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Tu b’Shevat – make us more tree

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Mishnah Rosh Hashanah begins with two different set of four dates – the first mishnah speaks of the four new years for taxation/institutional official purposes-

אַרְבָּעָה רָאשֵׁי שָׁנִים הֵם. בְּאֶחָד בְּנִיסָן רֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה לַמְּלָכִים וְלָרְגָלִים. בְּאֶחָד בֶּאֱלוּל רֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה לְמַעְשַׂר בְּהֵמָה. רַבִּי אֶלְעָזָר וְרַבִּי שִׁמְעוֹן אוֹמְרִים, בְּאֶחָד בְּתִשְׁרֵי. בְּאֶחָד בְּתִשְׁרֵי רֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה לַשָּׁנִים וְלַשְּׁמִטִּין וְלַיּוֹבְלוֹת, לַנְּטִיעָה וְלַיְרָקוֹת. בְּאֶחָד בִּשְׁבָט, רֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה לָאִילָן, כְּדִבְרֵי בֵית שַׁמַּאי. בֵּית הִלֵּל אוֹמְרִים, בַּחֲמִשָּׁה עָשָׂר בּוֹ:

They are four New Years: On the first of Nisan is the New Year for kings; And for (the order of) the Festivals, On the first of Elul is the New Year for animal tithes; Rabbi Elazar and Rabbi Shimon say: on the first of Tishrei. On the first of Tishrei is the New Year for years, (including for counting)Sabbatical Years and Jubilee Years, for planting young trees , and for (tithing) vegetables, On the first of Shevat is the New Year for the tree in accordance with the statement of Beit Shammai. But Beit Hillel say: The New Year for trees is on the fifteenth of Shevat.

The second Mishnah tells us about the four days of judgement:

בְּאַרְבָּעָה פְרָקִים הָעוֹלָם נִדּוֹן, בְּפֶסַח עַל הַתְּבוּאָה, בַּעֲצֶרֶת עַל פֵּרוֹת הָאִילָן, בְּרֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה כָּל בָּאֵי הָעוֹלָם עוֹבְרִין לְפָנָיו כִּבְנֵי מָרוֹן, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר (תהלים לג) הַיּוֹצֵר יַחַד לִבָּם, הַמֵּבִין אֶל כָּל מַעֲשֵׂיהֶם. וּבֶחָג נִדּוֹנִין עַל הַמָּיִם:

At four times of the year the world is judged: On Passover judgment is passed concerning grain; on Shavuot concerning fruits that grow on a tree; on Rosh HaShana, all creatures pass before Him like sheep [benei maron], as it is stated: “He Who fashions their hearts alike, Who considers all their deeds” (Psalms 33:15); and on the festival of Sukkot they are judged concerning water, i.e., the rainfall of the coming year.

At first sight, the connection between the two seems to be simply that the author of the Mishnah is grouping sets of four. But look a little closer and we see some quirks within the texts that draw attention – specifically I’m interested in the preponderance of trees – three of the eight special days mention them, and that in fact each time rather than mentioning trees (plural), the mishnah speaks of “tree” (singular) – even though the mishnaic word for tree – Ilan – has a regular plural.

The word for tree in bible is עץ  (eitz) whereas the rabbinic literature tends to use the word  ָאִילָן ilan”, influenced by the Aramaic, and also probably in order to distinguish more between different species of tree. 

Curiously in Biblical Hebrew, the word עץ seems to mean either ‘a’ tree (singular) or trees (plural), and when found in the plural form עצים (eitzim), the meaning is never “trees”, but “wood”.

It is likely to be a two letter root, though it may be derived from יעץ ya’atz – meaning to advise or to counsel, or the verb עצם atzam – to be strong or mighty, from which we get the noun  עצם etzem, meaning bones.  Or it could be connected to עצה meaning to bind or to attach.

What does this tell us about ancient Judaism’s view of trees?  Trees appear frequently in our texts and at critically important junctures in the narratives.. In the first story of Creation, on the third day God separated the sea from the dry land and then created the very first living things – trees.

וַיֹּ֣אמֶר אֱלֹהִ֗ים תַּֽדְשֵׁ֤א הָאָ֙רֶץ֙ דֶּ֗שֶׁא עֵ֚שֶׂב מַזְרִ֣יעַ זֶ֔רַע עֵ֣ץ פְּרִ֞י עֹ֤שֶׂה פְּרִי֙ לְמִינ֔וֹ אֲשֶׁ֥ר זַרְעוֹ־ב֖וֹ עַל־הָאָ֑רֶץ וַֽיְהִי־כֵֽן׃

And God said, “Let the earth sprout vegetation: seed-bearing plants, fruit trees of every kind on earth that bear fruit with the seed in it.” And it was so. (Genesis 1:11-12)

In the second creation story we read וַיִּטַּ֞ע יְהֹוָ֧ה אֱלֹהִ֛ים גַּן־בְּעֵ֖דֶן מִקֶּ֑דֶם וַיָּ֣שֶׂם שָׁ֔ם אֶת־הָֽאָדָ֖ם אֲשֶׁ֥ר יָצָֽר׃

The ETERNAL God planted a garden in Eden, in the east, and placed there the Human who had been fashioned.

וַיַּצְמַ֞ח יְהֹוָ֤ה אֱלֹהִים֙ מִן־הָ֣אֲדָמָ֔ה כׇּל־עֵ֛ץ נֶחְמָ֥ד לְמַרְאֶ֖ה וְט֣וֹב לְמַאֲכָ֑ל וְעֵ֤ץ הַֽחַיִּים֙ בְּת֣וֹךְ הַגָּ֔ן וְעֵ֕ץ הַדַּ֖עַת ט֥וֹב וָרָֽע׃

And from the ground the ETERNAL God caused to grow every tree that was pleasing to the sight and good for food, with the tree of life in the middle of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and bad.  (Genesis 2:8-9)

It seems as if the creation of trees and the creation of human beings are intimately connected. Each are at the pinnacle of their category of creation.

The midrash (Kohelet Rabbah 7:13) tells the following story ““When God created the first human being he took him and showed him all the trees  of the Garden of Eden and said to him, ‘See my works, how beautiful and praiseworthy they are. And everything that I created, I created it for you. Be careful not to spoil or destroy my world–for if you do, there will be nobody after you to repair it.’”

God tells Adam that the trees were created for human beings, and warns him that any damage to them will be irreparable – beautiful trees created for humanity must be cared for scrupulously. The lives – and potentially the deaths – of trees and humanity are intertwined.

This is, I think beautifully embedded in the idea of our bones being connected to the word for tree. Beyond the idea of a human skeletal frame mirroring a tree, beyond the idea of bones being strong and supportive and connected, the bone is the innermost and most enduring part of the body and so the word comes also to express the core of a person, their essence or substance or ultimately, themselves.

Louis Ginzberg in his “Legends of the Jews” – a compendium of stories and midrashim in Jewish text, tells us

The  main  creation  of  the  third  day  was  the  realm  of  plants,  the  terrestrial  plants  as  well  as  the  plants  of  Paradise. First  of  all  the  cedars  of  Lebanon  and  the  other  great trees  were  made.  In  their  pride  at  having  been  put  first, they  shot  up  high  in  the  air.  They  considered  themselves the  favoured  among  plants.    Then  God  spoke,  ”  I  hate  arrogance  and  pride,  for  I  alone  am  exalted,  and  none  beside,” and  He  created  the  iron  on  the  same  day,  the  substance  with which  trees  are  felled  down.  The  trees  began  to  weep,  and when  God  asked  the  reason  of  their  tears,  they  said :  ”  We cry  because  You have created  the  iron  to  uproot  us  therewith. All  the  while  we  had  thought  ourselves  the  highest  of the  earth,  and  now  the  iron,  our  destroyer,  has  been  called into  existence.”  God  replied :  ”  You  yourselves  will  furnish

the  axe  with  a  handle.  Without  your  assistance  the  iron will  not  be  able  to  do  aught  against  you.”  ”  (Ginzburg legends of the Jews Creation of the World 19)

Deuteronomy 20:19 speaks of behaviour in war,

כִּֽי־תָצ֣וּר אֶל־עִיר֩ יָמִ֨ים רַבִּ֜ים לְֽהִלָּחֵ֧ם עָלֶ֣יהָ לְתׇפְשָׂ֗הּ לֹֽא־תַשְׁחִ֤ית אֶת־עֵצָהּ֙ לִנְדֹּ֤חַ עָלָיו֙ גַּרְזֶ֔ן כִּ֚י מִמֶּ֣נּוּ תֹאכֵ֔ל וְאֹת֖וֹ לֹ֣א תִכְרֹ֑ת כִּ֤י הָֽאָדָם֙ עֵ֣ץ הַשָּׂדֶ֔ה לָבֹ֥א מִפָּנֶ֖יךָ בַּמָּצֽוֹר׃

“When in your war against a city you have to besiege it a long time in order to capture it, you must not destroy its trees, wielding the axe against them. You may eat of them, but you must not cut them down. Are trees of the field human to withdraw before you into the besieged city? “

While we traditionally read the last part of the verse as if it is a question, many commentators note that the literal meaning is not interrogative, but instead translates as “for a human is a tree of the field” (see for example BT Ta’anit 7a, or the comment of Ibn Ezra (ad loc) man is a tree of the field… In my opinion…The meaning is as follows: You may eat of them, but do not cut them down, for man is a tree of the field (i.e., the life of man depends on the trees of the field).

