Rabbi Wolpe - ADL Impressions

There is no obligation to have a favorite biblical verse. In the Talmud, a couple of Rabbis identify favorite verses, but most do not. If I had to choose, I would select a verse from this week’s parasha, Deut. 4:9 — “Guard your soul carefully.”

This verse has grown in importance in our own day, although it was always a crucial reminder given the snares and distractions of life. I’d like to suggest three ways we need to learn to guard our souls better in this world.

1. The overemphasis on bodies. Culturally, we are worshippers of the physical. We are bombarded by diet advertising and advice, exercise regimes and health regimens, and then shamed if we do not conform to this or that standard. If it were all in service of health, it would at least be understandable. But we idealize certain body types and foist them through social media on our children. We have become so focused on physicality that the soul languishes. Seemingly all that matters is how your picture plays on social media. You cannot put your soul on Instagram.

2. The desire to win at all costs is a snare to the soul. We will not admit mistakes or regret because it disappoints our own “team” and gives aid and comfort to the “enemy.” Polarization is not about the integrity of the soul but the triumph of the ego. Each lie and omission and evasion corrodes our souls.

3. Finally, silence. In the months since October 7th, the Jewish community has been often disappointed by the silence of those for whom we raised our own voices in the past. Even some Jews have shied away from proudly proclaiming both their tradition and their solidarity with Israel. Each time you are cowed by the mob and refuse to speak what you know to be true, you are betraying the promptings of your own soul.

The Torah is a guide for life. No teaching, however wise, can guard your soul without your own care and effort. We were given but one soul as we move through this life — guard it carefully.

Before Israel enters the land, Moses recounts their history. He discusses the wandering, the gathering at Sinai, the episode of the scouts, and much more.

This parashah of the Torah, Devarim, is always read before the commemoration of destruction on Tisha B’av. The Shabbat, because of the haftorah reading from Isaiah, is known as Shabbat Chazon, the Sabbath of a vision. The title is taken from the first words of the book in which the prophet’s vision is introduced.

In one Shabbat, we read of a look back and a vision of the future. What has all of this to do with Tisha B’av which is arriving this week and the parlous state of Israel and the world today?

For a modern parallel, look to Israel’s declaration of independence. Before enunciating the vision of the new state, it recounts the ancient attachment of the people to the land and the travails that kept Israel from its birthplace. In other words, when building the modern state, our people chose the ancient example: recount the past and then offer the vision.

The vision arises in part from the pain of the past. For ancient Israel, wandering in the desert drove their desire for the land. In modern Israel, the centuries of exile strengthened the resolution to fight for our homeland.

There is a tradition that the Messiah will be born on Tisha B’av, the saddest day of the Jewish year. For the sorrows of the past are a prelude. From the moment we stood on the second bank of the Jordan, Jews have believed that from sadness will spring joy. We recount the story of the past because it is the past that impels us to seek the redemption of what can be in the future.

Right now, the pall of Oct. 7 and all that followed still hangs heavily over Israel and indeed over the world. Our task is to recount those events but also to offer a vision of how the pain of the past can yield to the promise of the future. The history of Moses leads to the vision of Isaiah; the destruction of the Temple presages the birth of the Messiah; the years of diaspora lead to the declaration of Independence; and we pray and work to ensure that the agonies of Oct. 7 and the war will impel us to a new vision of a strong and safe Israel and Jewish people, in a more peaceful world.

After the final campaign east of the Jordan river, the nation is ready to advance into Israel and enter the Promised Land.

But there are two, eventually two-and-a-half, tribes that want to stay in the land they have recently conquered. They recognize the delicacy of the request. Israel is the Promised Land and they are willingly absenting themselves. What follows is a subtle but beautiful example of what it is to ask, and what it means to listen.

The Gadites and Reubenites approach Moses, Eliezer the priest, and the chieftains of the community (Numbers 32:2). We are told, “And they said.” This is followed by a recounting of the names of the lands they have conquered and the information that this land is “cattle country and your servants have cattle.”

The next word (ibid. 32:5) is “Vayomru” – and they said. The text continues, “It would be a favor to us if this land were given to us….” Why is “and they said” repeated twice in the same speech?

Ibn Ezra (d. 1167) says repetition is to remind us that they are still talking. But other speeches in the Torah do not repeat, “And they said.” It also fails to explain a significant feature of the text – the letter samech in the Hebrew separates the two phrases. Why should there be a break here in the middle of a speech?

