Like a lot of people, I have my superstitions. Mine don’t come in the form of black cats or broken mirrors, but more in the sense of not wanting to jinx myself. If you mention how well something is going, soon the opposite is certain to happen. Duncan knows that we never say things like, “Can you believe how well the kids are getting along right now?” because inevitably after we say that, the other shoe drops, and chaos ensues. Does that make me a prophet or a soothsayer? Not at all. Does it mean that perhaps I’m simply tuned in to the general ebb and flow of behavior? Maybe. It’s not that I can predict the future, it’s simply a bit of intuition mixed with experience. It’s not always correct, but when it comes true, however, it does sort of feel like a superpower.
Can one person really know the future? People make a living as psychics and fortune tellers to this day, long after prophets have had any sort of role in our culture or tradition. The Torah seems to mention fortune telling in various contexts as a normal thing. Let’s see if it shares any insight as to why.
In this week’s parshah, Vayera, the idea of a prophet comes up. Here’s the recap: Abraham and Sarah contemplate the son that will be born to them in their old age; Sodom and Gomorrah fall as Abraham bargains with God to save Lot’s life; and Isaac is born, causing a rift in Abraham’s house with Ishmael. Abraham moves forward in making a deal with King Avimelech, and we end with the Akeidah, the test of Abraham as God asks that he offer up his son, Isaac.
As Abraham is growing in his own role as a leader in his family and in the greater world, he is seen making some unusual choices, like lying to Avimelech. On the other hand, he also makes some positive choices, engaging in dialogue with the neighboring nations. When they unravel the wife/sister lie, God admonishes Avimelech: “Therefore, let the man’s wife go for he is a prophet.” This is the first time the word prophet is used in the bible. A literal translation is “one who receives the divine call” or, “one who proclaims,” or “a spokesperson.” This leads us to the question, in which role is Abraham acting?
In this case, Abraham is something of a mix of these things, but mostly here to intercede on behalf of others. He is a spokesperson for the future on what will happen should Sarah not be allowed to return to him. Could Abraham really predict the future? Probably not. Nevertheless, as a prophet, or at the very least as a spokesperson who seems to have morals and values invested in him through his trust in God, it makes sense for Abraham to call for kindness and dignity as the path forward. With so much uncertainty and turmoil in the world, let us take this message to heart. While we can’t predict the future, perhaps we can use what we know from the past and present to steer ourselves toward the world we wish to build.
There’s a persistent question that’s likely been on all of our minds for decades, but which has been particularly nagging over the past three weeks. Looking at the war in Israel and the antisemitism here and elsewhere, how often do you ask yourself if things will ever change? Even if (hopefully when) terrorist groups are taken down and eradicated, does antisemitism go away? Does anti-Israel sentiment go away? Is peace achieved?
Lately, I’ve been wondering about the ability human beings have to change, to adapt, and to accept changes in others. There are the somewhat superficial changes, like the ease with which my kids can go from having a favorite food to absolutely despising that same food in the blink of an eye. Then there are the more significant, impactful changes, like the ways in which my personal theology, values, and style have shifted and morphed over the years. The arc of my life story is one that shows how very different the human being I am today is from the one I was thirty, twenty, or ten years ago. I’d venture to say that may be true for you as well, and it’s certainly true for the first patriarch in the Torah, Avram, as we read in this week’s parshah.
In Parshat Lech Lecha, we are finally introduced to Avram and Sarai – later Avraham and Sarah – who become the great patriarch and matriarch of the rest of our narrative. We learn that Avraham follows God with full intent, without questioning, and that Sarah goes with him, both of them acting through their faith in God and each other. The text from last week ends with the genealogy of the generations starting with Noah. Very little information is given about this time period other than these highlights: Avram and Sarai were married, Sarai could not have children, and Avram’s father took him and his family, including his grandson Lot, on a journey toward a new land. We also know that Terach, Avram’s father, was 205 when he died, and this time-based fact leaves a few unanswered questions. How old was Avram? Did they all go willingly? What were they doing in Haran? Was Avram happy there? Why did they leave?
You’ve probably heard the story from midrash (commentary on the Torah) that tells of Avram taking a stand against polytheism and smashing the idols his father made. But that story’s not in the text. All we know is that Avram went on a journey with his father and family, they stopped before they got the their final destination, and then his father died. The next line of the text is the beginning of Lech Lecha, where God is speaking directly to Avram and pushing him to go to the promised land, the land to which his father was en route.
The first 75 or so years of Avram’s life are passed over without mention. The main parts of his story are shared when he begins to act on his own, with his own convictions and beliefs. Perhaps the midrash of smashing idols is so prevalent in our storytelling because it signifies the change that Avram wanted to make in his life, and it helps us reconcile the gap in the narrative and in Avram’s apparent frame of mind. One of the messages of Parshat Lech Lecha is that change is possible, and it can have enormous consequences, but it only happens when, individually, we decide the journey is worth it.
