Vayakhel-Pekudei Sermon

In Friday’s New York Times David Brooks writes about the resurgence of Orthodoxy.  “All of us navigate certain tensions, between community and mobility, autonomy and moral order. Mainstream Americans have gravitated toward one set of solutions. The families stuffing their groceries into their Honda Odyssey minivans in the Pomegranate parking lot represent a challenging counterculture. Mostly, I notice how incredibly self-confident they are. Once dismissed as relics, they now feel that they are the future.”  Brooks suggests that the Orthodox are indeed the future.

He writes of their numerical significance.  “Nationwide, only 21 percent of non-Orthodox Jews between the ages of 18 and 29 are married. But an astounding 71 percent of Orthodox Jews are married at that age. And they are having four and five kids per couple. In the New York City area, for example, the Orthodox make up 32 percent of Jews over all. But the Orthodox make up 61 percent of Jewish children. Because the Orthodox are so fertile, in a few years, they will be the dominant group in New York Jewry.”

Part of their secret is Shabbat about which we read in this week’s portion.  “These are the things that the Lord has commanded you to do.  On six days work may be done, but on the seventh day you shall have a Sabbath of complete rest, holy to the Lord; whoever does any work on it shall be put death.  You shall kindle no fire throughout your settlements on the Sabbath day.”  There is listed here one positive command: rest, and two negative: no work and no fire.  The tradition spends much time discussing the definition of work.  About fire it is easier to detail. You can’t light a fire.  That is why many Shabbat recipes are for foods that are slow cooked.  You can keep a fire burning, but you can’t light it.

Work is more complicated to define.  The rabbis reason that there are 39 labors.  There are major categories of work.  They base these on the labors detailed for the building of the tabernacle that follows the commandment to observe Shabbat.  So for example one cannot carry on Shabbat.  In particular one cannot carry outside of one’s home, one’s private domain.  This is why an eruv is required.  It in essence widens the limits of the private domain.  Of course the eruv is also a source of controversy because it defines an area as Orthodox. 

There is another category of work called muktzeh.  This would be an illustration of a fence around the law.  So for example even though you can technically lift up a hammer in your home you would not do so because it is usually used for forbidden work.  The list goes on and on and the details are unending.  I am sure many of us think such details are ridiculous.

A story.  One Shabbat, some years ago, I spent in Ashkelon at my friend’s daughter’s bat mitzvah.  I was the only Reform Jew among a sea of Conservative Jews and rabbis.  It was a beautiful Shabbat.  We walked everywhere.  My friend and I roomed together.  He is shomrei Shabbat and I was the kid who kept asking when can I watch TV?  “Look out at the sea; there are three stars.”  One measure for havdalah is seeing three stars in the sky.  “Steve, those are a ship’s lights…”

Still I have a certain admiration for living by the law.  For the tradition, Shabbat is likened to a building that we construct out of a myriad of laws; it is in Heschel’s words a palace in time.  “The meaning of the Sabbath is to celebrate time rather than space. Six days a week we live under the tyranny of things of space, on the Shabbat we try to become attuned to holiness in time.  It is a day on which we are called upon to share in what is eternal in time, to turn from the results of creation to the mystery of creation; from the world of creation to the creation of the world.”  For the Orthodox Jew one’s own ego is sublimated to the demands of the law.

Reform Judaism offers a critique.  It asks, where is the personal meaning and fulfillment?  Where are the individual’s wants and desires?  It looks at the mountain of laws and proclaims that the intention and meaning of Shabbat can no longer be seen because of the details of an eruv, carrying and a hammer.  So much time is spent debating about what is permitted and what is prohibited that the beauty and luxury of Shabbat is obscured.

I believe in the Reform critique.  How can you see Shabbat through the thicket of so many laws?  But the more important question and critique is what have lost by asserting the individual over the community?  In our liberal world, we have so elevated personal choice that we have lost much of the meaning of obligation.  Can we ever say, I am sorry you can’t do that, but your family comes first, your congregation comes first, your people, your country?  Can we ever just say anymore, you have to do that?  Perhaps we have given up too much in our quest for personal fulfillment and meaning.

Sometimes the greatest meaning can be found in what others want us to do, what the tradition asks of us rather than what we want to do.  The Talmud argues that it is best to do a mitzvah solely out of sense of being commanded rather than for an ulterior motive such as personal fulfillment.  Why?  Because a commandment is always more reliable than that fleeting goal of spiritual meaning.  When you no longer find the action fulfilling, you might no longer do the mitzvah.  And for the Talmud the goal is to get us to do what is asked of us by God. 

In the traditional world, obligation and community precede personal choice and individual fulfillment; rootedness and meaning are found in obligation and community.  I don’t want to give up my personal choice and my quest for spiritual nourishment.  But we need to consider that we may have lost something in the process.

David Brooks writes: “The laws, in this view, make for a decent society. They give structure to everyday life. They infuse everyday acts with spiritual significance. They build community. They regulate desires. They moderate religious zeal, making religion an everyday practical reality.”

Perhaps we would gain more meaning by adopting at least a measure of this approach.  Then we might make our faith an everyday reality and no longer just an infrequent desire.

Vayakhel-Pekudei

In this week’s portion we read: “Moses then gathered (vayakhel) the whole Israelite community…  This is what the Lord has commanded: Take from among you gifts to the Lord, everyone whose heart so moves him shall bring them…” (Exodus 35:1-5)

In last week’s we read: “When the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain, the people gathered (vayikahel) against Aaron and said to him, ‘Come, make us a god who shall go before us…’” (Exodus 32:1)

In one instance the people gathered for good, the other for bad.  This week they gathered to build the tabernacle, in last week’s the golden calf.  The Hebrew root of “gathered” indicates how close the positive can sometimes be to the negative.

I just returned from the AIPAC Policy Conference in Washington DC.  It was an extraordinary experience to sit with 12,000 people who share my passion and commitment for the modern State of Israel.  I am proud that seven from our congregation joined me at this convention.  Two thirds of United States senators and representatives attended as well.  There were many interesting speakers including Vice President Joe Biden, House Majority Leader Eric Cantor, House Minority Whip Steny Hoyer and Senator John McCain.  All shared their unequivocal support for Israel.  All spoke of the looming threat from a nuclear Iran and the dangers of Syrian arms falling into the hands of Hezbollah.

One afternoon I took a break from the intensity of the sessions and walked around Washington’s beautiful National Mall.  The Jefferson and Lincoln Memorials, the Reflecting Pool and Tidal Basin, the US Capital and White House are breathtaking.  I made my way to the new World War II memorial.  Its Freedom Wall is decorated with 4,048 stars, each representing the 100 US service personnel killed or missing in the war, amounting to 405,089 dead.  At the Vietnam War memorial the loss is more personal.  Each of the 58,272 names is etched on its black granite wall.

