Congregation Kneseth Israel in Annapolis, Maryland

Parshat Shelach Lecha

11/10/2022

The obvious subject to discuss on Shabbos Shelach Lecha is the story of the spies who were sent to their impending home and their failure to deliver a positive report. We’ll talk about that on Shabbos. Come early and bring all your friends!

Buried underneath the surface of this week’s parsha and of its signature story is a pair of mitzvot (commandments) which teach us an important lesson: challah and tzitzit.

What is challah? Most non-Jews call it “challah bread.” Challah, however, isn’t a recipe; it’s a process. Bread made from wheat, spelt, barley, oats, and rye can be made as challah. How? By taking the portion which is due to the Kohen, saying the appropriate blessing over it, and then baking it on the side of the rest or in the bottom of the oven. So you can have rye challah, focaccia challah, white or wheat or any other version, as long as it’s made with the appropriate grains, and the blessing has been said (contact me if you want to learn how…) One is then able, and required, to recite the blessing before eating it, and the Birkat Hamazon after.

The next one comes with strings attached; literally. The conclusion of this week’s parsha contains the mitzva of the fringes, Tzitzit. The strings which I wear (as my wife calls them) represent the totality of the commandments. The gematria (Jewish numerology) of “tzitzit” is 600. Then look at your tallis. 8 strings and 5 knots per corner brings us to 613, the number of mitzvot, commandments, in the Torah. Wearing Tzitzit, whether daily or on just on Shabbos, connects us to every mitzva in the Torah.

Both of these commandments share a single element in as much as they each take something ordinary and raise it to the level of the extraordinary. Bread is elemental; so much so that “bread” is used as a common euphemism for any type of food. Take ordinary bread and turn it into challah, and it becomes something holy. Tzitzit are the same. There is nothing which prevents us from tying fringes or tassels on our clothing. Doing so in a special way with the intent of performing a mitzva, however, brings all of the Torah’s commandments to mind, and allows us to hold and kiss them at the appropriate points of the service. Once again, something normal has become something special; a vehicle which can take us to the next level.

The fact that these two mitzvot serve to take something humble and transform it into something holy is the underlying message. If we are able to embody the Divine in something as simple as bread or a bunch of strings, imagine what we could accomplish by treating every commandment the same way. Not just the positive ones, either. By resisting the temptation to transgress a negative mitzva, we have, within our power, the ability to harness G-d’s holiness and turn the negative into a positive. How wonderful that on any given day, we have countless opportunities to do just that. As Ben Azzai taught in Pirkei Avot 4:2: “Pursue a minor mitzva as you would a major one, and flee from a sin; for one good deed leads to another, and one sin creates another. Thus is the reward for a mitzva another mitzva, and the consequence of sin is another sin.”

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen

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Parshat Noach

10/30/2022

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At the conclusion of last week’s parsha, we read a teaser for this week’s. After the Genesis story doesn’t work out precisely as planned (Adam and Chava fall victim to serpentine wiles, then the third human on earth murders the fourth). In the introduction to the Noach story, Hashem resolves to blot out humanity but recognizes the good in Noach. There are two “tells” in the final paragraph of B’reshit. First, the name of G-d which is used is the four-letter version denoting the quality of Divine mercy. Second, the verb denoting Hashem’s regret at having created humanity shares a root with the word for compassion. It seems like the story is all set to progress the way all the storybooks and movies portray it; Noach the wise and just, who will dutifully preach and build a boat (ok, a really big boat) and be the savior of the human race.

What a difference a paragraph can make. As this week’s portion opens, things have subtly changed. The Divine name is now Elo-him, the aspect of justice. In addition, Noach is no longer the one who “found favor in the eyes of G-d.” The Torah delivers him a backhanded compliment, saying that he was “perfect in his generation; Noach walked with G-d (6:9).” The implication is that had Noach lived in some other generation, he would likely not have stood out as righteous in comparison with the immorality surrounding him. So Hashem gives him a chance to prove himself by taking on the mantle of trying to restore the faith and ethics of the degenerates surrounding him, right? Nope.

