Showing posts with label Rosh Hashanah. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rosh Hashanah. Show all posts

Wednesday, October 15, 2025

Thanks, Dorshei Derekh, for a Wonderful Launch to 5786

 










Thanks, High Holiday Committee for pulling off so many services, so smoothly!
R' Avruhm Addison
Joyce Silverman
R' David Teutsch
R' Simkha Weintraub
Service Leaders

R' Avruhm Addison
Alex Avelin
Bobbi Breitman
R’ David Dunn Bauer
Mikael Elsila
Sheila Erlbaum
R’ Dayle Friedman
R’ Beth Janus
Naomi Klayman
Ruth Loew
David Mosenkis
Dina Pinsky
R’ Jacob Staub
R’ George Stern
R’ Bob Tabak
R’ Leah Wald
R' Deborah Waxman

Torah and Haftarah

R’ Avruhm Addison
R' Debrah Cohen
R’ Dayle Friedman
Michelle Friedman
Miriam Goldberg
Mikaela Kessler
David Mosenkis
Robert Mosenkis
Barb Pearson
Betsy Teutsch  

Divrei Torah and Teaching

Jennifer Paget
R' David Teutsch
Deborah Weinstein
R’ Simkha Weintraub

Shofar

David Mosenkis
R’ Nahariyah Mosenkis
R’ George Stern

Special Thanks

Noah Boyer, composer

Chorus

Jeffrey Alexander
Bret Boyer
Miriam Goldberg
David Mosenkis
Heather Shafter
Sonia Voynow

Torah Holders for Kol Nidrei:  
  • Betsy Teutsch for her leadership of the Mazkirut
  • Rabbi David Dunn Bauer for leading services and sharing his beautiful voice with us
  • Deborah Weinstein for her commitment to DD by serving on the Mazkirut and her willingness to bring her thought-provoking drashim to us
  • Mikael Elsila for bringing his musical talents to GJC and enhancing our joint services
  • Rabbi Debrah Cohen for leyning throughout the year and sharing her knowledge of Jewish texts with us
  • Mark Pinsky who works diligently every week to gather all the information we need to know about DD services, activities, and the participants in them, and still has strength to do Hagbah. 
Their variety of contributions to DD exemplifies the power of individuals that make our minyan a welcoming spiritual home for us all. We are proud to honor them as Torah holders.


Sunday, December 8, 2024

The Binding of Isaac (Akedah): Abraham’s Equanimity on his Journey to Mount Moriah

Jacob Staub based this piece in Evolve on this 2024 Dorshei Derekh Rosh Hashanah Davar Torah.  Yashar koach!

How can our religious and spiritual resources help us to meet the challenge of the next four years? We are not the first generation to face alarming, unthinkable prospects.

“Now I know,” God says to Abraham, “that you are a trembler before God (yerei Elohim), that you did not withhold your son from Me.” (Genesis 22:12) Following what he thought was a divine command, Abraham has journeyed three days and, binding his son Isaac on an altar, lifts his knife to sacrifice him, only to be stopped by a divine messenger.

I don’t think this is an accurate account of an actual event. And there is nothing in my experience that leads me to believe in a God who utters explicit commands. I follow the Rambam (Rabbi Moses ben Maimon, Maimonides, twelfth-century Egypt), who teaches that though God exists, the human mind and heart cannot fathom anything about God, except the effects of God’s causation. I follow Rabbi Harold Schulweis, who taught Predicate Theology—that we cannot know what God is, only when God is. We can’t know that God loves; we can know, however, that when there is love, God is there.

I do think, however, that there is much we can learn from over 2000 years of interpretations of biblical texts made by Jewish students of Torah. Believing that the Torah was divinely revealed and therefore the fount of all truth and wisdom, they read into the text their deepest understandings and intuitions of what the text reveals to us. Their interpretations are treasures of our traditions that we inherit and on which we can plumb the meanings and imperatives of our own lives.

The Ralbag (Rabbi Levi ben Gershom, Gersonides, fourteenth-century Provence) was one of the leading disciples of Maimonides. He believed that God and God’s will cannot be known with any clarity or certainty. (He would say, except the revealed Torah, but that, too, is subject to interpretation.) Instead, he spoke of an immaterial divine overflow (shefa) that sustains this material world. The human enterprise, he taught, is to discern it—to distinguish between accurate and faulty perceptions of what God wants. The more we learn about this world, the more we can perceive the divine shefa and live accordingly.

It is not sufficient, however, to achieve knowledge about this world. In order to think clearly, to know what to do, he believed that we must cultivate equanimity, so that the conclusions we reach with our imaginations are not affected by our inclinations or emotions—that they do not just mirror our biases and fears.

