Of Gods and Prophets; a Drash for Parashat Va-eira, Saturday 28 December 2013

Moses and Aaron

If you know anything about the Torah’s essential teachings, you know this.  Adonai is God, and Adonai alone.  This is the principle that, more than any other, makes so many Jews cling to their ancient faith.  This, even when new faiths with all sorts of attractions present themselves to us.  Why not adopt this new faith?  Because, by and large, this new faith would require Jews to violate the Second Commandment:  You shall have no other gods besides Me.  It’s kind of hard to get around that one; there’s no ‘wiggle room’!  Even if you like eating prawns and wouldn’t mind having religious sanction to do so, it is difficult to worship some other god who is pleased with prawns with that echoing in your head.

          Some other religions will tell you that they worship the God of Israel, but that they accept others as prophets – even as The Prophet.  But Jewish Tradition, as expressed through the Rabbis, has long held that Malachi, who lived in the late fourth century before the Common Era, was the last of the Prophets.  Many Jews, even if they cannot cite the exact places in the Talmud where this idea is presented, internalise it.  Even if you hear a later voice express some idea that you find attractive, and want to consider that idea as prophecy, there is the knowledge of this principle getting in the way.  This is why Jesus and Muhammad, to offer just two examples, can never be Jewish prophets.

          Given this, how are we to understand the first verse of the seventh chapter of the Book of Exodus?  Look, I will make you a god to Pharaoh, and your brother Aaron will be your prophet.  It would seem that God is instructing Moses, concerning two principles that are treif, beyond the pale, in Jewish tradition.  How are we supposed to take this statement? 

          Well, first we need to understand the principle of Rabbi Ishmael, Torah speaks the language of man.  In other words, even if you agree that the Torah’s origin is Divine, then you accept that it speaks in words that we can apprehend and understand.  As we read in the 30^th chapter of Deuteronomy:  Surely, this instruction which I enjoin upon you this day is not too baffling for you.  The Torah is written in simple language that should not trip us up at all.

          So how are we to understand the word ‘god,’ Elohim?  When we hear Elohim, we think only of the God, the one that we spell with an uppercase ‘G.’  But Elohim has a broader meaning.  It means someone or something that others approach as a deity, plain and simple.  Pharaoh would have accepted the existence of multiple deities.  He himself was one of them!  But in the Egyptian pantheon there were a number of deities, to whom various powers were ascribed.  Various gods, to whom temples were built and maintained.  In this way, the statement I will make you a god to Pharaoh, means, Pharaoh will consider you to be a god.

          But why would Adonai want that to be so?  Wouldn’t He want Pharaoh and all Egypt to accept Him as the only God?  Of course He would.  But I think that the point of the statement is that Adonai wants Pharaoh to sit up and take notice of what Moses says and does.  This is, I think, how we should understand the statement.

          And what about Aaron’s being a prophet to the god, Moses?  Now our tradition, as expressed by Rashi in his commentary to the Talmud, does consider Aaron to have been a Prophet, uppercase ‘P,’ in the most real sense.  A Prophet of the God of Israel.  But doesn’t your brother Aaron will be your prophet, cheapen that in some way?  I don’t think so, when you consider that the word ‘prophet’ has a number of different meanings just as any word, in any language, does.  ‘Prophet’ with an uppercase ‘P,’ in the Jewish context, means that the individual merits inclusion in the list of people whom our tradition was given the status of ‘Prophet.’  But ‘prophet,’ spelled with a lowercase ‘p,’ simply means someone who has an enduring message, an important truth, to offer.  In that sense, calling Aaron a prophet of Moses, is simply a way of understanding how Pharaoh will see the relationship of one to the other.  God is instructing here, that Moses will confront Pharaoh, challenge him to let the Israelites go, and threaten the imposition of plagues if Pharaoh does not comply.  In chapter six, verse 12, Moses has already tried to demur from this role on the basis of having, literally, uncircumcised lips.  Most commentators understood this to mean that Moses has some kind of serious speech impediment, that he stuttered severely or something like that.  So God instructed that Moses should take his brother, Aaron, with him, that Aaron would repeat everything Moses said in a clear and eloquent voice.  Aaron would serve as Moses’ mouthpiece.  And that is the literally meaning of the word navi, Prophet.  Some of us mistakenly think it means seer or something like that, the the point of prophecy is to see the future.  But that’s not really the meaning of navi.  The Hebrew word we translate as ‘prophet’ means a mouthpiece, or spokesman, for God.

