In or out of the box: begrenzingen en vrijheid

D’rasja LJG Amsterdam: Begrenzing, bemoediging en vrijheid 

Ik heb erg veel respect gekregen voor mijn man. Niet alleen heeft hij mij de afgelopen vijf jaar door dik en dun gesteund toen ik op de rabbijnenopleiding zat, maar hij heeft nu ook een begin gemaakt aan ‘de babykamer’. ‘De babykamer’ is een klus waar wij al enige tijd tegenop zagen. Naar de Prenatal – het glazuur springt van je tanden, zo zoet met al die hartjes en roze – om inkopen te doen, keurig met de lijst van kraamzorg in de hand (heb nooit geweten wat ‘hydrofiele luiers’ zijn. Het zijn dus geen luiers – zo leer je ook weer eens wat). En nu is mijn heldhaftige echtgenoot begonnen met het in elkaar zetten van de box voor ons kleine mannetje. 

In de opvoedkundige wereld zijn er natuurlijk hele discussies over de zin of onzin van een box. Is het goed voor een baby om zo begrensd of beperkt te worden? Of biedt dat juist veiligheid en structuur aan een onoverzichtelijke en chaotische wereld waardoor een klein kindje met meer vertrouwen de wereld leert aftasten? In de joodse traditie – ook de liberaal-joodse traditie – kennen wij volwassenen deze discussie ook. Geven de mitzvot ons structuur en veiligheid in een existentieel chaotische wereld? Of beperken ze ons in onze zelf-expressie en vrijheid? 

De parasja van deze week overdenkt dit thema ook. Er is een zekere ambivalentie, een soort onduidelijkheid, in de pedagogische leer van parasjat Dewariem. Want dat het om een kind-ouder relatie gaat, moge duidelijk zijn. Nu ik zelf bezig ben met het lezen van opvoedkundige boeken (‘Oei Ik Groei!’ en ‘Jongens, hoe voed je ze op?’ van gezinstherapeut Steve Biddulph, een echte aanrader!) en als compleet onervaren bijna-moeder is het leerzaam om te kijken welke modellen van ouderschap de Tora ons aanbiedt. Houdt de Eeuwige onze hand vast of geeft Hij ons de vrijheid om te kiezen? Hoe is het om het als joodse volk angstig te zijn voor de nieuwe uitdagingen die ons wachten zoals de ‘anakiem’, de reuzen van het beloofde land? En hoe kunnen wij die angsten overwinnen? 

De ouder-kind relatie, in dit geval tussen de Eeuwige en de mens, is de meest intieme uitdrukking van de verbondsgedachte. Weinig relaties grijpen zo in op onze ontwikkeling als mens. Steve Biddulph is in zijn boek dan ook duidelijk: moeders maar vooral ook vaders moeten nauw betrokken zijn bij de opvoeding van hun kinderen en er vooral ook van genieten. Maar ook belangrijk: kinderen spiegelen zich aan de relatie die de ouders onderling hebben. Een liefdevol en respectvol huwelijk is misschien dan ook het grootste geschenk wat je aan kinderen kunt geven. (Mocht ik vreselijk naief zijn in deze kwesties dan hoor ik het graag bij de kiddoesj van de ervaringsdeskundigen onder jullie!) 

Dit is dan tegelijk ook meteen de kracht van Tora: zij houdt ons een spiegel voor en de Tora houdt zelfs de Eeuwige een spiegel voor. Is de Tora een opvoedkundig boek? Absoluut – maar vaak door weer te geven hoe het niet moet in plaats van hoe het wel moet. We kunnen denken aan de Akeida – het moment dat Awraham Jitschak wilde offeren. Niet helemaal pedagogisch verantwoord. De vele familieconflicten van onze aartsvaders, de strubbelingen die Mosje met het joodse volk ervoer in de midbar, de woestijn. En zelfs hoe God tekortschiet: Hij doodt de eerstgeborenen van de Egyptenaren, Hij straft en doodt opstandige leden van het joodse volk met enige regelmaat vooral in het boek Bamidbar. Oftewel: een gezinstherapeut zou er wel raad mee weten! 

De parasja opent dan ook met Mosje’s ongezouten kritiek: ‘ele hadewarim asher diber Moshe al kol Yisrael’ – ‘dit zijn de woorden die Mosje sprak tot het hele joodse volk’. Volgens verschillende Midrasjim, Yalkut Shimoni en Sifre, refereren ‘ele dewarim’ – deze woorden – naar de strenge woorden die Mosje richtte aan het volk. Toch ook hier een pedagogische noot: het was Balaam die aan loze vleierij deed maar juist Mosje die met strenge liefde sprak, zoals het een ouder (of leider) betaamt. En zoals het een goede ouder betaamd, laat Mosje de Tora in 70 talen verklaren (‘ho’iel Mosje be’er et haTora’) zodat de leerstellingen voor ieder te begrijpen zouden zijn. Tegelijkertijd erkent Mosje, als een inmiddels ervaren leider, wat zijn beperkingen zijn: ‘lo oechal levadi tse’et etchem’ – ‘ik kan jullie niet alleen dragen’. Hier op volgt dan ook een tedere uiting van de Eeuwige met een knikje naar Awraham: de Eeuwige heeft jullie doen vermenigvuldigen, zoals de sterren in de hemel en moge Hij ‘yevarech etchem ka’asher diber etchem’ – jullie zegenen zoals Hij beloofd heeft. 

Een goede ouder blijft zich ontwikkelen, overwint zijn woede en houdt zich aan zijn of haar belofte. En het joodse volk weet zich te spiegelen: iets later houdt Dewariem ons ethische wetten voor – om geschillen eerlijk te berechten, om de rijken niet voor te trekken, om rechters aan te stellen. Een rechtvaardige samenleving, een goede relatie, een waarachtig verbond is van dit spiegelen afhankelijk. 

Gaat het wel eens mis? Natuurlijk. De Eeuwige laat het joodse volk stikken. Het volk laat het op zijn beurt ook weer afweten. De straf is dan ook dat die generatie het beloofde land niet halen zal. Maar deze dynamiek is menselijk en geeft ons ook moed – we kunnen relaties repareren. Begin volgende week is het Tisja b’Aw en herdenken wij het dieptepunt in de relatie tussen God en Israel, waar de vervreemding in het boek Klaagliederen (Eicha) compleet lijkt. Tegelijkertijd krabbelen we dan via zeven troostende haftarot en de bemoedigende woorden van Dewariem weer overeind zodat we met de Hoge Feestdagen in een authentieke relatie kunnen staan: met de Eeuwige en met elkaar. 

