D’var Torah: Vayechi 5779

Vayechi 5779
December 22, 2018
Genesis 47:28-50:26

The last time I spoke about Vayechi was in Tucson, Arizona, at Congregation Bet Shalom. I talked about how despite our multitude of tribes, we had more accountability to each other than we ever had before. That the blessings Israel gave to Ephraim and Manasseh affected each tribe of our people. Those blessings did not dilute with time nor distance, rather they multiplied through generations as the numbers of our tribes increased.

This is especially poignant for me today, though I am reading Vayechi through a different lens. Today’s lesson, for me, is colored by the past two years since I last presented this parashah to a congregation.

Ivan and Rabbi Meltzer gave me the honor of today’s drash as a thank you note for my time here.

I’m Eddie, and I’ve been in San Diego since August. My girlfriend, Jalisa, is a travel nurse, and she’s been gracious to have brought me along with her as she travels the country on her assignments. We’ve spent the last year in Southern California, first in Palm Springs, then El Centro, and finally here, in San Diego. When we arrived here I had no idea how deeply I’d fall in love with this city and with this synagogue. I even already had a connection to Ohr Shalom — I photographed your Torah covers for the woman who created them. She’s from my home town of Tucson.

Our time here in San Diego is ending the first week in January, and I am going to miss you all. We’ve had l’chaims, laughs, and tears. We’ve shared triumphs and trauma. I feel closer to this synagogue and so many of you than I have felt with a community in years. For this I cannot thank you enough.

The relationships I’ve made here, the friendships, the ideas, and the love I’ve felt with this impending departure is what is coloring my interpretation of this parashah today. Vayechi is about the death of Yaakov while being titled “and he lived”, and this speaks to me today.

Looking at Torah is never straightforward for me. I’ve always looked at it like studying poetry. We see what we want to see. It’s often influenced by others, by circumstances, be knowledge and science, or any other factor that feeds into our mind and our heart.

I feel what we pull out of Torah reflects on us and what we need more than it reflects on anything else. We say that Torah is truth, and the biggest truth is what we see looking back at us, in the mirror.

Today we read about Jacob preparing his family for his death and his final plan. His desire is to be buried in the graveyard his predecessors made. He doesn’t want to be buried in the place he made home in his later years, but to be with his emotional and spiritual origins.

There’s a lot that plays into this, as his death and the blessings he gives are directly related to many events that lead up to it. He continues the theme of the younger child receiving the larger blessing, as he had done when he supposedly tricked his father in his youth. He condones and condemns the actions of his children. All of these are tied into previous parashot and many events stemming from this event are covered in later portions.

Jacob was a man who was uprooted, who thought he lost his favorite son, who was betrayed by his other children, and who got what he missed most back. He was a man who relocated to help his family and his community. Jacob suffered immensely and ended up springing a nation of people who were that much more prepared for the hardship of the world.

What inspires me and gives me hope every time I read this is that it’s called “and he lived” as he dies. The most notable part of Vayechi, for me, is that Jacob dies. And Torah always makes a deal out of distinguishing Israel from Jacob.

Of course there’s the basic scholarly view: Yaakov or Jacob’s name is what dies. When he works or acts in the interests of the future tribes or for Hashem, he is called Israel. Jacob dies. Israel doesn’t. Oddly, it’s also Jacob who blesses his children, whose descendents will become Israel. Perhaps it’s because blessing ourselves is a faux pas. Perhaps it’s because it’s the father’s duty to bless his children. I think it’s because Jacob, as a man who helped put the material world in the hands of the scholars rather than the plunderers, as a man who brought nuance to what was originally a straightforward dissemination of birthrights, was especially qualified to perceive how his progeny would take up their roles in the world.

Today is the end of many things. It’s the end of the book Bereshit, it’s the end of Jacob, and it’s the end of my time here at Ohr Shalom. While each son of Jacob plays a different role in the nation of Israel, each of you has touched me in a different way. There is not one person here I have not learned from. There is not one person here I have not enjoyed the company of.

My prayer this Shabbat is that while my time here, as this book, and this forefather ends, the impact you’ve had on me will live and flourish. That you and I have been mutually inspired and enriched. I hope and pray that when we part ways, we are all better for our interactions and clearer on our paths in this world.

