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Parshat Chaye Sarah (Bereishit 23.1-25.18 )
by Richard Walden, adult member
November 26, 2005
Death will always be the great unknown. Time ticks forward and each moment passes from the ‘here and now’ to the ‘then and there.’ Each sweep of the clock’s hands is a small death of time—we literally kill time—and yet, time does not die does it? We each have vivid memories of past glories and pleasures, don’t we? We can easily get stuck in the past—or learn from history, marching forward better prepared for future moments, time not yet born. If time can live on, can’t we too? Don’t we also each live on—our legacies etched into the genetic code of our offspring or into the memories of others by virtue of our thoughts, ideas and the good things we have done?
In this week’s portion, Chaye Sarah, we mourn the passing of our ancestors Abraham and Sarah, the first “children of Israel,” the progenitors of our religion, the first “Jews.” The story line is simple and unembellished. Sarah dies and Abraham buys her a burial spot, the cave at Machpelah. There is no description of any particular funeral, nor is there a eulogy of any kind. He buries her in the cave and moves on. At the very end of the portion Abraham dies, and he too is buried simply, no fanfare, no ziggurat or pyramid, no gold, no procession of thousands. He is laid to rest next to Sarah, and God takes up with Isaac, moving the story of the Jewish people to the next generation.
So where is the eulogy? Where is the mourning? How can we move so easily from one generation to the next? From this perspective, the death and burial of our most revered of ancestors seems stark and unfriendly, almost inappropriate for the man who listened to God and established a people more numerous than the stars in the sky. And what of Sarah, a woman who built Abraham’s wealth, kept him strong when he might have been weak, and bore him a child while old with age? Commentators speak of the importance of buying the cave at Machpelah—Sarah’s burial site being the first toe-hold of owned land in what will one day be Eretz Israel, the promised land.
But, it remains most striking that this process of burial and mourning is devoid of any emotion—where is her family? We want a eulogy for Sarah, we want to know who stood by as she was laid to rest. Who wept at her passing? All of the pomp and circumstance we might associate with burial is absent. Instead, the focus is on the future. Attention is immediately thrown forward, away from the “then” and even away from the “now.” Death is not about someone being gone, but about ensuring that there will be a future, a generation that will remember the past—thereby keeping history alive and vibrant.
The moment that seems to touch us in Chaye Sarah, that stands out for its hint at the deep seated process of grieving and release, comes when Isaac takes Rebekah as his wife. When she first sees Isaac, she knows in her heart that this is the one, almost having known it from the moment that she met Abraham’s servant at the well. And now, with the next generation of Bnai Israel seemingly established, there is a pause, and we hear this line: “Isaac then brought her into the tent of his mother Sarah, and he took Rebekah as his wife. Isaac loved her, and thus found comfort after his mother’s death” (Gen. 24:67).
Not exactly a steamy romance novel, but the power of this line fills in those unanswered questions about the death of Sarah. Her loss was a real loss to her husband and son; there was a huge void that needed to be filled, and Abraham has helped by filling his son’s heart with the love of another. The picture becomes clearer. Isaac and Abraham honor their loved one not with a mausoleum, but instead, by creating another link in the chain that will ensure Sarah’s memory throughout the ages. This kind of mourning helps them heal and move on, remembering the past but not being lost in it. And with those thoughts, death becomes connected to all that is Jewish, uniquely Jewish.
The pace of Jewish time is not like that of contemporary Egyptians or Greeks. Jews don’t build structures in space, instead, we build moments in time. Death is about the future, that often repeated phrase, L’dor V’dor, from one generation to the next. It is not about life in the afterworld, it is about building links and connections to this world. And, as in this week’s portion, after the sound and fury of a death and burial, there is a pause—and it is in that pause that we are able to absorb and understand. The tradition of a pause is our legacy, it is what we call Shabbat, and we celebrate it each week, allowing us to comprehend the past, live in the moment and prepare for the future.
Abraham Joshua Heschel called Shabbat “a sanctuary we build, a sanctuary in time. In the tempestuous ocean of time and toil there are islands of stillness where man may enter a harbor and reclaim his dignity. The island is the seventh day, the Sabbath, a day of detachment from things, instruments and practical affairs as well as of attachment to the spirit.” And thus, it seems, Abraham and Isaac regain their spirit through their own sanctuary in time, by creating the next link in the chain connecting the then to the now.
