Imagine a soldier cleaning the barracks toilets in full ceremonial uniform!

But there is a profound message here.

In the service of God, no task is not holy.

In the service of a higher cause, all tasks contribute to the whole. And without each one, the purpose would not be achieved.

If the ashes were to build up daily on the altar, before long they would fill the entire space and offerings would become impossible. Cleaning up was just as essential as the offerings themselves for the functioning of the Temple.

Sometimes in companies and organizations those lower down the ladder can feel they don’t really make a difference. But that’s not true. Their role may not carry the same weight, but their contribution is just as necessary. If no one was answering the phone, the organization would fall apart almost as quickly as if the CEO stopped working.

I think that the priests wanted to remind themselves of this, so they wore their best clothes to take out the rubbish.

There was a time when I believed it was my job to change the world. Looking back, I think I was arrogant. Now I believe that my job is to make a contribution as best I can. Big or small matters less to me now. Contribution is contribution. It’s not about the task, it’s about the commitment to serve. As long as that is there, any task carries deep significance.

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Jewish history has largely played out this way. For over two thousand years, we have overwhelmingly been on the receiving end of suffering rather than agents of it. We have not been perfect, but this is certainly the pattern.

Of course, suffering is not an ideal. But there is a hierarchy. To suffer is painful. But to be the cause of suffering has a deeper and more profound impact on us.

When I was studying in Jerusalem, I heard of an incident that had taken place. A young man had become religious and decided to remain in Israel to study further. His father, a survivor of Auschwitz, came to bring him home. He entered the study hall and began blaspheming: God was evil and religion deluded. One brave student approached him and asked a single question: if you could go back in time and change what happened at Auschwitz such that you were the SS guard rather than a Jew, and hence you did not suffer, would you choose that?

The survivor did not hesitate. “Send me back a thousand times,” he said, “and I would always be the Jew and not the Nazi, no matter how much suffering I would have to endure.”

Easy for me to say, I know, but I feel the same. Suffering is one thing, but to cause others to suffer – life is not worth living if I’d have to do that.

This is what the rabbis mean when they say to be among the ‘pursued and not the pursuers’. Suffering affects the body and the emotions. But inflicting suffering affects the soul. One is finite and ultimately passing. The other shapes who we are for eternity.

In a world of pursuers and pursued, we have, of course, not chosen suffering; it has, rather, been inflicted upon us. But we are grateful that, even in suffering, by and large, we have not surrendered our moral courage or our spiritual dignity by turning the tables on others. Yes, we have suffered, but we have, thank God, stayed faithful to the most precious gift bestowed upon us – our Godly souls.

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My rabbis once met with the late Lord Alliance, an incredibly successful businessman. He told us that once he was interviewed before a live audience in Los Angeles. The interviewer asked him if he would mind telling the audience how wealthy he was.

“Firstly,” he responded, “you are very cheeky! But if you must know, I am actually very wealthy, because I have given much to others in my life. And giving is the only wealth I have.”

We find something similar in this week’s portion. It begins with the words, “These are the accounts of the Tabernacle.” “These,” the Rabbis say, “and no others.” In other words, when a person does his accounts in a metaphorical sense, the only things worth counting are those done in the service of the “Tabernacle” – a higher good.

We all know this intuitively; it is just a question of whether we can remember it in our day-to-day lives. No one would want on their gravestone: “He consumed 5,000 chickens in his lifetime; she played 10,000 hands of bridge; he owned ten Rolex watches.” What we write on people’s gravestones, or say in their eulogies, rather, is the good they did and the contributions they made.

As Winston Churchill famously said, “We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.”

Back to that building in Krakow. It was built in the 1920s to serve as the headquarters for the fledgling Bais Yaakov movement. Bais Yaakov, at the time, was groundbreaking – and desperately needed. It provided primary and secondary schools for Jewish girls, who until that point had been almost entirely excluded from the education system.

There was an incredible sense of passion and idealism about revolutionising the Jewish world, and its leader, Sarah Schenirer, inspired a whole generation of Jewish youth. Judith Grunfeld, one of her deputies, was walking past the building site before dawn one morning when she noticed that one of the wealthiest men in Krakow, Reb Nuteh Parness, was already there.

When she asked him why, he said he did not want the workers stealing the bricks. But, she replied, he was an incredibly wealthy property developer with building sites all over Krakow – why was he at this one in particular?

He answered that this one was special. “All my other buildings will remain behind when I leave this world,” he said. “This building is the only one that I will take with me.”

The vast majority of what we do in our lives is forgotten in the dust of time. It is those special moments – when we actually contribute to something meaningful and lasting – that remain with us for eternity.

Those, as Lord Alliance suggested, are the only things that belong in our accounts.

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Why not allow every to give according to their ability? Because I believe this teaches a very fundamental lesson. We are all equal in the service of God. When it comes to contribution in our world, no one is more resourced than any other. We all have all that we need to make a great and meaningful contribution.

