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.

 

 

 

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[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

Parshat Acharei Mot Kedoshim

Here are a few words I wrote for the Liberal Judaism website for their Thought for the Week page

Greetings from Modena!

Parshat Acharei Mot-Kedoshim

Thoughts of the world outside our current Lockdown bubbles turn first to those stricken by Covid-19 – may they be healed in body and spirit.  We also think of those who do their best in myriad ways throughout the system to care for the sick. There are no words to describe the magnitude of their service. We thank them with all our hearts. 

To protect ourselves, and each other, we have remained physically within our homes. Hopefully they are places of safety, even if we feel constrained. We reach out into the ether via unstable internet connections to continue work, if we still have a job; to contact loved ones far and near, and to occupy our minds and hearts. Much time has been spent in alien worlds, ranging from a Borg cube to the imagined centre of ultra-orthodox communities in Brooklyn & Bnei Brak. And people have come to synagogue! Zoom[1] has brought us together to pray, to celebrate our festivals, and to study Torah.

Acharei Mot-Kedoshim is one of the double Torah portions that can be split when there is a leap year in the Hebrew calendar and extra portions are needed for the extra leap month. 5780 may not be a leap year, but 2020 is. And in 2020, I see a split between the portions.

Acharei Mot is set in the period after the death of Nadav and Avihu, the sudden, inexplicable and devastating death of Aaron’s sons. In the wake of this shocking event, Moses is given instructions for Yom Kippur, followed by a list of sexual prohibitions that define the Biblical boundaries of family relationships. God says that following these mitzvot will protect the Israelites from spiritual corruption, and keep them safe in their land. While now we have a different interpretation of some of these ancient laws, we can certainly empathise with tough measures as an initial response to a severe threat to the entire community.

Kedoshim takes us into Phase 2. Having turned our faces from the yetser ra, our evil inclinations, God teaches us what we should be doing, pointing us towards the yetser tov. The topic sentence of the portion is:  “Be holy, because I, Adonai your God, am holy.”[2] But what does it mean to be holy? This is a question that we don’t often discuss. We might talk about being separate, but what does that mean? Different? Special? Each word leads to a further examination of its own meaning, and even further from the original question. What does it mean to be holy? Rabbi Joe Black reminds us that we are created b’tselem elohim, in the image of God, which means that we have holiness naturally within us.[3] We don’t have to define it. We just need to learn how to find it.

Could this be the purpose of the mitzvot? When we are in lockdown, there’s not much we can do but think about things, turning them this way and that. As the windows and doors open, and we are able to interact with each other again, what are we going to do? How shall we behave? Will we do anything differently? Kedoshim commands us to leave the corners of our fields and the gleanings for the poor and the stranger.[4] We must not deal deceitfully or falsely with one another.[5] We must not stand idly by while the blood of our neighbour is shed.[6] There are a lot of marvellous mitzvot in Kedoshim, but if I could choose one with which to start it is, “Love your neighbour as yourself.”[7] It all begins with compassion.

This week, I see my neighbours in the UK in Acharei Mot, in the valley of the shadow of death. Your phase of the journey still has some way to go. But it will end, hopefully very soon. Here in Italy, we are a couple of weeks ahead of you, and about to enter Phase 2, Kedoshim. Our nerves are terribly frayed, and it is so easy to take offence at words said or typed by others. As we move towards more social interaction, we should recognize how sensitive we are. We should begin with compassion, being kind to others, and gentle with ourselves. And, as we regain our strength, we can return to the holy work of reconnecting with our loved ones, and rebuilding our communities. We will be holy, because it is an essential part of our nature. Learn from what we do well, and from where we falter. Meanwhile, we look forward to the time when we can continue that work together with all of you.

Shabbat shalom.

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[1] and, of course, other platforms, e.g., Google Hangouts, Skype & FaceBook. But mostly Zoom.

[2] Leviticus 19:2

[3] CCAR RavBlog 28.04.20

[4] Lev. 19:9

[5] Lev. 19:11

[6] Lev. 19:16

[7] Lev. 19:18

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.