Parshat Vayeira and When to Speak Up

 

It's time again for my contribution to Liberal Judaism's Thought for the Week - something inspired by the upcoming Torah portion. This one is for Parshat Vayeira:

In this week’s parasha, as the covenantal relationship between Abraham and Adonai begins to develop, we can hardly believe Abraham’s chutzpah. Not only does he question Adonai, but then Abraham argues with Adonai and, as if that wasn’t enough, he somehow convinces Adonai to back down from a decision that has already been made. Abraham makes a cogent and humble case that it is unjust for the innocent to suffer with the guilty, and the plan is immediately recalibrated, several times. Chutzpahdik! Yet Adonai accepts all the corrections that Abraham offers in his quest for justice. Unfortunately, not one innocent person can be found, and Sodom and Gomorrah are destroyed.  

 

If we wonder why Adonai appears to be so lenient when directly challenged, a clue may be found a few verses earlier:

 

“Now Adonai had said, “Shall I hide from Abraham what I am about to do … for I have singled him out, that he may instruct his children and his posterity to keep the way of Adonai by doing what is just and right”[1]

 

However omnipotent Adonai may be, in this relationship model Abraham is offered a behind-the-scenes view of how justice works. Adonai says that this is a kind of professional development session to help Abraham instruct subsequent generations how to follow a just and right path. And Abraham shows that he has a natural instinct for the task. He speaks up where he sees injustice, his words are heard, and the system is changed. The two of them have a positive experience together, which bodes well for the future.

 

Or does it? If this example teaches that the human partner in the covenantal relationship plays an active role in determining what is right and wrong, isn’t there a slippery slope towards making decisions based on what you want, rather than what you should do? The parasha responds to this question with the story of the binding of Isaac.

 

Isaac represents everything that God has promised Abraham in exchange for his loyalty. God now says:

 

“Take your son, your favourite, the one that you love, Isaac; and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains that I will point out to you.”[2]

 

God uses the same words of command, “lech lecha”, as God did in the original invitation to the Covenant, but this time God requires something terrible from Abraham, a sacrifice that seems unbearable to us. And what does Abraham say? Not one word! He gets up early the next morning, and follows God’s commands to the letter. In the end, Abraham’s hand is stayed at the last minute, and an unlucky ram is sacrificed instead of Isaac. However, at no point in the text do we see any sign of Abraham questioning God’s decision. In this example of the covenantal relationship, the human partner submits entirely to the will of God, proving their faith by their deeds and their acceptance of the consequences of their actions. But is this not also a slippery slope?

 

If the human role in the brit is always to submit, never thinking about what we are doing, we risk becoming mindlessly obedient slaves to the system. Suffering becomes a product of God’s will. How then could we become aware of injustice, and speak up against it? 

 

This portion presents us with two powerful principles, each at the opposite end of the spectrum from the other. They are both valid responses to our relationship with God and available for us to choose. And that is what we need to learn:  how to make the appropriate choice for the situation. Abraham teaches us that different situations require different responses. There is a time to speak up, and a time to submit. The challenge for us is to figure out which is which. 

 

As Abraham is in the early stages of his relationship with Adonai, so are we. Before we must decide how to respond, shouldn’t we learn more about our own relationships?  We might begin with some instruction from Abraham. The Torah portion tells of his hospitality, his sense of justice and his faith. He was someone who reached out to strangers, offering physical sustenance and moral support. We have a long history of knowing what it is like to be strangers, exiles, refugees. We cannot let this empathy be corrupted by the isolation of social distancing and lockdown. 

 

So let us focus on a positive perspective – despite the current restrictions, what is possible? Look for local projects that are offering a community response to tackling food poverty[3]. Perhaps you can take part in the Age UK campaign to alleviate loneliness amongst older people[4]. Are there letters you can write or phonecalls you can make on behalf of programmes[5] that support refugees, or that fight hate crimes, or that raise awareness about mental health in your borough or city?

 

As we lift up our eyes, may we become aware of what is just and right. As we learn what it means to be a partner with Adonai, may we find the strength and the flexibility to know when to be a chutzpadik and when to yield.

