Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

What’s in a Name? The Apple that (maybe) Wasn’t

Arguably, the most famous apple since time began was not, perhaps, an apple at all. As we read in Genesis chapter 3 (:6): ‘So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took from its fruit – mipiryo – and ate, and then she gave also to her husband, [who was] with her, and he ate ‘.

The word for fruit is p’ri – as in the blessing for p’ri ha-gafen, ‘the fruit of the vine’, we recite on Shabbat and festivals, and the blessing for p’ri ha-eitz, ‘the fruit of the tree’, we recite before we eat a piece of apple dipped in honey on Rosh Ha-Shanah.

Pr’i ha-eitz: The fruit of the tree. As it happens, there were actually two prohibited trees in the centre of the Garden of Eden – the Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge (Gen. 2:9), which as the woman gazed with longing, somehow had coalesced into one (Gen. 3:2)… So did the Sages of old consider the fruit of that infamous tree to be an apple?

The rabbis came up with several possibilities (Midrash Rabbah B’reishit). Perhaps, the woman took grapes? Since the Torah says, ‘she took from its fruit’ – mipiryo – , and not, simply, she took its fruit – piryo – maybe, she created something from the fruit – say, wine – and gave that to her man…? On the other hand, the verse that follows might provide an answer. As we read: ‘Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig-leaves together, and made themselves garments.’ (Gen. 3:7). Perhaps, the tree which furnished the newly self-conscious pair with their first clothes, was the same tree that had provoked them to transgress God’s command?

The notion that the forbidden fruit was an apple does not feature at all in Jewish tradition. Indeed, interestingly, apples are not included in the seven species of the land, listed in Deuteronomy chapter 8 (:8) – namely: wheat, barley, vines, figs, pomegranates, olives and date-palm honey. And yet apples are mentioned in the Bible. Proverbs 25:11 speaks of well-chosen words being like ‘apples of gold’ – tapuchey zahav – in a setting of silver. More significantly, among the luscious fruits, including, grapes, figs and pomegranates, evoked by the lovers in the erotic love poetry of the Song of Songs, there are several references to apples. For example: ‘Like an apple tree among trees of the forest, so is my beloved among the youths. I delight to sit in his shade, and his fruit is sweet to my mouth.’ (2:3).

So, what was the fruit of that tree? Perhaps, it was an apple, after all? Tu Bishvat – the 15^th day of the month of Sh’vat – designated by the Rabbis as the New Year for Trees (Mishnah Rosh Ha-Shanah 1:1), falls this year on February 8^th. It has become customary to eat 15 different fruits of three types on Tu Bishvat:  fruits or nuts with an inedible outer shell and an edible inner core; fruits with edible outer flesh and pithy, inedible cores; and fruits which are edible throughout – including: apples. So, enjoy!

LISHMAH – JEWISH LEARNING FOR ITS OWN SAKE

Would you like the opportunity to participate in a mini-Limmud every week? Following a period of consultation, at the AGM of the Sussex Jewish Representative Council, the delegates endorsed a proposal to launch a cross-communal study programme, which would take place on Thursday evenings at Ralli Hall, from 7:30 PM to 9:45 PM.

The idea was first mooted at Sussex Limmud last May, at a panel discussion on the Brighton and Hove Jewish community, and was enthusiastically supported at that time.

A weekly mini-Limmud, involving teachers, rabbinic and lay, from across the Jewish spectrum, Lishmah will make Jewish learning accessible to everyone across the community.

Lishmah will be introduced in the first instance as an eight week ‘pilot’ on Lag Ba-Omer on Thursday, 10^th May. This mini-holiday in the midst of the Omer period seems a very appropriate time to launch a mini-Limmud.

On the launch date, 10^th May, the evening will begin with a buffet-party, followed by the first session at 7:30 PM. The last session of the pilot will take place on 28^th June.

If the pilot is successful it is proposed that the next term will begin after the chaggim, on Thursday, 1^st November, run for seven sessions, and conclude on Thursday 13^th December.

To cover the costs of hiring the rooms at Ralli Hall, students will be asked to pay £3 per session or £20 for the entire eight-week period – plus £1 for tea/coffee.

So far, three rabbis have indicated that they will offer courses – Rabbis Sarah, Silverman and Wallach. Lay people with expertise in different fields have also expressed their interest.

In addition to the teachers and students, in order to launch and run Lishmah successfully, we will need a Lishmah team to include:

• Volunteers to organise the launch
• A volunteer to organise registration
• A volunteer to take responsibility for producing the programme
• A volunteer to take responsibility for distributing the programme and publicising Lishmah

If you are interested in volunteering your time for Lishmah, please e-mail, Jessica Rosenthal on Jessica.rosenthal958@gmail.com

The success of Limmud, the inspiration for this project, has demonstrated that the quest for Jewish learning unites Jews of all denominations and none across the spectrum. And we are so fortunate to have a Jewish community centre at Ralli Hall – the perfect venue for this cross-communal venture. Look out for further details, so that you can be part of Lishmah – Jewish learning for its own sake.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

Trouble-Making Judaism

Judaism is many things – and also means different things to different Jews and different Jewish denominations. I’ve written a book called Trouble-Making Judaism, which will be published by David Paul Books on February 1^st. I’ve given my book that title because in my view, from the prophets who admonished the leaders and people of Israel for their ethical misconduct through to the rabbis who troubled the Torah to make meaning for Jewish life, Judaism has been engaged with troubling and trouble making. Trouble-making is about challenging and disrupting the status quo. It is also about being troubled and troubling our Jewish texts and inheritance to adapt and change in response to the lives of Jewish individuals, families and communities here and now.

The book falls into four parts. Beginning with an exploration of some trouble-making precedents – the Torah’s account of the creation humanity, Miriam, the 2^nd century scholar, B’ruria, and the first woman rabbi, Regina Jonas – I go on to explore the struggle for equality and inclusion, ways of engaging as Jews and Jewish communities to foster Jewish life today, and the challenge to acknowledge, both, Israel and Palestine.

Trouble-making, being troubled and troubling our Jewish inheritance involves engaging with our Jewish teachings and narratives. It involves living Jewishly with pride and commitment in today’s world. It involves taking issues and concerns which have been pushed to the periphery because they are so difficult and making them the centre of our concerns. It involves celebrating family life in all its diverse expressions today and making space for those who are single, childless and childfree. It involves acknowledging and affirming heterosexual people and relationships and lesbian and gay people and relationships – as well as those who are bisexual and/or transgender. It involves welcoming those who are Jewish in different ways and those who are Jew-ish, as well as non-Jews. It involves taking steps to ensure that our congregations welcome all those who wish to participate and celebrate the myriad gifts which people bring.

If you’re interested in knowing more about what I mean by ‘Trouble-Making Judaism’, and missed my recent session at Limmud, I will be talking about the book, and signing copies, at Jewish Book Week on Sunday, February 19^th at 3:30 PM. I also hope to have a book launch in Brighton and Hove – so watch this space for details.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

Trouble-Making Judaism by Elli Tikvah Sarah (ISBN 09780954848293. Paper-back. £9.99. David Paul Books – www.davidpaulbooks). Twitter@BHPS2011. FB & Twitter info @RabbiElliSarah

Since the synagogue building closed for redevelopment after Yom Kippur, the congregation has been a hive of activity in every place: at Ralli Hall, where we celebrated Sukkot and Simchat Torah, and continue to meet for Shabbat morning services and the Beit Lameid (Religion School); in the homes of members hosting Erev Shabbat gatherings; at Lansdowne Place, our new venue for adult study classes and meetings, as well as the synagogue office. Meanwhile, in the past few weeks we have also celebrated a number of special birthdays and anniversaries together, and there have been so many additional hives of activity, focusing on the building, its re-design, fundraising…

Our special congregation has not only managed the move and the transition to our temporary abodes – with the help of so many wonderful volunteers – we are thriving. What is more, we have discovered benefits that we hadn’t anticipated: the warmth generated when people welcome Shabbat together in someone’s home; the way in which the bimah-less ‘Magrill Room’ at Ralli Hall – named after beloved former BHPS chairman, Stephen Magrill – makes the Torah and the Ark accessible to all.

BHPS is alive and well. And as we embark on the process of re-developing 6 Lansdowne Road, we are doing more than renewing the fabric of the building, we are also creating a context for the renewal of the life of our congregation: a multifunctional, accessible space that enables us ‘to meet, to study and to pray’ (Siddur Lev Chadash, p. 484), and which also makes it possible for to create links with the wider community. And so, in addition to being a venue for annual events, like the Sacred Music Festival and the Brighton Festival, we will also be able to host a variety of cultural, interfaith and educational programmes, and so transform BHPS into a dynamic hub in Brighton and Hove. An example, of what I’m talking about, is an interfaith event I have organised together with Sufi practitioner, Evlynn Sharp, which is taking place onDecember 10^th at the Quaker Meeting House in central Brighton to celebrate Human Rights Day. We have called it ‘Creating the Tent’, and it will be an inclusive, spiritual gathering with contributions from Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist and Quaker perspectives, and include talks, chants, creative exercises, discussion and silence. Our refurbished building will be the perfect venue for similar ventures in the future.

The more down-to-earth among you may be thinking: it’s all very well talking about activities in our refurbished building, but first of all, we need to raise a good deal of money. I agree! Let us all do what we can to raise the funds we need – and let us also remember that as it was for our ancestors in the wilderness, it is the vision of what we are seeking that enables us to make the journey.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

FLAMES OF HOPE

We are in the midst of the dark days of winter – but there is light just over the horizon: at the winter solstice, on the darkest day of the year, Brightonians will gather on the beach once more, with lanterns, to usher in the first glimmers of the longer days to come. And then, within a few days, the Christmas season will begin in earnest.

Winter solstice, Christmas, the Hindu festival of Diwali: Judaism also has a festival of lights in the winter, which begins on the 25th of the Hebrew moon or month of Kislev. The moon year being only 354 days long, the Hebrew calendar incorporates adjustments to ensure that the seasonal festivals do not fall out of season. This is accomplished by adding an extra month in the 3rd, 6th, 8th, 11th, 14th, 17th and 19th years of a 19 year cycle. This year the Jewish festival of lights begins at sunset on December 20^th. Lasting for eight days, it centres on accumulating flames: lighting one candle – or wick floating in oil – on the first night; two flames on the second night; three on the third, and so on.

The name of this eight-day festival is Chanukkah, meaning, ‘dedication’. Like the majority of the Jewish festivals, Chanukkah has its origins in the history of the Jewish people, and recalls a victory over the oppressive Assyrian Greek Empire. It took 33 years to re-establish an independent Jewish nation, but along the way to this goal, in 164 BCE, a band of guerrilla fighters, known as the Maccabees, recaptured the Temple in Jerusalem, which had been turned into a pagan shrine. When they entered the Temple, they rebuilt and rededicated the sacred altar, and having missed the autumn festivals of Sukkot and Sh’mini Atzeret, which, together, last eight days , they then inaugurated a new eight-day festival of ‘dedication’.

These events are recorded in the Books of the Maccabees. But then another story emerged, which was related by the rabbis in the Talmud several hundred years later:  When the victors went in search of oil to rekindle the M’norah, the seven-branched Temple lampstand, they found just one day’s supply of oil still bearing the seal of the High Priest. But then, a miracle happened, and the oil lasted for eight days.

So, on the one hand there is a political tale of persecution, rebellion, and triumph; and, on the other hand, a miracle… When Jews celebrate Chanukkah, in addition to kindling flames, it is also customary to eat doughnuts and potato latkes – because both are deep- fried in oil – and to play a game with a four-sided spinning top, known as a dreidel, which has a Hebrew letter on each side, denoting the key message of the festival: Neis Gadol Hayah Sham – ‘a great miracle happened there.’

