Parashat Chayei Sarah, Genesis 23:1-25:18

Being separate, different, an outsider appears to be a necessary experience in becoming a biblical leader.

Like many of you, I am often amused and frustrated by the fact that I can't remember simple tasks I have set out for myself recently, yet have no problem recalling the oddest things from years past. At the moment, I am chuckling at the memory of a cartoon I saw in the New Yorker magazine over a decade ago. In it, three pigeons are on a ledge, and one is saying to the other two: "location, location, location." We are all familiar with this cliché that stresses what is considered the most important factor in determining where to live.

Location was important in Lech Lecha, which we read a couple of weeks ago. In that instance, it was the unknown location whereto God would lead Abraham. Location was also important last week in Vayera, when God directed Abraham toward a mountain that would be revealed to Abraham as the place upon which to offer his son. This week, location plays a different role because it is Abraham, not God, choosing the site. Chayei Sarah, "the life of Sarah," begins with the news of her death. Abraham sets out to find a burial place for her and enters into elaborate negotiations with the Hittites who control the land of Canaan. As part of his negotiations, he says "I am a resident alien among you" (Genesis 23:4). The Hebrew term is ger ve-toshav, ger meaning stranger and toshav meaning resident. Legally, Abraham was unable to own land.

Ger ve-toshav sounds like a contradiction in terms, since how can one be both a stranger and a resident. However, ibn Ezra explains that the Hebrew letter vav, representing the word "and," makes this a technical term: a resident-alien. This truly encompasses Abraham's status. He lives among the people in Canaan, but he is not one of them. Ramban described it quite accurately:

Now Abraham said to the children of Heth: "I am a stranger from another land and have not inherited a burial ground in this land from my ancestors. Now I am a sojourner with you since I have desired to dwell in this land. Therefore, give me a burying-place for an everlasting possession just as one of you."

(translation Rabbi Charles Chevel, Shiloh Publishing House)

Abraham is the ancient equivalent of the immigrant. More accurately, he can be viewed as the successful immigrant. Abraham in his journeys has been blessed by God materially as well as spiritually. He is a wealthy man. I imagine that he looked no different from the people in whose midst he lived and thrived. In acquiring a burial place, he achieves permanence, though not a sense of belonging. Abraham was different, indeed was meant to be different, and would always be an outsider. In modern terms he would be described as the "other."

Chayei Sarah is peopled with outsiders, as is the entire book of Genesis. These are the folks who are either considered powerless or who are silent. These are the women, the servants; even the two sons of Abraham fulfill this role. But it is most surprising that Abraham verbalizes the precariousness of his situation by describing himself as an "other," a stranger and resident. This most successful individual, blessed by God is marginalized.

The sensitivity to the plight of the other is a crucial lesson of the Torah. How often are we instructed to remember the stranger, grouped with the widowed and the orphaned as being in special need of communal protection? How many times are we exhorted to act justly because we were strangers in the land of Egypt?

Being separate, different, an outsider appears to be a necessary experience in becoming a biblical leader. Abraham had to leave his homeland; Jacob will have to do the same. In the generation between Abraham and Jacob it will be Rebekah who is the driving force in maintaining the covenant. She too, was an "immigrant." The most influential outsiders will be Joseph and Moses, the former integrating into Egyptian society, the latter begins life assimilated and later recovers his roots.

The balancing act of ger ve-toshav has been our lot throughout history. In Europe there were a number of famous Court Jews, who served at the whim of the ruler and for his benefit, but were also able to serve the Jewish community.

Even the Haskalah (enlightenment) movement of the 18th century and its ensuing emancipation, while allowing Jews to become citizens and not mere residents, did not fully do away with the "otherness," the sense of being a stranger.

Abraham's acquisition of the Cave of Machpelah symbolizes permanence but does not represent a sense of belonging. Isaac, perhaps because he is the second generation, seems to have this sense. And Isaac went out walking in the field toward evening (Genesis 24:63). Tradition tells us that Isaac was meditating or praying. In next week's parashah, we read that even when there is a famine in the land, Isaac is instructed to stay put. He is also very successful: Isaac sowed in that land and reaped a hundredfold the same year (Genesis 26:12). In fact he is so successful that the other inhabitants of the area get jealous.

