Temple Torat Yisrael

This week is called Shabbat Zachor, the Shabbat in which the maftir aliyah begins with the word, in the imperative form, "remember!"  In the context of the verses from Deuteronomy that comprise this aliyah, we are enjoined to remember . . . in order to never emulate . . . the unethical acts of Amalek perpetrated against the most vulnerable of the wandering Israelites in the wilderness.  In this context, it is collective memory that provides a spiritual background and ethical standard for the choices we make as a people.

This past Yom Kippur, I examined the nature of remembering on a personal level.  I share with you an excerpt from my sermon on Remembering.  You can read the entire sermon by clicking here.

My mother, as some of you know, had a profound cognitive dementia that expressed itself most strikingly in a complete loss of short term memory.  As this condition rooted itself in my mother's mind, I began to appreciate what short term memory means to us on a day to day basis:

I moved my parents to the Renaissance Unit of Tamarisk (that’s the Alzheimer’s / Dementia unit) in March of 2005.  Tamarisk was a godsend for my parents, and gave my brother, my aunt and uncle and me real peace of mind about the way they were cared for every single day. As I watched my parents try to orient themselves in their new surroundings at Tamarisk, the void left in their personalities by the absence of their short term memories screamed out to me.  My mother walked around in a constant state of agitation.  She did not know where she was.  She did not remember how she got there.  She could not recognize any of the people around her unless my brother, my aunt (her sister) or I were visiting.  For all my mother knew, she was locked up in a place that had no identifiable location.  It must have been like living in a Kafka novel. 

Every single time I went to see her, which was pretty much daily in the beginning, my mother would ask "how did you know where to find me?" and "when am I going home?" and "how long are you staying?" (she thought I was visiting from Israel.). Without her short-term memory, my mother was unable to orient herself in the world or come up with a plausible script in her head that would give her peace of mind.  My father was becoming increasingly frail and was walking unsteadily.  I discussed a certain kind of physical therapy for him called "gait training" that helps the elderly walk more securely.  My parents’ geriatric psychiatrist explained why it was no use:  "we need our short term memory in order to learn.  Your father has no short term memory so there is no way for him to participate in the progressive learning that gait training requires." that insight was like a physical blow.  He can't learn anymore... one of the joys of my father’s life had been learning.

 My mother's prolonged struggle to orient herself in an incomprehensible world demonstrated to me that remembering is not just an intellectual exercise, it is the only way we can know who we are.  The early rabbinic sage Hillel asked in Mishnah Avot:  אם אין אני לי מי לי?  (Im ein ani li mi li?)

This is most often translated: "If I am not for myself, who will be for me?". I would like to posit a different, to my mind, deeper more meaningful translation: "If I am not 'me' to myself, who am I to me?". If I cannot recognize myself, orient myself in the most basic way because my short term memory has abandoned me, than I truly do not know who I am.

Then there is my Aunt Gladys.  In life and in death there were never two sisters so profoundly different and so emotionally close to each other than my mother and her sister.  They were each others’ best friends. 

Advancing age robbed my mother of her memory.  Advancing age prompted my aunt to revel in memories.  Gladys was the family archivist, social historian and repository of all our best family stories.  That she was a bit of a revisionist when it came to her stories bothered no one, for Gladys' version was consistently more entertaining and more reflective of her world view (or her sense of humor) than the actual course of events.  She'd pull a comic huff when we'd call her bluff and then laugh her huge, life-embracing laugh. Gladys was very attached to her memories and no one held a grudge better or longer than Gladys if anyone offended or hurt any of her "loved ones."

There was something ritualistic and even liturgical in Gladys' storytelling.  She instinctually understood that she was passing down the heritage and founding legends of our family when she would tell us (for the umpteenth time) about how my quiet, modest grandfather closed up his candy store, put on his hat and went to see the neighborhood priest when some local kids called him a Kike. "And believe me," Gladys would conclude, "that priest made sure that never happened again!" Another seminal family story that Gladys loved to relate was how she and her girlfriends would play mah Jong in our apartment when my brother and I were little so my parents could go out, and how they'd wake me up (because I was fun and cute) take me out of my crib and feed me junk food until just before our parents came home...then they'd pop me back in my crib and I'd go off to sleep just like a little angel just in the nick of time. 

