When Berakhot is Shabbat, and Shabbat is Berakhot

One of our members, Morris Massel made an exceptional point in the KJ Daf Yomi chat. He noted that the Daf has just transitioned from Berakhot, which is a light and relatively easy Tractate (Mesekhet in Aramaic) to Shabbat which is a relatively difficult meskehet, and noted that this is meant to  push us to the next level, and inspire us to hang on for the greater challenge; and now is the time to do so. I would like to add to what he wrote, and note the following:

In actuality the very themes of Shabbat are meant to be ones of comfort: it is a day of oneg, enjoyment, and it is also a day in which we cease to work. Shabbat is meant to feel like a spiritual vacation. On the other hand, Berakhot includes very demanding themes. You stand before God. You are doing Avodah shebalev, the service of the heart. Ironically, the cadence of these two Mesechtot are the opposite of their very themes. As Morris mentioned, Berakhot is lighter and simpler. Shabbat and its companion Meskhet, Eruvin, are dense and difficult. Perhaps on a pragmatic level the rabbis wanted to start the students of Talmud off easy, and then move to greater intensity. But I think the message is deeper than that, and one that is very relevant to today. There are times when prayer is a joy and a comfort, and not a difficulty and a discipline. There are times where we find great solace and comfort in the words of prayer;  it is now a refuge, not a labor. On the other hand, there are times in which Shabbat, instead of feeling like a refuge from work, instead it feels like a continuation of imprisonment. Most times, it is wonderful to be able to stay home and not to have to go out. But now, Shabbat is just a continuation of the semi-quarantine experience we are feeling all week. And the lesson of our Mesekhet is that Shabbat is sometimes a discipline; We need to train ourselves on Shabbat to find calm, comfort, and spend the day dreaming of a better future. 

In ordinary times, Berakhot is a discipline and Shabbat is a comfort. Today, Berakhot is a comfort and Shabbat is a discipline. And our rabbis when writing the Babylonian Talmud already anticipated that possibility.

Rabbi Chaim Steinmetz

The Planned and the Unplanned

When the coronavirus arrived it was met immediately with denial. Nobody wanted to imagine that this annoying microbe could somehow undermine long-standing plans. How dare it get in the way of my work, social life and schooling? How dare it undermine synagogue and Shabbat? I speaking in the office about what we called then "the possibility" that perhaps some of the Passover programs will cancel, and we would need to come up with a way to have catered meals in the synagogue for those who stay home. Of course even those contingency plans got tossed out in a matter of days.

People hate their plans going awry. As Harvard psychologist Daniel Gilbert points out, the ability to dream of a future is the defining characteristic of humanity. We dream of the future, and expect it to happen. And a plan fulfilled is a thing of beauty. This week's Torah reading is fundamentally a celebration of the plan working out to the last detail. Earlier, The Torah tells us of the plans for the sanctuary in the desert; and in this week's Torah reading we see the plans fulfilled detail after detail. The Torah proudly proclaims ויעש, and it was done, כאשר צוה , as God had commanded. 

Yet in between the command to build the sanctuary and its execution there is a completely different narrative. The Torah tells us that when Moses went up to Mount Sinai to get the tablets with the Ten Commandments written on them, he returned to find the people having accepted upon themselves the worship of a Golden Calf. Moses then broke the tablets, and after a long period of penitence, the Jewish people received a second set of tablets. It was these second set of tablets, along with the broken first set of tablets, that would be placed in the Ark in the very heart of the new Sanctuary. Ironically, the very items in the center of this built to perfection new sanctuary are themselves a product of a plan that went wrong!

The lesson is clear. Even when there is a facade of perfection, at its heart are plans that were broken. 

We are now living in an time of broken tablets. A future we took for granted three weeks ago is gone, dashed, and broken. We sit in shock wondering what we should dream of now. 

We are not the first generation of Jews to live through upheaval and heartbreak. Previous generations got through their days of broken tablets by mastering the art of improvisation. Even when your plans are destroyed, you dream of a second chance, all while carrying your broken tablets with you. When this crisis concludes, we will do the same, following an example that's 3,300 years old.

Thank the Heroes

Joel Bergstein wrote me today about the righteous gentile who hid his father's family in Nazi occupied France, Rene Dartau. Joel had spoken to the guests at his son's wedding about Dartau, explaining that Dartau had hidden the Bergstein family on his farm and shared his meager food with them. Joel then announced that without Dartau, there would be no Bergstein family and no wedding.

