A Letter From Montreal: Tears at the Seder

A lot of people cry at Seders. Some cry for innocuous reasons, because they opened a jar of horseradish a bit too quickly, and the fumes have caused an outburst of tears. Others cry because they have lost a loved one in the previous year, and the empty seat at the seder is too overwhelming. I know of a holocaust survivor who cries bittersweet tears at her seder, unable to believe that she has lived to see her children and grandchildren surrounding her at the holiday feast.

This year, the Jews of Montreal had reason to cry at their seders as well. One of the community’s elementary schools, United Talmud Torah (UTT), was firebombed on the night before Passover. The resulting fire gutted the children’s library, burning nearly 5,000 books. As I arrived at the school the following day, I found the staff in tears, overwhelmed by this hate crime.

I cried as well; the sight was too overwhelming. Burnt books of course, are a frightening reminder of the old Anti-Semitism of Europe. Even worse was the sight of a children’s library in ashes. What sort of twisted hatred motivates someone to venture out at 2 in the morning and burn The Amazing Octopus, Curious George, and a teddy bear?

With the tears come fears. Even though this is considered a relatively “unsophisticated” attack, the fact that the bombers left a note signed “Les Brigades de Sheikh Yassin” is bound to raise Jewish anxiety in a city with a substantial Arab and Muslim population. (The note’s promise to escalate future attacks doesn’t help either). The perception that Canadian immigration policy prior to 9/11 was far too lax is also a cause for concern. And it was another reminder that all too often anti-Semitism masquerades as “mere” anti-Zionism.

But with tears of sadness, come a few tears of joy. On the following day a news conference was held at the school. It included the Mayor of Montreal, Montreal’s police chief, and three ministers from the Quebec and Canadian governments. All of them vigorously condemned the attacks. The Prime Minister of Canada, Paul Martin, plans on visiting the school in the near future. Clearly, this is no replay of Germany in the 1930’s.

In addition, our community can take personal pride in some of the ministers at the press conference. Lawrence Bergman, a fixture in the Montreal Jewish community (and a former synagogue President), is the Quebec Minister of Revenue. Irwin Cotler, the Canadian Minister of Justice (and a member of our synagogue), is an internationally renowned Jewish leader. Cotler, in particular, was able to speak very movingly about the attack because he is a UTT alumnus. This press conference was eloquent testimony to how well Jews have integrated into the Canadian mainstream.

There was also ample evidence of a community energized to respond. An impromptu rally held that day at the school brought out several hundred people at a moment’s notice. Everyone I meet is ready to help in the rebuilding. At issue is Jewish pride, and there seems to plenty to go around. A sign at the impromptu rally best expresses the community’s feelings: "You can burn our books, but you can't burn our spirits."

Yes, this year, the Jews of Montreal had tears in their eyes at the seder. But they were bittersweet tears, tears that expressed a mixture of pain and pride. Irwin Cotler put it best in a television interview. He said that at the seder, we say that “in every generation they rise up against us”. This, he said, is testimony to the enduring hatred of anti-Semitism. But he pointed out that this section is something more positive as well: it is eloquent testimony to the enduring nature of the Jew.

I entered the building with tears of sadness, overwhelmed by this awful hate crime. I left with tears of joy, with the realization that despite all, “am yisrael chai”, the Jewish people continue to endure and thrive.

The Interview

I’m used to asking personal questions, not answering them. As a Rabbi, I prepare for weddings and funerals with personal questions about the couple’s aspirations and the deceased’s character. So I probe personal lives, obliviously doing my job, searching for speechworthy material. But I must admit that it was unsettling when I finally found myself on the receiving end of personal questions.

It was a school project; Two high school students were interviewing me. They wanted to know about my heroes, my interests, and what inspired me to become a Rabbi. And I found it difficult to give answers. It’s always awkward to open up about personal matters, even if they’re trivial. But remarkably, I didn’t have immediate answers; I had never thought much about these questions before.

We don’t ask ourselves serious questions, and that’s a shame. Good questions are the difference between mediocrity and excellence. Indeed, the right question can be revolutionary. Theodore Herzl asks: “Can we wait in pious resignation till the princes and peoples of this earth are more mercifully disposed towards us?”. Because of this question we now have a State of Israel. Martin Luther King asks: “Will we be extremists for the preservation of injustice, or the extension of justice?”. Because of this question the civil rights movement grows, and racism slowly begins to crumble. Simple, sincere questions can start revolutions.

