I was looking through some past divrei torah (Torah commentaries) and discovered this one from four years ago. Though the situation in Israel and the Palestinian territories has changed much since then, I believe that the message of this d’var torah still holds true today. Let us pray that the time of peace will arrive and commentaries like this will no longer be necessary.

Shabbat Shalom,

Steven

Commentary on Matot-Masei 5766 (2006)

This week we conclude the reading of the book of Be’midbar/Numbers with the double parashah/portion of Matot-Masei (30:2-36:13). In Parshat Matot we read of the laws given to the Israelites concerning the making of vows, as well as a description of the war against the Midianites. It concludes with Moses resolving a request by the tribes of Gad and Reuben to live on the “other side of the Jordan river”which is permitted.

Masei recounts the forty years of the journeys of the Israelites (masei b’nei yisrael) from Egypt to the Promised Land. Moses then provides instructions for conquering the land, defining its borders and dividing it among the tribes.

How ironic that we read of the conquering and division of the land, as well as of a war against an enemy at a time when the State of Israel is engaged in a war to protect its borders and define not only those borders, but the meaning of its existence.

In preparing to write this d’var torah I have made a conscious decision to stay away from politics as much as possible. I will say that I believe Israel must defend itself against those who wish for nothing more than its destruction, among which I include Hezbollah and Hamas.

However, I would like to create a more spiritual response to what is obviously a difficult and painful situation. For regardless of what I say, more blood will be spilled, of soldiers, civilians and terrorists. Both sides will continue to know death, destruction and hatred no matter what I write. However, what we must keep in mind as we watch the events unfold on the screen and in our hearts are the divine-human qualities of compassion, openness and acceptance. For these are the only qualities that can ever lead us to a true peace, whether in our times or for future generations. As a way of demonstrating this I would like to relate to you something that I experienced this past Shabbat in Jerusalem.

Last Shabbat was the final day of my 12-day trip to Israel, one that was marked by many high points, as well as by the outbreak of war in Lebanon and the continued fighting in Gaza. That Shabbat I decided to walk through the streets of the Baka and German Colony neighborhoods of Jerusalem one last time, ending up at one of my favorite spots, Gan ha’Paamon, the Liberty Bell Garden. This beautiful garden, situated between the German Colony and the area around the King David hotel was built with money donated by North American Jews. It contains not only of gardens, but playgrounds, picnic areas and basketball courts. Not to mention a replica of the Liberty Bell! As I walked through the garden last Shabbat I was reminded of why it is one of my favorite spots in Israel. For as I entered the garden I first saw a group of young Jewish men and women, some wearing more traditional (though not “ultra orthodox”) Shabbat garb, others in shorts and sleeveless shirts, all sitting together sharing Shabbat lunch, laughing, singing, and eventually playing a game of touch football. They were clearly enjoying the peace of Shabbat.

Not far from them, there sat an Israeli Arab family from one of the nearby villages. They were preparing a feast for themselves while numerous children ran around the garden or road their bikes on one of its many paths. Not far from them was another Arab family enjoying an afternoon of leisure.

As I watched these Arabs and Jews sharing the same space I took notice of joyous, raucous music that was being played through a nearby sound system. I soon found that these sounds emanated from a gathering of about 30 Ethiopian Jews beneath a grape arbor in the garden. They were eating, laughing and dancing together to the beat of their native music, many of them wearing traditional Ethiopian garb. As I watched them, I noticed an older Jewish couple, the man wearing a kippah/yarmulke and the woman a traditional head scarf, walk by, stop and smile, before continuing on their Shabbat afternoon walk.

Not far from there, both Jews and Arabs were playing pick-up games of basketball, children played on the playground and other, such as myself, simply enjoyed taking in the beauty of the day, the park, and what was happening within its confines.

As I sat there I could not help but wonder why all of Israel could not be like that park. Of course, I knew the answer to that question all too well, but that did not prevent me from asking. Why, I wondered, couldn’t everyone stop focusing on their differences and instead focus on their similarities. And yet, I knew that this was the idealist within me speaking, for that was not what was happening in the park at all. For in reality, each of the groups was interacting only with its own members and not with members of the other groups. Of course, they recognized the existence of the other, and this was not a problem, but true interaction was not occurring (though in past visits to Jerusalem I have seen this occur). However, even peaceful co-existence without interaction is better than hostility and violence. Would that the parties in the current conflict could even reach that point!

But what is it that prevents this from happening? Certainly there must be an answer somewhere that is realistic and not fantasy? As I pondered this question I remembered that what was in the center of this oasis of peace in the middle of a country and region filled with war: a replica of the Liberty Bell! What a strange thing to find in Jerusalem! However, we must remember that written on the Liberty Bell is a verse from Vayikra/Leviticus “Proclaim liberty throughout the land and to all the inhabitants thereof.”

This verse precedes the verses concerning the release of Hebrew slaves every 50th year (see Parshat Behar). However, in order to connect the essence of this verse to what I witnessed in Israel, as well as to the current situation, one needs to look at the word that is commonly translated as “liberty.” The Hebrew word `d’ror’ is more accurately translated as “release” and it is part of the greater theme of redemption found in that passage of the Torah. This redemption involved the return of the land to the tribes that possessed it at the time it was conquered by Joshua, as well as the release of Israelite slaves from their indentured servitude. In short, it was an effort to release in order to restore balance to the system (at least as defined by the Judeocentric text of the Torah).

This twin concepts of release/redemption involves the ability to let go. The parties involved must release the story line that something or someone “belongs” to them. Possession does not matter any more according to the Torah. What matters is the moment, which is one of release, freedom, and redemption. It is a moment when we let go of our attachments and simply let things be as they were “meant to be” (again I realize that this is being defined in a specific way by the Torah, but we can extend it to a more universal perspective without much effort).

In a way this is the essence of Shabbat as well. I also believe that on some deep level, probably unknown to those present, it was the essence of what occurred in the Liberty Bell Garden. At least for those minutes or hours, those present were able to let go of their individual stories of hurt or hatred. They were able to release themselves from the tyrannies of their stories and simply enjoy God’s creation. What happened after those hours in the park I cannot tell you, but what happened during that time was indeed a lesson for all of us.

Ultimately, this release from excessive attachment to history, to pain, to one’s story and to the sense that “this is mine and I am right” can bring about peace and liberty. It allows us to open our hearts to the pain of others and feel compassion for all of creation, not only for ourselves. How long it will take to bring that vision to fruition I cannot say. Realistically, I doubt that it will happen during my lifetime, though I hope and pray that I am wrong.

Yet, for those few moments on a Shabbat afternoon in Jerusalem, the holy city of peace that has too often known hatred and violence, I witnessed what may perhaps have been a first step, no matter how small, towards this ultimate goal. And if each step on the journey is in itself a destination, then that step, no matter how small it may seem, can have cosmic significance.

Am I dreaming? Perhaps. Is this a fantasy? It may well be. But without dreams and fantasies it is impossible for us to work towards creating new realities for us and for our world.

