A Taste of Liberation (portion Bo)

And you shall explain it to your child on that day, saying, "It is because of what the Eternal did for me when I went free from Egypt." (Exodus 13:8)

In the beginning of this week’s portion, Bo,  God commands the Israelites to celebrate Pesach as a commemoration of the exodus from Egypt, before they were actually released from slavery and allowed to depart. The first seder happens in Egypt itself.  How could the Israelites understand what they were supposed to celebrate, when it has not even happened yet? Indeed, the Israelites are even told what to tell their children, in the distant future, when they ask about the festival ritual: "It is because of what the Eternal did for me when I went free from Egypt." But they've not yet gone free! Would it not have made more sense for God to wait until after the Israelites had actually departed from the land of bondage?

No.  Because in a time of darkness and deep despair, we need a taste of liberation to awaken our yearning for freedom and encourage us to take action toward that end.  As Rabbi Jordan Cohen notes: “By giving the commandment to observe Pesach before the exodus, and by emphasizing that this festival is to be an eternal observance, throughout the generations, the Israelites are being given hope. When a commandment is made for the future generations, that meant there was going to be a future generation. Pesach provides hope for the otherwise hopeless Israelites that they were going to be saved, that they were going to survive the exodus, and that their descendants throughout the generations would remember and tell the tale.”

These days, it feels like each morning brings a grimmer set of headlines.  The news goes from bad to worse.  Injustice rages around us, bigotry proliferates, and indecency oozes out from the pinnacles of power, poisoning our nation’s public life.  Heather Heyer, the young woman senselessly killed by a white supremacist in Charlottesville last summer left a telling last post on her Facebook page that sums up both the difficulty and the urgency of the hour: “If you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention.”

Yet one cannot live a decent life in a perpetual state of either outrage or despair.  We need to find sparks of light and hints of hope that break through the darkness.  We must tell tales of liberation, past and present, and in so doing, fortify ourselves for the struggle for liberty and justice that lies ahead.  Let us resolve to follow in the footsteps of our forebears, and speak and dream and work for deliverance, even—or especially—when it seems distant.

Are We There Yet? (portion Shemot)

Ralph Waldo Emerson famously said, “Life is a journey, not a destination.”

Our Torah agrees.  In this week’s portion, Vaera, God tells Moses to speak to the Jewish people in the Divine Name and tell them: “I am the Eternal One.  I will take you out (v’hotzayti) from under the burdens of Egypt.  I will rescue you (v’hitzalti) from their bondage.  I will redeem you (v’ga’alti) with an outstretched arm and through extraordinary chastisements.  I will take you (v’lakachti) to be My people and I will be your God.”

Note that there are four promises of liberation here, in quick succession.  These verses are critical to the Pesach seder, where they are translated into the four cups of wine, one for each passage of God’s deliverance. 

But there’s one problem—the biblical passage does not end here.  There is, in fact, one more verse, which adds: “I, the Eternal One, am your God, who took you out from under the burdens of Egypt and who will bring you (v’hayvayti) into the land.

There are, in fact, not four but five relevant passages about God’s liberation.  So why only four cups (and the four children—wise, wicked, simple and unable to ask) rather than five?  What happened to God’s promise to deliver us into the land of Israel?

Rabbi Shai Held notes: “Maybe the Haggadah seeks to teach us that the journey is often more important than the destination.  The Haggadah is not alone in omitting the promised ending.  The Torah itself ends before that final promise has been fulfilled.  On some level, the story the Torah tells is incomplete.  The promised destination is still out of reach.  In leaving out the arrival, then, the Haggadah is in a sense merely imitating the Torah.  The journey does not merely serve to lead us to the land.  No, the journey itself is intrinsically holy.”

This is a vital teaching, now as then.  We are so often focused, with tunnel vision, on future results that we fail to take pleasure in the moment, in the process—in the journey.  If the goal was the destination, we wouldn’t have wandered in the wilderness for forty years.  In our people’s life, and in our own, it’s all about the wandering, the joys and challenges that we encounter along the way. 

This week, take time to savor the moment—the journey—because while the destination always remains uncertain, the path we take toward it is ours to choose and appreciate.

Women and Liberation (portion Shemot)

This week’s Torah portion, Shemot, marks the beginning of the book of Exodus—and the liberation of the people Israel from Egyptian bondage.  Strikingly, the first steps of that liberation are all taken by women. Shifra and Puah, the midwives to the Hebrews, perform the first recorded act of civil disobedience, refusing to follow Pharaoh’s edict to kill all male children born to Israelite women.  A few verses later, Moses’ mother, Yocheved, defies Pharaoh by hiding her son and sending him down the Nile in a basket—where he is rescued and then raised by Pharaoh’s own daughter, who our Rabbis name Batya, “daughter of God.”  And finally, Moses’ sister, Miriam, appears to Batya and offers to secure a wet nurse, who just happens to be Moses’ own mother. 

