August 17, 2019

Weekly Parsha: Tu b’Av

One verse, five voices. Edited by Salvador Litvak, Accidental Talmudist

What is Tu b’Av and how do we make it meaningful?

Leah Abergel
Hebrew Discovery Center

Tu b’Av. “Love can conquer all.” 

On the 15th of Av, only six days after the saddest day of the year, Tisha b’Av, we celebrate our resilience and our ability to recover from all tragedies which have befallen us. 

Tu b’Av is a celebration of love. Have you ever heard the expression “Love can conquer all?” In ancient times this was a day devoted to matchmaking. Creating couples just six days after we commemorate the worst tragedy in our collective history — the destruction of our holy Temples and our subsequent exile —  demonstrates our ability to focus on the future rather than dwelling on the past. Marriage requires giving in, letting go and bouncing back time and time again to keep the commitment to our spouse. 

Marriage is a new beginning. The core foundation of marriage is commitment and love. Our relationship with our creator is also composed of these two basic elements, and Klal Israel is referred to as God’s beloved bride. 

After the tragedy, we renew our commitment by seeking out marriage. We build our homes — our mini temples — as a reflection of our commitment to our creator, our love for him and our anticipation of the redemption and the third and final Temple. In Judaism, it is the commitment that leads to a lasting love. God is committed to us and he loves each and every Jewish neshamah like an only child born to parents at a ripe age, and even more than that. So, in the end, “Love can conquer all.”

Rabbi Mordecai Finley
Ohr HaTorah Synagogue, Academy for Jewish Religion

According to the Talmud (Ta’anit 30b-31a), six edicts were issued on the 15th of Av. The sixth one seems the most obscure — the prohibition of bringing any more wood to be burned at the altar of the Temple. I had questions: Where was this wood offering commanded in the first place, what were the original starting and stopping dates of bringing the wood offering, and why did it change? (One can find the answers to these historical questions in, among other places, the online Biblical Encyclopedia, under “Festival of Wood Carrying.”) 

We learn that Tu b’Av was not only the day to stop bringing wood, but was also the “Yom Tov Shel Korban Ha-Etzim” “The Holiday of the Wood Offering.” I’ll call it “The Lumberjack’s Jamboree.” 

Think about all those people going into the forests, chopping wood, loading wagons, transporting the lumber to Jerusalem, loading up the woodsheds, storing the wood — all of this to keep the altar flame alive. That’s why we had the Lumberjacks’ Jamboree — to honor these often taken-for-granted stalwarts who kept the fire burning. 

Who are the “Lumberjacks of the Altar” today? Well, for one, Shabbos regulars. People who show up out of devotion to keep the synagogue vibrant, not because there is something going on, but because the room has to be continuously lit with the warmth of human spirits and voices, bar/bat mitzvah or not. Let’s use this day to honor the devotion of human energy that is ultimately what keeps our tradition alive. 

Miriam Yerushalmi
CEO SANE, author of “Reaching New Heights” series

Tu b’Av, the 15th of the month, is a day of the full moon, a day of completion. The Talmud (Taanit 26b) says, “There were no greater festivals for Israel than the 15th of Av and Yom Kippur. On these days the daughters of Jerusalem would go out and dance. … And it says, ‘Go forth, daughters of Zion, and gaze … on the day of the gladness of his heart.’ ”

What distinguishes the daughters “of Jerusalem” from those “of Zion”? 

“Jerusalem” means yirah shalem, complete awe. The daughters of Jerusalem dancing joyfully are symbolic of doing mitzvot with a full and happy heart, thus serving HaShem completely, with mind and body. The daughters of Zion, who simply gazed, represent a lower level of service to HaShem. 

Chassidus teaches that the difference between rote service and more complete service of HaShem is comparable to attending a wedding as a guest versus participating joyfully in your own child’s wedding. How do we achieve this “full moon” service? The Shema tells us, “Veahavta es HaShem elokecha … vehayu hadevarim ha’eileh … al levavecha (And you should love HaShem your God … then these commandments … will be on your heart).” 

