By Hazzan Jenna Greenberg.
A couple of years ago, a colleague saw a beautiful Torah cover with Hebrew text with which she was unfamiliar. Upon asking me, I knew exactly where it came from, as I sang this verse years ago in a beautiful choral piece with the Zamir Chorale back in New York. The verse comes from our weekly parasha, Ki Tavo, Deuteronomy 26:15, “Look down from Your holy abode, from heaven, and bless Your people Israel and the soil You have given us, a land flowing with milk and honey, as You swore to our fathers.”
When I think of this verse in the Hebrew, I cannot help but be reminded of the choral setting of this text, which, musically speaking, spanned a wide range of notes, from low to high, from high to low. This is a musical example of word painting, a graphic and vivid description, either in music or writing, that creates a strong image or feeling for its audience. This verse from Ki Tavo spans the spaces from heaven, where God dwells, to earth, the land from which our milk and honey flows. Music aside, the poetic word painting within this verse is quite powerful on its own.
This text reminds us of many things, in particular, the location of the Divine in our lives. God surrounds us, Bashamayim, in heaven. God also dwells among us, in all of our holy places and life experiences. And God dwells within us, as we are all created B’tzelem Elohim, in God’s image.
On this 24th anniversary of 9/11/01, I can’t help but count my blessings. God’s presence in my life on that otherwise sunny Tuesday morning while studying at JTS in New York, was one that brought me great support in a very scary and challenging time. The power of the Divine in our lives can be very palpable, especially at the most difficult of life’s moments.
Let us all remember the lives tragically lost on that fateful Tuesday morning. May we not forget the blessings in our lives 24 years later. I wish for all of us that the evil of this world will be erased by the good, and that we can continue to find meaningful relationships with God beyond us, around us, and within ourselves.
Shabbat Shalom.
By Hazzan Jacob Sandler.
The very end of this week’s parasha, Ki Teitzei, calls on us to remember – and never forget – what Amalek did to us in the desert when we were leaving Egypt. At Beth El, we have a Torah which was rescued from the Holocaust displayed in a glass case outside the sanctuary. This scroll is rolled to this very passage. In addition to reading it at the end of this week’s parasha we read it every year on the Shabbat preceding Purim – Shabbat Zachor.
You may wonder why out of the entire Torah, do we read this passage twice? Or perhaps it’s curious that out of all the passages we might have used in displaying our rescued scroll, we highlight this passage.
It reads, “Remember what Amalek did to you on the way, when you went out of Egypt, how he happened upon you on the way and cut off all the stragglers at your rear, when you were faint and weary, and he did not fear God. Therefore, when the Lord your God grants you respite from all your enemies around you in the land which the Lord, your God, gives to you as an inheritance to possess, you shall erase the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget!”
What Amalek did — attacking from the back — was morally repugnant. Targeting the weakest, the elderly, the sick, the children. It is, by definition, what we call “terrorism” today. It would be different, though still unfortunate, if Amalek had picked a fair fight and chose to battle the Israelites warriors instead. But this was not their tactic. And it says, “he did not fear God” which I understand to be a euphemism for “he acted with no reverence for morality.” Amalek didn’t care that it was wrong, he only cared that it was doable.
To erase the memory of Amalek and completely wipe them out is a bold and difficult command. I recall attending a shabbat morning study session where someone referred to this as a genocidal commandment, and expressed discomfort and aversion to the idea that a whole group should be erased in such a way. This person wasn’t defending the actions of the Amalekites in the desert, but wasn’t sure about collective punishment across generations.
One response to that discomfort is to point out that there is a timely element to the command – it is to happen “when God grants you respite from your enemies around you in the land…” Following that logic, and staying intentionally in biblical times, I direct you to the Haftarah for Shabbat Zachor, when Samuel the prophet instructs King Saul to massacre the Amalekites and put all of them, men, women, children, even the livestock to the sword. Samuel says that the time for fulfilling that command had come. Whether the modern reader would be on board is neither here nor there. This is the time to fulfill that command. What happens in this story is that King Saul only mostly does what he’s told. The best of the livestock, Saul wants to offer to God, and worse yet, he brings King Agag back alive. The story ends with Saul being stripped of the kingship, ultimately replaced by David.
