Monthly Archives: September 2025

rosh hashanah sermon – spiral recurring time or “we’ve been here before, what can we do differently with what we have learned”

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Rosh Hashana Morning Lev Chadash 2025

We usually think of time as  the ancient Greeks first described it – that time is a linear progression –  that one moment leads to the next in an uninterrupted sequence. We live with this model in mind,  planning for the hours and days, the months and years ahead, measuring our progress in life as the years pass. Linear time is generally what we use to make sense of the world around us. The past is always behind us, unchangeable and fixed, the future is in front of us, unknown and unknowable. We live in an eternal present.

But the Jewish view of time is different.

For us time  is not linear.  We do not progress through our days in a straight line from the past, through the present, to the future. Even how we characterise time is different – the past is in front of us, because we can see it, the future is behind us, not yet revealing itself, and so, when Moses see’s God’s back we understand that he is seeing something about the relationship between the Jewish people and God that goes into the future.  It is not a denial of seeing the face of God, so much as the promise that God will stay with us.

Judaism also recognises an element of circularity, although unlike the Babylonians and Egyptians, Judaism does not see this as being only the repeated cycles of birth, death and renewal. Instead, Judaism does something that takes from both of these interpretations  of time. Judaism understands and creates time as a spiral. We may come back again and again to particular experiences, but each time we come back we are different. We have progressed within the circularity.

 This is the reason our prayerbooks for the festivals are known as machzorim – the name reminds us that we return to these festivals over and over again in our lives, the seasons pass and return. The festivals are the same – it is we who are different each time.  The very word “shanah”  has layers of meaning – “a year”,  “a repetition”, “a change”.

 As we travel through our days we see patterns repeat, as we replay the past.  At Pesach we – yet again – leave slavery in Egypt for an unknown future, travelling towards our ancestral land. At Shavuot we – yet again – encounter God and become a people of God at Sinai.  At Succot we relive the fragility of our temporal security, knowing that if there has not been rain and sunshine in their right seasons, we may not have the food we need to survive.

During the Yamim Noraim we put aside time to look at how we are living our lives. We examine ourselves to see whether we are living up to our values and the expectations for who we want to be. Each festival in this cycle is a milestone, a marker on our journey through life. Each is an opportunity. The secular world may have birthdays or new year resolutions, dates where we reflect on how we have lived so far and propose new or different behaviours, but the Jewish year has formalised these, bringing us back again and again to remember and inhabit our past, and to inform and impact our present.

Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler wrote that  “As we travel through time we return to key moments of the past and recapture the inherent spiritual energy. This is why Jewish holidays are referred to in Hebrew as “moadim” (meeting places).

And Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz wrote “Time is a process, in which past, present, and future are bound to each other, not only by cause and effect but also as a harmonization of two motions:  progress forward and a countermotion backward, encircling and returning.  It is more like a spiral, or a helix, rising up from Creation.  (From The Thirteen Petalled Rose).

Spiral time is not the same as circular time.  We don’t repeat the past.  At least we don’t repeat it exactly. Just as the root of the word “Shanah” means both to repeat and to change, we revisit it, but we are different, and so our experience is also different. Just as we spend a year reading the same Torah scroll, only to repeat it again in the following years, we find we read that text differently each time because we ourselves are different, so words or ideas or whole stories may jump out at us one year that never did before, because now we have something within us to resonate with them.

 I am perhaps overfond of the phrase “plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose”- the more that things change the more that they stay the same.  But I know too that it doesn’t exactly speak to the Jewish experience of change. Because while it feels like we find ourselves in situations  of vulnerability that our forebears would recognise,  Judaism adds in an extra ingredient to the repetition– that of hope, and of the human ability to create meaning. We never stop hoping that we might bring about real change in the world, continuing the perfection of creation.

The cynical may repeat Kohelet the preacher, said to be written by the great and wise King Solomon – מַה־שֶּׁהָיָה הוּא שֶׁיִּהְיֶה וּמַה־שֶּׁנַּעֲשָׂה הוּא שֶׁיֵּעָשֶׂה וְאֵין כׇּל־חָדָשׁ תַּחַת הַשָּׁמֶשׁ׃

Only that has happened can happen, only that which has been done can be done. There is nothing new beneath the sun!  But this somewhat pessimistic view of life is not the view of Rabbinic Judaism – for we have the idea of repair built into our very fabric, we yearn towards redemption. As Nachman of Bratzlav wrote – “if you believe you can damage, you must believe you can rebuild”. – and he went on to say “the whole world is a narrow bridge, the important thing is that you must not make yourself afraid”   In other words we have the power to create positive and meaningful change – just as long as we don’t despair and allow ourselves to give up the hope and the imagination to do so.

