How many biblical women can you think of? Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and…? The truth is, many women are mentioned in the bible, though most aren’t power players with stories of their own like Moses or King David. Many aren’t even named. But Rabbi Jill Hammer, Director of Spiritual Education at AJR, and Shir Yaakov Feit, in the new book The Omer Calendar of Biblical Women, use the 7-week structure of the Omer to introduce us to 49 different women, all of them portrayed–or alluded to–in the TaNaKh. Some are well-known, such as Miriam. Others are more obscure, such as Serah, the immortal granddaughter of Joseph. Hammer and Feit have linked each woman’s story to the particular kabbalistic sefirah that goes with each day of the Omer count, highlighting qualities such as compassion or strength or fortitude. Regardless, the Omer Calendar is full of insights, inspiration, and great stories–a book of biblical women whose usefulness transcends the 49 days of the Omer.

This article about the issue of Patrilineal Descent features AJR student Rachel Brook, AJR faculty member Lenny Levin, and the AJR conference on Patrilineality and Pluralism. To read the full article, click here.

Most of the sessions from the first day of AJR’s intensive on Patrilineal Descent in a Pluralistic Community can be found here: The sources that Rabbi Len Levin discussed can be found in numerous posts here, and those discussed by Rabbi Ethan Tucker can be found here.

Many American Jews say they don’t like ritual. Nevertheless, most of us are creatures of ritual, although we may call it habit.We have rituals for how we begin our day and prepare for work, whether or not we include traditional prayers. Parashat Vayikra, the first portion of the book of Leviticus (Sefer Vayikra in Hebrew), is almost entirely about ritual – specifically the offering of sacrifices.In ancient Israel, until formal prayer services developed, probably in response to the destruction of the Temple in the year 70, C.E., sacrifices were the main method of worshipping God. These sacrifices addressed needs that we still experience today.

One of the strongest human emotions is guilt.We need ways to deal with feelings of guilt – as individuals and as communities. In Leviticus this is accomplished through sacrifice rather than other methods (Richard Elliott Friedman, Commentary on the Torah, San Francisco, 2001, p. 322). As Judaism evolved, other forms of repentance were developed, including tahanun – a plea for mercy in traditional weekday services, prayers for forgiveness that we offer on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and the tashlikh “casting away (of sins)” ritual. None are as evocative of deep guilt feelings as the animal sacrifices described in Parashat Vayikra.

Most nations of the ancient Near East worshipped their respective gods by sacrificing animals.Some cultures viewed sacrifice as a way to get their gods to do what the worshippers wanted. Other cultures treated the sacrifices as food for their gods. While there are vestiges of such notions in the Torah, ancient Israelites had a different belief system.The sacrificial animal was understood as a stand-in for the worshipper. The Hebrew word for sacrifice, korban, with the same root as keruv “drawing near,” supports this understanding. In Parashat Vayikra, the worshipper is instructed to put his or her hands on the animal’s head, before it is ritually slaughtered, to dedicate it as a substitute to atone for him or herself (Leviticus 1:4).

Some ancient Israelites probably believed that their sacrificial offerings could atone for any sin.We see a parallel today in people of many faiths, including our own: people who are outwardly pious but lie, cheat and take advantage of others.In ancient Israel, such people were denounced by Isaiah, Micah and other prophets, who insisted that charity, honesty and fairness were higher values than ritual observance.They taught that ritual observance without moral and ethical behavior would not be acceptable to God.We need to pray to assuage our feelings of guilt and to feel connected to God. We make tangible expressions of that need, somewhat recalling the ancient sacrifices, when we make charitable donations to accompany our prayers on special occasions such as memorial observances.

So if ritual fulfills the basic needs of assuaging guilt and feeling connected to God, what do many modern Jews find objectionable? I believe that acknowledgement of a higher Power makes many modern people feel uncomfortable. Having grown up in an age of science and expanding human power, many of us feel a sense of self-sufficiency and control over our lives. This attitude is in direct opposition to the traditional religious beliefs encoded in the ancient sacrifices and stated explicitly in our prayers.Many of us resist acknowledging that we’re not fully in control. Our problem is not with ritual in general but with religious ritual, which expresses our own vulnerability and the ultimate superiority of a Power far greater than ourselves.