Such losses are staggering.  Even when war is justified and necessary it is never without loss.  War brings with it destruction.  War sacrifices a nation’s youth.  In an age of drone wars, we too often forget that it also devastates those who call its battlegrounds home.

During the convention I lost count how many times we applauded speakers for their strong statements about Iran.  I certainly agree that Iran represents a threat to Israel and the United States, as well as the Middle East and the Western World.  Nonetheless the applause and standing ovations for calls to attack Iran gave me pause.  I wonder if we are guilty of worshipping our military prestige. I worry about an over confidence that military means can solve our problems and overcome hatreds.  War can perhaps offer temporary defenses but rarely long term solutions.  Our defense forces should most certainly protect us.  To live in safety and security is our right.  Too often in the modern age it must be vigorously defended.   

When antisemites stand up, as Mahmoud Ahmadinejad has done, to say that they want to annihilate the Jewish people and destroy the Jewish state, we should believe them.   I have often said, and continue to believe, that history has taught us that we should take antisemites at their word.  The import of Jewish history is that we no longer have the luxury to dismiss such claims.  The meaning of the Jewish state is that we now have the power to defend ourselves, to protect our Jewish home.

That is the difference in Israel’s war memorials. They are interspersed within neighborhoods.  One walks along the streets of Jerusalem and happens upon a memorial to ten who fell in the 1967 war near, or even at, the very spot one stands.  One of the ferocious battle sites of that war, Ammunition Hill, sits near Jerusalem’s trendy neighborhood of French Hill.  There it is clear, and then it was apparent, that war was about defending one’s home.   

Sitting with like minded delegates it is more difficult to discern.  The applause gathers to a chorus. 

One lecturer suggested that the United States and Israel come to the threat of Iran with different traumas.  Israel is traumatized by the Holocaust and the resolve that it must never happen again.  The United States is traumatized by the two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, by the innumerable sacrifices we have made over there for the sake of freedom here.  Sometimes thousands of miles of ocean make it more difficult to give meaning to these distant sacrifices.  Nonetheless, we dismiss both traumas to our peril.  I wonder, perhaps only a leader traumatized by war should make the decision to go to war.

I am left uneasy applauding war’s use.  I am left reeling.  What is the meaning of my cheers? 

Last week we read: “When Joshua heard the sound of the people in its boisterousness, he said to Moses, ‘There is a cry of war in the camp.’”  (Exodus 32:17)

And this week, “So the whole community of the Israelites left Moses’ presence.  And everyone who excelled in ability and everyone whose spirit moved him came, bringing to the Lord his offering for the work of the Tent of Meeting…” (Exodus 35:20)

Ki Tissa Sermon

Let me offer some words of Torah before turning to our concluding prayers... This week’s Torah portion is Ki Tissa. It contains the story of the golden calf, considered the greatest sin in the Torah, when the Israelites rebelled against the Torah’s laws, Moses’ leadership and of course God. Idolatry, its definitions and prohibitions, occupy many laws in the Torah. It is of course expressly forbidden and this is repeated quite often. Anything that even approaches an idol is not allowed. So for example we don’t have any images of people in our sanctuaries. The question still haunts us today. What is an idol?

There are those in the Jewish world who believe that anything which is foreign is an idol. If it is not written about or talked about in our tradition, if it is not mentioned in the Torah, Talmud or traditional literature then it must be rejected. Then it is forbidden and labeled an idol. It must even be destroyed. It has no place in the Jewish world.

I do not however believe the lines are so clear. Anything can be turned into an idol. Anything that is worshiped as an end unto itself can become an idol. Even our holy Torah can become objectified. If it is not about the values taught and pointed to in its words then it is an idol. If the mezuzah becomes not a reminder but a protective amulet it veers toward an idol.

On this Shabbat we have modern instruments accompanying our services. Some would say that such instruments and music steer people away from Judaism. I of course reject this view. They elevate and enhance our prayers. Instead they can pull us in and towards our traditions. They can help us reclaim and renew our Jewish lives.

There are those who believe in stark lines. Their world is black and white. There is only what they call holy. And everything else that is foreign is deemed an idol.

But the world is changing. In Israel there is a resurgence of Jewish music. Contemporary musicians are taking traditional prayers and poems and reclaiming them as their own; they are using the tools of modernity to enhance the tradition. But there are also the values of modernity with which we must contend. Not all is foreign and should be forbidden. This battle is being waged in Israel more than here. In fact the coalition talks are now stalled because of this very question.

It is possible that soon the ultra-Orthodox will be required to contribute to the state. For years they have treated the state as an idol. Its values, its institutions must be shunned, they argued. But Zionism is about fusing the modern with the ancient. Now the ultra Orthodox may in fact be conscripted into some form of national service. It is this very question that has impeded Netanyahu’s ability to build a coalition.

The stark, black and white lines of yesterday are fading. It is not religious or secular, foreign or mine, idol or holy but instead a fusion. There are no clear lines; they are all grey.

Here is a fascinating, recent development. Every new Member of Knesset gives a speech. Ruth Calderon, number 13 on Yesh Atid’s list, instead taught Talmud. Here is a secular Israeli, a PhD in Talmud, teaching Talmud to Israelis of every stripe, to rabbis and Israeli Arabs. She, by the way, is also a student of David Hartman.

Ruth Calderone concluded her speech with the words:

I am convinced that studying the great works of Hebrew and Jewish culture are crucial to construct a new Hebrew culture for Israel. It is impossible to stride toward the future without knowing where we came from and who we are, without knowing, intimately and in every particular, the sublime as well as the outrageous and the ridiculous. The Torah is not the property of one movement or another. It is a gift that every one of us received, and we have all been granted the opportunity to meditate upon it as we create the realities of our lives. Nobody took the Talmud and rabbinic literature from us. We gave it away, with our own hands, when it seemed that another task was more important and urgent: building a state, raising an army, developing agriculture and industry, etc. The time has come to reappropriate what is ours, to delight in the cultural riches that wait for us, for our eyes, our imaginations, our creativity.

I believe things are changing. The lines of what is an idol and what is not, of what is holy and what is profane, of what is religious and what is secular, are no longer so clear. In fact they never were. It is all grey. And that is good. And that is a blessing. And that is the greatest and most lasting lesson of the golden calf.

Ki Tissa

This week’s Torah portion, Ki Tissa, begins with the instructions for building the mishkan, the portable tabernacle.  It concludes with the first of many rebellions, the building of the golden calf.  Why was the building of one a transgression and the other a holy task?  The first and most obvious answer is that the mishkan was commanded by God and the golden calf was not.  Yet we read that the chief architect of the tabernacle was a man named Betzalel who “God endowed with a divine spirit of skill, ability, and knowledge of every kind of craft…” (Exodus 31: 3)

Often when we use the similar phrase “divinely inspired” it suggests that a person is remarkably creative.  I wonder, what are the limits of creativity?  When does a human creation become idolatry?  The people were afraid.  They wondered why Moses was taking so long to come down from the mountaintop.  They only did what they knew how to do.  They built a golden calf.  Was it beautiful?  Undoubtedly.  Was it expertly crafted?  Certainly.  Still it was an idol.  And the people were severely punished.  The intention is secondary to the action.

Since the destruction of the Temple the rabbis argued that all construction projects are flawed.  Even the best are imperfect.  The worst are idols.  And so Abraham Joshua Heschel suggests that it is better to build not a tabernacle in space but in time.  We build a day.  Shabbat and its observances is our holy temple.  It and it alone, is called a sign for all time between God and the people of Israel.  “For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, and on the seventh day He ceased from work and was refreshed.” (Exodus 31:17)

In fact this entire Torah portion is about our imperfect attempts to approach the divine.  First there is the tabernacle, next the golden calf and finally Moses meets God face to face.  Yet even Moses cannot see God.  The Torah reports: “And I will take away My hand, and you will see My back; but My face will not be seen. (Exodus 33:23) 

The Hatam Sofer, a 19^th century Jewish thinker, comments: “One is only able to recognize God’s ways and God’s actions after the fact.  Only after time has passed is it possible to link together all the facts, can one understand a little of the way God acts.  At the time itself we cannot understand God’s deeds and we stand amazed.  Thus, ‘you will see My back’ – after some time has passed you will understand My actions, ‘but My face will not be seen’ – at the time of the events themselves, you will not see Me.”

No matter what we build, no matter what we behold, it is still only a glimmer.  It is only when looking back, through the arc of our lives, that we are able to glimpse God’s handiwork.

Purim

Purim is of course all about fun.  It is a holiday unlike all other holidays.  All normal rules are suspended.  Costumes are worn.  Drinking is not only encouraged but required.   We laugh and sing, celebrate and feast.  As we read the Purim story we drown out the evil Haman’s name with noisemakers.  The story is almost farcical.

Curiously God is not even mentioned in the story.  Imagine that.  Here is the biblical book of Esther and the Bible’s greatest hero is absent.  Is it possible that our Bible is satirizing our history and traditions?  That is certainly one perspective that Purim offers.  Don’t take yourself so seriously—at least one day a year.  Even our holiest of books is treated with a certain irreverence.

I have been thinking about the proper place of irreverence in our lives.  I just saw “The Book of Mormon” on Broadway.  I have to admit that the last time I laughed this much was when I say “Avenue Q.”  In both instances what was so extraordinarily funny was that which we hold most sacred was subjected to withering ridicule.  To see the puppets that so many of us watched as a child perform all manner of adult behaviors was hilarious.  To view religious tenets mercilessly satirized makes us laugh as well. 

Can there be a place for such sentiments within our religious lives?  Purim suggests that the answer is yes.  Even our most cherished beliefs must be held up and ridiculed, if only briefly.  For those who are secure in their faith, there is no worry that such parodies will undermine belief.  It is the weak of spirit who worry about such things.  A Mormon leader was for example quoted as saying, “Of course, parody isn't reality, and it's the very distortion that makes it appealing and often funny. The danger is not when people laugh but when they take it seriously..."

Satire, and even irreverence, can serve to strengthen faith.  That is Purim’s greatest lesson.

Tetzaveh Sermon

This week’s Torah portion, Tetzaveh, is filled with exquisite detail about the priests’ clothes.   Today we no longer have priests so we don’t have need for their vestments.  Instead we lavish such finery upon the Torah that is adorned with a crown and breast piece for example.  Rather than a man we dress up a book as a king.

The portion also speaks about the ner tamid, which is often translated as the “eternal light” but it would be better to understand it as “always light” because it always had to be tended to.  The Hebrew suggests this meaning rather than the more familiar eternal light.  The ner tamid is the only commandment associated with the ancient tabernacle that we still do today almost exactly as it is commanded in the Torah.

Here is our question for this evening.  Why is light the most common symbol for God?

One answer, suggested in the Etz Hayim Commentary, is because light itself cannot be seen.  We become aware of its presence when see other things that it illuminates.

So too with God.  We become aware of God’s presence when we behold the beauty of the world, or the love of others, or the goodness of others.  It is only in light’s reflection that we discern its reality. 

Rabbi Harold Schulweis once wrote a beautiful poem entitled “Touch My Heart” that beautifully expresses this idea.  The entire poem can be found here.  The poem concludes:

Not where is love

            not where is God

But when is love

            when is God

Recall the meeting

            the moment, the time.

The analogy to light and fire points to Schulweis’ insight and understanding.  Fire is also not an object.  We become aware of its presence when we feel it.  Fire is also a process of liberating energy from something combustible.  Fire requires our efforts to tend it.  That is why the ner tamid must be the “always light.”  Thus God becomes real in our lives when we liberate the potential energy within ourselves for good.

People often ask where is God?  I admit that the light and fire of God can too often be obscured.  But the helpful message of these metaphors is that we have to look very hard to discern their reality.  Light and fire are often perceived by the glow or warmth they create rather than in their own realities. 

What is the Bible’s most familiar image for God?  It is the burning bush.  When Moses stands before the bush he is amazed that it is not consumed by the fire.  You have to stare a great while before discovering that the bush was not consumed.  Miracles are discerned over time not immediately.  Making God a reality requires effort.  It is a matter of looking carefully.  It is a matter of always tending the fire.  It is not a matter of magic.  It is instead a matter of recognizing when and searching for the glimmer and reflection of light.

Tetzaveh

In ancient times olive oil was the primary fuel.  We read in this week’s portion: “You shall further instruct the Israelites to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for kindling the eternal light.” (Exodus 27:20)

Why olive oil?  The first answer is because it was ubiquitous in the ancient Middle East.  The midrash suggests additional answers.  The olive branch was a sign of peace.  One reason it is such a sign is because it takes five years before the olive tree produces olives.  There must be a time of peace in order for farmers to tend to their olive grove.  Thus one cannot cultivate such a crop during times of war.

In addition the oil must be pure.  The Etz Hayim commentary points out that the fuel for the ner tamid must be uncontaminated by jealousy, selfishness, pride or greed.  Given the care and nurturing, peace and tranquility, required to produce olive oil this is why it was the most prized fuel for lighting fire the eternal light.  In fact an olive tree can live for 500 years! 

The meaning of olive oil and the olive tree is that it requires our hands to nurture and sustain it.  It requires relative peace and quiet in order to grow.  This is why it was so valued.  It is interesting to reflect on these qualities in an age when we are overly dependent on crude oil.  It is inarguable that our need for oil leads to conflict.  Do I need to recite examples?   Moreover, our use of oil causes the despoliation of the environment.  Is this still a debatable point?

Imagine a world dependent instead on the produce of our own hands.  I understand that my life might be denied its many conveniences.  Nonetheless if the fuel I required depended on my caring for a tree I might become more cognizant of my overuse and over-dependence on fuel.  And then the olive tree would become not only the symbol of peace it has been since antiquity but the cause of peace. 