And, in death, our tradition is the same kind of pause and memory. Each Shabbat, when I see people stand to remember loved ones no longer here, I do not need to know who they were, or what they did. Instead, sadness is seen as love and compassion, and it helps fill Shabbat with life. Knowing that there will always be a tomorrow, a next, is comforting. Then and now are not the only moments of our lives.
Time marches on, but memory can connect the past to the present and seemingly to the future. I lost my grandmother last year, but her voice still rings in my ear and when I close my eyes, I can see her smile. She lives on. Each Shabbat, she and all our forebears, from Abraham and Sarah, to Moses and our most recently departed, mingle with us in the moments of silence, this time out of time. Shabbat is full of magic and mystery, delight and wonder. On this Shabbat, remember to be thankful for life. Remember to give thanks for this gift from God, enjoy each precious moment and let its beauty fill your world. There is a purpose, believe it, and make something out of the precious gift of our few moments in the now. Make yourself a bridge from the past to the future. What once was is still part of what is, and together, they can create a new tomorrow.
Parshat
Vayigash (Bereishit - Genesis 44:18 - 47:27)
D'var
Torah by Richard Walden, adult member
December 22, 2001
From the beginning, destiny is calling Joseph. He is not like his 11 other brothers. He is different, set apart. He can read dreams and has his own dreams of a greater destiny. In his youth and immaturity he shares visions of his future stature without concern for the feelings of others and we see painted the picture of a spoiled, arrogant child. One who tattles on his brothers and who, in the eyes of his family, seems to "lord it" over all.
Even so, Jacob has a special love for his younger son, symbolized by the gift of an "ornamented tunic." Perhaps Jacob sees some of himself in Joseph and looks beyond his son's behavior-at least, that is, until Joseph shares the dream of "the sun, the moon, and eleven stars.bowing down" to him. Jacob, we are told, "kept the matter in mind," and shortly thereafter sends his son out into the world. When asked to go look for his brothers, Joseph's response to Jacob is the prophetic, "Hineni" the very same word uttered by Abraham, Isaac, Jacob and later Moses to answer God's call with "Here I am." And so, Joseph begins a long and arduous journey to find his destiny, to make his dreams come true.
In this week's portion, parashat Vayigash, Joseph has arrived. He has matured through many trials and has been fully tested. He stumbles and falls many times, but each time he rises up again-and God is with him. He has learned to use his gift of prophecy in a fruitful way-has added new skills to his resume. He knows when to be silent and when to speak-how to skillfully use talents honed through experience and some level of suffering. In short order, arriving in front of Pharaoh at age 30, he has become the lord of all Egypt and is denied nothing but the throne itself. He has ruled the land during 7 years of prophesied plenty and we are now entering the first few of the predicted 7 years of famine. So, at about the age of 40, he finally begins to fulfill his final destiny as coincidence brings his brothers before him. The same family that cast him away out of jealousy and anger now bow down before him, begging for sustenance during a horrible famine.
Joseph keeps himself hidden at first. He holds back. He contrives a test for the brothers, perhaps a way to prove that they have truly repented and "turned." Satisfied that his brothers exhibit teshuvah, Joseph reveals himself in today's portion after Judah pleads for mercy. Where we might expect Joseph to jump in with a huge "I told you so," or effect some kind of philosophical revenge, instead, he sobs uncontrollably. The years of separateness are now ended and it is clear that not only have the brothers turned to a better path, but also that Joseph has grown and his "gift" finally fits him properly. All that is important now is reunion-bringing the family back together and meeting the ultimate destiny set out not only for Joseph and his family but also for the Jewish people as a whole. The past is wiped away in the flood of Joseph's tears and a new beginning is opened.
