April 22: Tazria/Metzora – Leviticus 12:1-15:33

Courtesy of the URJ: 
D'VAR TORAH BY: RABBI DVORA E. WEISBERG

A journey through Tazria-M’tzora in a time of COVID-19 is revelatory. Things that never resonated before, things that seemed incomprehensible – perhaps even reprehensible – suddenly make sense.

Leviticus 13 goes into excruciating detail about the diagnosis of and response to various afflictions of the skin. These infestations, whose cause is unknown, render human beings and clothing ritual impure. The priest who examines the afflicted individual cannot identify the cause of the outbreak; he can only determine whether the symptoms necessitate isolating the individual from their community. At times, the priest cannot determine whether early symptoms indicate a contagious illness; in such a case, a follow-up visit may be required before a diagnosis can be confirmed.

If the priest pronounces the individual impure, the following steps are taken:

As for the person with a leprous affection, the clothes shall be rent, the head shall be left bare, and the upper lip shall be covered over; and the person shall call out, “Impure! Impure!” That person shall be impure as long as the disease and shall dwell apart in a dwelling outside the camp (Lev. 13:45-46).

Who could fail to empathize with the stricken individual of our Torah portion? We live in a time when a cough, a sense that food is less savory than it was yesterday, or a slightly elevated temperature leaves us uncertain as to whether we have a mild cold, the seasonal flu, or whether we have contracted a terrifying virus. Imagine the reaction to the symptoms detailed in Tazria-M’tzora.

In these years when every person whom we encounter, no matter how healthy they appear, could be a source of contagion, imagine the reaction of those around the afflicted person described in Leviticus. Consider the restrictions imposed on the person. Dressed in clothes that indicate mourning, wearing a mask over their mouth, they walk alone, signaling their condition by appearance and speech. They are forced into isolation, kept apart from family and friends during what must be the most anxious and frightening time of their life. No visitors, no words of comfort from loved ones, no way of knowing what the next day will bring.

However, the Torah offers hope. Leviticus 14 begins: “This shall be the ritual for a leper at the time of purification… the priest shall go outside the camp. If the priest sees that the leper has been healed… he now leads the individual through a ritual of purification” (Lev. 14:2-3). This ritual is not a cure, a rite to banish disease; it is enacted only after the physical symptoms of the illness are gone. It allows a person returning to the community to experience catharsis, to symbolically cast away the pain and fear of illness. The ritual itself may strike us as bizarre – a bird is slaughtered and its blood is mixed with water and sprinkled over the person who has recovered. A second bird is set free. The individual washes their clothes and bathes but must remain outside their home for another week. Then after a second round of bathing, the individual offers sacrifices and is anointed with blood and oil.

Tazria-M’tzora confirms what we have learned in the past years: The workings of the human body are wonderous and mysterious. Despite all of our knowledge and medical expertise, we can’t always explain why some people become ill while others do not. We often take our bodies for granted when they function as expected and are then shocked and dismayed when they don’t. We feel a sense of betrayal when we experience illness. Even when we know what causes a disease, that knowledge often offers no reassurance and does not allay our fears.  

The writers of the Torah and the rabbis who interpreted it in the early centuries of the Common Era possessed none of our medical knowledge. The workings of the body that have been explained by modern science were a mystery to them. The Talmud acknowledges this sacred mystery in words that have become part of our morning liturgy: “Blessed [are You]… who formed human beings wisely, creating within them openings and channels. You know that if one of them opened or closed [at the wrong time] it would be impossible to stand before You” (Berakhot 60b). In Leviticus Rabbah, commenting on the opening verse of Tazria, rabbinic discussions of pregnancy and birth reflect the sense that the formation and sustaining of the fetus in the womb is miraculous.

It is expected that if a person carries a bag of coins with the opening facing downward that the coins will fall out. But when the fetus rests in the mother’s womb and the Holy One protects it so that it will not fall out and die… (Leviticus Rabbah 14:2)

How does the child rest in the womb? It is rolled up like a writing tablet, its head between its knees, its hands at its sides, its heels against its buttocks, its mouth closed and its navel open. It eats and drinks what its mother eats and drinks, but expels no waste, lest it kill its mother. When it comes into the world, that which was closed, opens, and that which was open, closes. (Leviticus Rabbah 14:8)

In a world filled with mystery, there is awe and wonder when the body functions as expected, and there is also fear. Tazria-M’tzora, with its discussions of bodily fluids and skin ailments, reflects both the awe and the fear that the body’s function and dysfunction evoke. Its rituals, strange as they seem to us, allowed individuals to mark the highs and lows that are part of physical existence. These rituals marked their restoration not only to health but also to communal life.

This parashah, read….after we began living through a pandemic, reminds us that life is fragile and that illness may result in a sense of disruption and isolation. It also reminds us that rituals, while sometimes as mysterious as the inner workings of the human body, may offer comfort at the end of an illness. The conditions discussed in Tazria-M’tzora had physical manifestations, but they may also have taken a social and emotional toll. The rituals described in the parashah are performed on the body of people, but they are also intended to act upon their minds, to reassure them that they are once again whole.

Perhaps we too should think about how ritual could help us recover from the physical and emotional toll of the past year.

March 25: Parashat Vayikra - Leviticus 1:1−5:26 (Copy)

Courtesy of the URJ: D'VAR TORAH BY: CANTOR JILL ABRAMSON

I spent a semester in Cameroon, West Africa with the School for International Training in Brattleboro, VT, when I was an undergraduate. I lived with a host family in the northwest city of Dschang. The family had a few chickens that they raised as a food source. One afternoon, before dinner, we were in the backyard. My host-sister took a chicken and butchered it, slitting its throat and draining the blood out of its neck, its life force slipping away. My host family sacrificed the animal so I could eat. I will never forget that meal; it nourished my body and my soul. 

I cannot help but think about that chicken every time I read the detailed descriptions of animal sacrifice in the book of Leviticus. But this week, I noticed something compelling about another kind of sacrifice. This time it was the meal-offering that caught my attention, an offering which consists of flour, oil, and frankincense.

The second chapter of Parashat Vayikra, begins "V'nefesh ki takriv korban mincha …" When a person [or soul] presents an offering of meal to the Eternal, the offering shall be of choice flour; oil shall be poured on it, frankincense laid on it." (Lev. 2:1) While the Hebrew word nefesh is understood in this context to mean a person, it also can mean "soul."

Scholars believe the word nefesh originally meant "neck" or "throat" and later came to imply the "vital spirit," or anima, in the Latin sense.

What can we deduce from the use of nefesh in this context? Why does the text employ nefesh and not adam (person) as it does in the opening chapter of Leviticus 1:2 in which we read:

"Adam ki yakriv mikem korban l'Adonai..."
"When anyone presents an offering of cattle to God..."

The Medieval commentator Rashi teaches that the word nefesh is used specifically for the meal offering to emphasize that these offerings were usually brought by people of limited means. Rashi goes on to say "nowhere is the word nefesh employed in connection with free-will offerings, except in connection with the meal-offering. For who is it that usually brings a meal-offering? The poor person! The Holy One, blessed be God, says, as it were, I will regard it for that person as though they brought their very soul as an offering." (Menachot 104b)

Rashi's teaching makes me think of my host family once again. They had the means to afford a few chickens, but it was a stretch to purchase them, and I was grateful they had sacrificed one to feed me.

Leviticus is all about sacrifice. Whether it is the slaughter of chickens or the gift of grain, it becomes a true sacrifice when we give "everything we've got" -- when we pour our heart and soul into the matter. When describing the bringing of sacrifices, the Torah rightly refers to a person as "a soul" because every sacrifice we make in our lives needs to take a piece of us -- needs to take a piece of our soul.

A few years ago, I was visiting with a woman in my congregation who had a terminal illness. She shared with me her fear of dying. She was a highly respected physician and while she knew that her pain could be managed, she was fearful of what would happen to her spirit upon her death. We sat in her kitchen and prayed: "The soul that you have given me God is a pure one." She found great comfort in knowing that the soul's essence was pure, and that somehow that purity could become one with an Eternal Source.

Upon waking, we thank God for restoring the soul. Moreover, we give thanks to God for the purity of our souls as I prayed with my friend in her kitchen: "Elohai neshama shenatata bi," or "the soul that you have given me O God is a pure one." During kriyat sh'ma (recitation of the sh'ma) we say the words from Deuteronomy declaring that we love God "with all our heart and all our soul."

As a Cantor, I rejoice in the fact that, among all the skills attributed to the soul, the Psalmist reminds us that the soul can sing. We read in Psalm 30: "So that my soul may sing hymns to You endlessly, Adonai my God, may I thank you forever." (Ps 30:13)

It is singer and songwriter, Tracey Chapman, who reminds us: "All that you have is your soul." That is precisely what Leviticus reminds us as well. Leviticus is a challenging book. The sacrificial system is an archaic, intricate, bloody affair. But according to Jewish tradition, our children are supposed to begin their Biblical studies by first opening to the Book of Leviticus. Now we know why.

Bernard J. Bamberger writes: "For centuries, Jewish children have begun their Bible studies with the book of Leviticus. This choice was justified by the contention that pure young children should first learn about the sacrifices that were brought in purity."

Children should first learn about purity of intention and the purity of the soul. Every soul. If children can grasp that concept, so can we. I learned all about the purity of the soul by witnessing a child who made a sacrifice, lovingly, for me. It is not only possible, but true. The soul that God has implanted within each and every one of us is pure.

15 Aprile: Sh'mini - Leviticus 9:1-11:47 (Copy)

Courtesy of the URJ: D'VAR TORAH BY: CANTOR JILL ABRAMSON

The fishing guides on Florida’s Anna Maria Island had affectionately named him Jerry. Jerry was a Great White Egret who stood over three feet tall and perched on a worn wooden beam in close proximity to the shore. The anglers would share bits of unused fishing bait with Jerry, who would quickly consume the scraps between the sharp snap of his golden yellow beak.

I met Jerry on a recent family trip to Florida and he came to mind as I read from this week's parashah, Sh'mini. The Torah portion includes a list of birds prohibited from consumption, which form the basis for Jewish dietary laws.

The Torah says, "You shall eat any clean bird" and lists 24 kinds of birds which are prohibited from consumption (Lev 11: 13-19). The Talmud elaborates that birds of prey (e.g., vultures, hawks, and eagles) or birds that pounce are generally not kosher (Chulin 59a). I am not sure if Jerry is the kind of bird which pounces or would be considered kosher, but I do know that certain types of birds in the Torah represent a compelling spiritual significance.

Certainly, the dove (holding an olive branch) in the story of Noah is a familiar symbol of peace. The dove's arrival signifies the receding flood waters and thus a time of calm and serenity (Gen. 8:11).

