Mikeitz: What Dreams May Be

In a lot of good literature, ancient and modern, there is a moment of ultimate accountability. Some call it karma, retribution, just desserts, or even - oddly enough - a “come to Jesus” moment. One way or another, things come full circle. The Bible loves this type of literary device. To be sure, it is a major feature in this week’s reading. My question, therefore, isn’t so much about IF it happens (it does), but rather: when does the actual MOMENT of comeuppance occur? In our particular story, Joseph is living in Egypt and the seven years of plenty have - as predicted - been followed by seven years of Covid... sorry, I meant to say “famine.” Joseph’s family, back in Canaan, have of course been afflicted by the scarcity as well, and Jacob ultimately sends ten of his remaining eleven sons to procure food from Egypt. And I cannot help but wonder - when exactly does it hit the brothers that the decades-old prophecies have come true?

You see, years earlier, when the brothers were forced to deal with their maddeningly bratty younger sibling, who just pranced around in his multi-colored coat and tattled on them to daddy, something TRULY sent them over the edge. Joseph, that little runt, had the insufferable chutzpah to tell them that he dreamt that eleven sheaves of wheat would bow down to him, and soon after, that eleven stars AND the sun and moon would also be prostrating before him. “It isn’t bad enough that you’re a spoiled brat, the favored child, and oblivious to the pain you’re causing the rest of us... now you think you’re one day going to be our KING?!?!?” They can’t take it anymore; they throw him in a pit, and soon after sell him as a slave to nomadic merchants passing by. But that was long ago. Ancient history. In our parashah, that little punk is no more, and instead the brothers are facing Tzafenat Paneach, the grand vizier of Egypt, second-in-command to Pharaoh! And they have NO CLUE that the two are one and the same.

Joseph realizes it first. Not only because he recognizes them, even when they do not know him, but the Torah wants to link this moment back to those prophecies from way back when: “For though Joseph recognized his brothers, they did not recognize him. Recalling the dreams that he had dreamt about them, Joseph said to them, ‘You are spies! You have come to see the land and it’s vulnerabilities!!” (Gen. 42:8-9) Deep down, Joseph is stunned and awed at this moment; here they are, bowing, begging, and groveling before him. Who would have ever thought?? However, just a few verses later, the Torah does something really interesting. As this powerful Egyptian lord keeps pressing them and bullying them, they recall - unprompted - what they did to Joseph! They have absolutely no idea that their long-lost, enslaved brother is standing in front of them, more powerful than any of them could EVER have imagined. Yet they turn to one another and say: “Alas, we are being punished because of our brother. We looked on at his anguish, yet paid no heed as he pleaded with us. That is why this distress has come upon us.” (v. 21) I guess that (festering...) pain wasn’t hidden too deep under the surface, was it?

But the brothers won’t actually have their “come to Jesus (Joseph?)” moment for a few more chapters. Joseph will keep them squirming for a while. When he finally reveals himself, however, I wonder how quickly the light bulbs went off over each of their heads? Or oil lamps, I suppose, if we’re being period-appropriate. That sinking realization that the eleven of us look an awful lot like bowing sheaves of wheat right now... And the point, I suppose, of all this is that we are meant to examine and reexamine ourselves as well. What we do, and say, and convey; it matters! Karma can indeed boomerang around and come flying back at us! When we put goodness and kindness into the world, it may return to us at the most unexpected - yet greatly appreciated - moments. And hurtful, vindictive things not only leave a mark on others, but may plague us too... for decades! As we prepare to launch into a new year, we can indeed begin with a clean slate. But that doesn’t erase the past, or heal wounds that were never addressed. It just means we have a new opportunity to grow, mend, feel, and learn for the future. Don’t let that precious chance go to waste.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Willis Lam on Wikimedia Commons
2. Rolfmueller on Wikimedia Commons
3. Nick Youngson on Alpha Stock Images
4. Pixabay.com

Va-Yeishev (pre-Chanukah): Waiting For A Special "Elixir" to Arrive

Chanukah is a good example of an evolving holiday. It's probably about 2,200 years old, and when it was first "dedicated" on our calendar (the word "Chanukah" means "dedication"), it surely must have seemed like a new-fangled kind of thing. Some people were on board with adding a celebration, others curmudgeonly said everything was better in the old days when no new holidays were added by anyone EVER! Over the centuries, Chanukah has been viewed as a symbol of Jewish military might and perseverance; as a lead-in to discussions of assimilation vs. ghettoization; a sign of God's protective power to make the oil last; a joyous day to exchange gelt (real coins or chocolate) and eat fried foods; a worthy competitor to Christmas in preventing little Jewish children from pining endlessly in December; a cautionary tale about zealotry; and an opportunity for interfaith connections, as groups join together to celebrate Chanukah, Kwanzaa, Christmas, Diwali, and more. Did I miss anything?

