D’Var Torah (Words from the Torah)
D’Var Torah – March 2026
Parashat Tzav
Leviticus 7: 22-28
Our parasha this week continues with further instructions concerning the sacrificial system for the Tabernacle and includes the Meal offering, the Sin offering, the Guilt offering, the Thanksgiving offering, gifts to the Cohenim and the kashering of garments and vessels.
The portion we read this week continues the prohibition we read last week against eating blood and fat and, having looked at the various commentaries, not much is said about this. The Midrash however, does have something to say about the last two verses of our reading, which are…
“This is the Torah of the burnt offering, the meal offerings, the sin offering, and the guilt offering; and the inauguration offerings, and the feast peace offering; which the Eternal commanded Moses on Mount Sinai, on the day He commanded the Children of Israel to bring their offerings to the Eternal, in the Wilderness of Sinai”…
And I would like to read the parable that is given there.
“Reb Acha said, the message of this verse is analogous to a ruler who entered a province, apparently to assume command, and with him were numerous groups of bandits, who were bound in chains.
Upon seeing this, one resident exclaimed to his friend, ‘how fearsome is this ruler!’
His friend responded to him, ‘when your speech will be good you will not fear him’.
Similarly, says Reb Acha, when the nation of Israel heard the scriptural passage of the sacrificial offerings, they became afraid. And he said engage in Torah study and you will not have need to fear all these offerings”.
There is a discussion by the rabbis at the time on this Midrash that begins with a quote of a verse from the Prophet Jeremiah that states…
“Thus said the Eternal… for I did not speak with your forefathers, nor did I command them, on the day I took them out of the land of Egypt, concerning burnt or peace offerings.
Rather, it was only this thing that I commanded them, saying, ‘listen to My voice, that I will be your G-d and you will be My people’.
In the ensuing discussion, opinions were expressed that included there was no mention of the commandments regarding offerings at Sinai (hence their absence in the Ten Commandments), the nation of Israel was enjoined only to be faithful to G-d, conduct themselves properly and keep the commandments they were given. It was only after the sin of the Golden Calf that commandments about atonement offerings was given.
Reading this, I was reminded of the concept of progressive revelation, which for me is the application of the commandments and principles of the Torah to life as we experienced it in every age.
Another commentator says ‘whoever engages in the study of Torah is considered as if he has offered a Meal, Sin, the Minchah and Guilt offering’ and that spiritual rectification can be achieved by studying Torah although superior rectification is achieved through the offering of the actual sacrifices themselves.
I was somewhat surprised and pleased to read these opinions in a book that I have considered the purview of Orthodoxy until now and found encouragement that our progressive tradition has continued the evolution of the interpretation of Torah throughout the centuries, as Rabbi Martina talked about last week, that we can bring offerings of other types in our heartfelt expression of Jewish life and faith that perhaps are more reminiscent of the words of Jeremiah rather than rote observance of commandments.
27th March
In Italy, we don’t say that we go to synagogue or to shul, or what in the past was called schola. In my home town we go to the Temple. We think that synagogues are what we have that is most alike to our Mishkan, our Sanctuary.
If we take a look at how the Mishkan was built, we can see that it was a structure and the decorations were made of huge variety of materials and fabrics. They included acacia wood, gold, silver and copper, purple and blue fabrics, wool and linen, even the skin of an odd animal that we identify as dolphin, but we don’t actually know what it is. The Temple is a metaphor of creation, like a microcosmos where each creature has its own role and place, but the Temple is also a metaphor for the community, the klal yisrael. A community is the ensemble of different people, often very different. Each of us with our own opinions, lifestyle, good and difficult qualities, and quirks. A community works well if there can be a place for each of its members, where they can find something that fulfils their need for spirituality and connection. Can you imagine entering a synagogue and finding only people similar to you, with your same interests and ideas? Personally, I would find it extremely boring, and I would certainly feel that I am missing out on an opportunity to grow and learn.
The Temple is also the place where the sacrifices where taking place. The book of Leviticus that we are starting to read at this time of year, it is not an easy book. It is a book full of minute details, repeated over and over. It is a book full of blood and dead animals, of ancient and often obscure rituals. Can we learn something for our days from these ancient rituals?
First of all, we know that sacrifices meant different things: something valuable was brought to the Temple, according to the status or means of the person making the offer. Secondly, the person had to put their hands on the head of the animal, expressing a form of identification with what was going to sacrified. Third, that animal was partly or totally burnt, going up in smoke. When we enter our shul, when we live in a community, when we are in any kind of relationship, we need to give up something if we want that relationship to work. That’s very well known to any of us who has been long enough in a marriage, in a long important friendship, or has children. It is never only what we can get from the community, but also what we are willing to let go and compromise.
Another aspect of how sacrifices are commanded and executed is the extreme level of repetitive detail that we find in the instructions about them. The same words and sentences are repeated over and over: the what, when and how are detailed so that there would be no error. But there is more, I think. As Rabbi Janet Marder writes in one of her sermons: “If human beings were kind and benevolent by nature, we might not need the priesthood’s strict disciplinary teachings. The Torah’s insight is that priestly service is what our murderous inclinations require and deserve. Thus the descendants of Pinchas, a family whose origins are murderous and full of rage (see Numbers 25:1–14), learn to (re)direct their zealous energies into the service of God. They move from uncontrolled aggression to the discipline of ritual slaughter, bounded by a myriad of laws and regulations. As officiants at the altar, their killing is tamed and civilised, their dangerous propensities neutralised.”
We all struggle with our unkind and sometimes even evil inclinations. We can become aggressive, impatience, resentful, we have a tendency to gossip and judge our fellows. When we enter our synagogue we should be like priests entering the Temple and try to discipline such instincts towards our service to God and the community. A synagogue must be a place were we can get closer to the Divine, just as sacrifices were a means to get closer to God, as the Hebrew word qorban reminds us. To be able to do so, we need to discipline ourselves, let some things go up in smoke, and make space for our best parts as well as for others.
Shabbat Shalom
Ki Tisa
As you have heard, this week’s portion, Ki Tissa, covers the sin of the Golden Calf. How could the Israelites have built this idol, and Aaron acquiesced in its construction, when just before Moses went up Sinai, they heard the Ten Commandments. No 2: You shall not make a sculptured image or any likeness of what is in the heavens above or the earth below”. Isn’t that plain enough?!
Of course, the commentaries interpret this in various ways and at great length, but it is generally agreed that one reason for the sin is Moses’ being absent for too long on Mount Sinai, talking to God and receiving the tablets with the Ten Commandments..
Former Chief Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes in his commentary on Ki Tisa: “It is implied that the people panicked because of the absence of Moses, their leader. ….. The suggestion is that Moses’ absence or distance was the cause of the sin. He should have stayed closer to the people. Moses took the point. He did go down. He did punish the guilty. He did pray for God to forgive the people. Having thus restored order to the people, Moses now began on an entirely new line of approach. He was, in effect, saying to God: What the people need is not for me to be close to them. I am just a human, here today, gone tomorrow. But You are eternal. You are their God. They need You to be close to them.”
He goes on to say: “It was as if Moses was saying: Until now, they have experienced You as a terrifying, elemental force, delivering plague after plague to the Egyptians, bringing the world’s greatest empire to its knees, dividing the sea, overturning the very order of nature itself. At Mount Sinai, merely hearing Your voice, they were so overwhelmed that they said, if we continue to hear the voice, “we will die” (Ex. 20:16). The people needed, said Moses, to experience not the greatness of God but the closeness of God, not God heard in thunder and lightning at the top of the mountain, but as a perpetual presence in the valley below.”
This explanation made the sin of the Golden calf much more understandable to me. Here are the Israelites, who have lived for centuries in the land of Egypt where they have been surrounded by a religion that worships golden, sculptured images and Gods that have the faces of animals. They have been freed from slavery but how frightening can it be to be alone in the wilderness with only the unknown before you. And your leader, probably one of a very few who seems to have some idea of where you are going or what to do, has disappeared up a mountain for 40 days. They have a need for something visible and tangible, something or someone that will lead them and they look for a simple solution.
In a couple of weeks, we will be on to Leviticus in the Torah reading cycle, and reading lots about sacrifices. It is not one of the most fascinating parts of Torah, but the word that is used for sacrifice, Korban, is interesting. the root of it is the word Carov – qof resh bet, to approach or draw near. In a way the animal sacrifices were for our ancestors a tangible and visible ritual to connect with, to draw near to, God.
Of course, already by the time of the prophets, the emphasis was changing from sacrifice to our behaviour. Isaiah says in chapter 1: I am sated with burnt offerings of rams… and blood of bulls, and I have no delight in lambs or goats….wash yourselves clean, put your evil doings away from my sight, cease to do evil, learn to do good, devote yourselves to justice, aid the wronged, uphold the rights of the orphan, defend the cause of the widow”. At the time of the Torah ‘the orphan and widow’, would have been the most vulnerable people in society, so this is saying, look after the most vulnerable in society.
It seems to me that there are parallels between the Israelites’ situation when they built the golden calf and ours today. We have not been freed from slavery but we – our society – do seem to be in a totally new situation with all the old certainties gone. We are in a wilderness of uncertainty and instability and cannot see our way through to a promised land of a calmer, more prosperous time. We don’t even have an absent Moses, any recognised or reliable leader, who might come back and guide us. How tempting it is for us too, to seek a simple answer that will solve our problems for us, a false God that can lead us out of the wilderness.
It is at times like these that conspiracy theories abound and false messiahs and so-called leaders arise, who seem to provide a simple solution to the difficulties people are experiencing, the golden calves of our time. It is at times like these, as we know all too well, that ‘the orphan and widow’, the most vulnerable people in society, are often targeted. We are told that their eradication will solve all our problems.
There weren’t any simple solutions for the Israelites. Fortunately, God forgave them the sin of the Golden Calf, but they were to wander this way and that in the wilderness for another almost 40 years before they could enter the Promised Land. May we too find our way through the wilderness to calmer waters, and may it take us less than 40 years!! Meanwhile, perhaps all we can do is keep clear of the golden calves and, in the words of Isaiah, learn to do good, devote ourselves to justice, aid the wronged, uphold the rights of the orphan and the widow.
D’Var Torah – February 2026
Tetsaveh
This week’s Sedrah is Tetsaveh and it is concerned with some of the requirements of the Tabernacle and the initiation of Aaron as High Priest together with his sons. The passage I’ll be reading is about Aaron’s vestments and the sacrifices to be carried out as part of the initiation. I’ll read it first in English. I’ll also be reading verses 17 to 19 of Deuteronomy Chapter 25 and here they are in English. We read this because today is Shabbat Zachor; we are coming to two joyous festivals which celebrate our deliverance, Purim and Pesach, and we are remind ourselves beforehand of one of your lowest points.
Confusingly, though, we are commanded both to remember Amalek and to blot out his remembrance. Ed Nickow on reformjudaism.org likens this to what we do on Purim when we hear the Megillah – we listen intently to the Megillah in order to fulfil the mitzvah but we try to drown out the name of that descendant of Amalek, Haman. And the best explanation I have found of the paradox of remembering and blotting out is by Rabbi Abi Weber on T’ruah.org, quoting the great 19th
century scholar Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch who wrote: “Do not forget this if you ever waver and, like Amalek, disregard duty, disregard God, and seek only opportunities, in small or great matters, to exercise your superiority to the detriment of your fellow human being.” So, says Rabbi Weber, the meaning of the verses is this: “should you ever be tempted to be like Amalek – blot out that very thought. Remember your humanity. Do not forget that to be a Jew is to be a light unto nations, not a threat. Amidst the violence and the pain and the suffering of the world, remember this and aspire to live up to it. Do not forget.”
Back to the main reading. When writing Divrei Torah on Torah readings that consist of lengthy descriptions of construction materials and fabrics and rituals, it is sometimes difficult to find something to say that is relevant to our lives and practices today. But looking at today’s reading, in the description of Aaron’s vestments, there is a lot of mention of pomegranates, rimonim in Hebrew, and of Aaron’s breastplate. As I’m sure you know, they are very relevant to us because they are part of the decoration of our Sifrei Torah.
The breastplate of the Sefer Torah represents Aaron’s breastplate which had twelve gems set into it, one for each of the twelve tribes. It wasn’t made of silver like our Torah breastplates but of dyed linen, the same as Aaron’s tunic. What differs is the presence on Aaron’s breastplate of the mystical Urim and Tummim, or the “lights and perfections”. According to chabad.org, they were a piece of parchment with God’s name written on it and they were contained in a fold of the breastplate. They appear to have functioned as a kind of oracle, being consulted about decisions of national importance. The High Priest would face the Ark with the questioner standing behind him and asking a simple yes/no question such as ‘shall we go to war?’. The High Priest would meditate until he reached divine inspiration, then certain letters on the breastplate would protrude or glow and give the answer. The Urim and Tummin are mentioned on a number of occasions in the Tanach but never after the reign of King David. Different traditions state that they either were lost after the destruction of the first Temple or were still extant but no longer worked.
And so to the rimonim. The name has come to be applied to the whole of the decorative finials that we place on the Atzei Hayim, the poles to which we attach each end of the Sefer Torah, but in its common usage it simply means pomegranate and many finials include a pomegranate shape or two. They often also have bells, like Aaron’s tunic, whose purpose is said to be to call attention to the fact that God’s word is present and those who are near should pay attention. And why pomegranates? Well, they are said to have 613 seeds in them, the exact number of mitzvot, so they are there to remind us to observe all the mitzvot. Has anyone ever counted the seeds in a pomegranate? I hope not because it would be dreadfully disappointing if there weren’t exactly 613, so I think it’s better not to count, just in case. As I’ve said the term rimonim has come to be applied to any decorative finial for a Sefer Torah, even ones without pomegranates, but I prefer them to have pomegranates; perhaps someone could find a different name for finials without them.
המשפטים״ ״ואלה”
Our parasha this week, opens with the verse המשפטים״ ״ואלה” and these are the judgements…”
Rashi comments that wherever it says “these” it rejected that which has been stated previously and wherever it says “and these”, as it does here, it adds on to that which has been stated previously and as in the previous parasha, Moses gave the Ten Commandment to the Israelites and the judgements contained herein build on them.
Additionally, the opening verses state these judgements shall be placed “before them” i.e. these are standards of life and business for Jews and some of the standards differed from the peoples around them e.g. the practice of freeing slaves after 6 years of service thereby promoting their dignity and autonomy. Although we have moved away from some of the practices talked about in the Torah in those days, the underlying principles can still be applied in modern situations.
In our portion today there are two statements that can be used to keep us connected to who we were and are today:
Were: We were strangers in the land of Egypt and collectively know what it is like to be a stranger in a strange land, as Moses says in the beginning of the book of Exodus.
Are: A few verses later G-D says we shall be a “people of holiness” unto G-D, which is repeated in the book of Leviticus in Parashat Kedoshim.
Living according to the principles of the Torah continue to make us appear different and this can attract both admiration and suspicion – the one leading to inclusion and being a valued member of society, the other resulting in hatred and persecution.
And hasn’t this always been our story and experience? Rabbi Google tells us that from 1901 – 2025 at least 220 Nobel prizes have been awarded to people of Jewish heritage out of approximately 990 total awards, which is approximately 22% of the overall total. Not bad considering Jews currently make up less that 0.2% of the world population. But it’s not only that we are a people of over-achievers, it’s also in the everyday actions of supporting those who are experiencing physical or financial hardship.
Personally, I have found it incredibly difficult being Jewish over the last few years with the sustained attacks, both physical and online, including calls for us all to make aliyah, probably because in my lifetime, this is the most serious public anti-Jewish period I have experienced, however when preparing this d’var Torah, these two principles have helped ground me in reality i.e. I am part of a people in exile (not a concept shared by all) and with a call to live in accordance with higher values with the promise of reward in the world to come (again not an idea widely accepted) and I hope these will be of benefit to you now and in the future.
D’Var Torah – January 2026
Beshallach
This week’s Sedrah is Beshallach in which the children of Israel finally leave Egypt. They are chased by Pharaoh and his hosts and complain to Moses that they might as well have stayed in Egypt, but God parts the Red Sea for them and then drowns all the Egyptians. They praise God by singing Shirat Hayam, the Song of the Sea, before complaining at their next camp that the water is too bitter to drink. Then they complain about not having enough to eat and again about not having enough water. Finally they are attacked by the Amalekites but defeat them in battle.
I’ll be reading Shirat Hayam and the paragraphs before and after it. I’ll read it first in English.
In fact, the Sedrah describes not one but two songs: Shirat Hayam which is 18 verses long and is sung to a special tune, and then one in which Miriam leads the women in dancing with drums or tambourines, which is recorded in a single verse, the words almost the same as the first line of Shirat Hayam. Rabbi Danielle Upbin on myjewishlearning notes that some scholars suggest that the two songs were the same and the Torah only refers to Miriam’s very briefly to avoid repetition. But she disagrees and says that there really were two songs and they served different functions. Shirat Hayam is a record of events when the Israelites had full faith in God and trust in Moses their leader. Miriam’s song is more like a prayer.
First, consider the length of Miriam’s song: just one verse. In Eastern religions, one word or phrase can serve as a focal point of prayer. Reciting the word again and again, the worshipper can get lost in the experience of the sound. In the Hasidic tradition, this is how the niggun works – the repetitive melody becomes a meditation, stirring the soul and captivating the heart. She imagines the dancing women as swirling colours on the shores of the sea, timbrels in hand, singing to God.
Second, consider the structure. Miriam’s song has an urgency to it. Shirat Hayam is introduced in the future tense – I will sing to God – “Ashirah Ladonai” – but Miriam’s song is written as an imperative: “Shiru ladonai” sing to God! The Midrash recognizes this, stating that when Israel emerged from the sea, the angels came to sing to God first. But God said, “Let my children sing first because they are of flesh and blood. They must sing now before they die. But you, as long as you desire, you remain alive and can sing.” So Miriam seized the moment.
Finally, consider the instruments. Rashi wonders where the Israelite women found their drums. Why, as they rushed from their Egyptian homes in the middle of the night with only a few precious belongings and some matzah, would they pause to pick up drums? Rashi quotes a Midrash to explain: “The righteous women of that generation were confident that God would do miracles for them; so they brought drums with them from Egypt.” We can assume from this commitment to bring the instruments from Egypt that music must have played a central role in ancient worship. And glancing through the Book of Psalms, it becomes clear that music was in fact very important in prayer. Psalm 92 reads: “A song for Shabbat: Sing to God with a ten stringed harp with a voice and lyre together.” And Psalm 150: “Praise God with the blast of the horn/ with the violin and harp/ with timbrel and dance/ with lute and pipe/ with resounding cymbals/ with loud clashing cymbals.” In the ancient temple, the Levites would accompany the sacrificial offerings with singing and musical instruments. So using the timbrels helped to make Miriam’s song more like a prayer.
Moving back to Shirat Hayam, I found an interesting piece on a website called truah.org. Truah is an organisation I hadn’t come across before, an American rabbinic group campaigning for human rights in the USA, Israel and Palestine. In relation to Shirat Hayam, Cantor Hinda Eisen Labowitz raises an interesting question. In Mishlei, the book of Proverbs, 24:17, we are told “Do not rejoice as your enemy falls, let your heart not rejoice as he falters.” In context of the biblical story, we can understand and even sympathize with the Israelites’ celebration: the long-lasting yoke of oppression was lifted, and they were watching as their oppressors were overtaken in a Divine act. But is it right to rejoice in human suffering, even if those who suffer are our enemies? On Pesach, we spill some of our wine as we recite the ten plagues that were inflicted upon Egypt. The usual explanation for this custom is that it allows us to recognize that Jewish salvation in the Exodus came at the expense of Egyptian lives. In contrast, others explain it as symbolic of revenge, spilled blood, or placation of evil spirits. For centuries, it was important to our ancestors to feel that God would be ready to do the same for them if the need arose, and that is reflected in other parts of the Seder – particularly “sh’fokh chamat’kha,” in which we call upon God to exact vengeance on our oppressors.
I wrote this D’var Torah three years ago. At the time I had been watching the three part documentary “The US and the Holocaust” with its graphic descriptions of the Holocaust which made me think about the Nuremberg trials and how to square my opposition to capital punishment with my feelings towards the defendants. Since then, we have witnessed not only October 7th
but also murderous attacks on our communities in Manchester and Sydney, and my sentiments towards the perpetrators are just as tangled.
But for two years after October 7th , we read on Shabbat in the prayer in a time of war that at the Sea of Reeds the angels wanted to sing a song of praise before God but God rebuked them, saying ”My children are drowning in the sea, would you utter a song before Me in honour of that?”
Cantor Labowitz ended on a concept which Colin often refers to: Tikkun Olam. She said that we Western Jews need no longer fear for our lives from constant pogroms, hate crimes, and random anti-Semitic acts as our ancestors and grandparents did. Three years on, our fears have risen and it is clear that that struggle is far from over. So are we still able to believe that our enemies are also God’s children; that our job in repairing the world is to build bridges and facilitate understanding between groups, undermining the hate? However difficult that may be, I wish it were so.
Bo: Shemot 11:1 – 12:11
I can remember since I was a child being told about the plagues and particularly this last one, the killing of the firstborn, the most terrible one, but thinking of it as a demonstration of God’s power, and the last step in freeing the Israelites from slavery. The reality of the story has really only really dawned on me recently.
Rabbi Cliff Kulwin from the World Union for Progressive Judaism writes: “What could be more horrible than the tenth plague that God visits upon the Egyptians, the slaying of the firstborn? Is there anything more tragic than the death of a child, anything an adult fears more than the possibility that a son or daughter who has ventured out into the world may not return? And not only the firstborn of the leaders or the soldiers were slain. As the text relates, “…every firstborn in the land of Egypt shall die, from the firstborn of Pharaoh who sits on his throne to the firstborn of the slave girl who is behind the millstones; and all the firstborn of the cattle.” (Exodus, 11:5) How could God do this?”
The medieval commentator Sforno says that the verse, “from the first-born of Pharaoh…to the first-born of the captive,” which describes the scope of this last plague, is shorthand for a more accusatory phrase: “from the most guilty of parties [Pharaoh] to the least guilty of parties [the children of the captives who were sitting in the dungeon].”Sforno’s comment highlights the fact that these “least guilty” were neither in a position to enslave the Israelites initially nor to free them in order to stop the plagues, yet they were punished collectively with those, such as Pharaoh himself, who were.
Why must the powerless slave woman suffer along with the all-powerful Pharaoh in the slaying of the first-born? What sense can we make of this collective punishment?
As you might imagine, there have been various commentaries on this by the sages over the centuries. One of the traditional responses is that only an extreme measure would force Pharaoh to relent. The fault was not God’s; the fault was Pharaoh’s for being so stupidly, arrogantly hard-hearted. And yet our text says that for the last half of the plagues it is God who hardens Pharoah’s heart, so that he will not let the people go, so that God’s power can be shown in the land of Egypt and people will know God’s power. Another explanation is that the death of so many was expected or normal at that time – and one might say the same is true up till the present day, looking at the tragedies and hundreds of thousands of innocent people around the world who are losing their lives in conflicts like this in many places, for instance, Sudan, ostensibly for the sake of freedom. But the fact that it was normal then (and often now) doesn’t to my mind make it any more OK. Rashi circumvents these questions, saying that the Egyptian slaves and captives lost their first-born children in the plague because “they, too, enslaved [the Israelites] and took joy in their suffering.” According to Rashi, the plague of the first-born was a punishment for each Egyptian who participated in the oppression of the Israelites, and not collective punishment with all of its unjust implications.
I find this equally hard to believe. Every single Egyptian took joy in the suffering of the Israelites?
First of all, we have examples of Egyptians who resisted the oppression in the Egyptian midwives, Puah and Shiprah, who refused to obey Pharaoh’s commands to kill the male children of the Israelites.
Secondly, babies and children are being killed – they must surely be regarded as innocent and not taking part in the oppression at least for the first few years of life.
Thirdly, in the next chapter when the exodus happens, the Torah says that alongside the Israelites leaving Egypt, a “mixed multitude” left with them. So this implies that there were Egyptians who were sympathetic to or admired the Hebrews.
Fourthly, just looking around at any similar situation, are there not always people who don’t and won’t acquiesce in oppression? The righteous gentiles of the Shoa for example, or the whites in South Africa who fought for the freedom of black people there under apartheid.
In fact, more than not believing in it I find this idea actually objectionable. It implies that all of a group or a people think alike and paints them all with the same brush, as uniformly guilty. It sees nations or groups or peoples as goodies and baddies, justifying any violence against the baddies. As a people who have been, and still are, so often treated in this way with dire consequences surely we should be the last to do this.
So I have to say that none of these explanations work for me. Moreover, we have lots in our own Torah that if not explicitly condemning the killing of the first-born, argues against killing the innocent for others’ wrongdoing.
Rabbi Eitan Cooper writes: “doesn’t justice still have to be fair? The Egyptians were guilty of enslaving the Jews and murdering male Jewish children, but why kill their first-born? What did they do? How can we explain slaughtering innocent babies or the sons of handmaidens?
The Bible itself provides contradictory answers. While in several places (found in Exodus, Numbers and Deuteronomy), it is taught that God punishes descendants to the third and fourth generations, in other places such as the Book of Deuteronomy and then the Book of Ezekiel, there are explicit teachings NOT to punish children for the sins of their parents, as God did to the Egyptians.”
Similarly, suffering caused in the name of justice bothered many rabbis throughout the ages. The ancient custom until today is to sing an incomplete “Hallel” on the last six days of Pesach, because the joy is not be complete if Egyptians suffered as a result of our being freed.
Proverbs 24 reads; “Do not rejoice at the downfall of your enemy.” And when we spill drops of wine at the Seder, it is to remind participants that our freedom came at huge cost to ordinary Egyptians.
And again, after the tenth plague, when the Israelites finally leave, as our siddur says, the angels wished to sing a song of praise before God. But God rebuked them, saying “my children are drowning in the sea, would you utter a song before me in honour of that?”
In the real world, just outcomes often cause suffering, and not everyone who suffers is evil. What amount of suffering is worth the ensuing freedom is perhaps a subject for another davar torah, but Judaism teaches us to respect life. The reason that the Tower of Babel was destroyed, we are told was because someone died and no-one even noticed. We are told that when you destroy a life it is as if you had destroyed a whole world.
So perhaps it is right for us to baulk at this last plague even as we celebrate our ancestors escape from slavery. Certainly when I read this passage in the future at Pesach and in our annual cycle of readings I shall think of it differently from the rather simplistic view I was sold when I was a child.
Todays’ Parasha is Vaeira, Exodus 6:29 – 7:18.
It can be found in the Hertz Chumash on page X.
Torah tells us that by the time of the exodus, the Israelites numbered some 600,000 men of fighting age. Scholars have used this to estimate the total number of Israelites living in Egypt at the time of the Exodus at between 2 and 3 million. That’s a lot of Israelites.
The person who God would choose to lead these people out of Egypt was going to have to achieve two seemingly impossible feats. One would be to convince Pharoah to let 2 to 3 million people who had been contributing slave labour to the Egyptian economy to just up and leave. The other, which I have always considered to be by far the greater, would be to convince 2 to 3 million Israelites – people who had been living in Egypt for generations – to accept him as their leader and to leave all they were familiar with and follow him into an unknown wilderness.
For these tasks one might have expected God to choose someone who had great oratorical skills. Think of Winston Churchill: we shall fight them on the beaches, or John Kennedy: ask not what your country can do for you, or maybe Martin Luther King, I have a dream. But he didn’t. He chose a man with a speech impediment.
Moses, the man God chose for these tasks, was as surprised as you would have expected him to be and on several occasions tries to get out of the appointment by referring specifically to his difficulties with speech. To quote Moses from an earlier parasha “I have never been good with words. I am slow of speech and slow of tongue“. That was the Hertz translation of ki k’ved peh oo-k’ved lashon anochi. Other translations include heavy and awkward tongue, my mouth and tongue are sluggish, my tongue moves slowly and hesitant of speech which all suggest a physical problem with speaking. The International Standard Version is the most blunt. In their translation, Moses simply says “I have a speech impediment”.
In today’s parasha when God tells Moses to tell Pharoah to let his people go, Moses says Lo sham’u elai ki ani aral sephatayim which Hertz translates as “He will not harken unto me who is of uncircumcised lips”. Most translations also translate aral sephatayim as ‘uncircumcised lips’. I speak pretty good English but am not at all sure what uncircumcised lips are. I’m evidently not alone because there are many other translations of aral sephatayim which include impeded speech, stumbling speech, speak with difficulty, speak with faltering lips and tongue tied – all of which suggest some sort of physical difficulty in making words.
But there is controversy among Torah commentators as to whether Moses had a physical impediment at all. Perhaps, they say, Moses just had a dread of public speaking. This is view is reflected in some of the other translations of aral sephatayim which include unskilled in speaking, poor speaker, not a powerful speaker, not a persuasive speaker and no orator. If Moses simply dreaded public speaking, he was not alone.
The comedian Jerry Seinfeld once said – and I quote. “I read a study that said that speaking in front of a crowd is considered to be the number one fear of the average person. Number two is death. This means the average person at a funeral would rather be in the coffin than giving the eulogy”.