Chanukkah is a time for family and fun, but, traditionally, it is a minor festival that has only become more important in response to the hype associated with Christmas, which has propelled Jewish parents to give presents to their children. But there are some positive reasons for elevating Chanukkah. As we survey the recent upheavals in the Arab world, Chanukkah holds out the hope that the oppressed will prevail. However, the victory of the persecuted is no guarantee that freedom will reign once the tyrants have been overthrown. The rabbis, who took responsibility for recreating Jewish life after the second Temple was destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE and the priesthood was no more, did not want to glorify the Maccabees, who subsequently became corrupt when they achieved power. It was for this reason that the rabbis promoted the miracle story, recalling the words of Zechariah that, ‘Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit, says the God of hosts’ (4:6).

And so, the ‘miracle’ story has held sway to this day. But when Jews celebrate Chanukkah each year, adding flame after flame, night after night, we are also doing something else: keeping the flames of hope alive. Having endured domination by a succession of imperial overlords, from the Assyrians in 722 BCE, to the days of the Holy Roman Empire and beyond, and having been persecuted and massacred, again and again – not least, during the darkest of dark days of the Sho’ah (the Holocaust) – and survived, Chanukkah proclaims the triumph of the human spirit, which can never be extinguished. The late Rabbi Hugo Gryn, never forgot the Chanukkah he spent in Auschwitz: When his father insisted on using their meager margarine ration to kindle a flame, he protested. His father responded: ‘You and I had to go once for over a week without proper food and another time almost three days without water, but you cannot live for three minutes without hope!’

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

Winter challenges and opportunities

We are in the midst of the darkest time of the year. Some people welcome the darkness and the opportunity it offers to hibernate. Some look forward, hopefully, to crisp, crystal-clear days. Some escape to holidays in the sun. For those who have to commute to work, who venture out before sunrise and return after sunset, winter can feel like one long dark tunnel, they just have to get through. For those living on a tight budget, winter may bring with it anxiety: can I afford to heat my home? For those who are elderly and live alone, the hours of darkness may accentuate feelings of loneliness.

Whatever our experiences and circumstances, living as we do in a country regulated by the Christian calendar, winter is also punctuated by Christmas, providing opportunities for distraction, not just for one day, but for at least two months beforehand, as Christmas merchandising dominates the high street, and all the advertising outlets. In recent years, Christmas has also meant a protracted closedown for many workplaces. But this year, as economic recession begins to bite, perhaps it will not be quite as easy to indulge in Christmas distractions and spend money on presents and celebrations…

For Jews living as a minority, Christmas brings other challenges. For some, the Christian aspect of the Christmas season has become so peripheral, that it is simply an opportunity to get away from the harsher aspects of winter, and enjoy time with family and friends. For others, the domination of Christmas is a source of annoyance and a reminder, if one were needed, that Jewish life is lived on the margins. Fortunately, in recent times, the annual Limmud Jewish education conference, held for five days over Christmas each year, has not only provided a means of getting away from Christmas for those Jews who want to, but also, whether or not it coincides with Chanukkah, as it does this year, a wonderful alternative celebration that brings hundreds of Jews together of all dominations and none – orthodox and progressive, cultural and secular. But it does more than this: Limmud also proclaims the distinctive feature of Judaism: Limmud – learning; learning which is engaging, dynamic and interactive. What better way to celebrate and perpetuate Jewish life than by generating a learning extravaganza that informs and stimulates and equips Jews of all colours to engage actively with our shared inheritance. So why not ‘google’ ‘Limmud’ and join the fun.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

What is a mitzvah? An obligation; a duty; a commandment. The Hebrew root, Tzadi Vav Hei means to ‘command’ and is first found in the Torah in the codes.

The rabbis took the concept of mitzvah and applied it to behaviours that are not mentioned in the Torah, like lighting Shabbat and Festival candles. They also spelt out mitzvot that they derived from the Torah. So, a rabbinic passage in the siddur – prayer book – from the Mishnah (Pe’ah 1:1) and the Talmud (Shabbat 127a), which opens with the mitzvah of ‘honouring one’s father and mother’, stated in the Torah, (Exodus 20:12), also includes: g’milut chasadim – ‘loving deeds’; coming early to the house of study in the morning and evening; hospitality to guests; visiting the sick; bringing in the bride [to the chuppah]; accompanying the dead; praying with sincerity; and making peace between one person and another.  Interestingly, the passage concludes: v’talmud Torah k’neged kulam – ‘and the study of Torah is equal – or, equivalent – to them all.’  Unless one understands this to mean that one can fulfil all one’s obligations simply by studying, another translation, used in the Liberal siddur is, ‘And the study of Torah leads to them all.’

If we examine the list it is apparent that with the exception of studying and praying with sincerity, the mitzvot included focus on how we treat others, and belong to the category of what we call ma’asim tovim, ‘good deeds’.  For most Jews, of all denominations, a mitzvah is first and foremost a very special kind of ‘good deed’, which is also a ‘commandment’; an act that we are obligated to perform. So, Jews don’t carry out good deeds simply because we are nice – although we may be that as well – but primarily because we understand that it is our duty to help and support others.

To remind us of the importance of doing good deeds, all sections of the Jewish community across Britain have agreed to designate an annual Sunday in November as Mitzvah Day. So, November 20^th is Mitzvah Day, and a variety of activities have been arranged by the different synagogues in Brighton & Hove. For the second year running, BHPS will be helping out at the Moulescoomb Forest Garden, a project set up for the local community, which runs programmes specifically targeted at engaging young people who are experiencing difficulties at school. This year we have arranged to volunteer at the garden in conjunction with Brighton Voices in Exile, a local refugee project, which we also support. If you are interested in joining us, please contact the synagogue office.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Yom Kippur is the day when Jews across the world, gather together from sunset to sunset to confess their sins and failings, and journey towards forgiveness and atonement. But the day does not stand alone. Yom Kippur completes the ‘Days of Awe’, which begin ten days earlier on Rosh Ha-Shanah, the Jewish New Year. Rosh Ha-Shanah, is the day of ‘judgement’ and ‘remembrance’, when all are ‘called’ with the multiple blasts of the shofar – the ram’s horn – to wake up to their deeds, reflect and repent. The Jewish New Year begins on the first day of Tishri, the seventh month of the Jewish year, which like the seventh day of the week, is a time set aside for renewal.

Preceded by Ellul, a month of preparation, Rosh Ha-Shanah ushers in an intense period of repentance, an opportunity for individuals to reflect and to make amends and apologise to family and friends for the wrongs they have inflicted. The Hebrew word for repentance is t’shuvah, which means, ‘returning’. After returning to others, Yom Kippur is a day for turning towards God in humility, making confession and seeking forgiveness.

Like all Jewish days, Yom Kippur begins in the evening, and like all Jewish days follows the cycle of the evening, morning and afternoon services. As with Shabbat (the Sabbath) and the festivals, it also includes readings from the Torah (the Five Books of Moses) and the prophetic books, as well as an ‘additional’ service after the morning service. The key scriptural readings are Isaiah chapter 58 in the morning and the Book of Jonah in the afternoon. While Isaiah proclaims that the Eternal One disdains empty ritual, and calls on us to ‘break the shackles of injustice’, ‘feed the hungry and clothe the naked’, the story of Jonah reminds us that God forgives all those who make sincere repentance – even wicked rulers and regimes. After a memorial service, for the remembrance of loved ones have died, Yom Kippur concludes with a unique service called N’ilah, which evokes the image of gates closing on the day, and the need to make a final appeal for God’s mercy.

The day ends but the festival period of this special seventh month of the year continues. Just five days later, the seven-day festival of Sukkot, Tabernacles, is the time for rejoicing in the fruits of the land and for remembering the forty years spent wandering in the wilderness, when the people were dependent on the protection of God. The key rituals of the festival involve ‘dwelling’ – or at a minimum, ‘sitting’ – in a sukkah, a temporary abode, the roof of greenery open to the elements, and ‘waving’ the lulav – a bundle made up of a palm branch, two willow and three myrtle twigs – together with a lemon-like fruit, the etrog (see Leviticus 23), in all directions: east, south, west, north, heavenwards, and towards the earth. Inviting guests into the sukkah is a key feature, but while the sukkah creates an opportunity for hospitality, it also reminds us of the fragility of life. Similarly, waving the lulav and etrog makes us aware of the wide world, and the universe beyond, and puts our lives in the context of Eternity. The key scriptural reading associated with Sukkot is Ecclesiastes, the book of Wisdom, which teaches equanimity and awareness that ‘For everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven’.

The special festival period of the seventh month ends on Sh’mini Atzeret, the Eighth day of ‘Closure’. In Progressive Judaism, it is on this day that we celebrate the post-biblical festival of Simchat Torah, meaning the ‘Rejoicing of the Torah’, while in Orthodox Judaism the festival is celebrated on the following day. On Simchat Torah the annual cycle of Torah readings ordained by the rabbis, concludes with the reading of the last chapter of Deuteronomy, relating the death of Moses. After this special moment, we then go back to the beginning, and read the story of Creation. It is traditional for individual members of the community to be honoured to preside over the readings from the end and the beginning of the Torah, as ‘Bridegroom of the Torah’ and ‘Bridegroom of the Beginning’, respectively. In Progressive Judaism, ‘Brides’ are also honoured, and in some congregations, like Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue, rather than use a second Torah scroll for the Genesis reading, we physically unwind the scroll around the congregation after reading the concluding chapter, with everyone gathered holding it up, before winding back to the beginning again. After Simchat Torah the New Year begins in earnest

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

In Temple times, the first day of the seventh month of the Jewish year was known simply as zikaron, a ‘memorial’ (Leviticus 23: 24); ‘yom t’ru’ah, ‘a day of blasting’ (Numbers 29:1) – from the Hebrew root, Reish Vav Ayin, meaning to ‘raise a shout (of alarm)’, or ‘give a blast’. It was only centuries later that the rabbis referred to this day as the New Year for years – Rosh Ha-Shanah (Mishnah Rosh Ha-Shanah 1:1). So, from its very inception, yom t’ru’ah was a summons, ushering in a period of repentance, culminating on the tenth day of the seventh month, in what the Torah calls Yom ha-Kippurim (Lev. 23:27)

To this day, the blasts of the shofar, the ram’s horn, constitute the centre-piece of the observance of Rosh Ha-Shanah. And the shofar is not simply blown. At the end of the Torah service, and in three sets during the Musaf (Additional) service – Malchuyyot, ‘Sovereignty’, Zichronot,  ‘Remembrances’, and Shofarot, ‘Shofar blasts’ – the congregation is summoned to attention with a pattern of blasts: T’ki’ah, sh’varim-t’ru’ah, t’ki’ah, t’ki’ah, sh’varim, t’ki’ah, t’ki’ah, t’ru’ah, t’ki’ah – culminating in a t’ki’ah g’dolah, a ‘great t’ki’ah’.

As the blessing preceding the shofar blowing puts it, we are commanded lishmo’a kol shofar, ‘to listen to the voice of the shofar’. According to Maimonides, ‘the voice of the shofar’ is proclaiming: ‘Awake, you sleepers, from your sleep!….. Examine your deeds, and turn to God in repentance’ (Mishneh Torah, ‘Laws of Repentance’, Hilchot T’shuvah, 3:4). But what do we make of the different sounds? Commentators have provided various explanations. This year, I suggest we might reflect on the following way of ‘listening’ to the blasts:

T’ki’ah – a straightforward blast: The clear voice of global crises – economic, political and ecological – demanding a response from all of us, not just from those in positions of power.

T’ru’ah – nine short blasts: The anguished groans of the persecuted and the marginalised, the hungry, the homeless, and the destitute – pleading with us to open our hearts and our hands.

Sh’varim – three ‘broken’ blasts: The complex message that although it is not for us to complete the work, neither are we free to desist from it (Mishnah Avot 2:16), and that even a ‘third party’ – those who are neither the perpetrators nor the victimised – are called to do what we can to contribute to tikkun olam, the repair of the world.

Sh’varim-T’ru’ah – the combination only serves to reinforce the sense of urgency.