Right now we are at a point in the spiral that echoes some of the most painfilled and terrifying elements of Jewish history. All the values of the enlightenment and of modernity seem to have come crashing down, antisemitism is rising, Jews are fearful of being seen as such in the public space, and we are as divided a people as we have ever been, polarised in a way I fear may be davar chadash – a new thing – or certainly something not seen since the days of the second temple.   Never has the phrase “am k’shei oref” – a stiff necked and stubborn people – been more appropriate.  

We are in a world of sinat hinam –hatred without a cause. We have been here before and we know how dangerous it is. But precisely because of this knowledge we can learn to do things differently.  We have the tools we need to bring about change. In the words of Rav Kook the antidote to causeless hatred – sinat hinam, is causeless love – ahavat hinam.

In this age of social media we can see how easy it is to manipulate people to hate others. One only has to look at the comments beneath any article or photograph to see people who are willing to denigrate and dehumanise people they do not even know. We can see and hear the populist politicians, the rhetoric of patriotism, the racism and misogyny and nationalism and xenophobia.  We have been here before, and we can try to ensure that the pattern does not play out again as it did before.

Liliane Segre spoke of the indifference of others when Nazism and fascism arose:   “L’indifferenza racchiude la chiave per comprendere la ragione del male, perché quando credi che una cosa non ti tocchi, non ti riguardi, allora non c’è limite all’orrore.   L’indifferente è complice.   

“Indifference holds the key to understanding the reason for evil, because when you believe that something does not affect you, does not concern you, then there is no limit to the horror.  The indifferent are accomplices

 And she said that the opposite of the indifference is caring, ensuring that we pay attention, that the things that we can see happening around us should engage us – we cannot look away and say that we are not involved – neutrality is not an option.

Her call is echoed by Elie Wiesel in his speech of acceptance of the Nobel peace prize.

“We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented…. When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant. Wherever men and women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must – at that moment – become the centre of the universe.”

We live in Jewish time, in a history that is ever present, with an unextinguishable hope for the future.  Past, present and future are bound together for us.  Moses Chaim Luzzatto (RaMCHaL) calls this “recurring time” and offers us hope – “in recurring time, the light of holiness that illuminated us then, will shine on us and refine and renew us”.. (Derech HaShem composed1735 Padua)

Jewish time gives us repeated opportunities to act well, reminds us not only to care for the vulnerable of our own people but to care for and about all people – whether they look like us or not, whether we agree with them or not, whether we know them personally or they are strangers to us. In a passage recorded in many places in our tradition we are told that Shimon ben Azzai teaches “the greatest principle of Torah is “ This is the book of the generations of Adam [origin of human beings]. When God created  human beings God created us in the divine likeness” (Gen. v. 1; Sifra, Ḳedoshim, iv.; Yer. Ned. ix. 41c; Gen. R. xxiv.). 

In other words – we are all one human people, we are all God’s creation. We live together on one small planet, and how we treat the earth impacts on us all. How we treat each other impacts on us all.   And it reminds us to stand up for our values when they – and we – are under attack.

The antidote to causeless hatred is not to logically explain why it is wrong. There is no logic to such anger and odium.  The antidote is to live with causeless love, to see humanity as one people living together on a small and fragile planet, our futures bound up together,

The antidote is to pay attention, to notice, to care, to stand up against false narratives of hate.

We live in recurring and spiral time – and each time we confront a situation we can choose how to respond. Let us hope that as Luzzatto taught, that the light of holiness that shone on us before, will shine on us now and in the future, refining us and renewing us and helping us to create a future of peace.

Shanah Tovah

Rosh Hashana Mattina Lev Chadash 2025

Di solito pensiamo al tempo come lo descrivevano gli antichi greci: il tempo è una progressione lineare, un momento conduce al successivo in una sequenza ininterrotta. Viviamo con questo modello in mente, pianificando le ore e i giorni, i mesi e gli anni a venire, misurando i nostri progressi nella vita con il passare degli anni. Il tempo lineare è generalmente ciò che usiamo per dare un senso al mondo che ci circonda. Il passato è sempre dietro di noi, immutabile e fisso, il futuro è davanti a noi, sconosciuto e inconoscibile. Viviamo in un eterno presente.

Ma la visione ebraica del tempo è diversa.

Per noi il tempo non è lineare. Non progrediamo attraverso i nostri giorni in linea retta dal passato, attraverso il presente, verso il futuro. Anche il modo in cui caratterizziamo il tempo è diverso: il passato è davanti a noi, perché possiamo vederlo, il futuro è dietro di noi, non ancora rivelato, e così, quando Mosè vede la schiena di Dio, capiamo che sta vedendo qualcosa della relazione tra il popolo ebraico e Dio che va verso il futuro. Non è una negazione del vedere il volto di Dio, quanto piuttosto la promessa che Dio rimarrà con noi.

