By Rabbi Kligfeld
Every verse in the Torah is a Rorschach test. To paraphrase a great psychotherapist whom I admire, we often see the Torah not as “it is,” but as “we are.” It has been that way–always. Perhaps our great ancient sages were not overly conscious of their human tendency to “read in,” versus to “read out.” But on some level, all midrash is as much eisegesis (pulling the very meaning out of the text that one is most searching for) as it is exegesis (attempting to pull from the text the very thing the author may have intended). Certainly every sermon or d’rash I prepare has an interweaving of both approaches. Scouring the text for its simplest, most elemental meaning. And squeezing the text for every drop of potential meaning.
For example, let’s take a close look at a rather unremarkable (at least at first glance) verse from Parshat Toldot. The Torah says: וַיָּ֥זֶד יַעֲקֹ֖ב נָזִ֑יד. Vayazed Ya’akov nazid. “Jacob was boiling boiled-stew.” (Translating it in such a way that reflects that the verb and noun/object are from the same word/root.). Could you imagine a simpler sentence? Essentially, Jacob did some cooking. This is the stew that Jacob is about to trade to the famished Esau in exchange for the birthright. It is a dramatic scene, of course. But the 3 Hebrew words are straightforward.
Or maybe not. Rashi reads positive and empathetic intent into those 3 words. Jacob was cooking lentils? Why. Because lentils are round, which is the shape of food that Jews eat in mourning. Who was in mourning? Jacob’s father Isaac. Because according to one midrashic tradition, Abraham had died..that very day. So Jacob essentially was preparing a shiva meal, to comfort his father on the death of his father. Rashi often reads admirable character traits into the Jacob narrative (and negative ones into Esau). This eisegesis, forged in the crucible of the Crusades through which Rashi lived, may have helped Jews (Jacob’s descendants) feel powerful and superior while the actions of so many contemporaneous Christians (Esau’s descendants, according to midrashic tradition) were rendering the Jews powerless and inferior.
Modern scholarship tends to read these words with some suspicion, as if built into the Hebrew is some critique of Jacob who may have been plotting, all along, to swindle Esau. In the words of Everett Fox, one of this generation’s greatest scholars and translators of the Torah, “This phrase may connote plotting, as in our English ‘cook up,’ ‘brew,’ ‘concoct,’. Other forms of the Hebrew denote ‘insolence’ or ‘intentional evil.’” Jacob was not just stirring stew. He was stirring up trouble. This may be a mostly exegetical read, emerging from the truest meaning of the Hebrew root.
Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berditchev, an early Hasidic master, reads the verse even more complimentary than does Rashi. He boils down (pun intended) all of Jacob’s character into these 3 words. Jacob’s greatness was exemplified by חסד/hesed in the mundane. Using the simplest instruments, such as the ingredients and effort required to produce a very basic stew, to bring goodness to those around him. (Yes, this is a very sanitized version of the story of Jacob, whom the text of the Torah itself describes as being conniving, wily and motivated by some amount of guile.) Jacob made a bowl of soup. With love. And that simple soup played an important role at just the right moment. Providing a hungry brother with sustenance. And setting up Jacob’s descendants for family significance and endurance. This is classic Hasidic eisegesis–all of you hasidim out there? Be like Jacob. Figure out what soup to cook. It need not be fancy. Just do it with the right intention, at the right time, and goodness will emerge.
What’s in the stew? Maybe just lentils. Or maybe…whatever you happen to believe is in there.
Shabbat Shalom
By Rabbinic Intern Adrian Marcos
Sunsets. I want to explore the way in which sunsets relate to life. Not the actual sun setting each day, but rather the connection to daily life and practice.
Within a Jewish context, sunsets work differently than they do for our non-Jewish counterparts. Rather than serving as solely the end of a day, it is instead our beginning. We all know that Shabbat starts Friday evening. The moment that the sun starts to dip, that ordinary day ends and the holiness of Shabbat begins. The duality created by a Jewish sunset is something that I, personally, find fascinating. It’s one of the things that my mother still has a hard time wrapping her head around. That which signals the end of the day for her, is for me a signal that things are just beginning.