On occasion, I meet wealthy individuals who feel that their chequebook is their means of contribution to our world. And it saddens me that they should underestimate their own worth in this way. They are human beings created in God’s image and money is the most they can offer? I’m not belittling giving money. Charities, my own included, would not survive without the generous contributions that we receive. But if you give me a bank account with billions in it and you give me a human being and ask which can do more, I’ll say the human being. That doesn’t mean to say that he will do more. But he or she certainly can. Money doesn’t make the world go round; people do. In an uninhabited world, money is not even worth the paper it is printed on. Money’s most valuable power, rather, is to buy what people can do. The majority of my charity’s budget – and this is true, I would venture to guess, of almost all charities (other than those that only give out money) is salaries. It’s 60-70% of the budget of the NHS, 65-75% of advocacy NGOs and 70-80% of a school. Because people’s contribution is the best way an organisation can spend money.

‘The rich man shall not give more, and the poor man shall not give less,’ is not a law, it is a truth. Because money is a small part of the contribution that each of us gets to make in our lives. We have much more to give with our minds, with our hearts and, above all with our souls. For a person to think that money is what they have to give, or to think they have less to give because they have no money is to completely misunderstand the potential of human giving.

We are created equal and we all get to make as much or as little contribution as we choose. If our contribution is minimal, it is not because we lacked the resources, rather because we lacked the will.

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My first consideration is as to what evil means in the first place. And, for the record, this question is a work in progress for me. In spite of my nearly sixty years, I am still not entirely clear on the nature of evil and let me explain why.

Is there such a thing as someone whose sole purpose and desire is to cause pain, suffering and harm in this world such that we could label them an evil person? Is it not that people do what they do for reasons that make sense in their own minds, even if those reasons might be very misguided in the eyes of others and perhaps God? Does anyone wake up in the morning with the thought, ‘how can I be more evil today than I was yesterday’? Yes, there are psychopaths and sociopaths, but those words themselves speak to an understanding of what the person is about. The suffix - path means ill, not evil.

One might ask if such a nuance really makes a difference. In terms of danger to society, does it matter if someone is evil or mentally unwell? Surely, they pose an equal threat to society? Hence whilst we might not hold a psychopath as responsible for his actions as we would someone judged as mentally healthy, we will lock them up just the same.

What does matter, I believe, though, is how we relate to those around us and most especially when they make mistakes. We seem to get more indignant and judgmental of people whom we judge as evil versus those we judge as misguided. It’s hard to love and have compassion for those who we see as evil and hard to believe they can change. But those who are misguided, we can maintain respect for as human beings and perhaps even live with the hope that change is possible.

In my worldview, which I believe to be consistent with Torah’s, even Adolf Hitler was, at his core, a soul created in God’s image. In his day to day thinking and life he had become deeply disconnected from that soul, perhaps so much so that there was realistically no way back. But spiritual essence cannot be destroyed, only buried, even if very deep.

And I believe this is the Torah’s view of Amalek – a nation of Adolf Hitlers. Godly souls buried so deep that practically speaking it is appropriate to assume that they would never rise to the surface. And hence proactive protective action was required.

Calling people evil might be emotionally satisfying because it absolves us of responsibility to them by creating a Tolkien-like universe of good vs evil. And who would have compassion for Orcs? But I believe that George Martin’s world is more true-to-life. Jamie Lannister is a troubled and complex human being, not an evil monster. Orcs cannot find redemption – but Lannisters can.

Once someone is ‘evil’, we no longer need to understand them, speak to them, or believe anything better could emerge. But Torah resists this option. Zachor tells us to remember Amalek so that we do not become like Amalek – a nation that reduces others to categories and tattooed numbers on their arms. To remember that there is a soul even where none seems visible is not naïve; it is simply correct. And if we forget that, we will, albeit innocently, encourage evil to thrive, rather than provide vision for it to change.

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I think this is reflected in many areas of life. This is what, for example, can make building work so frustrating. The main parts of a house go up very quickly – and you start to think it’s almost done. But, frustratingly, the finishes seem to take forever. It’s usually not the builders, though everyone blames them, rather it’s the nature of the Universe. Getting things perfect is what takes the time. God’s role was quick, six days of Creation. Our role stretches over millennia. (Although I do believe in this instance, much of the responsibility for the extended length of time can be placed on the builders rather than the job.)

A few years ago, I came across the anti-natalist movement. Part of its argument is that having children is morally wrong in that one creates beings that cause harm to our planet. But Judaism rejects such a concept. A pristine planet earth, without human beings, would be utterly meaningless. Dodos would still exist and the world might or might not be a little cooler, but planet earth would be as insignificant as Mars or Venus. It is we human beings that build, develop and improve our world – in the first instance physically, but more importantly, we also build a spiritual experience for ourselves – something that rocks, flowers and even animals cannot come close to doing. We are the only beings that can be conscious of our own wisdom, strive for spiritual greatness, regret and correct our mistakes, make freewill decisions, understand and respect values and morals, feel and exhibit love and compassion – and a whole lot more.

