Esther Hugenholtz

D’var Torah for Leo Baeck College

Parashat Lech Lecha

The Dark Side of the Moon

Arriving at Parashat Lech Lecha, it is tempting to focus on its beautiful and momentous opening in which Abram is commanded to go forth from his homeland. ‘Lech Lecha’ has become the paradigmatic narrative for the spiritual journey and the religious covenant.

Today, however, I would propose we journey a little deeper into our parashah to one of its more obscure sections and see if we can cast light upon it. In Genesis Chapter Fifteen, after Abram has battled the four kings of Canaan and withstood a number of tribulations, the Torah tells us about the arcane ritual of the Covenant of the Pieces (‘Brit haBetarim’). After Abram’s military successes, he appears to spiral down into melancholy (or perhaps today we would call it ‘depression’) and asks God both an existential and a practical question: who will inherit if I fail to have children, “v’anochi holech ariri?“ (Gen. 15:2)

This is a poignant moment. We can imagine Abram trying to come to terms with both his successes and his failures. Abram wonders what merit his successes will have if he has no progeny to bequeath his heritage to.

It is at this very moment that God enters center stage. First, God tries to comfort Abram by affirming God’s special relationship with the patriarch. ‘I am your shield’. (Gen. 15:1)

Secondly, God promises progeny as numerous as the stars, seemingly against all odds. This can almost be read as a prophetic echo of a comforting line from Psalm 147:4, ‘the Eternal numbers the stars and gives each one a name’.

To ratify His covenant with Abram, God instructs Abram to conduct a strange ritual, the so-called ‘Covenant of the Pieces’.

The ‘Covenant of the Pieces’ represents the darker sphere of both reality and our covenantal religion. It is not a clean or polished ritual but gritty and primitive. Abram is told to slaughter a number of different animals (a cow, a goat, a ram, a turtledove and a pigeon), to split them and then to pass through them. The scene is set dramatically: the sun sets and Abram falls into a deep and troubled sleep. In his sleep, he experiences a fiery furnace and a blazing torch passing through the covenant of the pieces and Abram is promised two realities: his descendants will be enslaved for four centuries, yet in the end, they will inherit the land promised them.

Our mysterious episode ends as suddenly as it started. Chapter Sixteen already commences with the Hagar narrative. If we were to examine this connection through smichut parshiyot, an analysis of adjacent verses, we may see that God seems to immediately fulfill His promise to Abram and Sarai.

And yet, the reader is left to wonder. What was the meaning of this dark and gruesome ritual? What was the purpose of the blood and gore and fire?

The Sages see the Covenant of the Pieces as being an allusion to what the Jewish people are yet to face: enslavement, loss of autonomy, exile but also ultimate Redemption. The Covenant of the Pieces teaches us that the bigger picture can speak to even the minutiae of our own lives. We all struggle with our successes and failures, our dreams and fears. Many of us may face moments in life where we pass through the fire, where we lament things lost and fear things yet to come. Life is not always clean and polished. Nor is life only a magnificent journey that we embark upon with our dignity intact and our hopes high. Sometimes we are broken and blinded by the thick smoke of our pain. The Covenant of the Pieces teaches us, however, that there is a torch to light our way through the black smoke.

According to Rashi, the act of splitting the animals and passing between them represents covenanting: the sharing of an experience in which the partners become like ‘blood siblings’. He also states that the ‘furnace and torch’ represents the Shechinah (Divine Presence) as She – like a pillar of fire by night - accompanies us through life’s darkest hour. Again, a psalm comes to mind: ‘as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall not fear’ (Psalm 23:4).

Life can force us into the shadows and to gaze upon the dark side of the moon. Yet, true to God’s promise to Abram, the darkness and shadows allow us to see our stars shine all the brighter. The strength of the Covenant of the Pieces lies in its grittiness, in its ability to mix metaphors, to blend life and death into one intoxicating experience. We can pass through dire straits only to be born again. This is a covenant of a God Who is both infinitely loving and brutally honest. And it is this experience that makes our reality covenantal. Life isn’t easy, and sometimes we walk through darkness. But we might just be able to intuit that the Shechinah lights our way like a torch and that the stars illuminate our darker sphere. We may yet emerge stronger and more human, a true journey of the soul.

The Politics of Being Nice

It was a blistering summer day in Jerusalem and the sweat was pouring from our faces. My friend and I had just visited the Kotel Ma’aravi, the Western Wall, to say our prayers. It was Friday afternoon and we wanted to walk home and prepare for Shabbat. We crossed through the Arab section of old Jerusalem and weaved our way through the masses of Muslim Arabs who left their mosques after Friday prayers. Even though the old quarters were crowded, people graciously let us pass. My friend wanted to buy a refreshing limonana drink from a Palestinian vendor. The vendor asked if I wanted one too but I declined because I still had a bottle of water. Even though we were clearly identifiable as Jewish women in our modest skirts, headscarf and Star-of-David necklaces, the kindly Muslim vendor offered me a limonana drink for free. Gratefully, I accepted and knowing that he himself would be fasting due to Ramadan, wished him a blessed Ramadan. It was a small act of random kindness but it meant a lot to me. Between the politics of land, power and money, this stranger practiced the politics of kindness.

This is what I want to talk about today: the politics of being nice. ‘Nice’ appears to be the plainest word in the English language. Being kind is an underrated value. It is deemed a small thing. Being ‘kind’ in and of itself will not solve the environmental crisis, world hunger or usher in world peace. It may not even be a guarantee for personal happiness. There are plenty of kind and good people in the world who suffer nonetheless. Our collective voice of cynicism may even ask what good small random acts of kindness do. They seem fleeting, like a drop in the ocean.

And yet, the politics of being nice is one of the pillars on which our tradition stands. The Rabbis of the Mishnah and Talmud really valued kindness, chesed, and the power of acts of kindness, which they called gemilut chasadim. In fact, our Rabbinic Tradition values kindness so much that it, according to Pirkei Avot 1:2, is one of the three pillars on which the world stands, together with Torah and the service of God itself – ‘al shlosha devarim haolam omed – al haTorah, al haAvodah v’al Gemilut Chasadim’.

