Vezot Ha Bracha 10/7/04

Moshe Rabbenu, (Moses our teacher)

"Moses commanded us a Law, the heritage of the congregation of Jacob"

Vezot Ha Bracha

The last of the Torah's fifty-three parshahs completes the never-ending-circle to make the perfect Garden: 53 is the gematria of the Hebrew word Gan. Gan is the Hebrew word for Garden, and in Biblical literature, is always referring to the Garden of Eden.

After a progression of firm admonitions to Israel in the preceding parashots, we come to the conclusion of the Torah the end of the cycle an end that in reality is not an end, but a beginning, a new beginning. Now we are ready and prepared. After Yom Kippur, we can enter in to the Garden, fresh, new, unblemished. Having endured 5764, with its defeats and victories, having more revelation than the previous year, having the opportunities to see His hand once again work in magnificent ways . . . now we are set to meet our G-d anew, along with His promise is to take us back into the Garden, to experience new wonders. There is an anticipation, a yearning in my soul to once again see how His shekinah will expose new thoughts, new ideas, and new revelation.

An analogy: This may seem inappropriate to some, however, it is the nearest concept that I can use to explain. Many of you have not experienced this, something very wonderful that was stolen from us for so long because of the Torah-less teachings that we lived in most of our lives. Truly, this has been one of the most wonderful things I have experienced in this life, that is, the practice of niddah with my wife.

The cycle of life is revealed in the earliest verses of Breisheet . . . that is, to create and multiply. Hashem places within us (particularly men) a passion or drive to create. Niddah not only teaches us to control our passions, but, in my case, over time, the greater lesson was to anticipate a new time . . . a unification once again, with all things being fresh and new, and the unexplainable bliss of coming together . . . it was like the first time. With the tension building, counting the days, remembering the wonders . . . and the longing. It was as if every thought was of her, of the warmth of her skin, the depth of her eyes, the smell of her flesh. On day 14, waiting for her to come home, after leaving work at 9 PM, looking at my watch, knowing that she was on her way to the mikveh, 10:00 knowing that she was driving home, 10:30 hearing the car in the driveway . . . hearing the front door close, listening to the creaking of the stairway as she came upstairs. As she entered the bedroom, it was like the shekinah surrounded her . . .

In a very similar way, I anticipate the new cycle. I do not view the ending of Vezot HaBracha as an end of Torah, I view it with great expectations, knowing that it is leading me to the Garden once again . . . just like the first time, to hear His voice, to feel His touch and guiding hand, to witness the shekinah bringing light to the darkness of this existence.

All things come to an end. But endings are necessary in order to bring beginnings. When I think in these terms I often remember when we were in Egypt, and after the 430 year struggle, Moshe Rabbenu brought us out, brought an end to that part of our lives, as he was directed by the hand of G-d. In our uncertainty, our wonder, and our walk in that place of ambiguity, G-d reassures us by telling us that He brought us out from there, that He might bring us in, to give us the land of which He swore to our fathers. Deuteronomy 6:23. With endings, there should always be the anticipation of new and more wonderful beginnings. Endings are necessary to pave the way for beginnings.

So, as we move out so to speak from 5764s readings and in to the readings of 5765, G-d is there with us, taking us out in order to bring us in.

The Torah ends where it begins, It ends with a blessing: Bracha- Vezot Ha Bracha: "And this is the blessing with which Moses, man of God, blessed the Children of Israel before his death" Deut. 33:1) and begins with a blessing. In addition, within the text of Vezot Ha Bracha, we find the verse Moses commanded us a Torah, the heritage of the congregation of Jacob. The heritage of Torah is a blessing, a bracha on the reader and his ancestors.

As the circle of Life continues back to Breisheet, we find the first word (the first chapter of Breisheet is to be read on Simcha Torah to show that the circle never ends) begins with the letter bet. Many would assume that the first letter of the first verse in the Torah would begin with aleph instead.

The Jerusalem Talmud (sometimes called the Palestinian Talmud) suggests that the alef would have been an inappropriate beginning, since it is the first letter of the word arirah, meaning cursing. Bet, on the other hand, begins the word bracha, again, meaning blessing. Surely, however, there are many positive words in Hebrew that begin with an alef, and many negative words that begin with a bet. Why should the bet be identified with blessing in particular?

The Talmudic teaching regarding this concept revolves around the reality that one must prepare himself prior to the actual study, to concentrate and meditate on the fact that by entering into the pages of the Torah that it is much more than reading a book. That, in fact, when one enters into Torah, he should recognize that he is entering into Gan Eden (the supernal Garden) and the presence of the Creator Himself. And by doing so in sincerity he can in fact, expect that his life will receive a bracha, a blessing, as he learns the mitzvot and accepts his responsibility to walk in them (asah to do them). This promise from Hashem is hinted at (sod) in the usage of the letter bet in the opening verse, the opening word of Torah . . . that one who studies with sincerity will in fact be blessed, and receive a blessing . . . a bracha.

