To Be a Goy Kadosh (extra post for Yisro)

One of the most powerful and beautiful injunctions in the Torah is the commandment to the Jewish people to be a goy kadosh, a holy nation. With such weight put to this singular role, it is surprising to look, analyze, and assess the transformation of the word goy from a general term for a nation to a word that our children are indoctrinated to immediately associate with others, with outsiders, with people who are lesser.

This Dvar Torah was actually started months ago, when a child, not my own, made a derogatory comment about goyim and was unable to accept or process the fact that the term goy, in its pure, original meaning, could be used for the Jewish people just as much as for the rest of the world. I apologize now for those who will find my language demanding or hashkafically challenged. This is truly me sharing from my heart.

In teaching our children to disparage, to hate or disdain, "the goyim," we are doing terrible damage to ourselves. Hashem literally instructs us, just before giving us His greatest gift, to “be a mamlechas cohanim and a goy kadosh.” Hashem is appointing us an incredible opportunity! We are a nation chosen to be able to connect with the divine and to represent Hashem’s greatness in the world. Why does this need to be done at the expense of others?

When we build ourselves up only by putting others down, we are actually making ourselves so much smaller. Of course, we have a necessity to keep ourselves separate, to secure the neshamos of our children and the precious gift of the Torah that is our inheritance. Without question we do not want our children emulating the outside world - but when you tell them how lowly the goyim are and then they meet fine, upstanding people, what does this say about our own perception of others who are also Betzelem Elokim... and then we wonder why children won't behave properly for their non-Jewish teachers! Certainly, we have been forewarned that the other nations will persecute us, but they are persecuting us at God’s will for our aveiros, so their persecution - when it is real and not simply perceived - is not an excuse to hold our heads higher and speak ill of them, but rather it is a means for us to check our egos and realign ourselves with our mission.

When we look at the world, we have to stop seeing and thinking in terms of us versus them, that's not the world Hashem wanted us to build. He gave us the Torah so that we have the power of creating a society with us leading them, showing them the way to being ovdei Hashem.

When we read Parshas Yisro we look at the amazing words of the Aserest Hadibros, and we see the foundation steps to building a moral civilization. That’s not a civilization just for us, but Hashem’s goal for all of the world. Let us strive to live up to our roles in the greater world by focusing on our beauty, our grandeur, and our responsibility, and the rest of the world as the creations of Hashem whom we need to inspire.

Parshas Beshalach: Miracles in the Mundane

Song is both the product of inspiration and a means by which one inspires others. We glorify songs because of how they make us feel, because they are built of language and sound that moves our soul. This duality of being both the product and the cause of inspiration is a fascinating aspect of the shira we refer to as As Yashir that is recorded in Chapter 15 of Shemos.

Az Yashir is the song that Moshe and Bnei Yisrael sang after their salvation at the Yam Suf (the Sea of Reeds). One can only imagine the adrenaline that fueled the emotions of the Israelites as they turned back and saw not only that behind them was a large body of water even though they themselves were totally dry, but that on the far side from where they had come Pharaoh lay wasted among his destroyed cavalries. The night had truly been one of miracles; and yet, it is interesting to note, the shiraseems to begin with the seemingly least miraculous aspect of the night – horse and rider thrown into the sea.

In celebrating the miraculousness of their survival, one might expect the Israelites to have immediately lauded the sea splitting beneath their feet or even its crashing back down upon their pursuers, but horse and rider thrown into the sea seems the most mundane part of the miraculous night. Of course, it was the last step in the destruction of the Egyptian kingdom, once the most powerful nation in the world, but the water of the sea creating walls with paths of dry land still seems to overshadow it.

Perhaps, however, the seemingly supernatural miracle was just too much for Bnei Yisrael to process. Also, of all the happenings of the night, seeing the destruction of the cavalry was the final act, and so remained that which was foremost in their minds.