 

 

 

---

[1] Genesis 18: 17 & 19

 

[2] Genesis 22:2

[3] for example in London there is https://www.jw3.org.uk/help-us-now

[4] for example https://www.vccp.com/work/cadbury/donate-your-words/

[5] for example https://www.citizensuk.org/national_campaigns

(I'm Late, I'm Late, for a Very Important Torah Portion) Shmita

Photo: Ariel J Friedlander

This week's Torah portion, no, stay for a moment, do, is Behar-Bechukotai (Leviticus 25:1 - 27:34).  (NB things happened, and I didn't post this in time, but am still putting it up to help me remember)

Sometimes it is a challenge to find contemporary relevance in the ancient text. This morning, we read about letting one's fields lie fallow every seventh year. This practice is commonly known as Shmita. I am a person of the city, as members of my family have been for generations. We have read about ploughshares and pruning hooks (Isaiah 2:4), but probably couldn't recognise one and certainly wouldn't know how to use them. At first glance, my contemporary experience makes Shmita seem rather esoteric.

It is also taught that the mitzvah/commandment of Shmita is traditionally an obligation for Jews living in the land of Israel. Of course there's no reason why, just because one is not obligated to do something, that one cannot choose to do it. Not obligated does not mean forbidden. And there's also no reason why, just because one isn't a farmer, one cannot find a way to give the Earth a bit of a rest.

Perhaps, living out of touch with the seasons and cycles of the land in which we live, we don't realise just how much damage we have already done, and how it is escalating. Our planet needs relief from our constant and devastating demands. The next Shmita period begins on Rosh Hashanah of next year (2021), so we have some time to plan. In 2014-15,  I remember that L's teacher, Rabbi Debbie Young-Somers, decided to try and live, along with her family, for the whole year of Shmita without buying anything new, e.g, furniture, kitchen items, clothing, etc. She felt strongly that, "the continual purchasing many of us practice now, easily becomes mindless and is hugely damaging to the earth." (Jewish News 02.02.19) It's not an easy way to live, because it asks us to let go of our need for instant and spontaneous gratification. Not forever, but long enough to give the Earth a break. Maybe we should consider doing it in some form or other.

If you're not sure if it's worth it, now we are beginning to be allowed outside again, just look at the difference after only a few weeks. The sky is clear, the air is fresh, the rivers are clean ... the pandemic that has ravaged the human community, and kept us from much of the behaviour that regularly poisons the natural world, has allowed the Earth to begin to heal. I fear we shall soon forget this blessing, but hope that we might be inspired to find ways to help it to continue. Learning more about Shmita may be a way to go.

Here's a link to Hazon & the Shmita project if you'd like to read more about it.

Meanwhile, I just want to note how incredible it is that we happen to be reading this particular Torah portion exactly when our contemporary lives are dealing with themes embedded in this ancient text. Maybe it is coincidence, or maybe, just maybe, the reason the Torah has endured so long is because, as Ben Bag Bag said over 1500 years ago, "Turn it over and (again) turn it over, for all is therein." (Pirkei Avot 5:22). 

Shavua Tov!

Parshat Tsav from Modena

Here is another in the weekly series of notes on the Torah portion for Or 'Ammim, our chavurah in Emilia Romagna. For the Italian version, click here.

Parshat Tsav

04.04.2019

This Shabbat has a special name. It is called Shabbat Ha-Gadol, the Great Sabbath. It is one of the two Shabbatot in the year when the rabbi is required to give a sermon*. Your rabbi is supposed to remind you about all the Jewish laws of Pesach, so that you may spend the following week preparing everything properly.  Traditionally it was quite a long sermon, because there is a lot to do. This year, we are sending Or Ammim-niks an e-mail with information (and charoset recipes) for those who will join us for our virtual Seder on Zoom next Wednesday night at 19:00.

This week’s Torah reading is Parshat Tsav (Leviticus 6:1-8:36). Following on from last week, God gives Moses further information about the korbanot (sacrifices) to be offered by the priests on behalf of the people. God tells Moses to command (“tsav”) Aaron and his sons to follow God’s instructions. 

