We’ve all seen live fireworks at one time or another. And as we know, there are typically one or two shots at a time, with colors from the one fading before another is launched into the darkened sky. And then, near the end, what happens? Right – a whole bunch of the various types of fireworks are shot up around the same time for the grand finale. A explosion of colors and sounds.

So it is with mitzvot in the Torah. There is a continuing trickle of mitzvot throughout the parashiot. You shall do this. You are forbidden to do that. So before today’s parashah, Gd must have said to Moses, “Moshe, listen, we’re running out of time. It’s almost the end of summer. We better step on the gas and finish this up, if you know what I mean.” And so here is Ki Tetzei, with fully 72 of the 613 mitzvot that we find in the whole torah!

There is a diversity of mitzvot this week, such as sins of a sexual or quasi sexual nature. Lots of these, such as the proper treatment of a female prisoner for whom one has lust, the prohibition against cross-dressing, compensation for violating a virgin and the removal of oneself from the family unit after a nocturnal emission (as though men have control over such occurrences!). There are sins within the family structure such as the stoning to death of a wayward child, and assorted other stuff – commandments such as the proper treatment of workers, and how many times one may be flogged for breaking the law. (Does anyone know the maximum number of lashes for a sin? Forty.)

Etz Chaim comments in its introduction to this week’s parashah, that all these laws reflect the theme of the irreducible dignity and worth of a human being. To me, this high-minded pronouncement is not true at all. We’ve all been troubled by various passages in the Torah, such as happened a few weeks ago when Pinchus was lauded for impaling a sexually promiscuous Israelite and his Moabite consort. But then again, some justification seems to be needed for all the laws this week, so Etz Chaim offers theirs, perhaps knowing that most readers don’t get past their introduction.

Ah, the Christians have it so easy. The 10 commandments, believe in Jesus, and all live an everlasting life! You can see this week why they have taken issue with the “Old Testament,” as they call the Torah.

While it is true that there are some very concrete examples of how humans are to be treated with dignity, this parashah is a bit discombobulated in its compilation of laws. What it does say to me is that we Jews care about details. The big details and the very small details of daily living.

The rules as stated here are meant to be of help in the building of a just society. So for instance, robbers who repent must of course be punished, but then, they must be allowed to live their lives without further labelling or punishment. Not every crime, when repentance and compensation take place, merits a life-long grudge or castigation from society.

Sexual acts in which there are certain types of indiscretion may be wrong and must be punished, but these acts and their punishment are far different from cases of rape.

And the treatment of animals, as clumsily though it may be stated, and as obscure as the lesson might be here, is still important, and must be a reflection of our humanity. Even the treatment of prisoners is discussed, though perhaps in a bit of an obscure way.

Family relationships are also touched upon. If we ignore the preposterous permission given for stoning to death a child who is incorrigibly deficient in his behavior and repeatedly commits misdeeds, we find a humanity that had not previously been conveyed in ancient society.

Finally, and very importantly, we are asked to let go of our hate and our enmity for others. It is, after all, ultimately corrosive to those who carry a grudge. I’m often told by patients about their frustrations at work – often involving how they are treated. What I usually say to my patient is that the offending person – a customer, coworker or boss – they don’t know you well enough to dislike you, so the real problem is with them – not with you. So don’t carry a grudge – it will harm you more than anyone else.

So while there is much here to be a bit scornful about, we find an underlying quest for society to “get it right” and for people to be sensitive to and respectful of others. Look at these various mitzvot. What is the underlying theme here? It is that we must be subject to strict behavior when it comes to dealing with others. In Judaism, you are what you do.

And then something that to me seems strange happens right at the end of the parashah. No more pretense about love for your fellow person. No more about how to treat others, how to protect the dignity of workers or the removal from the congregation of any male with crushed testes (Don’t ask me!). No more about the proper handling of a neighbor’s fallen ox. Forget even about the dictate that children are not to be punished for the sins of their parents.

At the very end, the final 3 verses remind us of what Amelek did to us – how, when we were leaving Egypt and were weary, he cut down the stragglers in our rear. And therefore, after our journey is completed, and we are in the Promised Land, we are to blot out his memory. Lo tishcoch – do not forget!

With the limited knowledge of Amelek and his troops, Rabbi Sacks, in one of his weekly parashah commentaries launched into a diatribe about antisemitism, for goodness sake. Now, admittedly, I know very little about Amelek and the motives behind his attack on the Jews. But honestly, I think there are examples that would serve as much better springboards for a discussion about antisemitism than an assault that occurred as our people left Egypt.

So all in all, while a bit clumsy in its coherence and a bit dated (ya think?) the parashah is the latest in a seemingly unending stream of attempts by our people – the Jewish people – to “get it right.” And we can certainly puff out our chests in pride over the attempt. Frederick Neitsche, the 19th century German philosopher and well-known antisemite said that, “The Jews bring to society their debilitating ethics and morality.” Debilitating ethics and morality. After reading Ki Tetzei and so many other parashiot: I am, proudly, guilty as charged.

As many of you know by now, I will be retiring from my medical practice very soon. And no matter how much I try to line up other activities and remain productive in one way or another – docent at the Holocaust and Human Rights Museum, teacher of ESL, etc, etc, the fact remains that an entire, and what has been very productive, part of my life is essentially over. Now don’t get me wrong – the decision to leave practice was, I believe, well founded. And I believe that by leaving now, while I still have at least some mental acuity left (don’t snicker!!) I have the opportunity to engage in other things that will be of help to others.

But still, I’ve turned 70 years old, have medical issues and find myself with more and more cognitive dissonance as people my age come to my office for care. I look at them and think, “Why, that’s how old I am! I don’t feel that old! Medicare, AARP mailings . . .good grief – how did this happen? What day did I miss? And of course, the advertisements – a constant reminder that what used to come naturally now requires medicinal intervention. Instead of telling me how young I look, as used to happen, patients now tell me how good I look for my age!

