A Covenant for All Time: Ki Tisa.25

A Covenant for All Time

D’var Torah on Parashat Ki Tisa

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

March 12, 2025 

The early Talmudic Rabbis coined a phrase in Hebrew that is still in use today: “The Holy One, blessed be He, created the remedy before the sickness” (הקדים רפואה למכה). In other words, even before we find out what the problem is, the solution is already there. All that remains for us is to make the connection. So it is with this week's Torah portion, Ki Tisa ("When you take a census," Exodus 30:11--34:35), one of the most important portions in the entire Torah.

This is the portion where we learn of the failure of faith of the Israelites, only weeks after receiving the Ten Commandments. While Moses is busy on the top of Mt. Sinai, communing with God and receiving from God's own hand the two Tablets of the Law (and admittedly, he's gone a long time), the Israelites gang up on Aaron and force him to create the Golden Calf.

It was a major failing, but one that is understandable. People need visible images to sustain their faith. Imagination is good for a while; faith without proof is admirable. But the great challenges of reality force us to seek proof for what we believe. Perhaps Aaron understood this better than Moses, which is why he agreed to the demands of the Israelites (and escapes any punishment). Moses and God however are incensed by this failure.

Yet—following a dramatic argument between Moses and God—God ultimately agrees to forgive the Israelites. Moses reminds God of humanity's inherent weakness: We are, after all, imperfect and fallible, formed of clay and dust. In a famous declaration, repeated several times on Yom Kippur—Adonai, Adonai (Ex. 34:6-7)—God commits to restrain anger and wrath, to mete out not only justice but also mercy and compassion. Without question, there will be consequences to all our deeds--consequences which, for better or worse, will carry on for generations after us. And of course there can be no forgiveness before repentance and repair ar. But in the end there will be forgiveness.

It's a great story, but there's an even bigger question that lies behind it: Is the Covenant between God and Israel eternal; and—if broken—can it be repaired.

And here is where the "remedy" the rabbis speak of comes in.

Earlier in the portion, yet before the incident of the Golden Calf, God throws us a lifeline: Shabbat. V'shamru V'nai Yisrael et ha-Shabbat (Ex. 31:16-17), "The Israelite people shall keep the Sabbath, observing the Sabbath throughout the ages as a covenant for all time: It shall be a sign for all time between Me and the people of Israel. For in six days Adonai made heaven and earth, and on the seventh day [Adonai] ceased from work and was refreshed."

Our commitment to God can be expressed in many ways. But in the end, Shabbat is the foremost sign of the eternity of God's Covenant with us. We may wrestle with God, we may question God's intentions. But as long as we observe Shabbat, as long as we remain committed to tikkun olam, carrying on the sacred, ongoing work of creation, God remains our God, and we remain Israel, the People of God. God's Covenant with Israel is “for all time.” It is eternal.

© 2025 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Way We See and the Way We Are Seen: Tetzaveh.25

The Way We See and the Way We Are Seen

D’var Torah for Parashat Tetzaveh

March 6, 2025

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The clothes we wear tell others--as well as ourselves--how we see ourselves. In the privileged world we live in, we have different outfits for different occasions. Maybe even several sets. Our children learn quickly that if they don't wear the right labels, they may not be accepted into a particular group at school or on the playground. We wear baseball caps that tell the world what team we root for, and jerseys that proudly display our favorite player. In Venice, Rio, New Orleans and other places around the world, it's Carnival time, which means the most elaborate and colorful costumes that often display more skin than they actually cover. (Of course, that reminds us of Bianca's no-dress at the Golden Globes, and Kanye's ad for a t-shirt with a swastika emblazoned on it. Call it a fashion statement.) The "Oscars" are a bit more respectable, thankfully, though the big buzz the next day is always who looked more glamorous in what ostentatious and outrageously expensive gown that they'll never wear again.

