Parashat B'shalach - Free to What?

 רפואה מן התור
Healing from the Torah

Parashat B'shalach
Exodus 13;17-17:16

By Rabbi Adam Ruditsky

     Israel is free at last to leave Egypt.  Pharaoh could no longer stomach the power of God’s wonders from the plagues and grants Moses his wish to take the people into the wildness to sacrifice to their God.  Yet, Pharaoh could not help himself and goes after the people by the sea, so in response God tells Moses, “Then I will stiffen Pharaoh’s heart and he will pursue them, that I may gain glory through Pharaoh and all his host; and the Egyptians shall know that I am the LORD. And they did so” (Exodus 14:4).  This is read in the light of what Maimonides called, הַרשׁוּת בְּיַדוֹ (harshut b’yado), or free-will.  For the initial five plagues Pharaoh makes up is mind and hardens his heart whereas for the final five plagues God does it for him.  What happened to Pharaoh’s harshut b’yado if God is now in charge?
     Maimonides teaches in Mishnah Torah that harshut b’yado can be taken away.  Yet this does not just happen, according to Rabbi Netanel Wiederblank from Yeshiva University, “automatically” but only when a “person lives and acts thoughtfully and actively” in doing the wrong thing.  What is the wrong thing?  In the case of Pharaoh it was his evil treatment of the Hebrews, treatment that was “thoughtfully and actively” carried out against them that resulted in their harm.  In fact R’Weiderblank says that Pharaoh’s misuse of his actions took “away his own free-will, and thus as a punishment God took away the rest.”  Wiederblank also spoke of this in terms of middah keneged middah, or a trait in opposition to a trait.  So without the middah of anavah, or humility, the opposite will result in ga’avah, or arrogance.  All this to say for Wiederblank that a choice “between right and wrong [is] not merely the ability to choose between x or y” since free-will is based on doing the right thing and just not just an arbitrary decision that justifies undo harm.  This was the case with Pharaoh who choose the x of evil in order to get the y of personal gain as opposed to the right behavior of how to treat others in contrast to their mistreatment.  A lack of one lead to the other, or middah keneged middah.
     In other words, from the perspective of Torah הַרשׁוּת בְּיַדוֹ (harshut b’yado), or free-well, is not an excuse for bad behavior which is just simply wrong.  I have to go back to the summer with all the protests we were experiencing and how the x verses the y mentality existed for some.  Some who protested participated in illegal activity, destroying property and stealing from looted stores.  I recall reading a Tweet from an activist that basically said the destruction of property is justified because it does not compare to the mistreatment of black people at hands of the police, hence the justification to destroy and rob was based on a x verses y thought process.  The right and wrong way to think can be found in the words of Martin Luther King who said,  “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice,” meaning that while change will take time it will happen and needs to happen the right way.  In this case right behavior reflects true free-will even though the desired results include a painful process.  This is not a commentary on what we have experienced nor I am comparing the acts of a few to the evil of Pharaoh, let alone an observation on the acts of a destructive few as opposed to the rightful protests for the social equality of the many.  It is about using free-will improperly with the intent to justify wrong, just like we also saw at the Capitol on January 6.
     Rabbi Yitz Greenberg writes of the two sides for free-will when in Exodus 13:17-18 we read that upon leaving Egypt God “did not led them by the way of the land of the Philistines, although that was near [but] when they see war, and they return to Egypt … [instead they went] by the way of the wilderness by the Red Sea.”  R’Greenberg says that if they went the first way God removes from them “all free-well” whereas via the second route “the Torah accepts the realities of human nature and human limitations.”  In this case Greenberg refers to the teaching of Maimonides who says that out of respect for human beings God chooses the second option that allowed for the people to forge their own path along the way that likewise called for their choices as well.  In fact when we look to our celebration of Passover, the narratives we read at our Seders while recalling the story of slavery to include the plagues and the hardships ultimately are redemptive, looking toward the hope of the future both for tomorrow and beyond. The Rabbis used their free-will to create a celebration that leaned in one direction as opposed to the other.
     So הַרשׁוּת בְּיַדוֹ (harshut b’yado), free-will, must be seen as electing to do the right thing and not simply an activity of choice.  In our morning prayers we say, “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe who made us to be free,” or בֶּן חוֹרִין, ben chorin.  Every time I read this prayer I am reminded that embedded in the words בֶּן חוֹרִין is the root of בּ ח ר (b-ch-r) that becomes the word בָּחַר which means to choose. Freedom is a gift that we choose to use not only for our sense of personal freedom and choice but for the betterment and concern for all around us.  Free-will is never an excuse to harm others who disagree with us or for gain at the expense of someone’s loss. That might sound like a utopian society but really in underscores the value of Torah. Torah is about the other, we are our brothers keeper, which is why after crossing the sea Israel sang a song in unison to memorialize what had happened.  Singing not only unifies but wakes up the personal music within the soul, it reminded the people that their own personal journey was connected to each other, family, friend and even foe.
     Israel is free now and are going to be asked to use their freedom the right way and not for an excuse to do whatever they please.  In fact today is Tu BiShevat, a Jewish Holiday occurring on the 15th day of the Hebrew Month of Shevat, which this year corresponds with January 27 and 28.  In contemporary Jewish life it is a day where in unity a nation celebrates what is really a day of ecological awareness when tress are planted in celebration.  In the same way this day unifies the people the power of harshut b’yado is supposed to do the same thing.  Use your own filter as I am using mine, to “thoughtfully and actively” seek the answer to the following question, “I am free for what?”  Freedom is a precious gift and we need to do right by it.

