Parashat Naso: The Middle Way

Then the Lord spoke to Moshe, “Speak to the Israelites.  Say, “When a man or a woman takes a special vow, the vow of the Nazarite, to separate him or herself to the Lord, he must separate himself from wine and strong drink.  He must drink neither vinegar made from wine or vinegar made from any other strong drink, nor may he drink any juice made with grapes, nor eat fresh grapes or raisins.  All the days of his separation he must not eat anything that comes from the grapevine, from seed to skin. 

All the days of his separation vow, no razor shall touch his head.  Until the completion of the time for which he separated himself to the Lord, he shall be holy and must let the locks of his hair grow long.  All the days of his separation, he must not come near a dead body” (which includes those of his close relatives).  All the days of his separation he is holy to the Lord.”” (Numbers 6.1-8)

Parashat Naso describes the laws of the Nazir or Nazirite as he is termed in English.

If a man or woman felt the need to attain a higher level of holiness and consecrate themselves to Gd, they could do this by taking upon themselves three vows.

1.    To refrain from partaking of any grape based product.  This symbolised a desire to reject the pleasures and excesses of ordinary life of which wine and grapes are key constituents.

2.    To demonstrate their commitment to their new lifestyle by significantly altering their appearance through not cutting their hair or shaving their beard.

3.    To avoid any contact whatsoever with a dead body, even to the extent that they wouldn’t be able to attend the funerals of their nearest and dearest relatives.  This ensured that they were able to remain in a state of absolute spiritual purity throughout their nezirut (the period of time that they were permitted to be a Nazirite).

I should point out that although these laws referred to all Nazirites, in this Drasha, I will be focussing on those individuals who chose to take the Nazarite vow as opposed to those like the Prophet Samuel or Samson (the subject of this week’s Haftarah) who were born into this status and spent their entire lives as Nazarites.

Although the idea of a Nazirite and the restrictions they choose to put themselves under seem strange to modern day audiences, they aren’t as unusual as we might consider them to be. 

Do you know someone who has participated in the annual Dry January campaign initiated by Alcohol Change UK?  Doesn’t that tick a similar box to the Nazirite’s first challenge?

What about Movember, the awareness campaign for men’s health (focusing on areas such as prostate cancer or suicide prevention) where gentlemen refrain from shaving their moustaches throughout the month of November (hence the name)?

The idea of giving up ‘something’ for a greater cause is not that unusual.  Beyond our own religion, it is common for many Christians to abstain from some of their favourite food products over the period of Lent.

Back to our Nazirite.

Most adhered to their vows for a month before going through the process of reintegrating into society by bringing a young sheep as an elevation offering, a ewe as a sin offering, a ram as a peace offering, a basket of unleavened bread and other items.  They would shave their head and burn their newly cut hair in the fire beneath the sacrifices (see Verses 13-20 for a full description).

On the surface, the lifestyle espoused by the Nazirite is very commendable.  Who wouldn’t want to take on an existence that was more aesthetic in nature?  That is for one small wrinkle in the process the Nazirite goes through as part of their reemergence into society.  Have you asked yourself why the Nazirite was required to bring a sin offering?

Surely, taking on such a holy existence could not warrant the need to atone for anything, could it?

Rabbi Sacks ztl quotes a disagreement between the Sages spanning the Mishnaic, Talmudic and Medieval Ages and I will be referencing his masterful Dvar Torah, ‘Naso: Two Versions of the Moral Life’ in his ‘Essays on Ethics’ (pp 221-225, Maggid, 2016). 

Rabbi Elazar and the Rambam viewed the Nazirite as being praiseworthy precisely because he had chosen to take on a higher level of holiness but in leaving this behind was now guilty of the sins inherent in returning to his pre-Nazarite state.

Rabbi Eliezer HaKappar and Shmuel took a different approach.  Where our protagonist had sinned, lay not in changing status from being a Nazirite to a non-Nazirite but in taking on the vow in the first place.  In doing so, Rabbi Eliezer states, “From this we may infer that if one denies himself the enjoyment of wine is called a sinner, all the more so, one who denies himself the enjoyment of other pleasures of life” (Tannit 11a; Nedarim 10a).

Their viewpoint was that this world and its pleasures which have been created by Gd must be appreciated and not denied by anyone.  It is an affront to the gifts we receive on a daily basis from the Almighty.

Some non-Jewish nations espouse a monastic life but this is not the Jewish way of living.

Hence, the requirement for the Nazirite to bring a sin offering.  Either for taking on the said restrictions in the first place (as per Rabbi Eliezer HaKappar and Shmuel) or for leaving them behind (quoting Rabbi Elazar and the Rambam).

If these were the only two approaches, the following viewpoint would not be so intriguing.

