From Broken Hearts To Healing: Elevating a Year of Tears into Faith and Hope

 “Once the Baal Shem Tov commanded Rabbi Zev Kitzes to learn the secret meanings behind the blasts of the shofar, because Rabbi Zev was to be his caller on Rosh HaShanah. So Rabbi Zev learned the secret meanings and wrote them down on a slip of paper to look at during the service, and laid the slip of paper in his bosom. When the time came for the blowing of the shofar, he began to search everywhere for the slip of paper, but it was gone, and he did not know on what meanings to concentrate. He was greatly saddened. Brokenhearted, he wept bitter tears and called the blasts of the shofar without concentrating on the secret meanings behind them.

 

Afterward, the Baal Shem Tov said to him: "Lo, in the habitation of the King are to be found many rooms and apartments, and there are different keys for every lock, but the master key of all is the axe, with which it is possible to open all the locks on all the gates. So it is with the shofar: The secret meanings are the keys; every gate has another meaning, but the master key is the broken heart. When a man truthfully breaks his heart before God, he can enter into all the gates of the apartments of the King above all Kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.” (Or Yesharim)

As we prepare for the shofar's cry this Rosh HaShanah, we carry the weight of a year marked by unimaginable pain and uncertainty. Since October 7, we, like Rabbi Zev, have lost our sense of certainty, holding only our broken hearts and crying a torrent of tears as we plead for comfort, healing, and peace.

But after so much loss, is it time to set our tears aside? After all, Rosh HaShanah — at its core — is a day of rejoicing. No fasting or mourning allowed. We should be celebrating b’simcha, dipping apples in the sweetest honey, and looking forward to a year filled with good news (and the arrival of Mashiach!). 

Why, then, does Rosh HaShanah bring so much heartache and so many tears? We read about Hagar's despair over Ishmael, the mockery of Chana as she longs for a child, and Rachel’s earth-shattering cries for her children. These stories and the tears shed with them resonate more deeply with us now because we’ve spent nearly a year in continuous mourning and fear. Our tears are more real and painful than ever. 

At various points throughout history, congregations would hire chazzanim based on their ability to move congregations to tears at the right time. In fact, the famed Roedelheim machzor is said to have featured instructions to bochim kan — “cry here” — throughout davening. Even Rabbi Yitzchak Luria, the Ari, is said to have believed it was good to cry (and did so abundantly) on Rosh HaShanah. 

Several sources approach the “to cry or not to cry on Rosh HaShanah” question by saying that crying on Rosh HaShanah is okay and even encouraged, but not because we’re sad or depressed or because we feel like it’s what we’re supposed to do. 

Rather, Rosh HaShanah tears should be shed out of a genuine place of awe, enthusiasm, and devotion. 

This year, we stand before HaShem with not just broken but shattered hearts and beg for the ability to transform our pain into strength. The trauma of this year indeed mirrors the cries of the shofar. The blasts are sharp, sudden, and filled with emotion. Yet just as the narrow opening of the shofar produces a powerful sound that echoes from person to person and place to place, so too can our cries lead us from sorrow to hope, pain to strength, and from fear to trust. 

​​Like Rabbi Zev's forgotten notes, we approach this Rosh HaShanah without clear answers. But our collective cries, like the shofar's blasts, are the master key. 

The shofar’s deeper message is for us to live with love, faith, and trust for HaShem despite the brokenness we feel and see around us. The blasts remind us that after the broken heart comes relief and renewal — if we are open, willing, and present.

As we face this new year with hope and uncertainty, we must trust that the deep suffering of this past year will be answered by HaShem’s boundless love, compassion, and mercy. We pray for the return of our precious hostages, the end of the war, a safe homecoming for all of our brave soldiers, and a mending of our broken hearts. 

Parashat Re'eh: Worshipping Gods You Didn't Know vs. Just Not Worshipping Other Gods

Boker tov and chodesh tov and Shabbat shalom. It's me, again, with another look at the weekly Torah portion from my favorite place in Jerusalem: the shuk!

This week's parashah is Re'eh (Devarim 11:26-16:17), and it's chock full of blessings and curses we've all heard before. But one thing I've noticed though is the repetition of a phrase: 

(singular you) אֱלֹהִ֣ים אֲחֵרִ֔ים אֲשֶׁר֙ לֹ֣א יָדַ֔עְתָּ

 (plural you) אֱלֹהִ֥ים אֲחֵרִ֖ים אֲשֶׁ֥ר לֹא־יְדַעְתֶּֽם

Gods who you didn't know/haven't experienced

This phrase is used again and again in requests to not listen to others who try and pull you into worshipping "gods you didn't know." The dangers around worshiping "gods you didn't know" or "gods you didn't experience before." All usages are past tense, as well. 

This line appears in Devarim 11:28, 13:3, 13:7, and 13:14.

My immediate thought here is ... does this mean we can worship gods that are new to us? So no idols of Avraham's father but yes to all the others?

Why not just say clearly and definitively, "Don't worship other gods"? Period. Full stop. 

Why the "lo yadata" and "lo yadatem" ... that you didn't know? 

Let's say that the idea here is that the Israelites are supposed to focus on the Gd they do know rather than gods they didn't or don't know. This may be the point of the language because the whole of Sefer Devarim is one big reminder of all the things HaShem did for the Israelites. There is one Gd, HaShem, and He's the end-all, be-all. 

I took you out of Egypt! 

I fed you manna!

I kept you! 

I'm giving you this land!

I promised you'd be numerous as the stars in the sky! 

Look at all I did for you! 

You know me. You didn't know them. You don't know them. 

Maybe? 

It still doesn't sit well with me. There's something uncomfortable about this line that I just don't like or love. Something uncertain and unnecessary. 

What do you think? Let me know your thoughts in the comments!

Ner Chanukah: A Mitzvah Chaviva

I wrote this little d'var Torah (thoughts on the Torah) for Chanukah for one of the local synagogues and thought I'd share here, too! Enjoy.

Rambam says that the Chanukah lights are a mitzvah chaviva hi ad meod, or an exceedingly precious or cherished mitzvah (Hilchot Megillah v'Chanukah 4:12). This description didn’t strike me just because, well, my name is Chaviva, but because this type of language isn’t used for other mitzvot (commandments). So why is lighting the Chanukiyah considered a mitzvah chaviva? We have to start by looking back at Aharon and the Menorah.

Bonus: What's the Difference Between a Menorah and a Chanukiyah?

In Parashat Behaalotecha, we’re told that Aharon is commanded to light the Menorah in the Mishkan, and that “he did so” (Numbers 8:3). Although Aharon’s tribe had been the only one not to participate in gift giving to the Mishkan, the Kohen Gadol had many other vital responsibilities and, let’s be honest, Aharon did sacrifice his sons in the process. But perhaps he still felt a little jilted. After all, the Midrash says that each gift was spiritually specific and significant to each tribe. Perhaps Aharon felt that others were more whole after giving, perhaps in a way that he couldn’t be despite his service. Enter HaShem, who tasks Aharon with the Menorah.