Approaching our text with this perspective, Rabbi Levi engages in an extensive explorations of yir’ah, the Hebrew word that generally is translated in Genesis 22 as “fear”—“that you are a God-fearer,” and that I translate above, “that you are a trembler before God.” Yir’ah can mean “fear”, but it also has a semantic range that includes what you feel when you behold the stars in the sky or when you hike in the Rockies, and what you feel in the presence of God. Sometimes we translate it as “awe.”

So as he empathizes with the Abraham of the Akedah, here is what the Rabbi Levi sees: Abraham dreams that God commands him to take his son up the mountain for a burnt offering (le’olah). When he awakens, he knows that the most common understanding of what he has heard in his dream is that Isaac will himself be the burnt offering, and so he packs up and sets out with Isaac towards the mountains, because if that is the divine will, he will obey. We can only imagine how terrified he feels, but he remains sufficiently calm to remain aware that there is another, more benign understanding of what he dreamed: that at 100 years old, it is imperative that he take his son up the mountain for a burnt offering (le’olah), that is, to teach him how to offer a sacrifice. God also would want that, that he transmit the tradition to the next generation.

Remaining calm, he spends the three-day journey to Mount Moriah keeping an open mind about how to accurately interpret the imperative in his dream. He ascends the mountain, builds the altar, and binds Isaac, but just before it is too late, he sees the ram caught in the thicket and realizes that it is the ram that he needs to sacrifice in order to instruct Isaac. If he hadn’t been unambivalently willing and calm about offering up Isaac, he would not have been able to think clearly and to make the proper inference when he sees the ram.

According to Rabbi Levi, Abraham passes the test not because of his unquestioning willingness to kill Isaac, but because even in the face of a horrendous possibility, he is sufficiently calm and clear-thinking to avert a misinterpretation that would have ended the Jewish people before it had begun. That is what it means to be a yerei Elohim—one who trembles in awe before the abyss but does not succumb to hysteria or despair or passive resignation. A God-trembler is someone who does not look away from that which is most terrifying, but who is able to maintain control of their faculties and respond constructively to it.

Rabbi Levi was not speculating hypothetically. He lived in a place and at a time when the Inquisition was on the move, copies of Talmud manuscripts were being seized and burned, and the world was not a safe place for Jews to live. He was familiar with what it was like to face a terrifying political abyss. Jewish communities operated under duress and their days were numbered. His reading of Abraham’s test reflected his strategy for coping with his circumstances.

His strategy may remind us of Active Hope by Joanna Macy and Chris Johnstone, an attitude and practice that, among other things, refuses to give up in the face of the obvious consequences of the climate crisis. Many who seek to mitigate the ever-worsening effects of carbon emissions do not do so because they are confident about the outcome, but rather because they are calmly and mindfully working to create a world that is habitable. They do not surrender to passive despair in the face of alarming projections by scientists. They are not disabled by despair.

Rabbi Levi wants us to cultivate equanimity, but how? How can I not be angered and frightened by the prospect that the numerous promises that President-elect Trump made during the campaign will be implemented? There are a plethora of Jewish contemplative practices that we inherit, but for the moment, I find myself turning to lessons I have learned from Sylvia Boorstein, my teacher of Buddhist-inflected mindfulness practice.

1. What is true in this moment? 

Two other Evolve essays this month, by Jon Argaman and Jennifer Paget, discuss our collective inheritance of intergenerational Jewish trauma. We are easily triggered and prone to catastrophize. At this moment, however, we who are trans still have access to our medical care. We who are seniors still receive our Social Security checks. We who live in sanctuary cities are still able to thwart mass deportations of undocumented people. There are frightening assaults in the street on people who are identifiably Jewish, but at this moment, the assailants are not sponsored or protected by law enforcement. Remaining clear-headed, we have agency. We can resist in the courts, in Congress and state legislatures, in the streets. It is not true that on January 20, we will find ourselves in a totalitarian state.

2. It is essential that we distinguish between what I’ll call “pain” and “suffering”

This is a painful world. Those Americans who hold white-skin privilege may have been acculturated otherwise, but things do not always turn out happily. Pain—being hurt—is inevitable. Suffering—centering the pain and dwelling primarily in it—is optional. It is natural to suffer, lick our wounds, anticipate the worst, but we can choose not to do so. Imagine if Rabbi Levi’s Abraham had descended into anticipatory grief over the death of Isaac. The appearance of the ram would not have brought him to realize the actual imperative. The Jewish people’s survival on Mount Moriah, in Babylonian exile, in Rabbi Levi’s Provence and in 2024 U.S. and Israel has depended and continues to depend on our ability to endure the painful blows and to remain calmly clear-headed in our response.

