At the URJ Torah website, we read Rabbi Lawrence Kushner's take on parashat Yitro (Exodus 18:1–20:23). In “In Your Face!” Ropczyce on Sinai, Rabbi Kushner writes:
What really happened up on Mount Sinai is, for Jews, the whole kazoo. Everything depends on it. Like similarly preposterous claims at the center of every religion, not only is Sinai logically impossible, but how you reconcile its paradox determines everything yet to follow.
Sinai is impossible for the simple and logical reason that the infinite cannot meet the finite without one of them getting destroyed. You may claim that God literally spoke and wrote the words on the tablets—in which case God effectively becomes finite. Or, you can resort to the poetry of MidrashTanchuma (s.v. B’reishit ), for example, and say God wrote the Torah in “black fire on white fire,” in which case, in order to read Torah, the reader must become infinite. But there’s more.
If God somehow could speak all those words and, therefore, what we have in the Torah is an infallible record of the divine will, then liberal Judaism not only is no longer viable, but is also a terrible mistake. If, on the other hand, the words are essentially human (for example, Moses was “inspired”), then the Torah has no more claim on our behavior than any other equally “inspired” literature and orthodoxy, and in turn, collapses. Neither option is acceptable. The trick is to find some way to maintain that somethingreallyhappened on Sinai but it is not literally what the Torah says. (Welcome to liberal Judaism.)
Fortunately we are not the first generation that has tried to solve this conundrum. The Chasidic master Naftali Tzvi Horowitz of Ropczyce ( 1760−1827) , in his Zera Kodesh (2:40a, Jerusalem, 1971) offers a dazzlingly relevant solution. (Note : The complete translation of this teaching appears in my book, The Way into Jewish Mystical Tradition [ Woodstock, VT: Jewish Lights Publishing, 2000].) The Ropczycer begins his teaching by citing Sh’mot Rabbah (29:2), where “I am Adonai your God” (Exodus 20:2) is set against “ Adonai spoke with you face to face” (Deuteronomy 5:4). Rabbi Levi went on to suggest that what happened on Sinai was (in essence) cardiac surgery: the Shem Ham’forash —the Tetragrammaton, the Ineffable Name of God, the four-letter Name yod, hei,vav,hei —was inscribed on our hearts.
Rabbi Naftali Tzvi Horowitz then continues with a teaching he heard from his own master, Rabbi Mendl Torum of Rymanov (d. 1815). He taught that at Sinai we did not hear the whole Torah or even the ten utterances! All we heard there from God was the first letter of the first word of the first utterance: alef , “ I [ anochi— first letter alef ] am Adonai your God . . .” (Exodus 20:2). But alef , as the master historian of Kabbalah, Gershom Scholem, points out, is technically not silent ( On the Kabbalah and Its Symbolism [New York: Schocken Books, 1965], p. 30). Instead, it is the noise of the larynx clicking into gear and therefore the mother of all articulate speech. It may also just be the softest audible noise in the universe. In other words, while it may not have been very loud, there was indeed something to hear.
The Ropczycer continues: We can now also resolve the apparent contradiction between Deuteronomy 4:15, “You saw no image when Adonai your God spoke to you at Horeb [Sinai] from out of the fire” (i.e., there was nothing to see!), and Deuteronomy 5:4, “ Adonai spoke with you face to face at the mountain from out of the fire” (i.e., something was visible). At Sinai, in other words, we couldn’t see God, but we did see God’s voice!
We also have a numerical connection, suggests the Ropczycer, between the yod,hei,vav,hei Name of God and the letter alef . The letter alef is constructed of two letter yod s (the tenth letter of the alphabet) on either side of the letter vav (the sixth letter) joining them in the middle. These two 10s and one 6 make a total of 26, just as the four-letter Name of God, yod (10), hei (5), vav (6), and hei (5), also totals 26! In kabbalistic studies this is indeed a very, very important number.
(Sephardic Jews, by the way, know nothing of our Ashkenazic preoccupation with the number 18—drawn from the word for “life,” chai , 18, chet [8] and yod [10]. Instead, they chose the far more spiritually mysterious 26. Just imagine how much more money they must give to t’zedakah !)
This number 26, in turn, says Naftali Tzvi Horowitz, also evokes a human face. Our two eyes resemble two letter yod s, and the nose between them looks like a letter vav . In other words, on every human face there is a letter alef , which in turn evokes 26, and we all know what that signifies.
