​This week’s Parasha, Naso, contains the Birkat Hakohanim, the priestly blessing recited by Kohanim over the nation during prayers, and by parents over their children on Shabbat.
יְבָרֶכְךָ ה’ וְיִשְׁמְרֶךָ:
יָאֵר ה’ פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ וִיחֻנֶּךָּ:
יִשָּׂא ה’ פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ וְיָשֵׂם לְךָ שָׁלוֹם:
"May the Lord bless you and protect you.
"May the Lord shine His face upon you and bring you grace.
"May the Lord lift His face toward you and give you peace." (Bemidbar 6:24-26)
While the words of this prayer are recited by Kohanim to their congregation, the actual ‘blessing’ of Israel is granted by Hashem. It is the act of the Kohanim reciting the words and the people listening, receiving and responding (“Ken yehi ratzon” – i.e., “May it be Your will”) to them, that serves as a channel for G-d’s granting benevolence to Israel.
The sequence of the three verses, and the respective blessings they impart, is significant. The first verse, concluding with “protect you”, is a prayer for material well-being. We pray that G-d grant us the things we need not merely to survive but to prosper, and to safeguard these. The second blessing is one for both joy and enlightenment. Rashi describes the notion of G-d’s “shining face” as akin to a beaming smile – the heartfelt expression, for example, of a parent’s enjoyment of their beloved children. The words “bring you grace” signify Hashem granting us the ability to learn and understand – to develop our intelligence, derive wisdom from Torah, and understand better our role in the universe which Hashem created.
The final verse concludes with the ultimate and most important blessing – that of Shalom. Shalom means more than just peace. It comes from the Hebrew root ש.ל.מ. which signifies completeness, integrity. A person with Shalom has both inner and outer peace. A world of Shalom is one of true peace – not merely an absence of war, but justice and harmony.
This week, we have witnessed the ongoing conflict between Israel and Hamas in Gaza, culminating with a ceasefire. This military conflict has triggered antagonism and violence towards Jews in many cities around the world. Sadly, these are not isolated historical instances. Jewish world history demonstrates that, even at the best of times, we are challenged to remain on guard against hatred. As we recite in the Passover Haggadah, “In every generation, there are those who stand against us to destroy us; and the Holy-One-Blessed-Be (Hakadosh Baruch Hu) saves us from their hand.” Israel and Jews are fortunate to have allies and supporters in the non-Jewish world. Most importantly, though, we Jews have the ability to unify and forge our own strength.
The Shalom which we strive for is more than cessation of hostilities; it is even more than a military or even political peace. It is the peace of the Kohanic blessing, one which is founded in grace and the enlightenment. Archeologists have found amulets in Israel dating from the 7th century BCE with the words of the Kohanic blessing on them. For at least 2600 years, we have prayed for Shalom for Israel. May we ever continue to do so.

When we Jews find ourselves in the wilderness, we are called upon to remember that we count.
Each and every one of us.
We each are called upon by Hashem to fulfill our sacred work upon Earth,
to play our part in the greater whole.
It is significant that this week’s Torah portion, which begins the book of Bemidbar, finds the Jewish people in the wilderness of Sinai. Their first course of action: to conduct a divinely-ordained count of the Jewish population. A census is an exceptional event in Torah; only Hashem can grant the right to count the Jewish people.
According to Bemidbar Rabba (2:19), Hashem counts the Jewish people every hour: they are likened to a precious treasure. Ramban describes the parable of a king eager to count the inventory of the one silo of his finest grain, wheat, above and beyond the barley, oats and less precious grains in his other storehouses; Hashem is the king, the Jewish people are the fine grain. The Lubavitcher Rebbe zt”l would stand for hours at a time to greet Jewish people in line, bless them, and give them money to do Tzedakah. When someone asked him if he was getting tired standing and greeting countless hundreds of people at a time, he answered poetically, “Who gets tired of counting diamonds?”
As pleasing as counting the Jewish people may be to Hashem, it was a forbidden act for Jews without G-d’s authorization. The census was only permitted to serve crucial purposes – in the case of Bemidbar, to plan for military activity, encampment in the desert, and land allocation to each tribe upon entry into Canaan/Israel. To this day, many Jews avoid counting people by number, instead using words in Torah phrases or even a formula such as, “Not 1, not 2, not 3…” Perhaps such a restriction signifies that we should never reduce fellow Jews to mere numbers or commodities; each individual soul is sacred.
