Thinking about these questions, I noticed an interesting feature about Jewish legal discourse, which has a fairly intricate system worked out for making decisions between two options, but seemingly has a gap when it comes to situations with more than two possibilities. If there are two texts that contradict, we look for a third that will resolve them (Introduction to Sifra); when two halachic authorities argue with each other over whether something is permitted or not, we follow the lenient opinion if we’re dealing with a rabbinic commandment or the stricter opinion if it’s a biblical commandment (MT Mamrim 1:5); there are precise rules for deciding whether something is pure or impure, kosher or non-kosher, or whether someone is guilty or innocent, and so on. There are also models for how to have communities with different opinions on these issues live together, or how to have judges or rabbis with different approaches sit and work together.

What happens when it’s not a binary decision, and there are more than two options out there? My feeling is that our tradition has much less to say about these situations, although they reflect our complicated messy world a lot more. There is a hint though in the laws of judges. Jewish courts [almost] always have an odd number of judges: three, five, twenty-three, and the grand court of the Sanhedrin in Jerusalem had seventy-one members (M Sanhedrin 1:1-4). The basic principle is that we follow the majority, like a rudimentary democracy: if two judges find someone innocent and the third finds them guilty, they are innocent. Is there a possibility for a third opinion? Almost. If one judge says that the person is guilty, the second says that they are innocent, and the third is unsure, the rule is that two judges are added to the court. If there is still an even decision after more discussion, then another two are added, until there is a majority for one of the opinions (Shulchan Aruch HM 18:2) - up to seventy-one judges! Theoretically, if at the end of this process, there are thirty-five judges who rule one way, thirty-five the other, and one who still says ‘I don’t know’, the court collapses and no verdict can be given… I’m sharing all of this because we’re still stuck in a simplistic paradigm of two possible opinions, where one opinion effaces the other. If I’m thinking about the possibility of pragmatic coalitions, that doesn’t seem to exist here.

There is another type of court which follows different rules though. When two people come before a Beit Din to decide a case, they are offered two possibilities: din or peshara, the law or a compromise. If they decide to settle for a compromise, then it’s not a question of who is guilty or innocent in a strict sense, but rather how to find a way to finish the dispute. If the judges act as arbitrators, then the decision does not follow the majority but needs to be unanimous, and so the judges too need to make compromises in their decision making (HM 12:18).

Still, I remain in my search for a Jewish model of having three blocks of power, or three ideologies, be able to live together without descending into chaos. Let’s return to the parasha for a moment. We start with the image of Abraham being visited by three angels. Why three? Rashi says that each of them had a mission: one was to heal Abraham after his circumcision, a second was to announce the birth of Isaac, and the third was to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah. The 17th-century commentator Kli Yakar says that the three of them functioned as a Beit Din, to decide with Abraham what to do with Sodom. And the kabbalistic sources, of course, identify the three angels with three aspects of God: justice, mercy and beauty [cf. Rabbeinu Bechaye 18:2. The Zohar (I:99a), confusingly, names these angels Abraham, Isaac and Jacob!].

Maybe actually this kabbalistic model is the closest to what I’m searching for. Even without being a specialist, or without understanding anything of esoteric mysticism, many of us are familiar with the language of the ten sefirot, often with wonderfully confusing descriptions of left and right joining together, as well as masculine and feminine, wisdom and understanding and power and truth and splendour and so on. All these tensions between the divine aspects are never resolved, it’s not really a question of one definitively overcoming the others, but they join together continuously in everchanging ‘coalitions’ to create everything we experience in this world. The job of the kabbalist, as well as appreciating the enormity of the whole system, is to try to help harmonise these different aspects wherever they are reflected in our world so that they balance each other out successfully. This gives a theological dimension to everything: in relationships within a family, within a community, and within society.

I’m not really an optimist, I know that this potential to live in a harmony of opposing forces is fragile and rare, but I at least believe in its possibility and hope we manage to see some of that peaceful harmony in our world today.

Shabbat shalom.

Hello to you all. Thank you to Ruben Honigmann and to Akadem for inviting me here to speak about the parasha, and to start with this wonderful parasha of Lech Lecha. Before I start I want to get something out the way. Since moving to France I often get remarks about my accent, which is legitimate but can be annoying. I want to apologise in advance to the listeners - and also not apologise too much, this is who I am. My accent carries my lifestory from Jerusalem to London to Berlin to Paris, born in a different country than each of my parents, who were born in different countries than their parents. My community, the Adath Shalom synagogue in Paris, has got used to it, mostly, and is able to listen to the content and usually forgive my mistakes in French. I would ask the same to you.

But since we’re talking about accents, I started wondering about the hero of our parasha - Abram who will later be called Abraham. What accent did he have? What language did he even speak in? Instinctively, I think most of us would say Hebrew, because that’s how it appears in the Torah. But en soi, that’s not a proof. Everyone speaks Hebrew in the Torah, even foreign kings, even Joseph when he speaks to his brother through an Egyptian interpreter is presented as speaking Hebrew. Like Hollywood films where everyone speaks English, and Nazis speak English with a fake German accent, and aliens on other planets speak English…

This question of language isn’t as bizarre as it seems. Parashat Lech Lecha in Genesis chapter 12 starts with God’s famous call to Abram, which feels like the beginning of a new story. But it also makes sense to read it in the context of Genesis chapter 11, at the end of last week’s parasha, that tells the story of the tower of Babel, the dispersion of the people of the earth into different linguistic families, and the ten generations of the sons of Noah culminating with Abram. In fact, if one counts the lifespans of each of the generations, we arrive at the conclusion that Abram was 48 years old at the time of the Tower of Babel (cf Seder Olam Raba ch 1). So language and multiplicity of languages, as well as migration and movement, are part of his life well before the famous Lekh Lekha in ch.12 . We also read that Abram’s father Terah left his birthplace in Ur Kasdim, somewhere in Mesopotamia, with the intention to move to the land of Canaan, and dies along the way in Haran, in present-day Turkey. [There are other ways of interpreting this story, to say that he was actually from Haran, and then went to Ur Kasdim and returned,but let’s leave that for now.]

I mention all this because it touches on our question. The language of Ur Kasdim was probably Sumerian or Akkadian, and the language of Haran was some form of Aramaic. If so, it’s more likely that Abraham spoke Aramaic in his home than Hebrew, and if he spoke Hebrew it was with an Aramaic accent, maybe with a tinge of Sumerian mixed in! This is borne out by the famous description later in the Torah, that we repeat during the Pesach seder, Arami oved avi, my father was a wandering Aramean,who later descended to Egypt. Who ‘my father’ refers to is a bit vague, some understand it as meaning my father Abraham was an Aramean, or that Jacob was the Aramean who went to Egypt. Others say it’s Abraham’s relative Lavan who is referred to as Aramean, and is specifically described as speaking Aramaic - but it’s not so important for us, except to say that that was a language associated with Abraham’s family.

But what about Hebrew? Isn’t Abraham known as Ha-Ivri, the Hebrew? What about the midrash that explains the term Ivri, saying that the whole world stood on one bank of the river, ever ehad chel hanahar, while he stood on the other, ever ha-cheni, fiercely independent in his convictions like his descendents ever since? What about the midrashim that say that the world was created in Hebrew, and that that was the language of humanity before the tower of Bavel?

Rabbi Yehudah Halevi, in the 12th century work Ha-Kuzari, finds a compromise, saying that Abraham was brought up bilingual, using Ivrit, Hebrew, the language that he had learned from his great-grandfather Ever, for speaking about holy matters, while he used Aramaic, the language of the society in which he was raised, for profane matters. I’m attracted to this explanation, and again, it makes me imagine Abraham having an accent in both languages.

But Nachmanides, writing a century later, has a completely different theory, which might be surprising to many people today (cf. Ramban on 45:12). He says that what we call ‘Hebrew’ is simply the local language of Canaan, and when Abram followed God’s instructions and entered the land of Canaan, he had to learn their language. According to this explanation, Abraham didn’t have the accent of someone raised in a bilingual environment, like my kids with their cute French accents in Hebrew, but the accent of an immigrant, who has to learn a new language at the age of eighty and maybe never quite masters it. This is not to say that Nahmanides is dismissive of what we call the Hebrew language. Commenting on the term used in the construction of the Tabernacle, shekel hakodesh (Exodus 30:13), he says that anything which is used for sacred purposes is called holy, kodesh. In the same way, he continues, the Hebrew language is called Lashon Hakodesh, the holy tongue, because it is used for prayer and for prophecy and for addressing God. Its holiness isn’t essential - again, it’s a dialect of the land of Canaan - but comes from what it is used for. (Implicitly, I think we can infer that when Hebrew is not being used for holy purposes it’s no longer Lashon Hakodesh.)

Why am I wasting your time, dear listeners of Akadem, on this question of Abraham’s accent that tickled my curiosity? Because I think it actually tells us a lot about the essence of Abraham. Someone who can switch between languages is someone who can move between different worlds, and this is who he was at his core. The kabbalistic tradition associates Abraham with the divine aspect of hesed, kindness, and it fits his story of someone who knows no boundaries. He leaves his land and is told Lekh Lekha, go forth, and he continues without ever stopping. He goes to Canaan and then continues straight to Egypt, comes back and intervenes in the war between the four kings and the five kings, speaks to royalty and to priests as equals. Compare this to his son Isaac, who is associated with the aspect of Gevoura, strict justice, who knows boundaries well, who is tied up and never leaves the land of Israel.

Abraham, in essence, is a translator. We often use the word ‘translation’ to speak of movement between languages, but its original meaning in old French, translacion, was movement from one place to another, like the German ‘übersetzen’, which means both translating a text and crossing a river. Abraham was a translator, capable of conveying meaning across cultures, and trusted by everyone. I’d like to give just X examples of what I mean:

You probably know that one of the most common names of God is Elohim (I’ll pronounce it here as it should be pronounced for the purposes of teaching Torah), and that even though it has a plural ending, -im, it’s almost always conjugated in the Torah in the singular. Like the opening words of Genesis, Berechit bara Elohim, in the beginning God created. That’s obvious. But when Abraham is explaining to the king Avimelekh why he presented his wife as his sister, and how he got into this situation in the first place (Gen 20:13), he says וַיְהִ֞י כַּאֲשֶׁ֧ר הִתְע֣וּ אֹתִ֗י אֱלֹהִים֮ מִבֵּ֣ית אָבִי֒ , “When God[s] made me wander from my father’s house…”, in the plural. Look what happened! He’s talking to a polytheist king, so he switches his language to fit that worldview. It’s not that he’s lying, but he understands the context that he’s in, and is thus able to conclude an alliance with Avimelekh which later becomes very beneficial.

Another example, maybe less technical, is that Abraham and Sarah come to Canaan, not alone, but with “kol haNefesh asher asa beHaran”. All the souls that they created in Haran. What does that mean? The famous midrash says that Abraham converted the men and Sarah converted the women. It’s obviously not conversion as we know it today, but there was something primordial there in their ability to translate the realisation that they had come to, of one God whose existence leads to ethical demands on one’s life, and everywhere they went they managed to transmit this understanding to those willing to listen. They were wanderers and translators.

Bnei Avraham have this role in the world too. To be comfortable anywhere and everywhere, but not too comfortable. To be open enough to speak to everyone and learn from everyone, but not to let go of our inner truth. To speak many languages, but have something important to say in them, and most importantly, know how to listen to the call that is always there,our very own Lekh Lekha.

In the first chapter of Genesis, when God decides to create humanity in the divine image, Rashi sees it as an attempt to bring balance to creation:

אָמַר לָהֶם יֵשׁ בָּעֶלְיוֹנִים כִּדְמוּתִי; אִם אֵין כִּדְמוּתִי בַתַּחְתּוֹנִים הֲרֵי יֵשׁ קִנְאָה בְמַעֲשֵׂה בְרֵאשִׁית:

God spoke to the angels, saying “In heaven there is my image, if there is not my image down below, there will be jealousy in the world.” (Rashi on Genesis 1:26)

I don’t want to get lost in the literal reading of these texts, and it’s clear that ‘above’ and ‘below’ and ‘image’ are all metaphors, etc. But there is a shocking idea here: God needs man in His image so that there will be two: not just a transcendental God but a reflection of God intimately associated with the world itself. And if that idea is strange, then look what happens a few verses later, in the second chapter of Genesis. After repeating the word ‘tov’, “and it was good” several times during the story, for the first time God suddenly remarks ‘lo tov’, “it is not good that man is alone”. What is not good about being alone? We might think it’s about humanity’s intrinsic need for companionship and love and society, but Rashi brings a different answer.

שֶׁלֹּא יֹאמְרוּ שְׁתֵּי רָשׁוּיוֹת הֵן, הַקָּבָּ”ה יָחִיד בָעֶלְיוֹנִים וְאֵין לוֹ זוּג, וְזֶה יָחִיד בַתַּחְתּוֹנִים וְאֵין לוֹ זוּג

It should not be said that there are two authorities, that the Holy One is singular above in heaven and has no partner, and this man is singular down below and has no partner. (Rashi on 2:18)

Now, it’s a problem that God is reflected in the world. It might be that somebody (and who? the animals?) might think that Man is God because he is unique. One is associated with God, Adonai echad, but for humanity being one is not right. Another person is created, presumably to solve this problem, but the tension between being one and being two doesn’t go away. When Adam sees Eve for the first time, he bursts out with a sort of love poem:

וַיֹּ֘אמֶר֮ הָֽאָדָם֒ זֹ֣את הַפַּ֗עַם עֶ֚צֶם מֵֽעֲצָמַ֔י וּבָשָׂ֖ר מִבְּשָׂרִ֑י לְזֹאת֙ יִקָּרֵ֣א אִשָּׁ֔ה כִּ֥י מֵאִ֖ישׁ לֻֽקְחָה־זֹּֽאת ׃ עַל־כֵּן֙ יַֽעֲזׇב־אִ֔ישׁ אֶת־אָבִ֖יו וְאֶת־אִמּ֑וֹ וְדָבַ֣ק בְּאִשְׁתּ֔וֹ וְהָי֖וּ לְבָשָׂ֥ר אֶחָֽד ׃

And Adam said: This time, bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh, she shall be called isha, because she came from ish. Thus man shall always leave behind his father and mother and cleave to his wife, becoming one flesh. (Genesis 2:23-24)

Adam recognises the closeness and the distance. We were one and now we are two and we yearn to be one again.

There are two main stories in parashat Noah, that of the flood and that of the tower of Babel. In each one, we need to ask what was the transgression of the people that warranted such harsh divine consequences. I would propose that for the first story, the problem was that they were too separate, and for the second, they were too unified. At the beginning of the parasha, we read that the land was filled with hamas, violent robbery [I’ve mentioned before that the ancient Aramaic translation of this word is hatufin, kidnapping], and more generally, a complete breakdown of society, homo homini lupus, with Noah a sort of exception to this attitude, although we don’t find him caring or even speaking to other people outside of his own family. Humanity is wiped out in the flood and the project begins again, with, in the Jewish tradition, seven basic commandments to ensure basic morality and social cohesion. Being united, seeing each other’s humanity, beyond family ties or national boundaries, is essential.

But there is also a warning against a perversion of this unity. The first thing that we read about the builders of the tower of Babel is that they had safah achat ve’dvarim achadim, they spoke [or more literally, ‘they were’] one language and identical words. It’s easy to see in this project, of uniting to build a powerful city that would compete with heaven, the roots of the most dangerous ideologies. The word ‘fascism’ comes from the Latin fasces, meaning a bundle. The idea is that when people are tied together in a bundle they become stronger through their forced unity. The end of this story shows, once again, that being one is not the ideal. I’ve always understood the dispersion of the people and the multiplicity of languages after the tower of Babel as a blessing, not as a curse (indeed, it’s not described as a punishment in the text). The ideal is to have togetherness, not oneness.

When two people sit and study together we are told that שכינה ביניהם, that the presence of God is between them (Avot 3:2). When a couple comes together and constructs a loving relationship, the presence of God is between them (Sotah 17a). When siblings dwell together in peace, the Shechina is between them too (Zohar II:59b). Rabbi Menachem Fruman, a wonderful teacher of truth who passed away a few years ago, insisted that the word beineihem, “between them”, was the key. Two people come together with love and respect and closeness, yet leaving enough distance between them to allow God to enter into the relationship too.

Shabbat shalom, and mazal tov !

As you noticed, the creation story gives tantalising hints about a world before creation.

