Ezekiel 28:25-29:21

Dear Camp Alum, it's so good to connect with you! Can you almost smell that campfire smoke? Hear the crackle and pop, feel the warmth on your face as the stars begin to twinkle above? That's the vibe we're bringing to our Torah deep-dive today. We're going to take a journey with the prophet Ezekiel, a journey that feels a lot like those profound conversations we used to have late into the night, wrestling with big ideas under the vast, open sky. So, grab your imaginary s'mores, settle in, and let's bring some of that camp magic home!

Hook

Remember those evenings at camp, after a day of swimming, hiking, and raucous games, when the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues? The air would cool, and the first stars would begin to pierce the deepening blue. We’d gather around the campfire, tired but buzzing with that unique camp ruach – that spirit of togetherness and wonder. The flames would dance, casting shifting shadows on our faces, and someone would inevitably start humming a niggun, a wordless melody that just seemed to rise from the heart and float up into the vastness.

One of my favorite niggunim, one we often sang around the fire, was a simple, repetitive tune that just invited you to hum along. It had no words, but it always made me feel both incredibly small and incredibly connected, like a tiny spark in a giant, beautiful tapestry. (Perhaps you remember it, a simple "Mmm-mmm-mmm, la-la-la-la-la, mmm-mmm-mmm, la-la-la-la" that just keeps building?) It was in those moments, looking up at the countless stars, feeling the warmth of the fire and the arms of friends around me, that I understood something profound about our place in the universe. We were part of something immense, something ancient, something far grander than any one of us. Yet, precisely because we were part of it, our individual light and connection mattered. It was a feeling of awe, of belonging, and of humble gratitude.

This memory, this feeling, is our entryway into today's text from Ezekiel. Because this week, we're diving into a section where a few powerful leaders, much like someone trying to be the brightest star in the sky, forgot that feeling. They forgot they were part of a larger tapestry. They started to believe they were the entire universe, that their light was self-generated, their power absolute. And Ezekiel, our prophet, is here to remind them, and us, about the profound difference between being a bright, beloved spark and trying to be the sun itself. He’s here to bring us back to that campfire feeling, that sense of awe and humble belonging, and how crucial it is for building a home, a family, and a community that truly shines.

Imagine for a moment, the Prince of Tyre. He’s like that one camper who always had the newest gear, the flashiest talent, who could build the tallest tower of s’mores or tell the most captivating ghost stories. Everyone admired him, maybe even looked up to him. But then, somewhere along the way, that admiration morphed into something else. He started to believe that his cleverness, his wealth, his beauty – they weren't gifts or advantages to be shared or stewarded; they were him. He was the source of it all. He started walking around camp like he owned the lake, the forest, even the very air we breathed. He forgot that the lake was always there, that the forest grew independently, and that the air was a shared gift.

This isn't just about a historical figure; it's about a human tendency. It's about the moment we confuse our achievements with our essence, our possessions with our identity, our gifts with our G-d-given right to dominate. It's about the subtle shift from "I am blessed with this" to "I am this" or "I made this." And just like that camper who became so full of himself that he pushed others away, disrupting the harmony of the bunk or the edah, these leaders disrupted the balance of their world.

Ezekiel, however, doesn't leave us in the darkness of their downfall. Just as those campfire niggunim always brought us back to a sense of hope and togetherness, the prophet pivots. He reminds us that while the mightiest empires may crumble under the weight of their own hubris, there's a deeper, more enduring source of strength and security. There’s a promise of returning home, gathering together, and building anew, not from a place of self-aggrandizement, but from a place of humble recognition of where true blessings come from. It's about rediscovering that profound sense of belonging we felt around the campfire, knowing that even after a long journey or a scattering, we can always find our way back to the warmth, the light, and the shared song.

So, as we explore these ancient words, let's keep that campfire hum in our hearts. Let it guide us to understand not just the pitfalls of pride, but the enduring power of humility, community, and the quiet strength of knowing our true place in the grand, magnificent design. This isn't just history; it's a map for building a resilient, joyful, and truly shining home.

Context

Ezekiel, our prophet, is speaking to us from a time of deep uncertainty and despair for the Jewish people. He’s among the exiles in Babylonia, far from Jerusalem, witnessing the crumbling of the old world order. It’s like being at camp after a big storm has knocked down some of the oldest, mightiest trees, and everyone is wondering what’s left, and if the camp will ever be the same.

