Shabbat Zachor 2018/5778: The Parkland, FL Tragedy - How do we remember?

In an old favorite World War 2 movie, actor Eric Stoltz, playing a crewman on a B-17 bomber out of England, reads a poem to his crew-mates as they wait to go up on a mission – I’d like to share just the end of the poem:

I balanced all

Brought all to mind

The years to come seemed a waste of breath

A waste of breath the years behind

In balance with this life

This death

In this poem, an Irish fighter pilot reflects on his fate.

As the poem ends with these words, there is a deep and lasting silence.

It is the same deep and lasting silence of Aaron after God strikes down his 2 sons Nadav & Avihu – Vayidom Aharon, and Aaron was silent.

And it is the same silence, as we continue to reflect and remember, and amidst a flurry of advocacy and lobbying, that surrounds Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Florida, and Sandy Hook elementary school in Newtown, Connecticut. 

What is the best way to remember?

This Shabbat, Shabbat Zachor – the Shabbat of Memory – asks us this question.

We always read the Maftir reading from the 2^nd Torah on the Shabbat just before Purim.   It is the story of how Amalek, marauders in the wilderness, attack the Isarelites, ambushing the weakest of us first.  Haman from the Purim story….wait, I said Haaayman!...is a descendant of Agag, a latter day King of Amalek.  The attack they launch against our ancestors foreshadows Haman’s planned massacre of the Jews during the days of the Persian empire.

Our maftir reading begins, telling us Remember what Amalek did to you in the wilderness, but then toward the end God instructs us to obliterate the memory of Amalek from under heaven.

These two statements contradict.

And then the final two words are lo tish’kach, do not forget.

How can we eliminate the memory of Amalek but remember what happened at the same time?

Could somehow choose to forget the name while remembering the incident? 

The mind does not work that way – our minds keep everything together.

In Florida, they will tear down building 12 and put up a memorial in its place.  In Connecticut, the new Sandy Hook school opened in 2016 after the prior building was demolished.

In Europe, they preserve the concentration camps as places to witness and learn. 

The teaching of Shabbat Zachor is that we may want to rid the world of places that carry horrible memories, but if we do that in every case – we risk also losing a place of witness, a place that makes us uncomfortable so that we remember whether we want to or not.

We tend to forget easily when we’re not compelled to remember.

That’s what God is concerned about since we will be settled comfortably in the Promised Land, and then the sense of urgency will be gone. 

If only that were the case today.

And so we need to keep alive the sense of urgency.

Especially on this Shabbat as we get ready to celebrate Purim, that remembers a time when Esther stepped in to prevent the violence from happening, and we sing, and we’re silly, we need to continue to re-light the fires of awareness and empathy with the families of Parkland, Florida, Newtown, and all the other places where violence stained otherwise happy places of learning, socializing, and more.

God says, remember what Amalek did to you on your journey, asher k’archa ba’derech, I’d like to thank Art Werschulz for sharing this midrash earlier this week that is especially appropriate today – what happened to you, kar’cha – our Sages in this word heard the word kor, meaning cold, that Amalek took away our excitement and spirit and replaced it with coldness, with doubt and fear.  The Rabbis compare this to one who has a very hot bath set up, so hot that no one even wants to get in, and a nudnik comes along and jumps in, and even though he gets burned, he’s made the water cool enough for others to jump in.

According to Rashi, Amalek did the same thing – they “cooled us down” as it were, made us vulnerable.

And if we are feeling vulnerable, or feeling our kids are vulnerable, then we need to join together in unity, faith, and mutual support so that when a moment of deep and lasting silence comes again, God forbid, we can rise again, rebuild, strengthen ourselves and others, and know we are not alone.

Beshalach 2018/5778: How do we leave Egypt?

You may have heard this story, it may be a true story, that Chaim was lost in the desert, desperately searching for water.  He came upon a lone building, which turned out to be a store.  He asked the owner, ‘Please, I need water, help me, I’m dying of thirst!’  The owner responded, ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you, as you can see, I only sell men’s ties.  No water here. But there is an inn about 40 miles away.  Go there and they can help you.

