מָזְגוּ לוֹ כוֹס שֵׁנִי….מַתְחִיל בִּגְנוּת וּמְסַיֵּם בְּשֶׁבַח

They pour the second cup, and begin with the disgrace of our ancestors, ending with glory (Mishnah Pesakhim 10.4)

1. They pour the first cup….and recite the blessing for the day

2. They bring unleavened bread, lettuce, and haroset…they bring the Pesakh lamb

3. They pour the second cup, and the talk begins with disgrace (or lowly status) of our ancestors, and concludes with glory. We consider the Torah verse “my ancestor was a wandering Aramean”

4. They pour the third cup and recite the prayer after eating

5. The fourth cup: Hallel is recited

This version of the Passover celebration, the earliest we have, is dated to the Second Temple period, during the Persian, then Greek, then Roman, occupation of Israel. Perhaps the most obvious aspect of this description is that the entire evening is organized around four cups of wine, and each cup has a text or discussion topic attached to it. The discussion is central to the Seder because the event was based upon the Greco-Roman symposium; quite often, the discussions that took place were triggered by foods or acts that were part of the ritual meal.

What is unlike any other symposium of which we know is the topic to be discussed after the second cup: g’nut, “disgrace (or lowly status) of our ancestors”; as it is said, “once we were slaves, now we are free”. The Haggadah preserves this as the origin story of the Jewish people: we began as slaves. 

Although we learn that it is the great mitzvah of Pesakh to see ourselves as going out of Egypt just as our ancestors did, on this Pesakh, it is difficult to feel free. Even more, it is difficult to imagine ourselves in the place of the oppressed, for, as terrible as it is to recognize, our people is now an oppressor. It is so painfully difficult to confront the reality of Israeli persecution of Palestinians that there are those among us who would prefer to walk away from the entire exercise of Jewish identity and call it meaningless.

Yet there is something that rings true about the ancient message, and, often, the key to healing lies in the wound itself. We are not slaves to another people in these days, perhaps, but we are in disgrace: Jews are embarrassed before the entire world. We, the people who gave the world the idea of laws that protect the weak and free the captive; we as a people have not upheld our own teaching. We as a people have made a mockery of Jewish ethics and a joke of Jewish justice.

As hard as it is to remain human in this situation, we deserve the same grace that we would give any other sinner. So let us ask, compassionately: what could possibly have caused this people to betray its path so tragically? this people has suffered terribly for generation upon generation. Too often helpless, we have seen those we love hurt or killed, that we have built destroyed. An abused child may grow up to hurt others because of the unhealed injury in their own soul. Is it so strange that Jews with power not only are corruptible like any other people with power, but that we should, on some subconscious level, seem to be bent on punishing a people that reminds us, too much, of our own painful helplessness in the past?

There is a Hasidic teaching which intuits what modern psychology can validate: individuals hate most in others that which reminds us of the part of ourselves we cannot accept. To be vulnerable, helpless, and terrified is agonizing; to be reminded of that time in our own past is insupportable.

Yet this is what we must face: we were helpless and abandoned. This is the meaning of the g’nut, “disgrace”, of the ancient text. This is the key to the entire experience: if the mitzvah is to see ourselves as going out of slavery, then our freedom is from our own past scars. We are not free until we cease to act out of our own past hurt. We are not free until we can love, forgive, learn, and live freely – no matter what has enslaved us in the past. We are not free until we stop carrying that unrisen dough on our backs.

May this Pesakh be liberating for us all, and may we find the courage to follow the path toward healing.

וַיִּקְרָ֖א אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֑ה וַיְדַבֵּ֤ר יְהֹוָה֙ אֵלָ֔יו מֵאֹ֥הֶל מוֹעֵ֖ד לֵאמֹֽר׃ 

יהוה called to Moses and spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting, saying (Lev. 1.1)

Vayikra is the first word of our parasha, and of the third book of the Torah, called Leviticus in English.  It comes after the customary gap in the Torah scroll of several blank lines which serve to separate book from book.  Suddenly, out of intertextual nothingness, vayikra – G*d calls to Moshe, and speaks. This is the first verse of the third book: ויקרא אל משה וידבר ה אליו Vayikra el-Moshe vayedabber HaShem eylav. 

