Portable: The Story Of Jewish Survival

 

The Erection of the Tabernacle and the Sacred Vessels, as in Exodus 40:17–19; from the 1728 Figures de la Bible

The phrase is memorable because it is apt: “portable homeland.” In a somewhat rambling essay entitled “Confessions,” Heinrich Heine describes how the Jews…preserved the Bible from the great conflagration of the sacred temple, and all through the middle ages carried it about with them like a portable homeland… Heine observes that the Torah became a refuge for the Jews during exile. They found comfort inside a virtual reality, an otherworldly homeland floating in a sea of words.   Portable is the story of Parshat Terumah. The Mishkan, the first sanctuary of the Jewish people, was meant to be disassembled, transported, and reassembled at each stop during their 40-year journey in the desert. After the Jews settled in the land of Israel, a permanent Temple was built in Jerusalem, which became the spiritual and national center of the Jews. But after the Temple was destroyed, the Jews faced a profound challenge: How would they be able to maintain their religious identity without the Temple? Our Parsha hints at the solution; every sanctuary, even the Temple, can be portable, just like the very first sanctuary in the desert.   The midrashic phrase “this verse demands to be read poetically” describes an unusual verse in this week’s Torah reading. We are told how the Ark of the Covenant (which will carry the Luchot, the tablets inscribed with the Ten Commandments), is to be constructed. Just like several other furnishings in the Mishkan, the Ark is meant to have poles that slide into the sides, to enable it to be carried from place to place. But then there is a puzzling commandment, which pertains only to the Ark: “The poles shall remain in the rings of the ark: they shall not be removed from it.” (Exodus 25:15). This is strange. Why leave the poles in permanently? And why is this rule only for the Ark?   Several commentaries explain this strange command by focusing on how remote and holy the Ark was; it was kept in the Holy of Holies, a room visited only once a year, and only by the High Priest. Bekhor Shor suggests the following. One would remove the poles from the other furnishings to create more space for people to walk by inside the sanctuary. But for the Ark, which was in the Holy of Holies, that was unnecessary; nobody ever walked near it. Ralbag offers a different explanation. He says the poles weren’t allowed to be removed in order to prevent the possibility that someone might hold the Ark while removing the poles; that touch would be disrespectful to the Ark.   Other commentaries read this prohibition as symbolic. The Luchot inside the Ark represent the Torah; and the Meshech Chochmah explains that the poles symbolize the financial supporters of Yeshivot, who “hold up” these Torah institutions. The lesson is that the dedication of philanthropists is inseparable from the Torah studied at these Yeshivot; they are two parts of one whole.   Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch offers an explanation that is reminiscent of Heine’s remark. He also focuses on the Ark as a symbol of the Torah, and says: The command that the poles must never be removed from the Ark establishes from the outset, and for all time to come, the truth that this Torah and its mission are not confined to the soil on which the sanctuary and the Temple once stood. Like the Ark, the Torah must be ever-ready, at a moment's notice, for any journey. Even in exile, the portable homeland is always with us, ensuring the continuation of the Jewish people.   This lesson became critical after the destruction of the Temple when rabbinic leadership focused on repairing the spiritual breach. Some despaired; others recognized that Judaism had to carry on. When Rabbi Joshua exclaimed that with the destruction of the Temple, there was no longer any way to find atonement for one’s sins, his teacher, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakai said to him: “My son, don’t be upset. There is another atonement that is just as good: acts of kindness.” (Avot deRabbi Natan 5.) The synagogue became a “miniature sanctuary,” and prayer became a replacement for sacrifice; the Hebrew names for the furnishings of the synagogue are even borrowed from the Temple: Aron, Shulchan, Parochet, Ner Tamid. And the home too became a domestic Temple. The Talmud (Berakhot 55a) remarks: “When the Temple was standing, the altar (and sacrifices) atoned for a person, but now that the Temple is destroyed, a person’s table brings atonement for them (by being a place where one invites the poor and needy).” The home and synagogue became the new centers of Jewish worship.   After the destruction, the rabbis found a way to rebuild a broken people. Replacements were found for what had been lost; Jewish life would still thrive even after exile and destruction. The locus of Judaism moved from Israel to the Diaspora, and from the Temple to the synagogue and home. Rabbinic Judaism was a brilliant reinvention, a way to enable the soul of the Torah to live on even after upheaval and displacement.   At the same time, the rabbis made certain to retain the connection to the Temple and the Land of Israel. Tisha B’Av mourns the destruction and is filled with prayers for a return to the land. The Chanukah candles commemorate the Menorah in the Temple, and the holiday itself celebrates the rededication of the Temple. On Pesach and Yom Kippur, holidays in which the Temple service once played a central role, we end by declaring “next year in Jerusalem.”   The Torah served as both a replacement for, and a reminder of, what had been lost and destroyed. Immersed in the Torah, the Jews could retain their religious identity in the Diaspora; imbued with hope of returning home, they could endure the bitterness of exile. This unique combination is the recipe for a portable homeland; and with it, Jews could survive far into the west, even while their hearts remained in the east.   Roger Kamenetz, in his book The Jew in the Lotus, describes meetings that the Dalai Lama held with American Jewish leaders after receiving the Nobel Peace Prize in 1989. Worried that Tibetan culture will disappear in exile, he turned to these Jewish leaders and asked: “Tell me your secret…the secret of Jewish survival.” He understood that the Jews had managed to survive two millennia of wandering; as Kamenetz puts it, “In the Dalai Lamas’s eyes, and in the eyes of many Tibetans, the Jews are survival experts.”   The answer to his question can be found in one phrase: portable homeland. Wherever Jews went, they carried the Torah with them. They lived in a virtual reality filled with learning and spirituality, hopes and dreams.   Diaspora should have been the end of the Jewish people; instead, it was their finest hour, an era characterized by a heroic display of tenacity and determination. All this was possible because of their portable homeland.

There Must Be Justice in the World

 

"An eye for an eye." Critics cite this Biblical punishment to indict Judaism for being an unforgiving, legalistic religion. This verse has become theological shorthand for a rules-obsessed religious outlook that is heartless and harsh. In many instances, this critique morphs into anti-Semitism; when Shakespeare’s Shylock craves a pound of flesh, he echoes centuries of anti-Jewish polemics about “an eye for an eye.” And to this day, critics of Israel invoke “an eye for an eye” to describe Israeli actions, a trope inextricably intertwined with antisemitic slanders of the past.    The roots of this allegation are found in the New Testament, in the Sermon on the Mount. In it, Jesus teaches his disciples that they should reject “an eye for an eye”: You have heard the law that says the punishment must match the injury: ‘An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say, do not resist an evil person! If someone slaps you on the right cheek, offer the other cheek also. …. Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you… In this passage, the New Testament roundly rejects an eye for an eye; but at the same time, it shackles Judaism to this barbaric practice.    But that is not what Judaism teaches. Jewish interpreters are adamant in declaring that “an eye for an eye” is not meant to be understood literally. The Talmud offers half a dozen arguments to prove that the text must mean monetary compensation; Benno Jacob argues, that by definition, the Hebrew word "tachat" in this verse can only mean an actual repayment. On a practical level, it would seem impossible to implement the punishment of “an eye for an eye” in a fair manner; removing an eye, (certainly, in ancient times,) would result in a disproportionate injury, and could even end up killing the accused.     One could stop the discussion here by saying that in practical terms, “an eye for an eye” is essentially fiction. But there are lessons to be learned from the literal interpretation of the text as well. How one understands “an eye for an eye” relates to a much larger question: what is justice?    For many Christian readers, the Sermon on the Mount teaches that one must pursue the exact opposite path from “an eye for an eye.” Pope Francis, in a 2013 sermon, explains that this is a rejection of human conceptions of justice:    “If we live according to the law of “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth”, we will never escape from the spiral of evil. The evil one is clever, and deludes us into thinking that with our human justice we can save ourselves and save the world! In reality, only the justice of God can save us!”    To do good to them that hate you is the very path to redemption; and that requires an emphasis on transforming criminals.     Without question, any discussion of crime and punishment must consider the importance of rehabilitation. As the Talmud (Berakhot 10a) puts it, Judaism also hopes to uproot sins and improve sinners. To this end, reformers endeavored to turn prisons into penitentiaries, places where criminals would repent from their crimes. Educational and work opportunities were provided to prisoners to help them rebuild their lives, and over the years, some excellent programs have found significant success. Love does make a difference, and encourages people to change. But when taken to an extreme, the path of love fails; replacing the local police force with a cadre of social workers will only lead to more crime. Love can never replace justice.    For this reason, “an eye for an eye” deserves a second look.    There are many rabbinic thinkers, including Maimonides in the Guide for the Perplexed, that find lessons in the literal meaning of “an eye for an eye.” Rabbi Moise Tedeschi, in his Hoil Moshe, explains that “an eye for an eye” was meant to be understood literally during Israel's early history. The former slaves struggled to build a civil society, and it was a time of chaos; harsh punishment was necessary to instill a sense of law and order. It is only later, at a time of greater stability, that “an eye for an eye” could be interpreted as a monetary payment. In other words, “an eye for an eye” was a type of martial law, and only intended for a short period of history.    This interpretation highlights the importance of deterrence. Crimes must be punished as a warning to others; without severe punishments, society will dissolve into anarchy. At times, extreme measures are necessary for the greater good, even if they are as brutal as “an eye for an eye.”    But the most significant lesson of “an eye for an eye” is that punishment is part of the pursuit of justice; and in the case of a bloody assault, retribution is required. Rabbi Ovadiah Seforno writes that “an eye for an eye” is what ought to be the judgment against the offender, if we were to apply the principle of the punishment fitting the crime in all its severity. There is a profound injustice in allowing someone who assaulted his neighbor to pay his way out of the crime. Emanuel Levinas points out, this justice based on peace and kindness… leaves the way open for the rich! They can easily pay for the broken teeth, the gouged-out eyes, and the fractured limbs left around them. The world remains a comfortable place for the strong,... Yes, eye for eye. Neither all eternity, nor all the money in the world, can heal the outrage done to man. It is a disfigurement or wound that bleeds for all time…     “An eye for an eye” is, in the end, a theoretical proposal. Ultimately, all physical punishments were abandoned and considered cruel; they were replaced with incarceration, which matches the severity of corporal punishment without inflicting any physical pain. But the lesson of “an eye for an eye” still remains; justice demands that evildoers be punished, and a society that indulges criminals is itself criminal. When writing about how it is critical for a sovereign to pursue “the equalization of punishment with the crime,” Immanuel Kant explains:    ..(Punishment) ought to be done in order that every one may realize the desert of his deeds, and that blood guiltiness may not remain upon the people; for otherwise they might all be regarded as participators in the murder….    It is easy to diminish justice; it is the gruff, off-putting, hard-edged counterpart of love. But love doesn’t conquer all; you need to have order and civility first in order for love to flourish. And that is impossible without justice.    Lenn Evan Goodman begins his book On Justice with the following anecdote. As a child in Los Angeles, he had a Hebrew school teacher, Dr. Lubliner, who, when he rolled up his sleeves on hot days, exposed a pale blue tattooed number on his forearm. Dr. Lubliner was a man of great dignity and learning. He had much to teach, but almost never spoke about the Holocaust.  But one time, in a tangentially connected discussion, Dr. Lubliner interjected: "I believe there's justice in the world…there must be justice."    Goodman adds that another time he arrived at Hebrew school early, and saw Dr. Lubliner silently saying the Mincha prayer. At that moment Goodman thought to himself: "if a man like that can believe in God, so can I."    Love may be transcendent, but that is not enough on its own. To believe in God is to believe in the possibility of ending the rule of evil, and that “all wickedness will vanish like smoke.”     There must be justice in the world too.