T’ki’ah G’dolah – the ‘great t’ki’ah’: And, if not now, when? (Mishnah Avot 1:14)

May the many voices of the shofar reach us all and summon us to act – Shanah Tovah!

From the Rabbi

Before we dedicate this leaf in memory of Archie and Elizabeth Fay, I would just like to say a little about them – and share with you some extracts from the address I gave at Hove Cemetery at the rededication of the stone set in their memory on 12^th September last year.

Archie Fay was born in London on December 10^th 1889. In 1915 Archie married Elizabeth Wainberg, who was a year younger than him, and in 1922, the couple became members of the Liberal Jewish Synagogue in London, led by the charismatic first Rabbi of Liberal Judaism in this country, American-born, Israel Mattuck.

Archie and Elizabeth were both very active in LJS until they moved to Hove in 1938, and joined what was then called the Hove Liberal Synagogue. It was a time of upheaval for the congregation: Reverend Goldberg left that same year, and although he was replaced in 1939 by refugee Rabbi Dr Lemle, who came from Frankfurt, following the outbreak of war, Rabbi Lemle was interned, and after his release in 1940, then went to work in Rio de Janeiro, where he founded a synagogue.

Archie Fay very quickly became involved in the congregation as a lay reader, and, significantly, it was very soon afterwards, in 1941 – 70 years ago – that the decision was taken to change the name of the congregation to Brighton & Hove Liberal Synagogue. In November 1944, Archie Fay was inducted as a part-time lay minister by Rabbi Mattuck.  Six years later, on September 9th 1950, following his retirement from his London County Council education post, Archie Fay was inducted, once again, by Rabbi Mattuck; this time as the full-time Minister.

Archie and Elizabeth were at the heart of Brighton and Hove Liberal Synagogue, and were taken into the hearts of all its members.  The Reverend Archie Fay was the principal educator of young and old alike, and conducted many confirmations, weddings and funerals during his time as Minister.

For her own part, in addition to supporting Archie in his work, Elizabeth was also very active in synagogue matters and served as the chair of the Ladies’ committee many times. Like her husband, Elizabeth also gave her life to the congregation unstintingly.

The last service Archie Fay led for the congregation was at Purim, on 17^th March 1962. He died on 18^th April, and was buried on April 24^th.

Following Archie Fay’s death, a fund was inaugurated, which led to the purchase of 26 Farm Road. The new building was dedicated as Archie Fay House on 22^nd March 1964, and has housed our Religion School, the synagogue office and the Council Chamber and Library ever since.

Elizabeth survived Archie by 13 years. Much loved by the congregation, following her death on January 31^st 1975, a fund was also established in her name, and on 17^th September 1976 – that is, exactly thirty-five years ago to the day – the front porch entrance of the synagogue was dedicated to her memory.

I have presented a few of the facts associated with the lives of Archie and Elizabeth Fay, and several people here today will have their own personal memories of them both. For those, who didn’t know Archie Fay, an address that he gave at the synagogue on Shabbat Naso, June 3^rd 1944, just three days before D-Day, gives us a very vivid sense of his personality, his vision and his dedication. Focussing on the repairs to the synagogue that were in process at that time – a major preoccupation of subsequent generations to this day – much of what Archie Fay said all those years ago remains relevant for us now. It is remarkable to think that he was addressing the congregation during a critical moment in what became known as the ‘Second World War’.

These are some of the questions he put to those gathered on that Shabbat morning – starting with his opening paragraph to give you a flavour, both of the context, and of his style of speaking and writing – I especially like the fact that he addressed a lot of questions to the congregation; something, that I’m in the habit of doing myself:

As you well know, the synagogue is under repair. What is being done to it? Well, it is being strengthened, made watertight, made more pleasing to look at, made a little more pleasing to the eye and more pleasing place to be in. So the synagogue will, outwardly at any rate, be a better place in the future. But my friends, all these things are externals. We can visualise our synagogue of tomorrow in its material aspect, a materially brighter and more stable building. But what of the synagogue of tomorrow from another aspect? Today on the eve of great adventures in the field of war, when one can see a little clearer the days when war will be over, everyone is talking and thinking of re-construction – new plans, new schemes, brilliant ideas. For our synagogue we have our new plans, new schemes – but all of a material nature. Are we preparing a synagogue which, when its plans are completed, is going to be a building for something out of date? Is religion and public worship a worn out fetish? For to re-plan and reinforce a building for a purpose which really does not exist is futile. In this very modern age, an age of radio and television, of jet planes and rockets, of human torpedoes and alas! of the jitterbug, is the synagogue an anachronism?

Let us get our thinking right on this point. Is the synagogue, is this synagogue, going to be something worth holding on to in the storms that lie ahead?

Yes, Archie Fay asked these questions way back in 1944! He then went on to remind people of ‘what had been the functions of the synagogue in the past generation’, and then he asked another question – and offered a response, with which many of today’s lay leaders of the shul may well concur:

What can we do to make the synagogue worth keeping? I’d like to see many more of its members take an active part in its affairs, an active interest in its upkeep, not a few devoted members of the Council only. I should like to see it linked up more actively in the citizen life of the town, beyond its four walls, lending its voice and it’s aid both as a community and through its individual members, through all its individual members, to a creation of the fulfilment of the hopes so many have today.

After talking about the importance of attracting the younger generation to the synagogue for the sake of the future, Archie Fay concluded:

How are we to do it – Frankly who knows? But it must be done and we must try to find the means. It rests with you as individuals, this future of the synagogue, you as individuals, for after all the synagogue can only be what its members make it – If we all bestir ourselves as actively to rejuvenate the spirit of the synagogue as we have to rejuvenate its fabric then I am positive that even in this modern age it can be once again a source of strength, once again a place to which a man will come and bring his family, and once again a place from where he can take back into his home a spirit of goodness, of kindness, and of brotherly love, that no cinema, no dance Hall, no football match could ever give. Amen.

As Archie Fay’s concluding words reveal, life was less inclusive and egalitarian 60 years ago, and who knows what he would have made of personal computers and mobiles, and all the other IT gadgets that take up so much of our time now. But as we dedicate this leaf to the memory of Archie and Elizabeth Fay – at a time, when we are about to embark on restoring and reshaping the synagogue building and planning for the future – it is rather special to know that the man who led our congregation 60 years ago, has a message that is relevant for us today, His questions are our questions, and hopefully, we also share his enthusiasm and commitment.

As we pay tribute to Archie and Elizabeth Fay today, and recall their dedication to our congregation, let us not only dedicate a leaf on out Tree of Life to their memory, but also re-dedicate ourselves to the sacred tasks of developing our synagogue to meet the challenges and opportunities of the 21^st century. Zichronam livrachah – May the memory of Archie and Elizabeth Fay be a source of blessing in the life of our congregation now and in the future.

And let us say: Amen.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

17^th September 2011 – 18^th Tishri 5771

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

Resources

Monthly Bulletin of Brighton and Hove Liberal Synagogue, May 1962

Induction Service for Mr A. M. Fay, Brighton & Hove Liberal Synagogue, Saturday, 9 September 1950

An Address Delivered at the Brighton and Hove Liberal Synagogue on 3^rd June 1944 by Mr A. M. Fay

Liberal Judaism. The First Hundred Years by Lawrence Rigal and Rosita Rosenberg, Liberal Judaism, London, 2004

A two-state solution is a spiritual as well as political necessity.

In recent years it seems that there has been a growing division within the diaspora Jewish community between the supporters of a “secure” Israel, on the one hand, and the promoters of a “just” Israel, on the other. But the landscape of Jewish attitudes has been changing. According to the initial findings from the Israel survey conducted last year by the London-based Institute for Jewish Policy Research, 78 per cent of the 4,000 respondents supported a two-state solution – and 72 per cent described themselves as Zionists.

In his book, Future Tense, the Chief Rabbi of the United Hebrew Congregations, Lord Sacks, an ardent Zionist, writes: “The broad shape of a solution to the problem of Israel and the Palestinians has never been in doubt. It was implicit in the Balfour declaration in 1917, explicit in 1947 United Nations resolution on partition, and set out in detail in all peace proposals since: two states for two peoples, a political solution to a political problem.”

So it seems that perhaps we can talk of “new” Zionists and a “new Zionism” that embraces recognition of the need of the Palestinians for statehood. But what is the substance of this new Zionism? Is the two-state solution simply, “a political solution to a political problem”? Or, is the new Zionism inspired by Jewish values? On February 24 1939, Martin Buber, wrote a letter to Mahatma Gandhi, who had taken the position that “Palestine belongs to the Arabs”.

Buber wrote: “I belong to a group of people who from the time Britain conquered Palestine have not ceased to strive for the concluding of a genuine peace between Jew and Arab… We could not and cannot renounce the Jewish claim; something even higher than the life of our people is bound up with this land, namely its work, its divine mission. But we have been and still are convinced that it must be possible to find some compromise between this claim and the other, for we love this land and we believe in its future.”

Buber’s attitude to the other inhabitants of the land reflected his philosophy of ‘I and Thou’. But Buber’s approach was also rooted in the Torah’s insistence on justice and acknowledgement of the needs and the rights of others (see Leviticus 19). At the time that he was writing, before the Shoah and the establishment of the state of Israel, Buber was part of a group of Zionists called Brit Shalom (“Covenant of Peace”), who hoped that Jews and Palestinians would be able to live together.

If he were alive today, after everything that has happened, I have no doubt that the “compromise” Buber would be advocating would be a two-state solution.

The Jewish community is united in its longing for peace. On the ground, peace between Israelis and Palestinians cannot be achieved in the absence of justice because the Palestinians will not give up their struggle until they have secured a state. But the longing for peace on the part of diaspora Jews is also about something else: peace of mind. New Zionism creates the possibility of congruence in the hearts and minds of those who love Israel, and want the Jewish state to thrive and survive – and who love justice, too.

Diaspora Jewry needs a new Zionism – and so does Israel. According to the rabbis, the root cause of the destruction of the second Temple by the Romans in 70 CE was sinat chinam, “senseless hatred” between the warring factions of Jewish society at that time (Talmud, Yoma 9b). It is unthinkable that the state of Israel, like its previous incarnations, might be consigned to history, but it is possible. What would be the cause this time?

The haftarah, on the Shabbat prior to Tishah b’Av, the day that commemorates the destruction of the first and second Temples – the third of three “haftarot of affliction” – is taken from the first chapter of the book of Isaiah. There, berating the “sinful nation”, the prophet proclaims: “Cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice; relieve the oppressed.”

Isaiah preached during the second half of the eighth century BCE, during the years before and after the northern Kingdom of Israel was wiped out by the Assyrians, and more than a century before the Babylonians destroyed King Solomon’s Temple in 586 BCE and devastated Judah.

In recent months, a new Jewish grassroots movement called Yachad has been launched, determined to raise awareness of the “growing numbers within Israel, including former army generals, heads of intelligence and leading academic and cultural figures, who believe that a Palestinian state based on 1967 borders, with mutually agreed land swaps, is urgent for Israel’s long term survival and security”.

In a few days, the United Nations will vote on the establishment of an independent State of Palestine. The time is now. The haftarah prior to Tishah b’Av, concludes: “Zion shall be redeemed by justice (b’mishpat), and its repentant people by righteousness (bitzdakah)” (1:27).

Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah is rabbi of Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue.

There are many ways of interpreting the word which is the theme of this issue of Open Door: ‘Leaves’. I would like to invite you to reflect on ‘leaves’ as in the ‘leaves of a book’ – but not just any book: the book of our lives.

Throughout the High Holy Day period, we sing the plaintive refrain, which reflects the image of God writing down our deeds in a book – and expresses the fervent hope that we will be inscribed in ‘the Book of Life’: Zochreinu la-chayyim, Melech chafeitz ba-chayyim, v’chotveinu be’sefer ha-chayyim, l’ma’an’cha Elohim chayyim. ‘Remember us for life, for you, O Sovereign, delight in life; and inscribe us in the Book of Life, for Your sake, O God of life.’