Ideas about birds extend beyond the Torah (and Talmud), and we can trace such ideas into Jewish mystical traditions (primarily of the 16th century) and early Hasidic teaching. Torah Educator Shoshanah Weiss summarizes the mystical representations of birds as follows:

"Kabbalistic teachings explain that a bird symbolizes the name of God: the head of a bird is like the letter yud of the divine name [yud-hey-vav-hey], the body of the bird is like the letter vav and the two wings are similar to the two hehs. In the Tanya (an early book of Chabad philosophy by Rabbi Shnuer Zalman), it says that the two wings of a bird represent fear and love of G-d: the left wing is strength, and the right side is kindness. In Shaar Hayechudim by Chaim Vital (the main student of the famous Kabbalist the ARIZaL), it is written that wings of a bird are like arms for a person. Love and fear elevate the performance of the 613 mitzvot."

I think of the birds that migrate over Israel and how their flapping wings represent both fear and hope. Migrations are tragically witnessed today, from Ukraine to Poland, as people fervently run and embody both the fear and the hope of seeking safety. People seeking sanctuary; seeking a new place to call home.

Dr. Yossi Leshem, director of Israel's International Centre for the Study of Bird Migration, relayed how the sky above Israel and Palestinian Territories, is the second busiest bird migration route in the world, trailing behind the country of Panama. Every autumn, more than 500 million birds cross Israel's airspace, heading south to warmer weather in Africa. 

This mass migration of birds has become an opportunity for peace efforts between children in the Middle East. Author Avigayil Kadesh has written about a peace program centered on these birds: the "Migrating Birds Know No Boundaries" project. Part of this program has Israeli, Palestinian, and Jordanian schoolchildren participating in joint learning activities about birds. While these schoolchildren may not otherwise interact with one another, an appreciation for birds has encouraged the children to "flock together."

The Torah teaches us that we can learn good character from every living creature. As it says in Job 35:11: "From the animals of the land, and from the birds of the heaven [God] makes us wise."

The world of humans, now in crisis as Russia so ruthlessly attacks Ukraine, could learn some wisdom from the animals of the land and from the birds of the heaven.  

I don't know if Jerry will be migrating, or if he will be sticking with his flock. As for us humans, interacting with "new flocks" is often an opportunity to extend our thinking and challenge our assumptions. So, step out of the nest and stretch your wings.

March 18 : Parashat Vayak'heil - Esodo 35:1–38:20

Courtesy of the URJ : D'VAR TORAH BY BETH KALISCH

"I hope you are excited for the birds!" our guide said to us.

We had just arrived in Tanzania for a safari, and suddenly, I was concerned that we had been assigned to the wrong jeep. "Oh, we're not birdwatchers," I explained. "We came for the regular safari — lions, leopards, rhinos — that sort of thing." I was looking forward to this once-in-a-lifetime chance to see some of the rarest and most exotic animals on the planet. Leopards, for example, are famously difficult to spot, and the black rhino is so endangered that there are thought to be only about 5,000 left on the planet.

"But we like birds, too," my husband assured the guide. "We're excited to see them." The guide nodded in approval. "Some people tell me, 'Nicholas, we came all this way for the rhinos and leopards! Don't waste our time with all these birds!' "

The next day I got my first glimpse at why people might be excited for the winged creatures when Nicholas showed us what was, perhaps, the most beautiful bird I've ever seen up close. The feathers on its back were the colors of a peacock, iridescent blue and teal and navy. It was tiny — the size of a small songbird with a belly like a robin, a rich orangey-red, and bright white eyes against a black head. "He's beautiful," I said. "Superb starling!" Nicholas instructed, while I admired the colors. "Superb" really was the right word. I felt lucky that we had caught a glimpse at such a stunning, unusual being. 

"A very common bird!" Nicholas exclaimed. "We will see many of them!"

And so we did. In addition to a few gorgeous leopards, one spectacular rhino walking in the distance, and a week's worth of other exotic wildlife, we saw superb starlings every day: on shrubs, on dead tree stumps, flying by our jeep, walking around every picnic area, even perched outside every bathroom that we stopped at. It was one of the most delightful surprises of the safari: I never tired of them: every single time, those birds took my breath away. Everywhere we went, their presence ensured that there was beauty.

Beautiful, colorful, and rare things are the subject of this week's Torah portion, Parashat Vayak'heil, which continues the Book of Exodus' long description of the building of the Tabernacle. The Israelites are asked to bring their most valuable belongings: precious metals, expensively dyed colorful thread, spices and oils, gemstones of every variety, even dolphin skins (Exodus 35:5-9). With all of these materials, the community's craftsmen will make the most precious of all physical spaces: a place where God will dwell in the people's midst.

In previous Torah portions, God has given all the detailed instructions to Moses. This week, Moses begins to convey those same instructions to the Israelites. Just about the entirety of this week's Torah portion is taken up by those instructions. In fact, the only part that isn't about the Tabernacle takes place in the first three verses, when Moses — before launching into the instructions — reminds the Israelites about the strict laws of Shabbat:

On six days work may be done, but on the seventh day you shall have a sabbath of complete rest, holy to the Eternal; whoever does any work on it shall be put to death. You shall kindle no fire throughout your settlements on the sabbath day (Exodus 35:2-3).

This brief and seemingly unrelated introduction to the rest of the Torah portion has inspired a wealth of commentary about the relationship between Shabbat and the Tabernacle. The most famous interpretation focuses on the theme of work, suggesting that the juxtaposition of the prohibition of work on Shabbat and the description of work to build the Tabernacle indicates a connection: the kinds of work described in the rest of the Torah portion are exactly the kinds of work that are prohibited on Shabbat.

But another line of interpretation of this odd juxtaposition focuses instead on the shared theme of holiness. Both the building of the Tabernacle and the practice of resting on Shabbat are considered holy activities. The reason that Moses mentions both together, some rabbis conclude, is to emphasize the importance of Shabbat (see, for example, Sforno on Exodus 35:2). Even when it comes to the holy work of building the Tabernacle, still, work is not permitted on Shabbat.

We might expect the opposite. Shabbat is nice and all, but for the Israelites who are asked by God to build this masterpiece of rare and precious things, that call to action is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to build God a dwelling-place. You might think that awesome responsibility would take precedence over Shabbat. But no, Moses tells the people: even when you are engaged in this rarest form of holiness, this building project that is unique in Jewish history, this communal responsibility that is so sacred it takes up a significant portion of the Book of Exodus — even then, the comparably humdrum holiness of Shabbat still reigns supreme. 

Even for those of us who regularly make Shabbat a part of our lives, I think it's hard to embrace this principle fully. Your family might value having Shabbat dinner together every week, but sometimes, things just come up that seem more urgent. Taking time to attend Torah study or to go for a quiet walk outside might be your favorite way to celebrate Shabbat, but sometimes, life gets in the way. And even beyond Shabbat, our tradition emphasizes the importance of special occasions, the sacrifices we should make for them, and the amount of money we should devote to them.

Judaism certainly teaches us to value special occasions, and to make the most of these once-in-a-lifetime sacred moments. But at the same time, Jewish tradition pushes back against our impulse to so easily disrupt the sacred rhythms of our lives for what seems important in the moment. The prioritization of the regular, commonplace sort of holiness represented by Shabbat has deep roots in Judaism. Tadir v'she'eino tadir, tadir kodem, the Talmud famously asserts. "When choosing between that which is frequent and that which is infrequent, the frequent thing takes precedence" (Babylonian Talmud, P'sachim 114a). A life of holiness is built not on those peak moments and special occasions that get so much attention, but in the day-to-day and week-to-week reality in which we live.

It's both absurd and beautiful: ours is a religion where the holiest day of the year takes place every week.

If we are only looking for the leopards in life, what beautiful birds will we be missing? If we are willing to make room for them, these ordinary moments of holiness can take our breath away. Everywhere we go, they ensure that there is always something beautiful.

March 4: Parasha T'tzaveh - Exodus 27:20−30:10

Courtesy of the URJ :  D'VAR TORAH BY: RABBI SARAH BASSIN

We all know the danger of turning people into symbols. Every one of us has our own story of a hero who let us down: when we learned a favorite athlete doped his way to victory, how we unknowingly laughed at the comedy of a rapist, or when we supported a politician who only feigned monogamy. We barely find ourselves shocked by these examples anymore. 

It takes an emotional toll on us to have our beloved icons fall and our expectations crushed. We question ourselves. Maybe we are the ones to blame for holding moral standards for our public figures. After all, they become icons not for their moral leadership but rather for their ability to score touchdowns, make us laugh, or carry out campaign promises. Is it worth it to put them on a pedestal when deep in our hearts, we know we set ourselves up for disappointment?

Our Torah portion says yes.

In Parashat T’tzaveh, the artisans who craft the Tabernacle and the menorah are also given instructions to craft the clothing for the priests. This added task catches the eye of the commentator Sforno. “Not only should they build the Tabernacle, provide oil for the Menorah, but they should also fashion the garments to be worn by Aaron” (Sforno on Exodus 28:3). There’s something significant to Sforno in the fact that architects of a sacred space also design the sacred attire. When the artisans design the priestly clothing, they diminish the distinction between the priest and the institution the priest serves.

And just as with the construction of the Tabernacle, the gifts of the people provide the raw material for the priestly clothes and accessories. Our place of our worship has the investment of the people; so too do the priestly garments.

The symbolism is clear. We the people, are investing our time, money, and hope in the priests. Please don’t let us down.

We use the clothing of the priesthood as a way to express our expectations of them. In her book, The Particulars of Rapture, Aviva Zornberg captures what lies beneath the surface of the text:

“The High Priest's vestments invest him in anxiety, no less than in glory. Ultimately, it is not only the [clothing] that is to be "Holy to God," but its wearer. If the dissonance between vestment and wearer is palpable… the trappings become hollow.” (The Particulars of Rapture: Reflections on Exodus [NY: Doubleday, 2001], p. 369)

It bears repeating. If the dissonance between vestment and wearer is palpable, the trappings become hollow. If the person fails to live up to the expectation of the office, the office is in danger of losing its power.

In a most literal sense, we see the trappings become hollow when in chapter 10 of Leviticus Nadab and Abihu — Aaron’s sons who wear the garments — make an offering (presumably while intoxicated).1 Nadab and Abihu don’t just die from their actions, they’re literally consumed. They vanish, but the clothing remains. The text practically screams at us that even when people fall short of the expectations of the office, we will not let them take down the office they hold with them. Let the vestments remain intact.  

In the aftermath of scandal, disappointment, and betrayals, we are left searching for someone new to step into that place. Our pain and our trauma can lead us to divest ourselves from having the expectations in the first place.

If we know that politicians and athletes and actors often do reprehensible things while wearing the garments of their station, we become tempted not to hold such expectations. Maybe we shouldn’t put so much effort into creating the priestly garments to begin with. “Let them fulfill their technical duty,” we might say. “I don’t need to know what kind of persons they are beyond their technical scope.”

But herein lurks the real danger. When we expect less of our leaders, we start to expect less of ourselves. The tone at the top dictates the culture at-large. Our moral standards start a collective slide downward when we rationalize the recalibration our moral compasses. For what we tolerate in our heroes, we will most certainly tolerate in ourselves. 