Over 100 years ago Theodore Herzl, the founder of modern Zionism said “If you will it, it is no dream.” His dream was of a homeland for the Jews. But ours must be that all peoples will have a homeland and know peace, freedom and redemption.

If we will it, it is no dream. But we must also remember that if we do not dream it, it can never become a reality!

Shabbat Shalom.

–
Posted By Rabbi Steven Nathan to Mindful Torah at 7/02/2010 04:42:00 PM

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This week’s parashah/portion is Korakh (Numbers/Be’midbar 16:1-18:32). The parashah contains within it the revolt against Moses’s leadership led by his cousin Korakh, along with Datan and Abiram.   These three, and their followers, challenge Moses and Aaron claiming that everyone is holy.  Unfortunately, their revolt was led by ego and hubris rather than by any belief in egalitarianism, and so the earth swallowed as a punishment.

On the following day, Moses is told to take a staff from the leaders of all the tribes, with Aaron representing the tribe of Levi, and to place them in the ground inside the Mishkan/Tabernacle.  On the next day they return and Aaron’s staff that has sprouted blossoms and almonds to symbolize his and his descendants chosen stature as High Priest.

These images form the basis of this poetic commentary on the parashah.

blossoming from darkness to light

I am here

in darkness

why

what have I done

I hear voices

screaming

pleading

seeing only darkness

impenetrable

I am in the ground

swallowed whole

I am not dead

or perhaps I am

why did I do it

why didn’t I run

why was I afraid of them

they were so persuasive

all are holy

we are holy

who is Aaron

who is Moses

we are all priests

all can serve God

Yes

we are all holy

yet all have different tasks

all can see God

each in their own way

I didn’t want to be high priest

above others

over the community

I don’t know

what I wanted

and so

I heard

their voices

becoming my voice

proclaiming

we are holy

you have too much

we have not enough

you shall see

they said

now I can see only darkness

I saw firepans

smelled incense

seared

burning

I knew

what was happening

what might happen

I had seen

God’s power before

moments of glory

moments of terror

deliverance at the sea

plague and death in the desert

I knew

the possibilities

yet

I ignored my heart

I did not pay attention

to its words

my words

I heard only his words

their words

Korakh Dathan Abiram

I became them

they were in me

they became

my unconscious conscience

voice of unreason

smoldering

incense

transformed

becoming

burning earth

opening up

swallowing us

filling my

mouth ears nose soul

with dark smoke

oblivion

now I am here

forever beneath the surface

while above

I do not know

what exists

what is real

remaining still

listening     waiting

an eternity

I try

reaching out    up

my hand moves

slightly

suddenly

breaking through the earth

shattering the shell encasing me

freeing me

from living death

I feel

air      on my hand

body remaining    underground

submerged

my soul      my heart

remaining shrouded  in darkness

uncertainty

again I reach     out

I grasp something

it pulls me up from the earth

the darkness pulls me down

wanting me to remain caught

torn        in between

eternal liminality

where do I belong

under here

up there

with them

with others

I simply do not know

suddenly I feel

the force pulling

upward

powerful

unstoppable

leading me to my unknown destiny

I emerge

dirt falling  off my clothing

the light

the sun

the shimmering

fire and cloud

Divinity

blinding me still

unable to see

I hear a voice calling out a name

Aaron

is that me   I am bewildered

then I remember

that is he

the one pulling me up from the ground

telling me that I have been saved

I have a mission

dazed and puzzled

I look around me

I see the people     my people

surrounding staring frightened wondering

why did I survive

in that moment I know

I must show them

we are all one

the people

I am not

alone

special

holy

chosen

we all are

special

holy

chosen

then I notice I feel

what saved me

what I had grasped before

my destiny

still in my hands

shielding my eyes

from burning light

I begin to feel

the warmth of the Divine

in my heart and soul

I look in my hand

I see a staff blossoming

I smell sweetness of almond blossoms

awakening     telling me

who I am

what I must do

how I must show

those remaining

the truth

we are One

we are holy

I have been saved to help them

to help me

to see  to know    the truth

the others could not

that is why

they are underground

devoured by their gods

that had blinded them to the truth

ego  hubris pride greed jealousy

I am here

where I belong

not knowing why I was chosen

to do my part

open my heart

to God

to holiness

for all to see

we shall all join together

opening our hearts

as One

creating

moment by moment

soul by soul

holy community

holy life

blossoming for God

exquisitely delicate

divine humanity

human divinity

so all will see

all will know

the truth

the beauty

of the One

of all

–

Posted By Rabbi Steven Nathan to Mindful Torah

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This week we finish reading from the book of Vayikra/Leviticus with the double parashah/portion Behar-Behukotai (Leviticus 25:1- 27:34). Parshat Behar begins with the laws regulating the sabbatical year and the jubilee year.

After six years of growing crops and living off the land, the people are instructed that the seventh year is to be a Sabbath for the land, during which it is to be given a complete rest. They may eat whatever the uncultivated land happens to produce during that year, but they may not  plant, sow or harvest crops. In addition to the Sabbatical/Shemitah year, they are to count seven cycles of seven years and then in the fiftieth year they are to proclaim a yovel/jubilee year. This year is to begin on Yom Kippur with the sounding of the Shofar. In this year of release all Israelites were to take possession of the original lands given to their ancestors at the time of Joshua. Laws are also given concerning the freeing of Israelite slaves  during the yovel.  These were mostly Israelites who had indentured themselves in order to pay off debts or because of poverty .

In Parshat Behukotai, God promises that the Israelites will flourish in the land if they obey God’s mitzvot/commandments. However, if they do not, they will suffer terribly, as will their children. Repeatedly, God tells them “if you still do not obey me” they will suffer seven-fold punishments for their sins. The ultimate punishment, if the people continue to disobey God’s commands, is that they will lose everything they have and “the land shall be forsaken of them, making up for its Sabbath years by being desolate of them, while they atone for their iniquity; for the abundant reason that they rejected My rules and spurned My laws …” (26:43).  In spite of this, God still proclaims that in the end “I will remember in their favor the covenant with the ancients, whom I freed from the land of Egypt in the sight of the nations to be their God, the Eternal” (26:45).

When reading these texts, I would find this series of curses to be theologically problematic if I literally believed them to be the word of God. However, since I view them as our ancestors’ attempt to portray their understanding of God I must instead try to find the lesson to be learned, even though I still find them to be troublesome.

In viewing Behar and Behukotai as one unit, there are two clear links that I see. The first is the connection between the laws of the sabbatical for the land in Behar and God’s promise that the land will make up for it’s neglected sabbaticals in Behukotai. The second is that God states numerous times in Behar that the reason Israelites are not to be enslaved eternally, nor treated as slaves, is that God brought them out of Egypt to serve God – and no one else. This connects with the verse in Behukotai in which God proclaims that, even after all punishments and curses have been meted out, God will not forget the people because God freed them from the land of Egypt.