Happily Ever After?

 

The Songs of Joy, c. 1896-1902, by James Jacques Joseph Tissot (French, 1836-1902)

Ehud Manor’s "Bashanah Habaah" continues to rank as one of the greatest Israeli songs of all time. It was released in 1970, and at the time, singers around the world, including Andy Williams and Herb Alpert, recorded covers of it. To this day, it evokes memories of Israel’s early days, an anthem of the little country that could.   The lyrics seem very upbeat, and the song exudes optimism:   Next year we'll sit on the porch And count migrating birds Children on vacation will play tag Between the house and the fields   You will see, you will see How good it will be In the next year, in the next year   This is a beautiful song of “happily ever after;” except that it wasn’t intended that way.   Manor wrote the song in memory of his younger brother Yehuda, who had died in 1968, in the War of Attrition. In the song, Manor returns to the scene of his childhood home in Binyamina, where the entire family would sit on the porch, appreciating the beauty of the moment. It is a song of longing and loss, the brokenhearted reflections of a grieving brother.   Nurit Hirsch, who composed the music, initially wrote a very maudlin score to match Manor’s intentions; but she found it so unappealing, she nearly threw the composition away. Ultimately, Bashanah Habaah was saved when a friend suggested that she change the tempo and rhythm. But underneath the joyous facade is a dark inner lining, a recognition that for Manor, the next year will never be as good as the last one.   Parshat Beshalach is about how elusive serenity can be. At the very start, we are told that God did not take the Jews on the direct route to Israel because the former slaves were too cowardly to face battle. This foreshadows what will occur; after achieving freedom, the courage of the Jews will fail time and again, they will complain time and again, and ultimately wander for forty years and die in the desert. They will be detoured, over and over again.   Yet before all of this completely unravels, there is a moment of absolute joy. The Jews miraculously cross through the Red Sea, and then watch the Egyptian army get destroyed. They are now truly free, and in response sing Az Yashir, the Song of the Sea. This is the first Jewish song, a song of great joy, which is now recited every morning in the prayer services. The song concludes with several verses about the land of Israel; sadly, the people who sing this song never make it there.   The placement of this song, right in the middle of a Torah reading filled with angst, teaches us a powerful lesson on how to search for happiness without expecting “happily ever after.” One must still find a way to sing in an imperfect world.   The initial words of the song Az Yashir baffle the commentaries; it is phrased in the future tense, as if to say “then Moses and the children of Israel will sing this song.” Most commentaries explain it is meant as a future-in-the-past tense, looking at the future from a point in the past. But the Talmud reads it very differently. It explains: “From where do we know that resurrection of the dead can be derived from the Torah? As it is stated: “Then Moses and the children of Israel will sing this song to the Lord” (Exodus 15:1). It is not stated: sang, rather, ‘they will sing’ (indicating that Moses will come back to life and sing the song in the future.)   The Talmud is saying that Moses will return and sing Az Yashir at the end of days. The purpose of this interpretation is to substantiate a theological principle, the resurrection of the dead. But at the very same time, it also teaches the profound truth: fairy tales are not part of this world. The true song of redemption must wait for the distant future; until then, fragility and anxiety will remain a part of our lives.   The Messianic tones of the text extend a bit deeper. Rabbi Baruch Epstein in his commentary Torah Temimah connects the word Az in this song to another time the word Az is used, in Psalm 126. This Psalm describes the redemption, and says, “Then (Az) our mouths shall be filled with laughter, and our tongues with songs of joy.”   The Talmud (Berakhot 31a) explains that this passage in Psalms teaches us “one is forbidden to fill his mouth with mirth in this world.” (i.e., as long as the Jews are in exile.) In an unredeemed world, there is always something to worry about; mirth is only possible after the redemption. Indeed, the Talmud further recounts that one Rabbi was asked to lead the crowd in song at a wedding. He decided to write a new lyric for the occasion, one that says: “Woe unto us, for we shall die, woe unto us, for we shall die.” Not exactly what most couples want to hear on their wedding night!   Another rabbi saw the crowd rejoicing loudly at his son’s wedding, and broke an expensive glass to darken the mood. This ultimately becomes the basis for our custom of breaking a glass under the chuppah; we don’t want to allow ourselves to be intoxicated by joy in an imperfect world. Wholehearted celebration is both impossible and improper in a world of ever-present crisis.   Then how does one carry this burden of fragility?   The 13th-century Italian Kabbalist, Menahem Recanati, offers a very different interpretation of the Talmud, in his commentary on the Torah (Deuteronomy 20:2.) He agrees one breaks a glass under the chuppah because the world is imperfect; and the couple, like everyone else, will face bad luck in their marriage. But the purpose of breaking the glass is to symbolically push the bad luck out of the way; and that is why the crowd responds mazal tov, or “good luck,” to wish the couple only good fortune for the future.   Recanati completely reorients the purpose of the broken glass. Instead of pushing aside joy to introduce worry, the breaking of a glass comes to push aside worry and search for joy.   Undoubtedly, there are those who need to interrupt their celebrations to remember how broken this world is; but for many others, one’s profound sense of finitude makes such joy impossible. They need to learn how to rejoice even when there is no happily ever after, and at least for one night, embrace the possibility of mazal tov for the future.   Rabbi Yehudah Aryeh Leib Alter, the author of the Sefat Emet, offers a fascinating insight into how the song of Az Yashir and its connection to redemption. He explains that the song of goodness begins in a broken world; but as we continue to sing, we bring redemption one step closer. And this is precisely what Recanati is teaching; let us marry in joy, let us sing in joy, and continue to push back on bad luck. Doing this can change the world.   Rabbi Yehuda Amital, the founder of Yeshivat Har Etzion, shares how a comment in Rashi (Genesis 6:6) gave him great comfort during the Yom Kippur War: When I read these comments of Rashi, I cannot help but recall the wedding of my eldest daughter, which took place in the yeshiva immediately after the Yom Kippur War. After all the pain resulting from that war – both the pain of the nation and the pain of our yeshiva, which lost eight students – I found it very difficult to listen to the band, and I almost did not join in the dancing. But then I was approached by Justice Zvi Tal, whose son's wedding I had performed on Rosh Chodesh Elul, right before the war. His son went out to battle and never returned. Justice Tal mentioned to me these words of Rashi – "In a time of joy – there shall be joy, and in a time of grief – there shall be grief. Justice Tal’s words, coming from a bereft father, are heroic. He insists that even in a world of tragedy, there must be celebrations, one must continue to sing.   The lesson of Az Yashir is that we may not get to sing this song forever, but we must sing it anyway. Joy is always fleeting, but even so, true joy is also transcendent. It raises us above the ordinary and gives us a taste of the end of days. And if we start the song now, it will continue to echo, louder and louder, into the future.

