Protected by...

Every Shabbos Chol Hamoed Succos we read the Haftorah (Yechezkel, Chapter 38) about the final confrontation at the end of days between Gog and the nation of Israel. How does Succos connect with Gog, Magog and the end of days? It is ironic to note that after the exodus from Egypt, while travelling in the desert, a place that offers absolutely no natural security or protection, the Jewish people experienced their greatest sense of true security, protected from their enemies and entirely provided for by G-d. Every year, when theJew leaves his home for a week to eat, sleep and live in a succah; an often flimsy structure with a roof made of bits of wood, reed, bamboo, etc., he actualizes this idea that ultimate care and protection come only from G-d. By virtue of the closeness to G-d he has achieved during Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, he can now experience a sense of true security. The word “Gog” in Hebrew means roof. Modern man, divorced from a belief in G-d, deeply believes that a good job, a big bank account, a solid economy, a high tech army, in short, a strong solid “roof over his head,” is the source of true security. These two world views cannot co-exist forever. We are told by the prophets that armageddon is inevitable, a final confrontation that will witness the destruction of mankind’s false faith. Succos teaches us that our apparently flimsy roofs will ultimately be triumphant over modern man’s misguided sense of security.

Rabbi Chaim Salenger from Ohr Somayach

Hidden and Revealed

The essence of Rosh Hashanah is our crowning of G-d as our “king.” A coronation, explain the Chassidic masters, is effected by two things — unity and joy: a people joyously unite to select, accept and submit to an exalted figure who embodies their collective identity and innermost strivings (if the coronation lacks either joy or unity, chassidic teaching explains, it results not in a true king, but merely in a “ruler”). But there is also a third element without which the coronation could not happen — awe. And the nature of awe is that it eclipses and mutes the joy. Sukkot, then, is simply the revelation of Rosh Hashanah. The joy and unity that are the essence of our commitment to G-d, and which were “concealed” by the awe that characterizes the first days of Tishrei, erupt on the 15th of the month in the form of the festival of Sukkot.

In the words of the Psalmist, “Sound the shofar on the new moon, in concealment to the day of our festival.” Our crowning G-d king with the sounding of the shofar on the 1st of Tishrei (“the new moon”) remains in concealment until “the day of our festival,” the full moon of Sukkot, when it manifests itself in a seven-day feast of joy.

Yanki Tauber of Chabad.org

Reality Therapy

The holiday of Sukkot is an exercise in faith. True faith is not the belief that because God runs the world, everything will turn out the way we would like it to. True faith is the belief that because God runs the world, however things turn out is an expression of His love for us and is for our ultimate good.

When we leave our houses to dwell in the sukkah, we leave behind the illusion of security fostered by our cozy homes. After all, our houses may be invulnerable to rain, but they are vulnerable to the bank’s foreclosure. All physical security is an illusion. In this sense, Sukkot is a week of reality therapy.

Instead, the sukkah offers the comfort (and joy) of dwelling within the Divine Presence. The mystical Clouds of Glory surround the sukkah, creating a place of Divine immanence. The nature of spiritual reality is that it is eternal, imperishable, and invincible.

Sara Yoheved Rigler at Aish.com

Have a wonderful joyful Succos.
____________________________________________

From Derech Emes

Directions of Lulav Waivings
____________________________________________

Rashi: left, right, front, back, up, down

Tur: front, left, right, back, up, down

Beth Yosef and Rema: front, right, back, left, up, down

Levush: front, right, left, up, down, back

Ari: right, left, front, up, down, back

____________________________________________

To receive quick quotes from a variety of
Jewish Torah books, please go to:

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/DerechEmet/

and click on: JOIN THIS GROUP.

For Jewish people ONLY! Thank you!

From Days of Majesty – By Rabbi Daniel Yaakov Travis

On Yom Kippur, the Jewish people were forgiven for the sin of the golden calf and were given the second set of luchos. Yet even after this tremendous act of pardon, we still did not know if we had found favor in Hashem’s eyes. During the days between Yom Kippur and Sukkos, the Jewish people gave away much of the wealth that they had taked from Egypt, for the sake of building the Mishkan, the tabernacle in the dessert. On Sukkos Hashem responded by showing His intense love for us when He returned the Clouds of Glory (commentary of the Vilna Gaon on Shir HaShirim 1:4)

Every year from Elul until Yom Kippur, we toil to repair our relationship with our Creator. When Yom Kippur ends, although we are cleansed of our aveiros, our job is not complete. Between Yom Kippur and Sukkos we engage ourselves completely in mitzvos in order to encourage Hashem to show His deep love for us. Perhaps these four days are the most critical in the entire Jewish calendar, for they determine the true extent of our devotion to HaShem. The intense love that is meant to exist between us cannot return until our actions match up to our prayers.

In the merit of our serving HaShem with devotion, may he show His true love to us, His children, and bring us all back to His Home quickly.

By Marsha Smagley

I have trouble leaving the Jewish holidays. It is especially hard for me to leave the sukkah; this year was no exception. This past Sukkos, as Hoshana Rabbah was approaching, I felt a sadness that soon I would have to leave the sukkah, aware that the darkness of winter was near with many days remaining before the lights of Chanukah would shine.

Not having been raised with Torah, I was most familiar with the holidays of Rosh HaShanah, Yom Kippur, and Pesach. I had no idea that as Jews we were given so many beautiful holidays, each bringing its own unique opportunity for growth and closeness to G-d. But it is in the sukkah, when we are asked to leave the comfort and physical security of our permanent home for the impermanent dwelling of the sukkah, that I have experienced the true security of dwelling with G-d.

WE LIVE in a predominantly secular Jewish community and are one of the few families to have a sukkah on our street. Each year a man named Tzachi comes from Israel to Chicago, where I live, and puts up our sukkah. I like to think of him as Tzachi the Sukkah Man. My family and I look forward to his call each year just before Yom Kippur, announcing he has arrived from Israel and is ready to take our sukkah parts out of storage and bring it back to life.

Tzachi has many sukkahs in many neighborhoods to put up. He works as a construction engineer in Israel, but I believe his seasonal job of putting up sukkahs is his “holiest” of constructions. I recall a touching memory of Tzachi davening minchah just before putting up our sukkah. He stood on our front lawn facing east reciting the prayers by heart, tzitzis flowing as he bowed in supplication to Hashem. Seeing a person praying on the front lawn is an unusual sight on our street. I felt that our sukkah was being assembled with blessing.

I do not like when Tzachi calls after Simchas Torah to arrange a time to put away our sukkah for the year. I know that he has to go home to Israel and that the sukkah at that point is but an empty shell; still, I do not like to see it go.

This year, when Tzachi came to take it apart, something unusual happened.Tzachi dismantled the sukkah but could not put its parts away because the sechach and sukkah fabric walls were soaked. Its many parts needed to be spread out in our backyard to dry.

As I peered out the window into our yard, I no longer saw the familiar sight of our beautiful sukkah. Instead I saw its remnants, some covered in fallen autumn leaves, draped on many chairs in our backyard to dry. It was a strange and disconcerting sight.

I could not help but see Hashem’s hand in this experience. Although it is hard to know all His messages, I wondered if G-d was delaying the return of our sukkah to help me to reflect on what I had learned from these preceding awesome days, to help me to reassemble, piece by piece, each last precious memory of dwelling in His sukkah.

OUR FIRST sukkah was made of wood, built by my husband and two yeshivah boys. We could barely squeeze our family into it, but I loved it. The following year, my husband bought a shul-sized sukkah from The Sukkah Depot. Each year I try to fill our huge sukkah with many guests. I love to invite my children’s friends and families, especially those who would not otherwise have an opportunity to be in a sukkah or wave the four species.