When we bear witness to acts of scoundrelism in the public eye, we cannot shrug it off. We cannot adjust to a new normal. We must hold fast to our expectations — of our priests, our politicians, our entertainers, our athletes, and our rabbis.

Because at the end of the day — those expectations are not actually about the people who hold the office. They’re about us. When we hold our leaders to a high standard, we are more likely to do the same for ourselves.

Feb 25: Parasha T'rumah - Exodus 25:1−27:19

Courtesy of the URJ : D'VAR TORAH BY: RABBI SARAH BASSIN

As with any good architectural design, this Torah portion offers precise instructions. Parashat T’rumah lays out a manual for building our place of worship in the desert (known as the Mishkan) along with all of the instruments contained within. It details exact measurements, materials, and methods of construction. The instructions were intended to be foolproof and impossible to misinterpret. But there appears to be some daylight between the original concept and the final product — at least with one very important element: the menorah.

Even more than the Star of David, the menorah is the symbol that has long been synonymous with the Jewish people. It is the central image in the official seal of the State of Israel.

The Torah portion spells out the exact specifications for how to build it: how many branches should have, what materials it should be constructed from, where the branches should be placed and how they should be decorated. It’s hard to imagine with this kind of detail that the blueprint could be interpreted in any way other than the image that we have today. Indeed, the modern-day seal of Israel looks very similar to one of the earliest surviving depictions of the menorah in the Arch of Titus in Rome. That arch was commissioned a mere 12 years after the destruction of the Temple for Rome to celebrate the conquering of Jerusalem. It’s easy to imagine that maybe the artist’s rendition came from a firsthand view of the original.

Then 1100 years later, Maimonides offered a version of what he thought the menorah looked like. Here, the arms are straight diagonals rather than curved branches as depicted in the Arch of Titus. Maimonides interpreted the menorah to look very different than the earlier depiction in the Arch of Titus would suggest. Moreover, in a commentary on Exodus 25:32, Rashi seems to agree with Maimonides that the branches are straight diagonals.

It should be stated that Rashi and Maimonides are probably the most recognized giants of medieval Jewish tradition. They certainly were not lazy or careless in their reading of the text. But after a millennium had passed since the Temple stood, with no firsthand reports to rely upon, these rabbinic giants were fully dependent on the instruction of the Torah portion to provide the picture for them.

Maimonides and Rashi probably got it wrong. And it was not their fault. Nothing about their interpretation with the diagonal branches contradicts the text in our Torah portion. The ambiguity rests within the original instructions. As clear as our ancestors thought they were being with their instructions to future generations, they had an idea in their heads that they did not fully communicate.

We sometimes find ourselves in scenarios of incomplete communication that are not all that different. Case in point: I oversaw an interfaith program where participants sat back-to-back in pairs and were handed identical envelopes filled with paper shapes. One person would a design with these shapes and then the other — facing the opposite direction and relying only on the instructions of the designer — would attempt to replicate the design.

Inevitably, when the results were revealed, the designing partners would turn to see mangled versions of their original designs created by the other partners. They were shocked by the failure of their partners to listen. But they quickly realized that they were at fault for leaving out key details — which point of the triangle rests against the square or what direction the corners of the square should face.

The exercise provides a profound lesson about the disconnect between what we think we’re communicating and what we actually say. The fact that our ancestors suffered the same problem in constructing our most sacred text provides some level of comfort. If the construction of the Mishkan was of cosmic significance for our ancestors and they didn’t successfully communicate that to future generations, think about how frequently our imprecisions in communication impact our work and our relationships.

The surface lesson we can take from this is to pay more attention to our communication — to try to be more precise. And that’s certainly a fair lesson. All of us could step up our game in how we communicate to our family, friends, and coworkers. But there’s a more important lesson here because these kinds of miscommunications are inevitable on some level. And the real lesson lies in how we handle these moments of miscommunication. We are often certain of our clarity. We are shocked when someone takes what we said out of context, misinterprets, or misunderstands. We may find ourselves quick to blame someone else for not listening well enough.

But knowing how hard it is to avoid miscommunication, perhaps we would be better served by reserving judgement when it happens. What if we didn’t automatically assume that it was the other person’s fault when something goes wrong? What if we asked ourselves first what we may have communicated better? There are times when we are on the perpetrating end and times when we are on the receiving end of fumbled communication. Either way, our ancestors’ experience with the menorah gives us an invitation to understand the limits of communication. Perhaps, this story about a (mis)interpretation of the menorah can serve as an invitation for a bit of humility in our conversations and communication today.

Feb 18: Parasha Mishpatim - Exodus 21:1−24:18

Courtesy of the URJ : D'VAR TORAH BY: RABBI SARAH BASSIN

Religion is the source of most atrocities in the world. Religion makes us better people.

Well, which is it? You can look to almost any sacred text in any tradition, and find those passages that condone and even encourage violence. And you can also find those that compel us to strive to help others, and live more compassionately. Religious apologists often pretend that the texts of terror don’t exist. New atheists often pretend that the texts of compassion don’t.

It becomes harder to ignore one kind of text or the other when they are right next to each other. We find examples of both texts of terror and texts of compassion in this week’s Torah portion Mishpatim. On the one hand, we are instructed not to mistreat or taunt the stranger (Exodus 22:20). On the other, we are told that God will drive out the inhabitants of the Promised Land little by little (Exodus 23:30). (Later in Torah, the story is a bit modified in that we are the ones who will actually be doing the driving out. But nonetheless, point taken: the other nations must leave).  

Love the stranger. Kill the nations. Parashat Mishpatim reminds us that our tradition isn’t as neat as we want it to be. But before we get discouraged that this renders religion largely useless, perhaps an even deeper truth lies within this juxtaposition.

When we are told not to harm the stranger, we are talking about one person. We have to watch out for one person. That sounds about right, doesn’t it? We have the capacity to hold compassion for a single individual. After all, we can know this person. One person has a face and a story. She may have made some missteps along the way, but she has a good soul. A single person is complicated, after all.

A group of people, however, is easier to write off. That group of people is violent. That group of people is lazy. That group of people is good at math. That group of people is (fill in the blank).

When we come face-to-face with a single individual, we can take in all of his or her complexities. When we face a group our capacity for compassion overloads, and we rely on the part of our brain that simplifies and categorizes. We may see a group, but we fail to see individual people. 

A person is a story. People are statistics.

Parashat Mishpatim sets before us a choice: will we see people as the stranger we are obligated to protect, or will we group them together and see them as a collective that we are sanctioned to separate from for our own protection?

Both impulses exist. Both serve a purpose. In an open and pluralistic society, we may prefer the rhetoric of the stranger over the rhetoric of wiping out the other nations, but we cannot ignore our need for security. If we don’t embrace some preservationist tendencies, we leave ourselves vulnerable to attack. It’s a sad truth that our people know well.

But if preservation becomes the totality of our identity, what is it that we are preserving?

By placing these two commandments to care for the stranger and to destroy other nations so close in proximity, our tradition owns its contradictions.

It oversimplifies to claim that religion is all about compassion (as the apologists argue) or that religion is the primary reason for evil (as detractors do). And these extremes miss the point.

In most cases, we don’t need religion to tell us what is good and what is bad. We all know plenty of secular humanists who don’t need God to live moral lives.

Instead, I would argue that religion in general (and Judaism in particular) provides us with the context to wrestle with our own impulses. It lets us check our gut — to ensure that our gut isn’t misleading us in an increasingly complex world.

Judaism gives us the opportunity to check ourselves against millennia of tradition. Sometimes, we strive to be better than our ancestors. Sometimes, we have trouble just keeping up.

Our Torah functions less as an instruction manual and more as a mirror. We are compelled to look at ourselves in the context of a long conversation and to gauge how our voice will be heard not just today but in generations down the line.

In providing us with contradictory moral teachings, Parashat Mishpatim forces us to hold a mirror up to ourselves and ask not only how we want to relate to foreigners, but also who we want to be. Do we want to treat them as (we’re bid to treat) the stranger and come with compassion? Is it more prudent to see them as dangerous nations and circle the wagons? Can I learn something from the Sages that preceded me? Or does their perspective seem too limited to be helpful?

The answers don't come easily because the questions aren’t easy. But rather than congratulating ourselves for whatever initial decision our gut has made, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to hold up a mirror and engage with tradition as an

opportunity to really look at ourselves. No religion is perfect. But religion can be extremely effective when we need to be reminded that we aren’t perfect either.

Parasha Feb 11: Yitro - Exodus 18:1–20:23

Courtesy of the URJ : D'VAR TORAH BY: RABBI SARAH BASSIN

Jews are good at nostalgia…We remember the quaintness of shtetl life untouched by outsiders. We yearn for the sovereignty of Ancient Israel where we controlled our own fate, unmolested by other nations. 

But as Rabbi Rachel Adler reminds us, “there never was a time when ancient Israelite religion or the Judaism that succeeded it were not being influenced by the cultures and religions they encountered.”

To be Jewish is to mix with others. In our early days, we called ourselves Hebrews, iv’rim — boundary crossers. For most of the last two thousand years, we have wandered throughout the world, adopting elements of our host cultures as our own. Today, we engage the question of a more complete assimilation with the dominant culture around us. At every stage, we have been defined by how we engage with others. And it makes us nervous.

We may yearn for a time when we were free of outside influences. But “a nostalgia for such a time is a nostalgia for what never was.”

Enough with the nostalgia for a simpler era.

We should stop seeing these encounters with “the Other” as problems and start seeing them as opportunities. What if the story we told ourselves about the Other was one in which our encounters made us stronger?

We have substantial precedent for that narrative with Moses in this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Yitro. Moses struggles to the lead the Jewish people. He finds himself exhausted listening to a litany of cases as the only judge for the entire Israelite community. He cannot dig himself and his people out of this rut, and he doesn’t even know how to start trying. It is an encounter with his Midianite father-in-law, Yitro that enables his breakthrough. He embraces the recommendation of this Midianite priest in how to structure the Israelite community. 

Yitro tells Moses, “Make it easier for yourself by letting them [additional leaders] share the burden with you. If you do this — and God so commands you,” you and the people won’t be so tired. “Moses heeded his father-in-law and did just as he said” (Exodus 18:22-24).

A pagan priest saved our community from implosion and gave us a blueprint for how to function.

In that moment, Moses could have rejected his father-in-law’s advice. After all, what does an outsider know about our community that gives him the credibility to weigh in?

Moses teaches us that our encounter with “the Other” can be an asset for our evolution, not an obstacle to our survival. That interfaith encounter made Moses a better Israelite leader. Sometimes, we need insight from the outside to demonstrate what else is possible for us.

I had my own transformative “Yitro” encounter a few years ago. In December 2015, I attended Bible study at Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, South Carolina, six months after a white supremacist opened fire and killed nine members of their community. I was shocked to witness a church united in forgiveness. They drew strength from the fact that Jesus forgave his tormentors. They applied his model in their own lives to forgive a murderer. They refused to allow hatred into their hearts.