That's what makes this week's Torah portion, Tetzaveh ("Command," Exodus 27:20--30:10) so astonishing. The Torah instructs us to look into our hearts and deeds, not our clothes! And yet, here we have an entire chapter dedicated to a detailed description of the High Priest’s sacred vestments: The most expensive material, woven with "Threads of gold, blue and scarlet yarn and fine linen" (Ex. 28:5), hemmed with gold bells, along with an outer robe laced with gold chains, a sash and a turban made with the same materials, all topped off with a breast plate and shoulder epaulettes of pure gold with inset rare and expensive gems. The sight must have been something to behold--all serving of course one function: to elevate the priest above all other members of the people. 

And yet, for the priest himself, the outfit could not have been less comfortable. First of all, its sheer weight must have made it a heavy burden, difficult to wear for any length of time. Imagine wearing all that "stuff" under the blistering rays of the desert sun, day in and day out! What must have made it worse, however, is that this outfit didn't belong to you. It wasn’t about you; it wasn’t an extension of you. The gemstones were more than an expensive label advertising some exclusive couturier from Persia or Babylon. Instead, engraved into these brilliant stones were the humble names of the Tribes of Israel. Awed by the trappings of power, it would have been easy for the priest to become distracted by all that. But the names, pressed against his heart, always before his eyes, served as a constant reminder of his duties. For all their shining splendor, the sacred vestments were actually no more than a shell, a coverup for the ordinary, fallible and mortal human being that the priest really was. What he saw reflected in all those gold ornaments was not his own face, but rather the faces of the common folk who came to him seeking relief and support, and perhaps a small measure of holiness in their ordinary lives.

In the ideal world envisioned by Moses, we would all be a Nation of Priests, there not only for our own glory and fame, but present for each other, to listen, support and, when necessary, offer a helping hand. May we all learn to see beyond the façade and false pretenses we put on, to judge one another not by the clothes we wear but by the kindness we show. And may we, like Aaron, always be aware of the weight of responsibility placed upon us--to instill holiness into the ordinary, to recognize that God's Presence dwells not only around and beyond us, but also inside each one of us.

© 2025 By Boaz D. Heilman

Mourning to Joy: Preparing for Purim.25

 Mourning to Joy: Preparing for Purim 

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

February 28, 2025

Today is Rosh Chodesh—the first day—of the Hebrew month of Adar. We learn from the Talmud (Ta’anit 29a) that “When Adar begins, joy increases.” There are a couple of reasons for this teaching. Adar, after all, represents the very last stretch of winter and the first stirrings of spring. A bit like the days we’ve been enjoying here lately: more daylight and warmer temperatures; green grass begins to sprout, and the chattering of birds is noticeably louder. The hundreds of geese that like to graze in the field across from our house are beginning to stir too, flexing their wings in preparation for the journey north that they will soon undertake. 

And then, of course, Adar is also the month on which the holiday of Purim occurs. Purim is probably the most joyful festival in the Jewish calendar. It is accompanied by revelry and festive meals, exchange of sweets with our neighbors and friends, and charity to the poor. But Purim—I guess like all our other holidays—also has its darker undertones. 

The sacred text we read on Purim is the Scroll of Esther—a strange little book which, despite being part of the Bible, never once mentions God. Some say that it is actually the first purimspiel—a masquerade meant to entertain even as it reminds us of events that may or may not have happened thousands of years ago.

And yet, despite the humorous elements in the story, there are some dark shadows as well. It isn’t only Haman, of course, the dark knight of evil derring-do. L’havdil—to make a thousand separations between evil and holy—there’s also the righteous and wise Mordechai, who overhears two courtiers in Ahashverosh’s palace as they plot to overthrow the king. But is any revolution ever the product of only two men—or is there a wider movement out there that they represent, evidence of political instability in the kingdom? Haman’s designs surely included his own aspirations to the crown, while the antisemitic tropes he stirs in the heart of the king and the general population, catching fire as quickly as they did, emphasize even further the dissatisfaction that must have been prevalent at the time, swirling just under the surface, within the hearts and minds of the masses.