בְּרֵאשִׁ֖ית בָּרָ֣א אֱ-לֹהִ֑ים אֵ֥ת הַשָּׁמַ֖יִם וְאֵ֥ת הָאָֽרֶץ ׃ וְהָאָ֗רֶץ הָיְתָ֥ה תֹ֙הוּ֙ וָבֹ֔הוּ וְחֹ֖שֶׁךְ עַל־פְּנֵ֣י תְה֑וֹם וְר֣וּחַ אֱ-לֹהִ֔ים מְרַחֶ֖פֶת עַל־פְּנֵ֥י הַמָּֽיִם

In the beginning of God’s creation of the heaven and the earth, the earth was formless and void, darkness covered the depths, and the spirit of God rustled over the face of the waters (Genesis 1:2)

So there was already earth, already darkness, already God and already water, according to these opening verses. More than creation, the opening chapter of the story is one of separation and order and reordering - there is a division made to separate the sky and the seas, and then the seas from the land. One of the ways of understanding being in God’s image, in fact, is exactly this capability of discernment and the capacity to reverse entropy and bring order into chaos. That can be by tidying your room, or by inventing a new idea, or by improving society through political action. But like you, I’m curious about the water that was there, which seems to me a representation of pure potential. One opinion in the Talmud is that before the first chapter of Genesis, the world was simply ‘water within water’ (רבי יודה בר פזי יתיב דרש: כתחילה היה העולם מים במים. Jerusalem Talmud, Chagigah 1:2).

This reminds me of the famous theory of the Greek philosopher Thales, [who lived at the same time as Jeremiah and] who claimed that ‘everything is water’. Usually, modern teachers of philosophy aren’t interested in the scientific part of that claim, because it’s not true, but the use of the word ‘everything’, which is the basis of a philosophical theory - that there is a root cause of diverse phenomena, it’s not the whim of gods or demons. But I like the specific idea of water too - apparently Thales was convinced by seeing how seeds absorb moisture to become different kinds of plants and trees. Water symbolises, at least, potential and becoming.

In the Jewish tradition, water is also a symbol of the Torah, and in this case, we, every one of us, is the seed thirsty to become; to live out the potential stored in us. The idea that water is Torah and Torah is water, on a symbolic level, is referred to very often in rabbinic literature. Just to give a few quick examples: The children of Israel, on leaving Egypt, wander for three days without water before arriving at the spring of Mara, complaining against God for the first time as free people. This becomes the source-text for the idea that 3 days should not pass before the Torah is read in public, on Shabbat, Monday and Thursday. (Mekhilta, Vayisa 1) Many pieces of advice on how to learn Torah come from comparisons with water. Some students are compared to a cistern that gathers water without losing a drop, while others are more like a spring gushing with innovation. (Avot 2:8). We are told that just as water flows downwards, one who wants to learn Torah needs to be humble and lowly, ready to receive rather than think that they know everything already (Taanit 7a). I am particularly drawn to the advice that Rabbi Masharshiya gives his son: try to study while sitting next to a river, the flowing water will stimulate your flow of thoughts. (Horayot 12a). Luckily, we have the Seine not too far away from our synagogue. [And see also Rebbe Nachman’s advice, that one who has lost the ability to cry should sit at a spot where two rivers meet.]

This last example, where contemplating actual water in this world can bring better access to the symbolic water of Torah, seems to me very important. Maimonides speaks of the obligation to understand the world, and calls the scientific study of the physical world ‘Maaseh Bereshit’, the account of creation; while the metaphysical study of the origins and the purpose of the universe is called ‘Maaseh Merkava’, the account of the chariot (MT Yesodot Hatorah 4:10-13). This latter is maybe not for everybody to study immediately, but Maaseh Bereshit is more accessible. Looking at the world, learning, analysing, asking questions, proposing theories, demanding answers - what we call science - this too is Torah, and has spiritual value.

This past week has been marked by lots of chaos on the streets of France, from the media it seems a bit like a return to Tohu Va’Vohu. At its core, though, there’s something admirable about hundreds of thousands of teenagers demanding more hours of education and better conditions to learn. Like everything, this desire that comes from a holy place can be channeled either constructively, to repair the world and continue the mission of the creation story, or destructively, if taken over by politics and violence. Let’s see.

A final water-related thought. In the beginning, God created the heavens etc., Bereshit bara Elohim et Hashamayim. There’s a debate about the etymology of this word for the sky, shamayim. Some relate it to ‘sham’, over there, with the plural suffix as if it’s very very far away. Others see it as a hybrid of esh and mayim, fire and water (Chagigah 12a). If you look up, you see all sorts of things that don’t seem to fit together, the sun and clouds and rain and stars. Part of the miracle of creation is holding together all this diversity harmoniously. This is the meaning of the line with which we end the kaddish and the amida.

עוֹשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם בִּמְרוֹמָיו, הוּא יַעֲשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם עָלֵינוּ וְעַל כָּל יִשְׂרָאֵל, וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן:

He who makes peace in His heavens, should bring peace to us and to all the people of Israel, and to the entire world - Amen.

If God can let fire and water coexist above, it’s also up to us, in the image of God, to bring peace to the wonderful world in which we live.

Shabbat shalom!

ישראל נמי זימני דמשכא להו תקופת תמוז עד חגא, והוי להו צערא

“Sometimes the summer season stretches until after the festival, causing the Jews to suffer” (3b)

Today, as we begin our seasonal prayers for rain, I feel the need to point out that it has been the hottest Sukkot ever in Paris. Actually, that’s not exactly true, there was a hotter first day of Sukkot during a surprise heatwave in October 1985, but nothing approaching what we had this year since then. I used AI to do that particular research of weather data, of course, and in doing so, the data servers used around 30 kW-hours of electricity and emitted around 10g of carbon into the atmosphere. I used AI to calculate that too, and in doing so, my concern about the problem of global warming contributed slightly to making the problem worse. In order to alleviate the slight pangs of guilt caused by this realisation, I told myself what we all tell ourselves all the time: it’s so small in the big scheme of things, it hardly counts. Compared to what the big tech companies are doing, compared to China, compared to anyone else, I can’t be the problem, right?

Shemini Atzeret is probably a good moment to reflect on the climate crisis and personal responsibility. One of the difficulties of this particular man-made problem, that affects the entirety of our planet, is that the solution also needs to be global. We’re not good at that. Politicians need to survive their popularity contests, and can’t afford to make big decisions that would change people’s lifestyles. Companies and industries are unlikely to decide on their own to produce less or differently. When there is a specific crisis in front of our eyes, like forest fires or flooding, we want our leaders to react. But when it’s a bit slower, like a summer which is slightly longer and more intense every year, like slowly rising food prices and less food on the supermarket shelves - we are likely to leave it as a problem to be addressed later. But it needs to be addressed now.

While we normally associate Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur with judgment, the mishnah puts other festivals in the same category too.

בארבעה פרקים העולם נדון, בפסח על התבואה, בעצרת על פרות האילן, בראש השנה כל באי העולם עוברין לפניו כבני מרון, שנאמר (תהלים לג) היוצר יחד לבם, המבין אל כל מעשיהם. ובחג נדונין על המים:

At four times of the year the world is judged: On Passover judgment is passed concerning grain; on Shavuot concerning fruits that grow on a tree; on Rosh HaShana, all creatures pass before Him like sheep… and on the festival of Sukkot they are judged concerning the rainfall of the coming year. (Mishnah RH 1:2)

On Sukkot, meaning over the last week, we were judged whether we are worthy of receiving rain - not too much, like the floods in the south of France, and not too little, like we had this summer. Around France, around Europe, farmers are asking the same question - probably in far more secular terms, but with a level of anxiety that I wish we had in our prayers in the synagogue. Who exactly is being judged? In theory, each and every one of us, as individuals. Maimonides presents a famous thought experiment, usually quoted with respect to Yom Kippur but equally applicable here.

לפיכך צריך כל אדם שיראה עצמו כל השנה כלה כאלו חציו זכאי וחציו חיב. וכן כל העולם חציו זכאי וחציו חיב. חטא חטא אחד הרי הכריע את עצמו ואת כל העולם כלו לכף חובה וגרם לו השחתה. עשה מצוה אחת הרי הכריע את עצמו ואת כל העולם כלו לכף זכות וגרם לו ולהם תשועה והצלה

Throughout the entire year, a person should always look at himself or herself as being equally balanced between merit and sin, and imagine the entire world too as being equally balanced between merit and sin. If this person performs one single transgression, they tip their own balance and that of the entire world to the side of guilt, and bring destruction upon it. [On the other hand,] if this person performs one mitzvah, they tip their balance and that of the entire world to the side of merit, and bring deliverance and salvation to themself and to others. (MT Teshuva 3:4)

I don’t deny that the climate solutions need to be addressed on a political level, and that they are inextricably linked to other social and political issues that need to be solved at the same time. It’s a tragedy in itself that humanity is facing such enormous existential challenges with such weak leadership. Inasmuch as every citizen has a certain amount of political power, whether it’s voting [for this antisemite or for the other one, or supporting someone in between] or lobbying or anything else, we need to push as individuals for concrete measures to reduce global warming. As Jews, we also can’t abandon the small gestures of ecological responsibility at a personal level either. In fact it's very similar to voting, where we know our impact is minimal yet we often do it nonetheless, trusting in its importance on both a practical and symbolic level. Like Maimonides, we have to imagine that every individual act counts and could tip the balance this way or that. There were around 700 people at Neïla this year. If we each as individuals make one extra climate-conscious decision this year, that’s already something : decide not to take that flight, buy cars and appliances based on their low emissions, reuse or recycle and so on… we all know what to do, let’s just do it.

When we mark the call for rain in Mussaf in a few moments, let it be as much a commitment as a prayer.

שֶׁאַתָּה הוּא יְיָ אֱ.לֹהֵינוּ מַשִּׁיב הָרוּחַ וּמוֹרִיד הַגָּשֶׁם
לִבְרָכָה וְלֹא לִקְלָלָה אָמֵן
לְחַיִּים וְלֹא לְמָוֶת אָמֵן
לְשֹׂבַע וְלֹא לְרָזוֹן אָמֵן

You are our God, who makes the wind blow and the rain fall.
As a blessing and not as a curse
For life and not for death
For sustenance and not for famine. Amen.

I’m not an expert on Rebbe Nachman or Breslev literature, but even I’ve heard of the secret scroll, and simply assumed it no longer existed. This was also the opinion of more serious scholars, Yosef Weiss writing in 1969 and later Arthur Green in the 1990s, as well as the author of Yemei Moharnat. If I’m not mistaken, Marc-Alain Ouaknin refers to it as a counterpart to the “Burnt Book” in his work of the same name, but also speaks of its absence. It turns out this was not the case. In a foreword to this beautiful new edition, published by Blima Books, Yonatan Meir points out that when Weiss was working on his research in the Schocken library in Jerusalem and explaining that the ‘scroll of secrets’ no longer exists, a copy of the work was sitting in a file on a shelf probably just above his head.

It turns out that it’s not a secret at all any more. I thought Blima was courageous to break the taboo and publish this work, but a bit of googling tonight taught me that it’s been done before, most notably by Professor Zvi Mark in 2010 based on a manuscript given to him by renegade chassidim, and it’s even available online. So much for the secret! On the other hand, in a typical Rebbe Nachman fashion, things can be revealed and hidden at the same time.

I thought about translating the text, but I won’t be the one doing that because I don’t understand it. First of all, it’s written in code, partially deciphered by the researchers but with large chunks remaining more than cryptic (one line reads, for example: ויהי’ כה’ ממונ’ ח’, קפק’ מלופ’ מיופ’ ומה’ ושפ’ קדז’ ונא’). The text is short, two or three pages long, and the editors of the Blima edition wisely sandwiched it between other lesser-known writings recounted by Rebbe Nachman, including a number of his dreams, and occasionally, their interpretations by his disciples. Something about the ‘secret scroll’ itself reminds one of a dreamy prophecy, scraps of a description of the messianic era without any logical narrative or explanation of the context.

In honour of Rebbe Nachman’s yahrzeit tonight, and with some trepidation, I will share here some fragments of the work. Rather than saying anything concrete or ideological, they give an insight into the dreams and hopes of one of the most intense souls that have ever graced our world. If it’s too bizarre for you, stop reading at any point. If they whet your curiosity, allow yourself to dream too.

I: The Mashiach reveals himself to the nations of the world

אחכ’ יסע לכהמ’ אכ’ ויעשה להם נימ’ סמוך לדי’. גם יהי’ תפ’ שיתפ’ האו’: ויאמר דר’ חיל ויהי’ כנ’ ואפילו אותם שלא יבי ככ’ יראו מהזקני’ ויתחילו ויאמרו אמו’

…Afterwards he shall travel to all the kings of the world, and teach them practices similar to those of the Jewish people. They shall also be prayers among the nations. He shall preach and teach, and even those who do not understand will be filled with awe and cry out ‘Amen and Amen!’...

וידר’ בכי’ דר’ ליש’ ודר’ לאו’: כשיאמר הדר’ יתנו לו דר’ גיש ככ’ וכז’ ומדינה: ויגלה חכמ’ נפ’ ויעשה אבט’ ודומי’: בתחילה לא ידעו כי הוא זה אחכ’ יבוא כא’ על דעתו שהוא משי’ עד שידעו כולם:

…And each day he will present a teaching to the Jews and a teaching to the nations. When he presents this drasha [the teaching to the nations], they will give him gifts of silver and of gold and land. He will reveal wonderful wisdom and create precious stones. At first they will not know that he is the messiah, and then each of them will realise it themselves, until it will be known by all…

וכולם יתבטלו אצלו בלי רעש ומלחמה רק מחמת החן וההשתוקקת אליו ויעשה לכולם נימו’ ויתקן להם תפלה וככה יתנהג עד שיתהפך שפה ברורה וכו’ לכולם.

…All will submit to him, without any noise or war, only through grace and desire for him. He will decree certain behaviours and teach them prayers until all are able to express themselves in a clear language

II: The Mashiach makes music and herbal medicine

ויעשה כז’ ונגונים חדשים כי חכמת הניגון יהי’ בקיא בו מאד מאד ויגלה חדשות בחכמה זו עד שתכלה נפשם של השומעים ניגונים שלו וכו’... ג’ שעות יעסוק בענין החוליי’ שיבואו כי גם אז יהי’ חולא’ ויבואו חולי’ אצלו והוא יצוה להם ליקח מן הפרד’ שיעשה ויהי’ בו הרכ’ חד’ שלא הי’ מימות עולם והוא ילך בין החולי’ ויצוה להם ליקח לכא’ כפי מה שידע כפי הכחות של הממונים שיורדים בכל יום על כל עשב ועשב.

…He will construct new musical instruments, for he shall be exceedingly proficient in the realm of music. He will teach new forms of music until the souls of everyone who hears his melodies shall melt… For three hours a day, he will consecrate himself to healing the sick, for there shall be illnesses [in those days] too. The sick shall come to him, and he will instruct them to take [certain plants] from his orchard. There shall be new grafted species that have never existed before, and he shall wander among the sick instructing each one to take something according to the divine forces that descend constantly and affect each and every blade of any plant.

III: The Mashiach acquires the Land of Israel

וכל א’ מהמ’ יתן לו מתנה או מדינה או אנשים כי קצתם יתנו לו סטעפי’ והוא יחליף עם כא’ עד אשר יקבל בחליפין אי’: כי יתן לכא’ מדינה הסמוך לגבולו ויקבל בשביל זה מדינה הסמוכה לאי’ עד שיקבל בחליפין אי’. ויסע לאי’ ובאותו השנה שיסע הוא לאי’ אז יהי’ קג’ ואז יסעו כולם לאי’ ואי’ תחזיק כולם. אחכ’ תתפשט אי’: בעת שיסע לאי’ אז יהי’ מי’ לבד וישלח מקודם נד קארט לעהמ’ דהיינו ירו’ לבנות שם פאלאצי’ סמוך לפלטין שלו לכל המלכים עפ’ חכמתו. ויבואו מארבע פינות העולם בעמל’ לבנות הפ’ הנל’. כי כולם ידורו סמוך אליו מחמת גודל ההשתוקקת אליו עד שלא יוכלו להיות בלעדו. ויבנה פ’ שלו עפ’ העתיד כפי בניו שיהי’ לו ויהי’ תשמיש מיוחד לכל חדר להשתמש שם בזה החדר בכך וכו’ בזה החדר ידרוש.

…And each of the kings will gift him land or servants, and some will give him stipends, and he will exchange with them all until he receives the land of Israel. For he will give [each king] a piece of land close to their border, and in exchange receive another piece of land on the side facing the land of Israel, until he succeeds in receiving the land of Israel itself in exchange. Then there shall be an ingathering of the exiles and all shall travel there, and the land of Israel shall grow [/or, be judged].