Aharon saw this mitzvah as chavivut and did exactly as HaShem commanded, which, according to Rashi, was a compliment to Aharon and signified that he was uniquely qualified for this job. Just as the Menorah is made from a single block of gold, so, too, do all Jews originate at the same source. By taking on the mitzvah of the Menorah precisely as HaShem commanded, Aharon embodied and delivered on the essence of what the Menorah symbolized — the unity of the Jewish people. As Pirkei Avot 1:12, says, “Be of the disciples of Aharon, loving peace and pursuing peace, loving mankind and drawing them close to the Torah.” 

From Aharon and the Menorah to the miracle of Chanukah and the rededication of the Holy Temple, we have the Chanukiyah. Although the mitzvah of lighting the Chanukiyah could be performed through a spouse, partner, or shaliach, it's such a precious and cherished mitzvah that — like Aharon with the Menorah — we each want to perform it ourselves and thus are commanded to do so. We each want to feel responsible for this mitzvah and to embody what the Chanukiyah symbolizes. After all, this is the one time in the Jewish calendar that we can be a literal light unto the nations!

On this Chanukah, more than any other in recent memory, we must be a light and bring about the unity that this holiday symbolizes. We must light every night, with a care for our fellow — for their health and safety as well as our own. We must pursue justice and peace through a fire that brings light and guides all on the path forward and not a fire that burns down the world around us, leaving us in darkness and chaos. We must be the disciples of Aharon and fulfill the mitzvah of ner Chanukah — this mitzvah chaviva hi ad meod — with a sense of collective responsibility and the pursuit of a unified Jewish people.

May we all be safe, healthy, and content as we enter the darkest months of the year. Although we can’t be together as we would all love to be, everything comes from HaShem and everything that comes from HaShem is good. This, too, must be for the good. Chag Sameach!

Lech Lecha and Then?

The view from here. 

This week's Torah portion (aka parshah) is the classic trope for converts the world over: Lech Lecha.

At the ripe age of 75 years old, Avram (that's his name before he becomes Avraham) is commanded by G-d to leave home, to go forth from your land and your father's house, from everything you've ever known, to a land that will be revealed. Avram puts the ultimate trust in HaShem to guide him, but not without plenty of bumps and "hold on a second" moments along the way.

The promise, HaShem says, is that he will multiply Avram and bless him and his progeny and curse those who curse Avram and his kin.

The reason this parshah is so outstanding and emotional for converts is because Avram is, for all intents and purposes, the first willing convert. He hears G-d's calling and says, "Sure, let's do this" willingly and wholeheartedly while holding fast to his nature to battle with G-d over the things that he doesn't understand or agree with (just think about Sodom and Gemorah in Bereshit 18).

For me, this portion has always held a near and dear place, because coming from a place where I didn't know or grow up with any Jews, the "calling" (if you can even call it that) came as much from within as from without and the moment I felt it, life changed indescribably forever.

At this point in my life, where I think of myself so much less as a convert and more as just another Jew trying to find the right path and living how HaShem wants and needs me to, how do I relate to Lech Lecha?

Well, I'm mere days away from my one-year anniversary of aliyah (moving to Israel). Officially, the anniversary is October 16, I can't think of a more appropriate parshah.

Like Avram, I felt a calling (for years, folks, since at least 2008) to make Israel my home. I was being called to this land that was a mystery to me, even after frequent visits. The promise of finding a mate and starting a proper family stood waiting for me. So I packed up, left the land of my father, and arrived to the place that HaShem seemed to need me.

What happened? I was mated and started "multiplying" almost instantly. The amount of people I know who moved to Israel and got pregnant after some time of trying is equally astounding. There is something to be said to HaShem's promise to Avraham Avinu (our father), which continues to benefit the Jewish people thousands of years later.

Avram might have been the first to leave his comfort, his family, and start anew at the will of G-d, but modern aliyah is a true nod in the direction of the trope of Avram. It's hard, it's complicated, and we all end up screaming and crying in HaShem's general direction because of the roller coaster of emotions, finances, and reality that Israel really does do everything in her power to chew us up and spit us out. But we also learn to appreciate and experience the sense of community and family, the angels in our midst who would bend over backwards to make us feel at home, loved, cared for, and wanted.

Aliyah is not for everyone, but then again, not everyone can be an Avram, either.

So how do you bring Lech Lecha into your every day life? How do you go forth into the great unknown -- be it personally, emotionally, at work or at home? 

Shabbat Shalom everyone!

The Syndrome: Jewish Mother Martyrdom

The past week was particularly challenging for me, between getting over being horribly sick, preparing for Shabbat, and struggling with the financial reality that we still have not rented out our old apartment meaning our bank account is quite unhappy and my stress levels are super high. By the time Shabbat rolled in, things were tense and all I could think was that those angels were showing up as I lit the candles and they were not happy with what they saw and this week is going to be a mess, right?

After lighting I curled up on the couch with the boys off at synagogue and opened up the book I'm reading at the moment, One Baby Step at a Time: Seven Secrets of Jewish Motherhood, and there it was, I was up to the middle of a chapter and a piece called "Winning Shabbat" followed by a chapter called "What We Need to be Happy."

Sometimes, HaShem hands us exactly what we need when we need it.

In "Winning Shabbat," the author Chana Weisberg talks about perspective. As I get more pregnant, I think more and more about how this baby is going to arrive and all of the housekeeping and working and being a good wife is going to fall by the wayside and how it's going to grate my "must do everything right and immediately and constantly" nerves.

I was born for Jewish mother martyrdom, you see. My default in anything and everything is knowing how to best do anything (after all, I'm a master Googler).

Citing Rebbetzin Yemima Mizrachi, the author writes,

"We must decide that the work we do is a teruma, an offering that we give with joy to God, rather than a temura, something that we do for other people with the expectation that we are going to get something in return."

It's about overcoming our nature.

"It reminds me of how our Sages teach that Sarah was barren for many years because she ahd been born without a womb. And then, when she was ninety years old, after a life of praying and doing good deeds, God rewarded her with a pregnancy -- without a womb!"

The gist is that if we learn to overcome our nature, whether it's a tendency toward jealousy or grouchiness, miraculous things can happen (look at Chana, too!). My nature these days is one of "I must do everything" and "Things only get done right when I do them." It's the Jewish mother martyrdom nature that I really, really have to learn to step back from. After an amazing dinner out with friends, things got calmer, things were talked out, I shared the chapters I'd been reading with Mr. T, and the tension that Shabbat came in with dissipated.