But in Pirkei Avot. Our Talmudic wisdom teaches that at seventy, one is considered a sage. And that eighty is the age of heroic strength. Maybe there’s hope yet! Each stage of life brings new power and strengths. We gain opportunities for involvement and of input borne of our experiences. We’re taught that each age brings new qualities. First literacy, then achievement, then understanding and wisdom. Victor Frankl, in his book, Man’s Search for Meaning, says that he looks at young people who have potential, but that he, HE, has achievements!

In this week’s parashah, Moses begins his valedictory to the Israelites. The man who begged off confronting Pharaoh because, as he said, he was not a man of words, now stands before his people forty years later. And with lots to say! He has indeed acquired words – a moral message. A LIFE message. Moses’s life needed no validation, but he is about to achieve one. One that grew more substantial with the passing of years. Moses will morph from a man of power, who commanded the Israelites in their daily dealings and issues, to Moshe Rabbeinu – our teacher.

Here was Moses. Disappointed that he would not be allowed to enter the Promised Land, who has watched his siblings die before him. They were his partners in many ways – his sources of inspiration. His life seems to be approaching a sad end. So what does he do? Plead with Gd for the opportunity to enter the Promised Land with his people? Live a life of nostalgia, remembering the good times – the crossing of the sea, the building of the tabernacle? Meeting the Master of the Universe on the mountain?

No. Rather, what he is about to do in Deuteronomy was change the entire emphasis of Jewish history. In Deuteronomy, he will set forth for the Israelites a vision of what it is to be a holy people. He will set forth a vision of what a society should look like – one based on individual dignity and of compassion for the downtrodden.

But more than what he said was what he did. Forget the miracles that he worked; forget the threats to Pharaoh. He became a teacher. He teaches that the laws are as they are precisely because we were slaves in the Land of Egypt. He teaches that the Israelites must remember what it was like to be mistreated, so that they will not mistreat. Slavery, he implies, was relatively easy. Freedom will be hard. Moses doesn’t recount what Gd commands them, but rather that what they should do will ultimately be for their own and for society’s good.

The laws that the Israelites are to follow do not come from a powerful ruler who will punish them for misbehavior. They’re not from kings. They come from the Almighty – a still, small voice that is calling them to become a holy people because Gd is holy. Moses understood that he would not be with his people for long, but that his teachings would, hopefully, endure. Military successes can be brief. The mightiest can soon become the second mightiest and be defeated. But spiritual might can last indefinitely.

And more. Moses tells the people that they must themselves become teachers. Several times in Deuteronomy, we will read that Moses begins a lesson with words such as, “When your child asks you,” or, “Teach these words to your children.”

I read that the word Lamud, meaning to learn, or some form of it, appears 17 times in Deuteronomy, but nowhere else in the Torah. We Jews don’t have pyramids or citadels. Jews venerate schooling and teachers. We have thus been called, justifiably, the People of the Book.

Today’s parashah is rather prosaic and by itself rather dull and uninspiring, but it’s the beginning of how Moses became a leader not just for his time, but for all time.

As most of you know from the various devarim I have given over the years, I look to our teachings for inspiration – not for history lessons. We just finished reading the Book of Esther with our own Simcha Shimon Rabeinu, our collective teacher, Fred Nathan. What was most inspirational to me? It was when Haman issued his decree that the Jews be put to death, and Mordechai tells Esther, (I’m paraphrasing) “Perhaps this exact circumstance is why you were placed in the position you now find yourself – as queen. So that you can do something heroic.” I often look at my own circumstances in just that way – maybe this very moment is my chance to make a difference.

(late addition to the D’var)
Just yesterday, I gave a tour to almost 20 teenagers in a program sponsored by the state for “at risk teens.” After bringing them through the gallery, I told them that what they had seen was the grotesque extension of prejudice, hatred and discrimination. In their own lives, they should be upstanders rather than bystanders in the prevention of just the type of hatred they had seen. They really seemed to “get it.” I thought that those teens were the exact reason and purpose for me being in the museum yesterday.

In a similar way, I look at accomplishments of older people and find inspiration. Frank Lloyd Wright designed the Guggenheim Museum at 92; Benjamin Franklin invented the bifocal lens at age 78. And here, today, we read that in his retirement, Moses gave lessons that would inspire Jews for many centuries.

So retirement? Why, I’m just getting started!

Shabbat Shalom

In today’s parashah, we find the ancient and very famous Priestly Blessing. For those of you who would like to refer to it during my D’var, it is Ch 6, v. 23-25 on Pg 804 in Etz Chaim.Truthfully, after all these years, I think its translation needs to be . . . freshened up a bit.

History – An amulet found in 1979 appears to be among the oldest Biblical texts ever found. It was apparently on a silver scroll that was only an inch or so long. I’m not exactly sure of how the scroll was rolled, but it took three years before archaeologists could finally agree on how to unroll it without having it disintegrate. It dates back to the sixth century BCE – the days of Jeremiah, during the first temple period.The scroll is several hundred years older than the other Dead Sea Scrolls, and is on display in the Israel Museum.

The traditional recitation. During the repetition of the amidah, when the blessing is part of the liturgy, the kohaneem gather in front of the congregation. Their hands are washed by the levites, they remove their shoes and they cover their heads and hands with their tallit. The procedure by which the Priestly Blessing is conferred is also called a duchanning, for the duchan, or platform from which it is performed.

The Kohen raises his hands, with the palms facing downward and the thumbs of his outspread hands touching. The four fingers on each hand are customarily split into two sets of two fingers each (thus forming the letter Shin (שׁ), an emblem for Shaddai, “Almighty [G-d]”), while the kohaneem do not look at the congregation and vice-versa.