This literally means, “he called to Moses, and HaShem spoke to him”.  Who is the one who called?  To “call”, it seems, is not necessarily to “speak”, or even, perhaps, to communicate.   Since the text refers to G*d in conjunction with the second verb, shall we assume, as translators do, that the first verb also refers to G*d?  How else might we interpret it?  Who, or what, called, and for what purpose?  

The verse uses two verbs: “called, and…spoke.”  In the creation account there is a similar pairing of verbs. In Genesis 1:3, G*d says “let there be light”:  vayomer Elohim yehi or. And then, in contrast, “G*d called the light ‘day’, vayikra elohim la’or yom”.  That which already is, is called, comes fully into being by the simple – and profound – act of naming it.  “G*d saw that the light was good…G*d called the light day” (Genesis 1.4-5).  The first earthling, the adam, reflects that power as it names all the animals in Genesis 2.5, using the same word, vayikra.  In both these instances, naming is the act of definition which gives a final reality to the creation:  the light’s creation is complete when it is called “day”, and the animals, too, are completed when they are called by their names.  

We, too, feel the need to be named in order to fully assert our existence. 

For Jewish tradition, to “call something by its name” is an act of empowerment.  So, perhaps, to give a name to one’s fear helps to control it.  Certainly, to give a name to one’s child, in Jewish tradition, is a loving and hopeful “wishing” of traits upon the child, a way to transmit values and express the depth of family ties.  To give a name is to give of oneself in the process; it is the first step toward entering into relationship with the named.

In our parashah, something is calling to Moses to name and thus bring fully into being that which is being born. The Israelites were in a chaos not dissimilar to that of creation; having left Egypt, we found ourselves in an undefined place and time. Now at the beginning of the book of VaYikra, the mishkan has been built, the covenant has been enacted, and in these two significant ways our ancestors bring order to the tohu vavohu, the unordered universe of their lives, just as G*d does at the very beginning of time. “Before every act of revelation,” our tradition teaches in a book of legends called Sifra, “G*d would call ‘Moses, Moses!’ as at the burning bush.  It was an expression of affection and of urgency.  And each time Moses would respond, ‘Here I am’.”

In these days of chaos and undefined reality, how are we being called? What is in need of being named? If we are living through a time of profound transition, what is being born?

Vayikra:  who, or what, is calling?  In a Torah scroll, the word vayikra is written with a smaller alef at the end; classic commentaries see in this a reflection of the humility of Moshe, who wrote the alef small as an expression of his own sense of unworthiness in the relationship with G*d.  

Humility is, of course, necessary if we are to stay aware of the nuances, the shadows and unrevealed corners of our unfolding reality. We are, certainly, a small alef compared to the Source of Life that we reflect.

How else might we interpret this small, shy alef?  Perhaps in the sense of the incompleteness of our understanding –  what might we “hear” as the voice of G*d calling us?  Most of us are not so lucky as to hear a voice from G*d clearly and distinctly telling us what path to take to solve our dilemmas and make the correct decisions.  Though we might harbor a sense of conviction on this or that ethical issue, most of the time these days we are far from any sense of light and clarity, of order, for our lives and our choices.

This small alef is, for us as well as Moses, a hint of the imperfect relationship we experience with our lives – with each other, with ourselves and with whatever we might call the greater whole of which we are a part. We are no where near occupying the full potential of our lives – but each of our lives is a promise of that potential. Each of us is a small part of the whole – yet a necessary part, even as the alef is a necessary part of spelling the word “call”. 

We are, each of us, a necessary part of naming the reality toward which we, as a kehillah kedoshah,  a holy community, walk. May we find our strength with each other as we go.

וְהָיָ֡ה בְּהָנִ֣יחַ ה’ אֱלֹהֶ֣יךָ ׀ לְ֠ךָ֠ מִכׇּל־אֹ֨יְבֶ֜יךָ מִסָּבִ֗יב בָּאָ֙רֶץ֙ אֲשֶׁ֣ר ה’־אֱ֠לֹהֶ֠יךָ נֹתֵ֨ן לְךָ֤ נַחֲלָה֙ לְרִשְׁתָּ֔הּ תִּמְחֶה֙ אֶת־זֵ֣כֶר עֲמָלֵ֔ק מִתַּ֖חַת הַשָּׁמָ֑יִם לֹ֖א תִּשְׁכָּֽח

Therefore, when HaShem grants you safety from all your enemies around you, in the land that HaShem is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget! (Deut, 26.19)

This haftarah is chosen specifically for this second of four special Shabbatot that precede Pesakh; Shabbat Zakhor, this Shabbat, is not only one of those four special Shabbatot, but also relates to Purim, to which it always occurs in close proximity. Zakhor, remember, we are told: remember to wipe out the memory of Amalek. Remember to forget; how is one to fulfill this mitzvah?