I suggest that we deal with our discomfort by recognizing that while we are subordinate to God, we still retain our free will. Neither Leviticus nor its later rabbinic interpretations suggest that we lack choice. Rather they call upon us to make decent and humane choices. For centuries, Jewish children began their study of Torah with the book of Leviticus, not with the Genesis stories of the patriarchs and matriarchs, nor with the Passover story in Exodus. This may have been intended to teach, from early childhood, that life involves sacrifice(David Lieber, ed., Etz Hayim, New York, 2001, p. 586). I believe that learning about the ancient sacrifices taught Jews, from an early age, that we’re not alone, that there is a higher Power, to whom we can turn for forgiveness and support. By acknowledging that Power, we can sanctify and fortify ourselves.

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Rabbi Sanford Olshansky was ordained at AJR in May, 2011. He serves as Rabbi/Educator and Director of Life Long Learning at Temple Beth Rishon (independent), in Wyckoff, New Jersey.

And oftentimes excusing of a fault
Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse.
~William Shakespeare

In this week’s parashah, Ki Tissa, the Israelites, under the guidance of Aaron, build a golden calf. When confronted by Moses as to how he could allow the people to engage in such behavior, Aaron makes… excuses. First, he blames the people themselves. “You know,” he tells Moses, “that this people, they are bent on evil.” Then Aaron seems to evade responsibility: “I said to them, ‘Who has gold?’ They removed it and gave it to me.” Finally, he claims that he did not take an active role in creating the Golden Calf – “I threw it into the fire, and this calf emerged!” One commentator notes that in claiming he did not actively fashion the golden calf Aaron implies divine approval! (Etz Hayim Torah and Commentary, p. 534). Would it not have been better had he owned up to the part that he in fact played in the incident?

Perhaps Aaron would have been better served by saying something like this:

I will not put myself into a position where I have to defend myself, to state my side of the story. There’s no side. There’s only one side, which is the lack of judgment on my part. That’s really all I have to say. I have no excuse….. I intend to mend the bridges that I’ve burned and help rebuild the bridge if I need to all by myself.

These were, in fact, the very words Steve Smith, the great wide receiver of the Carolina Panthers, used in addressing a fight he got into with a teammate at a routine practice session. Smith broke the teammate’s nose and was suspended for two games. (John Kador, Effective Apology, p.75).

We human beings tend to go easy on ourselves. We rationalize our actions and behaviors to put them in the best possible light. We more easily shift the blame to others instead of squarely facing ourselves. That is why Steve Smith’s words are so refreshing, especially for a professional athlete. We read about so many great athletes who are self centered and evade responsibility whenever they could. (Think Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens…) Here is an athlete who says, “I did it and there are no excuses for my behavior. I caused damage to myself and to my relationships with others, and I now have some work to do to repair that damage.”

The Modern Hebrew poet Judah Leib Gordon wrote, “We have a bat’s eye for our own faults, and an eagle’s eye for the faults of others.” Just as we can be too easy judging ourselves, we can be too harsh in our judgment of others. Perhaps this is why our sages teach in Pirke Avot (1:6), “Judge everyone l’khaf zekhut – on the scale of merit.” With respect to Aaron, our sages teach by example. In his commentary on the incident of the Golden Calf, Rashi tries to put Aaron’s behavior in the best possible light by delving into the possible hidden motivations for Aaron’s behavior.

In our own lives, as well, we should cultivate a charitable disposition toward judging the behavior of others. Rabbi Jack Riemer notes that often we make “judgments without knowing enough facts, or without the sympathy and the empathy that we ought to show toward other human beings” (cited in Joseph Telushkin, You Shall Be Holy, Volume 1, p. 74).

May we learn to judge others as kindly and compassionately as we judge ourselves.

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Rabbi Marc D. Rudolph (AJR ’04) is the spiritual leader of Congregation Beth Shalom in Naperville, Illinois.

On the Shabbat before Purim we read the special Maftir reminding us of our obligation to FORGET AMALEK. On Shabbat Zakhor, the Sabbath of remembrance, we read (Deuteronomy 25:17-19):

Remember what Amalek did to you by the way, when you came forth out of Egypt; how he met you by the way, and struck at your rear, all who were feeble behind you, when you were faint and weary… Therefore it shall be, when the Lord your God has given you rest from all your enemies around… you shall blot out the remembrance of Amalek from under heaven; you shall not forget it.