This Jewish ceremony is sometimes called Nesiat Kapayim, the “lifting of the hands.” Tradition states the Divine Presence would shine through the fingers of the priests as they blessed the people, and no one was allowed to look at the shin out of respect for God

The hands are covered by their tallit. The prayer leader melodically chants the words and the kohaneem repeat it.

There are all sorts of restrictions. For instance, a kohen is not to participate if he is under the influence of alcohol.

What the words mean: my contention is this: With other verses in the Torah, we’re told that there is no redundancy. No words are wasted. But at first glance, it appears that there may be some repetition here. If you look at pg. 804 in Etz Chaim, the translation of the first portion of all three verses seem to present some repetition. Bless you, deal kindly with you, bestow his (??) favor upon you. The translation and commentary leave me wanting better explanations. We can and should do better! So without changing things too much, I have my own interpretation that give the entire blessing more meaning. So here are the three verses, six components, each of which is distinct because this is, after all, the Torah.

Now, who am I to offer what I think is a better alternative to this and other sources? As with other many other commentaries of mine, I’m a bit of an outlier, so this will come as no surprise. And I have it on good authority that Gd loves this sort of stuff (Pirkei Avot 5:19 – arguments for the sake of heaven). So here goes.

First verse. Yiverechecha ad’ai v’yishmerecha. May Gd bless you and protect you. What does it mean to bless someone? Does it involve mainly tangible gifts, as is typically what is meant when said in a Biblical context? Is it a hope for other good things to happen? Haven’t we all had blessings and curses? For some time, it has been exasperating to me, and makes little sense. It makes more sense when someone says, “You have been a blessing to me.” OK – I understand that to mean that you have been something good in my life. Fine. But to confer a blessing on someone? What does that even mean?

So given that we all have been blessed and that we have all been, in some measure, cursed, I’ve come up with slightly different wording. With all due apologies to Moses, who I think may have misremembered what he heard Gd say, how about, “May you be shown Gd’s blessings.” That is, may you recognize them. Appreciate them. Too many people spend too much time griping about the bad things that happen to them and don’t take proper time to give thanks for the good things that have been bestowed on them. And to take that time would make one much happier and more content. It would help keep the bad stuff in its proper perspective.

And what about, “and protect you.” From what? Maybe from being harmed. So here it is:

May you appreciate Gd’s blessings and may Gd protect you from harm.

A little wordy, perhaps, but it gets to the true meaning, at least for me. If you can simplify it further, please let me know.

Second verse. Ya’er ad’ai ponov ailecha v’yichunecha. May Gd deal kindly and graciously with you. Kind – I read a real mishmash of stuff about what this means. Given that redundancy is to be avoided within a verse and between verses, we must get to a distinction from “blessing” here.

Of the many emails I have received since the announcement of my retirement, the ones of which I’m most proud – the ones I would show my parents (a good guide, no?) are the ones that recount my kindness to an elderly parent or spouse. The time I took with them when they were ill. Of course, I’m going to know how to treat a heart attack, but showing kindness and having it be appreciated . . . those notes were the most touching to me. So how about this: “May Gd show you kindness.” That is, yes, be kind to you, but also, show you what kindness is; demonstrate it, so it will be apparent to you and you can then emulate it and be kind to others.

And the second part. Deal graciously with you. To me, grace here means divine mercy. We all screw up. In this blessing, we are simply asking that Gd realizes that good people sometimes make mistakes, and we are asking for Gd’s grace in dealing with us. For the whole verse, I like,

May Gd show you kindness and be gracious to you.

Third verse. Yisor ad’ai ponov aelecha v’yosem l’cha shalom. May Gd show you favor and grant you peace. Show you favor. Pretty simple. May Gd be good to you. And peace. What does this mean? Maybe contentment. For the blessing, maybe the word “peace” will do. I don’t think I would change a thing there. And what a nice way to end the D’var.

May Gd show you favor and grant you peace.  Amen.  Shabbat Shalom

Janusz Korczak was the pen name for Henryk Goldschmidt. He was an author of children’s books in Poland before WWII. He eventually ran an orphanage in Warsaw. He, the social workers and all the children were gathered by the Naziis and sent into the Warsaw Ghetto during the war.  He was given the opportunity to leave, since he had been in the Polish army, but he refused. He chose to stay with the children and ultimately accompanied his 192 orphans to Treblinka, never to be heard from again.

The opening verses of today’s parashah begin with the promise of how we will be rewarded if we follow Gd’s laws. The Israelites are implored to accept Gd’s invitation into Gd’s mitzvot as a means of traveling along a journey – a personal and collective path, just as we are on our own journeys. And Gd tells the Israelites in the Torah portion today that if they perform Gd’s work, “I will be your Gd and you will be my people.”

Still, as with Janusz Korczac, bad things happened and continue to happen to very good people. Many cultures and religions encourage and praise the acceptance of the tragic human condition. Be stoic. It was meant to be. Have faith. Indeed, maybe it will all make sense at some point in time. But to me, there is nothing rational or inevitable about hope and optimism. No one promises us that this optimism and hope will be justified or that a bright future awaits. And stoic? Oy Gevalt!! No one ever accused Jews of being stoic in the face of adversity!

Although our people has faced untold persecution and prejudice through the centuries, we continued to have faith and hope. We continued to have children no matter the circumstances in which we found ourselves. We acted in an entirely irrational way, teaching our children in makeshift schools in the ghetto of Warsaw. Even in Siracusa, Sicily, which Nancy and I visited in 2016, in the days leading up to the Inquisition, Jews tried to hide their mikvah on their way out by pouring sand in the bath and hoping they would return one day!

Theodicy – the reconciliation of a fundamentally good Gd with a world that is so bad in so many ways – has been the subject of more books than we can count.

