Monica

I gave approximately this d'var torah a week and a half ago. Ha'azinu is the poem at the end of Moshe's long speech at the end of D'varim (Deuteronomy).

"It's like talking to a brick wall," my mother often said to me and my sister. It happened when she was trying to get us to do our chores, or stop fighting, or behave ourselves in front of guests. We weren't the best-behaved kids sometimes. She'd end her lectures with "did you hear me?" and, often, we'd sarcastically parrot it back to her, but little changed. What she said went in one ear and out the other, she often said.

Our prophets have this problem with us. The only prophet who actually succeeded in delivering his message and bringing about a change was Yonah -- and he was talking to the Assyrians, our enemies! Israel, on the other hand, didn't listen to our prophets, not the gentleness of Micah nor the warnings of Jeremiah. And not to Moshe either. In his final speech Moshe pleads with Yisrael to follow God's path, knowing full well that they will stray. Why does he bother? What's the point? The words of our prophets go in one ear and out the other.

I sometimes wonder if we have this problem with our own words of prayer sometimes. We say the words of the siddur, but do we internalize them? Are we listening? Or are we just reciting what is before us and moving on? Do our prayers go in one ear and out the other?

A funny thing happened with my parents' messages to my sister and me. I don't have kids but she does, and it turned out that she and I have both said to her kids many of the things we heard from our parents. The first time I heard myself telling one of them that I was talking to a brick wall, I stopped in my tracks. It turns out we did hear what they said, maybe even listened -- even if we didn't act on it back then.

Our prophets' words often seemed to fall on deaf ears, but despite that, we're still here. God hasn't wiped us out despite the dire warnings, no matter how much we've deserved it. Have we gone through some bad times? Yes, as Moshe knew we would, but some remnant, some part of Yisrael, listened to our prophets.

We always read Ha'azinu near Yom Kippur, either on Shabbat Shuva right before or, like this year, a few days after. Every year I make a sincere effort at Yom Kippur. I enter with regret and resolve to do better. The words of the day's prayers make a real impact on me and there's a lot of introspection. I hear the message and I think I'm listening. Yet it's hard to make it stick; it sometimes feels like the changes I try to make in myself don't survive much past the end of Sukkot. Should I bother? Won't I just be back here next year in the same situation?

But no, I can listen. Just as it turned out I listened to my parents and we listened to our prophets, I can listen to our prayers and my own yearnings. I can do better, just like our people did, just like my sister and I did. I can learn to listen. The message doesn't have to go in one ear and out the other.

The torah portion begins with Moshe describing to the people the rewards they'll receive for following in God's ways -- people and flocks will be fruitful, crops will be bountiful, none will be barren, there'll be no sickness or plagues, and they'll be victorious over the other nations. This is one of several places where the torah describes rewards for doing mitzvot. This is hard to understand, though, because the world doesn't work this way -- we do have people who want children and are barren, we do have sickness, crops aren't always bountiful, and so on. The good sometimes suffer and the wicked sometimes flourish. So how are we supposed to understand this?

(Spoiler warning: I don't have deep answers to this age-old problem. I have some thoughts.)

One approach we could take is to place it in context. Moshe is speaking to the Israelites at the end of their 40-year trek to the promised land. They're standing on the shore of the Yarden, about to cross over and conquer the land after this speech. Perhaps Moshe is speaking to these people in this time. There's even an ambiguously-placed "in the land that He will give you" (in 7:13), so maybe this promise isn't for everybody forever.

That's not very satisfying, though. The torah is supposed to be eternal, for us and not just for them.

Another approach was taken by the rabbis at least as early as the mishna (in Pirke Avot): Olam HaBa, the world to come. If we aren't rewarded in this world, Olam HaZeh, then we will be later. There are even mitzvot for which we get rewarded in both; we list some of them in eilu d'varim in the morning service. We should still focus on this world, not obsess about an afterlife like some other religions do, but an afterlife gives another opportunity for reward. I'm not sure how satisfying this is to most people, either.

