The Role of One, The Power of Many

     Sermon for Kol Nidrei 2020, 5781

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Maybe it’s because of the unusual circumstances of these Holy Days, but this year an odd incongruity struck me—and you as well, I am sure. And that is that even though we have come together virtually to pray as one community, the reality is that each of us is actually alone, or perhaps with our “nuclear family,” in our own separate homes. And yet, something draws us all together, connecting us in some mysterious way. How is this possible? Was it actually always so, and only this year became apparent to us? 

I suspect so. Yom Kippur is there for all of us, but it is also about me, and you, and each and every one of us. Unetaneh Tokef, one of the most powerful prayers in the entire service, presents the dramatic image of how, on this most sacred of days, every individual is called to the Heavenly Court, where, one by one, all our deeds of the past year are recounted from the Book of Memories, playing themselves out before our astonished eyes.  

And yet, as we go through the prayers, we realize that almost to a one, they are all in the plural: WE have sinned, WE have transgressed, WE have caused harm. Even Kol Nidrei, the prayer that gives the entire Yom Kippur evening service its name, is all about the long list of vows and oaths that WE might have made and failed to fulfill.

In ancient days it was expected that, for our prayers to be accepted, we had to bring a sacrifice to the Temple. Whether it was a lamb, a handful of flour, or a pinch of salt, each individual was responsible for his or her offering. But on Yom Kippur, this was reversed. On this day, it was only one person’s duty—the High Priest—to bring the sacrifice, and up to him to achieve purification for the entire congregation. All that would be expected of us, the people assembled in the Temple courtyard, was to fast and show contrition for our sins. 

Unlike any other occasion or holiday, then and now, Yom Kippur was always meant to be a collective experience, an affirmation of the relationship between the People of Israel and our God. 

But this unity can be misleading. Surrounded by our community, reminded that we are all experiencing the transformative nature of atonement, it’s easy to disappear into the crowd. If God forgives us all, then by the nature of the service, I am forgiven too, no matter what sin and transgression I might be harboring deep within my heart and soul. 

As early as the 6th century BCE, the Prophet Isaiah called out a warning against this kind of thinking, when he taught that no sacrifice and no fast could do what deeds of righteousness would: “Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen,” he exclaimed, “To loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke; to set the oppressed free and break every yoke?  Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter? When you see the naked, to clothe them, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?” (Isaiah 58:6-7 NIV translation). 

Reaffirming Isaiah’s warning, Rabbi Elazar ben Azaria, one of the greatest of the early rabbis, formulated the famous teaching that while Yom Kippur has the power to atone for wrongs between people and God, it does not atone for transgressions between a person and their fellow human being until the one who was wronged has been pacified. We simply cannot proceed with the rituals of this Holy Day without first seeking forgiveness from our fellow human beings.

The responsibility of every individual to evaluate his or her behavior is an essential part of Yom Kippur. Because while guilt is a heavy enough burden for any one person, it also has ramifications for the rest of the community.

We know from hurts we have felt that a disparaging word or one spoken in anger can leave a deep scar in a person’s soul. No sacrifice to God, no matter how showy or expensive, can fix this kind of hurt, as will a simple apology. Saying “I am sorry” can go a long way; and once repair is done, once peace is restored, we can move on with our lives with a clear conscience and a lighter step.

Hurt isn’t always caused intentionally or with malicious forethought. Our language sometimes conveys subtexts that we may not even be aware of. Few people use jew as a verb anymore, but gypped is still common, as are other terms that derive from racial or ethnic slurs. In the past few months we came to understand that even images can hurt, such as the false image of the kindly Black cook who just loves to flip pancakes for us White folks; or the beautiful, white-columned plantation used as a setting for a classic Southern wedding. Rather than romanticizing antebellum, Gone-With-The-Wind times, this façade should remind us of the brutal practice of slavery that propped it up in the first place.

Attitudes can change imperceptibly, becoming ingrained over time. Since the birth of the American nation, knowingly or not, intentionally or not, our ideals have become tarnished, as we turned from the vision of “one nation under God” into the painful reality of a two-tiered society, where some have access to excellent healthcare, can attend the best schools and enjoy unlimited economic opportunities, while others—to put it simply—cannot. In such cases, our sins are collective, and communal atonement is required from all of us.

Sometimes it isn’t others that we owe an apology to, but ourselves. We transgress against ourselves when we allow others to demean us for our color, size, shape or faith. When we belittle and berate ourselves. When we let a bully tell us that we are worthless and deserving of pain or abuse. We shortchange ourselves when we start believing that we can’t turn our lives around. 