 In today’s parashah, we read of the terrible fate that awaits us at the hands of God if we do not follow all of Gd’s mitzvot. But the parashah does not end there. After all of this hardship that may come our way, Gd says, “I will remember them. I will not reject them. I will remember my covenant.” The lesson is clear. No fate is so bleak as to preclude all hope and optimism. No defeat is final. Our ultimate fate is not cast. Tragedy need not be the end of the story.

So is the justification for the Holocaust that the people rejected Gd’s ways and lived in sin, and they were collectively punished? Even those who were observant? Even those who clothed the naked and fed the poor? Even children? Please. It’s enough to make one downright secular. No, for me there is no quid pro quo. Do good and you will be rewarded? Do bad and you will be punished? I can’t abide by that. So where does that leave me?

The three cornerstones of my belief are: belief in a creator, the miracle of Jewish survival, and the fundamental truths and teachings of Judaism that have endured and have been incorporated by other peoples throughout history. All three of these foundational pieces mandate that I – we – have a purpose, and that purpose begins with helping make the world better by becoming Gd’s partner in the unfolding history of humankind.

And even If it winds up that I am wrong, I would still not feel as though my life was spent in vain. Oh, I will perhaps wish that I could have enjoyed shrimp scampi or a BLT sandwich, but still, still, I would not have given up these Shabbat mornings here at the kehillah with friends, and I would not have regretted learning Torah to the extent I have, because those things have given me much joy and sense of purpose. So if all this Jewish and Gd stuff turns out to be a delusion, as delusions go, this is a pretty good one. And in fact, it’s so good, that I believe it may really not be delusional at all.

Well, 57 years have come and gone and I’m still coming to shul. Still trying my best to fulfill Gd’s commandments and my people’s teachings and to do what Gd has set out for me to achieve in my life. In the writing of our most sacred book, the Torah, if even a single letter of the book is missing or misshapen, it must be corrected, or the Torah is considered treif. I am a  letter and my letter as part of the book of the Jewish people must not be missing. And it must not be misshapen. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes in his book, A Letter in the Scroll: “I am just a single letter in the words that are our community. Our community is just a sentence in the chapter about today’s Jewish people. And this chapter is part of the book of the history of the Jewish people.”

In a section of Sacks’s book which I read every Passover, at our sedar, he says, “I am a Jew because, knowing the story of my people, I hear their call to write the next chapter. I, and my people, have a past, and this past commands me. I am a Jew because only if I remain a Jew will the story of a hundred generations live on in me. I continue their journey because, having come this far, I may not let it and them fail. I cannot be the missing letter in the scroll. I can give no simpler answer, nor do I know a more powerful one.”

As I read at our keheillah sedar, I will conclude with this: On January 1, 2000, the NY Times ran a millennium edition to celebrate the paper’s 100th anniversary. The special edition ran 3 front pages. One was a replica of the 1/1/1900 edition; one was actual news of 1/1/2000, and one contained the projected headlines from 1/1/2100. On that page, in addition to such items as whether robots should have the right to vote, a small item at the bottom informed New Yorkers of the Shabbat candle lighting time.  The production manager, an Irish Catholic was asked about this item, that seemed so out of place. He responded, “We don’t know what will happen in the year 2100. It’s impossible to predict the future. But of one thing you can be certain. In the year 2100, Jewish women will be lighting Shabbos candles.”

Am Yisrael Chai.

Shabbat Shalom

The latest of my forays into my future post-career life is teaching ESL – English as a second language – to a group of adults. While I’m still working, my 70th birthday looms. Time waits for no one. So as I prepare for what comes next in my life, I’ve ventured into several activities as I answer what I perceive as a calling to help make a difference in the lives of people, and in turn, to make the world better. A text message from a woman named Yicel, one of my students. She had been a bit under the weather and I sent her a get-well message. Yicel’s text said in part, “Thank you Mr. Joel for teach me.” Her grammar showed the need for me to, indeed, teach her. This, then, is one of my callings.

The title of today’s parashah – Vayikra – has proven to be the quintessential grounds for arguments in the Torah and has been the basis for D’vrei Torah for generations. If you look at that first word of the parashah, it is Vayikra – a calling. Or at least that’s what it means when the aleph is put at the end of the word. But as you will notice if you have a chumash, the aleph at the end of the word is written in a much smaller font, almost as though it is either optional, or maybe to draw attention to what the word would mean without the aleph. Without it, the word becomes vayikar, meaning to come upon, such as an encounter that happens by chance or perhaps a conclusion that a person might reach on her own. To come upon, rather than being specifically directed to. Vayikar vs. vayikra.

Well, as you can imagine, rabbis and scholars have had a field day with this! And of course, lucky for me, it presented the opportunity to develop a D’var from it. As I mentioned, the way it is written in chumashim, with the aleph, translates to, “And G-d called.” So why, then, is the aleph written in the smaller size?

As prominently as Moses is mentioned in the Torah, he doesn’t often seem to draw conclusions and give instructions based on what he decided by himself. Relatively little seems to be left to his judgement. We seldom if ever read about Moses thinking to himself, “on one hand . . . on the other hand.” That would have been more in keeping with “vayikar” – without the aleph – “he came upon” or perhaps, “he concluded.”

Instead, he is often called directly by Gd, and is given very explicit instructions. This is more in keeping with “Vayikra” – with the aleph – the one that means he was called – summoned – and told, “This is how you’re going to do it.” In fact, each time Gd communicates with Moses, Gd calls him by name. The instructions are personal and direct. This entire parashah is in this form – Gd’s instructions to Moses.

Drawing on the teachings of Rashi and Maimonides, a bit of a consensus seems to have been reached over many years concerning this wayward aleph. If we regard our life’s events and activities as occurring mostly by chance, decided by circumstance, or decided in an ad hoc fashion, the implications will be fundamentally different than if we look upon ourselves as being called specifically by Gd, as though Gd is directing the events.

In the first instance, the implication may be that our individual and our collective fate is left to mere chance, circumstances, or certainly to others. As a small people, inconsequential in numbers, we would have had a very inconsequential history. And as we know, Jews have been anything but inconsequential throughout their history.