Joel wrote me this because he wanted to draw my attention to another group of heroes: the frontline medical professionals who are taking on the coronavirus. They are working endless hours, and exposing themselves to significant risk to save the lives of others. This, Joel noted, is an act of profound heroism.

Heroism is very often a misunderstood concept. In the ancient world, the hero was very often the powerful one, the soldier, general and king who could overcome his adversaries. In the contemporary world, the hero is the celebrity: the jet setting businessman, actor and sports star whose life is chronicled in the society pages of the newspaper. But in the Jewish tradition heroism is something very different. There is a passage in the Talmud Megilah 31a, that explains that whenever the Bible makes reference to God's divine power, the Bible immediately afterwards mentions God's sense of humble charity to those in need. The lesson of the Talmud is that power is not meaningful on its own; God's greatness is found in the service of the weak and the vulnerable. Judaism believes that heroism is about self sacrifice and acts of kindness.

Around the country, emergency room doctors are working double shifts to deal with the new influx of patients. Nurses and hatzolah volunteers are ministering to those with the coronavirus, risking exposure while selflessly serving others. If you're searching for a real hero, take a look at any hospital and you'll find one walking the hallways.

It is our obligation to recognize these heroes. Caroline Bryk wrote to me today about the medical professionals in our community. She asked: "Is there any way we can support them at this time? They have limited energy and are barely home. Perhaps we can send them heartfelt emails of gratitude...?"

Caroline is right. We must support our community's heroes, our medical professionals. They are going above and beyond to save lives and to protect our community. Please thank them, and tell them how much you appreciate everything they do. 

And if you children ever ask you what a hero looks like, point to these medical professionals. They are sacrificing everything to save lives.

   

There is Nothing Holier than Embracing Life

We closed our synagogue last Wednesday. There will be no more prayers services until the coronavirus goes away.

In hindsight it was an easy decision to make. But at the time it was anything but.

I was part of multiple conference calls with other rabbis about whether or not synagogues will close. Many were extremely resistant to closing. Even those who closed their synagogues found it extremely painful to do so. This anguish is understandable. To close a synagogue feels like a betrayal of Jewish history. Jews have always taken pride in their resilience and determination in the face of crisis. Even in the worst of times Jews have surreptitiously gathered for prayers in hidden corners, quietly defying their persecutors. Just this past Rosh Hashanah, our synagogue used a remarkable shofar that was sounded in Auschwitz, and smuggled out during a death march. Even holding the shofar would have been a death sentence for anyone caught. Yet with enormous heroism and determination these people held prayers in the shadow of death. And now here I was, a Rabbi, canceling prayers and locking people out of the synagogue. What sort of Rabbi does that?

Retreating into one's home is not something we would ordinarily consider heroic. As one internet comic put it: "Your grandparents were called to war. You are being called to sit on your couch. You can do this.". But today, there can be nothing holier than social distancing, because life comes first.

We have closed our synagogue to protect the health of our members. But more than that, we have closed our synagogue to do our part in slowing the spread of this disease. Social distancing is not just a good prophylactic, it is an ethical imperative to help others. 

In Halakhah, preserving life is the most important commandment. Maimonides writes that it is the leaders of the community must be the first to violate Shabbat to save lives, and in the face of a danger to life, we treat Shabbat as an ordinary weekday. 

But the priority we give life in halakha is not simply a pragmatic concept; it is a profound Jewish value. We consider life to be sacred. Each morning we read a prayer, אלוקי נשמה, that says:

"My God, the soul that you placed within me is pure. You created it, You formed it, You breathed it into me, and You preserve it within me."

Life is a gift from God, and it is absolutely sacred. And it is this the reason why closing the synagogue is not just a concession to practicality, but an absolute imperative. And if closing a synagogue will protect life, we shall do so immediately. 

Some time in the future, we will return back to KJ. But I hope the lesson of this time remains with us well: that there is nothing holier than embracing life.

   

The Gathering Storm 3/15

The Coronavirus is coming.

A week ago we held to the illusion that with a few simple precautions we could continue to live our normal lives. Now we realize that quarantine is no longer the fate of the unfortunate few, but will probably be more or less the reality for everyone. As we huddle in our homes, the worries begin to pour out: How bad will this plague be? Will it touch someone close to me? How long will it last for?