Ohr Shalom, and every person here, thank you for becoming my tribe and thank you for being wonderful. Shabbat shalom.

Balak 5777

Balak 5777
Numbers 22:2-25:9
Micah 5:6-6:8

In my adolescence my dad had a condo in Rocky Point. We would go there, hit up the fish market, buy incredible fish and produce, go deep sea fishing, and cook up a storm. Honestly, there is no better ceviche than the one that I can make from a trip to that beautiful city. And it is beautiful.

One day, I was maybe 14 or 15, we were driving down there and my dad was trying to find a new place, something one of his friends had told him about. This was when GPS units were large and expensive, not part of ubiquitous pocket sized computers, so we didn’t have one. Heck, even if we had it was a dice roll for the destination in that town to even be listed.

My dad made a turn down an empty street, and I noticed immediately that all the parked cars were facing the wrong way. I knew this was a one-way street and wanted to speak up.

Now, I don’t know if you know this, but I’m kind of a black sheep. I used to be ashamed of this status, though now I embrace it. When you’re a shy early teen with a history of being bullied and a family so wrapped up in their issues that yours are consistently pushed aside, you keep your head down and your mouth shut.

Sure enough, right after he turned down that street, flashing red and blues from a motorcycle cop came on. Dad got pulled over in Mexico. I caught bits of the conversation — he didn’t know it was a 1-way street, though that could have been posturing to get out of a ticket.

One harsh rebuke and $40 later, we were back on our way.

Perhaps that’s something I have in common with another Eddie — relating too well to a donkey. Balaam’s donkey stopped when she saw a hinderance in the path, and was beaten for it. This isn’t a d’var Torah about beating those with silent advice, though. This is about the majesty of the black sheep and the fear they inspire in others.

This entire portion is about the leaders of a people trying to curse the young nation of Israel about to enter their own promised land. They’d heard stories about their fierce and blessed military campaigns and about their esteemed status with a god above all others. Can you imagine that? The G-d of this people is one god, more powerful than the myriad gods of the polytheistic nations.

We were the original black sheep, the ones who transformed religion as this world saw it. And the leaders, Balak and Balaam, knew our power and our potency. Balak tried to curse us and stop us, working his way down to smaller and smaller numbers, trying to bypass and skirt the prohibition on cursing us that Balaam conveyed. Balaam became a mouthpiece of Hashem and conveyed blessings upon Israel and a curse on Balak.

Two leaders acted out of fear in this story. One acted with violence, the other curiosity. One acted with a lust for power, the other acted with a thirst for knowledge. Let’s even look at Balaam’s transportation: a donkey. Not a horse. He rode a work animal, not a majestic steed, a lowly pack animal. Balaam is a man of pragmaticism, probably frustrated pragmaticism, but still pragmatic. He knows what needs to be done and does it.

The biggest thing I’ve learned in my life so far is how to turn being a black sheep into an advantage. How it sets you apart from the rest in everything you do, so people come to expect uniqueness from the get-go. It keeps people on their toes, and expectations shift from typical to atypical. If you leverage yourself as a black sheep, atypical can become extraordinary.

That’s what I think we need to learn at this time.

“How goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel!”

This isn’t just a blessing put into Balaam’s mouth. This is what we should aspire to. A tent is more than a place to sleep; it is shelter and it is protection. Our love of each other and acceptance of each other will protect us, shelter us, and keep us secure.

We live in an era where white supremacy is coming back, not silently, but loudly and with pride. New hate groups are emboldened and we, as Jews, are receiving hate from both sides of political parties. We need to remember that our few decades of peace and quiet in the US do not make us white — we are still a minority and we are still blamed for things not our doing.

We are not white. We are minorities. We are black sheep. And we are extraordinary. We need to be at the forefront of being extraordinary and we need to back each other up. Whether it’s a small community of Lubavitchers in New York with their ultra-Orthodox ways or egalitarian ultra-Reform Jews with questionable conversions, we need to embrace Jewry in its vast, glorious, and extraordinary nature. We are a nation of people, which means we will have dissent, debate, and fights. We cannot, though, forget that we are still the other, so we must lift each other up and elevate what we have in common: belief in G-d, G-d alone.

