Shabbat morning sermon From Upheaval to Renewal

At this time, 2606 years ago, the inhabitants of Jerusalem were experiencing the full force of the Babylonian conquest. The city had been under siege since the winter, and just over two weeks earlier the city walls had been breached. Exhausted and dying of famine, they didn’t know what lay ahead, but they knew they were in the midst of a catastrophe. And then five days later, on the 9th day of the month of Av, King Solomon’s Temple, built over 400 years earlier, was destroyed and the city was finally laid waste.

The tale of that destruction is told in searing detail in the biblical book of Lamentations, known by its first word, Eichah:

Eichah! yash’va vadad ha-ir rabati am.

Alas! How solitary does the city sit that was so full of people.

Jewish memory begins with destruction – churban; a word that also means devastation. On Tishah B’Av, we remember back to that time of catastrophe. Jewish memory also has other beginnings. The journey of Abraham and Sarah and their household from Charan in Mesopotamia, towards the land beyond the Jordan.[1] The journey of the descendants of our ancestors out of slavery in Egypt and through the wilderness[2] – again towards the land beyond the Jordan.

We are the Hebrews – Ivrim – from the Hebrew root, Ayin Beit Reish, to pass over or to cross over. From our very beginnings, we have taken journeys and have been forever crossing borders – sometimes of our own volition, sometimes because we were forced out, sometimes because we had simply no other choice but to flee. This Shabbat, we begin reading the fifth and last book of the Torah, D’varim – Deuteronomy – which opens with Moses reminding the people of the journey through the wilderness, as they encamp on the edge of the Jordan, waiting to cross over.

The destruction of King Solomon’s Temple and Jerusalem precipitated another journey – an exile to Babylon (known today as Iraq). But, as it happens, the traumatic exile of 586 BCE, when ‘by the rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept as we remembered Zion’[3], was short lived. In 539 BCE, King Cyrus of Persia defeated the Babylonians and permitted the exiles to return to the land and rebuild the Temple.

But that change in fortunes did not mean that everyone returned. Some of the exiles chose to remain in Babylon. Exiles no longer, they put down roots. By the time the last Temple was destroyed in 70 CE by the Romans – the last in a series of conquerors – the Jewish community in Babylon was thriving. And in the course of the next few hundred years, its scholarly academies at Sura[4] and Pumbedita[5] became the major centres of Jewish Learning, eclipsing those in the land. The Mishnah, the first rabbinic code of law, edited around the year 200, reflected the work of the academies established in the land following the destruction of the Temple. When we turn to the G’mara, the commentary on the Mishnah by subsequent generations of scholars, the sharp difference between the circumstances of the Jewish communities living in Babylon and in the land is very evident. The Y’rushalmi, the Jerusalem Talmud[6], chiefly the work of the academies of Tiberius and Caesarea and edited under the difficult conditions of Roman domination around the year 400, is a terse and incomplete 4-volume document, compared to the 63 tractates of the Bavli, edited in Babylon a century later.[7] Study of the Talumd since then has been predominantly study of the Bavli, rather than of the Y’rushalmi, which is usually referred to only for comparative purposes. Indeed, in the centuries that followed the production of the Bavli, the Babylonian academies continued to be the centres of Jewish learning, producing in time, codes of Halachah, Jewish law.

Why am I telling you all this? Because as we remember our painful history of persecution, segregation, destruction, massacre and expulsion, culminating in the Sho’ah, it’s also important that we remember the flourishing of Jewish life and learning that in some cases, as with the exile to Babylon, followed periods of utter devastation.

And it’s not just a matter of putting the record straight and ensuring that we have a complete picture. The Jewish experience of how we have not only survived but in some important cases managed to flourish after destruction, is also a lesson for humanity. Our experience of journeying, of wandering and flight, which has defined us as a people, has also given us a unique perspective on life and the experience of being alive.

For the past few months, the world has been living in a time of extreme crisis, the coronavirus pandemic; a crisis that has brought society as we know it to a standstill. There’s been no destruction as such – no cities in ruins – but the pandemic has not only resulted in a high death toll – as of yesterday morning, 45,554 people in the UK and 633,122 people altogether around the globe[8] – it has confined us to our homes, cut us off from our friends and families, closed schools and amenities, including, restaurants and cafés, theatres and cinemas, and all but essential shops, grounded planes and severely limited other forms of public transport. And, as restrictions are eased, with new cases of infection recorded every day[9] and effective track and trace systems not yet in place, we know it’s not over yet. In fact, we have no idea when it will be over – and whether or not it will ever be over. As we have been adjusting to what has been called ‘the new normal’, we are aware that we may find ourselves living with COVID-19 for a long, long time.

Of course, experiences of this ‘new normal’ vary depending on people’s individual economic circumstances. For example, for those with spacious homes and gardens, being in lockdown has been very different than for those confined to flats that don’t even have a balcony. There are so many other variants, including whether or not one is shielding, living at home or in care, living alone, or with one other person, or with several people in crowded conditions. But for all of us, the continuing coronavirus pandemic means uncertainty. We have always taken for granted that we can make plans for the months or year ahead, but now we find ourselves stymied. Within our own congregation, two b’nei mitzvah dates have already been postponed. Just two weeks ago, a couple I was due to marry on August 30th reluctantly decided to rearrange their plans – hopefully, for April next year.

So, it’s hard to look forward. And yet, we must look forward. The Jewish people has always looked forward to the future. And now, as individuals, families, communities, as a society, we must look forward to the time beyond the coronavirus crisis. And we must think about, not how we will return to life as it was, but as a new social movement puts it, how we can ‘build back better’. On the Build Back Better Campaign website, we read:[10]

The coronavirus pandemic has turned the world upside down, exposing major weaknesses in our economy and the deep-seated inequalities of our society that mean the most vulnerable people have been hit the hardest.

But what we do next could change everything. As the world recovers, we have a chance to reset the clock and build back better than before.

We need something new.

We need a new deal that prioritises people, invests in our NHS and creates a robust, shockproof economy that is capable of tackling the climate crisis.

Any coronavirus recovery plan must be built on the following principles:

1. Secure the health and needs of everyone in the UK now and into the future

2. Protect and invest in our public services

3. Rebuild society with a transformative green new deal

4. Invest in people

5. Build solidarity and community across borders

The Build Back Better campaign was initiated, and is currently co-ordinated, by Green New Deal UK, drawing on existing funding from the European Climate Foundation and Oak Foundation. The campaign is run by a steering group that includes, in addition to Green New Deal UK, Medact, Greenpeace, the Greener Jobs Alliance, the Public and Commercial Services Union (PCS), the UK School Climate Network (UKSCN), the Joint Council for the Welfare of Immigrants, Workforce, New Economics Foundation, Friends of the Earth and 350.org [11] ‍

It is heartening to think that these sterling organisations are bringing their experience, skills and vision together. We are invited to join them. You can register to be involved in the campaign by going to the Build Back Better home page.[12] The point is, as Jewish experience has demonstrated, a crisis, even a catastrophe, can contain the seeds of opportunity. We human beings are essentially creative and adaptable. We have always adapted to changing external circumstances. By drawing on our resources, not least, of optimism, resilience and life-embracing determination, we can build back better.

I am continually inspired by the words of Marge Piercy in her poem, ‘The task never completed’, which is included in the draft Shabbat morning service booklet. Let me quote a few lines from it:[13]

Incomplete, becoming, the world / was given us to fix, to complete / and we’ve almost worn it out. / … / Every dawn I stumble from the roaring / vat of dreams and make myself up / remembering and forgetting by halves. / Every dawn, I choose to take a knife / to the world’s flank or a sewing kit, / rough improvisation, but a start.

We must make a start, even if we do not know where we are going at the moment. The returning exiles from Babylon made a new start. Those who stayed in Babylon made a new start. Generation after generation, wherever we found ourselves, our people have started over again, and survived and flourished. Even after the utter desolation of the Sho’ah, we have renewed Jewish life – in Israel, and also around the world – not least, in Europe, the epicentre of the attempt to eradicate Jewish life. In 1933, 525,000 Jews lived in Germany. In 1950, there were just 37,000 Jews left.[14] By 2019, the Jewish population of Germany had increased with immigration from the East to 118,00.[15] In recent decades, Jewish communities in Austria, Hungary, the Czech Republic, Poland, Russia, Belarus and Ukraine, have also come to life again. May we, today, even as the coronavirus crisis continues, find the courage and the spirit to connect with others and to make a start on building back better and repairing the world.

