“Spreading the Light Through Action”
By Cantor Eva Robbins, ‘04

One of the most striking sections of this parsha is in the maftir, with the powerful words, “Umaray kavod  Adonai k’aysh ochelet,” ”The appearance of the glory of Hashem was like a consuming fire.” This was my maftir, as a Bat Mitzvah. I could feel the warmth of the light wash over me as the burning presence inflamed the moment of my taking possession of Torah.  As I reread these words and began to explore their deeper meaning, I was struck by the connection to the previous parsha, Yitro, when the people, “Saw the thunder and the flames,” “v’chol ha-am roim et kolot v’et halapidim” following the giving of the Asseret Dibrot. The word halapidim means a ‘torch’ while the word aysh means ‘fire.’ Why two different descriptions? Why do the people see a ‘torch’ after receiving the 10 commandments but later, as Moses enters the cloud, they see only the ‘fire.’ Further investigation of this word, whose root is lamed fey dalet, led me to Genesis 15:17, when G-d makes a covenant with Avram, promising him that he will father a nation that number the stars in the sky, and that they will inherit their own special land. As a sign of this covenant there was “a torch of fire,” “v’lapid aysh.” At both moments of covenantal relationship this Divine ‘torch’ is present.

We know from Rashi’s classic comment that when a parsha begins with a vav it is a signal that what is to come is directly connected to the previous parsha. Mishpatim begins ‘vaeyleh mishpatim,” “These are the ordinances,” which represents the civil laws man is to undertake, directly following the awesome experience of the ‘torch,’ as well as the initial instructions for the sacrificial cult. The people experience the gift of the ‘flame,’ the powerful ‘light’ of Divine presence, from the heavens above, which they are now instructed to ignite on the mizbeach, in the world below.  This reciprocal relationship of receiving from above and returning from below is symbolic of the constant flow of blessing we receive and return to the Holy One. Mishpatim teaches us that it is not only through this spiritual flow that we stay connected to the Holy One. We must also concretize it through acts of civil obedience, creating a sense of fairness, honor and lawfulness in a society. The people are immediately confronted with the kind of actions they must undertake, in their everyday human interactions, in order to perpetuate that moment of intimate connection at Sinai.

The ‘torch’ is a container, a holder for the ‘flame,’ something that can be held, carried and directed. It represents the voice of the Holy One, as it says in Psalm 29:7, “The voice of Hashem cleaves with shafts of fire.” The ‘fire’ that is seen when Moses enters the cloud is no longer a ‘torch,’ it is pure flame, a consuming ‘fire.’ Bachyiah, a commentator of the Middle Ages, describes it as a ‘bonfire’ a ‘flame’ that varies in intensity. Each individual receives from the ‘light’ what he/she is capable of receiving. We become the ‘torch.’ Through our actions, we keep the ‘flame’ alive in this world. We decide how brightly it will glow. The laws are the means for maintaining the presence of the Holy One in this world and that in turn keeps the ‘flame’ of G-d’s spirit continually burning in the world above.

“Our Decalogue Dilemma”
By Rabbi Arthur Levine, Ph.D. J.D., is a 2009 AJRCA alumnus 

This Shabbat, Jews praying in synagogues will rise as the Torah reader begins Exodus chapter twenty.  Even those of us who neither understand Hebrew nor follow along in English will likely feel the raw power of the Ten Commandments.  For many, it will be a rare confluence of conscious, emotional, and experiential connection with G-d and Scripture.

We will feel, in a word, spiritual.  How often does that happen?

We’ll then sit down and not reencounter the “Ten Utterances” (as the Torah actually refers to them) for months (or, in a triennial reading cycle, years), until reaching the nearly identical passage in Parashat Va’etchannan.

On every other day but these two, Jews praying from the siddur in the synagogue connect with many other Torah verses that the rabbis of old incorporated into our liturgy.  Ironically, we likely recite them while periodically gazing upon a beautiful artistic representation of the Aseret Hadibrot on the Ark.  But we won’t read, hear, or say them.

Thus, on the one hand, our tradition affords the Ten Commandments the primary place of symbolic honor.  Yet, on the other hand, we have literally hidden them in plain sight.  Why?

