Shabbat Yitro: What Does the Voice of G*d sound like?

וַיְדַבֵּ֣ר אֱלֹהִ֔ים אֵ֛ת כׇּל־הַדְּבָרִ֥ים הָאֵ֖לֶּה לֵאמֹֽר         

God spoke all these words, saying (Exodus 20.1)

What does the voice of G*d sound like? One opinion out of Jewish tradition is that we cannot handle hearing the actual voice of HaShem. Literally, hearing the Voice of G*d is insupportable in human terms:

“the Israelites’ souls departed from them when G’d spoke ….according to the Midrash the remainder of the Ten Commandments remained engraved in fire on top of Mount Sinai until G’d had revived the Israelites with the dew of life. – Or HaHayim, reporting on Shir haShirim Rabbah 5

The theophany at Sinai is a classic expression of the belief that Divinity must be vast and overwhelming to our sense. But another source, the Haftarah for Pinkhas, suggests something very different.

וְהִנֵּ֧ה ה’ עֹבֵ֗ר וְר֣וּחַ גְּדוֹלָ֡ה וְחָזָ֞ק מְפָרֵק֩ הָרִ֨ים וּמְשַׁבֵּ֤ר סְלָעִים֙ לִפְנֵ֣י ה’ לֹ֥א בָר֖וּחַ ה’ וְאַחַ֤ר הָר֙וּחַ֙ רַ֔עַשׁ לֹ֥א בָרַ֖עַשׁ ה’ וְאַחַ֤ר הָרַ֙עַשׁ֙ אֵ֔שׁ לֹ֥א בָאֵ֖שׁ ה’ וְאַחַ֣ר הָאֵ֔שׁ ק֖וֹל דְּמָמָ֥ה דַקָּֽה׃ 

Lo, HaShem passed by. There was a great and mighty wind, splitting mountains and shattering rocks by Divine power; but HaShem was not in the wind. 

After the wind—an earthquake; but HaShem was not in the earthquake.  

After the earthquake—fire; but HaShem was not in the fire. 

And after the fire—a still, small voice. (I Kings 19.11-12)

Already among our ancestors there were sharply divergent views of what it might mean to “hear” the “voice” of HaShem. Genesis 3.8 imagines HaShem as a Babylonian emperor; in Psalms 29.3 the comparison is to Ba’al, the Canaanite god of thunder, lightning and storm. Deuteronomy 5.23 just keeps shaking its head that we survived whatever it was, at all.

What distills out of many different accounts seems to be that the Voice of G*d is something that, if you hear it and follow it, it will serve as an unfailing guide to your life path. The voice is not audible to our ears, in other words: it is what we “hear” via the mitzvot, the obligations that form the shape of Jewish religious observance.

כִּ֣י תִשְׁמַ֗ע בְּקוֹל֙ ה’ אֱלֹהֶ֔יךָ לִשְׁמֹ֤ר מִצְוֺתָיו֙ וְחֻקֹּתָ֔יו הַכְּתוּבָ֕ה בְּסֵ֥פֶר הַתּוֹרָ֖ה הַזֶּ֑ה כִּ֤י תָשׁוּב֙ אֶל־ה’ אֱלֹהֶ֔יךָ בְּכׇל־לְבָבְךָ֖ וּבְכׇל־נַפְשֶֽׁךָ       

if you hearken to the voice of HaShem your G*d, by keeping the commands and laws—what is written in this Torah— if you return to HaShem your G*d with all your heart and with all your being. (Deut. 30.10)

This is how we ourselves can also hope to “hear” the voice of HaShem. Not through some thunderous Hebrew (or English!) comment coming from outside or inside of us, but by way of our complicated hearts, as we suffer the pain of all that is wrong with the world, while knowing what should be, what could be. 

No two of us will “hear” that voice in the same way, because each of us is unique, and a uniquely precious reflection of HaShem. We must first overcome the desire to turn HaShem into a straw man to be blamed with all that is evil, and begin to understand that HaShem and you and I are all of One piece. 

Only then we will be able to hear the voice of HaShem clearly: where justice struggles against evil, where love continues to exist alongside destruction, and where belief endures that hope is a live thing that must be nurtured.

Shabbat BeShalakh 5786: What It Takes to Leave Egypt

Evil consists in ruining someone else’s life rather than examining one’s own. – M Scott Peck, People of the Lie

As we follow Torah’s narrative of the Israelite escape from Egypt, this week’s parashah relates a tense, utterly human moment. It’s the well-known sense that often sets in immediately after one takes an irrevocable step, that the step was absolutely wrong.

And so it is with our ancestors as they head out of Egypt. The land is ruined by plagues, the first born is dead in every house, and a panicked motley group of slaves is stumbling forward into the unknown. 

Almost immediately, they reach the Sea of Reeds. 