Even more interesting is that Saul was from the tribe of Benjamin and is a direct blood relative of Mordechai from the Purim story. And Haman ben Ham’data haAgagi (The Agag-ite) is descendent of King Agag. The rivalry of these two men may well go back several centuries. On Purim, when the Jews were allowed to defend themselves, they did so. And in a way, Haman and his sons’ death is a moment when the command was finally fulfilled. All these years later, I don’t see any Amalekites, right?
The scroll we saved from the holocaust is open to this passage because the Nazis took on the mantle of Amalek. They sought our destruction, and did so by the most extreme and repugnant means – they did not fear God. And we are called upon to remember the holocaust, and also never forget. Just as we are commanded to remember what Amalek did when we first left Egypt and never forget. Just like every year on Purim we remember what Haman tried and failed to do, and we never forget. It’s devastating that we still see neo-nazis in our country, and face holocaust denial among the many forms of Antisemitism that plague the world today.
Amalek was a person, then a nation and now Amalek is more like a way of being in the world. It’s any ideology which seeks destruction by any means necessary, with no regard for the sanctity of human life, or engaging in a “fair fight”. On October 7th, 2023, Hamas took a page right out of the Amalek playbook. And the other major form of antisemitism we find today is the myriad people defending Hamas’s tactics as “justified resistance” or “contextualized.” So once again, we’re called on to remember. Remember the 48 remaining hostages who need to be returned. And never forget. Never forget the many lives taken too soon on that day and the days since. In the aftermath of that day, I understand why this passage is read twice each year, and is displayed as it is. It was a long time ago, when we first left Egypt and Amalek attacked. Yet, we remember. We haven’t forgotten, and we will never forget.
By Rabbi Vernon Kurtz.
Who is considered to be a wicked person? In this week’s Parsha of Korah we read of Korah’s rebellion against the leadership of Moses and Aaron. Most commentators suggest that he was interested in his own personal aggrandizement. He and his 250 followers are punished for their rebellion as the earth opens up and swallows them.
Midrash Tanhuma Korah section 8 extrapolates from Korah’s actions definitions of wickedness: “Four types of people are called wicked.”
The first is: “One who puts out his hand against his fellow to strike him, even if he does not actually do so.”
Think of the bully who threatens another, one who threatens members of the community or a dominant spouse who threatens his or her weaker counterpart.
To create fear in the heart or mind of another is seen as a form of wickedness by the Rabbis.
A second category is: “One who borrows and does not repay his debt.”This person is considered wicked because he betrays the trust that another puts in him as he loans him money. To betray another’s trust is portrayed as a form of wickedness.
A third is: “One who shows insolence and is not ashamed in the presence of one greater than himself.” This person has no respect for authority. This lack of respect in the family and community is seen as a form of wickedness.
The final category is: “One who is given to contentiousness.” This person sows the seeds of discord and conflict which may lead to enmity and hatred.
Korah and his comrades represented all four categories – they lacked respect for authority and trust in their fellow human being and they based their leadership on discord and threats.
We learn not only from the positive attributes of Biblical personalities but also from their failures. May we do better than Korah and establish families and societies based on the values of trust, respect and concern for one another.
By Hazzan Jenna Greenberg.
Sheldon Harnick, lyricist for the songs of the most iconic Jewish musical in Broadway history, wrote this beautiful poetic midrash on parashat Naso’s Priestly Blessing for the song, Sabbath Prayer, from Fiddler on the Roof:
May the Lord protect and defend you.
May He always shield you from shame.
May you come to be
In Israel a shining name.
May you be like Ruth and like Esther.
May you be deserving of praise.
Strengthen them, Oh Lord,
And keep them from the strangers’ ways.