If, however, the people of Israel believe in Divine messages and Divine intervention, as though we have been specifically called by Gd, the implications are far different. It will not surprise you that theologically, I am not necessarily in this particular camp. But still, for me – one who doesn’t necessarily believe in Divine messages or Divine intervention the point of Jewish peoplehood is still the pursuit of a life of relevance and meaning, and is all about the search for something larger than the self. For many, this search is a calling. And for me, the nature of that calling is largely determined by the lessons and values our people have lived by for centuries.

So now, let’s circle back to the beginning of the parashah. The difference in Hebrew between heeding Gd’s call on one hand – vayikra – and acting without purpose or conviction – vayikar – is almost imperceptible. The words sound almost the same, with only the aleph making the difference.

The aleph’s presence in the title of the parashah is almost invisible. In a similar vein, as we’re well past the audio and visual pyrotechnics of the Exodus, Mt. Sinai and the thundering mountain, Gd’s call to us is inaudible and invisible unless we look and unless we listen. We as Jews hear that calling as a still, small voice.

We do not have to view ourselves as special because Gd sees us as being special and communicates directly with us. That’s not where I am theologically. Instead, we can become special by how we choose to interpret our Jewish teachings. When we see a wrong to be righted, a need to be met, we come as close as we can to hearing – vayikra – Gd’s call to us.

As committed Jews, we believe that what we do every minute of the day, and what we become is because we have heard a call. In his book, “To Heal a Fractured World,” Rabbi Jonathan Sacks gives us a guide for finding our calling – our summons. He said, “Where what we want to do meets with what needs to be done, that is where Gd wants us to be.” “Where what we want to do meets with what needs to be done, that is where Gd wants us to be.”

Shabbat Shalom

Nancy and I received a text last week before Thanksgiving from a well-meaning cousin. She sent it to several people in the family. The thrust of the message was that we should be thankful for struggles because they make us stronger. And on and on it went about different types of struggles – physical, emotional, etc., and how grateful we should be for hardships. I thought, “What a lot of nonsense!” These messages of how wonderful adversity can be typically come from people who haven’t known real tragedy or chronic illness. Nancy and I read this text and, charitably, said, “Well, she meant well.”

Last week, we read about Jacob’s ladder, and we recalled the struggles he had been through, brought on by his own actions. The imagery from that dream has been the subject of books and films. Years had passed in Jacob’s life, and of course, he had been through a lot. In this week’s parashah, we read that Jacob is about to meet his brother Esau for the first time in, we’re told, more than 20 years. He is afraid of the revenge that Esau might take. Recall that Jacob tricked his brother many years before, so that he would receive his father’s final blessing before his death. Having tricked his brother and also his elderly father, what did he then do? He ran away!

This week, the Torah recounts Jacob’s torment the day before the meeting. He makes plans to disperse his belongings and even his family, in case Esau takes revenge on him. Jacob is increasingly fearful of what might happen. He sends a huge gift of cattle to Esau. He prays, asking for Gd’s help. Esau, it seems, is bringing to this meeting a whole army.

And so Jacob sleeps fitfully and has a bad dream, in which he has a struggle with some unknown entity – was it an angel? Himself? Gd? Anyway, Jacob tells his foe that until he receives a blessing, he will not let go. Jacob’s hip is hurt during the struggle, and remains so even after he awakens. So now, knowing that whatever he faces is just dessert for the deception he perpetrated years before, we’re supposed to feel his pain? Please. Doesn’t it seem as though Jacob is getting exactly what he  deserves? Well, all turns out well. Esau receives Jacob with grace and warmth, and Jacob returns the feelings.

So is there a lesson here that we can learn? Jacob is struggling with his past misdeeds. Perhaps he recalls how Esau must have felt when he had been swindled. In his dream, Jacob asks for, pleads for a blessing. Was Jacob channeling his inner Esau? His past misdeeds have tormented him, and now he continues to limp. “Will I change?,” he must have been thinking. “I must change!”

We all continue to limp from the genuine struggles we have faced. In fact, we sometimes bear those scars, and limp, for a lifetime. Some are scars that were the result of our own misdeeds; others were cast upon us through no fault of our own. But all were from some crisis in our lives. Real crises cause real scars.

But what also happened? Jacob wouldn’t let go until he received a blessing. The crises that we live through should, hopefully, result in an awakening within us of the need to turn crisis into opportunity. To turn tragedy, even, into actions that will ultimately bring change for others that will benefit them. It’s not easy. Sometimes, it takes years for this to happen. For many, it never does.

Jacob’s life was not easy. In a few weeks, we will read that when he meets Pharaoh in Egypt, he tells him that his life has known many troubles. What’s so instructive and, yes, inspiring, about the Torah is that its characters are people we can identify with. They make mistakes, they struggle, they limp as a result. But sometimes they learn in ways that we can, in the best of the Jewish tradition, find instructive and inspirational. Maybe we can all find some of Jacob in ourselves. Hardships and tragedy are not blessings, but it is up to us to become a blessing to others in response.

And you’ll be happy to know that I responded to my well-meaning cousin by wishing her a very happy Thanksgiving.

The early days of my house officer years were a revelation to me. I had rarely been that tired for a whole string of days. And it dawned on me – this was simply how it was going to be for a very long time. It would become my new reality.

Our kehillah’s Board of Directors has and will continue to grapple with the question of when our sanctuary will reopen. But in a loose similarity to those early days of mine at Hartford Hospital, it occurs to me that we may be in this situation with respect to the coronavirus for a very long time.

I have such ambivalence when I think about the proper course for the state and the country. What would I do if I were king? I deliberate. I have tried to consider Jewish laws in an attempt to help me decide what I would do if I were in charge. Forget the illogical and indeed bizarre lurching from one position to another we hear from the federal government. Let’s focus instead on the governors, upon whose shoulders the real decision rests as to how to navigate seemingly conflicting priorities. Governor Abbott of Texas has tried, admirably, I believe, to “thread the needle” in this regard.