The interconnectedness of human beings and trees can be found all over our texts – from the trees in the Garden of Eden whose forbidden fruit is the catalyst to humans leaving that place, to the Proverb (3:18) that Torah is “Etz Chaim” a tree of life to all who grasp it עֵץ־חַיִּים הִיא לַמַּחֲזִיקִים בָּהּ וְתֹמְכֶיהָ מְאֻשָּׁר׃.  Trees provide shade and security in multiple narratives, most notably when Abraham sits under the oak trees of Mamre when he is visited by the angels who will announce the birth of Isaac, gopher wood  is used in the building of Noah’s ark, olive branches signpost the existence of dry land at the end of the great flood, Deborah sits under a palm tree to act as Judge. Bezalel makes the ark of the covenant from acacia wood, Aaron’s rod blossoms into an almond tree, and of course there is reference to cedars and cypress and olives and figs throughout the text. Trees accompany us through life, and even mark our graves (for example Deborah the nurse of Rebecca is buried under an oak and the place named “alon bacut – a tree of weeping). They are with us in the desert, in the mountains, on the plains – and in exile.  They act as sentry and as shade, signal the presence of water in dry lands and produce essential foods – olives, figs, pomegranates and dates….

So it is possibly not surprising that we have a particular blessing for seeing fruit trees in blossom. However this blessing is unusual, indeed it is unique, for in no other blessing do we refer to any natural being or event as being “of benefit to human beings”. We don’t bless the rain like this, nor crops, nor sunshine nor animals nor food nor wine –it is only when we see more than one flowering fruit tree together that this blessing is invoked.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה
יהוה אֱלֹהֵֽינוּ
מֶֽלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם
שֶׁלֹּא חִסֵּר בְּעוֹלָמוֹ כְּלוּם
וּבָרָא בּוֹ בְּרִיּוֹת טוֹבוֹת
וְאִילָנוֹת טוֹבוֹת
לְהִתְנָאוֹת בָּהֶן בְּנֵי אָדָם׃

Blessed are you, Adonai our God, ruler of the universe
who has made nothing lacking in the world at all, 
but Who created a good creation and good trees
for the children of Adam to benefit from them

To return to the midrash: in Bereishit Rabbah we read that as a response to the arrogance of the trees, God is said to have created iron on the same day. The trees cried out in fear – God had created the very material that would be used to destroy them. God’s response is telling – indeed there is the possibility of an axe being used to fell trees, but for such a destruction the trees would have to play a part – the handle of any axe would of necessity be made from wood.

I think of this story every time Tu b’Shevat comes around, and we focus on environmental ethics and ecological need. We often remind ourselves with the midrash from Kohelet that the world was created for human beings, but that if we damage it there is no one who will be able to put it right afterwards. This  is a frightening thought – there are long term and unmitigable consequences to our behaviour towards our world. But I think we should also remind ourselves that when great damage is done, it requires our participation or at the very least our assent. Environmental damage is done not by “others” with no connection to ourselves, but we have to admit that we too are part of the process.  Whether it is the clearing of rain forests for planting crops or palm trees for their oil. Whether it is the plague of plastic pollution in the oceans as well as on land, or the greenhouse gasses, emissions from transport vehicles of all kinds, food waste and food miles…. – we all partake of the creation of the damage. We are the wooden handle holding the iron blade, we are complicit.

I think it is almost impossible not to be party to the damage, though it is good for us to educate ourselves to mitigate our contribution. And trees also teach us that there can be growth and regeneration if the destruction is halted. The very word means has meanings of connection, of strength and wise counsel. And how often have we seen a tree stump regrow – be it the very real sycamore gap tree by Hadrian’s wall (https://www.npr.org/2024/08/01/nx-s1-5060047/sycamore-gap-tree-regrowth-go-tree-go) or the messianic metaphor in the prophesy of Isaiah (11:1-3) that A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse; from his roots a Branch will bear fruit. /2 The Spirit of the Eternal will rest on him— the Spirit of wisdom and of understanding, the Spirit of counsel and of might, the Spirit of the knowledge and fear of the Lord—3 and he will delight in the fear of the Lord”.    Trees can, and do, regenerate.

We should maybe be “more tree”. Planted firmly on the earth and reaching up into the sky, Generous with our offerings to the world – the fruit and flowers of trees sustain not only human beings but many wild animals and birds. Bringing beauty and stability and strength and comfort to the world -trees provide shade and security and homes for many insects and birds.

Even to begin to understand our connectedness to nature,  to begin to mitigate our actions and our assent to the damage being done in our world, so that with small changes in behaviour we can make a difference, that I think is what these texts are telling us.

Tu biShvat is a date to focus our attention. And I think the date – even the disagreement about the date – is an important signal to us. It is the only  “new year” not to fall on the first of the month, but instead on the new moon. Discussion around the chosen date recognises that it fits no obvious good time for planting, or for the blossom to be open and seen – instead the traditional commentators make rather random claims that the rain is “mostly fallen” – it is still within the rainy season in Israel, a terrible time to plant as any gardener will advise.  So why claim a date that cannot be said to be seasonal for the calculation of tax of the fruit of trees? I think because tradition wants us to look further than the dry calculation of tithing and accountancy, to think about the importance of trees in our world, and to remind us of their deep connection to us.

In the poem by Max Halperin

Aseini K’Ilan: Make Me Like A Tree, Max Halperin
Make me like a tree rooted on the water, with fruit to give in its time.
Make me like lightning descending from the sky, illuminating the earth for a moment.
Make me like rain, light or heavy, that gives strength to a tired world.
Make me like wheat, simple and common, that brings forth our bread from the earth.
Make me like myrtle aside the lulav, that gives its color to joy.
Make me like a red rose with thorns, beautiful and strong in its way.
Make me like an olive with pure oil, a symbol of serenity and our dedication.
Make me like the sun that rises with us, which colors the sky with its light.
Make me like the dew on the grass, making the land glimmer at each dawn.
Make me like the sea, vast and unified, which renews the shore and itself.
Make me like a windflower, little and tall, a dot of color in the winter fields.
Make me like the moon alight in the darkness, smiling from among the stars.
Make me like the desert, open on all sides, strengthening all who trust it.
Make me like a river on the forest floor, rushing to enliven its world.
Make me like a bush with colorful flowers, beautifying its surroundings with its presence.
Make me like a cloud in a blue expanse, and its community that dances with the spirit.
Make me like an unripe fruit on its branch, constantly growing and sweetening.
Make me like nectar within a flower, feeding the smallest animals.
Make me like a rainbow against the gray, a promise of improving times.
Make me like a pomegranate with many seeds, a symbol of new beginnings.
Make me like a lily resting on the water, reaching up from the depths.
Make me like an apple waiting on its tree, prepared to ripen at its time.

עֲשֵׁנִי כְּאִילָן שָׁתוּל עַל הַמַּיִם, עִם פֵּרוֹת לָתֵת בִּזְמַנּוֹ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּבָרָק יוֹרֵד מִן שָׁמַיִם, שֶׁמֵּאִיר אֶת הָעוֹלָם לִשְׁנִיָּה

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּגֶשֶׁם קַל אוֹ כָּבֵד, שֶׁנּוֹתֵן כֹּחַ לְעוֹלָם עָיֵף

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּדָגָן פָּשׁוּט וְרָגִיל, שֶׁמּוֹצִיא לַחְמֵנוּ מִן הָאָרֶץ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כַּהֲדַס עַל יַד הַלּוּלָב, שֶׁנּוֹתֵן רֵיחוֹ לְשִׂמְחָה

.עֲשֵׁנִי כַּוֶּרֶד אָדֹם עִם קוֹצִים, יָפֶה וְחָזָק בְּדַרְכּוֹ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כַּזַּיִת עִם שֶׁמֶן זַךְ, סֵמֶל שֶׁל שַׁלְוָה וְשֶׁל חֲנֻכָּתֵנוּ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּחַמָּה עוֹלָה אִתָּנוּ, שֶׁצּוֹבַעַת הַשָּׁמַיִם עִם אוֹרָה

.עֲשֵׁנִי כִּטְלָלִים עַל הַדֶּשֶׁא, הַמְּנַצְנְצִים עַל הָאָרֶץ בְּכָל זְרִיחָה

.עֲשֵׁנִי כַּיָּם גָּדוֹל וּמְאַחֵד, שֶׁמְּחַדֵּשׁ אֶת הַחוֹף וְאֶת עַצְמוֹ

 .עֲשֵׁנִי כְּכַלָּנִית קְטַנָּה וּגְבוֹהָה, נְקֻדָּה שֶׁל צֶבַע בִּשְׂדוֹת הַחֹרֶף

.עֲשֵׁנִי כַּלְּבָנָה נָגַהּ בַּחֹשֶׁךְ, הַמְּחַיֶּכֶת מִתּוֹךְ הַכּוֹכָבִים

.עֲשֵׁנִי כַּמִּדְבָּר פָּתוּחַ בְּכָל צַד, שֶׁהֶחֱזִיק אֶת כָּל שֶׁהֶאֱמִין בּוֹ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּנָהָר עַל רִצְפַּת הַיַּעַר, שֶׁרָץ לִחְיוֹת עוֹלָמוֹ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כִּסְנֶה עִם פְּרָחִים צִבְעוֹנִים, יָפֶה סְבִיבָתוֹ עִם נוֹכְחוּתוֹ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּעָנָן בָּרָקִיעַ כָּחֹל, וּקְהִלָּתוֹ שֶׁרוֹקֶדֶת עִם הָרוּחַ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּפָגָה עַל עֲנָפָהּ, גְּדֵלָה וּמוֹתֶקֶת תָּמִיד

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּצוּף בְּתוֹךְ הַפֶּרַח, מַאֲכִיל לְהַחֲיוֹת הַהֲכִי קִתְנוֹת

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּקֶשֶׁת כְּנֶגֶד הָאָפֹר, הַבְטָחָה לִזְמַנִּים מְשֻׁפָּרִים

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּרִמּוֹן עִם גַּרְעִינִים רַבִּים, הַמְּבַשֵּׂר לְהַתְחָלוֹת חֲדָשׁוֹת

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּשׁוֹשָׁן נָח עַל הַמַּיִם, שֶׁהוֹשִׁיט כִּתְרוֹ לְמַעְלָה מֵהָעֵמֶק

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּתַפּוּחַ מְחַכֶּה עַל עָצוּ, נָכוֹן לְבַשֵּׁל בְּעִתּוֹ

Parashat Bo: real freedom isn’t given by others but constantly and repeatedly created and maintained by ourselves

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When God re-enters history to bring the children of Israel back to their own land, as was promised in the covenants made with Abraham, Isaac and with Jacob, the relationship between humankind and God is altered for all time. 