May God bless you and grant you long lives.
(May the Lord fulfill our Sabbath prayer for you.)
May God make you good mothers and wives.
(May He send you husbands who will care for you.)
May the Lord protect and defend you.
May the Lord preserve you from pain.
Favor them, Oh Lord, with happiness and peace.
Oh, hear our Sabbath prayer. Amen.
As an M.O.T. (“Member Of the Tribe”), Harnick clearly knew his Torah, as this famous tri-fold blessing was quite familiar to him, having grown up very Jewishly-involved right here in Chicago. And I’m pretty confident that most of you didn’t read these lyrics, as you much more likely sung them, am I right? Thanks to Jerry Bock for this wonderful “earworm.”
Harnick’s lyrical interpretation of the original Torah text elaborates so beautifully on the themes within Num. 6:24-26, words that I say to my children every Friday night:
“May the Lord bless you and protect you! May the Lord deal kindly and graciously with you! May the Lord bestow God’s favor upon you and grant you peace!”
Shalom, as a final wish in this prayer, both the original verses and Harnick’s rendition, is the concluding theme of our morning Amidah each day, hence where we include the original verses within Birkat Shalom, the final prayer for peace.
May we all be blessed with all of the gifts this prayer asks for, in both iterations.
And let our wishes for a Shabbat Shalom have an extra special meaning this weekend.
Shabbat Shalom.
By Hazzan Jacob Sandler.
The Haftarah for parashat Bamidbar is from the 8th century prophet Hosea. There are many metaphors to describe God’s relationship with the Israelites. On the High Holidays we grapple with Avinu Malkeinu – God as parent or sovereign while we are children or subjects. God is our master and we are God’s servants. God is our shepherd and we are God’s flock. In every case God is in the position of power and we are lower. The challenge with Hosea is that he leans into the metaphor of God as husband and Israel as wife. And in our modern, egalitarian society we see that relationship as an equal partnership (or at least I think we should). So this language can be fraught with discomfort among contemporary readers as God takes on the role of a betrayed lover. Israel’s idolatrous ways are compared to adultery and the sins of the people are considered an affront to God of the highest order. Other lovers symbolize other gods, and the children born of those lovers symbolize the abandonment of religious beliefs and practices.
In the Etz Hayim Chumash, the introduction to the haftarah reads, “Apostasy will not go unpunished, yet hope for the people Israel’s future is proclaimed from the outset, a sign that divine mercy transcends judgment for sin. The covenant, perverted by national sin, will be renewed for the straying people.”
Whether in a marriage, a relationship or even a platonic friendship, trust and communication are a necessary foundation. When a partner cheats, the pain of that betrayal can be world-shattering. And yet, even in all the hurt and the pain, I know of many who shared that they still felt love for the other. Not a blind, rose-colored denial but a disappointed, angry and sad recognition that the person they loved failed to live up to the person they thought they knew. How does God react?
First, God is justifiably angry. “Rebuke your mother, rebuke her–for she is not My wife and I am not her husband” The rebuke includes a natural desire to punish. “I will make her like a wilderness, render her like a desert and let her die of thirst.”
Then in verse 7, it’s as though God is trying to imagine why Israel would do this. “Because she thought, ‘I will go after my lovers, who supply my bread and my water, my wool and my linen, my oil and my drink.’” But God knows that however unsatisfied the people may have felt, there is no excuse for such behavior. And God knows that in truth, He can and does provide. In His self-righteousness, God says, “Pursue her lovers as she will, she shall not overtake them and seek them as she may, she shall never find them. Then she will say, ‘I will go and return to my first husband, for then I fared better than now.’ And she did not consider this: it was I who bestowed on her the new grain and wine and oil…”
Perhaps, in anguish, God gives in, just a little, to the more petty, vengeful feelings that arise. “Now will I uncover her shame in the very sight of her lovers, and none shall save her from Me…Thus I will punish her for the days of the Baalim, on which she brought them offerings; when, decked with earrings and jewels, she would go after her lovers, forgetting Me.”