First: protecting our health and the health of those with whom we come into contact is of primary importance. People should be restricted in their movements – locked down, as it were, because in Judaism, life is our paramount concern, and we must not put ourselves in a position where we might become ill. And with this particular virus, we can make others sick for days before we ourselves are symptomatic, so we must observe semi-quarantine lest we make someone else sick, endangering their life. The Torah tells us that whenever there are choices to be made, choose life.

Hillel’s commentary to not do unto others that which is hateful to you is perhaps a better summary of the Torah than any other. So if we might infect someone else, the burden is on us to do what we can to help keep others safe. And of course, that begins with keeping ourselves safe. It is therefore logical to keep the movement of people restricted and keep retail establishments closed. Protecting health and life are goal #1.

BUT!  Second: Seeing tens of millions of people thrust out of work reminds us that in the Talmud, the argument is made that mental health is seen as just as important as physical health. So keeping businesses closed is hardly desirable. More than any other image from this whole national ordeal, seeing lines of people waiting for food pains me more than any other. People who have worked hard. Cared for their families. And now they can’t even afford meals! By restricting people’s movements and keeping retail establishments closed, we are causing untold psychological harm.

Many of those people become frustrated and engage in protests, mixing with others and exposing them to this awful bug. The protests and flouting of the lockdown mandate brings to mind the teaching that dina d’malkutah dina – the law of the land is the law. This is a Jewish teaching that goes back to the Middle Ages. So for Jews, these protestors are ultimately compelled to observe the law, even if the psychological cost is great.

Of course, we all are aware that saving a life overrides all. Protecting ourselves and others overrides Jewish and certainly civil  law. With few exceptions, there is no Jewish law that cannot be ignored when it comes to preserving our own health and that of others. Yet as I mentioned, psychological health must be accounted for as well.

So I try to reconcile all of this. Protecting our physical health . . .protecting the health of others . . . yet preserving psychological health . . . OY! What ’s a king to do?

At the end of chapter 26 in this week’s parasha – after a listing of the rewards and punishments that come about depending on whether or not one follows Gd’s commandments – Gd tells the Jewish people that no matter what happens to them, no matter how much they might suffer, Gd will not forget them and will keep Gd’s covenant with them.

This, then, has become an enduring source of hope for the Jewish people and potentially for each Jew individually. No fate is so bleak as to eliminate all hope. No defeat is final. No tragedy need be the final or even the defining chapter of our lives. This is the concluding and very powerful message of today’s parasha.

Does Gd really act in the world? Will our prayers change the course of the corona virus? To be honest, I don’t know. Can any of us really know for sure? So I debate in my own internal deliberations what society should do in the macro sense. But for me in a personal sense, it’s easy. I try to do what Jews are called upon to do. I do my best to stay our of harm’s way and preserve my health, support my family as best I can, and do my best as a physician and as a friend, while trying to help others in society by donating to food banks and other worthwhile charities.

That chronic fatigue of my house officer days lasted a very long time. But I seem to have gotten through it just

Not long ago, we sat in shul and read in great detail about the construction of the tabernacle. We read how different types of wood and different lengths of the wood were to be used, so that it would be done just right.  And if we were to get it just right, the glory of Gd would shine upon us. Of course, a major iteration of this followed with the destruction of the Temple, the diaspora and with the advent of rabbinic Judaism. There would no longer be A temple.

Things became a bit less exact over the course of many centuries. And now, here we all are, on erev Shabbat, with computers in hand or on a table, with a discreet camera mounted within, beaming, or at least reflecting, Gd’s presence among us, as we prepare to welcome Shabbat.

Just a few weeks ago, the sanctuary that we have come to call our spiritual home, became temporarily obsolete. But worry not! As I reviewed my emails from just this week, I find numerous messages from American Jewish University, the Jewish Theological Seminary, Congregation Shearith Israel, Hillel at Boston University and Tufts University, the Jewish Regional Children’s Service, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, the American Jewish World Service and, of course, from many of you – enough to actually compete in number with the recent profusion of medically-related emails from the CDC, the Baylor Heart Hospital, the American College of Cardiology, the AMA, etc, etc. I have been inundated!!

In an impressive feat of the American Jewish community, overnight, it seems, Jewish educators, rabbis and lay leaders alike have become technologically savvy, using Zoom, YouTube, FaceTime and other social media vehicles, to connect with large numbers of interested Jews. Courses sprung up. Services are now widely being streamed. Curricula have been reimagined and reconstituted. Synagogues, camps and schools have had concerts, comedians and educators, who have lectured or performed for many hundreds.

Virtual minyamin have been constituted, enabling those in mourning to say kaddish. A couple of weeks ago, the CJLS, the Conservative movement’s law committee, sanctioned the recitation of the Mourner’s Kaddish without the physical presence of a minyan—a decision that fundamentally changed one the most ancient ritual standards we have.  Undoubtedly, other life cycle events have been held in similar ways. But bending the rules in the wake of our societal issue allows family and friends to be of comfort.

Jewish institutions – local and beyond – have responded to this crisis in ways that have made our Jewish community and even many of our rituals relevant and uplifting.

On a personal note, I have reached out to people that I only infrequently am in touch with. A rebirth in relationships has resulted from calls and emails to friends in Boston, Florida, Austin, Missouri, Kansas and London.  Every night after dinner, I ask Nancy who we should get in touch with. Our cousin initiated a Zoom call before Pesach with family in many cities. In normal times, we would have had sedars separately anyway, but this virus-enforced isolation prompted all of us to get together virtually. It was wonderful!