My prayer this Shabbat is that we remember who we are. That we are not white. That we can acknowledge the glory of all our schools of thought, even those we vehemently disagree with. Each of us can be a different shade of dark in our wonderful flock of black sheep. Shabbat shalom.

Emor, 5777

Emor
Leviticus 21:1-24:23

There’s much to ponder in this parashah. Whether it’s the outlining of the festivals or the responsibilities one has when damaging another’s property; whether it’s the outlining of the priestly duties, or the suitability of animals for donations or sacrifices, there’s much to sift through.

I’m going to focus on a few relations here, starting with chapter 22, verse 23. “As for an ox or sheep that has mismatching limbs or uncloven hooves you may make it into a donation, but as a vow, it will not be accepted.”

There’s much to learn from this, and I feel it’s the crux of this parashah and a good tip for managing one’s life.

We’re looking at two different uses for the same animal under different circumstances.

The first is any ox or sheep in optimal condition: no blemishes, with matching limbs, and no problematic quirks, being used as a vow or a donation. This is an animal that can be used as a sacrifice offering or a vow.

The second is that an ox or sheep with physical problems can be used as a donation, something to help a synagogue or family, but not to fulfill a vow or as a sacrifice.

Let’s talk about vows in Torah. Vows go beyond promises. A promise in Torah is not taken lightly, a vow is even stricter. We go so far as to have prayers during Kol Nidre to ask for absolution from broken vows. Some people add “b’li neder” to their promises to remove any insinuation that it might be a vow, rather than a promise.

Our vows are held to a standard even higher than our promises.

Let’s look at this again: a sacrificial animal with physical deformities which do not detract from its healthfulness can be used as a donation, but not to fulfill a vow. Only the animals most desirable can be used to fulfill the oaths held higher than promises.

What does this mean? We are not allowed to shortchange or skirt around our oaths.

Furthermore, I believe this is why the Kohanim have so many stipulations. They are the ones who are allowed to mediate the tasks between Israel and Hashem that have been prescribed. They are the human vow of action to Hashem.

Let’s look at this today. We can see times when leaders make promises and give leftovers. Whether it’s promising to bolster education with a tax increase, and instead using that revenue to pay for contractors, or promising to support minorities and instead oppressing them: it’s endemic.

I get produce every other week or so from a group that rescues produce which is slated to be thrown away. Sometimes what they put out is moldy, slimy, and otherwise inedible. Sometimes it is perfectly glorious, crisp and fresh. They take the minimal cost for each box of produce and give it to various causes — which is good. Their inconsistency is not good.

Is there any wonder we have so much cynicism toward charities, leaders, and even each other? It seems that we live in a time when our word is taken lightly and the people brokering transactional promises are beneath the quality of our neighbors. I’m not accusing any of these being bottom of the barrel, but simply not as good as what we know we deserve. Again, I make no specific assertions of a leader being the worst ever, I am just stating that we deserve better.

Whether it’s cancer foundations cutting funds for companies that screen for their particular type of cancer, hate groups disguised as social movements, or companies looking to exploit both their workers and tax code, we have been made aware of long-standing traditions of deceitful promises.

Are we at an impasse? Are we, as decent humans, as those who want to help each other up and bolster our communities, silly for expecting our representatives to be better than us? I don’t want to be the smartest person in a room. I don’t want to be the most successful person in a group. I don’t want to be the best fencer on the strip.

I want to learn. I want to be better. I want to have someone to look up to.

This is why business coaches have business coaches. Vocal teachers have vocal teachers. Peer groups support and nurture each other with each member’s individual strengths.

That was the point of the kohanim. They were a group of priests who were there not only to broker our vows. They built up our religion through service. Service of ideas debated. Service of promises kept. Service of oaths and vows respected. They were to be looked up to, though we are not to be subservient to them.

What do I want to learn from this parashah? It’s not the minutiae of what we can eat, what we can offer, or who can take what. That’s a different lesson for a different day. Today, I want to learn that we not only can, but should, expect to see what we wish to be in those who represent us.

We were made in G-d’s image. Each of us is a tiny reflective iota of her being. Just as we put our best face forward in daily life to try and inspire ourselves to live up to our own desires, should we not do the same with those we delegate power to? Should we not demand our leaders be the icons we wish to, ourselves, be?

