Purim’s Vengeance

Quentin Tarantino’s masterful film Inglourious Basterds is a World War II revenge fantasy. A ragtag group of American-Jewish soldiers hunts and kills Nazis. Along the way they are assisted by a beautiful Jewish princess, Shosanna, who wants to avenge the earlier murders of her family. They succeed in killing Nazi leaders, including the evil Adolf Hitler and Joseph Goebbels y”s, when they gather to watch a propaganda film in Shosanna’s theatre. As the theatre burns, Shosanna is heard saying, “This is the face of Jewish vengeance.”

The Purim story tells a similar tale. Esther is likewise a princess who hides her Jewish identity. She thwarts Haman’s evil genocidal designs through beauty and cunning.

We focus on the holiday’s frivolity. We emphasize costumes and hamentashen, laughter and drinking. The story, however, concludes with a violent ending. The megillah states, “So the Jews struck at their enemies with the sword, slaying and destroying; they wreaked their will upon their enemies.” (Esther 9) Do our celebrations and carnivals suggest an embarrassment about the story’s violence or even a worry about its implications? Do our costumes mask the Bible’s words, “They disposed of their enemies killing seventy thousand of their foes.”

It is told that the Israeli Orthodox intellectual Yeshayahu Leibowitz was so disturbed by Purim’s violence and distressed that his fellow Jews might be seduced by its violent demands, that he avoided observing the holiday. He did so with the assistance of a quirk in Jewish law. In Jerusalem Purim is not celebrated on the fourteenth of Adar but the fifteenth because Mordecai’s battles against Haman’s supporters lasted an additional day in Shushan. The rabbis decreed that Purim should be observed on the fifteenth in similarly walled cities. And so, Leibowitz remained in Jerusalem on the fourteenth of Adar while his fellow Israeli Jews observed Purim in all other cities. He then traveled to Tel Aviv on the fifteenth where the Purim celebrations were already concluded. He therefore managed to banish the megillah’s violence from his orbit.

In a post October 7th world I am thinking about Leibowitz’s idiosyncratic approach to Purim and wondering if the Book of Esther is not a fantasy but instead a warning. I still choose Zionism and Jewish sovereignty in this violent world that too often wishes us harm. But this year I am heeding Purim’s reminder that power often comes with violence done with our own hands and in our own name.

At the conclusion of Inglourious Basterds Brad Pitt’s character Lieutenant Aldo Raine etches a swastika on the Jew hunter Hans Landa’s forehead and then declares, “I think this might just be my masterpiece.” And that is how the fantasy ends.

Power is a bitter masterpiece carved with a knife’s edge. While it may protect us it also causes harm to others and begins to cut at our souls.

The Purim story concludes without ever mentioning God. Its final verses offer a note about raw, unchecked power.

Amidst the celebration and revelry, the megillah conjures a warning that power and violence go hand in hand. Absent the holy power can sometimes lead to the defamation of those who wield it.

Yeshayahu Leibowitz warns, “The uniqueness of the Jewish people is not a fact; it is an endeavor. The holiness of Israel is not a reality; it is a task.”

On this year’s Purim we must ask, are we up to the task? Do we heed the holiday’s warning?

Always Light the Light

The ner tamid that is affixed above the ark is usually translated as the eternal light. We often suggest that this symbolizes God’s eternal presence.

Eternal light is a mistranslation. It would be better to translate this as the “always light.” Eternal implies that the light is something that burns despite our efforts. No matter what we do the flame burns and God is forever present. “Always” however suggests that we must tend to the light. There is human agency. We must always keep the fires burning.

We must always tend to bringing God’s presence into our lives and our world. The burning flame depends on us. In ancient times, the Israelites had to ensure that there was enough oil for the ner tamid. “You shall further instruct the Israelites to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling the ner tamid.” (Exodus 27)

Not only must the Israelites bring oil on a regular basis, but producing such pure oil is an enormous undertaking. Making olive oil is not an easy endeavor. It requires care, hard work and patience.

Olive trees begin producing olives three to five years after planting. One olive tree produces approximately six liters of olive oil in one year. That equates to eight 750 ml bottles. Each bottle provides enough oil to burn for fifty hours. To keep the light burning for one year one needs twenty olive trees. And that requires 50,000 liters of water.

Assuming the internet’s information is correct (perhaps an unwise assumption) and my mathematical calculations are accurate (also a risky proposition), that’s a lot of trees and a lot of time and a lot of effort. Producing olive oil requires a tremendous amount of attention and care. Keeping the ner tamid always burning is no simple or easy task.

Bringing God into the world depends on our regular and attentive care. It is not eternal. It is instead always demanded.

My People, My Family

People often ask me why I visit Israel so many times. The answer is simple. It’s because when I’m in New York reading about Israel my attitude is formed by what leaders and politicians say and do. I can often become disillusioned with the country’s direction. I become dispirited by the situation and how distant our dreams for peace appear.

When I’m here in Israel my impressions are formed by everyday Israelis. And they are extraordinary. They affirm my faith. They give me hope. Their examples serve as reminders of what this place can yet become. Despite over 500 days of war, their stories offer inspiration.

Yesterday we met with Dr. Efrat Bron Harlev, the CEO of Schneider Children’s Hospital. In ordinary times the hospital does extraordinary work. These days it surpasses the extraordinary. Nineteen hostages were brought to the hospital after their release so that they could receive medical treatment and care. The hospital staff spent days preparing for their visits to make sure the hostages felt at home in their rooms, setting up beds for family members and decorating them with the children’s familiar toys.

And then, Dr. Bron Harlev, a seasoned pediatrician, teared up as she explained to us that they had expected to welcome Ariel and Kfir Bibas. There is a palpable sense of family here. The bonds tying the nation together have grown stronger. They cut across political divisions. Everyone mourned the Bibas children’s murders. The airport’s control tower is still illuminated in orange. Hostage Square was decorated with orange balloons with the word “slicha—sorry” written on them.

Today we heard from Member of Knesset Rachel Azaria. She recognized a profound need. Soldiers don’t only need the best equipment. They also need to know their families will be ok while they are on duty. Over 300,000 reserve soldiers were called up during this war. And many of these reserves were called up several times for many months. Now their spouses are single parents and desperately need assistance. MK Azaria founded the organization, HaOgen—The Anchor.

