Let me ask you a question:  do Jews believe in KARMA?  I assume that everyone knows what karma is; I suppose another way of putting it is “what goes around comes around.”   Is that idea part of Judaism?  I may do a little sermon about the concept some day, but, for now, I just want to explore the idea in relation to this week’s parsha, Vayishlach.
            I ask about karma because in Vayishlach we see that Jacob kind of gets what he deserves.  Remember that he has stolen his brother’s birthright. He has tricked his father into giving him the blessing that his father had intended for Esav, the son Isaac prefers.  Even his name tells us that he’s flawed—YAAKOV can mean HEEL but it can also mean CROOKED. 
            So, there is no question that Jacob has some growing up to do, even if this is all part of God’s divine plan.  But, as we know, he does get his comeuppance.  He has to flee from his home. He ends up being tricked by Laban and forced to marry the daughter he does not love. He works for more than 14 years to get the woman of his dreams. And he is finally driven to sneak away—once again—under cover of the night with all his property, his children, and his wives.
            So maybe that’s karma. Payback for all the deception he used against his brother and his father. But let’s not forget that there’s another part to this powerful narrative. Remember that, before meeting up with his brother Esau, Jacob is left alone by the stream of Jabbok. There he wrestles with a man all night long. When morning comes the man asks to leave, and Jacob tells him, not until you bless me. The man says to Jacob, “Your name shall no longer be Jacob but Israel, for you have striven with beings divine and human and have prevailed.” The name Israel means “wrestles with God.” Jacob has a new name, and an injury to his sciatic nerve that will cause him to limp for the rest of his life.
            Maybe that’s another form of karma.  But what happens when Jacob’s name is NO LONGER JACOB, but Israel? After wrestling with the man—and some say that the “man” was really GOD, or really an angel, or perhaps even Jacob wrestling with HIMSELF—what happens after this dramatic contest is that Jacob now knows that he has not been the kind of person worthy of the covenant God promised him. He has been crooked, and he needs to become a new self. He changes.
            Is that KARMA?  Maybe. But I think that, regardless of what you call Jacob’s transformation, this chapter of Breishit teaches us that people can change. WE CAN CHANGE. We tend to focus on that lesson during the High Holidays, but the lesson itself is right here in this week’s reading. Any one of us can wrestle with our demons and come out a better, less crooked person. That struggle is definitely painful, and Israel has the limp to prove it. The limp that reminds him—and us—of how far we have come, but also of where we have been.  The limp that lets us know that change is hard and painful and leaves scars, but it is something that we survive. And, ultimately, it is worth it.

Rabbi David Grossman
Rabbi Joshua Grossman

There is a marked contrast set up by two similar events in the book of Braishis. We read

this week in Vayeitzei about Jacob having a dream that is really a vision from God. He
sees a ladder stretching, Midrash tells us, from his home in Beersheva to the place he was
sleeping, Mount Moriah, site of the Akeida and future home to the Holy Temples in
Jerusalem. There are angels ascending and descending from the ladder, proving, the
Rabbi’s tell us, that Jacob was being guarded by heavenly creatures during his travels.
The sages tell us that because the first angels are going up the ladder, they must have
been with Jacob all along. The ones coming down are arriving to take up the guard duty
that is being passed to them from the first set of angels. And, one might ask, what about
the time that Jacob was unguarded, the time in between the two sets of angels? At that
time, our commentaries state, Jacob was being guarded by God Himself. The message
from God then is given to Jacob. It is a reiteration of the covenant given to his father and
grandfather; God will be blessing the fledging Jewish nation and will give to them the
land upon which Jacob is sleeping. God will be with him wherever he goes.
This metaphor of Divine protection seems so comforting to me. From Jacob’s dream,
perhaps we can all conclude that we are under the shelter of God’s wings.
Another story of a dream is related later on, in Parshat Miketz. Pharaoh is sleeping and
has a vision from God. The dream is about seven lean cows and fat cows, a warning to
the king about impending doom to his country. Of course, as we know, it would take
Joseph to interpret the puzzling metaphor.
Besides the obvious differences in tone of each dream, there is another telling difference
between the two narratives. When Pharoah awakened from his sleep, the Torah relates
that he went back to sleep. What a departure from Jacob’s reaction to his dream! The
Torah tells us in Vayeitzei that when he awakens, he is immediately aware of the
Presence of God and dedicates himself to Divine service. Quite different than turning
over and going back to sleep.
The Baal Shem Tov, the first Chassidic master, quoted the Talmud that each day a
Heavenly voice emanates from the mountain of Sinai urging people to make teshuvah, to
return to the mitzvot. “Of what use is this voice,” asked the Baal Shem Tov, “since no
one has ever attested to hearing it?”
He then explained that although this voice is physically inaudible to the human ear, it is
heard by the neshamah, the soul. The moments that we are moved to do teshuvah are due
to the neshamah perceiving the voice from Sinai.
As we see from the two reactions to a call from God, there can be two results. We can
ignore the call and go back to the hibernation of ingrained habits, or we can emulate
Jacob and rouse ourselves to an awakened state and take constructive action.
The Divine voice calls to us. Let us heed the call.


