Author: Chochmat Nashim

My grandmother always used to say you must have “mazal” — or good fortune — for everything. I think that even the stories we tell, and those we hear, need a little luck to get our attention. Some of the weekly Torah readings are so full of big drama that “minor” stories get little or no notice. This week, Parshat Lech Lecha is packed with interesting and gripping stories, to the extent that the war of the four kings and five kings in chapter 14 gets short shrift. In addition to containing what sometimes seems like a laundry list of names and places, the very mention of God’s name and Abraham’s name do not appear until midway though the story. The reader is left to wonder what the purpose of the chapter is.

The midrash (Bereishit Rabbah 42:1) uses the verse in Psalms 37:14 to explain the entire incident of the war. The whole motivation of the warriors in capturing Lot was just to kill Abraham the “upright.”

The wicked have drawn out the sword, and have bent their bow;
to cast down the poor and needy, to slay such as are upright in the way;

The wicked have drawn out the sword, and have bent the bow (Psalms 37:14) — this alludes to Amraphel and his companions. To cast down the poor and needy (ibid.) — to Lot. To slay such as are upright in the way (ibid.) — to Abraham. Their sword shall enter into their own heart (ibid. v. 15), as it is written, And he fought against them by night, he and his servants, and smote them, etc. (Genesis 14:15).

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“And the whole earth was of one language and of common speech…and they said, “Come let us build us a city, and a tower, with its top in heaven and let us make us a name” (Genesis 11:1-4).

Leading up to the 2016 United States presidential election, I asked my then 4-year-old son if he was interested in learning about who was running for president. “Running for president?” he asked, and then yelled out, “I bet they can’t run as fast as this“ as he ran at full speed across the room.

Homonyms, like “run,” are just one example of how conveying meaning through speech can be confusing. This confusion is often magnified exponentially amidst people speaking different languages. One would think then, that in an ideal world, in which humanity has the best chance of cooperating and flourishing, people would all speak the same language. Yet, we see in the Tower of Babel narrative that unity and shared language led to such an egregious sin that God responded by mixing up humanity’s languages. How could it be that speaking the same language would more likely lead to sin than speaking multiple languages?

One metaphorical interpretation of this narrative is that when we are surrounded by people who all speak the same language, who all have the same thoughts, ideas, and interpretations of events, we are apt to start believing that our way of thinking, or even that we ourselves, are not only right, but godly. We are then in grave danger of believing we can build towers that reach heaven. What is the solution? As God decreed: we need different languages. We need to be amid people who speak differently than we do, who have a diversity of perspectives and visions that challenge our ways of thinking and keep us humble.[1]

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And so we commence, once and ever again
together traversing another Torah year.
What shall the glowing words
reveal this time?
What encounters occur
twixt ancient verses and this-moment hearts?

* * *

I confess that whenever the Torah cycle comes back round to Genesis, a feeling of profound intimidation arises in me. Every single word and letter, jot and tittle of the creation verses seems to be packed with the mysteries of the universe; how can I skim through them as I would the back of a cereal box?! They demand slowing to a near standstill, and devoting entire essays on just one or two words. And that is precisely what I plan to do here.

One of the most mysterious and intriguing phrases in the creation verses is ruah Elohim, the “wind” or “spirit of God.”

1. In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. 2. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And a wind from God hovered upon the face of the waters.

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I am standing near the mechitza, the Orthodox separation between men and women in synagogue, a woman of 49, watching the men dance with the sifrei Torah, the Torah scrolls.

I sing along very, very quietly.

Hoshi’a et amecha [Save Your people] …

…And I am 7 years old, proudly waving a flag among a crowd of children at our Conservative shul. I watch my father holding a sefer Torah and dancing with joyous abandon.

Each child receives a red apple and a Hershey bar. We all stand outside on the steps facing 16th Street and shout symbolically towards the Soviet embassy, a few miles south of us:

One two three four! Open up the iron door!

Five six seven eight! Let our people emigrate!

The rabbi speaks movingly about Anatoly Sharansky. I do not know that within 10 years, the refusenik will be a free man named Natan, and that a few years after that, the iron door will really open up.

U-varech et nachalatecha [and bless Your inheritance]…

…I am 13, newly bat mitzvah. For the first time, I am old enough to hold a sefer Torah myself. It’s heavy; I can’t dance as wildly as my father, but I am learning.

Ur’em ve-nas’em ad ha-olam [and tend them and raise them up forever]…

…I am 18, at my college’s egalitarian minyan. We dance for hours. We join the Orthodox minyan on the quad, and form separate circles. Dancing, we carry the sifrei Torah through the nave of the gothic library and into the reading room, where there are Jews who do not remember that it is Simchat Torah. In the morning, all my muscles ache from dancing. My friend and mentor, Elka Klein, makes sure I am honored with kallat Bereishit because I am a promising freshman. I do not know that in only 18 years, Elka will pass away much too young fro

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Why on earth are we celebrating the holiday of Sukkot now? The Torah explicitly tells us that the reason God commands us to move into these booths for a week is to remember the way that God protected us in the wilderness when He took us out of Egypt (Leviticus 23:42-43). This holiday, then, should be celebrated on the heels of Passover when we relive the Exodus, not five days after Yom Kippur!

Additionally, if what God wants us to do on this festival is remember His benevolent protection in the desert, why is moving into booths the mechanism for doing so? In all the numerous verses throughout the Torah that describe our sojourn in the desert, not one single one mentions our “sukkah” abodes. In fact, it is only through this verse that commands us to dwell in sukkot annually to recollect the sukkot of the desert that we discover that God housed us in sukkot at that time. If I were God and instructing my people to recollect the Wilderness era, I might have invented a commandment involving some manna-like substance. Why does God select the sukkah as the symbol of the desert years?

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We live in a scary and unpredictable world. We never really know what tomorrow, or today, will bring.

One unremarkable morning during graduate school, my friend and I rode the Long Island Railroad from my parents’ house in Great Neck, NY into Manhattan. As it was a few days before Rosh Hashana, I used the 25-minute ride to recite selichot. When we arrived at Penn Station, my friend asked if she could borrow my selichot book and return it to me that night in Washington Heights. I happily agreed.

By the time we met up 10 hours later, the entire world had changed. It was almost impossible to comprehend what had transpired in those few hours between our passing of the selichot book back and forth.

The date was Tuesday, September 11, 2001.

I remember walking through the streets of Manhattan that clear, sunny morning, without a cloud in the sky and thinking about how calm everything was. And then less than a half-hour later, the first plane hit. And then the second. Within a few hours, thousands of innocent lives had been taken, and countless more were altered forever. And the world was a different place.

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