(I also have to say that it was an appropriate week to read this with the Torah portion of the week, Noah. One of the big discussions about the portion is why Noah was viewed as so special, yet by the end of the portion he gets drunk and is shamed. How did someone rise so high and fall so fast? We're taught that it's about perspective. Avraham walked before G-d, whereas Noah walked with G-d. Avraham was bold and outspoken when it came to his fellow man. Noah simply obeyed, didn't question anything, and waited for permission for anything to happen. Noah didn't have the right perspective, you see.)

Reading over the essays in the next chapter about finding happiness and figuring out what we (mommies, women in general) to get everything done but still have our special, happy place.

"The greatest gift we can give our families (and ourselves) is a mother who is thriving physically, spiritually, and emotionally."

So I've been thinking. What do (or will) I need to stay sane and happy so I can be the best Jewish woman possible and the best mother possible?

The author talks about needing a few hours to spend on Torah a week, to not make cooked dinners every night of the week, and to have a cleaning lady once a week.

The funny thing is, her needs greatly resemble mine.

Last week I kept telling myself "You're going to sit down with the weekly Torah portion, learn it, devour it, and blog about it like you used to." When I was living in Washington DC and Chicago back in 2006-07, I devoted my late-night, post-Washington Post work nights to a coffee shop and the weekly parshah. It fulfilled me, it kept me feeling academically minded while I wasn't in school, and it gave me perspective on my Jewishness on a weekly basis.

It gave me strength.

When I was in grad school in Connecticut, I had tons of Jewish learning happening all the time, because I was both in grad school and working on my Orthodox conversion. When I hit NYU and life started crumbling, I still had my classes, I still had Jewish thinking and learning, and felt like I was giving back to myself but also fulfilling a major happiness need.

Since then, it's been tough. I've been trying to figure out what it is that I need to be happy, while also being a stellar wife and future mama.

As I figure out what I need to be happy (scheduled blogging time, an evening of pleasure cooking, once a week in a coffee shop working, and so on), I'm curious what those of you out there -- whether you're a hard-working woman trying to find time for yourself or a mother of many who can't seem to find a moment to herself -- need to be happy. Have you even thought about it?

My last piece from reading so far? This little morsel from Rebbetzin Feige Twerski:

"Grow where you are planted." Recognize that the life you have is not arbitrary, but orchestrated from above and hence is, at this moment, the context to which you must bring your finest efforts. 

Terumah: Just a Thought

Before we purchased this couch, we invested in Torah.

This week's parshah (Torah portion) is Terumah, in which HaShem commands us to build the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary and dwelling place, as the Israelites travel through the desert. The Mishkan became the Holy Temple, and after the Second Temple fell in 70 CE, the Jewish home became the central dwelling place for HaShem.

Driving down any street where new construction is going up you'll see the shells of homes under construction. We start with the bones of a building and construct it inward, with the knickknacks, drapes, color combinations, bookshelves, and family photos all coming in at the end stages of construction.

In this week's parshah, however, we see that the first aspect of construction was the ark -- the resting place of Torah -- and then come the various vessels, the walls, and finally the framework.

What does it all mean? Why do we build our homes hafuch? (That's the name of a popular take on coffee in Israel, which just means upside down or inside out.)

When we build a home, we must place Torah at the center of everything before we begin to build anything else. Before we pick out towel colors or bathroom mats, before we pick out a couch or decide on plate patterns, Torah must have been placed at the center of the relationship.

If anything, Mr. T and I placed Torah on the ground floor of our relationship before building or exploring the everyday, seemingly monotonous aspects of our future together. Can you imagine first dates talking seriously and passionately about tzedakah and minhagim (traditions)? With a Torah-based marriage, you're setting yourself up for a dwelling place for the shechinah (the presence of HaShem). Until the Holy Temple is rebuilt, the Jewish home is the best and most important way we can express our dedication to HaShem, Am Yisrael, and, ultimately, each other.

So, what do you think about it?

Parshat Shoftim: The Role of Rabbi

As I so often do when it comes to the weekly Torah portion, I'm looking into the archives for inspiration because this week -- nay, this month -- has been busy and I'm finally feeling the strangle-hold loosen. One major event and one major project at work have come and closed (well, except the project, which was my baby of online course registration for the first time at my job, but it's up-and-running, which is all I really wanted).

Even still, as Shabbos nears, there are a million and one thoughts pouncing around in my braincage, so hoo-rah for the archives of this here blog. These thoughts come from 2006, believe it or not, just a few months after this blog got legs and started walking. Back then, I was wholly devoted to the weekly parshah. After a late night of copy editing at The Washington Post, or on a quiet day off, I'd wander to a Dupont Circle coffee shop with my chumash and read the entire portion, taking notes along the way in a steno notebook. Those were the days. Straight from August 2006, I give you ...

---

One: Some Elul thoughts, or A month of rabbis on Elul

From Chabad.org (probably my MOST favorite site):

"It is like a king who, before he enters the city, the people of the city go out to greet him in the field. There, everyone who so desires is permitted to meet him; he receives them all with a cheerful countenance and shows a smiling face to them all. And when he goes to the city, they follow him there. Later, however, after he enters his royal palace, none can enter into his presence except by appointment, and only special people and select individuals. So, too, by analogy, the month of Elul is when we meet G-d in the field..." (Likkutei Torah, Re'ei 32b; see also Likkutei Sichot, vol II p. 632 ff.)

Further:

"In Elul, teshuvah is no longer a matter of cataclysmic 'moments of truth' or something to be extracted from the depths of the prayerbook. It is as plentiful and accessible as air: we need only breath deeply to draw it into our lungs and send it coursing through our veins. And with Elul comes the realization that, like air, teshuvah is our most crucial resource, our very breath of spiritual life."

Note: Reading this last line made my eyes well up. I know that most of you don't know me, and I don't know you, and that the web is a place where we come and go as we please in and out of the lives of others -- nameless and faceless -- so I don't expect you to understand how powerful the idea of teshuvah is for someone like me. But if you have the slightest notion of what it means to truly need something, to need hope in order to even imagine carrying on another day, then you understand this idea of the "very breath of spiritual life."

Two: Parshat Shoftim

Shabbat Shalom. This week, Moses instructs the appointment of those who will pursue and enforce justice. In every generation, according to Moses, there will be those entrusted with the task of interpreting and applying the laws of the Torah. This parsha has quite the place in modern Judaism, and an article I read last night in Tikkun really makes this hit home. The article discussed the modernization of Judaism, the evolvement from priests to rabbis to lay people. The latter, of course, being the modern application of those entrusted with leading services and minchas.