And let us say: Amen.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

25th July 2020 / 4th Av 5780

  1. Lech-L’cha, Genesis 12:1 ff. ↑

  2. Bo, Exodus 12: 37-42, B’shallach, Exodus 13: 17 ff. ↑

  3. Psalm 137:1 ↑

  4. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sura_Academy ↑

  5. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pumbedita ↑

  6. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jerusalem_Talmud ↑

  7. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Talmud ↑

  8. https://www.ecdc.europa.eu/en/geographical-distribution-2019-ncov-cases Deaths by continent as of 24.07.20: Africa: 16,705, Asia: 84,884, America (North and South): 329,918, Europe: 201,444, Oceania: 164 deaths – plus 7 deaths have been reported from an international conveyance in Japan. ↑

  9. See the same web-site for recorded cases of Covid-19 by country updated each day. ↑

  10. https://www.buildbackbetteruk.org/what-we-want ↑

  11. https://www.buildbackbetteruk.org/about-us ↑

  12. https://www.buildbackbetteruk.org/ ↑

  13. ‘The task never completed’ is included in Marge Piercy’s collection, The Art of Blessing the Day. Five Leaves Publications, 1998 pp. 82-83). ↑

  14. https://encyclopedia.ushmm.org/content/en/article/remaining-jewish-population-of-europe-in-1945 ↑

  15. https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jewish-population-of-the-world ↑

THE PLIGHT OF REFUGEES: A JEWISH PRIORITY | SJN July 2020

Jews are a remembering people. Zachor! Remember! – one of our commanding imperatives. During July we recall a particular chapter in our history as a people. On the 17th Tammuz 586 BCE, the Babylonians, who had laid siege to Jerusalem since 10th Tevet in the winter, breached the city walls, finally destroying Jerusalem and King Solomon’s Temple on 9th Av, Tishah B’Av. This year, 17th Tammuz falls on the evening of 8th July, and Tishah B’Av on the evening of 29th July. It’s such a long time ago. Why do we remember this devastating moment? We remember because the account of what happened has been passed on to us. Indeed, the destruction is recorded in searing detail in Eichah, the Book of Lamentations, in the K’tuvim, the ‘Writings’ the third section of the TaNaKh, the Hebrew Bible, and on Tishah B’Av it is traditional to read m’gillat Eichah, the scroll of Lamentations. Further, when King Cyrus of Persia defeated the Babylonians in 539 BCE, he allowed the exiles to return and to rebuild the Temple. And so, a chain of memorial was established from 586 BCE onwards, with Tishah B’Av as the sacred marker of remembrance. By contrast, when the Assyrians conquered the northern kingdom of Israel in 722 BCE, the ten tribes that resided there were scattered, ensuring that their stories could not be told.

On Tishah B’Av we recall our people’s long experience of churban from 586 BCE onwards, which included, of course, the razing of Jerusalem and the last Temple by the Romans in 70 CE – on 10th Av – following the four-year Jewish war against Rome. Significantly, destruction usually entailed dispersion. And so, we have been refugees time and time again, journeying everywhere, including, to these shores – and then away from these shores. 18th July marks an important date for the Jews of England, who mostly arrived here from France at the time of William the Conqueror in 1066. It was on 18th July 1290 that King Edward I, ‘the confessor’, signed the edict of expulsion which dictated that all Jews had to leave the country by 1st November, the ‘Feast of All Souls’.

Of course, we know that our experience of being refugees did not end with the barbarities of the Middle Ages. Most Jews living here and now in 2020, have parents, grandparents, or great-grandparents, who were refugees. Many of us have been told stories of their experiences.

It is because remembrance of churban is not just an imaginative leap into the past, but tangible memory passed on from generation to generation, that the words we read in Torah, in particular, in Mishpatim, Exodus 23:9, should resonate deeply with us: ‘A stranger you shall not oppress,; for you know the nefesh – ‘being’ – of the stranger, since you were strangers in the land of Egypt.’ And so, it is vital that as we witness the global refugee crisis and its impact on millions, forced to flee war, persecution and destitution, we draw on the experience of our people and of our own families, express our solidarity, and do what we can to offer assistance and support.

One of the foremost Jewish champions of refugees in the last few years has been Lord Dubs. Born in Prague, Alfred Dubs was one of 669 Czech children, saved by English stockbroker Nicholas Winton on the kindertransport between March and September 1939 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alf_Dubs,_Baron_Dubs. When the European migrant crisis began to reach an unprecedented peak, revealing large numbers of refugee children so close to our own shores in Calais, Lord Dubs became determined to campaign for the admittance of 3000 child refugees. In 2016, he sponsored an amendment to the Immigration Act 2016 to offer unaccompanied refugee children safe passage to Britain. Finally, the amendment was accepted by the government following a second vote in favour by the House of Lords. However, the Home Office abandoned the scheme in February 2017 after accepting only 350 child refugees. Lord Dubs did not, of course, give up. The campaign goes on and you can support it through the charity, Safe Passage, which has helped over 1800 child refugees so far reach safety, and is currently concerned about the government’s planned Brexit agreement for child refugees, which would mean the end of family reunion from Europe. https://www.safepassage.org.uk/

This Tishah B’Av, when we remember our people’s history of destruction and displacement, let us resolve to make the plight of refugees today a Jewish priority.

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Shabbat morning sermon ‘Hidden from History’

Apart from being a book of teaching, the Torah is packed with riveting stories. And amongst those amazing tales, a yawning gap. So, last Shabbat, the story of the rebellion of Korach, Datan, Aviram and On against the leadership of Moses and Araon.[1] This Shabbat, the narrative returns at Numbers chapter 20 in parashat Chukkat with the death of Miriam, 38 years later.[2]

The Shabbat before last, we read that two years into their journey, the people learnt that they would wander in the wilderness for forty years and die there. Influenced by the evil report brought by ten of the twelve tribal leaders following their reconnoitre of the land beyond the Jordan, the entire generation that had shrunk from the prospect of entering the land, were destined to perish in the desert.[3]

But then, not one word about happened during those long years. Why? A clue lies in another gap in the narrative. How is it that the eldest sibling of the three sibling leaders of the Exodus and wilderness wanderings is largely absent from the Torah tales?

After taking steps with her mother to save her baby brother from Pharaoh’s genocidal decree, the ‘sister’ of Moses – unnamed in that story [4] – disappears completely from the narrative until she turns up after the crossing of the Sea of Reeds years later. Just two tantalising verses portray vividly her leadership. We read at Exodus chapter 15:[5]

Then Miriam the prophet, Aaron’s sister, took a timbrel in her hand, and all the women followed her, with timbrels and dancing. / Miriam sang to them: “Sing to the Eternal, for God is highly exalted. Both horse and driver God has hurled into the sea.”

So, a name and a status: Miriam is a prophet – n’vi’ah – and a dramatic show of her charisma. But then, Miriam disappears from the narrative once again, and only appears two years later in the fourth book of the Torah, B’midbar, Numbers, where, having been linked with Aaron in Exodus 15, she takes the lead in rebelling with him against the leadership of Moses. We read at Numbers chapter 12:[6]

Miriam spoke [Va-t’dabbeir] – and Aaron – against Moses because of the Cushite woman whom he had married: for he had married a Cushite woman. / And they said [Va-yom’ru] ‘Has the Eternal indeed spoken only by Moses? Has God not spoken also to us?’ And the Eternal heard it.

But Miriam’s challenge to Moses was not just about his leadership. Let’s return to that first verse: Va-t’dabbeir Miryam – Miriam spoke – feminine singular. Miriam was the principal objector to Moses’ marriage to the Cushite woman – sometimes translated as ‘the Ethiopian woman’. Why? And who was the Cushite woman? The Rabbinic sages identified her as Tzipporah – the daughter of the priest of Midian[7], whom Moses had married after taking flight from Egypt after killing a task-master, who was beating a slave. So, why would it have taken so long for Miriam to object to Moses’ marriage to Tzipporah?