First, pray — this arouses our love for HaShem and opens our heart to His Torah. Then learn Torah, thereby bringing God’s light down into your heart. Now you can serve Him with sheleimus, completion! Like the daughters of Jerusalem, you can have a full, vibrant relationship with G-d and all His creations, including yourself — not only on Tu b’Av, but always! 

David Sacks
Torah podcaster,

The Talmud calls Tu b’Av and Yom Kippur the two happiest days of the year. We know why Yom Kippur is so happy — our mistakes are forgiven. But Tu b’Av? How can Tu b’Av compete with the holiest day of the year? 

The answer is that there’s a secret hidden in Tu b’Av that hasn’t been revealed yet. 

As Rabbi Moshe Wolfson explains, Tu b’Av is a “save the date” the rabbis placed on the calendar for the future celebration of Mashiach. 

That’s remarkable because it means that every year on Tu b’Av, we celebrate an event that hasn’t occurred yet. 

While it’s true that the redemption hasn’t occurred as of the year 2019, keep in mind that HaShem is not limited by time, and sees all future events as well. 

That means that HaShem already sees the future redemption that He’s promised to bring. Pretty cool! 

When I shared this idea with Reb Shlomo Carlebach, he agreed. He said that the light of redemption was already here. All we need to do now is make vessels to hold the light. 

And how do we make vessels? With mitzvahs! 

The rabbis teach that the greatest vessel of all is peace. When the Jewish people love one another and become one, we’ll finally be able to hold that awesome light that’s just waiting to come down. 

And when it does, there will be no need to pick a time to celebrate … we’ve already saved the date.

Rabbi Marc D. Angel
Director, Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals

The Jewish spirit is irrepressibly optimistic. Even in the face of tragedies and defeat, we maintain hope for better times. If we cry today, we will laugh tomorrow. 

The ninth day of Av is the saddest day on the Jewish calendar, commemorating the destruction of our Temples in ancient Jerusalem and the subsequent exiles and sufferings of our people. But just a week later, our sages established a festive day—Tu b’Av (15th of Av). That was a day for young men and women of marriageable age to meet, in the hope of finding their life’s mate. It was a day celebrating love, marriage, and the establishment of new families. Even before the tears of Tisha b’Av had a chance to dry, a day of celebration and hopefulness was ordained. Enough crying! Time to plan for a brighter and happier time. 

The Talmud states that the two happiest days on the Jewish calendar are Yom Kippur and Tu b’Av. Yom Kippur is considered to be joyous because it offers us purification, atonement for our past shortcomings, confidence for spiritual renewal. It allows us to confront our sins and failings … but turns our focus to the future. So, too, with Tu b’Av. We can’t forget the mourning and fasting of last week’s Tisha b’Av but we can turn our focus to the future with optimism. The deeper our sufferings and repentance, the higher our joy and redemption. 

The mystery of Jewish survival is hidden within our ever-hopeful, ever-confident smile.

Weekly Parsha: Tisha B’Av

One verse, five voices. Edited by Salvador Litvak, Accidental Talmudist

I don’t believe in animal sacrifice. Why should I care about Tisha b’Av?

Erica Rothblum
Head of School, Pressman Academy

We are taught that the Temples were destroyed because of sinat chinam, baseless hatred. Although I don’t believe in animal sacrifice, I do believe we need to spend Tisha b’Av reflecting on the role that sinat chinam plays in our world and creating intention to combat it through love. 

The Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. famously said, “Hate does not drive out hate; only love can do that.” While there are very few who walk around hating people for no reason — this is actually a sign of a psychopath — I do question whether our reasons for hating are always valid. Sometimes it is simply easier to hate than to love. 

It is easier to judge the mother whose children are acting out in public, to hate the boss whose leadership is shaky, or to vilify the intentions of someone we don’t know than it is to help, to provide compassion, to assume best intentions. Love takes effort. 

In Hebrew, the word “ahava” (love) stems from the root “hav,” to give. In order to love, we have to give. Love is not always easy and is not always natural; it is something in which we have to invest and work; only when we give can we love. So as we are mourning and fasting and praying, I wonder if we can also each make an intention to invest in loving someone and driving sinat chinam into the shadows of our world.