Rabbi David Grossman
Rabbi Joshua Grossman

Last week’s parsha ended with the death of Abraham, and the long line of descendants from Ishmael, who lived to be 137 years old. There is also a brief mention of Isaac—that he was blessed by God after his father’s death and that he settled near Beer-lahai-roi.  So he’s sandwiched between his father and his brother.

And he doesn’t do much better in this week’s parsha, TOLDOT.  It opens:

יטוְאֵ֛לֶּה תּֽוֹלְדֹ֥ת יִצְחָ֖ק בֶּן־אַבְרָהָ֑ם אַבְרָהָ֖ם הוֹלִ֥יד אֶת־יִצְחָֽק:



“This is the story of Isaac, son of Abraham.  Abraham begot Isaac.”  And suddenly Isaac is 40 years old and living his life.

As the Torah recounts that life, you might begin to have a real sense of déjà vu.  Like Abraham, Isaac digs the same wells. Like Abraham, Isaac lies about his wife being his sister. Like Abraham, Isaac has a wife who has difficulty conceiving, and then has boys who are jealous rivals.  So those opening lines of the parsha gain more significance.  The Torah seems to be telling us that what matters is Isaac’s lineage. He may not be much of an original thinker or doer—but he has yiches, an inheritance,  from his father.  The lines that open Toldot seem to be offering us a circle—Isaac, son of Abraham, Abraham, father of Isaac.  

Isaac, as the Eytz Hayyim notes, is the sole heir of Abraham.  Though the passage may seem redundant—of course we know that Isaac is the son of Abraham—but here the emphasis makes clear that Isaac is the ONLY successor to Abraham.  Regardless of what he accomplishes, and regardless of how unoriginal his life seems to be, Isaac is going to make possible the survival of the Jewish people.

Rabbi David Grossman
Rabbi Joshua Grossman

​The Parsha this week, Chayai Srah, gives us many of our traditions surrounding end of life, mourning and respect for our departed, including making sure that someone has a respectful burial and period of mourning.  But, apart from these issues, I want to ask a question which you may not have considered lately. Or ever.  ARE JEWS ALLOWED TO CELEBRATE THANKSGIVING?

          I know—do we really have to analyze everything? Aren’t we on safe ground with Thanksgiving? Maybe Halloween is iffy, but isn’t Thanksgiving the ultimate secular holiday? Well, it’s not as clear as you might think.  It turns out that the Thanksgiving holiday has been a source of debate for years in the Jewish community.