3. Ultimately, we cannot control what is going to happen. 

Western culture instills a sense that if we eat healthily, we will remain healthy. If we achieve competence and earn the right credentials, we will succeed. If we just negotiate the right wording, we can reach a peace agreement. It is up to us to do our best, to act in furtherance of our values, but though we can hope that we can protect ourselves from disaster, it is not helpful to depend on the assurance of successful outcomes to motivate us, because we are not in control, and we will endure setbacks and defeats. There is an equanimity that arises out of our devotion to our values, no matter what the outcome.

4. Experiencing the light of the divine countenance. 

This one derives from the practices of Mussar. Practitioners are supposed to exhibit ha’arat panim (a bright and friendly gaze) to everyone they encounter, making them feel seen. The priestly blessing, ya’er Adonai panav eilekha (may God’s face shed light upon you), suggests that it is a blessing to be bathed in divine light. This feeling is a practice that can be cultivated—walking through our lives with the faith that, as we work to bring justice and compassion and generosity into the world, we are literally enlightened by an imperceptible brightness, that we are supported and accompanied by divine light. Look at Rabbi Vivie Mayer’s Evolve essayThe Light That Has the Capacity to Hold Us All.

Rabbi Levi’s Abraham passes the test because, in his language, he ultimately has faith in a God who supports and accompanies him as he seeks what is right. How might we articulate that in our own terms? His faith obviously included the possibility that he would not have living offspring. Perhaps our strength can emerge from a faith that we can and will endure if we calmly remain steadfast as we act to further our principles, manifesting the universe’s benevolence with no assurance of the outcome.

Wednesday, September 25, 2024

Yamim No'raim 2025










On behalf of our amazing High Holy Days Planning Committee—Joyce Silverman, Rabbi Avruhm Addison, Rabbi David Teutsch, and Rabbi Simkha Weintraub—we are pleased to share the schedule for Dorshei Derekh's services. We will meet in person in the Temin Canteen Room and 

Thursday, October 3rd
Rosh Hashanah Day 1
9:30 am
 
Friday, October 4th
Rosh Hashanah Day 2
9:30 am
 
Saturday, October 5th
Shabbat Shuvah
10 am
 
Friday, October 11th
Kol Nidre
6 pm
 
Saturday, October 12th
Yom Kippur
 
Morning @ 9:30 am
 
Afternoon & Evening
Bregman Program @ 3:30 pm
Pre-Ne'ilah Study @ 4:40 pm
Ne'ilah @ 5:45 pm
Tekiya G'dola @ 7:07 pm
 
Before each event, we will share more detailed information, including resource sheets.
 
Shana tovah!

Sunday, August 29, 2021

Rosh Hashanah 5782/ COVID 2

 

This beautiful art is the work of Dominique Butler, an African American artist in Baltimore. She is an active member of Hinenu: The Baltimore Jewish Justice Shtiebel. We were pleased to compensate Butler for our specific reuse of her beautiful image.We were introduced to her work through The Radical Jewish Calendar, which featured Butler's work last year.

"Dominique Butler is a painter who primarily works in gouache and oil. She grew up in a small farm town in northern Vermont and currently resides in Baltimore, Maryland. She received her Bachelor’s of Art in Drawing, Painting, and Art History from Drew University in 2017. 

Her recent work revolves around viewing nature through the eyes of a person of color. Her paintings are captured images of the environment that are often overlooked. These pieces touch upon the distinct disconnection between black bodies and the great outdoors; prompting the viewer to question why nature, outdoor recreation, and environmentalism are white dominated."



Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Rabbi Tamara Cohen Rosh Hashanah 2015: The Binding of Isaac and Black Lives Matter


Rosh Hashanah Day 2 5766
Rabbi Tamara Cohen

This Dvar Torah was born a few times over this year.

I think the first place it was born was in the powerful experience of giving birth to a beautiful baby, who among many other things is a white Jewish boy with blond hair and blue eyes in a moment when the Black Lives Matter movement was reaching a new level, in a moment when the stories of parents mourning the deaths of their children of color due to police violence were all around me. We took Kliel to a Hanukkah Black Lives Matter protest for his first outing. He was barely a month old. Why? In part because I wanted to be there and in part because I was struggling with how to allow myself the joy of this new baby knowing that all around America and Philadelphia and even Mt Airy other parents were also celebrating new babies, babies with all different colors of eyes and skin and hair, and that all of us lovestruck parents, wanting to do everything for our children, feeling acutely aware of their vulnerability, also had different relationships to the vulnerability of our kids because of the systemic racism in the America in which these babies were being born.