Onze reis is nog lang niet afgelopen. En zo kent Dewariem vele tedere momenten waar we inspiratie uit kunnen putten. De ‘Misjne Tora’, de ‘tweede Tora’, zoals het boek ook in de rabbijnse traditie genoemd wordt, omdat het een samenvatting is van de hoogste idealen van onze traditie: ethisch monotheisme, de liefdevolle verbondsgedachte, de vrije wil van de mens en de bemoedigende zegeningen van Mosje. 

Zo’n box is toch wel handig waarin we onze kleine zo nu en dan een liefdevol en gestructureerd plekje kunnen aanbieden, zoals de Tora dat met ons doet. Als dat geen wijze lessen zijn voor mijn man en ik als aanstaande ouders! Met zo’n pedagogiek kunnen we bergen verzetten en ‘anakiem’, reuzen, overwinnen. 

Sjabbat sjalom.

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.

De verplichting van bevrijding

'Pink Shabbat', Gay Outreach Dienst 3 augustus 2012 – Beit ha’Chidush 

Rabbijn i.o. Esther Hugenholtz 

Parasjat V'etchanan - De verplichting van bevrijding

Kort nadat ik in 2008 in Los Angeles aan de rabbijnenopleiding begon brak de strijd rond ‘Prop Eight’ (Proposition Eight) los: het betrof een referendum voor het verbieden van het huwelijk voor mensen van gelijk geslacht. Op mijn opleiding was de stemming eensgezind: iedereen was tegen Prop Eight. We hingen campagneposters op in de ramen van onze appartementen en keken vol vertrouwen naar de datum van het referendum. In het progressieve Californië zou de meerderheid van de bevolking tegen het homo-onvriendelijke voorstel stemmen, toch? 

Toch uitte één studiegenoot, een goede vriend van mij, bezwaren. Hoewel hij absoluut het recht erkende van homo’s om relaties met elkaar aan te gaan, vond hij als rechtgeaarde en tikkeltje conservatieve ‘Midwesterner’ toch dat het huwelijk iets was tussen man en vrouw. Ik besloot meteen mijn tegenargument vanuit een onverwachte invalshoek te formuleren… 

Ik moet namelijk iets bekennen. Ik ben heel erg gelukkig, heel erg burgerlijk, heel erg heteronormatief getrouwd. Sterker nog, ik ben deze maand vijf jaar geleden in deze sjoel getrouwd. Ik vind het huwelijkse bestaan heerlijk en betrap mijzelf regelmatig op gelukzalig truttig gedrag (denk aan Ikea bezoekjes met manlief). En ik schaam mij er niet voor – in mijn persoonlijke beleving is het huwelijk een prachtig instituut van verbond en heiliging, van liefde, trouw en respect. Hoewel ik de redenen om sceptisch of zelfs afwijzend tegenover het instituut huwelijk te staan begrijp en respecteer blijf ik er een groot pleitbezorger van. 

‘Geloof jij in het heiligheid van het huwelijk?’ vroeg ik hem. Mijn vriend beaamde dat enthousiast. Ik vervolgde: ‘Juist omdat ik in het huwelijk geloof, geloof ik in het homohuwelijk. Die diepe voldoening van de hechte en heilige huwelijkse band, de rechten en privileges van het huwelijk zijn dingen waar mijn homoseksuele broeders en zusters net zo veel recht op hebben als jij en ik. Iedereen die gelooft in ‘family values’ zou hiervoor op de barricade moeten staan!’ 

Het gaf hem te denken. 

Het idee dat ieder mens heiliging kan vinden en dat bevrijding niet alleen rechten maar ook plichten met zich meebrengt is heel joods. Sterker nog; het huwelijk wordt vaak gebruikt als metafoor in Tora om de emancipatie en de verbondsgedachte tussen God en het Joodse volk tastbaar te maken. Tijdens het geven van de Tien Uitspraken, aldus de Midrasj, was God de Bruidegom en Israël de Bruid (ja, ook de Tora kan gender-queer zijn!) en de Tora zelf de ketoeba, de huwelijksakte. Ook in de relatie tussen de Eeuwige en de mens staan liefde, trouw en heiliging centraal. 

De parasja van deze week – V’etchanan – sluit goed bij dit thema aan. De lange en bitterzoete reis van Mosjé komt ten einde en hij weet dat hij het Beloofde Land niet in mag omdat hij het vertrouwen van de Eeuwige geschonden had. Het is zijn taak om de B’nei Jisraël aan de grenzen van het Beloofde Land te brengen opdat zij als volk verder gaan. Het is zijn taak om Israël verder te ‘emanciperen’ – hun bevrijding uit de Egyptische slavernij is pas compleet wanneer zij zich kunnen vestigen in het land, als symbool van hun waardigheid en vrijheid. De B’nei Jisraël moeten volwassen worden, verplichtingen aangaan, zich losmaken van oude trauma’s en met zelfbewustzijn het verbond met de Eeuwige bekrachtigen. Het is tijd voor hun ‘coming-out’. 

Een ‘coming-out’ is veel meer alleen dan toegeven of accepteren dat je homo- of biseksueel bent. Er zijn veel ‘comings-out’ voor vele moeilijke situaties en identiteiten, vooral wanneer er sprake is van een machtsverschil of gebrek aan sociale acceptatie. Het zijn vaak de minderheden, de kwetsbaren, de mensen die als ‘afwijkend’ worden gezien door de norm die de strijd van een coming-out moeten leveren. We kunnen er allemaal mee geconfronteerd worden. ‘Coming out’ is dan ook ‘coming into yourself’ – of zoals wij joden dat zouden zeggen, ‘lech lecha’, de Abrahamitische opdracht om ‘naar jezelf te reizen’. Ware bevrijding gaat verder dan het behalen van gelijkberechting. Het gaat om liefde en respect voor jezelf. 

De Tora zegt ‘v’ahavta larecha kamocha’ – heb je naast lief zoals jezelf en de sleutel van deze opdracht ligt in het leren houden van jezelf, in het evenbeeld van de Eeuwige, opdat je waarachter kan leren houden van de ander. 