I envied that spiritual disposition to forgiveness. It made me recognize the utter pettiness of grudges I held in my own life.

That Christian community facilitated a spiritual breakthrough I was not going to reach on my own. It made me take more seriously the language of forgiveness that already exists within Judaism. I dug into Jewish texts. I studied. I did my best to implement changes in my life. That encounter with Christians made me a better Jew.

In my interfaith work, I have witnessed so many Yitro encounters. I have witnessed Jews yearning for the deeply personal relationship with God that many Muslims speak of so naturally. I have witnessed Muslims hungry for the culture of argument lived out in the Jewish sacred texts. The phenomenon is a kind of “holy envy.” It is the idea that our own lives and tradition can be enriched by learning from the faith, spirituality, and action of “the Other.”

We have grown accustomed to telling ourselves a bad story about our history with the Other. The Other has tried to defeat us, expel us, extort us, and kill us. There is truth to that narrative historically, but it’s only half of the truth. And I think that we would benefit from drawing out the untold good that has come — and can come — from encounters with the Other.

Moses’ relationship with Yitro reminds us that transformation by the Other is not peripheral to our tradition. It is the very core foundation upon which our community was built. For too long, we have told ourselves that the Other should be a source of fear. That fear blinded us from the possibility that we actually need the Other to become better Jews.

Parasha - B'shalach - Exodus 13:17−17:16, February 4

Courtesy of the URJ : D'VAR TORAH BY: RABBI SARAH BASSIN

If we as Jews believed in a hell, Amalek would have a special place in it.

Since we don’t, we take care in every generation to blot out Amalek’s name. It’s a level of disdain we retain for the worst of the worst. Amalek makes it to the top of our list of enemies. So who was Amalek and why is he the focus of all our ire?

We read about Amalek in Parashat B’shalach. As the first to attack the Israelites once we are freed from Egypt and wandering through the desert, Amalek gains some level of notoriety. But to be the first in the long line of many is not particularly noteworthy. In M’chilta D’Rabbi Yishmael, Rabbi Eliezer of Modi’in suggests that our heightened disgust originates on account of the tactics Amalek used in the attack. “Amalek ‘sneaked’ under the edges of the cloud and snatched the souls of Israel and killed them,” (as the Torah hints later in Deuteronomy) — “When you were weary and worn out, [Amalek’s army] met you on your journey and attacked all who were lagging behind; they had no fear of God” (M’chilta D’Rabbi Yishmael, Amalek, on Exodus 17:8).

Our contempt for Amalek runs deep because he targeted the weak. Moral outrage at those who take advantage of the vulnerable still holds true in society today. We hold a special level of contempt for those who abuse children, the elderly, and vulnerable populations like refugees.

And yet, even as we are told to hold a special level of contempt for Amalek, we are cautioned not to let our moral outrage run amok. When we fight Amalek, we do so standing on the moral high ground.

When Joshua leads our people in fighting Amalek, he gets the benefit of divine intervention. As long as Moses keeps his arms up, Joshua is guaranteed to win.

“And Joshua weakened Amalek and his people with the edge of his sword” (Exodus 17:13). With these odds, it’s curious how mitigated Joshua’s actions are. We expect all-out annihilation, so the language of “weakening” (chalash) seems too tame for a fight with our single most-despised enemy.

Why, if this enemy is the worst of the worst, doesn’t Joshua wipe it out completely? Rashi explains what it meant to weaken Amalek’s army. Joshua “cut off the heads of the mighty men and left only the weak amongst them” (Rashi on Exodus 17:13). Joshua did not kill all of them, he left the weak men alive: thus Amalek was made weak, and powerless for further mischief.

Joshua does the exact opposite of Amalek. He does not target the weak. He does not attack the stragglers. He focuses his effort on the people who are legitimate threats. He maims the army only as much as is needed to ensure the safety of the Israelites. He spares the vulnerable among Amalek’s people.

What’s even more fascinating is that Rashi attributes this timid reaction directly to God. “From this we may learn that they acted according to the expressed pronouncement of [God] (otherwise they would, in the stress of battle, not have so discriminated)” (Rashi on Exodus 17:13).

Had God not intervened, Joshua and the Israelites would likely have killed Amalek’s people indiscriminately. The Israelites would have been responsible for the slaughter of children, the elderly, and other innocents.

We needed God’s help to win. We also needed God’s help to make sure that we did not become the very thing that we despise in our pursuit of victory.

When we find ourselves in a fight, how easy is it to lose sight of anything but winning? How many times have we said or done something that we regret because we were so singularly focused on the objective of not losing? Those actions may have come from a place of moral certainty — of knowing that we were right. But there’s an ugly side to moral certainty. If left unchecked, it can blind us to the humanity in our adversaries. We can cede the moral high ground by so desperately fighting to keep it.

It is for this reason that God chides the angels for rejoicing at the drowning of the Egyptians (Babylonian Talmud, M’gillah 10b). It is for this reason that we diminish our joy by removing a drop of wine from our cup at a Passover seder to empathize with the suffering of the Egyptians.

God reminds us that our goal should never be the defeat of another. If someone else’s defeat is the byproduct of our survival, so be it. But victory as its own objective is misguided.

How we win is just as important as whether we win. We shouldn’t lose sight of the humanity of our enemy, for if we do, we are in danger of losing sight of our own.

Parasha - Va-eira, Exodus 6:2−9:35 Jan 21, 2023

Courtesy of the URJ 

D'VAR TORAH BY: RABBI HILLY HABER

"It is in your power so to torment the God-cursed slaveholders, that they will be glad to let you go free. Let your motto be Resistance! Resistance! Resistance!-- No oppressed people have ever secured their liberty without resistance. What kind of resistance you had better make, you must decide by the circumstances that surround you."
- Henry Highland Garnet, "Address to the Slaves of the United States" (1843)

In Parshat Va-eira, we watch as God's message of freedom unfolds across Egypt and is ignored, scorned by Israelites and Egyptians alike. We watch as moral suasion, peaceful resistance, and God's word fail to bring about liberation and an end to oppression. In the wake of this failure, God visits 10 plagues on Pharaoh and the Egyptians, the first 7 of which appear in this week's portion. What are we to make of Divine violence in the context of Egypt? How do we understand and evaluate the function of God's actions in light of historical and ongoing movements for freedom and liberation?

In an 1843 speech titled, "Address to the Slaves of the United States," Henry Highland Garnet, an abolitionist minister, orator, and writer who was born into slavery, spoke to a national audience gathered in Buffalo, New York. In his address, Garnet called on enslaved people across the country to rise up and rebel against the institution of slavery. Breaking with Black and white abolitionists who relied on tactics of moral suasion to bring about liberation, Garnet evoked historical events like the Revolutionary War and the Haitian Revolution as evidence for the efficacy of armed resistance in the fight for freedom. Though powerful, Garnet's call for armed resistance was only later taken up by a majority of his fellow abolitionists. In the following decade, according to historian Kellie Carter Jackson, the passage of the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850, the westward expansion of slavery, and a series of legal rulings like the Dred Scott decision in 1857 pushed many advocates of peaceful resistance into Garnet's camp (Force and Freedom; Black Abolitionists and the Politics of Violence).

This historical moment raises questions not only about the efficacy of extralegal violence to effect change, but, more specifically, about the ethics and function of violence. When Garnet calls on his brothers and sisters who are still enslaved to unlawfully harm those who have lawfully harmed and oppressed them, he exposes the corroborative relationship between violence and law. In his essay Critique of Violence, philosopher Walter Benjamin labels this connection between violence and law "mythic violence," which he contrasts with "divine violence" (Walter Benjamin; Selected Writings, vol. 1).

"Mythic violence, writes Benjamin, "is bloody power over mere life for its own sake; divine violence is pure power over all life for the sake of the living." Mythic violence has a body count. It relies on deeper forms of violence to keep oppressive systems in place. Divine violence, in contrast, targets systems and relationships of power. Ethicist Ted Smith offers a modern-day example:

The divine violence of the civil rights movement, for instance, broke the system of relations that sustained one pernicious kind of segregation in the United States. The breaking of that system brought a moral revolution that was itself bloodless. But it was accompanied by...the blood that flowed from the bodies of those who marched across the Edmund Pettus Bridge in 1965, the blood that ran in the streets of Newark in 1967, and more. We might offer different moral evaluations of these events, but none of them is identical with divine violence. Divine violence is, however, thickly intertwined with all of these events. For all of them arose in the shattering of systems of relations.

Though divine violence is bloodless, it exposes the bloody human cost of mythic violence. And its function, as Benjamin writes, is expiation: reconciliation and healing brought about by exposing and destroying oppressive and violent systems.

Back to Va-eira: What is the context and function of divine violence in this week's parshah? How does it operate and what does it tell us about the violence of Egypt? When Moses tells the Israelites that God will redeem them from Egypt, the Israelites do not, or cannot, hear Moses' words. They are unable to hear, the text tells us, because of their kotzer ruach (Exodus 6:9), a literal shortness of breath. It is as if the words, "I can't breathe" echo across Egypt.

And it is not only the Israelites who resist God's message of freedom. When God's word fails to bring about liberation, God acts. God turns the water of the Nile River into blood (Exodus 7:17-22). As one commentator notes, God chose to turn the water of the Nile to blood because the Egyptians had thrown the children of the Israelites into those very same waters (Midrash Mishnat Rabbi Eliezer 19). This first Divine plague lays bare the blood that is on the hands of the Egyptians.

In next week's parshah, we read about the tenth and final plague: the slaying of all first born Egyptian sons. The death toll of this final plague points to the ways in which divine violence exists somewhat outside of ethical evaluation. Ethicist Ted Smith, clarifies:

What Walter Benjamin called 'divine violence'--was both above and below what ethics as it is usually practiced today can consider. When the old standards are destroyed and new ones are not yet established, it is not clear how any kind of ethical evaluation can be offered ( Weird John Brown; Divine Violence and the Limits of Ethics).

 Beyond questions of right and wrong, to end the lives of all Egyptian first-born sons (Exodus 11:5) is not only to disrupt Egyptian relations of power and succession but also to lay bare the systems in place which have rendered all Egyptian sons complicit in oppression (Mekhilta d'Rabbi Yishmael 12:29).

It is impossible to read Parshat Va-eira without considering our present moment. We live in the wake of an ongoing revolution sparked by the words: "I can't breathe." The study of Exodus is not a theoretical exercise; it is a call to action and to resistance. As abolitionist Henry Highland Garnett reminds us, "What kind of resistance you had better make, you must decide by the circumstances that surround you."

