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Exodus 1:1 – 6:1 “And these are the names [Shemot] of the sons of Jacob who came to Egypt with Jacob, each man with his household they came.” [Ex. 1:1] The book of Exodus, which details the enslavement and eventual redemption of our people, begins with our names. Egypt, like Nazi Germany, attempted a Holocaust against our people. Pharaoh commanded the Hebrew midwives (who thankfully resisted) to kill all newborn baby boys, which would effectively destroy the Jewish people in one generation. However, unlike what happened to us under the Nazi oppression, where Jews in the death camps were tattooed with numbers meant to deny them any humanity, in Egypt we kept our names. A name is a powerful thing. It identifies us, and when we attach ourselves to a family or people, it connects us with their history and values. Thus, the history of our enslavement and our miraculous redemption begins with our names, so that we can remember who we really are. As anti-Semitism rears its ugly head in the world today, as some would try to portray us in ways that take away our humanity and attempt to hijack the meaning of our tradition, we can respond by refusing to accept such nonsense. We have names, and we have families, and we are part of a people with a noble religious tradition and inspiring values. With this in mind, I would like to share two expressions of what it means to be a Jew, one from France in the early 20th Century and the second from Brooklyn, just a few weeks ago. The first was written by the French playwright and philosopher Edmund Fleg. He was a proud Frenchman, a recipient of the War Cross and eventually an officer in the Foreign Legion. He was also an ardent Zionist. In the 1920’s, according to legend, he was offered a prestigious position to teach Philosophy at the Sorbonne in Paris. However, the offer came with a stipulation: he would have to convert out of Judaism. In 1928, he published his rejection of this requirement with his response, Porquoi Je Suis Juife (Why I am a Jew). What follows is an adaptation of his powerful statement from the Reform movement prayer book Mishkan Tefillah (pg. 203): I am a Jew because the faith of Israel demands no abdication of my mind. New York Times columnist Bari Weiss spoke these next words at the “No Hate, No Fear” solidarity march in Brooklyn on January 5. May we be inspired by both her words and his to stay true to who we are, and proudly proclaim our names as part of Am Yisrael (the people of Israel): My name is Bari Weiss.
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Genesis 47:28 – 50:26 Remember the Hatfields and the McCoys? Their blood-feud lasted far beyond the point where anyone even remembered how it started, driven by family honor and pride. It had to begin with a slight, intentional or not. Because family honor has been “stained”, an act of revenge was required. This, in turn, led to a retaliation for the other family’s honor, and so on. Regardless of who is involved, this kind of cycle, once started, intensifies with each tit for tat, and is virtually impossible to end. The blood feud is a distinctive element of what is commonly called a shame-based culture. In shame-based cultures wrongful acts lead to public shame and become permanent stains on us and our families/clans/nations. In this setting, unforgiving responses to shameful acts are often the only way honor can be restored. Much of the world is organized according to shame-based cultural frames. Just open a newspaper – the examples abound. It should be no surprise that Jewish culture not shame-based, but guilt-based. There is nothing like Jewish guilt! In a guilt-based culture, when a wrong is committed, the focus is on the damaging behavior or act, rather than on permanently shaming the perpetrator. In other words, while a shame-based culture requires revenge, a guilt-based culture seeks responsibility, restitution and forgiveness. In this week’s parasha, we find an extraordinary example of forgiveness. Jacob dies at a ripe old age in Egypt, leaving all of his children behind. Since they are in Egypt, and since Joseph is the power behind the throne, the brothers become worried that Joseph will seek revenge against them. In a shame-based culture, he would be well within his rights, and may have simply been waiting for their father to die (out of respect) before taking action. Soon after Jacob’s death, the brothers send a message to Joseph, saying: “Your father left these instructions before he died: ‘This is what you are to say to Joseph: I ask you to forgive your brothers the sins and the wrongs they committed in treating you so badly.’ Now please forgive the sins of the servants of the God of your father.” [Gen. 50:16] How does Joseph respond? By reminding them of what he already said: “Don’t be afraid,” said Joseph, “Am I in place of God? You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good, to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.” [Gen. 50-19-20] Rabbi Jonathan Saks teaches that this great act of forgiveness is the bookend to one of the very first stories in Genesis: the sibling rivalry of Cain and Abel. He notes that the theme of sibling rivalry is repeated through many generations: Cain and Abel, Isaac and Ishmael, Jacob and Esau and finally, Joseph and his brothers. The cycle which originally led to an act fratricide, could only be resolved in the end by an act of powerful forgiveness. Joseph breaks the cycle as Genesis comes to its end. Permanently. Rabbi Saks writes: “Can brothers live peaceably with one another? This question is fundamental to the biblical drama of redemption, for if brothers cannot live together, how can nations? And if nations cannot live together, how can the human world survive?” Redemption and freedom, the primary themes of the rest of Torah, can only happen once we learn to reconcile our differences.