Noach is mute.

To be fair, his silence was the natural antidote to the societal breakdown surrounding him. According to Chazal (our blessed sages), the declining behavior of the population had spiraled out of control, starting with immorality and crimes which were committed in private, but ending with uncontrolled and unguarded activities which knew no limitations. On one level, therefore, Noach was dispatched to teach by example; one’s actions speak louder than their words, correct?

In a fascinating take on the story, several commentators imply that it was Noach’s reticence which was the cause of his being commanded to build, populate, and live in the ark—as a punishment. 6:14 says that Noach should “make [the ark] for yourself.” The penalty for not being a vocal prophet was the requirement to live on a boat with his family at least two of every animal for the better part of a year. The Zohar picks up the theme with the verse from Isaiah 54:9, found in our Haftarah, saying, “For like the waters of Noach shall this be to me…,” suggesting that the Flood was actually Noach’s fault for keeping his mouth shut!

But even so, the first known shipwright in the world is imperfect. Just when he should have learned his lesson, he gets back on dry land, plants a vineyard, gets drunk, and debases himself. Ironically, Noach’s descendants do have a takeaway from the story, however misguided. While their folly is trying to build a tower to the heavens for their own self-aggrandizement, they do make one tremendous improvement. While the generation of the Flood sinned against G-d and each other, the residents of Babel worked collectively toward a common goal—even though it resulted in their dispersal around the world—precisely what they hoped to avoid.

Perhaps we’re looking too hard at the story to find a perfect hero. The first generation fell out of favor when their innocence was confused with their ignorance. In the 10th, Noach is certainly a step in the right direction, but his fate reminds us that it’s not words or deeds that matter; it’s making your words and deeds be the best they can be. 10 more generations hence (in Torah time), the two will finally come together. Next week, we meet Abraham.

Shabbat Shalom, and a Good Month!

Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen

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Sukkot Chol Hamoed

10/14/2022

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Why do we read Kohelet, the Book of Ecclesiastes, on the intermediate Shabbos of Sukkot? It’s a relatively dark book of the bible, one of the five megillot, or scrolls, which are assigned to the remaining two Festivals as well as to Purim and Tisha B’av. Kohelet, regarded as the poetry of King Solomon, is regarded as one of the most depressing books of the Bible, second perhaps to only Lamentations (Eicha). The text stresses the futility of humankind’s efforts, and the triumph of endemic processes, while acknowledging the supremacy of the Divine. Kohelet/Solomon’s mantra is “havel havalim, hakol havel (vanity of vanities, all is [in] vain.)” This is supposed to be a motivation or inspiration to live the easy life as opposed to the good?

Rabbi David Abudraham (14th C. Seville) suggests that the assignment of Kohelet to Sukkot was more than it being the one of the 5 megillot which didn’t have a clear thematic or seasonal tie to the holiday on which it is recited. Sure, Eicha belongs on the anniversary of the destruction of the Temple, Esther on Purim is, well…Purim, Ruth and Shir Hashirim (The Song of Songs) have seasonal tie-ins. Abduraham, and others, suggest that Kohelet was actually read to Israel by Solomon during Sukkot as a way of mitigating any feeling that if atonement for the last year was achieved on Yom Kippur, that starting the new year with a clean slate is not to be viewed as an opportunity to go on a sinful binge, thinking that you’ll catch up eventually. That would certainly take all of the meaning out of the season of repentance, would it not?

If you look carefully at the way that the 5 Scrolls (Chamesh Megillot) are assigned to each of the holidays, you see certain elements in common. Each of those 5 occasions has themes which take a negative and turn it into an actual or potential positive. The scrolls from the latter section of the Tanach (Hebrew Bible, or OT) all go there in their final verses, regardless of how or why they got there. Consider this:

ESTHER (PURIM) A story of oppression ends with a celebration of deliverance.

SONG OF SONGS (PESACH) The parallel up-and-down relationships between the author/lover and humankind/G-d ends with a prayer: “Flee, my Beloved, and like a gazelle or young deer, [be with me] on the fragrant mountain (a reference to the Holy Temple).