Our parsha, Hayei Sarah, is named for the life of Sarah, although it really doesn’t speak about her life. Rather, it touches briefly upon her death then moves on to those that she left behind: Abraham and Isaac. The haftarah that we read in connection to the parsha, from Melakhim Aleph (1 Kings) features the return of Bathsheva against the backdrop of David’s decline. Both women, Sarah and Batsheva, are mothers of individuals who play legendary roles in the wider Jewish narrative. Both are ferocious advocates for their respective sons and seek to ensure that they will inherit over older siblings borne by other women.
And yet, despite their similarities, these women are not two sides of the same coin.
Motherhood.
Ferocity.
These are uniting features, certainly. But what differentiates Sarah and Bathesheva, other than time, is the space that they take up on the pages that will be read this week.
Sarah, for all of her ferocity in previous parshiot, has no voice in the parsha that carries her name. Her exit from the narrative of Torah is abrupt – a mere two verses devoted to announcing her life and death:
וַיִּהְיוּ֙ חַיֵּ֣י שָׂרָ֔ה מֵאָ֥ה שָׁנָ֛ה וְעֶשְׂרִ֥ים שָׁנָ֖ה וְשֶׁ֣בַע שָׁנִ֑ים שְׁנֵ֖י חַיֵּ֥י שָׂרָֽה׃
וַתָּ֣מׇת שָׂרָ֗ה בְּקִרְיַ֥ת אַרְבַּ֛ע הִ֥וא חֶבְר֖וֹן בְּאֶ֣רֶץ כְּנָ֑עַן וַיָּבֹא֙ אַבְרָהָ֔ם לִסְפֹּ֥ד לְשָׂרָ֖ה וְלִבְכֹּתָֽהּ׃
And it was the life of Sarah, one and twenty seven years. Sarah died in Kiriat Arba – now Hebron – in the land of Canaan and Abraham came to mourn Sarah and he bewailed her.
– Bereisheet 23:1-2
In the wake of these verses comes a wail from Abraham, but Sarah’s voice, much like her person, is gone completely. The silence of Sarah, both physically and in the narrative of the parsha, is deafening. Thanks to everything else that we’ve read up until this point, we know how she lived her life. We know what kind of person she was, how relatably human – at times, painfully relatably human – she was. But we don’t know what her final days were like. Her end comes right on the heels of the Akedah, but Torah doesn’t tell us if she knew what almost befell her beloved Isaac at the hands of her husband. We just don’t know. Sarah was here and then she wasn’t.
End of her story.
Bathsheva, on the other hand, re-enters the narrative against a backdrop of noise: there is unrest in the kingdom. David is no longer the glorious champion who felled Goliath. Instead, he is now on his deathbed, so weak and frail that he requires a bedwarmer to keep himself warm. Solomon’s half-brother Adonijah openly plots to usurp the throne from Solomon (and by extent, their father David), something that David is unaware of due to his weakened status.
Bathsheva is the one who brings it to his attention. She enters David’s chambers, she takes up space with her presence, and informs him of Adonijah’s in-progress coup. The ferocity she has for her son is on full display as she reminds David of his oath that swore Solomon as his rightful successor. Her voice is amplified by the prophet Nathan, who enters shortly after her to confirm her words, which in turns has David reaffirm his oath that Solomon, not Adonijah, will succeed him.
An entrance that leads to the beginning of Solomon’s kingship. A beginning nestled at the end of David’s life.
A liminal space exists in this week’s parsha and the haftarah that accompanies it. It is created by death, whether that be the actual death of Sarah or the approaching death of David. This liminal space mirrors the very real liminal time that springs into existence when a Jewish sun sets; this bein hashemashot – literally, between the suns – is a time where it is not quite daytime any longer but it is not quite nightfall either.
