Parshat Hashavua: September 3/4 2010
September 2, 2010
Rabbi Allison RH Conyer
Emanuel School, Sydney, NSW, Australia
Less than a week to go until we welcome the new year and commence our communal reflection regarding the year which has passed. And so we come, once again, to Parshat Nitzavim-Vayelech – this extraordinary passage which transcends time. Its message, so profound and compelling, has been chosen by the Progressive Movement to re-read on Yom Kippur as a replacement for the traditional Torah reading. So, where is this mystic found? Why has its message captivated us for generations? And what is it saying to us today?
There are 4 main parts to this double parsha, which, carefully weaved together, provide an answer to these questions.
First, the parsha begins with a fascinating concept that the covenant between God and the Jewish people was both sealed and continuous, entered into and concluded on “that day”, as it says:
“You are standing here today, all of you, before Adonai your God, your tribal heads, your elders, and your officials, every man of Israel, your children, your wives, and your sojourner who is in the midst of your camp… to enter into the Covenant of Adonai your God, which Adonai is concluding with you this day, with its sanctions, so that God may establish you this day as God’s people and be your God as promised to your fathers, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Not with you alone do I seal this covenant and this oath but with each one who is here standing with us this day before Adonai our God and with each one who is not here with us this day.” (Deuteronomy 29: 9-11, 13-14)
In this passage, the ripple of the past, present, and future, all co-existing, created a timeless, yet everlasting moment which formed who we, the Jewish people, were to become and who we are today. Just as one whose parents have died can still hear the voice of their parental wisdom, comfort, and rebuke throughout their lives, so too can we hear the message of Torah speaking to us throughout our lives. The bond that was made so long ago remains and is strengthened, or weakened, through our life’s choices.
Second, the text comforts and encourages us to take control of our lives, our decisions, reminding us that change is not out of our reach (“not in the heavens”). We must not sit idly by waiting for a miracle, waiting for G-d or the leaders in our community to initiate change. We not only have the ability to bring about change, but the obligation, as it says:
“This command which I charge you today is not too wondrous for you nor is it distant. It is not in the heavens, to say, ‘Who will go up for us to the heavens and take it for us and let us hear it, that we may do it?’…But the word is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to do it.” (Deuteronomy 30: 11-12, 14)
Third, we are reminded of the consequences of our actions.
“…I call heaven and earth to witness against you this day; I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse – Choose life, that you and your offspring would live… (Deut. 30:19).”
For each choice we make, the repercussions occur on two levels: the spiritual and the physical (the heavens and the earth). The environment and humanity are affected by even the small choices we make: recycling, saving water, or leaving the heater on all day, influencing the future quality of life for the next generation. Similarly, the choices we make to nurture our spiritual selves affect our general well-being. This, in turn, affects how we interact with others and model for the next generation.
Finally, as we enter the second parsha, Vayelech, Moses acknowledges his fate and informs the people that Joshua will lead them into the Promised Land instead. He advises the people not to fear the battles that lay ahead, but rather, he says:
“Be strong and resolute; be not in fear or in dread of them, for Adonai your God marches with you. God will not fail you or forsake you…Moses wrote down this Teaching and gave it to the priests… who carried it the ark of Adonai’s covenant, and to the elders of Israel (Deut. 31:6, 9).”
No one lives forever. Life throws at us many challenges. Some, we will overcome, while others will knock us down. Face them bravely and confidently and support will be there for us. This is our teaching, the timeless message of our tradition: We are part of a people who made a pact a long time ago to consciously and pro-actively choose our actions to improve ourselves and our world.
During the coming Yamim Noraim, how can we internalise and actualise this powerful message? How can we find the balance between being honestly critical and compassionately realistic of ourselves? How can we simultaneously merit the deeds of our ancestors, set an example for the future generations, and be fully present with all our choices?
“The Torah, which began in the nameless, unknowable past,
ends in the limitless present and future.” - Everett Fox, introduction to Deuteronomy in The Five Books of Moses
Parshat Hashavua: August 27/18 2010
September 2, 2010
Rabbi Fred Morgan
Senior Rabbi, Temple Beth Israel, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia
As I write this, it is the day after Election Day in Australia. I expect that members of the Jewish community have voted for candidates and parties right across the board. But one thing that many of us seem to agree on is that this has been a lackluster campaign. The major parties have failed to fire the electorate with their vision or insight. There’s little inspiration or imagination, no feeling that we’re moving into a new era, entering a new dawn.
