Temple Torat Yisrael

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.

In this week's parashah, we continue to engage in dreams.  Last week, we  marveled along with Joseph's family, at the self-aggrandizing spins Joseph put on his dreams . . . and the seeming cluelessness of that young dreamer regarding the effect of is dreams on those around him.

From a dream about sheaves of wheat and heavenly bodies, Joseph cheerfully and unhesitatingly notifies his family of his expectation of grandeur.  For the most part, Joseph's dreams will, as we know, come true . . . his brothers and his father will come to bow down to him at Pharaoh's court. But, unforeseen by Joseph, his beloved mother who waited so long for his birth, will be spared that particular humiliation:  Rachel will die before her husband, his other progeny and her youngest child are forced to settle in Egypt.

Rabbi Chaim Stern in his rich anthology, Day by Day: Reflections on the Themes of the Torah, remarks:  "Joseph is called [from prison] to interpret Pharoah's dreams.  Pharaoh says to Joseph: I have heard this about you: you have but to hear a dream to interpret it (Genesis/Breishit 41:15).  Pharaoh, struck by Joseph's brilliant understanding, gives him control over Egypt:  he is to be second only to Pharaoh.  The boy who once dreamed of glory, gains it by understanding the dreams of others."

It seems that Joseph did a lot of growing up somewhere between the pit his brothers threw him into and the prison Pharaoh threw him into:  Joseph learned humility.  When credited with a certain genius regarding the interpretation of dreams that confound even Pharaoh's most seasoned seers, Joseph steps out of the limelight and credits his insight to God.  When given the opportunity to interpret the dreams of Pharaoh, the newly matured Joseph sees not himself, but others, at the center of the royal scene.

Ironically, it is when Joseph steps aside, publicly deferring to the inspiration of the God of Israel, that Joseph rises in the Pharaoh's esteem. Faith, leadership, wisdom, respect and perspective all seem to benefit from a capacity to learn from life's lessons and a willingness to live in the shadow of God.

By this time next week, we will be deep into Hanukah and those of Christian faith will be just a day or so away from Christmas.  Because our Jewish calendar is a lunar calendar and the secular/Gregorian calendar is a solar calendar, these two holidays coincide occasionally, but more often are separated by a few days or weeks.

Were you to look up Hanukah in a book about Jewish holidays, you'd see that Hanukah is categorized as a "Minor Festival."  This status is largely due to the festival's post-biblical roots.  The historical events of the Maccabean revolt (166 BCE) took place after the five books of the Torah were already canonized.  In the Jewish world, that which is Torah-based is of greater weight and significance than that which follows . . . hence Hanukah is "minor" while Sukkot, for example is "major."

But the themes of Hanukah are not really "minor" at all:  

     Hanukah inspires us to take pride in our Jewish heritage and to dedicate ourselves to forging durable Jewish identities in a multicultural setting. 

     During the week of Hanukah, during the part of the year in which the days are the shortest, we bring more and more light into the world by lighting an increasing number of candles each night.  Light is a symbol of God's presence . . . and this practice of lighting an increasing number of candles is a ritual of optimism and faith, an expression of our conviction that the darkness will relent through our partnership with God. 

     The engaging story of the Hanukah miracle of the oil reminds us that miracles can be perceived in the mundane, if we are only open to perceiving them.

But there's no foliage involved in Hanukah.  

We American Jews are blessed to be living in a country where the culture and values we share with our non-Jewish neighbors promote mutual respect and inclusivity.  The official dubbing of that huge evergreen in the State House as a "holiday tree" is kind of sweet and certainly well-intentioned, but rather misguided.

I suffer from no foliage-envy.  I am sated by the richness of our Hanukah traditions and am happy for my Christian friends and neighbors that this stark season is enlivened for them by the richness of Christmas traditions as well.  

I have to admit to a twinge of resentment . . . as if, non-foliage-blessed person that I am,  I am being co-opted into identifying with an iconic symbol that is only meaningful to others.

So, please, call it a Christmas tree . . . that's what it is.  It's beautiful and fun and festive . . . and Christian.

Now, where did I put those Hanukah candles . . . . .