In examining the first connection, one must first realize the importance of the concept of a Sabbath. The idea that both we and the land are meant to rest in the last phase of each cycle of seven (whether seven days or seven years) points to the importance of letting go. As “God’s people” we are commanded to let go of any notion that we are in control of the world around us or that the creative forces in the world are in any way our domain. We do this by resting from all forms of seemingly creative activity each Shabbat day. On that day our inaction allows us to be mindful of the fact that the world continues to exist and creation continues without any action on our part. Beyond that, every seventh year, refraining from working the land reminds us that even if we cease to work for an entire year (at least on the land)  creation  continues and food will be provided. We are not in control. We are merely the caretakers of God’s earth. Of this we must be mindful from year to year, month to month, week to week, day to day and moment to moment.

When we neglect to remember that we are not in control, then we are in fact neglecting the reality of the Divine Presence that is the source of all. In doing so we place our personal selves, our egos and our sense of importance, above the Self of the Universe, which we call God. This is one way of understanding the concept of disobeying God’s mitzvot. Though translated most commonly as commandments, I choose instead to understand mitzvot as behaviors that serve to remind us that the Divine Presence is within all creation. Whether we are literally observing the 613 mitzvot that tradition claims exist within the Torah or not, if we live a life based on mitzvot we treat each human being and everything within creation as part of the Divine. As Jews, we do this using a uniquely Jewish language and tradition as our basis, but living a life of mitzvot is simply the way our Jewish language describes a universal process.

In Behukotai we read that each time we ignore the mitzvot we will be punished. Each time we ignore the mitzvot concerning the treatment of our earth, the animals upon it and/or our fellow human beings we are to be punished seven-fold. Though this number is meant to represent an excessive punishment, I believe the use of the term seven-fold was quite deliberate. As seven represents the cycle of creation and of rest, it is as if the Torah is saying: “ignore the wisdom that teaches you to rest and acknowledge your powerlessness at the end of each cycle of seven, and that cycle of seven will wreak havoc on you.” In a way this is the Torah’s version of a karmic response. Or, in the vernacular, what goes around will inevitably come around!

The final warning in the parashah brings all of this to a conclusion: If we continually neglect humanity and all of God’s world we are doomed. If we continually ignore the divinity within all creation and act as if I am master of all that I see, then all of God’s created world will teach us a lesson. For all the times we ignored the Truth and simply kept working the land …or human beings … or ourselves … without taking rest … we will be forced to rest. The land will not yield its fruits, we will not yield our fruits, God will not sustain us and we will be left alone and destitute. When this happens we will be forced to face the reality that all is God and God is all. We will be forced to stop our striving after wind. We will be forced to realize that ultimately we are not in control. How will this occur? It would be best if by a simple realization on our part. However, in many cases it is fear that ultimately forces us to wake up to these realities.

In Behukotai we read that during that time of ultimate punishment, human beings will be afraid of “the sound of a driven leaf.” In other words, ultimately we will reach the point where we are afraid of even the slightest sound. As individuals, we all have probably experienced this kind of fear. It is the sense that the world around us is such a dangerous and frightening place, that the slightest movement – or the slightest thought within our minds – will cause fear to arise. This is a fear that we cannot easily escape, for it comes from within us.

When we reach this place, our urge is to run. But how can we run from something that is inside us? Rather than try to do this, we must instead recognize and acknowledge the fear for what it is. For only by acknowledging it can we then let it go. And when we let it go we can then see the reality that we have been avoiding all along, that we are not in control. This realization may well cause the fear to arise yet again, but if we keep acknowledging it each time it arises, and then acknowledge that it is based on a reality of powerlessness, then our fear will decrease seven-fold. Once we have acknowledged our fear and  allowed it to run its course, we can then see clearly again the reality of our world. Only then can we see that  all things and all people are part of God and that it is our obligation/mitzvah to behave in  a manner that acknowledges this.

When we do this, we have learned the lesson of Shabbat and our period of punishment and fear will have ended. When we do this, we bring ourselves to the acknowledgement of what is stated in both Behar and Behukotai: that we have been freed from enslavement in order to serve God and no one or nothing else.

This means something different to each of us. However, ultimately it means that we are to act in each moment in a way that acknowledges our interconnection and our responsibility to the world and all that is in it - whether human, animal, vegetable or mineral. When we act from this place of knowledge then we are no longer enslaved to any other person, nor are we enslaved to the self, which is what happens when we believe that we really are in control!

When we come to this place, then we can truly experience a Shabbat for our soul and for our world. If only we could learn these lessons without causing ourselves so much suffering we could unite our world in the oneness of God soon and in our time.  But, after all, we are only human!

Shabbat Shalom

–

Posted By Rabbi Steven Nathan to Mindful Torah at 5/07/2010 12:49:00 PM

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This week’s torah portion is Tzav (Vayikra/Leviticus 6:1 - 8:36). In it the detailed descriptions of the various sacrifices to be offered continues. I would like to focus on one particular sacrifice and what we might learn from it today.

The final sacrifice mentioned in the parashah is the zevakh shelamim. This is usually translated as the “peace offering” or “good-will offering.” The word shelamim comes from the same root as shalom/peace and shalem/whole. One contemporary understanding of this sacrifice is as an offering of greeting. According to Baruch Levine and other scholars, it was a meal shared between the priests, the people who brought the offering and God. In other words, through sharing a sacred meal there was a connection being made between the people, the priests and the Divine. Not only was this a meal of greeting, but the sharing of the sacrificial animal could also bring a sense of peace and wholeness that was a direct result of feeling connected to God and community (as represented be the priests). The sharing of this sacrifice allowed the participants to experience, in a visceral way, the connection that exists between all human beings and remind us of the shelaimut/wholeness and achdut/oneness of existence.  And when the final portion of the sacrifice was offered on the altar to God, it was as if God was partaking of the sacrifice along with the priest and the worshipper.

I could not help but beginning comparing this to the Christian ritual of the Eucharist, or Holy Communion. In this ritual, the worshipper partakes of the wafer and the wine that have been consecrated by the priest, minister or Officiant. In the Roman Catholic Church, the doctrine of transubstantiation states that the wine and wafer actually ‘become’ the body and blood of Jesus  (I.e., ‘the sacrifice’) when the priest consecrates it. In most other churches, they a representation of his body and blood. In either case, this is a ritual whereby a human being ingests divinity, or its representation.

I must admit that this ritual has always simultaneously intrigued and repelled me. I feel repelled because it seems anathema to the Jewish way of worship. I don’t think I can ever understand it’s true meaning for our Christian brothers and sisters. On the other hand, since in Judaism the actual sacrifice and the concomitant meal have been replaced with the more abstract concept of “prayer as sacrifice,” the idea of this physical ritual has always intrigued me as well.

In my understanding of the ritual of the Eucharist in the Roman Catholic Church (that with which I am most familiar) the sacred meal is also connected to achieving forgiveness for sin as well as connecting to the Divine. This occurs by believing that one is actually ingesting divinity into one’s body (I realize that I am not doing justice to the complexity of Christian theology, and I ask forgiveness from my Christian friends and colleagues for this).

