Meeting With the Dushinsky Rebbe

Early this morning I went with an acquaintance to meet with and speak to the Dushkinsky rebbe, Harav Yosef Tzvi Dushinsky shlit"a, of Israel. The rebbe, who is one of the leaders of the Eidah HaChareidis and the son and grandson of the previous two Gavads of Jerusalem, has been in New York for the wedding of one of his sister's children, and to visit with his chasidim and followers here in New York. Instead of appearing like many rebbes, with throngs of people waiting to do his every need and carrying a silver-tipped cane, the rebbe appeared very simply. When he entered the house, he came carrying the newspaper that had been left outside. Because the owners of the home where he was staying were not in New York, he said that he didn't want them to build up outside, making the walkway look cluttered and alerting would-be thieves that the homeowners are away. This may seem like something small and logical, but when someone speaks of or thinks of a rebbe, it conjures up images of being consumed by holiness and spirituality that places them elsewhere, on another plane of existence, not someone who pays attention to the minutia of small things that worry those of us engulfed by the physical world.


Dushinsky itself is rather new on the Chasidic landscape, having only been formed in the early 1930's after the current rebbe's grandfather moved to Israel and accepted the mantel of leadership of the Eidah HaChareidis upon the death of Harav Yosef Chaim Zonnenfeld zt"l. The first Dushinsky rebbe was one of the most outspoken opponents of the formation of the Zionist State of Israel, delivering a famous speech to the United Nations explaining the Jewish case against establishing the country. After his death in 1948, his son (the current rebbe's father) Harav Yisroel Moshe Dushinsky zt"l became the rebbe and leader of the Eidah until his passing 2003, when the current rebbe accepted the mantel of leadership of the chasidus, with Harav Yitzchok Tuvia Weiss shlit"a becoming the head rabbi of the Eidah HaChareidis.

When I sat and spoke with him, he was very interested to hear what was going on in my life, and showed himself to be very simple and humble. After learning of where I daven (pray) here in Boro Park, he commented that he knew the rav of the shul, and he also happens to be a close cousin of my rosh yeshiva from Israel. The rebbe's wife, in a somewhat unexpected way, also sat at the table with us and spoke. She was very animated and open, and when she spoke to be she looked at me directly in the eyes, which is not something that religious women of her caliber would normally do. The rebbetzin (rebbe's wife) spoke to me at length about shidduchim (the matchmaking process), and proved to be a very clever woman. When it came time for me to go, she told me that she and her husband would very much like to hear from me when they return to Israel, and that they would like to have me in their home on any trip that I make to Israel. As I left, another man entered to meet with the rebbe, and the rebbe walked to him, introduced himself to him, and began to take interest in hearing his many requests from the rebbe, something that would usually be more formal with other rebbes, who have assistants and secretaries to listen to and organize visitors. At the end of the visit, I came away with a very positive and comforting view of the rebbe, who, along with his wife, seemed very down-to-earth and genuinely kind, a mensch-par-excellence.

Read 'Em and Weep

In this week's parsha (Torah portion), Vayigash, we find several instances of people crying. In Bereishis (Genesis) 45:14, Yosef (Joseph) and his brother Binyomin (Benjamin) fall on one another's neck and weep. Rashi explains that Yosef and Binyomin were crying because of the future destruction of the beis hamikdash (temple), which would take place within their territory in the Land of Israel. Similarly, in the very next verse, it is recorded that "Yosef kissed his brothers and cried over them." In this instance, however, Rashi does not explain that they were also crying over the destruction of the beis hamikdash.


To explain the difference between the two situations, the Aish Kodesh brings support from the Gemara in Rosh HaShanah 28a, where it states, "Commandments were not given to provide enjoyment." Rashi, in his commentary on the Gemara, explains that commandments were given to Israel as a yoke on the neck. This, then, is an explanation of the symbolism found in the account of Yosef and Binyomin. When the two cried with one another, they did so on each other's necks, showing that they mourned the instances of Jews throwing off the yoke of the mitzvos that would happen after the beis hamikdash would be destroyed.

The Aish Kodesh explains that each Jew carries the yoke of the mitzvos on their neck, as we go through life with a specific Divine task. We are required to learn Torah and observe the mitzvos everyday, and are charged to have holy thoughts and speech. The Aish Kodesh says that even at times when we are physically prevented from observing certain mitzvos, we must put forth even greater effort, as we still have the yoke of the mitzvos. In a time of complete catastrophe, when suffering is overwhelming and the world seems to be turned completely upside down, people can not only come to abandon certain mitzvos, but they can shrug off the entire yoke of the mitzvos altogether.


When Yosef was once again reunited with his father Yaakov (Jacob), the Torah records (Bereishis/Genesis 46:30) that Yosef cried on his father's neck, but it does not say that Yaakov cried on the neck of his son. Rashi notes that while Yosef cried, Yaakov was reciting the Shema (the group of verses that are of central importance in Judaism). The Aish Kodesh explains that Yosef came to his father, and began to cry on his father's neck, mourning the future plight of the Jewish people. Yosef also knew that his father, as well as the rest of the people, were now coming into Mitzrayim (Egypt), which would result in an eventual enslavement that would introduce the Jewish people to great levels of tumah (impurity). Yosef, therefore, wanted to know how the Jewish people would survive their time in Mitzrayim, and persevere to reach Har Sinai, where they would receive the Torah. Yaakov, to answer his son's deepest yearning for understanding, began to recite the Shema, showing Yosef that the people would survive by a constant returning of their souls to G-d. This is because the recitation of the Shema, when it is recited carefully and with great intent, serves to rededicate ourselves to Divine service, echoing the words of the sefer Ma'or v'Shamesh, which states that one who recites the Shema properly during shacharis (the morning prayer service) will find his avodah (Divine work) successful throughout the day.