It wasn't rare at my shul back home [Referring to South Street Temple in Lincoln, NE] to have a lay person lead services, delivering the sermon and bringing the Torah out. It was strange, to me, though it also was relaxing, as I could paint myself in that picture up on the bima. At the same time, I worry about the future of the rabbi in modern Judaism. Orthodox and Hasidism seem to have a pretty tight rein on the idea of the rabbi -- they are, as Moses foresaw, those entrusted with "interpreting and applying" laws of Torah. The article stressed the importance of an academic Jewry that could serve as lay leadership, interpreting and applying the laws. Analyzing them to bits for blogs and sermons on Saturday mornings. Is this the next step of the teacher evolution?

There's nothing wrong with lay-led services, but the rabbi's purpose is ever so important. Rabbis (those trained, anyhow) serve as encyclopedias of every cubit (har har) of Judaism, from Rashi to Maimonides to the Baal Shem Tov to Moses. Rabbis I've encountered may not know everything, but their passion for exploring and teaching and interpreting the laws of Torah are astounding. Lay leaders are often very involved in shul activities, serving on trustees boards and donating large sums to the local Yeshiva or Birthright foundations. They often have a deep-seeded need to participate in the community, Torah studies and shul choirs. But lay leaders also tend to be businessmen/women, journalists, artists, computer scientists, engineers, doctors, etc. Rabbis have the chance to hone their skills and focus on one thing -- Torah, Judaism, halakah. Lay leaders already have so much on their plate without tossing responsibilities of rabbinic duties on top.

Maybe it is preemptive, but the article made me wonder. Is this the evolution of our sages, scholars and teachers in modern Judaism? Are rabbis an endangered species, not from a lack of interest but because lay leaders are taking the reins?

Note: This piece of the post was interesting to me especially after a rather tenuous conversation that occurred on Facebook last month (or was it earlier this month?) where I posed the question of a rabbi's role outside of Orthodoxy, where rulings on halachic matters require an almost constant attention of every moment of every day in a frum person's life. Perhaps I answered my own question without even knowing it. 

Parshat Re'eh: To State or Not to State

On Thursday I had the pleasure of talking about this week's parshah in our weekly Stand Up staff meeting. This is the quick and dirty of what I talked about, and I hope it gives you some serious food for thought.

First, I offered up a quick summary of what is offered up in parshat Re'eh:

• Blessings & curses (shout it from the mountains!)
• But what about bechira hofshi (free will)? Rabbi Akiva in Avot 3:19 said, “Though everything is foreseen by G-d, yet free will is granted to man.” 
• Re’eh is singular -- "You see" -- putting emphasis on the individual.
• Rules for living in Eretz Yisrael (centralized worship)
• One note: When in mourning, you cannot physically harm yourself. 
• Don't become a Canaanite (false prophets and idols are not cool)
• Review of kashrut (you heard them at Sinai, so hear them again)
• Tithing (that's 10 percent of one's annual produce)
• Shmitah year (let the land rest, yo)
• Laws of Passover, Sukkot, and Shavuot (pilgrimage and sacrifice -- according to your means)

Then I got into the meat of what either Matters to Chavi or is Bothering Chavi. I started with Devarim 17:14-15,

When you enter the land the Lord your God is giving you and have taken possession of it and settled in it, and you say, “Let us set a king over us like all the nations around us,” be sure to appoint over you a king the Lord your God chooses. He must be from among your fellow Israelites. Do not place a foreigner over you, one who is not an Israelite. 

I tied this to something I actually posted here on the blog in this post from July 17 about the decision to make aliyah and the challenges I was facing.

There is a positive, biblical commandment to dwell in Eretz Yisrael, as it says, "You shall possess it and dwell in it" (Devarim 17:14, 26:1). (Sefer Chareidim, Mitzvot Asei HaTeluyot B'Eretz Israel, chap. I, sec 15.) 

Chazal (חז"ל acronym for Chachameinu Zichronam Livracha -- “Our sages, may their memory be blessed”) say that this mitzvah is equal to all the mitzvot of the Torah (Sifrei, Re'eh 28), and it is one of the 613 mitzvot according to the Ramban.

And then I posted The Big Question: What does this mean for the Land of Israel today? Are we rushing a good thing?

This question is based on the understanding of many Hasidic dynasties who have expressed anti-Zionist opinions because of the "Three Oaths" -- found in Talmud Tractate Ketubot 111a -- by which all Jews are bound.  This discussion comes from the book Vayoel Moshe written in 1961 by Satmar Rabbi Yoel Teitelbaum, who, by the way, was living in Israel at the time. The title of the book states very plainly the rabbi's stance in opposition to the State of Israel,

"And Moses agreed to stay ... an alien in a foreign land" (Exodus 2:21).  

Moses agreed to stay an alien in foreign land, so we should to, right?

So the "Three Oaths" discussion comes from a passage from Shir haShirim in which God made the Israelites promise "to wait for Him before arousing his love" as King Solomon pleaded -- three times -- with the daughters of Israel not to stir “his love” before the time is due. So what are the "Three Oaths" that dictate why we shouldn't have established a State of Israel (beyond, of course, the obvious statement that the State of Israel is a secular, heathen place failing in its Judaism):

1. Do not ascend to Eretz Yisrael as a group using force
2. Do not rebel against the nations of the world
3. The nations of the world will not persecute the nation of Israel excessively (guessing PEOPLE/Am Yisrael)

So, what do you think? Are we rushing things? How do we reconcile the knowledge that the Torah tells us to possess and dwell in the land but that it was meant, perhaps, for the most immediate of generations (aka those that actually did enter and possess the land)? Do Hasidim have footing upon which to stand with the whole "we're rushing it, and this is the reason Mashiach hasn't come yet" argument?

Balaam and the Place of Teshuva

This week's Torah portion is unique. It is the only parshah in which we have to take Moshe's word for what happened because no other Yisraelim were present. It's also one of the few parshiyot in which there is a non-Israelite prophet speaking on behalf of HaShem -- and he only has good things to say. (The rabbis say that there were seven non-Israelite prophets.)

In a nutshell: Balak the Moabite is freaked out, so he hires Balaam (a well-known sorcerer) to curse the Israelites. Balaam goes off to get his curse on, when HaShem interjects (through the talking donkey!) and fills his mouth with a whole bunch of positive prophecy. Balak sends a bunch of Moabite women to seduce the Israelites, it works for a bunch of them, resulting in their deaths and Phinehas doing something rockstar-like.

So what's interesting to me in this week's parshah? Well, there's the fact that Ruth -- Judaism's beloved convert and the line of the Messiah -- is descended from Balak (his great, great, great, great something or other granddaughter, to be precise). As the story goes, Ruth was blessed with becoming an Israelite because of the one thing that Balak might have done right (the 42 sacrifices he offered while trying to sway HaShem's opinion, even though Balak was using it as bribery rather than tribute). I guess, from my perspective, it appears that Ruth had to do some major teshuva for being descended from some pretty callous and hateful individuals.

