Two words for "husband": Haftarah Bamidbar

From the Shofar Newsletter May 2013

 
What’s the Hebrew word for ‘husband’?

Actually, you have two choices.  Both are in use in Hebrew today.  and both were used in the time of the bible.  The first word is ‘ba’al’.  If a woman in Israel today wants to refer to her husband, she might refer to him as ‘ba’ali’ - ‘my husband.’

But if you know Hebrew, you know that the same word ‘baal’ can mean ‘owner.’  For example, ‘ba’al ha-bayit’ means ‘home-owner’ or ‘master of the house.’  And more insidiously, the owner of a slave is also referred to in the bible as ‘baal’.

So you can see this term’s etymological origin.  It is a relic of a time when a woman’s relationship with her husband wasn’t that different from the relationship between a servant and master.  There are some people who won’t use the word baal on principle for this reason.  So what word would they use instead?  The word ‘ish’.  Most literally, ‘ish’ simply means ‘man’ - but there are some points in the bible where the word ‘ish’ also means ‘husband.’  Someone who wanted to say the words ‘my husband’ in Hebrew could also say ‘ishi,’ which is very similar to the Hebrew word for ‘my wife,’ which is ‘ishti.’  The words ‘ish’ and ‘ishah’, meaning ‘man’ and ‘woman,’ are etymologically egalitarian words, unlike the Hebrew word ‘ba’al,’ which establishes a hierarchical relationship between husband and wife.

When we think of the history of marriage in Jewish tradition - actually, when we think of the history of gender relations in Jewish tradition - there have been times when the predominant paradigm was the hierarchical relationship of ‘baal’ and ‘ishah,’ and other times when the predominant paradigm was the egalitarian relationship ‘ish’ and ‘ishah.’

Normally, I love to talk about how enlightened Jewish tradition has always been about gender relations and has been far ahead of its time in treating women with respect and honor.  But whereas it’s true that Jewish tradition was rather enlightened relative to many of its neighbors, it is sadly abundantly clear that women have been at a significant power disadvantage throughout much of Jewish history.  

One of the most uncomfortable demonstrations of this inequality comes in the haftarah portion from the book of Hosea that Jewish communities around the world read to accompany the Torah portion of Bamidbar (this year to be read on May 11).  In this passage, the prophet Hosea tries to express why God has been so angry at the people of Israel.  He uses the image of a husband whose wife had been unfaithful.  He says:  Isn’t this what you would expect when a husband suspects his wife has been unfaithful?  Wouldn’t you expect him to “strip her naked and leave her as on the day she was born; to make her like a wilderness, render her like desert land, and let her die of thirst -- to hedge up her roads with thorns and raise walls against her” (Hosea 2:5) -- ?  Hosea continues:  now we know why God is taking such violent anger towards us.  It is because we have been unfaithful, worshipping other gods, and God has responded exactly as we would expect any reasonable husband to respond to such infidelity.

This marriage metaphor is the central idea in the book of Hosea, and we presume that this metaphor resonated with his audience, who found such a violent response against a disobedient wife to be logical and justified.  While we have no data on the extent of domestic violence

in the earliest years of our people, the existence of this metaphor in the Bible leads many scholars to the upsetting assumption that it was a phenomenon that was at least widely known, and probably widespread.

However, a few verses later, the book of Hosea includes a line that can only be understood by those who understand the contrast between the Hebrew words ish and ba’al (see above).  After God and Israel are reconciled again, God says, ‘tikre’i ishi, ve-lo tikre’i li od ba’ali.’  ‘It will happen soon that you will call me ‘ishi,’ ‘my husband,’ and you will no longer call me ‘ba’ali,’ ‘my master.’  (Hosea 2:18)

Most biblical commentators, traditional and modern, understand Hosea’s word play to be a reference to the fact that many Israelites were worshipping one of the Canaanite gods whose name was Ba’al.  But I cannot help but read this line in the light of these two paradigms for a marital relationship -- the hierarchical paradigm of ‘ba’al’ and the egalitarian paradigm of ‘ish’.  God indicates that someday soon, the relationship between God and Israel will operate on the ‘ish’ paradigm - the paradigm of mutual respect rather than the paradigm of domination and hierarchy.  