Shabbat Shalom         

Parashat Bo - Imagine That

רפואה מן התור
Healing from the Torah

Parashat Va'eira
Exodus 10:1-13:16

By Rabbi Adam Ruditsky

     In the very beginning of Torah Rashi interacts with Rabbi Isaac, who said: “The Torah which is the Law book of Israel should have commenced with the verse (Exodus 12:2), ‘“This month shall be unto you the first of the months,”’ Rashi teaching that the reason why is because this is the “first commandment given to Israel.”  So here in Parashat Bo we find what Rabbi Yitz Greenberg says is the first Law “given to the entire Jewish people as a unit” right till today, a commandment the Jewish world will fulfill this year with our initial Seders on March 27, 2021.  We read here in this parsha not only about the conclusion of the plagues but also the deliverance of those Jews who experienced the cruelty and slavery of Egypt. This past Shabbat my Rabbi and teacher, Rabbi Ed Feinstein of Valley Beth Shalom here in Los Angeles, was reflecting on Exodus 6:6 that says, אֲנִי יְהוָה, וְהוֹצֵאתִי אֶתְכֶם מִתַּחַת סִבְלֹת מִצְרַיִם, “I am the LORD, and I will bring you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians,” raising the question; how can we enter into something that the vast majority of us have never experienced?
     In setting the scene, last week we began to read about the back and forth battle between Pharaoh’s perceived deified powers and the God of the universe, the final plague this week is called the מַכַּת בְּכוֹרוֹת (makat b’chorot), “death of the firstborn,” just before Israel leave’s their servitude to Pharaoh in Egypt.  But it is also during this final plague that we find Passover ritual elements in the matzot and the maror (bitter herb) being spoken of.  We read in Talmud from Pesachim 116b that the maror is part of our Passover ritual because of what happened in Egypt when “they made their lives bitter.”  In talking about identifying with this type of bitterness as Jews, who for the most part are far removed from the horrors of our ancestors, Rabbi Feinstein talks about identification in the form of being as in “a play,” you know like on Broadway.  A play for Rabbi Feinstein allows a person to identify with a character that they are not in real life.  He went on to say that when we taste the maror (bitter herb) during Passover, we are getting a little taste of bitterness, so unless you are a holocaust survivor or have had a horrible experience, a person cannot imagine what that type of bitterness is like and is asked to create their own.  When we sit down for our Seders we are commanded to think of ourselves as coming out of the slavery of Egypt, so being in character as in a play, but a real life play, is a great way to do so.
     What a beautiful picture of interaction Rabbi Feinstein asks us to consider in order to get a little taste of something we can’t truly imagine.  But what Rabbi Feinstein calls a “play” I want to extend to the idea of “imagination.”  The word for imagination in Hebrew is דִּמְיוֹן (dim’yot) that comes from the root word דָמָה (dah’mah), which can mean both “likeness” and “imagine.”  At first, these seem like two different words, but they are really similar.  Ezekiel 31 refers to Pharaoh in the “likeness” to the great tress of Eden, Pharaoh as part of the creation as opposed to being above it,  Pharaoh simply being “compared with you (meaning the tress).”  Yet in Isaiah 14:14 the Babylonian King, who also exhalated his existence says, I will be like the Most High,” seeing himself as God.  The Pharaoh is דָמִיתָ (dahmee’ta) “compared with you,” his likeness is in juxtaposition with the rest of rest of creation whereas the king of Babylon is אֶדַּמֶּה (ehd’dameh) “I will be like,” imagining himself to me like God.
Not to go off on a rabbit trail, so to speak, but this helps us to see how imagination can be understood 
     Back to the maror let’s ask the questions; what is bitterness, what is it like, or can it be imagined?  Norman Fischer says that imagination “creates its own self-validating truth strong enough to effect inner and outer transformation.”  Fischer makes that statement in the context of a story that he shared and while he believes it he also cannot completely validate its content, connecting with it ultimately “because it expresses something that is essential about who we are as human beings.”   So when we smell and taste the maror what truth do we comprehend, what can it tell the vast majority of us who have never experienced such human cruelty as did the slaves in Egypt, what is its humanity we embrace?  Consider the following between Rashi and the Or HaChaim. Rashi recalling the words of the Talmud verse we quoted above, which said “And they made their lives bitter,” teaches that this clearly reminds us of the bitterness of Egypt, while the Or HaChaim saw the maror as an culinary enhancer to make the lamb-meat more enjoyable.  How do we account for this?  Rabbi Manis Friedman makes a distinction between “fact” and “truth,” each beholding what is and what it can be.  The fact is the maror is bitter, its likeness reminds us of the bitterness of slavery we did not know, yet the truth is “self-validating … to effect inner and outer transformation” can create its own positive message where the opposite of the bitterness of maror is the sweetness of some kind of deliverance.  Rashi and the Or HaChaim each approached something they had never experienced through their own human encounters that brought meaning to them just as we must also do the same.
     This takes imagination, seeking that “self-validating truth” that we connect to on a human level even if we cannot validate the story either.  In this case once again Norman Fischer writes that “all imaginative productions rise up from the unconscious to expand the soul.”  Likewise, Fischer makes another worthy statement when he says, “imagination is not about escaping reality … but deepens and enriches reality,” something that then allows us to add “texture, depth, dimension, feeling and possibility.”  That is what we bring to the maror, which is how we identify with our ancestors even though our bitterness was not like theirs and our story is our own.
     I will assume that yesterday most of us watched the inauguration of now President Joe Biden and Vice President Kamala Harris, with many people imaging what our country will look like now even though we cannot be sure as it has not yet been written.  But to me the best part of the morning was that young lady, Amanda Gorman, who I think wowed the world and moved the country when she read a poem with poise and passion that looked toward a better tomorrow.  The very last stanza said, “When day comes we step out of the shade, aflame and unafraid, The new dawn blooms as we free It, For there is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it, If only we’re brave enough to be it.”  We are left to our imagination to understand and interpret those words.  Per our parsha, the maror has a meaning, the bitterness of slavery has a meaning, that is a fact, but our imagination makes it human and makes in true, and we must imagine that.