The Rambam, whilst appearing to agree with Rabbi Elazar’s viewpoint, also veers towards Rabbi Eliezer and Shmuel’s ideas as expressed in his Mishneh Torah.  So, he holds sway with both the positive and negative arguments!

In Hilchot Deot (The Laws of Personal Development 3.1), he writes:

A person may say, “Desire, honour and the like are bad paths to follow and remove a person from the world.  Therefore, I will completely separate myself from them and go to the other extreme.” As a result, he does not eat meat or drink wine or take a wife or live in a decent house or wear decent clothing...this too is bad and it is forbidden to choose this way.

However, in Hilchot Nezirut (the Laws of the Nazirite 10.14), he rules in accordance with Rabbi Elazar’s evaluation:

Whoever vows to Gd (to become a Nazirite) by way of holiness, does well and is praiseworthy…Indeed Scripture considers him to be equal of a prophet.

How can the Rambam take both sides of the argument...all the more so in the same book?

Rabbi Sacks explains that the Rambam understands two ways that a person can live a moral life, both as a saint (which he called a Chasid) and a sage (Chacham).

The latter, the sage, follows the ‘golden mean’ or ‘the middle way’.  Life is a journey between balancing too much and too little.  Sometimes, we are courageous but this finds us placing ourselves between cowardice and recklessness.  The degree of our generosity lies between ‘over’ and ‘under’ or as Rabbi Sacks terms it ‘profligacy and miserliness’.  That is the sage, the Chacham.

The saint, or the Chasid does not follow this middle way.  They tend towards extremes.  Fasting when they should be eating moderately or embracing poverty rather than acquiring modest wealth.  They may become a saint because of a life-changing experience such as surviving a serious illness or heaven forbid, the loss of loved ones.  They respond to this by trying to improve themselves through radical means, either spiritually or via increased physical exertion.  This is the Chasid.

For the Rambam, both approaches are recognised by the Torah.  If our lives were linear in nature, the way we responded to them would also be linear.  But that’s not the case.  Each of us will probably face challenges that demand of us to be a saint or a sage.  A Chasid or a Chacham. 

If we decide to go down the saintly route (as per Rabbi Sacks), will we give more money to Tzedaka than to our families?  Will we forgive those who carry out actions that are unforgivable?  Society cannot be formed out of saints if you wish to enforce a just and fair rule of law.

It is noteworthy for a person to try to be a saint because we need good people to populate our troubled societies but we also need sages to ensure that balance exists.  Extremism must be kept to a minimum and goodness, engendered by the saintlier members of society, is shared with those who are not of the same disposition.

A look at the Rambam’s life demonstrates that he would have liked to live as a saint and he longed for the seclusion granted to a Nazarite, in his role as a saint.  But he also realised that he had to be a sage, for the sake of his family and the global community that approached him for advice.   

His adoption of the middle way meant that, whereas he appreciated the positive outcome gained through being a Nazarite, he believed that one cannot permanently remove oneself from the society in which one lives.  Not if you want to play a crucial role in the community’s development and growth.

‘Dry January’ and ‘Movember’ are effective campaigns because they allow us to take on personal restrictions that focus our minds on the target at hand over a dedicated period of time.  These constraints make our lives different precisely because we know that as of the start of February and December respectively, we return to who we were before and reclaim the lifestyle we previously led.  The only difference is that, with hindsight, we can appreciate how much we achieved in the preceding month.

Similarly, the Nazirite decided to take stringencies upon themselves in the knowledge that these would eventually be relaxed.  It was the journey they went through during the period of their abstinence that made the greatest impact on them.  As a result, they returned to society and, hopefully, played a more active and constructive part than they had before they undertook their vow.

If we all adhered to walking ‘the middle way’, this world would be a much more pleasant environment in which to live.  We can be both saints and sages as long as we ensure that moderation is that heart of our decision-making process.

Shavuah Tov.

 

 

 

 

  

Parashat Tazria~Metzora: You Too Can Be Hercules!

It was, until I landed there on Thursday, 10th April 2025, a country that I had seen from the air close to a hundred times (although Stephnie will claim that I’m exaggerating).

Setting that to one side, my experience of Greece was the knowledge that once we hit its airspace, we were only two hours away from Ben Gurion.  The European continent was vanishing behind us as Asia beckoned.

It was an ancient civilisation that I had known about since childhood as I recalled the events of Chanukah every November/December.  One of our closest friends was Basil (Vassilis) and he told us about his beloved homeland.

My knowledge equation was: Annual trip to Israel + Chanukah + Basil = Greece.