Perhaps a little guilt isn’t such a bad thing after all. Genesis 44:18 – 47:27 Last week, more than ten different acts of violence were perpetrated against our people in the greater New York area during the celebration of Hanukkah. What is the Jewish response to fear, pain and suffering? Just look at this week’s parasha, VaYigash. Joseph, is now the ‘Prime Minister’ of Egypt and has severely tested his brothers to see if they will abandon Benjamin the way they abandoned him so many years before. They, of course, did not recognize him, but they do pass the test. Now, overcome with emotion, Joseph finally reveals himself to his brothers. Their first reaction is shock, but when the truth finally sinks in, they became terribly afraid. Why? Because they were the ones who threw Joseph in the pit, where slavers then found him and took him to Egypt. Joseph suffered first at the hands of his brothers, then at the hands of the slavers, then as a slave in Egypt, then as a prisoner in Pharaoh’s dungeon for a crime he did not commit. He suffered for years and years, and now that his brothers were in Egypt, he had the power to take any revenge against them he wished. Yet, Joseph did not seek revenge. He said: “I am Joseph your brother whom you sold into Egypt. And now, do not be pained and do not be incensed with yourselves that you sold me down here, because for sustenance God has sent me before you. Two years now there has been famine in the heart of the land, and there are yet five years without plowing and harvest. And God has sent me before you to make you a remnant on earth and to preserve life, for you to be a great surviving group. And so, it is not you who sent me here, but God, and He has made me father to Pharaoh and lord to all his house and ruler over the all the land of Egypt. Hurry and go up to my father and say to him, ‘Thus says your son Joseph: God has made lord to all Egypt. Come down to me, do not delay …’” [Gen. 45:4-9] First, Joseph acknowledges the wrong his brothers committed. We are not stoics; we do not pretend everything is ok when it is not. The Jewish response to suffering begins with acknowledging the suffering we endure. But we do not stop there. Joseph serves as a great model for our people. His resilience stemmed from his faith, which in turn, allowed Joseph to take the long view. In this way, rather than just focusing on what he faced in the moment, Joseph was able not only to endure, but to maintain a sense of hope.
There is a common joke you may have heard before, about most every Jewish holiday: “They tried to kill us, they failed, let’s eat.” I have said these words in jest many times, yet Rabbi Dan Moskovitz teaches that Joseph’s example is not so simple. Joseph recasts his situation to find a greater meaning. His message to his brothers is that while they may have intended him harm, he was sent to Egypt for a Greater Reason. There was a purpose to his suffering. He had to learn from his experience; grow from being a spoiled little boy to a great and generous man of faith. He had to be in the right place at the right time to save his family, and many others. Our resilience comes from our ability to take the long view AND our ability to find meaning in our experience. Last week, more than ten different acts of violence were perpetrated against our people in the greater New York area during the celebration of Hanukkah. The most reported instance was a tragic attack at the house of a rabbi, as his community was preparing to light the candles. Five people were wounded – including the rabbi’s son. How did this community respond? After the danger had passed, and after making sure to care for everyone who needed, they returned to the celebration of Hanukkah – our festival of lights and of religious freedom. This was not an act of callousness, but of profound faith. It was a refusal to let the attackers take Hanukkah away from us. It was bringing the meaning of Hanukkah back to life. For long after these haters are gone, we will still be here, still lighting candles during the darkest weeks of the year, still singing songs of praise, and yes, still eating delicious fried food for Hanukkah. And that is no joke. Genesis 41:1 – 44:17
