University Takeaways
 
It will surprise no one that I am thinking a lot about transitions these days. After all, as you know, we are about to say good-bye; and it will be a difficult farewell even though we’ve known this day would come all year. I’m speaking, of course, about Leviticus, my favorite book of the Torah, and the one we conclude this week.

As some of you may know, I’m also marking another transition in my life right now; but again, it’s probably not the one you’re thinking of. Earlier today, I had the very great privilege to receive the degree of Master of Arts in Divinity from the University of Chicago Divinity School. I’ve studied part-time for the past five years, commuting to and from Hyde Park, and today my journey is complete.
Over the years, people have asked me what led me to the Divinity School. It wasn’t part of a path toward a PhD, and it doesn’t qualify me for a different kind of job (even if I wanted one). I do think these studies have made me a better rabbi, but that actually wasn’t my motivation, either. The honest answer is that I love to study; and I’m not afraid of the cliché in telling you that my passion is the Torah. The opportunity to study Hebrew Bible with world-class academics at the graduate level was one I couldn’t resist; and if I thought I knew a lot about Tanach when I started, I’m amazed at how much I’ve learned these past five years.
 
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Perhaps most significant of all, my time at the university has helped me develop an orientation toward the Torah that I truly believe embodies the principles of Reform Judaism to which I have dedicated so much of my life. Chief among these is the assertion that knowledge and truth come to us not only from the traditions of the past but also from new sources—including scientific and historical inquiry—and the more we know about the world, the more we can know about Judaism and the place of God in our lives. And more specifically, the better we understand the Torah and its history, the better we understand what makes it a holy text.

I know that to some, thinking of the Torah historically threatens its sanctity. If the Torah wasn’t written by Moses or ordained by God, some would say, then it’s hardly any different from the Odyssey or Hamlet. But in truth—at least in Reform Judaism as I understand it—the essential principles of the formation of the Torah reveal to us its religious genius. Historical knowledge leads us to spiritual insight and strengthens—not weakens—our religious commitments.

Don’t take my word for it. Abraham Geiger, sometimes called the Father of Reform Judaism, wrote in 1838 about the basic requirements for what he called a “Jewish theological faculty” that would educate modern Jews about our faith. The historian Alexandra Zirkle summarizes his approach: “…biblical studies must form the foundation for any Jewish theology since the fact of revelation, central to the premise of a Jewish theology, emerges through systematic study of the Bible. Biblical studies so conceived would draw on philosophical, historical, and exegetical scholarship to evince and render comprehensible the Bible as a book of revelation.”[1] In other words, the Bible is at the heart of Reform Judaism, and the Bible cannot be fully understood without modern scholarship.
 
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There is one key idea at the heart of the scholarly study of Torah that I find both fascinating and inspiring. It is, in a nutshell, that the Torah is a unique compilation of four independent texts. These four complete documents were combined at one time and place into what we now know as the Five Books of Torah. There was some textual development before and after compilation, but by and large, the Torah had its origin in the combination of these four sources.

This is known as the Documentary Hypothesis, and it’s about two hundred years old. Though recent decades have seen other competing theories of the origins of the Torah, I still find it to be the most compelling account. And this approach is not only interesting; it also helps reveal the Torah’s underlying sacredness as well.
 
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There is no other piece of literature in the history of the world known to be compiled in the same way as the Torah, and its holiness is found in this process of compilation. Each of the Torah’s four sources was a unitary account, a single rendition of the history of our people. But through compilation, competing stories and ideas were held together as one. The Torah teaches us through its very form that contradictory ideas can all be true. Defying the principles of Western logic, Jewish wisdom shows us that truth is multivocal.

This week’s Torah portion is a powerful example of this dynamic.[2] Parashat B’chukotai expresses a series of rewards that God will bestow upon Israel אִם־בְּחֻקֹּתַי תֵּלֵכוּ, “If you walk in my laws” (Lev. 26:3). However, וְאִם־בְּחֻקֹּתַי תִּמְאָסוּ, “If you reject my laws” (v. 15), then God promises a series of cascading punishments. The whole passage is poetic oratory, rife with hyperbole and symbolism, and it ends with a magnificent reassurance: after Israel spurn God, they will, one day, return; and when that happens, God says, “I will remember in their favor the covenant with the ancients” (v. 45). God will be there waiting for us when we are ready.

A major theme of this text is brit, which appears six times in chapter 26. We usually translate brit as “covenant,” and we think of it as a mutual commitment. As we read in Exodus, right before the giving of the Ten Commandments: “If you will obey Me faithfully and keep My covenant, you shall be My treasured possession among all the peoples” (Ex. 19:5).[3] The covenant here is conditional—if you break the covenant, God breaks you.

And this understanding of brit is often imported into this week’s Torah reading. However, insights from the Documentary Hypothesis give us access to another interpretation. This passage is part of the Torah’s Priestly text, and in no other place in the Priestly source is God’s commitment to Israel conditional. Sometimes, and this is the case here, a brit is an obligation that Israel has, like the classic brit of circumcision (Gen. 17:2-14). Our chapter in Leviticus says that we may break our brit, our obligation to God, but God will never, ever violate God’s commitment to us.[4] As Jeffrey Stackert, my teacher and MA advisor, writes, “The rewards and punishments are conditioned upon Israelite behavior and align with the usage of ברית as obligation. The divine-Israelite relationship, however, is unconditional and corresponds to the Priestly usage of ברית as promise.”[5] In other words, the Priestly author asserts that God’s rewards are conditional but not God’s love. Once again, God is always there waiting when you’re ready to return.

What do we learn from this? There is a voice in the Torah—more than one, actually—that teaches that God’s relationship with Israel requires our right behavior: If we are not God’s people, the Eternal will not be our God. But the voice we see here has a different view: God will always be our God, no matter what. Without the ability to distinguish these voices, this unique perspective would be lost. And seeing these conflicting views side-by-side helps to teach us that Judaism has a wide capacity for different theologies. There’s more than one Jewish way to think about God.
 
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As I mentioned, this week’s Torah portion concludes the book of Leviticus. And so, it is fitting to turn the page on this chapter of my own studies as well. I am enormously grateful to this congregation to helping to make it possible for me to matriculate at the university, and I’m grateful as well that my studies have also been so enriched by the laboratory of learning we have here at Oak Park Temple. When we finish a book of Torah, we recite chazak, chazak v’nitchazek—“Be strong, be strong, and let us strengthen one another.” May this be our approach to our sacred texts in every chapter of our lives.


[1] Zirkle, Alexandra. “Biblical Hermeneutics: Between Wissenschaft and Religion.” Daat: A Journal of Jewish Philosophy and Kabbalah, No. 88 (2019), p. 18.
 
[2] The following insight is drawn from Jeffrey Stackert’s “Distinguishing Innerbiblical Exegesis from Pentateuchal Redaction: Leviticus 26 as a Test Case” in The Pentateuch: International Perspectives on Current Research, ed. T. Dozeman, K. Schmid, and B. J. Schwartz. (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), pp. 369-386.

[3] See also Ex. 24:4-8.

[4] See especially Lev. 26:44.

[5] Stackert 381. See also: “YHWH is Israel’s god: he may punish them, but he will not cease from being their god” (380).

Hesitating to Do the Right Thing
 
Each week for the past three years, I have convened a small class of dedicated learners to study the sagas of Israel’s kings as recounted in the Bible. We started with Samuel, moved on to Kings, and now have embarked on the unusual quest to explore the book of Chronicles. This fascinating text, the last book of the Hebrew Bible, has given us deeper insight into the historic imagination of our ancestors and a keen appreciation for story-telling and retelling.

Just this past week, we slogged our way through another series of genealogies in the latter chapters of I Chronicles. Here’s a taste of I Chronicles 23, just so you can see what you’re missing:
 
1 When David reached a ripe old age, he made his son Solomon king over Israel. 2 Then David assembled all the officers of Israel and the priests and the Levites. … 6 David formed them into divisions: The sons of Levi were Gershon, Kohath, and Merari. 7 The Gershonites were Ladan and Shimei. 8 The sons of Ladan were Jehiel the chief, Zetham, and Joel—three. 9 The sons of Shimei were Shelomith, Haziel, and Haran—three. These were the chiefs of the clans of the Ladanites.
 
You get the idea. One detail that caught our attention this week was a description of Aaron and Moses. The Chronicler writes:
 
The sons of Amram were Aaron and Moses. Aaron was set apart, he and his sons, forever, to be consecrated as most holy, to make burnt offerings to the Eternal and serve God and pronounce blessings in God’s name forever. As for Moses, the man of God, his sons were named after the tribe of Levi. The sons of Moses were Gershom and Eliezer (I Chr. 23:13-14).
 
Our group was curious about the way Moses and Aaron were depicted here. Are they side-by-side as equals, or is there a distinction to be made? The Rabbis of the Talmud asked the same question. That is, when it says that Moses’ sons were Levites—and not priests—does that mean that Moses also was a Levite and not a priest? Was the priesthood reserved only for Moses’ brother, Aaron, and not for Moses himself?[1]

If so, then how would you explain this week’s Torah portion? In Parashat Tzav, Moses conducts a series of sacrifices designed to ordain Aaron and his sons as priests. Now uou need a priest to perform those rituals, and of course Aaron and his sons aren’t fully baked yet. That leaves only Moses to serve in the role of priest. Perhaps this is why Psalm 99 says מֹשֶׁה וְאַהֲרֹן בְּכֹהֲנָיו, “Moses and Aaron among God’s priests” (v. 6).[2] In a sense, Moses has to be a priest, at least for a little while, in order to ordain his older brother.

