Rav Kook uses this to explain a Pasuk in the section following that of the two Yom Kippur goats. The Torah states, “VeLo Yizbechu Od Et Zivcheihem LaSe’erim Asher Heim Zonim Achareihem,” “Bnei Yisrael will stop sacrificing to the demons which tempt them” (VaYikra 17:7). Rav Kook explains this Pasuk based on the internal conflict that exists within life. The demonic worship is the appreciation of the unrestrained barbarity in human nature. There is a philosophic belief that unless one knows evil he cannot achieve truth. Theoretically, the purpose of evil in this world is to help people find truth; however, evil has no place in practice. Therefore, once all sins and evil are transferred to the Azazeil goat, it is sent away from humanity to show that evil must also be sent away. Sending the Azazeil goat reinforces the idea that barbarity, while it must be acknowledged as a part of human nature, is not to be channeled, but rather is to be excised as much as possible. Humanity must be based on good and motivated self-improvement rather than pleasure for pleasure’s sake and the evil that comes with it. In Parashat Kedoshim, we read the famous verse: “You shall love your fellow as yourself” (Vayikra 19:18). This simple statement has perplexed many commentators and sparked many, many interpretations. For, as Ramban points out, it is in fact very difficult to love another as we love ourselves. The interpretations abound. Most famously, Rabbi Akiva states that this mitzvah is in fact the fundamental rule of the Torah (Nedarim 9:4). For him, no other principle covers the gamut of the Torah as well. Yet Rabbi Akiva also says, “Your life comes before your brother’s life” (Bava Metzia 72). Along comes Hillel who paraphrases the verse, stating that “What is hateful to you, do not do to others” (Shabbos 31a). Thus, we can understand that the verse implies not to do any harm, physical or financial, to another. The Torah is asking us to want for others the same level of success as we want for ourselves. Once again, this is difficult, as no matter how well we wish someone, we wish better for ourselves.

The Alter of Slobodka said, “The commandment is to love others ‘kamocha’, as you love yourself: instinctively, without reason”. Alternatively, Rabbi Avraham Yehoshua Heschel of Kopitchinitz suggests that this commandment is for us to love those that are not easy to love. Ben Petura goes a step further referring to this principle as “the book of the generations of man”. It is not merely to avoid doing harm and showing rachamim or mercy, but must include positive acts of kindness, gomlei chassadim. As with any quote, oftentimes, the context is left out. It is important to remember that the words following “you shall love your neighbour as yourself” are “I am Hashem” (Vayikra, 19:18). We are asked to remember that we are all created by G-d. The prophet Malachi states, “Have we not all one father? Has not one G-d created us? Why should we deal treacherously every man against his brother, profaning and breaking the covenant of our forefathers?” (Malachi 2:10). Rabbi Twerski highlights the words of Rabbi Akiva who calls this “fundamental principle” a klal gadol. Klal Gadol means all-encompassing principle. Thus, if this passuk is the klal, then all 613 mitzvot should make up part of the characteristics of the klal. Hence, every mitzvah must be performed with Ahavat Yisrael in order to be considered to be properly performed. Even when we pray, we should share our prayers with all of Israel. He reminds us as well of the words of Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler. Rabbi Dessler writes that it is not that we give to those we love, but rather we love to whom we give. “Meaning that in giving of ourselves to others, by investing ourselves in the lives of our fellow man, a part of us remains with that person and our love for them grows” (Michtave MeEliyahu vol.1). More practically, HaKrav V’HaKabbalah offer examples of how to fulfill this mitzvah. Do not feign affection; treat others with respect; always seek the best in others; greet others with friendliness; show empathy and join in their pain; see the best in them; assist physically, even if it is not for something difficult; be ready to assist with small loans and gifts; and lastly, do not consider yourself better than others.

~Devorah Abenhaim

It’s true that some of these tragedies are possibly only post-facto linked to this time of the year, but some are well documented as to their exact dates: the first crusade, the expulsion of Jews from Spain, France and England in the Middle Ages, the Destruction of the two Temples, as well as more modern events such as the Buenos Aires Jewish Community Center bombing in 1994 which killed 85 and injured 300, or the beginning of the Gaza disengagement in 2005 — they all seemed to have “conglomerated” during these few weeks, during the first couple of weeks of the month of Av.

To make matters even more serious, we just passed from the three-weeks into the nine-days, as yesterday, Friday, was Rosh Chodesh Menachem Av. We are now officially in a period of time when Jewish law prohibits many comforts, such as making purchases of new clothes, eating meat and drinking wine (except on Shabbat), swimming and bathing for pleasure, home improvements, fun activities and many others.

As a nation, we are sad and frustrated. We ask G-d why. Why is our exile so long? Why is our Temple still unbuilt? Why isn’t G-d’s realm established on earth, as the old prophecies tell us? We wonder what we did to deserve all that, two thousand years without what we cherished most. We look back on our history and we can’t help but feeling overwhelmed at the long list of calamities that seems to have been part of our national destiny since time immemorial. We read in shul what Jewish tradition calls t’lata de’puranyiuta, the three Haftarahs of misfortune. And we think.

This week’s Haftarah is taken from the book of Jeremiah, who was dubbed by a work published in England in 1993 “the weeping prophet”. Yeremyiahu (Jeremiah) is almost synonymous with suffering, having witnessed the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, the biggest calamity of the Jewish nation, and having subsequently authored the famous Eicha, the Book of Lamentations which is read on Tisha Be’Av.

It is indeed no surprise that Jeremiah invokes in his message images of frustration, sadness and pain. But if we look more closely into the Haftarah, the part that’s striking is not the action, but the subject. In this week’s Haftarah, it isn’t us, the Jewish people who are suffering. It is G-d Himself!

כה אמר ה’ מה מצאו אבותיכם בי אול — Thus said Hashem: “What iniquity did your forefathers find in Me, that they distanced themselves from Me and went after nothingness, and have turned into nothingness? They did not say: Where is Hashem, who brought us up from the land of Egypt, who led us in the wilderness, in a land of plain and pit, in a land of waste and the shadow of death, in a land through which no man has passed and where no man has settled.? Yet I brought you to a fruitful land, to eat its fruit and its goodness; but when you came, you contaminated My land, and made My heritage into an abomination.” — Jeremiah 2:4-6

That is not anger. It is not wrath. It is not the desire to punish or exact revenge. It is pain, suffering, frustration, and a deep and consuming desire to understand. What happened? asks G-d. What went wrong? Where did I do wrong? How did it come to that?

The idea that G-d is not just upset with people, but also pained by the need to punish them is not new. In a famous vignette in the Talmud, Rabbi Yochanan talks about the moment the Sea of Reeds split to allow the Jewish nation to pass through during the Exodus from Egypt. After the Jews crossed, the sea returned its waves upon the pursuing Egyptians. It was at this time that — according to tradition — the Shirat HaYam, the Song at the Sea, was sung by the children of Israel. And it was also then — Rabbi Yochanan points out — that the ministering angels wanted to join in the singing, to exalt G-d for the miracles He performed. The Talmud records G-d’s harsh reply to the angels: 

מעשה ידי טובעין בים ואתם אומרים שירה — The work of My hands, [the Egyptians], are drowning in the sea, and you want to sing Me songs? — Talmud, Meggilah 10b

Whether we understand it fully or not, G-d seems to be in sync with our pain. When we suffer, He suffers. Unlike the gods of old, the pagan, Greek or Roman deities who rejoiced in the pain and misery of mortals, sometimes to the point of pure cruelty, G-d has empathy and love. Even when people deserve to be punished — as was the case of the Egyptians, who had enslaved G-d’s people for generations, and were bent on their utter destruction — G-d punishes with a crying heart. As the Talmud concludes in tractate Megillah: G-d does not rejoice over the downfall of the wicked.

But there is more in this week’s Haftarah, because it’s not just G-d’s pain we experience here, but also, as I mentioned, His frustration and desire to understand. What went wrong? Why?

At first glance, these are human, not godly emotions. If we look in all the annals of religious history, deities don’t have these thoughts, they don’t experience these feelings. Deities judge, they rule, they desire and take, they make the rules and then enforce them. At best, they reward the righteous and punish the wicked. To encounter G-d in such a state of mind, so to speak, seemingly borders on blasphemy. Because G-d cannot show weakness, right? G-d cannot cry. Nothing affects Him. He cannot have a heavy heart, because everything is perfect in His high heavens.

Yet G-d doesn’t shy away from these feelings. Moreover, He also chooses to share them with us in the words of the prophet. He talks to us about His pain. He almost shows us His tears. If we read the Haftarah carefully, we discover that every verse is filled with this kind of discourse: frustration at the present state of things, a deep need to understand, and a desire to find a solution to the problems, to make them go away.

It isn’t a coincidence that throughout the Haftarah, G-d is not referred by the name Elokim, the name of judgement and rebuke, but rather by the name Hashem, a Name that symbolizes love and kindness. כה אמר ה’ — This is what Hashem said. I love you. I want us to be friends again. I am a parent to you, not a distant judge, not an executioner, not a dictator. I treated you kindly when you were innocent, a downtrodden nation in the grips of Egypt, and I will treat you kindly again, even after you scorned My love and went astray from My path.

And why is that so? Because I believe you can come back. Because only by feeling your pain when punishment hits, I can remain close by afterwards as well, waiting for you to recover, and taking you back into My loving arms.

The Haftarah we read this week is not merely a warning or a rebuke. This is what prophets usually deliver in their message to the people, but this Haftarah is different. By sharing his feelings with us, G-d sets the tone for the healing process to start. He is telling us that in order to make peace, we need to work together. We need to understand each other, to understand where each of us is coming from, to feel each other’s pain, and to make a commitment to continue the journey together.

When things look grim and frustration and pain become overwhelming, G-d’s simple answer is: open up. Do share your pain. Talk about it. Identify it and own it. Own your mistakes. Ask yourself: have I done something wrong? Could I have done better? Could things be different, better, from now on? These are questions every psychologist will encourage you to ask yourself when dealing with pain or frustration. These are questions couples’ therapy promotes as staples, must-haves, for mending relationships. But this time, the questions don’t come from a human mouth; they come from G-d who, in this week’s Haftarah, undergoes therapy with us.