What a contrast with both the Torah and haftarah readings this week. We are just two weeks off Rosh Hashana and the Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe. Both the Torah portion Ki Tavo and the prophetic reading, the sixth “haftarah of Consolation” following Tisha B’Av, express with brilliant images the possibilities that present themselves to the people Israel in the future.
The Torah portion opens with a vision of life in abundance once the Jewish people settle in the land of promise. It describes how the farmers will bring baskets of first fruits to the Temple in Jerusalem. There, they will recite verses that celebrate our history as a people and, in just a few words, trace our journey from an uncertain and often traumatic past into a future filled with goodness and prosperity in a “land flowing with milk and honey.” They acknowledge that what they have to enjoy and consume is ultimately a gift from God. This is followed by a second formulaic passage which the farmer recites when he sets aside tzedaka for those without independent means to sustain themselves: priest, stranger, fatherless and widow. He declares that he has acted properly and asks God as a result to bless the people who dwell “in the land flowing with milk and honey.”
I find these passages truly inspirational. The first passage is still recited today. It forms the core of the Pesach Haggadah that we read at the seder. It opens, “My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with small numbers and sojourned there; and there he became a great and mighty nation….” Out of this obscure and tentative beginning arises an extraordinary story, the tale of the Jewish people’s urge to survive and flourish in a land that is tiny and insignificant, yet “flowing with milk and honey.” It is that last phrase that echoes in our consciousness as a people. Somehow it translates into our concern to imagine the whole world flowing with milk and honey. It gives us our messianic vision.
This phrase recurs in the second formula, which is devoted to tzedaka and care for the needy. It links the vision of “a land flowing with milk and honey” to a strategy by which we can set about to create that world through acts of giving and caring. That, too, is inspirational. It means that we are not locked into the situation in which we currently find ourselves, a world that is far from being prosperous and equitable for all. It teaches us that it is possible to change the world in which we live. There is hope even when things appear at their darkest. This formula suggests that, by putting in the effort to create a fairer world through deeds of generosity and justice, we can transcend our immediate situation and renew our lives and the lives of others who are touched by our goodness.
These two passages from the Torah, filled with celebration and vitality, vision and hope, are reinforced by the haftarah from Isaiah: “Arise, give forth light, for your light goes forth; the glory of the Eternal shines forth upon you!” Light is the dominant image in this haftarah. It is light that transforms the dreariness of the everyday into something shining and alive. It chases away the darkness of dispute. It replaces the lackluster and dull with “victory” and “renown” (verse 18), goals that are worth striving for. What could be more invigorating in the aftermath of the Australian election than this promise: “I shall appoint Shalom as your government and Tzedaka as your officials” (verse 17)? The continual references to light in the haftarah convey the sense of our “lightness of being”, the ability to open ourselves up to new possibilities. They relieve the heaviness that we feel when we believe that change is impossible, that the future can only be more of the same. On the contrary, every reference to light in the haftarah suggests that the potential for change is real and liberating. Listening carefully to Isaiah, we can pick out as a refrain the expression lo od, “no longer”: “no longer shall violence be heard in your land… no longer shall you rely on the sun for light… no longer shall your sun set” (verses 18, 19, 20). Isaiah imagines a different future when things are lo od, “no longer” the way they are but rather the way they might be. We, too, can imagine a future when shalom and tzedaka are valued by all, and when every land is “flowing with milk and honey.” These images inspire us and give us our vision as Jews and citizens.
Questions for the Shabbat table:
How are you preparing for Rosh Hashana this year? Both in practical terms (food shopping, buying new clothes, cleaning the silverware and so forth), and spiritually (reviewing your actions over the past year, reading about the High Holydays, listening to the shofar, going over the prayers, humming the melodies, reflecting on your life’s direction and so forth)?
Examining yourself honestly and sincerely, do you believe that change is possible, or do you believe that people basically cannot change?
How does your belief affect the way you live your life?
If you had been elected to Parliament on Election Day, what would your vision for the country be, and how would you go about inspiring others to see things as you do?
Parshat Hashavua: August 20/21 2010
September 2, 2010
Drash on Parshat Ki Teitze
Rabbi Gary Robuck
North Shore Temple Emanuel, Chatswood, NSW, Australia
This week’s Torah portion, Ki Tetze, presents a variety of laws intended to strengthen family life. The portion also sets out guidelines for the establishment of a civil society in Eretz Yisrael. Yet at the end of the parsha, after having read about the proper treatment of women captured at the time of war, the authority of parents over their children and the obligation to return lost property; after having covered topics like the kindness one must show to animals, the honest business practices we must observe and the consideration due to strangers, widows and orphans, we are told, inexplicably, that we must “remember Amalek”.