Ook op collectief niveau geldt dit: de Israëlieten moeten leren om met liefde en respect samen te leven omdat ze het waard zijn. ‘Ki mi goy gadol asher lo Elohim kerovim elav k’Adonai Eloheinu bechol karanu elav’ (Deut. 4:7) vraagt de Tora aan ons, ‘want welk groot volk heeft een zo’n nabije God zoals de Eeuwige wanneer wij God dan aanroepen?’ Vervolgens krijgt dit kleine, vertrapte slavenvolkje het antwoord: ‘Want jullie zijn een heilig volk voor de Eeuwige. Jullie zijn door de Eeuwige uitgekozen om Zijn gekoesterde volk te zijn, gekozen uit alle volkeren op de aarde. Het is niet omdat jullie groter waren dan de andere volken dat Hij jullie lief had en uitkoos – jullie waren het kleinste van allemaal! Maar omdat de Eeuwige jullie liefhad en zich wilde houden aan wat Hij jullie voorouders had beloofd, heeft de Eeuwige jullie met sterke hand bevrijd uit de slavernij, uit de macht van de farao...‘ (Deut 7:6-8) Van reddeloze slaaf naar gekoesterde verbondspartner met de Eeuwige, da’s nog eens een ‘coming-out’! 

De Joodse traditie is een symfonie met vele stemmen – sommigen dissonant en reactionair – maar het is onze hoop en taak als progressieve joden dat de stem van inclusiviteit en rechtvaardigheid de boventoon voert. De parasja leert ons dat liefde belangrijk is – de liefde tussen de Eeuwige en Mosjé, de liefde van de Eeuwige voor de hele mensheid en de liefde die wij koesteren voor elkaar. Klinkt het hopeloos romantisch en zelfs een beetje klef? So be it, ook daar schaam ik mij niet voor. 

Liefde overwint niet alles maar wel heel veel. Helaas volgde op het referendum een bittere nederlaag voor de Californische homogemeenschap en was de strijd nog voorlopig niet gestreden. Zoals Spreuken der Vaderen zeggen, ‘het is niet aan jou om de taak te volbrengen maar je bent ook niet ervan vrijgesteld’ (Avot 2:21). Wij kennen het recht van verbondenheid en de verplichting van bevrijding. Graag vecht ik mee. 

En die vriend van mij… hoe is het daar mee afgelopen? Hij werd gelukkig overtuigd door het argument van de heiliging en respect waar homoseksuele relaties recht op hebben en heeft tegen Prop 8 en vóór het homohuwelijk gestemd. Het Beloofde Land ligt aan de horizon maar we trekken op naar ons doel, stap voor stap. 

Sjabbat sjalom!

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!

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.

Parashat Vayishlach

Sermon Sinai Synagogue

Parashat Vayishlach

Esther Hugenholtz

Overcoming Our Fears

Like many of the Torah’s characters, Jacob invites feelings of ambivalence on part of the reader. On the one hand, we feel a certain warmth and reference towards him – he is one of our patriarchs, after all.

On the other hand, Jacob elicits a less charitable response as well. He is a perennial trickster, a conman, a thief of birthrights and a breaker of women’s hearts. Does he do justly, we are left to wonder. He dupes his ‘all brawn-but-very-little brain’ brother Esau out of his birthright. Then his uncle Laban tricks Jacob in return. Swapping Leah for his beloved Rachel at his wedding, demanding an extra seven years’ hard labour. Jacob does gets his own back. He in turn swindles Laban. Meanwhile, his wives vie for his attention and clamour for his love. Just as Jacob and Laban have a stand-off through the amount of livestock they can produce, Leah and Rachel, with the help of mandrakes and handmaids engage in a fierce breeding competition of their own.

In short, the Jacob narrative is blighted by avarice and jealousy, pettiness and deception, passive aggression and greed. None of the protagonists involved manage to hold onto higher moral ground. All are less-than-perfect human beings, driven on in search for recognition and validation. The Torah almost seems to warn us: the family unit is not always the safest place to be. Families can be battlefields, cruel and treacherous lands.

Of course, we can explore the dysfunctional dynamics further. We only need to skip back one generation back to the troubling relationships between Abraham, Isaac and Ishmael, Sarah and Hagar. There is plenty in the narratives of B’reishit to be ambivalent about.

And yet, despite (or perhaps because of) the pain, conflicts and struggles, there is an emotional depth to be found as well. It is easy to dwell on the theme of conflict. After all, conflict reigns supreme and is externalised further when Jacob wrestles the anonymous angel on the bank of the River Jabbok. But what about if we see this parashah in light of overcoming fear?

The pivotal moment, after all, is when Jacob stops running away from what he fears most: the confrontation with his alienated brother. When Jacob is presented with the reality of being reunited with his twin, he is afraid. The Torah states:

“Vayira Ya’acov me’od va’yetzer lo’ – ‘And Jacob became very afraid and was distressed...’ (Gen. 32:8).

A bit further on, the text elaborates his fears as he prays:

“Hatzileini na meyad achi meyad Esav ki yare ani oto” – ‘Now deliver me from the hand of my brother, from the hand of Esau for I am afraid of him...’ (Gen. 32:12)

It is not hard to imagine what Jacob fears. He fears vengeange and reprisal, he fears inviting violence at the hand of his strong, warrior sibling in retribution of the hurt he caused Esau all those years ago.

What is remarkable is not that Jacob is afraid. On the contrary; it is very unremarkable – and therein lies the key. It is entirely understandable because we would be equally afraid in his position. What is remarkable, however, is how Jacob’s fear transforms him. He could respond in two ways, flight or fight. He could easily retreat into his own emotions, flee the scene, run away, give up on the project of reconciliation. Or he could overcompensate his fears through the age-old strategy of the attack being the best defence. He could choose to attack his brother and his tribe. He could try and hurt him yet again.

But Jacob uses his fear to transform himself.

The Midrash in both Genesis Rabbah and Tanchuma comment on Jacob’s fear and break it down into two components. He was afraid that he would get killed. This clearly is a knee-jerk response of Jacob’s reptilian brain, a logical but amoral conclusion geared towards self-preservation. But interestingly, Jacob’s fear becomes a launching pad for a broader concern. He is equally distressed that he may be killed himself.

Out of Jacob’s darkest night of the soul emerges his first noble sentiment.

This is a man who has always taken, so to say, good care of himself. He is not a violent man; a dweller of tents. But that does not make him wholly good. He has made sure to turn every opportunity to his advantage, through sleight of hand and powers of persuasion. Has Jacob ever looked out for anyone else?

In his fear, then, lies his first selfless act. And so when he prays to the Eternal, he prays on behalf of his brother. ‘Achi’, he says, ‘my brother’. It is superfluous, really. The text could merely have said ‘meyad Esav’, [deliver me from] Esau’. It is his fear that prompts Jacob to reach out and restore a broken relationship, to think of the other, rather than himself. In true Buberian fashion, this is when Esau stops being an ‘It’ but becomes truly ‘Thou’, the wholly humanised Other. For the first time, perhaps, Jacob saw Esau for who he was. Not a brawny fool to deceive nor a wild warrior to run from, but his long lost twin.