Despite the indignation that I have for the silence that follows Sarah’s abrupt exit from the text, I recognise an uncertainty that exists in the wake of her death. The dead are not gone until they are fully buried, after all. Whilst Abraham negotiates for a burial place for his wife, our rabbis later try to fill the silence and bring back some sense of certainty by drashing about possible causes for Sarah’s death or whether or not she ever knew about the Akedah.
They attempt to say all the things that go unsaid when Sarah dies.
Likewise, there is a great deal of uncertainty humming in the background of the haftarah. David is dying. He has two sons. Adonijah, his elder son, makes a play for the throne that looks like it might actually succeed. Solomon’s future as king appears uncertain until Bathsheva brings her presence and her voice to David’s chambers and alerts him to what is happening.
She actually does say all the things that need to be said as the sun sets on David’s life.
When the end does come for someone that we love, it is natural for us to do as Abraham does and bewail the loss of that person’s presence. To let the silence set in and never speak further about the person or their presence. To let things go unsaid and let others try to fill the gaps with gentle imagined stories about what those final days were like. But if there is one lesson to pull from what we are going to read this Shabbat, it is to do the exact opposite. It is okay to take up space, even in those final days, and say the things that need to be said.
By TBA Rabbinic Intern Aviva Frank
In this week’s Torah portion Sarah laughs to herself- was it in disbelief or in amusement, in early celebration or fear- and why does she lie then to God and say she did not laugh? (Bereshet 18:13-15) Abraham laughs when he hears this same news and exclaims almost the exact same sentence: how is it possible in their advanced years? Yet he is not asked about his laughter. (Bereshet 17:17) Why is Sarah singled out? Are there different types of laughter? Do we laugh at different times for different reasons or emotions?
A new trend in education is teaching Social Emotional Learning (SEL) as a part of the curriculum. Allowing for young minds and learners to be able to identify complex thoughts and emotions. This assists in self-awareness, self-management, encourages responsible decision making and leads to improvements in academic performance. RULER, an acronym for Recognizing, Understanding, Labeling, Expressing, and Regulating, is an approach to SEL that teaches learners nuanced language for their emotions via a Mood Meter. If only we had a laugh mood meter to decode the different types of laughter of Sarah vs. Abraham. There can be a chuckle or a guffaw. A giggle and a snort. A howl and a hoot, and a snicker. For we can laugh when we are nervous or embarrassed. We can laugh when we are serene and content. We can laugh so hard, we can cry. We can cry so hard, we begin to laugh.
Isaac, his name meaning he laughs or laughter, is named by both God and Sarah. God tells Abraham to name his soon to be son, Isaac. (Bereshet 17:19) Sarah says, “They will laugh with me.” (Bereshet 21:6) Had she ever feared they would laugh at her? (Could this be the reason behind her initial laughter that God questioned- that she would be viewed with ridicule by others? Do we ever push off an honor or the limelight out of fear of the criticism of others?) Sarah gives the reason for her name choice, saying, women and everyone will laugh with me, knowing it is possible to have a child even after all these years of trying. The hearing of her news, or her laughter, would cause people to laugh with her. Her joy is communal. The community loved her and her joy was their joy. Her miracle showed the possibility of miracles for others. Here, she acknowledges her own laughter, for they will laugh with me. For God has brought me laughter. Did Isaac also bring laughter and joy to God, hence why God wanted his name to be so? This small child brought hope and fertility to the barren desert. This small child secured the lineage, and the fulfillment of blessings God had promised to Abraham and Sarah.
Sarah then witnessed Ishmael מצחק a verb derived from this very same root or shoresh of laughter, translated as sport or mockery or dally or idolatry. (Bereshet 21:9) Rashi, to provide context and clarity, references two spots in the Five Books of Moses which use this term: (A) The accusation by Porifer’s Wife of Joseph that he came to dally with her- possibly daily. (Bereshet 39:17) (B) The actions of the Israelites during the Golden Calf, when their merriment turned into idolatry and mayhem. (Exodus 32:6) How then was Isaac’s name a foreshadowing of the dynamic that will befall him- had Ishmael included baby Isaac in his sport or idolatry? Was Isaac the subject of Ishmael’s mockery or dally? God then says to Abraham, “Whatever Sarah tells you, do as she says.”(Bereshet 21:12) God has complete trust in Sarah. Sarah is praised by God here, even after she had laughed and then lied to God. Sarah has the status of a prophetess. A mother with vision. Isaac’s name foreshadowed what happened next- the return of Hagar to her father’s household in Egypt with Ishmael.