As I usher guests into our sukkah, I think of Sarah Imeinu when she and Avraham Avinu welcomed guests in their tent. I, of course, cannot compare myself to Sarah, but I like to think of her anyway. It gives me chizuk, inspiration. In addition to our invited guests, my daughter and I knock on many of our neighbors’ doors, inviting them to eat in our sukkah and, if they wish, to wave the four species.

THIS PAST Sukkos began with beautiful warm autumn weather. Then it snowed. This was a record even for Chicago; it had never snowed in October before. I remember getting up and looking out our upstairs window as I did each morning during the holiday to gaze at the sukkah below, only to see its roof blanketed in snow. I was shocked. I never saw snow on a sukkah before. I felt like Tzachi the Sukkah Man had been replaced with Frosty the Snowman.

My nine-year-old daughter’s friend was coming over along with her mother, who was expecting, and two younger siblings to eat lunch in our sukkah on that snowy day. I ran out to the yard and slowly unzipped the sukkah door to check the weather conditions inside. I hoped that the snow had just stayed on the roof and that if we dressed warmly we could still have lunch in the sukkah. I hoped the expectant mother would not mind.

The snow had melted and dripped down through the sechach, creating fresh puddles of water on the tables and chairs. As I assessed the feasibility of eating in the sukkah and with optimism began to wipe the water from the tables and chairs, more water dripped down on my head. Later in the afternoon we did bravely manage to recite a berachah in the sukkah over dessert. But we immediately went inside afterward for cover.

Although it did not snow again the rest of the week, it was wet and cold. I began to feel robbed of my precious time in the sukkah. As Shemini Atzeres approached, which this year fell on Shabbos, I hoped that it would warm up and stay dry enough to enjoy this very last day in our sukkah. It was difficult for me to say farewell to the sukkah under any circumstance — it was especially hard after having lost those last few days.

ON THAT Shabbos morning of Shemini Atzeres, wrapped in warm clothing, I was the first one to enter our sukkah. It was cold, but the rain had stopped and the sun shown brilliantly in the morning sky, warming the inside of our sukkah. Although I sat alone in the sukkah, I knew I was not alone. I felt His Presence; I felt the true security which comes from being enveloped in the loving embrace of HaKadosh Baruch Hu.

I gazed in awe at the inner beauty of this most precious of dwellings. There were other sukkahs that were far more elaborately decorated, but to me our sukkah reflected the beauty which comes from a family desiring to make a warm and loving home for Hashem to dwell.

Our sukkah was illuminated with beautiful white shimmering lights from above; my family’s favorite lights were the grape light ornaments, with each cluster of red and green grapes taking turns lighting up. There were many pictures hanging on each wall. My nine-year-old daughter had drawn them over the past few years. There was a picture of the Kosel and another of a boy waving the four species in front of the holy ark in shul. My favorite picture was of a family eating in the sukkah, but instead of sitting on chairs they were happily flying up to the ceiling.

On our sukkah’s eastern wall hung a poster of a sea of men davening at the Kosel while waving the four species. The blessings for ushering in the ushpizin, the honored guests, too, hung on this wall. My fifteen-year-old son recited this prayer for us each night. Plastic cutouts of each of the seven species of Eretz Yisrael were hung throughout the sukkah, along with the Star of David hanging down from the ceiling in its center, held by a sparkling blue pipe cleaner.

My daughter has described our sukkah as lively and colorful. She said it was a holy place which gave her the chills and a good feeling inside. I had to agree.

Although it was a bit cold, I asked my family to please eat this last meal in our sukkah, and with spirit and determination we spent a good part of Shabbos afternoon dwelling in the sukkah. My parents, too, joined us. I warmly recall the image of my fifteen-year-old son holding on to my mother, who needed to use a walker, to escort her through our yard into the sukkah. My mother had commented that the food was good, and that although it was a bit cold outside, it was cozy inside and she enjoyed the warmth of everyone there. Since I was the first Torah-observant person my mother really knew, I especially appreciated her efforts to sit with us in a cold sukkah.

As the time came to say farewell to the sukkah, I thanked Hashem for giving us this last beautiful day to dwell in it. I still was not ready to leave. After my family said their goodbyes and went inside, I remained alone in the sukkah, this last time, and cried out to HaKadosh Baruch Hu from the depths of my heart that I did not want to leave His home; I did not want to leave Him. Tears filled my eyes, the tears of a soul that wanted to keep dwelling in the loving embrace of the Shechinah forever.

IT IS NOW more than two weeks after Sukkos ended, and the rain has finally slowed down. My husband and son were able to put the sukkah parts back in their boxes — that is, all the parts except the bamboo sechach which still needed more drying time. When my husband and I returned from a chasunah the other night, and as I was about to go inside through the back door, I saw the sechach still leaning on chairs in our yard. I checked to see if it was finally dry and it was.

I suddenly heard a loud crackling of thunder in the dark night sky, and with the threat of more rain, I could not bear that the sechach would have to be left out even more days to dry. At that moment, I realized that what I truly could not bear was to see any of Hashem’s holy abode continuing to be left in fragments in our yard; it was time to put the sukkah away. It was time to say goodbye.

Still dressed in my wedding clothes, I tried to lift the bundle of sechach, but it was too heavy. Determined that it would not get rained on again, I prayed to Hashem to give me the strength to put this last remnant of our sukkah away. He answered my prayers. I held tightly on to the sechach to avoid dropping it and managed to get it into the garage.

As I held on to the sechach, I was comforted by the thought that although the last remnant of our sukkah was finally gone, it did not mean that Hashem was leaving me. At that moment, I was given the true clarity that my challenge was to bring the lesson of the sukkah “inside” — into my home and into my life. I needed to strive to bring down Hashem’s light into every aspect of my life and to build a permanent place within my home and within my soul for Him to dwell.

I recalled a favorite verse in Tehillim which I recite each day: “One thing I request of Hashem that shall I seek: that I may dwell in the House of Hashem all the days of my life, to behold the pleasantness of Hashem, and to meditate in His Sanctuary. For He will hide me in His sukkah on the day of distress, and he will conceal in the shelter of His tent; upon a rock He will lift me” (Tehillim 27:4–5).

I thank HaKadosh Baruch Hu for giving us a chance to create new beginnings, to bring inside all that we have learned from dwelling in His sukkah. I pray that Hashem will continue to envelop me in His sukkah, to take my hand and lead me through the darkness of winter and this long and bitter galus, until the lights of Chanukah shine forth.

This article originally appeared in Horizon’s magazine and is dedicated for a refuah shleimah of Shayna bas Madelyn.

As I’ve become more observant and more familiar with mitzvot and halacha and various minhagim, I’ve been struck by the almost absurdity of the Yom Kippur-Sukkot transition. It seems odd to me that, hours after experiencing the most Awesome day of the Jewish calendar, after going through a grueling and soul-wrenching fast accompanied by walks to shul, much standing, and seemingly endless praying, one would immediately go out and begin building the sukkah in anticipation of Sukkot. Sukkot – zman simchatenu – the holiday of happiness – seems to be in stark contrast to Yom Kippur with all of its solemnity.

On top of the huge spectrum of emotions that seems to occur in hours, there are only 4 days to prepare. 4 days to build a hut, acquire a lulav and etrog (and one can spend hours selecting the best), and plan and cook meals. FOUR DAYS! Isn’t that a bit of a time crunch? Why did Hashem give us no lead time? There are 40 days from Rosh Hodesh Elul to Yom Kippur…many start preparing for Pesach weeks in advance…why this huge rush for Sukkot? Essentially, why is Hashem practically punishing us with this crazy schedule?? And why is this sukkah – this little hut – of such importance if, lets face it, not everyone is gifted with carpentry skills? Why all these challenges?

