Shabbat Akharei Mot-Kedoshim: “after death, holiness.”

Regardless of what I might want to write about on this Shabbat, like any Torah commentator I am guided, bidden and challenged by the parashat hashavua, the assigned parashah of the week. This week it is a double parashah: Akharei Mot and Kedoshim, “after death” and “holiness.” This is a not-unusual pairing, but it seems that each time it comes around, there is a new way to interpret these two concepts and how they are juxtaposed.

Akharei Mot refers to the death of two young men who were just starting out on their life journey. They had just been consecrated to the newly created priesthood of HaShem. On their first day, something went wrong, and all their good intentions and dedication, surrounded by all the support and love of the community, could not protect them from death. Death: the end of all hopes, all dedication, all vision of the future.

The tradition of Jewish commentary on the parashat hashavua, the week’s reading, is predicated upon the idea of conversation with those who have recorded their interpretations before me. We often begin with Rashi, that singular and greatest of commentators of all; and from his questions and insights we continue with two thousand years of those others who have brought to bear grammar, philosophy, midrash and mysticism upon the text of the Torah, the better to understand its relevance to us.

Nor is the current moment to be ignored. As I fly from the State of Israel toward the U.S. in these moments of reflection, I can’t help but notice the eternally unchanging presence of the fluffy white clouds above Greece, and then the European mainland. What a contrast to the fleeting nature of our lives! All our strivings and all our stresses, they pass, and the clouds and the wind and the sea and the sky remain.

Sad news of more confirmations of hostage deaths has come to us this week, and, perhaps even more tragic, the news that the Netanyahu government has assigned the rescue of remaining hostages the lowest priority in the ongoing war against Hamas. It is a nightmare to watch a video released by Hamas of human beings who have become aware that their lives are considered expendable by the community that they thought would do everything for them, even as they would do everything for it.

Faced as we are by so much death, of Israelis and of Palestinians who are also innocent victims of people with the power of the weaponry of death in their hands, we would be well justified in asking what is akharei mot about it, what is “after death”? When will we see the end of the murder of innocents barely started on the journey of life, whether young adults inducted into the Israeli army or young Gazans dying right now of famine induced by powers beyond their control, and not at all inevitable?

Our ancestors sought answers not in stars and constellations, and not in sweeping generalities, but in tiny details of the moment, and one such is this juxtaposition of the two parshiyot of our week. “After death” is followed by “holiness.” Not even a comma interposes; what might further investigation of the small details reveal? 

“Holiness” in our Jewish tradition is not piousness, nor it is righteousness (that is a much later Christian overlay of meaning); rather, the Hebrew root ק ד ש is a technical term, which means “set aside for a specific purpose.” As my flight moves out of range of Houthi death-seeking missiles, I too am offered a chance to consider what it means to die, and what it means to live another day. Our tradition urges us to consider that what it means – to die, and to live – might be focused upon purpose. And that the best and highest purpose of a life, lived with conviction and with dedication, is what it means to live a life which is holy. In terms of Jewish thology, this idea summons us toward the vision of a life clarified and focused, clean of boredom and self-absorption.  

“After death, holiness.” In this past two weeks I have been privileged to share the lives of Israeli and Palestinian human beings clinging to their holiness in the face of so much death, so much sadness, so much despair. I have witnessed the courage of those who, in the immortal wistful words of Rodney King, just want to “get along” with each other and with their lives. In the everyday moments of their lives they are demonstrating for us, we  who, for now at least, live further away from the furnace of immanent Eternity.

Death is not the end of love. Those who cause death do not erase the fact that life is beautiful and worthwhile. Contrary to the capitalist saying, those with the gold do not make the rules; the rules of life belong to Eternity. And those rules declare that love is a power as strong as any.

שִׂימֵ֨נִי כַֽחוֹתָ֜ם עַל־לִבֶּ֗ךָ כַּֽחוֹתָם֙ עַל־זְרוֹעֶ֔ךָ כִּֽי־עַזָּ֤ה כַמָּ֙וֶת֙ אַהֲבָ֔ה

Let me be a seal upon your heart, like the seal upon your hand, for love is fierce as death. (Proverbs 8.6)

It’s not easy to remain committed to the single and singular purpose of love in the midst of despair, nor perhaps even to believe in it. This is what it means to be holy; it’s not a passive experience, but an active and committed attitude. It’s the Jewish people at our best, stiff-necked and stubborn enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other along our ancient and unending path: וְאָֽהַבְתָּ֥ לְרֵעֲךָ֖ כָּמ֑וֹךָ  love your neighbor as yourself (Lev. 19.18), interpreted by Rabbi Hillel as אמר לו: דעלך סני לחברך לא תעביד – that which is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor (BT Shabbat 31a). Holiness is not an adjective, but an active verb – not a state of being, but a choice made over and over again.

 As those with weapons of death continue to use them in the Middle East, in Eastern Europe and in Africa, and everywhere else that isn’t included in the news feed of the moment, may we find in the doubling of this week’s parashah an encouraging hint of what our response might be: “after death” as in after life, after sadness as in after joy”: “holiness.” 

Shabbat Tazria-Metzora: Seems To Me

Don’t Believe Everything You Think

Our ancestors dealt with forces beyond their control just as we do; in this week’s parashah, which joins together the parshiyot called Tazria and Metzora, what we read according to the third year of the Triennial Cycle for Torah begins with some kind of moldy growth detected upon the walls of one’s home.

