Shabbat Mishpatim: Narrow Bridge

וְדַע, שֶׁהָאָדָם צָרִיךְ לַעֲבֹר עַל גֶּשֶׁר צַר מְאֹד מְאֹד, וְהַכְּלָל וְהָעִקָּר – שֶׁלֹּא יִתְפַּחֵד כְּלָל

Know that a person needs to cross a very very narrow bridge, and the rule, the essence, is to not give in to fear at all. Rebbe Nahman of Bratslav, Likkutei Mohoran II.48

וַיֹּ֨אמֶר יְהוֹשֻׁ֜עַ אֶל־הָעָ֗ם לֹ֤א תֽוּכְלוּ֙ לַעֲבֹ֣ד אֶת־יְהֹוָ֔ה כִּֽי־אֱלֹהִ֥ים קְדֹשִׁ֖ים ה֑וּא אֵל־קַנּ֣וֹא ה֔וּא לֹא־יִשָּׂ֥א לְפִשְׁעֲכֶ֖ם וּלְחַטֹּאותֵיכֶֽם

Joshua, however, said to the people, “You will not be able to serve the ETERNAL—who is a holy God, a jealous one – and who will not abide your transgressions and your sins.” (Joshua 24.19)

In 1920 a play was presented by the writer and playwright Shalom Aleichem at the Second Avenue Yiddish Art Theatre in New York City; it was called Shver Tsu Zayn a Yid, “it’s hard to be a Jew.” That hasn’t changed since the people of Israel first arrived in what was supposed to be a safe haven in the land of Canaan, according to the alternate haftarah for this week’s parashat Mishpatim from the Book of Joshua. 

A particularly compassionate modern midrash (created by former journalist and current Israeli opposition leader Yair Lapid) about the death of Moshe Rabbenu in the wilderness suggests that it was not so much a punishment for the legendary leader not to complete the journey, but rather a way to keep him from having to witness the less than dreamy reality. The chaos and confusion, the falling short of expectations, the reversals, defeats and self-doubts fell to Joshua, his successor, to handle.

Last week, we read of the moment when our people (including us ourselves as well) stood at Sinai and encountered a Place where they were all One; with a single mind and a whole heart they, for their sake and ours, committed to the spiritual path we call Judaism. This week, we get the “fine print”: not ten Words but more than fifty mitzvot are presented to us in parashat Mishpatim, and they range from kashrut and treatment of animals to business ethics. 

It’s clear: the Jewish path, called halakhah, “going”, is a path of a distinct and carefully thought out morality. From the beginning, ideals were applied to human situations, and each application, messy and inexact as it would have to be, was to be weighed in the scales of both justice and mercy. 

It sounds lovely. Why, in one of the haftarah readings for this Shabbat, did Joshua warn us that we wouldn’t be able to carry out our intention to follow this path? Is it because we are basically selfish, weak and ornery, as the prophets remind us regularly?

Or is it possible that we might not be able to cling to the path of justice and mercy, Jewish-style, because of fear? What if, on either side of this carefully delineated path, there is nothing but darkness, nothing but endless abyss? What if there is no justification for our days, no security as a reward for our good behavior? 

In these days when we watch as what might have been called normal social expectations of the rule of law and the pursuit of justice in U.S. courts and legislatures are undermined, we become painfully aware of the tenuousness of the social contract that undergirds and defines our lives. We can see that it is a construction, and that it depends on the common belief of all those participating to have meaning.

O the irony: we are watching a breakdown in what we thought we could rely upon in society which echoes the great breakdown of religious belief in the early modern era. In truth, we all need a common belief in something in order to function, and whatever the belief in U.S. law and justice was, for those who held it, they are now reduced to protesting “this is the United States of America, you can’t do that here.” Yet we are, and they do.

How shall a Jew act in these days of uncertainty and growing fear? In one of readings assigned as haftarah for this Shabbat, Joshua outlines the choices: you can go “back” to what your ancestors believed – that is, you can seek out an “originalism” to save you from the moral work of making just judgements where you now find yourself. Or you can follow the ways of the people among whom you now live, and go along with deportations, and harassments, and segregations, and opressions. Or, as Joshua declares in conclusion of his address: וְאָנֹכִ֣י וּבֵיתִ֔י נַעֲבֹ֖ד אֶת־ה “I and my household will serve the Eternal.” (Joshua 24.15)

To “serve the Eternal” is not a free pass to Eden. It is a self-willed determination to keep one’s eyes on the Jewish ethical through line, even as it is revealed to be a swaying tightrope through a darkness that you cannot define or tame. It is to know fear without letting it rule you; to seek meaning with no guarantee of success; it is to hold on to this path, this halakhah, which demands that we do justice because it is just. Not because we will win, but because it is our path, and for us it is the right thing to do.

Shabbat Yitro: Silence

The Still, Small Voice

This week our parashat hashavua narrates a – literally – peak moment in the Israelite story: the revelation at Mt Sinai. It’s a moment that our ancestors assumed was full of intensity and the resultant stress. One midrash goes so far as to aver that our ancestors died when they heard the voice of HaShem, and had to be revived by a phalanx of angels that hurriedly bopped each of us on the nose to bring us back to life (or whatever angels do). The roots of the apprehension sensed by the midrash derive from this Torah verse:

וַיֹּֽאמְרוּ֙ אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֔ה דַּבֵּר־אַתָּ֥ה עִמָּ֖נוּ וְנִשְׁמָ֑עָה וְאַל־יְדַבֵּ֥ר עִמָּ֛נוּ אֱלֹהִ֖ים פֶּן־נָמֽוּת׃ 

“You speak to us,” they said to Moses, “and we will obey; but let not God speak to us, lest we die.” (Ex. 20.16)

Jewish mystics have long disagreed on the impact on a human being of actually encountering the Holy. The 20th century scholar Rudolph Otto called the sense of being in HaShem’s presence the mysterium tremendum, an overwhelm that cannot be expressed in human terms by human senses. The mystics describe it as if you are a drop of water, and HaShem is an endless watery abyss; you are a reflection of HaShem, yes, as a drop of water is to all drops of water, yet once submerged in the ocean, you cease to exist as a separate entity. Thus, they came to the same conclusion; contact between human and HaShem would mean only the end of the human’s consciousness, and even, perhaps, actual physical death. For (maybe only the most meshugge) the mystics, that is an end to be awaited with great anticipation.