Shabbat Shalom!  

Parashat Va'eira - What do you see?

 רפואה מן התור
Healing from the Torah

Parashat Va'eira

Exodus 2:2-9:35
By Rabbi Adam Ruditsky  

     This parsha begins with the ongoing dialog between God and Moses after הַסְּנֶה בֹּעֵר בָּאֵשׁ (has’s’neh bo’ayr ba’aish), the burning bush, where he is told in Exodus 6:2, “I appeared (va’eira) to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as El Shaddai, but I did not make Myself known to them by My name יהוה,” or Adonai/LORD.  Is that really the case?  In Genesis 12:1 it says, “The LORD (יהוה) said to Abram;” in Genesis 26:2 we read, “The LORD (יהוה) appeared (va’eira) to him (Isaac, see 26:1); and in Genesis 28:13 in the midst of his dream Jacob connects with God who is to have said, “I am the LORD (יהוה), the God of your father Abraham and the God of Isaac.”  These three occurrences (among many) tell the reader that יהוה, Adonai/LORD, existed before Moses had his encounter at the bush, The LORD (יהוה) had already appeared, spoke and announced; so what is different now?  Rabbi Ozer Glickman, of blessed memory, who was a teacher of Talmud and Halakha (Jewish law), asks the question, “was the name of יהוה (Adonai) really unknown to the Avot,” or our fathers Abraham, Isaac and Jacob?|
     The great Medieval Rabbi, Rashi, writes that of course The LORD (יהוה) was known to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, making sure to point out that the Torah does not say לֹא הוֹדַעְתִי (lo ho’dati), “I did not tell [them],” but לֹא נוֹדַעְתִי (lo no’dati), “I have not yet become known [to them].”  Looking to more than one Midrash, Rabbi Glickman goes on to say that the reason why that was the case was because the Avot did not ask what Moses did.  Back in Shemot when he encountered God in the bush remember Moses asks, מַה־שְּׁמ֔וֹ מָ֥ה אֹמַ֖ר אֲלֵהֶֽם (mah sh’mo, omar a’lay’hem), “what should I tell them is your name?”  God responds in the most opaque of ways by saying, אֶֽהְיֶ֖ה אֲשֶׁ֣ר אֶֽהְיֶ֑ה (Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh), “I will be which I will be.”  In that same Midrashic tradition God tells Moses to inform the people that Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh will be with them both in bondage and kingship, a strange but comforting concept for them I assume.  Glickman is suggesting that the reason why the Avot did not know God like Moses was because there was no need, and the promises made to the Avot would be fulfilled under the leadership of Moses (i.e. becoming a people).
     But this is not about whether the Avot knew or did not know God like Moses, but why did Moses have to know God, as Moses?  If I grew up like Moses, a Jew being raised in the ways of Egypt while learning about a multitude of dieties, I’d surely ask this unknown God who was residing in a burning bush, מַה־שְּׁמ֔וֹ (mah sh’mo), what’s your name!  I do not think that the Avot had the same experience with multiple gods like Moses so there was need for clarification per se.  yet in this case Moses and Pharaoh both had their own existential encounter with God that demanded a response.  Last week we saw how Moses responded to the bush and this week we see how Pharaoh respond to the נִפְלָאוֹת (niflahot), the wonders, the beginning of the plagues (Exodus 7:10ff).  Moses in his response said, הִנֵּנִי (hin’nayni) “here am I” and took his sandless off (Exodus 3:5), whereas וַיֶּחֱזַק לֵב פַּרְעֹה (vay’yehcha’zak layv Pharoh), “Pharaoh hardened his heart” and made the people continue in their oppression (Exodus 7:13).
