The Flowering of Sarah’s Legacy

The Flowering of Sarah’s Legacy
D’var Torah on Parashat Chayei Sarah (Genesis 23:1—25:18)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Chayei Sarah—“Sarah’s Life”—is actually better translated as “Sarah’s Legacy.” This week’s Torah portion has actually very little to say about Sarah, except for a short epitaph: Sarah lived 127 years; Sarah died; Abraham mourned for her and sought a gravesite to bury Sarah.

A person lives, a person dies and is no more. In the words of Shakespeare, “The rest is silence.”

And yet, there is more.

48 years ago, Chayei Sarah was my bar mitzvah portion. I still see myself—it’s etched in my memory—as the small child that I was, standing on a step stool so that more than just the top of my head could be seen over the lectern. I chanted the entire portion, followed by the whole haftarah. No short cuts.

I came into the event resentful—resentful of the hours I had to spend learning the long readings; resentful of the seemingly mundane material they contained. I never met with the rabbi, so that even though I understood the Hebrew and the story line, I never got the import of the parasha’s message. I also intensely disliked my tutor. Added to that was the fact that I didn’t even get to write my own d’var—it was written for me.

In all fairness, there were other, much more pleasant moments to the event—it was actually the last time I saw my grandparents; they went back to Israel shortly after the bar mitzvah, and both died before I saw them again. This was a good time for the family and friends gathered for the simcha (the happy occasion).

Still, when I became a rabbi, I vowed that no child who becomes bar or bat mitzvah at Congregation B’nai Torah should feel as I did when I was thirteen—that the event was pretty much meaningless. As rabbi, I have tried my hardest to teach our students not only the stories of the portions, but also the lessons they contained. The kids who became b’nai mitzvah at CBT would be involved in the process; hopefully they would understand not only the Hebrew verses they chant, but also the role of this event in the larger picture of their own life and the life of our people.

Such is the legacy of my bar mitzvah. Not much of a story, but the long-term effect was—and continues to be—far reaching.

This week’s parasha isn’t about Sarah. Her voice, at times resentful and cynical, at times argumentative, at times authoritarian, is stilled by the time this portion begins. Beyond the first few verses, the portion is really about two business transactions: Abraham buys a piece of property as a gravesite; and he procures a wife for Isaac. Though mundane in detail, these negotiations are an accurate description of how business is still often done in the Near East.

That both Sarah and Isaac, who were, after all, the beneficiaries of these transactions, are totally absent from the discussions, is easily understood in the case of Sarah. Sarah, of course, was dead. Isaac, on the other hand, is a bit more of a mystery. Why was he absent from the negotiations for his own wife? Since the akeida—the near sacrifice that Isaac endured—Isaac had taken to wandering alone in the open fields, away from civilization. The next time we see him, it is towards the end of the portion: It is evening time and, seeing a caravan of camels in the distance, Isaac recognizes it as the one bearing his future wife, Rebecca.

Isaac is a passive player in most of the stories about his life. And this one, though Isaac is at its heart and center, is still about his parents’ legacy, not his own.

Abraham is the chief negotiator in the two business transactions. He deals directly with the Hittite landowner Ephron, from whom a burial cave is purchased for full price, with all the folk of the city as witnesses to the transfer of money and property. The negotiations for Rebecca are also directed by Abraham, though in actuality the transaction is faithfully carried out by his servant.

Abraham, whose faith in God was complete, understood that in securing the future, relying on God’s promises alone would probably not be enough. God had promised Abraham that the whole land of Canaan would one day belong to his descendants. The promise may have been enough to sustain Abraham, but well he knew that that would not be good enough for the general population. They would need documentation, and Abraham saw to it that the documentation was there—in duplicate!

So, too, in the negotiations for a wife for Isaac. God had promised Abraham that his descendants would be as numerous as the stars in the heavens. Maybe so, but when it came to character, Abraham took no chances. It would take a certain type of person to carry on the promise, to fulfill the legacy and mission that Abraham intended for his descendants. Only a person of certain characteristics would be suitable as Isaac’s wife and the second matriarch of the Hebrew people. That could not be left up to chance, or even divine intervention. Abraham’s last gift for Isaac was finding Rebecca.

So what was Sarah’s role in all this? What is her legacy? Why is the portion called Chayei Sarah?