Not all actions or the expression of emotions by our Matriarchs and Patriarchs, such as laughter, are perfect. They are human, just like us. Each one making mistakes in their own ways, and then, finding a way back to God through teshuvah or forgiveness. We can have empathy for them and us by using the lens of Social Emotional Learning. Our Matriarchs and Patriarchs teach us a lesson: each one of us has the capacity and the opportunity to transform darkness to light, each one of us can return back to God.
Bereshet 17:17
וַיִּפֹּ֧ל אַבְרָהָ֛ם עַל־פָּנָ֖יו וַיִּצְחָ֑ק וַיֹּ֣אמֶר בְּלִבּ֗וֹ הַלְּבֶ֤ן מֵאָֽה־שָׁנָה֙ יִוָּלֵ֔ד וְאִ֨ם־שָׂרָ֔ה הֲבַת־תִּשְׁעִ֥ים שָׁנָ֖ה תֵּלֵֽד׃
Abraham threw himself on his face and laughed, as he said to himself, “Can a child be born to a man a hundred years old, or can Sarah bear a child at ninety?”
Bereshet 17:19
וַיֹּ֣אמֶר אֱלֹהִ֗ים אֲבָל֙ שָׂרָ֣ה אִשְׁתְּךָ֗ יֹלֶ֤דֶת לְךָ֙ בֵּ֔ן וְקָרָ֥אתָ אֶת־שְׁמ֖וֹ יִצְחָ֑ק וַהֲקִמֹתִ֨י אֶת־בְּרִיתִ֥י אִתּ֛וֹ לִבְרִ֥ית עוֹלָ֖ם לְזַרְע֥וֹ אַחֲרָֽיו׃
God said, “Nevertheless, Sarah your wife shall bear you a son, and you shall name him Isaac; and I will maintain My covenant with him as an everlasting covenant for his offspring to come.
Bereshet 18:13-15
וַיֹּ֥אמֶר ‘ה אֶל־אַבְרָהָ֑ם לָ֣מָּה זֶּה֩ צָחֲקָ֨ה שָׂרָ֜ה לֵאמֹ֗ר הַאַ֥ף אֻמְנָ֛ם אֵלֵ֖ד וַאֲנִ֥י זָקַֽנְתִּי׃
Then ‘ה said to Abraham, “Why did Sarah laugh, saying, “Is it really true that I will give birth, although I am old?’
הֲיִפָּלֵ֥א ‘ה דָּבָ֑ר לַמּוֹעֵ֞ד אָשׁ֥וּב אֵלֶ֛יךָ כָּעֵ֥ת חַיָּ֖ה וּלְשָׂרָ֥ה בֵֽן׃
Is anything too wondrous for ‘ה ? I will return to you at the same season next year, and Sarah shall have a son.”
וַתְּכַחֵ֨שׁ שָׂרָ֧ה ׀ לֵאמֹ֛ר לֹ֥א צָחַ֖קְתִּי כִּ֣י ׀ יָרֵ֑אָה וַיֹּ֥אמֶֽר ׀ לֹ֖א כִּ֥י צָחָֽקְתְּ׃
Sarah lied, saying, “I did not laugh,” for she was frightened. Came the reply, “You did laugh.”
Bereshet 21:6
וַתֹּ֣אמֶר שָׂרָ֔ה צְחֹ֕ק עָ֥שָׂה לִ֖י אֱלֹהִ֑ים כׇּל־הַשֹּׁמֵ֖עַ יִֽצְחַק־לִֽי׃
Sarah said, “God has brought me laughter; everyone who hears (the news) will laugh with me.”