     Norman Fischer, a Jewish Zen Buddhist Priest, helps us to understand indirectly what happened with Moses and Pharaoh in a unique way.  Fischer writes of our current world, “And we don’t assume that our picture of the world is the way the world has to look,” which is what happened to Moses.  Moses saw the suffering of two Hebrews and responded in passion (Exodus 2:11), realizing at the bush that Israel’s would of slavery did not have to be, wanting to be a part of the solution.  Fischer calls this “spaciousness,” looking beyond the obvious for the better even if getting there may include suffering along the way.  Although Fischer does not use this word, the opposite of “spaciousness” is narrowness.  The Kabbalist’s teach from Zohar that this narrowness represents Egypt.  Moses came from Egypt, Mitzrayim, a place of murder and fear, destruction and lack, power and greed.  In the Zohar we learn that the word Mitzrayim (מִצְרַ֖יִם) for the mystics was/is divided into two; mi (מִ) meaning “from” and  tzar (צַר) meaning  “narrow” or “tight.”  In this case Moses emerged from a מִצַר (mitzar), a “narrow-straight,” a place of narrowness and confinement, recognizing that as he stood at the bush its’s fire revealed the darkness of where he came from.  Then there is Pharaoh, a man who thought of himself to be a god, a ruler over people who responded to him out of appeasement and fear, a man who felt threatened by the God of Moses and the possibility of losing his imprisoned work-force and money makers.  Pharaoh reacted to the wonders with hardness and callousness, the Midrash teaching that he became burdened in anger (Exodus Rabbah 9:8).  Pharaoh traveled the narrow path, only seeing himself and not others, immune to their their pain or rightful equality.  Moses operated in the spaciousness of love and Pharaoh operated in the narrowness of hate.
     Moses had a different role than the Avot that apparently meant he needed a different understanding and experience with God.  Moses contended with things that the Avot did not have do, and what he saw elevated him to a sense purpose then and there.  Yet as we consider the paths of spaciousness and narrowness let’s just reflect on what the last few years has taught, albeit in this pandemic or our political outlook, how the narrowness of people has impacted the brokenness of society, in many ways revealing our own Mitzrayim that demands a healing of our shattered diversity.  But Moses stands as a symbol of freedom, choosing spaciousness, turning his back on the narrow-straits of Egypt, seeking redemption for the suffering of others, even as he struggled with his own fear of failure.
     There is the famous line made into many melodies by Rabbi Nachman of Breslov that says,כל העולם כולו גשר צר מאוד והעיקר לא לפחד כלל (Kol ha-olam kulo gesher tzar m'od v'ha-ikkar lo lefached klal), "The whole entire world is a very narrow bridge and the main thing is to have no fear at all," words that can poignantly speak to us today.  Fear is one of those things that is always there, albeit the fear of what we see around us currently or just the fear of growing old, either with self or in support of others, on that bridge walking through the narrowness of fear while choosing a path of spaciousness.  Narrowness of fear does not have to win, and while it might take time - just like with the narrowness of Pharaoh - it will be defeated.  God, our higher values, and our desires will appear before us, inviting us like Moses here in Va’eira to choose the better way, looking beyond what he saw to a world how he wanted it to look.  We have to do the same.

