Parshat Toldot

Parshat Toldot
Thanksgiving 2008/ Erev Rosh Chodesh Kislev 5769

"And Isaac loved Esau... and Rebekah loved Jacob" (Gen 25:28)

Parshat Toldot is a story of unwise parental love and the tragedy it engenders. At the beginning of the story, Isaac and Rebekah spend many lonely years praying for a child, and their prayers are finally answered with twins-- Esau and Jacob.

Rebekah and Isaac's long childlessness ought to make them particularly grateful for both of their boys. Yet, this isn't the case. From the outset, the parents divide their loyalties and their love. Isaac favors Esau, his rough-and-tumble son, the skillful hunter and family provider. Rebekah prefers her mild-mannered Jacob, who the text tells us liked to stay in the camp, presumably in her company.

The rest of the parshah is one long tale of the deceit, trickery, and misery that follows from Isaac and Rebekah's unequal application of love. By the end of the story, the family is irrevocably broken-- with Jacob on the run and Esau vowing revenge. What began with so much promise ends with alienation.

The Book of Genesis is the story of the disastrous consequences of treating love like a zero-sum game, a limited commodity which must be rationed out and fought over. Again and again we read about characters who struggle for limited love-- Cain and Abel, Sarah and Hagar, Isaac and Ishmael, Jacob and Esau, Rachel and Leah, Joseph and his brothers. In every case the result is violence, loss, and grief.

Rabbi Lawrence Kushner writes in his classic Honey from the Rock that learning that love is not a limited commodity is the great challenge of growing up. He writes:

"Is this not the great childhood problem-- and therefore the great human problem: To learn that it is good for you when other people love other people besides you? That I have a stake in their love. That I get more when others give to others."

Rabbi Kushner challenges us to put aside out childish assumption that love is a zero-sum game and instead invites us to imagine ourselves as part of a web of interconnection, in which all the love that we give out inevitably comes back to us. If our ancestors had only realized this basic human truth, the Book of Genesis would read very, very differently.

On this Thanksgiving, may we fully open ourselves to the blessings of family, friendship, and love.

Parshat Vayera

Parshat Vayera
November 14, 2008/ 16 Cheshvan 5769

In Parshat Vayera we read the story of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. The Bible does not give a clear reason why the cities are destroyed, only that God hears of their sinfulness and decides to act.

Before destroying Sodom and Gomorrah, God tells His plans to Abraham. Perhaps surprisingly for God, Abraham does not respond by meekly accept the decree. Quite the opposite, he initiates a lengthy debate on behalf of the doomed cities. Over and over he demands that God be absolutely sure that he is not wiping out the innocent together with the guilty. In one of the most eloquent protests in history, Abraham cries out: “Will not the Judge of all the Earth act with Justice?!” (Gen. 18:25)

Abraham’s challenge eventually fails, and the cities are indeed destroyed. However, the Jewish tradition is unstinting in its praise of his “holy chutzpah.” The Sages see Abraham’s willingness to protest against the Master of the Universe as a sign of the depth of his moral character and one of the reasons that he is fit to be the Father of our people.

In college, I learned a beautiful story, whose source I have been searching for ever since, which suggests that Abraham was not the first person to protest outside of Sodom:

“Long before Abraham came along, there was a certain man, who used to stand outside the gates of Sodom and cry out against it. Day after day, year after year, the man would stand there, all by himself, pleading and demanding that the people change their ways. Once, after many years, a group of people came to the man and demanded to know what he was still doing there-- hadn’t he realized that his protests wouldn’t change anything? The man replied: “I came to Sodom to try to change them-- and I have long since realized that that won’t happen. However, I must keep trying, because if I leave, they will have changed me.”

The same year that learned this story, I also had my first experiences with political protest. During the many months leading up to the Iraq War, I joined with millions of people around the world in protests and vigils that asked President Bush to halt the relentless march toward war. I don’t think that anyone really believed that those protests would change his eventual decision, but we went nonetheless. Silence would have been assent.

Our world faces so many seemingly insurmountable challenges. And truthfully, each lone individual can only do so much to overcome them. However, there is not excuse not to try. The Jewish tradition demands that we exercise some holy chutzpah-- that we be willing to stand up and demand justice, even from the Master of the World. We may not always achieve the outcome we desire, but at the very least, we can remain the kind of people who get back up and try again.

Parshat Lech Lecha

Parshat Lech Lecha
November 6, 2008/ 9 Cheshvan 5769

Parshat Lech Lecha introduces us to Abraham, the man who is often called the "Father of Monotheism." Jews, Christians, and Muslims all look to him as the first person in history to recognize the One God.

The Bible, however, is silent about how Abraham came to that faith. In this puzzling silence, many rabbinic legends (midrashim) have emerged. One of the most popular of these traditional stories says that even as a child Abraham rejected his father's idolatry.

