Other Torah Learning and Personal Thoughts

Use and Misuse of Torah for Social and Political Goals
The Mishnah frowns on using Torah for personal gain or to promote an extraneous cause, but sometimes, Torah impels us to serve a seemingly unrelated purpose, leading in this case to a novel understanding of Chanukah.
Dec. 11, 2025

A Broader View of the Dueling Caterers (Sequel to Bow and Tamarisk)
The rivalry of Yaakov and Esav, and a suggestion of how their descendants might improve their relationship.
Dec. 1, 2025

God in History: Is God a Humanist?
Why did God take us out of Egypt? To end slavery or to spread monotheism?
Nov. 25, 2025

“So the Children Will Recognize” What Should They Recognize?
A confused argument over the meaning of a Seder custom reveals a social and religious challenge.
May 9, 2025

Becoming Partners in Creation
Lessons from the story of Creation for life an imperfect world and partnering with God to improve it.
Oct. 17, 2021

Yahrtzeit Siyum on Mishnah Seder Zeraim
A Siyum Mishnayot in honor of my father, Rabbi Ephraim S. Greenberg, on the occasion his first yahrtzeit.
June 14, 2020

Use and Misuse of Torah for Social and Political Goals
Dec. 11, 2025

People often attempt to use religious allegiance to recruit support for their own purposes. Advocates from all sides of nearly every cause, from wars of conquest and independence and the abolition and preservation of slavery to the protection and exploitation of the natural environment have claimed to be doing God’s work.

The Mishnah (Pirkei Avot 4:7) warns us against cloaking our own wishes in a mantle of piety, bluntly stating that the Torah is not a tool to be used as a shovel. Regrettably, there are many opportunities today to encounter and reject appeals to religion and conscience by political partisans of every stripe. The Torah does instruct us, however, to do (or refrain from doing) many things, so occasionally, these appeals have some merit.

An interesting and unexpected example of such a case appears in connection with the laws and customs of Chanukah. The Talmud (Shabbat 23a) discusses the purpose of the Chanukah lights and which blessings to recite when lighting them. The discussion concludes that the blessing that thanks God for performing miracles “for our ancestors in those days at this time of year” should be said both by a person who lights and by passersby who see the lights from outside. Many of the Rishonim (post-Talmudic authorities) mention a traveler who sees the lights from a boat as an example of a person who should recite this blessing, because they will not be at home that night to light their own candles or oil lamps. The Rishonim disagree about whether a person who will be going home later to kindle their own lights or one who simply neglected to arrange for Chanukah lights should recite this blessing, raising the question of exactly what the purpose of this ruling is.

Rabbi David Abudraham, a fourteenth century Rishon who lived in Seville, Spain, explains that the rabbis of the Talmud instituted the practice of reciting the blessing over Chanukah lights seen from outdoors for the sake of homeless people. The idea is interesting, and less arbitrary than it might seem, because lighting the Chanukiyah is tied to one’s home: The primary obligation is to light it at home, positioned so that it can be seen from the street. Very few mitzvot are intended specifically to be performed at home. Perhaps the explanation in this case is the connection between two houses — The Maccabees’ reconsecration of the Temple to God’s service and the dedication of our own homes at Chanukah time to the same ideals through the lighting and display of the Chanukiyah.

Unfortunately, as Abudraham recognized, this leaves out travelers and the homeless, so some other provision must be made for them to participate in the mitzvah of the lights that publicize the miracles of Chanukah. Whatever the merits of other attempts to claim a basis in Torah for social or political ends, Abudraham’s explanation lends support to including care for the homeless as part of our Chanukah celebrations. Many organizations sponsor clothing drives at this time of year to collect warm coats, socks, etc. for impoverished and homeless people.

It would not be an exaggeration to say that we can think of contributing to these charities as part of our Chanukah observance. The Torah is not a shovel, but we each have our own shovels, and sometimes the Torah tells us what to use them for.