“Tsav” is a hard word for Progressive Jews. According to tradition, when God commands us to do something, we must obey. We should trust that it is the right thing to do, even if we do not like it or understand why. After all, as the Sages teach us, God’s commandments were given to protect us, and to help us to live good lives. Yet it is hard to submit just because God told us to. We are intelligent beings, designed to ask questions, and learn from our experience. We like to go through a linear process, and base our belief on some kind of rational argument. What do Progressive Jews do with the mitzvot? We do not steal, but we may not keep kosher. Or maybe we do. We may light Shabbat candles when 3 stars are visible in the sky, but we will drive to the synagogue service. We help the stranger, the orphan and the widow. And we include our LGBTQ family and friends. We make Jewish choices, based on our learning from Torah, and the world around us. We are privileged to have that freedom.

That is exactly what Pesach is all about, but we are not there yet. We will talk about it together next week. We will look at what God did as well as what God said. For now we are still in Mitzrayim, literally narrow places (& the Biblical name for the land of Egypt). Our mitzrayim today may be more physically comfortable than the slave quarters of our ancestors, but the loss of our freedom of movement brings our community closer to the tale told in the Torah, closer than we may ever have been before.

This week the Torah returns to the korbanot we studied in the previous portion, and looks at them from the perspective of the priests. Once again we might say: but the Temple is destroyed, and the priests are gone, and the sacrifices are no longer possible. How is the work of Aaron and the priests relevant to our lives? 

The words that stand out for me this week are in chapter 8, verses 23-4. They describe the ordination of Aaron and his sons, as they become the priests who will translate the offerings of the people into the fulfilment of God’s commandments. A ram is slaughtered:

“and Moses took some of its blood, and placed it on the cartilage of Aaron’s right ear, on the thumb of his right hand and on the big toe of his right foot. And he brought Aaron’s sons forward, and Moses placed some of the blood on the cartilage of their right ears, on the thumbs of their right hands, and on the big toes of their right feet."

What is the significance of these particular parts of the body? They highlight the skills that were most important in the work of the priests. That they should listen, should really pay attention to what is being said to them. That they should be aware of what they do with their hands. And that they should watch where their feet are going. 

Once again, the world of the priests is gone. However now, under lockdown, surely these words, words that describe holy work, speak directly to us:  

What should we do when the world that we know, to which we are accustomed, is gone?  When the places we went and the things that we did are no longer viable?  

Our feet should stay home, unless we need food or medicine, or it is an emergency.

Before we touch any thing or anybody, have we washed our hands?

And we must listen to the instructions we are given, in order to stay as safe and well as possible.

Do we accept the words of God as orders, as mitzvot? It is a difficult question. And I’m not sure it is the correct question at this moment in time. Will these actions protect us, and help us to live good lives? That is a more pertinent question. I believe so, and thus I will follow them to the best of my ability. 

Wishing that we shall all stay safe and well.

Shabbat shalom.

* the other is Shabbat Shuva, between Rosh Hashanah & Yom Kippur, when the rabbi should remind everyone to make teshuvah (to apologise and make restitution for the damage we have done) before the end of the 10 Days of Penitence.

Parshat Vayikra

Another brief d'var for the Or 'Ammim website. If you're interested, you may read the Italian version here.

Parshat Vayikra

27.03.20

This Shabbat we begin a new book of the Torah - Vayikra. The Mishkan (Tabernacle) has been built, and now the presence of God can dwell amid the people. This week’s portion describes the 5 different korbanot(sacrifices) that must be offered to God in order to maintain and restore the relationship between us. Since the desert wanderings of the Children of Israel are over, and the Temple in Jerusalem has been destroyed, we are no longer able to bring these offerings of animals and grain. How then may these words of Torah be relevant to our life in Italy today?

The Hebrew word for sacrifices is korbanot. The root is karav, to draw near or come close. For our ancestors, this was their way to connect with their God, to express their desire to be in a positive relationship. After the debacle of the Golden Calf, God realized that we humans have a great need for a physical sense of connection, through our senses. Thus God appeared to the Israelites as a pillar of smoke during the day, and a pillar of fire by night, leading them through the desert. God designed the Mishkan as a place where God’s presence could rest among the people. And the ceremony of the sacrifices – the sounds and smells of the animals being slaughtered, the priests tasting their portions, the feel of the grain in one’s hands – made it all so very real. The people were communicating with God, through sin offerings, guilt offerings and peace offerings.

