Tag Archives: Responsibility

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.

Chukkat – Sermon for Lev Chadash 2023

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Sermon  – Chukkat Lev Chadash 2023

וּמִשָּׁ֖ם בְּאֵ֑רָה הִ֣וא הַבְּאֵ֗ר אֲשֶׁ֨ר אָמַ֤ר ה’ לְמֹשֶׁ֔ה אֱסֹף֙ אֶת־הָעָ֔ם וְאֶתְּנָ֥ה לָהֶ֖ם מָֽיִם׃ {ס}

 אָ֚ז יָשִׁ֣יר יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל אֶת־הַשִּׁירָ֖ה הַזֹּ֑את עֲלִ֥י בְאֵ֖ר עֱנוּ־לָֽהּ׃ בְּאֵ֞ר חֲפָר֣וּהָ שָׂרִ֗ים כָּר֙וּהָ֙ נְדִיבֵ֣י הָעָ֔ם בִּמְחֹקֵ֖ק בְּמִשְׁעֲנֹתָ֑ם

And from there to Be’er, which is the well where the Eternal said to Moses, “Assemble the people that I may give them water.” Then Israel sang this song: Spring up, O well—sing to it—  The well which the chieftains dug, Which the nobles of the people started, With maces, with their own staffs.

Here in Parashat Chukkat, forty years after leaving the slavery of Egypt, we are preparing for the transition of leadership from the generation who led the people of Israel on their long sojourn in the desert and beginning to look towards the reality of being a people living in their own land.   The deaths of Moses’ siblings and fellow leaders – Miriam and Aaron – are recorded. After the mourning rites are concluded, and Elazar the son of Aaron takes his place as High Priest, The  people once more “ spoke against God, and against Moses: ‘Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? for there is no bread, and there is no water; and our soul loathes this light bread.’”  God’s response was to send fiery serpents which bit the people and caused a terrible plague, and the people recognised they had sinned against God and begged  Moses to  pray for the plague to stop. There follows a very strange episode where God tells Moses to create the image of a serpent from brass, set it on a pole, and that anyone who looks at it will be cured – the image still used as an international symbol for healing, having come into the pagan world through the Greeks as the “Rod of Asclepius.” (Asclepius, the Greek god of healing, is mentioned by Homer in the Iliad (circa eighth century bce) who may well have encountered it being worshipped by the Israelite and Philistine tribes living by the sea, who had promoted it into a religious cult which the King Hezekiah destroyed along with other idolatrous practises that had crept into Israel in the more than seven hundred years since the re-entry of the people with Joshua.

But lets leave aside this curious story in favour of another intriguing snippet of biblical text – the brief verses which are known as “the song of the well” I quoted at the beginning.

At the beginning of the exodus, Moses, Miriam and the people sang a song having crossed the Sea of Reeds and evaded the Egyptian pursuers – Shirat Hayam, the song of the sea. Later, in the book of Deuteronomy we will be treated to the final testimony of Moses to the people, written in the form of a song – Ha’azinu.    But here we are almost at the end of the journey and close to the borders of the land the people will shortly enter and settle, and here we have reference to another song. A song that is not the song of Moses, but the song of Israel.

In the Talmud we read that (Ta’anit 9a):  “Rabbi Yosei, son of Rabbi Yehuda, says: Three good sustainers rose up for the Jewish people during the exodus from Egypt, and they are: Moses, Aaron and Miriam. And three good gifts were given from Heaven through their agency, and these are they: The well of water, the pillar of cloud, and the manna. He elaborates: The well was given to the Jewish people in the merit of Miriam; the pillar of cloud was in the merit of Aaron; and the manna in the merit of Moses. When Miriam died the well disappeared, as it is stated: “And Miriam died there” (Numbers 20:1), and it says immediately in the next verse: “And there was no water for the congregation” (Numbers 20:2). But the well returned in the merit of both Moses and Aaron.”

Now both Miriam and Aaron are dead, and there is a question about who and what will sustain the Jewish people in the future. And this is the moment of change, the pivot from strong and almost parental leadership to something quite different – communal activity and responsibility.

Look at the introduction of this song: –   אָ֚ז יָשִׁ֣יר יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל אֶת־הַשִּׁירָ֖ה הַזֹּ֑את

“Then the children of Israel sang this song”

The midrash (Yalkut Shimoni on Torah 764:26) notices the unique nature of this verse. “Rabbi Avin the Levite said: When Israel stood up to chant the song at the sea, Moses did not let them chant it by themselves, but like a teacher who recites a portion in Scripture with a student when s/he is young, so did Moses recite it with Israel: “then sang Moses and the children of Israel,” like a student who repeats after the teacher. But after forty years [in the wilderness], Israel matured and on their own proceeded to chant the Song of the Well, as is said, “then sang Israel” (Num. 21:17).

In other words, at the beginning of the 40 year sojourn in the desert, the people were childlike, in need of guidance and leadership, unable to take the agency for their own lives and their own choices. But now as we come to the end of the Book of Numbers, the people have matured, and are not only able but also willing to take responsibility for their lives.

The Book of Numbers – Bemidbar – has a clear narrative arc and trajectory that is quite different from the books that precede it. It begins with a census, (hence its more usual name of Numbers or its rabbinic name of Pekudim, of counting) but while the census is made in order to plan for military operations, it has very specific language –  

שאו את־ראש כל־עדת בני־ישראל למשפחתם לבית אבתם במספר שמות

“raise the head of everyone of the congregation of the children of Israel according to the families of their ancestral houses, count according to their names….

Each person is counted “bemispar Shemot” – named as they are counted. Each person is an individual and is known by name. The census is conducted not by Moses and Aaron directly but by tribal representatives, one from each tribe, each one a leader within the tribe.

So from the very first verses of the book, the leadership is being extended out into the tribes.  When the tabernacle is dedicated it is the chiefs of the tribes who bring the sacrifices, leading the midrash to infer that Aaron was distressed that he was not part of the ritual (Tanchuma Beha’alotecha 5 on Num. 8:2)and that his role was no longer central and unique but available to individuals.

Throughout the book there are stories of the primacy of individual agency rather than the supine following of a charismatic leader. There are of course stories of this going wrong – Eldad and Medad prophesying strangely in the camp for example, or Korach determined to say that everyone of the people of Israel is a leader and therefore Moses and Aaron have taken on too much leadership and should withdraw – but the point remains, the people are learning to take responsibility, to think and to act for themselves. They may continue to have leaders and clearly this is important – but the leadership is constrained in a particular way, not any more the charismatic demanders of followers, but people who have responsibility for the people they are chosen to lead. The trajectory will of course continue – through to the demand for a monarchy and the choice of handsome Saul who failed to enact God’s will for the people, and of course we sometimes continue to choose inept or self-aggrandising leaders and we continue to pay the price. The populist “strong men” chosen by many nations and peoples – not only our own – are inevitably infantilisers and limiters of the freedoms and choices of people who choose them.

But back to the song of the well, this short recorded text hinting at a much longer poem. We are almost at the borders of the land of Israel, the long wait is about to be over, the next phase is on the horizon. And the people sing their song without permission or mention of any leader. We are reminded – quite deliberately so – that the relationship of the people with God is not contingent on its leadership. There is no mediator between the two parties. God is supporting the people and the people know this. They are ready to take this relationship further on their own terms and for themselves, no matter how charismatic or forceful the leadership may be. There are some things a leader is necessary for, and others that are – and that have to be – the choices of adult human beings.

