Genesis

Parashah Ponderings

Life Happens. Count Your Blessings. Give Back.

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Parashat Vayechi
Genesis 47:28-50:26

This week we read the closing chapters of our founding ancestors’ story. Simply put, Jacob dies and is laid to rest in the Cave of Machpelah, next to Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebecca, and his first wife, Leah, (His other wife, Rachel, was buried near Bethlehem). Then Joseph dies and is “embalmed and placed in a coffin in Egypt” (Gen. 50:26) after making his brothers swear to carry his bones to the Land of Israel at some time in the distant future. It’s a neat ending to a story filled with twists and turns.

As conniving as Jacob was earlier in his life, and as brilliant as Joseph was at interpreting dreams and saving Egypt from the ravages of a seven-year famine, neither was fully in control of his life. Jacob’s departure from his home was precipitated by the fear that his brother Esau would enact revenge upon Jacob for stealing the birthright and their father’s blessing, both of which were Esau’s by right. Later, his father-in-law kept Jacob in indentured servitude for 20 years while switching Leah for Jacob’s intended wife, Rachel. Joseph, for his part, fell victim not only to his brothers’ scheme to sell him into slavery but also to their lifelong ruse to convince their father that Joseph had been killed by wild beasts. Once in Egypt, Potiphar’s wife frames Joseph because he refused to sleep with her, and he lands in prison. Then a whole chain of events that leads to Joseph rising to viceroy of Egypt. For two characters who seemed to be so much in control of their lives, they actually had very little control.

It is the chain of unforeseen circumstances, however, that leads to the entire family thriving in Egypt. Had any one piece of the story not occurred, who knows how the story would have ended? The family might have perished in the famine that struck the Land of Israel as hard as it struck Egypt, and all of Egypt might have been reduced to dust. Instead, the Book of Genesis hands us a happy ending: the family is reunited, Jacob gets to “bless” his sons before he dies a natural death, and Joseph gets a state funeral, or so we imagine. The journey to this point might have been rough, but there are plenty of blessings to count at the end, at least until the beginning of the Book of Exodus, when “a pharaoh arose who knew not Joseph”(Exodus 1:8).

It is against the backdrop of this happy ending at the end of a series of unfortunate events that I share the following story of how my family and I were spared the horror of this week’s devastating wildfires in and around Los Angeles. And it is against the backdrop of our own good fortune that I appeal to you to aid those who suffered immeasurable losses. Read on.

In 2013, I was honored to be a finalist for the associate rabbi position at one of the world’s largest Reconstructionist congregations. My “audition” Shabbat service was on Friday night, April 19th. Earlier that week, two homemade pressure cooker bombs detonated near the finish line of the Boston Marathon in Copley Square, killing three, injuring hundreds, and leading to the loss of 17 limbs. I had spent much time in that area when I visited Boston as a child and again as a graduate student at Brandeis when I interned at the ADL’s New England office in downtown Boston. The horrific attack in what felt like my own backyard left me shaken, and it’s all I could think about as I composed the devar Torah (sermon) I would deliver that Friday night that would determine the course of both my professional life and the life of my family.

Adding to the emotional weight of the Boston Marathon bombing was a hellacious day of flying from Philadelphia to Los Angeles on Thursday, April 18th. Anything that could go wrong with our flights did go wrong due to a massive freak winter storm that shut down the entire middle part of the country. We arrived into Los Angeles very late at night. “Refreshed” is not a word I would use to describe how I felt after a short night’s sleep.

That Friday night, there was a bar mitzvah happening at the synagogue that would be hosting me, and the Torah portion was Acharei Mot-Kedoshim. This particular reading is exceedingly rich with material to teach about in a way that would be appealing to any congregation on the eve of a bar mitzvah. To give you an idea of how easy it would have been to hit a home run that night, picture a league-leading first baseman fielding a routine grounder to make an easy out. A real gimme.