          Given this, it is clear that Moses is not supposed to actually present himself to Pharaoh as God, and Aaron as a prophet of the god, Moses.  God does not wish for Pharaoh, or anybody else, to deify Moses.  Rather, He wants Pharaoh to sit up and take notice of Moses.  To not dismiss him as his wayward adopted brother, come back to make trouble.  To not let familiarity get in the way of his hearing God’s voice and God’s will expressed through Moses.  We should take the statement I will make you a god to Pharaoh, and your brother Aaron will be your prophet to mean, I will make Pharaoh take you seriously.  Because if Moses was truly serving as an agent for the Living God, then it would have profited Pharaoh to take him seriously.  That he did not, brought unnecessary disaster upon the Egyptian people.  Shabbat shalom.     

Un-hardening the Heart? A drash for Parashat Va-eira, 27 December 2013

The Hatfields of West Virginia in the 19th century

Allow me to start off tonight’s drash with a little Americana.  Have you ever heard of the Hatfields and the McCoys?  They were two families who had settled on the banks of the Tug Fork of the Big Sandy River which separates the states of West Virginia and Kentucky:  the Hatfields on the West Virginia side and the McCoys on the Kentucky side.  Both families immigrated to America, the Hatfields from England and the McCoys from Ulster, in the 18^th century.  But the feud began in 1863, lasting until 1891.  The Hatfield-McCoy Feud was not just an annoying, ongoing argument; no fewer than a dozen members of the two families were killed in the violence of one family against the other.  The feud prevented the inhabitants of the isolated valley from enjoying the peace that the end of the Civil War, in 1865, should have brought to their lives. 

This epic feud between two clans has an important place in the folklore of the people of Appalachian America.  More importantly, it has become a trope for the phenomenon of protracted bitter conflict.  It has become a trope for a conflict that continues stubbornly, long after anyone can truly remember what started it.  It has become a trope for conflict that takes on its own life and proves difficult to end.

Have you ever been in an intractable argument with someone else?  One where, in the course of the conflict, the original point of contention fades into insignificance?  That’s the kind of conflict which we think of as being in the model of the Hatfield-McCoy Feud.  Nobody really remembers what started it, but the tit-for-tat takes on its own life.  The principals don’t seem to be able to step back from it.  I’m guessing that every one of us has either been a principal to such a conflict, or has watched helplessly while someone we knew allowed such a conflict to rule their life.

Perhaps this is, in part, an explanation for the ‘hardening of the heart’ of Pharaoh when Moses and Aaron act as agents for God, bringing the Ten Plagues upon Egypt.  In this week’s Torah reading, we will read the familiar chapter seven, verse three:  I will harden Pharaoh’s heart, so that I will [have the opportunity to] increase miraculous signs and wonders in Egypt.  Generations of Jews have read these words and had a problem with the idea expressed therein.  How much suffering did the people of Egypt endure because of the ‘hardening’ of Pharaoh’s heart?  The people of Egypt had no significant influence over their all-powerful ruler, whom they saw as a god.  Why would God harden Pharaoh’s heart just to show Pharaoh and the Egyptian people that He was more powerful than all the gods of Egypt?  Is the God we serve so callous that He would smite a people just to put on a show of superiority?

There is a literal reading, which we call a pshat, which answers this question to my satisfaction.  But right now, I’d like to take you to a different reading of this verse, what we would call a drash – a word and a concept we know well.  What can this verse – indeed, this passage – teach us about human nature and the way that we live out our lives?

Pharaoh didn’t really need God to ‘harden’ his heart.  If he was like most of humanity – and I’m guessing he was – then his own personality hardened his heart.  His pride.  His taking exception to being challenged, never mind by whom.  His ‘natural’ reaction to turn that challenge into a contest of two opposing wills.  Even after a number of plagues had wreaked havoc on his people, he still would not back down from his totally-illogical stance of not accepting God’s decree.  I think we all tend to react to challenges in this way, some obviously more so than others.

But the universality of the tendency doesn’t make it a good thing.  In the case of the Pharaoh, it caused plague after plague until the smiting of the firstborn, which tragedy hurt Pharaoh himself just as it did his people.  In the case of the Hatfields and McCoys, it prolonged a deadly feud almost 30 years, long after anybody had remembered why they were feuding.