It would be wonderful to make believe these questions don't exist; but denial is a luxury we can't afford in challenging times. Yet we are uncertain about almost everything. Vacillating predictions echo through our minds, and our hearts bounce between hope and worry.  And it is this constant change of outlook that creates a sense of anxiety.

Anxiety is not fear. Anxiety is the loss of our sense of control, because you don't know what the outcome will be. Uncertainty is more destabilizing than fear. There is an old rabbinic saying "there is no joy like the undoing of doubts"(אין שמחה כהתרת הספיקות), because anxiety only exists in the realm of doubt.

Anxiety is particularly difficult for contemporary man. One of the great illusions of modernity is that somehow we can overcome any obstacle that comes in our path. And modern man has done an incredible job of taming the cosmos. We have found a way to overcome disease after disease, we have created technology after technology which enhances life, and we seem to have a solution for almost everything. But now we have the Coronavirus, and, (for the time being), are out of solutions.

This is a profound challenge for a generation that has not faced any existential threats. The previous generation faced a Holocaust, a World War, and the struggles of immigration; and our generation has been the lucky inheritors of their success. We have never before dealt with anything like the Coronavirus, and we are anxious. And that anxiety actually undermines our own self identity; we realize we are no longer in complete control of our destiny. Two weeks ago we all saw ourselves as far more powerful and in control; now we recognize our own fragility.

But I am not writing this to be depressing or frightening. On the contrary, we will find that this crisis can inspire us. As Rav Soloveitchik reminds us, it is at this time of our own defeat that we find a new strength. We begin to recognize that even the vulnerable can make moral choices that are heroic. We can always love, we can always hope, and we can always dream. We may be facing a threat we don't fully understand, but one thing we do know for certain: the human soul is stronger than anything else.

This morning when I was saying the tachanun prayer my eyes were drawn to the first verse which is a quote from the book of Samuel:

וַיֹּ֧אמֶר דָּוִ֛ד אֶל־גָּ֖ד צַר־לִ֣י מְאֹ֑ד נִפְּלָה־נָּ֤א בְיַד־יְהוָה֙ כִּֽי־רַבִּ֣ים רחמו [רַֽחֲמָ֔יו] וּבְיַד־אָדָ֖ם אַל־אֶפֹּֽלָה׃

“David said to Gad, “I am in great distress. Let us fall into the hands of the LORD, for His compassion is great; and let me not fall into the hands of men.”

King David is a powerful king. But one day that power is taken away from him; and his only prayer is that he be left in the hands of God. There are days when we recognize that some things are out of our hands; our human hands are just too short to do the feats of God. And that is exactly the time when we need to reach deep into our souls for something more than brute physical power.

Anxious times require more love. Anxious times require more prayer. Anxious times require more hope. And that is where we must turn now.

I am deeply inspired right now by how many people have asked me how they can help. They want to know how they can help the vulnerable, they want to know how they can help their friends, they want to know how they can help their Rabbi.

Nothing gives me greater strength in these anxious times than the spirit of our community.

A Glimpse of the Future, Here in Synagogue Today A Sermon Given for Parshat Beshalach 2020

At a pidyon haben in 1982, Rav Joseph B. Soloveitchik offered a dvar Torah that was later published under the title “The First Jewish Grandfather".

Rav Soloveitchik notes that in the Tanakh the Jews are only referred to as Beit Yaakov (The House of Jacob) or Beit Yisrael (the House of Israel), but never as Beit Avraham or Beit Yitzchak. The Rav wonders: why is it that Yaakov is the only patriarch given this distinction? Why is it that only Yaakov, rather than his father and grandfather, is seen as the foundation of the Jewish people?

Rav Soloveitchik makes a remarkable claim. He says that Jacob is given this distinction because he is the only one of the patriarchs who established a direct relationship with his grandchildren, when he meets with Ephraim and Mennasheh.

But why is that so important? Rav Soloveitchik explains that the greatest challenge to the future of Judaism is the possibility of a generation gap; and when a grandfather can connect to his young grandchild, that generation gap disappears. Yaakov found the secret of Jewish continuity, and for this reason the nation is named for him.