Who was this Amalek and what did he do? According to the Torah in Sefer Shemot chapter 17 and in our sidra, as B’nei Yisrael came forth out of Egypt, Amalek tried to “cut down the stragglers in the rear of the column, the famished and the weary”. It says in the Torah as well: “Lo Yareh Elokim - Amalek did not fear God and had no fear of sin, of crime, or punishment”. For these reasons, the Amalekites are to be forever remembered ignominiously.
Why is so much bile reserved for the Amalekite? Rabbi Yitzchak Hutner explains: (The) Amalek is a “leitz” - a person who mocks and ridicules everything in life. Amalek takes the respect we are meant to have for the elderly and throws it to the ground. He takes the compassion which we must show to the infirm and those needier than ourselves and mocks it.
An interesting commentary based upon the Hebrew word Korcha, at the beginning of verse 18 in chapter 25 of Devarim, relates the word to kar - meaning cold. According to one ancient authority, “the Israelites leaving Egypt on the way to Sinai had been confident and enthusiastic. The real sin of Amalek, was that he robbed them of this idealism, teaching them that the world was a cold, unreliable and dangerous place.”
Elsewhere and in addition, there is this colourful midrash: “Just as nobody would dare jump into a pot of boiling water out of fear that they would be scalded to death, so too the Jews were seemingly invincible after their miraculous exodus, when the nations of the world reacted to them with fear and awe. No-one would dare attack the people who had God on their side - except Amalek. Once they did attack, and even though they lost, they managed to cool off the hot water so that other nations and individuals could also jump in without fear of being burned.”
Today, the Amalekite continues to threaten the descendants of those who first made their way from Egypt. Regrettably Amalek, notwithstanding our historical vigilance, is not yet vanquished. Amalek continues to mix a vile concoction of bias, bigotry and anti-Semitism, continues to strike indiscriminately at the children of Abraham and Sarah - in Israel and in Diaspora.
Our maftir this morning says: “Lo tishkach – Do not forget”. Some truths seem inescapable: we must continue to remember Amalek for some time yet, until all people can live together in peace and tolerance, until such time as all abhor the Amalekite and successfully resist his message of bloodshed and hate.
Parshat Hashavua: August 13/14 2010
September 2, 2010
Rabbi Stanton Zamek
The United Jewish Congregation of Hong Kong
Our parasha this week presents us with a murder mystery. The very last law of the long catalog of halachot in parashat Shoftim specifies what must be done if the body of an unidentified murder victim is found in an uninhabited place. The Torah requires a very elaborate ritual in such cases:
If, in the land that the LORD your God is assigning you to possess, someone slain is found lying in the open, the identity of the slayer not being known, your elders and magistrates shall go out and measure the distances from the corpse to the nearby towns. The elders of the town nearest to the corpse shall then take a heifer which has never been worked, which has never pulled in a yoke; and the elders of that town shall bring the heifer down to an everflowing wadi, which is not tilled or sown. There, in the wadi, they shall break the heifer’s neck. The priests, sons of Levi, shall come forward; for the LORD your God has chosen them to minister to Him and to pronounce blessing in the name of the LORD, and every lawsuit and case of assault is subject to their ruling. Then all the elders of the town nearest to the corpse shall wash their hands over the heifer whose neck was broken in the wadi. And they shall make this declaration: “Our hands did not shed this blood, nor did our eyes see it done. Absolve, O LORD, Your people Israel whom You redeemed, and do not let guilt for the blood of the innocent remain among Your people Israel.” And they will be absolved of bloodguilt. Thus you will remove from your midst guilt for the blood of the innocent, for you will be doing what is right in the sight of the LORD.
This odd ritual raised many questions in the minds of the Rabbis and later commentators. What is the purpose of this procedure? Why do the elders, who presumably were not party to the crime, declare “Our hands did not shed this blood?” Why do “the people” as a whole need to be absolved for a crime committed by just one of their number?
According to Maimonides, the principal function of the ceremony is to make the crime widely known. The dramatic eglah arufah (broken-necked heifer) ritual was meant to attract attention and stimulate public conversation about the crime. The rite was a sort of “Eretz Yisrael’s Most Wanted” program, the aim of which was to elicit information leading to the capture of the murderer.