What makes questions so powerful is the way they strip away the veneer of falsehood. Incessant logic has a way of exposing the corrupt realities hidden beneath phony explanations. Good questions persist until they finally get a genuine answer.

Unfortunately, our predisposition is to ignore and accept. Anyone who has fallen victim to fraud (as I have) knows that you always look back and wonder: “why didn’t I ask any questions?”. Just a little more scrutiny and you would have figured it out. But we’re simply not in the habit of asking questions, even of relative strangers, and blindly accept the status quo.

And the last person we’d ever ask questions of is ....ourselves. We have “excuses” (lies, actually) to explain why we are lazy and disengaged . Our true priorities get submerged under self deceptions like “I’ll do it when I have a chance” and “it’s not my responsibility”. We unquestioningly smother our souls in phony excuses, and as a result remain mediocrities.

The Talmud says that after we die, we are interviewed by an angel who asks us whether we lived a life focussed on family, ethics, spirituality and hope. Truth is, we need to ask these questions while we’re still alive. And that’s the exactly the point of the Talmud: it’s a terrible shame to wait until you’re interviewed, whether by angels or teenagers, before thinking seriously about life.

Chicken Cordon Bleu


This is a true story.


Once upon a time, there was a kosher caterer who made a wonderful dish: chicken and pastrami. He would skilfully stuff pastrami into a chicken breast, fry it in breadcrumbs, and cover it with sauce. Alas, no one wanted to buy this tasty entree, for mere chicken and pastrami was far too humble for his customer’s sophisticated palates. Disappointed, the caterer searched for a solution. He decided to give his beleaguered entree a more glamourous name: chicken cordon bleu. (Luckily, his clientele were unaware that chicken cordon bleu is usually stuffed with ham and cheese.) And now it began to sell!! All wanted a taste of that gourmet delicacy, chicken cordon bleu!! With a stroke of the pen, this chicken was no longer a Yiddish accented immigrant from Brooklyn, but rather an charming French arrival.


There’s a simple lesson to this story (to quote the Mishna): “don’t judge a wine by it’s bottle”. It’s easy to be enticed by slick packaging; the shiny veneer, the classy bottle, and the exotic name can beguile us into rash decisions. Indeed, this classic moral relates well to our story. However, it has a uniquely contemporary dimension as well.


We are an image driven society. Frankly, no one cares what the wine tastes like anymore; we’re only interested in the bottle. Our identities are now based on the external and superficial. That’s why what your shoes do for your image is more important than what they do for your feet (hence, the invention of stiletto heels). And it’s why people go to tanning salons, why people who drive 100 kmh buy sportscars, and it’s why people who would never eat “Jewish” food will serve that famous French entree, chicken cordon bleu. Today, image is more important than reality.


Our infatuation with image is destructive. It is a form of stupidity, which, (to paraphrase Maimonides) is the petri dish of evil. This obsession turns us into superstitious consumers, buying only items that have the blessings of the fashion Gods. Because of it, we forget about the comfort of loose sweatshirts and sensible shoes, we ignore our health in search of the perfect tan, and refuse to try great, but untrendy, food. We fail to truly experience life while we’re chasing an illusion. In the end, we’re left clutching an empty bottle, never having enjoyed the wine inside.


We ate some chicken cordon bleu the other night, and it was quite enjoyable. Not because it conjured images of French chef , but simply because it tasted good. Or, as Shakespeare might have put it, “chicken and pastrami by any other name, still tastes as sweet as chicken and pastrami”.

My New Hero

I’m turning 40 this week; I guess that means I’m middle aged. Truth is, I don’t feel all that different, nor have I gotten a sudden urge to buy a sports car. But I do have a new hero, or to bemore precise, I’ve rediscovered an old hero: Rabbi Akiva.

Akiva was an uneducated shepherd who commenced his Torah studies at age forty. Completely illiterate, he had to go back to first grade and study the Aleph Bet. Through sheer determination, he quickly overcame his lack of knowledge, and became the greatest Rabbi of all time.