However, although the emphasis during the yamim nora’im, literally, the ‘awed days’, is on God as a supreme Sovereign passing judgement on our lives, and recording our deeds, in reality, we are the ones doing the writing. The 11th century Spanish Jewish philosopher, Bachya ibn Pakuda, wrote, ‘Days are scrolls; write on them only what you wish to be remembered’ (Duties of the Heart).

In these days of personal computers and smart phones, very few of us still experience the sensation of sitting, pen in hand, a blank sheet of paper in front of us – even school pupils are more likely to type on a screen than to write on a piece of paper. But, of course, ibn Pakuda was speaking metaphorically; whatever the technology we employ to communicate, we are, ultimately, responsible for our actions. It is up to us to decide what to do – and what not to do; what to say – and what not to say.

In the month preceding Rosh Ha-Shanah, the month of Elul, and during the ten days, which begin on the first day of the seventh month, and end as the sun sets on Yom Kippur, we have the opportunity to take the book of our lives in our hands, to read what we have written so far, and to consider, as we look at the blank leaves beyond, what we are going to write in the next chapter. Of course, the future is not certain and we are bound to be overtaken by events we cannot predict, which are beyond our control. Nevertheless, on the basis of how we have lived up to this point, we can make decisions about how we will live from this day onwards. We can decide to break old habits. We can make different choices and explore new pathways.

As the season turns, and the leaves fall from the trees, may each one of us find the courage, to turn over a new leaf in the book of our lives, and begin a fresh chapter. But that’s not all. As we say goodbye to 26 Farm Road, and begin the process of rebuilding 6 Lansdowne Road, may we also resolve to participate in the writing of a new chapter in the life of our congregation.

Shanah Tovah! May the year that lies ahead be a time of renewal for each one of us, for our loved ones, for our synagogue, for the Jewish people, and for all the peoples of the Earth.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

I want to tell you about a dream I had in the early hours of the morning of Sunday 5 June.  Somehow, I was outside a building – a building, not unlike Independence Hall on Rothschild Blvd in Tel Aviv, where David Ben Gurion declared the establishment of the State of Israel on 14 May 1948 – 5 Iyyar 5727. I was not alone. There were thousands of people singing and shouting and dancing – and crying tears of joy. And I was crying, too. Suddenly, I realised that Jess, my partner, who had been standing beside me, was no longer there. Noticing me look round, a friend said: ‘she’s run inside ‘. Before I knew it, I was running inside, too. The hall was packed. There was a long table at one end and rows of chairs. But no one was sitting – everyone was standing and talking and laughing and hugging one another. Eventually, I saw Jess – and we hugged, and then I saw one friend, and then another – each time, a huge hug, while we jumped for joy – and more tears. What was going on? A few minutes earlier, the person who had been standing at the microphone in the middle of the long table, had declared the independent State of Palestine.

I can’t tell you, the date. Of course, it hasn’t happened yet. A naive fantasy? Maybe. The point is, it was a dream – one of the most vivid dreams I’ve ever had. For years, I have nurtured the hope that one-day, there would be a sovereign, democratic State of Palestine, alongside the sovereign, democratic State of Israel – that’s why I wear a badge on my lapel, displaying the flag of Israel alongside the flag of Palestine, and the words, Justice, Peace, Life. But here I was, actually dreaming the moment. I can still recall the feeling of ecstatic joy – the same feeling that I have often imagined I would have felt had I been there in Independence Hall on 14 May 1948.

It was only when I woke up that I realised the significance of the date: 5 June, the anniversary of the outbreak of the Six Day War in 1967. I remember that time so well. I was 12 years old. I recall anxiously watching the television in the home of Israeli friends of my parents, Ofra and Henry. I remember my parents and my older brother going to Alyth Gardens synagogue to give blood. I remember standing on a chair in the classroom at school at break time and declaiming to my classmates about the valiant Israelis – until our form mistress insisted that I ‘get down immediately!’

So much has happened since 1967 – a litany of dates and moments, of violence and destruction, of fear and loss, of defiance and anguish, of new hope and hope destroyed – on both sides of the conflict. And now: the possibility of a new beginning… A new initiative was launched in the Jewish community recently to promote support for a two state solution: Yachad – the campaign ‘for Israel and for Peace’. You may have met the director of Yachad at Limmud – an inspiring young woman called, Hannah Weisfeld. Two sovereign states: the only outcome to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict that will also ensure a safe, secure future for both peoples. I guess I dreamt that dream, because, like all those members of our Jewish community, who have already got behind Yachad, for me, the time has come for all of us to do what we can to make our hopes for peace become a reality.

So, spring has sprung, and as the light and warmth increases, we open our doors and windows to the world outside, and get down to some serious spring-cleaning.

It is interesting to note in this connection, how the Torah introduces the Festival of Pesach – or rather the preparations for the very first Passover, which is what Pesach means: the preparation for the Passover of the Eternal One, when God ‘passed over’  (pasach) the houses of the Hebrew slaves, smiting the firstborn of Egypt (Parashat Bo, Exodus 12:27). We read: ‘This month shall be to you the beginning of months; it shall be the first month of the year to you’ (Exodus 12:2) – and then the Torah continues with instructions for the slaves (12:3-11): on the 10^th of the month, each household was to take a lamb; on the 14^th, the whole congregation had to slaughter the lambs at dusk, and put the blood on the two front door-posts; after that, they had to roast the lamb, and eat it with maror, bitter herb, and matzah, unleavened bread  – and with their loins girded, their shoes on their feet and their staffs in their hands; ‘in haste, because it is the Passover (Pesach) of the Eternal’ (:11).

The Hebrew slaves were preparing for a new beginning during the month that was to be ‘the beginning of months’, the first month of the year. In the last section of the portion, one short verse provides a name for this month: Aviv – which is Hebrew for ‘spring’ (13:4). Later, after the Babylonian exile (which began in 586 BCE), the month of Aviv was renamed, Nissan, which is a Babylonian loan-word (see Esther 3:7 and Nehemiah 2:1), but the original name, Aviv, reminds us that the first month of the Jewish year is all about new life – for our ancestors, and also for us: Of course, a major aspect of celebrating Pesach each year is to commemorate the first Pesach in the first new month in the life of the nascent Jewish people; but, just as important, is the opportunity it gives us to renew our lives. And so, spring cleaning, and clearing out all the chameitz is not just about getting rid of leavened foods, and items containing the five grains, which are prohibited for eating at Pesach, it is also about cleansing ourselves of the chameitz of the past year: both, the starchy, sweet foods we comfort ourselves with over the winter, and the mouldy leftovers of quarrels and disagreements – and the false pride and arrogant attitudes, which puff us up. So, as April begins – and also, Nissan/Aviv (on April 5^th this year) – why not, dust yourself off, while you’re doing all that spring-cleaning, and prepare for a new beginning.

Pesach Samei’ach!

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

This year the first day of Pesach coincides with the anniversary of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, which began on 19^th April 1943 – Erev Pesach that year. To put the uprising in context: within 18 months of Hitler’s decision to liquidate all the ghettos, more than two million Jews were deported to the death camps. By the end of 1942, approximately 300,000 of this number had been rounded up in the Warsaw ghetto and transported to Treblinka, leaving, between 55,000 and 60,000.

In January 1943, a small group of mostly young Jews, using a stash of smuggled weapons, attacked German troops as they were rounding up more Jews for deportation. Within a few days, the troops retreated. Emboldened by this small victory, led by 23-year-old Mordecai Anielewicz, the ghetto fighters, organised as the Z.O.B. (Zydowska Organizacja Bojowa – Jewish Fighting Organization), set about acquiring more weapons and making plans to defend the ghetto. As they prepared for the final deportation, the Germans also made sure that they were ready to meet resistance. And so, on April 18^th on the eve of the final deportation to Treblinka, Jurgen Stroop, an SS officer, who had experience of fighting partisans, was put in charge.

Warned of the timing of the final deportation, the ghetto fighters make sure that the Jews who remained in the ghetto went into hiding. When the German troops entered on the morning of April 19^th 750 fighters armed with a handful of pistols, rifles, and Molotov cocktails took on more than 2,000 heavily armed and well-trained German troops – and held out against them for 27 days. The first major blow came on May 8^th when the Germans captured the headquarters bunker of the ZOB at 18 Mila Street, and  Mordecai Anielewicz and a large number of his colleagues were killed in the fighting – although several dozen fighters escaped through the sewers. By May 16^th it was all over.  Approximately 300 Germans and 7,000 Jews were killed during the uprising, and another 7,000 Jews were deported to Treblinka.

Some of the ghetto fighters who survived, made aliyah to Israel in 1949, and you can still meet a handful of them at the Ghetto Fighters House at Kibbutz Lohamei Ha-gheta’ot, in the Western Galilee. This valiant moment became so important in the collective psyche of the nascent Jewish state that when Jewish scholars began to discuss setting a date for commemoration of the Sho’ah, the Israelis argued for one that coincided with the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. Since Pesach itself wasn’t possible, in 1951 – sixty years ago – Yom Ha-Sho’ah was fixed for a few days later: 27^th Nissan, eight days before Yom Ha-Atzma’ut – Israel Independence day (5^th Iyyar).

Since this year, the first day of Pesach coincides with the first day of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, it seems appropriate that as we celebrate the ‘Season of our Freedom’ – Z’man Cheiruteinu – we remember that the process of liberation begins, when people take action to liberate themselves. Pesach Samei’ach!

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

The Guardian’s collusion with al-Jazeera in publishing selected items of confidential information on the negotiations between Israelis and Palestinians has been extremely foolish (Comment, 31 January); and if I didn’t still hold on to the view that the Guardian is a newspaper of integrity, I might say that it looks like sabotage. Fortunately, the so-called villain of the piece, Saeb Erekat, the chief Palestinian negotiator, has already explained in robust terms what negotiation involves. Fortunately, too, many Palestinians on the ground understand what is at stake, and do not regard him as a traitor.

My meeting with Erekat revealed that he is, indeed, a passionate advocate of his people. In February 2005, I participated in a Rabbis for Human Rights mission to Israel and the Palestinian territories, which met Erekat in Jericho, and Yasser Abed Rabbo, head of the Palestinian Peace Coalition, in Ramallah. Both men were furious about the way the separation barrier deviated from the green line and cut into Palestinian territory. Both were angry about Ariel Sharon’s unilateral, patronising approach and the way he delivered ultimatums. They were frustrated by the reluctance of Israel to make the life of ordinary Palestinians a little easier – like removing the checkpoint outside Jericho. Both were aware that in withdrawing from Gaza, Sharon was planning to hold on to as much land in the West Bank as possible. And yet both remained totally committed to a two-state solution and refused to lose sight of their goal: a sovereign, secure and democratic state of Palestine, living peacefully alongside a sovereign, secure and democratic State of Israel.

Securing that involves negotiating – which involves compromises on both sides. The only good that has come out of the Palestine papers is that they clearly show that Israel does have a partner to negotiate with – but anyone seriously interested in a just and peaceful resolution to the conflict, knew that already.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

Guardian online edition

An isolated visionary, whose words were rarely heeded, the prophet Jeremiah spent forty years prophesying in Judah, during the late seventh century and early sixth century BCE, when the two great powers of Babylon and Egypt were contending for supremacy in the region. There is an obvious connection with the parashah: Just as Parashat Bo relates the final plagues against Egypt and the defeat of Pharaoh by the Eternal One, so in the haftarah, Jeremiah prophesies that Egypt will be defeated by Divine intervention once again.

But despite the obvious similarities, the context in which prophet was delivering his message was very different: In the haftarah Jeremiah speaks out against the alliance Judah has made with Egypt in order to keep Babylon at bay, and predicts that Babylon will prevail. His critique exposes the realpolitik of life for a tiny nation at the mercy of superpowers.

