There is an interesting difference of opinion between the commentators concerning the command for lighting the Menorah which is found at the beginning of the Parshah. The lamps are to be filled with oil in order to burn from evening to morning. Seems simple. However, as we know, the period of ‘evening to morning’ is different dependant on the time of year. So how much oil was put in the lamps of the Menorah? All the commentators seem to agree that the same amount of oil was put in the lamps every evening. Rashi simply says that the amount used was that needed for the longest nights of the year, around the time of Hanukah. It is not clear whether the excess oil was wasted or added to on subsequent nights. The Hizkuni also agrees that the same amount of oil was put in every night but is not comfortable with concept of wasting oil. He opinions that different thicknesses of wicks were used depending on the time of year, so that the same amount of oil would light for the different periods of time required.

If we look more closely at these two opinions we can discern an interesting discussion about the need for surpluses and the problem of wastage. One approach holds that you always plan for the most extreme eventuality, even if that means that in the end you will not need everything you have prepared. In the depths of winter a certain amount of oil is needed and therefore we will put that amount of oil in the lamp, even in the height of summer. Even though this will inevitably involve some wastage, it is better to be safe than sorry. The other approach does not accept that wastage of any sort is an acceptable price to pay for certainty. We will try as much as possible to be exact, using different types of wicks to make sure that the oil burnt at each period in of the year is as close as possible to what is exactly needed.

In our times when we are concerned about the depletion of the earth’s resources, we would naturally seem to favour the approach of the Hizkuni. Simply using the same amount of oil all year round seems the equivalent of keeping on the heating in the height of summer, an unacceptable waste of resources. Yet, as we found out at the beginning of the pandemic or recently with the issue of energy shortages, not having a certain level of surplus, just in case, can be problematic if not dangerous. The necessary level of such a surplus is of course the difficult thing to determine. Maybe the answer is to adopt Rashi’s position with the proviso that the left over oil is used for the subsequent nights. Providing for a certain level of surplus is probably wise, provided that this surplus is them not wasted by either being used instead of new supplies or given to those that may not have. That way everyone seems to win.

‘And they shall make Me a Sanctuary and I shall dwell among them’. When considering this well known verse, the emphasis is normally put on the second half of the sentence, and especially on the last phrase. It is pointed out that G-d promises to dwell not in the Tabernacle but among the people. Less attention, however, is paid to the first part of the sentence and the question that arises from it. If the idea of the Tabernacle is that G-d should dwell among the people, why is there a necessity for a Sanctuary at all? Or to refine the question: How does the building of the Tabernacle enable the dwelling of the Divine among the people? This question is especially acute when we consider the intricate detail concerning the construction of the Tabernacle that follows and the repeated instruction that it should be built exactly as Moses was shown on Mt Sinai. The answer to this question goes to the heart of the idea of Judaism and its relation to ritual and physical action. The ultimate goal of Judaism is to enable humans to have a relationship with G-d. Yet that relationship cannot be built only on thoughts or feelings but must be expressed in actions. Furthermore, those actions must be mandated by G-d. This is the basic purpose of the Torah and its commandments, to enable us to approach G-d as He wishes to be approached.

The Torah, in setting out its path for us to follow, has various objects in mind and several wrong directions it wishes to steer us away from. Thus, in the area of relations between humans it seeks to restrict the exercise of power over others, especially by the strong over the weak. In the area of human relationship with the Divine, it seeks to prevent us creating G-d in our image, rather than relating to Him as he reveals himself to us. This is especially important in the area of worship and ritual where, as G-d Himself states, humans have engaged in activities which He abhors and never wanted, such as human sacrifice. Thus when satisfying the human need to have a visible representation of G-d dwelling among them, the Torah is meticulous in prescribing the means by which this is to happen. It is interesting that most of the severe penalties ordained in the Torah are connected with the Tabernacle and its service. It is here that the most egregious errors are likely to occur leading to terrible perversions of spiritual life and the very idea of the Divine. It is thus vital that if we truly want G-d to ‘dwell among us’, we follow the rules set down by the Torah to enable that to happen. As in the case of the Tabernacle, the detailed ritual prescriptions of the Torah are not an impediment to an inner spirituality and a relationship with the Divine but their essential prerequisite.