It is then that he is given the strength to wrestle the angel – identified by some Midrashim as Esau’s guardian angel – and to seek the angel’s blessing.

Jacob is transformed. And through this, he becomes Israel. And Israel is redeemed.

Is it any wonder that this transformation takes place at a riverbank, a silver ribbon cutting yet binding one liminal moment to another? It is often at borders and boundaries, at the edges of the sea and world that we become changed and better.

Israel’s secret was not his trickery. But rather that he stopped tricking. Not only others, but more importantly, himself. He looked himself hard in the eye and found compassion for others. May we pray that our fears – as dark and debilitating as they can seem – can lead to goodness and healing. Among the brokenness of the relationships of our lives, we can all face our fears, wrestle them to the ground and meet goodness and love all the days of our lives.

Shabbat shalom!

Parashat Vayera

Sermon for Sinai Synagogue, Parashat Vayera

It’s Always Time for Tea Time

I have a problem: I am addicted.

I always had an inclination towards this substance but it is you Brits who’ve send me over the edge. It is readily available and always on offer. It’s affordable, indulgent and easy. How can I say no... to a cup of tea?

Tea is everywhere. A gentle cup of Earl Grey wakes me up in the morning and a stout cup of Yorkshire tea sees me through a long day of classes. And there’s always a moment for a ginger infusion just before bed. I simply cannot express how much I love tea. And I have Britain to thank (and blame) for it.

There are many things to love about tea. There’s the obvious perk of caffeine, the nectar and ambrosia of graduate students and office dwellers alike. There’s the comfort of a steaming ceramic mug held in cupped hands. There’s the pomp and ceremony of a proper Afternoon Tea. And like most converts, I am a bit fanatic about it. I probably love tea more than the British. What is there not to love about scones (did I pronounce it right?) clotted cream and the cutest little sandwiches known to humankind?

Lest you think I obsess over tea and this sermon becomes completely silly, the reason I love tea the most is because of the values it represents. Serving tea is a small but warm gesture of ‘gemilut chasadim’ – an outpouring of typical British ‘hachnassat orchim’, hospitality.

Of course Avraham Avinu would not have put the kettle on the stove for a ‘cuppa’, but we do know that he served ‘curds and milk and a tender calf’ - ‘chem’ah v’chalav u’ben habakar’ (Gen. 18:8) - when three mysterious men revealed themselves at the entrance of his tent.

It is in this Parashat Vayera that Abraham’s legendary hospitality makes itself known. Only three verses back, in last week’s Parashah, Abraham circumcised himself and his kin. Now, on a hot day, Abraham is recovering in the shadow of his tent. We can only imagine how miserable he must have felt.

Even so, he immediately sprang to action when three anonymous men approached him. He offered them water for bathing and the choicest of foods. He did not demand to know who they were or what the purpose of their visit was. If Abraham would have been a Brit, sitting on the curb in front of his house, looking out at the drizzling rain, I am sure he would have welcomed his guests with PG Tips – or better yet – Fortnum and Mason’s Royal Blend!

The Talmud identifies hachnassat orchim – the welcoming of guests – as a key expression of gemilut chasadim. The Gemara (Bavli Sukkot 49b) engages in a lively debate: what is preferred? Tzedakah, an appropriate redress of social imbalances or gemilut chasadim, acts of loving kindness? Intuitively, one would opt for tzedakah. Is it not better to pay workers a living wage, aid the poor and heal the sick rather than pouring whimsical cups of tea for guests? And yet, Rabbi Eleazar decides that deeds of loving kindness are preferable – because we go beyond the letter of the law and do not expect reward. The ultimate gemilut chesed then, is burying the dead because certainly they can’t repay you!

The key to understanding this lies in personal transformation. We can legislate workers’ rights and impose socially just laws. But the political stays political. It is easy for new social norms to be taken for granted and to be neglected. Gemilut chasadim, however, engages us in a deeper and more personal way, calling us to individual accountability. The personal is political. Of course, one should not get mired down in navel-gazing; on the contrary. Gemilut chasadim hosts our idealism. It opens the door and offers it a seat at the table of our conscience. The moment we transform our own actions and immediate surroundings, we may very well feel empowered to make bigger and bolder changes yet.

It is no surprise then that the same Parashah that opens with a mundane story of Abraham feeding his guests, leads into the Sodom and Gomorrah narrative. Only when Abraham experienced the personal transformation through providing his guests with loving kindness, was he able to see their divine humanity fully revealed, as the verb ‘vayera’ suggests. Once you see the Divine Image in the faces of those near and dear you, it becomes easier to translate that concern for humanity as a whole. Only then did he have the courage of his conviction to argue for the depraved denizens of Sodom. His ‘gemilut chasadim’ provided a launching pad for his audacious call to tzedakah – justice: ‘hashofet kol ha’aretz lo ya’aseh mishpat?’ - ‘shall not the Judge of all the earth act justly?’

But the ironic symmetries do not end there. Abraham’s great virtue was hospitality. Sodom’s great vice was the lack thereof. Both Ezekiel (16:49) and the Midrash (Midrash Rabbah 49:6) explain that ‘the great outcry’ (tza’akat) was on account of Sodom’s oppression of the poor. It is ‘middah k’neged middah’ – measure for measure.

But not only that. The Rabbis of the Talmud created an ideal moral category of ‘lifnim meshurat hadin’ – ‘going beyond the letter of the law’, which is a logical outflow from gemilut chasadim. This to counter its greatest opposite: the principle of ‘middat sedom’, ‘the character of Sodom’, where the law is abused to oppress and where original ideals of tzedakah and mishpat become unhinged and corrupted.

Gemilut chasadim and the principle of lifnim meshurat hadin, then, are the counterweight to cynicism and self-interest that can slip into legalised cruelty. Our sacred and random acts of kindness can tip the balance towards a kinder world.

So next time you invite someone round for a cup of tea, consider the import of a gesture so small. A friend, a relative, a lonely soul, a congregant, a stranger. Invite people into your homes and hearts. Imagine a world where all are seated around the table of righteousness, enjoying the feast of kindness. All great things start small, when the humanity and divinity of each of us is revealed.

Shabbat shalom!

Sermon Chol haMoed Sukkot

Sermon Sukkot Chol haMoed

Leo Baeck College mailinglist / Birmingham Liberal Community

Esther Hugenholtz

Embracing the Elements

I have a confession to make. I am a rather bad Dutchwoman, my love for tulips and cheese notwithstanding. The reason why I fail to live up to the hardy reputation of my countrymen is that I hate winter.