This week's Torah reading contains one of the most disturbing passages in the entire Hebrew Bible:  the rape of Jacob and Leah's daughter, Dina.  The story is a challenging one for us to understand in the first place, and it also highlights the struggles of many women throughout history.  I am grateful to Rabbi Laura Geller for the following commentary on this biblical passage. Rabbi Geller's insights are comprehensive and I feel the best I can do is share them with you with no further comment from me:

  

Comforting Dina: The rape of Dina...and other horrible, contemporary acts of violence.   By Rabbi Laura Geller

[Jacob is journeying back to Canaan, his homeland, to meet his estranged brother, Esau.  He journeys with his wives, concubines and children....]

Somehow, alone, separated from his "two wives" and his "eleven children," Jacob discovers the face of God in his adversary--and Jacob is blessed.

Eleven children cross the river? But Jacob already at this point has twelve children. What about Dina, his daughter? What happened to her? Rashi, quoting a midrash, explains: "He placed her in a chest and locked her in." While many commentaries understand that by locking Dina in a box Jacob intends to protect her from marrying his brother Esau, we know the truth of the story. Hiding Dinah--locking her up--is a powerful image about silencing women. And that silence echoes loudly through the rest of the Torah.

What happens next? Dina gets In an ultimate act of silencing, the commentaries understand Dina's rape as Jacob's punishment for withholding her from Esau. Dina's rape is Jacob's punishment? What about Dina? What has she done? How does she feel? Out text is silent. We only know what her brothers and father think: that she has been defiled (34:5-7), that she must not be treated as a whore (34:31). No one in the Torah or the midrashic accounts asks her what she wants, what she needs, or how she can be comforted.

Her silence is loud enough to reverberate through the generations. We hear it in the reports of other fathers who perceive their daughter's rape as their dishonor, their punishment. 

Fortunately for Dinah, in Genesis the blame and punishment fall entirely on the perpetrator and his people, not on her. Other women are not as lucky. In 1998, in Pakistan, Arbab Khatoon was raped by three men in a village in Jacobabad district. She was murdered seven hours later. According to local residents, she was killed by her relatives for bringing dishonour to the family by going to the police. In 1999, Lal Jamilla Mandokhel, a 16-year-old mentally retarded girl, was reportedly raped several times by a junior clerk of the local government department of agriculture in a hotel in Parachinar, Pakistan. The girl's uncle filed a complaint about the incident with police--who took the accused into protective custody but then handed over the girl to her tribe. The elders decided that she had brought shame to her tribe and that the honor could only be restored by her death; she was killed in front of a tribal gathering.

Similar stories are reported not only in Pakistan but also in Bangladesh, Great Britain, Brazil, Ecuador, Egypt, India, Israel, Italy, Jordan, Pakistan, Morocco, Sweden, Turkey, Uganda-as well as Afghanistan, Iraq, and Iran. No wonder women are silent!

This outrage is only part of a much larger problem of violence against women. For example, according to the United Nations Children's Fund (UNICEF), more than five thousand brides die annually in India because their dowries are considered insufficient. Widney Brown, advocacy director for Human Rights Watch, says that "in countries where Islam is practiced, they're called honor killings, but dowry deaths and so-called crimes of passion have a similar dynamic in that the women are killed by male family members and the crimes are perceived as excusable or understandable."

The practice, she said, "goes across cultures and across religions." In the few cases when public outcry around the world and international pressure were used, a woman's life was spared. But stories that capture the headlines do not begin to address the scope and range of the problem.

We hear Dina's silence as well in the challenges to reproductive rights happening right now in the United States. If Dina were raped and pregnant while living in South Dakota in 2007, she might not be able to get an abortion.

What happens to Dina in the aftermath of ordeal? We do not know. We never hear from her, as we may never hear from the women and our generation who are victims of violence and whose voices are not heard. But the legacy of Jacob as the one who wrestles, demands that we confront the shadowy parts of ourselves and our world--and not passively ignore these facts. The feminist educator Nelle Morton urged women to hear each other speech." Dina's story challenges us to go even further and be also the voices for all of our sisters.

Reprinted from The Torah: A Women's Commentary, 

edited by Tamara Cohn Eskenazi and Andrea L. Weiss 

(New York: URJ Press and Women of Reform Judaism, 2008).