This week’s Parshah is in many ways at the heart of what Judaism is about. In its myriad laws, it takes the sublime ideal of being a ‘holy nation’, and gives it practical application in daily life. This is what makes Judaism different from the Western/Christian cultural milieu in which we live. One passage, especially, demonstrates this. The Torah deals with the case of an argument between two men, where the pregnant wife of one of them is hit, causing her to miscarry. The Torah makes two determinations on the issue. If the only damage to the woman is her miscarriage, compensation must be paid for the loss of her child. If, however, further physical damage is inflicted, the guilty party must make restitution for this, on the basis of an ‘eye for an eye’. Judaism learnt two lessons from this passage. One was that abortion is not murder. While often reprehensible, the destruction of a foetus is not equivalent to the taking of human life. Secondly, in dealing with physical abuse, justice must be done. While regarding a literal interpretation of ‘an eye for an eye’ as both inaccurate and untenable, Jewish tradition understood that those who abuse others must be made to pay, in proportion to the damage they have inflicted.

Traditional Christianity, on which Western attitudes are based, took the opposite view. Based on a mistranslation of the Hebrew, it held this passage to equate abortion with murder. On the other hand, it condemned the concept of ‘an eye for an eye’ as barbaric, replacing it with the supposedly more ‘loving’ notion of turning the other cheek. These attitudes are unfortunately still around today. While right wing groups make a fetish of ‘the right to life’ leading to women’s, especially poor black women’s, lives being endangered and the banning of important medical research, so called liberal opinion seems to be ready to forgive even the most heinous crimes, or at least to oppose justified and necessary action against those who perpetrate them. Judaism needs to stand up against this moral blindness, on both counts. We need to make our distinctive moral voice heard to a society that is increasingly turning its back on all religious morality, because it regards it as specifically Christian morality. We need to show the West another way; a religious morality of common sense, proportion and justice: that of the Torah.

Much is made of the apparent dichotomy between religion and democracy. This is especially relevant in Israel where there is ongoing debate about the Jewish and/or democratic nature of the state and whether the two concepts are fundamentally incompatible. On the face of it, those who hold this opinion seem to be correct. On the one hand religion makes absolute and unchanging demands while democracy allows dissent and adaptation to accommodate current concerns. Furthermore, even though the Bible provides evidence of democratic approval of monarchs, in the final analysis religious systems themselves seem not to be favourable to democratic governance. The source of this seemingly unbridgeable gap between religion and democracy lies in the divergence of their basic governing principle; the source of authority. In democracy, power flows from the people and it is in their name it is exercised. For religion, a higher, incontrovertible, authority dictates the rules of the game. Yet this dichotomy is not as stark as it may seem, especially in the Torah. While G-d, through the medium of the Torah, is the ultimate source of authority in Judaism, the source of His authority may in fact not be Himself.

A careful reading of this week’s Parshah, as well as parallel sections in the Torah, leads one to the conclusion that the basis of G-d’s authority over the Jewish people is in fact the Jewish people themselves. G-d does not demand that the Children of Israel accept His covenant or the Torah that is its foundation. Rather He asks them for their informed consent. ‘Now, if you will listen to My voice and keep My covenant, then…’. Not shall or must; we could have said no. Indeed it was so easy and seemingly rational to say no, that Jewish tradition regards it as our crowning glory that we so readily said yes. Having said yes, of course, we are subject to the authority of the Torah and cannot simply decide to ditch our responsibilities when it seems convenient. In the same way the American states having ratified the Constitution could not then walk away from it; this being the basis on which Lincoln fought the Civil War. Yet the fact remains that the original choice was democratic and expressed the will of the people, men and women, and it is that democratic choice that is the source of the state or religion’s authority. So, if we look carefully, Judaism and democracy are complementary not contradictory and in the end, contrary to the view of some Israeli politicians, observance of the Torah can only be willingly accepted not coerced.