[This drash is inspired by a teaching from Rabbi Amy Scheinerman, published in the CCAR newsletter in 2015] Young Joseph was the model of arrogance. He was the beloved of Jacob and he knew it. He wore a special coat. He even dreamed how his family would bow before him. The thing is, that is what eventually led to his downfall – literally, in a pit, thrown there and abandoned by his own brothers. Slave traders found him there, and brought him to Egypt, where Joseph began to learn humility. We see it first when he tries to fend off the amorous attentions of Potiphar’s wife. We see it again when he declares before Pharaoh that it is God, not he, who is interpreting Pharaoh’s dreams. And we see it when Joseph, as Viceroy of Egypt, reveals himself to his brothers and explains that he bears them no ill will. His humility allows him to see that God brought him to Egypt not for his own aggrandizement, but so that he could save his family from famine. In other words, Joseph’s life is a lesson in the pitfalls of arrogance and in the healing power of humility. When we are arrogant, there is no room for anyone else in our world. In the end, by making everything about us, we find ourselves utterly alone, in a pit of our own making. On the other hand, when we cultivate humility, we see our value in relation to others. We see the contributions and benefit we offer each other, and we find more meaning in the good we do than in the honors we try to collect. What would our world be like today, if more us could learn from Joseph’s example? Genesis 37:1 – 40:23 It’s not like she didn’t know his name. Joseph, although a slave in Egypt, was the head of Potiphar’s household. Everyone in the house knew him. The other slaves and servants reported to him. Potiphar appointed him. Potiphar’s wife lusted after him. Joseph refused her advances, and when she grabbed him by his tunic one day, he ran away – leaving it in her hands. She, in turn, set about framing him for rape. When she accused him, first before the other servants and then before her husband, she never used his name. Instead, she called him “that Hebrew” (ivri in Hebrew). The word ivri is based on the root which means “from over there.” In other words, ivri contains within it the connotation of “other” or “not like me/us.” Potiphar’s wife dehumanized Joseph, she emphasized that he was different, and then she accused him of a heinous crime. It did not matter that he was innocent, he never had a chance. Our parasha ends with Joseph languishing in Pharaoh’s dungeon. Torah reminds us no fewer than 36 times that we were once strangers, so that we will empathize with and then care for those who we might think of as “other.” As the world around seems to become more and more like Potiphar’s wife, Torah demands that we hold true to our values, even if it makes us seem like we ourselves are “other.” “In a place where there are no human beings, [taught Hillel,] strive be one.” [Pirkei Avot 2:5] This is the how the word ivri becomes a badge of strength and courage, and how we can live up to our great name.
Genesis 32:4 – 36:43 This is a huge parasha. Jacob wrestles with something big (God, an angel, his conscience – depending on who you ask) and as a result is transformed and becomes Israel. The next day, he makes peace with Esau. Dinah, Jacob’s daughter is raped by Shechem the Hivite, and her brothers take revenge by murdering every male of Shechem and plundering the city. Rachel dies giving birth to Benjamin, and Isaac dies and is buried in Hebron. With all of this to capture our attention, the last chapter of the portion can easily be overlooked. After all, it is but a long, “dry as bones” list of the descendants of Esau. Yet, buried in the midst of this genealogy is a mystery which captivated the rabbis: “Timna was a concubine of Esau’s son Eliphaz, she bore Amalek to Eliphaz.” [Gen. 36:12] Rabbi Michael Gold observes that, in general, biblical genealogies mention the men, but not the women. Why then does the Torah make an exception for Timna? Who was this woman? Why was she so important that she had to be included in Torah, where every word is there for a reason?