Az Yashir, is also a song for the future. Based on the unique grammar of the words “Az yashir Moshe u’vnei Yisrael…Ashira la’Hashem – Then Moshe and the Children of Israel will sing…I shall sing.” It is understood that the shira is also a song that will be sung in the future. If that is the case, what might we be able to learn from this verse praising Hashem for hurling horse and rider into the sea? This question might even be strengthened by the fact that we no longer live in an era of cavalry, so even imaging a cataclysmic was – God forbid – we don’t imagine horses and riders. Therefore, we must find in this a different understanding.

Moshe’s shira started with the most immediate miracle, even if it was the most mundane, because the gratitude and the amazement would be universal, it was so fresh and so powerful in their memories. The actual splitting of the Sea was awesome – and thus perhaps too overwhelming for some people to process. By starting with the miracle that followed the dictates of nature (horses and armed riders in the middle of a sea have little chance of survival – disregarding how they got into that sea), Moshe was leading the greatest whole of the people with him to be inspired. Thus he declared and they repeated: I will sing to the Lord, for He has triumphed gloriously; Horse and rider He has hurled into the sea. The Lord is my strength and might; He is become my deliverance. This is my God and I will enshrine Him; The God of my father, and I will exalt Him.”

Past or future, supernatural or mundane, God is in everything and it is our job, as individuals and as a nation, to see the miracles in the mundane and to praise their true source.

Parshas Bo: History and the Future

 Anyone who pays attention to the weekly Torah portions will tell you that the overall text of the Torah is a mosaic of recorded history, genealogical records, and the giving of the law. What many may not have noticed was when the transition from history tome to guidebook begins and the lesson one can learn from it.

This week’s parsha, Parshas Bo, famously contains the first commandment given to the entire Jewish people – the commandment of Rosh Chodesh. As significant as that commandment was – in its historic place, in the important weight Rosh Chodesh plays in Jewish life – it is a surprisingly brief commandment. It is one simple pasuk: “This month shall be for you the beginning of the months, it shall be for you the first of the months of the year” (Shemos 12:1).

Looking at the commandment of Rosh Chodesh, particularly in contrast to the next verses which delineate the time frame of the taking of the lamb and the slaughtering of that lamb for the night that would become Pesach, it might seem that the purpose of telling them that this shall be the counting of a new month is only to mark time for the upcoming mitzvot and miracles. For the Israelites in Mitzrayim, however, this was perhaps a more wonderous command. The mitzvah of Rosh Chodesh given at this time was not simply about setting up a calendar. It was a foundation for envisioning a future. Not an easy thing to do coming out of slavery.

The next set of verses are very specific commandments for the moment, for the time of leaving Mitzrayim. These are the commandments to buy the lamb, to examine it, to slaughter it and mark the lintels with its blood, etc. But they are followed by a long set of verses that discuss the first commandment of a holiday, of a day on which no work shall be done, when one’s leavening has been taken from one’s house, and when there is a week-long celebration. The Israelites had not yet even made their matza. They believed freedom was coming, but they were still slaves. Why are these instructions here, especially as they are repeated later several times?

The fact is that these commandments are not wholey part of the law book of Torah but part of the history book. These verses are a recording of the words Hashem gave Moshe to inspire the Israelites to hope. Take the lamb, follow these special instructions, and know that in time to come your children will commemorate your actions with this festival following these laws. The revelation of the mitzvot of Chag Hamatzot is of similar value as the revelation of the mitzvah of Rosh Chodesh. They are declarations of the future, reassurances that there is purpose to their actions.