In the book of Genesis, when the first human beings freely disobeyed Gods orders and ate from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, the result was that they acquired divine characteristics, and so, in case they would go on to acquire the ability to surmount life and death and become immortal, they had to go.  Thrust out of Eden, humankind had to get on with looking after itself, with only the gifts God gave them to survive and to thrive.

Later, when Abraham met God and began to understand something about the nature of the absoluteness of God, a different relationship developed – one of mutual obligation – a covenant.  This relationship was passed down from father to son through the particular blessing, and “Covenant” became a particular family characteristic, shared through the generations and eventually the many and diverse descendants. For the family we know from the Book of Genesis grew, and over the generations became “the children of Israel” who were not so much a family, not so much a tribe, as a people, bound together by blood and name, but also by circumstance. 

As slaves in Egypt they had a shared experience far more powerful than the stories they shared of common ancestry.  As an oppressed foreign labour force they shared humiliation and pain and they shared dreams of freedom too.  The notion of a Creator of the Universe who cared about them as individuals must have seemed very far-fetched – a figure of legend rather than a real presence. Yet they clung on to the stories and the traditions, they knew their yichus, their family background stories and narratives that gave them identity, and they knew about the Covenant and the Promise that they would one day return to their own land, and be free.

When God re-entered history, and re-entered the relationship between the descendants of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, it was to fulfil the conditions of the covenant made all that time ago, and to bring about real human freedom.  The story of the exodus reads as one of liberation from oppression, but scratch the surface a little and the liberation is a far greater one. It is the story of the true freedom – the freedom to be.

One of the most difficult ideas which confronts the reader of this narrative is that of Gods hardening the heart of Pharaoh.  It just doesn’t seem fair that Pharaoh is manipulated in this way; that he can’t back down and give up.  To the unwary reader God is portrayed as an unforgiving and devious God, barely giving the Pharaoh a chance to repent and change his mind.

But look at the whole story a little closer and something else emerges.  

Pharaoh operates on the assumption that not only can he refuse Gods requests, but that he can overrule God.  He assumes that his is the greater power; that the world operates on his say-so.  Any other ‘god’ is simply a less superior being than himself.  The battle that is waged between Pharaoh and God has to be one which destroys that assumption for all time: – as we pray at the end of the Aleinu “The Eternal shall be as a monarch over all the earth, On that day the Eternal shall be One and known as One”. 

It is the absoluteness of the Diving Being that must be recognised as this story unfolds, and with that recognition will come real understanding and hence real freedom. 

Pharaoh’s heart is hardened, his will is strengthened – he is empowered to act out fully his self-perception of his divinity, and no human weakness will prevent him from engaging in the battle between himself and God.  Each time he begins to falter,  he is buoyed up again by thinking himself in charge, in control of the world around him. He offers freedom and then rescinds his offer when the immediate threat is removed.  He feels himself to be in a position to negotiate; he thinks he holds all the cards and that is opponent will bend to his will.  His whole world view is cut off from the reality that we see the rest of Egypt begin to understand – his power is increasingly seen as irrelevant.

Yet still he carries on until his apparent divinity and power is shown up for what it is, he cannot keep his people safe, he cannot overpower his opponent in the battle for supremacy, he and his people are mortal.

After the terrible night that saw the deaths of the first born children and animals in all of Egypt, the children of Israel are sent on their way, thrust out yet again into an unknown future, yet this time at least they had a leader with a direct line of communication with God.

  The text tells us that before that final night and climactic terrible plague of death,  the children of Israel had to do something for themselves in a very public way – they had essentially to demonstrate their own confidence in God, and their contempt of Egyptian theology, by daubing their doorposts with blood from a newly slaughtered lamb, and many understand that the symbolism of this was huge – the lamb was one of the most powerful symbols of divinity used in Egypt.  Those who did this brave act were spared the effects of the passing over them of the Angel of Death; those who were not brave enough or sure enough to do so were treated like the rest of the Egyptians among whom they had chosen to stay, and their first born sons and animals were also killed. 

The Israelites were learning about real freedom throughout the plagues that were around them, they were learning that real freedom is in the self, and is not given – cannot be given – by another person.  They had light while the Egyptians had a deep darkness. 

So by the 10th plague the Israelites had learned about the freedom to be themselves and not be afraid of other people, and the Egyptians had apparently learned that what they assumed was their birthright to control their world did not in fact stand up.  They were not free to decide how the Israelites should live; they were not free to do exactly as they pleased at the cost of other people’s lives and with the consequent effacement of God. 

One might assume that liberation had truly been effected – both the physical and the mental and spiritual liberation of the exodus from Egypt. But the story goes on, describing exactly the human ability to disbelieve, to take refuge in habitual lines of thought.  For soon after the Israelites had left Egypt – an Egypt in mourning, devastated and destroyed by what had happened within its boundaries, the pharaoh picked himself up – no hardening of the heart this time – and sent an army with horsemen and chariots after them to bring them back.  And the Israelites, finding themselves between this army and the sea, feared greatly that the whole liberation was false, that they would be forced to return to slavery in Egypt. What happened then is a story everyone knows – the Israelites jumped into the water, the sea parted and the Israelites passed through but the Egyptians who followed were drowned.  Only when Pharaoh had lost his army, and all trappings of control, would he finally come to realise that he was not all powerful.  Only when the children of Israel took the plunge (if you’ll pardon the pun), and do what they had to do, and took a risk, did they come to believe in their own abilities to survive, in their own freedom.  The Song at the Sea begins with a telling phrase: ”When the people saw all that God had done, then they believed in the Eternal and in Moses God’s servant”. 

It took a huge amount of effort to force the Pharaoh and the Egyptians to realise that their economic and military control of the region did not in the end guarantee their freedom, and it took some huge risk taking on the part of the Israelites before they realised that their freedom lay within themselves, that it is not an external force at all.  All of the drama that went on in Egypt merely dressed the stage and acted as backdrop for the realisation that the freedom could have been found all along. It just took someone with a willingness to take a risk, and with a vision of freedom being available, for the whole scenario to play itself out.  From the expulsion from Eden through the repeated covenant relationship with Abraham Isaac and Jacob, God was there and waiting for the next stage. The story moved on with our willingness – or lack of willingness – to grasp freedom for ourselves, to recognise our role in creating freedom for ourselves and for others.

With all its obligations and responsibilities, its terrors and its pleasures, its risks and its rewards, freedom is scary. But unless we grasp it and work to keep it, and ensure that others are also able to enjoy it, we are not fulfilling our role in the world. As Rabbi Mordechai Kaplan, the founder of Reconstructionist Judaism recognised, “It is much harder to live a life of freedom and self-rule than to be ruled by others”. Yet this is the choice we must make, and Bible reassures us that in making it we will find we are not alone at all.

Shemot: God and we are both in the process of becoming. We will be what we will be.

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When Moses first encounters God he asks for God’s name so as to be able to prove to the Israelites that he did indeed meet their ancestral deity, and God tells him not a name he will understand, but to say “Ehyeh asher Ehyeh – I will be what I will be – tell them Ehyeh sent you to them”

 The word Ehyeh is the first person future of the verb ‘to be’, and suggests that God is not a fixed and definable figure, knowable nameable and therefore predictable to human beings, but is rather an evolving, mysterious and dynamic power that is always in process of becoming more than what it was or is. The implication is that God grows and changes through contact with us, just as we grow and change in contact with God.

In the earliest books of the Hebrew bible God is very present – God speaks to individuals, walks with them, appears in our world.  Encounters with God are recognised as being what they are, the significance is understood.  And while much of the language describing the experience is of necessity quite simple and concrete – walking with, appearing, speaking – signs and wonders, outstretched arms, and so on, the writers of the text knew quite clearly that the real encounter was complex and abstract.  There is no language even to begin to paint the sense of the evolving, mysterious and dynamic power which is always in process, always becoming rather than merely being.  God may have been revealed to individuals, but making a sensible remembrance of that revelation is beyond the skills of human transmission.

Increasingly it seems to me we are losing the ability to communicate real religious experience as we more and more try to define, describe and explain everything around us, and more and more we seek to explain God.  Scriptural literalists take refuge in the minutiae of the meaning of the bible as they read it; secularists scoff at what they see as the inability to transmit coherent systems of understanding; people searching for spiritual depth are put off by the archaisms or anthropomorphisms.  How do we get across the reality of our encounters with God, the vibrancy of them, the totality of that transient understanding that has nothing to do with language?   How do we begin to recognise God, to recognise the significance of our meetings with God when we have no framework to do so? 