The answer comes toward the end of the portion. Alone for all this time, Isaac wanders in the fields. Is he lost? Why is he staying away from his parents’ tents? It doesn’t take a PhD in psychology to understand why Isaac stays away from Abraham. The father figure he had relied on turned out to be not so reliable. His faith in God almost cost Isaac his life.

And Sarah? Her legacy was something Isaac could relate to: It was the fierce love she felt for Isaac, the child of her old age. God wouldn’t have stood a chance if He had demanded a similar sacrifice from Sarah! She would not have remained silent. She would have railed against the senseless decree. Sarah would have shaken her fist and said, in the name of all mothers: “Enough! No more suffering, no more killing or hurting the innocent!”

Isaac stayed away because he felt the emptiness in his heart and his life. It wasn’t only his mother’s love he missed. It was her voice; her intense protectiveness; the safety net she created for him.

Parashat Chayei Sarah ends with Isaac falling in love with Rebecca (the first time the concept enters Biblical storytelling) and bringing her home. She is going to occupy Sarah’s empty tent from now on. Sarah’s legacy takes new life and new form as a new generation starts upon its path.

Chayei Sarah: Sarah’s life and legacy are all about love and protection, but also about justice, about compassion and about the end of needless cruelty and suffering. It is a legacy that Rebecca will carry on with all her strength, heart and mind.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Vayera: Blinded by the Light of God’s Face

Vayera: Blinded by the Light of God’s Face
D’var Torah by Boaz D. Heilman

Twenty four hours ago my brother had open heart surgery.

He has had a malfunctioning mitral valve for some time now, and the doctors recommended surgery to repair it.

It almost didn’t happen. The surgery was postponed once due to an emergency that kept the operating room busy far beyond its original schedule. Finally, when the rescheduled day arrived, there were still some questions. My brother looked healthy. Years of physical activity—as an avid soccer and basketball player and coach, then as director of youth activities for the city of Ramat Gan—kept him physically strong and fit. His arteries passed inspection. He could wait for anywhere between half a year and two years.

Yet my brother opted to undergo surgery that very day. He was psychologically ready for it, he said.

Turned out a good thing, too. When the surgeon looked on it, my brother’s heart was already enlarged, and it was already showing some insufficiency.

Twenty four hours later, we are now all breathing more easily. The first 24 hours passed. Though in obvious pain, he was already sitting up. With God’s help, his recovery has begun.

Nearly 8,000 miles away, I tried to be with my family during this tough period. I called them several times. Obviously saying to my brother l’hitraot –“we will see each other again”—a few hours before the operation was difficult.

Much harder was talking to our mother throughout this ordeal. I could only imagine her fears and her own heartache.

Thank God my brother was already under anesthesia when the knife was raised, so that he couldn’t see it lowered.

It’s a parent’s worst nightmare, and one that no father or mother should ever experience.

My mother has had many tests of her faith in her life. This must have been the toughest.

In this week’s Torah portion, Vayera (Gen. 18:1-22:24), our Father Abraham also undergoes the toughest test of his faith. Life was not easy for him, either. He had followed his calling—a mysterious inner calling to recognize a Divine force much greater than any that anyone had imagined before him. A force that was so enormous that it could pitch both the sun and the moon into their respective orbits; yet gentle enough to have set him, Abraham, on his own lonely journey.

Time after time, he was asked to show his faith in this relentless God. Unquestioningly, he never flinched but always did the right thing.

Yet this tenth and final test must have been the most agonizing.

Abraham is told to put his own beloved son, Isaac, under the knife. His own knife. “Offer him to me as a sacrifice on the top of a mountain that I shall show you,” calls God. Wordlessly, Abraham packs the wood and silently puts it on his son’s shoulder. Then, taking the knife and the fire in his own hand, the two proceed together on a three-day walk.

It doesn’t say what went on in Abraham’s heart and mind during that period. A short conversation between father and son seem to reassure Isaac and give Abraham pause to question his trust in this God who had promised him a future through the very boy He was now asking for. “Father,” says Isaac, perhaps questioning the relationship. “Yes, son, here I am,” responds Abraham, affirming his love for his son. “Here are the wood, the knife and the fire for the sacrifice, but where is the lamb?” “God will see to the lamb, my son,” Abraham says, no doubt wondering if the lamb is indeed to be his own son.