Now, imagine that player missing a game-winning play, like the Red Sox’s Bill Buckner did in game six of the 1986 World Series when he let an infield grounder roll between his legs. The Boston Marathon bombing was top of mind for me as I composed the devar Torah but, in hindsight, the message of looking for light at a time of darkness may not have been the uplifting message expected on the eve of a bar mitzvah. The devar Torah was long and bleak. Immediately after the service, the senior rabbi said to me, “Too many words.” Nothing else. It was a humbling moment, and I knew I had missed an important opportunity.

Years later, as I reflect on this incident, I am struck by how unpredictable and fragile our paths can be. The congregation where I was auditioning on that Shabbat in 2013 was Kehillat Israel in Pacific Palisades, CA, a flagship Reconstructionist congregation, set in a stunning landscape outside of Los Angeles, and this week, located at the epicenter of the most destructive wildfire in the history of Los Angeles. The synagogue, built primarily of Jerusalem stone, has so far survived the fire, but all three of the rabbis — the senior, the associate, and the emeritus — two of whom are my colleagues in the Reconstructionist Rabbinical Associate, have lost their homes to the fire. (For Rabbi Emeritus Stephen Carr Reuben, this is the second time he has suffered a fire in his home in ten years.) Sadly, the rabbis are not alone. In the congregation of about 900 households, a full third — 300 households! — have reported their homes have been destroyed.

As St. Francis of Assisi said, “There but for the grace of God go I.” While Beth, Kro and I dealt with floods in Houston for almost eight years before moving to Keene, we were, nevertheless, delighted to call Houston home. Of course, it stung not to be hired to be rabbi to Billy Crystal and Adam Sandler and live with a view of the Pacific Ocean, but none of us can imagine a better life for ourselves than the life we had in Houston and, now, Keene. Had it not been for a human tragedy, foul weather, and a misstep during my visit to KI in 2013, we very well might not be living safely in Keene today, and we very well may have been left homeless at this very moment. Believe me, we are counting our blessings.

Profoundly aware of our good fortune, we extend our hearts to my colleagues at Kehillat Israel, to their congregants, and to all those people in the path of the Los Angeles fire — the tens of thousands of people — who have suffered loss of home, loss of irreplaceable possessions, and loss of life.

While many of the people at KI enjoy extraordinary wealth, all of them are ordinary people like you and me. Even though Pacific Palisades is home to the rich and famous, many people have suffered catastrophic losses and need financial assistance. We cannot turn our backs on any of them. We should trust that those who need assistance will receive it and those who can offer assistance will give it.

If you feel moved to help, I urge you to donate to one of the many relief efforts already underway, such as the KI Community Palisades Fire Assistance Fund (https://www.ourki.org/firefund) or the Jewish Federation of Los Angeles Wildfire Crisis Relief (https://www.jewishla.org/wildfire-crisis-relief). Additionally, Time Magazine lists several organizations doing relief work in the affected area: https://time.com/7205547/los-angeles-wildfires-how-to-help-victims/. You may also check online for other organizations you may feel more inclined to contribute to. Together, we can support those facing unimaginable losses.

Our lives are guided by forces beyond our control. Acts of terror, bad weather, a last-minute invitation to visit a friend, a chance encounter with a kind person — all these things and more can influence the course of our lives. While we must be grateful for the blessings that have graced our journeys, we must also remember the suffering of others who, by the same unforeseen circumstances, remained in harm’s way. Join me in sending prayers and offering a helping hand to a community I might have served, if not for the twists of fate that ultimately guided me here.

Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Dan

Parashah Ponderings

Learning in Egypt and the Survival of the Jewish People

Daniel Aronson's avatarDaniel Aronson 1 Comment

Parashat Vayigash / פרשת ויגש
Torah Portion: Genesis 44:18 – 47:27

The history of Israel’s 400-plus year exile in Egypt, foretold in a divine revelation to Abraham earlier in the Book of Genesis (15:13), begins in this week’s Torah reading, Vayigash. The reading opens with Joseph revealing himself to his brothers, who had journeyed to Egypt in search of sustenance during the famine in Canaan (45:4). Prior to now, the band of brothers had been unaware that the Pharaoh’s vizier, to whom they were pleading and who put them through a series of nerve-wracking trials, was the brother whom they had long ago sold into slavery and about whom they told their father, Jacob, had been devoured by a ravenous beast.