And yet, one of the biggest lessons we have learned this year is that each of us does have a voice, and an important function in society. We may be quarantined instead of gathering in our sanctuary on this holy day, but that’s because we understand the role of each individual in slowing or even stopping the spread of COVID. Yet that doesn’t stop us from being a community, from taking care of one another, whether by phone call or a drive-by. We deliver a challah for Shabbat, or the Torah to someone who feels the need to touch it. We care for the sick, comfort the mourner and rejoice with those celebrating the joyous moments of life. 

Because that’s what communities do. We reach out to each other; we are there for each other.

As a nation, in the past few years—and particularly since the COVID pandemic began—we have seen racial, economic and cultural divides widen and turn into ugly chasms. While this caused soul searching among many of us, some of us allowed ourselves to become discouraged, feeling that there is little we can do about poverty and hunger, racism, or divisive and corrupt politicians. 

Let us, however, not forget that 2020 is an election year, and I can’t emphasize enough the privilege and power that each person’s vote represents. To sit out this election, whether because we feel our voice doesn’t matter or because we are told our vote is invalid, is tantamount to giving in to cynicism—a sin against God, ourselves and the larger community. Every vote does count, and every voice deserves to be heard and considered.

Because as a nation, we all need to participate in the care and upkeep of the political, judicial and social system of which we are part.

The kind of atonement that Yom Kippur calls for isn’t only about whether we brought the right sacrifice to God; it’s more about examining our attitudes and behavior; it’s asking ourselves whether we did the right thing by one another; whether we let wrongs fester—or took action to make us, as individuals, as a community and as a nation, whole again.

And that’s why the Yom Kippur prayers are in plural. There is no community without “U” and “I.” For our prayers to be heard, for forgiveness and redemption to ensue, none of us can hide or disappear in the crowd. It takes the hard work and effort of each and every one of us to make it work, to make things right again.

May God grant us health and strength this year to do our part in repairing our world.  May we all be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life for a sweet and healthy New Year.  Amen.

© 2020 by Boaz Heilman

The Final Question: Rosh Hashana.20

 The Final Question: Sermon for Rosh Hashanah 5781

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 19, 2020

Of all the images associated with Rosh Hashanah—apples and honey, round challahs, shofars of all sizes and shapes—the one that I personally find most meaningful is that of gates. The gates of prayer, the gates of repentance; gates opening and gates closing—these images fill our prayerbooks and strike both fear and awe in our hearts. In ancient days, the gates of the Temple in Jerusalem must have been formidable and awe-inspiring; how much more so, the gates of heaven!

But this grand image has a double, a thumbnail reflection, of a gate meant not for hundreds or thousands of pilgrims, nor for millions of prayers clamoring to find their way in, but rather is custom sized for just one person at a time. Not ornate or in any other way ostentatious, this simple and narrow gate opens not at dawn, but instead, at the darkest hours. This is, of course, the gateway to our souls, the one that lets us see ourselves as we truly are—not the public face we show to the outside world, but rather the self we face when we are alone, when we can’t sleep, when our most secretive thoughts and fears come calling, unannounced and unmasked. 

Having to go through that gate can be daunting. We judge ourselves, and mostly we tend to see our faults and failings. And so we find ways that skirt it. Anything to avoid going there, to have to face this gate or go through it. Still, sometimes, in the dark of  night, when even cowering under the blankets doesn’t help, the doubts rise to trouble us. But eventually we manage to fall asleep again, and the next morning everything seems so much brighter! And that’s the way it is for most of the year. 

But during one season, in the fall, the High Holy Days arrive, and with them the specter of the dreaded gates of judgment, and fear and trepidation are there with us all day long. There’s nowhere to run or hide. For well we know, on these days, each of us is called by name and made to walk through this gateway to our souls. One by one, we are summoned before a Heavenly Court where our lives and deeds are measured by standards that, left to our own devices, we sometimes overlook or disregard.

Normally, this experience would be dayenu—enough already—if it only came once a year. This year, however, has been anything BUT normal. For months now we have been spiraling from one unending crisis to the next, from one disaster to the next, watching history unfold before our eyes. All of us have been affected, no one has been spared. And along the way we have had to answer some pretty tough questions. What we’ve learned about ourselves has at times been both shocking and painful.

5780—known in the general world as 2020—will always be remembered as the year when several huge forces converged, like a perfect storm. COVID; extreme weather with monstrous hurricanes, unprecedented heat waves and historic wildfires; a rollercoaster economy and unemployment numbers unmatched since the Great Depression; social, political and racial reckoning; all came together, forcing us to look at ourselves in ways we never had to before. And what we saw wasn’t always pretty.

