רַבִּי חִיָּא בַּר בְּרֵיהּ דְּרַב אַדָא דְּיָפוֹ, תֶּרַח עוֹבֵד צְלָמִים הָיָה, חַד זְמַן נְפֵיק לַאֲתַר, הוֹשִׁיב לְאַבְרָהָם מוֹכֵר תַּחְתָּיו. הֲוָה אָתֵי בַּר אֵינַשׁ בָּעֵי דְּיִזְבַּן, וַהֲוָה אֲמַר לֵהּ בַּר כַּמָּה שְׁנִין אַתְּ, וַהֲוָה אֲמַר לֵיהּ בַּר חַמְשִׁין אוֹ שִׁתִּין, וַהֲוָה אֲמַר לֵיהּ וַי לֵיהּ לְהַהוּא גַבְרָא דַּהֲוָה בַּר שִׁתִּין וּבָעֵי לְמִסְגַּד לְבַר יוֹמֵי, וַהֲוָה מִתְבַּיֵּשׁ וְהוֹלֵךְ לוֹ. חַד זְמַן אֲתָא חַד אִתְּתָא טְעִינָא בִּידָהּ חָדָא פִּינָךְ דְּסֹלֶת, אֲמָרָהּ לֵיהּ הֵא לָךְ קָרֵב קֳדָמֵיהוֹן, קָם נְסֵיב בּוּקְלָסָא בִּידֵיהּ, וְתַבְרִינוּן לְכָלְהוֹן פְּסִילַיָא, וִיהַב בּוּקְלָסָא בִּידָא דְּרַבָּה דַּהֲוָה בֵּינֵיהוֹן. כֵּיוָן דַּאֲתָא אֲבוּהָ אֲמַר לֵיהּ מַאן עָבֵיד לְהוֹן כְּדֵין, אֲמַר לֵיהּ מַה נִּכְפּוּר מִינָךְ אֲתַת חָדָא אִתְּתָא טְעִינָא לָהּ חָדָא פִּינָךְ דְּסֹוֹלֶת, וַאֲמַרַת לִי הֵא לָךְ קָרֵיב קֳדָמֵיהון, קָרֵיבְתְּ לָקֳדָמֵיהוֹן הֲוָה דֵּין אֲמַר אֲנָא אֵיכוֹל קַדְמָאי, וְדֵין אֲמַר אֲנָא אֵיכוֹל קַדְמָאי, קָם הָדֵין רַבָּה דַּהֲוָה בֵּינֵיהוֹן נְסַב בּוּקְלָסָא וְתַבַּרִינוֹן.
אֲמַר לֵיהּ מָה אַתָּה מַפְלֶה בִּי, וְיָדְעִין אִינוּן. אֲמַר לֵיהּ וְלֹא יִשְׁמְעוּ אָזְנֶיךָ מַה שֶּׁפִּיךָ אוֹמֵר. נַסְבֵיהּ וּמְסָרֵיהּ לְנִמְרוֹד. אֲמַר לֵיהּ נִסְגוֹד לְנוּרָא, אֲמַר לֵיהּ אַבְרָהָם וְנִסְגּוֹד לְמַיָא דְּמַטְפִין נוּרָא. אֲמַר לֵיהּ נִמְרוֹד נִסְגּוֹד לְמַיָא, אֲמַר לֵיהּ אִם כֵּן נִסְגּוֹד לַעֲנָנָא דְּטָעִין מַיָא. אֲמַר לֵיהּ נִסְגּוֹד לַעֲנָנָא. אָמַר לֵיהּ אִם כֵּן נִסְגּוֹד לְרוּחָא דִּמְבַדַּר עֲנָנָא. אֲמַר לֵיהּ נִסְגּוֹד לְרוּחָא. אֲמַר לֵיהּ וְנִסְגּוֹד לְבַר אֵינָשָׁא דְּסָבֵיל רוּחָא. אֲמַר לֵיהּ מִלִּין אַתְּ מִשְׁתָּעֵי, אֲנִי אֵינִי מִשְׁתַּחֲוֶה אֶלָּא לָאוּר, הֲרֵי אֲנִי מַשְׁלִיכֲךָ בְּתוֹכוֹ, וְיָבוֹא אֱלוֹהַּ שֶׁאַתָּה מִשְׁתַּחֲוֶה לוֹ וְיַצִּילְךָ הֵימֶנּוּ. הֲוָה תַּמָן הָרָן קָאֵים פְּלוּג, אָמַר מַה נַּפְשָׁךְ אִם נָצַח אַבְרָהָם אֲנָא אָמַר מִן דְּאַבְרָהָם אֲנָא וְאִם נָצַח נִמְרוֹד אֲנָא אֲמַר דְּנִמְרוֹד אֲנָא. כֵּיוָן שֶׁיָּרַד אַבְרָהָם לְכִבְשַׁן הָאֵשׁ וְנִצֹּל, אָמְרִין לֵיהּ דְּמַאן אַתְּ, אֲמַר לְהוֹן מִן אַבְרָהָם אֲנָא, נְטָלוּהוּ וְהִשְּׁלִיכוּהוּ לָאוּר וְנֶחְמְרוּ בְּנֵי מֵעָיו, וְיָצָא וּמֵת עַל פְּנֵי תֶּרַח אָבִיו, הֲדָא הוּא דִכְתִיב: וַיָּמָת הָרָן עַל פְּנֵי תֶּרַח וגו'.
Rabbi Hiyya said: Terach [Abraham's father] was a manufacturer of idols. He once went away somewhere and left young Abraham to sell them in his place. A man came in and wished to buy one. "How old are you?" Abraham asked the man. "Fifty years old," he said. "Woe to such a man, who is fifty years old and would worship a day old object!" Avraham said. On another occasion a woman came in with a plateful of flour and requested of him, "Take this and offer it to them." So Abraham took a stick and broke the idols, and put the stick in the hand of the largest. When his father returned he demanded, "What have you done to them?" "I cannot conceal it from you. A woman came with a plateful of fine meal and requested me to offer it to them. One claimed, 'I must eat first,' while another claimed, 'I must eat first.' Thereupon, the largest arose, took the stick and broke them." "Why do you make sport of me? Have they any knowledge?" Terach said. "Should not your ears hear what your mouth has said?" Avraham said. Thereupon Terach seized him and delivered him to Nimrod.
"Let us worship fire," Nimrod said. "Let us rather worship water which quenches fire," Avraham said. "Let us worship water," Nimrod said. "Let us rather worship the clouds which bear the water," Avraham said. "Let us then worship the clouds," Nimrod said. "Let us worship the wind which disperses the clouds," Avraham said. "Let us worship the wind," Nimrod said. "Let us worship human beings which can stand up to the wind," Avraham said. "You are just bandying words, and we will worship nothing but the fire. Behold, I will cast you into it, and let your God whom you adore come and save you from it!" Nimrod said. Now Haran was standing there undecided. "If Avraham is victorious, I will say that I am of Avraham’s belief, while if Nimrod is victorious, I will say that I am on Nimrod’s side," he thought. When Avraham descended into the fiery furnace and was saved, Nimrod asked him, "Of whose belief are you?" "Of Abraham’s," Haran replied. Thereupon Nirmord seized him and cast him into the fire; his innards were scorched and he died in the presence of his father. Hence it is written, "And Haran died in the presence of his father Terach."
Moral injury is the damage done to one’s conscience or moral compass when that person perpetrates, witnesses, or fails to prevent acts that transgress one’s own moral beliefs, values, or ethical codes of conduct. Drescher et al. (2011) define moral injury as “disruption in an individual’s confidence and expectations about one’s own or others’ motivation or capacity to behave in a just and ethical manner” (p. 9). Silver (2011) speaks of “a deep soul wound that pierces a person’s identity, sense of morality, and relationship to society” (para. 6).
Rosh HaShanah 5782/2021 Sermon, Rabbi Ora Nitkin-Kaner, Ann Arbor Reconstructionist Congregation
...I’ve been thinking about Terach lately because I believe we’re living through a time of our own idols being smashed. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t think anyone in this kahal actually has figurines of Baal or Asherah in their homes. But I do believe that as a society, we’re experiencing what it’s like to believe in something, to invest emotionally in that thing, to consider it sacred, and then have it shattered.
What am I talking about?
I’m talking about the delight we took in Bill Cosby, America’s most loveable dad, and then finding out he sexually assaulted dozens if not hundreds of people throughout his long career. I’m talking about Andrew Cuomo, and Louis CK, and Michael Douglas, and Kevin Spacey, and Junot Diaz, and Sherman Alexie, and on and on.
I’m talking about growing up trusting police, and then watching George Floyd be murdered while calling out for his mother, and hearing about how Breonna Taylor was killed in a raid of her home. I’m talking about memorizing Tamir Rice’s 12-year-old grin, his wide cheekbones and his mischievous eyes, from his obituary photo.
I’m talking about growing up with the idea of Israel as the homeland of the Jewish people, or the Israeli Defense Forces as the ‘most moral army in the world.’ And then coming to learn that hundreds of thousands of Palestinians were deliberately displaced in the founding of the Jewish state, or that Israel is a flawed country like any other. I’m talking about living through May of this year as Israeli rockets killed 67 children in Gaza.
I’m talking about learning to feel pride in America as a democratic ideal, with trust in the basic decency of our government leaders—and then witnessing endless wars in Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq. I’m talking about half the country electing an abhorrent abuser in 2016. I’m talking about living through January of this year, watching his mob break into the Capitol, wearing t-shirts that said ‘6 million wasn’t enough.’ I’m talking about this past week’s abortion ban in Texas.
I’m talking about growing up with a basic sense of trust in one’s fellow citizens, and then seeing people refuse to wear masks, refuse to do the minimum to keep one another safe during a pandemic.
I’m talking about faith, and the loss of faith; I’m talking about trust, and the loss of trust; I’m talking about belief, and the loss of belief.
It’s human nature to believe in goodness. It’s human nature to believe in the goodness and stability of the systems we create and the people we put in charge of those systems. So what happens when those systems are revealed to be fundamentally damaged or damaging? What happens when we find ourselves surrounded by the shattered remnants of the idols we once believed in?
Or, to ask this question differently: What have you been feeling these last weeks, months, years? Anxiety, sorrow, despair? Outrage, disgust? Alienation, mistrust? Bitterness, confusion, shame?
These are these emotions that accompany the psychological state of ‘moral injury.’
Moral injury is a reaction to a traumatic experience—a traumatic experience that violates our sense of how the world should work. It happens when our meaning systems confront something chaotic or disastrous; when we witness events that shatter our deeply held values. But moral injury doesn’t only occur when we are witnesses. It also happens when we come to understand that we are the perpetrators or perpetuators of an unjust system; it happens when we find ourselves complicit in things that we don’t want to be complicit in. Like as Jews, when we find ourselves defending some of the more immoral decisions of the Israeli government. Like as people with white privilege, when we come to understand how we benefit from systemic racism. Like as Americans, when we see how our taxes feed the American war machine. And how helpless we feel to change any of these realities.
What’s wounded in moral injury is our sense of the world, and our place in it.
We have a fundamental need to engage with the world in a moral way. When we feel like we’ve lost our ability to do that, it’s disorienting. It’s painful. And it’s also isolating. Moral injury messes with our ability to connect to other people. Or, to put a Jewish spin on it: it leaves us in a state of alienation from goodness—which is what we call sin...