Living in an Unprecedented Time: Our Students Respond

We are living in an unprecedented time. This means that this  exact type of situation has never happened before.

What will you want to remember about this time? What details do you remember?

The Sickening Days by Naomi Luria, Grade 4

I call these the sickening days. They can turn into weeks that can turn into months that can turn to years. Being in your corner, in your room, in your house. Not going out into the open. Not to school, not to friends, not even out into the fresh breath of the earth and life. Be it the flu, be it the fever, be it the coronavirus. Dear God, please make it stop. Please stop the panicking and hurts in our hearts. Make it life, make it normal, make it happiness. Together shall we be, you and I, you and me. Though still remember, how sad we were, and take for granted, our shining light of happiness. Remember not seeing anybody, standing lonely in the cold wind. Online school, though awkward must be done for there was no other choice. You needed courage to get through the sadness. Bravery to get through the night. Happiness and strength too. But most of all, you needed family and friends, to stand strong with you!!

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D’var Torah: Arnold Zar-Kessler (Parashat Vayakhel/Pekudei)

As we sit today, most of us hunkered down in our own homes, by definition ‘isolated’ from each other, we may seek some guidance beyond the compelling – and proper – directives from those helping us through this public health crisis.  I’d like us to look for an extra moment at this week’s Torah portion, and what it can offer us.

To be a “wise-hearted person” a person “whose heart moves them” – isn’t that what we all aspire to be?  And isn’t that what we want for our children, as well?

In this week’s portion, Va-yekhel, a sidra devoted to the gathering of all of Children of Israel – men and women together – where Moses addresses the entire nation, and charges them with the privilege of building the Tabernacle (the Mishkan), according to the instructions previously given, we see repeated use of the terms “for every one with a wise heart,” or “for everyone who hearts move them.”

Every person had some role to play in the building of the Mishkan – some to construct, some to donate, some to support,  and yet Moses addressed all and every member of B’nei Yisrael.  In other words, everyone had a role, and everyone thus had only to find that calling in their hearts. And while the detailed instructions that followed are about construction materials and techniques, little is directly said of instructions for growing a heart of wisdom, or a heart that moves us.

Perhaps we need to explore the text from a somewhat different angle to get some insight into that question.

Rabbi Benjamin Samuels (a great friend of Schechter) wrote recently about a teaching from the Sages on a related topic.  The Sages encourage every Jew to see themselves as a single letter of the Torah.  Since there is no Hebrew word of just a single letter (in distinction from English, where the first person singular is just one letter standing alone), every Hebrew word needs other letters to form words.

Then the words need other words in order form a sentence, or a page, or a poem, or a Torah.  Similarly, every one of us has an important contribution to make, for without our heart-felt contributions, there would be no poetry, no Torah.  Together, though, we compose something way beyond what we can each imagine for ourselves;  we can compose something sacred.

Perhaps that is the lesson of a wise heart – to pursue the gift that is special to each of us, knowing that nothing sacred is ever achieved without the hearts and gifts of many, and that our goal is always focused on something higher, something greater.

Let this be a guide for us, and for our children: to keep “searching for that heart of gold,” and finding ways to build that center of sanctity with others on the journey, even when we might feel that we are isolated, alone.

For, indeed, the Torah teaches us, as Jews we are never alone.  On days – and possibly weeks – like these, we are always “alone together;” always engaged, always part of something larger.

Rabbi Toba Spitzer (another Schechter friend) shared a poem by Lynn Ungar that might help frame this time for us:

…..Know that we are connected

in ways that are terrifying and beautiful.

(You could hardly deny it now.)

Know that our lives

are in one another’s hands.

(Surely, that has come clear.)

Do not reach out your hands.

Reach out your heart.

Reach out your words.

Reach out all the tendrils

of compassion that move, invisibly,

where we cannot touch.

Promise this world your love—

for better or for worse,

in sickness and in health,

so long as we all shall live.