The Midrash records a problem, though. If Moses is the priest, the high priest, the only priest … would he want to give that up? To let someone else take over? The Midrash says: “All seven days of ordination, [Moses] fulfilled the high priesthood, and he thought [the office] was his. On the seventh day, God told him, ‘It belongs not to you but rather to Aaron your brother.’”[3]

In the Torah itself, we never read of Moses having the slightest bit of jealousy that his brother attains the priesthood; we never see a protest that that Aaron’s sons are invested with a special position in Judaism for all time while Moses’ sons are lost to obscurity. But there is a very special hint in the cantillation for this week’s Torah reading that might give us a clue that Moses wasn’t entirely enthusiastic to give the priesthood over to his brother.
 
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There are only four times in the Torah—three in Genesis and one in this week’s parashah—where we chant a shalshelet. The word shalshelet means “chain,” and this is what it sounds like. [Cantor Valdman chants וַיִּשְׁחָ֓ט.]

We can’t know for sure what this rare trop is meant to communicate. But by looking at the other instances of the shalshelet in the Torah, we might discern a common element. As Rabbi David Kasher writes, “If we can detect a theme they all share, perhaps we can figure out how it might be read back into this moment in our parashah.”[4]

The first shalshelet occurs in the story of Lot in the city of Sodom. Sodom is infamously filled with people who care only for themselves and who delight in causing suffering to strangers. Lot alone among them, a former stranger himself, displays hospitality to angelic guests who come to visit. While Lot stands out from his wicked neighbors, he had settled in Sodom for a reason; he desires wealth and took himself to the town most famous for its riches. So when the angels tell Lot to flee—since the city is about to be destroyed—we read that “he tarried” (Gen. 19:16), וַֽיִּתְמַהְמָ֓הּ—with a shalshelet. He is caught in indecision, though eventually he does follow the angels to safety outside the city.

We next encounter a shalshelet in the story of Abraham’s servant, Eliezer, on his mission to find a wife for Isaac. We’ve met Eliezer once earlier in the story—before Isaac was born, Abraham bemoaned his lacking a child and announced that his servant, Eliezer, would have to be his heir. But now, that same servant who nearly inherited Abraham’s great fortune has been sent on a journey to find a wife for Isaac, the young man who supplanted him. Immediately before he meets Rebecca, he kneels and prays that his mission will be successful. But his prayer begins with a shalshelet, וַיֹּאמַ֓ר (Gen. 34:29)—a simple “he said” made much, much longer, so as to delay the prayer that comes after. Just as Lot was faced with indecision, so is Eliezer unsure if he can go through with his difficult task. He does, in the end; but he has to pause before overcoming his jealousy and doing the right thing.

The final shalshelet in Genesis occurs in the story of Joseph. When Joseph rises to authority in the household of Potiphar, his master’s wife tries to seduce him. Joseph resists, and we read that “he refused,” וַיְמָאֵ֓ן (Gen. 39:8). The shalshelet is a clue that, like Lot, he wanted to take and enjoy, and the Midrash makes no mistake that Joseph wanted what Potiphar’s wife was offering.[5] Like Eliezer, Joseph wanted to promote himself instead of his master. But also like Eliezer and Lot, though he struggled with his conscience, he made the right decision in the end.

All three other instances of the shalshelet in the Torah suggest uncertainty, a hesitation to do what the character, deep down, knows is right. And so, we return to Moses. Our shalshelet appears over the word וַיִּשְׁחָ֓ט, “he slaughtered” (Lev. 8:23). This is Moses’ last sacrifice in his role as high priest, and we can now sense the reluctance with which he goes through with it. Again and again—five times in one chapter—our parashah reminds us that this ordination exercise is כַּאֲשֶׁר צִוָּה יְהֹוָה אֶת־מֹשֶׁה, “as the Eternal commanded Moses” (Lev. 8:9, 13, 17, 21, and 29); and Moses himself says of the procedure כִּי־כֵן צֻוֵּיתִי, “For so have I been commanded” (Lev. 8:35). Why the repeated emphasis on God’s commanding this ritual? Perhaps it’s to remind Moses of his duty, that no matter how much he might want to be the high priest or how much he might believe himself to be the best choice, his job is to put someone else before himself.

Mois Navon writes, “the inauguration procedure was a truly difficult test of [Moses’s] moral mettle.”[6] And Moses hesitates, the shalshelet suggests, but ultimately goes through with it. Like Lot, Eliezer, and Joseph, Moses does the right thing. Perhaps this is why, 31 chapters later in the Torah, we will read that Moses was עָנָו מְאֹד, “Very humble, more than so than any other human being on earth” (Num. 12:3). He lived up to his best self, though it was hard, and he modeled for all of us the ability to do the same.

Sometimes, it’s actually easy to know what the right thing to do is. What’s hard is convincing ourselves to do it, especially if it means giving up something valuable or important. The shalshelet is a sympathetic reminder that we were not the first to face such dilemmas, and we can learn from the examples of the past and take heart that the right choice is within reach. May our own lives be filled with as few shalshelets as the Torah, and may our own Chronicles relate that, when we could, we made the right choice.
 

[1] BT Zevachim 102a

[2] See Leviticus Rabbah 11:6.

[3] Ibid.

[4] “Four Links in a Chain.” https://mechonhadar.s3.amazonaws.com/mh_torah_source_sheets/KasherParashatTzav5784.pdf

[5] See BT Sotah 36b and Rashi on Gen. 39:11.

[6] “The Shalshelet: Mark of Ambivalence,” Jewish Thought, Vol. 4, Num. 1 (1995), p. 9.

The Power to Teach
 
Maybe you know the story of the Golden Calf.

God freed the Hebrews from slavery in Egypt and led them to Mount Sinai. God gave the people the Ten Commandments, teaching them to worship only one God and to keep important laws like remembering Shabbat and honoring your parents. Then God called Moses to the top of the mountain and gave him the laws and stories of the Torah while the people waited below. But the Hebrews got impatient; they didn’t know where Moses was, and they were very eager to sing songs to God and to celebrate their freedom. The people gathered against Aaron, Moses’s brother and the people’s high priest. They forced Aaron to build them a statue made out of gold, a statue of a calf—a baby cow. They called that statue God, the one who freed them from the land of Egypt.

This was a big mistake. In fact, it was pretty much the biggest mistake they could make. The very first of the Ten Commandments was that only Adonai is God—no statue could be the one who gives us freedom! When God and Moses heard what the Hebrews had done, they both got very angry. Moses stormed down the mountain and shattered the stone tablets that had the words of God on them. He ground the Golden Calf into dust and forced the Hebrews to drink it. When he had calmed down, Moses begged God for forgiveness, and God agreed. God still loved the Hebrews and wanted to be their God. God gave Moses a new set of stone tablets with words of Torah on them, but God also knew that they would need some extra help as well.

The Hebrews had shown that they needed something physical to point to, something they could see and touch, that would remind them of God and of their responsibilities as Jews. The Golden Calf was definitely wrong, but some other object could inspire them to sacred living. God decided, in a way, to move in to the camp, to be among the people, and—so to speak—to live in a special home that the people would build for God’s presence. It would be a Tent of Meeting, in Hebrew a Mishkan, a dwelling place for God.

God told Moses to find two very special individuals to help build this special home. They were called Bezalel, from the large and mighty tribe of Judah, and Oholiab, who was from the much smaller tribe of Dan. God had given each of them very special talents. The Torah tells us מִלֵּא אֹתָם חׇכְמַת־לֵב, that God “filled them with a wise mind” (Ex. 35:35) and with רוּחַ אֱלֹהִים, “the spirit of God” (Ex. 35:31).  They would build the Mishkan, which means “a place to live.” For even though God doesn’t have a body, sometimes we can feel the presence of God; and God knew it would help the Hebrews to have one beautiful place where they could come to feel God’s presence any time they wanted.

Bezalel and Oholiab had a big job ahead of them; fortunately, they had help. God had also given many, many people in the camp the ability to craft exquisite things out of wood and stone and beautiful metals and precious gems. These men and women would weave the cloths and mold the silver and carve the poles and join the planks and polish the jewels and complete all the work that would help create the Mishkan, God’s dwelling-place on earth.

But there was a problem. The Torah doesn’t tell us this directly, but we can find hints if we look closely enough. You see, Bezalel and Oholiab were the best of the best, but they couldn’t do this job on their own. And when they would pass among the other artists, they would notice that—even if their designs were beautiful—sometimes there were mistakes. A beam was too long, a curtain too short, a tunic too broad, or a basin too deep. This was supposed to be a house for God, but when Bezalel and Oholiab looked at the project, it was full of mistakes!

Oholiab, from the tribe of Dan, rolled up his sleeves and got to work. He spent hours every day trying to help the workers from the camp. He hammered and wove and whittled and sewed until his arms were heavy and his feet couldn’t walk anymore. The work he did was excellent, but there was never enough time to do it all!