Maimonides’ explanation is plausible concerning the ritual in general, but it does not explain the specific declaration made by the elders, which for many commentators is the most puzzling aspect of the rite. The Rabbis of the Babylonian Talmud crystallize this central problem of the text when they ask: “But can it enter our minds that the elders of the court of justice are shedders of blood?” Clearly the elders’ declaration cannot be meant literally. The Rabbis teach that the ritual formula should be read as an assertion that “The man found dead did not come to us for help and we dismissed him without supplying him with food, we did not see him and let him go without an escort.”
The death of a stranger outside of town would be easy to dismiss as a matter of little importance and quickly forgotten. The Rabbis, however, will not allow us to look away. In their view, the ritual is meant to raise uncomfortable questions. Did this happen because we failed in our duty to welcome the stranger? Was this someone who perished because we viewed him as undeserving of our care and concern? The practice is meant to reinforce the idea that no one is to be left to his or her fate. Closing our hearts to our fellow human beings makes us allies of those who victimize the weak.
While this ritual was abolished in the 1st century, the underlying principle remains relevant. The Torah takes a much wider view of what is “our business” than is natural for most of us. We are not permitted to draw circles of concern tightly around our friends and family, or even around our own community, however we may define it. The Torah demands wide-angled compassion for this reason: placing a person outside our moral field of vision is potentially a death sentence.
Living in an interconnected world as bearers of a tradition that views all people as children of God, we cannot truthfully claim “our hands did not shed this blood, nor did our eyes see it done.” We know. We see. The world teems with those left to wander in a wilderness of neglect and want. We do not need to break a heifer’s neck to know that all the world’s hurt is our concern
Parshat Hashavua: August 6/7 2010
August 6, 2010
“Entering Elul”
Reflections for Shabbat Re’eh
Rabbi Sheryl Nosan-Blank
Temple David, Perth Australia
“Ani L’Dodi V’Dodi Li - I Am My Beloved’s and My Beloved is Mine” (Song of Songs):
No, it’s not quite spring, still love is in the air, according to our ancient Rabbis. We’re taught that the very name of our new Jewish month of Elul is a timely reminder of the Holy One’s love for us. Our sages creatively link the sound of this month’s name “Elul” with the dominant letters of the Hebrew phrase from the biblical Song of Songs “Ani L’Dodi V‘Dodi Li (the rabbis conveniently substitute the “v” for a “u” since both sounds can have the same meaning - “and”). By linking “Elul” and “A-L-U-L” the rabbis teach us that this month proceeding Rosh Hashanah is a time during which we can connect lovingly, mutually, and intensely, with G-d.
Through the Elul-ALUL connection, our sages provide a creative corrective for the trepidation which may come with the sincere soul searching proscribed for this period. If we use Elul to take stock of ourselves and our choices since last Rosh Hashanah, we may feel awkward, embarrassed, regretful , fearful or guilty as we anticipate the Holy Days. We’ve all made significant mistakes in the past year; how will we authentically return to synagogue and turn back to the prayers and promises of the past? If we’ve turned away from our tradition and it’s Source, how can we turn back and how could we possibly be accepted?
“Relax,” the sages say, “use Elul to remember ALUL: We’re G-d’s beloved, turn your focus from fear to love. Turn from yesterday’s regrets to tomorrow’s potential. Turn…return.”
The rabbis reassure us that G-d is waiting for our return, as a beloved awaits a precious one. But it is up to the precious one to take the first step towards the waiting lover. Before being embraced by the beloved, each precious one of us must be able to be the “I” of “I am my Beloved’s.”
Because our Chassidic teachers understood how daunting it can be to turn - even towards the things we long for - they offer a story of return which goes something like this:
There once was a King who loved his precious children. But as they grew, the prince and princess tired of life in the palace. They began to make mischief, cause havoc, and finally run away from the castle. Still, the King loved them. Days, weeks and months passed and the children came to miss their familiar home, their friends in the palace and the King. The King learned of their plight and sent a letter to them, welcoming them to return to the castle. “We’ve gone so far off” the prince and princess wrote back, “we can’t return, the distance is too great.” The Loving King sent a message back to his children: “Precious ones, it doesn’t matter how far you’ve gone. Just begin by taking the first step towards me …you’ll see I’ll come towards you and meet you in the middle.”
During this month of Elul, may our awareness of ALUL help us on the journey of return. May we have the courage and commitment to engage in the sincere soul searching which brings us back to our best selves. As we strive to turn towards G-d, may we find ourselves enveloped and nurtured by the Sustaining Source of all Being. In partnership with our Beloved and our beloveds, may we work to make this a year one of blessings and sweetness in our world. L’Shanah tovah!
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