After the destruction of the Temple, it was prayer and kindness that replaced the sacrifices and that became the heart of our Jewish spirituality.

Of course, the cardinal importance attached to kindness didn’t merely begin with the Rabbis. Our entire tradition—from the earliest Bible stories to the Chassidic tales of the 18^th century—brims with a love of kindness. Avraham Avinu himself was praised for his kindness and exceptional generosity towards strangers and wayfarers. His exemplary kindness towards the citizens of Sodom is something I spoke about on Rosh haShanah.

But Abraham Avinu isn’t the only Biblical hero who displayed kindness, of course. Shifra and Puah, the midwives of ambivalent status (some hold that they were Jews, others hold that they were righteous Gentiles) displayed great courage and kindness when they tried to save Hebrew babies from Pharaoh’s evil decree. They gently took care of baby Moses. According to Rashi, the kindness is even reflected in the etymologies of their names. Shifra is related to the root shin-peh-reish, ‘to beautify’ and Puah is related to the Hebrew word signifying cooing. In other words, not only did Shifra and Puah save babies, they also displayed extra chesed by beautifying and comforting them.

Of course, there is the story of Pharaoh’s daughter, Batya, who rescued Moses from the gaping mouth of the Nile. There are the stories of Job and Noah, two Gentile heroes our Tanakh accords great respect on account of their kindness. Moses was praised for his humility and his kindness to even animals. The Midrash states that the Eternal chose Moses for his mission because God saw the great mercy Moses displayed towards retrieving a straying lamb. David, as a young man, showed compassion for the troubled Saul by playing his harp to sooth Saul’s spirit.

Moreover, the Midrash recounts another act of supreme kindness: in the time of King David, there were two brothers. Both had an equal share of land. One, however, was single but prosperous. The other, destitute but rich in children. The single brother thought, ‘I have more than enough crops to sustain me, let me go give wheat to my brother who has so many mouths to feed’. While the brother with wife and children thought, ‘Through my children, I will have support in my old age and so I do not need all this crop, let me go to my single brother who has no such guarantees and share my wheat with him. ‘ Unbeknownst to each other, they secretly filled each other’s silo with wheat, out of the goodness of their heart. Because of this, God merited that the Holy Temple itself would be built on the very land that prompted them to act with great mercy.

                Furthermore, it is the Prophets themselves who enjoined acts of kindness upon us. As the Prophet Isaiah states in the Haftarah for Yom Kippur: “Is not this the fast I look for: to release the shackles of injustice, to undo the fetters of bondage, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every cruel chain? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and to bring the homeless poor into your house? When you see the naked, to clothe them, and never to hide yourself from your own kin?” (Isaiah 58:1-14)

Finally, in the Midrashic imagination of the Rabbis, even God Himself graced us with His kindness. It was God Who adorned Eve as a beautiful bride and escorted her to the chuppah in Gan Eden. And it was God Himself who made sure that Moses was buried when he died at 120 years of age. Unsurprisingly, core rabbinic values of kindness are accompanying the bride and burying the dead.

When we are reflecting upon our shortcomings during Yom Kippur, it’s easy to dwell on the spectacular transgressions. After all, our liturgy focuses—thankfully addressing us in the collective—on committing adultery, slandering, hatemongering and theft. In a way this may cause a disconnection. Do all of us really commit adultery and acts of violence? Of course not. But this sense of disconnection from the liturgy makes it easier for us to fall into the trap of putting this criticism aside and believing that we have less inner work to do. What if we choose to focus on our relationship with our ability to be nice? Let us think about what it means to be kind—both from the vantage point of our tradition (as I have already discussed) and from the vantage point of our personal experience. I am not proposing that we should ignore the negative injunctions of the liturgy but instead I propose that we add positives as well. In what ways could we have been kinder? In what ways could little acts of chesed have brightened the days of our fellow human beings?  Perhaps added to our solemn list of ashamnu’s and al chet’s, we could chant to the rhythm of our heart:

‘We can smile at a stranger on the bus. We can open the door for an elderly person. We can extend a hand to a lonely refugee. We can treat a single mother with dignity. We can give a little more charity. We can write a Get-Well card for a sick co-worker. We can give an extra hug to a grandchild. We can listen to a lonely friend. We can make that extra phone call to an ailing parent. We can spend those few extra minutes recycling our trash. We can volunteer an extra hour at the local shelter. We can help our neighbour carry her groceries. We can, as the Prophet Micah commands us, not only walk humbly but also do justly and love mercy.’

Kindness begins as a reflection in the face of our fellow human being, but it certainly doesn’t end there. Traditionally, the introspective period before the Yemei Teshuvah—the Days of Repentance—is divided up between contemplating two categories of relationship: bein adam l’makom and bein adam l’chavero. The first refers to the relationship between the individual and the Divine. The second refers to the relationship of the individual and his or her fellow human beings. Modern Jewish thought, however, has proposed a third category: bein adam l’atzmo: between an individual and his or herself. We don’t only reflect upon our so-called horizontal and vertical relationships but also on our internal relationship—with ourselves.

This logic can be extended to practicing the transformative politics of kindness. Not only should we be kind to others, and to the Omnipresent and all that God encompasses (such as our sacred, physical Universe) but also to ourselves. Perhaps this is the hardest kindness of all.

‘V’ahavta larecha kamocha’, our holy Torah commands us (Leviticus 19:18), ‘Love your neighbour as yourself – I am the Lord’. Rabbi Hillel taught this verse to the convert who asked him to explain the essence of Judaism on one foot: ‘Love your neighbour as yourself. This is the whole Torah, the rest is commentary. Now go and learn it’ (Talmud Bavli, Shabbat 31a). Rabbi Akiva expounded this verse as being a ‘great principle of the Torah’ (Midrash Torat Kohanim).

