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Shavuot
Deuteronomy 14:22-16:17
Numbers 28:26-31
Habakkuk 3:1-19

It is said that whenever anyone knocked at the door of Rabbi Isser Zalman Meltzer, the Chassid, the rabbi would always make it a point to answer the door himself. One winter day he fell sick and found that he couldn't get out of bed, so one of his students came to look after him.

Late in the evening it grew bitterly cold. The wind howled outside and frost froze over the windows. Suddenly a knock was heard at the door. The rabbi's student went to the door and asked, "Who is it?" But the rabbi called to him: "On a cold night, when it's after midnight, one doesn't ask who is there. One opens the door immediately!"

A fairy tale, unquestionably. What kind of a person opens the door, no questions asked, when someone comes calling on a cold dark night? Well, you say, things were different in the shtetl. People knew each other in a small town; there wasn't so much risk.

But there was risk. For a Jew to open the door at midnight in a village in Czarist Russia could be every bit as dangerous as doing the same thing in San Francisco. The story is told — it appears in a collection of Chassidic tales — because even in his own time and place, Rabbi Isser Zalman was extraordinary: a person whose instinct was to respond to anyone who might need him; a man who kept the doors of his heart wide open.

"If there be a needy person among you," says our Torah portion for this week, " ... you must not harden your heart, or shut your hand from your needy brother. You must open your hand to him" (Deut. 15:7-8). The Torah aims to create a nation of open-hearted individuals. It wants to make us human beings who respond swiftly, instinctively, automatically, to the suffering that surrounds us. It wants to make us see the needy as our brothers and sisters, and find it intolerable to look upon the pain of others.

The Torah imagines a community that opens the doors of its heart. It dreams of a society in which poverty is only a temporary and passing phase in a person's life, and all are helped to lift themselves into a decent, dignified existence. It sets out the mitzvah of tzedakah, the obligation to give to those in need, and commands all Israel to set aside a tithe for those who have no portion, and the stranger, the widow and the orphan.

It commands us to include the poor in our celebrations. And it promises us, in words that Jews around the world will read this week, that if we listen to God's voice and follow God's word, "there shall be no more needy among you" (Deut. 15:4).

The Torah's message is intended for a prosperous community. Our portion contains 10 references to material blessings received from God. Each mention of blessings is coupled with the idea that they are to be shared with others. Self-interest is to be curbed; the other is to be in our consciousness always. The text aims to inculcate a particular habit of mind in which we cannot feel pleasure in our own wealth until we have helped others to rejoice.

We are given this lesson on Shavuot, a festival with its roots in an agricultural harvest festival that evolved into a holiday of gratitude for the gift of Torah. Shavuot celebrates abundance, both material and spiritual. We are thankful for nourishment and prosperity, and also for the law that guides and governs our instincts, teaching us to manage our prosperity properly.

Is it a fairy tale? Could you really construct a society of Rabbi Zalmans — people who meet the world with an open palm rather than a closed and self-protective fist? Can you imagine a nation, rich in material blessings, that offers a generous immigration policy, provides opportunities for the poor to lift themselves out of poverty and shares its resources equitably rather than concentrating wealth in the hands of a few?

"I command you," says the Torah, "to open your hand to your brother, to the poor, to the indigent in your land."

"I command you." Those are stark, serious words. Words meant to wake us up, to shatter our serenity and self-satisfaction. Words that resound like a knock on the door in the middle of a cold, dark night.




Rabbi Janet Marder is the spiritual leader at Reform Congregation Beth Am in Los Altos Hills.

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