• A World in Flux: The setting for these prophecies is the late 6th century BCE. The Judean kingdom has fallen, Jerusalem is destroyed, and its people are in exile. In this chaotic geopolitical landscape, powerful city-states and empires are vying for dominance. Ezekiel's prophecies are often directed not just at Israel, but at the surrounding nations – Tyre, Sidon, Egypt – to show that G-d's hand is active in the entire world, not just among His chosen people. It’s a message that even when your own bunk feels completely upended, the counselors (and the Camp Director!) are still in charge of the whole camp.
• The Problem of Pride: The core issue Ezekiel addresses with Tyre and Egypt is hubris – excessive pride and self-exaltation. Tyre, a wealthy maritime power, and Egypt, a vast ancient empire, both saw themselves as self-sufficient, even divine. They believed their success came solely from their own wisdom, strength, and resources, without acknowledging a higher power. This is like a towering ancient cedar tree in the forest, so majestic it believes it is the forest, rather than just a part of its ecosystem, relying on the same soil and rain as every other plant.
• A Promise Amidst the Ruins: Crucially, amidst these pronouncements of judgment against the arrogant nations, Ezekiel interweaves a powerful message of hope and restoration for Israel. While Tyre and Egypt are brought low, Israel is promised a future of gathering, security, and renewed holiness in their land. It’s a reminder that even when the mightiest structures crumble, G-d has a plan for rebuilding and bringing people home, fostering an even stronger community from the scattered remnants.

Text Snapshot

Let's hone in on a few lines, like pulling a spark from the fire, to illuminate our path:

"Because you have been so haughty and have said, 'I am a god; I sit enthroned like a god in the heart of the seas,' whereas you are not a god but a human..." (Ezekiel 28:2)

"...O Pharaoh king of Egypt... Who said, 'My Nile is my own; I made it for myself.'" (Ezekiel 29:3)

"When I have gathered the House of Israel from the peoples among which they have been dispersed... they shall settle on their own soil... and they shall dwell on it in security... And they shall know that I the Eternal One am their God." (Ezekiel 28:25-26)

Close Reading

These verses are like three flashes of lightning in a gathering storm, revealing a profound truth about human nature, divine justice, and the enduring power of G-d's promise. They speak to the deepest parts of us, challenging our assumptions about power, ownership, and what it truly means to thrive.

Insight 1: The Peril of "I Made It Myself" – From King to Camp Counselor

Let's really zoom in on the pronouncements against Tyre and Pharaoh. The Prince of Tyre, basking in his city’s wealth and strategic location, declares, “I am a god; I sit enthroned like a god in the heart of the seas.” Pharaoh, king of Egypt, boasts, “My Nile is my own; I made it for myself.” What’s striking here is not just their power or their accomplishments, but the source they attribute to them. They see themselves as self-made, self-sufficient, even divine. This isn’t just arrogance; it’s a fundamental misreading of reality, a complete forgetting of that campfire feeling of humble belonging.

Think back to camp. We all had that one counselor who seemed to know everything, could lead any activity, and whose bunk always won the cleanest cabin award. Everyone admired them, and rightly so! They worked hard, they were clever, they had a knack for leadership. But imagine if that counselor started saying, "I am the camp. I made this spirit. Everything good here flows from me." How would that land? It would immediately feel off, wouldn't it? Because we all knew that the camp's spirit, its success, its very existence, was a collective effort, a legacy, and ultimately, a blessing. No one person makes a camp, just as no one person makes a river.

Ezekiel highlights this critical distinction: "whereas you are not a god but a human." The Prince of Tyre was wise, beautiful, and wealthy. He was a "seal of perfection," like a perfectly crafted piece of art. He was even compared to a cherub in Eden, adorned with precious stones, residing on G-d's holy mountain. This isn't just a critique of a bad person; it's a lament for someone who had immense gifts and squandered them through pride. His "far-flung commerce" and "great shrewdness in trade" led not just to riches but to "lawlessness" and a debasing of his wisdom "for the sake of [his] splendor." His beauty and wisdom became a trap, leading him to desecrate his own sanctuaries and ultimately, to his downfall.

Pharaoh's boast about the Nile is equally telling. The Nile was the lifeblood of Egypt, its fertile delta creating a civilization. To claim, "My Nile is my own; I made it for myself," is to deny the very forces of nature and the divine providence that sustain life. It's like a camp director taking credit for the sunshine or the rain that makes the crops grow in the garden. It’s an absurd overreach of human power.

Connecting to Home/Family Life: The Invisible Hands and Shared Blessings

So, how does this translate from ancient kings and cherubs to our homes and families today? Very subtly, and very powerfully. The "I made it myself" syndrome can creep into our family dynamics in insidious ways.