Shabbat Shalom  

Parashat Shemot - Home is where the Heart is

רפואה מן התורה
Healing from the Torah

Parashat Vayechi

Exodus 1:1-6:1
By Rabbi Adam Ruditsky  

     I grew up in a Jewish home that was cultural but not religious.  I went to a Jewish preschool for a year and when I was younger celebrated Passover yearly with relatives that just abruptly stopped, although we always lit our Hanukkah candles.  I also remember from time to time going to a wedding or Bar Mitzvah ceremony (including my own), but even those I processed through the lens of Jewish cultural at best.  I was involved at our local JCC (Jewish Community Center) where I played sports but never went to any religious based classes, never learned about Jewish history, nor did I ever go to any type of Jewish summer camp.  However, I was raised during a time when Israel united all Jews worldwide, standing as a reminder to me that I was part of a larger community.  In fact the way I was raised, in my mind, what I believed was really mutually exclusive to who I was.  For many years I spent time in other religious communities, which also for me had absolutely nothing to do with being Jewish, it was about where I was at personally.  Anyway, details aside, my journey always traveled through my eyes of being a Jew, and as long as my identity and belief did not conflict, I was good with it.  Then the day came when I understood much more and listened to my inner self, my neshoma, which had been awaken, realizing that I could no longer separate the two; I was a Jew and it had everything to do with what I believed.  When I returned to Judaism in earnest this part of the story of Moses spoke to me in a special way, perhaps it does for some of you also.
     Moses was born during a time when the current Pharaoh decreed that all baby boys were to be killed at birth to stop the growth and the perceived power of the Hebrews.  We learn in the Book of Jubilees 47:3 that Moses was born seven months into this edict and to save his life his mother entrusted her newborn son to be raised in the house of Pharaoh as an Egyptian.  40 years later Moses’ Jewishness is awakened when he saw an Egyptian overseer (who he probably knew) mistreating a fellow Hebrew to which he responds by killing the aggressor for the sake of his mishpocha (family).  This happened at a time according to Exodus 2:11 “when Moses was grown,” although he was grown up in Exodus 2:10 as well.  Given that Moses growing up is mentioned twice Rashi teaches that the first time refers to the growth of his physique and the second time to the growth of his greatness when Moses assumed his role in the Royal court of Egypt.  The Ramban, who came after Rashi, taught that the first time also had to do with physical growth whereas the second time was about a growth in knowledge.  But here I think the words of Kabbalist Rabbi Philip Berg are worth consideration.  Rabbi Berg, like Rashi and Ramban, looked to Exodus 2:10 to speak of physical growth as well, yet in 2:11 this growth was just not about his political greatness or gained knowledge, but Moses grew when he “felt the pain of his people,” an inner growth of being.   In other words at this moment his Jewishness was awakened and Moses identified as a Jew recognizing his true community.
     Rabbi Mark Gottlieb, who at one time was the Principal at the Yeshiva University High School for Boys in New York, we can safely assume understood something about identity formation. Writing about Moses he talks about the complexity of his identity; born as a slave, raised by another people with a different set of beliefs and culture, bred in privilege with the best education available, his inner passion being provoked at the mistreatment of his Hebrew brothers.  Moses had to come with terms with the fact that at the core of his being he was either a “favored son of Egypt or the son of Hebrew slaves.”  I think it’s also fair to say, per Gottlieb, that “both identities were present under the surface in some blended, inchoate form, but to date neither had emerged with a distinctiveness of clarity.”  It would seem then that when “he went forth to his brethren, and saw the anguish of their souls, and the greatness of their toil,” as we read in the Aramaic Midrashic Targum, his inner being was made to finally resolve that inner tension.  According to the Sefat Emet, Rabbi Yehudah Leib Alter says of Moses that he was now participating in the pain of the community when he “saw into their suffering” (Exodus 2:11), making him prepared to “lead the people into redemption.”  But I do not think that Moses woke up one day and said, “hey I am a Jew,” but more than likely was told along the way by his adopted mom, Pharaoh’sdaughter, Bat-yah (daughter of God), her faithfulness earned the words of God according to a Midrash that teaches, “Moses was not your son, yet you called him your son; you are not My daughter, but I call you My daughter” (Lev. Rabbah 1:3; also Exodus 2:6).  Moses was not unaware of his roots but now life asked him to identify in a new direction with the community of his birth.
     The two Hebrew slaves, in this case, who Moses defended that day become the representatives of Israel’s suffering in slavery that was epitomized in the, הַסְּנֶה בֹּעֵר בָּאֵשׁ, the burning bush (Exodus 3)  In the Sefat Emet the idea of “exile” (galut) and “revelation” (hitgalut) are connected because of their shared root.  The experience of the bush revealed to Moses that in the same way he was in “exile” from his own community Israel who was suffering in slavery was exiled from their own freedom. But Exodus wants the reader to know that this was not just a physical freedom but one that existed on a spiritual realm understood in the mystery of the bush itself.  Rabbi Abraham Isaac Cook teaches that when we strive to understand what is beyond the rational in precise terms it will be blurred by human limitations.  In other words I am not sure we can truly explain away the mystery of the bush, but we are asked to wrestle with it.  In short, Moses clearly had a personal revelation about his purpose and identity as he stood before the bush that day, which changed the whole of Jewish history, not to mention his own.
     Moses did not grow up in a Jewish home, he did not go to yeshiva or attend camp, able to recite the Birkat Hamazon (blessing of gratitude said) after a meal, familiar with the ways and customs of his own people, but yet he was one of the greatest Jews who ever lived.  Sure I can trace my own journey to that moment in time when like Moses my Jewish self-woke up and I was compelled to live and learn a certain way, but this also contains a spiritual message that is much bigger than whether one is a Jew or not.  The fact is that all people will stand before a proverbial bush where each will see a flame that is not burning, standing on the outside looking in, inviting us to explore our inner worlds and highest values in every stage of life, ultimately reminding us that home is where the heart is.  Welcome to the book of Exodus.                             

