The sidra refers, as do many other parts of the Torah, to the Divine commandments "which I command you this

We cannot abolish or deny the Shavuot date, so what do we do?

day." (Deuteroniomy 8:1) Which day is meant?


The historical answer is on the day when Israel stood at Mount Sinai, for that is when the commandments were given, and that's why we celebrate Shavuot on 6 Sivan. However, that answer does not seem to work when we read this week's portion. In this context, "this day" cannot mean 6 Sivan, so how do we handle the problem? We cannot abolish or deny the Shavuot date, so what do we do?


Rabbinic commentary makes a wise choice when it says, "Though the commandments were indeed given on a set day, we must discover them anew every day of our lives. When we observe them it must not be out of ancient habit alone, but because we find them fresh and relevant every single day we live."


An example is the requirement of justice. It has been around for a very long time, but every day we have to accept it anew, and employ and apply it in our own set of circumstances. At all times, justice calls for us to be fair to other people. There are times when the need of the hour is to be just and fair to oneself.


Another example is the requirement of peace. The concept is eternal, but at any given time it needs to suit the circumstances. There are moments for a peace-offering; there are other moments when peace-offerings are sheer appeasement. History laughs at Neville Chamberlain for coming back from Hitler (yimmach sh'mo) boasting that he had achieved "peace in our time."
Note that when the Bible speaks of justice and peace, it uses the same verb, to pursue: "Justice, justice shall you pursue" (Deuteronomy 16:20), "Seek peace and pursue it." (Psalms 34:15) The pursuit does not always take the same form.


How Can the Sun Still Shine?
The haftarah opens with Zion declaring, "The Lord has forsaken me, the Lord has forgotten me." (Isaiah 49:14) There are times when we all echo these words. Things go wrong and we feel God has abandoned us. We cry - but the world doesn't cry with us. When we cry, how can the sun still shine? How can the world continue on its path? Everything has stopped for us; everything should stop everywhere.


I have never forgotten the day of my late mother's funeral. I was a teenager and losing my mother was the most devastating thing that had ever happened to me. We sat in the car on the way to the cemetery and couldn't understand how the whole world hadn't gone dark. The streets were full of people doing their own thing. The shops were open, the buses were running, the birds were flying. No one was crying except us. God was probably still there, but as far as we were concerned He had let us down. It took me a long while to come to terms with that day's dilemma.

What actually helped me was an Anzac Day march of war veterans in the streets of Sydney.



What actually helped me was an Anzac Day march of war veterans in the streets of Sydney. There I was, a military chaplain, looking proud but weeping inwardly for the lives that were lost, the dreams and hopes that never came true. I felt for every one of those veterans. Their war was over, but I knew they were all suffering.


The march culminated in a solemn service of commemoration. And then? Suddenly, the spell was broken. The pubs opened and they all rushed off for a beer. I thought at first, "Such a tragedy, and how can anyone now simply go off for a drink?"


Then there was a flash of understanding and I knew the answer to that day's question, and to the question on the day of the funeral. The world cannot stop. Life must continue. When we are ready, we move back to it. The difference is that now we have a cause to which to dedicate ourselves. The cause is memory, with a message: be nicer, better, more loving.