Father binds son to the altar. The ritual proceeds.

What faith Abraham must have had at that moment! Could God promise and yet negate His own word?

As the knife begins its slow descent to the living flesh and spirit of his much-loved son, Abraham must have been blinded by tears, just as Isaac must have been blinded by the reflection of the sun on the gleaming blade now slowly making its way to his heart.

We don’t offer child sacrifice any more.

The story of the Akeida—“the Binding of Isaac”—as it is known, is possibly the most terrifying moment of all the stories in the Torah. It effectively put a stop to this horrible ritual that was rife in the ancient world (and, sadly, still is practiced by some people in various forms and shapes).

“Don’t harm that boy,” comes the command from heaven, and the knife stops in midair.

The faith of Abraham was rewarded. A sacrificial ram mysteriously appears, its horns locked in a bush. He was right: God would not—could not—in good conscience take away what He had promised, the essential blessing that Abraham craved more than anything else in the world: to be a father. He had already lost Ishmael, his first born. It was through Isaac, however, that Abraham’s heritage was to continue and flower, and God was as good as His word.

We don’t offer our children to God anymore. But we do dedicate their lives to the service of God. With trust, we teach and prepare them; with faith we launch them into life. We entrust them with the old mission begun with Abraham, to seek justice and to care for all of God’s creation.

Despite the many tests we as individuals and as a people have endured, our own trust has not diminished. Even as we part from them—whether to send them off to Hebrew school or (may none of us ever know this) to the care of a surgeon—we are filled with prayer and faith. Faith in the knowledge we have gained along the way; faith in the skill of doctors and teachers; faith in the promise we hold God true to: To protect us along the way, to see to it that we make it to the other shore, across oceans, deserts, rivers or sickness.

We are all tested. But we pray: May we all pass, no matter how tough the test. May our faith always be there to give us strength, to help us all get through this ordeal.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Tests of Faith: D’var Torah for Parashat Lekh L’cha (Genesis 12:1—17:27)

Tests of Faith: D’var Torah for Parashat Lekh L’cha (Genesis 12:1—17:27)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Every mythological hero has his tests—the proof of his mettle. Hercules had his twelve labors. Abraham had ten, more in line with the Jewish numbers system.

Of course, like so much else in the Torah, what exactly the ten are, is a matter of debate.

What I wonder, however, is why some of Abraham’s tests—at least that’s what they seem like to me—were not included on any of these lists. Why, for example, doesn’t the fact that, when he leaves the home of his ancestors on his journey to the Promised Land and takes Lot—his dead brother’s son—with him, that doesn’t make the top ten list. Is it such common decency to take special care of your nephews that, when Abraham does it, God merely smiles and says—yeah well you would have done exactly the same!

And what about that famous argument to save Sodom and Gomorrah from annihilation? God tells Abraham His plans and just waits for the argument to begin. Would God destroy the cities if there were 50 just people in it? Of course not! What about 45? Nope. 40? 35? 30? 20? 10? No to all. At that point God simply walks away, and Abraham is pretty certain he accomplished nothing. Maybe that’s why it doesn’t count. The cities will be destroyed. When Moses comes along, he will push the envelope even further and finish what Abraham failed to: God will promise to be compassionate, not merely just.

Perhaps when we look more closely at the rabbi-approved list of Abraham’s tests of faith we will be able to discern a common theme. Since this week’s portion only covers the first 6 of these tests, we will look only at those this time and leave the other four for next week’s d’var.

The Rambam (Moses Maimonides, 1135-1204), sees Abraham’s exile from his family and homeland as the first test. The second is his reaction to the famine in Canaan; the third is the moral corruption that he sees around him while in exile in Egypt; the fourth is his behavior in war; fifth is his marriage to Hagar after despairing of Sarah ever bearing a son for him; sixth is his act of self-circumcision.

Leaving home is always difficult. Especially at seventy-five, which, according to our text, was Abraham's age when he set out for the Promised Land. Even allowing for some literary license, he must have been quite old, established and rooted in his homeland. Now he had to uproot himself and his family, leave many of his relatives and certainly any property he must have owned, and go off to some misty far off land, following a voice only he could hear, there to start again, learn a new language, re-establish himself, plant new roots. Did anyone try to dissuade Abraham? Undoubtedly. Yet, without a word, he obeys God’s command to leave, taking his beloved wife (67 years old), his nephew, all his portable possessions, and simply leaves. No map in hand, no GPS on his camel, just following the stars and God’s directions.