Parasha – Sh'mot Esodo 1:1−6:1 Jan. 14, 2023

Courtesy of the URJ

 D'VAR TORAH BY: RABBI HILLY HABER

 Make me a grave where'er you will,
In a lowly plain, or a lofty hill,
Make it among earth's humblest graves,
But not in a land where men are slaves.
-Frances Ellen Watkins Harper (Bury Me in a Free Land)

 Over the course of 40 chapters, the Book of Exodus tells a story of the path from enslavement to freedom, from liberation to revelation. It is a song of hope that reverberates across the generations, the promise of freedom and of transformation whispered into the ears of those who live under the weight of oppression. In Parashat Sh'mot, we meet the God of Exodus: a God who champions life, brings about liberation, and infuses new hope and possibility into the world. As Theologian James Cone writes, "In the Exodus-Sinai tradition יהוה is disclosed as the God of history, whose revelation is identical with God's power to liberate the oppressed. There is no knowledge of יהוה except through God's political activity on behalf of the weak and helpless of the land" (God of the Oppressed). There is a greater force at work in the world than the decree of any Pharaoh, the Book of Exodus tells us, and God's message is clear: Those who are born into slavery need not die in slavery.

 Parashat Sh'mot opens with an account of life under oppressive and violent rule. We learn that the Israelites were gradually stripped of their freedoms and forced to perform bone-crushing labor (BT Sotah 11b). We learn that Pharaoh wished to stamp out new life, and with it, the possibility of a future for the Israelites outside of Egypt. Jewish tradition imagines that Egyptian astrologers predicted for Pharaoh that the Israelites' deliverer was born on the day of Moses' birth. To prevent Israelite redemption, then, Pharaoh ordered the drowning of all male children (Exodus Rabbah 1:18, Sotah 12a).

 In the very first chapter of Exodus, we learn that Egypt is a place of bondage and despair, a life without hope in the shadow of death. This is the backdrop against which God enters into the story.

 God hears the Israelites crying out in pain and instructs Moses to go to Pharaoh and demand their freedom (Exodus 3:9-10). When Moses asks who he should say sent him to bring the Israelites out of Egypt, God reveals a new name: Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh (Exodus 3:14). Derived from the verb "to be," God's name translates into a statement of eternal being and self-determination: "I Am that I Am" or "I Will Be What I Will Be" (Nahum M Sarna, JPS Torah Commentary). Sixteenth-century Italian rabbi and philosopher Ovadia ben Jacob Sforno reads theological import into God's name: If God is named for life, then God must love life and, therefore, abhor anything or anyone which threatens life (Sforno on Exodus 3:14). The God of Life, of self-determination, has come to protect and save life. When Moses returns to Egypt and announces God's name to Pharaoh, Jewish tradition imagines Pharaoh racing to his archives, searching in vain for a record of Moses' God. The rabbis liken Pharaoh's search to that of someone going to a cemetery to find a person who is not yet dead. They ask, "Do you expect to find the living among the dead?" (Midrash Sh'mot Rabbah 5:18).

 When Moses announces God's presence in Egypt, he speaks into being a new world order, one which threatens to upend the hierarchy on top of which Pharaoh sits. In Egypt, some lives are worth more than others. In Exodus, Dr. Cone points out, we learn: "Liberation is not a theoretical proposition to be debated in a philosophy or theology seminar. It is a historical reality, born in the struggle for freedom in which an oppressed people recognize that they were not created to be seized, bartered, deeded, or auctioned." Inherent in God's name, in God's world order, is a statement about human life, a theological anthropology rooted in the sacred dignity of every human being.

 This ethic of liberation and of life is woven into the fabric of our tradition and texts, appearing and reappearing as a source of theological and ethical knowledge born of lived experience and historical memory. It is, in the words of theologian Howard Thurman, "the word [of religion] to those who stand with their backs against the wall" (Jesus and the Disinherited). For those who find themselves on the underside of power, God offers a vision and hope for a life beyond Egypt, one in which all people can thrive, flourish, and die free

(With permission - https://reformjudaism.org/learning/torah-study/torah-commentary/  This has been translated from English to Italian. The author was not responsible for the translation.)

Parasha – Vayechi, Genesis 47:28–50:26 Jan 7, 2023

Courtesy of the URJ

D'VAR TORAH BY: RABBI MICHAEL DOLGIN

 I find it hard to believe that we have already arrived at the last portion in the book of Genesis! By now, the matriarchs and patriarchs are like old friends: We’ve seen them celebrate and mourn, laugh and cry, hug, kiss, and wrestle. This book reminds us that we are part of a Jewish and human family, and like all families, ours is complicated and idiosyncratic. Genesis is a book of themes that recur, and Parashat Vayechi is no exception.

 This final parashah in the book of Genesis comes at a powerful national and personal moment. The people of Israel are on their way to becoming just that: a people. The experience in Egypt, with all its twists and turns and slavery and redemption, begins in this week’s parashah. However, the personal aspect of Genesis seems to dominate its conclusion and truly forms its basic nature.

 Consider the scene that occurs near its conclusion in 48:13-20. Joseph presents his two sons, Ephraim and Manasseh, to his father Jacob/Israel. He is careful to place Manasseh, the elder, at Jacob’s right hand and Ephraim, the younger, at Jacob’s left. He then crosses his hands, using his right on Ephraim and his left on Manasseh. With his hands in this odd position, he pauses and blesses Joseph, who only seems to notice this strange positioning after he has been blessed.

 He tells his father that he is blessing them in the wrong order, essentially trying hard to control the situation, but his father confounds his intentions. Jacob/Israel confirms aloud that this arrangement is no accident and then blesses his grandchildren in the way that the people of Israel are instructed to bless their own children: May God make you like these, like Ephraim and Manasseh.

 So much is familiar: the patriarch who can no longer see clearly; the presentation of two sons at once; the older blessing the next generation in an unconventional way; the refusal to speak up immediately, choosing instead to keep the matter in mind; the parent who tries to control the conferring of the family blessing while its source is unwilling to be guided; the apparent confusion of identities or birthrights.

 All of these themes have visited us before, except for one thing: Jacob says aloud that he is crossing his hands-on purpose. The cycle of unconscious conflict is broken with a few words. Only then does Jacob say that this is how we shall bless our descendants. Perhaps this means that we must be open and thoughtful about the blessings that we offer, that we cannot always control our situations. Still, despite all of this, we must have the courage to go forward and offer blessings.

 It could be that the blessing offered for our people is related to this scene’s earlier introduction offered by Jacob/Israel. In verse 11, he reflects that he had thought he’d never again see Joseph’s face, and here he has the chance to see his favored son’s children. Perhaps this is the real blessing we offer when we use these words. As we recall the entire book of Genesis, with its complexities and conundrums, the text reminds us that we must always have hope.’

 We must hope that those whom we have lost are not entirely gone; that family can surprise us in good ways.

 We must hope that blessings are available even when we are sure that the window for holiness and goodness has closed.

 We must hope that we can see the generations after us, whether they be our genetic descendants or not, acting on the ideals and values that we hold dear.

We must hope that even when we and those we love make mistakes, they can still lead to sweet or bittersweet possibilities.

Each year, I find it difficult to bid farewell to these old friends, our matriarchs and patriarchs. Nevertheless, there is another theme that recurs: Each year, these members of my distant family surprise me. Their stories teach me new lessons and offer remarkable insights. I am grateful to Rabbi Rick Jacobs and the Union for Reform Judaism for inviting me to share thoughts with you about this profound book. I have learned from looking again more closely at these holy texts and from the responses that many of you, dear reader, have sent me.

 May this book inspire us to continue our learning and look again at sacred words we thought we already understood. Chazak, chazak, v’nitchazek, may we grow stronger and draw strength from our Torah and from one another.

(With permission - https://reformjudaism.org/learning/torah-study/torah-commentary/  This has been translated from English to Italian. The author was not responsible for the translation.)

Parasha – December 31 – Vayigash - Genesis 44:18−47:27

Courtesy of the URJ

The story of Joseph is the story of heroism, forgiveness, and redemption. His story is not about victimization and defeat. Joseph is a dreamer, a visionary, a wise man, and no amount of evil intent has stifled that within him. His dreams are premonitions and become reality. He becomes a ruler of the land and navigates through a seven-year famine. And he uses his position of power not for revenge or vengeance but rather to enact lifesaving agricultural reforms that save Egypt.

He is also a powerful teacher of that elusive, complicated, and transformative force we call forgiveness. Joseph, though victimized, is not a victim. Though estranged from his family, he never forgets his roots. Though ridiculed for his gifts, he continues to nurture his unique abilities. Joseph becomes the hero of his own life, and thereby the hero of our people.

Forgiveness is a complex process. We are never obligated to condone bad behavior. When an act or a word or a manipulation or an offense comes our way, we are not compelled to say, that's okay, never mind. Forgiveness does not always lead to reconciliation. Sometimes when a relationship is difficult, hostile, not supportive, toxic, we forgive and get out of the way -- not because our offender deserves it but because we do. Nor do we forgive and forget.

Memory goes to the very foundation of our tradition. When we want to pay the highest honor to a person who has died, we say, may her memory be for a blessing. When we remember a person who has committed atrocities, we say may his memory be blotted out. The evil and offensive ways of the world are remembered so that we may learn to do better, that we may hold the victims in a loving space in our hearts, that we may be wiser in identifying when evil begins to lurk in our midst. No, we do not forget.

Yet despite the complexities, intricacies, and difficulties and lingering anger, it is best to find our way to forgiveness. Forgiveness is the gift we give ourselves. We begin to release the anger and resentment that take up so much space in the territory of our spirit. With forgiveness we begin the long process of healing. Whenever possible and appropriate it is better to live with softness than harshness, to let go rather than clench, and to open our hearts to the beauty in this world.

This is what Joseph choses. It is the famine that brings his brothers to Joseph's court in Egypt. But it is forgiveness that brings the hearts of the brothers together. In an elaborate story of intrigue and disguise, Joseph tests his brothers. They do not recognize him. And then he reveals his identity in a cathartic reckoning, which opens the path to reconciliation.

Joseph could no longer control himself before all his attendants, and he cried out, "Have everyone withdraw from me!" So, there was no one else about when Joseph made himself known to his brothers. His sobs were so loud that the Egyptians could hear, and so the news reached Pharaoh's palace (Gen 45:1-2).

So many of us have uttered this primal cry into the darkness of our night. We pray to be heard, to be seen, to be understood. Joseph does not stifle his anguish. The only path toward forgiveness and reconciliation is straight through the lingering pain that has settled in his heart. And then Joseph asks a remarkable question: Joseph said to his brothers, "I am Joseph. Is my father still alive?" (Gen 45:3). At face value, this question is rhetorical, for he knows that his father Jacob is still living. Perhaps he is asking if the link that once bound us together as brothers is still alive. Is the connection to our past and ultimately our Jewish destiny still alive? Has everything been lost due to the sins of the past, or is reconciliation possible? Ha'od avi chai, does my father live?