However, in the ancient Israelite sacrificial system the idea of ingesting God, or even a representation of God, was indeed anathema. For our ancestors, the sacred meal consisted simply of the priest and the worshipper eating a meal together and symbolically sharing it with God. This meal consisted of ordinary meat from an ordinary, although unblemished, animal.  The meat was not made sacred or divine through any kind of blessing or ritual.  Rather, what made this ordinary meal extraordinary, was not the fact that it was “perfect” or that it was slaughtered, prepared and cooked by the priest.  Rather, what made this meal extraordinary was that it was being shared with God.  It was a reminder that, even though the priests had a different status in their society, and that God was beyond being human, all three entities shared something. That something, represented by the sacrificial meal, is Oneness. Oneness in this case means that ultimately there is no separation or duality in existence. Oneness is at the heart of Kedushah/holiness that plays such a central role in Va’yikra/Leviticus and the entire Torah.

Eating a sacred meal does not make one any more or less holy, nor does the slaughter of the sacrifice by the priest (akin to the consecration of the wafer and wine by Christian clergy today) make the sacrifice holy. Rather, what makes the act and all the participants holy is the recognition of the deeper meaning, that we are all part of God. God is within us all, for we are all One within God.

Just as a fetus floating in a sea of amniotic fluid in a mother’s womb is part of the mother while still a distinct entity, so too are we floating in the sea of Godliness a part of God, yet distinct individuals. Of course, there is a major difference, since in Judaism the fetus is not viewed as an actual life, whereas we are human beings with personalities, character traits and, for better or worse, egos.

Yet, perhaps the sacrifice and the sacred meal are meant to remind us that in reality this is actually an illusion. Perhaps we are not complete on our own? We may believe (or our ego may trick us into believing) that we are self-sufficient. However, the necessity of eating the sacred meal – which is commanded – tells us something different. It tells us that without God we are not complete. Our independence is merely an illusion. This applies to all of us, including the priests. We do not need to ingest God in order to know this, for God is already within us for we are within God. Instead, in sharing the zevakh shelamim, the sacrifice of wholeness and completeness, we arer eminded that the connection to the Divine is our essence.  Without acknowledging that, we are like a fetus without the umbilical cord. We are surrounded and filled with God, and yet, unable to connect, we are unable, spiritually, to survive.

However, we must also be cognizant of the fact that, while our ancestors were experiencing this through the sacred meal, God was also ‘partaking’ of the meal in the form of accepting the smoke of the sacrifice.  Can the message beneath this part of the ritual be that God is also incomplete without human beings? If we say this, aren’t we exhibiting the exact type of egotistical hubris that we are supposed to be letting go of through this ritual? Perhaps.

God is Ehad/One, then God is whole and complete. Yet some, such as R. Abraham Joshua Heschel, z”l (may his memory be a blessing) might say that God needs us as well. as we need God.  However, as my friend and colleague R. Ethan Franzel pointed out to me, that is a concept that has been created by human beings. Perhaps we want to believe that God needs to be needed, just as we need to be needed. This is an idea that we find pleasing and comforting. Perhaps that is why, in the Torah, the authors refered to the aroma of the sacrifices as a rei’akh nikho’ah, or pleasing odor.

When all is said and one, the sacrificial meal and its replacement, the prayer service, are not meant to make God complete. Nor are they meant to make human beings complete. Rather, they are meant to remind human beings of the unity, wholeness and completeness that already exists. Oneness is the essence of existence. Through sacrifice in the past and prayer today, we are reminded of the truth that ‘God is One’ means that all is one withi God. We are all a part of the Divine flow of energy that sustains our universe.

Perhaps the need to have a physical reminder of this Oneness lay behind the development of the Eucharist as a central ritual in Christianity? I have not studied this enough to know. However, I do believe that within Judaism we have tried throughout the centuries to create an experience akin to sacrifice through which we can sense the Oneness at the heart of existence. Prayer as “sacrifice of the heart” as the early rabbis called it, was meant to be a spontaneous, passionate way of experience unity and wholeness.

The Kabbalists (mystics) and Hassidim tried to revive this sense of cleaving to the oneness of divinity through prayer, meditation, deeds of kindness and other “spiritual practices.” Today, we must take all that our tradition has provided for us and determine what works best for us so we can achieve the same goals. However, we also need to remember that the critera must not be objective, ego-centered ones such as “it feels good to me.” Rather, the main criterion is whether a particular practice enables us to experience the reality of Oneness, completeness and wholeness that we imagine our ancient ancestors felt as they shared a meal with God. This is not easy. Yet, if we simply let go and allow it ti happen, it is much simpler than we imagine. That is the truth.

Shabbat Shalom.

–

Posted By Rabbi Steven Nathan to Mindful Torah

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This week’s parashah is Tetzaveh (Shemot/Exodus 27:20-30:10). The parashah begins with God commanding Moses “And as for you, you shall instruct the Israelites to bring you pure olive oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling the Eternal Lamp (v. 20).” At first glance it does not appear that there is anything unusual or extraordinary about this verse. God is simply giving Moses another instruction concerning the Mishkan (Tabernacle), just as God instructed him in the last parashah on how he was to build it. However, it is precisely because God’s instructions to Moses had been at the center of the preceding narrative that commentators have questioned why the verse begins “and as for you, you shall command” rather than simply “command” or “you shall command.” After all, “and as for you” would seem to imply that the previous verses had been addressed or referred to someone else.

In her exploration of this strange wording Aviva Zornberg points out that there are two other instances where God’s instructions begin “and as for you.” These other commands are “bring forth your brother Aaron, with his sons, from among the Israelites to serve me as priests (28:1)” and “speak[ing] to all who are wise of heart … to make Aaron’s vestments for consecrating him to serve Me as priest (28:3).” In all of these cases, preparing the oil for the Menorah, bring Aaron and his sons forward to be made priests, and instructing others how to make the priestly vestment, God is instructing Moses concerning aspects of the priesthood, the realm that is to be his brother’s and not his.

In a midrash we read that during each of the seven days when Moses was at the burning bush he pleaded with God to send someone else. In the end of the midrash, God informs Moses that, because of his unwillingness to take on the mantle of leadership during those seven days, he will not be permitted to ascend to the priesthood. Rather, it will be Aaron and his descendants who are to become the priests. However, God tells Moses, during the seven days when the mishkan is to be dedicated, Moses will be allowed to perform the priestly functions. After that, they belong to Aaron and his sons.

Moses’s reaction to what some might perceive as a punishment is to rejoice over the good fortune of his elder brother Aaron. After all, we read in another midrash, one reason why Moses was reluctant to take on the leadership role was his fear that Aaron would be jealous that his younger brother was to become the leader of the people. However, God informs him that Aaron will rejoice at Moses’s return and upon hearing that he is to lead the mission to Pharaoh. This is exactly what Aaron does and for that he is rewarded by God: let “that same heart that rejoiced in the greatness of his brother [have] precious stones (the priestly breastplate) set upon it.”