Usually we look at thsis verse one-dimensionally. It seems obvious. Love your neighbour as yourself. We read it with the emphasis on neighbour. ‘Love your neighbour as yourself’. But what if we shift the emphasis and read it as, ‘love your neighbour as yourself’? We can only truly be kind to others if we can first be kind to ourselves. If we judge ourselves too harshly, this will provide fertile ground for harsh judgments of others. But if we are gentle with our own souls, then we create the spaciousness of heart and the fortitude of spirit to be gentle with our fellow human beings. One cannot exist without the other.

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle”, thus spoke Philo of Alexandria, the ancient Hellenist Jewish philosopher.  This truth echoes across the millennia. Life is hard, and in varying degrees, we have all experienced its hardships. Being kind is gratifying. Although it is not easy, it is simple. It is a task from which we are not free to desist and it is an investment that yields immediate returns. In a cynical world where it is easy to feel disempowered in the face of great evil and suffering, it is random acts of kindness that can empower us: both as givers and as receivers. Be kind to our world, to others and last but not least, to yourself. When saying the ashamnu’s and al chet’s, don’t literally ‘beat yourself up’ but rather gently knock at the gates of your heart. ‘Pitchu li sha’arei tzedek, avo vam odeh Yah’—‘Open for me the gates of righteousness and I will come there and thank God’ (Psalm  118:19).

Open yourself up to the rhythms of compassion and attune to the music of your heart. Then perhaps we may one day discover that there is more love to go round than we had expected. That we can build up our world through this grace, this abundant love, stone by stone, brick by brick, layer by layer. And then we might find that acts of loving kindness are indeed the pillars of Creation after all.

You might be surprised yet.

Today, entertainment competes heavily for our attention. Some eagerly await the Season Finale of ‘Lost’, others are happy to go see a movie at a nearby movie theater. There’s Hulu and Netflix and the iPod, and even the iPad. There’s a real information overload but why?

The premise of cheap entertainment is the thrill. The premise of quality entertainment, however, is the story. And good stories can be told compellingly in any medium whether it’s the silver screen, pixels or print. Or, perhaps, a good story can be told through the forgotten art of theater.

I would like to cordially invite you to examine a unique and ancient theater production of our own: the Megillah Reading. True, it may not be a Broadway show, but the story is absolutely riveting. The Book of Esther contains comedy, romance and suspense and is topped off with a happy ending—of sorts. The Megillah features a brave hero (Mordechai), and evil villain (Haman), a well-intentioned but ignorant king (Achashverosh) and of course, our beautiful heroine: Queen Esther.

I would like to approach the character of Esther. How does she develop as a character? And what is her message for a contemporary audience?

The book of Esther can be read on multiple levels. At first glance, the story seems to be a Shakespearian ‘comedy of errors’. Yet the apparent levity of the story is counterbalanced by a profound sense of gravity.

Firstly, for a Biblical text, it is remarkable that the protagonist who is featured so prominently (and heroically) is a woman. Moreover, it is striking that she is also the richest and most complex character in the story. Achashverosh and Haman are caricatures. Vashti only makes a brief cameo appearance and even our brave Mordechai is a flat character. In a sense, his heroism is predictable and one-dimensional. It is Queen Esther who tantalizes us with her complexity, courage and contradictions. Unsurprisingly, then, she is also the character that undergoes the most growth.

Another striking feature of the Book of Esther is the absence of God. The Rabbis from the Talmud already wrestled with this question. If this book is a sacred and canonical text, then where does God come into play? Or does He remain in the wings? The Megillah does not mention the God of Israel once. Furthermore, the Megillah’s plot illustrates a number of incidents that contradict Jewish law. Wasn’t Esther ‘intermarried’?  How did she keep kosher in the palace of the Persian king? Was Esther a religious girl or a prime example of assimilation avant-la-letre? Exploring these questions will provide us with compelling insights into Esther’s character.

Midrash tries to answer these questions.

One of the Midrashic answers comes from the Talmud Bavli (Megilla 10b to 17a). The Midrash suggests that Esther adhered to a vegetarian diet at the palace, immersed in a mikveh before consorting with the King and resisted relations with Achashverosh. All this, of course, is conjecture of idealized ‘rabbinic’ behavior on part of Queen Esther. The rabbinic imagination doesn’t stop here. The Midrash describes Queen Esther’s beauty to the Morningstar. Even so, a more contemporary analysis of Esther’s character is more complex and more enticing.

Esther’s story begins as a hybrid between Cinderella and America’s Next Top Model—only set in Antiquity. The orphan Esther (also known as Hadassah) is Mordechai’s beautiful niece. After Achashverosh’s unfortunate incident with his former wife Vashti, Esther is summoned to the palace. There she is to compete against the many beautiful young maidens of Shushan in order to find favor in the King’s eyes. Esther won the beauty pageant avant-la-letre and was assigned personal handmaidens and an intricate year-long spa treatment with oil of myrrh, perfume and cosmetics.

If one reads the p’shat (literal meaning) of the story, concluding that Esther was the superficial type would be obvious. She allows herself to be pampered and seems to enjoy the attention lavished upon her. The text of the Megillah doesn’t hint at her having any other ambitions except from being Persia’s beauty queen. Initially, it is Mordechai who takes bold steps in order to safeguard the future of the Jewish people while Esther prefers to look away. Even when the situation surrounding Haman’s evil plans worsens.

Mordechai tries to galvanize Esther into action when he learns of Haman’s genocidal plans. He prods her to draw the King’s attention to these plans. Her initial response is evasive. 'All the king's servants, and the people of the king's provinces, do know, that whosoever, whether man or woman, shall come unto the king into the inner court, who is not called, there is one law for him, that he be put to death, except such to whom the king shall hold out the golden scepter, that he may live; but I have not been called to come in unto the king these thirty days.' (Esther 4:11)         

Mordechai is disappointed in Esther’s response and even has to convince Esther to search out the King. Mordechai states; 'Don’t think that you shall escape in the king's house, more than all the Jews.’