Now 20,000 volunteers help 20,000 reserve families in over 240 cities and towns. They do ordinary but essential things like cooking meals and providing babysitting.

Here, tears are transformed into action. They become the impulse to do good.

Here, everyone is family.

We are part of Am Yisrael—the Jewish people.

It may not be perfect, but this family is extraordinary. And this family is mine.

The Torah Asks Too Much of Us Today

What follows is my sermon about the return of hostages Oded Lifshitz and Ariel, Kfir and later Shiri Bibas z”l.

The rabbis declare, “The whole Torah depends on justice. That is why the Holy One, blessed be God, gave the civil laws directly after the Ten Commandments.” (Shemot Rabbah 30:15)

This week in Parashat Mishpatim, we read fifty-three laws. Most are civil laws. They deal with mundane things such as making loans. They talk about how to determine ownership of disputed property. They offer the all too often misunderstood and frequently misquoted “eye an for eye,” which is not about seeking revenge but instead figuring out how damages should be leveled if a person is injured by another. This week’s laws legislate the punishment for murder and when killing a thief is deemed legitimate self-defense. They detail people’s responsibilities to their neighbors, describing what to do if someone falls into a pit on one’s property or how to deal with an ox who is in the habit of goring people. And on and on. Fifty-three laws, fifty-three mishpatim, about building a society that is founded on justice and fairness.

Immediately following the giving of the Ten Commandments, the Torah turns to the everyday laws that govern society. It is as if to say, “You think it’s all about keeping Shabbat and worshipping the one and only God. No. The real work is found in the details of building a just society.” And so the Torah explains in exhaustive detail how we are to get along with others and how we are going to care for our neighbors and how we might protect others against harm.

But this week, and especially after yesterday’s news about the Bibas family and today’s reports about the brutal murders of Ariel and Kfir Bibas and the unspeakable cruelty of not sending Shiri’s body back to Israel as promised, there are laws in this week’s portion that are to be candid, make me feel like I am choking.

We read, “You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.” But how can anyone truly know someone else’s feelings? How can anyone understand what we have experienced or felt what we felt in this past year and a half? Then again how can anyone really know another’s pain. I am choking on our pain. I am suffocated by our heartbreak.

The Torah continues, “When you encounter your enemy’s ox or donkey wandering, you must take it back.” (Exodus 23) And, “When you see the donkey of your enemy lying down because of its burden and you might think that you don’t need to raise, you must nevertheless assist your enemy and help it up.” You just want to scream, “You have to be kidding me! You want me to help my enemy care for its animals? You want me to cooperate with someone who is bent on destroying us and who plots such cruelty?” They have not given up on their attempts to kill us. They even terrorize us when humanity dictates it should be a private, quiet transfer of bodies.

This is all too much to ask. Not this week. And maybe not for many weeks to come—and I fear years to come. After such cruel tortures the only helping hand I wish to offer is that to my own people. But I do not have enough hands to heal all this pain. And I fear that we no longer have the capacity to heal ourselves or for that matter do the Torah’s bidding and realize its dreams of lending helping hands to everyone, even our enemies. How can we possibly help lift their burdens when we cannot even carry our own?

In a collection of poetry called Shiva: Poems of October 7th, I discover the writing of Rabbi Elchanan Nir. He writes,

Now like air to breathe
We need a new Torah.
Gasping for air and with choking throats
We need a new Mishnah and a new Gemara,
A new Kabbalah, and new Elevations of the Soul
And from the midst of all the wreckage, the salt and the desert land, now
A new Hasidism and a new Zionism
A new Rav Kook and a new Brenner,
A new poetry, new Rabbinic Responsa
And new Leah Goldberg and new Yechaveh Daat
New art and new poetry
New literature and new cinema
And new-ancient words
New ancient souls from the treasury of souls.
And a new love out of the terrible weeping.
For we were all washed in the rivers of the music festival and Kibbutz Be’eri
And we have no other mountain with us
Nor another ten commandments
No other Moses and no more strength
From this moment everything is
In our hands.

These hands have barely enough strength after 504 days to help ourselves. They only want justice for ourselves and have no more strength for the loftiness of God’s dreams. Justice, You command, O God. And we respond, first for us and for our tortured and terrorized people. Let us be healed first and foremost.

In the daily Amidah recited at weekday services, the tradition offers this prayer:

Restore our judges as in days of old and our advisors as in former times. And remove sorrow and complaint from among us, and reign over us, You alone, Adonai, in kindness and mercy, and acquit us. Blessed are You, Adonai, our Ruler who loves righteousness and justice.

Every day we pray God, You are the God of justice. Justice is our daily prayer. Justice for our people. Justice for the world. But the prayer makes clear what we feel in this moment. First sorrow must be removed. Only then justice might be achieved.

Finding our way back to the law, to the mishpat, is the path our Torah offers.

These days I am left wondering when it might become our path once again. In these harrowing days I am wondering when it might become the world’s destination. For now justice remains a daily prayer. This week, and this evening, some things are not within reach of our hands and only within reach of our prayers.

Baruch Ata Adonai, melech ohev tzedakah u’mishpat. Blessed are You Adonai, our Ruler who loves righteousness and justice.

May Our Dreams Not Be Buried

Oded Lifshitz, who was murdered by Palestinian terrorists and whose body was returned to Israel today along with Shiri Bibas and her two children Ariel and Kfir, was eulogized by the kibbutz he helped found. Kibbutz Nir Oz writes:

Oded was 85 years old, one of the founding pioneers of the kibbutz and someone who shaped its path over many decades together with his wife Yocheved. Oded came to the kibbutz as a member of Garin Nahal, and was the kibbutz's secretary, farmer and treasurer. He dedicated his life to his family, social work, journalism, promoting minority rights and the struggle to resolve the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

He and his wife were peace activists who regularly drove Palestinians needing medical care from Gaza to Israeli hospitals. Oded, and Yocheved, were dragged across the Gaza border by terrorists on October 7th and held in captivity. Yocheved was released two weeks later. According to experts Oded was murdered by terrorists over a year ago.

Today is a tragic day for the people of Israel. It is a devastating day for the Jewish people. Four coffins were returned. We await the official, although expected word that the other three bodies are indeed Shiri, Ariel and Kfir Bibas.