RUTH (SHAVUOT) The saga of familial mindgames and manipulation ends with a genealogy which leads us from the heroine to the Messianic line, descended from David.

EICHA (TISHA B’AV) After the harrowing descriptions of the horrors faced by the residents of Jerusalem, the final chapter is a prayer for retribution, but not without responsibility: “Bring us back to you, O G-d, and we shall return; renew our days as of old.”

And finally:

KOHELET (SUKKOT) “The last thing, when all has been heard: fear G-d and keep His commandments, for that’s what is humanity.” The ultimate statement to balance out the freedom we may feel or the license we may be empowered to take having made it through the High Holidays.

By all means, let us celebrate our holidays, our heritage, our opportunities, our past, present, and future. But let’s also remember that walking on the right path is more than just avoiding the bad. It’s also being proactive to prevent it in the first place.

It’s one thing to run away from an impending flood. It’s yet another to build a dike that will keep the water away from not only your house, but your neighbors’ as well.

Next year, may we celebrate Sukkot together, but may we also celebrate the fact that individually, locally, and globally, we have worked together to keep ourselves high and dry.

Shabbat Shalom, and Chag Sameach!

Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen

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Parshat Ha'azinu

10/7/2022

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Last week, the parsha ended with the introduction of Moshe’s final ode to the people, the song that they should sing as a reminder and a touchstone should they stray…or be tempted to. As Moshe approaches his passing, this parsha is that song, followed by the details of its transmission, and G-d’s pronouncement that the prophet’s death is imminent.

If you were charged with writing Moshe’s final ode, what would you say, and to whom would you address it? A personal plea? A national request? A reminder of the high points of our history? A retelling of our low points? Moshe takes an interesting structural tack. He addresses the song to timeless heaven and earth, and likens his words to water, a classic metaphor for Torah. He then follows a symbolic chronology of Israel’s past, present and future. They were nourished by G-d in the past, will stray from the Divine in the present and near future, then head toward ultimate redemption in generations to come. Ha’azinu works on two simultaneous time lines. The first lasts from Creation forever; the second runs for the duration of our time here as a people, until Mashiach comes (however it is you want to understand that…). The universal mechanics which comprise Heaven and Earth predated and will outlast us. Our relatively limited time in our mortal sphere is significantly more limited.

Moshe’s song, however, gives us the tools to expand our term as residents from the moment on the sixth day when we were created at twilight, to the moment or era of Redemption. It is a song/poem which reminds us that strengths and weaknesses, blessings and curses, productivity and laziness, are all endemic to humanity. As we close out the High Holiday season, we all have realized that none of us is infallible; individually and as a group, we all are subject and likely to make missteps. The fundamental question, and invariably why this parsha always lands where it does, either just before or just after Yom Kippur, is this: what have we learned? Have we gained better tools to fix our problems, personally, locally, or globally, to avoid the abandonment which G-d describes in the middle section of Ha’azinu? Must we suffer in order to learn our lessons? Do we have the ability to jump the line, and pick up the story at its redemptive conclusion? One verse jumps out at me. “They are a generation of reversals, children without faith within them (Deuteronomy 52:20).” There’s the key. If we can teach ourselves and our children how to behave responsibly, equitably, fairly, and Divinely, then yes, we have the ability to achieve redemption. If we continue to tolerate or through our silence permit the forces of adversity to gain traction in our world, then we diminish our chances of being able to merit the World to Come.

I can’t tell you what the next incarnation of humanity will be like. I also can’t promise you what you need to do in order to help our fragile planet and its more fragile inhabitants achieve it. I can tell you that we’re clearly not doing enough. As I write this, the number of people who lost their lives due to aggression, human-induced climate change, nationalistic aspirations, or local conflicts, just over the past 48 hours, is staggering.

Moses was instructed to write, teach, and sing Ha’azinu as a way of bring us back should we lose our path.