Judaism's Dual Mission

 

The Angel of Death and the First Passover, 1897 Bible Pictures and What They Teach Us by Charles Foster

In 1965, Pope Paul VI issued a major statement on the Catholic Church's attitude toward Jews and Judaism. The Declaration on the Relation of the Church to Non-Christian Religions (otherwise known as Nostra Aetate, or Our Time) condemned antisemitism, and renounced previously held views that Jews had been responsible for Jesus’ death and rejected by God. This change by the church was revolutionary; and many Jews, who before would have been reluctant to do so, were now willing to engage with their Catholic counterparts. At the time there was an outburst of interreligious dialogue, and not just with Catholics; Jews and Christians were spending more time together than ever before. The well-worn genre of jokes about “a rabbi, a minister, and a priest walked into a bar” dates back to this time, as new friendships developed across religious lines. Within Orthodox Judaism, the response was different. In March 1967, Rabbi Moshe Feinstein wrote his cousin, Rabbi Joseph B. Solovetichik, about interreligious dialogue, and outlined his concerns:   Regarding some of the young rabbis, who are trapped in the snare of the Head of the Priests in the Vatican (Pope), which is called the Ecumenical Council, whose intent is to cause all the Jews to convert to their faith, God forbid. The cardinals and the bishops have been ordered by him (the Pope) to establish connections between priests and rabbis through committees in every locale, and also conventions. This act of Satan has succeeded, as a number of rabbis have engaged in such associations on the basis of a horaat heter (a permissive ruling), that, although they may not speak on matters of faith, they may speak regarding social issues. Yet, aside from the fact that nearly every issue becomes one of religion, and the priests will have a different view … it is obvious that any association with them, even on quotidian matters, is a prohibited act, at all times and every instance... Rabbi Soloveitchik never responded, because he was the one who had granted the permission for interreligious dialogue in the first place. The specter of interreligious dialogue was actually quite troubling for Rabbi Soloveitchik as well; like Rabbi Feinstein, he had good reason to doubt the sincerity of the Vatican Council. They both had firsthand experience, in Europe, of Christian antisemitism. And they were well aware that inside the Vatican Council, there was serious pushback against issuing Nostra Aetete, and leading priests had offered explicitly antisemitic criticisms of it. In the early 1960s, Rabbi Soloveitchik had condemned Jewish involvement in the Second Vatican Council; he pointed out that Cardinal Bea, who was in charge of drafting this statement, had said in an interview that he couldn't understand why the Jewish community wouldn’t accept Jesus. Soloveitchik felt that for rabbis to lobby the church for changes “with crooked knee and hat in hand” was an affront to Jews; it was the Catholics who needed to reach out and apologize first. Yet at the same time, Rabbi Soloveitchik was developing a larger philosophical response to interfaith dialogue, which he outlined in an essay entitled "Confrontation." In it, he relates the theology of interreligious dialogue to a far more profound question: What is a Jew's place in the world? Are Jews meant to be a light unto the nations, and deeply enmeshed in the larger society, or are Jews meant to be a nation that dwells alone, pursuing a unique destiny on their own terms? This question is directly addressed by this week’s Torah reading. The first Passover Seder in Egypt, which is found in Parshat Bo, is seen by the Talmud as an act of conversion, the point when the Hebrews in Egypt become Jews (Yevamot 46a). It follows then that the Seder rituals carry a foundational message about Jewish identity. But what is that message? The two primary rituals of the Seder have dramatically different meanings, one that emphasizes universalism, the other particularism. Matzah commemorates how the slaves, rushing out to escape Pharaoh's rule, did not have time to let their dough rise before baking. The Seder is meant to be a classroom of freedom, and Matzah offers a vision of a future free from tyranny. The lessons of freedom are meant to be put into practice, and not just for other Jews. The rights of strangers are to be protected so that no new Pharaoh can enslave them; one must “love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Deuteronomy 10:19) Shabbat, the day of rest, also commemorates the Exodus; therefore, every person, even foreign-born servants, are freed from service and work. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks explains that the God of freedom asks nothing less of his covenantal people than that they shape a social order of universal freedom, in which the basic requirements of human dignity are available to all. This quest has transformed the world. Michael Walzer, in his book Exodus and Revolution, points out that virtually every freedom movement has drawn its inspiration from the Exodus story. Revolutionaries such as Cromwell, Savonarola, Calvin, and Knox constantly preached about the Exodus; and the American Revolution, the Civil Rights movement, liberation theologians, and a German peasants revolt, among others, all found their inspiration in the Book of Exodus. The search for freedom begins at the Seder, and the matzah carries a lesson for all of humanity. The Passover sacrifice, or Korban Pesach, offers a very different message, one of separation. In Egypt, the Jews put the blood of the Korban Pesach on their doors, to receive God’s protection during the plague of the firstborn. Jewish homes were passed over; Egyptian homes were not. It should be added that the plague of the firstborn symbolically represents the fact that Jews are a chosen people. When Moses is sent to Pharaoh, God informs him that ‘This is what the Lord says: Israel is my firstborn son….But you refused to let Israel go, so I will kill your firstborn son.’” (Exodus 4:22-23) The Korban Pesach is directly tied to the notion that the Jewish people are chosen by God. Particularism becomes part of the laws of the Korban Pesach. "No foreigner may eat of it." (12:43) This sacrifice is a celebration of the covenant between the Jews and God, and only Jews may partake of it. Although they could not be more different, Matzah and the Korban Pesach sit side by side at the Seder. One could see this as confusing. But that is the very lesson of the Seder: being universalistic or particularistic is not an either-or proposition. Even if it is paradoxical, Jews must carry both responsibilities. In Confrontation, Rabbi Soloveitchik offered a similar approach to interreligious dialogue, and explained: We Jews have been burdened with a twofold task: we have to cope with the problem of a double confrontation. We think of ourselves as human beings, sharing the destiny of Adam….and as members of a covenantal community which has preserved its identity under most unfavorable conditions...In this difficult role, we are summoned by God, who revealed himself at both the level of universal creation and that of the private covenant, to undertake a double mission - the universal human and the exclusive covenantal confrontation. In other words: Jews must both embrace their own unique destiny and love all of humanity at the same time. In a letter written in late 1964, Rabbi Soloveitchik explains how the philosophy of double confrontation shapes his vision of interreligious dialogue. The unique covenant of the Jews means that dialogue can never extend to religious discussions such as “...Judaic Monotheism and the Christian idea of Trinity,... or the Messianic idea in Judaism and Christianity..” Dialogue on these topics would betray a lack of loyalty to one’s own mission. On the other hand, Jews must embrace their responsibility to all mankind, and engage in “dialogue on significant topics such as war and peace, poverty, freedom, man's moral values, the threat of secularism, technology and human values, civil rights, etc.” Being charged with a double mission demands a unique perspective.  Undoubtedly, this dual mission is profoundly challenging. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes that most Jews have chosen one mission or the other; there are Jewish universalists and Jewish particularists, but few chose to take on both responsibilities. But when properly fulfilled, the double mission is a matter of beauty. On April 14th, 2000, the New York Times wrote a moving article about an international bone marrow donation. Rabbi Ronald Barry had gotten tested in 1991 to be a bone marrow donor. A few months later, a match came up for him. There is a small risk to one’s life, 1 in 20,000, associated with giving bone marrow. It is a small risk, but it is a risk nonetheless, yet Rabbi Barry decided to be a donor. As his wife Miriam explained: How many people get the opportunity to say, 'I saved a life'? What a thing to take up with you at the end of days! The recipient turned out to be a 9-year-old boy named Nicola Trevisan, from the village of Tonco in the Asti region of Italy. The families began to correspond, and then in 2000, the Barrys went to visit Italy for a day to meet Nicola’s family.   The Barrys were received like royalty, and taken on a grand tour, including to a nearby synagogue that had been built in 1599. In the guestbook, Nicola’s father wrote: This is the reunion of the Barry family of Brooklyn and the Trevisans of Tonco...   But then there was the matter of religious observance. The Trevisans, who had never met Jews before, took a crash course in Judaism. They brought kosher food in from Milan, and bought new pots, pans, and an oven so the Barrys could cook. The careful preparations even extended to their greetings. The New York Times wrote: Mrs. Trevisan embraced the rabbi's wife, but, having learned that some Orthodox Jewish men will not shake a woman's hand, held back from offering the rabbi hers. Instead, the boy's mother asked Mrs. Barry to hug the rabbi for her.   And that night, at the Tonco city hall, the entire village came out to welcome and thank the Barrys. ''We do what we can,'' the rabbi told his new friends, in a country no longer so foreign to him. ''But the outcome is a blessing from God.''   This was a moment when the universal and particular stood side by side, and the double mission of the Jewish people was on full display. And, if I might add, it was a moment that had been anticipated long before, at the first Seder in Egypt.