Though I doubted the historical accuracy of these tales, I never tired of listening to Gladys relate them time and time again.  They were a verbal hug, an affirmation of my roots and my identity, and the death of their storyteller has left a huge gap in my life.  Hillel went on to ask:

וכשאני לעצמי, מה אני?   (U'chshe'ani l'atzmi, mah ani?)

And when I am for myself, what am I?  The common translation poses a traditional challenge to narcissism. But I can read my aunt's wisdom about memory in this stage of Hillel's question:  and when I am only looking at myself alone, what am I?  Without the collective memories of my family and my people I cannot know who I am. Looking in the mirror, listening only to the inner voice of my own self-awareness is not enough to comprehend my place in the world.

In this parashah, we embark upon a great enterprise that will concretize the relationship between God and Israel for all time:  It begins with God's declaration: 
 "And they [the children of Israel] shall make Me a מקדש/mikdash/holy place and I shall dwell among them." (Sh'mot/Exodus 25:8)

Who is Involved?
There is so much to say about this project:  As the name of the parashah implies, the materials to build this holy place were to be collected by voluntary donation.  There was no tax to be levied, there was to be no pressure to contribute.  The list of materials required (skins, precious metals, dyes, fabrics, stones) were to be brought by individuals as their hearts dictated.  So when God declares "...they shall make Me a mikdash..." the emphasis is very much on the "they."  This holy place must be an expression of the commitment and love of the people themselves.  A grassroots effort.

What Will Be Constructed?
Then we come to what is being built: מקדש / mikdash means a holy place.  This word is based on a root ( ק ד ש ) that is familiar to many of us in words like קידוש/kiddush (the blessing on wine which sanctifies [makes holy] the Sabbath or festival) and  קדיש/kaddish (the Aramaic prayer which declares the holiness of God recited as markers between units of our liturgy and by mourners).  That which is קדוש / kadosh / holy in Judaism is that which is "other", unique, set aside for a purpose like no other.  Thus, Shabbat is a day like no other, set aside for rest, for appreciation of the world God created during the six days of creation, the Kaddish addresses the uniqueness of God.    So this מקדש/mikdash was to be a unique place set aside for a use like no other.

What Will Happen There?
The last phrase of the verse expressed God's plan for this construct:  "I shall dwell among them" ... among the people who build this place for Me.  The Hebrew word is שכנתי/shachanti, based on the same root as the modern Hebrew words for neighbor (שכן/shachein), and neighborhood (שכונה/sh'chunah).  God says: I'm moving in!  

A Transformation
For weeks, we are going to read about the construction of this divine residence:  we will read the "to-do list" of what to build and what materials need to be collected.  We will read of dimensions, shapes and methods of construction.  Then we will receive reports as each item (the tents, the implements, the altars, the accessories, the priestly vestments) are completed.  Then we will read a report of everything that was made and completed just before the precincts of this area are dedicated, the priests/kohanim are trained and the first sacrifices are offered.

Very quickly, the name of this project changes.  In chapter 25, in the verse quoted above, the Israelites are instructed to build a מקדש/mikdash/holy place.  But in the beginning of chapter 26 (verse 1) this same project is referred to as the משכן/mishkan!  It will continue to be called משכן/mishkan through the remaining 39 years or so of the Israelite journey through the wilderness.  

משכן/mishkan:  Based not on that root for holy (ק ד ש) but based on the root for neighbor (ש כ ן).  In the space of a few verses, God's hopes for this place are embodied in its name:  this is not a place for God to be separate, apart and "other" from the people.  This is a place designed to bring God and the people closer together.  To live in proximity through the decades of wandering to come.

Ultimately, the name מקדש/mikdash will be revived.  The מקדש/mikdash will be the Temple in Jerusalem. The fixed edifice that will anchor the worship of God in the land God ordains for the Israelites.  Here the dynamic will be so different:  in the משכן/mishkan, God will travel where the people travel, in the מקדש/mikdash the people will have to come to God, so to speak.  For all the magnificence of that Temple, for all the significance of b'nai yisrael, the childrenof Israel, returning to and settling into the land of their ancestors, there will be a certain intimacy lost with the replacement of the מכשן/mishkan with the מקדש/mikdash/Temple.