Despite his years in the land and his comfort with the surroundings, despite his wealth, Isaac remains the outsider, the "other," a ger ve-toshav. Like father, like son. They are spiritual immigrants, and we are their descendants.

Tradition holds that Abraham underwent ten tests of faith, culminating in the akedah. One ancient source, the Book of Jubilees, offers an alternative view, teaching that the last test is the purchase of the Cave of Machpelah.

If the offering of Isaac was indeed Abraham's last test, then it should have been followed by a period of bliss unalloyed. Instead, it is followed by the mention of Sarah's death (Genesis 23:1-2) and, subsequent to that event, a curious account of how Abraham bought the cave of Machpelah as a burial plot for her. That narrative is then followed by the assertion that God "blessed Abraham in all things" (Genesis 24:1), which surely would be a fit conclusion to Abraham's final test.

James Kugel, Traditions of the Bible:
A Guide to the Bible as it Was at the Start of the Common Era, pp. 325-6

Abraham's test is maintaining that balancing act of being a ger ve-toshav. We too are shaped by an experience of otherness that is essential to Judaism. The challenge is how we draw on this experience for the good of stranger and citizen alike.

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Vayera, Genesis 18:1-22:24

This week's parashah is generously sponsored by Mal Sacks in memory of Solomon Sacks.

Abraham had three days to ponder what he was going to do; Mrs. Lot had to make a split second decision.

Some songs are associated with one singer. Others have been embraced by different performers who have made it their own. One such song is "Just One Look" recorded by a variety of artists from the Hollies, to Martha and the Vandellas, Anne Murray and Linda Ronstadt; each artist shaping the song in a personal manner. The words of this song, and the different interpretations, echo through my mind as I read the chapters of this week's parashah: "Just one look, that's all it took."

So much in Vayera has to do with sight. Not only seeing, but how things are seen. The very name of the parashah, Vayera refers to God "appearing" to Abraham (Genesis 18:1). Abraham then "lifts his eyes" and "sees" three messengers who will announce the birth of his son (Genesis 18:2). Towards the end of the parashah, Abraham is instructed to offer his son on a mountain that God will "show" him (areka). On the third day, Abraham "lifts his eyes" and sees the mountain (Genesis 22:4). Ascending the mountain with Isaac, Abraham informs his son that God "will see to the sacrificial lamb" (Genesis 22:8). Isaac's life is spared when Abraham "lifts his eyes" and "sees" the ram (Genesis 22:13). Abraham names the site of the akedah Adonai-yireh, which according to Genesis 22:14 means "on the mount of the Lord there is vision." The emphasis on "seeing" is covered in a previous commentary on this portion. In all these instances, Abraham perceives something beyond mere sight; he is displaying an inner vision.

Sight plays a significant role in a second story found in Vayera: the plight of Sodom and Gemorrah. The messengers who have visited Abraham "turn their gaze"(vayashkifu) to the city of Sodom (Genesis 18:16). God goes down to see what is taking place in the city (Genesis 18:21). The end of the story finds Abraham gazing (vayashkef) (Genesis 19:28) at the site, using the same root that began this tale of horror and destruction. Here, "gazing" means to observe, or to look down from above. Implicit in it is a sense of judgment. Rabbi Alexandri teaches in Midrash Tanhuma that every place we find the term hashkafa, sorrow occurs and the one doing the hashkafa will create the sorrow. Another example can be found in Exodus 14:24 where God looks down upon the Egyptian army from a pillar of fire and cloud, throwing the Egyptian army into panic. We know the catastrophe that awaits the Egyptian army at the Sea of Reeds.

Within the city, the Sodomites are struck with a blinding light (Genesis 19:11). Lot, fleeing with his family from the destruction of Sodom, are warned not to look back (al tabit) (Genesis 19:17), but a few short verses later, Lot's wife does look back (va-tabait) and is turned into a pillar of salt. There are two other instances of "looking back" or "looking behind" in the Bible. After the incident of the Golden Calf, Moses goes into the Tent of Meeting and the people look after him as he goes in (Exodus 33:8). In I Samuel 24:8, Saul looks behind him and discovers David bowing down. David, who had been hiding, could have assassinated Saul but chose rather to show that he would never do such a thing. The common element in all these situations is the danger underlying what is seen: the destruction of Sodom, the punishment of the people after the Golden Calf, and an opportunity to murder the king.