The Parshah this week is clearly divided into two parts. The first half narrates the exciting event of the Crossing of the Sea and the song of triumph sung as a result. The second part of the Parshah tells the more prosaic story of the Israelites grumbling over lack of food and water and the consequent arrival of the Manna and its accompanying regulations. Is there, however, a common thread that unites these seemingly very different stories? If we look at the behaviour of the Israelites in the Parshah we again get two very different stories. While it is true that, faced with the approaching Egyptians, the Israelites rounded on Moses, complaining about being led into this situation. But once Moses ordered them forward they seemed to obey without question and afterwards ‘believed in G-d and Moses his servant’. In contrast, during the episode of the Manna, a far less dire situation, they seem unable to trust in G-d and obey simple instructions. When told not to leave Manna for the next day, they leave it and when ordered not to go out collecting on Shabbat, they go to collect it. You can almost palpably sense the frustration of both G-d and Moses at this behaviour. Why is it that when faced with a life and death situation they can overcome their fears and trust in G-d but when dealing with bread and butter issues, seem to have great problems in doing so? This behaviour is in fact very common and tells us a lot about how people approach religious faith.

We all instinctively understand that matters of war and peace and the like are mostly beyond our control. This is also true of serious health emergencies. Is such cases we are, therefore, quite prepared to put our trust in G-d, even if only from lack of a better alternative. We also seem to feel that this is the sort of thing that it is proper for G-d to deal with. On the other hand, when it comes to the matter of earning a living and our financial affairs generally, we often feel that this is totally up to our hard work and acumen. We are less likely to trust in Divine intervention or feel that it is an area where trust in G-d is necessary. It is precisely this attitude that the story of the Manna comes to combat. By receiving their sustenance anew every day the Israelites are being taught that not only their safety but their livelihood is dependant on G-d. Divine providence is not only evident in the large historical events but in everyday life. These two aspects come together in Shabbat which is both a reminder of the historical event of the Exodus and the everyday Creation. By keeping Shabbat and ceasing working for our sustenance for a day, we affirm that not only our history but our livelihood is in G-d’s hands. Thus by linking a great historical event with our daily sustenance, the Parshah teaches us the correct attitude to take in our reliance on G-d.

What time of the day did the Exodus take place? The apparent answer appears to be on the morning following the final plague. From the account in the Parshah, however, it is also possible to understand that the Israelites were actually driven out by the traumatised Egyptians in the middle of the night. Either way, it was after midnight and the slaying of the firstborn. However, the passage detailing the Pesach sacrifice in Deuteronomy seems to indicate a different time line. It states that you should sacrifice the paschal sacrifice ‘in the evening, at the going down of the sun, the time of your leaving Egypt.’ This seems to indicate that the Exodus took place a lot earlier. This discrepancy causes Rashi and others regard to the three time periods spoken of in this verse as distinct not complementary, referring to different aspects of the Pesach ritual: Sacrificing, eating, and disposing of the remains. Only the latter required the morning after and took place at the time of leaving Egypt. I would like to suggest a different explanation, both preserving the plain meaning of the verse and discerning the meaning of the paschal sacrifice. There is an interesting paradox in the story that is not often remarked on. Earlier in the narrative, when Pharaoh asks why they cannot sacrifice to G-d in Egypt, Moses answers that they could not kill the lamb, a deity of the Egyptians, without the Egyptians stoning them.

Yet a few months later, that is precisely what the Israelites are doing. Was Moses then lying to Pharaoh or had something fundamental changed? The answer is that normally the sacrifice of lamb would indeed be dangerous for the Israelites. But that was precisely the point of the Paschal sacrifice. By frontally defying the Egyptians by performing such an audacious act, the Israelites were psychologically freeing themselves from Egypt and the Egyptians even before they had been physically liberated. Indeed, G-d commands the Passover before the liberation precisely because it is a necessary component of their release. We can now understand the unusual time sequence of the verse in Deuteronomy. Reviewing the laws of Pesach, Moses explains that actually the real liberation took place at the moment of the Israelites’ defiance of the Egyptians by sacrificing their deity in front of them. Thus the mandated hour for the sacrifice of the Pesach is indeed, at least mentally if not materially, ‘the time of your leaving Egypt.’ The Torah is thus teaching us an important lesson: revolutions begin with a change of consciousness. If we wish to change things, whether ourselves, others or society, we must first alter the way they think. Only then will we be able to change the way they act. Revolutions in fact begin with revolutions in thought.