As humans, we are conditioned to believe that the lines between heaven and earth are definitive and unyielding. They cannot be blurred, they cannot be erased. The stories of the Bible reinforce that idea. Take the story of the Tower of Babel, for example, when people try to “build a tower with its top in the heavens”. The result and moral of the story is clear: don’t try this at home. G-d comes down and scatters the builders upon the face of the earth, their languages mixed and confused. Never again will humans try to cross the boundaries towards heaven, G-d’s domain. As the Psalm puts it: השמים שמיים לה’ והארץ נתן לבני אדם — “heavens are for G-d, and earth was given to mankind”.

But this week’s Haftarah qualifies that idea. We can, after all, cross into G-d’s domain. We just need to be invited, and to cross with the proper intent. Unlike the builders of Babel, this week we cross not to challenge G-d, but to share in His pain, to help Him understand, and to work together towards a resolution of the conflict. In one of his books, talking about the conflict between Jews and Arabs, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks put forth the following idea:

Peace is a duet, not a solo. It cannot be made by one side alone. If it could, it would have been made a long time ago.

The same is true for peace between G-d and mankind. Both sides need to work hard to achieve it. We pray to G-d and share our pain, desires and ideals. In turn, He gives us a glimpse into His mind, and teaches us that it is ok to be frustrated and sad. You just have to figure out what to do with those feelings.

In Sefer Devarim, at the beginning of parshat Haazinu, the Torah describes G-d as follows:

הַצּוּר֙ תָּמִ֣ים פָּֽעֳל֔וֹ כִּ֥י כָל־דְּרָכָ֖יו מִשְׁפָּ֑ט אֵ֤-ל אֱמוּנָה֙ וְאֵ֣ין עָ֔וֶל צַדִּ֥יק וְיָשָׁ֖ר הֽוּא — The Rock!, perfect is His work, for all His paths are justice, a G-d of faith without iniquity, righteous and fair is He. — Deuteronomy 32:4

אין אול — Ein avel, “without iniquity”, G-d is called in that verse. But in this week’s Haftarah, the very same G-d, the One and Only, asks Himself מה מצאו אבותיכם בי אול (“ma matzu avoteichem bi avel”) — “What iniquity did your forefathers find in Me”? He knows very well the answer to the question — He is indeed perfect, after all — but He asks the question nevertheless: “What iniquity can be found in Me?” Maybe I need to do teshuvah? Maybe I need to show you through this how to start your own teshuvah?

In a majestic explanation on the verse in Devarim, Rashi explains that “ein avel” alludes to G-d’s ability to repay even the wicked for their good deeds. No good deed goes unpunished, says the proverb sarcastically. G-d has a better idea: “No good deed goes unrewarded!” Even when the world isn’t fair, G-d is. And it is this fairness, this pure desire to see good everywhere and reward it, that has G-d frustrated in this week’s Haftarah. It is this attribute of G-d that deeply needs to understand how all His miracles, all His acts of kindness toward the Jewish nation have been ignored, as people went astray from the path. It is this that creates all the frustration.

But in letting this frustration show in the words of the prophet, G-d also sets the tone for teshuvah. In sharing His frustration with the behavior of the Jews, G-d is prompting us to react: to cry, to pray, to change, to atone, to ask forgiveness. Something. In a nutshell, this Haftarah is the equivalent of G-d’s question to Adam in the Garden of Eden: איכה (“ayeka”) — “Where are you?” Don’t hide. Don’t run. I want to understand you. I want to forgive you. I want to help you change, help you become better.

It is not coincidental — I believe — that the name of the book we read on Tisha Be’Av, at the culmination of t’lata de puranyiuta, the three weeks and the nine days, is מגילת איכה. Commonly known as the Lamentations, the Hebrew name of the book, taken from its first verse, is a call for peace and the resolution of conflict. איכה doesn’t just mean “Oy, vey”, it also means “How?” How do we solve this? How do we go forth from here? How do we fix our relationship? Ayeka? Where are you? How can I help you come back?

It is this call, this conversation, this sense of sharing that transcends worlds and boundaries between them, that has maintained us as individuals and as a people throughout history. It is this willingness on G-d’s part to open His heart and pour out His soul to us, in the hope that we will reciprocate. It is this process and this dialogue that starts the healing, that contains — ממעמקים, in the midst of pain — the seeds of healing. השיבנו ה’ אליך ונשובה חדש ימינו כקדם we say at the end of Eicha. “Bring us back, G-d, and we will return, renew our days like those of old.” May it be G-d’s will that all our sorrows be removed, that all our pains be alleviated, and may we find our path back into G-d’s embrace, in consolation and in perfect faith, bimheira beyameinu!

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Sorin Rosen
Matot-Masei  | Shabbat, August 3, 2019

One of the conversations I recall having with my father way back when was about people’s fascination, even obsession, with bad things. As a kid, I remember that whenever I did something good (an A in school or helping my mom in the kitchen), my parents would tell me “good job”, and that was that. That was my mitzvah note. Short and to the point.

But when I did something bad… oh my! There was at the very least a long speech from my mom or dad, at worst some privilege removed or a couple days of strained relations. Why did you do it? Don’t you ever think about the consequences? How many times have I told you to be more careful? Etc. I’m sure parents and even grandparents in the room can relate to that.

So, the question I had for my father back then was: Why are adults so focused on the bad things, while ignoring or glossing over the good so easily?

My father’s answer was pretty much always the same: “Don’t worry about it. You’re still a kid. You’ll understand it some day. You’ll probably even do it to your kids. It’s human nature, that’s all: people just talk about the bad more than they talk about the good.”

Time passed. The long speeches and consequences from my parents became more scarce, as I moved out and started my life as an adult. But the issue stayed on my mind, especially as I was now noticing it in other areas of life, not just parenting. The news on TV followed the same pattern: a little on the good, then LOTS of time on the bad. A word or two on a good samaritan’s deed and then, a ton more on the wars, the terror attacks, the crimes of the day, or on the large-scale scary implications of some political move or market crash. The newspapers were the same, the political discourse, the entire world in short.

So, my question stood. And, without an alternative explanation for it, so did my father’s answer: “you’ll get it eventually; it’s just human nature, that’s the way things are”.

In this week’s parsha we find an instance of this strange, yet so common theme. In chapter 26 of Vayikra (Leviticus), the Torah lists a series of blessings and curses, the famous tocheichah, the admonition or reproof. The blessings if we listen to G-d’s commandments and walk in His ways. The curses if — G-d forbid! — we stray from the path.

What is strange, again, is the proportion or the two. The first 13 verses of the chapter talk about the brachot, the blessings. From verse 14 until the end of the chapter — a total of 33 verses — we read the klalot, the curses. Almost three times as many curses than blessings!

In his commentary on this chapter, one of the great mefarshim of the Middle Ages, Rabbi Avraham Ibn Ezra picks up on this particularity. Why is it happening? Why does talk about evil overwhelms talk about good? His answer to my lifelong question is the following:

Certain empty-headed people have said that the curses are more numerous than the blessings. This is untrue. Rather, the blessings are given in general terms, whereas the curses are given in detail in order to impress and to frighten the listeners. If you read carefully, what I have said will become evident. — Ibn Ezra

Ok… So when I was a teen, I’ve been told that “I’m just a kid and I will eventually get it”. Now, that I certainly am no longer a kid, I am told that I am “empty-headed” just because I asked the question? Hmmm… I’m not even sure in which instance I am supposed to feel worse. 🙂

But seriously now, Ibn Ezra’s answer makes a lot of sense. The substance of the two sets is very different: the blessings are delivered in general terms, while the curses are very specific and detailed. We are told that if we do good, we’ll get peace and prosperity. In what form, the Torah doesn’t say. Just that it will be there, for all to enjoy. But if we don’t live up to G-d’s expectations, evil will come to us by way of “panic, swelling and burning fever”. We’ll “sow in vain, for our enemies will eat the crops”. Our land will be like iron and copper, our pride will be broken, our cattle will die; there will be famine, pestilence, suffering, as well as horrible and unspeakable acts perpetrated in our midst. No less than five separate series of curses are uttered in chapter 26, each more serious and worrisome than the one before it. And if you read classical non-Jewish translations of the Bible, you might even encounter harsh renderings of the Hebrew expression וגעלה נפשי אתכם (“vegaalah nafshi etchem”) from verse 30 as “G-d’s spirit will hate you” or “G-d’s spirit will be repulsed by you”. This is very serious indeed, as the curses pile up to make the blessings almost pale in comparison.

So why is this happening? Why the curses are so detailed, and the blessings so vague? The truth is that there is something of great value in both my father’s answer AND in Ibn Ezra’s.

Professor Clifford Nass from Stanford University, who wrote extensively about human-computer and human-human interaction, as well as about various topics related to the way the human mind handles information, explains this phenomenon as follows:

This is a general tendency for everyone. Some people do have a more positive outlook, but almost everyone remembers negative things more strongly and in more detail. The brain handles positive and negative information in different hemispheres. Negative emotions generally involve more thinking, and information is processed more thoroughly than positive ones. Thus, we tend to ruminate more about unpleasant things — and use stronger words to describe them — than happy ones. — Prof. Clifford Nass

So, if you listen carefully to professor Nass, what the Torah does is indeed very normal. Dibrah Torah be’lashon bnei adam — the Torah speaks the language of people. Or, in this case, it caters to how the human mind is wired to handle information: more attention to the bad, less to the good.

This answer makes a lot of sense. After all, Hashem, who is the author of the Torah, is also the Creator of humankind. He knows — even better than we know it — how and what we need to hear for maximum effect. And what is the goal in our parsha? To make us THINK about the possible outcome of our actions, and change our ways for the better, before it’s too late.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks — who, I’m sure, needs no introduction — has an insight about this in the form of an explanation about Jewish prophecy:

The Torah — he writes — disbelieves practices such as soothsaying, oracle or rune reading, and other forms of divination. Why? Because the future is not pre-scripted. It depends on us and on the choices we make. The Jewish prophet tells of the future that will happen IF we do not heed the danger and mend our ways. The prophet does not predict; he or she warns. If a prediction [by those who practice divination or sorcery] comes true, it has succeeded. But if a Jewish prophecy [about a bad outcome] comes true, then it has failed [because it wasn’t able to inspire and motivate those to whom it was addressed to change their ways and avert the bad outcome]. — Rabbi Jonathan Sacks

This is deep stuff. The reason for the blessings and the curses in our parsha is not related to our future. It is related to our present, and the choices we can make NOW, to shape our future in a positive manner. And as to why there are more curses than blessings, the reason is simple: because we need to hear them in great detail, to visualize them clearly. We need food for thought, if you will, not to scare us into submission, but rather to enlighten us about how dangerous certain paths can be, and the terrible places they can lead to.

