Dvar Torah: A Sanctuary in Our Midst: How Generosity Shapes Community

(A previous version of this text was published on this blog in Portuguese under the title "Dvar Torá: Criando na comunidade o espaço do Divino")

The name of this week’s parashah is Terumah, which literally means “donation,” and I have joked a few times that this sermon should be sponsored by the Jewish Fundraisers Association because the theme of donations is central to this biblical passage. While researching what I would say to you today, I came across a slightly better joke on the subject…

A rabbi, moved by the poverty in his city, decides to dedicate his sermon to the need for the community to increase its donations to those most in need. The next day, his students approached him, curious to know whether the sermon had already had any effect. “I achieved a 50% success rate,” said the rabbi. “Those in need are already interested in receiving; I just need to convince those who can give to increase their donations.” [1]

Beyond the humour, this highlights a real challenge: how do we inspire generosity and a sense of shared responsibility? The truth is that it is worth taking a few minutes to reflect on how we decide which causes to support and how we develop this commitment.

We often repeat a certain mantra that differentiates between the general approach to donations—represented by the word “charity”—and the Jewish approach—represented by the word tzedakah [2]. In this discourse, we explain that the root of the word “charity” comes from the Latin caritas, which is associated with a form of love. In this way, giving charity is an expression of love, a voluntary act of generosity towards someone one cares for. Tzedakah, on the other hand, comes from the Hebrew tzedek, which means justice. Thus, giving tzedakah is an obligation to act in the world to restore balance and justice in our societies.

I must confess that I do not like this discourse for at least two reasons: Tzedakah is not only an obligation or a concern for a general state of justice in the world; it is also a way of showing that we care, that we have empathy for those in need. Moreover, I see many people outside the Jewish community donating to restore justice, just as many within the community donate as an expression of love. As is so often the case, this attempt to qualify “ours” and “theirs” in absolute terms leaves much to be desired.

That being said, it is true that the Torah places great emphasis on the issue of social justice, instructing us, amongst other precepts, to help people in difficulty, whether citizens or strangers [3]; not to harden our hearts and to assist those in need [4]; not to press for the repayment of debts [5]; and to protect the orphan, the widow, and the foreigner [6]. In broad terms, these teachings align with the commandment tzedek, tzedek tirdof, "justice, justice you shall pursue" [7].

Our parashah, however, made me reflect that new approaches may be useful when thinking strategically about philanthropy (another word on the matter, which comes from Greek and means “love for humanity”). The text of the parashah begins as follows:

וַיְדַבֵּר ה׳ אֶל־מֹשֶׁה לֵּאמֹר׃ דַּבֵּר אֶל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וְיִקְחוּ־לִי תְּרוּמָה

 מֵאֵת כׇּל־אִישׁ אֲשֶׁר יִדְּבֶנּוּ לִבּוֹ תִּקְחוּ אֶת־תְּרוּמָתִי׃

ה׳ spoke to Moses, saying: Speak to the Israelites,

 that they may take donations for Me;

accept My donation from every person 

whose heart is moved to give. [8]

After listing various types of donations—metals and precious stones, fabrics and oils — God continues the instruction:

וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם׃

And they shall make Me a sanctuary, 

and I will dwell amongst them. [9]

Unlike the idea that Jewish donations always emphasise obligation and justice, this passage speaks of voluntary acts and generosity of the heart. The response to this divine request, which we will read about in Parashat Vayakhel in a few weeks, is that the people bring so many donations that the artisans ask Moshe to stop the request—they had already received more than was needed! [10]

The request for donations in our parashah was not about tzedakah, nor was it about correcting an injustice. In some way, the issue here was community-building: when the Mishkan, the portable Temple that the Hebrews built and used during their forty years of wandering in the desert, was completed, the people could point to various parts of the project and see how they had contributed to its realisation. Some had donated earrings or other jewellery, others had given fabrics, coloured threads, animal skins. A midrash tells of how people organised work groups in response to the request for donations.