I remember waking up in the middle of the night to nurse and realizing that this waking in the night was core my current spiritual work. It was a way to teach my baby's little body and deepest self: yes, it's true, there is nothing I won't do to care for you. You are safe in this world and can take root. You are loved and cared for. Each time you cry out, or murmur, or show me your need, I will respond. And then it occurred to me that the difference between my parental instinctual hearing and spiritual instinctual hearing was this: I wanted to be and to raise my children to be, people who wake in the night when they hear not only the cries of their own babies but the cries of every and any baby.  The kind of people who can respond with love and surrender each time they hear a cry of human being in need, even in the dark of night, even when we would rather sleep.

Another moment when this D’var was born was on a phone call with my friend Y. after Sandra Bland was found dead in her jail cell. Y. was saying something like “What’s going on? What’s going on? This is America.” And there was an urgency in her voice, a terror. I had read a headline or two about the case but I hadn't yet taken the time to read more. I was busy, planned to get to it soon. But something in my friend’s voice, something said to me in a starkness, painful and real, that the difference between being a good white friend and ally and being a black mother in that moment was the difference between my upset at the story and her terror. And I saw it clearly. I saw her daughter, 17, headed to Princeton after graduating as the only black Jewish girl from her yeshiva high school. I saw her suddenly, briefly through her mother’s eyes. I saw the terror of having to release one’s child, one’s black child, to an unknown world, the terror of having to allow one’s baby to drive on a street through Princeton. Anywhere really. And I felt shaken awake in a new way to the difference in my reality and in the reality of my dear friend, both of us Jewish mothers who love our kids and would do anything to protect them, one of us white and one of us black.
            I tasted for a moment the physical terror in her voice. And then I went into my house to have dinner with my family and she went into her house to have dinner with hers. But before we got off the phone I made a promise to her, yes, we would do something, no I wouldn't forget the moment, no I wouldn't let this fear and anger and horror all sit solely on her shoulders.

            The third place this dvar Torah was born was in my reading of Ta-Nehisi Coates’s amazingly beautiful, powerful and heart-wrenching book Between the World and Me, which I read this summer, thanks to the fact that the GJC Racism group decided it would be a good thing to do together. For those of you who have not yet read this book, and I strongly commend you to read it, what you need to know for now is that the book is written by a black father to his fifteen year old black son. The book tells the story of how Ta-Nehisi, in his words, has made the struggle to live free in his black body in America the central meaning making struggle of his life. He writes about his childhood on the harsh streets of inner city Baltimore, his struggles with school, his period of valorizing and learning from Black Power and Malcom X, his awakenings at Howard University to the deeper complexities of race and racism and blackness, and about becoming parent. He shares the story of the loss of a peer to police violence and of his intense visit with the mother of this murdered son, a professor and dean, who had raised her son in the suburbs, sent him to private schools and given him so much, none of which protected him from being murdered by a police officer in the prime of his life.

            These three experiences led me to feel compelled, if still somewhat anxious about, giving this dvar torah. So here’s the essence of what I want to say:
            For me, this year, the Binding of Isaac is a story different from any other year I have read it. This year it is a story about an Abraham who loves his son but who is so terrified by the realization that he could be taken away from him that he almost kills him himself.
            This year for me, Abraham is a black father. And Isaac is his beloved son. And what happens in the story is that Abraham, through binding his son on the altar, passes on to his son the terrifying truth that his body could be taken from him at any moment.
            Isaac and Abraham are both afraid. Fear is something they live with and know. Indeed fear becomes part of Isaac's name (as Gideon Ephrat points out in a blog post on the use of the phrase Pachad Yitzchak after the Akeida).

            I want to briefly read you a few quotes from Between the World and Me that may help you see how I have arrived at this reading of Akeidat Yitzchak.

Coates writes: “Black people love their children with a kind of obsession. You are all we have, and you come to us endangered. I think we would like to kill you ourselves before seeing you killed by the streets that America made.” He continues, “That is a philosophy of the disembodied, of a people who control nothing, who can protect nothing, who are made to fear not just the criminals among them but the police who lord over them with all the moral authority of a protection racket. It was only after you that I understood this love, that I understood the grip of my mothers hand. She knew that the galaxy itself could kill me, that all of me could be shattered and all of her legacy spilled upon the curb like bum wine. And no one would be brought to account for this destruction, because my death would not be the fault of any human but the fault of some unfortunate but immutable fact of “race,” imposed upon an innocent country by the inscrutable judgment of invisible gods.” - p. 82

            So, what happens when we read these two texts, Ta-Nehisi Coates and the Genesis 22 together? A few things happen.