וַיִּרְדְּפ֨וּ מִצְרַ֜יִם אַחֲרֵיהֶ֗ם וַיַּשִּׂ֤יגוּ אוֹתָם֙ חֹנִ֣ים עַל־הַיָּ֔ם כׇּל־סוּס֙ רֶ֣כֶב פַּרְעֹ֔ה וּפָרָשָׁ֖יו וְחֵיל֑וֹ

the Egyptians gave chase to them, and all the chariot horses of Pharaoh, his horsemen, and his warriors overtook them encamped by the sea

וּפַרְעֹ֖ה הִקְרִ֑יב וַיִּשְׂאוּ֩ בְנֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵ֨ל אֶת־עֵינֵיהֶ֜ם וְהִנֵּ֥ה מִצְרַ֣יִם ׀ נֹסֵ֣עַ אַחֲרֵיהֶ֗ם וַיִּֽירְאוּ֙ מְאֹ֔ד וַיִּצְעֲק֥וּ בְנֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל

As Pharaoh drew near, the Israelites caught sight of the Egyptians advancing upon them. Greatly frightened, the Israelites cried out. (Exodus 14.9-10)

Death – or, at the very least, the complete failure of what they thought was their way to freedom, seems to be staring them in the face. What does this group of people do? They do what most frightened people do: they turned on their leaders.

According to a famous midrash, the People of Israel not only attacked their leadership for the move, they also attacked anyone who tried to take steps to deal with the situation at hand. When Hashem said to Moshe, “Tell the people to go forward (into the Sea)”

זֶה אוֹמֵר אֵין אֲנִי יוֹרֵד תְּחִילָּה לַיָּם וְזֶה אוֹמֵר אֵין אֲנִי יוֹרֵד תְּחִילָּה לַיָּם קָפַץ נַחְשׁוֹן בֶּן עַמִּינָדָב וְיָרַד לַיָּם תְּחִילָּה

this [tribe] said, “I will not be the first to go down to the sea,” and this one said, “I will not be the first to go down to the sea.” 

We all know how the story ends; the act of faith of plunging into the Sea itself causes the Sea to part, even as we have seen in our own lives how reality can be shaped by one courageous act. Yes, stepping forward is frightening even when it seems to be the only way. The question that remains is why some would rather stay sunk in anger, in despair and in fear, rather than hold hands and take a scary step together.

A rather sobering midrash asserts that only one-fifth of the Israelites left Egypt with Moshe. The rest, majority voice though they be, are never heard from again. On this Shabbat may we recognize and celebrate the comfort of the companionship of the community we are building, small though it be. That small minority of those who step forward to create that community, to shine a small light in the face of encroaching darkness and who hold fast to the good we are trying to maintain in the uncertainty of each of these scary moments we are living. The real leaders among us are those whose light illuminates the path – and that includes us when we let ours join theirs.

Shabbat Bo: No One Should Suffer; No One

שלא היה רוצה הקב”ה שיהיה פרעה בעינוי וצער לפניו 

the Holy Blessed One did not want Pharaoh to suffer – Gur Aryeh Ex.10.3

Our parashat hashavua brings us to the midst of plagues and confrontations. The suffering of the Egyptian people is increasing, and for whatever reason (conspiracy theories? miracles? scientific cause and effect? the effort of the human brain to make sense of reality is perennial) the blows against the economy, agriculture and society are now being blamed on Pharaoh’s unwillingness to let go of his slaves.

For many of us, the suffering of the Egyptians, who seem to be innocent of their Pharaoh’s choices, is the most difficult thing to understand in our Torah. Seen through the lens of that ancient mindset, the fortunes of we regular people are doomed to be no more important than necessary collateral damage when kings – or gods – fight. Throughout the Levant this belief was a way of understanding why bad things could happen to good people – you just happened to be in the way. Not much has changed in human history.

It would be easy to surrender to the idea that suffering because of one’s context, not one’s own agency, is inevitable and should simply be accepted as one of the certainties of life. Certainly the Jewish mystics who see our entire universe as trapped in a cycle of gevurah, where justice too often slides into cruelty, would agree. But Rabbi Judah Loew (the Maharal of Prague, who did not create the golem of Prague even though the legend attributes it to him) sees something different, and he sees it in the opening lines of our parashah:

וַיָּבֹ֨א מֹשֶׁ֣ה וְאַהֲרֹן֮ אֶל־פַּרְעֹה֒ וַיֹּאמְר֣וּ אֵלָ֗יו כֹּֽה־אָמַ֤ר ה֙’ אֱלֹהֵ֣י הָֽעִבְרִ֔ים עַד־מָתַ֣י מֵאַ֔נְתָּ לֵעָנֹ֖ת מִפָּנָ֑י שַׁלַּ֥ח עַמִּ֖י וְיַֽעַבְדֻֽנִי

Moses and Aaron went to Pharaoh and said to him, “Thus says ‘ה the God of the Hebrews, ‘How long will you refuse to humble yourself before Me? Let My people go that they may worship Me (Exodus 10.3)

Rabbi Loew could have interpreted this statement as Pharaonic arrogance or stupidity, or spent some time blaming HaShem for hardening Pharaoh’s heart, so that it’s not really even his fault. But for whatever reason, the Maharal (the term stands for Morenu HaRav Loew, “our teacher Rabbi Loew”) goes in an entirely different direction.

Pharaoh, for all his cruelty, is not the ultimate evil; he is not a monster, nor the dupe of a cabinet of monsters. He is a human being, misled and misinformed and mistaken in his choices, and the Maharal sees Moshe as conveying HaShem’s concern: you don’t have to suffer like this. 

For the same reason, we spill wine from the cup of our joy at Pesakh, for our joy cannot be complete while Egyptians are suffering; for the same reason, we do not recite the complete Hallel, since when the angels wanted to begin singing after the Israelites were freed, HaShem stopped them with “my creations, the reflection of my Being, is dying in the Sea, and you want to sing?” 