Aaron rejoices at God’s choice of Moses as leader and Moses rejoices at the choice of Aaron as High Priest. Nevertheless, according to yet another midrash, after Moses is given the instructions on how to build the mishkan he tells God that he is ready and able to serve as priest. How can this be so if had not only been informed at the burning bush that Aaron was to serve
as priest, but he had actually rejoiced over hearing this news?

Zornberg likens this phenomenon to the Freudian theory that our memories are often forgotten so that we can then proceed in the “remaking of something [that] to all intents and purposes never existed; [for] memory is [in part] a way of inventing the past.” (Zornberg, The Particulars of Rapture, p. 360). We all know of times in our lives when we “conveniently” forget something and then are stunned when we later “discover” it. Still, when Moses “learns” that Aaron is to become priest and that he is to be “demoted” to the status of a ‘mere’ Levite (as will his sons) he does not react negatively. Rather, he rejoices, just as Aaron rejoiced in Moses’ choice earlier on.

The choice of Aaron, the elder brother, as priest now means that the rejection of the elder in favor of the younger that runs through the entire book of Bereshit/Genesis has been “set right.” Moses, the younger, may indeed be the leader, but his sons will not inherit his position, and they are all but forgotten in our narrative and our tradition. It is Aaron, the elder, who is given the religious leadership position that will then be inherited by his descendants.

The rejection of Moses and his sons and the reversal of the ancient patterns could easily have been viewed by Moses with anger or disdain. And yet it was not. The relationship between Moses and Aaron is one that involves both loss and gain for each, as well as the altruistic love of
each brother for the other that is symbolized by their reactions when the other is chosen.

In the Torah we are told that Moses’ primary attributes were that of greatness and humility. In reality it is his humility that is at the heart of his greatness. Though Aaron is appointed High Priest, Moses’s humility allows him to rejoice, much as his humility caused him to reject God’s initial call for fear that Aaron would be hurt. This is the meaning underlying the seemingly innocuous “and as for you” that begins the command for Moses to prepare the oil, decorate the courtyard of the mishkan and instruct others to prepare Aaron’s garments. In this way the
“and as for you” is not viewed as further punishment for Moses’ initial reticence (i.e., “And as for you… if you’re going to hesitate to follow my orders I going to take away the priesthood!) Instead, it becomes an acknowledgement of Moses’ humility and his ability to rejoice for his
brother (i.e., “And as for you … you have shown your greatness through your humility and your concern for your brother, and so you shall have the pleasure of preparing all that he needs to begin his priestly service”)

However, there is a danger in humility as well. This danger is that humility itself has the potential to become as much a tool of the ego’s machinations as does hubris. For if the ego is that within us that tries to convince us that everything is about “me” and keeping “me” in
control, then even humility can serve the ego’s purpose. For if one makes too much of one’s humility the result could be that others will then begin to focus on and praise him/her for that humility. Moreover, since the ego seeks praise, comfort, security and dominance, the ego can easily learn that it can catch as many – if not more – flies with the sweetness of humility than it can with the bitterness of hubris.

However, Moses does not seem to get caught up in this ego’s game in this parashah or in it’s various midrashic interpretations. So perhaps we need to think of this verse not so much in terms of humility, but as evidence that Moses, as well as Aaron, was able to see the reality of the “big picture” at that moment.

At first when God chose Moses, he fought against the reality of the moment and what God was showing him. For seven days, an entire period of creation, his ego struggled with God. Perhaps it was ego in the guise of humility saying “I’m not worthy” and looking for the strokes it might get from God: “of course you’re worthy,” “you’re the best man around,” “you’re going to be an amazing leader!” On the other hand, perhaps it was the ego’s desire for comfort, stasis and
certainty telling Moses “don’t do it! You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into! Just keep moving in the other direction!”

Whatever the tactics of the ego, it did not succeed during this seven-day period of creation of Moses as leader at the Burning Bush. Rather, it seems clear that Moses was able to drop the stories of which the ego was trying to convince him and focus on the reality of the moment.
Moses was able to rid himself of his ego and it’s messages. He was able instead to see and hear the reality of what God was saying to him. At that moment, God let him know his role, as well as that of his brother. In addition, from this broadened perspective he was able to accept both his and his brother’s role with joy.

Therefore, “and as for you, you shall command” can be interpreted as God saying, “I am
commanding you, Moses, to do this. I am not speaking to your ego; I am not speaking to your brother. I am speaking to you directly. We are here face-to-face. There is nothing between
us.” So, it is from this place of egoless connection with the Divine that Moses is able to continue his journey as a leader meant to bring all the people to understand that ultimately there is nothing between us and God, for all is God and God is all.

This is something that we all need to remember in those moments when our ego gets in the way or when we separate ourselves from others and from God. Letting go of the ego and its stories, we can each feel commanded by the voice of God within to be present in the moment and to prepare ourselves for the next step of our journey together.

Shabbat Shalom,

Steven

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Posted By Rabbi Steven Nathan to Mindful Torah at 2/19/2010 03:17:00 PM

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This week’s parashah, Bo (Shemot/Exodus 10:1-13:16), begins “Then God said to Moses, ‘Go to Pharaoh. For I have hardened his heart and the hearts of his courtiers, in order that I may display these My signs among them, and that you may recount in the hearing of your children and your children’s children how I made a mockery of the Egyptians and how I displayed My signs among them – in order that you may know that I am God.’” (10:1-2). This is then followed by the onset of the eighth plague of locusts. The parashah continues with the continued hardening of Pharaoh’s heart after the eighth and ninth plagues and then the last plague, the death of the firstborn. The parashah concludes with the commandments to dedicate the first-born of the Israelites to God and to observe Pesakh/Passover.

At the end of last week’s parashah, Va’era, the land of Egypt/Mitzrayim was almost completely decimated by the plague of hail. Mitzrayim, which is connected with the Hebrew for “narrow, constricted,” has been laid waste. The place that was known for its glory and grandeur has been brought low. Yet, in spite of this, Pharaoh retains his hubris. Living in his palace, separated from his people, he is able to maintain his sense of superiority and his belief that nothing could ever destroy him or his power.

After the conclusion of the seventh plague, it must have seemed to the people that they and their land could suffer no more. Yet, with the coming of the locusts we are told that what little vegetation had been left after the previous plague was now totally consumed. If the people thought the land was bare after the hail, they now knew what barrenness really looked like. However, even that could not prepare them for what was to come. For we read that in the ninth plague, they experienced a darkness that they could actually feel. This darkness touched the core of their being. They were totally and utterly engulfed by it. This palpable darkness can represent not simply depression, uncertainty or fear, but the people’s realization that everything upon which they had built their hopes and dreams had ceased to exist. All that they believed to be real was an illusion. They could no longer experience anything but nothingness.

