Temple Isaiah SB

I was sitting at my desk in the temple during religious school this past week. I was thinking about the return of our Israeli hostages, and how it relates to the biblical demand to let all of our people go from Egypt. 3 here and 4 there is not enough. God made it clear in Exodus, that all of us need to be free, and until then, we won’t be satisfied. Our traditions inform today, and that has not changed. In thinking about the welfare of our fellow Jews, my second grade Hebrew School Teacher came to mind. She was a warm and wonderful woman. I wondered what became of her, and figured that she most likely has passed away. My mind then went to the simplicity of the Jewish coffin. Jewish people, education and Jewish coffins. “Rabbi Yochanan Ben Zakkai,” I thought! Who is this? Ben Zakkai was alive in Jerusalem during the Roman siege of the city, and the subsequent destruction of the 2nd Temple in the year 70 of the Common Era. Ben Zakkai knew that the fall of both the city and the Temple were inevitable. As food and supplies dwindled to almost nothing, he could see the writing on the wall, and he put himself out on a limb to essentially save Judaism as we know it today. The Temple would shortly be gone, and the ritual sacrifices and offerings that made up Jewish practice would clearly go with it. What to do? Periodically, the coffins holding the departed were allowed to be removed from the city walls of Jerusalem. This was the only way out. Ben Zakkai, desperate to act, and not go down with the zealots, put himself, living and breathing, into a coffin to be taken out of the city with the dead. When outside of the city walls, he approached the Roman general at the helm of the siege, Commander Vespasian. Ben Zakkai buttered up the commander, telling him that he was sure to be Emperor one day. Ben Zakkai made it clear that Jerusalem was inevitably transferring to Roman control, and that he would just like to make one simple request. This was a request with an impact we feel to this day. Zakkai asked only for “Yavneh and its Sages.” Yavneh, a small town south of present day Tel-Aviv, would soon become the center of rabbinic Judaism. A center of learning, and study was established in Yavneh. As the Temple fell, the study of Torah, Jewish law, and the traditions of Yavneh lived on. I was able to learn the Aleph Bet from a Jewish teacher 2,000 years later halfway across the world because Ben Zakkai, and others, thought it important to preserve our peoplehood.

Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai was willing to put himself in a coffin and face possible death. Why? For the sake of Jewish survival? Yes. For the sake of Jewish education and tradition? I ask; Are they not the same thing? In this week’s Torah portion, Bo, we have a line that is very telling. In reference to our prescription to celebrate Passover, our Torah lets us know that our children will ask, ‘what is this service to you?” Torah prescribes this question as inevitable. As soon as this is asked: “What is this service to you,” we become our own versions of Rabbi Yochanan Ben Zakkai. We take on the crucial responsibility of keeping Judaism alive through thorough explanation, practice, and education.

I suppose this child’s question is my question for all of us this week? In terms of not just Passover, and not even just children, but general Jewish practice, I ask: What is this service to you? “Mah Ha-avodah hazot lachem?” What are we teaching the next generation of Jews, and others who are curious, about what Judaism is? Why should we gather on Shabbat, or Holidays? This is something we wrestle with consistently in the world of Jewish education and overall sustainability. Our children are not always completely bought into learning Hebrew or Jewish history, the festivals, and culture, if there is no “why.” Are we ready with a “why” when we are inevitably asked? Rabbi Michael Strassfeld wrote a book called “Judaism Disrupted: A Spiritual Manifesto for the 21st Century.” Rabbi Strassfeld claims he almost called the book, “Judaism: Why Bother?” He comments on the fact that many people are asking themselves that exact blunt question. “Why bother?” He claims that the life that has been given to us is the most precious possible gift, and that Judaism offers wisdom and practice that enables us to use that gift to its fullest potential: infusing it with meaning and purpose. Are we conveying that, and how?

I do believe that every person is on a spiritual journey to find ultimate meaning and purpose. Judaism can serve as a compass on that journey. We are so often told that we need to be willing to meet people exactly where they are at. Or do we? This is a question that is salient to the Reform movement of Judaism, perhaps in particular. How much do we bend our traditions before we find them bent so far back that they snap into something unrecognizable? So yes, Jewish survival seems undoubtedly focused on Jewish education and practice, but the question, in my estimation, is what is Jewish education? What is Jewish practice? What should they be?

Rabbi Strassfeld mentioned meaning and purpose. Does everybody have the same concept of meaning and purpose? Do we learn to read Hebrew to get through a Bar or Bat Mitzvah? Do we learn to read Hebrew to connect with the beautiful ancient texts of our tradition? Do we even bother to learn to read Hebrew at all? Who decides who learns what and why? Again, our Torah makes it very clear that the CHILDREN WILL ASK. I think this is the most important point of our discussion. The ask might not come in an extremely overt way. The ask might be in the form of a comment, a second of interest, a perking up of the ears. The ask can come from any person, in various stages of life. I view the sparks of inquiry as sacred opportunities and entrances to our beautiful tradition. Will we be ready with fruitful and meaningful answers when the fleeting moments of curiosity are inevitably broached? Will we be living our lives with Jewish meaning and purpose when we are looked to as examples of the what and the why? Again, what is this service to you?

Rabbi Yochanan Ben Zakkai went to great lengths to keep the questions alive. Within the questions exist the secrets to our survival and flourishing as a people. I believe that in our modern times, we must be willing to look beyond the Judaism of “because this is what we do and have always done.” Tradition and routine can be great and even necessary, but they need to be infused with kavanah (intention) and sometimes even practical application. We must ask ourselves: What was Rabbi Yochanan Ben Zakkai willing to lie down in a coffin to protect? When we see our hostages re-enter a Jewish state, tears in their eyes, embracing loved ones; I know there must be something beautiful and magical to all of this. Two-thousand years later, can we find what ben Zakkai was so fervently safeguarding and fighting for; Re-forming but not watering down? One more time I ask, “What is this service to you?” What is Judaism to you? What can we tell and show those who ask…for we know that they certainly will. If we manage to find even a hint of the Ben Zakkai inside of us, we can keep our beautiful traditions alive and well through any siege, physical or spiritual, now and in the future.

