Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

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

Each one of us knows what it is to be ruled by Time – from the time we get up in the morning until the time we go to bed – and not just the days; the weeks; the months; the years – and we are always running out of it; in fact, that is our destiny as mortal creatures:  whatever the scientists say, on a human level, Time is finite.

Sounds depressing?   It could be.  But if we put ‘Time’ in a Jewish context, something rather wonderful happens.  In an important sense, the Jewish people invented the skill of making Time meaningful.  If you look at the account of Creation in the beginning of Genesis, you will discover that the first occasion when the concept of ‘sanctity’ is used is in connection with Time – and so we read:  ‘God blessed the seventh day and sanctified it – va-y’kaddeish oto (Genesis 2:3).   As Abraham Joshua Heschel puts it in his gem of a book, The Sabbath, Shabbat is a ‘Palace in Time’ (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York, 1951, pp.12-24).

Before the seventh day was set apart from all the others – that’s what sanctity means in Hebrew, setting apart – before it became a ‘Palace in Time’, every day was just like all the others, day after day, after day.  So, within Jewish life the everyday is interrupted every week by sacred time.  And then, of course, across the year, there are Moons and Seasons – Nature’s special markers – and within the Moons and Seasons, more sacred times, reaching a ‘high point’ at the beginning of the seventh month, as the year turns, with a series of sacred days:  the Days of Awe, which open with Rosh Ha-Shanah – literally ‘the Head of the Year’ – and conclude with Yom Kippur; followed swiftly by the seven day festival of Sukkot, and finally, Sh’mini Atzeret, the ‘Eighth’ Day of Closure, which is when Progressive Jews celebrate Simchat Torah – ‘the Joy of Torah’.

Yes, Judaism has the gift of making Time sacred.  And it is a gift made all the more special because for the past two thousand years since the Temple was destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE, Jewish life has not centred on sacred space; which means it’s not just that the year is a cycle of sacred times; it is sacred time that brings us together as a people.  And so, while we may be scattered across the world, we share sacred moments; we are a people, who meet in Time; and for whom the sacred can never be grasped and owned – this is also a special gift.  Heschel writes:  ‘Space is exposed to our will… Time, however, is beyond our reach, beyond our power.  It is both near and far, intrinsic to all experience and transcending all experience… it is only within time that there is… togetherness of all beings’ (p.99).  Shanah Tovah!

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

This December the world will mark a significant milestone:  The 60^th anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which was adopted and proclaimed by the General Assembly of the United Nations on December 10^th 1948.  A direct response to the Sho’ah, the Declaration includes thirty ‘articles’, encompassing every arena of life, and embracing every human being, ‘without distinction of any kind, such as race, colour, sex, language, religion, political or other opinion, national or social origin, property, birth or other status’ (article 2) because as the first article states:  ‘All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights.  They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood.’

Published three and half years after the defeat of Hitler, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights represented a re-assertion of ethical values and a powerful re-affirmation of human dignity and equality.  But sixty years on, it is evident that the Universal Declaration of Human Rights remains very much an aspirational document:  As yet the great majority of people in the world today do not enjoy even the most basic human rights.  On the contrary, millions of people continue to be subjected to tyrannical regimes, and to suffer persecution.   But despite the shameful gap between theory and practice, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights is very significant – not least because it expresses a global consensus concerning the right of every human being to security, shelter, nourishment, education, remuneration for their work, legislative justice and freedom of movement.

The continuing reality that millions are still denied their human rights means that the 60^th anniversary of the UN Declaration should be a wake-up call for nations, peoples, communities and individuals alike.   Achieving the goal of universal human rights may seem like an impossible task, but examples of human rights successes over the past sixty years – from South Africa to Eastern Europe – demonstrate that where there is a commitment to justice and liberation, the readiness to take practical steps, and the determination to pursue the goal, despite obstacles and set-backs, it is possible to transform even the most oppressive societies.  Towards the end of December we will celebrate the eight-day festival of Chanukkah.  As we add a new flame to the Chanukkiyyah each night, let us remember that if we act, day after day, it will be possible to do what seems to be impossible:   To create light even in the midst of darkness; to overcome oppression and establish justice.   The hope for every human being remains the challenge before each one of us.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

The parashah Yitro centres on the account of what happened at Mount Sinai – an event that is both shrouded in mystery – the mystery of the presence of the Eternal One, dramatically evoked with thunder and lightening and blasts of the Shofar – and captured in the voice of the Eternal One: Aseret ha-dibbrot; the ‘ten utterances’, better known as the ‘Ten Commandments’.  Whatever we make of the narrative we find in the Torah (Exodus 19 & 20), it was the defining moment when the descendants of Jacob, together with the ‘mixed multitude’, who made a dash for freedom with them (Exodus 12:37-38), assented to the covenant with the ineffable One and became the Jewish people.

Because it was the defining moment, we are bound to ask, did the Eternal One address everyone – or only the males?   Just prior to Revelation the Eternal One declares to Moses: ‘Thus shall you say to the house of Jacob and declare to the children of Israel’ (Exodus 19:3).   Interpreting what looks like repetition, we find this comment in Mechilta, a collection of rabbinic midrash:  ‘The house of Jacob refers to the women; the children of Israel to the men’, indicating that both women and men were included.  But then something curious happens.   We read (19:10-11): ‘The Eternal One said to Moses: “Go to the people, and sanctify them today and tomorrow, and let them wash their garments, / and be ready for the third day; for on the third day the Eternal One will come down in the sight of all the people upon Mount Sinai”’.  But then, when Moses is repeating this instruction, he only addresses the men (19:15):  ‘Then he said to the people; “be ready for the third day; do not come near a woman”.’

So, did the women enter the covenant with the Eternal One, or were they simply onlookers?   Did the Eternal One address all the people, or were they excluded?   The comment in Mechilta suggests inclusion – but if we examine the comment more closely, we see that it also suggests segregation – again:  ‘The house of Jacob refers to the women; the children of Israel to the men’.   Rabbinic teaching makes it clear that while men are responsible for the public realm of Jewish life, women are confined to the home, where, exempt from prayer and study, their main obligations centre on lighting the Shabbat and festival candles, dividing the challah dough, and maintaining the laws of family purity – taharat ha-mishpachah.   Women are included, but their role within Jewish life, defined by men, is privatised and limited (see, for example, Talmud Bavli, Kiddushin 33b-35a).

