It would be easy to assume that the point of the plagues that God brought upon the Egyptians was to convince Pharaoh to free the Israelite slaves. The Torah, however, repeatedly insists that this is not the case. God and Moses knew that Pharaoh would not budge in his refusal because of the plagues. The plagues served a different purpose.

God tells Moses in this week’s Torah portion (Va’eira): 

The point of the plagues was to serve as a demonstration project. God wanted the Egyptians to know that the God of Israel was God Almighty, more powerful than any of the idols of stone worshipped in Egypt. The plagues — prolonged by God hardening Pharaoh’s heart — served to make sure that the Egyptians would never forget the power of the God of Israel.

Why? Why does the Torah repeatedly say that the plagues served only to make "Egypt know that I am Adonai" (Exodus 7:17, 8:18, 10:2, 14:4, 14:18)? Why would it matter to God, Moses or the Israelites whether the Egyptians believed in God? 

It is, actually, a radical question. In the ancient Near East, every nation had its own gods. Every nation recognized the gods of every other nation, but believed that their own gods reigned within their territory. The idea that Israel’s God must be acknowledged by the Egyptians as superior to their own gods, even in the heart of Egypt, overturned all the expectations of ancient civilizations.

Unlike any other nation of the time, Israel insisted that their God was the only God worthy of worship, the God of everything and everywhere. That may sound arrogant and chauvinistic — perhaps it is — but it is also central to the concept of a God who can command morality and a God who can unify our lives.

The God of Israel does not represent values and ethics of only one particular time and place. God is not in competition with other, equally valid gods that represent different values and moral positions. The God of the Hebrew Bible is the God of ideals that are universally true for all nations, all people, and for all time. When God says, “Thou shall not kill,” there is no alternate god to whom you can turn who will say, “Okay, you can kill sometimes.” God’s rule is exclusive, the highest authority on everything that will admit no equal.

That does not mean, though, that God is always clear on every moral question. A God of everything needs also to be a God who does not rule in black and white. With no alternate authority, the God of Israel must be a God that encompasses all of lived human experience. This is a God of nuance and complexity. Human imperfections and our complicated human relationships mean that God must reflect a range of conflicting interests to guide us toward doing the right thing.

Judaism, with its God of everything, teaches a single morality over all reality — even if it is a complex moral order that does not have specific answers for every human situation. That reflects the lived reality of our existence. We are multifaceted beings, but we require a unifying principle that makes our lives coherent. 

Like the pantheons of the ancient nations of the Near East, our own psyches are filled with competing forces. Sometimes we are ruled by the demigods of our own desires and craving for pleasure. Sometimes we are ruled by the demons of our fears. When we are able to admit to ourselves that all of these imagined forces within us are ruled by the one God of our higher selves — our best and noblest aspirations — we, ourselves, become unified beings. When we are ruled by the one God of everything, we find greater clarity in facing life's challenges. We find greater joy in living a life of meaning, undying values, and bedrock principles. 

God told Moses that the plagues would teach the Egyptians to know that "I am Adonai." The same lesson applies to each of us individually as we confront the Pharaoh within us — the part of ourselves that believes that we can make up our own rules and that wants to declare ourselves to be autonomous gods. Like Pharaoh, we also need to see the "signs and wonders" that prove that we are not nearly as in control of our lives as we like to imagine. We need to be reminded that there is a great power that rules our destinies far better than our desires and our fears. 

One hopes that we won't need to be overrun by frogs or pelted by burning hail to see it. Inevitably, though, life's hardships will teach us some of our most profound lessons of humility and acceptance. As we read this week's Torah portion, we can remember that there is a part of us that is Egypt, waiting to be awakened by the realization that there is a God of everything and of everywhere, and that it is not us. 