Torah says nothing else about Timna, but the rabbinic tradition tries to fill in the gaps. According to the rabbis, Timna was the daughter of a local chieftain. As a child, she was deeply moved by the teachings of Abraham, and desired to convert to Judaism. When she tried, she was turned away. Yet, she was so desperate to become part of this people that she turned to the only other option she could think of – she tried to become part of the family as a concubine to Eliphaz, the great-grandson of Abraham. Then she gives birth to Amalek, the eternal enemy of the Jewish people. Rabbi Gold writes: “The lesson is that our greatest enemy is born because a woman is turned away from conversion.” Contrast this with Abraham, who the rabbis teach was chosen by God because of his extraordinary hospitality. In every synagogue, and every Jewish community, we would be well advised to remember Timna, and to seek ways to be more like Abraham, with our tents opened wide. Genesis 28:10 – 32:3
While many of us took time this past week to feel and offer gratitude on Thanksgiving, some of us may have struggled to find gratitude. And, even among those who truly did have a grateful Thanksgiving are those of us for whom the holiday is just for once a year – rather than a daily or weekly celebration. For far too many of us, our world - the “real world,” has too many claims upon us:
Enter this week’s Torah portion, where Jacob finally begins to come into his own. In last week’s parasha Jacob is introduced to us as the physically weaker stay-at-home-with-his-mother twin as compared with his burly man-of-the-fields brother Esau. However, this week Jacob – by himself – moves an incredibly heavy stone to access the life-giving waters of the well it had covered. What is the connection between this story and gratitude? Rabbi Bonnie Koppell notes how we are “wired” for gratitude: it creates such warm feelings within and between us. She also acknowledges that we are the most materially comfortable people in the history of people. Yet we are also the most dissatisfied, consumed with desire, struggling with what she calls a spiritual depression. She teaches: “Gratitude is as important to our spiritual well-being as water is to our physical well-being. What is it that blocks us from accessing the soul restoring waters of gratitude and appreciation?” That is the question. What are the stones, the spiritual blocks, we need to move to access the joy which comes with spiritual health? For each of us, the answer will be different, but know this: just like Jacob, you have the strength to move them – even if you think you don’t. Genesis 25:19 – 28:9 As we celebrate Thanksgiving, Americans will gather around our tables to give thanks for the blessings which surround and infuse our lives, but what exactly is a blessing? According to the dictionary, there are four distinct types of blessing:
We might think that with five different categories now defined, we would fully understand our “blessings.” However, how could we really know what a blessing is without first checking with the Torah? In this week’s parasha, Isaac is recognized by the Philistines as being blessed by God: “We have clearly seen that the Lord is with you, and we thought – Let there be an oath between our two sides, between you and us, and let us seal a pact with you, that you will do no harm to us just as we have not touched you, and just as we have done towards you only good, sending you away in peace. You are now blessed of the Lord.” [Gen. 26:28-30] Rabbi David Greenstein asks if Isaac’s status of being blessed is merely acknowledged here, or is it activated because of the conclusion of a peace treaty? In other words, does the blessing flow from heaven or from us? The same ambiguity clings to the blessing which Isaac gives (or tries to give) to Esau. Rebecca overhears Isaac command Esau to hunt venison for him “so that my soul shall bless you before I die.” [Gen. 27:4] Isaac makes no mention of God to Esau, but when Rebecca tells Jacob (and plots with Jacob to steal the blessing) she adds God language to the description. Is the blessing from Isaac or is Isaac an instrument of God for the transmission of the blessing? The answer to all these questions is yes. Blessings come from heaven and they come from us. We are surrounded every day by countless blessings, some from God and some from each other. According to Jewish tradition, we recite a series of blessings each morning to offer thanks in recognition that each new day, no matter what happens in it, is actually a gift. We recognize that our bodies are incredibly complex and delicate, and we are given an opportunity to sense the wonder and amazement of our existence. We offer thanks for our minds and our souls, and for the miracles which surround us each day – all gifts from Heaven. Similarly, the rabbis teach us to be mindful if the blessings we receive from each other: “Ben Zoma … used to say: How many labors did Adam have to engage in before he obtained bread to eat! He plowed, he sowed, he reaped; he stacked the sheaves, threshed the grain winnowed the chaff, selected the good ears, ground [them], sifted [flour], kneaded the dough, and baked. And only then did he eat. Whereas I get up and find all these things done for me. How many labors did Adam have to engage in before he obtained a garment to wear! He sheared the sheep, washed [the wool], combed it, spun it, wove it, dyed the cloth, and sewed it. And only then did he have a garment to wear. Whereas I get up and find all these things done for me. All kinds of craftsmen come early to the door of my house, and when I rise in the morning I find all these things ready for me.” [Talmud Balvi, Berachot 58a] Judaism does not distinguish different kinds of blessings in the same way as the dictionary, but our definition is encompassing and wide, and more than anything, we are taught that Thanksgiving does not come just once a year, but for us, is a daily celebration of the miracle of life.