Rabbi David Hartman z"l

On Sunday my teacher, Rabbi David Hartman, died. It was he who founded Jerusalem’s Shalom Hartman Institute where I study every summer. In the room where I have spent countless hours studying our sacred texts and debating with my colleagues, his body lay shrouded in a tallit at Monday’s funeral service.

On Sunday we also welcomed the Hebrew month of Adar, the month in which the holiday of Purim is celebrated. We are told that when Adar begins, joy begins. On this day my joy is of course diminished. Nonetheless my heart continues to rejoice for the years I was blessed to spend with my teacher. I am grateful for his teachings.

Rabbi Hartman was eulogized by many, including Israel Knohl, a renowned scholar of the Hebrew Bible. He reminded us that David lived by three alefs. Emet. Ometz. Ahavah. Truth. Courage. Love.

It was these qualities more than any others that made him my rabbi. He loved his students like few teachers do. He welcomed our questions. He invited disagreement. He encouraged debate. It was as if he believed he could only learn more if we asked more. The love for us was unconditional. It was not dependent on agreement. It was not tied to like-mindedness. It was divorced from our praise and accolades. He simply loved students.

He was also courageous. Years ago he dreamed of a place where rabbis of all denominations, Reform, Orthodox, Conservative, Reconstructionist and Renewal, would come to study. He imagined it would be a place not of ideology but about love of Judaism, Israel and the Jewish people. It would be a place that could deepen our commitments and challenge us to think in new ways. Come to Jerusalem to learn more Torah, he envisioned. And I discovered, be prepared to be shaken by new revelations.

He was most of all unafraid of truth. He studied everything. He did not just pour over the Talmud and the texts of our tradition, but any wisdom. He, for example, insisted we read Erich Fromm. He discussed with us Aristotle. Although deeply rooted in the Jewish tradition, he modeled a learning that could be garnered from all sources. It was a remarkable example. Here was an Orthodox rabbi, a graduate of Yeshiva University, who taught us that the spiritual pursuit is to run after truth. At times it was filled with anger and even curses. Often it was tinged with the Yiddish of his youth. Nonetheless, no matter how it emerged we were admonished to never turn away from it or deny it.

On Shabbat we will read of the mishkan, the tabernacle that the Israelites constructed in the wilderness. As they wandered through the midbar this mishkan offered them strength and courage. It was this tabernacle that assured the Israelites that God was present in their midst. During the summer it was as if God peered through the windows of Rabbi Hartman’s Institute. There it was possible to glimpse the divine, to behold God shimmering from our debates. Every summer our Torah was renewed.

It leapt from the walls, amidst shouts and screams, smiles and laughs, from within the pages of our sacred texts and between colleagues of every Jewish denomination, but most of all from the loving hand of my teacher extended to my cheek for a question worth pondering. With David the challenge was welcomed. Jewish life is imperfect. It must be reinvigorated. We must not be afraid. I must summon courage. I always left Jerusalem with more questions than when I arrived. There were now more uncertainties. Still it was comforting that the greatest of my teachers appeared even more uncertain. His lesson was instead to embrace the uncertainty.

Some thirty years ago Rabbi David Hartman dreamed of the place that many of us now call our spiritual home. Yet he died unsatisfied. Despite the countless rabbis who call him their rabbi, there was always a restlessness in his soul that at times could be disquieting. He was never content. Jewish life, the world, is imperfect and only we can repair it. There was a rage over the imperfections in the Jewish present, but also an unrivaled faith that we, and we alone, can mend them.

He continued to believe that the perfecting and completing was within our grasp. That was the vision that he re-ignited within my soul and that he re-instilled in my heart each and every summer. For that inspiration, for the innumerable teachings, I will always be grateful.

Yitgadal, vayitkadash…

My joy is restored.

Mishpatim

Remember when the pooper-scooper law was introduced? I still recall when Mayor Koch z”l advocated for it. He said, “If you’ve ever stepped in dog doo, you know how important it is to enforce the canine waste law.” No one thought then that people would willingly clean up their dog’s poop or that it would be commonplace to see dog walkers carry plastic bags with them. New York led the way for the rest of the country.

Sometimes laws can change the way people behave. Governments can in fact legislate change. That of course is the philosophy that gives rise to the current mayor’s attempt to forbid big gulps.

Although these examples seem trivial, there is a direct line from these laws to those in this week’s Parashat Mishpatim. Long ago the Torah revolutionized the thinking about laws. It taught that it is possible not only to forbid wrongs but also to legislate good. In this week’s portion we read for example, “When you encounter your enemy’s ox or ass wandering, you must take it back to him. When you see the ass of your enemy lying under its burden and would refrain from raising it, you must nevertheless raise it with him.” (Exodus 23:4-5)

Can there be a better example of the attempt to use legislation to raise our humanity and make us do good? In certain circumstances, namely when an animal is suffering, you must put aside the differences even with your enemy and lend a hand. The Torah does not say that we must love our enemies, but we are sometimes obligated to transcend these differences and together relieve suffering.

Mayor Koch had his failures, most notably what hindsight suggests was too slow a response to then emerging AIDS crisis, but he certainly believed that government can change us, can lead us, can create laws that will make us better, that can make our society more just. Mayor Bloomberg agrees with this as well. Democrat and Republican philosophies believe this. Libertarian thinking does not. And Judaism holds that premise to be false. Our tradition believes that we require laws to lead us to change—not always, but often. And we are therefore better for it. And even more important, our community is better for it.

It is of course true that laws can be coercive and at times, as in the case of Bloomberg’s recent attempts, patronizing. But we should not reject the entire enterprise simply because of these negative feelings. As a counterbalance to these downsides we must foster open critique and perhaps even skepticism in the face of governments’ laws. Nonetheless we should also remind ourselves that more people doing more good is our shared goal and a just society our dream. And legislation can help us realize that vision.

Can laws answer all our problems and compel people only to do good and not bad? Of course not. But I reject the conclusion that we should therefore do nothing. However imperfect I affirm the attempt, if for no other reason than this is also the attempt of my tradition.

This is what I learn from our Torah portion. This is what I glean from Ed Koch’s legacy.

Ed Koch z"l

I admired Ed Koch.  In particular I liked his brashness.  I did not always agree with his views, but I could always count on knowing where he stood.  I could reckon with his ideas.

Following his recent death I was somewhat surprised to learn that he searched throughout Manhattan for its best burial spot, finally choosing a site in Trinity Church's cemetery.  The stone was erected prior to his death, and I recently saw a photograph of him walking beside it.  A haunting image!   But that is Koch chutzpah!  Here is what is written on the stone: "Edward I. Koch; Mayor of the City of New York 1978-1989; 'My father is Jewish, my mother is Jewish, I am Jewish.' (Daniel Pearl, 2002, just before he was beheaded by a Muslim terrorist.); Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one."