Some kinds of discoloration on a wall are harmless, but some are indications of growths that can destroy the house, or at least its resale value. In ancient Israel the comparable problem was in ascertaining whether the growth would render the house tame’, or ritually impure, or not. And so we find in chapter 14:

וּבָא֙ אֲשֶׁר־ל֣וֹ הַבַּ֔יִת וְהִגִּ֥יד לַכֹּהֵ֖ן לֵאמֹ֑ר כְּנֶ֕גַע נִרְאָ֥ה לִ֖י בַּבָּֽיִת

the owner of the house shall come and tell the priest, saying, “Something like a plague has appeared upon my house.” (Lev. 14.35)

Two aspects of the narrative are striking. The first is that the person who has observed the growth is not allowed to judge what it is. They are merely to say nir’ah li, “it seems to me” that it is “something like a plague”. This is interesting, even provocative. It is on your house; you have observed it; yet you are not allowed in any way to define what is happening.

The second rather surprising aspect of this story is that the first thing that the priest does is to minimize the possible damage:

וְצִוָּ֨ה הַכֹּהֵ֜ן וּפִנּ֣וּ אֶת־הַבַּ֗יִת בְּטֶ֨רֶם יָבֹ֤א הַכֹּהֵן֙ לִרְא֣וֹת אֶת־הַנֶּ֔גַע וְלֹ֥א יִטְמָ֖א כׇּל־אֲשֶׁ֣ר בַּבָּ֑יִת וְאַ֥חַר כֵּ֛ן יָבֹ֥א הַכֹּהֵ֖ן לִרְא֥וֹת אֶת־הַבָּֽיִת׃ 

The priest shall order the house cleared before the priest enters to examine the plague, so that nothing in the house may become unclean; after that the priest shall enter to examine the house.  (Lev. 14.36)

Whatever is in the house when the priest enters to examine the growth is included in whatever diagnosis is reached, but whatever is taken out in advance is spared. This is a clear indication that nothing has a status until it is proclaimed. Not unlike the very act of creation, when according to midrash the first human was invited to name the creatures in order to bring them fully into existence, here also reality must be named before it can be recognized, and before it has influence.

What is compelling here, in terms of human behavior, is not so much that we are summoned to name our reality. That is considered an act of valor: “call it what it is” is a kind of honesty. What is more interesting here is that we are not meant to name our reality by ourselves. We are not to reach a conclusion without checking in with someone else. In ancient Israel, it was the local priest. With us, it might mean an appointment with a therapist, or a rabbi, or a reliable, impartial frend.

In these complicated and frightening days, we are flooded with declarations of what is: the world is ending, or it is being saved. We who have been taught to trust our gut, to go with our own insights, may be having a hard time deciding, all by ourselves, the fate of the world. We could do worse than to remember to say nir’ah li, “it seems to me”, and to consult, and to seek insight, beyond our own understanding.

In this week in which the Jewish world has lived through another Yom HaShoah in which we remember the horrors of the Holocaust, and not long afterward Yom HaZikaron (remembrance day) and Yom HaAtzma’ut (Israel independence day), we would do well to refrain from quick and individual judgement. Say nir’ah li, “it seems to me,” and consult beyond yourself; be not so quick to judge or to be sure, whether you consider disaster or redemption more likely to be in the offing.

From mourning those lost to violence, to making the effort to reach out a hand of support and connection to those who share our home with us, to simply remembering to be in awe of human resilience and compassion in the worst of times, these are intense days for all of us who feel with the medieval poet Yehudah HaLevi “my heart is in the East, and I am in the uttermost West.” May Shabbat bring a sense of the longed-for sukkah of peace and may we feel it spread over us.

Shabbat Shemini: They Must Deserve It

There but for the grace of HaShem

וַיֹּ֨אמֶר מֹשֶׁ֜ה אֶֽל־אַהֲרֹ֗ן הוּא֩ אֲשֶׁר־דִּבֶּ֨ר ה’ ׀ לֵאמֹר֙ בִּקְרֹבַ֣י אֶקָּדֵ֔שׁ וְעַל־פְּנֵ֥י כׇל־הָעָ֖ם אֶכָּבֵ֑ד וַיִּדֹּ֖ם אַהֲרֹֽן׃ 

Then Moses said to Aaron, “This is what ‘ה meant by saying: through those near to Me I show Myself holy, and will be respected before all the people.” Aaron was silent. (Lev. 10.3)

On this Shabbat we read of the tragic deaths of Nadav and Abihu, two young men on their first day working in the newly-established priesthood serving HaShem on behalf of the Israelites. We understand very little of the Torah’s account as it is preserved, and what we do have is so troubling that trying to understand it has been the aspiration of many a midrash.

Most of the interpretations given to this passage assume that the punishment fits the crime. Using the tools at their disposal to try to explain, the rabbis note the juxtaposition of a rule that requires priests not to drink alcohol on the job and deduce that Nadav and Abihu must have been drunk, and so were punished. Another midrash interprets through the Torah’s description of their bringing of “strange fire that had not been commanded” that the two of them were disrespectful of the established ways and were impatient to take over and innovate. 

What many interpretations share is the desire to justify their treatment; they must have deserved it. The ways of HaShem, they seem to feel, must not only be just, they must be always justifiable. This way of thinking is ultimately nothing other than self-interest. If I can see the logic in what happened to them, I can avoid it, and thus be safe; and from our natural interest in self-preservation it is only a short step to dehumanization of the other, who is not me. If it is happening to them and I am not them, then I am safe from what happened to them. 

If there is no logic to this thinking, then uncertainty, and anxiety, must ensue. The ultimate impact of the escape from uncertainty is cruelty. And so HaShem is seen as arbitrarily cruel, when it is our own assessment that leads to that conclusion.