When Bezalel saw how tired his partner was, he knew he had to help in a different way. Now, the Torah tells us that Bezalel had one gift from God that Oholiab didn’t have: וּלְהוֹרֹת נָתַן בְּלִבּוֹ, “God gave in his heart the ability to teach” (Ex. 35:34). Bezalel was a moreh, a teacher, and a giver of Torah, of instruction. As we know, “There are many great sages whose wisdom is in their hearts alone but who don’t know how to teach it.”[1] Bezalel wasn’t one of those sages; he knew how to share his knowledge with others.

So Bezalel went through the camp teaching the workers how to improve. He showed the seamstresses a tighter stitch, and he taught the blacksmiths a stronger way to bind copper to gold. He moved much faster than his friend, Oholiab, and soon the work was much more precise. Six days a week—taking a break every Shabbat—the whole community worked together to build the Mishkan, and with Bezalel’s instructions (and with Oholiab’s expert help), they fashioned the work just as God had wanted.
When the building was complete, as God had promised, וּכְבוֹד יְהֹוָה מָלֵא אֶת־הַמִּשְׁכָּן, “The presence of God filled the Mishkan” (Ex. 40:35). At last, the Hebrews had a physical sign of God’s presence that would travel with them wherever they went; and they also had a place to go whenever they wanted to talk to God.

But you know what? Bezalel wasn’t done teaching. He kept on giving lessons of Torah long after the Mishkan was complete. He knew that one day, this building would be lost and the Jews would need a different way to come to God. The gift of רוּחַ אֱלֹהִים, the spirit of God, was one he shared with everyone he met, and it’s a gift that every one of us has inside us as well. Bezalel had built the ark, the place where the new tablets of the Torah were kept, but he also taught us, more importantly, that each of our hearts can be a place for God to live.

[1] Or HaChaim ad loc. פירוש לצד שיש חכמים רבים שתהיה חכמתם בלבם לבד שלא ידעו ללמדה.

Light in Darkness

Read twice:
 
Darkness Starts 
by Christian Wiman [1]
 
A shadow in the shape of a house 
slides out of a house 
and loses its shape on the lawn. 
 
Trees seek each other 
as the wind within them dies. 
 
Darkness starts inside of things 
but keeps on going when the things are gone. 
 
Barefoot careless in the farthest parts of the yard 
children become their cries. 
 
Darkness is a function of things, a shadow cast when an object stands against the light.
 
Exodus 10:15
 
They [the locusts] hid all the land from view, and the land was darkened; and they ate up all the grasses of the field and all the fruit of the trees which the hail had left, so that nothing green was left, of tree or grass of the field, in all the land of Egypt.
 
וַיְכַ֞ס אֶת־עֵ֣ין כׇּל־הָאָ֘רֶץ֮ וַתֶּחְשַׁ֣ךְ הָאָ֒רֶץ֒ וַיֹּ֜אכַל אֶת־כׇּל־עֵ֣שֶׂב הָאָ֗רֶץ וְאֵת֙ כׇּל־פְּרִ֣י הָעֵ֔ץ אֲשֶׁ֥ר הוֹתִ֖יר הַבָּרָ֑ד וְלֹא־נוֹתַ֨ר כׇּל־יֶ֧רֶק בָּעֵ֛ץ וּבְעֵ֥שֶׂב הַשָּׂדֶ֖ה בְּכׇל־אֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרָֽיִם׃
 

 
The 12th century commentator Abraham Ibn Ezra offers a fascinating reflection in his comment on this verse:
 
Ibn Ezra on Ex. 10:15
 
FOR THEY COVERED THE FACE OF THE WHOLE EARTH. The meaning of so the land was darkened is that the locusts intervened between the sun and the land. The land is always dark.
ויכס. טעם ותחשך הארץ כי הארבה הבדיל בין השמש ובין הארץ כי לעולם הארץ חשך היא:
 
“The land is always dark.” It is the natural state of things to be dark, and the locusts, as it were, removed from Egypt the light of day that might otherwise have given them hope. It would seem that darkness is the status quo, the expected condition, the natural state of life on earth. Only when light is introduced, in a way as an antidote to darkness, can we see that things can be another way.
 
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Light illuminates the borders between things, allowing us to discern where one body begins and another ends. In darkness, on the other hand, there is no differentiation, no discernment, no identity.
 
This fundamental truth is reflected in the very opening of the Torah:


Genesis 1:1-5
 
1 When God began to create heaven and earth—
בְּרֵאשִׁ֖ית בָּרָ֣א אֱלֹהִ֑ים אֵ֥ת הַשָּׁמַ֖יִם וְאֵ֥ת הָאָֽרֶץ׃

2 the earth being unformed and void, with darkness over the surface of the deep and a wind from God sweeping over the water—
וְהָאָ֗רֶץ הָיְתָ֥ה תֹ֙הוּ֙ וָבֹ֔הוּ וְחֹ֖שֶׁךְ עַל־פְּנֵ֣י תְה֑וֹם וְר֣וּחַ אֱלֹהִ֔ים מְרַחֶ֖פֶת עַל־פְּנֵ֥י הַמָּֽיִם׃
 
3 God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light.
וַיֹּ֥אמֶר אֱלֹהִ֖ים יְהִ֣י א֑וֹר וַֽיְהִי־אֽוֹר׃
 
4 God saw that the light was good, and God separated the light from the darkness.
 וַיַּ֧רְא אֱלֹהִ֛ים אֶת־הָא֖וֹר כִּי־ט֑וֹב וַיַּבְדֵּ֣ל אֱלֹהִ֔ים בֵּ֥ין הָא֖וֹר וּבֵ֥ין הַחֹֽשֶׁךְ׃
 
5 God called the light Day, and the darkness He called Night. And there was evening and there was morning, a first day.
וַיִּקְרָ֨א אֱלֹהִ֤ים ׀ לָאוֹר֙ י֔וֹם וְלַחֹ֖שֶׁךְ קָ֣רָא לָ֑יְלָה וַֽיְהִי־עֶ֥רֶב וַֽיְהִי־בֹ֖קֶר י֥וֹם אֶחָֽד׃ 

 
The story of Creation teaches that light comes from darkness. The contours between light and dark are necessary in this drama of differentiation, in which God manifests a world that will have definition and duration, independence and individuality.
 
Darkness, substantially or spiritually, is more profound than the absence of light. Indeed, the people in our community who are blind may remind us that much can be done in the absence of light. The concept of darkness, then, of a loss of distinction, implies more than a lack of sight. With true darkness comes the loss of self, figuratively if not also literally.
 
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And this is the terror of the ninth plague.
         
Exodus 10:21-23
 
21 Then the LORD said to Moses, “Hold out your arm toward the sky that there may be darkness upon the land of Egypt, a darkness that can be touched.”
 וַיֹּ֨אמֶר יְהֹוָ֜ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֗ה נְטֵ֤ה יָֽדְךָ֙ עַל־הַשָּׁמַ֔יִם וִ֥יהִי חֹ֖שֶׁךְ עַל־אֶ֣רֶץ מִצְרָ֑יִם וְיָמֵ֖שׁ חֹֽשֶׁךְ׃
 
22 Moses held out his arm toward the sky and thick darkness descended upon all the land of Egypt for three days.
וַיֵּ֥ט מֹשֶׁ֛ה אֶת־יָד֖וֹ עַל־הַשָּׁמָ֑יִם וַיְהִ֧י חֹֽשֶׁךְ־אֲפֵלָ֛ה בְּכׇל־אֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרַ֖יִם שְׁלֹ֥שֶׁת יָמִֽים׃
 
23 People could not see one another, and for three days no one could get up from where he was; but all the Israelites enjoyed light in their dwellings.
לֹֽא־רָא֞וּ אִ֣ישׁ אֶת־אָחִ֗יו וְלֹא־קָ֛מוּ אִ֥ישׁ מִתַּחְתָּ֖יו שְׁלֹ֣שֶׁת יָמִ֑ים וּֽלְכׇל־בְּנֵ֧י יִשְׂרָאֵ֛ל הָ֥יָה א֖וֹר בְּמוֹשְׁבֹתָֽם׃
 

Key teaching:
 
People could not see one another
 
Rabbis paint a verbal picture, describing the inability of any lights to pierce the darkness around the Egyptians. Each Israelite, though, like an inverse image of the Peanuts character Linus, walks though Egypt with a personal source of light. Even if they walk into the house of an Egyptian, they can see.
 
The difference is palpable. The Egyptians are paralyzed by darkness, unable even to move, completely consumed by what the rabbis imagine is a tangible heaviness that surrounds them night and day. The Hebrew, on the other hand, during this three-day eye-of-the-storm, are free from their labors and their pain. Some midrashim consider this the time that the Hebrews buried their dead before fleeing Egypt, for even the Israelites were casualties of the earlier plagues. This is a moment of pause, a period wherein all of Egypt is stuck and Israel waits on the precipice of a new dawn.
 
/
 
          This dynamic of light and dark follows the Hebrews to the Sea of Reeds. The Egyptians, though mourning the loss of their firstborn, pursue Israel with unrestrained vigor.
 