What does the Joseph story teach us? What are the messages? We are taught that everything is in Torah if we turn it and turn it. Yet, this portion seems more difficult than most to penetrate; the story itself is compelling and lyrical. Is there something beyond the peshat, "plain" meaning-something deeper and more eternal? Is there some mystical "a-ha," that may, for a brief shining moment, let us touch something divine? Surely it is a "coming of age" story. It is, perhaps, a road map to some method of growing into one's own gifts, or finding them. There is a clear sense of balance that seems to be necessary to move forward, for we see the pendulum swing heavily in this story. Jacob's positive love for his son is contrasted with the negative side of love that Potiphar's wife exhibits, and is further contrasted with the interlude story of Onan who wastes his seed and will not fulfill the obligation to sire children for a deceased brother. There is a sense that balancing all these aspects of love is the true path. Never at the fringes, always somewhere in the middle. But knowing where the middle lies is only derived from experience, from trial and error. Joseph first misuses his prophetic gift, then holds back from using it and finally learns how to balance. He is appropriately cautious, sensitive to using it in a controlled manner.
The theme of the "ornamented tunic" also reappears. First, it is a symbol of his favored status and becomes a source of envy. It is used as a ruse by his brothers to prove his death. Potiphar's wife uses his stolen cloak, falsely, as evidence of his adulterous intentions. And yet again, when his brothers appear, Joseph is cloaked in Egyptian robes and hidden. Perhaps this is the theme of not judging a book by its cover. Telling us that in order to know oneself or another person, this it is necessary to look beyond the outer trappings. In this context, perhaps a message of balance again-that we all use our outer "selves" as a shield, and can direct opinion by how we project ourselves-yet, to move forward, we must at some point reveal what is inside. Balancing the outer self and inner self are what provide peace and "echad," oneness, wholeness.
The story is also a great presage to what is to come in Exodus. As if the Joseph cycle is not only about one man maturing and growing, but a "coming attraction" to the story of Moses and the Jewish people as a whole. Coming soon will be the same sense of separateness, of being sent out alone, of returning and finding Sinai. In fact, even though the 10 commandments have not yet been delivered at Sinai, we see so many teasers of them along Joseph's journey: bowing down to "idols" in Joseph's dream, his brothers swearing falsely to their father; the plot to murder Joseph; the potential for adultery with Potiphar's wife-the list goes on. In this sense, the Joseph stories become the perfect transition from the stories of our Avot v'Imahot-from the journey of one person-to the journey of a whole people.
Or, as Freud says, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Perhaps the portion is what it means at face value. The Jewish people are about to begin their own journey with Moses-and the Joseph stories are tales about how to manage that journey; about how to manage the separateness the Jewish people will forever feel, about transitions and maturity. If the question all along is about being called by God and rising up to meet that call, well, the answer seems to be simply: there is no simple answer. All the stories, right up to this week's culminating story, speak of just putting one foot in front of the other, moving ahead by trial and error, of never really knowing your destiny or how it will unfold. Perseverance, faith and love help-but at the end of the day, when you are thrown in the pit or the jail cell, it is up to each of us to rise up and try to move forward. And it may just be circumstance or luck that finally bring things to some conclusion. After all, even though Joseph becomes lord over all Egypt he does NOT seek out reunion with his family, he waits until opportunity arises.
Not really an exhilarating message is it? Not very mystical or divine is it? I guess sometimes life IS just about moving forward, getting up the next day. Most of what we do is a passage from one place to another and making the "getting there" useful is the trick. Maybe this year's events underscore the need to rise up each day and move forward. To keep going even when it is hard, even when you doubt and fear what is to come next.
Or maybe I was just looking for too much in this portion. I turned 40 this year and entered into my own rite of passage with great thoughts that somehow turning some mathematical number might mean something. We are told the story of Rabbi Akiba beginning to study at 40-it is even said that one can't study Kabbalah until reaching 40. Yet, the day passed. Nothing happened. The heavens haven't opened and some great destiny has not been laid out before me. And if God did call, would I, like Joseph be able to say Hineni? Or would I end up lost in a pit, begging for help? Would any of us really know? I am no Hebrew scholar, but I do note that even when Joseph says Hineni, here I am, the language is Vayomer Lo Hineni (he said to him I am here). But if I gloss quickly, can't Lo also mean NO? I am not here, not ready? Is doubt ever really far from us?
Not knowing, perhaps the best we can each do is to live the best we know how, to use our own gifts as best we can. Learn, grow and mature. Manage through all those difficult transitions that we face in ways small and large throughout our lives. Maybe sometimes our portion in life is only to say the Shma as we go to bed and when we rise up in the morning to thank God for the beauty of another day, another chance to make a difference. Another chance to touch something divine or just marvel at the day. Pressing forward to some unknown future, one foot in front of the other, one day at a time. Hoping that if destiny ever does call that God will be with us.
