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One of the great frustrations of anyone who observes the Jewish calendar are the conflicts that emerge when dealing with the secular rhythms of American life. The audible sigh of relief that the Chagim fall on weekends can be heard in many quarters.

It is curious that Jewish holidays are never on time. They are always early, or late. I’ve never heard it said that Rosh Hashana is on time this year. Nevertheless, the Jewish new year is in sync with the academic calendar. Both begin the year at around the same time.

School starts usually in Elul, just when we are preparing ourselves for the New Year. It is the only time the academic and Jewish calendars coincide. I don’t count Chanuka and xmas only because it was xmas that enhanced the importance of Chanuka. Certainly, there was nothing inherent in Chanuka that would make one take a break from school.

A major theme of Rosh Hashana is that not only our community, but the entire world is being judged at this time. It is a season of new beginnings for the entire world community. Elul is a time to change patterns of behavior that have proven to be destructive just as the school year affords those opportunities. This type of personal work is much easier when the general culture is also beginning a new term. Let everyone see themselves as preparing for the first day of a brand new term.

It’s a new semester folks, and change is possible.

This article was originally posted on scorchintorah.blogspot.com

Last Thursday, I was among over 80 attendees from many countries listening to Rabbi Brovender on webyeshiva.org. He elucidated a couple of kinot (liturgical poems of lamentation) and gave the following insight. When the Prophet Jeremiah in the fifth chapter of Lamentations, asks that God should “Remember what we once had”, what is the Prophet assuming? That God can forget? What does it mean for God to remember, and what does that teach us about Jewish memory?

Going back to Noach, memory is also invoked. It says after the flood that “God remembered Noach”. It wasn’t like there were that many people around for Noach to get lost in the shuffle. So, what does memory mean in a Divine context. Rabbi Brovender then said, when the Prophet enjoins God to remember what we once had, he doesn’t imply that God has forgotten. He is asking God to activate the dynamic of what once was that has presently been put on hold.

Similarly, in one of the kinot when it says that “God didn’t remember the covenant with Avraham”, it’s not that God forgot, but rather that the process has been halted, and he petitions that the process be renewed.

As Faulkner once said: Not only is the past important, it’s not even past.

The class was given in memory of my teacher and Rabbi Brovender’s colleague and friend Rabbi Jay Miller. I think Rabbi Miller would have liked it.

It is interesting to note that Medieval classics like the Rokeach, Shiblei HaLeket, Kolbo and Abudarham are works that are referenced more than they are learned. Only when one wants to explore a topic are these books revealed in greater detail. I was asked to give a class on the Siddur to which I reluctantly agreed. My hesitation came from feeling that this once a week class would require much thought and preparation for a topic I regarded as less than exciting. Boy, was I wrong!

Every week I’ve been exposed to these early Medieval Halachic authorities who instead of writing codes, wrote what amounts to brief essays on Kaddish, Pesukei D’zimra, and Baruch. The Talmud has pithy aphorisms in random places that give insight into the meaning of many of these prayers, but these writers extend what have become popular quotations with questions that rarely occur to those who routinely and somewhat mindlessly utter their prayers each day. I count myself among them. Prayer is a time for declaration, not analysis, but analysis of prayer is an appropriate enterprise for learning–I, like many, never got around to doing it.

Last night I lifted a couple of paragraphs from Rav David Abudarham’s classic 14th Century work on liturgy. He wrote this book with the following purpose in mind:

“the customs connected with prayer have become varied from one country to another, and most of the people do not understand the words of the prayers, nor do they know the correct ritual procedures and the reasons for them.”

He poses the following question: Why is it that most Brachot begin by addressing God in the second person and end by referring to Him in the third person. We begin with Baruch Ata (Blessed are You) and we end by saying Borei Peri Hagafen (the one who created the fruit of the vine). Why doesn’t it say, “that You created the vine.

He explains that this is reflective of how we experience God which is primarily through His actions. Because we believe all things come from Him and no other entity, because we believe this, we demonstrate this by addressing God as an intimate. We cannot, however, presume to know God’s essence, so that when we attribute what He has made, we switch to the third person. For aspects of God are both present and hidden. This is also reflected in human beings. Our actions are revealed, but the essence of our heart remains hidden within us. Whereas our deeds are connected to God only through mitzvot, our hearts, our thoughts have the potential to be continuously connected to the Holy One.

He also clears up the issue of what it means to say Baruch Atah. We are not blessing God–How would that make sense anyway? We are acknowledging that God is the source of all blessing. Baruch Atah means “You are the source of blessing”, and then the rest of the Bracha makes sense…”King of the universe, who created the fruit of the vine.”

Sometimes one has to be pushed to learn something that he should have known a long time ago.

It is true that the things that are most common to us are often the things we know the least about. They are part of our natural routine and so we don’t question them. For many, the intricacies of breathing only become understood when that process is interrupted. Otherwise, there are many of us who happily walk around totally unaware of the science behind that which allows us to function.

Our spiritual habits are no different. People say אמן or “Ayyymen” all the time, assuming they both know what they mean and what it means–or maybe mindlessly parroting an accepted mimetic tradition, and knowing neither.

Last night, in the late summer of my years, I learned and then taught about the importance of this one word–not only in liturgy, but in everyday discourse.

The word Amen makes a brief appearance in the Talmud. It is a word with power. Resh Lakish says when said with gusto that it opens the gates of heaven. Ben Azzai cautions with a severe warning that one should never “orphan” an Amen, but it should always be connected to a bracha. Amen means nothing on its own, but becomes powerful only when it is responding to a blessing.

Well, what is it doing? What does it mean? What are we doing when we say it? Most people when they say amen are affirming what has been said to them. But it is more than that. Amen is an acronym for Al Melech Ne’eman אל מלך נאמן (God, the faithful king) and by saying it we affirm that all God’s promises will eventually come to pass.

People often improvise their own wishes in life where people affirm these impromptu blessings with an enthusiastic Amen. They are indeed affirming the words of the speaker, but they are also bearing witness that the One who created the world is in charge of fulfilling these wishes. We, impudent snots that we are, invoke Him even in circumstances where we are implicating Him in promises He has not made. It’s a sort of spiritual activism in which one should engage with some care, for a misplaced Amen the Gemara says, is a dangerous thing.

Amen is testimony. Amen is affirmation. Amen, at its best is done in response to others, so Amen does not only connect us to God, but our relationship with others–it is an opportunity to unify the commandments between people and God and the commandments between human beings in just one word.

No wonder it can open the gates of heavens.

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It is with tremendous sadness and not a small amount of regret that I mourn the passing of Rabbi Jay Miller. There are many of us from the golden age of Brovenders who will always bear his exacting brand of Torah study. He was a man unique in his talents and his flaws, but I always felt the two were inextricably tied, and as often is the case, without the other, the one would not exist either.

In the ’70’s when learning Gemara was all but closed to Ba’alei Teshuva, Rabbi Miller developed a method of learning that could achieve in a year what most day schools could not achieve in twenty, or fifty for that matter. The daily first year Mishnah class had a quality of perpetual high drama. Studying Mishnah and Gemara could only be characterized as a gladiator sport where he was always the last man standing. There would be no such thing as a slow day in Miller’s shiur.

Excited, irritated, mystically enveloped in a veil of tobacco smoke, he took Mishnas we thought we understood, and then after rendering them inscrutable, he helped us relearn them correctly. He admonished us, shrieking, “Don’t think, just do what I do!” Many of us, I’d like to believe the best of us, loved him for it.

The fierce discipline, passion and commitment belied a softer side that would emerge only when he deemed necessary. I remember when we were helping pack up his books prior to his moving from Yerushalayim to New York. At one point, he opened a can of olives to share with us. He then saturated the olives in olive oil because Chazal said that olives cause one to forget, while olive oil helps one to remember. (Horayot 13b) He explained that these are the simple ways we keep the Talmud present in our lives and actions.

I remember thinking that it doesn’t matter whether olives and olive oil contain these properties in fact, but for him it was a simple act of affection and fealty to bring what our Sages had said into the world, reminding us that remembering Torah is important and forgetting any apart of it may even be a sin. Such was his devotion, to and his compulsion for learning.

If everything we contribute emanates from the skills we are given, then Rabbi Miller singularly, selflessly and passionately was the one who taught me, and countless others, everything.

After a short break, back from the sea, zeal renewed, strength restored, I realize what a gift teaching is. There I was, sitting outside with my laptop near Rechovot Beach, but actually next to a small bay on the other side of the ocean. It was time for my Maharal class given on the Web through webyeshiva.org. My students who appear from California to Poland on my screen through their webcams are ready for Torah from רחובות.

The Maharal opens the second chapter of Netiv Torah (The Pathway to Torah) with a Talmudic passage from the Tractate of Ta’anit (Fasting).

Why is the Torah likened to water? As it is written, ‘Let all who are thirsty come to the water.’ (Isaiah 55:1)

Just as water from a high place always seeks out a low place, so too, Torah is only maintained in one whose awareness [of self] is lowly. (Ta’anit 4a)

The Maharal explains that Torah is pure intellect and has no connection to the material world. Therefore, in order to receive Torah, one must be in a state of humility. Humility is what the modern Hasidic masters would call the Bitul Hayesh, the nullification of self. The opposite of which is Gasut Ruach (grossness of spirit, arrogance). Arrogance is the most material, and the crassest of all qualities. Why the most material? Because of its emphasis on size, on being bigger, and being the best. By definition, the arrogant are subjected to the realm of form and matter, and that is their limitation. No matter how big you are, you are only that size and no more.

The humble, however, by nullifying self as much as possible, have forfeited the realm of size, for something a tad more than nothing. Thus paradoxically, they have no limitation. Like water, the humble have transcended size by going to the low place, and therefore are capable of receiving and maintaining the Torah.

Rabbi Yehoshua Bar Chanina was speaking to the daughter of Caesar. She observed, “What magnificent wisdom contained in such an ugly container!” Rabbi Yehoshua asked, “In what kind of vessels does the Caesar keep his wine?” “In vessels of earthenware,” she replied. “People as important as you keep wine in vessels so common?” He queried. “What should we keep them in?” she asked. “In vessels of gold and silver”, he answered. She did as he suggested and the wine turned to vinegar.
The Caesar asked her, “Who told you to do this?” “Rabbi Chanina did”, she said. The Caesar asked Rabbi Chanina, “Why did you tell my daughter to do this?” Rabbi Chanina replied, “Just as she told me, so I told her (Ibid)

The Gemara wonders whether it is possible for the handsome to learn? The answer is that they can, but if those who were handsome were less good looking they would have learned more.

This story demonstrates that the most precious of liquids is only preserved in the humblest of vessels. Torah, like these liquids, require the utmost care in order to be preserved. That care requires all who wish to receive it to be self-ignored and Torah absorbed.

…He who spurns gifts will live long.(Proverbs 15:27)

As often is the case the pithier Hebrew version of these words is more poetic, more absolute, and, as a result, more jarring. שונא מתנת יחיה or in transliteration, SoNAy (Lit. He who hates) MaTaNoT (gifts) YiCHYe (will live). Note that the verse doesn’t allow for indifference, but one must despise the idea of being on the receiving end for gifts.

Now that is a counter cultural concept if I ever heard one.

The Talmud teaches what an exemplar of this value does to demonstrate that he is one who spurns gifts.

“A Sage who does not hesitate to declare his own food treif (not kosher) when he is not absolutely certain” (Chullin 44b)
The commentaries learn that if he is not so invested in his own sustenance than surely he is not one to care about gifts. The reason being that he is more concerned about keeping the law than he is material losses. Certainly, such a person will never consider a material gift to “matter”.

What does it mean to “spurn gifts”? It is to see them as tempting distractions that deter one from life’s purpose, a nefarious subterfuge to make one subject to the sycophantic designs of those who wish to curry favor. The same Talmudic passage recounts that:

Rabbi Elazar was sent a gift from the House of the Nasi (the Jewish leadership) and he wouldn’t accept it. He was invited to join them, and he refused to go. When they inquired as to why he would not join, he answered, “He who spurns gifts shall live.”

Rabbi Zera, however, refused gifts when they were sent to him, but accepted the authorities invitation to join them. “They are showing affection to me,” he said.
Here, R. Zera marks a distinction between invitations and gifts. R. Elazar does not. R. Elazar, considering the source sees gifts and invitations as one and the same, but R. Zera is willing to accept the flattery of the officials as long as it does not line his pockets.

Here’s another thing to consider. In times of economic hardship, do gifts not create yet another possibility for humiliation and embarrassment for those who have fallen on hard times and can no longer participate? What would happen if special occasions were celebrated without gifts, but with the reciprocal sharing of bounty, or where ones honored presence was considered gift enough?

I remember when my daughter celebrated a birthday in a Chabad kindergarten. We were invited to attend while the class was served a cake in celebration of her sixth year. She had a wreath of flowers on her head, and the gift from her teacher was that she was given the honor of serving her students her birthday cake.

And truly an honor it was.

Jews throughout their history have had to contend with kidnappings and ransoms. It was so prevalent that legislation had already appeared in the Talmud.

The Sages ascertained that being held captive was a fate literally worse than death:

Rava said to Rabba Bar Mari, “Where does this notion that redeeming the captive is considered so special that the sages called it an exceptionally great mitzva appear? As it is written: “And when they will say to you, “Where shall we go?” You will say to them, “So says the LORD, those to die will die, those to go by the sword, will go by the sword, those by famine will be by famine and those who will be taken captive will be taken captive.” (Yirmiahu 15:2, 42:11) And Rabbi Yochanan said, “[In this verse] the afflictions become increasingly more severe. [For example] The sword is considered more severe than death.” [and therefore being held captive is worse than famine] (Bava Batra 8b)

Nevertheless, the Sages cautioned that one should not “over pay” for redeeming captives because of Tikun HaOlam i.e. one would encourage the practice of kidnapping which would be detrimental to the entire community. The Mishna states:

One never redeems captives for more than they are worth, because of our concern for Tikkun HaOlam. One also does not help captives escape because of our concern for Tikkun HaOlam. (Gittin 45a)

Using this principle, the primary goal of a policy should be to deter piracy while the goal of redeeming the individual captive is secondary. It is clear that paying ransom encourages piracy, but keeps captives alive, while killing pirates may have a detrimental impact on the survival of captives. Both caving in or military action have downsides. A third option was offered in an op. ed piece in The New York Times:

In 1995, for example, the water supply for Mogadishu, the capital, was shut off by the United Nations humanitarian agencies until a hostage who worked for another aid organization was released. On the first day of the shutoff, the women who collected water from public distribution points yelled at the kidnappers; on the second day they stoned them; on the third day they shot at them; on the fourth day, the hostage was released.

Here in option three, collective punishment makes the captors so unpopular they are forced to release their captives. This reminds me of the O. Henry short story, “The Ransom of Red Chief” where the captive was so obnoxious the kidnappers decided the enterprise wasn’t worth it.

One question, what do you think would have happened if Israel had turned off the water of Gaza after Gilad Shalit was captured? The Sages may have approved, but what would the response of the hypocritical U.N. have been? Not a hard call.

This article was originally posted on http://scorchintorah.blogspot.com/

When analyzing a disagreement in the Talmud the first question one must ask is not “What is the argument about?”, but rather, “What can they agree upon.” Determining common ground is the foundation for discovering some facts. It may be that the argument is broader than one may surmise, but one knows that at least the argument goes this far. In other words, by minimizing the dispute, one does not only assert a common ground, but s/he actually arrives at a modest truth.

The modest truth being that at least they are arguing about this. In the Book of Devarim, Parshat Ki Tavo enumerates a litany of curses that will fall on those who cross God. One of the more unnerving of those curses is:

And your life will hang [or depend upon] before you, you will be frightened night and day, and you will not believe in your life.(Devarim 28:66)

There is a disagreement in Midrash Esther Rabba on how one unpacks the verse, which is instructive:

The Sages taught: “AND YOUR LIFE WILL HANG BEFORE (DEPEND UPON) YOU…” this refers to a person who has grain for one year.

“…AND YOU WILL BE FRIGHTENED NIGHT AND DAY…” This refers to a person who must buy his flour each day from the miller.

“…AND YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE IN YOUR LIFE.” This refers to one who must buy his bread from the baker.

Rabbi Berachya, however, disagreed “AND YOUR LIFE WILL HANG BEFORE (DEPEND UPON) YOU…” This refers to one who has grain for three years.

“…AND YOU WILL BE FRIGHTENED NIGHT AND DAY…” This refers to one who has grain for one year.

“…AND YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE IN YOUR LIFE.” This refers to one who must get his grain each day from the miller.

The Sages asked: What about the one who must get his bread from the baker?

Rabbi Berachya answered: The Torah did not address the dead.

Both opinions agree that the first clause of the verse is not a curse, but in fact, a positive statement of self sufficiency. They also agree that the last two clauses are curses. Their disagreement is one of degree. Is one anxious and insecure, if he “only” has enough wheat for the year? The Rabbis say no, and Rabbi Berachya disagrees.

One might argue that it depends on the individual and maybe Rabbi Berachya would also agree with this, but he is saying that one should be anxious if he is depleting resources throughout the year without necessarily replenishing them. A person should be anxious if he is not very conservative about his spending – if one does not assume this responsibility. In fact, if one is totally dependent on the system for even baking his bread (presuming he is incapable of doing it) Rav Berachya gives this caustic response, that a person who does not take minimal responsibility for his life is not considered to be “alive.” The system will not succeed in addressing his needs because the system needs something to work with.

The Rabbis say the Torah requires us to take care of everyone regardless of their (in)capacity.

Nobody is considered lost, but when the system is stretched, there is wisdom in placing ones resources where they will do the most good. How does one ascertain where, how and how much is a question for the ages, but here are two opinions, one conservative and one liberal operating under the same system, deciphering the same verse that have much agreement between them. Their disagreement, however, is profoundly fundamental eliciting images of two very different personalities and orientations.

This is a window on two opinions that are not often quoted in the literature. One can certainly find scores of references that unequivocally require us to care for the most vulnerable, but this is a window on framing how this is to be done and even for whom.

The question in the background is: When, if ever, does a person become a lost cause?

This article was originally posted on scorchintorah.blogspot.com

University of Miami Professor Michael McCollough has authored a study that unpacks why religious people are more successful, and generally more sanguine with their lives than secular folks. It seems that they have more self control:

Research has also shown that young children who do well at delaying gratification (i.e., forgoing a small reward in the present so that they might obtain a larger reward after time has passed) perform better years later on measures of academic achievement and social adjustment (Mischel, Shoda, & Rodriguez, 1989). Some social scientists consider delay of gratification to be an important dynamic underlying the behavioral choices of people who believe in an afterlife in which their behavior during this life will be judged. For people with strong beliefs in such an afterlife, it would indeed be rational to deny short-term gains that might come from engaging in behavior that is proscribed by one’s religion because the long-term (eternal) gains of not engaging in the behavior might outweigh the short-term gains associated with engaging in the behavior (Azzi & Ehrenberg, 1975; Iannaccone, 1998).

In other words, certain perspectives make it easier to ignore ones salivary glands when confronted with a pot of gold–and it seems it will also make one more successful as well as make one less prone to depression.

The Sages of the Talmud had much to say about self destructive behavior and its origins. Consider some of the earliest understandings on the story of Cain and Abel - the first murder.
Here are some seemingly conflicting tidbits:

Both small and great are there and a servant is free from his masters” (Job 3:19). As long as a human lives, he is a servant to two urges. A servant to his Creator and a servant to his desires. When he serves his Creator he enrages his desires and when he serves his desires, he enrages his Creator. When he dies, he is liberated. The servant is free from his masters. (Midrash Ruth 3:1)

Rabbi Nachman Bar Shmuel Bar Nachman in the name of Shmuel Bar Nachman said: “And it was very good.” (Genesis 1:31) “And it was good”—refers to one’s good inclination, “and it was very good”—refers to one’s evil inclination. You mean that an evil inclination is very good?!!!?!??! If it were not for the evil inclination one would not build a house, marry and have children, nor engage in commerce. Thus Solomon wrote in Kohelet “skillful enterprise come from men’s envy of one another.” (Genesis Rabba 9:7)

This article was originally posted on scorchintorah.blogspot.com