January 5, 2013

Sh’mot, Exodus 1:1–6:1

Holding Out for a Hero?

Marci N. Bellows

If the Book of Exodus were a rock opera (and don’t we all wish it were?), it might just start with the Israelite slaves joining together singing the words that Bonnie Tyler made so famous in the 1980s:

Where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods?
Where’s the streetwise Hercules to fight the rising odds?
Isn't there a white knight upon a fiery steed?
Late at night I toss and I turn and I dream of what I need.

I need a hero, I'm holding out for a hero ’til the end of the night
He’s gotta be strong and he’s gotta be fast
And he’s gotta be fresh from the fight . . .
(“Holding Out for a Hero,” Jim Steinman and Dean Pitchford)

As I snap out of my musical theater moment, I am struck by how much of the Exodus story, especially in terms of how we traditionally teach and conceptualize it, is a story about passive Israelites who collectively “hold out for a hero.” We learn how they work endlessly, toiling and suffering in the desert sun, satisfying the cruel demands of a Pharaoh “who did not know Joseph” (Exodus 1:8). At first glance, there are few instances of action or heroism until Moses grows into adulthood and learns of his fate to be the redeemer of the Jewish people.

However, a closer reading of the text itself allows us to celebrate a number of important acts of resistance, bravery, and compassion. Even more interestingly, each one is performed by a woman.

Following the Pharaoh’s pronouncement that all sons born to Israelite women were to be killed immediately, we quickly hear about the courageous rebellion of two midwives, Shiphrah and Puah. The midwives did not follow Pharaoh’s command and, instead, saved each baby boy. When questioned by their king they shrugged off his concern, essentially answering that the Hebrew women gave birth much too quickly for them to attend to the mothers (Exodus 1:15–19).

Unfortunately, the text does not reveal much about these two women; in fact, there is some disagreement about who they might have been. “It is unclear from the wording of the Hebrew whether they are Hebrew women who work as midwives, or Egyptian midwives who serve the Hebrews ... Alternatively, it is possible that the narrator is here mentioning the names of the overseers of two guilds of midwives—or the names of the guilds themselves. Either way, it is significant that while the pharaoh’s name is not mentioned, the names of these two women are preserved” (The Torah: A Women’s Commentary).1 Despite this lack of information, the Torah text still highlights Shiphrah and Puah’s life-saving actions and the role they play in allowing Moses to survive his birth.

Against this backdrop we meet Jochebed and Amram,2 who are already parents of two young children (Aaron and Miriam) and are now giving birth to a third child. One might ask, if the Israelites knew that such a terrible decree had been made, why would they continue having children? Well, the Rabbis asked this question as well. Here’s where one of our greatest heroines, Miriam, enters the stage. The Rabbis believed that Amram was a great scholar of his time, and thus, when he heard Pharaoh’s plan to kill all baby boys, he divorced his wife, ensuring that no more children would be born to them. All the other families soon followed.


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December 29, 2012

Va-y’chi, Genesis 47:28–50:26

The End of Genesis...But Only the Beginning of Our People's Story

Bruce Kadden

This Shabbat, we conclude the Book of Genesis with Parashat Va-y’chi. Whenever we finish reading a book, even a book of Torah, it is important to reflect on where we have been, what we have covered since the beginning of the book. Over the past twelve weeks, we have made our way through Genesis, beginning with Creation and the mythological stories that attempt to explain how the world as we know it came to be.

Then, we began the story of our people, with God's call to Abram to leave his home and go to a land that God would show him (Genesis 12:1). In return, God promised "I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you; I will make your name great, and it shall be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, and I will pronounce doom on those who curse you; through you all the families of the earth shall be blessed" (12:2–3).

The rest of the Book of Genesis tells the story of Abraham (as he was renamed) and his family, the challenges that they faced, and their faithfulness despite adversity. We follow this family from generation to generation, as the covenant is passed first to Isaac and then to Jacob, each facing and overcoming their own challenges.

Finally, the story of this "first family of Judaism" is concluded in Va-y’chi, with the death first of Jacob and then of Joseph. Before he dies, Jacob blesses Joseph's sons Ephraim and Manasseh, and then offers a blessing to each of his own sons. But while this narrative closes one chapter in the story of our people, at the same time, it begins another, looking forward to the next stage of the journey.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, Chief Rabbi of Great Britain, in commenting on this portion, notes that Genesis, like the Tanach as a whole, "is a story without an ending which looks forward to an open future rather than reaching closure" (Covenant & Conversation: A Weekly Reading of the Jewish Bible, Genesis: The Book of Beginnings, New Milford, CT: Maggid Books and The Orthodox Union, 2009, p. 350). Although the loose ends of this particular part of the story are neatly tied up, we know we are not at the end of the story, but only at its beginning.

Indeed, throughout Genesis there has been a tension between the past and the future, between what was and what is yet to be. The covenant that God makes with Abraham serves to direct our attention toward the future. But, we also learn early on (Genesis 15:13) that this future will include being "strangers in a land not theirs" and being "enslaved and afflicted for four hundred years."