The name Amalek carries a special meaning in Jewish tradition. It is used to refer to the arch-enemy of the Jewish people at the time in question. We have a tradition that that Haman is a descendent of Amalek. We have referred to Hitler (yimah shemo - may his name be erased) as descended from Amalek.

What did Amalek do that was so horrible that we want to remember to erase his name? He struck at the most vulnerable members of the Israelites, in the rear of their procession. This preying on the weak and vulnerable is as despicable today as it was then. While in most of the world, Amalekites attacking the poor and vulnerable can be found, we are fortunate that this is not the case in the United States.

Rather, the poor and vulnerable in our country are taken advantage of by people whose only priority seems to be greed. I continue to find it amazing how so many people claim to be ethical, moral people, yet let their greed run rampant. Sadly, this hypocrisy is par for the course these days. But, is this new? What can we do about it?

Greed is nothing new. In the Tanakh, the Hebrew Bible, we find in the beginning of the book of Isaiah (1:11, 16, 17), that God was very angry with the corruption and greed occurring. God said:

To what purpose is the multitude of your sacrifices to me?… Cease to do evil; Learn to do well; seek judgment, relieve the oppressed, judge the orphan, plead for the widow.

God is much less interested in our corrupt offerings than in our taking care of those who need help. This very prevalent theme in the Prophets is as critical today as it was 2500 years ago.

Turning the corner on greed is laid out in Megillat Ester, as Mordechai writes (Esther 9:21, 22) that we are:

To establish this (Purim on the 14^th and 15^th of Adar)… the month which was turned from sorrow to joy, and from mourning to a holiday; that (these are) days of …sending portions one to another, and gifts to the poor.

Giving gifts to the poor is one of the most important Mitzvot of Purim. We are to give freely and joyously. This Mitzvah is one of the first recorded events of Tikkun Olam, Repairing this Damaged World. In the Jerusalem Talmud, Tractate Megillah (1:4, 70d) we find the following:

Rabbi Yudan the Patriarch sent a piece of meat and a jug of wine to Rabbi Oshaia the Elder, who replied: You fulfilled for us the injunction of “gifts to the poor” (Esther 9:22). At that, Rabbi Yudan sent a whole calf and a huge jar of wine to Rabbi Oshaia, who replied: Now you have fulfilled for us the injunction “of sending portions, each man to his colleague.”

Rabbi Yudan restored Rabbi Oshaia by treating him as a friend to whom Mishloah Manot, (Gifts to be Sent) were to be sent, not just a poor man to whom we send Gifts for the Poor. Restoring the dignity to the poor is a huge priority. Rambam (Hilkhot Ani’im 10:7) provides a hierarchy for Tzedaka, righteous donations, in order to assure the dignity of the recipient is preserved. Rabbi Yudan does that in our Midrash, and we must as well.

May we all be blessed to send extremely generous gifts to the poor this Purim. May we see extreme greed turned to extreme generosity speedily in our days.

A Happy Month of Adar and Hag Purim Same’ah - A Very Happy Purim.

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Rabbi Jaron Matlow serves as Spiritual Advisor to Congregation Bnai Torah Olympia (Washington) and as a Veteran advocate and pastoral counselor at the Disabled American Veterans.

“You’re not listening to me, are you?

The words cut me to the quick. I, in fact, have no idea what was being said for the last minute or so.

We’ve all been there — a family member or friend is talking to us, and what are we doing? We are daydreaming, checking our cell phone, or thinking about what we intend to say next. What we’re not doing, is listening.

Listening is not the same as hearing. We hear all sorts of things every day; most of it simply goes in one proverbial ear and out the other. When we listen, however, we are giving the other person our undivided attention, allowing another’s communication, both verbal and nonverbal, to touch us deeply. In The Good Listener, James Sullivan describes good listening as stepping out of my world and entering yours (James Sullivan, The Good Listener, Ave Maria Press, Notre Dame, Indiana, p. 78). When we grant another person all of our attention, it makes that person feel understood and cared for. Poor listening, however, signals that a person’s words are not worth our time, that his ideas and feelings are without value.