So, as in all cases in the Torah, we can see between the lines the hand of Hashem reaching out to us to bring a bracha into our lives. This is His desire, always. It is not seen easily, as it is not in the literal black and white of the letters on a paper page or ink on animal skins. It is between the lines . . . in the mystical hints of the sod.

The Torah is infinite, it is the pshat in written form of the mind of God, a straightforward document, without exaggeration. The embellishment of the words, those things written between the lines evolve from the hearts and minds of men . . . as the light of the Ruakh burns away the fleshly assumptions and, hopefully, the traditions of men . . . paralyzed in their memories of what was once a comfort zone of religious ease and simplicity. Every year we have a new opportunities as we once again enter the Garden with great anticipation.

And Moses the servant of the Lord died there in Moab as the Lord had said. He buried him in Moab, in the valley opposite Beth Peor, but to this day no one knows where his grave is. Moses was a hundred and twenty years old when he died, yet his eyes were not dimmed nor his energy abated. The Israelites grieved for Moses in the plains of Moab thirty days, until the time of weeping and mourning was over.

The people must have been devastated upon hearing of Moses death. But we must remember that Joshua was ready to take them further. Numbers 27:16-17 Let the LORD, the God of the spirits of all flesh, set a man over the congregation, who may go out before them and go in before them, who may lead them out and bring them in, that the congregation of the LORD may not be like sheep which have no shepherd." Hashem has placed the spirit of Moshe in many men . . . a passion to teach and lead them into Torah . . the spiritual promised land.

He will never leave those of us who desire to go on, those who desire to enter in to the promised land without a leader.

Much of the following comes from Rabbi Sachs and I insert it here because it speaks my heart and cannot be elucidated in a greater manner by me. In humility, after reading this, I have found some solace in trying to understand myself. For here, it has been confirmed to me why Hashem has continually spoken to me in dreams and visions . . . whispering in my minds hearing many times, simply, Moshe and giving me a pen name of my writings for FFOZ and other publications as Michael Moshe, my Hebrew name.

I identify in a miniscule way with Moshe Rabbenu . . . and hope with optimism that a portion of his spirit dwells within me. Though there are many promised lands that I may never enter, my walk with Him has been fulfilled, even if I were to die this day.

And Moses the servant of the Lord died there in Moab as the Lord had said. He buried him in Moab, in the valley opposite Beth Peor, but to this day no one knows where his grave is. Moses was a hundred and twenty years old when he died, yet his eyes were not dimmed nor his energy abated. The Israelites grieved for Moses in the plains of Moab thirty days, until the time of weeping and mourning was over.

With these words the life of the greatest leader Israel ever had draws to a close. The Torah ends as it began, with an act of tenderness on the part of G-d. Just as He had then breathed the breath of life into the first man, so now He buries one of the greatest of men as the breath of life departs from him. There is a sense of closure: Adam and Eve had been prevented from eating from the Tree of Life, but Moses gave the Torah - "a tree of life to all who hold fast to it" - to Israel, granting them their taste of eternity. There is also a sense of exile and incompletion: just as Adam and Eve had been forced to leave Eden, so Moses was prevented from entering the promised land.

There never was nor ever will be another Moses, but his life was as eloquent as his teachings, and no less challenging. In him, every conventional wisdom and understanding about leadership is overturned. He was not conventional. No degrees from seminary, no elevation as a artificial holy man of the cloth. He was simply a man. A man who made mistakes (perceived) but whose mistakes we in the end directed by the hand of G-d in order to form him as a genuine, humble, man of G-d.

We judge leaders by their success. How big is their congregation? How many books have they written, how well known is he . . . yet these things fly in the face of Divine convention. How successful has he been at setting himself up with the Nicholaitin image of holiness by wearing a band-aid in his collar or looking down at the congregation while exalting himself up from a pulpit.

Moses failed at almost every stage by worldly wisdom.

When he first tried to secure freedom for the Israelites, Pharaoh responded by making their burdens worse. The Israelites complained. They continued to complain through the long years of wandering. They had no food; they had no water; the food was boring; the water was bitter; they wanted to go back. Forty days after receiving the greatest revelation in history, the people had made a golden calf. On the brink of entry into the land, the spies brought back a demoralizing report, delaying their arrival by forty years. Korach challenged his leadership. His own brother and sister spoke negatively about him. He himself, for a momentary lapse in striking the rock, was forbidden to enter the promised land. In his final speeches he predicted that Israel, having received every blessing, would forget its vocation and suffer exile again. Can a life of failures be a success? In worldly terms, no. In spiritual terms, emphatically yes.

We expect a leader to have a sense of destiny, personal greatness. Leaders generally believe in themselves. Moses did not. When asked by G-d to lead the Jewish people, he refused time and again. "Who am I," he said, "that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?" I am unworthy. The people will not believe in me. Yet it is this man, apparently so self-effacing, who takes hold of a fractious, recalcitrant people and turns it, within the space of a generation, into a nation capable of conquering a land, establishing a state, and co-authoring with G-d surely the most remarkable story of any group on earth. We have to remind ourselves that the man who delivered, in the Book of Devarim, the most eloquent and visionary speeches ever uttered, was the same person as the one who said, early in the Book of Shemot, "I am not a man of words, neither in the past nor since you have spoken to your servant. I am slow of speech and tongue." Moses' greatness lay precisely in the fact that he did not believe in himself. He believed in the Caller and the call. (from the Chief Rabbi).