Shabbat Shalom.

– Rabbi Josh Gray

God is an understanding and empathetic therapist this week. This might seem like an odd area of focus given the fact that this is the Torah portion that brings the first seven plagues on Egypt. In the current midst of Israeli hostages returning home after over 400 days in captivity at the hands of Hamas in Gaza, we might need God the therapist more than ever. This week, God shows us something we can use to this very day: a beautiful and complete understanding of the fact that recovery does not take place in a moment. In the context of Torah, God understands that the transition for the Hebrew people from subjugation to self-determination will be intricate. This is true for every type of recovery; even in our own modern times. Whether it is recovery from substance abuse, from physical or emotional abuse, a toxic relationship, from trauma, even from being held hostage for 471 days; Recovery is a process, and one that will more than likely be ongoing with twists, turns, and ups and downs throughout a lifetime. In this week’s Torah portion, Va’era, Moses and Aaron come to us directly following what they thought would be a simple and righteous task. They have come into Egypt under God’s direction and insist that the Hebrew people be released from slavery in order to serve God. How have the Egyptian oppressors responded to this Godly directive? This demand absolutely makes the people of Israel’s lives harder right away. Pharaoh decides to make the already backbreaking work of the Hebrew slaves more difficult. Moses, the subsequently confused and concerned messenger, asks God, “Why have you done evil to this people?”

God assures Moses that the recovery of the People of Israel will be a process. The beginning of this parsha gives us what is often referred to as God’s 4 expressions of Redemption. God tells Moses, first “v’hotzeiti” I will take you out of Egypt. Second, “v’hitzalti,” I shall rescue you from their service. Third, “v’gaalti,” I shall redeem you with an outstretched arm. And finally, “v’lakachti,” I shall take you to Me for a people.” Rabbi Bachya, a Spanish commentator from the 13th and 14th centuries tells us that these 4 expressions of redemption refer to, respectively: God taking the people out of a slavery role even before leaving Egypt, God physically removing the people from Egypt itself, God splitting the sea and removing the power that Egypt has over the people, and finally, God will take the Jewish people as God’s own, giving them Torah and purpose as a nation. In rabbinic tradition, these 4 expressions of redemption are the reason behind the 4 cups of wine that we traditionally drink at a Passover Seder. We honor not just the journey, but each step taken that makes it up.

To this day, and in myriad different forms, there exist a multitude of steps to healing from an abusive or traumatic experience, and none are one-size-fits-all. Some of the steps that I ascribe to are: First, acknowledging trauma, abuse, or the problem that needs recovering from as it is. We need to honor that fact that the trauma or abuse is even present or has occurred. Once this step has been taken, one can then lean into their networks of support. Next, seeking appropriate therapy and professional help is likely vital. Finally, practicing meaningful self-care in an ongoing fashion will help to maintain wellness. Of course these steps will be different for each person, and for each situation. The common theme that runs through all of this is the fact that we need to understand that we cannot simply stomp into our own Egypts and demand an instant recovery. It can be easy for someone outside of a situation of trauma or abuse to be critical: These people are in a bad or toxic situation.Why don’t they just leave? How can they claim to love someone who treats them like that? Why don’t they just stop drinking? They’re out now, why can’t they just move on? Do we want to be like Moses and Aaron this week, waltzing in, asking for what we want and how we want it, and then expecting a smooth outcome? This is fairly unreasonable. There are so many factors to be cognizant of. What Pharaoh or Pharaohs are keeping someone feeling trapped in their Egypt, Mitzrayim, literally meaning, a narrow space, unable to budge, not just physically; but emotionally, or spiritually? What hearts have been hardened, or what habits have been ingrained into the system or psyche of both the oppressed and the oppressor?

The people of Israel were enslaved for at least 430 consecutive years before Moses and Aaron showed up with God’s plan to implement. The Israeli hostages we just saw return home were held for at least 470 days before being released. But what does it mean to truly be released? 20th century philosopher Isaiah Berlin coined terminology known as “Two Concepts of Liberty.” He posits that we have negative liberty, which can be described as the absence of any coercion by an external force. This is not unlike telling formerly enslaved people that they are free. There might technically be a lack of coercion, but people need to feel what Berlin would call positive liberty. This goes a step further than simply being free from a situation, and involves feeling empowered to master the self and to actually break free emotionally from any binding chains. This is often referred to as the difference between the freedom from and the freedom to. We can be technically free, but the beast of oppression, abuse, trauma and toxicity can still hang around one’s neck in a most crippling fashion. The toxic person, the toxic substance, the situation might be gone; this does not signify the end of bondage. True, God must first release the people from their physical bondage, God must then release the people from the environment in which they were slaves. God must then show the people that there is no one looking over their shoulder, ready to snatch them back into slavery. Sometimes a splitting of the sea needs to happen in order to prove that safety exists outside of constraints. Only once these “Freedom Froms” are worked through can the Torah finally be given. The Sinatic moment of receiving Torah; this represents the freedom to create a new people with dynamic and active purpose moving forward. What is the Torah of recovery today? Does the person in recovery feel empowered to begin a new and meaningful life? How will the hostages who will be granted their freedom from bondage transition into freedom to create a life wherein they actually feel free to become?

With perhaps more questions than answers, let us be blessed on this Holy Shabbat to take the lead of God as trauma-informed therapist this week: to understand that redemption and recovery, whether from the biblical chains of slavery, or from any modern situation, is a complex and multi-layered process that is rife with ups and downs, with forward and backward steps. May we be blessed to know that freedom from is different from freedom to. May we do all we can, with the help of our God, to enable ourselves and others to break free from the shackles of unwellness, and to embrace the Torah of our lives…a vast and unending source of wisdom, joy, truth, health, and perhaps most importantly, holy purpose beyond the chains of trauma. Everyone can get there, so long as even a glimmer of hope still endures. God understands the process, so let us be patient and kind with ourselves and with one another as we move out of our Egypts toward our own Sinais and beyond.

Shabbat Shalom.

– Rabbi Josh Gray

I want to share two lines with you this evening, both from some very famous, but very different, sources: First, “I don’t want anything to happen to him while my mother’s alive.” 

