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.

Az Hinei Shuv Magiah...

Today, in addition to the normal, I found the most amazing place to have lunch. I had great eggplant lasagna, salad with spicy chumus, and butternut squash soup. The whole atmosphere was so un-Israeli, it wasn't even fake American Israeli...it was quite nice. I thought that today I would re-visit the notion of things that differ between Israel and the United States...

1. Prices do not appear on a large number of items. This generally isn't a big deal in the United States, because the pricing in different stores tend to reflect some sort of standard. However, in Israel, something may cost 16 shekels in one place, but 8 in another.

2. Toilets. I'm not sure why I haven't written about this before, but Israel has two basic types of toilet. The first type has a large separation between the bowl and tank, and the two flushing handles are sticking out. The other version has the "bowl and tank" set-up more like in America, and the flushing handles are actually buttons. The reason for the two types of handles, one for light flushes and one for heavy flushes.


3. Jerusalemites and Israelis in general are more public about their events. During the past month, including today, there have been so many outdoor celebrations for Israel, Jerusalem, and who-knows-what that stages have hardly been taken down.

4. Except for the meat, which is killed in Uruguay and Argentina, food in Israel tends to be very, very fresh.

5. Unlike America, where it seems that people tend to, and are even encouraged to shluff off their unique backgrounds, Israelis of varying heritage have a way of being fully Yemenite/Moroccan/Galicianer, and fully Israeli at the same time. The social structure, in this way, tends to mimick the "salad bowl" idea of multiculturalism rather than the "melting pot".

6. In America, it isn't too common to hear someone yelling uncontrollably at the top of their voice about how So-and-So said he would be here in 5 minutes, and after 5 minutes and 10 seconds he hasn't arrived. In Israel, however, it happens every day.

7. My personal favorite of the moment: You can see a check-point for the West Bank from the rhino exhibit at the zoo.

A Man Hears What He Wants to Hear...

In this week's parsha, Parshas Behar-Bechukosai, the posuk (verse) appears, "Im bechukosai tei'leichu v'es mitzvosai tishmeru...If you follow my statutes and observe my commandments". What is this double wording, "my statutes and my commandments"? In the Torah, not even a single letter is superfluous, so it cannot be that the two refer to the same thing. According to Chazal, the ancient generation of sages, "bechukosai" gives over a unique concept: toiling in Torah. In fact, the gematria (numerical value) of "bechukosai" is the same as the Hebrew for "toil in His Torah". The Chofetz Chaim says that the fact that we are commanded to toil is a chiddush (novel idea), because every mitzvah gains a reward, and who ever heard of someone getting paid (a reward) for not finishing a project! However, in Judaism, to toil is not only worthy of reward, but it is the ikar (main point) of Torah itself. To learn and love Torah, to see the little things and let all of creation be an inspiration and lesson to us, that's the whole point.


How can it be that we were so lucky to receive a way of life that grants us such a unique opportunity? We know from the Midrash that before HaKadosh Baruch Hu gave the Torah to the Jews, each nation of the world was presented with the option to received the Torah. However, each nation was told only the mitzvah that would prove to be the most difficult for them, so those who had a culture of stealing were told that they couldn't steal, and those that were very idolatrous were told only the commandment against idol worship. This caused each other nation to reject the Torah, unitl only the Jewish people were left, and we accepted the Torah without hearing even a word of the prohibitions. Rav Moshe Weinberger says that it doesn't necessarily mean that only the negative mitzvas were given, but these were the only ones that were heard. After hearing the entire Torah, the other nations were simply left with the stinging reminder of not being able to do this or that. They couldn't grasp the whole picture, and, in the end, turned away from G-d. The Jewish people, however, accepted it all, and received the precious mitzvah of being "amil b'Torah", to toil in the Torah.

There was once a British poetry-reciting competition. Each contestant was given various poems to recite, and the last poem chosen for the gorup was the Twenty-Third Psalm, Kapittel Kof-Gimmel of Tehillim. "Mizmor l'Dovid, Hashem roi, lo echsor...A Song of David, G-d is my shepherd, I will not lack anything". When the last contestant finished reciting, the entire audience began clapping, and it was clear that he was the winner. Amongst the clapping and noise, a small voice in the back of the auditorium began to shout, "Excuse me, excuse me... may I try...", and as the audience parted, a small, old, Chasidishe man was revealed, and he made his way to the front. Expecting to end the competition with a laugh, the judges of the competition permitted him to recite the Psalm. At first he recited a few words, translated them for the audience, but then he immersed himself in what he was saying, forgetting those watching him. The audience, first amused, switched to joy, and soon found themselves crying at the emotional, all-encompassing presentation before them. When the Chasid finished, he made his way down the stairs and out of the auditorium. The contestant who had been declared the winner chased after the Chasid, stopping him as he reached the exit. "Here," he said, hading the Chasid the trophy, "this is yours. Clearly you recited the last piece better than anyone else. But tell me...how did you make such an impression?" The Chasid refused to accept the trophy, and simply said, "You recited very nicely, 'The Lord is my shepherd,' but I know the shepherd, he's a friend of mine, I toil with him all day."


May we too realize the depth and importance of simply toiling in Torah, softening our hearts to know the reality of what is around us, and allowing ourselves to hear the truth about us, that we are all essentially precious, important, and holy, so that it will no longer be the concepts of Torah and G-d, but the reality, that fills our days.