If the Faller Falls

In Pirkei Avos ("Wisdom of Our Fathers") 2:7 it says, "He (Hillel) also saw a skull floating in the water. He said, 'Because you drowned other, you were drowned, and those who drowned you will eventually be drowned.'" Rabbeinu Bachya, in his sefer Chovos HaLevavos ("Duties of the Heart", written in 1040) asserts that all monetary loss and physical harm that befall a person are decreed in the Heavenly court. The Ohr HaChaim ("Light of Life", Rabbi Chaim ibn Attar), along with others, disagrees with Rabbeinu Bachya in this, stating instead that Heavenly decrees are fulfilled primarily in natural ways, and only secondarily through human hands. Furthermore, a person of high criminal drive may also act out their violent desires on those without a specific Heavenly decree. Based on this secondary opinion by the Ohr HaChaim, criminal cannot claim to simply being messengers of the Divine Will, as it states in Makkos (10b), "Bad things come from bad people." The Rambam (Maimonides) writes that this is why the Egyptians were punished for enslaving Israel, which was clearly something that had been Divinely decreed against the people.


The Ruach HaChaim, in his commentary on this particular portion of Pirkei Avos, cites Devarim (Deuteronomy) 22:8, "Make a fence for your roof so that you will not place blood in your home if the faller falls from it." The language of the Hebrew states explicitly "ki yipol hanofeil mimenu," or "if the faller falls from it," showing that the one who falls in such a case is someone who is already destined to die by falling due to a Divine decree. The fact that the Torah still finds the owner of the building liable for the faller's death shows that we can act in ways which remove ourselves from the place of arbiter of Divine punishment. In the case of the drowning victim, even if he died because of his own misdeeds, those who drowned him will also be punished.

In the written Torah itself, several activities carry with them punishments that are in the form of the death penalty. The Oral Torah, however, which contains the details regarding the specifications for such punishments outlines an intricate set of requirements:
1. Two legally proper witnesses must see the perpetrator on their way to commit an offense that requires capital punishment.
2. The two witnesses must both warn the perpetrator of the consequences of committing such a crime.
3. The perpetrator of the crime must give clear acknowledgement as to the consequences, and then continue with the desired course of action.
4. An elaborate set of judicial procedures, including rigorous examination of witnesses and limited means of introducing evidence, had to be carried out with complete success.
All of these requirements were to limit the executions carried out by the beis din (court) in ancient Israel. Indeed, when the Jewish people began to decrease in their piety, and there were doubts in their ability to carry out the judicial specifications in the most detailed way, the Sanhedrin recused themselves and all other Jewish courts of being able to carry out capital punishment. This, then, placed the Divine decree completely in the hands of the Divine through natural phenomena.


A famous discussion regarding the death penalty takes place in Makkos (one of the groups of the Mishnah), with Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Tarfon on one side, and Rabbi Shimon ben Gamliel on the other. The mishna cites that a court which killed one person in seven years was considered destructive, and some opinions even stated that a court which killed on person in seventy years was considered destructive. Rabbis Akiva and Tarfon then assert that had they lived during the time when the Sanhedrin carried out capital punishment (as they were born several generations later), their own attention to detail would have made their rigorous examination of the case so intense that no person would ever be able to be found guilty in such a case.

(Written in honor of Harav Levi Yitzhcok ben Sorah Sosha, ztzv'kl, the Bostoner Rebbe, who was niftar on Shabbas parshas Vayishlach.)

These Lights Are Holy

Just a few short things about Chanukah...
1. Chanukah is one of the three major holidays (the other two being Purim and Simchas Torah) that was established by Chazal (the early rabbinic sages). As such, it shows the importance of human interaction in the development of the spiritual process, and the need of human interaction to fulfill the Divine will. Even though the holiday of Chanukah was established by Chazal, the blessings that we recite over the candles cites G-d as commanding us to light them. This is because G-d wants human interaction, human thought, and human processes to go into the reciprocating process of creation, and He Himself commanded humanity to do so. Thus, the creation of Chanukah is a fulfillment of this command, and we can make a blessing citing G-d as the "commander" of the holiday.


2. The Chiddushei HaRim, the first Gerrer Rebbe zt"l, writes that the act of lighting the menorah is not simply a commemoration of the miracles of Chanukah, but that we actually see the miracles in our own lights. This is shown by the fact that we say "haneiros halelu", or "these lights" are holy, not simply the ones in previous times. Reb Levi Yitzchok of Berditchev zt"l, the Kedushas Levi, writes that each year during Chanukah, the strength and miracles of the original Chanukah are put into the world. The result of this is an intense potential for spiritual enlightenment, which he says can be felt to the extent that we withdraw ourselves from physicality and attach ourselves to spirituality instead. The Sfas Emes, grandson of the Chiddushei HaRim, says we can do this by allowing the mitzvah of lighting the menorah to help us connect to that which is beyond the natural world. This is, indeed, the entire point of mitzvos, as they are meant to turn the mundane world into a continuous spiritual endeavor.