Interestingly so, this outcry is the turning point in the narrative. From a literary perspective, it cannot be coincidental that this occurs in the middle of the Megillah, in the fifth chapter. And not only is this a turning point for the plot but also for the growth of Esther as a true heroine. She becomes a character of depth and substance who gains insight and courage. Both bravely and stoically, she proclaims, ‘v’cha’asher avad’ti, avad’it’: ‘if I perish, I perish’. (Esther 4:16)

This is the moment that Esther comes to full bloom and where she develops real Shakespearian finesse. Our young heroine forges her own plans to manipulate Achashverosh through seduction, wit and palace intrigue. Amongst these worldly goals, Esther still balances spiritual concerns by fasting—in sharp contrast to the opulence and decadence of the Persian court.

Unlike many Shakespearian dramas (although in keeping with Shakespearian comedies) all ends well. The Queen is rewarded, Mordechai is vindicated, Haman is hanged and the Jews are saved.

Esther reigns triumphant, as a fully developed and well-rounded character. She is worthy of her title, ‘Esther haMalka’. Her personal development gains full significance in light of a small but telling detail in the narrative of the Megillah. In Chapter 9, verse 29, the Megillah writes: ‘vatichtov Esther’, ‘and Esther wrote’. This description of the Purim decree that Esther issued speaks volumes. Esther shares the (albeit, dubious) honor with Jezebel of being the only two women in Tanakh who wrote in person. (Jezebel’s act of writing is recording in Kings I, 21:8). The notion of a literate Biblical Queen sparks the imagination of the contemporary reader. Esther truly underwent a metamorphosis and became the complex and rich character that still fascinates us to this day.

If you would like to experience the depth of Esther’s character yourself, I would encourage you to come to a Megillah reading. Bring your Megillah – in Hebrew and in translation – and your best spirits. Allow yourself to be swept away by an epic tale that still rings true and by the charm of its beautiful protagonist. The Book of Esther surely is a good story. With a great heroine at its midst.       


(This (slightly revised) article, written as an assignment for class, was inspired by an earlier Dutch article on Queen Esther)    

Hieronder vind u de derasja (droosje) die ik op vrijdagavond 21 mei heb gehouden in de Liberaal Joodse Gemeente Amsterdam.


Er zijn meerdere wegen naar de misjkan – pluralisme van kedoesja

Dit is mijn eerste keer dat ik in de LJG Amsterdam een droosje geef en wij boffen niet met deze parsje!
Dit is een complexe, moeilijke parsje met vele lijnen die door elkaar lijken te lopen. Parasjat Naso lijkt willekeurig en obscuur en adresseert een aantal moeilijke thema’s.

De vraag is: is de parsje ook willekeurig? We gaan op een korte ontdekkingsreis om een patroon te vinden.
Wat kunnen wij van dit ogenschijnlijk onsamenhangende stuk tekst leren?

De parsje in vogelvlucht vertelt het verhaal van:

-          Volkstelling van Gersonieten, Merarieten en Kehatieten die dienen in de ontmoetingstent.

-          Rituele onreinheid door tza’arat (een soort Bijbelse lepra), zav (genitale emissies) en toemat met (rituele onreinheid door de dood).

-          Het Sota ritueel van de vrouw die van overspel wordt verdacht.

-          De Nazir: de man of vrouw die zich toewijdt aan een ascetisch leven zonder wijn en zonder het haar te knippen.

-          De Priesterzegen (Birkat Kohaniem).

-          Het opzetten van het tabernakel en de twaalf stamleiders die hun vrijwillige offers komen brengen.

-          Mosjé spreekt met de Eeuwige in de ontmoetingstent.

De vraag is natuurlijk of er een onderliggend thema is. Wat is het belang van zoveel detail? En wat hebben al deze elementen gemeen?

Laten we drie mysterieuze thema’s nader bekijken: de Birkat Kohaniem, de Sota, en de Nazir.

De eerste is ons bekend en vertrouwd. De andere twee, echter, zijn onbegrijpelijker.
Maar het verbindende element is dat ze allemaal te maken hebben met de misjkan (het tabernakel) als symbol van de goddelijke aanwezigheid in onze wereld. En ze hebben allemaal te maken met kedoesja - heiliging.
Nadat we deze drie elementen besproken hebben, gaan we in op wat heiliging ons progressieve Joden vandaag de dag nog te bieden heeft.

Birkat Kohaniem/Priesterzegen: - dit is uiteraard bekend uit de liturgie.
In de parsje staat er emor lahem (Num 6:23) wanneer de Eeuwige de Kohaniem gebiedt het volk te zegenen. Volgens Rashi staat er emor lahem (meervoud) zodat iedereen - de hele kille (gemeenschap) de zegen kon horen en ontvangen. Iedereen telt mee.

Er is een interessant spanningsveld wat betreft de Priesterzegen. Wij zeggen de Birkat Kohanim voor onze kinderen op Sjabbat terwijl de overgrote meerderheid van ons geen Kohaniem zijn. Toch wordt Israël een goy kadosj (een heilig volk) een een mamlechet kohaniem (een koninkrijk van Priesters) genoemd. Het is belangrijk om te onthouden dat dit niet doelt op de zogenaamdede 'superioriteit' van het Joodse volk maar doet ons juist herinneren aan onze opdracht om de wereld te vervolmaken. Kortom: wees de zegen die je wilt ontvangen. 
 

Sota is het ritueel van de van overspel verdachte vrouw die voor de Kohen moet verschijnen.

Het is wel zo dat haar man haar eerst moet waarschuwen dat hij haar verdenkt en haar aanspreken op wat (in in deze patriarchale cultuur) op verdacht gedrag lijkt. Mocht zij deze waarschuwing in de wind slaan, dan heeft hij het recht om haar officieel te betichten.

Zij moet voor de Kohen verschijnen en de bittere wateren drinken.  Dit is gewijd water uit een aardewerken pot waarin stof van de vloer van de misjkan is vermengt. Tevens wordt er een vloek met de Naam van God op perkament geschreven en in het water opgelost. De vrouw moet vervolgens een eed afleggen bij de Kohen.

Als zij schuldig is dan zwelt haar buik en verschrompelt haar schoot. Is zij onschuldig dat zal zij zwanger worden.