This seemingly innocent tool of thinking is not morally neutral. Proceeding from the assumption that events have reasons can and does lead us to a place of moral judgement. It is  only the belief that events may be mysterious that leaves room for kindness. It is only when we can face our anxiety free of the burden to find meaning for it that we can make room, strangely enough within the anxiety and the uncertainty, for empathy and kindness.

In Tomer Devorah the great scholar Moshe Cordovero offers us an ethical practice greater than discerning how another person deserves what has happened to them: when we  remember that we are created in the divine Image, and that we are capable of not only expressing all the divine characteristics of being, we can come to see that what we act out is what exists in the world. 

כְּפִי מַה שֶּׁיִּתְנַהֵג כָּךְ מַשְׁפִּיעַ מִלְמַעְלָה וְגוֹרֵם שֶׁאוֹתָהּ הַמִּדָּה תָּאִיר בָּעוֹלָם

As a person acts below, so [too] will one merit to open for oneself the highest trait above – exactly as one acts, so will there be a flow from above. And one will cause that trait to shine in the world. (Moshe Cordovero, Tomer Devorah, 1.14)

The trait Cordovero names as being the highest expression of the divine in the world? it is not justice, nor certainty, nor even peace – it is mercy. HaShem’s most holy presence in the world is adumbrated by kindness. 

We don’t know why Nadav and Abihu died. We don’t know why the person living in a tent down the street lost everything. And we do not know why suffering comes to us in unequal measures in this world. All we know is that our ancient and well-traveled Jewish tradition asserts that the answer to our sadness and our fear is not to be found in logic, but in love.

Shabbat Pesakh 5785: Uncertainty

What if this Pesakh

We recall precarity

Versus redemption?

– Jen Van Meter

This year Shabbat occurs on the seventh day of Pesakh. The Torah story assigned to this day recalls the most uncertain time of all in the course of our ancestors’ redemption. First, HaShem leads us on a deliberately circuitous route to avoid contact with any other human encampments; second, HaShem then leads us in a reverse course, in order to lure Pharaoh into what will ultimately be a fatal pursuit. Finally, exactly that happens, and we find ourselves trapped between the Sea of Reeds on one side and the approaching Egyptian army on the other – the Jewish version of being caught between Scylla and Charybdis. 

Uncertainty just at the outset of carefully devised plan has a murderous impact on morale. There is something about the first steps of carrying out a plan that is so tentative, as we wonder whether we’ve worked it out correctly, whether our assumptions will prove true, and whether we can trust each other in the process. So when it all seems to go wrong, our ancestors are quick to conclude the worst; their words to Moshe have always seemed to me to be the first demonstrable example of sarcasm in our ancient literature:

וַיֹּאמְרוּ֮ אֶל־מֹשֶׁה֒ הֲֽמִבְּלִ֤י אֵין־קְבָרִים֙ בְּמִצְרַ֔יִם לְקַחְתָּ֖נוּ לָמ֣וּת בַּמִּדְבָּ֑ר מַה־זֹּאת֙ עָשִׂ֣יתָ לָּ֔נוּ לְהוֹצִיאָ֖נוּ מִמִּצְרָֽיִם׃ 

And they said to Moses, “Was it for want of graves in Egypt that you brought us to die in the wilderness? What have you done to us, taking us out of Egypt?” (Ex. 14.11)

Human nature hasn’t changed much since then; we are still quick to assume that all is lost when things seem to go wrong, and often act with great alacrity to blame someone else for it. And very few of us are comfortable in moments of uncertainty. A lot of bad theology emerges from the human desire to believe something certain rather than accept mystery at the heart of life.

There is, however, another choice, midway between assuming failure and accepting mystery, and that is to balance them both in an awareness of time. HaShem is an expression of all Place and all Time, and you and I are each one individual nexus within that reality. As long as we live, we move with HaShem, at each moment of our lives occupying exactly one position in which time and space converge in us, and every moment, by the nature of time and space, we are also moving from one position to another. We are not static. Every moment brings the possibility of a new awareness, a change in circumstance, a different perspective. 

It took the Israelites forty years to learn that a spiritual path takes time – indeed, it takes a lifetime. The path we as a kehillah kedoshah, a holy community, follow together will always be part mystery, part uncertainty, and part assumption that will be proved wrong as often as not.

When we face uncertainty, if we have enough willingness to show each other Hesed, grace, we will emerge better than when we started, as we move, each of us and all of us together, in the Eternal circles of our shared and our solitary existence.

Pre Pesakh Primer: All Things Hametz

שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵּילוֹת אָנוּ אוֹכְלִין חָמֵץ וּמַצָּה, הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה כֻלּוֹ מַצָּה.

On all other nights we eat hametz and matzah, tonight only matzah. (Mishnah Pesakhim 10.4) 

Happy new year! The Jewish month of Nissan began on Saturday evening, and with it, the calendar year of our people.

The first of three harvest festivals is only two weeks away. The observance of Pesakh, also called Passover, obliges us to live differently (even as our other new year in the fall is marked by Yom Kippur, a day on which we live differently from the norm). Each year, throughout the Jewish world, the old is discarded or recycled, and the new is celebrated.

Pesakh begins at sundown on 14 Nissan, which is Saturday evening, the close of Shabbat, April 12 2025. 

Here is a review of the most important aspects of our celebration:

Before Saturday evening April 12, all hametz is removed from the possession of any Jewish person. What you are unable to eat or give away should be packaged safely and put away in a designated area. Make a list of all that you have hidden away and sell it for the duration of the festival of matzah. You can do that using a handy on line form provided by our friends at Chabad here: Hametz Sale On Line

This year, the timing is the tricky part. Pesakh begins at the close of Shabbat this year. That means that we have to clean for Pesakh before Shabbat. Therefore: from Friday April at noon until Sunday evening April 20 at sundown, all Jews should have no leavening in their possession, except what you are planning to eat on Shabbat. The cleaning takes place before that, and should be done by Friday before Shabbat begins.