This week’s Torah portion is chiefly concerned with the construction of the Mishkan (the portable Sanctuary) and its vessels. The most essential of these vessels – and Harrison Ford’s goal in Raiders of the Lost Ark – is the Ark of the Covenant, the receptacle for the Tablets that Moses brought down from Sinai. The instructions for making the Ark’s cover contain a very curious passage:

“You shall make a cover of pure gold… You shall make two cherubim of gold. Hammered out you shall make them, from both ends of the cover. You shall make one cherub at one end, and one cherub at the other end… The cherubim shall be with wings spread upward, sheltering the cover with their wings with their faces toward one another” (Exod. 25:18-20).

Indeed, the very Tablets that were to be placed inside unequivocally state, “You shall not make yourself a graven image nor any likeness of what is in the heavens above”(Exod. 20:3-4). What could be so important about the Ark’s cover that it would merit an exception from the prohibition on physical representations of the Divine?

Perhaps the answer lies in the purpose of the Ark and its cherubim. We learn in the next verse: “It is there that I shall set My meetings with you, and I shall speak with you from atop the cover, from between the two cherubim that are on the Ark of the testimonial tablets” (Exod. 25:22). In short, the Ark’s cover was a place of communication, a place of listening.

While the cherubim may have seemed to be two separate beings, the 11^th century commentator Rashi tells us that they were actually hammered from a single sheet of gold (Rashi to Exod. 25:18). Most of the time, the separation between the figures appeared real. However, at times of Divine communication – such as the Holy Days – the figures would exhibit their underlying unity. The Talmud relates that the curtains around the Holy of Holies would be pulled back on the Holy Days and the Ark would be visible to the People. And what did the People see of the cherubim at these times? “They would be embracing one another[carnally] (Babylonian Talmud, Yoma 54a).” What seemed to be two was now revealed as one.

In I and Thou, Martin Buber considers the different forms of relationships that we may have with the world and with one another. Generally, our relationships are on an “I – It” level, even where the “It” is our fellow human being. However, there are moments of real communication and real listening, where the distance between us dissolves. At these times, your “You” confronts my “I” in all its uniqueness, filling the firmament and uniting us (Martin Buber, I and Thou, Touchstone Books, 1970, p. 126).

One of the central prayers of Judaism is the Shema, the first verses of which read as follows:

· “Listen! O Israel,

· Hashem is our G-d, Hashem is One.

· (Blessed is the Name of [God's] glorious kingdom forever and ever.)

· You shall love Hashem your G-d with all your heart, all your soul, and all your might.”

In light of our discussion, the order of verses is striking:

· First we Listen.

· Then we experience Unity

· (Despite the apparent multiplicity in the world of time and space.)

· Then we experience Love.

As James Sullivan says in The Good Listener (p. 88), “It is when we learn to listen with sensitivity and concern that we truly learn to love!”

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Rabbi Greg Schindler is a very active member of Beit Chaverim Synagogue, Westport, Connecticut.

By Rabbi Peggy Berman de Prophetis

Parashat Mishpatim presents us with information overload-rules, rules, and more rules. And even though the Israelites promise that “all that the Lord has spoken we will do and obey” (Ex. 24:7), they sometimes need reminding, for they are no more and no less than imperfect, fallible human beings. And so are we all.

On reading Mishpatim this time around, Exodus 21: 28-29 called out to me: “When an ox gores a man or a woman to death, the ox shall be stoned, and its flesh shall not be eaten; but the owner of the ox is not to be punished. If, however, the ox has been in the habit of goring, and its owner, though warned, has failed to guard it, and, it kills a man or a woman-the ox shall be stoned and its owner, too, shall be put to death.” Unlike some of the other rules in the parashah, this one requires a person to have given forethought to prevent conditions that might be hazardous to the life of another and take responsibility to protect others from possible harm.

Now I don’t have an ox or even a dog or a hamster (and how dangerous can a rodent be?), but I do have sidewalks-two in fact, since I live on a corner. My town-half of which is side-walked and the other half of which is not-has an ordinance that those sidewalks must be kept in repair by the property owner, and periodically yellow lines appear showing where repairs must be made. Since we are also a Tree City, you should understand that big trees in sidewalk verges can heave up a lot of flagstones, and despite root-pruning during sidewalk repair, they continue to grow and to push up our walkways. Understandably, I was not happy to see so many yellow expense-causing lines on sidewalks next to my home. So I postponed the inevitable. But then, I bumped into a friend who was also out walking, and, as we caught up, she mentioned how she had tripped on someone’s uneven sidewalk and had been badly injured. I was praying that our walk would not take us by my house.