Commentators have a different take on "looking back," much of which is summarized in a previous commentary and which is used to explain what happened to Lot's nameless wife. The common view is that Mrs. Lot was punished. "Looking back" is interpreted as looking past her husband, meaning after he has died. Lot's wife is concerned with her own welfare. Or else she is being punished for being stingy with her possessions. Her focus was self-preservation, not helping others survive. Therefore, her punishment was that she ended up being "preserved" with that ancient preservative, salt.

I take the accusations heaped on Mrs. Lot with a "grain of salt." (Sorry, I couldn't resist.) The role of salt is more than a physical preservative, it is a ritual cleanser. Just ask any sumo wrestler who scatters salt around the arena before the match in a tradition that dates back to the 17th century. Other ritual uses of salt are even older:

Salt was to the ancient Hebrews, and still is to modern Jews, the symbol of the eternal nature of God’s covenant with Israel. In the Torah, the Book of Numbers, is written, “It is a covenant of salt forever, before the Lord,” and later in Chronicles, “The Lord God of Israel gave the kingdom over Israel to David forever, even to him, and to his sons, by a covenant of salt.”

On Friday nights Jews dip the Sabbath bread in salt. In Judaism, bread is a symbol of food, which is a gift from God, and dipping the bread in salt preserves it—keeps the agreement between God and his people.

Loyalty and friendship are sealed with salt because its essence does not change. Even dissolved into liquid, salt can be evaporated back into square crystals. In both Islam and Judaism, salt seals a bargain because it is immutable. Indian troops pledged their loyalty to the British with salt. Ancient Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans included salt in sacrifices and offerings, and they invoked gods with salt and water, which is thought to be the origin of Christian holy water.

In Christianity, salt is associated not only with longevity and permanence but, by extension, with truth and wisdom. The Catholic Church dispenses not only holy water but holy salt, Sal Sapieintia, the Salt of Wisdom.

Bread and salt, a blessing and its preservation, are often associated. Bringing bread and salt to a new home is a Jewish tradition dating back to the Middle Ages.

Mark Kurlansky, Salt: A World History

Salt, the physical preservative, takes on a symbolic role. The use of salt makes the commitment binding.

Keeping this in mind, let's get back to Mrs. Lot; is she "worth her salt?" How does she compare with her peers? Lot is willing to sacrifice his daughters to save his guests. Abraham too is willing to offer his son as he travels to a yet-to-be-revealed sacrificial location under God's direction. Mrs. Lot also travels under God's guidance as she and her family flee Sodom, though a midrashic reading of Genesis 19:14 informs us that her two married daughters remained in the city. Imagine this mother's turmoil as she leaves the city: What is to become of her children? How could she not look back, hoping to see them saved?

Perhaps it would be fairer to compare her to other Biblical women. In chapter 21, Hagar and her son Ishmael are sent into the wilderness and soon run into trouble. When the water was gone from the skin, she left the child under one of the bushes, and went and sat down at a distance, a bowshot away; for she thought, "Let me not look on as the child dies." And sitting thus afar, she burst into tears. (Genesis 21:15-16) But help is at hand, and here too, vision plays a role: Then God opened her eyes and she saw a well of water. She went and filled the skin with water, and let the boy drink. (Genesis 21:19) To quote the Hollies: "Just one look, that's all it took."

Sarah too reacts to the mortal danger faced by her child. Rashi quotes a midrash that says Sarah dies of shock when she hears about the akedah. Sarah's thoughts are revealed in a modern poem:

I am a woman and this is my child
And my love for him is greater than fear;
And my sorrow surrounds me with knives
And I am bitter in my doubts.