We often think of Judaism as a “historical” religion.  Perhaps this is mainly because of Torah’s antiquity, its textual account, and our historical connection to Eretz Yisrael.  Judaism is also “historical” because our people’s ancient political and social history continues to deeply inform our liturgy and ritual.  The “Decalogue Dilemma,” as I like to call it, is a prime example of this.

During Second Temple times and perhaps earlier, the Ten Commandments were prominent, recited immediately before the Sh’ma and even included in Tefillin.  After the catastrophic Destruction of the Second Temple and its Holocaust aftermath, the rabbis sought to save Judaism by establishing a society based primarily upon the oral, rather than the written, tradition.  (Ironically, to do this, they wrote down the oral tradition which, with later commentary, became the Talmud, the basis for the Judaism we have known ever since).

The rabbis’ powerful critics, including the Jewish followers of Jesus who became Christians, challenged the authenticity and validity of the new Rabbinic Judaism.  Engaged in a struggle for their Judaism’s survival, the rabbis decided to drastically deemphasize the Ten Commandments.  They didn’t just remove them from liturgical prominence; they actually banned their public recitation, except during Torah reading! This accounts for their absence from our daily and Shabbat liturgy, even as they still live in our collective consciousness.

Honoring traditions established millennia ago by our sages remains very important.  I would argue, though, that among the most important of these traditions is modifying our liturgy when necessary to promote Jewish survival.

By “Jewish survival” in our current place and circumstances, I refer to the impoverished spiritual life of so many liberal American Jews.  Many of our people feel disaffected, disconnected, and even indifferent to Judaism.  They look elsewhere for spirituality, including to other religions that take seriously the directive to “teach ‘These Words’ diligently to your children.”

Still, even though long-(virtually) buried, The Ten Commandments continue to resonate in the Jewish soul, perhaps as no other words.  Rabbis of a former era “exiled” them for the good of our people.  I now call upon rabbis of our era to redeem them.

May we restore “These Words” to their former prominence in our people’s minds, hearts, and prayers.  May we renew their power, as of old, in our days!

Shabbat shalom u’mvorach.

“Kvetch, for Goodness Sake!”
By Gregory D. Metzger, AJRCA Third Year Rabbinical Student

Crying out loud for reform is a legacy of the Jews.  It is not just the right of free people, it is their responsibility.

 “In the wilderness, the whole Israelite community grumbled against Moses and Aaron.  The Israelites said to them, “if we had only died by the hand of the Lord in Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots, when we ate our fill of bread!  For you have brought us into this wilderness to starve the whole congregation to death.”” – Shemot 16:2-3

We know that these gripes were not real.  Lack of meat was a problem in slavery, but not in liberation.  We know that the Israelites left Egypt with “much livestock, herds and flocks.”  It was not the real problem.

Having just tasted freedom, our complaints were selfish and unrefined.  Saddled with a history of oppression and no Torah to guide us, we were not yet free to see the truth.  Not much has changed in 3000 years.  We still complain about perceived problems and actively seek to deny real ones.  We are constantly trying to fill emptiness in our souls with material things.  We mistake spiritual concerns with physical ones.

When we were given Torah, we said we would “do and then we would understand”.  G-d understands that we will find great difficulty seeing the connections between Torah’s solutions and our perception of the problem.  By applying Torah’s solutions to our souls’ problems, we not only find wholeness within ourselves, we create Shalom in the world.

Today, we are free and guided by Torah.  We can “kvetch” for goodness sake.  This is our very great legacy.  Like the freed slaves, each of us, occasionally or often, must relearn what was taught to Abraham:  Our purpose is to extend the boundaries of righteousness and justice in the world.

This is not a new idea, this is ancient wisdom.  In fact, in a recent excavation, Gershon Galil, Professor of Biblical Studies at the University of Haifa, discovered what is considered to be the oldest fragment of Hebrew writing, dating to the 10^th century BCE.  It reads as a plea for justice and righteousness:

. . .you shall not do it, but worship G-d
Judge the slave and the widow. Judge the orphan
and the stranger. Plead for the infant. Plead for the poor and
the widow. Rehabilitate the poor at the hands of the king
Protect the poor and the slave.  Support the stranger.