In Beresheet Rabbah, the rabbis imagine that Terach, Abraham's father, was a seller of idols. One day, he put his young son in charge of the store. As soon as Abraham's father left, the boy took a hammer and smashed all of the statues, except for the largest one among them, and then he placed the hammer into that one's hands. When Terach returned to the store he was horrified and demanded to know what his son had done. Abraham replied: "I didn't do anything! That big one over there got mad at the others and smashed them all with that hammer." His father yelled back: "That's impossible. Idols can't feel or move!" To that, Terach's witty (and fearless) son retorted: "Do you hear what you're saying?! How can you possibly believe in them?"

This midrash is funny and sweet, but it doesn't really answer our questions about the origins of Abraham's faith. This week, Rabbi Ed Romm of the Conservative Yeshiva in Jerusalem, introduced me to a beautiful, modern midrash that suggests that if we want to understand the Father of Monotheism, the story we should try to recover is not the story of his childhood relationship with his father, but rather his relationship with his mother. Yakov Azriel, a modern poet, invites us to imagine a woman who is completely absent from the text, but whose silent influence just might continue to shape all of our lives:

Abraham's Mother
by Yakov Azriel, "Threads From A Coat of Many Colors: Poems on Genesis"

Abraham's mother (let's call her Binah "Understanding") --
Was it she who taught Abraham
To ask why and why not?
In her lullabies,
Rocking him in a simple cradle,
Singing to him of little goats and raisins and almonds,
Did she also mock the idols,
Whisper questions with no answers?

Abraham's mother (let's call her Emunah "Faith) --
Was it she who first perceived
Beyond the facade of wind and storm
A greater power blows?
Was it her insight that showed a little boy
Not to bow to stars
But let his own soul
Shine?

Abraham's mother (let's call her Tikvah "Hope")--
Did she smile behind her veil
When the youth smashed his father's icons?
Was it she who supplied the hammer and the ax?

Abraham's mother (let's call her Ima "Mother") --
Did she feel pride, or sadness, or triumph
When her son, hearing God's voice and choosing the route to Jerusalem,
Packed his belongings and left home?
Did she whisper, "God be with you?"
Was this her vindication?

Abraham's mother--
Is all we have
Hers?

Parshat Noah

Parshat Noah
October 30, 2008/Rosh Chodesh Cheshvan 5769

When Noah and his family emerged from the Ark—they must have come out as deeply traumatized people.

How could they not have been-- they were eyewitnesses to the destruction of the world. They must have heard cries. They must have seen bodies. It must have been more than any human being could emotionally bear.

God offers them, and through them us, a remarkably psychologically insightful comfort. God says:

"For all the days of the Earth
Sowing and reaping,
Cool and warmth,
Summer and winter,
Day and night,
These things will never cease." (Gen 8:22)

On a simple level, God is promising never again to destroy the world. But on a deeper level, God is telling the survivors that they can count on the regularity of nature as they heal and rebuild. God acknowledges that while the work ahead of the will be extremely hard, they can rely and hold onto the unchanging cycles of life.

None of us can truly imagine the depth or breadth of Noah's trauma. Yet, I imagine that most of us have, at some point in our lives, experienced the feeling of the world crashing down around us. We have been lonely, we have been hurt, and we have grieved.

When we are in pain, there is something comforting about things that are regular and familiar. Even though our personal world feels broken, we know that the sun will set and the sun will rise, the seasons will change, and nature will go on in its way. We may be spinning wildly, but the ground below our feet remains rooted. We can grasp onto that fact and we can draw strength from it.

Jewish mourning practices are predicated in this basic idea, that people in pain require regularity and normalcy to help them return to life. The first thing a mourner is required to do, upon returning home from the cemetery, is to eat a meal. In that simple act, they are participating the basic human cycle of huger and eating, just as they have every day of their lives. Similarly, at the end of the seven days of shiva, the mourner must go out and take a walk. They have to see the sky and the sun and other people and growing things. They have to be reminded that world is continuing in its way, and so eventually will they. In its great wisdom, our tradition insists that ordinary things can help to facilitate healing.

I try to imagine the emotions that Noah and his family felt when they looked ahead at the momentous task of rebuilding their lives. They must have felt overwhelmed, terrified, confused. I hope that God's promise brought them some measure of peace.

When we are in pain, when we feel lost or overwhelmed, may we be blessed to be able to grasp hold of something solid—the cycles of the day, of the year, of our lives—and may we find in it the strength to face the challenges that lie ahead of us.

Parshat Beresheet

Parshat Beresheet
October 24, 2008/24 Tishrei 5769

"Your brother's blood cries out at me from the ground!" (Genesis 4:10)

A few days ago, we celebrated Simchat Torah, the festival of ending the annual reading of the Torah and the beginning of a new cycle. Consequently, this week we no longer find ourselves wandering in the Desert, but back once again at the Beginning of the World.