The next day, late in the afternoon, the store owner saw Chaim dragging himself toward the shop.  ‘I see you came back’, the owner said.  Chaim responded, ‘Yes, I came back, they wouldn’t let me in without a tie.’

Our dress, our body language, our words, all combine to set the tone for us when we step forward into the world.

What tone, what message do our ancestors send to the world when they cross the Reed Sea to freedom as we will read today?

We think about this question today on Shabbat Shirah, the Shabbat we celebrate crossing the Sea and finally going free from Egypt. 

Today, January 27, is also International Holocaust Remembrance day – a day the United Nations established to remember the 6 million.  January 27 is the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau. 

And so today we also remember the day the last prisoners were set free from the camp, the gate opened, like the parting of the water for our ancestors.  As we remember the few who survived, we honor the memories of all those who did not, the same way many Israelites died in Egypt before they could witness liberation.

How do our ancestors leave Egypt?

One story, the Passover story we tell every spring, describes the way we leave at night, packing our things be’chi’pazon, quickly, in haste, so that we leave before Pharaoh may change his mind – again.

The other story is the one we read today:

וַיְחַזֵּ֣ק יְהֹוָ֗ה אֶת־לֵ֤ב פַּרְעֹה֙ מֶ֣לֶךְ מִצְרַ֔יִם וַיִּרְדֹּ֕ף אַחֲרֵ֖י בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל וּבְנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל יֹצְאִ֖ים בְּיָ֥ד רָמָֽה׃ 

The LORD stiffened the heart of Pharaoh king of Egypt, and he gave chase to the Israelites. As the Israelites were departing defiantly,

We leave ‘beyad ramah’, with a ‘high-hand’, translated here as ‘defiantly’, perhaps in comparison to the first leaving, the night time escape.  Here we are, in broad daylight, former slaves walking with heads held high, even as Pharaoh’s chariots approach.

But there is a spectrum of perspective on these two words and what they mean about how we present ourselves in that moment.

Rashi suggests we are daring, bold, to walk ahead in this way.

Ibn Ezra suggests we are moving slowly, confidently, not in the way of people who are trying to escape unnoticed.  Just the opposite, there’s something brewing here that Pharaoh himself will need to witness.

Chizkuni explains we’re leaving ‘totally confident’, with no worries about anything but the journey ahead.

Rabbi Yakov Tzvi Mecklenburg (Haktav v’Hakabalah) emphasizes we are singing on our way out, not preparing for war – we’ve finally found that our faith in God gives us confidence and hope.

The Rashbam cautions us, that our confidence, rejoicing and hope are short-lived.  We leave beyad ramah only until the people notice the Egyptians approaching, and then, the mood changes.

The Chasidic master, the Bal Shem Tov, once said, you can try to run away from your problems, but you will turn around and see your problems following right behind you.

I try to imagine the happiness, the uplift of walking out free into the wilderness and the utter fear of seeing the six-hundred chariots, symbols of Pharaoh’s power, his best soldiers.

But perhaps it is not only Pharaoh who’s coming after the Israelites – the chariots represent the power of Egypt that’s ruled over them for generations, and, try as they might to appear defiant, confident, and joyful, there is a recognition that you can take the Israelite out of Egypt, but it’s going to be much harder to take Egypt out of each Israelite.

They are in a moment of transition, vulnerable and exposed, and so I imagine their expressions to be neutral, more upright than when they were carrying bricks, but uncertain of the future now, of what their lives will be like, uncertain of what God will ask of them.

This moment is similar to a moment in the great film Chariots of Fire about Jewish athelete and gold medal winning sprinter Harold Abrahams.  After he wins the gold, his teammate comes right up to him, full of energy, in the locker room to congratulate him, but Abrahams is solemn and quiet.  The achievement is sinking in, he’s all of a sudden got to think about what will happen next.

We’ve all been in transitions moments like our ancestors experience at the sea.  When we might expect to be yad ramah, standing up tall, but we’re feeling in-between – who are we in this moment?  Have we changed?  Are we ready to face the next challenge or has the previous one drained us? 