A Broader View of the Dueling Caterers (Sequel to Bow and Tamarisk)
Dec. 1, 2025

The birth of the twin brothers Yaakov and Esav begins the story of two very different lives locked in a sibling rivalry that nearly leads to fratricide and sets the stage, both historically and symbolically, for the troubled relationship of their descendants. In the Talmud and Midrashim, Esav comes to stand not only for his Middle-Eastern descendants, but also for Rome and any other foreign oppressor or tormentor of Israel.
The conflict climaxes in Genesis Chapter 27 when the nearly blind and ailing Yitzchak asks Esav, his favorite, to hunt some game to prepare delicacies (Hebrew mat’amim) for him, so that Yitzchak will be pleased and inspired to give Esav a final blessing.
The word mat’amim appears six times in this story. Rivka, Yitzchak, and the narrative voice all use this term, but the principal antagonists, Yaakov and Esav, refer instead to the meat as tzayid, meaning game. This word derives from a root that means to hunt. It also alludes to tzad, meaning side. These associations suggest that the brothers see themselves as two sides of a conflict, each hunting for advantage. Yitzchak also calls the food tzayid at one point when speaking to Esav, whom he favors.
Just as the brothers’ use of “tzayid” emphasizes the adversarial aspect of their relationship, their parents’ use of “mat’amim,” with its echo of “t’umim” (twins) suggests a broader view than we would expect from people locked in conflict. Although each parent favors a different child, they also see their children as twins, an opposing but complementary pair of siblings, not simply two sides in conflict. The Torah uses the birth of the twins to frame the story, and Rivka and Yitzchak have the parental distance to see the contest as trouble between the children, not only as my side versus your side.
Rivka’s request for two goats to cook for Yitzchak points in the same direction. Yitzchak could not possibly eat that much meat. Rather, it alludes to the twins, and may also foreshadow the two goats sacrificed on Yom Kippur, representing two paths, one toward God and one toward desolation in the wilderness. The analogy to Yaakov as heir to Avraham’s and Yitzchak’s relationship with God and Esav’s life as a desert bandit is striking.
Is there a lesson here for resolving the conflict of their descendants? Prolonged struggle often leads the two sides to become more alike, until the battle no longer makes sense. Maybe the lesson is to acknowledge that our shared roots in Avraham and Yitzchak keep the children of Yaakov and Esav eternally in relationship. The choice in our shared hands is what to make of that relationship. Later, the Torah tells us that the two brothers came together to bury Yitzchak. This was not the end of the contest between Yaakov and Esav. Their descendants still struggle today. However, they were able to set aside their differences to honor the memory of their father. As the Talmud tells us (Moed Katan 28a), “The death of the righteous atones.” If only we could both see and accept the atonement offered by the death of the many righteous victims of our conflict, the Middle East might be a much more peaceful place tomorrow.