One of the most famous accounts from Parshat Beresheet is the story of Cain and Abel. When God favors Abel's offering over that of his brother Cain, the elder brother commits the first murder in human history. When God shows up and asks Cain about the location of Abel, Cain feigns ignorance saying: "I don't know. Am I my brother's keeper?" God responds by calling his bluff: "What have you done? Your brother's blood cries out at me from the ground!" Cain is cursed to wander forever as punishment for his crime.

There are voices in the Jewish tradition, which suggest that Cain did not get a fair deal. After all, Cain had no prior experience with death, therefore it seems unjust that God holds him responsible for a crime he didn't even know that he could commit.

One midrash (rabbinic legend) goes even further, it suggests that while Cain really isn't to blame, Someone else is:

"Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai said: This is a difficult thing to say and it is impossible to say it clearly [so I will use a parable]: Once two athletes were wrestling in front of the king. If the king wanted, the two could be separated, but the king didn't want them separated, and one killed the other. The loser cried out as he died: 'Who will get justice for me from the king?' That is why it is written: 'Your brother's blood cries out at me from the ground'" (Genesis Rabbah 12:9)

This Midrash places the blame for Abel's death squarely with God. God is compared to an indifferent king, who might have separated the dueling brother's before the bloody end, but failed to do so. Abel's blood isn't crying out to God about Cain's guilt, it's crying out against God, accusing Him of negligence!

What I love about this Midrash is that Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, one of the great sages and mystics of the Jewish tradition, sees no contradiction between his own deep religiosity and a his willingness to accuse God of being unfair. Many of us have internalized the message that being religious means meekly accepting tragedy as "God's will." The Midrash challenges that assumption and teaches us that piety does not mean being a doormat-- crying out at God is sometimes exactly what the religious conscience demands.

Our Tradition grants us permission to be angry at God, to question and to challenge. That is not an expression of lack of piety-- rather, it's the highest embodiment of what it means to be Am Yisrael, the People who Wrestle with God.

Parshat Nitzavim

Parshat Nitzavim

Sept 26, 2008/26 Elul 5768

"I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse-- choose life!" (Deut 30:19)

It is already late on Friday afternoon here in Israel, the close of my second week of this year-long adventure. I have only a few minutes before I will go to celebrate Shabbat with my family in Haifa-- so no deep philosophy from me this week.

Instead, I'm passing on a poem. Rabbi Shawn Fields-Meyer hooked me on a poet named Mary Oliver last year. As I read and re-read her poetry, I find that her words are as profound as any prayer. This is a poem she wrote about the imperative to really choose life, even in the face of death. I think it is a beautiful meditation for heading into this holy, reflective week.

Shanah Tovah,

Adam

When Death Comes

by Mary Oliver

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

Parshat Ki Tavo

Parshat Ki Tavo
September 19, 2008/ 19 Elul 5768

"Now if you will listen, truly listen, to the voice of God..." (Deut 28:1)

One of the stylistic features of Biblical Hebrew is that it often repeats key verbs twice in order to emphasize their importance. Traditional commentators, who operate from a paradigm in which not a single word in the Torah is without the possibility of meaning, find profound insights in many of these seemingly unnecessary repetitions.

In this week's portion, Ki Tavo, we are instructed that if we listen to God's commandments, then we will enjoy numerous blessings. This is a theme which is articulated again and again throughout the Book of Deuteronomy. However, in this instance the verb "sh'ma," "to listen," is repeated twice, making a proper translation something close to: "if you will listen, truly listen..."

The S'fat Emet, the Hasidic commentary of Rabbi Yehuda Leib Alter of Ger, suggests that the dual use of the verb "to listen" teaches us that while the voice of God is inside us all the time, we are often unable or unwilling to hear it. He writes:

"The living soul constantly hears the voice of the Torah, but this too is hidden from us. This is why the verse says: 'listen, listen'-- listen to that which you already are hearing." (S'fat Emet, Ki Tavo #2, trans. Rabbi Art Green)

In more down-to-earth language, I think that he means that our heart knows a lot more than our head is either willing or able to accept. Sometimes we all make choices which we know deep down are wrong, but in our head we find a way to justify them. We all have dreams that our reason ignores or tells us are impossible. We all know what it feels like to have a gut feeling about something or someone, but often we shut it down before we can truly listen to its message.

This parsha teaches us that many blessings are available to us as soon as we begin to listen to that which we are already hearing-- as soon as we open our minds to the wisdom that we already hold inside of us. This Shabbat, let's all make a point of trying to listen to what our hearts and guts are telling us-- it just might be the Voice of God.