No, to focus on the convert would be predictable (and not so interesting). Thus, I want to focus on the idea that HaShem is always with Israel.

"No harm is in sight for Jacob,
No woe in view for Israel,
The Lord their God is with them (יי אלהיו עמו)
And their king's acclaim in their midst." (Numbers 23:21)

On this, the Baal Shem Tov quipped,

"A Jew is never alone: Every place he goes and everywhere he stops -- Adonai, his God is with him."

So, what do you think? Is a Jew ever alone? The amount of mitzvoth to which we are commanded would suggest that if HaShem isn't always with us, then we sure as well better think HaShem is with us. It's a hyperconscious way of life, to always feel and know that HaShem is there. Women are gifted with tzniut and men with tzitzit. Physical incarnations of reminders. (And yes, there are many more, but those are the basics.)

Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotsk said in this regard,

"A person who goes through life with a commitment to the Godly, the Heavenly King resides with him; if he does act sinfully then the Holy One does not take a great note of it." (Rashi similarly said: "The Holy One does not see the sins of Jacob, - when they transgress His words, He does not investigate after them.") 

So, living a life committed to the hyperconsciousness of the ever-presence of HaShem in our lives grants us a little ... "get out of jail free" card? 

Rabbi Israel Rhizin said that even when a Jew sins, 

"even in the depths of depravity there remains within him a spark of godliness; a speck of the light of t'shuvah still flickers in his heart -- even at the time of sin. "

Basically, HaShem gives us a lot of credit, respect, and holds an eternal hope for us. You can always come back, Judaism says. HaShem has been holding out for us to get our you-know-what together for a long time. Don't we owe it already?

The idea of teshuvah is something that's very important to me these days. Like any Jew who has gone astray, I'm in a mode of hardcore teshuvah. I've made mistakes, I've made stupid stupid stupid mistakes that I knew were wrong. And yet, for some reason, HaShem stayed with me and guided me back and is gifting me with amazing happiness and insight into who I am and where I'm going. 

Even in my stupidest moments, HaShem was with me. So I would be inclined to take Balaam's prophecy with much truth and confidence. I can only hope that Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotsk was right and that my sins were put in Column Z and not Column A. 

To Prep You for the Parshah ...

This week's parshah is Acharei-Kedoshim, which is chock full of mitzvoth. When it comes to the commandments, there are huge discussions to be had about the laws from the Torah versus mitzvoth from the Rabbis, as well as the "fences" that the ultra-Orthodox build around the basic halachot (laws).

This story is my favorite example of the mitzvoth in Judaism:

As a seminary student in Israel, my wife and her friends had to cook their own meals. One evening, as my wife was about to broil a chicken, a roommate stopped her, horrified at what was happening. "Don't you know that you can't cook a chicken whole, that you must remove the legs first?" her friend exclaimed. 

My wife had never heard of such a thing, and neither had the few rabbis they spoke with about it the next day. So the roommate asked her mother why she cooked chicken that way. Her mother said that she had copied her own mother who was fastidious in the observance of kashrut laws. So they asked the grandmother: "Why did you always cut the legs off the chicken?" 

"Simple," she explained, "There wasn't enough room in the pan!"

Then again, when it comes to fences, as Vayikra 18:30 says, "guard my guardings" (וּשְׁמַרְתֶּם אֶת מִשְׁמַרְתִּי) ... which suggests, perhaps, HaShem wanted us to put up some fences. The question is: How many? How big are those fences?

Also: Every time I go to someone's house for the first time and observe their own minhagim (tradition) quirks, I wonder and ask where they came from. Often times, people don't know. It makes me wonder how easy it would be for me to simply create a tradition, to build a fence around a mitzvah and make it standard. Oh the options!

Parshat Terumah: Giving & Taking

This week's parshah begins with something very near and dear to the heart of the Jewish community: contribution. HaShem says to the Israelites, “Take for Me (vayikchu-li) an offering from every person whose heart inspires him to generosity" in preparation for the construction of the mishkan, the tabernacle that will be carried throughout the desert and eventually will lead to the building of the Beit haMikdash, the holy Temple.

It's a particular word spin, and I hope it makes you pause. The Big Man speaks, saying we should take from ourselves -- but only if we're inspired! The verb that's used does not mean give, it means quite literally to take, which also is peculiar because how does one take of himself or from himself? How does one provide a contribution on command and guarantee that it's genuinely inspired?

Very little of giving today happens on demand. HaShem doesn't call us on Super Sunday and say we have to give to our local federations or that the local Jewish retirement facility needs funds so we must give. And even if that did happen, would we? What compels us to give? Is it the action of taking of ourselves rather than giving of ourselves? It becomes a two-way street when you take something from your own life, from your own lot, and provide it for others. When you give, it's less so.

I want to start using more folktales on the blog (and really, who doesn't), so let's start with this one, a Yiddish one, that offers perspective on the difference between "giving" and "taking."

"Yankel the Cheapskate" would not give money to anyone, for any reason. It didn't matter how important the cause. No one could crack him. He just wouldn't contribute. One day, Yankel was crossing the river in a small boat. Suddenly, a huge storm breaks out, and his boat capsizes. Luckily, another boat approached. The sailor calls out to him: "Give me your hand. Give me your hand."

Yankel can barely hear him over the strong winds and the roaring waves. He hears only one word, over and over: "Give, Give..."

And good old Yankel can't help himself. He yells back: "No. I don't give. I don't give."

Again: "Yankel, give me your hand! Give me your hand." And again Yankel screams: "Never. I don't give."

Finally, in desperation, the rescuer yells: "Yankel, take my hand." And Yankel says: "Oh, take? Sure."

I think that this week's parshah offers a spin on what we considering taking. To take something from someone else benefits the self, so perhaps HaShem knew that asking the Israelites to take of themselves would give them a chance to feel a part of the building of the mishkan. No matter how poor or rich, old or young, everyone provided for the construction. Everyone took of themselves to put into the construction of a dwelling place for the shechinah (the divine presence of HaShem). 

An old adage says that "A fool gives, a wise person takes." Be the wise person and whenever you offer a contribution or gift, make sure that you're taking of yourself and not just giving. Okay? Okay. 

That's your public service announcement for Shabbat. If you want more on the awesome goodness that is tzedakah, I suggest you check out Maimonides Eight Levels of Charity, which is fascinating. 