There is also science to support this idea. On a historical and evolutionary scale, people who remember the bad more than the good have a greater chance to survive. Roy Baumeister, a professor of social psychology at Florida State University, writes:

Bad emotions have more impact than good ones. You are more upset about losing $50 than you are happy about gaining $50. But those who are attuned to bad things would have — in the course of history — been more likely to survive threats and would have increased the probability of passing along their genes, because more awareness of danger implies a greater chance to avoid it. Survival requires urgent attention to possible bad outcomes but less urgent with regard to good ones. — Prof. Roy Baumeister

* * *

But there is much more to this than evolution. The message the Torah has for us in seemingly insisting on the curses and glossing over the blessings is also one of deep and unconditional LOVE.

My parents did not chastised me so much when I was a kid because they hated me or because they wanted me to feel bad. On the contrary, they did it because they loved me, and wanted me to turn out well in life. They emphasized the bad so much davka because they wanted me to be conscious of the potential negative consequences of my actions, and change my behavior before it was too late. In a sense, my parents were the equivalent of a personal prophet.

And the same goes for the relationship between G-d and the Jewish people: in Bechukotai, Hashem talks to us not as a despotic ruler who threatens his people with famine, pestilence and war when they slip up. He talks to us as a parent, a guide, a voice inside our head, whose goal is to encourage us to make good choices. After all, as explained by Ibn Ezra, and Rabbi Sacks, or by professors Nass and Baumeister, He knows that we need the the awareness of how bad things can turn to motivate us to make the right choices. Our survival depends on it. Our happiness. Our future.

It is probably for this very reason that the divine Name used in our parsha is Hashem, not Elokim. Because the voice of our parsha is primarily one of mercy and care, and not of punishment and retribution. It is for this reason that we are reassured at the very end of chapter 26 that: “despite all this — despite all the curses — while the children of Israel will be in the land of our enemies, [Hashem] will not have been revolted by them, nor will He have rejected them to obliterate them, to annul His covenant with them — for I am Hashem, their G-d.” I am Hashem, He says, a parent who loves them, a Father concerned about their wellbeing, who wants them to renounce evil and start again on the right path.

This verse at the end of our parsha, which talks about the way Hashem will treat us in exile, is, in my opinion, the key of understanding why we talk so much about the bad. Because in talking about it, we develop hope for a better world. We see where we are, and the choices we have in front of us. And we become motivated to choose the right path forward.

If the beginning of our parsha is the wake-up call, the end of chapter 26 is, as Rabbi Sacks calls it, “the birth of hope. Not hope as a dream, a wish or a desire, but as the very shape of history itself. G-d is just. He may punish. He may hide His face. But He will not break His word. He will fulfil His promise. He will redeem His children. He will bring them home.”

* * *

And He has brought us home. Tomorrow is Yom Yerushalayim, which alongside Yom Ha’Atzmaut is the day when we feel G-d’s hand in our modern life possibly more than ever. After almost two thousand years in exile, G-d brought us back to the Land of Israel and to Yerushalayim, the Holy City, where His Divine Presence dwells.

We had our share of suffering, of klalot, and the time has finally come for the brachot in our lives, may they finally arrive in complete form, bimheirah beyameinu. “That’s just the way things are”, as my father would put it. A double voice of curses and blessings is what moved us forward through history, all the way up to today. A double voice of harshness and embrace is G-d’s way of reminding us that He’s been constantly watching and listening, enabling us today to come back to our heritage and prosper. A double voice of suffering and happiness is a reminder that He is our parent who loves us endlessly, and always wants us to succeed.

As children of our parents and as children of G-d, we need to hear that our parents love us. We need to see them care. We need them to be concerned, outraged even, when we slip up. We need them to shout at us, to plead with us, to chastise us. We need them to paint, sometimes in very vivid colors, the potential outcomes of our deeds, so that we learn to make better choices for our future. We don’t just need pampering and smiles from our parents. We need guidance too, and frowns, and harsh words when we deserve them.

That is what loving parents do. And that is what G-d does too, out of the deepest love for His children, the people of Israel.

Shabbat Shalom and Happy Yom Yerushalayim!

Rabbi Sorin Rosen
June 1, 2019

Picture if you will, Joseph and his boys rush in to see his dying father. He seats his boys to be blessed by Yakov with Menashe, the older one, to his right, and Ephrayim, the younger one, at his left. Then Yakov crosses his arms.

Yosef impatiently yells out, “The older one is on the right”.

There’s an urgency and impatience to Joseph’s tone.

Yakov corrects his son, “I know, but the younger one will be greater than the older one”.

This seems to be a dominant thread throughout the book of Breishit; most of the family dynamics in this book include the younger child surpassing the older one, leading to disastrous results.

Throughout this entire exchange, the boys are silent.

Many commentaries extol the beauty of the book’s first siblings that we encounter without sibling-rivalry, having Menashe being so proud of his brother and his eventual accomplishments. When we bless our sons to be like Ephrayim and Menashe, we want children to get along just like these brothers.

Instead, I want to offer an added dimension to this exchange. They were silent because of the love, respect and patience they had for their blessed grandfather.

In the later years of my grandfather’s life, he suffered from dementia, and there were times that he was confused. He thought my brother-in-law was his late son; there were days he thought I was my late mother. Rather than losing patience and angrily correcting him, we let him do things his way. I remember a time before dementia. A grandfather who gave me anything I ‘needed’. A grandfather who brought me to Cirque du Soleil with him. A grandfather who gave me countless rides around the city and took me every morning to say kaddish when my mother, his daughter, passed away.  A grandfather who had endless love, respect and patience for me and his other grandchildren. That is why when he made mistakes, we did not jump to correct and embarrass him, but we took it in stride. That is why I felt the need to say kaddish for him this year and write this d’var torah to keep his memory alive, and where he remains today, always close to my heart.

* * *

A couple weeks ago, as Quebec was celebrating Fête Nationale, many miles away, in the heart of the Arabian Peninsula, a historic event was taking place. A peculiar ban was finally lifted. For the very first time ever, women in Saudi Arabia were saved the obligation to hire a man to drive them wherever they needed to go, and were instead allowed to get behind the wheel of a car and drive themselves there.

”This is surreal. Am I really driving in my own country? I feel happy, relieved. I feel like I’m free”, said Mona Al-Fares, a doctor, who got in her car even before midnight on June 24, waiting for the decades-long ban to lift.

“It’s a remarkable historical moment and I wish the entire world would be here to witness it”, said another woman, Baheirah Khusheim, age 33, who drove her car that night on the very same route she had illegally taken alongside her late father 15 years prior, at that time disguised in her brother’s clothing to avoid being arrested.

Historic indeed. Women took selfies and celebrated publicly. The press was cheering. The civil rights groups were ecstatic. Voices of support and encouragement were heard everywhere. To be sure, there were also plenty of sceptics, as well as people who pointed out that the lifting of the driving ban was really just a drop in an ocean of inequality, discrimination and human rights violations that still exist in that part of the world, an ocean too vast to cross and too deep to swim in. And, surely, “the entire world” would likely not take Baheirah up on her offer to join her in Saudi Arabia in celebration.

In any case, one thing is clear: Saudi Arabia is but one place in the world where gender inequality still exists today – maybe one of the worst, but certainly not the only one. We are far from an ideal society, that’s for sure. Yes, we know, Canada’s cabinet is nowadays gender equal, “because it’s 2015” as our Prime-Minister pointed out a while back, but the process is still slow and difficult. And when we look at the scale of history, the picture is even grimmer.

It is true that in the past century or so women’s rights everywhere took a turn for the better. But that turn is pretty much just that: a purely modern phenomenon. For most of the world’s recorded history, a great disparity existed between men and women, and their respective rights in society. In fact, in the last hundred years, women’s rights have increased more than in the previous three thousand years combined. Women’s right to vote, to be elected, to own property, to work, to choose a spouse, to divorce, to relocate, to be free of domestic violence – and the list could go on – all these are relatively modern inventions. The United Kingdom started allowing women to vote in 1869. The United States in the 1880s. Canada in 1921. France in 1945. Many countries in South America and Africa as late as the 1960s or even the 1980s. And Saudi Arabia (again) only in… believe it or not… 2015!

For thousands of years, women’s rights were very basic, if any. Also, women had primarily a domestic role, being relegated to the home and the family, while men dealt with politics, war, economy, finances and pretty much everything else in society.

Now, it’s easy (and fairly tempting) to criticize history. It’s easy to look through modern lenses and to deplore past societies’ lack of… well, modern values. But that is exactly the key: modernity. Criticizing the past is often an exercise doomed to fail, because societies must be judged primarily by the standards of their own time, and not by standards that might potentially emerge in the future.

But there is one notable exception even by historical norms: Judaism.

Analysed through modern or Biblical lenses, Judaism is a very progressive religion, well beyond its time. The Torah and Talmud contain many examples to prove this. In societies where children had no rights, women had no rights, slaves had no rights, strangers had no rights etc. – the Torah and the Rabbis created rights for all people. The categories above were not only mentioned en passant, but explicitly listed. Do not oppress the stranger. Protect the widow and the orphan. Allow your slave to rest on Shabbat. Respect the property of others. Value family life. Take care of your spouse and children. Don’t take advantage of others. Don’t hit your fellow man. Don’t cheat. Don’t steal. Do not be cruel. Life is sacred. Human dignity is paramount. Every man or woman is created in the image of G-d, and because of that we are all worthy of respect and appreciation.

Our Parsha, Parshat Pinchas, contains a such example, which it takes one step further. Fairly hidden among tribe genealogies, Joshua’s appointment and laws regarding offerings, there is an episode which brings with it a plethora of concepts, values, guidelines and perspectives about equality and rights. Here are the verses:

The daughters of Zelophehad, of Manassite family — son of Hepher son of Gilead son of Machir son of Manasseh son of Joseph — came forward. The names of the daughters were Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah. They stood before Moses, Eleazar the priest, the leaders, and the whole assembly, at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting, and they said: “Our father died in the wilderness. He was not one of Korah’s group, which banded together against G-d, but died for his own sin; and he has left no sons. Why should the name of our father be omitted from among the family because he had no son? Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen!”