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December 22, 2012

Vayigash, Genesis 44:18–47:27

"Is My Father [Really] Alive?": More than a Rhetorical Question

Bruce Kadden

Are there any more moving words in the entire Torah than the question Joseph asks immediately upon revealing his identity to his brothers: "Is my father [really] alive?" (Genesis 45:3). After many years of denying his identity, hiding his identity, and trying to forget his past, he cannot contain himself any longer. He clears the room of everyone except his brothers. "He gave voice to a loud wail, and the Egyptians heard—Pharaoh's palace heard!" (45:2).

At first glance, it might seem that Joseph asks a rhetorical question. Hadn't his brothers spoken of his father all along? But upon further reflection it is more than a rhetorical question. First of all, it is possible that Jacob had died since the brothers first encountered Joseph in Egypt, in spite of their references to him. After all, Joseph might have reasoned, I have fooled them by hiding my identity; they think that I am dead. Perhaps they have figured out who I am and they are hiding from me the fact that our father has died.

In fact, the reason Joseph has waited so long to reveal his identity to his brothers might be because he is not sure how his relationship with his brothers will be affected by his father's presence. Ramban expresses surprise that Joseph never attempts to contact his father and his family. But the text clearly indicates that Joseph wants to forget his past. Recall that he named his firstborn Manasseh "For God has made me forget all the troubles I endured in my father's house" (41:51).

Although Joseph never explicitly condemns his father, it is hard to imagine that he does not have resentment toward him for allowing his brothers to treat him as they did. After all, it was his father who sent him to see how his brothers were doing as they pastured the flocks at Shechem (37:13–14). And this is despite the fact that Jacob knew Joseph was inclined to bring him bad reports about his brothers (37:2).

The more Joseph had the opportunity to reflect on the chain of events that led him to be sold and taken down to Egypt, the more he must have grown to resent the role that his father played in the story. The one person who should have protected him from his brothers’ resentment ended up sending him to them, far away from home, where they were able to take out their frustrations on him.

This resentment explains why Joseph did not attempt to contact his father when he had the opportunity to do so after rising to power in Egypt. When his brothers suddenly appear on the scene, he is faced with the need to come to terms with his past. He puts this off by developing an elaborate test to determine if his brothers will abandon Benjamin, as they abandoned him, or if they have changed.

But while the focus of the text is on the brothers and how they deal with the test that Joseph has designed, behind the scenes Joseph is trying to work out his estrangement with their father. In his first encounter with his brothers in Egypt (42:6–26), their father is barely mentioned. The brothers identify themselves as "sons of the same man" (42:11) and "sons of a man in the land of Canaan" (42:13) before explaining that the youngest brother "is with our father right now" (42:13). This is the only direct reference to their father in the entire conversation.

However, when his brothers return to Egypt, Joseph questions them, "How is your aged father of whom you spoke? Is he still alive?" Joseph appears ready to begin dealing with the reality of his father being alive. Yet, Joseph immediately turns his attention to his full-brother Benjamin, perhaps indicating that he is not completely ready to come to terms with his father.

Contrast this to the beginning of this week's portion, where Judah passionately pleads with Joseph to allow him (Judah) to remain in Joseph's custody in place of Benjamin. In the last seventeen verses of chapter 44, Judah uses the word “father” no fewer than thirteen times! It is reasonable to conclude that hearing these constant references to his father finally convinced an emotionally overwhelmed Joseph that it was time to reveal his identity to his brothers.

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December 15, 2012

Mikeitz, Genesis 41:1–44:17

The Power of Names and Naming

Bruce Kadden
Elie Wiesel has written, “In Jewish history, a name has its own history and its own memory. It connects beings with their origins. To retrace its path is then to embark on an adventure in which the destiny of a single word becomes one with that of a community; it is to undertake a passionate and enriching quest for all those who may live in your name.”

From the story of the Creation through the rest of Genesis, the giving of names has been a significant part of the biblical narrative. After creating the wild animals and birds, God “brought the man to see what he would call each one; and whatever the man called it, that became the creature’s name” (Genesis 2:19).

In this week’s portion, Mikeitz, Joseph moves from being falsely imprisoned to becoming second in command in Egypt due to his ability to interpret dreams. As Joseph settles into his new life, he is given a new name by Pharaoh: Zaphenath-paneah, which is “Egyptian for ‘God speaks; He lives’ or ‘Creator of life.’ " This name signifies not only that Joseph is now fully part of Egyptian society, but also that his special gift that has allowed him to succeed is the ability to speak for God.

Pharaoh also gives Joseph “Asenath daughter of Potiphera priest of On as a wife” (Genesis 41:45) and they soon become parents of two boys. “Joseph named the first-born son Manasseh [Hebrew, Menasheh], ‘For God has made me forget all the troubles I endured in my father’s house.’ And he named the second one Ephraim, ‘For God has made me fruitful in the land of my affliction’ ” (Genesis 41:51–52). These explanations may or may not accurately reflect the actual linguistic derivation of the names, but they do reflect the biblical author’s understanding of the meaning of the name in relationship to the narrative.

Joseph’s sons were born during the seven years of plenty, before the years of famine hit Egypt. As Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg observes, “In the names he gives his sons, he tenders an account of his life-drama, as he perceives it at this moment of its course, when his own fertility mirrors the general prosperity.”