Breaking Through the Darkness

In 2007, I wrote, regarding this week's Torah portion:

Having never read through the Bible/Torah before, even in my youth (I was raised w/o religion, essentially), I was unfamiliar with some of the plagues. Perhaps the one I was most unfamiliar with is the Ninth Plague -- darkness. The sages surmise that it wasn't physical darkness, such as that brought by a sandstorm or eclipse, but rather that it was "a spiritual or psychological darkness, a deep depression." The Torah reads, "People could not see one another, and for three days no one could get up from where he was" (Ex. 10:23). The commentary comments that people suffering from depression often lack the energy to move about or to concern themselves with others, focusing instead on themselves. Having nearly drowned in the sea of darkness that is depression myself, I read this and am completely overwhelmed. My mother and the man I love both suffer that which was plagued on the Egyptians. A darkness that comes and goes, though.


The commentary reads: "The person who cannot see his neighbor is incapable of spiritual growth, incapable of rising from where he is currently." Amid the Ninth Plague, "People could not see one another." The Catch 22 of depression is that, oftentimes, one feels so absolutely alone that he or she is driven into the depths of darkness where it is most lonely. Yet, if the person is incapable of seeing his or her neighbor to begin with, and within darkness is also unable to see his or her neighbor, what is to release them so that they can attain spiritual growth?


One of the hardest lessons that I'm learning after my divorce, my move, and my new relationship is knowing that I'm not alone. So many people have supported me through everything, and there have been so many expressions of love, support, and outreach, but when you're stuck in your aloneness and loneliness, those are hard spaces of darkness out of which to break.

Taylor reminds me, almost daily, that I am not alone -- "After all," he says, "Isn't this why we have each other?"

My dialogue with HaShem is continuous, and many of my prayers are for strength, peace, and guidance. I'm slowly rising from the darkness that I have known for so long, and it starts with realizing that I am not alone, despite how much I feel that. It's like an arrested development. At some point, I was faced with being alone, worthless, the wish that I had never been born vocalized outside myself. I'm attempting to remove myself from that arrested status emotionally and mentally.

I would guess that this plague, the plague of darkness, was the most painful and heartbreaking of them all. I wish such a plague upon no one and only hope that we all can learn from darkness and remember that the one thing that HaShem truly asks of us is to bring light into this world. And that light arises from our neshamot. Be true to yourself, let your neshama shine through, light the fire and let it grip the world around you into brightness.

Your Friendly Parshah Thought

This week's Torah portion is Beshalach and includes that fateful moment of the splitting of the Sea of Reeds and Israel's redemption from the Egyptians, as well as the subsequent rave on the other side led by none other than Miriam and the ladies (did you remember you glow sticks?). I could say a lot about the portion, but I'll merely share the following. It's food for thought, delicious, nutritious, sustaining thought.

On Ex. 14:14: "The Lord will battle for you; you hold your peace," the notes in the Etz Chayim Tanakh offer a poignant interpretation of this line saying, "G-d will support and defend you -- but only when you stop quarreling among yourselves. A united people merits G-d's intervention." It's that second line that strikes me, particularly. It takes a people united to gain intervention of G-d, obviously. Is the intervention an allusion to Moshiach? But is this only the peace of the Israelites that grants intervention? G-d intervenes, saving the Israelites, but the rest of the world (assumingly) is not at peace. Is this a selective thing?

Most importantly, does it imply that perhaps when there is peace within the Jewish community that intervention will arrive? Perhaps G-d isn't just sitting idly by, perhaps he's waiting? "A united people merits G-d's intervention."

Indeed. (This was adapted from a blog post, B'Shelach: The Parting of the Sea of Reeds.)

Note: Thank you to everyone for your support on the jDeal.com Battle of the Bloggers competition -- I won! I'm now the jDeal.com Ambassador 2011! Stay tuned for awesomeness

I Choose You ... PikaJew!

From this week's parshah,

(17) You have selected the Lord this day, to be your God, and to walk in His ways, and to observe His statutes, His commandments and His ordinances, and to obey Him. (18) And the Lord has selected you this day to be His treasured people, as He spoke to you, and so that you shall observe all His commandments.

I wrote about this back in 2007, and it's interesting because I feel much the same about this particular section of the parshah as I did then. I have bolded the sections "You have selected HaShem this day" and "HaShem has selected you this day," because, for me, as a convert, this is incredibly poignant, especially during this super special month of Elul (renewal, reflection, reconsideration). As someone who literally chose Judaism and HaShem, these words sing to me.

The interesting this is that clearly, HaShem chose me first (for converts, the understanding is that you are born with a Jewish neshama and that it takes time for the neshama to sort of, crawl out -- like "Alien," but less creepy), and I chose to choose HaShem, embracing the agressive neshama within. However, the fact that it says "this day" suggests something further. A constant, perpetual, renewing choice. Every day I wake up, I choose HaShem, I choose Judaism. I choose to say my morning blessings, to cover my hair, to put on a nice tzniut (modest) outfit, to eat kosher and say my blessings over foods, to treat others in the way of a mensch, etc. The way this is worded -- and I think everything in the Torah is worded so very precisely, with a specific, basic meaning -- suggests that we must choose to be Jews every day, chose to carry ourselves in a certain way, and that, in turn, HaShem chooses us back.

All of that being said, it's a weird choice to make daily. I quipped in 2007 that "I'm sure I'm not the first to admit that the compelling pull of Judaism is as indescribable as is the idea of Noah's flood." That, I'm sure, makes sense to many of you. It is almost as if ... even if I would wake up tomorrow and say, "I'm done, no more Judaism for me," the pull would be so intense that I wouldn't be able to walk away, no matter how hard I would try.

About these verses Rashi says,

you have selected; has selected you ~ Heb. הֶאמִיר‏ְ We do not find any equivalent expression in the Scriptures [which might give us a clue to the meaning of these words]. However, it appears to me that [the expression הֶאמִיר] denotes separation and distinction. [Thus, here, the meaning is as follows:] From all the pagan deities, you have set apart the Lord for yourself, to be your God, and He separated you to Him from all the peoples on earth to be His treasured people. 

Conclusion? I think Rashi would agree with me.

Lesson? Choose Judaism, choose your path (if it's not Judaism, then, choose what makes your heart sing, just do it with all of your heart and soul), and you'll be chosen in return.

Shabbat Shalom!

Balak: Retro-style.

Because I'm too insanely busy schlepping things back and forth from Connecticut to the Poconos and today to New Jersey (where I'll happily be reunited with Husband Tuvia), I don't have much time to review the parshah and put some decent, practical thought to it. So, I've looked back THREE YEARS (good lord, I can't believe I've been sustaining this blog that long) to this post, and I've pasted below a portion of the blog post's thoughts on this week's parshah, Balak. Enjoy!

I don't have much (if anything) to say expressly about Balak, this week's Torah portion. The only sort of thought-invoking bit of commentary in Etz Chayim is in regards to Balak's urging for the curse on the Israelites and Balaams persistent relaying of G-d's message that you cannot curse those who are blessed.