 
Exodus 14:19-20
 
19 The angel of God, who had been going ahead of the Israelite army, now moved and followed behind them; and the pillar of cloud shifted from in front of them and took up a place behind them,
וַיִּסַּ֞ע מַלְאַ֣ךְ הָאֱלֹהִ֗ים הַהֹלֵךְ֙ לִפְנֵי֙ מַחֲנֵ֣ה יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל וַיֵּ֖לֶךְ מֵאַחֲרֵיהֶ֑ם וַיִּסַּ֞ע עַמּ֤וּד הֶֽעָנָן֙ מִפְּנֵיהֶ֔ם וַיַּֽעֲמֹ֖ד מֵאַחֲרֵיהֶֽם׃

20 and it came between the army of the Egyptians and the army of Israel. Thus there was the cloud with the darkness, and it illuminated the night, so that the one could not come near the other all through the night.
וַיָּבֹ֞א בֵּ֣ין ׀ מַחֲנֵ֣ה מִצְרַ֗יִם וּבֵין֙ מַחֲנֵ֣ה יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל וַיְהִ֤י הֶֽעָנָן֙ וְהַחֹ֔שֶׁךְ וַיָּ֖אֶר אֶת־הַלָּ֑יְלָה וְלֹא־קָרַ֥ב זֶ֛ה אֶל־זֶ֖ה כׇּל־הַלָּֽיְלָה׃
 

 
We can imagine a two-sided cloud, dark in the face of the Egyptians but lighting up the night on the Hebrew side of the divide. Once again, the border of light and dark separates the pursuer from the pursued. The light of shelter is felt all the more strongly when seen in relief against the utter darkness on the other side.
 
/
 

 
But darkness is not to be celebrated, even against our enemies. It is deployed here, in our story, as a kind of necessary evil designed to halt the Egyptians in their tracks and to wrest Israel from its control. The surface meaning of וְלֹא־קָרַ֥ב זֶ֛ה אֶל־זֶ֖ה כׇּל־הַלָּֽיְלָה, “One could not draw near another all night” is that the Egyptian army was kept at a distance from Israel all night long.
 
The phrase וְלֹא־קָרַ֥ב זֶ֛ה אֶל־זֶ֖ה might sound familiar to some, reminding us of the phrase in morning Kedushah: v’kara zeh el zeh, the angels called to one another. A midrash uses this rhyme to make an important point:
 
Babylonian Talmud, Megillah 10b 
 
אין הקב"ה שמח במפלתן של רשעים. ואמר רבי יוחנן מאי דכתיב וְלֹא קָרַב זֶה אֶל זֶה כָּל-הַלָּיְלָה (שמות יד כ). בקשו מלאכי השרת לומר שירה אמר הקב"ה מעשה ידי טובעין בים ואתם אומרים שירה? 
 
The Holy Blessed One does not rejoice in the downfall of the wicked.  And Rabbi Yochanan further said: What is the meaning of the verse, And one came not near the other all the night (Ex. 14:20)?  The ministering angels wanted to chant their hymns, but the Holy Blessed One said, “The work of My hands is drowning in the sea, and you chant hymns?” 
 
/
 
When we look into the world and see darkness there, our natural hope is to be bathed in light like the Hebrews in Egypt. But in truth, we are not Hebrews in Egypt and the pillar of cloud is not magically going to descend to keep us safe. We can’t hope only to keep darkness at bay, to distance and distinguish ourselves from it so that we can live in security.
 
Rather we pray that light will shine on all of us, that darkness will not only disperse in our own lives but that it envelops the entire world. A phrase from L’cha Dodi comes from the prophet Isaiah, who preaches:
 
Isaiah 60:1-2
 
1 Arise, shine, for your light has dawned;
The Presence of the Eternal has shone upon you!
ק֥וּמִי א֖וֹרִי כִּ֣י בָ֣א אוֹרֵ֑ךְ וּכְב֥וֹד יְהֹוָ֖ה עָלַ֥יִךְ זָרָֽח׃
 
2 Behold! Darkness shall cover the earth,
And thick clouds the peoples;
But upon you the Eternal will shine,
And God’s Presence be seen over you.
כִּֽי־הִנֵּ֤ה הַחֹ֙שֶׁךְ֙ יְכַסֶּה־אֶ֔רֶץ וַעֲרָפֶ֖ל לְאֻמִּ֑ים וְעָלַ֙יִךְ֙ יִזְרַ֣ח יְהֹוָ֔ה וּכְבוֹד֖וֹ עָלַ֥יִךְ יֵרָאֶֽה׃
 
Upon YOU the Eternal will shine—not Jews alone but all who walk in the light of God. This is a universal vision, cast as the antithesis of Egypt, the caricatured villain who is plunged into palpable darkness.
 
By Your light may we see light, we pray. May we see light in our own lives and may light permeate our community and our world—politically, emotionally, physically, and spiritually.
 
Conclude with priestly blessing
 
יְבָרֶכְךָ יְיָ וְיִשְׁמְרֶךָ:
יָאֵר יְיָ פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ וִיחֻנֶּךָּ:
יִשָּׂא יְיָ פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ וְיָשֵׂם לְךָ שָׁלוֹם:
 
May God bless you and keep you.
May the light of God’s face shine upon you and be gracious to you.
May God show favor to you always and grant you peace.


[1] From Hard Night (Copper Canyon Press, 2005), poetryfoundation.org/poems/56706/darkness-starts.

Making Meaning of Arbitrary Accident
 
I want to start with a question. Who here has made a New Year’s resolution that you’re willing to share?
 
[Gather a few resolutions from the community.]
 
OK now a follow-up question. To anyone who’s made a New Year’s resolution—this year or in years past—why did you do it?
 
[Discussion.]
 
I think we all know that from Nature’s point of view, the day we call January 1st isn’t that much different from the day we call December 31st. And yet, our society invests this date with special meaning. We know on one level that dates are arbitrary; yet on another—perhaps a deeper—level, we often find meaning in them.
 
This dynamic can be traced all the way back to the beginning of the Torah, in the first parashah of the book of Genesis. On the fourth day of creation, “God said, ‘Let there be lights in the expanse of the sky to separate day from night. וְהָיוּ לְאֹתֹת וּלְמוֹעֲדִים, They shall serve as signs for the set times—the days and the years” (Gen. 1:14). These moadim, the “set times,” are what we refer to today as “holidays.” Later, in the book of Leviticus, Israel is instructed:
 
מוֹעֲדֵי יְהֹוָה
אֲשֶׁר־תִּקְרְאוּ אֹתָם
מִקְרָאֵי קֹדֶשׁ
The fixed times of the Eternal,
Which you shall proclaim them,
Are sacred occasions (Lev. 23:2).
 
From this we learn, as Rabbi Akiva teaches in the Mishnah (Rosh Hashanah 2:9), that while the movement of the heavenly spheres is fixed in the heavens, the seasons and days that arise from them can be truly sacred occasions—if and only if we proclaim them to be. In other words, it’s not the case that Rosh Hashanah, for example, happens in the universe and we humans do our best to notice it; Rosh Hashanah only exists when human beings proclaim the new year.
 
This approach to holidays is similar to the way we view coincidences or other curious occurrences. From an abstract or mathematical perspective, the fact that two people share a birthday, for instance, is meaningless – but if it’s your birthday, it might mean something to you. In fact, as Julie Beck reports in The Atlantic,[1] the mathematicians Persi Diaconis and Frederick Mosteller, who published a landmark study of coincidences in 1989, defined a coincidence as “a surprising concurrence of events, perceived as meaningfully related, with no apparent causal connection.”[2] Noticing a coincidence isn’t irrational or silly—it’s part of the human drive to make meaning in a world that might otherwise seem hopelessly and uncontrollably random.
 
/
 
So, here’s a New Year’s coincidence: This first week of the year and the opening of a new book of the Torah both coincide with the announcement I made on Wednesday that I have accepted a new pulpit at KAM Isaiah Israel in Hyde Park. My family and I have been here for six years, and it’s going to be hard to say good-bye. We’re grateful not to be moving too far away from this community we’ve grown to love, and we know that Oak Park will always have a place in our lives. This next step in our professional and personal journeys is a big one, and I’m so grateful to have the support of so many loving and encouraging members of this community, including everyone here tonight.
 
I’ve spent much of the past week reflecting on the changes that the next year will bring, on how the journey through the rest of the Torah will accompany me in my transition to a new community where, for the first time in six years, I will celebrate the High Holidays with a different congregation. I’m not one for New Year’s resolutions normally, but this year in particular, I feel like change is going to find me whether I’m resolved about it or not.
 
But I also want to say that I haven’t left yet! There will be plenty of opportunities to say good-bye when the time comes, but I’m still a rabbi here through the end of June, and to that extent, this week is not so different from the week before or the week to come.
 
So, let’s return to the opening of the book of Exodus and to some of that classic Rabbi Kirzane Torah. Have you ever wondered why the five books of the Torah are divided as they are? The text wasn’t originally composed to be five books, and it wasn’t until the content of the Torah was mostly complete and its constituent parts were compiled into a unified whole that the text needed to be divided into smaller sections. According to the biblical scholar Menahem Haran, Judeans began writing on animal skin parchment after the Babylonian exile, at which time our Torah could be transcribed into scrolls.[3] The five books are roughly equal length, and the divisions of the scrolls more or less produce this ergonomic effect.
 