We get little sense of how the common Egyptians felt after each plague ended, but one can only imagine that they were relieved to see again when this plague ended. Yet, what were they able to see? If they had truly come to the realization that everything they knew before was an illusion then what did their eyes perceive in the light?

What they saw was a land that was totally barren. The palaces and cities of Pharaoh meant nothing to them, for they realized that they were simply empty monuments. They were able to see the reality that they had moments ago felt with their entire being. The only thing that did exist for them at that moment was the realization that nothing existed. One could imagine that they even doubted their own existence after all they had experienced. For how could anyone be certain of anything after experiencing the deepest darkness? As they tried to comprehend this while continuing their lives, darkness came again. However, this time it was the “normal” darkness accompanied by the light of the full moon. Perhaps they could trust this darkness. Perhaps they again began to feel more secure, like life was going to once again be what it was before. Then, the final plague struck and they felt as if they were plunged back into the deep darkness once again. For within hours, the entire first born of Egypt lay dead. The first born, the ones upon whom the hopes and dreams of the people’s future rested, were no more. If there was any doubt that nothing would ever be the same, it had now been eradicated. The rug had been pulled out from underneath the entire nation. The future no longer existed. Rather, the future seemed at that moment to be as uncertain as anything could be. That is how the parashah ends for the Egyptians.

Though we usually identify with the Israelites, I believe, just as when interpreting dreams, we can find ourselves in all of the characters in the Torah. Therefore, we are also the Egyptians … the Mitzrim … the constricted ones. We are the ones who have been oppressed by a power that we believed to be greater than us. We may not have been slaves to Pharaoh, but we were under his control nevertheless. We have worshipped him as a man/god who controlled our lives. We have looked at his grand edifices and identified with the power and glory that they represented. Surely, any person – any nation – that could create such splendor would last forever. Surely, anyone who was a subject of this person was also guaranteed the benefits that come along with the package. Yet, with each plague things became less and less certain. With each plague the ground beneath us began to shift and tremble. With each plague, our certainty began to diminish. Now, after the last two plagues we realize that it is all an illusion and that our future is gone. Though our eyes can see, it is as if we have been plunged back into that deepest darkness of the ninth plague yet again. However, this time we don’t know if we will ever emerge again into the light.

Then, we suddenly come to a realization that awakens us. It even makes us laugh a bit. This grand revelation is , simply put, ‘this is life.’ This is what it’s about. Existence is not about certainty, glory, or any of the things represented by palaces and the external trappings of Pharaoh and his court. Life is about not knowing what the next moment will bring. Life is about simply acknowledging and living in the present. Some of us come to this realization easily and early. However, for most of us it takes being plunged into darkness and ends with the death of the dreams and fantasies of the future upon which we have obsessed and built our lives. Only then do we come to the realization (if we do at all). Yet, once we realize this truth, we are actually relieved. Once we realize the truth, we can stop being Mitzrim – constricted ones – and instead become Israelites … B’nai Yisrael, those content to struggle with forces Divine and human.

And what are the Israelites doing while all of this is happening to the Egyptians? We are not certain from the text what they are doing during most of the plagues, but we can imagine that they might have just been sitting, waiting, and watching, while realizing that all of this was out of their control. However, we know that during the tenth plague they were sitting in their homes observing the first Pesakh seder. They were enacting a ritual commanded to them by Moses, on God’s behalf, by which their descendants would commemorate this night in perpetuity. They may have had their sandals on and their staffs at their side so that they could leave when the time came, but they also realized that the coming of that time was out of their control. Therefore, they sat, they ate, and they waited. Though we tend to emphasize the fact that the people left in haste, and so had no time to let the dough rise, the Torah tells us even before the meal takes place that they are to eat unleavened bread. The people were commanded to eat no leaven – which according to many represents “puffed up” human pride and hubris – even before they leave in haste.

One can imagine that Israelites simply sat where they were, ate what was before them and praised God from a place of humility. While all around them death and destruction engulfed the Egyptians. Then Pharaoh lets out a cry that the Torah tells us “reached all of Egypt” when his first-born dies. The future that he had built and planned for is no more. Even then, the Israelites remain seated in their homes celebrating the Passover. They remain where they are acknowledging and celebrating the present, knowing that the future is simply an unknown. All they have is the present. If there is to be a future, it is in God’s hands and they will know it only when it becomes the present.

When the final plague ends, the moment arrives when the future becomes the present. God makes them aware that it is time to move from their place. Yet, before that, God commands them that from now on their first-born will always be consecrated to the Divine. This is an instruction to them to remember that the future, represented by the first-born, is in God’s hands – however one chooses to understand that term.

We cannot control the future. We cannot control anything, any more than could the Egyptians. All we can do is experience the present. We can attend to and feel within our souls what is happening in the moment, no matter how painful or difficult it may be, just as the Egyptians did during the plagues of locust and darkness. We can sit wherever we are and recognize the chaos that is ensuing all around us, as well as the uncertainty within us, as the Israelites did during the final plague.

Our other choice is to take the path of Pharaoh, always believing that we are in control, that we know what the future brings and that our world is in our command. If we choose this path then, when everything comes crumbling down around us, as it inevitably will, we will be unable to feel the darkness of that moment or sit there in the midst of the chaos. Rather, we will only be able to do as Pharaoh did and let out a scream that could reach all the corners of Egypt, and all the corners within ourselves, as everything that we thought we had created and controlled dies around us, and we die along with it.

Still, once again, this provides us with an opportunity. At that moment when we feel all that we can do is scream and sink to our knees, we can also choose. We can either accept the impermanence and uncertainty of life or we can once again begin to build our illusions of permanence and control of the future. Each moment provides us with choice. Each moment provides us with an opportunity. Each moment is all we have. Now we simply need to decide.

Shabbat Shalom.

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This week’s parashah is Va’era (Exodus/Shemot 6:2 – 9:35). In this parashah the conversation between God and Moses continues as God gives Moses further instructions on how to bring about the people’s redemption. However, Moses seems a bit reticent. He claims that Pharaoh and the people will not listen to him because he is of “uncircumcised lips.” The implication being once again that he is unable to speak clearly and that his speech is not complete or whole. In short, he is not up to the task.

This reaction is something to which many of us can relate. So many times in our lives, we may feel unequal to the task that lies before us. We fear that the task is too great. Yet, one might imagine that even if Moses felt unworthy he would have trusted God’s judgment and God’s ability make the correct choice. Nevertheless, Moses does not respond that way.

Moses tries to convince God that God has the wrong man. It is for this reason that some commentators believe that Moses is one of three characters in the narrative that block God’s message of redemption. As discussed in Aviva Zornberg’s The Particulars of Rapture: Reflections on Exodus Pharaoh, the Israelites, and Moses all try to block God’s communication.

Pharaoh and the Israelites are both described in the Torah as “not listening” to God. Pharaoh has no excuse, except that he’s Pharaoh and, as he says in last week’s parashah, “Who is God that I should listen to God’s voice?” (Ex. 5:2). The people’s only excuse is that they have “shortness of spirit and hard labor.” And so they are deaf to God’s redemptive call.