This line comes to us from the 1974 Francis Ford Coppola film, The Godfather: Part II. This film, which is the second part of a trilogy, delves deeply into the violent organized crime world of the Corleone family. The line is uttered by the youngest son, Michael Corleone, played masterfully by one of my favorite actors, Al Pacino. Michael’s older brother Fredo, played by the late John Cazale, has betrayed Michael, and betrayed the family. He does this by going behind Michael’s back and making deals with family enemies. It’s unclear exactly what Fredo did, but we do know that his actions resulted in an attempt on Michael’s life while he was sleeping in his home. This all stemmed in some way from jealousy. The older brother, Fredo, was jealous of the power and attention given to the younger, Michael. Fredo, upon admitting his wrongdoing, famously cries out to his younger brother, “They said there was something in it for me, Mike!” Michael Corleone appears to eventually, albeit begrudgingly, forgive Fredo; but Pacino’s stony-hearted eyes tell a different story during a chilling hug. Michael proceeds to coldly tell his associates that line we mentioned: “I don’t want anything to happen to him while my mother’s alive.” Michael waits until their mother passes, and then he has his own brother killed. This is pretty ruthless and calculated behavior.

Now onto that second line to explore together: “Perhaps he will nurse hatred against us and he will surely repay us all the evil that we did him.” In this week’s Torah portion, Vayechi, Jacob passes away after 17 years in Egypt, and Joseph is still in a powerful position in Egypt. Joseph is the Michael Corleone of this message. We know that Joseph’s brothers had him thrown in a pit many years ago. Some wanted him dead, others wanted him sold. Nevertheless, they wanted him gone. They knew what they were doing, and of the life-threatening consequences their actions would have on their younger brother. Again, the root of this was jealousy. Joseph’s many brothers could be seen as the Fredo here. This awareness of harm is in contrast to Fredo, who, famously a bit naive, did not seem to truly realize the gravity of his actions. In a powerful position in Egypt, Joseph did what Michael Corleone appeared to do. He truly seemed to forgive the brothers. He told them that everything that had happened was part of God’s plan, and that he harbored no ill will toward them. All was forgiven, and it was time to put the past behind them. They were, after all, family. 

This is where the narratives become disparate from one another. Michael Corleone’s killing of his own brother based upon a grudge stemming from past jealousy and betrayal; this is exactly what Joseph’s brothers are worried about. Their fathers’ death, the death of Jacob, was Joseph’s chance to have his Michael Corleone moment, to punish his brothers for the pain they had caused him without causing their father any more heartache. When Joseph could take revenge, when he could easily have his Michael moment, he says, “Fear not, For am I instead of God?” He goes on to comfort them, and Torah says, “Vaydabeir al-libam-he spoke to their heart.” Joseph truly meant his forgiveness. It was genuine. Our great sage Rashi claims that Joseph realized that if the brothers, a large group of people, could not succeed in harming him, how could he, one person, succeed in harming them? He saw God at work. Joseph truly believed that all had happened for a holy reason and he forgave. 

It seems as if sibling rivalry and jealousy can mostly be boiled down to how the children were treated by their parents. Receiving different treatment from a parent, whether it’s objectively true or perceived, is likely the most consistent predictor of sibling rivalry and competition. It is glaringly clear that this goes well beyond the years of childhood. Doctor Megan Gilligan, an Iowa State University professor of human development and family studies, describes seeing sibling rivalry and jealousy across the lifespan. She writes about the fact that these feelings persist into folks who are in their 50s and 60s, and even following parental death. We can learn a lot about prevention from Jacob’s behavior and favoritism toward Joseph; but at some point the children become adults, and it’s time to take rivalry, jealousy, and impulse, and transform it into the intentional actions that come with a more developed brain…also a developed soul. Will these actions be holy or not? This is the challenge. We all face it in one way or another.

Joseph seems to master any impulse to do harm. He is able to act intentionally, and not bear a grudge. Some of our sages and Midrash describe how Joseph began to drift apart from his brothers after their father died. He stopped eating with them, and associated with them less and less. Perhaps Joseph did not feel as comfortable with his brothers after what they had done, but he certainly did not seek retribution. Great 19th century Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch comments on the fact that parents are generally the center of the family for siblings. When they pass, it is often the case that siblings drift apart. This happened with Joseph and his brothers. The brothers mistook this natural disconnection for something far more dangerous to their lives. They feared the Fredo treatment, and made this panic clear with their words about Joseph’s potential hatred and repayment for the harm that was caused him.

The death of Michael Corleone’s mother,  and Jacob’s death; they both bring up the fact that family systems are complex. Parents are not perfect, there is likely favoritism involved, and not everyone draws the same straw in life. Am I telling you that you should forgive people no matter what harm they do to you? Absolutely not. I am in no place to do so. We talk on the High Holy Days about the complexities of making Teshuvah, and there are many facets to that process. What I am here to tell you is that Michael Corleone and Joseph both teach us something this week. We are given a gift by God as we grow both physically, and hopefully, spiritually. We are given the choice. The choice of how we will react in a given situation. No one can take the choice away from us. It can be completely natural to feel like Michael Corleone when he pulls Fredo close to him, and lets him know “you broke my heart!” Joseph likely felt heartbroken by how he was treated as well. It is the choices we make in the wake of others’ choices that will define who we are and how close we can become to God. It is easy to be holy when others around us are acting holy. How do we respond when we are the lone light in a disarray of darkness?

May we all be blessed on this holy Shabbat to choose not as Michael Corleone, but as Joseph…to fully allow ourselves to feel the reality of jealousy, rivalry and hurt; but to take these very human emotions and use them for the good…to elevate ourselves. To prove to ourselves we are more than the impulse for revenge and reprisal. To consider that justice sought through violence might not be justice at all. Let us find God in moments of heartache and betrayal. If we can find holiness in hardship, imagine the incredible possibilities and pathways to God that await us every day. When we have power and we have opportunity, how will we use it? Joseph: God and forgiveness, or Michael: vengeance, violence and a holy void. The choice is always yours. 

Shabbat Shalom. 