If we start paying attention, let us pray that this is one song which we can ultimately sing in the past tense, instead of it being a plea to ensure our future.

Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen

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Parshat Ki Tavo

9/16/2022

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Parshat Ki Tavo famously deals with the combined themes of blessings and curses. Throughout the portion, the timeless balance of the two is expressed in a variety of ways. The opening chapter elucidates the earlier commandment from Shemot (Exodus) to bring the first fruits to the Beit Hamikdash (Holy Temple), adding the requirement to bring the tithe according to a three-year cycle. Curiously, the ritual also contains a symbolic retelling of the Exodus story in the form of a declaration, as well as a parallel formula attesting to the fact that the tithe had been correctly separated and donated. By recounting the story of our deliverance from Egypt, the Torah acknowledges the two opposites embodied in the story: the cruelty of oppression vs. the blessing of freedom.

With this as an introduction, Chapter 27 describes the dramatic ritual which will be performed once Israel reaches the Promised Land. With six tribes gathered on Mt. Grizim, the other six on Mt. Eival, with the Kohanim (priests) and Levi’im (Levites) in the valley between the two, the Kohanim and Levi’im will pronounce a series of twelve curses for specific sins to which the nation will respond, “Amen!” Chazal (our blessed sages) suggest that the sins included on the list are transgressions which are likely to be committed in secret, or via a sense of entitlement by someone whose position leads them to believe they are above the law. Rashi holds that each one of the 12 was intoned twice; once in the form of a blessing directed at Mt. Grizim, then repeated as a curse in the direction of Mt. Eival.

As if this dramatic demonstration of blessings vs. curses wasn’t clear enough, Moshe then begins the Tochacha, or reproof, restating and elucidating the version given previously in Vayikra (Leviticus) 26. The text is no holds barred; both the blessings and the curses go over the top. After effusive promises as to the abundant good which will occur if Israel sticks with their mitzva mission, the text spends 54 verses describing what will happen if we do not, in stark and harrowing detail, far more than the previous version. It appears that Moses and the Torah are setting up the brachot (blessings) and klalot (curses) as a clearly binary choice—good vs. bad with the clear implication that we should try and tip our personal scales in the direction of the good.

But… since when is any choice between polar opposites quite that cut and dry? I’m certain that the average Ukrainian draftee would never have considered taking a life until Russia forced the issue by not discriminating between soldier and civilian. We clearly have a mandate to perform mitzvot; what happens if an individual is unable to do so due to personal circumstances, lack of skill or knowledge, or lack of opportunity? The last of the litany of 12 sins enumerated on the two mountains is, “Accursed be the one who will not uphold the words of this Torah to perform them (Deuteronomy 27:26).” That covers a lot of ground, doesn’t it? I can name a few mitzvot that most of us could not observe in modernity even if we wanted to. Does that make us automatically subject to the curses?

I’d like to propose another way to look at the brachot and klalot. Blessing is the absence of curse, and curse is the absence of blessing. In the ongoing, dynamic relationship between the two, the control mechanism is the Torah, as we live it. In reference to 27:26, Ramban wrote that the sin is not a failure to observe the entire Torah; the transgression is failing to accept the overarching validity of the Torah as a whole. That suggests that state of mind and kavannah, intention, are the most important aspects of the blessing/curse continuum. This is not to say that performing as many mitzvot as possible isn’t important; it’s vital. The normal yin and yang of life, however, provides what can be an ongoing inspiration or an ongoing distraction. Our daily, weekly, monthly, and annual goals should not be focused on the maintenance of the bracha/klala balance. Doing so tends to commoditize the values of the opposites; we all have a tendency, even in the best of circumstances, to laud the good (as we see it) and vilify what we perceive as its opposite. Instead of turning our attention from side to side, our challenge should be to constantly look upward, to G-d, through the wisdom and inspiration of the Torah.

Consider this: In order for it to rain, moisture must first evaporate from the surface of the earth to form clouds. Only then can the droplets condense and fall back to the ground. If we are able to maintain our focus on our Heavenly Parent, our efforts will surely be rewarded by the Divine One with that goodness returning to earth, providing nourishment to all of humanity.