Moses, on the other hand, tries to block God’s message by stating that he is an unfit messenger. Moses tried once already to be God’s voice and Pharaoh laughed in his, and, by extension, God’s face (see Ex. 5:2). Why should Pharaoh listen the next time and why should the people listen after seeing their labor increase after Moses’ first request of Pharaoh?

However, Zornberg points out, Moses does not base his reluctance to speak on the actions of Pharaoh, but rather on his in ability to make people listen. He is of “uncircumcised lips” and neither Pharaoh nor the people will listen to him. The great Hassidic master of the 19th century, the Sefat Emet, interprets Moses’ cry to God as saying: “They (Pharaoh and the people) would not listen, THEREFORE, I am of uncircumcised lips.” This interpretation turns the usual on its head. Rather than speech creating, or failing to create, listeners, it is listening, or the lack thereof, that creates the inability to speak!

If Pharaoh and the people are unwilling to listen, then it is as if Moses is unable to speak. In other words, if a prophet speaks in a desert and there is no one there to hear him (or willing to hear him) does he really say anything? Moses’s answer to this seems to be an unqualified No!

The Zohar (mystical commentary on the Torah) calls this phenomenon “the exile of the word.” “The dynamic of language, of communication, has failed [and] this failure is the profound meaning of exile; it encompasses the inability to hear and the inability to speak…The ears of this generation [of slaves] do not, cannot respond to living language. For this reason, Moses will not, cannot speak.” (Zornberg, p. 84)

Moses is therefore faced in this parashah with the dilemma that faces so many leaders of social change throughout history. If the people are unwilling or unable to hear the message does one continue to attempt to deliver it? In our narrative the answer is yes. But that answer comes from God. If it were up to Moses redemption may never have come, or certainly it would have come at a much later date. God is the power that makes for redemption in this narrative, but God is also the power that ultimately gives Moses the power of speech even in the face of the deafness of Pharaoh and the people.

However, I believe that God also gives the people the ability to hear. Pharaoh’s unwillingness to even consider that there could be any power greater than he is what prevents Pharaoh from being able to hear up until the moment when the sea is closing in around him. But the people do eventually listen and hear. At least temporarily.

It is said that when we truly communicate with one anther we can see the face and hear the voice of God. But the corollary to that is that when we communicate it is God that gives us the power to truly hear and to truly speak. God is the power that makes for speech and for understanding. Without that connection to the divine flow that links us one to the other we may speak, but our words have less meaning; we may hear, but our hearing is less attuned. That is an important message of the parashah and this particular commentary.

Though this certainly has a mystical ring to it, I also believe that it is in keeping with my understanding as a Reconstructionist (albeit one with strong mystical leanings!) of the role of God in the world. For God is the power that connects us to each other and the power that works through us to create the ability to speak and to hear clearly, both metaphorically and literally. If we stop and pay attention to all that is going on within and around us Divinity is the source or our ability to connect with the universe.

Pharaoh was unable to understand this, and it ultimately brought about his destruction. The Israelites were unable to comprehend this until they were no longer enslaved, though even then they had difficulties and needed constant reminders. Moses finally understood this after his encounters with God in this week’s parashah and especially after the exodus and the revelation at Sinai.

We each have the ability – and responsibility – to bring Divinity into the world through our paying attention, speaking carefully and interacting honestly with others. The choice is ours. We can ignore this responsibility, as did Pharaoh, or we can eventually understand and accept. This can happen through using speech and actions as catalysts for change, as in the case of Moses, or via our ability to listen and to follow, as happened with the Israelites.

As the kabbalists might say, speech has been exiled too often in our history. It is up to us to make certain that it remains firmly put and that it continues to be redeemed and to bring about redemption now and in the future.

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This week’s parashah is Shemot (Exodus/Shemot 1:1 – 6:1). The saga of slavery and redemption that we remember each year at the time of Passover, as well as now during the Torah reading cycle, begins with this parashah.

The narrative opens by reminding us of the names (Shemot) of the sons of Jacob/Israel. Then we read that the Israelites multiplied greatly in Egypt. In fact, the Torah tells us that they “swarmed and multiplied and increased very greatly, so that the land was filled with them (1:7).” This increase in population is the reason given by Pharaoh for his decision to enslave the people.

Many commentators have wondered why it was necessary to give any reason for the enslavement. After all, Abraham was told in Bereshit/Genesis 15:13 “Know well that your offspring shall be strangers in a land not theirs, and they shall be enslaved and oppressed four hundred years.” If the enslavement was portrayed as part of “God’s plan” then Pharaoh needed no reason for his persecution of the Israelites. And yet, the Torah text provides us with precisely that.

In her excellent and compelling book on Exodus The Particulars of Rapture (which I HIGHLY recommend) Aviva Gottlieb Zornberg writes that the concept of the Israelites ’swarming’ over the land is viewed in two different ways. The majority of midrashim (rabbinic exegetical tales) comment that the increase in the Israelite population represents a victory of life over death and serves as a reminder of the eternality of God and God’s promise that the people shall be numerous. Jacob and his sons, including the great Joseph, may be dead, as the opening lines remind us, but the people itself lives and flourishes. This is all due to God’s promise and serves as a reminder of the Divine presence. Life and God are eternal and the proliferation of the Israelite people is proof of this.

However, Seforno (16th century, Italy) is holds a minority opinion that views this description of Israelite growth as a condemnation. The phrase “and they swarmed and multiplied and increased very greatly” is likened by him to the swarming and increase of insects. Actually, the root of the Hebrew verb “to swarm” (sh-r-tz) is also the root of the word for insect. Seforno condemns the Israelites by claiming that the people, which once consisted of individuated and highly evolved persons such as Jacob and Joseph, has now deteriorated to the point where they were simply a mass of “unindividuated ‘insect-like’ conformists, whose whole effort is to assimilate to their surrounds…”(Zornberg, p. 19). In other words, Seforno

As I read this interpretation I rejected it immediately. It reminded me too much of the those who would readily blame the Holocaust on the assimilation of the German-Jewish population or who blame any number of contemporary “ills” on the perceived assimilation of Jewish society today. In blaming the victims it would appear that Seforno is relieving Pharaoh of responsibility for his actions. And yet, as I stated above, if this was part of God’s plan, why does anyone need to be blamed? Why can’t we simply take the slavery as a “fact” and move on?

The answer is simple. If we were to do this we would miss the opportunity to learn anything from this central story of our people’s religious mythos. In her analysis of Seforno’s commentary Aviva Zornberg points out that his interpretation “has constructed a narrative of failure, guilt, punishment, where the biblical text seemed to give us only the facts of suffering…” However, Zornberg continues, Seforno “invites us to reflect on the ways in which slavery, persecution and alienation … are generated by human beings…and - in the same vein - on the meaning of redemption, exodus, freedom. In doing this, he stands in a tradition of commentators who read the Exodus narrative psycho-spiritually, from the point of view of the victim who seeks redemption, in the intimate as well as the political sense.” (Zornberg, p.21).