Check. He passes that test.

Barely having reached the Land of Canaan, Abraham has to leave it again because of terrible drought and famine. I can hear the “I told you so’s” even now. But Abraham’s faith is such that he knows this is only a temporary diversion. God will bring him back; of that he has no doubt.

Check again.

When in Rome, do as the Romans, goes the popular saying. But not for Abraham. Egypt—rich, powerful, cosmopolitan—was quite the fleshpot. But Abraham understands that moral turpitude undermines our humanity and endangers the Divine image within us. Yet he is also fully aware of the dangers of standing out in the crowd. Deftly negotiating his way, Abraham again follows God’s directives. His faith is that God will protect him and defend the honor of his beautiful wife, Sarai. And for that, he is rewarded with blessings.

Check.

War. When they say “war is hell,” that’s not only because of the bad things we see around us. It’s because of the terrible things it brings out in us. The vicious hatred, the blood-lust, the desire for revenge, the temptation for easy booty—these are enticements that can bring down even the best of us. Yet Abraham remains single-minded and lofty in his objectives—to free his nephew, Lot, who was captured by a warring and cruel overlord. When he is offered a share of the loot, Abraham adamantly refuses to accept even a penny of it. None of the carefree windfall of war for him.

Check plus.

The tests get harder. Family problems at home. Abram and Sarai (as they were still known at that point in the story) have no children. Sarai has Abram take Hagar, Sarai’s maidservant and impregnate her. Sarai’s hope is to raise that child as her own. Abram agrees, but not without marrying Hagar first.

How does Abraham pass this test? What exactly was he thinking at that point? That bringing home a second wife would not be problematic? Why did he give in so easily to Sarai’s impatient and reckless desire for a son? Did he not have faith in God’s promise that he and Sarai would have a child of their own? Without a doubt, all these thoughts must have troubled him immensely. It wasn’t without misgivings that he embarked on this rocky and dangerous path. Yet when he did as his wife requested, he did so with love, compassion and respect for all involved. He didn’t impose himself on Hagar—he married her. Later, when trouble came, he tried to mediate, tried to find a way to resolve the jealousy, to bring harmony and peace back into the domicile. Ultimately, it would be his love for Sarah and his faith in God’s promise that Sarah will yet bear a son that would determine his decisions, painful as these were going to be.

That brings us to the 6th test, the final one for this portion: As God commands him, Abraham (now with an “H”) circumcises himself and all other males living in his household. Ishmael, Abraham and Hagar’s son and the future ancestor of the Arab nations, was 13. Abraham was 99.

Check plus plus.

Life is full of tests. So far, Abraham has proven himself a man of faith and love, a man of his word, a man of vision and hope. But the hardest test is yet to come.

©2010 Boaz D. Heilman

Not Good Enough: D’var Torah for Parashat Noah (Gen. 6:9—11: 32)

Not Good Enough: D’var Torah for Parashat Noah (Gen. 6:9—11: 32)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Last week’s Torah portion, B’reishit, introduced light and dark, black and white into the picture. This week’s portion, Noah, brings in shades of grey. “Noah was a just man and perfect in his generations” (Gen. 6:9). The ancient rabbis are quick to comment: “Perfect in his generations” means that for his time, he was righteous. If he had lived in Abraham’s generation, he would not be judged so wholesome.

But what was wrong with Noah? Don’t “just” and “perfect” mean anything? What about that ark, and saving all those animals? Didn’t he save all life and give it a second chance? Didn’t he take care of all those pairs of birds, animals, reptiles—in fact, of every living being on earth—providing for them during the many months they were shut in together in close quarters, with only one window (that couldn’t be opened because of the torrents of rain), with no sail, oars, or rudder? Think of the complaining, the whining, braying and roaring day in and day out (as though you could even tell when it was one and when, the other). Did they have composting yet back then? What DID Noah do with all the accumulated waste?