So, from Moses onwards, men have shaped Jewish teaching.  During the past century, women have begun to notice – and lay claim to the covenant between the Eternal One and Israel on equal terms.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

What’s in a name?  ‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet’.  Shakespeare was right, of course – but names are very powerful – and the act of naming is very powerful:  In the second account of Creation (Genesis chapter 2), when the lone human being is looking for a mate, the Eternal One creates the animals and brings them to the human being to name them; but in the act of naming, the human being exerts power over each creature, and so, each, in turn, is rendered inappropriate to be a companion (2:18-20).

To name is to exert power – and to withhold a name is also to exert power.  When Moses is apprehended in the wilderness by a bush alive with flames and a commanding voice (Exodus chapter 3), he feels that in order to go back to Egypt and summon the slaves, he must be able to tell them who sent him.  But the answer he receives does not help him:  Ehyeh asher Ehyeh (3:14a) – which translates as both, ‘I am that I am’ and ‘I will be what I will be’: ‘Thus shall you say to the Israelites, “I am” has sent me to you’ (14b).  The Eternal One cannot be captured in a name – and this is conveyed in the Hebrew, both, by the meaning, and by the sound of the Hebrew word for ‘I am/I will be’: Ehyeh; as Gabriel Josipovici writes (‘The Book of God’, 1988, p.74), almost completely non-consonantal, ehyeh is the closest a word can get to pure breath.

In the TaNaKh – the Hebrew Bible – names often convey something about the character of the person:  Jacob – Ya’akov – for example, is a ‘heel’ – eikev – because he grabs his brother Esau’s heel as they are being born (Genesis 19:26); later, he becomes Israel – Yisrael: ‘One who struggles with God’ (Genesis 32:29).  Names also act as signals.  And so, in the Book of Esther, read at Purim, the heroine is introduced, first, by her Hebrew name; then by her Persian name:  ‘And he [Mordechai] brought up Hadassah, that is Esther’ (2:7a); in this way, the reader learns, both, the significance of her Jewishness, and the fact that being Jewish is marginal in that society.    When it comes to the chief villain, Haman, the text signals to the reader that Haman is the enemy of the Jews, before he says or does anything, by presenting a brief genealogy:  ‘After these things the King Achashveirosh promoted Haman the son of Hammedata, the Agagite’ (3:1a). After Haman delivers his infamous invective against the Jews, urging the King to destroy them, this genealogy is repeated:  ‘Then the King took his ring from his hand, and gave it to Haman, the son of Hammedata, the Agagite, the Jews’ enemy’ (3:10).  The signal is flashing red:  Agag was a descendant of Amalek (I Samuel 15:7-9), who attacked the stragglers from the rear during the Exodus from Egypt (Exodus 17:8-9), and so came to be regarded as the arch-enemy of the Jewish people (Deuteronomy 25:17-19).

What’s in a name?   (Almost) everything…    Purim Samei’ach!   Happy Purim!

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

The ‘Joseph story’ is so well known we may forget that it begs a few important questions.

At the beginning of Parashat Va-yiggash, after Judah, the fourth son of Leah and Jacob, has made an impassioned plea to Joseph for the safe return of Benjamin to their father, Joseph, realising that his brothers have learnt their lesson, finally reveals his true identity to them (Genesis 44:18-45:4).  When he does so, Joseph says something very curious (45:7): ‘… God sent me before you to ensure you would be a remnant on the earth, and to keep you alive for a great deliverance.’

Joseph’s words bring to mind what Avram learnt during a ‘deep sleep’ at the beginning of his journey (Leich L’cha – Gen. 15:13-14): ‘You shall surely know that your seed shall be a stranger in a land that is not theirs, and shall serve them; and they shall afflict them 400 years; / and also that nation, whom they shall serve, I will judge; and afterwards, they shall go out with great substance.’

The mediaeval commentators, Rashi and Ramban, were concerned to reconcile the reference to ‘400 years’ with the actual period of enslavement in Egypt: Exodus 12:40, for example, states that the total period of time that the Israelites ‘dwelt’ in Egypt – that is, including the time when they were not slaves – was 430 years.

But there is a more puzzling issue:  Why did Abraham’s descendants, the ‘children of Israel’, have to become slaves at all?  So, they ‘went down’ into Egypt because of the famine – but why couldn’t they have returned to Canaan after the famine was over?

The Torah seems to be suggesting that before the Israelites could inherit the land promised to Abraham they had, first, to be ‘strangers in a land not theirs,’ become enslaved, and then be ‘delivered’ from their bondage – that these were essential pre-conditions.  Why?  Joseph’s brothers had to be taught a lesson about family fidelity.  But what lessons did the Israelites have to learn?  To acknowledge God as the sole ‘Redeemer’?  To realise, from experience, that it is wrong to oppress strangers?  (Exodus 23:9; Leviticus 19:33-34).  What do you think?

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

Judaism has two major festivals that have their roots in the great outdoors:  Shavuot and Sukkot; the early summer and late summer harvest festivals respectively.  So, tracing the origins of both these core celebrations of the Jewish year takes us back to the land – the land of Israel.

Until the first chalutzim – pioneers – returned to the land in the late 19^th century, both Shavuot and Sukkot lost their agricultural significance for almost two millennia.  The implications of this return were brought home to me when I lived on a kibbutz in the Western Galilee over the winter/spring/early summer of 1978-79:  the Shavuot celebration entailed each agricultural branch giving a report of its activities.  The Seder we had shared seven weeks earlier had been familiar, but listening to people talk about the various kibbutz crops was a real eye-opener:  How strange and wondrous, in a – quite literally – down-to-earth kind of way.

To grow crops, you need suitable land.  We have all heard the stories about the draining of the swamps in the north – in the Hula valley and around the Kinneret, the ‘Sea of Galilee’ – and about the intensive efforts to make the Aravah, the southern Negev desert, bloom. The festival of Sukkot gives us a little inkling of the realities of life on the land in the Middle East:  Our ancestors, Torah relates, dwelt in sukkot – huts – in the desert, while they wandered for forty years (Leviticus 23:42-43).  However, the Torah indicates elsewhere that they dwelt in tents (ohalim) – and the mention of sukkot, is most likely to be a reference to the agricultural dimension of the festival:  Once our ancestors settled in the land and became farmers, they would erect huts in the fields to shelter themselves from the baking summer sun.