3. While Chanukah is celebrated for eight days, the miracle of the lights itself did not last for eight full days. Because enough oil was found to last one day, the miracle of Chanukah is truly only seven days. The Beis Yosef, a prominent legal scholar of the 1500's, famously asks this question in his writing. While there are many answers given by various authorities, and answers continue to be suggested, I have a personal favorite. The answer that speaks to me the most is that at a time when all seemed to be destroyed, after having taken back the temple from the hands of the Greeks, and seeing that they had completely defiled the temple, the fact that they still had enough hope to even look for pure oil is itself a miracle. Therefore, we celebrate the holiday of Chanukah for eight days: seven for the oil, and one for the perseverance of hope and trust in G-d, even when it seems to not make sense.

Life is Contemplation Spread Thin

This week's Torah portion, Vayeishiv, includes the passage, "And Yaakov settled in the land where his father dwelled" (Bereishis/Genesis 37:1). The Noam Elimelech zt"l, the holy Reb Elimelech of Lizhensk, the author of one of the greatest Chasidic works, connects this passage to the verse in Tehillim (Psalms), "May there be peace in Your chambers, serenity in your palaces." In showing the connection between these two verses, the Noam Elimelech addresses the innate task of the human being, an why we are given the specific role that we are given in creation.

To explain this, the Rebbe Reb Meilech brings the teaching of the Gemara that since the beginning of creation, there was not one who called G-d "Adon", or Master. The first being to do so was Avraham Avinu, Abraham our father, who began to address G-d as Adon, teaching us that we must strive to unify the Divine Name of Hashem, the four letter sacred name of G-d, which is read the same way as Adon'ai (My Master). The Zohar (central work of kaballah) further teaches that whenever we read the sacred Name of G-d as Adon'ai, we should meditate on unifying both names of G-d that are pronounced in that way. When this is done, the task is completed as is stated in Shacharis (the morning service), "El Adon al kol hama'asim," that Hashem is the Master over all creation. The name El implies mercy, as it says in Tehillim (Psalms), "The mercy of El exists all day long." Therefore, when we unify the Divine Name of G-d, we succeed in drawing down mercy into the world, which is "El" (the awakening of kindness in the world), and G-d becomes "Adon al kol hama'asim", master over all creations.

This unification of G-d's name, and the resulting Mastership of G-d, is the meaning of the verse in Chavakuk (Habakkuk 2:20), "Hashem is in His holy place; all the earth is quiet in His presence." The name Adon'ai, as it is the means of pronunciation for the sacred Name of G-d (which is not spelled Adon'ai), is called the "heichal" (entry hall) to the Divine Name. So, when the unification is brought into the "palace" (Sacred Name) by means of the "entry hall" (contemplating the word Adon'ai), "all the earth is quiet," as kindness and tranquility are released into creation. This is the deeper teaching of the verse in Bereishis (Genesis 2:5), "There was no man to work the ground." The word for ground, "adamah", is also used in the phrase in the Torah, "adamah Elyon," meaning, "I shall liken myself to the Exalted One." Therefore, man should always strive to compare the creation (adamah) to the Creator (Elyon), drawing the lower world to unity with the upper world. This is the reason for the creation of Adam, the first creature to begin the process of unifying the worlds. This beginning process is alluded to in the kaballistic introduction to the creation of Adam, stating that "a mist ("ad" in Hebrew, the first two letters of Adon'ai) rose from the ground."

From Adam until Avraham Avinu, no person called G-d "Adon", Master. Because of Avraham's great love and intellectual service, he was able to truly call G-d Master. According to the Noam Elimelech, this is done primarily through intellect, and the contemplation on the greatness of creation and the loftiness of G-d. After this meditation, awe and fear will naturally develop due to the intensity of the true expansion of Hashem's presence in creation. The Noam Elimelech says that this is the ideal manner in which we should serve G-d, as mitzvos (commandments) are also directed at this process. If this is the case, then why do we need to do the mitzvos at all? Shouldn't we achieve our avodah (holy work) through the better process of meditation, and not through the physical tasks associated with mitzvos?


To answer this question, the Noam Elimelech notes that we are, through the process of creation, (either seemingly or literally) compartmentalized into bodies, with each fleck of our souls having greater intensity around the physical bodies that we inhabit. If we were to simply meditate on G-d and the greatness of creation at all times, without interruption, our physical existence would be nullified due to the overwhelming majesty of G-d. This would not allow us to continue to live and awaken the sparks of Divinity scattered throughout creation for us to find. Therefore, we were given mitzvos, commandments to connect us to our physical body and to less-obviously lofty parts of creation. However, so that we would not be connected to physicality simply to be connected, each mitzvah was connected intrinsically to a piece of creation where we are to awaken sparks of the Divine (ex. special restrictions of shechita, or kosher slaughter for animals), which give us the connection to physicality and G-d at the same time, a state of being called "deveikus", or "cleaving."

This is the meaning of the verse first addressed in the opening, "And Yaakov settled in the land where his father dwelled." The root of the Hebrew word for "dwelled" (megurei) is also found in the verse in Bamidbar (Numbers 22:3), "Vayigar Mo'av...And Moav was afraid." Therefore, the verse can be read, "And Yaakov feared G-d at His true level of majesty." This is spoken about Yaakov in reference to the land of Canaan, which represents the physical world and body, and shows that Yaakov was able to remain in the correct level of fear because he was able to remain in his physical body to do his task of deveikus.


Therefore, the verse in Tehillim says, "May there be peace in your chambers, serenity in your palaces." The word for peace, "shalom", is the same as the word "shaleim", which means "complete" or "unified". Similarly, the word for "your chambers" (chayil) is the same as the word for the Divine legions in the upper world. Also, the word for "palaces" in the second half of the verse refers to the physical body, with which one uses to serve G-d through the physical commandments. This presents the deeper meaning of the verse, reading, "May the upper worlds (which is essentially the Divine Name) be unified, bringing about serenity in the physical world." May we all achieve the ability to meditate on creation and the mitzvos done through physical creation, so that "with our own bodies we see G-d," and remain balanced so that our deveikus may last from now until eternity, umein v'umein.

Az Der Eibishter Tanzt

This week's parsha, Toldos ("Generations"), speaks of the birth of Yaakov and Eisav (Jacob and Esau), Yitzchok's movement within the lands of Avimelech to escape famine, and the eventual giving of the birthright to Yaakov instead of Eisav. The culmination of the parsha, with the blessing of Yaakov, gives tremendous insight into the nature and essence of Judaism, in contrast to other faiths and contemplative practices.

The Torah records the bracha (blessing) given by Yitzchok to Yaakov, beginning,"V'yiten l'chu Ho'Eloikim mital hashomayim imishmanei ho'uretz, v'roiv dugon v'siroish" ("And G-d will give you from the dew of the heavens and the fatness of the earth, and an abundance of grain and wine"). From the very first word, the blessing seems to use strange language. What is the reason for starting the bracha with the word "and", as if the bracha is a continuation from a previous statement? Rashi, the historical supercommentator on the Torah, cites a Medrash (allegorical source) saying that to begin a bracha this way means that it will happen, and then happen again. However, does this imply that without the word "and" attached to the first word, the blessing would only be fulfilled at one time, and then end?

From a second angle, the bracha seems odd in that a spiritual inheritance should revolve completely around physicality. On the surface, this presents the idea that though we are here for a spiritual task, the task does not include going without our physical needs, and sometimes (if we happen to come to the place of matching our desire with the will of G-d) our wants. It is not the plan that we suffer in this world in order to reach an enlightened state, but that we should instead strengthen and comfort ourselves so that we might be better equipt to do our jobs in this world.

For the Sfas Emes (a previous rebbe of Gerrer Chasidus, about whom enough cannot be said), the union of these two concepts explains the true meaning of the beginning of the bracha. By receiving an abundance of material things, and using them to complete the will of G-d (ex. using food to strengthen our bodies), we return the essence of these objects (which is spiritual, as the essence of all physicality is spiritual) to their source. In return, we receive more from above. The Medrash presents this idea in the imagery of a cave near the ocean. At first, the cave receives water from the waves, but then the waves retreat, returning the water to the ocean, with the cycle repeating over and over; a constant reciprocation between man and G-d, the lower world and the higher one.


In Judaism, this is the task of humanity. The world was created in the mystical emptiness left when the Ein Sof (Infinite Presence) was withdrawn, and all of physical existence is only a game of hide-and-seek with sparks of the Divine. By reaching out to the physical world, accepting the task at hand when we find physicality presented to us, and acknowledging that physicality is a necessary means to the final end, we reunite the Divine sparks with their source(a process known by the name 'shevias hakeilim'). It is not for us to run away from the world and retreat into contemplative, monastic life. We must recognize that physicality is a bracha, but it is left to us to confront it and elevate our surroundings.

"The religious ideal is not withdrawal from the physical world in an attempt to become an angel. On the contrary, we want to be involved in many different facets of the world and apply the moral and spiritual guidance of G-d to every aspect of life." -Unknown

Shuvah, Hashem, v'Hinacheim

During the ten days between Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur, it is the job of every Jew to spent much time learning, praying, and meditating to bring themselves to a place of repentance and contrition for the wrongdoings, so that they might put themselves on a more correct path. However, it is a central principle in Judaism that since all mitzvos (commandments) are true because they are extensions of the Truth (G-d), then G-d also keeps all of the mitzvos. The same, then, applies to teshuvah (repentance).

It is a somewhat strange thing to think that G-d repents, but the Torah itself cites examples of G-d doing repentence. In Shemos (Exodus) 32:14, the Torah says, "V'yinacheim Hashem, al hara'ah asher diber laasos l'amo" ("And G-d repented for the evil which He said He would do to his people"). The same is found in Tehillim (Psalms) 90:13, where we read "Shuvah Hashem...v'hinacheim" ("Return, O G-d...and repent").

While it is presented in the Torah that G-d does teshuvah, there is also the principle that G-d does not change. However, when looking at the Torah, our lives, and the world, we seem to have countless instances when G-d has changed, given a new decree, or decided against continuing punishment. The truth is, though, that it is not G-d who has changed, but us. Each step a person takes in the world of spirituality brings them to a brand new madreiga (level), which has its own set of opportunities, blessings, and availabilities. When we experience hardships, or see ourselves moving toward impending calamity, and work to elevate ourselves spiritually to correct our path (i.e. repent), our new level opens up brand new vessels to receive a completely different aspect of G-d's kindness, which was not available to us on the previous level.