Lillian Elkin, Sarah Talks to God

Like Hagar, Mrs. Lot knows what is in store for her children. How could she live with that knowledge? It would be rubbing salt into her emotional wound. Unlike Hagar, Mrs. Lot would not look away as her children were about to perish. What salty tears she must have cried knowing the fate of her daughters! The words put into Sarah's mouth can apply here as a well: "I am a woman and this is my child And my love for him is greater than fear." Mrs. Lot, far from being a cruel, selfish individual, possesses a love that is greater than fear, and she is sacrificed on the altar of concern. As Linda Ronstadt would say "Just one look, that's all it took." There is no happy ending here. Life is unfair.

Reading Vayera we assume that Isaac is the offering. To a certain extent, Lot's daughters may be considered an offering because their father is willing to sacrifice them to the men of Sodom in order to protect his divine guests. In actuality, the sacrifice in Vayera is Lot's wife. Abraham had three days to ponder what he was going to do; Mrs. Lot had to make a split second decision. "Just one look, that's all it took" and she became the embodiment of the covenant of salt, eternally binding herself to her doomed daughters' fate.

Significantly, with that one look Mrs. Lot is transformed into a netsiv melach, a pillar of salt. Netsiv, (pillar) has the same root as nitsavim to "stand over," or to "stand before." This verb is found at the very beginning of our parashah, describing God's messengers as they enter Abraham's sight. The same verb is used in Deuteronomy 29:9 to describe our standing in God's presence ready to enter into God's covenant. There is a holy aspect to this type of standing. Far from being punished, Mrs. Lot has performed a holy act, her courageous action commemorated for all eternity.

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Lech Lecha, Genesis 12:1-17:27

Sponsored by Judy Turner, in memory of Kevin Paul Kates.

Society presents many challenges to us and a basic one tests the essence of our religious beliefs: How do we define Torah?

I know people who plan their vacations meticulously for months in advance of the departure date. Then there are those who decide where to go, literally at the last minute. In some European countries you can just show up at the airport and see what trips are available. Whether well-planned or spur of the moment, the toughest part of traveling is packing. How do you know what to pack? It is especially difficult at this time of year when the weather can be sunny and hot one day and rainy, windy and cold the following day.

I've often wondered how Abram managed. He had the best the world had to offer readily available. Abram lived in one of the most civilized places on earth. Mesopotamia had well developed social institutions, legal codes, science, architecture, and art. The oldest music we have is from that general region.

Yet Abram was told to leave all this behind. His trip was a one-way journey: Adonai said to Abram, Go forth from your land, from your birthplace, and from your father's house to the land that I will show you. (Genesis 12:1) Apparently, he did not pack lightly: Abram took his wife Sarai and his brother's son Lot, and all the wealth that they had amassed, and the persons that they had acquired in Haran; and they set out for the land of Canaan. (Genesis 12:5) But if you think about it, he jettisoned a huge amount of baggage as he set forth on his journey. Abram's Divine tour guide told him exactly what to leave behind: his land, his birthplace and his father's house. In other words he was to shed everything that had molded him into who he was. Rabbi W. Gunther Plaut explains the progression of this command:

It emphasizes the difficulties of the challenge Abram is about to accept. It is difficult to leave one's land and to be an unprotected wanderer abroad; it is even more difficult to abjure all that is most dear in one's accustomed house; it is most difficult of all to reject one's parental values and standards.

There are those who say that Abram's journey was not a physical voyage but a spiritual one. The first two Hebrew words of the portion, lech lecha, can be interpreted as command – "go," but can also be read as "go to yourself." This latter reading is interpreted in Itturei Torah, a collection of Hassidic and ethical teachings, as meaning to look within your "roots and find your potential."

Well, his bags are packed, he's ready to go, there is no jet plane, and he won't be back again. Abram is heading into new territory. Compared to where he's coming from, it is a backwater, but it will be home. Abram took his wife Sarai and his brother's son Lot, and all the wealth that they had amassed, and the persons that they had acquired in Haran; and they set out for the land of Canaan. When they arrived in the land of Canaan, Abram passed through the land as far as the site of Shechem, at the terebinth of Moreh. The Canaanites were then in the land. (Genesis 12:5-6) This new home was inhabited by a group of people called the Canaanites. This simple statement of fact has led to some interesting commentary because it is so matter of fact. The focus is on the word "then" (az), a simple word that carries much baggage. By saying that the "Canaanites were then in the land," the implication is that the Canaanites were not there when the Torah was written. This is problematic if one believes that the Torah was written by Moses during whose time, according to tradition, the Canaanites lived in the land.