One of the phenomena that we have been witnessing recently is the spreading of false news and conspiracy theories. Millions of people seem to believe, not withstanding the evidence to the contrary, that free and fair electoral results are fraudulent, life saving vaccines are dangerous and twice convicted criminals are innocent. How is it possible that this is so? How does the power of human reason and observation become so distorted as to lead to such absurd conclusions? We learn in the Torah that this is not a new phenomenon. We can observe Pharaoh who is hit with plague after plague, designed to make him understand the error of his ways, but none seem to have a lasting effect. Pharaoh seems to be able to ignore the evidence put before his eyes. Is he maybe not intelligent enough to understand what is happening or is he simply uninterested in what is happening around him? The text seems to indicate that neither of these is the case. It does, however, highlight another aspect of Pharaoh’s behaviour. We find, at least twice, that Pharaoh, rather than being uninterested, pays close attention to the unfolding events. The Torah informs us that following the plague of blood, Pharaoh turns, returns to his palace and does not pay heed even to this occurrence. Thus he is closely observing what is happening but chooses to ignore it. This is even more evident in his reaction to the death of the cattle where only Egyptian cattle died, leaving Israelite herds unaffected.

Pharaoh actually sends investigators to find out what has happened and learns that indeed the plague has happened exactly as predicted and Israelite herds have been spared. Nevertheless, he again chooses to ignore this evidence and continues to refuse to bend. This is not ignorance or disinterest but wilful resistance to the truth. How are we to explain such behaviour? There can be several explanations but the simplest is that Pharaoh is not able to accept the truth before his eyes as to do so would undermine his whole world view. Therefore he simply explains it away despite the evidence before him. This is quite common. Faced with evidence or events that fundamentally contradict their beliefs or are just too hard to accept, people will simply explain them away. Since you believe in your candidate’s victory so strongly that it is impossible to conceive of them losing, if they do actually lose, then this simply cannot be true. The election must, therefore, have been fraudulent, despite all the evidence to the contrary. Significant numbers of people standing in the ruins of occupied Berlin or Tokyo still believed Hitler and Tojo had been right and were great men. For Pharaoh to accept G-d’s superiority would so contradict his very basis of rule that he could never do it, even if it in the end led him to his death at the Reed Sea. In the end, with such people there is no arguing, they simply have to be overcome.

Pharaoh is frustrated. He thought that by oppressing the Israelites with hard work, he would stop their population increasing but the opposite has happened. In desperation, he decides that killing all the Israelite males at birth is the best way to solve the problem. To achieve this end he enlists the services of ,למילדת העברית the who feared G-d and refused to go along with Pharaoh’s plan. The Hebrew term to describe these women is ambiguous and could either mean the Hebrew midwives or the midwives of the Hebrews. Both interpretations are found in the commentators, though if one looks at the rest of the story, it seems to indicate that they were in fact not Israelites. They explain their failure to kill the Israelite children by the racist comment that the Hebrew women are like animals and give birth before the midwife even arrives. This is not a comment likely to have been made by an Israelite or be accepted as plausible by Pharaoh if it had been. If we look deeper we can discern in this discussion of the identity of the midwives a deeper discourse, which courses through Jewish history. In fighting anti-Semitism, prejudice or oppression, are Jews essentially on their own or do we have allies that will stand with us? Those who identify the midwives as Jewish, fundamentally do not believe in the possibility of the non-Jewish world standing by the Jews.

From bitter experience going right back to the Bible, they believe that when it comes to fighting our enemies, we are basically on our own. Even those who may pretend to be our friends will, when we really need them, at best stand by and at worst reveal their true colours and join our enemies. Those who identify the midwives as Egyptians have a more optimistic view. Jews need not fight alone and there are always people prepared to stand by our side. This debate is not only about times of crisis but informs attitudes to the non-Jewish world as a whole. Should it been seen as implacable, hostile and kept at bay by erecting virtual ghetto walls of dress and behaviour or it is it possible to have a constructive and even friendly relationship with non-Jews while not compromising our own values. The answer, as is often the case, is somewhere in between. We should not necessarily rely on others to stand up for us or beside us in a crisis. We, firstly, need primarily to rely on ourselves. Yet that does not mean we should not create and develop friendships and alliances with the non-Jewish world. Doing so increases the possibility that we will have allies when we need them. Conversely, Jews taking the lead in standing up for themselves and not relying on others, makes it more likely that others will join them. What we learn from the Parshah is both the need to be self-reliant but also to seek out allies where we can find them.