At the other end of the same spectrum, another midrash speculates upon what we experienced at Sinai wonders about the content of the revelation: what did our ancestors hear? Was it all ten of the Aseret HaDibrot (“ten utterances”)? Or was that really necessary, since we ought to be able to extrapolate from principles, just as we do in halakhah. Suggesting that the key is in another Torah verse, some (mystically inclined, of course) went so far as to say that we heard nothing at all:

“It is possible that at Sinai we heard nothing from the mouth of G*d other than the letter alef of the first utterance ‘Anochi Ad-nai Elo-echem, I am HaShem your G*d.’ As we read in Exodus 20:15, “And all of the people saw the thunder.” In other words, they saw what is normally heard! At Sinai we saw the letter אevoking the name and presence of G*d…” (Zera Hakodesh – Rabbi Naftali Tzvi Horowitz 19th Cent)

A third approach reminds us that at times, it is silence itself which is most loud for us; a pregnant silence, perhaps, or the silence which descends with a thick blanket of snow. It is within that silence, perhaps, that the most important things can be heard:

Said Rabbi Abbahu in the name of Rabbi Yochanan: When the Holy One gave the Torah, no bird screeched, no fowl flew, no ox mooed, none of the ophanim (angels) flapped a wing, nor did the seraphim (burning celestial beings) chant “Kadosh Kadosh Kadosh (Holy, Holy, Holy!)” The sea did not roar, and none of the creatures uttered a sound. Throughout the entire world there was only a deafening silence as the Divine Voice went forth speaking: Anochi Ad-nai Elo-echa (I am HaShem your G*d)” (Midrash Exodus Rabbah)

What to do with this snow, how to manage the interruptions to normal routines and expectations that it brings? In the midst of the scramble to adjust and adapt, don’t forget to notice it, and to listen. What does this sudden change – this current blast of overwhelm, either in decibels or creepily quiet – what might it allow us to hear, if rather than avoiding, anticipating, or dreading, we stop. And pay attention to it. 

May this Shabbat remind you that we all need a regular moment of quiet, and that we are created with this need, and that to respect that, in defiance of the business of the current cultural moment, is the most important, most subversive message Shabbat can offer. 

Shabbat BeShalakh: “do something” is not enough

A lot happens in this parashat hashavua, from great fear to exulting celebration; running from Pharaoh and certain death turns to dancing with joy, and then, from the sublime to the ridiculous, becomes complaining about the food.

So, too, with our own lives. Epic moments mix with the mundane. Water the plants. Endure the news. Celebrate a birthday. Go grocery shopping; complain that there are no eggs. As if eggs were the problem…

We are less than three weeks into the second Trump Administration and some of us are already feeling completely overwhelmed. The flood of criminal activity and destruction of civic norms brings with it a sense of chaos and encroaching, inevitable evil. We feel that we must do something – anything! 

But that won’t be good enough. Chaos is not effectively answered with chaos. This is a time for careful, critical thinking. Unlike the Hollywood movies with the deus ex machina-style happy ending, where miracles can happen and somebody is revealed to be Superman, this is real life. We are real people with limited power. Indiscriminately throwing ourselves at the problem will only destroy us, and the problem will remain. And while someone among us may well be Moshe Rabbenu, we’ll only know that in retrospect, and anyway we’ll argue with that person most of the time.

In real, human, Jewish terms, we do have options and we do have means, and our first step is to identify them. Just like Archimedes’ fulcrum, we Jews have mitzvot, and they have to be carefully deployed in order to be effective. What are the gifts of our hands? What are we able to do? Let’s take inventory.

Our second step is an inner, spiritual inventory: it is to discern what each of us is able, and willing, to do. Barukh HaShem, thank G!d, we are a community, and as such we can pool our mitzvot efforts so that none of us need feel limited by what we ourselves are capable of doing.

The third step is to act upon what we are able to do. In order to do this effectively, we have to learn from our parashah’s story of the attack of Amalek, the symbol of evil throughout Jewish history. Our narrative records that during the battle of the Amalekites against the Israelites, Moshe stood on a nearby mountain where he could see what was happening. As long as he was able to hold the mateh haElohim, “G!d’s staff” aloft, the Israelites prevailed, and as he tired and lowered his hands, the Amalekites prevailed. What to do?

וִידֵ֤י מֹשֶׁה֙ כְּבֵדִ֔ים וַיִּקְחוּ־אֶ֛בֶן וַיָּשִׂ֥ימוּ תַחְתָּ֖יו וַיֵּ֣שֶׁב עָלֶ֑יהָ וְאַהֲרֹ֨ן וְח֜וּר תָּֽמְכ֣וּ בְיָדָ֗יו מִזֶּ֤ה אֶחָד֙ וּמִזֶּ֣ה אֶחָ֔ד וַיְהִ֥י יָדָ֛יו אֱמוּנָ֖ה עַד־בֹּ֥א הַשָּֽׁמֶשׁ׃ 

But Moses’ hands grew heavy; so they took a stone and put it under him and he sat on it, while Aaron and Hur, one on each side, supported his hands; thus his hands remained steady until the sun set. (Ex. 17.12)

An important teaching here is that none of us is going to survive these days alone. The other is that unless we trust each other to help each other hold up our hands, evil will prevail over us.

I ask you to consider three traditional teachings as we begin to organize:

שְׁמַעְיָה אוֹמֵר, אֱהֹב אֶת הַמְּלָאכָה, וּשְׂנָא אֶת הָרַבָּנוּת, וְאַל תִּתְוַדַּע לָרָשׁוּת 

Shemayah says, “Love work, hate authoritarianism, and do not trust government.” – Pirke Avot 1.10

  1. We live in a surveillance state. We will not be holding meetings to talk about what we might be able to do on line or by email, but only in safe ways. If you believe you will want to be involved in coordinated activity, you must communicate that through word of mouth and by downloading the phone app Signal. Show up in person to already scheduled gatherings, and be patient as word gets around the old-fashioned way.