The World, nay the Universe, was created only for human beings; for us to build, develop, make beautiful and perfect. And to use it as a conduit through which we can turn ourselves into Godly beings. We are not the enemies of planet earth, as Greta Thunberg, and many like her, believe, we are its sole purpose.

But as God charged Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, our job is to ‘work it AND to guard it’. And in our times, it looks like we might have lost that balance. Whether our present situation is a crisis, an emergency, or simply another familiar human challenge is something I will leave to those scientists able to think independently of political and popular opinion to work out. But it seems clear to me, as a layman, that we are polluting our world with plastics and poisons; we are cutting down swathes of forests, overfishing in many areas – and a whole lot more. We need to find a better balance, so that we can guard as we work. There is no reason for us to stop building, growing and developing; certainly, no reason for us to stop having children. We just need to find a better balance. And, given my great faith that humanity has an abundance of goodwill, common sense and ingenuity, I am sure that we will.

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That’s not to say a loan is always better. It’s entirely circumstance-dependent. Sometimes people don’t need a loan at all, they just need help. But in the right situation, a loan can be far more meaningful than a donation.

Given how noble a form of charity this is, I’ve always been struck by the many generous people I meet who are reluctant to give loans. At different points in my own life, when I’ve struggled financially, (the perennial lot of a rabbi!) and needed to borrow, I’ve often heard: “I’m happy to give you money, but not a loan.”

Don’t get me wrong, I have also had people very willing to be me loans also! And I have always paid back. But it does seem to me that there is more of a reluctance to give loans than to give money, when one might think that the opposite would be true.

Why might that be?

I would understand as follows: when you give a donation, you can wash your hands of the situation. But when you lend, you remain attached. When you give, the money is gone. When you lend, there’s an ongoing relationship — and the hope of repayment. Just as a loan can be more meaningful, it can also be commensurately harder, precisely because you remain involved.

Viewing a loan as a disguised donation, and not expecting repayment, doesn’t really work either. Firstly, it can be condescending, but also, it isn’t good for the borrower. Someone receiving charity is one thing; someone taking a loan and not repaying it, even if the outcome is the same, can feel uncomfortably akin to theft. I believe that if you give a loan, you should genuinely want it repaid.

So yes, it may be more difficult to give a loan, but look at how much more meaningful it can be. For a genuine person who needs a genuine loan, you’re not just helping them financially. You’re helping them preserve their self-respect. They don’t need to be artificially propped up, they just need time – time to stabilise and ultimately support themselves.

So don’t be too quick to assume that a donation is better than a loan. In many cases, a loan is actually the highest form of charity. Because the Torah doesn’t just demand that we help people once they have fallen, it also demands that we prevent them from falling in the first place. Yes, a loan maybe requires harder work, but then again, the best things in life usually do.

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I have spoken in the past about the importance of not losing one’s humanity even when one must be the cause of pain to others. That is not my focus here. I want to explore something subtler.

My son Matty posed the question, how can a person feel both happy and sad at the same time?! Surely, it’s one or the other?

I asked a version of this question almost twenty-five years ago, during the seven days of mourning (shiva) for my late wife. The sages teach that a person should always live with a sense of joy. I asked my rabbi whether this was true even in a time of profound grief, and if so, how such a thing was humanly possible.

To my first question, his answer was yes. To the second, he offered an answer that remains beyond my understanding to this day. Yet, with his yes to the first as my anchor, I discovered my own answer to the second during the shiva itself.

During those seven days, I felt overwhelming pain at the loss of someone I loved so deeply. Each night, I could not imagine how I would survive another day, let alone decades, without her. The grief was visceral; there were moments when I found myself gasping for breath.

And yet, as I reflected more deeply, I discovered something unexpected. Alongside the pain was a quiet sense of joy – joy at the depth of love I had known. Joy that she had mattered so much. Joy that she had made me feel so loved and brought such light to my world. I’m not sure that I had both feelings simultaneously, though I also can’t say that I didn’t, but I do know that both were there for me. Both were available. And I was able to embrace each for what it offered.

So it was with Jethro. It’s not that he felt joy that the Red Sea split and the Children of Israel walked through to salvation, and sadness that the Egyptians had drowned when they followed. Rather, in the destruction of the Egyptians both feelings were available to him. It brought salvation for Israel, at which he rejoiced, but suffering for other human beings, for which he felt pain. And Jethro embraced both feelings. He allowed the joy to be there, and he also allowed the sadness. Because for him, both mattered. And they did not contradict.

We human beings are multi-faceted. We have a broad range of feelings available to us around any circumstance that comes our way. And, whilst it isn’t necessarily easy, we do get to choose our inner experience of life. Our feelings are a guide and a gift, even the ones we might not wish to have.

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In his estimation, there are at least as many people who should get divorced as those who actually do. That leaves 20% who don’t need to get divorced – and of those, how many are truly happy? Half? Less?

Well, that was his opinion – not mine.

But there is no question that we live in a time of widespread marital unhappiness.

