Parasha Vayera

A few weeks ago I gave a sermon in which I mentioned a film that I had seen called "Twenty Feet from Stardom." In the sermon I cited the famous story of Rabbi Zusya, who feared that when he died and went to heaven he would be asked not "why were you not Moses," – he could answer that, G-d did not  give him the great courage that G-d gave Moses;  and not "Why were you not Maimonides"—he could answer that, G-d did not give him the great intellect that he gave Maimonides. The question that Rabbi Zusya feared was, "Why were you not Zusya?"  I posted the sermon on my sermon page and received the following comment – "What if you ARE yourself and are very flawed and see this but are helpless to be otherwise."

I replied to this comment on line that no one is helpless to be otherwise. We are all flawed individuals. Our task is to polish our star so that it can shine more brightly. Our work is to improve ourselves every day. Tonight I want to expand on these thoughts. Even our holy Torah knows of no unflawed or perfect people. Despite the high esteem that we hold for Abraham, who read about in this week's Torah reading, the Bible does not present him as without faults. When a famine drives him and his wife to Egypt, the Torah tells us that Abraham is concerned for his own safety. What if the Egyptians see his beautiful wife and kill him so that they can take her for themselves? "Please tell them that you are my sister," says Abraham to his wife Sarah. The RamBAN sees this as a great sin. Better he should have better trusted in the protection of G-d, than to have asked for such a sacrifice from his wife. As it is, Sarah is taken to the Pharaoh, and it is only through the intervention of G-d that Pharaoh is prevented from taking her as his wife. Yet, not having learned the lesson, Abraham repeats the mistake with another king in another foreign land later on in the parasha.

Look at Abraham's role as a family man. Abraham and Sarah cannot have children, so Sarah suggests that Abraham betroth her maidservant, Hagar. "Perhaps I will be built up through her," says Sarah. Apparently, the custom of the time was any child of a woman's maid through her husband would be counted as the child of the woman herself. Once pregnant, Hagar gets haughty. She thinks she is better than Sarah. Sarah is greatly vexed by this. Can you blame her? Here you agree that your maidservant can have relations with your husband for the purpose of pro-creation, and the maid begins to laud it over you! So, Sarah complains to Abraham. Does Abraham go and talk to Hagar about it? Does he explain to her that we all have to get along in this household, and it is best that you treat Sarah with respect; she is, after all, my first wife and I love her dearly? Does he talk to Sarah about it, after all, Hagar is only a young woman and like all young women she is a little full of herself, especially now that she is giving us a child, and we must be patient with her, I'll talk to her, and you let me know if this keeps happening. No. When Sarah complains to Abraham, Abraham seems to get angry and impatient with her. "She's your maidservant," he snaps back at Sarah, "Do with her as you see fit!" That leaves Sarah with nowhere to go with her anger and frustration than to take it out on Hagar, which she does.

Then there is the episode of the binding of Isaac. How could Abraham argue so passionately with G-d over the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah – "If there are only ten righteous people in the cities, will You not save the city for the sake of the ten" – but when it comes to the destruction of his own flesh and blood, his beloved son Isaac, he does not raise any protest whatsoever. It is like the shoemakers children who have no shoes themselves. Abraham seems more concerned with the stranger than he is with his own family. So it is with all of the heroes of the Bible. Isaac with his naiveté, Jacob with his dishonesty, Moses and his temper, Aaron and his lack of a backbone, King David with his lust. All are deeply flawed individuals who do great things despite their shortcomings which the Bible does not hide from us.

