This is the sermon I delivered tonight at Temple Sinai in Cranston, Rhode Island.

I don’t want to make any assumptions here, but I think it’s possible that, for some folks here, attending services was your second choice for tonight. I think that some of you are only here because you could not get tickets to see the new Star Wars movie. I’m here to tell you, that it’s okay with me. I can’t wait to see the movie myself.

The first Star Wars movie (which the science fiction geeks among us will refer to as Episode IV: A New Hope) came out in May of 1977. I was fourteen years old. I remember in detail the circumstances of my seeing it for the first time. 

It was July. I was away at summer camp and it was a rainy day, the second or third rainy day in a row. Rather than let the campers sit in their cabins all day making mayhem, the camp directors put us all on busses and took us to the local movie theater. When we got to the theater, we had two choices. The first choice was A Bridge Too Far, an epic World War II movie starring Dirk Bogarde (remember him?), James Caan, Michael Caine and Sean Connery.

The second choice was Star Wars, a science-fictiony, space movie starring Alec Guinness and a bunch of actors nobody had ever heard of. There was the guy who played the man with the cowboy hat in American Graffiti as the captain of a spaceship. (I think he was in a few movies after Star Wars, too). There was Eddie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds' daughter as a space princess. The leading role was played by a young guy who we thought we might have seen in an episode of the Partridge Family, but we weren't sure.

There was a real divide between the boys who went to see A Bridge Too Far and the ones who went to see Star Wars. The war movie attracted the jocks, the 14-year-old boys who liked tough guys and who wanted to be tough guys. (I will mention at this point that I was at a summer camp that catered mostly to Jewish boys from the suburbs of Westchester and Long Island. We were not exactly stereotypes of Marine material). I was not a jock or a tough kid. I was in the smaller group of boys, the nerdier and less physically threatening sort, who went to see Star Wars. 

This is the part of the story where I tear up and say in a voice on the edge of cracking, “This movie changed my life.” So here I go:

This movie changed my life. I watched the opening scene with a bucket of popcorn in my lap. A space ship flew across a black, star filled sky. A larger spaceship, firing at the smaller ship, came down from the top of the screen. It just kept growing and growing until it filled the entire screen. It was enormous. It was overwhelming. I was hooked, and the movie was only in its first minute.

What followed for the next two hours was pure, unadulterated fuel for the imagination of a nerdy adolescent boy. Spaceships, robots, aliens, chases, explosions and adventure. But that was not all. From the first time I watched Star Wars, I was grabbed by the story. There was a boy who felt a distance from the uncle and aunt who had raised him. He felt that he was born for something bigger and better. There was a wise old mentor to guide him, The mentor offered him a chance for the adventure that he did not even know he had been seeking. There was a frightening power that had destroyed the father he had never known. (No spoilers now, people). There was a beautiful princess who needed to be saved. There was the devastating death of the mentor. There was a final confrontation with the dark power that had cast a shadow over his entire life. There was triumph as the boy fulfilled his destiny and destroyed the evil.

This is not just a story that George Lucas imagined as he daydreamed as a young man. This is a story that is as old as storytelling. This is King Arthur pulling the sword from the stone. This is Moses drawn from the water to grow up to defeat Pharaoh. This is Gilgamesh wailing over the death of his companion Enkidu. 

After the closing credits completed and the theater lights came up, I stood to keep up with the other campers who were already leaving to get back on the bus. I remember that I said, out loud, “That is the greatest movie I have ever seen.” And I meant it. I felt sorry for those poor dolts who had gone to see A Bridge Too Far. 

Years later, when I was in my twenties, I read books by Joseph Campbell, the American writer who popularized mythology and the literary foundations of myths. Campbell had a profound effect on Star Wars creator George Lucas and, as Lucas later revealed, much of the structure of the Star Wars story was based on Campbell’s theories about mythic paradigms of the “the hero’s journey.” Campbell also was an influence on me at the time. His books spurred my interest in the sacred nature of stories and how myths help us to form our own personal stories about who we are, the purpose of our lives, and the meaning of our existence.