Every generation has created its own language for its religious encounters – the rabbis of the Talmud say that there are 70 names for God within the Hebrew bible, and they created many more. The mystics created the name EIN SOF – meaning “the entity without end”. The truth is that even after having called God every possible word, we still would not come close to revealing the mystery of the identity of God.  But that doesn’t give us the reason not to try to come closer.   Every generation is responsible for understanding God in its own way.  If God is truly always becoming as well as always being, then what God is in the process of becoming must have something to do with us and our own evolving, our own developing, our own relationship with God. 

If we are serious about our Judaism we have to base ourselves on the understanding that our own process is connected to God’s, the imperative for our continual ‘becoming’ is a reflection of Gods continual ‘becoming’, God is bound up with us and we with God: as God says at Sinai “You will be my people and I will be your God”. There is within such a statement the almost-heresy – if we no longer choose to be God’s people then God will no longer be our God.

For God to work in our world, we have to do God’s work. That we are partners with God in the world, Co-creators with God, is not a pious statement: it is an imperative we should not take lightly. God always ‘is’ regardless of what we do or don’t do, but what God ‘becomes’ is in our hands.

Vayechi: the deathbed blessing that bequeaths the certainty that the people and the land have an indissoluble bond.

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Twice in this sidra, Jacob issues instructions about his burial.  The first time he speaks to Joseph alone, and the conversation is brief –“Don’t bury me in Egypt, bury me in the family tomb”

“And the time drew near that Israel must die; and he called his son Joseph, and said to him: ‘If now I have found favour in thy sight, put, I pray thee, your hand under my thigh, and deal kindly and truly with me; bury me not, I pray thee, in Egypt.  But when I sleep with my fathers, carry me out of Egypt, and bury me in their burying-place.’ And he said: ‘I will do as you ask.’  And he said: ‘Swear to me.’ And he swore it. And Israel bowed down upon the bed’s head. (Genesis 47:29-31)

But when the instruction is repeated shortly before his death, it is done in front of the whole family, and is much more detailed. Nothing is superfluous in biblical text, so what can we learn from this comprehensive deathbed request? Firstly, this final instruction is given to all of his sons, rather than just to Joseph. The language used with Joseph is framed as a request “If I have found favour with you, then please…..” and he then makes a formal ceremony of Joseph’s agreement with the swearing of an oath. With the other sons we have the firmer language of instruction that will – must – be obeyed. But possibly the most important difference is the framing of the two countries, Egypt and Canaan.  When Jacob requests Joseph it is to ensure he will not be left in Egypt. When Jacob instructs the brothers about his final journey it is to describe the place in Canaan where he will be brought – given in greater detail than when Abraham bought the land – not only the location of Machpela near Mamre, bought from Ephron the Hittite – but also the clarity of who is buried there – Abraham and Sarah his wife, Isaac and Rebekah his wife. Leah (sadly not described as a wife).

“And he commanded them, and said to them: ‘I am to be gathered to my people; bury me with my fathers in the cave that is in the field of Ephron the Hittite, in the cave that is in the field of Machpela, which is before Mamre, in the land of Canaan, which Abraham bought with the field from Ephron the Hittite for a possession of a burying-place.  There they buried Abraham and Sarah his wife; there they buried Isaac and Rebekah his wife; and there I buried Leah. The field and the cave that is therein, which was purchased from the children of Heth.’  And when Jacob made an end of charging his sons, he gathered up his feet into the bed, and expired, and was gathered unto his people.” (Genesis 49:29-33)

When talking with Joseph, his father treats him carefully – the burial in Canaan is requested briefly, the desire not to be buried in Egypt rather more forceful, but even so the language is that of asking for a kindness from someone who may or may not grant it. What stands out however is the swearing of the oath and the choreography of this event – the placing of the hand under the thigh, the act of swearing that he would fulfil the request. It is reminiscent of the conversation between Abraham and the unnamed elder servant of his household who ruled over his estate: “Abraham was old, advanced in years … and Abraham said to the senior servant of his household, who had charge of his entire estate, ‘Put your hand under my thigh and I will make you swear by the Lord … that you will not take a wife for my son from the daughters of the Canaanites amongst who I live..” (24:1-4)

The two oaths – one to ensure that Isaac did not marry a local Canaanite girl nor leave the land himself, the other to ensure that Jacob would not be buried in the local Egyptian way, but would be returned to the land of his ancestors, resonate with each other. They build into the narrative the primacy of the land that has been promised, the land that will become known as Israel. And at the same time they reject the “other” culture, the local culture of Canaanites or of Egyptians, in favour of the covenantal culture being formed between the people of Israel and God.

Isaac is perceived as being too easily swayed – either by the local pagan tribes should he marry one of their daughters, or that in leaving the land he might never return. Jacob now is concerned that his own children should not themselves be swayed – either into adopting Egyptian traditions or to remain in exile from the land of their ancestors. Joseph, who had left the land as a very young lad, has already married an Egyptian, taken an Egyptian name, and brought two children into the world who might easily become fully identified with Egyptian peoplehood and lose their patrimony. Jacob deals with that by blessing and essentially adopting the boys as his own. The other brothers are in a way more complex – their identity may flow in any direction – and Jacob is determined they will retain their Hebrew identity and connection to the land of Israel. So he describes in detail not only the place for his burial, but echoes the narrative of who bought it and why, who of their forebears is buried there, pressing home the reality that this is their real place, the place to which they must return, and the covenant with God that they must retain.

As Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch comments: (on Genesis 47: 27-29)

“Jacob who had lived seventeen years in Egypt, must have noticed what a powerful influence the “being gripped by the land” (47:27) was beginning to have on his descendants. How they had already begun to see the Jordan in the Nile, and to find in their stay in Egypt no sad exile. This must have made him decide with such ceremonious solemnity the command that they should not bury him in Egypt, but that they should carry him to the land of their old true homeland. It was motive enough for him to say to them: You hope and wish to live in Egypt. I do not wish even to be buried there. This is also why he did not express this wish as Jacob, from his individual personal standpoint, but as “Israel” as bearer of the national mission, as a warning of the national future of his children.”  

The metanarrative here is about the identity of the descendants of Jacob – the “Children of Israel”. We take our patronymic not from Abraham or from Isaac, but from this flawed patriarch who struggled with God and with humanity and who prevails. Indeed the very first time the phrase “Children of Israel” is used in bible is within this very narrative at the Ford of Jabok – (Genesis 32:33) explaining the origin of not eating the sinew of the thigh vein because it was there that Jacob was wounded in his night-time struggle.

On his deathbed, Jacob is quite clearly doing all he can to infuse his sons with what we might now call a Jewish identity, to mitigate their Egyptian experience. He both refuses the siren call of Egypt and causes them to look towards the Land of Israel – specifically that land bought by Abraham to bury his wife, land to be part of the family holding in perpetuity. At this point the “Jewish identity” is a national identity – the earliest and deepest forms of our collective identity are not “religious” per se, but connected to land and to peoplehood. We are first and foremost a tribe and have tribal identity and behaviours. A tribe bound together in covenantal relationship with each other and with God, in shared stories and myths, in kinship with a sense of a shared lineage.

It is no accident that the children of Jacob become the exemplar for the twelve tribes of Israel. The first usage where the tribe is named as a tribe is in this sidra, (Genesis 49:16) when Jacob blesses Dan with the words

Dan shall judge his people, as one of the tribes of Israel.

 דָּ֖ן יָדִ֣ין עַמּ֑וֹ כְּאַחַ֖ד שִׁבְטֵ֥י יִשְׂרָאֵֽל:

With the death of Jacob we come to a pivot in history. The covenant between the patriarchs and God must now be reframed into that between the people and God. The endpoint of the process will be at Sinai, when the formal relationship is sealed with the giving of Torah. And with the last demands of the dying Jacob, the process is set in motion.

The sons of Jacob are a complicated bunch. Born of four different mothers – two full wives whose own sibling rivalry echoes in the text, one deeply loved, the other merely tolerated; and two lesser wives, the servants and surrogates for the sisters. It is a recipe for jealous competition among the offspring of Jacob, who are quarrelsome, violent and antagonistic men. It is clear from the story of the only daughter, Dina, that Jacob has no control over his sons, whose pride and anger are barely contained.  

Now here they are in Egypt – having stayed for seventeen years already – dependent on the goodwill of Joseph, the brother so hated that they had plotted fratricide. Yet for all the imbalance of power among the brothers, life was clearly good in a material sense, and there was a clear danger that the brothers were accommodated to the situation and would forget their homeland, and the destiny of the covenantal promise Jacob had betrayed both his own father and twin brother to attain.

The tradition of a deathbed blessing is a powerful one. It is less an act of blessing than a statement of searing honesty, intended to hold the “blessed” to account and to shape their future in the light of their past. As Jacob says “gather yourselves together, that I may tell you what will happen to you in the later days….hear sons of Jacob, listen to Israel your father”

Jacob is manipulating time. He is holding both the past and the future together, setting his sons in both past behaviour and future destiny. He calls them the children of Jacob, and himself Israel their father. As time becomes increasingly fluid and unstructured, what becomes clear is that these men are to be the bridge between what was and what will be, they become less individuals and more exemplars, the covenant will not be passed to a single person but be shared and embodied in the peoplehood, divided into families, households and tribes. Whatever it was he did, it worked. As the book of Exodus opens some four hundred years later, we will find that the Jewish people identify themselves by their tribe as well as by their family name.