My prayer this Shabbat is that we find the wherewithal as a people to support our own potential by not shortcutting our vows to ourselves, our community, and our planet. My prayer is to bring people into our fold who not only inspire us, they kindle growth. There is an idiom: be the change you want to see in this world. Why don’t we not only embody that change, but demand it from the people we give the honor of representing us? Shabbat shalom.

Vayechi, 5777

Parshat Vayechi
Genesis 47:28-520:26
5777
1/14/2017

I read a lot about Vayechi. About the generational lines, about the blessings skipping generations, about the reversal of the hands during the blessings — again, about the potential irony of the name “Vayechi” which means “and he lived” when it’s about his death, and about the funeral processions including Pharaoh’s acolytes.

I want to focus on one thing, really: the skipping of the generation of the blessing. I feel this is one of the most critical points of our beautiful religion.

Israel, remember he’s not referred to as Yaakov at this moment, because he’s performing holy duties for G-d, asks Joseph, his son, to bring him his grandchildren, Ephraim and Manasseh, for a priestly blessing. He states that his grandchildren will receive land like their father, and be counted as tribes, and he bestows a blessing on them.

Why is this so critical? Superficially, it’s about land ownership, property rights, and being counted as part of a greater community while maintaining your own agency. That is all well and good, and it would work if he did this as Yaakov. Simple.

He didn’t do this as Yaakov, though; he did this as Israel. He did this while under the name and tutelage of his, let’s say, superhero alias. Yaakov was the everyday father, worker, and scholar — Clark Kent. Israel was his Holy alter ego that came out when Hashem needed to make things happen. Fitting, of course, that it means “wrestled or contended with G-d”.

Israel didn’t just give tribal rights to his grandkids. He gave grandparents the precedent to adopt their grandkids as their own, both spiritually and literally. He also continued the precedent acknowledging the firstborn may not always be the right one to carry the torch for the family. Even more importantly, I feel he gave a blessing which transcends all generations, if we are open to it.

How do I mean?

By blessing his grandchildren as being as impactful as his own children, he is telling us that our impact as a people does not diminish through the generations. Let me rephrase: we, as people of holiness, thought, study, and action, do not lose our efficacy through our children.

Why does this matter? As you add water to soup, it becomes thinner. The flavor diminishes, and you need to eat more to get the same nutrition. You fill up on water alone. We are not water in soup. We are not empty vessels of knowledge repeating the same message verbatim. We are taught to debate, argue, and love. We are taught to enter studying with open minds, and question, and refine.

Look at the internet: it’s a recording of human thought, almost anything you could think of and many things you probably wouldn’t want to. It spans from the apathetic to the zealous and from the holy to the profane.

I feel, and I believe, that our books, our texts, our thoughts, and our debates are direct representations of Israel’s blessing, that his grandchildren are as important as his children to him. That was Hashem speaking; that was the duality of humanity fighting with and accepting G-d speaking to us.

G-d wanted us to know that our effectiveness as a people wouldn’t diminish with generations of growth. It is critically imperative we know this. We were to continue being enslaved. We were to be in exile. We were to be slaughtered. We were to be oppressed for centuries. We were to have our cultural identity endangered, both in ancient times and modern.

No, our strength does not diminish through time. It does not thin out through numbers. Rather our virility as a people compounds exponentially as we grow. If there are two Jews and three opinions, imagine how many opinions there are with three, or five, Jews. It compounds through thought, through debate, through Shabbos dinners, through accepting converts as our own blood, through fighting over every sacred rite we have.

Vayechi is not about his death. It is about the life of Israel. The life we carry on.

This Shabbat my prayer is that we, a people of fractured opinions and thought, stand as a mosaic of humanity and holiness. That we act on our G-d given orders to tend to our Earth and it’s people. It’s time we embrace and use the blessings Israel gave us.

Ki Teitzei, 5776

Ki Teitzei, 5776
Deuteronomy 21:10-25:19

This is not going to be a comfortable dvar torah. There are going to be parts of it that address some worldly ugliness which keeps rearing it’s head. There are adult themes in it which I will endeavour to handle as delicately as possible.

This is a parashah which is short on narrative and long on laws. Laws of sex, laws of helping others, laws of libel, laws of war, laws of refuge, laws of protection, laws of charity, and many more. We’re focusing, today, only on the first two I listed: laws of sex and laws of helping others.