L’ebraismo riconosce anche un elemento di circolarità, anche se, a differenza dei babilonesi e degli egizi, non lo vede solo come il ripetersi dei cicli di nascita, morte e rinnovamento. L’ebraismo fa invece qualcosa che prende da entrambe queste interpretazioni del tempo. L’ebraismo comprende e crea il tempo come una spirale. Possiamo tornare più e più volte a particolari esperienze, ma ogni volta che torniamo siamo diversi. Abbiamo progredito all’interno della circolarità.

Questo è il motivo per cui i nostri libri di preghiere per le festività sono conosciuti come machzorim: il nome ci ricorda che torniamo a queste festività più e più volte nella nostra vita, le stagioni passano e ritornano. Le festività sono le stesse, siamo noi che siamo diversi ogni volta. La stessa parola “shanah” ha diversi significati: “un anno”, “una ripetizione”, “un cambiamento”.

Mentre attraversiamo i nostri giorni, vediamo ripetersi gli schemi, mentre riviviamo il passato. A Pesach lasciamo – ancora una volta – la schiavitù in Egitto per un futuro sconosciuto, viaggiando verso la terra dei nostri antenati. A Shavuot incontriamo – ancora una volta – Dio e diventiamo il popolo di Dio sul Sinai. A Succot riviviamo la fragilità della nostra sicurezza temporale, sapendo che se non ci sono state pioggia e sole nelle stagioni giuste, potremmo non avere il cibo necessario per sopravvivere.

Durante lo Yamim Noraim dedichiamo del tempo a riflettere su come stiamo vivendo la nostra vita. Esaminiamo noi stessi per vedere se stiamo vivendo secondo i nostri valori e le aspettative di chi vogliamo essere. Ogni festa di questo ciclo è una pietra miliare, un punto di riferimento nel nostro viaggio attraverso la vita. Ognuna è un’opportunità. Il mondo secolare può avere compleanni o propositi per l’anno nuovo, date in cui riflettiamo su come abbiamo vissuto finora e proponiamo comportamenti nuovi o diversi, ma l’anno ebraico ha formalizzato tutto questo, riportandoci continuamente a ricordare e a rivivere il nostro passato, per informare e influenzare il nostro presente.

Il rabbino Eliyahu Dessler ha scritto che “Mentre viaggiamo nel tempo, torniamo ai momenti chiave del passato e recuperiamo l’energia spirituale intrinseca. Questo è il motivo per cui le festività ebraiche sono chiamate in ebraico ”moadim” (luoghi di incontro).

E il rabbino Adin Steinsaltz ha scritto: “Il tempo è un processo in cui passato, presente e futuro sono legati tra loro, non solo da causa ed effetto, ma anche come armonizzazione di due movimenti: il progresso in avanti e il contro-movimento all’indietro, che circonda e ritorna. È più simile a una spirale, o a un’elica, che si eleva dalla Creazione. (Da La rosa a tredici petali).

Il tempo a spirale non è uguale al tempo circolare. Non ripetiamo il passato. Almeno non lo ripetiamo esattamente. Proprio come la radice della parola “Shanah” significa sia ripetere che cambiare, lo rivisitiamo, ma siamo diversi, e quindi anche la nostra esperienza è diversa. Proprio come passiamo un anno a leggere lo stesso rotolo della Torah, solo per ripeterlo di nuovo negli anni successivi, scopriamo che leggiamo quel testo in modo diverso ogni volta perché noi stessi siamo diversi, quindi parole, idee o intere storie possono saltarci agli occhi un anno come mai prima d’ora, perché ora abbiamo qualcosa dentro di noi che risuona con esse.

Forse amo troppo la frase “plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose” – più le cose cambiano, più rimangono uguali. Ma so anche che non rispecchia esattamente l’esperienza ebraica del cambiamento. Perché anche se ci sembra di trovarci in situazioni di vulnerabilità che i nostri antenati riconoscerebbero, l’ebraismo aggiunge un ingrediente in più alla ripetizione: quello della speranza e della capacità umana di creare significato. Non smettiamo mai di sperare di poter portare un vero cambiamento nel mondo, continuando la perfezione della creazione.