            One of the most difficult and important things that Ta-Nehisi Coates asks his son and his readers to do is to accept a radically different and more violent narrative of America than the one we generally believe in. He asks us, as does the Black Lives Matter movement more broadly, to recognize that what has gone on this year have not been the acts of some bad cops, but instead a reflection of and carrying out of a policy of systemic racism consistent with the basic tenets of the American Dream in which the of safety and prosperity of people who get to claim the identity of “white” get that through the plunder, ownership, and terrorizing of Black bodies.

            I hear in this two calls to us as a community of primarily white Jews.

            The first is that we recognize how much we have benefited from the process of mostly losing, at least in the United States, the marker of having Jewish bodies, and of being accepted as having white bodies. But we can’t stop there. We must also take the step of deciding to stop believing in the whiteness of our bodies, while still fully acknowledging white privilege, and of no longer acquiescing to the system that gives us advantages because of our supposed whiteness on the backs of those whose skin is black.

            Another equally hard and important move that I invite us to make is for us to be willing to look at the Torah and at Israelite civilization with the same hard scrutiny with which Coates looks at America, and also, through the course of the book, at blackness.

            He writes, "The writer, and that was what I was becoming, must be wary of every Dream and every nation, even his own nation. Perhaps his own nation more than any other, precisely because it was his own” (p.53) and also, "Perhaps there has been, at some point in history, some great power whose elevation was exempt from the violent exploitation of other human bodies. If there has been, I have yet to discover it."

            I think its important for us as Jews to be ready to admit that indeed our beloved Torah is not exempt as a story in which some great power is elevated through the violent exploitation of other human bodies. Despite the power of the Exodus narrative, in the Torah, in the end, Israelites bodies are the chosen bodies. It is the bodies of the inhabitants of the land of Canaan who are plundered and destroyed in order to pave the way for our Dream, for the conquest of the Promised Land. This is a very troubling way to look at the Torah, just as Coates presents us with a very difficult read of America. But the fact that it makes us uncomfortable doesn't make it not true.

            And if we can tell the truth, tell the truth about America, and tell the truth about the Bible, and tell a more whole truth about our changing and evolving position as American Jews in the civil rights struggle, not just about Heschel in Selma, and Andrew Goodman, and the stories we are proud of, we will be moving closer to being able to make necessary radical change.

            Let’s return to Isaac, bound and trembling with the knife raised above him. On the one hand I am seeing him and asking you to see him as an American boy with a black body. I am doing this because black bodies are the bodies in America today that hold the position of Yitzchak, the position of fear, of lack of freedom, of being struck, bound between the promise of a grand and fruitful future and the very real possibility of immanent unexplained and incomprehensible death.

            But at the same time that I want us to hold the image of Yitzchak as a black child, I also want to hold him as every child.

            The binding of Isaac is a story that reveals that actually we all have bodies. And that actually every one of our bodies is vulnerable. Every one of our bodies would cry out "I can't breathe" if it was put into a chokehold and we had asthma. Every one of our bodies would be destroyed if it was bound and driven around in the back of a police van.

            Isaac is our reminder that really race is a construct that creates an unnatural line between those bodies that are vulnerable and destructible and those that are strong and invincible.
            Our narrative does not end with Yishmael cast out and Yitzchak  protected as the chosen one. Yitzchak ends up vulnerable in today’s Torah reading just as Yishmael did in yesterday’s. Isaac's body lies there bound and afraid, just as Yishmael sat in the desert thirsty and in danger of dying. Both of them together remind all us that all of our bodies could be taken from us for reasons we don't understand and will never understand. Each is dependent on an angel shifting their parents vision in order to enable their survival.

            So on the one hand I am saying that some bodies are more vulnerable than others and on the other hand I am saying that all bodies are equally vulnerable. Yes.

            Racism and the American Dream's dependence on it makes it true that black bodies are far more vulnerable in America than white bodies. But this is not an inherent truth. This is the result of a system built to protect and construct white bodies and to control and destroy black bodies, families, and communities.

            When we recognize that whiteness is a construct, that blackness is a construct, that race is a construct, we take one important step. We then need to take another. We need to take the step of saying that we want to exchange of our sense of distance from the reality of the vulnerability of the body for a society in which all bodies are equally vulnerable and equally free.
            We don't yet live in that society. The Torah doesn't live in that reality either. But Isaac's bound body and the rabbis choice to force us to look at it every year is perhaps a way in to that worldview.

            That's where we want to go. To the worldview where the color of Isaac's skin doesn't make him more or less likely to be bound or unbound, where the color of his skin doesn't make him more or less likely to live with a constant underlying sense of fear.