When Rabbi Zusha was on his deathbed, his students found him in uncontrollable tears. They tried to comfort him by telling him that he was almost as wise as Moses and as kind as Abraham, so he was sure to be judged positively in Heaven. He replied, “When I pass from this world and appear before the Heavenly Tribunal, they won’t ask me, ‘Zusha, why weren’t you as wise as Moses or as kind as Abraham,’ rather, they will ask me, ‘Zusha, why weren’t you Zusha?’ Why didn’t I fulfill my potential, why didn’t I follow the path that could have been mine.” – Tzaddikim list

  1. Each of us must find our strength and our grounding within ourselves so that we can each carry our share of the weight. We must carefully discern what we are personally capable of doing, not in a defeatist way but in a realistic way. You must judge what weight you can carry, and it is unwise and destructive to refuse this.

One had been wandering about in a forest for several days, not knowing which was the right way out. Suddenly they saw another approaching. Their heart leaped with joy.”Now I shall certainly find out which is the right way!” When they neared each other they asked “please, tell me which is the right way. I have been wandering about lost in this forest for several days.” Said the other, “But I do not know the way out either. I too have been wandering about here for many, many days. This I can tell you: do not take the way that I have been taking, for that will lead you astray. And now, let us look for a new way out together.” – Reb Hayim of Tzanz, retold in Shai Agnon, Days of Awe

  1. We will only be able to act if we can trust each other. Building meaningful community has never been more of an imperative for survival. Start by getting to know the Shir Tikvah members closest to you better. Together we must trust that we’ll grow our unique Jewish response to the darkness surrounding us, in ways that are sustainable, and not necessarily noticeable. 

Shabbat Bo: Do Something

וְ֠אַתָּ֠ה אַל־תִּירָ֞א עַבְדִּ֤י יַֽעֲקֹב֙ וְאַל־תֵּחַ֣ת יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל כִּ֠י הִנְנִ֤י מוֹשִֽׁעֲךָ֙ מֵרָח֔וֹק וְאֶֽת־זַרְעֲךָ֖ מֵאֶ֣רֶץ שִׁבְיָ֑ם וְשָׁ֧ב יַעֲק֛וֹב וְשָׁקַ֥ט וְשַׁאֲנַ֖ן וְאֵ֥ין מַחֲרִֽיד׃ 

But you, have no fear, My servant Jacob, Be not dismayed, O Israel! I will deliver you from far away, your folk from their land of captivity; Jacob again shall have calm and quiet, with none to trouble them (Jeremiah 46.27)

In this third and final year of the Triennial Cycle for Torah reading and study, our parashat hashavua brings us to a terrible, inevitable moment:

וַיְהִ֣י ׀ בַּחֲצִ֣י הַלַּ֗יְלָה וַֽיהֹוָה֮ הִכָּ֣ה כׇל־בְּכוֹר֮ בְּאֶ֣רֶץ מִצְרַ֒יִם֒ מִבְּכֹ֤ר פַּרְעֹה֙ הַיֹּשֵׁ֣ב עַל־כִּסְא֔וֹ עַ֚ד בְּכ֣וֹר הַשְּׁבִ֔י אֲשֶׁ֖ר בְּבֵ֣ית הַבּ֑וֹר וְכֹ֖ל בְּכ֥וֹר בְּהֵמָֽה׃ 

In the middle of the night יהוה struck down all the first-born in the land of Egypt, from the first-born of Pharaoh who sat on the throne to the first-born of the captive who was in the dungeon, and all the first-born of the cattle. (Ex. 12.29)

Encountering this narrative now it is easy to understand: this is the denouement, the last of ten awful plagues that killed many innocents, and destroyed a great and sophisticated civilization. The Torah itself shows us the toll that evil takes on so many who had no choice in the matter – which is one symbolic meaning of the death of all first born, right down to the animals. There is no balance here, no sense of cause and effect that can be justified; here there is only tragedy.

Our ancient teachers established this Pesakh story as central to our Jewish identity formation. Every year we recount and remember. Pesakh will come soon enough, but for now as we read the story in the regular minhag, without the stress of arranging a Seder, we have a moment to stop and consider. What are we supposed to learn? Why is this story so central to who we are meant to be?

As always, we bring ourselves, our experience and our context to this moment of Torah encounter. It is not difficult to see the evil of the ancient Pharaoh in acts of the present President and those who surround him; it is terribly easy to behold the plagues that are being let loose upon many innocents.

What we don’t have in these moments is a sense of the denouement; where might there be a turning point? What should we be aiming at, or fighting for, or, even, believing in? In other words, we do not know how many plagues to expect, nor how to anticipate them.

Rabbi Yosei the Galilean says, “Ten plagues were inflicted upon the Egyptians in Egypt, as it is said (Exodus 8:15), ‘It is the finger of God.’ How many plagues are there in one finger? Ten plagues. Henceforth, it should be said that at the sea, fifty plagues were inflicted upon them, as it is said (Exodus 14:31), ‘And Israel saw the great hand.’ A hand has five fingers.” Rabbi Eliezer says, “There were forty plagues, as it is said (Exodus 8:15), ‘It is the finger of God.‘ Tetragon was there, and there were forty plagues in Egypt. And at the sea, two hundred plagues were inflicted upon them, as it is said (Exodus 15:8), ‘His anger sent against them burning hot, fury, and indignation, and distress, a company of destroying angels.’ One distress, two angers, three afflictions, and four companies of destroying angels. Hence, there were two hundred plagues that were inflicted upon them at the sea, as it is said (Exodus 14:31), ‘And Israel saw the great hand which the Lord had used against the Egyptians.’  – Midrash Tehillim 78.10

In this midrash the rabbis envision the spreading effects of tragedy; how can events be defined, and counted? Once unleashed, evil spreads, and multiplies in so many unforeseen ways. They are reminding us that even though in retrospect it seems easy to see what is happening, at the terrible moment, everything is writ large and terrifying.

These are the days that our poetic Jewish tradition was made for: the idea of a single candle in the great darkness is a precious image that reminds us that our work is to keep the light burning. We are first to focus upon what brings light, and then to learn the reality of what it is we see – and who we are that are seeing. We bring our experience, our perspective, our context, with us. It is who we are as human beings; and when we bring the values and ethical guidelines of our people’s ancient teachings with us, it is who we can be as Jews.