Genesis 23:1 – 25:18 From the title of our parasha, Chayei Sarah, we would assume that the portion is about the life of Sarah, because Chayei Sarah literally means ‘the life of Sarah.’ How surprising then, is the opening verse: “And the life of Sarah was a hundred and twenty-seven years, the year’s a Sarah’s life. And Sarah died …” {Gen. 23:1-2a) Even more, the Torah also records the death of Abraham towards the end of the portion. Why then is this parasha called the Life of Sarah and not the death of Sarah (and Abraham)? Perhaps it is as simple as this: thousands of years later, we remember Sarah and Abraham not because they died, but because they lived.
All of us will eventually die. We cannot change that fact. What we can control, however, is how we live. Genesis 18:1 – 22:24 It’s a miracle! Or rather it will be. In this week’s parasha, VaYeira, three angels approach Abraham with a promise from God: despite the fact that both Abraham and Sarah are advanced in age and she has been barren her entire life, next year she shall give birth to their son. If you were Sarah, how would you react? “And Sarah laughed inwardly, saying, ‘After being shriveled, shall I have pleasure – with my husband so old?’” [Gen. 18:12] I love this verse. First, please note that she is not saying anything about her ability to get pregnant. Sure, she may be well past menopause, but, at least on surface, this seems to be about more about Abraham than Sarah. It is almost as if Sarah is saying: “With that old guy? Are you kidding?” Let’s take a closer look at the Hebrew, or rather, one specific word. ‘Ednah’ means ‘pleasure,’ and shares a root with Eden, as in the Garden. Eden is Paradise. Sarah is laughing to herself (and then is embarrassed when she is called out for it) about Abraham’s ability, as such an old man, to bring her to “paradise” so that she can conceive. Sarah may seem a bit snarky here, but this is Torah and there is remarkable wisdom contained in this little snark. Forget that Sarah too is quite old and it would take a miracle for her to get pregnant in any circumstance. For Sarah, there is a direct causality between paradise/pleasure and pregnancy. Abraham must bring Sarah to Paradise, to the Garden – only then will she be able to conceive. On the surface, this seems to be simply about sex … except it isn’t. Their relationship has been difficult, to say the least. On two separate occasions, once in Egypt and once in Canaan, Abraham asked Sarah to lie about their relationship as husband and wife, and each time she was taken to the palace of the pharaoh/king to become a concubine. At no point do we hear Sarah’s voice in these stories, but it couldn’t have been good for their marriage. When we finally do hear Sarah speak, it is from a place of deep pain. She is barren, and it wounds her to the point where she commands Abraham to take her female slave Hagar to bear his child on Sarah’s behalf. When Hagar gives birth to Ishmael, she beings to taunt Sarah, and Sarah eventually drives both Hagar and Ishmael from the camp. What do we really know about Sarah? At a minimum, her life was far removed from anything resembling paradise, the lush Garden. Here in VaYeira, Sarah expresses her pain again, this time through laughter and mockery. Her life has been hard, and she has suffered for so many years that she has become dry and withered – and has done so as Abraham’s wife. She is like a tree in the desert, which can find no water. Yet, in the midst of her pain, she may also be wondering -- could things actually change? “And Sarah laughed inwardly, saying, ‘After being shriveled, shall I have pleasure – with my husband so old?’” [Gen. 18:12] Bringing a child into the world should be an act of love, and of faith in the future. It is difficult to imagine that Sarah had either. She may have seriously doubted, because they were so set in their ways (“with my husband so old”) that anything could change. How could she possibly conceive and give birth without love or hope?
Yet, the angel’s prediction, God’s promise, came true. One year later Sarah brought Isaac into the world. What if the miracle wasn’t just that an old woman got pregnant and birthed a healthy boy? What if the miracle was also that two people, old and set in their ways, somehow managed –with God’s help – to leave the parched desert and find their Garden together? |
AuthorHi there! I am the senior rabbi at Temple Beth Ami in Rockville, Maryland, where I have served since 2016. Archives
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