All seems to end well in this parasha. Pharaoh invites the brothers to resettle their clan in Egypt. Jacob learns that Joseph is alive and well. Father and son are reunited. And all 70 members of Jacob’s household emigrates to Egypt, where they will wait out the famine and eventually thrive. Still, the Children of Israel are in exile in Israel. They literally “went down” to Egypt.

The exile motif has already appeared in the Torah several times. Recall that Adam and Eve were banished from the Garden of Eden in chapter 3 of Genesis. Later, Cain would be exiled (4:16). Then, each of the patriarchs would experience dislocation in one way or another either within Canaan or without. All these stories are part and parcel of Israel’s national story, serving to define Israel’s relationship with God and the land of Israel and giving shape to their mission in the world.

The exile of Jacob and his family, however, would last much longer than all the others and prove to be a great test of Israel’s ability to maintain its self-identity. By the time God liberates the Hebrews from Egyptian bondage, they will have preserved a modicum of identity with their past as told through the stories of Genesis, but they will have effectively switched allegiance from the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob to the gods of the Egyptians (see the article entitled “The Religion of the Israelites in Egypt” by Michael Alan Stein at http://jbq.jewishbible.org/assets/Uploads/393/jbq_393_religioninegypt.pdf). While the extended sojourn in Egypt would engrave the experience of servitude upon Israel’s consciousness, the Hebrews’ link to their ancestral religion would become tenuous, at best.

Rather than discount Israel’s flimsy identification with the God of their ancestors and focus on their assimilation into Egyptian culture – an assimilation which might have been complete had not the experience of bondage brought them together as an oppressed people – we ought to celebrate that our enslaved forebears retained any identity as the People of Israel at all. In fact, on the eve of Israel’s liberation, the Hebrews’ response to Moses’s command to ready themselves for the exodus suggests they had recovered, at least in part, from the amnesia induced by centuries of disconnection from the Promised Land and the halt in progress of their nation’s narrative.

In looking for clues to the survival of Israel’s identity during their exile in Egypt, we find light in the commentary of Rashi, the preeminent medieval French commentator. As Jacob prepared to relocate his family, he sent his son Judah ahead to “show (le’harot) the way before him to Goshen” (46:28). Rashi shares a rabbinic midrash on the word “le’harot,” which can be translated as “to teach or instruct,” that says that Jacob had sent Judah ahead in order to establish in advance a house of study, from which teaching would go forth. The idea that Jacob would have a house of study established before his arrival to Goshen reflects the sages’ wisdom that for diaspora Jewry Jewish learning is essential to continuity and survival. It certainly is the case that traditions survive because one generation teaches them to the next. When there is no transmission of a people’s narrative or creative myths, there can be no lasting memory and the people’s identity is doomed to fade away. The rabbis of old understood that for Judaism to flourish, Jews need to teach their children and grandchildren what it means to be Jewish.

The midrash that Rashi shares is surely a projection of the rabbinic mind onto the Torah, but while it is unlikely that there were houses of Israelite study in Egypt prior to the exodus, it is not at all unlikely that Jacob’s sons told the story of their people to their children and their children’s children. Thus began an oral tradition that helped preserve the Hebrews’ identity as B’nai Yisrael, the Children of Israel.

In an age when the demographics of Jews in America continue to show waning commitments to Jewish religion and institutional affiliation, we ought to heed the lesson embedded in this week’s Torah portion. Without houses of study or, at least, houses in which parents and grandparents actively relate Jewish wisdom to their heirs, Jewish identity is doomed to dissolve. Such dissolution of identity may have been total for our ancestors in Egypt were it not for those elders who saw to it that the stories of the Children of Israel would be taught from generation to generation.

It is my hope that the American Jewish community will always find “Judahs” in each generation to safeguard Jewish learning and set up teachers for our children who will transmit to them the stories of our past and visions for our future. In this way, the People of Israel will live.