Some commentators say that Moses’ fear of public speaking could simply have been due to his poor command of Hebrew having been raised as an Egyptian prince. But the consensus among most commentator is that Moses really had a speech impediment with many calling it a stammer or as Americans say, a stutter.
Larry Glickman of the Union for Reform Judaism in the US and himself a man with a stammer wrote a lovely dvar torah on Parasha vaeira.
“Most Jewish stutterers love this portion which aligns us with Moses, one of the great leaders of history, and reminds us that even with impeded speech we can do great things.
I think the importance of this Torah portion for us should not be that Moses might have been a stutterer, but rather that he had an important message to share – and even with what he characterised as a handicap, he shared the message. And he got creative. And he got help from Aaron. He did not give up. He was relentless – and he got people to listen.
The Jewish stutterers of the world love Moses, but Moses does not belong just to us. He belongs to anyone who has a “thing” they would rather not have. Your thing may be that you have a speech impediment or that you are short or bald or would just rather not speak in front of a group. Whatever the thing is, let it be only a hurdle, not a wall. Hurdles can be jumped.”
Thinking of this morning’s study passage I will add autism to the list of things that can be jumped. Moses jumped so high and so far that our Torah ends with “And there has not been a prophet since in Israel, like unto Moses, whom the Lord knew face to face.”
Shabbat shalom.
D’Var Torah – December
Miketz – Emerging from the waters.
The opening of Parashat Miketz is a gift for me. Not only because like so many of us I can only read these words with Andrew Lloyd-Webber’s, Elvis style Pharoah elevating them with a rich, vivid joy but because these words provide yet another proof text for the passion with which I moved into the current chapter of my Rabbinate. If you had asked me when I was ordained at Leo Baeck College back in 2006 what I would be doing almost 20 years later, “building a mikveh” would be so far down the list of possible answers I would have thought you mad for even suggesting it. I was brought up in a household which represented the epitome of Reform Judaism. With my Dad being Head of the Reform Movement at that time and my mum the head teacher of Akiva School, there were not many other households more committed to Reform Judaism. Mikveh was definitely not a conversation I remember having. It was a ritual regarded as reserved solely for those converting to Judaism and something we had not even needed to reject as progressive Jews because a ritual which was seemingly so antiquated and misogynistic was not even relevant enough to reject. The idea that women would need a ritual connected to menstruation was seemingly absurd and other worldly. Until I learned for myself both on the one hand how devastating each monthly period can be at certain moments in life, and the power of ritual, far beyond the fulfilment of obligation passed down the generations. 18 years in the congregational rabbinate taught me that people face the most devastating adversity in their lives. It is those who seem most able to rebuild their lives despite its new, unexpected turns, who are the ones who had others to mourn with them. To together mourn the image of the life that had been so cruelly changed, to look to the future with a new vision of what it might look like in time, and those who could be in the moment, with structures which held them and bore witness to the experience they were enduring. So how is this relevant to Parashat Miketz? The parasha begins with these words, “After two years’ time Pharaoh dreamed that he was standing by the Nile, when out of the Nile there came up seven cows, handsome and sturdy, and they grazed in the reed grass. But presently, seven other cows came up from the Nile close behind them, ugly and gaunt, and stood beside the cows on the bank of the Nile.” By this time you are singing so I know you know that “the thin cows ate the fat cows” which you thought would do them good…! The commentators ask many questions of this text, scrutinise what it says, including drawing the conclusion in Genesis Rabbah 89:4 that by Pharaoh standing “over the Nile” Pharaoh in some ways saw himself superior to his god by seeing himself as above the Nile, the source of survival for the people, in contrast to the Israelites who saw themselves as subordinate to God. Yet what I see is the prelude to the Exodus, a new chapter for the Israelites emerging from the water. In a number of weeks, and again when we mark the festival of Pesach, we will celebrate the Hebrew slaves emerging from the parted waters of the sea to a new chapter, the beginnings of freedom. When emerging from “Mitzrayim” the “narrow places”, to begin again, many see this moment of Exodus as a rebirth of the Israelites, equating this narrow place to being akin to the birth canal and the new beginning we needed nationally. Yet, this concept, that from the waters we go from one state of being to another, is exactly what is being set up by the cows in Pharoah’s dream. Coming into focus from the water of Nile – first the cows which represent the next chapter of Joseph and the Egyptian’s life experience, the years of plenty, and then again, coming from the waters, the second set of seven cows, heralding another chapter, the famine which will not only be a challenging time for all the peoples of the area but we know will reunite Jacob’s family and open another chapter in their lives and in the story of the Jewish people of the future. This emerging from water taking us from one chapter to another is for me exactly what mikveh can be for people. How we can give ritual, witness, celebrate or hold people while, in their own lives, they recognise the ending of one chapter and the beginning of another. For some people that will be a celebratory marking – like the fat cows teach us – whether that is a wedding, conversion, marking the 9th month of a pregnancy immersing just before becoming a parent, milestone birthdays, retirement or any meaningful moments or successes. Yet for others the mikveh will be used to create rituals around the moments we hadn’t planned for, never wanted in our lives but know we need the support to move into the next chapter however much we’d rather it was different – whether following a miscarriage, a terminal diagnosis, moving a loved one into a care home, the breakdown of a relationship or the loss of a job. We continue to emerge from the water often into the unknown, like the wilderness or these years of plenty and famine which need careful planning and handling but we do so knowing we have the support to navigate the unexpected terrain. When Wellspring opens, our mikveh will be set at the heart of a centre of wellbeing to help and support people to emerge from the water a little more prepared for their next chapter than before they went in. Whether it is the years of plenty you see before you, or whether it is the lean menacing view of the future you are faced with, Judaism is evolving to ritualise and mark these moments. Our rabbis of the past were psychologists holding us through marriage, death and birth, it’s the role of our current clergy, and those in training, to ensure our Judaism holds us just as effectively at the moments which would not have been conceived of 2000 years ago, but today can be responded to in a deeply Jewish way.