I detest the cold that seeps into your bones and the darkness that shuts down the days. No matter how many scarves, hats, gloves and coats I put on, winter still overcomes me.

My discomfort for winter sets in during high summer. As soon as the 21st of June – the longest day of the year - has passed, I bitterly remark to myself that it’s downhill from here. The days will only get shorter and there is no cause for optimism until the year swings back to April.

I know I am not the only one. Frustrations with our dismal climate become all the more pronounced during Sukkot. While our fellow Jews in Israel are enjoying bright days and balmy nights in their sukkot, there is a near-definite chance that we will be shivering in ours, coats on, umbrellas at the ready.

As much as I like to complain about the weather (which I believe is not only a Dutch cultural trait but also a British one!) I also realise that my negative attitude is not constructive. It doesn’t lift my winter blues; on the contrary. Nor does it allow me to cultivate what Abraham Joshua Heschel would call ‘radical amazement’ as Nature unfolds before our eyes. So this year, as part of my Rosh haShanah resolutions, I have decided to take a different attitude and embrace the rain, wind, snow and ice that autumn and winter bring.

Luckily, my anti-winter depression programme finds ample support in our Jewish tradition. It is a public secret that our faith and culture, proud ethical monotheists we may be, is deeply rooted in Nature. The Jewish calendar gently turns with the wheel of the year as our harvest festivals usher in new seasons. Our liturgy acknowledges this when we start adding ‘mashiv haruach u’morid hagashem’ – ‘He who causes the wind to blow and the rain to fall’ in our Amidah.

Furthermore, it is the festival of Sukkot that addresses our complex feelings about the fading year. Even in balmy and sunny Israel, the rainy season starts soon after. We beseech the Eternal for rain with our lulav and etrog (a ‘pagan’ ritual if there ever was one!) and in the Mediterranean world rain is seen as a life-bringer rather than as a nuisance. Even so, Israel knows cold, biting weather and Jerusalem frequently receives snow. Snow and ice were not unknown to our Israelite forebears as mention of these is made in Psalms and Tanakh.

It is exactly this tension, this liminal space inhabited by Sukkot that makes it such a beautiful festival. We have just come out of the intense soul-searching and ecstasy of the High Holy Days. The teki’ah gedolah has sounded and the Gates of Repentance are closed (even if some insist that they are still open a crack until Hoshannah Rabba). There is palpable and happy relief in the air as we move from Yom Kippur into the building of our Sukkah. The transcendent becomes immanent, the spiritual is actualised in our physical world. It is not for naught that the Rabbis term Sukkot the ‘z’man simchateinu’, the ‘season of our joy’. We rejoice in our festively bedecked sukkot. We enjoy good food and good company as we welcome both loved ones and strangers into our rickety, temporal but happy homes.

But Sukkot also knows a darker sphere, a more contemplative and existential side. Our sukkot are not only homes to aromatic foliage and colourful decorations but also to our vulnerability. As the Eternal ‘causes the wind to blow and the rain to fall’ around us, we huddle around the sukkah dinner table in our winter coats, rubbing warmth back into our hands. This vulnerability is intentional, of course, as the festival does not only point to the turning of our season but also hearkens back to the exposed vulnerability that our newly-emancipated ancestors felt after they exchanged Egyptian slavery for the wilderness.

To continue this line of thought, the Rabbis instituted the book of Koheleth (Ecclesiastes) as the megillah to be read on the festival. Koheleth also inhabits this tension between joyful exuberance (‘lech echol b’simcha lachmecha u’shteh b’lev tov yenicha’ - ‘eat your bread in joy, drink your wine in gladness’, Ecc. ) and existential crisis (‘hevel havalim, hakol havel’ - ‘vanity of vanities, all is vanity’, Ecc. 1:2). A cynical view would be to see the festival as schizophrenic. How can we hold such emotional polarities in one experience? But we can also see it as transformative and transitional.

Sukkot is helping us face the turning of the seasons, the withering leaves, the gathering darkness, the penetrating cold, a brush with a dying world. Our tradition is, if anything, both hopeful and realistic in its embracing of life in the Here and Now. In a sense our sukkah poses the existential question of our impermanence and vulnerability but also provides the answer in radical amazement, acceptance, community and love. Koheleth says that ‘all is vanity’ but answers his own cynicism with keen wonder as he describes the natural world with a scientist’s eye and a poet’s quill: ‘the sun rises and the sun sets... the wind goes towards the south and turns to the north; it whirls about continually... all the rivers run into the sea, yet the sea is not full and from where the rivers came, they shall return’ (Ecc. 1:5-8).

We inhabit a beautiful world, fragile though it is. Sukkot teaches us that even the cold and darkness is something to be embraced and a marvel to behold. I shall look forward to this winter then. Bundle up, stay warm, make yourself a hot cup of tea and enjoy the company of loved ones. Not a bad way to spend the festivals and the dark days to come.

Chag Sukkot sameach!

Parashat Ki Tavo

Leo Baeck College Sermon

Ki Tavo

Esther Hugenholtz

The Fruits of Our Joy

It’s easy for Jews to feel overwhelmed during the month of Elul, especially for us ‘professional Jews’. We fret about how many sermons we still have to research and write, we stress over the amount of liturgy we have to practice and we agonise over our own feelings of inadequacy when it comes to facilitating our own ‘teshuvah’ during this time of good deeds and introspection.

There is a measure of irony in this month of Elul-induced angst. It seems that the more we throw ourselves into the process of creating meaning for others, the higher the risk is that we neglect to create meaning for ourselves. We feel unbalanced. Between the heftiness of crafting a d’rasha with the necessary gravitas and managing the logistical challenges of the High Holy Days, we lose sight of what is most important: existential joy.

This week’s parashah, Ki Tavo, opens with an unfolding consciousness of existential joy. ‘...ki tavo el ha’aretz asher Hashem Eloheichah noten lecha nachalah’, the Torah prefaces, ‘...when you come to the land that the Eternal your God has given you as an inheritance’ (Deut. 26:1). It is this point of arrival that simultaneously launches into the parashah’s fascinating study of a profound notion of joy. When the Israelites arrive at the Promised Land, after an arduous desert journey filled with epic challenges, they are to offer their first fruits and give thanks to God. And then, they are challenged to do something remarkable. They are instructed to recall both their humble origins and their memories of oppression. ‘Arami oved avi, vayered mitzrayimah...’ – ‘My father was a wandering Aramean who went down to Egypt’ (Deut. 26:5).