The people sing to the well, they call forth the life giving water for themselves. They remind themselves that this well has been created by the history of their own people, the hard work of their ancestors. This well belongs to them, not as a miracle, but as the product of the relationship they have forged over time, and for themselves with God.

Now when they are poised to take the land they have yearned for for so long, they are ready and able to do so. Unlike the beginning of their journey when they saw themselves as weak and vulnerable and unable to take their destiny in their own hands, now they are fully able to take the next steps.

They have learned that the well can be dug by themselves. That the resources they need are available if they search them out and claim them. That the living waters that Miriam had provided for them miraculously are in fact living waters that they themselves can create.

The book of Numbers is sometimes understood to have originally been the final book of Moses – the story stops with Joshua taking on the mantle of leadership and the people poised to take the final steps of the journey.

In order to do this they need to have confidence not only in God and their mission, but also – crucially-  in themselves and their own agency and responsibility. The song of the well tells us that they have transformed themselves over the generation in the desert and they are ready.

The future awaits…

Sermone – Chukkat Lev Chadash 2023

וּמִשָּׁ֖ם בְּאֵ֑רָה הִ֣וא הַבְּאֵ֗ר אֲשֶׁ֨ר אָמַ֤ר ה’ לְמֹשֶׁ֔ה אֱסֹף֙ אֶת-הָעָ֔ם וְאֶתְּנָ֥ה לָהֶ֖ם מָֽיִם׃ {ס}

 אָ֚ז יָשִׁ֣יר יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל אֶת-הַשִּׁירָ֖ה הַזֹּ֑את עֲלִ֥י בְאֵ֖ר עֱנוּ-לָֽהּ׃ בְּאֵ֞ר חֲפָר֣וּהָ שָׂרִ֗ים כָּר֙וּהָ֙ נְדִיבֵ֣י הָעָ֔ם בִּמְחֹקֵ֖ק בְּמִשְׁעֲנֹתָ֑ם

E da lì a Be’er, che è il pozzo dove l’Eterno disse a Mosè: “Raduna il popolo perché io dia loro dell’acqua”. Allora Israele intonò questo canto: Sorgete, o pozzo – cantate ad esso – il pozzo che i capi hanno scavato, che i nobili del popolo hanno avviato, con le mazze, con i loro bastoni”.

Qui, in Parashat Chukkat, quarant’anni dopo aver lasciato la schiavitù dell’Egitto, ci prepariamo al passaggio di consegne dalla generazione che ha guidato il popolo d’Israele nel lungo soggiorno nel deserto e iniziamo a guardare alla realtà di essere un popolo che vive nella propria terra.   Vengono registrate le morti dei fratelli di Mosè e dei loro compagni di guida, Miriam e Aronne. Dopo che i riti di lutto sono stati conclusi e Elazar, figlio di Aronne, ha preso il suo posto come Sommo Sacerdote, il popolo ancora una volta “parlò contro Dio e contro Mosè: “Perché ci hai fatto uscire dall’Egitto per farci morire nel deserto? Perché non c’è pane e non c’è acqua; e la nostra anima detesta questo pane leggero””.  La risposta di Dio fu l’invio di serpenti di fuoco che mordevano il popolo e causavano una terribile piaga; il popolo riconobbe di aver peccato contro Dio e pregò Mosè di pregare affinché la piaga cessasse. Segue un episodio molto strano in cui Dio dice a Mosè di creare l’immagine di un serpente di ottone, di metterla su un’asta e che chiunque la guardi sarà guarito – l’immagine è ancora usata come simbolo internazionale di guarigione, essendo entrata nel mondo pagano attraverso i greci come “verga di Asclepio”. (Asclepio, il dio greco della guarigione, è citato da Omero nell’Iliade (circa ottavo secolo a.C.), che potrebbe averla incontrata adorata dalle tribù israelite e filistee che vivevano in riva al mare, che l’avevano promossa in un culto religioso che il re Ezechia distrusse insieme ad altre pratiche idolatriche che si erano insinuate in Israele negli oltre settecento anni trascorsi dal rientro del popolo con Giosuè.

Ma lasciamo da parte questa curiosa storia a favore di un altro intrigante frammento di testo biblico: i brevi versetti noti come “il canto del pozzo” che ho citato all’inizio.

All’inizio dell’esodo, Mosè, Miriam e il popolo intonarono un canto dopo aver attraversato il Mare dei Giunchi e aver eluso gli inseguitori egiziani: Shirat Hayam, il canto del mare. Più tardi, nel libro del Deuteronomio, ci sarà la testimonianza finale di Mosè al popolo, scritta sotto forma di canto – Ha’azinu.    Ma qui siamo quasi alla fine del viaggio e vicini ai confini della terra in cui il popolo entrerà e si stabilirà tra poco, e qui abbiamo un riferimento a un altro canto. Un canto che non è il canto di Mosè, ma il canto di Israele.

Nel Talmud leggiamo che (Ta’anit 9a):  “Rabbi Yosei, figlio di Rabbi Yehuda, dice: Tre buoni sostenitori sorsero per il popolo ebraico durante l’esodo dall’Egitto, e sono: Mosè, Aronne e Miriam. E tre buoni doni furono dati dal Cielo attraverso la loro agenzia, e questi sono: Il pozzo d’acqua, la colonna di nuvola e la manna. E approfondisce: Il pozzo fu dato al popolo ebraico per merito di Miriam; la colonna di nuvola per merito di Aronne e la manna per merito di Mosè. Quando Miriam morì, il pozzo scomparve, come si legge: “E Miriam vi morì” (Numeri 20:1), e subito dopo si legge: “E non c’era acqua per la comunità” (Numeri 20:2). Ma il pozzo tornò per merito di Mosè e di Aronne”.

Ora sia Miriam che Aronne sono morti e ci si chiede chi e cosa sosterrà il popolo ebraico in futuro. Questo è il momento del cambiamento, il passaggio da una leadership forte e quasi parentale a qualcosa di molto diverso: l’attività e la responsabilità comunitaria.

Guardate l’introduzione di questa canzone: – אָ֚ז יָשִׁ֣יר יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל אֶת-הַשִּׁירָ֖ה הַזֹּ֑את

“Allora i figli di Israele intonarono questo canto”.

Il midrash (Yalkut Shimoni su Torah 764:26) nota la natura unica di questo versetto. “Rabbi Avin il levita disse: Quando Israele si alzò per cantare il canto sul mare, Mosè non lo lasciò cantare da solo, ma come un insegnante che recita una parte della Scrittura con un allievo quando è giovane, così Mosè lo recitò con Israele”: “allora cantarono Mosè e i figli d’Israele”, come un allievo che ripete dopo l’insegnante. Ma dopo quarant’anni [nel deserto], Israele maturò e procedette da solo a cantare il Canto del Pozzo, come si dice: “allora cantò Israele” (Num. 21:17).

In altre parole, all’inizio dei 40 anni di permanenza nel deserto, il popolo era infantile, bisognoso di una guida e di un comando, incapace di assumersi la responsabilità della propria vita e delle proprie scelte. Ma ora, alla fine del Libro dei Numeri, il popolo è maturato e non solo è in grado, ma anche disposto ad assumersi la responsabilità della propria vita.