Building on this theme of counting, this Shabbat’s Haftarah begins with a prophecy in which the nation of Israel transcends all measure:
וְֽ֠הָיָה מִסְפַּ֤ר בְּנֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵל֙ כְּח֣וֹל הַיָּ֔ם אֲשֶׁ֥ר לֹֽא־יִמַּ֖ד וְלֹ֣א יִסָּפֵ֑ר
The number of the people of Israel shall be like that of the sands of the sea, which cannot be measured or counted… (Hosea 2:1)
Traditional commentary holds that Jewish fulfilment of “be fruitful and multiply” will truly lead to a nation vast and powerful enough to be beyond reasonable count. Yet the Jewish people are not dear to Hashem because of their population size:
לֹא מֵרֻבְּכֶם מִכָּל-הָעַמִּים חָשַׁק ה' בָּכֶם וַיִּבְחַר בָּכֶם כִּי-אַתֶּם הַמְעַט מִכָּל-הָעַמִּים
The L-RD did not set His love upon you, nor choose you, because ye were more in number than any people--for ye were the fewest of all peoples. (Deuteronomy 7:7)
Rather, I find in Hosea’s vision the notion of a Jewish people whose strength and significance are beyond measure. Where the Jewish people hold to G-d’s ways, and to unity, we can achieve untold impact upon the world.
This Shabbat and always, may Hashem help our homes be sanctuaries of safety and love for all.

​Dear Members and Friends of Kehilat Shalom,
In this week’s Parsha, Emor, we come across a challenging commandment which seemingly requires us to discriminate against the disabled. In Vayikra (Leviticus) 21:17, we read:
דַּבֵּ֥ר אֶל־אַֽהֲרֹ֖ן לֵאמֹ֑ר אִ֣ישׁ מִזַּרְעֲךָ֞ לְדֹֽרֹתָ֗ם אֲשֶׁ֨ר יִֽהְיֶ֥ה בוֹ֙ מ֔וּם לֹ֣א יִקְרַ֔ב לְהַקְרִ֖יב לֶ֥חֶם אֱ-לֹהָֽיו:
"Speak to Aaron, saying: Any man among your descendants throughout their generations who has a defect, shall not come near to offer up his God's food.”
According to Sefer Hachinuch (Commandment 267), the Beit Hamikdash and its sacrificial services are meant to attain a splendor as close to perfection as possible in the earthly realm, in order to epitomize and approach the grandeur and perfection of Hashem. The prohibition against an injured/disabled person performing a sacrificial service is in line with similar prohibitions against any imperfection in the offering itself (e.g., no sacrifice may be performed of an animal with any blemish). Blemishes or mars risk detracting from that desired splendor.
Maimonides and Nachmanides debate the severity of this restriction. Maimonides went so far as to argue that an injured/disabled priest was prohibited by Torah form even entering into the Temple – a position which Nachmanides firmly disagreed with.
Is the verse in Parshat Emor commanding us to discriminate against the disabled? This seems inconsistent with Torah values. Torah verses and Jewish learning embody humanitarian principles aimed at preventing harm to those requiring need, and ensuring inclusiveness within communities.
How are we today to understand this prohibition? I admit my great discomfort, which many probably share, with the notion of excluding someone on the basis of a disability. The Ramah, for example, argued that on the basis of כבוד הבריות – Kavod habriyot, i.e. the dignity of Hashem’s creations – a sick and even incontinent individual was entitled to enter a synagogue to pray. Similarly, Rabbi Moshe Feinstein ruled that, while it is generally prohibited to bring an animal into synagogue, it is permitted for a disabled person to bring a guide dog. For similar reasons, I have seen other service animals (not just guide dogs) accepted into observant synagogues on an exceptional basis. The general principle is that accommodations must be made to enable anyone disabled to perform the mitzvah of participation in services.
In 2016, the Jewish Funders Network published a “Guide to Jewish Values and Disability Rights”. Please click on the site below for more information:
http://d3n8a8pro7vhmx.cloudfront.net/jfn/legacy_url/493/guide_to_jewish_values_and_disability_rights-16-5-23.pdf?1486740983
I encourage you to read it. This resource provides a learned research into Jewish principles pertaining to disability, as well as practical, sage advice as to how to better our practices.