But it did serve a purpose. I knew perfectly well that my sidewalks presented a potential hazard. I just needed a little help from a friend to remind me to do the right thing sooner rather than later. The next day, serendipitously, a pourer of concrete appeared on my block to fix someone else’s sidewalk and I hired him.

It’s important to keep company with good people-family and friends who can help you to remember important things you might otherwise forget or help you do things you lack the courage or energy to do, like fencing in your ox or fixing your sidewalks. Even our great leader and prophet Moses did not go it alone. He was hesitant to approach Pharaoh by himself. So, the Torah tells us, God provided him with Aaron as a partner. Then Moses enlisted the elders to help convince the people to leave the life they knew as slaves for a still-unknown life as free people.

All of us, whatever our age in years, should be elders. It is up to us to help set an example of living Jewishly, especially for our children. It is us up to us to model ethical and respectful living; it is up to us to show by our actions that the pursuit of justice is important; it is up to us to set an example of Torah study and an active and inquisitive mind; it is also up to us to give a nudge, to remind those we love of what they may have forgotten and what they need to do. It can work the other way too. I appreciate how I become a better person thanks to the gentle nudging of my family and dear friend.

And so, on this Shabbat Mishpatim, may we all be reminded to keep our oxen (whatever they are in our modern lives) under control and to help each other remember and apply the rules of justice, fairness, safety, and ethical living.

In particular, I want to express gratitude for my daughter Emily on this, the Shabbat of her adult bat mitzvah. She is always a help and a joy in my life. I am proud of her. Because of her, I am a better person.

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Rabbi Peggy Berman de Prophetis is the rabbi of Congregation Beth Sholom in Dover, Delawre. She writes frequently for the Jewish Voice of Delaware and speaks, along with other Delaware rabbis, on the weekly radio program The Rabbi Speaks.

As our world grows more secular, the questions I am asked about my faith grow more sophisticated. People used to ask me whether I believed in God. Given my choice of profession, the answer to that one strikes most as obvious. So now I am asked instead whether I believe in a personal God – a living, active God, if you will; one who not only creates, but who reveals and redeems as well.

The gist of this question, as I hear it at least, seems to be as follows: “I understand why you would hold onto some vague, deistic notions out of a sense fidelity to your past or solidarity with your people. But given our knowledge of the vastness of the universe (or perhaps even multiverse), can you seriously believe that there can be a God who knows and cares about us as a species, let alone as a people or an individual?”

This is a serious question and one that demands engagement. And what better time to engage it than on the week in which our Torah recounts the great moment of revelation?

Chapter 19 of Exodus tells of the lead-up to that moment. A period of washing, abstaining and purifying culminates in a day when thunder, lightning and the sound of the shofar fill the air. Mount Sinai is covered in smoke as God’s presence descends upon it. Then, in verse 19, we are told something that I find extraordinarily curious: “The sound of the shofar grew continually much stronger; Moses would speak and God would answer him with a voice.”

Moses would speak? God would answer him? The usual direction of communication is stunningly reversed here. And this reversal is happening at a time and place where it can almost seem as though Moses is conjuring up God’s presence.

Rashi gamely tries to tackle this problem. He notes that the Israelites heard only the first two of the Ten Commandments for themselves. By “answering him with a voice,” the Torah is telling us that God gave Moses a voice sufficiently strong to make the remaining commandments known to all.

Rashi’s explanation requires that we take this verse out of its context in Chapter 19 and place it instead in Chapter 20 – with the substance of the revelation. If, however, we leave the verse in its original context, we are also left with the question of why, in these moments immediately before revealing the Ten Commandments, does the Torah wish to portray Moses as doing the talking and God the answering?

In his commentary on these verses, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch offers what I think is the key insight in answering this question. The thunder, the lightning, the ever louder shout of the shofar, he says, are symbolic of Nature being brought figuratively to its knees by God’s presence. In this quaking world, only Humankind stands erect. Writes Rabbi Hirsch, “As soon as he consciously entered the service of God, he was taught the incomparably higher nobility of Man and his unique position in being directly near to God. Heaven and earth, the whole trembling universe lay behind his back and he stood upright before his God.”