This week we read the Torah’s command, “You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 23) This frequently repeated demand appears two times in this week’s portion alone.

But it is a difficult, if not impossible, command to hear. There are only the sounds of brokenness. There are only tears of pain. Our obligations to others, our compassion for the stranger, appear to be luxuries for another day. They seem like painful reminders of forgotten dreams.

The Israeli singer Hanan Ben Ari laments,

And who will heal my heart
for whom am I longing
like a sea that has no shore
just tell me who
who will embrace me and ensure
that I will not give up in the end.

Our hearts are too broken to feel anything but pain. Our ears are too filled with cries to hear the demands of compassion. Our eyes are too dimmed by tears to see the face of the other.

Kibbutz Nir Oz’s announcement concludes:

The cactus garden that Oded and Yocheved cultivated throughout their 63 years of marriage remains a living testament to their dedication and the home they built together. Oded left behind four children: Arnon, Yizhar, Sharon and Omri, many family and friends, who will always remember him as someone who loved people and the country, a man of culture and peace.

May the memory of Oded Lifshitz be a blessing. May his dreams not be buried as well.

And may the Torah’s commands be heard once again.

Liberating the Spirit

According to news reports Agam Berger, one of the three hostages released on January 30th after 480 days in captivity, managed to keep Shabbat. If she was ordered by her Hamas captors to cook food on Saturday she steadfastly refused. (Meir Soloveichik, “Agam Berger, the Hostage Who Kept the Sabbath”)

The Torah proclaims: “Remember the sabbath day and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath of the Lord your God: you shall not do any work.” (Exodus 20)

Although the rabbis devote many pages of commentary to clarify the definition of work (see the Talmud), the contention is clear. Saying no, refusing to do the work that mark the other six days is liberating. On Shabbat we rest from creation, we say no to creative acts. Our modern understanding of freedom runs counter to this idea. We believe that we are free only when we can do whatever our heart desires.

Judaism teaches that the “no” might instead be the greater expression of our freedom. The kiddush blessing that we recite to welcome Shabbat praises this day as a “reminder of our going out from Egypt.” Only a free people can set a day aside. Only a free person can say no to the work week. A slave cannot refuse to do her taskmaster’s bidding. A free person can say, “Not today! My chores can wait for another day.”

Agam Berger’s example reminds us that no matter how trapped we might feel by work, or the demands of the week, the spirit can always be made to feel free. When we carve out a day and set it apart from the other days of the week we are uplifted. And now she, and her family, can truly enjoy the beauty and wonder of Shabbat. When they gather together for their Shabbat meal and lift the hallah to recite the motzi, they will once again feel their spirits rejuvenated (shavat vayinafash!).

Shabbat’s message is clear. The spirit can never be imprisoned.

The Miracle of Food

The Talmud states: “The task of providing a person’s food is as miraculous as the splitting of the Sea of Reeds.” (Babylonian Talmud, Pesachim 118a)

Perhaps this explains why only three days after walking through the parted sea the Israelites grumbled against Moses. They arrived at Marah and finding insufficient water cried out, “What shall we drink?” (Exodus 15) If a person does not have enough food to eat and water to drink even the recent memory of a miraculous deliverance is not enough to sustain one’s faith.

The Israelites’ complaint and the Talmud’s affirmation remind us that every meal is indeed a miracle. Is this why the rabbis penned the motzi blessing with the words, “who brings forth bread from the earth?” Everyone knows that bread does not emerge from the ground. The wheat is grown and then harvested. It is ground into flour. It is combined with eggs. After the yeast performs its magic, the baker’s loving hands knead the dough and then only after baking in the oven can it be enjoyed.

Bread is the work of many hands. The wheat grows in nourishing soil. It is sustained by the sun and rain. The bread is dependent on the farmer, miller and baker. It is not like the manna that God miraculously provided to the wandering Israelites. There was always enough manna to eat and according to tradition it tasted like every person’s favorite food.

But the rabbis decreed that every meal should be treated like a miracle. Every morsel is deserving of a blessing. They were intent on transforming the ordinary and making the everyday extraordinary. We recite the motzi and take the spiritual posture that God’s hand is decisive. Even though bread is the product of many hands, we bless only God’s.

“God brings forth bread from the earth,” we exclaim. Then again, I wonder if in our spiritual obsession with the Almighty we forget the many hands whose work is so crucial to our meal’s enjoyment. Even if we remember to thank the cook, we forget to offer praises to the farmer. We might do well recalling that the true miracle is not only about God.

The miracle is instead the community of people who manage to wrest bread from the earth.

Let us then offer a chorus of “Amens” to all the hands that make every meal a wondrous miracle.

The Loneliness Plague

What follows is my sermon from Shabbat Bo.

On this Shabbat I offer a meditation about the ninth plague of darkness.

Arbel Yehud, the twenty-nine-year-old who was kidnapped along with her partner, Ariel, from their Kibbutz Nir Oz safe room on October 7th was released by her Hamas captors yesterday. After hugging her parents, brother Neta, and sister-in-law she offered these first words, “I was lonely.” Apparently, she was held alone throughout her 482 days in captivity. She was held hostage in harsh conditions, underground and often denied food. Still, she did not say, “I was hungry,” but “I was lonely.”

I have often wondered why the ninth and second to worst plague is darkness. Why is darkness so terrible and second only to the killing of the first born? The Torah describes it as darkness that can be touched. We read, “Moses held out his arm toward the sky and a thick darkness descended upon all the Egypt for three days. People could not see one another, and for three days no one could move about.” (Exodus 10)

Imagine not being able to see another person. Imagine not being able to touch another human being. Is this the meaning of a darkness that can be touched? People need human contact. It is essential to our being. This is part of what makes the hostages’ fate so devastating. Three days seems unbearably long. For Arbel it was 482 days. And that is unimaginably long. Hamas has succeeded in making such unimaginable pain real. And the fate of the remaining 82 hostages is now our darkness.

Arbel was alone. She sat in the tunnel’s darkness wondering if her partner Ariel was still alive. That question remains unanswered. Did she dream of her grandparents coming to Gaza’s border in 1955 to help found her kibbutz? Did she dream about the stars that she could not see but that so fascinated her curiosity? Did the darkness block out all her dreams? Did it obscure all of nature’s wonders? Now, upon her return, she must contend with the news that her brother Dolev was murdered on October 7th.