Is deze zwangerschap een beloning voor haar trouw? Volgens Rabbi Akiva in de Babylonischa Talmoed, Masechet Sotah 26a werd een onvruchtbare vrouw vruchtbaar door de wateren.
Hoe kunnen we dit bizarre ritueel begrijpen in het kader van kedoesja - heiligheid?

In de Bavli Kiddoesjin 30b  staat de er sjalosj sjoetafim (drie partners) betrokken zijn in de schepping van nieuw leven: de man, de vrouw, en de Eeuwige. Samen vormen zij een uniek verbond.

De parallel met het Gouden Kalf (egel hazahav) dat beschreven staat in Exodus 32 dwingt zich aan ons op. Hierbij het beeld wat de Israëlieten aanbaden verbrand, vermalen en opgelost in water. De Bne Israel werden gedwongen om er van te drinken.

Spirituele monogamie en echtelijke monogamie staan gelijk aan elkaar.
Kunnen we toch nog een relevante boodschap opmaken uit het Sota ritueel?

In Bavli Sjabbat 116a staat geschreven over het Sota ritueel dat God bereid is om Zijn Naam te laten wissen voor sjalom bayit (een vredig gezinsleven) tussen man en vrouw. Hoe moeilijk het Sota ritueel ook te begrijpen is voor de moderne mens kunnen we er toch misschien uit opmaken dat het Sota ritueel de kracht heeft om een vloek tot zegen te maken, om een vrouw te redden van de schaduw van verdenking, om de harmonie tussen echtelieden te herstellen. De verdachtmaking van ontrouw kan worden getransformeerd tot een symbool van trouw - tussen man en vrouw en tussen God en mens. Heiliging door trouw is hier het thema.

De Nazir (nazireeër) functioneert als tegenhanger van de Kohen. De Nazir is iemand die vrijwillig kiest om een gewijd bestaan te leiden voor een bepaalde periode. Dit doet hij (of zij) door het afzweren van wijn en druifproducten en door het laten groeien van het haar. In deze parsje staat beschreven hoe de Nazir ook heilig is. Ki yazir l’adonai, kadosj adonai. Want hij is gewijd aan de Eeuwige en heilig voor de Eeuwige. Deze formulering, kadosj l'adonai staat ook op de diadeem van de Hogepriester geschreven.

In tegenstelling tot Priesterschap is naziroet een vrijwillig en egalitair principe. Elk Jood (ook een vrouw) kan een Nazir worden.

Interessant is dat een Kohen zijn allernaasten mag begraven ondanks het risico van rituele verontreiniging door toemat met. Een Nazir, echter, mag niet eens zijn naaste familieleden begraven omdat ook hij onrein kan worden. De parsje (Num 6:7) geeft hiervoor een reden: ‘ki nezer elohav al rosjo - omdat de kroon van de Eeuwige op zijn hoofd rust’.) Waarom het verschil tussen de Kohen en de Nazir? Men zou verwachten dat de restricties voor de Kohen nog altijd zwaarder zouden moeten zijn. De uitleg is dan ook dat de Nazir vrijwilig kiest voor zijn restricties, en de Kohen niet. Aangezien het Priesterschap een overerfelijke functie is erkent de Torá dat het onrechtvaardig zou zijn om de Kohen te veroordelen tot een situatie waarin hij niet eens zijn dierbaren kan begraven. De Nazir, echter, kiest bewust voor zijn of haar positie, zoekt die extra heiligheid op en moet daarvoor de consequenties aanvaarden. Hiermee wordt de Nazir ook een beetje een Kohen.

Een vergelijking tussen de twee posities dringt dan zichzelf ook op. Zoals de Nazir is heiliging iets waar we onszelf aan kunnen verbinden, hoe moeilijk die keuze ook is. En soms is heiliging iets wat je gewoon moet aanvaarden en moet integreren in je bestaan, zoals de Kohen.

Samenvattend zouden we kunnen betogen dat zingeving is de kunst van een lijn zien in het alledaagse of het willekeurige.

Wij lezen de Tora liefdevol met de vooronderstelling dat de tekst – hoe obscuur of problematisch ook - ons dieper inzicht kan geven.

Dit typisch Joodse en rabbijnse proces van kritisch en zorgvuldig lezen schept een dynamische relatie tussen ons, de tekst en de Eeuwige.

Ondanks zijn ondoorgrondelijkheid, zien wij patronen in de parsje die allen wijzen in de richting van kedoesja/heiliging. Zoals de priesterzegen die het volk heiligt, de Sota die gezegend kan worden door haar huwelijkse trouw en de Nazir die door eigen initiatief een rijker geloofsleven kan ervaren.

Maar wat betekent heiliging voor ons vandaag de dag? Blijft het alleen maar bij oude en obscure rituelen? Nee. Heiliging geeft ons de opdracht om bewust en ethisch met ons Jodendom bezig te zijn. Zonder betrokkenheid bij de wereld kan kedoesja introvert worden. Het is juist onze opdracht – vooral ook als progressieve Joden – om zelfbewust met beide benen in de moderne wereld te staan.

Kedoesja heb je niet – je streeft het na. Ik nodig u uit om na te denken over hoe bijzondere momenten en daden uw leven verrijken. Is dat door tikkoen olam? Door het doen van mitswot? Door lernen? Of door intens te genieten van de natuur en de wereld om ons heen? Door in aanraking te komen met de eigen creativiteit? Door het koesteren van menselijke relaties?

Dit is namelijk de kracht van deze parsje: het leert ons over een pluralisme van kedoesja – een modern thema. Net zo goed dat er verschillende manieren zijn om Joods te zijn, leert parasjat Naso ons dat er verschillende manieren zijn om kedoesja na te streven: door werk, ritueel, talent, devotie, (huwelijkse) trouw, gebed, creativiteit, liefde enzovoorts. Wij moeten ieder onze eigen manier vinden en daar met integriteit en authenticiteit – en niet te vergeten, vreugde - naar handelen. Zo kunnen we altijd de dialoog aangaan. Met elkaar en de Eeuwige. Er zijn namelijk altijd meerdere wegen die naar de misjkan leiden.