Our ancestors wandered in the desert before they reached the land across the River Jordan, but, as it happens, most of the land of modern Israel is desert, so it’s not only very hot, it’s also extremely arid, with minute quantities of rainfall – usually a couple of days in January each year.  Imagine it:  38-45 degrees of heat from June to September, and no rain.  And it is in these conditions that you’ll find, not only palm-tree plantations and other hot-climate crop specialities, but Israel’s second largest dairy farm, Yotvata – just thirty minutes north of Eilat.  Untold gallons of water are used every day, just keeping the lactating cows cool, let alone hydrated!  It’s quite meshuga! (crazy!)   No doubt, as the global ecological crisis deepens, all this is set to change…  In any event, as we prepare to enjoy the delights of the great British outdoors, this summer – umbrellas at the ready! – perhaps we might spare a thought for our brothers and sisters, experiencing the challenges of a very different kind of summer, over there, in the land of our Israel.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

On Rosh Ha-Shanah we read Genesis 21, which recounts the birth of Isaac, and Genesis 22, the tale of how Abraham, obeyed the voice of God, and set out on a journey to Mount Moriah to slaughter Isaac.

It’s a shocking story – and more complex than it appears at first reading.  Apparently, God ‘tested’ Abraham (22:1).  But Abraham was already a tested man:  Genesis 21 relates how God told him to ‘listen’ to Sarah’s voice (21:12), and expel his eldest son, along with the son’s mother, Hagar (ibid.).   We know from the previous parashah, Lech L’cha, that this first son was called Ishmael because when Hagar, pregnant with Abraham’s child, fled into the wilderness to escape her mistress’s harsh treatment, the Angel of the Eternal addressed her: ‘…. You shall bear a son, and you shall call his name Yishmael [God shall hear] because the Eternal has heard your affliction’ (16: 7-11).

So, when God told Abraham to offer up Isaac, he had already lost a son to the desert.  And then after all this; after the first experiment in human surrogacy had ended in family break-down; after Sarah had finally been blessed with her own son, God was telling Abraham to kill Sarah’s child?  What was Abraham thinking as he and Isaac made that three day journey?  What was Isaac thinking as he asked his father: ‘Here is the fire and the wood; but where is the lamb for a burnt offering? (22:7).

And what of Sarah?   She had borne the pain of her infertility; she had watched her maid-servant become pregnant with her husband’s child; she had finally been blessed with her own son, Yitzchak – meaning, ‘he shall laugh’ – and could now laugh joyously rather than wryly (18:10ff.). What was she thinking as Abraham and Isaac left home early that morning?  (22:3).  Genesis chapter 22 does not mention Sarah; but the opening of the next parashah, Chayyey Sarah (Gen 23:1ff.) tells its own story:   Sarah died:  Did she die of fear as she waited?

The Yamim Nora’im, the ‘Awed Days’ that begin on Rosh Ha-Shanah summon us to ask questions – mostly of ourselves – and to be tested.  The tales of Genesis chapters 21 and 22 remind us that the Shofar that recalls the ram sacrificed in Isaac’s stead (22:13), calls us to interrogate our lives.

Shanah Tovah!

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

On 27^th January, the anniversary of the liberation of the notorious death factory at Auschwitz-Birkenau by the Red Army in 1945, it will be National Holocaust Memorial Day – the date chosen by the British government for this country to remember the Holocaust and reflect on its lessons.  From the outset, NHMD has attracted controversy concerning the focus on the Nazis’ murder of the Jews.  As it happens, from the outset, the experience of other victims of the Nazis, and of other victims of other genocides has been an integral feature of educational programmes and events associated with the day.

On one level it is right and proper that National Holocaust Memorial Day should not be confined to remembrance of Hitler’s ‘war against the Jews’.  In their pursuit of an Aryan ‘master race’, the Nazis targeted all those segments of society considered sub-human and/or imperfect and in some way – for example, gypsies, lesbian and gay people, the physically and mentally disabled.  However, it is essential for an understanding of the Nazi project that no one loses sight of the very particular way in which the Jewish people were singled out: not only sub-human, but also all-powerful:  Drawing on the history of the scape-goating of the Jewish people by the church, and on centuries of anti-Jewish propaganda, Hitler demonised the Jews as the alien menace controlling the world that had to be destroyed.  The records of the infamous Wannsee Conference that brought together the Nazi top-brass in 1942 say it all in one ordinary sheet of type-script, listing the Jewish population numbers of Europe country by country – including Britain at 500,000 – with the total at the bottom of the list: 11,000,000.  The Nazis’ ‘Final Solution’ of the Jewish problem was the annihilation of all the Jews of Europe.  The number of Jews that were actually killed is important not simply because it was a huge number, but because it demonstrates the horrifying extent to which the Nazis were able to achieve their goal.

Yes, there were other victims of Nazism and there have been other genocides; indeed, we could say that the Twentieth century was a century of genocide:  We only have to think, for example, of the Armenians, and the sites of mass-murder in Biafra, Cambodia, Rwanda.  And yes, we need to remember them all.  But we also need to ensure that we don’t forget – that Britain, Europe, and the rest of the world don’t forget – the particular nature of the Holocaust as a deadly expression of Jew-hatred.  The Holocaust – what Jews call the Sho’ah (meaning, ‘devastation’) – was the outcome of centuries of endemic anti-Semitism; and still anti-Semitism remains a malignant menace that must be exposed and challenged wherever it manifests itself.  These are the particular lessons that National Holocaust Memorial Day needs to teach.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

Everything changes; nothing stays the same; neither joy nor sorrow are permanent states; Life is essentially dynamic; a journey from birth to death.  The Book of Kohelet – Ecclesiastes – expresses this idea in poetic terms: ‘To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven’ (3:1).

At no time of the year is the dynamic, changing nature of life more evident than in the month of Nisan, the first month of the Jewish year that marks the onset of spring.  And so we read in Shir Ha-Shirim, the Song of Songs, the biblical book set aside as the m’gillah – the scroll – to be read at Pesach (2:10b-12):  ‘Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. / For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; / The flowers appear on the earth; the time of singing is come, and the voice of the turtle-dove is heard in our land.’