I'd like to propose two additional dimensions to what the torah says about rewards, two additional axes to consider.

The first is communal versus individual actions and rewards. Sometimes the torah addresses us in the singular and sometimes in the plural. Some rewards, like bountiful crops, are clearly communal -- it's pretty hard for me to have a good harvest with rain in its proper season and so on while my immediate neighbor has the opposite. Some rewards could be individual, like health. Obligations, too, come in individual and communal varieties; we all have individual obligations in the mitzvot, but the whole community together has some too, like setting up courts, bringing communal offerings, and conducting wars in particular ways. And sometimes individual obligations can bring communal rewards -- there's a rabbinic tradition that if every Jew in the world were to keep (the same) Shabbat once, we'd get the moshiach. Quite aside from the individual rewards for keeping Shabbat -- you get Shabbat, a day of rest -- there can be a big communal reward.

When looking for rewards for our actions, therefore, we should look to both our individual and our communal benefits. Even if you're not feeling personally rewarded for following torah, maybe you're helping your whole community live in safety, health, and comfort. That counts, too.

The second dimension is the question of whom we do mitzvot for.

The Reform movement is not a halachic movement. Ok, technically we do say that the ethical mitzvot are binding and it's only the ritual ones that are optional, but those ethical mitzvot align pretty well with values we already have anyway like not stealing, being honest in business, caring for the poor, and many others. Among the others, we choose -- sometimes as a community and sometimes individually -- which mitzvot have meaning to us and we do those. Many of us find meaning in Shabbat, in communal worship like our morning minyan, in study, in many social-justice pursuits, and more.

If our progressive values and halacha conflict, however, we reinterpret (occasionally) or set aside (usually) halacha. By and large, we do the mitzvot that we do for ourselves, for the good feelings they produce and the values they align with.

When we do mitzvot for ourselves, maybe that good feeling that we get is the reward for doing the mitzvah. That's fair -- we're rewarded here and now, in Olam HaZeh, for doing mitzvot. Isn't that what we wanted?

So we tend to do mitzvot for ourselves, but there's an alternative. If we believe that torah is mi Sinai, from God, then we should do mitzvot not for ourselves but for God. Even the goofy ones, the ones we don't understand and don't find personal meaning in. (I struggle with this, to be clear.) I don't know too many people who find spiritual fulfillment in sha'atnez, the law against combining linen and wool, but it's something God cares about. Last week a friend and I were talking about kitniyot, the additional foods that Ashkenazim don't eat during Pesach even though they're not chametz, forbidden grains. (A bunch of other foods got implicated by association.) My friend is a thoughtful, intelligent person who wrestles with torah and seeks to understand; he's not one to just say "tell me what to do and I'll do it". He told me that some of these decisions about kitniyot are clearly wrong -- but nonetheless the halachic system that God gave us produced this result, so he follows it. For God, not for himself.

The name of our portion, Eikev, comes from the same root as Ya'akov, heel-grabber. I don't remember where I heard this idea, but perhaps this word is meant to remind us not to trample on mitzvot just because we think they're minor or goofy. Who's to say which ones God most cares about?

What's the reward for doing mitzvot for God and not for us? Is there a reward for putting up with ridiculous-seeming food restrictions for Pesach, for waving greenery around on Sukkot, for checking fiber contents on our clothing, for separating meat and milk dishes, and many other things? When we're not doing mitzvot for our own benefit the rewards can be less clear, but if we have faith that God gave us the torah at all, why shouldn't we also have faith that God will deliver on His promises in some way at some time?

When looking at rewards for torah, either individual or communal, perhaps we should have less focus on specific rewards for specific deeds. Instead, let us do right and trust God to respond.

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It seems that the brothers assume that Yosef hasn't changed either; once their father has died they cook up a story about how Yaakov wanted Yosef to forgive his brothers and not take revenge. But Yosef has changed. He's the one who breaks the cycle of dysfunction in the family. Yosef has held onto torah values like family peace, honoring parents, not holding grudges, and fearing God, despite everything that's happened.