This month marked the passing of another flawed giant of our tradition. Rabbi Ovadia Yosef, the 93 year old patriarch of the Sephardic community in Israel, passed away. On the day of his funeral hundreds of thousand of people turned out in the streets of Jerusalem for the funeral procession. Forty thousand people participated in a memorial service at the conclusion of shiva last week. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu called Rabbi Ovadia, "one of the wisest men of his generation" and "a giant in Torah and Jewish law and a teacher to tens of thousands."  President Shimon Peres, who had been with Rabbi Ovadia hours before his death, said, "When I kissed his head, it was as though I kissed the very greatness of Israel." Rabbi Ovadia Yosef's rabbinic opinions, which carried a great deal of weight in Israel and abroad, were often enlightened and compassionate. He was the only major rabbinic figure in Israel to take the courageous stand that preserving lives was more important than retaining land. This meant that he believed that it was religiously permissible to give up territory in the Land of Israel – land that he considered holy -- for peace. He made the compassionate ruling allowing women whose husbands had been killed in the Yom Kippur war but could not be definitely confirmed as dead – the agunah – to remarry. He applied similar reasoning in an opinion allowing women whose husbands had been killed in the 9/11 attack to remarry when there was no body or witness to the death. He wrote a rabbinic opinion, citing the views of a 16^th century scholar, that the Jews of Ethiopia were part of the ten lost tribes of Israel and therefore could legally immigrate to Israel under the Law of Return. This opinion was influential in the absorption of tens of thousands of Ethiopian Jews into the Jewish State. As the leader of the political party, Shas, he gave voice and dignity to the Sephardi community of Israel who had suffered years of disenfranchisement and discrimination at the hands of the Ashkenazi establishment of the State.

Quite a list of accomplishments for any one person. Yet, like Abraham, Rabbi Ovadia was a very flawed person. He spewed anger and vitriol at those he considered his political and religious enemies, including former Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, Palestinian Authority President Mahmood Abbas, Israeli Supreme Court Justices, secular Jews, Conservative Jews, Reform Jews, and gentiles in general. Under his leadership women from his political party were forbidden to run for office. Through his comments he did a great deal to exacerbate the divisions and polarizations that are a part of Israeli life.

The Palestinian sage Alexandri, who lived during the time of the Talmud, used to say, "When a common man uses a broken vessel he is ashamed of it, but not so with the Holy One. All the instruments of His service are broken vessels." Our tradition understands that we are all flawed human beings, even the greatest among us. We all are obliged to work toward repairing our flaws. But our brokenness does not, and should not, excuse us from acting in the world to alleviate pain, to address suffering, and to do good works. We can grow every day toward reaching our full potential as husbands and wives, as mothers and fathers, as friends, as workers, and as citizens.  In doing so, we fulfill our Creator's mission for us here on earth.

Shabbat Shalom

Parasha Lekh Lekha

The phone rings on the wall of Mrs. Gerda Weinblatt's kitchen in her apartment at 303 Avenue S in Brooklyn. 

"Mrs. Weinblatt?"  a voice says.  "I have Worthington Rosecroft of Lakeview Capital on the line.  Please hold."                                                                          

 There's a pause and then a man's voice comes on the phone.  "Mama," he says. 

"Stanley," she says.

"Mama, where were you?  It was Beatrix's birthday last night and she so wanted you to come.  She kept asking for her grandmother."

                "I was there, Stanley, I was there," she says.

                "What do you mean?"

                "Listen, Stanley, she says. "I left the house at four o'clock.  I walked over to the D train.  I took it to Fulton Street and walked about three blocks underground to get to the Lexington Avenue IRT.  I took that up to 77^th Street.  I got out.  I walked over to Park Avenue.  I went into your lobby at 895 Park.  I sat there for three hours.  Then I went home." 

  "What?" he says.  "Why on earth didn't you come upstairs?"

 "I couldn't remember your name."

This joke was published in the recent edition of Commentary Magazine.  This joke, it seems to me, zeros in on the Jewish anxiety about assimilation, and the tension we feel between wanting to fit in and wanting to retain our unique identities as Jews.  Worthington Rosecroft of Lakeview Capital, formerly Stanley Weinblatt of Flatbush, changes his name to both flee from his Jewish identity and to advance in the business world. He names his daughter Beatrix, a name of Latin origin meaning "one who brings blessing." Yet, he remains tied by blood and by affection to the Jewish people.  However much he disguises his identity to the outside world, he remains Gerda Weinblatt's son. The name he chooses for himself, however, is so foreign to his mother that she is unable to remember it – or, perhaps accept it. She is better able to negotiate the complicated route to his Park Avenue apartment, than she is to negotiate her son's transition from an ethnic Jew to an assimilated American.                               

