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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