The names that Joseph chooses for his sons reflect Joseph’s attitude toward his past adversity and his present good fortunes. Again, Zornberg states it well: “nowhere does Joseph reveal as nakedly as in these names his own feeling about the strange vicissitudes of his life. Nowhere does he comment so openly on its bitterness and its sweetness as in these namings that encode his sense of God’s dealings with him” (p. 285).

But what do the names really say about Joseph at this point in his life? With the birth of Manasseh, Joseph seems to be ready to move on with his life, to look forward to the future, rather than the past. Until this moment in the story, we don’t know what Joseph is thinking about his past. His statement confirms that with his new Egyptian identity he is ready to move on with his life.

Having recently interpreted the dreams of Pharaoh, in addition to those of Pharaoh’s chief cupbearer and chief baker, Joseph must have recalled his own dreams that appeared to have indicated that at some point his family will serve him. Recognizing his ability to discern God’s interpretation of the dreams of others, Joseph had to have at least thought about his own dreams and how they too might be realized.

Nevertheless, in naming his firstborn, Joseph seems to want to have nothing to do with his past. “The dangers of obsession with the past are very real for Joseph; they have the power to cripple him in the essential task he has undertaken” (Zornberg, p. 286).
Ironically, in choosing the name Manasseh, Joseph assures that every time he mentions the name he would be reminded of wanting to forget his past! Of course, no sooner has Joseph made his declaration about forgetting the troubles that he endured in his father’s house, then who shows up but his very brothers who were the cause of most of those troubles! Try as he might to forget his past, he is forced to confront it when they arrive in Egypt in search of food.

With the birth of his second son, Ephraim, Joseph chooses a name that affirms both the challenges and the blessings he has experienced in his new home, Egypt. On the one hand, he was falsely accused of attacking Potiphar’s wife and ended up in prison. On the other hand, his ability to interpret dreams has allowed him to become a powerful official who is now further blessed with two sons.

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December 8, 2012

Vayeishev, Genesis 37:1–40:23

From the Coat of Many Colors to a Simple Garment:
The Unmaking of Joseph

Bruce Kadden

It is said that clothes make the man. But in this week’s portion, Vayeishev, they have a great deal to do with the unmaking of Joseph. Two garments, the coat of many colors and the undistinguished garment Potiphar’s wife strips off of him, end up contributing to his trials, each being a catalyst for his descent to Egypt and to prison, respectively.

The first garment that gets Joseph into trouble is the coat of many colors, which his father made for him. The text says, “When his brothers saw that he was the one their father loved, more than any of his brothers, they hated him and could not bear to speak peaceably to him” (Genesis 37:4).

Did Joseph flaunt his special gift in front of them? Or was it simply the fact that their father showed favoritism to him with a beautiful present that so upsets them? It is obviously a very special garment; the term is used only one other time in Scripture, referring to the garment worn by King David’s daughter, Tamar, likely indicating her royal status (II Kings, 13:18). We can assume at the very least that Joseph wore it with pride and perhaps a bit of smugness at being singled out for this special gift.

In any case, when Joseph later approaches his brothers as they tend to their father’s sheep, they plot to kill him. Only Reuben’s intervention saves Joseph’s life. The brothers strip Joseph of his coat and throw him into a pit and then sell him to a caravan of Ishmaelites. Then they take Joseph’s coat, dip it into blood from a goat they had slaughtered, and bring it to their father.

Not wanting to lie to their father, the brothers ask “We found this; do you recognize it? Is it your son’s coat?” (Genesis 37:32). Avivah Gottleib Zornberg, in analyzing this story observes: “In thrusting Joseph’s coat, torn and bloodied, at Jacob, and in saying, ‘Please recognize it; is it your son’s tunic or not?’—they in fact feed him the words with which he interprets its meaning: ‘He recognized it, and said, “My son’s tunic! A savage beast devoured him! Joseph is torn in pieces!” ’ ” (Genesis 37:32–33, cited in Genesis: The Beginning of Desire [Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 1995], p. 266). Jacob then immediately tears his clothes as a sign of mourning, which ironically mimics the tearing of the coat off of his son.

Zornberg sees a deeper meaning in Jacob’s words, which “express the brothers’ deep intent. The poignancy of the moment lies not in deception, but in the accurate, if unconscious, decoding of the symbolism of the coat. What the brothers had wanted to do to Joseph—indeed, what they had done to him—is truly articulated by their father.

“In a sense, the coat is Joseph. His brothers strip it from him as they fall on him, and before they cast him into the pit” (Zornberg, p. 266).

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December 1, 2012

Vayishlach, Genesis 32:4–36:43 

A Wrestling Match for the Ages

Bruce Kadden “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s get ready to rumble!

“In this corner, returning after a long absence in Haran, where he is rumored to have fathered eleven sons and one daughter with four different women, considered by some a saint and by others a heel, is the one, the only, Jacob, son of Isaac and Rebekah.

“And in the other corner, the most mysterious being ever to set foot in a wrestling ring: Is he a man? An angel? God? Nobody knows.”

That is how the unusual encounter that highlights the beginning of this week’s Torah portion might be described if it were to take place today (before a live, pay-per-view audience, of course). If there was ever a match for the ages, an encounter that transformed not only each participant, but also an entire people, it was the experience that Jacob had when he was left alone after crossing a ford of the Jabbok River. Jacob would not be the same, his opponent would not be the same, and we, the Jewish people, would not be the same.