I cinici potrebbero ripetere le parole del predicatore Kohelet, che si dice siano state scritte dal grande e saggio re Salomone – מַה־שֶּׁהָיָה הוּא שֶׁיִּהְיֶה וּמַה־שֶּׁנַּעֲשָׂה הוּא שֶׁיֵּעָשֶׂה וְאֵין כׇּל־חָדָשׁ תַּחַת הַשָּׁמֶשׁ׃

Solo ciò che è accaduto può accadere, solo ciò che è stato fatto può essere fatto. Non c’è nulla di nuovo sotto il sole! Ma questa visione piuttosto pessimistica della vita non è quella del giudaismo rabbinico, poiché noi abbiamo l’idea di riparazione insita nella nostra stessa essenza, desideriamo ardentemente la redenzione. Come scrisse Nachman di Bratzlav: “Se credi di poter danneggiare, devi credere di poter ricostruire”. E continuò dicendo: “Il mondo intero è un ponte stretto, l’importante è non lasciarsi prendere dalla paura”. In altre parole, abbiamo il potere di creare un cambiamento positivo e significativo, purché non ci disperiamo e non rinunciamo alla speranza e all’immaginazione per farlo.

In questo momento ci troviamo in un punto della spirale che riecheggia alcuni degli elementi più dolorosi e terrificanti della storia ebraica. Tutti i valori dell’Illuminismo e della modernità sembrano essere crollati, l’antisemitismo è in aumento, gli ebrei hanno paura di essere visti come tali negli spazi pubblici e siamo un popolo più diviso che mai, polarizzato in un modo che temo possa essere davar chadash – una cosa nuova – o certamente qualcosa che non si vedeva dai tempi del secondo tempio. Mai come ora l’espressione “am k’shei oref” – un popolo dal collo rigido e testardo – è stata più appropriata.

Viviamo in un mondo di sinat hinam, odio senza motivo. Ci siamo già trovati in questa situazione e sappiamo quanto sia pericolosa. Ma proprio grazie a questa consapevolezza possiamo imparare a fare le cose in modo diverso. Abbiamo gli strumenti necessari per apportare il cambiamento. Nelle parole di Rav Kook, l’antidoto all’odio senza causa – sinat hinam – è l’amore senza causa – ahavat hinam.

In questa era dei social media possiamo vedere quanto sia facile manipolare le persone affinché odino gli altri. Basta guardare i commenti sotto qualsiasi articolo o fotografia per vedere persone disposte a denigrare e disumanizzare persone che non conoscono nemmeno. Possiamo vedere e sentire i politici populisti, la retorica del patriottismo, il razzismo, la misoginia, il nazionalismo e la xenofobia. Ci siamo già passati e possiamo cercare di garantire che lo stesso schema non si ripeta come in passato.

Liliane Segre ha parlato dell’indifferenza degli altri quando sono sorti il nazismo e il fascismo: “L’indifferenza racchiude la chiave per comprendere la ragione del male, perché quando credi che una cosa non ti tocchi, non ti riguardi, allora non c’è limite all’orrore. L’indifferente è complice.

“L’indifferenza racchiude la chiave per comprendere la ragione del male, perché quando credi che una cosa non ti tocchi, non ti riguardi, allora non c’è limite all’orrore. L’indifferente è complice

E lei ha detto che il contrario dell’indifferenza è la cura, assicurarsi che prestiamo attenzione, che le cose che vediamo accadere intorno a noi ci coinvolgano – non possiamo distogliere lo sguardo e dire che non siamo coinvolti – la neutralità non è un’opzione.

La sua richiesta trova eco nelle parole di Elie Wiesel nel suo discorso di accettazione del premio Nobel per la pace.

“Dobbiamo schierarci. La neutralità aiuta l’oppressore, mai la vittima. Il silenzio incoraggia il carnefice, mai il tormentato… Quando le vite umane sono in pericolo, quando la dignità umana è in pericolo, i confini nazionali e le sensibilità diventano irrilevanti. Ovunque uomini e donne siano perseguitati a causa della loro razza, religione o opinioni politiche, quel luogo deve – in quel momento – diventare il centro dell’universo”.

Viviamo nel tempo ebraico, in una storia sempre presente, con una speranza inestinguibile per il futuro. Passato, presente e futuro sono legati insieme per noi. Moses Chaim Luzzatto (RaMCHaL) chiama questo “tempo ricorrente” e ci offre speranza: “nel tempo ricorrente, la luce della santità che ci illuminava allora, risplenderà su di noi e ci raffinerà e rinnoverà”. (Derech HaShem composto nel 1735 a Padova)

Il tempo ebraico ci offre ripetute opportunità di agire bene, ci ricorda non solo di prenderci cura dei più vulnerabili del nostro popolo, ma anche di prenderci cura di tutte le persone, che ci assomiglino o meno, che siamo d’accordo con loro o meno, che le conosciamo personalmente o che siano estranee per noi. In un passaggio riportato in molti luoghi della nostra tradizione, ci viene detto che Shimon ben Azzai insegna che “il principio più grande della Torah è: Questo è il libro delle generazioni di Adamo [origine degli esseri umani]. Quando Dio creò gli esseri umani, Dio ci creò a sua immagine e somiglianza” (Genesi v. 1; Sifra, Ḳedoshim, iv.; Yer. Ned. ix. 41c; Gen. R. xxiv.).