The narrative then continues with Makkos Bachuros, death of the firstborn, and Pharaoh and the Egyptian people finally telling the Israelites to leave. After that night, after those who held forth in faith, are evicted from Mitzrayim, finally set free, their travails are far from over. But following the same fashion of providing eternal laws as an assurance of the future, Hashem adds further rules to who may or may not eat from future Pesach offerings. These rules, which apply to alienated people, slaves, sojourners, hired labour, and prostelytes (12:43-48), make little sense when told to the just freed Israelites who have barely gotten themselves out of Mitzrayim and can certainly not think of how they will bring the Pascal offering on this same night the next year. Realistically, Hashem should have given these details the next year, at the approach of their second Pesach, but here again Hashem is giving them a sense of hope for the future… someday you will have people dwelling amongst you who can’t eat the Pesach lamb, and someday you will have people who are not from your family but whom you shall embrace as if they have always been of Bnei Yisrael.

Perek 12 concludes: “It happened on that very day; Hashem took the Children of Israel out of the land of Egypt, in their legions” (12:51). This is a statement of narrative conclusion, and indeed, the next section begins with a series of commandments that close out the Parsha. The transition is over. From here on out, the “storyline” of the Torah is woven between segments of law and the details of the Mishkan.

The significance of this transition is one each person must determine for themselves. However, one might say that the fact that the beginning of the Torah’s law book begins as part of the narrative is a poignant reminder that Bnei Yisrael is not a people simply because we share a common history but because our laws, our Torah, is our constant reassurance of our future.

No Monolithic Evil (Parshas Va'era)

 In a recent conversation, I was asked how I could possibly affiliate with a particular political party. While I understood where the question was coming from, my honest response, was that I was more __x__ than __y__, and I couldn’t – wouldn’t – be dishonest about that. But distinctions are a hard thing in society. It often leads to an assumption that one group must be ascendant over the other(s). Once an attitude of  “us versus them” forms, people begin to assume a belief (or at least the sentiment) that the them is bad or evil. It is interesting to notice, therefore, that much of this week’s Torah reading, Parshas Va’era, involves a very “black and white” type of group-building. And from this we can learn both the reasons that this can be necessary, and, at the same time, why such extreme thinking can blinding.

 

The dynamic of us-them is the heart of the story of the Exodus. The Egyptians enslaved the Israelites and set them into a life of oppression partially because they feared this small group who refused to give up their unique identity. When Moshe came to Egypt with the Divine assignment of freeing Bnei Yisrael, he had to enforce a clear distinction, which Hashem made clear through exactly who was affected by the makkos (plagues). When Pharaoh seems not to be understanding how much his obstinacy is hurting his people, Hashem even instructs Moshe to spell it out for him: “I will make a [deliberate] distinction between my people and your people” (Shemos 8:19).

 

Sometimes “us versus them” is necessary. This statement alone, under the mores of modern society, is probably making some people grow uncomfortable. When we speak about Moshe and the Exodus from Egypt we are talking about another age, about a time when Hashem, the Creator of the Universe and Ultimate Judge, showed clear signs to distinguish between nations. This is why the Torah could include a commandment to wipe out Amaleck, but our sages can tell later generations that we no longer have the ability to recognize, with certainty, who Amaleck is. Even a hint of bringing such dire judgement into one’s conversations today is uncomfortable because we have all been carefully trained on how to not judge others.  Most people I know have, at one time or another, uttered a statement of their being opposed to labelling others. This is, of course, a good thing because almost no individual fits into a perfect box of definitions and many labels come with unfair judgements of good or bad.

 

While we speak of this value of not judging to our friends and neighbors, each of us has to think how we as individuals and we as different communities are actually handling the fact that society is full of interwoven groups and types. Sadly, too often the message is given that such distinctions mean WE are good and THEY are bad.  Really, however, such broad terms hide the truth. Bnei Yisrael may be the Chosen Nation, but each individual member of the Jewish people is unique, and it is their independent actions that determine if they are good or bad. And just as this is so for our people, it is so for all other nations.