Even the beautiful and courageous Esther shows several facets to her personality. She is an assimilated Jew, who of her own will or because of Mordechai’s instruction, hides her true identity; even the name by which she is known is derived from that of a pagan goddess—Ashtart. 

And then of course, is that entire chapter, the one we usually don’t teach our kids at religious school, where the Jews stand up for themselves in self-defense, killing—at least according to the story, and we must keep in mind that the numbers reflect symbolic significance more than historical accuracy—75,300 of their murderous foes.

Yes, in the end, impending doom turns to joy, and deep mourning to celebration; but the underlying terror must have been intense—a feeling that Jews have felt in Persia as well as every other country where they found themselves living. To this day.

Still, we are commanded to increase our rejoicing this month. That doesn’t mean that we party the entire month long—but we do take the first steps towards celebration and merriment.

To tell the truth, however, this year I’m finding this more difficult than ever. The ongoing war between Israel and the terrorist organization Hamas has caused both deep grief and rage. There was the initial grief we felt the first few days after Oct. 7; and then the pain of the loss over the last few months of more than 900 soldiers and police officers. Even after the shooting ended—at least temporarily—terror attacks perpetrated by Hamas supporters from Judea and Samaria—the so-called West Bank—have been on a steep rise. Terror supporters who call themselves “Pro-Palestinians” have been defacing synagogues and Jewish community centers, harassing and besieging Jewish students on university campuses, and engaging in violent terror attacks all over the rest of the world.

There is grief at the rise of antisemitism—both on the right and left—which until a few years ago we thought was almost gone from the world, and which we now realize is always there, always at the ready to catch fire again and display its true, murderous, evil intent.

And there is also rage. Rage against the horrors we’ve been witnessing for a year and a half now. And rage at the Israeli government, which seemed blind to the danger growing under its own nose.

Someone asked me just the other day, whether I saw any similarity between the Israel-Hamas war and the 1973 Yom Kippur War. Both, after all, began on a holy day; both seemed to catch Israel unprepared. But there is a difference. We now know that in 1973, Israel’s government—including the mythic hero Moshe Dayan and the beloved Prime Minister, Golda Meir, knew in advance about the impending attack. On October 7, however, evidently we didn’t.

On the news from Israel—which I follow regularly, thanks to the Internet— earlier today a commentator spoke eloquently and yet forcefully, calling the current government a narcissistocracy. Long-gone are the inspirational and beloved leaders who saw the Jewish People’s safety and survival as their primary goal. Far removed, those in power today seem to have another prize before their eyes: their own power and glory. 

If Mordechai kept his eyes and ears side open enough to catch the whispering of two revolutionary guards, the intelligence unit of the famed IDF—the Israel Defense Force—engaged in precisely the opposite. It shut its eyes, was oblivious to the most obvious maneuverings going on just a few kilometers from Israel’s borders. The terrorists themselves were surprised at the lack of reaction that they encountered.

Then, on top of all this has been the frustrating dribbling of the hostage return, the shameful manner in which the hostages were exhibited to a jeering and cursing crowd before they were handed over to Israel; the physical condition they came back in—their gaunt and thin frames reminiscent of Nazi Concentration Camp survivors. The grief we felt at last week’s return of the remains of Shiri Bibas and her two small sons—Ariel, who was four when he was kidnapped, and his brother Kfir, who was not even one year old; the carelessness displayed by Hamas when it was discovered that Shiri’s coffin contained not the remains of the sainted mother, but of an anonymous Gazan woman; the heartbreaking return, on the same occasion, a week ago Saturday, of the body of Oded Lifshitz, z”l, a peace activist who was one of the founders of Kibbutz Nir Oz, less than 14 miles from the Gaza border, a tireless peace worker who made it his and his wife’s mission to drive Gazans in need of medical attention to Israeli hospitals and back again.

And yet, this month we are commanded to increase our joy. A difficult if not impossible commandment to obey.