This mysterious statement does not only confront them with their past but also shapes their identity for the future. In short, this is much more of an existential statement than it is a factual one. Only after they have faced their vulnerabilities can they progress to rejoicing. ‘V’samachta bechol hatov asher natan lecha Adonai eloheichah’ – ‘and you shall rejoice in all the goodness that the Eternal your God has given you’. (Deut. 26:11) This, then, becomes a deeper and truer joy. Not frivolous or fleeting but a strong sense of belonging and contentment, linked to fulfilling an ethical imperative – as the text goes on to say that one must rejoice not only with one’s immediate loved ones but also with the stranger and dispossessed. Only then can we come to our ‘eretz zavat chalav u’davash’, our land flowing with milk and honey (Deut. 26:9).

The ending of the wilderness journey marks the beginning of another journey into the heart of the Promised Land, of building a home. Of course, this timely narrative can be applied to our own lives. We, too, are on a journey. We traverse the spirals of calendar and lifecycle and arrive in the last month of Elul before the narrative comes to a close, we are held accountable to our deeds and are renewed again. Our deeds are our ‘nachalah’, inheritance and it is their consequence that shapes the land of our soul. If we have the bravery to admit that we too, are sometimes lonely sojourners, and wanderers, then true transformative joy can set in.

Create a breach in time and space for yourselves, even if it is only a little moment. Dwell on the journey that you have completed over this year of 5771 and anticipate the travels to come.

Contemplate your thoughts, jot down a few words. Go for a walk. Soak up the sun and relish the rain. Be with humankind and seek out God. Be curious about yourself and question.

In what ways have you been a stranger? To others or yourself? And what would you like your inheritance to be? What sweet fruits of your labour can you bring as an offering? But most importantly: where is it that you find joy? The High Holy Days are not only days of great solemnity but also of passionate happiness, of trusting in love and forgiveness, in God, community and ultimately in yourselves. ‘V’samachta bechol tov’. Take a deep breath and ‘enjoy the ride’!

Parashat Chukat

Birmingham Liberal Community

Esther Hugenholtz

Parashat Chukkat

Trust

Do you remember that game in school where you had to close your eyes and allow yourself fall backwards in the arms of your classmates? This exercise was geared to build trust, one of the most elusive and difficult human emotions.

Why is it so hard to trust? We can be prideful and angry, lazy and greedy. But somehow, these are aspects of ourselves that we can chisel away at to improve. Slowly but surely we can resolve to become better individuals by turning inwards and finding the strength to implement our highest ideals about ourselves. But trusting is hard.

In the ocean of trust, no man is an island. We always trust in relation to another. We need each other to trust.

This week’s parashah is all about trust. On the surface, this week’s reading appears to deal with disparate themes: the odd purification rituals involving the ashes of the red heifer, Moses striking the rock, the deaths of Miriam and Aaron, the refusal of the Edomites and Amorites to let the Children of Israel pass peacefully through their territory and the strange episode of the attack of the snakes. But the issue of trust is an undercurrent that flows through the text like a secret river.

The very name of the parashah wrestles with trust. ‘Zot chukkat hatorah tzivah Adonai’ – ‘this is the ritual law that the Eternal has commanded.’ (Num. 19:2) A ‘chok’ is a ritual law that has no known rational basis. In other words, we are commanded to obey a law we don’t understand such as the purification from death through the ashes of the red heifer. Blind obedience seems counterintuitive by today’s standards and it is true that these chukim tend to be Judaism’s weirder requirements: to abstain from forbidden foods, to not mix linen and wool in one garment and to circumcise 8 day old boys.

The chukim stand in contrast to the mishpatim – the laws that are rational and just, such as the commandments against murder, theft and oppressing the stranger – and the eidut – the laws that commemorate the historical experience and common identity of our people, such as Pesach, Shavuot and Sukkot.

Over the centuries, there has been a fierce debate between Jewish thinkers over the meaning and significance of the chukim. One camp, championed by Maimonides engaged in a philosophical mission called ‘ta’amei mitzvot’ – the reasons for the commandmentss. According to Maimonides, every commandment needed to have a rational explanation, even the ones we did not comprehend. This position was in turn challenged by Nachmanides who countered that we were given chukim as an act of faith. The sole purpose of the chukim was to teach us unquestioning obedience to God’s Torah.

Perhaps both positions are flawed. If we see our Torah as strictly rationalist, we can explain everything away and everything loses its value. Then why should we continue to uphold many of our beloved traditions? We would be left with a Judaism that is rational and philosophically-coherent Judaism but also devoid of its vibrant warmth and edifying rituals.

On the other hand, if we accept those aspects of our traditions without question or investigation, God becomes nothing more than a Dictator in the Sky. Is this how we want to view our faith? I would argue that such an authoritarian theology is hopelessly self-defeating. If that is how faith works, then perhaps Richard Dawkins is right and we are better off without it.

But there might be a third way. This week’s parashah trembles with the question of trust. Maybe the chukim are not given to us to callously discard or to zealously keep but maybe it is all about entering into a relationship. A relationship with God, with our community and ultimately with ourselves. And parashat Chukkat stands as an eternal warning to what happens when this delicate trust is violated.

We read the story of Moses striking the rock. The Israelites have run out of water and are grumbling (as usual). God commands Moses to speak to it but Moses loses his patience and according to Rashi, he strikes the rock instead. The price Moses pays for his outburst is grave: he is denied entry to the Promised Land. This story seems senseless and cruel if we read it as a callous God punishing Moses for an understandable outburst of frustration. But interestingly, God Himself says: ‘ya’an lo he’emantem bi...’ – ‘because you did not trust Me’ (Num. 20:12) God did not say, ‘because you disobeyed Me’. There had been a crucial rupture in the relationship between Moses and God. Moses could no longer trust God and with that, the relationship stopped being genuine. Is it surprising that the waters which sprang forth from the rock were called ‘mei meribah’, the waters of strife? A lack of trust in any relationship will sooner or later lead to conflict.

The theme of trust resurfaces also in the episode with the king of Edom. The Israelites want to take a shortcut during their desert sojourning and petition the king of Edom permission to pass through his territory. The Israelites appeal to him respectfully, remembering the sibling bond between their patriarch Jacob and his twin Esau, saying, ‘koh amar achicha Yisrael ata yadata et kol hatela’ah asher me’tzat’nu’- ‘thus said your brother Israel, you know the hardships that have befallen us.’ But their request is denied as the Edomites do not trust their estranged kinsmen. The consequences are open war.