            As Jews we often read this story in a way that focuses us more on the intellectual, spiritual, philosophical questions raised by the Akeida. I have felt compelled this year to stay with the body. With the embodied terror of Isaac and of Abraham. And beyond them of Hagar and Yishmael. And even Sarah.

            I have felt compelled to stay with the deep experience of bodily fear that is not right now equally shared in this country. But which perhaps we can begin to more deeply understand through our bodies than through our minds.

            Racism can only partially be unlearned through the mind. The racist’s fear, the fear that the supposedly white body carries of the black body is also a bodily fear. And so perhaps we can get more to the root of racism if we go to this body place. And perhaps this year that is where Isaac is inviting us to go.
            At least it is where his body invited me to go this year. His body and a mother’s terror, and the crazy sad fact of Sandra Bland's death, and all the lives taken this year because of police violence and the powerful gift of Ta-nehesi Coates’s words to his fifteen year old son — his act of father to son truth telling that somehow calls out to me across time and space as an answer to Abraham's deafening silence during his three day walk with his son.

            Towards the end of the book, Coates addresses his son: ”Part of me thinks that your very vulnerability brings you closer to the meaning of life, just as for others, the quest to believe oneself white divides them from it. The fact is that despite their dreams, their lives are also not inviolable. When their own vulnerability becomes real—when the police decide that tactics intended for the ghetto should enjoy wider usage, when their armed society shoots down their children, when nature sends hurricanes against their cities—they are shocked in a way that those of us who were born and bred to understand cause and effect can never be. And I would not have you live like them. You have been cast into a race in which the wind is always at your face and the hounds are always at your heels. And to varying degrees this is true of all life. The difference is that you do not have the privilege of living in ignorance of this essential fact... I would have you be a conscious citizen of this terrible and beautiful world.” (pp.107-8)


            May we keep learning, may we keep struggling, may we raise our next generation — all of them, to be conscious citizens of this terrible and beautiful world. May the shofar keep blasting and shaking all of us awake.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Sarah and Hagar: Mistress and Slave, Privilege and Disadvantage - by Betsy Teutsch

Photo: Lora Reehling
Betsy Teutsch

Vayera covers a lot of territory. My focus today is on Vayera’s power dynamics and disparities, who is privileged and who disadvantaged, in the  relationship of Sarah and Hagar, mistress and slave.  The Torah later celebrates the People of Israel’s liberation from harsh enslavement as our foundational myth, but what we witness here is domestic bondage, more intimate and nuanced, and not questioned -  though commentators have noted the connection between Hagar being an Egyptian and the Jewish people’s subsequent enslavement in Egypt. 1 + 2 Since Abraham and Sarah are the parents of the Jewish people, we look at things from their viewpoint.

Last week in Parshat Lekh Lekha, Sarah invited Abraham to consort with her slave Hagar, to produce an heir for Abraham via surrogacy. Sarah’s slave’s child will become Sarah’s child, problem solved; Hagar seemingly has no agency in this transactional consorting. Hagar conceives – succeeding where her mistress has failed. The relationship between mistress and slave quickly goes south.

The conflict seems to be about Hagar’s behavior towards Sarah, not Hagar’s relationship with Abraham; the text implies little contact between Avraham and Hagar after the deed is done – recall that he is indifferent to Sarah banishing her. (And indeed, most slave-owning men did not need their wives to instruct them to consort with their slave women.)

When Hagar asserts herself and belittles her mistress, Sarah abuses Hagar--quite harshly--even though giving Hagar to Abraham was Sarah’s plan. Sarah complains to her husband; in a very histrionic ultimatum she insists he choose between her and the son.  Avraham is surprisingly passive, given that in this week’s parshah he argues for the saving of Sodom and Gomorrah’s innocents. He basically just shrugs “Whatever” and tells Sarah to do what she thinks is necessary in this matter. Sarah’s harsh treatment of Hagar causes her to flee. 2 An angel convinces Hagar to return, explicitly instructing her to submit to Sarah’s mistreatment; in exchange Hagar’s is promised that her son will head a great nation.

In Parshat Vayera, Isaac is born to Sarah – a story familiar to us from Rosh Hashanah. When he grows, Sarah sees his half-brother Ishmael playing with Isaac. Originally conceived to be her surrogate son, she now views him as competition for her biological son Isaacs’ inheritance rights. Sarah once again tells Abraham to cast mother and son out, and this time Abraham does so himself, albeit with some reluctance. Ishmael is referred to as HaYeled, “the boy”, though the chronology of the story suggests he is older. Hagar and Ishmael survive, but are permanently banished from the Sarah-Abraham family.