So now, thirty-eight years after I spilled popcorn all over myself watching “the greatest movie I [had] ever seen,” I am eagerly anticipating the latest episode of the continuing story of Luke, Leia, Han and Chewie. I also think about how Judaism uses stories all of the time to teach us about our lives.

We sell our tradition short if we think that the stories of Abraham, Rebecca, Moses, Esther, David and Ruth are just there to report historic facts, to entertain our children, or to give us a list of God's dos and don'ts. Our tradition is meant to move us, to fire our imaginations to consider the meaning of our lives, the adventure of confronting our own demons, the triumph of living life well. Stories do that for us better than any philosophical treatise or theological discourse. Our stories teach us who we are and they teach us whom we should aspire to be.

In this week’s Torah portion, for example, we see Joseph as the second-in-command of all of Egypt. In front of him are his brothers who do not recognize him, the same brothers who had sold him into slavery decades earlier. The brothers stand in front of Joseph seeking to buy the grain that will keep them and their families alive through a famine. We see Joseph wondering what he should do. Should he make them suffer for their past mistreatment of him? Should he test them and watch them squirm? Should he reveal himself to them? Should he pity them?

It’s not a story that tells us anything useful about the history of Egypt, it does not make a pleasant bedtime story for our children, and it does not contain a single one of God's commandments or laws. It is a holy story because it is a story about us – a story that mirrors our own experience in trying to make difficult, moral decisions in a life that constantly perplexes us. It is a story that urges us to go on the adventure of life and to become the heroes of our own lives, to confront evil and to find where evil lies within ourselves, and it reminds us that we can triumph in small ways and make our world better in so doing.

On this Shabbat, let me wish you a life of adventure, bravery, triumph, and not too many explosions. I wish you Yashar Koch’cha, a Hebrew phrase that literally means, “May your strength be straight,” but which, on this occasion, I shall translate as, “May the Force be with you.”

Shabbat Shalom.​


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Dreams and Dreamers

Once upon a time, there was a king who ruled his kingdom wisely and justly. The kingdom was happy and successful. Those in the kingdom who had wealth were generous in supporting the community, and even the poor always had something to eat and clothes for their children. The people were grateful to their king and every year they had a special ceremony to thank him.

The ceremony was held at the darkest time of the year, near the winter solstice when the days were short and the nights were long. On the first night of this Festival of Gratitude, they placed a large torch – taller than the tallest man and brighter than the fullest moon – in the central square of the capital city. The people gathered around the torch and sang songs and told stories of their kingdom's history.

On the second night, they placed two torches in the square – each of them taller than the tallest man and brighter than the fullest moon – and sang more songs and told more stories. The third night they brought three torches. The fourth night they brought four. Each night they sang the songs, told the stories, and celebrated their joy and gratitude. 

This Festival of Gratitude continued for a total of eight nights. On the eighth and final night, the people brought eight torches – each of them taller than the tallest man and, when combined, they burned with a light that was as bright as the sun. The people sang their very favorite songs and told their very favorite stories late into the night. Finally, as the eight brilliant torches began to fade, the king himself appeared in the square. He wept with joy to see the happiness of his people and he returned their expressions of gratitude with thanks of his own for the privilege of ruling such a kingdom.

The next morning, the sun would rise and the people would see that the daylight had begun to grow longer. The time of long dark nights was beginning to give way to the light.

This custom continued for many years and became the highlight of the entire year. People looked forward to the Festival of Gratitude to the point that they prepared all year long to make it as beautiful as possible. Women spent their spare hours weaving beautiful dresses to wear on the eight nights of burning torches. Men collected coins in jars throughout the year to purchase exotic and expensive foods from distant lands to serve their families for the festival. Even children spent time throughout the year making decorations of carved wood to display on the doors of their homes for the days of the festival. 

In time, the special dresses, the exotic foods, and the elaborate decorations became emblems of status among the people. Without ever saying so, the people began to think of the preparations for the festival as a competition. Each person wanted to impress others that his or her display of sincere gratitude was the very best and the most beautiful.

Year after year, the king saw the growing splendor of the festival and he also saw the expanding competition among the people. He was not sure whether it was a good thing or a bad thing. One year, the tears he cried on the eighth night were both tears of joy and of sorrow.