You should do the ritual blessing of bedikat hametz and bi’er hametz (looking for and getting rid of your hametz) on Friday afternoon. You can find the ritual in the first pages of many haggadot, or click HERE.

After you clean, your hallah or whatever other hametz foodstuff which you are having for Shabbat before Pesakh begins should be kept in one designated area of your living area; everything else should be cleaned of any hametz by then.

What is hametz? The Torah is specific:

שִׁבְעַ֤ת יָמִים֙ מַצּ֣וֹת תֹּאכֵ֔לוּ אַ֚ךְ בַּיּ֣וֹם הָרִאשׁ֔וֹן תַּשְׁבִּ֥יתוּ שְּׂאֹ֖ר מִבָּתֵּיכֶ֑ם כִּ֣י ׀ כׇּל־אֹכֵ֣ל חָמֵ֗ץ וְנִכְרְתָ֞ה הַנֶּ֤פֶשׁ הַהִוא֙ מִיִּשְׂרָאֵ֔ל מִיּ֥וֹם הָרִאשֹׁ֖ן עַד־י֥וֹם הַשְּׁבִעִֽי׃ 

Seven days you shall eat unleavened bread; on the very first day you shall remove leaven from your houses, for whoever eats leavened bread from the first day to the seventh day, that person shall be cut off from Israel. (Exodus 12.16) 

Please note that outside of Israel Passover is observed for eight days, not seven.

But the Torah is not specific enough: what is leaven? The rabbis of the Talmud spell it out. We are to clear our homes of all the five types of grain that our ancestors used as food, and to make matzah from any of the five from the new harvest (unleavened because it is new, and there is no time for the dough to rise!) for the celebration:

These are the types of grain with which a person fulfills his obligation to eat matzah on the first night of Passover: With wheat, with barley, with spelt, with rye, and with oats. (Mishnah Pesakhim 2.5)

Because of our concern to fully rid ourselves of all products containing these five grains, many more foodstuffs have been added to the list of what is considered hametz. 

what is forbidden and what is permitted:

  1. Whisky, beer, and other alcohols made from grains is forbidden
  2. Soy sauce and other condiments with wheat added are forbidden
  3. Yeast itself, as well as baking power and baking soda (although these are not hametz, they are too much like it) is avoided
  4. Rice, corn, beans and legumes are not consumed by Ashkenazi Jews, for no clear reason other than they 1. Look like flour, 2. Can be used to make bread, and/or 3. Swell when cooked (like when bread rises)
  5. Sefardi Jews eat rice, corn, beans and legumes; many Ashkenazi authorities also recommend that Jews not abstain from these foods, but old traditions are still very strong in many places, and each family should follow their own familiar minhag.
  6. Gluten free matzah is permitted, but it does not fulfill the halakhic obligation during the Seder to consume a single bite of matzah made of one of the five classic grains: wheat, barley, spelt, rye, oats.

Where possible, different plates and cooking utensils are utilized. Items like pots and pans and cookie sheets can be run through a dishwasher or put in an oven set to its highest heat to kasher them. The oven itself should be kashered in the same way; countertops can be cleaned with boiling water, and some people cover them with aluminum foil. A toaster cannot be kashered for Pesakh, but a toaster oven can be if necessary.

You do not have to eat matzah all week; the halakhic obligation is to eat an olive’s worth during the seder (about a bite, not even a mouthful).

If you are so completely gluten intolerant that eating one bite of such matzah would endanger your life or your well-being, you may not do so. 

Spiritually, regardless of your regular dietary restrictions, it is important that this week be treated differently in terms of the way you eat. Matzah is so central to the holy day that it is literally called hag haMatzot, the Festival of Matzot. Since eating is life, and all life depends upon the harvest, this eight day festival of gratitude depends on our mindfulness of all we are taking into our bodies as sustenance.

רַבָּן גַּמְלִיאֵל הָיָה אוֹמֵר, כָּל שֶׁלֹּא אָמַר שְׁלֹשָׁה דְבָרִים אֵלּוּ בְּפֶסַח, לֹא יָצָא יְדֵי חוֹבָתוֹ, וְאֵלּוּ הֵן, פֶּסַח, מַצָּה, וּמָרוֹר

Rabban Gamliel always said: Whoever does not speak of these three things on Pesakh has not fulfilled the obligation: Pesakh, matzah, and maror. (Mishnah Pesakhim 10.5)

Shabbat Pekudey/HaHodesh: once more, with kavvanah!

וַיַּ֨רְא מֹשֶׁ֜ה אֶת־כׇּל־הַמְּלָאכָ֗ה וְהִנֵּה֙ עָשׂ֣וּ אֹתָ֔הּ כַּאֲשֶׁ֛ר צִוָּ֥ה יְהֹוָ֖ה כֵּ֣ן עָשׂ֑וּ וַיְבָ֥רֶךְ אֹתָ֖ם מֹשֶֽׁה

When Moses saw that they had performed all the tasks—as the LORD had commanded, so they had done—Moses blessed them. (Ex. 39.43)

One of the fascinating aspects of Torah study is how archaeological discoveries often offer  adjustments to what we think we know, as they inform and disrupt our learning. Midrash and speculation are endlessly rich and exciting, but there’s nothing like actual concrete (more likely, rock) evidence of ancient religious practice and spiritual belief.

On this Shabbat Pekudei, named for the Torah reading of the week, we reach the last parashah of the book of Exodus as well as the last of the retellings of the building of the mishkan. By dint of the calendar this is also Shabbat HaHodesh, literally “the Shabbat of The Month.” By this is meant the first month of the Jewish year, the month of Nisan; on this Shabbat we announce that the month of Pesakh is beginning.