Truth be told, anybody else would have done something drastic long before the flood ended. But not Noah. Noah was just and perfect, doing exactly as God had told him: Build an ark (about a football field in length), gather pairs of animals, get yourself and your immediate family onboard, because I’m going to flood out the earth and kill everything on it. Everything. And oh yes, take care of and feed all those animals until I tell you it’s OK for you all to come out.

Noah did just so. And that’s where he failed.

When God told Abraham (in an upcoming parashah) about His plans to destroy those evil cities, Sodom and Gomorrah, Abraham objected relentlessly. What about the innocent ones? Would God destroy the innocent along with the wicked? Later, when the Israelites wandered in the Sinai Wilderness and worshipped a golden calf, God was about to smite them all, and it took all the persuasion, cajoling, smooth-talking and downright chutzpah before Moses was able to check God’s anger. But Noah? Noah did just so. Not a word, not a peep.

So is it all so wrong to follow God just so? Isn’t that the whole point of religion?

No, it isn’t! Not our religion. Judaism has a special role set aside for human beings, and it is exemplified by the behavior of Abraham, Moses, Job and other prophets. Even Tevya, the milkman, argues with God!

It doesn’t always help, but it can’t hurt; and in fact, as we see in one example after another, it’s the right thing to do. We don’t just accept things the way they seem to be. Not if there’s a chance to change them.

So Noah may have been a very good man; but compared to the truly righteous, he was only pretty good.

Yet, even in this story—one of the most well-known, sung-about, told about and illustrated of the many stories of Genesis—there’s always something new we can learn.

Noah changes along the way. Somewhere between the story’s beginning and its end, something happens inside him to make him realize where he had failed. Perhaps it was all the screaming and crying he must have heard coming in through the ark walls. Despite the pitch and tar with which the ark was waterproofed; despite the heavy rain, the thunder, the waves, the incessant noise inside, the terrible sounds must have come in. There was a whole humanity drowning out there. People lived to be quite old back then—he must have known quite a few of them for decades if not longer. There must have been children.

Did the animals onboard feel the same terror and grief he felt now? They say some animals sense emotions—would they be longing for lost companions? Parents? Offspring left behind?

The ensuing silence must have been even more terrifying.

At some point along the journey, a switch must have gone off and, for the first time, Noah must have sensed compassion. We know that to be so from a short verse that appears towards the end of the story. As we know, Noah sent out a dove to seek out dry land. Failing on its first try, the bird returns. Chapter 8 verse 9 tells us, “then he put forth his hand, and took her, and pulled her in unto him into the ark.” A tiny gesture, and yet so telling. Searching the grey, stormy skies, Noah spies the tiny bird fighting the winds, making its way with great effort back to the tiny window. Cold, wet, shivering, frightened, the dove must have been at the very end of her strength when she finally alighted on his outstretched finger. Gently Noah cups the bird in his palm, pulls her within his dry cloak, and brings her down into the warm compartments within. Was she breathing? Was that the merest breath of life—a gasp for air—coming from the dove? Did Noah say a blessing when he realized that it was? And then? He must have had a bowl of warm gruel fetched for her. The eyes of all were upon the tiny creature as it began to revive. Tears of gratitude must have streamed down his old, furrowed face.

Noah knew where he had failed. Walking with God isn’t good enough. Not when there is suffering around, when injustice abounds. Certainly it isn’t good enough to just say “yes” even to God, when God’s intentions are terrible—no matter how God-like, formidable and daunting He may appear to us.

Noah was a righteous man—for his times. He got much deserved credit. He did manage to bring a remnant of living creatures across an ocean of storms. But it would not be Noah who would get the credit for starting the Jewish People. Someone else—ten generations away yet—will be born courageous enough to argue with God, who will know the lasting value of justice and the importance of teaching it to his children. That person will be Abraham.

©2010 Boaz D. Heilman

All About Eve (and Adam and God)--B'reishit

All About Eve (and Adam and God)
D’var Torah on B’reishit, Gen. 1:1—6:8
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The first book of the Bible (also the first of the Five Books of Moses—the Torah), Genesis is quite probably the one most influential and widely discussed book in the world. Volumes have been written about it. Its texts and stories have been set to great masterpieces of art and music. Whole encyclopedias can be filled with commentaries and teachings based on its words.