Trust may be a difficult emotion but it appeals to our higher selves. Trust cultivates love and from trust, hope springs eternal. The dark side of trust is the fear that this trust may be violated but the alternative is far worse. Do we really want to go through life not trusting others? Every relationship will bleed to death and every spiritual endeavour will be fruitless. Live courageously and dare trust—and the love and hope and mystery of a truthful and enduring relationship will follow.

Shabbat shalom.

Parashat Korach

Parashat Korach Esther Hugenholtz

Herefortshire Liberal Community

Empowerment, Not Entitlement

When I was about to set off for university, my mother made me some golden promises. ‘It will be the best time of your life’.

A ‘flower child’ of the late 1960’s, university had engendered that promise for her. For her it was a time of empowerment, self-discovery, of a mapping out of her democratic ideals which formed the ethics of my upbringing.

University did fulfil that promise for me also. I became a student activist, read political literature, went on marches, and sought answers to the big questions in life. I was invited to nurture my intellect, encouraged to stand up for my beliefs and, most importantly, to be grateful for the privilege of exercising my basic human rights.

Freedom of speech, assembly and the ballot. All these things are infinitely precious and should be cherished by any civilised society. As it is infinitely precious, our freedom is also quite delicate.

Given this perspective, parashat Korach is shocking to our sensibilities.

The Torah presents us with a scenario. Korach, descendant of the House of Levi, rose up with Dathan, Abiram and On to challenge the Mosaic leadership together with 250 tribal leaders, ‘chosen in the assembly, men of repute’.

What Korach proceeds to say is striking:

“You have gone too far!”, “ki kol ha’edah kulam kedoshim uv’tocham Adonai, u’madua titnas’u al kehal Adonai?” – “For all the community are holy, all of them and the Eternal is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourself above the Eternal’s congregation?” (Num. 16:31)

Korach seems to make a valid point. Over the last few weeks, we have seen Moses and Aaron consolidate their leadership. I’ve always felt a certain kinship with Korach. Wasn’t he the ultimate democratic activist who invoked the right to self-determination?

The Torah’s narrative seems unfair, cruel even. Rather than rewarding Korach’s initiative by democratising Moses’ and Aaron’s leadership, Moses challenges him. He lures Korach and his followers to offer incense in fire pans, a ritual intended only for the Priesthood. As we know from parashat Shemini and Acharei Mot a number of weeks ago, that this is setting the rebellion up for failure. Nadav and Avihu, the sons of Aaron, offered a ‘strange fire’ out of what seemed genuine devotion and paid for it with their lives. Bringing non-appointed offers to the Tabernacle is deadly.

We need not be surprised, then, that the offering is unsuccessful. Moses seems to taunt them by saying, “Come morning and the Eternal will make sure who is His and who is holy and will grant access to Himself.” This is a challenge that Korach and his supporters cannot refuse.

The next day dawns and tension is mounting in the camp. The Israelites have had to overcome disappointment after disappointment, culminating in the ultimate disillusionment: they are not allowed to enter the Land because of the fearful reports of the spies. In last week’s reading, parashat Sh’lach Lecha, their unfortunate fate was sealed. This is a thoroughly embittered people who have just learned that they will not only be forced to live in the desert but to die in it too. They will never reach the Promised Land. They have scant little to lose and plenty of anger simmering just below the surface. The slightest provocation will turn this assembly into a mob.

Both the revolutionaries and the powers that be prepare for the face-off. Korach and his supporters offer the incense and almost immediately, in a terrifying sequence of events, the earth opens and swallows them whole. The 250 tribal leaders undergo a similar fate as Nadav and Avihu did: they perish in the fire that God strikes them down with.

The Torah then pushes on with her narrative but we are left dumbfounded. Is this how Moses – and in a manner of speaking, God – deal with dissent? Is this the reality that Torah holds up as an ideal—an unrelenting theocracy? Is this how noble dissidents are done away with? Surely, this is the kind of conduct that Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International would report about!

But this is only the first layer of the story. In the world of politics, there is always a subtext. Was Korach really a democrat? Was he really interested in empowering the people? And was Moses’ crack-down all that unjustified? The Torah herself gives us hints for a more nuanced reading.

The first hint lies in Korach’s lineage. He is the descendant of Levites. He was to grab power for himself as he aspires to become the Cohen Gadol, the High Priest. He is not really interested in emancipating the Israelites. Rather, he is always looking to challenge the rule of law. The Midrash recounts how Korach challenged Moses with a variety of Halachic problems: ‘if a house holds several Torah scrolls, does it still need mezuzot?’ Moses answered in the affirmative. This questioning is done to undermine the rule of law itself.

Another hint lies in his claim: ‘kol ha’edah kulam kedoshim’ – ‘all of the community is holy’. Note the use of the present tense. But is that true? Are we ‘holy’ by default or is that mere demagogy? The populist knows how to pander to his audience. Rather, the Torah commands us to become holy, using the future tense. Holiness is not a given but a process that refines our characters and shapes our values. The quest for holiness is about empowerment through the lens of mitzvot, not about smug entitlement.

Furthermore, Moses is more democratic than Korach paints him to be. In parashat Beha’alotcha, Moses muses ‘if only all my people were prophets’ in response to Medad’s and Eldad’s spontaneous prophesying. The Torah does seek to include and democratise but through transparent structures and rule of law, not through the insincere demagogy of one ambitious and entitled leader.

What I learned during my University days, I continue to learn with Torah. Freedom and accountability cannot exist without responsibility. To be empowered is not just to make demands but to contribute to a world where each voice can be heard and where holiness is a quest for the highest ethical imperative. Surely, that is a more compelling message than the quick fix answers of demagogues. Our critical discernment is the golden promise of democracy in the making.

Shabbat shalom!

Parashat Beha'alot'cha

A Taste of Limmud

Parashat Beha’alot’cha

Roadmap

The vacation season has arrived and many will hit the road. In days past, it would have been tempting to bicker over a wrong turn or missing a crucial exit. Today we are lucky to have the foolproof technology of a GPS to guide us.

Parashat Beha’alot’cha provides the Children of Israel with their GPS and presents us with a microcosm of the spiritual roadmap that is Torah. We read a seemingly chaotic text which brims with a large number of events. Our weekly reading starts out with instructions for the Menorah, then describes the duties of the Levites, only to follow with offering the second chance of ‘Pesach Sheni’. Then the narrative informs us of the guidance of the ‘Anan’, the Cloud of Glory which rests over the Tabernacle, the spiritual compass of the Israelite community. Further on, it mentions the construction of silver trumpets to organise the community, and Moses’ management crash course instructing him to delegate seventy elders to help him.