With regard to Vayikra/Leviticus 21:17, Rabbi Jack Riemer writes:
“It is easy to pass judgment on the laws in the Torah and to claim that we are morally superior to it, but we can only do that if we first face up to our own practices. And so let me ask you these questions:
“If Yitzchak Avinu, Father Isaac, who became legally blind in his old age, were to come into our synagogue and want to daven with us, would we have a large print prayer book available for him?
“If Yaakov Avinu, Father Jacob, who was injured in an encounter with a mysterious stranger and limped for the rest of his life as a result, were to come into our synagogue and want an aliyah, would he be able to get up to the bimah here? And if not, if we don’t have a ramp that makes the bimah accessible to the people with disabilities, what would we say to him?
“If Moshe Rabeynu, Moses our teacher, who had a speech defect, were to come into our shul and want to read from the Torah that he gave us, could we handle it without becoming embarrassed if he were to stutter?”
(Rabbi Jack Riemer, “One of the Most Embarrassing Passages in the Whole Torah”)
Rather than resolve the dilemma presented by Vayikra 21:17, I encourage us to open ourselves to the uncomfortable conversation which such a passuk entails. We can use the occasion of the verse’s appearance in this week’s parsha to discuss Jewish understanding of disability and disabled people’s rights and needs within our Jewish community. It is worthwhile for us as a congregation to consider the obstacles which might prevent disabled people from greater participation, and to mobilize ourselves to address this in order to make our Jewish world one in which people find the fullest range of opportunities for participation.

Parashat Kedoshim starts much the way several other paragraphs in Sefer Vayikra start, “וידבר ה׳ אל משה לאמר”,Hashem spoke to Moshe, saying (19:1). But what follows does change the common pattern, for Moshe is told to tell the subsequent words not to Aharon, or the Kohanim, or to B’nei Yisrael, but to “כל עדת בני ישראל” – the whole congregation of the Children of Israel (Vayikra 19:2). The only other place that a mitzvah is specifically told to the whole congregation of Israel is the mitzvah of Korban Pesach. Chazal already noticed this occurrence, and Torat Kohanim on this passuk states that this section of the Torah was transmitted in full assembly – every member of the congregation of Israel was there. This is in contrast to the rest of the Torah, where Hashem would teach Moshe, Moshe would then teach it individually, in turn, to Aharon, to Aharon’s sons, to the elders, and only then to all of Yisrael. Rashi, quoting the same Torat Kohanim, explains that this is because most of the fundamental teachings of the Torah are תלוין בה –dependent on it, or contained in it. It is unclear whether this refers merely to the next passuk – the mitzvah of קדושים תהיו – Be Holy, or if it refers to the entire section. And looking through the chapter, one begins to see the reason for it being so fundamental. While the chapter may begin with the overarching mitzvah of being holy, and continue with the esoteric laws of leftover meat korbanot, it contains so many of the laws that are fundamental to the way that we interact with each other, both as individuals and as a society. These include laws such as supporting the less fortunate, honesty, business ethics, judicial integrity, and so on, all culminating with the famous “great principle” – ״ואהבת לרעך כמוך״ – Love your neighbor like yourself (19:18).
While not all of the mitzvot in this perek are interpersonal, throughout there is an emphasis on the relationships between people. Ten times there is a mitzvah that is specifically phrased in terms of behavior toward another. “An other” is described in 4 different ways: a member of your עם (nation or people), עמית (neighbor or kinsman), רע (fellow or friend), and אח (brother). It is clear that these are all talking about the same groups of people – your fellow humans. Indeed, in most translations that I have seen, there is not even a specific definition for each term, they are used interchangeably. Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch, however, points out a progression both in the content of the mitzvot and in the way that each “fellow” is referred to in the various mitzvot.
He notes that this progression begins with the mitzvah of ״לא תלך רכיל בעמיך״ –You shall not go about as a talebearer among thy people (19:16). Here, he says, the people are looked at as separate עמים – each household is its own closed off circle, and a person must not breach those separate circles by bearing tales from one to another.