The Righteous Among the Nations, Then & Now

 

Bartolomeo Biscaino, The finding of Moses who is rescued from the Nile by the maidservants of Pharaoh's daughter, 1650–57

On August 15, 1942, a 12-year-old boy named Shmulik slipped out of the Bobov ghetto in search of a place to hide. The day before, all of the inhabitants of the ghetto had been taken into the woods and shot. Shmulik, who was still wearing his pajamas, managed to survive by hiding in a crawl space between the roof and the attic. As he wandered out of the ghetto, he found his way to the home of Polish peasant woman, Balwina Piecuch, who had treated his family kindly in the past. When he arrived at her doorstep, Balwina immediately took Shmulik in, locked the door, and hid him in the attic. After a few days, Balwina decided that Shmulik needed to be moved; too many people in the area knew who he was. So, she gave him a new name, Josek Polewski, and taught him how to pass as a Polish peasant child looking for work. He found a job on a farm in another town, and moved there; all the while Balwina sent her son Stanisław to check on him and bring him supplies, under the guise that they were “brothers.” The rest of Shmulik’s family perished in the Holocaust; but because of Balwina he survived. What motivates people like Balwina and Stanislaw to risk their lives to rescue others? Certainly, it is not education or choice of profession; more than half of all German physicians enrolled in the Nazi party, surpassing all other professions. Here was a simple peasant woman and her son endangering themselves in order to save a Jew, while so many of their intellectual superiors were among the persecutors. Years later Shmulik would search for an answer to this question. After emigrating to the United States, Samuel P. Oliner became a professor of Sociology, and the lead author of a groundbreaking study entitled "The Altruistic Personality: Rescuers of Jews in Nazi Europe." Oliner conducted extensive interviews with 406 rescuers and identified three primary types of motivations that the rescuers had: empathy, strong ethical principles, and loyalty to a group that was committed to rescue. Oliner found that rescuers’ upbringing often had a profound impact on them. Parental values played a significant role; the parents of rescuers educated their children through reasoning instead of physical punishment, and they emphasized independence and empathy for others. The story of these exceptional rescuers is now considered to be an essential chapter in Holocaust history. The founding charter of Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust Memorial Center, tasked the new institution with commemorating those "high-minded Gentiles who risked their lives to save Jews" as one of nine founding principles. These rescuers were awarded by Yad Vashem the title “righteous among the nations,” a term borrowed from rabbinic literature. Since 1963, nearly 28,000 non-Jews have been recognized by Yad Vashem as such. Balwina and Stanislaw are two of those honored. At first glance, the decision to include the “righteous among the nations'' as a central component of Yad Vashem seems strange; while their heroism was extraordinary, it affected a very small percentage of European Jews. But the decision to do so has substantial precedent in the Tanakh, at the very beginning of this parsha. Right at the beginning of the enslavement, two narratives are told about prominent Egyptians who refuse to participate in Pharaoh’s decrees. First, there are the midwives Shifrah and Puah (hameyaldot haivriot) who are tasked with quietly killing all the male children; but they resist and refuse Pharaoh’s orders. It is unclear from the text if the words meyaldot haivriyot is meant to be interpreted as “midwives who are Hebrews” or “midwives to the Hebrews.” The grammar of this point is debated by the Rashbam and Bechor Shor. While Rashi and several other commentaries say that Shifra and Puah were Jewish midwives, the simple reading of the text would indicate otherwise. As Abrarabanel points out, it would seem very improbable that Pharaoh expected Jewish midwives to kill their own kin. Pharaoh’s daughter was the most significant resister. Bathing at the side of the river, she sees a basket with a little boy, whom she correctly identifies as a Jew. Yet Pharaoh’s daughter decides to raise the boy as her own, even hiring the baby’s mother to be the wet nurse. This was a dramatic act of defiance. As the Talmud in Sotah (12b) says, her servants were shocked that she would even entertain adopting a Jewish child. They turned to her and said: “Our mistress, the custom of the world is that when a king of flesh and blood decrees a decree, even if all the world does not fulfill it, at least his children and members of his household fulfill it; and yet now you are violating the decree of your father!” Much like the rescuers during the Holocaust, the heroic Egyptian women in our parsha have varying motives; the midwives are deeply principled, God-fearing women, who refuse to commit murder. Pharaoh’s daughter sees the weeping baby, and “she had compassion on him.” What exactly motivated her is unclear; some, like Malbim and Seforno, say that she detected that the baby had unique qualities, and for this reason chose to save him. But the obvious interpretation is this: her heart broke when seeing this unfortunate child, crying and alone. Empathy leads the daughter of Pharaoh on a heroic path. It is impossible to underestimate the importance of the daughter of Pharaoh. Because of her, the redeemer of Israel lives; and Moses’ very name, “because I drew him out of the water,” places her legacy at the very center of the redemption from Egypt. Including the vignettes of the heroic Egyptian women at the very beginning of Sefer Shemot sends a powerful message: this is a moral battle between those who enslave and those who come to save. Yes, the exodus represents national redemption, and the beginnings of the Jewish people; but it at the same is the earliest call for freedom and a universal redemption. And the rescuers, both in Biblical and contemporary times, answer this divine call for goodness and freedom. Unfortunately, too few hear the call. Elie Wiesel points out that the deeds of the righteous among the nations remind us that such heroism is possible. Unfortunately, as he points out, that leaves all of humanity with a troubling question: “Why were there so few of these exemplary and valorous people?” Until we answer this question, the world will remain unredeemed.