Moses brought their case before G-d. And G-d said to Moses: “The daughters of Zelophehad speak properly: you should give them a hereditary holding among their father’s kinsmen; transfer their father’s share to them. Further, speak to the Israelite people as follows: ‘If a man dies without leaving a son, you shall transfer his property to his daughter. If he has no daughter, you shall assign his property to his brothers. If he has no brothers, you shall assign his property to his father’s brothers. If his father had no brothers, you shall assign his property to his nearest relative in his own tribe, and they shall inherit it.’ This shall be the law of procedure for the Israelites, in accordance with G-d’s command to Moses.” — Numbers 27:1-11

Let’s learn about this together!

At first glance, the women’s request is simple: give us our father’s inheritance. But that is not the only message here, as we are about to discover.

Let’s begin with a surprising idea. A modern commentator, Rabbi Gil Student, founder and editor-in-chief of Torah Musings, points out that this paragraph might actually be not even be about women’s rights. The daughters talk about their father and then use the phrase למה יגרע – literally “Why should he lose out?”, “Why should his name be omitted?” So the paragraph might not be so much about women’s rights, but rather about the rights of certain men with a particular family situation. Nevertheless — directly or indirectly — the daughters do get the inheritance, which is a novelty for the standards of the time.

The second idea comes from the particular phrase used by Zelophehad’s daughters, a phrase which actually appears in the Torah in one other episode. In Numbers chapter 9, Jews who were unable to offer the Pesach sacrifice through no fault of their own ask the same question of Moses: למה נגרע  (“Why should we lose out?”).  To which G-d replies by instituting Pesach Sheini, the Second Passover, a chance to make up for the lost opportunity. Perhaps here as well we are dealing with a request for a second chance, the chance to engage in exercising the rights and responsibilities of a landowner.

Tightly linked to this idea is the fact that we are not talking here about just any random piece of land. It is a piece of land in Israel. Many mitzvot are connected to the very status of owning land in Israel: terumah, maserot, leket, peah, bikkurim, some of the stringencies of orlah etc.

And Zelophehad’s daughters were deeply in love with the land of Israel. This much is clear if we read Rashi’s commentary, where he points out that the Torah gives us a full genealogy for these women: “daughters of Zelophehad, son of Hepher son of Gilead son of Machir son of Manasseh son of Joseph”. Now, up until Manasseh, it may be a necessary genealogy, because after all the land of Israel was meant to be divided among the tribes, and Manasseh was indeed one of those tribes. But why mention Joseph here? Rashi explains: “to show that the daughters held the land precious”. Just as Joseph specifically asked to be exhumed from Egypt and brought to Israel, because he loved the land so much, so too the daughters of Zelophehad love the land of Israel, and don’t want to forgo their share in it. According to this interpretation, their request comes thus not from a place of greed or family pride or desire for monetary gain, but rather from a place of deep love and appreciation for G-d’s gift to the Jewish nation.

The episode also highlights some guidelines for petitioners in general. The Talmud in Bava Batra and the Midrash in Yalkut Shimoni and Bamidbar Rabbah point out that the daughters of Zelophehad were very practical in their request. For them, the issue was not a mere intellectual exercise: do we have a right, don’t we have a right? It was a very down-to-earth problem for which they needed a down-to-earth resolution. Unlike many groups today who constantly talk about equality or rights in the abstract, simply to “raise awareness”, the women of our parsha waited until the moment of practical decision and then spoke their piece. The Talmud concludes: “The daughters of Zelophehad were wise women, for they presented their petition at the right time.” (Bava Batra 119b)

Lessons can be derived petition recipients as well. Many leaders today are offended when they receive requests for rights or complaints of inequality. They feel threatened. Their self-confidence takes a hit. They start to deflect. Do you mean to say that my leadership was lacking so far? Are you accusing me of something? The Torah’s answer to these passive-aggressive questions is simple: no, it does not imply that. It just implies that no person can be perfect. We are all subject to improvement. We can all do better. Life is not static. Values evolve. People want things to constantly improve. And when requests for improvement are raised, they should be analysed on their own merit and with an open mind, and not a priori dismissed out of fear, guilt or offense.

Another interesting idea is related to the dynamics of how the women’s request is granted in our parsha. Not by a human court, but by G-d Himself. Not as a temporary measure, but as a permanent rule. Through these verses, women’s rights to inherit their father become enshrined in Jewish law, with the same status as the commandment to love G-d or that to observe Shabbat. It’s not a concession that’s being made here, rather G-d is actually very clear on the matter: “The daughters of Zelophehad speak properly”. They are right. To which Rashi comes again in with a nice comment: “Fortunate is the person whose words are confirmed by the Holy One, Blessed is He.”

So – the Torah tells us – it is indeed proper to consider women’s rights when it comes to inheritance. But women’s rights should not be limited to that, as Rashi points out in yet another magnificent explanation:

“Why should the name of our father be omitted from among the family because he had no son?” ask the daughters. Rashi explains their words: “If we, the daughters, stand in place of a son, then give us our father’s inheritance. And if women are not considered offspring of the deceased when it comes to inheritance, then let our mother undergo yibbum to the brother-in-law, [as our father should be considered to have died childless].”

What is being clarified here is the very nature of equality. Equal means equal. If in religious matters, such as yibbum (the levirate marriage that was practiced in the case of a man who died without offspring), daughters are taken into account to relieve that obligation, then they also should be taken into account in civil matters too, for example in the case of inheritance. Civil law and religious law should be consistent, not divergent.

These are truly remarkable and revolutionary ideas, especially for their time.

1. Men and women are equal.
2. Equality is universal and G-d’s will. It should not be left at the whim of the leaders or the times.
3. Equal rights come with equal responsibilities.
4. Requests for rights should be made at the proper time and in the proper manner. They should stem from love and commitment, not greed or rebelliousness. And they should be treated fairly, on their own merit, when they are brought about.
5. Religious values should be synced with civil values, complementing each other for the benefit of society and its members.

* * *

I am absolutely sure that – were we to continue – many other ideas would emerge from these verses. But to me, the most fascinating idea is that the Torah talks so openly about equality, rights, responsibilities and opportunities. As a religious text, we would perhaps expect the opposite: excessive rigidity, catering to the elites, staying stuck in the underpinnings of its time. But the Torah does not do any of that, and far from it. It is modern, alive and life-changing.

Now, I don’t know if the lifting of the driving ban in Saudi Arabia will create history in the long run. I don’t know if it will be an inspiration or a turning point in the lives of people living there, in the life of the civil rights groups, the women’s right movement or any other type of group or movement there or elsewhere. What I do know for sure is that, lehavdil, the text we are studying every day, every week and every year, the one which sits at the base of so many of our modern values and norms, the Torah, is indeed historic and inspirational.

We are here today, at this moment in humanity’s timeline, because of requests such as the one issued by the daughters of Zelophehad, and because of answers such as the one given by Moses and G-d. Innovation, societal values, rights and responsibilities are not created in a vacuum. They are echoes of what once was, of how change emerged, of how G-d wanted the world to be, and how the people called to the task understood and implemented His will.

Whether a precursor of modern-day feminism, or a universal humanistic call for equality, the appeal of the daughters of Zelophehad continues to inspire and to instruct. If only today’s leaders, organizations and nations would heed its lessons and take up its call!

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Sorin Rosen
July 7, 2018

* * *

I’ve always been fascinated by man’s conversations with G-d. From the famous איך (“aieka”) — “where are you?” that G-d addressed to the first humans after they sinned in the Garden of Eden, to Cain’s fearful plea at life after he himself took the life of his brother. From Isaac’s silent tears at the Akeidah, to Jacob’s prayers in the middle of the night, as he was fleeing his brother who had sworn to kill him.

In all those conversations, I felt their fear, their trepidation, their emotion. You cannot read those verses, especially in Hebrew, and not feel something, a link between the hero of the narrative and yourself, the reader. I must confess that I wondered if I would ever find the same courage those characters showed, to approach G-d in such a direct and straightforward way. I can even say I felt envious for what they accomplished in those moments, in those conversations with G-d: salvation, answered prayers, closeness and connection.

But if I were to rank all such dialogues between humans and G-d in order of the sheer power they transpire, three candidates really stand out.

The third place from the top is taken — in my opinion — by a verse with which I struggled deeply, because it embodies what the commentators have called “holy chutzpah”, the audacity to come before G-d not just with a plea and a prayer, but also with a challenge. I am talking here about Avraham’s plea for Sodom, where he basically calls G-d to task with words that, personally, I would think twice before uttering even to my closest friend:

חָלִ֨לָה לְּךָ֜ מֵֽעֲשׂ֣ת ׀ כַּדָּבָ֣ר הַזֶּ֗ה לְהָמִ֤ית צַדִּיק֙ עִם־רָשָׁ֔ע וְהָיָ֥ה כַצַּדִּ֖יק כָּֽרָשָׁ֑ע חָלִ֣לָה לָּ֔ךְ הֲשֹׁפֵט֙ כָּל־הָאָ֔רֶץ לֹ֥א יַֽעֲשֶׂ֖ה מִשְׁפָּֽט – It would be a sacrilege to You to do such a thing, to kill the righteous person together with the wicked, as if the righteousness is like the wicked. It would be a sacrilege to You! The Judge of the entire earth will not do justice? — Genesis 18:25

You are G-d and I am a mere mortal, “dust and ashes” says Avraham, but when it comes to saving people, to saving human lives, I will challenge You until You relent. Powerful indeed!

Just above this in the top ten sharpest remarks, a fragment from this week’s parsha, in the aftermath of one of the most problematic episodes in recorded Jewish history. Right after the Revelation at Sinai, with G-d’s voice still ringing in the ears of the people, the Jews revert to their old idolatrous ways and worship the Golden Calf. It is a moment of deep drama. Moses is on the mountain and hears the news from G-d Himself: “Go down, because your people, the people you brought out of Egypt, have corrupted themselves.” (Exodus 32:7). Moses descends, smashes the Tablets at the foot of the mountain, supervises the punishment of the perpetrators, and then goes back up to talk to G-d again.