Having to face such enormous forces led many of us to see ourselves from a different and perhaps less egocentric perspective. Yes, some people showed greed. Frustration and anger often erupted into ugly behavior and at times, violence. Runs on supermarkets in search of toilet-paper and hand-sanitizer, and the unaccustomed sight of empty shelves, shocked us into thinking of this year as not merely unusual, but actually apocalyptic. 

On the other hand, who can forget serenades sung from balconies in Italy and Spain? Or orchestras and choirs managing to pull off entire concerts not from symphony halls but from individual living rooms? Communities, neighbors and friends reaching out to help one another? Or those touching and shining moments of humanity—people helping people: first responders and healthcare workers stretching themselves to the limit in caring for the sick; or the newspaper delivery person who realized how many elderly people on his route all of a sudden found themselves desperate and hungry, so he decided to deliver groceries to their doorstep, and enlisted others—teenagers, workers laid off from their jobs—to help in similar ways? 

In our own individual microcosms, being quarantined alone or with our nuclear family has taught us to redefine our roles, and to share time and space in a totally different way than we had been accustomed to. Yes, it was hard, but we found ways to cope; we found moments and corners that we could retreat to when we needed some time for ourselves. Many of us actually adopted pets this year, feeling the need to show love and care to creatures who were in the same boat as us, but without the ability to understand the whys or wherefores.

These situations may or may not have prepared us for what came next, but seeing the horrific brutality with which some police officers treated fellow Americans whose skin color happened to be black or brown made us ask different questions, requiring that we appraise not only our nation and society to see whether racism in America is systemic, but also ourselves, to examine whether we unknowingly might be harboring racism and prejudice. We learned that there was a difference between being not-racist and anti-racist. We realized that seeking what was best for us and our families wasn’t always in line with what we had learned about justice and equality, about loving our neighbor as ourselves. 

Like the movie Groundhog Day, 2020 has been one long, interminable Rosh Hashanah, only without the apples and honey. In the past, it was enough that we reflected on ourselves, on our own behavior. In the year 5780, we found ourselves needing to look at a much larger canvas, forced to redefine our place, role and function in the world at large; to refocus and see ourselves not merely as insignificant particles in an infinite universe, but also as unique individuals with unique gifts and talents who can—and must—make a difference in the world in which we live.

And now, today, once again we find ourselves standing before that terrifying gate, the one that opens to our souls on one side, and to the Heavenly Court on the other. A long line of souls stretches ahead, and an even longer one behind us. One by one, as names are called, we approach the bench, our caps—or our kippahs—clenched tightly in our sweaty palms. And then we are there, standing before the Heavenly Tribunal. The Judges peruse through a thick book lying open before them, and we feel our hearts beating faster and louder than could possibly be healthy for them. A nod here, a “tsk-tsk” accompanied by a head shake there, and finally a voice: “We have some questions for you.” Nervously, we nod. What could these questions be? What could the Supreme Judge of all beings NOT know about us already? And what could we answer to save our souls?

“In the past year, did you offer to help anyone less fortunate than you?”

We stop breathing. Surely we must have! 

And the Judge continues, the voice as deep as the ocean, as resonant as the sky itself, “Did you say ‘thank you’ often enough?”

Quickly, we try to remember—did we?

But before we can answer, the voice resumes, “Did you say ‘I love you’ enough?”

“And one final question.” The Judge’s eyes are raised from the book, looking deeply into ours, and our hearts nearly faint. 

“And what exactly are you going to do about that in 5781?”

May we all be prepared this year to give the right answers.  And may we all be inscribed in the Book of Life for a good and sweet New Year, L’shana tova tikateivu. 

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

 Kadkod Stones: A Sermon For Rosh Hashana Eve

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 18, 2020

In 1967, Israel’s most famous song writer, Naomi Shemer, wrote “Jerusalem of Gold,” a song that within weeks became wildly popular all over the world. The lyrics are rich in Biblical and Rabbinic allusions, but at the same time refer to the colors that reflect off Jerusalem’s famous white stones at dawn and at dusk, the light painting the city in rich hues of copper and gold.

This glow, however, wasn’t always there. After the Babylonian destruction in 586 BCE, and then again after the year 70 CE, when the Roman legions burnt the city, Jerusalem was a heap of ruins, covered in a mournful blanket of ash and debris. It stood that way for nearly 2000 years, more a dream or a vision than anything resembling its former glory.

The prophet Isaiah, in offering comfort to his people, spoke of the wonders and grandeur of a rebuilt Jerusalem in days to come. The streets would be paved with sapphires, he prophesied, and the walls inlaid with precious stones. There would be no need for artificial illumination, and even the sun and the moon would pale next to the splendor that would shine from deep inside the precious stones.