Why? I could speak today about protecting current populations that are being turned into demagogues, though we have spoken out about that as a community. I could talk about giving to the needy and destitute, though I think we work well on that front and inspire others by our examples.

I want to talk about a shifting mindset in a fight that has been going on too long for too many people. I want to talk about how recent events should infuriate us and drive us to change how people treat something.

Deuteronomy 22:4 tells us that we should not pretend we don’t see our brother struggling with their donkey after it has fallen down. That we should help them out and pick up their load with them. Rabbi Yitzi Hurwitz in Temecula, CA, who is restrained in his own body by ALS probably knows how hard it can be to pick up your donkey alone — he is forced to record his words of wisdom using only eye tracking technology. He wrote something profound: that helping lift one’s donkey is a simple mitzvah, extending that to lifting one’s fallen spirituality is a deeper one.

He writes: “…Realize that it is his animal that has fallen—not him. His neshamah [soul] is pristine. He is essentially holy and wants to be G?d’s. It is only his ‘animal’—his circumstances, nature and upbringing that put him where he is today.”

This is simple: it is incumbent upon us to lift up our brothers and sisters who are are broken, who are weary, who are driven down. We get to determine who our brothers and sisters are: whether they’re fellow Jews, colleagues, or people with similar struggles. The bonds of sisterhood and brotherhood are bonds which we know can transcend genetics and familial lineage.

Let’s bring in the second part of this. Deuteronomy Chapter 22, verses 23-29 lists three very specific punishments for sex. The first is the death penalty for both a woman and a man sleeping together consensually if the woman is betrothed to another, the second is the death penalty for a man raping a woman betrothed to another, the third is a man being required to offer himself as a husband to a woman he rapes if she is not bethrothed.

First, I’m sick of the word “betrothed.” Let’s go with “spoken for.” Second, this could be the basis of a pernicious cultural phenomenon where men stop trying to pick up women only when they say “I have a boyfriend.” “No” should be sufficient, though this is not even a d’var Torah about that.

This is a d’var Torah about believing women, about consent, and about that big scary F-word: feminism.

Before I dive into this, let’s table the idea of virginity being a commodity and the one of the values a first-time bride brings to her husband. I have eight minutes, not an hour.

One of the most astounding things I see in almost every rape case is how much of an uphill battle it is for women to have their side listened to. People blame these horrific incidents on what these women are wearing, what they’re doing, whether they’ve been drinking, what situations are unfolding, but each one has one simple thing in common: a rapist.

The very first example I listed is a consensual encounter. We know this because only in the second example does it mention that she was overpowered. I am not advocating putting two people to death for getting it on when they shouldn’t; just drawing a distinguishing line of consent.

What strikes me is that our Torah, our truth, our book of life doesn’t tell us the hurdles a woman must jump through to prove a rapist. Its silence on that front tells us something incredibly powerful: the elders of our ancestors listened to women.

Time and again we see, hear, and find that the one thing women want in situations where they are left unequal, such as sexual harassment at work, sexual harassment in social situations, casual condescension, and so much more, is just to be believed. To have someone say “I believe you” without a “but…” to negate the entire statement.

Our ancestors listened. Which is more than what our societal peers are doing today.

Something which strikes me as a sad irony is that women are believed to do 75% of the speaking in co-ed situations. That if a man and woman are talking, men and women both believe women are speaking 75% of the time to a man’s 25%. In fact the literal opposite is true: men do 75% of the speaking to women’s 25%.

Is it any wonder millennial women are sick of this? They see the uphill battle their mothers and their mothers’ mothers have fought, they see the social media bullying, they see the gross sexualization, they see unfair uniform and dress codes that seek to undermine their autonomy and agency.

In an age where “boys will be boys” is no longer an excuse for childhood sexual harassment; in a time where rapists are still being let off easy because they’re star athletes; in an era where women still earn less than male counterparts, it’s time to end it. This is oppression, plain and simple.

Since we’ve acknowledged these problems ages ago, since we have the data, we cannot say it is accidental any longer. Any company which is successful knows its numbers and can easily see their data. Any company which acts in this manner has been complicit in their oppression. Any man who has been presented with these issues and who still hurts these people is complicit in his oppression of women.