When he travels to the land of Israel, he will still only be the king of the Jews. Before arriving, he will send maps and plans of Jerusalem, and order that a palace be built for him, and alongside it palaces for all the other kings of the nations. Craftsmen shall come from the four corners of the earth to build these palaces. For all will desire to live close to him, as a result of their desire for him, until they are unable to be without him at all. He will build his palace according to [his knowledge of?] the future, according to the number of his offspring, and each room shall have a function: this room will serve such-and-such a function, and this room will be for teaching…

IV: The Mashiach dies, and the world continues as it was

משי’ בעצמו ימות ויהי’ לו בנים הרבה. עשרה דורות יראה ואז ימסור בחייו הקי’ לבנו הבכור היינו שיראה ט’ דורות חוץ ממנו ועמו הם עשרה וכולם יהי’ בכורים היינו בנו הבכור ובנו יוליד וליד גכ’ בן בכור וכן בב’ יוליד גכ’ בן בכור עד עשרה דורות ואז כנל’. ומקודם יהיה בנו הב’ פק’ והוא בעצמו קי’ עכ’ וכולם יהי’ ממונים

…The Mashiach himself will eventually die, and will have many children. He will see ten generations of his line, and eventually pass on his title of emperor in his lifetime to his eldest son. That is, he will see nine generations after him, and he himself will be the tenth, and each generation shall have a first-born son, one generation after the next. At first, his son shall be the deputy emperor, while he [the Mashiach] will be the emperor, and all [the other descendents] will be deputies…

ויהי’ יצהר’ וכו’ וסנהדרין וכל שאר הדברים שהי’ אך כל דבר ודבר יהיה נאה מקודם. וכא’ וא’ לפי בחינתו יפתחו עיני שכלו ויתחדש בהבנה יתירה מקודם כא’ לפי בחינתו.

…There will still be an evil inclination in those days, and the Sanhedrin, a court of judges, and everything else that has always been, except that everything will be more beautiful. And each and every person, according to their level, will open their eyes and mind, and be renewed with an even greater understanding than ever before - each according to their level…

The Torah says that at three moments during the year, Pesach, Shavuot and Sukkot, one must “be seen” before God, meaning coming to the Temple in Jerusalem and bringing a set of sacrifices: the olat reiah, the ‘burnt offering of being-seen’, and the shalmei chagigah, the ‘peace offering of celebration’. I say that one must make this pilgrimage, but who does the tradition mean by “one”? The opening mishnah of the tractate Chagigah gives more precision:

הַכֹּל חַיָּיבִין בִּרְאִיָּיה, חוּץ מֵחֵרֵשׁ שׁוֹטֶה וְקָטָן, וְטוּמְטוּם וְאַנְדְּרוֹגִינוֹס, וְנָשִׁים, וַעֲבָדִים שֶׁאֵינָם מְשׁוּחְרָרִים, הַחִיגֵּר וְהַסּוֹמֵא, וְהַחוֹלֶה וְהַזָּקֵן, וּמִי שֶׁאֵינוֹ יָכוֹל לַעֲלוֹת בְּרַגְלָיו.

All are obligated in the mitzva of appearance, except for a deaf person [cheresh], an imbecile, and a minor; and a tumtum, and a hermaphrodite, and women, and slaves who are not emancipated; and the lame, and the blind, and the sick, and the old, and one who is unable to ascend to Jerusalem on his own legs. (Chagigah 2a)

Pay attention to what happened here. The Mishnah begins with a seemingly inclusive “all” before listing twelve exceptions. Those who are disempowered in society often experience this exclusion in language itself, where words like “we all” and “people” and “usually” and “one” don’t seem to include them at all. Here in the Mishnah it’s pretty explicit. And since we’re conducting the service tonight in sign language, trying to make what is often an exclusive space for the hard of hearing a little bit more accessible, let me take a look at the exclusion of the deaf from the pilgrimage, and how that category develops over time.

The words of Rashi explaining the Mishnah seem particularly hurtful: he says simply that a deaf person has no da’at, no intelligence or mental capacity. They are like a baby or an insane person, and thus exempt from all mitzvot, not just the presence at the pilgrimage festival. But when the Talmud starts to discuss the category (Xxx) , we see that they make a distinction between those who are unable both to hear and to speak, and those who can do one or the other. It seems that what is at stake is a capacity to master language.

In Jewish tradition, language is at the heart of what it means to be human. In the story of creation, God breathes into the first person and gives them Nefesh Chayah, a ‘soul of life’. Famously, the ancient translation of this verse into Aramaic doesn’t translate it this way, but rather says Ruach Memalelah, ‘a speaking soul’. To master language is to be human, in this vision. When Rashi says that a deaf person has no intelligence, he means essentially that [apparently] they can not communicate. But as we know, this is not the case in reality.

The Talmud continues with a discussion and makes the first qualification: when we spoke about deaf, using the word ‘cheresh’, what was actually meant is somebody who can neither hear nor speak. Someone who is only deaf but can communicate, or somebody who is mute but can hear, is in a middle category where they are exempt from bringing a sacrifice but obligated to be present together with everyone there (Chagigah 2b). This is exemplified in the story of two boys who could not speak and considered ignorant.

הָנְהוּ תְּרֵי אִילְּמֵי דַּהֲווֹ בְּשִׁבָבוּתֵיהּ דְּרַבִּי, בְּנֵי בְרַתֵּיה דְּרַבִּי יוֹחָנָן בֶּן גּוּדְגְּדָא, וְאָמְרִי לַהּ בְּנֵי אֲחָתֵיהּ דְּרַבִּי יוֹחָנָן, דְּכׇל אֵימַת דַּהֲוָה עָיֵיל רַבִּי לְבֵי מִדְרְשָׁא הֲווֹ עָיְילִי וְיָתְבִי קַמַּיְיהוּ וּמְנַיְּידִי בְּרֵישַׁיְיהוּ וּמְרַחֲשִׁין שִׂפְווֹתַיְיהוּ, וּבָעֵי רַבִּי רַחֲמֵי עֲלַיְיהוּ וְאִיתַּסּוֹ, וְאִשְׁתַּכַּח דַּהֲווֹ גְּמִירִי הִלְכְתָא וְסִפְרָא וְסִפְרֵי, וְכוּלֵּהּ תַּלְמוּדָא

Whenever Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi would enter the study hall they would also enter and sit before the Sages, and they would nod their heads and move their lips. Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi prayed for God to have mercy upon them, and they were healed. And it was discovered that they had learned and were proficient in Mishna, Sifra, Sifrei, [Tosefta] and the entire Talmud! (3a)

The miracle in this story is not that a rabbi did some magic and made them intelligent. The miracle is that they were taken seriously, and that their humanity, residing in their capacity to master the oral Torah, was revealed. What this story seems to teach, placed as it is in the middle of the discussion of exclusion, is that the ability to be understood isn’t just a personal disability but an incapacity of the society around them to listen. If efforts are made to reduce or eliminate that barrier, then the difference in status falls away. All that is then needed is a magic rabbi, or, more likely, a sign-language interpreter…

I don’t have the time here to present the entire evolution of this halacha, but suffice it to say that sign-language is a game-changer, as are hearing aids. There’s a bit of debate today among the poskim, but at the very least nobody today is in the ancient category of ‘cheresh’, that dismissive category that leads to total exclusion from the community. Some now place those who are deaf but can communicate in the intermediate category, obligated in some rituals, others say that the combination of hearing aids and sign language, as well as specialised schools, community awareness and writing, means that there is no longer any practical difference resulting from an auditory disability. [See, for example, the statement (in Hebrew) of the Tzohar rabbinical organisation regarding marriages of deaf people, in which any ancient restrictions are definitively overturned, and see extensive footnotes. Those who allow Megilah readings through Zoom should probably also allow a deaf person with a hearing aid to be able to read the Megilah. I think that the only restriction left, in our community, would be that a deaf person should not be the one blowing the Shofar, since it depends on a biological capacity to hear the sound unaided.]

Before concluding, I want to point out another obvious parallel in terms of exclusion in the Jewish tradition: the same Mishnah that stated that a cheresh is not obligated in the pilgrimage on Sukkot also said the same about women. It seems clear to me that the same process and the same progress that was made regarding the cheresh, from exclusion to inclusion based on a changing societal reality, has to be made regarding women in Jewish law. This is the case in our synagogue but I want to spell it out here. The category of isha, woman, in Jewish law is rarely connected to biological reality but to social status. It’s not because of anatomy or chromosomes that women were absent from the pilgrimage, from Torah academies, as community and ritual leaders and so on. I don’t have so much critique for the ancient rabbis, I can understand why, in a society where women were largely illiterate and uneducated, excluded in all domains from civil life and political leadership, that the same structures were present within the Jewish world too - her status was probably slightly better there. But these barriers too, like the lack of communication with the cheresh, are man-made and can be changed. We can easily make the parallel to sign-language and hearing aids. Today, when there is no difference of intelligence, education, respect or access between men and women, there should be no difference of status with regards to Jewish law. We await more courageous rabbis outside of the Masorti world to realise the contradiction in their approach.

In a few moments, we will enter the Sukkah. After the intense experience of Yom Kippur, the Sukkah is a place of calm, of inclusion, even of vulnerability: the walls are thin and we celebrate guests and invitations. It should also be a time to reflect on who does not always feel included, and find ways to rectify the situation.

Chag sameach and shabbat shalom!

כי ביום הזה יכפר עליכם מכל חטאתיכם לפני יי תטהרו

“For on this day you shall be atoned of all your sins, before the Eternal you will be purified.”

But we all know, or we think we know, or we’ve heard, that this atonement isn’t automatic. We have to do something, at least internally: we have to do teshuvah, repent, yearn to change or to return and become someone new, with new behaviour. But at the same time, teshuvah is a process that can be undertaken any time of the year. So what is it that brings this atonement, the day of Yom Kippur itself or what we do with it?

There’s a passage in the Talmud that tries to make sense of these categories. I quote:

עָבַר עַל עֲשֵׂה וְשָׁב — אֵינוֹ זָז מִשָּׁם עַד שֶׁמּוֹחֲלִין לוֹ, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: ״שׁוּבוּ בָּנִים שׁוֹבָבִים״. עָבַר עַל לֹא תַעֲשֶׂה וְעָשָׂה תְּשׁוּבָה — תְּשׁוּבָה תּוֹלָה, וְיוֹם הַכִּפּוּרִים מְכַפֵּר. שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: ״כִּי בַיּוֹם הַזֶּה יְכַפֵּר עֲלֵיכֶם מִכֹּל חַטֹּאתֵיכֶם״. עָבַר עַל כָּרֵיתוֹת וּמִיתוֹת בֵּית דִּין וְעָשָׂה תְּשׁוּבָה — תְּשׁוּבָה וְיוֹם הַכִּפּוּרִים תּוֹלִין, וְיִסּוּרִין מְמָרְקִין. שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: ״וּפָקַדְתִּי בְשֵׁבֶט פִּשְׁעָם וּבִנְגָעִים עֲוֹנָם״. אֲבָל מִי שֶׁיֵּשׁ חִילּוּל הַשֵּׁם בְּיָדוֹ — אֵין לוֹ כֹּחַ בִּתְשׁוּבָה לִתְלוֹת וְלֹא בְּיוֹם הַכִּפּוּרִים לְכַפֵּר וְלֹא בְּיִסּוּרִין לְמָרֵק, אֶלָּא כּוּלָּן תּוֹלִין, וּמִיתָה מְמָרֶקֶת, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: ״וְנִגְלָה בְאׇזְנָי ה׳ צְבָאוֹת אִם יְכוּפַּר הֶעָוֹן הַזֶּה לָכֶם עַד תְּמוּתוּן״.

Rabbi Yishmael taught : If one violates a positive mitzva and repents, they are forgiven immediately. If one violates a prohibition and repents, repentance suspends punishment and Yom Kippur atones for their sin. If one commits a transgression that warrants karet or is punishable by death and then repents, repentance and Yom Kippur suspend their punishment, and suffering completes the atonement.

I don’t know exactly how atonement works, metaphysically, or understand this idea of suffering as being part of it. But I think I can recognise the possibility of someone who has really repented and decided to change, but isn’t yet able to put their past behind them. It takes time. Maybe until Yom Kippur, maybe even longer. I also think many of us, myself included, are a bit uncomfortable with the whole idea of sin and punishment, and the mechanical way that they are described here. It must be more complicated than that. In any case, it’s the fourth and final category that I want to concentrate on:

But in the case of one who has caused desecration of God’s name, this person’s repentance has no power to suspend punishment, nor does Yom Kippur have power to atone for their sin, nor does suffering alone have power to absolve them. Rather, all these suspend punishment, and only death absolves them. (Yoma 86a)

There’s a category of sin that is worse, or more serious, or less forgivable, than those that “merely” carry the death penalty: Chilul Hashem, the desecration of The Name. If it’s so terrible, we probably need to understand what it is. But it turns out that it’s not so easy to define.

When we talk about God’s name, we usually mean, fundamentally, God’s presence in the world. In the same way that someone can be physically absent, but when we mention their name, our attention is nonetheless focused on them. When the world around us is in line with the way we understand God, for example when good things happen to us suddenly, we might say “Oh, thank God!”. When bad things happen, we might feel an absence of God in the world, there’s no need to utter the Name, it doesn’t feel holy, kodesh, but profane, empty, chol. And when people usually associated with doing what God wants to be done do bad things instead, that emptying out of God’s presence is what our tradition calls chilul Hashem, the desecration of the Name. What kind of bad things? The Talmud gives a series of examples. I quote:

הֵיכִי דָּמֵי חִילּוּל הַשֵּׁם? אָמַר רַב: כְּגוֹן אֲנָא, אִי שָׁקֵילְנָא בִּישְׂרָא מִטַּבָּחָא וְלָא יָהֵיבְנָא דְּמֵי לְאַלְתַּר… רַבִּי יוֹחָנָן אָמַר: כְּגוֹן אֲנָא דִּמְסַגֵּינָא אַרְבַּע אַמּוֹת בְּלָא תּוֹרָה וּבְלָא תְּפִילִּין. יִצְחָק דְּבֵי רַבִּי יַנַּאי אָמַר: כׇּל שֶׁחֲבֵירָיו מִתְבַּיְּישִׁין מֵחֲמַת שְׁמוּעָתוֹ - הַיְינוּ חִילּוּל הַשֵּׁם... אַבָּיֵי אָמַר, כִּדְתַנְיָא: ״וְאָהַבְתָּ אֵת ה׳ אֱלֹהֶיךָ״, שֶׁיְּהֵא שֵׁם שָׁמַיִם מִתְאַהֵב עַל יָדְךָ.

What does Chilul Hashem look like? Rav said: For someone like me, it would be if I were to buy meat at the butcher [on credit] and not pay immediately. Rabbi Yohanan said: For someone like me, it would be if I walked four cubits (= two metres) without speaking Torah or wearing tefillin. Isaac of the house of Rabbi Yanai said: anyone whose friends are embarrassed by the rumours they hear -- all these are examples of Chilul Hashem. Abaye said: This is the meaning of the verse “Ve’ahavta, And you shall love the Lord your God” - it means, make beloved the reputation of your God.” (Yoma 86a)

This last statement is shocking, and makes us rethink what the Shema is telling us. It’s not just what we think or feel or believe about God that is important, it is how we are perceived by others. And if someone is perceived to be doing something wrong, says this tradition, God’s presence is diminished in the world and that person is to blame. They have committed the unforgivable crime of Chilul Hashem. Think about that next time you go to the butcher!

The Talmud’s description continues with a description of Chilul Hashem and its opposite, Kiddush Hashem:

If one reads Torah, and learns Mishna, and serves Torah scholars, and is also pleasant with people in his business transactions. What do people say about such a person? Fortunate is his father who taught him Torah, fortunate is his teacher who taught him Torah, woe to the people who have not studied Torah. So-and-so, who taught him Torah, see how pleasant are his ways, how proper are his deeds… But one who reads Torah, and learns Mishna, and serves Torah scholars, but his business practices are not done faithfully, and he does not speak pleasantly with other people, what do people say about him? Woe to so-and-so who studied Torah, woe to his father who taught him Torah, woe to his teacher who taught him Torah. So-and-so who studied Torah, see how destructive are his deeds, and how ugly are his ways. (Yoma 86a)

Why am I speaking about this today? Why is it so important for me that these terms, Chilul Hashem and its opposite, Kiddush Hashem, become part of our vocabulary in Paris in 2026? Because we are living through very intense times, and the world today is not the same as it was ten or fifty or a hundred years ago. All eyes are on the Jews. It’s related to the situation in Israel but it’s not only that. We all saw the video of that woman in Les Deux Alpes shouting that there are too many Jews, that the Jewish community is too big. Too big? We’re miniscule, but maybe we’re too visible. Many people in our community have told me how uncomfortable they are at work or at university or in the street showing that they are Jewish. Not always because of a threat of violence, but just because it’s not neutral. It’s hard today to say that you’re Jewish and then move on to another subject. Once you’re identified as Jewish, you now have to prove something. We can’t just quietly be ourselves. It’s exhausting and unjust.