Before we turn to various commentators, let's recall Mark Twain's comment that most people are bothered by the passages in the Bible that they don't understand, whereas he was troubled by those passages he did understand. While he wasn't referring to Genesis 12:6, for the liberal Jew this verse is challenging. With that in mind, let's begin with Rashi.

Rashi explains Genesis 12:6 by saying that the Canaanites were in the process of conquering the land at the time. He takes the Hebrew word az to mean already. Ibn Ezra interprets az as meaning then. "It is possible that the Canaanites capture the land of Canaan from others, but if this isn't so than it is a secret and the enlightened one will remain silent." If the traditional understanding is that Moses wrote the Torah and the Canaanites lived in the land during his time, then this verse was written at some other time and not by Moses. It presents a huge challenge to tradition and so Ibn Ezra advises a voluntary self-censorship.

What Ibn Ezra hints at is an issue that would arise in the nineteenth century: Who wrote the Torah? Biblical scholarship would develop around the documentary hypothesis which views the Torah as having been gathered from four different sources. This is used to explain, among other things, the two creation stories in Genesis, the interchanging usage of the names Jacob and Israel within certain stories, and the repetition of certain stories with some differences. Actually, even prior to the nineteenth century scholars had raised the possibility that the Torah was not written by Moses. This proved to be dangerous. Baruch Spinoza's suggestion that the Torah was written by Ezra the scribe was one of the reasons for his excommunication. Spinoza was deeply influenced by his contemporary society; his journey was an exile from Judaism.

Abram left a sophisticated civilized world in order to establish his relationship with God. For most of us this is not possible. We are entrenched in the modern equivalent of Mesopotamia, a society at the height of knowledge, similar to the one inhabited by Spinoza. There is much that is alluring in society, much that Abram escaped and that Spinoza embraced. Society presents many challenges to us and a basic one tests the essence of our religious beliefs: How do we define Torah? Do we believe that Torah is divinely revealed, dictated by God, while Moses wrote it down word for word? Do we believe that Torah is divinely inspired, the product of an encounter between God and humanity, written by people? These questions are at the heart of modern liberal interpretations of Judaism. While it may seem that revelation and inspiration are polar opposites, they share a common element; each view is described by its adherents as divine. For those who profess a belief in divine inspiration it is possible accept traditional commentators and modern biblical scholars as presenting a spectrum of interpretations that are divinely inspired.

Abram set off on a great adventure. It was his faith that permitted him to do so. We too are on a journey but in very different circumstances. We find ourselves surrounded by the very thing Abram was forced to leave behind, the influence of a great civilization. His challenge was to become a Jew away from any influence, ours is to remain Jews while facing the pressures of society, in our land, our birthplace, our parents' homes.

We each face a Jewish journey and we too must pack our bags. Our challenge is making our way as Jews in a secular society. Often, this means deviating from the standard route, taking a detour:

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken

As we journey on this less traveled road, what part of that society can we take with us and what must we leave behind? What popular beliefs will needlessly weigh us down? What common values will lead us astray? What must we take along that is essential to our brit, our covenant with God, and what keepsake can we take along from modern society to strengthen our Judaism? Whatever we choose to pack, and however we pack it, one item will be in everyone's luggage – our guidebook – the Torah. And that has, and always will, make all the difference.

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Noah, Genesis 6:9-11:32

The towers we construct in our society make it possible to be scattered in the midst of others.

On a recent drive, I got caught in an area without a strong radio signal. This is a relatively uncommon occurrence today with satellite radio. Scanning the airwaves for a recognizable sound, any sound, had a surprisingly nostalgic effect, a reminder of sitting by a radio on a clear night turning the dial to see how distant a signal you could get. Was it a baseball game from across the country? If you had shortwave, which nation came through loud and clear? The static and sputtering inevitably gave way to something weak but audible and provided a connection that stirred the imagination.