          First, we probably realize that the Thanksgiving holiday mirrors, in many ways, the festival of Sukkot.  It is, like Sukkot, based on ancient harvest feasts that were so typical of agrarian societies.  In 1621, 90 Native Americans and 50 Pilgrims sat together to eat a meal and to thank God for their survival under truly awful conditions.  The holiday was adopted as a national holiday in 1789, when George Washington was President. Some people saw Thanksgiving as a religious holiday; if that’s the case, then Jews would certainly not be able to participate in the celebration. But most people today maintain that Thanksgiving is a completely secular holiday. So why is there still a controversy?

          Well, the basis for the controversy comes from a line from Vayikra, Leviticus, that reads as follows:  God commands Moshe:  “You shall not copy the practices of the land of Egypt where you dwelt, or the land of Canaan to which I am taking you; nor shall you follow their laws.”  So some scholars argue that we are forbidden to do anything that mirrors or imitates Gentile society. In other words, we are forbidden not only to avoid idolatrous customs but also anything that seems to copy customs of non-Jews.  If that’s the case, then it would seem that Thanksgiving would be out of the picture. 

          Rabbis continue to disagree about this practice, though most now say that Thanksgiving is permitted for Jews.  One scholar, a Rabbi Feinstein, pronounced that we are allowed to celebrate Thanksgiving as long as no songs are sung.  Another, Rabbi Hutner, argued that Thanksgiving must be forbidden to Jews because the day is based on the Christian calendar, and that any holiday based on the Christian calendar is off limits for Jews.  Some scholars argue that it’s not only idolatrous customs that are forbidden but also customs that are “foolish.” I guess I don’t see Thanksgiving as foolish, so I’m not sure how it applies. And if “foolish” is forbidden, what do we do with PURIM?

          However you see this issue, I think that this is another example where Jews have so many different perspectives, even on something that seems pretty straightforward at first. But I like the idea of celebrating the holiday and making it our own. Maybe that means a kosher turkey. Maybe that means we bench after the meal. Maybe that means that we open our doors to people who have nowhere else to go. All of these are so Jewish and can give ANY holiday our own unique imprint. I will mention one idea that I read about and really liked: One Jewish writer suggested that we treat the Friday after Thanksgiving as a day of LISTENING rather than a day of shopping. This also can  become a family tradition that has its roots in our history. Perhaps a remembrance of those who are no longer with us and no longer at our Thanksgiving table can be the order of the day. I can’t imagine a more Jewish way to celebrate a life and a holiday.


Rabbi David Grossman
Rabbi Joshua Grossman

​You might be surprised to learn that while most doctors don't make house calls these days, apparently God still does. That's the lesson that we learn from the Torah portion, Parshat Vayerah.  

Any discussion of the mitzvah of Bikkur Holim, visiting the sick, begins with Genesis, chapter 18.  While the Torah doesn't specifically mention this Mitzvah, this commandment, it does teach us this lesson by example.  The opening words of the Parshah are "Vayerah Adonai elav - And the Lord appeared to Abraham."  What a dramatic statement this is!  Elsewhere God speaks to Abraham, he calls on him, but He never "appears" to him.  As our above-the-line text mentions, this is the rare occasion when God appears without any formal act or worship or the building of an altar. Why then, did God choose to appear to Abraham at this particular moment in time?  

This story, we're told, is the basis of an important but oft-forgotten Mitzvah – Bikkur Holim, visiting the sick. The sages point out that last week's Torah portion ends with Abraham's circumcision at the tender age of ninety-nine.  As you know, Abraham has done this circumcision himself, and he’s done (or overseen) the circumcision of all the males of his extended family—including Ishmael, who was 13 years old at the time, and all the household slaves.  As Parshat Vayerah opens, Abraham is recovering from his self-inflicted surgery. God appears to him at this moment, we are told, in order to comfort him as recuperates.  The sages teach us that Bikkur Holim is not just a nice thing to do.  Bikkur Holim is nothing less than an imitation of what God does.  Just as God visits the sick, we must do the same.

