December 29, 2012

Va-y’chi, Genesis 47:28–50:26

By Dr. Deborah Miller | Associate Director of the Melton Research Center for Jewish Education

It’s Not What You Say . . .

A number of years ago, I took my grandson to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. During the intermission, he said, “This is the best show I ever saw in my whole life!”
I smiled. He was four. His whole life? When can we look back and say, “All my life I have (believed / felt / acted as though . . . )”?

Certainly Jacob is in this position in the final parashah of the book of Genesis, as he lies on his deathbed. We, too, can look back on his life and see what patterns emerge as we consider what kind of a person he has been. At the same time, we see Joseph, the early favored son, standing with his father in his final scene on earth—and serving as a contrast to him.

We have learned that two trees do not make a pattern—it takes three. So we have to look at a series of events in order to learn about Jacob. What can we discern?

To my mind, there are two salient aspects of Jacob’s life. One is that he has been true to his name throughout his long life: He was named sneak/supplanter at birth, and has rarely veered from that description. He has exercised poor judgment in his family life, and made it difficult for his children to live nobly. He has shown no growth of character, and no wisdom gained from experience. On the contrary—after seeing the devastating familial effects of favoring Joseph, he still persists in blessing the younger of Joseph’s two children more than the older, in spite of Joseph’s attempts to correct him.

Joseph, in contrast, has learned. If Jacob’s social and emotional maturity looks like a flat line, Joseph’s shows growth, change, and learning from life. He magnanimously looks beyond the hurts his brothers inflicted, takes his brothers in and nurtures them, and sees to all their and their families’ needs. He can see the bigger picture—how their deliberate injuries inadvertently resulted in his ability to save a whole civilization. Having this perspective, he can try to relieve their well-deserved guilt.

I’m afraid that my low opinion of Jacob and my high opinion of Joseph are all too evident. For me, the proof of the differences in their characters is captured in an amazing repetition of a key phrase. In two different stories, in two different contexts, Jacob and Joseph say the same thing. In each the tone is totally different. And each reveals the essential character of the protagonist.
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December 22, 2012

Parashat Vayigash - Genesis 44:18–47:27

Joseph's Moment of Truth

Revealing his true identity, the viceroy cannot control his emotions.

By Rabbi Charles Savenor

Provided by the Jewish Theological Seminary, a Conservative rabbinical seminary and university of Jewish studies.

The moment of truth has arrived. With Benjamin framed for stealing and sentenced to enslavement, Joseph waits to see how Jacob's other sons will respond. Joseph believes that his well-orchestrated ruse will finally expose his brothers' true colors.
Judah's Appeal

This week's parshah opens with Judah appealing to his brother Joseph, the Egyptian viceroy, to free Benjamin and to enslave Judah in his place. Judah's eloquent petition recounts his brothers' interaction with this Egyptian official as well as the familial circumstances of Jacob's household. Benjamin, the youngest son in the family, occupies a valued place in their father's eyes, Judah says, because he is the last living remnant of Jacob's deceased wife, Rachel. In conclusion, Judah asserts that if he were to return home to Canaan without Benjamin, he could not bear to see his father's immediate and long-term pain and suffering.

Judah's words arouse Joseph's soul, as the Torah tells us that "V'lo yachol Yosef lehitapek. . ."--"and Joseph could no longer control himself before all his attendants, and he cried out, 'Have everyone withdraw from me!' So there was no one else about when Joseph made himself known to his brothers" (Etz Hayim, Genesis 45:1).

Witnessing Joseph's intense reaction to Judah's appeal, we wonder what exactly pushes Joseph to his emotional limit? What does Judah say or do that compels Joseph to reveal himself at this moment?

Our most trusted biblical commentator, Rashi, surmises that since Joseph's emotional outburst is juxtaposed with evacuating his Egyptian servants, Judah's self-incrimination embarrasses Joseph. The viceroy of Egypt fears that when these alleged spies are introduced as his brothers, the family's reputation, and his by association, will already be tarnished in Egypt and in Pharaoh's court.

Rashi's analysis helps us to understand the momentary reality, yet other interpretations exist, which incorporate the larger context of Joseph's dreams and the patriarchal covenant. As soon as Joseph "unmasks" himself, he urges his brothers not to be upset about their having sold him into slavery many years before: "Kee lemeheeyah shelahani Elohim lefnayhem"--"(for) it was to save life that God sent me here ahead of you" (Etz Hayim, Genesis 45:5). Joseph believes fervently that God's preordained plan for him involves maintaining life for his entire family and the civilized world. Thus, Joseph stores food for Egypt for times of feast and famine, and secures safe passage to a new land for his family. 

Actualizing the Covenant

The outcome of Joseph's story not only affirms his childhood dreams, but also actualizes the first part of God's covenant with the patriarchs and matriarchs. As Jacob's family settles in Egypt, Act I of the epic of the children of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob comes to a close. With such an immense epiphany--that his dreams are realized and the future of his people secured--how could we expect Joseph to contain his emotions?

Additionally, sustaining brotherhood, one could argue, is humanity's first ongoing challenge, upon being escorted from Eden. After slaughtering his brother, Cain utters the timeless question, "Hashomer ahi anohi"--"Am I my brother's keeper" (Etz Hayim, Genesis 4:9)? Nahum Sarna asserts in the JPS Torah Commentary of Genesis that "the sevenfold stress in this chapter on the obvious fraternal relationship of Cain and Abel emphatically teaches that man is indeed his brother's keeper."

By repeating the Hebrew word for brother, "ah," in Genesis 45, Joseph responds as much to Judah's words and actions as to the first disastrous confrontation between the first siblings in the Torah. In other words, Joseph's emotional outburst stems from hearing Judah's passionate plea beyond their own family's story, in a larger context that affects all of the children of Adam and Eve.

The overarching challenge of being one's brother's keeper, however, continues throughout Genesis. Sadly, the partnership efforts of generation after generation become impeded and frustrated by jealousy, competition, and greed.

At the beginning of his amazing odyssey, for example, Joseph ventures to talk to his brothers on his father's behalf. Having lost his way, Joseph speaks to a stranger, who asks Joseph what he wants. "I am seeking my brothers" (Etz Hayim, Genesis 37:16), he says, which sounds like a straightforward request for his brothers' physical location, but constitutes, in actuality, a deep-seated desire to be in concert and live in harmony with his brothers. Furthermore, Joseph's words can be understood as his personal response, in the affirmative, to the question Cain posed generations before him--this is how he perceives one should be his brother's keeper.

In our story this week, Joseph is overwhelmed by Judah's compassion for his father, and for his brother, Benjamin. It is not only that Judah is willing to take the place of his brother, but that he does not want to contribute to his father's pain. Judah has learned from the loss of his own two sons what loss can do to one's soul. Aviva Zornberg expounds in Genesis: The Beginning of Desire: "Initiated into the fellowship of pain, Judah becomes capable of investing the whole force of his personhood into preventing its recurrence." With his compassion and courage, Judah demonstrates before Joseph's very eyes what it means to be a brother.

In the end, the significance of what Joseph learns surpasses even his wildest dreams. He loses control of his emotions because not only will his brothers be reunited, but also humanity has finally proven that it can shoulder the responsibility of brotherhood.

May our generation be blessed with compassion, mutual respect, and patience so that we can actualize the prophetic dream of mending our world into a global community replete with peace, love, prosperity, understanding, and most importantly, sisterhood and brotherhood.

December 15, 2012

Parashat Mi-ketz, Genesis 41:1—44:17 and Numbers 7:48—53

This week's commentary was written by Rabbi Daniel Nevins, Pearl Resnick Dean of The Rabbinical School and Dean of the Division of Religious Leadership, JTS.

What is the essential message of Hanukkah, the beloved Festival of Lights? Like many of our holidays, this celebration is protean, shifting shape to accommodate our changing Jewish needs. American Jews have viewed it as a celebration of religious freedom, as if Judah Maccabee were an ancient Roger Williams, championing the rights of religious minorities and establishing the separation of religion and state. Israelis have seen the Maccabees as early nationalists, rising up to wrest sovereignty over the Holy Land from its foreign occupiers, and establishing a political refuge where Jews could live in dignified self-determination. Mystics have viewed Hanukkah as the recurrent flow of hidden light from the uppermost realms of heaven into the darkest expanses of the material world so that every year is a miraculous expression of divine grace. And children everywhere have claimed Hanukkah as their own—it is the festival of candles, candies, doughnuts, games, and presents galore.

These multiple meanings may each claim a measure of plausibility, since defining the historical Hanukkah is practically futile. While the Hasmoneans (Maccabees) were in some ways traditionalists who sought to augment Jewish ethnic and religious solidarity in the face of Hellenism, they themselves were also innovators who bucked venerable Jewish traditions. Historian Seth Schwartz reviews some of these innovations in his book Imperialism and Jewish Society, 200 BCE to 640 CE. The Hasmoneans were from neither the Davidic line of Judean kings nor the Zadokite line of the high priests, yet they eventually claimed both of these crowns. While they opposed the Seleucids, they integrated Greek language, rhetoric, and material culture into their own governing practices. The Hasmoneans conquered neighboring territories and mass-converted the Idumeans and other ethnic groups. This large-scale integration of non-Judeans into the Jewish religion was in contrast to prior and subsequent Jewish policy, and had far-reaching consequences. Eventually, the Hasmoneans turned on each other, drawing in the Romans and sowing the seeds of destruction for Jewish sovereignty, Temple worship, and even existence in Judea.

The Hasmoneans both resisted and embraced Greek culture, and their holiday therefore exemplifies the inner Jewish conflict between piety and assimilation. Hanukkah always feels contemporary because most Jews continue to feel conflicted by its themes of integration and separation from surrounding cultures. Jews simultaneously want to participate fully in the political, economic, and cultural life of their Gentile neighbors while also maintaining a sense of Jewish difference and even destiny. The Joseph story always coincides with Hanukkah, and who could be a better exemplar of the challenges of living in two worlds than the grand vizier of Egypt? In Parashat Mi-ketz, Joseph rises in spectacular fashion from prison to the throne, changing his clothes, name, and even language to the extent that his own brothers do not recognize him. And yet within, he remains Joseph, son of Jacob, the Hebrew lad who remembers his essential difference and destiny. Joseph's appearance on Hanukkah reminds us that success in secular society must not be permitted to draw us away from our distinctive Jewish identity.

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December 8, 2012

Parashat Va-yeishev

Genesis 37:1–40:23

This week's commentary was written by Rabbi Abigail Treu, Rabbinic Fellow and Director of Planned Giving.

Forgetting to Remember for Posterity

When my grandmother first starting losing her memory several years ago, the impulse to correct her facts was overwhelming. No, Grandma, we weren't together last weekend. No, you didn't just eat dinner. No, Grandma, I'm Abigail, your granddaughter. 

Over time, as her memory has disintegrated and she lives entirely from moment to moment or fantasy to fantasy, the impulse has softened. When she announces that she is living with her mother in her childhood home, we no longer bother to explain that she actually resides in an assisted-living facility with her husband of 42 years. If she is surprised that my children are her great-grandchildren, we let it go. The facts don't seem to matter so much anymore, and we have come to appreciate a beauty in her ability to live each moment as it comes, and to place herself psychically where she needs to be.

Remember the Sabbath day. Remember what Amalek did to you in the wilderness. Remember what God did to Miriam. Remember that you were slaves in Egypt.Memory is integral to our identities as Jews and as individuals. What happens when we lose our memories, or our ability to remember altogether?

The question arises for me this week because the themes of losing (memories and much more) and forgetting run strong in this week's parashah, and indeed throughout the entire Joseph story. Jacob and then Joseph lose track of the brothers when they go out to pasture. Reuven leaves Joseph in the pit, and when he returns, "the boy is gone!" (Gen. 37:30). The brothers lose Joseph altogether as they sell him into slavery. Judah loses the prostitute (really Tamar) and his staff, cord, and seal. Even Joseph loses his clothes in the grip of Potiphar's wife. The theme continues in coming weeks as objects disappear into Benjamin's sack, and as Joseph remembers the forgotten dreams of his youth (42:9) and names his firstborn son Menassah, "because God has caused me to forgot all my trouble" (41:51).

Most explicit is the closing cliff-hanger line of the parashah: "Yet the chief cupbearer did not remember Joseph; he forgot him." (40:21). The commentators wonder about the chief cupbearer's forgetting. What might the difference between not rememberingand forgetting be? Rashi and others suggest that the difference is temporal: the not remembering describes what happened the day of the cupbearer's release from prison, and the forgetting is what happened after that. Ibn Ezra suggests that not remembering is that the cupbearer did not mention Joseph to Pharoah; and thatforgetting is ba-lev—what happens in one's heart. Radak says just the opposite. None of this satisfies, but their close read is helpful: there is, the language of the verse suggests, an important difference between not remembering and forgetting. 

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December 1, 2012

Parashat Va-yishlah, Genesis 32:4–36:43 

This week's commentary was written by Cantor Nancy Abramson, Director, H. L. Miller Cantorial School, JTS. 

Assumptions and Appearances

Things are not always as they appear to be. And when assumptions are based on circumstantial or incomplete evidence, we are often surprised or disappointed by what unfolds. My son, who is traveling for a few months after graduating from college, shared this experience in his blog:

I arrived at the nearby train station. I had told Polly (one of my hosts) over the phone that I'd arrive at 1:15 on the train. As I waited for my transfer, [my destination] appeared on the departures board as a picture of a bus. I looked around and saw other people heading outside the station and figured it couldn't hurt to follow them. Sure enough, my "train" was a bus. And when it arrived at the prearranged time—when Polly had said she would be there to pick me up—I found myself alone at the station. 

Well, almost alone. There was a woman, face barely visible beneath rings and chains of metal, sitting on a bench beside a young blonde girl, who, a few minutes [later] asked in French if I'd come on the train. Apparently I responded in French that I'd come on a bus, though this I don't remember; nor do I know how to conjugate that response. After a few more minutes, I got the idea, turned to them, and asked if they were waiting for me. In fact, they were. This literal "metal-head" was Polly, the British woman with whom I'd been corresponding, and the blonde was her very young-looking 19-year-old daughter, Summer Rose, whom I hadn't known to exist.

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November 24, 2012

Va-yetzei, Genesis 28:10–32:3

How Angels Make Us Better People

I’ve never thought much about mal’achim (literally, angels), and I wonder if Jacob had thought about them either, before the encounter that took place when he departed the Land of Israel in flight from his brother’s wrath. Jacob might have heard family stories about the divine messengers who announced the upcoming birth of his father to his grandparents. It would not be surprising if he knew about the heavenly beings who rescued his distant cousin Lot from Sodom and Gomorrah. I doubt that his father talked much about his near-death experience on Mount Moriah. Had it not been for an angel’s intervention just in time to stop Abraham from using the knife, there would have been no Jacob, no continuing Covenant, no birthright to purchase from Esau, and no blessing to steal from him. Jacob must have heard enough about angels to recognize as “angels of God” the beings whom he saw going up and down the ladder in his dream at the start of his journey (and of our parashah), and to recognize them again when “angels of God” encountered him at the conclusion of his journey (and also, again, of our parashah). Jacob knew immediately that they were messengers who belonged to God somehow—and, thanks to them, he knew that he was, too.

When I did think about angels, the occasion was usually an encounter at an art museum with paintings depicting Christian scenes such as the Annunciation, or pop culture images of white, winged beings playing harps or shooting love arrows. Mal’achim always seemed benign presences who bore good tidings, and certainly seem that way as Jacob takes his leave from one adversary—Laban—and prepares to meet another—Esau. Rashi believes that one set of angels accompanied and protected Jacob when he was in the Land of Israel, and another set outside the Land. Bereishit Rabbah offers this encouraging midrash:

“And Jacob went on his way, and the angels of God met him” (Gen. 32:2). How many angels preceded our father Jacob when he entered the Land? R. Huna said in R. Aibu’s name: 60 myriads. Thus it says, “And Jacob said when he saw them: this is God’s camp” (32:3), and the Shekhinah does not rest upon less than 60 myriads. The Rabbis said: 120 myriads, [for the Torah says,] “And he called that place Mahanaim” [meaning two camps (i.e., twice 60)]. R. Yudan said: He took of both camps and sent them as messengers before him, as it says, “And Jacob sent messengers” (Gen. 32:4).

But the Rabbis were not so sure about the intentions of other heavenly agents on other occasions. Indeed, as Solomon Schechter noted in his classic study Aspects of Rabbinic Theology (1909), our Sages saw a certain rivalry between human beings and the angels; worse, angels threatened the very existence of humanity by arguing the case for the prosecution before God when human creatures were on trial and rejecting the mitigating circumstances offered in our defense. The angels wanted strict justice enforced, untempered by God’s mercy. They objected to forgiveness of sin because the sinner had repented.

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November 17, 2012

Parashat Toledot , Genesis 25:19–28:9 

This week's commentary was written by Rabbi Daniel S. Nevins, Pearl Resnick Dean of The Rabbinical School and Dean of the Division of Religious Leadership, JTS.

Finding Our Way (and God's) in the World

 
What do you make of our matriarch Rebecca? Certainly she is the boldest and most independent of the mothers. When as a girl she sees a stranger at the well, she rushes to water his caravan of thirsty camels, and then invites him to stay at her house. When offered the chance to travel with this man back to a distant land and a mysterious husband, she volunteers without hesitation. When her pregnancy becomes difficult, she seeks out God and challenges God with the bold question, "Why do I need this?" When her husband seems ready to bless the wrong son, she quickly conspires to rearrange the action so that Jacob will receive the primary blessing. In all of these actions, Rebecca is seen as a woman of strength and decisiveness.

Yet Rebecca's strength has dreadful consequences. In deceiving her blind husband, she humiliates him and causes him to shudder in fear. In depriving her eldest son Esau of his blessing, she causes him to explode in anger and to plot his brother's murder. And in securing for Jacob both blessings, she causes him to flee for his life, alone into the lonely night of exile. Is Rebecca strong and righteous, or is Rebecca headstrong and wrong?

Presumably, the way to answer this question is to look at the prophecy received by Rebecca when she sought out God. Here is U.C., Berkeley Professor Robert Alter's translation of the oracle found at the beginning of our parashah (Gen. 25:23):

Two nations—in your womb,
Two peoples from your loins shall issue.
People over people shall prevail,
The elder, the younger's slave.

The problem is that this prophecy is ambiguous, especially in its final clause, "v'rav ya'avod tza'ir." Biblical scholar Richard Elliott Friedman suggests that this could mean either "the elder shall serve the younger" or "the elder, the younger shall serve."

Rebecca, together with most readers, interprets the prophecy in the first fashion, understanding that Esau must be subjected to Jacob. This interpretation sets the course for their family and perhaps for the history of their descendants. But perhaps Rebecca got it wrong? Perhaps the oracle truly meant that the younger boy, Jacob, was to serve his older brother, Esau? Perhaps Isaac got it right in trying to bless Esau with physical dominion (27:29), while reserving for Jacob the covenantal blessing (28:3–4). Perhaps this family could have been spared the fraternal anger, hatred, and division if Rebecca had only understood her prophecy differently. But perhaps all of this tension was ordained by God, and was a necessary stage in the emergence of Jacob as Israel, patriarch to 12 tribes.

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November 10, 2012

Parashat Hayyei Sarah, Genesis 23:1–25:18

This week's commentary was written by Rabbi Marc Wolf, Vice Chancellor and Director of Community Engagement, JTS.

The Torah does not prepare us for Sarah's death. We come face-to-face with it shortly after recounting the length of her life in the first verse of the parashah: "Sarah's lifetime—the span of Sarah's life—came to 127 years. Sarah died in Kiriath Arbah . . . " (Gen. 23:1–2a). Abraham and Ishmael also die in this week's parashah, prefaced by a similar recounting of the length of their lives. All three scenes are relatively formulaic; however, it is Abraham's last days that fill the balance of the parashah. Where Sarah and Ishmael seem to fade from the scene, Abraham actively prepares for his death. The details of the burial of Sarah and finding a wife for Isaac that occupy the parashah rest in stark contrast to the death narratives of both Abraham's wife and firstborn son.

Nahum Sarna, in his JPS Torah Commentary: Genesis, recognizes that these two stories play an important role in Abraham's life. After the climax of the binding of Isaac on Mount Moriah, Sarna notes:

For all intents and purposes, [Abraham's] biography is complete. But two important issues remain: the concern with mortality and the preoccupation with posterity. The former finds expression in the acquisition of a hereditary burial site, the latter through the selection of a wife for Isaac so that the succession of the line may be secured. (156)

In Abraham's life, we recognize the importance of these moments; however, there is a larger context within which we must read the narrative of Abraham. Beyond the action on the page, our collective narrative is unfolding as well—and textual keys are our clue to take note.

Words are important to the Torah. Not only is meaning the fodder for every commentary from the pre-rabbinic period through today, but the actual currency of words spent by telling a story in the Torah is key. The Torah has roughly 80,000 words (Dickens's A Tale of Two Cities has 137,000; let's be happy we don't have to read it in shul); Parashat Hayyei Sarah has two episodes that are particularly word heavy. After Sarah's death, we read of the purchase of the Cave of Machpelah (23:1–20) and then the betrothal of Isaac (24:1–67). Each has elements that force us to pay attention: with the Machpelah story, it is the deeply legal nature of the narrative; with the betrothal of Isaac, it is the sheer length (there is no story in the Abraham narratives that exceeds it). We find ourselves asking, what position do these seemingly ordinary tasks (burying a loved one and finding a mate for one's progeny) have in the overall plot? What are we—the inheritors of the Torah—to learn from the emphasis the Torah places on these stories?

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November 3, 2012

Prolepsis: How The Bible Tells Us The Future

Va-yera 5772, Genesis 18:1–22:24

Regular screen watchers know that if in an opening scene the camera pans in on a detail like a dagger or a bicycle, then that detail—the dagger or the bicycle—will somehow have an important role to play later on in the movie. Known as foreshadowing, this cinematic technique has its parallel in literature in the rhetorical device known as prolepsis, which indicates a future event that is presumed to have occurred. Prolepsis is also known as anticipation, which is what the term literally means, because the details are anticipated or foreshadowed before they are developed in the ensuing narrative. Prolepsis is a characteristic feature of biblical Hebrew narrative, and, in recent studies, my colleague Dr. Robert Harris has convincingly demonstrated that it was a rhetorical feature well known to 12th-century Jewish medieval exegetes such as Joseph Kara, Rashbam (Samuel ben Meir), and Eliezer of Beaugency.

In the Bible, prolepsis is used in various ways. One is in the introduction of characters by names, descriptions, and epithets that will have relevance for that particular story. Thus, the meanings of the patriarchal names Abraham (Great Father) or Sarah (Princess) both have significance as the progenitors of the Jewish People. Abram will indeed be a father of a great nation, and Sarah will indeed be a princess, the ancestral mother of all of us. The proleptic knowledge that Sarah is barren clues the reader in advance of the importance of that detail when, in this week’s parashah, we read of the birth of Isaac to very elderly parents.

Another type of prolepsis occurs when statements are made or details inserted that appear to be unnecessary or out of context. For example, when Bathsheba is first introduced in the story of David and Bathsheba, she is described as being the daughter of Eliam (2 Sam. 11:3). This detail is unnecessary in that particular story, but is proleptically given in anticipation of the fact that Ahitophel, David’s chief advisor, will later join Absalom’s revolt against David (15:31). Eliam, we will be later told, is the son of Ahitophel (23:34), so Bathsheba is none other than Ahitophel’s granddaughter. Ahitophel’s rejection of David is now made clear to us. He did it because of David’s outrageous treatment of his granddaughter and her husband: David had an illicit affair with Bathsheba, and had Uriah, her husband, killed.

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October 20, 2012

Parashat No•ah, Genesis 6:9–11:32

This week's commentary was written by Rabbi Abigail Treu, Rabbinic Fellow and Director of Donor Relations, JTS.

 

The Windows by Constantine P. Cavafy, Greek poet, 1863–1933

In these darkened rooms, where
I spend oppressive days,
I pace to and fro to find the windows.
When a window opens, it will be a consolation.
But the windows cannot be found, or I cannot find them.
And maybe it is best that I do not find them. Maybe the light will be a new tyranny.
Who knows what new things it will reveal?


Hovering at the edge of the question of what life on the ark was like for Noah is the problem of the window.

But before we get to that: let's agree that the story of Noah and the ark is a parable, rife with symbolism of our own negotiation of transitions and traumas of all kinds. Let's agree that, like Noah, we struggle to understand that the world we once knew is not the world that endures for our entire lifespan. Let's agree that fear of change is the greatest human dread. And let's agree, too, that at some point in our own survival stories, we find a way to cope and begin again—just as Noah, in the end, sets foot on dry land and plants a vineyard there too.

And now, back to the window.

The ark's window bothered the Rabbis. It is a technical problem: in Genesis 8:6, Noah "opened the window (chalon) of the ark that he had made," but in the very thorough account of the construction of the ark earlier in the parashah, no window was ever made. "What window?" the Rabbis wonder. Rashi glosses that the window is the tzohar of 6:16, which is indisputable because no one knows what a tzohar is and the word does not appear again in all of Tanakh. It is translated by the Jewish Publication Society as "daylight," based on the tradition begun in Targum Onkelos, and picked up by the Rabbis, that it was something that illuminated the ark, perhaps a daylight, perhaps a precious glowing gem. The Vulgate—the Latin translation of the Bible, done in the fourth-century AD—translates it as fenestra, meaning "window," and the medieval Rabbis take that up as exemplified by Rashi's gloss: "The window of the ark that he had made: this is the tzohar, and not the opening of the ark made for entering and exiting." But on the peshat, the literal level, a chalon is not necessarily a tzohar (whatever that is), and if it were, wouldn't we find the same word in both places?

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October 13, 2012

Parashat Bereishit, Genesis 1:1–6:8

This week's commentary was written by Dr. Richard Kalmin, Theodore R. Racoosin Chair of Rabbinic Literature, JTS.

I want to share some thoughts about the difference between Adam and Eve before and after they ate of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. To state things up front, my claim is that Adam and Eve did not just undergo a fall, but also a significant rise; to make that claim, I'm going to argue that two of the main characters, the snake and God, have often been misunderstood. The snake has gotten a bum rap, and God has usually gotten off much too easily.

We can't understand the role of the snake in the story by focusing on the character of snakes here and now, since clearly the one in the garden was much different from those in our world, after God's curse. We must start with the Bible's description of the snake via the word arum, translated as "shrewd" in Genesis 3:1. The word arum occurs often in biblical literature. It refers to something respected in some contexts, where it's translated as "prudent" or "clever," but feared or condemned in others, where it's translated as "crafty" or "wily." It can also be an attribute that is respected and feared at the same time.

Shrewdness throughout the Bible is a powerful commodity that can be put to both good and bad uses, but is not inherently good or bad. It's necessary for survival in a hard world, and it is this trait that the snake introduced into the Garden of Eden. In a tremendous play on words, Genesis says that without the snake's arum-ness (shrewdness), Adam and Eve were totally arum (naked and innocent) [2:5]. To be truly human they had to eat the fruit—and it was the snake, who knew exactly what would happen to Eve if she ate, who enabled them to do that. It knew that Eve was wrong when she said that she would die if she ate of the fruit or touched it (3:3), and also knew that God was wrong (or lied) when He said to Adam and Eve that "You must not eat of the fruit, lest you die" (2:17). The serpent responds to Eve, "You are not going to die" (3:4), and of course Adam and Eve don't die when they partake of it. Even afterward, God has to banish them from the Garden, lest they eat from the Tree of Life and live forever (3:22). As far as I can tell, Adam and Eve are no more susceptible to death after they eat the fruit than they were before. It is only when God banishes them from the Garden and they have no more access to the Tree of Life that they are once and for all condemned to mortality.

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October 6, 2012

Parashat Sukkot Day Six

Exodus 33:12–34:26 and Numbers 29:23–31

This week’s commentary was written by Rabbi Ayelet Cohen (RS ’02), Director, The Center for Jewish Living at The JCC in Manhattan.

Immediately on the heels of the intense spiritual work of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, Sukkot challenges us to turn our lives inside out again, this time quite literally. The Talmud tells us that for the duration of Sukkot we must leave our permanent dwellings and reside in temporary dwellings (BT Sukkah 2b). By its very nature, the sukkah must feel temporary; we must experience the elements in a way that we do not when we are at home. By leaving the comfort and protection of our homes, making the temporary permanent and the permanent temporary for the duration of the holiday, we are more vulnerable and thus more open. We are able to meet the intention of tze ul’mad from the Passover seder, and, like the Israelites in the wilderness, in that interstitial space have the opportunity to experience revelation.

We are commanded to “rejoice on the festival,” leading us to think of the holidays as a time of family gathering and celebration: our closest friends and families crowded around an overflowing table. But the Rambam challenges us to go further, reframing our interpretation of celebrating the bounty of the holiday. 

When one eats and drinks one must also feed the stranger, the orphan, and the widow, along with all other poor and destitute. But one who locks the gates of one’s courtyard, and eats and drinks with one’s own family but does not feed the poor and disheartened, is not rejoicing in the commandment, rather rejoicing in one’s own belly. (Mishnah Torah Hilchot Yom Tov 6:18)

Especially on Sukkot, when we experience more than at any other time of the year what it means to be vulnerable to the elements, we must push ourselves to share our bounty with those who are disenfranchised and those who have no food or no homes. For far too many people, home is always fragile, and vulnerability is a permanent state. The12th-century scholar Rabbi Samuel ben Meir (Rashbam) believed that Sukkot helped reinforce the fact that our wealth and comfort is a gift from God. 

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September 29, 2012

Parashat Ha·azinu/Deuteronomy 32:1–32:52

This week's commentary was written by Rabbi Marc Wolf, Vice Chancellor and Director of Community Engagement, JTS.

Every morning when I daven Shaharit—the morning service—in my home office, I face a picture that my father took from the vantage point of Har Nabo—the peak on which God took Moshe's life, and where he was gathered to his ancestors. It looks into Israel and toward Jerusalem or, as Parashat Ha·azinu describes the scene, "Ascend these heights of Abarim to Mount Nebo, which is in the land of Moab facing Jericho, and view the land of Canaan, which I am giving the Israelites as their holding . . . You may view the land from a distance, but you shall not enter it—the land that I am giving to the Israelite people" (32:49, 52).

The scene is simply heartbreaking. After years of dedicated service, Moses knows he is not to take the final steps into Israel with his People. He is not to cross the Jordan River and conclude the Exodus from Egypt with this generation of the Children of Israel. We cannot begin to fathom the extent of emotion that must have rushed through Moses as he faced the reality that he was not to enter the Land, but "die on the mountain" that he was about to ascend. What words were exchanged between Moses and God? What conversation is not recorded in the Torah? One of the most moving midrashim I encountered during rabbinical school was taught to me by my rabbi and teacher, Rabbi Alan Kensky. The commentary known as Midrash Petirat Moshe—the Death of Moses—adds pages upon pages of dialogue, debate, argument, and reason between Moses and God. It fills in the gaps in the narrative and, as Rabbi Kensky taught us, describes a scene that remarkably parallels the five stages of grief that Elisabeth Kübler-Ross has enumerated for those coming face-to-face with the reality of death: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Notwithstanding the intense emotional scene, Moshe is composed, and delivers one of the most compelling sermons of his career as the leader of the Children of Israel.

Give ear, O heavens, let me speak; 
Let the earth hear the words I utter! 
May my discourse come down as the rain,
My speech distill as the dew,
Like showers on young growth,
Like droplets on the grass. 
For the name of the Lord, I proclaim: 
Give glory to our God! (Deut. 32:1–3)

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September 22, 2012

 Shabbat Shuvah

This week's commentary was written by Rabbi David Hoffman, Assistant Professor, Department of Talmud and Rabbinics and Scholar-in-Residence, Development Department, JTS.

Ultimate Questions 

"Live the questions now."
—Rainier Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, 1903

There are some who expect religion to provide answers. The religious experience is thought to be a refuge from the messiness of life; a peaceful, ordered worldview that may help explain life's daunting moments. In this way, faith offers the believer comfort that life is as it was meant to be, and that one's spiritual work centers on acceptance and "finding" one's path.

Judaism turns these ideas on their head.

From Abraham and Sarah, Moses and Isaiah to Rabbi Akivah and Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel in the 20th century, Judaism has never been about acceptance. The greatest teaching that Judaism offers the world is that the way things are is not the way things have to be. The course of our lives and the condition of the world are not inevitable realities. God, through the Torah's commandments and the protest of the prophets, created a vision of the world as it was meant to be, but is not yet. This is true on the micro level and on the macro level. That is to say, there is a version of ourselves who we are not yet, but our families and communities need us to be. The Rabbis of the Talmud continued this work of envisioning more just and compassionate versions of the world and gave this dream a name—redemption. However, the Rabbis never intended that we ignore the world in front of us in favor of this dream. We are asked to be present for the world in all of its brokenness, while simultaneously holding the vision of the world as it should be.

This, perhaps, is the core religious commitment of a Jew: to live with an awareness of this sacred tension between the reality of our world and lives and the dream of what they should be.

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September 15, 2012

This week's commentary was written by Professor Arnold M. Eisen, Chancellor, JTS.

The high point of the Kol Nidrei service comes at its beginning, as the haunting melody and incantatory language of the Kol Nidrei prayer
ushers us dramatically into the solemnity and consequence of the Day of Atonement. Dusk is falling outside the synagogue and, within, all stands
in readiness. The gates of forgiveness stand open, but the following evening, at Ne‘ilah, they may close. It is a time of reckoning.

"By the authority of the court on high and by the authority of this court below, with divine consent and with the consent of this congregation, we grant permission to pray with those who have transgressed. Kol Nidrei .
. . "

I want to focus my reflections on this remarkable declaration, and particularly on one implication that seems especially relevant at this High Holiday season. The importance of "permission to pray with those who have transgressed," recited immediately before chanting Kol Nidrei, is underlined in some congregations by the practice of repeating the words three times for added emphasis. The declaration clearly has enormous rhetorical power. But what does it mean? How can
these words, this claim, help propel us forward into Kol Nidrei and beyond?

I'd like to suggest that they affirm a basic truth that is not only essential to the Kol Nidrei service that follows, but crucial to the work of self-examination and amends to which we dedicate ourselves on Yom Kippur. We are not without faults, and we belong to a community of people who in that fundamental respect are just like us.
Reminding ourselves that this is the case, we direct the search-light of scrutiny upon ourselves rather than focusing it on the shortcomings of others. Members in good standing of the community, we do the intensely personal work required on Yom Kippur without being distracted by the divisiveness of class, race, ideology, or party that is all too common at other times. We forego the pleasure of feeling superior to our neighbors. And—the aspect of communal membership that seems especially relevant this High Holiday season—we abjure the verbal signals and building blocks of self-righteousness: incivility, name-calling, insult,
condescension, scoring points at each other's expense, and reveling in the game of "gotcha."

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Posted by judy@jvillagenetwork.com at 9/11/2012 12:55 PM 

September 8, 2012

Parashat Ki Tavo/Deuteronomy 26:1–29:8

This week's commentary was written by Dr. Ofra A. Backenroth, Associate Dean, The William Davidson Graduate School of Jewish Education, JTS.

Ki Tavo: "When you enter the land that God is giving you" (Deut. 26:1).

This week's Torah parashah is concerned with the Israelites' entrance into the Promised Land. The parashah emphasizes that the Israelites should obey God's commandments faithfully, with all their heart and soul. Since the Covenant between God and Israel establishes mutually binding obligations for both God and the Israelites, God's commitments are also reaffirmed: the promise to make Israel a holy people. We find a long description detailing the ceremonies that the Israelites should perform once they enter the Land as a way to reaffirm the Covenant (27:1–14, 28:1–14), and curses (27:15–26, 28:15–53) that befall those who do not observe the laws.