This further explains the odd passage in Genesis 1:27 that states that we are created in the image of God. Thus, while God can have no image, God can and does have a Name, and the facial alef engraved on everyone’s punim (two eyes and a nose) has the same numerical equivalent, 26, as God’s Name, yod, hei, vav and hei ! Indeed, as we are instructed by the Psalmist, “I set the [Name of] Adonai before me continually” (Psalm 16:8) may mean simply to look at one another!
And, therefore, when our Sages spoke of this keeping God ever before you as a great principle of the Torah, they meant that when we stood at Sinai and heard only the barely audible sound of alef , the shape of the letter alef was simultaneously also revealed to us as being smack dab in the middle of each other’s faces. And just that is the great revelation.
This also explains, while we’re at it, the cryptic expression in Exodus 20:15 that literally reads: “And all the people saw the thunder.” In other words, they saw what was normally only heard. We all saw the letter alef evoking the Name of God. And at that moment we also all saw and understood that this letter was also engraved in the physiology of our own faces!
In other words, the voice of God that we heard was actually the Name of God we saw—on one another’s faces. And just that alef , the first letter, is a Torah seed of Sinai.
Rabbi Lawrence Kushner is the Emanu-El Scholar at Congregation Emanu-El of San Francisco. He is the author of several books on Jewish spirituality including a new novel, Kabbalah: A Love Story (New York: Morgan Road Books, 2006).
February 7, 2007
January 31, 2007
Exodus Beshallach:
Rabbi Marc Wolf writes this JTS Torah Commentary on Parashat B'shallach (Exodus 13:17 – 17:16).
In his parashah commentary several weeks ago on the beginning of the book of Exodus, our Chancellor–elect Arnold Eisen shared what I consider one of my favorite texts. Taken from Pesikta d'Rav Kehana, the text uses as its catalyst the manna we encounter in this week's parashah. The midrash teaches that each person tasted the manna differently. Even more so, everyone received the sustenance they needed from the divine bread. Infants and the elderly, for example, each tasted what they had the capacity to consume. In the midrash, Rabbi Levi makes an empowering juxtaposition between this week's encounter with the manna and the revelation on Sinai we read about next Shabbat. When God spoke, each Israelite commented: "Revelation came to me. 'I am the Lord your (plural) God' was not said, rather, 'I am the Lord your (singular) God' was said "(12:25).
Focusing on the use of the second–person singular pronoun employed by the first commandment, Rabbi Levi learns that the revelation on Sinai was directed individually to each person present. The verse could have easily made use of the plural eloheichem, and the first commandment would have been directed at the entirety of the people, but instead the verse uses elohekha, establishing a personalized relationship. While both words translate as "your God," the simple switch of pronoun creates an entirely different relationship between each Israelite and God.
The manna has served as fodder for countless midrashim, but keeping on the current theme, I would like to share one from the Sefat Emet — Rabbi Yehudah Aryeh Lev from Ger. First, let's take a look at the verse from the parashah:" And the Lord said to Moses: 'I will rain down bread for you from the sky, and the people shall go out and gather each day that day's portion — that I may thus test them, to see whether they will follow My instructions or not' " (16:4).
Through the verse, the children of Israel are instructed to satisfy their needs with the bread God will provide from the sky. They are instructed specifically to gather solely for that day's need — and no more — which all foreshadows the upcoming instructions on gathering two portions on Friday in preparation for Shabbat. The Gerer Rebbe focuses on the latter half of the verse introducing the manna, specifically, the instruction to gather the manna once a day. Reading the Hebrew torati not as "my instruction," but as literally "my Torah" he writes: "Each day that day's portion — I will test them if they will follow [the same] with my Torah: This comes to teach us that the Torah is always self–renewing. ... This is 'each day that day's portion' — the renewal that God creates every day in nature is preparation for Torah."
The manner in which nature renews itself on a daily basis is training us — and can be seen as the blueprint for the renewal of Torah. Just as each day the manna renewed itself, so, too, must we renew our understanding of Torah. The natural imagery is moving. As the sun rises and sets, and the seasons change, we must discover and rediscover our relationship with our sacred text.