In the past few weeks, since the brutal racist killing of George Floyd by police officers in Minneapolis, the Black Lives Matter movement has come to the fore again. It would be very easy to conclude that Miriam’s objection to Moses marrying the Cushite woman was racist – a reading reinforced superficially, perhaps, by the tale going on to say that she is punished with a case of leprosy described as her skin becoming ‘like snow’.[8]

But if we really believe that black lives matter such superficial readings must be rejected. Let’s not forget those 38 missing years in the Torah narrative. Just imagine that Miriam, who after all, according to the Torah record did not have a husband,[9] objected to Moses’ marriage because the Cushite woman was her woman.[10] Perhaps, Moses married the Cushite woman in order to try and break up the relationship? And perhaps, he didn’t succeed and the relationship continued?

Of course, we can never know. But the lacuna – the gap – in the text challenges us to use our imaginations. And by us, I mean in particular, ‘us’ as progressive Jews, who do not believe that the Torah is literally the word of God dictated by the Eternal to Moses at Mount Sinai. As progressive Jews, we have a responsibility to consider how the Torah got to be written. Critical scholarship of the Bible has revealed that the Bible was recorded and redacted – that is, edited – over hundreds of years. And of course, those responsible for recording and redacting were men.

The Black Lives Matter movement is also exposing the extent to which the story of the past has been written by men; men with the power and the resources to create a record that reflects their version of the past. And not only a written record: all those monuments and statues to white men who became powerful by exploiting black people torn from Africa; all those buildings built with the profits of the slave trade.

The record, both written, and crafted out of metal and stone, has been created by the oppressor not the oppressed. So, what do we do about it? It’s not enough to demolish statues and put plaques on buildings – although it would make a difference to the established record, if every building built by the profits of persecution carried a plaque saying as much. It’s not enough to protest and to go on marches to express our outrage. All these acts, however tangible they seem, are ultimately, ephemeral.

We have to write the record of our lives ourselves – all of us; of all genders and sexualities, cultures, ethnicities, colours, classes and religions. We have to take photographs and make films, paint pictures and carve sculptures. Just think of those lost wilderness years; the lost record of our ancestors – the descendants of Jacob and Leah, Rachel, Bilhah and Zilpah; and the descendants of the erev rav, the mixed multitude who went out of Egypt with them.[11] Lost because the stories were not written down and transmitted. In the 1970s, in the early days of what became known as the ‘second wave’ of feminism, British feminist historian, Sheila Rowbotham, titled her account of ‘300 Years of Women’s Oppression and the Fight Against It’, Hidden From History.[12] Meanwhile, the Jewish lesbian feminist American poet, Adrienne Rich, spoke in her collection of essays, On Lies, Secrets and Silence, of women having been ‘“gaslighted” for centuries’.[13] In this age of social media and so many plural ways of telling our stories, let’s make sure that we write them down and create artefacts – and transmit our own records of our experiences to future generations.

And let us say: Amen.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

27th June 2020 / 5th Tammuz 5780

  1. Korach, Numbers 16-18. ↑

  2. Chukkat, Numbers 20:1. ↑

  3. Sh’lach L’cha, Numbers 13-15. See, in particular: Num. 14:28-35. ↑

  4. Sh’mot, Exodus 2:1-10. ↑

  5. B’shallach, Exodus 15:19-20. ↑

  6. B’ha’a lot’cha, Numbers 12:1-2. ↑

  7. Sh’mot, Exodus 2:11-22. For the sage’s identification of the Cushhite woman as Zipporah, see, for example, Talmud, Mo’eid Katan 17b ↑

  8. B’ha’a lot’cha, Numbers 12:10 ↑

  9. Uncomfortable with her unmarried status, the sages married Miriam off to Caleb (Sh’mot Rabbah 1:17), who together with Joshua, did not join in the rebellion following the tribal leaders’ reconnoitre of the land (Numbers 13:30 and 14:6-9). ↑

  10. For my extended treatment of the untold story of Miriam, see Chapter 2 of my book, Trouble-Making Judaism (David Paul Books, 2012; 3rd reprinting, 2019, pp. 73-90) ↑

  11. Bo, Exodus 12: 38. ↑

  12. Hidden From History. 300 Years of Women’s Oppression and the Fight Against It by Sheila Rowbotham (Pluto Press, 1974). ↑

  13. On Lies, Secrets and Silence. Selected Prose, 1966-1978 by Adrienne Rich (W.W. Norton & Co, 1979). ↑

Forgetting Miriam: A commentary on Parashat Chukkat

What do we remember? What do we forget? Memory is tricky. We don’t so much remember what happened to us as tell stories of our past. It’s not that we are making it up. When we weave our tales out of the fabric of our past lives, we are making meaning; trying to make sense of where we have come from and where we are going – and, most crucially: who we are.

What is true for individuals, is also true for communities. When we open the Torah, for example, we find the stories that have been transmitted orally and then recorded. Of course, telling tales is not the same thing as writing them down. Recording is a more deliberate act. As progressive Jews, who do not believe that the Torah is literally the word of God dictated by the Eternal to Moses at Mount Sinai, we have a responsibility to consider how the Torah got to be written. Then, of course, after the writing, comes the editing. Critical scholarship of the Bible has revealed that the Bible was recorded and redacted (edited) over hundreds of years.

Until forty years ago, biblical scholarship, like scholarship in general, was mostly a male enterprise. Since then, the work of women rabbis and feminist biblical scholars in general, has revealed that whoever was involved in telling tales of the past, recording and redacting was mostly in the hands of men.

This is nowhere more evident than in the story of Miriam, which concludes in this week’s parashah, Chukkat, after a 38-year lacuna – gap – in the narrative (Numbers 20:1):

The Israelites, the whole congregation, came into the wilderness of Tzin, in the first month; and the people dwelt in Kadesh; and Miriam died there, and was buried there.

The first month – that is the first month of the fortieth year. Thirty-eight years have elapsed since the story of the rebellion of Korach, Datan, Aviram and On related in last week’s parashah, and this is all that the Torah has to say about the death of the eldest of the three sibling leaders of the Exodus!

The brevity of the passage is made all the more apparent when we compare it with the eight-verse account of the death of Aaron (Numbers 20:22-29), which concludes (20:29):

When all the congregation saw that Aaron had expired, they wept for Aaron thirty days, the whole house of Israel.

Similarly, when Moses dies (Deuteronomy 34:8):

The Israelites wept for Moses in the plains of Moab, thirty days.

So, what about Miriam? Why no mention of a thirty-day mourning rite for her? Significantly, no sooner has Miriam died and been buried, then we read in the very next verse (Numbers 20:2):

There was no water for the congregation: so, they assembled themselves together against Moses and against Aaron.

The rabbinic sages, puzzled by the absence of any reference of mourning rites for Miriam, made a connection between these two events: the death of Miriam and the lack of water. From this crucial conjunction emerges the rabbinic legend of the Miriam’s Well that sustained the people, providing them with the water they needed to survive, throughout the forty years that they wandered in the wilderness. (Talmud, Ta’anit (9a):

Israel had a well in the desert in Miriam’s merit.

The sages filled in the missing pieces of the Miriam story, and brought out the significance of the role she played as a leader. And so, noting that when her name is mentioned for the first time, she is also called a prophet, n’vi’ah (Exodus 15:19-20), they found evidence of Miriam’s powers of prophecy in the first Torah tale where she is introduced as the sister of the baby Moses, assisting their mother in saving his life (Exodus 2:1-10) (Talmud, M’gillah 14a).

However, the sages were limited by their own imagination, and failed to do justice to the key text at the heart of the Torah’s account of Miriam; Numbers chapter 12, which begins (12:1-2):

Miriam spoke [Va-t’dabbeir] – and Aaron – against Moses because of the Cushite woman whom he had married: for he had married a Cushite woman. / And they said [Va-yom’ru] ‘Has the Eternal indeed spoken only by Moses? Has God not spoken also to us?’ And the Eternal heard it.

Both Miriam and Aaron had reason to be aggrieved concerning their baby brother’s special relationship with the Eternal. However, since Aaron already had a significant leadership role, we can imagine that as the marginalised elder sister, Miriam had even more reason to object to the pre-eminence of Moses. Certainly, the last verses of Numbers 12 make it clear that Miriam alone was punished – with a temporary plague of leprosy (:9-10). But the opening Hebrew word of Numbers 12 suggests that it was principally Miriam who objected to Moses marrying the Cushite woman: Va-t’dabbeir – ‘She spoke’.

So, why did Miriam object? Significantly, there is no mention in the Torah of Miriam being married – making her unlike any other female character in the Torah. Uncomfortable with her unmarried status, the rabbis married Miriam off to Caleb (Sh’mot Rabbah 1:17), who together with Joshua, did not join in the rebellion following the tribal leaders’ reconnoitre of the land (Numbers 13:30 and 14:6-9).

