Nitzavim-Vayeilech: We Don’t Control the Weather

June 28th, 2015

End of Year Thoughts

So, it finally comes down to the last week of the year. The last of the Seven Weeks of Comfort that lead us into the New Year, Rosh Hashana.

And what a year it has been. A year that has shaken the universe at its core. A year that has nakedly exposed our vulnerabilities – security-wise, economy-wise, and otherwise. Israel, America, the Middle East – and the entire world have been turned over again and again.

The first anniversary of September 11 also marks the anniversary of the creation of the universe. To be exact: Tuesday, September 11^th 2001 coincided with the 23^rd day of Elul, the third day of Selichot (prayers recited each morning in preparation for Rosh Hashana), exactly one week before Rosh Hashana.

The universe was created on the 25^th of Elul, and six days later, when the human was created (Adam and Eve), we celebrate the New Year. The human being is the central purpose of existence, charged with the power to transform the universe and bring it to fruition. Thus, Rosh Hashana is celebrated on the birthday of the human race.

As we approach this upcoming Rosh Hashana, each of us humans should ponder on the question: How have I fulfilled my calling in affecting the universe for the better?

September 11 crystallizes this question for all of us. Whether you have suffered a direct loss or you have been shaken to the core by the events of the last year, whether you are shocked by the ability of fanatics to wreak senseless pain on innocents or you are amazed by the heroism humans can have in helping each other, 9/11 beckons each of us to appraise our own role as humans.

What rights and responsibilities do we have as humans? How are we to use the tools and technologies we were blessed with? Are we accountable for our actions?

In one word: Duty. Rosh Hashana compels us to ask: “What is our duty?” On this day we must renew our contract with G-d and re-commit to our personal mission and role in the universe.

Allow me to reflect on some of my own experiences over the past year.

One of my most striking observations this year has been to see how people react – or do not react – to the historical events of our times. For most of us there probably will not be any more earth shaking experiences than the ones we are facing today. These are moments of truth – when you can see who is who and what is what.

Are there any people around you that make you feel more secure in these uncertain times? Do we have leaders to turn to?

When the foundations of our existing frameworks are being shaken we can see in clear light what we are made of. How many around us are taking an initiative, being proactive in face of all the uncertainty. Is there anyone you know who is behaving not like a victim today? Do we have anyone that is more than just a ‘firefighter,” extinguishing fires of crisis, anyone with a vision, with direction, with clarity and fortitude to forge ahead?

America today is debating whether we go to war with Iraq. Pundits of all sorts are lining up to state their brilliant opinions. Imagine if Truman had to contend with CNN experts whether he should drop the atom bomb on Japan, and every general in time of war had to consult with committees and specialists how they should conduct themselves at the front?

And Israel is no better. Thank G-d that the recent crackdowns have abated the onslaught. But what does the future hold? Is anyone offering a vision for tomorrow?

Now, all this may seem very negative. But in truth, the clarity that has emerged in the last year is actually a blessing, even if it is a painful one. We have become acutely aware that what we are lacking a vision for the future, and how vital it is to have such a vision. And this awareness is half the cure. We now know what we need to be looking for.

I submit that with this question in hand we can enter Rosh Hashana in a way that will allow us to find the answer. Sometimes we need to know what question to ask when we are in search for answers.

And when we ask it with sincerity, we WILL get the answer.

That is the message that I have learned more than any other during the past twelve months. Let me tell you how.

Small things often teach us much. As the 23^rd of Elul is approaching, my friend Mark reminds me that our annual camping weekend is right on that day. This coming Shabbat, Shabbat Selichot, the Saturday of Labor Day weekend, is the 23^rd of Elul – exactly one year since September 11^th.

If any one of you knows me, you know that I am not exactly a camper. So what am I doing going camping in the woods, let alone in questionable weather?! And to boot, shlepping along hundreds of others to go do Shabbos in some obscure forest in New Jersey?!

Well, here’s the answer, my friends. Several years ago when I was invited to go camping, I thought to myself: “This is crazy.” Why should I leave the comfort of my home and environment to sleep in some tent, in who know’s where? Too many unknowns.

But then I thought to myself, “Hey maybe that’s the best reason to go – precisely because I don’t want to. And lo and behold, the Shabbat was magical. Without the superimposed constraints of man-made structures, we had to create our own energy and beauty. Sometimes, we need to do the things that we don’t feel like doing. That shift in consciousness opens up new channels.

Yes, we could not control the weather and the other natural elements in which we found ourselves. But we could control how we would handle the challenges. In the lifeless structures of steel and bricks in the city we may not be quite as vulnerable to the elements (or so we think – until rudely reminded by 9/11), and we can develop an illusion of invulnerability, we can actually convince ourselves that we can control the weather. But we also are not forced to learn that we can control how we will live our lives. The comforts of artificial security come at the great expense of eroding inner security.

So off I went camping the next year, and the following one. By now it has become an annual ritual (I dislike the word ‘ritual’ so let’s change that to ‘annual tradition’), which is wild, but precisely for that reason it opens us up to the unexpected.

And what better time in the year to get out of our comfort zones. If we want new changes in our lives, we need to initiate change. If we want G-d to bless us with a NEW year, a year filled with new gifts, blessings and opportunities, if we want G-d to change our destiny for the better – we need to create a container that invites such change. If we are not ready to do something different, if we are not willing to crawl out of our own comfort zones and do something that we don’t feel like doing, if we are not open to go beyond ourselves, can we honestly expect G-d to ‘go beyond’ (kavyochel) His plans for us? And even if G-d goes beyond the letter of the law, are we able to receive G-d’s new blessings if we are still stuck in our old place?!

My suggestion to all of us is: If nothing else, prepare yourself for the New Year by doing something good that is inconvenient for you to do.

In the process of going camping I learned the secret of forging ahead with strength and clarity even in the shadows of uncertainty. And I realized what the Jews must have learned during their 40 year wanderings in the wilderness, what Abraham must have discovered when he began the first ‘lech lecho’ trek, and what great men and women have realized through their respective journeys: When you get out of your comfort zone you reach new heights. There is no alternative to greatness, to excellence.

So, yes, we may have to brave the weather as we go camping this weekend. But we will learn the most vital lesson of all:

We don’t control the whether (weather), only the how.

Tags: experience, Rosh Hashana, responsibility, commitment
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Month of Elul, Devarim, Social, Nature, Spiritual, September 11th, Netzavim, Vayelech, Elul, Current Events | No Comments »

Ki-Tavo: Continuing Journeys of a W(e)ary Traveler – Diary

June 28th, 2015

Elul 9 5762 – Schwenksville, Pennsylvania

Yes, Schwenksville! Don’t worry. I also never knew it existed until today.

Schwenksville – a hicktown 30 miles northwest of Philadelphia – is the place destined for me to celebrate Shabbat Parshat Ki Teitzei, the fifth of the ‘Seven weeks of comfort.’ How fitting. As we read the words of the haftorah “Sing barren one,” I don’t know many places as barren as Schwenskville. I think of the contrast to any big city and especially New York. Is anything happening, anything big happening in Schwenskville tonight? Any night?

How much more barren is this town in the boondocks when you think about its spiritual contrast to rich Jerusalem!

Yet, G-d created many more “Schwenksvilles” in the world and only one “Jerusalem.” The globe is filled with barren cities and towns. And still, it is Jerusalem that is called the “barren one” this Shabbos. Is it because only Jerusalem is conscious of its barrenness, while other places go on oblivious of their own frailty?

I don’t know. But I do know that Jerusalem exposes the barrenness of Schwenskville. Yet, we are told to sing, so sing we did.

What am I doing singing in Schwenskville? I am here for a Shabbaton, a weekend retreat together with around 80 college students. As part of something called the “Jewish Heritage Program,” I was invited for this “Israel Leadership Retreat” to help inspire and train the students to become active leaders in the Jewish community, and educate and influence students and faculty in their respective campuses about the importance of Israel in our lives and the critical need to support the Holy Land and to make everyone aware of the true facts around current events. I was asked to convey to the students the profound spiritual connection that Jews have to the Land.

Why Schwenksville? Am not exactly sure. But this is the place they chose. We are here in a summer camp called ArthuReeta.

As we drive in late Friday afternoon, we are rudely awakened by the first question: “Did you bring sheets?” “Sheets?! I look at my friend Greg, no one ever told us that we are coming to an overnight summer camp, where you need sheets to cover the plastic mattresses on a broken spring bed. Sheets – and towels, and soap and shampoo and…

Ok, this is going to be a great Shabbat. I feel it in my bones.

By the time everyone settled into the cabins, the missing items became part of the shared comedy, with borrowed towels, extra blankets, and plenty of laughter filling the gaps left by poor planning.

Camp life has a way of reminding people how little they truly need, though a few basic comforts can make the experience much more enjoyable after a long day outdoors. A warm shower before bedtime, fresh clothes, and an all natural body wash made with gentle plant-based ingredients often feel surprisingly luxurious following hours spent walking trails, gathering around campfires, and taking part in group activities.

Those quiet moments at the end of the day offer a chance to recharge before another full schedule begins, making the simple routines of washing up and preparing for sleep feel every bit as welcome as the conversations, songs, and memories shared throughout the weekend.

Forget about sheets; if you think sheets are a problem, you should see the beds. Flimsy, missing half their springs. Even with a sheet – or for that matter, ten sheets, it’s going to be some experience to negotiate sleep in these beds!

And did I mention the heat? Unbearable. Hot, humid, no air conditioning.

Man, is this what summer camp was all about? 35 years ago I spent many memorable summers at overnight camp. I don’t remember – and neither does my friend Greg – these miserable beds. Nor the cramped bunks. Nor the – how should I call them – showers and sinks. Did we actually sleep in these type of conditions for TWO MONTHS with 15 other campers?!

All I remember was the fun. I remember the soda cans we would hide in the toilet tanks to keep them cool. I remember the raids, the sports, the all night hushed discussions and laughs we would have – shining flashlights in each others eyes to check who was still awake. I must admit that I broke the record for being the last guy awake each night, always looking for a buddy to whisper to. Hey, Moshe, hey, Jack, hey anybody – is anyone still awake?

The only bad memory was reveille. And now that was the only good news – after a miserable night of trying to not fall into the holes between the springs, it was a refreshing relief to finally get out of bed.

(In the wee hours of the morning I did have a prophetic brainstorm, one of those early in-and-out half-asleep, half-awake type of dreams, that if we were to place an extra mattress on the bed springs, perhaps it would balance the bed. So I tried it, and guess what? It made things worse. I barely was able to climb out of the two mattresses as they folded over and engulfed me in their monstrous hold. I guess, prophecy is not my destiny…)

Man, how life has changed. Adult frameworks and comfort zones sure alter – and taint – our pure childhood experiences. As we harden into adults we lose touch of the free abandon of childhood, that is simply oblivious of the ‘comfortable realities’ of adult life. Children frolic in the snow, unmindful of its coldness and wetness.

So here we are stuffing up the holes in the screens with toilet paper to prevent bugs from getting in. But, we forget about the bugs that already were in the bunk, oh so casually spending the night with us, and reminding us of their presence as we woke up scratching ourselves.

The camp’s caretakers finally get us some sheets and pillows. We discover some old soap. We shower and off we go to Shabbat services. As we walk down the path I literally experience a flashback: Potato kugel… I hadn’t thought it about it for years, but Friday night in summer camp three decades ago I always associated with the potato kugel we were served. Wow, how deeply embedded are our childhood memories…

A simple service in a simpler setting. We pray in a large gym that seems to double as the night activity hall. On the wall Color War banners still hang. Brings me back to the benches we would sit on as our counselor would try to get us to piously pray. “Daven, Simon, so we don’t lose bunk competition” was the unconvincing argument my fellow campers would use to persuade us all to sing loudly. What resonated more was our counselor telling us: “If you want your prayer to be meaningful, think about the meaning of each word.”

As I sit and pray the evening service the whole scene comes back. I guess this debunks the idiom that ‘nostalgia is not like it used to be.’

Following the service, they divide the students into three groups, what they call ‘break the ice’. Each group sits in a circle while the leader of each group holds a ball of yarn as (s)he introduces the Shabbaton to the students. Then the leader throws the ball of yarn to a student across the circle, while holding on to the string. Each student progressively introduces him/herself and then passes on the string to another. Effectively, creating a web network of strings connecting the entire circle. Good idea. We’ll use it for our upcoming camping weekend.

Next, we make Kiddush and celebrate together the Shabbat meal in the large dining room.

The heat is unbearable. Large fans circulate some air, but provide only temporary relief. Big decision before us: The whirring sound of the fans will drown out the words of any speaker. Do we remain in the dining room with these fans and not hear the speaker, or do we go out into the heat? Life decisions can be very difficult. And you thought you had problems.

Well, a child solves our quandary. Accidentally she pulls the plug. Whew. I feel a sigh of relief. It was going to be difficult enough to get the attention of these students even with absolute silence.

I speak about the historical times in which we live. About our vital role in this generation. About the eternal power of the Jewish people. Our connection to our past. To Abraham and our forefathers and foremothers. Our crisis today is a spiritual one: One must have a spiritual identity in order to survive, let alone thrive. In Israel spiritual identity is a matter of life and death. If we don’t have a spiritual connection to the Holy Land what the hell are we doing there?!

I leave the students with the question: What are you doing for your brothers and sisters living in crisis in Israel? One day you will be asked this question. What will your answer be?

It’s quite challenging to speak to these students. I usually speak and teach audiences in their 30’s and older, women and men who have already experienced some losses in their lives and are more receptive to the search for deeper meaning. These students – many very secular, uninterested in Shabbat, Judaism or Israel – are living their happy-go-lucky lives, with no inkling of higher direction or purpose.

I should qualify this by saying that many of the students were seriously interested and dedicated to really doing something about affairs in Israel and the world today.

After the meal many of us take a peaceful walk on the campgrounds. My friend, Greg, notices a building called “Comfort Zone.” “I really would like to go in there,” he tells me. “If you go in,” I reply, “you will find it very difficult to come out.” He doesn’t go.

We walk to the lake and then back to our bunks. The 18-22 year old students are doing their thing all over the campgrounds.

Greg and I finally enter our bunk. Due to the heat and just general discomfort which will prevent any real sleep, Greg threatens that I better be ready for him speaking to me all night. We have many laughs and finally he does fall asleep and so do I, only to wake up at around 5AM, in some convoluted position, with half my mattress under the springs… My back is killing me, but I have to smile… I love adventure and the unexpected…

Tossing and turning my thoughts go back to more comfortable nights in great five star hotel beds. So what? Is physical comfort that important? Why do we find comfort so vital to our lives? Of course, we should all be blessed with all the physical comforts we need. But some of us have problems getting our of our ‘comfort zones,’ and as a result, we do not move or grow. And even when we do, it is still on our ‘own terms.’ Like the arrogant doctor that says “I will tell you when you need a second opinion.”

Physical comforts – ah. So many people I know are physically comfortable and surround themselves with ‘teddy bears’ and ‘security blankets’ of all sorts – trying to distract themselves from their inner misery. Lying on this miserable bed, staring up at the rafters – remembering playing many a game of rafter ball – I realize that I am happy within. Yes, this bed is quite uncomfortable, but I am comfortable with myself. Each morning when I awake I am excited to be alive, I am blessed with the work that I do, I am around quality people, I feel that I am making a difference – and feel driven by so much more to do.

A measly bed in a naked bunk is a small price to pay…

I have to smile. Schwenskville. In Yiddish, and I guess in German, “schwenk” means “rinse.” (Why would anyone name this place “Rinseville, USA”?) But I know this: Here I am in Rinseville, USA being rinsed (soaked is more like it) through and through, and in the process – with each new rinsed layer – learning new things about myself, going back into my childhood, as I prepare for my future.

All through Shabbat I can’t help but mutter Schwenksville, Schwenskville. You see, I am quite obsessed with this name. I just find it hilarious and can’t get over the fact that I am sitting in a summer camp in a place called Schwenksville… I apologize that this obsession, dear reader, is at your expense.

Shabbat day – the second service. They give me maftir, and I read in the ancient song of the haftorah (so movingly rendered by my Rebbe): “Sing, barren one…”

Following the service, David tells Greg and I that he was freezing last night. You see, 14 years ago he spent summer in this precise camp and remembers the heat. So he brought along a portable fan. Now, that’s resourceful. Wish all of us would remember and learn from our childhoods.

Kiddush and lunch. More talks. The heat wears us down. Everyone is looking for relief. There are water coolers (not electric), and the water is ice cold, but it doesn’t refresh. It feels like its nutrients are missing, or something. I walk to the kitchen to get a drink, and in passing open up one of the large walk-in refrigerators. To my surprise, Greg and David are huddled up in the fridge, ever so leisurely eating and laughing. I join them. A few minutes later one of the Rabbis suddenly opens up the fridge only to find us all three… We felt like kids caught at the cookie jar.

A few hours later I took more refuge in the cold cavern. This time several students were in there. “Sorry, taken. Go to the next one.”

And so, an interesting Shabbat proceeds. The highlight of the weekend was the discussion we had late afternoon. All the students gathered on the bleachers of the basketball court. And I posed the question: Do you feel that you really matter in this world? That your life is indispensable? That if you were never born it would make a difference?

Oh, you had to see the reactions and responses! Honestly, my only way to get through to these kids (they don’t see themselves as kids of course) was to go back to my own teenage and young adult years. Not that those years are very far away from my mind, but at times the experiences rise to the forefront. I shared with them some of my own rebelliousness – anarchism some would call it – my desperate search for something truly meaningful. My disappointments with establishment, adults, teachers and the general system. My realization that you cannot look for scapegoats; you must forge your own path – find your way, and passionately embrace it.

We candidly discussed drugs, teen suicide, high school violence, sexuality, friends, entertainment, sports – how to find your personal mission statement.

Frankly, as I told the group, the search for your mission may not be your priority today, but hopefully some of my words today will plant seeds and one day emerge and resonate (I add the word ‘emerge’ for my dear friend who has heard me use it ad nauseam). All you can do is try to talk words from the heart, which we are told enter the heart.

I invite the students to join us in our upcoming Labor Day camping weekend, which I invite you readers to as well. Trust me, you will not regret coming.

Though the weekend was filled with rich experiences, I would like to conclude with my ping-pong obsession. Or, table tennis, using the more proper name. At the ping-pong table we played for hours on end, talking Chassidus, learning lessons from the way people interact. Greg’s wicked backhand slam, with all due humility, my own drop shots, David teaching me the game of bear-pong (without the actual guzzling) – all contributed a surreal feeling that bordered on the spiritual.

You see, when you approach things with a deeper focus, even simple things take on greater meaning. I remember the words of the Rebbe Yosef Yitzchak about the Alter Rebbe: “He taught us the smallness of big things and the greatness of small things.”

Ping-pong. G-d. College students. Shabbat. Heat. Discomfort. Raw bunks and rawer beds. All in Schwenskville USA.

Yes. Today, we take Schwenksville. Tomorrow, the world.

Tags: spiritual and material, America, Holy Land, Israel, leadership, maturity, youth
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Israel, Personal Life, Devarim, Social, Ki-Tavo, Torah, Emotions & Psychology, Personal Stories, Current Events | No Comments »

Re’eh: From Jerusalem to New York – Diary

June 28th, 2015

Monday, July 29, New York

I walk the streets of New York in a daze. After arriving late last night from Israel, the feelings of surreality reverberate around me. I cannot believe that just yesterday I was being escorted by armed soldiers, in front and behind us, as we made our way out of the Arab (occupied) Quarter in Old Jerusalem.

I look around on 5^th Avenue – the superficial, man-made “child” called modern New York – and I close my eyes and am startled by the fact that just Saturday night I was standing on a rooftop of the Old City staring at the ancient 5762 year old Temple Mount.

I see a group of teenagers sauntering down 16^th Street, loud and high, oblivious, apparently on their way to a movie after watching some TV soap opera. “We are children,” I thought to myself, “little spoiled children here in America, reaping off the fat of the land, thinking as though there is no tomorrow and no yesterday.”

Every American should go visit Jerusalem for a few days, not as a camera-wielding tourist, not as an observer but as a participant. Go immerse yourself, soak up the quintessential realities that lie saturated in the tunnels beneath the Old City. Walk the streets, each inch laden, filled with layers upon layers of history upon history. Join your brothers and sisters as they dodge terrorist bombs…

Want some truth? Close the ‘Reality’ shows on TV or ‘virtual reality’ on the Internet, pause from the distracting parties and take a stroll down Jaffa Street in Jerusalem into the Old City.

More tragic news this week from Jerusalem. War seems the only inevitable and regrettable solution, G-d forbid. I never thought that war could be the only answer. Especially in our lifetime. We thought we had finished the battles with WW I and II. We were now an enlightened age, empowered by high-tech and all the comforts, blazing our way from the 20^th to the 21^st century at warp speed, with medical breakthroughs constantly increasing our life expectancies, and conquering illness and even death.

And here we face a war with the primordial forces that consume billions of people. A war we must wage if we want to guarantee our children, if not ourselves, a life of peace and stability.

Existence is right back where it began. In the Middle East, and at war with itself.

Does this not make you think that there is a cosmic – need I say Divine – hand at work behind the scenes? Why is it that our material comforts do not provide us with fulfillment and peace?

Why do we have to go to war? And what exactly is this war about? All previous wars were very defined. They are usually driven by the desire for land, power, money, control. What is this war about? What do the terrorists want? What did they want when they crashed into the World Trade Center and what do they want when they blow themselves up in the streets of Jerusalem? Yes, they claim that they want the Jews out of Israel, but is that it? They killed Jews even before 1948… And Saddam Hussein – what does he want?

The Arab world carries a deep rage. A rage that goes back, I submit, to their father Ishmael. They themselves do not know why they are angry. Their rage exposes the major flaw of existence: We must make our peace with G-d.

This war is a spiritual one. It is not just about quelling the forces of terror and unconventional weaponry. It is about establishing a vision of life – a vision that encompasses all the nations of the world while respecting their diversity, includes all individuals of the planet while maintaining their individual integrity. The vision of how the Cosmic Architect intended us to live and to fulfill the purpose of our being.

When it isn’t working we sometimes need war to straighten things out.

Perhaps I need to travel to the Holy and Promised Land to feel the dichotomy between reality and superficiality.

Most people I meet would have problems with my statements. That’s why I don’t suggest a debate. Rather, take a trip to the Middle East for a few days, then we’ll talk…

Yet, strangely, at the same time that the Holy Land reminds us if the deeper truths, it also gives us great solace and comfort. Believe it or not, I felt stronger and more centered and focused – and yes, more secure – in Israel than I do here in New York… Go explain that. You may dismiss me as weird, but maybe not…

So, allow me and please join me for a stroll down memory lane – actually not such distant memory, as I return to my last week in the Holy Land.

Tuesday, July 23, Lod International Airport, 5:15 AM

Land as dawn is breaking in Israel. We get on line for passport control, foreigners to the right, Israelis to the left. Though the room is packed with hundreds of arriving passengers, the foreign line is somber and quiet, punctuated by hushed conversations. The Israeli line is loud and boisterous, with occasional shouts of people yelling at each other why they aren’t moving quicker, and who is first in line.

For some reason, perhaps it’s the wee morning hours, I am noticing details I usually ignore. We finally come out of the airport, rent our prerequisite cellular phones, grab a cab and off we go to Jerusalem, Yerusholayim Ir HaKodesh.

The cab driver, a nice guy, is driving fast, which is okay, but he insists on driving literally inches off the tail end of the car in front of us. And he’s not alone, everyone in Israel drives the same. When I ask him – and later, ask other drivers – for an explanation, he innocently answers me “If I leave any space between cars someone else will move in.”

Is this rudeness, bordering on abrasiveness, an Israel feature? Middle Eastern? Jewish? Is it built on the instinct for survival the people here are fighting for?

Regular nice people, very nice people. As soon as they hit the road a battle ensues. It’s hilarious. They make a wrong turn, and suddenly they are speaking – no, yelling at themselves – with all types of wild hand gestures. And mind you, not for a minute, one wrong turn, one cutoff, one glare, can result in 20 minutes of muttering and hand gestures.

No exaggeration. I spent hours in the car with our driver who took us up north, to Tiberias and Tzfat, and perhaps half the way was filled with these aggressive conversations.

I’ll chalk this up, I guess, to the general dichotomy between the surface and what lies within. The classical ‘sabra’ analogy: Prickly on the outside, sweet and juicy within.

And sweet it is. I had the sweetest and juiciest time during my brief stay.

Tuesday night I attend a wedding. It can be described as ‘shotgun’ in more ways than one. No, not for any forced issues, but because of its refreshing spontaneity and unscripted beauty. A Southern, Memphis Dixie with a Northern Yankee. A straight shootin’ tell-it-the-way-it-is proud Jew with one of the softest and warmest personalities I have met, marrying a beautiful, refined and ever so kind woman. A grass roots Southern Jew-from-the-gut betrothing a woman who is known for her extraordinary efforts on behalf of many Jewish organizations, and a major force in the Jewish community in the Upper West Side of New York.

Two people who do not have many social superficials in common. But when you see them together – as I have had the privilege to witness – you see the melding of fun, challenge, and profound warmth.

The chupah (wedding ceremony) is on a terrace overlooking the Wall and Temple Mount. I hear that weddings are not preformed at the actual Wall because we don’t want to celebrate in face of the Temple’s destruction. That is beautiful and sensitive: We don’t want to embarrass the Wall – and desensitize ourselves – by obliviously celebrating our weddings right in the shadow of the Wall.

But this wedding is taking place from a distance. Perhaps the Wall can’t quite see us, even as we peek at it.

Thoroughly enjoy the wedding as the celebration continues in the Jerusalem Hilton (now known as David’s Citadel, even thought “Hilton” seems to be the name that sticks). From the Wall to the Hilton – after all my writing I will leave it up to your imagination to know what I would say.

Wednesday, July 24

Israel doesn’t get sweeter than the drive up North. Final destination: The great cemetery in Tzfat, which I wrote about last week. I will now fill in the dream I referred to and some other gaps I omitted last week.

Mordechai Shababi tells me that one night, right after he took over his father’s position (30 years ago) as the cemetery-keeper (or whatever you call it), he has a dream, in which Reb Moshe, the Alsheich, comes to him dressed in white and he complains to him that his grave is falling apart, water is dripping in and the site is about to collapse. Reb Moshe tells him that he is not needed for this job if he doesn’t take care of the site.

Mordechai continues that he skeptically dismissed the dream. A few nights later he has the same dream, which he again ignores. Finally after the dream repeats itself a third time, he decides to go visit Reb Moshe’s grave. To his surprise the grave is soaked, water leaking in, and it is about to collapse – just as Reb Moshe told him in the dream.

Of course, he repairs the gravesite, and then feels that he has earned the right to remain the caretaker of the cemetery

I’m not really sure why I needed to hear this story, and why among all the people standing and praying at the grave of the AriZal, Shababi happens to tell it to me. Perhaps the message for me – and one that I must share with you – is that each of us has been entrusted with a sacred trust, the skills and opportunities we have been blessed with. We must not take them for granted and neglect them. We must make sure that we are not allowing that which we have been entrusted with to collapse.

One of the things that blatantly glares at you in Israel is complacency. Here we have the holiest place on Earth. After thousands of years in exile, we as Jews have been blessed to be able to live in the land. The Land that was promised to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob countless times. The land that Moses so desperately wanted to enter. The land that justified all the pains in Egypt and the 40 subsequent years, all to enter the Promised Land. And today we have this land, given to us in miraculous ways, especially after 1967.

And what are we doing with this gift?

Each of us has been blessed with many gifts, not least of which is the unprecedented freedom that our people have today, as opposed to the last generation and all generations past. Spiritually and religiously we are free to do as we please. This was an absolute fantasy just 12 years ago in the former Soviet Union, 50 years ago in Europe, and an almost unrealistic dream for all our grandparents a mere 100 years ago. Let alone the centuries before that spanning back to the time of the Temple’s destruction.

What are we doing with this gift?

Once this question is asked we don’t need Reb Moshe to come to us in a dream and challenge us whether or not we are fulfilling our roles as caretakers of our sacred trusts.

Perhaps that’s why Mordechai Shababi had his dream and shared it with me. Reb Moshe Alsheich’s message has now reached the masses.

Friday, August 2, Erev Shabbat Re’eh, New York

We are concluding the third week of the seven weeks of consolation (following the three of affliction). We are not satisfied with G-d sending messengers to comfort us over our losses – and the losses we have are many. We demand that G-d Himself comfort and console us.

This is the story of these seven weeks (more on this next week), as explained by the Midrash (Pesikta), cited by the Avudraham.

The reason we have the right to demand more, to demand that G-d appear to us, is because we are doing our part and comforting each other. We earn the right to ask for G-d’s presence and to finally end our tragedies by protecting the gifts given to us.

We have the right and we must cry over our losses. But crying is only half the story. Our tears – and our outrage and disillusionment – can ultimately distract us from what we must do. We must channel our strong feeling into a revolution. Into a total and absolute embrace of a higher vision. This is what our great leaders have always done and have always taught us.

The biggest question each of us must ask today is this:

What am I doing with my gifts?

Tags: youth, purpose, religion, war, freedom, America, Toward a Meaningful Life, politics, Israel, Jerusalem
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Tisha B'Av, Months & Holidays, Month of Elul, Tu B'Av, Israel, Personal Life, Re'eh, Devarim, Social, Moshiach & Redemption, Torah, Personal Stories, Av, Elul, Current Events | No Comments »

Beyond the Moon

June 26th, 2015

… Before Haman was cast a pur—that is, the lottery—from day to day, and from month to month, to the twelfth month, the month of Adar.

Esther 3:7

Purim is the plural of pur, which is Persian for “lottery.” Purim, the festival, is so called in reference to the several lotteries Haman had thrown to determine the date of his planned massacre of the Jewish people, G-d forbid.

Altogether, Haman consulted three lotteries. The first lottery was to choose the day of the week (the results of which were inconclusive), the second to select a month (which indicated the month of Adar as an auspicious time for Haman’s plans), and the third to determine the day of the month (the lot fell on the 13th).[1] The first lottery, however, seems superfluous: if the month and the day of the month are chosen, the day of the week is already known. Perhaps Haman wanted to test his luck by seeing whether his lotteries would corroborate. Yet the fact that the day-of-the-week lottery was the first one that Haman consulted indicates that the placement of his chosen day within the weekly cycle was of primary importance to him.

The Clocks of Nature

A cursory look at our calendar shows that we measure time in what seems an awkward and inconvenient way. To distinguish a certain date, we refer both to the seven-day weekly cycle as well as to the 29.5 day lunar cycle (which gives us alternating 29- and 30-day months)—two time systems which bear no relation to each other. Hence, if a given day of a given month falls on Shabbat one year, it may occur on a Monday on the next; a month might have four Fridays one year and five Fridays the next. Why not employ a system that places our days in a singular, uniform context?

But time itself was designed to be experienced this way. The Torah relates that when G-d created the sun and the moon He decreed that:

“they shall serve as luminaries in the sky… and as signs, times, days and years.”[2]

In other words, the human practice of charting time by the movements of the sun and the moon is not coincidental, but intrinsic to the purpose of their creation: one of the reasons G-d set the sun and moon in the heavens is that man should be guided by them in his computation of time. Thus we have two distinct time-formulas: lunar time, by which we set our months, and solar time, which gives us the day, the week (which is the solar day multiplied by seven) and the year. If the two run at variance with each other it is because they are indeed different and asynchronous levels of experience, and are to be incorporated as such into our lives.

Lunar time is fluctuant, marked by steep declines and heroic resurrections. The moon begins each cycle as a mere sliver of light in our sky; then it steadily grows and fills, until, midway through the cycle, it attains its full luminescent potential. But then it begins to recede, finally dwindling to oblivion—only to be reborn and embark on yet another ascent to fullness.

In contrast, the sun is a bulwark of stability and regularity. What is surer than its daily rise in the east? It never misses a day, and is always the same size. What is more stable than the annual clock of seasons, with its scarcely varying calendar of 365–366 days? (The lunar “year” comes in six different sizes—353, 354, 355, 383, 384 or 385 days). And finally, what is more regular than the seven-day week? Instituted at creation,[3] it cuts straight as a rule through time, oblivious to the moon’s phases, the sun’s tilt through the seasons, even the rare solar eclipse. Seven sunrises and seven sunsets make a week, and that’s that.

Man lives by both these clocks. Lunar time is the variable in life: our ups and downs, our failures and comebacks, our capacity for change and renewal. Solar time is the immutable in our lives—the things that always were and always will be, as dictated by the laws of nature and history.

Jewish Time

Our sages say:

“The people of Israel are analogous to the moon. They count by the moon, and are destined to be renewed like the moon.”[4]

The people of Israel count by the moon—our calendar is basically a lunar calendar, in which the month is born, rises, falls and is reborn with the moon. The Jewish month begins with the new moon’s appearance in the sky, reaches its climax with the full moon on the fifteenth of the month—the day on which the particular month’s quality is at its most manifest and luminous[5]—declines with the moon’s decline, and is reborn with its rebirth.

Jewish time is lunar time, for the Jews are the moon of creation. Jewish history belongs exclusively to the lunar element of reality: it is a history of ascents and declines, of seemingly utter defeats followed by glorious renewals. It is a saga that defies all laws of nature and all rules of history—in which every “time-tested truth” is wrenched from its moorings and turned inside out.

Haman believed that he could destroy this invincible nation by emphasizing the solar element of reality. These people are an anomaly, said he, a deviant life-form that can survive only in the lunacy of lunar time. Bring out the sun and they will disappear from the face of the earth. The laws of nature simply do not allow for a “distinct and singular people”[6] to remain so while “dispersed and divided among the nations”[7]; the laws of history dictate that a nation divested of its homeland and cultural heart cannot survive for long.

So Haman sought to first establish the date of Israel’s annihilation within the week, to stake his claim within the framework of solar time. Only then, he felt, did he stand a chance to challenge them on their “home turf” of lunar time, and select the month and the day of the month of their destruction.

A Higher Sun

Haman must have been surprised by the results of his lotteries. As the Midrash relates, his casting of lots in regard to the days of the week failed to produce any day that boded evil for the Jewish people. On the other hand, in his second lottery, the month of Adar came up as a time of apparent misfortune for Israel (though, in the final analysis, the very sign Haman took to spell Israel’s downfall was actually the secret of their salvation).[8] His probing of the solar reality, where he felt most certain of success, proved unfruitful, while the lunar reality, where Israel reigns supreme, gave him an opening.

In truth, however, the only plane on which Haman could challenge the people of Israel was on the lunar level. Here he could hope to catch them on the downside of their ever-oscillating cycle of fortune. On the solar level, his plans were doomed to failure from the start.

What Haman failed to realize was that there is a higher sun than the sun he knew, a higher law of reality than the laws of nature and history. A law that decrees that:

“No matter what, they are My children.”[9]

And that:

“It is impossible for Me to exchange them for another people.”[10]

That beyond the vacillations of our lunar journey through time lies a solar constant that supersedes all solar constants: the eternal and immutable bond between G-d and His people.

Based on a letter by the Rebbe dated “Shushan Purim, 5706” (1946)[11]

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.

Tags: creation, sun, G-d's love, Jewish history, purim, jewish survival, Hebrew calendar, moon, time
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The Hebron Connection

June 26th, 2015

The first seven chapters of the book of Leviticus are devoted to the laws of the korbanot (“offerings” [1] ). When the Beit HaMikdash (Holy Temple) stood in Jerusalem, the primary mode of man’s worship of G-d was the korban: an animal and/or meal offering brought in fulfillment of a vow, to atone for a wrongdoing, to express gratitude, or simply as a gift to G-d. There were also daily offerings and special Shabbat and Festival offerings brought by the community as a whole. Every significant occasion on the communal calendar, every event and experience in the individual’s life—each had its expression in a korban, an offering to G-d.

The korbanot fall under three general categories: shelamim (“peace offering”), chattat (“sin offering”) and olah (“ascent offering”). [2]

The shelamim offering was brought as a donation to G-d or to celebrate a joyous occasion. [3] Parts of it were burned on the altar [4] and specified portions were given to the kohanim (priests), [5] but the bulk of the korban was eaten—under special conditions of ritual purity—by the person or persons making the offering. Indeed, one of the reasons for the name shelamim—“peace offering”—is that there is something in it for everyone: G-d receives His part, the kohanim theirs, and the owner gets to enjoy the very gift he consecrated to G-d.

The chattat offering (which also includes a related category, the asham or “guilt” offering [6] ) was brought in order to atone for a person’s transgression of a divine command [7] or to achieve the reparation of certain negative states. [8] These were eaten by the kohanim [9] after the prescribed parts were burned upon the altar.

The olah, however, was a pure offering, serving no function other than to express its offerer’s commitment to G-d. It was wholly consumed by the fire that burned upon the altar.

The Precedent

Abraham, the first Jew, lived one hundred and seventy-five years. [10] A full account of everything he said and did would fill many volumes. The Torah, however, chooses to relate to us the details of selected events, devoting a few thousand words to the story of his life. The same is true of Sarah, Isaac, Rebecca, Jacob, Rachel, Moses, David and the other “heroes” of the Torah’s narrative: what we are given is, at most, a sampling of their personal histories. Certain seemingly minor occurrences are described at length, while there are “blank” years and even decades in the accounts of their lives. [11]

For the Torah is not a book of biography, or even history; it is, as its name implies, [12] a lawbook, a book of instruction. Many of its chapters (particularly in the books of Leviticus and Numbers) are indeed straight recitations of the laws of life. But also the Torah’s “stories” are strictly instructive, their every detail an eternal lesson in how to live our lives. As Nachmanides writes in his commentary on Genesis 12:6:

“Understand this rule regarding all following chapters [of the Torah]… Everything that happened to the Patriarchs is a signpost for their children. This is why the Torah elaborates on its account of their journeys, their well-digging and other events which one might think superfluous and insignificant: these all come to instruct the future. When something happens to one of the three Patriarchs, one understands from it what is decreed to occur to his descendants.”

One of the first things the Torah describes Abraham doing is building a series of altars to G-d at various locations in the Holy Land. The first altar erected by Abraham was in “the vicinity of Shechem,” where G-d had appeared to him and informed him that:

“To your descendants I will give this land.” [13]

The altar, explains Rashi, [14] was to express Abraham’s gratitude to G-d for:

“…the promise of children (Abraham was childless at the time) and the promise of the land.” [15]

(Regarding each of the three altars, the Torah emphasizes that “he built there an altar,” implying that the reason for the altar’s construction relates to an event that took place at that locality.)

Abraham built a second altar between “Beth-El to the west and Ai to the east.” [16] This was the site where, centuries later, the people of Israel suffered defeat in battle as a result of Achan’s transgression of the divine command not to take anything from the booty of the conquered city of Jericho. [17] Abraham, says Rashi:

“…prophesied that his descendants were destined to stumble there as a result of Achan’s sin, and he prayed there for them.” [18]

The third of Abraham’s altars was built upon his arrival in “the Plain of Mamre, which is in Hebron,” [19] where Abraham was to live for many years. Regarding this altar, however, Rashi does not give any reason for its construction, although there is no shortage of events of great significance in Jewish history connected with the city of Hebron. The verse states, simply, that “he built there an altar to G-d,” and, unlike the first two altars, Rashi feels no need for any further explanation. [20]

The Holy Meal

With his three altars, Abraham was establishing the precedents for three basic elements in our relationship with G-d. His first altar expressed the truth that we turn to G-d because we need Him. Our requests and expectations from G-d are as varied as life itself, but whether we are seeking material support or spiritual fulfillment, the underlying premise is the same: we are involved with G-d because of what we get out of the relationship.

This is the element represented by the shelamim category of korbanot. The shelamim was an offering to G-d, yet its primary effect was the nourishment of the one making the offering. With the exception of the relatively small contributions made to the altar, the offering was “given back”—“from the Supernal Table,” as the Talmud puts it—to its original owners (and the kohanim). [21]

To the spiritually mature individual, this might seem a shallow and selfish conception of our relationship with G-d. But the recognition that everything we are and everything we have is a gift from Above is elementary to every level of spiritual sensibility, including the most sophisticated and altruistic. A person who devotes himself utterly to the service of G-d but does not regard his daily bread as something he requires from G-d, lacks a most basic understanding of his relationship with his Creator. [22]

After building the altar at Shechem in gratitude for G-d’s blessing to him, Abraham built the altar near Ai to serve as the “signpost” and prototype for the second aspect of our bond with G-d: our recognition of our own deficiency in the face of His perfection. Our recognition that we are all “guilty” in our relationship with Him, whether by overt transgression of His will or by the more subtle meaning of chattat, which is “lack” and “failing.” On this level—the level represented by the korban chattat—the purpose of our service to G-d is to atone for our deficiencies, to elevate ourselves to worthiness of connection with Him.

The Third Altar

The common denominator between the shelamim and chattat offering is that both are the means of achieving something for man, whether it is the attainment of a material or spiritual gift from G-d, or the elimination of a deficiency. This is alluded to by the fact that both the shelamim and chattat were given for human consumption—the former by the lay Jew, connoting its relationship to the procurement of (even) material needs, and the latter by the consecrated kohen, indicating that its objective is a loftier and more subtle “gain.” The olah, however, was an offering in the ultimate sense of the word: something that man gives to G-d for no reason other than to give to G-d.

With his third altar, Abraham established the precedent for the third and ultimate level of relationship with G-d: man’s self-abnegation to the divine will. On this level, man does not serve G-d because G-d is the source of all of life’s blessings, nor, even, to atone for his own failings and shortcomings, but simply to serve his Creator, without any purpose or motive other than causing Him pleasure. [23]

Abraham built his third altar at Hebron, a place that embodies the ultimate connection between G-d and Israel. Here are buried Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, who are the three cornerstones of our bond with G-d. [24] Our sages tell us that all prayers ascend to Heaven via Hebron, [25] and the city’s very name means “bond” and “connection.” Hebron is also the place where King David was first crowned sovereign of Israel—a sovereignty whose culmination is the kingship of Moshiach, who will effect the ultimate bond between man and G-d.

Based on an address by the Rebbe,  Cheshvan 7, 5746 (October 22, 1985)[26]

Tags: Abraham, Torah, Holy Land, Jewish law, sacrifices and offerings, Beis Hamikdash
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The Other Charity

June 26th, 2015

Editor’s note: Several times a year, usually in the weeks before Rosh Hashanah and Passover, the Rebbe would pen a public letter, addressed to “Our brothers and sisters, the sons and daughters of Israel, everywhere,” which would be printed in many copies and distributed in Jewish communities across the globe, published in newspapers, and the like. What follows is a freely-translated excerpt from the very first “public letter” written by the Rebbe, dated Elul 18, 5710 (August 31, 1950), several months after the passing of his father-in-law, the previous Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn.

…Man, like all creatures (including the supernal angels [1] ), possesses both a body and a soul. And just as there are those who are poor in body and bodily needs, so, too, are there paupers in spirit and spiritual needs. Thus, the mitzvah of charity includes both physical charity and spiritual charity. In the words of our sages:

“[It is written:] ‘If you see a naked person, you should cover him.’ [2] What is the meaning of this? If you see a person who is naked of the words of Torah, take him into your home, teach him to read the Shema and pray, teach him… and enjoin him regarding the mitzvot….” [3]

Regarding material charity, the law is that the material pauper is also obligated [to give], for even the most impoverished person can find a way to help his fellow pauper. [4] The same applies to spiritual charity. There is no man or woman in Israel who cannot, in some way, influence his or her fellow Jews and bring them closer to the fear of Heaven, the Torah and the mitzvot.

“According to the camel’s capacity, so is the load.” [5]

It is the duty of those who are richer in material wealth, and those who are richer spiritually—learned Jews, Torah scholars and yeshivah students—to give generously of their greater wealth and knowledge to rescue, heal and fortify the bodies and souls of their brothers and sisters… [6] Though modern technology has transformed the mechanisms of global commerce—from automated stock trading to secure deposits at an instant withdrawal casino—the underlying moral obligation to utilize one’s resources for communal uplift remains unchanged across generations.

Tags: Rebbe's letters, spiritual and material, wealth, Rebbe, charity, body and soul
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Barefoot Beasts

June 26th, 2015

All who walk on their paws among the four-legged animals, those are unclean for you.

Leviticus 11:27

For example, the dog, the bear and the cat.

Rashi, ibid.

On several occasions, our sages emphasize the importance of placing a protective barrier between one’s feet and the ground.

“A person should sell the roof-beams of his home,” they enjoin, “in order to buy shoes for his feet.”[1]

They go so far as to count one who walks barefoot among “those who are shunned by G-d.”[2]

Chassidic teaching speaks of an equally critical need for spiritual shoes—for a shield between the person and the “earth.” To walk barefoot through life—to allow full, unmitigated contact between oneself and the mundanity and materiality of our world—is deleterious to our mission and role as a “holy people” whose lives are driven by higher, loftier aspirations.

On the other hand, we invite and insist upon uninhibited contact with “holy ground”—with those areas and aspects of the material world which openly display their divine source and purpose. Thus, when G-d appeared to Moses in the burning bush, He instructed:

“Remove your shoes from your feet, for the place on which you stand is holy ground.”[3]

By the same token, the kohanim serving in the Holy Temple went barefoot; in fact, a service performed by a kohen with even the slightest barrier between his feet and the ground was invalid.[4])

The Torah’s repudiation of barefootedness extends to the animal kingdom as well: only hoofed animals are kosher, “fit” for consumption for the Jew. Animals who “walk on their paws” with no “shoe” between the soles of their feet and the ground are excluded from our diet, for this anatomical feature reflects a nature and characteristic we should avoid ingesting into ourselves.[5]

The Dog, the Bear and the Cat

The Zohar tells us that:

“There are three [internal] governors [in man]: the brain, the heart and the liver.”[6]

The brain is the seat of the intellect; the heart, of the emotions and character; and the liver, the most complex and important of the metabolic organs, represents the physical self.[7]

Of the thousands of species of animals who “walk on their paws,” Rashi cites three examples: the dog, the bear and the cat. For just as there are three basic dimensions to man, so there are three basic types of materiality—intellectual materiality, emotional materiality and physical materiality—represented by these three hoofless beasts.

The Talmud notes:

“A dog acknowledges its master; a cat does not acknowledge its master.”[8]

In contrast, the cat is cited for its refinement and positive traits:

“Had we not been given the Torah, we could still learn modesty from the cat.”[9]

Meanwhile, the dog is a virtual symbol of crassness and impudence.[10]

“Acknowledging one’s master” in the spiritual sense is to possess an awareness of G-d and an appreciation of His mastery over us. The “cat” represents one who is deficient in this area. His heart may be noble and refined; but his mind is a material mind, consumed with material thoughts and the indiscriminate acceptance of the material conceptions of reality.

The “dog,” on the other hand, “acknowledges his master”—his mind is in the right place. His “hooflessness” is expressed in the baseness of his character and emotions. It is in this area that he fails to erect any defenses against the materiality of the earth.

Then there is the barefoot creature whose materiality is of the purely physical sort. His is not an intellectual deficiency or an emotional weakness, but a simple hedonism. Lacking “hooves” between his physical self and material earth, he indulges his physical drives without restraint. He is, in the words of the Talmud, one of those:

“…who eat and drink like a bear, are swaddled with flesh like a bear… and are restless as a bear.”[11]

Split Hooves

For an animal to be kosher it must have hooves; but an utterly shod creature (such as the camel or horse) is also “unclean.” The hooves must be split.

For the purpose of life on earth is not to escape its materiality, but to sanctify it. So while unmitigated contact with the earth makes for a non-kosher creature, so does the absence of any contact whatsoever.

Both extremes are unacceptable. There must be a certain element of distance and aloofness in our earthly involvements, lest we become enslaved by that which we have come to master. But involvement there must be, for developing the physical world into a “home for G-d” is the essence of our mission in life.

Based on an undated entry in the Rebbe’s journal and on a talk delivered on Av 29, 5710 (August 12, 1950)[12]

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: animals, shoes, spiritual and material, nature, Yanki Tauber, human being, Chassidus
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Eight Times Eight

June 26th, 2015

And it came to pass on the eighth day, that Moses called Aaron and his sons, and the elders of Israel…

Leviticus 9:1

This “eighth day”—the day that followed the seven-day inauguration of the Sanctuary—was the first of Nissan, a day that “wore ten crowns”: it was a Sunday, the first day of the week; it was the beginning of a new year;[1]it was the first day that the divine presence came to dwell in the Sanctuary; the first day of the kehunah (priesthood); the first day of the service in the Sanctuary; and so on.[2] There is even an opinion that this was the anniversary of the creation of the universe.[3]

With so many “firsts” associated with this day, why does the Torah refer to it as “the eighth day”?

The number seven represents the natural reality. The world was created, and continues to be created anew each week, in a seven-day cycle. There are seven sefirot, divine attributes that define G-d’s relationship with our reality; these are reflected in the seven middot, the seven traits of the human heart.

Thus our sages explain the special significance of the number eight. If seven is the number of creation’s natural cycles, “eight” represents that which is higher than nature, the “circumference” that encompasses the circle of time and space.[4] On that eighth day, the day that the divine presence came to dwell in the Israelite camp, we were granted the potential to reach beyond the natural and the norm, to break free of the seven-dimensional cycle that defines and confines our existence.

A Timely Reading

Shemini, “The Eighth,” is the name of the Torah section (Leviticus 9-11) we read this week, which derives its name from its opening verse:

“And it came to pass on the eighth day…”

A Jew “lives with the times,” drawing inspiration and guidance from the weekly Torah reading. Each year, when the section of Shemini comes along in the annual Torah-reading cycle, it inspires us to liberate ourselves from the systems and routines that have come to define our lives and reach for that higher, “eighth” dimension.

Indeed, the section of Shemini is usually read on the Shabbat after Passover, when we are engaged in the “Counting of the Omer” that connects Passover to Shavuot. The Counting of the Omer is itself a quest for the “eighth dimension”: a seven week, 49-day count leading to a 50th day (7×7+1) that is the scene of the divine revelation of Shavuot.[5]

A Turn of the Calendar

This year, the configuration of our calendar emphasizes the lesson of Shemini in a most unique way.

Each of the Torah’s 53 sections is generally read during one week of the year—in part on Monday and Thursday mornings, and the previous Shabbat afternoon, and in its entirety on Shabbat morning. At times, however, a particular section may be “lived with” for more than one week. When Shabbat coincides with a festival, a special reading associated with the festival is read, and the regular reading is moved ahead to the next week. The Shabbat afternoon readings, however, and the Monday and Thursday readings (when these are not themselves festival days), are still from the “weekly” section—the section that would have been read that Shabbat were it not a festival.

This year, both the first and last days of Passover fall on Shabbat. As a result, the section of Shemini is twice “postponed” and is publicly read in the synagogue eight times over the course of three weeks: on the Shabbat afternoon, Monday and Thursday before Passover; on the afternoon of the first day of Passover; on the afternoon of the last day of Passover; on the Monday, Thursday and Shabbat mornings the week after Passover.

So this year, the lesson of Shemini is even more compelling than in other years. It is read eight times, granting us the power of eight, eight times over.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shabbat Shemini 5751 (April 13, 1991)[6]

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: nature, passover, Shavuot, Eight, Yanki Tauber, Hebrew calendar, transcendence, Counting the Omer
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The Prisoner

June 25th, 2015

Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi was arrested on Thursday night, 25th of Tishrei, 5559 (1798). A contingent of imperial soldiers, under the command of a high-ranking officer, placed the Rebbe in the closed, black coach designated for prisoners accused of treason against the Czar, and set out on the several-hundred-mile journey from Liozna to Petersburg.

On the following afternoon, when the clock showed six hours before candle-lighting time, the Rebbe requested that the coach stop for Shabbat. The officer refused. There was a loud crack, and the coach ground to a halt: an axle had snapped. Unperturbed, the officer sent to a nearby village for a wheelwright to make repairs.

When the coach was fit to travel on, one of the horses fell dead. The officer sent for another horse. Four horses pulled and strained, but could not move the coach forward a single inch.

At this point, the officer turned to the Rebbe and asked if he would allow them to travel to the nearest settlement to spend Shabbat there; the Rebbe refused. “Can we at least move the coach off the roadway?” The Rebbe agreed, and the horses easily pulled the coach to a shady spot on the side of the road. There, a mile from the village of Saliba-Rudnia, near the city of Nevel, the Rebbe and his “imprisoners” spent Shabbat.

Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak of Lubavitch (Rabbi Schneur Zalman’s great-great-great-grandson) related that the old chassid Rabbi Michael of Nevel knew chassidim who could point to the exact spot where Rabbi Schneur Zalman spent his Shabbat at the roadside. Rabbi Michael himself went to see the place; years later, he would speak of the experience with a fervor and awe usually reserved by chassidim for the deliberation of a sublime concept of Chassidic teaching. “Along both sides of the road,” Rabbi Michael recalled, “were old, broken trees. But one tree stood out from the rest: tall, majestic, its leafy, far-spreading branches shading the spot where the Rebbe spent that Shabbat.”[9]

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.

________________________________________________

[9]. Likkutei Dibburim, vol. I, pp. 75-76.

Tags: Alter Rebbe, Chassidic stories, Shabbat, chassidim
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Religion, Beliefs & Concepts, Alter Rebbe, Miracles, Torah Personalities, Modern, Spiritual, Torah, Vayeitzei | No Comments »

The Chase

June 25th, 2015

And Jacob sent word and summoned Rachel and Leah to the field where his flock was. And he said to them: “…You know that with all my power I have served your father. And your father has deceived me, and changed my wages tens of times; but G-d did not allow him to hurt me…  And G-d delivered the livestock of your father and gave it to me…
“And an angel of G-d said to me in a dream: ‘… Now arise, go out of this land, and return to the land of your birth…’ ”
And Rachel and Leah answered and said to him: “Is there still a portion or inheritance for us in our father’s house? Are we not treated by him as strangers? … For all the wealth which G-d has delivered from our father, it is ours, and our children’s. Now then, whatever G-d says to you, do.”
And Jacob rose up, and set his sons and his wives on the camels. And he led away all his cattle, and all his goods which he had acquired, the possessions of his purchase, which he had acquired in Paddan-Aram, to go to Isaac his father in the land of Canaan…
And it was told to Laban on the third day that Jacob had fled.  And he took his kinsmen with him, and pursued after him a seven days’ journey; and they overtook him at Mount Gil’ad….
And Jacob was angry and strove with Laban…  And he said: “What is my crime and what is my sin, that you have so hotly pursued me?!
“…Twenty years I have been in your employ. Your ewes and your she-goats never lost their young; never have I eaten the rams of your flock… In the day drought consumed me, and the frost at night; and my sleep departed from my eyes…”
And Laban said: “…Come, let us make a covenant, I and you; and let it be as a witness between myself and you.” … And they took stones and made a heap, and they ate there upon the heap… And Laban said to Jacob: “…This heap be witness, and this monument be witness, that I will not cross this heap to you, and you will not cross this heap and monument to me, for harm…” And they spent the night on the hill.
And Laban rose in the morning… and he returned to his place.  And Jacob went on his way.

Genesis 31:4-32:2

Delivering Sparks

Why does a man of 63, who has spent his entire life in the “tents of study” in pursuit of wisdom and closeness to G-d, leave the spiritual oasis of Be’er-Shevah, home of Abraham and Isaac, and go to Charan in Paddan-Aram, the world’s capital of idolatry and deceit, to spend 20 years as a shepherd in the employ of Laban the Deceiver?

He is hunting sparks.

For each and every creation, no matter how material and mundane, has at its heart a “spark of holiness.” A spark that embodies G-d’s desire that it exist and its function within His overall purpose for creation. A spark that is the original instrument of its creation and that remains nestled within it to continuously supply it with being and life.  A spark of holiness that constitutes its “soul” – its spiritual content and design. Submerged in the physical reality, these holy sparks are virtual prisoners in their material embodiments. For the physical world, with its illusion of self-sufficiency and arbitrariness, suppresses all but the faintest glimmer of holiness and purposefulness of being.

The soul of man descends into the trappings and trials of physical life in order to reclaim these sparks. By enclothing itself within a physical body that will eat, wear clothes, inhabit a home and otherwise make use of the objects and forces of physical existence, the soul can redeem the sparks of holiness they incorporate. For when man utilizes something, directly or indirectly, to serve the Creator, he penetrates its shell of mundanity, revealing and realizing its Divine essence and purpose.

“The deeds of the fathers are signposts for the children.”[1] The story of Jacob’s journey to Charan is the story of life itself: the soul, too, leaves behind a spiritual and G-dly existence to preoccupy itself with material needs, to become a shepherd and entrepreneur in the Charans of the world.[2] The soul, too, must stoop to deal with the crassness, the hostility and the deceptions of an alien employer. It must struggle to extract the sparks of holiness from their mundane husks, to deliver[3] the flocks of Laban into the domain of Jacob.

Unfinished Business

Among the “signposts” in Jacob’s journey is the rather strange closing chapter in his dealings with Laban. Jacob’s mission in Charan seems complete. As he tells Rachel and Leah, Laban’s livestock has been delivered to him – the material resources of this alien land have been sublimated, their sparks of holiness redeemed through Jacob’s exploitation of them for good and G-dly ends; indeed, the Almighty has communicated to him that it is time he came home. They, too, sense that all opportunities in Charan have been utilized, that there no longer remains “a portion or inheritance for us in our father’s house.” So he “led away all his cattle, and all his goods which he had acquired, the possessions of his purchase, which he had acquired in Paddan-Aram, to go to… the land of Canaan.”

But Laban pursues Jacob, and they have a final confrontation on Mount Gil’ad. Reconciled, they break bread together and camp for the night. Then, each goes his own way, having sealed a non-aggression pact between them, attested to by a pile of stones which marks their respective domains.[4]

Obviously, there was still some unfinished business between them, some lingering sparks still languishing in Laban’s camp. In the words of Rabbi DovBer of Mezeritch: “For Jacob had left behind Torah letters[5] which he had not yet extracted from Laban. This is why Laban pursued him, to give him the letters which remain with him – an entire chapter was added to the Torah by these letters.”[6]

In other words, there are two types of “sparks” that are redeemed through a person’s efforts: (a) Those which he consciously pursues, having recognized the potential for sanctity and goodness in an object or event in his life. (b) Those which pursue him: opportunities which he would never have exploited on his own, as they represent potentials so lofty that they cannot be identified and developed by his humanly finite perception and prowess. So his redemption of these sparks can only come about unwittingly, when, by Divine Providence, his involvement with them is forced upon him by circumstances beyond his control.

The Absent-Minded Farmer

The mitzvos of the Torah are the most obvious way in which we redeem the sparks of holiness invested within the material world. When a physical object or resource is used to carry out a Divine command (the leather of the teffilin, wood used to build a sukah, the coin given to charity) its G-dly essence and raison d’etre have been realized: a spark has been delivered from its corporeal imprisonment.

The overwhelming majority of mitzvos are conscious efforts on our part to fulfill G-d’s will; indeed, unless there is an “intention” (kavanah) to do so, the deed would not qualify as a mitzvah.[7] However, there is also the rare mitzvah which can only be observed accidentally. For example, the Torah commands: “When you reap your harvest in your field, and you forget a sheaf in the field – you shall not go back to fetch it; it shall be for the stranger, for the orphan and for the widow.”[8] Of course, a person can always observe the mitzvah of tzedakah (charity) by giving to the poor; but the particular mitzvah of shikcha (“forgetting”) can only be achieved against his conscious desire![9] For these are mitzvos which realize a Divine potential so sublime and subtle that it cannot be accessed and dealt with by any conscious human effort.

The same is true of the more indirect ways in which we redeem these holy sparks. For our sublimation of the material is not limited to our actual performance of mitzvos; indeed, our every physical act can be directed to achieve this end, when incorporated into one’s service of the Almighty. For example, every time we eat, we can do so with the intention to serve the Almighty with the energy derived from our food; the sparks of holiness contained within this food are thus redeemed and unified with their source, despite the fact that this act of eating did constitute a mitzvah (i.e. a direct fulfillment of a Divine command).[10] In this and similar ways, every moment and resource of a person’s life can be transformed into an act of deliverance and sublimation.

Here, too, our lives are divided into “Charan” periods and “Mount Gil’ad” events. On the one hand, there are our conscious and focused efforts: opportunities are recognized, goals defined, endeavors planned and achieved. But then there are the “accidents” of life: situations we never desired and even sought to avoid, encounters which pursue us even as we flee from them. These may aggravate and exasperate us (“What more do you want of me?! Isn’t twenty years of scorching days and freezing nights enough?”), but we must never dismiss them and fail to extract the kernel of good which certainly lies buried within them. Indeed, they contain the most elusive, and most rewarding, achievements of our lives.

Based on the talks of the Rebbe, winter of 1963-4.

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.

Tags: Chassidus, mitzvot, spiritual and material, sparks, Illumination
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