Regardless of which mountain you’re standing on.

Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen

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Ki Teitzei

9/8/2022

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Parshat Ki Teitzei, the 49th parsha of the Torah, brings with it a special distinction: it contains the greatest number of mitzvot (commandments) of any parsha in the Torah, breaking the previous record by a solid 11. This daunting avalanche of legislation covers a lot of ground; containing precepts of morality, financial and property procedures, domestic relations, kindness to animals, levirate marriage, and the challenging command to utterly destroy Amalek, to name just a few. Some of these mitzvot are restatements or clarifications of earlier commandments. For example, the commandment to wear tzitzit, fringes, on our garments is quickly recounted here, but the Amalek story gets additional context which the previous version in Exodus did not.

Others of Ki Teitzei’s mitzvot delve into new subjects—some of them seeming incredibly specific and, well, esoteric. We learn that when building a house, one must put a safety fence around the roof to prevent injury or death if someone should fall off. Wearing clothing with an admixture of fibers (shatnez) is forbidden. A person who is sentenced for a capital crime must be buried by nightfall following his execution. If one finds a lost animal, he must not avoid it, but rather, he’s required to bring it home and safeguard it until being able to return it. Conversely, if one has taken a pledge from their fellow in exchange for a loan, they are forbidden to enter the borrower’s house to retrieve it—they must remain outside. We are required to provide sanctuary for the escaped slave of our adversary who seeks asylum at a time of war. Forgotten or accidentally dropped produce, olives, or grain must be left for the destitute. One may not return to collect what has fallen. Mismatched animals may not be yoked together, and eggs cannot be taken from a nest while the mother bird is present.

Any one of these mitzvot, taken individually, makes sense. Taken in groups or sections, one can often see a thematic or symbolic through-line connecting these often tersely worded commandments (we’ll be discussing that on Shabbos morning!). While the logic and wisdom of these mitzvot is fairly self-evident (or can be revealed upon reflection), there are many of them which leave us scratching our heads wondering, “where did that come from?” Tzitzit? Shatnez? Removing a shoe and spitting on the ground to avoid marrying your sister-in-law?

The very fact that these seem to be incredibly niche commandments and that some of them read as somewhat redundant (in theme, anyway) is precisely the point. The mitzvot of Ki Teitzei teach us that there is no act, no situation, no time or place, where the morality, ethics, wisdom, and protection of the Torah cannot be interjected. By extension, of course, we are thus able to factor G-d into the equation, even in the most esoteric of situations. If the values of Torah and the presence of Hashem are omnipresent even in the narrowest recesses of our lives and daily experiences, that makes the big stuff be a significantly shorter leap.

A few weeks ago, we read the Shema. As many of you know, in the Torah scroll (and nowadays in most siddurim), the third and the last letters of the verse are enlarged. The Ayin and the Dalet spell “Eid,” or witness, attesting to the fact that when we recite Shema, we are the witnesses to G-d’s sovereignty and singularity in the universe. Here in Ki Teitzei, the letters take on an additional meaning. The gematria (numerological value) of Ayin-Dalet is 74, the same as the number of mitzvot in our parsha. We can be the ”eidim” to the presence and oneness of G-d. But by bringing the Divine presence into even the most subtle of situations, we can ourselves become the instruments of doing holy work as G-d’s partner, in everything we do.
Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen

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Shoftim

9/2/2022

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Parshat Shoftim opens with the famous passage establishing the judiciary and law enforcement structure of the nation. “Judges and officers shall you appoint…and they shall judge the people with righteous judgement (16:18).” This initial exhortation is followed by the mandate to avoid favoritism, influence, or bribery in legal proceedings, and it is concluded (16:20) with the famous quotation, “Justice, justice shall you pursue.”