We have no Mishkan here, and cannot follow the instructions as originally intended. Neither is there a Temple any more. However, after the destruction, our leaders taught us that we can still connect with God, we can still come close. Rather than bringing our offerings to the priests so they can follow the very detailed instructions, we can speak to God directly, ourselves, through our prayers. 

The prayerbook tells us what to say in our prayers. But that is just when we go to the synagogue. It is also possible to speak during our everyday lives. In this time when we are all more physically distant, we are lucky that technology can help us maintain social connections. At the same time, having been locked down for so long is making us all more anxious and tense. There is real danger out there and we are afraid of its touch. Our instinct is to withdraw, to protect ourselves. But if our fear makes us abandon our most important relationships, as we see with the Children of Israel at the foot of Mount Sinai, we can lose our way completely. Of course we must stay safe. But we can also stay in touch.

Perhaps the 5 korbanot listed in our portion might correspond to 5 words and phrases that are part of everyone’s daily life. Saying please, or thank you, I’m sorry, I love you; or just hello. It’s not easy to talk to God, especially when you may not be sure if God actually exists, or if God is listening. So let us practice by starting conversations with each other. Please would you share your challah recipe? Thank you for sending that Zoom tutorial! I’m sorry I sounded grumpy. I just called to say I love you. I just called to say hello. The Torah is telling us that we must find ways to come close to each other. Our korbanot are deeds that connect us to each other. As we experience how we are present in each other’s lives, we may begin to notice the signs that God is also in our midst, waiting to hear from us. 

Shabbat shalom.

What Does it Mean to Leave Your Parents' House?

ravaj's Thought for the Week for Lech Lecha on the LJ website

In this week’s Torah portion Adonai commands Avram to leave all that he has known for an unidentified destination. The reward is fantastic – a Mesopotamian meanderer without children or purpose will become the beloved ancestor of myriad people throughout the world. Avram chooses to go forth according to Adonai’s command, and our current existence is a validation of his choice.

A literal reading of this passage seems clear, and we acknowledge the origin of the Jewish people each time we recite the Amidah prayer. But the text also raises several questions. What does it mean to leave eretz (land), moledet (birthplace) and bet av (parental house)? What do we leave behind, and towards what are we going? What choices do we have?

The Lubavitcher Rebbe had a metaphorical response to these questions. He taught that the land represents our psyche, or natural inclinations. Birthplace suggests environmental influences, e.g., the attitudes and behaviour of our parents, teachers and peers. Thus, to leave the house of our parents signifies the moment when, fully formed, we are able to use our intellect to move beyond our genetic and conditioned selves. From a traditional point of view, this may be expressed as following God’s commandments, even when they conflict with our own will and desires, thus ensuring a flourishing and abiding future for ourselves and our community.

While we may never be really free of our ego and its prejudices, we do hope to find a higher self, the essence of the Divine within that recalls the image in which we were created. If pursuing a traditionally halachic path does not suit us, how then may we find a way to follow?

Let’s begin with Adonai’s command of Lech Lecha. ‘lech’ is an imperative, in the second person singular form. ‘lecha’ may be translated as ‘by you’, ‘for you’ and ‘to you’. As the second person is already indicated in the imperative, why then is it repeated? Since not one word in the Torah is considered superfluous, what is the text trying to tell us? For ‘by you’, we might understand ‘by yourself’, i.e. that Avram and his family should go towards a fresh start.  They can leave their background behind to build a new and different life. With ‘for you’, we can see that Adonai’s offer would be a great career move for Avram. Not only would Avram’s present circumstances improve materially, but a permanent legacy would also be established. However, the majority of commentators lean towards the translation ‘to you’. 

How may we understand ‘to you’? To go ‘to yourself’ is to identify, to recognize who YOU are. You may be the son of your mother or the daughter of your father. You went to this school and that college or uni, and now you fill your days with work and laundry and family and cooking and friends and getting things done. And maybe some exercise. Or a diet. And good intentions for developing a better way of life in the future. It’s very tiring. Is it possible that the pressures of our contemporary lifestyles have pushed us out of focus? Do we know who we are, and what our purpose is? 