Our ancestors celebrated Pesakh by traveling to Jerusalem in what is called in English “pilgrimage.” In Hebrew the festival is referred to as a hag, a word related to the ritual of walking around the altar in procession – this procession was apparently a high point of all three of our harvest festivals, Pesakh, Shavuot and Sukkot. (If you’d like to see the closest relative to that ritual extant today, you have to go to the live cameras trained on the ka’aba in Mecca). 

It’s interesting to learn that according to the archaeological evidence, already a long time ago our ancestors were developing a ritual for those who could not make the trip. We can zoom in, or visit a live cam, and their equivalent is possibly that which is pictured in the photo above. 

The Magdala Stone is, as near as we can tell from how it is carved and where it was found, meant to provide a sense of being connected to the Jerusalem Temple when one was forced to remain at a distance. The stone itself is carved with all kinds of references to the central Shrine: the top may be meant to show the bread put out each week, and the Temple pillars are carved on the sides.

Look closer, and one sees something depicted inside the Temple, behind and partially obscured by the pillars: possibly, maybe, it could be the wheels of the merkavah, the chariot described by Ezekiel in the opening vision of his book – a chariot upon which HaShem was conveyed.

Pekudei is about so many myriad details that go into constructing the mishkan; Shabbat HaHodesh is likewise a reminder of the many details of preparing for Pesakh and the Seders we will celebrate together, G!d wiling. One might catch oneself in recoil from even more details that add to the overwhelm of our days. The Magdala Stone can serve us as a tangible reminder: all of life is a myriad of details, and the to-do lists will never be done.  All those details, done well and carried out with kavvanah, intention, become a construction within which we will find the Presence of holiness. More: we will not find it otherwise.

Once more, then, beloveds, with kavvanah: into the details of the mishkan: the moments and the mitzvot of our lives.

Shabbat VaYak’hel/Parah: Every Little Bit

לֹא עָלֶיךָ הַמְּלָאכָה לִגְמֹר, וְלֹא אַתָּה בֶן חוֹרִין לִבָּטֵל מִמֶּנָּה.

It is not up to you to finish the work – yet neither are you free to give up. (Pirke Avot 2.26)

Our parashat hashavua might seem to be a boring, overly detailed account of every little detail that went into the actual construction of the mishkan, the holy space our ancestors set to building this week. But Torah has a way of smacking us in the face with messages we can’t necessarily see at first glance. You have to dig for them.

There’s something off-putting about a plethora of details; it’s overwhelming. And “overwhelming” is precisely the response that so many of us have been experiencing to the flood of evil coming from the Federal government since even before the inauguration of the current occupier of the U.S. presidential office. It’s the kind of flood that causes us to lose our balance and our sense of direction, and we are tempted to withdraw. There’s only so much anxiety over the fate of the world that jangled nerves can take.

In the opening of our reading in this third year of the Triennial Torah Reading Cycle, we see:

וַיַּ֥עַשׂ אֶת־הַקְּרָשִׁ֖ים לַמִּשְׁכָּ֑ן עֲצֵ֥י שִׁטִּ֖ים עֹמְדִֽים׃ 

They made the planks for the Tabernacle of acacia wood, upright. (Ex. 36.20)

We go on to read about these planks for several verses. Exactly how long and tall they were, exactly where they were to be placed, exactly how many. And then comes the description of how they are to be put into place, with

וְאַרְבָּעִים֙ אַדְנֵי־כֶ֔סֶף עָשָׂ֕ה תַּ֖חַת עֶשְׂרִ֣ים הַקְּרָשִׁ֑ים

forty silver sockets under the twenty planks (Ex. 36.24)

There are twenty planks on each long side of the enclosure, measuring out the length of the mishkan, and each is supported by these silver sockets, which in Hebrew are אַדְנֵי־כֶ֔סֶף – adney kesef. “Silver sockets” in English isn’t saying much, but when we stop to consider the Hebrew and its spelling we are confronted with a hint a mile wide and many cubits deep. These sockets are each spelled with the same letters as those that spell out the most holy and awesome and unpronounceable Name of HaShem. Alef, dalet, nun, and yud. 

It’s as if each of these little sockets is, can we say this, like a piece of G!d. As our ancestors regularly said when they were able to utter something impossible, “if it wasn’t written, I could never have said this,” but here is אדני over and over again in this passage. 

Insistently it keeps presenting itself to our eyes: lots of little echoes of the big holy. It’s trying to tell us something. Even as no one Israelite was responsible for building the mishkan, so no one of us is meant to Save the Day in our own day. Human beings are not SuperBeings; we are, however, created in the Image of Holiness; this passage reminds us that every small action, such as being one of many, many small silver sockets, can and must be suffused with holiness. 

Holiness here is very much to be understood in the ancient Israelite sense of wholeness. To be holy is to be fully dedicated to the purpose. It is to act with integrity, with a sense of one’s full devotion, and with groundedness in where we come from – even if we cannot know where we are going.

Shabbat urges us to take seriously the concept of rest in our lives. We are not machines, and we must take time off, and that time must be nurturing. This week, parashat VaYakhel emphasizes that the work is not of a heroic scale – although it is, we can see, a certain kind of heroism to believe in the holiness of the small acts of our lives (otherwise called mitzvot, those acts that make our lives holy).

None of us can do anything alone against what overwhelms us individually; we must see our strength in connecting with each other, and, concomitantly, we must accept that none of us, alone, is enough. The key is not to be perfect; it is to lean to be one’s best, most integrated self, fully – that is, to become holy.