In establishing these important legal/religious institutions, the Torah recognizes that justice is rarely black and white. The grey area is built into the system. Judges will interpret the law and the officers will enforce it. Sounds simple enough, but we know that’s not the case. Rashi teaches that merely appointing people to these positions is only going halfway. The officials who are given these weighty responsibilities must be worthy in all ways. To this day, we often see and experience what happens when the judiciary is subject to political or popular influence, or when those charged with the enforcement of the law are forced to make snap decisions in the heat of the moment which, given their perception of circumstances, training, and biases (both positive and negative) can either have compassionate and successful outcomes, or end tragically. Hence the elegance of the concluding verse. We are told to pursue justice, not enforce, mandate, or dictate it. The mandate being presented here is the active pursuit of honesty, equity, fairness, and truth in our courts. The pursuit of a goal which we all must accept is often elusive should be equally shared by those who make the laws, and those who enforce them. We often experience a rush to judgement. The first three verses of our parsha teach us that the real mitzva is rushing to justice, true justice, in judgement.

Then the Torah ups the ante. Verses 21 and 22 prohibit the placement of idolatrous iconography (trees or pillars) alongside an altar to G-d. Despite the fact that the Patriarchs often erected such monuments, the location of such symbols are prohibited multiple places in the Torah, and their destruction is mandated. Ramban (Nachmanides) suggests here that such grand constructions were intended to attract idol worshipers to their temples. Why, then, are these verses juxtaposed to the ones which came before? To keep us from developing an edifice complex. The aesthetics of the building, especially if they represent practices and values not our own, are irrelevant and may even be misleading. What truly matters is what happens inside. What good is a synagogue or any other house of worship, whether it’s a tent, trailer, or magnificent building, if what happens inside doesn’t inspire holiness and bring the worshiper closer to the Divine? Similarly, what good is a court if the proceedings it houses are not in the active, ongoing pursuit of honest justice? Of the many lessons of parshat Shoftim, this first one is that our legal system should not be dedicated to the unwavering pursuit of just any verdict. Rather, we should be dedicated to the unadulterated quest for truth, honesty, and fairness.

The Spanish playwright, author, and poet Lope de Vega (1562-1635) is often credited with penning the aphorism that all that was necessary for theater were “two boards and a passion.” Perhaps the opening of Shoftim teaches that we can even dispense with the boards. What’s important is the justice which we must pursue. Passionately.

Shabbat Shalom, and Chodesh Tov; a good month!

Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen

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Re'eh

8/25/2022

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“See, today I have placed before you a blessing and a curse. The blessing: that you hearken to the commandments of the L-rd your G-d, that I command you today. And the curse, if you do not hearken to the commandments…and stray from the path that I command you this day…” (D’varim 11:26-28ish…).

Moshe’s injunction to the nation seems incredibly binary, doesn’t it? All or nothing. Follow or don’t. Believe or not. Does the Torah really mean to make our ritual and theological choices be so cut and dry?

The nuts and bolts (in Yiddish, “tachles”) of the varied commandments are open to interpretation. The Torah presents us with the opportunity for wiggle room. Multiple mitzvot (commandments) as presented in the Torah, will not become binding until Israel is able to cement their infrastructure in the Promised Land. Seriously, to start with: how can you observe the laws of agriculture if you don’t have fields to plant stuff in? How can you observe kashrut when your diet consists solely of heavenly manna and quail?

Easy. The bracha (blessing) and the klala (curse) are both dynamic quantities. Picture a see-saw with rolling marbles on each side. Maintaining the balance becomes more difficult, since the loads are constantly changing. Our job is to be constantly in control of an ever shifting balance.

Ok, maybe not so easy. How can we keep our equilibrium when our fulcrum is constantly shifting? Is it our task to pile matching good/bad, positive/negative, heavy/light commodities onto our personal balance to create personal peace?

I’d suggest that the commodities we typically view as being opposite sides of a balance may not be so. Consider: A sad or distracted person may be healed by the right song, sung at the right time. An individual who is feeing abandoned by their companions may achieve their equilibrium by having someone perform an unprovoked act of kindness in an unanticipated time and place. The right quote, highlighted at the right time, can be a sense of tremendous comfort for someone who is searching for meaning at a time of trouble. We all have our hands on a spiritual steering wheel, where we can turn it to the side of bracha or klala. We all know that driving means making slight course corrections—a little bit to the left, a little bit to the right. If life was a straight line, where we’re either on the route or off to the side, it wouldn’t be life as we know it.