The Torah continues from there with the prohibition of “לא תעמוד על דם רעך” – You shall not stand inactive by the blood of your neighbor. Rav Hirsch explains that it’s not enough to refrain from actively bearing tales and breaching circles, but we must actively come to the rescue of someone in need. Here, he relates the word ״רע״ – neighbor, friend, fellow, to the רועה – the shepherd. The job of the shepherd is to protect and help the sheep find pasture and sustenance. It is not enough to refrain from harming our fellow, since he is not just a member of another closed circle, but a רע – one whom we should be trying to protect and help to grow as a shepherd does for his sheep.
The Perek continues with “לא תשנא את אחיך בלבבך” – You shall not hate your brother in your heart. Beyond instructing our actions, the injunctions extend to our feelings as well. No matter what the other person has done to lose their status as a רע, we must still recognize him as an אח – a brother, children of the same Father – of God. And even if you would otherwise hate this other person, maybe even with good reason, don’t allow yourself to feel that hatred, because you both come from the same “divine descent.”
In order to help us not feel that enmity towards another, we are also instructed that if we feel there is something lacking in someone else, “הוכח תוכיח את עמיתך” –repeatedly rebuke your neighbor. Rav Hirsch here points out that the connotation of עמית is someone who is equal – for we cannot even think about admonishing someone else if we feel that we are superior to them.
Even if we feel that we have reached out and extended ourselves to another person, and been continually rebuffed, we must still make sure to “לא תקום ולא תטור את בני עמך” – to not take revenge or bear a grudge against the children of your people (19:18). We must think of the other as בן עמינו – we are members of the same nation, the nation of ה׳. We are all parts of that nation and just as God demands that we do other mitzvot, God also demands that we work on our own feelings towards others.
All of these mitzvot regarding the way we act towards each other culminate in the famous “ואהבת לרעך כמוך” – Love your neighbor like yourself. This directive has nothing to do with any particular qualities of this other person, but Hashem has charged us to find in every other person a ״מרעה״ – “the furthering of his own well-being, the condition for his own happiness in life” (Rav Hirsch on 19:18). When we rejoice at the good things that happen to our fellow, when we are sad at the tragedies that befall him, we depend upon each other’s wellbeing. To accomplish this, we must see ourselves as a Creation of God, and one of many, then we will be able to look towards all those other creations and care for the well-being of all of them equally.
At each step of the way, Hashem guides us to look at ourselves and how we fit in with the people around us. Some of our behavior is dependent on their behaviors, but we must learn to look at ourselves not just among other people but as among all the children of Hashem. With the common life mission that has been given to us as such, we can embrace the well-being of all those around us, and look out for their welfare as our own, independent of their actions. This fundamental truth and basis of society must be commanded directly to all of Yisrael together – אל כל עדת בני ישראל.

In this week's Torah portion, Terumah, the Jewish people are each instructed to bring forward a contribution (Terumah) to the construction of the Mishkan, or Tabernacle. The Mishkan was to become the central site of sacrificial and ritual worship, the holy place of the Jewish people up until the building of the Beit Hamikdash.
The second Passuk (verse) of the Torah reading has G-d saying to Moses,
דַּבֵּר֙ אֶל־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל וְיִקְחוּ־לִ֖י תְּרוּמָ֑ה מֵאֵ֤ת כָּל־אִישׁ֙ אֲשֶׁ֣ר יִדְּבֶ֣נּוּ לִבּ֔וֹ תִּקְח֖וּ אֶת־תְּרוּמָתִֽי׃

"Tell the Israelite people to take contributions for Me, from every person whose heart so moves him, you shall take this contribution of Mine."
Rashi asks the obvious - why does G-d need contributions from humanity? The answer is that the act of giving allows anyone of means or desire to ally with G-d in sacred activity -- in this case, building the Mishkan.
The recounting of the design and construction of the Mishkan, its vessels and utensils, and the garb of the Kohanim who served there, form the major part of the last half of the book of Shemot. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks z"l explains that the Mishkan constituted the first collective project of the Jewish people. It was a mass movement -- not in an act of flight from oppression, but mobilization towards a common, unified, sacred goal. Rabbi Sacks notes that the constant strife that marked the Jewish people's journey in the desert seemed to be absent during the building of the Mishkan; they found harmony in their pursuit of a collective project.