As an elementary school student, I understood the Akiva story as a parable about persistence. Its message was that even Akiva, the illiterate one who thinks he’s “dumb”, is able to succeed if he is willing to work hard. It taught me that diligence is just as critical as high intelligence.

Today, I’ve reclaimed the Akiva story for a new lesson. At middle age, coasting becomes a serious temptation. Seniority often bring success; and success makes it easy to lose your edge. You become risk averse, you refuse to accept new challenges, and avoid difficult situations. You “settle down”, and consider it a blessing that you no longer need to struggle. In short, for many of us forty is an age for status quo.

I too am tempted by the pleasant inertia of the status quo. Why not? The status quo keeps your blood pressure down, and reduces stress. But whenever inertia sets in, I remember Akiva. Akiva now teaches me that forty need not be “middle age”, an era intended exclusively for continuity, conservatism, and conformity. Yes, Akiva could have played it safe and sated his hunger for knowledge with a few Hebrew lessons. But then he would have lived out his life in anonymity as just another forgotten shepherd. Instead, Akiva started over, went back to first grade, and transformed his entire life. And that’s exactly why he’s my new hero; because he reminds me that forty is an excellent age for new beginnings.

First graders are used to new beginnings. For them, every day is a tour de force, filled with new exploits. Unfortunately, as we age, we teach ourselves to resist the unfamiliar, and we drain away our natural enthusiasm. But if he chooses to, a forty year old man can be as adventuresome as a first grader. And that is exactly what Akiva did; he went back to first grade and rediscovered his sense of wonder. I believe that ultimately it was Rabbi Akiva’s “grade one” skills that enabled him to become a great man.

So, now I’m middle aged man. But that doesn’t really matter; like my new hero, Akiva, I’m still a first grader at heart.

Finding Your Inner Nudnik

Every so often people call me with the following request: “I’m giving a speech tomorrow; can you help me find something to say?”. Often they’re nervous, perhaps with pre-speech jitters. But I also imagine that like me, they find the notion of “saying something” to be intimidating.

I know it’s difficult to believe that any Rabbi could be at a loss for words. Yet each time I speak, I’m apprehensive. I worry that the jokes won’t be funny, the stories won’t inspire, the speech will flop. Much of sermonizing, no matter how high minded the topic, is entertainment. And like any entertainer, I’m never sure the crowd will like my performance.

My anxieties aside, the truth is that public speaking is easy. We all have something to say, we’re just too polite to say it. It’s our inner Canadian, the part of us too timid to offend, that stops our most impassioned thoughts from taking flight. We worry if we talk too often about our enthusiasms people might mistake us for fanatics. So we suppress deeply felt beliefs because we’re afraid of being nudniks.

Unlike entertainers, nudniks are often unpopular. Jeremiah and Moses nearly lose their lives for repeating their message over and over again. The few who challenge the consensus usually end up as social outcasts. But at the least, nudniks have something to say, a genuine, heartfelt message.

Over the years, I’ve seen previously mild mannered people transform into nudniks. One Rabbi, because of the Rabin assassination, now works tirelessly on inter-Jewish dialogue. A mother of a disabled girl now crusades on behalf of disabled children. In response to the intifada, a housewife now orchestrates a powerful grassroots lobby for Israel. These previously respectable people met a moment of rage, and found their inner nudnik.

There are entertaining speeches, and nudnik speeches. Entertaining speeches include poetic language, wonderful jokes and interesting anecdotes. Nudniks need none of that; because the heart speaks a language all its own, a passionate speech doesn’t require entertaining asides.

A rabbinic mentor once told me that every sermon should have a moment of outrage when you feel like saying “damn it” and banging the table. I now realize he wasn’t just telling me how to get an audience’s attention; he was telling me I have an obligation to speak about issues I’m passionate about. A Rabbi is no mere entertainer; he must be a bit of a nudnik as well.

So you’re making a speech, and need something to say? Here’s my advice: find your inner nudnik. Get excited, bang on the table, and speak from the heart. Your inner nudnik will help you make a better speech; and you never know, it may also make you a better person.