Our parashah is called Bo, the imperative form of the verb “come.” Why “come” and not “go”, our ancestors already asked. Because, they answered, “go to Pharaoh” was tried and failed. Moshe had to learn how to “come to Pharaoh” – that is, recognize the Pharaoh in oneself – in order to understand how to act.

Everywhere you turn, people are saying “do something. We have to do something.” But we do not do well when we do not see. We must take time to ask ourselves:

What do you think you have to do, and how are you making the decision?

What do you actually know about what you want to do, and how to do it?

Who else is doing what you want to do, and what can you learn?

Who are you who is seeking to act, and out of what sensibility?

We do not choose the times we live in, but we do have a choice in how to respond – this is the last freedom of the human being. Some will respond to the spreading evil of this moment as citizens of the world. Some will stand upon their sense of belonging to the United States. Some will call their actions those of a leftist, or of a progressive, a liberal, or a conservative.

You are invited to consider your actions as a Jew. Not interchangeable with a Christian on the left, nor with an activist among the progressives, nor, for those who pass as white, with a WASP. 

Jews care about immigrants, because we have so often been immigrants.

Jews defend trans rights, because we respect the Image of G*d in all human beings as HaShem made us.

Jews seek the welfare of the vulnerable, imaged as the “widow, orphan, homeless poor” whom we are commanded to include in our lives and our resources.

Jews encompass all of human expression: Black and brown and white, cis and trans, female and male and nonbinary and questioning, able-bodied and disabled, believing and doubting and heretical, rich and poor. As we assert in our prayer for our country, “we are all equally blessed in the light of HaShem’s presence.”

We are lucky to have this grounding to steady us when we seek it. May you find it with community, in kindness, that will lend you strength to see, and to act in ways that will spread not the effects of plagues, but of healing.

Shabbat VaEra: A Time of Transition

שִׁ֗יר לַֽמַּ֫עֲל֥וֹת אֶשָּׂ֣א עֵ֭ינַי אֶל־הֶהָרִ֑ים מֵ֝אַ֗יִן יָבֹ֥א עֶזְרִֽי׃ עֶ֭זְרִי מֵעִ֣ם יְהֹוָ֑ה עֹ֝שֵׂ֗ה שָׁמַ֥יִם וָאָֽרֶץ׃ 

A song of ascents. I shall lift my eyes to the mountains. Whence shall my help come? 

My help is from HaShem, maker of heaven and earth. (Psalm 121. 1-2) 

Our parashat hashavua picks up the developing story of Moshe demanding that Pharaoh “let My people go” and Pharaoh refusing to be ordered about by a raggedy son of slaves, even if he did grow up in the palace. There have already been three plagues visited upon Egpt, and even the plague-deniers are starting to admit to the king that something is happening beyond their ability to dismiss. 

At the beginning of our reading, HaShem instructs Moshe to up the ante:

וַיֹּ֨אמֶר ה’ אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֗ה הַשְׁכֵּ֤ם בַּבֹּ֙קֶר֙ וְהִתְיַצֵּב֙ לִפְנֵ֣י פַרְעֹ֔ה הִנֵּ֖ה יוֹצֵ֣א הַמָּ֑יְמָה וְאָמַרְתָּ֣ אֵלָ֗יו כֹּ֚ה אָמַ֣ר ה’ שַׁלַּ֥ח עַמִּ֖י וְיַֽעַבְדֻֽנִי׃ 

And ‘ה said to Moses, “Early in the morning present yourself to Pharaoh, as he is coming out to the water, and say to him, ‘Thus says ‘ה: Let My people go that they may worship Me. (Ex. 8.16)

As we seek insight into our own day and time, bringing an awareness of our current situation within the light of our tradition’s experience can bring up some unexpected opportunities for consideration. First of all, Moshe is now told not to approach Pharaoh in the throne room, but in a more pesonal, vulnerable way: in the ruler’s morning bath, or perhaps worship time, at the Nile. The Nile which has always been the source of Egypt’s life and well being, but recently has also been the place from which plagues of blood and frogs have spread.

It is not easy, nor desireable, to see an old and reliable source of safety as a newly threatening place of danger. For our people, safety in the U.S. has been found in assimilation into the larger culture; go along, don’t be distinctive, blend in.

In these moments, though, the word of the Eternal is the opposite: the rescue of the Jewish people will be found in seeing what is different and distinctive:

וְשַׂמְתִּ֣י פְדֻ֔ת בֵּ֥ין עַמִּ֖י וּבֵ֣ין עַמֶּ֑ךָ לְמָחָ֥ר יִהְיֶ֖ה הָאֹ֥ת הַזֶּֽה׃ 

And I will make a distinction between My people and your people. Tomorrow this sign shall come to pass.’” (Ex. 8.19)

Water is a symbol of transition in our tradition: as we celebrate in every tefilah, the Israelites cross through the Sea of Reeds to reach freedom. Perhaps HaShem and Moshe were hoping that Pharaoh’s moment in the Nile would move him past his stubbornness into a new place of discernment – but one has to be willing to entertain the idea, and he was not yet ready.

These things take time. It was ten plagues before Pharaoh could see what was happening; there was much suffering that had to take place. Our people has always understood our own difficult times to be similar to this period, calling it the “birthpangs” of the new order. Something there is that doesn’t love change, and so we have to make our painful way toward the growing that is necessary. 

What is distinctive about the Jewish people is this: we have a tradition that we do not see ourselves as alone, without recourse, at any time. Rather, we are a community that knows that during our difficult times we consider what has to be learned and what has to be done together: we study together, we pray together, we huddle together for warmth.  We seek guidance from our tradition and from each other as well as from what is beyond us. Thus we learn what has to be learned.

When a Jew feels that they are in over their head and don’t know what to do, the traditional first response is to find words. We very often find our words in the Psalms at times like this, especially Psalm 121:

A Ma’alot poem

I will lift up my eyes to the mountains. From where will my help come?

2 My help comes from HaShem, source of heaven and earth.

3 HaShem will not suffer your foot to stumble; the One that keeps you will not slumber.

4 Behold, shall neither slumber nor sleep, the support of Israel.

5 HaShem is your keeper: HaShem is your shade upon your right hand.

6 The sun shall not smite you by day, nor the moon by night.

7 HaShem shall preserve you from all evil, shall preserve your soul.

8 HaShem shall preserve your going out and your coming in from this time forth, 

and for evermore.