Havah Elisheva Jaffe
Children’s Shabbat Program Director, Hebrew Discovery Center

On Aug. 11, we remember the loss of the universal treasure of the Beit HaMikdash, the Holy Temple. Why does Tisha b’Av matter to you and me, living in a world of technology and science? The Mishnah states that while the Temple stood in Jerusalem, 10 miracles continuously occurred, half of which were about korbanot (offerings): 1) no woman ever miscarried from the scent, 2) no sacrificial meat ever rotted, 3) no flies swarmed around the sacrifices, 4) the altar’s fire was never extinguished by rain, and 5) the smoke always rose straight to the heavens. 

How are we to yearn for sacrificial rituals involving herbivorous animals and produce? What is special about offering up our abundance? And why should animals suffer to atone for the shortcomings and misdeeds of humans? 

In fact, as with most things in Judaism, the opposite of our preconceptions is the truth. The Beit HaMikdash evidenced that people are no better than any of God’s other creations. Contrarily, without the ability to see animals as spiritual beings, we lose the ability to assume our proper role in the hierarchy of life. When we see cows as “livestock,” forests as “timber,” fish as “seafood,” and gardens as “crops,” we wander the earth in search of our purpose as servants of the Creator. Today, humans sacrifice our spiritual nature in favor of material security. Therefore, we rightfully mourn our inability to elevate the natural wonders we have been entrusted to take care of, until the Temple is rebuilt.

Rabbi Jason Rosner
Temple Beth Israel of Highland Park

Tisha b’Av is about more than animal sacrifices. Almost all of our other holidays had animal sacrifices attached to them in the Torah. Parashat Pinchas contains demands for livestock offerings on Shabbat that still are part of weekly prayers in many synagogues yet we do not propose discarding Shabbat on these grounds. 

This holiday is our moment when it is not only permitted, but meritorious to cry in public. We are not crying over lost animal sacrifices or ruined buildings — these are merely symbols. We are mourning for the people who inhabited them and their dashed hopes for a better world. 

On the ninth of Av, we not only commemorate the destruction of the first and second Jewish commonwealths with their Temples and sacrificial systems, but we also remember the Bar Kochba’s failed second-century revolt and the 17th-century false messiah Shabbatai Tzvi’s disastrous attempt to turn it into his birthday party. We mark the first crusade, the expulsion from Spain, the beginning of World War I and the Final Solution during the World War II. Each generation has used the holiday to commemorate their contemporary traumas through elegiac poetry and melancholy songs. Yet the holiday ends on a note of hope. After a long cry, a sense of relief comes, and with relief, renewed hope for a peaceful world to come.

Rabbi Tal Sessler
Sephardic Temple

We fast on Tisha b’Av in solidarity with those among us who were expelled from their homes, or dispossessed. 

We fast in remembrance of those who were baselessly imprisoned, or mock-executed, or actually executed. 

We fast in order to feel but a millionth of the immeasurable pain and anguish that our brothers and sisters in Europe felt when they were dehumanized beyond description, and starved and tortured and beaten to death, or buried alive, or gassed to death. 

We fast in undying solidarity, across time and space, with the countless martyrs of our people. 

And we also fast as an exercise in cosmic humility. Modern man at times errs by feeling invincible. We know not hunger. And with the new technologies, the world and all its know-how is literally at our fingertips. But as the great Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik brilliantly observed: “Man is finite, and so is his victory.” 

We fast in sacred protestation of the awesome and deadening gap between the superficiality of the image-based existence that we lead, and the life which God expects us to lead. 

We fast because of the glaring and excruciating dissonance between the inaptness of our external deeds, and the sacred murmur of our untarnished inner core. 

We fast because our soul is in exile, in metaphysical captivity, banished from its pristine origin in God Almighty. 

We fast in an effort to achieve an internal shift from the shackles of worldliness and egoism, into the promised lands of soulfulness and altruism.

Rabbi Shlomo Seidenfeld

Let’s be honest. How many of us truly mourn the destruction of the Temple? Yes, we break a glass under the chuppah but how many of us actually yearn for the Temple’s return? 