Jacob will bequeath the certainty that the people and the land have an indissoluble bond. By rejecting Egyptian burial in favour of being buried with his forebears, he recalibrates the mindset not only of his sons, but of the generations who will follow. They will never forget throughout centuries of slavery that they have a land to which they must return. They will never forget the names of their Hebrew tribe; they will not allow their identities to dissolve or to assimilate into the people among whom they live. Identity politics has been created and sustained. Joseph too will ask for his bones to be taken back home, and hundreds of years later those who rebelled against their slavery in the name of a never forgotten God and with the aim of return to a never forgotten land, will take his remains home with them.

We Jews have retained not only our tribal habits but also our attachment – often without being able to convey exactly why this attachment – to the land of Israel.  Sometimes that attachment is expressed in life, sometimes in death. The Talmud already records the traffic in dead bodies being brought for burial in Israel, noting with some irritation that it is better late than never. Religious Judaism as we understand it is a post-biblical phenomenon. The deeper identity we share is a tribal one – we are a people with a shared story that is formed in us and accepted without conscious activity. And our identity shapes how we see the world and how we behave within it.

The deaths of Jacob and Joseph bring to an end the narratives of sibling rivalry that has plagued us since the fratricide of the children of Adam and Eve. And it sets up a different model – not individuals but tribes, no longer patriarchs but people.

The identity politics begun at Jacob’s deathbed are with us still, as are the internal rivalries that fracture but never break the collective. Jacob reminds his sons, and us too, that wherever life takes us and however we live there is an older and deeper identity that is rooted in us and that we must pass on down the generations.

We read in Talmud (Shevuot 39a) “Shekol Yisrael areivim zeh ba’zeh” – the whole Jewish people are considered responsible for each other”. This principle is actually found in two different forms, one “zeh ba’zeh” and one “zeh la’zeh”, leading to interpretations about what else may be understood. We generally accept the rabbinic idea that every individual Jew has responsibility for the moral behaviour of others, but there is another perspective open to us – areivim can mean “to be responsible for” but it also mean “to mix together”. The Jewish people, kol or Klal Yisrael, is a diverse and heterogeneous tribe, with different customs and differing appearances, organised in different families and groupings, the sub-groups mixed sometimes uneasily together. But in spite of our disparate and varied ways we all remain authentic members of the tribe “b’nei Yisrael” – and this is the legacy of Jacob, to whose tribe we all belong.

Haftarah for Vayigash – approaching and confronting – but will it lead to reunification?

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Ezekiel, master of metaphors and mystical visions, lived in the days before and after the destruction of the First Temple, and preached to his fellow exiles in Babylon in the early years of the 6th century BCE. They were captives in a foreign country, and they never ceased to hope for an eventual return to their homeland. 

            The sidra tells us of the reunification of Joseph with his brothers.  Ezekiel foretells that the ten lost tribes will be reunited with the tribe of Judah, which, with Benjamin, had formed the southern kingdom.  As we know, history did not bear out Ezekiel’s hope. The Northern Kingdom disappeared into the mists of history, and we Jews – Yehudim – are so called because we are the inheritors of Judah – Yehudah.    Yet still we retain Ezekiel’s text, the story of his vision, because we see that it bears more than one interpretation, that the united Israel is more than the physical bringing together of the 12 tribes, but is the spiritual coming together of those who have held on to the vision, who are gathered in by being united in a return to covenant with God.

             The sidra begins with the words “Then Judah came near to him”.  This meeting between Judah and Joseph, and the dialogue which followed it, marks one of the most dramatic incidents in the whole narrative of the children of Jacob, the forefathers of the tribes of Israel, until their exile into Egypt.  The midrashic literature makes a great deal of this drawing near, and the meeting is used as the model of the later interpretational rule that ‘the histories of the ancestors are the paradigm for the children’.  Hundreds of years before the  historic national events, here in vayigash we have recorded a confrontation between the tribe of Judah, (who settled in the Southern Kingdom,) and what would later be known as the kingdom of Israel, the ten tribes led by the tribe of Ephraim, Joseph’s son – and in this version in Genesis the confrontation ends with reconciliation.

            It is curious that the haftarah chosen for this portion is that of Ezekiel’s vision of unification of the two kingdoms that existed in the land of Israel, for while one can read the text at its face value as being a reflection of the reunification of Joseph and his brothers, it is open also to reflecting on that reunification as superficial and temporary.  Just as one could make the case that there was never a single state in which all the tribes came together as one easy unity, but that instead there was always some resistance to merger, so too one could read that the approaching of Judah and Joseph remained just that – a coming closer without the final step which would have brought about true shalom, completion. 

            There are those who say that even at the earliest time of a nation state, during the days of David and Solomon, there were effectively already two separate kingdoms under a joint king who ruled both, (Y. Leibowitz) so that immediately after Solomon’s death the formal partition was inevitable.  So how then, if we see the two stories as intimately linked and commenting on each other, do we read of the approaching, the confrontation and the meeting of Joseph and Judah in Egypt, of what was really happening for the forefathers of the two kingdoms?

            Ezekiel prophesied after both the ten tribes of the Northern Kingdom and the tribes who lived in Judah had already been exiled.  His vision was that the two nations would return, and that this joint experience would somehow forge the full unification which had never quite taken place.  Jeremiah, his contemporary, foretold in a very emotional style the return of the ten tribes, and of course, there were Hosea and Amos, Northern prophets who foretold the destruction of the kingdom of Israel, who also added their view that in the future Israel would return.  We know all of these visions did not materialize in fact.  And I think that we cannot reconcile this knowledge by accepting the midrashic view that prophesies that have not yet been fulfilled must be in abeyance, ready to be fulfilled at the end of days.  Surely we must accept that the ten tribes, including the descendants of Joseph, were destroyed from the face of the earth, assimilated into other peoples, spiritually erased.  Even in Talmudic times Rabbi Akiva stated that “the ten tribes will not return”.  Even then he knew that they were lost.

            But the fact that the prophecies didn’t happen needn’t undermine our understanding in the prophetic tradition, for the truth is that Jewish prophecy isn’t about fortune telling, but about what will occur if we carry on the way we are doing, or else what ideally should happen – as the Tosafot says “No prophet foretells but what ought to occur, if there is no sin”. 

            Judah approaches Joseph, comes closer.  There is confrontation and there is meeting.  One can read the text so that the meeting was a papering over the cracks; or one can read the text to see that the meeting was profound.  Certainly it had the potential to be either.  The haftarah leaves us with tantalizing hints – Ezekiel prophesying the reunification of the tribes which descended from Judah and from Joseph, should it be a superficial reunification or a will it be a complete one? 

                            One can look at the sidra and the haftarah either way – either there is hope that even after a series of almost murderous problems with each other, the family of Jacob can come together in peace and harmony, approach each other and meet at a fundamental level; or that there has never been a true unity within the Jewish people, that we have always operated a model of dynamic tension, of coming closer but never actually merging.  That doesn’t have to be hopeless of course; It could be said that it is the inbuilt diversity of such a model that actually allowed us to survive all of this time. But wouldn’t it change our perception of ourselves if we acknowledged it, that we have no one orthodoxy, there is no one form of the Jewish people, that we thrive on the antagonisms within our structures.

            Our great prophets foretold events that never historically happened.  Our midrashic literature relocated those events to some mythical end of days, when all problems will be solved and unity will be achieved.  We could use our prophetic tradition as a guide to remind us that whatever our differences, our ideals remain – it is that matrix of ideas and beliefs which support us on our continuing journey in Judaism, that blend of varieties of vision which keep us aware of the significance of our journey. 

Zot Chanukah

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The 8th day of Chanukah,  is the only day of the festival that is given its own particular name: Zot Chanukah, which means “This is Chanukah” .  This special name for the last day of Chanukah is taken from the Torah reading from the end of Parashat Naso that emphatically announces ZOT CHANUKAT HA-MIZBEI’ACH – this is the dedication of the altar. But why is a special name given to just one day of the festival, and why to the very last one?

 Rabbi Joseph Caro, author of the Shulchan Aruch, suggested that it may have been given in case one might think that Chanukah should only be celebrated seven days, since the single flask of oil found by the Maccabees was sufficient for one day, and therefore the miraculous illumination was really only for seven days. The eighth day we celebrate could be understood then as a calendrical correction in case the commencing date was wrong, and not concerned with the miracle upon which our Chanukah is predicated.  This, he said,  is why the eighth day is called “ZotChanukah“ – “This is Chanukah“ – to emphasize that it is an actual day of the eight-day celebration and not merely a day celebrated because of  ambiguity in the calendar as other festivals sometimes have extra days added.

Zot Chanukah: This is Chanukah. The 8th day of Chanukah issignificant. Being the last night and because of the ruling of Hillel that we increase in holiness and therefore add a candle each day of the festival, rather than starting with 8 and decreasing the candles, the eighth day gives us the brightest outpouring of light – in effect the eighth day is the essence of the holiday – the illumination of faith in the darkness of fear.

Much has been written about the significance of the number eight – and it is generally based on the idea of it being 7 plus one. The number seven signifies completion / perfection. Shabbat is the seventh day of the week; Creation took seven days to complete, so seven is the mystical number of wholeness and perfection in tradition. The number 8 is therefore said to transcend the realm of this mundane and physical world and allude to the exalted and holy. In the natural world, time is based on a seven-day week and according to mystical tradition by sheva kochavei lechet – the seven orbital planets but God transcends all this, and therefore the number eight represents God’s Holiness.  The power of 8 is one beyond the completion often implied by the number 7 in our tradition. 8 is one more, beyond the limits of time, signifying the presence of God, whose light is ever present in this world.