In the Hebrew: https://tehilim.co/chapter/121/

First, try words. Let the words of our ancestors help you to find yours. In so doing may we distinguish between our feelings and our reality, and come to terms with what needs to be seen. Then we will perhaps understand what is distinctly ours to do.

Shabbat Shemot: Confronting Pharaoh

The Presidential Inauguration of 2025

וַיֹּ֨אמֶר יְהֹוָ֤ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁה֙ בְּמִדְיָ֔ן לֵ֖ךְ שֻׁ֣ב מִצְרָ֑יִם כִּי־מֵ֙תוּ֙ כׇּל־הָ֣אֲנָשִׁ֔ים הַֽמְבַקְשִׁ֖ים אֶת־נַפְשֶֽׁךָ׃ 

 יהוה said to Moses in Midian, “Go back to Egypt, for all those who sought to kill you are dead.” (Ex. 4.19)

You are not expected to endanger yourself or your community.

You are however expected to do what you can to behave ethically.

The challenge is to discern what is commanded of a person in a particular moment, and the person must be self-aware in order to understand this.

It is true that Moshe Rabbenu had a job to do which no one else could do; with the support of his siblings, and his connection to the holy, Moshe was indisputably (most of the time) seen even by his detractors as uniquely suited to confront Pharaoh and survive to lead the Israelites out of Egypt. But only when the time was right, and when there was no clear danger to him.

These are complicated days for the Jewish community of the U.S. Much has been written and spoken about the natural alignment of Judaism’s values and the U.S. progressive left – and some of it, at least, is wishful thinking. Not only is it easy to demonstrate where Jewish values also sometimes align with conservative politics, it is also not difficult to see where the U.S. left is not always welcoming to Jews.

Our ancestors taught that in order to be effective in the world – in order to align with Eternity – one must first know oneself and realistically assess one’s capacities, limitations, and potential. Only when we wield our talents responsibly do we have a chance to doing what only we can do.

At a time when Jews are targeted, it is not realistic to believe in safety in a non-Jewish place. As much as Jews have tried to assimilate into the U.S. social justice sphere, we are not always welcome there, and to become aware of this is to begin to see what one actually can do, rather than what one wants to see.

On this Shabbat I offer you an article for your consideration as you think about the choices you may feel called upon to make or stand for in the days and months and years to come. May we find our strength in our millennial heritage: we’ve been here before, we know what to do.

Yotam Marom: Toward The Next Jewish Rebellion

Shabbat VaYekhi: Lying for the sake of Heaven

תנא דבי רבי ישמעאל גדול שלום שאפי’ הקב”ה שינה בו שנאמר (בראשית יח, יב) ותצחק שרה בקרבה וגו’ (בראשית יח, יב) ואדוני זקן וכתיב (בראשית יח, יג) ויאמר ה’ אל אברהם וגו’ ואני זקנתי

It was taught in the house of R. Yishmael: “Peace is so great that even God lies for its sake.” Sarah laughs and says: ‘And my husband is old’ (Bereishit 18:12) and HaShem says [she said] “I am old.” Bereshit 18.13)

תְּאַבֵּד֮ דֹּבְרֵ֢י כָ֫זָ֥ב אִישׁ־דָּמִ֥ים וּמִרְמָ֗ה יְתָ֘עֵ֥ב  ה’

You doom those who speak lies; murderous, deceitful men HaShem abhors.

Our parashat hashavua does what so many families do – returns to an old wound, and worries it open again.

וַיִּרְא֤וּ אֲחֵֽי־יוֹסֵף֙ כִּי־מֵ֣ת אֲבִיהֶ֔ם וַיֹּ֣אמְר֔וּ ל֥וּ יִשְׂטְמֵ֖נוּ יוֹסֵ֑ף וְהָשֵׁ֤ב יָשִׁיב֙ לָ֔נוּ אֵ֚ת כׇּל־הָ֣רָעָ֔ה אֲשֶׁ֥ר גָּמַ֖לְנוּ אֹתֽוֹ׃ 

When Joseph’s brothers saw that their father was dead, they said, “What if Joseph still bears a grudge against us and pays us back for all the wrong that we did him!” (Gen 50.15)

At this point, the brothers choose subterfuge, telling their all-powerful younger brother – in whose hands all their lives rest – that Jacob had privately told them to take a message from him to Joseph, which was (mirabile dictu) that he wanted Joseph to forgive them.

The brothers had every right to be worried; in traditional Judaism, kidnapping, or abetting kidnapping, is punishable by death (since the person kidnapped was, in effect, “dead” to their loved ones). Were they right to lie about it? After all, one of the important laws laid down in the Covenant with HaShem (parashat Mishpatim) is:

מִדְּבַר־שֶׁ֖קֶר תִּרְחָ֑ק וְנָקִ֤י וְצַדִּיק֙ אַֽל־תַּהֲרֹ֔ג כִּ֥י לֹא־אַצְדִּ֖יק רָשָֽׁע׃ 

Keep far from a false charge; do not bring death on those who are innocent and in the right, for I will not acquit the wrongdoer. (Ex 23.7)

When is it all right, even laudable, to lie? Can one ever tell a “white lie”? For the sake of kindness, our Sages ruled that not only may we, we must: every bride is beautiful, after all, in our tradition.  There are four categories of approved subterfuge:

Darkhei Shalom – For the Sake of Peace in the World

It is permitted to alter the truth to bring peace between any two parties in a dispute…Aaron would inform each party in a dispute that the other felt bad and wanted to resolve the issue, until they would meet on the street and embrace (Pirkei Avot 1:12, Even Ha’Ezer 65:1).

As a mediator between two sides in an argument, one might consider that this is a case of the end justifying the means; but it can also be seen as believing the best in each party, that sooner or later they will feel bad and want to resolve the issue, and what Aaron – and we – are to do here is to summon each side to its best sense of self by speaking it aloud.

Hesed –  For the Sake of Kindness

It is commendable to lie to someone when you don’t like what they’ve bought. An example:  improperly criticizing a completed purchase (from Journey to Virtue, Rabbi Avrohom Ehrman, 26:14)

A: Look at my new suit.

B: How much did you pay?

A: X dollars.