There’s a well-known fable about a frog and a scorpion. The scorpion wants to cross a river but cannot swim, so it asks a frog to carry it across. The frog hesitates, afraid that the scorpion might sting it, but the scorpion promises not to, pointing out that they would both drown if it killed the frog in the middle of crossing. The frog considers this argument sensible and agrees to transport the scorpion. Midway across the river, the scorpion stings the frog anyway, dooming them both. The dying frog asks the scorpion why it stung, despite knowing the consequence, to which the scorpion replies, “I am sorry, but I couldn’t resist the urge. It’s in my nature.”
This parable is meant to teach that sometimes our instinctual or habitual ways win out, even when they’re not in our own best interest. The scorpion could not resist the urge to do what he always does, even if it meant that he would ultimately die along with the frog. At the same time, the frog, seemingly a natural helper, took a chance on the scorpion, knowing there was risk involved.
Whenever I hear this parable, I imagine what might have transpired on the ark that Noah built. After all, there were lambs and lions, scorpions and frogs, predators and prey, all crammed together. How could they coexist?
This week we read that very story in Parshat Noach. As the second section of text in the entire Torah, this portion takes us through the story of the flood, including Noah building the ark, saving his family and the animals, sending out a dove, and God’s promise to never do this again. We learn of the generations of Noah and how humanity moved on to create the next piece of the narrative, the Tower of Bavel. After the Tower of Bavel, we see that the nations are scattered, and then the Torah quickly moves us through the 10 generations between Noah and Abraham, where the rest of our history as a people takes off.
So how did every type of animal live peacefully during their time on the ark? Our commentary suggests that these animals, unlike the society Noah was from, somehow recognized the dire situation and were able to put aside their natural enmity and cohabitate peacefully in the ark. It was only when the danger was over that they went back to their old habits. What do we make of this temporary change? Perhaps the pessimistic view focuses on the fact that the peacefulness they achieved was only temporary and that old habits and natural proclivities die hard. However, I choose the optimistic view, the one that focuses on the fact that change is possible, peace is attainable, and working together can make a difference, even if just for a short time.
In the wake of the horrific acts of terror this week, the unspeakable brutality against Israeli civilians, it’s hard to find adequate words to describe the overwhelming feeling of helplessness and powerlessness. For our sake, for our children’s sake, and for our community’s sake, it’s important that we find ways, even in dark times, to ground ourselves. If we’re to move forward at all, we must physically plant our feet on the ground, push them into the earth, and feel the earth pushing back. We cannot stand for what’s just and what’s right if we’re not first connected in some way to the ground beneath us.
I hope you’ve had a chance to reset, to notice your body and your breathing. This is something I’ve had to discover and relearn for myself. For so long, my balancing act was to go on a walk, to be in constant movement. I still consider this part of my self-care routine, but it’s the first step of being planted in my own body, feeling the pressure of the earth from my toes to my nose, that I was missing.
This practice, connecting to the earth, is one of the first mitzvot (commandments) that God gives to the people of Israel. This week we read Parshat Bereshit, the first portion of the Torah. We are wowed by the story of creation, specifically the time and care God put into creating each day, each being exactly as God wanted. We learn about the first people and their experience in the Garden of Eden: how they learned to build, grow, and be together. The Torah continues with the story of Cain and Abel, the first sibling rivalry gone terribly awry, and the very real consequences put into place after each of these events. At the very beginning of the Torah, we’re introduced to a concept that recurs throughout the text – God as the parent, creating life and making sure everything has its own place.
Adam, the first human placed in the Garden of Eden, is told what he can and cannot eat of the beautiful bounty, and in addition, the Torah also explains that his purpose there is to “till it and tend it.” Immediately, this suggests that if all of creation is connected through the acts that God took for creation, then humankind, in order to continue their connection to God, must also be a part of maintaining the land. In other words, God could have created a maintenance-free land, but then decided that in order to keep us grounded, we must fulfill the duties of caretakers of the earth.
I’m not suggesting that this type of labor is another post-Eden punishment. Did God want us to have to break our backs caring for the land? I don’t believe so. Instead, perhaps God wanted us to learn what it is to be connected to something from our “toes to our nose.” Perhaps being connected to the land gives us the opportunity to reset ourselves when needed, to literally dig in, and to recognize that we share this planet. May that be our hope for peace as we look to the days ahead.
This is the sermon I delivered on Yom Kippur, September 25, 2023.
I’m Rabbi Posen, for those of you who may be new. Natan Meir, Eddy Shuldman, and Mark Sherman are also part of our fantastic service-leading team. This is how we identify each other, by our names. For all of human existence, we have come to the conclusion that we are the only species that does this, that calls each other by name. Even when scientists study language in other animals, like dolphins, they’ve determined that the changes in their vocalizations aren’t names, they’re simply imitations of the other dolphins’ sounds.
At least, this is what they thought until now. Just a few weeks ago, researchers from Colorado State University released findings suggesting that elephants may in fact call each other by names. Not in the loud trumpet sounds we associate with elephants, but with low-frequency vocal rumbles they use to communicate over long distances.
The team analyzed hundreds of these rumbles and found, using machine learning, that some were specifically directed at individual elephants, and they weren’t merely imitations of the recipient elephant. Then they played back recordings of the rumblings to groups of elephants, and the ones that heard their own names responded by moving quickly toward those sounds.