At the beginning of the Parshah, Jacob calls to Joseph and asks him to make sure that he is not buried in Egypt, but rather in the family sepulchre in the Cave of Machpelah. While this desire can be seen simply as a wish to be buried with his ancestors and wife, it is also seen as a specific desire not to be buried in Egypt. Rashi brings three reasons why Jacob specifically did not want to be interred in Egypt. Firstly, he foresaw that the earth of Egypt will be filled with lice during the plagues. Secondly, the Resurrection of the Dead will take place only in Israel and, according to one tradition, the bones of those buried outside the Land will have to roll through tunnels to get there. Lastly, he was afraid that the Egyptians would make him into an idol or worship him. If we look at these three explanations we can perceive three different issues or problems connected with Jewish life outside of Israel.

Firstly, Jews are automatically involved in the fate of the countries in which they live, for both good and bad. Even though the plague of lice was a punishment for the Egyptians, if Jacob was buried in Egypt his remains would inevitably be affected. In the same way, Jews, whether or not they are involved in the politics or society of their host countries, are automatically caught up in any consequences of the negative actions of those countries, without being able to be judged on their own merits, as is the case in the Land of Israel. Furthermore, Jews outside the Land are cut off from the direct source of Divine influence and spirituality. An extra barrier lies between diaspora Jews and G-d and thus keeping the Torah outside the Land is second best in comparison. Also Jews in exile are inevitably influenced by the non-Jewish environment around them, thus further diluting their spiritual posture. Finally, Jews being outside the Land, especially when weak and powerless, negatively affects the reputation of Judaism and G-d. Just as Jacob being buried in Egypt would lead to people being strengthened in their mistaken spiritual concepts, so Jews in exile convinces the nations that the G-d of Israel is powerless and their deity or deities have overcome him. As Ezekiel sets out in his statement that: ‘this is the people of G-d and from the Land they have departed’, this is the greatest profanation of G-d’s Name. Thus we learn from Jacob’s request that large numbers of Jews outside of Israel, lead to those communities suffering because of local politics, being spiritually diminished, and undermining G-d’s reputation. Thus like Jacob and eventually Joseph, we should at least have in our cognisance, if not in our present or short term plans, the need to leave our exile and return home.

This week we narrate the climax of the story of Joseph and his brothers. As he breaks down and reveals himself to his brothers Joseph must confront what is brothers did to him. The way he does so is by placing their actions in the wider context of G-d’s plans for the family of Jacob and indeed the whole area. His brothers’ actions, however wrong and painful, had the ultimate effect of enabling Joseph to rise to greatness in Egypt and save the Egyptians and his family from starvation. What Joseph doesn’t mention is that this also sets the Jewish people on the path of exile and redemption foretold to Abraham. As the Rabbis put it: Jacob could have been brought down to Egypt in chains; rather he went as an honoured guest of the Pharaoh.

This explanation, of course doesn’t really solve the issue between Joseph and his brothers, which resurfaces after Jacob’s death. Nevertheless the basic concept is correct. G-d did indeed use the despicable actions of the brothers to both save Jacob’s family and begin the promised cycle of exile and redemption. While not excusing the brother’s actions it does highlight how G-d uses negative actions to achieve a positive result. This is true, even though it can be argued that the sale of Joseph had negative reverberations not only at the time but throughout Jewish history. Yet the fulfilment of the ultimate Divine plan trumped these consequences.

This idea is worth reflecting on when we consider our attitude to Judaism’s ‘daughter’ religions of Christianity in Islam. On the one hand, as Maimonidies states, these offshoots of Judaism, have had a positive effect on the world bringing large parts of humanity to belief in G-d and the narratives of the Torah. On the other hand, these faiths, especially Christianity, have caused, and less directly continue to cause, much suffering to the Jewish people. How then should we regard the rise and success of these religions? We could say that, as in the case of the sale of Joseph, the spreading of the Divine message was ultimately worth the negative consequences of the success of these faiths.

Furthermore, as suggested by Rabbi Riskin , Jews themselves, bear responsibility for this situation. Jews in the Second Temple period were very good at disseminating Jewish ideas and large numbers of non-Jews seem to have been attracted to Jewish ideas and the Torah way of life, some even converting. Yet because of the internal sins of the Jews the Temple was destroyed, Jews became despised and could no longer fulfil this role. Therefore G-d, in order to advance His plan, arranged for the rise of these other faiths who would, even if less satisfactorily, advance the cause. This is despite the suffering that they would cause to Jews and others. Indeed, that persecution can be seen as partly our fault for failing to do our job properly. Thus, as in the case of Joseph and his brothers, sometimes negative consequences are the price needing to be paid to advance the ultimate good.