Pesach, commencing on 15^th Nisan: the spring-time festival that is also z’man matan cheiruteinu, ‘the season of our liberation’, when we recall the Exodus from Egypt after over 200 years of slavery and degradation.  And yet, on the seventh day, when we read shirat ha-yam, ‘the song of the sea’ (Exodus 15), we also remember the terrors that accompanied the journey into the unknown, and acknowledge the price paid for our freedom.  And so, it is fitting that on seventh day Pesach morning we hold a Yizkor service, reflect on our losses and remember our loved ones, who have died – and this year, once again, we will include in our moments of remembrance, the losses of miscarriage, ante-natal and post-natal death.

Spring is a season of joy, but also, for farmers – as our ancestors once were – a time of uncertainty:  will the promise of new life come to fruition in the early summer harvest of bikkurim, ‘first fruits’, celebrated at Shavuot?   This sense of uncertainty is reflected during the seven weeks from the second day of Pesach to Shavuot on 6^th Sivan.  In Temple times, an omer, a sheaf of grain was waved by the priest each day during this period (Leviticus 23:10ff).  The rabbis then instituted s’firat ha-omer, ‘the counting of the omer’, day by day, which became a count-up to Sinai, as the rabbis transformed the festival of ‘weeks’ (shavuot) into z’man matan Toratieinu, ‘the season of the giving of our Torah’.   The journey from Egypt to Sinai was a time of change, marked by highs and lows, triumphs and terrors, as those whose lives had been regulated by the routines of bondage were forced to navigate the wilderness.  And as we take our journey, we also find ourselves negotiating a changing landscape that includes, both, Yom Ha-Shoah on 27^th Nisan, the day on which we confront the extermination of six million of our people, and Yom Ha-Atzma’ut, on 5^th Iyyar, the day that marks the establishment of the State of Israel on May 15^th 1948.  Yes, nothing is static; everything changes: terror and devastation, as well as the joy of new life.   And so, we continue our journey…

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

The deaths of Miriam and Aaron, are recorded in the parashah, Chukkat.   The narrative picks up at Numbers chapter 20, after a gap of thirty-eight years, and informs us that Miriam has died – at Kadesh (:1)

We are not told why – but she was the eldest of the three leaders of the Exodus, and so her death in the fortieth year is, perhaps, a signal that the journey is drawing to a close.   What follows is quite remarkable:  the people assemble against Moses and Aaron complaining about a lack of water.  Although the Torah does not tell us explicitly, it seems that this is how they express their loss of Miriam.   Doubtless, similarly distressed by the elder sibling’s death, Moses and Aaron handle the rebellion very badly:  Instructed to ‘take the rod. and speak to the rock before their eyes, that it brings out its water’ (:8), Moses and Aaron speak angrily (:10), and Moses strikes the rock – twice (:11).  The water flows abundantly, but then the Eternal addresses Moses and Aaron:  ‘Because you did not believe in Me, to sanctify Me in the eyes of the Israelites, you shall not bring this assembly into the land, which I have given them’ (12).

So, Moses and Aaron are to share the fate of the Exodus generation – to die in the desert.  What did they do wrong?   Following the midrash, Rashi (France, b.1040) comments that when Moses struck the rock he displayed a lack of trust, he should have spoken to it as God commanded.   But Ramban (Spain, b.1194) retorts:  If God wanted Moses to ‘speak’ to the rock, why did he tell him to take the rod?  Ever the rationalist, Ibn Ezra (Spain, b.1092) argues that ‘you shall speak to the rock’ means ‘you shall strike the rock’: the only language a rock understands is striking; Moses’ sin was that he struck the rock twice.

Aaron’s death is recorded a few verses further on, after the Israelites arrive at Mount Hor (:22ff.); Moses’ death on Mount Nevo, overlooking the land he cannot enter, is the theme of the closing paragraph of the Torah (V’Zot Ha-b’rachah – Deuteronomy chapter 34). So, what can we learn from this sorry tale?   Our venerable ancestors were ordinary imperfect human beings: like Rebekah, they schemed; like Jacob, they cheated; like Moses, who killed the task-master, smashed the tablets, and struck the rock twice, they lost their tempers.  Interestingly, as we see in the next parashah, Balak, Moses shared this character trait with Bilam, the sorcerer, commissioned by Balak, King of Moab, to curse the Israelites:  When Bilam’s donkey veers into the wall because she sees an angel blocking her path, Bilam, who does not share his donkey’s visionary powers, strikes her – on three occasions (Numbers 22:23ff).  Of course, Bilam the heathen sorcerer bears no comparison with Moses, the prophet whom God knew ‘face to face (Deut. 34) – and in Bilam’s case, God was angry with him before he set out on his mission (Numbers 22:22), which is why the Eternal One sent an angel to stand in his way.  The point is that Moses was flawed – just like us.

B’har and B’chukkotai are separate portions with radically different messages.  B’har (Leviticus 25) focuses on the cycle of sabbatical years, years of rest for the land, culminating in the great Yoveil (Jubilee) every fiftieth year, following seven cycles of seven, when d’ror (freedom) is to be proclaimed with the blasts of the shofar (ram’s horn) ‘throughout the land, to all its inhabitants’ (25:10).  We might deduce from this that the weekly Sabbath is not just about ‘ceasing’ from work, as the word, Shabbat, suggests, but is also a day of freedom. And so, the second version of the Aseret Ha-Dibbrot – the Ten Words known as the Ten Commandments – in Parashat Va-etchannan, exhorts each person to ‘keep’ Shabbat, ‘and remember that you we were a slave in the land of Egypt’ (Deuteronomy 5:12-15); and so, birkat ha-yom (the blessing for the day) recited as part of kiddush on Erev Shabbat declares that the Sabbath is both zikaron l’ma’aseh v’reishit – a memorial of the work of Creation – and zeicher litzi’at Mitzrayim – a memorial of the Exodus from Egypt.