Shabbat Shalom  

Parashat Vayechi - Converging Paths

 רפואה מן התורה
Healing from the Torah

Parashat Vayechi

Genesis 47:28-50:26

By Rabbi Adam Ruditsky 

     This week we not only conclude the saga of Joseph but we also finish the book of Genesis.  Likewise while we end with the story of one particular family we begin a new story of one particular people.  What we also find is that Genesis ends, humanly speaking, the same way it began by standing on the pillars of love and fear. When Adam and Eve became fearful at their nakedness God’s love provided through the creation the fig leaf’s to cover them up, hence we pray daily as our reminder of provision, “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, Who, מַלְבִּישׁ עֲרֻמִּים (malbeesh ah’roomim), clothes the naked.”  In the same way, after the death of their father Jacob the siblings of Joseph are fearful that their brother will exact his revenge although he has done his best to show his brothers love with the tears of forgiveness.  Love and fear are powerful emotions that are not only book ends to the entire Genesis story but going forward are encountered over and over again.  I think with all that is going right now specifically with regards to this virus there is a great deal of fear that owns many of us, not that we should not be smart and recognize the gravity of the situation, feeling deeply for those who have been directly impacted or have died because of it, but if fear leads instead of love it will create other problems that a vaccine cannot help.  Looking at this week’s Torah sidrah (reading order), Parashat Vayechi, I see the converging paths of love and fear as well.
     We can see them in the lives of  Jacob and Joseph but also Judah, and while all different stories, they are supported by the same pillars.  Jacob after leaving home as a wild child learned some tough lessons along the way about the good and bad of human nature only to be lied to regarding the fictious death of his child.  After learning 22 years later that his son was still alive he comes to Egypt and lives another 17 years in joy, comfort and honor before he peacefully dies in the presence of all his children and their families.  Jacob is the voice of the tomorrow, Ibn Ezra teaching דִבֵּר הַנָבִיא לָעַתִיד, “the word of the prophet of the future,” the final patriarch who carries the name of Israel as part of his identity, speaking words of blessing and wisdom.  Joseph, the unwieldy teenager that lacked wisdom who was rejected by his brothers and falsely accused, being sent to prison as a slave before becoming the recipient of providence, showered with power, wealth and ultimately a restored family.  But let’s keep it in mind that when faced with his own pit of emotions upon seeing his brothers again Joseph chose to raise above the human need for revenge and treated them well, electing to be a blessing to his siblings, which is why he is called a tzedek, a righteous one.  Then there was Judah, the 4^th eldest son who participated in the ruse to tell their father that his son Joseph died because of their hate for him.  But Judah would become a symbol of strength and humility, followed by his brothers.  In Targum Yonathan and in the Pseudepigraphal Book of Jubilees we learn that when Judah made his confession regarding Tamar (see Genesis 38) his stock rose in the eyes of those around him, being confirmed in the blessing he received from his father Jacob that said, “יְהוּדָ֗ה אַתָּה֙ יוֹד֣וּךָ אַחֶ֔יךָ יָדְךָ֖, “your brothers shall praise you.”  Each seemed to reach a happy conclusion in life.
     In this parsha we also note that all three die relatively close to one another.  Here, while the deaths of Jacob (Genesis 49:33) and Joseph (Genesis 50:26) are recorded in Torah itself, the death of Judah is recorded in the Midrashic Book of Yashar.  Why?  Judah was blessed by his father as the one whose seed would produce Israel’s monarchy and eventually the Messiah according to tradition, something that you might think would have been important enough to record Judah’s death.  Maybe Judah’s death is not mentioned because we supposed to learn from his life?  Judah is not directly a part of the story until his sin with Tamar (Genesis 38), also becoming a major voice as the spokesman for his brothers before Joseph (Genesis44:16) as well as intervening for his brother Benjamin (Genesis 44:33-34), showing us that t’shuvah (repentance) and hitchad’shut (renewal) are achievable.  But we also learn that his confession and courage is embraced not only by his brothers, but later generations who say,כִּי יְהוּדָה גָּבַר בְּאֶחָיו לְנָגִיד מִמֶּנּוּ, “Judah became more powerful than his brothers and a leader came from him” (1 Chronicles 5:2).  Rabbi David Kimchi teaches that Judah became more powerful over Jacob’s firstborn Reuven, perhaps because of his ineffectiveness to save his brother Joseph (see Genesis 37:21-22) unlike Judah who literally became his brother’s keeper by advocating for Benjamin, the Sfrono writing therefore of Judah, “you are the one who is fit to fill the position of royalty.” But as Zohar teaches this blessing will only be fulfilled in generations to come, summoning the words of Talmud that says, “May it be God’s will that your offspring be like you” (Ta'anit 6a), Rashi connecting Judah’s scepter of royalty to King David and his seed.
     Yet even though Judah received such merit he became caught up in the fear of his brothers after the death of their father Jacob, saying amongst themselves, “What if Joseph still bears a grudge against us and pays us back for all the wrong that we did him” (Genesis 50:15).  After Joseph weeps yet again with the regret that his love is just not good enough to assure them, he says “Have no fear! (אַל-תִּירָאו, al ti’rahoo) Am I a substitute for God?”  Joseph also says, “what you meant evil against me; God meant it for good” (Genesis 50:20), which we can interpret to mean that living in fear (which caused evil acts) only robbed them of the goodness of love instead (the blessings of life).  Elisabeth Kübler-Ross notes that love breeds positive emotions like joy, peace, and satisfaction whereas fear breeds negative emotions like anger, guilt, and sadness.  We also pray daily, “Blessed are You, Adonai our God, King of the Universe, Who מַתִּיר אֲסוּרִים (ma’tir a’soo’rim), releases the imprisoned.”  Fear is a part of life and awakens courage, but the power of fear is something that we must be released from since it is not disposable or seemingly will just disappear, only then allowing the seeker to call and relay upon the goodness of love.  Each of us are at different stages in life and have our own narrative, but what we learn from Judah is that when love and faith converge, even if on the outside we seem to have everything, it is always better to be led by the energies of love as opposed to the voices of fear.  As we end Genesis we say, Chazak, chazak, v'nitchazeik, which means "Be strong, be strong, and we will strengthen one another," in this case by our love for each other.       

