The Small Alef and the Sacrifices We Are Called To Make

(A previous version of this text was published on this blog in Portuguese under the title "O pequeno alef e os sacrifícios a que somos chamados")

“Called to Moses, and ADONAI spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting, saying…” With this verse, this week’s parashah and the Book of Vayikra—Leviticus, the third of the five books of the Torah—begin. It is not entirely clear who called to Moses, and this has been the subject of much debate and speculation among commentators over the centuries.

Adding to the mystery is the final letter of the first word in the verse: an alef, which is written smaller than the rest of the letters on the page. Who might have called out to Moses, so that God could instruct him in the laws of sacrifice—the primary theme of this third book?

Some commentators understand the small alef as a signal that it is Moses’s own “I” (aní, in Hebrew) that calls him. They interpret this as meaning that each person must listen to their own deepest voice, their truest conscience, in order to define what truly matters to them and what sacrifices they are prepared to make—what they are willing to give up.

Another interpretation takes the small alef in a different direction, associating it with the Shechinah—the aspect of the Divine closest to our world and present in all things and all people. According to this reading, listening to the call of the small alef means paying attention to the world around us, in order to determine what sacrifices are required of us. While the first interpretation calls us to ask our inner selves where to engage, this one invites us to listen to what the world is crying out for—its most urgent needs. We look around, seeing the Divine in the faces of those close to us, as well as in those more distant. Which causes and projects cry out for our involvement, even if they are not the ones that naturally interest us?

In both approaches, personal sacrifice lies at the centre. We live in a time of material abundance, perhaps unprecedented in human history. Most of us possess far more “stuff” than we can meaningfully use in our lifetimes. We generate staggering amounts of waste each day and yet find it remarkably difficult to let go—to part with the things we hold dear. When we make donations, it is often money we will not miss or shoes we no longer wear; when we give gifts, they are usually items we’ve grown tired of.

Plenty of stories show that those who have the least are often the quickest to share—even if it means they’ll go without, even if they have to stretch the pot for an extra guest. The Book of Vayikra presents this behaviour as ideal: God instructs us to give up the best fruits, the best animals, to offer that which we will genuinely miss. And so, the small alef at the end of the book’s first word calls us to ask: what does our innermost truth tell us we must relinquish? What causes do we believe in deeply enough to support with our time and energy? What realities do we wish to help transform? What projects feel so important that we must be part of them, even at the cost of other interests?

A famous midrash teaches that Abraham came to the awareness of a singular God by observing that a burning tower must have a keeper—if the world was not consumed by chaos, then the Divine must be sustaining it. Many theologians say we now live in a time of Hester Panim, in which God hides the Divine face. It is our turn to listen to our inner voice, to observe the external reality, and to make the sacrifices we can, to prevent chaos from overwhelming the world entirely.

What is the cause that truly moves you? What need do you hear the world crying out for help with? What are you willing to sacrifice to ensure that we all live in a reality that is more just, more balanced, more inclusive, and more compassionate?

Shabbat Shalom!

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.

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!

Dvar Torá: Criando na comunidade o espaço do Divino (CIP)

O nome da parashá desta semana é Trumá, que literalmente quer dizer “doação”, e eu fiz a piada algumas vezes que esta prédica devia ser patrocinada pela Associação Judaica dos Captadores de Recursos porque o tema de doações é central para essa passagem bíblica. Na pesquisa para pensar no que eu diria para vocês encontrei uma piada um pouquinho melhor sobre o tema….

Um rabino, tocado pela pobreza em sua cidade, resolve dedicar a prédica à necessidade de que a comunidade aumentasse as doações para os mais necessitados. No dia seguinte, seus alunos lhe abordaram, curiosos em saber se a prédica já tinha dado algum efeito. “Consegui um resultado de 50%”, disse o rabino. “quem precisa, já está interessado em receber; resta apenas convencer quem pode a aumentar suas doações.” [1]

Piadas à parte, a verdade é que vale a pena dedicarmos alguns minutos para pensarmos sobre como decidimos que causas apoiamos e como desenvolvemos este apoio.

Muitas vezes, repetimos um certo mantra que diferencia entre a abordagem geral às doações — representada pela palavra “caridade” — e a abordagem judaica — representada pela palavra “tsedacá” [2]. Neste discurso, dizemos que a raiz da palavra “caridade” vem do latim “caritas”, que está associado a uma forma de amor. Desta forma, dar caridade é expressar amor, um ato voluntário de generosidade por alguém a quem se quer bem. “Tsedacá” por outro lado, vem do hebraico “tsedek”, que quer dizer justiça. Assim, dar tsedacá é uma obrigação de agir no mundo para reestabelecer o equilíbrio e a justiça nas nossas sociedades.

Eu preciso confessar que não gosto deste discurso, por pelos menos dois motivos: Tsedacá não é só uma obrigação e preocupação com um estado geral de justiça no mundo; é também uma forma de demonstrar que nos importamos, que temos empatia com quem mais precisa. Além disso, vejo muita gente fora da comunidade judaica fazendo doações para reestabelecer a justiça e muita gente dentro da comunidade fazendo doações como demonstração de amor. Como é o caso tantas vezes, esta tentativa de qualificar o “nosso” e o “deles” em termos absolutos deixa muito a desejar.

Isso dito, é verdade que a Torá enfatiza a questão da Justiça Social com grande afico, nos orientando, entre outros preceitos, a ajudar nossos irmãos em dificuldades, sendo eles cidadãos ou estrangeiros [3]; a não endurecermos nossos coraçõea e ajudarmos quem mais precisa [4]; a não pressionarmos pelo pagamento de dívidas [5]; a protegermos o órfão, a viúva e o estrangeiro [6]. Em linhas gerais, estas orientações estão alinhadas de צדק, צדק תרדוף, "nós devemos buscar a mais elevada forma de justiça" [7].

A nossa parashá, no entanto, me deixou pensando que novas abordagens podem ser úteis ao pensarmos de forma estratégica sobre filantropia (outra palavra para falarmos sobre essa questão, que tem origem grega e quer dizer “amor pela humanidade”). O texto da parashá começa assim:

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

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

ה׳ disse a Moshé: fale aos israelitas, que eles peguem para Mim doações;

busquem Minha doação de toda pessoa que seu coração se mostrar generoso. [8]

e depois de listar vários tipos de doação, metais e pedras preciosas, tecidos e óleos, Deus continua a instrução:

וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם׃  

E façam para Mim um santuário e eu viverei dentro deles. [9]

Diferentemente da ideia de que doações judaicas sempre enfatizam a ideia de obrigação e Justiça, esta passagem fala de atos voluntários e de generosidade do coração. A resposta a este pedido de Deus, sobre a qual leremos daqui a algumas semanas em parashat Vaiakhel é que o povo traz tantas doações que os artesão pedem a Moshé que suspenda o pedido, já tinham recebido mais que o necessário! [10]

A preocupação do pedido de doações na nossa parashá não foi tsedacá, não foi o reequilíbrio de uma situação de injustiça. De alguma forma, a questão aqui era a construção comunitária: quando o Mishcán, o Templo móvel que os hebreus construírem e utilizaram nos seus 40 anos vagando pelo deserto, ficou pronto, o povo pode apontar para várias partes do projeto e enxergar de que forma tinha contribuído para sua realização. Alguns tinham doado brincos ou outras joias, outros tinham doado tecidos, fios coloridos, couro de animais. Um midrash conta de como as pessoas organizaram mutirões de trabalho para responder ao pedido de doações.

Frente a este esforço comunitário, Deus anunciou “façam para mim um santuário e eu viverei entre eles”. Muitos comentaristas destacaram o fato de que o esperado seria que os hebreus construíssem um santuário e que Deus anunciasse que viveria NELE, mas que o anúncio é que Deus viveria entre o povo. O rabino Jonathan Sacks destaca que, enquanto para as primeiras gerações do povo judeu era fácil sentir a presença de Deus o tempo todo, para as gerações subsequentes, Deus praticou tsimtsum, contraiu Sua presença, diminuiu Sua luminosidade e suavizou Seu tom de voz. A presença de Deus no mundo deixou de ser tão óbvia [11]. Para mim, a presença comunitária muitas vezes ocupa este vácuo e cria o espaço no qual a presença Divina pode residir. De acordo com o Talmud, a Shechiná, a presença Divina, está presente sempre que dez pessoas, pelo menos, se reúnem. [12]

Tratando desta mesma passagem, o mestre chassídico Yehudah Aryeh Leib Alter, o Sfat Emet, nota que as diversas doações para a construção do Tabernáculo permitiram que, dentro da sua diversidade, cada membro do povo de Israel fizesse parte deste projeto e que fossem todos unidos através deste propósito comum. Refletindo sobre o comentário do Sefat Emet, o meu professor, o rabino Art Green escreveu em 1998:

Apelos à unidade judaica, ao que parece, eram tão comuns no tempo do Sfat Emet quanto no nosso. Lembrando uma Varsóvia dividida entre chassidim e socialistas, sionistas e assimilacionistas, esse ensinamento era tão necessário no início de 1900, quando foi dito, como é hoje. Mas sua mensagem é mais definida do que isso: o caminho para alcançar a unidade é através de cada um mantendo seu próprio ponto de vista distinto enquanto compartilha com todos os outros em um contexto que aceita plenamente a infinita variedade de mentes e opiniões, todas elas um Todo Divino único. Aqui nenhum ponto de vista deve ser descartado ou rejeitado, pois isso apenas diminuiria o todo, desfigurando o nome de Deus. Tal modelo verdadeiramente pluralista de vida judaica ainda precisa ser testado. [13]

Estes parecem ser, ainda em 2022, imensos desafios para a construção comunitária: como aceitar as contribuições de todos sem obrigar que se submetam à opinião majoritária? Como garantir que a comunidade toda se sinta retratada na construção comunitária, qualquer que seja o tamanho da contribuição que consigam aportar? Como sensibilizar a comunidade toda para a importância deste projeto e garantir que não faltem recursos para o seu desenvolvimento?

Aqui na CIP, seguimos buscando incansavelmente respostas para estes desafios e convidamos cada um de vocês a serem nossos parceiros nesta jornada. A nossos parceiros, pessoas que contribuem com seus recursos financeiros, com seu tempo, com sua sua expertise, nosso imenso agradecimento. A toda a comunidade, fica o convite para se juntarem também vocês a este esforço de compor o lindo mosaico da vida judaica, diversa, rica e onde, certamente, encontramos a Shechiná vivendo.

Shabat Shalom,

[1]  Adaptado de https://www.hidabroot.org/article/218270

[2]  Veja, por exemplo, 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.