Today, Shabbat Shirah, is a day to internalize the song of the sea, to make our ancestors’ celebrations a reminder that their joy is ours, their hope is ours, but also their reality check is ours too – the Rabbis themselves recognized the truth of this reality-check, when the Egyptians are drowning under the waves, the angels want to sing praises to God, the Redeemer, but God rebukes them saying, ‘How can you sing when my creatures are dying.’(Megillah 10b, Sanhedrin 39a) 

But still we sing – and walk forward into the wilderness, together, supporting each other, giving each other strength.

The Power of the Exodus

The word Exodus is a powerful one. 

When we hear it, some of us may think of the boat called the Exodus that sailed in July of 1947 with over 4,500 Jews from France toward the Holy Land.  The British detained the ship in Haifa and sent everyone back to Europe.

When we hear it, others of us might think of Exodus, the legendary Bob Marley album and song that were released 40 years ago.

When we hear it, it is likely most of us think of the Israelites in Egypt who leave with God’s help to start a new life first in the wilderness and then later in Canaan, the Holy Land.

This part of Sefer Shemot, the Book of Exodus, the part that describes these events, occupies less than half of the entire Book, 15 chapters, but these chapters are so central to who we are, to how we think of our history, our values, our mission, and our future.

Scholar Richard Eliot Friedman, in his new book on the subject, proposes that there was a historical Exodus – I haven’t finished reading it yet, so I cannot share the details, but he does argue that Jews left Egypt, perhaps not exactly the way described in the Torah but still, there was an Exodus.

He argues it is important and meaningful to know that there is historical validity to an Exodus story, but I would argue the opposite.  It is interesting and exciting to find information, archaeological and otherwise, that corroborates the Bible, its stories and characters. 

But such discoveries do not, and cannot, replace the faith we put in the way stories like the Exodus shape us regardless of whether there is no fact to them, a kernel of fact, or whether the Exodus events happened exactly as narrated.

Truth emet is the Hebrew word for it, truth is not descriptive, it’s prescriptive.  Encyclopedia Judaica explains truth is an ethical idea of what ‘ought to be’.

And so we ought to think of ourselves as going free from Egypt whether our ancestors actually did, or not. 

This is where Professor Neil Gillman, may his memory be a blessing, was so influential.  He re-taught us the meaning of the word ‘myth’.  A myth is not a fairy tale, but a way of organizing and telling a meaningful story about who we are, what we believe, what we do and why.

Now, a counter-argument here is worth bringing forward.  Clearly, there are many in our world whose myths lead to destructive decisions and behavior.  Hamas and ISIS terrorists have myths that inform their beliefs and actions.  Repressive governments, dictators, and corrupt political systems also benefit from narratives they create to legitimize their existence and behaviors.

The power of the Exodus story for us is that it pushes us, pushes humanity, in a direction of dignity and power, but not power over, rather power to, power and inspiration to liberate others, to be as humble as Moses, to recognize that life is a holy and precious gift, to value and cherish freedom as a blessing beyond any material good. 

We will find these lessons in our Torah reading today, as we see Moses approach the sneh, the shrub that is burning without being consumed. 

The humble desert shrub in front of Mount Sinai burns with God’s Presence because it’s important for us to know that God is present everywhere, not only in exalted, gold-trimmed palaces and Temples.

Mount Sinai itself is not the highest or grandest mountain in the range.  We don’t even know which one is the so-called ‘real’ Sinai.

The Zohar teaches us that we, the people of Israel, are similar to the shrub – the fires burn all around us, fires of oppression, prejudice, and conflict surround us but we ourselves are, as it were, come out somehow in the end as a people with new resolve.

It’s also important for us to remember, as it says in the Passover Haggadah, that we are still leaving Egypt.  The Exodus is not a one time phenomenon of history but an ongoing effort.  Egypt represents all the things that tie us down, hold us back, and burden us, and we recognize this year, as we’ve turned into the New Year, that Israel is still under threat, anti-Semitism has not disappeared, in fact, in some ways has grown stronger, and there are still many in our world waiting for their Exodus, from slavery, from human trafficking, from sexual harassment, from hunger and homelessness and more.