 

God willing, we will all emerge from this difficult period – together and stronger.

Arnold Zar-Kessler, Executive Director Inspiring Educators, Former Head of School, Schechter Alumni Parent and Grandparent

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D’var Torah: Dan Savitt (Ki Tissa)

“Yes!… They Did It Again”

Unlike Britney Spears who sang about her proclivity for “unintentionally” repeating behaviors in “Oops!… I Did It Again,” the biblical writers intentionally repeated words, roots, and phrases. (In reality, repetition does exist in music in the form of a refrain or chorus. According to educator and musician, David Schockett, “A chorus of a song is like a thesis of an essay.”)

In his commentary on the Torah, Dr. Umberto Cassuto (1883–1951; rabbi and Bible scholar originally from Florence, Italy), writes the following about the literary repetition that occurs in Parashat Ki Tissa (more specifically, in Exodus 31:12-17):

“Of course, this repetition is not unintentional. The root שבת (Sabbath/cease) appears seven times in the passage. Similarly, we don’t see the threefold repetition of the verb שמר (keep), of the language of קדושה (holy), and of the term עשה מלאכה (doing work) unintentionally; all of these are intended for the sake of emphasis.”

Dr. Robert Alter, Emeritus Professor of Hebrew and Comparative Literature at the University of California at Berkeley, writes in his book, The Art of Biblical Narrative, that when a word, root, or phrase is repeated significantly in a text, “by following these repetitions, one is able to decipher or grasp a meaning of the text, or at any rate, the meaning will be revealed more strikingly” (117).

In fact, philosophers Martin Buber (1878-1965) and Franz Rosenzweig (1886-1929) who began translating the Hebrew Bible into German in 1925, were the “first to recognize that this kind of purposeful repetition of words constitutes a distinctive convention of biblical prose, which they called Leitwortstil (literally, ‘leading-word style’), coining Leitwort on the model of Leitmotiv” (Alter 116). (The Hebrew equivalent of the German term Leitwort is מִלָּה מַנְחָה.)

This literary device, along with many others, greatly influenced the work done by Dr. Everett Fox, Allen M. Glick Professor of Judaic and Biblical Studies at Clark University, in his translations of Torah (The Five Books of Moses) and the Former Prophets (The Early Prophets).

Interestingly, taking note of literary repetitions can prove useful when trying to understand the meaning of prayers, because the siddur is replete with repeating words, roots, and phrases. For example, in the blessings before the Shema on Shabbat morning we have the root ברכ (bless) 10 times, the root אור (light/illuminate) 12 times, the root מלכ (reign) 13 times, and the root קדש (holy) 16 times. 

I often hear people say that if they understood the meaning of the prayers, then tefillot would be a much more positive experience. I would argue that even if we don’t understand the entirety of our tefillot, by taking note of literary repetitions we can “decipher or grasp a meaning of the text, or at any rate, the meaning will be revealed more strikingly” (Alter 117).

Bibliography

Alter, Robert. The Art of Biblical Narrative. New York: Basic Books, 2011. Print. 116-117.

 

Dan Savitt, Grade 6 and 7 Torah She’b’al Peh, Tefillah Coordinator, Schechter Parent

D’var Torah: Rabbi Ron Fish (Tetzaveh)

Of all the holidays of the Jewish year, Purim in particular invites us to play dress up. Whether it is your parents’ old 80s outfits (watch out for the shoulder pads and baggy sweaters), pretending to be your favorite action hero or just putting on a crazy wig- Purim is fun on display.

And the story of the Megillah has dress up as a central theme as well.  At the start of the story we see King Achashverosh and his friends dressing for a party. His wife Vashti refuses to ‘dress up’ for them, causing all the ensuing chaos. Esther spends months preparing to appear before the king, finally presenting herself in her finest array. When the king wants to honor Mordechai he dresses him in the king’s clothes. And when Mordechai wants to show his anguish over the danger his people faces he dons sack cloth and ashes to demonstrate his grief.