Perhaps this is why the rabbis tell us that for God, matchmaking is as difficult as splitting the Red Sea. Men and women are notoriously hard to match. And it is harder still for them to make it through decades of life together, with all its vagaries.

One of my rabbis gave me an interesting understanding this week of what it means when we say this is “difficult” for God. When the Jews arrived at the Red Sea, God insisted that they make the first move. He would not split the waters until they stepped in. He wanted to see a willingness to act, rather than simply placing everything on God. The rabbis tell us that only when they had waded up to their noses did the sea finally split. They went as far as they could – and then God took over. It was difficult for God, in a sense, because it required human choice. And the one area God does not override is human choice.

The same is true of marriage. We must make good choices ourselves; God will not make them for us. Yet, for some reason, when it comes to marriage, I see many people making very poor choices. People get infatuated and marry wholly inappropriate partners. People get scared and don’t marry those they perhaps should. People marry for money – which, to me, is like using long-haul flying as a cure for insomnia. You may fall asleep, but you wake up somewhere you never wanted to be! There are so many human pitfalls around choosing a spouse, and God has to juggle it all and still put the right two people together despite them.

It isn’t easy. But God, being God, somehow manages.

I, for one, have twice been witness to the Universe choosing me a spouse I would never have dreamed of pursuing if it had been left to me alone. And two wonderful marriages later, I remain in awe of God’s wisdom – so much greater than anything I could ever have planned for myself.

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Recently, however, I was introduced to a very different Jewish perspective on freewill. Its proponent is thoroughly mainstream in most areas of Jewish thought, but his approach to freewill is forcefully rejected. His name was Rabbi Hasdai Crescas, and he lived in Barcelona at a time (fourteenth-century) when messy (Messi) still meant that things weren’t tidy. He experienced horrific persecution – the anti-Jewish riots of 1391 that killed as many as 50,000, including his only son. Some suggest that this tragedy shaped his philosophy in this matter.

The late Chief Rabbi, Jonathan Sacks, would answer the question of where God was during the Holocaust by saying that God has given freewill and man has the wherewithal to exert it – for better and for worse.

Rabbi Crescas would see it very differently. God has his plans for the world and human beings are a part of those plans. God knows what he is doing in the totality of the picture, but it is he who exercises complete control and if you don’t like what he does, it’s because you don’t see the full scope of his world.

It’s a harsh view. But whereas to Rabbi Sacks, you would have to say that the Holocaust was ultimately meaningless, to Rabbi Crescas, it was part of God’s perfect plan for his world. It’s easy to understand, after experiencing his own holocaust, why he might feel compelled to believe that the suffering had meaning.

In Rabbi Crescas’s view, we are not partners with God. Rather, we are participants in a divinely authored process. Like actors in a play, our parts are scripted, yet we experience them from within. We intend, we feel, we invest. And through this lived experience we get to have a real place in God’s plan for his Universe. It will be very meaningful for Jessie Buckney when she wins Best Actress this year even though someone else wrote the script.

Hmmm, I’m not convinced by his approach, but there is still something I like about it. I would like to believe that I am spiritually independent, but that doesn’t mean I am. I would like to believe that an infinite being can create a genuinely separate ‘other’, yet I cannot quite imagine how that could be possible. The Jewish mystics talk about it, but I just don’t get it.

I also like that, rather than feeling burdened by the responsibility that freedom of choice might imply, life is more of an opportunity to participate, while the real heavy lifting remains God’s prerogative. Responsibility is a gift, not an expectation. I love the humility this points to. There is something in us that wants to feel we matter. But, I believe, there is another, maybe deeper, part that would rather just be part of something greater and more glorious than ourselves.

It’s something I continue to reflect on as I try value and enjoy every new moment of the gift of life – however it might be set up.

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At first glance, this looks like simple disingenuousness. He said what he needed to say to stop the plague, but he didn’t mean it. But if so, why did God stop the plague knowing that he was simply lying?

I think it’s more complex than simple dishonesty, and that it points to something fundamental in human nature.

A number of years ago, I suffered a kidney stone. The pain was so intense and unrelenting that if you’d put me on a roof and said the only escape was to jump, I could imagine myself considering it. A nurse told me she had been through labour and a kidney stone and the stone was worse. It’s simply hell on earth and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Not that I have any enemies. The doctors told me dehydration was the key contributing factor, so I began religiously drinking three litres of water a day. That was five years ago. I’m not sure how long it lasted, but today I drink maybe two cups a day – when I remember. It scares me for a moment when I say this, but then I move on. The pain is a distant memory and doesn’t motivate me any more. But I can guarantee that if, God forbid, I had another stone, I’d be back to my three litres - until the motivation faded again :)

When my late wife passed away, I felt I had been a good husband, but not good enough. I promised myself that if I ever remarried, I would be the best husband in history. When I married Chana, I think I lived up to that - for a time. Then I slipped back into my old ways. More recently, during the birth of our baby, Chana’s life was in danger. I felt it again: if she survived, I would be that perfect husband and appreciate her as she deserves. That resolve lasted a few weeks after she recovered—and now my husbandry, once again, leaves much to be desired.

I believe that in the midst of each plague, Pharaoh was not lying. He was genuinely committed to letting the Children of Israel leave. But once the motivation passed, he simply fell back into his old ways.

All very well, you might ask, but how do we stop ourselves doing this?

I’m not sure that every problem has a solution and this may be one of those that does not. It’s very human of us to feel motivated when the sword is over our heads and to grow comfortable again once it has gone.

The best I can offer – what works for me – is to know my own humanity and not judge myself for it. I truly mean it in the moment, and that sincerity is precious to me. I embrace the inspiration to change and do my best to live up to it. And when I don’t - that’s fine too. That is simply me failing, as we all do. And perhaps, next time, I’ll do a little better.

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We Jews very much believe in freewill. It is a foundational philosophical value. Without freewill, we are not accountable for our actions. We have no agency.

But we also believe in Divine Providence. The exact relationship between freewill and providence is beyond my paygrade, but suffice to say, unlike Marx’s Historical Materialism, we believe in Historical Providentialism.

We certainly have agency in our own lives and our own choices and, to some extent, in the world around us. But there is a bigger picture of the world that God ultimately directs.

This week, I was watching a documentary on Netflix about Shimon Peres entitled, Never Stop Dreaming. I highly recommend it. What stood out for me were the numerous moments of inflexion in the conflict between Israel and the Palestinians. So many opportunities for things to be different – and for one reason or another, the world just didn’t go that way. Not for lack of trying on the part of many individuals. It looks to me like, for one reason or another, God’s plan was just something different.

I believe that we try, we do our very best. We have vision and push it through to its bitter end. But sometimes, God just has different plans for his world. In my mind, better plans, even if it doesn’t look that way in our limited comprehension.

Try as Pharaoh might, and he murdered a lot of children in his efforts, he could not interfere with God’s plans. The world’s mightiest emperor was helpless to prevent them unfolding in front of his eyes.

But here’s the thing. He didn’t change God’s plans – but he did get to choose who he would become. He couldn’t bring evil into God’s world; but he could bring it into his own. He didn’t prevent salvation for the Jewish People. But he did condemn himself to moral self-destruction.

Conversely, Shimon Peres, for all of his dreams and efforts, failed to bring peace between Israelis and Palestinians. He might not have achieved peace, but he lived, and died, as a man of peace.

We don’t always get to choose the world that we want. But we always get to choose the person that we want to be.

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If you are interested in my and Chana’s reflections on the tragic attack in Sydney this week, please have a listen to our podcast here.

I’m away now for two weeks so there will be no davar. Look forward to starting again in the New Year. Wishing you all a merry Channukah and a happy New Year.

The Weekly Thought

By Boruch Shalom Rapoport:

We’re all usually looking for insight in one area or another. We’re wondering how to improve a heavy relationship, how to see new possibility in our personal development.

How can we make such lightbulb moments happen? Is there any sure way to produce insight on demand?

Alas, not. We cannot generate new insight at will, because we are not the source of insight, merely its recipients.

However, the good news is that there is something we can do to make ourselves more receptive to life-changing ideas.

The Talmud offers a bizarre response to the question ‘what is Chanukah?’

“The days of Chanukah are 8 days on which we don’t fast or eulogize!”

I don’t know about you but if you ask me what Chanukah is about, I’d sooner think of lighting the candles than eulogies. Come to think of it I’d think of potato latkes, doughnuts and presents before an obscure prohibition on fasting. In what sense is this a meaningful explanation of what Chanukah is about?! Eulogies?! Fasting?!

I think the Talmud is offering important guidance on how to prepare to receive light. Chanukah is not about lighting the menorah, because we don’t find insight by trying to force it. The most we can do is make ourselves available for insight by letting go of our stories. Both good and bad. Chanukah is not a time to lament troubled times through fasting, nor to sentimentally regale the past in eulogy. We can only make space for the new by letting go of the old. By loosening our grip on the same old stories we tell ourselves, new possibilities emerge, new insight can occur and the light of the menorah can shine.

When Jacob finally settles down in this portion, it is with heaviness. His brother has tried to kill him. He has wrestled an angel. He’s been deceived into marrying the wrong woman. He’s had to flee from his father in law. His daughter has been raped. His sons go on a killing spree. Jacob ultimately collapses under the weight of his past because he is holding on to the heaviness of his stories, leaving no room for new energy and creativity.

Jacob’s story must therefore give way to the vibrant colours of Joseph’s tunic, symbolising the latter’s ceaseless creativity. Joseph dreams up creative visions of his brothers bowing to him in subservience. He is resourceful and entrepreneurial, earning him social mobility in a foreign land. He has the keen insights that enable him to interpret the dreams of the baker and the butler. He skilfully interprets Pharaoh’s dreams and offers creative solutions to the problems they forecast. Perhaps his most brilliant creativity is displayed in his elaborate scheme of reconciliation with his brothers.