The historicity, the possible historical factual Exodus, is irrelevant to our responsibility to these people.  For them, slavery, or overwhelming life circumstances and their aftermath, is still very real and freedom still a dream.

May our reading from Sefer Shemot, the Book of Exodus, help us rededicate our thoughts energies toward empowering and freeing others so that they may experience the joy and renewal of going me’avdut le’cherut, from slavery to freedom, sadness to joyfulness, and restriction to forward movement and progress toward dignity.

Parshat Vayishlach - A Small-Enormous Miracle: Chanukah and Death of the Nursemaid

What is the miracle of Chanukah, our next holiday starting in less than 2 weeks?

The Rabbis in the Talmud speak of the miracle of the oil.  They explain that the Jewish people discovered the small amount of pure oil not in a random clay jar but in the chotamo shel Kohen ha’Gadol, in the signet ring of the High Priest. 

The ring of the High Priest, a reminder of the time before Antiochus and the Syran-Greek occupation of the Holy Land, a symbol of purity, a symbol of light and the loving interaction of human beings in God in a holy place at holy moments.  There is a wistful side to this description as the Jewish people walk through the Temple, after the Greeks had defiled it and turned it into a pagan sanctuary, we can imagine the people remembering back to holidays there before the war and hoping to clean up and begin the journey toward renewal.

This small supply of pure oil makes a huge impact on Jewish history.  In this small treasure, a treasure that would be insignificant next to the vast amounts of oil needed to keep the menorah burning daily, there is memory and there is hope, there is sadness and there is strength.

We find the same cauldron of feelings in our parsha for this week, Parshat Vayishlach, in a moment that breaks the flow of action, that according to the Ramban stands out and interrupts the story of Jacob at a place beloved by us here, at Beth El, Bet-El the House of God.

The Torah explains:

וַתָּ֤מָת דְּבֹרָה֙ מֵינֶ֣קֶת רִבְקָ֔ה וַתִּקָּבֵ֛ר מִתַּ֥חַת לְבֵֽית־אֵ֖ל תַּ֣חַת הָֽאַלּ֑וֹן וַיִּקְרָ֥א שְׁמ֖וֹ אַלּ֥וֹן בָּכֽוּת׃ (פ) 

Deborah, Rebekah’s nurse, died, and was buried under the oak below Bethel; so it was named Allon-bacuth.

A woman named Devorah, a nursemaid whose name we only learn now at the end of her life, passes away and there is reason for tears, Allon-Bachut means the oak of weeping. 

Just as the small supply of oil was otherwise overlooked, so too was this special person in the life of our mother Rebekah, but now we realize in a moving and silent moment just how special she was.  More than just a servant, she was part of the family, like the oil, a reminder of the past, of growing up, and like the oil, the tree under which she’s buried points to the future, the Jewish people, offspring of Jacob, settling and building up the Land of Jacob, the Land of Israel.

Tonight, inspired by the loving tribute to Devorah, I would like us to lift up the memories of people in our lives who touched our lives in some small but meaningful way.  Like Devorah, they were not family, but we think of them as family, as part of our life, the large circle that surrounds us.  If those whom you’re thinking about now are gone, say a prayer for them as we remind ourselves of how they impacted our lives.  If they are still with us, consider the story of Devorah, nursemaid to Rebekah, an inspiration to reconnect, to tell them how meaningful was their influence and how it helped each of us to become the people who we are today. 

The Torah does not name Noah’s wife nor does it name the mother of King David (Nitzevet, Talmud) – but the Torah does tell us the name of Devorah, and that our ancestors mourned her like family. 

The Rabbis remember a small amount of oil in a ring that represented what was lost and what could be restored. 

The influence of both Devorah and the oil remind us of all those people who invested in us, loved us and cared about us even in a small way that now, through the reverse lens, made all the difference in the world.