In response to this communal effort, God proclaimed, “Make Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell amongst them.” Many commentators have noted that one would have expected the Hebrews to build a sanctuary and for God to announce that God would dwell in it, but instead, the proclamation was that God would dwell amongst the people. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks highlights that while, for the first generations of the Jewish people, it was easy to feel God's presence at all times, for later generations, God practised tzimtzum—contracting the Divine presence, dimming its light, and softening its voice. God's presence in the world was no longer as obvious [11]. For me, the presence of community often fills this void and creates the space in which the Divine presence can reside. According to the Talmud, the Shechinah—the Divine presence—dwells wherever at least ten people gather [12].

Addressing this same passage, the Chasidic master Yehudah Aryeh Leib Alter, the Sefat Emet, notes that the various donations for the construction of the Mishkan allowed each member of the people of Israel to take part in the project and that they were all united through this common purpose. Reflecting on the Sefat Emet’s commentary, my teacher, Rabbi Art Green, wrote in 1998:

Calls for Jewish unity, so it appears, were as common in the Sefat Emet's time as they are in our own. Remembering a Warsaw divided among Hasidim and socialists, Zionists and assimilationists, this teaching was as needed in early 1900, when it was spoken, as it is today. But his message is more defined than that: the way to achieve unity is through everyone holding on to his or her own distinctive viewpoint while sharing with all others in a context that fully accepts the infinite variety of minds and opinions, all of them making up a single divine whole. Here no view is to be dismissed or rejected for such would only diminish the whole, defacing the name of God. Such a truly pluralistic model of Jewish life has yet to be tried. [13]

These still seem, even today, to be immense challenges for community building: how can we accept everyone’s contributions without forcing them to conform to the majority opinion? How can we ensure that the entire community feels represented in this communal construction, regardless of the size of the contribution they are able to offer? How can we raise awareness in the whole community about the importance of this project and ensure that there are sufficient resources for its development?

Here at Bet David, and in the wider Progressive Jewish world, we tirelessly seek answers to these challenges and invite each of you to join us on this journey. To those who already contribute — whether financially, with time, or expertise — we offer our deepest gratitude. To the entire community, we extend an invitation to join this effort — to help shape the beautiful mosaic of Jewish life: diverse, rich, and undoubtedly a place where the Shechinah dwells."

Shabbat Shalom

[1] Adapted from https://www.hidabroot.org/article/218270

[2] See, for example, https://sapirjournal.org/power/2021/07/philanthropy-is-not-enough/

[3] Lev. 25:35

[4] Deut. 15:7

[5] Ex. 22:25

[6] Ex. 22:20-23.

[7] Deut. 16:20.

[8] Ex. 25:1-2

[9] Ex. 25:8

[10] Ex. 35:1-7

[11] https://www.rabbisacks.org/covenant-conversation/terumah/the-gift-of-giving/

[12] Bavli Sanhedrin 39a.

[13] Art Gren, "The Language of Truth: The Torah Commentary of the Sefat Emet", p. 122.

Dvar Torah: A World on Fire - Our Responsibility to Act

Last Saturday morning, we read here in shul the Ten Utterances, the Ten Affirmations, which people usually refer to as the Ten Commandments, even though not all of them are commandments… For those who were here, we even talked about ideas of what the so-called eleventh commandment should be and we got some great ideas — from “don’t judge a book by its cover” to “you shall never forget”. This week’s parashah introduces 53 additional mitzvot—rules the Israelites are instructed to follow.

Have you ever thought about the rules — both religious and secular — that you live by? Some of them might seem obvious and universal, like the sixth of the Ten Utterances, “לא תרצח”, “you shall not commit murder”, but, as we have sadly seen this week, not everyone abides by this rule.

Other rules might be more idiosyncratic. Much to the despair of my children and Melanie, I never cross the street outside the pedestrian crossing or when the robot is not green. A famous singer in Brazil never mentions the word “evil”. Some people will still eat food that fell on the floor if they pick it up before five seconds, even though scientists say that even one second would have been too late, and you need to throw that food away.

Some of these rules express our deepest values; others stem from superstitions or hopes; and some have simply become habits, with no clear reason why.