B: What! You were cheated!

B should have considered that perhaps the market price changed or that A cannot return the purchase, in which case nothing but disappointment is gained by telling him he was overcharged.

Anavut: For the Sake of Modesty

for the sake of acting with humility, or being discrete about one’s private life or to protect another from harm, it is permitted to alter the truth.

An example of altering the truth for humility:

A: I heard that you’re an expert in the laws of truth and falsehood!

B: I’ve learnt some of the laws but not all (even though B is really an expert).

(Talmud Bavli, Bava Metzia 23b; Rashi, ibid)

And, finally, the category presented in this week’s parashat VaYekhi:

Sh’lom Bayit – For the Sake of Peace in the Family

Ila’e said in the name of R. Elazar the son of Shimon: “It is permissible to lie for the sake of peace, as it says: ‘Your father commanded before he died, saying: So shall ye say unto Joseph: Forgive, I pray you now, the transgression of your brothers, and their sin…’ (Bereishit 50:16).”

Kant is wrong: the truth is not an overriding imperative. Kindness is. One must consider the consequences of one’s words in all cases. Lies that save feelings are, sometimes, under certain conditions and given the context, the right thing. The converse: lies that destroy, that alter the world for self-interest, and cause hurt to others, are so awful that their effect is summed up best by the Psalmist:

לֹֽא־יֵשֵׁ֨ב ׀ בְּקֶ֥רֶב בֵּיתִי֮ עֹשֵׂ֢ה רְמִ֫יָּ֥ה דֹּבֵ֥ר שְׁקָרִ֑ים לֹֽא־יִ֝כּ֗וֹן לְנֶ֣גֶד עֵינָֽי׃ 

He who deals deceitfully shall not live in my house; he who speaks untruth shall not stand before my eyes. (Psalm 101.7)

Shabbat VaYigash: Now I Can Die

וַיֹּ֧אמֶר יִשְׂרָאֵ֛ל אֶל־יוֹסֵ֖ף אָמ֣וּתָה הַפָּ֑עַם אַחֲרֵי֙ רְאוֹתִ֣י אֶת־פָּנֶ֔יךָ כִּ֥י עוֹדְךָ֖ חָֽי׃ 

Then Israel said to Joseph, “Now I can die, having seen for myself that you are still alive.” (Gen. 46.30)

This is the time of year for darkness, and as light recedes our metaphors turn to death. The solstice festivals summon light, as if some part of us still feels as the first humans did according to the midrash:

יוֹם שֶׁנִּבְרָא בּוֹ אָדָם הָרִאשׁוֹן, כֵּיוָן שֶׁשָּׁקְעָה עָלָיו חַמָּה, אָמַר: אוֹי לִי, שֶׁבִּשְׁבִיל שֶׁסָּרַחְתִּי עוֹלָם חָשׁוּךְ בַּעֲדִי, וְיַחְזוֹר עוֹלָם לְתוֹהוּ וָבוֹהוּ, וְזוֹ הִיא מִיתָה שֶׁנִּקְנְסָה עָלַי מִן הַשָּׁמַיִם. הָיָה יוֹשֵׁב בְּתַעֲנִית וּבוֹכֶה כׇּל הַלַּיְלָה, וְחַוָּה בּוֹכָה כְּנֶגְדּוֹ. כֵּיוָן שֶׁעָלָה עַמּוּד הַשַּׁחַר, אָמַר: מִנְהָגוֹ שֶׁל עוֹלָם הוּא.

On the day that Adam the first man was created, when the sun set upon him he said: Woe is me, as because I sinned, the world is becoming dark around me, and the world will return to the primordial state of chaos and disorder. And this is the death that was sentenced upon me from Heaven. He spent all night fasting and crying, and Eve was crying opposite him. Once dawn broke, he said: Evidently, the sun sets and night arrives, and this is the order of the world. (BT Avodah Zarah 8a)

The days shorten and then they lengthen again; the light wanes and then once again returns. The dark is a natural part of the process, as is death. Yet we are rarely ready for the natural process of life and death to manifest itself in our own personal reality.

יְמֵֽי־שְׁנוֹתֵ֨ינוּ בָהֶ֥ם שִׁבְעִ֪ים שָׁנָ֡ה וְאִ֤ם בִּגְבוּרֹ֨ת ׀ שְׁמ֘וֹנִ֤ים שָׁנָ֗ה וְ֭רׇהְבָּם עָמָ֣ל וָאָ֑וֶן כִּי־גָ֥ז חִ֝֗ישׁ וַנָּעֻֽפָה׃ 

The span of our life is seventy years, or, with strength, eighty years; but the best of them are trouble and sorrow. They pass by speedily, and we are in darkness. (Psalms 90.10)

In our parashat hashavua the patriarch Jacob is old, and aware that his days to live are numbered. After he sees his most beloved son Joseph again in life, he exclaims “now I can die” (Gen 46.30). His life is now complete, at least, complete enough for him. 

Is it possible that we might ever feel like Jacob; complete, and ready to die? Human nature is famous for always wanting more, for dreaming only of that which we haven’t yet realized. In ancient Jewish legend, Alexander the Great serves as the ultimate example of this:

אֲמַר לְהוֹן לְרַבָּנַן: מַאי הַאי? אָמְרִי גּוּלְגֻּלְתָּא דְּעֵינָא דְּבִישְׂרָא וּדְמָא [הוּא], דְּלָא קָא שָׂבַע. …דִּכְתִיב: ״שְׁא֣וֹל וַ֭אֲבַדֹּה לֹ֣א תִשְׂבַּ֑עְנָה וְעֵינֵ֥י הָ֝אָדָ֗ם לֹ֣א תִשְׂבַּֽעְנָה׃” 

[Alexander] said to the Sages: What is this? Why does this eyeball outweigh everything? They said: It is the eyeball of a mortal person of flesh and blood, which is not satisfied ever. …The eye is never satisfied while it can see, as it is written: “The netherworld and destruction are never satiated; so the eyes of the human are never satiated” (Proverbs 27:20).  (BT Tamid 32b)

We want to see more, do more, be more, experience more. We are not constituted to want to die, or to be ready to die; rather, life seeks to live, to stay alive. This is natural – but so is the birth, and death, of each person, just as the sun rises and sets.