This is the fallen donkey of all of our sisters. This is the fallen donkey of all of our sisters. This is the load which must be picked up. This is the burden which we must bear together until the next injustice is brought to light, and there will be more. There will always be more.

So what can we do? We can call others out. We can make them uncomfortable when they reinforce these stereotypes or when someone thoughtlessly dismisses a claim of casual sexism.

We’re all too familiar with what has come to be known as dog whistle racism, we experience it as Jews when someone talks about our people being cheap or thrifty. Our own Anti-Defamation League is excellent at calling people out and even gave a stern warning to a certain candidate who said he likes the people “counting his money to be wearing yarmulkes”.

When a woman comes forward it must become habit to support her. It must become as reflexive to give her ear and credence as it is currently to dismiss her.

President Obama’s staff has an unprecedented number of women on it. The women who make up his top aides have started a procedure they call “amplification.” When a woman makes a key point another immediately repeats it, says it’s a good point, and then credits the original woman who said it.

We must all be the amplifiers for our sisters. Their minds, experiences, and knowledge only enhance everything society is and can be. Their struggles must be validated, believed, and supported. I have to repeat this, their struggles must be validated, believed, and supported.

Just as the man whose spirit has fallen still has a pure neshama, soul, that wants to return to G-d, our mothers, sisters, and daughters just want to be accepted as fully autonomous, fully capable, fully human people.

As I close out, remember our prayer came from sacrifice. Literally: our prayer is meant to take the place of the energy and pain of animal sacrifices. So this prayer will take energy, focus, and time. It will take intention. That said, my hope and prayer is that we can influence our own actions, mindsets, and those of others to lift our women up to equality. That our sisters struggling with this donkey that fell so long ago will finally be able to pick it up. Shabbat shalom.

D’var: VaYishlach 5776

VaYishlach is Genesis 32:4-36:43

Many of the more important parshot of our Torah have a genealogy in them. Whether the portion is outwardly important, such as Shemot with the 10 plagues having Moses’ genealogy in the middle of it, Bereshit with the lineage of the very first people, or Noach with the listing of Noah’s descendents and the consequences for the descendents of his sons which violated him.

Similarly, this parashah ends in a genealogy of sorts. This tells us that it is not a light parashah, like any of them, really. It indicates there is more to look at than just the texts and outward facing ideas. It tells us that the actions performed inside affect all our descendents, just as the actions of Moshe affects all his descendants.

So what is it that happened? What do we need to learn to protect our future families from our actions today?

The first lesson we must learn is how to make the difficult apology. The apology for transgressions we feel guilty about, even if they were made before we knew better or weren’t fully our fault. Jacob knew Esau felt jilted from the favor he received growing up. He also knew of Esau’s tendency toward displays of strength and obstinance as a hunter and not an intellectual. With both of these pieces of knowledge, he rightly feared for his people when his long estranged brother, Esau, responded to his apology with a force of 400 men.

Jacob panicked, and we know he’s strong because of this panic. Not only was his life threatened along with his people, but his wives, children, and other loved ones were at stake. Yet he pressed on and did what he knew was right.

He did the most Jewish act of not only preparing for the worst by separating his camps into two groups so one could get away should the other be attacked, but by praying as well. Action combined with prayer is a wholly Jewish concept, just as the fledgling Israelite nation fleeing Pharaoh walked into the Red Sea before it split, just as Esther and Mordecai took action to preserve the people before they prayed for assistance. Jacob is a member in a long line of Hebrews who take action along with prayer.

Of course, Jacob was well rewarded with his actions. Whether the prayer was needed, whether the additional gifts presented to Esau were needed, whether the preparations were needed is all immaterial. What matters is that he was rewarded for doing the right thing. By facing the hardest apology he ever had to make, the one where if it was refused, he and his people could (note: I said could, not would, as we don’t know Esau’s intentions) be exterminated.

So why did Esau come with so many people? The easy answer, and the one I’m inclined to go with, is because of family history. Any time Esau put himself out there, usually while hunting for the family, Jacob, through his own initiative or another’s, took something from him. The most notable of this was the birthright of the first born. Esau received a message saying Jacob wished to gain favor from Esau and Esau, growing up the less intellectual and more gullible, feared it was a trap.

