only concern then was for the money he would be getting by selling the boy. Later, after the death of his sons Er and Onan, Judah let fear dictate his course of actions; his lack of concern for his personal worth, for the values his word and name stood for, caused him to forget his responsibilities to his daughter-in-law, Tamar, and for his youngest son. Now, however, facing the possibility of further misery and loss, Judah finds the strength to stop the downward spiral. He discovers within himself sufficient courage and determination to motivate him finally to do the right thing, to take that final step and make a real difference in life. And so Judah steps up. Vayigash… Yehuda, “And Judah drew near.” Filled with compassion for his father, with concern and care for his brothers, family and people, Judah steps up to Joseph and pleads their case, begging for justice and mercy.

The irony is obvious. Years earlier, Judah had failed to heed Joseph’s calls for mercy. Why should Joseph act differently now, with their fortunes reversed?

Yet, through his act of heroism, Judah not only redeems himself, but others as well. Judah’s courage and love cause Joseph to reveal his identity and forgive his brothers. At the same time, Judah inspires the rest of his brothers to step up as well. And so it is with all of us: with our actions we inspire others. If we are courageous, others around us will be the same; if we show compassion, others will follow suit. It is human nature.

And so the story reaches its conclusion. Joseph sends chariots and provisions for Jacob and all his family. Jacob, eager to see Joseph before he dies, leaves Canaan. His departure for Egypt signals both an ending to this chapter and a new beginning. Israel settles in the Land of Goshen—the land of “stepping forward,” “drawing near” and “stepping up.” It will be here that Israel will begin to find its identity as a nation and a people, but that’s another story altogether. For the time being, they live in happiness, together for the first time in many a year.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Joseph and His Brothers: Part II—Confrontations

Joseph and His Brothers: Part II—Confrontations
D’var Torah for Parashat Miketz (Genesis 41:1-44:17)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Miketz, this week’s Torah portion, is the story of Joseph and Judah. It’s a study in confrontations, as much a psychological thriller as a beautiful story of brothers reconciling.

Judah was responsible for getting Joseph sold into slavery. So if anyone ever had reason to hold a grudge, it was Joseph. Their hatred for one another sizzled. Yet at some point, they both must come to realize there was something out there that was bigger than either of them; something that called out to them, telling them to get over the petty stuff and start paying attention to the real business at hand: survival.

But the road to reconciliation would not be easy or simple.

If Judah (having lost already two of his three sons) is to survive as a family, let alone as a tribe, he must marry his youngest son to Tamar (re-read chapter 38 for that story). Judah fears this prospect but must confront it if there’s to be any hope of a future to his family and name. In standing true to his promise to Tamar, Judah transcends his fear and begins his route to redemption.

Joseph, too, realizes that he is holding in his hand nothing less than the fate of his family and people. Yet before he can act, he must confront his past. He worked hard to forget it during the first few years that he was in Egypt. At first it was the degradation of slavery, the many tasks that came his way, the abuse he must have endured. Then came success. Joseph is taken from prison, called up to Pharaoh to interpret Pharaoh’s famous two dreams: The one about seven fat cows being eaten by seven scrawny cows; and the other, where a healthy stalk of wheat bearing seven branches of grain, is overtaken by seven lean and withered stalks bearing no grain at all. No one throughout the land of Egypt could tell Pharaoh what these dreams meant. Imagine that.

But for Joseph, his reputation preceded him. In the words of Pharaoh: “They say that for you to hear a dream is to immediately understand it” (Gen. 41:15).

Success pulls Joseph even further from his past. He now commands power second only to that of Pharaoh. A little luxury sometimes goes a long way to help you forget what poverty feels like.

But you can’t run away from your past.

As the predicted famine deepens throughout Egypt and even spreads to other lands (including Canaan), Joseph’s brothers come to Egypt to buy food. Joseph confronts the ten (Benjamin, the youngest, had stayed at home with Jacob). He accuses them of being spies, untrustworthy. He plays with them pretty mercilessly, but in the end he sends them home with food—along with their money. In their defense, however, the brothers had mentioned Jacob, Joseph and Benjamin. The names must have jabbed at Joseph’s repressed memories. Moreover, while talking among themselves—and believing that Joseph couldn’t understand them—they recalled the way they had handled Joseph. The most dreadful moment of all, the betrayal, the tearing away of Joseph from his childhood, from his home and his dreams, from his father and the beautiful striped tunic he had given Joseph, was out there in the open, a guilty secret that couldn’t be contained any more, that burst out in all its incriminating self hatred.

The intensity of the moment leads Joseph to weep, a sure sign that he understood that running away from his past was no longer an option. Yet he makes one more demand: That the next time that the brothers come down to Egypt to procure food, they must bring Benjamin with them.

The brothers come home to Jacob, and all’s well at first. Until the food runs out. Milling about, they know what they must do, but they are afraid. It takes Jacob all the courage he can muster to face and charge them with the task of buying food. “Um, Dad…,” they stammer in reply. You can almost sense their consternation. It was a confrontation with their father they tried to avoid for almost 20 years.

But Jacob has no choice. He has to trust his ten untrustworthy sons. Judah makes the deal possible by offering collateral: Judah himself will guard the boy. If he fails and something bad—God forbid!—happens, Judah will stand guilty before his father for the rest of his life.

By accepting this burden, this responsibility, Judah moves another step up the ladder of Redemption.

Jacob had never learned to accept Joseph’s death. In his heart of hearts, he still had hope that Joseph might be alive somewhere. Was there any reason for him to suspect now, at this moment, that this Overlord of Egypt that his sons spoke of, the one who had inquired about an old father and a younger brother, might be his long lost son? None whatsoever. And yet, what the old man does next is nothing short of wondrous: He sends the youthful lord a food offering. “Take with you,” Jacob instructs his sons, “some of the choice products of the land…, a little balm and a little honey, wax and lotus, pistachios and almonds” (Gen. 43:11). Jacob sends Joseph a care package. Some of his favorite foods. A taste of the past.

At seeing his brother Benjamin (and, I’m sure, smelling the soup), Joseph weeps again.

But he is not convinced. Have his brothers truly repented for mistreating him and selling him into slavery? All his instincts cry out to him to forgive them, but he can’t. He has one more test for them. What would they do if they had the opportunity to get rid of Benjamin just as they got rid of Joseph? Would they give in again to the same impulses that drove them to the first family betrayal?

Making sure that Benjamin would not be harmed in the process, Joseph arranges this last test. He just has to know.

And so one last confrontation is set up: the one between Joseph and Judah.

For scenes from next week portion, please stay tuned.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman