Monthly Archives: June 2021

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What Did the Rebbe Say to the Anti-Religious Chief Justice Who Came for Simchat Torah? - A Lesson in Remaining One People Despite Our Differences -...

In our haftara this week, Yehoshua sends spies into Eretz Yisrael, in spite of the very unfortunate episode of the spies in our parsha. These spies are almost captured in Yericho, but they are rescued by a woman called Rachav. After saving the spies, she reminds them that she could have saved only one of them but she saved them both. Accordingly, she asks them to look out for her and her entire family when Bnei Yisrael come to capture the city. Do us this kindness, she asks, and give me a true sign (Yehoshua 2:12).

The truth is the justice that is due her, as she saved them so they should save her. But in asking for kindness she is asking for more than just what she deserves. The Vilna Gaon remarks that the kindness she is requesting is that her family also be saved. There is an expectation rooted in the Oral Torah, the Vilna Gaon says, that one should always go above and beyond the just desserts or the necessary kindness that is due to another. If one feeds his fellow, with the simple, necessary food he should also provide gravy. We also learn that Hashem acts this way with us, as it says, You give truth to Yaakov and kindness to Avraham (Micha 7:20).

In the case of Yaakov, there was already a covenant with Hashem and mutual expectations. It was right and natural for Hashem to fulfill the covenant he had made with Yaakovs father and grandfather and for Yaakov to serve his part. However, when Hashem entered into a treaty with Avraham, it was a great act of kindness bestowed by Him out of a desire to do good to His creations.

In the Talmud Yerushalmi in Berachot 35a, Rabbi Yehuda says that when King Chizkiyahu wants to daven to Hashem, he gazes at the wall of Yericho where Rachav had her house. He says to Hashem, Master of the Universe, Rachav, that woman, saved two lives for you, and you saved for her who knows how many. It is part of Hashems nature that when He wishes to perform acts of kindness, He goes over and above the requirements of the situation. This is also what we ask of Him to please give us what He wishes us to have out of kindness and not what we might think we deserve.

Rachav was asking the spies whose lives she had saved to act like Hashem to perform an act of kindness that would supersede anything she deserved in her own merit. She invited them to become the agents of Hashem in bestowing His kindness. This was anyway preferable to being the agents of Hashems destruction of the wicked in Yericho which was also underway at the same time. For each of us who wishes to emulate Hashem, it behooves us to look around for opportunities to increase kindness, even and especially when it surpasses what might seem fair or just.

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Kindness And Truth - The Jewish Press - JewishPress.com

There is a well-known custom to precede the blessing on wine, especially on Shabbat, with the words savri maranan (attention gentlemen) or birshut maranan (with your permission gentlemen), depending on ones custom.

One of the explanations offered for this practice is that, throughout Tanach, wine is found to be both a positive and negative substance. It has been the source of blessings, but also of curses. For example, the Torahs first encounter with wine is in the story of Noach, just after the flood. Noach gets drunk and, after a series of unfortunate events, he curses his son and grandson. In this instance, we see wine associated with misfortune and death. So too, wine resulted in Lot committing incest with his daughters. Therefore, savri maranan and birshut maranan are meant to declare to everyone present that we are about to drink wine, but only with the purest of intentions. Indeed, it is actually a prayer that no harm come from the upcoming drinking session. Furthermore, Sefardim customarily respond lchaim (to life) after hearing savri, as a wish and prayer that nothing negative come from the current gathering.

So too, when deciding whether a person should be sentenced to death, the judges of the Beit Din would say to those who questioned the witnesses, Savri maranan. If they thought that the person should be spared, they would reply, Lchaim. If, however, they thought that he deserved to die, they would reply, Lmita, to death. Furthermore, a person sentenced to death would be given strong wine immediately before his execution in order to lessen the pain and awareness of what was taking place.

These days, many say lchaim when drinking with others or making a toast. One reason for the custom, as mentioned, is that wine was provided to criminals prior to their execution. Therefore, saying lchaim declares to everyone present that the function of this drink is intended as a celebration of life and not as a preparation for death, G-d forbid. Another reason for saying lchaim is that we are told that Adam became drunk from the wine he drank at his wedding ceremony, which led to him and Chava eating the forbidden fruit. Indeed, there is a view that the forbidden fruit was a grape, which they made into wine. This brought death to the world forever. Saying lchaim is intended to recall and rectify this.

Although most people say lchaim before reciting the blessing on wine (or other alcoholic drink), some say it after reciting the blessing and first drinking a little bit. One should respond lchaim tovim ulshalom or lchaim ulivracha when hearing someone say lchaim. It is taught that when Jews says lchaim to one another when drinking, G-d forgives all their sins. The idea of making a toast when drinking was practiced by the Sages of the Talmud. It is noted that we say lchaim, which means to lives, in the plural. This is intended to remind us that a meaningful life is one that is shared with others. There is a view that clinking glasses with another person before drinking is a non-Jewish custom and should not be done. However, there are a number of theories on the origin of clinking glasses, none of which appear to be halachically problematic.

Shlomo HaMelech teaches us that only trouble comes from excessive alcohol consumption, as he says, Who has wounds without cause? Who has bloodshot eyes? Those who sit late over wine, those who come to search for mixed wine. Do not look at wine when it is red; when he puts his eye on the cup, it goes smoothly. Ultimately, it will bite like a serpent, and sting like a viper. Your eyes will see strange women, and your heart will speak confusedly. It is taught that one of the reasons that the Ten Tribes of Israel were exiled from the Land of Israel was a result of their excessive alcohol consumption.

More hopefully, we are told that the world will be blessed with delicious wine when Mashiach comes.

_________________

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L'chaim And Other Drinking Customs - The Jewish Press - JewishPress.com

Long before the name Shimon HaTzaddik came to be associated with a contested neighborhood in East Jerusalem, also known by Muslims as Sheikh Jarrah, it was the name of a real person. Shimon HaTzaddik was the kohen gadol for a period of forty years, likely during the 4th century BCE. The Talmud (Yoma 39b) relates that every year, Shimon HaTzaddik would exit the Beit HaMikdash at the end of Yom Kippur with a glowing countenance and a feeling of serenity. But one year, he concluded the Yom Kippur service with a feeling of despondency. He turned to his compatriots and said, It appears this is my final Yom Kippur.

Shocked, they asked him: How do you know?

He said, Every year, an old man wrapped in white garments greets me at the beginning of Yom Kippur, accompanying me into the Beit HaMikdash and leaving with me at the end. This year, I was greeted by an old man wearing black clothes, who entered with me but didnt leave with me. And indeed, after Sukkos, he fell ill, passing away seven days later. As an expression of mourning, his fellow kohanim henceforth refused to bless the people with G-ds ineffable name.

Why was the different appearance of this strange man a harbinger of Shimon HaTzaddiks imminent demise? And why did the nature of Birkat Kohanim change thereafter?

Lets turn to the mitzvah of Birkat Kohanim, which is introduced by a blessing of its own one that has a strange phrase: Blessed are you G-d who has commanded us to bless his nation Israel with love.

There is no other mitzvah that we are commanded to perform with love, and no other blessing over a mitzvah that makes reference to this, or any other emotion. Of course, we should feel happiness and love when we put on tefillin, but we dont say to place tefillin with love. Who doesnt infuse their challah or their Shabbat candles with love? Yet when we recite blessings on these mitzvot, we dont add with love.

Our revered teacher Rav Herschel Schachter quotes his teacher, Rav Soloveitchik who says that Birkat Kohanim is different. It is not just a mitzvah moment, or a snapshot of religious inspiration. Blessing the people must be the result of an ongoing sentiment; you cannot bless the people unless you love them, and that is not a feeling that can be summoned in just a moment. In fact, the halachah is that if a kohen has a complaint against the members of a congregation or is the subject of complaints by others, if a kohen harbors hatred toward a member of the tzibbur or is reviled by someone in the community, he should excuse himself from Birkat Kohanim.

How did Shimon HaTzaddik know it was his final year on the job? Rav Soloveitchik explains that the man in white represented the way he perceived his fellow Jews as pure people who were worthy of his respect and prayer. When he no longer saw that person in his state of pristine purity, it meant that his perception of his fellow Jew had been tainted, and he no longer was fit to be kohen gadol. For forty years he had maintained unflinching love for his constituents, yet now, as he began to fixate on the less flattering aspects of their character at the time he was supposed to pray for them, he knew that his time was over.

The behavior of the kohen gadol is paradigmatic of the way we should view our fellow Jews, as well. Its been a little more than forty years since we have had Yerushalayim, and over seventy since we have reclaimed our land, but somewhere along the line the Jewish people, or part of them, have fallen out of love with their fellow Jew. A couple weeks ago, a group of rabbinical and cantorial students from institutions such as JTS, the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College and the Hebrew Union College, among others, penned an open letter castigating Israel for its behavior in the most recent round of fighting:

As American Jews, our institutions tell stories of Israel rooted in hope for what could be, but oblivious to what is. Our tzedakah money funds a story we wish were true, but perpetuates a reality that is untenable and dangerous. Our political advocacy too often puts forth a narrative of victimization, but supports violent suppression of human rights and enables apartheid in the Palestinian territories, and the threat of annexation.

Its far past time that we confront this head on. We can no longer shy away or claim ignorance. What will it take for us to see that our Israel has the military and controls the borders? How many Palestinians must lose their homes, their schools, their lives, for us to understand that today, in 2021, Israels choices come from a place of power and that Israels actions constitute an intentional removal of Palestinians?

Let us make a few things clear: Israel isnt the monster aggressor it is portrayed to be in the mainstream media, but it certainly is not perfect. The signatories of this letter are certainly well intentioned, at least in their minds, and they do not speak for the institutions in which they are enrolled or the denomination with which they affiliate.

Make no mistake about it, though. They represent or are representative of tomorrows American Jews. The future Jewish leadership of the Jewish people is embarrassed by the actions or even the existence of the Jewish state, and is willing to extend the benefit of the doubt and the depth of their sympathy to anyone in this conflict but the Jews. And if you think that we, Orthodox rabbis, are taking denominational potshots, listen to what Rabbi Dr. Bradley Shavit Artson, dean of the Ziegler School of Rabbinical Studies, wrote in response:

There wasnt a word about Ahavat Yisrael a love and solidarity with our fellow Jews in Israel, with the right of the Jewish people to self-determination in our own homeland, to the very real sacrifices this experiment in Jewish national self-expression has imposed from its inception.there was no affirmation of love for the Jewish people, of which we are a part and which we aspire to lead. If a rabbi does not root their leadership in love and unity, they lose the ability to critique constructively, to encourage doing better, to inspire.

Howard Jacobson, in his 2010 novel The Finkler Question, coins an expression in reference to this sort of Jew, calling them the Ashamed Jew. In a later iteration by David Aronovitch, this became known as the Asajew. These are the kind of people who write letters to The Guardian heaping invective upon the Jewish state and finding blame in everything it does, claiming a right to do so As a Jew. As a Jew, I stand up for Palestinian rights against the ethno-nationalist State of Israel. As a Jew myself, I want Israel to stop perpetrating war crimes.

Perhaps the phrase As a Jew is meant to provide immunity against charges of antisemitism, or accusations of self-hatred. But if the only time you profess your love of the Jewish people or the Jewish state is when its actions cause you pain and embarrassment, maybe you should reexamine your so-called love. If the only time you invoke your Judaism is as a soapbox for condemning Israel or fellow Jews; If your platform As a Jew is used to rationalize antisemitic statements or kashering antisemites whether from the right or the left instead of fighting them; If you have never bothered to say As a Jew, I will speak up for many important causes, but I will speak loudest and proudest about Jewish ones, you have forfeited the right to invoke your Jewishness altogether.

When the kohanim stopped making the blessing with G-ds full name, it was because they understood that invoking G-ds name when ahavat Yisrael was incomplete was wholly inappropriate and downright insulting. Indeed, according to Rav Schachter, that is why we do not recite the Birkat Kohanim daily outside of Yom Tov since true ahavat Yisrael is so elusive and so rare, that its only at the most joyous times that a kohen can recite the blessing and actually mean it.

The Birkat Kohanim may just be a mitzvah for a select group of people, but the Torah refers to all of a Jewry as a mamleches kohanim a nation of kohanim. And so, to a certain extent, we are all obligated to uphold the standard of loving our fellow Jew enough to be able to bless them.

Therefore, we are challenged, every day, to work on this very trait. There are lots of Jews whose religious beliefs we find abhorrent, whose behaviors we find obnoxious, and whose political ideologies we believe to be dangerous. As hard as it is to love all other Jews, especially when they are not lovable, we ought to remember the burden that comes with being a kohen. Ask yourself, when you speak at kiddush or on the Internet: are you speaking from love and pain, or anger and resentment? Have you earned the right to claim as a Jew? When we envision the other, who is it that we see by our side? Do we see a man dressed in black, or is it a man donning the priestly garments of white?

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Birkat Kohanim And The Asajew Jews - The Jewish Press - JewishPress.com

What happens if the Messiah doesnt arrive? The story is told about a pious Brooklyn shopkeeper in the 1940s, who due to financial stresses, kept his shop open on Shabbat. One day, a charismatic rabbi organized a march to greet the Messiah, and many began to believe that the redemption was near. The shopkeeper asked the local Rosh Yeshiva for advice on whether he should close his shop on Shabbat, to prepare for the Messiahs arrival. The rabbi, a graduate of one of the Lithuanian Yeshivot, told the shopkeeper that he need not worry, the Messiah wasnt coming that weekend. A student, overhearing the exchange, was puzzled by it; why was his teacher discouraging the shopkeeper from observing Shabbat? The Rosh Yeshiva responded that if the man closed his shop, and the Messiah didnt arrive, the disappointment would break his faith, and he would never entertain observing Shabbat again in the future.

Too much hope is dangerous.

Even the belief in the Messianic redemption, a foundation of Judaism, can be destructive; Maimonides cautions multiple times against speculating about when the Messiah will come. In his Letter to YemenMaimonides writes the following about a false Messianic prediction that wreaked havoc in the Jewish community in Fez: a pious and virtuous man and scholar by the name of Moses Al-Dari came from Dara to the province of Andalusia to study under Rabbi Joseph ha-Levi, of blessed memory, ibn MigashPeople flocked to him because of his piety, virtue and learning. He informed them that the Messiah had come, as was divinely revealed to him in a dream.Many people became his adherents and reposed faith in him.When the majority of the people put their trust in him, he predicted that the Messiah would come that very year on Passover eve. He advised the people to sell their property and contract debts to the Muslims with the promise to pay back ten dinars for one, in order to observe the precepts of the Torah in connection with the Passover festival, for they will never see them again, and so they did. When Passover came and nothing transpired, the people were ruined as most of them had disposed of their property for a trifling sum, and were overwhelmed with debt. Hope is intoxicating, and can blind one to reality; in this case, hope ravaged the community of Fez.

At the same time, Maimonides emphasizes that we must never lose hope in the coming of the Messiah; we are always obligated to dream of redemption. Optimism should never undermine realism, but realism should never undermine optimism either.

At the same time, Maimonides emphasizes that we must never lose hope in the coming of the Messiah; we are always obligated to dream of redemption. Optimism should never undermine realism, but realism should never undermine optimism either.

Maimonides views on redemption are a powerful guide to life. A similar idea is found in Jim Collins book Good to Great. Collins describes what he calls the Stockdale Paradox, named after Admiral James Stockdale, who was the highest-ranking United States officer held as a prisoner of war in Vietnam. Stockdale was a POW for eight years, and endured torture, deprivation, and horrible conditions; dozens, perhaps hundreds, of these prisoners of war died during captivity. Stockdale courageously led the POWs in resisting their captors demands, and gave strength and support to his fellow prisoners. Collins interviewed Stockdale to understand what type of mindset was needed to endure such a difficult experience.

When Collins asked who didnt make it out, Stockdale replied: Oh, thats easy, the optimists. Oh, they were the ones who said, Were going to be out by Christmas. And Christmas would come, and Christmas would go. Then theyd say, Were going to be out by Easter. And Easter would come, and Easter would go. And then Thanksgiving, and then it would be Christmas again. And they died of a broken heart. Later in the same interview, Stockdale explains that he still retained his sense of optimism throughout: I never lost faith in the end of the story, I never doubted not only that I would get out, but also that I would prevail in the end and turn the experience into the defining event of my life, which, in retrospect, I would not trade.

Collins asked Stockdale how he could embrace a brutal reality while being so optimistic at the same time. Stockdale replied: You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the endwhich you can never afford to losewith the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they might be. Collins writes that the paradoxical mix of optimism and realism that Stockdale exhibited is critical to building organizational excellence. And this lesson, which was first taught by Maimonides, is the healthiest way to approach all of life.

We must be optimists and realists at the very same time, both at the worst of times and in the best of times. Life demands a two-track reality.

We must be optimists and realists at the very same time, both at the worst of times and in the best of times. Life demands a two-track reality.

The Book of Bamidbar emphasizes this lesson. At the outset, there are careful and intricate plans, taking a census of the soldiers available for battle and setting up the camp to be ready to march into the land of Israel. These careful preparations culminate in a verse in this weeks Torah reading, where it describes the Ark of the Covenant being carried in front of the army, as God leads the Jews to victory.

And right in the middle of the Parsha, the plan falls apart. From here on, the Book of Bamidbar tells of complaints and more complaints. There is the fiasco of the spies, and the Jews are condemned to spend 40 years in the desert; this decree breeds frustration, leading to a rebellion. The great plans of the beginning of Bamidbar quickly dissipate.

It would be tempting to see the book of Bamidbar as a tragedy; but that would be a mistake. The turning point of the book is punctuated by two unusual signs that look like upside down letter nuns; these signs are not found anywhere else in the Torah. The Talmud offers the fascinating comment that these punctuation marks are meant to divide Bamidbar into three separate books. But what is the meaning of this strange comment, and why should we see Bamidbar as a divided book?

I would argue the Talmud is offering the insight that Bamidbar is different from an ordinary book because it does not follow a narrative arc. The other books of the Torah have a clear narrative direction. Genesis is a tragedy which begins in the utopia of Eden and ends in the dystopia of Egypt bondage; in Exodus, the Jews are redeemed from slavery and become a kingdom of Priests. But in Bamidbar, the upside-down nuns come to remind us not to impose a narrative arc on the story and read it as one of tragic failure that follows a linear progression.

Instead, we should recognize there are two themes that are meant to remain side-by-side throughout: the ideal plans and the failures of implementation. This dual vision reminds us that when we have big dreams, we will have even bigger disappointments; and despite these disappointments, there is still plenty of hope to go around. Bamidbar is not a tragedy, but an as of yet unfulfilled dream.

This is why we have a holiday, Sukkot, to celebrate the events of the Book of Bamidbar, the 40 years of wandering in the desert; because even when youre stuck in the desert and have to live in a tent, if you are on your way to a bright future, you must celebrate.

The state of Israel lives a Bamidbar reality; it has both big dreams and big disappointments. The Zionist vision, beginning with Herzl, is of a state that would enable the Jews to live in peace and prosperity. But right now, it seems that the opposite is true: in the last two weeks alone there were rocket attacks on 70% of the country, propaganda attacks against its reputation, and attacks on ordinary Jews around the world for the sin of Zionism. Israels army is repeatedly forced into the ugly arena of war, where the only choices are to kill or be killed. Everyone feels desperate for a quick solution; and some throw their hands up in frustration, saying that Israel is no longer worth the effort. But they forget that we are obligated to carry a dual vision, grabbing hold of reality while embracing optimism.

This past week I visited Israel on a UJA mission. During our visits we saw a home that was destroyed by a rocket, an apartment that was firebombed during riots, and a Kibbutz from which most of the members had evacuated. We learned about children who are so traumatized that they can no longer look at balloons, which are used by Hamas as incendiary devices; we heard people cry about their homes that had been destroyed. Reality at times felt bleak and too difficult to bear, and some of my colleagues compared our trip to visiting a shiva house.

Yet what was remarkable to me was how much optimism there was everywhere we went. We visited Kibbutz Nahal Oz, which is a 400-person community set a mere 2500 feet from the Gaza border. During the conflict, the Kibbutz was under attack from rockets, mortars, and even sniper fire. There, we had lunch with students from Kedma, a program that brings them to integrate into the Kibbutz and look after its older members; many study at a nearby college in Sderot. We spoke with Yogav, who came from Tel Aviv, and chose the Kibbutz instead of a comfortable life back home because he wanted to be a pioneer. We heard from Emily, who had made Aliyah from Austria and served in the Israeli army. She spoke to us about the difficulties during the war, of the constant sirens and the shells that landed in the Kibbutz. She told us how her parents in Austria called her constantly during the 11 days of battle, and that her mother had begged her to return home. But Emily explained that she stayed put because this is where she found her purpose, where she could help build a better future for the State of Israel. I was moved by these students optimism. Even while being bombarded by rockets, they still embraced hope.

The past two weeks have been tragic. In times like this, it is easy to lose hope; who can imagine the Messiah arriving right now? But that is the wrong way to look at things. Perhaps the Messiah hasnt arrived, but people like Emily and Yogav have. And that is true cause for optimism.

Rabbi Chaim Steinmetz is the Senior Rabbi of Congregation Kehilath Jeshurun in New York.

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What if the Messiah Doesn't Arrive? - Jewish Journal