G-d’s offer is simple: the Jews are to be destroyed, a new Jewish nation will start with Moses, and the story is to restart. For Moses though, this proposition is simply unacceptable. And here is where the series of sharp remarks that Moses addresses to G-d come into play.

Let not Your anger, G-d, blaze forth against Your people, whom You delivered from the land of Egypt with great power and with a mighty hand. […] Let not the Egyptians say, ‘It was with evil intent that He delivered them, only to kill them off in the mountains and annihilate them from the face of the earth.’ Remember Your servants, Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, how You swore to them by Your Self. — Exodus 32:11-13

Sounds familiar? This is similar to Avraham’s plea for Sodom. What will the world think of You? What kind of G-d do you want to appear as? A vengeful G-d? A compassionate G-d? Besides, You made an oath to their ancestors to protect them…

But the line that really strikes first place on my list is the one in chapter 33, verse 18: וַיֹּאמַ֑ר הַרְאֵ֥נִי נָ֖א אֶת־כְּבֹדֶֽךָ — “Moses said to G-d: Show me Your glory!”

Picture yourself: You know the sin had been extremely serious. You know the punishment is death. You are pleading to G-d to show some mercy… and now you ask him to “Show His glory” ? What is the world was Moses thinking at that time? He should have been content just to avert the destruction, right? Surely, you can intercede for another favor later on, when G-d was more inclined to fulfill it, once He had a chance to see some good behaviour from the people, instead of betrayal and idolatry…

And yet, this is precisely the moment Moses chooses to ask G-d to reveal Himself. And paradoxically, he even gets his wish in the form of a glimpse at “G-d’s back” (whatever that means) passing him as he stayed hidden in the cave. He gets the promise that the Mishkan (Tabernacle) will be built, a structure whose main purpose was — many commentators point out — to atone for the sin of the Golden Calf.

So let’s try to understand what Moses was really doing here and why he chose to do it now.

The what is simple: closeness to G-d — this is what he wants to achieve. But how he goes about doing this is unique: he does it by flipping every one of G-d’s angry remarks on its head, producing a counterweight that simply cannot be refuted.

Take for example the following verses, in which Moses tells G-d of an apparent “flaw” in His plan:

You said to me: “Bring up this people”, but you have not let me know whom you will send with me. Yet You have said, “I know you by name, and you have also found favor in My sight.” Now if I have found favor in your sight, show me Your ways, so that I may know You and find favor in your sight. Consider too that this nation is Your people.” [G-d] said, “My presence will go with you, and I will give you rest.” And [Moses] said to him, “If Your presence will not go, do not carry us up from here.” — Exodus 33:12-15

Did you notice the contrast?

G-d told Moses: “your people have corrupted themselves”.
Moses replies: “It’s Your people, too.”

G-d told Moses: “really, they corrupted themselves”.
Moses replies: “It’s because You denied them closeness, that’s why they went astray.”

G-d told Moses: “My presence will go with you.”
Moses replies: “You’d better! If you don’t, then don’t carry us up from here.”  Or basically: “Go with us, or else!”

What is fascinating to note is that Moses here does not reinvent the wheel. What he does is not an all-in bet in the dark. On the contrary, he uses techniques that have been proven to work in the past.

The line “It’s Your people, too” is Abraham 2.0. Just as Avraham reminded G-d that the people of Sodom were His creation, no matter how wicked, and thus deserved a second chance, so to is Moses reminding G-d that the Jews are His people.

The line “You contributed to their sin by not being close enough” is Adam 2.0. In Sefer Bereshit, when asked by G-d why he ate from the tree, Adam doesn’t just blame the woman; he blames G-d Himself: “The woman You gave me to be with me, she gave me from the tree and I ate.” (Genesis 3:12)

And the line “Go with us or else” is Yetziat Mitzrayim / Exodus 2.0. In the Passover Haggadah we say: לא על ידי מלך ולא על ידי סרף ולא על ידי שליח — “not through an angel, and not through a Seraph, and not through a messenger” — that’s how G-d took us out of Egypt. We don’t care for intermediaries. We need G-d, He is the only Entity that makes the journey worthwhile.

* * *

Three replies, three successful examples from the past.

But since I also mentioned at the beginning of this drasha the pleas of Cain, Isaac and Jacob on the list of powerful encounters between humans to G-d, I cannot stop myself from making some connections with those as well.

In Cain’s plea, the main idea was that Cain did not fully know what killing was. It was, after all, the first murder in history. He also did not know how repentance worked. He asks G-d in Genesis 4:11: “Is my sin really too heavy to bear?” Similarly here, Moses asks G-d to clarify the notions of sin, repentance and forgiveness. He says in our parsha: ”For how shall it be known that Your people have gained Your favor unless You go with us, so that we may be distinguished, Your people and I, from every people on the face of the earth?” (Exodus 33:16) Or otherwise said: there must be something that can mitigate the punishment, a special relationship, a special circumstance, a special ultimate reason. If we, the Jewish people, are special in the eyes of G-d, then surely He can find a way to understand a momentary slip-up, no matter how monumentally huge it was.

Jacob’s plea, in Genesis 28:20-21, takes place in a moment of darkness and fear. Similarly here, in Moses’s plea, darkness and fear is floating in the air. Also, in in Genesis, a couple of strange psukim stand out almost immediately: “If G-d will be with me and He will guard me on my way, if He will give me bread to eat and clothes to wear, and He will return me in peace to my father’s house, then G-d will be my L-rd.” The verses are so strange, particularly in the use of the initial“if” that Ramban notes that Jacob was really doubting himself and his ability to sustain a level of engagement with G-d, not doubting G-d. Regardless though, this type of conditional is present in our parsha as well: “If Your presence will not go, do not carry us up from here.” G-d is almost blackmailed to accept, to engage, to acquiesce. He must take the first step, promise that He Himself will lead the Jews further. If not, Moses paints the alternative picture as a total failure, particularly since Moses wants no part in a failure & restart scenario. As Rabbi Perton reminded us last week, Moses simply concludes – by use of another conditional: “If You don’t forgive them, then simply erase me from Your book!” (Exodus 32:32)

And finally, Isaac’s silent dialogue with G-d at the Akeidah — the other episode I mentioned — is apparent here in every line of Moses’ plea. Not so much in what is said, but in what is not said, in all the whitespace in the text, in all the lines not spoken. For example, there is no dialogue while the second set of Tablets are being fashioned. Just work, silent work, with the understanding that this is how durable relationships are fashioned. At the Akeidah, the covenantal deal is sealed when Isaac silently agrees to become an olah, an elevation offering, when Avraham teaches faith and Isaac learns it in silence. In our parsha, the covenant is renewed with Moses’ silent work on the second set of Tablets, which come to replace the ones broken by the people’s sin. Here too, G-d teaches and Moses learns. All in perfect silence.

* * *

We now know what Moses did in that fateful encounter in our parsha: He learned from all the successful interventions of the past, and created a perfect plea, one able to overturn even the decree for the sin of the Golden Calf.

Why did he do it now? Because that is what true leaders do when an opportunity presents itself: they seize it. At the beginning of the episode, G-d turns to Moses and says: “Hanicha li” — “Let Me be and I will destroy them.” Aha, so You asked me to “let You be”? That is exactly what I won’t do, because I care for them, no matter how corrupt they have now become. They are Your people, my people, the Jewish people, offspring of people who were loyal to You, and You should never forget that. You’ve made a promise, You are responsible for them, and I will never let You back down from Your responsibilities.

This is what Moses creates in his dialogue with G-d: a model for all future encounters, daring, sharp and powerful. A model for a relationship that is unique in the world: a relationship where the creations revere the Creator, but cannot remain content at just staring at Him in awe from afar. They need closeness, they need to learn with Him, to experience Him, to seek His essence, to discover Him. They need to feel loved, to feel listened to, to feel forgiven when they sin and brought back when they go astray.

In one of his essays from the series “Covenant and Conversation”, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks was writing:

That is one of the striking differences between the synagogues and the cathedrals of the Middle Ages. In a cathedral you sense the vastness of God and the smallness of humankind. But in the Altneushul in Prague or the synagogues of the Ari and R. Joseph Karo in Tzefat, you sense the closeness of G-d and the potential greatness of humankind. […] Between the lines of Exodus 33, if we listen attentively enough, we sense the emergence of one of the most distinctive and paradoxical features of Jewish spirituality. No religion has ever held God higher, but none has ever felt Him closer. That is what Moses sought and achieved in Exodus 33 in his most daring conversation with God. — Rabbi Jonathan Sacks

This is the Judaism defined and refined throughout the ages, as a close relationship between G-d and us. This is our inheritance, created in the dialogues of our past, with power to shape still the dialogues of our present and future.

So, when we come in front of G-d, whether in shul, at home or elsewhere, let us remember the inheritance that Moses left us. He simply told G-d הַרְאֵ֥נִי נָ֖א אֶת־כְּבֹדֶֽךָ — “Show me Your glory”, and in doing so, he left us an echo of that encounter for all time. He showed us that it’s possible to dare and to aim high, and he challenged us also to constantly strive to be a true “kavod Hashem”, an honour for G-d Himself.

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Sorin Rosen
— Offered at Beth Zion Congregation, March 3, 2018

A month ago, in December of 2017, history was made again. This time, a computer program developed by a British company now subsidiary of Google, a self-learning algorithm called Alpha Zero played a 100 games match against the world’s top chess engine, Stockfish 8. At the end of the match, the score was as follows: Alpha Zero vs Stockfish: 72 games drawn, 28 wins for Alpha Zero, 0 wins for Stockfish. The result was nothing short of remarkable. The Guardian called it “a major breakthrough for artificial intelligence”, and various professors from top universities around the world characterized the program as ”an outstanding engineering accomplishment”.

But the result was much more than just an ”engineering accomplishment”. What makes this moment unique and particularly amazing is that Alpha Zero was actually never taught by humans to play chess. It was simply given the rules of the game and was allowed to play against itself for just four hours. And in those four hours it learned chess to such a level that not only it ridiculed  the best chess engine ever made, but also produced some games of phenomenal beauty and incredible complexity. In short, by playing alone, against itself, Alpha Zero learned more about the game of chess than we humans were ever able to teach a machine.