Darkness is not so much the absence of light but the absence of others. It is the darkening of our dreams and the obscuring of seeing others. It is the loss of being held by others and holding others. What makes us human is our need to be with others. One need only watch one of these fifteen reunions to understand this truth. The families cannot stop touching and kissing each other. To truly see another person is to see their joys and their pains. To see another person is to watch compassion birthed. We need to carry others. And we need to be carried by others. What makes us human is the ability to share our dreams with others and to unburden our worries to other people.

What makes us Jewish is the blessing of community. It is there that we speak of our dreams. It is there that our worries become less burdensome. Our joys are magnified by community. Our pains are lessened by others. The congregation is the age-old Jewish answer to our present “loneliness epidemic.” When alone our fears tend to darken our dreams. Solitude obscures life’s wonders. That is why we say blessings in community. That is why we thank God for the evening when we gather.

Darkness is about being alone. It is about the absence of dreams. It is about the absence of being held by others.

The hostage prayer that many congregations now regularly offer has become hauntingly present. It was written during medieval times when Crusaders slaughtered Jews and when our fears about being taken hostage were all too common. It reads, “May the Holy One have mercy on them and take them out from narrowness to expanse, and from darkness to light, and from oppression to redemption, now, swiftly, and soon!” From darkness to light! From being alone to being enveloped by family and friends.

The prayer’s very name Acheinu makes clear is overarching message. We are brothers—and sisters. We are bound together. We need to be held. We need to hold others. To be human is to care for others. And it is to be cared for by others. To be Jewish is to always see another person.

The Torah states that when darkness descended on Egypt, “All the Israelites enjoyed light in their dwellings.” What was once a statement of fact has now become our prayer. May all of Israel enjoy light. May every hostage feel the embrace of family and friends. May darkness be forever banished from our midst. May every hostage be reunited with their loved ones. May such a plague never again touch our people.

And may our dreams of peace never become darkened.

Counting to Shabbat Shalom

The first commandment given to individuals is “Be fruitful and multiply; fill the earth and master it.” (Genesis 1) And the first mitzvah given to the Jewish people is “This month shall mark for you the beginning of the months; it shall be the first of the months of the year for you.” (Exodus 12)

To be a Jew is to count time. We are to mark the holidays. This is what makes us free.

The sixteenth century commentator, Obadiah ben Jacob Sforno, expands on the commandment’s meaning and imagines God adding, “From now on these months will be yours, to do with as you like. This is by way of contrast to the years when you were enslaved when you had no control over your time at all. While you were enslaved, your days, hours, minutes, were always at the beck and call of your taskmasters.”

It is a blessing to count the days toward Shabbat. It is a privilege to measure the passage of years by the holidays. And yet how often do we complain about time. We never seem to have enough time to get everything done on our to do lists.

Think of how harried our days feel as we prepare for a vacation. Recall how all-consuming those tasks feel in the weeks prior to our children leaving for sleep away camp. And yet even during these busiest of days, or for that matter the most ordinary of weeks, Shabbat arrives. We then let go.

We break free from these to do lists. We are free. We are blessed. We are fortunate enough to take a day of rest when we look away from work’s claim on our lives. We free ourselves from being slaves to time.

Rabbi Larry Kushner writes:

Now obviously no one can ever complete all the little tasks. Sooner or later, as the vacation departure clock ticks down, we decree arbitrarily that whether or not they are done, we are done. We renounce their claims on us. To do so requires great spiritual self-control. Well, it is like that with the Day of Being too. Every seventh day we clear off our desks. Of course we are not finished. And from the looks of the world, hopefully God isn’t finished either. (The Book of Words)

As Shabbat fades and the sun sets on Saturday evening, we begin our counting toward the next seventh day. We look forward to Shabbat. We will once again mark our freedom from the myriad of unfinished tasks that have their hold on the other six days.

We taste perfection. We embrace the momentary liberation of having no tasks, and the respite from to do lists. We relish in the privilege of shouting blessings to God and offering thanks for our people’s obligations.

We are free.

We continue counting toward the completeness that is embodied in the simplest and most profound of greetings, “Shabbat shalom.”

Magicians and Miracle Workers

“Daam—blood, tzfardeiah—frogs, keeneem—lice, ahrov—wild beasts…” we recite at our Passover seders as we take a drop of wine from our glasses. Curiously, the Egyptian magicians can repeat the first of these wonders and likewise turn water into blood and also bring frogs. (They turn a staff into a snake as well.) The Torah reports, “When the Egyptian magicians did the same with their spells, Pharaoh’s heart stiffened.” (Exodus 7)

When God performs these wonders, they are called miracles. When the magicians do the same, they are termed magic. What is the difference between magic and miracles? A Hasidic comment suggests magic tricks astonish the audience. Miracles, on the other hand, awe even those who perform it. In both instances the water turns red and there were frogs here, frogs there, frogs were jumping everywhere.

Is the difference only a matter of perspective? Is history indeed written by the victors? In the five books of Moses pulling a frog out of a hat is deemed an everyday magic trick and the ten plagues are evidence of God’s miraculous powers. Is that all there is to it? This is our book and our story and so it affirms our biases. The Torah confirms our faith.

Then again, Pharaoh’s magicians cannot remove the frogs. They can only bring more frogs (apparently that is an easy magic trick) And by doing so they make matters worse. By trying to prove their magical powers, they add to the Egyptians’ woes. The magicians were so worried about trying to match God’s miracles that they lose sight of their sacred task. Leaders are meant to assuage people’s anxieties and help lift their burdens.

Difficulties are made more unbearable when leaders worry more about their own power rather than lightening the burdens of those they lead. Magicians focus on wowing the audience and impressing people with their greatness. Too often they make people’s burdens more unbearable. They pull so many things out of their hats that the land becomes flooded with even more problems.

How often are our problems compounded by gossip? How often are our disagreements exacerbated by social media?

Remember this. When magicians hear the audience’s applause they think of their majestic might. They see these cunning tricks as evidence of their prowess. Miracle workers recall they are mere emissaries, and their hands are instruments of an even greater power. They remain forever awed by God’s majesty. They do not praise themselves but instead offer blessings of God.

Everyone has the capacity to be a miracle worker. It’s a matter of remembering who we serve.