Moses was already married, of course, to Tzipporah, the daughter of the priest of Midian (Exodus 2:15-22). For the rabbis, the Cushite woman mentioned in Numbers 12 was Tzipporah (Talmud, Mo’eid Katan 17b). But that doesn’t explain Miriam’s belated objection. Perhaps, Miriam objected to Moses’ marriage because the Cushite woman whom he had married, was her woman?

We can only speculate. Indeed, taking our cue from the sages who created tales in response to gaps and puzzles in the text, the 38-year lacuna in the Torah narrative invites us to use our imaginations. Perhaps, the gap in the record was motivated by the need to censor the story of Miriam’s relationship with the Cushite woman? Certainly, when we assess everything that is related about Miriam in the Torah – just 31 verses in all – we are left with the curious fact that the eldest of the sibling leaders of the Exodus and wilderness wanderings barely gets a mention.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

LJ E-Bulletin

June 2020 / Tammuz 5780

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SJN | Leaders | June 2020

LOOKING FOR GOOD LEADERS – Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah – June SJN

June – the first of the summer months. As I write this a month earlier, I expect that the continuing coronavirus crisis will mean that June feels more cloudy than sunny this year, whatever the weather.

Interestingly, if we turn to the Torah, this year’s cycle sees three portions that include major wilderness rebellions featuring in June: B’ha’alot’cha, Sh’lach L’cha and Korach.

B’ha’alot’cha concludes with Miriam’s rebellion against Moses’ exclusive leadership (Numbers 12). Sh’lach L’cha opens with the leaders of the twelve tribes undertaking a reconnoitre of the land beyond the Jordan and the subsequent rebellion of ten of the tribal leaders, whose ‘evil report’ sparks major dissension in the camp (Numbers 13-15). From the very first words of the story, Korach focuses on the challenge of the first cousin of Moses and Aaron, and of Reubenites, Datan, Aviram and On, to the leadership of Moses and Aaron (Numbers 16-18).

All three narratives share a single theme: discontent with the established leadership on the part of those who were leaders or would-be leaders themselves.

In recent years, alongside the major themes of the news – the financial crisis, the global refugee crisis, ecological catastrophe and climate change, Brexit, and now the coronavirus pandemic – there has been a concern with leadership, and in particular, with leadership that is perceived to be poor and inadequate to meet these complex challenges.

The past year has seen leadership contests in both the Conservative and Labour parties. Meanwhile, in Israel, the continuing leadership crisis has been played out in a succession of inconclusive general elections, and in the United States, the struggle to find a Democratic presidential candidate to challenge President Trump in the presidential election due in November has led to a safe choice that might see Trump winning a second term.

What makes a good leader? It’s hard to answer this question when there are so few examples of good leadership. Surveying the world scene, one figure stands out: The Prime Minister of a tiny nation on the edge of the world: Jacinda Ardern in New Zealand. The leadership she gave when two mosques in Christchurch were attacked by a far-right extremist on 15 March 2019, revealed outstanding leadership qualities: the ability to meet challenges head-on, to communicate clearly, to connect with people, to be compassionate and caring, as well as determined and decisive. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jacinda_Ardern Jacinda Ardern has displayed similar qualities in the way that she has dealt with the coronavirus pandemic, ensuring that, as of 1 May, according to the New Zealand Ministry of Health, of a total of 1,479 cases (1,132 confirmed cases and 347 probable), only 208 were active and only 19 people in all had died. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2020_coronavirus_pandemic_in_New_Zealand

For me, Jacinda Ardern, who, incidentally, is the 40th Prime Minister of New Zealand and turns 40 next month (26.07), is a modern-day Miriam: with the ability to do exactly what is needed and above all, to lead with confidence and authority.

So, what about the leadership of Moses? The narratives in the Torah reveal that he was a reluctant leader, ever-ready to call on the Eternal One for assistance in a crisis, with a quick explosive temper. And if the absence of Miriam in the Torah narratives is anything to go by, there can be little doubt that Moses failed to draw on his elder sister’s leadership qualities to help him deal with the unruly people he was leading. And yet, Moses had an essential leadership quality that most leaders lack: modesty. He didn’t think he had all the answers. He was not puffed up with his own power and status. On the contrary, Moses understood that his role, above all, was to shepherd his people through the uncharted wilderness. As we continue to deal with the coronavirus pandemic, we could certainly do with more leaders like Jacinda Ardern – and wouldn’t it be marvellous if a leader emerged who had the modesty and devotion of Moses.

BHPS Sermon – Commitment – Shavuot, 30.05.20

Hinneinu – Here we are, over nine weeks into the coronavirus crisis lockdown, unable to gather together in the synagogue. We have managed very well with our streamed services, but today, as we mark Shavuot, the fact that we are unable to congregate acquires an additional and deeper poignancy. Jewish teaching puts a major emphasis on community: the Israelites, who fled slavery in Egypt, together with the erev rav, the ‘mixed multitude’ that made the dash to freedom with them, became a community, the people Israel, when they stood at the foot of Mount Sinai.

The people Israel. Often referred to as kol adat b’nei Yisrael: ‘the entire congregation of the Israelites’[1]. Reading Torah, similar phrases are repeated, reminding us of this collective entity that discovered what it meant to be a people as they wandered for forty years through the wilderness.

The people moved together, acted together. But the Book of B’midbar, Numbers, which we began reading last Shabbat, draws our attention, again and again, to the individuals that made up the people. From the opening verses that list the names of the leaders of the twelve tribes onwards, a host of individuals, and with their names and their stories – or at least, some of their stories. We encounter the individuals whose stories stand out.

In next week’s parashah, B’ha’alot’cha, at Numbers chapter 12, we gain an insight into the eldest of the sibling leaders of the Exodus, Miriam, who barely appears in the Torah, and whose name is only mentioned for the first time, following the crossing of the Sea of Reeds on dry land, back in parashah B’shallach at Exodus chapter 15.[2] There, in two short verses that focus on Miriam leading the women in dances with timbrels and song, we learn three particular things about her: her name, that she is designated as the sister of Aaron, and that she is a prophet, n’vi’ah. But then, Miriam disappears completely from the narrative, until she turns up in an extraordinary chapter that kicks off a series of portions, in which the names of individuals are at the heart of each story.

And so, in parashat B’ha’alot’cha, Miriam – and to a lesser extent Aaron – challenge their younger brother’s exclusive relationship with the Eternal. Then, in the next parashah, Sh’lach L’cha, we discover that of the twelve tribal leaders sent out to reconnoitre the land beyond the Jordan, Joshua and Caleb alone show courage and determination.[3] Finally, in the parashah that follows, Korach, who gives his name to the portion, the first cousin of the sibling leaders, along with Datan, Aviram and On, the leaders of the tribe of Reuben, foment rebellion against Moses and Aaron with the words: ‘You take too much upon yourselves, for all the congregation, all of them, are holy, and the Eternal One is in their midst; so why do you lift yourselves above the assembly of the Eternal One.’[4]

Ki chol-ha-eidah, kullam k’doshim – ‘For all the congregation, all of them are holy’. With these words, the rebels assert not that the congregation as a collectivity is holy, but that all of them – each and every member of the congregation – is holy. Throughout the Torah, the people, the congregation, is referred to in the singular. Most of us will be familiar with the principal statement of Jewish belief: Sh’ma Yisrael, Adonai Elohein, Adonai echad – ‘Listen! Israel: The Eternal is our God; the Eternal is one.’[5] Listen! – Sh’ma! is a second person singular imperative. Again, and again and again: Israel; a single entity.

But then, at key moments, the singular ‘you’, becomes plural – which brings me back to the festival we are celebrating today, Shavuot, ‘Weeks’, reinvented by the early Rabbis as z’man matan Torateinu – ‘the season of the giving of our Torah‘. We read in the parashah, Yitro, in the opening verses of Exodus 19, prior to the account of the Divine Revelation on Mount Sinai:[6]

Thus, you should say to the house of Jacob and tell the children of Israel: ‘You have seen what I have done to Egypt, and how I lifted you up on eagle’s wings and I brought you to Myself. And now therefore, if you indeed listen to My voice and you keep My covenant, then you will be to me a treasure from among all the peoples, for all the Earth is Mine’.