The mitzvot in this week’s parashah primarily addresses interpersonal relationships and personal responsibilities. As I was reading them, one instruction caught my attention. It deals with the impact and responsibilities of fire: “when a fire is started and spreads to thorns, so that stacked, standing, or growing grain is consumed, the one who started the fire must make restitution.” Perhaps the recent fires in Los Angeles and Brazil made this instruction stand out to me. But it became even more compelling when I found a Talmudic passage that expands on it:

Rabbi Shmuel bar Naḥmani says in the name of Rabbi Yonatan: Calamity befalls the world only when wicked people are in the world, but the calamity begins with the righteous first, as it is stated in the verse: “If a fire breaks out, and catches in thorns, so that a stack of grain, or standing grain, or the field, is consumed” (Ex 22:5). When does the fire emerge? At a time when the thorns, i.e., the wicked, are found with it. But calamity begins from the righteous first, as it is stated in the continuation of the verse: “And a stack of grain is consumed.” It is not stated: If a fire breaks out, and catches in thorns, and consumes the stack of grain; rather, it states: “A stack of grain is consumed,” meaning that the stack, i.e., the righteous, has already been consumed before the thorns. [1]

The righteous, therefore, have a responsibility to prevent the fire or extinguish it once it has started. This reminded me of a wonderful midrash about Avraham Avinu. It comments on the biblical verse in which God instructs Avraham to leave his house and go to the land that God would show him:

Adonai said to Avram, "Go you forth from your land…" … Rabbi Yitzchak said: this may be compared to a man who was traveling from place to place when he saw a castle on fire. He said, "Is it possible that this castle lacks a person to look after it?" The owner of the building looked out and said, “I am the owner of the castle.”

Similarly, Avraham asked: “is it possible that his world doesn’t have a leader?”. The Holy Blessed One looked out and said to him, “I am the Master of the Universe.” [2]

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks offers his interpretation of this midrash:

Abraham was struck by the contradiction between the order of the universe – the palace – and the disorder of humanity – the flames. How, in a world created by a good God, could there be so much evil? If someone takes the trouble to build a palace, do they leave it to the flames? If someone takes the trouble to create a universe, does He leave it to be disfigured by His own creations? On this reading, what moved Abraham was not philosophical harmony but moral discord. For Abraham, faith began in cognitive dissonance. There is only one way of resolving this dissonance: by protesting evil and fighting it. [3]

That is the poignant meaning of the Midrash when it says that the owner of the palace looked out and said, “I am the owner of the palace.” It is as if God were saying to Abraham: I need you to help Me to put out the flames.

We live in a world on fire. Sometimes, like Avraham, we despair at its disorder and ask ourselves, the Universe, and God: 'Isn’t there anyone taking care of this precious palace?

The Talmud passage warns that calamity can spread when the righteous fall into chaos, allowing destructive forces to take hold. This past few days, we were reminded in the most painful way of what happens when the flames of hatred are allowed to spread unchecked.

The midrash, particularly Rabbi Sacks’ interpretation, urges us to become God’s partners in fighting the fire—spreading light where there was only darkness, resisting despair, and building a world rooted in love.

Rabbi Menachem Creditor expanded on the words of Psalm 89:3, “עֹ֭ולָם חֶ֣סֶד יִבָּנֶ֑ה”, “A world of love will be built,” and composed a song inspired by it, with the twist that it gives us agency in the building of this world:

Olam chesed yibaneh...yai dai dai

Olam chesed yibaneh...yai dai dai

Olam chesed yibaneh...yai dai dai

Olam chesed yibaneh...yai dai dai

I will build this world from love...yai dai dai

And you must build this world from love...yai dai dai

And if we build this world from love...yai dai dai

Then God will build this world from love...yai dai dai [4]

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] Talmud Bavli Bava Kamma 60a

[2] Bereshit Rabbah 39:1

[3] https://rabbisacks.org/covenant-conversation/lech-lecha/a-palace-in-flames/

[4] https://youtu.be/EUna9KngE6k

What Sparks Joy? Rethinking Our Approach to Giving

Over a decade ago, Marie Kondo's book, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing, was first published, catapulting her into the pop-culture stratosphere. Her status as a household name was further cemented in 2019 with the debut of her Netflix show. A central tenet of the philosophy she outlines in the book and demonstrates on television is decluttering one's home by discarding items that don't “spark joy.” The core principle is that if an item is neither useful nor brings happiness, it's time to part ways with it. What, then, should you do with these unwanted possessions? Kondo advocates thanking each item for its service before disposal, encouraging responsible practices such as donating usable items to charity, selling items in good condition, and recycling textiles wherever feasible.