When we do true teshuvah, and move as a people beyond a previous state, we not only reach a new level, but the previous misdeeds are transformed into good deeds, as they are now seen in the light of being instrumental in our current elevation. This is why it is extremely important for the Jewish people to have a strong connection with and follow the righteous people within each generation, since there exists the rule, "Tzadik gozer, Hakadosh Baruch Hu mekayem" ("A righteous person decrees, G-d enacts"). It isn't that a tzadik (righteous person) forces G-d to act in a certain way, but the minhagim, chidushim (insights), and other gazeiros (decrees) that the tzadik gives to his followers open up endlessly exapnding vessels, through which G-d can impart unimaginable goodness guaranteed by our new level.


So, how is it that G-d does repentence? The previously quoted verse in Tehillim is followed by verse 14, which says, "Sabeinu vaboker chasdecha," ("Satisfy us in the morning with Your mercy"). That is to say, after we have done our teshuvah, after we have implemented the directives of our tzadikim, after we have seen ourselves to a new spiritual level, satisfy us with the realization that You (G-d), too, have responded by revealing the innate goodness and holiness found deep within our previous punishments, and are refreshing us with as much revealed goodness now as hidden goodness in the past.

Ashreichem, Yisroel

In Tehillim (Psalms) we find the verse, "Rosh devarcha emes" ("The beginning of your word is truth"), which leads us to ask, "Why the beginning?" Because each word is of vital importance in the Torah, there must be a reason why the word "beginning" was chosen over the word "all", or simply "Your word is true". Chazal (the Jewish sages) comment on this verse in the Gemara. They note that when the nations of the world heard the Ten Utterances (Ten Commandments), they heard "I am G-d", and immediately began to assume that all of the commandments and lessons in the Torah were simply to be a result of G-d's own pleasure and because of G-d's need for recognition. However, when the nations heard later commandments, such as "Honor your father and mother", and "Do not steal", they saw that the beginning statement, "I am G-d", must also be true.

The nations, therefore, legitimized G-d's existence and truth through the seeming universality of what was revealed after the initial statement of G-d's existence. This is the way that the world seems to work: it is only after the results are in that we can give an account of the deliverer of those results, and they apply the same to G-d. However, when they see the Jews practicing actions that do not go by any logic or understanding that will seem to be "intrinsically true", then they mock the Jewish people with regard to the practice.

For the Jewish people, however, it is the opposite. Continuously during Rosh HaShana and Yom Kippur we say, "You, G-d, are true". This means that there is no truth, no reality, nothing at all other than G-d. We are not forbidden to steal because it is universally good and intrinsically logical not to steal, but we are forbidden to steal because it is given as an extension of the Truth, which is G-d. Therefore, Dovid HaMelech (King David) says in Tehillim, "The beginning of Your word is true," to show that since the first of the Ten Utterances was "I am G-d," it qualifies all to follow as completely true, since Truth is revealing it. We may not agree, we may not understand, and chas v'shalom we may not follow, but none of that makes it less true.

Therefore, during the prayers for Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur we say, "Your throne is established in kindness, and You will sit upon it in truth". By defintion, this kindness (chesed) is something that extends to all people, even those who seem to not deserve it. It might appear to be counterintuitive for those that we deem unworthy to receive G-d's kindness, but these things do not depend upon our values and assumptions, as the verse says, "and You will sit upon it in truth". There is no such thing as "intrinsic" or "universal"; there is only G-d, which is Truth.


It follows then, that Rabbi Akiva says in the Mishnah, "Ashreichem Yisroel! Lifnei mi atem mitaharin? Mi lifnei m'taheir es'chem? Avichem shebashamayim!... V'yomer, 'Mikveh Yisroel HaShem', ma mikveh m'taheir hat'mei'im, af Hakadosh Baruch Hu mi'taheir es Yisroel" ("Fortunate are you Israel! Before whom are you cleansed? Who cleanses you? Your Father in Heaven!... And it is said, 'The mikveh of Israel is G-d', for just as a mikveh cleanses something impure, so The Holy One cleanses Israel"). The Jewish people are fortunate because we recognize that truth exists only because it is an extension of G-d, allowing ourselves to accept our role as His children, making Him our Father, which in turn allows Him to treat us with the overflowing kindness that a father shows a child, purifying us even when we do not seem to deserve it... and when we are purified by the source of all truth, we are truly purified.

(As learned from the holy sefer Aish Kodesh, by Hagaon Harav Kalonymos Kalmish Shapira, HY"D, the Rebbe of Piacezna. May he receive zechus from those learning his words during this time of teshuvah and cheshbon.)

Just Floating

As hoped, visiting Montreal lifted me from the depths of summer boredom. While I had high high hopes for the city, being there definitely exceeded my expectations.


The trip to Montreal was in a small, rickety plane where you could feel every bump and shift during take-off and landing. As soon as the plane landed, it was obvious that Montreal is French-speaking. In fact, it is the second largest French-speaking city in the world. After clearing customs and renting the car, we made our way to Old Montreal and to our hotel. After getting checked in, I immediately wanted to get out and see the city. I took a walk around, quickly coming to the promenade along the St. Lawrence Seaway. Along the promenade, in the area of the old port, there were shops, restaurants, cafes, and museums. This area of the city was very lively, and walking around showed the diversity of the city.