Il Libro dei Numeri – Bemidbar – ha un chiaro arco narrativo e una traiettoria molto diversa dai libri che lo precedono. Inizia con un censimento (da cui il nome più usuale di Numeri o il nome rabbinico di Pekudim, di conteggio), ma mentre il censimento è fatto per pianificare le operazioni militari, ha un linguaggio molto specifico – . 

שאו את-ראש כל-עדת בני-ישראל למשפחתם לבית אבתם במספר שמות

“alza la testa di tutti i membri della comunità dei figli d’Israele secondo le famiglie delle loro case d’origine, conta secondo i loro nomi….

Ogni persona viene contata “bemispar Shemot”, cioè viene chiamata per nome mentre viene contata. Ogni persona è un individuo ed è conosciuta per nome. Il censimento non è condotto direttamente da Mosè e Aronne, ma dai rappresentanti delle tribù, uno per ogni tribù, ognuno dei quali è un leader all’interno della tribù.

Quindi, fin dai primi versetti del libro, la leadership viene estesa alle tribù.  Quando il tabernacolo viene dedicato, sono i capi delle tribù a portare i sacrifici, il che porta il midrash a dedurre che Aronne era angosciato dal fatto di non far parte del rituale (Tanchuma Beha’alotecha 5 su Num. 8,2) e che il suo ruolo non era più centrale e unico ma a disposizione dei singoli.

In tutto il libro ci sono storie che mostrano il primato dell’iniziativa individuale piuttosto che il seguire supinamente un leader carismatico. Naturalmente ci sono storie in cui ciò va storto – Eldad e Medad che profetizzano in modo strano nell’accampamento, per esempio, o Korach deciso a dire che ogni membro del popolo d’Israele è un leader e quindi Mosè e Aronne hanno assunto troppa leadership e dovrebbero ritirarsi – ma il punto rimane, il popolo sta imparando ad assumersi la responsabilità, a pensare e ad agire per se stesso. Potranno continuare ad avere dei leader, e chiaramente questo è importante, ma la leadership è limitata in un modo particolare: non più carismatici che chiedono seguaci, ma persone che hanno la responsabilità del popolo che sono state scelte per guidare. La traiettoria continuerà, naturalmente, fino alla richiesta di una monarchia e alla scelta del bel Saul, che non riuscì a mettere in atto la volontà di Dio per il popolo, e naturalmente continuiamo a scegliere leader inetti o autocelebrativi e continuiamo a pagarne il prezzo. Gli “uomini forti” populisti scelti da molte nazioni e popoli – non solo il nostro – sono inevitabilmente infantilizzatori e limitatori delle libertà e delle scelte delle persone che li scelgono.

Ma torniamo al canto del pozzo, questo breve testo registrato che allude a una poesia molto più lunga. Siamo quasi ai confini della terra d’Israele, la lunga attesa sta per finire, la fase successiva è all’orizzonte. E il popolo intona il suo canto senza il permesso o la menzione di un leader. Ci viene ricordato – volutamente – che il rapporto del popolo con Dio non dipende dalla sua guida. Non c’è nessun mediatore tra le due parti. Dio sostiene il popolo e il popolo lo sa. È pronto a portare avanti questa relazione alle proprie condizioni e per se stesso, a prescindere da quanto carismatica o forte possa essere la leadership. Ci sono cose per cui un leader è necessario, e altre che sono – e devono essere – scelte di esseri umani adulti.

Il popolo canta al pozzo, invoca per sé l’acqua che dà la vita. Ricordano a se stessi che questo pozzo è stato creato dalla storia del loro popolo, dal duro lavoro dei loro antenati. Questo pozzo appartiene a loro, non come un miracolo, ma come il prodotto del rapporto che hanno instaurato nel tempo e per se stessi con Dio.

Ora, quando sono pronti a conquistare la terra che hanno desiderato per tanto tempo, sono pronti e in grado di farlo. A differenza dell’inizio del loro viaggio, quando si vedevano deboli e vulnerabili e incapaci di prendere in mano il proprio destino, ora sono pienamente in grado di compiere i passi successivi.

Hanno imparato che il pozzo può essere scavato da soli. Che le risorse di cui hanno bisogno sono disponibili se le cercano e le reclamano. Che le acque vive che Miriam aveva miracolosamente fornito loro sono in realtà acque vive che essi stessi possono creare.

Il libro dei Numeri è talvolta inteso come il libro finale di Mosè: la storia si ferma con Giosuè che assume il mantello della guida e il popolo pronto a compiere gli ultimi passi del viaggio.

Per farlo, deve avere fiducia non solo in Dio e nella sua missione, ma anche – cosa fondamentale – in se stesso e nella propria agenzia e responsabilità. Il canto del pozzo ci dice che si sono trasformati nel corso della generazione nel deserto e sono pronti.

Il futuro li attende…

Parashat Noach: We will not be silent: renewing the work of creation

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Parashat Noach

Ten generations from the Creation of the first human beings the earth is corrupted, violent and vile.

וַתִּשָּׁחֵ֥ת הָאָ֖רֶץ לִפְנֵ֣י הָֽאֱלֹהִ֑ים וַתִּמָּלֵ֥א הָאָ֖רֶץ חָמָֽס׃

וַיַּ֧רְא אֱלֹהִ֛ים אֶת־הָאָ֖רֶץ וְהִנֵּ֣ה נִשְׁחָ֑תָה כִּֽי־הִשְׁחִ֧ית כׇּל־בָּשָׂ֛ר אֶת־דַּרְכּ֖וֹ עַל־הָאָֽרֶץ׃ 

וַיֹּ֨אמֶר אֱלֹהִ֜ים לְנֹ֗חַ קֵ֤ץ כׇּל־בָּשָׂר֙ בָּ֣א לְפָנַ֔י כִּֽי־מָלְאָ֥ה הָאָ֛רֶץ חָמָ֖ס מִפְּנֵיהֶ֑ם וְהִנְנִ֥י מַשְׁחִיתָ֖ם אֶת־הָאָֽרֶץ׃  {ס} 

The earth became corrupt before God; the earth was filled with lawlessness.  When God saw how corrupt the earth was, for all flesh had corrupted its ways on earth, God said to Noah, “I have decided to put an end to all flesh, for the earth is filled with lawlessness because of them: I am about to destroy them with the earth.

In three verses (Genesis 6:11-13) the narrative drives home the problem – human beings have damaged their environment irredeemably. Ha’aretz “the earth” is mentioned six times, each time with the connection that it is corrupted  – from the root שָׁחַת  meaning spoiled, destroyed, corrupted, decayed….

God doesn’t directly reference the corruption of the people – it is the earth which is expressing the consequences of human action and inaction, the earth which is acting out the full horror of what humanity has become. And it is on the earth that the full punishment will be felt, as the floods rise and the rain falls, the waters that surround the land which were divided above and below at the time of creation return to their place, and no land will be seen for 150 days and nights.

The intertwining of people and land is complete. What one does affects the other, yet we also know that the land is used again and again in bible to be the metric against which ethical behaviour is measured – and should we not follow God’s requirements we will be unceremoniously evicted from the land for which we have stewardship.