Oh, yes, I want to add one more: Chanukah, in more recent times, has also become a favorite holiday for environmental groups and Jewish climate change activists. Why? Because one of the central "miracles" of Chanukah reminds us that we all can make do with less. We "thought" we needed x amount of olive oil, and simply could NOT perform the rituals without it. Yet somehow, magically (or perhaps just more sparingly...) we figured it out. Is this not a central lesson as we head into 2021, and our country - please God - refocuses on our obligations to our earth? Chanukah invites us to reframe how we define "need." Rather than indulge in eight days of presents, and allowing ourselves and our children to satiate our cravings for more and more STUFF; maybe discussing the rationing of oil can lead to new thinking around what is sufficient, how to be content, and how to share with others and with our planet?

I actually want to add yet ANOTHER new perspective as well, a new and vital teaching that we can glean from our Festival of Lights. Right now, in the lead-up to Chanukah, all the nations on the planet are preparing for the release of a much-needed, much-anticipated vaccine against the Coronavirus. But we cannot all get it at once. This precious commodity won't immediately be ready to “brighten” all our lives. We have to make do. We have to make strategic, difficult choices about how to keep our society going, even as we desperately wait for more of this "elixir" to be produced. The parallels to the pure oil needed to rededicate the Ancient Temple are actually quite striking. All of what I said above could apply to the Chanukah story OR our current pre-vaccine predicament.

More than even the holidays of Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Pesach, Sukkot, or Purim, Chanukah teaches us about communal obligation. When we band together, we can defeat entire armies. But not only that, we can also figure out how to share our resources in a more well-thought-out manner that benefits everyone. Whether it’s olive oil, presents, gelt, the diminishing resources of our planet, or a miraculous vaccine that can put an end to this pandemic nightmare. Chanukah reminds us that we can, and must, *dedicate* and *rededicate* ourselves to one another, and to our shared benefits. When we do, we can make the most miraculous things occur.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. ModernTribe.com
2. Christmashat on Freeimageslive
3. Stevepb on pixabay
4. KateNovikova on depositphotos

L’Chaim (Newsletter) Article, December, 2020: There Must Be 50 Ways to Give Tzedakah

 From the Rabbi’s Virtual Desk - There Must Be 50 Ways to Give Tzedakah.

You can give a dollar bill, Jill. Or use a credit card, Bernard. Click on a website, Dwight. Send a check in the mail, Gail. 

Ok, I think you get my point. We all know it is important to give tzedakah. But how much do we know about the challenges and barriers to RECEIVING it? Our Biblical and medieval ancestors all spoke about the inherent tensions in dealing with charitable behavior, and I think now is as good a time as any to review some basic principles. 

The Rambam (A.k.a. Moses Maimonides, 12th Century Spain & Egypt) actually wrote out a hierarchy of giving. At the lower end, it begins with giving begrudgingly in a public setting, which is NOT great… but still counts as tzedakah. Then the Rambam identifies a whole series of categories that factor in embarrassment. If the giver and the recipient know one another, that’s ok, but it CAN create embarrassment and shame. If the giver knows, but not the receiver, or vice versa, or neither, these are various levels of giving, according to the Rambam. And at the top of his list is teaching another a trade, or in some other way empowering others to assist themselves. 

This all seems theoretical, or just a nice set of guidelines to keep in mind. But right now, there is more than enough hardship and economic insecurity to go around. Many people may be on the receiving end of kindness, who never expected to find themselves there. A lot of individuals and families struggle with the shame, stigma, and self-reproach that may come with financial woes. I understand these concerns. The emotions are real… but so are the repercussions of a VERY scary economic downturn.

Please remember that Ohev Shalom is here for you, for us all. We have funds and resources that we are able - and honored - to distribute; without judgment or guilt. I know it can be challenging to ask for help, and sometimes we literally do not know how to do so. I am writing this message, right now, to tell you that ALL the stages along Rambam’s ladder of tzedakah matter. You don’t need to evaluate whether someone else’s potential need may or may not be greater than yours. Please reach out if you need help. Or if you know someone else who might, we want to know that as well. 