Judah was, indeed, conquered by Babylon in 586 BCE. However, that wasn’t the end of the story. One of the main purposes of the haftarah is homiletical – to chastise and denounce wrong-doing, and then conclude with words of hope or consolation. And so, haftarat Bo closes with Jeremiah predicting the end of the people’s captivity in Babylon, and their return – which also came to pass: the Persians defeated the Babylonians, and King Cyrus allowed the exiles to come back to the land, and to rebuild the Temple in Jerusalem.

It feels very neat – but something else is going on: having defeated Egypt, why did the Eternal One allow Babylon to triumph over Judah? By focusing on the eventual restoration of Judah, one may ignore a more powerful theological message: Adonai Tz’va’ot – ‘the Eternal One of Hosts’ (46:18), who punished Egypt, also punished Judah; the Eternal One, who is ‘with’ Israel (:28), is, also, ha-Melech – ‘the Sovereign’ (ibid.) – of all, who condemns wrong conduct in every place; as we read in the final phrase of the haftarah: v’nakkeih lo anakkeka – ‘I will not, indeed, exempt you’ (:28).

What should a father who say to his children before he dies? Parashat Va-y’chi relates Jacob’s blessing of his sons as his death approaches. Similarly, the Haftarah relates King David’s final words to the son he has chosen to succeed him: Solomon. Jacob’s last testimony reflects his blatant preference for his favourite son, Rachel’s firstborn, Joseph (Genesis 49:22-26). Is it a surprise that he remains true to form? And when we read what David says to Solomon, isn’t it to be expected that a man, whose life involved so much war and conflict, should tell his son to take vengeance on those who had acted against him – Joab son of Zeruiah, and Shim’i the son of Gera – as he takes his dying breaths?

But David does begin by proclaiming a more ethical legacy to his son: ‘Keep faith with the Eternal your God, walking in God’s ways, carrying out the laws, commandments, rules of justice, and directions of God, as written in the Torah of Moses, so that you may succeed in all that you do and whatever you turn to’ (I Kings 2:3). Interestingly, I Chronicles, chapters 28 and 29, record a much longer farewell address; a public pronouncement to all the officers of Israel, which includes confirmation that Solomon is his chosen successor, as well as David’s instructions to Solomon to build ‘the House of the Eternal’. In this speech, the dying king offers words of encouragement to the son, who is to rule after him: ‘be strong and of good courage and do it; do not be afraid or dismayed, for the Eternal God, my God, is with you; He will not fail you or forsake you until all the work on the House of the Eternal is done’ (I Chronicles 29:20). ‘Be strong and of good courage’. According to the Torah (Va-yeilech, Deuteronomy 31:22), this is exactly what Moses said to Joshua before he died – and this is exactly what David needed to say, as he handed on the mantle of authority to his son. We are left to ponder the contrast between King David’s private words to Solomon and his public utterance – and we are reminded that this powerful and charismatic leader, was also very flawed; a man of passions, who often allowed those passions to get the better of him – which is why the task of building the House of the Eternal was left to Solomon.

Haftarat Va-y’chi – I Kings 2:1-12: Last Words

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

The narratives of B’reishit are wonderful stories about relationships and behaviour.  Often they reveal a disturbing, shadow-side of the human personality, particularly disturbing as much of the focus is on family life. Parashat Va-yeishev is a perfect case in point.

Jacob has twelve sons – and one favourite: Joseph.  Resentful of Joseph’s favoured status, the other sons sell him into slavery in Egypt.  Ordinary sibling rivalry is transmuted into hatred and revenge that gets uglier and more tragic when, presenting Joseph’s torn and bloodied garment to their father, Jacob’s other sons lead him to believe that Joseph is dead.  Where is the morality in all of this?

So we turn to the haftarah from the prophet Amos, a Judean shepherd who moved to Israel and preached in the 8^th century BCE.   He proclaims:  “Thus says the Eternal: for Israel’s three transgressions, and for four, I will not revoke it [judgment]: because they sell the righteous silver, and the needy for a pair of sandals.”  Amos directed this critique at the wealthy Israelites who exploited the vulnerable and ignored all the rules of justice and ethical behaviour, including selling people into slavery. The parashah is a family affair – but through the lens of the prophet, we recognise how all individual cases of wrongdoing add up to an unjust and immoral society.

Where is the voice of God in the Joseph story? Later, when Joseph, finally reveals himself to his brothers, he tells them that their actions were part of a Divine plan. But does this absolve them? Although we may understand why Joseph’s brothers took revenge on him, can we justify it? Joseph’s story does not invite us to ask these questions directly; however, when read alongside the haftarah, we have an opportunity to explore a familiar tale of a dysfunctional family from a very different, ethical perspective.

The Words of the Prophets – Haftarah for Parashat Vayeishev

27 November 2010 – Amos 2:6-3:8

An Ethical Take on the Joseph Story

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

Traditionally, the name of a prayer or portion of the Torah is drawn from the first key word.  The Yotzer begins – after the six-word blessing formula:  ‘Yotzer or u’vorei choshech’, ‘Who forms light and creates darkness’.  God is the One, who forms and creates, recalling the Creation stories narrated in Genesis chapters one and two, with which the Torah opens.

This is not remarkable on its own.  But the Yotzer is the first blessing after the Bar’chu, the call to the community to prayer.  Why do the prayers of the community begin with a blessing about Creation?   With the Sh’ma at the centre, why is the order of the blessings, Creation, Revelation, Redemption?

Paradoxically, while Judaism focuses on the journey of a particular people, the People Israel, and that particular people’s Covenant with God, it stresses again and again that ‘our God’ is not only ‘the God of our ancestors’, but the One God of all Creation.  The Torah begins with Creation, and while the whole of Jewish Theology is contained in this section of the service:  Creation; Revelation; Redemption – Creation comes first.   And so, as if to emphasise the point, after we have recited the Yotzer, and Ahavah Rabbah, the voice of the Divine interjects, proclaiming:  ‘Sh’ma Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad’ – ‘Listen! Israel, Adonai is Our God; Adonai is One’, and in this way interrupts the particularist connection between Revelation and Redemption:  Our loving, liberating God is the Creator of the Universe.

Creation comes first. But that’s not all.  The Yotzer reminds us that the renewal of Creation – Tikkun Olam, the ‘Repair of the World’ – is the central purpose of our lives.  God did not create the Universe once and for all:  ‘m’chadeish b’chol yom tamid ma’aseih v’reishit’ – The Eternal One renews the work of Creation, continually, day by day’ – and calls us to be partners with God in this sacred task.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

December 1^st marks the 10th anniversary of my first day as Rabbi of our congregation. As it happens, this year, the festival of Chanukkah begins that evening, with the lighting of the first candle. It feels very appropriate. Chanukkah means ‘dedication’. The rededication of the Temple in 164 BCE marked a new beginning in the life of the Jewish people. Similarly, ten years is a milestone; the completion of a decade that also invites a rededication.

Significantly, my 10th anniversary as Rabbi coincides with plans to transform the synagogue building, so that it may be better suited to our needs, and to the future life of the congregation. There is a long way to go yet before the builders move in, but it is fitting that this Chanukkah, our remembrance of a transformational moment in the life of our people be combined with each one of us thinking about how we might contribute to the task of rededicating our community for tomorrow.

It feels like a daunting task – where to start? The eight days of Chanukkah, with the steady accumulation of flames, provides a helpful device. So, as you light candles this year, I invite you to focus your thoughts, by adding these words to the traditional blessings, and pausing to reflect:

‘As I light the first candle, I think about what it means for me to be part of the Brighton Hove Progressive Synagogue’

‘As I light two candles, I think about the part the synagogue has played in my life over the past year, and whether or not I would like to more involved’

‘As I light three candles, I think about the synagogue as a Beit K’nesset, a ‘House of Meeting’, and what kinds of social activities I would like to be participate in’

‘As I light four candles, I think about the synagogue as a Beit Midrash, a ‘House of Study’, and what Jewish learning I would like to engage in’

‘As I light five candles, I think about the synagogue as a Beit T’fillah, a ‘House of Prayer’, and which Shabbat and festival services I find most meaningful – and why’

As I light six candles, I think about what I most value about the synagogue now’

‘As I light seven candles, I think about what I would like the synagogue to become’

‘As I light eight candles, I think about what I can contribute to the development of the synagogue’

May this Chanukkah be, for all of us, a time of rededication in the life of our congregation – Chanukkah Samei’ach!

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

Jewish life is a tale of cycles: the cycle of the week from Shabbat to Shabbat; the cycle of the months from Nissan to Adar; the cycle of the year from Rosh Ha-Shanah to S’lichot – the service of ‘forgiveness’, a few days before the New Year that ushers in the Yamim Nora’im, the ‘Days of Awe’.  And within the cycle of the year: the cycle of the weekly Torah readings, which begin with Creation and end with the death of Moses – and then go back to the beginning again; and the cycle of the major festivals, the chaggim, the three ‘pilgrim’ festivals of Pesach, Shavuot and Sukkot: the Hebrew word, chag, like the Arabic word, haj, denotes ‘pilgrimage’, and reminds us that in biblical times, our ancestors, an agricultural people, would make a pilgrimage to the Temple in Jerusalem with the fruits of their labour three times a year; in the spring, the early summer, and the autumn.

We also speak of the ‘life cycle’ from birth to death. But the life of an individual is not a cycle; and, indeed, the life of the Jewish people is not a cycle: yes, we repeat and repeat, again and again, year after year, but no year is ever the same as the year before. Interestingly, the Hebrew word for year, shanah, comes from a three letter ‘root’, the consonants shin, nun hey, which means both to ‘repeat’ and to ‘change’; and so we repeat the cycle from year to year, and each year is also, utterly new.

But the passage of time is not simply a fact of life, which intrudes on the cycle of our sacred rites; Jewish life is also a tale of our journeys from the past into the future; from the time that our first ancestors, Abraham and Sarah, left their land, their kindred, their family home, the Jewish people has always been consciously and deliberately on the move. Paradoxically, while we continually look back, retrace our steps, reiterate our stories, re-read the Torah; we are also always on a journey towards tomorrow: Jewish teaching exhorts us to ‘remember’ the past, in particular, our experience as slaves in ‘the house of bondage’, in order that our remembrance of oppression and persecution may lead us to direct our efforts to pursuing justice, seeking peace, and repairing the world. Jewish life is less a cycle and more, a spiral, as, each year we, both, repeat and change, forever spiraling towards the future.

So, here we are again at the turn of the year; we have done it all before, and yet, a New Year beckons: May we all find the courage, to look forwards with hope – Shanah Tovah!

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

The connection with Parashat B’reishit is evident in the very first verse (Isaiah 42:5):

Thus says the Eternal God, who created the heavens and stretched them out, who made the earth and all that grows in it, who gives breath to its people and spirit to all who walk on it.

On the face of it, the remainder of the Haftarah is less relevant to the theme of Creation: having established that the Eternal One is the Creator of everything, the passage goes on, in the very next verse, to focus on the particular relationship between the Eternal and the people Israel (:6):

I, the Eternal, have called you in righteousness, and taken you by the hand. I am the One who created you and make you a covenant people, a light to the nations.

But look again at this verse: the will of the Eternal, the One, reigns supreme, and the particular covenant people – am b’rit – cannot escape that will: We have a responsibility to discharge, both, to the Eternal, as ‘witnesses’ (:10), and to the other peoples, whom the Eternal has created. Our task as ‘a light to the nations’ is (:7):

to open our lives that are blind, to bring the captive art of confinement, those who sit in darkness, out of the dungeon.

It’s a heavy burden to be ‘a light to the nations’. Back in the sixth century BCE, during the Babylon exile, when the unknown author of this passage, referred to as ‘Deutero-Isaiah’, the ‘second Isaiah’, was prophesying, failure to obey had exacted a terrible punishment (:24):

Who allowed Jacob to be plundered? Who gave Israel to the despoilers? It was none other than the Eternal, against whom they sinned, in whose ways they would not walk, to whose teaching they would not listen!