The Purpose of Pessimism, The Practice of Optimism

 

Jacob Blesses His Sons; illustration from the 1728 Figures de la Bible; illustrated by Gerard Hoet (1648-1733) and others Complacency has a habit of making intelligent people look like fools. In 1909, Norman Angell published The Great Illusion, which, (to quote John Keegan) "had demonstrated, to the satisfaction of almost all informed opinion, that the disruption of international credit inevitably to be caused by war would either deter its outbreak or bring it speedily to an end." Five years later, the bloodiest war in world history (until that point) would take place. Yet even the World War was not enough to bring Angell's thesis into question; in 1933, he would be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for this book, the only one ever presented to an author. Hope often triumphs over experience.   Angell was a firm believer in progress. But others are far more skeptical of utopian narratives because life is too unpredictable and human nature too erratic to expect unending progress.   Right now, sunny optimism seems out of touch. The last decade has ushered in extreme political polarization, a new Cold War, a ground war in Europe, and a pandemic; pessimism is beginning to make a lot more sense. In September 2021, Niall Ferguson challenged Steven Pinker to a wager. Pinker, a cognitive psychologist, had written The Better Angels of our Nature, which argued that humanity has become progressively less violent. Ferguson, a historian, rejected this thesis, and bet Pinker that "by the end of this decade, Dec. 31, 2029, a conventional or nuclear war will claim at least a million lives." Tragically, Ferguson’s wager doesn't seem all that ridiculous anymore.   Jews sit uncomfortably at the crossroads of progress and pessimism. Judaism emphasizes hope and the possibility of a better future. It requires one to seek repentance and self-improvement, and believes in the coming of the Messiah and the ultimate redemption of humanity. The continued existence of the Jewish people itself is the product of optimism; as the Talmud points out, having a Jewish baby during periods of persecution was a supreme act of hope.   While optimism is wonderful in theory, Jewish history has repeatedly taught the lesson of pessimism. In the years before the Holocaust, too many Jews took comfort in the status quo and thought they could simply wait Hitler out. A major Jewish charity event took place at Berlin's Cafe Leon on January 30, 1933, the day when Hitler was appointed Chancellor of Germany. Among all the representatives of Jewish organizations that spoke at the event, only the Zionist Rabbi Hans Tramer spoke about Hitler. Saul Friedlander, in Nazi Germany and the Jews, quotes a newspaper report that Tramer’s "speech made no impression. The entire audience considered it panic-mongering."   The Jewish leaders at Cafe Leon were blinded by their own optimism, and couldn’t see the danger right in front of them. In her book on Jewish humor, Ruth Wisse relates the following quote: "We used to say that there were two kinds of German Jews: the pessimists who went to Palestine, and the optimists who went to Auschwitz." There are times when pessimism is important.   Balancing pessimism with hope is the theme of Parshat Vayechi. On the surface, the end of Genesis is upbeat; Jacob’s family is growing by leaps and bounds, becoming wealthier and entrenched, and Joseph is the Viceroy of Egypt. If one could stop right here, the story of the Jews in Egypt would conclude as one of comfort and contentment.   When Jacob passes away, he is mourned for 70 days by all of Egypt, and given a hero's funeral. The Torah describes at length the scene at Jacob’s burial in order to emphasize the elevated status of the emerging Jewish community. A large leadership delegation, including a military guard, accompanies Jacob's casket from Egypt into Canaan (which was presumably an Egyptian vassal state at the time). Then, "they came to the threshing floor of Atad, which is beyond the Jordan, and they mourned there with a great and very solemn lamentation….and when the inhabitants of the land, the Canaanites, saw the mourning at the threshing floor of Atad, they said, 'This is a deep mourning of the Egyptians.' Therefore its name was called Abel Mizraim…" (Genesis 50:10-13) The Egyptian funeral for the patriarch of the Jewish people is so large and dramatic, a city is named for it. Isn't this the very definition of success?   