Killing Time

I never watch TV without holding a book. It’s an odd habit which I trace to my days as a yeshiva student. At Yeshiva I learned that “Bittul zman”, the wasting of time, was a cardinal sin. Time was much too valuable to squander, because it could be used for Torah study and mitzvot. So I learned to take enormous care with every instant, to the point that I rode the bus with a religious text in hand, never to waste time on idle daydreaming. And even now, years later, I am uncomfortable “wasting time” on something as frivolous as watching TV.

Yeshiva bocherim are not the only ones concerned about time. Indeed, an entire industry of time management has emerged to help harried businessman schedule more meetings. The realization that “time is money” ensures that the sharp executive will do everything possible to maximize time. And because the technology enabled entrepreneur is the contemporary hero, the tools of time management have filtered down throughout society; even housewives and students carry daytimers and palm pilots.

But while we’ve learned how to manage time, we’ve forgotten why. Yes, time is money; but frankly, it’s a whole lot more. Time is life. Our lives are comprised of a finite amount of days, hours and minutes. And unlike money, time is irretrievable.

Wasting time is aptly referred to as “killing time” because it truly is a loss of life. But it’s not only couch potatoes who kill time. One can kill time while ostensibly busy. Indeed, some people are “urgency addicts”, busying themselves with empty trivialities because they get a rush out of being busy. However, we can fill our calenders with “important” errands and meetings yet still do nothing of consequence. A busy life is not always a meaningful life.

Benjamin Franklin may have coined the term “time is money”, but he also had a spiritual view of time management. (Indeed, part of Franklin’s Autobiography was translated and included in “Cheshbon Hanefesh”, a popular Yeshiva text). To Franklin, each morning a person should plan the day while thinking: “what good shall I do this day?”, and at night, he should look back and ask: “what good have I done this day?”.

What is missing in our contemporary daytimers are these two questions. Even if our agendas are full, we still need to find time for the things that count. No matter how busy we are, there are always a few moments to learn, love, grow and care. We can always fit in a call to our parents, a hug for our children, a few words to cheer up a friend. Whether or not we squeeze the important things into our schedules determines if we are living life or killing time.

Walking Up the Down Escalator

I hear these stories while standing at the bar. I’m at a simcha, sharing a l’chaim with the grandparents of the bride/groom/Bar/Bat Mitzvah, who are chatting and smiling, as proud grandparents should. And then, I’ll notice they have an unusual glint in their eye, the look of pure glee mixed with pure defiance. And they’ll whisper to me: “you know I shouldn’t be alive...they should have got me, but what happened was...”. They then tell me their stories, about how a remarkable convergence of persistence and luck allowed them to survive, rebuild and celebrate simchas.

Nowadays, the generation of survivors is once again battling the angel of death, and I often hear these stories while preparing a eulogy. Each time a survivor passes away, I am reminded that without them the Jewish world would be smaller, weaker and duller. Their families, their communal involvements, and the fact that they are a living link to Eastern European Judaism have contributed immeasurably in reconstructing the Jewish world after the Holocaust.

But to me, the survivors teach more than history; they teach character. Many survived due to incredible, impossible adventures. In each of these adventures, the survivor’s character is critical. They did the impossible because they had chutzpah, tenacity and optimism. Their stories have taught me the importance of determination, a lesson that’s significant for anyone who’s ever faced failure and disappointment.

It’s easy to give up. Our society, with it’s wonderful overabundance of comforts, has an unfortunate side effect: it has made people soft. We’ve become so used to success that we are unable to cope with adversity. Personal, relationship and business difficulties often end with people giving up, because we are easily discouraged.

For survivors, quitting wasn’t an option. I remember a survivor telling me “you know, I just wanted to live”. It may seem like a pointless comment; everyone wants to live! But when a survivor makes this remark, it speaks volumes about personal determination. This man refused to give up when facing overwhelming odds. Many others simply surrendered; some even walked into electrified fence as a way of ending the suffering. However, the survivors persevered, clinging to life even when it seemed absurd. To me, endless determination is the survivors’ greatest legacy.

I once heard a speaker remark “life is like walking up the down escalator”. Despite our wealth and success, this is true of all of us at one time or another. We all have disappointments that pull us down. The survivors climbed up an impossible escalator, and somehow made it to the top. Because of their accomplishments, they remain an inspiration to all of us struggling our way up the escalator of life.