We cannot imagine the impact that this simple directive had on the newly freed slaves. Only steps from Egypt, their lives had changed in so many ways, and their deprogramming had begun. To transform from slaves under the thumb of Pharaoh to a free people uncovered so many habits they had to relearn — beginning with their conception of daily survival. To be told that whatever food they collected would be enough to satisfy their needs — to be told that there is a day of the week where they would not have to work — are revelations in and of themselves. These simple directives are their first forays into freedom — and they are meant to prepare them for their relationship with Torah.
Have we internalized this lesson? Have we as a people truly embraced our sacred texts and renewed them for our lives? The manna is sustenance not only for those wandering in the desert, but for us today.
There is a Hassidic story of a student who approaches his rebbe and questions the annual cycle of the Torah reading. He asks, "Rebbe — I don't understand, every year we return to synagogue and read the same words over and over. It never changes." The rebbe gives what I imagine must have been a knowing smile and replies, "Yes, the Torah never changes, but you do."
As our year progresses and we move closer to Sinai with each week of our Torah reading, the importance of focusing on not only the meaning of revelation, but also its method, becomes evident. Each clue the text provides — each carefully chosen word, phrase, or ambiguity creates endless theological keys to understanding our relationship with God and Torah.
January 23, 2007
Exodus: Bo: Do You Believe the Exodus Happened?
Rabbi H. Rafael Goldstein, Vice President/Jewish Affairs of Jewish Family and Children’s Service of Phoenix, AZ, and the rabbi of Congregation Kolot in Irvine, CA, wrote this for the Bay Area Jewish Healing Center about Parashat Bo (Exodus 10:1-13:16).A few months ago, we looked at the three distinct Creation stories in the Bible – the story of the seven days of creation, Adam and Eve, and Noah. These stories are allegories: stories that teach important lessons and values and are the basis for our religious beliefs and traditions, but they are not science or history. Jewish tradition has always looked at these stories with the understanding that they are theology, attempts to understand our relationship with G!d and the universe.
This week, we continue reading about the Exodus from Egypt – the Ten Plagues which G!d used to attain the liberation of the Hebrew slaves in Egypt. But many people have asked whether we believe the story of the Ten Plagues or the Crossing of the Red Sea are historically accurate; can they be scientifically proven? Is the Exodus from Egypt an allegory, just like the creation stories? Since there is a lack of archeological evidence proving the Exodus, did it happen?
The problem for me is one of belief. Do I really need to have proof to believe in something? Quite the contrary: it seems to me that if I have proof, I don’t need to believe. Does belief imply a foolish lack of care with regard to veracity of the belief; is belief blind? Is it naïve to believe in the miraculous experience of the Ten Plagues, and the parting of the Red Sea, and to think that miracles could happen in other ways at other times? Does it make a difference if I believe in G!d, but not that G!d could do, or did, the miracles associated with the Exodus from Egypt?
The Exodus is the # 1 most important event in Jewish history. Just about everything is related to it. We were slaves in Egypt; we were strangers in a strange land; we know what oppression is; we know what miraculous liberation is. As a result of the Exodus from Egypt, we are unified as a people, and become the people who struggle with G!d and Torah, which we could only receive as a result of leaving Egypt. We are reminded that G!d brought us out of the land of Egypt to be our G!d, to give us the mitzvot, (acts of commandment which are to our spiritual benefit to do), to make us people who connect with G!d through our tradition. Because G!d brought us out of Egypt, we are supposed to honor our parents, not murder or kidnap, and recognize the validity of all of the other rules by which we are supposed to live. Everything we do as Jews is based on this unique experience of G!d being involved in this one-time event.
What was the purpose of the Ten Plagues? To convince Pharaoh to let our people go? But that doesn’t make sense. If G!d wanted to get Pharaoh to do something, anything, all G!d had to do was zap him. Pharaoh couldn’t be the goal. Was it the Egyptians, then? Once again, that’s not likely. The purpose of the plagues was to enable the entire people of Israel to understand and see a connection to a powerful, caring and involved G!d. The plagues were not about Pharaoh or the Egyptians; they are about us and G!d. Our ancestors, living in Goshen had not had any contact with G!d for nearly 400 years, since the time of Joseph - no phone calls, emails, letters, nothing. They didn’t know from G!d. The Ten Plagues were a crash course introducing G!d, our G!d, not the Egyptian Pharaoh, who thought he was G!d, to our people and to us.