There are a number of lessons possible from the Ten Plagues of Egypt.  But to me, the most important one is the need to be ready to ‘back off’ from a conflict when it takes on a life of its own.  When its consequences become far more onerous than those of the original cause of the conflict, assuming that we remember what it was.  If we continue a fight to the very end, as Pharaoh did, then we are in danger of winning the battle, but losing the war.  And as any general will tell you, it is better to lose the battle, regroup, and return to win the war.  That’s the smart approach.  Pharaoh was apparently not very smart.  Maybe we can learn to be smarter.  Shabbat shalom.

A Jewish Life of Purpose: Moses' Example...a Drash for Parashat Shemot, 20 December 2013

This morning’s Torah reading presents the call of Moses.  After killing an Egyptian taskmaster who was brutally beating a defenceless Israelite slave, Moses flees to the desert.  Coming across the Midianites dwelling in their oasis, he takes Tzipporah for his wife.  He settles comfortably into the life of a desert herdsman.  But in today’s reading, we see that God has bigger things in mind for Moses – much bigger things.

          Mosheh Rabbeinu is not destined to live out a quiet life as a nomadic herdsman in his father-in-law’s household.  No, his destiny is to return to Egypt.  To take his place as leader of the People Israel.  To stand up to Pharaoh and force him to release the Israelites from their servitude.  To lead the people to their Promised Land.  It’s quite a formidable challenge. 

Moses understandably wishes not to take it on.  It is an important measure of the man, that he sees himself as unworthy of the task.  But it is an equally important measure of the man, that he ultimately does accept it.

          And each one of us has a calling.  But in our lifetimes, many of us will not take up that calling.  Perhaps we are not listening for it.  Perhaps we do hear clearly what our calling is, but we really want to do something else.

          Moses could have refused his calling.  But that’s not the kind of person Moses is.  If he had been that kind of person, the kind to demure from his calling, then he would have been consigned to anonymity.  He would have failed to live up to his destiny.  We would not even remember his name.

          As I have said before, each one of us is not supposed to be a Moses.  But each one of us has a unique destiny.  A unique calling.  A unique bit of good we’re offered as our legacy to the world.  But we’re not forced to take it up.  Just as Moses was inclined to do, we may refuse it.  Perhaps, because our challenge seems insurmountable.  Or perhaps, because we’ve simply got other plans, other things we’d rather do.

          It’s easy – all too easy – to think that this life is all about me.  To spend our lives pursuing whatever it is that feeds our immediate pleasures.  Or our long-term ambitions.  But that’s not what Moses did.  He accepted the unique challenge that was presented to him.  Had he not, then perhaps God would have found someone else willing to take on the challenge.  Just as Mordechai admonishes his niece, Esther in the fourth chapter of the book we read on the Feast of Purim.  Remember?  If you hold your peace at this time, then relief and deliverance will come to the Jews, but you and your father’s house will perish, and who knows but that you have been elevated to your position for exactly this purpose?  Mordechai’s message is that the Jewish people will be saved.  But if Esther will shy away from her role in it, someone else will be raised up to take the challenge.  In that way, Mordechai is appealing to different aspects of Esther’s character.  Had Moses not agreed to take on his role then someone else would have been found.  But in the end, it wasn’t necessary.

          Each one of us has a purpose for his life.  It is easy to lose sight of this reality as we bury ourselves in the minutiae of our lives.  Perhaps we are not even looking for that purpose.  Perhaps, having a sense of what it is, we rebel against it.  But for each of us, a nexus of talents, interests and desires offers us a unique way to make a contribution to this world.  A contribution that will somehow, in some small way, change the world for the better.

          It would be presumptuous of me to try to tell you what your purpose, your unique calling, would be.  It’s difficult enough for me to know my purpose, my calling.  But I believe I finally have clarity on it, because the experiences I’ve had since entering the rabbinate have opened my eyes to what I’m capable of.  And what I can tolerate.  And what I can’t.  But this clarity wasn’t easy to attain.  Some people attain this clarity at an early age.  Some of us are lucky to attain it while we still have some remaining vigour to see it happen.

          It’s easy to dismiss this entire enterprise.  After all, our Christian neighbours see the ideal calling as something that is all-consuming.  As something that pushes aside the possibility of any ‘normalcy’ in life.  My Catholic colleagues give up sex, marriage, and children for their callings.  Some even consign themselves to a life of material poverty.  Many of my Protestant colleagues give up any semblance of financial security for their callings.  In our world, all of the above are not sacrifices we’re called upon to make.  Strangely enough, that fact often causes our fellow Jews – not our Christian neighbours – to call into question the sincerity of our callings.  If it’s really a calling, I’m supposed to live in poverty for it?  Or to live a dry, celibate life?  But there’s nothing in our tradition that teaches that.  What our tradition does teach is that when we have discerned our calling, we are supposed to devote ourselves to it heart and soul.  To search for ways, perhaps unforeseen ways, to live it out.