Later in the day, the drive to eat dinner took us through most of centre-ville (downtown), which was starkly different than the ornately French Old Montreal. Like most modern cities, the downtown area of Montreal is dominated by skyscrapers and modern design. However, Montreal proved to be much cleaner and full of tree-filled squares and plazas. Centre-ville was also filled with people, as the last day of the Montreal Jazz Festival was coming to an end. The trip to and from dinner, and the walk after dinner, showed even more diversity in the city's population. Because of the language, Montreal has attracted immigrants from French-speaking countries across the world, giving the city large West African, Moroccan, Algerian, and Vietnamese communities.


The next day we found ourselves eating lunch and walking around in the Chasidic area of Montreal. The neighborhoods of Mile End and Outremont are home to the largest Chasidic population in Canada, and the community is quite substantial. The area has countless synagogues and restaurants, as well as clothing stores and supermarkets catering to the community. The neighborhood was also very artsy and bohemian, with galleries, cafes, and boutiques lining the streets. That night we ate in dinner in the other large Jewish area of the city, Cote-St.-Luc. While Mile End and Outremont are largely ultra-Orthodox, Cote-St.-Luc is largely Modern Orthodox. Interestingly, while the Sephardic Jewish groups of Montreal, originally from Morocco and Algeria, speak French due to the French influence in their home countries, the rest of the Jewish community is largely English-speaking. Even in Outremont and Mile End, which are traditionally areas of large Francophone populations, the Jewish community speaks Yiddish and English, not French, which has caused misunderstanding and difficulty between the Jewish community and others in the area.






Overall, the trip was very nice and impressive. Montreal is definitely one of the nicest and interesting cities I have visited, and takes a high place on my list of favorites.

Lean Forward to the Next Crazy Venture

The summers in Boro Park are empty. Everyone flees from Brooklyn to the Catskills, and with them goes the excitement and the pace of city life. Luckily, one has music and books to distract from the lack of entertainment on the streets. For me, this means a renewed love of Kafka.

Even with this reading to distract me, the summers always make me feel like I am sitting and waiting. I can't help but get the sense that I'm on the edge of something great, but something that isn't quite revealed at the present time. Maybe this is because summers have always been the time when the world comes to a complete stand still; no duties, no burdens, simply sitting and relaxing all day. This "no duties, no burdens" is exactly what bothers me, though. Sitting around is much more tiring than doing something, that's for sure. Luckily, I will be going to Montreal on Sunday afternoon, and will hopefully move about to kill this boredom.

The Ongoing Wow

After much thought and contemplation, I decided to return to America, at least for the current time. When that "current time" ends is anyone's guess. Of course, my last moments walking around Yerushalayim (Jerusalem) still move through my veins, as Israel is not a place that one can forget. In fact, according to Rebbe Nachman of Breslov, eventhough I left Yerushalayim, I am closer than ever. He used to say, "Everywhere I go, I am going to Jerusalem," meaning that in every corner of the world in which a Jew finds himself, he is there to do his unique job in that unique space in order to bring the world one step closer to completion, redemption, and the time when we will finally all live in the new, real Jerusalem.

So, for now, I find myself heading toward Jerusalem in America. While learning is something that I truly enjoy, my need for action has gotten the better of me. Having spent my first week back in New York, I am visiting my father for his birthday. My visit this time has proven to be more relaxing and enjoyable, and I don't feel as out of place. Perhaps I am coming more into myself, being able to be myself wherever I happen to be at the moment.


Upon my return to New York, I will start to look through the job opportunities that I found the last few weeks of being in Israel. Ever since I can remember, my aspiration has been to work in a profession where I feel myself making a difference in the world, and hopefully I will find myself working in such a job. I always feel the need to move around and get meaning out of everything in life, add to life, and try to find something new.

During my last few days in Israel, I really think that I got to that place where I was in love with everything that was swirling around me. I began to really stop and appreciate things, and recognize that my life was made up of, as Speed Levitch says, "moments flabergasted to be in each other's presence." However, my hunger and need to experience do not let me sit in one place for too long. It seems that each new place I see, I see a new part of myself. Interestingly, the Yalkut Shimoni (an homiletic telling and explanation of the Torah) says that this is exactly the case. In explaining the creation of man, the Yalkut Shimoni says that G-d gathered dust from the four corners of the world, and everywhere in between, in order to form humanity. And through this, relates the Yalkut, "every place a person walks, from there he was created, and to there shall he return." To me, this validates travel and life experience as part of true religious awakening, which is an infinitely motivating idea. Ahh, emes is good...