These stories display a complex of privileges conferred by class and gender; race may play a factor, but it is unclear that Hagar, an Egyptian, is a slave due to racial factors. Hagar enjoys a temporary stretch of being superior to her former superior – but then she is thrown out of the system altogether. Hagar enters the canon in large part because of her surprising and vexing assertion of her new-found advantage. She is the paradigm of uppityness. While the text humanizes Hagar and empathizes with her trials in the wilderness, it does not fault Sarah for treating Hagar harshly; it simply tells the story. The jury is out as to whether the tellers of the story think Hagar deserved punishment for not knowing her place or if they think Sarah had it coming.

We all learn our place in the world through constant – if unconscious—reinforcement, socialization, and training. If we are in the majority, and/or in a privileged position, we notice inequities less than if we are in a minority or non-privileged situation. Occasionally there are moments when we become aware of disparities. Here are a few from my relatively privileged life.

·        I am around 4 years old. Our babysitter, a retired farmwife named Mrs. Peterson, is taking care of me; my mother is off doing some volunteer work. Mrs. Peterson takes me to her friend Winifred’s apartment where they and some other old ladies play a card game called Canasta. I have never been in an apartment. Mrs. Peterson tells them that my mum is working the Rummage Sale at the Jewish Temple. They perk up and throw their cards on the table. “Jews’ rummage! Let’s go.”  My mother and her fellow Fargo Hadassah volunteers are very surprised when I appear at the Rummage Sale.

·        I am 7 or 8. My older brother’s room has a funny postcard hanging on the door, “Genius At Work”, with a lot of messy ink blotches printed on it. My sister and I have no such funny postcard on our room. We get the message: Older Brother is a genius. Clearly that is why he just sits at the table after dinner while we girls clear the dishes.
·        I am in 4th grade. Our cleaning lady, a kindly lady named Ruby Summerfeld, must have moved or retired because when I come home for the midday meal  – this is the 1950’s! - my mother is serving lunch to a new cleaning lady. Mrs. Thorstensen weighs about 300 pounds; her breathing is heavy and labored, and she is a bit scary. When I return to school, I make absolutely sure to avoid making eye contact with her son Harlan, my classmate.

·        David and I live in an Upper West Side brownstone. Our neighbors, The Reverend and Patricia Huntington, invite us to Sunday supper. I brief Patricia about our not eating meat. She asks why not, and I explain we keep kosher. She recalls that her grandparents, missionaries in Africa, often encountered people with food taboos. She also mentions that her grandparents’ were very proud to always eat whatever was served to them, even bull eyeballs. We admire a large oil painting hanging in their living room and they fill us in on its provenance. “That’s a scene from Huntington, Long Island – the town is named for some of our ancestors.”  We do not invite the Huntingtons back – ever.

·        It is 30 years later. My cleaning person asks me to recommend a summer camp for her daughters, whose uncle has offered to pay for them to attend. I am weirded out. The only not-Jewish camp I know if is for Quaker hippies and I can’t imagine her daughters socializing with the children of anyone I know.  I mention the name of the camp, Dark Waters, and – uncharacteristically for me - never ask her what happened.

·        Around the same time we are invited to a brunch with physicians, executives in the pharmaceutical industry and their highly-educated wives. In the course of discussion I mention that SAT scores correlate to family income, a fact I had recently learned and found compelling. I am roundly jumped upon. America is a meritocracy! I realize I have just committed a major faux pas.

I was born white, upper-middle class, Jewish, and female. Whiteness and upper-middle class status are both unearned, privileged positions, nationally and even more so globally. Being female is a relative disadvantage, though one can debate how much it is over-ridden by being white and affluent. Jewish is a complex identity, often – but not necessarily-- tied to class and racial privilege, since a majority of Jews are white and financially comfortable, up there with Episcopalians.  Of course we have a long history of persecution and in some places in the world experience very real anti-Semitism, but much ink has been spilled teasing out Jewishness from the other identities we all integrate.

Beneficiaries of unearned privileges typically do not notice them – a major point in the article by Peggy McIntosh, White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Backpack. They are daily, ordinary experience. Likewise, people in the majority, in whatever situation they are in, rarely notice minorities. Those in a position of privilege are generally clueless about the experience of unprivileged people. Even the Dali Lama confesses he didn’t give a thought to his mother carrying him around on her shoulders for hours every day.

Being privileged doesn’t mean you’re bad – people don’t choose privilege and more than people chose poverty. They generally are born into it and insulated from thinking of it as incredible luck like Ann Richardson, describing George W. Bush: “born on third base and he thought he hit a triple.”

