Out of Egypt
At every Passover seder, in each generation, Jews are reminded to see themselves as though they came out of Egypt in person.
At every Passover seder, in each generation, Jews are reminded to see themselves as though they came out of Egypt in person.
I found myself at a seder in Cochabamba, Bolivia on a cool spring evening during Passover 1999. At the time I was spending a semester abroad as part of my major in international studies at Macalester College.
Tourism in Israel is being hammered. The Al-Aqsa uprising that began last fall has prompted a flood of trip postponements and cancellations, particularly by Americans who saw no need to put themselves or their children at risk when stones and bullets were flying in the West Bank and the Gaza Strip.
On a brisk night in early January, hundreds of American Jews from throughout the United States, still jet-lagged from their arrival in Israel that morning, are filing into a large airplane hangar at Hatzor, an isolated air force base near Ashkelon.
Tourism to Israel is slumping, but the country\’s national airline is betting $400 million on a liftoff.
Years ago I\’d heard from someone or read somewhere that Wyatt Earp is buried in Colma, near San Francisco, a bit of provocative trivia whose truth I\’d never been sure of. One day a while back I decided to check it out. I would have thought that one of the most famous figures in the history of the Old West would have ended up in the landscape of his legend. In the case of Wyatt Earp, this would mean Dodge City, Wichita, or more appropriately, Tombstone.
Indiana Jones battled snakes, boulders and heathens during his archaeological quests, which sounds like great adventure to me.
It was Friday night in Shanghai, a major linchpin of the Jewish Diaspora, and folks from all over the world were dropping in to wish Rabbi Greenberg "Shabbat shalom."
Every December, my wife and I used to pack up our winter gear, load the snow chains into the trunk of our car, bundle up our two young children and brace for a motor expedition through the desolate suburbs that seem to stretch interminably eastward from Los Angeles.
My father has disowned me. We did not get into a fight about the family business — there is no family business. I did not marry out of the faith, and I have no children about whose upbringing we can disagree. The source of our irreconcilable differences is that we went skiing together last year, and he is convinced that I cannot be his natural child.



