Category Archives: Divrei Torah

Love, Sweet Love!

14 Friday Apr 2017

Posted by in Art, Divrei Torah, Holidays, Life Cycle, Musings about God/Faith/Religious life, Poetry

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“The world is not as worthy as the day on which the Song of Songs was given to Israel, for all the writings are holy, but the Song of Songs is the Holy of Holies.”

So said Rabbi Akiva (2nd century Palestine), who believed that The Song of Songs, a love poem in the Hebrew Bible, traditionally attributed to King Solomon as a young man, is an allegory between two lovers, God and Israel.

The allegorical interpretation of The Song of Songs is why The Song of Songs is read each year on the Shabbat during Pesach, this Shabbat, for it’s then that we celebrate our people’s redemption and liberation from bondage on the one hand and the Kabbalistic idea of the hoped-for-redemption of God within God’s Divine Self on the other.

All that being said, this extraordinarily enriched poetry seems to be a purely secular poem (God’s Name is never mentioned) celebrating young, sensuous and erotic love and the passionate draw of two lovers yearning for relief from their existential loneliness:

“For love is strong as death, / Harsh as the grave. / Its tongues are flames, a fierce / And holy blaze”  (Song of Songs 8:6 – Translation by Marcia Falk)

Rabbi Avraham Isaac Kook wrote of a higher metaphysical love represented by the Song of Songs in this way (Translation by Ben Zion Bokser):

“Expanses divine my soul craves. / Confine me not in cages, / of substance or of spirit. / I am love-sick / I thirst, / I thirst for God, / as a deer for water brooks.

Alas, who can describe my pain? / Who will be a violin / to express the songs of my grief?

I am bound to the world, / all creatures, / all people are my friends.

Many parts of my soul / are intertwined with them, / But how can I share with them my light.”

Tonight – Friday, April 14 at 6:30 PM,  at Temple Israel of Hollywood, we will be celebrating as part of our Kabbalat Shabbat service the Song of Songs with beautiful music set to its verse. We have invited members of our community who are celebrating milestone wedding anniversaries to join us, and we will offer them a blessing. If you are free and would like to join us, please do come.

Shabbat shalom and Moadim L’simchah!

What keeps your embers burning?

12 Wednesday Apr 2017

Posted by in American Jewish Life, Divrei Torah, Ethics, Health and Well-Being, Inuyim - Prayer reflections and ruminations, Jewish Identity

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This past week I was invited to speak to fifteen soon-to-be-ordained rabbinic students at the Hebrew Union College – Jewish Institute of Religion in Los Angeles. I was joined by two long-time friends and colleagues on a panel and we were asked to share what has kept us excited, inspired, passionate, and creative in our work as congregational rabbis (I am now in my thirty-eighth year of service).

This question, however, isn’t only a question for rabbis. It’s also for everyone who works hard, takes pride in their work, seeks excellence, wants to make a contribution, and hopes to maintain a healthy balance in their lives.

It so happened that the Torah portion this past week was Parashat Tzav (Leviticus 6:1-8:36). At the beginning of the portion there appears a relevant verse to the question we were asked to address:

“The burnt offering itself shall remain where it is burned upon the altar all night until morning, while the fire on the altar is kept burning on it.” (6:2)

The English translation that appears in most editions of the Bible, however, is incorrect. Here is the relevant Hebrew of the final phrase of the verse: “V’esh ha-mis’bei-ach tukad bo  – The fire of the altar burns in it [It does not read “tukad alav – burns on it”].”

Since the destruction of the Second Jerusalem Temple by Rome in 70 C.E. when all sacrifices ceased, many Jewish commentators have interpreted the sacrifices (korbanot) as metaphors. The altar can refer to the human heart, and the fire that burns in the altar can refer to the fires of excitement and inspiration that burns also in the heart.

We were asked – What keeps our inner fires burning in service to the Jewish people?