I seek the intimacy of the משכן/mishkan when I seek God with my community.  This is how God first sought us, this is how we can find God: building a community together as our hearts dictate.

A friend and colleague, Rabbi Dianne Cohler-Esses asks a perceptive and challenging question:
"...after all the suffering of the Israelites in Egypt, the very first laws of Mishpatim concern slave ownership. Not the prohibition of owning slaves, as one might want and expect, but the rules detailing the treatment of a slave, slavery an institution that is simply presumed by the text. After all that, after all those years enslaved, after witnessing the plagues, after passing through the red sea to escape slavery, why in the world are the Israelites permitted the ownership of other human beings?"  (Click here to read Rabbi Cohler-Esses' entire commentary)


I think the key phrase, in Rabbi Cohler-Esses' question is: "an institution that is simply presumed by the text."  In other words, the institution of slavery was a common and integral part of ancient economies and societal structures.  As common as salaries and taxes are today.

This week's parashah / Torah reading and many other passages as well, contain rules for the Israelites regarding the treatment of the Hebrew slave (eved ivri) as well as non-Israelite slaves.  These passages make it clear that the slave held by an Israelite master was never to be treated with the harshness and cruelty that the Israelite slaves experienced at the hands of Egypt's taskmasters:
Exodus 21:
2-3:  When you will buy a Hebrew slave, he shall work for six years, and in the seventh year he shall go out liberated for free.  If he will come by himself, he shall go out by himself, if he is a woman's husband, then his wife shall go with him."
7-8:  And if a man will sell his daughter as a maid, she shall not go out as the slaves go out.  If she is bad in the eyes of her master who has designated her for himself, then he shall let her be redeemed.  He shall not dominate so as to sell her to a foreign people in his betrayal of her.
26-27: And if a man strike his slave's eye or his maid's eye and destroy it, he shall let them go, liberated for his eye. And if he will knock out his slave's tooth or his maid's tooth, he shall let him go liberated for his tooth. (translation by Rabbi Richard Friedman)

For certain, there are passages in the Torah about the treatment of slaves that seem brutal to us and repugnant in what we deem our holy text.  (A master is, for example, allowed to strike a slave, but not, as we've seen, cause any lasting bodily harm.  In a related verse, a slave is referred to as the master's money or asset.)  All this is a reflection of the reality of the time and place in which the Torah was revealed.

I recently saw a TV advertisement in which a person in very authentic-looking medieval dress hands another person a very modern-looking television remote control.  The recipient of the gift expresses very understandable confusion.

If the passages of Torah reflected our 21st sensibilities towards slavery, toward the basic economics of debt service and even employer-employee relations, the response at the time and place of revelation would have been profound confusion.  There would have been no collective of people to accept the Torah and declare "na'aseh v'nishma" / "we will do, we will obey" because there would not have been a human alive at that time who could understand and commit to implement those laws.

The power of our tradition, right from the very beginning, has been our commitment to connecting our faith, our religious commitments, our observances to the myriad of times and places in which we have lived.  We have demonstrated, time after time after time, that the covenant, laws, mitzvot of our tradition travel with us, reflect and inform the realities of our lives wherever and whenever we live in Jewish community.

This makes looking back confusing at times . . . as if we, in our 21st century culture and dress were handed a medieval  farming implement and were expected to use it.   These anachronistic moments, though, serve to remind us that our faith, our brit/covenant with God, is always about the lives we are leading right now.

It is hardly an astonishing assertion to state that this week's פָרָשָה / parashah / Torah Reading marks a turning point in the relationship between God and b'nai yisrael / the progeny of Israel.  It is in Yitro that Moshe will climb the heights of Sinai and return with luchot hab'rit / the tablets of the law.  The brit / the covenant between God and Israel is forged at this moment.

This moment of the revelation of the Torah is not the first time that Moshe has experienced unique, intense communications from and, indeed, conversations with God.  From the opening chapters of the book of Sh'mot / Exodus, with the iconic moment of the burning bush, God and Moshe are in almost constant communication.