When God decides to end the corruption on the earth God speaks to Noach. God tells him – all flesh will be ended because it is the action of humanity that has brought this unspeakable destruction about, and God is about to end creation – both people and land must be ended.

And Noach says – well, interesting Noach says nothing. Indeed, we have no record in any of the narrative of Noach speaking. Not to God, not to his family, not to humankind. His silence is a cold core at the heart of the story.  Noach doesn’t react, doesn’t warn, doesn’t plead or beg or educate or protest….

Instead Noach builds the boat, collects the animals and their food as God has commanded him, floats in a sea of destruction as everything around him drowns. And when eventually the dry land appears and they are all able to disembark, still Noach doesn’t speak. He builds and altar and sacrifices to God. He plants a vineyard and makes wine and gets drunk, and only then does Noach speak – he speaks to curse his son who had shamed him while he slept off his drunkenness. (Oddly while it was his son Ham who had seen him in this state, Noach actually curses Canaan, the son of Ham.)

He breaks this long long silence for what? To curse so that one group of society will be oppressed by another. He has essentially learned nothing.

We read the story every year. Every year Torah is reminding us – it just took ten generations to completely spoil the creation of our world. We read it and yet we don’t notice it. Instead we focus on the rainbow, the promise from God not to destroy us again by flood. We have turned it into a children’s story decorated with colourful pictures of rainbows and cheerful animals on an artfully dilapidated boat.

We don’t pay attention to the silence of Noach, which mirrors our own silence. We too don’t protest or change our behaviours or warn or educate, we too just doggedly get on with our lives. We don’t pay attention to the way that nature rises up to right itself, the planet ridding itself of the dirt and destruction humanity has visited upon it. We don’t pay attention to the drunkenness of the man who cannot cope with what he has seen, nor the warnings which echo when he finally speaks – to curse the future.

Noach is the quintessential antihero. There is nothing much we can see in him to learn from or to emulate. Yet his story can teach us a great deal. First and foremost it teaches us that abusing the earth will bring devastating consequences to all who live on this planet, and to the planet itself. We learn that the earth is fragile and complex interdependent system, that it does not take long – ten generations – to corrupt and seriously damage it. We learn that the way to avert this is not only to change our behaviour but also to engage with each other and support each other in changing how we treat our world, silence and focus only on self-preservation will not bring a good outcome for anyone. We learn that the trauma of survival in such circumstances will mark the generations to come.

Bible tells us that God repents having made human beings on the earth. (Genesis 6:6) and so brings about the flood. It tells us that God wearily understands that “the imagination of man’s heart is evil from his youth” (Genesis 8:21) after Noach has made his sacrifice having survived and returned to dry land. Much is made of God’s covenant not to bring total destruction by flood ever again – the symbol for the promise being the rainbow that appears in the sky – but this is not an open promise to the world that we will not bring about our own destruction, merely a divine understanding that perfection will never be part of the human project.

A perfect world is beyond our grasp, but that should not stop us grasping for a world which is healthy and healing, nurtured and nurturing, diverse and complex and continuing to evolve.

In the yotzer prayer, one of the two blessings before the shema in the shacharit (morning) service, is the phrase    “uvtuvo me’chadesh bechol yom tamid ma’aseh bereishit”

In [God’s] goodness God renews the work of creation every day.

Creation is not static, it is a constantly emerging phenomenon. Our tradition makes us partners with God in nurturing the environment we live in. If  God is said to give us a new possibility each day to make our world a better place, then unlike Noach we must grasp the challenge and work hard to clean up our world, and so avoid the inevitable consequences of just looking after ourselves and keeping silent.

12th Elul: repentance is not a substitute for responsibility

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The official ideology of Yom Kippur is found in the words of Resh Lakish, a third century Talmudic sage, and can be found in the Babylonian Talmud, Yoma 86b–“Great is repentance, for the deliberate sins of one who repents become as inadvertent ones.”

In effect the argument is that Teshuvah, the action of repenting, causes the person to allow their real self to emerge, and as they move into a new direction they show that true self. The person therefore who sinned deliberately can be understood to have been not really themselves, and so, when they become their real self, those sins are clearly inadvertent – and inadvertent sin cannot be punished or judged in the same way as deliberately flouting the rules of behaviour.

It is a theology of new beginnings and a clean slate, teaching us that renewal is always possible; counteracting the guilt and despair we may be feeling about the bad choices we have made with the belief that good intentions for the future must redeem us and make up for the past.

It is certainly an attractive proposal, but the reality is that we can’t rely on Teshuvah to remake the world exactly as it was or should be. Teshuvah may be a potent force but it is not an all-powerful one. Even if it can change our deliberate sins into the more manageable and less terrifying category of inadvertent ones, it cannot erase the effects of those sins. If we were to truly face reality we would have to say that repentance is not, and never can be a substitute for responsibility. And more than that, we would have to acknowledge that some things cannot be rectified, however mortified and ashamed we may be to have committed them. What is done cannot always be undone, and the mark it leaves on our lives (and those of other people) will not be erased.

The word Kippur is related to the verb “to cover over”. When we try to make Teshuvah and to uncover our real and ideal self as we turn towards a good way of being in the world, we also cover over the mistakes we made and the bad actions we did. They do not go away, but we take away their power to hold us back, through our shame or our fear. I do like the notion of Teshuvah providing us with a new start, of the freshness of starting again unencumbered by a past that has the power to haunt us, but I shudder a little at the notion of a rebirth. For we are not in any way born again through our actions over the Yamim Noraim, we continue to live and continue to remember and continue to be the person who has real responsibility for our lives, but at the same time we cover over and leave behind the place that is stopping us from going forward into our new and more true way of being. Repentance is not a substitute for responsibility – repentance gives us the means to become much more responsible for who we are, and the power to use that responsibility to change not only ourselves but also the world around us.

 

6th Elul :We don’t abstain from helping others if we want to call ourselves religious

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6th Elul

“If someone comes to you for assistance and you say to them, ‘God will help you,’ you become a disloyal servant of God. You have to understand that God has sent you to aid the needy and not to refer them back to God.”  (the Lelover Rebbe)

There is an old joke of the person who refused to follow the warnings of a coming flood and persisted in stating that as a person of faith, they knew that God would not let them come to harm. The rains came and the person stayed in their house, moved onto an upper floor and prayed. Suddenly a boat came floating past the window – “quick –get in” said the person in the boat, but the faithful person replied “I will pray and God will save me”. The rain continued, the boat came again, and again the person refused to get in, citing God’s protection of the righteous.

The next morning found the flood even higher, the person had climbed onto the roof of the house, and watched as the rain continued. Suddenly the boat reappeared. “Quick, get in, we won’t be able to come back after this it is too dangerous”. Once more their offer was refused. The flood waters covered the house and shortly afterwards the soul of the faithful person stood before God. Furious, they demanded to know why they had drowned when they had been demonstrating their faith in the goodness and salvation of God. And the Divine Voice replied “who do you think sent the boat?”

In this world we may or may not have a strong faith in God, but we do have a responsibility to each other and to ourselves. And that responsibility extends way past any category of who deserves and who does not, who is like us or how we would like to be, and who is very different.