As we think about a sick visit from God—THIS sick visit from God—we may be noticing that something we might expect DOES NOT happen.  It seems strange, doesn’t it, that, despite the fact that God visits our forefather Abraham, the Torah says nothing about God curing him or lessening his pain.  If the Rabbis were right -- that God appeared at Abraham's tent during his recovery from surgery, then one would have expected nothing less than a miracle from "Rofey Kol Basar," "the Healer of all Flesh,"  as our tradition calls God.

So, what's the point of God's house call, if not to heal Abraham?  Jewish tradition teaches us that the purpose of Bikkur Holim is to provide the patient with the healing that precedes the cure. Nature will follow its own course, and we cannot control that course.  Medicine and therapy, obviously, can help. And we must allow doctors and nurses to do their jobs.  But visitors bring something equally important to the sick.  A visitor brings the healing power of love.  She has the ability to bring caring and empathy into the sick room.  Like God, the visitor reminds the patient that he is created in the image of God.  The visitor reaffirms the humanity of the patient at a time when the patient may feel more like a statistic or a diagnosis than a human being.  

Let us remember this Mitzvah to fulfill it as often as we can. 

Rabbi David Grossman
Rabbi Joshua Grossman

We are told that our father Abraham underwent ten tests over the course of his lifetime, and that he passed all ten tests. Though there is no consensus on what those ten tests were, we do know that the first was at Ur Kasdim, where Abram (as he was then known) was thrown into a fiery pit for his refusal to pay homage to the idols of that society.  He survived that furnace, and emerged not only physically unharmed but also committed to his monotheism. In addition, we know that the second test Abram faced was God’s command to LECH LECHA, to “go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.” 
As we know, he passes that test as well.
So why do we hear so much more about the second test than the first? In fact, the Torah is almost totally silent on the first test, the only mention being a quick reference in Lech Lecha to UR.  It would seem that surviving a fiery furnace would warrant more attention than a journey, a departure from one’s home.  And yet the fiery furnace is barely mentioned and comes to us mostly through midrash.  Why?
One scholar believes that the trial at Ur Kasdim was barely mentioned because that experience was of Abram’s own choosing. He was an iconoclast in his own day and time, and his devotion to monotheism required that he be willing to give up his life for his belief. On the other hand, this scholar claims, the command to “go forth” comes directly from God, and that makes that test even more important because it was divine. Therefore, it is worthy of more time in our text.
I want to propose a slightly different reason.  I think it’s clear that being willing to stand in a fiery furnace is a BIG test.  I’m not sure too many of us could do it!  But that was a once-in-a-lifetime event, and it was GLAMOROUS. A little like the trials of Hercules or some other spectacular super-hero.  In contrast, the journey that Abraham undertakes is one that is on-going, and not the least bit glamorous.  In fact, he doesn’t even know where he is going—God tells him “go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.” Now there’s faith! No sense of what that end destination might be. And the Torah tells us, “And Abram went forth as the Lord had commanded him.”   
Think about how hard it is to leave one’s childhood home. No matter how much we might resist the strictures of our parents and older adults, there is a certain safety in being someone’s child and in remaining a child. There is safety in what we know, in being cared for. No doubt Abram felt that safety as well, even though he must have hated living in a land of idolaters. 
But that isn’t all. Abram doesn’t simply leave his childhood home. He leaves without any knowledge of what his destination might be. That journey is one of seeking, not one of exile (like Adam and Eve), and the mystery of that journey demanded enormous faith of Abram. 
So much of life is like this, isn’t it? Life often feels like a journey whose end is uncertain, where even the mileposts along the way might not be marked for us. Where we are headed somewhere, and we often don’t know exactly where. Where we might have even less information than Abram did—remember that God tells him that he and his descendents will be blessed, and that his enemies will be cursed.
Unlike Abram, we never know whether blessings or curses follow us as we journey on our way. So much of that journey requires a leap of faith, a trust that we will be OK.  And, often, if we try to control our circumstances, the “best-laid plans” often go awry—we end up realizing that the more we try to exercise control, the less control we actually have. 
Maybe some of you have read or heard about some of the predictions people have made about the future.  For example, Charlie Chaplin once said that “the cinema is little more than a fad. People want the flesh and blood of the stage.”  Margaret Thatcher once said, “A woman will never be prime minister during my lifetime.”  Marconi, famous for his invention of the radio, thought that radios would make warfare impossible.  Economist Irving Fiske predicted that “stock prices have reached what looks like a permanently high plateau.” Anyone want to guess what year that was?  Yes, it was 1929, actually THREE DAYS before the market crashed.  Popular Mechanics in 1959 said that computers might some day weigh less than 1.5 TONS.   And my personal favorite:  in 1924, Science and Invention Magazine predicted that there would soon be a MATING machine that you and your partner could be hooked into to determine if you’re compatible.
Dealing with mystery is touch and challenging. Under some circumstances, it can be terrifying. I don’t want to minimize that reality. But, sometimes, when we open ourselves up to the mystery of the future, we find that we are truly blessed in ways that we did not or could not imagine.
Let us pray that we can have the faith, like our father Abraham, to trust the future and to go forth . . . 