This moment of revelation of the Torah is, however, the very first time that Israel experiences revelation as a community.  The passages of this week's parasha relate: "And Moses said to the people, 'Don't be afraid, because God is coming for the purpose of testing you and for the purpose that His awe will be on your faces so that you won't sin.'  And the people stood at a distance, and Moses went over to the nimbus where God was.  And Adonay said to Moses, 'You shall say this to the children of Israel:  You have seen that I have spoken with you from the skies.  You shall not make gods of silver with me, and you shall not make gods of gold for yourselves...In every place where I'll have My name commemorated, I'll come to you and bless you.'" (Sh'mot/Exodus 20: 17-20)

As our tradition developed from sacrifice-centric Israelite biblical religion to the halachah / Jewish law- based rabbinic Judaism we practice today, the centrality of community has been a consistent and treasured dynamic of our people.  There are so many elements of Judaism that guide us into community:  We need 10 adult Jews to conduct a service.  We need 10 adult Jews to read from the Torah scrolls.  We need a cemetery, which only a community can maintain.  We need kosher food, which requires a critical mass of Jews to sustain.  We welcome a new child into the world as a minyan, representing the entire Jewish people embracing this new child as one of "ours."  When one of our community passes away, we surround the mourners and help them bury their dead, we sit with them for a week (during shiva) and make sure they have company, meals and community support to say kaddish.

"In every place where I'll have My name commemorated, I'll come to you and bless you."  What does "commemorating God's name mean?"  I'd say it means standing together as a minyan, as a community, an uttering words that we cannot utter as individuals.  It is through Jewish community that we thrive.  It is almost impossible to sustain Jewish life in isolation:  we need education, we need the spiritual and emotional support of those who share that brit/covenant with us.

"In every place where I'll have My name commemorated, I'll come to you and bless you."  I've often said that our Jewish community is a blessing.  This revelation of God's confirms just that:  it is through Jewish community that we find blessing:  the blessing of God's presence, the blessing of each other's presence.

Fifty years ago, two visionary religious leaders from two very different communities, developed a profound friendship.  The Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. and Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel emerged from two very different cultures and faiths and came together to make history.  
Rabbi Heschel's daughter wrote of this friendship in 2006:
The relationship between the two men began in January 1963, and was a genuine friendship of affection as well as a relationship of two colleagues working together in political causes. As King encouraged Heschel's involvement in the Civil Rights movement, Heschel encouraged King to take a public stance against the war in Vietnam. When the Conservative rabbis of America gathered in 1968 to celebrate Heschel's sixtieth birthday, the keynote speaker they invited was King. When King was assassinated, Heschel was the rabbi Mrs. King invited to speak at his funeral.*

Every year, the calendar conspires to reunite these friends:  Reverend King's birthday, and Rabbi Heschel's yahrzeit (anniversary of his death) fall within days of each other.  I could easily have written this message on the Shabbat of Martin Luther King weekend . . . but I feel that the greater tribute to these two great religious visionaries is paid by writing about them this Shabbat: For the Torah reading for this Shabbat B'Shallah is the long-anticipated, eternally evocative "yitziat mitzrayim" / the exodus from Egypt.

Reverend King witnessed the moment when the British colonial Gold Coast became the independent nation of Ghana.  This nation's journey from subjection to independence inspired a sermon in which he concludes:God is working in this world, and at this hour, and at this moment. And God grants that we will get on board and start marching with God because we got orders now to break down the bondage and the walls of colonialism, exploitation, and imperialism. To break them down to the point that no man will trample over another man, but that all men will respect the dignity and worth of all human personality. And then we will be in Canaan’s freedom land.

Moses might not get to see Canaan, but his children will see it. He even got to the mountain top enough to see it and that assured him that it was coming. But the beauty of the thing is that there’s always a Joshua to take up his work and take the children on in. And it’s there waiting with its milk and honey, and with all of the bountiful beauty that God has in store for His children. Oh, what exceedingly marvelous things God has in store for us. Grant that we will follow Him enough to gain them.**

Every single day, our tradition guides us back to the moment of "yitziyat mitzrayim", of leaving Egypt.  We rise daily and chant the highlight of this week's parashah/Torah reading "Shirat HaYam" The Song of the Sea . . . the poetic and passionate paean of praise to God for redeeming our Israelite ancestors, us, from Egyptian bondage.  We speak of the exodus from Egypt twice a day when we recite the biblical passages of the "Sh'ma."  We sing of the Exodus from Egypt when we sanctify the Sabbath through the chanting of the Kiddush over the wine on Friday evening.  That journey was arduous:  it took forty years, it took courage to wander through the wilderness, it took vision to keep going forward (and often that vision flagged).  We revisit that moment every day, because we need to remind ourselves every day that God loved the descendants of Abraham enough to venture into Egypt and redeem us. It is humbling to consider that the moment of redemption experienced by the Israelites enslaved by Egypt has inspired innumerable peoples in innumerable places and innumerable generations to persevere through tyranny and to patiently, with determination and vision, journey step by step to freedom.