In these prophecies, Isaiah mentions by name half a dozen gems and precious stones—all of which I am sure the people of his time recognized, but which, over the years, were renamed several times over, so that the references are no longer as clear as they once were. Over the centuries, commentators, linguists and editors have done their best to identify these gems, but in the end these explanations remain no more than guesses and conjectures.

In one of my favorite Midrash stories, a famous Talmudic scholar of the 3rd century, Rabbi Joshua ben Levi—was walking along the Carmel Mountain when he came upon the Prophet Elijah. “Master,” exclaimed Rabbi Joshua, “won’t you show me the gems called kadkod, which, according to Isaiah, will illuminate Jerusalem in the Days-To-Come?” Elijah agrees to the request and sets up a miracle in order to show them to Rabbi Joshua.

As it happened, at that very moment, a merchant ship was about to set sail, carrying casks of wine and spices to far off lands. All its sailors were heathens, but there was among them one young Jewish lad. Elijah appeared to the boy and said to him, “I need you to run an errand for me. In three days’ time, a great storm will arise, and the boat will founder and begin to sink. You can save it, however, along with all who are aboard it.” “How?” asked the boy.  “By diving down to the bottom of the sea,” answered Elijah. “There I will show you kadkod stones. You will need to take them and show them to Rabbi Joshua ben Levi. Only don’t show him the stones in public. Take him to a cave that is three miles away.” “But,” protested, the boy, “Rabbi Joshua is the most famous scholar in the world! Why would he follow me?” Elijah responded, “Yes, he is a great scholar, but he will follow you because he is well known for his humility.” 

Despite his fear and misgivings, the boy agreed to go on the mission, and sure enough, just as foretold, a great storm arose at mid-sea and the ship began to take on water. When a great wave suddenly appeared, the boy let it sweep him into the swirling water. He felt himself drawn into the dark depths, but just as he began to lose hope, he saw a great light shining. With the last of his strength he swam to the sea floor, where he saw stones that glowed with such brilliance that they caused light to shine all around them. Putting a few in his pocket, he prayed to God to be rescued and felt himself being drawn up and back to safety again.  Within moments he found himself on shore again, and he immediately set out to find Rabbi Joshua ben Levi.

The famous scholar was seated on his chair in the great academy of Lydda, teaching the very chapter in the book of Isaiah wherein the prophet spoke of the gems that would provide light for the days to come. “I have something to show you,” said the lad. “But you have to follow me, for so I have been instructed.”

Without a word, the great rabbi rose and followed the boy a distance of three miles, to a cave few people knew about. There the boy took the stones out of his pocket and handed them to Rabbi Joshua. Immediately the stones began to glow brilliantly. Rabbi Joshua’s eyes filled with tears, and he was so shaken that his hands began to tremble, and the stones fell to the ground, where they immediately disappeared. At that moment, the boy and the teacher heard a voice calling out, “Light is sown for the righteous.” Just as suddenly, the earth began to tremble and they barely had time to escape before a rockslide sealed the entrance to the cave, and it is still so to this very day.

Like all legends, this beautiful story has a kernel of truth. Like the hero in the midrash, we too have a task—to find the hidden precious stones. But there is no mysterious cave: they are actually right there, in plain sight. We only have to open our eyes to find them in our traditions; in old, worn-out prayerbooks; in prayers and blessings we say over candles, wine and sweet challah bread. 

We see their glow when we bring our children to religious school and raise them to become b’nai mitzvah—when, like Rabbi Joshua ben Levi, our eyes, too, fill with tears. 

When we teach or study words of Torah, the very letters on the parchment begin to glow. 

When we support one another and the community that we are part of; when we set aside food or clothing for the needy; when we remember those who are no longer with us and recall, with gratitude, the love and caring they had once shared with us, we bring light even into the darkest room.  

The foods we eat on our holy days, the music that makes our souls dance, the art with which we decorate our homes, and above all, our sacred texts—all these contain the precious lights of which Isaiah spoke, and which we are asked to bring to our darkened world to make it better. 

And that is why we are here tonight. Because tonight, Jews all over the world are hearing the shofar’s call, and together we remember the mission we accepted so long ago. Like the boy in the midrash story, when we overcome our fears, when we let faith and hope guide us, we can search for—and find—those elusive kadkod stones, and with their glow we can bring light to the darkness that at times seems to overwhelm the world. 