If this study is peer-reviewed and verified, can you imagine what this means? This completely changes the way we see animals and how they interact. Michael Pardo, a behavioral ecologist from Colorado State, said that these new findings potentially “blur the line” between “what we think is unique to human language versus what is found in other animal communication systems.”
I want you to hold on to this news story in your mind, while I share a personal story.
A few weeks ago I was out for a walk in our neighborhood. That will come as no surprise to most of you. I was listening to an audiobook, just in the zone, taking in the world around me, when a neighbor came up to me. “Do you have a minute for a rabbi question?” He must have seen the split-second change of expression on my face as I decided if I was going to be present for him or keep my focus on my book, because he followed it up with: “I’ll keep walking with you so you won’t have to stop.” So we walked.
His question: Why do some Jews do the unveiling of the headstone at 12 months and others at 30 days? Where did this come from? As with most rabbi questions, this took us down a metaphorical conversation path, not unlike the literal neighborhood path we were on. It lead to a discussion about ritual and tradition, obligations of mitzvot, and how all of this changes over time. We spent about a mile discussing our own traditions, our family histories and origins, and marveled at how we’re connected deeply to our roots by the way in which we celebrate our Judaism today.
I’ve sermonized about death before. Judaism doesn’t shy away from this topic. As human beings, we’re already naturally fascinated by our own mortality, and Jewish tradition comes along and basically says, “I know, right??” The idea that Judaism has outlined a process for everything, including mourning, is part of what made me want to become a rabbi. The whole Jewish grief procedure is partly about providing comfort to the mourners, but also about encouraging us to remember. These time markers – seven days, 30 days, 365 days – they keep loved ones with us. They lengthen their days even after they’ve died.
Last year at the end of Yom Kippur services, a few of you came up to me to ask about my tallit. Some of you may have noticed that I have two tallitot that I wear throughout this service. This (regular) one which is my every Shabbat and holiday tallit, and this one (my dad’s) that I put on only for Yizkor. I’ve done this for the past 16 years since my father passed away.
There are ways in which the people who came before us live on. It’s through the stories we tell about them. It’s through the college fund they set up long ago that their great-grandchildren are finally old enough to use. It’s through the dining room table in our house that used to be in Duncan’s grandparents’ dining room, where Duncan and his family had countless Shabbat dinners and Pesach seders. For me, this tallit is how my dad Steven lives on, l’ma’an ya’arichun y’mecha. Because of this tallit, because of stories, because of Shiri’s own name, because of my last name, my father’s days have been lengthened.
Back to Colorado State University. Do you think that elephants can do what I just did? This would have been a stranger question if I had opened with it. But understanding now what we just found out weeks ago that could possibly make elephants the only known non-human animal to communicate using the abstract construct of names . . . do you think elephants tell stories about other elephants who’ve died? Is it possible that elephants publicly mourn?
It’s fascinating, isn’t it? And not just for the scientific discovery, but also because it builds on what we already know about elephants and their incredible recall. “Elephants never forget” isn’t just a saying. In one study, scientists who researched elephant packs at an East African national park in the early 90s saw that the mortality rate of elephants during a severe drought was much higher for the packs with younger matriarchs because the older ones were able to recall a similar drought from decades earlier that forced them to go in search of alternative food sources. Memory legitimately lengthened their days.
L’ma’an ya’arichun y’mecha. With our memory, we lengthen our days. By recalling memories of loved ones, we lengthen their days. We use the phrase “till 120” to wish someone good health on their birthday, knowing they won’t live to be 120. But in a very real way, they will live well past 120 in our memories. Gematria, the Kabbalistic numerological system, assigns values to words through their letters. It’s why chai is 18, because the values of chet and yud add up to 18. Fun fact: Want to know what the letters pey, yud, lamed, which spells peel, the Hebrew word for elephant, add up to? 120.
How do we carry people with us? Like the Israelites carrying the Tabernacle through the wilderness, we have a history of looking for tangible ways to carry the intangible in our hearts. We carry people through their tallitot. Through their dining room table. Through stories of family vacations, weddings, retelling of old terrible jokes. And through names. It could be the Ashkenazi tradition of naming after someone who has passed or the Sephardi tradition of continuing the legacy while the loved one is still alive.
However we carry them, we lengthen their days. By saying Yizkor, that reminder at certain times throughout the year, and lighting the Yahrtzeit candle, l’ma’an ya’arichun y’mecha. We lengthen their days for as long as their names stay on our lips. For as long as those low rumbles pass on from generation to generation.
If anyone has brought with you a beloved item, or even just a lesson or memory, from a loved one, I invite you to share about it if you’re comfortable doing so.
Before we recite Yizkor, as we think about how our loved ones live on with us, I’d like to share a reading with you. This poem is called “A Man Doesn’t Have Time In His Life,” by Yehuda Amichai.
A man doesn’t have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn’t have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.
A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.
A man doesn’t have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.
And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn’t learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.
He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there’s time for everything.
Rabbi Eve Posen 