Each of us can be servants of the divine.

Between Knowing and Not Knowing

A Hasidic story.

A student approached her rebbe and asked, “How can one tell when a new day has arrived?”

The rebbe turned the question around and said to her student, “Why don’t you tell me how you might know when a new day has arrived.”

At first the student was surprised, but then offered a hesitant answer, “When the rooster crows to signal a new dawn?” (And my seventh graders add, “When Siri tells me it is dawn.”) The rebbe answered, “No.”

“When the sun peers through my window. “No,” the rebbe responded.

“When the sky begins to glow, and I can first discern the silhouettes of the trees against the sky?” The rebbe answered again, “No!”

And then in her wisdom, the rebbe said, “The surest way to know when the night is over and a new day has dawned is when you can look into the face of another person, especially one who is a stranger and one who is different from you and come to know him as your brother and her as your sister.” Until that moment, it will always be night.

The Torah reports: “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.” (Exodus 1)

And night descends upon Egypt. Our oppression begins. The distinction between day and night is that thin.

It is that thin line between knowing and not knowing that leads to enslavement. But then God hears our cries. Our sufferings become known to God. The Israelites are freed from slavery. Our Passover celebrations are ensured. The distinction between day and night, however, remains in our hands.

It is found in the face of a stranger.

Peace Is the Greatest Gift

Before dying, Jacob gathers his reunited family together for a final blessing. The Torah adds, “Jacob lived seventeen years in the land of Egypt.” (Genesis 47) And how old was Joseph when his brothers sold him into slavery years earlier? Seventeen.

The commentators notice this symmetry. Jacob enjoyed the same number of years living with his son in Egypt as Joseph did living with his father in Canaan. What are we to make of this symmetry? The years of Joseph’s youth when Jacob showered extra love on him are perfectly balanced by these final seventeen years living by his father Jacob’s bedside.

The tradition adds: “These seventeen years were the best years of Jacob’s life – years of prosperity, goodness and peace; his other 130 years were filled with toil and pain.”

Why were the best years of his life spent in Egypt? How could Jacob enjoy any place but the ideal land of Israel? The commentators suggest that the answer must be that he studied Torah in Egypt and thereby redeemed its pagan influences. I think the answer is far more obvious.

So why was Jacob so happy? In Egypt his family was once again whole. His sons have forgiven each other. Now they each have flourishing families of their own. Jacob can enjoy the comforts his son has amassed. He can relish in the joys of grandchildren. In Egypt he, and his entire family, have discovered a tranquility that eluded them in Canaan.

The lesson is clear. Shalom bayit, peace in the home, is more prized than even the most cherished of locations. It is a blessing that eluded our patriarch Jacob. The majority of his life his family is beset by conflict. Now he has found shalom. And he discovers it no less in Egypt!

Peace between siblings, love between parents and children, is the greatest blessing of all. We need not venture to a sacred destination to discover this blessing. It is always nearby.

May shalom be found in our lives and in our homes.

Don’t Embarrass Others

After years of discord Joseph and his brothers finally make up.

This week the moment arrives when Joseph reveals himself and offers forgiveness. He pushes aside the painful memory of when his brothers almost killed him but instead sell him into slavery. They cast aside the moments and when Joseph bragged to them that their father loved him the most.

Now the brothers stand before Joseph, pleading for their brother Benjamin, but still unaware of Joseph’s identity. They appear to have changed. They are no longer the jealous lot who conspired against him.

Joseph’s emotions overtake him, and he can no longer hold back his tears. He cries out, “Have everyone withdraw from me!” Joseph said to his brothers, “I am your brother Joseph, he whom you sold into Egypt.” (Genesis 45)

The commentators ask why Joseph insisted that only his brothers remain in the room when he reveals himself. Is it because this moment of reconciliation is so intimate that it can only be shared by family? No outsider should witness it. The tradition suggests even more. Joseph does not want to shame his brothers. He is a mensch.

Rabbi Samuel bar Nahman remarks: Joseph placed himself in an extremely precarious position, for if his brothers had killed him, not a single person would have been aware of it. Why did he then say: “Have everyone withdraw from me!”? It is because Joseph said to himself: “I would rather die than shame my brothers before the Egyptians.” (Midrash Tanchuma Vayigash)

The tradition is emphatic about the need to avoid shaming others. Although wrongdoers deserve rebuke, they do not deserve embarrassment. Joseph’s brothers must acknowledge their wrongdoing. They must show that they have changed and that they would no longer harm someone, especially a family member. They do not need to be shamed.

Too often we confuse public shaming with the acknowledgment of wrongdoing. Public officials release press releases apologizing for their wrongs. They are shamed in the press but avoid saying “I’m sorry” to the individuals they have wronged.

Saying “I’m sorry,” however, is best done privately and between the people seeking repair.

Making amends is best kept within the family. It is not about the larger group. It is about the individuals.

Banish Zealotry

I love debates. And I love rabbinic arguments. They illuminate our tradition’s insights. And holding on to such divergent opinions help to preserve the bonds of community.

Millenia ago Rabbis Hillel and Shammai argued about the lighting of the Hanukkah menorah. Shammai was a literalist and believed eight candles should be lit on the first night and then one candle less on each successive night. He reasoned that there was more oil on the first night, so the Temple’s light burned brighter on the first night and less brightly on the holiday’s last night.

Rabbi Hillel strongly disagreed and argued that the miracle increased on each successive night so we should light one candle on the first night and eight candles on the last. He believed that the lights were representative of our faith. As the last night approached, when our trust in God might have waned, we lit eight candles and cast aside our doubts.

Jewish law follows Hillel. (It almost always does.) And in so doing the tradition moves us away from the literal to the figurative, from history to myth. In fact, the central story about the oil lasting for eight days instead of one is nowhere to be found in the books written soon after the Maccabee’s victory. The Books of Maccabees do not speak about this miracle. Their language talks about the mightiness of their swords not the strength of God’s helping hand. They write at length about their battles against those Jews who supported the Syrian Greek dynasty.