According to the teachings of Kabbalah and Hasidism, this day is the final “seal” of the High Holiday season of Yom Kippur, and is considered a time to repent out of love for God. In this spirit, many Hasidic Jews wish each other G’mar chatimah tovah (“may you be sealed totally for good”), a traditional greeting for the Yom Kippur season and it is taught in Hasidic and Kabbalistic literature that this day is particularly auspicious for the fulfilment of prayers.

Zot Chanukah, the eighth day of special holiness, is a day that goes over and above the usual span of time  The phrase “Zot Chanukah” can be translated as “this is dedication”.  But at the same time as it reminds us that while every day of life is miraculous, even the mundane days of ordinary work or unexciting activities,  it also points out that above and beyond these days there can be yet another miracle, one which is achieved by living as best we can, with persistence and determination, and our going over and above what we might otherwise offer.

Vayeshev

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Our Parashah is “bookended” with stories about dreams; both stories featuring Joseph as the central character. At the end of our Parashah, we are told about Joseph’s success in the prison of the court of Egypt – and of his insightful explanation of the dreams of two of his fellow prisoners: Each of the two men – the butler and the baker of the king of Egypt, who were being held in prison – had a dream the same night, and each dream had a meaning of its own. When Joseph came to them the next morning, he saw that they were dejected. So he asked Pharaoh’s officials who were in custody with him in his master’s house, “Why are your faces so sad today?” “We both had dreams,” they answered, “but there is no one to interpret them.” Then Joseph said to them, “Do not interpretations belong to God? Tell me your dreams.” (gen 40:5-8)

Dreams appear in the book of Genesis on a number of occasions. The first dreamer is almost incidental to the narrative, when Avimelech King of Gerar (Gen 20:3-7)  is warned by God in a dream to return Abraham’s wife to him after he has taken  her for himself when Avraham had said that Sarah was his sister in a bid to save his own life. The next dreamer is Jacob who dreams twice, the first time when leaving the land as a young boy afraid for his future, and his dream of the ladder with angels ascending and descending and the presence of God comforting him with the declaration that God would be with him and stay with him until his return to this land. The second dream while he is still with Laban but aware that the tide of hospitality is turning and he must return to the land. (Gen 31:10-13). After this God appears to Laban in a dream (31:24) in order to warn him not to attack Jacob who has prospered greatly at Laban and the family’s expense.

Within the Joseph narratives, there are three couplets of dreams. Joseph as a young boy dreaming of both the sheaves of corn and of the stars all bowing down to him; the dreams of the butler and the baker, servants of Pharaoh, And finally the two dreams of Pharaoh himself. Each of these dreams contains a message about the future, and seem to be dependent on interpretation in a way that the earlier dreams do not.

Joseph is confident about his ability to explain their dreams – and that confidence is quickly validated, as each of his explanations is played out in Pharaoh’s court. The butler is restored to his position and the baker is hanged. (40:21-22)

Where did Joseph get this confidence; indeed, where did he get the ability to interpret dreams? The earlier dream sequence in the beginning of our Parashah, involving Joseph, posits Joseph not as a dream interpreter; rather, as the dreamer. His brothers and father are the ones who make inferences from his dreams – but he just reports them. When did he learn how to explain dreams?

And why does the butler “finally” remember Joseph and report his successful dream interpretation abilities to Pharaoh. This ability will lead not only to Joseph’s rise to greatness (as a result of his explanation of Pharaoh’s dreams), but ultimately to our terrible oppression and slavery in Egypt. (See BT Shabbat 10b)

Dreams can bring about powerful events. As Bradley Artson wrote, ‘our lives are made full by dreams” “Aspirations for a better tomorrow, hopes for a world of peace and plenty, of inclusion and freedom, of spirit and dance – these hopes keep us alive and help us to live our lives with purpose. Were it not for our dreams, the world would be too narrow and too cold to contain us. As Theodor Herzl observed, “Every creed of man was once a dream.” Or, to use more religious language, Rabbi Yehudah Ha-Levi exults, “A dream brought me into the sanctuaries of God.”

Through our dreams, we imagine a world worthy of our efforts and responsive to our needs. Through our dreams, we preview ourselves heroic, as larger than life in bringing that better tomorrow today. Dreams offer dress rehearsals for the reality yet to be.

Yet precisely because dreams provide a chance to see ourselves as significant, to view our contributions as substantial, they can also become vessels for our ambition, and sources of jealousy to those in whom we confide. Such was the case for Joseph and his brothers.  “

Joseph’s dreams may well have been prophecy. They may well also have embodied the sibling rivalry between him and his older brothers. He was, after all, ben zekunim, the child of his father’s old age, and therefore a favoured child. He was certainly the child of the favoured wife. His dreams and the way he presented them to his brothers were offensive to them, and quite rightly so.  The brothers were offended not so much by the dream itself as by the apparent cause for this dream. They clearly thought that Joseph must be thinking about his takeover of the family so much that these thoughts have entered his dreams.  Jewish tradition knew early on that not all dream was prophecy, but that it may be the expression of what we today would describe as subconscious desires and repressed urges. So for example the Talmud (Berachot 56a) records two incidents where the local (non-Jewish) governor challenged one of our Sages to predict the content of his dreams of the coming night. In each case, the Sage described a detailed and horrific dream – which so preoccupied the governor that he did indeed dream about it that night.

So the brothers must have thought at first that the dream was an expression of Joseph’s ambition, and they rightly would have hated him for that. But why did they keep silent at the second dream?  There was a tradition that although a single dream may be caused by internal thoughts and ruminations, if that same dream (or the same “message” clothed in alternate symbolism) occurs twice, it is no longer a happenstance – it is truly God’s word. We find this approach explicitly stated by Joseph when he explains Pharaoh’s doubled dream:

The reason the dream was given to Pharaoh in two forms is that the matter has been firmly decided by God, and God will do it soon. (Bereshit 41:32)

So to return to Joseph in the Egyptian prison, when he learned that both butler and baker had experienced significant and terrifying dreams in the same night, he understood that these were more than dreams. Just like a dream that occurs twice to the same person is more than a dream, similarly, if two men sharing a fate have impactful dreams on the same night, their dreams must be divine messages.

His response: Do not interpretations belong to God? Tell me your dreams – is not presumptuous. He was telling them that their dreams were more than “just dreams” – they were in the province of God and, as such, would not need sophisticated interpretation (as is the case with a subconscious-based dream). They would be fairly easy to understand – as indeed they were. Joseph earned his reputation as an interpreter of dreams – and his ultimate freedom and final rise to power by remembering the lesson from his father’s house – that the “doubled dream” is a mark of prophecy, and by applying it intelligently years later in Egypt. This is what gave him the confidence to interpret first for the butler and baker and then for Pharaoh himself.

Joseph’s dreams were easy to read, and they did of course, ultimately come true when his brothers were forced to bow down to him upon soliciting food in Egypt. But we should never forget the pain that was caused by his telling of them, and the circumstances that were set in motion because of that pain. 

We too may have our dreams and our visions, and see them as being somehow stamped with the approval of the Almighty. But we, like Joseph, should take the time to see our dreams from a different perspective, to look at how they look through the eyes of others. For what may appear to us as a deservedly great reward may seem to other parties involved as conquest, exploitation, or marginalization. We need to strive for a God’s eye view, in which how our dreams appear to others can be factored into the unfolding of the dream into a more welcoming reality. Because our dreams don’t have to pan out exactly for them to come true, and we certainly have a role to play in bringing them forth. As we begin chanukah we should remember not only the dreams of the Maccabees, but the dreams of all who yearn for self determination and religious and national autonomy,

Bradley Artson wrote that “A world without dreams is too small for the human soul. But a world in which our dreams are projected onto the world without making room for each other is too brutal. Ultimately, Joseph and his brothers learn to bring each other into their dreams, recognizing that the greatest dream of all is the one God dreams for us all: “On that day, all will be one, and God’s name: One.”

Toledot

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Parashat Toledot is the one time that we focus on the life of the adult Isaac. His parents, Abraham and Sarah are dead and buried. He is married to Rebecca, whom his father’s servant has brought back from their ancestral homeland for this purpose. He is in love with her and faithful to her and she is apparently barren. So Isaac entreats God on her behalf and she conceives his children Jacob and Esau, twins whose struggle begins even in the womb.  Isaac is set up to follow his father, and to become the Patriarch of the next generation – a man who speaks to God and is heard by God, who is the head of a large household and the father of sons. One would expect now that the stories of this new Patriarch would take us further into our history, give us new aspects to consider.  And this does happen, but in a somewhat unusual fashion.

Following the birth of the children and the parental choices that will forever mark the relationship of Esau and Jacob, Isaac and Rebecca go on to repeat the journey taken by Abraham and Sarah. They go to escape the effects of famine just as Abraham and Sarah did, but theirs is not simply a physical journey – by virtue of the repetition something extra happens and defines the process by which Isaac becomes himself.   Isaac and Rebecca have almost the exact same experience in the same city of Gerar as did his parents, Abraham and Sarah, and its effect creates something quite new.

The famine is described to us as being a famine Bilvad hara’av harishon asher haya bimei Avraham – not the same famine as before, that happened in the days of Abraham, so we are already conscious once more of the journey that Abraham took in his response to the famine. On this journey however, God appears and warns Isaac not to leave the land, not to follow his father’s example and go to Egypt.

          Isaac goes to Abimelech, the king of the philistines, in Gerar, according to tradition the very same Abimelech that Abraham and Sarah encountered all those years before.  There he tells king Abimelech that Rebecca is his sister and not his wife, just as Abraham had done with Sarah in Genesis, chapter 20. Of course this caused problems in both cases as the king was taken with  first Sarah and later Rebecca. Abimelech is very upset when he discovers that these women are none other than wives, not sisters. Can this really be the same king? one would have thought would have learned his lesson! But that is exactly what this week’s parasha is about. Lessons learned and lessons not learned; encountering the same thing again and again, and responding to it differently or not.