Rabbi David Grossman
Rabbi Joshua Grossman

Some say that Noach himself took care of the wild beasts.  His sons: Shem was in charge of domestic animals; Cham over the birds; and Yephet over reptiles.  All of them shared in caring for the other creatures.  For twelve months they had to remain among wild beasts and snakes.  One may logically ask what carnivorous beasts such as lions ate while they were in the Ark.  But when no meat is available, even carnivores can be induced to eat specially prepared vegetarian foods.  The Abravanel points out that there was a decree from God that even carnivores be vegetarians in order to make them less ferocious.  There is a different opinion whereby the contention is made that carnivorous animals were sustained by a special radiation that God had prepared for this purpose.  This is a Midrashic interpretation brought down in the Talmud.  The story was related that Avraham’s servant Eliezer met Shem, the son of Noach, and asked him about life in the Ark.  Shem had replied: “It was very, very hard.  Some animals would eat only by day, while others would feed in the middle of the night, and in all twelve months that we were in the Ark we never got to close our eyes.”

God made promises to Noach when he left the Ark. When Noach and his children left the Ark they looked out and saw the entire world destroyed.  It was desolate and empty with nothing left standing.  They began to weep as they gazed on this cataclysm.  They had themselves suffered during the Flood and had lost many friends and relatives.  They had three major concerns.  First, since only Noach and his family had survived they were very much afraid of the wild animals.  They were vastly outnumbered by the animals and susceptible to the pack.  Second, they were afraid that they would not have food to eat.  The earth was completely desolate.  Not a single plant or tree had survived the Flood.  Even though Noach had taken along all kinds of seeds in the Ark to replenish the world, they would require time to grow.  They were therefore in great danger of starvation.  The Abravanel points out that the divine permission to eat meat was a necessity in order to avoid starvation since there was no vegetation to feed from.  The third concern that Noach and his family had was about strife among the brothers.  There was fear that one might kill another like Cain killed Abel, since there were no authorities to instill respect for law and order.  Therefore all the survivors decided not to have any children.  God told them not to worry about these three things, that all had been taken care of.  Now they would be able to be fruitful, multiply, have children, forget about the past, and develop the future.


Rabbi David Grossman
Rabbi Joshua Grossman

We all have known people who could endow another with a nickname that stuck.  Perhaps, you are such a person, or have been the recipient of such a person.  A namer must recognize the essence of the person being named, and be able to have the nickname reflect this core.  If it doesn’t, the nickname will not stick.

Have you ever considered the power of a name?  When parents name a child, they hope that it will describe their boy or girl. Perhaps, the name belonged to a departed member of the family, and the parents are trying to perpetuate the values of that person.  

When my father fell ill as a boy, he was given an extra name, a middle name.  This was done to confound the Malach HaMawvet, the Angel of Death. By calling him by a slightly different name, his mother was hoping to alter his fate.  

