Shabbat Zachor: why who, and where, we are matters.

Shabbat Zachor and Parashat Tetzaveh, 2025 (dansk følger englesk)

During the course of the Jewish year, there are several special shabbatot which have an extra meaning attached to them. This week is “Shabbat Zachor”, and zachor, which means “remembrance”, implores us to remember - that is to actively not forget - Amalek and the forces that seek to sever our connection to the divine. At the same time, this week we read Parashat Tetzaveh which actively commands us to kindle the ner tamid, the eternal flame, a reminder that light must always burn within us.

Jewish mysticism teaches that both Zachor, remembrance, and Or, light, are essential to our spiritual mission. Across Jewish and Scandinavian traditions, land and memory are deeply intertwined because that which we remember, we preserve. That where we stand, we sanctify. And through our actions, we illuminate the darkness of the world.

The attack of Amalek was not just a physical assault; it was an attempt to sever Israel’s connection to God. We are told that that Amalek attacked all the stragglers at the rear, targeting those who had lost their strength and their faith, and according to the Zohar, Amalek is not merely an external enemy but a spiritual force of forgetfulness.

The rabbis who cared greatly for these things measured the word Amalek by its numerical value, 240, which is the is the same as safek, meaning doubt— they tell us that this means that Amalek is trying to make us forget God’s presence in our lives, and beyond being a person, Amalek is something that comes also from within us.

Parashat Tetzaveh commands us to light the Ner Tamid, the eternal flame that must never be extinguished: “You shall command the children of Israel that they shall take for you pure olive oil, crushed for illumination, to kindle the lamp continually.” There is a Midrash that compares this flame to the human soul, as it says: “The soul of the human is the candle of God.” In Jewish mystical thinking, the eternal flame represents the Or Ein Sof—the infinite divine light that flows through all creation. Just as the Ner Tamid was never to go out, so too must we ensure that our inner light—our connection to the divine—never fades. This idea echoes in Scandinavian traditions, where fire and light hold deep significance. From the Yule fires of midwinter to the Midsummer bonfires, fire has always symbolised connection to the unseen, a beacon of life amid darkness. The Menorah in the Temple, much like these sacred fires, was more than illumination; it was a spiritual channel, linking heaven and earth – in fact, fire holds a sacred space in Judaism, but there is more of that to come another time!

This week’s Torah portion also details the priestly garments, crafted “for glory and splendour.” The High Priest’s clothing was not merely decorative—it served ritually as a spiritual vessel to channel divine energy. Kabbalah teaches us that garments, levushim, are symbolic of our spiritual expressions—how we manifest divine energy in the world. Just as the Kohen’s clothing had profound meaning, our external actions and ethical behavior clothe our souls. The connection to land is evident here as well – yes, you may be starting to realise that I am somewhat interested in the connection our traditon places between people, land, and God. In Jewish tradition, clothing can also be tied to nature—the prohibition of shatnez, mixing wool and linen, could serve as a reminder to us to respect the distinct forces within creation, even if we don’t hold to this commandment as Progressive Jews, its significance can still mean something. In Scandinavian cultures, clothing made from natural materials—wool, furs, and linen—was potentially seen as an extension of one’s harmony with the land - in both our Jewish and Nordic traditions, what we wear reflects our relationship with the land we walk upon, and the animals we commune with.

I believe that Judaism teaches that the Land of Israel is not just soil but a spiritual entity, our ancestors in this land believed that too of Denmark. The Torah warns us that the land itself responds to our actions: “The land will vomit you out if you defile it.” This stands perhaps to teach us that that the land is alive with holiness, and that what we do in the world, and how we act, is reflected in nature. Similarly, in Nordic mythology, land is not passive but teeming with energy—sacred groves, mountains, and waters inhabited by hidden forces: the shared Norse-Jewish view that the land is an inheritance not only of physical space but of divine presence is so clear to me.

Shabbat Zachor teaches us that forgetting this sacred bond, or allowing someone to sever it, leads to destruction: but when we remember—when we kindle and nurture the eternal flame, when we wear the garments representative of the mitzvot, when we honour the holiness of land—we bring about a redemption.

As we come together today on Shabbat Zachor, we remember who we are, where we come from, where we are, and what we stand for. As we read Parashat Tetzaveh, we should aim to rekindle the suffering or dying eternal flame within us, and as we reflect on our connection to the land—whether it is the land of Israel or the landscapes our ancestors walked here, we must recognise our duty to live with ethical, spiritual awareness. This is our mission: to be both a light in the darkness and guardians of sacred memory. May we keep the flame of Torah burning, sanctify the land beneath our feet, and remember with clarity the mission entrusted to us from Sinai – ki miTzion tetzeh Torah. Shabbat Shalom.

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I løbet af det jødiske år er der flere særlige shabbatot, som har en ekstra betydning tilknyttet. Denne uge er det “Shabbat Zachor”, og zachor, der betyder “minde”, kalder os til at huske – det vil sige aktivt ikke at glemme – Amalek og de kræfter, der forsøger at afbryde vores forbindelse til det guddommelige. Samtidig læser vi denne uge Parashat Tetzaveh, der befaler os til at tænde ner tamid, den evige flamme, en påmindelse om, at lyset er altid nødt til at brænde i os.