Years ago I made a promise to a student of mine that whenever this troubling haftarah would be read, I would use it as an opportunity to call attention to relationship abuse in the Jewish community.  It is a horrific fact that too many marriages and relationships today, in the Jewish community and throughout the world, continue to operate on the ba’al paradigm, characterized by intimidation, control, and even physical violence.   (Of course both men and women can be victims of such abuse, and both men and women can be perpetrators, and such abuse can exist in relationships of all kinds.  But there is no question that centuries of institutionalized subjugation of women, in nearly every society around the globe, has exacerbated this problem.)

Whereas there’s a common perception that domestic violence is less common in the Jewish community -- the numbers don’t necessarily bear that out.  In fact, the stereotype is an example of widespread denial.  The rate of domestic abuse in the Jewish community is 15-25% of households -- the same as in the American population as a whole.

The Jewish world now devotes significant resources to this issue, with a number of organizations in our area and throughout the U.S. to support victims of domestic abuse, and hotlines, and shelters.  One such organization, the Rachel Coalition, is sponsored by our local Jewish Family Service.  (See www.rachelcoalition.org.)  But all these efforts at addressing the problem cannot be effective as long as an atmosphere of denial persists.

As the Jewish community reads from the book of Hosea this month, recalling uncomfortable moments in our pasts, may we be united not only in condemning domestic abuse in all of its forms, but also in looking forward to the realization of Hosea’s words:  ‘Ve-hayah bayom ha-hu, ne’um adonai, tikre’i ishi, ve-lo tikre’i li od ba’ali.’  ‘It will happen on that day, says Adonai, that you will call me ‘ishi,’ ‘my husband,’ and you will no longer call me ‘ba’ali,’ ‘my master.’  (Hosea 2:18)

Dipped in blood, but flying free: Thoughts on Yom HaZikaron and Yom Ha-Atzma'ut and Parashat Metzora

Jewish holidays feel different in Israel.  Maybe it’s because outside of Israel, celebrating a Jewish holiday is a somewhat counter-cultural activity, while in Israel, Jewish holidays are mainstream and celebrated by the entire society.   Or maybe it’s because so many Jewish holidays celebrate events that took place in Israel.  And some holidays are celebrated completely differently in Israel from how they are celebrated outside of Israel.

Yom Ha-Zikaron, Israel’s Memorial Day, falls every year on the day before Israel’s Independence Day, Yom Ha-Atzma’ut. (This year, Yom Ha-Zikaron is on April 15, and Yom Ha-Atzma’ut is on April 16.)   Israel’s independence day bears some resemblance to Independence Day in the United States.  It’s a day for parades and barbecues, a day for celebrating and not necessarily for reflecting deeply on the meaning of the holiday.

But Yom Ha-Zikaron, Israel’s memorial day, bears almost no resemblance to the American Memorial Day that we will observe in May, that is for most Americans simply a day off to have a barbecue and go to the beach or go shopping.

The most outstanding observance of Yom Ha-Zikaron in Israel is that twice during the day -- at 8pm the previous evening, and then at 11am in the morning -- sirens sound throughout Israel, for an entire minute.  People stop whatever they are doing and stand still, in memory.  Traffic stops, and people get out of their cars, and stand by their cars.   One year I was on an Israeli city bus on Yom HaZikaron at the time of the siren.  The bus stopped, everyone stood up and stepped into the aisle.  Cultural events stop.  Busy marketplaces, restaurants, workplaces come to a complete standstill for an entire minute. The entire nation transformed into monuments and memorial stones, for just a minute.  

(See this video to get a sense of what it's like: (actually filmed on Yom Ha-Shoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day, when there is an identical siren):

To know that the entire country is united in memory is extraordinarily powerful, and all the more striking for those, certainly the majority in Israel, who are thinking during those minutes

of very specific people they knew:  parents, siblings, spouses, children, grandchildren, and other relatives and friends who fell in Israel’s wars or were murdered in acts of terror.

The decision that was made to place Yom HaZikaron on the calendar each year on the day immediately preceding Israel’s independence day was an effort by Israel’s founders to remind everyone that freedom, independence, and security come at a cost.

Visitors to Israel for the first time are often alarmed to see just how many soldiers are walking around and carrying weapons.   But everyone across the Israeli political spectrum, from the far right to the far left, knows that it is only because of the existence and strength of the Israeli military that they manage to live in any sense of security and freedom.  This sense is all the more heightened by the fact that each year, exactly one week before Yom HaZikaron, is Yom Ha-Shoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day (this year on April 7), just as the Shoah, the Holocaust, happened in such close proximity to Israel’s independence.  Only three short and full years separated 1945 and the end of the Holocaust, from 1948 and Israel’s independence.

Jews are fortunate to live in conditions of freedom; such conditions are new and unfortunately unusual for us as a people.  These truths are not lost on Israelis.

Some of us may have known personally people who have been killed in America’s wars in Afghanistan or Iraq.  For many of us, though, these have been far-away conflicts whose impact on our day-to-day lives can’t really be felt.  In Israel, however, conflicts are not far away, and their impact on day-to-day life is abundantly clear.  This, too, probably contributes to why Yom HaZikaron in Israel feels so different from the American Memorial Day.

This year on Saturday April 13, the Shabbat between Yom Ha-Shoah and Yom Ha-Zikaron, Jewish communities around the world will read the combined torah portions of Tazria and Metzora, from the middle of the book of Leviticus.  These portions are not usually regarded as among the most exciting torah portions of the year.  They focus on issues of purity and impurity, with an emphasis on a skin disorder called tzara’at, often translated as ‘leprosy’ but clearly different from the disease we call ‘leprosy.’

The beginning of the torah portion of Metzora describes a ritual that people were supposed to undergo, back in the time of the temple, when they had recovered from this disease called tzara’at.  The torah tells us that they were supposed to take two birds, together with various other substances like cedar wood and crimson thread, and bring them to the Temple, where a priest would slaughter one of the birds.  Then they would perform a remarkably powerful but troubling ritual that would involve taking the other bird, the live bird, and dipping it in the blood of the slaughtered bird, and then letting it fly away.

I don’t think I can think of a more powerful symbol for a narrow escape from danger and death.
it’s as if the person who recovered from illness is saying,  “I could easily have been like the slaughtered bird.  This disease could so easily have killed me.  And yet even though I have been dipped in blood, I have been allowed to fly free.”  Such a gesture reminds the person who recovered to express gratitude to God, who is responsible for his or her recovery.

It seems to me that this also reflects how many Jews feel after the Shoah which truly nearly succeeded in wiping out the entire Jewish people.  It’s also how most Israelis feel, knowing that they, too, have survived when others have not.  (If non-Israeli Jews don’t feel this sense of survival as palpably as Israeli Jews do, it’s only because we have the luxury of a few more years of distance between our own lives and the dangers that have threatened us.)    This feeling makes the celebration of Israel’s triumphs all the more intense, while it also compounds the anxiety felt by those who love Israel when it is in danger.  

As Israel reaches its 65th anniversary this year, we pray that the coming year will be a year of blessing for all its inhabitants, a year of achievement, and above all, a year that brings the dream of peace ever closer.

"Don't forget your tambourine"

"Don't forget your tambourine"

One of the most unusual musical theater productions ever staged was a children's opera called Brundibar.  It was written by a Czech-Jewish writer and composer named Hans Krasa, in the early 1940's.  What is extraordinary is the place where he wrote it - which was in the Terezin concentration camp  (sometimes called by its German name, Theresinstadt).  There, tens of thousands of Czech Jews were interred, kept in abominable conditions, subjected to harsh labor, and in most cases, soon deported to Auschwitz where most of them were murdered. So this is not the optimal circumstances for staging a children's opera.

And yet, this opera was staged 55 times in Terezin, with musicians and a cast of children from the camp.  (It should be noted that such a thing would only have been possible at Terezin, which was set up by the Nazis as a camp to which they could welcome western observers.  Conditions were certainly better than they were for most Jews under the Nazis, though it remained a terribly brutal place.)  

Imagine inmates in a concentration camp staging a musical theater production. And doing it more than 50 times.  When we talk about the Holocaust of European Jewry, or other terrible tragedies for Jews and for various peoples throughout the centuries, we sometimes discuss different varieties of resistance.  One variety of resistance is physical resistance, actually taking up arms against the oppressors.  But we also refer to  'spiritual resistance,' in which victims of oppression fight not with arms, but by making an effort to retain the semblance of normal life
even at horrific times.  Spiritual resistance can be potentially as important as physical resistance.  Think of the terrifying experience of a child interred at Terezin. The mere act of rehearsing for a pla could have given that child at least some semblance of the normal activities of a school-age child, some degree of stability, and pride, and enthusiasm, and hope.

The storyof Brundibar is pretty simple.  Two poor children don't have enough money to purchase milk for their sick mother, and a cruel organ grinder named Brundibar bullies them and takes advantage of their situation.  However, the children, wtih the help of the neighborhood animals, exact their revenge, and justice prevails.  It was a kind of thinly veiled parable of Nazism – thinly veiled enough that the Nazis permitted the performances to take place.  It gave the children – and their parents and the other adults in the audience – some inspiration to believe that ultimately in their situation too, justice would prevail.

Sadly, of the hundreds of child actors who participated in the concentration camp productions of Brundibar, most were deported to Auschwitz, where most of them were killed –
as was the composer, Hans Krasa.  But the musical is still performed today, and it is one of many examples around the world of how music – and art, and drama, and poetry and literature – are absolute necessities for communities that are going through times of great difficulty – just as they are absolute necessities for communities that are going through times of great joy.
Whereas Terezin was probably the only concentration camp where there were theater productions, songs were sung in every concentration camp.  It was a way to retain sanity, to express in the language of the soul the feelings, thoughts and prayers of an intolerable time.


Each year, Yom Hashoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day, takes place just a few days after Passover ends, in part to highlight the connections between Passover and the Holocaust – especially that the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising began on the first day of Passover 1943.

The story of Brundibar, and other examples of artistic expression at those terrible times, reminds me of another point in Jewish history when music helped people to express the deepest feelings of their hearts.

According to tradition, it was on the 7th day of Pesach (this year, April 1) when the Israelites reached the Red Sea on their journey out of Egypt.  They heard the chariots and horses o the Egyptians pursuing them, they saw the sea before them, and they were plunged into utter despair.  They even exclaimed to Moses, in perhaps the first recorded example of stereotypical Jewish gallows humor, that God must have brought them to die in the desert because the cemeteries in Egypt were overcrowded.  That was the only reasonable explanation why we would have fled from slavery like this only to die here in the wilderness.  (See Exodus 14:11)

But the sea opens up for the Israelites, they cross through on dry land, and then the sea then closes again, drowning their Egyptian pursuers.  The Israelites are truly truly safe and free, finally.  And how do they respond?  By singing a song of celebration:  The ‘shirat ha-yam,’ the song at the sea.

For me, the most interesting part of the song at the sea (Exodus 15) is how the role of Miriam, Moses’s sister, is described.  We read:  “Miriam the prophet, the sister of Aaron, took her tambourine in her hand, and she led all the women after her with tambourines and dancing.
And she led them in singing:  “Give praise to God, for God is great, plunging horse and rider into the sea.” (Exodus 15:20-21(

The first thing which is surprising is that Miriam is called Miriam ha-neviah,  “Miriam the prophet,” which is peculiar because usually someone who is called a ‘prophet’ actually talks to God, and receives messages from God, and we have no record of this happening to Miriam.  But the second difficulty is even more striking:  Where did all these tambourines come from!?   Remember that the people have to leave Egypt so quickly they don’t even have time for their bread to rise.  Can’t you imagine Miriam and family all getting ready to leave Egypt, carrying only what they happen to have in their hands at the moment, and Miriam says, “No!  I can’t leave without my musical instruments!”

