Posted on

Inauguration Day 2017

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

We live in dangerous times, and rather than bickering or fighting we need to face the many challenges that are before us. Social and cultural changes brought about by high tech and the Internet have stirred up a hornet’s nest of instability and uncertainty. The world is going through climate changes that cause massive flooding on the one hand, and terrible droughts on the other. Health crises brought about by new or rapidly evolving viruses are wreaking havoc, while the cost of cures and treatments continues to rise exponentially.

More than ever before, war and terrorism are endangering the entire civilized world, threatening to set back human progress a thousand years or more.

Wider-than-ever disparity between the super-rich on the one hand, and the poor and dispossessed on the other is threatening nations and societies from within, endangering social stability and raising tensions to unprecedented levels.

For us Jews, too, new dangers loom. Less than ¾ of a century since the Holocaust, anti-Semitism is once again on its vile march. The ancient hatred has erupted into violence throughout Europe, while here, in the US, the ugly rhetoric and familiar signs are appearing everywhere, causing fear and alarm among many who thought they have left those behind, as well as among those of us who have never known fear before. The so-called “Alt Right” is vying with the “New Left” in marginalizing and bullying Jews, while the BDS movement, originally meant as a statement directed specifically at the State of Israel, has proven closely allied with virulently anti-Jewish groups and sentiments.

Yet, today the American Jewish community is largely divided among itself, mostly along political lines, but also along religious differences. You’d think we would have learned our lesson by now, but it doesn’t seem so. We blame ourselves. Some of us accuse Israel for the rising hatred, while others turn against one group or another in scorn and deprecation. All the while, however, we ignore the fact that these existential threats, repeated daily by Iran and its collaborators, as well as by anti-Semites along the entire political and social spectrum, are directed against all Jews, regardless of national, religious or political affiliation.

So today, on this Inauguration Day, as Americans, even though we find ourselves deeply divided along socio-political lines, more than ever we need to stand together, as one people. We may be Jews, Christians, Muslims or of any other religion—or even of no religion at all. We may call ourselves Democrats, Republicans, or Independents. But the differences do not matter. What matters is that we all face the same future, the same problems and the same dangers.

In the aftermath of the Holocaust, we Jews took a vow: “Never again!” What we meant by that is that we would never again be placed in the position of victims. For some of us, we have used our newfound courage and strength in defense of our national homeland, Israel. Others have turned their attention to other genocides—in Bosnia, Darfur, and the killing fields of Southeast Asia. Some of us raised our fist and fought against hatred itself, wherever we saw it: hatred of African-Americans, of Muslims, Latinos, the GLBTQ community. We fought against discrimination, prejudice and hatred. We engaged in Tikkun Olam, the ongoing sacred task of Creation. We saw redemption possible through advances we made in social justice, education, medicine, technology and the caretaking of the environment.

So while it is true that the 2016 Presidential election was divisive, ugly and demoralizing; and while it is true that many of us are looking with dismay at the possibility that the Great Society we had worked so hard to build over the last 50 years might face dismantling, we must not hide or run away from what still needs to be done. Rather, we must unite our efforts. Rather than turn against ourselves or one another, we must face the challenges by working together, from within. Where we see that changes must be made, let us be courageous enough to make them. Where we need to build up what we see falling apart around us, we must work from within our system to shore up—not through anger, not through violence, but rather by using the powers that the Founding Fathers built into our system. We may be a nation of many colors and many faiths, but we are, after all, “one nation, indivisible;” and our goals are the same today as they were when they were first formulated: “With liberty and justice for all.”

These are high goals, sometimes difficult to achieve; but the methods we have at hand today have proven true throughout the past. Imperfect though it is, our government is a representative democracy. It isn’t our genes or lineage that determine who will lead us—it’s our vision and courage. What our Founding Fathers have given us is the right to change things. We can vote a person in; we can vote them out. We can run for office ourselves. Or we can contact our representatives and let them know what we know, what we need, what we believe. As individuals, each of us can make a difference in our own life. Together, however, we can do so much more. We can affect history itself.

Our courage stems from our faith and our ideals. Our strength lies in our purpose and in our unity. May God bless America, home of the free.

בשלום עמו את יברך יי׳ ,יתן לעמו עוז יי׳ : May God grant God’s people strength; may God bless us all with peace. Amen.

Posted on

Being Israel

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

D’var Torah for Parshat Vayishlach

Dedicated to the memory of my father, Ze’ev ben Aryeh v’Yona on the 100th anniversary of his birth

One of the Torah’s most valuable lessons that it is vitally important to become a link in the golden chain of tradition, to receive tradition and then, in turn, to pass it on.

In last week’s Torah portion, it was Isaac who learned this lesson.  This week, it is Jacob’s turn.

Despite the Torah’s description of Jacob as a mild, simple man, he was anything but.  He was a wrestler, struggling from the womb on. First it was his twin brother, Esau; then his father-in-law, Laban.  In this week’s portion, Vayishlach (Gen. 32:4-36:43), Jacob confronts his guilty conscience, and he wrestles with a mysterious stranger who might represent his worst fears.

Twenty years earlier, with little life experience and few possessions of his own, Jacob had to flee from his brother’s vengeful wrath, leaving forever the comfortable tents of his mother and father. Now an older, more mature and wealthy man, in charge of a large family and even larger flocks, Jacob is coming home. But first there’s the matter of Esau to settle.  And Esau, Jacob learns, is coming at him, armed and accompanied by four hundred horsemen.

Jacob prepares for the confrontation the best way he can: he sends gifts to placate Esau; then he prays; and finally—just in case the first two aren’t effective—he prepares for war and for the tragic losses that are war’s inevitable consequence.

But the night before his fateful meeting with Esau, alone on a mountaintop, Jacob has an unexpected encounter:  He meets a mysterious stranger who engages Jacob in a wrestling match that lasts till dawn. Who this stranger might be is not made clear in the story. Some say it was Esau’s protecting angel, while others explain that it was the embodiment of Jacob’s own fears and doubts.  Jacob, in any case, believes this being to be an angel.

Jacob emerges victorious from this contest, but he is not unscathed.  At one point during the match, his thigh is injured, and the dawn sees him limping as he takes his first steps across the river and into the Promised Land.

It is only at this point that Jacob understands what his role in life must be.

As a young boy, Jacob had learned of God’s promise; he must have first heard about it from his grandfather, Abraham, then in overheard conversations between Isaac and Rebecca.  At first, Jacob aspired to it.  He saw it as a crown, a pinnacle of fame and glory.  Tempted, he allowed himself to reach for it, to grasp it even at the price of deceiving his father and enraging his brother.  Now, however, he finally understands the full import of this blessing.  He realizes that being God’s chosen brings with it great responsibility, as well some very real dangers and perhaps even sacrifice and tragedy.

Now, humbled by this knowledge, hobbling under its weight and facing an uncertain future, Jacob is ready to take his rightful place in the line of tradition. He may be limping, an army is gathering and marching against him, but Jacob is buoyed by the blessing the angel had given him.  Just as the sun was rising, with his powers quickly fading, the angel changed Jacob’s name to Israel, saying, “You have striven with angels and peoples, and you have prevailed.”

Taking his first steps on the sacred soil of the Promised Land, Jacob senses something new:  He is no longer alone.  The full strength of his father’s blessing fortifies him.

Jacob, now and forever more known as Israel, is finally ready to become a source of blessing himself. He has crossed over the river of eternity and become a link in an unending, golden chain of Tradition, bridging his and his family’s past into the future and into all eternity.

He is now ready to face his brother and whatever the new day will bring.

He is Israel.

Posted on

Mah Nishtanah Chanukah

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

In just about a week, we will be lighting the first candle of Hanukkah. It’s a beautiful holiday, filled with glowing lights, songs, delicious foods and family traditions. Yet maybe because of its commercialization, or perhaps because of the repetitious nature of the ceremony over eight days, sometimes we forget to see the fuller meaning of Hanukkah.

The Talmud’s explanation of the holiday begins with the famous words, “Mai Chanukah,” “What is Hanukkah.” Perhaps it should start instead with mah nishtana Chanukah—why is this holiday different from all other holidays. Of all the Jewish holidays, Hanukkah actually has the most variations—not only in its many customs, but also in the number of different stories that became interwoven, resulting in the holiday as we know it today.

The purpose of Chanukah is simple: To recall the victories of the few against the many and the miraculous survival of our faith and people, despite the many obstacles that at times seem to overwhelm us.

Yet even the two names by which the holiday is known—Hanukkah and Chag ha-Urim, the Festival of Lights, reflect several sources.

Unlike most of our other holidays, Hanukkah is not mandated in the Torah. In the middle of the 3rd century BCE, about 250 years after the Torah was sealed, the Kingdom of Judah became part of the Greek Empire. It was a peaceful takeover; but less than a hundred years later, tyrannical rulers, competition among rival priestly factions, and strife among the Judean aristocracy, evolved into a full-fledged rebellion against the Greeks.

As the popular summary of all Jewish holidays has it, they tried to kill us, they lost, let’s eat! That pretty much characterizes Chanukah, too, but of course things are never as simple as they seem. As with many other oppressors, the Greeks weren’t interested only in our physical destruction. They took aim at our religion, which they saw as barbaric and unenlightened. They forbade the study and teaching of Hebrew and the observance of our most important rituals: Shabbat, Rosh Chodesh (essentially, our calendar with all its holidays) and circumcision.

At first, what the Greeks offered as replacement was indeed enticing: art, literature, theater, science and, of course, Olympic contests of strength and beauty. But what they failed to take into account was our typical Jewish obstinacy. With each new oppressive measure that the Greeks enacted, so did our resistance grow. Led by Mattathias the Hasmonean and his five sons, the rebellion slowly gained momentum; and despite the tragic loss in battle of Judah—known as The Maccabee—the hammer—the Greek army was ultimately defeated. Jerusalem was liberated, and the Temple, where the Greeks had placed a gold statue of Zeus and whose compound they used as a garrison for their soldiers and beasts, was cleansed and rededicated to God.

Dedication. That is the root meaning of the word Chanukah.

However, the holiday would not become known by this name for many years yet. Three hundred years later, the Jewish-Roman historian, Josephus, relying on a couple of earlier histories, still called it “Urim,” The Festival of Lights.

There is a reason for that. The timing of the historical events that Hanukkah celebrates coincided with the winter solstice, the season when ancient peoples used to perform magic rituals, almost all of them involving lights and fires, in the hope of restoring to the sun its full power and strength. In Josephus, as well as the accounts he relied on, the Maccabees marked their victory with seven spears which they stuck in the ground, and to which they attached flaming torches. Those were the “lights” to which the name of the holiday referred in those days.

And why eight days? The Talmud offers two explanations: One had to do with the eight days of dedication of the original Temple—the Tabernacle, which Moses and the Israelites had constructed in the Sinai Wilderness. The other was that this number corresponds to the number of days in the fall pilgrimage festival of Sukkot. The restoration of Temple rituals meant that now Sukkot could be celebrated properly, with all the appropriate sacrifices and celebrations.

So how did the story of the little cruse of oil originate?

The wars of liberation that the Maccabees fought didn’t end with the defeat of the Greeks. Soon after came the Romans, a people whose penchant for cruelty and repression was legendary. By the end of first century, the Romans had not only conquered all of Judea, killing in the process over half a million people; but they also destroyed Jerusalem and burned the Temple down, leaving intact only the Western Wall. The Jewish People were reduced from a political structure to existence as a spiritual-cultural entity. The Romans replaced the Hasmonean kings, descendants of the Maccabees, with governors of their own choosing, while the role of the Priests as spiritual leaders was now taken over by the Rabbis.

The dangers of persecution led these ancient teachers to offer a new explanation for Hanukkah. While keeping the original intent and purpose, the holiday would no longer celebrate the military triumphs of our ancestors. Instead, the Rabbis now taught Chanukah as a spiritual victory. Quoting a verse from the prophet Zechariah, אֽוֹת׃בָצְ יְהוָ֥ה אָמַ֖ר אִם־בְּרוּחִ֔י יכִּ֣ בְכֹ֔חַ וְלֹ֣א בְחַ֙יִל֙ לֹ֤א—“Not by power, not by might, but by My spirit alone,” the Rabbis de-emphasized military strength in favor of prayer and faith.

It’s not known who first told the story of the small cruse of olive oil that was found with the seal of the High Priest still intact on it. The miracle of the oil that miraculously lasted for eight nights—the time it takes to press fresh olive oil—was innocuous enough to pass the scrutiny of the Romans, yet meaningful enough to sustain our people through the next two thousand years. The story makes its first appearance in the Talmud, some five centuries after the destruction of Jerusalem. By then, hope for Jewish independence had all but disappeared. Survival of Judaism against all odds—though not without great sacrifice—thus became the holiday’s chief and lasting message, while its new official name—Hanukkah—evolved to reflect not physical, but rather spiritual dedication. During good times, the light of the Hanukkah candles danced in the windows and open doorways of Jewish homes. In darker times, the light was hidden deep within, serving to inspire us with its eternal message of hope, unification and redemption.

Today, with Israel once more a political reality, with Jerusalem once more our busy and flourishing capital, Hanukkah carries with it yet one more meaning. Today it reminds us that we need to remain strong not only spiritually, but also physically. A beautiful wildflower grows in Israel. It is called Dam Ha-Maccabeem—Blood of the Maccabees—and legend has it that where it grows, a drop of blood had been spilled in defense of our Land, our People and our Faith. The symbolism of this eternal crimson flower is clear to every man, woman and child.

The light of the candles we kindle in our own chanukioyt—our own Hanukkah menorahs—now extends like a rainbow all the way from our most distant past, through the blessing of the present moment, far into the future. Their many colors remind us of the diversity of our customs and traditions. They remind us of past victories as well as of terrible sacrifices we’ve had to make. Yet they also hold out hope for a bright future, a future that depends not only on God, but also on our own dedication to our people, our land, and our faith.

May the light of our Hanukkah celebrations inspire us to rededicate ourselves as have our people since time immemorial. As one candle’s light joins its fellows to produce a wonderful, great glow, so may we all unite and shine a magnificent light for all the world to see—the light of faith and hope, the light of freedom and joy for all the world to enjoy.

Kein y’hi ratzon—may this be God’s will.