In addition to:

•        The appalling security at Athens Airport that led to the Air France hijacking and subsequent Entebbe Operation
•          Zorba
•          Telly Savalas
•          The Guns of Navarone
•          Irene Papas (who seemed to appear in every film that had even the most tenacious link to anything Greek)
•         Jackie Onassis
•          Demis Roussos
•          Nana Maskouri and Taramasalata.

Here we were at Athens airport with what seemed like half the Jewish population of Israel (with some Yanks thrown in for good measure) waiting for our bus to take us to the resort which we had been told was three hours’ drive away but actually took five!  Please note that I’m not bitter even if it took us longer to get there than fly from Heathrow to Athens.

Geia sou Elláda! / Hello Greece!

A few days into our holiday, we visited Olympia, the site of the original Olympic Games, which was relatively close to where we were staying.

It’s a fascinating site and although there isn’t much left to see, there is enough to give one an idea of the ancient magnificence of the place.  We were particularly impressed with the remains of the earthen racetrack in the stadium which is 212 metres long and 30 to 34 metres wide.  It is here that the actual games which originally ran for a whole day and over time were extended to five (the last day reserved for the closing ceremony and the presentation of the olive wreath prizes).  The participants and audience entirely comprised of males and nearly all the events saw the athletes competing in the nude.  This was a culture that celebrated the beauty of the human form and how it could be used to attain honour and fame.  What could be more noble than showing it off by pushing it to its limits under an unforgiving sun?

Let us contrast this with the way in which the Torah views the human body.

In this week’s double Parasha, we read: (Vayikra 13.2)

"When a person has on the skin of his flesh a swelling, a scab, or a bright spot, and it develops into a tzaraat affliction, he shall be brought to Aharon the priest or to one of his sons the priests."

No-one knows exactly what Tzaraat was.  It was not leprosy which is ironically a Greek 6^th Century CE mistranslation of the Hebrew word.

The reason it is so misunderstood lies in the fact that it was a Divine spiritual affliction that presented itself as a physical ailment.  Our Rabbis tell us that the bearer was punished primarily for the sin of Lashon Hara (literally ‘evil speech’) and their being isolated from the community had nothing to with fears that they may be infectious.  This was to compel them to repent allowing a return to the friends and society that they had maligned.

Far from the Greek ideal of displaying the beauty of their body, this was the exact opposite.  No one who had a disfigured complexion (which if the sin was not atoned for led to Tzaraat appearing on his or her clothes and eventually the walls of their house) would have wished to appear in public.

The differences between the Greek and Jewish cultures constitute a complex subject which requires much exploration. Due to time constraints, I will only be able to skim the surface and Please Gd return to this topic in future sermons.

As I wrote above, ancient Greek belief focused entirely on the external appearance (even if the athlete was battling psychological demons) whilst Jewish thought centres on the individual working on improving their inner being.

The Olympic victors were idolised in public for the rest of their lives.  They were allowed to erect statues of their likeness at Olympia, had victory songs written about them and some even received free lodgings and meals in perpetuity.

Whereas our slanderer achieved a different public image. 

They were cast out and readmitted in the full glare of the Biblical audience.  However, in the knowledge that, because of their experience, they would have learned their lessons and presumably be a more valued member of society.  All this, without being awarded a wild olive wreath or impressive statue.

There are also similarities between both the ancient Greek and Jewish cultures.

In both cases, the common factor was that of excellence. 

The Olympics measured physical greatness whereas our people have always prided ourselves on our high moral achievements. Is this not what the Torah teaches us in Parasha after Parasha?

We are constantly told to remember who we are and where we come from.  We are instructed to avoid oppressing the orphan, widow and strangers for we were strangers in Egypt.  Time and again, we are challenged to create a society that is based on justice and equality for all.

On that trip, one of the most powerful messages I came away with was that one of the reasons the games had originally been created was to promote peace and unity amongst the different city-states.  Setting aside the religious aspect (which is problematic from a Jewish point of view granted the idolatrous aspect of the competition), is this not something we can all ascribe to in these challenging times?

I believe that inside each of us there is an inner soul driving our desire to excel at being the best version of who we can be.  We all have the potential of being an Olympic athlete in terms of how much we can give to others.  We don’t need wreaths or statues (although I wouldn’t turn down a free meal!) to be the best version of ourselves.

This week’s Parasha teaches us that the ‘body beautiful’ is much more than just a physical manifestation.  It’s about excellence.  The kind that elevates us to the top position on the heavenly podium.  The kind that lasts longer than even the oldest ruin found in that beautiful park in Western Greece.

Kali tychi / Good luck in your efforts and  Shavuah Tov! 

Parashat Pekudei: The First Jewish Accountant

If you were to take a poll of the most common ‘Jewish’ professions, I think we’d all agree that Accountancy would probably be up there in the prestigious company of Medicine and Law.