We are supposed to see ourselves as if we personally left Egypt, as if we personally experienced these miracles, so that we can and will see G!d involved in our lives, and caring and about us. That’s really hard to do at the same time as we deny that it happened!
So, did it happen? Or did something happen, but not what is described in the Bible? Or, if something did happen, why is there no proof? I believe the proof is in the question – in the fact that 4,000 or so years later we’re still arguing about it. No matter how we answer this question, there will be other people with lots of other approaches to understanding what it means to consider this unique example of G!d’s intervention in the world. I believe it happened not because there is archeological or historical or scientific evidence of it, but because there is religious evidence: we are here and Judaism is derived from this experience of leaving Egypt. This experience is how we know G!d, how G!d was revealed to each of us, when we left Egyptian bondage.
There is a connection between the allegories of creation and the Ten Plagues. All are stories of miraculous involvement of G!d in the world. But the Exodus from Egypt goes beyond story, beyond allegory, right to the heart of what we believe we are and what we are supposed to do being who we are.
May it be Your will, Holy One of Blessing, to enable us to see Your involvement in our own lives and the lives of all humanity. May we see ourselves as if we personally struggled with slavery in Egypt, and learn from that experience to trust in Your compassion to lead us from our own personal darkness into the light. As You were there for us in our worst of times as a people, so may You also be there for each of us in our darkest hours, and in our most joyous moments.
January 16, 2007
Va'era: The Four Steps of Liberation
Rabbi Toba Spitzer, in The Four Steps of Liberation, writes about Parashat Vaera (Exodus 6:2-9:35):If we can speak of a Jewish "liberation theology," then its roots lie here, in Parashat Va'era, in God's second revelation to Moshe. Their first encounter took place at Mt. Horeb, when God introduced Godself to the reluctant prophet by means of a burning bush. Now Moshe has returned to the land of his birth, the land of Egypt/Mitzrayim, where his people suffer the burdens of slavery. Here the Ultimate is introduced once again:
"I am YHVH. I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as El Shaddai, but I did not make Myself known to them by My name YHVH…" (Exodus 6:2-3).
On first reading, this is quite a strange statement. This particular name of God, YHVH (the unpronounceable, ineffable Name), was used quite liberally throughout the book of Genesis, and in fact this is the name that God uses during that first encounter with Moshe at the bush! Certainly the patriarchs, and Moshe himself, were familiar with this particular name of God?
Rashi, the early medieval commentator, notes that the phrase lo nodati, translated here as "I did not make Myself known," should actually be read as "I did not become known." Rashi suggests that what is at issue here is not a particular epithet for God, but an aspect of Godliness that did not "become known" until this moment. Something is being revealed here to Moshe that has never been revealed before.
The first thing we notice is that the fullness of this name "YHVH" becomes known in the heart of that paradigmatic place of exile and oppression: the land of Mitzrayim. A name that incorporates within it a timeless yet dynamic sense of Was/Is/Will Be, a name that denotes Becoming and Possibility, is revealed to Moshe as part of a message about the nature of oppression and liberation. The message continues:
"I have now heard the moaning of the Israelites because the Egyptians are holding them in bondage, and I have remembered My covenant. Say, therefore, to the Israelite people: I am YHVH. I will take you out from the labors of the Egyptians, and deliver you from their bondage. I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and with great judgments, and I will take you to be My people, and I will be your God." (Exodus 6:5-7)
God here outlines for Moshe four stages in the process of liberation. There are many ways to understand these stages. To be "taken out" could refer to being removed—or removing oneself—physically from an oppressive situation. Hasidic commentators have noted that the first stage in the Israelites' redemption was actually their outcry to God—that until that point, they were so subjugated that they were not even aware of their own oppression. To be "taken out" could thus also refer to an ability to even understand that one is oppressed, that there is the possibility of being removed from the bondage one suffers.
To be "delivered" may refer to a personal process of dealing with internalized oppression. Here we see the importance of not only removing oneself from the physical situation of oppression, but of removing the internal obstacles to liberation that keep us enslaved.
But liberation cannot remain on the level of the individual. Even if I am successful in achieving some measure of freedom for myself, whether physically and/or psychically, the oppressive situation remains. "Redemption" then refers to a larger process of working with others to address the cause of oppression, to begin to root out those factors that contribute to any type of enslavement or degradation.