And yet we must take heart. Even as I rage and grieve on the inside, I realize what strength the Jewish People holds within itself. Disunited and bickering on most other occasions, Israelis showed unaccustomed unity, as hundreds of people accompanied the coffin of Oded Lifshitz to his final resting place last Tuesday. And a day later, thousands upon thousands lined the streets where the hearse containing the embraced remains of Shiri, Ariel and Kfir slowly made its way to a private burial ceremony, with not one member of the government present, either because of shame, or at the request of the Bibas family. My brother, who lives in Tel Aviv, described the funeral procession, saying that half the country was standing at the roadsides, holding the blue-and-white flag of Israel, while the other half was watching the proceedings at home, all in tears. Orange balloons were let free into the heavens all over the world, with cities and monuments—unbidden, of their own deep grief and compassion—lit up with orange lights, in honor of the red hair of the children whose lives were so cruelly stolen from them. 

But we will dance again. We will sing again, we will write poems again—not the mournful dirges we see today, but of joy and celebration. Isn’t this the truth, after all, that we recite year after year at our Seder tables: “In each and every generation, they rise up to destroy us, but the Holy One, Blessed be God, delivers us from their hands.”

We are going through difficult and dark days and nights today. But that must not cloud our vision. To be sure, an accounting will be exacted—both from the murderous terrorists and those government and military officials who ignored the warnings and thus enabled the horrific violence to take place. And we will yet rejoice, as a nation and as a people, when the hatred dissipates—the hatred that, we now know, will never disappear, but which, with God’s help, will soon return to the murky sewers where it festers in shame and cowardice.

May the upcoming holiday of Purim embody our past-present-and-future hopes and prayers. May Esther’s courage and rediscovery of her real identity and faith set an example for all of us. May our darkness soon turn to light, our sorrow to joy, and may we all soon celebrate this festival as we were commanded, making these, “Days of feasting and merrymaking, and as an occasion for sending gifts to one another and presents to the poor” (Esther 9:28, JPS 1985). 

© 2025 by Boaz D. Heilman

For God’s Name: Terumah.25

 For God’s Name

D’var Torah for Parashat Terumah

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

February 28, 2025

In 1986 I was privileged be part of a group sent on a mission to visit “refuseniks” in the then-Soviet Union. “Refuseniks” is the term used for Jews who applied for exit visas but were refused. Harassed, often imprisoned, subjected to retribution and unspeakable cruelty, most refuseniks lost their homes and jobs. During a period of 10 days we met with scores of individuals and families, all with similar stories, all—but for a few—whose eyes shone with hope despite the hardships they had to endure. 

Among those with whom we met was a group of astrophysicists who lost their positions and were reduced to menial and demeaning work such as sweeping subway stations. We met in a small but cramped apartment and celebrated Havdalah—the ceremony that ends the Jewish Sabbath. Havdalah means “separation.” Its rituals are meant to encase the holiness of the Sabbath and keep it safe within our hearts even as we turn to face the common, ordinary and even profane reality of the coming workweek. 

I had celebrated Havdalah many times before, but this time, something was going on that was beyond any religious experience I had ever had before. As the braided candle was raised and the small spice box made its rounds among us, I felt absolutely elevated. It was an extraordinary spiritual moment that is still enshrined within my heart and soul. 

I recalled this moment as I sat down to write this d’var—commentary—on this week’s Torah portion, Terumah, (“Donation,” Ex. 25:1—27:19). On the face of it, this portion is deceptively simple, containing detailed instructions and an almost-endless list of materials the Israelites would need  for the task of building the Tabernacle—the Sanctuary that would accompany them along all their wanderings in the Sinai Wilderness. 

And yet, with this portion we begin to understand the real purpose behind the Exodus and our redemption from Egyptian slavery.

At this point in the story, the Israelites are surrounded by desert and hardship. Food and water are scarce, and the road ahead looks dreary and endless. They had just received scores of commandments designed to keep them peaceful and orderly, when this extraordinary demand is added to everything else they must do: "They [B'nai Yisrael, the Children of Israel] shall make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell in their midst" (Ex. 25:8). 