What could be more thrilling than the sound heard half a century ago, the faint blips from Sputnik, the first satellite launched into space? The recognizable sound pattern that made its way through the static on October 4, 1957 heralded the beginning of the space age. This Russian success followed on a number of American failures in rocketry. It gave new focus to the Cold War and spurred the race to the moon.

Looking upward, striving to reach new heights seems to be inbred within us. The quest to scale unimaginable heights is found in a small story in Parashat Noah, the well-known tale of migdal bavel, the Tower of Babel.

Everyone on earth had the same language and the same words. And as they migrated from the east, they came upon a valley in the land of Shinar and settled there. They said to one another, "Come, let us make bricks and burn them hard." — Brick served them as stone, and bitumen served them as mortar. — And they said, "Come, let us build us a city, and a tower with its top in the sky, to make a name for ourselves; else we shall be scattered all over the world." (Genesis 11:1-4)

This story in Genesis has inspired much in the Western world. Countless works of art deal with the Tower of Babel. The word even makes its way into popular culture thank to Douglas Adam's creative use of the word "Babel" in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy:

"The Babel fish is small, yellow and leechlike, and probably the oddest thing in the Universe. It feeds on brainwave energy received not from its own carrier but from those around it. It absorbs all unconscious mental frequencies from this brainwave energy to nourish itself with. It then excretes into the mind of its carrier a telepathic matrix formed by combining the conscious thought frequencies with nerve signals picked up from the speech centres of the brain which has supplied them. The practical upshot of all this is that if you stick a Babel fish in your ear you can instantly understand anything said to you in any form of language."

While the end result in the Tower of Babel story is that God "confounded the speech of the whole earth" (Genesis 11:9), Douglas Adam's "Babel fish" picks up on what the inhabitants in the biblical tale were trying to do – unite humanity.

The Tower of Babel symbolizes independence, unity and strength. Let's even toss creativity into the mix. After all, it takes a certain degree of sophistication to build a city and a tower. We still do this. Consider how many major cities vie with each other to have boasting rights to the tallest structure in the world.

This story has inspired creativity in commentators who – pardon the pun – rise to the challenge of explaining the Tower's purpose. The most creative explanation comes from Rabbi Jonathan Eybeschutz, who viewed the Tower as a type of launching pad for flying vehicles to the moon. It had to be far enough above the atmosphere so that these vehicles would not be subject to strong winds and other natural elements. (This from his commentary, Tiferet Yehonatan, which was written in the eighteenth century!) The Tower was a creative response to the dangers of the world which could be destroyed by a divinely ordained flood, such as the one that had occurred during Noah's time. Think of these flying vehicles as interstellar arks. It was a human attempt at self-preservation and could only be achieved through unity. As such, it was the mirror image of what occurred during the generation of the flood, when humanity was divided, and Noah needed to be instructed as to what to do. Tiferet Yehonatan implies that the builders of the Tower, using their own initiative, embarked on a mission of self-preservation.

An equally modern explanation with far different results was put forth by the nineteenth century commentator Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin, (Netziv):

Since the views of human beings are not the same, they (the builders of the Tower) were concerned that others should not have a different perspective. Therefore, they would watch that no one would leave their city, and those who expressed an opposing view were sentenced to death by burning… It seems their shared words became an obstacle and they decided to kill anyone who did not think as they did. (Ha'emek Davar on Genesis 11)

In this explanation, what passed for unity was forced on the individual in a totalitarian manner. The Tower symbolizes a guard tower that one might find in a prison.

This explanation is more along the lines of the midrashic view that the quest to build this symbol of human strength resulted in a lack of concern for the individual. Pirkei de-Rabbi Eliezer recounts how if a person carrying the bricks up the Tower fell down and died, the work nevertheless continued, but if a brick fell down all the builders stopped and wept. The glory of the collective vision was constructed at the expense of the individual's life.

In its own way, the Tower of Babel was the biblical equivalent of the space race. While the quest to conquer space arose out of suspicion and distrust, it nevertheless showed the heights of human creativity and ingenuity. What began with some barely discernible sounds from a basketball size satellite, eventually led to a photograph taken by the Apollo 8 crew that put the universe and our place in it into perspective: Perhaps we need to be on a tall tower looking down to realize the vulnerability of humanity. Similarly, the desire to build "a tower with its top in the sky" could fulfill different needs. It could be used to "make a name for ourselves" with all the positive and negative implications of this desire. Equally, it could be a symbol of the people's unity and caring, a solution for the inevitable – being "scattered all over the world."

The former concern is doomed to fail because of selfishness, the latter because of unintended consequences. Think of modern cities, full of people living in towers. According to a number of urbanists, such as Jane Jacobs, we plan cities, but we don't allow communities to develop. While our population density increases and we are surrounded by others, we create buildings that leave us increasingly isolated. More becomes less. The towers we construct in our society make it possible to be scattered in the midst of others.

The Tower of Babel, the space race, and our urban centers share the flawed magnificence of human undertakings. Each, in its own way, is dazzlingly chutzpadik, while at the same time being imperfect. Each is an attempt to move forward, to turn the small step into a giant leap, which is the essence of humanity.

The story of the Tower takes place after the flood, symbolized by the rainbow in the sky. According to Genesis Rabbah, the generation of the flood totally disregarded God and sought to displace the Almighty, while the generation of the Tower attempted to share power with God. What better way to try this then by reaching into God's realm, ascending the heights where the rainbow exists? The consequence for the tower builders was not as severe as for their predecessors, because they wanted to be with and not replace the Divine.

Is it truly possible to share in God's role? It is one thing to place ourselves at the summit of all creation and quite another to be the bridge between heaven and earth. Perhaps we should think of the Tower of Babel as a transmission tower. The builders wanted it to carry a message from earth to the heavens whereas they, and we, should be more concerned with listening to the message coming from heaven to earth.

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Breishit, Genesis 1:1-6:8

With all our strengths and weaknesses, each one of us is a one-of-a-kind, priceless creation.

In October 1908 the world changed. The first Model T Fords went into production. In a move rarely seen today, the price of the car eventually dropped over the course of its nineteen year production life, from around $950 to just short of $300. This was thanks to Henry Ford's innovative production technique: he perfected the assembly line. Instead of having a group of workers construct one car on their own; the labor was divided by task. Each worker only assembled one piece of the automobile as it proceeded down the production line. When running at peak efficiency, a Model T Ford could be produced in about ninety minutes. Over fifteen million such vehicles were made during its production life.

Impressive numbers, but perhaps not quite the beginning of mass production. Think of coins, which have been in existence for millennia. These were formed with molds, the image stamped onto each coin. While today this is done by machinery, in ancient times each coin was stamped by hand, which still allowed for the consistency in size, weight and appearance. There is even a Talmudic passage describing this: "If a person strikes many coins from a single mold, they all resemble each other…" (Sanhedrin 37a)

This passage then introduces a comparison between humanity's creative ability and that of the Divine. "If a person strikes many coins from a single mold, they all resemble each other but the Supreme Ruler, the Holy One who is Blessed, fashioned every person in the stamp of the first human, and yet not one of them resembles another." (Sanhedrin 37a)

God's creative endeavors are brought to our attention at the very beginning of the Torah, in Breishit. Many different verbs are used to describe the creative process here. God can create through speech (amar), by creating (bara) objects such as heaven and earth, water creatures, birds, or by making something (asa), such as firmament, sun, moon, land creatures. In regard to humanity things change a bit. Not only are different verbs used, one is even in the plural: And God said, Let us make (na'aseh) man in our image, after our likeness…" And God created (bara) man in His image, in the image of God He created him, male and female He created them. (Genesis 1:26-27) And just to make things more complex, another verb meaning to fashion or form is used in the second creation story in reference to the creation of humanity, telling us that God formed (yatsar) man from the dust of the earth. (Genesis 2:7)

Regarding the use of the plural in Genesis 1:26, some commentators view this as the "royal we." Rashi, among others, notes that God consulted with the "heavenly council" because humanity was to be made in the likeness of the angels. Abravanel interprets the use of the plural as stressing that humanity was created with "great deliberation and wisdom."

As Nachmanides points out, in previous acts of creation, God spoke, created the medium, and then the life-form was brought forth from the medium. For example: And God said, "Let the earth sprout vegetation, seed-bearing plants, fruit trees of every kind on earth that bear fruit,with the seed in it." (Genesis 1:11), or God said, "Let the waters bring forth swarms of living creatures, and birds that fly above the earth across the expanse of the sky." (Genesis 1:20), or God said, "Let the earth bring forth every kind of living creature: cattle, creeping things, and wild beasts, of every kind." (Genesis 1:24) The process changes with the creation of humanity. It is more complex, humanity is a different order of creation which is defined by the phrase tselem elohim, translated as the "image of God."

The word tselem appears in other languages of the ancient Near East. In Akkadian tsalmu refers to a statue. Often a statue of the ruler was taken to be a representation of the local deity, the human incarnation of the god. Yet as Nahum Sarna points out, the use of tselem in the Torah goes in a different direction:

Without doubt, the terminology employed in Genesis 1:26 is derived from regal vocabulary which serves to elevate the king above the ordinary run of men. In the Bible this idea has become democratized. All human beings are created "in the image of God"; each person bears the stamp of royalty. …While he is not divine, his very existence bears witness to the activity of God in the life of the world. This awareness inevitably entails an awesome responsibility and imposes a code of living that conforms with the consciousness of that fact. (JPS Torah Commentary, Genesis)

Commentators have struggled to explain the concept of tselem. Abravanel related it to tsel "shadow," saying that the human must cling to God in the same way a shadow follows the illuminated form. Others described tselem as being the vessel covering the soul. What all these interpretations are pointing out is that there is something unique and different about tselem elohim.

We revel in our ability to form and create. Today, with cloning, nanotechnology, and other advances, nothing seems to be beyond our ability. Yet we are as close to Henry Ford as he was to the ancient artisan stamping out a coin. The imprint of humanity on what we create is the similarity among the final products. God's imprint is the difference in each individual. Tselem elohim is that which makes each of us unique. Mass production lowers the price of a product. Tselem elohim raises the value of the person. With all our strengths and weaknesses, each one of us is a one-of-a-kind, priceless creation. But that doesn't mean "it's all about me."

Rather, the fact that we are created in God's image and that we are partners in creation places an additional responsibility on us. That is, we have a duty outside ourselves and beyond ourselves. The knowledge that we are created be-tselem elohim "in God's image" is meant to instill in us a sense of humility:

What is man, that you are mindful of him?
And the mortal man, that you have taken note of him?
For you have made him a little less than divine,
and adorned him with glory and majesty;
laying the world at his feet... (Psalm 8:5-7)

The final attribute of being created in God's image is that we have a choice. It is that choice that arises in chapter four of Genesis, in the story of Cain and Abel. The two brothers each bring an offering to God. Though both do this of their own free will, Abel chooses to bring the best of what he has; Cain's offering was the equivalent of pulling something off the assembly line, Abel paid special attention to the items he brought. God does not accept Cain's offering, which fills the young man with fury. He strikes out in anger, killing his brother. When confronted by God, Cain speaks the famous words "…am I my brother's keeper?" (Genesis 4:9).

What is the connection between this tragedy, coins, and creation? Let's go back to the passage from Tractate Sanhedrin. The context of the piece goes beyond the comparison of human and Divine creative abilities. Sanhedrin 37a is a discussion of testimony brought in capital cases, using Cain's words as an example. It is a reminder of the responsibility a witness has in such matters where there is no restitution. We find here the famous teaching that "humanity was created as a single person to teach us that whenever someone destroys a soul… it is akin to having destroyed an entire world." The passage then compares the ability of the human coinmaker to the Divine creator, further stressing the value of those created in God's image. But it concludes in a very strange manner: "Therefore, each and every person is obliged to say the world was created for my sake." Two priceless items are within our care: the world God created and the image of the Divine placed within us. A blemish on one affects the other, as is shown by Cain's actions.

There are two sides to the divine coin of choice. We can step on that fragile world laid at our feet, or we can cradle it. We can gaze admiringly upon our own adornments or we can look beyond ourselves. We can go through life focusing solely on our little part of the assembly line as Cain did, or follow God's example, sustaining and enhancing a unique creation. Each one of us must choose. Don't flip the coin; treasure God's imprint in the depth of your being, then choose wisely.

Shabbat shalom,
MS