In some ways the joke is dated.  After all, in today's America, Jews no longer feel the need to change their names to get ahead in business or in a profession. The Worthington Rosecrofts of the world would likely keep their given names and might well name their daughter the Modern Hebrew equivalent of Beatrix -- "Bracha". Although one might encounter the occasional anti-Semitic comment, there is relatively little discrimination against Jews in America today. 

Yet the joke reveals a tension we Jews experience that transcends the times in which we live. How different from others do we feel comfortable in being?  An interesting midrash on this week's parasha addresses that very question. In this week's Torah portion, Lekh Lekha, G-d commands Abraham to circumcise himself and all of the males of his household. The midrash relates that when G-d told Abraham to circumcise himself, he sought the advice of three friends – Aner, Eshkol, and Mamre.  Aner advises against circumcision. If the relative of one of the Kings against whom Abraham had gone to war were to come upon him, Abraham would be at a disadvantage, says Aner. Eshkol advises against it as well.  "It is dangerous at your age, 99, to perform such an operation," is his advice. Only his friend Mamre advises him to go ahead with it. Mamre points out that G-d had protected Abraham when Nimrod threw him into the fiery furnace when he was only just a boy. G-d had protected him on the long journey he and his family made to the Promised Land. G-d had protected Abraham from the Pharaoh when he traveled with this wife to Egypt. G-d had made him victorious in the war with of the Five kings. G-d had protected Abraham throughout his long life, and now, when G-d asks you to sacrifice a small bit of your body, how can you refuse? Abraham, of course, proceeds to circumcise himself.

The rabbis ask, "Since Abraham knew that G-d had protected him throughout his life – Mamre was not telling him anything he did not already know -- what was Abraham so concerned about?"  They answer: Abraham was concerned not about his safety, but about being different.  Abraham was concerned that once he did such a thing, and others found out, that he would be separated from the rest of the population of Canaan. He was concerned that nobody would listen to him or take him seriously again. He was concerned that he would become an outcast from the local peoples amongst whom he traveled.

In fact, very few people actually want to be different! We can see it in our teen-agers, who all want to dress the same way so as not to stand out from the group. We can see it in adults, who all want to keep up with the latest fashions.  There are even some in this world who believe that the way to redeem humanity is to erase all differences between people. They believe that ethnicity, class, religion and nations – everything that is unique about a person's heritage and culture – belong to an old world whose time has passed.  They see it as the root of all evil. In this view, differences are a source of strife, jealousy, and competition. Let everyone be the same, they argue, and we would usher in a new world of peace and fellowship.  Who are the first they want to give up their identity? Often, it is the Jewish people.You go first.

Natan Sharansky, the famous Soviet refusenik, actually lived in such a world. In the Soviet Union, where he grew up, Jewish history, language, and culture was legislated out of existence, as Communist authorities sought to eradicate all religious, social and economic differences among people.  All he knew was that he was a Jew, and nothing more. He grew up rootless, unconnected, and without identity, like all Soviet Jews of his generation. This taught him that personal freedom was in fact connected to strengthening ones identity, on returning to ones roots. "Only a person who is connected to his past, to his people, and to his roots can be free," he writes, "And only a free person has the strength to act for the benefit of the rest of humanity." In other words, a strong Jewish identity doesn't chain us; it roots us, and makes us freer to operate in the world for the benefit of all of human-kind.

I suppose this is what Abraham learned as well. Far from making him an outcast, circumcision strengthened his identity, and freed him, so that he was able to spread his message of the one G-d – and not only to those of his generation. The Jewish family that descended from him would continue to spread his message throughout all generations, as it continues to seek to liberate humanity from idolatry in whatever form it may take.

Shabbat Shalom

Parasha Beraisheet

Twenty Feet from Stardom

This past Monday I saw a movie called "Twenty Feet from Stardom".  It focuses on the careers of a number of African American women – Darlene Love, Merry Clayton, Lisa Fisher, Tata Vega  and Judith Hill, to name a few – who provided the background voices to the likes of Mick Jagger, Bruce Springsteen, Sting, Michael Jackson, Ike and Tina Turner, Stevie Wonder, Joe Cocker, Frank Sinatra and other famous entertainers. We have all heard these background singers on recordings and at concerts, but we do not know their names. The film asks a question that it ultimately cannot answer – What is it that makes a star? Why are some very talented people stars, while other equally talented people remain in the background, singing, quite literally twenty feet from stardom? 