There is a reason for that. More than any other book, Genesis changed the way in which human beings see themselves. Genesis enables us understand ourselves as something more than the microscopic dust speck that, in the larger picture, we must truly be.

Genesis does not pretend to be a scientific dissertation. Little was known about the universe some 3500 years ago, when the ideals and ideas of Judaism first began to appear and to take shape. But what was known then was so organized as to give meaning to human existence—and more than that, to provide a role for us in the ongoing act of creation.

The first few words of the book introduce the main event: Creation. Genesis has us recognize a divine Being so powerful that “He” can create the whole universe by uttering a single sound, a single syllable. Yet the source of this infinite power also has to be attentive, gentle and caring enough to notice and nurture the smallest of His creatures, providing all life with proper tools and sustenance. The God of Genesis, far from the zealous and raging God that some portray Him, not only imbues human beings with almost infinite creative abilities—He also gives us the equipment, tools and training to use our gifts in the best possible way.

God does not merely create. In almost the same breath, God considers, makes choices, separates, organizes and categorizes—setting an example for all human endeavor. Most importantly, God imposes a moral value on the universe. What more ancient civilizations (actually, the philosophy is still current today) called an amoral universe, is, in this book, anything but amoral. The world has both “good” and “bad” in it, and Genesis makes it quite clear which is which.

Torah means teaching. Genesis, the first book of the Torah, contains not only wonderful and imaginative stories; it also teaches. The study of Torah involves not only reading the narration, but also mining for the precious morals that each story contains. Some lessons lie close to the surface and are easy to understand. Yet, the more we study, the deeper we dig, the more lessons and the richer truths we find.

Often, the stories begin (or at least reach a climax) with failure. However, there’s always—or almost always—a way to begin again, to rise again. The gift of Genesis is a second chance to redeem the remainder of one’s life, to give it meaning and purpose.

The story of the Garden of Eden (Chapter 3) is a perfect example: Adam and Eve get a warning not to eat of a certain fruit. They disobey and eat of the fruit. They get expelled from God’s presence. Yet this exile is not final. It turns out that there are ways to get back to the garden—not in the full measure of what used to be, now a fabled and impossible dream, but rather within context of our own everyday, very real, lives.

By modeling our behavior after God’s, by choosing well (choosing “good”), we can earn back some of what we lost.

Another example is the story of Cain and Abel (Chapter 4). Cain kills Able. Cain is punished. Lesson: Don’t kill your brother. And yet more: This parable is also about making the right choices; about temptation and how we can control its lure (with difficulty, but it is possible). And then, too, it’s about the possibility of repentance and of being given a second chance.

Ultimately, this whole parashah, this first weekly portion of Genesis (called, after the Hebrew name of the book, B’reishit), is all about second chances. At its conclusion, in Chapter 6, we are introduced to Noah—and we already know about the flood. Noah is the one who will bring all life its redemption—its renewed opportunity to make the right choices, this time the better, the moral choices.

The broad lesson of the Torah is that humanity can regain God’s favor by modeling our behavior after God’s actions. In this, too, Genesis is a revolutionary book. The ancient gods, be they of Greek, Egyptian or Mesopotamian mythologies, are wily, jealous, abusive, even murderous. They may represent ideals, but justice is not one of those ideals. Neither is mercy. Yet these are the two most important qualities of the God that Genesis offers us human beings. In return, we are expected to be the same. By filling our lives with these attributes, we not only give our insignificant existence meaning, we also make it holy. The image of God, so universally touted, so universally argued over, turns out to be nothing physical at all. It’s in the traits which characterize us, in the moral decisions we make, in the goodness that we create.

©2010 Boaz D. Heilman

To Begin Yet Again: V'zot Habracha (Deut. 33:1--34:12)

As for every holiday and special occasion that coincides with Shabbat, there are special readings for this Shabbat too, the Sabbath of Sukkot. Yet somehow, the Torah portion that should be studied this week, V’zot Habracha (“This Is the Blessing”) gets relegated to a midweek celebration—Simchat Torah—when it will be read in conjunction with the opening verses of the Torah. Between the dancing, however, the festive mood, and the fact that everybody in the congregation—including children!—traditionally gets an “aliyah” (the opportunity to say the Torah blessings) on that occasion, V’zot Habracha, the final parasha of the Torah, rarely gets the in-depth study and review that it deserves.