A lot of this discussion is in the framing.  When FairTrade coffee was being introduced, I described the concept to our son Zachary, always an advocate for social justice.  He responded, “Well, I guess the regular stuff is ‘unfair trade coffee’ “.  Not surprisingly, the term Unfair Trade Coffee has not caught on, nor has “unfairly advantaged” taken off as a descriptor of those who enjoy unearned privilege. According to Rav SpellCheck, “underprivileged” and “disadvantaged” are words.  “Overprivileged" and "overadvantaged" are not.

While beneficiaries of unearned privilege may be blissfully unaware of it – a privilege in itself –people who are unfairly discriminated against are well aware of it, enduring an unending barrage of undermining actions 3, both subtle and crude.  Masters are often surprised to learn their slaves don’t love working for them and being part of their family4. Sarah’s plan had been that Hagar would gratefully hand Sarah the fruit of her womb and maybe be the baby’s wet nurse, not claim motherhood, agency, and higher status. Sarah seems blindsided when Hagar asserts herself and insults her; one can speculate that Hagar is mirroring the way she herself has been treated by Sarah.

In our world, privileges come in many forms. Here is a short list, and people could add many more. Some members of our community, in fact, have put a lot of work and thought into these issues. In addition to the major disparities of race and gender, there is:

Heterosexual privilege: until recently, and still in most of the world, same-sex couples cannot show off their wedding pictures in the office, talk about their sweeties, and if they kiss their partner in public, they are accused of promiscuity.  These are just a couple of the daily oppressions – there are thousands of them.
Native-born citizens have huge privileges not available to immigrants – knowing the ropes, speaking the language, having the right forms.  Unless, of course, you are a Native American.
Age is a large privilege, until it becomes a detriment. Younger children are intensely aware of the privileges received by the bigger kids. This seems to be plugged into our human nature. Birth order has enormous effects on lived experience.
Education & Literacy confer privileges, and the more affluent you are, the better the quality of education you have access to, along with the length of time you spend being educated.
Military exemption privilege: since our military system is “voluntary”, our safety and rights are defended by those who need jobs and the potential benefits the military provides, in exchange for risking their lives and having no control over where they are deployed.
Fame/Legacy privilege is pretty obvious. Hard work and achievement matter in the United States, but name recognition gets you on short lists. Many have made the observation that the truest form of affirmative action is legacy admissions of mediocre students.

A few questions for discussion:

1. Is Hagar a role model for resistance to oppression, or a cautionary tale that resisters will be punished?
2. Share a time you were aware of your own unearned privilege, or your lack of it.
3. Some of us here are activists on this issue: share ways people can work for a fairer world.
4. Does acknowledging privilege demand that people give some of it up, and is that even possible?
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Footnotes: Thanks to Rabbi Nancy Fuchs-Kreimer for bringing them to my attention.
 1 "Drive out this slave woman and her son" - ["Drive out" appears] thrice in the Bible: "Drive out this slave woman""Drive out the scoffer" (Proverbs 22:10), "When he sends you free, it is finished - he will drive, yes, drive you out from here" (Shemot 11:1) - Drive out this slave woman and her son, and then you will have driven out the scoffer, and because Sara drove Hagar out of her home, she was punished, and her descendents were enslaved and had to be driven out of Egypt.   (Baal Haturim, Bereishit 21:10)

 2 All who have been oppressed can also oppress.
Sarah our mother oppressed her Egyptian maidservant Hagar. Sarah was barren and she wanted a child. She gave Hagar, her Egyptian maidservant, to Abraham as a wife. When Hagar conceived and became pregnant Sarah grew lesser in her eyes. So Sarah oppressed her and Hagar ran away, as it says:
"V'ta'aneiha Sarai v'tivrach mipaneyha" (Genesis 16:6)
Pharaoh the Egyptian oppressed our people when they dwelled in Egypt.
The Israelites descended to Egypt and lived there….And the Egyptians treated us harshly and oppressed us; they imposed hard labor on us as it says:
"Vayarei'u otanu mamitzvrim va'y'anunu va'yitnu aleinu avoda kasha." (Deuteronomy 26:6)
This you should never forget: the same word used for Hagar's oppression at the hands of Sarah is used for the Israelites' oppression at the hands of the Egyptians.
Rabbi Tamara Cohen, Mayan Haggadah (following on Nachmanides)
3  Racial Microgressions in Everyday Life – Hat-tip, Nomi Teutsch

4 Masters are often surprised to learn their slaves don’t love working for them and being part of their family – Micah Weiss, Seder commentary

For Further Reading: Recommended by Dr. Andrea Jacobs:


From the NYTimes (suggested by Sue Sussman)

What ‘White Privilege’ Really Means - GEORGE YANCY and NAOMI ZACK