If you attended Yeshivat Aish HaTorah back in the 1980’s, you were unlikely to make it through the High Holidays without hearing its dean and founder, Reb Noach Weinberg, tell the story of Avraham Kordesh. It was not only a powerful story, but a somewhat personal one for the many students who had the opportunity to meet Avraham first-hand.

I spent a Shabbos with Avraham and his wife not long after I arrived in Jerusalem. They were by far some of the most religious people I had met up until that point, but what stood out most about the visit was that Avraham was a quadriplegic.

Despite his pious appearance, Avraham had not been observant all his life. In fact, he had grown up as a largely unaffiliated American Jew, and had been attending college like so many others his age when a friend’s irate ex-boyfriend showed up on campus and, after an altercation, shot him in the back. When he regained consciousness in the hospital, he was greeted by the shocking news that he would never be able to use his arms or legs again.

It’s hard to imagine how devastating it must have been for Avraham to discover that the future he had envisioned for himself was no longer in the cards. The realization threw him into deep despair. What was he going to do with the rest of his life? Having little else to do with his time, he contemplated his predicament for what seemed like hours when a simple but powerful question hit him with tremendous force: Why am I here? What is the purpose of my existence?

He was struck by the simplicity of the question, but even more by the fact that he didn’t have an answer, so he once again reflected for what seemed like hours, until he was hit by another, even more powerful thought: I could have lived for seventy or eighty years, and if I hadn’t been shot, I may never even have asked myself this question!

Avraham was blown away by the realization that he could have gone through his entire life without ever asking himself the simplest and most important question that a human being could possibly ask. It was so mind-boggling to him that he once again fell into hours of deep thought until he was hit by one final, life-altering realization: Thank God I was shot, because I’d rather be a quadriplegic who knows what he’s living for, than a fully-functional human being who’s lived for seventy to eighty years without even asking himself the question!

Most Jews are aware that Rosh Hashanah marks the beginning of the new year, but it’s actually much more than that. In Jewish tradition, Rosh Hashanah marks the day when mankind and his entire world is recreated anew. That’s right; according to Jewish tradition, every year on Rosh Hashanah the universe is rebuilt from scratch, which raises an important question: Couldn’t the all-powerful Creator make a more durable world? Couldn’t He set us up so that our subscription renews automatically?

The answer is that Rosh Hashanah is about more than the recreation of the world. It’s about making us into active participants in that recreation. This is why Rosh Hashanah is also the day of judgement. According to Jewish tradition, the judgment of Rosh Hashanah is far more than an inventory of our past year’s good and bad deeds; it’s an examination of who we are at our essence. By reminding us of the possibility (i.e. - inevitability) that our lives may come to an end, Rosh Hashanah's judgement forces us to examine ourselves and what we desire most of all? It begs the question: Do we really want another year of life, and if so, why? What kind of life do we want to live?

Rosh Hashanah is far more than mankind’s birthday; it’s mankind’s greatest-ever birthday gift. Whether we succeed or fail in life will be determined not by the negative events or circumstances we may encounter, nor by our mistakes and character flaws, but first and foremost by whether we’re willing to seek clarity as to why we’re here. Our Creator, who gave us our free-will, knows that we’ll do pretty much anything to avoid even asking the question, which is why He gave us the gift of Rosh Hashanah. Rosh Hashanah not only confronts us with the question; it provides us with an answer as well. You may struggle with that answer, but rest assured, your willingness to step onto that path of true self-discovery will, in and of itself, be the most important choice you’ll ever make.
 
Wishing you a sweet new year filled with health, peace and blessings,

Mark
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Note: Speaking of seeking, if you’re one of those who seek to further explore questions like these, and wish to make Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur more of a consciousness-raising experience, please consider joining us for all or some of our High Holiday Learners’ Services. To learn everything you need to know, click here: Rosh Hashanah.

“All who mourn [the destruction of] Jerusalem will merit to see it in its joy.” (Talmud, Ta’anit: 30b)

When I returned to New York from Jerusalem in 1984, many of my friends and relatives were surprised by how much I had changed. After all, I had departed as a young secular architecture student ten months earlier and had reappeared as an observant yeshiva student on a short break before returning to Israel to resume my studies. It’s not surprising that some of them had a tough time making sense of it all.

One somewhat condescending explanation was that I must have been looking for something more in my life, as if to suggest that maybe I just couldn’t hack it in the “real” world like everyone else.  My response was to agree: Yes, apparently, I am looking for more, and if there is nothing more, maybe it is a sign of my inability to cope. But, on the other hand, if there is something more and you’re not searching for it, well then, what does that say about you…...?

I was, in fact, acutely aware that my choice to attend yeshiva instead of university was driven by a search for something more. I loved architecture as a profession, but I also wanted to make a difference in the world. In my mind, creating nice spaces for people to live, work and play in was certainly a good thing - and I still believe that architecture is a wonderful profession - but the more important issue for me had shifted to the nature and purpose of the lives that people would live in those spaces. In other words: Once I create nice spaces for people to exist in – then what? What’s the ultimate point of that existence?

I realize that I was hardly unique in asking this question: Even if we are fortunate to have a fulfilling profession that allows us to have everything that we desire; even if we enjoy loving relationships with our family and friends; even if we fill our leisure time with pleasant and productive activities; even if we donate some of our resources to important causes, we may, at times, still find ourselves wondering: What now? I work hard in school so that I can get a good job, so that I can put food on the table and a roof over my family’s head, so that my kids can go to a good school and get a good job…...

Perhaps the very fact that we even wonder about this is an indication that there is indeed something more.

According to Jewish tradition, not only is there more to life, but there was a time in our history when that “more” was far more visible to mankind. The existence of the Beis HaMikdash, the Holy Temple that stood in Jerusalem for close to a thousand years, was always understood by us to be an outer manifestation of an inner spiritual clarity within the Jewish people themselves. It expressed our people’s understanding that the physical requirements of life are merely the foundation for the fulfillment of mankind’s true purpose as spiritual beings. It stood at a time when it was obvious that the human body is just a garment for mankind’s true essence, the eternal and infinitely precious soul. It stood at a time when we palpably felt that both our personal lives and world history were being guided by a loving all-powerful Infinite Creator. And most importantly, it reflected a clear understanding on the part of the entire nation that our ultimate purpose on earth was to enjoy a truly close relationship with that Being.

The mourning and sadness that we are meant to feel on Tisha B’Av is about far more than the loss of a building that stood more than two thousand years ago. It stems from the fact that we as individuals and as a people are no longer clear about our essence and purpose, and as a result, live in a world where the Divine Presence, the very point of it all, is no longer openly revealed. It’s the feeling of sadness we experience whenever we get in touch with that empty space within ourselves; whenever we realize, even for a brief moment, that we are not only missing something essential in our lives, but that we sadly, can’t even clearly identify what it is.   

In order to avoid that sadness, we may fill our time with work and family responsibilities, and in our spare time with news, causes and entertainment, but the message of Tisha B’Av is that we would be better served by getting in touch with it. The sense that we are missing something is not only a powerful hint that there’s more to life; it’s the key to rediscovering our true essence and purpose and ultimately fulfilling our potential as individuals and as a nation.

Wishing you an easy and meaningful fast.

Mark

This week’s headlines remind us, once again, that our nation is comprised of individuals who hold a wide array of diverse perspectives. Of course, diversity, in and of itself, is not a bad thing. In fact, it’s arguably democracy’s greatest asset. But there is a point where the line gets crossed and it becomes a destructive force.

I believe the well-known story of the spies in this week’s Torah reading can provide us with a better understanding of where that line should be drawn. But first we need to gain a better grasp of the underlying story line:

The Jewish people sent the spies because they were looking for an excuse: They didn’t want to enter the Land of Israel because they knew that the nation would be held to a very high moral standard there, they were justifiably concerned that they would be incapable of meeting that standard, and they feared the consequences. God, of course, knew all of this from the get-go, but He also knew that the land could not be forced upon the nation. They had to want it – so he allowed them to send the spies and ultimately choose for themselves.

When the twelve spies return, they admit that the land is good, but ten of them question their ability to conquer it, which, in their eyes, makes it a death trap and a very bad thing. So, they attack the land, then they attack Moshe and Aaron for leading them there, and finally, they attack God Himself. What’s fascinating is that none of this prompts Godly intervention. In fact, it’s only when the remaining two spies, Joshua and Caleb, testify that the land is both good and attainable - and the people, in response, attempt to stone them to death - that God steps in and threatens to eradicate the nation.

Why didn’t God step in when they slandered the land, or when they impugned his chosen servants, or when they unjustly accused God Himself of leading them to the desert in order to kill them?

The classic commentator known as the Ohr HaChaim asks another question that can perhaps shed light on our question as well: Why didn’t the people try to kill Caleb earlier, when he silenced them and argued that they could and should conquer the land? His answer: Because Caleb was only one person, and the testimony of one person is inadmissible in most cases of Jewish law. When Joshua joins him however, there are now two witnesses, and in Jewish law, two witnesses carry the same weight as two hundred. Together, they had the power to challenge the narrative of the other ten spies, which made them a threat that needed to be eradicated.