Yet its beauty is breathtaking. Its vision, both literally and spiritually, is magnificent. It is, after all, the last portion of the whole Torah. It is the summing up, the bridge into the future. The whole of Deuteronomy speaks of the transition of the Exodus generation of Israelites to the new generation, who, led by Joshua, will enter the Promised Land. This portion, then, represents the arch through which the People of Israel go through as they turn from the promise to its fulfillment. V’zot Habracha is not unlike a magical looking glass; we see ourselves reflected in it—the people dusty and worn by our wanderings in the wilderness—but even as we gaze, we see ourselves transformed, changing before our very eyes into what we are about to become.

In content, this portion mirrors the concluding parasha of the book of Genesis, the first book of the Torah. There, as he lies dying, Jacob blesses his children, telling them of their future struggles and promises. Now, a full era forward, Moses is about to die, and just as he is given a vision of the land his descendants will inhabit, so he gives them a glimpse of their future.

The difference between the two central figures of these stories—Jacob and Moses—becomes clear through the parallels. Jacob sees a family; Moses sees a people. From a group of squabbling children, they have matured and become transformed into one people. Jacob cannot bring himself to forgive Levi, for example. His third son was, after all (along with his older brother Shimon) responsible for the horrible massacre at Shechem. But 400 years plus later, the tribe that descended from that violent man learned to transform their passion, to change their fierceness into zeal. Moses does not forget their basic nature, but his blessing to them is that they be able to transform this vehemence into love. They are to become priests and teachers, reminding anyone who will listen of the difference between the two aspects of human nature, and how everyone can transcend the basic, animalistic nature within them into something more exalted and sacred. From sons of Levi, they have become Levites.

Jacob recognizes the leadership potential in Judah. Generations down, Moses acknowledges that strength, but at the same time he sees the dangers that can result from too much power being concentrated in any one group. It isn’t only the tyrannical nature of the beast that such dominance brings out, but also an exaggerated belief in a one’s own might. Moses’s blessing is that Judah learn to recognize the true source of his strength—God. This blessing is good not only to temper one’s belief in oneself, but also to bolster confidence at times of trouble. “Hear O Lord, the voice of Judah; bring him in unto his people…You shall be a help against his adversaries.” Throughout the millennia of our existence, this has been at the core of Jewish survival: Even kings were not above the law; one people under God. Judah’s strength has always been there, but it was God who enabled it, God who controlled it. The connection to God was always there, too: It was in our prayer, embedded in Moses’s blessing: Sh’ma Adonai—“Hear, O Lord, Judah’s voice.”

And so it is with the other tribes as well. Each one has its own strength. Through the centuries, however, what they have learned is to live together. Supporting one another is what turned the tribes into one nation. Moses, who saw this transformation, is filled with hope and confidence. Granted a glimpse of the future, he sees the trials and tribulations that lie ahead in Israel’s future. Yet he also sees their eventual triumph: “Happy are thou, O Israel; who is like unto thee? A people saved by Adonai, the shield of thy help and the sword of thy excellence!” (Deut. 33:29).

“Who is like unto thee?” “Mi chamocha!” these are very words with which Moses sings God’s praise immediately after the exodus from Egypt. Now these words are used to describe God’s people. The connection is magnificent and telling. The eternity of God is the wellspring of our own historical and cultural achievement. It is from this source that we draw blessing.

As the Book of the Torah reaches its final verses, Moses can finally let go. He has taught his people well, and now it is our turn. He has given us the Torah to learn, to cherish, to live by. He has now turned it over to Joshua, his own disciple, with the instruction that it be passed down through the generations. Torah tziva lanu Moshe—“Moses commanded us a law, an inheritance of the congregation of Jacob” (Deut. 29:4), one of the first verses from the Torah that is ever taught little Jewish children. The melody of this line still rings in our ears, never forgotten even well into old age. It is more than our inheritance. It is our legacy. It is the source of our life, our strength, our existence. It is indeed our Eitz chayim, our “tree of life.”

Next week: back to the beginning. Genesis once again. Children, let us learn.

Thank God.