The ‘you‘ addressed is plural: ‘You have seen’ … ‘I lifted you up’ … ‘I brought you‘ … ‘If you indeed listen … ‘and you keep’… ‘you will be’ … And then, the aseret ha-dibbrot, ‘the ten utterances’, better known by the Christian designation, ‘the Ten Commandments’, that follow in chapter 20 are all couched in the singular you: in this moment of encounter with the Divine, all the ‘yous’ addressed in the plural become a single ‘you’: the people.

And yet, crucially, the scene of Revelation concludes at the end of the next parashah, Mishpatim, which details a code of mishpatim – laws – with the sealing of the covenant with the people that once again acknowledges their plurality:[7]

Moses took the book of the covenant and read in the ears of the people, and they said, ‘all that the Eternal One has spoken we will do and we will listen’– Va-yom’ru: kol asher-dibbeir Adonai, na’aseh v’nishma.

The people entered the covenant with the Eternal as a community together, but the obligation to keep the covenant rested – and rests – on each individual. We will act. We will continue to listen. Each one of us.

And so, we read at the beginning of parashat Nitzavim, in Deuteronomy chapter 29, in a narrative set at the end of the forty years of wandering, we find a statement addresses to the generation who did not stand at Mount Sinai. A preamble to their entry into the covenant, it begins:[8]

You are stationed today, all of you, before the Eternal your God.

Attem nitzavim ha-yom, kul’ chem lifnei Adonai Eliheichem.

You – plural – are stationed – plural – all of you – plural – before the Eternal your God – plural.

Needless to say, for all the plurality of the plural ‘you’, it is in the masculine plural – just as the singular ‘you’ is in the masculine singular. The Torah is written by men, and addresses men. Nevertheless, as we read the Torah today for ourselves in the context of our own lives, we can include ourselves, our diverse selves in all our diverse genders in that plurality. Interestingly, this week’s parashah, Naso, acknowledges that it was not only men who felt addressed by the call to commitment. We learn in Numbers chapter 6 [9] that individual women as well as individual men, would take it upon themselves to consecrate themselves to the Eternal, by explicitly uttering a vow of consecration – neder nazir – to set themselves apart for the Eternal. The adoption of the neder nazir required each individual concerned to take it upon themselves to abstain from drinking wine and any other intoxicant, let their hair grow, and refrain from any contact with a dead person, even their father, or mother, or siblings.

Significantly, while the Torah reading set aside for Shavuot, aseret ha-dibbrot, ‘the ten utterances’, emphasises the singularity of the people, another scriptural text that is read on Shavuot, focuses on the individual. The early rabbis set aside five books from K’tuvim, the ‘Writings’, the concluding third section of the TaNaKh[10], the Hebrew Bible, for reading as separate scrolls on five particular dates in the calendar.[11] The most well-known of these five books or ‘five scrolls’ – chameish m’gillot – is the Book of Esther, read on Purim. The Book of Ruth, read at Shavuot, relates how a Moabite woman, following the death of her husband, decided to leave her home and go with her mother-in-law Naomi to Judah. That Ruth made this choice was remarkable enough. She also gave voice to her choice. Ruth’s declaration to Naomi is one of the most powerful passages in the whole of the TaNaKh, and, arguably, the most beautiful and heart-felt expression of commitment ever articulated. We read in chapter 1:[12]

Entreat me not to leave you, and return from following after you; for wherever you go, I will go; and wherever you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God, my God; / where you die, will I die, and there will I be buried; thus, shall the Eternal One do to me, and more also, if anything but death parts me from you.

It may seem paradoxical that the covenant between the Eternal One and the people Israel is at its heart a commitment made by each and every individual. Of course, the marking of the transition from childhood to adulthood tells us this: at the age of 13 for boys, and, traditionally 12 for girls, an individual commits themselves to the mitzvot, the commandments. In Progressive communities that commitment is taken on by the bar or bat mitzvah on equal terms at the age of 13, and in this particular progressive community, Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue, the option of b’mitzvah, ensures that gender equality also encompasses gender inclusion. The reality is that even in an intensely, communally-focused community, everything comes down to the individual and the choices each of us makes.

Having distinguished between texts that use the singular texts that use the plural, there is a particular passage in the Torah, couched in the singular, which clearly addresses, not the singular people, but the individual. It’s one of my favourite Torah teachings, so I make no apology for sharing it once again. We read in parashat Nitzavim, Deuteronomy chapter 30:[13]

For this commandment that I am commanding you today is not too wonderful for you, nor too remote. / It is not in heaven that you need to say, ‘who will go up for and fetch it for us that we may hear it and do it?’ / And it’s not across the sea, that you need to say, ‘who will cross the sea for us and fetch it for us that we may hear it and do it?’ / Rather, ha-davar is very near to you, in your mouth and in your heart to do it.

I have not translated ha-davar because it can be translated in at least two ways – as ‘the word’ and as ‘the matter’. Ha-davar; the word, the matter – and, in our current context of such great uncertainty, perhaps, the guidance we seek. The verses tell us that ha-davar is not remote from us; it is held within us; in our mouths and in our hearts. We are not re-enacting a glorious spectacle today. However much our imaginations may be stimulated and engaged by the images of the quaking mountain shrouded in cloud and smoke and fire. We recall the dramatic events of Mount Sinai back then in order to inhabit as fully as possible this moment, right now.

So: Hinneinu – Here we are. Of course, we aren’t actually here together. But each of us, wherever we are and whatever our particular circumstances, has chosen to log on and to connect; to be in this moment together, although we are physically apart. May each of us find courage and inspiration in this shared moment to commit ourselves to the Eternal and to one another. And let us say: Amen.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

30 May 2020 – 7 Sivan 5780

  1. See, e.g., K’doshim, Leviticus 19:2. ↑

  2. B’shallach, Exodus 15:21-21. ↑

  3. Sh’lach L’cha, Numbers 13-15. ↑

  4. Korach, Numbers 16:3. ↑

  5. Va-etchannan, Deuteronomy 6:4. ↑

  6. Yitro, Exodus 19: 3-5. ↑

  7. Mishpatim, Exodus 24:7. ↑

  8. Nitzavim, Deuteronomy 29:92. ↑

  9. Naso, Numbers 6:1-21. ↑

  10. TaNaKh: Torah, N’vi’im (Prophets), K’tuvim (Writings). ↑

  11. Arranged in the TaNaKh in the order of reading, the other books are: Shir ha- Shirim, the Songs of Songs read at Pesach, Rut, Ruth, read at Shavuot, Eichah, Lamentations, read at Tishah B’Av, and Kohelet, Ecclesiastes, read at Sukkot. ↑

  12. Ruth 1:16-17. ↑

  13. Nitzavim, Deut. 30:11-14. ↑

MARKING TIME DURING THE CORONAVIRUS CRISIS Shabbat sermon

What has happened to time during this coronavirus pandemic? A number of people have said to me that they find themselves forgetting what day it is. For those not working and staying at home, in the absence of the routines that structure their lives, days seem to merge without differentiation. Only the daily death toll reminds them that time is passing; not the number itself, but the accumulating total.

For the passing days to be marked by death, rather than by life, is shocking. Of course, the world over, people die every day – always – and every day, new lives come into the world. Every day. And every day, right now, there are myriad signs of new life all around us as spring reaches its blossoming zenith.

Nevertheless, it is much harder to mark time when we spend most of our days in our domestic domain, separated from others beyond our immediate household. This week’s Torah portion, Emor, sets out at Leviticus chapter 23, the festival calendar as celebrated in Temple times. Importantly, it begins with Shabbat, the mini weekly festival that serves as a model for all the festivals of the year. We read:[1]

Six days shall work be done; but on the seventh day there is a Sabbath of complete cessation [Shabbat Shabbaton], a holy convocation [mikra kodesh]; you shall do no manner of work; it is a Sabbath to the Eternal in all your settlements.

When we read this verse about Shabbat, we learn that the seventh day is set apart from the other six days of the week by two key features: The cessation of work and the sacred gathering together of the community. The root meaning of Shabbat is to ‘cease’, and the expression Shabbat Shabbaton by the repetition of the root [Shin Beit Tav] conveys the sense of an absolute ceasing. Meanwhile, the words, mikra kodesh, sometimes translated as ‘sacred occasion’ convey much more than this. ‘Sacred convocation‘ is a more accurate translation, conveying the root meaning of mikra [Kuf Reish Alef], to ‘call’: ceasing from work, however absolute, is not sufficient; observing Shabbat involves a sacred calling of the community to gather together.