In altre parole, siamo tutti un unico popolo umano, siamo tutti creature di Dio. Viviamo insieme su un piccolo pianeta e il modo in cui trattiamo la terra ha un impatto su tutti noi. Il modo in cui ci trattiamo l’un l’altro ha un impatto su tutti noi. E questo ci ricorda di difendere i nostri valori quando essi, e noi stessi, siamo sotto attacco.

L’antidoto all’odio immotivato non è spiegare logicamente perché è sbagliato. Non c’è logica in tale rabbia e odio. L’antidoto è vivere con amore immotivato, vedere l’umanità come un unico popolo che vive insieme su un pianeta piccolo e fragile, con un futuro legato insieme.

L’antidoto è prestare attenzione, notare, preoccuparsi, opporsi alle false narrazioni dell’odio.

Viviamo in un tempo ricorrente e a spirale, e ogni volta che affrontiamo una situazione possiamo scegliere come reagire. Speriamo che, come insegnava Luzzatto, la luce della santità che brillava su di noi prima, brilli su di noi ora e in futuro, raffinandoci, rinnovandoci e aiutandoci a creare un futuro di pace.

Shanah Tovah

Vayelech

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Parashat Vayelech is the shortest sidra in our torah cycle with just 30 verses. And even when paired, as it often is, with Parashat Nitzavim, the additional 40 verses still leave us with the shortest torah reading in the year.

And yet so much happens in these short verses. Moses concludes the speeches he has been making to the people since the beginning of the book of Deuteronomy;  speeches retelling their history, reminding them of particular values and responsibilities,  reflecting on their journey, reiterating the importance of their covenant with God and the responsibility to be faithful to this covenant relationship.  Three times in this chapter he exhorts them to be strong and resolute.  Twice he states that God will not fail or forsake them.   Having addressed first “all  Israel” and then Joshua in front of all the people telling him that he will lead the people into the land, Moses then writes down “et HaTorah hazot” – this teaching, and gives it to the Levites who carry the Ark of the covenant, and to all the elders of Israel, and then instructs them about Hakhel – that every seven years on the festival of Succot there was to be a full gathering of everyone in the community, men, women, children and strangers alike, to listen to this teaching and to learn and so to follow it faithfully.  He specifies that the children, who had not lived the experience of the exodus and desert journey, must listen and learn, so that they would understand their story, would revere God and follow God’s teaching in the land to which they were about to cross.

God reminds Moses that the time of his death is approaching and tells him to bring Joshua to the Tent of Meeting so that He may instruct him. As both Moses and Joshua enter the tent, God appears in the pillar of cloud and rather than instructing Joshua, God tells Moses that he will soon be dead, that afterwards the people will forsake God and follow the alien gods of the land, and that  the consequences of this will be terrible.  God’s anger will be unleashed and God will hide the divine face from them because of their evil deeds.  They will understand that their troubles have come because God is not with them, but God will hide the divine face from them. God instructs Moses to write a poem and teach it to the people of Israel” as a witness against them”, because, God tells him, God already knows what plans the people are devising that will take them from the path, even before they enter the Land that God promised them.

So Moses writes a second document, the poem we know as Ha’azinu, and teaches it to the Israelites.  An interpolation in the text then informs us that God commanded Joshua bin Nun, telling him to be strong and of good courage, because he will be the one to lead the Israelites into the promised land, and God will be with him.

Now the text returns –  we read that Moses concludes his writing “as Moses completed writing the words of this Torah in a book, until they were  finished” (v24) he gave it to the Levites and told them to put it at the side of the Ark of the Covenant “as a witness against the people”.  He speaks of the stubbornness and defiance of the people even while he is still lives – so how much more so will they be stiff-necked and self-centred once he is no longer around to correct them?  But who is he addressing at this point?  Only the Levites who will have a particular role in the ritual life of the people,  or the whole community? The text is ambiguous.

Then Moses tells the Levites to gather all the elders and officials of the tribes for him to speak to them and call heaven and earth as witness against them. He tells them he knows that once he is dead they will act wickedly and eventually the consequences of them failing to act according to God’s teachings will bring about catastrophe because God will lose patience with them. And then the chapter ends with the introduction to the poem, where we are told that Moses recited the words of the poem to the very end, in the hearing of the whole congregation of Israel.

The sidra is part of an ongoing narrative that comprises the whole of the Book of Deuteronomy, structured as the final exhortations of Moses to the people as they camp across the Jordan waiting to enter the promised land. But it is also one moment in time that explores the dying days of Moses’ leadership and of his life.  It is a liminal moment before the next stage, the change of generation as the old leader leaves the stage, and the people around him know that life will change, that they will move on from their nomadic existence into their committed promised land.