And what about the present day – do we still carry that burden? And if we do, what are the consequences, when we fail? These are difficult questions, and there are many possible answers. Whatever our responses, as long as we continue to read the Torah and Haftarah, as part of our weekly Jewish practice, we are challenged to make sense of these sacred texts, both, for our own lives and for the continuing life of the Jewish people.

HAFTARAT B’RIESHIT

Isaiah 42:5-43:10

SJN October 2010

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

What does Chanukkah, the ‘Festival of Lights’ have in common with Tu Bishvat, the ‘New Year for Trees?  On the face of it, not a lot…  Well, there are some illuminating connections – and I’m not just saying this because the theme of this issue of our shul magazine is ‘ecology’, and as December begins, Chanukkah is just around the corner…

For a start, neither Chanukkah nor Tu Bishvat appear in the Torah, and they were both inaugurated after the system of worship centred on the Temple in Jerusalem, and it’s related calendar of festivals had been established.  If you look in the Torah, you will find that there are no sacred days – apart from the weekly sacred day of Shabbat – between Sukkot in the autumn, in the middle of the seventh month (15^th – 21^st Tishri) and Pesach in the spring, in the middle of the first month (15^th – 21^st Nissan).

Although neither Chanukkah nor Tu Bishvat are mentioned in the Torah, the Torah does have something to say about what lies at the heart of each of them: the M’norah – the seven-branched candle-stick that is central to Chanukkah; and trees, which are the raison d’etre for Tu Bishvat.   The Torah tells us that the M’norah was the ner tamid, the ‘regular light’, kindled each day by the Priests, when they entered the Sanctuary (Exodus 27:20-21); and the key element of Chanukkah is the lighting of a nine-branched M’norah in remembrance of the legend, recorded in the Talmud, that when the Maccabees entered the Temple, they found only enough oil for one day’s lighting, but it lasted for eight (Shabbat 21b).  The Torah also teaches that when besieging a city during a war, ‘you shall not destroy its trees’ – at least not the fruit-bearing ones (Deuteronomy 20:19-20).

So, something about the rationale for both Chanukkah and Tu Bishvat is evident in the Torah.  And these two ‘minor’ festivals also share a key symbol of Judaism:  The tree.   The M’norah may be a metaphorical tree, but the metaphor is crucial: every time we close the ark at the end of the Torah service, we quote a passage from the Book of Proverbs that speaks of Chochmah, ‘Wisdom’ (3:18), and say, of the Torah; ‘She is a tree of life to those that grasp her, and happy are those who hold her fast’.  Torah is a ‘tree of life’; and our lives depend on trees – and the oxygen they produce.  The Rabbis didn’t know about oxygen, of course.  For our ancestors, trees were simply a food-source.  But the Rabbis did establish a New Year for Trees (Mishnah Rosh Ha-Shanah 1:1), and the Jewish principle of bal tashchit ‘you shall not destroy’ (Talmud: Shabbat 67b; Chullin 7b, Kiddushin 32a), which is the foundation of any ecological strategy, is derived from that verse in the Torah about not destroying trees.  So, don’t wait for Tu Bishvat to consider the importance of trees, start focussing on them this Chanukkah.

Chanukkah Samei’ach!

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

The Haftarah reading for the second day of Sukkot focuses on the dedication of King Solomon’s Temple during the festival of Sukkot – referred to simply as he-chag, ‘the feast’.

But the connection between the Temple and Sukkot is deeper:  The building of the sanctuary – mikdash – in Jerusalem represented the creation of a permanent dwelling place – mishkan – for the Eternal One.  In the wilderness, by contrast, the mishkan was a tent, made of cloth and animal skins, which was carried by the people from place to place throughout their forty year journey.  In this sense, it was a sukkah.

But what is a sukkah? In Leviticus chapter 23, the biblical calendar, we read, concerning the festival of Sukkot (:42-43):

You shall dwell in sukkot seven days; all that are home-born shall dwell in sukkot; / in order that your generations may know that I caused the Israelites to dwell in sukkot when I brought them out of the land of Egypt. I am the Eternal your God.

Technically speaking, the Israelites dwelt in ohalim, ‘tents’ in the desert, not sukkot – which were the ‘huts’ that their descendants put up in the fields during harvest time.  Nevertheless, the image of the sukkah expresses, both, the experience of impermanence and fragility, which characterised the wilderness years, and the longing for the enduring presence of God in every place – with or without the Temple; a concept that became encapsulated in our prayers: u’phros aleynu sukkat sh’lomecha ‘spread over us your tabernacle of peace’.

THE SUKKAH AND THE MISHKAN

THE HAFTARAH FOR THE SECOND DAY OF SUKKOT I KINGS 8:2-21

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

Words: 249

The Torah reading for the first day of Rosh Hashanah – Genesis 21 – opens with the birth of Isaac to the previously barren Sarah. Similarly, the corresponding Haftarah relates how Hannah, distressed by her inability to conceive, prayed for a son, when she visited the ‘House of the Eternal’ at Shiloh.

Interestingly, the Amoraim, the sages, whose commentaries form the G’mara, saw in Hannah’s supplications to God, a paradigm of the individual praying the central Prayer, the T’fillah.  And so, in the same way as they attributed the times of the three daily T’fillot to the Patriarchs, they also derived the rules for praying the T’fillah from Hannah. The key cue-word is va-titpalleil – ‘and she prayed’ (I Samuel 1: 10-18). We read (B’rachot 31a):

Rav Hamnuna said: How many important laws can be learnt from what scripture says concerning Hannah: “now, Hannah, was speaking in her heart” (verse 13a) – from this we learn that someone who prays must direct their heart; “ only her lips moved” (:13b) – from this we learn that one who prays must frame the words distinctly with their lips; “but her voice could not be heard” (:13c) – from this, it is forbidden to raise one’s voice in the T’fillah; “ therefore Eli [the priest] thought she was drunk” (:13d) – from this that a drunken person is forbidden to pray [the T’fillah].

The aggadic reflections on Hannah in B’rachot 31a-31b, underline the halachah on ‘The Prayer’ expounded elsewhere in the tractate: every able-bodied individual – man, woman, slave, or minor – is obligated to pray the T’fillah “because it is a supplication for God’s mercy” (20b).

LESSONS IN PRAYER FROM HANNAH

HAFTARAH FOR FIRST DAY ROSH HA-SHANAH: I SAMUEL I: – 2:1

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

Space: it’s the infinite beyond; what we used to call ‘the heavens’; it’s everything around us – most of which, we have filled up … The account of the creation of the universe we find in the Torah begins by telling us: ‘Now the Earth was uninformed and void, and darkness was on the face of the deep; and the spirit of God hovered over the face of the waters’ (Genesis 1:2).  So, gradually, stage by stage – the Torah speaks of ‘days’ – the narrative unfolds: first, light and darkness; then the heavens; then the Earth; then the vegetation; then the waters teeming with life; then the Earth filled with every kind of living creature, from creeping things crawling on the ground, to the animals; finally, Humanity (Genesis 1).

It’s not so very different from what the scientists tell us about the process of evolution. The only element that is related out of order is when the text pauses on the fourth day, between the vegetation and the teeming waters, to tell us about what most people probably think about as Space – with a capital S – that is, the stars, the sun and the moon (Gen. 1:14-18).

While the sun, with its seasons, and the moon, with its months, regulate the cycle of the Jewish year, the lens of Jewish attention is not directed skywards; instead it tends to focus on what’s happening on the ground – or rather, on what people are doing on the ground; how we live day by day and relate to one another and manage our affairs. And yet, the intersection between the cycle of the weeks and months with daily life is very important: throughout the account of creation, the Torah tells us that ‘God saw that it was good – tov’; only when it comes to the seventh day do we learn, ‘then God blessed the seventh day and sanctified it’ – va-yikaddeish oto (Gen. 2:3). The seventh day is sacred – kadosh; it is set apart – which is what kadosh means – from the days of productivity and creativity as an oasis in time; an opportunity to cease from our labours and rest. As the colloquial idiom puts it, Shabbat gives us the ‘space’ we need in our hectic lives to relax and unwind and refresh our bodies and our souls.

So, there is sacred time, but what about sacred space? Since the destruction of the Temple in 70 CE, Jewish life has been much more preoccupied with sacred time. Nevertheless, as we read the Torah, week after week we are aware of just how much it does say about sacred spaces: Mount Sinai and the Tabernacle – the Mishkan – in particular. But, interestingly, the Mishkan was a tent; a mobile sacred space – also called the Mikdash (Sanctuary) – that the Israelites carried with them as they wandered through the wilderness. Ultimately, the sacred in Judaism is about space: the spaces in time we create; the space for the sacred we carry with us, wherever we are, on all our journeys…

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

The haftarah for Ki Tavo, Isaiah chapter 60, is the sixth of the Seven Haftarot of Consolation, which begin on the Shabbat following Tishah B’Av, and conclude on the Shabbat before Rosh Ha-Shanah.  Here, the unknown author, known as Deutero-Isaiah, or Second Isaiah, brings a message of joy and renewal, that pulsates with lyrical intensity: ‘Your sun shall no longer set, nor your moon withdraw itself; for the Eternal shall be your light forever, and your days of mourning shall be completed’ (60:20).

Twenty-two verses of ecstatic proclamation – with not a word sounding a negative note:  Quite remarkable – and, one might say, most essential, given the substance of much of the Torah portion:  sixty-four verses devoted to setting out the small print of the covenant; the curses that will befall the people if they disobey God (Deuteronomy 27:15-26; 28:15-68).  The parashah makes gruesome reading – so what a relief, to read the haftarah!

It is interesting to see how the Sages used the readings from the books of the N’vi’m, the Prophets, that follow the Torah reading each Shabbat, to moderate the biblical theology of reward and punishment: Three haftarot of ‘Affliction’; seven haftarot of ‘Consolation’; the ratio of comfort to chastisement reflects a new rabbinic theology, which, emerging after the destruction of the Second Temple by the Romans in 70 CE, taught that God suffered and wept with the people.

KI TAVO: THE SIXTH HAFTARAH OF CONSOLATION

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

During the three-weeks from 17^th Tammuz, when the Babylonians breached the walls of Jerusalem in 586 BCE, until 9^th Av – Tishah B’Av – when they razed the Temple, there are three special Haftarah readings known as the ‘Three Haftarot of Affliction’.  From the perspective of biblical theology, since God was the sole source of reward and punishment, the destruction of Jerusalem was, ultimately, His work. And so, in the first of these passages (Jeremiah 1-2:3), the fiery prophet, who prophesied for forty years at the end of the seventh century BCE, proclaims in the name of the Eternal: ‘I will deliver My verdict against them for all their evil deeds, for they have forsaken Me, and sacrificed to other gods, and prostrated themselves before the work of their own hands’ (1:16).

Mattot and Mas’ei are often read together in one week, and as it happens, Haftarat Mas’ei is a direct continuation of Haftarat Mattot (Jeremiah 2:4-28; 3:4). So, where did the Sages choose to end Haftarat Mattot?  Always concerned to ensure that every haftarah concluded on a hopeful note, they opted for: ‘Israel is holy to the Eternal, the first fruit of God’s harvest. All who eat it shall bear their guilt; ill shall befall them’ (2:3). More audaciously, when it came to identifying a fitting conclusion for Haftarat Mas’ei, the Sages skipped twelve verses from 2:28 to 3:4, and then a further twenty-one, to end  at 4:1-2: ‘If you will return, O, Israel, says the Eternal, return to me…’  As we read the haftarah each week, we are reminded that each one has a homiletical purpose: to challenge, and also to reassure.