Abravanel (d. 1508), who served in the government of Ferdinand and Isabella and was doubtless involved in many negotiations, offers a deep explanation that reflects his experience.

Abravanel notes that the opening of the speech is a sort of veiled request. They are saying – you know, we have a lot of cattle, and this land is perfect cattle land. Then they fall silent. The tribes are hoping that Moses will himself come up with the idea – why, then, you should just stay here! They are trying to escape the responsibility of their own decision.

The samech, says Abravanel, represents Moses’s silence. “And they said” is added again because after the silence they resume speaking and this time make the request explicit.

Moses then reminds the tribes of the struggles of the past. They promise to fight until all of Israel is secure before they return across the Jordan. Under those conditions, they are allowed to keep the land.

Moses demonstrates how to listen and demand responsibility of the questioner. But more important, the exchange emphasizes that we who remain outside the land must work to ensure the safety of those who dwell there.

After Oct. 7, we understand Moses’ silence in a new way. We too passionately promise to aid our sisters and brothers in Eretz Yisrael, as our ancestors did on the plains of Moab.

When I was in college, I studied for a year abroad in Scotland. There I met an English student named Justin who told me, quite plainly, that he had never liked Jews. When I asked him why, he explained that his father, whom he revered, had always disliked Jews. I still remember Justin’s face as he told me that he just could not come to grips with the idea that his father could be wrong.

In this week’s parasha, we come across a strange verse inserted in the genealogical lists of which the Torah is so fond. Suddenly in recounting the fate of Korach, who rebelled against Moses, the text says, “The sons of Korach did not die.”

Korach was punished with death, but what does the text mean when it specifies that his sons did not die? There are two major lines of interpretation. One suggests that his sons carried on the tradition of arguing with Moses, rebelling against God’s authority, and generally making trouble. In every age, these commentators assert, people will arise who will embody the spirit of Korach. They will carry the hatred of their parents to a new generation.

Other commentators take the opposite approach. They note that some of the Psalms (42, 44-49, 84, 85, 87, 88) are labeled, “Of the sons of Korach.” They believe that these children overcame the legacy of their father and turned to God. Even though they grew up in a home dominated by animosity, they rose above the early inculcation of hatred.

In our battle today against antisemitism and other forms of bigotry, we face the same division. Most people inherit the prejudices of their parents. Some do little or nothing to unlearn the hate they have been taught. But others, as in the second interpretation of Korach’s sons, recognize that the world does not have to be that way, that people can grow past their prejudices, that disdain is not destiny.

The Mishna teaches us (Pirke Avoth 5:20) that arguments like Korach’s, which are not for the sake of heaven, will not endure. This is a hopeful message. It means that even the children who grow up in an atmosphere of contention and hatred can overcome it. Our task is to reach out and show people another way. I lost touch with Justin, but I’d like to think that getting to know Jews helped him recognize that the sons of Korach can sing a new song.

Tuesday is the the 17th day of the month of Tammuz. For many Jews this date holds no significance, but in Jewish history and observance, it matters a lot. And I recently had two experiences that reminded me anew why this day is so significant.

Five calamities are said to have occurred on that date, the most important being the Romans breaching of the outer walls of the Jerusalem. Three weeks later, the Temple was destroyed, a catastrophe commemorated by Tisha B’av. The 17th of Tammuz is a minor fast day. Why should we fast for the beginning of the end of sovereignty two thousand years ago?

On a recent visit to Israel, I toured the soon-to-be-opened National Campus for the Archeology of Israel. This remarkable new building will hold and display some of the most important archeological treasures in Israel and indeed in the world. Recently uncovered were intact Roman swords, unique in the world, with scabbard from wood and handle of leather and blades still strong. Found in a cave in the Judean hills, they were taken by Jewish rebels from Roman soldiers and hidden for the revolt; and you can see them before your eyes.

Later that day, I flew up to the Technion, Israel’s premier institute of science and technology. There I met with several remarkable students, all in their twenties. Each of them has lost months from study to serve on the front lines in Gaza and the North. They have buried their friends and seen them injured. One, who lived with his family in a border kibbutz barely escaped on Oct. 7 with his family.

These brilliant young men and women, who dream of innovating in computer science and cancer research and aerospace engineering, are spending their time carrying rifles, the modern equivalent of swords, into battle to protect the land they love. If you ask why the ADL fights against hate, we do it in part for them.