I once had a discussion with a man in a bank who simply could not understand a religious experience that didn't revolve around begging G-d for things like A's on tests, lottery winnings, and that your most coveted item at the mall soon goes on sale. I, on the other hand, couldn't fathom a religious experience that included such things. To me, Judaism has never been about finding a cure for life, or ways to escape reality, simply wasting time until some day comes in the future when you're "off to a better place." I've always felt that Judaism was much more honest than that. It's not escaping reality, but engaging in life head on, wrestling with angels and men to bring out the divinity in every place at every instant, knowing that that "better place" isn't found in a new location, but in a deeper understanding of the actuality of the here and now. Judaism doesn't seek to run away from physicality, but elevate it, transforming it by doing mitzvos that connect all planes and times of existence to reveal the hester panim (hidden face of G-d) residing behind creation. When that's the focus of your life, who has time for all the competition and begging? You're a partner with the Ribbono Shel Olam (Master of the Universe) in the continued creation and reparation of the world! That's always been the point of Judaism, and life in general, to me. So, for now, I guess I'm off to keep finding myself in places where I've never been, meeting G-d on new street corners, repairing little parts of creation, each step treading closer and closer to Jerusalem.

Slow and Steady

Yesterday afternoon as I was hurrying off to get lunch, I was stopped at the corner by an elderly man. The man, as I recognized, was the gabbai (person in charge of the inner-workings) of the Gr"a Synagogue in my neighborhood. Being very old and unsteady, he asked me if I would help him make it across the street, and then to the door of the synagogue. Of course, I said that I would help him, and I walked with him arm-in-arm across the street. As we got closer to the synagogue, a car pulled up behind us, and in an attempt to rush us or move us, began to blow the horn. Immediately, I attempted to move out of the way, trying to lead the gabbai onto the sidewalk. He refused, and after asking me if I understood English, told me, "Slow and steady".

After helping the man reach his destination, I started thinking about what he told me: slow and steady. As I walked to lunch, I began to look around much more, stopping to see things that I might have missed previously. Ahead of me, a woman also stopped at each small garden, pressing her nose into the flowers surrounding each gate. The rest of the day, I tried to do everything and say everything with much more intent and concentration. Walking, eating, and praying especially, are much more meaningful that way.


This morning, as with last night, I prayed more slowly than usual, concentrating on the words that I was reading, and thinking more about what they meant. That's the wonderful thing about Hebrew. No matter how many times you've read a text, or how obvious the meaning seems to be, you can always make a new connection, definition, or understanding, whether through proximity, spelling difference, numerical value...there's always something new to find.

This is true of everything. Within the legal times for prayers, the earliest time that one is allowed to pray the morning prayer is after a time called "Mi SheYakir". This is when there is enough natural light, or should be enough natural light, to recognize the face of an acquaintance at the distance of four cubits. Knowing this halacha (law) I never thought more about it, until when I recently read an interesting lesson on the particular zman (time).


The story goes that a rabbi onced asked his students how one could tell that the night had ended and the day had begun. "Perhaps," one suggested, "it is when you can see an animal in the distance and determine whether it is a sheep or a dog." However, the rabbi answered that this was not the determinant. "Could it be," asked another, "that it is when you can see a tree in the distance and tell whether it is a fig tree or a peach tree?" Again, the rabbi answered that this was not how to tell when the night had ended. Finally, after all had suggested their own idea, they demanded that the rabbi tell them the answer. The rabbi looked at his students and said, "It is when you can look at the face of a man or woman and see your brother or your sister. Because if you cannot see this, then it is still night."

The More I See, The Less I Know

This Shavuos seemed to drag on longer than those in the past. While the staying up on the first night did feel like it flew by, I think the following day-and-a-half took three days to pass. Initially, everything seemed to be going well: I had a nice, small meal followed by learning with one of my roommates. With the learning, I felt like I accomplished more than I have my whole time here, which was very inspiring. However, when it came time for shacharis (morning prayers), things took a turn…


Instead of staying in the yeshiva like most other people, I decided against the warnings of those around me, and my own reason, and opted to walk to the kosel. Once there, I realized just how much of a mistake I had made: I was confronted with not a sea, but a wall of people, thousands upon thousands, smashed into the area around the kosel. Not wanting to turn back, and completely exhausted, I fought the crowds to make it inside the kosel where there are bookcases normally holding siddurim (prayer books). Clearly, I knew that this wouldn’t be the case this morning, but I felt that something had to go well after such a night of learning. Finally, after digging and searching behind books that were behind books that were behind books, I found a small siddur. Having been awake for more than 20 hours, and being amongst a wall of people in the same state, the prayers were a mixture of exhaustion, frustration, and tiny glimpses of solace. After finishing, I walked back to my apartment totally alone with the sun rising around me, trying to beat the masses and get into bed.

Once back home, I got into bed only to have my roommate’s alarm go off three hours later, reminding us that we had a meal to attend. The meal was at the home of my favorite neighbor, and the lighthearted, relaxed nature of the meal (with the addition of lasagna, quiche, and cheesecake) was enough to alleviate my fatigue momentarily. After the meal, I committed myself to walking with my roommate to the kosel again. After the trek there and back, I finally got into bed at 4:30, and slept a whole three hours again. At night I went to a meal with people I didn’t know, only to find myself talking to the 30-something year old cousin of the hosts about annoying Israelis. After this meal, I went to Belz, which was packed beyond belief. Eventually, I made my way home and crawled into bed at 2:15. Through the rest of Shavuos (the second day of which was also Shabbos), I basically slept, only to wake up to feed myself and daven (pray).