And yet, for all its profound significance, it is a story characterized by ambiguity and confusion. The text first says that “a man” wrestled with Jacob until dawn (Genesis 32:25), but it quickly becomes clear that it is no ordinary human being. When Jacob asks his name, he becomes indignant: “Why do you ask my name?” he says before leaving. Jacob then names the place Peni’el—“for I have seen God face-to-face, yet my life has been spared” (32:31).

Compounding the confusion surrounding Jacob’s opponent, is the fact that the text uses so many pronouns—he/him—that the reader is not always sure who is who: “Now Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him until the rise of dawn. When [he] saw that he could not overcome him, he struck his hip-socket, so that Jacob’s hip-socket was wrenched as [he] wrestled with him. Then he said, ‘Let me go; dawn is breaking!’ But [he] said, ‘I will not let you go unless you bless me!’ The other said to him, ‘What is your name?’ and he said: ‘Jacob.’ [He said,] ‘No more shall you be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have struggled with God and with human beings, and you have prevailed’” (32:25–29).

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November 24, 2012

Vayeitzei, Genesis 28:10–32:3 

Jacob’s Vertical and Horizontal Encounters

Bruce Kadden

As Parashat Vayeitzei begins Jacob is fleeing from his home in Beersheba. He’s afraid his brother, Esau, will make good on his threat to kill Jacob (Genesis 27:41), because Jacob (with Rebecca’s guidance) tricked their father, Isaac into giving the blessing for the firstborn to Jacob. As the sun sets, he stops for the evening and lies down to sleep.

He dreams of a ladder with its base on the ground, its top in heaven, and angels of God going up and coming down the ladder. And, for the first time in Jacob’s life, God appears to him, and says, “I, the Eternal, am the God of your father Abraham and God of Isaac: the land on which you are lying I will give to you and to your descendants” (Genesis 28:13). God then promises Jacob that he will have numerous descendants who will spread in all directions and through whom “all the families of the earth shall find blessing.” God continues, “And here I am, with you: I will watch over you wherever you go, and I will bring you back to this soil. I will not let go of you as long as I have yet to do what I have promised you” Genesis (28:14–15).

The Rabbis note that the unusual Hebrew word sulam, “ladder,” has the same numerical value in gematria (where each Hebrew letter represents a number) as Sinai (B’reishit Rabbah 68:12). This was Jacob’s Sinai moment, encountering God as Moses would do later at Mount Sinai.

Awakening from this amazing dream, Jacob exclaims: “Truly, the Eternal is in this place, and I did not know it” (Genesis 28:16). Jacob sets up a monument and names the place Beth El before continuing on his journey.

Why does God choose this moment to speak with Jacob? Why is it that Jacob encounters God while lying down? Isn’t it ironic that only in a horizontal position can he experience the vertical dimension of the Divine?

We can understand that God would want to assure Jacob of God's protection as he sets out on his journey to Haran, and that the covenant made with Abraham and passed on to Isaac will continue with him as well. But why wait until Jacob is asleep?

Examining the entire scope of the Jacob narrative, Bernard Och has observed that “Structurally ... it moves along two distinct, dramatic lines: a horizontal one of human-profane activity and a vertical one of Divine-human encounter. In contrast to the Abraham cycle, where the profane and sacred are so closely intertwined as to be inseparable, there, with Jacob, they are experienced as two separate dimensions” (“Jacob at Bethel and Penuel: The Polarity of Divine Encounter,” in Judaism: A Quarterly Journal of Jewish Life and Thought, 42, no. 2, 1993).

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November 17, 2012

Toldot, Genesis 25:19–28:9

Isaac: Why Is This Patriarch Different from All Other Patriarchs?

Bruce Kadden

This week’s Torah portion begins with the phrase, V’eileh toldot Yitzchak ben Avraham, "This is the line of Isaac son of Abraham” (Genesis 25:19), indicating that the text is now going to focus on Isaac, the second of the Patriarchs of our tradition. And, indeed, he figures prominently in the stories of this portion.

However, he still seems to play a subordinate role to his father, Abraham, and his son, Jacob. In the stories of two of the major incidents of his life, the Akeidah (Genesis 22) and the blessing of his sons (Genesis 27) he is not even the central figure. Rabbi W. Gunther Plaut notes that “Of the three patriarchs, Isaac’s personality is the least clearly defined” and he is primarily “the bridge between Abraham and Jacob, the essential link in the chain of greatness” (The Torah: A Modern Commentary, Revised Edition [New York: URJ Press, 2005], pp. 184-185).

While it is easy to overlook Isaac and his role in the biblical narrative, we can learn quite a lot from three aspects of his life that distinguished him from both his father and his son:

Isaac never leaves the Land of Israel
he only has one wife and only fathers children with one woman
his name is not changed
Abraham was born in Ur and—after arriving in the Land of Israel—goes down to Egypt because of a famine. Though Jacob was born in Israel, he escapes the wrath of his brother, Esau, returning to his mother’s native land, and ultimately dies in Egypt. Isaac, on the other hand, lives his entire life in the Land of Israel. In fact, the Torah twice warns that Isaac must not leave the Land. When Abraham’s slave suggests bringing Isaac to the Land of Abraham’s birth if the woman the slave finds to be Isaac’s wife refuses to come to Israel, Abraham warns, “Take great care not to bring my son back there!” (Genesis 24:6). (I prefer this stronger translation of the Hebrew text, “Don’t you dare bring my son back there.”) Later, when Isaac travels to Gerar because of a famine, God warns him not to go down to Egypt: “Stay in the land and I will be with you and bless you” (26:3) God promises him.