Parshat
Tazria (Vayikra - Leviticus 12:1 - 13:59)
D'var Torah by Anat Shiloach
April 4, 2008
This week’s parasha is primarily about skin. I’ve heard that in the ranking of torah portions that people enjoy talking about, this one is pretty close to the bottom of the list, because it describes undesirable skin conditions in somewhat graphic detail. I actually found it interesting, but that may be because I develop skin cleansing products for a living and I end up thinking about skin quite a bit anyway.
This parasha belongs to a section of Vayikra (Leviticus) that addresses impurity and purification. It describes four different types of tzara’at, a skin condition that has been translated as leprosy. This translation is somewhat problematic, because at the time, leprosy was a disease that couldn’t be cured, yet the tzara’at in this parasha can come and go. But leprosy (and the stigma associated with it) is also a fitting translation, because tzara’at is more than just a disease – it’s a serious condition that can lead to being declared impure and being isolated from the community.
It can be confusing to logically follow the detailed descriptions of tzara’at, partly because we don’t have clear modern medical analogies for the terminology. There are tangled descriptions of dark and light patches of skin, that are deeper or not than the surrounding skin, with dark or light hair, that spread or don’t spread.
But the general idea is pretty clear: You have some type of skin or hair discoloration. You visit the Cohen, or priest. He examines you, and then he decides whether or not you have leprosy. If you’re impure, you’re isolated for seven days, and then you go back to the Cohen for a second evaluation.
It almost sounds like the Cohen is a doctor, but he’s actually not. He’s in the business of determining ritual purity, not making medical diagnoses, and he’s the authority for declaring you pure or impure.
For example, verse 5 describes the Cohen examining a skin lesion to determine whether or not it has spread. It says “vehineh ha-nega amad be-einav”, which I would translate literally as “the affliction remained unchanged in his eyes.” In his commentary, the Ramban says this means the Cohen judged the change in size by sight rather than by measurement, but “be-einav”, or “in his eyes” can also mean “in his opinion.” So it’s up to the Cohen to decide your status.
Another one of the medieval commentators (Sforno) points out that only the Cohen has the authority to declare someone pure or impure, because he can then “instruct the patient to consider his deeds, to pray for himself, and the Cohen will pray for him as well.” Besides emphasizing the role of the Cohen as the judge of ritual purity, this interpretation also links the external appearance of the skin to actions. It implies that by praying you can become more pure – and this purity will be reflected in your skin.
This concept is distasteful to us today – we generally don’t accept the idea that if we do something wrong, we’ll be punished with leprosy. But the link between our internal state and the way we look still exists, though it’s perhaps more emotional, rather than moral or spiritual.
A few years ago I developed a body wash that was designed to give people a “healthy glow”. As part of our research, we ran focus groups to find out what glow really means. It’s obviously different from the glow of a light bulb, but it’s not easy to measure.
Consumers told us that you can’t really get a healthy glow by using a skin care product. Glow is something that comes from within: when you feel happy, relaxed and confident, your skin glows. And what if you’re not feeling relaxed and happy? There has also been some research linking stress to acne.
The idea that the Cohen will draw conclusions about our purity based on examining our skin also reminded me of how much we judge each other by the way our skin looks. Our skin is very visible, and we believe that it says something about who we are. That’s part of the reason there’s a big business in cosmetics that promise to transform your skin (and transform you).
I’m currently working on a skin lightening shower gel for Asia, where lighter skin is associated with a higher social status and better opportunities in life. I’ve heard Thai women say that they will buy these products even if they don’t really believe they’ll become lighter, because they don’t have anything to lose and they might as well try.
In the US and Europe, on the other hand, we find tanned skin attractive, maybe because it shows that we have time and money to go on vacation. It’s easy to find lotions and creams that promise to make us darker.
There’s certainly nothing wrong with taking care of our skin and caring about how we look. But I think this parasha can remind us that it’s not our job to judge each other based on appearance. The Cohen had the ability to link skin conditions to purity, but the rest of us haven’t had that training.
The original purpose of these purification laws was to bring the people of Israel closer to God. But it seems to me that today, another way to get closer to God is to not pay too much to attention to things that to our eyes are only skin-deep. Shabbat Shalom.