A Jewish magazine once posed a provocative question to a group of rabbis. They were asked whether they felt it was appropriate to establish a day to commemorate the Holocaust. In other words, despite the unparalleled scale and pain of that tragedy, doesn’t the singular marking of Yom HaShoah diminish the horrific suffering that Jews experienced during the crusades, the Inquisition, the pogroms, etc., all monumental tragedies that have no commemorative days? 

One rabbi’s answer deeply resonated with me. He opined that Yom HaShoah wasn’t necessary, we already have Tisha b’Av. 

Now, I don’t believe that this rabbi was troubled by the institution of Yom HaShoah or that he was questioning the noble motives of creating such a day. Instead, he was making an observation that reframed the way I looked at Tisha b’Av. To him, Tisha b’Av was the Yom HaShoah for all of Jewish history. It’s a day that recalls Jewish suffering and sacrifice. A day that reminds us of our eternal and heroic mission. A day that commemorates the profound price we pay for the privilege of being God’s ambassadors in the world. 

The Temple embodied this mission and its very air nourished and charged our souls. That loss of consciousness is something to mourn and its rekindling is something to yearn for. 

Weekly Parsha: Chukat

One verse, five voices. Edited by Salvador Litvak, Accidental Talmudist

The Lord said to Moses and Aaron, “Because you did not have faith in Me to sanctify Me in the eyes of the Children of Israel, therefore you shall not bring this assembly to the Land which I have given them.” –Numbers 20:12

Rabbi Nolan Lebovitz
Adat Shalom, “Roadmap Jerusalem” filmmaker

Faith alone does not hold the same weight in Judaism that it does in other religions. More than a religion of faith, Judaism is a religion of action in the form of mitzvot or commandments. So it can’t be Moses and Aaron’s lack of faith — “because you did not believe in Me” — that prompts their severe punishment. It appears rather that the problem is Moses and Aaron “did not believe in Me to sanctify Me.” The infamous striking of the rock occurs without sanctification, without the speech Moses is instructed to add only sentences earlier. 

Herein lies the lesson for us all: God judges us by our actions, not by our beliefs. This is why we recite blessings with speech, we perform acts of chesed (loving-kindness), and we rejoice in song and dance. And if our behavior is what matters most, then there is always hope for us to correct our behavior. 

For each of us, there is a mitzvah that we have not yet performed. As we approach the last several months before the Hebrew month of Elul, the month of teshuvah (repentance), I pray that each of us is able to find a new mitzvah to fulfill. This can be as simple as reciting a new blessing or as complicated as kashrut. May each of us find a new action that sanctifies God, ourselves and the world around us. It will not be easy but it will definitely be worthwhile — b’hatzlacha! May you have success!

Sara Brudoley
Torah teacher and lecturer

Commonly accepted among the righteous is the Rule of Faith and Trust. Sometimes it is necessary to make an effort, and sometimes no effort is required. All depends on the level of one’s faith, which must rise to the level of trust. When trust in HaShem is great and clear, no effort is necessary to achieve salvation. 

The Holy Zohar comments on meaning the verse “Trust in HaShem and do good, so that you shall dwell in the land” (Psalms 37:3): The main power to merit the land of Israel is through the attribute of trust. In light of this fact, we can explain the sin at the waters of Meribah. When Moshe was instructed to speak to the rock in order to yield water, it meant complete trust without any effort. 

Moshe thought the Israelites had a very low level of trust, and thus needed some effort, so he hit the rock, not once but twice, indicating extra effort. 

That was not however, HaShem’s intention. He wanted to show His love and closeness to the nation, even at their low level. He therefore commanded Moshe to speak to the rock, indicating absolute faith and trust, to instill into the nation that they could feel complete trust in HaShem. He would give them water in the desert and later, the land. Moshe’s fault was that he felt the Israelites were incapable of such trust. He was therefore punished by not leading the people into the land. (Based on “Netivot Shalom” of Slonim)

David Brandes
Writer, producer

Did God set up Moses to sin at the waters of Meribah? 

The narrative tells us after Moses’ beloved sister Miriam died, there was no water. The people were angry with Moses. God instructed Moses to take the staff and speak to the rock. Moses hit the rock instead, and was harshly punished for it. 

Why did God command Moses to take the staff if he wanted him only speak to the rock? Every writer knows if you take a pistol out in the first act, you’ve got to use it by the third. 