Much of our ancient nation’s capital of Jerusalem has now been rebuilt. Much more still lies buried underground. As Naomi Shemer’s song, “Jerusalem of Gold,” reminds us, the sun’s glow again reflects brilliantly off the city’s historic walls, as well as from the many new and modern buildings that have come up within its bounds. Yet we are still far from those radiant days of which Isaiah prophesied. The legendary kadkod stones still are hidden, still waiting for those who are fearless and faithful enough to find them. May we be among those who, stirred by deeds of righteousness and compassion, will set the brilliant gems high on posts along the path to the wondrous day of which the prophet spoke, a time when “All your children shall be taught by Adonai, and great shall be the peace of your children.” 

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

Welcome Steps Towards Peace In The Middle East

Welcome Steps Towards Peace In The Middle East

by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 11, 2020

In a year that has been clamoring for good news, the peace agreement between Israel and the United Arab Emirates and the just-announced news of the normalization of relations between Israel and Bahrain certainly come at an opportune time. What better answer to our thrice-daily, 24/7, prayers for peace?

When these agreements are signed, they will be a landmark in a process that has taken many years to reach. For over 100 years, Arabs have resisted the idea of a Jewish state in the Middle East. They have waged war against Israel time and time again, engaged and supported innumerable, tragic acts of terror, and pursued many other means to vilify and delegitimize Israel.

So why the change now?

Two answers come to mind immediately: Iran and common sense.

Iran is currently the world’s leading exporter of war and terror. The Iran ayatollah regime has spared no effort—monetary or otherwise—to wage and support violence against its own people, its neighbors, the United States, and all of western Europe. Iranian-funded and armed militias have been waging war against Israel (in Lebanon through Hezbollah, in Gaza through Hamas) as well as against Saudi Arabia (through the Houthi militias in Yemen), against Iraq and the Syrian people. Fear of further aggression and expansionistic wars have prompted some Arab leaders to ally with Israel, rich in technological, intelligence and military superiority.

A new Arab bloc is being formed to stand against the Iranian threat, and Israel is being recognized as an important partner in this alliance.

But Israel has much more to offer its neighbors than just military support. Israel is a major world force in medicine, education, culture, business, hi-tech, and environmental science—to name but a few areas. At a time when the Internet has made news and information accessible to almost all people around the world, people who have been suppressed for decades under benighted and totalitarian regimes are seething against their governments. If for that reason alone, some leaders, fearful of domestic violence and uprisings, find themselves leaning towards more liberal and humanitarian policies.

Cooperation with Israel will undoubtedly be a boon to progress and peace both regionally and internationally. With all other attitudes and methods failing, peace is the only sane alternative. With COVID still raging, with overpopulation and global warming becoming greater threats than ever to human survival, coexistence is the only remaining viable option.

President Trump and the State Department deserve our support, praise and thanks for the major events that these steps toward world peace represent. Hopefully other countries will follow the courageous example shown by the UAE and Bahrain.

As we look forward to the onset of a New Year, we can certainly be more grateful and optimistic than 2020 has so far allowed us to be.

From Dream To Reality: Shoftim.20

From Dream To Reality: Shoftim

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 21, 2020

As the Jewish year comes to a close (Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, is just about a month away) so does our cycle of weekly Torah readings. This cycle starts anew every fall, reminding us not only of the beginning of the year, but also of our origins and obligations as a people.

Deuteronomy, the fifth and final book of the Torah, is thus both a summary of the first four books and a distillation of how we view ourselves and our relationship with God.

Deuteronomy is structured as a series of sermons delivered by Moses as the Israelites, after forty years of wandering in the wilderness, finally reach their goal and destination, the Promised Land. It’s a look back, a recounting of the hardships endured and lessons learned along the journey. But at the same time it also offers insight into the future, a foretelling of historical events to come—the battles that will be fought as the Israelites settle in Canaan and the social, religious and political dilemmas that they will be facing.

Most of all, however, Deuteronomy is a collection of laws. About one-third of the Torah’s 613 Commandments are found in this book.

Why so many?

Laws are not necessary where the population is sparse. Where there is little traffic and few intersections, there is no need for stop signs. The number of laws in Deuteronomy—and the many different situations these cover—reflect the time and place in which they were legislated.  There are laws about warfare—a sure sign that the Middle East never was and probably never will be a haven of peace. Rules limiting the power and wealth of a king likewise indicate a political and social reality. The focus in this week’s portion (Shoftim, “Judges,” Deut. 16:18—21:9), is on the need to establish a judicial system, necessary for any civilization and culture to exist and prosper. First steps are also taken toward the centralization of religious practice and authority, enabling the nascent Jewish religion to survive in the Middle East, a place where the world’s major trade routes intersect—and with them, the cultural and religious influences of many lands and peoples.