But maybe there’s something special about this moment that is aligned with what the Torah demands of us. The stakes are higher than ever, but with all eyes on the Jews we have an opportunity for either Kiddush Hashem or Chilul Hashem, and nothing in between. These terms might need to be the criteria by which we make decisions and judge the world around us. If we, as Jews, are able to increase truth and beauty and kindness and mercy and justice wherever we are, el rachum vechanun erech apayim verav chesed ve-emet - all the different names of God, then we make our environment kadosh and we’re doing what we should be doing. We also need to be the first to call out Chilul Hashem, especially by Jews. When we hear of Jews involved in crimes or inciting hatred, when we hear of Jewish gangs committing acts of terror in Judea and Samaria, when we hear Israeli politicians celebrate death and minimise the value of human life - we as Jews need to be the first to criticise these people, not the last. Such Chilul Hashem is a stain on our whole community.

But we also have the opportunity today to be doing such amazing kiddush Hashem too. In France and in the world, Jews are also involved in everything that is good and important: in medicine and in research, in life-saving technologies, in philosophy and in literature and in art, in social justice and in climate activism, in everything but sport. (Even that’s not really true.) If we continue making this world better, amplifying chesed ve-emet , truth and beauty and kindness and mercy and justice wherever we are, and we do this as proud Jews, then we are fulfilling our mission of Kiddush Hashem. All eyes are on the Jews, so let them see this too, and more of it. It won’t quiet the antisemites, they’ll still complain that there are too many of us, but we’re not living our life to please them. We’re here to do what is right.

None of this is easy. For most of us, we’re not interested in Chilul Hashem nor in Kiddush Hashem nor any of that, we just want everyone to leave us alone and let us get along with our lives which are difficult enough anyway. We want to be close to our loved ones, we want health, we want tranquility. All of that is legitimate. But if we are here tonight, it is because we sense that we are connected to something larger than our own individual life, that the generations before us and after us expect us to do something with our lives that would make them proud, that our impact on the world is possible.

As we continue this night and day of Yom Kippur, a day of reflection and of depth and of community, we take account of the year that passed and make decisions about the year we are about to enter. May we merit a year of life, inscribed in the book of Life. We deserve it!

Gmar hatima tova!

What do we do with this image of a vengeful powerful God. In most cases, the Jewish tradition has minimised this aspect. From my experience, when we discuss this parasha, which always falls before or after Yom Kippur, we tend to speak about repentance, about hope, about seeking out God’s hidden face, and we don’t speak about vengeance at all. This fits into a broader reinterpretation of our understanding of God since biblical times. When we recite, again and again, during the prayers of Rosh Hashanah, Selichot, and Yom Kippur, the list of thirteen attributes of God, we stop suddenly in the middle of the verse. We say:

וַיַּעֲבֹ֨ר יְ-הוָ֥ה ׀ עַל־פָּנָיו֮ וַיִּקְרָא֒ יְ-הוָ֣ה ׀ יְ-הוָ֔ה אֵ֥ל רַח֖וּם וְחַנּ֑וּן אֶ֥רֶךְ אַפַּ֖יִם וְרַב־חֶ֥סֶד וֶאֱמֶֽת ׀ נֹצֵ֥ר חֶ֙סֶד֙ לָאֲלָפִ֔ים נֹשֵׂ֥א עָוֺ֛ן וָפֶ֖שַׁע וְחַטָּאָ֑ה וְנַקֵּה֙

“GOD! GOD! compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in kindness and faithfulness, extending kindness to the thousandth generation, absolving iniquity, transgression, and sin, who forgives - (Exodus 34:6-7)

As many of you know, we’re not very honest when we read these words, because we consistently omit the end of the verse which is much less positive

וְנַקֵּה֙ לֹ֣א יְנַקֶּ֔ה פֹּקֵ֣ד ׀ עֲוֺ֣ן אָב֗וֹת עַל־בָּנִים֙ וְעַל־בְּנֵ֣י בָנִ֔ים עַל־שִׁלֵּשִׁ֖ים וְעַל־רִבֵּעִֽים׃

Forgiveness he does not forgive, but visits the iniquity of parents upon children and children’s children, upon the third and fourth generations.

The verse describes a God of retribution, who punishes even those who are not directly responsible for the actions of their parents and grandparents, but have to suffer the consequences of their actions. Again, for two thousand years Judaism has pushed back against this reading, omitting these words from our prayers. The Talmud reads the awkward phrase nakeh lo yenakeh, ‘forgiveness he does not forgive’, as saying that he forgives those who repent and only punishes those who do not (Yoma 86a).

I’ve spoken before of the mitzvah of divine imitation (Sefer Hamitzvot, Aseh 8), but which model of God is the one we should be imitating? The God who destroys in order to be known and respected, or the God who hides his face, waiting to be revealed? The full description of God’s attributes, that praises Him for not forgiving for four generations, or the censored version that we read, that describes a forgiving God. It might be that both of them together describe the full complex model that can be useful for us. There’s a potential for a vengeful powerful violent God, who reveals himself through history in quiet concealment, without the violent potential being realised. The process of censorship, like the story of tzimtzum, is a contraction of certain possibilities in order for others to reveal themselves.

[The kabbalists speak of two configurations of how God is manifested in the world from our perspective, zeir anpin, the ‘short face’, and arikh anpin, ‘the long face’. Zeir anpin is peraps similar to the biblical descriptions of a jealous God that gets upset, metes out punishment to the wicked, takes revenge and so on. Arikh Anpin is, one could say, above all that: patient, loving, tranquil, silent.] God’s power can be in action, and can also be in resisting from action - this second is considered a higher level. If I can give a more simple example: as a father, sometimes I intervene when my kids are in need, and sometimes it’s more correct to stay distant and let them sort it out themselves. Sometimes I need to descend to their level and judge between their disputes over lego, and sometimes I wait for them to find a solution. Teaching my daughter to ride her bike this summer, I felt this metaphor very strongly: like God, as it were, I hid my face and sometimes let her fall so that eventually she would flourish. She also felt my absence of intervention as presence, proud of her independence (eventually).

The teshuvah that we are called to do these days before Yom Kippur is also linked to a process of tzimtzum. It’s precisely about understanding our potential, and then deciding which parts of ourselves are appropriate for the world around us. Someone asked me this week whether the middot, the character traits, that we are born with are able to be changed. The answer is yes and no, of course. Yes, because nothing is predetermined, and if we are responsible for our actions then we are not bound by our personality. “That’s just who I am” is never an excuse. And no, because there is an idea that the way we serve God and do good in the world can depend on the middot that we have already acquired, and even a seemingly negative character trait can be used to do good (cf. Maharsha on Shabbat 156a). Like God, we have the potential to use force, take revenge, fight for our honour, etc. Teshuvah allows us to feel this potential, yet not use it: to forgive, to laugh, to practice dignity, to seek understanding, friendship and reconciliation. In the same way that we cut off half the verse that we don’t want to mention, knowing that it stays in the Torah; we can cut off the parts of ourselves that aren’t appropriate for our situation, knowing that they are still there in potential. We don’t become a new person on Yom Kippur, but we can become a better version of ourselves, sometimes through action and sometimes through restraint. Teshuva then is maybe a matter of inner choreography, rather than recreating who we are.

I wish us all strength and courage as we enter these final days before Yom Kippur. Shabbat shalom and gmar chatima tova !

If we think about it, we could imagine many other possible solutions to this dilemma, and we might be shocked by the chutzpah of these rabbis who cancelled an explicit mitzvah in the Torah. Of course, it’s not the only case of such audacity. To give just one more example, we know that just as the written Torah can’t be read in public by heart, and needs to be in writing, the oral traditions such as the Mishnah and the Talmud are forbidden to be written down. How is it then that we have these books on our bookshelves today? Because the rabbis felt that there was a danger that the oral traditions would be lost, and decided that it was better to transgress the prohibition in order to save the Torah (Gittin 60b). Even the idea that there are two days of Rosh Hashanah rather than just one is a rabbinic decision made for technical reasons. As I mentioned last night, if we think of this day as Yom HaDin, the day of judgement, who gave them the right to make a second day of judgement as well? There is a midrash that expresses well how strange it all is:

אֵי זוֹ אוּמָּה כְאוּמָּה הַזָֹּאת בְּנוֹהֵג שֶׁבָּעוֹלָם הַשִּׁלְטוֹן אוֹמֵר. הַדִּין הַיּוֹם. וְהַלֵּיסְטֵיס אוֹמֵר. לְמָחָר הַדִּין. לְמִי שׁוֹמְעִין. לֹא לַשִּׁלְטוֹן. אֲבָל הַקָּדוֹשׁ בְּרוּךְ הוּא אֵינוֹ כֵן. אָמְרוּ בֵית דִּין. הַיּוֹם רֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה. הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא אוֹמֵר לְמַלְאֲכֵי הַשָׁרֵת. הֶעֱמִידוּ בִימָה יַעַמְדּוּ סֻנֵיגוֹרִין יַעַמְדּוּ קַטֵּיגוֹרִין. שֶׁאָמְרוּ בָנַי. הַיּוֹם רֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה. נִמְלְכוּ בֵית דִּין לְעָבְרָהּ לְמָחָר. הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא אוֹמֵר לְמַלְאֲכֵי הַשָׁרֵת. הֶעֱבִירוּ בִימָה לְמָחָר. יַעַבְרוּ סֻנֵיגוֹרִין יַעַַבְרוּ קַטֵּיגוֹרִין. שֶׁנִּמְלְכוּ בָנַיי לְעָבְרָהּ לְמָחָר.

Is there such a people like the Jewish people? Usually in the world, if the ruler says, ‘the trial is today’, but the robber says, ‘tomorrow is the trial’, to whom does one listen? Not to the ruler? But the Holy Blessed One is not like this. If the Jewish court said, today is Rosh Hashanah, the Holy Blessed One says to the angels: ‘put up the stand, summon defenders, summon accusers, for My children have said that today is Rosh Hashanah’. If the Court then decides to transfer it to the next day, the Holy Blessed One says to the angels: ‘remove the stand, remove the defenders, remove the accusers, for My children have decided to transfer the judgement to tomorrow’. (Jerusalem Talmud RH 1:3)

What do we call such audacious rabbis, who tell God what to do, who think that the Torah gave them the authority to adapt the commandments to the needs of their times? I’d like to propose that they should be called Masorti Jews. I think that if the courageous rabbis who made the right decision to write down the oral law, who changed the calendar, who created the religion that we know of today as Judaism - if they were around today, they would surely be called heretics and reformers and dangerous radicals. It might be that the opposite is true: that the Masorti approach is the direct continuation of the original Jewish spirit, while what is today called orthodoxy is really a rupture and a reform of what Judaism was and could be.

I say this in an intentionally dramatic and provocative way. Is this really the day for such divisive speech? Those of you who know me know that I’m usually not so sectarian, and I don’t think we have time or need for such labels. There are statements of Masorti rabbis that I think are wrong and embarrassing, and we have much to learn from all corners of the Jewish world. More importantly, the big issues of the day are more important than small differences in interpretation of Jewish law. Antisemitism is an issue that affects all Jews, for example, no matter what synagogue they attend (or don’t). The two most crucial issues that society faces today - the climate crisis and the AI revolution, that together make it impossible to know what the world will look like in five years and in ten years - they probably aren’t going to be solved by Masorti Jews or rabbis no matter how courageous. Still, I want to take a moment, on this day, to talk about what spirit animates the synagogue that you chose to be in today.

I recently took part in a committee investigating the structures of institutions of the Masorti movement representing over a million Jews around the world. (I think I was there because they needed a token European representative.) One of the results of the investigation is that the vast majority of Jews in these synagogues, schools and other institutions can’t explain what Masorti is. Again, on the whole, what does it matter? “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet”, as Romeo said. If the Masorti movement disappeared tomorrow, we would continue doing what we are doing and that would be fine. But it’s not the brand that’s important, it’s the message, and I think the message that we try to promote is more crucial today than ever, for Jews and I dare say for all of humanity.

Remember those courageous rabbis who interpreted the Torah against the Torah? I want to propose a definition of our Judaism in that light, with five keywords: critical, courageous, committed, humane, and humble. Critical in rethinking the tradition and accepted truths, courageous in arriving at different conclusions if they are the right ones, committed to the legacy of a 3,000-year old people with all the responsibilities that implies, even when that makes life more difficult, humane in caring for all people and seeing them for who they are, humble before God and man, aware of our weaknesses and mistakes. (Maybe a sixth value comes out of these: a gentle sense of humour!)

I don’t actually know if that’s a definition of Masorti Judaism, but it’s mine and as rabbi of this synagogue, it becomes ours if you accept it. I also want to think that it can serve as a model for our world. It won’t have escaped you that our society is becoming more polarised and more extreme. Ways of speaking that wouldn’t have been possible ten or twenty years ago are becoming legitimate. Social media promises to bring people together but the algorithms actually amplify prejudices, bringing us to a place where we’re more lonely, frustrated and angry than before. Reading a book, studying a subject in depth from multiple perspectives, or even having a long honest discussion with friends takes too much time, but watching a reel on tiktok takes a few seconds and seems more satisfying. A middle position is now the exception, and nobody has the time for nuance.

The elections in Israel and in France are coming up in the coming months. What would it be like if politicians were judged by these five criteria: critical, courageous, committed, humane, and humble? What would it be like if software engineers, army generals, television presenters, school teachers, religious leaders, artists, and lawyers were all a bit closer to these values?

Es iz shver tzu zein a Yid, it’s hard to be a Jew, they say. We have to eat big hot meals on Shabbat but we’re not allowed to cook. We have to blow the Shofar but we’re not allowed to carry it. We create our own contradictions for ourselves and then have to solve them. More seriously, we have ancient authentic traditions that seem to speak of violence and superiority, that tell us to wipe out certain enemies from the face of the earth, that belittle women and non-Jews, that punish insubordination with death. We also have other ancient authentic traditions that tell us to care for the weak and the marginalised, that promote a vision of peace and respect, and abhor war and bloodshed. How can we reconcile these contradictions? I would suggest by being critical, courageous, committed, humane, and humble. That doesn’t make it easy to find simple answers, of course, but we’re not looking for simple answers. And if we manage to resolve these contradictions, and come out with a Judaism that is deep and vibrant and powerful and that resonates with our souls as true - then we have a model to offer to the world at large. I think that in our synagogue we have taken upon ourselves the challenge of trying to be a voice that answers these challenges.

Rosh Hashanah is actually not really a Jewish festival. It’s presented as a day of judgement for the entire world: כל באי עולם יעברון לפניך כבני מרון, ‘all the creatures of this world will pass before You like a flock of sheep’, we sing in the U’Netana Tokef prayers. כֵּן תַּעֲבִיר וְתִסְפֹּר וְתִמְנֶה וְתִפְקֹד נֶפֶשׁ כָּל חָי וְתַחְתֹּךְ קִצְבָה לְכָל בְּרִיָּה וְתִכְתֹּב אֶת גְּזַר דִּינָם, ‘and You shall pass, count, and record the souls of all living creatures, decree a limit to each person’s days, and inscribe their final judgment.’ In the same way that we act as if the whole of humanity is judged on this day, the process of teshuvah that we do today needs to contain a self-reflection of each of us as individuals, as Jews, and as part of humanity. On all three levels, we probably have a lot that we need to feel accountable for, and a lot of broken things to fix. We can do it! If we can make a change as individuals, we can do so as a Jewish community, and if the Jewish community manages to overcome the very difficult challenges it faces today, our world has a chance too.

May we live up to these challenges, and be inscribed in the book of life.

Shana tova u’metuka!