Rebels trying to take back their land from the Romans two thousand years ago; students trying to protect their land from terrorists today. The line of Jewish love for the land is unbroken as is the willingness of our people to sacrifice for safety and sovereignty.

As I flew back from Haifa along the coast and saw Roman amphitheaters and crusader ruins, I thought about the 17th of Tammuz. And about October 7th. This Tuesday, whether you fast or not, spare a thought and a prayer for those who fought thousands of years ago and those who fight today. Am Yisrael Chai.

The Israelites have been wandering for a long time. Why does the rebellion of Korach occur now in the biblical story?

Rabbi Baruch Epstein, the author of Torah Temimah, in his commentary Tosefet Bracha, explains: There were always dissatisfactions, but the people held them in check for they had a great expectation. They were about to enter the land. In last week’s Torah portion, however, the spies returned with their evil report. God’s wrath was inflamed and God spoke through Moses.

“In this very desert shall your carcasses fall. Of all you who were recorded in your various lists from age 20 and above, you who have muttered against Me, not one shall enter the land that I swore to you, save Caleb son of Jephuneh and Joshua son of Nun.” (Numbers 14:29-30.) They will not enter the land as they had hoped.

Hope deferred, Proverbs teaches, makes the heart sick. (Proverbs 13:12). The disappointment led the Israelites to push against the leadership of Moses.

In his famous poem “Harlem,” Langston Hughes asks what happens to a dream deferred:

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore
– And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over
– Like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
Like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

The dream of going into the land was not only deferred but denied for the Israelites. And as the poet teaches, it explodes. This linkage also helps explain, writes R. Epstein, the answer to Rashi’s question. Rashi asks why the Torah places the story of the spies and the story of the rebellion back to back, since it is a scriptural principle not to juxtapose two catastrophes. Rabbi Epstein’s answer is that one essentially caused the other.

Part of the heartbreak of the current war is to see the hope of peace snatched repeatedly throughout Israel’s history. So often we had thought peace might be within reach, only to see it violently denied. But like the Israelites who did eventually enter the land we have to renew hope, despite discouragement, and work anew toward peace.

Rabbi Abraham Twerski recounts how his parents used to discipline him. They would not say, “You are not good.” They would not even say, “What you did is not good.” Rather, explains Rabbi Twerski, they would say, “What you did is not worthy of you.”

This is the Jewish way. First, you affirm the essential dignity of the human being and only then may one criticize. The Torah is filled with the misdeeds and depredations of Israel and the surrounding nations. But what is the first statement about human beings? That we are all in the image of God. Dignity first.

When in this week’s Torah portion the spies enter the land of Israel, ten of them return believing that the land is beyond their grasp. They have been so beaten down by the experience of slavery and the difficulties of the wilderness that they forget their own worthiness. Only two of the spies, Caleb and Joshua, remember the lesson of Sinai: a people that merited standing before God need not cower or believe themselves unfit.

Joshua was originally called Hoshea and his name was changed from Hoshea to Y’hoshua. The addition of a yud, which represents God’s name, was added to the man who would become leader of Israel after Moses. Therefore Joshua only had to recall his own name to recognize that he was in God’s image.

The Rabbis teach us something beautiful and poignant about that “yud.” Where did it come from? Sarah was originally Sarai. God took the yud from her name and replaced it with a heh, which is also a reminder of God. Then God gave the now-extra yud to Joshua. This beautiful midrash also has a serious message: it reminds us that knowledge of the image of God is transferable. Parents can teach it to their children, and we can teach it to one another. Our essential endowment remains, even when we do not recognize it ourselves.

When we do remember it, however, we diminish hate and make the world a better place. Every human being is in the image of God. Dignity first.

The title word of the book Bamidbar (In the Wilderness) is connected by rabbinic tradition with dibur (speech). The book and the word intertwine; portable cultures rely on words.

The desert brings a range of speech: First, there is the speech of complaint, the ancient kvetch. The Israelites are unhappy with the manna and demand meat. According to the Rabbis, the manna could taste like whatever one wished, so why would they complain? An acute suggestion from R. Jonathan Eybeschutz explains that everyone collected the manna equally. Therefore, no one could be better than his or her neighbors. They claimed to be upset about food, but what really bothered them, even in the desert, was social status.

The other instance of social status masquerading as complaint in the parasha is the gossip of Aaron and Miriam about Moses’s wife. For right after the complaint about his wife (12:1) they said, “Has the Lord spoken only through Moses? Has he not spoken through us as well?” Behnd it sound echoes of: “Mother always liked you best.”