For those of us who see ourselves as people of faith, it is not enough –not nearly enough- to expect that faith to save us or save anyone else. It is a requirement of our faith that we use it to increase our activity in the world for good, that we recognise that we have our own agency, and we must use it.

It is not enough to say “the Government has a plan” or “there are organisations for these situations or these people” or “other people are helping”. It is not enough to tut and frown and say “what a shame but it is not our responsibility” When people need help, it is our human obligation to give that help. For the Lelover it was an obligation based on being a loyal servant of God. Jewish texts repeat this message in a myriad ways. But however one frames it, the bottom line in Judaism is that we don’t abstain from helping others, we must not abstain – this is our primary work in the world.

 

 

 

 

Sukkot: the people, the land, the relationships that connect us

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Sukkot is one of the three pilgrimage festivals mandated in Bible, forming a particular cycle of harvest celebrations with Pesach and Shavuot, yet unlike them in the passage in Leviticus which details the festivals, Sukkot is given an extra dimension – it is not only an agricultural celebration but also one that reminds us of the foundational story of our people.  “The fifteenth day of this seventh month, when you have gathered in the fruits of the land, you will keep the feast of the Eternal seven days …And you shall take for yourselves on the first day the fruit of the tree (hadar), branches of palm trees, and the boughs of thick leaved trees, and willows of the brook and rejoice before the Eternal .. You shall dwell in booths seven days…that your generations may know that I made the children of Israel to dwell in booths when I brought them out of the land of Egypt…”  Lev 23:34-43

This explicit link to the exodus, to the people’s vulnerability and dependence on God, brings a powerful richness to our celebration. Unlike the Spring/Summer celebrations of Pesach and Shavuot, with hope and new life bursting forth, the autumnal setting of Sukkot brings intimations of the dark, hard winter days ahead, the leafless trees, the sleeping earth, a quasi-death experience. Sukkot comes six months after Pesach, and it builds and develops the themes of that festival. Unlike the intense dramatic ‘high’ of the plagues and our leaving slavery in Egypt that Pesach provides, Sukkot marks the “ordinary and everyday” struggle to stay alive and safe. It reminds us that our freedoms are fragile, that even basic necessities are not automatically given to us, that life is made up of routine hard graft and of effortful striving. And in this quotidian mundane activity, God is also present, even if less obvious to us.

Sukkot is a festival of autumnal abundance in preparation for months of wintertime scarcity. But at the same time it draws our attention to our two most basic frailties, our need for water (for ourselves and our crops) and for shelter.  The sukkah itself represents the fragility of our homes, with the “s’chach” open to the skies even as the abundant fruit is hanging from it, and the arba’a minim shaken as an almost magical ceremonial to bring rain in the right season.

The four components, held together as they are shaken, are a fascinating concatenation of concepts. Biblically mandated, the palm, myrtle, willow and etrog can represent such a complexity of characteristics. One midrash suggests that together they represent the whole community, all of whom have value and are included in the ritual – the hadar fruit, the etrog, has taste (Torah) and aroma (Mitzvot); the palm has tasty fruit but no smell, (ie represents those who have torah but no good deeds); the myrtle leaves smell wonderful but it has no fruit (mitzvot but no torah), and the willow has neither taste nor smell (no torah and no mitzvot). Every community has people with each of these categories. When we pray before God, each person is important.

Another view is that each one represents a different part of the land of Israel- so the palm tree which loves a hot dry climate grows well in desert areas, the myrtle thrives in the cooler mountains regions, the willows grow only near the streams and waterways that flow all year, and the etrog is most comfortable in the lower coastal areas and the valleys. Israel has a series of microclimates, each represented here.

Or one can understand the arba minim to represent our history from Egypt to settlement: so the lulav would represent wandering in the desert, the willow- crossing the Jordan, the myrtle our settling in the mountains and the etrog the establishment of orchards.

And there is also a midrash that the arba’a minim represents each human being – the palm being the spine, the myrtle the eyes, the willow the lips and the etrog the heart, and we come in supplication to God because we understand how fragile our existence truly is.

Whichever symbolism resonates, the core truth is the same. We are in this world together, our survival is not guaranteed, we need to work together and support each other even as we celebrate a plentiful harvest.  We need to be aware of scarcity, that we can all be affected, that only by sharing and by working together can we create a more harmonious world.

Sukkot is given four names in bible: “Chag ha’Asif”[i] – the festival of ingathering; “Chag ha’Sukkot”[ii] – the Festival of Booths; He’Chag[iii] – THE festival; and “Chag l’Adonai”[iv] the Festival of the Eternal. Of these, the third name – the festival par excellence – gives us most pause for thought, for it reminds us that Sukkot is the most important festival.

Why is this? The symbols of the festival remind us that EVERY person in our society is important; each one needs the dignity of their own home and the security of knowing that basic needs will be met; (Talmud Berachot 57b tells us a home of one’s own increases self-esteem and dignity). They remind us that we are all journeying, that while we may have the illusion of a stable rooted existence, the world turns and our fortunes can turn with it. They remind us that we all have responsibility for the environment and for how we treat our world, that damage to our environment and changes to our climate affects us all. They remind us that we are dependent on factors that are beyond our control. Yet with all of this unsettling symbolism, the rabbis call this festival “z’man simchateinu”, the time of our rejoicing, based upon the verses in Leviticus.  Why does Sukkot make us so happy, this festival of wandering and of fragility? I think because it reminds us of our human commonality and the power of human community. We are connected to God and we are connected to our land, we are connected to our foundational stories and to our historic experiences, but for any of this to truly matter, we must be connected to each other.

[i] Exodus 23:16; exodus 34:22

[ii] Leviticus 23.34; Deuteronomy 16:13,16

[iii] Ezekiel 45, 25, 1 Kings 8, 2, Ezekiel 45, 25 and 2 Chronicles 7, 8

[iv] Leviticus 23:39

(written for the “Judaism in 1000 words” section of Movement for Reform Judaism website)

Vayelech: the time for us to grow up and take responsibility for our choices is upon us. or: the bnei mitzvah of the people of Israel

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Eight years ago one of my dearest friends was about to be seventy years old, and she decided to celebrate this momentous and biblical age by having her batmitzvah. I had tried to persuade her to do this for years and she had brushed me off; it is typical of her that she made her choice by herself on a date that had such resonance, and then throw herself into study and thinking for herself.  We talked a little about the date and the sidra, and then she chose to direct her own study and do her own research. Luckily she sent me a near final draft. I say luckily because she never read this drasha or celebrated that long awaited day, for with everything planned and organised and ready to go, she suffered a cataclysmic and sudden bereavement and the weekend was taken over instead with grief and shock and the arrangements to honour the dead.

We spoke a while afterwards about her celebrating her batmitzvah on a different date but we both knew that was not really going to happen. The anticipated joy would never be the same, the shadow of grief never quite left her, and she too would depart this world suddenly and unexpectedly and quite dramatically, leaving the rest of us a small flavour of the shock she had experienced on the day of her birthday batmitzvah, to grieve and to question, and to process the reality of what happens when a life is torn from the world without warning.

Checking my computer recently, and thinking also of her as I do at this time of year, I came across an email where she had sent me this draft of the drasha she was to give to the community she had been at the heart of for so many years. With the permission of her children, I want to share it here.