I'm one of those people who find it really difficult to let go of their possessions. When I'm clearing out my wardrobe, instead of asking “Have I used this item in the past twelve months?”, I tend to frame the question the other way around: “Can I possibly imagine a situation in the next 12 months in which I might use this item?”—and whenever the answer is "yes" (which is almost always the case, even if I'd need to lose 15kg before being able to wear it!), I keep it. For this reason, Kondo's method has never really resonated with me.

But there was an aspect of her approach (and I confess I consulted ChatGPT to get a better understanding of it) that caught my attention: the suggestion to donate items that don’t spark joy, or sell those in good condition. This highlights an issue with our donation culture that has often bothered me. We often donate things that are no longer fashionable, or clothes that are ripped or stained. If items are still in good condition, the prevailing advice is to sell them as second-hand goods and make a bit of profit.

The Hebrew word for “charity", tzedakah, comes from the same root as tzedek, "justice." This recognises that in a as world full of inequalities as ours, sharing one's wealth isn't merely an act of kindness, but a matter of bringing justice into the world. Seen as a question of justice, our donations should bring dignity to those who receive them. I once volunteered with an organisation whose motto was, “If you wouldn't give this to your nephew, don't give it to anyone.” Returning to Marie Kondo’s method, it's the items in the best condition that should be directed to charity; let the torn and stained items be sold at second-hand shops!

This week’s parashah, T’rumah, exemplifies this kind of behaviour. God asks for donations for the construction of the Mishkan, the portable Sanctuary that the Israelites would use whilst wandering in the desert. Remember that this was a people who, until recently, had lived as slaves and left Egypt in haste, without being able to carry much. For them, any donation would mean parting with something they valued, something that genuinely "sparked joy." And yet... the volume of donations was so significant that Moshe had to ask the people to stop giving.

We live in confusing times. A decade or so ago, it was common for billionaires to be generous with their fortunes, creating foundations that helped communities and countries in need. The wealthiest nations also provided aid, recognising their responsibility in a world in which so many lacked basic necessities. Unfortunately, we are experiencing the opposite trend in recent years, with the ultra-rich accumulating even more wealth, but not being generous in the least, and with countries suspending their foreign aid programmes, convinced that their own people must come first.

May our sense of justice move us to see the dignity in every human being and adjust our generosity accordingly.

Shabbat Shalom!

A Shattered World: Trying to learn from Mishpatim in the Wake of Loss

As I write these words on Thursday morning, the bodies of four Israeli hostages have been transferred to the Red Cross, being returned to their families in Israel. Among them are the youngest of the 250 hostages taken by Hamas and associated groups on October 7th—Kfir, who was nine months old at the time of the attack, and Ariel, who was four years old then—as well as their mother, Shiri Bibas, and Oded Lifshitz, a peace activist who volunteered in an organisation helping Palestinians in need of medical care to cross the border for treatment in Israeli hospitals.

Wars are rife with tragedy, and people far from the conflict often build emotional defences to endure the anguish they bring. Yet, certain events—charged with profound symbolism—can break through these barriers, forcing us to confront the full weight of suffering. Amid a war that has claimed tens of thousands of lives, the deaths of two children have resonated deeply across the globe. Just as, a decade ago, images of three-year-old Alan Kurdi lying dead on a Turkish shore awakened the world to the horrors of the war in Syria, the deaths of the Bibas brothers have rekindled our awareness of the brutal toll the Israel-Gaza conflict has taken on children. The deaths of the Bibas brothers have shaken the world, as have the images of countless Palestinian children who have lost their lives in this war — the grief is universal, and our humanity demands that we feel the pain of all innocent victims, regardless of nationality.