In our lives and in our society, we still experience slavery and distance ourselves from Torah and goodness.  We cry out for our own wants and confuse them with needs. Yet the free among us remind us to cry out loud as in the days of old.  Giving of one’s self to the world and the community is the solution.  More than anything else, Torah commands us to care for the most vulnerable in the world, to protect their lives and their dignity.  We too can “kvetch” about our own problems -real or fancied – or we can cry out for others.  We may not understand it, but these actions we take to heal the world, will also heal ourselves.   Give it a try “Kvetch, for goodness sake!”

By Lisa Bock, AJRCA 5^th Year Rabbinic Student
“Light at the end of the tunnel”

Do you know that the phrase, “light at the end of the tunnel” is an idiom, lyrics of a song, part of a joke, and the title of essays and books?

“Light at the end of the tunnel” illustrates that sense of hope for freedom, completion, and ending — a successful conclusion to what moments before had seemed an endless stream of hard work or struggle.  This hard work or struggle is characterized by darkness and even narrowness, where choice and options have been unavailable, limited, ignored, or simply not seen.  How do we begin to see this light at the end of the tunnel?  Is this something we wait for, passively?  Is there a switch that we can turn on?

In this week’s parashah, G-d sends the last three plagues upon Egypt.  The first of these last three is locusts, which eat the remaining vegetation that was not destroyed by the hail.  When the locusts arrive, they arrive in such numbers that the land darkens. This same word, חשך, hoshech, describes the next to the last plague, darkness.  The plague of darkness that fell upon the Egyptians was of such darkness that it was touchable; it was a darkness that could be felt. The parashah says that this darkness enveloped the Egyptians for three days.

Darkness can simply mean it was dark, as the sky darkens when the sun goes down, or how a room darkens when the lights are turned off.  Our lives can also darken when we experience a loss of choice, freedom, companionship, or loss of meaningful work. The Israelites had lost their freedom, lost their ability to worship HaShem, and in this way, had lived in darkness as slaves to pharaoh for three hundred years.  As a slave, each day would bring the same endless stream of work, with the next day offering more of the same.  The next day would look like the previous, with no hope for change. Mitzrayim was indeed, this narrow, dark place, a tunnel.

Then came the final plague, the slaying of the firstborn of the Egyptians.  This, a final darkness for pharaoh and the Egyptians, would be irreversible and unstoppable.  In preparation for this final plague, HaShem instructs the Israelites to mark their doorposts with the blood of the lamb, their Passover offering, so that this would be a sign of an Israelite’s home and, as such, the Angel of Death (under the guidance of HaShem) would pass over their home and the plague not touch them.  Wouldn’t HaShem know which home was Israelite and which was Egyptian?

Sefat Emet has a wonderful answer to this question.  He says that the Exodus from Egypt was just the beginning of the Israelite’s service to G-d.  The willingness and choice to serve HaShem would be evident in their applying the blood to their doorposts. This becomes the very beginning of the relationship between the Israelites and HaShem that leads the way to them receiving the Torah.  The Israelites had to follow the instruction, and do the action and this was the evidence of their willingness to serve HaShem.  It was their own action by following HaShem’s instruction, and putting the blood on their doorposts, that turned on that light, and thus when they emerged from their doorways, it was to freedom. Their action of following HaShem’s instruction was the switch that turned the light on at the end of their tunnel, and began their journey from the darkness and narrowness of slavery into the light, spaciousness of a future, and hope.

In Psalms 18:29, King David says, “It is You who light my lamp; the LORD, my
G-d, lights up my darkness.”

It is through our own observance of mitzvoth, study of Torah, prayer, the work of our hands and our hearts that we turn on the switch, and bring light into the world.

“Moses, Martin Luther King Jr. and Abraham Joshua Heschel: Voices of Moral Authority”
By Rabbi Toba August, AJRCA Professor of Rabbinics and Tanach

It is a curious coincidence that ‘Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day’ – is the week of Parshat Va’era. Additionally, the birthday of Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel was the week before for Parshat Shemot.

These two Parshiyot, the first and second of the book of Exodus, begin the encounter between Moses and Pharaoh and parallel the Civil Rights movement’s challenge to the intransigent power of the southern states’ Jim Crow laws in the 1960’s.