His funeral is tomorrow.  As I reflect on his legacy it occurs to me that history's greatest heroes should not require so many words.  Below is Ben Gurion's grave.  The grave sits beside his wife's, alone on a hilltop in the Negev desert, at the kibbutz he later called his home, Sde Boker.

"David Ben Gurion; 1886-1973; immigrated to Israel 1906."

Judaism in its wisdom assigned no words to the lighting of a yahrtzeit candle.  I have often stammered over this lack of blessing, over the absence of prescribed words.  Now I see.  The silence speaks.

Words sometimes belie the legacy.

Addendum:  I missed that there is a concluding epitaph at the bottom of Ed Koch's head stone.  It reads: "He was fiercely proud of his Jewish faith. He fiercely defended the City of New York and he fiercely defended its people. Above all, he loved his country, the United States of America, in whose armed forces he served in World War II."

Beshalach Sermon

My sermon from last week's Shabbat.

We are free at last! In this week’s Torah portion we see that we are now marching to the Promised Land. But wait, it is not going to be a direct path. We are going to take the long, arduous route, the path filled with struggle, conflict, rebellion, hunger and wanting.

Why would God lead us in this indirect way? The Torah’s answer is that so we might avoid war with the Philistines. I don’t like that answer very much. We are going to face 40 years of adversity so what why worry about one war. I am not a fan of war but it could be better than the 40 years in the wilderness. Such are not our choices.

Others suggest that we need 40 years to nurture freedom. You have to be born into freedom in order to fashion freedom. I think of Russian immigrants who struggled with the choices they confronted here in the United States. I once read that even the cereal aisle was overwhelming because of its wealth of choices. Growing up in a communist country that denied freedoms and choices they were ill equipped to deal with even the most mundane of choices. Apparently there was only one kind of cereal in the Soviet Union. Thus you have to grow up in freedom in order to build a free nation. With the exception of Joshua and Caleb, only the Israelites who were born in the wilderness could cross over into the land of Israel. If born into slavery then they must die in the wilderness. If born in the wilderness, in freedom, then they can travel into the land.

The most interesting suggestion is that God purposely led us through this longer route so that we might taste adversity. Struggle and adversity, long hard work, is what teaches us the greatest lessons. Too often we want the short cut. Too many students for example read Spark Notes rather than reading Hamlet. The long, hard work, the struggle, is the greatest lesson and provides the most last meaning. You can only appreciate Shakespeare and what he teaches us about life if you read Shakespeare. It is not that I want struggle or seek it out. Ok, perhaps I do, and perhaps that explains my love of endurance sports. I even know someone who chooses to write two Broadway shows when they are only asked to write one. The secret seems clear. Challenge is what can lead to greatness.

Today is Tu B’Shevat, the Jewish Arbor day. On this day we recount the story of Honi, the Jewish Rip Van Winkle. Honi questioned why someone would even bother planting a carob tree. This tree takes 70 years in order to bear fruit. The person planting it would never be able to enjoy its benefits. You can only therefore plant and nurture the tree for the sake of future generations. You plant for grandchildren not for yourself. You struggle to nurture this plant so that others might enjoy its rewards. The challenge is apparent. Its rewards might never be tasted.

Let’s look as well at a modern example. Why do we name storms? And by the way when did we start naming winter storms? I think this might be a Weather Channel innovation, but still why? Why do we name storms? Obviously it is so that it is so they are easier to discuss and remember. But there might be a symbolic meaning. Naming suggests intimacy. Storms are of course about struggle. So if you name it, you can control it. You can wrest meaning from it. That is what we are supposed to do with struggle and conflict. Brave the storm and take hold of its meaning.

I am sure that everyone has read about Yesh Atid’s success in the recent Israeli elections. Now we will see if Yair Lapid will struggle for change. Will he choose the more difficult job of Finance Minister? Or follow the advice of his advisors and choose a ministerial job that better guarantees success. Will he think about his political fortunes or struggle with the challenges Israel faces? Will he turn aside from these financial challenges or make good on his campaign pledge of struggling for change?

Our tradition agrees. The rabbis write that the seas which part in this week’s portion did not part on their own. God waited for a sign. God waited for Nachshon to jump into the waters. God waited until Nachshon almost drowned. Then God parted the seas. Nachshon did not know there would be a miracle when he jumped. He chose struggle. He chose challenge. He could not know if he would drown or be saved. Still he chose the more difficult path.

Don’t be afraid of the longer journey. Don’t be frightened by the struggle. Don’t try to avoid it. Jump in like Nachshon.

Yitro

There are two competing rabbinic versions regarding how the Torah was given on Mount Sinai.

In one interpretation God first offers the Torah to the other nations of the world. One objects to the prohibition against stealing. Another nation to murder. And yet a third to adultery. Each refuses to accept the Torah. Finally God approaches the people of Israel, offering the engraved Ten Commandments, Torah and all of its requirements. The Jewish people say, “All that the Lord has spoken we will do.” (Exodus 19:8) Aside from this tale’s pejorative sting, the legend suggests that the Torah was a choice. We chose our tradition and affirmed its obligations.

Another rabbinic story offers a radically different account. In that midrash, God holds Mount Sinai above the heads of the Israelites and declares, “Either accept the Torah and its laws and statutes or die.” The Jewish people of course wisely accept the Torah and thereby discover life. This account offers a disturbing image of God. Here God is portrayed as coercive and threatening. We prefer to see God instead as loving and our choices as free.

Often, when I share these interpretations, people gravitate towards the first rabbinic legend. Few even find fault with the negative descriptions of the other nations. People want to see their Torah as freely chosen, as our faith and the Jewish commitments that derive from them as brimming with freedom and choice. God said, “Remember the Sabbath day.” And we then observe. And we then discover meaning.

But lately I have been thinking that we are not as free as we think.

Ask anyone what gives their life the greatest meaning. Will they say, “I can do whatever I want, whenever I want; I can go to the gym at 11 pm; I can go out to dinner with friends on any evening of the week.”? I doubt such will be their answers. Instead people will say, “My children. My family. My charity work.” More often than not it is those things which involve others that add meaning to our lives. It is that which involves obligation. It is our commitment to others that grants life its greatest meaning.

Are we really free? Are our choices made with complete disregard for those we love, for those we obligate ourselves towards? Is a life of meaning built around choice or obligation? Then again, who would want to choose something with a mountain hanging over their heads? The choice is coerced. It is tainted.

Is it truly? Can our choices be entirely free? Is the freedom to choose an illusion? Can we really make choices that are devoid of outside influences? Can we disregard family? Friends? Should we cast aside obligation? Perhaps the rabbinic legend is correct.

With every choice there is indeed a mountain suspended above our heads. At times we disregard it and pretend the looming mountain does not exist. Lately I have come to believe that is better to affirm its pull and allow meaning to be gained by the weight of its obligation and commitment.

The mountain may indeed be frightening and even at times feel coercive, but it can also be meaningful.

Beshalach

“God did not lead them by way of the land of the Philistines, although it was nearer…” (Exodus 13:17)

Why?  Why not take the more direct route?  Why the roundabout path?  The commentators debate this question.

Many suggest that God’s concern was practical.  If the people traveled through what is today the Gaza Strip, the land then controlled by the Philistines, they would most assuredly confront war.   This of course might give them pause.  They might have a change of heart and want to return to slavery.  The Torah agrees: “…God said, ‘The people may have a change of heart when they see war, and return to Egypt.’”   The medieval commentators Rashi and Ramban concur.

On the literal level this makes sense.  But God parts the Sea of Reeds in this week’s portion as well.  The sea is divided so that the Israelites might escape the advancing Egyptians.  In the beautiful poem “Song of the Sea,” that includes our Mi Chamocha prayer, the Israelites exclaim: “Pharaoh’s chariots and his army He has cast into the sea; and the pick of his officers are drowned in the Sea of Reeds….” (Exodus 15:4)  So why would God not fight the battles with the Philistines as well?  Perhaps the stated reason is not the more important explanation.

The commentators Ibn Ezra and Maimonides offer more interesting explanations.   Ibn Ezra suggests that the Israelites first had to sense freedom before claiming the land of Israel as their own.  They needed to live as a free people, wandering throughout the wilderness, before establishing freedom in the land of Israel.  Maimonides, on the other hand, suggests that the Israelites needed to take this roundabout route so that they might experience hardship.  The hunger and pain, rebellions and complaining, offer important lessons for the former slaves to become one people. 

The easy path rarely offers the greatest lessons.   When things are given to us without struggle, or even suffering, we do not always appreciate them as we should.   What we earn through hardship and pain is sometimes more meaningful than even the most valuable of gifts.

What is truly priceless is that which we craft with our own hands through struggle and sacrifice. That is what we prize!  For these we more often sing God’s blessings. 

Had God led us from Egypt directly to the land of Israel we might not appreciate the blessings that would come to flourish in that land—then as well as today.

Questions

What follows are some questions from our synagogue's 5^th graders and of course my answers.  This article appeared in our congregation's January-February Newsletter.

Why do we wear yamahas in temple?

First of all we wear yarmulkes not Yamahas.  Some people actually ride Yamahas although not too many Jews.  Motorcycles are dangerous.  So don’t ride motorcycles, but if you ever do, wear protective equipment especially a helmet.  We cover our heads in synagogue not for protection but out of respect.  This custom developed at a time when covering our heads was how we showed respect rather than taking off our hats as we do today for the Star Spangled Banner.  Yarmulke is Yiddish.  The Hebrew is kippah.  It simply means “cap” or “dome.”  In fact Israel’s new, and successful, anti-missile missile system, Iron Dome, is called in Hebrew “Kipat Barzel.”  Some people wear a kippah all the time, others only when they are in synagogue.  And still others whenever they are doing something Jewish like reciting blessings or studying Torah.  It is supposed to be a reminder that we are always standing in God’s presence.  Since God is everywhere it is good to have such reminders.  Then we are more likely to be kind and respectful to others and forever thankful to God.

Why did you choose to be a rabbi?

When I was in college I had to take a Bible class.  I fell in love with studying our Bible and Jewish writings.  I always wanted to find a job in which I could help people.  Soon I realized that rabbis help people and are also supposed to keep learning, even many years after college.  Besides you get to stand up in front of people and since I seem to like that as well being a rabbi is the perfection combination of all these things.

Why do you read Hebrew backwards?

Actually English is backwards since Hebrew is an older language.  It is a matter of perspective.  I know learning Hebrew is a challenge but it is an easier language than English.  It is entirely phonetic.  In other words you can always sound out how to pronounce the words.  There are very few exceptions.  Nearly every word has a three letter root that hints at its meaning.  There are only 22 letters.  As soon as you figure out how to pronounce the letters and vowels you can read it.  Just remember to read from right to left.

Why do Iran and Syria hate Israel so much?

I wish I knew.  Not to scare you too much but they also hate the United States.  Also Syria is preoccupied right now with hating itself.  They are in the middle of a civil war.  We hope that when their president Assad is finally overthrown a new government more friendly to its neighbor Israel will replace it.  This is a long shot but still a hope.  Sometimes people, and countries, hate others because that is easier than looking at their own problems.  That is what I think is happening with Syria and Iran.  Iran also wants to take over the Middle East and they find it difficult to accept a Jewish state in the middle of the Muslim Middle East.  We have to stand together and be strong even when others hate us. 

Why does God let us have war?

God has nothing to do with wars.  Even though people sometimes say they are fighting wars for God, God does not start wars or end wars, or want us to make wars.  They are in our hands.  God made people free to choose between right and wrong.  War is a result of our choices.  It is unfortunate and sad that sometimes countries can only solve their problems by making wars.  God keeps hoping and praying that we will try to bring more peace.  We always pray for shalom, peace.

Why do you step on the glass when you get married?

A Jewish wedding is the happiest of occasions according to our tradition.  But even at this most joyful event we pause and remember that there is still sadness in our world and sometimes even in our own lives.  The saddest event in our history was the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem by the Romans in 70 C.E. That was one terrible war!  That is why this event is often mentioned when the glass is broken.  I always speak more generally before the groom breaks the glass especially because after the Holocaust I don’t think the Temple’s destruction is the saddest event in our history anymore.  We pause and remember, break the glass and then shout “Mazel tov.”

Keep asking your questions.  That is always the best way to learn.

Bo

I have been thinking about Lance Armstrong.  I know I should be spending more time thinking about Israel’s upcoming elections and gun control laws, but I remain riveted, or perhaps distracted, by the spectacle of yesterday’s hero seeking to regain the past glory that we now learn was most certainly stolen.  This evening we will be able to watch him confess to Oprah.  Such is the contemporary paradigm.  Public confessions have become the substitute for righting wrongs.

But public tears, however heartfelt (and I remain skeptical about his motivations), are only the beginning of the repairing of wrongs.  According to Moses Maimonides there is only one true measure of complete repentance and that is for a person to be in the exact same situation, tempted by the exact same sin, but this time to make a different choice and ultimately the right decision.  Rarely do we have the opportunity to test our repentance.  Rarely are we afforded the chance to see if we have indeed changed.  Most choose to avoid being tested.

Nevertheless, Judaism insists that repentance must be about deeds, about changing behaviors.  Confession is but the first step.  The more difficult work for Lance, and for us as well, is what follows.  Will he seek to mend the wrongs done to his teammates?  How will he repair the harm done to professional cycling, or even more important to the Livestrong Foundation and cancer survivors? 

