Rabbi Janet Marder

March 17, 2006

Buds of Kindness

         It was the biggest film of 1959. In fact, it was the biggest, most expensive film ever made – a wide-screen Technicolor epic, three and a half hours long, that cost $15 million dollars. It won eleven Oscars – a record matched only by Titanic, in 1997, and The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, in 2003. Its star, Charlton Heston, won the award for Best Actor – the only Oscar of his career, beating out Jack Lemmon in Some Like it Hot, Laurence Harvey in Room at the Top, and James Stewart in Anatomy of a Murder. It had a Biblical theme, and the name of its lead character appears in this week’s Torah portion. Its name was….?

         No – not “The Ten Commandments.” That film came three years earlier, was directed by Cecil B. DeMille and starred Charlton Heston as Moses. This film was “Ben Hur.” It told the story of Judah Ben-Hur, a Jewish prince who grows up in Jerusalem around the time of Jesus, and his rivalry with his best friend, Messala, a Roman.  It featured spectacular special effects, leprosy, galley slaves and a thrilling chariot race in the Roman hippodrome.

         And what’s its connection to this week’s Torah portion? When Lew Wallace wrote the best-selling novel on which the film was based, in 1880, he chose for the name of his lead character an obscure name that he plucked out of the Bible – a character who is mentioned briefly in two places as a leader of the tribes of Israel – and then mysteriously disappears.

         His name, spelled H - U - R in English letters, is pronounced “Khoor” in Hebrew. Hur is a member of the tribe of Judah who appears first in Exodus chapter 17. When the Israelites fight the people of Amalek, it is Aaron and Hur who stand on either side of Moses to support his arms when he grows weary. The same supportive pair appear again in Exodus chapter 24. When Moses ascends Mt. Sinai and leaves his people at the foot of the mountain, he says to the elders, “You have Aaron and Hur with you; let anyone who has a legal matter approach them” [vs.14].

         We can understand Moses leaving Aaron in charge while he disappears up the mountain for 40 days – after all, he is Moses’ brother, the High Priest. But who is Hur? We can only assume that he was an important figure among the Israelites. The Midrash, the oral tradition, tells us that Hur was Miriam’s husband – Moses’ brother-in-law.

         Now here’s the mystery: after the announcement that Aaron and Hur will be in charge of the Israelites while Moses communes with God on the mountain, Hur suddenly disappears from the story. Here, too, the Midrash fills in the gap. It tells us that when the Israelites began to grow anxious at Moses’ long disappearance, they turned to their leaders and demanded, “Make us a god!” The Midrash says that at that moment Hur stepped forward to chastise the people, urging them to wait and have faith in Moses’ return.  But the Israelites wouldn’t listen. They responded with rage – forming an angry mob, they rose up and killed him [Tanchuma Tetzaveh 10:10].

         Aaron was so shocked and frightened by this deed, the Midrash says, that when the people asked him to build the Golden Calf, he complied without arguing.

         But the story of Hur doesn’t end with this tragedy. We read his name one more time in the Torah.  When, in this week’s portion, Moses names the man who will design and build the Tabernacle, the portable sanctuary in the wilderness, he chooses a young artist called Bezalel. Interestingly, Bezalel is always identified by his genealogy going back two generations. He is called Bezalel ben Uri ben Hur. He is, in fact, the grandson of the heroic man who gave his life trying to save the Israelites from idolatry.

         The Midrash draws a connection between Hur and Bezalel., saying that it took one to engender the other. It was the selfless, devoted grandfather who helped to create a grandson capable of building the holy Tabernacle.

         This isn’t just a story. It’s a classic illustration of a Jewish teaching called “notzer chesed la’alafim.” The words, literally translated, mean that God “preserves kindness to the thousandth generation.” When Moses says to God, in this week’s Torah portion, “Show me Your ways,” God answers by speaking of 13 Divine attributes – 13 glimpses into the nature of God.  One of the 13 is this phrase: notzer chesed la’alafim; God “preserves kindness to the thousandth generation.”

         The words mean that God has structured human life to make kindness a legacy that spirals down the generations. The goodness and love we receive from the ones who raised us become part of us, and we, in turn, share that goodness with the ones who come after us.

         The great 19^th century Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch puns on the phrase “notzer chesed– preserves kindness” – and says that God creates “netzer chesed – buds of kindness.” Buds formed by the grandparents blossom and come to full flower in generations they may never see.

         The grandmother who nourished us with chopped liver and loving words  and card games and kisses; the grandfather who taught us to love books and inspired us with his upright honesty; the elders who showed us, in simple, everyday ways, what it is to be a mensch – all of them planted chesed  -- kindness -- within us. Because of them , we are capable of love. Because of them, we can plant kindness in our own children and grandchildren.

         The Torah says that evil, too, travels down the generations. Alcoholism and domestic violence can be a heritage that marks multiple generations of a family, and children and grandchildren may suffer pain because of the deeds of their elders. Suffering like this may extend as far as the third and fourth generation – for great-grandchildren are the last generation most people see in their lifetime.

         But goodness, says the Torah, goodness extends to the thousandth generation. The power of kindness is infinite – it pours into us from great-great-great-grandparents whose names we no longer know, but whose goodness still sustains us.  A legacy of learning, of charity, of honor, of hard work; of quiet heroism and laughter and devotion to family. All these become part of a family tradition, they create a family culture; they nourish the soil of the family tree on which we grow.

         Sometimes it’s hard to see those buds of kindness sprouting in our own kids. Sometimes it feels like we labor so hard to plant and cultivate goodness, and all we reap is aggravation. But Torah teaches us to take the long view. It promises us that love and patience and generosity are never wasted, that someday they will bear good fruit. The efforts we invest in our children may come to full ripening only years from now, when they raise children of their own, or even after that.

         That’s what it means, the Torah says, to be a parent or a grandparent or a teacher. You’re not a photocopier, spitting out kids who are crisp-looking replicas  of the lessons you tried to instill. You’re a farmer, and the seeds you plant won’t be harvested for many seasons to come.

         Judah Ben-Hur, the chariot-racing hero of 1959, learned a lesson about the power of love and kindness – though not, alas, from studying Torah. (See the movie and you’ll find out what I mean.) The Biblical Hur, his namesake, is a symbol of that same power – the dynamic power of chesed  that flows into us from our elders, inspiring us to rise higher and grow to be better than we are.

         The older I get, the more I appreciate that power – the more I realize how well I was loved by the people who raised me and taught me how to live.  I wish my grandparents were still here so I could tell them one more time what they meant to me. But I’ve learned that goodness flows down the generations. The only way I can return their love now is to give it, with all my heart, to their great-grandchildren.

            What buds were implanted in you? In whose memory have they blossomed and flourished? For whom do you plant today?