It's not just the family strife I'm talking about. Yosef has at this point been living in Egypt for about 40 years. He's been given an Egyptian wife and Egyptian home, and he's a top official in the court of the Egyptian king -- a king who is also a god, according to them. Yosef has been immersed in this culture, and as Paro's #2 he doesn't really have the option to separate himself from it. Despite all this, Yosef doesn't become an Egyptian at heart.

Yosef will live several more decades in Egypt, and they won't be good years. If you do the math, it's clear that Yosef sees the beginning of Israel's slavery in Egypt. One commentary says that the enslavement began immediately after Yaakov's death, as if Yaakov's presence was the only thing that stayed the divine hand. I noticed in the text that when it's time to bury Yaakov, Yosef approaches Paro's house, not Paro directly; perhaps Yosef was already out of favor in Paro's eyes at this point and Paro wouldn't see him. Remember that the famine is long ended but Yosef's family is still living and multiplying in the choice land of Goshen; perhaps Paro is starting to think of them as the houseguests who just won't leave.

So Yosef has had highs and lows, both of which challenge his Jewish identity, and yet he holds onto those values. Not only holds onto them but transmits them. Yosef strikes me as kind of a bookend to Moshe, who hundreds of years from now will be immersed in Egyptian culture and the royal court, barely know his people's values and history, and yet live those values and be God's instrument in saving his people. Moshe and the rest of his generation might not have their Jewish identity had it not been for Yosef working so hard to hold onto his.

We don't face Yosef's trials (I hope!), but we too live in a foreign culture with its own values and its own gods, a culture that sometimes seeks to marginalize us. What do we do to hold onto our Jewish values despite all that? What do we do to transmit those values to those who come after us? This is a question for each of us to answer on our own, and it starts with being aware of how easy it would be to assimilate into the surrounding culture and lose our identity.

Yaakov singled Yosef out again at the end of his life as if he were somehow special. Maybe Yosef is special -- a model for holding onto what matters no matter where we find ourselves. Are we following in his footsteps?

I've heard lots of comments (usually from synagogue treasurers and the like) about how this was the first successful fundraising campaign and would that we could be so fortunate when we need to raise money. I was thinking about this during the torah reading yesterday and found myself thinking that modern fund-raising would do well to follow the guidelines laid out in the parsha. Specifically:

1. There was a clear connection between the donations being requested and the goal that was being pursued. Everybody would be able to look at the product (the mishkan) and see how the donated materials were put to use. That's easier with goods than when everything is mediated through bank accounts, but I think many organizations can do better on this nonetheless -- starting by disclosing the costs of the fundraising (i.e. how much of my donation never makes it to its intended purpose?). In my own experience, when my congregation had a campaign several years ago toward building renovations, the board was very up-front about the planned renovations and the budget, and also that any excess would be placed in such-and-such fund for such-and-such purpose. Very open and up-front, and the donations came.

2. They asked for contributions at various levels. Not everybody can afford to give gold but some of them can give linen. They didn't say "ok, if all you can send is linen that's ok"; they asked for linen. The person making the donation could feel like a first-class donor. How many times has your donation to some charity been met with "can you do any more?" outweighing the "thank you so much for helping"? Great way to make donors feel valued, eh?

3. When they had enough they said so. This idea seems ludicrous to many fund-raisers I've spoken with -- they ask "why would you cut off donations if they're still giving?". I don't think you necessarily need to cut them off but you do need to be clear that you've met your goal. I experienced a blatant case of this problem some years ago: I was part of a group that was taking pledge calls, and when we were done and somebody asked about some discrepancies, they admitted that we had received more money in pledges than what they announced on-air as progress toward their goal (by quite a bit). They said they did this to keep the pressure on. I said that was dishonest and that was the last time I helped them.

Fund-raising is always going to be with us, and some of it will work well and some badly. The parsha urges us toward clear goals, valuing the donor no matter his contribution, and transparency to help it go well.

This is based on the end of parshat Emor, Lev 24:10-23.

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