And then there is “the rock.” The text does not say, “a rock”, but “the rock.” God had a specific rock in mind. Moses knew which of the many rocks out there it was. What was so special about this rock? 

The common thread here seems to be the Miriam’s death. She was closely identified symbolically with water. Saving Moses from the Nile. Leading the people in song at the splitting of the Red Sea. The name Miriam itself means sea of sorrow. … Moses was grieving. The symbols around him shouted, “Miriam!” Did God manipulate his distress to set him up? Was his punishment fair? 

I have no answer. But I do know a beautiful Midrash that might illuminate. This same rock, flowing with water, continued to follow the Jews through the desert. Once in the Promised Land, the rock traveled north where it settled, and became the source of the Sea of Galilee.

Rabbi Hillary Chorny
Cantor, Temple Beth Am

There was a time, not so very long ago at all, when our older kid was still in diapers. She is a bright, articulate child with the presence of mind to defend all her actions. So when my husband told her it was time to use the bathroom, she turned up her nose and said with a great deal of exasperation, “Abba, you know I’m not potty-trained!” If one more person said to us, “She won’t walk down the aisle in diapers,” I was ready to send them home with said child. 

I will always be grateful to her pediatrician for understanding that we needed much more compassionate directions. The doctor said, “Listen to her. She’s giving you every signal in the world that she isn’t ready.” 

The Chizkuni points to God’s language in verse 12 as indicative of the divine certitude that Moshe will not enter the land. “Lakhen,” wrote the Chizkuni, is the language of oath, leaving Moshe no room to argue against the decree or make teshuvah. When God uses the word “lakhen,” there’s no turning back. 

Each of us has our own language to underscore that we are standing our ground. To be in an intimate relationship with someone means, in part, understanding when “no” truly means no, and when it means not yet. 

Rabbi Chanan (Antony) Gordon
Motivational speaker

In this week’s parsha, we read about arguably the most famous act of HaShem’s retribution, and it happens to His beloved prophet Moses. HaShem denies Moses his life dream of leading the Jewish people into Israel because “… you did not have faith in Me to sanctify Me in the eyes of the Children of Israel …” 

Much ink has been spilled by our commentators in interpreting this
verse, but by all accounts, it appears that Moses either made a mistake or failed to follow the explicit instructions of the Almighty. Of note, and the point I would like to underscore, is that while the Torah makes no attempt to justify Moses’ behavior or bury this incident in some parenthetical comment, the very same Torah also makes it unequivocally clear that Moses is considered the greatest person in Jewish history, and that there will never be a person who attains greater spiritual heights than Moses. The fact that the Torah unapologetically highlights the incident of Moses striking rather that speaking to the rock, while also praising his unsurpassed greatness, is a vital life lesson for all of us, especially living in these times. 

The greatest people are also fallible, and everyone makes mistakes or fails in areas of their lives. Great people face the same obstacles as we all do and they, too, stumble and fall. To attain greatness however, we have to grow from our setbacks rather than be defined by them. 

Weekly Parsha: Beha’alotecha

One verse, five voices. Edited by Salvador Litvak, Accidental Talmudist

And whenever the cloud lifted from the Tent, the Israelites would set out accordingly; and at the spot where the cloud settled, there the Israelites would make camp.-Numbers 9:17

Nina Litvak

Every time the Children of Israel stopped and made camp in the desert, it was a massive undertaking. Thousands of Levites built the Sanctuary by assembling an array of planks, walls, pillars, carpets and furniture. In every location, they worked hard to create a holy meeting place for God — even if the Divine cloud only settled there for one day before it was time to move on. They had to be ready to pack up at a moment’s notice. 

The Lubavitcher Rebbe taught that like the places in which the Israelites made camp in the desert, every one of our stations in life is significant. No place is simply “on the way” to someplace else. We have the ability to create something holy wherever we go, and at every stage of life. Driving on the freeway to an important event, training for the job we want, shopping for groceries to cook dinner — what if we can sanctify these moments, the journey as well as the destination? 