* Praying with their Feet: Remembering Abraham Joshua Heschel and Martin Luther King, Peacework: Global Thought and Local Action for Nonviolent Social Change, From Issue 371 - December 2006-January 2007** "The Birth of a New Nation", April, 1957.

Not much makes me apoplectic.  I value the spectrum of beliefs, opinions, world-views that reflect the diversity of the human experience.  I do not expect . . . indeed would not want . . . everyone to be like me. (One of me is enough!)  
     I'm a rabbi, I've got some very strong convictions and commitments.  One of them is that God created humanity with free will, with curiosity, intelligence and the capacity to aspire . . . and that God expects us to use these gifts.  
    When people say they are speaking in the name of religion and condemn the curiosity, intelligence and capacity to aspire of any other human being, I get angry.  When people say they are speaking in the name of religion and incite others to verbal and/or physical violence, I get angry.
     I'm a rabbi.  Obviously, I don't agree with Jessica Ahlquist that God does not exist.  On the other hand, the voices that have been raised against her in the name of religion have now convinced this young woman that the world of faith is a world she would never, ever want to explore.  Hence my apoplexy.

I am grateful to my good friend and colleague, Reverend Donald Anderson, Executive Minister of the Rhode Island State Council of Churches, for creating a platform for a wide spectrum of real religious leaders in our state to raise our voices in an interfaith harmony of tolerance, mutual respect and civility . . . in faith.

I share with you, below, my statement at our January 24th press conference.  If you are interested in reading the statements of others at that press conference, click here.
I am Rabbi Amy Levin of Temple Torat Yisrael, here in Cranston.  I also serve as the Vice-President of the Rhode Island Board of Rabbis.
     When Jessica's concerns about the prayer banner in the Cranston West High School auditorium were being discussed about a year and a half ago, i held a discussion with members of my congregation who grew up in Cranston and attended Cranston West in the1960s.  I asked them how they had felt as Jewish students sitting in the auditorium with the prayer banner on the walls.  They told me that they felt uncomfortable, that their parents felt uncomfortable with the prominently-displayed school prayer in the room in which the school assembled.  They told me that in the 1960s, their parents were afraid to speak about against the presence of that school prayer.  Fifty years later, Jessica  has given public voice to the discomfort of generations of students who came her.  She has voiced concerns that those parents were hesitant to raise fifty years ago.  She has been subjected to the treatment that others feared to bring upon themselves.
     For all that a religious declaration addressed to Our Father in Heaven does not belong on the walls of a public high school, I would suggest that anyone who has internalized the values expressed in that prayer would never verbally or physically attack or threaten to attack a person who does not identify with a statement addressed to God.  Walking the talk of that Cranston West prayer banner means discourse with mutual respect and honor for every human being created by God.
     As one of the clergy assembled today, I  have come to reassure every person of faith in our State that taking down this banner can never pose a threat to anyone's faith.  Your faith goes with you wherever you go . . . Faith needs no banner to live in our hearts.

I am wishing all my Torat Yisrael members a warm "Shabbat Shalom" now because I will not be in Rhode Island this Shabbat.  For four years, I have enjoyed the privilege (and I really mean "enjoyed") of mentoring senior rabbinical students at The Jewish Theological Seminary of America (JTS).

The Legacy Heritage Foundation wanted to address the struggles of many tiny Jewish congregations around the United States and crafted a unique Fellowship program which grants funding to a select group of senior rabbinical students at JTS the opportunity to provide rabbinic leadership to congregations too small to sustain even a part-time rabbi on their own.  By definition, these students are working in congregations in which there is no rabbi in the community to provide guidance, serve as a sounding board, make helpful suggestions.  That's where I come in.  As a mentor, I speak with my rabbinical students as they prepare for their monthly visits to their congregations, I debrief them afterwards and help them process their experiences.

