The Names Before And After Us©
Shemot 5778/2018
Rabbi David Baum
How many synagogue members does it take to screw in a light bulb? One to screw it in, and one to make a plaque thanking all those who made the light bulb possible. It's not just synagogues that have a name inscription obsession.
Who in here ever carved their name on a tree or on a bunk in summer camp – so and so was here?
Just last week, we were sleeping in bunks at Camp Ramah Darom's Winter Break family. As I looked up, what did I see? The names of campers from back in history, Rachel (or fill in the blank) was here.
Why can’t we resist putting our names on things?
There’s a reason for our obsession with putting our names on things – it’s what I want to talk about today.
Today’s parashah is also the name of the book. The rabbis called it Sefer Yetiziyat Mitzraim, the book of the Exodus from Egypt, but it’s known to us by a different name – Shmot – names.
This week’s parashah opens up with the following note:
וְאֵ֗לֶּה שְׁמוֹת֙ בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל הַבָּאִ֖ים מִצְרָ֑יְמָה אֵ֣ת יַעֲקֹ֔ב אִ֥ישׁ וּבֵית֖וֹ בָּֽאוּ׃
These are the names of the sons of Israel who came to Egypt with Jacob, each coming with his household:
What's confusing about this is that we see here a repetition of the same names listed at the end of the book of Genesis. We know who went down from Canaan to Egypt from the previous generation, we actually just read their names verbatim in the previous parashah (Genesis 46:8-27).
The commentators help us understand why we see a repetition of these names.
Rashi, summarizing the Midrash, says the following:
ואלה שמות בני ישראל NOW THESE ARE THE NAMES OF THE CHILDREN OF ISRAEL — Although scripture has already enumerated them by name whilst they were living, when they went down into Egypt (Genesis 46:8-27), it again enumerates them when it tells us of their death, thus showing how dear they were to God — that they are compared to the stars which also God brings out and brings in by number and name when they cease to shine, as it is said, (Isaiah 40:26) “He brings out their host by number, He calls them all by name”
The Torah is filled with the repetition of names, almost like the names on the bunks that I saw, or the names on these memorial boards in this shul and so many others, or the names on plaques. We take these names for granted, some of us even tolerate them as they are being read out loud because we may not know them, but they mean something.
But if we take Rashi's commentary to heart, comparing them to stars, they take on a new significance. Jews have always been associated with stars. When God made his covenant with Avraham he told him to look at the stars, to try and count them, that his descendants would be as numerous as the stars. In this way, God told Avraham to look to the future – that is what the stars were, a hope for future offspring.
The stars are not just the future, but also the past. In the movie, The Lion King, King Mufasa, a lion, gives a message to his son Simba as they sit in the darkness of the savannah: look up at the sky, those stars are the famous kings that have passed on staring down at you. But you don't have to look at cartoons to find this message; we have a biblical version of this. In the book of Daniel, the prophet tells about a future time when the dead will be resurrected. He said, “At that time, your people will be rescued. Many of those that sleep in the dust of the earth will awake, some to eternal life, other to reproaches. And the knowledgeable will be radiant like the bright expanse of sky and those who lead the many to righteousness will be like the stars forever and ever.” The middle line, yizharu kezohar harakia, shine like the radiance of the sky probably sounds familiar. The rabbis liked that image so much that they used it in the El Malei Rachamim memorial prayer, Bema’a lot Kedoshim Utehorim, Kezohar Harakia Mazhirim.
The truth is, maybe Mufasa, Simba's father, had a point when he explained the stars to his son – he was telling him – your ancestors before you mattered – they shine a light upon you, and guide you during the darkest of times. Throughout the generations, if you look to them, they will live on through you.
On New Year's Eve, the stars were out at Ramah – at Ramah, there are few lights and when the sky is clear, the stars are bright.
But little did we know that the camp lost two of its brightest stars – Ari and Hannah Weiss and their families, who were tragically killed in a plane crash along with another family, the Steinberg family. Both families were stars in their respective Jewish communities.
The Steinbergs — Bruce, an investment banker, and wife Irene, along with their sons Matthew, 13; William, 18, a student at the University of Pennsylvania; and Zachary, 19, a student at Johns Hopkins University — attended the Westchester Reform Temple in Scarsdale. They were involved in Jewish and social justice causes, including the UJA-Federation of New York, the American Jewish Committee and Seeds of Peace.