Creating beauty in a desert can be difficult, but the practice of looking for beauty everywhere we go builds a place to connect with God: a Tent of Meeting between heaven and earth. We sanctify life by treating its different stages and locations with attention and respect. It means putting away our phone and looking for sanctity in our surroundings, wherever they may be and however long we may be there. It means working to manifest the presence of the Holy One in our world.

Rabbi Aaron Lerner
Executive Director, UCLA Hillel

This verse violates the norm. Manifest instruction from the Divine via the physical world is rare. And the rabbis reject it entirely (see Tanur Shel Achnai, in which God’s manipulation of the natural world is disallowed). Rather, we’re taught that God can be found in a “still, small voice” that can be found through quiet focus. So why is God so involved in this instance? Two possibilities arise. 

One reflects the Rambam’s belief that we are growing in our relationship with God over time. Former Egyptian slaves and ancient Israelites may have needed animal sacrifices and a “taskmaster” version of God to move Jewish history forward. We do not. We have achieved a mature partnership with God beyond what previous generations had. 

We rely on science and doctors to heal us. We suffer the consequences of human inaction and neglect. Whether God remains involved in human history can no longer be proven with pillars of fire. That has become a matter of faith. But we can see the consequences of our individual and collective choices. This can feel defeating because God won’t fix it for us. But it’s also empowering. 

We have been entrusted with the power to move ourselves. All of this informs how I pray. The weekday sections of the Amidah contain many requests of God. I say them as written but embrace personal responsibility: “God, please show me how I can make peace, heal others, earn a living, etc.”

Rabbi Chaim Meyer Tureff
Pressman Academy and director of STARS

What is the connection between settle and encampment? The Hebrew word shochain means to dwell or settle. It is only when we are truly settled that we can encamp. One name of God, Shekhinah, is thus directly connected to the word for settle in Hebrew. This sense of permanence can only happen when we are connected to the true source of life, God. 

As our tradition teaches us, we are in a temporary setting in this world. When we connect to our higher power and allow God into our lives, then we can truly settle down because in reality there is no such thing as permanency without God. As recovering addicts know, allowing that settling of God into one’s life can help bring context, relevance and meaning where there was once darkness, confusion and hopelessness. 

One does not need to be in recovery to apply the principles of 12 steps into their everyday life. The idea that there is a higher power who actually plays an important role in one’s life, steps 2 and 3, is relevant to every human being. When we allow the cloud of God to dwell or settle on us, we are finally allowed to encamp. It is only then that we understand we don’t have to go about it alone, but rather with a Partner that truly loves each and every one of us.

Rabbi Daniel Bouskila
Sephardic Educational Center, Westwood Village Synagogue

For most people, the sight of clouds in the morning marks the beginning of a dark and gloomy day. Cloudy days tend to adversely affect our moods, triggering negative thoughts and even a depressed state of mind. When the weather forecast says “cloudy,” it conjures up dark images in our minds. We even feel threatened by clouds, knowing that they potentially bring about frightening sounds, images and inclement weather. It’s therefore fascinating that throughout the Israelites’ 40-year sojourn in the wilderness, the guiding light that illuminated their travels and protected their encampment came in the form of a cloud. 

The Midrash HaGadol refers to this cloud as the Shekhinah, which in its plain, non-kabbalistic definition means “the presence of God.” This cloud that led them through the day and protected their camp at night was a manifestation of God’s divine presence among the Israelites. Why would an otherwise invisible God choose to appear in the form of a cloud? 

I believe that through the metaphor of a cloud that once represented guidance and protection, God is teaching a powerful lesson that extends far beyond those classic “40 years in the wilderness.” When we wake up in the morning to a cloudy day, rather than allow gloom, darkness and fear to overtake us, we should gaze upon the seemingly dark clouds and see God’s light and presence within them, offering to continue to guide, protect and illuminate our own journeys and encampments through the challenging wilderness of life. 

Nili Isenberg
Pressman Academy, Judaic Studies Faculty

God described this period of the relationship with the people of Israel as one of youthful love: “I remember the lovingkindness of your youth, the love of the bride, when you followed me into the desert in a land that was not sown” (Jeremiah 2:2). What a beautiful image of loyalty and faith! 