HaShem does not want us to take joy in the suffering of those who hurt us. It is pure childishness, and as the bumper sticker says, will leave the whole world blind and toothless, if we insist that others hurt because they have hurt us. This is not an easy concept for us, when we are righteously angry and full of vengeance, but hating those who hate you does not cancel out the hate. It only adds fuel to its strength.

If we are not to be changed forever by the evil expressed in our world today, we must remember that not only we, but all human beings, are created in the Divine Image. Our task is not to destroy other humans who do evil, but to destroy the evil.

The opposite of gevurah in the mystical understanding is hesed. We are out of balance in the direction of judgement; more hesed, more mercy and kindness and compassion, is all that will help to heal what’s wrong with the Pharaohs of the world, and within ourselves.

VaEra 5786: We Will Be What We Will Be

In this week’s parashah HaShem and Moshe meet. HaShem reveals the divine essence in a mysterious phrase: Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh, which can be translated in many ways that all can be summarized as Being. Since ancient Hebrew did not express the idea of tense the way we expect in modern language, it’s possible that the single word אהיה Ehyeh can mean will be, was, or is.

One possible lesson we may learn here is that, as Psalmist and Prophet both assure us, HaShem does not change. The essence of Being is, always. Another lesson, courtesy of the mystics, is that since we are, at our best, created in the Image of that Being, we are also capable of that kind of steadiness: as we were, we are and will be.

The question each of us faces in the mirror is, what part of all that is will I reflect in all my Being? So much exists and exerts its strength in the world and in the human psyche: evil is possible, so is indifference; fear as well as hope. 

One conundrum of this mysterious passage is that HaShem indicates, in so many words, that 

וָאֵרָ֗א אֶל־אַבְרָהָ֛ם אֶל־יִצְחָ֥ק וְאֶֽל־יַעֲקֹ֖ב בְּאֵ֣ל שַׁדָּ֑י וּשְׁמִ֣י ה’ לֹ֥א נוֹדַ֖עְתִּי לָהֶֽם׃ 

I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as El Shaddai, but I did not make Myself known to them by My name ‘ה (Ex.6.3).

On the surface this is endlessly problematic, since we can find the name HaShem, which we indicate as ‘ה, throughout the Patriarchal stories of Genesis. The issue for our ancestors may be that they could never access the story from the starting point where we find ourselves. Yes, they knew suffering and struggle, but they never questioned their link to each other, their kehillah, their community, the way that many Jews do today.

The great commentator Rashi suggests an explanation that hints at this:

שמי ה׳ לא נודעתי להם But by My Name ‘ה I was not known to them — It is not written here לא הודעתי [My name ‘ה] I did not make known to them, but לא נודעתי [by My name ‘ה], was I not known [unto them] — i. e. I was not recognised by them in My attribute of “keeping faith”, by reason of which My name is called ה׳, which denotes that I am certain to substantiate My promise, for, indeed, I made promises to them but did not fulfill them [during their lifetime].

The Patriarchs had the same problem we do, at essence: they were individuals following after a dawning idea; they did not see it in their lifetimes. Abraham was told that their offspring would be as numerous as the stars in the sky, but that did not happen for hundreds of years after that promise was made. The Patriarchs did not have a community in which they could belong, which could be the grounding for their lives and their struggles. They never saw the fulfillment of their hopes and dreams, although those hopes and dreams were fulfilled. 

It follows, then, that promises are not revealed in their wholeness to individuals, but only to the communities in which they have their Being. This weekend we celebrate the life and teachings of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. He understood this truth clearly and spoke of it in the last speech he gave, on the day before he was murdered. The message: I’ve seen what we are all dearly hoping for, and whether or not I get there is not important. We will get there.

Where Dr King wanted to take us is a place where love outweighs hate and sweeps away  injustice. From here, the scholarship of Dr Israel Knohl leads us directly back to our parashah with a recent article showing that Ehyeh possibly derives (as well as if not instead of the Hebrew) from the cognate ancient languages of the area, and that its root means not life but love. Love within community, if we would be a kehillah; love beyond that which would separate us, if we would be ivri, the Hebrews, whose name literally means “boundary crosser.”

We have one choice in these days, and that is the stance we will cling to as the chaos around us intensifies. We can choose hate or love, idolatry or HaShem. If we choose love – strong, passionate, powerful love – we cannot hope that we will ourselves see the outcome of our choice. But we can deserve to claim the hope that the day will come when our community, in which we have our Being, will see the Promise Land.

Shabbat Shemot: Standing up to Pharaoh

Renee Good: may her memory be a blessing

“Tank Man” temporarily stops the advance of four Type 59 tanks on June 5, 1989, in Beijing. This photograph (one of six similar versions) was taken by Jeff Widener of the Associated Press. (Wikipedia)

וַיָּ֥קׇם מֶֽלֶךְ־חָדָ֖שׁ עַל־מִצְרָ֑יִם אֲשֶׁ֥ר לֹֽא־יָדַ֖ע אֶת־יוֹסֵֽף

A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph. – Shemot 1.8

This week we begin a new book of the Torah, and a new reality arises for the family of Jacob living there, now grown to a people called the Hebrews. Like many immigrants, they are singled out as a cause of danger and Pharaoh commands the death of all Hebrew baby boys as they are born. 

But two women, midwives ordered to carry out this order, manage not to do so.