But still, it does not end there—for the Israelites were not only freed from slavery, they were freed for the holy work of serving the Ultimate. "And I will take you to be My people" points towards the ultimate goal of our personal and communal freedom: to choose service to that which has ultimate value, beyond the limited human goals of wealth, power, and self-aggrandizement. To serve the Power of Becoming, the Source of Possibility, means envisioning and working to create a world where physical well-being and spiritual fulfillment are possible for every inhabitant of the earth.
To be "taken to" God's service is to embrace the Possibility of Becoming, to be able to see beyond the constraints of this historical moment, with all of its violence and ongoing oppressions, towards a place of liberation. To know God, according to this text, is to experience the reality of moving from a state of slavery to one of freedom. And this is a communal endeavor, the text makes clear: it is not enough to just free myself.
This piece of God's message ends with the words: "And you shall know that I am YHVH your God, who took you out from under the bondage of Mitzrayim." We come back to what it means to know Godliness in a new way. Through the unfolding experience of liberation, the Israelites will come to truly know God, will have a new awareness of and connection to the Source of Life.
God becomes known in that place where all of us can be free.
Rabbi Toba Spitzer is the Spiritual Director of Congregations Dorshei Tzedek in Newton, MA. This commentary was provided courtesy of Socialaction.com, the online Jewish resource for repairing the world.
January 3, 2007
Genesis Va-yechi: Farewell to Jacob, Farewell to Months
On the URJ website, Rabbi Zoë Klein's Farewell to Jacob, Farewell to Months brings meaning to this week’s parasha Va-y'chi (Genesis 47:28−50:26):As we reach the end of the secular year, our Torah portion too is full of endings. It is the end of the Book of Genesis, the very last portion, and in it we read of the end of Jacob's life, as well as the end of Joseph's life. As Jacob is laying on his deathbed, he turns and sees each of his children and musters up the energy to say a few final words to each of them. With much imagery, he tries to sum up the character of his boys, and the truth is, most of them are not really that great. Reuben had an affair with one of his father's wives. Simeon and Levi killed thousands of men. The brothers threw Joseph into the pit, sold him into slavery, and then told their father he had been torn to shreds by a wild beast.
According to Rabbinic legend (Babylonian Talmud, Pesach 56a), as Jacob was on his deathbed, his twelve sons gathered around him as summoned. Jacob looked at the faces of the sons enwreathing him and realized that this one was violent and this one was self-serving and this one was a sinner and this one was weak and this one was brazen. "How can I leave this world, Jacob thought, "with my sons so misguided and divided! The dying patriarch began to cry, imagining what would happen once he was gone, how faith in the God of Isaac and Abraham would probably die with him. His youngest son, Benjamin, sensing his father's anguish, leaned close and whispered to him, " Sh'ma Yisrael , hear Israel, hear Jacob, listen Father, Adonai Eloheinu . Despite how it seems, be assured, Adonai is our God; we do believe, Adonai Echad , ‘God is One,' and we are one. We are together no matter where our paths lead us, Father; we are a family, and we are one. Jacob's soul was immediately soothed. He turned to Benjamin and whispered gratefully to God about his youngest son, Baruch shem kavod malchuto l'olam va-ed , "Blessed be his kingdom forever and ever.
When we recite Sh'ma , we remember this Torah portion. We close our eyes and, behind our lids, imagine approaching Jacob's bed. He is softly weeping. The color is drained from his face. His hair is a cloud of ice crystals evaporating in cool mist in the sun. His bed is as an altar. Hosts of dust angels sail through the shafts of pink and gold sunlight, somersaulting in his shallow breath. We come near and kneel beside him, hands lightly on the thin sheet over his angular body. We begin our prayer . . . Shhhhh . . . and his weeping subsides. Sh'ma Yisrael . . . listen Israel . . . we remind him that his name is Israel and that we carry on that strong namesake. Yes, there will be obstacles. Yes, there will be opponents. But we are all wrestlers, and we have faith in the same Source.
Parallels have been drawn between Jacob's twelve sons and the twelve months of the year, and out of the imagery of Jacob's words, symbols or flags of each of the tribes, corresponding to zodiac signs for each month, have been developed through literature and art. Like birthstones, each tribe is assigned a precious stone embedded into the breastplate of the High Priest.
In keeping with our patriarch, who looked around him at his end at his twelve boys and said a word of farewell to each of them, we too look around at the twelve months that have passed and give them our final testament and farewell. How were the past months like the tribes of Israel?