In reading Zornberg’s analysis my feelings about Seforno’s original commentary were turned around. Rather than viewing his remarks as simply blaming the victim I was instead able to view them as a way of giving the people responsibility for their growth and redemption. For in order to say that we play a role in bringing about our own redemption we must first admit that on a deep level we play a role in our own enslavement. believed that the people were being punished for their assimilation, as represented by their ’swarming’; the punishment for this was slavery.

If we interpret Mitzrayim (Egypt) as meitzarim (the narrow/constricted places), as do numerous commentaries, then being caught in the snares of slavery in Mitzrayim represents how our own spirits are caught in the snares of the narrowness of our self-enslavement. Slavery then comes to represent how we constrict ourselves by becoming part of the assimilated masses rather than standing up for who we are and what we believe. I am speaking here not simply of the concept of religious and cultural assimilation, but of the assimilation of the individual into the swarm of humanity. For this is what causes us to turn our backs on what it means to be a unique individual created in the image of God, yet also part of a greater community.

Therefore, if, as Seforno posits, we become part of the swarm by simply merging our individual selves with the communal “self’ of society then it is up to us (with the help of the Divine that flows through each of us) to bring about our redemption. We achieve this by separating ourselves from the communal swarm and instead becoming individuals dedicated to caring for our world, our people and ourselves in our own unique ways rather than simply being like ‘everyone else.’

This is a message of the story of slavery and redemption that I had never considered when reading this story in the past. However, I think speaks to us today in the 21st century, when assimilation, acculturation and being ‘part of the swarm’ seems to be a force that is gaining more strength. This commentary calls on us to strive for the sense of individuality combined with communal responsibility that was at the heart of the civil rights movement, the anti-Vietnam war movement and the various movements for social change and justice today. These efforts stand in opposition to the idea of merging with the masses and swarming that was at the root of so many dark times in American history from the Salem witch hunts to the McCarthy witch hunts and up until today. And it is a call that I believe it is important for us to heed at this, and every, time in our history.

However, what can prevent us from becoming part of the negative swarm? How do we maintain our sense of unique godliness and individuality in the face of the numerous forces urging us to join the masses and be just like everyone else - which in the end means being like nothing? The answer would seem to be that we must have a clear sense of self. We need to have a strong ego. We need to be sure of who we are. Yet, perhaps that in itself a is dangerous misconception. For in the end it is merely a trick of the ego itself, and the ego wants nothing more than for us to believe that we are who we are and that we will never change. For this keeps us ensnared and reliant upon the ego to tell us who we are. It also separates us from others and from Divine flow in the universe.

This may be the opposite of swarming, but it’s effects are just as damaging. For in feeling so secure in who we are, we forget that who we are is ever-changing, and that it is dependant upon how we connect with others and the world around us. This is how reliance on ego keeps us separated from others. It also keeps us separated from God by making the ego itself into a kind of god. All the overemphasis on the power and importance of the self can ultimately lead to enslavement, just as the mob mentality and lack of individuation found in the swarming phenomenon does the same.

Whether by swarming as part of the mob or separating ourselves with the help of our ego, either extreme leads to enslavement and despair. The only way to prevent us from going to either extreme is to remember that the ultimate center of our existence is God and the Divine flow that connects us to all other human beings and to the world around us. For this sense of connection and oneness can only lead to compassion for all and promises to release all who are enslaved, no matter who or what the master might be. If we remember this and keep this at the center of our being, then we will remain on the path towards righteousness. And it is this path that will ultimately lead to the redemption of our world and enable us to split the seas of oppression and injustice that hold us back so that we may all cross to the other side where freedom awaits.

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This week’s parashah is Vayishlakh (Bereshit/Genesis 32:4-36:4) in which Jacob prepares to be reunited with his brother Esau. As Jacob waits for the reunion and ponders whether his brother still wishes to kill him, he encounters a stranger in the darkness besides the river Jabok. They wrestle all night long, with neither of them the clear victor. As the sun begins to rise, the stranger realizes that he is unable to prevail over Jacob, he then wrenches Jacob’s hip from its socket and tells him that he must leave for the sun is rising. Jacob demands a blessing from the stranger. The stranger asks Jacob his name. After Jacob responds, the stranger tells him that he will no longer be called Jacob, but he will instead be known as Israel, for he has struggled with beings divine and human (Yisrael, meaning “one who has struggled with God”). Then Jacob asks the stranger his name, to which he replies, “why do you ask my name?” The stranger then disappears and Jacob walks away, limping, to meet his brother Esau.

In the midrash that I wrote for last week’s Torah portion, I imagined that Esau had also run into a stranger at dusk as he was chasing after his brother Jacob after Jacob had stolen Esau’s blessing from their father Isaac. This stranger convinced Esau “not to do as he had done”, and act out murderous revenge against his brother. Noticing the mark on his forehead, Esau realized that the stranger was Cain, son of Adam and Eve, who murdered his brother Abel. This midrash continues, as does the Torah, 20 years later as Jacob prepares to meet Esau.

Wrestling with Redemption

Another sleepless night. How many nights had it been? Jacob could not remember. All he knew was that each night he would awaken from the same dream. A dream in which he faced his brother alone for the first time since he had stolen his blessing from their father through deceit, thus guaranteeing his place as the patriarch of a great nation yet-to-be. (more…)

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This week’s parashah/portion is Lekh L’kha (Bereshit/Genesis 12:1-17:27). In
this parashah, God speaks to Abram, saying to him “Lekh L’kha … go forth
(also translated/interpreted as ‘go for yourself’ or ‘go [in] to yourself’) from
your land, the place of your birth, from your father’s house to the land that I
will show you.” Thus begins the journey of Abram and Sarai, later Abraham and
Sarah, to the land of promise, which is unknown to them and which God will show
them.

As they begin their journey Abram performs a sacrifice at dusk, as
commanded by God, as he lay out the pieces of the animals to be
sacrificed we read, “And behold, a great, dark horror fell upon Abram
when the sun was going down. God said, ‘Know for sure that your
offspring will be strangers in a land that is not theirs and they will serve
them and be afflicted for 400 years. But I will judge that nation that they
will serve. Afterward they [Abram and Sarai's descendants] will come out with
great wealth. But you will go to your ancestors in
peace; you will be buried in a good old age (Gen. 15:10-15).”

I could not help what imagine what this journey to the self, this
journey to a strange domain that he was to be shown by God, might
entail. It is not surprising that a great dread would fall upon Abram when the
sun was setting, and one can only imagine how his dread might have multiplied
when told that his ancestors would be enslaved for 400 years, even though he
would die a good death at a ripe old age.

If Lekh L’kha can be interpreted as “go into yourself” one can read these
passages, and the entire parashah - if not the entire narrative - as a journey
into the self of Abram. That is what I would like to imagine at this moment.
(more…)

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