The path towards forgiveness and reconciliation is difficult. The twists and turns, the hurt, and the tragedy are all part of our unfolding. Joseph is aware that what transpired is destiny working its way through his personal story. Now, do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me hither; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you. God has sent me ahead of you to ensure your survival on earth, and to save your lives in an extraordinary deliverance (Gen 45:5-7).

Extraordinary deliverance. Forgiveness requires a decision to live with less hurt, less resentment, and more love -- because we all strive to live a gentler life.

PERPETUAL CROSSINGS

I walk softly on the damp wooded path.
Mostly I look down
and see the ground beneath my feet is
soft earth, gentle moss,
and, of course, fallen leaves, which,
like angels, have floated to earth
forming a gently lit path in the woods.

And for every chasm along the way,
for every fast-moving stream or deeply cut valley,
a bridge appears.
It seems that there is always
a way across,
a way to get to the other side of fear, of sadness, of
disappointment.
There is always a way.

Maybe goodness is the bridge, or beauty is the bridge.
Love is the bridge.

Forgiveness is the bridge.

Of this I am sure:
the path is eternal-it is our life and the length of our days.

And the bridge is eternal-
there are many ways to cross what seems impossible.
Stones in the river, ropes suspended, planks of wood,
arches of steel like love, patience, acceptance
and forgiveness.

RABBI KARYN D. KEDAR

(With permission - https://reformjudaism.org/learning/torah-study/torah-commentary/  This has been translated from English to Italian. The author was not responsible for the translation.)

Parasha - December 24 – Miketz - Genesis 41:1−44:17

Learning, commenting, and reacting to our Torah’s teachings are a personal experience, or at least they should be. Like all books of the Torah, our relationship with Genesis grows deeper each year when we encounter it anew. For, me one part of Genesis that especially stands out is Parashat Mikeitz.

During my first year of rabbinical studies at Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion (HUC-JIR) in Jerusalem, I gave my first d’var Torah on Mikeitz, focusing on the story of Joseph. While living in Jerusalem that year, I purchased my first copy of Mikraot Gedolot, the Torah printed with traditional commentaries, and in the winter of 1987, I sat with that sacred volume and reflected on this parashah.

Its opening words that speak of “sh’natayim yamim” – or “two years of days” – inspired me to speak about the importance of reminiscing on our days at this dark time of year and making the most of the days ahead. As I sat in my Jerusalem apartment holding this book and finding a teaching to share with my fellow students, I could never have imagined the fall and winter of 2020.

I sit now in my home in Toronto, where I have served Temple Sinai for the past 28.5 years, with the same volume containing the same commentaries written hundreds of years ago. Back then, no one could have imagined there would be a global pandemic, nor could they imagine the digital tools that connect us to one another despite it. Yes, the world has changed; even more so, I have changed.

While I do not remember which specific Torah commentary inspired me 33 years ago, this year, I am particularly drawn to the words of K’li Yakar, the commentary of Rabbi Shlomo Ephraim ben Aaron Luntschitz (1550–1619), who served as the Rabbi of Prague from 1604-1619. While I have revered R. Luntschitz as a teacher, over the years, he has also come to feel like my friend. When I need a particularly significant word of guidance, I can easily find it in his writing. His comments on this week’s parashah focus on the characteristic of humility, especially as it relates to learning.

At the end of last week’s portion, Joseph asks Pharaoh’s cupbearer to intercede for him with Egypt’s ruler and save him. Our sages, however, want to see Joseph relying on faith in God as well. Such faith is not easy to come by; it requires belief that the Holy One takes an interest in each of our lives. Naturally, many of us question such a belief. In the K’li Yakar, R. Luntschitz suggests that the Holy One should be our model. Just as God takes an interest in us, we should take an interest in everyone and listen to and respect them, regardless of their “level” of learning, education, or experience.

As it is written in the commentary on the first line of this portion:

“It is the way of the world that when a person has reached a superior level regarding a personal characteristic or strength, [they cease] to recall the individual at the lower level and do not speak that person’s name.”

Many of us have a natural tendency toward hierarchy. We come to understand our place in life by comparing ourselves to those we see as above or below us. Recognizing this inclination creates an opportunity for us to overcome it.

Another ally in personal growth is longevity. Ever since I encountered this text over three decades ago and have studied it many times since then, the message of this commentary echoes within me more loudly than ever. During those intervening years, this text also became my son’s bar mitzvah portion.

What have I learned from this journey? I have learned that I need to hear as many reactions to these ancient words as I can. I need to know what message they communicate to teachers and students, to professors and newcomers, to biblical Hebrew scholars and those who cannot yet read the Torah’s native language.

I have learned that everyone owns the words of Torah; that we are truly in possession of Torah when we realize that it does not exclusively belong to us and that its multiple interpretations are not ours to measure.

This week, discuss Mikeitz’s words with someone who thinks or lives differently than you do. You will be far richer for the experience.

RABBI MICHAEL DOLGIN

Parasha - December 17 – Vayeshev - Genesis 37:1−40:23

Courtesy of the URJ

The Story of Joseph is the longest single story in the Torah and one of the most famous narratives found in the entire Hebrew Bible. This text has inspired many traditional and modern commentaries and additional interpretations though contemporary culture. While these presentations offer the core story of Joseph and his brothers, they rarely address its darker reality: It is a cautionary tale about ignoring family matters and the disastrous results.

While much is made of Joseph’s coat of many colours, it is a unique gift to the eleventh of 12 sons and one that reeks of favouritism. Favoritism has been a factor in nearly every generation in the Book of Genesis: Cain vs. Abel, Ishmael vs. Isaac, Esau vs. Jacob, and Leah vs. Rachel. Jacob endured the pain of such irresponsible behaviour, and yet, as we see in Parashat Vayeishev, he repeats the mistake by which he himself was victimized.

Yes, Joseph is the central character of this story, but this tale is based on the rhythms and realities of Jacob’s life. His name, Ya’akov, means “the one who follows the crooked path.” Jacob rarely deals with matters directly; his passive nature was established as he stood before his visually challenged father in his brother’s clothes at the direction of his mother. As we see in his relationship to his son, behaviour patterns are often difficult to break.

In the beginning of Vayeishev, we learn of Joseph’s famous dreams and the powerful animosity that grew among his brothers – animosity that would be prevalent in any family under these circumstances. What was Jacob’s response? “And his brothers envied him; but his father kept the matter in mind” (Genesis 37:11). His reaction was to guard the matter; or perhaps, more honestly, to save himself from the truth of the situation that he had allowed to grow. The truth does not wilt when we hide it in the dark; it remains. We cannot wish it away or keep ourselves or those we love insulated from harsh realities.

In a family or other intimate system, it is too easy to let painful realities grow. We often choose not to directly address difficult topics. However, while it may seem risky to address longstanding difficulties and animosities, the alternative may be far worse.  Consider an often-ignored detail of Joseph’s story: While his brothers considered ending Joseph’s life with their own hands, they were not willing or able to do so. Instead, “they took him, and cast him into the pit – and the pit was empty, there was no water in it. And they sat down to eat bread…” (Genesis 37:24-25)

After the brothers threw Joseph into a hole in the wilderness with no water, leaving him to die, they sat down at the top of that natural prison and had lunch. Rabbi Ovadia Seforno indicates as much: “In their eyes, they did not see this as an obstacle or barrier to them having a full meal together.” Their hatred of their brother had fashioned their character so deeply that they could not see that feasting while their brother starved and prepared to die was cruel.

According to Seforno, they convinced themselves that Joseph was a rodef, a pursuer, and Jewish law allows for protecting our own lives in self defense. However, when someone actively seeks to wound or kill us, we may strike that person down. Joseph’s brothers seem to take advantage of this teaching; in their minds, their younger brother is a mortal threat, when in fact he was likely an annoyance, the product of unhealthy parenting behaviours and his own bad choices.

The p’shat (surface meaning) Torah commentator Malbim says it plainly: The brothers saw themselves as tzaddikim; everything they did was right and righteous simply because they did it. When Jacob was careless, selfish, and thoughtless in his parental actions, he planted the seeds of arrogance and hatred in his children. In Malbim’s commentary, however, we also see the tonic for this illness: humility. If we wish to live in a healthier society and family, we must challenge ourselves to grow rather than judge others. We need to see the beauty created in every human being, including those who are difficult for us, and embrace the growth needed in ourselves.

May the painful elements of the story of Joseph inspire us to look at our lives, and ourselves, anew.

RABBI MICHAEL DOLGIN

Parasha – Vayishlach - Genesi 32:4−36:43 - December 10

And thou, do not fear, O My servant Jacob; neither be dismayed, O Israel; for, lo, I will save you from afar, and your seed from the land of their captivity; and Jacob shall return and sit in quiet and ease, and none shall make him afraid (Jeremiah 30:10).

The twin brothers Jacob and Esau live a life of rivalry, intrigue, and deceit. Jacob lies to his father Isaac as he lay dying, steals his brother's blessing, and then flees into the wilderness. Years pass and he gets word that his brother is nearby. Jacob is afraid. He tries to placate Esau by sending him gifts. Then, the messengers returned to Jacob, saying, "We came to your brother Esau; he himself is coming to meet you, and there are four hundred men with him" (Genesis 32:7). Jacob understands that his brother is approaching with a small army. And then: Jacob was afraid (vayera) , very fearful (vayetzer) , he divided the people with him, and the flocks and herds and camels, into two camps (Genesis 32:7-8).

Jacob is a fearful man. Twice the verse uses the word fear -- vayera and then vayetzer. The first word for fear is also the word for awe. As we gaze upon the mystery of the heavens, the boundary between awe and fear is ever so slight. We are awe struck by the vast unknown of God, and we are aware of our own smallness. We are afraid of our vulnerability at the same time we are in awe of the grandeur and the blessings that abound.

The second word for fear comes from the root narrow. This kind of fear constricts our very being. We are clenched, terrified. Some rabbis teach that the two words for fear indicate the two fears within Jacob's heart; he is afraid of being killed by his brother and he is also afraid that he may be forced to kill when his brother attacks him (Radak, 13th century biblical commentator and philosopher).

But there is another teaching in rabbinic literature - Jacob is afraid because he believes that he is not "worthy of miraculous salvation" (Malbim, 19th century Hebrew scholar).

Not worthy.

And like Jacob, we hold both types of fear in our hearts. Sometimes we feel the paradox of vayera: awe and fear. The mystery inspires us, we are in awe of the beauty that abounds. I behold Your heavens, the work of Your fingers, the moon and stars that You set in place (Psalm 8:4). But so often the vastness makes us afraid what are we that You have been mindful of us, we are mortal, do You take note of us? (Psalm 8:5) We feel small, unable, incapable, judged. We are so afraid of the ambiguities in life. Afraid because we have so little control over forces both small and large.

And sometimes we feel vayetzer. Constricted. We live with a life perspective of scarcity. Will there ever be enough -- enough love, enough blessing, enough friendship, enough fame and fortune? Will we ever be good enough? Worthy, so that we may be redeemed from what holds us down, holds us back from living our best life. Who among us is not afraid of judgment? Of being small? We walk through the world clenched, anxious, tense.