The Weiss family — Mitchell and Leslie, both physicians; their daughter, Hannah, 19, and son, Ari, 16 — were active members of Congregation B’nai Israel in St. Petersburg, Florida and were leaders in their community. The Weiss family were closest to us – they were stars for many of our young congregants. Hannah was a sophomore at LIST college and deeply committed to social justice. Her brother Ari, a 10th grader, was a gifted musician. He actually sat in on a couple of my classes this summer at Ramah Darom.
There was an interesting question that came up – who is obligated to say kaddish for the children? This is what made this tragedy so incredibly sad – when children are taken from this world, their line ends, or so we think. So who formally mourns them, who recalls their names, who is responsible for their souls? All of us.
Dvir Aminolav was the first Israeli soldier killed in the 2008 Gaza War. His mother Dalya missed Dvir, terribly. One night before she went to bed, she said in a loud voice: "God, give me a sign, give me a hug from Dvir so that I will know that his death had some meaning."
That week her daughter asked her to accompany her to a musical performance at The International Crafts Festival in Jerusalem. Dalya, feeling quite depressed, did not want to go to the concert, but she didn't want to disappoint her daughter either and agreed to go halfheartedly. The concert was a bit delayed. A two-year-old boy began wandering through the stands. He walked up to Dalya's seat and touched her on the shoulder. A preschool teacher, Dalya turned around, saw the boy and smiled warmly.
"What's your name?" Dalya asked.
"Eshel," the boy replied.
"That's a nice name. Do you want to be my friend, Eshel?" The boy nodded in reply and sat down next to Dalya.
Eshel's parents were sitting two rows above. Concerned their little boy was bothering Dalya, they asked him to come back up. But Dalya insisted that everything was fine.
"I have a brother named Dvir," two-year-old Eshel chimed in, as only little children can. Dalya was shocked to hear the unusual name of her beloved son and walked up the two rows to where Eshel's parents were sitting. She saw a baby in his carriage, and apologizing, she asked, "If you don't mind me asking, how old is your baby and when was he born?"
The baby's mother replied, "He was born right after the war in Gaza."
Dalya swallowed hard. "Please tell me, why did you choose to name him Dvir?"
Baby Dvir's mother began to explain. "When I was at the end of my pregnancy, the doctors suspected the fetus may have a very serious birth defect. Since it was the end of the pregnancy, there was little the doctors could do and I just had to wait and see how things would turn out.
When I went home that night, the news reported that the first casualty in the war was a soldier named Dvir. I was so saddened by this news that I decided to make a deal with G-d. 'If you give me a healthy son,' I said in my prayer, 'I promise to name him Dvir, in memory of the soldier that was killed.'"
Dalya, the mother of Dvir, stood with her mouth open. She tried to speak but she couldn't. After a long silence, she said quietly, "I am Dvir's mother."
The young parents didn't believe her. She repeated, "Yes, it's true. I am Dvir's mother. My name is Dalya Aminalov, from Pisgat Zeev."
With a sudden inspiration, Baby Dvir's mother handed Dalya the baby and said, "Dvir wants to give you a hug."
Dalya held the little baby boy in her arms and looked into his angelic face. The emotion she felt at that moment was overwhelming. She had asked for a hug from Dvir - and she could truly feel his warm and loving embrace from Olam HaBah.
We actually begin the parashah with names for a reason – because now is the moment when we stop thinking of ourselves in terms of family and start thinking of ourselves as a people. Only as a people can we overcome the obstacles that lay in front of us. As we read further on, we read the famous lines:
וַיָּ֥קָם מֶֽלֶךְ־חָדָ֖שׁ עַל־מִצְרָ֑יִם אֲשֶׁ֥ר לֹֽא־יָדַ֖ע אֶת־יוֹסֵֽף׃
A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.
This begins the enslavement of the children of Israel, and the infanticide, the killing of the first born Hebrew males. But it also eventually leads to our redemption.
It feels good to see your name on a bunk or tree years later. In fact, our family name is at Ramah Darom on a plaque commemorating the eidah, the group, that we led, Gesher from 2002. And there is a new plaque every year. But the real impact we make isn't on a plaque, but on the people we affect.
Instead of placing our names on objects, we should start making our names matter so our people will recall them.
We have to ask ourselves, how are we making a difference in the lives of others like those names before us? And today, as we come together as a people, we start the process of beginning to answer that question.
May the memories of those lost continue to be a beacon of light for us – Amen.
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