Parshat Bo 5774
“Moses held out his arm toward the sky and
thick darkness descended upon all the land of Egypt. For three days Lo
Rau Ish Et Ahiv – one person could not see his fellow, v’lo
Kamu Ish Mitachtav – and no one could get up from where he was.” This is the Torah’s description of the great
darkness, the last of the great plagues before death itself. If the plagues are given in order of
severity, only death is more severe than this plague of darkness which paralyzed
Egypt. What was its nature? What kind of darkness can so disable a
society?
Midrash Rabbah, the classical
rabbinic commentary of the sixth century says this was “Hosech Shel Geheynom- the darkness of Hell” and then adds: “Oy Lo Labayit Sheholonotav P’tuchim l’toch
Hosech – woe to the household whose windows open into darkness.” Is this simply a lament or is it an
explanation? Perhaps a story will shed
light.
Once a man arrived at the gates to
the next world. He was neither good nor
bad; he was right in the middle, perfectly average. It was something which had never happened
before and those responsible for placement could not decide whether he should
be sent to Gan Eden – to paradise – or to Geheynom – the opposite. In an unprecedented ruling, they offered the
follow the opportunity to choose for himself, and sent him on a tour of both
places.
His first stop was the nether
world. As he entered, he was very
surprised to find himself at a banquet hall.
Every place he looked there were platters of food, all attractively
prepared and beautifully set out. He
also noticed immediately that all the residents seemed to have the proper
eating utensils in their hands. Then, to
his horror, he realized that all the people looked cadaverous, like they were dying
of hunger. They stood about moaning,
surrounded by all the food one could want, and nobody reached out to take
any.
“Why,” our visitor demanded of one of
the tortured beings standing near him.
The near corpse did not respond but speared a delicate morsel with the
implement in his hand. He tried to bring
it to his mouth, but his arm stopped in mid-air, and the guest was shaken by
what he saw. The fork in the man’s hand
was attached to a long handle which was strapped to his arm in such a way that
he could not bend his elbow. Try as he
might, there was no way he could bring the food to his mouth. The residents of Geheynom were starving amid
plenty. “Take me from this place,” the
visitor cried, and he was instantly whisked away to Gan Eden.
Still in a state of shock, he pushed
open the door to the upper realm. When
he found himself looking at exactly the same physical surroundings he had
encountered below, he screamed, panicked, and bolted. In his haste, he ran into one of the souls
and, up close now, realized that the fellow looked happy, well-fed, and
content. When he grabbed the man’s arm,
however, he saw that here too the utensils were strapped on in such a way that
the man’s elbow would not bend. “How do
you feed yourself?” asked the applicant.
“I don’t,” replied the resident.
And with that he picked up some food and extended his arm to a person
near him. That person, in turn, offered
food to him. Neither could feed himself,
but they had no difficulty feeding each other.
The darkness of Hell, the darkness
which affected the Egyptians, was their own selfishness. That is the Hosech described in the ninth
plague: “Lo Rau Ish Et Ahiv – one
person could not see his fellow, v’lo Kamu Ish Mitachtav – and one could get up from where he
was.”
People could not see beyond
themselves, beyond their own personal needs, desires, and whims, and therefore,
they were paralyzed. The windows of the
Egyptian’s homes looked out into darkness.
When one tries to look through such a window, it is almost impossible,
for the window become like a mirror, and one sees only himself.
Lo Rau Ish Et Ahiv – when people
do not see one another – Lo Kamu Ish Mitachtav ---- no one
can get up from where he is.
Here is another story which teaches just the opposite
– at true story that illuminates what can happen when we truly see one another.
"Superman Sam," was 8-year old in Chicago diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia in 2012. I never even met him, but his parents, Phyllis and Michael, both rabbis, chronicled Sam’s cancer journey on their blog Superman Sam.
At the end of October, Rabbis Phyllis Sommer and Rebecca Schorr
had a crazy idea: what if thirty-six rabbis would shave their heads to bring
attention to the fact that only 4% of United States federal funding for cancer
research is earmarked for all childhood cancers as well as raise $360,000 for
this essential research. Two weeks after this conversation, Phyllis and her
husband, Michael, learned that their son, Sam, had relapsed with AML (acute
myeloid leukemia) and that there were no other treatment options for him.
Why thirty-six?
Our Sages teach that at all times there are thirty-six
righteous people in the world and if just one of them was missing, the world
itself would come to an end. They are known as the Lamed-Vavniks, based on the
numeric equivalents of the two Hebrew letters for 36 are the lamed, which is
30, and the vav. (Tractate Sanhedrin 97b; Tractate Sukkah 45b).
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The identities of the lamed-vavniks are hidden from each
other and even themselves. In fact, should a person claim to be one of the
thirty-six, that would be prove that he or she is most certainly not a
lamed-vavnik as a true lamed-vavnik is too humble to think that he or she is
that righteous.
But what if, for one moment, everyone behaved as if he or she was truly that righteous? Imagine such a
world?
And so 36 Rabbis Shave for the Brave was born.
The response from the rabbinic community has been
overwhelming; in just over four weeks, many rabbis have registered to shave
their heads.
That’s right – this fine hair will be
gone in March. But I invite you to join
me in doing something. After Shabbat, you can chip in- $5, $10 or $18 – it all
adds up and will make a difference. (To donate, click here.)
I wish I had had
the power to save the life of Superman Sam. He died last month.
We couldn’t save Sammy; perhaps, though, we can save others
like him. And spare other parents like Phyllis and Michael from the pain of
telling their child that there is nothing that the doctors can do to save his
life.
And now I’ve joined a group of slightly-meshugene, but very
devoted rabbis who are yearning to do something.
The description of the plague of
darkness ends by noting “U’lechol B’nai Yisrael Haya Or B’Moshvotam”
– but for the children of Israel there was light where they dwelled.” B’nai Yisrael continued to see each other and
care for one another and get up to do for one another, despite the darkness
that was all around them.
When we look beyond ourselves and
respond, we dispel darkness and become Or
L’Goyim – a light to the nations, which is the challenge, put to us by our
tradition.
Thirty-six times the Torah will look
back at the experience in Egypt. Thirty-six
times following today’s Torah reading, Torah calls upon us to remember that we
were strangers in a land that was plagued by darkness. And every time the text says, “therefore you
must care for the orphan, the widow, and the stranger.” We must resist Lo Rau Ish Et Ahiv V’lo Kamu Ish
Et Mitachtav – the tendency
not to see and not to act.
Instead, we must bring light to those
most likely to suffer when darkness descends.
Perhaps that is why the Psalmist
prayed with these words: “Teach me your
way, O Lord, and lead me on an even path.
For with you is the fountain of life,
Uv’Orkha Nire Or – in Your light do we see light.”
“Torah
Orah – God’s Torah is a light,” says the Sages. May we live in the light of the words we read
this Shabbat.
AMEN