People build temples. They always have. Temples have always served as the place where people got together to pray or celebrate. So mah nishtana? What's different in this case? To begin with, in other religions, temples housed statues and images of gods. Not so, however, for the Israelites, who have just been told, “You shall not make for yourself a sculptured image, or any likeness of what is in the heavens above, or on the earth below, or in the waters under the earth” (Ex. 20:4, JPS, 2006). How then, is God to be perceived in this temple? 

A related question that also often comes up has to do with the amount of gold, silver, gems and other material that God requires for this Mishkan ("dwelling place"). Why does God need or require all these riches? In fact, why does God need a Mishkan to begin with? Isn’t it our understanding and belief that God is everywhere, within as well as beyond us?

The key to understanding this paradox is in the word b'tocham, "in their midst." B'tocham could indicate a physical location, but it could also mean within them—spiritually, not only physically.

Rashi--the great medieval rabbi and commentator on the Torah and Talmud--answers the question with one world: Lish'mee, "for my name." 

True, God does not need a physical dwelling. King Solomon, when he dedicates the Temple he had built for God in Jerusalem, exclaims, "But will God indeed dwell on the earth? Behold, heaven and the heaven of heavens cannot contain You. How much less this temple which I have built! (I Kings 8:27, NKJV). God may not need a temple; people, however, do. We need a place to come to both as individuals and as a community. Just as importantly—and this is where Rashi's comment comes in—this "place" needs to reflect the awesome majesty with which we perceive God. The Temple can't begin to contain God's Presence, but it does need to be awe-inspiring, both for us and for other people and faiths. 

Similarly, each of us can be a dwelling place for God. One way, of course, is for us to recognize that every human being contains the image of God. But this Presence also must express itself in the way we allow God's Image to shine forth—in how we live; what we do for others; in what we do for the earth and all its inhabitants. If we only do it lish'meinu—for our own name, pride and glory, that's only half the job. We need to do it l'shem shamayim--for the sake of heaven. This selfless dedication leads to inspiration, lifting the work of our hands to ever-higher levels, giving it greater meaning. 

In the Torah portion, the rich materials required for the construction of the Sanctuary are symbolic of this higher meaning. In our own lives we build a sanctuary for God using whatever material we might have. A simple act of kindness goes a long way; but we must not let it define us and us alone. It isn't only an expression of our DNA, upbringing or culture. It's a mitzvah that comes from God, a commandment which, when fulfilled, glorifies not us, but rather God and God's name. It must be, as Rashi explains, Lish'mee, "for my name." When that happens, our deeds shine from within, reflecting an inner light that all-too-often disappears behind the tedious and routine details of life.

This is what b'tocham means. Within us. This hidden inner light has the power to elevate the ordinary to the astonishing, to infuse the mundane with holiness.  

It is this light that gave the refuseniks strength to bear the hardships that the Soviet regime imposed on them. For Jews throughout our history, from the time that the Israelites were wanderers in the Wilderness down to our own day, the Sanctuary would be more than the sum of its parts. It would  provide us with light and hope, giving us direction and purpose along all our journeys, from bondage to redemption, from Mitzrayim—the land of trouble and narrowness—to the wide and free expanse of the Promised Land.

On the Question of Good and Evil: B’Shallach.25

On the Question of Good and Evil: B’Shallach

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

February 7, 2025

In the famous song “Maria” from—no, not West Side Story—but rather from the Rogers and Hammerstein musical The Sound of Music, a chorus of nuns ask a good question: “How do you solve a problem like Maria?” The answer—fitting of course for the time—is, marry her off, she’ll be so much happier, more stable and a such a better fit for society!

Not all such dilemmas however are quite so easy to resolve. One of the most difficult questions that humanity has ever posed—to ourselves as well as to God—is, why is there evil in the world? Many answers have been given, from the rational to the irrational. There is no such thing as evil, some would say; it’s all in our mind, a subjective call determined by our culture and upbringing. Nature does what it does naturally. Others propose that the world is random; evil is out there, yes, as rampant as goodness, existing with no specific rhyme or reason. It just is. Another answer, set in religious context, is that the gods are perverse. They are angry, hate-filled and jealous, and unless placated with wine, food or other pleasures, they cause evil to befall even the best among us.