Joseph is a man of ever-flowing insight and creativity because he’s a master of letting go. He has every reason to remain bitter after being betrayed by his brothers, sold into slavery, tested by the seduction of Potiphar’s wife and forgotten by his cellmate who’d promised to advocate for him. Yet at every turn Joseph shows signs of a man who’s hardly noticed his own story because he has let go; he is neutral and ready for more. This neutrality, I believe, is the reason for Joseph’s unique gift of insight and wisdom. Whilst we don’t see him communicate with God in the explicit, direct way we see of others in the Torah, Joseph shows us how we can all welcome vast reservoirs of fresh wisdom and new insight into our lives by loosening our grip on the tired stories that confine us.

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He is vain, he tells tales on his brothers, he lauds himself over them by telling them his dreams of grandeur. He proudly wears his coat of many colours making sure his brothers know that he is the favourite. There’s nothing you could pinpoint as ‘wrong’. But it seems quite seriously misguided.

What’s going on?

I think the answer is very simple. And the Torah itself points it out immediately. He was seventeen.

It’s unusual for the Torah to give someone’s age other than at the end of their life. It only does so when it’s essential to the narrative. As, indeed, it is here.

Teenagers, even the best of them, can struggle. It’s a difficult time of life. The transition into adulthood is rarely smooth. Hormones are raging. Uncertainty and insecurity are rampant. It’s a volatile period and I don’t think that any teenager finds it easy.

But here’s the important point. Look who Joseph turned into. If you’d taken a snapshot of him at seventeen, you would have had serious doubts. His brothers certainly did. But he came through with flying colours. And became one of the greatest men in Jewish history; the man who guided the entire world through a potentially apocalyptic famine.

I often find that parents can look at the behaviour of children and get worried. Sometimes very worried. And not just teenagers, all ages. I try to remind them (and myself at times!) that life is a journey for all of us. And it inevitably has many twists and turns along the way. Everyone struggles at different times – not just teenagers. But the great thing about we human beings is that we have massive potential for change and evolution. Who a person is at any moment says nothing about who they might be even the next day – let alone months and years later.

My fundamental message here is for parents. Don’t judge who your kids might grow up to be by their behaviour at any one point, or period. Give them space, support and love and almost certainly they will ultimately flourish – even if right now you can’t see how that would happen.

How often over the years have I seen Josephs. Kids who are struggling. Kids who are having a hard time. Kids who are misbehaving, even seriously. And then they blossom into settled, healthy, contributing adults.

Relax. Joseph didn’t do so great at seventeen. But became the great man that he did. All kids have the potential to do the same.

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Golda Meir, Israel’s fourth Prime Minister, reportedly said, ‘When peace comes, we will perhaps in time be able to forgive the Arabs for killing our sons, but it will be harder for us to forgive them for having forced us to kill their sons.’ I think that this is a modern day articulation of Jacob’s sentiment. And I think it’s an important Jewish idea: self-defence might be necessary at times, but harming others should never, ever, sit well in our hearts.

Let me take a step back for a moment.

There is a famous statement in the Talmud, ‘A person should not say that eating pork is abhorrent to me; rather he should say that I would love to eat pork, it looks delicious. But what can I do, my Father in Heaven commanded me not to?’

Personally, this resonates most with the prohibition on tattoos. I love them and often admire designs online – but what can I do? My Father in heaven has instructed me otherwise. But if there was a day of amnesty on a single Torah commandment, I know what I would be doing

Maimonides, however, points to an important distinction. This approach applies only to chukim, laws that are spiritual in nature and have no immediate intuitive reason. But with ethical laws, one must not say that ‘I wish I could hurt people, but what I can I do, my father in heaven commanded me not to’. Rather, moral behaviour should be rooted in inner conviction. Being a good person means what it says on the tin. Being a good person. Not just behaving in a way that is good. Feeling care, rather than acting as though you care, is the goal.

Jacob recoiled at the thought of killing. He knew that he might have to. But the idea of doing so was abhorrent to him. Even if it was his enemy. Even if it was an evil person who hated him. It didn’t matter. Every human being is created in the image of God, and Jacob could not bear the thought of ending a life.

Human suffering, no matter who those human beings are, is something that should matter to us. We should be compassionate towards it and want to play no role in it. If there are times when we must, it should do so with trepidation and great reluctance. Only when we have no other option.

Jacob prayed that he would be spared from taking a life, and God granted his prayer. May we too be spared from ever needing to harm others – and if necessity ever forces us, may conscience and humanity remain at the core of our being.

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This sounds very materialistic. Are the rabbis really suggesting that a person without money is worthless?

Obviously not. Here is how I understand it.

I have been watching a wonderful documentary on the BBC iPlayer entitled Kingdom. It follows the fortunes, over five years, of rival families of predators in a Zambian river-valley.

As I watched the lions, leopards, hyenas, and wild dogs, I was struck by how much of their time, and focus, is devoted to a single objective: acquiring their next meal. Their most fundamental occupation is finding, hunting, killing (or stealing!) the food that keeps them alive.