          Moses acceptance of his calling, precluded his pursuing a quiet life as a herdsman.  But it did not mean a retreat from all semblance of a ‘normal’ life.  He still had a wife, raised at least one child, and clearly had his own priorities and desires.  In following his calling, he was not expected to submerge all that.

          Perhaps knowing that, we can be freer to follow our own callings.  Perhaps if we take Moses’ example to heart, we can be more open to the unique challenges that present themselves to us.  Responding to your calling does not necessarily consign you to an ascetic life.  In fact, in our tradition the only ascetics, the Nazirites, were cautioned to make this ascetic phase of their lives of a definite, and limited duration.

          A calling is a precious thing.  If we’re open to it, it will to some degree define the person that we become.  It will be an important legacy that we leave.  But it won’t be all, that defines us.  In that sense, we should not fear it.  If we are lucky enough to discern our calling with clarity, we should have the trust and confidence to pursue it.  As Moses did, even though his initial instinct was to run from it.  Shabbat shalom.      

Time to Take a Broader View; a Drash for Parashat Shemot. Friday, 19 December, 2013

This week, the Jewish world begins the annual reading of the book of Exodus.  Last week, we read from the final weekly portion in Genesis, Vayechi.  This week, we turn our attention to the second book of the five that comprise our sacred Torah.  In doing so, we go through a very sharp transition.

          Genesis or Sefer Bereishit, is an intensely personal story.  Oh, I know…it starts with the creation of the world, the falling of humanity into evil, and the flood to give humanity a new start.  But the real essence of Genesis begins with the call of Abraham.  It’s the story of a family, and how successive generations grasp onto the heritage of faith and calling that began with Abraham.  It takes place against sweeping events.  But it is, at its heart the story of one family.

          With the beginning of the book of Exodus, there’s a phase shift.  That family has become a confederation of tribes.  Egypt has changed and become xenophobic.  This sets the scene for a tremendous clash of two opposing worldviews.  Of a culture of life versus a culture of death.

          In case I haven’t been completely clear, I really love the book of Genesis.  The patriarchal narratives give us so much insight to the human condition.  As we read of our ancestors’ struggles, we learn so much about what makes us tick.  From their successes and failures we draw inspiration to continue the struggles that characterise our turbulent lives.

          You’ve heard of the great sage, Hillel, who lived in the first century before the Common Era.  One of the best-known sayings of Hillel is found in the first chapter of Tractate Avot of the Mishnah:  If I am not for myself, who will be for me?  And if I am only for myself, what am I?  And if not now, when?  

          Most of us have heard this, and we understand what Hillel meant.  If I do not take care of my own needs, whom can I expect to do so?  Each one of us is a flesh-and-blood person.  It is natural – and desirable – that each one of us takes responsibility for our own needs.  For our own happiness.  If we don’t, then how can we expect someone else to pick up the slack?

          And yet, if we are only directed towards ourselves, then that means we are self-absorbed.  So we must take care of our own needs, but at some point we must turn our attentions outward.  We grow in stature when we reach out to others. When we are for others.

          And if we haven’t yet gotten on with the business of putting the two into effect in our lives, then now is the time.  Since these two are among the keys to a happy and successful life, why put them off?  If not now, when?

           It’s hard for us to think of the Jewish festivals, observances and practices as little more than an extra overlay to our lives.  Perhaps they carry some degree of obligation.  Perhaps you plan your year, and your life, with some reference to the festivals and observing them in their time.  But it is likely that you do now see them as having much to do with the essence of your lives.  If you didn’t come to shule on Rosh Hashanah, or if you didn’t practice some degree of self-deprivation on Yom Kippur, you might feel that you’d missed out on something – and you would have.  But you probably don’t see them as an essential element of the rhythm of your own lives. 

If not, this is not a criticism directed at you.  Rather, it’s an expression of frustration.  The frustration that I other teachers whom you’ve encountered, have not been able to make real the connection between the rhythms of the Jewish year and the inner life of the Jew.

If this is the case – or if it is not – allow me to use illustrate the principle from recent events.  In September, as in every September – or perhaps October when the holidays are ‘late’ – we came together to observe the High Holy Days.  Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  Although we spend a large number of hours in shule during these days, they are at heart intensely personal.  The theme of the twin observances is that it is time once again to take stock of our lives and imagine what the next year might bring.  For each one of us to decide our unique destiny in the coming year.  The meta-message is that God instructs and inspires us.  But at the end of the day, it is we who must make it happen.