God in History: Is God a Humanist?
Nov. 25, 2025

Among the core beliefs of Judaism is the idea that we have a continuous relationship with God that manifests itself through our individual and collective lives in the world. At the same time, our daily lives and welfare depend heavily on our interactions with other people. The question of how mundane life and the divine presence interact has puzzled and fascinated people for millenia.
Attempts to answer to this question have frequently been expressed through different understandings of the story of the Exodus. In American popular culture and old songs of enslaved African-Americans known as “spirituals,” we find the statement that Moses told Pharaoh to “let my people go.“ This image of a righteous challenge to authority helped to inspire the abolitionists of the nineteenth century and the civil rights movement of the 1950s and ‘60s with a sense of religious sanction and mission. In 1969, a Passover Hagadah for a “Freedom Seder” meant to inspire activism in defense of impoverished or oppressed people everywhere was published. These are all examples of attempts to cast the Exodus as a humanistic, anti-slavery event. In this view, the Exodus serves our human purposes, apparently in concert with God’s will.
A closer reading of the Biblical account reveals a less clearcut reality. Moses was not simply an Israelite inspired by compassion or solidarity with his fellow Israelites to demand that Pharaoh release them. The relevant verse (Exodus 9:13) describes Moses in his prophetic role, relaying God’s message to Pharaoh:
“The Lord said to Moses, ‘Get up early in the morning and station yourself before Pharaoh, and say to him: So said The Lord, God of the Hebrews: Send out my nation so that they can serve me.’ ”
It appears that God’s purpose here is not to abolish slavery altogether, but to ensure that the Israelites will serve Him, rather than Pharaoh. As slaves, forced to do the will of their Egyptian masters, they were not free to follow divine authority. Indeed, the argument that the Exodus and Torah intend to end slavery is difficult to justify. The Torah describes in some detail how slavery is to be regulated in Israelite society. Torah law does impose many restrictions and obligations on slave owners that may have dissuaded some people from acquiring slaves, but evidence of an imperative in Torah to abolish slavery is lacking.
The interaction of humane and theological imperatives in the Exodus is complex. Looking further ahead to the actual departure of the Israelites from Egypt, we find two similar but distinct descriptions of the event. In Exodus 12:41 we read:
“It happened at the conclusion of thirty years and four hundred years; it was on this very day that all the legions of God left the land of Egypt.”
Note the parallel but significantly different language of Exodus 12:17 and 12:51:
“Safeguard the matzot, for on this very day I will take out your legions from the land of Egypt, and safeguard this day throughout your generations as an eternal decree.”
“It happened on this very day that God took the children of Israel out of the land of Egypt according to their legions.”
A major principle of Torah interpretation is that there are no wasted words in Torah. Any apparent redundancy is an allusion to a different idea. Who are the “legions of God” in verse 12:41? The Hebrew term tzva’ot, often translated as legions or hosts, refers to a large organized group such as an army. This expression cannot refer to the Israelites; their departure is mentioned explicitly in verses 12:17 and 51. The Mechilta d’Rabbi Ishmael (Pischa 9), an ancient collection of commentary and interpretation of the Book of Exodus, addresses this question directly:
“I will take out your legions” (Exodus 12:17) You might say that these are the legions of Israel. Or are they none other than the legions of ministering angels? When it says “all the legions of God left the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 12:41), these are the legions of ministering angels. What does the Torah refer to when it states “I will take out your legions?” These are the legions of Israel.
Apparently both the Israelites and the divine presence (represented by the “ministering angels”) left Egypt at the same time, “on this very day.” Israel’s physical liberation coincided with the beginning of their journey under divine direction and protection that followed them out of Egypt. The Mechilta explains that the parallel verses show that both human and divine purposes were simultaneously fulfilled in the same event. The Israelites will go on to receive the Torah and create a new society, while the story of the miracles of the Exodus will spread throughout the region, demonstrating God’s supremacy and uniqueness to all who are receptive to the idea. In this case, at least, we see God interceding in history by using a social grievance to provoke a crisis that serves as an opportunity to advance both human and theological interests.
So, is it “Let my people go!” or is it “So says the Lord: Let my people go that they may serve me!” In this case, the answer seems to be “Yes!” Sometimes God’s purposes are also our own. When we suffer, the divine presence suffers with us. It seems fitting, then, as my friend Dr. Avram Becker pointed out, that Psalms 91:15, dedicated (and attributed by some) to Moses, may have been inspired by these very events: “He calls on me and I answer him; I am with him in distress. I will rescue him and honor him.”