What do we learn from these heroic women?  Writing in The Torah: A Women’s Commentary, Dr. Susan Niditch notes: “The presence of these five women—who collaborate with each other across ethnic, class, and religious lines—is immensely significant.  Deeply wise in fundamental, life-sustaining ways, these women understand instinctively that Pharaoh should be disobeyed; and, with initiative, they act on this knowledge.  Ultimately, these women’s defiance demeans the male tyrant.  Thus, from these women filled with a power rooted in moral reason, an ethical concern for life, and the capacity to empathize, we learn a valuable lesson in political ethics: the very weakest in society can contribute to liberation by judiciously engaging in acts of civil disobedience.”

“Ultimately, these women’s defiance demeans the male tyrant.”  Dr. Niditch’s insight here is especially timely as we begin both a new secular year and a new book of the Torah.  2017 began with the Women’s March in Washington and across our nation, and ended with the #metoo movement.  Now, more than ever, we need the voices of strong women to disrupt the status quo and bring justice to a culture seething in vulgarity, bigotry, and inequity.  And we men should welcome their leadership and join with them to create a better state, nation, and world—much as our ancestors did millennia ago.

Giving Up Hope for a Better Past (Portion Vayigash)

⁴ Then Joseph said to his brothers, “Come closer to me.” And they came closer. He said, “I am your brother, Joseph, whom you sold into Egypt. ⁵ And now do not be distressed, or angry with yourselves, because you sold me here; for God sent me before you to preserve life.  (Genesis 45)

In this week’s portion, Vayigash, Joseph—now second only to Pharaoh in Egypt—reveals himself to his brothers—and excuses them for their mistreatment of him many years earlier.

What moves Joseph to forgive his older brothers?  Many of our commentators suggest that his generosity is a response to their teshuvah, to the fact that they have matured and changed for the better, as exemplified by the eloquent apology offered by Judah, who is prepared to sacrifice himself for the family.

Yet, as Rabbi Yael Shy notes, nowhere does Joseph express this view that his forgiveness is a result of his brothers’ changed behavior.  He is, by contrast, quite clear in noting that he does not forget the wrong done to him, declaring, “You intended evil against me, but God designed it for good.”  Instead, Joseph forgives because he understands that this is the only way to free himself of the resentment and bitterness that would only hollow out his own life.  To quote Lily Tomlin, Joseph seems to understand that “forgiveness is giving up all hope for a better past.”

Giving up all hope for a better past.  

This can be excruciatingly difficult.  As Rabbi Shy tells the story: “Thinking that I needed to keep the pain in order to keep the truth alive has been the mistake I've made over and over again, blocking my way to forgiveness. Each time someone has really hurt me, and I have considered forgiving them, a voice seems to scream at me from within: They aren't sorry! They are living their lives, as happy as can be, while you suffer! If you forgive, you erase what happened! Nobody will affirm how much pain you are in!  But the validation I seek most likely won't come from the people who hurt me (and if it does, that usually doesn't feel like enough). It must come from myself. And in the meantime, the pain and the burden of holding onto my anger are damaging me - not those who hurt me. As the saying goes, holding onto resentment is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”

The only way to achieve freedom, to grow and blossom into our own lives, is to extricate ourselves from the sort of victimhood that inevitably flows from grudge-bearing.  This week, consider:  Where in your heart are you still nursing resentment against those who hurt you?  How can you liberate yourself from that resentment?

Lighting the Dark (portion Vayeshev)

Sometimes hope emerges in unexpected times and places, if we remain open to the possibility of light emerging out of darkness.

Our Torah portion for this week, Vayeshev is filled with loss and despair.  Jacob mourns bitterly for his beloved son Joseph, whom he believes is dead.  Meanwhile, Joseph (who has, in fact, been sold into slavery by his brothers) is carried into exile in Egypt, where he will languish for many years in Pharaoh’s prison.  As the portion ends, despite Joseph’s gift for dreaming and dream interpretation, he is essentially forgotten.  In the darkest depths of the dungeon, all hope seems lost.

It is no coincidence that we often read this parashah around the beginning of Chanukah (this year, the Festival of Lights begins on Saturday night).  Chanukah arrives at the darkest season of the year, at the new moon closest to the winter solstice.  The situation of the Maccabees, pitted against the mighty Assyrian empire, also seems hopeless.   Like Joseph, they face a dark night of the soul.  The old, familiar, comfortable paths are all closed off to them.  They face overwhelming odds, with little sustenance and profoundly limited options.

And yet Joseph ultimately rises and the Maccabees prevail.  Each of these incredible underdogs defies the probabilities—and each begins by nurturing a tiny spark of light.  Joseph always holds the memory of his youthful dreams, and the possibility that they might yet come true.  The Maccabees muster the faith and courage to kindle light.  In both cases, there are no guarantees that the flames of hope will flourish.  But Joseph and the Maccabees share the wisdom that in dark times, we must ignite our own little lights and hope that others—including God—will sustain them.  We must take the first steps to banish darkness, and believe that when we do, our efforts will spread and inspire others to help illuminate the world.

The poet Rumi wrote:

Night comes so people can sleep like fish

in black water.  Then day.

Some people pick up their tools.

Others become the making itself.

In this season, let our lives be the lights the reawaken hope and compassion.