But it is also a literary gem, one short chapter that is tightly written, with repeated words and phrases forming triggers within the text.

Twice we read of Moses writing down words – torah – in a book which is then given to the Levites to care for alongside the Ark of the Covenant. Twice we are told that the people will forsake God and the consequences of this will be devastating. Twice Moses is told that he will shortly die.   Twice we are reminded that God made an oath to deliver the people to the Land promised to them. Twice people are told that God walks with them, will not forsake them, twice we are told that the people will forsake God and regret this bitterly.

Are the people to be strong and of good courage because God will be with them – as is asserted three times in this short text. Is there no possibility that they will not become weak and fail to live up to the covenant with God when they reach the land? How can these two assertions co-exist?  And yet they do.

And there are so many questions. Is Moses at 120 years too weak be mobile, in his words “I am not able to go out or to come in”, when we are told right at the start that Moses went out (Vayelech) to speak to the community – a word that appears unnecessary in every other instance of his declarations.  And what are we to make of this when later we are told that at his death his  was eye undimmed, his physical strength unabated.

The repeated use of a written text to “act as witness” against the people is also problematic. The hope is asserted that the people will hear and learn and act according to God’s teachings – so why should the text be a kind of hostile hostage to fortune?

The timeline of the text is odd  – narratives are fractured as well as repeated, there is an almost wandering quality in the story. What happens when is hard to pin down, there is a sense of the ambiguous, even among those repetitions of key words, phrases and themes. There is a dreamlike quality to this text, a sense of trying to make sense and transmit something of the utmost importance, but of occasionally losing the thread.

The repetitions form a kind of spiral in the text, but they also act as parentheses within it, and in the centre of it all are two individual stories  – the first is Hakhel – the commandment that every seven years the whole people are to  as one community and listen to the teachings in order to learn and to do. The second is the moment when the leadership passes from Moses to Joshua, when both are in the presence of God at the tent of meeting and Moses is told of his imminent death, that Joshua will take his place.

In my work as Spiritual Care Lead at a hospice I spend many hours with people in their final weeks and hours of life. And I recognise the way this text is written – the urgency alongside the ambiguity, the way a person reflects on the past and projects  themselves into a future they know they will not see – yet still see themselves in the continuity of experience.  The repetitions and the fractured narratives. The need to retell and record and to impress on others the learning they have acquired in their own lives. The story telling and the imperatives, the fears and the repeated reassurances – even while knowing those reassurances cannot be guaranteed.

And I see two big themes at the end of life for those who see themselves connected to others – Firstly,  that even though the individual is themselves leaving this life, there is a desire that the connection will continue, that the family or friendship group will continue to see each other, support each other, reiterate and reclaim all that they share that binds them to each other and to the dying person, so that the thread of relationship and shared understanding will both give meaning to the lived life of the dying person, but also take them forward  long after they are no longer physically present.  We write on gravestones the acronym taf nun tzadi beit heh – may the soul of the deceased be bound in the threads of life – an expectation that like a woven fabric in time, every soul and life is woven together, each one necessary for what will be woven after them.

The mitzvah of Hakhel creates regular future gatherings so that connectivity and meaning will not be lost. It weaves each person of the community together, binding everyone into the connecting threads of life

And the second is the need for someone to step up and into the roles of the dying person – for the next generation to take their place in holding it all together, so that the person can die with the reassurance that all is not lost, that their life built the sort of meaning which will outlive them and they will impact on the future because someone else takes up the link in the chain of eternity. Joshua, who has been at Moses’ side throughout the journey, is now invested in this role, and will indeed take them into the land.

How do these two themes find a way to express themselves? It is always with words. Written or spoken, whispered or in the notes section on the phone, in a diary or a poem or a song. We embody all that we are into Devarim – words that can transcend time and cross space, that will speak to generations we will never know and that can sit quietly for decades or even longer, until a reader comes to encounter them and invest them with new life.

The sidra is short but the message is eternal. We each walk along our own pathway in life, but we walk together – as the text tells us, God walks alongside and will not forsake us if we pay attention to our covenantal relationship.  Generations come and generations go, we mourn as we lose the people so precious to us to death, but we never lose their stories or memories, the way they impacted on us and shaped us in life, the way their voices speak in our souls. 

The relationships we nurture will nurture us – and more. They will create the continuity of meaning, create the bridge down the generations, and like the poem we will read in the next chapter, will mean that the meaning of our lives will never be forgotten.