“So the Children Will Recognize”
What Should They Recognize?
May 9, 2025

The Passover Seder is above all else an educational experience. Much of the learning that takes place during the Seder happens when we question and discuss our unusual dinner table practices on this occasion. Sometimes, however, the discussion itself can be the unintended subject of the learning.
One example of this kind of self-referential learning involves the practice of spilling drops of wine from our cups as we count the plagues. Many have a tradition to dip their little finger in their cups to remove the drops of wine. There are sixteen drops in total—One for each plague, three for the “blood, fire, and pillars of smoke” quoted from the book of Joshua, and three more for the three-word mnemonic acronym D’tzach Adash B’achav. Why do we do this? The history of the interpretation of this custom was explored in considerable depth in a 2015 article by Rabbi Zvi Ron [1]. Rabbi Ron points out that the earliest known mention of this custom was in a Pesach address of the Rokeach (Rabbi Eliezer of Worms, 1176-ca. 1238) [2]. Rabbi Eliezer was one of the Chasidei Ashkenaz, a group of medieval German pietists who apparently initiated this custom. He explains these sixteen drops as corresponding to and protecting us from God’s sixteen-sided sword that inflicts plagues and other punishments on our enemies.
Spilling these sixteen drops of wine became widely popular and is now a nearly universal Seder custom. The Rokeach’s explanation, however, is highly esoteric and difficult for adults. It is completely unsuitable as an answer to children’s questions about this custom. In the early twentieth century, a publisher in Budapest began to produce hagadot that replaced the Rokeach’s explanation with the idea that we diminish our pleasure by spilling some wine from our cups out of respect and mourning for the Egyptians who died during the tenth plague and at the splitting of the sea. This new reason quickly became so popular among liberal-minded American Jews that by the 1940s, it was virtually the only explanation of the custom of spilling drops of wine for the plagues in any Hagadah with English translation sold in the United States.
As liberal Judaism grew rapidly from the 1930s to the 1970s, this story was proudly showcased and disseminated as evidence that Judaism and American Jewry had abandoned an antiquated, parochial Jewish separatism and were aligned with and deeply committed to liberal democracy and integration into American society. The idea of Jewish sympathy for the Egyptians was also said to be well founded in respected authoritative rabbinic sources; it was variously attributed to Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch (1808-1888), Don Yitzchak of Abravanel (1437-1508), and Abudraham (fourteenth century).
Not surprisingly, a backlash ensued from more traditional quarters, rejecting the new interpretation of spilling drops of wine as a fabrication in support of a secular universalism that was leading Jews away from Torah, tradition, and identification with a distinctive Jewish peoplehood. Liberal Jewish polemicists replied to this criticism, proudly claiming the “fabrication” as their own innovation and part of their larger project of modernizing Judaism.
The sorry history of this argument gives support to those who view history as the blind, stumbling march of human ignorance, arrogance, greed, and stupidity. In short, everyone was wrong. The new interpretation was not a liberal innovation, nor does it appear anywhere in the writings of Hirsch, Abravanel, or Abudraham. In fact, Rabbi Ron’s article argues convincingly that it originated with the fiercely traditional Rabbi Yirmiyahu Low (1812-1874), the author of Divrei Yirmiyahu.
How did everyone involved manage to get this wrong? Most, if not all, of this pointless argument can be attributed to the tendency of protracted sectarian divisions to devolve into party-line thinking that judges ideas not on their particular strengths and weaknesses, but on which faction they seem to represent.
This is not a new problem. The Torah (Deuteronomy 14:1-2) warns us that as God’s children, we must not engage in excessive mourning practices such as cutting ourselves (Hebrew “Lo titgod’du”). In the Talmud (Yevamot 13b), Rabbi Shimon ben Lakish cites a midrash that extends the meaning of this verse. Treating “titgod’du” as a form of the verb “l’agged” (to join or bind together), he reads the verse as “Do not form factions.” Maimonides considers this part of the Biblical prohibition–Do not cut yourselves into factions–although the majority view and practical halachah regard the prohibition of factionalism as a rabbinic exegesis. In either case, favoring the victory of one’s sect or denomination over the unity and welfare of Jewry as a whole, or hewing to a party line or the conventional wisdom of one’s own social group instead of debating an idea on its own merits are signs that one is failing to uphold this mitzvah.