Jacob says to Reuben, "Boil up like water no more (Genesis 49:4). How was our past year unstable, like water ready to boil? What are the powers that overtook us, the temptations to which we submitted and that we'd have boil up no more?
To Simeon and Levi: "Cursed is their wrath so fierce (49:7). What were the faces of wrath we encountered this year in our own circles and in the world? Do we recall the flags of Israel and the United States burning in the Middle East? How have we assuaged our own prejudices and wrath? To Judah: "Your brothers shall heap praise on you (49:8). How have we earned the praise and respect of our family this year?
To Zebulun Jacob says, "He will be a harbor for ships (49:13). We pray that our homes and our synagogues become a harbor for ships, that we are drawn safely into port at the close of tiresome days, that we find peace in the twelve moons to come and many, many moons more.
To Issachar: "He bent his shoulder to the burden, to be subjected to forced labor (49:15). How have we handled the burdens in our lives? When have we followed, and when have we led?
To Dan: "Dan will lead his people's cause (49:16). How this year have we led our people's cause? How have we participated to make our own voices heard in the issues that matter most? Have we written letters, attended rallies, generated petitions . . . or have we allowed ourselves to believe we cannot make a difference? How have our houses of worship helped us to organize and advocate for tikkun olam ?
To Gad: "Gad shall be raided by raiders (49:19). This year we saw Israel raided. How do we continue to reach out and facilitate the creation of an infrastructure of peace in the land we hold so dear? To Asher: "Asher—his food is fat (49:20). To feed our consumptive American appetites, whom have we raided? Have we paid enough attention to those who work in darkness and dread to provide the luxuries we take for granted?
To Naphtali: "Naphtali, a mountain-ewe born, bears lovely lambs in the folds (49:21). What were the loveliest things in which you participated this past year? To Benjamin: "Benjamin is a wolf that rends (49:27). What have we raided this year? Have we been generous with others this year, and when have we thought only of ourselves?
Finally, to Joseph, Jacob says, "Joseph is a wild she-ass's son (49:22). When during this past year have we behaved as a mensch? And when, quite frankly, have we been, well, um . . . a donkey?
Rabbi Zoë Klein is a rabbi at Temple Isaiah, Los Angeles, California. A book of her poetry, House Plant Meadow , will be published this year by David R. Godine, and she is the author of a chapter in The Women's Haftarah Commentary (Woodstock, VT: Jewish Lights Publishing, 2004)December 23, 2006
Vayigash: To Save A Life
Rabbi Rifat Soncino writes To Save a Life about parashat Vayigash (Genesis 44:18−47:27).
In this week’s Torah portion, Vayigash , we have the dramatic self-disclosure of Joseph. In a remarkable scene, one of the greatest in biblical literature, Joseph, now an important official in the Egyptian administration, reassures his brothers that there is no need for them to be distressed because they had sold him to foreigners. It was, he added, God’s providential act that brought him to Egypt for a lifesaving purpose: "It was to save lives [ l’michyah ] that God sent me ahead of you" (Genesis 45:5).
In addition to some linguistic problems, this verse raises an important theological issue that needs to be probed. We should also ask, what can we learn from this text?
Terminology
First, we encounter the term michyah. It is a rare word, found only a few times in the Bible: twice in Judges (6:4, 17:10), twice in Ezra (9:8, 9:9), and once in II Chronicles ( 14:12). It also appears twice in Leviticus ( 13:10, 13:24). Basically it means "place of life" (from the root chayah ) and is usually translated as "sustenance" or "food." However, in Leviticus it means "raw flesh" ( michyat basar chai , translated as "a patch of undiscolored flesh" in W. Gunther Plaut, ed., The Torah: A Modern Commentary , rev. ed. [ New York: URJ Press, 2005], p. 737). Some scholars have suggested that l’michyah in Genesis 45 should be emended to m’chayeh , as in Adonai meimit um’chayeh , "The Eternal deals death and gives life" (cf. I Samuel 2:6). But there is no need to go to such an extreme. Given the other uses, whether early or late, the expression l’michyah can stand on its own and can be rendered as "for life preservation," "to save life," or "to preserve life," as in, "It was to save lives that God sent me ahead of you."
In our verse, Joseph does not identify whose life he is saving. Is it his father’s, the Egyptians’, those in his homeland? Joseph is more specific two verses down when he states, "God sent me ahead of you to assure your survival . . ." (Genesis 45:7). Now we know. Joseph was sent to Egypt to save his entire family.
The Extent of Our Free Will
Beyond the linguistic issue, the theological assumption behind the text raises difficulties for us. In the Joseph narrative, as in many other parts of the Bible, we see that the hand of God is present not only in miraculous interventions, but also in everyday life. The brothers may have had a certain scheme in mind regarding Joseph, but God has a different preordained plan for them. Joseph is only a tool in God’s hands; he is to become a lifesaver.
For us, this raises the question of free will: if God knows what we will do and, in fact, controls our actions, how can we be free and, therefore, responsible? The Bible does not deal with this issue systematically. On the one hand it states, "I set before you this day life and prosperity, death and adversity" (Deuteronomy 30:15), but on the other, it maintains that "many designs are in a man’s mind, but it is the Eternal’s plan that is accomplished" (Proverbs 19:21). This became a matter of great concern for the early Rabbis and Jewish philosophers later on.
Some recognized the dilemma but left it unsolved. For example, Rabbi Akiba taught: "All is foreseen, yet [free] choice is given" ( Pirkei Avot 3:15; trans. Leonard Kravitz and Kerry M. Olitzky, eds., Pirke Avot [New York: UAHC Press, 1993], p. 46). In medieval times some Jewish philosophers attempted to provide an answer. Chasdai Crescas (1340−1410), for example, argued that God has total foreknowledge and consequently humans are not free. On the other hand, Gersonides ( Levi ben Gershon, 1288−1344) maintained that we have some freedom because God has foresight only of things in general. In Guide for the Perplexed (2:48), Maimonides compromised by saying that everything has a cause, and therefore, God is ultimately responsible for our actions. So when we think we are doing something freely, we act without realizing the workings of divine providence, which are unknowable to the human mind. Maybe Maimonides is right. We do not understand fully how the world operates; we act with the assumption that we have some free will. In reality, we have much less control than we think we do.
The Message
What can we learn from our biblical text? For John Walton, a biblical commentator, the message is that God is able to bring some good out of evil (John H. Walton, The NIV Application Commentary [Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2001], p. 696). Etz Hayim: Torah and Commentary has an insightful comment about this verse: "God could not prevent the brothers from choosing to do something cruel. God’s role was to sustain Joseph and guide him to bring something good and life affirming out of the unfairness inflicted on him" ( Etz Hayim, ed. David L. Lieber [ Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 2001], p. 276).
For me the message of our text is this: Just as Joseph becomes a lifesaver, we too should become, in the elegant rendition of Speiser, "an instrument of survival" (Ephraim A. Speiser, Genesis , The Anchor Bible [New York: Random House, 1964], p. 336). We must continue to find a way to bring michyah to others through our care, compassion, and empathy.
Here, "to others" is as important as the word michyah. Regrettably, there are some societal forces today that keep us away from this concern. All too often, given the modern trend to turn inward, we forget our duties to others. By incorporating the teachings of popular Kabbalah in our daily life, by displaying a lukewarm passion for Israel, by packing our liturgy with prayers of personal piety, by downgrading our commitment to tikkun olam and to others, we have turned our spirituality into a narcissistic behavior that aims to benefit ourselves, rarely others. But remember, our text says, "It was to save lives [ l’michyah ] that God sent me ahead of you [ lifneichem ]."
May God give us the strength and courage to use our limited freedoms wisely and forcefully so as to become lifesavers, bringing sustenance, both physical and spiritual, to ourselves as well as to others.
Rabbi Rifat Sonsino, Ph.D., is rabbi emeritus of Temple Beth Shalom, in Needham, Massachusetts, and a member of the theology department at Boston College.
December 18, 2006
Miketz: Life as Both Transportable and Rooted
Rabbi Nancy H. Wiener writes about Miketz (Genesis 41:1 −44:17) on the URJ's Reform Voices of Torah website.As the famine persists, Jacob’s sons realize that they must return to Egypt for additional provisions. Jacob is reluctant to send his sons back. He is fearful for their lives and uncertain about their safe return. As they prepare to leave, they inform their father of their need to take their youngest brother, Benjamin, with them. When he refuses, his sons tell him of their dealings with the Egyptian viceroy. In the course of the conversation, Jacob learns that his sons had, indeed, told the viceroy of their younger brother who remained in Canaan with their father. Jacob is angry and wants to know what prompted them to do this. His sons explain that the viceroy barraged them with questions, and they chose not to lie. They told the viceroy two things about their family: their father was alive, and their younger brother remained in Canaan with their father. Finally, with assurances from Judah that he would be responsible for Benjamin’s well-being and safety, Jacob advises his sons about what to take with them and what to bring as gifts for the viceroy.