Judaism proposes that good and bad—tov va-ra (see Genesis 2:9)—are indeed part of the natural order of the world as God created it. By eating of the forbidden fruit, humanity simply becomes aware of them and thus is given the ability to choose to follow the one or the other. At the same time, however, the Torah teaches that when we choose tov—goodness and holiness—we become partners with God. Good is holy, the Torah teaches. Bad is not merely wrong; in the Torah’s vocabulary, ra means evil. The rewards of a mitzvah, teach the rabbis, is another mitzvah, leading to even more holiness; the consequences of a sin on the other hand, is to increase evil in the world. The choice is ours to make, each along with its inevitable consequences.

But even this answer is incomplete. A person can be good—even saintly—and yet that doesn’t stop evil from befalling him or her. That, of course, is the premise of the book of Job. The Prophets, then, offer an additional answer to the eternal question of the presence of evil: It is there to purify a person, much as fire can refine metal. The 5th century BCE prophet Malachi declares that God is “like a smelter and purger of silver; and [God] shall purify the descendants of Levi and refine them like gold and silver, so that they shall present offerings in righteousness” (Malachi 3:2-3, Rev. JPS 2023).

The ancient Rabbis go even further. In Pirkei de Rabbi Eliezer, a Midrash collection that according to modern scholarship dates back to the 8th century CE, we read that the very Pharaoh who let the Israelites go (in this week’s Torah portion, B’shallach, Exodus 13:17—17:16), the very man who time and again hardens his heart and refuses to heed God’s word, a first-born himself, is spared the tenth plague—the death of the first-born—for a reason and a purpose. According to this midrash, Pharaoh lives another 400 years (!), the length of time it takes him to understand the extent of the evil he had caused. Fleeing Egypt, Pharaoh then becomes the King of Nineveh from the story of Jonah, where he lapses into some of his old ways. However, immediately upon hearing Jonah’s prophecy of doom he orders all Ninevehites (including the animals!) to show remorse, fast, and repent (Pirkei D’Rabbi Eliezer 43). He had learned his lesson: his prior choices brought about evil, suffering and destruction to the world. Now he was given a second chance. By repenting, he could save his kingdom. And as for Jonah, though at first Jonah was reluctant to fulfill his mission, by finally acquiescing and delivering God’s message he awakens the divine spark that was buried deep within the king. 

In light of this midrash, we learn that a spark of holiness can be found in every aspect of God’s Creation, even within evil itself, and it’s up to us to uncover it, even if that means forgiving the injustice and setting aside the evil that was done to us—a challenge that, quite frankly, for me, is difficult to overcome. (For more in this vein of teaching, see BT Gittin 57b).

Evil exists. We are well aware of that. But the explanation that the rabbis offer is that it is there in order to show us the way to repentance. By fixing our own mistakes and/or by repairing the wrongs done by others, we make the world a better place for all.

To a large extent, this answer is fundamental to Jewish thought and theology. It has led us to pursue knowledge, justice, progress and innovation. While difficult to accept, reframing evil as part of God’s Creation helps us explain its ongoing presence in life and gives us strength, purpose and direction. Evil is there to prompt us to acts of goodness and holiness. It enables us to let go of the strong urge within us to seek revenge, to leave behind emotions such as anger and hatred, and to find a more positive, a more constructive way of navigating through life’s turmoil and chaos. 

May we all find the strength within us both to see this spark within those who hurt us, and to bolster our own resolve to make the world a better place. It is so that we participate as partners in God’s ongoing, sacred act of Creation.

© 2025 by Boaz D. Heilman

God's Light in the Darkness: Vaeira.25

God’s Light in the Darkness

D’var Torah on Parashat Va’eira

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

January 23, 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2025 by Boaz D. Heilman

Redeeming Captives: Shemot.25

Redeeming Captives

D’var Torah on Parashat Shemot

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

January 16, 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2025 by Boaz D. Heilman