This week’s parashah, Mishpatim, also known as the “Book of the Covenant,” provides instructions on how to build a society rooted in justice and care for all people. Among them are obligations to protect foreigners, orphans, and widows; to treat enemies with dignity and return their lost property; and the principle that punishment should be proportional to the damage, as expressed in the formula “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”[1] These are the values that have guided Jewish conduct throughout history—while practices may have evolved, the principles they embody have remained steadfast.

May our current pain for all victims on both sides of this conflict, especially children, remind us of our commitment to building the kind of society delineated by the Book of the Covenant: one in which justice prevails, in which everyone feels safe, and in which the most vulnerable receive our full attention. At the same time, may we remain steadfast in the pursuit of securing the release of all hostages, ensuring the safety of innocent civilians, and striving toward a future in which such tragedies no longer occur.

Shabbat Shalom

[1] After extensive discussion in the Talmud, the Rabbis determined that this principle guided the scale of financial compensation in each case but did not grant the injured party the right to inflict the same injury in return.

Many Ways to Sanctify Shabbat

It was Ahad HaAm, the intellectual and founder of Cultural Zionism, who famously formulated the idea that “More than the Jewish People have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jews.” Indeed, Shabbat practices, beyond their halachic dimensions (related to Jewish law), hold immense symbolic significance.

This week's parashah, Yitro, is where we first read about the encounter with the Divine in which we received the Decalogue, the Ten Statements. The fourth of these concerns Shabbat [1], linking it to the Divine rest after the creation of the universe in six days. In the second instance in which the Decalogue is formulated in the Torah [2], the observance of Shabbat is connected to redemption and the liberation from the slavery in which the Hebrews lived in Mitzrayim. In common, both formulations instruct us to sanctify this day and prohibit any form of labour on it, without defining what would qualify as labour.

Often, when we talk about Shabbat practices, we focus on specific prohibitions, whether they originate from the Bible or rabbinic tradition: people debate whether they may drive, write, or carry objects in the street on Shabbat. More broadly, however, how can we understand the concept of sanctifying a day?

Generally, the idea of sanctification is associated with making something distinct, special. If that is the case, how can we make Shabbat special? What practices can we develop to ensure that this day truly has flavours, scents, and pleasures that belong uniquely to it?

For some, the smell of challah coming out of the oven on Friday afternoon already begins to awaken the senses to a day set apart. For others, attending synagogue for Kabbalat Shabbat has become an important ritual for marking the shift in the quality of time; some find that the Shabbat morning service helps establish a calmer, unhurried pace. The Saturday morning breakfast holds central importance for certain families; board games after lunch or the practice of strolling through the neighbourhood, visiting friends for a relaxed coffee, help to shape a different rhythm.

Whatever it may be, it is worth finding YOUR own way to make Shabbat a day with a distinct texture from the rest of the week—a day that celebrates the infinite dignity of every human being, worthy of freedom and created in the image of the Divine, who formed the world and then rested.

May this be a Shabbat of peace, connection, and new discoveries!

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] Exodus 20:8-11
[2] Deuteronomy 5:12-15

Dvar Torah: Is it Jewish to celebrate your enemy's death? (Bet David)

 

Of all the Jewish holidays, Pessach is my favourite. It started many years ago when my family and I were invited to a seder while visiting Baltimore. The people who invited us had a tradition in which each year, one family member would be responsible for the ritual aspect of the seder. This role included consulting several haggadot and selecting what would be read and what would be sung that year. I was amazed— in my family, the main function of the seder was simply to bring everyone together. We had all the appropriate food, the seder plate, and everything else, but we did not open the haggadah, and we certainly did not discuss its contemporary meaning. However, that year in Baltimore, something magical happened: the texts became starting points for conversations about freedom in our world, about contemporary slavery, and about the many communities still suffering from oppression. Since then, I have collected haggadot that include contemporary perspectives and, every few years, I try to compile a new haggadah for my family, drawing from these different sources.