וַיִּקְרָ֤א מֶֽלֶךְ־מִצְרַ֙יִם֙ לַֽמְיַלְּדֹ֔ת וַיֹּ֣אמֶר לָהֶ֔ן מַדּ֥וּעַ עֲשִׂיתֶ֖ן הַדָּבָ֣ר הַזֶּ֑ה וַתְּחַיֶּ֖יןָ אֶת־הַיְלָדִֽים׃ 

So the king of Egypt summoned the midwives and said to them, “Why have you done this thing, letting the boys live?”

וַתֹּאמַ֤רְןָ הַֽמְיַלְּדֹת֙ אֶל־פַּרְעֹ֔ה כִּ֣י לֹ֧א כַנָּשִׁ֛ים הַמִּצְרִיֹּ֖ת הָֽעִבְרִיֹּ֑ת כִּֽי־חָי֣וֹת הֵ֔נָּה בְּטֶ֨רֶם תָּב֧וֹא אֲלֵהֶ֛ן הַמְיַלֶּ֖דֶת וְיָלָֽדוּ׃ 

The midwives said to Pharaoh, “Because the Hebrew women are not like the Egyptian women: they are vigorous. Before the midwife can come to them, they have given birth.” – Shemot1.18-19

There is an ancient debate about whether the midwives mentioned in this  first parashah of the book of Shemot (Exodus) are Hebrew or Egyptian. Sound arguments have been made on the question of whether to translate the phrase לַֽמְיַלְּדֹ֖ת הָֽעִבְרִיֹּ֑ת midwives to the Hebrews or Hebrew midwives. 

There is another question at least as interesting. These are two women in a vast court, surrounded by many powerful armed men who carry out Pharaoh’s every command. How is it that they are able to successfully block the cruelty of Pharaoh?

We who are reeling daily from shock after shock, cruelty after vicious cruelty commanded by murderously irresponsible “authorities” and carried out by lawless “law enforcement”, we might ask the same question: how in the world might it be possible to stand between innocent lives and the evil that seeks to end them?

 The bitterness of our understanding, that there is no dependable rule of law that we can access and within which rely upon truth and seek safety, is not new. It is simply, disappointingly and devastatingly, coming around again. According to the most ancient sources of our tradition, a social contract that will treat us fairly is one of the oldest aspects of group living understood to be necessary for a functional society. The “Noahide Laws”, a reference to a sense of common decency that was the very least considered to be realistically expected across all human tribes and social groups, includes the requirement of establishing courts to ensure justice for all. 

The murder of Renee Good on Wednesday January 7 2026 by ICE “agents” has stunned and enraged many. Her death was unjustifiable in any way. It is also a warning to all of us who seek to protest, to protect the innocent, and to stop the tsunami of evil flooding us all. I use the word tsunami advisedly: we cannot, in other words, stop this. We can only consider how best – how most effectively – we might respond.

This is not a new sense of relative helplessness, and while it is demoralizing to recognize this, it is also useful; we have been here before, there are established ways to respond. Here the midwives teach us a valuable lesson in effective resistance: in this case, plausible lying.

For those raised to believe that morality is governed by Kant’s categorical imperative (such that anything which is true must always be true) it may be difficult to believe that Jewish ethics could sanction anything other than the truth in every moment. But that would be to misunderstand the goal of justice and morality, which is to support and nurture life. 

Refusing orders is one way of standing against evil, but in the case of the midwives it would not have accomplished any useful purpose except for their martyrdom. Dying for a cause may be necessary, but it should never be sought out or accepted unless and until all other efforts to overcome evil are thoroughly exhausted. That is why the midwives don’t try to murder Pharaoh in the throne room, even at the expense of their lives; it is why they pretend to go along with his orders to kill every boy born to the Hebrews. 

No matter how attractive the idea of standing heroically before an overwhelming force might seem, it is not effective most of the time. The brave man who stood before the tanks at Tiananmen Square did not stop the slaughter of innocents. Although U.S. culture as reflected by Hollywood leans toward the individual hero as the source of salvation, individualism only vastly limits one’s resources.

Jewish teachings on morality, ethics and survival are all predicated upon humility: none of us is a superman and not one of us can save the world. Alone, we are not enough. The midwives teach us: work together. Create, with others, a strategy that will allow for effective action. As one activist says, “sometimes you have to let people think you aren’t doing anything in order to get anything done.” 

Let us not despair. So much standing up against Pharaoh is happening among us, even though we may not hear about it. Good people are acting everywhere quietly, with some effectiveness, against the evil of our day. Some of them are lying their heads off about it. You and I, too, must find our way to act effectively: in a way that is not self-destructive but actually perhaps effective, in some small way, in shedding light in the darkness of these days.

Shabbat VaYehi 5786: Fruitfulness and Forgetting

וַיְבָ֨רְכֵ֜ם בַּיּ֣וֹם הַהוּא֮ לֵאמוֹר֒ בְּךָ֗ יְבָרֵ֤ךְ יִשְׂרָאֵל֙ לֵאמֹ֔ר יְשִֽׂמְךָ֣ אֱלֹהִ֔ים כְּאֶפְרַ֖יִם וְכִמְנַשֶּׁ֑ה וַיָּ֥שֶׂם אֶת־אֶפְרַ֖יִם לִפְנֵ֥י מְנַשֶּֽׁה׃ 

[Jacob] blessed them that day, saying, “By you shall Israel invoke blessings, saying: may Elohim make you like Ephraim and Manasseh.” Thus he put Ephraim before Manasseh. (Gen. 48.20)

Blessing one’s children has been a regular part of the erev Shabbat table ritual for generations: daughters by the Matriarchs Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel and Leah, and sons, not by the perhaps expected trio of Patriarchs Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, but rather by Jacob’s grandsons by Joseph, Menashe and Efrayim. 