We know, through the narrative, that Jacob had no intention of setting up a trap. Esau did not have the luxury of two kinds of text (Hebrew and English, written down) to tell the story that we have. He was going into this blind, so of course he needed to take a protective detail. He wasn’t stupid, just less politically inclined in his youth than his brother.

This is the first lesson we must learn from this parashah: not only must we face down our fears from our most humiliating transgressions — those we made before we knew better yet still cringe at when we think of them –, we must prepare ourselves from the fallout should that apology bring unintended consequences.

This is simple, though. And it’s something taught to us constantly through our history, so much so that it’s ingrained in not only our culture and heritage, but our literal DNA. Our ideals of doing the right thing, even if it might backfire, has gotten us in trouble more times that we can count, yet we still do it.

So there’s a second part to that first lesson: when someone who has hurt us makes an apology, we must hear it. That’s the absolute minimum we have to do, listen. Only after we listen and observe are we able to determine whether we are able to bring them back into our fold and, if so, the degree we are able to do so.

That is the full lesson of this first part: we must make apologies when warranted and listen to them, despite the ramifications.

The second lesson is harder. It involves something none of us like to think of. What happens when we do something that’s horrible, that we know that we shouldn’t do. What do we do if it’s not us, but someone we’re accountable for who does that horrible act?

Of course, I speak of the rape of Dinah.

This is not an easy part to understand. Dinah is violated in the worst way imaginable, something far too many women and men deal with. Not only was Dinah violated, but Jacob’s sons, in the lust for vengeance, performed the same violence, without the sex, to the villagers. Jacob, upon hearing about this, is upset only that his sons made him look bad.

G-d is silent through this ordeal. While the Torah makes it abundantly clear the rape is to be condemned, it doesn’t comment on the violence brought by Jacob’s sons. In fact, it doesn’t even comment on the fact that Jacob’s sons used Shechem’s desperation to force the village to perform one of our most sacred mitzvot, the brit milah.

The first section of this parashah had G-d directly interfering, telling Jacob he was on the right path when the angel wrestled with him. This section has G-d being suspiciously silent. Why? Is it implicit agreement? Is it resolute disdain? Is it embarrassment? Perhaps Jacob has seen enough that he no longer needs G-d to tell him when he’s on the right track. Perhaps Hashem bowed out because Jacob either didn’t pray or didn’t earn favor with these actions.

I think, for the purpose I’m looking at this, G-d’s silence is pensive acceptance. It’s him standing back, letting us realize something profound. Out of the darkest moments, out of our deepest despair, we can still create something good. Even our lowest, most painful moments can lead to holiness.

It also shows us that we must make actions for transgressions we knowingly commit. The first part of this parashah is about the pain we cause others when we don’t know better, this one is when we do know better, but still do it anyway. It’s an apology which requires preparation, sure, but also a different kind of fire in ourselves. Instead of wanting to fix the past, it’s wanting to face your current fear, the one that’s fresh in your mind and dragging you down. The one that self reinforces and scares you, deep in your core.

Shechem circumcised himself, along with his village, because they knew that not only blood, but a punishment of their transgressions was the only way to move on. It was fitting, really, because what he took from Dinah, he had to take from himself and was ultimately taken from him by force.

Finally, we come to this genealogy. It’s a significantly shorter genealogy than many of the others, but it’s still a listing of the descendents. It tells us the names of the people affected by this — the amount of the people affected by the abusive violation of one single person. It tells us how much of the future was at stake simply with Jacob’s apology to Esau.

It wasn’t after wrestling with the divine being that Jacob was given the name Israel, “he who wrestles with G-d”, but after witnessing his daughter go through the worst moments of her life and how his sons came to her defense, how he wrestled with his own emotions and morals.

We weigh our fears against our comforts every day, every hour, every minute. We form our lives, our hopes, and our actions on our history and our wants. Overcoming those blocks and doing what’s right, not only in the eyes of G-d, but in vein of what’s true to ourselves is the divine fight we each deal with.

I hope and pray that we take this fight with enthusiasm and tact. That we humbly accept our wins and we graciously accept our losses, but that our measured end does not affect the passion and enthusiasm with which we engage the struggle.