I especially appreciate the section of the seder when we remove drops of wine from our cups as we recite the מכות, the hits inflicted upon Egypt and the Egyptians. This serves as a symbol that we should not rejoice in the suffering of others. For many years, I have included in my family’s haggadah a reading of a midrash in which God criticises the angels for dancing in celebration when the Israelites reached the other side of the Sea of Reeds in safety, not recognising the death of the Egyptian soldiers in the water. “The work of My hands are drowning in the sea and you say songs?!”, God would have said, according to two parallel passages in the Talmud. [1] I have always been moved by this passage because it acknowledges that, while the downfall of our oppressors may have been necessary for our liberation, it still involved the loss of human lives —people created in the Divine image, with the same intrinsic value as any of us. As Prof. Daniel Statman, from the University of Haifa and the Shalom Hartman Institute, put it: “We rejoice in the redemption of our ancestors as they crossed the Sea, but the joy is restrained, because so many Egyptian lives were lost.” [2] A passage from Proverbs reinforces this understanding: “If your enemy falls, do not exult; If he trips, let your heart not rejoice.” [3]

It was only this past week that I realised that the midrash has a more complicated take on the issue. While doing some research about Shirat haYam, the “Song of the Sea” the Israelites sang upon safely arriving at the other margin, which is replete with militaristic images and celebrations of the fall of Egypt, I found a continuation to the text I never knew existed. After the rabbis comment on God criticising the angels for celebrating without acknowledging the death of the Egyptians, they add: “God does not rejoice, but causes other to feel joy.” [1] 

That means: it was not right for the angels to sing, but regarding the Israelites, it was not only acceptable for them to celebrate the deaths of the Egyptians, it was God who had caused it! That new understanding came to me as a shock!

As I continued my research, I found several contemporary commentators who felt good with a perspective that made me uncomfortable… One of them wrote: 

“Why would God tell the angels not to celebrate and yet allow the Jews to sing? And God’s people were dying because He himself killed them!

What God is saying to the angels is that this is not a happy day for Him. He did not create the Egyptians for them to do evil, but they chose evil, and now evil had to be eliminated. But the Jewish people had suffered at the hand of the Egyptians; they not only had the right to celebrate, they must celebrate.” [4]

Some of these commentators even propose a different reading of the Talmudic midrash. To them, when God chastised the angels, mentioning “the work of My Hands”, it was a reference to the Israelites, not to the Egyptians. And they quote another verse from Proverbs, that says: “When the wicked perish there are shouts of joy.” [5]

This might have seemed a purely theoretical debate some time ago, but given the conflicts in which we have been recently involved, in Israel and in other parts of the world, they became quite concrete for a lot of people. How are we supposed to react when we hear the news that leaders of Hamas, Al-Qaeda or ISIS were killed? Is joy appropriate, or should we adopt a more sober reaction? What about situations in which those killed were not armed combatants, but civilians “on the other side”?

Returning to Prof. Statman:

“These conflicting readings reflect two opposing attitudes found in times of national or religious conflict. Both start with the premise that the most important goal, one to which all energies must be channeled, is the defeat of the enemy. In the case of the Israelites vs. the Egyptians, surely God’s main concern is to make sure that the Israelites are neither killed by their pursuers (or by the sea), nor forced to return to Egypt.

But beyond this premise, a gap opens between the two positions. According to the former, there is also genuine concern for the human beings on the enemy side; at the very least, regret for their deaths or suffering, at the most, an active effort to reduce harm and mortality. According to the latter position, the humanity of those who threaten is depersonalized, which has the effect of blocking genuine empathy with the suffering of people on the other side, a fortiori, the adoption of strategies aimed at the actual reduction of enemy casualties.”

An article in the Jewish Chronicle attempted to reconcile these two perspectives:

“Maybe the dramatic image of the sea splitting is the actual metaphor for this dichotomy. The two shores of the sea represent the two sides of the story. And we must pass through the middle, preserving and valuing life, yet not drowning in war and hate. The middle path between justice and mercy is a difficult one to tread and at any moment we can be washed away.” [6]

I learned a tradition from a very dear professor of mine, Rabbi Ebn Leader. Ebn would fast on Taanit Ester (the fast that precedes Purim), Taanit Bechorot (the fast that precedes Pessach and applies only to firstborns, which was not his case), and on Yom HaZikaron (the day before Yom HaAtzmaut, in remembrance of those fallen for the establishment of the State of Israel, a fast not codified in the Jewish tradition or common Israeli practice). His reasoning was that these three holidays — Pesach, Purim, and Yom HaAtzmaut — marked situations in which we conquered our freedom, but they all came at the expense of too many lives, on our side and on our opponents’. He taught that, while it is appropriate to celebrate our victories, we must also acknowledge the price they exacted.