The call to liberation is at the heart of Judaism.  But then we turn to B’chukkotai, the portion with which the Book of Va-yikra (Leviticus) closes: ‘If you walk in my statutes – b’chukkkotai – and keep my commandments and do them’ (Lev. 26:3).  The first verse of the portion does not complete the sentence.   The message that follows is very clear, however:  If you obey me, I, the Eternal One, will make you flourish and prosper (verses 4-12); if not, ‘I will appoint terror over you’ (verses 16-39).   B’chukkotai contains the ‘small print’ of the B’rit (Covenant) and reminds us of the message from God that Moses delivered to Pharaoh: ‘Let My people go that they may serve Me’ (Exodus 9:1).  The liberation of the slaves was not absolute; the slaves were liberated from bondage in Egypt in order to be the servants of God.

So, the double portion, B’har-B’chukkotai, dramatises a paradox at the heart of Judaism:  Freedom and slavery.  Just think of laying t’fillin – the ‘binding’ of black leather straps and boxes, which express, physically, the keeping of the Mitzvot, Commandments (Exodus 13:9; Deuteronomy 6:8).  Could there be a more powerful dramatisation of sacred bondage than this?   And so, as we celebrate Shavuot towards the end of May; the feast of ‘Weeks’, which the Sages transformed into Matan Z’man Torateinu – the Season of the Giving of our Torah – each one of us might ask ourselves:   What does it mean for me to be a Jew?  How do I live as a Jew?   Do I feel free or enslaved – or both?

Chag Samei’ach!

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

Parashat T’tzavveh opens with an astonishing phrase:  V’attah t’ztavveh – ‘Then you shall command’ (Exodus 27:10).  The preceding parashah, T’rumah, concerning the instructions for the construction of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, sets out all the elements involved in the building of the structure and all its utensils, by repeating the refrain, ‘you shall make’ – and, so, for example, we read at Exodus, 25:31: V’asita M’norat zahav tahor, ‘Then you shall make the lamp-stand of pure gold’.   Parashat T’tzavveh returns to the lamp-stand to declare:  ‘V’attah t’tzavveh – Then you shall command the Israelites to take for you oil of beaten olives for lighting, for setting up a regular light – l’ha’alot ner tamid’.  Rashbam – Rabbi Sh’muel ben Meir (1085-1174) – Rashi’s grandson commented: “ ‘You shall make’ referred to what had been done once [i.e. the building of the Mishkan]; ‘you shall command’ to what was to be a regular procedure in that and future generations” [i.e. the lighting of the M’norah]

So here we find a crucial commandment, mitzvah – a noun derived from the same root, Tzadi Vav Hey, as the verbal form t’tzavveh. And yet although the two verses dealing with the lighting of the M’norah close with the words, ‘It shall be a statute for ever on the part of the Israelites throughout their generations’ (:21), clearly since the Temple was destroyed by the Romans in  70CE, the M’norah has not been lit.   And so, while it remains the most powerful and enduring symbol of Judaism, it has not been a living sign of Jewish life for almost two thousand years.

As the famous stone frieze depicts, the Romans took the Temple M’norah back to Rome as booty.  But although the M’norah has not been lit since Temple times, it has been replaced by something else.   Taking its cue from Parashat T’tzavveh, after the Temple was destroyed, Jews began to light a ‘regular light’ in the synagogue – known as a Ner Tamid – which in time found its place above the front of the Aron Ha-kodesh, the Sacred Ark.  Although Parashat T’tzavveh makes it clear that the M’norah was to burn ‘from evening until morning’ (:21) – not all the time – it has become customary to refer to the Ner Tamid as the ‘Eternal Light’, rather than the ‘regular light’ of Temple times.  This change of meaning is very significant:  Although the Temple M’norah is no more, the Jewish people remain committed to keeping the light of Judaism alive forever.  And so, when we turn after reading T’tzavveh, to the additional verses from the Torah, set aside for the Shabbat before Purim, Shabbat Zachor (Deuteronomy 25:17-19), let us not only ‘remember Amalek’ and our history of anti-Semitism, but also remember the seven-branched M’norah, blazing with light, and re-dedicate ourselves to this central mitzvah: to re-kindle Jewish life, day after day.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

There are two accounts of Creation in B’reishit (Genesis), which teach us very different things.   First, God speaks and the world comes into existence, day by day.  At the end of each day, God pronounces that it is ‘good’- tov – and then at the end of the sixth day, that is ‘very good’ – tov m’od – before going on to create Shabbat on the seventh day, sanctifying it, and then resting.  In this version, God creates Humanity – Adam –on the sixth day b’tzelem Elohim, ‘in the image of God’, in two forms, ‘male and female’ – zachar u’n’keivah – blesses them, and then addresses them: ‘Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth, and subdue it; and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing’ (Genesis 1:27).

In the second account, there are no fields or plants or rain, just a mist watering the ground.  Then: ‘The Eternal God formed ‘the Human’ – ha-Adam – out of the dust of ‘the ground’ – ha-adamah – and breathed into its nostrils the breath of life, so the Adam became a living being – nefesh chayyah’ (2:7).  Next, ‘God planted a garden, eastward, in Eden; and there He put the Adam whom He had formed’ (:8) ‘to work it and to keep it’ – l’ovdah u’l’shomrah (:15).  So, we have a singular, undifferentiated Adam and a garden – but no other creatures – and while the Adam is told to eat freely of all the trees: ‘Of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, you shall not it; for on the day you eat of it, you will surely die’ (:17).

So, the Adam does not have free reign – and there is another issue: ‘The Eternal God said it is not good that the Adam should be alone’ (:18).  Throughout the first account, everything is ‘good’, and then, ‘very good’.  Here, something is ‘not good’ – lo tov:  It is not good for the Adam to be alone, and so, God creates the animals and brings them, in turn to the Adam to name them.  But as the Adam names each creature, not one of them is deemed suitable.  It is only then that God causes a ‘deep sleep’ to fall upon the Adam, and forms a woman, ishah (:21-22), and, consequently, also a man, ish (:24).

So, while in the first account, Adam is the pinnacle of Creation, exerting dominion over the Earth and over all the other creatures, in the second, Adam is confined within a garden, given the humble role of gardener, and prohibited from eating one of the trees.  While in the first, Adam is both male and female and commanded to reproduce, in the second, Adam is a lonely figure in need of companionship – which is why, finally, one becomes two: a woman and a man.  Significantly, while zachar and n’keivah describe what is different about the ‘male’ and ‘female’; ish and ishah, both derived from the Hebrew root, Alef Nun Shin, to be human, tell us what they share.   In a sense, the second account acts as a corrective to the first:  Humanity is not all powerful – only God has ultimate power; in need of one another, our task as human beings is to tend God’s world.