Then, almost as soon as we’ve caught our breath after Yom Kippur, we enter an additional cycle of observances:  the weeklong festival of Sukkot and the additional celebration of Simchat Torah.  From ten days of the intensely personal, we spend eight days celebrating God’s loving care to the Jews as a people.  First He kept us alive in the wilderness.  Then He watered our collective souls with the nourishment of Torah.

Once Simchat Torah is past, we see the same progression manifest differently.  We settle back into the patriarchal narratives.  The personal and intimate story of our people, beginning with the one family, the ‘Abrahamsons.’

But when, 12 weeks later, we complete the book of Genesis and begin the book of Exodus, we make that same phase-shift again.  We turn from the micro to the macro.  Form the personal to the grand.  From the focus on self and one’s closest relations, to the focus on a larger group and their destiny.

 These repeated calls to broaden our perspective show what must happen in our real lives.  We must take care of our own personal business.  But if we never make the phase-shift to a broader perspective, then we are not living up to our true potential.  We sometimes struggle with that shift.  We don’t want to take the focus away from ourselves.  But ultimately, we must.

This week we begin reading and studying the narrative of what happened to the People Israel in Egypt.  Of how God through the agency of Moses took them out and led them from slavery to freedom.  Of how a large gaggle of related tribes had to make a further phase-shift into a people, a nation.  But for all this to begin, and for us to learn from it, we must shift from self to something broader.  Let’s make that shift together, now.  If we cannot, then we must ask ourselves Hillel’s eternal question:  What am I?  And if we cannot do it now, then we must ask ourselves his second question:  If not now, when?

Crown Him King; a Drash for Saturday, 14 December 2013

This morning’s Torah reading chronicles the death of Jacob, the son of Isaac, the grandson of Abraham, and the father of Joseph.  Notice I didn’t say ‘Jacob, the herdsman.’  Or ‘Jacob, the wealthy herdsman.’  Because at the end of the day, we are defined, not by our professions, or by how much wealth we have amassed.  No, we are defined by the chain of relationships that matter in our lives.  By those who nurtured us and taught us and thereby blessed us.  And by those whom we, in turn nurtured, taught and blessed.  This is what defines us.  This is what matters.  When we think of our patriarch Jacob, and his life, this is all that’s important.

          Jacob has just blessed his sons, and now he has breathed his last.  And now it is time for Joseph, and his brothers, and all their households, to lay Jacob to rest in accordance with his wishes.

          Jacob made Joseph promise that he would lay him to rest in Hebron, in the Cave of Machpelah, where his foremothers and forefathers were entombed.  This was no easy task for Joseph and the family, seeing that they are living in Egypt.  Special care had to be taken to embalm Jacob’s body to preserve it during the long and arduous journey.

          As you probably know, it is not the Jewish custom to embalm our dead.  Generally, we see that process as an unnecessary intrusion into the peace of the body of the departed.  But there are other considerations that override this custom.  As in this case, where Jacob’s specific instructions were to carry his remains back to Canaan.  Therefore, embalming was therefore necessary.  And the Egyptians, who were experts in the art of embalming, were there to help.  If the embalming of the body was necessary for fulfilling Jacob’s dying wish, then it was to be.

          It is said, funerals are for the living, not for the dead.  In truth, they are for both.  Because the time of death is the time when the worlds of the living and the dead, the worlds of the old and the young, come together.  It is when we have this coming together, that the dead can truly appreciate the way that they had blessed others,  And those others can acknowledge the way that have been blessed.

          I know what you’re thinking.  That last statement requires a leap of faith, to believe that the dead have some awareness of their surroundings.  It’s something I choose to believe, although it cannot be proven.  Some things in life – as in death – are simply beyond the sciences and are in the realm of faith.  But even if you cannot believe that the dead have an awareness of what we’re doing, simple ethics require that we take all reasonable steps to honour the dead.

Perhaps you remember, a few months ago, my sharing with you how sad I felt when I buried someone who lived out his last years, and died, alone.  A few members of our community joined me to put him to rest, and I thank them for that.  But the thought that the man had died all alone, with nobody whom he had touched present for his being laid to rest, was extremely sad.  Now after the funeral, it happened that I had contact with a niece of his in England.  She had found out about his passing, and wanted me to know how much her uncle meant to her and other members of their family.