The story of Joseph and his brothers has always served as not only a fascinating read but a source of inspiration in how to behave or how not to behave in various situations. The family of Jacob faces two crises in the Parshah. One is the lack of food. Here we see two responses to the emergency. The first is a shocked inaction, doing nothing or as Jacob puts it, sitting round looking at each other. Then Jacob intervenes and proposes the plan to bring food from Egypt. This progression from apathy to action is also seen in the second crisis they face, though this time with an additional step in between. The brothers return without Simeon and with a demand to return with Benjamin if they want him back or more provisions. The first reaction is again to do nothing and act as if the problem will go away. The next reaction is to go to the other extreme and propose an extreme or unworkable solution, that in the end is, naturally, rejected. Thus Reuben proposes that Jacob kills his two sons if he does not return with Benjamin, a proposal dismissed out of hand. Finally, Judah takes responsibility and proposes a sensible plan of action, in fact of course the only solution, which Jacob accepts and improves upon. This scenario is often the reaction to such crises. First people pretend it does not exist or might go away.

They then often come up with crazy and impractical plans which go nowhere. Finally, they see reality and act in the way that is often the most difficult but has the most chance of success. We can also see this play out in the story of Hanukah. At the beginning of the Greek persecution, people might have hoped that their policy would change or Antiochus would die. When this did not happen and things got worse, they fled to the hills, an extreme measure that in the long run was not sustainable. Finally, they realised that despite the risks and uncertain chance of success, they would have to put everything on the line and fight. Like in the story of Joseph, it was when people finally took responsibility and chose to take the difficult but feasible course of action that salvation was achieved. This contains an important lesson for us today. Whether in dealing with the climate or cost of living crisis globally or the conversion crisis within Judaism, we are way past the stage where pretending there is not a problem or proposing unworkable solutions, is acceptable. We know the course of action we need to take and even if it is difficult or not palatable to some, the time for denial or excuses is way past and the need for taking responsibility and constructive action urgent.

The picture that emerges of Joseph at the beginning of the Parshah is not entirely complimentary. Among other things he is portrayed as informing on his brothers to their father. The Rabbis elaborate that he accused them of three specific misdemeanours. They looked down on the children of the handmaids, calling them slaves and treating them as such. They also ate flesh from a living animal and engaged in sexual immorality. The Rabbis go on to say that because of this tale bearing, Joseph was punished with exactly these three things. He was sold as a slave, his coat was smeared in the blood of an animal and he was enticed by his master’s wife. If we consider this idea, we can ask whether the reports that Joseph brought back to his father were true and, if so, why he was punished for it. It seems clear from the commentators that the reports Joseph told his father were in fact true, at least in part. Yet he still should not have told his father. While it may have been justified, if ultimately fruitless, to rebuke them, it was not his place to tell his father. The reason he felt he should do so was the feeling of superiority he himself had over his brothers and thus his motives were far from pure.

When we see wrongdoing in others, it may be our duty to try and remonstrate with the person but in very few cases is it our business to go and tell others. Even in cases where we feel it is justified to do so, we need to closely examine our motives in doing so. It appears that Joseph learnt his lesson too well and he does not, for example, seem to have told his father who was responsible for his sale to Egypt. Yet he seems to have leant his lesson to well. Later on in life, he seems incapable of standing up for what is right, even when it concerns the ultimate welfare of his family. We see that the family remained in Egypt even after the end of the famine, it seems because they were not really allowed to leave. Special royal dispensation was needed just to be able to bury Jacob in Canaan and Joseph had to promise that they would return. This form of comfortable ‘house arrest’ was never seemingly challenged by Joseph, leading ultimately to a century of slavery and oppression. This compares unfavourably with other royal servants like Daniel or Nehemiah, who did challenge or question their royal masters and were successful. Thus unfortunately, Joseph’s unhappy experiences of tale bearing in his youth leave him incapable of challenging misconduct later in life, with ruinous consequences for his people.