– Rabbi Josh Gray

I was recently at a full-service gas station in St. James. I pulled up next to the pump, and out of the small building emerged a young man, maybe 20 years old- and he began pumping gas into my car. He was wearing a black hooded sweatshirt, it was early in the morning, rainy and slushy, and just bitter. He could have been miserable out there early in the wet and cold. I would not have blamed him. But, he did it for me this year. He gave me one of my feel-good moments of the season in such an unexpected way. More on that soon. Let’s start with where I began…many years ago as a school-aged child: “Do you speak Jewish?” “Are you Chanukah?” “Where is your funny hat?” These are just some of the questions that I had to field growing up as a Jew in a very non-Jewish community. I have actually heard that some of these questions have survived through at least another generation, with many of our own students fielding similar comments. To be fair, most children do not mean to be ignorant or insulting, and I would generally answer the questions with an educational bent. “It’s Hebrew, not Jewish. “I am Jewish. Not Chanukah, which is a minor festival.” The hat you are referring to is a yarmulke or a kippah. I don’t wear one all the time. Some Jews do. Etc. etc. etc. 

This time of the year, the Holiday season in the United States, brings up so many questions in terms of our place as Jews in broader society. What to do in a cultural milieu wherein we are not only in the minority, but also where antisemitism and Jewish hatred are at all-time highs? Chanukah contains within it the story of some very extreme Jews, who could be considered zealous. They opposed any form of assimilation into the popular Hellenistic culture, and even killed other Jews who did not fall in line. That aspect of the Chanukah history is generally left out of the version that we tell our children. But we can learn quite a lot from the story of Chanukah, and also this week’s Torah portion, Mikeitz, which brings up another assimilation narrarative. 

Joseph, a Hebrew, is brought out of Egyptian prison, interprets the dreams of Pharaoh, and given his skills of dream interpretation and economic prowess, is thrust into the role of Egypt’s second-in-command. Joseph is put into the clothes of Egyptians, he marries an Egyptian wife, and his sons are born in Egypt. Interestingly, Joseph gives his sons Hebrew names, Manasheh and Ephraim. These names have meaning. Manasseh means “G‑d made me forget all my hardships and my father’s home.” Ephraim means “G‑d made me fruitful in the land of my suffering.” Joseph, bathed in the garb and customs of Egypt, clearly has not forgotten where he has come from. He never forgets his father or his homeland, and he refers to Egypt as the land of his suffering. Perhaps he might also know that this land will become one of suffering for the entire people of Israel. 

Joseph, however, for any of his clinging onto Hebrew customs, must become comfortable in Egyptian culture. He must lead Egyptians, walk through Egyptian spaces, and hear the language of Egypt daily. He must raise Jewish sons there as well. How does one balance this? Are many of us similar to Joseph in this way? We can scarcely watch television or listen to the radio without the dominant Christmas holiday being very visible and audible. How hard do we push to get Chanukah songs into the school’s holiday concert? Do we really want to exert effort campaigning for more than the token Dreidel song? What is worth it? What is not? 

From my perspective here today; It is up to all of us collectively and individually to make sure that we can live in our communities comfortably, and also that we can keep Judaism…well…Jewish. I never hear of more Jewish identity crises than around this time of the year. We are told to protect our traditions with all of our hearts, souls and might. We know that the Maccabees fought to eradicate any semblance of Greek culture from their holy spaces. On the other hand, we are also taught that Joseph’s sons are born of a marriage of him, a Hebrew, and Asenath, an Egyptian. Our greatest prophet Moses married Zipporah, the daughter of a Midianite Priest. As we discussed last week, the line of King David came from a connection between an Israelite and a Canaanite-Judah and Tamar. Maybe Judaism is simply not a monolith…and trust me, there are many who disagree with that notion. 

Do I think Judaism is simply performing kind acts and being a good person- a mensch? No, not really. That would be fairly reductive. Judaism is something much more than that. Education about our people, our traditions, our sometimes neglected but oh-so-beautiful pathways to spirituality…that can lead us to find our own complex meaning in Judaism. I think we do have to know something before we can say yes or “no” to something.

Maybe we can see Judaism as the Chanukiyah. Maybe you have a tree in your home for Christmas- have a family of multiple traditions. Beautiful. But perhaps we need to put that nine-branched menorah in the window this year. We light the night with the flames of our Jewish spirits and symbols, as we are told to light the world with our mitzvot, to care for others, while also caring for our own customs and traditions. When we put the Chanukiyah in the window this year, we know that the light of the candles is glowing on a society wherein Judaism is not the most prominent religion or tradition. Some people outright do not like us. We shine our beautiful lights on the world anyway. We tell the world that this small group of people, this 0.2 percent of the world-This  approximately 15 million in a world of many billions, is not here not to hide, cower, or insulate–but to be an ohr l’goyim, a light unto the nations. Our seemingly small jar of spiritual oil is more than enough to give light to the entire world. No matter your faith, no matter your beliefs, no matter who you are…we have something to offer you. Yes, Egypt turned on Joseph and the Jews, the Syrian-Greeks turned on the Temple and the Jews, the Germans turned on European Jewry. The world sometimes turns its back on Medinat Yisrael, modern-day Israel. When the world turns its back on us, we still do not turn our backs on the world. We work to make our world holy–to bring heaven down to us.

Back to the hooded-sweatshirt guy at the gas station. I said it was a feel-good moment. He, standing in the elements, serving my needs, looked me in the eye through the car window, and he said to me: “Merry Christmas, man.” I was taken aback. Not because he wished me a “Merry Christmas.” He could have said anything, to be honest. It was his neshamah. He meant his words. He just wanted to be genuine. It was so clear. If I could replicate it, I would. I almost had a tear in my eye as I drove to Lindenhurst. His genuity expressed in a moment the possibility of oneness that exists in specificity. His light was his, but he warmed me with it.

We know the stories of our struggles and resilience. They resonate again this week with both Joseph’s and Chanukah’s story.. We continue to find our unique balance, and we never turn our back on our fellow humans, no matter the struggle. Why? Is it because we are chosen? Maybe. Maybe we are chosen to let the light in when darkness is on the brink of victory. 