“Vayelech is the shortest parsha in the Torah. It is 30 verses long, and I don’t recall ever hearing it read. In non-leap years like this one it is linked with Nitzavim. When I read Nitzavim-Vayelech they held together. They are followed next week by Ha’azinu which, when I looked it up I discovered is one the 10 Shirot [songs] conceived or written as part of the Almighty’s pre-Creation preparations. The only one still to be written is the song we will sing when the Messiah comes. 

We are coming to the end of the Torah. This name, given to the first of the three sections of the Hebrew Bible, is better translated as Teaching. We are coming to the end of the month of Elul the month in which we begin to prepare for the approaching High Holy Days, and in the coming week we will celebrate Rosh Hashanah which in turn is followed by the 10 days of penitence and Yom Kippur. Then in roughly a month’s time on Simchat Torah we will finish reading the Teaching, the end of Deuteronomy, and seamlessly begin Bereishit – Genesis – again. 

Vayelech must contain the most important rite of passage in the whole history of our planet. But we will come to that.  

Israel is camped in its tribal groups on the banks of the Jordan, waiting to cross. The preceding parsha, Nitzavim, tells of Moses addressing the whole of Israel, in preparation for entering the land God has promised them. He reminds them they are standing before God, and is clear that every person is included in this relationship.

 [my son] tells me I can tell one joke… a clear example of don’t do as I do, do as I say …but I have two, and we will come to the second soon. A very good friend sent me a card, writing in it “I saw this, and thought of you.” The cartoon was a line drawing of 2 dogs, the larger one saying: “I understand more commands than I obey.” I hope you agree with me, that this is arguable!

Moses and God know from experience that the Children of Israel will fail to follow God’s Teaching. 

Moses warns those listening to him that the consequences of disobedience will be that the land will become desolate, but mitigates this by prophesying they will make t’shuvah, return to the right way, and God will reconcile with them and bring them back.

 And he says something that has always troubled me:  that the commandment he is giving to them and so to us “is not beyond you, or too remote. Not in Heaven, or across the sea. It is very close to you… in your mouth and in your heart, so you can do it.”

 What I have never been sure of is what this is, what it is that is in my heart, and in my mouth?  Not the 10 Commandments – too many!    And not the 613 mitzvot buried in the text. And then the man who is not my chief rabbi, Jonathan Sacks said quite plainly on radio 4, no less, what it is, even quoting where I should find it. It is found in Genesis chapter 18, vv 17 – 19, where God is choosing Abraham because he deals with his household with Tzedakah and Mishpat:  two words which together give the meaning of justice tempered with mercy. This is how we hope God will deal with us on Yom Hakippurim.

 And finally Moses said that we have a choice, God has given us the choice of life and death – blessing and curse. We should choose to love God and walk in God’s path and keep God’s commandments. And just as the penalties for not doing so have been listed, the rewards of obeying are explained. 

What we have been told is that all Israel is equally bound by this covenant, regardless of social position or occupation. And that even if we disobey God’s Laws there can be future redemption.

Further, we know that obedience to God’s Laws is within our scope. 

And also that we are to have that freedom to choose that sets us apart from the animals.

 And then we come to today’s portion, .Vayelech “And he went” which is the beginning of the rite of passage for the Children of Israel.

 There is to be a change of “Top Management”. This is the day of Moses’s 120th birthday, and Moses has finally accepted that it is also his death day. It’s been hard for Moses to come to terms with his mortality, and he has behaved a little like a child trying to justify not going to bed, not just yet. There’s no time to discuss this today, try reading Louis Ginsberg’s Legends of the Jews. God has been forbearing with this servant with whom God has been in conversation for the last 40 years.

 In this time the generations born into slavery have died, and the people who are born into freedom have known no other Leader. Moses has taught them, settled disputes, referred knotty halachic problems directly to God, and brought back the answers. It is explained that God will go with them, and lead them across the Jordan. Further, that although Moses may not go, they will have Joshua.

 Moses has been frightened of dying, and the Almighty has shown him Aaron’s painless death. God is giving him the signal honour of dying on the anniversary of his birthday, and although Moses is not to be allowed to cross the Jordan God has taken him to look down upon the land.

 Moses is kept busy on this day – there are the tribes to address, and writing enough copies of the Teaching to give one to each tribe, and lodge one in the Ark of the Covenant. This is talked of as a witness against the people, but I suppose it’s the master copy, and proof of God’s promises and provisions. Moses writes The Scroll to the very end, until it is finished, which is taken to mean that it is prophetic, containing as it does an account of his death. Further, the Almighty gives him a message to deliver, and a song of 43 verses, one of the 10 Shirot, to teach to the people.

  How many people do you think there were, camped by the river? How many going into the Promised Land?

 Jacob went to Egypt with 72 souls in his household. A rabble of 600,000 freed slaves left Egypt – and these were the men of fighting age. Add their relatives – minimally a wife each, one child. – Not parents and siblings – this could cause doubtful accounting – a conservative estimate would be 1,800,000 people. No wonder manna was needed!

Nor was it just Jews who escaped Egypt, plenty of escapee opportunists would have taken the chance, and been the “strangers within your gates” who are to have equality under the covenant with Jacob’s descendants.

 The instruction was given for this to be read every seven years in the shemittah year. All Israel is commanded to gather at Succot in the place God has appointed (eventually the Temple in Jerusalem) and the King read to the people from the Scroll.

 And the chapter ends with the prediction that Israel with turn away from God, and that God’s reaction would be to turn God’s face away from them – but also with the promise that their descendants will not forget the words which will remain in their mouths.

 So what is happening?

 It seems that with the completion of the Torah and our entry into the Promised Land, our Creator considers we are grown up. We have the Torah; we have the record in it of discussions and decisions. We are aware that we can judge matters between human beings – but not matters between human beings and God. We cannot deal with these because it is not our business to govern or over-rule another’s conscience.

 God will not appoint another Moses – there is to be no dynastical continuity. No further theophanies. Israel has become a nation of priests with everyone having access to the Almighty and to God’s mercy.

 And when we begin Genesis all over again, we go back to Creation and the dysfunctional families of Adam and Noah. When we come to Abraham, look out for the Teaching and how it is built on chapter by chapter.

 And where’s the second joke? – listen to the translation.”

Sadly, we never heard the second joke. And the poignancy of some of the comments in the drasha make for difficult reading for those who knew her and knew her later story, though the mischief of her personality comes through this text for me, as does her clear and certain faith in God. This was a woman who, as administrator in the synagogue, would regularly leave open the door to the sanctuary in her office hours “because God likes to go for a walk”, but actually so that visitors would feel able to enter and sit and offer their prayers or order their thoughts. She would tidy up the siddurim and make sure they were properly shelved, saying that upside down books “gave God a headache”, to cover her need to honour God by keeping the synagogue neat. She spent hundreds of hours talking to the lonely, reassuring the frightened, supporting the vulnerable. She spent hundreds of hours creating the databases and systems to ensure that the synagogue ran as effectively as it could. And the roots of all this voluntary caring for the synagogue community was her own life’s struggles and her awareness that if God considers we are grown up now, with equal access to the Almighty and no “top management” to direct us, then we had better get on with it, with the work of creating and sustaining the world with tzedakah and mishpat, with righteousness and justice.