• Taking Credit for Shared Success: When a child achieves something great, do we, as parents, sometimes subtly (or not so subtly) claim all the credit? "I worked so hard to get them into that school," or "They get their brains from me." While our efforts are crucial, we must remember the child’s own agency, the teachers, the friends, the sheer gift of their existence, and the divine spark within them. If we claim it all, we risk instilling a similar hubris in them, or worse, stifling their own sense of accomplishment and ownership.

• The Illusion of Self-Sufficiency: In the hustle of adult life, it's easy to fall into the trap of believing that our home, our financial security, our family's well-being, are solely products of our own relentless effort. "I built this life," we might think. And while hard work is essential, it's a dangerous path to forget the "invisible hands" that support us: the health we’ve been granted, the opportunities that arose, the community that holds us, the love that sustains us, and ultimately, the blessings from Above. Just as Tyre's wealth was built on trade (meaning others were involved!), and Egypt's life on the Nile (a natural phenomenon), our lives are interwoven with countless external factors. To deny them is to become isolated, to lose gratitude, and to make ourselves vulnerable when those "self-made" foundations inevitably shift.

• Stewardship vs. Ownership: The commentaries reinforce this. Radak, speaking about God's protection of Israel from harmful neighbors, reminds us that the world's order, and the security within it, ultimately comes from a higher source. Steinsaltz notes that Tyre flourished as Jerusalem declined, suggesting a shifting balance of power orchestrated by divine will. This isn't about human randomness; it's about a greater plan. Our talents, our resources, our children, our homes – these are not things we own in an absolute sense. They are gifts entrusted to us for a time, to be stewarded with care, humility, and a recognition of their true source. When we shift from "owner" to "steward," our approach changes dramatically. We nurture, we protect, we share, rather than hoard or exploit. This is anavah (humility) in action, recognizing that we are part of a larger system, a beautiful forest, not the entire ecosystem itself.

• The Niggun of Gratitude: To counter the "I made it myself" mindset, we need a constant niggun of gratitude playing in our hearts. A simple, reflective hum, perhaps in a minor key, can remind us of the fragility of human constructs and the vastness of divine grace. It’s a quiet internal song that helps us pause, look up at the stars, and remember that we are blessed, not self-created. It reminds us that our true splendor comes not from what we claim to own, but from how we honor the source of all blessings and how we share them with our kehillah – our family and community. When we fail to do so, like Tyre, our beauty and wisdom can be "debased" and "desecrated," leaving us, ultimately, "a horror" and "ashes on the ground." It's a stark reminder that true power and lasting legacy are built on something far more profound than mere human cleverness or accumulated wealth.

Insight 2: From Thorns to Security – Building a Home of Bitachon

Now, let's turn our attention to the incredible pivot in the text, where Ezekiel shifts from the downfall of proud nations to the promise of restoration for Israel. This is the light that pierces through the storm clouds, the warmth of the campfire that draws us back in.

Ezekiel 28:25-26 declares: "Thus said the Sovereign G-d: When I have gathered the House of Israel from the peoples among which they have been dispersed, and have shown Myself holy through them in the sight of the nations, they shall settle on their own soil, which I gave to My servant Jacob, and they shall dwell on it in security. They shall build houses and plant vineyards, and shall dwell on it in security, when I have meted out punishment to all those about them who despise them. And they shall know that I the Eternal One am their God."

This is a breathtaking vision, especially considering the context of exile and dispersion. It's a promise of returning home, of rootedness, and of profound bitachon – security and trust. And it comes with a powerful condition: "Then shall the House of Israel no longer be afflicted with prickling briers and lacerating thorns from all the neighbors who despise them." The removal of these "thorns" is directly linked to G-d's intervention and Israel's return to their land.

Think about camp again. There's that moment when you arrive, a little nervous, maybe a little homesick. But then, day by day, you build friendships, learn the routines, find your favorite spot by the lake, and your bunk becomes a true home-away-from-home. You feel safe, connected, and truly "at home." This is that feeling of bitachon in a camp context. You're no longer worried about "prickling briers and lacerating thorns" – the awkwardness of new social situations, the fear of not fitting in. You're secure.

Connecting to Home/Family Life: Cultivating a Sanctuary of Safety and Belonging

How do we take this ancient prophecy of national restoration and apply it to the living, breathing organism of our home and family?

• Gathering the Scattered: The phrase "When I have gathered the House of Israel from the peoples among which they have been dispersed" speaks to a deep human need for connection and belonging. In our modern lives, even within a family, we can feel "dispersed." Parents are scattered by work, children by school and activities, individual family members by their own inner worlds. The ritual of gathering – for a meal, a Shabbat candle lighting, a family game night – is an act of intentional re-gathering. It's saying, "No matter how far we've roamed this week, we come back together, here, to our shared space, our 'soil.'" Malbim comments that this promise refers to the time when Cyrus gave permission for the Jews to return to Israel, emphasizing that this gathering and settling is a physical, tangible act of rebuilding.