So, Celebrate this year, and do it proudly. Gently educate ignorance. Put the Chanukiyah in the window. Eat sufganiyot and latkes. And then continue to celebrate. We are always here. We always will be. Also, know that the young man in the hooded sweatshirt exists. He might not celebrate your holiday. He might not say the perfect words, but he loves you as a human. We can keep who we are, and also love all whose company we keep. so to him, I also say, “Merry Christmas, Man.”

Chag Urim Sameach and Shabbat Shalom

– Rabbi Josh Gray

It was 11:03 PM, and I was still staring at chapter 38 of Genesis. I had spent hours poring over the text, looking through commentaries, even annoyingly nudging Meghan when Rashi or Rambam weren’t cutting it to get her opinion; all while she was trying to lesson-plan for the upcoming kindergarten week. I have to admit; I almost did it. I nearly gave in. I came “this close” to avoiding chapter 38, and choosing to bring up something with a simpler and more neatly-packaged message. I was determined however, to talk about it. Chapter 38 would make its way to Temple Isaiah this Friday night. Here we are. Heinenu!

This difficult-to-wrestle-with chapter occurs directly in the middle of the beautifully-packaged narrative of Joseph. Most of us know the story of Joseph’s dreams, his father’s favoritism, his brothers’ jealousy, and his eventual sale and enslavement in Egypt. We might be a bit less familiar with what happens in Torah directly after the sale of Joseph by his brothers. 

Chapter 38 of Genesis arrives to us. This tells us that as Joseph “went down” to Egypt, his brother, Judah, who had proposed selling Joseph, “descended” in his own way. Judah leaves the path of his family, of the eventual people of Israel. He has three children with Shua, a Canaanite, which is considered less than righteous. Eventually Judah’s oldest son Er is married to a woman named Tamar. Er is considered wicked by God, or does something displeasing, and dies. Er’s younger brother Onan is obligated through custom to marry Tamar. His children would carry on the name of his older brother. Onan, unhappy with the prospect of fathering children that would not be his own, spills his seed. This is unacceptable to God, and he is also killed. There is one very young son of Judah left; Shelah. Judah decides that marrying his only living son to Tamar is not a great idea based upon past experience, and he does her an unkindness. Instead of allowing her to become a true “widow,” he casts her into a state of flux, forcing her to live with her own father, childless, without a partner. Can we blame Judah for being cautious with his only living son? Isn’t he just being a protective parent? Meghan and I discussed:  “Clearly Tamar killed these husbands,” Meghan said confidently. “No. God did. It says so in the text.” Meghan replied “OK,” not at all convinced, and continued lesson-planning.

Chapter 38 gets even more complicated from there. Let’s just say that Tamar, sure of the fact that Judah will leave her in limbo forever, with face covered, meets Judah along the road, and procreates with him. Judah is none the wiser regarding who this woman was. Our text also makes it clear that Judah “takes her for a “zonah,” which is sometimes translated to mean prostitute, but it’s really more complicated than that. So, Judah assumes without question or concern, and acts. Tamar keeps his personal cord, seal and staff as “payment,” and Judah goes on his way. About 3 months later, when Judah finds out that Tamar is pregnant, he is completely furious, and demands that she be burnt. Having seemingly anticipated this reaction, Tamar presents Judah with his own cord, seal, and staff, proving that he is indeed, the father. Judah recognizes the error of his ways, and claims that Tamar is more righteous than he is.

Chapter 38 concludes with Tamar giving birth to twins. The younger son pushes forward, and Tamar says, “With what strength you asserted yourself!” This child is named Perez. Perez, we come to learn, is the first in the line of King David. The same king David from whom it is said the moshiach; the savior of the world will arrive. Without the confusion and chaos of chapter 38, we would have no King David, No King Solomon, no Holy Temple-builder. The list goes on and on.

So, what is the message here in chapter 38. What do we learn? Rabbi Aaron Leven brings up an interesting point. When discussing Tamar’s seeming trickery of Judah by veiling her face, Leven claims, “Tamar in fact wants to be seen! Not only does she speak to Judah directly, but she does so while standing at Petah Einaim “the entrance of Enaim,” a phrase that literally translates to “opening of the eyes.”  Is Judah so concerned with what Tamar must be doing wrong that he fails to open his own eyes, to see the glaring error of his own ways. Does he not even attempt to look at the world from Tamar’s perspective?

Judah does something remarkable in terms of Torah. He takes a deep breath that we can all learn from. He realizes that Tamar could have shamed him. She had the proof and the power, but she did not. She spared his spirit, and Judah lets her know that she is more righteous than he. 

Really, this seems to be a turning point for Judah, and we learn much more about his growth of character as Genesis plays out, and the story of Joseph unfolds. To go from proposing his own brother’s sale, to leaving the family and advocating for the burning death of his daughter-in-law, all the way to offering his own freedom for that of his brother’s; He is used often as an example of the ultimate penitent…the baal teshuva, the master of return…someone who has completely turned their life around, and returned to the path of holiness and God.  We do know that Judah has experienced all of Chapter 38, and he has become better for the struggle. I ask all of us tonight. We all have a chapter 38, and we can allow it to change us in a holy way. Sometimes, we might be Tamar, desperate to remain relevant, mistreated. Sometimes we are Judah; we act too quickly, we let rage control a moment. In a world so full of polar extremes, does Chapter 38 try to center us? Does it tell us to look at one another as human, and understand that the world is not a pristine package. There is gray!

Perhaps all of us have to meet as Judah and Tamar, at “Petah Einaim,” the entrance that can open our eyes. We have to deepen our compassionate curiosity when we are far too sure of our own perspectives. We must peek underneath the veil of our own assumptions. Chapter 38 is still a demanding section in that there are no clear answers. Can we see the righteousness in behaviors we do not immediately understand? Great American playwright Tennessee Williams said: “There are no ‘good’ or ‘bad’ people. Some are a little better or a little worse but all are activated more by misunderstanding than malice. A blindness to what is going on in each other’s hearts… Nobody sees anybody truly but all through the flaws of their own egos.” No one seems completely right or completely wrong. It’s messy, chaotic, and so rife for interpretation. While the Joseph story that surrounds it is a beautiful 4-week narrative that sets the stage for the Exodus saga, chapter 38 of Genesis is life. It is a struggle. It is confusing and multifaceted. It is writing and deleting entire paragraphs. It is keeping us up at night reconsidering and reformulating. It is missteps that seem devastating.  But through the furrowed brow, the contending, a new spark of God is brought into the world. Chapter 38 is birth in the face of death…a spark that eventually will lead to tikkun olam- the repairing of the world. Chapter 38 is beautiful bedlam…A taste of who we are as a people.