I was moved by the question and took it to my congregants who study Torah with me on Friday mornings, and to my family and friends at our Seder. I asked the question more broadly: “What sustains you in your life and in your work?”

Here are some of their responses:

  • Many of the men who learn Torah with me each week say that engaging with the ancient, medieval and modern texts ground them in who they are as Jews, as human and spiritual beings, and as inheritors of 3600 years of Jewish engagement with God, ethics, practice, culture, and history;
  • My Seder family and friends said that whenever they read fine literature and poetry and then write themselves, or when they listen to and play musical instruments, visit museums or galleries and create art, work in their gardens and cook creatively, the embers in their hearts are stoked;
  • Two people mentioned that the mastery they have attained in their work inspires them to learn more, teach others, publish, and carry on the work;
  • A recovering alcoholic said that daily prayer and meditation brings her back to her best and most natural self;
  • Many said that helping others and engaging in social justice work connect them to community and to higher ideals that inspire and sustain them;
  • Several said that sitting quietly in a favorite place renews them;
  • Many spoke of the love they feel for their spouses, children, grandchildren, parents, brothers, sisters, extended family, and friends as the embers that feed their inner flames.

This is a season to ask ourselves this fundamentally important question – What feeds your inner flames?

I wish for you all more inner light that burns from your deepest embers.

Moadim l’simcha.

 

 

The Sixth Cup?

06 Thursday Apr 2017

Posted by in American Jewish Life, Divrei Torah, Ethics, Holidays, Jewish History, Jewish Identity

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Exodus 6:6-8 is the basis upon which the rabbis determined that 4 cups of wine are to be consumed during the Passover Seder. Each cup corresponds to one of the 4 verbs that describes how God freed the Israelite slaves from Egyptian bondage:

“… I will free you (ho-tzei-ti et’chem) from the labors of the Egyptians and deliver you (v’hi-tzal’ti et’chem) from their bondage. I will redeem you (v’ga-al-ti et’chem) with an outstretched arm … And I will take you (v’la-kach’ti et’chem) to be My people, … I will bring you (v’hei-vei-ti et’chem) into the land…”

Wait! There are 5 verbs, not 4, and so we have to wonder why we don’t drink 5 cups of wine.

Some explain that Elijah’s cup is the 5th cup and is the most important of all because it symbolizes the future messianic era when justice, compassion, and peace will characterize all human affairs.

Others say that since the Haggadah is a Diaspora text (the first Seder was held in the middle of the night in Egypt), from the perspective of the Haggadah the 5th verb points to a state of being that has not yet occurred because the people have not as yet entered the land of Israel.

Since the establishment of the State of Israel, some Israelis identify the 5th cup of wine as the “Zionist cup” representing the fulfillment of the Zionist project in the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948.

Rabbi Josh Weinberg (President of the Association of Reform Zionists of America – ARZA) suggests that perhaps there ought to be an additional cup of wine, a 6th cup symbolizing the need of every Jew to understand, acknowledge and reconcile the differences that characterize Diaspora Jews and Israeli Jews, Orthodox and non-Orthodox Jews, political right-wing and political left-wing Jews, young Jews and old Jews.

A 6th cup of wine can be a reminder that the unity of the Jewish people must be a principle goal for us all. The concluding verses in the Prophetic Book of Malachi,  the Haftarah portion read on this Shabbat Tzav, present both the challenge  and the consequences of failure in stark terms:

“Lo, I will send the prophet Elijah to you before the coming of the awesome, fearful day of the Lord. He [Elijah] shall reconcile parents with children and children with their parents, so that, when I come, I do not strike the whole land with utter destruction.” (3:23-24)

May your Seders be filled with understanding and light, renewal and optimism, meaning and significance, good food and wine, loving family and friends, joy and hope.

Shabbat shalom and Chag Pesach sameach!