And then it hit me as my husband gleefully put together our first sukkah this week.

On Yom Kippur, vidduy lists all of our sins. We are faced with everything that we could have possibly done wrong over the last year. In our prayers we say that we are dust, that we are barely worthy, that we have failed – and that we hope to improve and do better next year. We pray for life so that we can be granted the opportunity to do better. During davening or during quiet introspection on Yom Kippur we mentally think of how we can do better: this year I will take on this new mitzvah; this year I will put into practice this halacha that I learned; this year I resolve to speak less lashon hara…we become creative and hopeful. Perhaps it is possible to change; I think I can! I want to do better! And by the time ne’ilah rolls around, we daven so hard saying, “Yes – I can do it – just give me the chance – I know I can!”

And then the shofar is blown, we wolf down food – and what do we do next? Run – don’t walk – to do the first mitzvah that we can. And run we have to because we only have 4 days. And the 4 days is significant because it is not a lot of time! There is no time to waste! If there were more time, such as more than 10 days, then there is greater opportunity for a person to waver in their convictions or for the schedule to become too busy to build a sukkah. It is the time crunch that drives a person to fulfill the mitzva, and if we were given more time, how many of us would opt out for the sake of convenience?

The look on my husband’s face is priceless as he shows off our sukkah. Knowing that he accomplished this huge mitzva, despite the many trips to Home Depot, despite the errors that delayed construction, I can read several emotions in his face: pride in what he built with his hands, satisfaction in fulfilling the mitzva for the first time, giddiness in all of the decorations and lights. But perhaps the most significant emotion is the feeling of “I did it!” – and it’s despite the odds, despite having no time between work and nightfall, despite the construction snafus, despite the bugs (it is Houston, after all). This mitzva is done! And possibly, if I can do this mitzva, then I can do others…

And isn’t that a great feeling to start off a new year?

First published on Oct 1, 2007

Rav Nachman Breslover coined the phrase “It is a great Mitzvah to be joyous constantly”. We know that, in particular, there is a Mitzvah of Simchas HaChag (being cheerful during a Holiday). Still Sukkos is known as THE Time of Our Joy. I’d like to share two thoughts that lend insight into why Sukkos is identified with joy and that also speak to Ba’alei T’shuva in particular.

#1

The S’fas Emes explains that the Sukkah, as a Diras Arai (an insubstantial non-permanent dwelling place) is a home that is not a home, a place that is not a place. A sincere Ba’al T’shuva often feels so devastated by his sin that he feel as though he have no place in the world. The more homeless and misfit-ed a Ba’al T’shuva feels the more Divine Compassion is aroused and the more G-d creates an abode for the emotionally/spiritually homeless. Immediately after Yom Kippur the entire Jewish People are Ba’alei T’shuva. The Sukkah is G-d’s “homeless shelter” for all of K’lal Yisrael. The holy ambience of the Sukkah is that of a place that is in this world but not of it, an abode and a welcoming sanctuary for those who despaired of ever finding a place in their world again. If it had a sense of permanence about it then the Sukkah could never be a comfortable place – a natural habitat for the relentlessly ill at ease Ba’al T’shuva. But, insubstantial as a cloud, it restores to the Ba’al T’shuva his lost glory. Having “come home” after despairing of ever finding a home again we are ecstatic.

#2

It’s been said that the opposite of love is not hate but apathy. Most of us have had emotional “absolute value” moments when our feelings turned on a dime from one extreme to another. e.g. (to borrow a sports clich) going from the agony of defeat to the ecstasy of victory or, G-d forbid, vice versa.

If we find a hole in our pockets and discover that we’ve lost a five dollar bill most of us will be upset for a few moments and then move on. But if we discover that a 20 million dollar winning lottery ticket slipped out through the same pocket hole we will be devastated. If, miraculously, a serendipitous win blows our lost ticket back into our hands then our joy will be indescribable.

Rabenu Yonah says that our festive feasting on Yom Kippur Eve prior to the actual Yom Kippur fast is a litmus test for the sincerity and depth of our T’shuva. Much like the hole-in-the-pocket lotto winner perceiving that the scrap of paper flying back towards him is his lost and deeply lamented ticket, the Ba’al T’shuva is elated to see his/her winning ticket i.e. recovering their ruptured relationship with G-d, about to be restored. The truest testimony to a Ba’alei T’shuva’s remorse and sense of loss of a relationship with the Divine is the joy with which he anticipates its imminent restoration.

Rav Hutner z”l concludes that the unique joy of Sukkos is the realization of the dream of Erev Yom Kippur. After all… as happy as the lotto winner is as he sees the winning ticket floating back to within his grasp, he is even happier when he, once again, grasps it in his hand.

Originally Posted on Oct 5, 2006

Protected by...

Every Shabbos Chol Hamoed Succos we read the Haftorah (Yechezkel, Chapter 38) about the final confrontation at the end of days between Gog and the nation of Israel. How does Succos connect with Gog, Magog and the end of days? It is ironic to note that after the exodus from Egypt, while travelling in the desert, a place that offers absolutely no natural security or protection, the Jewish people experienced their greatest sense of true security, protected from their enemies and entirely provided for by G-d. Every year, when theJew leaves his home for a week to eat, sleep and live in a succah; an often flimsy structure with a roof made of bits of wood, reed, bamboo, etc., he actualizes this idea that ultimate care and protection come only from G-d. By virtue of the closeness to G-d he has achieved during Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, he can now experience a sense of true security. The word “Gog” in Hebrew means roof. Modern man, divorced from a belief in G-d, deeply believes that a good job, a big bank account, a solid economy, a high tech army, in short, a strong solid “roof over his head,” is the source of true security. These two world views cannot co-exist forever. We are told by the prophets that armageddon is inevitable, a final confrontation that will witness the destruction of mankind’s false faith. Succos teaches us that our apparently flimsy roofs will ultimately be triumphant over modern man’s misguided sense of security.

Rabbi Chaim Salenger from Ohr Somayach

Hidden and Revealed

The essence of Rosh Hashanah is our crowning of G-d as our “king.” A coronation, explain the Chassidic masters, is effected by two things — unity and joy: a people joyously unite to select, accept and submit to an exalted figure who embodies their collective identity and innermost strivings (if the coronation lacks either joy or unity, chassidic teaching explains, it results not in a true king, but merely in a “ruler”). But there is also a third element without which the coronation could not happen — awe. And the nature of awe is that it eclipses and mutes the joy. Sukkot, then, is simply the revelation of Rosh Hashanah. The joy and unity that are the essence of our commitment to G-d, and which were “concealed” by the awe that characterizes the first days of Tishrei, erupt on the 15th of the month in the form of the festival of Sukkot.

In the words of the Psalmist, “Sound the shofar on the new moon, in concealment to the day of our festival.” Our crowning G-d king with the sounding of the shofar on the 1st of Tishrei (“the new moon”) remains in concealment until “the day of our festival,” the full moon of Sukkot, when it manifests itself in a seven-day feast of joy.

Yanki Tauber of Chabad.org

Reality Therapy

The holiday of Sukkot is an exercise in faith. True faith is not the belief that because God runs the world, everything will turn out the way we would like it to. True faith is the belief that because God runs the world, however things turn out is an expression of His love for us and is for our ultimate good.

When we leave our houses to dwell in the sukkah, we leave behind the illusion of security fostered by our cozy homes. After all, our houses may be invulnerable to rain, but they are vulnerable to the bank’s foreclosure. All physical security is an illusion. In this sense, Sukkot is a week of reality therapy.