Of course one could argue, it is only cycling, or baseball, or sports for that matter and we already devote too much time to following these games and their stars.  Still in a culture that venerates winners we would do well to remember that cycling with friends or throwing a baseball with a son or daughter should be reward enough.  Rather than spending our hard earned money in efforts to ride farther and faster or so that our sons and daughters might gain a scholarship to college or the dream of dreams, drafted into the pros, we might be better off slowing down and enjoying the ride and the company, especially when it is with our children. 

Confession is only the first step.  Repair and change are the necessary steps.  Yet how do we change our behavior if never again given the opportunity to repent.  A nineteenth century Hasidic master writes:

There are certain sins of which we are told, “The person is not given the opportunity to repent.”  Nevertheless, if the person really engages in serious soul-searching, realizing the abyss which stretches in front of him, and nevertheless repents, God will take pity on him and accept his repentance.  His humbleness and his subservience pave the way for his repentance, at a time when the regular path to repentance has been barred to him.   However, if “you refuse to humble yourself before Me” (Exodus 10:3) there is no way that you can possibly find an alternate path to repentance, and you will remain in a state of “not being given the opportunity to repent.”

God may indeed accept the wrenching confession we will soon witness.  It will take much longer to rectify matters with friends and family, competitors and teammates.  I have always believed that it is the people with whom we surround ourselves who matter most.  I prefer struggling to right matters with those people rather devoting myself to beseeching God.  Only when turning to God helps us turn toward others do I find strength in such devotions.

That is what Lance forgot.  That is what Pharaoh never understood.

The Torah declares: “So Moses and Aaron went to Pharaoh and said to him, ‘Thus says the Lord, the God of the Hebrews, ‘How long will you refuse to humble yourself before Me?” (Exodus 10:3)

Vaera Sermon

We begin our story with an angry Pharaoh.  The Jewish people are suffering more and more under his oppressive bondage.  God hears their cries.  So, as everyone knows, God sends Moses.  Moses worries that Pharaoh will not listen to him.  The Jewish people, he complains, have not been such good listeners.  Why would Pharaoh listen?

Moses really does not want the job.  One of the characteristics of our biblical heroes, especially those called prophets, is that they do not want the job.  They do not feel they are qualified or even worthy.  God quells his worries by promising to send his brother Aaron with him and of course arms him with a few tricks, for example a staff that magically turns into a serpent. 

Moses appears before Pharaoh and says, “Let My people go that they may serve Me.”  This phrase is often misquoted as “Let My people go” but the second part is perhaps the more significant. The purpose of their freedom is so that they may serve God.  For the Bible freedom is meaningless if not wedded to something greater.  It is not freedom to do whatever the Jewish people want but instead the ability to worship God in freedom.  We replace servitude to Pharaoh with that of service to God.  Our Shabbat kiddush reminds us of this.  In that prayer we remind ourselves that Shabbat is a reminder of the exodus from Egypt.  Only a free people can set a day aside and do no work.  Shabbat is not just a recollection of God resting on the seventh day of creation but a weekly reminder that we are free.  Passover comes once a year.  Shabbat arrives every week.  How can we then forget our freedom? 

God also helps Moses make his case to Pharaoh by bringing down the familiar plagues on Egypt. There is 1) blood, 2) frogs, 3) lice, 4) wild beasts, 5) cattle plague, 6) boils, 7) hail and in next week’s portion 8) locusts, 9) darkness, and 10) the death of the first born.  The plagues raise difficult theological dilemmas.  Is the purpose of these plagues to convince Pharaoh to let the people of Israel go or instead to convince the Israelites of God’s mighty power?  The refrain that God hardens Pharaoh’s heart would suggest that the larger purpose is to convince the Israelites.  That such suffering was necessary to wed the people of Israel to God is disturbing.  The Jewish tradition counsels that we must continue to be saddened and mourn the deaths of the Egyptians.  We take out a drop of wine at our Seder tables to demonstrate that our joy is mitigated.  The midrash tells us that the angels were silenced when celebrating the Egyptians suffering in the Sea of Reeds.  God chastises them with the words, “My children are drowning!”

Regardless of our viewpoint, we read that Pharaoh keeps saying no.  Why do all the Egyptians have to suffer because of his stubbornness?  One answer is that people often suffer because of a leader’s choices.  That of course takes me into politics.  (These details I have expanded in the sermon’s written form.)  Even in our own modern age, there are dictators who behave like the ancient Pharaoh.  There is Assad, the current embattled Syrian president, who continues to slaughter his own people so that he can remain in power.  To date at least 60,000 Syrians have been killed.  Could there be a more fitting example of a modern ruler with a hardened heart?

There is a world of difference but even in democracies leaders too often choose what is best for them rather than what is best for the people they lead.  We could cite examples of President Obama who for example looked away from gun violence for nearly four years because he did not want to expend precious political capital on a difficult issue.  I imagine he feared losing standing, but in the end he failed to lead.  And people suffered.  In Israel Prime Minister Netanyahu called for early elections because the timing, prior to a budget vote, served his political interests.  Or I could talk about Congress.  Here the level of ideological vitriol has reached new and extraordinary levels. Lead.  Do what is best for the people you serve rather than the small interests who support your re-election campaigns!  Politics of course demand compromise, but more importantly they demand that leaders recall what is in the best interests of those they serve.

The point is that Pharaoh and sometimes our own leaders are so selfish or stubborn that they bring suffering to the people they are supposed to serve.  Pharaoh had it exactly backwards.  He thought leadership was about being served rather than about service to others.  That is why he brought the plagues down on Egypt.  Leadership is never supposed to be about the leader.  It must always be about those being led. In our stubbornness and hardening of hearts we forget the purpose of our mission to lead.  We forget that freedom is about service.  And then our forgetfulness leads to our punishments.  And that becomes the plague of our own generation.

Vaera

What takes God so long? After 400 years of slavery God responds to the Israelites’ suffering. God says to Moses, “I have now heard the moaning of the Israelites because the Egyptians are holding them in bondage, and I have remembered My covenant.” (Exodus 6:5) 400 years!

Why now? Why wait for the Israelites to suffer for so many years? Did the slavery become that much worse? Was God indifferent to their pain? Impossible! Still the question remains.

Interestingly God’s response to the Israelites’ suffering mirrors Pharaoh’s daughter’s response to the infant Moses. In last week’s portion she hears the cries of Moses. “When she opened the basket, she saw that it was a child, a boy crying. She took pity on it and said, ‘This must be a Hebrew child.’” (Exodus 2:6) My newfound hero, the unnamed Pharaoh’s daughter, is the first to show compassion to the Israelites.

Perhaps this is what God was waiting for. God waits for us. There are other traditions that suggest as well that God waits for human beings to act before responding. The most famous of these is the story of Nachshon who according to legend jumps into the Sea of Reeds thereby prompting divine involvement and concern. When the waters reach his neck and he is about to drown God splits the sea. Others suggest that the messiah sits at the gates of Rome bandaging the sores and wounds of lepers. The messiah waits by performing compassionate acts. There he waits for God to send him to redeem the world. These traditions suggest that God is not the first to act but instead waits for our compassion. God’s compassionate concern is not in response to suffering but instead in response to our concern.