Beside dipping a finger in the glass to remove drops of wine, there are, of course, two other dippings at the seder—We dip karpas in salt water or vinegar and maror in charoset. However, another dipping was part of the conflict that got us to Egypt in the first place: Joseph’s brothers dipped his clothing in goat’s blood. Family discord that rose to the level of sinat chinam (irrational hatred) brought us into our first exile, and is the root of all of our subsequent exiles. Multiple interpretations have been made of the connection in Deuteronomy 14:1-2 between our role as God’s children and the prohibition of grotesquely exaggerated mourning. In this light, the comments of the Italian rabbi Ovadiah ben Yosef Sforno [3] on these verses are especially relevant. He suggests that the reference here to the Jewish people as God’s children alludes to the idea that there are three partners in the birth of a child—The mother, father, and God. When we lose a parent, as is natural and nearly inevitable, we should be able to draw some degree of consolation from the fact that at least one of these three parents is always with us. Sforno’s emphasis on our shared Parent makes all Jews siblings. In the context of a prohibition of factionalism, this underscores the destructive potential of family discord.
In the Talmud and later halachic literature, the reason for Seder customs that are meant to provoke questions is termed “hakarat tinokot,” literally “recognition by children.” One might ask why this idea is not called “she’elot tinokot” (“children’s questions”) or “she’yish’alu tinokot” (“so that the children will ask questions”). Apparently, the children are expected to recognize something at the seder. The term can be traced back to that first dipping by Joseph’s brothers, to deceive their father Jacob. “Haker na,” they asked him. “Do you recognize this? Is it your son’s garment or not?” [4].
“Haker na.” What do we want the children to recognize at the seder?
The story of Judah and Tamar [5] interrupts Joseph’s saga. Why does the Torah digress with this other story? Here, too, we see Haker na: Tamar says “By the owner of these items I am pregnant. Recognize, please, whose are this seal, these cords, and this staff.” [6]
Now we can recognize how all of these elements fit together and what they tell us. The family conflict between Joseph and his brothers escalated far beyond the violation of ”Lo titgod’du” and nearly resulted in fratricide. The brothers were willing to seal Joseph’s fate by deceiving their father with their disingenuous “Haker na.” The episode of Judah and Tamar is not an interruption of this story, but the occasion for Judah to rise above his complicity in this dishonest “Haker na” by responding honestly, to his own embarrassment, to the same question when it was directed at him. Now, Judah begins to understand leadership, and as the tension of the reunion with Joseph climaxes, he is ready to step forward and serve as an honest advocate for his brothers and their shared fate. Indeed, the name of the parsha in which this occurs honors Judah’s newfound bravery: It is called parshat Vayigash, from its opening words, “Vayigash Yehudah” (Now Judah came forward) [7]. He has earned a legacy of enduring leadership for his descendants. As Jacob’s deathbed prophecy of his children’s future confirms, “The scepter shall not depart from Judah.” [8] Judah’s willingness to accept Tamar’s “Haker na” and respond honestly allowed her to live and give birth to Peretz, the ancestor of King David and the Mashiach, who will redeem us from the final galut.
But this can only happen when we are willing to follow Judah’s example, to abandon factionalism and sectarianism and to accept our interlocutors in Torah as our brothers, as Sforno challenges us to do.
Perhaps the greatest obstacle to meeting this challenge successfully is a lack of humility. It is noteworthy that King David, the original Mashiach to whom this story points, was the grandson of Oved, the child of Ruth and Boaz. Oved was descended through both of his parents from forbidden unions: His mother Ruth was a Moabite descendant of Lot and his daughter. His father Boaz was a descendant of Judah and Tamar. Most of the book of Psalms is traditionally attributed to King David. Psalm 4:5 says “Tremble and do not sin. Speak within your own hearts on your beds and be still.” A Midrash [9] on this verse states, “David said to Israel: How long will you sin and rant about me, ‘He is unworthy; he is a descendant of Ruth the Moabite.’ ‘Speak within your own hearts on your beds’. You, too are unworthy, because of the prohibition of marrying two sisters [Our ancestor Jacob married two sisters, Leah and Rachel]. Know your origin and be quiet.”
Haker na. Acknowledge who and what you are, and be chastened and modest because of it. Maybe then you will be able to see and hear others.
FOOTNOTES
[1] Ron, R. Tzvi. 2015. “Our own joy is lessened and incomplete”: The history of an interpretation of sixteen drops of wine at the seder. Hakirah 19:237-255).
[2] Drashah l’Pesach of R. Eliezer of Worms
[3] Ca. 1470 – ca. 1550, commonly known simply as “Sforno.”
[4] Genesis 37:32
[5] Genesis 38
[6] Genesis 38:25
[7] Genesis 44:18
[8] Genesis 49:10
[9] Yalkut Shimoni 627
This essay is a corrected and expanded version of a drashah that I gave on Shabbat, the seventh day of Pesach, 2025 at the Isabella Freedman Jewish Retreat Center in Falls Village, CT.