This Shabbat lies in between two festivals: Pesach Sheni on Friday and Lag B’Omer on Tuesday. They lie at opposite ends of both the historical spectrum and halakhic foundation. Pesach Sheni is mandated in the Torah as the opportunity for those unable to bring the Paschal sacrifice in its designated time to bring it a month later. Lag b’Omer is a day arising out of the Talmudic period, supposedly celebrating the day the pupils of Rabbi Akiva ceased to die, but of unclear provenance or clear-cut textual foundation. Also, in this week’s Parshah we also read the list of the Torah festivals. We do this on what is normally the middle Shabbat of the Omer period, a season replete with festivals and special days, from fully blown Torah festivals to days observed because of custom. In modern times, during the period between Pesach and Shavuot, we say Hallel, the festive psalms, on fifteen of these days and omit Tachanun, the supplicatory prayers omitted on festive occasions, on more than half of them. This season thus demonstrates the Jewish fascination with, and sanctification of, time. Time was traditionally viewed by different cultures in two differing ways. One was cyclical. What has happened in the past will happen again and what goes around comes around. The other is linear. Time is a progression towards a goal and one day is not like the other.

Cyclical time is formalised in calendars that use the sun and the seasons of the year as their basis, while cultures that base themselves on linear time generally use a lunar system, with its constant lunar renewal and different number of days in each month and migration between the seasons. Judaism, famously, combines the two. While basically following a lunar calendar, it anchors the changing months in the cycle of the seasons. Thus while accepting the cyclical nature of time, it is not bound by it and believes that within the familiar cycle of the years history progresses. The two festivals we celebrate around this Shabbat symbolise this. Pesach must take place on a certain date and during a certain season. Someone who because of the natural cycle of life and death is unable to celebrate it at the designated time should lose out. Yet here the Torah intervenes and provides a date a month hence upon which they can bring their sacrifice. The natural cycle is not the last word and can be superseded. The same is true of Lag B’omer which references a time when the Jews had been defeated by a superior power and should, in the natural course of things, have disappeared as a nation. Yet through the efforts of Rabbi Akiva and his disciples, Judaism transcended this catastrophe and created an eternal nation that could survive without a land or political power. Thus, through the Jewish calendar, we create a system that is both routed in the natural cycle and yet eternal, both faces political reality and yet provides eternal hope.

As we approach the 75th anniversary of the establishment of the State of Israel the questions surrounding the nature and purpose of the state have not subsided and have, if anything, intensified during the last few months. Indeed, within the religious community these differences often crystallise into divergences of ritual concerning Yom Ha’atzmaut itself. At the heart of these disputes is whether the state of Israel is an entity like any other nation state or the beginning of the Messianic redemption or possibly something in between. From a religious point of view, it appears that many of the biblical prophecies concerning the in-gathering of the exiles and the restoration of the Land have been fulfilled but most Jews still live outside Israel, the Temple has not been rebuilt and the Messiah has not yet appeared. So what is a religious Jew to make of all this three quarters of a century on? An answer may come from an interesting Halakhah found at the beginning of the Parshah. A woman who gives birth becomes unclean like a menstruating woman either for a week or two depending on the sex of the child. After immersion at the end of this period, she is permitted relations with her husband as normal but is covered by two exceptional regulations. Firstly for either thirty three or sixty six days any blood she sees is pure and does not forbid her from engaging in marital relations. On the other hand, she is forbidden from entering the Temple or eating holy food until the end of this period when she must bring a special sacrifice.

Thus the new mother finds herself in a situation where she is neither completely impure or completely pure. Rather, she is pure for some things and still impure for others and in a special period between her initial state of total separation following the birth and her restoration to a full religious life following her presentation of thanksgiving sacrifices. In a similar way, I would suggest, we are currently in a special State between the depths of exile and the full restoration of redemption. Rabbi Yehuda Amital utilised this situation to explain a strange anomaly in the blessings we say at a wedding. The last of these sheva brachot quotes from Jeremiah concerning the restoration of the voice of rejoicing the bride and groom to the streets of Jerusalem. Yet we then omit the last part of the prophetic passage dealing with bringing thanksgiving offerings to a rebuilt Temple and talk instead about youthful parties. Rabbi Amital explains that this is because we can have a situation where we are restored to Jerusalem and able to have weddings and other parties in her streets, while not yet witnessing the rebuilding of the Temple and the complete redemption. At a wedding, we pray also for this partial situation and should give thanks for it. Thus as we celebrate Yom Haatzmaut this coming week we are like a woman in the intermediate stage of recovery from childbirth, rejoicing in what we have accomplished while looking forward to bringing a thanksgiving offering to a restored Temple.