©2010 Boaz D. Heilman

The View From the Mountain

The View From the Mountain
D’var Torah for Parashat Ha’azinu: Deuteronomy Chapter 32
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Though two chapters are still left in the book of Deuteronomy, this week’s portion (Ha’azinu, meaning “listen,” or “pay heed”), is the last parashah to be read at a Shabbat morning service before the whole cycle begins again. Chapters 34 and 35 (comprising the very last parashah) are read on the holiday of Simchat Torah, immediately followed by the first few verses of the book of Genesis.

With Ha’azinu, Moses nears the end of his own life’s journey. He is commanded by God to ascend the heights of Mount Nebo, from where he will be granted one final vision—the Land of Israel.

Moses is old and tired, but his vision is as clear as ever. Yet, at this moment, one that should be filled with breathtaking exultation, what he can see from the top of the mountain is not as rosy and positive as one would hope. Yes, he can see that God has indeed led the Israelites in the right direction. Moses is also confident that Joshua, his follower, will lead them on into the Land and continue guiding them by God’s light and direction. Yet, farther down the route, Moses can see also more distant days, when the Israelites will abandon God’s paths and veer toward idolatry.

Moses’s frustration at not being allowed to lead the Israelites into the Promised Land is coupled with sadness and disappointment as he realizes that history is bound to repeat itself. The previous forty years were not easy. In retrospect it seems that the Israelites rebelled against God’s commandments at every opportunity. It was lack of faith, in fact, that kept them from reaching the goal of their journey for these 40 years. The future, too, will contain rebellions and lapses in faith.

Ha’azinu, containing some of the Bible’s most powerful poetry, is filled with intense imagery. Moses calls upon the heaven and the earth to bear witness to God’s word and constancy. All Creation is God’s doing; it is God’s law that makes the rain fall and the dew appear. Just so, too, is Israel God’s creation. Set aside from other nations, watched over and protected as an eagle protects its young, Israel is nourished from the yield of the earth, given honey from the rock, fed with “The cream of cattle and the milk of sheep, with the fat of lambs and rams…” (32:13-14).

Yet—Moses sees further—Israel is bound to forget the true source of its bounty and security. At such times, Moses warns, God’s anger will flare, and Israel will be punished. But the Covenant between Israel and God cannot be broken. At the very moment that the Israelites repent, God will take them back, roll back their enemies and restore the People to their Land.

As Moses concludes his prophetic message, he warns the people to “Take to heart all the words with which I have warned you this day. Enjoin them upon your children, that they may observe faithfully all the terms of this Teaching. For this is not a trifling thing for you: It is your very life; through it you shall long endure on the land that you are to possess…” (Deut. 32:47-48).

This message, read every year on the Shabbat between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur (called Shabbat Shuva, the Sabbath of Repentance) contains the entire message of these Days of Awe. With this glorious and awesome prophecy, Moses reminds us that existence is meaningless if it is not filled with God’s purpose. The heaven and the earth are God’s creation, but their purpose is limited to two functions: to provide light and to set the seasons. They can do nothing other than follow their charted course through the universe. Yet what we human beings can do is so much greater: We can actually carry on God’s sacred work of creation. Created of the earth, humanity can transcend its lowly beginnings and achieve nearly divine heights.

It is an awesome responsibility, yet one we often fail to carry out—to disastrous results.

Each New Year, standing on the bridge between the past and the future, we gage how far we have come and what yet remains to be done. Still hanging on the wall of our kitchen is last year’s calendar. It’s all filled out now. The new calendar, set to replace the old one, is yet fresh and clean. How will its days be filled? Yes, there will be regular appointments, reminders of holidays and birthdays, perhaps even some vacation days to pencil in. But there’s something more important than any of these. Each day of the new year has to be filled with purpose and meaning. That’s how we infuse holiness into our lives. The choices we make will determine the quality of our life, for better or for worse.

It is an awesome view from the mountain. It fills us with hope, but also with trepidation. It makes our hearts soar with eagles, yet gravity pulls our gaze downwards. While longing for the green pastures ahead, we also see that the path there will not be smooth or easy. But in each generation we have a Joshua, a Samuel or a David to lead us onwards. Holding the Torah in our hearts and minds, we are filled with courage and faith. It truly is our life, filling our days and nights with light, direction and purpose.

One parashah or page at a time, one letter at a time, we are truly carried onwards as though on the wings of eagles.


©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman