Two Minutes of Torah: Beshalach

Just over a week ago, I was in the cinema watching the George Clooney film ‘Up in the Air’. Without spoiling anything, the premise of the film is that Clooney’s character has a job which involves him flying all over America, and rarely, if ever, coming home. Alongside this day job, he also moonlights as a motivational speaker, giving talks entitled: “What’s in Your Backpack?” His speech is basically his philosophy on life, which says that we carry too many things in our metaphorical backpacks – people and things weigh us down.

As I watched the film, and especially as I listened to the motivational speech he delivered, I realised that I am one of those hoarders whose backpack would be filled with knick-knacks and trinkets. When I finally moved out of my parents’ home, there were cupboards and drawers filled with random items and memories from my childhood, teenage years, university and early adulthood. I was happy to discard many of these ‘things,’ but the items from my grandparents, pieces which connected me to my family, were too precious to lose.

George Clooney’s character would be unimpressed by my backpack, but I think he would also be a little disappointed in Moses’ backpack as well, as seen in this week’s Torah portion. Last week, after ten plagues, Pharaoh finally ordered the Israelites out of Egypt. They left in the middle of the night, and although they managed to take gold and silver from the Egyptians with them (Ex. 12:35-36), there was not even enough time for the dough of their bread to rise (Ex. 12:34).

Yet despite all of this rushing around, amidst the need for a speedy exit, Moses had time to gather the bones of Joseph to carry ‘in his backpack’ on the journey to Israel. In the middle of describing the journey, it says: ‘And Moses took the bones of Joseph with him, because he had made the Children of Israel swear saying: Surely God will remember you, and you will carry up my bones with you from here.’ (Ex. 13:19).

The Exodus was not a flight with checked baggage and helpful airline staff to take care of your luggage; it was an escape from persecution, and the beginning of a forty year journey in the wilderness. One could argue it was a time for travelling light. But Moses remembers an oath made hundreds of years ago, and fulfils it, carrying the bones of Joseph to freedom and the Promised Land.

While George Clooney’s character may be accurate in stating that we carry too many items around with us, a completely empty backpack would be a truly terrible thing. Our memories of family and history are important, but we should also cherish those items which provide a link with the past: My saba’s pocket knife, a picture from a cousin who perished in the Holocaust and a pocket clock which belonged to a great-grandfather.

Moses reminds us that there are some things, some connections, which are so important that they must be protected and preserved even when it seems illogical to do so. The bones of Joseph were carried so that they could be transported for forty years and reburied at the end of the journey. Yet they also provided a link for the Israelites with generations past, they bestowed a connection upon ancestors who had lived in the Land of Israel, and they reminded the Israelites that God had remained faithful to them in the past and present.

We know what Moses had in his backpack and what the Israelites carried in theirs; I’ve even given you a glimpse of what is in mine. So one question remains: What’s in your backpack?

Two Minutes of Torah: Bo

The story of the Ten Plagues is one of those sections of the Torah which changes with age. As children, we read of these miraculous events with awe at God’s supernatural abilities, focussing on the plagues themselves rather than the people involved. As we mature and return to the text, there is a difficulty as we are challenged by an awareness that the Egyptians suffered greatly so that our suffering could end. With further reading, the text becomes even more difficult, as God’s role, hardening Pharaoh’s heart in order to display God’s signs among them, becomes evident, and it becomes unclear as to whether the fate of the Egyptians was even under their control.

The break between Parashat Va-era and Bo interrupts the narrative of these plagues, and we are left to wait an entire week to find out what happens next.

The first two verses make for very uncomfortable reading (Exodus 10:1-2):
‘And Adonai said to Moses, “Come to Pharaoh, for I have hardened his heart, and the hearts of all of his servants, so that I can put these signs of Mine among them. In order that you can tell in the ears of your children, and the children of your children how I mocked/destroyed in Egypt, and placed My signs amongst them –and you will know I am Adonai.”’

According to the text, the whole exercise, the immense Egyptian suffering, has been for the benefit of future generations who will know Adonai through the tales of these plagues. What had previously appeared to be a rescue mission (Exodus 3:7-10) has been transformed into something different. Future generations will learn about God, and follow God, through the stories of havoc and destruction which rained down on Egypt.

The word which I find most troubling is hitalalti, which translates to mockery or destruction. In the story of Balaam and his donkey, the word denotes mockery (Numbers 22:29). In the story of the rape and murder of the Levite’s concubine, however, it denotes violence and destruction (Judges 19:25). In this story, we are either confronted by a mocking God, a destructive God, or even the possibility of both. This wouldn’t be the first time we see God in this light, but it is certainly the first time we see God manipulating a situation to this extent. So where do we go from here?