Moses and God’s Tears – A Poetic Midrash for Vayikra

31 Friday Mar 2017

Posted by in Divrei Torah, Musings about God/Faith/Religious life, Poetry

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So often God called Moses. / Three times they met; / at the flaming bush, / on Sinai amidst rock and stone, / and before the Tent of Meeting / that Moses might intuit God’s mind / and soothe God’s heart / as a lover comforts his beloved.

Since creation / God yearned to bridge the chasm / when the Creator pulled away / and opened space / to share the universe.

Yet the Almighty remained alone / exiled within the Divine Self / when the vessels shattered / and matter was flung to the far reaches of space.

The upper spheres were divorced from the lower, /  male from female, / the primal Father from the primal Mother, / Tiferet from Malchut, / Hakadosh Baruch Hu from Shechinah, /  Adonai from Knesset Yisrael.

Before time and speech, / God appointed the soul of the Shepherd-Prince Moses / to be prophet / and endowed him with hearing-sight, / wide-ranging wisdom and intuitive knowledge.

No one but Moses / had ever been so chosen or / to come so near to God.

Moses saw with his ears / heard with his eyes / tasted with his mind / and remained whole in the Light.

The prophet descended the mountain aglow, / the primordial Light shielding him behind a veil / bearing on his forehead divine ink-drops / radiating and illuminating the earth’s four corners.

Moses descended upon angel’s wings, / weightless and cradling the lettered-stone / inside the eye of raging winds.

Though a Prince in Egypt / Moses’ destiny was as a lonely shepherd / gathering sheep / and drawing the children of Israel to God.

God needed much from Moses – / to bring the plagues / and show that there is no God but God, / and liberate the people, / and bring them to Sinai, / and inspire with the Word, / and create God’s house / that light might abide within every heart / and restore wholeness in the world.

After all of God’s expectations and demands / we might expect Moses’ strength to be depleted, / to be exhausted to the bone and ready to say; / “Enough! O Redeemer – find a new prophet! / I can no longer bear the burden / and be Your voice and create bridges / You are Almighty God / I am but flesh / My strength is gone / My time expired!”

“Nonsense!” proclaimed the Eternal. / “I am not yet ready for your retirement! / My world remains shattered, / My light obscured, / my heart broken and aching. / I need you to teach My people / and all people / and instill in their hearts / a love that heals My wound / for I cannot do this for Myself.”

Alas, the Creator-Redeemer’s needs were clear / to be close to Moses and the people / that the prophet and Israel together / might wipe away God’s tears / and restore God’s heart to wholeness / and heal God’s Name to Itself / and bring peace.

Poem composed by Rabbi John L. Rosove

Notes about this poetic Midrash:

The first word that appears in this week’s Torah portion Vayikra (vav – yud – kuf – resh – aleph – “And God called Moses…”) ends with an unusually small aleph. This anomaly in what is called the k’tiv (written text) gave rise to much rabbinic interpretation over the centuries.

Rashi explained that the small aleph teaches the humility of Moses. Others said that the aleph is an introduction to the Levitical laws of sacrifice, which requires humility. A Midrash suggests that when Moses descended from Mount Sinai carrying the tablets of the law, he emitted a keren or (“a ray of light”) compelling Moses to shield his face with a veil because the people could not look upon him in such a state. The source of that ray of light was divine ink left over when Moses wrote a small aleph instead of one of normal size. The Midrash explains that Moses had sought to lessen his own stature by using a small aleph, but God restored the extra drops of divine ink by placing them upon Moses’ forehead.

The Midrashic literature comments at length about Moses’ experience meeting panim el panim (lit. “face to face” – metaphorically “soul to soul”) with God. Moses was first among God’s prophets. Though each prophet spoke God’s words, there never was another prophet like Moses nor, as the Torah explains, was there ever again a more humble human being on earth than Moses.

I am not normally an envious person. However, I have always envied the experience of the prophet and most especially Moses’ meeting with God on the mountain. It is my unquenchable yearning to know and my fascination with prophecy itself that inspired me to write this Midrash.