I have lost count (pun intended) of the number of my peers who entered this noble profession.  In fact, when I meet new members of ‘the tribe’ and ask them what they do, invariably they look at me knowingly and mention the ‘A’ word, followed by the usual, “It’s not the most exciting work but….”

The terms ‘Jewish’ and ‘Accountant’ are therefore not uncommon bedfellows.

One of my favourite accountancy jokes is:

How did the IDF win the Six-Day War?

They called up all the accountants, put them in the front line and then charged the Arabs.

If you’re wondering who one of the first Jewish (or in those days, ‘Israelite’) accountants was, he can be found in this week’s Parasha of Pekudei.

Let’s set the scene.

Last week, we read in precise detail about the collection and intricate production of all the materials required to build the Mishkan/Tabernacle.

Our Parashah begins by stating:

These are the accounts (‘Pekudei’) of the Tabernacle, the Tabernacle of testimony recorded at Moshe’s command by the Levites under Itamar, son of Aharon the Priest.  Betzalel, son of Uri, son of Hur, from the tribe of Yehuda, made everything that the Lord had commanded Moshe.  He was assisted by Oholiov, son of Achisamach, from the tribe of Dan.  An engraver, designer and embroiderer in sky-blue, purple and scarlet wool and fine linen. 
(Shemot 38.21-24)

This is followed by a meticulous record of the amount of gold, silver and bronze (according to Rabbi Sacks’ translation in the Koren Magerman Tanach. Other commentators translate ‘Nechoshet’ as copper or brass) used to make items such as the sockets, hooks, bronze mesh and utensils that were used with the altar, even down to the tent pegs.  The description extends to over fifty pesukim(verses) and includes every single material donated and how it was utilized to create the structure, artifacts and vessels associated with the Tabernacle.

The question we can ask is, why?

On first reading, it appears that the Torah is providing an exhaustive and repetitive narrative.  One which we’ve already read about in previous Parashiot.

What are we being taught and how is this connected to our interest in accountancy?

As usual, our first port of call is Rashi who comments that the word ‘pekudei’ (accounts) indicates an official reckoning of the Mishkan's resources.

He notes that Moshe provided a detailed report to ensure that there was no suspicion of misuse.  As the world’s first auditor, he outsourced the work to his nephew, whose accounting services are recorded in the Parasha.

However, this act of accounting was not merely procedural.

Not at all.

Moshe wanted to ensure that he, as leader of the Bnei Yisrael, was beyond reproach.  After all, he had been the Project Manager of a gargantuan endeavour.  In the process, he had collected extremely valuable materials such as gold, silver, bronze and wool from the people.  Would anyone have noticed if a gold bar or two had gone ‘missing’, perhaps set aside for Moshe’s retirement fund?

Rashi reminds us that even the most revered leader, such as Moshe, had to operate beyond reproach and, in the process, embody integrity and build trust.  After all, the Mishkan, as the dwelling place of Gd's presence, required its construction to be rooted not just in holiness but also honesty.

By engaging Itamar, Moshe ensured that there could be no question as to his integrity and that the construction and subsequent utilization of the Mishkan would be rooted in purity, from the moment the process began.

Rabbi Sacks ztl often emphasized that Judaism is not just a religion of personal spirituality but a framework for building an ethical society.  In order to create a moral and just society, one has to ensure that accountability is enshrined as a cornerstone in its construction.

The meticulous record-keeping of the Mishkan reminds us that holiness is found not only in the grand vision but in the integrity of the smallest details.  In this sense, Moshe's account mirrors the role of an accountant (and his case, an auditor).  In providing this narrative, it was not simply a case of just tallying numbers but, at the same time, ensuring that trust was maintained between the leadership and the people.  This resulted in the preservation of relationships and the instillation of a house in which Gd would dwell amongst the people.

This harks back to the very first command that Gd instructed Moshe regarding the construction of the Mishkan in Parashat Terumah (25.8)

They shall make me a sanctuary and I will dwell in their midst.

We, the Jewish people, have always marched to the beat of a different drum and engrained the ethics that we learnt in the Torah at the heart of our faith.  From educating our children and giving Tzedaka, to refusing to lose our faith in Gd when we couldn’t even work out how to survive – our moral compass tells us the right way to behave.  Accountability is hardwired into our DNA and, if you don’t believe me, just think back to how you felt during the High Holiday season.

Itamar, the first Jewish accountant, and his uncle, teach us how important it is to be accountable and how, inside each of us, is the remnant of the purity that flowed through the Mishkan.  At Sinai, Gd said:

“A kingdom of priests and a holy nation you shall be to me.”