Instead, the sukkah offers the comfort (and joy) of dwelling within the Divine Presence. The mystical Clouds of Glory surround the sukkah, creating a place of Divine immanence. The nature of spiritual reality is that it is eternal, imperishable, and invincible.

Sara Yoheved Rigler at Aish.com

Excerpt From The Rosh Hashanah Yom Kippur Survival Kit
________________________________________

(From Introduction) Just Do It and Don’t Ask Questions

The dominant medium for communicating Judaism to this generation has been the synagogue or community Hebrew schools. Whatever Jewish education most Jews possess today came from those after-school or Sunday morning classes that we all swore we would never subject our children to. Another medium was our parents or grandparents. While no one can dispute that their hearts were deeply rooted in the right place, the fact remains that even the deepest of sentiments in no way readied them for the task of articulating Jewish values in a relevant and cogent manner. More often than not, their fallback position was, “We do it because we’re Jewish and that’s just the way it is.” And for better or worse, such an argument no longer carries the weight it once did.

We find ourselves in a bewildering world. We want to make sense of what we see around us and to ask: What is the nature of the universe? Where is our place in it and where did it and we come from? Why is it the way it is? Up to now, most scientists have been too occupied with the development of new theories that describe what the universe is to ask the question why.
— Stephen W. Hawking, A Brief History Of Time

The same, I believe, can be said about Judaism today. As educated adults who happen to be Jewish, we tend to look at our religious heritage and find it to be rather bewildering. We would like to make sense of it, to find for ourselves a place within it, but we just aren’t sure what to make of the whole thing.

To a degree, the quandary of Jewish identity also stems from a prominent focus on the what and how of Jewish life at the expense of the why. A great problem is that Jewish education has stressed the mechanics of Judaism (the what and the how) and has neglected the reasons, meaning and spiritual ideas behind Jewish practice (the why). In a world where people carefully consider which activities will fill their time, you had better give them a darn good reason for choosing High Holiday services over the World Series, or quite frankly, you don’t stand a chance! …

The Why of Being Jewish

… This book has been written for three types of people. Firstly, it is for people who have given-up on formalized Judaism and who are not planning to attend synagogue this year. If this is you, then I want to make the following promise: This book will give you a radically different understanding of Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and perhaps your entire Jewish identity. Read this book—I dare you—and you will find that there just might be a side to Judaism, and even to synagogue, that you can learn to enjoy and look forward to.

Secondly, if you are planning to attend services but are dreading the experience, then again, this book has been written for you. What’s more, I would suggest you read it twice. Once during the weeks before Rosh Hashanah and again during the services themselves.

Lastly, if you are among those who already have some sense of the meaning of these holidays, then I think that you—perhaps more than anyone else—will find the Survival Kit to be a worthwhile intellectual and spiritual supplement to your experience in synagogue this year.

(From Chapter 4) How to Survive Synagogue

But Rabbi, even if I can read some of the prayers, I still don’t understand what I’m saying…To tell you the truth, I’d rather take a quiet reflective walk in the park this year than spend all that time in synagogue saying a bunch of words that don’t really mean much to me anyway.

Prayer is meant to be a powerful, relevant and meaningful experience. At the same time, a lengthy synagogue experience can be a bit intimidating. The following is a list of perspectives to keep in mind this year that should help to make the services as personally uplifting as possible.

1) Five minutes of prayer said with understanding, feeling and a personal connection to the words and their significance means far more than five hours of lip service. Therefore, don’t look at your prayer book as an all-or-nothing proposition consisting of hundreds of prayers that absolutely must be recited. Rather, try looking at each page as its own self-contained opportunity for prayer, reflection and inspiration. If you are successful with one page that’s great; if not, then just move right along to the next page, the next of many opportunities.

2) “Self-imposed expectations lead to self-induced frustrations.” Therefore, don’t expect to be “moved” by every prayer or to follow along with the entire service.

3) Read slowly through the prayers, carefully thinking about what you’re saying, and don’t be concerned about lagging behind the congregation. Look, the worst that could happen is that you will be on a different page than everyone else, but don’t worry, the pages will probably be announced so you can always catch up.

4) If a particular sentence or paragraph touches you, linger there a while. Say the words over and over to yourself—softly, but audible to your own ear. Allow those words to touch you. Feel them. And if you’re really brave, then close your eyes and say those words over and over for a couple of moments.

5) You’re not that proficient in Hebrew? Don’t worry, God understands whatever language you speak. And like a loving parent, He can discern what’s in your heart even if you can’t quite express it the way you would like.

6) As you sit in your synagogue on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur you are joined by millions of Jews in synagogues all over the world. You are a Jew, and by participating in the holidays you are making a powerful statement about your commitment to Judaism and the Jewish people.

________________________________________

This is an excerpt from the “Rosh Hashanah Yom Kippur Survival Kit”.

If you would like to purchase this book at 20% off click here

First 50 People To Order Also Receive “Israel In a Nutshell” FREE.

The story is told of a simple woman who attended synagogue regularly, and would weep each year when the story of Yosef and his brothers was read. Her behavior was so predictable that it became a bit of a synagogue joke. Those who sat near her would anticipate her cries each year when the story of Yosef being sold into slavery was read.

One year she did not cry.

Her fellow congregants were so surprised that after services they asked her why it was that every year she cried for Yosef, and this year she did not.

She replied in all sincerity, “If he is stupid enough to go to them again this year after what they did to him for the past ten years, then I’m not crying for him.”

This year on Purim, I had a sense of déjà vu as we read the Book of Esther. It seemed to me that there were no surprises- and it wasn’t just because I had heard the story before. You see, Haman, the wicked man, acted exactly as wicked people have acted in all generations. Mordechai, the Rabbi, acted exactly as Rabbis do, urging people to maintain high standards, and leading them in teshuva and renewal in times of crisis. Even Esther, the heroine of the story, acts in a most predictable fashion. In times of crisis- when her nation needs her help- she proceeds to do what needs to be done for the benefit of her people.

To the point that I began to wonder why the Book of Esther was recorded at all. After all, I couldn’t find a single extraordinary event in the entire story. Haman’s behavior, Mordechai’s behavior, and Esther’s behavior are most predictable. Even Achashveirosh, the king, gets swayed, first by one prime minister, then by another, in a most predictable fashion.

But I believe that therein lies the lesson of the Meggilah. Because, although the behavior of the characters was predictable, they still had free choice to do either good or bad. Haman could have chosen not to attempt genocide. Mordechai could have chosen to shirk his responsibility as a leader of the Jewish people, and Esther could easily have refused to cooperate with the plan of salvation. The actualization of what we could have predicted is the expression of free choice which is celebrated in the story of the Meggilah.

Often in life we experience the opportunity to actualize a predictable surprise. For example, if someone were to call you to be the tenth in a minyan for a neighbor who needs to say kaddish, your good natured response is fairly predictable. Likewise, if your sibling, who is responsible, needs a short term loan to avoid credit
card debt, and you have the money, we could anticipate your response with a fair degree of accuracy. Nevertheless, there is free choice, and when you actualize the predictable, it is still considered monumental.

The lesson of Purim is not in people acting in a way that is surprising. The behavior of the key characters is fairly predictable. The lessons of Purim are that there is evil in the world, that good people should do good things, and that when they do, G-d will intervene to orchestrate salvation.

With best wishes for a wonderful Shabbos,

Rabbi Mordechai Rhine
Young Israel of Cherry Hill
Torah Links of Cherry Hill
www.teach613.org

Rabbi Daniel Grama

I never really understood why we eat Carob, until recently. I give a weekly class to secular couples, and one week I found myself particularly stuck. Nothing was coming to mind. A friend suggested that I discuss the forthcoming Tu B’Shvat. While I know that the mishna lists it as one of the four Roshei HaShana, and the Ba’alei Machshava and Kabalah make a big deal out of it, to me it had no meaning beyond choosing between my favourite annual fruit and the unpopular Carob. So…..