As we read on in Leviticus chapter 23, we discover that these twin-features of Shabbat are also at the heart of all the festivals, beginning with Pesach in the spring, followed by the offering of ‘first fruits’ in the early summer, and culminating in the sacred days of the seventh month: the day of ‘blasting’ – t’ru’ah; the day of Atonement [Yom Ha-Kippurim]; the seven-day festival of Sukkot; and the concluding ‘eighth’ day – Sh’mini Atzeret. Each festival is described as mikra kodesh, and work is forbidden.

Incidentally, in Temple times, the day of conclusion marked by Sh’mini Atzeret not only marked the end of the autumn Festival period, but also indicated a kind of shutting up shop for the winter, until the onset of spring and the inauguration of the new cycle once again with the arrival of Pesach. The other festivals we may be familiar with in between these sacred days – in particular, Simchat Torah, marking the completion of the annual Torah reading cycle[2], Chanukkah, the festival celebrating the rededication of the Temple in 164 BCE, Tu Bishvat, the New Year for Trees, and Purim, centring on the reading of the biblical Book of Esther – were all inaugurated after the destruction of the last Temple by the Romans in 70 CE.

Leaving aside the thorny issue of whether or not most Jews work on Shabbat and the biblical festivals, it is clear that during this coronavirus crisis, it has been impossible to gather together to celebrate Shabbat. At this very moment, I am leading the service in an empty synagogue, accompanied only by one member of the congregation, Oshik, who has kindly volunteered to look after the technical side of streaming our Shabbat and festival services during the lockdown. At the end of the service, Oshik will tell me how many people were watching – and I know that that number will include members and friends of the congregation, who were not only watching, but participating – reading and singing with me, using the hardcopy or PDF of the Shabbat morning service, and following the scriptural readings, either from their own Chumash, or by using the PDFs circulated by email.

So, we are connected together in time, but not in space – which has actually been a major theme of the life of the Jewish people ever since we no longer lived together in one land and made pilgrimage to the Temple to mark the sacred days of the year. For almost 2000 years, the Jewish people have lived all over the world, our daily lives – and even some of our Jewish practices – influenced by the cultural contexts of the societies around us. Gathered together in communities, we have not shared space as a people, but rather, only sacred moments in time – albeit, impacted by the time-zone differences across the globe. This sense of sharing sacred moments in time has been heightened since the coronavirus crisis – even to the extent that families living several time-zones apart, celebrated the Pesach Seder together. One of my closest friends, who lives in London, and whose family live in Vancouver, with one nephew in Japan, working out the time differences, shared a Seder that started at 3 PM in Vancouver, 11 PM in London and 8 AM in Tokyo.

So, Jewish life is marked by sacred moments in time. But what about the time in between? The time between Shabbat and Shabbat? The time between Festival and Festival? Interestingly, there are two time-periods in the Jewish year, when we mark the days ‘between’, day by day: during the aseret y’mei t’shuvah, ‘the ten days of returning’ that begin on Rosh Ha-Shanah and conclude on Yom Kippur, and right now, between Pesach and Shavuot.

At first sight, marking one day after another seems straightforward – by definition – but when it comes to the period between Pesach and Shavuot, the daily marking of time takes on a deeper resonance. The passage in this week’s parashah, Emor, concerning this period, relates that on the day after the Sabbath – which in the context is the Sabbath of Pesach – the priest would wave a sheaf – an omer – of grain, and that on the day after the seven cycles of seven days of counting the omer, on the fiftieth day, there would be ‘a new meal offering to the Eternal’.[3] There is no mention directly of a festival. A few verses further on, there is a reference to ‘the bread of first fruits’ – lechem ha-bikkurim[4] – and elsewhere in the Torah, the day that became known as Shavuot, meaning ‘Weeks’, is referred to as Yom Ha-Bikkurim, ‘The Day of First Fruits’[5], and Chag Ha-Katzir, ‘The Feast of the Harvest’.[6]

Significantly, the festival is not given a date in the Torah. All we know is that it takes place on the fiftieth day, following the seven weeks of the counting of the omer. After the Temple was destroyed, and it was no longer possible to bring offerings of the first fruits of the harvest, the early rabbis reinvented the festival as z’man matan Torateinu, ‘the season of the giving of our Torah’, by situating the seven weeks in the context of the Torah narrative of the journey of the ex-slaves through the wilderness, from Egypt to Sinai. They also fixed the date by interpreting the word ‘Sabbath’ in the phrase ‘You shall count for yourselves from the day after the Sabbath’ to mean from the day after the first day of the festival. Since Pesach begins on the 15th of Nisan, counting seven weeks from the 16th ensures that the fiftieth day falls on the 6th of third month, which became known as Sivan.

To this day, in the absence of the Temple and the priesthood and offerings, Jews still count the omer. Counting the omer is not just the survival of an ancient practice, it is also a celebration of the power of marking time during a very special time-period. After all, the omer days don’t just link two festivals in the Jewish calendar; the accumulating days have a power of their own: seven cycles of seven. Indeed, to bring out the power of the seven cycles of seven, we don’t simply count in days, but also in weeks. And so, as we say in the traditional formulation of the daily counting: ‘Today is the thirtieth day of the omer, making four weeks and two days of the omer’.

Perhaps, during this ongoing coronavirus pandemic, we might find it helpful to mark the passing days, at least, until Shavuot by counting the omer each day. But what then? Should we continue to count the passing days? As a child, I remember counting the days until the end of the school year. How many of us have done that! Counting days only works when there is certainty about the goal.

And so, we are being challenged to do more than mark time in this crisis. We are being challenged to make our days meaningful even when on the surface one day may look very much like another. We can do this by creating regular routines, like exercise, listening to and playing music, reading, playing games, participating in online classes and discussion groups, pausing for coffee-times and tea-times – and by making mealtimes special, by trying out new recipes and sitting at the table. Towards the end of Emor, we are reminded that each day during Temple times, the priests would bring pure olive oil and light the m’norah, the seven-branched lampstand, so that it would burn as a regular light – neir tamid.’[7] Through our daily routines, we, too, can mark each day with the light of our lives.

As with all ancient peoples, there is a circular quality to Jewish time; from week-to-week, from month-to-month and from year to year, the cycle turns. However, Jewish time also has a dynamic impulse that continually erupts through the cycle. On Shabbat, we share the greeting, ‘Shabbat shalom’, and look forward to a future time of peace. At Pesach, towards the end of the Seder, having retold the story of the Exodus from slavery in Egypt, we fill an additional cup of the fruit of the vine and set it aside for the prophet Elijah, the prophet whose role it is to herald the coming of the Messiah – or the messianic age depending on your perspective – and we open the door in anticipation of his arrival.

Jewish time is a spiral, and whether or not we feel it, our lives are spiralling, too. Yesterday, was the 75th anniversary of VE Day, the end of the Second World War in Europe. We were not able to have mass gatherings, but many of us did step outside of our homes for a special tea and looked across to our neighbours and exchanged greetings. The images of those door-step and front-garden celebrations shared in the news are very powerful, reminding us that even when we are at home, we are participating in the life of the world. And just as we held past and present together in that moment, so too, we can acknowledge our present difficult circumstances and recognise that the future is in our hands. The days are not passing in vain, and while what is lost can never be recovered and those who have died will not be moving on with us, what we have learned and continue to learn during this crisis, day after day, will enable us to shape the days to come.

Kein y’hi ratzon. May this be our will. And let us say: Amen.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

9 May l 2020 – 15 Iyyar 5780

  1. Emor, Leviticus 23:3. ↑

  2. The festival of Simchat Torah was introduced after the annual reading of the Torah was established. In traditional communities Simchat Torah is held on the day after Sh’mini Atzeret. In progressive communities, it is held on Sh’mini Atzeret. ↑

  3. Lev. 23:11; 15-16. ↑

  4. Lev. 23:20. ↑

  5. Pin’chas, Numbers 28:26. ↑

  6. Mishpatim, Exodus 23:16. ↑

  7. Lev. 24: 1-4. See also: T’tzavveh, Exodus 27:20-21. ↑

EARNING FROM OUR ANCESTORS’ EXPERINCE OF LIBERATION DURING THE CORONAVIRUS PANDEMIC

Chag Samei’ach everyone and welcome to this Seventh Day of Pesach morning service.