Some of the laws in Shoftim strive to control human passions such as sexual lust, hunger for power, and the brutal urge for blood vengeance.

As the last of the Five Books of Moses, we would expect Deuteronomy to offer denouement, a satisfying conclusion tying together all the loose ends, all the storylines that interweave and leave us wanting more. As a work of theology, one could expect some answers about God, God’s nature, and the nature of God’s relationship with humanity. We could be pardoned for wanting to know more about our role and place in the universe, to see the larger picture, with all the whys and wherefores answered.

Yet exactly the opposite happens. No explanations, no sweet resolutions.  Ironically, even though it is part of a religious text, Deuteronomy says little about the nature of God’s divinity and is actually a roadmap into the human soul. Rather than explain why God or the Universe are the way they are, Deuteronomy actually helps us understand ourselves, the complex entity that we human beings are—that I am, that you are, that each individual is, in his/her/their own and unique way.

Deuteronomy isn’t about God at all. Rather, it’s about you and me. Every law in Shoftim is addressed to the individual, taking the form of the singular “you,” the “thou.” That’s what it all comes down to. There is no grand finale, no revelation of things or days to come. Everything is up to you.

Maybe that’s why Deuteronomy is read during Elul, the last month of the Jewish year. As we begin to reflect on the year that is now ending and as we begin to look, with hopes and expectations, toward the new year, we are reminded that so much depends on what our choices are going to be.

Yes, prayer is good. Prayer expresses the deepest longings in our hearts and souls—for peace, for health, for satisfaction, for a good job, for love. But prayer by itself is no more than wishful thinking. It’s what we do that complements and completes prayer.

If we want peace, we must work towards it, and not strive for destruction.

If we want to be treated with dignity and kindness, we have to treat others in exactly the same way.

If we want to live in a just world, then we need look no further than to the words that open this week’s portion: “Justice, justice shall you pursue.” The doubling of the word justice has been taught as a reminder that we must judge others as we judge ourselves, no more and no less.

And lastly, if we want to live in a world where all people—regardless of race, color, creed or gender—are treated equally, then we must tear down walls of prejudice, fear and hatred and replace them instead with fair and equitable systems and practices. No one, no matter how rich or powerful, is above the law; we are all—president or ordinary citizen, rich or poor, subject to a higher power, a higher authority, a higher and ultimate Judge.

Deuteronomy is set in the days immediately prior to the People of Israel’s crossing the Jordan River into the Promised Land. As we read it now, facing a new year, new opportunities and new challenges, these chapters remind us to see ourselves as our ancestors must have: Our fear mingled with faith, our doubts replaced with resolve. Our dreams of a Promised Land remain unfulfilled until we—you and I—take action to make them real.

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Abraham Accord: Peace Agreement Between Israel and UAE

The Abraham Accord: Peace Agreement Between Israel and UAE

Opinion by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

August 14, 2020

The announcement of a peace deal between Israel and the United Arab Emirates couldn’t come at a better time.

These days, as the COVID pandemic continues to rage unabated, when politics, social unrest, the economy, jobs and other divisive issues leave all of us afraid to listen to the news for fear of what else could be going wrong, the words “peace agreement” sound a little like a Disney fantasy. Our cynical minds turn immediately to thinking, Why? What’s going on? Who is gaining from this agreement—and what is being gained by it?

And the answer is simple: Everyone and everything.

When the UAE first became an independent country in 1971 its first president termed Israel, “the enemy.” By 2015, however, Israel opened a diplomatic office in the Emirates. But even before that, mostly under cover, cooperation in trade, security, technology and other areas had already been going on for several years.

The normalization of relations between the two countries is a major achievement for which President Trump, Jared Kushner and Secretary of State Pompeo deserve much credit and thanks. For, despite long-standing cooperation between Israel and the UAE, there have been roadblocks too. Sports events in which Israeli athletes participated were boycotted by the UAE. Travel restrictions existed. Recognition of the Jewish State was adamantly rejected.

Now, however, with what is being called “The Abraham Accord” (named after the common ancestor of the Jewish and Muslim faiths), a new stage in the relationship between Israel and the Arab world has begun.

Prior to the Israel/UAE agreement, only two other Arab countries had signed peace agreements with the Jewish State: Egypt and Jordan. Ending the state of war that had existed since 1948 was important, but these proved isolated developments. The accord with the UAE is part of a new game plan, a wider and more encompassing maneuver for a new time and a new world.

For Israel, recognition by an Arab state is an old dream come true. The process has been long and complicated. At times it seemed more science fiction than possible reality.

So what has changed?