(ט) וַיֹּ֣אמֶר נְחֶמְיָ֣ה ה֣וּא הַתִּרְשָׁ֡תָא וְעֶזְרָ֣א הַכֹּהֵ֣ן ׀ הַסֹּפֵ֡ר וְהַלְוִיִּם֩ הַמְּבִינִ֨ים אֶת־הָעָ֜ם לְכָל־הָעָ֗ם הַיּ֤וֹם קָדֹֽשׁ־הוּא֙ לַיי אֱלֹקֵיכֶ֔ם אַל־תִּֽתְאַבְּל֖וּ וְאַל־תִּבְכּ֑וּ כִּ֤י בוֹכִים֙ כָּל־הָעָ֔ם כְּשָׁמְעָ֖ם אֶת־דִּבְרֵ֥י הַתּוֹרָֽה׃(י) וַיֹּ֣אמֶר לָהֶ֡ם לְכוּ֩ אִכְל֨וּ מַשְׁמַנִּ֜ים וּשְׁת֣וּ מַֽמְתַקִּ֗ים וְשִׁלְח֤וּ מָנוֹת֙ לְאֵ֣ין נָכ֣וֹן ל֔וֹ כִּֽי־קָד֥וֹשׁ הַיּ֖וֹם לַאֲדֹנֵ֑ינוּ וְאַל־תֵּ֣עָצֵ֔בוּ כִּֽי־חֶדְוַ֥ת יי הִ֥יא מָֽעֻזְּכֶֽם׃(יא) וְהַלְוִיִּ֞ם מַחְשִׁ֤ים לְכָל־הָעָם֙ לֵאמֹ֣ר הַ֔סּוּ כִּ֥י הַיּ֖וֹם קָדֹ֑שׁ וְאַל־תֵּעָצֵֽבוּ׃(יב) וַיֵּלְכ֨וּ כָל־הָעָ֜ם לֶאֱכֹ֤ל וְלִשְׁתּוֹת֙ וּלְשַׁלַּ֣ח מָנ֔וֹת וְלַעֲשׂ֖וֹת שִׂמְחָ֣ה גְדוֹלָ֑ה כִּ֤י הֵבִ֙ינוּ֙ בַּדְּבָרִ֔ים אֲשֶׁ֥ר הוֹדִ֖יעוּ לָהֶֽם׃ (ס)

Nehemiah the Tirshatha, Ezra the priest and scribe, and the Levites who were explaining to the people said to all the people, “This day is holy to the LORD your God: you must not mourn or weep,” for all the people were weeping as they listened to the words of the Teaching. He further said to them, “Go, eat choice foods and drink sweet drinks and send portions to whoever has nothing prepared, for the day is holy to our Lord. Do not be sad, for your rejoicing in the LORD is the source of your strength.” The Levites were quieting the people, saying, “Hush, for the day is holy; do not be sad.” Then all the people went to eat and drink and send portions and make great merriment, for they understood the things they were told. (Nehemiah 8:9-12)

I have a feeling that our community tends to be mostly on this side of the paradox. So, as we start these strange and wonderful new year celebrations, I want to ruin your appetite a bit by speaking about the Day of Judgement.

Tomorrow, during Mussaf, we’ll read from the tremendous poem that begins U’Netaneh Tokef, that describes in dramatic terms the cosmic judgement taking place:

אֱמֶת כִּי אַתָּה הוּא דַּיָּן וּמוֹכִיחַ וְיוֹדֵעַ וָעֵד וְכוֹתֵב וְחוֹתֵם וְסוֹפֵר וּמוֹנֶה וְתִזְכֹּר כָּל הַנִּשְׁכָּחוֹת וְתִפְתַּח אֶת סֵפֶר הַזִּכְרוֹנוֹת וּמֵאֵלָיו יִקָּרֵא וְחוֹתָם יַד כָּל אָדָם בּוֹ וּבְשׁוֹפָר גָּדוֹל יִתָּקַע וְקוֹל דְּמָמָה דַקָּה יִשָׁמַע וּמַלְאָכִים יֵחָפֵזוּן וְחִיל וּרְעָדָה יֹאחֵזוּן וְיֹאמְרוּ הִנֵּה יוֹם הַדִּין

It is true that you are the one who judges, and reproves, who knows all and who bears witness, who inscribes and seals, who reckons and enumerates. You remember all that is forgotten. You open the book of records, and from it, all shall be read. Each person has signed their own record within it. A great shofar shall be sounded, and a thin silent voice shall be heard. And the angels shall be alarmed, and dread and fear shall seize them as they proclaim: behold! the Day of Judgment!

Who judges whom, and for what, and how, and why? Just a few simple questions! The classic model is the one that I just quoted from U’Netaneh Tokef: a big man in the sky with a book and a pen and a sword and a seal, who investigates and decides who will live and who will die and so on. This is sometimes a useful model, but we don’t need to turn this poem into a fundamental description of how reality works. One of the things that kabbalists and atheists might agree on is that God is not external to ourselves: that when we say that we are being judged by God, we are using the term God to refer to a part of our mind (or soul) that is judging the rest of ourselves. From different perspectives, each of us is the judge, the judged and the judgement itself. These aren’t always comfortable positions to be in, and it’s no wonder that we often retreat into the celebration side of the day, leaving the words of the judgement-day prayers to be sung by ourselves or by others, but not willing to participate in the game itself, to take this model of the ‘day of Judgement’ seriously. It certainly takes courage to do some deep introspection and examination, to admit our weaknesses and the habits that are so deeply ingrained in us that we think that they’re just who we are. It takes courage to play out the consequences of all sorts of decisions we’ve taken in the past, and take responsibility for their impact on others. And a real comprehensive judgement might go even further - we might have to also admit the good things we’ve done in the world, whether they’re known to others or not, and figure out the positive consequences of those decisions too.

Before continuing, I want to address again the discomfort with this model of judgement and reward and punishment. When applied to explain why there’s suffering in the world, it often breaks down and seems cruel. We know that there are good people who suffer and seemingly evil people who prosper. It’s difficult to talk about who will be inscribed in the Book of Life when it seems so random. As a community, we experienced the loss of Eric Aboudi z”l this year; this summer I visited a shiva for a six-month old baby. Wars around the world have claimed innocent lives of those who don’t deserve to die, if such a concept even exists. The only time I feel it’s appropriate to use such metaphors of judgement and the book of Life is today, where we use it to ask ourselves tough questions: based on the way I’ve been living until now, have I reached my full potential? Or am I lacking something that fully deserves to be called ‘alive’? It’s these reflections and the answers to those questions that should accompany our prayers on Rosh Hashanah.

There’s also a curious halachic-theological question that underlies this holiday. The most ancient rabbinic sources, like the Mishnah (RH 1:2), speak about Rosh Hashanah as the day of Judgment. But later rabbinic sources, close to the end of the Second Temple period, already ordained that Rosh Hashanah would last two days, and not one. I don’t want to go into the technicalities of that decision now, maybe I’ll touch on it tomorrow, but you can see the theological question that it poses: when are we actually judged? On the first day of the festival, or the second? And if we’re already judged on the first day (or we’ve already judged ourselves - it’s the same), what’s left to say on the second? Even on the level of the symbols - if we’ve already wished ourselves a shana tova u’metuka, a sweet new year, on the first day, why repeat it on the second?

One way of answering these questions is based on the Zohar (Pinchas 281b), that speaks of two kinds of judgement: dina kashia, harsh justice, and dina rafia, soft justice, whose source is in mercy. Dina kashia is associated with the first day of Rosh Hashanah, and Dina rafia with the second. In other words, on the first day we get what we deserve, and on the second day we get what we don’t deserve.

This idea of dina rafia, the soft judgment, is intriguing and appealing. [I think of Portia’s words in the Merchant of Venice (IV:1), “when mercy seasons justice” - but I’ve developed those thoughts elsewhere, as did Jacques Derrida, differently, here.] Who doesn’t want to be judged through the filter of mercy, to have their faults and transgressions understood in the context of the difficult lives that we all lead? In discussing these two levels of justice, Rav Mordechai Dessler makes the following distinction. On the level of dina kashia, strict justice, the totality of one’s actions are examined and judged, and those who are found righteous are inscribed in the book of Life. But there is a second way to be thus inscribed. Sometimes, it’s not so obvious that we are among the righteous, but maybe we can be useful for those who are righteous. Maybe someone else needs me, something that I uniquely can give, in order to fulfill their potential, and it’s thus crucial for the world that I continue to live. This is dina rafia, I get what I don’t deserve. I’m not perfect, not even close, but someone else’s life is better off with my existence.

It’s the first night of Rosh Hashanah, and we’re soon going to eat apples and honey and make kiddush and celebrate. As I said, this is legitimate and part of what this day is. Later, we will continue with these mental exercises of Yom Hadin, the days of judgement, our own reflections on who we are and we can become, and also, who we can be for others.

May we be inscribed in the Book of Life.

לשנה טובה תכתבו!

The content of these parashot mirror these ideas to a certain extent. Moses gathers the entire people together on the last day of his life, and offers to make a covenant with them. Significantly, this is the second generation of the people of Israel, who were not born or only children at the exodus from Egypt and the covenant at Sinai. This is their chance to enter the covenant themselves, to choose to be part of the story. But as Elsie mentioned in her bat mitzvah drasha, there is also a certain lack of choice in the way that this is framed. Who is the covenant made with? All the men, women, children of the Israelites, but also with me and you.

וְלֹ֥א אִתְּכֶ֖ם לְבַדְּכֶ֑ם אָנֹכִ֗י כֹּרֵת֙ אֶת־הַבְּרִ֣ית הַזֹּ֔את וְאֶת־הָאָלָ֖ה הַזֹּֽאת ׃ כִּי֩ אֶת־אֲשֶׁ֨ר יֶשְׁנ֜וֹ פֹּ֗ה עִמָּ֙נוּ֙ עֹמֵ֣ד הַיּ֔וֹם לִפְנֵ֖י יְ--הֹוָ֣ה אֱ-לֹהֵ֑ינוּ וְאֵ֨ת אֲשֶׁ֥ר אֵינֶ֛נּוּ פֹּ֖ה עִמָּ֥נוּ הַיּֽוֹם׃

I make this covenant, with its sanctions, not with you alone, but both with those who are standing here with us this day before the ETERNAL our God and with those who are not with us here this day. (Deuteronomy 29:13-14)

But there is also something uncomfortable with this idea of being included in an ancient alliance that we didn’t choose to take part in. Our society today celebrates autonomy and choice, but being Jewish is something we are thrown into, where our choice is seemingly absent. What value does it have then? (Even converts to Judaism, who choose to enter the covenant, aren’t free of this discomfort. First, because the text already includes them (v.10) as being part of the alliance before they even knew that they had chosen it. Second, because their children and descendants for the rest of time are thrown into the covenant from birth, so the choice is taken away once again.)

If Elsie could quote Harry Potter, then I allow myself to turn to a writer I don’t usually bring into my Torah commentaries, the infamous Friedrich Nietzsche. Nietzsche suggests a powerful and well-known thought experiment, encouraging each of us to imagine that we might really lose all our freedom, and that everything we do in our whole life would repeat itself eternally in a loop.

Your reaction to this possibility becomes a way to evaluate every aspect of your life. Would you be appalled at the tedium of repeating each thing again and again for all eternity? Coming to the synagogue week after week, year after year, for example? Or are you confident enough in yourself to say yes, this is absolutely what I want! Nietzsche imagines turning back to that demon who threatens us with eternal recurrence, and praising it:

I don’t usually connect to everything Nietzsche says: I don’t have any will to power, don’t particularly aim at becoming an übermentsch, and am content to struggle with good and evil rather than go beyond them. But this image of eternal recurrence, and its reaction of Amor Fati, loving fate, resonates with me, especially during this period of the year dedicated to introspection and decision making. I imagine this idea being proposed in the language of the Torah, where it might sound a lot like our parashah:

Our parasha doesn’t say what the people answered, but we have to assume that, like their parents, they said Yes - yes we choose this, we choose life, we accept these responsibilities for now and forever. A life of difficult commandments and impossible ethical demands? Yes, yes, ‘You are a God, Hashem, and never have I heard anything more divine.’

[Again, we can echo Nietzsche: “I want to learn more and more to see as beautiful what is necessary in things; then I shall be one of those who make things beautiful. Amor fati [love of fate]: let that be my love henceforth! I do not want to wage war against what is ugly. I do not want to accuse; I do not even want to accuse those who accuse. Looking away shall be my only negation. And all in all and on the whole: someday I wish to be only a Yes-sayer [ich will irgendwann einmal nur noch ein Ja-sagender sein].” (The Gay Science, 276)]

We are stuck with many frameworks that have been decided for us, ones that can be described in terms of sociology, genetics, geopolitics, consequences of our own past decisions and those of others. But we also have a way to realign our lives in a way that they become more coherent with what they could be. This is teshuvah, the return, that is so central to our internal work this week. And eventually, we want to be able to echo the ‘Yes’ of those Nitzavim standing there firmly before Moses.

A week from now, be’ezrat Hashem, we will be singing our Rosh Hashanah prayers right here. There’s a small word that we repeat in almost every paragraph of the long Amidah prayer, that we almost never translate. Uvechen, which means something like ‘and so’, or literally, ‘with yes’. A tradition in the Talmud reports that before creating each and everything in the world, God asked if it would like to be created, and it replied ‘Yes’ (Rashi on Rosh Hashanah 11a). I don’t know exactly what it means, but I love this idea, and try to have that primordial ‘Yes’ echo in our world today.

May we choose life, and be inscribed in the book of life.

Shabbat shalom!

The pilgrim comes with their basket of fruit and tells the story of the Jewish people from antiquity until ‘today’. What is interesting is that the audience of the story seems to change throughout the verses. The introduction in v. 3 utilises the second person address, הגדתי היום לה’ א-להיך, “I acknowledge today before the Eternal, your God”, presumably addressing the priest. This is striking when compared to the expression א-להינו , our God, in the continuation of the recitation. Is the priest included in the implied “us” of the first-person plural suffix? The change in suffix seems to suggest that there was an additional audience, which traditional commentators have seen as young children (Ibn Ezra), or a crowd of other Israelites (Ramban). The recitation ends, however, with a third switch in audience. Verse 10 uses the second-person suffix אשר נתתה היום לי, “the first fruits of the soil that You have given me,” which, in the context, can only be referring to God. The speaker, it seems, has become so engrossed in the narrative that he leaves behind the priest and audience, and becomes part of the story himself, addressing God personally, or seeing the priest as a representative of God to whom he can say “You”. [I thank my teacher Shani Tzoref for introducing me to narratology and for listening to me read this text, here.]

The priest’s function as a listener is important. Sometimes there are stories that just need to be shared, and the function of the listener is to allow those stories to come out. They don’t necessarily need to do anything with the story, but they are crucial to its existence. This flattens the hierarchy we usually associate with priests, sometimes they are seen as a sort of elite aristocracy among the Jews, but here they are more of a bureaucratic functionary, or just a role that needs to exist. Perhaps this can be seen at Pesach, when these exact words form the basis of the haggadah, and the leader of the Seder shares the story with those present. The participants, and especially the children, take on the role of the priest - the story wouldn’t exist without them listening. And one day, they too will become the tellers.

This change in hierarchy is important. There’s a debate in the Talmud whether the kohanim are there to represent God to us, שלוחי דרחמנא, or whether they represent us to God, שלוחי דידן (Kiddushin 23b, see Tosafot ad loc). But more fundamentally, there simply needs to be kohanim in the world, like there need to be listeners for stories to exist : we usually translate this word kohanim as ‘priests’, but it’s actually not precise. It’s a function, the word means ‘to serve’ - in this way, King David’s sons are also called kohanim in the book of Samuel (II Samuel 8:18). In fact, the entire Jewish people are called mamlekhet Kohanim, a kingdom of priests. One way of understanding that is that vis-a-vis the other nations, the Jews are like priests, teaching a universal ethical monotheism and publicising the values of the Torah. But we can also see this as simply being the kohanim, the intermediaries you were speaking about, to each other.

In relation to this idea of kohanim, in a few places (see especially Likkutei Moharan 8 and 34) Rebbe Nachman of Breslov uses a strange metaphor: the hebrew letter vav, with a point in the middle (traditionally called a melafum by Ashkenazim, and shuruk in modern Hebrew - I don’t know exactly why), like this:

וּ

The dot stands for the infinite potential of God, or the beginning of inspiration, reshit chochma. The vav, the vertical line is an extension of that tiny dot which allows it to be pronounced and comprehended (binah). Which is more important? The inspiration or its expression? Certainly one can’t exist without the other. The vav is a kohen to the dot, an extension in reality of what exists in potentia. Naomie, you also used this metaphor of a pencil as an intermediary between thought and words, or a teacher as an intermediary between knowledge and children. [The directionality is marvelously ambiguous in these images. Is the teacher extending the abstract knowledge by giving it to the student, or extending the student by adding knowledge? Is the pencil extending the thought by putting it into words, or extending the words on the page by adding thought to them? Again, is the kohen an agent of God towards us, or our agent in interacting with God?]

In any case, being part of mamlekhet kohanim means knowing both sides of this relationship. We are all sometimes teachers and sometimes students, sometimes the speakers and sometimes the listeners. Sometimes we bring someone’s desire into reality, and sometimes we need someone to be there for us. Part of becoming a bat mitzvah, part of the community of Jewish adults, is becoming part of this network of entraide, of being there for one another, mamlekhet kohanim. And part of the work of this month of Elul, before the upcoming new year, is also that: realigning and strengthening this network, and to become a strong community able to turn potential into reality and make the world a better place.

Shabbat shalom!