How noteworthy that the Jewish people rallied around giving. A subtle message is conveyed here: community is formed when people are each giving of themselves. We form our most meaningful bonds when we bring our strengths, gifts and resources towards common pursuits.
I have remarked in recent weeks on how wonderful our Saturday evening Havdalah programs have been precisely because they have been homemade. With the organization and recruitment done by Ora Major, our members have shared with one another divrei Torah and discussions, presentations on humour, a travelogue, facts and anecdotes about coins and stamps... All of these have added to the do-it-yourself ethic that has added so much to the intimacy and participatory nature of this community. We all have our gifts to share, and when we do so with one another, in the context of a Kehila, we evoke Hashem's presence among us. This coming week, as we celebrate Purim, Ora and I continue to welcome creative ideas for celebrating this occasion and coming events.
May we continue to find inspiration and connection with Hashem and one another as we share our gifts meaningfully together.

This is a very, very special Shabbat. This weeks parasha, Yitro, contains the Aseret Hadibrot – the Ten Pronouncements (often mistranslated as “Ten Commandments”) fundamental not only to Judaism, but to nations throughout the world.
The opening word of the Dibrot is simply, אנכי – anochi – ’I’… as in, “I am the L-rd your G-d”. It is said that in that one word anochi is encompassed the entirety of the positive mitzvot. What is so distinctive about this pronoun?

My great-grandfather was a Karliner Hasid, meaning that he was an adherent of the Hasidic dynasty founded by Rav Aharon of Karlin (1736-1772). It is told of Rav Aharon that he was learning in his study one day, when there came a knock at the door. The Rav called out, “Who is it?” And the man at the door replied, “It’s me” (ich, literally, ‘I’). Rev Aharon did not respond. A few minutes later, the man knocked again. Again, the same question, “Who is it?” and the same answer, “Ich”. Again, the Karliner Rav did not answer. After several rounds of the same, the Rav finally opened the door.
The man at the door exclaimed, “Why wouldn’t you open for me?! You know and recognize me well from all the time we studied under the Maggid of Mezeritch! Why did you keep me waiting outside like that?”
The Karliner Rav slowly answered, “There is no ‘I’. The only anochi is that of Hashem, who said, ‘Anochi Hashem Elokecha’, I am the L-rd your G-d who brought you out of Egypt. Everything and everyone is subject to Hashem’s unity.”
The man sighed in response, “You’re right, Rav Aharon. There is more for me to learn about humility.” And the man left and headed back to Mezeritch, so he could study more under the Maggid’s guidance.

The term anochi itself is no longer in common Hebrew parlance -- today, Hebrew speakers use the word ani for ‘I’. In biblical Hebrew, however, both terms were used, and the simpler ani appears twice as often as anochi.
Anochi is a pronoun, to be sure, through which Hashem articulates divine Presence. But the word is not just used by G-d. People in Torah, including Cain, Avram, Sarah, and Rivkah, all made use of the term.
The Malbim holds that the term anochi is a specific term referring to just oneself, meaning ‘I and no other’. Indeed, the Aseret Hadibrot specify Hashem’s distinction from all other entities that people erringly worship. Rabbi Shimshon Rafael Hirsch states that the pronoun signifies something yet further – a desire to attain closeness with the person with whom they are speaking. Just as there are both formal and informal ways of addressing someone in the second person in languages like French and German (“tu” vs. the more formal “vous”; “du” vs. “sie”), here too, R. Hirsch suggests, there is the more formal pronoun ani and the more intimate one of anochi.
It seems that Hashem wishes to draw close to the Jewish people, and wishes the Jews to draw closer to G-dself (yet another unusual pronoun, an English one that has come into usage in modern Jewish theology). At Mount Sinai, the entire Jewish people heard G-d’s voice directly. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks zt”l, in an essay published posthumously this week, emphasizes that that the Jewish relationship with G-Hashem is meant to be decentralized and democratized. This is part of Hashem’s desire for the Jews to become “a nation of kohanim (priests)” (Shemot 19:6). Rabbis in Judaism do not wear a distinctive garb, to signify that no person is more inherently elevated in holiness than another. We all have the capacity for a deeply personal relationship with G-d.