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

Deuteronomy chapter 24, towards the end of Ki Teitzei includes a number of rules related to the theme of Justice introduced in Shof’tim, which also echo some of the ethical injunctions set out in K’doshim, in the Book of Leviticus (chapter 19).  Outlining laws concerning economic Justice, and, the need to deal fairly with employees and make provision for the marginal and dependent – ‘the stranger, the orphan and the widow’ (Deut. 24:17;19) – the Torah here underlines our responsibility ‘not’ [to] ‘pervert the justice due’ to these vulnerable groups (:17) with the much-repeated phrase: ‘For you shall remember that you were a slave in Egypt’ (:18).

It isn’t easy to translate our own remembrance of oppression into just action towards those who are suffering persecution today.  On July 3^rd, my shul hosted eight refugees from a range of countries – Zimbabwe, Sudan, Iran, Yemen and China – who joined us for our monthly shared Erev Shabbat meal.  Organised in conjunction with the local project,’ Brighton Voices in Exile’, this wonderful event launched a new initiative for BHPS.  I hope it will inspire others to reach out to the vulnerable in our midst.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

Shof’tim opens with laws of Justice, and at Deuteronomy chapter 16, verse 20 we read: Tzedek, Tzedek tirdof – ‘Justice, Justice, you shall pursue’.  The word ‘pursue’ in Hebrew, indicated by the three consonants, Reish Dalet Pei, conveys a sense of urgency, as it does in English.  In Hebrew syntax, it is usual for the verb to come first, and so, in the verse, Tzedek, Tzedek tirdof – ‘Justice, Justice, you shall pursue’, the tone of urgency is heightened, not only by the repetition of the word, Tzedek, Justice, but also by the word order:  Justice, Justice, you shall pursue.’   Meanwhile, the repetition of ‘Justice’ suggests something else, impartiality: where two parties are involved, pursuing justice for the one also necessitates pursuing Justice for the other.  Interestingly, Psalm 34, verse 15 declares:  Sur mei-ra va-aseih-tov; bakeish shalom v’rodfeihu – ‘Turn away from evil and do good; seek Peace and pursue it.’  The use of the word ‘pursue’ in both contexts suggests that Peace and Justice are inextricably linked. We cannot wait for Justice and Peace to ‘happen’ – both require us to actively pursue them.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

A commentary on Parashat B’ha’alot’cha

Where was Miriam at Sinai?   If you were following the Torah narrative of the Revelation closely at Shavuot you may have noticed that someone was missing…  Not just ‘someone’, of course, the elder sister who was instrumental in saving the life of her baby brother, Moses (Exodus 2:4-9).  As the slaves flee, the Torah mentions her for the first time since that moment, telling us that she led the women in dancing and song, through the Sea of Reeds (Exodus 15:20-21) – and gives her a name:  Miriam.  The Torah even calls her a n’vi’ah – prophetess (:20).  But Miriam is not mentioned in the Book of Exodus after the crossing of the Sea…  Indeed, all that the Torah has to say about Miriam amounts to just thirty verses; sixteen of which, occupying one short chapter in Numbers (12), appear in the parashah, B’ha’alot’cha.

To say that Miriam is marginalised in the Torah is an under-statement!   But then the tale recorded in B’ha’alot’cha is very revealing.  We read (12:1-2):  ‘She spoke – Miriam and Aaron – against Moses because of the Cushite woman, whom he had married….  / And they said: ‘Has the Eternal One only spoken with Moses?  Has He not also spoken with us?’   Significantly, the Hebrew is clear – and the disjunctive n’ginah (cantillation sign), pashta, which hovers over the first word, separating it from what follows, forces the reader to pause momentarily:  Va-t’dabbeir – She spoke.  Although the Torah then adds:  ‘Miriam and Aaron’, indicating that Aaron shared her grievance, Miriam is the prime-mover.  Interestingly, the two packed verses in Exodus speak not only of ‘Miriam, the prophetess’ (Ex. 15:20), but also add, ‘the sister of Aaron’ (ibid.).  The two siblings are linked because they share a similar status vis a vis their pre-eminent baby brother.  But at least Aaron becomes the High Priest – and so it’s not surprising that Miriam takes the lead in their rebellion:  Designated as a n’vi’ah, prophetess, she, more than Aaron has reason to feel aggrieved about Moses’ special relationship with the Eternal – and, perhaps, as a woman, she was also particularly upset on behalf of Zipporah, Moses’ wife, when he married again.

And so, although the Torah tells us that ‘the anger of the Eternal was kindled against them’ (:9), Miriam alone is punished for her effrontery – with leprosy (:10) and excluded from the camp for seven days (:14).  Significantly, the people did not journey on until Miriam was brought again (:15) – but then we don’t hear anything more about her until the Torah records Miriam’s death thirty-eight years later in one brief verse (Chukkat – Numbers 20:1).   No wonder the rabbis linked the people’s thirst for water immediately afterwards with their loss, and developed the legend of ‘Miriam’s Well’: a miraculous source of water which accompanied the Israelites on all their journeys, only drying up when Miriam died (See Legends of the Jews by Louis Ginzberg, Vol. III, ‘Miriam’s Well’, pp.50-44.  JPSA, Philadelphia, 1968).

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

Jewish/Christian/Muslim Dialogue Seminar – The Meeting House, Sussex University, 3^rd March 2009

I would like to contribute to our dialogue this evening by reflecting on the Jewish understanding of peace in the context of a particular statement found in rabbinic literature, and dated over eighteen hundred years ago, which connects peace to justice and truth.

The Hebrew Bible is full of powerful statements about shalom, peace.  Both Jews and Christians often quote the text found in the Book of Isaiah (2:2-4), and also in the Book of Micah (4:1-3), which looks to a time in the future when ‘they shall beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, and they shall learn war no more.’  These famous words express an ideal state – but they also say something very real about what it takes to create peace:   That, like making war, it demands energy and effort – all that beating of metal – and involves learning the ways of peace.    And Micah adds something else – a vision of the peaceful life that is also very instructive: ‘Rather, everyone shall sit under their vine and under their fig-tree and none shall terrorise them’ (Micah 4:4a).  Creating peace involves making it possible for everyone to create prosperity and to live in security.  Peace is not an end but a new beginning.