The common thread through all these disparate themes is that of order, preparedness and vision. The Exodus is a momentous task of shattering logistical proportions in need of firm guidance. We are told how to instate the Levitical class that they may bless Israel, how the chieftains move their tribes efficiently under the blast of silver trumpets and how Moses learns to delegate.

However, this is not a mere list of management tips. The real power of the narrative lies in its fragments of real life events. The ability to lead depends also on the vision to put a contingency plan in place. Real life happens with real people, real problems and real grievances. This is also the parashah where the Children of Israel, craving meat, whine bitterly, foolishly waxing nostalgic for Egyptian slavery. We read how Aaron and Miriam challenge Moses’ authority. There are plagues, despair and death. Yet effective leadership depends on the ability to acknowledge when to step up or to step down. Moses allows two young men, Eldad and Medad, to prophesy among the community, inspiring the weathered and worn Israelites. Moses notes, in defiance of Aaron’s qualms, that ‘if only all God’s people were prophets’. Likewise, it is the people themselves who ordain the Levites by laying their hands upon the members of the priestly tribe. These are the seedlings of democracy and solidarity sprouting in the fertile soil of vision. A contingency plan allows the community to face the challenges ahead: the impending fearful reports of the scouts and the disappointment of being forced to wander in the wilderness for forty more years. Yet we know that the Promised Land awaits.

These future successes are made possible through the roadmap that this parashah provides. Order, preparedness and vision. But also the ability to step down, acknowledge grievances, to forgive and give second chances and a communal spirit of solidarity. It is this combination of steadfastness and flexibility that provides the Jewish people the survival skills for all their journeys to come. The Torah is a foolproof GPS system indeed.

Parashat Acharei Mot

Photocredit: google

Sermon West London Synagogue

Parashat Acharei Mot

The Feast of Freedom

Freedom is not a privilege inherited.

Freedom is a right passionately fought for, each generation anew.

The poignant words of the Haggadah, echoing the Mishnah, remind us of this difficult truth: ‘one is obligated to see him or herself as if he or she left Egypt’.

Freedom is not only the theory of history books, but a reality to be lived daily. So close to Pesach, it is fitting to remember the moral courage of Rabbi Werner van der Zyl, whose yartzeit we commemorate. Rabbi van der Zyl escaped the dire straits of Nazi Germany. In 1956, true to the spirit of his Hochshule fur die Wissenschaft des Judentums, Rabbi van der Zyl founded the institution at which I am privileged to train. We are much indebted to his courage and vision.

These last few months, the call for freedom has been sweeping across the world. We have seen dictators topple and nations unchained.

Often this call is a still, small voice echoed in the deeds of ordinary people. The ritual of the Pesach Seder acknowledges the power of coming together to celebrate freedom as families, friends and welcome strangers.

All the more troubling it is then, that our freedoms to practice our religion are under threat.

I bring you news of a worrying development taking place on the continent from which Rabbi van der Zyl hailed. Only two days ago, my Dutch government gathered a majority vote to ban shechitah and dhabibah, Jewish and Islamic ritual slaughter. The impending ban is whipped up by misinformed populism, at times fueled by Islamophobic and anti-Semitic sentiments and cheap prejudice. The consequences are severe for Holland’s minority Islamic and Jewish communities. Ritual slaughter comprises only a miniscule fraction of the extensive Dutch meat industry.

As religious minorities, we should be keen to defend our religious freedoms.

The question begs itself, what comes next?

A committee of medical doctors has advised a ban on brit milah (male circumcision) and a Dutch politician calls for the removal of ‘freedom of religion’ from our Constitution.

In this country, there have been similar developments concerning the labeling of kosher meat. The European Parliament is scheduled to vote on whether ritually slaughtered meat should be labeled as non-pre-stunned slaughter (and ‘stunning’ is a less gentle method of slaughter than the term suggests). If this law passes, it will raise the price on kosher meat and create economic hardship for Jews committed to keeping a kosher home.

These developments and discussions raise a number of important questions that we as a Jewish community should ponder.

Once the law on labeling is passed, what other religious freedoms will come under question?

How can we as religious minorities defend our principles and create solidarity with other minority faith communities?

And how can we integrate a concern for both kashrut with a concern for animal welfare and ecological awareness?

This week’s parasha, Acharei Mot brushes up against Pesach and explores some of these themes including the slaughter and consumption of meat. In Vayikra, the ethical and ritual intersect. Although Deuteronomy 21:12 grants us the specifics of ritual slaughter, the issue is also visited here.

“This is what the Eternal has commanded: if anyone in the house of Israel slaughters an ox or sheep or goat in the camp, or does so outside the camp, and does not bring it to the entrance of the Tent of Meeting to present it as an offering to the Eternal… bloodguilt shall be imputed to that man… ” (Lev. 17: 3-4)

The accusation of ‘spilling blood’ (shafakh dam) is remarkable.

‘Spilling blood’ is usually voiced in the context of murder or manslaughter. The Torah appears to be saying that we should be ethical in our dealings with animals. Indeed, the Torah ideal for ethical consumption is vegetarianism, as Bereshit stipulates.

We eat meat that is sanctified, cared for, respected and humanely slaughtered.

We eat it in relationship with both Heaven and Earth, interwoven in the ecology of our earth and our lives.

It is said that a society can be judged by how it treats its weakest members. Both animals and (religious) minorities need our protection and deserve our respect. Sensitivity towards both minorities and animals is legislated in the Torah.

This doesn’t mean that we cannot ask challenging questions or explore the ethical ramification of certain religious practices.

But it does mean that we stand firm when basic freedoms are infringed upon.

It is ironic that labeling and bans on kosher meat are done in the name of animal welfare. Focusing on ritual slaughter obscures the real issues that should be a concern: the bio-industry and factory farming.

Our Parasha suggests that once we have mastered kindness towards animals, we can master moral interactions with others. Perhaps it is no coincidence that the ‘arayot’, a list of sexual prohibitions designed to sanctify our relationships, follow on. Holiness, like freedom, is a state not only to be lived but also to be conquered in everyday living.

Leo Baeck College and its commitment to Progressive values equip our communities with the tools to think deeply and speak out courageously on these issues. We are armed by the legacy of Rabbi van der Zyl who had the strength of heart to renew Progressive Judaism after the onslaught of history. We are called to remember our Exodus from Egypt in every generation and to heed this call for freedom.

And so these different calls for freedom, in past, present and future, intersect.

There is a lot at stake this Passover Seder.

Let us ensure that it is truly a Feast of Freedom celebrated by—and in solidarity with—all.