Which brings me — strangely enough — to this week’s Torah portion, Parshat Vaera. Allow me first to set the scene and explain the idea, and then I promise to come back to this connection in the end.

In the opening verses of the parsha, the Torah says the following:

וַיְדַבֵּ֥ר אֱלֹ-הִ֖ים אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֑ה וַיֹּ֥אמֶר אֵלָ֖יו אֲנִ֥י יְ-הוָֽה׃ וָאֵרָ֗א אֶל־אַבְרָהָ֛ם אֶל־יִצְחָ֥ק וְאֶֽל־יַעֲקֹ֖ב בְּאֵ֣-ל שַׁ-דָּ֑י וּשְׁמִ֣י יְ-הוָ֔ה לֹ֥א נוֹדַ֖עְתִּי לָהֶֽם׃ — And G-d spoke to Moses and said to him: “I am Hashem. And I appeared to Avraham, to Isaac and to Jacob as E-l Shaddai, but through My Name Hashem I did not become known to them.” — Exodus 6:2-3

To the best of my knowledge, these two verses are the only ones in the Torah where three different names of G-d are mentioned in such quick succession: Elokim, E-l Shaddai and Hashem.

Of course, the three names are significant and each refers to G-d in a different manner.

Elokim is the name which came to represent in Jewish tradition the attribute of divine justice. It represents G-d’s ability to discern between right and wrong, between permitted and forbidden, between innocent and guilty. The name also symbolizes G-d as a force of nature, a controller of the world. It is probably for this reason that in Hebrew, the word takes on a plural form — because it’s meant to describe G-d as encompassing and surpassing everything, in essence a Power beyond all other powers. It is in this form that G-d presents Himself during the Exodus, it is in this form that He chooses to perform the miracles, and it is in this form that He starts His dialogue and revelation to Moses.

But then G-d says “I am Hashem”, using the holiest of His Names. A contraction of the past, present and future tenses of the verb “to be” (היה הוה ויהיה), Hashem is the Name that represents in Judaism the attribute of divine mercy. G-d is a benevolent entity, a parent, a Being who is about to bring the salvation from the Egyptian slavery not just because it is the right thing to do (that would be pure justice, i.e. the name Elokim), but also because He heard the suffering of the people and wants to help them. Though they might not deserve it and though the years of slavery might not technically be over — after all, the Jews were in Egypt for “only” two hundred and thirty years instead of the promised four hundred — G-d comes here to tell Moshe that salvation is indeed at hand. The near future is a time for freedom, revelation, mission and destiny, because G-d wants it so, because He swore to Avraham, Isaac and Jacob to unconditionally take the Jewish people as His own.

And of course, the third divine Name that appears here, E-l Shaddai, comes to complete this picture. The Name is a contraction of the Hebrew words א-ל שדי (“E-l she’dai”) — G-d who is able to sustain the world all by Himself. He is “enough” for the world to continue to exist and because of that, He is also enough to deliver the Jews from slavery. At the Seder, in the Passover Haggadah, there is a song called Dayeinu, in which we recall all the good deeds that G-d performed for us in Egypt, and we declare ourselves content with them. Each of them, in and by itself, would have been enough to merit our eternal gratitude. Dayeinu, for we were in the care of El She-dai, the Almighty.

Three divine Names mentioned in our parsha — three ways to perceive G-d: as a force moving the world, as a merciful parent, and as an entity in whose merit the world (and us) continues to exist.

But there is a problem in these verses… Can you spot it? Let me read to you the verses again:

וַיְדַבֵּ֥ר אֱלֹ-הִ֖ים אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֑ה וַיֹּ֥אמֶר אֵלָ֖יו אֲנִ֥י יְ-הוָֽה׃ וָאֵרָ֗א אֶל־אַבְרָהָ֛ם אֶל־יִצְחָ֥ק וְאֶֽל־יַעֲקֹ֖ב בְּאֵ֣-ל שַׁ-דָּ֑י וּשְׁמִ֣י יְ-הוָ֔ה לֹ֥א נוֹדַ֖עְתִּי לָהֶֽם׃ — And G-d spoke to Moses and said to him: “I am Hashem. And I appeared to Avraham, to Isaac and to Jacob as E-l Shaddai, but through My Name Hashem I did not become known to them.” — Exodus 6:2-3

It’s the very first time, G-d says, that the Name Hashem is actually “known” in the world. The patriarchs didn’t know it. Only they did. G-d did reveal His holy Name to Avraham, Isaac and Jacob. The Name is mentioned countless times in the Torah, in the Book of Genesis, including in verses talking about the life of the patriarchs. So what does it actually mean that “through My Name Hashem I did not become known to them”?

In his commentary, Rashi picks up on a particularity of the language:לא נודעתי vs לא הודעתי — “I did not become known” vs “I did not make Myself known”. His idea: the patriarchs knew the name, but did not necessarily relate to G-d through it. It was their decision, not G-d’s, to keep the Name “unknown”. Also, this Name, Rashi explains, is connected to faith in G-d’s ability to fulfill His promises. And in the time of the patriarchs, those promises — of a land, of a destiny, of a mission — were only formulated, but not yet fulfilled. True, the covenant between G-d and the Jewish nation did start with the patriarchs, but the Name Hashem only “became known” to the Jews once G-d started to actually fulfill His promises.

It’s a clever answer, but personally I like another one, provided by Chizkuni, Rabbi Hezekia ben Manoah, who lived in France in the 13th century. Picking up on the same particularity of language that Rashi notices, Chizkuni simply writes:

“Through My Name Hashem I did not become known to them” — The first answer that comes to mind is that the patriarchs never bothered to ask Me about it. They should have asked as I revealed Myself to Avraham as such already. Yet they believed in Me without the need for miracles and proof.

Of course, Chizkuni is praising here the unwavering and unconditional faith of the patriarchs. But one cannot help but notice the slight disappointment in Chizkuni’s explanation: “They should have asked”… yet they did not.

And here is where the key actually lies… Unlike the patriarchs who relied solely on faith, Moshe did ask G-d. In fact, this is how the Exodus actually starts. In a memorable exchange in the middle of the previous parsha, Moshe turns to G-d and says the following:

“Behold, I will go to the children of Israel and I will tell them: “The G-d of your forefathers sent me to you.” And they will ask me: “What is His Name?” What shall I answer? — Exodus 3:13

Who are You? What’s Your real name? These are the questions which frame the beginning of the Exodus, the beginning of our journey to freedom. And G-d answers there  אהיה אשר אהיה (”eheie asher eheie”) — “I will be the one whom I will be” or, otherwise said, believe in Me that I will become whatever you need me to become: protector, parent, guide, judge, provider, confidant, sovereign, G-d…

But it all started with a question. And now, if you were wondering what is the best way to know G-d, here is the answer: just ask. Of course, the full answer is incomprehensible to the human intellect. Not even Moshe knew everything, though he spoke with G-d “face to face”, whatever that means. But there will surely be an answer, and in that answer G-d will be revealed.

However, the story does not end here, and only now we are ready to come full circle. Moses’ question in chapter 3 (“Who are You?”) is not the first one that Moses asks. Before he seeks G-d’s Name, just two verses before, he asks: “Who am I, to go to Pharaoh and take the children of Israel out of Egypt?” (Exodus 3:11)

At first glance, the question is just an indication — among many others — of Moshe’s tremendous humbleness. I am nobody, I am unworthy for the mission, please send another. But it is really so much more! It is a question through which Moshe is trying to discover himself. And in that discovery lies the trigger to the whole enterprise to discover G-d.

Interestingly enough, G-d never really answers Moshe’s existential question. He just says: “you will succeed in front of Pharaoh because I am with you”. Or otherwise put: don’t worry about the mission, I’m in charge, you’ll just be my mouthpiece, nothing more. But who you really are is YOUR task to figure out. I’m not giving you the answer, because it isn’t Mine to give. It is yours to seek and hopefully discover.

* * *

I’ve started this speech by talking about Alpha Zero and its unbelievable achievement in the realm of chess. It all started with four hours of play against itself. It started with understanding the game not because someone taught it, because someone programmed it to play or calculate or find good moves. It taught itself how to do all that. And in doing so, it became — at least as of now — the best chess playing entity in the entire world.

Discovering and “knowing” G-d can follow a similar path. Through self-discovery, we get to know the צלם אלקים, “the image of G-d” within ourselves. And in doing so, in getting really in touch with that little spark of divinity (which some might call soul or consciousness), we come closer to knowing its Source, whether it’s the just Elokim, the Almighty El Shaddai or the merciful Hashem. May we all find the courage and strength to seek our true potential, to delve deep without ourselves and to emerge stronger, better and more faithful Jews and human beings.

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Sorin Rosen
Beth Zion Congregation, Cote St-Luc, QC

So, who is “the most hated man in America”?

Well — disappointingly or not — he is not a politician, nor a movie star who fell into disgrace, nor a famous convicted lawbreaker (though this last part is potentially about to change in the near future). His name for the record: Martin Shkreli. Aged 34, Shkreli is currently standing trial in the Brooklyn federal court for investment fraud and conspiracy to commit securities fraud, two accusations which came about as a result of his involvement with an alleged Ponzi-like scheme. His trial started just a couple of weeks ago, and just a few days ago the judge ordered Shkreli to basically “shut up”, or otherwise said, to refrain from discussing his trial with the media, both inside and outside the courtroom.

But that is not what gained him his title (which the press now freely uses) of “the most hated man in America”. Instead, Shkreli gained notoriety last year in his capacity as CEO of a bio-research company called Turing Pharmaceuticals. In that capacity, he made the decision to raise the price of the drug Daraprim used to treat a parasitic disease called toxoplasmosis by (hear this!) more than 5,500% overnight. Basically, the price of Daraprim was changed suddenly and without any warning from $13.50 per pill to $750 per pill, leaving its beneficiaries — people whose very existence depended on this drug — in a state of confusion and genuine fear for their life. To make matters even worse, Daraprim is currently the only drug authorized by the FDA to be produced in the United States for that particular condition, making it, in short, Shkreli’s own monopoly.