Please don’t take it is criticism of this family that they weren’t there for the man’s funeral.  And no criticism either, for the man who in coming to Australia, separated himself physically from his family.  My point is only that it was tragic that the man died alone.  And that we should learn from that tragedy and organise our own lives to be near the ones who are important to us.

Contrast that to the recent funeral of Jack Wiseman.  Jack lived his life surrounded by those who mattered to him.  And he went to great lengths to make it so.  And he clearly touched, deeply, many in this community who showed up for his funeral.  As such, our laying him to rest was not an occasion for regret.  It was a time of celebration.  Of celebrating the life of a man who had made a difference for the many people who came to escort him to the grave, and to comfort his family left behind.

Today we celebrate the life of another Wiseman, Jim, who is very much alive.  And is completing his 90^th year of life.  And is surrounded by those whom he loves, and those who love him.  And this, of course, teaches us that we need not wait until a death to honour these connections.

 Jim, 90 equals many things in Hebrew.  It equals mayim, water.  Water is, of course the source of life.  But wisdom is also likened to water.  Jim, as you begin your 91^st year, may the water of your wisdom, nourish the gardens of the souls of those whom you touch.

90 also equals yode’ah, meaning ‘he knows.’  And it also equals yil’medu, ‘they will learn.’  Because he has lived and experienced, Jim knows many things that, to the rest of us, are mere conjecture.  May Jim continue to share with us his vast knowledge of so many things.  And may we allow ourselves to be blessed as we consult him on the things that matter, and therefore learn from him.

90 also equals, melech, king.  Today, by virtue of his long life, Jim is like a king today.  His family and friends have made a special effort to come to shule this morning to honour him.  Even though Jim is not one to ‘lord’ it over to others, may we be blessed by our lifting him up, and crowning him king, on this wonderful occasion.  Shabbat shalom.

On the Prayer for Leadership; a Drash for Friday, 13 December 2013

Each time we read from the Torah at a morning service here at Temple Shalom, we say several prayers.  The first one is the Leadership Prayer, which can be found at the top of page 376 in your prayer books.  It goes like this:

Source of all being,

May the children of this community learn these passions from us:

love of Torah, devotion in prayer, and support of the needy.

May we guide with integrity, and may our leadership be in Your service.

May those who teach and nourish us be blessed with satisfaction,

and may we appreciate their time and devotion.

Bless us with the fruits of wisdom and understanding,

and may our efforts bring fulfilment and joy.

Blessed are You, Adonai, whom alone we serve with awe.

          This prayer comes after the Torah and Haftarah readings, and immediately before the parading of the Torah around the sanctuary before putting it away in the Ark.  As such, we probably do tend to say it rather pro-forma.  After all, the Haftarah reading, unless you’re following the reading in the Chumash, is a passive activity and it is easy to be lulled into a bit of inattention at that point of the service.  Or perhaps you’re just thinking beyond this and the other prayers recited at this point of the service, and anticipating the rabbi’s brilliant drash that will be following in a few minutes. (Yeah, right!)  So the Prayer for Leadership can easily escape your close attention.  If so, no criticism meant.  But let’s take this occasion to parse out this very important prayer and try to understand the deep values that it expresses.

First, we ask that the children of the community would learn from us three passions:  love of Torah, devotion in prayer, and support of the needy.  What we’re really asking God, is that we would be imbued with these three passions.  How else would our children learn them from us?  The three passions listed represent a ‘top three’ list of qualities that describe the ‘ideal’ Jew.  Torah is, of course, the basis of everything in the Jewish worldview.  It represents the will of the Living God.  Devotion in prayer puts us in a dialogue with the One who gave us that Torah.  It prepares our hearts to receive the Torah’s message.  And support of the needy is how we train ourselves to look beyond our own horizons, to the wider world around us.  It’s how we stay aware of, and hurt for, the suffering of others.  It’s one of the most important ways that we endeavour to build a better world.  If we cannot allow these three passions to infuse our personalities, then we have no business claiming a place in the leadership of a sacred community such as this.

Then, we ask that those who teach and nourish us be blessed with satisfaction, and that we may we appreciate their time and devotion.  How can we expect capable people to step forward to teach us and therefore ‘nourish’ our souls, if they will not experience some measure of the blessing of satisfaction?  This satisfaction is the only real reward one gets for giving of oneself to the community.  At least in the universe that you and I inhabit, there are no six-figure salaries, nor any particular prestige, given in return for this effort.  There is only the satisfaction one derives from doing something worthwhile.  From making a difference to others.  And how does the community let those teachers and leaders know that they have done something worthwhile?  Well, it starts when we appreciate their time and devotion.