Significantly, many of the references to peace in the Bible connect peace to justice.  Several passages in the biblical Book of Isaiah, for example, indicate that peace and justice are inextricably linked.  We read, for example, in Isaiah chapter 32, verse 17:

For the work of justice shall be peace; and the service of justice, quietness and security forever’

hayah ma’aseh ha-tz’dakah shalom; va’avodat ha-tz’dakah hashkeit va-vetach ad olam

And so, working for peace involves working for justice – and indeed, pursuing both:  In the Torah, in the Book of Deuteronomy, in a section dealing with the laws of justice, we read at chapter 16, verse 20: Tzedek, tzedek tirdof – ‘Justice, justice, you shall pursue’.  And the Psalmist declares in Psalm 34, verse 15:  Sur mei-ra va-aseih-tov; bakeish shalom v’rodfeihu – ‘Turn away from evil and do good; seek peace and pursue it.’   In Hebrew, nouns, adjectives and verbs are all derived from three-letter roots:  That is, each word is rooted in three consonants.  The word ‘pursue’ in Hebrew, indicated by the three consonants, Reish Dalet Pei, conveys a sense of urgency, as it does in English.  In Hebrew syntax, it is usual for the verb to come first, and so, in the verse, Tzedek, tzedek tirdof – ‘Justice, justice, you shall pursue’, the tone of urgency is heightened, not only by the repetition of the word, tzedek, Justice, but also by the word order:  Justice, justice, you shall pursue.’   Meanwhile, the repetition of ‘justice’ suggests something else, impartiality: where two parties are involved, pursuing justice for the one also necessitates pursuing justice for the other.

So, peace cannot be separated from justice – and both require us to actively pursue them.  To understand the relationship between the two more deeply, and the conditions necessary for people to make peace, I would like to share with you a paragraph found in rabbinic literature.  It is a quotation from the Mishnah, the first post-biblical code of Jewish law reflecting the deliberations of the early rabbis, who gave themselves the task of interpreting the teachings of the Torah.  One section of the six ‘orders’ of the Mishnah, Pirkey Avot, The Chapters of the Sages, is devoted to the rabbis’ philosophical teachings.  This particular teaching is attributed to Simeon ben Gamliel II, Principal of the Rabbinic Academy in Usha, in the lower Galilee, from 140-170 CE, whose son, known as ‘Judah the Prince’ (Y’hudah Ha-Nasi), was responsible for editing the Mishnah around the year 200 CE.

Here is the text from Mishnah Avot 1:18 (Blackman, Philip. Ed. 1983.  Mishnayot.  Vol. 4:  Nezikin, p.496.  Judaica Press, Gateshead):

Al sh’loshah d’varim ha-olam omeid:  al ha-din, v’al ha-emet, v’al ha-shalom.

The world stands on three things:  on justice, and on truth and on peace.

This brief statement reminds us that from a Jewish perspective, the Bible was not the last word on the subject of peace; it also deepens our awareness of the connection between peace and justice, while making another powerful assertion: both peace and justice are inextricably connected with truth; indeed, the world stands on all three together – conjuring up an image of pillars, which suggests that if just one pillar were removed, the world would collapse…

‘The world stands on three things:  on justice, and on truth and on peace’ – and so, there can be no justice without truth and peace; no truth without justice and peace; no peace without justice and truth.  That is the challenge before all of us; before all humanity.  To understand the challenge more fully, it helps to have a sense of the Hebrew meanings of these three pillars of the world.

There are four words for justice in the Bible and rabbinic literature.  The text before us speaks of ‘din’.  In biblical Hebrew din means ‘judgement’, and the early rabbis extended this meaning of the word, by using it denote ‘law’, a law-suit’ and a ‘claim’, as well as ‘justice’.  Din conveys justice in the sense of the legal system for executing justice, and in the Bible we also find another word that plays a similar role, mishpat – based on the three consonants, Shin Pei Tet, meaning to judge; the ‘judges’ of the Bible were the shof’tim.   The Bible also uses two other related words for justice:  tzedek and tz’dakah, which are both based on the three-letter root: Tzadi Dalet Kuf.  And so, as I indicated a moment ago, we read in Deuteronomy chapter 16, verse 20, in the context of a passage dealing with how the system of justice is to be administered:  Tzedek, tzedek tirdof – ‘Justice, Justice you shall pursue’.  And then, in Deuteronomy chapter 24, in a section dealing with economic justice, we read that when giving a loan, returning a garment taken as a pledge before sunset is an act of tz’dakah – justice (:13). While the words tzedek and tz’dakah relate to the individual’s responsibility to act justly, the words din and mishpat focus on the legal system that creates a framework governed by rules of impartiality, which regulates the conduct of individuals, and attempts to ensure that the stronger members of the society come to the aid of the more vulnerable and dependent members of the society – designated in the Torah, in particular, as ‘the stranger, the orphan and the widow’ (Deuteronomy 24: 17) (in that order).

In British society we speak of a ‘fair’ system of justice.  From a Jewish legal point of view, fairness is not only about impartiality – for example, as it says in the Torah, not favouring the rich on the one hand or the poor on the other (Deuteronomy 16:19; Leviticus 19:15) – it is also about correcting inequalities.  And so the pursuit of justice, tzedek, involves what we now call ‘redistributive justice’.  While charity – from the Latin word caritas – suggests an act of kindness that expresses our loving feelings towards others, the Hebrew equivalent, tz’dakah, connotes an act of justice that we are obligated to perform in favour of the poor and the needy.  The point about tz’dakah is that we are supposed to do it even when we don’t feel charitable.