MATTOT-MAS’EI: THE FIRST TWO HAFTAROT OF AFFLICTION

Written for SJN July 2010

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

The parashah, Korach (Numbers 16: 1-18:32), centres on the rebellion of Korach, Datan, Aviram and On against Moses and Aaron: Korach, because, as a first cousin and fellow Levite, restricted to carrying the sacred objects, he was so near and yet so far from the Priesthood; the other three, because as members of the tribe of first-born R’uven, they resented being shunted aside in favour of the tribe of Levi. The Torah does not tell us any of this directly; but the names of the four rebels say everything; all you have to do, is go to parashat B’midbar and read there about the displacement of the firstborn by the Levites (Numbers 3:40-51), and about the duties assigned to the K’hat family of Korach (Num. 4:1-19).

The Haftarah, from the first book of Samuel, chapter 11:14 – 12:22, concerns the anointing of Saul as King. Until that point, there had only been one sovereign over the people: God. Samuel had resisted the people’s wish for a human monarch – and as we can see from the Haftarah, he took it very personally:   Just as Moses protested to God that, ‘I have not taken one ass from them, neither have I hurt one of them’ (Numbers 16:15), Samuel exclaims: ‘Whose ox have I taken? Whose ass have I taken? Whom have I defrauded? Whom have I oppressed? From whose hand have I taken a ransom and blinded my eyes with it? I will restore it to you’ (I Sam. 11:3).  However, while Korach and the other rebels were very dissatisfied with the leadership of Moses and Aaron, the people in Samuel’s time clamored for a king, not because they were critical of Samuel, but simply because they wanted what other peoples had. As we read a few chapters earlier on: ‘We must have a king over us so that we may be like all the other nations: let our king rule over us and go out at our head and fight our battles’ (I Sam. 8:19-20).

Interestingly, God acceded to the request: ‘And the Eternal one said to Samuel, heed their demands and appoint a king for them’ (ibid., verse 21). Why? How different was the demand for a king from the incident of the molten calf? (Ki Tissa, Exodus 32-34). The Torah makes it clear that worshipping the molten calf was a sin; wasn’t there also a danger that the people would treat a king like a god? Samuel certainly thought so, and the Haftarah focuses on Samuel reminding them that they must serve the Eternal, and calling on God to prove his absolute power by sending thunder and rain. Of course, the problem of the institution of the monarchy as a potential rival to God remained – not only during biblical times, but right up to the modern period; and then absolute monarchs were soon replaced by other tyrants… Fortunately, democracy has become established in many parts of the world today, as the oppressed have struggled, and continue to struggle, for freedom. Why is it then that, just like those in Samuel’s time, some people still long for a powerful leader who will tell them what to do?

HAFTARAT KORACH: WHEN GOD ISN’T ENOUGH

Written for SJN June 2010

The journeys of the Jewish people define our very existence – from the time our first ancestors, Abraham and Sarah, left lower Mesopotamia – present-day Iraq – to journey to the land of Canaan.  None of our journeys have been straight-forward; we have wandered in the wilderness, we have travelled back and forth, north south, east and west; we have taken flight many times.

We have also journeyed – and continue to journey – each year, from Shabbat to Shabbat; and from festival to festival.  This is particularly true of the period from Pesach to Shavuot, when we recall the journey from ‘the house of bondage’ in Egypt, to Mount Sinai in the desert; from liberation and renewal to revelation and commitment.  This particular journey is marked by the ‘counting of the Omer’ – in remembrance of the omer, the sheaf of grain that was ‘waved’ by the priest in the Temple, during the ‘seven weeks’ between the two festivals (Leviticus 23:10-16).

In the midst of the twentieth century, this ancient act of remembrance took on a new significance, with the establishment of the State of Israel on Friday 14^th May 1948, corresponding to 5^th Iyyar in the Hebrew calendar.  After almost two thousand years, the journey from Pesach to Shavuot now included the restoration of Jewish nationhood, and so a new date was added to the annual cycle of commemoration: Yom Ha-Atzma’ut – Independence Day.  But it wasn’t quite as simple as that: Would the United Nations General Assembly have voted on November 29^th 1947 in favour of the partition of the land between Jews and Palestinians, and the formation of a Jewish State, if six million Jews had not been murdered by the Nazis and their henchmen?   And so, in a complex way, the State of Israel, representing re-birth and a new beginning, has arisen in the shadow of the Sho’ah, and bears the imprint of that devastating time.  And so, perhaps, it is fitting that Yom Ha-Shoah, Holocaust Memorial Day, chosen to highlight the anniversary of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, which began during Pesach 1943, falls on 27^th Nisan each year, just over a week before Yom Ha-Atzma’ut – and less than a week after Pesach.

The parallel of the juxtaposition of Yom Ha-Sho’ah and Yom Ha-Atzma’ut with the Pesach story of slavery and freedom may give us pause for thought – and carries an important message for the State of Israel as it marks its 62^nd anniversary:  Even the most hideous persecution and most abject misery will finally be defeated; the day of liberation will come; but then as our ancestors discovered, liberation is also only a passing moment – and then, the hard labour of building a just and peaceful society begins.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

The Haftarah for parashat Naso relates part of the famous tale of Samson (Judges 13:2-25), reminding us that like other significant biblical women, Samson’s mother was ‘barren’.  However, in her particular case, an angel of the Eternal appeared to her, saying: ‘Take care not to drink wine or beer or eat anything impure’, / for you shall soon be pregnant and bear a son, and his hair shall never be cut because from the womb he will be a nazir of God…’ (13:4-5).

As usual the Haftarah is echoing an aspect of the Torah reading.  But in Naso we learn that it was the individual him – or her – self, who chose to become a nazir, signalling their consecrated state by refraining from any intoxicants and grape products, not cutting their hair – and not touching the dead (Numbers 6:1-8). Moreover, living life as a nazir was for a limited period only – and the parashah goes on to outline the offerings to be brought by the nazir at the end of their nazirship (Numbers 6:13).

Was Samson a nazir?  He didn’t cut his hair, so, clearly, he maintained his mother’s vow.  But his enduring commitment is more like that of Samuel, the son of the once-barren, Hannah (First Samuel 1):  Each son, set apart for God, both Samson’s unnamed mother and Hannah paid a price for the blessing they received.

WAS SAMSON A NAZIR? THE HAFTARAH FOR NASO

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

In parashat B’chukkotai we find the ‘small print’ of the b’rit, the covenant: The people will be rewarded with prosperity, peace and the presence of God if they obey, and punished with death – and a very long list of gruesome punishments – if they disobey.  These don’t make very pleasant reading…  And just in case we might be inclined to forget, parashat Ki Tavo (Deuteronomy 26:1-29:8) serves as a reminder…

The theology of ‘reward and punishment’ is central to the Torah – and is echoed in the Haftarah for B’chukkotai from the prophet Jeremiah (16:19-17:14), who prophesied in Judah for forty years during the 7^th century BCE: ‘Cursed – Arur –  is the one who trusts in human beings’ (17:5); ‘Blessed – Baruch – is the one who trusts in the Eternal One’ (17:7) – a phrase you may recognise from the traditional version of Birkat Ha-Mazon, ‘the blessing of food’.

However, like all the Haftarot this one has a homiletical purpose – to reassure the congregation.  And so while, the parashah begins with rewards and goes on to list the dire punishments, Jeremiah states the curse – and then the blessing.  Nevertheless, those who do wrong do not get off lightly:   ‘One who gains wealth by unjust means is like a partridge brooding [eggs] that do not hatch: in the middle of life it will forsake him, and at its end he will be a fool’ (17:11)

OF REWARD AND PUNISHMENT: THE HAFTARAH FOR B’CHUKKOTAI

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

The double portion, Acharey-Mot K’doshim, includes at its heart, arguably, the most important verses in the Torah.  Known, appropriately as the ‘Holiness Code’, because it is predicated on the understanding that the congregation of Israel shall ‘be holy’ because the Eternal One ‘is holy’, parashat K’doshim teaches us what ‘holiness’ means:  acting compassionately and justly towards those who are vulnerable and marginal in society – in particular, ‘the stranger, the orphan and the widow’ – behaving ethically in our business dealings, loving both our neighbour and also the stranger in our midst (Leviticus 19)

If we turn to the Haftarah connected with K’doshim – Amos 9:7-15, we are reminded that, actually, the ‘Holiness Code’ is all about the theory of ethical behaviour; in practice, our ancestors failed, again and again to ‘be holy’ – which is why Amos, proclaimed in the name of the Eternal One that ‘the eyes of the Eternal God are on the sinful kingdom, and I will destroy it from the face of the earth’ (9:8a).  From the perspective of the Eternal One, the kingdom of Israel is but a sukkah, a temporary abode (:11), and, ultimately, the Creator of all the earth, will not give Israel special preference: ‘Are you not to Me, O people of Israel, like the Ethiopians? – says the Eternal One.  Did not I bring op Israel out of Egypt, and the Philistines from Crete, and the Arameans from Kir?’ (9:7).

Amos lived in the 8^th century BCE and was a Judean shepherd and tree farmer who moved to Israel, where he railed against corruption and injustice.  In 722 BCE the Assyrians conquered Israel and scattered its inhabitants – so that all that remained were the two tribes of Judah and Benjamin in neighbouring Judah.   Like Isaiah, Amos shows us that the people Israel, past and present, is not intrinsically holy – sacred, set apart – rather the people only becomes holy by acting as a ‘kingdom of priests and a holy nation’ (Exodus 19: 6) – by engaging in right conduct; and if we don’t, we will suffer the consequences.

And so, the words of Amos teach us that the Haftarah serves not only to ‘conclude’ the sacred reading on Shabbat and the festivals, but also, frequently, to remind us that being a Jew is about how we behave towards others, and that the theory – all those rules and laws we find in the Torah – is meaningless if it is not translated into practice.  When I was a Marxist (in my youth!), I was rather taken by the notion of praxis – the unity of theory and practice – a concept used by the Italian Marxist, Antonio Gramsci.  Of course, when it comes to our everyday Jewish lives in the world, it may be rather idealistic to think that we can achieve such a unity, but we can try… and maybe reading the Haftarah each week is a good way of keeping us on our toes!

WHEN WE DON’T PUT THEORY INTO PRACTICE:

THE HAFTARAH TO PARASHAT K’DOSHIM

Rabbi Elizabet Tikvah Sarah

This week’s parashah, Ki Tissa, tells the famous story of the eigel masseichah – ‘molten calf’ (Exodus 32:1ff.):  Moses away on Mount Sinai, and fearing that they have been abandoned, the recently-liberated slaves clamour to ‘make a god that will go before us’.  With Aaron’s assistance, they created a great cow out of the gold they took from the Egyptians – and early the next day, they offered sacrifices, ate and drank and danced around it.

The Haftarah for Ki Tissa, First Kings 18:1-39, relates the story of how Elijah confronted the priests of Ba’al by challenging them to participate in a ritual involving bulls – parim.  The connection with the portion is clear: idol-worship. This year, Shabbat Ki Tissa coincides with Shabbat Parah – the Shabbat of the ‘Cow’ – when we also read a second passage at the beginning of Parashat Chukkat (Numbers 19:1ff.), which tells us about a chukkat Torah, a ‘statute of the Torah’ involving a parah adummah – a ‘red cow’.   So, we have an eigel, a male ‘calf’, several parim, ‘bulls’, and a parah, a fully grown ‘cow’.   What is the significance of these creatures?

The ‘molton calf’ – eigel masseichah – was obviously an idol.  The priests of Ba’al engaged in idol-worship.  And what of chukkat Torah – the ‘statute of the Torah’ involving a ‘red cow’ – parah addumah?  Although the passage in Parashat Chukkat, Numbers 19, includes some confusing elements, the message is clear: the cow itself was not an object of worship; the ritual which required that the cow be slaughtered and burned with ‘cedar wood, hyssop and crimson [stuff]’ – including its blood and its dung – and its ashes gathered and deposited in a ‘clean place’ – makom tahor – outside the camp, was a rite of purification for those who had contact with a corpse.  For our ancestors, when a living person touched a dead person, she or he transgressed the boundary between life and death, and so it was necessary for them to be ‘purified’ before they could be restored to the camp.