It was no doubt problematic that the people didn’t want to enter the land, and it was even worse that they impugned Moshe, Aaron and God in the process. Nevertheless, God only intervened when they attacked Joshua and Caleb because it was an attempt to silence dissent. Holding an erroneous viewpoint can certainly be problematic, but if disagreements are tolerated, there’s a chance for people to see the error of their ways. If the people had succeeded in getting Joshua and Caleb out the way, they would no longer have had that chance. They would have been doomed to live in an echo chamber of their own making, having destroyed their only real opportunity for salvation. God drew the line here because it was the point of no return.

What we often witness today online and in protest rallies on college campuses and in our cities - the shouting, finger-pointing and demonizing, regardless of which side of the aisle it emanates from - is really nothing more than an attempt to quash all opposing viewpoints, fueled by a combination of self-righteous indignation and an inability to accept that things don’t always go our way. These are not just ugly traits; they are dangerous, because they close off the path of learning and self-correction and doom us to become the victims of our own over-confidence and narrow-mindedness.

This is true in the political sphere, and it’s equally true in the personal sphere as well. Whenever our own sense of self-righteousness causes us to stop listening, or even worse, to shut down the other, we diminish our own ability to learn and correct our mistakes. At this point, we leave God little choice: Either He stands back and watches us self-destruct, or he draws the line to get our attention in what is really an act of mercy; so that maybe, just maybe, we will admit our own fallibility and recognize the error of our ways.

Shabbat Shalom

Mark

“If G-d had not taken us out of Egypt, we and our children, and our children’s children would still be slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt.” Pesach Haggadah

Freedom is the number-one theme of the Pesach story, but there are other important aspects that are emphasized as well, such as recognizing the power and abundant love that God displayed by taking us out of Egypt. A key Jewish belief is that our infinite Creator needs nothing from us; certainly not our praise or thanks. Acknowledging God’s role in our lives is therefore for our benefit, and is a critical component of what it means to become free. Let’s take a moment to better understand the connection.

It’s common for me to think of my accomplishments as being my own – the very phrase itself implies this. But if I consider the truth I begin to realize the extent to which that is in fact false. First there are the givens of my life; things like intelligence, appearance, upbringing, social position, personality, temperament, aptitude, circumstances, even character traits; factors that are not at all to my credit, yet greatly impact the results of my efforts and the overall outcome of my life. Even my efforts themselves are hard to attribute to my own greatness: The other guy might indeed be lazier than I am, but if I had lived under the same conditions as he, am I sure I’d be any different?

Honest reflection makes it clear that the outcomes of my life are actually hard to attribute to me, yet I know that there is a “me” that is mine, and that I am more than merely the sum of what’s been contributed to me. It’s difficult to put a finger on this essential “me,” but Jewish wisdom teaches that I am at my essence my will; that I am, in fact, what I truly desire at my deepest core, and that hard as it may be for me to understand, the outcome of my life, at least when it comes to the kind of human being I become, is entirely up to me because I am the chooser.

This is the true meaning of the freedom we speak of on Pesach: I am completely free to be the very best “me” that I can be. In fact, the only thing that stands in my way is that I forget this, and instead focus on all the reasons why I can’t. Pesach comes once a year to strip me of these “reasons” and remind me that my only role in life is to identify what it is that I truly, deep-down desire.

This is why we focus so much on God’s role in the freedom story; it reminds me that I should not be worrying about my prospect for success, but should instead focus on identifying what I want most in my life. It reminds me that this is, in fact, my only role, and that when it comes to being the best possible me, I should dare to dream big because the Power behind all powers has already guaranteed me that I will get the results.

This is also why the prophet Jeramiah tells us that God remembers "the kindness of our youth" as a nation; that we "followed Him into a barren wilderness" with no logical prospects for survival, much less success. It was our readiness to first make the decision to leave, our willingness to make that leap (Pesach – to skip or leap) that was the key to our escape from bondage. Once we make that leap, we will have the rest of our lives to see just how badly we want it. If, however, we make the mistake of focusing on feasibility first, we can be guaranteed that we’ll find plenty of excuses for why we can’t, all the while never even noticing that those excuses are in fact, the very source of our bondage.

Wishing you a meaningful and enjoyable Pesach!

Mark

"It is an obligation to get intoxicated on Purim until you don’t know the difference between blessed is Mordechai and cursed is Haman" (Babylonian Talmud Tractate Megillah: 7b)

The mitzvah to drink* till you don’t know the difference between blessed is Mordechai and cursed is Haman seems odd. Besides being a recipe for getting sick, it seems strange that a tradition that places so much emphasis on moral behavior should to want to blur the line between good and evil!

To understand this, we need to recognize that Mordechai and Haman represent something bigger than themselves. They represent two different nations with long histories and diametrically opposite worldviews: The Jewish people and the nation referred to in our Torah as Amalek.

The Jewish contribution to the world was not the notion of a Creator, but rather the notion of a Supervisor; a God who cares about mankind and, over the course of history, guides them towards their destined perfection. Judaism introduced the idea of kedusha, or holiness; the notion that human beings are more than just animals, but rather spiritual beings capable of not only relating to God, but literally representing Him down here on earth by utilizing every aspect of this world to fulfill His will.

Amalek is vehemently opposed to the concept of holiness. Amalek’s God is far removed from the affairs of man, his universe is cold and uncaring and the people that occupy it are just another species of animal. In short, Amalek is the ultimate cynic – the one who finds even the pretext towards holiness to be laughable.
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This is why Amalek always attacks the Jewish people just when they’re poised to take possession of their Land (at the time of the Exodus, during King Saul’s conquest, prior to our return from Babylonia/Persia [Haman], and prior to our re-establishing the modern State of Israel [Hitler]). The land of Israel is more than just a piece of real estate: it’s where we fulfill our mission to be a holy people by infusing spiritual values into the most mundane aspects of both our personal and national lives!

When God hid His presence during the Babylonian/Persian exile, he gave us the ultimate opportunity to stand in as His representatives. It became our responsibility to reveal His mastery of the world, which is precisely what we did by taking responsibility for our predicament while steadfastly maintaining our faith in Him (the Fast of Esther), even when our situation appeared hopeless. But what’s even more impressive is that Haman was also used as a pawn to bring about God’s plan. In fact, the ironic twists and turns of the Purim miracle that so clearly revealed His hand would never have taken place without Haman and his genocidal plot.

This is why we drink till we can’t tell the difference between Mordechai and Haman. Purim is far more than just a celebration of our survival as a people. It’s an opportunity to experience the profound sense of joy that comes when we see the ultimate truth, which is that every aspect of this world, both the “good” and the “bad” was created to reveal the benevolence of its creator. From this higher perspective, there really is no difference between Mordechai and Haman, because ultimately, evil itself is nothing more than an integral part of God’s plan to perfect mankind and bring about a world of peace and holiness.

Purim teaches us that no matter how things appear, a happy ending for mankind is inevitable. In fact, if we use the day properly, we may even catch a glimpse of that reality, right here and now, in a world still shrouded in so much darkness.

Wishing you a joyous and meaningful holiday!

Mark
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*Those who prefer can fulfill this mitzvah by taking a nap instead of drinking, since they won’t know the difference when they’re asleep. 

The comedian Steven Wright once said there's a fine line between fishing and standing on the shore looking like an imbecile. I admit I don't know much about catching fish myself, but it seems pretty clear to me that in this week's Torah portion, God goes fishing for both a prophet and a leader for the Jewish people.

The Torah portrays Moshe as someone who is passionate about the well-being of his people. Despite growing up in luxury in Pharaoh's palace, he ventures beyond its walls to experience their pain and suffering first-hand, where his passion for justice leads him to risk not only his privileged position, but his very life on their behalf.  After fleeing to the wilderness, he once again displays a passion for helping the powerless, rescuing the daughters of Yitro and displaying extraordinary care for even the smallest of animals in his role as shepherd. Moshe clearly seems qualified to lead, but God is evidently not convinced. He still feels a need to go fishing for the right man, so He lays out one last piece of bait to see if Moshe will bite.

One day, as he is shepherding his flock, Moshe spots a burning bush on the path, and he says to himself: "Let me turn aside and take a look at this great vision" Then we are told: "God saw him turn aside to look and he called out to him ..." Clearly, despite all his passion for righteousness and justice, it's Moshe's willingness to "turn aside" that ultimately qualifies him to lead. But what's so great about that? Wouldn't many of us stop to get a closer look under similar circumstances?

According to the commentator known as the Kli Yakar, Moshe didn't move towards the bush to get a closer look. Rather, he moved away from the bush to gain distance and perspective so that he could carefully consider what was happening and what he could learn from it. In other words, despite Moshe's great passion for his people and for justice, it's ultimately his desire for perspective that lands him his leadership role.

This week, as we inaugurate our new President, the flames of passion burn bright throughout our country. There are many who hate Mr. Trump with a passion, and others who passionately support him. What better time to remember the lesson of our parsha: Passion is a wonderful and important quality, but it must be tempered with a healthy dose of perspective. No matter how strongly we may feel about an issue, we must be willing to stop, turn aside, and examine not only the evidence for our own beliefs, but the reasons why others believe the way they do, and we must try to apply the same level of critical thinking and scrutiny to both. 
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To some, this may seem self-evident, but I have personally encountered people who seem to have little interest in evidence or in questioning their beliefs. Let's strive to be fair and balanced at all times, regardless of our inevitable biases. Perspective isn't just an important quality for leaders. It's essential for anyone who wishes to ensure that their passions don't lead them, albeit with the very best of intentions, down a dangerous and potentially destructive path.