I hope that you have all been enjoying Pesach despite the restrictions imposed due to the need for social distancing during the coronavirus pandemic.

The Seventh Day Pesach morning service is marked by two distinct elements: the chanting of the songs recorded in the Torah, in the Book of Exodus, that were sung by the Israelites after crossing through the divided Sea of Reeds on dry land,[1] and the Yizkor service in remembrance of our loved ones who have died.

Before we turn to the Torah, I will pause to reflect on the significance of these elements for us today – but first we begin our service by singing:


Hal’lu, Hal’lu, Hal’lu-Yah! [Praise! Praise! Praise! Praise the Eternal!]

…………………………………………..

So, Pesach is drawing to a close. Both, the Torah and the Haggadah recited at the Seder, urge us to identify with the Exodus story. Have we found ourselves doing this over the past week?

In my Pesach morning sermon, I suggested that as we endure the ongoing coronavirus pandemic, we have something to learn about endurance from the slaves who endured slavery for hundreds of years.

So, have we something to learn from the story of their liberation from slavery?

Liberation is such a powerful word. The thought of freedom is so uplifting. What about the experience? The account we find in the Torah suggests that just as slavery imposed unbearable hardship, suffering and anguish, freedom entailed its terrors, too. The terrors of the great unknown beyond the confinement of the house of bondage. No sooner had the slaves fled Egypt, then with the Egyptians in hot pursuit behind them, they encountered a barrier: The Sea of Reeds. The Torah‘s account suggests that it only took a miracle wave of Moses’ staff for the waters to part. By contrast, the rabbinic versions found in the midrash suggest that it took human courage: in one commentary, the waters didn’t part until one brave individual, Nachshon ben Amminadav ‘leapt first into the sea and plunged into its waves’.[2] Another suggests that it wasn’t until the people were wading in the waters up to their noses, that the waters parted.[3]

The moment of panic and terror as the slaves faced the sea is beautifully captured in Ruth Sohn’s poem, ‘The Song of Miriam’, included in the draft Shabbat morning service of the new Liberal Judaism prayer book.[4] Let me quote a few lines from it:

In a moment of panic

My eyes go blind.

Can I take a step without knowing a

Destination?

Will I falter

Will I fall

Will the ground sink away from under me?

The song still unformed –

How can I sing?

To take the first step –

To sing a new song –

Is to close one’s eyes

and dive

into unknown waters

for a moment knowing nothing risking

all –

But then to discover

The waters are friendly

The ground is firm.

And the song –

the song rises again.

Out of my mouth

come words lifting the wind.


Once the fugitive slaves had crossed the sea, they faced the terrors of the barren desert, where water and food were in such short supply.[5] Nothing evokes freedom better than the uncharted wilderness and nothing is more terrifying.

And then, there is the underside of liberation: The human cost incurred when tyranny is defeated. Throughout history, it has only been on rare occasions that an authoritarian social order has been toppled peacefully – think of the French Revolution of 1789 and the Russian Revolution of 1917 – after all, those in power want to hold onto their power. And so, too, in the struggle against Egypt, three thousand years earlier. The Torah recounts that it took ten plagues to bring Egypt to its knees[6] – but there was one more blow to come – the drowning of Pharaoh’s chariot-riding army as the waters came crashing down upon them. The songs of triumph led by Moses and Miriam praised the Eternal One for finally defeating Egypt, but significantly, rabbinic reflection on their exaltation, expresses a very different Divine perspective. We read in the midrash:[7]

At that time the ministering angels wanted to sing a song of praise to the Holy One, ever to be Blessed; but the Holy One ever to be Blessed restrained them, saying: “My creatures are drowning in the sea, and you would sing before Me!”

And so, during the Seder, when reciting the ten plagues one by one, we dip our little finger in the cup of the fruit of the vine, and diminish our cup of joy, by spilling a droplet for each plague.


It feels uncomfortable to be chanting these exultant songs of triumph over a stricken enemy, however oppressive, during a regular seventh day Pesach morning service. This year, as the death toll of the coronavirus pandemic shows no sign of abating yet, it feels excruciating. People die every day across the world, of course, when there isn’t a pandemic. Indeed, on average over 153,000 people die every day – that is 56 million people every year.[8] But this year, this moment that we are living through is not average. Most people – excluding, doctors and nurses, religious ministers and funeral directors – do not usually encounter death, unless it affects them personally: a loved one, a friend, a fellow congregant. The coronavirus crisis has meant that all of us are being made aware of death on a daily basis, as the evening news presents us with the gruesome figures. And behind the statistics, we know that each death represents a unique, irreplaceable individual. And so, we cannot speak of death right now except in hushed tones.

And then, like the slaves facing the sea, we don’t know what will happen next. We are afraid for ourselves and for our loved ones. And the only good thing about the fear we feel is that, hopefully, it will strengthen our resolve to maintain social distancing and keep safe for as long as is necessary.

So, what should we do with the songs of Moses and Miriam? However uncomfortable they may make us feel during this exceptional time of the coronavirus pandemic, in acknowledgement of our history, and what it took for ancestors to be free, we will still include them in this Seventh Day Pesach service.

And then we will conclude – perhaps with a greater sense of immediacy this year – with Yizkor, the memorial service. The coronavirus pandemic has reminded us, if we needed reminding, that life is finite; that our loved ones will die one day; that we will die one day. We might wonder why we need to be reminded of the reality of death during a festival that is supposed to be a celebration? Perhaps, so that we may pause during our celebration to drink deeply from our cup of joy, appreciate our many blessings and value life with more intensity. There is also a lesson to be learnt from this conjunction of joy and sorrow from the opposite perspective: that at times like this coronavirus crisis, when we are being forced to drink deeply from the cup of sorrow, we should also pause to acknowledge the joys of life all around us, displayed in the beauties of nature, in the kindness and generosity of strangers, and in the loving gestures of our families and friends and neighbours. The Hebrew word for life, chayyim, is plural; it encompasses everything that it is possible to experience. Just as, on this Seventh Day of Pesach we acknowledge death, let us awaken to a new day tomorrow, and even in the midst of the coronavirus pandemic, give thanks for life.

And let us say: Amen.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

7th Day Pesach Morning Service

15 April 2020 – 21 Nisan 5780

  1. B’shallach, Exodus 15:1-21. ↑

  2. Mechilta to B’shallach, Sh’mot/Ex. 14:22. ↑

  3. Sh’mot Rabbah 21:10. ↑

  4. Siddur Shirah Chadashah (‘Siddur of a New Song’), p. 16a/b. The name, is a quotation from the g’ulah/redemption blessing in ‘The Sh’ma and its blessings’ section that is a feature of evening and morning services. ↑

  5. See the continuation of B’shallach, Sh’mot/Ex. 15:22-17:7. ↑

  6. Recounted in Exodus chapters 7-12. ↑

  7. Babylonian Talmud, M’gillah 10b. ↑

  8. https://www.medindia.net/patients/calculators/world-death-clock.asp ↑

Learning from our ancestors’ experience of slavery during the coronavirus crisis

Chag samei’ach – and welcome to this first day of Pesach morning service. Chag samei’ach means ‘a joyful festival’. Chag samei’ach is an invitation to rejoice, even if we are not feeling very joyful as the coronavirus pandemic continues. Chag samei’ach is an invitation to enter into another dimension, and allow ourselves to celebrate the gift of life.

In the midst of the service, I will pause for us to reflect on what we can learn from the Exodus story for this time of extraordinary crisis, but first, let us turn to the service and begin by singing together, wherever we are:

Hal’lu! hal’lu! hal’lu! … Hal’lu-Yah! [Praise! Praise! Praise! Praise the Eternal!]

…………………………………………………….

So, we have arrived at Pesach: the festival celebrating the Exodus of our slave ancestors from Egypt – what the rabbis coined: z’man cheiruteinu – ‘The season of our freedom’.

Pesach celebrates the defining moment of the Jewish people, recalled also every Shabbat – the weekly day of freedom – and every evening and morning in the blessing of liberation that follows the Sh’ma, when we sing extracts from the song sung by the Israelites after they had crossed the Sea of Reeds on dry land.

But Pesach is special, of course. For seven days, as we eat matzah, we re-enact the moment of freedom; the moment when the slaves fled Egypt in such haste, the dough in their kneading bowls had no time to rise.[1] For seven days, we are the newly-liberated slaves, eager to be free.