While I was at the kosel, watching the interaction of the people and experiencing the way in which things were handled, I started thinking about something that I previously began to write about, but never finished. I could try to explain it on the basis that people were tired, but that wouldn’t explain other times in which the same holds true, and regardless, excuses only go so far. The issue is this: while religious people always seem ready, even proud, to take on stringencies in their religious practice, they never seem to want to take on any stringencies on the mitzvos dealing with interpersonal relations. This seems ridiculous to me, as human beings are the creations and extensions of G-d. Why would you miss a chance to engage with, be kind to, or express general love and compassion to such a creation? Indeed, the great sage Rabbi Hillel said that the whole point of the Torah can be summed up in the mitzvah to love another person as you love yourself, with the rest of the oceans of knowledge and practice meant to drive this point home. Many, however, sadly feel too proud that they keep more restrictions on themselves, bringing their religion to be about objects and stringencies instead of love and expressions of Divinity. This is something that I continue to struggle with, as I see it all around me, with people pushing, struggling to be first and right, and acting as if everything is going well in their learning and life. Can’t they feel that something is missing, or are they too far gone?

A story was told of the Satmar Rebbe, dealing with stringencies and the ways in which people view them. In the early 1930’s, a student from a more modern yeshiva came to visit the rebbe. This student, being from a more modern city and background, had his beard completely trimmed off, a leniency that no one in the yeshiva of the Satmar Rebbe would dream of taking. After the young man left, one of the rebbe’s students approached him, asking him how he could welcome and meet with a Jew who didn’t take his religious life seriously enough to be stringent in this area. Sensing the complete lack of understanding and truth in his student, the rebbe responded, “It is possible that when this young man reaches the World to Come, HaKadosh Baruch Hu will ask him, ‘Holy Jew, where is your beard?’, but it is also possible that when you come into the World to Come, you will be asked, ‘Holy beard, where is your Jew?’” The simple story speaks volumes.

It's Beautiful, and So Are You

Tonight was a special night in Yerushalayim. As the neighborhood cleared out for a wedding of a fellow yeshiva student, I was gladly left to wander unihibited. I went to Ben Yedhudah Street for dinner, and having ordered to go, I found a nice, obscure spot to eat. It happened that the spot was within earshot of a small cafe with life music. Tonight, the music was provided by an Israeli guitar player who played soothing versions of already soothing Beatles songs. As I sat there, if just for a moment, I got to a place where I once again realized how nice it was to be in such a city as Yerushalayim.


Recently, I have had questions about my ability to really enjoy my time here in Israel, while also having to be preoccupied with yeshiva. What makes the difference? If something is wonderful, as so many things truly are, that quality should be present whether one is doing a million things or one thing. The difference, it seems, is the difference between two qualities addressed in the upcoming holiday of Shavuos: matan Torah and kabalas haTorah, the giving of Torah and the receiving of Torah.

Judaism teaches that while the revelation of Sinai took place in the desert at one time in history, it continues to come with us. Each day, constantly, Hashem pours out Torah onto the world, whether we realize it or not. On Shavuos, the holiday that marks the initial giving of the Torah, it seems that the magnetism of the moment is extra special, but the current giving of the Torah is not limited to that day. The difference about Shavuos is that it is a special day to concentrate our own minds and energy on the idea of the giving of Torah, what this means to us, and how we can refocus ourselves to be able to receive the Torah that is constantly poured upon us.

This is the real difference: we must recognize that the process of acquiring something is two-fold. First, the object must be made available. In the case of Torah, Hashem makes it available at every moment. Secondly, we must recognize our own responsibility and engage in kabalas haTorah, receiving the Torah.


To get to a place that truly enables one the be mekabel the Torah doesn't seem like an easy task. The sages, in their amazing understanding of the human condition, explained what is needed in order to achieve such a difficult task: one must make himself and his Torah hefker, meaning "without an owner". In his commentary, the scholar Rashi explains this to mean that one must understand that they are essentially not their own, but were placed on this earth for a purpose, and the same is true of the Torah knowledge already acquired. Once we understand this, and begin to share ourselves, our time, and our knowledge with others, Rashi says that this will clear our vessels and allow ourselves to receive all of the new insights into Torah that are flowing into the world at every moment. Even 2,500 years ago, Jewish scholars understood what we can hardly grasp today: only an empty vessel can receive more.

The story is told that there was once a great rabbi who, after learning all of Talmud Bavli (the extensive volumes of commentary composed by leaders of the exile community in Babylon) and committing it to memory, he wished to learn the Talmud Yerushalmi, written by the leaders in Jerusalem and filled with much more mystical insight. After attempting time and time again to learn the Yerushalmi, he found himself unable to remember even a single word. Finally, frustrated and confused, he visited another rabbi. Upon hearing of the problem, he was presented with a solution: in order to learn the great and mystical Talmud Yerushalmi, he had to forget all of the Bavli.


In our everyday life, we can apply this principle beyond Torah learning: the best way to increase something inside ourselves is to share it with others. The questions, struggles, and insights that this can bring are of infinite value. Perhaps this has been my problem here in Israel: I was too busy looking for what I didn't have, that I hardly understood what I do have. In this realization, in the ability to embrace and share our portion with others, everything can be found. The same is true of all things, and Torah in particular, if we accept the truth of it, as R' Ben Bag Bag said in Pirkei Avos, "Turn it and turn it again, for everything is in it." On this Shavuos, the season of the giving of Torah, may we all remember to receive our portion by understanding our role in giving it to others.