And then I was reflecting on how much time I have been spending on my upcoming fundraising campaign. And I had a moment of horror when I considered that maybe I am not very different. Working in a job to put food on the table.

But thank God for divine wisdom because insight came my way and I realised just how different I am.

The reason, I believe, why the rabbis say that someone stripped of all possessions is, in a sense, no longer living, is because human life is about giving. And only about giving. We are placed in this world to contribute. To be partners with God in perfecting his creation. We are charged with a divine mission.

When I put together my campaign, it is not so that I can take – quite the opposite. It is so that I can give. It is my way of making my contribution to our world.

And God has designed this world in a way that makes that possible.

Animals survive through taking. They kill prey against its will, or they take the vegetation the earth provides without seeking permission. While there is cooperation within a pack or pride, the essential act is one of drawing from the world to sustain themselves.

Not so, us human beings. In essence, the way we earn our living, and, unless we want to live in abject poverty, it is the only way that we earn our living, is by identifying what we can contribute to the lives. We offer value and in return receive what we require.

Giving is not only the way we contribute. God has set it up that giving is the way we meet our own needs also.

Animals can live lives of noncontribution – looking after themselves and themselves alone. We humans cannot do the same. We contribute or ultimately, we die. Alone on a desert island, a human being might just be able to survive. But he would have no chance of thriving. Contribution is not merely an ethical ideal or a way to meaningful living; it is built into the very mechanics of our survival. Remove a person’s ability to contribute, and you remove the essence of what it means to be human.

And moving from theory into practice… if you are able to contribute to my campaign, I would be deeply grateful. Every donation is doubled. Thank you.

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As the famous German Rabbi, Shimshon Raphael Hirsch, pointed out: Esau represents power, prowess, instinct, and material success. He is the hunter, the man of the field, focused on the present and on domination. Jacob, however, represents moral responsibility, covenantal duty, disciplined development, and service of God.

The Talmud viewed it as the contrast between Caesarea – Israel’s prototype Roman city of power, control, and arrogance – and its antithesis: Jerusalem, the spiritual city radiating holiness, Godliness, and peace.

They are opposites and the world cannot, ultimately, tolerate both. As the Talmud teaches, “If someone tells you: ‘Jerusalem and Caesarea are both flourishing,’ do not believe it; if both are destroyed, do not believe it; but if Jerusalem flourishes and Caesarea is destroyed, or Caesarea flourishes and Jerusalem is destroyed—believe it.”

This is the Jewish worldview. All human history is a battle between these two cultures. The culture of ‘might makes right’ and the culture of ‘love your neighbour’.  And every human being must decide which side of history they wish to be on. Neutrality is not an option. Because default human culture is the sword; if we do not stand against it, it will win. As J.S. Mill put it, “Bad men need nothing more to compass their ends, than that good men should look on and do nothing.”

If you sit back and watch, the conflict will ultimately consume you also. As Pastor Niemoller powerfully said, “first they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out – because I was not a socialist. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out……. Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out…….Then they came for me – and there was no one left to speak out for me.”

The spirit wins only when good people fight for it.

And I believe there are two ways to do so, with a third for those who feel called upon. First and foremost is to proactively live a good life rather than slipping into the comfort of mindless living. Goodness lived is goodness transmitted.

Second, speak out against evil when and where you see it. But be wise and circumspect in doing so. Crying wolf will diminish the power of your voice when it is most required.

And, finally, for those who see this as their calling, to educate others.

Like it or not, we are all soldiers on this battlefield. You can choose to be a foot soldier or an officer. But there is no way to desert the army, even if you wish to do so. The result is not in doubt: God has already promised that the spirit will prevail.  But it can happen swiftly or slowly, with fewer obstacles or with many, depending on the role each of us is willing to play.

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Granted, I have never watered camels, but it does seem to me that ten thirsty camels after a long journey would likely drink a great deal of water. In fact, ChatGPT suggests it is as much as 1,000 litres, which is ten to fifteen bathtubs! Now, Rebecca was a young girl and Eliezer was a grown man with servants and money. He did not need her to exert to much effort on behalf of his camels. He had numerous ways to do it for himself.

So why did she do it?

Here, I think, lies an important insight into the nature of giving.

It would have been very easy for Rebecca to think what I might think in the same situation: He doesn’t need my help. He can manage. Surely kindness should be directed to those who actually need it – this guy is a wealthy man.

But she didn’t think this. Instead, she practiced what I’d call ‘giving without calculation’, giving wholeheartedly.

Yes, sometimes giving is about providing a service, or solving a need. But often, perhaps more often, giving is more fundamental than that. It’s about recognizing another human being as a fellow Godly soul and wanting to help better their lives; for no reason other than a respect for their humanity. We often do this with those we love. I might buy my wife flowers just to show her how I feel about her.

So why would I not do this with a stranger also?

Well, Rebecca did. She gave without calculation and extended a fullness of heart to a complete stranger.