Moses was not Abraham, irenic, serene, composed, a man who lived far from the clamor of politics, private in his relationship with G-d. He belongs to a later stage of history, when Israel is no longer a family clan but a people, with all that implies in terms of potential conflict and strife.

He is a man poised between earth and heaven, bringing G-d's word to the people and the people's word to G-d, at times wrestling with both, trying to persuade the people to obey, and G-d to forgive. Not for him a peaceful death like that of Abraham, "an old man and full of years." Instead Moses dies, "his eyes undimmed, his energy unabated."

Moses' energy was unabated because his eyes were undimmed, because he never lost the vision that had driven him since his encounter with G-d at the burning bush. He was a burning bush himself, aflame with a passion for justice, who (unlike Aaron, his brother) preferred principle to compromise. Rashi notes that the mourning for Aaron was more widespread than for Moses (of Aaron it says, "the entire house of Israel grieved"; in the case of Moses the word "entire" is missing). The reason is that Aaron was a man of peace; Moses was a man of truth. We love peace; but truth is sometimes hard to bear. People of truth have enemies as well as friends.

Moses, mortal, fallible, full of doubts about himself, often frustrated, occasionally angry, once falling into an abyss of despair - that is the Moses who, more than anyone else, set his seal on the people he led to freedom, permanently enlarging their horizons of aspiration. The Moses we meet in the Torah is not a mythical figure, an epic hero, an archetype, his blemishes airbrushed away to turn him into an object of adoration; and he is all the greater for it. He is human, gloriously human.

Maimonides writes, in his great declaration of human freewill: "Every human being [note: not just "every Jew"] may become righteous like Moses our teacher or wicked like Jeroboam." Such an assertion, made of any other founder of any other faith, would sound absurd, but of Moses it does not sound absurd. His very humanity brings him close and summons us to greatness. Moses was the greatest of the prophets - and the prophets themselves lived among the people. They had no robes of office. They administered no sacred rites. Though G-d spoke to them, they spoke in words people could understand. They were not oracles, shamans, people wrapped in mystery who spoke in parables and enigmas that only the initiated could fathom. The clear, absolute, ontological boundary between heaven and earth means that G-d never asks humanity to be more or less than human.

We are, all of us, the image and likeness of G-d. We need no intermediary to speak to G-d. We need no sacrifice to apologize to G-d. We need no priest or divine intercessor to be forgiven by G-d. We are each the son or daughter of G-d. The distance between us and G-d may be infinite, but there is a bridge across the abyss. It is not a person or a place, but something altogether different. It is language, words, communication. In revelation G-d speaks to us. In prayer we speak to G-d. Moses' greatness was that he - the man who said, "I am not a man of words" - brought us the divine word: the written Torah which never ages, and the oral Torah through which it is made new and alive in every generation. Judaism is a religion of holy words, words that when internalized have the power to transform a "stiff-necked people" born in slavery into "a kingdom of priests and a holy nation" dedicated to creating a society of gracious and collective freedom. Judaism is the ongoing conversation between the "I" of G-d and the "Thou" of mankind, in which each of us has a share.

It is that shared conversation that allows an Abraham, who calls himself "dust and ashes," to say to G-d "Shall the judge of all the earth not do justice?" It is that possibility of dialogue that allows Moses to say, "But now, please forgive their sin - but if not, then blot me out of the book You have written." It is that ongoing dialectic of written and oral Torah - revelation and interpretation - that has embraced patriarchs and prophets, sages and scribes, poets and philosophers, commentators and codifiers, and has not ceased from Moses' day to ours.

Not wrongly, therefore, did Jewish tradition when it sought to accord Moses the highest honor, call him not Moses the liberator, the law-giver, architect of a nation, military hero or even greatest of the prophets, but simply Moshe Rabbenu, Moses our teacher. "Moses commanded us a Law, the heritage of the congregation of Jacob."

Those words - no mere words but the foundational document, the covenantal text shaping the pattern of Jewish life and the structure of Jewish history - are in every generation the link between us and heaven: never broken, never annulled, never lost, never old. G-d may "hide His face" but He never withdraws His word.

As we take our leave of Moses, and he of us, the picture we have is indelible: It is a picture of a man who failed yet succeeded, who came close to despair yet left an immortal legacy of hope, who died without finishing his journey yet who has been with the Jewish people on its journeys ever since. It is his very humanity that shines forth from the pages of the Torah, sometimes with such radiance that we are afraid to look, but always and only a mortal and fallible human being, a medium through whom G-d spoke, an emissary through whom G-d acted, reminding us eternally that though we too are only mortal, we too can achieve greatness to the extent that we allow the presence of G-d to flow through us, His word guiding us, His breath giving us life.