Shabbat Shalom  

Parashat Vayigash - Finders Keepers

 רפואה מן התורה
Healing from the Torah

Parashat Vayigash

Genesis 44:8-47:27

By Rabbi Adam Ruditsky 

     Ethel was a spry and feisty 98 year old woman from the Bronx.  I visited Ethel weekly for almost a year, and when she finally died I would say we had become friends. What began as general visitation turned into talking about seemingly every subject under the sun, such as family, politics, careers, sports, Judaism, her journey of getting old, which lead into a conversation about regrets and her need for reconciliation before, as she put it, “I am too dead to dance!”  When I asked her about her desire for reconciliation without going into any detail she said, “you know, it’s always family.”  Well, one Monday morning I received a phone call from my office to go and visit Ethel at the request of her son, which I thought was strange because Ethel and I see each other on Fridays.  When I arrived Ethel was in her bed (she always sat in her big armchair), her breathing was labored, her hands clenched tightly and the skin on her forehead wrinkled.  After some initial time that included the vidui prayer (confessional) and my listening to her son share his thoughts I interjected, “Mike, do you have anything you need to say to your mom before she dies?”  With that, Mike leaned over and whispered something into his mom’s ear for what seemed like forever, then with tears running down his face he kissed his mom on her cheek and backed away.  I did not say anything but put my hand on Mike’s shoulder and cried with him.  But then, after a few moments had passed, Ethel’s labored breathing became effortless and her clenched hands slowly opened revealing her palms as the skin on her forehead turned as smooth as a baby, it was really amazing to watch.  It must have been no more than another 5 minutes before Ethel just stopped breathing, finding what she needed to ultimately let go.
     Before driving away from the facility I sat in my car and reflected on what had just happened, realizing that my year of visits with her was over and that I lost a friend in a person that I had come to greatly value.  But I also reflected on Mike who lost his mom after having some type of reconciliation with her, while at the same time Ethel died in peace, her need for resolution over “you know, it’s always family” seems to taken place right before my eyes.  Now, although this part of Genesis is more so focused on Joseph, here in Parashat Vayigash, Jacob is once again intertwined into the larger story, and as with Ethel, speaks to “you know, it’s always family.”  Still, while we do not read about the end of Jacob’s life until next week, the ground-work for it begins this week.  As such, we last heard from Jacob in Genesis 37:35 when he was told that his son Joseph was dead, responding to this news “he refused to be comforted” by his family, vowing that he would “go down to the grave” mourning his son Joseph, and Jacob “wept for him.”  For the next 22 years Jacob was a prisoner to his grief and his pain, living what Rabbi Raphael Samson Hirsch calls a “dull monotonous life,” having no aim or purpose.  Then one day Jacob is approached by his sons who after returning from Egypt in search of grain say to their father in an almost a matter-of-fact way, יוֹסֵ֣ף חַ֔י וְכִֽי־ה֥וּא מֹשֵׁ֖ל בְּכָל־אֶ֣רֶץ מִצְרָ֑יִם, “Joseph is still alive; yes, he is ruler over the whole land of Egypt.” Jacob responds precisely like you think he might.  Cognitively his reaction is, כִּ֥י לֹא־הֶאֱמִ֖ין לָהֶֽם, “for he did not believe them,” but emotionally he responds, וַיָּ֣פָג לִבּ֔וֹ, “His heart went numb,” whereas spiritually it took a divine intervention from God who said to Jacob, “I Myself will go down with you to Egypt, and I Myself will also bring you back; and Joseph’s hand shall close your eyes,” what a beautiful picture of his son being there when he finally dies.  Reacting in his chaotic excitement Jacob says, בְּנִ֖י חָ֑י אֵֽלְכָ֥ה וְאֶרְאֶ֖נּוּ בְּטֶ֥רֶם אָמֽוּת, “My son Joseph is still alive! I must go and see him before I die.” Once that was Jacob’s mindset all bets were off, so he proclaimed per Ibn Ezra, רַב לִי זֹאת הַשָׂמֵחַה, “I am very Happy!”
     When Jacob came face to face (Vayigash, he approached) with Joseph after all those years we read in a Midrash,  “When my sons came to me, and told me that Joseph was dead, I cried out: ‘I am destined to die twice,’ but now that I see that you are alive, I am assured that I did not die, but only now will I die.” Hence he said: Now let me die” (Midrash Tanchuma, Vayigash 9:2).  It seems odd to me that he did not say “It is good to see you” or “I love you,” but only “Now let me die, since I have seen your face, that you are yet alive”  (Genesis 46:29).  Rashi interprets Jacobs words as “I had thought that I would die two deaths, in this world and also in the world to come, because the Divine Presence departed from me and I therefore thought that God would hold me responsible for your death. Now, since you are alive I will die only once, in this world” (Rashi on Genesis 46:29).  R’Hirsch sees Jacob’s response as a phrase of jubilation as he “felt himself at the zenith of possible happiness” and was now ready to end his life content with self-forgiveness real or imagined.  But for Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg it was more specific and in that moment of meeting “the anxiety that would not let Jacob die in peace” departed.  Not being able to resolve the pain of losing Joseph was like a death, hence dying twice, but knowing his son was alive made it that when the time comes to die, he was now ready.
     I never found out what took place between Ethel and Mike.  Yet on one hand whatever took place allowed her to die in peace, while on the other hand it was also a reminder to me that peace is much more than an end of life thing, or even yearly at Passover as we reflect on what keeps us “enslaved.”  Peace is a daily gift, for me expressed most meaningfully in the prayers called the Nessim shel Hayom (miracles of the day), or traditionally referred to as the Birkat HaShachar (morning blessings), a set 15 blessings that begin each day.  Of those blessings the one that I am still learning how to internalize and wrap by head around is, בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְהֹוָה אֱלֹהֵֽינוּ מֶֽלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם שֶׁעָשַׂנִי בֶּן חוֹרִין, which means; “Blessed are you Lord our God sovereign for the universe for making me to be free.”  It would be another 17 years before Jacob dies, and for me and you, who knows if it can be tomorrow or 30 years from now (if not more), but we do not have to wait for our death to be free of an unduly cluttered mind, emotions or spirit, which is why our mindfulness to Torah is so valuable.  Today, with this virus controlling our society, many of us feel like prisoners, isolated from loved ones and friends, our physical situation has caused many to lose a sense of personal freedom.  Freedom is elusive but attainable, something that we need to find and then keep guarded because it is precious.  There is much we can learn from this parsha, but I was reminded how free Ethel looked when she breathed her last breath as it made me also recall how free she was to live before she died.  For us freedom is something that we may never obtain the way we want, but neither are we at liberty to neglect searching for it (Perkei Avot 2:16).