Worries about continuity are foundational to the Jewish worldview. We are reminded each day to teach the Torah to our children, and each year dramatically retell the Exodus story to our children. In medieval Europe, children were brought to synagogues and even Rabbis would sit with children on their lap. Rav Yitzchak of Vienna, in the Or Zarua (2:48), records a 13th century custom to have all the children go up and kiss the Torah after gelilah; this he says will inspire these children to connect to Torah for the rest of their lives.

The elders of the community have always carried the responsibility of reaching out to the younger generation. And this is the crux of Rav Soloveitchik's idea: the future of the Jewish people depends on our ability to bridge the generation gap.

This idea is particularly relevant this morning. We are honored to have with us the members of the Kesher minyan, our young people's minyan. The challenge for the rest of  us is how we will receive them.

Unfortunately it has happened too many times in this synagogue that a younger member is pushed from place to place, because it is someone else's “seat”.

It has happened too many times in the past that when children come to synagogue, the parents are shamed by others for bringing in children who might make noise.

But that needs to stop. And it needs to stop now.

Not just because it is rude. But because it actually undermines the Jewish future.

Our ability to survive, not just as a synagogue but as a people, depends on how we reach out to the next generation. When they come to synagogue are they welcomed? Are they given a seat? Do we receive the children that come to KJ with joy or with annoyance?

Today is a day to erase the generation gap and bring our tradition into the future.

To reach out to the next generation is not an annoyance, is not a nuisance, and is not even a hardship.

It is our responsibility.

And it is not just a responsibility, but a joy.

And it is not just a joy, but actually a miracle.

Let me explain. The Talmud in Sanhedrin (91a) makes a homiletical remark about the Song at the Sea. It notes that the first words of the song, “az yashir”, could be understood in the future tense, as if they are referring to a future song. The Talmud says that when Moses sang the Song at the Sea, he was also looking forward to the future Messianic redemption. I’d like to offer a homiletical  interpretation of my own to this Talmudic passage; perhaps when Moses sang the Song at the Sea, he was looking forward to every future song of redemption. And at those moments, we hear echoes of Az Yashir, and hear the sounds of triumph.

I just saw a moment of “az yashir”, right here on this bimah, just over a week ago. We just had the Ramaz Chagigat Siddur right here, the week of January 27th.

I told the parents at the siddur celebrations that it was particularly moving that the celebrations took place during the week in which the 75th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz took place. To see Jewish children, our Jewish future, holding siddurim high 75 years later is nothing short of a miracle.

At the end of the week there was a particularly moving moment. At the last chagigat siddur, the entire first grade came up to this bimah to sing the prayer for the soldiers of Israel. I had tears in my eyes, but I was not the only one. Everybody in the audience had tears in their eyes.

We had tears in our eyes because it was an “az yashir” moment of redemption, when we all could catch a glimpse of the Jewish future. And that is what all of us are experiencing today, as the Kesher Minyan and their children are in the Main Sanctuary.

Right in front of us is the Jewish future; and that is a miracle. Please cherish it.

See Different and the Ramaz Story

See different.

This is not just a catchphrase, but a foundation of Jewish identity. Jews are called upon to see the individual, society, and our mission differently.

A perfect example of this is Moses. When God appoints him to liberate the Jews from Egypt, he refuses, and refuses again. He actually refuses God seven times.

Many wonder: how is it that Moses could refuse so many times? But in actuality, Moses is correct; he looks at his resume and recognizes that he is unqualified. Moses has been completely disconnected from the Jews since he was a little child, and he is at that moment married to foreign woman, and living in a foreign country. He is a shepherd, not a politician. Shepherding is a caring and nurturing profession, but a poor background for the realpolitik of confronting a powerful tyrant. And then of course Moses stutters, which makes him wonder how he can persuade anyone of his mission.

So if Moses is unqualified, why does God choose him? Perhaps the answer is that Moses is specifically chosen because of his weaknesses. Moses will have to see himself differently, to take on a different mindset to become a leader; and in doing so, he will teach an entire people, by his personal example, that they too can change themselves.

Carol Dweck, a professor of psychology Stanford University, has done groundbreaking research on how one's mindset determines a student's success. In her book “Mindset: The New Psychology of Success,” she explains that there are two types of mindsets, a “fixed mindset” and a “growth mindset.” With a fixed mindset, you look at yourself as “what you see is what you get.” People with fixed mindsets see failure as the end of the road, and something that indicates the limits of their abilities. A growth mindset is very different; instead, each person sees themselves as capable of constantly changing and getting better. For people with growth mindsets, failure is simply another challenge to be overcome.