Sjabbat sjalom.

Haftarah for Bamidbar: Hosea 2:1-22

I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You

How can I forget the day that I was to be married to my beloved husband? Of course, every wedding has its memorable moments. There’s the whispered holiness of the mikveh the day before, the silken-soft rustle of dress and veil, the lilting scents of perfume and bouquet. More importantly, the hugs and kisses of loved ones in celebration punctuate my memories. Of course, there is dancing and song and laughter. The giddying experiences of being hoisted upon chairs during the Hora and the sweetness of sanctified wine upon eager lips.

To me, however, the moment suspended in eternity was when my beloved chattan pronounced the words that sanctified me unto him according to the Law of Moses and Israel and when he - amongst all the pomp and circumstance of the day – slid a simple, unassuming gold band on my finger. From that moment on, my heart sang, we were covenanted to each other.

Of course, a wedding is the culmination of an intense process of emotional and spiritual growth between two people. Most great love stories have spectacular endings yet humble beginnings. So too for my husband and myself. What is there to tell? We met in synagogue!

One of the world’s greatest love stories is the relationship between God and the Jewish people. This saga also had humble origins—with a shepherd from Ur Kasdim. And, like most love stories, there was an intense process of emotional and spiritual growth between God and Israel. In our case, this took place in the desert, after a spectacular elopement from Mitzrayim.

Parashat Bamidbar recounts this formative period in the covenantal relationship. The parashah sets the stage: “on the first day of the second month, in the second year following the exodus from the land of Egypt…” (Num. 1:1) only to continue with a seemingly strange demand: “take a census of the whole Israelite community by the clans of its ancestral houses…” (Num. 1:2)

Hence, Moshe and Aharon are instructed to count the people and administrate them, the overarching theme of the parasha.

According to Rashi the census may not be strange at all. This famous early Medieval commentator explains that God counted the people out of His great love for them. What better way to cement a relationship than to pay close attention to detail; to the needs of your love and to take constant note of their presence? Or as the 19^th century poetess Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote in Sonnet 43: ‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.’

The Haftarah on Hosea ties in beautifully with this theme and expands it.

The eighth century (BCE) prophet Hosea was the first prophet to phrase the covenantal relationship between God and Israel in marital and monogamous terms. Chastening the Jewish people for their idolatry, he compares this to adultery and hereby creates an oft-repeated refrain of monotheism as spiritual monogamy. However, Hosea is not only interested in chiding the Jews in the name of God but also offers them healing their relationship through the forgiveness of God. The divine voice oscillates between anger and love, like a lover spurned or husband betrayed.

Hosea persuades his audience by appealing to metaphors of both a romantic past and a promising future.

Love in the wilderness is one of the nostalgic metaphors that the prophet Hosea draws on. Through him, the Holy One Blessed be He reminisces that He ‘will speak coaxingly to her and lead her through the wilderness and speak to her tenderly… there she shall respond as in the days of her youth, when she came up from the land of Egypt’ (Hosea 2:16-17).

Not only is Hosea a prophetic mouthpiece for God’s desire to enter and maintain a covenantal ‘marriage’ with Israel, but he also becomes an actual conduit for that desire. The prophet is forced to take the prostitute Gomer daughter of Diblaim as his wife and accept the fruits of her womb as his own children, regardless of which unknown man sired them. His children he shall name ‘Lo-Ruchamma’ (Unforgiven) and ‘Lo-Ammi’ (Not My People) as an embodiment of God’s feelings of betrayal by Israel on account of their idolatry. In essence, Hosea lives—body and soul—in the experience of a broken relationship that must—and will be—fully restored.

When Israel will return to God in unwavering loyalty and worship of Him alone, this relationship will be restored. With inspired Messianic fervor, the prophet voices God’s desire:

‘And in that day—declares the Lord—you will call Me Ishi, and no more will you call Me Baali. For I will remove the names of the Baalim from her mouth, and they shall nevermore be mentioned by name. In that day, I will make a covenant for them with the beasts of the field, the birds of the air and the creeping things of the ground; I will also banish bow, sword, and war from the land. Thus I will let them lie down in safety.’ (Hosea 2:18-19)

 The pun on ‘ba’al’ is obvious to the attentive reader. Ba’al is the Canaanite fertility god at whose sacred groves the Israelites knelt in idolatry. But ba’al—meaning ‘master’— is also the Hebrew word for husband. A husband in antiquity was indeed the ‘master’ of his wife: he acquired her for a bride-price and had legal jurisdiction over her.

Yet here, Hosea is proposing something awe-inspiring. Not only is God eager to take His beloved bride back into His arms but moreover, He is yearning to develop their relationship. God appears to says through his faithful prophet that in the Messianic Era, Israel and God will not relate to each other in old terms but in new ones. Not through a model of patriarchy shall God be served, but perhaps through a model of marital egalitarianism. The poignantly neutral word ‘Ish’—man—is substituted. Can we imagine that in a time of universal peace, brotherhood and spiritual closeness it is possible that we will have an entirely new and fulfilling relationship with the Holy One? Where we are betrothed again in ‘righteousness and justice, and with goodness and mercy’ so that we may ‘know the Lord?’(Hosea 2:21-22)

It is a daring metaphor that Hosea employs and compelling in its spiritual audacity. Maybe the metaphor allows us to superimpose divine love onto human love. If we are created ‘b’tselem Elohim’—in the image of God—and are betrothed to Him in sacred covenant, then maybe we can extend that same covenant of love to other people. Maybe it will enable us to look at our partners, our husbands and wives with new eyes. Maybe it allows us to blend and redefine our notions of the masculine and feminine, of God the King of Kings and as His Shechinah on a model of God betrothing us all. Is it a coincidence that Shir haShirim (Song of Songs) that holiest of love songs speaks of such a love between lovers and allegorically between God and humanity? Of a love where the partners are equals yet at the same time entirely devoted to each other.

It is unsurprising then that this same rousing passage is recited during the ritual of laying tefillin (phylacteries). As we say these verses and wrap the strap linking the Torah to our hands around our fingers, we emulate the chuppah. We are invited to marry God each day anew, in a relationship that allows our full potential to come to fruition.