We see this story as a slightly weak repetition of the Abraham stories, and might be led into thinking of Isaac as somehow a weak and uncreative man. He is indeed often described as being the middle link, the son of a famous father and father of a famous son who himself has no claim to fame except as the link between the two. But we can look at this story in yet another way. We might see that Isaac, as patriarch of the next generation, must first walk in the footsteps of his father in order to make his journey grounded. He has to plumb the depths of his father’s experiences in order to move on and to make meaning for himself and his family, develop the traditions of his growing tribe. When confronted with similar moments in time, the choices that Isaac will make will not only shape him but shape generations to come. He has lessons to learn. Will Isaac learn from these lessons? Will he miss them and miss how they relate to incidents in his own life? And how will we, the readers, know?

Though Isaac may once have fled from a father he may have feared, (after the Akedah on the mountain top Isaac is not mentioned as returning with is father and we later see him come together with Ishmael to bury Abraham – neither of them seem to have had an adult experience with Abraham the patriarch), he now meets him in a different way, by re-living similar experiences.

We learn about our ancestors when we have to grapple with similar decisions and incidents. We gain valuable insights into who they were and their character. What we could not understand as children or earlier in our lives, we understand differently when placed in similar situations. It is often only when we become parents that we understand better the feelings our parents must have had toward us. Only when we have to bury a parent or care for a sick spouse that we truly understand what an earlier generation must have gone through.

This repetition of the story of Abimelech and the wives/sisters is a vital requirement for Isaac if he is to grow into being his own person, no longer overshadowed by his father.  By reliving some of the major events in the story of his father’s life, he will have to respond to many similar choices.

Isaac was almost sacrificed on the altar by his father in response to the command of God. His father apparently was fulfilling a divine call. Isaac will do the same to his son Esau when he gives Jacob the blessing even as he senses that Jacob is masquerading as Esau. And though Isaac won’t literally hold a knife over Esau’s head, he will sacrifice him and his future in a different way. Sometimes we repeat our parent’s mistakes; sometimes we are able to amend them. Sometimes we repeat our own mistakes, sometimes we are able to learn from them.

          The sedra concludes with Rebecca helping Jacob to receive the blessing by apparently deceiving the blind and dying Isaac. It is never clear quite whether she does so because she remembers the divine prophecy about the older child serving the younger when her pregnancy was so painful she too enquired of God; it is never clear if this prophecy was the reason she so favoured her son Jacob over her son Esau. But it is clear that she will act to achieve the succession for her favoured younger son Jacob, just as her mother in law Sarah acted in order to achieve the succession for her child, Abraham’s younger son Isaac.

With the help of the manipulation and skills of his mother, by the end of the sidra the focus is on Jacob, who has received the blessing of the heir from his father. Esau returns from his mission to get something special for his dying father and cries out in terrible pain “Have you but one blessing, Father? Bless me too Father (27:36).  He receives a blessing from his father which is perhaps more than Ishmael ever did, but not the blessing he so craved.

When we look at these stories of Isaac acting out the life of his more colourful and confident and arrogant father we see that Isaac does indeed walk in his father’s footsteps, and not only as a pale shadow. We see that Isaac was his father’s son, able to understand more about his father than perhaps he realized, able to repair some of the mistakes at least a little.

As we read his story in Toledot, maybe it will cause us to reflect a bit about ourselves, for perhaps all of us walk in our parents’ footsteps more than we would like to acknowledge, and maybe we have a chance to repair some of the damage done, rather than pass it on to the next generation.

Chayei Sarah – the lives of Sarah the matriarch

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“V’hayu chayei Sara meah shanah vesrim shana v’sheva shanim, shenei hayei Sarah. Vatamot Sarah b’kiryat arbah hi Hevron b’eretz Canaan, v’yavo Avraham lispod l’sarah v’livkotah. Vayakom Avraham me’al pnei meito”

And the life of Sarah was a hundred years and twenty years and seven years; these were the years of the life of Sarah.  And Sarah died in Kiriat-arba–the same is Hebron–in the land of Canaan; and Abraham came to eulogise Sarah, and to weep for her. And Abraham rose up from before his dead, and spoke unto the children of Het”

Sarah, the first Jewish matriarch, is last seen in bible having given birth to Isaac through a divine intervention when both she is in her nineties and Abraham is a hundred. We see Isaac named – unusually – by his father, and circumcised at the age of 8 days old, as required by God. We hear Sarah say: ‘God has made me a laughing stock; every one that hears will laugh on account of me.’  And then: ‘Who would have said to Abraham, that Sarah should be able to feed a child? For I have borne him a son in his old age.’ And then on the day Isaac celebrates his weaning feast, Sarah, seeing Ishmael (the son born to Abraham through her own intervention in offering her Egyptian maid Hagar to him, in order to provide a child for Abraham so that God’s promise is fulfilled), recognised the threat Ishmael poses to his younger half brother, and tells Abraham’ Cast out this bondwoman and her son; for the son of this bondwoman shall not be heir with my son, even with Isaac.’   Abraham is upset but does not speak to Sarah – instead he goes to God who tells him “Let it not be grievous in your sight because of the lad, and because of your bondwoman; in all that Sarah says to you listen to her voice; for through Isaac shall your descendants be called.”

After that, we never hear the voice of Sarah again. Instead we have the two terrible stories of Abraham sending off his older son Ishmael into the wilderness to what he must believe is likely death, and then taking his second son Isaac up a mountain, to what he must again believe is likely death. And then we have a genealogical list which takes us to Rebecca the daughter of Betuel the nephew of Abraham through his brother Nahor.  The next thing we hear is that Sarah is dead, that she has been living not at Beer Sheva with her husband but in Hevron, and that Abraham comes to eulogise her and to weep for her, before getting on with the practicalities of arranging a funeral.

            What happens to Sarah in between her arranging for the removal of Ishmael, the person she saw as a threat to the wellbeing of Isaac her son, and the death as reported in bible?  Where is the voice of the woman who has been a powerful presence up till now, a formidable partner for Abraham, a true incarnation of what the bible calls the ‘ezer k’negdo’ – a help who is equal and powerfully separate from her husband?  Was Sarah’s death somehow related to what nearly happened to Isaac? And was that related to the choice she forced on to Abraham to remove a much beloved son from his household?  Had she already removed herself from the household when Abraham went to offer Isaac on a mountain top?

We do know that Sarah is not herself party to what turns out to be the most important decision of her life. Abraham does not discuss with her the test he sees God as having set him. There is indeed a huge irony working in that once Abraham is told “in all that Sarah says to you, listen to her voice”, we never hear her voice again.  But what does her silence tell us? And what can we learn from the powerful absence we feel?

Sarah’s death is told us in the context of her life – indeed the Hebrew tells us clearly that her life was full and complex – the literal translation of the first verse would be “and the lives of Sarah were a hundred years, and twenty years and seven years, these are the years of the lives of Sarah.” And Jewish tradition takes from this the learning that a full life is made up of a number of separate strands, all of equal value though not all of equal length. So one might read this description as being that most of her adult life was as a barren woman, wife to a man who had been promised descendants. She then had a shorter period as a mother, and another short period living separately from her child.  Each of these lives helped to define her, each was a fully experienced era, and the fact they were of unequal length is irrelevant in terms of the value of each life she lived.

Sarah was clearly a formidable woman. Any view that women in the bible were somehow simply adjuncts to their menfolk cannot be sustained in the face of any of our matriarchs, but it is Sarah who sets the pattern.  She is named as an equal figure in the story of the travelling from Ur of the Chaldees with her husband – and from this text Sarah emerges in the Talmud and Midrash as an equal partner with her husband in God’s work, and a prophetess in her own right. She is described as someone who worked alongside Abraham to build up his wealth and “acquire souls” in Haran, where they stopped off before going to Canaan (Gen 12:5). She is the woman who intervened in order to bring what she thought was God’s promise to fulfilment – When she cannot have children, Sarah takes the initiative and gives her maid-servant, Hagar, to Abraham so that he can have children through Hagar on Sarah’s behalf. She is the woman who is taken – apparantly willingly – into the households of both Pharaoh and Abimelech in order to protect her husband, and then quickly released again untouched, and with compensatory wealth. Sarah acts independently on a number of occasions, taking the initiative to decide the future of her family, even against her husband’s wishes.

The modern scholar Tikvah Frymer-Kensky argues that although the Bible portrays a patriarchal social structure, it has a gender-neutral ideology.  The women in the Bible may be socially subordinate but not essentially inferior; they have strong, independent personalities, and they often act to guide the course of events.  So when Sarah gives Hagar to Abraham she is keeping ancient Near Eastern tradition. We have evidence of three ancient Near Eastern marriage contracts stating that if the wife remains barren after a specified number of years, she gives her husband her slave to have children on her behalf.  On her behalf note, not simply for him.

Another scholar Carol Meyers applied insights from sociology, anthropology, and archaeology to reconstruct the ordinary women’s place within Israelite society in various periods of biblical history. She argues that when agricultural work and childbearing, two spheres in which women played an active role, were central to biblical society, social and religious life in ancient Israel was relatively egalitarian. Only when the political state and the monarchy emerged, and religious life was institutionalized in the Temple cult and priestly bureaucracy (beginning in the tenth century B.C.E.), were women increasingly excluded from the public arena and lost access to communal authority.  Sarah then is from a period when women were able to be active in society and in determining how the family should operate, and we can see forcefully how she does this in a number of stories about her.