As a mentor, I also spend one Shabbat a year with each of my students so I can see for myself how they "present" on the pulpit, how they interact with the members of their communities, what teaching skills they  are mastering. 

So I will be in Reno, Nevada for Shabbat sitting in the back of the sanctuary taking mental notes about one of my very intelligent, creative, energetic and inspiring students.

This is a great Shabbat for me to be with Zach.  Not necessarily because Reno weather is better than East Greenwich weather (although it will be a few degrees warmer) but because our parashah/Torah reading this week begins with a short illustration of successful collaborative leadership.  Which is most certainly an approach that new rabbis should learn to appreciate.

At the beginning of Chapter 7 of Sh'mot/Exodus, towards the middle of the parashah, God, Moses and Aaron are gathered in a strategy session.  The goal is to extricate the Israelites from Egyptian slavery and to unequivocally prove to Pharaoh that the God of the Israelites is so universal a God, that the distance between the Israelite God's "home turf" of Canaan means nothing.  Geographical boundaries, prior claims of local pre-eminence by local Egyptian gods all count as nothing when the God of Israel is roused to redeem Israel.

God says: "You [Moses] shall speak everything that I command you; and Aaron, your brother, shall speak to Pharaoh, that he let the children of Israel go . . . and I'll harden Pharaoh's heart, and I'll multiply My signs and wonders . . . and Egypt will know that I am Adonay when I reach out My hand on Egypt, and I'll bring out the children of Israel from among them."   

According to our tradition, Moses will become the progenitor of the rabbinic role and Aaron became the progenitor of the Kohanim, the priestly caste.  At this pre-exodus moment though, they are learning how to work as a team: the vision conveyed by Moses is as crucial to the success of the effort as is the polished oration of Aaron.  The only way to move Pharaoh and to fill the children of Israel with the confidence to leave the familiar role of slavery is for the leadership to communicate well with each other, share a vision, and then to continually communicate and share with the people themselves.   Each brings strengths and gifts and shortcomings to the role of leader and it is only by working together that their strengths are elevated and their shortcomings diminished.  

Mountains can be moved with that kind of mutual respect and team work.

This week's parasha/Torah portion includes a passage that has become iconic for all people engaged in a relationship with God, and that has particular significance for those of us in the Conservative/Masorti denomination of Judaism.  

In the biblical account of this moment, Moshe is shepherding the flock of his father-in-law Yitro/Jethro in Midian.  Out in the middle of nowhere, Moshe is drawn to an astonishing sight:
"And an angel of God appeared to him in a fire's flame from inside a bush.  And he looked, and here: the bush was not consumed!  And Moses said, 'Let me turn and see this great sight.  Why doesn't the bush burn!?'" (Shmot/Exodus 3:2-3)

Back in the 15th chapter of Breishit/Genesis, in the evocative moment of covenant between God and Avram, we are first introduced to the association of God's presence with flame:  "And the sun was setting, and there was darkness, and here was an oven of smoke and a flame of fire that went between the pieces [of animals, echoing an ancient near-eastern treaty ceremony].  In that day, God made a covenant with Avram...." (Breishit/Genesis 15:17-18)

This same association will recur as God guides the progeny of Israel through the wilderness with a column of cloud by day and a column of fire by night.

In our parashah this week, the connection is firmly established: "And God saw that he turned to see. And God called to him from inside the bush, and He said:  'Moshe, Moshe.'
And he said: 'I'm here.'"  (Sh'mot/Exodus 3:4)

How can we interpret this intense image of the bush that is not consumed?  God's presence is the flame and the bush represents our world: rooted in the earth, organic and mortal.  As God's presence infuses the earthly bush, the bush is illuminated, elevated, enlivened . . . but it is not burned up even when filled with God's presence.  Here is an irresistible image of encouragement for those seeking to engage God in the real world . . . which is precisely the passion of Conservative Judaism: living in the real, modern, multi-faceted world informed by the wisdom of Jewish tradition and a passion for finding God around us.

Those who established our Conservative movement over a century ago, turned to this same iconic image of the burning bush to express their conviction that their evolving approach to Jewish life in America would similarly embody the eternity and passion and symbiosis of the burning bush.  Indeed, a beautiful relief of that image adorns the front of the Jewish Theological Seminary building . . . which is the photograph on the left below.