Both Tanach and Chazal reveal a unique connection between the greatest of Hashem’s creations, Man, and His more basic creation of trees. Devorim (20,19) the Torah tells us that we may not destroy fruit trees, “For man is [like] the tree of the field.” Dovid HaMelech writes in Sefer Tehillim (92,13) that “the wicked grow like the grass and the righteous grow like a date tree.” Mesechet Gittin (57a), writes that when a child is born one should plant a tree.

Parsha Bereishis reveals a fascinating distinction between the creation of trees in contrast to the creation of the rest of the world. “B’Eser Ma’Amarim Nivrah Ha’Olam”, with ten utterances the world was created. Throughout the awesome event, a straightforward system was employed; Hashem said “and let there be… and then there was…..” Animals, stars, moon, night or day the process was the same, Hashem said it, Baruch Sh’omair, and that item came into existence, V’oseh. And once created, there was no need for follow-up. The creations would continue to exist or grow on their own. There was one exception. In perek 2 pasukim 8 & 9, the pasuk says, “And Hashem planted a garden in Eden, in the east, and He put there man that He created.” The next pasuk reads, “Hashem nurtured (Tzimach) from the ground all trees that were pleasant to see and good to eat. The Tree of Life was in the garden and the Tree of Knowledge of good and evil.”
Read more Tu B’Shvat – Fruits of our Labor ›

R’ Moshe Schwerd on Tu B’Shvat and the Sin of the Eitz Hadas can be downloaded here

By Rabbi Yonason Goldson
Torah Ideals – Seeking Direction in a Misdirected Worlds

A famous story, probably apocryphal but possibly true, recounts the origins of a shul in Poland named for its founder, Reb Itzele of Cracow. Reb Itzele was a poor peasant who dreamed recurrently of a great fortune that lay buried beneath a certain bridge in the city of Vienna. Night after night the same vision came into Reb Itzele’s head while he slept. Eventually, he could bear it no longer.

With no money to pay his way, Reb Itzele set out on foot to make the long journey to Vienna, hitching rides on the back of carts when he could, but mostly walking, begging for food, sleeping by the roadside when he could not find a barn or stable in which to spend the night.

Finally arriving in Vienna, Reb Itzele wandered the busy streets of the city until he recognized the bridge he had seen in his dream. But what then? People were coming and going constantly. He, a poor peasant from Poland, could hardly begin digging up the earth in the middle of a great cosmopolitan city.

A policeman noticed the poor man loitering under the bridge and accosted him. Disconcerted, Reb Itzele blurted out his whole story. The policeman’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You truly are a fool,” the officer laughed, “to travel half way across Europe because of a dream. Well, let me tell you: I, too, have had a dream. I dreamed there was a treasure hidden beneath the house of a poor Jew in Cracow. But do you think I would travel all that way to look for the house of someone named Itzele just because of a dream? Off with you, now, and be grateful that I don’t arrest you.”

Back went Reb Itzele to his house, where he tore up the floorboards and uncovered a great treasure, which he used to build the shul that bore his name.

* * * * *

The moral, obviously, is that we often have right under our feet the very thing we go off searching the world to find.

But the story has a second, more subtle message: sometimes we may have to search the world over in order to discover what we have had all along. Perhaps that is why the great chassidic masters exiled themselves in the days of their youth. And perhaps that is why the Master of the World has exiled our ethereal souls to this world of spiritual darkness, so that we must find our own way back to the light of His Divine presence.

Finally, perhaps this is why the Torah commands us to exile ourselves for seven days a year, abandoning the comfort and familiarity of our homes for the austerity of the sukkah. Paradoxically, this little hut that affords scant protection from the elements enables us to remember how HaShem protected our ancestors in the desert with the anani haKovod, the clouds of glory, and that it is His hand alone that protects us still.

THE GIFT OF SERVITUDE

Wheras the Talmud refers to the Passover Festival by its familiar name, Chag HaPesach, the sages identified the other festivals by descriptive names of their own design. Shavuos they called Atzeres – literally cessation: lacking any distinguishing positive commandments, Shavuos is characterized primarily by the forbidden categories of work common to all Torah holidays. Sukkos they called HeChag – The Festival – implying that this holiday somehow includes or completes the other two.1 And although Sukkos does indeed conclude the cycle of the Shalosh Regalim, the three Pilgrim Festivals, the sages’ reference to it as The Festival appears the diminish somewhat the stature of Pesach and Shavuos. What did the sages intend for us to understand?

Citing Rabbi Elazar HaKappar, the Mishna identifies the three character traits considered most destructive, through which a person a person may forfeit his portion in the World to Come.2 These are kinah (jealousy), ta’avah (lust), and kovod (craving honor). With characteristic penetrating brilliance, the Sfas Emes explains that the three festivals provide the tikkun, or antidote, for these three flaws.3

On Pesach, we celebrate our redemption from slavery at the hands of the Egyptians. A slave lives without either possessions or self-determination. He owns nothing and enjoys no benefit from his efforts. He toils without rest, without thanks, and without reward.

But there are many contemporary forms of slavery. An alcoholic is a slave to his drinking. A smoker is a slave to nicotine. A workaholic is a slave to his business. For many in the modern world, freedom is merely an opportunity to exchange one kind of slavery for another.

Consequently, the freedom we celebrate on Pesach is the freedom to choose our own master. By entering freely into the service of the Almighty, the Jew affirms that everything he does and everything he has is for the sake of the Master of the Universe. And if the Master grants different servants different tools and resources to perform their respective duties, what cause for jealousy is there in that? Ultimately, everything belongs to the One Master before whom we are all in equal service.

* * * * *

Having confronted jealousy, man must address an even more dangerous impulse. Desire. Even one who has gained control over his attraction to material acquisitions may still grapple with the internal longings for pleasure and gratification. Although desire cannot be quantified, the human obsession with food, with power, or with physical intimacy may become so overwhelming that it leads men into irrational acts of self-destruction.

The Festival of Shavuos adjures us to stop! By re-experiencing the giving of the Torah at Sinai, we reorient ourselves to the true purpose of freedom and the enduring satisfaction of spiritual achievement that can never be equaled by the transient pleasure of physical indulgence.

THE GIFT OF EXILE

The cycle of holidays concludes with Sukkos, which addresses the final stumbling block of the human psyche: the longing for recognition and honor. Having subdued our physical and spiritual impulses and inclinations, we expect acknowledgment of what we have achieved. We measure ourselves against our fellow Jews and, inflating our own sense of value, we resent others for not according us the credit we believe that we deserve. At best, our arrogance may tarnish our successes. At worst, it may lead us astray and cause us to undo all that we have done.

The solution is exile. We move out of our homes, abandoning the material comforts of freedom and symbolically taking up residence in the shadow of the Sh’chinah, to dwell in the Divine Presence as our ancestors did at the foot of Sinai and in the desert. The leaves and branches of the s’chach above our heads provide only the most superficial representation of a real roof and scarcely a modicum of shelter. Merely by raising our eyes can we recall that only by the grace of G-d are we protected from the elements and the outside world. By implanting this humbling reflection to echo in our memories when we move back into our homes, Sukkos enables us to conquer our craving for honor and thereby preserve the material and spiritual accomplishments of Pesach and Shavuos. In this way, it is truly HeChag – The Festival.