As I often have the occasion to explain to school children, the Torah is not merely read in the synagogue, it is sung. Among the musical notes used for this purpose is the shashelet, an elongated note that appears only four times in the Torah, including in this week’s Parshah. The other three times it occurs is in a narrative context where it signifies hesitation. Lot, Eliezer and Joseph are all faced with critical moments in their lives and hesitate before deciding what to do. In our Parshah however, this note occurs in the middle of the reprise of the inauguration of the priesthood at the moment of the slaughtering of the ram of induction. What is this unique musical notation doing here? The answer lies in the relationship between Moses and his older brother. Aaron was a prophet and leader in Egypt before Moses but readily deferred to his younger brother. Now Moses must inaugurate his brother into the prestigious role of the High Priesthood, a role that, unlike that that of Moses, will be passed to Aaron’s descendants. Furthermore, during the seven days preceding this moment Moses had himself performed this role.

Thus by placing this note here the traditional cantillation is signalling to us that Moses is, at least for a moment, hesitant or regretful about this loss of status and pauses to consider. In the end, of course, he carries on as he has been commanded, putting aside his personal interests and feelings for the good of everyone. Thus Moses, as Aaron did before him, breaks the pattern of sibling rivalry that marred the narratives of Genesis and shows us a different way of doing things. By putting the public good ahead of their personal interests, leaders can learn to cooperate together for the good of all and avoid the dire consequences of fratricidal conflict. This is also the message of our Haftorah. Malachi talks of Elijah’s arrival in order to turn the hearts of the generations to each other. The different interests of different generational and other groups in society will have to be reconciled. He also warns of the serious consequences of this not happening, the destruction of the society in question. As we approach Pesach, where we manage to include four very different children at our Seder table, the leaders of the Jewish people must learn to follow the example of Moses and Aaron and heed the warning of Malachi, putting aside their personal interests in order to compromise before it is too late.

As we begin the book of Leviticus, The Torah goes into great detail about the various types of sacrifices. These are not simply technical instructions but hidden in the detail are important spiritual ideas. This is also true of the order in which the various sacrifices are presented. As we go through the Parshah we see that the Torah details the various types of burnt offerings, both animal and grain and then the peace offerings. Only after this does the Torah deal with the various types of sin offerings. The fundamental difference between these offerings is their motivation. The burnt offering has no motivation assigned to it but is simply a function of the worshippers desire to approach G-d. The worshipper derives no benefit from it but the offering is either totally burnt on the altar or, in the case of the meal offering, some of it eaten by the priests. The peace offering is eaten by both the priests and the worshipper and is either brought in thanksgiving for a specific deliverance or simply by a desire to celebrate with G-d. The sin offering is, of course, brought after wrongdoing and motivated by a desire for forgiveness. The order that the Torah arranges these offerings is greatly significant. The most important reason for bringing a sacrifice is a desire to have a relationship with G-d, without necessarily any material benefit to the person.

Secondly comes the important impulse of gratitude for what G-d has done for us or the desire to connect a family celebration, for example, to spiritual values, rather than just being an excuse for excess. Only lastly, do we have the concept of us needing something from G-d, such as forgiveness, which is in itself a spiritual value. Nowhere is there an offering prescribed for asking G-d for wealth, health or other material benefits. All of this is important because people often have a mistaken concept of religion, seeing it as a transactional exchange. In this construct, if we give G-d, something as a sacrifice or even prayer or charity, G-d will give us some material benefit that we desire or need. This was the most common concept of religion in the pagan world and is still common today. The Parshah disabuses us of such notions. Religion, prayer or observing the commandments is first and foremost about wanting to have a relationship with G-d and lead a spiritual as well as just a material existence. This includes such things as showing gratitude and sometimes needing to be forgiven but is not about a cost benefit analysis or some business transaction with the Divine. Thus the Torah, in setting out the various sacrifices, teaches a vital lesson concerning what religion is, and is not, about.