The way we achieve the harmony between the blessing and the curse is an ever evolving, constantly shifting alchemy. Two things are vital to our keeping our balance, like a Fiddler on the Roof. We need to be aware that what allows us to maintain our equilibrium may not necessarily be two equal halves of the same whole. Furthermore, keeping a perfect centrist path is impossible; midcourse corrections are a vital part of the formula. Strive for the straight path, but know that it’s natural to wobble from side to side. However we may wander as we try to find our way, the important thing is that we ultimately get where we are supposed to.

Enjoy the journey.

Shabbat Shalom, and Chodesh Tov; a good month!

Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen

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Ekev

8/19/2022

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Parshat Ekev opens with a clever bit of wordplay. “It shall be after you have heard these ordinances [that you should observe them…].” But the word “ekev” (after) shares its root with the Hebrew word for “heel” (think “Ya’akov (Jacob). Rashi, quoting Midrash Tanchuma, suggests that the double entendre is intended to refer to commandments which would likely be trampled or treated as insignificant. Among the mitzvot at risk for such trivialization, as suggested by other commentators, are rejoicing on Shabbat and holidays, praying in Hebrew, or, generally, any commandment for which an individual feels that the personal reward is not worth the effort.

It seems that this is likely what Moshe had in mind. At the beginning of chapter 8, he cautions the nation that they should observe “the entire commandment;” suggesting that selective attention to ritual must be avoided in favor of taking on the whole enchilada.

Is this setting the bar a little too high for the average Jew? Even in antiquity, no one person could observe all 613 commandments. In modernity, how much more so? Does Judaism give us the right, the responsibility, or the imperative to select those mitzvot we can take to fruition and perform in their entirety while avoiding or delaying those which we either reject or will not be able to fulfill?

Rashi again gives us a little more insight. In his commentary to “the entire commandment” he offers the following caveat: the mitzva belongs to the one who brings it to fruition. The example he gives is that of bringing Jacob’s bones to the Promised Land for burial. Joseph and his brother received the imperative, Moshe was charged with carrying it out but since he was unable to see the task to its end, Israel themselves received credit for fulfilling Jacob’s wishes. Rashi’s commentary quotes a source which highlights the word “the.” The implication of the added article is that if the standard applied to all of the mitzvot, it would have read “all commandments.” The addition of “the” suggests that any individual commandment which one ventures to undertake should be done in its entirety, but, failing that, the one who completes it receives the bulk of the credit.

That changes things. The Torah text and the associated commentaries teach us that:

1. No commandment (mitzva) is worthy of being “trampled” or trivialized.

2. Accepting mitzvot is not an all or nothing proposition.

3. Taking on any mitzva means making a commitment to see it through.

4. If you do not have the ability to complete a mitzva on your own, it may still be completed.

In other words, there is no reason to not continue striving to bring more of our tradition into your life. Whether practically, ritually, ethically, or spiritually, there are multiple points of entry from which you can enrich your personal situation. Choose one, do it, and do it as best you can. Then choose another. The greater the variety of colors on your palette, the more you can paint.

What holds us back is either a reticence to commit, a fear of failure, or simple lack of initiative. This week we will bless the month of Elul, the last month of the year before the Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe. That gives us a month and a week before Rosh Hashana. It’s time for us to consider how we want to change and grow for the coming year of 5783. What can you add? What can you change? Where have you been successful, and where have you fallen short? Can you come to the New Year with a plan for self-growth, or are you content to continue where you were? Parshat Ekev is uniquely situated to raise these issues for us. It’s not surprising that this parsha, so dedicated to inspiring the observance of G-d’s commandments, only offers 8 new ones. The rest are referred to generally; suggesting that the vast array of practical and spiritual possibilities are open to possibility, and ready to claim. In Pirkei Avot, we are taught to rush to complete an easy mitzva as much as a difficult one, since one mitzva leads to another. With such a wealth of possibilities past, present, and future available to us, What will you claim as your own?

As always, call, email, or stop by to talk if you’d like a few personal suggestions….
Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen

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Va'etchanan

8/12/2022

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In his Sefer Hamitzvot, Rambam (Maimonides) ranks the 613 commandments in order of immediacy and centrality, beginning with six constant mitzvot which one must observe every hour of every day. Not surprisingly, as Moshe starts to get into the swing of alternately haranguing, teaching, and inspiring the Israelite nation, the top three of Rambam’s choices are stated (or restated) in this week’s parsha:

1. “I am the Hashem your G-d who brought you out of the land of Egypt….” (5:6)

2. “Hear O Israel, Hashem is our G-d, the Hashem is One.” (6:4)

3. “You shall love Hashem your G-d with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might.” (6:5)

A mitzva needs a verb to tell us what to do or what to avoid doing. Here, though, we have three commandments, right at the top of Maimonides’ hit parade, where the instructions are ambiguous or obscure. The first is the commandment to believe in G-d; the opening of the Ten Commandments. But it is worded with Hashem as the speaker, identifying Himself as the Divine, not as a “thou shalt” or as a “thou shalt not.” It is interpreted by our sages to be the blanket acceptance of the existence of G-d. #2, the Shema, does have a verb, “hear,” but what we are supposed to hear (or accept) builds on the previous example. Having accepted the existence of an omnipotent Creator, we pay attention to the dual statement that Hashem is our G-d, and is singular. Then we move onto example #3, the opening verse of the V’ahavta. The ancient conundrum is: how can anyone be commanded to love anyone else, especially if they must do so with all their heart, soul, and might? Should I love G-d the way I love my wife, daughter, and family, or the way I love meatball subs? Or something totally different?

If these commandments are supposed to be uppermost in our thoughts, omnipresent in our lives, and directing our actions at all times, shouldn’t they be a little more specific? Virtually all of Jewish practice is based on ritual; either performing the commandments as they are reflected in modern Halacha (rabbinical law) or avoiding the things which are forbidden. Judaism can be visualized as a series of practical steps which lead to a spiritual end; following tradition and practice increases our chances of imbuing our lives with meaning, motivation, knowledge, and closeness to the Divine. Here, however, we have three unique mitzvot which represent the closest thing that Judaism has to dogma. In a faith which is rooted in things to do, here are things we must believe, or practice without knowing how.

The reason why is as simple as it is unexplainable. It is impossible for us all to picture or relate to Hashem in exactly the same way. This is alluded to in the conclusion of the Shema: “Hashem is One.” Many interpretations of this phrase exist (come to shul this Shabbos…) but I see this iconic verse as teaching that while G-d belongs to all of us, our individual relationships with the Divine are singularly unique. That makes it easier to understand how we are supposed to love Hashem our G-d. It’s an individual, evolving process. The steps which follow in the V’ahavta paragraph juxtapose physical actions with the spiritual imperative which preceded them, giving us ways to personalize the experience.

Or is it the other way around? Perhaps there is a symbiotic relationship between the spiritual and the physical—one informing the other. Simple actions which we can perform or avoid may bring an emotional or theological reward, but giving them individual context, by forging a uniquely personal relationship with Hashem in advance, allows us to approach faith and practice from multiple entry points at once. These three 24/7 commandments may be the most dogmatic and difficult to perform, but they can bring on special meaning when we realize that how we understand the existence of G-d, how we relate to the Divine, and how we love Hashem are all highly individual, dynamic, and deeply personal factors. The biggest mistake we can make is to assume that Judaism is monolithic, static, or fully formed. These confusing but vital mitzvot teach us that we can, and should, build a personal relationship with G-d, allowing our concept of the Divine to evolve, and letting it encourage us to reflect what we believe in what we do.

With all our heart, with all our soul, and with all our might.
Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen

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