But what I found the most incredible about God in this metaphor isn’t the anger, the pettiness, the self-righteousness – all of which are valid if you’ve ever experienced such betrayal. It’s how truly infinite God’s love and capacity for forgiveness can be. “Assuredly, I will speak coaxingly to her and lead her through the wilderness and speak to her tenderly. I will give her her vineyards from there, and the Valley of Achor as a plowland of hope.” Despite the hurt and the damage, God still sees a future with His people. “There she shall respond as in the days of her youth, when she came up from the land of Egypt. And in that day…you will call Me Ishi (lit. my husband) and no more will you call Me Baali (lit. my husband but also evoking Ba’al a Canaanite god).”
At the end of our Haftarah, we hear the famous verses that are recited as we wrap the tefillin around our hands. As we wrap our fingers, like a wedding ring, we remind ourselves that God has chosen us forever. God will espouse us with righteousness and justice, and kindness and mercy. God will espouse us with faithfulness and we shall know Hashem.
I’m not always sure if God is right to keep coming back to a people that so often has gone astray. From the Golden Calf, to the idolatry of the 8th century Israelites, all the way to our present day where religious observance and spiritual fervor seem to be becoming less central to most people’s lives. Why does God put up with it? I don’t know. But if I take the words of the prophet seriously, I might venture a guess: God’s infinite love is powerful enough to overcome the heartache of flawed creations. And because God’s commitment to justice, kindness, mercy, righteousness and love is unwavering. “The renewal of the covenant,” according to the Etz Hayim chumash, “does not depend on Israel’s repentance or initiative. It is a transformation initiated and guided by God.”
By Rabbi Alex Freedman.
When we read an ordinary book or an article, a verb’s tense indicates when the event is occurring. That’s all.
Sometimes that is true when we read the Torah. But other times the verb’s tense instead expresses a value.
Take one of the opening verses of Parashat Behar as an example: “When you will enter the land that I [G-d] am giving to you, the land shall observe a Sabbath of the L-rd” (Lv. 25:2).
Here G-d is announcing that when the Israelites will one day in the future enter the land of Israel, they shall observe the sabbatical year. At this point in the story, they are still marching through the desert, so the first verb is in the future, “will enter the land.” It’s odd then that the second verb is in the present, “the land that I am giving to you.” We would expect it to say, “the land that I will give you,” but the Torah uses the present tense. Why is that?
The Hasidic book Iturei Torah quotes a story with Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav, in which he moved to Israel as an adult, and every day there was a new experience for him. Each day was better than the day before, and he never grew tired of living there. Each day was new and fresh, and – in his words – as if G-d were giving him the land of Israel then and there. In other words, G-d granting Israel to the Jewish people was not a one-time experience in the past, but an ongoing gift that renews itself constantly. It’s truly an act of the present. Even today, despite Israel’s many challenges externally and internally, it is a wonder that we live in a moment with a Jewish State. The land of Israel feels vigorous and fresh, not old and stale. In this way, G-d continues to give it anew.
This reminds me of a similar teaching connected to Shavuot, which we will celebrate in about ten days. We are all familiar with the blessing one recites when one is called to the Torah for an Aliyah. After beginning “Barchu et Adonai Hamevorach” the blessing concludes “Baruch Atah Adonai Noten HaTorah.” This means, “Blessed are You Hashem Who gives the Torah.” I will pose the same question: Shouldn’t the verb be the past tense, “Who gave the Torah”? After all, Revelation at Sinai happened thousands of years ago! But this blessing articulates a value: G-d gives the Torah on an ongoing basis. Whenever we engage in thoughtful Torah study, it’s as if we ourselves are standing at Sinai. It’s live, fresh, and energizing.
This should change our perspective when we study Torah too. We are not merely satisfying an intellectual curiosity, as if we’re taking a college course. Instead, we are encountering G-d and opening ourselves to our tradition to live a better life for ourselves, our community, and our world. The present tense expresses all of that in a single word.