And what of truth?  As soon as we use the word truth in our post-modern society, we are aware that truth is not quite as absolute as it once seemed.  In a British Court of Law, a witness must speak ‘the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth’ – but nevertheless truth is subjective as well as objective, and the witness speaks the truth as she or he understands it.  The Hebrew word for truth – and, interestingly, there is only one word – is emet.   Emet is based on the same root from which we derive the word ‘Amen’ – pronounced ‘Amein’ in Hebrew.   The three-letter root, in question – Alef Mem Nun – means to confirm or support.  And so, when we respond to a prayer with the word ‘Amen’, we are basically indicating our support or affirmation for the sentiments expressed – as if we were saying:  ‘I agree!’  Or: ‘So may it be!’ – with an exclamation mark.  Similarly, the word emet has a sense of affirmation about it.  Truth becomes firm and solid when we affirm it. Just as justice requires action and a system of regulation, so truth requires acknowledgement.   And so, where there are competing truths, the challenge becomes:  How can I affirm my own truth and also, acknowledge the truth of the other person?    Justice is not possible while we remain unable or unwilling to acknowledge that we are not the sole guardians of ‘The Truth’.

Like truth and justice, peace is a much-used word that carries with it a significant, additional freight of meaning in Hebrew.   The word we translate as ‘peace’ – shalom – is based on a three-letter Hebrew root, Shin Lamed Mem – meaning to be complete or sound.  And so, a related word, shaleim, means ‘wholeness.’   Peace is not the same as ‘tranquillity’, shalvah, or ‘quiet’, sheket; and peace is not simply the absence of war or violence:  Peace is a state of completeness.  A passage in Leviticus chapter 5 (:16) speaks of a person committing a wrong, being obliged to make restitution, or reparation, using a verbal form of the root – y’shalleim.  And so making peace involves putting right what is wrong, in order that that what is broken may be repaired and become whole again.

The notion of ‘making whole’, reinforces the connection between peace and justice. In the Torah, in the Book of Books of Exodus, Leviticus and Deuteronomy, the rules of justice, encompass all aspects of society, including economic behaviour.  Interestingly, in this regard, while Leviticus chapter 19 speaks of the need for ‘just’ balances, weights and measures – using the word tzedek; Deuteronomy chapter 25, expresses the same teaching, emphasising the requirement of justice, by adding the word, sh’leimah, ‘whole’:  And so we read at verse 15:  ‘You shall have whole and just weights; whole and just measures’ – Even sh’leimah va-tzedek yihyeh lach; eifah sh’leimah va-tzedek yihyeh lach.  Incidentally, the verb to ‘have’ doesn’t exist in Hebrew, so the literal translation of the verse is:  ‘a weight whole and just [there] shall be to you; a measure whole and just [there] shall be to you.’

So, peace, shalom, suggests, ‘wholeness’, shaleim – and so, also, ‘well-being’ and ‘welfare’.  That is why the Hebrew greeting, when people meet is ‘Shalom’.  There is a telling example in the Torah that centres on the greeting of ‘Peace’, which illustrates beautifully the potential for peaceful relationships of respect and integrity between different peoples.   When Moses is about to leave Midian and return to Egypt on a mission to persuade Pharaoh to liberate the slaves, his father-in-law, Jethro, the Priest of Midian, says to him, lech l’shalom – ‘go in peace’ (Exodus 4:18) – or, rather, more literally, ‘go for peace’ l’shalom – that is, for the sake of peace.  Later, after the slaves have made their grand Exodus, Jethro comes to Sinai – the site of the impending Revelation – to wish Moses well, before returning again to his own land.   We read that when ‘Moses went out to meet his father-in-law, he bowed low, and kissed him; and each man enquired about his friend’s welfare’ (18:7) – Va-yishalu ish-l’rei’eihu l’shalom – or, rather, more literally, ‘They enquired, each man of his friend, for the sake of peace’.

Yes, Moses and Jethro were ‘friends’.  But more than this: the word rei’a friend, also means ‘neighbour’ – as in, ‘you shall love your neighbour as yourself’ – in Leviticus chapter 19 (:18).  And even more significantly: Jethro – as all the references to him emphasise – was Moses’ father-in-law.  When Moses became the ‘groom’ – chatan – of Tzipporah; Jethro became his ‘father-in-law’, chotein.  Both words chatan, ‘groom’, and chotein, ‘father-in-law’, are based on the root, Cheit Tav Nun, which means to ‘make an alliance’.  When Moses married Tzipporah the Israelites and the Midianites entered an alliance; a relationship rooted in establishing peace between them.  Indeed, the Israelites and Midianites entered a covenant – as the curious tale of Tzipporah circumcising her second son on the journey back to Egypt suggests:  ‘A bridegroom of blood, you are to me!’  Tzipporah proclaims to Moses – adding:  ‘A bridegroom of blood because of the circumcision’ (Exodus 4:25-26).  The root Cheit Tav Nun meaning to ‘make an alliance’ is also related to an Arabic root meaning to ‘circumcise.’

Of course, marriage is not the only way to build bridges between peoples and alliances need not be sealed in blood.  What this narrative about Moses, Jethro and Tzipporah teaches us, above all, is that it is possible to forge relationships of respect and integrity across the cultural, religious, ethnic and racial divide and so create the conditions for justice, truth and peace to flourish.

It is possible – but it is also a tall order!   We only have to think about the major conflicts raging in the world today.  But nevertheless, the Hebrew meanings of justice, truth and peace, both help us to identify the connections between these three pillars of the world, and also suggest the steps we need to take to be in a position to make peace – or, rather, suggest how we might go about hewing the stones for the pillars and setting them in place.

And one last thought on the connections between justice, truth and peace.  The central prayer of Jewish thrice-daily worship – called, simply, ‘The Prayer’, Ha-T’fillah, by the rabbis of old – ends with a blessing for peace, followed by a passage of personal meditation, which concludes with a prayer that speaks of ‘making peace’.  It is traditional to take three steps back as one recites these final words.  I remember one of my teachers, Rabbi Jonathan Magonet, former Principal of the Leo Baeck College, where I trained to be a rabbi, telling us about an insight into this practice that he had learned from one of his teachers:  In order to make peace between people or peoples, it is essential to step back from one’s own position to make space for the other.  This insight seems counter-intuitive – doesn’t making peace with others involve moving towards them?  When we step forward, towards another or others, justice requires that we must also step back to allow space for she, he or them to speak and express their truth. This is what it takes to begin to make peace.

Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah

Brighton & Hove Progressive Synagogue

Jewish-Christian-Muslim Seminar, Sussex University

3^rd March 2009