Becoming Partners in Creation
October 17, 2021

After Simchat Torah, there are no Jewish holidays for two months, the longest such desert of elevating occasions in the yearly calendar. At the same time, we begin the cycle of Torah study once again. The story of Creation in the opening chapters of the Torah provides clues to help us to carry our gains from the intensity of the holidays into everyday life.

A pair of somewhat cryptic midrashim about Creation and our role in its continuing unfolding provides some surprising guidance. The Talmud (Chullin 60A) notes an apparent contradiction in the Torah’s description of the creation of the Sun and Moon in Genesis 1:16. The account begins with an even-handed, symmetrical description of these two bright orbs: “And God made the two great lights …,” but then emphasizes their inequality: “… the great light to rule the day and the lesser light to rule the night.” In the midrash, the Moon appeals to God, “How can two kings wear the same crown?” “Make yourself smaller, then,” replies God. “Master of the universe,” the Moon complains, “should I make myself smaller because I spoke the truth before you?” God then tries to assuage the Moon’s sense of injustice: “Then go and rule both the day and the night.”

“But my light is as negligible as a candle flame at noon. What use will it be then?”

“Then know that the people of Israel will rely on you to calculate the days and years of their calendar.”

“But it is the Sun that is essential for that, and for determining the dates of the festivals and seasons.”

Recognizing that the Moon needed to find some pride in its smaller size, God advises, “Know that the nation of Israel will recall its righteous heroes as ‘the small,’ as in ‘Jacob the small’ (Amos 7:2, 5), ‘Samuel the small’ (possibly a reference to Rabbi Shmuel HaKatan, cited, for example, in Pirkei Avot 4:24), and ‘David the small’ (I Samuel 17:14).”

Seeing that the Moon was not consoled by this, God concedes, “Then let them bring an atonement on my behalf for diminishing the Moon.” The midrash then points out that this is what Rabbi Shimon ben Lakish alluded to when he said, “What is unique about the goat [sin offering] of Rosh Chodesh (the first day of a new month)? The fact that it is described as ‘for God’ (Numbers 28:15). God said, ‘Let this goat be my atonement for making the Moon smaller.’” (The Torah refers to other sin offerings as “a sin offering for you.”)

In a seemingly abrupt change of topic, Rav Assi then introduces the second midrash by pointing out a second apparent contradiction in the Creation story: Genesis 1:11 states that on the third day, “the Earth brought forth vegetation.” Genesis 2:5, however, describes a time, apparently on the sixth day, “before any plants of the field were present on the land.” Rav Assi reconciles the two verses by explaining that seeds began to sprout on the third day, but the seedlings did not emerge from the soil until the sixth day, when Adam was created and prayed for God’s mercy to favor their growth. God answered this prayer with rain that enabled the plants to grow (Genesis 2:6), to teach that God desires the prayers of the righteous.

What can this all mean? Midrashim are not meant to be taken literally, but as homilies that resolve textual difficulties or use Scriptural passages to teach a concept. Genesis begins with a vision of a harmonious world with all of its elements in perfect, stable balance: “And God made the two great lights …” However, the first midrash points out that reducing this elegant symmetry to physical form requires compromise, contradiction, and asymmetry. There must be day and night, life and death, struggle and the potential for failure: “… the great light to rule the day and the lesser light to rule the night.” Creation introduces imbalance, imperfection, and at times, even injustices as the pure, perfect, undifferentiated light of Creation becomes matter, stars, planets, and eventually, life and self-aware humanity.

This truth is also reflected in our individual lives as a basic dilemma that we all face, especially at times such as the end of the holidays of Tishrei when we must leave behind a period of intense personal growth and inspiration and resume our workaday lives. If we want to preserve these gains and infuse them into our lives, then we will also have to make compromises to give this aspiration tangible form. Railing at the world’s flaws, daily injustices, and the concessions it demands of us will not help. What will, then?

Rabbi Shimon ben Lakish shows us how to begin by drawing out the meaning of the first midrash. He was ideally situated to teach this lesson by his own example. During his youth, he was a highwayman and a gladiator. To grow into a Talmudic sage from this background is impressive and unusual, but it is not superhuman. He faced the same trials and temptations as everyone else, and understood from his own experience how frail, imperfect humanity can progress and improve. God created an astounding world that we should wonder at every day, but acknowledged its imperfections with the sin offering of Rosh Chodesh.