On this holy Shabbat, I urge you not to evade the chapter 38s of your own lives. Your difficult and even painful moments are just as welcome in this holy space as your lighthearted and exuberant times. Bring the tough stuff, too. The answers are not always clear, but when we share our efforts with one another, we can find so much meaning in the mysterious and the murky. From those deep waters of indecisiveness and uncertainty arise the most holy designs. we, Yehudim, Jews, are named For Judah. How appropriate. We are never too far gone to make our way back to the path of clarity and righteousness. We’re not perfect. We must simply open ourselves to eye-opening moments, and be receptive to becoming perfected by God. That can surely be enough. When it all feels too much, sometimes we must simply move forward. Time for Chapter 39.  

Shabbat Shalom

– Rabbi Josh Gray

We are all in the middle of a match.

Parsha Vayishlach is probably most famous for its description of Jacob’s wrestling match. While Jacob is alone, fearing for his family as his angry brother approaches, one of the most famous encounters in all of Torah takes place. Jacob wrestles with an “ish,” or a man until the break of dawn. Our prophet Hoshea later describes this “ish” as being an angel. Depending upon who you ask, this “ish” could have been Esau’s own guardian angel. Some say that this wrestling match took place between Jacob and God. We do know that this wrestling occurred over the course of an entire night, and did not cease until “Ha-Shachar-the break of dawn.” Just to give you an idea of how physically, emotionally, and spiritually draining this must have been: the average wrestling match today, in a sport with world-class and highly conditioned athletes, typically only lasts 6-9 minutes, and is spread into multiple periods. Psalm 121 tells us that God, the guardian of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps. This is a tough night-time opponent. 

I believe we all exist somewhere in the 6-9 minute range during our lifetimes. We are in the middle of the 6-9 minutes of a wrestling match. Some of us might feel as if we have the upper hand, and things are going well. We tend to love God more easily when life feels smooth. We have control of our perceived opponent. Some of us might feel moments away from both of our shoulder blades crashing flat to the mat and being pinned. Perhaps we have experienced a fresh loss, an illness, or some other hardship that inevitably ruffles our human feathers. We might be locked head to head, arms tangled, in a liminal space between victory and possible defeat. It seems that one of our most vulnerable moments during our lifelong tussle is when we must face the end of a match…the end of a loved one’s life.

As some or many of you know, I found myself in this vulnerable position in my wrestling match last week. I lost my incredible grandmother, Barbara, at the age of 93. I traveled upstate to the capital region for her funeral service and burial. This past Sunday morning, I entered a Temple that I had not been in since I was a young boy attending High Holy Day Services with my family, and with my grandmother. I remember always being unable to see the bimah, and feeling confused when I was young. It mostly felt crowded and overwhelming. It was a bit larger than life. All of those memories rushed back to me. This time, however, I was not the 11-year-old waiting for it all to be over, but the officiant at my own grandma’s funeral. Watching my brothers and cousins as pallbearers, standing in the shadow of her Aron, her casket, and also seeing my grandfather sitting anywhere besides directly next to my grandmother, the love of his life since teenagehood…it was a surreal feeling, and likely one that I still have not fully processed quite yet. I cleared my throat, stepped onto that bimah, and we went through the liturgy, the psalms, and some songs. Words and tears were shared. When the Temple service concluded, we proceeded to the burial where each shovel-full of earth was deafening in its finality. We honored this beautiful and pure soul as well as we possibly could, and then we gathered back at my grandmother and grandfather’s house; the same one my mother and aunts and uncles grew up in, and my cousins and I spent countless weekends and holidays creating connections and memories. Cousins and aunts and uncles I hadn’t seen in quite some time all hugged one another tighter than we had, maybe ever. Our family knew we had all lost a matriarch…a person who created the foundation of what I understand a family to be. One who lovingly supported all of us in a genuine and unique way. I mentioned in my remarks how difficult it was to put all of this into words because the love she nurtured through our lives was not always based on words. It was airborne.

Somewhere during all of this, I did as I do, and turned to Torah. This week, among the wrestling with God, we also lost Rachel, the love of Jacob’s life, as she was giving birth to Benjamin. She passed away and was buried along the road to Bethlehem. Her grave is still able to be visited to this very day. Rachel is buried where we can walk. She is the one Jewish matriarch who is not buried in Machpelah, a cave-out of sight. This is intentional. Why? In Yiddish, Rachel is often lovingly referred to as “Momma Rochel.”  Our tradition tells us that Rachel is watching over her children who are spread out all over the world. Maybe Rachel is lovingly supervising all of her children’s wrestling matches. She is rooting for us, and her memory lives to this day. My grandmother and Rachel were intertwined this past week, and I will always remember how they connected to one another during their times of departure from this earth. I like to think that my grandmother is also a guide along the road. She is cheering for us, as Rachel is. I was vulnerable this week, but never pinned-held sturdy by the loving arms of remembrance and of Torah.

Most in this room have likely been faced with the death of a loved one. Sometimes Olam-haba, the world to come, in our tradition can feel a bit nebulous. We focus so much on life that when death does come, we can sometimes feel as if we haven’t given it much attention. What I do know is that Judaism and I agree on this notion: the soul is not the body. The body will eventually disintegrate and become no more. The soul moves on to what comes next. If this is the case, what are we left with here on this earthly plane of formation? We, who are so tethered to the tangible-we crave what we can see, hear, feel, touch. As I looked at my family gathered together at my grandparent’s house, I flashed back to memories of growing up, to feelings, smells, and tastes; all of love and camaraderie. I truly felt that my grandmother was there. She was there, and not even in a “she’s looking down from Gan EDEN or Olam Haba,” type of way. I mean that she will always be here, because we are here. The 38 souls who descend from her are just the beginning of who she is and will become. 