The text cites the Baal Shem Tov, who said "A Jew is never alone. G-d is always with every Jew." Then there is Abraham Joshua Heschel (not cited here, but all the same), who said "The Jew is never alone in the face of G-d; the Torah is always with him." Is G-d with us? Torah with us? Neither? Either? Both? Are they one in the same?

I was watching this episode of "Whose Wedding Is It Anyway?" on Style last night, and I was taken by one of the stories. It was a couple who had hastened their wedding vows after they'd started dating. Why? Well, she was diagnosed with an incredibly rare form of leukemia (.5-two people diagnosed each year worldwide) and given three-five years to live. She surpassed the time frame and six years after the diagnosis met the man. His story was that he'd been in a horrible car accident on an exit ramp on the freeway and had walked away. Less than a week later, because of a concussion and emotional trauma from the other accident, he rammed his car into the back of a city truck, completely decimating his vehicle and causing his near death. Then they met, realizing that they both were sort of knocking on heaven's door, fell in love, and got engaged. I don't consider it a miracle or necessarily a gift from G-d that either of them are bright, shining people who are giving back with a cancer scholarship and countless philanthropic activities -- they are the epitome of the perfect romance. However, I have to think that perhaps the everyday presence of G-d maintains some balance, some equilibrium. Then again, I don't even know if these two people were religious -- let alone Jewish (not that that matters).

If you Google "A Jew is never alone" ... you receive (at present) 76 entries (though only about 20 *really* show up). Many are variations on the Baal Shem Tov's famous words. Then there's random expressions of the Jew and his loneliness: "The Yarmulke is a constant reminder that a Jew is never alone. He walks with G-d. It is a feeling of assurance and comfort" (Jlaw.com).

It would seem that the Jew is never alone -- be it G-d or the yarmulke as a reminder of G-d or the mitzvot and laws of G-d in Torah. I imagine it is whether we accept or deny this as such. Does the denial of the constant presence make those moments in which we pray hard and fast for the protection of a sick relative or lover that much more effective and strong -- in OUR eyes? I often look at the religious Jew, he who is constantly swimming in Torah and wonder if -- when there are moments of desperation -- he feels as effective and firm and hopeful in his prayers as he who perhaps only calls on G-d in moments of crises. The constant presence may dull the effectiveness (in our minds, that is), nu? On the other hand, acknowledging the constant presence might allow us to take G-d for granted, to not appreciate the peace of mind.

Okay, so I lied. I had plenty to say about this tiny little quip of the Baal Shem Tov. I just didn't anticipate it.

For what it's worth, about 200 results come about today. That's quite a few more than three years ago. It's an interesting reflection on who I was three years ago, saying "I often look at the religious Jew ..." and here I am, now, a religious Jew. I think I can answer that question: Yes. Yes she does feel as effective and firm and hopeful in her prayers as those individuals who only call on G-d in moments of crises. That she is me, and I know how it feels.

I will add, however, that I feel quite blessed with all that I have in life. Those who once cursed me for who I am and how I choose to live my life be damned, because you can't curse the person who is blessed!

Here's an early Shabbat Shalom to you all. Stay tuned for upcoming posts on the illustrious Susanne Goldstone-Rosenhouse, recently named one of the awesome 36 Under 36 by The Jewish Week, as well as a blog post on Jewish truckers (yes, you read that right, it's an intrigue that I have after my many days of highway time these few weeks).

Man is a Tree of the Field

Tu B'Shevat cometh! I sort of feel like it's one of those chagim that becomes irrelevant or insignificant in the Diaspora. It's the kind of holiday that makes sense when you're lucky enough to be living in the Land of Israel, but when you're in the U.S. or somewhere else, it's difficult to connect. After all, here in Connecticut we had a big, blizzardy snowstorm yesterday that resulted in me nearly killing myself twice. I'll admit it looks beautiful outside, but it definitely doesn't compare at all to it being the New Year of Trees in the Jewish calendar. In Israel, this is the time in which the earliest-blooming trees start to show their flare. Jews mark the day -- which happens to fall on Shabbat this year, January 30 -- by eating fruits, including grapes, figs, pomegranates, olives, and dates; these all are fruits of Israel named in the Hebrew Bible/Torah.

We also remember, or we're supposed to, that "Man is a tree of the field" (Deut. 20:19). At least, that's what Chabad.org tells me. So what does it mean, that "Man is a tree of the field"? To me, it means that there is a field of HaShem's creation, and man is the tree in that field of creation, standing tall and firm through wind, rain, and everything else nature and HaShem throw our way. Trees are quite resilient, withstanding the pressure of heavy snow, the break of lightning, and the gale-force wind that blows houses and cars away like leaves. Also, trees stand firm through all seasons, going through cycles of life while firmly rooted in the earth. They lose leaves, gain leaves, stand dry and bare, and blossom beautifully. Man, too, is like a tree. We stand firmly, rooted in the religion and ways of our forefathers, our roots spread the world over, connected to each and every Jew so that together, with our roots intertwined, we can withstand all that history has thrown at us. As the seasons come and go, man also is like a tree. Our life-cycle events come and go. We grow sick, and healthy, we experience simchas of joy and beauty and instances of sadness and bareness. Our emotions and outlooks sway in the winds of change, but it is our roots that help us stand firm through even our darkest moments and heaviest storms.

Of course, I could be completely wrong. This is simply my understanding of the verse. As such, then, on Tu B'Shevat, those of us in the Diaspora must transplant ourselves to Israel, where the earliest blooming trees are starting to show their color and bounty, giving off new fruit and new hope. Thus, we, too, can stand as the tree of the field, remembering that there are cycles in life and that now is a time for us to bloom, to stand as tall as we can, showing our bounty and our pride in our roots and resilience.

At this time of newness and bounty, how do you understand the phrase, "Man is a tree of the field"? There are plenty of explanations on the web. Simply Google the phrase and see what you find!

Shabbat shalom, friends!

Note: You also might want to read something I wrote *WAY BACK* in 2006 about the roots of trees and standing during kaddish.

Parshah Ki Teitzei: Unite to Fight

This week's parshah, Ki Teitzei, comprises 74 of the 613 mitzvot found in the Torah. That's a big chunk of important stuff, if you ask me. Thus, I'd like to offer some thoughts -- but the thoughts of Rabbi Marc D. Angel in his weekly Angel for Shabbat column, delivered conveniently to my inbox. You can sign up for the mailing right here.

There is a [...] kind of hatred which is totally baseless. This is the hatred symbolized by Amalek. Amalek offered no justification for its opposition to Israel; it had nothing to gain by attacking the Israelites. Amalek was imbued with pure and undiluted anti-Israelite sentiments. This kind of hatred, so totally unfounded and irrational, is much more difficult to eradicate. Therefore, the Torah commands us to be exceedingly vigilant regarding this latter kind of hatred, typified by Amalek.