I cannot instruct or command you NOT to feel shame. It’s an awkward topic, plain and simple. The needs, however, are real, and so is the pain. If there are 50+ ways to GIVE tzedakah, there are surely 50 - or more - ways to receive it. All are legitimate, all are welcome, and all those needs are seen. No need to be coy, boy (or girl).

Sincerely,

Rabbi Gerber

Va-Yeitzei: Sometimes, a Mandrake is not a Mandrake...

You know that feeling, when you can cut the tension in the room with a knife? It could be for lots of different reasons - sadness, anger, desire, awkwardness - but somehow you’ve found yourself in a room with two, or more, people (you might be one of them) are experiencing a strong, uncomfortable emotion, usually yielding silence... and now no one knows what to do or say next. The tension creates a stifling energy that is palpable, thick, heavy. We’ve all been there (not infrequently in the context of Thanksgiving...). Part of the challenge of that moment is, almost nothing can ease that tension. If you try and change the subject, the tension will likely just follow your smooth transition, and even a conversation about the weather, the Eagles, or food risks dialing the awkward back up to 11. We see a fascinating example of this in our Torah portion, where the tension in question both comes to a sharp climax... and is actually not resolved at all. 

It begins with some mandrakes. Oh, sure, you’re thinking. Of course! Doesn’t drama seem to always begin with some mandrakes??? (*Awkward Silence*) Yeah, I didn’t really know what they were either. Basically, it’s a plant, with pretty flowers and roots that look like the human form when pulled out of the ground. For our purposes, it’s worth knowing that in the ancient world they were considered very potent herbs, either to stimulate conception and/or as an aphrodisiac. In our story, Jacob’s oldest son, Reuben, while still a boy, finds some mandrakes growing out in the field, and he brings them back to his mother, Leah. Innocent enough, right? But the underlying tension is that Leah has given Jacob six (!!) sons already, but Jacob still loves his OTHER wife, Rachel, who has not been able to conceive. Because of this, Rachel is VERY interested in those mandrakes... but Leah might be reticent to share them with her sister... who is also her rival!

When Rachel asks Leah for some of the mandrakes, the pressure instantly boils over! Leah snaps: “Was it not enough for you to take away my husband, that you would also take my son’s mandrakes?!?” (Gen. 30:15) The story moves on from this moment, obviously, but I wanted to stay in this discomfort for another minute, because I think many of us can TOTALLY relate to both Leah and Rachel in this predicament. One of them is feeling, “ENOUGH already!! You take, and take, and take!” The other might be feeling, “Sheesh. I just asked her for some flowers...” In many of our lives, we bicker, nitpick, squabble, and spar over the silliest of things: “He never puts the cap back on the tube!” “She hums incessantly!” “They always get into the dumbest arguments about the garden!” Sound familiar, right? Especially around the holiday season, this whole blog post might be hitting a nerve... or perhaps several dozen of them!

Ultimately, what I want to suggest to you all is, the squabbling is NOT easier. We tell ourselves over and over again, “It isn’t worth it.” I’m not going to zero in on the *real* issue, so we’ll just go on arguing about the dishes, the remote, or laundry. And I think this kind of tension is actually VERY damaging to the psyche over time. We learn to live with it, so it doesn’t cut as deep every time, but would it really be SO much worse to just talk about “the thing” itself? The elephant in the room? Maybe it seems like THAT conversation would be much, much worse... but is this languishing and bickering really SO much better? It’s the same amount of pain, just inflicted in tiny pricks over decades... and I’m pretty sure that would be considered a form of torture in some cultures! So my challenge to us all is, what would happen if you didn’t make it all about the mandrakes? What if you, and I, and everyone acknowledged when a mandrake isn’t really a mandrake, and we’re yelling at each other over an older grievance that was *never* resolved? And now it’s festering like an old wound. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of wrangling over silly things. It’s just a weed, people. What do you REALLY want to talk about?

CC images in this blogpost, courtesy of:
1. pixabay
2. Wikimedia Commons (via Wellcome Images)
3. pixabay
4. Durova on Wikimedia Commons 

Tol’dot: When You Get to be MY Age...

Context is very important. Sometimes it enhances our understanding, other times it broadens it, and occasionally it can even turn things completely on their head. I especially find context to be fascinating when we may be inclined to accept someone’s narrative, just because that is what they SAY (as loudly as they can possibly say it!). If we add history, community, geography, or any number of relevant facts, the picture may shift dramatically. Our parashah this week contains several well-known Biblical stories, but there are some underlying assumptions that cloud our reading of them. Let’s see what happens when we add context...