Why? According to the modern scholarship, which picks up echoes preserved in very old midrash, the historical answer probably has something to do with ancient Israelite politics. For the People of Israel, though, performing this ritual throughout the ages demonstrates another kind of answer: that developed naturally through the cultural experience of the people.

When we look at the names Joseph gave his sons, it makes this blessing of our own children by those names curious, for two reasons: first, the meaning of the names (this translation by the scholar Everett Fox):

וַיִּקְרָ֥א יוֹסֵ֛ף אֶת־שֵׁ֥ם הַבְּכ֖וֹר מְנַשֶּׁ֑ה כִּֽי־נַשַּׁ֤נִי אֱלֹהִים֙ אֶת־כׇּל־עֲמָלִ֔י וְאֵ֖ת כׇּל־בֵּ֥ית אָבִֽי׃ 

Yosef called the name of the firstborn: Menashe/Who-Makes-Forgetting, meaning: Elohim has made-me-forget all my hardships and my family house. (Gen. 41.51)

וְאֵ֛ת שֵׁ֥ם הַשֵּׁנִ֖י קָרָ֣א אֶפְרָ֑יִם כִּֽי־הִפְרַ֥נִי אֱלֹהִ֖ים בְּאֶ֥רֶץ עׇנְיִֽי׃ 

And the name of the second he called: Efrayim/Abundantly Fruitful, 

meaning: Elohim has made me bear fruit in the land of my affliction. (Gen 41.52)

Second, because the blessing is given in a subversion of birth order that students of the Torah know very well by now, as the younger, Efrayim, is mentioned before the older, Menashe. 

One understanding we may derive here is that we bless our children to be fruitful, and to forget their past. This seems rather contrary to what we Jews take for granted, we who have ritualized memory from Kaddish to Kiddush to Pesakh. 

Perhaps, though, we can understand that there is a tension between these two names: that fruitfulness requires memory, but making one’s own way in the world requires distance from all that one remembers, lest one become only an echo of what has come before.

Efrayim and Menashe are the first of Israel to be born and raised outside the land of their people. The fact that they do not disappear, but become part of the story of the tribes of Israel, can be seen as a victory over the forgetfulness of Diaspora distance. 

Yet forgetting seems out of place here, unless what we are meant to bless here is the necessity of forgetting what is better lost to time so that we can remember what we need to keep. Loss is, after all, human; how do we know, though, what we are meant to let go of? What should we be fighting with all our will to hold on to? How can loss lead to fruitfulness?

A midrashic tradition preserves a frightening warning regarding the stakes of this question in the story of the premature Exodus of the Efrayimites:

Ganun, one of the grandchildren of Efrayim, came and said, “the Holy Blessed One has been revealed to me, to lead you out of Egypt.” The children of Efrayim…took their wives and their sons, and they went forth from Egypt. The Egyptians pursued after them, and slew of them 200,000. – Pirke dRabi Eliezer 48.4

At the wrong time, even the right idea is wrong. A blessing is no blessing if it brings about a curse. This is how we know that the destruction of Gaza and the Jewish violence against Palestinians in the West Bank is wrong. The Jews involved insist that they are seeking the blessing of being in the land which is our historical homeland, but the horrifying ongoing slaughter of innocents declares clearly that this “right idea” is terribly wrong.

But the land of the West Bank was the land promised to the Patriarchs; are we supposed to forget them, and give up Hebron, Shekhem, Beer Sheva? Perhaps the answer is yes. Perhaps we bless our children by Efrayim and Menashe instead of by Abraham, Isaac and Jacob for that very reason?

Our entire ethical tradition warns us that following leadership which is not righteous will lead to ruin. Allowing that which is considered ethically wrong by our own Jewish tradition will never bring us to a righteous place. צדק צדק תרדוף Tzedek, tzedek tirdof, “justice, justice you must pursue” (Deut. 18.16) is understood by our Sages to mean that we must have just means and just ends, and that ends do not in themselves justify means.

Efrayim and Menashe, fruitfulness and forgetting, go hand in hand. We are only blessed when we recognize and respect the message they can only convey together.

Shabbat Hanukkah 5786: What Are The Odds?

“Courage is knowing you’re licked, and remaining steadfast until the very end anyway.” – Harper Lee

One of those who didn’t stop to calculate her odds was Judith of Betulia, a heroine whose story is associated with Hanukkah. Her bravery was a favorite subject of Renaissance art. Pictured: Caravaggio’s “Judith beheading Holofernes” (Creative Commons)

This is the Shabbat of Hanukkah 5786. Every year it is dark when we load up our Hanukkah menorahs with candles, or oil, or whatever we’re using. This holy day period invokes sun in the midst of rain and snow, light in the dark days of winter. To light a single candle, we remind each other, is to banish the darkness. Every night we light another candle, reminding ourselves that the days will once again grow longer, and the light of our days grow greater.

Hanukkah started on December 14 at sundown; it seems not inappropriate that, this year, the last day of Hanukkah is on the shortest, darkest day of the year.  This year, our celebration of Hanukkah was marked with tragedy already on its first day. Fifteen people were murdered, and forty-one more – including children – hospitalized, in an attack on a Hanukkah gathering in Australia. 

May the memory of the murdered remain as a blessing; may those who suffer be soothed. May the heroism of Syrian-Australian Ahmed al-Ahmed, who disarmed one of the shooters and was shot in the process, be lifted up and may he find complete healing.

This year, lighting a single candle, followed each night by another small light, seems either especially brave, or especially naive. 

This year, our spiritual resilience requires better support than the comfort food of latkes and sufganiyot. 

This year, I invite you to consider the details of the Hanukkah story. In reality, there was no “miracle of oil” and no divine intervention; the story is human, and complicated. One of the strands of the real story is about the intraJewish fight over Hellenistic culture; another is about the willingness to defy evil in the face of overwhelming odds. 

Where does a person find the courage to do anything at all, much less act heroically, when all seems dire? Our special haftarah for this Shabbat of Hanukkah contains a famous phrase often invoked at times like this: “not by might, nor by power, but by spirit”. 

זֶ֚ה דְּבַר־ה’ אֶל־זְרֻבָּבֶ֖ל לֵאמֹ֑ר לֹ֤א בְחַ֙יִל֙ וְלֹ֣א בְכֹ֔חַ כִּ֣י אִם־בְּרוּחִ֔י אָמַ֖ר ה’ צְבָאֽוֹת׃ 

“This is the word of HaShem to Zerubbabel: Not by might, nor by power, but by My spirit—said HaShem of Hosts.  (Zekharyah 3.6)

In other words, the prophet is saying that we should rely neither upon government action (Rashi) nor some special protected status (Abravanel), but only upon HaShem’s רוח “ru’akh”. This ancient Hebrew word means “spirit” as well as “wind” and can refer as well to feeling or attitude. 

Since the term ru’akh can refer to the human being as well as the Hashem, in which the human is made, it follows that we are being told to rely upon that aspect of ourselves which is most like HaShem. Zekharyah helpfully supplies a definition for us later in his prophecies:

אֵ֥לֶּה הַדְּבָרִ֖ים אֲשֶׁ֣ר תַּֽעֲשׂ֑וּ דַּבְּר֤וּ אֱמֶת֙ אִ֣ישׁ אֶת־רֵעֵ֔הוּ אֱמֶת֙ וּמִשְׁפַּ֣ט שָׁל֔וֹם שִׁפְט֖וּ בְּשַׁעֲרֵיכֶֽם׃ וְאִ֣ישׁ ׀ אֶת־רָעַ֣ת רֵעֵ֗הוּ אַֽל־תַּחְשְׁבוּ֙ בִּלְבַבְכֶ֔ם וּשְׁבֻ֥עַת שֶׁ֖קֶר אַֽל־תֶּאֱהָ֑בוּ כִּ֧י אֶת־כׇּל־אֵ֛לֶּה אֲשֶׁ֥ר שָׂנֵ֖אתִי נְאֻם־ה’

These are the things you are to do: Speak the truth to one another, render true and perfect justice in your gates. And do not contrive evil against one another, and do not love perjury, because all those are things that I hate—declares HaShem. – Zekharyah 8.16-17

It is understandable that in the wake of the Bondi Beach Hanukkah massacre, some might descend into anger, or a desire for vengeance, or even maneuvering for political capital. But neither these choices, nor the reliance upon government funds to buy us bulletproof glass for our building, nor a groupthink majority attitude that forbids any one of us to fall out of lockstep, will support and sustain us in these dark times. Only divine ru’akh, remembering that we are created in the image of the Highest and are capable of acting in that image, will help us envision light in this darkness.

Acting for the world we wish to live in, rather than the world we have, is not dependent upon the odds that we will live to see that world. Just that it’s all that is worthy of our lives, and our courage.

Shabbat VaYetze 5786: We Are All Diminished

“When a righteous person leaves a city, its glory, its splendour and its beauty depart from it.” (Rashi, citing Bereshit Rabbah 68.6)

Our parashah begins in terror: Jacob is running from certain death. We put it in more elegant ways in different translations, but the truth is that our ancestor was a refugee,  running away, not running toward. He did not have the luxury of choosing a destination. He was simply, desperately, hoping to remain alive.

Jacob is a symbol. There are times in our lives when we have the luxury of planning a destination; at other times, we just know we need to move. At the worst of times, questions of what we deserve and where to apportion guilt become clouded over with a kind of social madness that sheds blood and destroys lives without any kind of “due process.” Sadly, too many of our neighbors and friends are experiencing exactly this reality right now, in our midst. 

We are offered a new way of understanding our own history, and our inherited trauma, when we see it echoed in the lives of others. Now we might more thoughtfully be able to answer the questions that have lived in our minds since the Shoah: how is it possible to stand idly by the blood of one’s neighbor? Why didn’t more people do something to help? And why didn’t the victims fight back?

These questions seem altogether different in the glaring light of our own day. With more than a half-century’s worth of Holocaust education and activism for justice in our immediate past, in these days we face the humbling truth that, as my Palestinian peace activist friend says, “it’s complicated.” There is no single individual who will turn the tide and save the day, despite what all the fairy tales promise; there are no easy answers to the questions of what is wrong, what happened, and what can we do.

Consider all the challenges that face us when someone desperate for safety and shelter appears among us:

Am I aware of the immediate need, or just the general situation?

If I am able to assess the need of the moment, do I have the ability to respond?

Do I have the resources, or access to them, that are needed?

Do I have the inner resources? 

Do I have the freedom from other responsibilities to risk myself by standing between the vulnerable and the evil that pursues them?