Their writings are a polemic against assimilation. The first death in the war is not that of a Syrian Greek soldier but instead a fellow Jew. Mattathias kills a Jew as he is about to offer a sacrifice on a pagan altar. The Book of Maccabees praises his zealousness. His actions inspire a popular uprising. Mattathias cries, “Whoever is zealous for the law, and maintains the covenant, let him follow me.” (I Maccabees 2)

But civil war, and strife, do not make a good recipe for building community. And fortunately for Hillel and Shammai the Books of Maccabees were not codified and made part of the Hebrew Bible. They could minimize the Maccabees’ version of events. They could sideline the story of military prowess. As much as Hillel and Shammai disagreed with each other, they wanted to ensure that the Jewish people never again became embroiled in civil war.

And so, their book, the Talmud, became the work that defined Jewish life for millennia. On its pages arguments are preserved. Although we light the Hanukkah candles according to Hillel’s interpretation, we still teach Shammai’s approach.

Our faith increases, the light grows, when we make room for more opinions at our tables, when we include such diversity within our celebrations. Zealousness is antithetical to community. Zealots do not compromise. They are blinded by ideology. They see only their own beliefs.

The rabbis, on the other hand, at least the sages living millennia ago, valued sitting with others and making room for their ideas over always being right. The value they elevated was the centrality of community. The darkness they banished was that of zealotry.

If we are likewise able to banish such polemics and the ever-present disdain for differing opinions, this year’s Hanukkah light might very well increase. And then on that eighth night, when all the candles are illuminated, we might see the images of more people sitting around our table. They may very well not agree with one another, but they will remain present for each other.

Everyone Can Write History

Jewish history hinges on the Joseph story. Because of the jealousy and hatred between Joseph and his brothers they sell him into slavery in Egypt where he rises to prominence. Eventually his family follows him there. The Jewish people then build comfortable lives in Egypt until a new Pharaoh comes to power. As the Torah recounts, “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.” The people are enslaved. Their cries reach heaven and so God calls Moses to lead the people to freedom. The rest of the story is the tale we tell at our Passover seders.

It turns on Joseph. Jewish history depends on the moment Joseph’s brothers sell him into slavery. It also revolves around an unnamed stranger.

Jacob sent Joseph out to the fields to look for his brothers. He apparently had difficulty finding them. The Torah reports, “When Joseph reached Shechem, a man came upon him wandering in the fields. The man asked him, ‘What are you looking for?’ He answered, ‘I am looking for my brothers. Could you tell me where they are pasturing?’ The man said, ‘They have gone from here, for I heard them say: Let us go to Dothan.’ So, Joseph followed his brothers and found them at Dothan.” (Genesis 37)

If not for this stranger Joseph might never have found his brothers. They might not have sold him into slavery. Then the Jewish people might never have arrived in Egypt and become enslaved there. And we might never have drawn so much inspiration from the Seders we continue to enjoy where we retell our going out from Egypt.

Moses Maimonides suggests that this stranger is an angel. How else could one explain that Jewish history turns on this stranger’s directions? For this medieval thinker it could only be a divine messenger who set Joseph on the proper course.

I would like to think that this stranger could be anyone.

Perhaps it is the unknown, unnamed people upon which history turns. Their names are never known. History books do not even record their deeds. Instead, they tell the stories of presidents and prime ministers, kings and queens, generals and strategists. And yet history could never be written without the guiding hand of the unnamed.

Far too many people aspire to fame. They wish to be the ones whose names are recorded in the history books. They worry about their legacy. They spend precious hours wondering if they will be remembered for good.

Yet it is often the unnamed stranger who points the direction and who moves the story forward. And it is upon their shoulders that history turns.

Perhaps it is the hidden, and unnamed person, upon which history revolves.

You never know where the directions you offer might lead. You never know how the advice you give might shape history.

Forgiveness Is for the Forgiver

David Whyte writes:

Forgiveness is a heartache and difficult to achieve because, strangely, it not only refuses to eliminate the original wound but actually draws us closer to its source. To approach forgiveness is to close in on the nature of the hurt itself, the only remedy being, as we approach its raw centre, to reimagine our relation to it. (Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words)

The Torah reports: “Esau ran to greet Jacob. He embraced him and, falling on his neck, he kissed him; and they wept.” (Genesis 33)

It is a remarkable turn of events. Twenty years earlier Jacob stole his brother Esau’s birthright, and Esau then threatened to kill Jacob forcing him to run for his life. Now, Jacob is terrified about meeting his brother. He presents him with an endless stream of gifts. Jacob bows before him but offers no apology. He does not even acknowledge his wrong.

And yet Esau runs toward his brother to forgive him. Despite Jacob’s fears Esau no longer wants to kill his brother. This dramatic reconciliation is initiated by Esau rather than Jacob.

David Whyte again,

To forgive is to put oneself in a larger gravitational field of experience than the one that first seemed to hurt us. We reimagine ourselves in the light of our maturity and we reimagine the past in the light of our new identity; we allow ourselves to be gifted by a story larger than the story that first hurt us and left us bereft.

Perhaps forgiveness comes because Esau needs it. He wants to rewrite his story. He wants to let go of his justified anger and his understandable resentment. He wants to heal his own pain. Esau becomes our unexpected and unlikely hero.

We learn from him that sometimes forgiveness is not motivated by the wrongdoer’s honest reflection. It does not come from an acknowledgment of the wrongdoing but instead because the forgiver needs it.

Forgiveness has the power to transform the person who grants it more than the one who receives it.

Once we realize this, we come to understand that we might need to offer forgiveness more than we need to accept it. Only then can we become the forgotten hero of our Torah.

Only then can we write a new story for ourselves.

Heading Towards Dreams

There are approximately 7,000 languages spoken throughout the world. I speak one very well and another not as well as I would like. And yet it is the Hebrew language that conjures my devotion and summons my tireless efforts. It is our language. It contains the words that orient our Jewish faith. Other languages offer different orientations.

There is an Aboriginal language that has a unique way of directing its speakers. In English I might say, “Susie is standing in front of me” or “My tequila is on my left.” In Kuuk Thaayorre, the answers are structured around the cardinal directions of north, south, east and west. And so, Susie might be standing west, and my tequila south.

This fascinating language orients its speakers around these cardinal directions. In fact, in Kuuk Thaayorre one does not say, “Hello” but instead “Which way are you going?” And the answer might be, “I am heading northeast.” The cognitive scientist, Lera Boroditsky, who studies how languages shape our thinking, argues that people who speak languages such as these rarely if ever get lost. They always know in which direction they are traveling.