Vayeshev
This week’s reading is from the Sedra Vayeshev.. I’ll be reading Chapter 39 of Bereshit which tells the story of Joseph’s appointment as Potiphar’s steward and then his imprisonment when Potiphar’s wife falsely accuses him of attacking her. The list of prescribed readings gives the option of the whole chapter or just the first eighteen of the twenty three verses and I’ve opted for the slightly longer version as the shorter one stops us in the middle of the story. I’ll read it in English first.
Last time I read Torah, you may remember that I drew your attention to the fact that one of the words in the reading was very stretched out, and the same will happen today. It is a cantillation note called Shalshelet and is very rare, only occurring four times. I’d never encountered it before last month, and now twice in successive readings! As I said a few weeks ago, Rabbinic tradition holds that it is always used to indicate that the subject of the verb is wrestling with inner demons and hesitating. In this case, the word is Va’yema’en: he refused, so the choice of Shalshelet tells us that although Joseph refuses to be seduced, he does not do so instantly. We have just been told how good-looking and well-built Joseph is and maybe he was flattered or just found his master’s wife’s advances very difficult to resist. Or perhaps he might have wondered whether it would be to his advantage to give in to her desires before recovering himself and rejecting a sin, not only against his master, but against God.
That’s one interpretation. Rabbi Eric Woodward, on myjewishlearning.com offers a more practical explanation. Joseph is a slave and he is being forced to choose between the sin of adultery with his master’s wife and the sin of refusing to do his mistress’s bidding. Either way he is in trouble. Perhaps it crosses his mind that if he gives in to her, she might protect him. However, there is a midrash that says that at the very moment that she grabbed his tunic, he saw a vision of his father and this strengthened his resolve. Rabbi Woodward adds that rather than being reminded of his father’s authority, Joseph gained strength from the thought of his father’s love for him, showing that authority can be exercised through love and compassion rather than surveillance. He suggests that this is how our relationship with God can be – not God as the Great Surveiller but as God who shares a covenant with us and inspires us through a loving relationship.
As a result of his refusal of Potiphar’s wife’s advances, Joseph ends up in prison. But just as God enabled him to prosper in Potiphar’s household by his competence, he wins the favour of the Chief Gaoler and is again given a position of trust. And it’s the wisdom he shows in interpreting the dreams of his fellow prisoners that brings him to Pharaoh’s attention and leads to his release from prison and elevation to great power as Pharaoh’s Chief Minister. So out of misfortune comes redemption. You may remember that later on, when Joseph is reunited with his brothers, he tells them that he bears them no ill will for selling him into slavery, because had they not done so, he would not have been able to rise to power in Egypt and be in a position to assist them when they were fleeing the famine in Canaan. Equally, though he doesn’t say it himself, had he not been framed by Potiphar’s wife, he would not have been imprisoned and thus would not have come to Pharoah’s attention. Joseph seems to attract misfortune, sometimes by his own failings, as with his arrogance towards his brothers, sometimes just by being himself, as with Potiphar’s wife. But somehow his misfortunes lead to him being in the right place at the right time.
There’s a temptation then to say that Joseph prospers because God is always with him, even when things are going wrong for him; everything happens for a purpose. He has to go through hardships in order to learn and mature. But I think this is trite. Yes, Joseph comes to Pharaoh’s attention because the people whose dreams he has interpreted in prison remember him and he is brought before Pharaoh.. But why couldn’t he simply be recommended to Pharaoh by Potiphar suggesting him as an efficient and trustworthy administrator? That would have saved him spending all those years in prison.
Modern scholarship of course sees the Torah as a collection of legends and folk tales rather than a historical account spoken by God and written down by Moses as orthodox Judaism believes. Instead of seeing a divine purpose in every word of the Torah, we can think about why the authors and editors of the text chose stories and told them in a particular way. Perhaps the point of the story of Potiphar’s wife and Joseph is to show us that we should resist temptation. Adam and Eve didn’t resist and suffered lasting punishment; Joseph did resist and despite all the bad things that happened to him, everything worked out very well in the end. Maybe that is a trite conclusion as well, but it’s the best explanation I can think of for the story of Potiphar’s wife.