It seems that we are all ‘accountants’ and this goes some way to explaining why this might qualify as being ‘most Jewish of professions’ and Jewish mothers around the world can justifiably kvell!

Shavuah Tov and Chodesh Tov.

Parashat Vayakhel: Fitting into the Frame

 

Please raise your hand if you know who Nathan Hope is.

Let me give you a clue as to his importance in 21^st century popular culture.

Known as ‘Hopey’, he posted the above photograph of his bruised lip accompanied by the following description on an Australian Science forum in 2002.  The topic revolved around dissolvable stitches.

‘Um, drunk at a mates 21st, I tripped ofer [sic] and landed lip first (with front teeth coming a very close second) on a set of steps.  I had a hole about 1cm long right through my bottom lip.  And sorry about the focus, it was a selfie.'

Hopey, non-plussed by the subsequent notoriety that was heaped upon him, was thereafter (incorrectly, as it turned out) credited as the originator of the ubiquitous term that he himself disavowed in a later interview:

‘It was not a word I coined.  It’s something that was just common slang at the time, used to describe a picture of yourself.  Fairly simple.’

Once it had entered the Oxford English Dictionary in 2013, it became ‘official’ (and was even named the ‘word of the year’) and now, everyone from royalty to politicians to Hollywood ‘A Listers’ are unable to avoid the attraction and necessary addition of the ‘selfie’ to their social media profiles.

We are also in on the act too – after all, who amongst us has not joined in the obligatory ‘selfie’ pose?  I am as guilty as the next Rabbi!

So, poor Nathan Hope has a lot to answer for.  Irrespective of whether he was responsible for popularising the term and by extension the concept of taking ‘selfies’, he will always be credited for releasing this photographic genie from its bottle.

I have many wonderful memories of my mother.  When I think about her, the image (if you’ll excuse the pun) that comes to mind is of her always taking photographs.  Wherever we went and with whomever we met, she asked us to pose for a photo.  She didn’t confine her interests solely to the still image and I have reels and reels of films that she shot over the years recording her life from childhood to old age.

I suspect that my grandfather might have been responsible for her interest as he too loved taking photos and films, many of which I still have.

Before the ‘age of the selfie’, we enjoyed getting together and asking someone else to take the shot.  It brought us, as a small family unit, close in proximity with all the awkwardness that revolves around people bunching up to fit inside a camera frame.  But it was part of the ritual.  That we didn’t know how the picture would turn out before we developed it added to the mystery and excitement of the moment.

In short, taking photographs seemed to be more of a family event.  Something that quite literally brought us together without needing to worry about how to angle the shot to avoid ruining it with the presence of the forearm taking the picture.

Rabbi Sacks ztl in one of his final books (‘Judaism’s Life Changing Ideas’, 2020, p113) quotes an article from The Telegraph (15^th December 2017) which describes a new medical condition called ‘selfitis’.  He writes that the ‘term was coined as a joke in 2014 to describe people who feel compelled to keep taking selfies and posting them on social media.  Three years later, researchers in Nottingham and India had produced evidence the condition really exists.  “Typical ‘selfitis sufferers’,” they say, “are ‘attention seekers’, often lacking in self-confidence and hoping to boost their social standing.”

How many of us (and Rabbi Sacks explores this idea) opt for ‘self-help’ books or consult similar websites to deal with our inner demons?  How many of us avoid talking to others because we think we can sort our problems out ‘by ourselves’?  How many feel that we need to boost our ‘social standing’ by posting selfies on Facebook instead of meeting up with our friends and spending quality time together?  If we take a photo during the evening, all the better but it is not reason why we decided to convene in the first place.  If we think about it, how much time do we spend by ourselves at the expense of spending it with others?  Our images whizz around the world at the touch of a mouse click whilst we interact with family and friends whose presence fits to the dimensions of a smart phone or if we are at home, a 21” screen.

Parashat Vayakhel is a case in point.  Moshe was spending a great deal of time up there on the mountain with Hashem, leaving a psychologically fragmented nation at its foot revelling in the worship of a golden calf.  Without recourse to seeking his sage advice, they opted for the ‘self-help guide’ to making a god, and we know how disastrous the results were!

Although there were no camera phones in the desert, I guarantee that had there been, our ancestors would have posted millions of selfies to populate their FaceBible or Instadesert profiles!  It took Moshe to come down with all the ensuing events to bring them to their senses.

Gd saw that the best way to bring them back together as a nation and a Kehilla/Community was to initiate a building project which encompassed the magnitude of constructing the Mishkan/Tabernacle.  Moshe, the set designer, director of photography and producer, set about arranging this and, as a result, the Children of Israel stepped up to the Biblical plate.