Bereshet 21:9
וַתֵּ֨רֶא שָׂרָ֜ה אֶֽת־בֶּן־הָגָ֧ר הַמִּצְרִ֛ית אֲשֶׁר־יָלְדָ֥ה לְאַבְרָהָ֖ם מְצַחֵֽק׃
Sarah saw the son whom Hagar the Egyptian had borne to Abraham playing.
Bereshet 39:17
וַתְּדַבֵּ֣ר אֵלָ֔יו כַּדְּבָרִ֥ים הָאֵ֖לֶּה לֵאמֹ֑ר בָּֽא־אֵלַ֞י הָעֶ֧בֶד הָֽעִבְרִ֛י אֲשֶׁר־הֵבֵ֥אתָ לָּ֖נוּ לְצַ֥חֶק בִּֽי׃
Then she told him the same story, saying, “The Hebrew slave whom you brought into our house came to me to dally with me.
Exodus 32:6
וַיַּשְׁכִּ֙ימוּ֙ מִֽמׇּחֳרָ֔ת וַיַּעֲל֣וּ עֹלֹ֔ת וַיַּגִּ֖שׁוּ שְׁלָמִ֑ים וַיֵּ֤שֶׁב הָעָם֙ לֶֽאֱכֹ֣ל וְשָׁת֔וֹ וַיָּקֻ֖מוּ לְצַחֵֽק׃ {פ}
Early the next day, the people offered-up burnt offerings and brought sacrifices of well-being; they sat down to eat and drink, and then rose for merriment.
By Rabbi Rebecca Schatz
6 weeks after October 7th, I went to Israel. I traveled against the wishes of my family, some friends, and probably congregants who wanted me to stay close to home. I went for many reasons including showing solidarity, pride in a moment of global fear, and witnessing. Ultimately, I went for me. I went on the journey because I needed to go. I needed to see and hear and feel in first-person rather than through stories and news outlets and Instagram reels, second and third-person.
We read the words of lekh lekha as Avram being told to go on a journey. But the Torah has an economy of language and therefore chooses words wisely. “Lekh” – meaning “go,” “lekha” – meaning, “for yourself.” This was a journey that God sent Avram on, but Avram went because he needed to go. To go for himself.
וַיֹּ֤אמֶר ה’ אֶל־אַבְרָ֔ם לֶךְ־לְךָ֛ מֵאַרְצְךָ֥ וּמִמּֽוֹלַדְתְּךָ֖ וּמִבֵּ֣ית אָבִ֑יךָ אֶל־הָאָ֖רֶץ אֲשֶׁ֥ר אַרְאֶֽךָּ׃
God said to Avram, go for yourself from your land, from the place you were born and from your parent’s home to the land that I will show you.
So, I have to imagine that not only was Avram ready to go, but he knew he had to venture away from those circles to find himself. The land that God would show him would be a place where, as God says, Avram would be blessing. Not “a blessing,” but “blessing.” Avram would be brakha by venturing to a new place. Bringing blessing. Showing others how to see blessings around them, etc.
We all know the experience of leaving something or somewhere that feels stale and has lost excitement. However, that does not mean that it is not hard to leave, nor does it mean that the change is not scary. God reassures Avram that his job is to bring, and be, blessing so that this new change had a goal, a reason, and a mission. Avram is not just leaving because it is time but because God sees potential in his ability to bring blessing to a new world experiencing Avram as a new entity.
“The Torah, A Women’s Commentary,” shares that “Parashat Lekh Lekha begins with a transformation in identity and status through a physical, geographical passage.” Avram starts to transform into the Avraham that we know through this first step of going away from his origins. He is getting up, leaving, and therefore becoming a new person for himself and to others in the process.