So we sit here in our homes not spiritually depleted, not missing the presence of Gd, but full of Gd’s presence, knowing that even if the physical sanctuary we have built is not accessible, the virtual sanctuary we have erected is serving us quite well for the time being.

And while our sanctuary matters – a lot – our current situation makes us realize that earthly materials, no matter how precious, are not, in the end, sacred by themselves. They can only become sacred when they facilitate the baring of our souls, and when we in turn show love we hold in our hearts for each other, for the Jewish people, and for God.

These past couple of weeks have been difficult on many fronts. We have seen the number of cases of coronavirus rise sharply in our country and throughout the world, and we have also seen the terrible consequences it brings. We may not have even reached the peak of this pandemic, nor do we know whether that peak will be the only one, or just the first in a series. We do not know when we will all be able to return to all of our normal activities or when we will be able to visit and hug loved ones far away.

But what we do know, and what we have demonstrated, is that when Jews put their hearts and minds together, creating sacred time and activities that keep us together in faith, in relationship with each other and with God, a beautiful and meaningful design can and does emerge.

In the Talmud, we read, “At first, the evil impulse is called a wayfarer, then a guest, finally a master.” Another rabbi says, “At first, the evil impulse is as thin as a spider’s gossamer thread, but in the end it is as thick as a cart-rope.” Why this tendency for evil impulses to grow stronger?

Recall that last week, in the first five plagues, the text tells us that Pharaoh hardens his own heart – he is stubborn, and refuses to free the Israelites. There is a shift in the language, though, after these first plagues. Beginning with the sixth plague, it is Gd who does the work, “hardening” Pharaoh’s heart.  And in today’s parashah, this trend continues. In all, we read about Pharaoh’s hard heart 20 times!! The evil impulse has indeed become quite strong in Pharaoh! But if it was Gd who acted to harden Pharaoh’s heart, why should Pharaoh be punished? How can Gd punish Pharaoh for acts that were not of his own volition?

Teachings across the entire spectrum of Jewish observance seem to agree that each time Pharaoh acts to “harden his heart” and sins, he gives up a bit more of his own free will. He becomes hardened in his response, more set in his ways, more stubborn. He thus becomes less likely to exercise free will by changing behavior and his directives.

Some find the active “Hand of Gd” behind Pharaoh’s decisions and the ultimate cosmic justice for this “nogoodnick.” For others, Pharaoh’s decisions are simply the nature of human behavior – the way we were created. Gd simply created humans in such a way that, just as one mitzvah might lead to the next, one act of immorality might lead to yet another.

For both of these paradigms – the “Gd-centric” model and the “That’s just the way Gd created the world” model, we come to the same conclusion. Pharaoh repeatedly. . does. . evil. Eventually, sinful behavior can become irreversible, and there is no hope for repentance.

In the second model – the one I favor – change, repentance, is unlikely. Ultimately, Pharaoh no longer enjoys real freedom of choice. He is almost magnetically drawn to a fate of his own making. He may have been free to be generous or evil at the beginning of the whole process, but by the end, his self-destructive choices became inevitable. Rather than claiming that Gd directly caused all the grief that was to befall the Egyptians because of Pharaoh’s choices, we can use some teachings from social psychology to explain Pharaoh’s seemingly irrational behavior. And those teachings can help us in our everyday lives.

Pharaoh incorporated a number of cognitive biases, which are tendencies to think in a particular way. They afflict many of us, resulting in our victimizing ourselves with poor decisions. Here are a few.

First: optimism bias – the tendency to underestimate the probability of undesirable outcomes and overestimating favorable outcomes. Pharaoh never dreamed that the plagues would continue. After all, why would he – he had never experienced such things before. He might have said, “Hey, we got through the frogs, the boils on the cattle and the locusts. What else can possibly go wrong?” That’s optimism bias.

He had the illusion of control, overestimating what control he himself exerted over the situation. Frogs and gnats all over the place? “Call the Egyptian Exterminator Company to get rid of these pests!” Then, everything will be OK.”

He had a normalcy bias – refusing to plan for or react to an event that had never happened before. “Hmmm 3 days of darkness . . . this was probably just some unexplained fluke!” Ya think?!?!

Finally, he was oblivious to the sunk cost effect – a loss that had already been incurred and was unlikely to be recovered. This is akin to planning for and paying for a trip to, say, New Orleans, which then came under a hurricane watch. The money is already gone, whether or not we worsen our own situation by making the trip. Pharaoh made his situation worse by continually doubling down on his investment. He might have said, “After going through what we’ve gone through, we can’t possibly let the Hebrews go now!” Pharaoh should have been told that no situation is so bad that it can’t get worse.

Poor guy! How could he have possibly made any choice other than to keep the Israelites in servitude? Then, of course, came the 10th plague. And all those biases worked against him, culminating in catastrophe.

Ah yes, the tenth plague. A pause in our discussion about biases for a moment. I’m not letting ole Moses off the hook here. What did Abraham do when Gd planned the destruction of Sodom? Right – he used the “what if there are 50 good people there?” argument. What about Moses? When Gd told him that the last plague would be the killing of each and every first born male, Moses told his fellow Israelites, “That’ll be just swell – they will HAVE to let us leave then!” Moses was no Abraham. Alright – Moses did some pretty good things later, so I guess he’s OK, but still . . . “Gd, do you really have to kill all these children to make your point?” Right?

Now – back to the subject at hand. Can becoming aware of biases that many of us harbor help us in how we get along with others and with the world? Here are a few dangerous cognitive biases – tendencies of how we think – that may get in the way of interpersonal relationships.

Confirmation bias – we develop a narrative and use snippets of evidence to confirm our suspicions and feelings, while ignoring other items that might refute this feeling. “She didn’t call me when I was sick,” while not recalling other, pleasant and considerate encounters.

Bandwagon effect – the tendency to do or believe things because many others do the same.