But, each book is not exactly the same length. The decision to divide what we call Genesis from what we call Exodus could have been done differently. We could have started a new book with Jacob’s descent into Egypt or Moses’ encounter at the burning bush. According to Haran, “The tangible proportions of the five books themselves were determined not by a blind cutting up of the whole corpus into five, but by the intention to circumscribe special thematic cycles within this corpus as a whole.”[4] In other words, while the ending of one book and the beginning of the next might have been mostly an accident of text length, we can actually find meaning in the divisions as intentional, nonverbal midrash.
 
Take Exodus, for example. This week’s parashah opens וְאֵלֶּה שְׁמוֹת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל הַבָּאִים מִצְרָיְמָה, “These are the names of the Children of Israel who came to Egypt with Jacob, each one coming with their household” (Exodus 1:1). If that sounds familiar, it’s because you’ve memorized the opening of Genesis 46:8—וְאֵלֶּה שְׁמוֹת בְּנֵי־יִשְׂרָאֵל הַבָּאִים מִצְרַיְמָה, “These are the names of the Children of Israel who came to Egypt.” Clearly there are similar themes here; so why didn’t the ancient publishers of printed Torah scrolls include the beginning of Exodus with the end of Genesis?
 
Rabbi David Kasher offers one interpretation:
 
The beginning of Exodus is shot through with callbacks to Genesis to indicate that the formation of the people of Israel represents a new creation, an entirely new reality. But the stormy arc of Genesis also reminds us that for every creation there is the potential for destruction. Every new life is already haunted by the shadow of death. All of this is terribly fragile.[5]
 
We can rightly say that Exodus is a new book, just as we can rightly say that 2024 is a new year. But both are connected to what came before, understood in the light of what we’ve already experienced, and significant as turning points for the paths they open into the future. Though we say in our daily prayers m’chadesh b’chol yom tamid maaseh b’reishit, that God renews every day continually the work of creation, we also know that a new day, a new year, a new job, a new life are all meaningfully interwoven with others. These connections are not mere accidents; they are coincidences—inherently pregnant with meaning—and ripe for our interpretation so that we might make the most of each new encounter.
 
This is going to be a big year. Admittedly, it’ll probably be bigger for some of us than for others. But as we stand on the border of change, looking back at what’s come before, we can face the challenges and opportunities that lie ahead with the dual promises that there is nothing new under the sun, yet every day is entirely unique. In the words of Leah Goldberg:
 
Teach me, my God, to bless and to pray …
lest my day be today like all the yesterdays.[6]


[1] https://www.theatlantic.com/science/archive/2016/02/the-true-meaning-of-coincidences/463164/

[2] “Methods for Studying Connections.” https://www.stat.berkeley.edu/~aldous/157/Papers/diaconis_mosteller.pdf

[3] “Book-Scrolls at the Beginning of the Second Temple Period: The Transition from Papyrus to Skins.” Hebrew Union College Annual 54 (1983): 111–22.

[4] Menahem Haran, “Book-size and Thematic Cycles in the Pentateuch,” in Die Hebräische Bibel und ihre zweifache Nachgeschichte, eds. Erhard Blum, et al. [Neukirchen-Vlyun: Neukirchener, 1990], 173). Quoted in Liane Feldman, The Story of Sacrifice: Ritual and Narrative in the Priestly Source (Mohr Siebeck: Tübingen, 2020), p. 43, note 42.

[5] “Callbacks to Creation.” https://www.hadar.org/torah-tefillah/resources/callbacks-creation

[6] “Poems of the Journey’s End” (1955), translated by Rachel Tzvia Back.

A Home in Winter
 
Yesterday was the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year and the beginning of the winter season. Many religions, including our own, celebrate festivals of light roughly in the wintertime; but Judaism does not actually mark the solstice itself as a holiday. Two thousand years ago, the Rabbis observed Romans celebrating festivals before and after the solstice and accounted for that practice with this midrash (BT Avodah Zarah 8a):
 
When Adam the first man saw that the day was progressively diminishing, he said: Woe is me; perhaps because I sinned the world is becoming dark around me and will return to tohu vavohu, chaos and disorder. … He arose and spent eight days in fasting and in prayer.
 
Once he saw the season of Tevet, [that is, the winter solstice] and saw that the day was progressively lengthening, he said: This is the order of the world. He went and observed [another] festival for eight days.
 
Upon the next year, he observed both [eight-day] festivals. Adam established them for the sake of Heaven, but they [the gentiles of later generations] established them for the sake of idol worship.
 
Even though a solstice holiday doesn’t make its way into our own calendar, the Rabbis nevertheless see the appeal of celebrating holidays around the winter solstice. Exposure to the elements makes us vulnerable and the sense that the world as we know it is fading away can be scary. Even Adam, protected in the Garden of Eden, is worried for his safety; how much the more so should his descendants worry about their own survival.
 
/
 
We are blessed, most of us, with stable shelter from which to observe the changing seasons. But we also know that this is not a universal blessing. December 21, the first day of winter, is observed by many communities as Homeless Persons’ Memorial Day. Each year, our own Housing Forward marks this occasion with a memorial service honoring their clients who have died in the past year. I have been privileged to speak at this service for the past two years as part of our congregation’s commitment to Housing Forward and its mission to end homelessness.
           
I’d like to share with you tonight the comments I made yesterday, to extend into our own community the spirit of commemoration of some of those who have died in the past year after struggling with hardships that kept them from stable shelter.
 
/
 
In the stories we tell our children, characters are often symbolized by their homes. Each of the three Little Pigs, for instance, is known by their houses of straw, sticks, or brick; and the seductively sweet cottage Hansel and Gretl discover reflects the monstrous appetite of the witch within. Heroes in such stories live comfortably in palaces while the wicked prowl the swamps or hide away in dark, foreboding castles.
​
These stories are portraits of the way we think the world should work: We want people of good character to have good homes. But as noble as this fantasy might be, we know it falls far short of the real world. Good, wise, hardworking people can struggle to find a home of their own; and their challenges are only harder because of our society’s association of good homes with good people.

We can find a wiser and more compassionate lesson in a well-known story, common to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, a story that Jews around the world are reading in our weekly Torah cycle at this time of year. I refer to the story of Joseph, son of Jacob, proud owner of the coat of many colors and famous interpreter of dreams. Joseph never owns a home of his own, and he faces many, many hardships before achieving independence and success. As a tormented younger brother in his childhood home and as a slave in an Egyptian officer’s manor, in the dark pits of Pharaoh’s prison and in the opulence of his palace, Joseph is always the same. He works hard, tells the truth, and searches for the good in every situation. We cannot judge Joseph by where he lives, only by how he lives—and as one of the Bible’s greatest heroes, we can only conclude that Joseph lives well.

And when it is time for Joseph to die at last, we gain one last insight about the meaning of “home.” Joseph has spent his entire adult life in Egypt, where he has achieved phenomenal success. And yet, on his deathbed, he adjures his brothers to swear that they will bury his bones in the Promised Land. With his dying wish, Joseph tells his family—and all of us—that “home” is a sacred place, built of memory and hope, a place that we can call our own even if we don’t live there.

Today, we gather to remember clients of Housing Forward who faced many hardships, hardships that distanced them from shelter and brought them into a life of uncertainty. And yet we know that their character was not defined by where they lived but by the hopes and dreams they lived by. Their real lives were far different from the fairytales we dream about, but though our society may have called them “homeless,” we remember that each of these lost loved ones made untraditional “homes” even throughout the most difficult stops along their life journeys. Their legacies live on, and we pray that their memories always be for a blessing for those who now bear their stories.
 
/
 
May we keep the lesson of Joseph alive in our own hearts, seeing value in others not for where they live or what they have but rather for who they are. May we remain ever thankful for our own stable shelters, leveraging our many blessings for the benefit of others. And though the winter ahead of us will get colder before it gets warm, let us take heart that each day brings more light than the last, reminding us never to lose sight of hope. 

Acting in Fear
 
When we think of our patriarch Jacob, we might conjure any number of images. A trickster bilking his brother, fooling his father, and swindling his uncle. A lover, weeping at the well where he meets his beloved wife or tearing his clothes in grief as he mourns the son of his old age. A pilgrim, loyally following God throughout the promised land, dedicating monuments and altars with his oaths of devotion. And Jacob is also a man who faces tremendous fear, and it isn’t hard to see ourselves in his complicated response.

In last week’s Torah reading, God appears to Jacob as he toils in his uncle Laban’s house, instructing him to return to his native land. Jacob conspires with Rachel and Leah to steal away by night, and Laban chases him in hot pursuit. Only when Laban overtakes Jacob and his family do we get insight into Jacob’s state of mind. Laban demands, “Why did you flee in secrecy?” (Gen. 31:27) and Jacob responds, כִּי יָרֵאתִי “Because was afraid! Because I thought, what if you tear your daughters away from me by force?” (Gen. 31:31). Jacob wanted to protect his family—including both Rachel and Leah as well—from the jealous and devious Laban, so he takes to flight in the dead of night.

Then, in this week’s parashah, Jacob has scarcely concluded with Laban a tentative truce when he once again fears for his family’s safety. As he heads toward Canaan, Jacob sends word to his brother, Esau, whose death threat had scared Jacob away from home in the first place. His message is an overture of peace, and when the messengers return, they bring no verbal reply from Esau. Instead, they tell Jacob Esau is coming to meet him with 400 men at his side.