On his deathbed, Rabbi Zusya of Hanipol began to cry uncontrollably and his students and disciples tried hard to comfort him. They asked him, “Rabbi, why do you weep? You are almost as wise as Moses, you are almost as hospitable as Abraham, and surely heaven will judge you favourably.” Zusya answered them: “It is true. When I get to heaven, I won’t worry so much if God asks me, ‘Zusya, why were you not more like Abraham?’ or ‘Zusya, why were you not more like Moses?’  I know I would be able to answer these questions.  After all, I was not given the righteousness of Abraham or the faith of Moses but I tried to be both hospitable and thoughtful.  But what will I say when God asks me, ‘Zusya, why were you not more like Zusya?’ (From Martin Buber’s Tales of the Hasidim, quoted by Rabbi Sylvia Rothschild)

Some days are overwhelming. The only answer is to resist meaninglessness by insisting on the importance of every little thing. Every socket, every plank, every donation, every smile, every hand outstretched, is vitally, foundational important, for each and every moment we are building a holy place.

Shabbat Ki Tisa: Truth requires Mercy

וַיֹּ֕אמֶר לֹ֥א תוּכַ֖ל לִרְאֹ֣ת אֶת־פָּנָ֑י כִּ֛י לֹֽא־יִרְאַ֥נִי הָאָדָ֖ם וָחָֽי׃ 

“you cannot see My face, for a human being may not see Me and live.” (Ex. 33.20)

“You can’t handle the truth.” – Col. Jessup, A Few Good Men, Aaron Sorkin, 1992

This Shabbat we read from parashat Ki Tisa, in close proximity to the story of Purim which we read on this day. 

It could give you mental whiplash: from the fun “children’s holiday” of Purim to the depths of the spiritual chaos that leads to the heresy of the calf. There could be no better way for us to finally internalize the message that Purim is no children’s holiday; it is an ancient tale of political  intrigue, human vulnerability and resourcefulness, and the reality of evil. In short, a tale with no end of current resonance. To juxtapose it to Ki Tisa is to risk opening a new level of learning, down, down, from surface p’shat past imaginative midrash to the level of the disturbing hints of remez.

Purim is ”a holiday made for a postmodern sensibility: a holiday of masks, inversions, comic mockery, concealment of God whose name is never even mentioned in the Megillah.” (Susan Handelman, “Crossing and Recrossing the Void” 2002). What better time to seek out the strange truth hinted at in the old rabbinic play on words observing that Yom Kippur is “yom ki-purim” “a day like Purim”?

On Yom haKippurim, which we generally call by its shorter name of Yom Kippur, we stand before HaShem in a radical awareness of all the ways that we fail to see what is real, and even when we can glimpse it, fail to follow what we do manage to see. Rather than see what is too difficult to accept, we take refuge in the veils of half-truth, partial awareness, and being too busy to think about it.

This Shabbat, the juxtaposition with Ki Tisa forces us to consider a radical concept: we too have replaced HaShem with an idol. We too, having been invited to follow a higher path, have opted for an easier, less complicated life.

For the Israelites, the idol – which should be understood here in a sophisticated way, not easily dismissed, but as that which you believe to be the grounding of your actions and ethics – the idol was made out their presupposed comfort zone. Egyptian imagery of power and precious metal translates for us into belief in power structures and resource accumulation as places of safety. 

The great shock of our days is the revelation (I use the word deliberately) that the Jewish community’s golden calf in our days has become the State of Israel. This inescapable conclusion becomes obvious when we consider the spiritual chaos of Ki Tisa and recognize its resonance in the U.S. Jewish community’s approach to Israel as a Jewish nation-state. The stronger the case is made that a Jewish and Jewish-controlled state is the only way for Jews to be safe and thrive, in the face of the absolutely unJewish behavior of that state, the more the calf holds sway, and the farther we are from HaShem. And the more we condone violence in the name of that safety, the farther still.

The high priest of this idol is the idea of the centrality of the self. When we do what we do because we feel like it, we are serving only the level of comfort and convenience we currently need. We are serving the calf of the veils, and of the self-deception that allows injustice to exist.

On the other hand (the hand of mercy, hesed, of recognizing that we are just weak, scared, and overwhelmed): It’s too hard to look at that remez and know what to do. It’s too difficult: we cannot “see Me and live.” We cannot stand in the face of complete transparency and understanding and survive the shadows of regular, quotidian, day to day life. 

In short, we cannot handle the truth – not for long, anyway. It is too complicated, and too many people will shun not only the remez but anyone who seeks to understand it.

This is the reason we need each other’s compassion, and we need this Place where we come together and, momentarily, find the occasion and the courage to peek behind the veil toward that which pulls us, despite ourselves and our desire for comfort and safety. Like Moshe, we want to see; and like Aaron, we want to live, and we can too clearly see the contradiction between truth and safety.

As we insist in our prayers, HaShem is truth, nothing else. Yet you and I are created in that divine image, and the Psalmist sings that truth springs up from the earth – from us, made of dirt and failure and dreams. (Psalm 85.12)

This is the very adult meaning of the holy day of Purim, this day which urges us to look behind the masks of our regular life and recognize that there is something more toward which we might walk, something truer, which we will never be able to completely see. Yet that vision is what makes our shared journey so beautiful.

חֶסֶד־וֶאֱמֶ֥ת נִפְגָּ֑שׁוּ צֶ֖דֶק וְשָׁל֣וֹם נָשָֽׁקוּ׃ 

Hesed (mercy) and truth meet;

justice and shalom (well-being) kiss. 

(Psalm 85.11)

Shabbat Zakhor: What are we supposed to remember? to forget?

What are we supposed to remember to forget?

Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey, after you left Egypt— how, undeterred by fear of G!d, they surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear. Therefore…you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget! (Deut. 25:17-19)

On this Shabbat we not only read from the regular parashat hashavua, but also add a short reading specifically chosen for our proximity on this last Shabbat before Purim to our yearly encounter with the Megillat Ester, more often called simply “the Megillah.” The Purim story recalls a terrifying time for a vulnerable Jewish population in Persia, and celebrates a miraculous escape from destruction. The special Torah reading evokes the ancestor of the bad guy of Purim (we’re supposed to blot our his name so I won’t say it here): Amalek.

Shrouded in the mists of history, once upon a very long time ago, something horrifying happened to our people at the hands of a murderer we remember by the name Amalek. The Torah recalls how a band we knew as the Amalekites attacked the weakest and most vulnerable among us. As we mourned the terrible loss of innocents unable to defend themselves, we resolved never to forget what happened, and to “blot out the name of Amalek from under heaven.” 

It’s interesting to consider how our traditional Jewish stories resonate less, or more, at different times in our history. Fifty years ago the story of Purim was deracinated down to a children’s tale (albeit with wildly inappropriate music invoking how we happily hanged the enemy); today the more frightening messages that Purim brings to mind require our adult attention. Closer to us in the U.S. we resonate to the idea of the foolish king and the close advisor who is bent on evil for personal enrichment, and, farther away, we face the awful reality that we ourselves, as the Jewish state, seem to be capable of the same kind of massacre as has been visited upon us.

It’s an ancient truth, and we’re not immune, as the Megillah demonstrates. Purim conveys the disturbing message that when they’re coming to kill you, if you can get the upper hand, use it to kill them first. And thus we read in chapter nine:

וּבִשְׁנֵים֩ עָשָׂ֨ר חֹ֜דֶשׁ הוּא־חֹ֣דֶשׁ אֲדָ֗ר בִּשְׁלוֹשָׁ֨ה עָשָׂ֥ר יוֹם֙ בּ֔וֹ אֲשֶׁ֨ר הִגִּ֧יעַ דְּבַר־הַמֶּ֛לֶךְ וְדָת֖וֹ לְהֵעָשׂ֑וֹת בַּיּ֗וֹם אֲשֶׁ֨ר שִׂבְּר֜וּ אֹיְבֵ֤י הַיְּהוּדִים֙ לִשְׁל֣וֹט בָּהֶ֔ם וְנַהֲפ֣וֹךְ ה֔וּא אֲשֶׁ֨ר יִשְׁלְט֧וּ הַיְּהוּדִ֛ים הֵ֖מָּה בְּשֹׂנְאֵיהֶֽם

And so, on the thirteenth day of the twelfth month—that is, the month of Adar—when the king’s command and decree were to be executed, the very day on which the enemies of the Jews had expected to get them in their power, the opposite happened, and the Jews got their enemies in their power. (Esther 9.1)

The haftarah chosen for this Shabbat repeats the command:

עַתָּה֩ לֵ֨ךְ וְהִכִּיתָ֜ה אֶת־עֲמָלֵ֗ק וְהַֽחֲרַמְתֶּם֙ אֶת־כׇּל־אֲשֶׁר־ל֔וֹ וְלֹ֥א תַחְמֹ֖ל עָלָ֑יו וְהֵמַתָּ֞ה מֵאִ֣ישׁ עַד־אִשָּׁ֗ה מֵֽעֹלֵל֙ וְעַד־יוֹנֵ֔ק מִשּׁ֣וֹר וְעַד־שֶׂ֔ה מִגָּמָ֖ל וְעַד־חֲמֽוֹר׃

Now go, attack Amalek, and proscribe all that belongs to him. Spare no one, but kill alike men and women, infants and sucklings, oxen and sheep, camels and asses!” (I Samuel 15.3)

Right now, in Israel, there are those who invoke this ancient command as justification for the murder of so many human beings in Gaza. Using ancient words to justify a modern horror is not unknown: preachers in the south of the U.S. justified slavery similarly. It’s a great comfort to discover that our rabbis of the Talmud unhesitatingly denounced this evil:

The Sages taught in a baraita…Among the descendants of Haman were those who studied Torah in Bnei Brak. And even among the descendants of that wicked person, Nebuchadnezzar, were those whom the Holy Blessed One sought to bring beneath the wings of the Divine Presence. (Mishnah Yadayim 4.4)

What an amazing idea. The prophet Samuel, the Megillah, and even HaShem all command that we eradicate not only the people but even the memory of the people of Amalek, and a couple of rabbis of the Talmudic era, not even prominent enough to be mentioned by name, nix the idea completely. They observe that because of a verse in Isaiah, we can no longer be certain of the identity of any of our neighbors: Sanheriv, king of Assyria, already arose and blended all the nations, as it is said, “I have removed the borders of nations.” (Isaiah 10.13)

Many commentaries since then have upheld this same idea: 

How do we know that we can make peace with Amalek?…should they [the Amalekites] repent and accept upon themselves the seven commandments, it is clear that they are not holding onto the deeds of their forefathers, and thus they cannot be punished for the sins of their fathers. (R Avraham Borenstein, Avnei Netzer: Orakh Hayim 2.508)

Consider the great compassionate strength of these ancestors of our people, beaten down so hard by so much of our Exile experience, yet able to insist that the old idea of Retribution Forever was not applicable. Especially when we see Jewish thugs cloaking themselves in religious texts soundbitten out of all context and recognition, we need to remember this: when “religion” seems to be telling you to do something that doesn’t seem very much in line with religious teachings like “give the benefit of the doubt” or “respect the other as you wish to be respected”, it may be that there is a grievous misunderstanding.