Empathy gap – the tendency to underestimate the influence or strength of feelings, in either oneself or in others. “Ah, so-and-so is overly sensitive. I didn’t mean anything by it!”

Hostile attribution bias – the tendency to interpret others’ behaviors as having hostile intent, even when the behavior is ambiguous or benign.

So what about us? Do we have feelings and thoughts about people or situations in which we display a “hardened heart?”

Is it possible to change our minds about something? Can we overcome these biases and other psychological traps and withstand the financial or social stature costs that ensue when we change our minds? An entire episode on one of my favorite podcasts, Freakonomics, covered the subject of changing one’s mind – it’s certainly not easy to do. Can we muster the moral courage to change our minds? To swim against a tide that we ourselves may have created?

We see this so often. I can’t tell you how many people I come across who harbor this type of stubbornness, of “hardening their heart.” Wanda is a patient of mine who had become estranged from her sister, who lived in Kansas. Estranged because a whole lot of these biases were at play – hostile attribution bias, confirmation bias, etc. The sister had no other family, and when she became very sick with ovarian cancer, Wanda magnanimously took her into her home. Wanda came back for her 6-month visit. The sister, meanwhile, had died. I couldn’t help but ask, “All that time in your home after so many years of estrangement. What did you talk about?” Wanda choked back tears. “Missed opportunities,” she said.

Pirkei Avot, 4:1: “Who is mighty? We are mighty when we can conquer ourselves.” Pharaoh brought about his own punishment. The Israelites were slaves who ultimately enjoyed freedom. Pharaoh was a free man who became his own slave.

“A minyan of Comfort” is the name of a widely used prayer book in houses of mourning. It is an especially popular book in Conservative Jewish congregations. We gather to comfort those who mourn. And they, in turn, accept our comfort.

But in today’s parashah, we read, “And Jacob refused to be comforted.” He had been shown a blood-stained tunic that belonged to Joseph. His sons told him that poor Joseph must have been devoured by some wild beast. And so in a somewhat cryptic phrase, we’re told that Jacob wouldn’t accept the typical mourning ritual that begins with accepting the comfort of loved ones. Maybe he held out hope that Joseph was still alive, or maybe he was simply too grief-stricken to accept comfort. Who knows? Commentators like the first possibility – it gives them much more grist for D’vars!

As I thought about the issue of accepting comfort, I realized that this topic of offering comfort doesn’t always have to refer to those in mourning. And when applied to these other issues, it has lessons for us that go beyond mourning.

As you know, I’ve been in my current office since 2011. When I was 60 years old, I wanted to take a bit more time off for vacations, some half-days during the week, etc. My partners sensed an opportunity. By insisting that I continue to pay a full share of overhead, they perhaps thought they could force an early retirement, thus inheriting all my patients into their practice. The COO of the company tried to comfort me, and told me that I had had a wonderful career, that this might be a good time to do some more volunteer stuff, some additional writing and teaching. But I refused to be comforted and, while staying in the company, I started out anew in a different locale, designing the practice and my schedule just the way I wanted it. It’s been great!

In any case, reading the parashah, we of course know the story will go on. we read how Joseph ends up in prison and at the end of the parashah, Joseph is left in despair. His buddy in prison forgets to recommend him for a commutation of his sentence when a dream interpretation gig comes up. You can read it as we do the Torah reading. All, it seems, is lost. Poor Jacob. Poor Joseph. Of course, as in a TV drama series, we know there’s more. After all, we have the whole Exodus story yet to come. How can Joseph’s story end here?

In both instances, unlike in a sporting event there is no whistle signaling that the game is over. Joseph’s story doesn’t end as it may have in a Greek tragedy. As in so many other instances, this is the Torah – decidedly NOT a Greek tragedy.

In Judaism, unlike in ancient Greek thought, fate has not been decreed. The Torah teaches that the human condition and an individual’s story are not inherently sad, nor must they be filled only with despair.  Heroes are note fated to fail or fall. Joseph is ultimately redeemed.

And here, stuck in the middle of the parashah comes a chapter about Tamar. Tamar is married to Er, Judah’s oldest son. Recall that Judah is one of Jacob’s sons, and one who had sold Joseph into slavery. Er’s life was, “Taken by the Lord,” for unspecified displeasing behavior. As was customary in those days, Er’s younger brother then marries Tamar, but his behavior also displeased Gd, so he, too, was struck down.

Judah wonders if maybe Tamar is the problem and keeps his third son away from her, lest he also be struck with an early death. Like so many other women of the Torah, Tamar is childless. I’m sure all her friends tried to comfort her. But she refuses to be comforted and concocts a plan. Dressing as a harlot, she seduces Judah, who accommodates her.

Finally, Tamar has her child. But when she is about to be revealed by Judah as being a sinful seductress, she pulls a rabbit out of her hat, producing the seal that Judah had given her as collateral, pending payment for services rendered. Judah knows that he had been had. He was the father of Tamar’s child. Tamar is spared. She has her child – twins, in fact. All is not lost, after all! And more than that, one of the kids fathers a line that leads to King David! how about that! Instead of being comforted for being childless and accepting her unfortunate fate, Tamar takes action.

Remember how when Moses first encounters Gd, before the Exodus, he asks Gd to see Gd’s face so that he might know Gd? And Gd answers what? That’s right – Gd tells Moses that he may only see Gd’s back – not Gd’s face. In other words and by one interpretation, he only sees Gd after Gd has passed. Metaphorically, this can be construed that we only know that Gd has acted when we see the results – not beforehand. Personally, I don’t believe that Gd manipulates events. I’m not one who would say that ‘”everything happens for a reason.” I do, though, believe, in accordance with the best of our tradition, that it’s up to us to react to events and to behave so as to make the best of a given situation.

So the lessons here of Joseph, Jacob and Tamar teach us that in Judaism, despair is never justified. Even in circumstances that appear bleak, there should always be hope, with its sidekick – a resolve to make things better.