In following the ways of Torah, we fulfill a sacred mandate that enables us to become a “treasured nation” (19:5) to Hashem. In these challenging times, amid the isolation imposed on us by the pandemic, it is heartening and important to remind ourselves that we are each individually beloved in Hashem’s eyes.
Previous Dvar Torah compilation
For those who missed previous Dvar Torah's, they can now be found online at https://www.kscalgary.org/blog. David Craimer, the creator of Kehilat Shalom’s website, has meticulously compiled past Dvar Torah articles, and you’re invited to visit the site and read through it for Torah learning.

This coming Shabbat, Parshat Beshalach, contains the memorable Shirat Hayam - "Song of the Sea" - which our ancestors sang, during the exodus from Egypt, upon their successful crossing of the Red Sea.
Singing and music are a crucial part of our lives. We sing songs for pleasure or for sadness, to express emotion or distract ourselves, to connect with others or to find our own space. We live our lives surrounded by music; sometimes we even create such music ourselves.
Music touches our soul in a way words alone cannot; it evokes emotions that transcend the ordinary. In Hebrew, we refer to someone’s soul as their ‘neshama’. The Latin source of the word ‘inspiration’ is literally the same as the origin of the word ‘neshama’ - both of these words mean the same thing: breathing! When we find inspiration, such as through music, we enable our souls to breathe.
Shabbat Shira literally means the Sabbath of Song, and the Hebrew word Shira means both singing and poetry. People use prose for information, and poetry & song for inspiration; reading and learning help our minds grow, music reaches our heart. It is no happenstance that Chassidic leaders and Rebbes created their own niggunim, wordless melodies, and taught these to their disciples. This was considered an important aspect of worshipful connection to G-d.
When done right, music can stir our soul, enabling us to transcend our busy lives and connect with the Divine. Each week on Shabbat, in home as in shul, we chant familiar tefillot and melodies, and occasionally learn new ones as well. Each time we sing, we deepen our connection to these tunes and words. In so doing, the music becomes part of our core memory, culture, and even our very identity.
That’s why music is a crucial avenue towards kedusha – a word loosely translated as “holiness”. Many of the sacred Tehilim (Psalms) are introduced as “Mizmor Sheer” – Musical Poem – to indicate that they would traditionally be chanted with orchestral or instrumental accompaniment. Since the destruction of the Beit Hamikdash, we Jews ceased playing instruments on Shabbat or Yom Tov, as the use of instruments was uniquely associated with the Temple service.
To make music a meaningful part of religious life, any of the following practices is encouraged:
· Introduce new songs, Tefillot and Zemirot to celebrate Shabbat or Holidays at home.
· Sing the Shema as a lullaby to babies and children before they go to sleep.
· When hearing a favorite song (secular or religious), think thoughts of gratitude to Hashem for the gift of music.
· Search for Jewish songs, recordings and musicians to enjoy.
· Meditate on the link between G-d and music, or slowly chant a Tefillah
during meditation.
· Sing, hum or whistle a favorite Jewish melody when the urge strikes you, or to lift your spirit.
After the crossing of the Red Sea, the Israelite men recited Shirat Hayam to praise G-d. Miriam and the Jewish women then took these same verses, and sang them to the accompaniment of drums and other instruments. The women heightened the kedusha of the moment by taking sacred words and transforming them into heartfelt music. May we succeed in doing the same!

“Tell Me A Story”
Since back in early autumn, when we began reading the Book of Genesis in the synagogue, we have been reading one long story. It has been a very dramatic story, extending over many centuries. It began with the creation of man, and proceeded with the narrative of the transformation of a small family into a large nation.
For the past several weeks, the plot has thickened. That nation became cruelly enslaved. In this week’s Torah portion, Parshat Bo (Exodus 10:1-13:16), the story takes a suspenseful turn. We sense that the redemption from slavery is imminent. But before redemption begins, the narrative is interrupted.
The Torah shifts gears. It is no longer a story that we hear, but a set of God given commands: “This month…shall be the first of the months of the year for you. Each member of the community shall take a lamb…Your lamb shall be without blemish…You shall keep watch over it until the fourteenth day of this month and…slaughter it at twilight, eat the flesh that same night…not eat any of it raw…not leave any of it over until morning.” (Exodus 12:1-10)
Whereas the novice reader of the Torah is jolted by this drastic transition from the narrative mode to a set of laws, Rashi and Ramban were not surprised by this sudden shift. They wondered why the Torah would focus at such length on storytelling and not proceed directly to this passage of ritual law.