After our verse Bamidbar, the Book of Numbers, continues on to explain that whether the people of Israel remained encamped for days, months or even a year, they always took their cue to rest or move on from God. 

How can our disillusioned generation ever understand this spirit of devotion? 

In my own life, I look to my grandparents (z”l) and their Greatest Generation. As a young man, with great loyalty to the freedom the United States promised, my grandfather enlisted in the U.S. Navy and risked his life in the Pacific theater to save the world from fascism. Years after the war, my grandparents continued to live their lives in service of yet another ideal: In their 60s, they realized their long-time dream of making aliyah to the miraculous State of Israel. For the next 30 years, my grandparents were known as the adorably loving, joyous and outspoken elderly couple who professed their Zionism at every opportunity. 

To bring that kind of meaning and joy to our lives, we each must find a value to which we can say wholeheartedly, like the Israelites in the desert and like the biblical Ruth, “Where you go, I will go” (Ruth 1:16).

Weekly Parsha: Nasso

One verse, five voices. Edited by Salvador Litvak, Accidental Talmudist

The Lord spoke to Moses saying, “Speak to Aaron and his sons, saying: this is how you shall bless the children of Israel, saying to them, ‘May the Lord bless you and protect you. May the Lord deal kindly and graciously with you. May the Lord bestow his favor upon you and grant you peace.’” –Numbers 6:22-26

Miriam Mill
Chassidishe wife, mother and president of Tzaddik Foundation

The Priestly Blessing starts with the phrase “Yevarechecha HaShem veyishmerecha” — “May God bless you and protect you.” Since God told the Kohanim, “So shall you bless the children of Israel,” the blessing should be in the plural, “yevarechechem” but it’s not. “Yevarechecha” is in the singular. Why? The Taamei HaMinhagim gives a beautiful answer. 

Before the Priestly Blessing, the Kohen recites the blessing, “Who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to bless His nation of Israel be’ahavah, with love.” (Shulchan Arukh, Orach Chaim 128:11). Although the Kohanim are indeed blessing the entire congregation, they do so in the singular in order to indicate that God desires to bless the Jews with the unity that results when love prevails. The Kohanim, who serve in the Temple, bring God’s blessings to the people but only when love exists among the Jewish people. It is as if love fuels and directs the power of the Shekhinah, divine presence, which resides on the Kohen’s fingers during the Priestly Blessing toward each Jew, thus blessing Am Yisrael with so much good. 

We are told that the Second Beit HaMikdash, Holy Temple, was destroyed because of sinat chinam, baseless hatred, and that unconditional love will rebuild the final Holy Temple. May we learn to love one another if only because we are part of God’s chosen nation and see the rebuilding of the Beit HaMikdash immediately, bringing peace, prosperity and wisdom to the world.

Rabbi Mendel Schwartz
The Chai Center

I was fortunate to receive a scholarship so I could study for my master’s degree in rabbinics in Melbourne, Australia. One evening, we played hooky and went downtown to watch “Fiddler on the Roof.” As a rabbinic student, I was amazed to hear the actors sing verses from this week’s Torah portion in two separate songs. “May the Lord protect and defend you …”

And the 3,000 gentiles in the exquisite theater cheered wildly. That made me proud. More than 50 years after its original opening, the show is stronger than ever, playing recently at the Pantages on Hollywood Boulevard. This makes me even more proud.

But why the craze? Why the fascination?

Now we have a new show taking the world by storm: “Shtisel,” a series available on Netflix. And everyone who sees it looks at Charedim, the very Orthodox, in a more empathetic and positive light.

When you learn about a group by having dialogue with one person at a time rather than hearing stats or generalizations, you come to fathom them at a much deeper level. You learn the character of individuals by breaking bread in their house, speaking with their siblings and having tea with their parents, which is what “Shtisel” did for us.

The more we thus encounter Jews we haven’t previously met, the more our Jewish community as a whole will flourish. And to that, let us all say, “Amen!”

Rabbi Yosef Kanefsky
B’nai David-Judea

The second sentence of the blessing, here translated as “May the Lord deal kindly with you,” is rendered more literally, “May the Lord shine His face toward you.” While the image is arresting, the precise meaning is enigmatic. 