I learned a lot last weekend, and it was a difficult part of my life’s wrestling match. Eventually, in Torah, Jacob overtakes the ish, demands a blessing, and limps away with a hip injury, explaining the kashrut prohibition against eating the sinew and sciatic nerve of the animal. Only after Jacob’s demand for this blessing is his name changed from “Jacob” to “Israel,” with the latter meaning to wrestle or contend with God. We might limp away from some of the painful experiences in our lives, but I know we are truly blessed to be alive to share in them. 

Jacob is us. Israel is who we are, but perhaps more whom we continue to strive to be. The match is not over. We are in the 6-9 minutes. We will eventually walk away from the match, maybe with a limp. But as Jacob turned-Israel learned when he finally met his estranged brother Esau with affection…once you have struggled so honestly, so openly, so completely with God, the earthly moments can become a bit more full and fruitful.

Let us all be blessed on this Holy Shabbat to remember to keep one foot in the ring, feel the love of a “Momma Rochel” in our own lives, and maybe to see Torah as our respite between rounds, and even during the madness of the match. As we navigate the space between Jacob and Israel, we balance our relationship and struggles with God. Our doubts, our pain, our grief, even our moments of pure joy and bliss, these all allow us to share life with one another more thoroughly and absolutely. Let us all embrace our wrestling matches, breathe deeply, and consistently demand our blessings. We can receive them once we are open to the fact that if we wrestle with God, we can also reach out for our perceived opponent, and be lifted up. As I experienced this weekend, If we give over a bit of ourselves to fully feel and be present, even the struggles can allow us moments with our departed loved ones, and in those times of wind, breath and ruach, we can allow ourselves to feel the warmest embrace…beyond the physical, beyond the tangible…into the arms of our Momma Rochel, my Grandma Barbara, Your loved ones, and ultimately, God, who brings us all together as one. Wrestling or embracing? With God, it can be beautifully hard to tell the difference.

Shabbat Shalom.

– Rabbi Josh Gray

This week’s Torah portion is called “Chayei Sarah,” or “The life of Sarah.” The strange thing about this title is that the portion begins with the death of Sarah at the age of 127 years old. We then hear of her husband Abraham’s purchase of a burial plot in the cave of Machpelah. Later, we hear of Abraham’s own death and burial next to his beloved. There is some strange phrasing at the beginning of this portion. We start with: “Sarah’s lifetime was one hundred years, twenty years, and seven years, the years of Sarah’s life.” Our great sage Rashi explains that Sarah’s life could be divided into unique and distinct phases, each meaningful and righteous; explaining the odd wording. Our text then goes on to simply say, “Sh’nei Chayei Sarah-The Years of Sarah’s life.” 

So, we find ourselves at a parsha explaining the death of Sarah, but named for her life. Why? The late great Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel once wrote in a collection of essays: “Just to be is a blessing. Just to live is holy.” Perhaps in Judaism, we are defined by our life, and not by our death. The ripples of the life that we live on this physical plane far exceed the transitional moment of death that we inevitably experience. When we go out into the social hall after the service this evening, the first thing that we do is say the kiddush. We hold up our cups of wine or juice, and we cheerfully exclaim what so many Jews around the world have exclaimed for generations. We do not say “cheers,” as many English speakers. Not “salud” as Spanish-speakers, “Skol,” a common Swedish phrase used in Scandinavian countries, or the French “a votre sante,” Salud means “health,” Skol, means “bowl,” and “a votre sante” is another wish for good health. In Hebrew, we as Jews say L’CHAIM…not just to health, but to LIFE. Judaism is a religion obsessed with the idea of living. 

We are sometimes known for our murky explanations regarding what happens “after you die,” which can be a bit troubling to some people looking for comfort. While there do exist ideas about life after death, Chayei Sarah teaches us that it is life that counts. That a life well-lived is never truly over. Sarah’s legacy continues into this very day, this very moment. I utter her name and she lives in this space with us. Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk, or the Kotzker Rebbe, spoke of a rabbi’s duty: “There are rebbes who are so great that they can revive the dead. But reviving the dead is G‑d’s business. A rebbe needs to be able to revive the living.” With that in mind, let’s look at the utter miracle of your existence–your life, in some grand terms. This really struck me this week when reading an article in Forbes that explained the almost absurd nature of our chances of existing. In order for you to exist, a myriad of events were required to occur, and they are all highly unlikely. The particular sperm cell and egg cell needed to combine to create you with the DNA sequence that encoded you, and brought you into existence; a one-in-250 million chance for a sperm cell alone. After you were formed, You needed to be born successfully. That sequence needed to happen over and over time as an intact chain for myriad of generations of your forebears. Of course, other events needed to occur as well: life needed to exist here on Earth, Earth needed to form as a planet with suitable conditions for life out of the ashes of many dead stars, the laws of physics needed to be such that they permitted life, and the Universe itself must have existed or unfolded in a manner that would make this all come together. The odds of you existing as you are, are about 1 in 400 quadrillion. That is a 4 followed by 17 zeros. Things get even more complicated from there. The odds of us all being here together at the same time…essentially zero. The fact that we have time here at all is a blessing as Heschel reminded us, and we have a chance for legacy. 

Speaking of legacy, later in our parsha, when Abraham passes away at the age of 175 years, we read that he “died at a good old age, mature and content, and he was gathered to his people.” This is the same Abraham who was told by God that he would be the father of many nations, that his offspring would be as numerous as the stars in the sky. Abraham did not physically live to see all of this happen, and many say that the promise made by God to Abraham has still not truly come to pass. How did he die so content with so much undone? He knew that he had set the groundwork for what was to come.