In tandem, Moshe told them to down their tools and spend twenty-five hours in a state of being ‘unplugged’ as it were.  Celebrating Shabbat, not as singular individuals but as a Kahal/community.  Something that we have continued to do week in and week out for over three thousand, three hundred years.

There are certain prayers that we are allowed to recite on our own which I’ll refer to as ‘Our Selfie’ Tefillot and each of these is valid as way of communicating with The Almighty.  However, it is the tefillot/prayers that we say together (such as Barachu and the Kedusha) as a community that bring us squarely into His divine camera frame.  Where we metaphorically squeeze into Gd’s picture and wait for him to take the photograph and beam with pride at the result.

In the very first Parasha, Gd tells Adam that it is not good for man to be alone which he remedies by creating a partner to accompany him.  Although our kehillot are made up of individuals, it is our strength as a community which defines us.  The motto ‘e pluribus unum’ – ‘out of the many, one’ applies to our nation.  We, the Jewish people, are one global community made up of many different individuals.

The image that Hopey shared all those years ago may have launched a billion non-descript selfies but the photos that will last forever are those we hold in our hearts, of the times we stood uncomfortably trying to fit into the frame, surrounded by our loved ones.

These non-selfies really matter, aren’t they?

Shavuah Tov

Parashat Yitro: Our Millennium Bridge

Thars Duijnstee is a Dutch publisher and ‘concept developer’ (as per his self-description on LinkedIn) who came up with an original and bestselling idea that has taken his homeland and neighbouring Belgium by storm.  He is the man behind TDM Publishing which has created a series of books called ‘My First 18 Years’.

Tapping into the lucrative ‘Nostalgia’ Market, each book in the series does ‘what it says on the tin’ and provides a fascinating and detailed illustrated journey through our formative years with books spanning every year from 1949 to 1984.

With more than half-a-million copies sold (if you believe the numbers he quotes), he’s branched out into the English-speaking world and adapted the volumes for the British market which is where I came across them when perusing social media.  They were on Amazon, my favourite go-to location when I feel like engaging in a little retail therapy and soon enough, my 1967 tome dropped onto our doormat.

In my case, the title is a touch misleading because although my ‘First 18 Years’ began in 1967, I only popped out in its twelfth month, which means that the events described didn’t really impact me.  To add insult to injury, when I celebrated my birthday on 1^st December 1984 (the last month in my book), I had just turned 17.

Notwithstanding a December birth, I do recall many of the news events, TV shows, films, sweets, chocolates, toys and songs described in the book particularly those that were so prevalent in the mid ‘70s to ‘80s when I was growing up.

I have thoroughly enjoyed the experience of trapsing down memory lane and remembering the times I spent with my parents, sharing experiences that cannot be recreated.  The TV programmes we used to watch together ‘en famille’, along with the toys I was given and how I enjoyed playing with them and creating imaginary worlds.  Being an only child wasn’t that hard!

I was brought up with my feet firmly rooted in two different worlds.  On the one hand, we engaged with the culture that surrounded us, although my parents’ continental background veered towards their Francophile Antwerp clique.  And on the other, we were Modern Orthodox with everything that it entailed, from being Shomer Shabbat to keeping kosher.

The crucible in which I was formed was therefore a mix of two very different cultures.  Jewish and British and in those days the two didn’t always complement each other smoothly.

The era in which I grew up was more innocent than today.  I used to be able to go out of my house and roller-skate repeatedly around the block until it was time to return home for dinner.  We would walk over to each other’s houses on the long summer Shabbat afternoons and return when it was dusk.  We weren’t frightened of being attacked.

The television presenters who graced our screens and the shows they fronted were beamed into our living rooms on a weekly basis.  These men were wholesome family men or so it seemed.  We could not have imagined that this was a façade and that they were anything but decent as we would discover once the twentieth century had passed into history.

Which is why reading ‘my book’ has impressed upon me the importance in my life of a very different tome.

I was fortunate enough to experience a high level of Jewish education particularly in my primary school.  Whilst I was creating worlds with my Action Men, I was being taught how to study Chumash accompanied by Rashi as well as Mishna.  In school, the TV shows I watched at home and the toys I played with had very little relevance.  They were part of my ‘other world’.  The news that we used to watch at night, unless it concerned Israel, was not a feature of what we discussed in the classroom (not that we talked too much about Israeli politics in school!) but it did occupy the debates we used to have around the dining room table.  As I have mentioned before, one of my earliest memories dates to watching the news during the Yom Kippur War.

Alongside my secular education, as detailed in my book, was a fascination I had in Torah study and very few stories held my interest as much as the one we see described in this week’s Parasha, namely Matan Torah, the giving of the Torah at Sinai.