But given the many ups and downs of the story, the many costume changes of the characters in the book, we are always brought back to one central truth: the clothes don’t tell the whole story. If you want to know how good a person is you shouldn’t rely on the exterior. That layer can be deceptive. It is too easy to pretend to wear your heart on your sleeve, only to change that outfit in the next moment. In fact, the great moment of redemption in the story of Purim is when Esther finally ‘takes off her mask.’ She drops the façade she has worked to uphold, and proudly declares that she is a Jew. Her act of revealing her true self is when pain and fear are transformed into victory and hope.

This lesson about knowing the heart, versus trusting appearances, is an important one. So it is quite ironic that this week’s parashah focuses nearly entirely on the vestments – the costume – of the kohanim. We see in great detail how these holy actors must wear specific, highly regulated articles of clothing. They also are to adorn themselves with outer layers of frontlets and sashes, turbans and breastplates, each outward and symbolic expressions of their role. According to the rabbis, the items described in Parashat Tetzaveh are reminders of deeper values as well: modesty, justice, mercy and self-control.

But if the message of Purim is that we should never trust outward appearances, this seems strange! Why is it that the Torah seems to present these layers of clothing as so holy and so important?

Perhaps the message we are to recall is that we should see every outward expression for what it truly is – a costume. It is easy to wear the cloak of humility, but to be arrogant; to act the part of the pious, but to be cruel. For that reason, our masks and costumes on Purim are entertaining. We know we aren’t Spiderman or Tom Brady-but it’s fun to pretend. At the same time we all need to remember what it is we should aspire to. And even though the Kohanim are only people (in fact many of them were quite flawed), we ask our leaders to wear the costume that expresses our hopes for the kind of leaders we would so like to see in this world. They are certainly nothing more than human beings, but these ancient priests had to put on the clothes that would remind them, and the people of Israel, just what kind of people we should be. Even if wearing the linen garments of purity and innocence were a costume, it is also a call to be people of virtue. And we pray that our leaders, and all of us, might take seriously the mantle we are privileged to wear. After all- the pursuit of our best selves is no joke.

Rabbi Fish, Temple Israel of Sharon, Schechter Parent

D’var Torah: Ethan Porath ’20 (Teruma)

When does bread rise? When you yeast expect it. I told my friend I was going to open a bakery specializing in Indian bread. He asked me what I was going to name it. I told him, “It’s Naan of your business.” What’s the worst thing about a bread pun? It tends to get stale. And for those of you who are Gluten-free, I have some corny jokes. In a sandwich, bread literally holds our food together. I guess that is why it is called a staple food.

Bread is so important that when Hashem commands the Children of Israel in this week’s parashah to build for God a sanctuary, what is known as the Mishkan, or Tabernacle, bread plays a central role.

In the Kodesh haKedoshim, the Holy of Holies, stands the Aron HaKodesh, the holy ark that houses the Ten Commandments. Outside of the Kodesh Kedoshim, in the area known as the Kodesh, or the Holy, are three pieces of sacred furnishings.  One is the Menorah. One is the Golden Alter for incense. And one is simply known as the Shulkhan, or table. On the Shulkhan stood 12 loaves, known as the Lechem HaPanim, or in English as the Showbreads.

וְעָשִׂיתָ שֻׁלְחָן עֲצֵי שִׁטִּים אַמָּתַיִם אָרְכּוֹ וְאַמָּה רָחְבּוֹ וְאַמָּה וָחֵצִי קֹֽמָתוֹ

You should make a table of acacia (a-kay-shah) wood, two cubits long, one cubit wide, and a cubit and a half high.

The table was to be coated in gold and decorated.

וְנָתַתָּ עַל־הַשֻּׁלְחָן לֶחֶם פָּנִים לְפָנַי תָּמִיד:

And on the table, you shall set the showbread to be before Me always.