לֹֽא־תִטַּ֥ע לְךָ֛ אֲשֵׁרָ֖ה כׇּל־עֵ֑ץ אֵ֗צֶל מִזְבַּ֛ח יְ—הֹוָ֥ה אֱ—לֹהֶ֖יךָ אֲשֶׁ֥ר תַּעֲשֶׂה־לָּֽךְ׃

Thou shalt not plant thee an Asherah of any kind of tree beside the altar of the LORD thy God, which thou shalt make thee. (Deuteronomy 16:21)

Ashera was a goddess widely worshipped in Canaan and particularly attractive to the early Hebrew people (in some places, she may have been considered as the wife of Yud Hey Vav Hey, which was obviously something that the Torah, the priests and the prophets fought to stop). The way she was worshipped is not exactly clear, but usually involved planting and maintaining a tree, which itself was often called an Ashera. The Torah then doesn't want any element of this idol worship in the Temple, and the rabbinic interpretation (cf. MT Avoda Zara 6:10) is that nothing permanent in the Temple was allowed to be built with wood at all, lest people fall into the temptation to worship Ashera trees there. Nonetheless, the temptation was so strong that we read that throughout the Bible we read of Asheras being set up (and occasionally chopped down).

Where does this fascination with trees, and their association with holiness, come from? I set this question to the side for a moment, and I want to mention another commandment near the end of the parasha, that deals with behaviour in times of war. When a Jewish army lays siege on an enemy city, after having offered it a peace treaty, they must leave one side of the city open so that noncombatants can flee; the water access must be left untouched so that the inhabitants can drink, and, most famously perhaps, fruit trees growing in and around the cities may not be uprooted (MT Kings 6:7-8). Ki ha-Adam etz ha-sadeh, “Is the tree of a field a man, who can escape into the city?” (Deuteronomy 20:19).

It's clear that the focus of this passage is to avoid the excesses of war that humans tend to fall into, even if the intentions of the war are ostensibly just. But again, the sensitivity to trees is important, and gives them an extraordinary value in themselves.

Over the summer, I've been doing my usual eclectic reading of Talmud and halacha , chassidic and medieval mystical texts, as well as an assortment of novels and poetry and so on. But perhaps the book with the most spiritual impact that I read this summer was a popular introduction to contemporary scientific theories of trees. (Plaidoyer pour l'arbre, by Francis Hallé)

I won't summarise the book, but I will give two or three examples of what I mean by ‘spiritual impact’: concepts that didn't only speak to my intellectual curiosity, but provoked what the Torah calls yirah, awe or wonder at something so majestic.

I'll start with the fairly obvious fact that, despite all our technology, humans can't build anything like a tree. Hallé imagines a conversation with a famous architect, asking him to plan a construction of a 60-metre tower branching out for 30 metres at the top. “What?” screams the architect “It would fall in the slightest wind! That would need deep foundations made of the most expensive titanium alloys, who could afford that?” The interlocutor is thrown out of the office before they can add that the construction should also be able to reproduce itself automatically…

But the fact that we are surrounded by these technological feats doesn't mean we know them. For example, the book examines the question of immortality of trees. Although they can be chopped down or fall in a storm or succumb to various diseases, there is nothing that parallels dying of old age. On the contrary, there's nothing that stops them from growing in all directions. There are 5,000-year old trees in California, and clonal colonies (where the tree reproduces itself, sending up a new trunk from the roots rather than from a seed) can be even bigger and more ancient: one in Tasmania consists of hundreds of trunks and is estimated to be 43,000 years old.

But despite this overall tendency to immortality, when considering the trunk very little of it is actually living. Consider the following description of the cells in the trunk:

At the centre is a cylindrical mass of dead wood, perhaps ninety centimetres in diameter. In the trees of our region, this mass of wood is arranged in concentric layers … Around the dead wood, the living tissues form a thin hollow cylinder, roughly four centimetres thick, known as the sapwood …

The sapwood is in turn covered by a thin protective layer: once again, this is dead tissue—the cork—about one centimetre thick. The sapwood and its protective cork must, of course, continue to envelop the trunk as it increases in diameter. This can only be achieved through continual and complex reorganisations of the living tissues, in which the cambium plays an essential role.

The dead tissues, which make up by far the greater part of the tree, are produced by the activity of the living tissues; at the same time, they make the growth of those living tissues possible by providing them with support and protection.

The living tissues, for their part, envelop the dead tissues as Christo’s fabric wrapped the Reichstag. They remain only a thin layer, and however enormous the trunk may become, it contains no more than a superficial layer of living tissue a few centimetres thick. (pp. 61-62)

All this made me think of the phrase we write on tombstones: תהי נשמתו צרורה בצרור החיים, “may his/her soul be bound up in the bundle of life”. The dead in this world are more numerous than the living, and in many ways form the basis for the world as we know it. As one generation passes away, they support the generation that follows, a thin but crucial layer in the history of the tree of life.

I could continue, but I'll keep some insights for Tu Bishvat. Again, what I really wanted to share was this feeling of awe regarding something otherwise so familiar. After reading the book, I walked through a small forest in Burgundy, fascinated by everything I noticed, and probably wouldn't have noticed had I not read it. I saw a fallen trunk continue living, with five new vertical trunks growing on it. I saw branches swoop down and become roots. I saw a vine growing five metres up along the side of an oak tree, the two coexisting wonderfully, grapes floating in the air. The forest fires that spread throughout France were particularly tragic, for the human and material damage of course, but also for the loss of so many majestic trees.

Rabbenu Bahya ibn Paquda was an 11th-century Andalusian philosopher. He was concerned that Jews were overemphasising the ‘obligations of the body’ in their observance of the Torah, and ignoring the ‘Obligations of the heart’, about which he devoted an entire book. Chovot Halevavot (Kitāb al-Hidāyat ilá Farāʾiḍ al-Qulūb), which is sometimes read in the month before Rosh Hashanah, has ten ‘gates’ through which to come close to God. The second gate is called Bechina , ‘examination’. If God is the creator, than by examining creation we see the mark of the divine plan, and through appreciation of the world we can appreciate the forces that brought it into being.

וְהֶחָכָם הַמֵּבִין יִבְרֹר לוֹ מִן הָעוֹלָם דַּעַת רוּחָנִיּוּתוֹ וְדַקּוּתוֹ וִישִׂימֵן כְּסֻלָּם לַהֲבָאַת הָרְאָיוֹת עַל בּוֹרֵא הַכֹּל יִתְבָּרַךְ וְיִדְבַּק בַּעֲבוֹדָתוֹ כְּפִי גָּדְלוֹ וְרוֹמְמוּתוֹ בְּלִבּוֹ וּכְפִי הַכָּרָתוֹ סִימָנֵי טוֹבוֹתָיו וְחַנּוֹתוֹ עַל כָּל מַעֲשָׂיו וְאֶת אֲשֶׁר חֲנָנוֹ מֵרֹב הַטּוֹבוֹת וְאֶת אֲשֶׁר נִשְּׂאוֹ מִבְּלִי מַעֲשֶׂה שֶׁקָּדַם לוֹ וְלֹא מִדָּה יְתֵרָה הִתְחִיל בָּהּ. הִתְחַיֵּב לוֹ בַּעֲבוּרָם הַגְּמוּל הַטּוֹב מֵאֵת הָאֱ-לֹהִים.

The wise and intelligent man will choose from the world for study its fine and spiritual elements; use them as a ladder by which to obtain proofs of the existence of the Creator of all, to Whose service he will then cling to according to his heartfelt recognition of the greatness and exaltedness of the Creator, and his realization of the Almighty’s gracious benevolence to all of His creations (Chovot Halevavot 2:3)

Later (2:4), he specifically identifies contemplations of plants as such a ‘ladder’ to achieve knowledge of the divine. Perhaps, in a confused way, this that is at the core of the Ashera idol-worship, and in a positive sense the root of the sensitivity towards the destruction of fruit trees, even in times of war. In any case, may this month before Rosh Hashanah give us many opportunities for contemplation, of the world inside and outside of us.

Shabbat shalom!

כִּֽי־יִהְיֶה֩ בְךָ֨ אֶבְי֜וֹן מֵאַחַ֤ד אַחֶ֙יךָ֙ בְּאַחַ֣ד שְׁעָרֶ֔יךָ בְּאַ֨רְצְךָ֔ אֲשֶׁר־יְ--הֹוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֶ֖יךָ נֹתֵ֣ן לָ֑ךְ לֹ֧א תְאַמֵּ֣ץ אֶת־לְבָבְךָ֗ וְלֹ֤א תִקְפֹּץ֙ אֶת־יָ֣דְךָ֔ מֵאָחִ֖יךָ הָאֶבְיֽוֹן׃

If, however, there is a needy person among you, one of your kindred in any of your settlements in the land that the ETERNAL your God is giving you, do not harden your heart and shut your hand against your needy kindred. (Deuteronomy 15:7)

This phrasing serves to make the commandment even more urgent than the positive formulation that one must give tzedakah. Positive actions can be delayed, at least for a while. If I wake up in the morning and decide not to put on tefillin straight away, it’s not really a problem, I have all day to do so. If I see a shofar lying in front of me on Rosh Hashanah, I don’t have to do anything with it, assuming I’ll hear it later. I can even put off honouring my parents, and many people are skilled at this. But when a poor person asks me for money, if I say no, even if I intend to give to somebody else an hour later and do so, I’ve fulfilled the mitzvah of tzedakah but violated the prohibition of ‘closing the hand’. It is forbidden not to give to those who ask.

Now, the absolute nature of the way I phrased this is scary, and I can already hear people making their excuses, and the rabbis found ways to limit these demands. [Maimonides says (Lav 232) that we are not permitted to refuse tzedakah and wellbeing to those in need inasmuch as we are able to help them.] We know the reality, that the resources that we have to hand are limited, while the hands stretched out for help seem to be infinite. The Shulchan Aruch (YD 247-251) and other Jewish works try to give hierarchies and guidelines for how to allocate our resources - relatives before strangers, the poor of your city before the poor elsewhere, in normal circumstances one should not give more than one-fifth of their savings, and so on. But these technical frameworks don’t entirely absolve us of the weight of the impossible demands of the mitzvah as it is written in the Torah: do not shut your hand. No matter how we justify ourselves, or however much we do actually give, if we reflect on the matter we're often left with an uneasy sense of guilt. And whereas for tzedaka, we might be able to understand the societal advantages of this act, in order to have a well-functioning society and compensate for individual misfortunes, the prohibition of ‘closing the hand’ seems to be focused on the moral integrity of each individual. This is the way it is understood by the 14th-century work called Sefer HaChinukh.

שֶׁלֹּא יְאַמֵּץ אֶת לְבָבוֹ עַל הֶעָנִי – שֶׁלֹּא נִמְנַע הַחֶסֶד וְהַצְּדָקָה מֵאַחֵינוּ בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וְכָל שֶׁכֵּן מִן הַקְּרוֹבִים, בְּדַעְתֵּנוּ חֻלְשַׁת עִנְיָנָם וְיֵשׁ בָּנוּ יְכֹלֶת לְסַעֲדָם, וְעַל זֶה נֶאֱמַר (דברים טו ז) לֹא תְאַמֵּץ אֶת לְבָבְךָ וְלֹא תִקְפֹּץ אֶת יָדְךָ מֵאָחִיךָ הָאֶבְיוֹן, כְּלוֹמַר, אַל תַּשְׁלִיט עָלֶיךָ מִדַּת הַכִּילוּת וְהַנְּבָלָה, אֲבָל הָכֵן לְבָבְךָ עַל כָּל פָּנִים בְּמִדַּת הַנְּדִיבוּת וְהַחֶמְלָה, וְאַל תַּחְשֹׁב שֶׁיִּהְיֶה לְךָ בַּדָּבָר חֶסְרוֹן מָמוֹנְךָ, כִּי בִּגְלַל הַדָּבָר הַהוּא יְבָרֶכְךָ הַשֵּׁם וְיָפֶה לְךָ בִּרְכָתוֹ רֶגַע קָטָן מִכַּמָּה אוֹצָרוֹת שֶׁל זָהָב וָכֶסֶף.

One is not to withhold kindness and charity from our brother Israelites — and all the more so, from our relatives — in our knowing the weakness of their situation and that we have the ability to assist them. And about this is it stated (Deuteronomy 15:7), “you shall not steel your heart, and you shall not close your hand from your brother, the destitute one” — meaning to say, do not have the traits of stinginess and villainy rule over you, but rather prepare your heart in every way towards the trait of generosity and pity. And do not think that there will be a lack in your money because of the thing; “as because of [this] thing, God will bless you” (Deuteronomy 15:10). And His blessing for one small instant is better for you than several storehouses of gold and silver. (§478)

The way I understand this is that there is a virtuous circle that we are commanded to create. A person who is not stingy will not close their hand, and a person who does not close their hand will lose the trait of stinginess.

If ‘closing the hand’ to the needs of the poor is forbidden, the opposite is of course opening the hand, and indeed this is how the mitzvah of tzedaka is phrased in the Torah:

כִּֽי־פָתֹ֧חַ תִּפְתַּ֛ח אֶת־יָדְךָ֖ ל֑וֹ וְהַעֲבֵט֙ תַּעֲבִיטֶ֔נּוּ דֵּ֚י מַחְסֹר֔וֹ אֲשֶׁ֥ר יֶחְסַ֖ר לֽוֹ׃

Rather, you must open your hand and lend him sufficient for whatever he needs. (Deuteronomy 15:8)

Those who are attentive to biblical language will be reminded of another use of this phrase, this time describing God. In Psalm 145, which many of us know as ‘Ashrei’, we read:

עֵֽינֵי־כֹ֭ל אֵלֶ֣יךָ יְשַׂבֵּ֑רוּ וְאַתָּ֤ה נֽוֹתֵן־לָהֶ֖ם אֶת־אׇכְלָ֣ם בְּעִתּֽוֹ׃ פּוֹתֵ֥חַ אֶת־יָדֶ֑ךָ וּמַשְׂבִּ֖יעַ לְכׇל־חַ֣י רָצֽוֹן

The eyes of all aspire to You, and You give them their sustenance in its time. / You open Your hand and You satisfy [the needs of] all living things [with] favor. (Psalm 145:15-16)

Leaving aside the anthropomorphism and questions of what God’s hands look like, we usually understand that we are speaking metaphorically of divine generosity and sustenance. Giving openhandedly is an attitude, not just a physical gesture. It is interesting to read the two texts together, the commandment of opening one’s hand, and the description of God doing the same to us. Thus in being tzedakah-minded people, we are in fact imitating God, or maybe we can understand it as our generous actions lining up with God’s so that there is no difference between the two from the perspective of the receiver. There are other nuances that can be learned in the realm of tzedakah from the descriptions of God in Ashrei. For example, the repetition of the word kol, “all”, throughout the psalm. Kol chai ratzon, You give to all living beings. Tov Adonai Lakol, verchamav al kol maasav, God is good to all, God’s mercy is on all creatures. The giving is total and unconditional, without questions of deserving or reciprocity.

This verse seems to be an important theological statement, and indeed, the Shulchan Aruch (OH 51:7) says that anybody who recited the Ashrei but didn’t have kavannah, intention or focus, while saying the sentence that begins Poteach et Yadecha, “You open Your hand” - such a person must go back and repeat the verse. I imagine that most Jews today are unaware of this law and mumble most of their prayers without thinking too much about the content, but here there is a clear statement that those in the synagogue should wake up for at least two seconds as they are saying or singing this statement. God gives indiscriminately, and we should not fall into the illusion of thinking that what we have in this world depends solely on us.

There is a Sefardi custom of opening one’s hands during the recitation of this verse (Ben Ish Chai, I:Vayigash). In the past, I pondered which direction the hands should be faced: if we are metaphorically describing God’s hands as giving sustenance to the world, and we are in the paradigm in which God is above and the world below, then we should enact this giving by placing the palms face-down. But this is actually not the function of the gesture, rather, the hands are spread out facing upwards to symbolise us receiving whatever we receive in this world, or even to remind and encourage God to keep giving (see Shu’t Torah Lishmah 32, Tzitz Eliezer 12:8).

Both giving and receiving are important actions, two sides of the same flow of giving. Whatever we receive, we eventually give to others in one way or another. Sometimes we are in the position where we need the help of others, and other times we are able to give some of what we temporarily possess - we need not have any shame in asking, nor excessive pride in being able to give (Rama YD 247:3, Ba’al Shem Tov, Re’eh 14). Closing one’s hands is also placing a mental barrier between us and the world in which we exist, while breaking down this barrier, opening our hands and hearts, grounds us firmly in this world.

Shabbat shalom!