Parashah Ponderings

Transforming Hospitality from Good to Sacred

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Parashat Vayera / פרשת וירא

Torah Portion: Genesis 18:1 – 22:24

Hospitality, hachnasat orchim, is an important Jewish value that is rooted in this week’s Torah portion. Here Abraham and Sarah demonstrate the kind of gracious and loving care for strangers that our tradition says we should all show. As with all mitzvot, though, there is more to the story than meets the eye. Abraham and Sarah may be nice people who are naturally inclined to extend themselves to people in need, but they are also executing what we believe is God’s will. In this respect, they are performing a sacred act, which we are to copy in our own lives.

Our portion begins:

The Lord appeared to him (Abraham) by the terebinths of Mamre; he was sitting at the entrance of the tent as the day grew hot. Looking up, he saw three men standing near him. As soon as he saw them, he ran from the entrance of the tent to greet them and, bowing to the ground, he said, “My lords, if it please you, do not go on past your servant. Let a little water be brought; bathe your feet and recline under the tree. And let me fetch a morsel of bread that you may refresh yourselves; then go on—seeing that you have come your servant’s way.” They replied, “Do as you have said.”

Abraham hastened into the tent to Sarah, and said, “Quick, three seahs of choice flour! Knead and make cakes!” Then Abraham ran to the herd, took a calf, tender and choice, and gave it to a servant-boy, who hastened to prepare it. He took curds and milk and the calf that had been prepared and set these before them; and he waited on them under the tree as they ate. (Genesis 18:1-8)

There is much to learn from this short vignette. First, Abraham rushes to meet his guests, whom we later discover are angels, where they are. Abraham doesn’t just sit in one spot until the men approach him. Rather, he gets up and runs toward them. Abraham’s eagerness here is remarkable in it’s own right, but doubly so because, according to our sages, he had circumcised himself as a sign of entering into a covenant with God only three days earlier! Not only does Abraham hasten to greet his guests, he does so while presumably enduring a great deal of pain. Rather than use his circumstances as an excuse to withhold hospitality, he sets thoughts of his own physical condition aside and, with the aid of Sarah and a servant, tends to the three strangers. Like Abraham and Sarah, we must see beyond ourselves when we welcome strangers into our lives.

Then Abraham makes his guests feel welcomed and comfortable. He washes their feet, a common welcoming ritual in Abraham’s world, and feeds his visitors well. It might be easier to share with the men leftovers or items that are readily available, but instead Abraham treats his guests as if they were family who had traveled a great distance to celebrate a festival. Abraham and Sarah are intentional and generous in their hospitality. They treat their guests not like casual passersby but like royalty. Like Abraham and Sarah, we must see guests and strangers as made in God’s image, as worthy of great respect.

Finally, it is notable where Abraham situates his guests, at the entrance to his tent under the shade of a tree. He performs the mitzvah of hachnasat orchim in plain view of his neighbors. By doing so, Abraham is able to inspire those near him to similarly extend hospitality when they are able to do so. Had he brought his guests into his tent, no one outside the tent could have known the great extent to which Abraham and Sarah would go to care for their visitors. As the founding father and mother of the Jewish people, Abraham and Sarah surely understood that they had a special responsibility to show others what it is that God expects of them. Like Abraham and Sarah, we too should strive to model hachnasat orchim in its richest sense.

In the anthology of commentary to the Book of Genesis known as Bereishit Rabbah, our sages teach that God’s visit to Abraham through the angels shows that Abraham had become “a chariot of the Divine Presence” on which God’s very being rested (Art Scroll Humash, p. 78). In other words, with every act of hospitality – from noticing the visitors, to greeting them, to feeding and caring for them, and later to escorting them on their way — Abraham had become a vehicle for bringing God’s presence into the world.

The lesson for us is simple. It is good to be nice to strangers and guests, but when we truly invest our whole beings in their care, such as Abraham and Sarah did for their guests, our hospitality goes from being good to being sacred, from being a nice thing to do to being a mitzvah. May we follow in the footsteps of our ancestors, opening our hearts and our homes to all in need and increasing God’s loving presence in our world.

Shabbat Shalom.