 

 

Hashem guided Moshe in his speech and in his actions as he set the makkos upon the Egyptian people. We must learn something different from Parshas Va’era. It would be easy to take a broad brush and state that all the MItzri,the Egyptians, were evil, and many have done so. The Mitzri, however, were also a nation of individuals. They had an exceedingly evil leader, yes. They had necromancers and advisors who encouraged evil, yes. But they also had an entire population of people who were not stuck in one box. The proof of this is even in Shemos 9, on the eve of the plague of hail, the Torah states: “Whoever among the servants of Pharaoh feared Hashem’s word brought their slaves and livestock indoors to safety; but those who did not fear Hashem left their slaves and livestock in the fields” (9:20-21).

 

The Mitzrim were not one giant mass of evil-minded people set on destroying Bnei Yisrael. Some chose to believe in and fear Hashem. Others, those referred to in 9:21, chose deliberately – the commentaries tell us – to ignore the Divine warning. And, I would image, there were a whole lot of Mitzrim who fell somewhere in-between.

 

“Us Versus Them,” broad definitions of the characters of other groupings, and, at the same time, a general fear of labelling true evil, are all issues that our societies are dealing with today. When we stop and look at Parshas Va’era, perhaps we can be reminded that most groups are not monolithic. True evil does, sadly, exist in this world, but (as far as I know) none of us have the Divine guidance that Moshe was given when he stood before Pharaoh. Our jobs are to look to ourselves and make certain that in every situation we can fall into the people of Shemos 9:20, they who feared Hashem’s word, and guide our actions thusly.

And Moshe Said (Parshas Shemos)

There are few more common words in the Torah then “Vayomer Moshe; And Moshe said.” It isn’t a phrase that stands out, and it is rarely a set of words that draws commentary. This is why, perhaps, there did not seem to be much written about Shemos 3:3’s beginning: “And Moshe said: ‘I must turn aside to look…’”

To understand why one might look for commentary on Vayomer Moshe, it is important to know the verses that come beforehand, or else one might think Moshe is in the middle of a dialogue with someone (which would make the question moot): “Now Moshe was shepherding the sheep of Yisro his father-in-law, the priest of Midian, and he drove the flock into the wilderness, and he came to Horeb, the Mountain of God. An angel of the Lord appeared to him in a blazing fire out of a bush. He gazed, and there was a bush all aflame, yet the bush was not consumed. And Moshe said, ‘I must turn aside to look at this marvelous sight; why doesn’t the bush burn up?’”

So who is Moshe talking to? He is alone on a mountain with a bunch of sheep. And we know he is alone because the Midrash famously explains that one of the reasons Moshe was chosen for leadership was that he went up onto this mountain chasing after a stray lamb, going out of his way to ensure the safety of the entire flock. So once again, to whom was he so politely explaining his decision to go look at the strange burning bush?

One could, perhaps, jump back to verse 3:2 and point to the presence of another sentient being. It clearly states that the angel of the Lord appeared to him. And yet, it seems, Moshe did not see this angel. Just because the angel appeared, just because the angel made itself visible, does not mean that it was seen. This is supported by the second half of verse 3:2, when the Torah appears to be narrating Moshe noticing and processing that there is a bush that was burning without being consumed.

This brings us back to the original question. Why isn’t verse 3:3 written in a more removed style? It might, perhaps, have made more sense had the verse been written: And Moshe turned to look at this great sight and wondered why the bush did not burn. Perhaps in this question we discover the true significance of the miracle at the sneh, the burning bush, that here we see how Moshe’s balance of neshama and goof, of spiritual and physical, was unique.

When Moshe says “I must turn aside to look…,” he is talking to himself. His intellect, the part of his brain tied to olam hazeh, is seeing a bush that refuses to burn. His neshama, his soul, is seeing the angel of Hashem. Moshe’s declaration of intent is, perhaps, a transcription of him going through the process of the neshama leading the goof (the spirit over the body). “And Moshe said…” Moshe’s spiritual side was actively guiding his physical self. It is perhaps telling that there is an etnachta, a trope that infers punctuation, at the end of the phrase “And I will go and see this great thing.” This etnachta separates the two sentences that are within the same verse: “Why doesn’t the bush burn up?” Perhaps the etnachta break is a means of indicating that the great thing was not the burning bush, but the angel of the Lord. Moshe’s brain could not yet process this, so he believed he was turning aside to look at the bush that did not burn, the miracle in the physical realm.