According to tradition, vocal recitation of the Torah dates back to the time of Moses, who, according to the Rabbis, would read the Torah publicly on Shabbat, at festivals, and the beginning of the month. The Talmud says that it was Ezra the Scribe who established the practice of reading the Torah on Shabbat, a practice that continues to this day. 

However, the Torah is not simply recited, it is chanted by the reader according to the cantillation ("trope") marks that guide the singing of the sacred texts during public worship. To make it more complicated, these cantillation marks do not appear on the scroll. They are only printed in the text, and the reader needs to prepare the chanting before the performance. In Hebrew, the term for the cantillation marks is ta'am, which means sense. And indeed the pauses, pitch, and dynamics with which the text is recited help to highlight the meaning of that text. The style of cantillation varies according to different Jewish traditions, and there are different melodies connected to the cantillation marks for different sections of the Bible. Hence, the Torah and the haftarah sections use the same markings, but are sung with different notes.

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August 25, 2011

Parashat Shofetim/Deuteronomy 16:18–21:9

This week's commentary was written by Rabbi Robert Harris, Associate Professor of Bible, JTS.

"Alas, Poor Yorick": A Grave Affair 

"Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath bore me on his back a thousand times, and now how abhorr'd in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it." (Hamlet, act 5, scene 1, lines 185–188)

As most everyone knows, these lines (even as they are often misremembered) are spoken as Hamlet lifts the skull of his father's court jester from the grave, and contemplates the common fate—decay—of both kings and court jesters. And while this sentiment would be a worthy topic of its own (see Eccles. 11:7–8: "How sweet is the light, what a delight for the eyes to behold the sun! Even if a man lives many years, let him enjoy himself in all of them, remembering how many the days of darkness are going to be. The only future is nothingness!"), what, might you ask, has this to do with our weekly Torah portion?

A fair question, indeed. Among the far-ranging topics of our parashah is the following paragraph:

When you enter the land that the LORD your God is giving you, you shall not learn to imitate the abhorrent practices of those nations. Let no one be found among you who consigns his son or daughter to the fire, or who is an augur, a soothsayer, a diviner, a sorcerer, one who casts spells, or one who consults ghosts or familiar spirits, or one who inquires of the dead. For anyone who does such things is abhorrent to the LORD, and it is because of these abhorrent things that the LORD your God is dispossessing them before you. You must be wholehearted with the LORD your God. (Deut. 18:9–13)

I wish to call your attention specifically to the Torah's prohibition of "inquiring of the dead." Rashi seems to adumbrate Shakespeare, when he includes "one who asks questions of a skull" among the possible actions that would represent a violation of the biblical commandment. But the Torah is not imagining a philosophical discourse about life when it prohibits "inquiring of the dead," but rather, in what is likely its original context, necromancy—an act whereby a person would either approach or occupy a tomb (see Isa. 65:1–4) and seek the presence of the departed in order that she or he might give some specific information that would be of supposed benefit to the questioner, or that the dead might intercede with God on behalf of the questioner. This is likely the background of the "witch at Endor" narrative in 1 Samuel 28, when King Saul wishes to communicate with his dead prophet, Samuel, before the fateful battle with the Philistines. It might be such a practice that was characterized by the prophet Isaiah in the following words: "Then deep from the earth you shall speak, from low in the dust your words shall come; your voice shall come from the ground like the voice of a ghost, and your speech shall whisper out of the dust" (Isa. 29:4). This is the practice that the Torah prohibits, and it equates the "abhorrence" of such an act along with one who would "consign his son or daughter to the fire" and all of the other various proscribed practices on the list.

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September 1, 2012

Parashat Ki Tetzei/Deuteronomy 21:10–25:19
  

This week's commentary was written by Professor Arnold M. Eisen, Chancellor, JTS.

This week's Torah portion is directed at Israelites about to "go out" of the wilderness; next week's portion offers guidance to those about to "come in" to the Promised Land. Deuteronomy is anxious for the Israelites to build a society distinct from the one that had enslaved them and no less distinct from the other societies and cultures that will surround them in the Land of Canaan. It wants a people united in their new nation-state—and, to that end, propounds a series of wide-ranging laws designed to bring and keep them together. The "going out" from all existing precedents must be substantial. The "coming in" must make them worthy of having God's presence in their midst.

This, I think, is the logic behind many of the regulations in Ki Tetzei, a set of dos and don'ts that in some cases are immediately comprehensible, but in others seem at first glance (or even second) to be of dubious importance. Let's start with the mitzvot that clearly promote the collective unity. Sheep or oxen that belong to "your fellow" and have wandered off must be returned to their owner or, if that is not possible, must be held and sustained until claimed. Israelites must do the same with lost garments or "anything that your fellow loses and you find" (22:1–3). The word translated as fellow by JPS literally means brother: a member of the national-religious family of Israel. "You must not remain indifferent" or look away. If your brother's ass or oxen have fallen in the road, help him to raise them up (22:4). Interest cannot be collected on loans of money or food to Israelites, but is permitted on loans to foreigners (23:20–21). Do not enter your neighbor's house to seize a pledge that is the basis of a loan, or hold the pledge overnight if he needs it for warmth (24:10–13). You may eat grapes from your neighbor's vineyard and pluck ears from the standing grain in your neighbor's field (23:25–26). Olives left on the tree or grapes left on the vine after initial harvesting are to remain there for the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow. "Always remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt; therefore I command you to do this thing" (24:20–22). 

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