But we do have a choice. In the spiritual world, the opposite of fear is love. Instead of fearing scarcity, we can hope for abundance. Our liturgy teaches that the universe is a vessel with overflowing love, hope, and beauty -- ahava rabah,. When we live with a perspective of abundance, we have plenty, we live with gratitude for the many blessings in our life. We are worthy.

And yet we struggle. It is not easy to quiet our minds and open our hearts. Living is not easy. Life is often a struggle with unseen forces, a wrestling with people, with circumstances, with inner demons, and with angels. In the darkness we wrestle between worthiness and acceptance, between love and fear.

It is nighttime by the river Jabbok. Darkness is everywhere, upon the land, upon the soul. I wonder if there is a gentle breeze, a wisp of Godly presence before the fight. Maybe the stars shine upon the black sky, maybe not. Maybe the light of the moon illuminates the river water, maybe not. It is quiet, dead quiet, and Jacob is afraid. And suddenly a whirlwind tosses him. He tumbles, twists as he tries to steady himself. Who are you? Who are you that seizes our fear, that grips our clenched heart? What is the name of the one who injures us so? Then off in the distance, light upon the horizon, colorful hues, perhaps as the poet Emily Dickenson once observed, I'll tell you how the Sun rose - A Ribbon at a time. And then, Jacob pleas for a blessing, a blessing that will wipe away his fear: "Let me go, for dawn is breaking." But he answered, "I will not let you go, unless you bless me." And the stranger, or maybe it's an angel, answers, "Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you wrestle with beings divine and human. And you have prevailed" (Genesis 32:27-29).

And from that moment we are named. We are not the children of Abraham, nor are we the children of Isaac. We are not even the children of Jacob. We are Israel, struggling to be free of our fears, yearning to live with awe, unclenched, open hearted, in love and blessing.

As I once wrote:

Inside the human heart is fear.
There is also hope.
The two wrestle constantly, like Jacob and his God.
Sometimes one prevails. Sometimes the other.
The struggle is sometimes silent, other times loud.
But it is constant-fear, hope, fear, hope.
Flashes of light and shadow twirling inside us all the time.
It is so much easier when there is love.
When love is in your life
it becomes the context for it all.
Love is the measure of a life well lived,
it is the beacon of possibility.
When you love, the fear is less harsh,
hope a bit stronger.

RABBI KARYN D. KEDAR

Parashat - Vayetze - Genesis 28:10−32:3 December 3

Courtesy of the URJ

Perhaps more than all the patriarchs, Jacob is the one that struggles most with the invisible. He dreams, he envisions, he wrestles with unnamed. He sees, looks into the eyes of his nemesis, his enemy, and sees the face of God. His journey is a spiritual wandering towards discovery and self-awareness. He sees into the future and ultimately is a uniting force that actualizes that future.

Rabbi Jonathon Sacks, z'l, poses an important question:

What is it that made Jacob - not Abraham or Isaac or Moses - the true father of the Jewish people? We are called the "congregation of Jacob," "the Children of Israel." Jacob/Israel is the man whose name we bear. Yet Jacob did not begin the Jewish journey; Abraham did. Jacob faced no trial like that of Isaac at the Binding. He did not lead the people out of Egypt or bring them the Torah. To be sure, all his children stayed within the faith, unlike Abraham or Isaac. But that simply pushes the question back one level. Why did he succeed where Abraham and Isaac failed? Light in Dark Times (Vayetse 5781)

Rabbinic tradition sees Jacob as a visionary who can anticipate the future and profoundly understands the human soul.

Take the dream in this week's Torah portion for example.

He had a dream in which he saw a ladder resting upon the earth, with its top reaching to heaven, and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it…. When Jacob awoke from his sleep, he thought, "Surely God is in this place, and I was not aware of it." He was afraid and said, "How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God; this is the gate of heaven" (Genesis 28:12-17).

Midrash Rabah teaches that Jacob's ladder is actually the vision of Mt. Sinai. The rabbis count the numeric value of the letters that form the word ladder, sulam in Hebrew, and the word Sinai. Both add up to 130. In this interpretation of the dream, Jacob is a visionary; he anticipates the moment when this wandering people will become a nation through shared stories, memories, and a Divine obligation to obey a series of laws, rules, and a profoundly meaningful ethical system. He sees the mountain that will connect heaven and earth.

The 11th-century poet and biblical commentator Rabbi Solomon ibn Gabirol believed that the ladder and angels in Jacob's dream reflect the spiritual nature of the human condition. According Gabirol, Jacob believed that our souls yearn to be close to God. Spiritual ascension is possible and the angels in the dream represent the wisdom we acquire as we practice spiritual living

Ibn Ezra, another 11th -century Sephardic biblical commentator, rejects Gabirol's explanation along with most rabbinic interpretations of Jacob's dream, saying:

These commentators have apparently not studiedthe prophecies of Zechariah, Amos, and Jeremiah. The way to interpret Jacob's dream is to view it as a parable. It teaches that nothing is hidden from God and that what happens below is contingent on the decree from above (all of the above are quoted by ibn Ezra on Genesis 28:12).

These three explanations begin to answer Rabbi Sach's question. Jacob is a prophet who sees into the future and anticipates Sinai. He is a teacher who shows us the spiritual yearnings of the human heart. He is theologian who explains the nature of the relationship between God and the people.

Whichever teaching resonates with us, Jacob is described as a visionary leader, one who inspires our people and ultimately unites us. He becomes our namesake and we become the Children of Israel.

Jacob's dream and Jacob himself inspire us. We are inspired by his imperfections, because they show us that we can falter and still find purpose. We are inspired by his journey. We are inspired by his struggle. And we are inspired by his perseverance.

Jacob is an inspirational leader.

Inspirational leadership appeals to the inner sanctum of our being, deeply touching that which is essential in life. It awakens the yearning for meaning and purpose that slumbers in our heart, moving us off the neatly made bed of complacency, unlocking the wonder and enthusiasm that silently lives in our hearts. It motivates us to live and act as if we really mean it, and as if our actions mean something.

We bear witness to what is possible, despite what others believe is merely probable. We remember that we are not alone, though our life's journey seems solitary. We remember that we were called into being and that we are called to service by some great Mystery, and that we therefore owe the world or humanity or the great Mystery Itself a piece of who we are. We remember that our life matters.

And we struggle with invisible forces and with our own inner being:

Then he said, "Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you have struggled with the divine beings and with humans and have overcome."…So Jacob called the place Peniel, saying, "It is because I saw God face to face, and yet my life was spared" (Genesis 32:29-31).

Jacob prevailed.

May we prevail.

RABBI KARYN D. KEDAR

Parashat – Toledot - Genesis 25:19−28:9 November 26 (Copy)

Courtesy of the URJ

In Parashat Tol’dot, Isaac is described as having “weak eyes,” which is considered a metaphor for his inability to see what his twin sons, Jacob and Esau, needed from him (Gen. 27:1). Why was he so poorly prepared to father his boys? In this midrashic monologue, Isaac gives us a clue as he reflects upon his relationship with his own father. Imagine if these were Isaac’s thoughts:

"I was so excited when Dad told me that we were going mountain climbing!

"My dad, Abraham, was a macher (a very important person), always talking incessantly with Adonai. He planned to be the father of many peoples whose names would be a blessing.

"I didn’t care about any of that. As his teenage son, supposedly his favorite, the one he said he loved, I just craved time with my dad.

"You would think that a guy who spent his days making holy connections with people would do the same with his own family. But we weren’t really close, maybe because he had me so late in life.

"When I got frustrated about Dad’s inattention, my mom, Sarah, assured me that he loved me, but that he was driven to succeed. Most men, she explained, found their identity and self-worth through their work. To be honest, I sometimes felt Dad used work to avoid me because he did not know how to deal with me or show emotion or talk about personal stuff.

"When Dad finally focused on our wilderness trip, he woke up early, saddled the donkey himself, and even gathered all the firewood and tools. That was so out of character for him. We had servants. For a wealthy man to engage in such menial tasks meant that he was filled with anticipation (Midrash Tanchuma, Vayeira 22:4). I hoped it meant that my father really wanted to spend time with me.

"We set out pretty early. When Mom did not come to see us off, I knew that something was up. To this day, I am not sure if Mom knew then what Dad was planning, or if she just found out later.

"Mom died before we returned. Did she die of a broken heart after hearing what Dad almost did to me (see Ruth H. Sohn, “Post-Biblical Interpretations,” The Torah: A Women’s Commentary)? Or was it because after years of partnership, Dad made a major family decision without even talking with her (Zohar on Vayeira)? If Mom hadn’t died, would their marriage have even survived? God, I miss her ...

"Dad told me that we would be offering a sacrifice to Adonai. He had never let me participate before. Why wasn’t I good enough to help? Now, I couldn’t contain my excitement. My first sacrifice, a Shehecheyanu moment!

"I kept a journal of the trip. I wrote: V’yeilchu sh’neihem yachdav. And the two of them—well, us—went on together (Gen. 22:6). I tried to engage Dad in conversation.

"I said, 'Dad?' 'Yes, my son,' he answered distantly. I asked, 'Here is the wood, and the knife, but where is the lamb for the burnt offering?' At first, he was silent; eyes distant. Then he answered quietly, 'God will see to the sheep for the offering, my son (Gen 22:7-8).' Even today those words haunt me; was he hinting that 'my son'—me—was to be the sacrifice in his holy work (Midrash Tanchuma, Gen. 22:3)?

"Those were the only words we spoke. I wrote again, “The two of them went on together” (Gen. 22:8).

"My wife Rebekah laughed at how ironic that was. 'You two walked together? You make it seem that words were unnecessary because you two were close. But, as you have told me time and again, when Abraham was there, his mind was elsewhere. Even when walking with him, you felt alone.'

"How can I explain what happened on the mountain? I was exhausted from the hike. He wrapped me in a blanket and laid me down. I dozed fitfully.

"Once again, nothing was turning out as I had hoped. Dad built the altar himself. He didn’t ask for my help. I felt straitjacketed, like his inability to reach out to me was tying me up, holding me down. His interminable silences—the fact that he didn’t really see me—sliced through my heart like a knife.

"Maybe my dad really didn’t mean to hurt me. Maybe he was just trying to do what he thought dads were supposed to do: Be strong. Be the breadwinner. Maybe all that pressure somehow overloaded him, making him distant. All I remember is hurting inside.

"I had hoped that this trip would change things. That he would bring me up to introduce me to Adonai so we could offer the sacrifice together. Instead, I was the sacrifice. My dad sacrificed our time together. When by himself he drew the knife across the ram’s throat, it felt as if he severed the thin bonds of our relationship.

"Abraham called that place Adonai-yireh, meaning 'on the mount of Adonai, there is vision' (Gen. 22:14). Yeah, that day my vision was crystal clear: I couldn’t forgive his inattention. Our relationship had to end. I had to break it off.