Renew our Days as of Old

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The book of Lamentations, traditionally said to have been written by the prophet Jeremiah after the destruction of Jerusalem in 586 BCE and the exile of the people from Israel, ends with the recognition of God’s anger about Israel’s sins, but the custom is always that when a book ends on negative note, we repeat the penultimate verse – in this case the petition “הֲשִׁיבֵנוּ ה’ אֵלֶיךָ וְנָשׁוּבָ חַדֵּשׁ יָמֵינוּ כְּקֶדֶם  Return us God to you and we shall return, renew our day as before.

It is a verse you will know – we sing it when we return the scroll to the ark after reading from it every week. And it is a verse filled with complex layers of meaning.

It is a book filled with torment and despair, which famously begins with a description of Jerusalem as a widow, abandoned by God (her husband), empty of life and full of tears, beginning with a question “Eicha” – “How?” The suffering portrayed is overwhelming, and graphically described. God does not speak, the writer acknowledges their role in bringing this terrible situation about.

And then the penultimate verse ask God to bring us back to God, and we will return. And finally this strange request – hadesh yameinu k’kedem.  Make our days new – as they were before.  Or maybe “Make our days new – as we look towards the future. K’Kedem, which means “like in the past”(coming from the idea that the sun rises in the East and moves across the sky, so Kedem means both east and older or earlier), can also be construed as “with progression and advancement” (mitkadem references the future). So together these phrases ask for newness and renewal and for a return to an earlier state of being.

They remind us that we want to reclaim the good parts of our past while progressing into a new  position, becoming something more than we already are.

As we move through the month of Elul we are in the process of examining our past and reclaiming the parts that we feel make us a good person, while looking to a future and aiming to become the best person we can.  We recognise our role in, and responsibility for,  being the person we are now, and contemplate what we can change in ourselves going forward. And we petition God – “help us to come back to you” for we know ourselves to need such assistance if we are to make that journey.

Love Your Neighbour

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Perhaps the most quoted verse in the bible – Leviticus 19:18 – says “

לֹֽא־תִקֹּ֤ם וְלֹֽא־תִטֹּר֙ אֶת־בְּנֵ֣י עַמֶּ֔ךָ וְאָֽהַבְתָּ֥ לְרֵעֲךָ֖ כָּמ֑וֹךָ אֲנִ֖י יְהֹוָֽה׃

You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against members of your people. Love your neighbour as yourself: I am GOD.

Ve’ahavta le’re’echa kamocha. Rabbi Akiva said that this is the fundamental commandment of Torah. It is both a powerfully immediate text and one that causes us to question. Can one be commanded to love, and in which case (as we are also commanded to love God in the Shema prayer, what does that love look like? It cannot be a feeling for these are never under our control, so it must be an action.

How should we behave in order to show that we are following this commandment?

Rabbi Ovadia Sforno tells us that this is a general and all inclusive rule dictating how we should behave towards other human beings – not that we should do for them things that we might want done for ourselves, but that we should apply the same concern for our fellow human being that we would want applied to ourselves were we in their situation. So we need to practise empathy – putting ourselves in the place of another and considering what that would feel like.  This rule is wonderful, but it has its limitations. How can we know for sure that what we would want for ourselves would really be what another person would want and need for themselves?

Ibn Ezra has a slightly different view. Because there is what appears to be a superfluous letter – a lamed – he translates the verse not as to love, but to act lovingly – we should love that which is good for our neighbour, just as we want that which is good for ourselves.

There is a famous story in the Babylonian Talmud (Shabbat 31a).

Once there was a gentile who came before Shammai, and said to him: “Convert me on the condition that you teach me the whole Torah while I stand on one foot. Shammai pushed him aside with the measuring stick he was holding. The same fellow came before Hillel the elder   (110BCE-10CE) and Hillel converted him, saying: That which is despicable to you, do not do to your fellow, this is the whole Torah, and the rest is commentary, go and learn it.”

I love the fact that Hillel, who clearly knew the verse in Leviticus, chose to frame this golden rule differently. It is, I think, typical of his teaching which tries to open up Jewish life rather than to close it down, to interpret the spirit of a law rather than to create a plethora of regulations to follow.

Rather than to require us to know something that ultimately we cannot always know – what another person wants and needs beyond those needs we all have for survival – Hillel asks us to empathise in a different way. That which is abhorrent to us we must not do to others.  We know what we find abhorrent. We don’t have to be scholars of texts or of human psychology in order to fulfil this commandment.

Love your neighbour as yourself. While Hillel and Akiva both describe this as being (almost) the whole of torah, a foundational principle from which everything else springs, I cannot help but notice that the midrash twice quotes a debate between Akiva and Ben Azzai who says that there is an even deeper and more critical principle in Torah: “Ben Azzai says; ‘This is the book of the generations of Adam’ (Genesis 5:1) is a greater principle” – Why? Because it reminds us that all of us human beings are related and connected. We don’t have to ask what does it mean to love, nor do we ask whether our neighbour is in some way different from people more distant from us. Instead, if we truly understand we are one creation, with one God who made and loves us all, then everything else will follow and we will live lives of meaning and of love.