When Jacob hears this, we read וַיִּירָא יַעֲקֹב מְאֹד וַיֵּצֶר לוֹ, “Jacob was very afraid, and it troubled him” (Gen. 32:8). He turns to God and begs for protection. “Deliver me, I pray, from the hand of my brother, from the hand of Esau, כִּי־יָרֵא אָנֹכִי אֹתוֹ for I fear him that he may come and strike me down, mother [falling] upon children” (Gen. 32:12). He divides his camp as means of protecting them and sends elaborate gifts to mollify the brother he imagines wants to kill him. In the middle of the night, he separates himself from all his family and flocks, וַיִּוָּתֵר יַעֲקֹב לְבַדּוֹ, “And Jacob was left utterly alone” (Gen. 32:25).

It is here, in this literal and metaphorical darkness, that Jacob famously wrestles the angel. Flight is no longer an option, so he fights; and, ultimately, he wins. He extracts a blessing from the mysterious assailant, who changes his name from Yaakov to Yisrael כִּי־שָׂרִיתָ עִם־אֱלֹהִים וְעִם־אֲנָשִׁים וַתּוּכָל, “For you have struggled with God and with men, and you have prevailed” (Gen. 32:29). The sun rises, his brother embraces him with love and forgiveness and not the dreaded revenge, and Jacob continues his journeys in the promised land.
 
/
 
Two adjacent encounters, one with Laban and one with Esau. In neither of these stories is Jacob paralyzed by fear. Rather, he acknowledges his fear and announces it out loud—to Laban, to God, and to himself. Fear wounds Jacob, and it will continue to haunt him for many years; but it does not overpower him. Indeed, one of Jacob’s names for God is Pachad, fear (Gen. 31:42, 53). It is his constant and trusted companion.

And as we fashion ourselves Children of Israel, we can see ourselves aspiring to this kind of relationship with fear. It is inevitable that, at times, we will be afraid. Sometimes, as with Jacob and Laban, fear is justified and motivates us to smart, self-protective action. Sometimes, though, as with Jacob and Esau, fear is unfounded and drives us to make costly miscalculations and personal insults. It’s almost impossible to know, in the moment, which kind of fear we’re facing; but so long as we’re facing it full-on and acknowledging its presence, we’re taking important steps toward confronting the truth.
 
/
 
In these chapters of Torah, Jacob speaks honestly and painfully to many others: to his wives, with each of whom he has a complicated relationship; to his uncle, who gave him everything he has but who also sought to exploit him whenever he could; to his brother, whose animus forced a young Jacob to flee for his very life; and to God, whose inscrutable promises propel Jacob from one side of the Middle East to the other. And he speaks, as well, to himself, and it may be with his own conscience that he wrestles in the darkness, facing his own failures and insecurities, his doubts and despairs, his longing for connections and realization that, especially in the middle of the night, it is dangerously easy to feel completely alone.
Fear can pervade any of our relationships just as it manifests in Jacob’s own. With not only our foes but our loved ones as well, and within our inmost selves and even as we seek out the divine spark that makes us who we are. How much the more so the outside world, which threatens in its contentious complexity to overwhelm our lives and the objects of our concern. We are fools if we can’t see that, near at home or far abroad, there is reason to be afraid.

The song we’ve learned has it wrong. Kol ha-olam kulo gesher tzar m’od, it starts—the whole world is a very narrow bridge. V’ha-ikar lo l’fached k’lal, and the most important thing is not to be afraid. But actually, the song’s composer, Baruch Chait, changed the teaching he based the lyrics on. It came from Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, who did not say that the most important thing in life is not to be afraid. Rather, Nachman, who was troubled all his life by depression and fear, actually said וְהָעִקָּר שֶׁלּא יִתְפַּחֵד כְּלָל, the most important thing is not to let fear entirely overtake you.[1] It’s not as catchy, but it’s far more true.

​Each of us, from time to time, will find ourselves in Jacob’s shoes. And when we do, may his story be a model for our own: a model of finding a way to act even when facing our fears. Being intimate with our fears helps us understand them, and understanding can help bring us, in time, closer to respite and to peace.


[1] לקוטי מוהר"ן תנינא מח, https://he.wikisource.org/wiki/לקוטי_מוהר"ן_תנינא_מח. Read more about the text behind the song here: https://www.sefaria.org/sheets/494107?lang=bi. 

Adrift
 
Like many of you, I’ve spent the past two weeks obsessed with the situation in Israel and Gaza. I’m checking the news constantly, of course; and I’m also checking in with loved ones doing the same. Jessica and I may be unusual in that we have no close friends or family who live in Israel, and still our hearts are strained with worry and sadness. We mourn the dead and are awash with empathy for millions of suffering and fearful Israelis and innocent Palestinians.

I’ve also been focused—as I’m sure many of you have as well—on the experience of Jews here in America and around the world as we struggle to find our place in this horror story. We’re afraid for ourselves in our own communities; but mostly, I think, we’re afraid for what happens next over there. Even though it’s far away, it’s still as if it’s happening to the greater us, the Jewish people united the world over.
I’ve been grateful for the words of kindness and support I’ve received from non-Jewish colleagues and friends, though I admit I wish there were more of them. Mostly, we Jews hold one another as we face the violence that’s been done and brace for what comes next. The podcasts I hear and the articles I read and the personal conversations I have spiral around common questions that have no easy answer: What’s really going on; what should I hope or fear will happen next; what’s my responsibility at home and abroad; and, perhaps most difficult of all, what does it all mean?
 
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Parashat Noach, which tells the story of Noah and the Flood, lays out some fundamental values that speak to many today’s moral problems. The parashah gives us insight into questions of life and death, good and evil, and punishment and restraint.

First and foremost, this is a story about massive death on a global scale. Honestly, I don’t know why this is the classic kids’ Bible story – it’s truly horrific. We read: וַתִּמָּלֵ֥א הָאָ֖רֶץ חָמָֽס, “the earth was filled with violence” (Gen. 6:11). In the face of this unending violence, after ages of silent forbearance, God meets the moment with brutal resolve: “The Eternal said, ‘I will erase from the earth humankind whom I created—humans together with beasts … for I regret that I made them’” (Gen. 6:7). All the animals, including human beings, are prone to unrestrained violence, and God chooses to delete them.

But there is a problem with this plan: וְנֹ֕חַ מָ֥צָא חֵ֖ן בְּעֵינֵ֥י יְהֹוָֽה, “Noah found favor with the Eternal … [for] Noah was a righteous man, blameless in his generation” (Gen. 6:8-9). Constrained by the divine attribute of justice, God cannot kill the righteous Noah. The innocent—as we will later learn again with Abraham—cannot be punished alongside the guilty. So God provides a lifeline to Noah and with it a possibility of redemption for the rest of Creation.

his story teaches us that evil does not deserve to live forever. God concludes after centuries of violence that enough is enough; if life can’t be good, there shouldn’t be life at all. But on the other hand, the story teaches that life, in fact, can be good, no matter how dark the age: Noah proves to God and to all of us that it’s impossible to condemn an entire population as evil. You can always find those who, like Noah, walk with God.

So God does not so much destroy the world as restart it. And with the new generation, God makes some important changes.

To set up the change, the story first lays out the problem. Its drama reveals that humans, when left to our own devices, descend into wanton violence. Indeed, God observes as if for the first time יֵ֣צֶר לֵ֧ב הָאָדָ֛ם רַ֖ע, “The inclination of the human heart is [toward] evil” (Gen. 8:21). But this recognition doesn’t lead God to extinguish the human heart; rather, it’s this very realization that prompts God to vow never again to destroy all life (ibid). Instead of wholesale destruction, God introduces new rules, giving Noah and his descendants moral precepts that Adam and Eve and—more importantly—Abel and Cain never knew.

The first change is that human beings are now allowed to eat meat (Gen. 9:2-3) whereas before they had been given only plants for food (Gen. 1:29). This expanded diet comes with a restriction, though: We may not consume flesh that still contains blood (Gen. 9:4). We are given limited license to exercise our violent urges; within acceptable limits, humans may now kill.

This new rule is conjoined with another: The shedding of human blood—the Torah’s idiom for murder—becomes the ultimate sacrilege:
 
שֹׁפֵךְ֙ דַּ֣ם הָֽאָדָ֔ם
בָּֽאָדָ֖ם דָּמ֣וֹ יִשָּׁפֵ֑ךְ
כִּ֚י בְּצֶ֣לֶם אֱלֹהִ֔ים
עָשָׂ֖ה אֶת־הָאָדָֽם׃
Whoever sheds human blood,
By a human shall their blood be shed;
For in the image of God
Was humankind made (Gen. 9:6).
 
This is the Torah’s first formulation of “life for a life,” and it is based on the foundational notion that every human being is created in the image of God. To murder another person is to erase a part of God, and this cannot be allowed. A minor version of the great Flood must be sent against the murderer: their world is wiped out, for they have wiped out another.

The principle is clear: shedding blood is a desecration, and there is no place for it in our society. How should this tenet be enacted? That’s a bigger question that requires a lot of hard work to answer. Indeed, when the Rabbis teach that God’s new covenant with Noah includes seven basic commandments for all humankind, the first of these laws is to establish of courts of justice (cf. Tosefta Avodah Zarah 9:4 and BT Sanhedrin 56a-56b). In other words, Jewish tradition insists that human society must adjudicate the difficult moral questions not only of how to protect life but also of what to do when life is unjustly taken.
 