As you can see, the theme of the flame, associated with God's presence and the light of Torah, is a consistent theme in the logos of our movement's major organizations.  This week's parashah is "home base" for those of us who consider ourselves Conservative/Masorti Jews.

When I return to our "home base" image of the burning bush, I am recharged by the promise of that image:  I am reminded again that God's presence is not only inextricably part of Creation, of that organic, mortal world I inhabit, but that the fact of God's presence is meant to generate heat and light.  The heat of passion for my people and my tradition.  The light of Torah as cast by God.

This final parashah/Torah reading in the book of Genesis includes an evocative scene:  the patriarch is close to death, his twelve sons are gathered around him as he speaks his final words to each and every one of them.  The Torah tells us that the patriarch, Jacob, blessed each son according to his blessing.

Try as I might, I find little that's heartwarming or inspiring in this scene:  Jacob's daughter, Dina, is nowhere to be found and does not receive a parting blessing from her father . . . which might be a blessing in itself.

For what Jacob does say to each son, in the presence of all the others, isn't what I'd call a blessing . . . indeed, many of the sons seem to be condemned by their father more than blessed.*
"Reuben, you're my firstborn, my power, and the beginning of my might, . . . unstable as water, you'll not be preeminent, for you ascended your father's bed . . . (49:3,4).
"Simeon and Levi are brothers: implements of violence are their tools of trade.  Let my soul not come in their council..." (49:5-6)
"Dan will be a snake on a road, a venomous snake on a path, that bites a horse's heels,and its rider falls backward." (49: 17)
"Benjamin is a tearing wolf:  in the morning eating prey, and at evening dividing booty." (49:27)

Of course, other brothers fare slightly better:
"Zebulun will dwell by seashores: and he'll be a shore for boats..." (49:13
"Issachar is a strong ass crouching between the saddle-packs:  and he saw rest, that it was good, and the land, that it was pleasant. and he leaned his shoulder to bear and became a work-company servant." (49:14-15)
"Naphtali: a hind let loose, who gives lovely words." (49:21)

And a few are truly blessed:
"Judah:  You, your brothers will praise you.  Your hand on your enemies' neck, your father's sons will bow to you." (49:8)
"A fruitful bough is Joseph, a fruitful bough over a spring . . . archers bitterly attacked him, shot at him, and despised him.  and his bow stayed stong, and his forearms were nimble, from the hands of the Might One of Jacob . . .Shadday [another name for God] will bless you . . . blessings of your father, the mighty and most high, blessings of the mountains of old..." (49: 22,23-24, 25-26).

So it's no small surprise when we read:  "And Jacob finished commanding his sons, and he gathered his feet into the bed, and he expired.  And Joseph fell upon his father's face and wept over him and kissed him." (49:33-50:1)

Only Joseph.
Thirteen children, twelve gathered at the death bed, and only one mourned him.

It is certainly the case that some of Jacob's sons were responsible for some very questionable acts.  And I believe that parents are most effective when they are not blind to their progeny's shortcomings.  But a dying father might say to his fanatically revengeful sons (see Genesis 34): "My prayer for you is that you will be broken down with remorse and then rebuild your souls as upright men of honor, maturity and perspective."  A dying father might say to the son who slept with his father's concubine, Bilhah (see Genesis 35:22): "My prayer for you is that you will be broken down with remorse and then rebuild your soul as a man who has control of his urges and has respect for women and for family relationships."

There is a lot that is broken and dysfunctional in this biblical family.  Jacob's parting words to his sons almost seem designed to plant chaos and dissension among them.  

Then two profound things happen.  Two profound things that demonstrate to me how much Torah is truly a light for us in every generation:

Joseph, the one child who truly mourns his father, receives permission from Pharaoh to journey to Canaan to bury his father in the family burial plot in the cave of Mahpelah.  And the Torah relates:  "And Joseph went up to bury his father, and all of Pharoah's servants, the elders of his house, and all the elders of the land of Egypt, and all of Joseph's house and his brothers and his father's house.  Only their infants and their flock and their oxen they left in the land of Goshen."  (Gen 50: 7-8)

In other words:  as abusive as their father may have been, Jacob's sons stepped up and did him the honor due to him as the source of their lives.  Jewish tradition teaches us that as adults, when we are no longer physically dependent on an abusive parent, we are not obligated to fawn over them, to keep trying to earn their love.  But the adult children of abusive parents are obligated to make sure that their parents are safe, have respectable food, clothing and shelter and that their are honored in their death as the source of life and for whatever gifts of parenting they may have had.  This is what we learn from Reuben and Simeon and Levi, Judah, Zebulun and Issachar, Dan, Gad and Asher, Naphtali and Benjamin.