Thank you for your patience with the lack of writing recently: I've been on a sort of holiday for the last few weeks. I still read and study though, and those who are signed up to my Whatsapp Channel (click here on your phone to take a look) followed my fairly diverse trains of thought. Let's see where it takes us. Wishing you all a good and profound month of Elul.

It’s always interesting to explore the ambiguous relationship that Jews have with vows (and oaths: in English the two words are often used as synonyms. In the halachic system, a vow, neder, makes an object forbidden to you or dedicated to God; an oath, shevuah, obligates you to do or not do a particular action). The possibility of making such declarations is described here in the parashah, and once someone makes a vow, it becomes a mitzvah for them. It’s a way of adding commandments, or of personalising one’s Torah. This power is sometimes seen as too dangerous. We say bli neder so as not to fall into this trap, we have enough trouble with 613 mitzvot as it is, why add to it? But the powerful possibility inherent in vows still exists, so much so that it seems that the Torah itself is troubled by it. We spoke about a ‘man of his word’, but the majority of this chapter actually deals with a woman of her word: women who make vows that aren’t necessarily in line with what the men in society expect of her. A way out is granted here, a husband or father has a certain amount of power to undo the vow, but even that is limited.

[It’s interesting to note that the rabbinic interpretation of this masculine power is more restricted than the presentation in the Torah itself. According to the Mishnah, a woman can not be stopped when she uses the power of a neder to protect herself from abuse from the husband’s family (M Nedarim 11:4), or when it is made just before nightfall (10:8); a husband cannot preemptively limit future vows of his wife (10:7); nine categories of young women are free to vow (11:10); and in general, the Mishnah limits the husband’s power to nullify nedarim to one case (נדרי עינוי נפש) while another Baraita is quoted to add a second category (בינו לבינה) - neither of which are needed in the biblical system of overarching rights of husbands and fathers to nullify women’s vows. These sources are far from liberal though, and in general uphold and continue the patriarchal system taken for granted in the Torah.]

Are nedarim encouraged, permitted, or discouraged? As you can imagine, this is a debate in the Talmud (Nedarim 9a): Rabbi Yehuda says that it is praiseworthy to make a vow and fulfil it, while Rabbi Meir says that even better is not to make a vow in the first place. There are only a few exceptions to this unease with vows: a promise to donate something to the Temple, and by inference, to the synagogue, is considered a binding obligation that has to be fulfilled (!); in some cases, also, someone who needs the extra framework of a neder to do something that they already want to do, like an alcoholic who is struggling to abstain from wine, is permitted to make a neder. Otherwise, we are encouraged to not complicate life with nedarim, and if one is made, to try and release oneself from them.

Why is the possibility of undoing a neder so important, to the extent that the rabbis invented a mechanism for doing so, almost without any basis in the Torah? Probably because we can sometimes become imprisoned through our words, through our promises and intentions. And so the rabbis created two ways out. It’s not automatic. I was recently at the Masorti Beit Din in Paris where we undid somebody’s vow, and the rabbis used the classic mechanisms to release the person from a promise that they were unable to fulfil. The first thing we verified was the presence of charata, a deep regret for what was uttered in the past, until we were convinced that the person now in front of us would not have made such a vow. Second, we found a petach, a crack in the intentions within original vow, such that had the person been aware of that they would not have made the vow in the first place. We also checked that nobody else was implicated in this vow: a promise to someone else has to be kept, there’s usually no way out of that without that person’s consent. Finally the Beit Din made a ceremonial declaration releasing the person, who walked out of the room lighter, grateful and ready to return to the complexities of real life.

I say all this because there’s a very ancient antisemitic trope that Jews can’t be trusted because of the existence of this mechanism of hatarat nedarim, nullification of vows. In many places in Europe, and until the 19th century in France, Jews were not believed in court unless they took the special demeaning “Jew Oath”, sometimes made to stand on a pig skin or with thorns placed between their legs as they pronounced it. At our Talmud study last week, it was harrowing to see that the same accusations, including this one regarding vows, were brought against the rabbis of Paris in 1240, and are still being shared on social media eight centuries later. Maybe that too is actually a testament to the power of words, to a text that can’t be silenced even by being burned in the city square.

But we can save ourselves from all this complication of making vows, annulling vows, being bound and obligated, just by following the advice of Shammai the Elder : “Say little and do much” (Avot 1:15) . Don’t promise to do something, just do it. [There’s even an opinion in the Jerusalem Talmud that it’s forbidden to speak on Shabbat!]

We’re here this Shabbat, overtly celebrating the bar mitsva of Charles, and pretending not to be in mourning for Eric Aboudi of blessed memory. Eric was a pillar of our community, a man of his word, who exemplified much of what I’ve been saying here: modesty, honesty, a powerful voice, a man of his word. I’ll finish with a verse that can serve as a guide to you Charles, and to everyone here, which describes Eric Aboudi and the way he spoke, and which he sang so gently and beautifully for so many years.

מי האיש החפץ חיים, אוהב ימים לראות טוב

נצור לשונך מרע ושפתיך מדבר מרמה

סור מרע ועשה טוב, בקש שלום ורדפהו.

Who is the man who desires life, who loves his days in this world, to see what is good? [Such a man must] guard his tongue from evil and lips from speaking malice. He avoids evil and does good, seeks peace and pursues it. (Psalm 34:13-15)

Shabbat shalom.

יִפְקֹ֣ד יְ-הֹוָ֔ה אֱ-לֹהֵ֥י הָרוּחֹ֖ת לְכׇל־בָּשָׂ֑ר אִ֖ישׁ עַל־הָעֵדָֽה. אֲשֶׁר־יֵצֵ֣א לִפְנֵיהֶ֗ם וַאֲשֶׁ֤ר יָבֹא֙ לִפְנֵיהֶ֔ם וַאֲשֶׁ֥ר יוֹצִיאֵ֖ם וַאֲשֶׁ֣ר יְבִיאֵ֑ם וְלֹ֤א תִהְיֶה֙ עֲדַ֣ת יְ-הֹוָ֔ה כַּצֹּ֕אן אֲשֶׁ֥ר אֵין־לָהֶ֖ם רֹעֶֽה׃

Let the LORD, the God of the spirits of all flesh, set a man over the congregation, who may go out before them, and who may come in before them, and who may lead them out, and who may bring them in; that the congregation of the LORD be not as sheep which have no shepherd.’ (Numbers 27:16-17)

What does this mean? ‘Ruach’ means something like the spirit or soul, the essence of a person, although you’ll remember that the first sentence in the Torah says that God also has (or is) a ‘ruach’. Here, God is the god of the spirits of all flesh [basar, meat, highlighting the corporal locus of where the spirit dwells]. Why does Moses insist on this title here?

One way of understanding it is that Moses insists that He knows what is internal to each person, even thoughts and secrets which are hidden from other people, and can therefore judge who is the most appropriate to lead the people of Israel. (Rashi, Rashbam) [God is compared to and differentiated from human rulers, who sometimes practice collective punishment that leads to indiscriminate killing of innocent bystanders. A just ruler, a God who knows the spirit of all flesh, distinguishes between innocent and guilty. (Bamidbar Rabbah 18:11)] More than anything, this title means that God sees, and is the source of, the diversity of the human species.

The Jewish tradition has a huge number of blessings, and I personally try to put myself in positions in order to be able to say as many of them as possible. One of the ones I haven’t yet managed to recite is the blessing on seeing 600,000 Jews gathered in one place. It also uses a very peculiar formulation to describe God:

הרואה ששים רבוא מישראל ביחד אומר ברוך אתה ה’ אמ”ה חכם הרזים ואם הם עכו”ם אומר (ירמיה נ’ יב) בושה אמכם חפרה יולדתכם הנה אחרית גוים מדבר ציה וערבה:

One who sees sixty myriads of the people of Israel gathered together says ‘Blessed are You… Knower of Mysteries’ [Shulchan Aruch OH 224:5]

What is it about this particular situation that makes God ‘the Wise One of Mysteries’? The Talmud gives a specific reason:

תָּנוּ רַבָּנַן: הָרוֹאֶה אוּכְלוּסֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל, אוֹמֵר: ״בָּרוּךְ … חֲכַם הָרָזִים״ — שֶׁאֵין דַּעְתָּם דּוֹמָה זֶה לָזֶה, וְאֵין פַּרְצוּפֵיהֶן דּוֹמִים זֶה לָזֶה.

The Sages taught: One who sees multitudes of Israel recites: Blessed…Who knows all secrets. Why is this? He sees a whole nation whose minds are unlike each other and whose faces are unlike each other. (Berachot 58a)

The fact that people have different opinions, think differently, look different, act differently -- all this should knock us over with awe at the idea that we are all nonetheless fundamentally one, created in the image of God. This is the great mystery of which God is the source. We rightly mourn the disunity among the Jewish people, especially now in the three weeks between the 17th of Tamuz and the 9th of Av. But one of the things to be proud of is also the diversity that we represent, and in which one can see a reflection of infinity; if any of these opinions or voices was lacking, God would be less present in this world.

Rav Kook encourages seeking diversity as a spiritual practice, precisely in order to see the world from God’s perspective:

ראוי לאדם להרגיל עצמו בסבלנות לענין תכונות ודיעות הפכיות מתכונותיו ודיעותיו הוא, שיחשב הרי אף שלעיני הפרטיות נראים שאין תועלת בתכונות ההם והדיעות ההם, והם הפכים מתכונה הישרה. אבל לפני חכם הרזים ב”ה גלוי שהכל עולה לתכלית מתאחדת ותיקון כללי.

A person should train himself to be patient with dispositions and opinions that are the opposite of his own. He should reflect that, even if from an individual perspective those dispositions and opinions appear to serve no purpose, and even seem contrary to the upright disposition, before the Knower of secrets, blessed be He, it is revealed that all things contribute to one unified purpose and to the repair of the whole. (Ein Aya, Berachot 9:285)

Rav Kook says that we don’t need to wait for 600,000 people in order to appreciate God as Chacham Harazim, the Knower of Mystery, but by seeking out people different to ourselves we can, in a sense, become the knower of Mysteries ourselves. In one midrashic text, this idea is mentioned in the context of our parasha:

אם ראה אוכלוסין של בני אדם, אומר ברוך חכם הרזים, כשם שאין פרצופותיהן שוין זה לזה, כך אין דעתן שוה, אלא כל אחד ואחד יש לו דעה בפני עצמו... תדע לך שהוא כן, שכן משה מבקש מן הקב”ה בשעת מיתה ואומר לפניו: ריבונו של עולם, גלוי לפניך דעתו של כל אחד ואחד מהם, ואין דעתו של זה דומה לדעתו של זה, ובשעה שאני מסתלק מהם בבקשה ממך אם ביקשת למנות עליהם מנהיג, מנה עליהם אדם שיהא סובל כל אחד ואחד לפי דעתו, מנין? ממה שקראו בענין: “יפקוד ה’ אלהי הרוחות לכל בשר איש על העדה וגו’ “

If he sees crowds of human beings, he says: Blessed is the one who is learned in mysteries. Just as their faces are unlike each other, so are they unlike in temperament. Rather each and every individual has his own individual temperament. You yourself know that it is so, because of what Moses asked from the Holy One at the time of his death, when he said to him: Sovereign of the World, the temperament of each and every person is revealed to you; and the temperament of one person is unlike the temperament of another. Now that I am departing from them, would you please, if you so desire, appoint a leader over them. Appoint over them a person who will bear with each and every one of them according to his temperament. Where is it shown? From what they have read on the matter (in Numb. 27:16): LET THE LORD, THE GOD OF THE SPIRITS OF ALL FLESH, APPOINT SOMEONE OVER THE CONGREGATION. (Tanchuma, Pinchas 1)

If we listen carefully to this midrash, we understand that Moses is asking to be replaced by a leader who is similar to God, in that they could ‘bear’ the infinite differences of opinions among the people. Not agree with everyone, but understand them and find a way to engage with them. This is how we can understand the unique description of the person who is ultimately chosen, which mirrors the description of God just before.

וַיֹּ֨אמֶר יְ--הֹוָ֜ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֗ה קַח־לְךָ֙ אֶת־יְהוֹשֻׁ֣עַ בִּן־נ֔וּן אִ֖ישׁ אֲשֶׁר־ר֣וּחַ בּ֑וֹ וְסָמַכְתָּ֥ אֶת־יָדְךָ֖ עָלָֽיו׃

And the LORD said unto Moses: ‘Take thee Joshua the son of Nun, a man in whom is spirit, and lay thy hand upon him’ (Numbers 27:18)

This ‘man of spirit’ is the reflection of the ‘God of spirits of all flesh’, and in the same way is able to support the complexity of humanity rather than limit it. Rashi says that Joshua is called here a man of spirit, because he can adapt himself to the spirit within each person he encounters (שֶׁיּוּכַל לַהֲלֹךְ כְּנֶגֶד רוּחוֹ שֶׁל כָּל אֶחָד וְאֶחָד). Sometimes we think poorly of someone who acts differently with different people, as if they are dishonest. There is that possibility too. But it can also come from seeing the value inherent in each and every person, appreciating the variety and difference within the community, listening to their needs and fears and thoughts and dreams, and seeing them as created in the divine image. May we merit such friends and such leaders.

Shabbat shalom.

This makes it all the more surprising to read the descriptions of him in rabbinic literature, where he is almost always referred to as בלעם הרשע, ‘the evil Bilaam’. He is accused of the most fantastic things. One story in the Talmud hints that he not only spoke with his donkey but married her too (Avoda Zara 4b). Another famous text (Gittin 57a) describes how he is brought back from the dead and describes his eternal punishment in the next world, drowning in boiling semen or something like that. For those who are following my recent obsession with the trial and subsequent public burning of the Talmud in Paris, these exact texts were quoted at the famous disputation of 1240, to show how the Jews had violent feelings towards non-Jews and blasphemed Jesus [who is mentioned just afterwards with a similar punishment]. To punish these attitudes, Saint Louis and the church, who apparently embodied Christian mercy and knew how to turn the other cheek, confiscated the Talmud, had it publicly burned and attacked the Jews.

But one doesn't need to instinctively defend the Talmud here, at least not without reflection, and we're justified in asking the same question as the church might have asked: what did Bilaam do wrong that you portray him in such a perverse way? I compared Bilaam before to Jonah, and spoke of his compliance. Maybe Jonah is actually a better model for us, thinking for himself and arguing with God. True, they both learn that God knows what's best, but there's something a bit troubling about Bilaam's passivity. He is asked to go out and try to destroy the people of Israel through supernatural means. The request itself doesn't bother him, he has no moral qualms, his reply is basically that there's a technical problem: “I can utter only the word that God puts into my mouth”. He would destroy the Jews if he could, it just depends on his ammunition functioning properly. If he has succeeded, he would have simply claimed to have followed orders. This false innocence, I think, is crucial to understanding where the rabbis’ suspicion is coming from.

In many texts, Moses and Bilaam are juxtaposed, presented as similar but different, almost mirror images of each other. In the last chapter of the Torah, we read a eulogy of Moses:

וְלֹא־קָ֨ם נָבִ֥יא ע֛וֹד בְּיִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל כְּמֹשֶׁ֑ה אֲשֶׁר֙ יְדָע֣וֹ יְ.הֹוָ֔ה פָּנִ֖ים אֶל־פָּנִֽים׃

Never again did there arise in Israel a prophet like Moses—whom GOD singled out, face to face (Deuteronomy 34.10)

The midrash (Bamidbar Rabba 14:20) picks up on the specific language here and says

בְּיִשְׂרָאֵל לֹא קָם אֲבָל בְּאֻמּוֹת הָעוֹלָם קָם, כְּדֵי שֶׁלֹא יְהֵא פִּתְחוֹן פֶּה לְאֻמּוֹת הָעוֹלָם לוֹמַר אִלּוּ הָיָה לָנוּ נָבִיא כְּמשֶׁה הָיִינוּ עוֹבְדִים לְהַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא. וְאֵיזֶה נָבִיא הָיָה לָהֶם כְּמשֶׁה זֶה בִּלְעָם בֶּן בְּעוֹר

“There has not arisen another prophet in Israel like Moses” (Deuteronomy 34:10) – among Israel one has not arisen, but among the nations of the world he has arisen, so that there will not be recourse for the nations of the world to say: Had we had a prophet like Moses, we would have worshipped the Holy One blessed be He. What prophet did they have like Moses? This was Bilam son of Beor.

The midrash continues by comparing the two of them in different ways that they used their relationship to God and their prophetic powers, and continues with a more general comparison between prophets of Israel and Bilaam.