"That day, Abraham departed with his servants for Beersheba. He was praised worldwide for his unswerving faith. His name became a blessing. Thanks to his grandson Jacob, Abraham’s descendants were as numerous as the stars in the heavens and the sands on the seashore.

"But I left separately.

"I never talked to my dad again. The next time I saw him was at his funeral (Gen. 25:9).

"Sometimes I am so mad, and sad, that I can’t see straight. He left me so ill-equipped to handle my own sons. I never really had a good parental role model.

"Why is it that relationships between fathers and sons (and parents and children generally)—which should be so close—sometimes can be so distant and painful?

"Maybe we learned it all from Father Abraham."

Rabbi Paul Kipnes

Parasha – Chayei Sarah - Genesis 23:1−25:18 - November 19, 2022

Courtesy of the URJ

What is it that most people want to become but nobody wants to be? This paradox is no riddle, it is simply a reality of life. In our youth-oriented culture, almost everyone wants to reach old age but no one wants to be old. Consider the elixirs, tinctures, potions, stairmasters, elyptical trainers, and so many other nostrums and contraptions employed to aid in the search for the fountain of youth whereby we hope to forestall and even halt the inexorable march of time.

The tension between growing old and wanting to stay young takes on greater urgency because the aging population today is quite different from that of any other period in history, evidenced by the sheer number of people living beyond retirement age. The 65-74-age category is approximately eight times larger than it was in 1900; the number of 75-84 year olds is 17 times larger; and the 85-and-up population is nearly 40 times larger. Future projections indicate that by the year 2030, there will be more than 70 million people over the age of 65, and the population aged 85 and over, the group most likely to need health- and long-term care services, also will increase dramatically.

Today, lives no longer conform to past expectations and patterns. Marriage, schooling, career, child bearing, and child rearing are more fluid than ever before. Many do not look or act their chronological age, making necessary new benchmarks for the retired set, a mixture of young-old, old-old, sick-old, well-old, well-off-old, and so forth.

Chayei Sarah was written at a time when growing old was the exception rather than the rule. It is a narrative that bids a reader to pause and consider the prospect of aging and the personal hope that growing old will be gentle and graceful rather than severe and graceless. The text reminds the reader that Sarah was 127 when she died (Genesis 23:1) while Abraham lived to be 175 (Genesis 25:7). Both Sarah and Abraham accomplished their most significant achievements in the latter part of their lives, well past the age that would be considered feasible today. Abraham set out on his fateful journey at God’s command from Haran (in northwest Mesopotamia — modern-day Iraq) to “the land that I will show you” at age 75 (Genesis 12:1, 4). When Abraham reached age 90, God revealed Himself to Abraham and promised to make his descendents exceedingly numerous (Genesis 17:4-6). At age 99, Abraham was commanded to circumcise himself (Genesis 17:24). Although Sarah, at age 90, and Abraham, at age 100, were well past normal child-bearing years, nevertheless, Isaac was born (Genesis 21:2-3). Thus, for Sarah and Abraham, age provided no barrier to accomplishment. They launched themselves onto new pathways at a time when they might have been expected to retire to rocking chairs.

Those who think that growing old is just mind over matter fail to recognize that genes, nutrition, proper care, exercise, and just plain luck cannot be disregarded. Nevertheless, an individual’s attitude toward aging is important. Contrast the comment of one older woman, “I tried being old a couple of years ago and I hated it, so I am never going to do that again,” with that of the 91 year old standing by a grave at the end of a interment service who said to me, “You know, rabbi, it hardly pays for me to go home.”

Attitude is, indeed, important. Some years ago, I visited a woman who was celebrating her 99th birthday. As I left, I cheerfully said, “I hope I will be able to come back next year to celebrate your 100th birthday with you.” “Why shouldn’t you?” she asked. “You look perfectly healthy to me.”

Until this modern age, those who managed to grow old were anomalous; few people lived long enough to prevent leisure time, longed for when young, from becoming a burden when aged.

The Book of Proverbs finds increasing currency in an age when the number of septuagenarians, octogenarians, nonagenarians, centenarians, and even a sprinkling of supercentenarians (those 110 years old or more) are rapidly increasing: “The gray hair is a crown of glory” (Proverbs 16:31). By extension, Rabbinic tradition teaches: “ben arba-im labinah, ben chamishim l‘eitzah ... ben sh’monim lig’vurah — at forty one is fit for discernment; at fifty for counsel … at eighty for strength” (Pirkei Avot 5.21). These are not isolated statements about growing old; comparable maxims fill the pages of traditional texts, aphorisms that can be utilized in formulating attitudes about growing old gracefully. The example of Sarah and Abraham’s longevity, and the accomplishments realized during their advanced years provide new ways of thinking about adding meaningful life to extended years, fulfilling the Psalmist’s prayer: “Teach us to count our days rightly, that we may obtain a wise heart” (Psalms 90:12).

Rabbi Stephen S. Pearce, Ph.D.

(With permission - https://reformjudaism.org/learning/torah-study/torah-commentary/  This has been translated from English to Italian. The author was not responsible for the translation.)

Parashat Vayeira, Genesis 18:1–22:24 (SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 12)

Courtesy of the URJ

 Vayeira, Genesis 18:1–22:24  (SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 12)

 Summary:

-         Abraham welcomes three visitors, who announce that Sarah will soon have a son.

-         Abraham argues with God about the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.

-         Lot's home is attacked by the people of Sodom. Lot and his two daughters escape as the cities are being destroyed. Lot's wife is turned into a pillar of salt.

-         Lot impregnates his daughters, and they bear children who become the founders of the nations Moab and Ammon.

-         Abimelech, king of Gerar, takes Sarah as his wife after Abraham claims that she is his sister.

-         Isaac is born, circumcised, and weaned. Hagar and her son, Ishmael, are sent away; an angel saves their lives.

-         God tests Abraham, instructing him to sacrifice Isaac on Mount Moriah.

Lesson by:  Rabbi Karyn D. Kedar

I sat by the water, moving from sun to shadow, listening to the sound of the slight breeze creating a ripple effect. In the sky, an occasional seagull, butterfly of cinnamon color, or airplane would fly by. The world was in constant motion, and yet I sensed a stillness. And then, at the heat of the day, upon the highest branch of the tallest tree I saw a glint, no bigger than a flicker of blue and crimson, maybe a bit of orange. It was a great distraction. I wondered what it was. I expected it to disappear, go away, untangle itself from the leaves and fly like a deflated mylar balloon that escaped the hand of a child and got caught in the arms of the great oak. As I watched the light sparkle, I felt a presence, a calm come over me. Shalom aleichem, welcome, you angel of peace.

The angels of the Tanach are metaphors of our highest desires. Raphael, God is my healer; Michael, who is like you O God; Gavriel, God is my strength; Uziel, God is the source of my power; Oriel, God is my light. How we long to have a divine sense of strength, healing, light, power surround us with a sense of protection. Sometimes the angels of the Tanach are messengers. Often these messengers are in the guise of people, strangers that appear to communicate a divine truth.

This Torah portion is abundant with eternal messages. It begins: God appeared to Abraham by the oaks of Mamre, as he sat at the entrance to his tent in the heat of the day (18:1). According to the rabbis of the Talmud (bava metzia 86b), it is the third day after Abraham’s circumcision and he is sitting in the heat of the day in a great deal of pain. He is in need of comfort and healing. Suddenly, by the oaks of Mamre, the angel of healing, Raphael, appears. Abraham is healed from his agony and we, the generations that follow, are taught that visiting the sick is a powerful commandment. Raphael, God is the healing power.

Then, in that same verse, three men approach the tent. He lifted up his eyes and looked, and, lo, three men were standing over against him; and when he saw them, he ran to meet them from the tent entrance, and bowed down to the earth (18:1-2). To Abraham and Sarah they look like strangers in need of respite from a long journey, so they extend to them a haven of safety from the brutal realty of desert life. The strangers  sit down in the shade of a grove of trees and they are offered water, nourishment, safety.

Abraham and Sarah do not know that the strangers are the angels of blessing and destiny who have come with a divine message: A child shall be born to Abraham and Sarah. God’s promise will now manifest through Isaac: I will bestow My blessing upon you and make your descendants as numerous as the stars of heaven and the sands on the seashore (22:17). The destiny of the Jewish people will unfold and the course of history is set. Michael, who is like you O God?

Healing, blessing, and now justice. The Torah turns its attention to Sodom and Gomorrah, two cities that are lawless, where evil is the norm and cruelty common place. God tells Abraham that these cites must be destroyed. And angels appear to Lot. And the two angels came to Sodom in the evening, and Lot sat by the city gates. When he saw them, he rose to meet them and bowing low, he said, “I pray you now, Adonai, turn aside to your servant’s house and tarry all night and bathe your feet and you shall rise up early and go on your way (19:1-2).

It is evening. The angels are at the city gates. Lot, who like Abraham and Sarah see them as strangers on a dusty journey, offers to wash their feet. But it is the city that is need of cleansing. The metaphor is clear: God will not allow evil to flourish. Gavriel, God is my strength.

And now the angel of Hagar. Hagar, at the request of Sarah serves as a surrogate. Abraham’s first born is of Sarah’s maidservant. But now there is Isaac. Sarah demands that Hagar and Ishmael be banished to the wilderness. Hagar is frightened and cries out from the wilderness “I am in utter despair, do not let me see my son die.” God heard the cry of the boy, and an angel of God called to Hagar from heaven and said to her, “What troubles you, Hagar? Fear not, for God has heeded the cry of the boy where he is. Come, lift up the boy and hold him by the hand, for I will make a great nation of him” (21:17). An angel of mercy and compassion appears as a voice from heaven. Mother and son are comforted. Ishmael will be the father of a great nation. Uziel, God is the source of my power. 

Sometime afterward, God put Abraham to the test. He said to him, “Abraham,” and he answered, “Here I am.” And God said, “Take your son, your favored one, Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the heights that I will point out to you” (22:2). Abraham is tested. He must take his son Isaac and sacrifice him to God. Obedient, he walks silently three days with Isaac, lays him upon the alter, raises a knife and suddenly: an angel of the LORD called to him from heaven: “Abraham! Abraham!” And he answered, “Here I am.” And he said, “Do not raise your hand against the boy, or do anything to him. For now I know that you fear God, since you have not withheld your son, your favored one, from Me” (22:11-12.) We are to be a different society, honoring our children and teaching them, not sacrificing them as is the custom of the time. Oriel, God is my light, I shall not fear.

Our narrative has woven a tale through the angels, metaphors of healing, blessing, promise, justice, mercy, compassion, and enlightenment. I returned to that tree the next day and I was not surprised that the flicker of light was gone. But as I closed my eyes, the birds returned -- and the wind, and the sound of the water, and a sense of presence. And peace.

(With permission - https://reformjudaism.org/learning/torah-study/torah-commentary/  This has been translated from English to Italian. The author was not responsible for the translation.)