Both midrashim emphasize human partnership with God. The first shows that God relies on us to acknowledge and try to compensate for the deficiencies of Creation. The second teaches that completing God’s Creation requires our participation. Like Adam, we can partner with God to cultivate the seeds of a better future, finding small, incomplete ways to nurture improvement in ourselves and our surroundings. and to pray for God’s help in our efforts. It won’t be perfect, but it can be better.

These ideas are developed more fully in Fruits of Freedom, the Torah Flora Hagadah.

Yahrtzeit Siyum on Mishnah Seder Zeraim
June 14, 2020
I am starting this new page with a video recording of a siyum, the celebration of concluding the study of a book of Torah. I presented this siyum via Zoom on June 14, 2020 as a belated conclusion to the year of mourning for my father, Rabbi Ephraim S. Greenberg. You can view the video of this siyum and some family reminiscences that followed at this link on Vimeo.

I would like to add a few memories and thoughts about my father here.

This siyum had three parts. The first dealt with the two Biblical commandments of giving honor and respect to one’s parents. The latter term (yir’ah in Hebrew) is also often translated as fear or awe. Ironically, this was probably the last thing that my father ever wanted or expected from his family. He wanted our love, appreciation, and esteem, but he never expected us to treat him as an authority to be feared and obeyed. He was always kind and eager to help his children and his extended family. I did not fully recognize or appreciate until my conversations with his many cousins before and after the siyum that as a second-generation oldest child and one of the first college-educated members of the family, he often filled the role of the wise, older friend and advisor to his cousins, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren. I remember that when my children and cousin Joel’s were young, they spoke about him almost like a magical fairy tale character who would often appear (or more mysteriously, send packages) with delightful gifts, stories, and visits. Whenever I or my children encountered any problem or obstacle, my father was always quick to offer his advice and help. Even when the problem was not one that he was knowledgeable about or able to solve, his love and desire to help us were so strong that he would try anyway. It didn’t always help us with these challenges, but his care and concern for us were always clear. There was never any doubt that we were the most important part of his life.

The theme of the second part of the siyum was legacy. I think that the story that I told in the siyum of my grandmother demanding that my father surpass her represents one of the major forces that drove his life and his accomplishments — His education, his rabbinic and business careers, the demands and rewards of his struggle as a single parent to provide for and nurture the growth of two children, and his investment of so much of himself in his children’s and grandchildren’s accomplishments and happiness. The story also highlights another aspect of my father’s pride and pleasure in our successes — that he always saw them in relation to family. A graduate degree, a new job, a raise, or promotion was not just good news for a child or grandchild. It was also a building block in the structure that would help to protect and support his family in the future. This, I think, is why he startled his then childless and mostly single grandchildren at his ninetieth birthday party with the wish that he be able to meet at least of some of his great-grandchildren. He was able to meet two of them, to his great delight. Nothing gave him greater pleasure than seeing the continuity of his and his ancestors’ legacy in a new grandchild or great-grandchild. As I write this, I am in the process of preparing a book for publication. When I look at my own words in the manuscript or learn about yet another of my children’s accomplishments and life milestones — a major publication, an award, a wedding, the birth of a child — I see the spirit of thoughtful creativity and the drive for accomplishments of lasting value that my father exemplified and transmitted to us.

The third and final part of the siyum was about ambiguity. My father experienced, and in some ways, embodied a good deal of ambiguity. He lived for many years as a single custodial father, never a common experience, but one that was nearly unknown at that time. Like many rabbis of his generation with Orthodox ordination, he often stood and mediated between traditional and liberal Judaism. In many ways, the years of his marriage to Dahlia later in his life seemed like a reward and respite from the struggles of his earlier years that enabled him to live at peace with the ambiguities and uncertainties that life presented. In facing these challenges, he encouraged us to face them with prudence, perseverance, and patience, and showed us how, a wise example that has served us all well, and for which I am grateful.