When the relatively new crime of identity theft occurs, the victims speak about not only their pecuniary loss, but the eerie feeling that someone, somewhere, without their approval, is acting in their name. Their very identity, the way they perceive themselves, is threatened by the unauthorized use of their name.

We can only imagine the feeling of those who have been consigned to the Department of Justice’s Witness Protection Program.  Not only must they change their location and even sometimes their appearance, they must leave also their name behind.  I recall Mr. Homer Simpson undergoing this transformation, and the baseball hat he wore with the words, Witness Protection Program, proudly emblazoned on the visor!

Have you ever met a person by the very same name as you, first and last?  I recently did, and felt strange.  Was this person like me, were we linked in some way beyond our names? I must admit that I felt a bit diminished to have my namesake right there-almost like I was less special. I wonder if he felt the same. 

So, what is the power of a name, and from where does it derive?

In Breishis, we read about the first human, Adam.  God Himself gave him that name, based on the fact that he had been created from adama, earth, dust.  God’s charge to him was to tend the grounds of Eden and to hold dominion over all the living creatures.  Part of the job was to name all the animals.  We are told that Adam did so, endowing each living thing with a name that reflected their essence, their true nature.  

We can see by this biblical account that giving a name is power being exercised by the namer, and, if it is an apt name, it can be a statement about the person or animal being named. 

We have, from Torah, the familiar story of the creation of the first woman, someone to be a companion for Adam.  We see, interestingly, that she is nameless for the first part of the narrative.  After the pronouncement of the curses that will befall society because of their sin, toil by the sweat of his brow, an earth that will produce thorn and thistle, the pain of childbirth, and eventual death for all, Adam seems to take the dire news in stride.  In the verse immediately following God’s verdict, Adam does not lament his fate.  He continues developing civilization exactly where he left off.  He continued to classify all living things and naming them.  Then, he does one more thing:  He names his wife.  

“Adam called his wife Chava because she was the mother of all life.”  Is it suitable for Adam to name his wife Chava immediately following the curse of death? What are we to make of this message from the Torah?

Adam heard the curses directed at himself, his wife and humanity for eternity.  His reaction was not one of scorn or criticism.  He named his wife Chava, derived from the word for life.  He viewed the woman whom he had once blamed for his downfall with a different perspective.  He saw only the dawn of life, and named her so. His name for her is a triumph of hope over despair.  

After we experience tragedy and defeat, there is enough blame to share and spread.  Will we do that, or will we, like Adam, pick up the pieces and cherish the beauty of what is left?  OO’Varcharta B’Chaim.  As the Torah tells us, Choose life!

Rabbi David Grossman
Rabbi Joshua Grossman

Torah Reading:

Each year on Sukkot, we read these famous words of Ecclesiastes (Kohelet):

“A season is set for everything, a time for every experience under heaven. …a time for tearing down and a time for building up.” (Kohelet 3:1,3)

To speak of building during a holiday dedicated to erecting a temporary structure seems fitting. And yet, the order the ideas in this verse is at odds with our Sukkot experience. Surely, “a time for building up and a time for tearing down” would align more closely with sequence of the holiday. So why this order? And what exactly are “we tearing down and building up”?

The Torah portion for Shabbat Chol HaMo-ed Sukkot — Exodus 33:12-34:26 — can help us answer these questions. In this Torah portion, we are presented with a slice of a story — a short vignette of a significant moment in the history of the people of Israel that covers several key events. The portion begins with Moses’ request to “behold Your [God’s] Presence,” (Exodus 33:18), continues with the carving of the second set of tablets (Exodus 34:1), and concludes with a short summary of the three Pilgrimage Festivals (Exodus 34:18). At first glance, this somewhat disjointed section seems a strange fit for the Shabbat of Sukkot and appears to offer no answer to our questions about tearing down and building up. As we examine the narrative more closely, however, we realize that the story enacted in this text is indeed one of rebuilding — not of structures but of relationship.