Essentially, our Torah portion focuses on Isaac, his wife, Rebecca, and their two sons, Esau and Jacob. The part we’ll be reading this weekend comes from the middle of the story, where Isaac attempts to give Esau, his favored son, a very special “innermost blessing” (Gen. 27:4) before he dies. Rebecca orchestrates a nifty plan to make sure HER favored son, Jacob, gets that blessing instead. It’s a story filled with high drama, twists and turns, and juicy intrigue. And it also holds a sense of urgency, because Isaac declares, “I am old, and I do not know how soon I will die” (v. 2). With the patriarch at death’s door, on his deathbed, with death waiting just around the corner, one son MUST get this blessing... before it’s too late!

So, here’s the funny thing about context. A quick summary of what happens next: Jacob successfully pilfers the blessing; but he has to flee for his life from his enraged sibling; he lives with his uncle for twenty years; has 13 children; then FINALLY returns home after quite the odyssey. And who is there to greet him when he returns? His father, Isaac! A full EIGHT chapters after our dramatic story, Gen. 35:27 tells us: “Jacob came to his father, Isaac, at Mamre.” And only soon after that does Isaac actually pass. Soooo, this little nugget of information kind of changes how we view our original story, where Isaac was an awful lot more spry than he let on... Maybe he was already a senior citizen, sure, but immanently dying might have been a SLIGHT exaggeration.

My point in sharing this insight with you is really to say this: Age truly is just a number. I know people in their 90s - even 100 years old! - who adjusted to life on zoom, and who let NOTHING stop them. And I know considerably younger people who, let’s face it, incessantly talk about how old, feeble, and ancient they are. Of course, life experience has a lot to do with this, as does illness, community, family, and many other factors. But the actual NUMBER of times you’ve circled the sun is just that; a digit. This story is a good reminder to us all to make the most of each day. Sometimes you feel sluggish, laden with trouble, and even depressed, and that TOO is part of life! Nevertheless, we should all strive to counterbalance those moments with joy, wonder, and experiences that challenge us to use our brains in new ways. Your story isn’t actually ever written by anyone else. You write it, every day, and you decide what those who come after will learn from your life. Happy writing!

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:

1. needpix.com

2. pixabay

3. pixabay

4. ESO/H. Zodet on Wikimedia Commons

Chayei Sarah (repost): My Name is Not Eliezer

Around the synagogue, you'll sometimes hear me say, "Why ruin a perfectly good question... by trying to answer it." I use that a lot in my Bible class, it makes its way into sermons and discussions on Shabbat, and surprisingly, I find myself saying it in other contexts as well. So what does it mean? Well, pretty

much exactly what it sounds like. To me, questions are MUCH more interesting than answers. Questions make you think, make you wonder; they may even open your eyes to new possibilities, new avenues of consideration. Answers end discussions. They produce finality: "Ah, now I get it. Oh well. Let's move on to something else." Questions force you to stay, to grapple, to ponder. And sometimes I really don't want to lose that wonderful wrestling match, that delicious enigma, by trying to offer a simple and conclusive answer. Exhibit A: Our Torah portion this week tells a lengthy story about Abraham's servant, but NEVER gives the guy a name. In fact, it goes out of its way NOT to name him, even though he is clearly the protagonist in our story. Why? Ok, I'll tell you why. Here's the answer:

Nope! Fooled you. No answer here. Come on, people! What did I JUST finish saying?!? Now, mind you, there is no shortage of OTHER Torah commentators who will answer this question for you. They will tell you 

that his name is Eliezer, because we see elsewhere in Genesis that Abraham had a servant by that name. They will tell you that it isn't necessary, because it's assumed. Or maybe it's irrelevant. But I purposely don't want to turn to such easy, simple, straight-forward answers. Let us, for just a few moments, sit with the discomfort of simply not knowing. I feel we MUST stop and acknowledge that the text of the Torah purposely creates awkward sentences, bends over backwards, and goes out of its way to leave this servant unnamed. Why would we ruin that by simply calling him "Eliezer," or shrugging our shoulders and saying "Who cares?" I care. And, if you're still reading this, I suppose you do as well.

I imagine - though I'm not certainly not positing a conclusive answer - that the Torah text is trying to deemphasize his role in this saga. The servant is an instrument, a tool, 

a vehicle for delivering a message from God. Abraham sends him to find a wife for his son, Isaac, and God directs his path. Perhaps if we named him, we would also want to give him credit for his incredibly successful mission? And the text is trying to suggest this was all pre-ordained. Rebecca was destined to marry Isaac, she just needed to be located, be made aware of her fate, and be brought to her intended... and "Someone" made all that happen. P.s. it's God, NOT the human in the story...