The clue to how to make sense of all these texts in terms of Jewish teaching can be found in the special Haftarah for Shabbat Parah (Ezekiel 36:22-36).  For the prophet Ezekiel, purification is a spiritual issue centred on the acknowledgement of the Eternal (36:24-26):  “I will take you from among the nations and gather you from all the lands [of your dispersion] and bring you [back] to your land. / Then I will sprinkle cleansing waters upon you, and you shall be cleansed of all your impurities; and I will cleanse you of all your idols (gilluleichem). / I will give you a new heart (leiv chadash) and a new spirit (rua’ch chadashah) will I put within you; I will remove the heart of stone from your body, and give you a heart of flesh.”

OF IDOLS AND THE ETERNAL: THE HAFTARAH FOR SHABBAT PARAH

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

It is impossible to define Judaism in a simple way – and the word doesn’t have a Hebrew equivalent.   If we reflect on our complex Jewish inheritance, we can see that it is made up of tales and rules: a rich heritage of aggadah and halachah – both of which inform Jewish teaching.

The festival of Pesach is a marvellous example of this combination of aggadah and halachah:  On the one hand, there is the story of the Exodus, and everything that led up to it; related in the Torah and encapsulated in the wonderful narration that accompanies the seder – the Haggadah; on the other hand there are the rules related to the festival; in particular, those governing the removal of chameitz – leaven – and the eating of matzah – unleavened bread.

We also find this combination of aggadah and halachah at work in the festival of Purim, which occurs a month before Pesach.  But when it comes to Purim, for most Jews, the story element seems to take precedence over the rules about exchanging gifts and giving tz’dakah to the poor – even though the story is such a very tall tale; a fairy tale, indeed – encompassing all the usual gruesome bits that seem to make up the crucial ingredients of fairy tales in every culture.

Because the Book of Esther reads like such a fairy tale, because even the story of the Exodus includes such fairy-tale elements – like the ten plagues and the sea dividing – there are those who would say that these stories are ‘untrue’ or ‘unhistorical’.  But there is more to ‘truth’ than facts and figures.  The Exodus story tells us truths about oppression and liberation and how these experiences shaped our people’s understanding of our purpose in the world.  Even the fairy-tale world conjured up in the Book of Esther relates truths about our people’s experience of living as a vulnerable minority in societies governed by despots and tyrants.

But it’s not just that these tales tell us truths – they also dramatise the human condition, and as such speak to everyone and to all peoples: the Exodus story is not just about the enslavement of our ancestors in Egypt; the Book of Esther is not just about anti-Semitism in the pre-modern near-East; both stories are about universal themes: cruelty, suffering, indifference, fear, despair, courage, hope, daring – and, ultimately, the triumph of the human spirit against the odds.

Purim Samei’ach! – and Pesach Samei’ach!

Because it is Shabbat Sh’kalim, the Haftarah, II Kings 11:17-12:17, relates to the second scroll reading from Ki Tissa – Exodus 30:11-16, which is about the half-shekel poll tax levied in Temple-times.  And so we read in the Haftarah about how King Y’ho’ash ensured that the monies collected from the people to repair the Temple were actually given to the builders and craftsmen who did the work to ensure that it got done.  The passage from Ki Tissa is about the theory; the Haftarah describes the reality of corrupt practice – even on the part of priests.

But even though the Haftarah relates specifically to the Torah reading for Sh’kalim, there is also an interesting connection between the Haftarah and the last part of the weekly portion.  We read at II Kings 11: 17 that after the previous King, Y’hoyada, had dealt with the corruption in the Royal House that followed the death of King Yeihu: ‘Y’hoyada made a covenant between the Eternal One and the king and the people, that they should be the people of the Eternal One; between the king and also the people.’  And we read in Mishpatim, Exodus 24:7, that after Moses read them Seifer Ha-B’rit – ‘the Book of the Covenant’ the people responded:  Kol asher-dibbeir Adonai, na’aseh v’nishma – ‘All that the Eternal has spoken, we will do and we will listen’ (Exodus 24:7).

A few verses earlier, the Torah states that ‘all the people answered with one voice and said: “All the words, which the Eternal has spoken we will do” ‘(Exodus 24:3 – see also 19:8).  Na’aseh – ‘we will do’ – concise and to the point.  So, what are the implications of v’nishma – ‘and we will listen’?  Rashi’s grandson, Rabbi Sh’muel ben Meir, known as Rashbam (1085-1174) interpreted the addition of v’nishma to mean: ‘we will do what He has said and listen to what He will command in the future.’

So, having listened at Sinai, we will do – and then, we will continue to listen:  As the Haftarah indicates, again and again, in later generations, the people failed to do what they were supposed to do – and they ceased to listen.  But as the Torah reading about the half-shekel tax teaches, it’s not just a matter of what we do – and how we continue to listen.    Each individual man aged twenty and over was obligated to pay the half-shekel tax.  In every age, ‘the people’ is made up of individuals – but, in particular in modern societies, individuals, empowered by education and the democratic process, have the power to choose.  And so the continuation of Jewish life rests in the hands of choosing Jews, who say, ‘I will listen and I will do – and I will continue to listen’.

ENTERING THE COVENANT IN EVERY AGE

A COMMENTARY ON THE HAFTARAH FOR SHABBAT SH’KALIM

The second portion of Sh’mot, the Book of Exodus, Va-eira, continues the very familiar story of the Exodus of the Israelites.  The story is so familiar that it is easy to miss some important subtleties – one of which surfaces at the very beginning of the parashah (Exodus 6:2-3):

Then God [Elohim] spoke to Moses, and said to him: ‘I am YHVH [Adonai]. /  I appeared

[Va-ei’ra] to Abraham, to Isaac and Jacob as God Almighty [El Shaddai], but (by) My Name, YHVH, I was not known to them.

The context is Moses’ continuing encounter with the Eternal One at the ‘burning bush’. At first sight, the declaration doesn’t make any sense – after all, if you go back to B’reishit, the Book of Genesis, you will find that ‘Adonai’ – the word substituted for the ineffable Name of God represented by the consonants Yud Hei Vav Hei (which indicate God’s ‘being-ness’) – spoke to the ancestors on several occasions.  So, what does it mean to say, ‘but (by) My Name, YHVH, I was not known to them’?

Although YHVH spoke to the ancestors and made promises to them, they did not experience the fulfilment of God’s promises.  The French medieval commentator, Rashi (Rabbi Sh’lomoh Yitzchaki, 1040-1105), writes: “‘But by My name I was not known to them’’:  It is not stated, ‘I did not make known’ [lo hoda’ti], but ‘I was not known’ [lo noda’ti] – I was not known to them through My attribute of keeping faith, which is implied in My name YHVH: faithful to make true My words, since I made a promise and did not fulfil it.”

Is this all just semantics and rabbinic ‘hair-splitting’?    No – because without interrogating the opening statement of Va-eira, we don’t just miss a subtlety, we fail to register how the encounter at the ‘burning bush’ sets the scene for everything that follows.  Explaining the import of the powerful declaration, ‘I am YHVH’, Rashi writes: ‘Faithful to reward those who walk before Me.  I did not send you for nothing, but to fulfil my words, which I spoke to the ancestors.’ And so, we read in the verses that follow (6:4-6):

I have established My covenant with them to give them the land of Canaan, the land of their sojournings, wherein they sojourned.  /  And, also, I have heard the groaning of the Israelites, whom the Egyptians keep in bondage; and I have remembered My covenant. / Therefore say to the Israelites: I am YHVH, and I will bring you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians, and I will deliver you from their bondage, and I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and great judgements.

VA’EIRA: THE MEANING OF THE NAME

With the double parashah, Tazri’a-M’tzora, the concerns of the Book of Leviticus turn to child-birth, bodily emissions, skin eruptions and house ‘plagues’.  What has all this got to do with ‘holiness’ you may wonder?  Well, the Hebrew concept of ‘holiness’, k’dushah, means to ‘separate’ or to ‘set apart’.  There is a holy logic here, which connects Tazri’a-M’tzora to the other themes of Leviticus – to the list of sacrifices, the consecration of the Priesthood, the food laws, the sexual prohibitions, the ethical injunctions, the festival calendar, the sabbatical and Jubilee years – the imperative to create order, make separations and set apart.  And so: offerings are set apart for God; the priests are set apart from the people; creatures that may be eaten are set apart from those that may not be eaten; the Israelites are set apart from the other peoples in every aspect of their behaviour from the most intimate realm to the domain of economic relationships; the sacred days are set apart from daily life; the seventh year is set apart from the six that precede it; and after seven cycles of seven, the fiftieth year is set apart as a year of release and freedom.

In Tazri’a-M’tzora the imperative to set apart translates into rules concerning child-birth, menstruation, seminal emissions, skin eruptions, tzara’at – translated as ‘leprosy’, and connected to the word m’tzora, translated as ‘leper’ – and a similar affliction as it affects houses, which is also called tzara’at: the discoloured blotches – the text describes them as ‘greenish’ and ‘reddish’ – which we might identify as mildew or wet-rot.   As the anthropologist Mary Douglas observed in her book, Purity and Danger, what connects all these conditions is that they involve a breaking of boundaries and a disruption of order: the birth of a child involves a very tangible break out of the womb into the world; menstruation and seminal emissions both involve fluids breaking out of the body – fluids, which would otherwise be directed to the generation of new life; skin eruptions break out of the skin, just as mildew breaks out of the walls of a house – in both cases a boundary is broken.  And so it is that the ritual solution to all of these disruptions involved a seven day period of separation and cleansing.

Significantly, when the rabbis developed the laws governing Jewish life following the destruction of the Temple in 70CE by the Romans, the only rules to survive from this ancient system were those relating to women, which were then made more stringent, and given a new rationale: taharat ha-mishpachah – the ‘purity of the family’.   I will leave you to ponder for yourselves why the rabbis chose not to maintain the rules relating to men, which, according to the Torah, also involved a seven-day period of purification (Lev. 15:13)…

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

What is your view of our first patriarch, Abraham?  Va-yeira presents him in many different ways:  He is the epitome of hospitality (Ch. 18); he is the proud father (Ch. 21); the anguished father (ibid.); the unconsciously abusive father (Ch. 22); he is the pretend ‘brother’ (Ch. 20) and the compliant husband (Ch. 21); he is the defiant challenger, questioning God’s justice (Ch. 18) – and also God’s most obedient servant (Ch. 22).

Abraham was a complex character – even contradictory when it comes to the way he responded to God.  How can it be that the man who challenged God’s justice so insistently over the fate of the ‘righteous’ among the wicked inhabitants of the city of S’dom, remained silent when the Eternal One told him to sacrifice his son, Isaac?   If Abraham cared so much about God’s justice why didn’t he argue with God to save his son?  The Torah tells us that Abraham was very distressed at the prospect of expelling his eldest son, Ishmael, from the household (Gen. 21:11).  So, why the absolute acquiescence, when it came to Isaac?

Before God even told Abraham what he wanted him to do, his response was hinneini – ‘here I am’ (22:1).  Rashi tells us that this is how the ‘righteous’ answer; Abraham’s hinneini expressed both ‘humility’ and ‘readiness’ to do God’s will.  So, what did he do after he had heard the details of his mission? ‘Abraham rose early in the morning and saddled his ass’ (:3) – another sign, Rashi explains, of Abraham’s ‘readiness’.  What was Abraham thinking: that God would not actually demand such a sacrifice?  Or, perhaps, that he must be ready to offer up his son? – who was a gift from God, after all.  And why did the messenger of God have to call out Abraham’s name twice, before Abraham put down the knife? (:11)

Abraham is known as ‘the man of faith’.  Indeed, ‘tested’ (:1); he demonstrated his faith.  But did his ‘faith’ justify the trauma he inflicted on Isaac?  And on Sarah? (who died shortly afterwards) (Chayyey Sarah, Gen. 23).  What do you think?

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah