The Fugitive Aramean and You

Dear Friends and Students of Torah,

As this week's offering, we bring a reprinted commentary on Parashat Ki Tavo.

L'Shalom and Happy Studying,

Jonathan

REFORM VOICES OF TORAH

Parashat Ki Tavo

Rabbi Jonathan E. Blake

The Fugitive Aramean and You

“…My father was a fugitive Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation” (Deut. 26:5).

Are these words familiar? If you’ve ever participated in a Passover Seder then they might be! This quotation forms the kernel of the Passover Haggadah. When we tell our story at the Seder we begin here.

The line comes from our Torah portion, Ki Tavo. The Israelites await orders to enter the Promised Land. Once they arrive in the land, settle it, and cultivate it, they must present a basket full of the first fruit of their harvest to the priest. They are told to recite a formula, a compact narrative of the Israelite experience, from nomadic roaming to bondage to deliverance to inheritance of the Land. That formula begins with the invocation, “My father was a fugitive Aramean,” or so our text translates it.

In Hebrew the line presents ambiguities that preclude a definitive translation. Arami oveid avi, the Hebrew reads. The words Arami, “Aramean” (meaning a person from the territory of Aram, in modern-day Syria) and avi, “my father,” are easily translated. But the meaning of “oveid” is less clear. Oveid (from the root alef-vet-dalet) can mean “to lose,” but it can also mean “to perish” or “destroy.” In the context of the portion, it might mean “to be lost,” “to go astray,” or, as our translation has it, to be a “fugitive.” But Jewish tradition suggests other possible renderings.

A comparison of different translations of the Haggadah proves this. The most recent Reform Movement Haggadah, The Open Door: A Passover Haggadah (ed. Sue Levi Elwell, CCAR Press, 2002), says:

“My ancestors, wandering Arameans,

went down to Egypt and sojourned there, few in number” (p. 46).

…Adding this explanatory note:

“We are descendants of wanderers from the region known as Aram. Abram and Sarai left their home to follow God to an unknown land” (Ibid).

The Open Door identifies the “fugitive” or “wandering” Arameans with our ancestors, Abram and Sarai—that is to say, the patriarchs and matriarchs of the Jewish people. Pioneers who left home to answer God’s call.

On the other hand, the Soncino Koren Haggada (1965) says:

“‘AN ARAMEAN SOUGHT TO DESTROY MY FATHER, AND HE WENT DOWN TO MIZRAYIM [Egypt]….’”

In contradistinction to our first example, the “Aramean” here is an enemy of our people! “An Aramean sought to destroy my father.”

Who is this Aramean bent on destroying our people? The traditional Haggadah identifies him as Laban, who came from Aram. Laban, you might recall, cheated Jacob out of his betrothal to Rachel and presented him instead with Leah—and kept Jacob in indentured servitude for decades. Rabbinic tradition exaggerated Laban’s blemishes and made him an archetype of evil and chicanery.

A typical “Orthodox” Haggadah like the Passover Haggadah (ed. Rabbi Nathan Goldberg, Ktav, 1949-1966) explains:

“Come and learn what Laban the Syrian [Aramean] tried to do to our father Jacob. While Pharaoh decreed only against the males, Laban desired to uproot all” (p. 12).

Thus does tradition present us with a second version of the Arami oveid: not a wandering Jew, but a foreigner bent on destroying our people.

We are left with two divergent understandings of the same three Hebrew words.

One translation makes us into intrepid pioneers. Our ancestors were wanderers who left their home, Aram, setting out on a journey of discovery, prompted by God’s call to Abraham: Lech-lecha, “Go forth.”

The other translation makes us into victims of enemies out to destroy us: Laban the Aramean tormented and pursued Jacob, as have countless tyrants and demagogues.

How we choose to translate our verse speaks to our most fundamental beliefs about Jewish history and Jewish identity.

Are we Jews essentially pioneers, willing to establish home and heritage in all the new lands to which fate and faith have brought us? Or are we essentially victims, perpetually fleeing the next Laban, Nebuchadnezzar, Caesar, or Hitler who would seek our destruction?

My work as a congregational rabbi, and my life-experience as a concerned Jewish citizen of the world, prompts me to worry about anti-Jewish sentiment. The apparent escalation of overt acts of Jew-hatred in parts of Europe, the Arab world, and on college campuses in the United States, alarms me.

But I worry even more about the detrimental effects of the victim mentality. A couple of years ago, when rockets rained down on Israel, I attended a local solidarity rally. How inspirational to stand with more than 1,200 Jews, of all denominations, of all ages! But my satisfaction at the dramatic turnout was tinged with regret, because every rabbi knows that that opportunities to see 1,200 people in Temple are few and far between. Perhaps it is only natural that we put more passion and commitment into our Judaism when we perceive ourselves as under attack, but imagine a Jewish community that would put the same passion and commitment into learning Torah, observing holidays, creating vibrant and meaningful prayer services, and working for a more just society.

A room in the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. houses the shoes of 4,000 Jews gassed and cremated at Majdanek. Perhaps you have been there. No one leaves that room unmoved. It contains 4,000 reasons to be Jewish. But this room alone does not inspire us to create an imaginative and meaningful Judaism for the 21^st century and beyond.

Rabbi Jack Stern wrote, “We should take our children back beyond Auschwitz to Sinai. We should take our children forward beyond a system of life defense to a system of life value; beyond a sense of Jewish foreboding to a sense of Jewish commitment, and ultimately to the Shabbat and the Torah that some of our forebears left behind, which, in the final analysis, may be the best way of all to combat Anti-Semitism” (The Right Not To Remain Silent, “Anti-Semitism and Israel,” Rosh HaShanah 1983/5744, p. 177).

Arami oveid avi.

My ancestors were victims. From Laban the Aramean to the present we have never been safe.

Arami oveid avi.

My ancestors were wanderers who left Aram at God’s call to start a new civilization in a land of promise.

There are two ways to understand this verse, and there are two kinds of Jews. Look into the Torah and see your reflection.