In Sefer Vayikra, the Torah gives us the recipe for the Lechem Hapanim, and further instructions.

וְלָקַחְתָּ סֹלֶת וְאָפִיתָ אֹתָהּ שְׁתֵּים עֶשְׂרֵה חַלּוֹת

And you shall take fine flour, and bake twelve loaves of it.

And you shall set them in two rows, six on a row, upon the pure table before the Lord. And you shall put pure frankincense upon each row, that it may be on the bread for a memorial, an offering made by fire to the Lord.

 בְּיוֹם הַשַּׁבָּת בְּיוֹם הַשַּׁבָּת יַעַרְכֶנּוּ

On every Shabbat shall the kohen set the Showbreads

לִפְנֵי ה’ תָּמִיד

Before God continually

 מֵאֵת בְּנֵי־יִשְׂרָאֵל

being offered from the people of Israel
בְּרִית עוֹלָם

as an everlasting covenant.

One of the questions asked by the Talmud in Masekhet Menachot is what does the Torah mean in both Shemot and in Vayikra when it says that the showbreads have to be before God always.  Does this mean that a day cannot go by without the showbreads being present, or does this mean that even a minute cannot go by without the breads being in the table.  The Talmud imagines that there were two teams of kohanim who gathered every Shabbat, one team slowly pulled out the trays with the 12 loaves of the Lechem Hapanim, while the second team at the very same time slid in trays with 12 new loaves for the next seven days.

The Lechem Hapanim was baked every Friday, just like our Challah.  I wonder who the baker was in the Mishkan?

Why did bread deserve such a central role in the service of the Mishkan, and later in the Beit HaMikdash, the Holy Temple?

Rabbi Naftali Tzvi Yehudah Berlin explains that bread symbolizes blessing and prosperity, and that always having the Lechem Hapanim before Hashem means that we pray that Hashem should grant us good luck and always let us have something good to eat in our homes.

Just like the manna did not fall on Shabbat, so too we are not allowed to bake bread on Shabbat.  The Talmud in Masekhet Shabbat learns the prohibition against baking from the fact that a little later in Sefer Shemot the Torah places the mitzvah to keep Shabbat right next to the mitzvah of building the Mishkan. From this close placement, the Rabbis learn that whatever it took to build or operate the Mishkan is what is forbidden as labor for us on the Shabbat.  The Mishnah in Masekhet Shabbat list 39 forbidden categories of labor. 11 of them are involved in the making of bread, from sowing the seeds of the wheat to grinding the flour to kneading the dough to baking the bread.  It takes a lot of people doing different activities, and a lot of work, to create a single loaf of bread.

And yet, what is the ברכה we make over bread:

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה ה’ אֱלֹקינוּ מֶֽלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, הַמּֽוֹצִיא לֶֽחֶם מִן הָאָֽרֶץ.

Blessed are You, Hashem our God, King of the Universe, who brings forth bread from the ground.

Does Hashem really bring forth bread from the ground? What about the farmers? And the millers? And the bakers? … And the Goldbergs. [pause] Just joking.  But seriously, what about all the other people who have their hands in the dough? Perhaps the ברכה is teaching us that we are God’s partners in developing the world.  When we make things, we are doing God’s will and work.

As I become a Bar Mitzvah and continue to grow in my study of Torah and my performance of Mitzvot, I know that Torah and Mitzvot are like making Challah. It takes a lot of effort, many other people help to create the final product, and all of it is in partnership with Hashem.  And the best part is that a life of Torah and Mitzvot is delicious, and that’s no joke!

Ethan Porath, Grade 8

D’var Torah: Bil Zarch (Yitro)

What happens in parshat Yitro is kind of a big deal. The Israelites hear directly from God, a very unusual occurrence. Normally when there is communication with God it has been through intermediaries – be it plagues, angels, or some other way – God doesn’t have the habit of speaking to the Jewish people without some kind of intervention. Can you imagine the scene once they hear that God is going to be talking directly to them? In my mind, I picture jitters of all types, some frayed nerves, a few lost tempers, and a bunch of wild accusations about what is actually going to happen when God speaks.