• Building Houses and Planting Vineyards: Creating a Secure Foundation: The text doesn't just promise return; it promises active participation: "They shall build houses and plant vineyards." This isn't passive security; it's an engaged, generative security. In our homes, "building houses" means creating physical and emotional spaces where everyone feels safe, seen, and valued. "Planting vineyards" means investing in the long-term growth and flourishing of the family – nurturing relationships, teaching values, celebrating milestones, and creating shared memories that become the "fruit" of our efforts. Rashi adds that the land given to Jacob was "an inheritance without boundaries," signifying expansive blessing and potential. This means our homes can be places of unbounded growth and love.

• No More Prickling Briers and Lacerating Thorns: This is perhaps the most poignant part for family life. What are the "prickling briers and lacerating thorns" in our homes? They can be hurtful words, unresolved conflicts, a lack of communication, feelings of being unheard or unappreciated, a sense of insecurity or instability. Creating a home where these thorns are removed means consciously cultivating empathy, active listening, forgiveness, and a commitment to respectful interaction. It means making the home a makom kadosh (a holy place), a sanctuary where each person feels protected from the harshness of the outside world and from internal strife. Radak directly addresses this, stating that G-d "will deal with them in judgment so that they will no longer be able to harm." While we can't control the world, we can strive to create a home where harm is minimized and healing is maximized.

• "And they shall know that I am G-d": The Ultimate Source of Security: This repeated phrase isn't a threat; it's a promise of clarity. When Israel is gathered, secure, and thriving, it's not because they claimed to be G-d (like Tyre) or to make their own blessings (like Pharaoh). It's because they recognize the true source of their blessings and their security. Metzudat David beautifully explains: "I will be sanctified by them through the signs and wonders I will do with them." Their revival and return, as Steinsaltz elaborates, will be a Kiddush Hashem (sanctification of God's name) in the eyes of the nations. In our families, this means recognizing that our deepest security and flourishing don't come solely from our bank accounts, our perfect parenting techniques, or our flawless home decor. They come from a deeper spiritual foundation, from recognizing that our family is a gift, our love is a reflection of divine love, and our capacity to build and nurture comes from something beyond ourselves. This recognition, far from diminishing our efforts, empowers them with purpose and resilience.

• The Niggun of Resilience and Hope: This part of the text resonates with a different niggun – one of hope, resilience, and the quiet strength of togetherness. It’s the sound of hands working the soil, the laughter echoing through a newly built home, the shared song around a Shabbat table. It's a reminder that even when things feel "scattered," there's always a path back to belonging, to security, and to knowing that we are held, loved, and given the opportunity to build a beautiful, sacred home. This is the profound ruach of a family built on trust and shared purpose, a place where everyone can truly thrive.

Micro-Ritual

Let's take these powerful insights and weave them into a "grown-up legs" camp ritual for your home. We'll call it "The Shabbat Anchor: Reclaiming Our Roots and Radiance." This ritual is designed to counter the "I made it myself" hubris and cultivate the "dwelling in security" promise, particularly on Friday night, a time when our homes transform into sanctuaries.

The idea is to consciously shift from the week's mindset of doing, achieving, and often, claiming, to a Shabbat mindset of being, receiving, and belonging. It helps us "gather" our scattered selves and anchor into the security of our home and our spiritual connection.

Core Concept: Before or during your Friday night candle lighting, incorporate a moment of intentional gratitude and acknowledgment of shared blessings, followed by a communal "anchoring" statement.

Materials:

• Your regular Shabbat candles and candlesticks
• A small, smooth stone for each family member (or one larger "family anchor stone")
• (Optional) A small bowl of water

The Ritual Steps (Choose what resonates!):

1. Preparation (Before Candles): The Week's "Gathering"

   • As you prepare for Shabbat – perhaps while setting the table or getting dressed – invite each family member to quietly reflect on one thing from the past week that they received or were blessed with, rather than something they "achieved" or "made happen." It could be a kind word, a moment of joy, a helpful hand, a beautiful sunset, a challenge that taught them something, or simply the gift of good health.
   • (Camp Connection: This is like the "Rose, Bud, Thorn" activity we used to do, but focused on the "Rose" part, with an emphasis on receiving.)