Will I suffer if I help them, and am I prepared for that possibility?

Am I spiritually, constitutionally, able to help?

There are reasons why people do not flee. A Palestinian friend of mine admits that his friends have started to seek refugee status; Spain is a welcoming place, for example. But he will not go: “my mother is not well, and she needs me.” 

There are reasons why people do not step up. A neighbor in Portland feels constrained by her primary responsibility to her children; who will care for them if she is jailed for protesting, or hiding refugees from deportation agents? 

And there are reasons why we do not act: in many cases, the evil that is happening does not knock at our front door. We go on about our daily lives, we who are not yet touched, beyond the audible reach of the cries of the persecuted.

Clearly, this is a time to soberly recognize the real complications of real life. There are so many refugees, so many innocents whose lives are at risk – immigrants, the houseless, our Black friends, our Trans siblings and our neighbors of color. Against the organized forces of evil it is not that easy to take a stand; the natural inclination is, rather, to stand aside, that one might survive the onslaught that one, alone, cannot stop.

We, who at this moment are lucky enough not to need to run without even knowing our destination, have an ongoing responsibility to life, to guard its preciousness where we are able, and to bear witness where we are not. In order to do this we must have a sense of grounding, so that we can feel our feet firmly planted, so as to bear the weight of witnessing, of discerning where one can act, and, most of all, so as to survive the humbling disappointment of not being able to save the world.

Our cities are diminished when innocent, righteous people are disappeared by the forces of evil in our midst. Thus the teaching that Rashi transmits:

“When a righteous person leaves a city, its glory, its splendour and its beauty depart from it.” (Rashi, citing Bereshit Rabbah 68.6)

With each ICE kidnapping, we are all diminished. May those of us who are able to do something find a way to do it; may those who cannot, recognize the importance of what we still can do: bear witness to what is happening. Do not diminish the terror of others.

Stand grounded in your life; know your value: you can do something. You can tell the story. This is the most Jewish of aspirations: to not let those who disappear be forgotten. Not to let fear spread a blanket of silence. 

Shabbat Hayye Sarah 5786: Times Are Hard

מצווה גוררת מצווה ועבירה גוררת עבירה, ששכר מצווה מצווה ושכר עבירה עבירה” (נפש החיים א, יב).

It is as the Sages have said (Pirke Avot 4.2), “A mitzvah brings another mitzvah and a sin brings another sin, for the reward for a mitzvah is a mitzvah, and the punishment for a sin is a sin” – R Eliezer Melamed, Peninei Halakhah

I am resuming my weekly erev Shabbat email after a 2-month hiatus and hope that you’ll once again welcome my parashah-related offerings in your inbox.

This week’s parashat hashavua begins with this report: Sarah, the matriarch of the Jewish people, has died. 

וַיִּהְיוּ֙ חַיֵּ֣י שָׂרָ֔ה מֵאָ֥ה שָׁנָ֛ה וְעֶשְׂרִ֥ים שָׁנָ֖ה וְשֶׁ֣בַע שָׁנִ֑ים שְׁנֵ֖י חַיֵּ֥י שָׂרָֽה׃ וַתָּ֣מׇת שָׂרָ֗ה בְּקִרְיַ֥ת אַרְבַּ֛ע הִ֥וא חֶבְר֖וֹן בְּאֶ֣רֶץ כְּנָ֑עַן וַיָּבֹא֙ אַבְרָהָ֔ם לִסְפֹּ֥ד לְשָׂרָ֖ה וְלִבְכֹּתָֽהּ׃ 

Sarah’s lifetime amounted to one hundred and twenty-seven years. Sarah died in Kiryat-Arba, now Hebron, in the land of Canaan  – Genesis 23.1

The fact that Sarah lived to the age of 127 according to the text has piqued the interest of many commentators on the text; they seek a deeper than surface meaning for the specificity of the number. 120 is the age that Moshe Rabbenu reached; should that be a comparison? Then there’s the 127th Psalm, which starts “if HaShem does not build the house, the builders labor in vain.” Commentary on her marriage?

Rabbi Akiba, once upon a time, found another way to drash this text. Joined in study one day with his community, he was seeking a way to “wake them up”, to change their mindset. Why? Because at the time, the story goes, it was very difficult for the Jewish people to get excited about doing mitzvot and good deeds. Their morale had been hollowed out. Oppressed by the Roman Empire, they were in despair:

“Many of the best of the people had been killed. Many more, having been persuaded by the idea of faith based upon reward and punishment, could not understand the logic behind the terrible suffering that had come upon them, nor could they see an end to it. Because their faith was based upon reward and punishment, it was waning.” (Yalkut Yehudah, Shemot 32.13)

Rabbi Akiba offered this thought out of left field: 

“Why was Esther seen fit to reign over one hundred and twenty-seven provinces? The explanation is: Let Esther, who was a descendant of Sarah, who lived one hundred and twenty-seven years, come and reign over one hundred and twenty-seven provinces.” (Bereshit Rabbah 58.3)

How many generations are there between Sarah our Mother and her descendant, Esther, Queen of Persia? If the story of the Megillah is based upon any historical resonance at all, it could only be after the destruction of the First Jerusalem Temple in 586 BCE. Sarah’s lifetime is associated with the early Bronze Age (beginning around 3300 BCE). 