By Hazzan Sandler.
This week we read the double parasha of Acharei Mot and Kedoshim. The former translates to “After the Death of” and refers back to the death of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu. The latter translates to “Holy Ones” as the parasha begins by saying “You shall be holy, for I, your God, am holy.”
What strikes me is that we refer to the double parasha as “Acharei Mot Kedoshim” which would translate to, “After the Death of the Holy Ones” and in this is a subtle but uplifting lesson. The deaths of Nadav and Avihu came as a consequence for offering an alien fire upon the altar. I tend to interpret this as a natural consequence of them misusing the space, rather than an instant smiting punishment. I also like to imagine that Nadav and Avihu thought they were doing the right thing, appealing to their zealous desire to worship God – but having made a grave error in their execution, were swallowed up. In any case, their death was a tragedy. And Aaron’s silence was valid and deeply understandable.
We all make mistakes. We all miss the mark sometimes. But the Torah cycle gives us a clue that their sin of offering a foreign fire did not undermine or retract their intrinsic holiness. After the death of the holy ones — they were and are still holy even though their death came about by their error. And I think this is true for each of us as well. None of us are perfect, and all of will make mistakes. But our holiness is intrinsic. Our holiness comes from our innermost connection to God, our soul. This remains pure and holy no matter what. And when we die, and all that’s left of us is our eternal soul, we join Nadav, Avihu, and all who came before as Kedoshim, as holy ones. This is reflected in the Memorial Prayer which speaks of “the souls of the holy and the pure.”
And we revisit this parasha on Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year, which situates us on the precipice of life and death. This reminds us that while we are here, living, we can do teshuva and work to be our best selves. We can return to our pure and holy nature, no matter what, so long as we do the work to do so. Just as Aaron’s sons made a mistake and are still considered holy, we too can recover our inner holiness in the wake of our imperfections.
By Hazzan Jenna Greenberg.
I believe in the sun, even in the darkness.
I believe in God, even if God is silent.
I believe in compassion, even when it must remain hidden.
This poem was found written in German scrawled on a wall in Germany at the end of World War II. While its author is unknown, it is clear that these hopeful words were meant to be shared with others. At a time of such tragedy in Europe, a glimmer of hope was communicated through these words, a text that one could have kept to themselves, yet the poet found a glimmer of light in the darkness and left it to be discovered at the end of the Holocaust.
Hundreds of years prior to the Shoah, Maimonides wrote a text that begins with the same two words as this German poem: Ani Maamin, I believe. These words begin each of the 13 lines that poetically describe the principles of faith. It is the penultimate line that has become the Ani Maamin text with which we are most familiar: I believe with perfect faith in the coming of Mashiach; and even though he may delay, I will await him every day.
Both of these texts are ultimately prayers of hope and faith, that even in the darkest of times, we must believe that better times are ahead. We all know how often history has repeated itself throughout our people’s existence. It is no wonder that Hatikva, the hope, is the title and theme of the national anthem of the Jewish people.
Through the recitation and singing of these hopeful words of Ani Maamin, we continue to pray for the horrors of the Shoah to never occur again. We sing these words on this day, on Yom haShoah, as we hope for a time when our people are no longer punished and persecuted just for being Jewish.
May the memories of all Jews and other innocent victims who perished in the Holocaust be for a blessing, and that such tragedy never befalls our people again.
Zichronam livracha.
By Hazzan Jacob Sandler.
One of my favorite times of year is the counting of the Omer. We march on a journey toward Mt. Sinai to receive the Torah once again, and, just like the first time, we start by leaving Egypt. It should come as no surprise to those who know me well that the mystical interpretation of this mitzvah animates me like on other. The kabbalists pick up on the sanctity of the number 7 throughout the cycles of Jewish life.