May we find a road that lets us recognise our own pain and celebrate our victories in current conflicts, while not dehumanising those whose circumstances of life simply placed them on the other side of these conflicts.

Shabbat Shalom

 

[1] Talmud Bavli Megilah 10b and Sanhedrin 39b.

[2] https://www.hartman.org.il/rejoicing-in-the-death-of-ones-enemy/

[3] Proverbs 24:17

[4] https://aish.com/celebrating-the-fall-of-evil/

[5] Proverbs 11:10

[6] https://www.thejc.com/judaism/why-did-we-sing-when-the-egyptians-drowned-t1anz5d2[1] Ex. 17:14

Dvar Torah: Blotting out the memory of the concept of Amalek (Bet David)

When my children were younger, I did not allow them to watch The Lion King, the Disney film. It is a shame because it is a charming story and a visually stunning movie, but there was one detail that deeply bothered me: all the hyenas were portrayed as evil. There were good lions and bad lions. Mufasa, who now has a new movie about him, is an example of a good lion—his brother Scar, on the other hand, is the arch-villain who betrays his brother’s trust, has him killed, and seizes the throne. The hyenas were Scar’s main allies, but to my disappointment, there were no hyenas who sided with Mufasa or Simba, nor any who challenged Scar’s most malevolent actions.

I did not allow my children to watch the movie because I feared then, as I fear now, a worldview in which certain groups of people are intrinsically characterised as purely evil. It seems to me that this is where the corrosive seed of prejudice resides. As Jews, we know all too well how it feels to be judged based on our religion or ethnic identity, and throughout history, we have paid an enormous price for other people’s misconceptions of who we are.

If, during the Shoah, Jews were characterised as rats, and during the Rwandan genocide, the Tutsis were labelled cockroaches, then I feared that some group could one day be called hyenas, justifying their elimination.

Eventually, my children grew up, my censorship was lifted, and Mel and I even took my daughter to see The Lion King: The Musical.

At the very end of this week’s parashah, the Israelites are attacked by Amalek. In this week’s reading, we are simply told that the Israelites fought against Amalek at Rephidim and that the course of the battle depended on the position of Moshe’s hands: if they were raised, the Israelites would prevail, but if he became tired and lowered them, the Amalekites would gain the upper hand. Eventually, Yehoshua led the Israelites to victory. God said to Moshe: “Inscribe this in a document as a reminder, and read it aloud to Yehoshua: I will utterly blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven!” [1]

The same episode is recounted in the book of Devarim, parashat Ki Tetzeh. There, we are given additional details about what happened at Rephidim: “Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey after you left Egypt—how, undeterred by fear of God, they surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers at the rear. Therefore, when your God ה׳ grants you safety from all your enemies around you, in the land that your God ה׳ is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget!” [2]

You may remember this second passage, as it is read on the Shabbat before Purim, known as Shabbat Zachor, the “Shabbat of Remembrance.” This name reflects the paradox that we are commanded to remember Amalek by blotting out its memory from under heaven.

In attempting to understand why Amalek—of all the peoples who persecuted and attacked the Jews—is the one whose memory we are commanded to erase, some commentators highlight the cowardice of attacking a group of former slaves who were exhausted from their journey, ambushing them from behind, and slaughtering the poor, the innocent, and the weak. Moreover, the people of Israel were not even passing through Amalekite territory; Amalek had to cross the lands of five other nations to attack them. [3]

Nechama Leibowitz, one of the most influential biblical commentators in the early decades of the State of Israel, wrote about this episode: “Where the fear of God is lacking, the stranger who is homeless in a foreign land is liable to be murdered.” [4]

When the Israelites conquered the land, they were commanded to completely wipe out Amalek, and King Shaul lost the crown for failing to do so. King David also waged war against the Amalekites but did not succeed in eradicating them completely. I confess I find it deeply troubling even to write and say these words—recognising that our religious tradition includes an instruction to completely eliminate another people. For those who, like me, feel unsettled by this story, I return to my drashah from last Shabbat morning, in which I argued that sometimes we need to say “No!” — even to God.