They prepare for this interaction and what happens? They freak out. They can’t handle the thought of it. They speak to Moshe and say, “You speak to us, and we will hear, but not let God speak to us, lest we die.” (20:16). Could it be that they psyched themselves out for what was going to happen? (I can relate to that.) Or was it that they felt they didn’t have an equal say on how the relationship was going to transpire? (I can see that as well.)

If we look at what is happening to our school today, can we find any correlations?  There are a range of emotions, a tinge of nervousness, and inevitably there may be some things we just won’t know at this moment. Schechter is at a pivotal moment. We are going to be one school under one roof. Our culture is about to be tested in so many ways. There are going to be so many inspirational things that are going to transpire over the coming weeks, months and years. How lucky are our children to be the benefactors of this bold move.

The question is how will we as the adults embrace the change? I believe it is an opportunity that we don’t even know of all of the positive implications yet. If we go back to that scene with the Israelites, I imagine there was a lot of debate on how to handle this interaction with God. In the end, we know how that turned out!

Bil Zarch, Director of Camp Yavneh, Schechter Parent

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D’var Torah: Rabbi Ravid Tilles (Beshalach)

I love telling the parsha stories to students! They listen with rapt attention and will often ask incredibly profound questions. Recently, as I have told the stories about the 10 plagues and B’nai Yisrael’s Exodus from Mitzrayim (Egypt), the students have asked a lot of questions of why God would have hardened Pharaoh’s heart. They also asked why there were 10 plagues. Why not just one big one? Why any plagues? Couldn’t God have just zapped Pharaoh and the Israelites could have left? Or could God have lifted up B’nai Yisrael and dropped them in the Promised Land? These all feel like legitimate questions when we consider the ways that the Torah describes God’s powers. And I can’t wait until they hear about this week’s Parsha and the big question. Why did God insist that B’nai Yisrael take the long way?

In the opening pasuk (verse) of Parshat B’Shalach reads, “Now when Pharaoh let the people go, God did not lead them by way of the land of the Phillistines, although it was nearer; for God said, “The people may have a change of heart when they see war, and return to Egypt,”  (Exodus 13:17). Not only is this route longer, we learn in the following chapter that this path includes an impassable Sea (wink wink). Again, like in the other Exodus moments, God opts for the long, deliberate route instead of the shorter, simpler version that my students were clamoring for. But in this case, God actually gives an explicit reason – lest the people may have a change of heart…and return to Egypt. Rashi explains that God did not want it to be easy to return back to Egypt, because the farther away and more treacherous the journey, the less likely they would be to reverse course.

This verse illuminates a possible explanation for why God didn’t just transport B’nai Yisrael directly to Cana’an. As a reminder, all of B’nai Yisrael had been born into slavery. Their parents had all been born slaves. Their grandparents, and great-grandparents had all been born and died as slaves. The idea of the imminent God of their ancestors was a distant myth. So in many ways the Plagues did not just serve as a punishment to Pharaoh and the Egyptians, but as signs to B’nai Yisrael that God had returned to them in a big way. 

God may have a lot of power in the stories of the Torah, but God does not have the power to change the minds of an entire people. God does not have the ability to coerce belief, so instead God works within nature to exhibit power and persuade B’nai Yisrael to follow Moshe out of Egypt. The remainder of the Torah is an exercise in God’s attempted persuasion. Though God frees B’nai Yisrael from Mitzrayim in last week’s parsha, this opening pasuk from B’Shalach is a reminder that God realizes that the work of persuading B’nai Yisrael is just beginning. Throughout their entire journey through the Wilderness, segments of B’nai Yisrael become fed up and begin to long for the days when they were in Egypt. We learn from this week’s parsha that God anticipated this lack of conviction, and saw this route as a strategy to dissuade a return to Egypt. 

The Torah provides a master class in long-term storytelling. My students love the twists and turns and the cliff-hangers – my favorite moment of every session is when the students groan after I say, “and that is how this parsha ends.” But even more relevant is the ways that God has a long-term goal for B’nai Yisrael. The centuries of slavery cannot be undone with a short spurt of wonders and miracles. Emerging from slavery only took 10 plagues but emerging from a slave mentality would require much more than that. The opening verse in this week’s parsha, the first verse after Egypt, is the first step on that long journey toward true redemption.

Rabbi Ravid Tilles, Director of Jewish Life and Learning, Schechter Parent

D’var Torah: Rabbi Benjamin J. Samuels (Bo)

For three weeks now, we have been vicariously reliving the Exodus experience. It all began with the enslavement of our ancestors, the Children of Israel. Moved by our people’s anguish and heaven-piercing cries, we cheered God’s election of Moshe as the leader of the redemption. With Moshe as our leader, we joined in his resounding request, “Let my people go,” only to stiffen at Pharaoh’s hard-hearted refusals. Last week, the hammering devastation of the first nine plagues made us nervously tremble with both fear and triumph; but this week, we shudder in horror at Moshe’s final exhortation to Pharaoh threatening the tenth plague — the plague to end all plagues: “Thus says the Lord: Toward midnight I will go forth among the Egyptians and every first-born in the land of Egypt shall die … ” (Ex 11 :4-9). We expect the Torah to then relieve our built-up tension, to recount the final blow and our subsequent liberation. We expect the Torah to continue, as it actually does twenty-nine verses later: “in the middle of the night the Lord struck down all the first-born in the land of Egypt…” (Ex 12:29). But instead, the Torah introduces Israel’s first commandment, “ha-chodesh hazeh lachem” (Ex 11: 10), the sanctification of the Jewish calendar. Why? What is the Torah’s purpose in introducing this commandment at this time? Why does the Torah interrupt its literary continuity?

Rashi in the first words of his commentary on the Torah likewise asks our question, albeit from a different angle. Rashi quotes Rabbi Yitzhak: “The Torah which is a book of laws, should have begun with the verse, ‘This month shall be unto you the first of the months,’ which is the first commandment given to Israel. What then is the reason that the Torah begins with creation?” In other words, while we just asked why does the Torah interrupt the narrative with mitzvah, Rabbi Yitzhak asks why does the Torah interrupt mitzvot with narrative. The basic issue seems to be what is the purpose of the Torah? Is the Torah a book of commandments or a book of sacred stories? Both? Or more?

The prayer that is traditionally recited at the time of Friday night candle lighting includes a parent’s petition: “May I merit to raise children and grandchildren, wise and understanding, who love Hashem, are in awe of God, people of truth, holy offspring, who yearn for spiritual connection. May they light up our world with Torah and good deeds, and with their every effort and action serve their Creator.” Mitzvah teaches us how to act. Narrative gives us context to understand why. The Torah interrupts its story to bridge law and narrative; it calls time out for us to reflect on the interconnected hows, whys, and whats of being Jewish.

Rabbi Benjamin J. Samuels, PhD, is the spiritual leader of Congregation Shaarei Tefillah, a Modern Orthodox synagogue in Newton Center. 

D’var Torah: Dr. Dalia Hochman ’92 (Sh’mot)

Parashat Sh’mot: How Should Leaders Listen?

 

Pick up any leadership manual, and you’ll find the same suggestion for new leaders: spend your first several months listening and learning. As Gann Academy’s new Head of School, I have taken this advice to heart, and have spent the past year meeting with dozens of current students, parents, alumni, alumni parents, teachers, staff, community members, and colleagues from Schechter and other partner schools. 

As with any type of listening, the hardest part is remaining quiet. It is so easy to jump in, to interrupt, and to interject—especially in an effort to build rapport and deepen relationships. But there is such a power in hearing the entire arc of the story unfold, without intervening to shape the narrative. Our Western, post-Enlightenment brains have been wired to solve problems and to fix challenges. It requires tremendous discipline to let the words settle in without jumping to resolution. If we don’t listen fully, we risk not understanding deeply.  At the same time, a leader who does not act decisively may lose his or her constituents in the process. 

This dilemma of leadership plays out in our parasha this week as we begin the second book of the Torah, Sh’mot (Exodus). In the famous scene at the burning bush, G-d says to Moshe: “I have heard the cries of the Israelites.” The Hebrew word used is שמעתי, Shamati, coming from the verb לשמוע, L’shmoah, to hear. This is the same verb that we use to start the Sh’ma, the central prayer in our Tefilot. 

Thus begins, with this critical act of hearing and listening to the cries of the Israelites, one of the most significant moments in Jewish history—G-d’s intervention in freeing the slaves from Egypt. In this case, the cries of the Israelites were so poignant, so painful, that G-d heard and did try to fix and to act. We read the Torah and almost hear the cries ourselves. 

As Gann students beautifully leyn the parasha this coming week in our Z’man Kodesh (many of whom learned to chant the Torah at Schechter and at other wonderful Jewish Day Schools), the words of Sh’mot resonate deeply for me in a new way. How do we teach our students to listen deeply, and to balance listening with action?

Dalia Hochman ’92, Gann Academy Head of School, Schechter Parent

D’var Torah: Amy Newman (Vayechi)

In Parshat Vayechi, we read about the end of Yaakov’s life. Yaakov blesses each of his sons (and two of his grandsons) with a personalized blessing, and then he dies at age 147. Years later, Yosef dies as well.

The death of Yosef is the end of Bereishit. Next week we’ll start reading Shemot. Its opening verses describe the rapid growth of the Israelite nation, and its second chapter describes the birth of Moshe and his early life. 

The Torah tells us a lot about Yaakov and sons, and it tells us a lot about Moshe (who was Yaakov’s great-great-grandson). It doesn’t tell us much about the generations that came between them. And these were important generations! It was during their lifetimes that Bnei Yisrael transformed from a family – the literal sons of Israel – into a nation large enough that the new Pharaoh, who didn’t know Yosef, felt threatened by their numbers. 

There is one detail of Jewish tradition that focuses on this in-between generation: the Shabbat blessing parents give their sons. On Friday nights, we bless our sons with the hope that God will make them like Yosef’s sons, Efraim and Menashe: “yesimecha elohim ke’efraim v’chi’menashe.” This bracha originates in our parsha; Yaakov says that the people of Israel should bless their children this way.

This blessing is one of the few details we have about the people who came between Yosef and Moshe, and invites us to consider its significance. The Torah is full of blessings, but this one is unusual. We often read about fathers blessing sons; here – in the Torah’s first depiction of a grandparent interacting with a grandchild – Yaakov blesses his son’s sons, and says that future generations should invoke this same bracha

Why does our traditional blessing invoke a grandparent and grandchildren, and not a parent and child? I am told that grandchildren can bring even greater joy than children. The relationship has the benefit of maturity and wisdom, and is unburdened by the challenges of parenthood. Through the grandchild, the grandparent might imagine a peek of the future beyond their own lifetime. It would bring Yaakov joy to see Yosef living by the values he taught him, but perhaps an even greater joy to see Efraim and Menashe continue in this path; it might reassure Yaakov that his legacy is likely to endure in the way he would hope. 

Yaakov created a standard blessing for Jewish families to bestow on their children, and this blessing can remind us of the chut hameshulash, the threefold cord that is not easily broken, of grandparent, parent, and child, and can help us raise our children and students and communities with the values that are dearest to us. Shabbat Shalom. 
Amy Newman, Grade 7 Tanach, Judaic Studies Coach, Schechter Parent