It is a well understood fact that the situation at the sneh was a major moment in Jewish history. It is the moment when Moshe accepted (begrudgingly) the job of redeeming the Jewish people. But perhaps the truly significant moment was when Moshe allowed his spiritual self to speak to his physical self, when he talked to himself so that his overpowering force of goof would find its own reason to wish to turn aside.

Conjecture such as this is, most interestingly, supported by the fourth verse of the perek: “And when Hashem saw that he had turned aside to look, Hashem called to him…” (3:4). When Hashem had confirmation that Moshe’s neshama could empower his goof, He immediately called out to him.

Moshe was the greatest prophet of all time. His ruchnias was able to actively redirect his gashmius, and therefore he was able to communicate with Hashem as no other could. And while most of us know that we are far from this madrega, this level, everything in Torah is recorded for us to strive toward. The angel appeared, Moshe gazed at the bush, and then Moshe went to examine it. There are times in each of our lives when we encounter something inexplicable – something even as mundane as a coincidence, as hashgacha pratis – and we gaze at it, but we fail to see what it actually is. The introduction of the burning bush is, perhaps, a subtle reminder for us to remember to stop an examine such events and find their true spiritual meaning.

Yoseph and Yaakov (Vayechi #3)

 In Jewish tradition, the age of 70 is considered to be “the age of wisdom,” the age at which one deserves to be treated with extra honor for having had so many years to learn and to grow (spiritually). In Jewish tradition there is also a mitzvah to give honor to our elders, to those who have attained the age of wisdom, as it says: “You shall rise before a venerable person and you shall respect the elderly, and you shall fear your God. I am the Lord” (Vayikra 19:32). This is not our parsha this week, but the fulfillment of this mitzvah - along with the mitzvah of Kibbud Av, honoring one’s father - is beautifully displayed by the actions and speech of Yoseph in Parshas Vayichi.

At the beginning of the parsha, the Torah informs us that Yaakov was “147 years old. And the days of Israel’s death drew near…” (47:28) – He was twice 70 and then some, but this was in an era when average lifespans were far longer than in our own epoch. Shortly thereafter, Yoseph is told that his father had grown ill, and Yoseph immediately goes to see him, making certain to bring his two sons along. Remember that at this time Yoseph was still the Viceroy of Egypt. While the harsh famine years that had brought Yaakov and his sons to Mitzrayim were now over, Yoseph was now responsible for administrating the nationalized municipality that he had created by making almost all of Egypt into one vast landholding. Busy as he was, when Yoseph heard that his father was ill, he came immediately.

What follows next is a strange sequence of verses, perhaps meant to be subtly indicative of Yaakov’s age and a wandering mind. Yaakov tells Yoseph about the Divine blessing he received and declares that he wishes Ephraim and Menashe, Yoseph’s sons, to be tribes equal to Reuven and Shimon (48:5). Three verses later, in 48:8, it is written: “And Israel saw the sons of Yoseph, and said ‘Who are these?” It is a strange question since he was just discussing these very people. Most significantly, Yoseph does not react as if his father might have a wandering mind, but replies with a straight and direct answer.

Bereishis 48 on the whole is strikingly human; it is incredibly real in its emotional sub-text. This is especially true of the fascinating verses that describe Yaakov very carefully, very specifically, placing his hands on the boys’ heads and Yoseph’s reaction. “Yoseph saw that his father had his right hand on the head of Ephraim [the younger], and it seemed wrong to him, and he supported his father’s hand to remove it from Ephraim’s head onto Menashe’s head. And Yoseph said to his father, ‘Not so, my father, for this one is the first born, lay your right-hand upon his head. ‘” (48:17-18).

