​This week we begin the last book of the Torah, Devarim, where we read Moshe’s speech to the Jewish people. That speech will take up pretty much the rest of the Torah. It’s rather ironic, considering that Moshe has always claimed to be a man of few words.  But he feels a sense of urgency—he knows that he will not be there to instruct the Israelites about how they should conduct themselves, once they’re in Eretz Israel.  Moshe knows that God will not allow him to enter the Promised Land.  I think we all understand that Moshe has good reason for this urgency.  The Israelites have repeatedly demonstrated a lack of faith, even when they have had Moshe’s instructions and one miracle after another. How can Moshe have any confidence that they will live a Torah-based life when he is no longer around to lead them, and God no longer provides them with everything they need to survive?  Miracles will cease, and hard reality will set in.  How will they meet that challenge?
I think we know the usual explanations for God’s refusal to allow Moses to enter Eretz Israel.  Most scholars cite the fact that Moshe struck the rock when he was supposed to speak to it.  So, his sin was disobedience.  And others cite Moshe’s WORDS just before he struck the rock as the reason.  Just before striking it, he exclaims: “Listen now, you rebels, must we bring you water out of this rock?” Commentators note that that little word “WE” seems to imply that Moshe, along with Aaron, is taking credit for the water and not giving it to God, who is the TRUE source of the miracle.
There are even some who argue that Moshe’s failure to reach the Promised Land is NOT a punishment. For example, many commentators (including Lord Rabbi Jonathon Sacks, z’l) offer a very practical reason for Moshe’s remaining behind: they say that Moshe’s style of leadership was wrong for the new generation of Jews, and that it was important for him to step aside so that Joshua could lead without being in the shadow of Moshe.  I also found another argument about why Moshe doesn’t make it to Eretz Israel. A website called “Reconstructionist Judaism” maintains that Moshe’s failure was NOT a punishment but rather a life lesson for all of us.  Here’s a short passage from that site:
Moses is a perfect representation of the regrets we all have at things we have not completed. Moses alone speaks to us as we envision him in his last moments, gazing at the never-to-be-attained. The image is poignant and understandable. Moses didn't fail to reach the Promised Land because of a punishment inflicted on him. He failed—if can be called a failure—because he was human. We are all Moses at our best, striving, going forward, hoping for but never attaining perfection.
I’m not sure which—if any—of these reasons might help to account for Moshe’s failure.  Perhaps we don’t even have to choose among these alternative explanations.  Each has merit.  But—bottom line—there is no question that our ancestors were imperfect—we don’t have Jewish saints—and we are imperfect as well.  Moshe behaves as we would probably behave, were we in the same situation. He is disappointed. He even asks God to change His mind and allow him to enter the Promised Land.  Like us, Moshe doesn’t have control over when his projects end, when we can no longer achieve our aspirations.  We know that Moshe does see the future—from a vantage point that God allows him, Moshe DOES see Eretz Israel. Is that enough?  Is that enough for any of us?  We just can’t know. 
Even without that knowledge, though, I think we can all agree on the importance of dreams.  Moshe was a man of dreams and aspirations. Without dreams, we have no hope. With dreams, we can always imagine something better, both for ourselves and for B’nai Israel.  And perhaps, like Moses,  our dreams are powerful enough to inspire another generation.  