That’s a long way downstream. In other words, Rabbi Akiba is saying that when you do something, don’t expect to experience the result – the “reward” for your effort – right away. Teachers, farmers and anyone else who through their work in the world plants a seed – real or metaphorical – has to be willing to believe in results that they may very well not see. You have to be willing to believe in a “downstream”, a future, or even just another place where you do not live, as a reality that is linked to you.

The horizon is only a few miles away, and no one can see further than the curve of the earth, even on a clear day. The world is bigger than our intelligence can grasp or our hearts can fathom. Where it may seem more hopeless than we would like to imagine, there may also be more reason for hope than we can possibly entertain at times like his, and, perhaps, ours.

The Hebrew term used for us when our name is mentioned after we’re dead, zikaron l’vrakha, “may the memory be a blessing” is linked to this knowledge: who we are and what we do resonates after we are no longer around. It’s not very satisfying, but our only other option, “seeing is believing,” is perilously close to giving up on the idea that we can make a difference at all. Seeing is an imperfect sense, anyway, and logic is not a sufficient option for those whose identity is rooted in Jewishness. Jewish meaning is built upon the idea that doing mitzvot matters, not only for the world around us but for our own inner sense of purpose. For whatever is downstream, in gratitude for the fact that we ourselves are downstream from someone else, who planted for us.

The challenge is to believe that what we do matters, even when we can discern no direct proof, or when it seems not likely to be enough, anyway. שכר מצוה מצוה – s’khar mitzvah mitzvah, “the reward of the mitzvah is the mitzvah (itself)”. In these difficult days, may you find the strength you need to keep the faith, and to continue to know that it does matter: the small things you do will make a difference. 

Shabbat Nitzavim: Be Consoled

In this week’s parashah, the scene is set at the beginning:

אַתֶּ֨ם נִצָּבִ֤ים הַיּוֹם֙ כֻּלְּכֶ֔ם לִפְנֵ֖י ה’ אֱלֹ-יכֶ֑ם רָאשֵׁיכֶ֣ם שִׁבְטֵיכֶ֗ם זִקְנֵיכֶם֙ וְשֹׁ֣טְרֵיכֶ֔ם כֹּ֖ל אִ֥ישׁ יִשְׂרָאֵֽל 

You stand this day, all of you, before your G!d ‘ה —your tribal heads, your elders, and your officials, every person in Israel (Deut. 29.9)

The narrative which follows indicates that a covenant is being made on that very day, and not only with those who were present:

כִּי֩ אֶת־אֲשֶׁ֨ר יֶשְׁנ֜וֹ פֹּ֗ה עִמָּ֙נוּ֙ עֹמֵ֣ד הַיּ֔וֹם לִפְנֵ֖י ה’ אֱלֹ-ינוּ וְאֵ֨ת אֲשֶׁ֥ר אֵינֶ֛נּוּ פֹּ֖ה עִמָּ֥נוּ הַיּֽוֹם

both with those who are standing here with us this day before our G!d ‘ה and with those who are not with us here this day. (Deut. 29.14)

That’s how it has always been for us; we were all there, in some way. An old Jewish tradition cheerfully speculates that if you feel you know someone you’ve never met, perhaps you were standing near them at Sinai.

The people are not actually at Sinai in this parashah, but standing on the edge of the land they had traveled forty years to see. Depending on which scholar you ask, this is the second or maybe third “covenant moment” described by the Torah. But for those of us who feel we are inheritors of this story, it doesn’t matter. We may have been in the south Sinai wilderness or we may have been at the steppes of Moab, it’s not about the geography of the land – but rather of the heart.

This is the seventh and final Shabbat of the Seven Weeks of Consolation that bring us from the depths of sadness and despair which characterize Tisha B’Av, all the way (up?) to the New Year. As we will recite in the liturgy, “may the old year and its curses end, may the new year and its blessings begin!”

Are you consoled yet? Maybe not, if consolation requires healing or signs of a great victory over the evil of our days in the offing. Yet our tradition insists that we celebrate Rosh HaShanah together and seek joy – and believe in its reality – in the New Year. 

Our parashah reminds us of the grounding for that joy: we are all standing here together, or, as we repeat whenever we celebrate a brit mitzvah,  כל ישראל ערבים זה לזה “we are all guarantors for each other.” This doesn’t mean that we are one in opinion (has v’halilah, G!d forbid), but rather that we all have our place.

What is this holy geography? Certainly, it’s somewhat rocky and full of surprises, with a challenging terrain of questions and problems. Just as our ancestors experienced at this time, the geography of our hearts is uncertain and our way forward is unclear. 

But we are not alone and naked of meaning. We are blessed with belonging to a rich, complicated, and spiritually endless story, of which we are an integral part. We, too, after all, stood at Sinai. We, too, inherit and carry on. 

There is a kind of joy in having a place, in not being alone in a meaningless void. It doesn’t make the problems of life all better, but it is a support that can help us maintain our sense of self and purpose when the days we face are too bitter with fear to meet alone. 

According to another very old Jewish teaching, HaShem tells us what day to celebrate – in this case, the first day of Tishri – and it is up to us to declare which day that is. In other words, it’s not a holy day unless we observe it as one – unless we make it real. On the last Shabbat before the Jewish year 5786 begins, may we find a way to continue: with each other, encouraging each other, believing in our shared path. By believing in it, we will make it real.

I believe in the sun, though it be dark; 

I believe in God, though God be silent; 

I believe in compassion, though it be unable to reveal itself.*

May the New Year be one of blessing and of sweetness in unexpected places.