In this period of the Ten Days, as we reflect on the lives we are leading, the choices we are making, and the mortality that will come for us all, either with or without warning, I read her drasha as a modern ”unetaneh tokef”, and, as I was for so many years when I was her rabbi and she my congregant, I am grateful for the learning I had from her.

 

In memoriam Jackie Alfred. September 1940 – January 2017

 

 

 

 

Rescued from the water – from Moses to SOS Méditerranée. A Jewish response to the refugees fleeing to Europe across the Mediterranean Sea

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Recently I attended a lecture by Jean-Marc Liling at the conference of the European Union for Progressive Judaism. One of his statements really struck home. Referring to the many migrants rescued from the waters of the Mediterranean Sea, he reminded us of how the greatest leader of Judaism found safety having been first hidden in a basket in the reeds on the Nile and then rescued by a woman in the Pharaonic household. She is the one who gives him his name when she adopts him, She calls him Moses/Moshe, because ““I have drawn him from the water – min ha mayim m’shitihu”

Day after day and year after year we hear of the stories of people who are fleeing their homes because of warfare and violence, and who are looking for safety across the Mediterranean sea. Earlier this week the humanitarian group SOS Méditerranée wrote on twitter that its rescue boat Aquarius had taken in 629 migrants, including 123 unaccompanied minors, 11 other children and seven pregnant women. They would take them to a safe port as usual – but the Italian government refused to allow the ship to dock. Even though the mayors of the port cities such as Palermo, Naples, Messina and Reggio Calabria, said they were ready to disobey Salvini’s order and allow Aquarius to dock and disembark in their seaports, the lack of coastguard meant they could not do so. The ship eventually ended up able to disembark its frightened, exhausted and distressed passengers in Spain, after an agonisingly protracted negotiation and a further period of enduring the stormy seas.

Today The Coast Guard ship Diciotti, arrived in the port of Catania, with 932 migrants on board. They were rescued during 7 rescue operations off Libya, and I read that five of the refugees, four pregnant women and a minor, have already been transferred to Sicilian hospitals. On board the ship there are also two corpses, recovered during the rescue interventions.

As a Jew, as a person born with the privilege of a western passport and life, as a human being, I read the stories of these refugees with pity, compassion and some horror.  I am only one generation away from refugee status. My father came as an unaccompanied minor to the UK leaving behind his family in Germany. His father survived Dachau but died stateless –sans papiers – in Switzerland, days after the Swiss Government saw fit to refuse him leave to stay in their country because he was a refugee. My mother was born to parents who fled the anti-Semitic constraints of living as Jews in Eastern Europe. They had arrived there, so family tradition relates, from Spain – when Jews were forcibly converted or killed or fled from the Inquisition.  I am not remotely unusual in the Jewish world. Scratch most Jews and you will quickly find the story of a refugee.

What does Judaism say to us to help us understand?  Right at the beginning of bible Cain asks the question “Am I my brother’s keeper?” He appears to think that he should not have to be responsible for any other human being, but the answer from God is clear and unequivocal. Yes, we are responsible for each other. We are each other’s brothers and sisters,  we have a human link with each other which cannot be dissolved.

Abraham in Hebron, describes himself as a stranger and sojourner (ger v’toshav Anochi) (Gen 23:3-4) and asks to be allowed to bury his wife.

The most frequent mitzvah in bible is to care for the stranger, the refugee and the vulnerable who live among us – for example- “And if a stranger (Ger) sojourn with you in your land, you shall not do them wrong.  The stranger that sojourns with you shall be to you as the home born among you, and you shall love them as yourself; for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.  I am the Eternal your God. (Lev. 19:33-34)

And Moses, the one who reminds us again and again to care for the stranger and those who live amongst us and need our help – Moses was drawn from the water having been put there to flee a death sentence which had been decreed by a violent political power determined to ethnically cleanse his country.

In the Yizkor section of the British Reform Machzor is a prayer that speaks of the many lives lost in pogroms and in Shoah. It speaks of the laughter that was lost, the poetry never written, the science never developed, the music never composed. It lists all the things that died when the people who should have done them died. Not just the descendants who never got born, but the ideas, the humanity, the connections and the learning of the people, which never had chance to form.  When I think about Moses being rescued from certain death in the water, whose life hung on a thread after the political powers determined to play out their own warped agenda, I cannot now forget the question asked at that lecture. What have we lost as we allow the migrants to die in the Mediterranean Sea? The United Nations estimates that at least 500 people have already died in 2018 trying to cross the central Mediterranean, following some 2,853 fatalities last year.

What have we lost by not caring enough to help these people? Not just lives, though that would be bad enough but all the things that would have come from those lives.

The bible tells us that God says to Cain, who had killed his brother ‘The bloods of your brother cry out to Me’ (Genesis 4:10) — and rabbinic tradition, noting the plural that the sentence is cast in, read  that it is not only  his blood but also the blood of his potential descendants….The Mishnah (Sanhedrin 4:5) continues:  Therefore was the first human being, Adam, created alone, to teach us that whoever destroys a single life, the Bible considers it as if he destroyed an entire world. And whoever saves a single life, the Bible considers it as if they saved an entire world. Furthermore, only one human being, Adam, was created for the sake of peace among people, so that no one should say to their fellow, ‘My father was greater than yours….

We are a people whose national and foundational stories are of being refugees. We are a people whose great figures – Abraham and Moses, are themselves refugees, Ivri’im, people who cross over from one place to another, in search of a safe place to be themselves. When, as Jews, we read the stories coming out of the desperate people crossing the sea in leaky overcrowded boats in order to escape a terrible existence – or even death – in their own country, our response has to be practical and immediate. We cannot turn away. We cannot parrot the lines about people being economic migrants or ”just” looking for a better life and absolve ourselves of responsibility.

The boat that docked today in Catania is called Diciotti. It is connected to the word 18. 18 is, in Hebrew, Het Yod – Hai –Life. It seems to me a call to remind us to choose life, not only for ourselves and our families, but for all who need our help for them to also choose life.

Rabbi Sylvia Rothschild 13th June 2018

Parashat Vayishlach: a bite or a kiss? a messenger or an apology?

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In parashat vayishlach we see the moment where Jacob the trickster, the one focussed only on himself and his own needs and aspirations, is able to change. He is on his journey home, a wealthy and powerful man. However he must first encounter his estranged brother Esau whom he had dispossessed from his birthright and from whose terrible pain and murderous anger he had fled all those years ago.

In preparation for the encounter he sent out messengers in order to both impress Esau with his power and wealth, and in order to try to find out what was likely to be ahead of him. The messengers’ report on their return distressed him – they had met Esau on his way to meet Jacob, accompanied by four hundred men. His response – to try to save what he could of his family and possessions by dividing them into two groups, and then he prayed for help, invoking the merit of his ancestors and the promises God had made to him regarding his descendants. Following this, he began selecting groups of animals that he could send ahead as gifts to Esau, in order to appease him before their meeting. Then he says a particularly curious sentence, given what is about to happen:

וְאַֽחֲרֵי־כֵן֙ אֶרְאֶ֣ה פָנָ֔יו אוּלַ֖י יִשָּׂ֥א פָנָֽי”

And after this, I will see his face, perhaps he will raise my face/accept me”

Having taken his family, divided into two camps, across the ford of Jabok and over the stream, Jacob was left alone, yet in the same sentence that tells us  וַיִּוָּתֵ֥ר יַֽעֲקֹ֖ב לְבַדּ֑וֹ that he had been left behind and was completely and utterly alone, we are also told

     וַיֵּֽאָבֵ֥ק אִישׁ֙ עִמּ֔וֹ עַ֖ד עֲל֥וֹת הַשָּֽׁחַר:

And a man wrestled with him until the morning dawned.