2. Candle Lighting: Illuminating Gratitude & Connection

   • Gather around the Shabbat candles. Light them as usual, reciting the blessing.
   • Before or after the blessing, invite each person to briefly share their reflection from the "gathering" step. Instead of just saying "I'm grateful for X," encourage them to say, "I felt blessed by X this week," or "I received the gift of X." This subtle shift in language helps ground us in gratitude and acknowledge a source beyond ourselves.
   • (Sing-able Line Suggestion: After each person shares, the family can respond with a quiet, collective "Baruch Hashem" (Blessed is G-d) or a soft, rising hum, echoing that simple niggun from the campfire, allowing the gratitude to build and fill the space.)

3. The "Shabbat Anchor" (The Core Tweak):

   • Option A: Individual Anchor Stones: Have each family member hold their smooth stone. As they hold it, invite them to think about what "dwelling in security" means for them in this home, in this family. What makes them feel safe, loved, and connected here? After a moment of reflection, they can say aloud, "I anchor my heart in the security of this home," or simply, "I am secure here." Then, place their stone gently near the candles, symbolizing how their individual security contributes to the collective strength and holiness of the home.
   • Option B: Collective Anchor Stone: If you prefer one stone, pass it around. Each person can briefly share what they hope to bring to the family this Shabbat to enhance its security and peace (e.g., "I will listen more patiently," "I will offer an extra hug"). The last person to hold the stone places it near the candles, representing the family's shared commitment to building a secure, loving space.
   • Symbolism: The stone represents stability, groundedness, and the earth (our "soil"). Placing it near the candles connects this earthly security to the spiritual light of Shabbat and the divine presence within the home. It counters the "I am a god" mentality by physically acknowledging the grounded reality of our human existence and our reliance on a greater source. It embodies the promise of "dwelling in security."

4. Optional: "Washing Away the Thorns" (Pre-Candle Lighting):

   • If you choose, before lighting candles, have a bowl of water ready. Each person can briefly dip their hands in the water, imagining they are washing away any "prickling briers or lacerating thorns" – any negative feelings, arguments, or stresses from the week – that might prevent the family from "dwelling in security" this Shabbat. As they dry their hands, they can affirm, "This Shabbat, we shed the thorns and embrace peace." This connects directly to Ezekiel's promise of being free from affliction.

Deeper Explanation of Symbolism:

• Candles: The Shabbat candles are the most powerful symbol of kedushah (holiness) entering our homes. By linking our ritual of gratitude and anchoring to the candle lighting, we infuse these everyday actions with sacred intention. The light represents divine presence, warmth, and clarity, helping us see beyond our own ego and into the shared space of holiness.
• Stones: Stones are ancient symbols of permanence, foundation, and connection to the earth. In Jewish tradition, standing on a rock or building with stones often signifies strength and enduring presence (e.g., Jacob's pillow stone, the stones of the altar). By using a stone as an "anchor," we are literally grounding our family's security in something tangible, while spiritually acknowledging that true security comes from G-d. It's a physical reminder that we are "settling on our own soil" with divine blessing.
• Water: Water is a symbol of purification, renewal, and life itself. Using it to "wash away thorns" is a symbolic act of t'shuvah (returning, repentance) on a micro-level, clearing the slate before Shabbat to allow for fresh, positive interactions and a renewed sense of peace within the family.

This "Shabbat Anchor" ritual isn't about rigid adherence, but about intentionality. It's about consciously bringing that profound campfire feeling – the awe, the gratitude, the deep sense of belonging – into your home, transforming Friday night into a powerful reminder that true strength and security come from recognizing our place in the grand design, and from building a humble, loving kehillah right where we are.

Chevruta Mini

1. Reflecting on the "I am a god" and "My Nile is my own" statements, where in your own life (or family interactions) do you see the subtle tendency to claim full ownership or credit for things that are, in part, blessings or shared efforts? What might be a "Shabbat Anchor" thought or phrase you could use to counter that impulse?
2. Ezekiel promises Israel a future of "dwelling in security," free from "prickling briers and lacerating thorns." What does "dwelling in security" truly mean for your home or family, and what small, intentional step can you take this week to cultivate that feeling for everyone?

Takeaway

From the proud kings of Tyre and Egypt, who confused their gifts with their G-d-given essence, to the promise of Israel's secure return, Ezekiel teaches us a timeless lesson. True strength, enduring beauty, and profound security don't come from declaring "I am a god" or "I made it myself." They come from the humble recognition of our place in the universe, the stewardship of our blessings, and the conscious effort to build a home and community where everyone feels gathered, protected, and deeply connected. So, let's keep that campfire hum in our hearts, acknowledge the true source of our light, and build homes that are anchors of peace, gratitude, and belonging for all.