Forse il versetto più citato della Bibbia – Levitico 19:18 – recita: «  לֹֽא־תִקֹּ֤ם וְלֹֽא־תִטֹּר֙ אֶת־בְּנֵ֣י עַמֶּ֔ךָ וְאָֽהַבְתָּ֥ לְרֵעֲךָ֖ כָּמ֑וֹךָ אֲנִ֖י יְהֹוָֽה׃

Non ti vendicherai né serberai rancore contro i membri del tuo popolo. Ama il tuo prossimo come te stesso: Io sono DIO.

Ve’ahavta le’re’echa kamocha. Rabbi Akiva disse che questo è il comandamento fondamentale della Torah. È un testo dal significato immediato e potente, che ci induce a porci delle domande. Si può comandare di amare, e in tal caso (poiché ci viene anche comandato di amare Dio nella preghiera dello Shema), che tipo di amore è questo? Non può essere un sentimento, poiché i sentimenti non sono mai sotto il nostro controllo, quindi deve trattarsi di un’azione.

Come dovremmo comportarci per dimostrare che stiamo seguendo questo comandamento?

Rabbi Ovadia Sforno ci dice che questa è una regola generale e onnicomprensiva che detta come dovremmo comportarci nei confronti degli altri esseri umani: non che dovremmo fare per loro ciò che vorremmo fosse fatto per noi stessi, ma che dovremmo applicare ai nostri simili la stessa attenzione che vorremmo fosse applicata a noi stessi se fossimo nella loro situazione. Quindi dobbiamo praticare l’empatia, mettendoci al posto dell’altro e considerando come ci sentireste. Questa regola è meravigliosa, ma ha i suoi limiti. Come possiamo sapere con certezza che ciò che vorremmo per noi stessi sarebbe davvero ciò che un’altra persona vorrebbe e avrebbe bisogno per sé?

Ibn Ezra ha un punto di vista leggermente diverso. Poiché c’è una lettera che sembra superflua, una lamed, egli traduce il versetto non come amare, ma come agire con amore: dovremmo amare ciò che è buono per il nostro prossimo, proprio come desideriamo ciò che è buono per noi stessi.

C’è una famosa storia nel Talmud babilonese (Shabbat 31a).

Una volta un gentile si presentò davanti a Shammai e gli disse: “Convertimi a condizione che tu mi insegni tutta la Torah mentre sto su un piede solo”. Shammai lo spinse via con il bastone che aveva in mano. Lo stesso uomo si presentò davanti a Hillel il Vecchio (110 a.C.-10 d.C.) e Hillel lo convertì, dicendo: “Non fare al tuo prossimo ciò che è spregevole per te, questa è tutta la Torah, il resto è commento, vai e imparalo”.

Mi piace il fatto che Hillel, che chiaramente conosceva il versetto del Levitico, abbia scelto di formulare questa regola d’oro in modo diverso. È, credo, tipico del suo insegnamento che cerca di aprire la vita ebraica piuttosto che chiuderla, di interpretare lo spirito di una legge piuttosto che creare una pletora di regole da seguire.

Piuttosto che esigere da noi di conoscere qualcosa che in definitiva non possiamo sempre conoscere – ciò che un’altra persona vuole e di cui ha bisogno al di là dei bisogni che tutti abbiamo per sopravvivere – Hillel ci chiede di entrare in empatia in un modo diverso. Non dobbiamo fare agli altri ciò che è ripugnante per noi. Sappiamo cosa troviamo ripugnante. Non dobbiamo essere studiosi di testi o di psicologia umana per adempiere a questo comandamento.

Ama il tuo prossimo come te stesso. Mentre Hillel e Akiva descrivono entrambi questo come (quasi) l’intera Torah, un principio fondamentale da cui tutto il resto deriva, non posso fare a meno di notare che il midrash cita due volte un dibattito tra Akiva e Ben Azzai, il quale afferma che nella Torah esiste un principio ancora più profondo e fondamentale: «Ben Azzai dice: ‘Questo è il libro delle generazioni di Adamo’ (Genesi 5:1) è un principio più grande” – Perché? Perché ci ricorda che tutti noi esseri umani siamo imparentati e collegati. Non dobbiamo chiederci cosa significhi amare, né chiederci se il nostro prossimo sia in qualche modo diverso dalle persone più lontane da noi. Invece, se comprendiamo veramente che siamo un’unica creazione, con un unico Dio che ci ha creati e ci ama tutti, allora tutto il resto seguirà e vivremo una vita piena di significato e di amore.