But this all could have happened in many, many other ways. Why the need for an anonymous character, and why be so EMPHATIC about his anonymity? Again, I don't want to answer this question. I want us all to consider it, to ruminate on it. Are you and I 'the servant'? Should we be 

viewing ourselves as vehicles of God, working to make the world a better place on behalf of the Almighty? Is it meant to remind us of the Unseen Hand of God that permeates all our lives? Or at the very least, all the stories of the Bible? Perhaps we can read this as telling us to look for God in unexpected places, to see the Divine in the people around us, because anyone and everyone COULD be a Messenger of God. They just don't know it themselves. Maybe. Or maybe you have your own suggestion, and perhaps you can share it with me? Just remember, we aren't looking for The Answer. We aren't searching for solutions. That would ruin this perfectly wonderful question. And I know that would make our friend, the servant, "Eliezer" very unhappy.

Photos in this blog post:
1. CC image courtesy of Martorell on Wikimedia Commons
2. CC image courtesy of File Upload Bot (99of9) on Wikimedia Commons
3. CC image courtesy of Unipro on Wikimedia Commons
4. CC image courtesy of Dellex on Wikimedia Commons

Va-Yeira: A Message for All the Bad Guys Over There

Who are the good guys and who are the bad guys? So often, our human brains insist on trying to divide up the world into these two, simple, neat categories. Who is right and who is wrong? Who is like me and who is Other? It is amazing to me how insistent we are in thinking this way... and how utterly damaging and destructive it is. Even when we don’t intend to do so, we still picture the “bad guys” as terrible, morally bankrupt, soulless, evil people, and we lump them together into a monolith. It just makes things easier, doesn’t it? We don’t have to grapple with the nuance and “messiness” of knowing that they too - whoever “they” are - have families, hopes and dreams, fears, livelihoods, and redeeming qualities. This week, the Torah reminds us of the massive flaws in our dichotomous thinking... and just in time for us to try and figure out how to pick up, and reassemble, the broken pieces of our fractured country.

Our parashah first shows us the horrific tale of Sodom and Gomorrah. Pure evil, right? Irredeemable and utterly corrupt. Abraham tries to speak up for these doomed cities, urging God to search high and low for even a handful of “good apples” to save the batch. But God cannot, and so the two cities are demolished in fire and brimstone. Ok, so maybe I was wrong then? Maybe the text actually DOES want us to identify what sinister looks like, and is indeed urging us to sweep out evil from our midst? Maybe sometimes we SHOULD think in binary terms, because some things are completely awful, and therefore some other phenomena could be totally good. Well, not so fast. 

Right after this story ends, Abraham travels to a place called Gerar, where he assumes - like with the Sodomites and Gomorrah-ganders (?) (Why don’t we have a word for them?) - that “surely there is no fear of God in this place, and they will kill me because of my wife” (Gen. 20:11). But he is mistaken. The king, Avimelech, is insulted that Abraham would assume such horrid and immoral behavior. Even Abraham, who so recently tried to advocate on behalf of the Gomorrah-ites, falls back into this pattern of assuming the worst of The Other. The Torah challenges us: Don’t make these assumptions! You don’t know them, and you don’t know how they’ll behave. Maybe you saw one example of bad behavior, or even a pattern of poor decisions; do you think that encapsulates them? You wouldn’t want them to do that to you, would you?? 

This cautionary tale is so poignantly significant for this moment in our country. You may feel you have good reason to label someone else a godless heathen, an extremist, or a total Gomorrah-er. You can point to evidence, opinions, statements, and chants. Ok, but now what? Should we punish our enemies by raining down sulfurous fire on them, and blotting their name out from upon the earth? Maybe some would say “yes.” But that doesn’t really make us much better than our expectation of them, now does it? So let’s instead take a moment - or maybe we need a few weeks... - and then try to begin bridging the divide. It doesn’t require amnesia, naïveté, or an oversimplification of what’s at stake. It does, however, demand humility, compassion, and an open mind. The picture is essentially ALWAYS more complex and nuanced than we first thought. We just need to look a little closer - within and without - for the bridge-building to begin. 

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. pxfuel.com
2. pixy.com
3. pxfuel.com
4. Sparkle on Wikimedia Commons