Avi, “my father,” is one small world that completely changes the tone of this verse. It adds compassion. It adds respect. It adds relationship. And so we learn how even as Yoseph corrected his father, he did so with love and with respect. (And is immediately informed by Yaakov that he knows precisely what he is doing.)

In the 21st century, attaining the age of 70 is blessedly common as modern medicine has allowed us to increase our average lifespan. At the same time, we live in an age when we often reside far apart from our families, and our lifestyles are often defined by how busy we are. Here, however, we are powerfully reminded to slow down and treat our beloved seniors with dignity, with patience, and with respect.

What the Bread Means (Vayigash #3)

One would not think that there would be a great deal to say about a simple line like "Yoseph sustained his father and brothers and all his father's household with bread, down to the little ones" (Bereishis 47:12). It comes as the conclusion to the description of the incredible welcome Yaakov and his family received in Mitzrayim. After a personal greeting from Paraoh and the permitted settlement of the choicest land in the country, it should not even be particularly informative that Yoseph provided bread - sustenance - to his family. And yet it was worth noting in the Torah.

Most commentators understand this verse as a description of how - scantily or with largesse - Yoseph supported his family. Some commentators, such as Chizkuni and Sforno, read "down to the little ones" as a statement of economic frugality, of only as much as was needed. Sforno states that this phrase infers that "even though Yoseph was in a position to allocate generous rations to the members of his family, he did not show them any preference and treated them on the basis of need, each family according to the number of souls."

Other commentators, however, believe that the phrase "down to the little ones" tells quite a different story. The Radak cites Pesachim 10 saying: "It is in the nature of children to break food up into crumbs and to leave them all over the place. There is a well known proverb which states that children are responsible for the decay of food." Siftei Chachamim, elaborating on the same theme, explains that Yoseph "provided more than they really needed."

This would be an easy verse to take lightly and just note how it is an interesting means of understanding Yoseph and the family's situation at the time … if it were not for the stark contrast of 47:12 and 47:13: "Yoseph sustained his father and his brothers and all his father's household with bread, down to the little ones. And there was no bread in all the land, for the famine was very severe." Suddenly, one has to wonder at the juxtaposition. There is no bread in all the land, but Yoseph is feeding every member of his family bread. Not to imply that he should be skipping members of the family, but even if he were economical and giving just enough to comfortably sustain every member of the family, it sounds like that is still more than most people had at the time.

So what? You might ask. Yoseph is the viceroy. It is only natural that he gets to take care of his family a little better. Certainly Paraoh's family wasn't starving. And, indeed, we do not see the people begrudging Yoseph or his family. Indeed, through the rest of the parsha they are praising him as bringing their salvation from the famine even as they turn over everything they own and their rights and freedoms, as well.

The Egyptian people in their time of need do not question or argue with Yoseph. But when they are no longer in dire straits, when their country has recovered so well that they have the luxury to forget what Yoseph did for them… perhaps they did not forget how much easier Yaakov's family had it then the rest of the people - how only they and the priests were not forced to sell their land and to hand themselves over to be as serfs. Perhaps this was why it was so easy for the Egyptian people to let Paraoh enslave Bnei Yisrael.

Sforno concludes his commentary by writing: "Our sages have stated that at a time when the general population suffers shortage even those who have ample are to limit themselves." Control in a time of crisis - it sounds like an exceptionally worthwhile topic in the final days of 2020. We know that Hashem runs the world and that it is up to Him who gets infected (look at the number of households where 1 or 2 people got sick, but others did not). The people around us, however, are frightened. Not all of them, it's true, but many. In a time when everyone is being asked to restrain themselves, should we not be extra careful to show our own constraints? Thus we have a modern lesson from the bread of Yaakov's household.