Jødisk mystik lærer os, at både zachor (minde, erindring) og or (lys) er nødvendig for vores spirituelle mission. På tværs af jødiske og skandinaviske traditioner er land og erindring dybt sammenvævede, fordi vi bevarer alt det der vi bevarer. Der, hvor vi står, helliggør vi. Og gennem vores handlinger oplyser vi verdens mørke.

Angrebet fra Amalek var ikke kun en fysisk trussel; det var et forsøg på at afbryde Israels forbindelse til Gud og den guddommelige mission, det var blevet betroet. Vi bliver fortalt, at Amalek angreb de efternølere, der var svækkede og havde mistet deres tro. Ifølge Zohar’en (Kabbalahs tekstuel fondament) er Amalek ikke blot en ydre fjende, men en spirituel kraft af glemsel. De rabbinske lærde, som var meget optagede af dette, analyserede Amaleks talværdi i gematria: 240, hvilket er det samme som safek, der betyder tvivl. De fortæller os, at dette betyder, at Amalek forsøger at få os til at glemme Guds nærvær i vores liv.

Parashat Tetzaveh befaler os til at tænde Ner Tamid, den evige flamme, der aldrig må slukkes: "Du skal befale Israels børn, at de skal tage ren olivenolie, knust til belysning, for at tænde lampen uafbrudt."

Der findes en Midrash, der sammenligner denne flamme med menneskets sjæl, som det står skrevet: "Menneskets sjæl er Guds lys." I jødisk mystik repræsenterer den evige flamme Or Ein Sof – det uendelige guddommelige lys, der strømmer gennem hele skabelsen. Ligesom Ner Tamid aldrig måtte slukkes, må vi sikre, at vores indre lys – vores forbindelse til det guddommelige – aldrig svækkes.

Denne idé genlyder også i skandinaviske traditioner, hvor ild og lys har dyb betydning. Fra midvinterens Yule-bål til midsommerens bål har ild altid symboliseret forbindelsen til det usynlige, et fyrtårn af liv midt i mørket. Menoraen i Templet var, ligesom disse hellige bål, mere end blot en kilde til belysning – den var en spirituel kanal, der forbandt himmel og jord. Ilden har altid haft en hellig plads i jødedommen, men der er mere at sige en anden dag om det!

Denne uges Torah-afsnit beskriver også præsternes klæder, skabt "til ære og pragt."  Ypperstepræstens klæder var ikke blot dekorative – de fungerede som en spirituel kanal til guddommelig energi. Kabbala lærer os, at klæder, levushim, er symbolske for vores spirituelle udtryk – hvordan vi manifesterer guddommelig energi i verden. Ligesom Kohens klæder havde dyb betydning, er vores ydre handlinger og etiske adfærd sjælens klædedragt.

Forbindelsen til jorden er også tydelig her – ja, du har måske allerede bemærket, at jeg er ret interesseret i, hvordan vores tradition sammenkæder mennesker, land og Gud. I jødedommen er klæder ofte forbundet med naturen – forbuddet mod shatnez (at blande uld og hør) minder os måske om at respektere skabelsens forskellige kræfter. Selvom vi som progressive jøder ikke nødvendigvis holder os til dette bud, kan dets betydning stadig have værdi. I skandinaviske kulturer blev tøj fremstillet af naturlige materialer – uld, pels og hør – set som en forlængelse af menneskets harmoni med jorden. Den jødiske bonde i Eretz Yisrael bærer tzitzit, der blafrer i vinden, ligesom den nordiske bonde bærer tøj fremstillet af jordens gaver. I begge traditioner afspejler vores beklædning vores forhold til den jord, vi går på, og de dyr, vi lever med.

Jeg finder at jødedommen lærer os, at Israels land ikke blot er jord, men en spirituel enhed. Vores forfædre i dette land troede det samme om Danmark. Torahen advarer os: "Landet vil spy jer ud, hvis I gør det urent." Dette skal lære os, at jorden er levende med hellighed, og at vores handlinger i verden afspejles i naturen.

På samme måde er jorden i nordisk mytologi ikke passiv, men fyldt med energi – hellige lunde, bjerge og vande beboet af skjulte kræfter. Den fælles nordisk-jødiske forståelse af, at landet er en arv, ikke kun som fysisk rum, men som en guddommelig tilstedeværelse, er så tydelig for mig. Shabbat Zachor lærer os, at hvis vi glemmer dette hellige bånd eller lader nogen afbryde det, fører det til ødelæggelse. Men når vi husker – når vi tænder og nærer den evige flamme, når vi bærer mitzvot’ens klædedragt, når vi ærer landets hellighed – bringer vi forløsning.

Når vi samles i dag på Shabbat Zachor, husker vi, hvem vi er, hvor vi kommer fra, hvor vi er, og hvad vi står for. Når vi læser Parashat Tetzaveh, bør vi stræbe efter at genantænde den evige flamme i os, hvis den er slukket eller ved at gå ud. Og når vi reflekterer over vores forbindelse til jorden – hvad enten det er Israels land eller de landskaber, vores forfædre har vandret her – må vi erkende vores pligt til at leve med etisk og spirituel bevidsthed.

Dette er vores mission: at være både et lys i mørket og vogtere af den hellige erindring. Må vi få den ære at holde Torahens flamme brændende, at helliggøre jorden under vores fødder, og at huske med klarhed den mission, der blev betroet os fra Sinaj – ki miTzion tetzeh Torah. Shabbat Shalom.