Dr. King and Rabbi Heschel, the two men who marched together, though so different, were joined in a spiritual friendship sharing a vision of possibility and change.

In much of their writing both King and Heschel used imagery from the Exodus narrative to confront bigotry and oppressive racism. They both believed, as we hear Moses proclaiming in our Parsha, that G-d demands a high level of moral behavior – that all people are free.

In 1963 at a national conference, Heschel said that “…the tragedy of Pharaoh was the failure to realize that the exodus from slavery could have spelled redemption for both Israel and Egypt….would that they had joined together at the foot of Sinai…”

And King said, “…to accept passively an unjust system is to cooperate with that system…Your highest loyalty is to G-d and not to the mores, or folkways, the state or the nation, or any human-made institution…”

These beliefs are reflected in our Torah reading and are underscored in a mystical interpretation of the 10 plagues.

In his essay, “Ten Ways to Destroy Your Life,” Rabbi Yosef Y. Jacobson explains that the 10 plagues parallel the 10 Sefirot in reverse sequence.

For example, Blood, the first plague, is Malchut, (Kingship) as Pharaoh believed it was he who created the Nile River, the life force of Egypt. This “confidence” was the source of brutal exploitation of the ancient Israelites, and Moses’ ability turning the Nile into blood refuted the notion that Pharaoh was its creator.

Frogs, the second plague, are cold-blooded creatures who give no parental protection to their offspring. They are Yesod (Foundation) which represents the opposite of “bonding” – of experiencing emotional intimacy. The frogs symbolized Egypt’s cold heartedness and lack of compassion.

Though I only presented two examples, I am struck by how relevant these images are for us today just as they were for the Civil Rights movement years ago.

If we know that there is a source of moral authority within each of us, then we are obligated to work through the “plagues” which distort and corrupt. Misguided confidence and exerting power over those less fortunate, being apathetic and indifferent to the suffering around us, are just two examples of our inner selves which both Dr. King and Rabbi Heschel exhorted us to fight against, and which Moses and Aaron confronted with Pharaoh.

May our learning give us courage to act like Moses, King and Heschel, being agents for healing and justice in our world. Amen

“We Remember their Names”
By Chaplain Claire Gorfinkel, ‘11

This drash is in honor of our teacher Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel whose yahrzeit occurs this week.  May his name be remembered for a blessing throughout the generations.

Once upon a time . . . ah, we are entering into a great story here.  Who is not already familiar with it?  Once upon a time there arose in Egypt a new king and he knew not Joseph.  As with the opening line of the fairy tale, I have always thrilled to this verse in Shemot, the first parsha of Exodus, as it establishes the narrative that will lead to our epic journey towards liberation.

But wait, this is Shemot.  It doesn’t begin with “a new king arose over Egypt,” it begins with the names.  The entire book is called Shemot – not “Exodus” – and it opens with the names of the sons of Jacob/Israel who came to Egypt, each with his household, and became fertile, filling the land: twelve tribes, who had been so recently enumerated in much greater detail in parashat Vayigash.

Significantly, the new Pharaoh did not know Joseph.  He did not know the name or the story, so he did not value the descendants of the one who had rescued his nation from famine.  He merely feared them because they had grown numerous, and the more he oppressed them, the more they increased.

Moses’ lineage is explicit: his father was from the house of Levi and he married within his tribe. In the next parsha (6:20) we will learn both of his parents’ names, his father’s parentage and names of additional Levite households and their descendants, although his sister Miriam will not be mentioned by name until many chapters later (15:20).

In this parsha Moses encounters the burning bush and the voice in the bush informs him:  “I am the G-d of your father’s house, the G-d of Abraham, the G-d of Isaac, and the G-d of Jacob.”  But Moses wants to know G-d’s name, and G-d tells him:  “Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh,” I am that I am, or I will be what I will be.  “This shall be my name forever; this how I am to be remembered for all eternity.” (3:14-15)

Names are important to us.  Sometimes we are weary of the genealogies in our Torah; sometimes the yizkor list at High Holidays seems to drag on forever, but it is one of Judaism’s great gifts to us that we tell and retell our ancestral stories.  We especially remember those who were dear to us at a yahrzeit or yizkor.  We would not be who or where we are if it were not for them.