In the third and final bakasha, or entreaty, we turn away from the teachers and leaders of the community and ask a blessing upon the community in its entirety.  Bless us with the fruits of wisdom and understanding, and may our efforts bring fulfilment and joy.  And of course, this blessing follows when we bless our teachers and leaders in the ways that are expressed in the first two requests.  Because iff our teachers can be imbued with the passions of love of Torah, devotion in prayer, and support of the needy and therefore guide with integrity and lead in God’s service…and iff those who teach and nourish us are blessed with satisfaction because we appreciate their time and service…then, wisdom and understanding, fulfilment and joy will be the fruits enjoyed, as a result, by the entire community.

And the leaders and teachers of whom this prayer speaks, surely include the likes of me, the professional who has a unique calling to full-time sacred service.  But they also include the many lay leaders of our community, those who service as teachers and prayer leaders and board members and other leaders and functionaries.  In a small community such as ours, it ideally includes a large portion of the membership.  If it does not, that means that not enough of you are stepping forward to help and serve.

This evening we have bestowed a particular honour, that of Life Membership, upon Jan Marriott.  She is one of the key lay leaders in our community.  We have made her a Life Member of the shule as a small gesture of thanks.  During her years with our community, she has fulfilled at one time or another, each and every one of the lay leadership roles which I just mentioned.  We bestow upon her this honour in recognition of the time and sweat she has put in to this congregation over the years.

At such a moment, it is altogether fitting that we take a close look at the leadership prayer.  It serves us well to remember, those of us who have stepped forward to lead, what this enterprise we call Temple Shalom is all about.  It serves us well to remember the devotion that our leaders, lay and professional, have given to each one of you sitting in this sanctuary tonight.  It serves us well to remember, as we bless those who step forward to serve, that each and every one of us is thereby blessed.  Shabbat shalom.

Beyond Reconciliation? A Drash for Parashat Vayiggash, 7 December 2013

Okay, here’s a news flash:  Most families are at least somewhat dysfunctional.  The differences generally are of degree.  So, where did I gain this startling discovery?  Sixteen years of counselling rabbinate for starters.

          I lost count years ago, of how many unhappy souls have trooped into my office to complain about their spouses, their parents, their children, or the siblings.  And that’s not to mention other relations:  aunts and uncles, cousins, grandparents…you get the idea.  It often seems as if everybody’s got a grievance against someone in their family, and often against multiple parties.  And often there’s at least some substance to the grievance.  Because, after all, human relations are more art than science.  Even when we’re trying hard not aggrieve others – and can we really be working on it with a full heart 24/7/365? – the nature of our emotional responses to one another is such that we will sometimes offend and be offended.  And when your heart is full of grievance, it is often easy to think that it is beyond reconciliation.

          So what sage advice was I able to give to my clients?  What rabbinic wisdom did I share with them?  I would tell them:  Cut ‘em some slack.  They’re your family.  Learn to live with their quirks, just as you pray that they will learn to live with your quirks.

          After all, we have the example of Joseph and his brothers.  If ever there was a truly aggrieved party, it was Joseph.  To deal with a younger brother whom you ‘hate’ for putting on airs and thinking himself superior by selling him to slavers – and remember, they wanted to kill him and might have if not for Judah’s counsel! – is, shall we say, just a little over the top.  Can anything that your family members have done to you even approach the perfidy of this act?  I seriously doubt it.  And yet…Joseph is ultimately able to forgive his brothers.  After he reveals himself to them and they are understandably full of guilt and dread, what does he say to them? Don’t worry or feel guilty because you sold me.  Look!  God has sent me ahead of you to save [your] lives. (Genesis 45:5)

          So if Joseph was able to reconcile himself with his brothers, what on earth have your family members done to you that is so unforgivable?  But on the other hand, perhaps you’re wondering what exactly was Joseph’s secret that he was able to forgive his brothers so magnanimously?  Why was he able to achieve what so many, aggrieved by far lesser offences, cannot?  And the answer is in the same words I just quoted to you; Joseph had an abiding faith in God, and he was therefore able to rise above his grievances and see them in a bigger context.  Sure, he was hurt by his brother’s actions; they led to his exile from his family, to his slavery, and indirectly to his spending years in prison after being denounced by his master’s wife in last week’s Torah reading.  But because he could step back from his own misery and see the ultimate good that came out of his suffering, he was able to transcend his grievances.