As expected, the price hike generated a lot of public debate. People from all layers of society, of all colors and creeds, politicians, economists, journalists as well as simple private citizens weighed in and generally expressed wonder and outrage at an individual who was willing to basically gamble with people’s lives in order to make himself a small fortune. But to all the criticism and to everyone who wondered how a human being can do such a thing to fellow human beings, Shkreli simply replied:

Everybody’s doing it. In capitalism, you try to get the highest price you can for a product. If you have a drug that is $100 for one course of therapy, and you know that you can charge $100,000, what should shareholders think when you say, “I’d rather not take the heat”?

Which brings us in a way to this week’s parsha. In it, a fellow by the name of Bilaam (or Balaam) is hired by the moabite king Balak to curse the Jewish people. The premise is similar. For Balak, it is not important how many people suffer or die as a result of this curse, and it is not important if completely innocent individuals or groups are hurt in the process. What is important in Balak’s eyes is that the people of Israel is cursed and driven out of the land at all costs. And Bilaam, the prophet hired to do the cursing, seems to have no problem with such a request.

And this is what really prompted me most of all to make a connection between the modern story of Shkreli and the ancient story of Bilaam: their respective attitude towards the deed itself.

As seen from his extensive interviews and social media postings (which the judge recently restricted), Martin Shkreli seems to care only about himself. His lack of interest and empathy for the fate of other people is mind boggling, but always clothed in self-righteous statements, claiming that he is merely protecting the interest of his investors. Shall we allow people to suffer and die in order to make money? No problem, that’s allowed in capitalism. Shall we profit from the others’ pain and misery? Sure, who are they anyway? Just a bunch of sick people who need to pay to stay alive, right? And what can they do about it anyway? Nothing. It’s capitalism and it’s America, so everything goes.

In our parsha, Bilaam is taking a similar approach. The text doesn’t actually spell it explicitly, but the commentators note that, throughout the story, Bilaam is a lot more interested in the money and honor that he was promised, than in upholding morality, showing empathy towards others or obeying G-d. At the beginning of our parsha, when the emissaries of Balak first come to summon Bilaam to the task, G-d appears to him in a dream and tells him: “You shall not go with them! You shall not curse the people, for it is blessed!” Instead of listening to a clear and direct directive, Bilaam waits for what he claims to be “another message from G-d”, in which G-d reluctantly allows him to go forth, not before telling him that he will only be able to do G-d’s bidding and nothing else.

Then, just like Shkreli, who is trying to downplay his role in the Daraprim affair by claiming “investors were expecting profits”, Bilaam is also downplaying his role in cursing the Jewish nation by rationalizing “well, G-d let me go with Balak’s emissaries after all, so He must be ok with it”. It’s true that in Shkreli’s case, the said investors were likely never presented with the moral dilemma of profits vs suffering. And it’s true that in Bilaam’s case, G-d was actually very clear in the first encounter to deny the use of such a curse (and even the right to make the trip to deliver it) — but who’s paying attention to these “details” really? All that seems to matter in these stories is the money, the reward at the end of the road. People die? Meh, they’re just collateral damage. G-d is upset? Who cares? I am dubbed “the most hated man in America”? So what, I can live with that…

But what is probably even more striking in this parallel is that in both cases, the people involved, Shkreli and Bilaam, are not dumb people. They don’t lack intelligence, nor do they lack education. They know — or should know — very well the difference between right and wrong. Despite being initially a high-school dropout, Shkreli received in the end the necessary credit for his diploma and continued his education by earning a bachelor’s degree in business administration from Baruch College in new York. He then made his fortune as a hedge fund manager, and just a few weeks ago in June, Reuters reported that Shkreli’s estimated fortune was about $70M.

Bilaam in our parsha is a famous pagan prophet, the greatest of his time and potentially the greatest of all time. In Devarim 34:10, the Torah tells us that “There arose not in Israel another prophet equal to Moses”, a phrase that was later included by Maimonides in his Thirteen Principles of Faith and which we recite every day in Yigdal: לא קם בישראל כמשה עוד. The Midrash in Sifrei, commenting on this verse, makes an astounding statement: “Specifically in Israel — but in the nations of the world there did arise another such prophet. Who was he? Bilaam the son of Be’or.” In the mindset of our Rabbis, Bilaam was equal to Moshe Rabbeinu! He had the same degree of prophecy, the same mental powers, the same potential relationship with G-d when it comes to prophecy. Moreover, in his Moreh Nevuchim, Guide of the Perplexed, the famous Rambam (Maimonides) equates Bilaam’s level of prophecy to that of our forefather and patriarch Jacob, who saw the staircase to heaven and G-d’s angels travelling up and down on it.

These are important details… Bilaam is a person who has everything going for him. He is already rich, he is well known, he enjoys a special relationship with G-d. He doesn’t need to become a hater of nations and a hated by his peers, he doesn’t need to use his G-d given powers to curse and destroy. He doesn’t need it, but he wants to, because he wants more money, more spotlight, more power. He doesn’t want just “gold and silver” (i.e. profits, which is the norm for any enterprise), but — as the Torah points out — he wants “Balak’s houseful of silver and gold”. A modern commentator, Rabbi Yissocher Frand from torah.org explains as follows:

Bilaam’s problem was that he wanted OTHER people’s money. He does not state “If Balak will give me a house full of money…” He states “If Balak will give me HIS house full of money…” This indicates that beyond just wanting the money, he really wanted that someone else should NOT HAVE the money. He is like the person who is not really bothered by the fact that he has to drive a 10-year-old car. However, he is bothered that his neighbor has a new car.

The same is valid for the modern Martin Shkreli. He already has $70M, which he made before the Daraprim affair even begun. Why would you want the hard-earned money of so many poor and sick individuals, when you already have your own money, which allow you to live in luxury for the rest of your life? Because that is the way of the wicked. It’s not really about how much I gain, it’s more about how much you lose. And of course, when called on it, the excuse is always readily available: the investors are expecting it, I am just a simple pawn in their hands, this is capitalism and “everybody does it”.

I remember, years ago, as I was visiting Berlin in Germany, I was offered a tour of a villa located at 56-58 Grossen Wannsee. Today, it is a memorial and a museum, but on January 20, 1942 it housed a very infamous event: the Wannsee Conference, when the Final Solution for the European “Jewish Problem” was devised. Basically, at this conference, leaders of Nazi Germany met for breakfast and — between two cups of coffee and a couple of croissants — perfected the details of how to murder 6 million people. Of the 15 attendees at the conference, 8 held academic doctorates. They were individuals with name, power and position, individuals who should have known better, and, of course, they were individuals who, at the time, were deeply involved in the Second World War. Yet, in the midst of everything else they were and had to be focusing on, they sat down casually for breakfast and put together a plan of how to reroute train cars and soldiers and supplies from the war effort in order to ship Jews from across Europe to the gas chambers. They didn’t care how much they gained from this, or how much Germany was losing from this, as long as the other, the Jew, lost. And of course, after the war, in 1946, at the Nuremberg Trials, the same individuals turned around and said “we were simply following orders”.

Now, you might be wondering: am I claiming that Martin Shkreli and Bilaam in our parsha are Nazis? No, Nazi doctrine has nothing to do with that. But the model of hurting the other — or its weaker, yet equally deadly version, of not caring if the other gets hurt — is one that is repugnant and amoral both then and now, both in ancient and in modern times. When you place personal gain above the life and wellbeing of others, when you try to shift responsibility for your deeds by claiming to “only following orders”, and when you talk so casually about such monumental lack of humanity — your status as a person, as a human being created in the image of G-d, simply fades.

Throughout the story in our parsha, Bilaam states, time and again, that “he cannot transgress the word of Hashem, to do anything small or great”. In other words, he considers himself a simple pawn in G-d’s hand, an “agent” of G-d if you will, whose sole task is to convey G-d’s message to the world. But what he fails to understand is that you can only be G-d’s agent for good, not for evil. Our tradition says אין שליח לדבר עבירה, “you cannot become an agent for a transgression”. It also says that defenses such as “I was merely following orders” are null and void. The Talmud, in Mesechet Makot, states that בדרך שאדם רוצה ללכת מוליכים אותו — “a person is lead on the path they choose to walk on”. Or, otherwise said: you and you alone are responsible for your actions. Not G-d, not the investors, not your superiors. When you choose to do evil and to be immoral, those deeds are on you.

But what is probably most interesting in all this is the Talmud’s conclusion regarding this attitude, more specifically regarding Bilaam’s “reward” for his callousness and greed. The Mishna in Sanhedrin 10:2 states: “Three kings and four commoners have no portion in the World to Come. […] ” The very first one mentioned among the commoners is Bilaam ben Be’or.

According to our tradition, our parsha’s “hero” forfeited his right to Olam Haba. I am sure that the perpetrators of the Nazi atrocities during the Holocaust have shared a similar fate, because you just can’t do certain things and still walk out at the other end as a human being.

I don’t know, nor do I want to speculate, what will happen to Martin Shkreli, in this world or the next. I have an inkling — especially after hearing him speak a few times already — that he doesn’t care, though he certainly should.

But what I do know is that there is a lesson in all this, immensely valuable for everyone: As humans, we are tasked not just with pursuing our own happiness and wellbeing, but also with making sure we are moral, compassionate and caring to the people around us. We are tasked with making the world a better place, with providing for others, with doing our best to stem the pain and suffering, with cherishing our fellow humans’ rights to life, happiness and wellbeing the same way we cherish our own. We were created as responsible social individuals, who should not put their personal gain, greed or aspirations for power above all else. We have a soul, given to us by G-d our Creator, and it is this soul whose moral and spiritual integrity we are called on to preserve. We have our conscience and moral compass, and this is what makes and keeps us human above all else!

Shabbat Shalom!

by Rabbi Sorin Rosen

For my d’var torah in her memory I want to focus on the luchot the tablets with the 10 commandments. It is interesting to note that there were two versions of the tablets one that was written by Hashem that Moshe shattered, and a second pair written painstakingly by Moshe’s own hand. We are told how Hashem wanted to destroy us when we sinned with the Golden Calf and how Moshe fought on our behalf. Hashem accepts Moshe’s prayers and gives Moshe a formula of 13 attributes pertaining to Hashem’s mercy that will assuage Hashem’s anger, and the section ends with Moshe brazenly saying to gd that you will “forgive our iniquity and error, and make us Your heritage” (Ex 34:9)

In life we are given hurdles to rise above. The original tablets are broken and Gd who loves us wants to destroy us. All is lost. Moshe and the Torah say no. Moshe tells Gd to forgive us. Mom said no. Born a preemie in the 1960s she fought to stay alive as a baby. She was told she may never have kids, and my sisters and I proved the doctors wrong. When told she may never walk again she countered with “that’s what wheelchairs are for”. After the second tablets were made both the new and the old were housed together in the Temple. The Jewish spirit, my mother’s spirit, is one and the same. Together we look at hurdles and challenges as opportunities for growth to be overcome.To see the handmade tablets next to the broken Gdly ones, is to look at what could have been and feeling accomplished with the new version while never forgetting the old version.