Other Posts on This Topic:
Va'eira: Playing God?
Va'eira: When We Cannot Be Joyful 

After Pharaoh commanded that every Hebrew baby boy be thrown into the Nile, Moses' mother placed her infant son into a basket to float down the river instead of drown in it. You know the story. Moses was found by Pharaoh's daughter who recognized that he was a son of Hebrew slaves. She adopted him to be her own son and Moses was raised as a member of Pharaoh's court.

I wonder why. Why would a daughter of the mighty Pharaoh risk her status and her life by going against her father's decree? What did she have to gain by adopting a Hebrew slave? Did she yearn for a child of her own? Was it a rebellion against her father? Was it purely an act to save a life?

Pharaoh's daughter is regarded very positively by the rabbis. She is considered a woman who chose the path of righteousness against the sinful path of her father. In some regards, she is the epitome of the righteous gentile who saves the life of a Jew at great personal risk.

It is also possible that the character of Pharaoh's daughter in the Torah was inspired by another Pharaoh's daughter who is described much later in the Hebrew Bible. According to the Book of Kings, King Solomon married a daughter of Pharaoh, the king of Egypt. She became Solomon's wife (one of seven hundred) when Pharaoh gave her to him, apparently in an act of appeasement after an ill-fated Egyptian military expedition against the Canaanite city of Gezer  (I Kings 9). The editors of the book of Exodus may have had Solomon's wife in mind when they described the kind-hearted daughter of Pharaoh who recognized the child of a Hebrew slave, rescued him, and took him for her own.

We, too, can recognize Pharaoh's daughter in our own world. We, too, have seen non-Jews who choose to raise Jewish children to be their own and who nurture within them a love of Judaism and the Jewish people.

In the congregations I have served, I have seen many non-Jewish spouses who make the loving choice to honor the religious tradition of their husbands and wives by raising children in our faith. I have seen these non-Jewish men and women joyfully drive their children to Hebrew school, volunteer in the synagogue, and love their adopted communities. 

For a very long time, Jews tended to look askance at the non-Jewish spouses of intermarriage, as if they were the cause of a stain against our people. That has to end. Rather, we should look at these men and women the way we look at Pharaoh's daughter. They are shining examples of dedication and, sometimes, also of sacrifice.

The next time you hear a fellow Jew speak harshly of a "shiksa" or speak pejoratively of a non-Jewish man who has married a Jew, remember Pharaoh's daughter. Remember our debt to the people who choose to help raise the next generation of the Jewish people, even if it is not the people of their own faith.


Other Posts on This Theme:
Missing Pieces
How Does a Joyful Jew Respond to "Merry Christmas"?

The book of Genesis ends with the death of Joseph, the Hebrew boy who was sold into slavery and rose to become Egypt's second-in-command. On his deathbed, Joseph told his brothers, “I am about to die. God will surely take notice of you and bring you up from this land to the land that God promised on oath to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob” (Genesis 50:24). 

Thus, the book of Genesis ends (and this week’s Torah portion, Vayechi, also ends) on a note that foreshadows the transition to come. Things were good for the sons of Jacob in Egypt, but their happiness would not last long. Eventually, an act of God would be necessary to bring them back to the land of Israel. 

Sorry for the spoiler. 

In a way, the whole last fourteen chapters of the book of Genesis, comprising four weekly Torah portions, is one big example of foreshadowing and transition. From the perspective of pure storytelling technique, Joseph’s story serves a simple function. For the Torah to continue, the descendants of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob have to get to Egypt. 

If there were no Joseph story to bring the brothers to Egypt, there would be no need for God to deliver them from slavery. No Moses. No Ten Commandments. No wandering through the wilderness. No redemption. The Joseph story is an artistic masterpiece and it is filled with great spiritual lessons, but it also is the literary equivalent of a highway cloverleaf — a way to exit one road and enter another. 

And, yet, there is also a spiritual truth in this literary structure. Life is filled with such cloverleaves — moments of painful change that we might mistake for the highway itself. Life is also filled with times of transition — moments when we think we are “just passing through” — that turn out to be great journeys unto themselves. 

Do you remember the time when you suffered a terrible situation that unexpectedly turned out to be all for the best? Most of us do. Most of us have suffered setbacks that, in retrospect, seem like the best things that ever happened to us. When we consider the stories of our lives from the distance of time, we think, “It felt terrible when it happened, but if it had not happened that way, I would not be where I am today.”

I’ve got moments like that: The job I left twenty years ago that sent me on the path toward rabbinic school. The unpleasant breakup that allowed me to meet my future wife. The years of uncertainty that the two of us had to endure before the birth of our child. Over and over in my life, I have experienced painful setbacks that led to miracles. 

How about you? What were the moments of despair that turned out to be your transitions to renewal? What were the cloverleaves that turned out to be the journey?

Remember where the story of the Torah is taking us. Joseph was thrown into the pit so that he could eventually save his family from starvation. The children of Israel were slaves in Egypt so that Moses could lead them to freedom. The Israelites suffered hardship in the wilderness so that God would redeem them and transform them into a great nation. 

This is life. Our life. We travel a long journey along a twisted highway to discover our own redemption. 


Other Posts on This Topic:
A Mystical City and the Benefit of the Doubt
Vayechi: Repair of the Dysfunctional Family

When I heard yesterday about the death of Nelson Mandela, I was overwhelmed by memories of my days as a college student and activist. This man, whom I never met, had a profound effect on my life. Today, I cannot help but think of him and share some memories.

I've often said that, despite what it says on my diploma, my real major in college was "pissing off the administration." Mostly, that was over the issue of the college's investments in companies that did business in South Africa. That was the "old South Africa," a nation built on the racist system called apartheid. It was a nation that was peacefully overthrown by a movement that was led by Nelson Mandela.

As a college student, I helped organize sit-ins, marches, and educational forums to let people know about our college's role in supporting apartheid. "Free Nelson Mandela" was one of our marching cries. 

As a student representative on the college's General Faculty, I helped draft a resolution calling for divestment from South Africa. With the help and support of many students and faculty members, that resolution passed in 1985. For me, a 21-year old kid at the time, it was the first time I really experienced how, when people work together, they can make a real difference to build a better society.

There are certainly those who will say today that the South Africa that Nelson Mandela helped to build is a far cry from being "a better society." South Africa today is plagued by violence, poverty, disease, government corruption, continuing racism, and an unacceptable chasm separating the "haves" from the "have-nots." But Nelson Mandela deserves to be remembered as one of the great leaders of the 20th century despite his country's many problems.

To me, as an impressionable young man, Mandela was a moral exemplar of the highest order. He was born into a family that enjoyed prosperity and privileges that far exceeded those of most black South Africans, yet he put all of those comforts on the line to wage battle against the injustice of his society. He was accused of treason in a trial that lasted from 1956 to 1961 for his non-violent opposition to apartheid. A year after he was acquitted in that trial, he was arrested again and convicted for conspiring to overthrow the government. He spent the next 27 years in prison for speaking the truth and for trying to end a hateful and racist regime.

Mandela was freed from his life sentence in 1990, mostly in response to an international campaign calling for his release. The student-led campaign on U.S. college campuses was cited frequently in the press as a major factor. Mandela then negotiated an agreement with South African President F.W. de Klerk to end apartheid and to set up free, democratic, multi-racial elections.

Despite the predictions of many in the government and the press, the new South Africa did not become a state that sought to punish the white minority that had oppressed the black majority for decades. Mandela became a champion of reconciliation and national unity. After serving one term as South Africa's first black President, he declined to run for re-election and, instead, became an international leader for peace and against HIV/AIDS. 

I only saw him once in person. That was during a tour through the United States in 1994. I heard him speak on the Boston esplanade along with hundreds of thousands of others. 

Mandela, to me, is one of the few figures I have seen in my lifetime who comes close to the example of the prophets of the Hebrew Bible. Like Jeremiah who called his nation to bear witness against its own sins, Mandela forced South African society to face its moral failings, to take up the obligation to feed the poor, house the homeless, and to lift the shackles from the oppressed. Like Isaiah, he promised that when his country changed its ways, it would be rewarded with a new day of rebirth and renewal. To the best of his human abilities, he worked tirelessly to fulfill that promise.

And let me draw one more connection between the life of Nelson Mandela and our tradition. In 1964, when Mandela stood trial for attempting to overthrow the South African government, he gave the speech that turned him into an icon for the cause of freedom. In that speech he spoke truths that most white South Africans were not ready to hear about their country. He spoke about how white South Africans feared democracy because it would bring an end to their monopoly on power. He told them, not unkindly, that they had a chance to redeem themselves by living up to they values they said they cherished. 

He said at the Rivonia Trial:

This is the struggle of the African people, inspired by their own suffering and experience. It is a struggle for the right to live. I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society, in which all persons live together in harmony and with equal opportunity. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and achieve. But, if needs be, my Lord, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die.

It was a speech that was eerily reminiscent of a speech in this week's Torah portion (Vayigash). Standing before the powerful vizier of Epypt, Judah spoke about the suffering of his father and his willingness to give up his own life to restore freedom to his brother, Benjamin. The vizier — who, of course, was really his brother, Joseph, in disguise — was so moved that he broke down in tears, relented from his anger, and freed Benjamin (Genesis 44:18 - 45:8). 

This is how Nelson Mandela won freedom for his people. He spoke the truth. He told white South Africa about its own fears and its own path to redemption. In the end, apartheid itself was unmasked and the reconciliation of brothers that followed included the brother who had once been the oppressor. May it be so wherever people are oppressed.

It is difficult for me to imagine my life as it has been without the inspiration of Nelson Mandela, and I am but one of millions who will say the same. His loss is keenly felt, but the things he did in his life will continue to inspire generations to come.

Zichrono livrachah. May his memory be a blessing.

The eighth day of Chanukah always seems like a let down after the candles have burned out. The holiday will not be over for another twenty-four hours, but there is not much left to celebrate. Apart from reciting Hallel in the morning service and eating leftover latkes (as if anyone could resist them at the first serving), there is not much to do on the last day.

In some ways, though, this final day of the holiday's lingering seems appropriate. Chanukah was the last holiday added to the calendar by the rabbis of the Talmud, at least as far as its origins are concerned. The events that Chanukah commemorates occurred in the second century BCE, after all of the events recorded in the Hebrew Bible. As such, Chanukah represents the last celebration of a miracle performed by God for the Jewish people. Ever since then, we have been lingering anticlimactically — like we do on the eighth day of Chanukah, after the candles are spent — waiting for the next miracle.

Of course, just because we don't have a holiday on the calendar to celebrate another miracle, does not mean that there are no miracles today. (Some will argue, and I will agree, that Yom Ha'atzmaut is actually the commemoration of a modern miracle). Miracles surround us all the time. 

Later today, I will be traveling to a mikveh in Orlando for the ritual conversion to Judaism of a woman I have been working with for the last  year. Her story is nothing short of miraculous. She discovered, quite on her own, that Torah and the Jewish approach to God and life spoke to her much more powerfully than the religion of her upbringing. Without ever being a part of a Jewish community, she learned on her own until she came to the synagogue in search of a place to practice the tradition she had already adopted in her heart. 

I love that story. I love the idea that in this crazy world with so many things tugging at us to abandon ourselves to our own immediate gratification, wealth, and privilege, people still have a deep craving to discover something deeper, richer, and more fulfilling. People are still searching for God, even in an age when God can sometimes seem very quiet. That, to me, is a miracle.

It is a miracle that is very fitting to the last day of Chanukah, after the candles have guttered. Even in a moment of lingering and waiting, we discover dear and beautiful miracles waiting for us, all around us.

Happy Chanukah.


Other Posts on This Topic:
A Day of Chanukah
The Last Miracle