* * * * *

It would appear that together, Pesach, Shavuos, and Sukkos provide all the psychological and spiritual reinforcement to offset the influence of jealousy, lust, and honor. However, human experience suggests that 15 days scattered across half the year are hardly adequate in our battle against the yeitzer hara. How can we guarantee that the lessons of the three Festivals will not be forgotten?

Our sages teach us that anyone who properly recites Ashrei three times a day is assured of a place in the World to Come.4 With its central theme expressed in the verse, You open Your hand and fulfill the desire (ratzon) of every living thing, King David’s 145th Psalm extols the limitless mercy through which HaShem responds to the desire of all the living. By contemplating the message of Ashrei, that HaShem provides us with our every wish and need, we remain focused on the ultimate purpose of our own lives.

But is it true?

The world is filled beyond imagination with unfulfilled desires. The ill who do not recover, the poor who are not sustained, the righteous who suffer a seemingly endless succession of broken hearts and broken dreams. Where in human experience do we find that HaShem fulfills the desire of every living thing?

* * * * *

On the simplest level, HaShem has created a world containing more than sufficient resources to sustain all living things. Since the desires of all the living are primarily material, what the verse claims is ostensibly true: as a whole, the community of life on earth has enough to fulfill the desires of all.

However, the Sfas Emes explains that the Jewish people are different. In contrast to the rest of the world, HaShem has placed within each Jew “the will (ratzon) to know what to request.”5

Most creatures, including the majority of human beings, are driven by ta’aveh – desire resulting from physical or psychological impulse. But the nature of the Jewish neshoma is such that it is the source of ratzon – the will to know and carry out the Ultimate Will of the Creator. Only through knowledge and fulfillment of HaShem’s will is it possible for one to achieve deveikus – spiritual intimacy with the Almighty. It is for this, above all else, that the soul of the Jew yearns.

This, however, does not provide an answer to our original question. If we are never completely satisfied by the fulfillment of our physical desires, how many of us feel satiated in our quest for spiritual fulfillment? Even more so, how can the Psalmist claim that HaShem satisfies the spiritual desires of all the living?

THE GIFT OF DISCONTENT

Rabbi Akiva Tatz offers an intriguing insight into human nature. Most of us spend much, if not most, of our time wishing we were somewhere other than where we are. At work we long to be at home; at home we long for some kind of entertainment or recreation. We dream of travel to far away and exotic places, of experiencing the new and the unfamiliar.

When we actually have the opportunity to travel, however, we often grow homesick, disoriented, or ill at ease. We can’t stop our minds from wandering back home, from missing what we left behind and looking forward to our return.

Homesickness, says Rabbi Tatz, is a symptom of the neshoma in exile. Trapped in the physical reality of this world, the spiritual can find no rest and no consolation. The neshoma is like the daughter of a king who marries a commoner. No matter what he gives her, she is never satisfied, for the pleasures with which she grew up in the palace of the king exceed anything her new husband can imagine.6

So too the neshoma. No matter what it has in this world, it longs for the spiritual radiance that surrounded it in Olam HoEmes, the world of pure kedusha from which it came. Its perpetual longing to return home causes every human being, as a physical creature within whose body the neshoma resides, to feel restless, discontented, and far from where he belongs. We seek to quell these feelings by seeking satisfaction in travel to other places but, instead of satisfying the yearning of the neshoma, we feel even more unsettled and drawn to return to the place we think of as home.

* * * * *

Nevertheless, as King David declares in Ashrei, HaShem’s greatness is unfathomable. If it were possible to find satisfaction and contentment in this world, what would become of the Jew and his neshoma? Despite the persistent, inescapable beckoning of our souls, the attractions of the material world distract us continuously from the purpose for which HaShem created us – to earn our eternal reward in this prozdor, this entryway, that precedes the World to Come. How much more easily would we forget the reason for our existence if we could rejoice in the fulfillment of our every desire?

This is the meaning imparted by Ashrei’s central verse and the great paradox of our world: by having placed within us a spiritual will that can never be satisfied and having thereby denied us all but the most fleeting temporal satisfaction, HaShem forces us to remain conscious of the only source of true satisfaction – the pleasure of the World to Come for those who have earned it through Torah and good deeds.

This, too, is the lesson the sages sought to teach by describing Sukkos as the quintessential festival. Whatever our accomplishments, whether physical or spiritual, and however much we strive for satisfaction and fulfillment, the world we live in is in fact little more than a sukkah, a temporary dwelling that bears only the faintest resemblance to our true home in the World to Come.

It is for this reason that the sages introduced King David’s most famous Psalm with the closing lines of his previous chapter: Ashrei yoshvei veisecho – Fortunate are those who live in Your house. The one who recognizes this world as HaShem’s house, constructed not as a place of comfort but as an antechamber in which to earn his ultimate reward in the World to Come – it is he and he alone who is truly fortunate.

1. Rosh HaShanah 16a
2. Avos 4:28
3. Beginning of maamarim on Sukkos
4. Brachos 4b
5. End of Parshas Beshallach
6. Mesillas Yesharim, Chapter 1

Originally published in the Jewish Observer, October 2008

Reprinted with permission of Priority-One .

1) Explain to your children how Hashem actively seeks week to forgive, and will forgive them – even if the best they can do is want to do Teshuva.

2) Remind them that Yiddishkeit is not all-or-nothing – that their Aveiros do not invalidate their Mitzvos or diminish Hashem’s love.

3) Model the virtue of personal growth by sharing your own goals to a improve a particular Mitzvah or Middah, or by working to improve something together with your children.

4) Urge them to privately recall something they wish they could undo, and reassure them that now is their opportunity to erase whatever they regret.

5) Share your personal stories of Hashgacha Pratis with your children to demonstrate Hashem’s direct involvement in your family’s day-to-day lives.

6) Encourage your children to focus on two or three things they truly appreciate as constant reminders of Hashem’s benevolence in their own lives.

7) Sincerely ask your children for Mechilah during the Yomin Noraim to teach that everyone can make mistakes, and is equally worthy of being forgiven.

8) Suggest they undertake a small goal to improve their Yiddishkeit with reassurance that the most proper and efffective way to grow is through small, obtainable steps of self-improvement.

9) Make a special effort during the Yomim Noraim to model Hashem’s Middah of patience, compassion and forgiveness in your interactions with your spouse and children.

10) Show your children that they are the center of your world. Postpone a meeting or ignore a phone call to make time for them so they’ll feel cherished and can comprehend that Hashem, too, considers them the center of His world.

Please visit Priorty-1 for other valuable parenting resources.

It’s an oft repeated canard of blatant anti-semites that “Jews own the banks and run the economy”. If this is true, we’re having a bad week, guys.

While no right thinking individual places any credence in such age-old hate, sometimes, the way things happen, even a non-believer might start to think that, even if the Jews don’t run the world, they’ve got a pretty strong connection to the One who does.

This is never more readily apparent than around the time of Purim where we are taught that if we peek behind the curtain, we will see that nothing is a coincidence. Last year, Starbucks, (whose CEO is Jewish) decided that they would pick one day to offer all of their customers free coffee. Of all days, which day did they pick, shushan purim. I mean, come on, you couldn’t pick a better day for free coffee than Shushan Purim where, if you’re not shaking off the cobwebs of a bit of the Ad LoYadah (the mitzvah to drink), you certainly are quite exhausted jumping straight back into the workweek after a long day of Purim festivities. It’s like they pulled this day out of a lottery and the Jews won. Sound familiar?

This year, Purim falls on Friday. This makes for a difficult time crunch; squeezing davening, megillah, shaloch manos and a seudah into a Friday with concomitant Shabbos preparation is no simple task. No problem, we’ll just have congress change the rules for daylight savings time for the first time in twenty years so that we will have an extra hour until chatzos (halachic midday, the time by which many opinions state the majority of the Purim seudah should be completed) and Shabbos will come in an hour later. You see, when you have connections, everything seems to just fall into place.