While Abraham and Jacob reflect what will become the tradition of the “Wandering Jew” that has characterized so much of our history, Isaac can be viewed as the Jew who will not need to wander from place to place, but will be able to call one place home. That place is Israel, which makes him a role model for Zionists. But all Jews can appreciate that residing in one place allows one to establish roots and develop a sense of home that is not possible when one moves from place to place as is so common today.

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November 10, 2012

Chayei Sarah, Genesis 23:1–25:18

What’s Love Got To Do with It? Everything!

by Bruce Kadden


Do you remember the first time you laid eyes on your beloved? Do you recall your feelings the moment you saw the love of your life?

The Torah offers us a rare glimpse of such an encounter toward the end of this week’s portion when Rebekah, after the long journey from her home in Aram-naharaim, lays eyes on Isaac. He was out in the “evening to stroll in the field” (Genesis 24:63) when he sees a caravan of camels approaching. Isaac, who apparently at this point does not recognize that this caravan is Abraham's servant (possibly Eliezer) returning from his mission to bring back a bride for him, only sees the camels.

Rebekah, on the other hand, “looked up: seeing Isaac, she got off the camel” (24:64). “Got off,” may be an understatement because the Hebrew uses the root nun-pei-lamed to describe Rebekah’s descending from her mount, and that root usually means “fall.” What a sight that must have been! (In English we still describe being in love as “falling” for someone.)

Rebekah quickly recovers from her fall and asks Abraham’s servant, “Who is this man striding in the field coming to meet us?” (24:65). Is this a rhetorical question or is Rebekah clueless that he is her intended? Her question includes an unusual form of the adjective “this”—halazeh—a word used later in Genesis with regard to Joseph (37:19). Since the Torah affirms that Joseph was “fair of form and fair of appearance” (39:6), the Rabbis conclude that Isaac also must be good looking (see B’reishit Rabbah 60:15).

When she finds out that it is indeed Isaac who is coming to meet her, Rebekah immediately covers herself with a veil, which Nahum Sarna notes was part of the marriage ceremony in the ancient Near East. “It is an unspoken signal to Isaac that she is his bride,” (The JPS Torah Commentary: Genesis, New York: The Jewish Publication Society, 1989, p. 170).

This gesture confirms for Isaac that Rebekah is the one chosen to be his bride. Abraham’s servant then tells Isaac about his successful journey. Whereas previously the text described the process in great detail, here only a single verse says it all: “The slave then told Isaac all that he had done” (Genesis 24:66). With this brevity, the text hints that Isaac does not care about what happened in the past; he is now eager to embrace the future and specifically to insure the future of the Jewish people.

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November 3, 2012

Vayeira, Genesis 18:1–22:24

Listening for the Voice of Homelessness

Bruce Kadden

While most readers of the Torah consider Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son Isaac as his most troubling deed, his treatment of his firstborn son, Ishmael and Ishmael’s mother, Hagar, is also deeply disturbing. How can a father send his child away—to almost certain death—in the wilderness?

Chapter 21 of Genesis begins auspiciously: we learn that Sarah becomes pregnant and bears a long-awaited child to Abraham. Abraham and Sarah celebrate the birth of Isaac by circumcising him at eight days in fulfillment of God’s command, laughing at the miracle of his birth at their old age, and holding a great feast on the day he was weaned.

However, things suddenly take an ominous turn when Sarah sees “the son that Hagar the Egyptian had borne to Abraham, playing (m’tzacheik)” (Genesis 21:9). “Throw this slave girl and her son out. The son of this slave girl is not going to share in the inheritance with my son Isaac!” Sarah demands (21:10). What is it that has caused such a strong reaction?

Rashi, drawing from the midrash, offers a number of interpretations of the Hebrew word m’tzacheik, which is translated as “playing,” in The Torah: A Modern Commentary, Revised Edition.1 It could mean “worshipping” idols, as the same root is used when the Israelites were worshipping the Golden Calf (Exodus 32:6). It could also refer to immoral sexual conduct as the term is used by Potiphar’s wife to falsely accuse Joseph of forcing himself upon her (Genesis 39:14). Finally, Rashi suggests that it could mean murder, as used by Abner, King Saul’s cousin, to describe the conflict between his troops and those of David (II Samuel 2:14).

The exact meaning of the word m’tzacheik may be unclear, but its root is not: it is the same root as the name Isaac, as if to say that in Sarah’s eyes, Ishmael was pretending to be Isaac. Unwilling to relinquish his role as the firstborn to Abraham—and his rightful inheritance—Ishmael will not disappear on his own accord.

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October 27, 2012

Lech L’cha, Genesis 12:1–17:27 

  

A Letter from Abram 

Bruce Kadden

Dear Mom and Dad,

By the time you read this letter, Sarai and I, and our nephew Lot, will be well on our way to the land of Canaan. I wanted to say goodbye to you personally, but couldn’t figure out how to tell you we were leaving and not coming back. I love you dearly and would never do anything to hurt you.

Why are we leaving? The short answer is that God told me to leave. I know that may sound strange to you, but for some time now I have had a strong feeling that I didn’t belong here. Don’t get me wrong. Haran is a beautiful city and I have enjoyed living here, but it has never been home.

I remember when we left Ur, you told me that one of the reasons we had to go was that it never felt like home. At the time, I couldn’t understand it because it was the only place I had ever known. But now I get it. It is not about where you are born or where you have lived the longest. It is about where you feel you belong, and I just never have felt that I belong here.

I am sure you remember the day a few years ago that you left me alone in your idol shop. At first, I was so proud that you trusted me and gave me the responsibility. I really thought that I could do a good job, but when the first person came into the store I realized that my heart wasn’t in it. And then, well, you remember what happened. I don’t know what came over me, but before I realized what I was doing all of the idols were smashed except for the biggest one. And I felt so good. You were so much more understanding than I expected you to be. Maybe you knew then what it took me much longer to discover.

I remember those stories you used to tell me as a young child about the struggles of the gods Marduk and Tiamat. I was so intrigued by those tales and wanted you to tell me more. At some point, though, I realized that they were just stories. And later I realized that the idols were just pieces of stone. Everyone around me continued to be intrigued by those stories and enthralled with the idols but they just didn’t speak to me anymore.

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October 20, 2012

Noach, Genesis 6:9–11:32 

The Challenge of Righteousness 
Barbara Binder Kadden

“This is Noah’s chronicle. Noah was a righteous man; in his generation, he was above reproach; Noah walked with God” (Genesis 6:9). The Rabbis have long debated this verse questioning the quality of Noah’s righteousness.  

The wording of the verse gives rise to this debate. The text states that “Noah was a righteous man,” but immediately follows with the phrase “in his generation, he was above reproach...” All of us, including the ancient Rabbis, are left to wonder if Noah is exceptional or not, if his righteousness would be universally righteous or simply righteous in his time.

Why is there a debate over Noah’s level of righteousness? Did he not obey God? Did he not build an ark? Did he not save the animals? Did he not save humanity to repopulate the earth? Noah did all these things, but the Rabbis raised a concern. In Noah’s time the earth was corrupt and filled with violence. In his generation Noah was righteous; it is quite likely that anyone doing any act of righteousness in that era would be considered so. Thus the rabbinic debate hinges on whether or not Noah did enough.

It is true that Noah did not attempt to save any other human beings aside from his own family. He did not argue with God to try to save human life as we shall see Abraham do in the story of Sodom and Gomorrah (Genesis 18:20–33). But as a midrash relates, for over one hundred and twenty years (Alshekh), God wanted people of the Flood generation to repent but they would not, so God instructed Noah to build an ark. Mocked and ridiculed as he went about this task, Noah’s tzedek, “righteous behavior,” had no impact.

This debate of the quality of one’s righteousness took on an added resonance for me in the winter and spring of 2012, when my husband, Rabbi Bruce Kadden, and I spent two months on sabbatical in Warsaw, Poland. We worked at Beit Warszawa the progressive Jewish community. We also spent time visiting a variety of museums, traveling in Poland, and reading about the wartime history of Poland and the Jewish community. Among the places we visited were the remnants of the Warsaw Ghetto, Auschwitz-Birkenau, and Maidanek. We also went to Prague in the Czech Republic and visited Terezin. 

  

Much to my surprise, on the Web site of Yad Vashem, the Israeli museum and memorial to the Holocaust, I learned that the largest number of those honored as Righteous Among the Nations come from Poland. This fact alone astonished me. Before we went to Poland I believed the following:

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October 13, 2012

B’reishit, Genesis 1:1–6:8 

Words Not Spoken...Words Not Heard 

Bruce Kadden and Barbara Binder Kadden 

Words are powerful. In Genesis, chapter one, God creates through words: “God said, ‘Let there be light!’–and there was light ... God said, ‘Let there be an expanse in the midst of the waters,’... God now said, ‘Let us make human beings in our image,’ ” (Genesis 1:3, 6, 26). In chapter three, the serpent’s words, “Did God really say: ‘You may not eat of any tree of the garden’?” (3:1) led to Adam and Eve’s eating the forbidden fruit and expulsion from the Garden of Eden.

But sometimes it is the lack of words that is important. The story of Cain and Abel is characterized by what is left out as much as by what is included. The most glaring omission is the statement Cain made to his brother, Abel, before murdering him, but that is not all that is missing from the story.

For example, after giving birth to Cain, Eve explained his name, saying, “I have gained [kaniti] a male child with the help of the Eternal” (4:1), but when she then gave birth to Abel she did not explain his name. Perhaps she did not care (second children are often treated with less indulgence by their parents than the first child) or the meaning of the name Abel, Hevel–“mist,” “breath,” or “vanity,”–was so obvious that it needed no explanation. In any case, his name already hinted at Abel’s fleeting nature.

Next, we learn that Abel was a shepherd while Cain worked the ground (4:2). Eventually, each brings an offering to God: Cain from the fruit of the ground and Abel from the choicest of the firstling of his flock. While the text appears to indicate that Abel offered the best of his flock, whereas Cain simply offered whatever was available, the midrash notes that Cain was the first to make an offering to God and Abel, perhaps trying to outdo his brother, responded with his offering.

God pays heed to Abel’s offering, but ignores Cain’s offering. Why? Once again, the Torah is silent. It is tempting to assume that God’s response is based on the quality of the offerings, but can we be sure?

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October 6, 2012

Chol HaMo-eid Sukkot, Exodus 33:12–34:26

 V’zot HaBrachah 
Yael Splansky

  

No matter how I might dream of trekking the beautiful, wide-open spaces of the Canadian wilderness—truth be told, I avoid tents, cold water, and bad weather whenever possible. I prefer to travel in the wilderness of Torah. The blisters I get in September are not from working with rake and hoe in the yard, but from rolling and rerolling our many Torah scrolls for the fall holy days. My splinters come from collecting schach for the roof of my sukkah and my mosquito bites are from making Kiddush there. Like Woody Allen, sometimes “I am at two with nature.”

Our Torah portion, by contrast, records Moses’s blessing of nature upon the People Israel.

“Thus Israel dwells in safety, 
Untroubled is Jacob’s abode,
In a land of grain and wine, 
Under heavens dripping dew.
O happy Israel! Who is like you,
A people delivered by the Eternal.” 
(Deuteronomy 33:28–29a)

Moses prophesies that “the good Lord will provide” by causing the good land and the skies above it to provide. This is our prayer during the Festival of Sukkot. 

Rich earth, which produces “grain and wine.” “Heaven’s dripping dew,” which brings the rains in proper proportion. Like the ancient and modern-day farmer, we, too, can only hope for such good fortune. Heaven and earth are mostly the domain of God who created them. But what of the safe dwellings? What of “Jacob’s abode”? Who constructs and who protects these?

The Talmud (Babylonian Talmud, Sukkah 11b) records a difference of opinion between Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Akiva. Rabbi Eliezer teaches that the sukkot of the desert experience wereananei kavod, (Divine) “clouds of glory,” which hovered over the Children of Israel for forty years in the wilderness. Rabbi Akiva disagrees: Sukkot mamash asu lahem, “The sukkot were real booths that they built for themselves.” This difference of opinion sparks two complementary lessons taught by this week’s joyful festival of Sukkot.

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September 29, 2012

Haazinu, Deuteronomy 32:1–52

A World of Words 
Yael Splansky

Back at the Burning Bush, God commands Moses to return to Egypt, to go before Pharaoh and deliver God’s message: “Let us go...to sacrifice to the Eternal our God” (Exodus 3:18). Moses tries to dodge the command, saying: “Please, O my lord, I have never been a man of words (Lo ish d’varim anochi), either in times past or now that You have spoken to Your servant: I am slow of speech (k’vad peh), and slow of tongue (u'ch'vad lashon)” (Exodus 4:10).

Well, Moses has come a long way since then! Some forty years later, Moses delivers the longest monologue in all of Jewish history–the Book of D’varim, the "Book of Words." He has certainly found his tongue, found his voice. The self-doubting man who once said, “I have never been a man of  words,” now launches the Book of D’varim, the Book of Words and it seems he can’t stop talking. According to our Sages, the day Moses performs this prophetic poem of Haazinu is the day of his death (Targum Yonatan on Song of Songs 1:1; Tanchuma,B’shalach 12). It is his last attempt to move them with words, to shape them into the people they are becoming.

“Give ear, O heavens, let me speak; 
Let the earth hear the words I utter!
May my discourse come down as the rain,
My speech distill as the dew, 
Like showers on young growth,
Like droplets on the grass.
For the name of the Eternal I proclaim; 
Give glory to our God!" (Deuteronomy 32:1–3)

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September 22, 2012

Vayeilech, Deuteronomy 31:1–30

Shabbat Shuvah 

Jewish Guilt
Yael Splansky

As he prepares for death, Moses lays a major guilt trip on the people.

 “Well I know how defiant and stiff-necked you are: even now, while I am still alive in your midst, you have been defiant toward the Eternal; how much more, then, when I am dead! ... For I know that, when I am dead, you will act wickedly and turn away from the path that I enjoined upon you, and that in time to come misfortune will befall you for having done evil in the sight of the Eternal whom you vexed by your deeds” (Deuteronomy 31:27, 29).

Jewish guilt: It’s the punch line of so many Jewish jokes, usually involving Jewish mothers. “Don’t worry about me...I’ll sit in the dark...” But guilt is a powerful tool for honing an individual soul, for shaping a whole society. Guilt is one of the most useful tools we carry during this season, when we take cheshbon hanefesh, an accounting of the soul, and make our way to true repentance.     

    

For example, every year at the High Holy Day services I look out across the faces of the congregation. I think, “I could have done more for her...I should have done more for him...Did I do right by that family when they were in their hour of need?” I admit the guilt weighs heavily on me. Such guilt must be the origin of the Hin’ni prayer, found in Gates of Repentance (pp. 18–19). Before the service begins, the rabbi stands before the open ark and silently cries out, “Hin’ni he-ani mima-as! (Behold me, of little merit, ...) Who is fit for such a task? Dear God, let my congregation not falter on my account, nor I on theirs.” In a rare moment the rabbi stands apart from the congregation. It is a flashback to a time when on Yom Kippur, the Kohein Gadolwould enter the Holy of Holies to seek forgiveness on behalf of the people. But rabbis are not priests. There is no Holy of Holies. And these days are not those days.

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September 15, 2012

Nitzavim, Deuteronomy 29:9–30:20 

Receiving in Order to Give

Yael Splansky 

“You stand this day, all of you, before the Eternal your God ... to enter into the covenant of the Eternal your God ...” (Deuteronomy 29:9–11). Parashat Nitzavim is a retelling of the exchange of giving and receiving that took place at Mount Sinai.

Kabbalah is the art and discipline of “receiving.” The modern kabbalist Rabbi Yehuda Ashlagtaught that there are four ways of giving and receiving:

The first way is “to receive in order to receive.” This is what a baby or a very young child does. This is what an egotist of any age does. Like the baby birds with desperately open mouths larger than their bodies, there are times when we are so needy, nothing and no one else matters. The immediate- and end-goal are one and the same—to get.

The second way is “to give in order to receive.” This is conventional morality. Most interactions between ordinary good people fall into this category. For example, I give my neighbor a Christmas present each year. Why? So he’ll continue to keep an eye on my house when I’m out of town? So he won’t complain when I let the weeds grow too tall? So he’ll speak well of me in the neighborhood? “Giving in order to receive” makes the world livable.

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 Last Edited by judy@jvillagenetwork.com at 9/10/2012 1:01 PM

September 8, 2012

 

Ki Tavo, Deuteronomy 26:1–29:8

To Influence and To Be Shaped by Another’s Influence 

Yael Splansky 

Tolstoy begins Anna Karenina with the following two assertions: "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." Perhaps this explains why for every one blessing listed in this week's parashah, there are five frightful curses. People who are blessed, are blessed in just a few ways. “Blessed shall be the issue of your womb” (Deuteronomy 28:4). "Blessed shall be your basket and your kneading bowl” (Deuteronomy 28:5). “Blessed shall you be in your comings and blessed shall you be in your goings" (Deuteronomy 28:6). But people who suffer, suffer in a myriad of ways. Cursed shall you be with “fever  . . . and drought” (Deuteronomy 28:22). Cursed shall you be with copper skies and iron earth and dust for rain (Deuteronomy 28:23–24). Cursed shall you be by terror, with no assurance of survival, no peace (Deuteronomy 28:25–26). On and on go the lists of hardship, heartbreak, and tragedy.
 

This section of the Torah is referred to as toch’chah, “rebuke.” It is hard to take. It’s uncomfortable to hear these words aloud in the sacred setting of our sanctuaries, certainly not befitting Shabbat, so it became customary to read these verses of curses and calamityb’lachash, “in just a whisper.” In the days when superstitions ran high, it became customary for the president of the congregation, or someone of confidence and stature, to volunteer for the aliyah when these verses were read. God forbid, someone vulnerable to poverty or sickness would put himself at further risk by standing in such close proximity to these terrifying words.

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 Last Edited by judy@jvillagenetwork.com at 9/4/2012 1:13 PM

September 1, 2012

Ki Teitzei/Deuteronomy 21:10–25:19

Putting Elul to Work 
Yael Splansky

Four hundred years of slavery in Egypt, forty years of wandering in the desert: imagine how the legends of the Land of Israel that must have been told. In the heat of the day, while baking bricks for Pharaoh's cities, perhaps a grandfather told his grandson of the cool breezes and the shady places in the Promised Land. While walking in the wilderness, perhaps one girl was so thirsty she could hardly catch her breath, so her mother comforted her with tales of the sweet fruits and vegetables that grow in the Promised Land. And, when the Amalekites attacked Israel at Rephidim, perhaps Joshua dreamed of the great peace he might one day discover in the Promised Land. Parashat Ki Teitzei describes the moment when the Children of Israel are positioned just outside of Eretz Yisrael, the mythical place of their dreams. They could hardly contain themselves: a new life of cool breezes, luscious fruits, and deep peace was just on the horizon, less than three weeks’ distance.

Reality

And what does God instruct Moses to say to those gathered, buzzing with excitement?  “When you take the field against your enemies, and you see among the captives a beautiful woman and you desire her and would take her to wife... ,” this is how you should treat her (Deuteronomy 21:10–14). “If a parent has a wayward and defiant son... ,” this is how he should be punished (Deuteronomy 21:18–21). “When you build a new house, you shall make a parapet for your roof, so that you do not bring bloodguilt on your house if anyone should fall from it” (Deuteronomy 22:8). If a young engaged woman is raped in town, this is how the case should be treated (Deuteronomy 22:23–24). If a young engaged woman is raped in the countryside, this is how the case should be treated (Deuteronomy 22:25–27). And on and on goes the list of seventy-two mitzvot.¹ Laws concerning how to treat the widow, the orphan, the rejected wife, the hungry, the slave who is fleeing from his master, and the one who suffers a skin disease hardly paint a picture of the land of their dreams! Where are the good times? Where is their paradise? Where is their fulfillment, if not perfection? Moses lays down the ultimate reality check when he says: When you establish yourselves in the land, be sure to set up the washrooms outside of the camp! (Deuteronomy 23:13–14). All these mitzvot come to prepare the Children of Israel for what is just around the corner—not a perfect life, but a life of potential; not the “Promised Land,” but a land filled with promise.

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