This week’s Torah portion, Matot-Masei, includes long descriptions of battles the Israelites fight, and a recounting of all of the places where they sojourned on their journey from Egypt to the Promised Land. But I want to focus on the first part of Matot, which focuses on VOWS.  Much of this section describes when vows can be annulled and when they cannot, and we can discuss in our post-kiddush class why it is that women’s vows are treated differently from men’s. But here I want to think about vows themselves and why they matter.
Mattot opens with an injunction about the sanctity of our words:  “And Moses spoke to the heads of the tribes . . . if a man takes a vow . . . he shall not desecrate his word; whatever issues from his mouth he shall do . . .”.
Whatever issues from his mouth, he shall do.  That’s pretty unequivocal.
I’m sure you’ve all heard the terrible story of the king who vows that if his kingdom wins a battle, he will sacrifice the first thing that he sees when he returns from the war. And, of course, what is that first “THING” he sees?  It is his daughter. But he has made a vow and must go through with it.  Vows are not meant to be taken lightly.
Our word is our word. Promises are promises. And the words we utter are sacred and inviolate. If we disregard what we say, we have profaned and desecrated our words. That is why some people are careful to add the words bli neder—“without vowing”—whenever they say something that might be construed as a vow.  That means that, should they be prevented from fulfilling what they expressed their intention to do, this would not constitute the grave offense of violating a vow. This, of course, in no way diminishes the regard we hold for our words, and the need to carry out one’s promises unless we are incapable for some reason of doing so.
Remember the old saying, “sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me”?  Doesn’t that saying sound naïve to us today? Because we know that names—words--CAN hurt and DO hurt.  We see evidence of that every day in stories about bullying, and, in many cases of the disastrous consequences of that behavior.  It used to be that kids were cruel to other kids in school or on the playground. But then you went home and could escape from the nastiness. But today, the omnipresence of the internet means that children—and, in some cases, adults—can never escape verbal cruelty.  This phenomenon has become so pervasive that there are private and governmental organizations created to try to educate the public and stop the behavior.
Why does this matter?
Because we know that words have POWER. They have the power to hurt and the power to heal.  In our Chumasch, Rabbi Kushner in the below-the-line commentary mentions that human beings are the only animals to be able to use language. I think that that view has now been debunked—we know that lots of other animals—including chimpanzees and maybe even dolphins—are capable of language. But Kushner also notes that humans are the only animals whose language can make words HOLY.   And that is something we can all probably agree with.  But I would also add that human beings are the only animals that can make words PROFANE.  UNHOLY.
As we approach the High Holidays, we think of the words of Kol Nidre, where we declare that any promises to God that we make and are unable to keep in the New Year are publicly retracted and should not be held against us. Though those words have been turned against us by our detractors, there is in those words the recognition that we are fallible and that there may be good reasons outside of our control why we cannot keep our promises. As we approach the High Holidays, let us pray that we might live in an orderly world where promises can be kept, where words are a source of healing and comfort, and where our vows reflect what is best in each of us.
AND LET US SAY AMEN.  

​ This week’s parsha has been called “the parsha of just deserts,” because in it we see many examples of people getting what they have deserved, getting what their actions have led to. One, which we’ll talk about more tomorrow, deals with the daughters of Tzelafchad, who asked that they be permitted to inherit a share in the land of Israel that would have gone to their father, had he not died. This is an incredible moment in the Torah for many reasons. It shows a group of young women asserting themselves, and voicing what they believe is their righteous perspective. It shows Moshe, usually the arbiter of such questions, seeking God’s advice on this question. It shows God as a righteous judge who hears all claims, including (and maybe especially) those of the underdog. And, finally, in a very practical sense, it also makes clear that, in Jewish law, women can inherit the estate of their father. I know that the circumstances are pretty narrow, but even with that, it’s a pretty radical move for the time.
But Rashi sees something else in this passage. For Rashi, Moshe has a little twinge of jealousy toward his brother Aaron. Can you guess why? Rashi believes that Moshe is jealous because Aaron’s children will inherit his priesthood but that Moshe’s children will not LIKEWISE inherit his leadership role.  Here’s what Rashi says: “When Moses heard God tell him to give the inheritance of Tzelafchad to his daughters, he said to himself, ‘The time has come that I should make a request of my own—that my sons should inherit my position.’ God replied to him, ‘This is not what I have decided. Joshua deserves to receive reward for serving you and never leaving your tent.’ This is what Solomon meant when he said, ‘He keeps the vineyard shall eat its fruit, and he that waits on his master shall be honored.’”
As we know, Moses’ prayer was not granted.  Aaron was succeeded by his son, but Moshe was succeeded by his disciple, Joshua.  This makes clear that Torah leadership does not pass automatically from one generation to the next.  And it also gives hope to all Jews, even though God’s decision might have been disappointing to Moshe at the time.

God’s decision to appoint Joshua sends all of us a clear message that each of us can play a role in Torah study and in Jewish leadership.  Moshe’s personal loss, then, becomes a source of hope for future generations.  Torah leadership is not the prerogative of an elite. It does not pass through dynastic succession. It is not confined to those who are descended from great Torah scholars. It is open to each of us, if we give it our best efforts of energy and time. But at the same time, God did give Moses a great consolation. Just as to this day kohanim are the sons of Aaron, so all who study Torah become the disciples of Moses. To some is given the privilege of being a parent; to others, that of being a teacher. Both are ways of carrying something into the future. Parent-as-teacher, teacher-as-parent: these are Judaism’s greatest roles, one immortalized in Aaron, and the other is made eternal in Moses.