I wonder how my wandering and meandering might be different if my language provided me such an extraordinary internal compass. I can tell you one thing for sure. I would have less stories to tell. Why? Because most begin with something like I turned left when I was supposed to go right. Or I took a wrong turn and discovered this wonderful new restaurant or my phone’s battery died and I was completely lost and bumped into a long-lost friend.

In between leaving and arriving a great deal can happen. Some of it depends on right turns. More often it is influenced by what appears to be wrong turns.

Jacob leaves Beersheva. He is running away from his brother Esau who wants to kill him after Jacob stole the birthright. Jacob sets out for Haran. The Torah opens with these words, “Jacob left Beersheva and set out for Haran.” (Genesis 28) His trickery and deception set his path. Jacob never arrives at his intended destination. He is heading north.

Somewhere in between he dreams of a ladder with angels going up and coming down from heaven on it. God stands by his side. God promises never to leave him. When he awakes, he exclaims, “Surely the Lord is present in this place, and I did not know it. How awesome is this place!” But he should have known this. He is standing on the promised land.

It is this very land around which our language orients. It is the center of our world. It is the place that sets our direction.

Even the cardinal directions of north, south, east and west are imbued with meaning in the Hebrew language. In the Torah the words for west and south are based on locations familiar to people living in land of Israel. Yama means towards the Sea, namely the Mediterranean. And Negbah is more exactly translated as towards the Negev. Tzafon suggests more than north. It derives from the word meaning hidden. And Kedmah implies more than east. It suggests moving forward or going toward the beginning.

Our language always takes us back east. There we were born. There our dreams are centered.

When we were exiled from this land our language kept us oriented. We never forgot about the land whose places were embedded in how we conversed and prayed. We meandered throughout other lands. We picked up other languages and their directions infused our spirits. Our thoughts meandered away from its biblical orientation.

Rather than saying, Mah shlomcha which is usually translated as “How are you?” but conveys the more profound meaning of “Are you whole?” we say, “What’s up?” whose origins may hearken not to ancient scripture but instead Bugs Bunny’s well-known “What’s up Doc” or even that Budweiser commercial from years ago.

As I look to the east, I am wondering how we might reorient our lives and reclaim our language’s direction. Instead of asking such nonchalant questions such as “How are you?” and expecting only the perfunctory response of “I’m ok,” we should ask, “Which way are you heading? What are your dreams?”

“And Jacob dreamed; a ladder was set on the ground and its top reached to the heavens.” (Genesis 28)

Our Words Make a Difference

What follows is my sermon from the Friday night of Thanksgiving weekend when we read the portion Toldot.

This week we read about the tortured relationship between Jacob and Esau, twin brothers born to Isaac and Rebekah. Even though Jacob is revered as our forefather he can in these earlier stories act as his name implies like a heel. And Esau who the tradition sees as the father of our future enemies can sometimes appear as a sympathetic character.

The portion opens with this story. Jacob, our mild-mannered hero, is home cooking lentil stew while Esau, a skilled hunter is out in the field hunting for some tasty game. Esau comes home famished and asks his brother for some stew. Jacob tells him to first sell him his first-born birthright. Esau says and I quote, “I am at the point of death, so of what use is my birthright to me?” And this is how Jacob first supplants his older brother Esau and the beginnings of the tension between the two.

Leaving aside the questions about Jacob’s trickery let’s focus on Esau’s disregard for his obligations and most especially his statements about hunger. It is hard to believe that he was so hungry that he was at the point of death. And yet his words seem all too familiar. They make me think of my own and our own. How many times do we say, “I’m starving?” We do not really know hunger. We are as fortunate as Esau and perhaps as self-absorbed. We say his words all the time. We casually use words such as “I am famished” when we are really not. We say, “I’m starving” so often we are unaware of saying it. We say things like “I’m so hungry; I am going to die” when this is not even remotely true. I am pointing a finger at myself too.

In the Hebrew Esau describes himself as tired or weary. He states, Anochi holech lamoot—I am walking towards death. How dramatic! His emotions are the center of the universe. He sees nothing of the struggles of others. He forgets that there are so many people who are in fact truly hungry and who are really approaching death.

Likewise, when we use such words and phrases, we distance ourselves from those who are truly hungry. We diminish their truth when we muddle our own. We brush away the facts when we allow our emotions do the talking. Perhaps it is defense mechanism. We would rather think of our own needs rather than the needs of others. We would rather focus on the hunger we feel even though it will soon be satisfied rather than the hunger out there that might never be allayed. It’s almost impossible to think about the actual numbers.

Twelve percent of Americans face food insecurity. As I explained to our religious school students, food insecurity is defined as not having access to sufficient food or adequate food. It may mean people who are not able to eat three meals a day or eat even one proper meal. In this land of plenty nearly 13 million children face such conditions. In the world, it is estimated that the number is about 800 million. Here on Long Island, it is over 200,000 people. Those are sobering numbers. They are frightening statistics. They are so large that we feel like we can’t do anything about it.

But we cannot give up. We cannot give in. This is why our synagogue has an ongoing collection for the local food pantry. We want to help to make sure its shelves are always stocked so that people who are hungry and who understand what hunger really feels like can shop there at no cost. And as important as this and other efforts are this evening I want to focus on those words, and those offhand phrases that turn us inward rather than outward. I want us to think about our attitude and our language.

The words we use do matter. They shape our feelings. They influence our actions—or our inaction. They can do as they did for Esau and push him more and more inward or they can help us look outward, away from our own wants and needs to those who actually need more.

This is the essence of why we say a blessing for food. If we pause and say thank you before eating, we are more apt to think of the food we eat as a gift. The blessing is the corrective to the false words we might have offered while waiting to eat or after coming in from a long day when we inevitably say I am famished. They become the true words. They are the balance to the false words we may have said before we sat down. That’s the tradition’s theory. They force us to stop and think before stuffing our faces with food.

The Thanksgiving dinners that we just celebrated are about excess. Most, if not all, of our tables had too much food on them. It would be contrary to our American ethos to run out of food when hosting such a Thanksgiving meal. We stuff ourselves until we are uncomfortable so that we might feel blessed.