We are directly in the wake of some very troubling antisemitic incidents, both internationally, and in our own country. I talked briefly about the attacks on Jewish Israelis in Amsterdam after a soccer match. Supporters of Israeli squad Maccabi Tel Aviv were actually hunted down and beaten in the streets for being Jewish. A man was seen running from an angry mob yelling, “I’m not Jewish!” before he was caught and assaulted. Last week I read in the news of a production of the play “The Diary of Anne Frank,” which was being put on in Livingston County, Michigan. People carrying Nazi flags were demonstrating outside of the theater, intimidating patrons. Two competing Neo-Nazi groups marched with flags bearing swastikas in Columbus Ohio…in broad daylight. These scenes looked like they could have been pulled out of a book of photography from 1930’s Germany. 

Sarah and Abraham teach us that no matter what the world is throwing our way, or the anxiety of the moment, we must continue to live. We must continue not only to live, but to ensure that our legacy is being passed down from generation-to-generation. The ancient Hittites, the Hivvites, Perizzites, Jebusites, Canaanites and others have come and gone, but we, the Israelites, have continued to find a way to overcome against so many infinitesimal odds; much of that is due to our steadfast protection of our traditions, but I also attribute it to our love for life; to our focus on improving the moment as opposed to living primarily for what comes after. We say Shehecheyanu so many times throughout our year just to thank God for making us alive, for keeping us that way, and giving us the privilege of the moment. Perhaps the moment is our life, and when the final breath does leave our body, we simply transition from potential to kinetic legacy. 

Chayei Sarah teaches us that Sarah’s death was but a moment. It is her life that continues to impact us…isn’t that impact what being alive is all about? So, let us all be blessed on this Holy Shabbat to continue to lift our glasses and say “L’Chaim,” and when we do, let us feel the breath, the ruach of God flow through us, and know that when breath leaves our body, whether it be our first, our last, or any in between, it is holy, and it is purpose. It is wind, soul and ruach. It is God.

Shabbat Shalom.

– Rabbi Josh Gray

This week, we are introduced to parsha Vayeira, which contains the deeply troubling account of the Akeidah, or the Binding of Isaac. We read this section of Torah on Rosh Hashanah, and it is commonly a difficult bit of text to wrestle with for so many people. The idea of Abraham, our first patriarch, so willing to sacrifice his own son, is disturbing to most modern sensibilities. How do we reconcile this biblical account with anything close to a modern moral and ethical explanation? 

Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, of Blessed Memory, takes an interesting angle on the binding of Isaac. He says: “The Binding of Isaac is a polemic against, and a rejection of, the principle of patria potestas, the idea universal to all pagan cultures that children are the property of their parents.” We know that many ancient cultures engaged quite readily in the sacrifice of children. Whether to the pagan gods Baal or Molech, the Torah’s idea of NOT sacrificing a child was actually progressive. As opposed to a commentary on Abraham’s blind faith in God’s word, perhaps the Akeidah was the attention-grabber needed to make a strong statement against the this disturbing sacrificial practice. As Abraham is ready to lower his blade, he is stopped by God. God is saying that this child belongs to me, and does not belong to you. This child is not your property. 

It is true that this scene in Torah can seem disturbing and wrought with antiquated ways of thinking. I ask us today, on this Holy Shabbat: Has our society actually stopped sacrificing our children? Is this story really so absurd? The CDC tells us that 1 in 4 girls, and 1 in 13 boys in the United States are victims of child abuse. In Europe, the council of Europe estimates that 1 in 5 children are the victims of sexual violence. The World Health Organization tells us that globally, 1 billion children experience sexual violence. 1 billion children in a world of 8 billion total people .Of those in prison in the US, 14% of men and 36% of women experienced abuse as children. These are just the numbers that have been reported. Research tells us that Child abuse crosses all socioeconomic and educational levels, religions, and ethnic and cultural groups. Child abuse does not discriminate based on any apparent characteristics. 

So, with these numbers in mind, I ask again. Has society truly stopped sacrificing children? The answer seems to be “no.” While the conversation is not pleasant, isn’t it necessary? Children, whom we are told to teach carefully in our v’ahavtah, whom we are told to pass down our story in the Pesach haggadah, whom we are told should come into this world singing “Elohai neshamah shenatata bi t’hora hi- O God the soul that you have placed within me is PURE….these children are so often sacrificed. Their physical, emotional, psychological and spiritual well-being is sacrificed…sacrificed too often by those who rule over them. I often remark upon the fifth commandment of our decalogue…the commandment to honor one’s mother and father. I see the parents as a connection between the first set of commandments, which comment on the relationship between human beings and God, and the final set of commandments, which comment on the relationship between human beings and human beings. In the middle is the bridge between the two worlds: the parent, the adult, the grown-up. When we are children, those who rear us are like God. They are powerful. We are at the mercy of their decision-making. They can bring us din or rachamim, judgment or mercy. 

When Abraham is called out to by God in our Torah Portion, “AVRAHAM, AVRAHAM!” he responds with our well-known, “Hineini!-Here I am!” He put down his knife and realized in that moment that no child is ours to sacrifice. We must protect our children from those who wish to play God with their tender souls. Whether the catalyst that causes the abuse of a child is the narcissistic injury of a failed relationship, the inability to emotionally regulate when feeling stressed, the cycle of having been the victim of abuse oneself, or for a sundry of other reasons…we must name it to tame it. We must cry out as God did and say “this is not acceptable.” 

You can help. Research on trauma tells us that if a child has even one of what is often referred to as an SSNR (safe, stable, nurturing relationship) with one adult in their life, this can combat the trauma of abuse and neglect in a profound way. We, as Jews and as people of conscience, morals, and character, have a responsibility. In a world where children are too often sacrificed for the selfish needs and baggage of others, we can stand up and say something if we see something, support prevention education programs, parenting skills classes, and promote upstream prevention approaches. Most importantly, we must speak out. 

Directly after Abraham listens to the voice of God and does not hurt his son, we are told that he will be blessed and that his offspring will be greatly increased…his legacy will go on for generations. Let our legacy live on as a healthy inheritance of love, and not become tainted and torn with the temptations of temper, trauma and cyclical abuse. We are an ohr l’hoyim, a light unto the nations. First, let us be an “ohr l’yeledim-a light unto the children.

Shabbat Shalom. 

– Rabbi Josh Gray