In Jewish tradition there is much musing upon the process of dying, of the waning of the light of day. Our ancestors noticed that when we are aware that we are near death, no matter our age or experience, we begin to consider the days of our lives. The Zohar suggests that HaShem is doing the same thing:

אֶלָּא הָכִי תָּאנָא, כַּד קוּדְשָׁא בְּרִיךְ הוּא בָּעֵי לְאֲתָבָא רוּחֵיהּ לֵיהּ, כָּל אִינוּן יוֹמִין דְּקָאִים בַּר נָשׁ בְּהַאי עַלְמָא, אִתְפַּקְדָּן קַמֵּיהּ, וְעָאלִין בְּחוּשְׁבְּנָא. וְכַד אִתְקְרִיבוּ קַמֵּיהּ לְמֵיעַל בְּחוּשְׁבְּנָא, מִית בַּר נָשׁ. וְאָתִיב קוּדְשָׁא בְּרִיךְ הוּא רוּחֵיהּ לֵיהּ, הַהוּא הֶבֶל דְּאַפִּיק וְנָפַח בֵּיהּ, אוֹתְבֵיהּ לְגַבֵּיהּ. 

As we have learnt, that when the Holy One desires to take back a person’s spirit, all the days that the person has lived in this world pass in review before HaShem. (Zohar on VaYehi)

Every day ends; every sun sets. Each day matters exactly as much as the one before it, and the one after it. So it is, too, with us; each of us is born, and each of us will die, and each of us matters, exactly as much as each precious, irreplaceable reflection of holiness. 

Long nights are made for contemplation. May each of us find time and space and ability to consider how we are spending our days, and what it means to feel complete. 

Shabbat Miketz: Why Bother?

“there is no light that does not come from the midst of darkness.” – Zohar, Tetzaveh, 184

This Shabbat is the third day of Hanukkah. In traditional practice, with each night of Hanukkah we add light, symbolizing thereby the sense that, each day that it continued to shine, the light was more and more astounding. The story of this miraculous light, as told by the Sages of the Talmud, depicts the menorah in the Jerusalem temple: the seven-branched lampstand with an oil lamp at the top of each branch. Seven lights kept lit for eight days when, we are told, there was nowhere near enough oil. Each day it was expected to go out; each evening it continued to burn. The light was the same amount of light each day; it was the fact that it continued to shine at the same intensity which constituted the miracle. 

Our parashat hashavua, Miketz, is always read during the holiday of Hanukkah. Naturally, we, the people of midrash, look for the meaning in this juxtaposition. The resonances we sense illuminate something about what we Jews need to learn. Others will sense other meanings; our ancient culture is among many that evoke light at this darkest time of the year. This year, sadly, the Jewish experience of darkness is one of foreboding, and of sadness for what has been lost. Whether we are contemplating the ongoing agony of Israel’s war with Hamas or the trepidation of what the 47th federal administration of the U.S. might bring, it would be understandable if we felt nothing so much as exhaustion during these days that are meant to be celebratory.

At first glance, and even upon sustained inquiry, the story of Joseph and his brothers is not one to offer easy encouragement. The brilliant modern commentator Aviva Zornberg traces in the Torah’s account of Joseph’s reunion with his brothers an uneasy detente, unreconciled hurt and trauma kept below the surface, never healed, for the sake of appearances. So much is broken; what are we left with? Even Jacob, in the same moments when he is reunited with his long lost, much loved son, complains to Pharaoh that his life has been hard and short.

In an ancient midrash that focuses upon the meeting of Joseph and Benjamin in this same uneasy family reunification, both “cry on each other’s necks” ((Bereshit Rabbah 93.12 on Gen 45.14). Why? because they can see that in the future, the sacred place built in the land of Israel in territories associated with both of their tribal descendents will be destroyed. They are weeping over the future destruction of the their family.

It’s enough to evoke existential despair: what’s the point? Why try, when the darkness will, in the end, swallow everything, and extinguish the candle that is the human soul? When all you’ve worked for isn’t enough, when the unthinkable happens and the world you’ve dreamed of will not become real, what is left? As Kohelet (Ecclesiastes) declares, nothing lasts; therefore, does anything matter? 

הֲבֵ֤ל הֲבָלִים֙ אָמַ֣ר קֹהֶ֔לֶת הֲבֵ֥ל הֲבָלִ֖ים הַכֹּ֥ל הָֽבֶל׃ 

Only vanishing mist, vapor, says Kohelet, evanescence and mere appearance, everything is a vanishing mist.

מַה־יִּתְר֖וֹן לָֽאָדָ֑ם בְּכׇ֨ל־עֲמָל֔וֹ שֶֽׁיַּעֲמֹ֖ל תַּ֥חַת הַשָּֽׁמֶשׁ׃ 

Does a person benefit from all the work at which we labor under the sun? (Kohelet 1.2-3)

Jewish ethical teachings, distilled from much disappointment amid many setbacks over too many years to count, offer a different way to understand our life, and challenge the assumption that the work we do should be predicated upon the expectation of reward. The two commentaries below span two millennia of struggle to discern the meaning and purpose of life:

אַל תִּהְיוּ כַעֲבָדִים הַמְשַׁמְּשִׁין אֶת הָרַב עַל מְנָת לְקַבֵּל פְּרָס, אֶלָּא הֱווּ כַעֲבָדִים הַמְשַׁמְּשִׁין אֶת הָרַב שֶׁלֹּא עַל מְנָת לְקַבֵּל פְּרָס, וִיהִי מוֹרָא שָׁמַיִם עֲלֵיכֶם: 

“Do not be like servants who serve the master in the expectation of receiving a reward, but be like servants who serve the master without the expectation of receiving a reward, and let the fear of Heaven be upon you.” (Pirke Avot 1.3)

שמעתי ממורי ששכר מצוה מצוה (אבות פרק ד’) שאין לך שכר גדול יותר מזה מה שיש לו תענוג ממצוה עצמה בעשותו אותה בשמחה, שהוא מאוד גדול, ואף אם לא היה שכר יותר היה זה עצמו די, מה גם שבאמת יש שכר עד אין תכלית על מצוה שעושין בשמחה:

(תוי”י פ’ קדושים דצ”ט ע”ד).