          Look, I’m not trying to trivialize the offences by which we aggrieve one another.  Of course they hurt.  Sometimes deeply.  But if you could step back and view events and consequences dispassionately, I’m sure you could see how Good often comes out of adversity.  And – here’s another news flash! – Goodness is the goal of religious life.  It’s what the Torah is all about.  Sometimes, when we get stuck in the details, we have a hard time seeing that.  But that’s what it’s all about.  Didn’t Hillel respond to the skeptic:  That which is hurtful to you, do not do to others; all the rest is commentary; now go learn it.

          So…cut ‘em some slack.  Learn to forgive.  And then go on and be happy.  Happiness is far better than grievance.  Try it and see.

Goodbye, Mandela...a Drash for Friday, 6 December 2013

In September 1995, I was in my fifth and final year or rabbinical studies at Hebrew Union College.  I travelled to South Africa to help a progressive congregation in Pretoria observe Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  The trip was actually a mutual ‘look-see’ for a possible long term posting upon completion of my fifth year and my ordination.  I was intrigued with the idea of living and working in South Africa; after my trip, Clara and I seriously considered the prospect.  In the end we did not go; I accepted a chaplain’s commission in the US Air Force instead.

          I had a friend, Rabbi Dana Kaplan, an American who had made Aliyah and was ordained through Hebrew Union College’s Israel program, who was working with a progressive congregation in Cape Town at the time.  Talking about his life and work there, he was very enthused.  He told me that he had been privileged to host Nelson Mandela for a Shabbat service in his shule.  That had been the highlight of his time in South Africa to then, and a memorable occasion it was!

          In preparation for my trip to South Africa, I read Mandela’s autobiography, Long Road to Freedom.  I remember reading of his life on the run as an anti-apartheid activist, and his eventual trial and imprisonment.  After reading of his struggles, I could not fail to be astounded at the direction his young presidency was then taking.  His forming a coalition with his former ‘enemies’ of the National Party, and his graciousness toward FW de Klerk.  His convening of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, as a forum to air the grievances of the Apartheid Era and give the nation a chance to come to terms without the perpetrators needing to worry about punishment.  These acts spoke of a stature rarely seen in a politician or office-holder.  But Mandela was much more than a politician.  He was a true statesman.

          It is hard to seriously criticise Nelson Mandela’s character.  He endured 27 years of imprisonment under the apartheid regime.  And yet, when released and subsequently elected first black president of South Africa, his conciliatory approach to his former oppressors was the glue that kept the country from falling into chaos.  In talking to the Jews of South Africa during my visit, their biggest fear for the future was that none of the upcoming leaders of the African National Congress was of a stature even approaching that of Mandela.  The fear was that, upon Mandela’s exit and retirement, the degree of racial harmony that then existed would diminish seriously.  And since in that year Mandela was already 77, the fear was that his retirement would come sooner rather than later.

          Mandela did retire soon after that, in 1999.  And yesterday, after a long illness, he passed away.  Baruch Dayan Emet.

          During the years of his presidency and since, Mandela was known for his close associations with the South African Jewish community.  He had a close friendship with Cyril Harris, the former Chief Rabbi of South Africa, to whom he referred as ‘my rabbi.’  In fact Rabbi Harris, an Orthodox rabbi, offered a special prayer and blessing upon Mandela’s second marriage, at the age of 80.  Mandela has spoken to gatherings of the South African Board of Jewish Deputies, in synagogues – including the aforementioned progressive congregation in Cape Town – and in the year 2000 he dedicated South Africa’s Jewish museum.

          Mandela’s relationship with the State of Israel was a bit more complicated.  This, in large part, to the ANC’s long-time alliance with the Palestinian Liberation Organisation.  But he did have a warm relationship with Israeli ambassador to South Africa, Alon Liel.  And he did visit Israel, in 1999, shortly after completing his term as President of South Africa.  And he is on record as supporting the aspirations of the Israeli nation to live in peace with their Arab neighbours.

          A number of you in this congregation have migrated to Australia from South Africa.  In the 1990’s Jews and other whites were leaving South Africa in large numbers, despite a widespread respect and regard for Mandela, because of rising crime rates and the aforementioned fears for the country after Mandela.  Since the Mandela years, South Africa has lurched from crisis to crisis.  As South Africa has hovered over the abyss during Mandela’s presidency and especially since, it has been easy to dismiss Mandela’s pioneering work.  But whatever the ultimate outcome for South Africa in the 21^st century, it is hard not to revere the life and person of Nelson Mandela.  A great man has left us.  Goodbye, Mandela.