“Is the Torah a story book?” they ask. “Is it not, rather, a set of instructions for ritual and ethical behavior?” They each answer these questions differently, but both conclude that much of the Torah, perhaps even most of it, is one long and fascinating story.
Why does a book designed to teach the reader about proper religious belief and practice take the form of a narrative?
I think that the reason is quite simple. The Torah recognizes the power of the story to influence the minds and hearts of men. An author who wishes to profoundly impact his reader will do well to choose the narrative mode over other modes of communication. In secular terms, a good novel is more powerful than the best law book.
Taking note of this important lesson enables us to understand an otherwise puzzling phenomenon. Despite the fact that the Exodus from Egypt was, and remains, the central experience of Jewish history, there were at least two Jews who alive at the time of the Exodus who did not experience it directly. I refer to Gershom and Eliezer, the two sons of Moses. They remained behind in Midian when Moses struggled with Pharaoh. They did not witness the ten plagues. They missed the thrilling flight from Egyptian bondage. They did not personally experience the wondrous miracle of the splitting of the Red Sea. They were brought back to Moses by their maternal grandfather Yitro, so it is not at all clear whether they were even present at Mount Sinai when the Torah was given.
The early twentieth century Chassidic master, Rabbi Yehoshua of Belz, wonders about this puzzling fact. His answer is a most instructive one: God wanted Moses to tell his sons the story of the Exodus. He wanted Moses to be the storyteller par excellence, the one who would model storytelling for every subsequent father in Jewish history. Gershom and Eliezer were denied witnessing the Exodus because God wanted them to serve as the first Jewish children who would only hear its story; who would not know the real-life experience of the Exodus but only hear its narrative told to them by their father.
This, teaches the Belzer Rebbe, is the simple meaning of the verse in this week’s Torah portion: “…So that you (singular in the Hebrew) may tell the story, in the ears of your son and son’s son, of how I made a mockery of the Egyptians and how I displayed My signs among them—in order that you may know that I am the Lord” (Exodus 10:2). The singular “you” at the beginning of the verse, explains the Rebbe, refers to Moses himself. He is to tell the story to each of his sons individually, because he is the only father then alive whose sons would hear the story of the Exodus second hand. In this manner, Moses set the stage for all subsequent Jewish fathers. A Jewish father must be a storyteller!
A good story’s power is familiar to all of us. The secret of the Chassidic movement’s success was not its texts or teachings, but the inspiring stories it told to its early adherents. To this day, Chassidim maintain the tradition of storytelling in their melava malka, or post-Shabbat repast, every week.
Personally, I long ago became familiar with an approach to psychotherapy called narrative therapy, in which the patient uses his or her own personal narrative as the basis for curative change. My favorite mentor would emphasize that when a therapist first encounters a patient, his opening question should not be, “What’s your problem,” but rather, “Please tell me your story.”
As I reflect upon those of my teachers who left a lasting impression upon me, I recall the fact that they all told stories. Indeed, I remember those stories better than the academic lessons they taught me.
I remember a youth group leader named Shmuli who told us stories and gave us cupcakes every Shabbat afternoon. I later learned that he obtained those stories from an early Chabad publication entitled Talks and Tales. Those tales left me with a taste for religion that even surpassed the taste of those delicious cupcakes.
I remember my seventh-grade teacher who read us the stories of William Saroyan at the end of each class, laying the foundation for my abiding love of literature. And, of course, there were the stories my unforgettable Talmud teacher told us about the heroes of rabbinic history, which ultimately inspired me to pursue a career in the rabbinate.
Frankly, I fear that storytelling is becoming a lost art with the rapid change of our modes of communication. Grossly abbreviated electronic messages have replaced the face-to-face encounters that are essential for storytelling. The absence of the good story will effect personal development negatively and will impede the spiritual development of our children and grandchildren.
For me, Torah is but the most outstanding of the many stories which shaped my Jewish identity. I can think of only one modality that rivals the narrative as a basis for emotional growth. That modality is music. But space limits me to describing the narrative nature of the Torah...