As a kallah (bride), my moment suspended in eternity did not end after my chattan slipped the ring on my finger. I proceeded to gently take his hand into mine and to slip a gold band around his finger. I too covenanted him to me—in righteousness and justice, goodness and mercy.

Together we live our lives in a tender and sacred covenant where my husband is not my ‘ba’al’ but my ‘ish’.

I can only wish the very same for all of us—both in the realm of earthly love and in the realm of God’s presence.

A Dutch proverb says: "dreams are deceptive". However, when speaking from within the Jewish tradition, I couldn’t disagree more. In this D’var Haftarah from 1 Kings on parashat Miketz, we will explore the significance and prophetic value of dreams.

Someone else who who believed in the power of dreams was the late Reverend Martin Luther King. In his momentous 1963 speech at the Lincoln Memorial, he bravely stated:

 "I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal." 

Further on in his speech, the late Reverend King cites from Amos and Isaiah, referencing the idea that in his dream of a better world, a more racially equitable world, righteousness will roar like streams and and every valley shall be exalted. The power of his words and of his dream echo across the generations.

In parashat Miketz, it is Pharoah’s dream--whose leadership represents the antithesis of freedom and social equality--that echoes across the generations. He dreams of seven fat cows being devoured by seven lean cows followed by a dream about seven solid ears of grain being swallowed up by seven thin ears of grain (Gen. 41:2-7). Many of us know what happens next: Joseph, the lowly Hebrew prisoner in his dungeon, is able to successfully interpret his dreams and is ‘exalted’ (to extend the metaphor from Isaiah) to a position of being the capable viceroy of Egypt.

The Haftarah links beautifully to this parasha where the evocative power of dreams is combined with wise judgement in leadership. The haftarah tells the story of how Shlomo haMelech acquired an ‘understanding heart’. Before his building of the Beit haMikdash, he--like his fellow Israelites at the time--brought offerings to God on the bamot, the high places. After offering a generous sacrifice in Gibeah, God appears to him in a dream. When God asks Shlomo what he wants, Shlomo answers wisely: he does not yearn after riches, power or success but rather after wisdom to judge right from wrong:

וְנָתַתָּ לְעַבְדְּךָ לֵב שֹׁמֵעַ, לִשְׁפֹּט אֶת-עַמְּךָ, לְהָבִין, בֵּין-טוֹב לְרָע:

"Will you give your servant an understanding heart to judge your people and to know the difference between good and evil". (I Kings 3:9)

God honors Shlomo’s request and he is given a heart that has the ability to listen (lishmoa), understand and judge fairly. In fact, immediately after Shlomo’s awakening (and him offering more to God in gratitude), Melachim Aleph narrates the story of two prostitutes living under one roof. Two prostitutes appear before Shlomo’s court and argue about the claim to a remaining living child. One of the mothers accidently killed her newborn by laying on top of him but it is not clear which of the two women is responsible for her child’s death. Both claim to be sincere about wanting to maintain custody over her rightful child.

It is through Shlomo’s wisdom and careful listening that he is able to discern the truth: because the true mother refers to the living child first (demonstrating her maternal love) while the false claimant emphasises the dead child (thus emphasizing her claim to possession). Shlomo, after trying the women with a trial that near-wagers the child’s life, goes on to judge correctly:

"The king said, "One says, ‘This is my son, the live one, and the dead one is yours’; and the other says, ‘No, the dead boy is yours mine is the live one.’So the king gave the order, "Fetch me a sword."A sword was brought before the king, and the king said, "Cut the live child in two, and give half to one and half to the other." (1 Kings 3:23-24)

Of course, his threat to kill and divide the child is only a ploy to pry the truth out of the women. Though shocking and traumatic to modern sensibilities, he appeals to the maternal instinct to place the interests of the child above all. He prooves apt at both seeing the big picture while at the same time recognizing that ‘God is in the details’. His close listening prooves effective.

In response, the people stand in awe of their wise king. This really is a turning point in Shlomo’s royal career. Previously, he had taken his royal lineage for granted after having secured the kingship with the help of the plotting of his mother Batshebah. Before, he was a king in title only. But at this moment, he is crowned with wisdom.

The haftarah is clear about the role of dreaming in this character development. It is through dreaming that Shlomo realizes where his priorities should be and it is through dreaming that he attains the ‘ruach hakodesh’--the holy spirit--with which to judge wisely. It is then no surprise, after the people’s enthusiastic and awestruct acceptance of his kingship, that Melachim Aleph recounts how his people know peace, security and prosperity, ‘with every man under his figtree and vine’. Under wise and equitable leadership, the people are content and the intention of God’s Torah is fulfilled.

The Talmud Bavli comments on the power and significance of dreams. In Masechet B’rachot 57b, it is stated that ‘a dream is one-sixtieth of prophecy’, just like Shabbat is one-sixtieth of the World to Come and sleep is one-sixtieth of death. Why one-sixtieth? Because this fraction represents a liminal moment. Just as one-sixtieth of chametz on Pesach or treif food in a kosher pot can determine or influence the status of the said food, one-sixtieth of prophecy in dreams hints at the budding potential of true wisdom in our dreams. Not a fully actualized potential, but one waiting to be unfolded.

Furthermore, the Talmud puns on the connection between Shlomo and dreams as it states earlier on the page that ‘if one sees Shlomo in a dream, one may hope for wisdom’. The connection between dreams, prophecy and wisdom in Jewish tradition is profound and ancient.

Yet, this is not where the story ends. Dreams may not be real but they call upon us to be realized. Ruach hakodesh is in vain when a dream that calls upon justice is not materialized. Martin Luther King didn’t merely state that he had a dream as a far-off messianic vision or as a figment of a fanciful imagination. No, his very and every intention is that his dream would come true. Dreams can be translated into hope and hope can be galvanized into action.