Yet behind the scenes, there are quiet whispers of skepticism. When Jacob requests to be buried in the family plot in Israel, he adds an additional phrase: “Please do not bury me in Egypt” (47:29.) Jacob rejects Egypt, even as a place of temporary burial. As the Ralbag points out, Jacob is profoundly disturbed by Egyptian society and wants to disassociate himself from it. At the very end of the Torah reading, Joseph hints more directly at the impending doom, and says, “God will surely come to your aid and take you up out of this land...” (50:24) Divine intervention will be needed to return the Jews back home.   A thought-provoking Midrash is cited by Rashi at the beginning of the Torah reading. It notes that Vayechi is the only Parshah that begins in the middle of a paragraph. Rashi explains: “Why is this Parsha totally closed? Because, as soon as our father Jacob passed away, the hearts and eyes of Israel were closed by the misery of the bondage which the Egyptians began to impose upon them. Another reason is because Jacob wished to reveal to his sons the date of the End of Days (i.e., redemption), but this vision was closed from him.” The middle of a paragraph is all closed up, with no window through which to see anything positive; and that is the ambiance of Parshat Vayechi, in which the gloom of exile slowly descends upon Jacob’s family.     A closer look at the Biblical text uncovers the literary brilliance of this Midrash. The final words of the previous Parsha, Vayigash, are: "And Israel settled in the country of Egypt, in the region of Goshen; they acquired landholdings in it, and were fertile and increased greatly." (47:27) In a sense, this report of prosperity is “edited out” of the Parshat Vayechi, which begins instead with the following verse that introduces Jacob’s impending death. The starting point of Vayechi declares: Here begins the tragedy. With Jacob’s death, the golden age in Egypt will come to an end.   Jacob’s family in Egypt live a split-screen reality, of outward success and inner fragility. It is the sort of situation where a pessimist will find plenty to worry about. Jacob's family has a relationship with Egyptian society that hinges on one man, Joseph; and they are also expanding rapidly, which will test the hospitality of their hosts. Eventually, in a bitter reversal of fortune, these aristocrats will become slaves, and endure exile in their adopted homeland.   So how does one prepare for exile? Jacob chooses an unusual method: He blesses his family. What makes this particularly odd is a fascinating biblical parallel. There are only two times when the tribes of Israel are blessed; once by Jacob before they enter exile, and then again by Moses before they enter the land of Israel.   Moses' blessing seems to be well-timed; blessings belong to new beginnings, to a people about to return to their homeland. Yet in Vayechi, as his family stands on the threshold of a 400-year exile, Jacob blesses them as well. And that is strange.   But Jacob's blessings are intended to extend hope. Yes, he recognizes that exile is about to arrive; but it is precisely during times of despair that one must practice optimism.   Jacob wants to offer a preview of the blessings that the twelve tribes will receive before they enter the land of Israel; he wants to ensure that they never forget where their home is, and never forget that they are blessed.   Parshat Vayechi carries a paradoxical lesson: in times of prosperity, consider pessimism, and in times of despair practice optimism. Pessimism is a necessary corrective to the irrational exuberance of heady times; optimism is a spiritual practice, which sustains the soul when one's blessings have otherwise evaporated.   In Hasidic Tales of the Holocaust, there is a story entitled "Fine Generations." It relates an anecdote about Bronia Koschitzki, who together with her two sons, aged six and three, were trapped in the Bochnia Ghetto. There was a Hasidic Rebbe in the ghetto to whom people came at all hours to ask for blessings. Bronia came with her two sons for a blessing as well. Initially, the Rebbe gave them a generic blessing “that God will help.” Bronia pressed for something better, and requested that the Rebbe offer her the blessing of “fine generations in the future.” The other people in the room murmured, thinking Bronia was insane; at a time when children were being rounded up and murdered, she was asking for a future of fine generations!   But the Rebbe obliged, and gave her a blessing for a fine future; and Bronia and her children did survive. As she was interviewed for the book, surrounded by her children and grandchildren, she noted that “in a time of war, one has to organize everything, even a blessing.”   Jacob does this as well. As exile closes in, he organizes a blessing for his family, a beacon of hope that will carry them through a bitter exile. Pessimism has its purpose; but during the darkest of days, one must insistently practice optimism, and never let go of hope.