Our teacher, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel is said to have cherished and revered his Hasidic ancestors; as a child he memorized the names of 250 relatives dating back to the fifteenth century.  We can only imagine how those memories, and the sense of continuity that they provided, helped to sustain him and his faith after his world was so brutally shattered by the Shoah.

May we each be gifted with a good name, with loving memories of those who have gone before us, and with opportunities to pass on their values to our descendants.

Professor of Rabbinics and Chassidic Traditions

Reb Mimi Feigelson is an Israeli orthodox rabbi and scholar of Chassidic Thought. She was recruited in 2001 to serve as the Mashpi’ah Ruchanit (spiritual mentor) and Lecturer of Rabbinic Literature and Chassidic Thought at the American Jewish University’s (AJU) Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies. In addition to her work at the AJU she is a frequent guest lecturer at the local high schools and synagogues of Los Angeles and Southern California. She is Scholar-in-Residence in many Jewish communities and organizations throughout the USA and has taught internationally as well.

Professor of Rabbinics

Holding an undergraduate degree in Near Eastern and Judaic Studies and a Master of Arts in Modern Jewish Thought, both from Brandeis University, Rabbi Yehuda Hausman received his rabbinic smicha from Yeshivat Chovevei Torah Rabbinical School in New York. He has also studied in Israel at Yeshivat Darche-Noam/Shapell’s and Yeshivat Ohr Samayach. Rabbi Hausman has taught at American Jewish University’s Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies as well as Milken Community High School and served as the Director of Programming for Kahal Joseph Congregation in Los Angeles. A long-time community activist,  he is the Founder and Editor of Presentense Magazine – Jewish Life: Here and Now and has been invited to speak or present workshops to such organizations/institutions as Limmud LA, Limmud NY, UJA, Brandeis University, Uri L’Tzedek, Meorot Fellowship and the Jewish Multiracial Network.

“A Turning Point”
By Rabbi and Cantor Osnat Margalith, ’07 ‘08

We all have family narratives, stories that define us just as they define our siblings and parents, uncles and cousins. For some of us there are traditions we want to preserve for future generations; but for others there are family stories best forgotten or at the very least, changed. What is the defining story for you? How far will you go when you believe it should be changed?

“When Joseph saw that his father was placing his right hand on Ephraim’s head, he thought it wrong; so he took hold of his father’s hand to move it from Ephraim’s head to Manasseh’s. ‘Not so, Father’, Joseph said to his father, ‘for the other is the first-born; place your right hand on his head.” (Gen 48:17-18)

Joseph has a family narrative he knows only too well since it has caused him many troubles, almost to the point of losing his life. The chapters preceding Parashat Vayechi unfold the narrative of Joseph and his brothers; a story loaded with sibling rivalry fueled by parental favoritism and preferential treatment of the youngest son over his older brother. A family tradition that did not begin with Joseph but rather goes back to his father Jacob and uncle Esau; even further back to his grandfather Isaac who was blessed by Abraham while his brother Ishmael was excluded from the spiritual birthright. The recurring drama in the book of Genesis centers on younger and older siblings thrown into impossible and dangerous rivalry; at times ending in actual murder as with Cain and Abel, at times ending with strong hatred, loss of home, stability and, as with Joseph – personal freedom.

When the time comes for Jacob to bless his two grandsons Ephraim and Manasseh, Joseph already knows what is coming. He knows the legacy; he has heard the stories, actually suffered their punishing consequences. Alarmed and wishing to spare his children the fate of sibling rivalry filled with jealousy and hatred, Joseph tries to prevent the worst from happening : “Joseph took the two of them, Ephraim with is right hand to Israel’s left, and Manasseh with his left hand – to Israel’s right, and brought them close to him” (Gen 48:13)   But even with physically positioning his sons before Jacob such that he will bless them in their birth order, much to Joseph’s chagrin, Jacob finds a way to keep the family tradition, “but Israel stretched out his right hand and laid it on Ephraim’s head, though he was the younger, and his left hand on Manasseh’s head, thus crossing his hands, although Manasseh was the first-born” (48:14). Rashi understands the root “sechel” (crossing) as knowing (from wisdom and ability to think); thus pointing out that Jacob was well aware that Manasseh was the oldest and on his right, yet insisted on giving the younger Ephraim the important spiritual birthright blessing.