Giving without calculation means not asking: Does he deserve this? Could he do it himself? How much does he really need it? It means giving simply because there is another human being before you, and you have an opportunity to do good. That, to me, is a deeper and more powerful giving. Giving simply for the sake of giving.

I can’t claim that I practice what I preach on this one. Perhaps, occasionally, I merit to do so. But this is how Rebecca lived — and the nature of her descendants, the Jewish People, is shaped by this act, and I’m sure many others in her life like it, of wholehearted kindness.

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God is about to destroy the wicked cities of Sodom and Gomorrah. Before He does, however, He says, “Can I hide from Abraham what I am about to do? […] and all the nations of the world will be blessed through him.” He then tells Abraham that He is going to destroy the cities, and the famous debate ensues in which Abraham pleads for them to be spared.

But why? Why does the fact that Abraham is going to be changing the world mean that God should tell him what He is about to do? It seems like a non sequitur.

I think the answer lies in the idea of partnership with God. God offered partnership in building His world to all of humanity. Only Abraham accepted the offer. And once God became partners with Abraham, He would not make a major decision without consulting him.

That, to me, is the level of relationship God seeks with us human beings: to be genuine partners with Him such that we get a say. God’s offer is not that we be shareholders in a public company who turn up once a year to cast a vote. Rather, He offers daily partnership in which our opinion matters.

Do we want a war in Sudan or an earthquake in Turkey? Those who feel a genuine sense of responsibility for God’s world and seek to perfect it alongside Him get to have a say in what happens. They are proper stakeholders. Conversely, those who are building a world for their own purposes are not stakeholders in God’s world; they have chosen to invest in their own small and selfish lives instead.

Sometimes people ask me why God does not have more of a relationship with us nowadays. My response is to ask why we do not choose more of a relationship with God. Just as I cannot make someone a partner in a business if he does not sign the forms, so too God will not make us partners in His business unless we sign up as well.

And so today, unlike in my youth, I am a great believer in the idea that responsibility is not given; it is taken. We cannot wait for God, or anyone else, to come down and send us on a mission. The world is in front of us; it is obvious where it is going wrong, and even if less obvious, we usually have a good sense of what needs to be done and how we can contribute.

Using economic terms, we live in a world where responsibility is in high supply and little demand. Appropriately, the verb we associate with responsibility is “take”, not “give”. While we sometimes speak of giving responsibility, far more often we speak of taking it.

That was Abraham. He took responsibility, and God allowed him to do so. I believe the same is true for us. God gives us as much responsibility as we take. We choose the level of partnership, not Him.

As a child I waited for responsibility to find me. As an adult I’ve learned it’s the opposite: we must embrace it. And as much as we do, we step into genuine partnership with God.

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I believe this is the only way to live life. And to think otherwise is to delude ourselves. As the old Yiddish saying goes, man plans and God laughs.

If I look at where I am today, I could not have dreamed it up twenty-five years ago. I would not have expected to be living in England at this point in my life. I would not have imagined that my wife would pass away, and that I would later marry someone so different and yet so equally precious. I would never have thought that I would be training rabbis. And in my wildest dreams, I would not have foreseen myself becoming more and more liberal in my values with age. Didn’t Churchill quip that if you’re not a liberal in your twenties, you have no heart; if you’re not a conservative by your thirties, you have no brain? I would never have believed that my brain could so utterly desert me .

Of course, we must have a vision for our lives, to plan from that vision and do our best to bring it to life. I’m not suggesting otherwise. But life is just so darned – and delightfully – capricious.

I think of life as a chess game. You have your strategy, and it’s looking good. Then your opponent makes a move you didn’t expect. Suddenly, everything changes. You must readjust, improvise, maybe abandon your plan altogether just to survive the onslaught. Once you’ve steadied yourself, you can begin again – perhaps returning to the old plan, perhaps creating a new one from scratch. It’s always in flux.

That, to me, is life. You try; you fail or succeed – or something in between. Then you figure out what comes next. You readjust. You build on what remains. Or you reinvent life entirely.

But here’s what I think is so important to remember if we are to travel the road of life with grace.

The more attached we are to outcomes, the more frustrated life will make us.

A friend recently told me he is haunted by the thought that, had he moved to the US or Israel when he was younger, he might have achieved so much more. I believe that regret must shadow his present work. How can you give your all to something that on some level you feel is flawed or compromised?

This is the problem of being wedded to outcomes. If he could see that throughout his life he has made choices with what was available to him at the time, I believe he would feel very differently. If he’d recognize that this world does not afford us the luxury of deciding the results of the choices we make. Rather, it allows us to choose to be of service and to constantly adjust that service as the world changes around us. And in this manner, if we have vision and are dedicated and committed, make incredible contributions as we go along.

Life, then, is not about achieving specific goals. It is about setting them in the spirit of service, pursuing them wholeheartedly, adapting and changing them as life goes on and enjoying the privilege of the journey – a journey of partnership with God to assist in perfecting his world. When we walk with God, we always arrive where we are meant to be, even if it isn’t where we once imagined we’d go.

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