Happy Purim to all.

There are those who have tried to combine Torah and Science, with varying degrees of success. Here is my humble contribution to the literature.

There is something called the “observer effect” which has often been connected, maybe inaccurately, with the uncertainty principle of quantum mechanics. Background on this effect is found here, for example:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Observer_effect

One section of the above article describes a few of its psychological aspects:

“Use in the social sciences
In the social sciences and general usage, the effect refers to how people change their behavior when aware of being watched (see Hawthorne effect and Observer’s Paradox). For instance, in the armed forces, an announced inspection is used to see how well soldiers can do when they put their minds to it, while a surprise inspection is used to see how well prepared they generally are.”

Now what does this have to do with Purim? After a little wine, this secret might be revealed even better, but here is one example:

My father described his sisters’ attempt to document his mother’s recipe for hamantaschen. Grandma Gussie was a cook from the old school, brought up in Galicia and trained further in cooking by her Hungarian mother-in-law. Nothing was ever written down. Like any artist, she improvised a little in each cooking performance as the spirit moved her. Nevertheless, because her hamantaschen tasted so good, Aunt Ruthie and Aunt Shirley decided they had to get the recipe down on paper. So, Grandma Gussie started making her recipe from scratch, as one aunt took and weighed each ingredient from her as it was ready to go into the mix, and the other aunt wrote down its weight. The result was a batch of hamantaschen that was maybe world class, but not nearly as good as usual. The observers unwittingly spooked the process!

I should wind up here with the actual recipe, but I don’t have a copy, and maybe it’s been lost. At any rate, the hamantaschen used a milchig (I’m pretty sure) dough that was soft but flexible and not crumbly after baking. Not the hard, cookie-like type you buy in stores. The usual filling was prune. The side of each big triangle was around 4 inches long (~10 cm).

While the combination of Torah and Science is often called Torah uMada, or TuM for short, eating many of these hamantaschen never made us need Tums.

The 15th day of the Hebrew month of Shvat, a holiday for the trees

The month of Shvat has the constellation Aquarius associated with it, and in kabbalistic astrology implies an outpouring of wisdom to those who want it, at this time. Water is often a symbol of wisdom in the ancient commentaries. Just like we need water on a daily basis, we need wisdom on a daily basis. Wisdom is a basic necessity, but unlike water, most people don’t realize how crucial it is.

It’s a curious fact that the most important things people tend to try and wing it. We all want a happy marriage, wonderful relationships with our parents, siblings, and kids. A friend recently related to me how a disagreement with his manager ended up spiraling out of control until the manager not only fired him but asked him not to set foot in the office. That’s pretty extreme. There must have been a very bad dynamic for it to end up like that. It seems they are both decent people who ended up in a tit for tat. Of course hindsight’s 20/20 but I wonder what would have happened if after the first altercation he had gone to a few people for advice.

We all get into situations in which we aren’t being successful, and the right advice from an objective person can often change things for the better. But are we humble enough to ask advice? At least reading a book on the subject can be of help. Being a human being is fraught with challenges. For every major challenge we need to read at least ten books on the subject. For an accounting degree you need to read a lot. For happiness, you need to read even more. Many more people can successfully complete an accounting course than can achieve a pleasurable amount of happiness. And humility, not meekness, is one of the character treats that lead people to seek advice or answers to their dilemmas.

This, the sages say, is one of the most important traits for acquiring wisdom. Just like water flows downward to the lowest spot it can find, so too the spiritual rules of the universe that the Almighty designed allow wisdom to flow to a humble person, provided the humble person appreciates, desires, and seeks wisdom.

Similarly, fruits are a symbol of God’s love since they are delicious and sort of a natural dessert. Tu Bshvat is when the sap starts to rise in the trees which will eventually cause the fruits to grow. It is a day of “judgement” on the trees, i.e. on us to see if we appreciate God’s blessings for humanity, and if we are using them in a way that is beneficial for us.

A divine flow of wisdom is waiting for us. And a spiritual source of blessing hangs in the balance. They are both two sides of the same coin.

Monday night, the 21st of January is when Tu B’Shvat falls out this year. Some people have the custom of eating fruits, especially the ones associated with Israel from the Torah, i.e. wheat, barley, grapes (wine), figs, pomegranates, olive (oil), and dates. We make blessings, show our appreciation to God, and remind ourselves that He loves us.

Eat, drink, and be mystical.

Happy Tu B’Shvat!

Max Weiman
Kabbalah Made Easy, Inc.
www.kabbalahmadeeasy.com

By Carolyn

For the first seven years of our marriage, we spent Rosh Hashanah with my husband’s Uncle David and Tante Ursula. It was one of the highlights of our year.

Then we moved home to Massachusetts. While our hearts filled with joy to be near our parents, we always feel a bittersweet lack on Rosh Hashanah away from Uncle David and Tante Ursula.

Whatever we manage to provide for our guests at our own Rosh Hashanah table, our best results are but an ambitious imitation of theirs. Whatever we happen to get right is due to witnessing the sparkling and passionate conversations, learned and inspiring divrei Torah, spontaneous and harmonious singing, delicious and elegantly presented meals, the atmosphere of generosity and appreciation, and the overall kedushah (sanctity) of their home.

As a young bride I found Tante Ursula’s kitchen inspiring. I still do. It was spotless and efficient, yet open and warm. It was overflowing with both love and every tool necessary, yet it was without clutter or waste. It was a serious workplace adorned with fresh flowers and posters from the family’s many travels. Visitors felt as comfortable relaxing over tea on the sofa, as stirring the soup while the pomegranates were being peeled.

The kitchen table held a freshly starched tablecloth in a bright, colorful floral pattern that was both elegant and uncontrived. It was perfectly ironed – without a wrinkle – yet not the least bit stiff. Her kitchen table was a place to linger for a chat after breakfast, to work a crossword, to polish silver, or to play a very unorthodox game of Scrabble.

On my first visit we had been married exactly one month. After dinner the first night of that first Rosh Hashanah, as Tante Ursula and I were putting the stock pots away, she paused and looked meaningfully at me. She said that when she was first married, her aunt told her, “One should always clean the bottom of one’s pots just as carefully and as well as the inside.”

Since we all hail from solid yekkish stock, earnest housecleaning advice certainly could be taken at face value. And Tante Ursula isn’t prone to religious sermonizing. Her insights are more likely to be revealed via reflection on her irreverent quips or ironic turns of phrase. She keeps her soap-boxes neatly stacked in her closet.

Likely due to the Rosh Hashanah mood, or perhaps from the intensity of its delivery, or maybe because my eagerness to collect whatever wisdom from them I could absorb, I knew immediately that this advice could only be about everything but the pots.

The first part was easy. The outside of the pot is what’s visible in public. If this is messy, others will make assumptions about its contents and about the cook. Yet nobody knows what’s really goes on inside someone else’s pot.

Clearly, the inside of the pot is our private behavior, either at home with family, or in solitude. The cleanliness of the inside of the pot is vital to the integrity of the meal. If you don’t clean the inside of the pot, even the most savory roast will be spoiled. Washing the outside at the expense of cleaning the inside is an indication of misplaced priorities.

But the bottom of the pot? What difference could it possibly make if there is a stain that nobody sees, that never touches the food? Who has time to scour the bottom of their pots?

I have to admit, my first internal reaction to Tante Ursula’s advice as we said goodnight, and I retired to the guest room, was dismissive. Whatever she was trying to tell me about homemaking, philosophy, or morality seemed like an exercise in over-achievement, a recipe for nurturing obsessive compulsive disorder. Even for a newlywed yekke with little responsibility and a very small apartment.