In a word: Iran.

The world’s largest exporter of terror and violence, Iran has long been aiming for domination of the Middle East. The failed Syrian regime of Bashar al-Assad has meant that Iran now plays a major role there, establishing military bases and a regular supply route to Hezbollah—the armed militia that runs Lebanon (and is responsible for the horrific ammonium nitrate explosion in Beirut earlier this month). Iran also arms and supplies the Houthis, who have been waging war against Saudi Arabia and wreaking havoc and disaster in neighboring Yemen. Iran has been menacing the United States, jeopardizing oil shipping in the Persian Gulf, and threatening Israel as well as Western European countries with its development of nuclear capabilities and the ability to deliver nuclear warheads on ICBM’s.

Iran’s crumbling economy hasn’t stopped any of its expansionist plans. Despite economic and diplomatic pressure from the United States and elsewhere, Iran is persistent in furthering its militaristic aims. The upcoming elections in the United States and the uncertainty of a second term for President Trump have bolstered Iran’s determination to make its move now, with the hope that a new, more favorable, Democratic administration might prove more forgiving of any consequences tomorrow to such a move today.

Other countries in the region are similarly fearful of a change in administration. In their view, a return to a deal with Iran such as the one carved out by Obama would mean one thing only: a more powerful and threatening Iran.

A defensive wall is thus being built, with the UAE-Israel peace agreement as the first in what will hopefully be a chain reaction. In a major speech announcing the accord, Israel’s Prime Minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, intimated as much, without naming any names.

But for all its benefits, any such treaty must also come with a price. The United Arab Emirates has to face the rage not only of Iran, but also of other hardline Islamist countries and governments. Not surprisingly, the Palestinian Authority has denounced the agreement. Turkey has called it hypocrisy and a betrayal.

For Netanyahu, he now has to face a large part of his power base—the extreme right-wing Settler Movement. In making the deal, Netanyahu has suspended his plans to annex parts of what the world calls “the West Bank,” a promise he reiterated as recently as last month. On the other hand, one could ask if—at this point in his career—the loss of this segment of his base is so damaging. More than half of Israel’s population has stated and proven—many times over—its willingness to trade land for peace. For the many vocal and fierce opponents of Bibi and his administration, this move is seen as a move in the right direction.

Still, despite the expected opposition, the Abraham Accord is a huge step forward.

For the United States and President Trump, the Accord is a major accomplishment, one that every President has hoped for since 1948. For Israel, it is a step toward the realization of a long-sought dream. For those Arab countries that would like to see progress into the 21^st century—technologically, economically, ideologically—this is also a positive step.

Some will say that this agreement will lead to stabilization in one of the world’s most volatile regions. Others, more skeptical, will undoubtedly see it as a hardening of positions, the formation of new power blocks and an alliance that would lead to world-wide conflagration.

For a world weary of war and terror, however, this show of solidarity means greater determination and strength in fighting evil. In the larger scope of things, it doesn’t do much to alleviate hunger, pollution, preservation of water and other natural resources. However, if it does lead to greater cooperation in health, technology and education, the Abraham Accord will prove an important stepping-stone towards a safer, saner world.

Let’s hope that this is the case.

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

To Merit A Mitzvah: Eikev.20

To Merit A Mitzvah

D’var Torah for Parashat Eikev

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

August 7, 2020

It probably didn’t take human beings, even those at the beginning of our evolution, too long to figure out the law of cause and effect. After all, other species learned pretty quickly that patience has its rewards: Ants learned that hard and consistent work results in a thriving colony; and bees, in order to ensure a healthy hive, have been known to cast out useless drones and even queens that are less than adequate. Likewise, at the dawn of our evolution, even the earliest original humanoids must have realized that certain behaviors would lead to desirable outcomes more frequently than other, less efficient means. 

But it wasn’t until Moses that the principle of cause and effect was put into law form.

In this week’s Torah portion, Eikev (“Consequences,” Deuteronomy 7:12—11:25), we find the foundations of a system of foolproof behavior: Do what God deems right, and you shall be rewarded amply; do that which God disapproves, and the punishments will be just as quick and inevitable.

Thousands of years have passed since the words of the Torah were written and codified. We have since learned that things aren’t quite so simple. We have seen good and innocent folks suffer while evil and arrogant individuals seem to prosper. Sometimes, even our best intentions fall apart for reasons beyond our understanding. We have learned that other people’s actions and behavior can affect our work in negative ways. Success is not a given—at least not always in the short run. It may take a while; it may mean trying again and again until all conditions are favorable. It may mean starting all over, seeking a different path.