The second moment of light comes as the family gathers together after Jacob is buried.  Joseph's brothers speak among themselves:  "And Joseph's brothers saw that their father was dead, and they said, "If Joseph will despise us he'll pay us back all the bad we dealt to him." (50:15).

But Joseph has grown, not only in stature, but in faith and maturity.  Perhaps being cut off from his family for so long has taught him the importance of family.  He responds:  "Don't be afraid, because am I in God's place?  And you thought bad against me. God thought for good: in order to do as it is today, to keep alive a numerous people.  And now, don't be afraid.  I'll provide for you and your infants. " And he consoled them.  And he spoke on their heart. (Gen 50: 19-21)  

The long journey of this family of Jacob's begins with the pain of the effects of an abusive parent and ends with the healing power of a faithful and loving sibling.
Amen.

*All translations are from Richard Elliott Friedman's excellent English translation of the Torah.

In this week's parashah/Torah Reading, Joseph reveals his identity to his beleaguered brothers and with the Pharaoh's blessing moves his brothers and his father, Jacob, to Egypt.  The Torah relates that Jacob’s sons carried their father in the Pharaoh’s wagons and Joseph went to greet his father in Goshen, flinging himself upon his father’s neck to weep. Jacob was 130 years old when he was reunited with his beloved Joseph in Egypt.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote:  "The test of a people is how it behaves toward the old.  It is easy to love children.  Even tyrants and dictators make a point of being fond of children.  But affection and care for the old, the incurable, the helpless, are the true gold mines of a culture."  (The Insecurity of Freedom)

With ceremony and respect, Jacob was carried to Egypt in the Pharaoh's own wagons.  Joseph's brothers are presented to Pharaoh who questions them briefly and assents to their settling in Egypt.  Apparently, Jacob, the patriarch of this family, is presented to Pharaoh after his sons are dismissed.

When we read these passages attentively, we see that Jacob is always treated with great respect by his sons . . . all his sons . . . and even by the sovereign of the country in which he seeks a haven.  

I wonder if we would pass Rabbi Heschel's test today:  would our attitude toward our elders attest to a culture of compassion or of impatience?  
Rabbi Ron Isaacs, in his book Kosher Living: It’s More Than Just the Food asks: Is it kosher to visit a person afflicted with Alzheimer’s who doesn’t even know who you are?

Rabbi Isaacs continues: Yes, it certainly is right to take time to visit a person who has Alzheimer’s disease.  Though cut off from society, he or she is till a member of society, deserving of care and attention.  The Talmud is very explicit in recognizing the dignity of persons with dementia:  “Rabbi Joseph learned:  This teaches us that both the tablets and the fragments of the tablets were deposited in the ark.  Hence, we learn that a scholar who has forgotten his learning through no fault of his own must not be treated with disrespect” (Talmud, Menachot 99a).We who constitute the community of Torat Yisrael need to take an honest look at how we treat our own elderly, incurable and helpless.  This past week, I had the sad duty of conducting the funeral of Rosalind Herman.  Roz and her husband were among the founders of our congregation.  Roz had served as Secretary of our Board for a decade and was President of our Sisterhood for many years as well.  We are quickly losing this elder, wise and experienced generation of Torat Yisrael and because those who remain with us are largely homebound or living in a variety of care facilities, they are out of our sight, and therefore, beyond the scope of our vision and awareness.Our Kesher social worker, Andrea Epstein, is a wonderful, caring presence reaching out to many of our housebound, but we should truly not be relying on Andrea to care for and about our elders.  They are the elders of our community and without them we lose depth, history and wisdom.  I invite you to look for opportunities to embrace our elders and homebound and help organize efforts to weave our elders back into the fabric of our community.