What Rabbi Hirsch is asserting here is that, beyond the substance of revelation, the mere fact of revelation constitutes a statement about the significance of those to whom that revelation is given. By merely deeming that Humankind is worthy of being addressed, God grants our struggles a meaning and our lives a dignity that is apart from – and indeed above – the rest of creation.

To my secularist interlocutors for whom the vastness of creation precludes the possibility of a God that cares about us, I really have no response beyond that of faith. But my faith here rests not in the validity of Scripture. It draws little support from the testimony of those who stood at Sinai. Rather, my faith lies in an abiding belief that human life must have a dignity about it; that our struggles must have meaning; that our efforts to pass a better world on to our children must be worthwhile. The substance of what was revealed at Sinai confirms these beliefs. Yet revelation itself – the notion that God would care to communicate with us – affirms them in the first place.

Thus it is with the verse “Moses would speak and God would answer him with a voice.” Part of what makes the verse so difficult – indeed what allows Rashi to move it to a different context – is that we are told neither what Moses said nor how God responded. But respond God did. And in so doing, God affirms that Humankind is worthy of a response. There, in the moments before “And God spoke all these words …,” He affirms our dignity and the meaning we attach to our lives.

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Bruce Alpert is rabbi at Beth Israel Synagogue in Wallingford, Connecticut.yi

There were no auditions!! There were no judges!! That’s right. You heard it here first. When Moses and the Israelites sang on the shores of the sea (Exodus 15:1) and when Miriam and all the women danced with hand-drums (Exodus 15:20) no leader said, “why don’t you just mouth the words,” or “why don’t you stand there and hold up the scenery.” No Israelite man or woman said, “I’ll just sit here quietly, I don’t know the words, I don’t know the steps, you take my part.” Moses and Miriam didn’t say, “we need producers, we need a studio, we need electronics, we need editing, gotta get this right!!” Moses and Miriam and the Israelites – together – raised their voices and moved their bodies in thanksgiving and praise.

We’re often shamed into silence. My college freshman voice teacher told me, “no one will ever pay to hear you sing!” Friends, family, colleagues and congregants – even most people I might stop on the street – can tell me of an instance where someone in charge of solo or group vocal music-making told them that they should sing softly, or not at all. Or, if they happened to have a “good” voice, they were told to sing heartily, to drown out the “bad” singers.

We often need absolute privacy before we move a muscle, before we try to dance with enthusiasm. One saving grace of my eighth and ninth grade adolescence came in the form of the beach on Sullivan’s Island, SC, just a quarter of a block from our home. I reveled in the safety of the beach’s winter emptiness and danced with abandon, certain no one watched. It was still a time when my internal judge and jury had not developed into the critic it can now be in my adult life.

Our adult internal critics often tell us that we’ll never measure up, that we’ll never sound as good or dance as well as the professionals. Our productions – individual or communal – will never be as slick, as expensive, as “wow” as those instantaneously accessible in all the electronic media. Should we forget that we’re not good enough, we’re reminded of it when we watch the auditions for television singing and dancing competitions, see someone who, like us, doesn’t “measure up” and gets lambasted for it. Far be it from us to put ourselves in any position where we might be judged and found wanting. No thank you, we’ll just sit here, be quiet, and let the more talented sing and dance for us.

What are we modern-day Israelites to do when we want to raise our voices and move our bodies in thanksgiving and praise of our hard-won freedoms?

I think we already know the answer and we have to make time for it to be realized. We have to get out of the safety of our individuality and join other Jews. We have to find and/or build communities where there can be a “spontaneous Jewish choir” – a group building its own sound without electronics. A group sitting close together, hearing one another, not separate and apart. A group that learns to feel the music, to feel the rhythm, to feel the thanksgiving in the words and the beat – and then express it communally. (See Joey Weisenberg, Building Singing Communities: A Practical Guide to Unlocking the Power of Music in Jewish Prayer, p. 10)

Start or begin again on this Shabbat Shirah, the Sabbath of Song. Join with others, don’t sit quietly, do your best with the words, learn the steps and take your part. There are wonderful Moses’s and Miriam’s waiting in synagogues and havurot.

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A member of both the Rhode Island and Massachusetts Boards of Rabbis, Rabbi/Cantor Anne Heath is the spiritual leader of Congregation Agudath Achim and the Jewish Community House – a 100-year-old progressive, independent congregation in the heart of Taunton, Mass.