God's challenge to Moses is that he needs to see himself differently. The most important aspect of a person’s abilities, the ability to grow, will never be found on their resume. Moses needs to believe in his ability to transform himself, and recognize that with enough effort, even a stuttering shepherd can become an eloquent teacher and statesman.

Once Moses has seen himself differently, he becomes the perfect role model for a nation that needs to see themselves differently. The Jews were at that point had been enslaved for 400 years. The entire world accepted slavery as the norm; but now they could see a different path, a path to freedom.

With this begins a revolution; and at Mt. Sinai, the Jews are taught to see differently again. They learn to say no to paganism, no to slavery, no to selfishness, and instead bring a vision of ethical monotheism into the world. And this revolution still continues, 3,300 years later.

In our community, we are privileged to have an institution that has always seen things differently. The Ramaz School has been revolutionary from its very beginning.

When Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik gave a lecture at KJ in 1972, he said that building a Jewish day school on the Upper East Side in the 1930s was nothing less than heroic. And it truly was.

The synagogue was in debt. The board didn't want to start a school because America was just coming out of the Great Depression. And more important, why would a family who had achieved sufficient success to move to the Upper East Side leave well respected educational institutions and send their children to a Yeshiva instead?

And yet Ramaz opened. And it grew. And it flourished.

And through the years Ramaz has always seen things differently, and it has trained its students to see differently. In 1958, two 15-year-old students changed Ramaz’s curriculum permanently. At the time, girls only studied Talmud through sophomore year of high school. In their junior and senior years, they were to take typing and home economics.  Vivian Eisenberg (Mann z”l) and classmate Shira Naiman insisted they could learn typing and home economics on their own and said they wanted to continue their Talmud study. They saw things differently, and because of that, things changed.

In the 1970’s and early 80’s, students at Ramaz didn’t just study from books; they would learn what Jewish responsibility was by going to protests. Led by Rabbi Haskel Lookstein, the struggle on behalf of Soviet Jewry became part of Ramaz's mission. To quote the words of Natan Sharansky: “demonstrations were part of the Ramaz curriculum.” And with a curriculum like that, you see things differently.

In 1982, a group of Ramaz students, including Andy Lassner, Josh Rochlin and Lenny Silverman, asked for permission to organize a Minyan for Shacharit outside the Russian Consulate. They were allowed to go with a teacher. The first day there were 21 students, and then the next day there were 33, and the next day there were 50. On the 24th day, the students were praying with Avital Sharansky, the police came and arrested 67 students and teachers from Ramaz, including Rabbi Lookstein. These arrests were covered on the news around the world, and brought powerful attention to the cause of Soviet Jewry. All of this because a handful of students decided to see different.

This tradition continues each and every day. Former Ramaz students spearhead Israel programs on college campus, launch fundraising drives, and stand on the front lines of Jewish history. When the Chasidic Jews of Jersey City and Monsey are under attack, it is Ramaz that organizes rallies against anti-Semitism, and brings Chanukah presents to the grieving community.

Ramaz has been part of the Jewish revolution for 83 years, because it has always seen things differently. Perhaps it can best be summed up by the words of the founder of Ramaz, Rabbi Joseph Lookstein. In an article from 1960 on “The Goal of Jewish Education” he concludes with the following words:

"A beautiful Midrash describes Abraham walking with his son Isaac towards Mount Moriah. There are other companions on this journey.  Abraham turns to them and asks, “What do you see?”  Their answer is, “We see nothing but wilderness.”  He then asks of Isaac, “What do you see?” And Isaac responds, “I see a beautiful mount with a cloud over it.”  It is at that moment that Abraham abandons his companions and, clasping his son’s hand, they walk together toward Moriah.

There are those who, when they reflect upon Jewish education, see in their pessimism only wilderness and desolation.  There are those who see the beautiful mount beckoning in its grandeur even though enveloped by clouds of hardship and difficulty.  It is with such as these that we can walk towards the educational Moriah of our hopes.”

Ramaz has always seen the beauty on the top of Mount Moriah, and has always, and will always, see different.