In order to make the most of our lives, to be fulfilling and fulfilled, we need to find that spark of Godliness within.  Yom Kippur may be recently behind us, but a thorough examination of our motivation and actions must continue. What should we mute, and to what and to whom should we listen? From what should we avert our eyes, and what should we see? What of all we hold so tightly is fluff, and what is vital?

The immediacy of Adonai’s command to us cannot be ignored. “Go! Recognise your potential. Become YOU!” If we can let go of our baggage, and make space for the voice of our own hearts, surely we shall find the energy and the incentive to go forth and take our part in tikkun olam, the healing of our inner world, and thence the repair and healing of the world we share with each other.

PS here's a translation into Italian, for those who may find it more accessible.

When someone you love is suffering

Posted this week on the LJ website as the Thought for the Week, I try to express something as my sisters and I try to support our mother through the most difficult days:

When someone you love is suffering, and there seems to be little hope, what can you do? The Psalmist says, "Call upon Me in time of trouble; I will rescue you" (e.g. Psalm 50:15). Dear God, I say, please don't let her die. And she does not die. I thank God. But then the next time I pray, dear God, please don't let him die. And he dies. These are the most sincere prayers I've ever prayed, but the outcome is unreliable. Yet, in a time of utmost distress, my instinct is to ask God for help.

What does it mean to pray? I think that we grow up believing that it is like making a wish. We ask God for the things we want. As if God were a fairy GODparent, or a genie. It is the way of a child. But when things are desperate, we become very childlike. We feel utterly powerless, and cry out for a superhero or a parent to swoop down and make it all better. We don't know what to do.

One of the hardest realities to accept is that there are things that we cannot do. Scientifically, in the physical world we cannot prove that anything is impossible, it is just not possible currently. There always remains the hope that one day, someone, somewhere will figure it out. Meanwhile, we just find a working hypothesis, a quotidian path that is universally accessible. For the Jewish community, that route is the mitzvot, a set of guidelines for our relationship with the world around us, and the people we meet on our journey.

Our parasha, Ki Tetze, contains the largest number of commandments in one portion. There are 72 mitzvot (according to Rambam in Sefer HaMitzvot. Other sources say 74) listed this week, laws relating mainly to family relationships and interpersonal ethics, for example, blended families, labour laws and honest business procedures. It says almost nothing about what God will do for us, and focuses on what we humans must do in order to make the best of our lives on this earth. These laws suggest practical ways to deal with everyday situations. There are some that may not make sense, such as forbidding cloth containing wool and linen (shatnez, Deut. 22:11), or stoning a rebellious child to death (Deut. 21:21). As Progressive Jews, we consider these verses a challenge to stretch our minds and hearts in the search for a deeper meaning. We try to understand what doesn't seem relevant, we take on the tasks we believe we can achieve, and we continue along the way.

If what we can manage is in our own hands, why then do we pray? Tradition teaches that prayer is a mitzvah, although it is unclear if this is a biblical or a rabbinical injunction. Once again, it is something practical that we may do. From a rational perspective, if God exists, surely God knows what is in our hearts. So what's the point of saying it? Perhaps God knows, but do we? What have we hidden in the crevices, fearing it may overwhelm us? What do we need to reveal, if we may hope for shalom, to be whole? Surely we pray for ourselves, to release the deepest thoughts and feelings of our souls, to make them concrete, and tangible.

But I prayed that he would not die, yet he did. And now I pray again for her to live. Why am I asking you this, God? Why do I continue to pray?

In the Tanya (chapter 19), Rabbi Schneur Zalman says that faith is not something to be attained. It is part of our essence, woven into the very fabric of the soul. He teaches that faith waits only to be revealed. I've always found this difficult to understand. Today, as I pray for my loved one, I see a possibility. In those moments when desperation fills the heart, there is neither space nor energy for sophisticated thought processes. Logic and philosophy and reason have no power. Could it be, in that exact moment, that the instinct to pray is a taste of revelation?

As Moses prayed for his sister Miriam (Deut. 24:9)

El na refa na la (Num. 12:13)

so do we pray for all who need healing.
Keyn yehi ratson - May such be the Divine will.

For Aviva bat Miriam v'David.