Parashat Bo announces: “This month (Nissan) shall mark for you the beginning of the months; it shall be the first of the months of the year for you….” (Exod 12:2). This sounds, of course, as if the Torah is commanding a New Year’s festival to be observed in the spring. Should we be confused that the Torah posts two different New Years (one in the spring and one in the fall), Nahmanides (Rabbi Moshe ben Nahman, also known as Ramban) comes to our aid. He calls Tishrei the “beginning of years” (since Creation) while he refers to Nissan as the “beginning of months” since the Exodus from Egypt. By having Israel number their months in relation to Nissan, we would always keep in mind the miracle of the Exodus and our freedom. Thus, when the Torah calls for a day of blasting the ram’s horn “in the seventh month,” it means to remind us that we blast the ram’s horn in the seventh month of our Exodus from Egypt.

Nahmanides’ attempt to harmonize the New Years in Nissan and Tishrei might seem a bit forced. After all, the Sages appear comfortable with listing no less than four New Years in the Mishnah (Mishnah Rosh HaShanah 1:1). Nevertheless, Ramban’s comment calls to mind a thematic connection between the two major Jewish New Years, inasmuch as one derives from Creation and the other from the Exodus.

The Creation and Exodus maintain an implicit association throughout our sources. The first presentation of the Ten Commandments explains the Sabbath as a reminder of Creation: “For in six days Adonai made heaven and earth… therefore Adonai blessed the Sabbath day and hallowed it” (Exod 20:11). But the second version of the Ten Commandments understands the purpose of the Sabbath as a way to remember the Exodus: “Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt and Adonai your God freed you from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm; therefore Adonai your God commanded you to observe the Sabbath day” (Deut 5:15).

The Friday evening Kiddush also juxtaposes the Creation and the Exodus as two distinct reasons for keeping the Sabbath. On the one hand, the Sabbath is “a reminder (zikkaron) of the work of Creation….” And on the other hand, the Sabbath “is a remembrance (zekher) of the Exodus from Egypt.”

Sometimes the Bible blends the imageries of these two events. The story of the Exodus begins by telling us that the Israelites “were fruitful…and multiplied…and filled the earth” (Exod 1:7), words which summon memories of procreation in Genesis (Gen 1:22; 9:1). Moses’ mother looks upon her newborn as “beautiful” (ki tov; Exod 2:2), a Hebrew expression which also evokes the Creation story (Gen 1:4).

The birthing of Israel through the sea’s divided waters (Exod 14:21-22;15:1-21) echoes God’s dividing the cosmic waters during Creation (Gen 1:6-8). The Song of the Sea states: “At the blast of your nostrils the waters piled up, the floods stood straight as a wall, the deeps (t’homot) froze in the heart of the sea” (Exod 15:5). Mention of “the deeps” (t’homot) brings to mind God hovering over the abyss (tehom) in the story of Creation (Gen 1:2). By painting the Exodus with the colors of Creation, perhaps the Song of the Sea is suggesting that Israel’s birth is a new Creation.

Isaiah (51:9-10) also plays with this ambiguous imagery when he proclaims there will be a new Exodus for the exiles of Babylon. His image of a path through a divided sea recalls both the stories of the Exodus from Egypt and the creation of the world. Isaiah describes creation by citing ancient myths in which God vanquished the primeval Sea Dragon, and dried up the deep (tehom): “…Was it not You who smashed Rahab, who pierced the Dragon…who dried up Sea, the waters of the great deep (tehom), who made the depths of the sea a road for the redeemed to pass?”

At times juxtaposing the Creation and the Exodus, and other times projecting the imagery of one onto the other, Jewish tradition implies a correspondence – even an equivalency – between these two events. The historic freeing of Israel is celebrated in cosmic terms: it is as important to God as a new Creation.

History is still midwifing new nations in our generation. With every birth of freedom, Creation is renewed. Hence we have two major New Years, one in the fall and one in the spring.

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Rabbi Allen Darnov is the rabbi of Reform Temple of Putnam Valley, New York; he and his wife, Cantor Avima Rudavsky Darnov, are co-directors of The Hebrew Corner, a Hebrew learning center in Marlboro, New Jersey. He has served on AJR’s faculty for more than fifteen years.