It is perfectly understandable when a people under attack and helpless remembers Amalek as we try to make sense of what is happening to us. It is perfectly indefensible when we use the same story to do to others that which is hateful to us (the original formulation of the “golden rule”, attributed to the great Rabbi Hillel). 

One of the most insightful interpretations of the Amalek story invites us to remember that Amalek lives inside each of us, and that the command to blot out the memory of Amalek under heaven is meant to be understood as the urging to eradicate that Amalek within us. We can understand that inner Amalek as the temptation to betray others:

  1. Not acting because I’m not directly affected
  2. Withdrawing from a community to protect myself alone
  3. Separating myself because I feel unappreciated 
  4. Shutting off from the outside due to feeling overwhelmed 
  5. Taking care only of my own loved ones

“Devil take the hindmost”, another name for Amalek, preys on weakness and fear. We are called upon in these days of all too much awareness of our weakness and our fear to remember to forget. Forget Amalek. Blot it out. 

Shabbat Terumah: The Gift of Kindness

אֵין צְדָקָה מִשְׁתַּלֶּמֶת אֶלָּא לְפִי חֶסֶד שֶׁבָּהּ, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: ״זִרְעוּ לָכֶם לִצְדָקָה וְקִצְרוּ לְפִי חֶסֶד״

The extent to which the tzedakah you do takes root depends entirely upon the extent of the kindness in it, for it is said, “Sow to yourselves according to tzedakah, but reap according to the kindness.” – BT Sukkah 49b

This Shabbat we mark the beginning of the month of Adar, that month when we are taught 

מִשֶּׁנִּכְנַס אֲדָר מַרְבִּין בְּשִׂמְחָה mi shenikhnas Adar, marbim b’simkha, “when the month of Adar begins, one increases rejoicing.” (BT Ta’anit 29b) To be told to be happy may strike you as absurd given the reality of our days right now in the United States, but consider Jewish tradition: there is nothing more powerful than joy. It dispels despair, even if only for a moment. Think of the hallowed stories of our people dancing and singing in the face of death. If Jews rounded up in a field outside Lublin by Nazis could sing defiance in those moments, what can we learn from that courage? (Read the full story HERE.) 

Like anything else in life, it cannot be anticipated: this is the courage you didn’t know you were ever going to need. No one rehearses for a moment like that. So the lesson is not that we can practice our way to joy. One cannot control emotions, much less summon them at will. That’s not how we humans are.

So what can we do, when challenged by the question of how to “be happy, because it’s Adar”? One truth seems well-founded: you will not become happy by working at becoming happy. When we become preoccupied with our own happiness, it becomes, if anything, more elusive. Instead, why not help each other feel joy? If we all do it, then no one will be left out. The question is how? 

Our parashat hashavua this week is named terumah, “gift” or “donation.” It’s worth noting that two of the four mitvot associated with Purim are about making other people happy through giving them something (matanot l’evyonim, to those in need, and gifts to friends just because). Jewish ethics holds that gifts given grudgingly are still better than not given at all, but that the best gift is one that is given in kindness, as explained in this Talmudic source:

תָּנוּ רַבָּנַן: בִּשְׁלֹשָׁה דְּבָרִים גְּדוֹלָה גְּמִילוּת חֲסָדִים יוֹתֵר מִן הַצְּדָקָה. צְדָקָה — בְּמָמוֹנוֹ; גְּמִילוּת חֲסָדִים — בֵּין בְּגוּפוֹ, בֵּין בְּמָמוֹנוֹ. צְדָקָה — לָעֲנִיִּים; גְּמִילוּת חֲסָדִים — בֵּין לָעֲנִיִּים בֵּין לָעֲשִׁירִים. צְדָקָה — לַחַיִּים; גְּמִילוּת חֲסָדִים — בֵּין לַחַיִּים בֵּין לַמֵּתִים

Our rabbis taught: In three respects gemilut hasadim is superior to tzedakah: tzedakah can be done only with one’s money, but gemilut hasadim can be done with one’s person and one’s money. Tzedakah can be given only to the poor, but gemilut hasadim both to the rich and the poor. Tzedakah can be given to the living only, gemilut hasadim can be done both to the living and to the dead (BT Sukkah 49b)

Rabbi Elazar follows up in the next paragraph:

 אֵין צְדָקָה מִשְׁתַּלֶּמֶת אֶלָּא לְפִי חֶסֶד שֶׁבָּהּ, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: ״זִרְעוּ לָכֶם לִצְדָקָה וְקִצְרוּ לְפִי חֶסֶד״

The extent to which the tzedakah you do takes root depends entirely upon the extent of the kindness in it, for it is said, “Sow to yourselves according to tzedakah, but reap according to the kindness.” – BT Sukkah 49b

Commenting hundreds of years later, the great Rabbi Shlomo Yitzhaki (better known as Rashi, the famous acronym of his title and name) sharpens the point :

“Only according to the hesed in it” — The giving is the tzedakah and the effort [of giving] is the hesed. For instance, delivering it to the other’s house, or making an effort to ensure that it will be worth more to the recipient, such as giving baked bread; or clothes to wear; or coins when produce is readily available so the latter will not waste the money; that is, a person applies their heart and mind to the benefit of the [other] person. 

It may seem that getting caught up in just how to be kind to one other person in your community is not going to do much to save the world, but in truth, it is all that is within our power. If in so doing you are able to bring a little bit of joy to someone who knows they are not forgotten, that they are cared about, that mitzvah will do more than all the worry and planning in the world to lighten your own heart for a moment. You cannot save the world; but you can, maybe, for a moment, lighten someone else’s burden, and in so doing relieve your own. Be happy; it’s Adar.