In the Torah, what seemed at first to be a short route from slavery in Egypt to freedom in the Promised Land turned out to be an arduous journey. A path north by north-east, along the Mediterranean seacoast, would have taken a week, maybe two, to complete. Instead, we found ourselves wandering and often lost for forty years in the harsh Sinai wilderness.

Certainly questions came up: Was all this roving necessary? Did it not lead to even more rebellions against Moses, Aaron, and God? Could no one foresee the plagues, fires and warfare that this grueling journey would entail?

Deuteronomy answers all that, by restating the Law of Cause and Effect: Because we rebelled against God and Moses, we were punished, and we suffered. Because we lost faith, we had to learn it from scratch. We now know the truth that faith is easily broken, but repair is not so simple. It may take years, perhaps a lifetime, and sometimes even more.

Still, this week’s portion gives us a most beautiful vision of the Promised Land: “A good land, a land with streams and springs and fountains issuing from plain and hill; a land of wheat and barley, of vines, figs, and pomegranates, a land of olive trees and honey; a land where you may eat food without stint, where you will lack nothing; a land whose rocks are iron and from whose hills you can mine copper. When you have eaten your fill, give thanks to Adonai your God for the good land which God has given you” (Deut. 8:7-10).

But this wistful vision is tarnished by reality. The Land of Israel—then or today—has rarely known a time without war. The promise of abundance for all, of justice and compassion for the poor, of housing for the homeless, of health and peace for all its inhabitants seems as far from us today as it was when Moses first described it to the weary Israelites in the harsh wilderness.

While the author of Deuteronomy must have been certain why that was so, we are not. And while we constantly repeat these words, and every day look up toward the marvelous vision of the Promised Land, nagging doubts continue to undermine our faith in this blessed outcome.

While Deuteronomy provides certainty, real life brings up doubt.

Questions come up with every disaster, with every plague and every drought. What have we done wrong?

Fortunately, Jewish philosophy doesn’t stop with the Torah. The Prophets of ancient days tried to offer their own reasons; Jewish mysticism—the Zohar and Kabbalah—offers yet another theory, the one that teaches that the universe itself is broken, and that it is our task to repair it. Tikkun Olam, they called it.

But perhaps the reasons for the broken state of the world today are much simpler than the explanations offered by prophets and mystics. Maybe it’s because Creation emerges out of Destruction, because we live in an eternal cycle of day and night, of life and death. Or maybe it’s as simple as the fact that we live in a world that is always on the verge of chaos. We can begin to understand the weather, but we can’t predict the course of a hurricane. We know why volcanoes exist, why earthquakes happen, but we can’t foresee when or where the next disaster will take place. We know about viruses, but obviously we don’t have the cures for all—or even most—of them.

And we know that some people, knowingly or not, intentionally or not, will cause harm. Free choice is part of the human soul, and that means that evil—the bad, the wrong choice—is always there, “crouching at the door,” like a beast just waiting to pounce.

Jewish thought is not fatalistic. It never was and never will be. If only things happened exactly as predicted, as prophesied, as foretold! But they don’t, and so Faith plays an important part in Jewish thinking. In the Jewish view of the world, miracles do happen, and good deeds do lead to good consequences, as surely as mischief leads to evil.

There are times when evil overpowers righteousness, and when that happens, bad things happen, even to good people.

And that’s why it’s important to do good deeds—mitzvahs, mitzvot—to balance the effects of evil on the world around us.

The rewards of a mitzvah, the rabbis teach, is yet another mitzvah. One good deed leads to another as surely as a wicked deed leads to more wickedness. It’s the cumulative effect of all our deeds of kindness and compassion that will lead to a better world. And that’s why we sometimes hear the words, tizkeh l’mitzvot—“may you merit mitzvahs”—as a thank you to a good deed. It’s a blessing that we merit not a perfect world, but a world that runs well because we do our best to make it so, because we do not grow weary or discouraged, because we do not despair or lose faith or hope.

The vision of the Torah and our Prophets may be a dream, but as long as we perform mitzvot, we are not lost in the wilderness. Rather, mitzvot are the way we work towards making that dream real. May we never lose sight of that prophecy; may our hands never tire, may our heart and soul never grow faint. There will be challenges, but with belief and faith in ourselves and in God we will overcome them.

That is why we still repeat the words of this week’s portion, thousands of years after they were first put down on parchment. The promise of the Promised Land is still before our eyes; the Torah and the teachings of the Rabbis are our roadmap there. As long as these are there, we remain strong, we endure and persevere through every storm, wind or fire.

May the holiness of this teaching strengthen us and keeps our feet steady on our path from day to day, from one mitzvah to the next.

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman