Parents and Children

(This article was written for and published in the High Holy Day edition of the 'Sinai Chronicle', quarterly magazine of Sinai Synagogue, Leeds).

Parents and Children

At currently 36 weeks pregnant, parenting is ‘on the brain’. A kind member of Sinai Synagogue gave this inexperienced, first-time mother-to-be a wonderful book called ‘Raising Boys’ by Steve Biddulph. My husband Dave and I both very much enjoyed reading it as we anticipate the birth of our son in August, God willing. These are certainly interesting and wonderful times for our budding family. 

I was honoured to celebrate my Ordination in early July and Dave and I are preparing to move to Leeds as I will take up my post as Assistant Rabbi in late Autumn or early Winter. It’s a period of profound personal transition. But the transition isn’t only personal – it also matches the Jewish calendar. 

Today (at the time of writing) was Tisha b’Av, the 9th of the month of Av, in which we commemorate the many tragedies that have befallen the Jewish people on account of sinat chinam, baseless hatred. As the day draws to a close, we start to spiritually prepare for doing teshuvah as we march towards the High Holy Days. Out of the darkness of this day of mourning comes our quest for personal redemption that culminates in Rosh haShanah and Yom Kippur. But a lot of work remains to be done. 

The High Holy Day liturgy often seems to focus on our relationship with God. One of the ways this finds expression is in the reading of the Akeidah – the binding of Isaac in Genesis chapter 22. Theologically, I’d like to think that Abraham failed the test by obeying God’s erratic and draconian decree. But what if we look at the story from the other side: that of Isaac? Maybe the Biblical story gives us far greater insight in parent-child relationships. The fact of the matter is that Abraham and Isaac never speak once they get off the mountain and that Sarah dies shortly afterwards. There is, of course, a lot of ancient Midrash on this paradigmatic story. But we can interpret this scenario in contemporary ways as well and see how it can speak to our modern sensibilities and relationships. Steve Biddulph, the family therapist who wrote ‘Raising Boys’ (and the parallel book, ‘Raising Girls’) argues in favour of strong, loving and involved fathers (and mothers). Was Abraham such a father? Perhaps not. And perhaps this was his greatest failing – a failing that would plague his family for generations to come. 

The family dynamics of the patriarchs and matriarchs are hardly worthy of emulation. Perhaps Abraham’s greatest sin was not only foolishly obeying an immoral decree and checking his conscience at the door but also to sacrifice his child on the altar of his own ego. Perhaps he projected too much of his own hopes and expectations on his sons – Isaac and Ishmael both. So maybe this year we can focus on our family relation-ships in preparation of the High Holy Days. I know I have a lot to learn in either direction: as a daughter and as a mother-to-be. What would we do and should we do if we were in Abraham’s position? And how can we model and enact healthier relationships? As my husband and I stand on the brink of parenthood ourselves, these are all daunting as well as exciting questions. Reading parenting books won’t help us find the answers but may prompt us to think deeply about these issues. 

One of the most heart-wrenching themes in ‘Eichah’, the Book of Lamentations read during Tisha b’Av, is the notion of parents so plagued by starvation and despair that they end up hurting their own children (I will spare you the gruesome quotes although you can read Lamentations for yourself, of course). And one of the most grating themes in the ‘Akeidah’ is the notion of a loving father who willingly offers his son to his own delusions. 

Bookended by these two toxic and dangerous models of parenthood lie the hopes of the Prophets. Part of the Messianic vision and the quality of mercy and redemption in our own lives is when the prophet Malachi predicts the coming of Elijah in Messianic times, who will turn ‘the hearts of the parents to their children and the heart of the children to their parents’ – ‘v’heshiv lev avot al banim v’lev banim al avotam’. (Malachi 3:24). I am sure Steve Biddulph would agree. 

So how can we become both better children and more compassionate parents? What are the ways in which we can improve family relationships in our lives? What grudges and false expectations can we let go? How can we turn a sacrifice to ego into an offering of love? Maybe it’s time to pick up the phone, write that letter or initiate that conversation. None of us can guarantee success. But as long as the gates of repentance are open, we can always try. 

If we can model the loving graciousness of ‘Avinu shebeShamayim’, our ‘Father (or Mother) in Heaven’, then truly we can traverse the distance from darkness to light. As for myself, I hope to start this parenting journey with equal measures of awe and love. I am sure I will make many mistakes along the way. Thank God I am part of a religious tradition that offers me the instruments to self-reflect and repair and improve those relationships. Shanah tovah! 

Rabbi Esther Hugenholtz

Playing with Fire

Sermon Sinai Synagogue, Parashat Beha’a lot’cha 

Playing with Fire 

When I was reading my Facebook newsfeed three days ago, someone shared the lovely and heartwarming story from the Bradford Jewish community. The local Muslim community generously stepped up to raise funds for the synagogue’s leaky roof in a fantastic gesture of interfaith friendship. I immediately shared the story. I have a lot of Muslim friends on Facebook and I wanted to spread the goodwill. When I refreshed my newsfeed afterwards, still aglow with having my faith in humanity restored, I read about the gruesome Woolwich murder… 

I wondered for a long time whether this should be addressed in a sermon and if so, how. The media has covered the story in gruesome detail and pundits and ordinary people alike have descended to give their opinions. How do we see this – as a murder or as a terrorist attack? Were the two men ‘lone wolves’ or part of a wave of organised radicalisation? How does this gruesome act cast a shadow over the peaceful Muslim communities living alongside us? What will the larger political implications be as the Government seeks to formulate a response and possible policy in the wake of this? These are questions far too large and too sensitive to address here. 

What is important to look at is one larger question: the danger of religion. This is not about Islam or Judaism or Buddhism or Christianity. This is not about singling out a particular community in a blaming game. No, it’s about a process of introspection that each person of faith (or no faith) is obliged to engage in. Because if we play with fire, we can get burned. In this week’s parashah, we see both faces of organised religion: the good and the bad. Parashat Beha’a lot’cha starts off beautifully: ‘beha’a lot’cha et hanerot’ – ‘when you raise the lights of the Menorah’…, a symbol of the fire of religion bringing enlightenment and goodness, illuminating our souls. 

Then the parashah meanders through the restructuring of the religious cult as the Levites are elevated to their position of leadership. As Israelite desert society is restructured, each tribe is split up in a camp and assigned a banner and instructed to march upon the blast of silver trumpets. Religion then, is becoming less about the inner light that burns within all of us, and more about logistics and hierarchy. 

The parashah becomes more narrow, militaristic and authoritarian, even Yitro, the loyal convert, Moses’ father-in-law and the great democratic community organiser, leaves in protest. Things go from bad to worse in this as Moses’ leadership starts to spin out of control. The people complain and cry out for meat. God strikes them down and even Miriam speaks out against her brother. Religion has turned awry. Bitter. Cruel. Even God Himself has turned dark and unrelenting. 

Can there be any redemption and healing in this? 

The turning point in our text that forewarns us is a verse that we sing every time we start the Torah service and we usually think nothing of it. But what if we were to pause and reflect on what these words actually mean? 

“Vayehi binso’a ha’aron vayomer Moshe: kuma Adonai vayafutzu oyvecha vayanusu misanecha mifanecha.” 

“And it was that when the Ark would travel, Moses would say, ‘arise, Eternal, may your enemies be scattered and those who hate You flee from You.” 

And we sing this in our synagogues – across the denominational spectrum – every Shabbat. ‘May your enemies be scattered and those who hate You flee from You.’ Rashi’s commentary makes it even worse where he talks about ‘Israel’s enemies’. In the face of such hateful paranoia, where is the introspection? It’s a turning point because in the verse preceding this, God’s presence among the Israelites is still described in gentle terms: God is the ‘anan ha-kavod’, the cloud of glory, hovering over them. And yet, after this warlike charge, God becomes a raging fire consuming the Israelites. It’s important to focus on the moral ambivalence of this one verse. Beautifully embroidered tribal banners and burnished silver trumpets notwithstanding, this is the language of war. This is the language of an angry God, Who inspires an angry religion. This is the fire we play with when we engage in the business of organized religion. 

The Woolwhich murders were burning with this anger. Of course, it is not merely religion’s fault. The situation is too complex to pin on organised religion alone: there are individual psycho-pathological and even global geo-political factors involved. But given the violence that hateful exegesis can give rise to, it behooves us as people of faith to reflect on what such verses mean. 

One of the Woolwich murderers cited our Torah is his proof text – ironic given his conversion from Christianity to Islam – as he said that this is about ‘eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth’. He said he wanted to ‘start a war in London tonight’. Such religious hatred can only be countered by a religious openness of heart, by a healthy theology and a sound interpretation of our texts and values. The Rabbis of the Talmud already decreed that ‘eye for eye, tooth for tooth’ was about de-escalating violence in favour of monetary compensation, rather than perpetuating more communal violence. Let us then not descend into the miserable end of this parashah – the carnage of death – but reach back to its beginning where we raise the light. 

We may not be able to solve the world’s problems nor stop the aggression of the deranged. But creating a religious culture that is positive, empowered and peace-loving based on an authentic, honest and compassionate reading of our sacred texts is something that all of us can do. In our homes, in our places of worship, in our communities. Let’s make sure there are more stories like the solidarity and kindness of the Muslim community in Bradford and less like the murder in Woolwich. Time to put out the fire and let the light shine.

Parashat Vayishlach

Parashat Vayishlach Sinai Synagogue

Esther Hugenholtz 

Each of Us Has a Name 

"Each of us has a name, given by God and given by our parents... Each of us has a name given by our enemies and given by our love." 

These words by the famous Israeli poetess Zelda appear to be custom-made for this week's parashah, parashat Vayishlach. This touches on the deepest core of who we are and what we think we are. And those two things are not always the same. 

This week, Jacob, the perennial trickster, can no longer run away from his own destiny. He has to face the proverbial music and dance, or rather, wrestle. 

He has left Laban's house as a rich man, in possession of two wives, two concubines, eleven sons, one daughter, servants and herds of cattle, sheep and donkeys. His, shall we say, "entrepreneurial endeavours" have not been fruitless. But Jacob's creativity is not enough. It won't save him this time. Jacob's creativity has allowed him to sail the currents of his life's flow and prosper in the process. He has a knack for turning the odds in his favour as he tricks his elder twin out of his birthright, acquires two wives in the face of Laban's scheming (they really did deserve each other!) and turns Laban's fortunes against him as he amasses livestock and wealth. 

Jacob has done well for himself. The currents of life could have swept him under but rather he managed to stay afloat. But what he did not do was rise above them. Rise above the intrige and manipulation, above his own impulses and needs. The Jacob we know so far has not been able to self-reflect and truly grow as a human being. Each of us has a name, the name given by our parents. Ya'acov's name is related to him grasping Esav's ankle when he was born. This is the man we know: always grasping, trying to tackle the other and hold on to what he deems his right. The Midrash relates Ya'acov to Akvah, deceit (ayin-kuf-bet is the shared root). Did Rivkah and Yitzchak in a manner condemn Jacob with his name just as they did Esav, naming him Edom, the red one, fallen to his shortsighted passions, signing away his fate for a bowl of lentil stew? 

The names that parents give are truly important. Naming a child is a blessing, a calling and perhaps a prophecy. Name your children, then, with tender care and thoughtful insight! But of course things are not that simple. Judaism doesn't adhere a determinist worldview where either nature or nurture condemns us to the mistakes of our ancestors. If that were the case, well, then there is scant hope for us! The narratives of Genesis tell us of the weight of parentage and upbringing, warts and all. But also offers us a redemptive vision to use the gifts of our parents while discarding toxic or at least difficult baggage. But this requires us to step outside of ourselves, and take the God's eye perspective, so to say. 

Each of us has a name, given by our parents and given by God. It is in Jacob's greatest hour of need, during his most vulnerable moment, that he grows. That he forces himself to grow. He finds himself on the banks of the river Jabbok, a tributary of the great Jordan river and the scene almost seems a repeat from his travelling experience in parashat Vayetzeh. Here too, he lodges and anxiously faces the confrontation with his estranged brother Esav. Jacob is distressed and afraid, and as Rashi comments, on account of the prospect of violence between him and Esav, whether as a victim or as a perpetrator. He prays, for the first time acknowledging his humility. Placing his family out of harm's way, he crosses the river. He is alone, in the dark, and encounters a stranger on the banks of the Jabbok with whom he wrestles. "Vayivater Ya'acov levado vaye'avek ish imo ad alot hashachar." "And Jacob was left alone and wrestled with him a man until the break of dawn." It seems poignant. Does the break of dawn symbolise enlightenment or insight gained through his struggle? The unknown man demands he let him go and Jacob demands in return to be blessed by him. The angel asks his name. Who are you? The underlying question is. And what do you think you are? Who do you hope to become? 

When somebody asks our name it is a chance for us to redefine or reaffirm who we are. This is where the moment of transcendence happens. The anger renames Jacob Yisrael, 'he who wrestles with God.' As an angel, a shaliach, an emissary of the Eternal, Zelda's poem rings truer still. It is God Himself Who renames Jacob, Who recognises his existential struggle rather than a self-interested contest of wills, and blesses him through it. 

Just as Jacob has swam the currents of the Jabbok and prevailed, he has finally touched a life of true meaning, of service and of hard-fought dignity. He has conquered his fears not through trickery but through honesty. And he has wrestled with God not because of an ulterior motive but to truly seek God's Name and challenge Him in the proud tradition of Abraham his grandfather. He no longer goes with the flow and is no longer shaped by circumstance and impulse but has become a riper person, a more noble person, a person ready to reconcile with Esav after twenty years and who honours the memories of his wives. Who himself breaks the toxic family patterns in the end, through reprimanding his conflictive sons and celebrating the peace and joy of his grandsons through Joseph, Manesseh and Ephraim. 

Each of us has a name, given to us by our parents. There is much beauty in that as well as challenge. But if Jacob's saga tells us anything is that being a Yisrael, a God-Wrestler, a Jew who stands firmly and lovingly in the tradition of his or her people, is about seeking the transcendence, both in God and in ourselves. 

We are meant to wrestle, to challenge and to grow. It may be painful and scary but it is our duty and the rewards are the gifts of a life of meaning and ethics bestowed on generations to come.

Words are Wind?

Southport Reform Community 

Kol Nidré Sermon 

Words are Wind? 

“I’ll begin from the moment I got you, the moment I saw you lying on the table among my other birthday presents... on Friday, June 12, I was awake at six o ‘clock, which isn’t surprising, since it was my birthday. But I’m, not allowed to get up at that hour, so I had to control my curiosity, until quarter to seven... A little after seven I went to Daddy and Mama and then to the living room to open my presents, and you were the first thing I saw, maybe one of my nicest presents...’ 

When she started scribbling her thoughts in her checkered blue-and-red diary, on that fateful 12th of June, 1942, did she know her words were eternal? That they would change the world – both hers and ours? 

Words bind our fate and shape worlds, as my fellow Dutchwoman and co-religionist Anne Frank would intuit. Words, words, words. Yom Kippur is heavy with them. Prayers that are given wings through our sacred intentions. Words that indict us and defend us. Words that praise and words that ring with the empty chime of our mortality. Ancient words from the Torah, Prophets and Sages and contemporary words from our Progressive rabbis. Words that speak of vows, of repentance, of prayer and charity. Words that condemn our abuse of words: of slander, of lying, of judgment. Words that ring true and words that ring hollow. Words that move us and words that leave us cold. 

Between now and Ne’ilah, many words will be spoken, too many perhaps. Even, or especially on Yom Kippur, there is a danger that words become wind. The machzor brims with them. It is a document that shows our struggle with God and ourselves, that maps our gratitude and exposes our weakness. It disseminates the mayor themes of our tradition, provides us with the roadmap into life’s most profound questions. It is a distillation of our Jewish tradition’s wisdom and theology, a rallying cry to justice and a whisper to bring the heart to contrition. The machzor is a beautiful document to be sure, but in many ways it is not ours. We might struggle with finding God on those pages that are so God-heavy, we might not recognise ourselves in the ‘Al Chets’, we might not be moved by the imagery of ‘Ki Anu Amecha’ and do we really need to ponder the want of our actions in ‘Avinu Malkeinu’? Even the Kol Nidré, the convergence point of many a Jewish community, may be rendered meaningless in our experience. What vows have we broken? What obligations have we forsaken? For what must we atone? 

As important as breaking down our ego is during these Days of Awe, it is equally important to build up our values, our intentions, our promises. From this Kol Nidré to the next. 

If Kol Nidré is about annulling and excusing the vows we’ve made between God and ourselves, from this past year to this present moment, then can we perhaps do the reverse? Can we bequeath a heritage of words that is lasting, positive and compelling in our lives? We know that Anne Frank did even in the darkest and direst of circumstances. Her diary encouraged her to see pinpoints of light in the midnight of the century. I can only stand in awe of what her spirit accomplished but it does prove the power of words. 

Words matter, for better and worse. Then how can we make our words count? In a way, Anne Frank’s diary is a complex and beautiful example of an ‘ethical will’. The ethical will is one of those wonderful concepts that the Torah bequeathed on humankind (together with monotheism and the weekend!) and that made its way in both the Jewish and Christian tradition. There are two important ethical wills mentioned in Torah: Jacob’s blessing of his children in Genesis chapter 49 and Moses’ song in Deuteronomy chapter 32 (yes, you can go home and read these and be inspired). 

Speaking words of wisdom and blessing to one’s progeny does seem very Biblical indeed. Not many of us may be granted that dignity, calm and lucidity when at death’s door. Hence, during the Middle Ages, rabbis developed the ethical will as a written document that could be written when the individual was still of sound body and mind. An ethical will grants us an opportunity to impart our values both to ourselves and to the next generation. It is a valiant storming of the gates of Eternity, to make sure that we are indeed inscribed in the Book of Life. I would invite you, then, to complement the fleeting words of the Kol Nidré and words of urgent morality from the machzor with writing your own ethical will – you can glean inspiration and tips from the website ethicalwill.com. 

For those of you who do not write on Shabbat and Yom Tov; this is a project that can be done right up till Hoshanah Rabbah, when the Gates of Repentance really close for the year. For those Progressive Jews who do choose to write on holy days, I invite you to consider taking up pen and paper when you come home tonight after services. You might even use the machzor as a source of inspiration. Consider the question you would like to ask yourself. If the machzor represents a meeting between God and the individual, then maybe you can see yourself from the God’s eye perspective. See yourself with both chesed and din, loving-kindness and judgment. What things did you get right this year and what things did you get wrong? Who is this person you are trying to become? Who are the people you want to honour, love and cherish in your lives? What are the timeless values you want to impart on family and friends? And how do you wish to be remembered? Write these words with tenderness – they can truly be a gift. 

It seems indeed that the ethical will can be an excellent metaphor and tool for the transformative experience of Yom Kippur. We can seal ourselves in the Book of Life; not out of presumption and arrogance but out of contrition and quiet dignity. 

This moral profundity is reflected in the first written ethical will known to us, from Eleazar, the son of the famous 11th century Ashkenazi rabbi Isaac of Worms. In this document, Eleazar writes advice fitting for this time of year: 

 “Think not of evil, for evil thinking leads to evil doing.... Purify your body, the dwelling-place of your soul.... Give of all your food a portion to God. Let God’s portion be the best, and give it to the poor.” 

Another scholar, Asher, the son of Yechiel, writes in the 14th century, leaving us with another appropriate set of values: “Do not obey the Law for reward, nor avoid sin from fear of punishment, but serve God from love.” 

I would like to close with the wisdom of our beloved Anne Frank - even the young can share transformative and prophetic insights. Allow me to read some snippets of the ‘ethical will’ she left the world, through the words of her diary. Consider these words alongside with the themes of the machzor:

“The final forming of a person's character lies in their own hands.” Pair this with “Hachayim v’hamavet natati lefanecha, hab’racha v’hak’lalah, uv’acharta bachayim - I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse... choose life!” (Deut. 30:19) 

Or, “No one has ever become poor by giving”, which can be read in conjunction with, “al chet shechatanu lefanecha b’neshech uv’marbit – for the sin we have committed before You by financial greed.’ (Liturgy) 

Or, “I keep my ideals, because in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart” with “Elohai, neshamah shenatata bi, tehorah hi – my God, the soul You have given me is pure.” (Liturgy) 

And finally, “How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world” with “Limdu heitiv, darshu mishpat – learn to do good, seek justice” (Isaiah 1:17). 

The key word here is limdu, the imperative to learn. We are our own books, the stories of our own lives. It is never too late to write them, to be inscribed for goodness and eternity, in the reflections we share and the love we transmit, from one day to the next, from Rosh haShanah when we are written to Yom Kippur when we are sealed. The gates and the pages of our ethical wills are open. 

Give yourself and your loved ones this gift. G’mar chatimah tovah!

Heroes and Villains

Yom Kippur Sermon 

Southport Reform Synagogue 

The Heroes and Villains Among Us: Abraham and Jonah 

One of the great unexpected delights of rabbinical school was discovering that so many of my fellow students are science fiction and fantasy nerds. Star Trek, Star Wars (but never both at once!), Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings – all these modern-day sagas were loved, cherished and dissected by us students. I guess it makes sense: these narratives are so archetypical and we rabbis love a good story and a good book. 

One fantasy, however, that many of us have been particularly engrossed with is the ‘Game of Thrones’ book series by George R.R. Martin, also a successful television series by the American network HBO. In most fantasy and sci-fi, there is not so much space for moral ambiguity or psychological depth. Not so in ‘Game of Thrones’ – set in a brutal Medieval world, even the most noble of characters know their darker sphere and even the greatest of villains have some redeeming qualities. Its realism makes the saga truly compelling. It is the same realism that Tanakh displays. 

Heroes and villains may not be so different; and that applies too to our inner heroes and villains. 

A meaningful example of such a hero-villain continuum is found in two of our High Holy Day protagonists: Abraham and Jonah. Abraham is often cast as the heroic man of faith who argues with God for the redemption of Sodom and Gomorrah. Jonah, however, is seen as the reluctant and petty prophet who has no desire to bring his redemptive message to the people of Nineveh. There are many parallels between the two stories and I think they are deliberate. We can see the Jonah story as a ‘Midrash’ on the Abraham story. The Jonah narrative is, if you will, a sequel that subverts many of the messages of the Abraham narrative in order to bring to light more meaning. 

This idea is not entirely my own. The technique of reading different Biblical texts as midrashic commentaries of each other, as sequels that subvert or affirm each other, was developed by the Biblical scholar Judy Klitsner in her book ‘Subversive Sequels in the Bible - How Biblical Stories Mine and Undermine Each Other’. The idea behind reading Biblical texts this way is called intertextuality – that a story can be multilayered, nuanced and possess different possible readings. It is both bold creativity and deep respect, trusting that the Biblical stories can teach us something both new and profound. 

Let us start with Abraham. 

The first narrative is that of Abraham, spanning the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, chapter 18, versus 16 to 33. Abraham bids farewell to the three mysterious men who announce that he and his wife will still bear progeny. Abraham sees them off in the direction of Sodom. Meanwhile, God says to Himself: ‘shall I hide from Abraham what I am doing?’ (Gen. 18:17) God decides to confide in the patriarch, saying about Sodom and Gomorrah, ‘za’akat S’dom v’Amorah ki rabah v’chatatam ki kav’dah me’od’, ‘the outcry of [against] Sodom and Gomorrah is very great and their sin is very heavy’ (Gen. 18:20). God decides that the cities should be destroyed. Abraham’s response is startling: rather than acquiescing to God’s plan, Abraham challenges his God, saying, ‘ha’af tis’peh tzadik im rasha? ’, ‘will you even sweep away the righteous with the wicked’? (Gen. 18:23, translation mine) only to continue with, ‘hashofet kol ha’aretz lo ya’aseh mishpat?’, ‘shall not the Judge of all the earth do justice?’ (Gen. 18:25). He then famously proceeds to bargain with God over the lives of the few righteous in Sodom. However, God does not relent and overturns the cities. 

Abraham’s heroic act of moral bravery stands in contrast with Abraham’s other moral weaknesses such as the Binding of Isaac, where he fails to challenge God in order to spare his beloved son’s life. 

Jonah, in the Book of Jonah, makes the inverse journey. Abraham represents the hero archetype, and Jonah is our villain. We feel empathy with Abraham; he champions the cause of the oppressed and makes peace. Jonah, on the other hand, is less easy to empathise with. Jonah flees from before the Eternal when charged with his prophetic mission to ‘call on Nineveh’ (Jonah 1:2). Not only does Jonah flee far, far away in the opposite direction, to Tarshish (Spain), but he also relishes in God’s ‘condemnation’ of Nineveh. Jonah is a weak character. He goes down to sleep on the ship to Tarshish in the middle of a storm (Jonah 1:5), shows little concern for the plight of the (non-Israelite) sailors on the ship (Jonah 1:6), is displeased at Nineveh’s repentance (Jonah 4:1) and wallows in self-pity as his beloved kikayon, (bottle gourd plant ) perishes. 

Finally, the book ends with a happy end for Nineveh but rather unhappily for our anti-hero. Jonah does not get what he wants. He is left to brood on his own moral failings. How are these two incredible stories linked? Jonah is the ‘subversive sequel’ to the Abraham saga. The Jonah narrative ‘flips’ a number of key elements in the Abraham story to teach us something about both God and humankind. Both Abraham and Jonah start off seemingly solitary and enjoy an intimate relationship with God. Both are travellers. But while Abraham travels towards God (Gen. 12:1), Jonah flees from God (Jonah 1:2). If anything, Abraham travels across land - arduous and slow - while Jonah travels by sea - efficient and fast. Perhaps the message is that it is difficult to march towards goodness but easy to sail away from it. 

Jonah is almost a polar opposite of Abraham. Whereas Abraham is praised by non-Abrahamites, such as Melchizedek (Gen. 14:19), Jonah eschews relationships with non-Israelites, as he goes down to hide in the ‘belly’ of the ship. The character differences become most apparent in the moment of confrontation with God. Abraham lays the groundwork for the later prophetic traditon: that of the prophet interceding on behalf of the accused by ‘standing in the breach’, even for those outside of the Israelite covenant. Jonah, however, fails miserably in this regard. Even Elie Wiesel doubts whether he deserves to be called a ‘prophet’ since he does not seek to ‘save men but to punish them’! 

Not only can we examine our prophet but also the people they enter into prophetic relationship with. While innocent ‘Gentiles’ (for lack of a better term) fail to avert the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah, it is on account of innocent ‘Gentiles’ that both Jonah and Nineveh are spared. Gentiles play another unique role in the book of Jonah: as the ‘innocent’ sailors who try to deal with their misfortune ethically and honestly. They are reluctant to throw Jonah overboard and embrace ‘ethical monotheism’ (Jonah 2:13 and 14). The sailors show the kind of ‘Abrahamic’ moral courage that Jonah is lacking! The other Gentiles featured in the story are the inhabitants of Nineveh themselves who repent quickly and successfully. Nineveh succeeds where Sodom fails. Finally, God, too, undergoes significant subversion. In the Jonah account, He is far more compassionate. Wrath is amended with mercy and the God of Jonah is a far more forgiving and universalist God than the God in the Abraham narrative. It is as though God Himself has undergone radical change. ‘V’ani lo achus al Nineveh, ha ir hagedolah?’, He says (Jonah 4:11), ‘should I not care for Nineveh, the great city?’. 

Whereas Abraham unsuccessfully appealed to God’s justice, Jonah unsuccessfully tried to block God’s mercy. If we see the Jonah story as a sequel of the Abraham story, then perhaps God wanted Jonah to do what Abraham did: resist His judgement. Not only does God care about repentance; He cares for humanity as a whole. It is God’s Self Who provides the ultimate prophetic message of universal Divine Love when the prophet fails. 

We must, in a way embrace both the villain and hero within us; to grow in self-awareness and self-improvement.

If both God and His prophets can grow and cultivate compassion, then so can we. It is with good cause, then, that we travel through Yom Kippur with Abraham and Jonah by our sides. They are both conflicted characters, who do both good and ill. They are real; of flesh-and-blood and three-dimensional. No wonder us sci-fi and fantasy geeks find our Tanakh so compelling. The best stories don’t only keep us riveted but they help us change and become better versions of ourselves and help us to see the best both in our fellow man and in God. 

What better plot is there for the High Holy Days? 

G’mar chatimah tovah!

The Numbers Game

Southport Reform Synagogue

Esther Hugenholtz 

The Numbers Game 

This is a sermon that shouldn’t be delivered again. This won’t be original nor will it be my best. It won’t be clever, complex or sophisticated. It won’t include intelligent commentary on the Torah or bring insightful citations from the Talmud. But it will be real. 

I wrote a sermon on a similar theme last year. the economy. Almost five years ago, in 2008, I started my rabbinical studies in the United States. My husband and I had plans to emigrate to America from the Netherlands. I moved to Los Angeles and hoped that he’d catch up soon and find a job in his field. 

‘Man plans and God laughs’, the Yiddish saying goes. The economy collapsed, my husband lost his job back home and couldn’t find one in the USA. We were forced to maintain a long-distance marriage for the two years that we struggled to keep me in school despite dwindling funds and stalling opportunities. Eventually, we had to face the music and pull out of rabbinical school and return to Europe. 

I left a country that had been reduced to shambles, going from bad to worse: middle class Jewish ‘doctor-lawyer’ families found themselves unemployed and cutting into their pensions in order to pay their kids’ school fees, Jewish charities found themselves struggling and synagogues merged, closed down and couldn’t employ new rabbis, leaving many colleagues in dire straits. And this was within a privileged section of solidly middle class American society. 

Far more chilling were reports of sprawling tent cities populated by the working poor, grating stories of foreclosed homes, of the sick and elderly not getting the healthcare and help they needed and unemployment rates numbering in the millions, reaching double digit percentages. I dare not think of the consequences of this crisis for the millions and millions who are truly vulnerable, to whom the crisis makes the difference between malnutrition and actual starvation, between indentured servitude and outright slavery, between ethnic tension and full-blown war. With the euro teetering and countries like Greece brought to the brink of both bankruptcy and fascism. 

Man plans, it seems, but I don’t think God is laughing. 

My husband and I got very lucky. We returned to Europe and I transferred to Leo Baeck College in London where I was warmly received. We were forced to remain long-distance for two more years, as I studied in London and he managed to rebuild his career. Things aren’t easy or secure but we are OK. We have a lot to be thankful for. 

And yet, when I look beyond my immediate concerns, I’m angry. Furious. 

A few months ago, I read a shocking statistic. A twenty-one with twelve zeros. 21 trillion US dollars. Or 13 trillion pounds sterling. This is the amount that the super-rich have hidden in secret bank accounts, according to a report by Tax Justice Network . 

I saw the number spread across my computer screen as this article made a brief cameo appearance in the news. And then it disappeared almost without a trace. Where was the moral outcry, the righteous indignation? 

Let me read you some snippets of the report. Rarely did I find a financial report such riveting reading: 

“At least $21 trillion of unreported private financial wealth was owned by wealthy individuals via tax havens at the end of 2010. This sum is equivalent to the size of the United States and Japanese economies combined. There may be as much as $32 trillion of hidden financial assets held offshore by high net worth individuals according to our report... We consider these numbers to be conservative. This is only financial wealth and excludes a welter of real estate, yachts and other non financial assets owned via offshore structures.” 

As if this isn’t enough, I quote: 

“This hidden offshore sector is large enough to make a significant difference to all of our conventional measures of inequality... For most countries, global financial inequality is not only much greater than we suspected, but it has been growing much faster. It turns out that this offshore sector—which specializes in tax dodging is basically designed and operated... by the world’s largest private banks, law firms and accounting firms headquartered in First World capitals like London, New York and Geneva. Our detailed analysis of these banks shows that the leaders are the very same ones that have figured so prominently in government bailouts...” 

I know I’m on thin ice here. Sermonising on the moral corruption of a tiny, ultra-rich minority? It seems to be dangerously close to declaring a partisan position or stirring up class war, although I must emphasise that the Tax Justice Network is an initiative support by civil society groups which emerged from the British Houses of Parliament - hardly revolutionary. However, not speaking out for fear of giving an overly-political sermon holds even greater moral peril. If ethical monotheism cannot have a fire-and-brimstone moment to condemn grave social injustice, then what can? As Progressive Jews who echo the ethics of our Prophetic tradition, we can wonder what Hosea, Amos and Isaiah would have said. 

We can only imagine what those financial resources could do. Feed, clothe, educate and protect the entire world’s population multiple times over. Be invested in fundamental research in curing debilitating diseases and solving environmental crises. There is a messianic ring to this absurd number, to quote Jeremiah, ‘a future and a hope’. 

Apart from the obvious moral indictment, there is a deeper layer, most relevant for this solemn season. The fundamental inequality in our world doesn't only provide us with a moral crisis but also a spiritual and theological challenge. Every day, executive decision made by very powerful and influential human beings hangs the lives of other human beings in the balance. The owners of the 21 trillion inscribe the rest of us in the Book of Life and Death. This is blasphemy and idolatry, a violation of both the meaning of God and the image of Man. 

Let’s take a look at one of the most central prayers of our High Holy Day liturgy, the Unetaneh Tokef: 

“For all who pass away and all who are born, for all who live and all who die, for those who complete their normal span and those who do not – who perish by fire or water, by the violence of man or the beast, by hunger or thirst, by disaster, plague or execution, for those who rest and those who wander, for the secure and the tormented, for those who become poor and those who become rich, for the failures and the famous.”  

The Unetaneh Tokef is God’s numbers game, His economic report. It is a powerful yet grim text that cuts to the core of life’s most harrowing existential question: who lives and who dies and by what criteria is this determined? It is a question that is both universal and unanswerable. It is a question that, even in the best of circumstances, none of us can avoid. 

The Unetaneh Tokef could be dismissed morally reprehensible. A moral atheist may conclude that this is not the God he or she wants to believe in. Can we and must we believe in a God Who micromanages our existence? A God Who toys with the lives of people? We can reinterpret the metaphor because the alternative is far more disturbing. It is saying that it is OK for human beings themselves to have this divine power. Instead of God casting the dice, we do. God, then, is not the dictator Who controls our every move and condemning or redeeming us as He chooses. 

The Unetanek Tokef, rather, by giving God sovereignty over our lives, even in ways that modern sensibilities deem both unrealistic and disturbing, makes God the placeholder of humanity’s dignity and the guarantor of the inalienable worth of each human being. It is a rallying cry for social justice and a reminder that both the Reality of God and the Idea of God reign supreme: not the power, greed or money of Man. If we take God seriously, then we should take human beings seriously. This is, to paraphrase Abraham Joshua Heschel, the duty of the religious person. 

The most important number in the numbers game then, is not the 21 trillion, or the mere 100,000 people holding 9.8 trillion of that wealth (0.001 % of the world population, yes, I did the math). The most important number is one. One. For the One God Who gives us the moral impetus to condemn cruelty and injustice in His Name and in Whose image each one of us is created, making not high the wealthy or low the poor. One. Because every person matters. One, because no human life can ever be expressed in economic terms. This is the economy that matters. 

It is not up to us to inscribe or deny each other in the Book of Life. It is up to us to create a world where each of us may be written in the Book of Life and none of us will be denied. I pray, bemeirah beyameinu, speedily and in our days, that I do not need to give this sermon again next year. 

Shana tovah.

Covenant, Community, Caring

Shavuot Sermon Sinai Synagogue 

Covenant, Community and Caring 

Communities are interesting places. Communities can be nurturing or toxic, they can include and exclude, uplift and break down. In this sense, communities are just the sum of the parts of humanity that cement them together. Of course as a community, we hope and want to see the very best of ourselves. Yet there is a darker side to community as well. Who is in and who is out? Who participates and who is jettisoned? Who leads and who follows? This is part of the central question of what kind of a community we want to be. 

Shavuot, like any good Jewish holiday, is about many things. (We never make things simple in Judaism!) There is an agricultural component as we celebrate the harvest and offering of the firstlings. It is also, of course, about Revelation at Sinai and the giving of the Torah. Shavuot is a spiritual wedding, if you will, where Israel as the Bride enters into a sanctified and loving state with God as the groom. 

One of the central Shavuot themes is community and inclusivity. 

The Book of Ruth is a prime example of this. Time and time again, individuals in the Book of Ruth decided to be inclusive. They could have been exclusive but chose ‘chesed’, loving kindness, instead. Ruth, as a new widow from Moav could have chosen to stay with her own people. Yet ‘chesed’ compelled her to follow her mother-in-law, Naomi. Naomi kisses Ruth tenderly and tries to honourably turn her back with kind words, ‘go, return to your mothers’ house, may the Eternal deal kindly with you as you have dealt with the dead and me ‘ (Ruth 1:8) Yet Ruth matches Naomi’s ‘chesed’ with her own as she persists and utters the famous words: 'ki asher telchi, elech, uv’asher talini, alin, amech ami, v’elohaich, elohai’ – ‘for where you shall go, I will go; and where you shall lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God’. Naomi relents and does the right thing: she includes the poor Moabite woman, a member of the very community the Torah prohibits the Israelites from marrying, and brings her to her new home. 

Of course the story doesn’t end here. 

Ruth then gleans the fields to support herself and her mother-in-law – another act of chesed – and eventually Boaz, the kinsman who comes to love her on the threshing-floor – another act of chesed. And the greatest act of chesed is yet to come, for out of this downtrodden foreigner, the quintessential convert to Judaism, the Davidic lineage will flow, and with that, the Messianic redemption of the entire world. It is indeed true that ‘God works in mysterious ways’. Through the downtrodden He redeems, as the ‘Shomer gerim’ (Ps. 146:8), the Guardian of strangers. 

And yet this message is so easily forgotten. 

When communities do not feed the poor, do not welcome the stranger, do not act with chesed. By oppressing the downtrodden, they scorn the Divine Will, as happened only a few days ago in Tel Aviv. Thirty six times we are commanded to not oppress and even love the stranger, ‘for we were strangers in Egypt’ and ‘you know the nefesh, the life-feelings, of the stranger’. 

Yet on the 24th of May, thousands of Tel Aviv citizens converged in a demonstration against African asylum seekers, mostly from Eritrea and Darfur, where oppression, hunger and war run rampant. A right-wing politician described the African foreigners as a ‘cancer’ that needs to be ‘excised’ and sent back. The demonstration darkened into race riots when some of the demonstrators turned their anger onto the Israeli police and a car with African passengers.

I read the news on Thursday evening in Ha’Aretz and was left speechless. Only a few days before Shavuot, this festival of covenant, community and caring, a Jewish mob in Tel Aviv violates the very premises at the heart of Jewish ethics. Each one of those African immigrants could be a Ruth, crossing over from Moav, because there was ‘bread in the Land’. 

The parallels are scathingly obvious. This is when communities become vicious and turn to exclusion. The walls get pulled up to form an echo-chamber of exclusivist, if not racist, rhetoric. Us versus them. Human versus something somehow deemed diminished in humanity. The Torah counsels us against this. This is why the Name of God is invoked after so many of the ethical commandments: ‘And if a stranger dwells with you in your land, you shall not do him wrong. The stranger that dwells with you shall be unto you as the home-born among you, and you shall love him as yourself; for you were strangers in the land of Egypt: I am the Eternal your God.’ (Lev. 19:33-34). God’s most sacred Name is to remind us of the divine spark in each of us, because as soon as we forget that each human being is created in the image of God, it is all too easy to forget our common humanity. 

Community is supposed to be the structure to help us remember this great commandment. 

Luckily, we also have plenty of examples in our communities on how you get it right. From the grandiose political to the parochially personal, I too, am a Ruth. Holland may not be exactly a Moav and Yorkshire may not be Beit Lechem (although the verdant hills might suggest otherwise!) but I crossed over into your community this past year and felt incredibly welcome. There was real ‘chesed’ practiced here. The community of Sinai Synagogue welcomed me into your shul, homes and hearts. I sat at your Shabbos tables, slept in your houses. I was picked up and brought back to the train station, fed endless cups of tea and offered friendship, hospitality and kindness. 

As this year comes to a close, I can look back on a wonderful year with you all, where I felt welcome, this stranger from Holland and London. You’ve offered me Northern warmth and I am grateful. Thank you. Thank you all for having me with you as your student rabbi this year. Communities can be interesting places and I hope to learn more about how to help you build that caring, covenant community, the kehillah k’doshah. I am certain we can do it, in the little and not-so-little ways, and then we can nurture the regulars and the newcomers alike. Who knows what blessings will flow from this. 

Chag Shavuot Sameach!

Stairway to Heaven

This article has been published in the Sinai Chronicle, Sinai Reform Synagogue, Leeds

Stairway to Heaven

Are you ready to count your way to personal transformation?

The Omer Counting can be seen as the world’s oldest ’12 Step Program’, an antique method of self-improvement. According to the Chassidic tradition this is certainly the case where each ‘sefirah’ (‘counting’) is aligned with a Kabbalistic description of the Divine, like ‘Gevurah’ (power) or ‘Chesed’ (loving-kindness) for us to emulate. Be what may, the message is clear – the Omer is not only a Biblical commandment (Lev. 23:15) in which we count our way from freedom (Pesach) to Revelation (Shavuot) – but also a stairway to Heaven into our deepest personal experiences.

A lot happens en route. From the first counting (on the 15^th of Nisan, second Seider night, for those who celebrate) to the 50th on erev Shavuot itself (6^th of Sivan), the tragedies and joys of the Jewish people pass us by. On our relentless march to receive Torah is interspersed with Yom haShoah (27^th of Nisan), Yom haZikaron (4^th of Iyar), Yom ha’Atzma’ut (5^th of Iyar) and Lag b’Omer (18^th of Iyar).

Most of these events are solemn remembrances of death, loss and tragedy and so in traditional circles, the Omer period is seen as one of semi-mourning where joys are tempered. Yet at the same time, the Omer period reminds us equally of all that we can rejoice in and what we can look forward to – being alive to accept Torah anew each year at Sinai. As with many of our festivals and experiences, this ‘mixing’ of both the difficult and the beautiful is what makes our tradition real, tangible – and deeply personal.

How can we become fully ready to embrace the covenant at Sinai? The Omer count is supposed to prepare us for this transformative experience, it is like steps leading into our collective mikveh. Are you ready to take the proverbial plunge?

It is so easy to focus on the clichés of Shavuot: Ruth the Moabite, conversion and the inclusion of converts to Judaism. Revelation, the Ten Commandments, (all-night) Torah learning. Even the fresh flowers in the Sanctuary and a big slice of cheesecake! All of these are important and positive values, worthy of discussion. But maybe it is helpful to focus on the process of Shavuot instead. How do we get to that point? What forces shape our experiences on the way? Perhaps a more conscious experience of the Omer count can help us with that question.

The Babylonian Talmud (Tractate Yevamot 46a) discusses the requirements for conversion to Judaism (circumcision for men and immersion in a mikveh for both genders) and deduces that when our ancestors stood at Sinai, they all were converts to Judaism. It is a lovely sentiment, of course, both for Jews-by-birth and Jews-by-rebirth, but the question begs itself: how did they ‘get there’? What transformation happened along the way to turn this haphazard and traumatised band of ex-slaves into a covenant people, ready and worthy to receive the Divine Presence?

They went through the 12 Step Program. They faced both their traumas and joys and were willing to work with them, move with them and move beyond them. They placed their pain in the crucible of faith and forged hope from it. Sure, they were fallible – and the Torah is a testimony to their frequent backsliding (and Moses’ relentless kvetching!) – but our ancestors took the plunge because they knew from their personal experience what Torah could mean to them. They were liberated physically and honed their souls to be liberated spiritually.

What are you readying yourself for this year? What Torah values would you like to immerse yourself in this year as you stand at Sinai? Is there a new mitzvah – however small – that you would be willing to take on? And how do you feel about choosing your Judaism, mind, body and soul? You still have a little while to think, reflect and feel these questions. Just remember, the Holy One Blessed be He is ‘counting’ on you!  

Exodus - Movement of Jah People!

This article appeared earlier in the Sinai Chronicle.

Exodus – Movement of Jah People

When I was a teen, I listened to a lot of Bob Marley. I was an avid Reggae fan and even paid homage to his grave when I visited Jamaica on a family vacation. What I loved about Bob’s music, apart from the irresistible rhythms and melodies were his spiritual, Biblically-inspired lyrics. For people the world over, black and white, rich and poor, young and old, Bob Marley’s rousing words rang like a Prophetic call to social justice and transformative faith.

In one of his most popular songs, ‘Exodus’, Bob sings the following in his Jamaican Patois:

“Open your eyes and look within: are you satisfied with the life you’re living?”

Although Bob Marley was not Jewish, he echoes the sentiments of the Haggadah which tells us to every generation is to regard themselves as if they personally had exited Egypt: ‘chayav adam lirot et atzmo ke’ilu hu yatza mimitzrayim’.

What is remarkable about this commandment, rooted in Exodus 13:8 (‘and you shall tell your son, on that day, saying, ‘it is because of what the Eternal did for me when I came out of Egypt’) is that it appeals to our own, personal lives. But there’s more to it than that. Exodus 13:8 and Mishnah Pesachim 10:5 (which finds its way into the Haggadah) are ultimately echoed in the lyrics of Bob Marley’s song: ‘open your eyes and look within: are you satisfied with the life you’re living?’

There can be no external change without internal transformation. To Judaism, the personal is political. And Judaism will always prompt us to ask questions.

What does it mean that the Eternal took us out of Egypt? It means that we are not only partners in creation but also in redemption. It means that we can look at the experience of oppression and internalise it, that we can cultivate empathy with those oppressed today. It means we read the newspapers and watch the news through the lens of Eternity.

It’s okay to be angry. But it is only half of the perspective. By acknowledging that it is God Who redeemed us, the Torah tries to instil upon us an ‘attitude of gratitude’ to accompany our ‘righteous indignation’ as well as teaching us that political liberation relies on ideas greater than our own. Pesach likes mixing metaphors. At the Seder we speak of the bread of affliction while we dine on delicacies. We recline on comfortable seats while speaking about the burden of relentless work. I think the mixing of metaphors is intentional: were we to only focus on our liberation, we might become complacent. Were we to focus only on our oppression, we might become disenchanted. By emphasising both, the Haggadah hopes to spurn us into action. Or as Bob Marley would sing, ‘movement of Jah people’.

The value of the Exodus story, therefore, is not whether it historically took place or not. Its eternal relevance does not lie in archaeological evidence or antique relics on display in the British Museum. In fact, whether it happened or not might be completely irrelevant. What we do with it in our experience today is what matters.

So when you are seated at your Seder open your eyes and look within. Engage your guests and yourself with pointed questions about our lives and our world. Like the four sons of the Haggadah, it is good to ask even when it seems difficult or inappropriate to ask. What binds you in ‘slavery’ today? And what sets you free? What social causes do you find important and in what historical developments do you see both the hand of Pharaoh and the Hand of God? Today’s newspapers and newsreels supply us with endless food for thought. Bring snippets of articles to the table. Do a little research into a social issue you’re passionate about. Present your cause and encourage discussion. Enhance the brilliant pedagogy of the Haggadah with your own chiddush, new contribution.

The genius of Pesach is that its message is always just right. Like matzah, in times of prosperity, it keeps us humble. And in times of hardship, it nourishes us.

As I will set the table and place my silver Eliyahu’s cup on my fine brocade tablecloth and as I thank God for another season of freedom and another feast of food, I will hum Bob Marley in honour of fighting the good fight in times past and present. It is fitting that Bob, a modern-day prophet who was himself a descendant of slaves, should lend me the vocabulary that points towards Pesach’s ultimate goal:

“Jah come to break downpression, rule equality, wipe away transgression, set the captives free!”

Chag Pesach sameach!

Sermon Leo Baeck College / Sinai Synagogue Leeds

Parashat Mishpatim

The Shadow Side of Torah

If last week’s parashah (Yitro) was the wedding ceremony, this week’s reading should be the honeymoon. Last week’s parashah was so easy to fall in love with. There was the wisdom of Yitro, the romance of Revelation and the drama of the Ten Utterances to woo the reader. We collectively experienced the marriage between God and the people of Israel as we became His bride and as He presented us with His ketubah. So, a romantic honeymoon seems to be in the making!

There is much to love in Parashat Mishpatim. God and Israel are starting to build their relationship and working out the details of living a covenanted life together. Up to this point, there is much to be happy about. Mishpatim is the parashah that gives us such moral classics as ‘do not oppress the stranger for you were strangers in Egypt’ (Ex. 22:20) and ‘you shall neither side with the mighty to do wrong—you shall not give perverse testimony in a dispute so as to pervert it in favour of the mighty...’ (Ex. 23:2) and ‘You shall not ill-treat any widow or orphan. If you mistreat them, I will heed their outcry as soon as they cry out to Me’... (Ex. 22:21).

In true honeymoon-style, this is ethical monotheism at its finest.

But even new relationships can start to show cracks. With increased emotional intimacy comes increased awareness. Neither God nor Israel are perfect in this marriage. Both partners, so to say, bring their own baggage. Between the brightness of Mishpatim’s most uplifting words, the taboo, the difficult, and the hateful lurk in the shadows.

Amidst lofty sentiments of protecting the stranger, the widow and the poor, there is a voice of condemnation. Amidst verses extolling the beauty of the relationship between God and man, there is a voice fraught with fear and superstition. Amidst humanising the Other, there is a call to genocide. And amidst the rational, there is simply the bizarre.

A triad of Mishpatim’s most obtuse verses can be found in Ex 22:17-19. ‘You shall not allow a sorceress to live... whoever lies with an animal shall surely die... whoever sacrifices to a god other than the Eternal shall be proscribed.’

Here they sit, wedged between the realities of tort law and the prophetic voice of social justice. Three bizarre verses that deal with transgressions punishable by death. They feel taboo. They embarrass us. They cannot easily be explained away. Even our classical commentaries remain quiet. Rashi apologetically argues that these sins apply to men as well as women. Our discomfort is palpable and justified.

The verse ‘you shall not allow a sorceress to live’ was a cause of marginalisation and persecution among pre-modern women in Christian Europe. Scholars think that about 40,000 to 60,000 women were put to death through witch trials and lynching between 1480 and 1750.

The verse condemning bestiality makes us turn away our gaze in embarrassment. What on earth were the Biblical authors thinking by addressing such sexual deviance? It seems very Freudian. And of course, the verse extolling us not to make offerings to other gods lest we risk excision is as old as religious persecution itself. This is religious totalitarianism at its fullest. How many wars have there been fought in the Name of the One True God? I cannot even begin to list the death toll in the name of religion. These verses make us cringe and avert our eyes. Is this our Holy Torah which we dress so lovingly, read so painstakingly and study so ardently?

The play of light and darkness in parashat Mishpatim prompts bigger questions about the shadow side of Torah. It prompts questions about the eternality of the text, of modern sensibilities versus ancient principles. At what point does a text become so reprehensible that the only thing left to do is to... close the book and walk away?

In my own studies, I’ve asked myself this question. During my study of Talmud and Midrash, I have read texts that violently scream out at me. Texts that objectify women, that condemn the Other, that speak scathingly of non-Jews and that reinforce unhealthy social hierarchies. Women are treated as chattels, their bodies as battlefields. In these texts, Jews at the periphery of rabbinic society are sometimes treated with contempt: mamzerim (children from forbidden unions), foundlings, slaves, converts. I have been tempted to get up and walk out in disgust and anger.

But we cannot walk or edit out. We cannot rip the pages from our Tanakh. We must face these difficult texts head-on with the courage to stare into the heart of darkness; and then embark on a mission even more difficult - to mine these texts for meaning, if there is any to be found.

What do disturbing verses about witchcraft, bestiality and idolatry teach us about our world today? Can we square these with our values as Progressive Jews? They touch upon the taboo in human culture, they make us feel a little dirty and a little unhinged and in an ironic way they endanger our sense of moral purity, as the famous anthropologist Mary Douglas would argue. Does witchcraft allude to the fatalistic superstitions and fears that drive us to this day? Does idolatry reference how we bow down before gods of subprime mortgages and national debt? And does the ban on bestiality suggest something about how we abuse and objectify both our animals and our own bodies in an age of factory farming and sexual confusion? Or are these texts lost to us forever in their weirdness?

I am not sure. I am asking the question, not offering the answer. And that is exactly the point of a living tradition. Perhaps the wedding metaphor offers us insight. Torah is a passionate love affair but also a difficult relationship. Religion is a messy business and, just like marriage, requires work. We may fight with our spouses and wrestle with our darkest feelings. But in the shadows and through the cracks, there is a great and holy light. God never promised us a bed of roses. Is that not the theme of many a love song? But He did promise us a covenant that keeps us and challenges us and lifts us up to great moral heights. Even in the lows. Even in the shadows.

Do not be afraid to fall in love with our Torah. And do not be afraid to tell this great love of your life where she fails. That way we can help her light shine, upon the darkness of the world and the darkness of her own innermost places.

Parashat Yitro

Sermon Birmingham Progressive Community

Esther Hugenholtz

Parashat Yitro – We Are All Jews-by-Choice

What does it mean to be Jewish?

I am sure there are as many answers as there are Jews and – you’ll find this very Jewish of me! – there’s not one ‘right’ answer.

Some of us may say that Judaism is about a profound sense of history. Others will say that being Jewish is about being a mensch. I am sure some of you might say that being Jewish is to feel an inextricable connection to the land (and people) of Israel. And yet for others, being Jewish is about tapping into a deep spirituality.

And the list goes on. We have so many ways of ‘being Jewish’. Flavourful matzoh ball soup on Friday night, the white-and-blue JNF tin for loose change. Faded sepia photographs of trade unionist grandparents in the garment industry. But also the habit of perking up with pride when a famous Jew is mentioned in the newspaper. For Jews of the Near East, being Jewish may mean kibbeh and choumous and Torah readings with every ayin and chet crisply pronounced. For Jews in America, being Jewish may mean kosher marshmallows toasted over a bonfire at summer camp.

Of course all these ‘ways of being Jewish’ are wonderfully clichéd. Being Jewish is so much more than ethnic stereotypes and Hollywood references. It is love, community and ethics, ambivalence, anger and a feeling of ‘I-don’t-know-what-I’m-supposed-to-do-with-this’. Being Jewish is chafing against our tragic, horrible, painful collective history and yet also taking great pride in that same history. It is about being called to serve the one God, in Whose image all of humankind is created.

But most of all, being Jewish is all about choice.

See, here’s a secret. We’re all converts - Jews-by-choice. Jews-by-choice come in many shapes and sizes. It might be the cherished cheder teacher. It might be the young parent who beams with pride when their child reads Torah for the first time. It might just be the completely ordinary congregant sitting next to you. Or it might even be the rabbi. In any case, it is all of us, whether we are born or reborn into the covenant.

And it has never been any different.

As special as many of the Torah’s parshiyot are, this week’s parashah feels particularly unique. Parashat Yitro is the joy of b’nei mitzvah children, cheder teachers and rabbis alike—a Godsend (pun intended). The reading is brimming with a riveting narrative and all the important Jewish themes you can think of: Covenant, the Aseret haDibbrot (the Ten Utterances), Revelation, the Giving of the Torah and even some pyrotechnics (because there’s nothing wrong with telling a good story with spectacular special effects). In fact, this parashah is so action-packed that you don’t really know where to start mining it for meaning.

But Parashat Yitro also sets the stage for some of our most beloved heroes in the Torah: Jews-by-choice.

The perennial Jew-by-Choice is the one man this parashah is named after. Yitro. Yitro is Tzippora’s father and Moses’ father-in-law. He is a ‘Kohen Midian’, a Midianite priest. The Midrash claims that Yitro was quite the religious pluralist: he worshipped every deity and idol under the sun.

I imagine Yitro to be a kindly and wise man, tolerant, with a sound, practical perspective on things. He gives Moses sound management advice and warmly welcomes Moses into his clan, during his hour of need.

Yitro was a man of many names. Yet, according to Rashi, when he felt compelled to choose Judaism, he, like Abram and Sarai before him, added a letter to his name, Yeter. Where Abraham and Sarah added the letter Hey, Yitro added the Vav. It is fitting that both these letters are part of the most sacred Name of God, as they chose to enter the Eternal’s covenant.

Tzipporah, his daughter, is another Jew-by-Choice. Like her father, the Sages of the Talmud indicate that she converted. And like her father, she is a personality writ large: a brave young woman who follows her husband Moses in his compelling yet controversial vision of deliverance. She sires two sons whom she names Gershom and Eliezer. Interestingly, these names hint at a deeper truth that we all as Jews experience: ‘Gershom’ means, ‘ger haiti be’eretz nochri’ah’- ‘I was a stranger there [in a foreign land]’ while ‘Eliezer’ means ‘ki Elohai avi be’ezri’ - ‘God [of my father] is my Help’ (Ex. 18:4). Perhaps these names point us to an answer of the question what it means to be Jewish. Matzoh balls and choumous aside, there is a complex yet beautiful dichotomy that we Jews experience. We sometimes may feel very alone in the world. Different, alien, unique, strange. But we also know that we find our strength in God, in the values that God represents, in the best and holiest and noblest of our tradition.

Parashat Yitro sets the stage by introducing these two monumental characters. (And let us not forget that Moses himself, although not a convert, is a Jew-by-Choice as he consciously embraces his Israelite identity!) Soon after, the narrative shifts: from individual stories to a collective experience. It is then that Israel stands at the foot of Har Sinai, ready to enter the covenant with the God Who bore them out of slavery ‘al kanfei nesharim’ - ‘on eagle’s wings’ (Ex. 19:4).

The preparations for Revelation are unique. The Israelites are commanded to wash their clothes and bathe. The Babylonian Talmud (Yevamot 46b) indicates that what the Israelites went through was a conversion ceremony and immersed in a mikveh. Until that point, they had been privileged to inherit the covenant through the patriarchs Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, though through no merit of their own. But now, they were invited to choose.

And choose they did. ‘Na’aseh v’nishmah’, they responded at the foot of the mount, overwhelmed by the glory of flame and thunder and the deep, eternal silence within. ‘We will do and we will hear’.

The Torah instructs us. We are to follow Yitro and Tzipporah, this phenomenal father-daughter team, to embrace the covenant on our own. Love your Judaism, hold it close. Cherish it, believe in it. It is our beautiful ‘segulah’, treasure. It is only when Judaism becomes more than just a stereotype and a cliché that we can truly fulfill our mission of what our parashah calls us to be: a ‘mamlechet Kohanim’ and a ‘goy kadosh’ – a kingdom of priests and a holy people (Ex. 19:6). Every covenant is conditional. The contract has been written, the terms are set but the conditions are compelling. We made that choice thousands of years ago. Every moment we can choose again to be the best Jews we can be., Then we can, in the words of the prophet Micah, ‘love mercy, do justly and walk humbly with our God’. Now that’s something worth converting to!

Shabbat shalom!