But however powerful she was in the prime of her life, in old age and with the added vulnerability of parenthood, Sarah found herself less able to voice her ideas.  With the birth of Isaac she gained a new role and meaning for herself, but she also became more aware of her own mortality and vulnerability.  So when God tests Abraham, seeming to require him to take the so beloved child of Abraham and Sarah and offer him on a mountain top. Is Sarah’s absence because she knows that this is happening and cannot stop it? Oris it a result of her shame at the treatment of Ishmael and desire to move away. Or is it something different – to do maybe with having now become a parent she no longer has the relationship with Abraham she once did. From being a tight unit they are now a family of three and having to adjust to the demands of another person in the relationship.

We cannot know what causes Sarah’s voice to fall quiet in the text. Whether it is protection of her that she does not have to be party to this most horrible test of faith or punishment for what happened to Ishmael. But what we can know is that in this final life of the lives of Sarah, she has struck out alone and left her husband behind. She is, once more a woman of strength, no appendage to her husband but living alone and with some status in Hebron.

When the last of Sarah’ lives are over and Abraham hears of her death, he comes to Hebron in order to fulfil the requirements of family and religion. And it is interesting what he does and the order in which he does them. He first come ‘lispod’ then liv’kotah and finally to buy a burial place and perform the funerary rites.

The first thing he does is “lispod” to give a Hesped – in effect a eulogy. He tells the stories of Sarah, who she was, what she did, how she lived her life in its many parts.

Only then does he mourn her through his weeping – livkotah. And then he gets up from before her dead body and takes on the practicalities of the living – to make a funeral for her, to perform the rites of burying the dead and then to go back into life. I can’t help wondering as I read this chapter whether the very first verse is indeed the hesped – that Abraham actually said “these are the lives of Sarah, who lived a hundred years and twenty years and seven years – three different and distinct lives all of which should be honoured, and which may have been of different lengths but are most certainly of equal and complete value.”

Vayera – we may not see the full picture, but that doesn’t mean we should not act on what we see.

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Parashat Vayera is packed with stories, a veritable smorgasbord of the founding myths of Judaism. Within it there is the story of Abraham and Sarah, now very elderly, still wondering exactly how the promise of God’s covenant with them is going to work out. The heir designate Lot had separated from them after a struggle over wealth and space with Abraham and his herdsmen, even though he had been with their household since the whole family were still in Ur Kasdim, after the death of his own father and the brother of Abram – Haran.

Sarah has organised for Ishmael to be born to Abraham via a surrogate, Hagar, but clearly that relationship is not one of ease and joy and it is not certain that Ishmael will indeed be the inheritor of the particular Abrahamic covenant. Now, Abraham having circumcised himself and his son Ishmael at the end of the sidra last week, we have the story of the mysterious visitors to Abraham and Sarah, and this elderly couple being told they will have a child within the year. Sarah in particular is clear that this prophecy is ridiculous – she is post menopausal and Abraham 99 years old. However Isaac IS born in this sidra, and then we have the story of the jealousy and anxiety of Sarah who tries to protect her son Isaac from the previous presumptive heir Ishmael. We have the story of Hagar and Ishmael being sent away to fend for themselves. We have the story of Sodom and Gomorrah being destroyed after the bartering of Abraham for the city to be saved does not go low enough for God to have to save it.  And we have the story of the binding of Isaac and the grim reality that the relationship between father and son is broken forever.

So many stories, so many themes and threads.  The most important maybe is the creating of the links in order to allow continuation of the covenant; then there is the theme of the treatment of women – Abraham using Sarah as a shield once again to save his own life, and claiming that she is his sister rather than his wife.  And Hagar, used to supply a child and then once that child is seen as unwanted and maybe even a threat, sent off to probable death in the wilderness.  And finally the women surrounding Lot, in particular his two unmarried daughters who are offered to the angry mob at door of the family home, in place of the visitors who have come to his house. Lot seems prepared to sacrifice his children, as of course Abraham appears to be prepared to do in relation to both his sons.

All these themes and threads fill the sidra, but there is one theme that we find resonates in modern life more than most.

Vayera also deals with challenging authority — not just authority in general, but the ultimate authority – that of God. And it also deals with what happens when authority is NOT challenged, when people just go along with what is happening.

The most famous example of the challenge to authority is the bartering that Abraham engages with God, who, when God decided he should include Abraham in his plans to destroy the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah since Abraham is designated the one in whom all the nations of the earth shall be blessed, is appalled that the “innocent would be swept away with the wicked” and asks “shall not the Judge of all the earth do justly?”

Much is made of Abraham’s challenging God’s authority, negotiating from 50 righteous people, five at a time, until he gets down to ten – a minyan – and God seems to quickly retreat at this point. Abraham, who has so much to lose if he loses God’s favour, still stands up for his values – justice and mercy, righteousness and decency. We model ourselves on his willingness to take on even the divine creator, seeing ourselves as Abraham’s descendants, who are willing to make a stand for morality, no matter who is the adversary.  We do not see ourselves as people who submit thoughtlessly, but who need to have reason and rationale in order to follow a particular ruling or expectation. Faith without reason or understanding is not a stable Jewish position, even if we are willing to take on something as a matter of faith ab initio – famously we quote the descendants of Abraham at Sinai – na’aseh v’nishma – we will do it, and then we will gain understanding.

We also find Abraham challenging Sarah’s imperative that he must get rid of Hagar and Ishmael – that they cannot be allowed to be near her son as he grows up. Abraham here does not challenge Sarah, but he does go and challenge her demand to God. And God’s answer is clear. What Sarah tells him to do, he must do. And so, without further ado, though clearly with a heavy heart, Abraham gets up early in the morning, gives Hagar and Ishmael provisions, and sends them into the wilderness with no clear destination.

And so we slide into the time when Abraham offers no challenge to authority at all – when God tells him to take his son, his only son, the one he loves, and offer him on a mountain some days journey away.  The Akedah can be read as either seeing Abraham as being a lonely man of total faith, upon whose full obedience to even the most dreadful demands of God we see ourselves provided with a powerful role model and also the zechut, the reward, of the religious Jew. Or else we can read it as a terrible failure of Abraham to challenge the divinity that looks to him to provide a balance in the relationship between Creator and created – a man who having started out challenging God on behalf of the moral imperative of protecting the vulnerable and innocent, whoever they may be – somehow lost his nerve when it came to protecting his own son, after his protest on behalf of Ishmael was brushed aside.

We see other instances here in this sidra about people not challenging the prevailing authority. Hagar for instance is not recorded as protesting at all at her treatment, though one could read through the text in order to hear her protest to God. Ishmael is not recorded as protesting his treatment, though God – as predicted by his name – in fact hears the boy.  Lot does not seem to protest at either the appalling behaviour of the mob when they find he has guests in his house – indeed he panders to them by offering his unmarried daughters to placate them. And he does not protest when his wife challenges the authority by looking back at the city where they have left their older children and is turned into a pillar of salt. Lot takes his lack of protest even further by abdicating from responsibility at all – he simply gets so drunk he is unaware of the rather unorthodox actions of his younger daughters in order to repopulate the world, and seems unaware too of the people who are the results of these drunken encounters.  Only Isaac shows some desire to challenge when, walking up the mountain with firewood and knife, he asks his father about the whereabouts of the sacrifice they will presumably be making. The answer he gets – “God will provide, my son”, is ambiguous but also unanswerable. How is the young boy going to challenge his father’s apparently certain faith?  One feels for the boy whose question could have provided his father with a platform for dissidence against an unfair test, but instead is used to close down just such an activity.

With the hugely powerful example of Abraham arguing with God, not just once but repeatedly, and God gently ceding to Abraham’s argument, why then do we have so many other examples of either half hearted or simply non existent challenge to authority?  Is bible warning us that it may feel too hard to challenge? or is it reminding us that even Abraham fell prey to the uncertainty and self doubt that can undermine us all?  Is it warning us what happens if we do not challenge unfair dictats from those in authority, having reminded us that such a challenge is actually welcomed by God?

What we know is that all those who do not take it upon themselves to challenge immoral and unacceptable behaviours do not ultimately profit. Sarah, having disposed of Hagar’s son, finds her own son in the firing line. Lot offering his daughters to a mob ends up in an incestuous union with them, bringing about the historic enemies of Israel, Moab and Ammonites.  Abraham, not challenging God about Isaac, never speaks to either of them again. Isaac, having half-tried, remains somehow personally maimed in his own confidence and leadership skills.

The word “Vayera” with which the sedra begins means “And he appeared” – We are told clearly that God appeared to Abraham, though immediately we look through Abraham’s eyes and we see not God, but three strangers visiting.  Appearances may be deceptive, may not be the full picture. But they are all we have, and we must respond to them.  The truth may be more complex than we see, but that is no excuse to plead ignorance and to not react.

In our world we see only a partial view, yet even that must be responded to with immediacy rather than delay. We see great deal that is immoral, that is improper, that is unacceptable. Vulnerable people of all kinds are taken advantage of or left to survive without proper resources.  Our environment is plundered and damaged. Racism is on the march once more, xenophobia is evolving a new framework and vocabulary. 

We must act whole-heartedly to challenge the abuses of power that we can see. and stand up and challenge them however frightening that may feel, or however we might undermine ourselves with the sense that we can’t know the whole story, that we should wait for some imagined clarity to explain what we see. Then maybe we too will become part of the narrative for good, fighting for the moral virtues of justice and righteousness, of mercy and compassion. And the one thing we know is that God, when challenged, responds positively. There is nothing to wait for, as Hillel said, “if not now, when?”