וְלֹא עוֹד אֶלָּא שֶׁכָּל הַנְּבִיאִים הָיוּ בְּמִדַּת רַחֲמִים עַל יִשְׂרָאֵל וְעַל עוֹבְדֵי כּוֹכָבִים, שֶׁכֵּן יִרְמְיָה אוֹמֵר (ירמיה מח, לו): לִבִּי לְמוֹאָב כַּחֲלִלִים יֶהֱמֶה, וְכֵן יְחֶזְקֵאל (יחזקאל כז, ב): בֶן אָדָם שָׂא עַל צֹר קִינָה, וְזֶה אַכְזָרִי עָמַד לַעֲקֹר אֻמָּה שְׁלֵמָה חִנָּם עַל לֹא דָּבָר. לְכָךְ נִכְתְּבָה פָּרָשַׁת בִּלְעָם לְהוֹדִיעַ לָמָּה סִלֵּק הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא רוּחַ הַקֹּדֶשׁ מֵעוֹבְדֵי כּוֹכָבִים, שֶׁזֶּה עָמַד מֵהֶם וּרְאֵה מֶה עָשָׂה.

Moreover, all the [Jewish] prophets were with the attribute of mercy both toward Israel and toward the idolaters, as Jeremiah says: “Therefore, my heart will sigh like flutes for Moav” (Jeremiah 48:36). And likewise Ezekiel: “You, son of man, raise a lament for Tyre” (Ezekiel 27:2). But that one [Bilam] was cruel; he stood to uproot an entire nation gratuitously. That is why the story of Bilam was written in the Torah; to inform why the Holy One blessed be He removed the Divine Spirit from the idolaters, as this one stood from them, and look at what he did. (Bamidbar Rabba 20:1)

At first glance, this seems to be a comfortable text for us Jews, showing how much we're greater than the cruel pagans. On a deeper level, however, it shows that the difference between Moses and Bilaam was in their actions and attitudes, but not in anything essential. In other words, Moses could have been Bilaam had he acted differently, and vice versa. Without universal compassion, there is no particular value in what the Jews have to say.

The Baal Shem Tov said that Moses and Bilaam shared the same soul (Notzer Chesed, Avot 6). I don't know exactly what that means, but another story is brought in the name of the Baal Shem Tov that might illuminate this idea.

שמעתי אומרים דאיתא בספרים מעשה, מלך אחד שמע מכל אשר עשה משה איש האלהים נפלאות ותעצומות, והמלך הזה היה מכיר בצורת הפרצוף, והסכים בדעתו ושלח צייר אומן המדברה אל משה לצייר דמות תבניתו, ויהי כאשר בא אל המלך, ויפן כה וכה וירא כי אין איש בעולם רע מהתואר צורת הפרצוף הזה, שהיה מראה סימני מדות רעות ומגונות, להיות נואף ורוצח וכל מדות רעות שבעולם, ויצו המלך להרוג את הצייר הזה, באמרו שמעל בשליחות המלך, ויקח המלך בדברים את הצייר השני ויאמר לו כזה וכזה, ויהי כאשר בא הצייר השני אל משה וירא את תואר פניו, והנה הוא כתבנית אשר הביא אתו הצייר הראשון, ותסמר שערות בשרו באמרו כי למיתה ילך גם הוא בבואו אל המלך, וערב את לבו ויגש אל משה ויאמר לו כך וכך, והנה בקשתי שתאמר לי מדוע פניך רעים, ואתה אינך דומה לשום בן אדם אשר על פני האדמה, ויען משה רבינו עליו השלום ויאמר, אתה בן אדם קרוץ מחומר אשר טח עיניך מראות, ולבך צפנת משכל, הטוב טוב יאמר למי אשר פניו מורים ומוכיחים להיותו טוב, הלא זה הוא כבר מה שלפי טבעו הוא טוב. וזה הדבר הטוב מי אשר פניו רעים עד מאוד, והוא גובר על החומריות ומהפכו לטוב, זה הוא בעצם אשר לו משפט הטוב לקרוא לו טוב, כי הוא על ידי בחירתו טוב כו' עכ"ל

A certain king heard of all the wonders and mighty deeds performed by Moses, the man of God. This king was skilled in the science of physiognomy—the art of discerning a person's character from the features of the face. Wishing to know more, he sent a master artist into the wilderness to Moses, instructing him to paint an exact likeness of his appearance.

When the artist returned and presented the portrait to the king, the king examined it carefully. To his astonishment, he perceived in that face every sign of the most corrupt and reprehensible traits imaginable. According to the indications of the countenance, the man portrayed appeared fit to be an adulterer, a murderer, and possessed of every evil disposition in the world. Enraged, the king ordered the artist put to death, accusing him of betraying his royal commission… (Or Penei Mosheh; this story probably began as a legend about Socrates, before appearing in Latin, Arabic and finally Jewish sources)

The story continues with the king sending a second artist, who paints the same portrait and reveals that Moses’ greatness is that he was naturally inclined to all these evil characteristics, but fought hard to overcome them. Again, the differences between good and bad, us and them, Moses and Bilaam, are more fragile than some would like to think. Moses has to work hard to become Moses, just as we need constant effort and reflection in order to live up to who we are meant to be .

Shabbat shalom!

וַיְדַבֵּ֥ר יְ-הֹוָ֖ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֥ה לֵּאמֹֽר׃ שְׁלַח־לְךָ֣ אֲנָשִׁ֗ים וְיָתֻ֙רוּ֙ אֶת־אֶ֣רֶץ כְּנַ֔עַן אֲשֶׁר־אֲנִ֥י נֹתֵ֖ן לִבְנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל אִ֣ישׁ אֶחָד֩ אִ֨ישׁ אֶחָ֜ד לְמַטֵּ֤ה אֲבֹתָיו֙ תִּשְׁלָ֔חוּ כֹּ֖ל נָשִׂ֥יא בָהֶֽם׃ וַיִּשְׁלַ֨ח אֹתָ֥ם מֹשֶׁ֛ה מִמִּדְבַּ֥ר פָּארָ֖ן עַל־פִּ֣י יְ-הֹוָ֑ה כֻּלָּ֣ם אֲנָשִׁ֔ים רָאשֵׁ֥י בְנֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל הֵֽמָּה׃

GOD spoke to Moses, saying, “Send agents to scout the land of Canaan, which I am giving to the Israelite people; send someone from each of their ancestral tribes, each one a chieftain among them.” So Moses, by GOD’s command, sent them out from the wilderness of Paran—all of them being men of consequence, leaders of the Israelites.

And if we look at all of Rashi’s comments, all of which he takes from various sources in the Jewish tradition, he paints a very confusing picture! Straight after he says that “Shelach lecha” means ‘send spies if you want’, which isn’t the meaning of Lecha anywhere else in the Torah, he quotes God as saying to Moses “I told them the land was good, and they didn’t believe me… I swear, I’m going to make them stumble on account of these spies.” So Moses knows right from the very beginning that it’s going to end badly.

Then when the twelve people are designated, the Torah writes kulam anashim, they were all men. What does that mean? Rashi writes here: לְשׁוֹן חֲשִׁיבוּת, וְאוֹתָהּ שָׁעָה כְּשֵׁרִים הָיו - they were important men, and at that moment they were righteous people! So good people were chosen to ultimately fail.

Among the twelve people chosen was a man named Hoshea, whose name was changed by Moses to Yehoshua, (or Josh, as I like to call him). Why this change of name? Rashi says that it was a prayer of protection. הִתְפַּלֵּל עָלָיו יָ-הּ יוֹשִׁיעֲךָ מֵעֲצַת מְרַגְּלִים “May God save you from the plot of the [other] spies”. So he prays for Joshua - why doesn’t he pray for the others? How does Caleb come out ok without this protectory prayer?

With all this confusion, the spies went and brought back their report, alongside their unnecessary pessimistic interpretation of the reality that they saw. But there’s a way of understanding what was behind their rejection of the land of Israel. [I follow here the ideas of Rav Raz Hartman.] In the desert, they had continual intimacy with God. They were fed manna, they had a well providing them with water, the pillar of cloud by day and the fire by night guided them constantly, there was basically nothing to do all day long. Entering the land meant taking on a messy reality. They would have had to work the fields, rely on rainfall, create political systems to govern themselves, social systems to deal with the sick and poor, justice systems to deal with criminals, armies to provide security without resorting to unchecked cruelty. Jewish history has shown us that we’ve rarely been able to live up to these lofty challenges, although we have never rejected them as ideals and they continue to guide our aspirations. The spies, in a way, were reluctant to grow up: like Peter Pan, they wanted to remain in the protected space of childlike intimacy that they had found in the desert.

With that in mind, we can understand the otherwise bizarre set of five different laws that come at the end of the parasha, that deal with wine oblations that accompany sacrifices in the Temple, the separation of challah, the sacrifice brought when an entire community accidentally worships idols (!), the short episode of a man who gathered sticks on Shabbat, and the laws of attaching tzitzit to garments. What is the connection with what just happened? One clue is the introduction to the first of these laws:

וַיְדַבֵּ֥ר יְ-הֹוָ֖ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֥ה לֵּאמֹֽר׃ דַּבֵּר֙ אֶל־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל וְאָמַרְתָּ֖ אֲלֵהֶ֑ם כִּ֣י תָבֹ֗אוּ אֶל־אֶ֙רֶץ֙ מוֹשְׁבֹ֣תֵיכֶ֔ם אֲשֶׁ֥ר אֲנִ֖י נֹתֵ֥ן לָכֶֽם׃

GOD spoke to Moses, saying: Speak to the Israelite people and say to them: When you enter the land that I am giving you to dwell in… (Numbers 15:1-2)

The rest of the details don’t matter here: what is important is that there is a definitive message concerning the next step. The days in the desert, their childhood as a nation, was going to end. It wouldn’t be the adults of the generation that left Egypt who would enter the land and take on the responsibility of building up a society, but as a people, this was the future that they would take on, whether they liked it or not.

It’s interesting to note that at this point in the parasha, we have, for the first time, a group of people who actually want to enter the land of Israel. Like reverse psychology, as soon as they were told that they wouldn’t enter, they wanted to go there! They don’t succeed, of course, it’s too early, but this episode points to another movement that exists within us: we sometimes want to go ahead, ‘grow up’ and arrive at our goals before we’re ready. The parasha tells us that that’s not desirable either. In the words of the Song of Songs,

הִשְׁבַּ֨עְתִּי אֶתְכֶ֜ם בְּנ֤וֹת יְרוּשָׁלַ֙͏ִם֙ בִּצְבָא֔וֹת א֖וֹ בְּאַיְל֣וֹת הַשָּׂדֶ֑ה אִם־תָּעִ֧ירוּ ׀ וְֽאִם־תְּע֥וֹרְר֛וּ אֶת־הָאַהֲבָ֖ה עַ֥ד שֶׁתֶּחְפָּֽץ

I adjure you, O maidens of Jerusalem, by gazelles or by hinds of the field: Do not wake or rouse love until it please! (Song of Songs 2:7)

Like any relationship, like any process of growth and maturation, some things can neither be hastened nor rejected. Maybe there too we have questions of our free will. Yet even if part or all of our life seems predetermined, that doesn’t absolve us of the difficult responsibility to do our best within the parameters which we are given.

Shabbat shalom.

I don’t know why football fans celebrate their team’s victory by rioting and setting things on fire, but at the very least it inspired me to reread the opening verses of our parashah, Behaalotekha, where fire plays a calmer but crucial role. The parasha opens with a few brief verses that instruct Aaron to light the candles of the Menorah. It seems superfluous, not only because all of these instructions were already given to Moses in the past, but because the verse seems to describe a tautology: when you light the candles the candles will give light.

דַּבֵּר֙ אֶֽל־אַהֲרֹ֔ן וְאָמַרְתָּ֖ אֵלָ֑יו בְּהַעֲלֹֽתְךָ֙ אֶת־הַנֵּרֹ֔ת אֶל־מוּל֙ פְּנֵ֣י הַמְּנוֹרָ֔ה יָאִ֖ירוּ שִׁבְעַ֥ת הַנֵּרֽוֹת׃

Speak to Aaron and say to him, “When you mount the lamps, let the seven lamps give light at the front of the lampstand.” (Numbers 8,2)

Yet the details that surround this simple act of lighting make it more dramatic than it first seems.

First, there was the mitzvah known as ‘hatavat ha-nerot’, the beautifying of the candles. [I say candles here because that’s become current in our speech, due to our image from Hanukkah maybe -- of course, it’s oil lamps and wicks that are lit]. In the Temple, every morning a lottery would be performed to see which priest would prepare the Menorah. The one who ‘won’ would come and clean the burned oil and the ashes from five of the candles, replace the oil and the wicks to allow the flame to continue burning. Then they would go away and return to ‘beautify’ the remaining two candles.This slow process of lighting five and then lighting two was done, according to Maimonides (MT Temidim 3:16), כדי להרגיש את כל העזרה, ‘in order to arouse emotions’, maybe awe and respect, maybe curiosity, maybe wonder.

As an aside, many people apply this to lighting Shabbat candles too. Even if I’m not lighting the candles myself, I try to take a few minutes for ‘hatavat ha-nerot’ to melt the candles in their place, rub off the old wax, light the wicks and blow them out so that they will light faster when Shabbat comes in. The seemingly menial task of cleaning and preparing is a mitzvah in itself, not just a necessary step to get to the goal. This probably applies to other areas of life too: for example, we study because it’s good to learn, not only in order to know anything. We strike up conversations with new people, not necessarily in order to achieve anything from that relationship, but because it’s right for people to connect.

There is a debate whether the ‘beautification’ of the candles includes rekindling them, or whether that is a separate task. In any case, the verb used here, which gives the name to the parasha, is ‘lehaalot’, to raise up the flame. Rashi gives two explanations here: first, that perhaps there was a step in front of the Menorah, one would thus ascend in order to rekindle the flame. He also says that enough time should be taken in lighting עד שתהא שלהבת עולה מאליה, until the flame rises up by itself. This idea is reflected in many of our interactions, especially in terms of transmission and inspiration. It’s not enough for a teacher, for example, to briefly give over an idea or a skill: the teacher’s ‘fire’ needs to come close and be received by the student, slowly and flickering at first, until the new flame rises up by itself, sustained by its own fuel. Transferring a flame is not like giving money or other gifts, the giver loses nothing by giving more light. But it has to be done properly, slowly, with care, and with great responsibility. The relative ease of transferring fire is also what makes it so dangerous: giving a false impression, a bad idea, the wrong message, all these can also be received quickly and continue to burn on their own. Thus perhaps the importance of the ceremony and preparation in the lighting of these flames.

Since we are talking about the transfer of flames, how were they lit? Six of the candles were lit from the one known as Ner Hama’aravi, the western candle. There’s some debate about which one it was, but for now let’s assume it was the central one, with three on each side facing it. How was the Ner Hama’aravi itself lit? There, fire was brought each day from the altar in order to light it. But where did that fire come from? When the Torah describes the end of the inauguration of the Mishkan (Leviticus 9:24), fire descends from heaven to consume the inaugural sacrifice on the altar. According to the rabbinic tradition, that fire remained lit throughout the time in the desert (cf. Rashi on Numbers 4:13) and throughout the first Temple (Zevachim 61b). Nonetheless, the Talmud reports a surprising instruction:

דְּתַנְיָא: ״וְנָתְנוּ בְּנֵי אַהֲרֹן הַכֹּהֵן אֵשׁ עַל הַמִּזְבֵּחַ״, אַף עַל פִּי שֶׁאֵשׁ יוֹרֶדֶת מִן הַשָּׁמַיִם, מִצְוָה לְהָבִיא מִן הַהֶדְיוֹט.

“And the sons of Aaron the priest shall put fire upon the altar” (Leviticus 1:7), - even though fire descends from the heavens, still there is a special mitzva to bring fire by a person. (Yoma 21b, MT Temidim 2:1)

The miraculous fire from heaven wasn’t enough, there had to be a human element involved. Some explain (Sefer Ha-Chinuch 132) that this was in order to conceal the miracle - in this explanation, the heavenly fire descended daily, but since the nature of our world is that miracles happen all the time but always seem to be natural, that was the way it took place in the Temple too. But it seems to me to be more than that: human participation is also part of the divine plan. God doesn’t need God’s fire, God also doesn’t need human fire, but people need to be active in responding to what God asks of us, in the realm of ritual, as well as in every part of our lives. We don’t just wait for the right thing to happen, to strike like lightning, although it sometimes does - it’s up to us to participate and make the right thing happen. It is this fire, a mix of the divine and of the human, that was brought to the Menorah and lit all the candles.

There is other fire in this parashah as well -- the cloud of fire that rests over the people of Israel at night on their journey through the desert, as well as the fire that lashes out at the rebels in Kivrot Hate’ava. Whether fire acts as a symbol of creation, relation, illumination, worship, presence, protection or destruction, it’s clear that it is powerful and thus requires reflection and attention. May we merit to bring and receive only light,

Shabbat shalom.