Amalek, then, became the archetype of pure evil in Jewish tradition. Haman, the villain of the Purim story, is traditionally considered a descendant of Amalek. Many would say that Hitler was a descendant of Amalek, and it is difficult to refute the idea that these two figures really embodied absolute evil.

The traditional Jewish position, established centuries ago, is that ancient nations can no longer be identified, and therefore, there is no longer any Amalek. Yet this has not prevented people from manipulating the concept for political ends. [5] Rabbi Elchanan Wasserman accused all Jewish members of the Jewish section of the Soviet Communist Party of being part of the “seed of Amalek.” Israeli politicians and extremists have labelled Yasser Arafat — and sometimes even the entire Palestinian people — as Amalek. Rabbi Ovadia Yosef z”l, perhaps the most important Sephardic rabbi in the history of the State of Israel, once called Yossi Sarid z”l — a leader of Meretz and a former Minister of Education with whom he disagreed politically—a “seed of Amalek.” Rabbi Shalom Cohen even referred to the entire Modern Orthodox community as “seed of Amalek” during the elections for Israel’s Chief Rabbi. [6]

As I said, the mere possibility that a person or a group of people could be the incarnation of absolute evil has caused immense suffering and destruction in our world. It is time to truly blot out the memory of the concept of Amalek and to completely remove this paradigm from our consciousness.

Shabbat Shalom.

 

[1] Ex. 17:14

[2] Deut. 25:17-19

[3] A Torah Commentary for Our Times, Volume II: Exodus/Leviticus, p. 39-31

[4] Studies in Devraim, p. 253

[5] https://www.motherjones.com/politics/2023/11/benjamin-netanyahu-amalek-israel-palestine-gaza-saul-samuel-old-testament/

[6] https://he.wikipedia.org/wiki/עמלק#עמלק_כסמל

Celebrating and Connecting Through Song and Dance

It might be just me, but music and poetry have the power to transport me through time and make me feel emotions from different periods of my life. Some songs from the early 1980s, for example, instantly transport me to the back seat of my parents’ car at the start of my adolescence, bringing back that unique mix of emotions so characteristic of that age. Choref 73 (Winter of 73) revives the tears I shed in the late 1990s, when I was living in Israel and the country was struggling to recover from the trauma of Yitzhak Rabin’s z”l assassination. Some songs stir feelings of indignation, excitement, and political activism. Others awaken our romantic side, and there are those that help us mend a broken heart.

There are also songs of collective celebration. I’ve heard that when South African teams win major championships, “Shosholoza” is the song that best captures the joy and excitement of these moments. Watching videos of the street celebrations after the Springboks won the Rugby World Cup in 2023, I could clearly see the pride and national unity it evoked.

Now try to imagine how the Israelites must have felt as they crossed the Sea of Reeds and, upon reaching the other shore, realised they were finally safe after centuries of oppression and enslavement. When I try to picture that moment, I see an explosion of happiness and relief, a crowd almost out of control, crying, singing, dancing—some in absolute ecstasy, others struggling to believe what was happening.

This Shabbat’s parashah includes Shirat haYam, the song Moses, Miriam, and the people sang after they had crossed the Sea of Reeds. According to scholars, it is one of the oldest sections of the Torah, and its unique layout on a scroll resembles concrete poetry. (Come to shul on Saturday morning to see it for yourself!) It is a song of victory, expressing gratitude for God's redemption of the Israelites and, at the same time, a sense of satisfaction over the fate of their oppressors, the Egyptians.

All things considered, Shirat haYam reveals the humanity of the Israelites, celebrating with song and dance as they embrace the new reality of freedom. Even though these events happened thousands of years ago, the poetry of the text and the many melodies created for it over the centuries can transport us to that very moment and to the raw emotions it elicited. This is the power of music and poetry, as well as of tradition and ritual: they connect us to previous generations, allowing us to feel their emotions and celebrate their victories.

May this be a Shabbat of peaceful emotions, of calm presence in the moment, and of songs that soothe the soul and rekindle the spirit.

Shabbat Shalom.