He was alone, but he was not alone. He was in the dark of the night. He was wrestling. His struggles through the dark night of his soul changes him forever. He is in liminal transitional time after which he will be transformed and given a new name – though not so transformed that he would lose his old name forever….

Who is Jacob wrestling? The narrator of the text tells us it is “ish- a man.”

The wrestler himself is more complex telling Jacob that he has struggled with God and with men and has prevailed:

כִּֽי־שָׂרִ֧יתָ עִם־אֱלֹהִ֛ים וְעִם־אֲנָשִׁ֖ים וַתּוּכָֽל:

Later in the text Jacob seems to believe the fight was with God, as he names the place Peniel, the face of God:

וַיִּקְרָ֧א יַֽעֲקֹ֛ב שֵׁ֥ם הַמָּק֖וֹם פְּנִיאֵ֑ל כִּֽי־רָאִ֤יתִי אֱלֹהִים֙ פָּנִ֣ים אֶל־פָּנִ֔ים וַתִּנָּצֵ֖ל נַפְשִֽׁי:

And he continues “for I have seen God face to face and my soul is preserved”

Traditional explanations are that Jacob is fighting an angel, in particular the guardian angel of Esau who is attempting to weaken Jacob before the meeting, or that ‘the’man’ was Jacob himself, struggling with himself and his own feelings and needs, with the two inclinations all humanity possess – the yetzer ha’ra and the yetzer ha’tov, the inclination to be motivated primarily for one’s own self-interest versus the inclination to be motivated for the good of the community and of others, battling it out for charge of his soul.

There is, I think, a clue to this critical and iconic night of struggle in another part of the sidra. When Jacob meets Esau we find that Esau was coming with a welcoming party not a gang of ‘heavies’, and we are told that far from there being a clash between the brothers there is instead from Esau’s side real emotion and warmth at their reconciliation. We are told that he ran to Jacob and embraced him and fell upon his neck and kissed him:

 וַיָּ֨רָץ עֵשָׂ֤ו לִקְרָאתוֹ֙ וַֽיְחַבְּקֵ֔הוּ וַיִּפֹּ֥ל עַל־צַוָּארָ֖ו [צַוָּארָ֖יו] וַיִּשָּׁקֵ֑הוּ וַיִּבְכּֽוּ:

But written in the Masoretic text over the words “and he kissed him” וַיִּשָּׁקֵ֑הוּ are dots, and these are understood in the midrash to be there to draw attention to the word and to add to its meaning. Rashi quotes midrash (Sifrei) and comments that the dots are there to show that the kiss, while it seemed whole hearted, was actually insincere. But the weight of rabbinic tradition goes even further. In Midrash Genesis Rabbah (78:9) we are told that R.Yannai plays on the word ‘vayeshakei’hu’ and by changing just one letter in the word while keeping the sound, one can translate it as Esau biting Jacob. From this midrash comes the stream of Rabbinic traducing of the biblical Esau, to develop him into an enemy of the Jewish people, eventually becoming Edom, the code for the Roman oppression.

 

I do not like this interpretation, being in fact a big fan of the biblical Esau who just couldn’t somehow get it right, but who clearly loved his parents and who wanted to be the son they wanted. However, I would suggest that what was good enough for R.Yannai is good enough for us – so let us look at another word that could be available to the midrashic technique of creating a homophone with a meaning that can alter our understanding of what is happening. ‘Vayishlach’, the name of the sidra, comes from the root שָׁלַח ‘to send’

One homophone, a letter different, is the root סָלַח ‘to pardon or to forgive’

When Jacob then is sending out messengers, maybe we could see that he is in the beginning of the process of searching out for forgiveness, something he clearly needs to do as he has achieved so much of the material possessions he has desired but has not yet matched this achievement with the facing of what he did that had brought him to Laban as a young and frightened boy, alone in the world after having betrayed his father and brother, effectively excluded from his father’s house and inheritance.

So what happens if we bring this word play back into the text? When Jacob wrestles with a man while all alone, while he recognises that the man is in some way both God and human, he is indeed wrestling with himself and his own inclinations. But what he is wrestling with is not so much his two natures but his desire for pardon and his desire not to have to ask for it, not to have to climb down from his arrogance and his power and admit his wrong doing. In Jungian terms, Jacob is fighting with his Shadow side, the darker side of his own self, the irrational and instinctive and unknown aspect of his personality where a perceived personal inferiority is recognised as a perceived moral deficiency in someone else.

 

We all know the phrase that ‘sorry seems to be the hardest word’. For some people it is so hard that they will do almost anything not to have to say it. They will pass on the blame to others, project their feelings so that they see the reconciler as the attacker, reconstruct their narratives of the past so that they will appear the blameless ones, or even the victims of others. They will blacken the name of someone else in preference to owning up to their own mistakes. They will put obstacles in the way of meeting and encountering the other, so as not to have to face up to the humanity and reality of the person whom they have wronged. They will see the ‘admission’ of an apology as something that makes them vulnerable, lose power, or lose their status and become in some way the loser. Saying sorry might mean taking some responsibility for a problem, diminish them in some way, give others the right to judge…

 

We see this everywhere, from individual human interactions to workplace politics to the way that nations in conflict will absolve themselves from the problem and blame it all on the other side. The midrash that claims that Esau bites Jacob rather than kisses him is a manifestation of it. So the idea that Jacob is wrestling in order to say ‘selicha: I am sorry, please forgive me’, is a nice counterpoint.

 

It takes him the whole night and he is physically damaged in the encounter, leaving it with a permanent limp to remind him of both the struggle and the outcome. He is also changed – he can become Israel, the one who struggles with God- while sometimes reverting to Jacob, the heel and the trickster. Saying sorry isn’t a one-time thing – we can find it hard to repeat the word, or to say it in the next situation we should be saying it having made another mistake.

 

And yet apologising when we are at fault is the beginning of redemption. It is about recognising the effect of our actions and taking responsibility for them in order to change our selves and out behaviours. It is at the root of the idea of teshuva, of return to God, of return to the right behaviour that we would want and expect from ourselves.

It is the moment we can turn from Jacob to Israel, the moment when we stop focussing on our pride in our possessions and begin focussing with empathy on others and their needs.

 

Saying sorry is the pivotal moment when we change, when we notice our negative impact and begin to heal it. It is a lifetime process, a skill we need to practise again and again, the moment when we stop being obsessed with our own power and status and rightness and look around us with empathy and compassion and try to care more about others than about ourselves.

When Jacob wrestles and the dawn breaks, he realises that his struggle has meant that his soul is preserved, the sun comes up, the dark night of the soul is over. How did he preserve his soul? He learned of the importance of recognising his own responsibility in what he had done, he said ‘selicha’ he made his peace with the part of him that didn’t want to admit to any flaw or vulnerability. He took his place in the world and limped out, damaged by the encounter but also blessed by it, into the future.