Going to Israel after October 7 changed me. I felt a magnetic pull to be somewhere that was uncertain, at that moment, in terms of safety and experience and yet, I went. I went to stand on blood-stained ground, to listen to shattering stories of destruction and heroic moments of bravery. I went to alter my own connection and story to a homeland I love and care about and worry about through all her beauty and her challenges. I went to be present. Ready to change, ready to bring blessing, and be blessing, and trepidatious to come home and know I would feel far away. From a Talmudic story on this verse from Genesis, we learn the popular Hebrew phrase, “meshaneh makom, meshaneh mazal” meaning, changing your place changes your luck. Maybe you will try sitting somewhere new this Shabbat. Maybe you will go on a trip because work has been tough and you need a break. Maybe you and your partner will find time to connect because the chaos of life has made your relationship seem mundane. Whatever you might do to “go for yourself,” go! Do it! Get out of the skin you are so used to being in and try something new to change up your routine, your style, your life and maybe even your luck. Lekh Lekha – go for yourself to be blessing somewhere that needs you!
By Rabbi Adam Kligfeld
I have been candid in the past that even before I switched to a plant-based diet (which mostly insulates me from specific kashrut– and hekhsher-based deliberations), I struggled with what modern kashrut had become: A search for labels, rather than for sanctity. A fealty to certain Orthodox rabbinical authorities, rather than to God. And far too much wickedness (perpetrated upon animals and upon vulnerable human beings within the sphere of industrialized food) done in the apparent name of sanctity. It smacked of true perversion and inversion. To take something so lofty–the Torah’s elevation of eating to sacred act–and to sully it with the corruption, suffering and dishonesty that suffuse so much of modern kashrut seemed to be particularly sad.
I once had a member in my former congregation pose this question to me: If an intentional Jew had to choose between eating meat that was not slaughtered under rabbinic supervision, but which which was slaughtered utterly humanely and painlessly in an environment that treated all workers and animals ethically…and between eating meat that came with a rabbinic stamp but clearly from a factory/slaughterhouse that treated both its animals and workers cruelly…which would be the better Jewish choice? I had no good answer. I felt pained by the realism of the question.
This topic comes to mind as I study a beautiful Hasidic commentary on one of the opening lines of Parshat Noah. As rationale for God’s bringing the flood, the Torah describes the brokenness of God’s new world. ותשחת הארץ לפני האלקים/Vatishahet ha’aretz lifnei ha’elohim. Literally, “The earth had gone to ruin before God.” The plain meaning is that the early generations of humanity, according to the Torah, were filled with violence, lawlessness, bloodshed and all things ruinous. But Rabbi Israel Joshua Trunk (Kotno, Poland, 19th C) reads the “lifnei ha’elokim/before God” in a particularly homiletic way. (And, I will admit, in an anachronistic way! As surely the Torah does not actually imagine that the generations before Avraham, between Adam and Noah “knew” or “feared” God.) He says that the Torah’s words hint that the particular ugliness of that generation (and, by inference, any generation) is that all the ruin was one את פני האלקים/et p’nei ha’Elohim, “towards/with the face of God.” The ruin was בשם אלקים/b’shem elohim. “In the name of God.” The ugliness and sinfulness was done in God’s name, and in the name of (and thus with the intention to be “covered” by) all that ought to have been holy.
From the very beginning, Rabbi Trunk is teaching, even before Avraham and Moshe and Sinai and revelation and the development of Jewish law, the Torah was expressing a deep repugnance towards vileness done in the name of holiness. Later sources would call such behavior טובל ושרץ בידו/tovel v’sheretz b’yado. Immersing in the cleansing waters of the mikvah while grasping something that definitionally renders one impure and dirty.
We see it all the time. Those punctilious in their prayer, while spewing ugly speech after they finish their personal amidah. Pious Jews who follow every rule that guards the sanctity of Shabbat, and then conduct their business practices in violation of innumerable Jewish laws and restrictions aimed at guarding the sanctity of society. And, yes, actors in the kashrut industry that find a way to slap a label on a piece of steak, suggesting it is truly kosher, all while the actions done to animals and humans to produce said steak are anything but kosher, anything but fit.
In the Torah, God responds to this inversion with destruction. Time to start again. May we, in our generation, awaken to the ways we contribute to this phenomenon, and live our Jewish lives in a way that models the marriage of ritual and ethics. So that all that we do “before God” is worthy.
For a complete archive of Torah Commentary from past years, please click one of the links below.