Noteworthy are Jacob’s instructions in Genesis 43:11: K’chu mizimrat haaretz bichleichem , "Take from among the land’s choice products in your bags."Most of the commentators say the phrase mizimrat haaretz refers to things of a quality worthy of praise or "melody," zemer. Rashi notes that in the Targum this is rendered as "that which is praised in the land,"and he adds, "that about which people sing its praise [ m’zamrim ] when it comes into existence"(A. M. Silbermann, Chumash with Rashi’s Commentary : Bereishit [Jerusalem: Feldheim, 1934], p. 214). The root word zemer,zayin−mem−reish , coupled with the last word of the phrase, bichleichem , raises the possibility of an interesting double entendre. While bichleichem can be understood as referring to their gear or luggage, an alternate translation is "with [or in] their instruments."A translation of the phrase might focus on Jacob saying to his sons, "Take with you [from] the melody of the land along with your instruments."
Jacob’s sons are going to foreign territory, so he wants to be sure that they take their own cultural heritage with them. While they can produce any kind of music on their instruments, their father instructs them to take the song of their land with them, first and foremost.
"Take the song of the land along with your instruments."Jacob, perhaps, understands that songs are, at one and the same time, transportable and rooted. Centuries later, the exiles in Babylonia would have benefited from this insight as they sat by the waters of Babylon lamenting, "How can we sing God’s song in a foreign land?"(Psalm 137:4).
At a nursing home where I used to work, we had services every Friday afternoon for Kabbalat Shabbat. The residents, in their varying degrees of physical and mental decline, were wheeled into the room we used for services. People who were unable to participate in conversations, as well as people who were unable to orient themselves to person, place, or time, were able to connect to the music of prayer and sing along . The words, the tunes, were a part of them, and as their lips moved, a light of recognition and connection shone in their eyes and in their faces. They were in that moment of music and, at the same time, so far removed from it that it would have been impossible to call them back. As Debbie Friedman’s interpretation of Reb Nachman of Bratzlav’s prayer expresses it, all would sing their souls through the long-familiar Ur tunes of their lives.
Perhaps Jacob sends his sons off with their instruments and these instructions because he wants to ensure that they will not lose their connection to the songs of their land, their people. If they continue to play them, they will long for their country and their families and dream of their own safe return. Or, perhaps, Jacob is intrigued by the conversation that his sons related to him. Who is this man in Egypt who asked specifically about his sons’ father and brother, this man who inquired about whether or not their father was still alive? The questions were certainly unusual, particularly coming from a man of such stature. Perhaps if his sons go down to Egypt and play their instruments and sing the song of the land from which they come, this man will respond positively. Perhaps they will evoke some chord of recognition and pleasure in him. Perhaps they will reveal his true nature.
Rabbi Leizer survived the death camps and returned to his hometown, Czenstochow, Poland. For years following the Shoah, he roamed the streets playing a hand organ. At regular intervals, amid the numerous tunes he played, he would intentionally play Kol Nidrei . As he did so, he would look into the eyes of the children who walked by, looking for a hint of recognition. In this way, he was able to bring many children back in contact with their people (as told in Corinne da Fonseca-Wolheim, "The Soul Breath of Kol Nidre," Jewish World Digest , September 20, 2006).
All of us have had the experience of hearing a tune that we have not heard in a long time and finding ourselves transported back to a time and place long removed from our current circumstances. Some tunes, some notes, resonate so deeply that they evoke a profound sense of coming home or being at home. They bring tears to our eyes and give us an intense sense of belonging.
What are the tunes that speak to our lives? Are they the songs that reveal who we are?
Rabbi Nancy H. Wiener, D.Min., is clinical director of the Jacob and Hilda Blaustein Center for Pastoral Counseling and adjunct professor of Pastoral Care and Counseling at HUC-JIR, New York. She is also the rabbi of the Pound Ridge Jewish Community, a Reform chavurah , in Pound Ridge, New York.
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