The 16th century scholar Moshe Alshikh interprets this verse to answer both of these questions.  He says that, in fact, Miriam’s act of prophecy was precisely that she had the wisdom to take her tambourine with her, And to encourage the other women to do likewise, telling them that in their future, they would experience times of great joy, and times of great sadness and would have a fundamental need for musical instruments to help them to get through those times, just as they have a fundamental need for food and clothing and shelter.

Artistic expression is at the core of our synagogue community.  Whether through the ancient and contemporary music that adorns our worship services, or the stunning visual art (including our stained glass project) that one encounters when one enters our sanctuary, or the transcendent literature that constitutes the Bible, we experience Judaism through the lens of art and music.  May the long tradition of Jewish artistic expression help us to find strength at the most difficult times, and help us to amplify our times of joy.

Seder Ideas for Kids!

Last year, my colleagues Grace Gurman-Chan and Rachelle Grossman and I led an online workshop on 'Engaging children in the Passover seder.'

You can access the entire workshop (audio recording, and all the materials) at
http://bit.ly/sederideasforkids.   It includes a review of the history of the Passover seder, focusing on how at its origins its structure was much more flexible than many people imagine today, as well as all kinds of suggestions and links to great Seder resources.  This may be a valuable resource for you at this time of year!

What happened to Haman's descendants?

On the surface, Purim seems like the most lighthearted Jewish holiday, with joking, masquerading, feasting, and delivering treats to friends and family.  But under that surface boils the powerful rage of thousands of years.  When we yell and stamp and make noise during the reading of the Megillah, we express our rage not only at Haman, the villain of the Purim story, but also at those in every generation whose irrational hatred of Jews has led them to violence.  But let us exhibit this rage with caution.

The rage of Purim finds dramatic expression in the special Torah reading for the Shabbat before Purim, known as Shabbat Zakhor, the Sabbath of Remembrance. We read (Deuteronomy 25:17-19)  that as the Israelites were wandering in the desert, they were attacked by the tribe of Amalek. The Amalekites chose to fight their battle not against the armed Israelite soldiers, but against innocent, defenseless civilians, the “stragglers in the rear.” The Torah commands us to obliterate the people of Amalek, and "blot out the memory of Amalek from under the heavens." This attitude may seem violent and vindictive, especially in comparison with other Jewish texts that encourage empathy and sensitivity for all human life, even the lives of enemies.  (See, for example:  Genesis 18:23ff, where Abraham argues on behalf of the city of Sodom; Deuteronomy 23:8, which prohibits hating the Egyptians despite their conduct towards the Israelites; and B.T. Megillah 10b, in which the angels celebrate the splitting of the Red Sea, and God silences them because of the loss of life of the Egyptians.)  However, this attitude is not surprising when considered against the backdrop of Jewish history.  A people that has experienced so much pain may require an occasional opportunity to express its rage.   

Haman, the villain of the Purim story, is described in the Bible as a descendant of the Amalekite king; our tradition links his Amalekite lineage to his wicked desire to destroy our people.  But a major problem of Biblical interpretation is embedded in the Torah’s command to wipe out the nation of Amalek, as the word “Amalek” simultaneously has two meanings.  Amalek is a general symbol for cowardly evil, but Amalek is also the name of the specific Middle Eastern tribe that attacked the Israelites in the desert. Which one are we commanded to destroy? Is the commandment specific to the tribe of Amalek, or is it a general commandment to fight evil actions in every generation? Is the Torah implying that there is a particular nation that has a genetic predisposition to violence and evil?

Our tradition recognized the dangerous and terrifying potential of a literal interpretation of the Amalek commandment. Much traditional Jewish literature sees the commandment against Amalek not as a commandment to destroy an evil nation, but as a commandment to destroy evil.  For example, Reb Simha Bunim of Pzhisha, a Hasidic rabbi of the early 19th century, noted that the commandment to destroy Amalek is phrased in the singular, rather than in the plural. It is not a commandment to one nation to destroy another nation, but rather a commandment to each individual to search and destroy the Amalekite tendencies within ourselves.

One remarkable short passage in the Talmud protests against the idea that the Amalekite people are irredeemable. We read: mibnei banav shel haman lamdu torah bivnei brak: Descendants of Haman were students and teachers of Torah in the academies of Bnei Brak in the land of Israel.  (BT Sanhedrin 96b) The Jewish people is better off for the existence of these descendants of the Amalekites, because they were among the builders of our rabbinic tradition. And if righteous people, students and teachers, can be descended from the Amalekites, then no nation can be irredeemably evil.

I learned this lesson when I participated in an inter-religious commemoration of the anniversary of Kristallnacht, the horrible Night of Broken Glass that heralded the beginning of the Holocaust, together with a group of German and Austrian Christian seminary students.  A priesthood candidate told us that his father and grandfather were both perpetrators of Kristallnacht as members of the German SS, but that he had chosen to enter the clergy to try to eliminate hatred and racism from his community. He said that his ancestry gave him a special motivation for learning about Judaism and making contact with the Jewish community. Studying and talking with him was like being in the presence of Haman's descendants who became students and teachers of Torah.

Too many of the spiritual descendants of Amalek are alive and well and active. But let us not forget that, in our tradition, the potential for righteousness exists in every nation and in every community. We look forward to the day when we are able to study in partnership with the genealogical descendants of today's Amalekites, when our differences become not sources of hatred, but sources of insight and growth.

True Leaders: Nachshon, and Martin Luther King

The  world is  full of  people  who  aspire  to  positions  of  power  and  authority.
 There  are  very  few  completely  uncontested  positions  of political  power  and  authority  in  the  United  States,  but  the kind  of  leadership  for  which  one  must  compete  is  only  one kind  of  leadership.   Many  of  the  people  in  our  country  or  in our  lives  who  have  most  deeply  and  successfully  exercised leadership  were  actually  not  competing  or  racing  with anyone.  In fact, they held roles that no one else wanted.

One  Torah  passage  that  focuses  on  different  models of
leadership is the passage from the Book of Exodus describing
the events leading up to the Splitting of the Red Sea (Parashat
Beshalach,  to  be  read  in  Jewish  communities  around the
world on January 26).

Of  course,  Moses  is  the  most  prominent  leader  in  this  Torah
portion.   Interestingly,  however,  discussions  of  leadership  in
this  Torah  portion  rarely  focus  on  Moses.   Instead  these
discussions   focus  on  the  Israelites,  and  the  decisions  they
had  to  make  as  they  saw  the  sea  in  front  of  them,  heard  the
Egyptian  armies  running  behind  them,  and  then  heard  the
completely irrational instruction from Moses:  “God says:  go
through the water and it will part and you’ll walk through on
dry land.”


The rabbis of the Talmudic era apparently were curious about
the  thought  process  of  the  Israelites  at  this  moment.  Were
they  eager  to  walk?   Were  they  scared?   Were  they  divided?
And  one  of  their  responses  to  this  story  was  to  create
midrashim--creative  expansions  of  the  stories  in  the  Torah.
Midrashic  literature  gives  us  two  different  versions  of  what
took place on that day thousands of years ago.

One  story  is  found  in  Midrash  Tehillim,  a  midrashic
collection  on  the  Psalms:   “When  the  Israelites  reached  the
sea, they began to fight each other over which tribe would be
the first to descend [into the sea].  They even descended into
the  water  before  it  parted....  as  it  is   said,  “and  the  Israelites
went  into  the  sea--on  dry  ground.”   The  tribe  of  Benjamin
said, “We will go first!”  The tribe of Judah said, “We will go
first!”  Similarly,  the  tribes  of  Zebulun,  and  Naftali--all  the
tribes,  until  they  picked  up  stones  and  pelted  them  at  each
other..... [and the tribe of Benjamin prevailed].”