What follows next is a turning point in the outcome of the family narrative.  Manasseh and Ephraim overcome sibling rivalry and remain loving brothers, refusing to let the blessing come between them. This new mind-set continues with all of Jacob’s children accepting their father’s instruction that Joseph (through his sons) get the double portion of land inheritance, and Judah named the spiritual leader of the emerging nation of Israel.

As the Book of Genesis comes to a close, there is no better opening for a new era and a change in the old family model. “This is it what their father spoke to them, and blessed them; every one according to his blessing he blessed them” (Gen 49:28) From now on the family of Israel, ready to transform into a nation, will balance the power struggles and sibling rivalry by recognizing individual character and gifts.

May we find the power to do the same within our own families and the strength to change our story through darchei no’am and peaceful ways.

Chazak Chazak V’nitchazek  – Be strong, be strong, and may we be strengthened.”

“Hinei Mah-Tov”
By Judy Aronson, AJRCA Professor of Jewish Education

When we hear the strains of Hinei Mah-Tov (Ps. 133) we instinctively come together swaying or dancing.  It seems natural to picture ourselves as brothers and sisters with the desire to dwell together.  In this week’s Torah portion, Vayigash, it is painful to revisit the anguish and weeping that begins after Judah drew near, moved closer to, went up to, or approached the majestic Joseph, not knowing yet that they are brothers.

Judah’s oration of sixteen p’sukim may be the longest in Torah.  He speaks about his family’s tragic history and what brought him to this moment of reflection and deep regret. Judah refers to Israel as “father” fourteen times.

Even though Jacob/Israel played favorites, ultimately he is our patriarch and the very existence of the people of Israel depends on his contract with G-d.  At Mount Moriah with the call “Abraham, Abraham,” Jacob’s father Isaac is saved.  Later in this Parshah when Israel is in Beer-Sheba G-d says “Jacob, Jacob,” greeting him like an old friend to reassure him that going down to Egypt is part of a greater plan.

Recently I spent a week Sarasota with my husband and his brother.  Close in age, they wonder how they could be so completely different in life style and values.  One a grandfather, the other a bachelor.  One frugal, the other a profligate collector of precious objects.  What they share in common is a sense of loyalty even though they cannot sit in a car together without arguing, a lot.

For my part, I sat in the back seat.  I had just received a Kindle for my birthday and loaded it with the Tanakh so that I could study Vayigash.  I found it a very intimate way of reading text.  I wondered if it was like moving from a Torah Scroll to a Codex around 400 CE. Individual lines I might have skipped jumped off the little screen raising new questions in my mind.  What does it mean for brothers to be “close”?  How important is the relationship?

Joseph had a lot of brothers.  My husband has only one.  Should he, like Judah, assume “leadership” at touchy moments and aim for shalom bayit?

On the plane home, I watched “The Wizard of Oz.”  At the end of the movie, the Tin Man realizes he has a heart when he says that separating from Dorothy will “break it.” Joseph’s heart is “broken” through his forgiveness of Judah and his brothers.  Like the Tin man he weeps, the tears healing his wounded sense of alienation from his family. Benjamin joins in his weeping.

But Joseph is no fool. When he sends his brothers back to Canaan he admonishes them saying “Do not be quarrelsome on the way.”  Rashi suggests this means that the brothers should refrain from blaming each other for the sale of Joseph and for defaming him so as to make him hateful to them. “Not bad advice in light of past experiences.”  (JPS Study Bible)  To travel together in peace has its challenges.

“Rabbi Yehudah said: “Happy are the righteous whose convergence brings peace to the world, for they know how to actualize union and they converge to expand peace in the world.  Look, until Joseph and Judah approached one another, there was no peace; as soon as they drew near as one, they expanded peace in the world and joy increased above and below!” (Zohar: Matt)

So may this be in my family, in your family, in the family of Israel, and the family of nations.