My mother was one of the strongest, kindest, and most resilient people I know. Knowing and loving her have made me strong. It is her example I strive for daily. For a woman so worried about her legacy, mom your accomplishments still ring true in my heart, and everyone else’s that you touched.

“Pinchas son of Elazar son of Aaron HaKohen saw and he stood up amid the assembly and he took a spear in his hand. He followed the Israelite man into the tent and pierced them both, the Israelite man and the woman into her stomach – and the plague was halted from upon the children of Israel. Those who died in the plague were twenty-four thousand.” – Bamidbar 25:7-9

Indeed, not a pretty episode… Not only because we learn in it that 24,000 people died during the plague, but also – in my opinion – because an act of violence was necessary for this terrible plague to end.

At the very beginning of this week’s parsha, Pinchas is given the title of Kohen for his zealotry. It is a strange distinction to receive for an act of violence, and from the few verses the Torah uses for this episode, we cannot understand much:

“Pinchas the son of Eleazar the son of Aaron HaKohen has turned away My anger from the people of Israel, when he was zealous for My sake among them, that I did not consume the people in My anger. Therefore, say: Behold! I give him My covenant of peace.” – Bamidbar 25:10-12

Before we try to properly explain this statement, let’s first ask the following questions: Is G-d saying that Pinchas was right in killing the Israelite and the woman he was with? Or, to make it more broad and significant: does G-d endorse acts of zealous violence in order to punish the sinners? If this act would happen today, if we witnessed a religious zealot kill someone who is engaged in something that goes against religious prescriptions, what would we say? What does Judaism think about this? How do we view religiously motivated violence? Is this type of zealotry something that we should emulate in our daily lives, is it something we should openly reject or perhaps it is something that should leave us indifferent?

A first attempt to answer all these questions comes from the Talmud. In Mesechet Sanhedrin 82a, when discussing this very episode, the rabbis conclude that Pinchas was actually a rodef, a pursuer, whose life could have been taken by any witness to the scene without any legal consequence. We are told that Pinchas could have been killed in order to prevent him from killing Zimri and Cozbi, the Israelite man and the Midianite woman.

So the answer, the only answer the Talmud gives is that — even if potentially warranted at the time — Pinchas’ action was nevertheless to be condemned. So, the question is shifted now: how does a man who is a pursuer get to become a Kohen? Isn’t that a sign that — no matter how outraged we could be as humans in seeing Pinchas’ deed — G-d is still happy or at least ok with it? Why else would He make Pinchas a Kohen, a priest to minister in His name?

Well, in order to answer that question we need to properly understand G-d’s words at the beginning of this week’s parsha. Let’s read them again:

“Pinchas the son of Eleazar the son of Aaron HaKohen has turned away My anger from the people of Israel, when he was zealous for My sake among them, that I did not consume the people in My anger. Therefore, say: Behold! I give him My covenant of peace.” – Bamidbar 25:10-12

The first thing that you can note here is that — contrary to what we might have understood at first glance — G-d doesn’t actually give Pinchas the title of Kohen. The words “Kohen” or “Kehuna” are nowhere to be found here, unless we count the fact that Pinchas is indeed referred to as the son of Aaron “the Kohen”. (And, by the way, just to clarify: the reason why Pinchas was not already a Kohen as the grandson of Aaron HaKohen is that only descendants of Aaron who were to be born after G-d established the institution of priesthood were to automatically become kohanim at birth. However, Pinchas had already been born at that time, and thus he was not included in G-d’s initial appointment.)

So, back to our question: What is G-d actually saying at the beginning of our parsha? He says that He is giving Pinchas “His covenant of peace”, but what does that actually mean? The answer is simple: while Pinchas’ act of violence may have been acceptable, even praiseworthy after the fact, given the circumstances and the stakes at hand – the path that should have been chosen in the first place, the only path that actually leads to closeness to G-d is the way of PEACE.

In our parsha, Pinchas is promised that. However, as we will soon see, he will need to work quite a lot to actually make this promise come to fruition…

In the Book of Joshua, chapter 22, there is an episode that sheds light on our parsha. There, we are told that two and a half tribes, Reuven, Gad and half of Menashe are about to be attacked by their own brothers, the other nine and a half tribes of Israel. The reason? After assisting the nation to take the land of Israel in possession, the two and a half tribes had returned to other side of the Jordan River where they had chosen to establish their home, and they built a large altar there. Believing that they were actually practising avodah zarah, that they were abandoning G-d and turning to idol worship, the other tribes are ready to wage war.

And who is sent as the leader of a delegation whose task was to try and broker peace? Well, a familiar name is mentioned:

“And Bnei Israel sent unto the the sons of Reuven, Gad and half of Menashe, into the land of Gilad, Pinchas ben Eleazar HaKohen and with him ten leaders, one each of their father’s house for all the tribes of Israel.” – Joshua 22:13-14

This is the first moment when we see in action the other side of Pinchas, the one discussed in this week’s parsha. This is when we actually witness him not as a zealot, not as a warrior, but as a peace broker, as a man who understands the value of life and seeks to preserve it. This is the first moment when he is also – though the text doesn’t explicitly say it – the descendant of Aaron about whom our sages have said in Pirkei Avot that he was “ohev shalom verodef shalom”, a man who loved peace and constantly ran after peace.

But this is only the beginning…

In a beautiful midrash in Yalkut Shimoni, an aggadic compilation of midrashim on the books of the Hebrew Bible, the rabbis make a quite astounding assertion: “Pinchas is Eliyahu, Elijah the Prophet.”

Now, this statement cannot be understood literally, for obvious reasons. For once, Pinchas and Elijah lived at completely different times; they had different stories recorded in the Tanakh; one was a Kohen, the other a prophet. But they did share one particular attribute that, placed in the proper context, was sufficient for the rabbis of the midrash to conclude that there is indeed a great deal of similarity between them: the attribute of religious zealotry. Trying to convince the Jewish nation to renounce idolatry, Eliyahu asks G-d to stop sending rain and, after three years of drought and famine, challenges the false prophets of Baal to a contest on Mount Carmel. There, he mocks the idol worshippers and then, once the contest is won, he kills the false prophets with his sword. Just like Pinchas, he is a zealot for G-d, and he kills in the name of G-d, in a moment of religious crisis. And then — the story tells us in Sefer Melakhim 19:9-12 — Eliyahu runs and hides into a cave and has a religious vision:

“And he came there to a cave, and lodged there; and, behold, the word of the Lord came to him, and he said to him: What are you doing here, Eliyahu? And he said, I have been very zealous for the Lord G-d of hosts; for the people of Israel have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword; and I am the only one left; and they seek my life, to take it away. And God said, Go out, and stand upon the mount before the Lord. And, behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind tore the mountains, and broke in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: and after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice”  — Melakhim I, 19: 9-12.

This famous episode is also the one Elijah actually failed at. In his zealotry, Elijah never understood the message of the story: that G-d is not in the hurricane, and He is not in the earthquake, and He is not in the fire, but in the “still small voice” where He is perhaps least to be expected. A man of action and power, Elijah fails to understand that force in all its forms – the forces of nature, the force of religious zealotry, the force of violence in the name of G-d – is actually not the path that G-d has chosen to identify with. Instead, Hashem is the G-d of peace, of softness, of love, the G-d of mercy and compassion and dialogue, of peaceful resolution to conflict, the G-d of communication and understanding.

It is not by chance that Eliyahu, the symbol of zealotry, is also the one who – in our tradition – comes as a symbolic guest to every Seder night and every Brit Milah (circumcision). On Pesach night, when we open the door for Eliyahu, we recite a very harsh couple of verses: “Shefoch hamatcha” – “Pour out Your wrath on the nations who do not know You, G-d.” It is a paragraph that was introduced in the Haggadah after the Middle Age crusades which left thousands of Jewish homes in mourning. But what is key here is that we are not the ones carrying out any vengeance or retaliation for those cruel deeds. We are asking G-d to judge and decide instead, in His infinite wisdom, when punishment is due and what it should be, and when zealotry or strict justice should trump mercy. Eliyahu is present at that very moment, to remind us that once upon a time, he did not understand G-d’s message. And he is present also at every circumcision, the only time in the Jewish tradition when blood is allowed to be drawn in the name of religion. In all other cases – as were the cases in Eliyahu’s and in Pinchas’ time – Judaism proclaims that G-d does not want to see blood drawn by human hands, and certainly not as an act done on His behalf.

Pinchas is Eliyahu in his zealotry, in his determination to fight and even kill for G-d, but G-d is teaching him that what he should be focusing instead is peace. Not until he stands up for peace, as he did in his dealing with the two and a half tribes in the Book of Joshua, does he earn what G-d promises him in this week’s parsha: את בריתי שלום — “Hashem’s covenant of peace”.

The model of Pinchas, his journey from religious zealotry to internalizing G-d’s covenant of peace are ideas that the world today desperately needs to understand. His story is one that should inspire many who today still erroneously claim that violence is “what G-d wants from us”. Instead of bloodshed and war, instead of living by the sword, G-d really wants the path to peace; or, as Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks has simply put it in his most recent book:

Too many times in the history of religion, people have killed in the name of the G-d of life, waged war in the name of the G-d of peace, hated in the name of the G-d of love and practised cruelty in the name of the G-d of compassion. When this happens, G-d speaks, sometimes in a still, small voice almost inaudible beneath the clamour of those claiming to speak on His behalf. What He says at such times is: Not in My Name. – Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, “Not in G-d’s Name”, page 3

May the world hear and take heed!

Shabbat Shalom!

Prepared by Rabbi Sorin Rosen
Delivered on July 30, 2016