But the tradition’s counsel is that it should not have to be an overabundance of food to make us feel blessed. In fact, the Talmud asks how much food do you need to have in front of you before offering the motzi? And its answer is my rabbi David Hartman’s favorite teaching. The Talmud’s answer is k’zayit. It only needs to be as big as an olive. I am pretty sure that there is no one here or anywhere for that matter who considers such a small bite size satisfying. Such a morsel cannot possibly be filling. It is almost not deserving of a blessing especially when you put that up against last night’s meal. An olive was less than what we munched on during the football games.

That’s exactly the tradition’s point. If you say a blessing for such a small morsel of food, then your perspective and your words stay true. Food is not only an answer to hunger. It is instead an opportunity to give thanks. Rabbis think about the spirit. They reason that if the spirit is satisfied the rest can follow. They believe we will then think less about what we want and more about what other people need. We will think about those who are truly hungry.

It begins with a blessing. And leads to making room for others. And that offers us the opportunity to make sure less people actually need to say, I am famished.

Giving Thanks Can Be Heavy Lifting

When we think of prayer, we most often think about making a request of God. We ask God to grant us health. The words of the Mi Shebeirach for healing are familiar and are often our most heartfelt prayer.

Likewise, Isaac prays for his wife Rebekah. After twenty years of marriage, they remain infertile. Our forefather turns to prayer. The Torah reports: “Isaac pleaded with Adonai on behalf of his wife, because she was barren; and Adonai responded to his plea, and his wife Rebekah conceived.” (Genesis 25) If only all our similar prayers were answered with such an emphatic yes.

The Hebrew word for pleaded is “vayetar” is unusual. It suggests a prayer that is a heartfelt request. Our ancient rabbis debate its meaning. Rabbi Yohanan said, “Isaac poured out prayers abundantly.” Reish Lakish recognized the word’s similarity to that of a pitchfork and comments, “He overturned the decree just as a pitchfork overturns the grain.” (Bereshit Rabbah 63)

And I would like to add, heartfelt prayers emerge from a tumultuous soul. Their cries emerge from trials and difficulties. Like the farmer who wields a pitchfork such prayer is hard work and even painful. All our prayers cannot possibly take this form. They are too hard. They hurt too much. It can become debilitating to utter over and over again, “Why me?”

Perhaps this is why most Jewish prayers are not requests but instead thanks. When we pray, we give thanks. We are familiar with the words we offer in the evening. “Blessed are You, Adonai, our God, Ruler of the universe, who speaks the evening into being, skillfully opens the gates, thoughtfully alters the time and changes the seasons, and arranges the stars in their heavenly courses according to plan.” This is emblematic of our prayers. Look at the stars. Give thanks.

Offering thanks is about acceptance.

As much as we believe that our choices are our own, that our fate is something we can write for ourselves, our prayers are instead about accepting our destiny. It is does not matter how big your Thanksgiving turkey is. It does not matter how small the morsel of bread may be. Offer the blessing, the rabbis counsel.

No matter how big or small we say thank you. Now matter how much or how little, we say, “Baruch.” This is the essence of the tradition’s message. It is also the thrust of our Thanksgiving holiday. Give thanks for the food. Give thanks for family. Give thanks for friends.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel adds, “Our goal should be to live life in radical amazement. Get up in the morning and look at the world in a way that takes nothing for granted. Everything is phenomenal; everything is incredible; never treat life casually. To be spiritual is to be amazed.”

Prayer is about burnishing the spiritual. It is about cultivating amazement.

And teaching ourselves to offer thanks can sometimes be as hard as lifting a pitchfork.

It is not just tumult that requires heavy lifting. Sometimes the hard work is as simple as giving thanks.

Dignity Requires Hard Work

This week we meet Rebekah. Her marriage to Isaac is arranged by Abraham and orchestrated by his trusted servant Eliezer. She is chosen because she offers to draw water for Eliezer after his long journey to Abraham’s native land. She also undertakes the difficult task of drawing water for the camels. This must have been a strenuous undertaking. She must have to run back and forth to the well hundreds of times. (A camel can drink thirty gallons of water!)

The rabbis do not, however, praise her physical strength and stamina. Instead, they speak of her kindness. She is the model of compassion. She thinks not only of people’s needs but those of animals. She reaches out to all of God’s creatures. This is why she is the perfect wife for Isaac. After his mother Sarah’s death, he needs tenderness and love. Rebekah offers it.

Rabbi Isaiah Horowitz, a seventeenth century teacher, fashions a beautiful story highlighting these attributes. He adds to Rebekah’s character and writes,

Rebekah displayed remarkably ethical conduct. She showed respect for fellow human beings. First, she let Eliezer drink. When some water was left over in the jug, she did not know what to do. She debated whether to give the left-over water to the camels. In doing this, however, she would place a person and beast on the same level by letting both of them drink from the same vessel. If, on the other hand, she would pour out the left-over water, this would also be a lack of respect, since drinking water would be demoted to the status of dirty wastewater. What did she do? She "ran" as if to give the camels to drink. While running, she pretended to fall, so that the water spilled from the jug. She then had an excuse to fill the jug anew from the well. In this way Eliezer was not slighted at all. (Shenei Luchot HaBerit)

Rebekah is unconcerned about creating extra work for herself. She only thinks about the feelings of others. She worries about Eliezer’s needs rather than her own burdens.

I wonder. Are we willing to go to such lengths to help others? Would we likewise add to our own burdens to make someone else’s life easier? How far would we go to preserve the dignity of another? Would we add tasks to our lengthy to do lists so that someone else is not offended?

For the sake of family, the answer may very well be yes. For the sake of friends, the answer might also be yes. For the sake of animals we might say, perhaps, if they are our pets. For the sake of strangers, I doubt it. Rebekah is concerned about strangers. She shows compassion to someone she just met.

We struggle to live up to our matriarch’s example.

We rarely put in extra effort when it comes to other people’s feelings. Ideas so important to our ancestors, like dignity and honor, feel outdated. Institutions that were once unquestioned are under attack. We don’t trust government and its leaders. We question schools and their teachers. We march into doctors’ offices with mountains of information downloaded from the internet. In an age when everyone is an expert, no one is an expert.

Dignity, however, is something that we extend. Honor is not only earned. It must be granted.

Like Rebekah we must be ready to go to extra lengths. We must extend honor and compassion to even the passing stranger.

We never know. A casual acquaintance could likewise be on a divine errand.