The following year was difficult for the kingdom. A sickness swept through the sheep and the shepherds were not able to sheer as much wool as in previous years. The quality of the wool was diminished. There was less good yarn for the women to weave into their fabulous dresses.

Stormy seas interfered with the ships that brought exotic herbs and spices from distant lands. The men were not able to prepare feasts that could equal those of the past.

That year, the wood harvested from the forests was more knotty and twisted than in the past. The trees, it seemed, had forgotten how to grow straight and tall. The children could not make decorations for their doors as fine as those they were accustomed to making.

Throughout the kingdom, there was a silent, unspoken sadness. The people knew that the Festival of Gratitude that year would not be as beautiful and as perfect as it had been in previous years. Privately, many people wondered whether the era of their beautiful festivals was coming to an end. Some thought that it might be better not to have a festival at all that year.

As the days grew darker, and the nights became longer, the mood of the kingdom became darker, too. As the first night of the Festival of Gratitude approached, the familiar feeling of excitement was mixed with a feeling of dread. 

As the sun set on the first evening of the festival, the people gathered in the square as they had done for many years. The single torch – taller than the tallest man and brighter than the the fullest moon – was brought into the square. The light of the torch illuminated the way that the dresses were woven with yarn that was thin and wiry. The light of the torch shone through the windows of the houses to display the tables laden with ordinary and plain foods. The light of the torch revealed every knot and the twisted grain of the wooden decorations on the doors. Instead of filling the people with joy and delight, the light of the torch made them miserable. 

The second night was worse, with twice as much light to penetrate into every imperfection of the diminished festival. By the time of the third night, the people lost all heart. Their singing was muted and shortened. The stories seemed repetitious and dull. The people began to wonder how they had ever thought that this hollow and painful farce of a festival could be meaningful or joyful. They asked themselves why they had ever bothered with it at all.

The fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh nights all blurred into each other with nothing to distinguish one from the other. The people felt tired and exhausted by the endless nights of torches, old songs and tired stories. They looked forward to the end of the festival and a chance to get back to normal life. 

On the last night of the festival, the eight torches were brought out – each of them taller than the tallest man and, when combined, they burned with a light that was as bright as the sun. The people squinted from the painful glare. The songs were sung. The stories were spoken until the last one had been told. Relieved, the people began to take down the festival decorations and prepared to return to their homes to finally sleep.

…And then they remembered. The king had not yet come to the square for the climatic moment of the festival. The people asked each other: Where is he? Why didn't he come? There was confusion and hurt feelings. Some children began to cry. Where was he?

And then, they saw him. He was not standing in the middle of the square, as in years past at the end of the eighth night. Instead, he was sitting on a low stool by one corner of the square, watching the people of the kingdom. A quiet came over the people. They looked at him, hoping he would say something to break the awkward silence, hoping that he would do something to remind them of the joy of the festivals they remembered from years past.

The king stood. He walked to the center of the square. He looked at the people all around him and then he looked down to the stones of the square beneath his feet. He spoken softly but clearly.

"There are no words," he said, "that can describe my feelings tonight. Of all the kings in all of the kingdoms of the world, I am the most fortunate. Nowhere is there a king who has the privilege of ruling such a magnificent people as the people of my kingdom. When I look at you, I see the splendor in which you are attired. When I peer into your homes, I am humbled by the delicious fragrances and aromas that fill them. When I see your doors, I am dazzled by your innocent and heartfelt joy to be alive. I am humbled before you. I am unworthy to rule such a kingdom. Please, let me step aside from being your king. Rather than embarrassing myself by pretending to rule over you, you should become my teachers and show me how to be a king."

When the people heard these words from their king, they remembered their profound love for him. They remembered how grateful they were to have such a wise and just king who brought such happiness and goodness into their lives. They remembered the generosity and the gratitude that made this kingdom the greatest to be hoped for or wished for.

The people embraced the king and lifted him up onto their shoulders. The sang their most joyous songs. They told their most heartfelt stories. They wept and danced all night in celebration of the beauty and the radiance that made their kingdom a heaven on earth.

The next morning, the sun rose and the people saw that the daylight had begun to grow longer. The time of long dark nights was beginning to give way to the light.

There are two dreams in this week's Torah portion (Vayeshev). One that is dreamed by a bread baker and one that is dreamed by a wine steward. The bread baker's dream foretells his death. The wine steward's dream foretells his success (Genesis 40:1-22). The inclusion of these two professions in the story is not a coincidence. They are highly symbolic. Bread represents Egypt and its destruction. Wine represents Israel and its eventual redemption.

To understand this, you need to know who drank what in the ancient world.

Egypt is a land is well suited to growing and storing grain. (At least, it was until the Aswan Dam was built in the 20th century). It is a flat land that has the Nile flowing through it to provide water for irrigation. Egypt became a centralized, urbanized society in the second millennium BCE by taking advantage of its geography to produce large surpluses of grain that could be placed in central storage facilities controlled by a ruling elite who would distribute the food to the people in times of famine. Even before the story of Joseph, Genesis refers to Egypt as a good place to go when food is scarce (12:10 and 26:1-2).

The idea that Joseph taught Pharaoh how to store grain is an obvious anachronism in the story. Thousands of years before Joseph, grain storage was the technology that made Egypt, and its pharaohs, a powerhouse in the ancient world.

Egypt's pharaohs did not use their stored grain only as a safeguard against hard times. They also used it as a way of controlling their large urban population. They did this – of course – by feeding their workers bread made from the grain, but they also turned that grain into beer.

Now, you may think of beer as a luxury item that one enjoys as a repast while filling up on other foods. However, that is not the way that beer was consumed in ancient Egypt. Beer made from barley was a staple in ancient Egypt. Most Egyptians, even children, drank what would be considered today enormous amounts of beer every day.

Consider also that, in the ancient world, bread and beer were made, more or less, in the same way. Water was added to the grain to create a mash that would begin to germinate, making it sweet. A process of fermentation from naturally occurring yeast would begin, which made bread dough rise and which gave beer its alcohol. Bread and beer in the ancient world were really just the solid and liquid forms of the same food.

Beer, of course, had the advantage of providing a pleasant sensation of intoxication (which the Egyptians thought was a marvelous, inexplicable gift from the gods). Beer also kept people alive in the heat of Egypt. Once people started living in cities, finding safe drinking water became more difficult as local water supplies were fouled by human waste. Drinking water could kill you. Drinking beer – which was made in a process that included boiling – was a safe way to stay hydrated.

So why is beer mentioned so infrequently in the Bible if it was so important to the foundation of great ancient cities? The answer is that beer was not the drink of the ancient Israelites. They may have been Hebrews (get it?), but they did not have the geographical advantages of Egypt for the expansive development of growing barely for beer. Most of the Israelite population lived in the inland mountain ranges, an area that was advantageous for the development of a different drink. 

The Israelites used their relatively limited supply of grain to make simple flat breads. For drink, they used their grapes to make beautiful wines. To grow the best grapes, you need cool rainy winters, dry and warm springs, and long hot summers. You also need a hilly landscape for drainage and the right angle of sunlight. All of these qualities are exceptionally good in the land of Israel. The ancient Israelites thought of themselves as culturally and morally superior to the Egyptians because they drank wine – the drink of free and mighty shepherds in the mountains, and not beer – the drink of city folk controlled by an overbearing king who kept them controlled through intoxication. 

This moral distinction between mountain dwellers and city people appears throughout the Bible. In the story of Cain and Abel, for example, we see God favoring the offering of the shepherd Abel, who brought "the firstlings of his flock," and disfavoring the offering of the farmer Cain, who brought "from the fruit of the earth" (Genesis 4:2-3). The story never states directly why God prefers Abel's offering, but a knowledge of the cultural biases of the Bible makes it clear. God likes the shepherds who live in the hills and drink wine, and dislikes the farmers who live in the cities and drink beer.

​The dreams of the doomed bread baker and the successful wine steward in this week's Torah portion don't just give Joseph an opportunity to show off his ability to interpret dreams. They are symbols that foreshadow the real message of the story. The Egyptians will be destroyed because they are haughty like the bread baker and cruel like Pharaoh. Israel will triumph because they worship a just and moral God.

Which drink is for you, the brew or the vintage? Who will you follow, the king who built the mighty cities, or God who made heaven and earth?


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