Shabbat Shalom

Parashat Miketz - The Pit

רפואה מן התורה
Healing from the Torah

Parashat Miketz 

Genesis 44:1-44:17

By Rabbi Adam Ruditsky 

     Although I have many teachers. I’d say my two greatest teachers have been life and death.  Each though is like a pit, however.  The pit of life teaches me to be thankful for what I have, learning to let the ebb and flow of the good and the bad, the seen and the unseen, the expected and unexpected to teach me lessons that only life and its imperfections can produce.  The pit of death has taught me to appreciate those around me, seeing the beauty in another even if I encounter beauty differently, recognizing that sometimes it takes the absence of one to see the other.  But the pit of death has also taught me how that the power of regret and anger or guilt and fear (to name a few) can leave behind a residue that infiltrates the pit of life, keeping me if unaware with the sakes and scorpions that meander on the bottom.  For me, the reality of the pit either adds to my life or it keeps me a prisoner to my past that endeavors to siphon away the future which in the end will include my departure from one existence to the next.
     Regarding Joseph, who we began reading about last week, he also had such an experience, where the darkness of his days in a pit appear to end this week.  In Talmud, Tractate Shabbat, Joseph and Hanukkah are connected although at first glance appear as strange bed fellows.  In short, while Rashi says that the pit was empty of water it also contained snakes and scorpions, the Abarbanel disagreeing based on the fact that Reuven who intervened to save his brother would have never approved of such a tactic.  What made Joseph and Hanukkah connected according according to Talmud was the measurement of “twenty cubits,” or 30 feet.  If any lower you could not see the dangers of the pit, but if the Hanukkah menorah was any higher it could not be clearly seen.  With Hanukkah the lights glimmered in the darkness and for Joseph he emerged from the darkness of the pit, each its own miracle and perhaps why they coincide yearly.
     The parsha itself is basically divided into two stories; Joseph interpreting Pharaoh’s dreams and Joseph’s initial encounter with his brothers.  The dreams spoke to the abundance of today and the needs for tomorrow regarding provision and lack.  The first dream was about seven beautiful cows and seven emaciated cows, the latter eventually consuming the former.  The second was of seven healthy ears of corn and seven rotten ones, the latter causing the former ones to lose their health.  The interpretation was that there would be seven years of plenty followed by seven years of famine where the nation and the known world would have nothing.  Pharaoh then elevates Joseph from a mere Hebrew slave in jail to the second most powerful person to oversee this potential world crisis, thus Pharaoh said to him; “I am Pharaoh; yet without you, no one shall lift up hand or foot in all the land of Egypt” (Genesis41:44).
     But toward the end of the first story and before the second the redactor of Torah inserts a few verses about the birth of Joseph’s two sons, Manasseh and Ephraim, which seems to come out of nowhere, although it is really setting up Joseph’s encounter with his brothers (see Genesis 41:50-52).  While Rashi teaches, based on a Midrash (Bereishit Rabbah 34:7), that this info about the births was merely technical since according to Jewish law marital relations are forbidden during a famine, Rabbi Raphael Samson Hirsch says this highlights the fact that a Hebrew slave is the mentioned parent as opposed to his Egyptian wife Asenat, honoring the rise and person of Joseph. But Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg goes another way with this brief story. Zornberg ties Joseph’s physic-social, or behavior, to the names of his children and his past.  Manasseh, which means “God has made me forget completely my hardship and my parental home,” in its Midrashic sense is connected to “Torah learning” that for Zornberg relates to Joseph’s “native culture,” or connection to his family upbringing.  Ephraim is about Joseph’s “survival,” which celebrates his ascent as a ruler from his “terror of great darkness” that fueled his plight of injustice (from his brothers or falsely accused by Potiphar’s wife).  Nachum Sarna also teaches that the experiences that drove Joseph’s desire to name Manasseh is tied into his experiences of being raised in Canaan while Ephraim is a word play of the word,הִפְרַ֥נִי, hifrani,  which means “fertile,” Joseph seeing Ephraim as a gain from a doomed past, or a “blessing of abundant prosperity.”  Zornberg links this gain to “gratitude,” thus the word for forget, נַשַּׁנִי (nash’shani), not only means to “forget” but also “credit,” Robert Alter translating the meaning of Manasseh as “God has released me from all the debt of my hardship,” ultimately meaning that the two sons were like a credit gained from the past more so than simply forgetting it.  But Joseph will learn that being grateful for the future without a past would be like not looking beyond the plenty of today without preparing for the famine of tomorrow.
     The truth is that Joseph found himself in the pit of rejection when his brothers turned on him. He also found himself in the pit of injustice after being thrown into jail for something that he did not do.  But now Joseph was in another type of pit, the pit of an emotional prison, embracing his new future while seeking to extinguish the past, entering a pit that was much deeper than he realized.  According to Sarna Joseph’s “physical, social and psychological security” allowed him to “forget his miserable unhappy” past with great bravado.  Yet, once the seven years of plenty had passed the famine overtook the world, and in the same way after nine years of Joseph being in command he encountered his own emotional famine at the arrival of his brothers.  When Joseph first saw his brothers after 22 years his initial reaction was to recall his dreams (see Genesis 42:8), Rashi making the observation that this recall was aroused when they bowed before him as opposed to being part of his current thoughts (see Rashi on Genesis 42:8).  Likewise, although the Sfrono teaches that his brothers in that moment made the dreams come alive it became a reminder on a profound level that Joseph would take on the role as a redeemer that caused him to think hard about how he would react.  Regardless, appealing again to Sarna, Joseph was “caught in a maelstrom of emotions,” the brothers bowing before him did not remind him of his rulership and current meaningful purpose, but instead his “sense of contentment is shaken by unpleasant memories.”
     Pirkei Avot 3:1 teaches, “Know from where you come, and where you are going, and before whom you are destined to give an account and reckoning,” words of wisdom that we can apply to Joseph’s struggle.  He did not only want to forget where he came from and focus solely on where he was going, but in giving account both to himself and his greater values in God, he came to realize that the better choice was to not allow the pain of the past to have power over his choices for the future.  In the end his personal pit taught Joseph that if he stayed in it he remained stuck, and although by deed as opposed to words, Joseph rose above his past to honor the future by making sure his brothers got the grain they sought instead of the revenge they may have deserved.  The pit provides value or is nothing but a sieve.  The pits of life, and death, are inevitable, how they are encountered are determined by each of us, the Torah teaches to be wise in choosing.

Shabbat Shalom