In their original context, Exodus 33 and 34 occur in the aftermath of the sin of the Golden Calf. God is furious, Moses is distraught, and the people are in peril. Our small section is the coda to the entire episode — the events that transpire after Moses intercedes, God forgives, and the people are spared complete destruction. Here, God, Moses, and the people all try to move forward — to rebuild their relationship and their eternal covenant.

In just a few short verses, the Torah portion reveals a path to repair:  

Reassurance of God’s Presence: Moses asks God to lead the people and reveal God’s Presence (Exodus 33:12-18)
Granting a Second Chance: God commands Moses to write the second set of tablets (Exodus 34:1)
Restating the Terms of Relationship: God restates the conditions of the three Festivals (Exodus 34:18-26)
The incident of the Golden Calf creates a tear in the fabric of the relationship between God and the people of Israel. The postscript to this episode illuminates a process that leads to healing and restoration — a building up. May we all strive to rebuild the relationships in our lives that have fallen into disrepair.


Rabbi David Grossman
Rabbi Joshua Grossman

​In this week’s parsha, Ha’azinu, we see Moshe’s last words, and we also reach the moment of his death. God reminds him that he is not going to cross over into the Promised Land, but God also tells Moshe that he will allow him a look into that land. In fact, it’s pretty much the last lines of the parsha: “You may view the land from a distance, but you shall not enter it—the Land that I am giving to the Israelite people.” 

I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a punishment—to see something that you’ve yearned for your whole life but can’t have.  So, I’ll leave it to all of you to decide if God is being compassionate or being just a little bit more spiteful.  And God also reminds Moshe of WHY he is not allowed to enter Eretz Israel—along with Aaron, God says, you “both broke faith with me among the Israelite people; at the waters of Meribath-Kadesh in the wilderness of Zin, by failing to uphold My sanctity among the Israelite people.”  

I know many of us are bothered by what might seem like an extreme punishment.  God is taking from Moshe what had been his very purpose for existence---to reach the Promised Land.  How awful for Moshe that must have been!  And it’s even more complicated—we know that the Israelites are hardly a perfect people. Yet they are allowed to enter, and Moshe—the awnav, the teacher, the leader—is not.  Somehow it just doesn’t seem fair. And all over banging a rock!

I felt that way as well, and struggled with this part of the narrative. I mean, think about it:  Cain KILLS HIS BROTHER, and he’s only sent into exile.  Why would Moshe not be able to see the fruits of all of his labors?  Of more than 40 years of sacrifices for those stiff-necked people? But then, I started to think about this in a different way. I kept thinking about a metaphor of the circle, of the idea that we are commanded to draw big circles, big circles that become the stories of our lives. Not little scribbles but circles so large that we can’t see the entire circle. Circles so large that we just see an arc.

That’s what Moshe did.  He is, to use some of the words applied at times to Shimon Peres, a “magnificent failure.”  On some level, it makes sense that he doesn’t enter the Land of Milk and Honey because life doesn’t work that way. Life is always—God willing—full of incomplete projects and unfinished tasks.  Books not read, trips not taken, plans not completed, great great great grandchildren we’ll never meet.  But that doesn’t mean that we have not accomplished great things in our lives.  In fact, if we stop, if we are “complete,” then we have nothing to look forward to. If we stop moving, then we stop yearning, we stop striving for more.  

Moshe DID accomplish his life’s mission—he led the Jewish people back to their homeland.  He sees it from a distance, so he knows what they will likely experience.  He has blessed Joshua, and given him responsibility for this next stage in Jewish history. So, in part, this is a narrative about passing on the baton to new leadership and to new generations. Every good leader needs a succession plan, and Moshe—with God’s help—has found one.  But Ha’azinu, like everything else in the Torah, is also a more universal story, a story that speaks to all of us, not just leaders.   Ha’azinu tells us that we can take pride in our accomplishments, take pride in living our life passionately and with principle, even if we pass from this earth with our missions incomplete. Let us pray that we can all be “magnificent failures.”


Rabbi David Grossman
Rabbi Joshua Grossman