Both the parashah and haftarah teach us about the actualization of dreams: the despot Pharaoh, through the implementation of Joseph’s wisdom, was able to stave off famine for his people (though I am sure his motives weren’t entirely altruistic). Likewise, Shlomo took his dream to heart and fulfilled it immediately (the ‘smichut parshiyot’, the joining of the verses narrating his dream and his judgement of the prostitutes is significant in this regard). He judged wisely, knowing ‘good from evil’ but furthermore, he judged compassionately. Two lowly women--like the lowly Joseph--appeared before him. He could have sentenced them to death for prostitution or taken away the child from either of them altogether. However, his ‘understanding heart’ allowed him to judge with both din (judgement) and chesed (loving-kindness), a perfect balance of God’s justice in our world.

Dreams are not deceptive. They are only deceptive if they lure us away from loftier goals and ideals, if they imbue upon us a sense of fear, despair or worthlessness. But some dreams are worth dreaming--and pursuing. Dream a good dream of justice--be it in the small things of personal life or in the large scheme of the world--and pursue it arduously. And know that these inner prophecies may indeed come from God.

Het voelt nu onderhand zo normaal dat ik bijna zou vergeten hoe bijzonder het is om hier in de Verenigde Staten door vrouwelijke Joodse leiders omringd te worden. En niet zomaar vrouwen, maar uitgesproken en getalenteerde vrouwen die hun hart en hoofd schenken aan de traditie.

            In Amerika is de vrouwenemancipatie bij vrijwel elke joodse stroming doorgedrongen, en wordt als daglicht gefilterd door het prisma van de eigen interpretatie.

Bij de ultra-orthodoxe Chabad beweging is het inmiddels heel normaal dat vrouwen sji’oerim voor andere vrouwen verzorgen. Vrouwen schrijven boeken, geven les en inspireren andere vrouwen tot het doen van mitswot.

In de Modern Orthodoxie is er sinds kort een andere unieke ontwikkeling: in de avant-garde sjoel in Riverdale (New York) van de visionaire rabbijn Avi Weiss is ‘Marahat’ Sara Hurwitz aangesteld. Deze jonge gelernde vrouw heeft een bijna-rabbinale titel gekregen en vervult een gemeenschapsrol die bijna identiek is aan dat van haar mannelijke collega’s.

Binnen de ‘progressieve’ stromingen van het Jodendom (Reform en Conservative), zijn de zaden van vrouwelijk leiderschap al een generatie geleden gezaaid ontspruiten, nu de eerste vruchten. Op mijn seminarie ben ik bevoorrecht om daar van te proeven.

En zo zet ik veel zoete vruchten aan mijn lippen. Op een zwoele Californische avond eind mei woonde ik de s’micha (ordinatie) van twaalf studiegenoten bij waarvan de helft vrouw waren. Tevens werden zij tijdens een prachtige en plechtige ceremonie trots toegesproken door een fiere dame in een roomwit mantelpakje: rabbijn Julie Schoenfeld, de nieuwe voorzitster van de ‘Rabbinical Assembly’, het besluitend orgaan van de Conservative beweging.

            De effecten van vrouwelijk leiderschap zijn te vinden op vele niveau’s, van hoog tot laag. Wie geeft mij Talmoed les? Een energieke vrouw, Janet Davis, die de stof tot in haar vingertoppen beheerst en vol overgave doceert. Wie is de assistent-decaan die capabel leiding geeft aan ons rabbinaal programma? Rabbijn Cheryl Peretz. Bij wie heb ik een snuffelstage gelopen op de sjieke Joodse Milken Community High School in Bel Air? Rabbijn Shawn Fields-Meyer, die tevens ons eerstejaars Choemasj met Rasji doceerde.

            Effecten creëren ook kansen. Als vrouw kreeg ik de kans om afgelopen jaar als campus rabbijn te werken, dwz vrijdagavond diensten te leiden en d’rashot te verzorgen. In een pluralistische omgeving was het vaak uitdagend om een elegante oplossing te vinden voor bijvoorbeeld de Orthodoxe studente die toch liever een man de dienst zag doen. Met respect voor en door compromis konden we tot een oplossing komen: ze zou genieten van het Kabbalat Sjabbat gedeelte aan het begin van de dienst en daarna zich discreet terugtrekken voor Ma’ariv, het avondgebed waarvoor een minje verlangd wordt. Ik had met de studenten op campus veel leuke discussies. En dat ik als vrouw aangesteld was bleek vaak niet eens het onderwerp te zijn.

            Vrouwelijk leiderschap in het Jodendom is niet alleen een kwestie van zingeving. Hoe geven wij vrouwen de traditie vorm? Wat voegen wij toe? Ik mocht dit een aantal keren op zeer ontroerende en intieme wijze ervaren als mikwe dame op campus. ’s Avonds had ik de eer om een aantal keer een vrouw naar het mikwe te begeleiden en haar te assisteren met haar dompeling. In het zachte licht van het sfeervolle mikwe mocht ik getuige zijn van een spirituele en persoonlijke mitswe. Als dit geen moment van vrouwelijk leiderschap was, wat dan wel?

Zo vangt ook mijn prisma het licht. Mijn traditie filtert en verwerkt de vrouwenemancipatie op egalitaire wijze maar dat is zeker niet de enige manier. Als ik in de Beit Midrasj (studiezaal) samen met mijn (mannelijke) chevroeta (studiepartner) mijn tanden bijt op een moeilijke passage uit de Talmoed, als ik ’s ochtends met talliet en tefillin een sjachariet dienst leid en de eeuwenoude gebeden zing dan voel ik mij bevoorrecht.

Net zoals de rabbijnen uit de Talmoed en de gebeden uit de siddoer zijn er verschillende methoden en een diversiteit aan minhagim, (gebruiken).

Gelukkig zijn wij hedendaags bij machte om die als vrouwen vanuit onze eigen keuze en traditie prachtig vorm te geven.

Dat is een dag in het leven van ‘de’ Joodse vrouw. ‘De’ Joodse vrouw bestaat natuurlijk niet. Maar wij kunnen haar, volgens het beste wat ieder van ons kan bieden, natuurlijk wel een beetje worden.