In our Torah portion God appears to respond to Pharaoh’s daughter. Not only does she not have a name but she is also not Jewish. Moreover she is the daughter of the story’s arch enemy. The Rabbis ask why she would go to the Nile to bathe herself. She could have sent her slaves. The Talmud suggests that she opposed her father’s policies from the start and went to the river to purify herself of her father’s sins. It was there that her heart was stirred to rescue Moses thus leading to the redemption of an entire people. According to legend she also accompanied the Israelites when they left Egypt. In that moment Pharaoh’s daughter left the trappings of the palace and forever pledged herself to the fate of the Jewish people.

Is it possible that her heart awakened God’s concern?

Recently a number of us volunteered with Nechama, a Jewish organization dedicated to helping communities rebuild after natural disasters. We ventured to the South Shore to help a family tear out their water soaked dry wall and wood flooring. There we met other volunteers. One volunteer left a deep impression. He was a young man from Wisconsin who gave up his week long vacation. He drove here following Hurricane Sandy to help out. He slept most nights in his car. Here was a Christian man from the Midwest helping out Jewish New Yorkers.

Compassion comes from unexpected places. It often does not even bear a name. Nonetheless my hope and prayer remains the same. May our compassionate acts stir God’s concern. May they awaken God’s compassionate heart.

And even if God fails to respond, the wounds will remain bandaged and the homes will soon be repaired.

Shemot Sermon

Jewish tradition has some very strong opinions about naming. In Ashkenazi circles it is a strongly ingrained custom to name a child for a family member who died, in particular someone who recently died. In Sephardi homes naming follows a more prescribed order, typically first child for father’s father whether living or not, second for mother’s father and so on. Parents spend considerable hours, days, weeks and even months discussing and debating their future child’s name. There is also a custom, or perhaps better called, a superstition, of renaming a sick child so as to trick the angel of death. Many of those of older generations named Hayim or Haya are often called these names for this reason.

All of this is by way of introducing this week’s Torah portion, Shemot—Names. First we read the names of Jacob’s sons who find their way into Egypt and of course settle there, ultimately leading to our slavery and eventual freedom. In chapter two we first meet Moses. Curiously no one in this story is named until Moses is rescued by Pharaoh’s daughter and finally named by her. It is a fascinating story and begs the question why would the Torah not name its greatest hero immediately? Why do we hear so little of his lineage? It is as if the Torah says, “Somebody married somebody else and gave birth to a beautiful baby boy.”

In Pirke Avot we read: "Rabbi Shimon said, there are three crowns: the crown of Torah, the crown of priesthood, and the crown of kingship. But the crown of a good name is superior to them all." The most important name is that name we earn. It is not what we are given by our parents. As much as these names may symbolize our connection to the past, what others call us because of the good we do are our most important names.

The Hebrew poet Zelda wrote a beautiful poem about names:
Each of us has a name
given by God
and given by our parents
Each of us has a name
given by our stature and our smile
and given by what we wear
Each of us has a name
given by the mountains
and given by our walls
Each of us has a name
given by the stars
and given by our neighbors
Each of us has a name
given by our sins
and given by our longing
Each of us has a name
given by our enemies
and given by our love
Each of us has a name
given by our celebrations
and given by our work
Each of us has a name
given by the seasons
and given by our blindness
Each of us has a name
given by the sea
and given by
our death.

That is the lesson of Moses’ name. Here was a man who changed history. He was not born into a famous family. In fact his birth was not the most significant event of his life. His parents did not even name him. His story instead began when he was pulled from the water by a complete stranger. He earns his name! It is what others call him.

He began from the humblest of beginnings. He was born to an ordinary family. And then changed history and rescued his people. And that of course is our task—to earn a good name. No matter our beginnings, it never beyond any of us to save others. A good name is within our own hands.

Shemot

Parents deliberate for months the names that they select for their children. For whom should they name their child? What if the baby is a girl? A boy? What should be the child’s Hebrew name? Do the origins of the name matter? Will the name influence their child’s future character?

The most significant book of the Torah begins in a similar fashion. “These are the names of the sons of Israel who came to Egypt with Jacob, each coming with his household: Reuben, Simeon, Levi, and Judah; Issachar, Zebulun, and Benjamin; Dan and Naphtali, Gad and Asher…” (Exodus 1:1-4)

And yet the story of the most significant person in the Torah begins without naming a single person. Listen to how the Torah frames our hero’s beginnings.

A certain man of the house of Levi went and married a Levite woman. The woman conceived and bore a son; and when she saw how beautiful he was, she hid him for three months. When she could hide him no longer, she got a wicker basket for him and caulked it with bitumen and pitch. She put the child into it and placed it among the reeds by the bank of the Nile. And his sister stationed herself at a distance, to learn what would befall him. The daughter of Pharaoh came down to bathe in the Nile, while her maidens walked along the Nile. She spied the basket among the reeds and sent her slave girl to fetch it. When she opened it, she saw that it was a child, a boy crying. She took pity on it and said, “This must be a Hebrew child.” Then his sister said to Pharaoh’s daughter, “Shall I go and get you a Hebrew nurse to suckle the child for you?” And Pharaoh’s daughter answered, “Yes.” So the girl went and called the child’s mother. And Pharaoh’s daughter said to her, “Take this child and nurse it for me, and I will pay your wages.” So the woman took the child and nursed it. When the child grew up, she brought him to Pharaoh’s daughter, who made him her son. She named him Moses, explaining, “I drew him out of the water.” (Exodus 2:1-10)

No one is named in this entire story until its conclusion. The Torah records no names for our actors until this brave young woman gives it to our hero. Moses is named not by his mother or even his father. Instead he is named by Pharaoh’s daughter. Imagine that! The daughter of the very man who sets in motion the need to hide Moses in a basket so that he will not be killed by Pharaoh’s henchman not only saves Moses but names him. (By the way Pharaoh is a title not a name. It is most akin to when we hear “The White House said…” The house of Levi is a tribe.)

The Book that begins with names and is in fact called in Hebrew “Shemot—Names” introduces its greatest hero with the words “A certain somebody from an important tribe married a female somebody from the same community and then gave birth to a beautiful boy…” I find this remarkable! And so the question remains: why would the Torah that will later be called “The Five Books of Moses” introduce its hero in this way? Why would it want his beginnings not to be based on lineage?

It is because his story must instead be based on merit, on actions, on his accomplishments. Moses’ name in fact suggests the first of many such actions. The Torah suggests that it comes from the Egyptian meaning “to draw out.” He will of course later become the man who draws the Israelites out of Egypt.

Thus we learn that our most important names are not those that are given to us by our parents. They are always those we earn throughout our lives. In fact those must be the names that others call us by.