Overnight, however, the idea stewed and simmered (sorry, couldn’t resist!) In shul, as I listened to the shofar blowing on that first day of the first Rosh Hashanah of my married life, I was preoccupied with Tante Ursula’s pots.

The shofar, the trumpet-like instrument made from a ram’s horn, is the main symbol of Rosh Hashanah. In fact, when the holiday is mentioned in the Torah, its name is “the time of the shofar blowing”, not “Rosh Hashanah”.

On Rosh Hashanah, we read the part of the Torah that describes Abraham’s binding of his son, Yitzchak, to be sacrificed at G-d’s command. First, G-d calls to Abraham. Abraham responds, “Hinneni” (“Here I am”) , the rest of the events of the Akieda proceed. Eventually the ram stuck by his horns in the thicket is discovered, and everyone (except the ram) lives either happily thereafter or not, depending on whose interpretation you prefer.

Similarly, the sound of the shofar heralded the events at Mount Sinai. Just before the Torah was revealed to us, as one nation, we said a plural parallel to “hinneni”, “Naaseh v’Nishma”, (“We will do and we will hear/understand.”)

This phrase, “Naaseh v’Nishma” represents Judaism’s focus on the value of behavior before belief. Belief, understanding, and faith are experienced as a result of action. Performing a good deed with imperfect motives is preferable to refraining from acting, waiting until the motives are pure. Ultimately, over time and through repetition, proper motives will come to accompany proper behavior.

What a relief that ones merits can accrue directly from actions, which are concrete and observable! How liberating to be free of the need to produce faith on demand, or to expect it of others. We, the nation of Israel, struggle with G-d. We are not judged by the current status of the struggle, but by our willingness to engage in it, and by our behaviour.

I have always taken refuge and found comfort in this approach, because the “naaseh” part is in my hands. I control how I behave. That second part, the “nishma” – the belief, the understanding, the faith – often eludes me. When asked about personal issues of faith, I’d respond, “I’m working on ‘naaseh’ for now.”

And that’s why Tante Ursula’s pots rattled me.

Does it matter if there is a mismatch between the spiritual level of one’s thoughts if one behaves well both in public and in private? Is it enough to concentrate energy on the outside and inside of the pots, neglecting the bottom? Can’t the bottom of the pot wait until later? How urgent is the status of the bottom of the pot?

A person could go a lifetime, never giving much thought to the condition of her pot bottoms. The kitchen would likely function well enough, wouldn’t it?

However, it is difficult to imagine someone who takes care to clean the bottoms of the pots, not having spotless pots overall. This is analogous to one whose spirituality doesn’t translate into good behavior. Such misguided values result in a meal we would not be eager to share.

Judaism’s behaviorist philosophy leads me to imagine that even someone who never intended to take care of the cooking parts of her pots, would experience an improvement in this area. Scouring the bottom of a pot makes it impossible to ignore the parts that touch food.

The private, ineffable, “non-functional” aspects of one’s spiritual life, like the bottoms of the soup pot, deserve the same diligent scrutiny and thoughtful attention as the outside. Tante Ursula’s subtle lesson struck me then, and has stayed with me since.

It is of the most religiously motivating ideas I’ve experienced.

While distance prevents us from spending Rosh Hashanah with them, we think of them often during the holidays (and throughout the year). And for me, particularly when faced with a sink full of Yom tov dishes to wash.

I wish Uncle David, Tante Ursula, their children and grandchildren, the readers of this blog, and all of Israel a chatima tova. May a year of health, happiness, prosperity and peace be sealed for all of us.

May we all have the time, energy, and inclination to clean even the bottoms of our pots.

Before we share the final post of this year with you, we would like to take this opportunity to wish everybody a Kesiva V’Chasima Tova. May we all merit another fruitful year of learning, giving and growing together. – David & Mark

By R’ Mordechai Scher

Every year, without fail, the same memories are dominant in my mind during the month of Elul. As I wonder and worry, yet again, how will I possibly be ready and able to benefit most from the opportunity of Rosh HaShana, I return to the most moving public prayers I’ve known.

One such experience was in Tulkarem, an Arab-populated city in the northern Shomron, east of Netanya. I was a company medic and squad leader on reserve duty. It was the end of summer, and our compound (called the “michlaot”, animal pens) was dry, hot, and dusty. Our duties were unpleasant this time round; by day reinforcing the police in maintaining public order and enforcing curfews, at night hunting wanted terrorists in the surrounding villages and hills. I was one of the fortunate soldiers able to leave for Rosh HaShana. My family was visiting in the States, so I made the expected choice and remained in Tulkarem so that someone else could go home to his family. I chose this out of understood obligation. I didn’t want to do security patrols and worry about ambushes on Yom Tov (our battalion CO had been firebombed while on patrol in his jeep). I didn’t want to have my holiday meal in the heat, under camouflage nets. I didn’t want to pray in my fatigues, in the dust, with barely a minyan, precariously perched on folding benches.

We could be sure of a minyan only for morning services, since we were all needed on patrols throughout the day. Nonetheless, there were many yeshiva students in our neighbouring armoured battalion, and we got services organised. Ashkenazim and Sepharadim prayed together, as we had neither the numbers nor the facilities to fully accommodate both customs. We prayed the Shachrit service lead by an Ashkenazi, and the Mussaf service led by a Sepharadi. As long as I live, I do not expect to follow a more moving service than the Mussaf, that Rosh HaShana. I was awed and inspired then, and I am whenever I call up that experience in my heart.

The young man leading Mussaf was an infantry officer in the Golani division. He was of North African descent, from a religious upbringing, and clearly knew what he was doing. I can’t recall his name, despite my gratitude to him. His prayer exemplified so much of what I aspire to in reaching for communion with G-d.

His melodies were simple, straightforward. He had a pleasant voice, and his melodies drew their beauty from deep inside him, rather than some artificially added musical adornment. His prayer conveyed and inspired confidence and awe together. He prayed as a child, confident in Avinu, our Father in heaven. He prayed as one who was safe and secure in his Father’s presence, assured that his loving Father was close by, and that all would be as it should ultimately be. He knew that he was his Father’s child, a product of his Father’s loving act, and bearing within him a soul that is the expression, the inherited characteristic from that Father. Such faith, such comfort as he communicated, was beyond words.

Together with this confident love, was a tremendous, trembling awe. Even as he prayed, he seemed about to be dumbstruck by the wonder and concern. Was he truly going to live up to his Father’s gifts to him? He was so aware that his Father is no less Malkeinu, our King. The Divine mastery, absolute and evidenced in all the Creation, required an accounting of him. How could he stand before ultimate justice, knowing his mistakes and failures? How badly might he have betrayed the relationship and confidence his Father invested in him? What might the necessary consequences be, to set aright the Divine balance he must be part of, in G-d’s people, and G-d’s creation? He, and his congregation, are the King’s children. Yet how prepared were they to live with the King, to represent Him, as they stood before Him at the height of Rosh HaShana’s accounting and judgement. Did they really accept the King’s sovereignty, and did they really accept their place as His children? Was it a hutzpa, an unforgivable arrogance, to stand before the King, and maybe not truly acknowledge Him?

I do not know how long that prayer lasted. It seemed that we had been given a glimpse of eternity, and we did not want it to end. This young officer’s prayer was naive and honest. It spoke of faith, love, confidence, and unbelievable awe. It was complex, but it was not complicated. Each year I thank G-d for having been a part of the prayer of one who was tamim — wholly with his G-d. Each year I remember, and each year I pray that I should learn to pray.