Well, that, at least, is the theory of it. How about the practice? My question is not about how Jewishly observant we are. I’m wondering: how do we, in the context of our own lives, manage to identify with the Exodus story?

Here we are, right now, in the midst of the coronavirus pandemic. In my article in the April issue of This Month, I suggested that ‘it feels like we are being afflicted by a deadly plague and must stay in our houses until it passes over’.

We are not in the Exodus time yet – we are still in Egypt.

So, what can we learn from our ancestors’ experience of being slaves – for hundreds of years?

As it happens, the Torah says very little about our ancestors’ experience of being slaves. But what it does tell us is significant. We read that, afraid that the alien people residing in the region of Goshen, might become too mighty and numerous and pose a threat to Egypt, the new Pharaoh that ‘did not know’ Joseph forced them into slavery, making ‘their lives bitter with hard servitude, in mortar and in brick, and in all manner of service in the field’.[2] We read that Pharaoh commanded the midwives, Shifrah and Pu’ah to kill the new-born baby boys – and that they resisted Pharaoh’s decree.[3] We read that a mother and sister – unnamed in the story – saved the new baby boy in their household, by making a waterproof basket for him and placing it in the reeds of the river.[4] We read about that now grown-up baby boy – named Moses by Pharaoh’s daughter when she found him in the bulrushes[5] – killing a taskmaster he found beating a slave and then fleeing to Midian, where he met and married Tzipporah, the daughter of the priest of Midian.[6]

These are familiar stories. Less familiar is the one we read straight after this at the end of Exodus chapter 2 (23-25):

And it came to pass in the course of those many days that the King of Egypt died; and the Israelites sighed from the bondage, and they cried out, and their cry for help went up to God from the bondage. / And God heard their groaning, and God remembered the covenant with Abraham, with Isaac, and with Jacob. / And God saw the Israelites and took notice of them.

The language of the Bible is very spare. Unlike common English usage, there is a tendency in Hebrew to repeat the same roots – the three consonants that form the basis of verbs, nouns and adjectives – again and again. And yet, in this passage, we find a multiplication of roots describing the anguish of the slaves: they sighed (va-yei’an’chu), and they cried out (va-yizaku), and their cry for help (shavatam) went up to God, who heard their groaning (na’akatam).

So, what’s going on here? The passage is not simply multiplying language, it is describing a process: the slaves sighed, then they cried out, then they cried for help with such intensity that their cry went up to God, then God heard their groaning, remembered the Divine covenant with their ancestors, saw the Israelites and took notice of them. So, what does this suggest? That God had forgotten the covenant? That God had not seen the Israelites during all the years of their enslavement? That God had not noticed them?

The key to understanding the passage lies in the event described in the first phrase: the death of the King of Egypt. This passage doesn’t just pose challenging questions about God’s absence or indifference during centuries of slavery, it says something challenging about the nature of slavery: that it is so all-consuming, such a constant and perpetual reality in the lives of those enslaved, year after year; that it is only when there is a major upheaval in the social fabric – in this case, the death of the Pharaoh – that the people are stirred out of their torpor, their numbness and stupor. So, at first, all the slaves could manage was to sigh, then they mustered themselves to cry out, then their cry transformed into a call for help so powerful that it pierced the heavens.

We can learn many things from this passage and its evocation of the overwhelming experience of slavery. Most importantly, at this time, as we endure the coronavirus pandemic, we can learn about endurance. We have not yet reached the moment when there is a major development with the potential to change the course of the onward march of the coronavirus pandemic – although, the experience of China, gives us hope that that moment will come. Until then, those who are not essential workers, have to stay put indoors – apart from a daily walk and essential visits to the shops – and wait it out. Spring is burgeoning, so we must find new ways to enjoy it and relish the signs of life we see through our windows. Pesach is here, but the season of our liberation – z’man cheiruteinu – has not yet arrived. No renewal for us. Not yet. The numbers of those dying are still rising. The suffering continues. And so many people, not only have to endure confinement to their homes, they have to endure that confinement alone.

In Hebrew, ‘endurance’ and ‘suffering’ are expressed by the same word, seivel. Let us take courage from the endurance of our slave ancestors and help one another to endure by continuing to reach out to each other and supporting those in greatest need. And as we eat matzah this Pesach, let’s remind ourselves that before it became the bread of freedom, it was as the Haggadah tells us, ha lachma anya – ‘the bread of affliction that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt’. And when this terrible time has passed – and it will pass; that is the core message of the Exodus story – we will renew our lives and the world around us. May we find within ourselves the savlanut, the patience – a word that is related to seivel – to wait, hopefully and expectantly, for that moment. And let us say: Amen.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

First Day Pesach Morning Service

9 April 2020 –15 Nisan 5780

  1. Sh’mot, Exodus 12:39 ↑

  2. Ex. 1:8-14. ↑

  3. Ex. 1:15-22. ↑

  4. Ex. 2:1-4. ↑

  5. Ex. 2:5-10 ↑

  6. Ex. 2:11-22. ↑

PREPARING FOR PESACH IN THE CORONAVIRUS PANDEMIC

Shabbat Shalom and welcome to the third streamed Shabbat morning service from the sanctuary at Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue.

This Shabbat is called Shabbat ha-Gadol – ‘The Great Sabbath’ – echoing, the reference to the ‘great’ day ahead proclaimed by the prophet Malachi, whose prophecy is read as the haftarah, the ‘concluding’ reading on the Shabbat before Pesach.[1]

Pesach, the great festival that celebrates the Exodus of our ancestors from Egypt, begins this year on Wednesday evening. So, after this day of ceasing and rest, there will be just four days left to prepare for it: to clean out our kitchens, remove chameitz, leavened products – and if possible, donate our unused items to refugees – get matzah and the items we need for the Seder plate, and do some Pesach baking.

Well, that at least is the usual plan. But this year is not a usual year. Jews are a remembering people. We remember all the twists and turns of our journey over millennia. Everyone and every people across the world will remember this extraordinary year when the devastating coronavirus pandemic utterly disrupted our daily lives and our usual routines.

So, perhaps, many of us will not be able to get hold of matzah and our Seder plate will be sparer than usual.

And then, there is the Seder itself. ‘Why is this night different from all other nights?’ The opening words of the four questions traditionally recited by the youngest at the Seder will take on a very particular resonance this year. The shul’s gathering, which usually sees 80 people fill this sanctuary on the first evening of Pesach, like communal s’darim the world over has been cancelled. Families and friends, too, will not be sitting around the Seder table together.

Thank goodness for the wonders of technology, which will enable people who have access to it to gather together virtually. But let us spare a thought for those who don’t have laptops, smart phones and tablets, and wouldn’t know how to use them if they did – many of whom are also over 70 and alone in their homes.

Those of us who are able to gather virtually, could adopt the tradition of leaving a place empty at our table for the guest who is unable to join us, and pause during the Seder to think of them.

So, Pesach has not been cancelled – many people will be having a Seder, albeit, across the ether. In recent years a number of new items have been added to the Seder plate. So, alongside the karpas, a green vegetable, maror, bitter herb, charoset, a sticky, sweet concoction, beitzah, a roasted egg, and z’ro’a, a lamb bone – or vegetarian equivalent – we may also place other symbols to express our sense of solidarity with all those who are oppressed today and our commitment to tikkun olam, repair of the world. These include: an orange, as a beacon of the inclusion of LGBTQI people, shoe-laces to remember the plight of refugees, olives to acknowledge the ongoing Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and a red chilli to evoke the climate change emergency.

Our Seder plates will be very full. Can we find space for one more item? What symbol will we add to our Seder plate this year in recognition of the coronavirus pandemic? Maybe, just as we leave a place empty at the table to remind ourselves of those who are isolated in their homes, so we should leave an empty space on the Seder plate as a symbol of ‘social distancing’ and ‘self- isolation’, these new terms that actually represent real hardship and distress.

A unique Pesach experience awaits us – one I’m sure we hope will never be repeated. Meanwhile, it is Shabbat. One of the important lessons of the coronavirus crisis is that we must try to do whatever we can, each one of us, to extract as much joy as possible – despite the challenging circumstances we find ourselves in – out of each and every day. So, let us now enjoy, the gift of Shabbat.

Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah

Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue

Shabbat Ha-Gadol

4 April 2020 – 10 Nisan 5780

  1. Malachi 3:4-24. ↑

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