The Ba’al Shem Tov said, quoting Pirkei Avot (4.2) “The reward of a mitzvah is a mitzvah. There is no greater reward than that a person delights in performance of a mitzvah. This is a very great thing. Even if there were no other reward, this would be enough. How much greater is it, then, seeing that the reward for a mitzvah done joyfully is infinite.” (Toldos Yaakov Yosef, p. 99d)

It is a mitzvah to light the Hanukkah candles that evoke resilience and hope. Why are we lighting these candles that speak of hope growing in this particular defiance of the darkness? Why bother, why try? 

Because there is in the doing itself a meaning, and we need it. There need not be meaning inherent in the universe for us to require it; how much more incredibly courageous it is, then, to built our house of mitzvot and infuse it with meaning beyond any expectation that “everything will be all right” or that we can confidently expect some prosperity gospel to come true for us. 

This is the higher awe that the mystic Joseph Gikatilla describes in his explanation of the sefirot: 

יראה חיצונית, אהבה למעלה ממנה, יראה פנימית, עולה למעלה מן האהבה

“There is external fear (of suffering), and there is love, which transcends it. However, there is an  inner fear, that is, awe, that ascends even higher than love.” (Shaarey Orah, Ninth Gate, 67)

The fear that life is without reward, perhaps even without meaning, is actually a very low level of spiritual development. The higher level, which is beyond even a kind of love, or enjoyment, of the mitzvot one does for some aesthetic or emotional reason, is of an awe that quiets the self and all its fears. There are things that will always be beyond us. It is not up to us to master them, or anything. A life is a gift; all we have to do is to act in ways that honor that gift. That is the offering we bring to the universe, and to each other.

ס֥וֹף דָּבָ֖ר הַכֹּ֣ל נִשְׁמָ֑ע אֶת־הָאֱלֹהִ֤ים יְרָא֙ וְאֶת־מִצְוֺתָ֣יו שְׁמ֔וֹר כִּי־זֶ֖ה כׇּל־הָאָדָֽם׃ 

The end of the thing, when everything has been heard, is to be in awe of God and to observe the mitzvot, for this is all that a person is. (Kohelet 12.13)

Light the lights. Light all the lights. It does matter. These lights are holy.

Shabbat VaYishlakh: Waiting To See

Looking to the future is normal. Even though it is true that we only have the moment in which we live, we spend most of our moments either looking back and remembering, or looking forward and wondering.

When we are hoping and expecting good times to come, it’s diverting and pleasant to plan for them: we’ll do this, you’ll make sure to remember that, I’ll try not to forget that we want to…

But when we are worried about the future, looking ahead is daunting. For many of us in these last days of 2024, it is difficult not to worry. There are so many possible nightmare scenarios that may plausibly unfold in January of 2025. 

Our parashat hashavua, (Torah parashah of the week) is well-timed to serve as a cautionary tale about anticipating the future. As it opens, Jacob is dying a thousands deaths of anxiety as he struggles through the night before, as he and his brother are about to be reunited after many years. Jacob is pretty sure that Esau is going to try to kill him, or will, at the very least, be nursing a long-held angry grudge against the brother who stole from him his birthright and the blessing meant for him as firstborn. 

As it turns out, he’s wrong; his brother has forgiven and forgotten. Jacob has – incorrectly and expensively – misjudged his own future.

In the final third of the parashah, where we begin in this third year of the Triennial Cycle of Torah study, we see another moment of anticipation, this time cruelly stealing from Jacob and Rachel  a moment that should be celebratory, as she is giving birth to her second child:

וַיְהִ֥י בְהַקְשֹׁתָ֖הּ בְּלִדְתָּ֑הּ וַתֹּ֨אמֶר לָ֤הּ הַמְיַלֶּ֙דֶת֙ אַל־תִּ֣ירְאִ֔י כִּֽי־גַם־זֶ֥ה לָ֖ךְ בֵּֽן׃ 

When her labor was at its hardest, the midwife said to her, “Have no fear, for it is another boy for you.” (Get. 35.17)

As it turns out, she’s wrong. There was much to fear, for Rachel was dying in childbirth. Unexpected death (and life) dominates the end of the parashah, for when Jacob completes the trek home from Padam Aram, he finds that his father, who we assumed was dying over twenty years ago (hence the firstborn blessing chaos at the time) is still alive, at 180 years old!

וַיָּבֹ֤א יַעֲקֹב֙ אֶל־יִצְחָ֣ק אָבִ֔יו מַמְרֵ֖א קִרְיַ֣ת הָֽאַרְבַּ֑ע הִ֣וא חֶבְר֔וֹן אֲשֶׁר־גָּֽר־שָׁ֥ם אַבְרָהָ֖ם וְיִצְחָֽק׃ 

And Jacob came to his father Isaac at Mamre, at Kiriath-arba—now Hebron—where Abraham and Isaac had sojourned. (Gen. 35.27)

Parashat VaYishlakh is named for Jacob’s attempt to respond to a future reality that never does manifest, in attempting to safeguard himself from a threat that he anticipates, but that does not exist. He loses a great deal by this fearful foreshadowing, and most of all his attention is drawn away from the true reality of the moment. He sends his brother a huge gift of flocks and herds, all for nothing; and later, he loses the one sheep that matters to him (Rachel’s name derives from the Hebrew for an ewe.)

Moshe de Leon, channeler of the Zohar, points out that one way to understand the word חכמה hokhmah, “wisdom”, is to see it as two words: הכה hakeh “wait” and מה mah, “what”; from this he derives the insight that a form of wisdom is knowing how to wait and see what will be.

Jacob demonstrates the difficulty we all experience when we attempt to envision our future reality, and become invested enough in it to prepare for it, only to find that we have anticipated incorrectly. Something deep within us wants to prepare, to steel ourselves for the blow. But in so doing we may not be able to see the real blow coming at us.

Jewish ethics offers us a different way: rather than focus on the future we imagine, pay attention to the present moment which is at hand. 

Notice the beauty in this day; find joy in some piece of now. 

Be who and what you can be in this moment, by responding to the world you are in right now. 

Find the good in it and revel in it right now. 

Notice and immerse your self in the light of one small candle of goodness right now.

There is much to celebrate right now, regardless of what happens tomorrow. 

Focus upon it; let it warm you.