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Where does this leave us? The big picture is fairly clear on this point: people may not murder other people. Human courts need to determine what counts as “murder;” and then, in principle, murderers must pay the ultimate price. The big picture is also clear on this: Human beings, like God, possess tremendous power; and yet, we are required to restrain ourselves. We are commanded to curb our violent instincts, suppress our lust for blood, and hold back our power to destroy. In sum, the story teaches us that we require deliberation to execute justice.

On Simchat Torah, Israel suffered 1,400 murders and 200 kidnappings, the largest wave of violence committed against our people since the Holocaust. Hamas—both its military and governmental arms—are responsible for these murders and, in line with this week’s Torah portion, Hamas should rightly be destroyed. With this retribution, though, would inevitably come the deaths of untold numbers of Palestinians living in Gaza, each of whom may be as blameless as Noah in this generation. Israel’s power to destroy is immense; and our parashah demands not only justice but also, somehow, restraint.

I don’t know how to resolve these conflicting values, nor do I know how they factor in to complicated international negotiations. But I do know that whatever path the People of Israel pursue, it should be guided by the morals of our tradition and with the ultimate goal of preserving human life even if the cost is very high.

Of course we pray for peace, but such a prayer is truly a dream. Indeed, the prophet Jeremiah railed against those who clamored falsely שָׁלוֹם שָׁלוֹם וְאֵין שָׁלוֹם, “Peace, peace – yet there is no peace” (Jer. 8:11). It violates the sanctity of those who have been murdered to ignore the violence done to them and to our people. And at the same time, some kind of peace must be our destination—as Rabbi Chananya taught, “Great is peace, as it is equal to all of creation; for it is written, יוֹצֵר אוֹר וּבוֹרֵא חֹשֶׁךְ—עֹשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם, I form light and create darkness; I make peace (Isaiah 45:7)” (Sifrei B’midbar on Naso).
 
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Friends, I don’t know whether we’re in the midst of the Flood or if really the rain has just begun. I’m afraid that both justice and peace are still rather far off.
Sermons, like our weekly readings from the Prophets, are supposed to end on a nechemta, on a word of consolation and hope. If there is a nechemta to be found, let us find it in one another, in the way we hold each other through this difficult time, and in the way our tradition can hold us in our grief and our doubt. We question and we mourn, we speak up and we take action when we can; and we do it all as a community dedicated to values that have sustained our people through eras even harder and more harrowing than our own.

May we lean on one another; and may we one day, somehow, find our way to peace.

Know Before Whom You Stand: You Stand Before Your Self
 
I entered the sanctuary and found a woman standing in front of the ark. “Can I help you?” I asked. “No, thank you,” she replied. “I’m here to meet someone.” “Who are you here to meet?” I asked. Gazing at the ark, she quietly replied, “Myself.”
 
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The words inscribed above the ark in this little fable were the same as those on arks all over the world: da lifnei mi atah omed, “Know before whom you stand.” Maybe this is an allusion to praying in the presence of God. Maybe it’s synonymous with another famous inscription, the one carved above the entrance to Apollo’s temple at Delphi: “Know thyself.” Or maybe, as is usually the case, it’s both. “Know before whom you stand.” You stand before God; and you stand before you.
Our liturgy is poetry—was always meant to be poetry—and poetry never wants to be taken literally. Rabbi Noa Kushner reminds us that liturgy and our lives are in what she calls a “feedback loop;” the words have meaning only when seen in the context of our lives, and our lives take on new meaning when we encounter and express the words of our tradition. “Liturgy requires life,” she writes, “as life requires liturgy.”[1]

And so we embrace the poetic journey of Yom Kippur. The pinnacle prayer, Un’taneh Tokef, says it most clearly: “Today is the day of judgment, for even the hosts of heaven are judged.” Even when we know that it’s theater, that the divine courtroom is a fantasy, we still feel “the power of this day, for it is awesome and full of dread.”

The actual power of the day comes from us who bring the prayers to life; and the day, in turn, empowers us to conduct its sacred work. Rabbi Kushner teaches, “We cannot read these words without addressing ourselves … because it is precisely in saying this very prayer that we ourselves are forced to remember everything we would [prefer to] forget.”[2] Submission to divine authority is really a challenge to face ourselves, to cultivate enough humility to reckon with our deeds and to come face-to-face with who, deep down, we rally are.

This introspection on the High Holy Days is called cheshbon nefesh, “accounting of the self.” It has two aspects: First, we take stock of our deeds so that we can correct and improve them in the year ahead. And second, we take a long, hard look at who we really are simply for the sake of better knowing ourselves. “Know before whom you stand.” And in doing so, “Know thyself.”
 
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I’d like to speak personally tonight, at least a little, on cheshbon nefesh. I’m generally pretty private, so this is hard for me. Still, I’ve recently had the unusual and important experience of learning something new about myself, and the process has felt both relevant and helpful to understanding the themes of Yom Kippur.

Two years ago, our son, Jeremiah, was diagnosed as “twice exceptional”—intellectually gifted and autistic. For years we’d described to friends and teachers Jeremiah’s bundle of habits and quirks: he has an astonishingly strong memory; he focuses intensely on his interests and has a hard time talking about anything else; he is powerfully and sometimes painfully honest. Also, it’s hard for him to know how others are feeling; he’s unlikely to offer an unprompted “hello” or “good-bye;” and even if he’s paying close attention to you, he might be walking around, humming to himself, or reading a book while you talk. When his many clusters of behaviors were formally identified as Autism Spectrum Disorder, none of us were surprised. Jeremiah himself was thrilled, and I share all this with his permission. His sister, to be honest, was a even bit jealous.

The past two years have been a journey of discovery for me and for our family. I’ve benefited greatly from podcasts, books, and personal conversations centering on being, raising, and teaching neurodiverse people. I’ve become more familiar as well with the stories of many individuals and families who face challenges far greater than ours even as I’ve allowed myself to feel more compassion toward our own family about our particular situation.

And something else has happened as well. The more attention I paid to Jeremiah over the past two years, the more I saw reflected glimpses of myself. The more I learned about autism, the more familiar that bundle of characteristics seemed. And the more I came to know adults—prizewinning authors, artists and musicians, members of my family and of this congregation—who led successful lives and who were also autistic, the more I became convinced that I was part of the club. So earlier this year, I signed up for a neurological evaluation; and about six months ago, I received my formal diagnosis. Twice exceptional. I’m gifted, and I also have autism.
 
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To some of you, this will come as no surprise. You know me as a board game enthusiast who also has uncanny recall of the various sacrifices in the book of Leviticus. Perhaps you know I like to arrive exactly on time—neither early nor late—and that the words I use to express myself are often keenly precise. You might also know me as a person who finds it difficult to make small talk, who doesn’t follow well your non-verbal cues, or whose stories and—if I’m truthful—whose sermons might belabor a few too many details.

I know that some of you are autistic, too, or are otherwise neuro-atypical. Some of you have a lot of neurodiversity in your personal circles or in your work environment. In either case, adding your rabbi to the list may not be that big a deal. For others, the idea will take some getting used to. For me, it was something of a mixed bag. I can’t say I was surprised to be diagnosed as autistic—the same diagnosis that might once have been known as Asberger’s Syndrome. But even though I’m the same person, I now think about myself and the way I act in the world very differently than I used to. This has been a long journey of cheshbon nefesh, one that I’m still far from concluding.
 
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I’ve suggested that cheshbon nefesh, “self-accounting,” has two sides: a practical side focused on our behavior and a non-practical side focused on our being. Let’s take a closer look at both, starting with the practical side.

Rabbi Menachem Mendel Lefin of Satanow literally wrote the book on cheshbon nefesh in the early 19th century. Lefin taught that cheshbon nefesh was an essential part of the basic human enterprise of self-improvement. His book was a major influence on the Lithuanian Rabbi Israel Salanter, [3] who founded the musar movement, a virtues-based approach to Jewish ethics and character development.[4] Here’s a taste of the philosophy they shared: “The soul has health and sickness just as the body has health and sickness. The health of the soul is in its disposition, when you consistently do good things and pleasant acts with it; and the soul’s sickness is [also] in its disposition, when you consistently do bad things.”[5] In other words, musar teaches that your character can be shaped through moral discipline; the better you act, the better you are.

It may surprise you as much as it surprised me to learn that Rabbi Lefin, who wrote the book on cheshbon nefesh, was significantly influenced by another writer we’ve all heard of: a Pennsylvanian inventor and eccentric diplomat named Benjamin Franklin, whose work Lefin encountered on his tour of Western Europe and from whose writing he drew extensively when drafting his own books in Hebrew. Franklin’s philosophy was that one’s character could be shaped through moral discipline and refinement. Take this reflection from Franklin’s autobiography, which introduces his famous thirteen virtues:
 
I wished to live without committing any fault at any time…. But I soon found I had undertaken a task of more difficulty than I had imagined. … I concluded, at length, … that the contrary habits must be broken, and good ones acquired and established, before we can have any dependence on a steady, uniform rectitude of conduct.[6]
 
In other words, Franklin and Lefin and Salanter all believed that we can refine our internal qualities in order to make ourselves better people. To succeed, we need to know as much about ourselves as we can so that we can improve. Each of us has a unique balance of strengths and weaknesses, of internal motivations and desires—and the more thorough and honest our “accounting of the self,” the better work we can do to live up to our own ideals.