This story echoes the competitive paradigm of leadership that
we see so often today.  All the Israelites wanted to be leaders,
and they even threw stones at each other to try to prevent the
others  from  succeeding.   (Sadly  we  see  many  examples  of
such  stone-throwing  in  our  own  political  discourse today  as
people compete for positions of political leadership.)

But  it  interests  me  that  this  is  not  the  only  midrashic  story
about  this  episode.   And  in  fact,  it’s  another  story  about  the
splitting  of  the  sea  that  became  much  more  famous.  This
story is found in the Talmud:  “Each one said, “I will NOT be
the  first  one  to  go  into  the  sea,”  until  Nachshon  the  son  of
Aminadav descended to the sea first.”  (Tractate Sotah 37a).

In  this  version  of  the  story,  the  leadership  task  is  terrifying.
No  one  is  sure  that  the  sea  will,  in  fact,  part  as Moses  and
God  are  promising.   The  leader  must  expose  himself to
danger.  The leader in this circumstance must show a level of
courage  and  fortitude  that  is  far  beyond  that  displayed  by
those  who  are  competing  for  a  position  of  power  and  glory.
 The leader is not the one who outruns everyone else, but the
one who realizes that if he does not step forward, no one else
will.

The  Midrash  identifies  Nachshon,  son  of  Aminadav,  the
chieftain of the tribe of Judah, as this kind of leader.  And in
fact,  Nachshon’s  name  is  connected  etymologically  to
Hebrew  words  that  describe  his  outstanding  qualities--
outstanding  qualities  needed  by  leaders  today  as  well.
“Nachshon”  is related to the  Hebrew  word   le-nachesh,
meaning  ‘to  attempt,’  ‘to  guess,’  ‘to  predict,’  or ‘to
conjecture.’  A leader cannot  afford to  move  forward only  at
a moment of certainty; a leader must be talented at predicting
or  conjecturing  about  the  future  impact  of  his  or  her
decisions.   And  the  Hebrew  name  ‘Aminadav’  is  related  to
the  Hebrew  word      mitnadev,  meaning  ‘volunteer’  or


‘one  who  makes  a  free-will  offering.’   Nachshon  is
remembered  because  he  stepped  forward  to  volunteer when
no one else would.

The  American  civic  calendar  marks  exactly  one  holiday  in
honor  of  a  religious  leader:   Martin  Luther  King  Day,  which
we celebrate today month.  While there is no doubt that Martin
Luther  King  was  a  person  of  personal  ambition,  his
biographers have agreed that he certainly did not set out to be
a national leader.  In his late 20’s, he became the public face
of  the  civil  rights  movement  in  part  because  it  was  a
hazardous  role  that  many  other  people  did  not  want,  and  he
was  in  the  right  place  at  the  right  time.

He  himself  was hesitant,  according  to  the  account  in  his  autobiography
describing how he became the leader of the Montgomery Bus
Boycott:   “Leaving  Mrs.  [Rosa]  Parks's  trial,  Ralph
Abernathy, E. D. Nixon, and Rev. E. N. French,-then minister
of  the  Hilliard  Chapel  A.M.E.  Zion  Church,-discussed  the
need for some organization to guide and direct the protest. Up
to  this  time  things  had  moved  forward  more  or  less
spontaneously.  These  men  were  wise  enough  to  see  that  the
moment  had  now  come  for  a  clearer  order  and  direction.  As
soon  as  Bennett  had  opened  the  nominations  for  president,
Rufus  Lewis  spoke  from  the  far  corner  of  the  room: "Mr.
Chairman, I would like to nominate Reverend M. L. King for
president."  The  motion  was  seconded  and  carried,  and  in  a
matter of minutes I was unanimously elected. The action had
caught me unawares. It had happened so quickly that I did not
even have time to think it through. It is probable that if I had,
I would have declined the nomination. They probably picked
me  because  I  had  not  been  in  town  long  enough  to  be
identified with any particular group or clique.”

King was a Nachshon figure, who stepped forward to do what
needed to be done, what others hesitated to do.  And each of
us can find our own personal ways to be leaders in the model
of Nachshon -- people with the courage to step forward.