What lessons are we supposed to learn from the story of the plagues in Egypt? Are we supposed to understand God as an impulsive Deity, using death and destruction to teach a lesson – a questionable means to a necessary end? Are we intended to view God as a sadistic abuser, destroying an entire nation for mere amusment? Maybe God is the divine judge, meting out justice on those who have sinned and caused others suffering. Could this story offer us a lesson about the dangers of conflict, and the potential to get carried away with the disagreement to the point of forgetting the original cause? Or perhaps this is an example of behaviour that is acceptable for God, but not to be emulated by us mere mortals, highlighting the boundaries between humanity and the divine. This portion offers a myriad lessons to take away, so which one do we follow? Well that is up to to you.

More than anything else, the text offers us the challenge of finding our own lesson. God does not command that our children shall shema – hear this story. Instead the text instructs tesaper beoznei – recount in their ears (literally). We have a role in the transmission of this story. We have a responsibility to teach our children not only the story, but also the lessons that we learn from it. These lessons may make us uncomfortable, and these lessons may challenge our previous understandings, but these lessons allow a deeper relationship with the text. As Ben Bag Bag challenged us: ‘Turn it, turn it, for everything is in it’ (Pirkei Avot 5:22). So what have you learned?

Jewish Ethics - Euthanasia

Last night I taught the first in my 10 part series on Jewish Ethics (as voted for by the members of West London Synagogue). It was interesting to hear the diversity of opinion in the room, and to explore a subject with so many conflicting opinions.

I personally found the story of the death of Rabbi Hanina ben Teradion (Talmud Avodah Zarah 18a) to be the most interesting. As he was being burned alive with damp woolen tufts around his heart, to prolong the suffering, his students urged him to breathe in the smoke and accelerate his death. He refused, suggesting that God would determine the time for his death. But then when the executioner offered to accelerate the process by removing the wool, in exchange for a guarantee of a share in the world to come, Rabbi Hanina agreed. Following this Rabbi Hanina died quickly, followed immediately after by the executioner who jumped into the flames. The story ended with a Divine voice declaring that both had been assigned to the world to come.

Initially Rabbi Hanina appeared to reject any form of accelerated death, waiting for the fire to cause his death, but when offered an assisted suicide he accepts. I think that the maintenance of the two positions in the one story demonstrates the challenges of this issue, and recognises the fact that there are no easy answers on this subject.

Two Minutes of Torah: Va'era

One of the films I remember watching in my teens was the Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor comedy: ‘See No Evil, Hear No Evil’. The premise of the film was that Gene Wilder’s character was deaf, Richard Pryor’s character was blind, and together they witnessed a murder. The film played on the importance of these two senses, with hilarious consequences. For a full picture of the crime both Wilder and Pryor were necessary, alone neither possessed enough pieces of the puzzle.

In this week’s Torah portion the interplay between what is seen and what is heard appears important in regards to God’s relationship with Moses.

After an apparent failure last week, when Pharaoh refused to release the Israelites, and just increased their toil and suffering, Moses requires reassurance from God before moving forward. ‘I appeared to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob as El Shaddai, I did not make my name Adonai known to them’ (Exodus 6:3). Although God stresses the different names with which our Patriarchs knew God (El Shaddai) and the name given to Moses (Adonai); it is also important that the word used to describe the relationship with our Patriarchs is “appeared” – va’era. It is this word which gives the Torah portion its name.

The word va’era relates specifically to the idea of being seen, coming from the root which always conveys a sense of vision with ones eyes (resh-aleph-hey). While God does appear to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob in the Book of Genesis, the relationship is most often verbal: ‘And God spoke to…’ Our Patriarchs heard God’s words and followed God’s instructions, but it is the fact that they saw God which is stressed here. Perhaps our Patriarchs had a deepened relationship with God because they were able to witness God with multiple senses.

The significant change in the relationship which God establishes with Moses is not related to the way in which God appears visibly, it is in the way that God is heard by Moses. God does not introduce Godself to Moses by the name ‘El Shaddai’, this name was for the Patriarchs. Now, with Moses, God’s name is to be ‘Adonai’ – what Moses hears is different from the experience of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.

When we consider the two names of ‘El Shaddai’ and ‘Adoani’ it is significant that while ‘El Shaddai’ is a direct transliteration of the Hebrew, the name ‘Adonai’ is a representation of the root yud-hey and vav-hey, which we do not know how to pronounce, we do not know what this word should truly sound like.

While our ancestors saw and heard God, we are a combination of Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor in ‘See No Evil, Hear No Evil’, in that God does not appear to us, and we cannot hear God’s name. The challenge for us is to strain, and train, our senses so that we might catch a glimpse of God, or hear a whisper of God’s presence. It won’t be the same relationship which God had with Abraham, Isaac, Jacob and Moses; but we can still have a connection through recognising God in different ways.