The reality is, though, that none of us can fully reach our ideals. Ben Franklin was a great guy, but there’s no way that he—or anyone—could succeed at living “without committing any fault at any time.” This is because the conscious mind, the part of our self we call our self, is only a small piece of the unimaginably complex system organized and controlled by our marvelous brains. The neuroscientist David Eagleman summarizes the biological truth: “We are not at the center of ourselves.”[7] Instead, our brains direct most of our behaviors non-consciously, in a series of competing and overlapping neurological systems. The conscious mind guides and influences these non-conscious processes; but in a lot of ways, our biology evades or even betrays our conscious will.
 
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So this brings us to the other side of cheshbon nefesh. Knowing more about ourselves can’t only be about changing our behavior because some of our behaviors simply can’t be changed. Instead, there is a real and meaningful value to self-understanding beyond the realm of morals and ethics. This is knowledge of the self for its own sake, akin to the ancient Jewish value of Torah lishmah—study for the sake of study. To seek to know ourselves more fully isn’t narcissism; in fact, it’s the opposite. Genuine cheshbon nefesh leaves us bare, exposed to the internal eye and challenged to accept every aspect of our selves as true.

Benjamin Franklin wasn’t the only 18th-century philosopher to write an autobiography; Jean Jacques Rousseau, who some consider to have invented the modern form of the genre[8], takes a very different approach with his. Rousseau’s autobiography, Confessions, opens with a statement of purpose that sounds like cheshbon nefesh on public display. He writes:
 
I mean to present my fellow-mortals with a man in all the integrity of nature; and this man shall be myself. … Such as I was, I have declared myself; sometimes vile and despicable, at others, virtuous, generous and sublime; even as thou hast read my inmost soul: Power eternal! assemble round thy throne an innumerable throng of my fellow-mortals, let them listen to my confessions, let them blush at my depravity, let them tremble at my sufferings; let each in his turn expose with equal sincerity the failings, the wanderings of his heart, and, if he dare, aver, I was better than that man.[9]
 
Rousseau may as well be reciting from the machzor. We say in Un’taneh Tokef that the Book of Remembrances bears the signature of every human being, and what is written there proclaims itself before the divine judge.
Rousseau’s confession is not intended for moral improvement. Rather, it is a study in human life, one he calls us all to undertake. And it represents the non-practical side of cheshbon nefesh, the personal—perhaps even the spiritual—enterprise of knowing who we are simply because it is good to know who we are.
 
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Two approaches to the accounting of the soul, one practical and one decidedly not, both part of my own journey over the past year. Learning of my autism has helped me better achieve my own ethical goals; and it’s also helped explain my nature, which will not change. To illustrate the lesson, I’ll offer one more personal story.

A few years ago, a congregant summoned the strength to share how sad and angry she was about a recent insult I had caused her. She told me she’d made eye contact with me before Shabbat services and said hello, and then I turned my back on her and walked away. She was hurt, naturally, and wanted to know why I had been so rude. I told her, truthfully, that I had no memory of the encounter. As far as I could recall, I really didn’t see her. I didn’t turn away from her at all; I simply turned, not noticing she was there.

It brought this congregant some relief to know I hadn’t intended to hurt her, though I suspect it was cold comfort because no one likes to be overlooked. Still, she and I both knew that I owed her an apology, and I gave one sincerely. I apologized because I hurt her, and I also made an internal promise to try to avoid repeating this mistake with anyone else. The injury was addressed and, as well as could be expected and as far as I know, it was healed. We made peace with one another, and I believe I emerged a better person.

What I know now that I didn’t know then is how common this sort of thing is for people with autism. It’s common to overlook someone who might ordinarily be seen, and it’s also common to seize on the truth of the matter without defensiveness or guile. My autistic brain contributed both to my initial insult and also to my readiness to apologize and make it right.

Ultimately, knowing I have autism has been important on two fronts.

On the one hand, it gives me special impetus to pay attention to my behavior: to routinely remind myself, for instance, to uncross my arms, to make eye contact, to stop and say hi—in short, to make extra effort to notice the people around me. Knowing my diagnosis helps me see the ways I can better line up my actions with my values of caring about the people I’m with.

On the other hand, knowing I have autism helps simply to understand my behavior and more fully appreciate the person I am. Sometimes, I’m going to miss you or mistake your meaning, and sometimes I’ll delight you with a quick wit or a recalled fact. I might not be great at chatting after services; but if you email me a question, you can expect a quick and thorough reply. The way I think is different than a lot of other people, and knowing this—not just your knowing it but my knowing it—can help generate more compassion and even excitement. But most of all, in my experience, it’s simply nice to know.
 
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Self-understanding is a vital part of Yom Kippur. And even though we stand in judgment, we also deserve mercy from ourselves. The Hebrew poet Esther Raab expresses radical self-acceptance in this passage from her autobiography:
 
I embrace my head and feel its bone structure; a lovely skull, shapely, graceful bones. My dear head! You who bestowed me with so many thoughts, who attached wings to my spirit - how beautiful and precious to me you are - I enclose you in both my palms and am proud of you - you have produced something in me along the stretch of road named life.[10]
 
May our quest for self-knowledge bring us the same measure of gratitude and joy. May we stand with “reverence and intention”[11] before the one who hears prayer as we render honest and compassionate judgment on ourselves. May this be a new year of deeper awareness of ourselves, and may this knowledge lead us to a more settled sense of our place in the world.

G’mar chatimah tovah. May you be sealed for blessing in the Book of Life.


[1] “From Text to Life to Text: The Un’taneh Tokef Feedback Loop” in Who By Fire: Un’taneh Tokef, ed. Lawrence Hoffman (Jewish Lights Publishing, 2013), p. 63.

[2] Ibid. p. 65-66.

[3] See Immanuel Etkes’s Rabbi Israel Salanter and the Mussar Movement: Seeking the Torah of Truth (Jewish Publication Society, 1993), pp. 123-134. In sum, “Salanter’s thought was decisively influenced by the psychological theories that Lefin incorporated in Sefer heshbon ha-nefesh” (126).

[4] This brief summary of musar is taken from the subheading of Greg Marcus’s “What is Mussar?” at MyJewishLearning: https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/the-musar-movement.

[5] Introduction to Israel Salanter's Or Yisrael.
יֵשׁ לַנֶּפֶשׁ בְּרִיאוּת וָחֹלִי כְּמוֹ שֶׁיֵּשׁ לַגּוּף בְּרִיאוּת וְחֹלִי, וּבְרִיאוּת הַנֶּפֶשׁ הוּא שֶׁתִּהְיֶה תְּכוּנָתָהּ כוּ', שֶׁתַּעֲשֶׂה בָּהּ תָּדִיר הַטּוֹבוֹת וְהַפְּעֻלּוֹת הַנְּאוֹתוֹת, וְחָלְיָהּ הוּא שֶׁתִּהְיֶה תְּכוּנָתָהּ כוּ', שֶׁתַּעֲשֶׂה בָּהֶן תָּדִיר הָרָעוֹת וְהַפְּעֻלּוֹת הַמְגֻנּוֹת כוּ'.

[6] Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin (p. 85-86). Available online: https://archive.org/details/autobiobenfran00miffrich/page/n131/mode/2up. “It was about this time I conceiv'd the bold and arduous project of arriving at moral perfection. I wish'd to live without committing any fault at any time; I would conquer all that either natural inclination, custom, or company might lead me into. As I knew, or thought I knew, what was right and wrong, I did not see why I might not always do the one and avoid the other. But I soon found I had undertaken a task of more difficulty than I had imagined. While my care was employ'd in guarding against one fault, I was often surprised by another; habit took the advantage of inattention; inclination was some times too strong for reason. I concluded, at length, that the mere speculative conviction that it was our interest to be completely virtuous, was not sufficient to prevent our slipping; and that the contrary habits must be broken, and good ones acquired and established, before we can have any dependence on a steady, uniform rectitude of conduct.” This is the introduction to his famous 13 virtues: temperance, silence, order, resolution, frugality, industry, sincerity, justice, moderation, cleanliness, tranquility, chastity, and humility.

[7] Incognito: The Secret Lives of the Brain (Pantheon Books, 2011: New York), p. 18-19.

[8] Leo Damrosch, whose Great Courses lecture called “Enlightenment Invention of the Modern Self” (available online) was a major influence on this sermon, teaches that Rousseau “created the genre of introspective autobiography” (as it says in the description of his biography of Rousseau).

[9] Text taken from Project Gutenberg: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/3913/3913-h/3913-h.htm. This 1903 translation is unattributed but may have been undertaken by Samuel William Orson.

[10] Esther Raab, Gan she-harav (A Garden in Ruins) (Tel AvivL Tarmil, 1983), p. 408, trans. Tamar Hess in Self As Nation : Contemporary Hebrew Autobiography (2016).

[11] This is Rashi’s understanding of how one should fulfill the concept of “Know before whom you stand.” כדי שתתפללו ביראה ובכוונה, comment at BT Berachot 28b.