For those of you wishing more insight into Biblical prophecy, I recommend Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel’s “The Prophets” – publ. Jewish Publication Society, New York, 1962.

Shabbat shalom. 

An Antidote For These Disturbing Times

24 Friday Mar 2017

Posted by in American Jewish Life, American Politics and Life, Art, Divrei Torah, Ethics, Inuyim - Prayer reflections and ruminations, Jewish Identity

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I offer this d’var Torah at the end of a week that for me has been exceptionally disturbing in the wake of the President’s dishonesty, self-centered heartlessness and bullying tactics along with the Republican congressional leadership’s efforts to make good on its promise to repeal the Affordable Care Act, rather than correct its problems, and thus take health insurance from twenty-four million poor and older Americans over the course of the next decade.

I have found myself these past eighteen months since the presidential campaign began and especially since 11/8 and 1/20 to be in constant need of a mental, emotional, and spiritual corrective to the corrosive spirit that has taken over so much of this country.

Learning Torah has always been for me such a corrective endeavor. And so, I offer here an edited d’var Torah that I posted originally three years ago concerning Betzalel, the master architect and builder of the Tabernacle.

God instructed Moses to choose Betzalel to design and build the Tabernacle that would carry the tablets of the law (Exodus 38:22-39:31). On the face of it, these verses describe a matter-of-fact building of a physical edifice. But this isn’t merely an architectural plan for an ancient structure. It’s a description of the highest aesthetic vision of the ancient Israelites that would impress itself upon the hearts, minds, and souls of generations of Jews to come.

Not just any craftsman could design and build this sacred structure. Only someone with extraordinary qualities of heart, mind, spirit, and skill could do the job.

We learn that Betzalel was endowed with wisdom (chochmah), insight (binah), and understanding (da-at). Rashi suggests that chochmah refers to the wisdom we learn from others; binah is the understanding we acquire from life experience; da-at is mystical intuition.

Though Betzalel was apparently the right choice, God asked Moses if he himself believed that Betzalel was suited to perform this sacred task. Moses replied: “Master of the universe! If You consider him suitable, then surely I do!” Not yet satisfied, God instructed Moses: “Go and ask Israel if they approve of my choice of Betzalel.”

Moses did so and the people replied: “If Betzalel is judged good enough by God and by you, surely he is approved by us, too.”

The rabbis emphasized that Betzalel was not only God’s and Moses’ choice but the people’s choice.

This simple story of Betzalel’s selection teaches that Judaism regards a person’s devotion to God, Torah, and the people of Israel to be the key virtues of a Jewish artist.

Mark Chagall went further when he wrote: “The artist must penetrate into the world, feel the fate of human beings, of peoples, with real love. There is no art for art’s sake. One must be interested in the entire realm of life.”

The story of Betzalel and the commentary that was written over time are reminders that each one of us, the artist and non-artist, ought to train ourselves to continuously direct one of our eyes heavenward and direct the other eye upon human affairs thereby drawing us nearer to one another in love and support and to the cosmic core of the universe.

This is an orientation that can serve each of us well and, I suggest, can help direct the leadership of our country to fulfill the higher purposes towards which American democracy has sought to fulfill.

Shabbat shalom.

What do Nations Need More – The Leadership of a Prophet or a Priest?

10 Friday Mar 2017

Posted by in American Jewish Life, American Politics and Life, Divrei Torah, Ethics

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President Obama once said that the difference between him and Martin Luther King was that King was an inspirational prophetic leader and he, Obama, was a political leader. In biblical and rabbinic terms the Obama model compares with the functions of the priesthood that lead the earthly institution of the Temple’s sacrificial cult. After the destruction of the Second Jerusalem Temple by Rome in 70 C.E., the rabbinic class replaced the priesthood as the institutional and legal authority.

This week’s Torah portion Tetzaveh (Exodus 27:20-30:10) shines a light on these two modes of leadership and it’s all about Aaron and not Moses. Thirty times Aaron’s name appears. Moses is virtually absent except for three inferences.

Commentators explained Moses’ absence in a number of ways. One Midrash reminds us that God was preparing to destroy the people after the incident of the golden calf.

If God was to be so consumed by righteous rage and indignation to destroy the people, then Moses told God to destroy him too and to remove his name from the “Book.” Moses couldn’t conceive of his life without his people.

Stunned, God asked: “Moses, my beloved prophet, could you really stand to have your name taken out of this Book?”

“Yes,” Moses said “if it means saving my people.”

So God took Moses’ name out of this parashah to test the prophet’s humility and sincerity. Moses passed the test and God forgave the people of their greatest sin.

The parashah shines a light on the differences in two leadership styles as exemplified by Moses and Aaron.

Moses was the charismatic prophet – Aaron the institution-bound High Priest.

Moses needed no special clothing as the leader to reflect his authority – Aaron wore the “sacral vestments” as a visible sign of the dignity of his office.

Moses was willing to challenge God – Aaron would never do so. Instead, Aaron was encumbered by institutional and traditional constraints.

Moses broke new ground, met God on the mountain, forged a new world based upon a vision that was yet to be created – Aaron was contained, measured, conservative, and conventional.

Moses was dramatic and he defied custom – Aaron’s world changed slowly if at all.

Moses created a legal system from scratch – Aaron shunned disorder and chaos choosing instead to follow in detail what had been passed along to him.

Moses’ effect was inspirational revealing a soul that reached for the stars and communed with God. There was no one like him before, then, or since.

The question I’ve been pondering in light of this week’s Torah reading that contains no direct mention of Moses’ name, and in light of the vagaries inherent in the Trump era is this: What do people and nations need more – The prophet or the priest?

If truth be told we need both but in delicate balance.

Without Moses’ prophetic zeal there would be no vision nor any hope for an inspired, just, compassionate, and peaceful world.

Without Aaron, there would be little stability and order. Without law, humankind would succumb to the worst excesses of evil, avarice, greed, and selfishness.

The three times God addresses Moses by inference in this portion offer additional insight into what makes for wise leadership.

The first says: “V’atah t’zaveh et b’nai Yisrael… – You shall command the children of Israel…” (Exodus 27:20)

We need strong leaders to be confident enough to take command when necessary. However, a wise leader does not engage constantly and at every opportunity.

The second says: “V’atah hakrev eleicha et Aharon achicha v’et banav ito mitoch b’nei Yisrael l’chahano li… – You shall bring close to you Aaron your brother and his sons with you into the midst of the children of Israel…” (Exodus 28:1)

We need leaders that understand that they cannot effectively lead alone. A wise leader does tzimzum, contracts within oneself enough to allow others to step forward and lead as partners. Such a leader delegates authority to those who have expertise.

The third says: “V’atah t’dabeir et kol chochmei lev asher mileitiv ruach chocham… – And you shall speak to all those wise in heart and filled with the spirit of wisdom…” (Exodus 28:3).

The wise leader presumes that others too are wise.

Moses’ and Aaron’s leadership styles taken together include the virtues of vision, wisdom, humility, moral rectitude, a love of truth, a love of humanity, and a respect for the dignity of every human being.

The reason that the Trump era is so confusing is because the President is not a prophet because he is incapable of transcending himself and empathizing with the “other.”

Nor is he a priest because he can’t tell the difference between fact and fiction, and he is utterly unfamiliar with and not curious about learning the rules of the game and how the government actually works.

So, what do we citizens do?

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel once said that the civil rights movement of the 1960s gave the American liberal Jewish community its moral voice.

Is this not what is now occurring not only for the Jewish community but for all reasonable people (regardless of political party) of all faiths, cultures, races, national backgrounds, and gender identities?

This engaged moral activism that we are seeing everywhere offers me both comfort and hope. This will have to suffice for now.

Shabbat shalom.

No matter where we think we are, we are still in Egypt

13 Friday Jan 2017

Posted by in American Jewish Life, American Politics and Life, Divrei Torah, Ethics, Jewish History, Jewish Identity, Social Justice

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With Jacob’s death, the Israelites found themselves in Egypt living in relative safety under the protection of Joseph and the Pharaoh. However, history can change in an instant, as we ourselves have witnessed since the November election.

This truth is confirmed in next week’s Torah portion where it says that “There arose a king in Egypt who did not know Joseph” (Exodus 1:8) and it is signaled at the beginning of this week’s portion.

The children of Israel had been protected by the benevolence of the Pharaoh through the agency of Joseph. But, after Joseph’s death, our people’s life in Egypt suddenly became a nightmare.

In Jewish memory, Egypt is synonymous with enslavement, injustice, and cruelty, which is, I believe, the principal reason that the mitzvah to welcome the stranger became so prominent in the Torah (it occurs thirty-six times).

We Jews learned early on that the way a nation treats the stranger, the foreigner, and the “other” who is unlike the majority of the population characterizes that nation’s morality, and our sages taught that a more welcoming, just, and compassionate community ought to be a core aspiration not only for Jews but for humankind as a whole.

True to that tradition, the Jewish people remains optimistic in spite of the history of antiSemitism. It’s significant that the Passover Seder attracts more Jews to the table in American than any other home-based ritual, and that it is celebrated at night, the only such night-time ritual in our tradition. When the ninth plague of blackness engulfed the Egyptians, Torah says that it was a darkness so thick that the Egyptians couldn’t see their own hands or the face of a person standing right in front of them. The fear that filled the hearts of the Egyptians and the disconnection between even members of their own families represent exile in its most stark nature.

To emphasize the timing of the ritual, we are reminded in the ninth plague that engulfed the Egyptians. Torah describes this darkness as so thick that the Egyptians couldn’t see their own hands or the faces of others standing in front of them. The plague of darkness inspired a fear of terrifying proportions. That state of disconnect with others is the precondition of exile (galut) which is precisely what Egypt-Mitzrayim connotes in Jewish tradition.

The beginning of this week’s Torah portion Vayechi alludes in a unique way to that exile in Egypt. The opening verse (Genesis 47:28) is closed – meaning that there’s no space of nine Hebrew letters separating this week’s Parashat Vayechi from last week’s Parashat Vayigash, an idiosyncrasy that occurs nowhere else in Torah except here.

Why?

Rashi (11th century France) explained that “…when Jacob our father died, the eyes and hearts of Israel were closed because of the affliction of the bondage with which the Egyptians began to enslave them.” (Rashi 47:28, based on B’reishit Rabbah 96:1)

Jacob wanted to reveal to his children the end of days, but nistam mimenu – “It was closed to him…” because, as the Talmud explains, “… the Shechinah (God’s presence) had left him….”. (Babylonian Talmud, Pesachim 56a)

Despite the many blessings that we in America enjoy and that our people enjoys in the land and State of Israel, the vision of an end of days will always remain closed to us and we will remain in exile until we succeed in ending the sufferings and correcting the injustices in our society and throughout the world.

In this sense, we are all still in exile even if we live in the State of Israel.

On this Martin Luther King national holiday weekend, his words and vision remain an inspiration to humanity as a whole. Two thousand years ago Rabbi Tarfon taught that “It is not your responsibility to finish the work of perfecting the world, but you are not free to desist from it either.” (Pirkei Avot 2:21)

Two thousand years ago Rabbi Tarfon taught that  Jews have an obligation to the world as a whole: “It is not your responsibility to finish the work of perfecting the world, but you are not free to desist from it either.” (Pirkei Avot 2:21)

Shabbat Shalom!

In the black night – A poem for Vayishlach

15 Thursday Dec 2016

Posted by in Divrei Torah, Inuyim - Prayer reflections and ruminations, Poetry

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In the black night
the river runs cold
slowly passing me by
over formerly sharp-edged stones
worn smooth by centuries of churning
as if through earthy veins
and I Jacob, alone
shiver and wait
to meet my brother
and daylight.

Will there be war?
Will the angels carry my soul
up the ladder
leaving my blood
to soak the ground?

A presence!?
And I struggle
as if in my mother’s womb
and my dreams.

We played together as children
my brother Esau and me
as innocents
and I confess tonight
how I wronged him
and wrenched from him his birthright
as this Being has done to me
between my thighs.

I was so young
driven by ego and need
blinded by ambition
my mother’s dreams
and my father’s silence.

I so craved to be first born
adored by my father
to assume his place when he died
that my name be remembered
and define a people.

How Esau suffered and wailed
and I didn’t care;
Whatever his dreams
they were nothing to me
my heart was hard
his life be damned!

I’ve learned that Esau and I
each alone
is a palga gufa/half a soul
without the other
torn away
as two souls separated at creation
seeking reunification
in a great spiritual sea
the yin missing the yang
the dark and light never touching
the mind divorced from body
the soul in exile
without a beating bleating heart
and no access to the thirty-two paths
to carry us up the ladder
and through the spheres.

It’s come to this
To struggle again
To live or die.

Tonight
I’m ready for death
or submission.

Compassionate One
protect Esau and your servant
my brother and me
as one
and return us to each other.

El na r’fa na lanu!
Grant us peace and rest
I’m very tired.

Poem by Rabbi John Rosove originally was published in the CCAR Journal: Reform Jewish Quarterly, Spring, 2010, pages 113-115

 

Isaac and Rebekah – a poem

25 Friday Nov 2016

Posted by in Divrei Torah, Inuyim - Prayer reflections and ruminations, Poetry

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I wrote this poem a few years ago based on the story of Isaac as it appears in this week’s parasha. I read it again today and found it somehow comforting and hopeful in these days, and so I offer it again.

My father Abraham set out alone,
Leaving everything he knew,
seeking a better place
where he’d never been
because God promised him
a blessing and a future.

But my heart is broken.
I yearn for solace.
My mother is dead
because my father stole me away
before dawn
while she slept.

Her servants reported to her
that he placed me
upon the pyre
as a burnt offering
to his God.

But an angel saved me.

How she loved me,
filling me up
like a goblet
with laughter
and tears.

And now I am alone
amidst the wheat and rocks,
beneath the sun and stirred-up clouds
swirling above
like disturbed angels.

Can You hear me –
Merciless God?
Comfort me now
and bend Your word
that she may return
as we were.

Looking up
I see a camel caravan
and people walking
like small sticks in the sand.

There is my father’s servant Eliezer
and a young girl.

Lasuach basadeh –
I pray and weep
beneath the afternoon sun
and swirling clouds,
and angels singing.

Rebekah to Eliezer –
‘Who is that man
crying alone
in the field?’

‘He is my master Isaac,
your intended one,
whose seed you will carry
as God promised his father.’

Vatipol min hagamal –
“And she alighted from her camel”
and veiled herself
for a wedding.

I entered her
in my mother’s tent,
and she comforted me.

Thank You, God!

Brothers

27 Thursday Oct 2016

Posted by in Divrei Torah, Ethics, Musings about God/Faith/Religious life, Poetry

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After God created the heavens and the earth, tragedy struck in a catastrophe that has never been forgotten, a tragedy now ingrained in our DNA and  repeated in every generation.

The tale of Cain and Abel is a story of envy, despair, and evil that has stained the human condition (Genesis 4:1-15).

As dramatic as this story is, in only fifteen verses does the episode unfold and resolve. The narrative gives only bare details of Cain’s and Abel’s lives and their fates. Abel (Havel) was a keeper of sheep. His Hebrew name means “vapor,” reflecting his short and purposeless life.

Cain was a farmer and tiller of the soil, the same ground that he polluted when he murdered his brother and his brother’s blood soaked the earth.

We learn that the brothers each had brought to God offerings. Cain was first – Abel followed. God rejected Cain’s gift and received Abel’s joyfully. Cain felt humiliated and shunned by the God he yearned to serve.

Why did God reject Cain’s gift? We don’t know. God, however, seemed surprised by Cain’s strong reaction and asked: “Why are you so upset? Why has your face fallen? Is it not thus: If you intend good, bear-it-aloft, but if you do not intend good, at the entrance is sin, a crouching-demon, toward you his lust–but you can rule over him.” (vs 6-7) [An enigmatic ancient poetic passage – see below]

A shame! Instead of sympathy God gave Cain a lecture. Yet, we can’t really blame Cain for his distress. He felt rejected and utterly alone. Even Cain’s parents were missing from the scene, so he struck out against the one closest to him – the only one there – his brother Abel.

Cain and Abel had spoken or argued, but we’re not told about what. The rabbis offer several explanations.

One said that the brothers had agreed to divide the world. Cain took all the land and Abel took everything that moved: but then they fought out of greed for more.

Cain said: “The land upon which you stand is mine. Get off – you may fly if you like, for I don’t own the air. But the land is mine and not for your use.”

Abel shot back: “The clothes you wear are made from the wool of my flock. Strip down. Walk naked. You’ve no right to the product of my sheep.”

A second sage said that each brother owned both land and movable property and that they fought about on whose land the Temple in Jerusalem would be built.

“The Temple should be built on my land,” said one.

“No. It must be built on mine,” said the other.

Their battle thus became a religious war each claiming that God was on his side.

A third rabbi said that Abel had a twin sister, a magnificently beautiful and alluring woman, and since there was no other woman on earth, each wanted her.

Cain argued: “I must have her because I am the first born.”

Abel too felt entitled: “She’s mine because she was born with me. Together we must stay.”

The rabbis regard Cain and Abel as symbols. Each explanation is an argument for what drives people to hate and kill each other; materialism, religious fanaticism, and sexual obsession.

“Cain rose up against Abel and slew him.” (v 8)

The Midrash claimed that Abel was the physically stronger man, and as he was about to kill Cain, Cain pleaded for his life: “We are the only two in the world. What will you tell our parents if you kill me?”

From fear or perhaps pity, Abel lowered his weapon, and at that moment Cain murdered him.

After the deed (as if God didn’t know), the Almighty asked: “Where is Abel your brother?”

Cain was cold and disengaged: “I know not; am I my brother’s keeper?” (v 9)

God expected moral accountability, but as he had turned on his brother, so too did Cain turn on God:

“You hold watch over all creatures, and yet You demand an accounting of me! True, I killed him, but You created the evil inclination within me. It’s Your fault! Why did You permit me to slay him? You slew him yourself, for had You looked favorably on my offering, I wouldn’t have had reason to envy and kill him.”

God emphasized to Cain the heinous significance of his murderous act, but Cain didn’t understand.

God said: “The voice of your brother’s blood(s) cry to Me from the ground.” (v 10)

The Hebrew for blood (dam) is written in the plural (damim) meaning that killing one human being is equivalent to the murder of every generation to come, of an entire world, genocide. And given that Cain killed his brother, murder is also fratricide.

As tragic as this tale is, the ending is abruptly positive. Adam and Eve chose life again and bore their third son, Seth, in the place of Abel. We are considered Seth’s descendants (v 25) and neither carry the legacy of victim or aggressor. That is for each of us to decide.

 
Note: The above is a creative compilation of the Biblical text and rabbinic commentary. The translation of the poem – vs 6-7 – is borrowed from Everett Fox’s translation of The Five Books of Moses – The Schocken Bible: Volume I.