This illustrates a reality about gossip. People rarely gossip about those they consider their social inferiors. Employers do not gossip about employees, but employees do about employers. Part of gossip is reducing the status, moral or social, of the one derided. Once again, as with the manna, negative speech is about social status.

Then there is the unelaborated but important speech of Eldad and Medad, two men who are prophesying in the camp.

In response, Joshua complains that the two are offering prophecies. Moses gives a famous answer wishing that all God’s children would be prophets. This is the speech of humility.

We just celebrated Shavuot, when we rejoice in the giving of God’s words. The words of human beings can also change the world.

Now that Israel has received the words of God at Sinai, their education will be in the use of words to uplift, not to destroy. We cannot achieve prophecy, but we can aspire to decency. We can speak words of kindness and love, not of hate. For life and death, as Proverbs teaches us, is in the power of the tongue.

The Israelites stood at Sinai. There was thunder and lightning and the sense that something epochal in history was unfolding. To this very day, what is called the revelation at Sinai is central to Jewish tradition and the ten commandments are central to the world. What precisely was revealed that made so much of a difference?

There are many ways to answer this question, but let me suggest one: In the ancient world, as we see when we read Homer or other myths, how the gods felt about you depended upon how you treated them. Give them what they want and you will be favored.

The first part of the ten commandments seem to follow the same pattern – there is one God, do not make other images of God, and so forth. But suddenly, it shifts to how one treats parents, how we treat those we love, how we treat our neighbor. The great revelation becomes clear: God does not only care about our attitude toward God; God cares how we treat one another.

The ten commandments were given in the desert, and not in Israel, teach our sages, because they are for everyone to hear, not only for Jews. The great principle that is born at Sinai has become so fundamental we barely realize that it had to be born into an unwilling world: all people are in God’s image and honoring that in one another is the most important way to honor God.

Shavuot is not a holiday with the same kind of memorable signs that characterize Passover or Sukkot. We do not have a Seder or a Sukkah. The primary custom associated with Sukkot is to stay up late and study. If Passover is about freedom and Sukkot about appreciation, then we might say Shavuot is about understanding. Into a world of savagery and indifference, where human beings were exploitable commodities, Judaism taught a new understanding, born at Sinai. Our efforts to combat hate in the modern world are an advancement of this understanding: “You should love your neighbor as yourself for I am the Lord (Lev 19:18).” So revolutionary an idea takes thousands of years to fully grasp, and we are still trying. On this Shavuot, we commit ourselves to understand anew and to struggle for the recognition that kindness to human beings is a reflection of our gratitude to the One who created us. Chag Sameach.

Anti-Memoirs, the autobiography of the French writer, adventurer, and critic André Malraux, begins with a very pointed story. During the war, Malraux once escaped the Germans in the company of a parish priest. When the two cross paths years later, Malraux asks his former companion what he has learned about human nature from a decade and more of hearing personal confessions. Two things, the priest replies. First, that people are much unhappier than one would think; second, “there is no such thing as a grownup.”

The first verse of the book of Numbers is: “The Lord spoke to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai.” In giving the book its Hebrew name, Bamidbar (in the wilderness), this opening sentence reminds us that the Torah is a tale of the wilderness.

The setting conveys the first lesson of Malraux’s priest, that the world is itself often a place of unhappiness. Judaism is a tradition to be lived and observed amid all of life’s difficulties and harshness. Even when the Israelites enter the land, they won’t find a perfect, blissful environment. They must be prepared.

Why do we need so rich and wise a tradition? Here we come to the second lesson of Malraux’s priest: there are no grownups.

The language of Scripture testifies to this message by consistently calling the people “the children of Israel.” That is true in a literal sense: they are the descendants of Jacob, who is also called Israel. Also, they act like children: rebelling, refusing, ungrateful, self-centered, often immature—and thus constantly in need of education and moral guidance.

In focusing on the infancy of Israel’s collective history, the Torah tells us that all human beings are children of the wilderness. Seen in this light, the book of Numbers is a story of moral education, and one whose lessons can be applied to anyone’s quest for self-betterment.

From the moment humanity steps out of Eden, the Torah makes clear its unremitting realism about our condition, telling us time and again that pain is inevitable and that growth is at once demanding and essential. In the book of Numbers we are also shown the conditions that make the journey bearable and sacred: the existence of a map through the wilderness that we call the Torah and a Guide, our Creator, to point the way.