D'var Torah

Two decades later, it is easier to see how we were tempted by the idols of that time, but it is still hard to recognize the idols of today. We remember the sheer panic of 19 years ago, and how we longed for someone — anyone — to make us feel safe again. Those who told us that we need only sacrifice a bit of our liberty for safety often gave us neither. Looking back, we remember just how hollow those promises were.

Over this past year, T’ruah has been publishing Torah 20/20, where each week a different author reflects on what the Torah portion teaches us about democracy.

It’s Rosh Hashanah, and those lifeless eyes stare at the collective of mingled families, a lot of kids – I’m among them – who sneak off to play cards.

Loving our neighbors is not merely feeling affection towards them; it is joining them when that which gives them life has collapsed and fallen and striving to raise it, and them, up. When our neighbors are harmed, we hurt too; we are interdependent.

When our methods are just, our system doesn’t grant privileges to the powerful and strip protections from the vulnerable. As the Torah formulates it this week, “You shall not judge unfairly: you shall show no partiality; you shall not take bribes.” The justice system ought to represent all equally...

"As an organizer who encourages people to march for justice and bring their activism to the streets, I often get asked if the signs and slogans of protests are unrealistic, or would turn people away with their seemingly out of reach demands and strong language."

...when we circumcise our hearts we can then turn our necks outward to the world, vulnerable, nakedly open to the experiences of others. The internal work cannot be separated from the work of changing the world, of standing shoulder to shoulder with those who are oppressed. We cannot have one without the other.

I believe, however, that antisemitism is not eternal or inevitable. It is something we can overcome, if we understand it properly. Common references to antisemitism as “the world’s oldest hatred” obscure the ways that it actually functions and who it benefits. 

If the wood gatherer teaches us about the threat of a raid on the commons, the sisters reinforce the lesson by anticipating a more subtle version of it. Consider what would have happened had the daughters not acted. In short, Zelophehad’s brothers likely would have fought over who should get their brother’s land. At the extreme, if all it takes to inherit land is to be the last brother standing, we face the dire prospect of a fratricidal free-for-all.

Mahlah, Noa, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah, the daughters of Zelophehad, recognize and name another crisis, which is that the inheritance laws are set so that families with only daughters are unable to inherit land and instead their families lose their access to land. The five women respond powerfully to the crisis of their father’s death, and a structural shortcoming, with an eye towards intergenerational shifts rather than short-term reform.