All of these remarkably talented women grew up in the African American church, where they learned to sing with others in their church choirs and to blend their voices together in improvised harmonies for the sake of worship. Their fathers were often the pastors of the church in which they grew up. Yet despite a desire for a solo career, none of them became a household name.  None of them reached the top.  It was not a lack of talent. They all have abundant talent – that is evident from their performances in the film. Different theories are offered to explain this.  Perhaps, it was the lack of the appropriate material for their voices. Perhaps it was a lack of the driving ambition, the hunger -- yes, even the narcissism that propels one to stardom. Perhaps they never found the producer, the manager, that person who could help guide their career, to make them the next Aretha Franklin. Or, perhaps it was because there was already an Aretha Franklin, and there was not enough room in the public appetite for another!  The singer Sting opines that it is karma, or fate, or destiny. Whatever it is, the back-up singers who are featured in this film express a combination of gratitude, joy, acceptance, and disappointment as, now in their fifties, sixties and seventies, they look back over their professional careers – and at what "might have been."

Part of the power of this film is, I think, that we can all relate to the struggles, the disappointment and the satisfactions that these entertainers articulate about their lives.  Perhaps we have ourselves wondered why we have not become "stars" in our own chosen fields. Perhaps we too have experienced the frustration that comes with not achieving ones dreams.  We might ask, what is the difference between us and the person who has become wealthier, more acknowledged, more successful?  Is it a matter of birth, of talent, of luck, of guidance?  Were we to have studied harder, gone to the right school, been mentored by the right people, would our lives have been different?  Was it that we did not have the persistence to pursue our dreams to the utmost?  Did we not have the drive, the ambition – or was "being a star" simply not that important to us?  Were we unwilling to pay the price that the stars have paid for their fame, their position in life?  Were we born in the wrong time, or in the wrong place – or to the wrong family!    

In our parasha for this week we have the story of the creation of humankind. G-d creates all of the fish of the waters, the birds of the sky, and the beasts of the land en masse. G-d does not even give them names – that will be the task of the human.  But G-d only creates one human being.  G-d only creates a single individual from which to populate the earth.  Man is the only animal that G-d names. Our rabbis of antiquity marveled at this. "If a person strikes a coin from one mold, all of the coins that come from that mold are identical," they noted. "Each coin is exactly like the next one.  But although the Holy Blessed One fashioned every person from the mold of the first person, not a single one of them is exactly like his fellow. Therefore, each and every person should say, "The world was created for my sake."

The rabbis have it exactly correct. Each and every one of us is a unique individual. Each person has their own set of talents and interests, genetic endowments and family backgrounds. There has never been anybody like us who has ever lived, and there will never be anyone like us once we pass from this world. We ought not to try to be like anybody else. We ought to find satisfaction with who we are, where we are, and what we have accomplished. This was what those who were twenty feet from stardom came to accept and to understand.  This is what the viewers of the movie came to understand as well – that each artist that was portrayed is a "star" in their own right.

The story is told that when Rabbi Zusya of Hanipol was dying, his disciples gathered around his bedside, hoping to hear one last word of wisdom from him. He said to them, "My students, know that I am not worried that when I come before the Throne on High, that they will ask me 'Zusya, why were you not a great leader like Moses?'  If they ask me that question, I have my answer ready. I will say to the Court, 'Because You did not give me the courage and the ability to lead that You gave Moses.'"

"And I am not worried that they will ask me, 'Zusya, why did you not teach your people wisdom, as Maimonides did?' Because if they ask me that, I have my answer ready, I will say to them, 'Because You did not give me the profound intellect that You gave Maimonides.'"

"But there is one question that I fear they may ask me. If they do, I have no answer. What keeps me awake every night, and what worries me so much is what will I say if they should ask me, 'Zusya, why were you not Zusya?'"

May we have the courage to be ourselves, and to develop our unique talents and capacities to the fullest extent possible.  We are not twenty feet from stardom. Each of us is a star in our own right as well.