Sadly, this irrational hatred of Jews has been passed by Amalek throughout the generations, up to our own day. There are those who hate Jews, hate Israel with a blind, irrational hatred. They have nothing to gain from hurting us, and have no reason to cause us ill. Yet, they seem to be infected with a disease of hatred for which they cannot  be (or do not wish to be) cured. For them, Israel and the Jews are always wrong. Don't confuse them with facts.

Rabbinic tradition teaches that Israel can defeat Amalek by strengthening our own spiritual condition. When we live according to the highest teachings and values of Torah, when we live in a spirit of love and compassion, then we undermine the forces of Amalek.

This is not a theoretical discussion. The Jewish community needs to mobilize itself to uproot the forces of Amalek in our world. Baseless hatred against us will not simply disappear on its own. Oppression of Jews will not suddenly come to a halt through wishful thinking. Rather, we need to utilize all legitimate methods available to us to help eradicate anti-Semitism, and to work with all people of good will who share our dream of a world freed from irrational hatred, bigotry and violence.

I think this is a constant and important message. Although on the same note, across the Jewish blog-o-sphere these days, not to mention in everyday conversation and at Shabbat tables, people are talking about the dangerous and catastrophic infighting the greater Jewish community is facing. Am Yisrael is suffering, but not from what's going on around us, what's going on within us. How can we unite to fight our enemies if we can't get over our differences as Jews? So let's quit opressing one another and focusing on uplifting ourselves spiritually to fight the "forces of Amalek" that the rabbi talks about. We're an everlasting people. It's time we acted like it!

A Little White Lie

I was delighted last week with the Torah portion, Acharei-Kedoshim. We were discussing it at shul when I met with the rabbi and during a discussion of the casting off of sins on the head of the goat, we got into the whole "scape goat derives from this" discussion. It wasn't so much of a discussion as a mention, but as the rabbi related more to the story about the red string tied around the goat's neck turning red after it was thrown off the cliff ... wait. What? I stopped the rabbi.

"This isn't in the Torah text, is it?" I inquired. "Yes, yes it is," the rabbi responded.

I didn't have a chumash handy, so I continued, thinking maybe I'd forgotten the text. After all, it had been a year since I last read the portion and was mostly going off memory. The rabbi explained that someone would take the goat out to a cliff, and chuck it over with a string attached to its neck. Once this red string turned white, the person could go back to the camp and tell the Israelites that they were kosher, their sins were atoned for. This got me thinking that if the text is where we derive the scape goat term, then maybe this is also where we get the concept of a "white lie." We discussed whether every year, without fail, the string turned from red to white. It was the messenger's duty to return to the camp from the cliff to say "Bravo! You passed the test! You're sin-free!" But what if it didn't turn white. What would the messenger do? Would he lie to the people? After all, it wasn't so much important that they were all clear and free, but rather that they kept believing in the idea of the act. So, it was suggested, maybe every now and again the messenger came back and had to tell a lie -- but it was a good lie, it kept the people strong, hopeful, and believing. It was, in essence, a "white lie."

I asked the rabbi what he thought about the concept, and he thought it was an interesting suggestion. So I've been waiting for about a week to look into it. Needing a break from my paper on the illustrious (not) Imma Shalom, I Googled the parshah to make sure the text was right.

Much to my dismay, this isn't a Torah narrative. The goat gets sent off into the wilderness, darn't. That's all the Torah says. I remember being frustrated originally when reading it. I mean, how do they know the goat hasn't wandered back around camp? Bringing their sins back to roost? I'd taken the rabbi's statement as gold, but I've come to find out that the embellishment of the cliff and the string comes from the later writings, not the Torah. .

Talk about a bummer. The differentiation, as an academic and as a Jew, really, is important to me. Either way, I think I've got a compelling case for where "white lie" really came from. What do you think?

A Ditty of a D'Var.

 

In this week's parshah, Vayak'hel-Pekudei, after all the turmoil and frustration of the Golden Calf incident, Moses' first word to the people is on keeping the Sabbath. This seems odd, almost outlandish. The people commit this great misstep, and they're looking for some reassurance and comfort from Moses on G-d's love for the people and what does Moses say? "These are the things that he Lord commanded to make. Six days work may be done, but on the seventh day you shall have sanctity, a day of complete rest to the Lord" (Exodus 35:1-2).

I'm reminded of something I wrote after the interesting Shabbaton I attended back in November in Crown Heights, about the prescription "a leap of faith." In that blog post, I wrote that unlike in some other religions, because Judaism is very action-based, to be Jewish requires a "leap of action" more than a leap of faith. Zalman Posner, on Chabad.org, iterates a similar idea, I think.

Judaism's shield against assimilation, the guarantor of Israel's integrity, is not its theology but its devotion to observance of mitzvot, carrying out G-d's will in daily living. Israel's ability to withstand the golden calves of all sorts is embodied in the tefillin and Shabbat and dietary laws that make Torah as much a part of life as eating and making a living. Devotion to Judaism can be developed only through using Judaism, living it. Throughout history we have seen that Jews who lived Judaism, lived; those who neglected its observance, despite earnestly professed warm feelings and love for its ideals, were ultimately lost to our people.

Posner also suggests that the constant refrain of Torah, threaded throughout the five books is that "not expounding is important, but deed."

I'd never thought about this before (though I can't seem to find any prior d'varim on it that I've written, though I know I have), and it's only in the first few lines of the parshah, but it's significant. It's a reminder that one cannot just "be" Jewish, one must "live" Jewish. There's more to being Jewish than just saying you are, right?

As we approach another Shabbat (though not for many, many more hours thanks to this crazy time change), keep the idea of living Jewish in your mind. How do you live Jewish? Belief is a part of being Jewish, but as with many things, it takes action to develop passion.

Shabbat Shalom! And don't forget that today is Shabbat Across America! Head to shul, meet some folks, get your Jew on!

Punk Rock Meets Torah!

I was stoked to see this little bit on Atlanta-based punk rockers Can Can, whose lead man Patrick A. has started posting up YouTube videos on the weekly parshah. I'm mad in love with musicians who are also Torah savvy, like Stereo Sinai and YLove.

According to Nextbook, "Patrick, the only Jew in the band, studies Torah daily and ostentatiously flaunts his Judaism in interviews and onstage. It doesn’t come out as much in the lyrics—not overtly—although lines like “I’ve got a hand on the Bible/you’ve got your hands on my mouth” speak to the experience of being religious and existing outside the box." (And if you look carefully, Stereo Sinai was also featured in this little bit from January!)

I haven't listened all the way through, but so far I'm quite stoked to see what Patrick has to offer up weekly.