The story is seared into our people’s memory:

זָכ֕וֹר אֵ֛ת אֲשֶׁר־עָשָׂ֥ה לְךָ֖ עֲמָלֵ֑ק בַּדֶּ֖רֶךְ בְּצֵאתְכֶ֥ם מִמִּצְרָֽיִם׃ 

Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey, after you left Egypt—  

אֲשֶׁ֨ר קָֽרְךָ֜ בַּדֶּ֗רֶךְ וַיְזַנֵּ֤ב בְּךָ֙ כׇּל־הַנֶּחֱשָׁלִ֣ים אַֽחֲרֶ֔יךָ וְאַתָּ֖ה עָיֵ֣ף וְיָגֵ֑עַ וְלֹ֥א יָרֵ֖א אֱלֹהִֽים׃ 

how, undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear. (Deut. 25. 17-18)

The story is related in Exodus 17.8-14 and recalled a generation later in Deuteronomy. Something about what happened became legendary for our people. So much so that Amalek becomes symbolic of all the evil that is directed against the people of Israel for all time afterward – to the point that thousands of years later, during the first Gulf War in 1991, Israeli society saw Saddam Hussein, the ruler of Iraq who attacked Israel at that time, as a descendent of Amalek. (Just imagine how that was solidified when the first Gulf War ended around Purim!)

Amalek is a feared, hated enemy of the Jewish people. In our special haftarah for Shabbat Zakhor, King Shaul is ordered by the Prophet Shmu’el, relaying the message of HaShem, to wipe out Amalek, to completely and “utterly destroy” the effect of Amalek from the world. 

Yet at the end of the day, after all is done, Shaul has spared the king. The people are dead, the homes are set afire, and the possessions are destroyed – and the king is in captivity. According to the prophet Shmu’el, who has been Shaul’s companion and guide from the beginning, this is a mortal sin, and Shaul has forfeited the kingdom by this act. Many of our commentaries struggle with this: why should sparing the king’s life, an act of mercy, be considered so heinous a sin by HaShem?

Our teacher Nehama Leibowitz ז“ל brings a response from Midrash Kohelet: “Rabbi Shimon ben Lakish said, whoever is merciful when then should be cruel will end up being cruel where they should be merciful.” 

“In other words, Saul’s sin lay in his arbitrariness, not in his cruelty or compassion. His offense lay in the way he chose at one moment to be merciful and at another to be cruel, as he himself saw fit and not in conformity with the will of God. He was guilty of suiting his conduct to the fluctuation of his personal feelings.” What caused him to be so influenced by his own feelings?Class consciousness, she suggests. Not humanity, not ethics, not mercy: Leibowitz notes that Shaul did not spare children, nor inquire after the guilt or innocence of any Amalekite, and concludes that “he was loath to slay a king. Class solidarity overlooks all other considerations.” (Nehama Leibowitz, Studies in VaYikra, 314-315) 

What are we supposed to remember on Shabbat Zakhor? Especially when it is coupled with Purim, on which all of us were equally in danger, and the day is saved when the elite (Queen Esther) insists that she is one with all her people, class be damned.

Perhaps it is that ethics are not meant to be applied when we feel like it, according to our own judgment, clouded as it is by the influence of all those aspects of our humanity that don’t feel shared. Labeling and distancing others as The Poor, or The Billionaires, or Us, or Them, or any other objectification of class or group, makes the effect of our acts of mercy – or its lack – arbitrary.  

Perhaps it is that Amalek does exist in the world; as the arch-villain Haman (descended from Amalek) demonstrates, there will always be those who will take advantage of weakness for their own benefit. The Sage Hillel summed up what we are meant to learn from this: “that which is hateful to you, do not do to another. That is the whole Torah.” (BT Shabbat 31a.6)

Perhaps is it that we should remember humility when we rush to judge someone else, or the reward or punishment that we witness occurring to someone else. More often than not, we don’t know what we’re talking about. We don’t know the whole story. All we know is that the person we are judging has more in common with us than any act, class or circumstance that might separate us.