Let It Shine

(This article was first published in the Sinai Chronicle, publication of Sinai Reform Synagogue, Leeds)

Jewish holidays are strange, really – topsy turvy if you will. During the bright heat of summer, usually a happy and relaxing time, we mourn the destruction of the Temple and the many ills that have befallen the Jewish people during Tisha b’Av. During the autumn when the wheel of the year spins towards sleepy endings, Rosh haShanah celebrates new beginnings. During Sukkot, we subject our vulnerable selves to the fickle elements of autumn. During the verdant abundance of spring with plenty of fresh foods to enjoy, we honour Pesach with dietary restrictions and contemplations on the meaning of freedom. And now, after a welcome repose offered by the quiet month of Cheshvan, we will find that Chanukkah is not all that different.

In the darkest months, Chanukkah is all about light. On a practical and psychological level, this makes sense. Like other winter festivals such as Christmas and Divali, Chanukkah seeks to uplift sombre spirits by chasing away the gloom. On a spiritual level, however, Chanukkah feels more counterintuitive. During the short days of November and December, many of us feel a natural inclination to ‘cocoon’: to stay inside and retreat from the world. We may feel low on energy and why on earth would we want to go out and share our light?

Yet, this is exactly what Chanukkah wants us to do.

Chanukkah is both the consequence of and contrast to the High Holidays. The High Holidays represent an internal process; both on a personal and collective level. Rosh haShanah and Yom Kippur challenge us to look inward and fix what needs fixing. The liturgy of the season affirms our specific covenant with the Eternal and seeks to improve the relationship between the individual Jew and his or her God.

Chanukkah, on the other hand, follows suit on a more external mission. We have received an opportunity to recharge our spiritual batteries over the past holiday season in order to let our light shine in the darker days. Perhaps the High Holidays were the moment to press our own miraculous vats of oil, carefully stashed away to be found when the right moment arrives.

This notion of ‘shining your light’ is known in our rabbinic texts as ‘pirsumei nisa’ – Aramaic for ‘the advertising of the Miracle’. The miracle, of course, being the rededication of the Temple after wresting it out of Antiochus Epiphanes’ Hellenistic hands, and finding one last vat of oil with which the temple Menorah burnt bright for eight whole days.

Chanukkah could have been an inward-looking festival. We could merely have lit candles inside, huddled around our dreidles and gelt and nibbled on hot latkes and sufganiyot in the company of family and friends. Of course, Chanukkah is all those things. But it is also more. Jewish tradition actually mandates that we place our Chanukkiyot in full view off all the world to see: in a door-opening, or – more conveniently – in the windowsill, looking out. After blessings and Maoz Tzur, we light our Chanukkiyot, where the light gathers force each subsequent evening as per the directive of Rabbi Hillel (Bavli Shabbat 21a).

Just as the Menorah in the Temple represented our eternal flame amidst a darkened world, so too do our Chanukkiyot defy the coldness and dark to send out its light. Chanukkah is not just a winter festival but a proud affirmation as well as a mission: of our Jewish identity, culture and faith in the context of the larger world. Having stocked up on spiritual fuel in the preceding months, we are now commanded to spark our wicks and share our light. With this light, we reflect our deepest values that are woven into this season. The belief that every human is created in the Divine Light, the value that every human being should be able to practice their way of life in freedom and the hope for a world of brotherhood where flames of conflict will make way for lights of peace.

Now that’s a miracle worth advertising. Commit to your values, be proud of who you are and let your light shine.

Parashat Vayeshev

Sermon Glasgow Reform Synagogue

Passion and Restraint

Like every good story, B’reishit is assembling the stage for a final drama: the settling of the B’nei Yisrael in Egypt. When the book of Shemot opens, we all know what happens next. ‘A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph’ (Gen. 1:8) and soon the Israelites are enslaved and embittered by hard labour.

The Joseph Story is a bridge, where adventures of individuals become the fate of nations. Joseph forms the fulcrum between B’reishit and Shemot.

But there is more to Joseph than that. He, like his father Jacob, is a passionate and proud man. But unlike his ancestors, Joseph knows restraint.

Restraint, especially when pertaining to matters of intimacy, is a recurring theme in this part of the Torah. The examples of this are many. Jacob is forced to work another seven years for his beloved Rachel. Reuben fails to restrain himself when he sleeps with Bilhah, his father’s concubine (Gen. 35:22). Chamor, the son of Shechem fails to practice sexual morality when he rapes Jacob’s daughter Dinah. Judah falls for the wiles of a prostitute who is actually his widowed daughter-in-law claiming her rightful heritage: a child in the name of her deceased husband (Gen. 38).

I am not even listing the many plural marriages of our patriarchs. The Torah’s men are driven on by an internal fire which is their rise and downfall. Is this a concession to human nature then, that the movers and shakers in the world are often unruly in matters of the heart? Certainly, when we look at politicians, pop stars and celebrities, this seems very much the case.

Yet Joseph manages to practice restraint.

Joseph’s restraint in a way seems unexpected. Joseph is a proud young boy, handsome and arrogant. A dreamer, he conjures up visions of grandeur, soliciting the contempt and hatred of his hot-headed brothers. Joseph seems doomed to make all the mistakes of his impulsive and manipulative father Jacob. Will he rashly execute his vision of grandeur? Or will he bind himself with the silver cords of conscience?

We know what happens next. His brothers throw him in a pit, almost killing him, and selling him into slavery. The terse narrative of the Torah says nothing about how Joseph reacted. Did he fight them off? Did he try to run away? Did he wail with fear and misery, pounding his fists against the muddy walls of the pit? Maybe already then, Joseph was turning from a dreamer into a visionary and willed himself to silence.

Joseph finds himself in Egypt, at Pharaoh’s court. He is bought by a courtier named Potiphar who ‘took a liking to Joseph’ (Gen. 39:4). The young entrepreneur becomes successful. And as often happens with good-looking and successful men, he draws the eye of the mistress of the house.

I imagine a tantalising scene. Joseph is young and aware of his appeal. He is a golden boy, seventeen years old, full of fire and passion. Potiphar’s wife must have been an aristocratic beauty, dressed in crisp and sheer white linen, her proud head, slender neck and long limbs adorned with gold and lapis lazuli, her eyes encircled with dark kohl. How enticing it would be for a young man, heady with power and privilege and passion, to succumb to her forward advances. ‘Lie with me’, she demands, her voice laced with honey and edged with venom.

He refuses.

We can only imagine the moral fortitude this must have taken. Of course, falling for Potiphar’s wife would have been extremely dangerous. Yet history is littered with examples of death-defying risks taken in the name of love or lust. It is not the risk of punishment or death that stops Joseph. ‘V’eich e’eseh hara’ah hagedolah hazot v’chatati l’Elohim?’ – ‘And how shall I do this great evil and sin before God?’ (Gen. 39:9). Even when Potiphar’s wife pursues him and corners him, he does not relent. She grabs his garment (it seems ironic and telling that Joseph’s clothes figure so prominently in the narrative) but he flees. Scorned, she turns the tables on him and accuses him of rape. When Potiphar’s listens to his wife’s account, he is furious and throws Joseph in jail. Even there, Joseph wills himself silent. Why does he not advocate on his own behalf? Instead, he sits in his dirty and cramped cell and ponders his future.

The young Joseph grows into a discipline and intelligent planner. He keeps his head cool. The foundational stone of the structure of Joseph’s life is his ability to dream and envision. His dreams are not merely passionate or indulgent fantasies but strategic and focused projections of what could be. He is a visionary.

It is Joseph’s visions that allow him to break the chain of familial discord. It is not that he has no emotions; rather he controls them, even when his alienated brothers come down to Egypt to seek his help. Joseph is deliberate; in how he faces the challenge of feeding Egypt during the famine and in how he heals the rifts in his own household. We might not like Joseph, this cocky and precocious child, but we can admire him for the level-headedness with which he shapes his destiny.

Finally, he is rewarded. He too begets two sons, Menasheh and Ephraim. And the Joseph story, like any classic, ends happily with a long life lived out in peace, prosperity and love. Joseph’s largest success and greatest legacy lies not in his wealth but in the heritage his restraint and vision bequeathed upon us. It is not for naught that we bless our sons on Shabbat that they may become like Menasheh and Ephraim. After all, they were the first sibling pair who lived in harmony with each other.

It is Joseph’s moral passion coupled with intelligent vision, bound by the cords of restraint that redeems him. Toxic patterns of anger and abuse, of impulse and danger can be broken. Although the Joseph story eventually leads into the physical slavery of our people, its message is ultimately hopeful. No matter how roped in we may be, we need not be slaves of our passions but can be free to serve God with a pure conscience and clear vision instead.