Each year, when it came around in the winter and summer readings of Yitro and Va’Etchanan (and obviously at Shavuot), I was enraptured.  I tried to imagine what it must have been like to stand there at Mount Sinai and witness the spectacle of Moshe Rabbeinu reciting Gd’s words to the terrified Israelites.  The mountain was shaking, enveloped in smoke, thunder, lightning and shofars blasting.  It was a scene that almost felt as if it could be indescribable and yet, the Torah was doing just that.  It was relating exactly what happened.

As I grew older, I understood how wrong I had been with regard to the disconnect I had envisaged between both of these worlds.  I appreciated my secular life and all that it entailed whilst living in a ‘Jewish bubble’ in Golders Green, no less!

And here’s the rub.  Without one, I understood why the other falls apart.

Reading the ‘My First 18 Years’, I realise that from 1967 to 1984, the non-Jewish society in which I lived, may have experienced what seemed on the surface to be advancements in all spheres but deeper down, started a downward spiral from which it is yet to recover.

We were wealthier by the end of the decade, but were we happier?

Did we sit down and eat meals at the kitchen table or did we prefer to opt for the new-fangled TV dinners?

What had happened to the nuclear family that we treasured for so many years?

The Ten Commandments, or more accurately, ‘Pronouncements’ that we read about this week, instructs us to create a society that is anchored by laws such as ‘Do Not Kill’, Steal or Commit Adultery.

What happened to these values whilst I was growing up?

When Peter Sutcliffe or Dennis Nilson carried out their depraved murderous atrocities?

When the 1983 Brinks Matt robbery led to the theft of £26 million worth of gold bullion (estimated at £111 million in 2023 that has never been recovered?

Where nearly a third of marriages in the 1970s ended due to adultery? (source: https://www.co-operative.coop/media/news-releases/adultery-no-longer-top-reason-for-divorce#:~:text=The%20research%20revealed%2029%20percent,all%20divorces%20(47%20percent))

The Torah was there to remind me that although the world beyond the front door of 10, Portsdown Avenue, NW11 0NB was an exciting place to explore, it was the everyday mundane events that took place within its walls that would influence me more positively.

The Shabbat afternoons where I would sit and learn with my father before he went to have his ‘shluff’; the Chanukah candles we would light together as a family; the crazy Purim outfits that I would wear each year; the Sedarim which would take place in our front dining room which was one of the few times I remember eating at that table - and the weekly family get togethers that we would have after shul at my great-aunt’s house nearby.  She was the matriarch of the clan.

Without all the above, all the rest was unimportant.

I believe that this is what has kept our nation together across the millennia.  The Torah is our ‘Millenium Bridge’.  The structure that has, for thousands of years, enabled us to straddle both worlds – the one described in Thars Duijnstee’s marvellous little books (which are subtitled ‘Relive Your Youth’) and the one that exists ‘beyond our first 18 years’.

G-d was there when I was commencing my journey and he’ll be there when I end it.  His Torah, our Torah will also be present.  What happens in the next 18 years for the newbies will be down to how much they choose to learn from reading the ‘Jewish People’s Constitution’ as Rabbi Sacks ztl referred to it.

Without one, you cannot have the other because, had the generation in which I both followed and grew up in paid more attention to the Ten Commandments, perhaps that era might have been very different.  Society might have been better able to face the challenges it encountered once events that followed the end of my book took place.

As we know, the number 18 in our faith is extremely significant.  It represents, ‘Chai’ – ‘life’.

So, here’s to our next 18 years and may they be more peaceful and blessed than the last.  May our ‘Millenium Bridge’ lead the way forward.  From the past to the present, to the future, it is the surest way to build a healthier, happier and more resilient society.

Shavuah Tov.

Parashat Vayechi: Legacies and Values

Dedicated to the memory of Daniel Rubin zl

Yankel and Miriam have been married for seventy years.  Sitting on what will soon become his death bed at the age of ninety-five, he is surrounded by his wife and five children, David, Max, Josh, Bobby and Hannah.  He speaks slowly in a barely audible voice.

“David, my eldest son, when I die I want you to take over the running of the business.”

David replies, “Yes, Dad.”  At which point, Miriam looks at Yankel and says, “Yankel, I know how close you feel to David but he’s not cut out to be a businessman.  Better, you should give the responsibility to Max.  After all, his last three companies have been successfully trading on the Stock Exchange.”

Yankel looks at Miriam and says, “Ok, Miriam, Max can run the business.”

He then looks across the bed to Josh and says, “My wonderful Joshua, you’ve always admired my 1952 Bentley Mark VI Special and I know how much you enjoyed accompanying me when we used to take it out for a spin.  I want you to have the car.”

Before he can answer, Miriam says, “Yankel, have you seen how many points Josh has accrued?  He’s barely legal!  Better, that you give the car to David as he’s such a careful driver.”

Yankel looks at Miriam and says, “OK, Miriam, David gets the car.”

He continues.  “Bobby, do you remember how we used to play golf near the cottage in the Cotswolds every summer when you were growing up?  I want you to have the house.”

To which Miriam cuts in again, “Yankel, are you mad?  Bobby doesn’t know the first thing about running a home.  Have you seen the hovel he lives in?  You know what, why don’t you leave the cottage to Hannah instead.  She will be so house proud and don’t forget that she’s getting married in the Summer.  She and Adam love the area.”

Yankel turns to Miriam and mustering all the strength that remains in his body, says, “Miriam, please remind me as to who is dying, is it you or me?”

This joke is redolent of the Jewish attitude to death.  In his final hours, when Yankel should be concentrating on affirming the legacy that he’s spent his entire life creating, he is frustrated by his wife’s interference in his final plans.  The joke is funny because both Yankel and the audience know that she’s right.  It’s just that he’d like to be given the opportunity to have the final word!

This week’s Parasha of Vayechi, in tandem with its Haftarah, focuses respectively on the last days of Yaakov Avinu/Jacob and David Hamelech (King David).  Surrounded by their heirs and successors, they were aware of the legacies they were about to leave behind and the values that they wished to transmit to their children and future generations.  In both cases, these would significantly impact on the spiritual development and long-term survival of their descendants.

Yaakov and David were acutely aware that seated before them, were men whose actions could either unite the Jewish (or in those days, Israelite) nation or tear it asunder.

Yaakov blessed each of his sons individually, along with his grandsons, Efraim and Menashe.

Knowing his son’s characteristics, he also admonished them, making them aware of their faults. as we see in the brachot bestowed upon Reuven, Shimon and Levy.  Despite his initial wish to let the sons know what would happen ‘at the end of days’ (details of which were hidden from him by Hashem), he was still able to prophesise what could (and sadly did) transpire if the relationship between the brothers (and by extension, tribes) fractured.

His children and their progeny surrounded his bedside in a rare moment of unity and he died satisfied in the knowledge that his legacy was secure and that the values that he, and by extension we the Jewish people, the Bnei Yisrael hold so dear, had been transmitted to future generations. 

What more could anyone ask for?

King David wished to ensure exactly the same thing.  The greatest ruler we have ever had urged his son, the soon-to-be-enthroned King Solomon, to follow Gd’s commandments and rule wisely and justly.

However, he was not so fortunate.

He had spent much of his life on the battlefield but his most deadly enemies were none other than his own sons, Avshalom/Absalom and Adoniyah.  Add to that, he encountered the treachery of friends that he thought he could trust.

Unlike his ancestor Yaakov, his words were replete with bitterness and recrimination.   He instructed his son to ensure that his general, Yoav ben Tseruyah, was held accountable for the deaths of Avner and Amasa, two potential rivals as well as Avshalom, “do not let his greying head go down to the grave in peace” and reserve a similar fate for Shimi ben Gera the Benjamite who cursed him when he was fleeing Avshalom.  After asking Solomon to show kindness to the children of Barzilai, who acted favourably to him in this flight, his last words before he died, were “And now, do not consider him [i.e Shimi] innocent, for you are a wise man, and you will know how to deal with him, and you bring down his grey head to the grave in blood.”

These are clearly not the words of a man at peace with himself.

However, in death, their legacy is intact.

Jacob and David’s passings are described thus:

‘When Jacob finished his instructions to his sons, he drew his feet into the bed and he expired and he was gathered to his kin.’ (Bereshit 49.33)

‘And then David slept with his fathers and was buried in the City of David.’ (Kings I.  2.10)

Both Yaakov and David’s lives were shaped by the relationships they had with their children.  Families are complex entities that can impact us in ways that we could not predict.  This does not mean that we should ever compromise on what we believe in.  Each of us has a legacy to leave to our loved ones, be it our children or the friends that we consider to be like brethren.

The values that we cherish are those that need to be passed on to ensure that future generations continue to bear the moral compass we hold so dear.  In their own ways, Yaakov Avinu and David Hamelech accomplished the same thing, albeit in very different circumstances.

It is due to their actions that we are here today, as proud bearers of the religion that they forged and which was built upon by later generations.  We proclaim David to be ‘Melech Yisrael’ – the King of Israel who is alive and enduring (‘chai chai vekayom’) and Yaakov’s name, Israel is hardwired into our DNA.

Please Gd, it will be a long time until we find ourselves in the same position described in this week’s Parasha and Haftara, but if we have established a lasting legacy and are able to continue transmitting our values, we too will live forever in the hearts and minds of future generations.

Shavuah Tov.