The seventh day – Shabbat. The seventh year – Shemitah. The year after the 7th set of 7 years: the Jubilee! And so Shavuot, the festival of weeks, celebrates a micro-Jubilee. From the second night of passover we count seven complete weeks, each seven days. Seven is the number of completeness and of holiness.
Each week of the Omer takes us on a trip through the kabbalistic “Tree of Life” – known as the 10 Sefirot. The uppermost 3 are considered intellectual and separated from the lower 7 emotional sefirot. Each of the lower 7 sefirot are interrelated. So, the first week is a chance to examine Chesed from every angle. Each day we look at the week’s sefirah from the angle of the other sefirot. It’s a little confusing at first but imagine:
Day 1 – Chesed of Chesed, Day 2 – Gevurah of Chesed, Day 3 – Tiferet of Chesed and so forth.
By Day 8 it’s Chesed of Gevurah, etc.
The weeks are:
And each day of each week follows the same order. I hope you’ll join us for counting the omer at evening minyan, where we will share brief questions for self-reflection that correspond to the daily and weekly mystical theme of the sefirot.
I’m always so delighted that during this Passover week, we begin with love and kindness. Surrounded by loved ones at seders and our community at shul, it’s a wonderful reminder of how much love is in our lives. And reciting Hallel each morning for Yom Tov and Chol HaMoed, we are reminded of God’s eternal Chesed too. The first step to making our freedom worthwhile is to spread love and kindness. “Let all who are hungry come and eat” as they say. May this week be a week to pay extra attention to the kindness we show and receive. And let’s make an extra effort to embody that love and kindness this week, and throughout our lives.
By Rabbi Alex Freedman.
Be kind to the stranger: they may grow up to change the world, or at least yours.
If courage had a hall of fame, Shifra and Pua would stand at its entrance. These two women star at the beginning of the Passover story, whose story continues to be told on the final days of Pesach. These two women are largely unknown, which is a shame. For their example continues to lead us.
Shifra and Pua are the Hebrew midwives charged with delivering the Israelite babies. Pharaoh commands them to kill the baby boys but let the girls live. The Torah continues, “The midwives feared G-d and did not do as the King of Egypt instructed. They let the boys live” (Ex. 1:17).
When Pharoah saw Jewish babies being born, he confronted Shifra and Pua. “How could you let them live?” he cried out. They replied, “The Hebrew women are not like the Egyptian women; they are vigorous. Before the midwife can reach them, they’ve given birth.”
Their act of bravery is the first recorded act of civil disobedience, so timely in the days leading up to Martin Luther King Jr. Day.
Are these remarkable women Jewish? I don’t believe so. “Hebrew midwives” can mean midwives for the Hebrews. Why would Pharaoh ever expect a Jewish woman to murder Jewish babies? Instead they are two Egyptian women who fear G-d more than Pharaoh, who refuse to take part in a crime against humanity. Shifra and Pua see the stranger as themselves and are thus worth saving. Who knows who these innocent babies might grow up to be?
We do. Moses was one of them. Moses, whose people would one day create in the state of Israel a Tel Aviv maternity hospital at the intersection of Shifra and Pua Streets.
There’s an inspiring story in my favorite Haggadah, called A Different Night. It goes like this:
“One Sunday morning in 1941 in Nazi-occupied Netherlands, a mysterious character rode up on his bicycle and entered the Calvinist Church. He ascended the podium and read aloud the story of the midwives who saved the Hebrew babies and defied Pharaoh’s policy of genocide. “Who is today’s Pharaoh?” he asked.
“Hitler,” the congregation replied.
“Who are today’s Hebrew babies?”
“The Jews.”
“Who will be today’s midwives?”
He left the church, leaving his question hanging in the air.
During the war seven families from this little church hid Jews and other resisters of the Nazis.”
Shifra and Pua inspired these families to see the stranger as an insider, not an outsider. They changed the world for these families.
This time we recall the Exodus story, let us not only condemn Pharaoh but also praise his midwives for their unmatched bravery. The Exodus experience reveals humanity at its lowest point and at its highest.
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