Shabbat Weekly Dvar Torah

As we head into Shabbat and read Parashat Toldot, I have found myself thinking about the premiere of Wicked: Part Two – For Good. Many of you know that the world of Oz has been part of my thinking for a long time. My graduate thesis focused on The Wizard of Oz and its presence throughout American culture, and last year I wrote aboutChanukah, light, and the lessons we draw from Wicked and “defying gravity.” With part two of the Wicked phenomenon being released this week, the timing feels especially fitting to circle back to the narrative and its misunderstood main character. Parashat Toldot tells the story of Jacob and Esau, two brothers who grow up in the same home yet experience the world in very different ways.

“Chessed (kindness) begins at home.” This saying has begun making its way around Jewish schools and seminaries over the past decade or two. I remember vividly hearing it after many years of studying in Yeshiva, at the time I had begun dating. Out with a young lady who had studied in the finest of seminaries in Israel, I was told: “chessed begins at home.” Since then, I have heard it several times, and it struck me as odd every time I heard it. No one argues that one should make sure to be responsible for those around them before seeking other opportunities for kindness. The problems begin when “chessed begins at home”, becomes chessed also ends at home. Why is it a problem? Because if chessed began and ended at home, the Jewish people would never come into being.

An Israeli friend and teacher tells the following story: He was about to make a sandwich for his young daughter – using a well-known luncheon meat. When he told her what he would be serving her, she asked him: “What’s a post-trauma sandwich?” You get it, of course. Israelis, even young children, know what it means to live in a post-trauma time. So, let’s talk about post-trauma. Jews have been living that way since the very beginning. It was on the morning when Isaac awoke and sensed something was different. The camp was too still, the air too empty. Someone was missing.

When asked about the foundations of a Torah-observant life, most of us would likely point to Shabbat, the laws of kashrut (Jewish dietary practice), regular prayer, and Torah study. These, indeed, have stood at the heart of Jewish life for centuries. Yet, they do not fully capture the broader vision that the Torah first sets forth in this week’s parasha, Lech Lecha. “Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you; I will make your name great, and you shall be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, and curse those who curse you; and all the families of the earth shall bless themselves by you.” (Genesis 12:1-3). Here, God calls upon Abram (later Abraham) to leave the comfort and familiarity of his home—to uproot himself from his country, his birthplace, and his family—and embark upon a journey to an unknown land.

I went to Jewish day school from pre-kindergarten through high school — the kind where we sang Hatikvah before math, debated Torah before lunch, and learned to spell “chutzpah” before “committee.” And every October, without fail, the famous Halloween memo would arrive —reminding families that Halloween was a pagan holiday and that Jewish kids should skip the costumes and candy. At the time, it felt a little extreme. What was so wrong with one night of fun — sugar, masks, and pretending to be someone else? It took me years to understand that it wasn’t about the candy. It was about the costume. About whether we wear our Jewishness like a mask — something we take on and off — or like a mission, something we live every day. And that question — of identity, conviction, and courage — is at the heart of Parashat Noach.

When I read the news that the hostages had indeed been released as planned, I shed tears of relief, tears of joy, tears of sorrow for those who were lost, so many tears filled with such a mix of intense emotions. The co-mingling of joy and sorrow is a leitmotif in Jewish life. From breaking a glass under the chuppah to Monday’s release of the hostages, we Jews live with a mix of complex emotions at the heights of our happiness and the depths of our despair. Hagai Luber, whose son made the ultimate sacrifice for the Jewish people, in the poem he wrote "With Unmixed Feelings," invites us to reflect on a complex reality where joy and grief coexist, and each moment presents emotional and ethical choices. May this be a new beginning (a kind of Bereisheet or Genesis) for the hostages and their families, the people of Israel, and the Jewish people around the world.

On Oct. 14, 1663, the English civil servant Samuel Pepys decided to pay a visit to the Jewish synagogue in London’s Creechurch Lane. Jews were a novelty in Restoration England. They had been expelled from the realm nearly four centuries earlier, and it was only in 1656 that they had once again been permitted to live on English soil. Pepys, knowing nothing of Judaism, wasn’t aware that his excursion happened to coincide with the most euphoric day in the Jewish calendar – the festival of Simchat Torah, or “rejoicing with the Law.” What he saw bewildered him.

One of the privileges and responsibilities that I have as a congregational professional is serving on the faculty of the Union for Reform Judaism's summer camps. Imagine my surprise when three summers ago, my first serving in the unit at Olin-Sang-Ruby Union Institute (OSRUI) that focuses on the arts for students in the seventh through tenth grades-that our topic was Kohelet, the Book of Ecclesiastes. My immediate reaction was: "It's so dark. This is summer camp where they are supposed to have fun! What are they going to get out of the ramblings of an older person reviewing and lamenting on life?" Three summers later, the staff members-and even some of the campers-are still talking about the session. The mere mention of the word Kohelet evokes a nod, a knowing utterance, of something that was deep yet accessible, provocative yet distressing, memorable and powerful.