Rabbi Jacob Sforno suggested that the blessing here is that God illuminate our eyes so that we can see the wonder that God created in the world, and the beauty that God placed in the Torah. God’s “shining His face toward us” is God helping us to behold things that are in plain view, but which in the bustle of daily life, we fail to perceive. The beauty of the people around us, the affection of the people who love us, the magnificence of the hills and birds and trees. The profundity of a mitzvah to always judge others favorably, the thrilling craziness of loving others as we love ourselves, the revolutionary and life-altering command to take every seventh day for God, for family, for community. 

There are gifts hidden in plain sight. Until God blesses us with the light that shines from His face. 

While the biblical command to convey this blessing is directed at the Kohanim alone, it has been the tradition since at least talmudic times that — without the formal Temple trappings — all of us routinely share this blessing with others, in particular with our children on Friday night. When we do so, we should stop and ask ourselves, “How can I help realize this blessing? How can I help others see the beauty and the wonder?” 

Rabbi Ilana Grinblat
Vice president of community engagement, Board of Rabbis of Southern California

May God bless you with all the good things in life and keep you from the bad.

May God smile on you and give you beyond what you deserve. 

May God face you and grant you peace.

Rabbi Elliot Dorff recited this blessing before an open ark, ordaining the new Ziegler School rabbis. 

Since receiving that blessing 18 years ago, I’ve attended many inspiring Ziegler School ordinations. This year’s ceremony was more euphoric than ever. With 700 people gathered in a tent, the evening began with upbeat music, and during the ceremony, two ordinees, Rabbis Joshua Warshawsky and Ariel Wolpe, performed on guitar a song they composed for ordination. Rabbi Bradley Shavit Artson called them “rabbis and rock stars.” 

At the ceremony, Rabbi Jonathan Hodson taught a talmudic passage wherein two rabbis discussed the fear that “the Torah would be forgotten from the Jewish People.” (Ketubot 103b). This age-old worry is one we share today. How do we keep the Torah alive and relevant for the next generation? 

The ceremony itself offered an antidote to that angst. If our Judaism is only serious and somber, the next generation might run for the hills. Yet, if our Judaism is passionate, joyful, musical and moving, there’s no reason to worry. 

Since Jewish history has included manifold tragedies, there are times when we need to mourn. Yet, whenever possible, the default setting of our faith should overflow with joy and gratitude for the miracle of life. 

May God bless us all with jubilance.

Rabbi Gail Labovitz
American Jewish University

Often, when the rabbis sought to understand a word or passage in the Torah, they turned to other instances of those words or ones like them in Scripture for clues to their meaning and implications. Thus, in Sifre Bamidbar, the earliest midrashic work on the Book of Numbers, this short blessing is linguistically and conceptually connected to other places in the Bible where mentions of blessing, protection, grace, divine light, peace, etc., appear. 

As just one example, to be “protected” can mean divine protection from malevolent or dangerous outside forces, both human and of the natural world: “See, the guardian of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps. … By day the sun will not strike you, nor the moon by night. The Lord will guard you from all harm …” (Psalm 121:5-7). We also need protection from our own base impulses, our sinful appetites: “For the Lord will be your trust, and will guard your foot from the snare” (Proverbs 3:26). Additionally, we pray that both parties to the covenant between the Jewish people and God will maintain — protect — that fundamental relationship, “If you heed these rules and maintain and do them, the Lord your God will maintain faithfully for you the covenant …” (Deuteronomy 7:12). And so too for each key word in the blessing. 

When the priests bless the people or we bless our children with the words of this blessing, all of these associations are invoked. In rabbinic exegesis and in our hearts, may this already rich blessing continue to grow and overflow in meaning!

Weekly Parsha: Bamidbar

One verse, fiv voices. Edited by Salvador Litvak, Accidental Talmudist

The Lord spoke to Moses, saying, “I hereby take the Levites from among the Israelites in place of all the firstborn, the first issue of the womb among the Israelites: the Levites shall be Mine.” –Numbers 3:11-12

Miriam Yerushalmi
CEO of SANE, counselor, author

At the close of Sefer Bereishis (Genesis), Yaakov blesses all his sons. He specifically calls Shimon and Levi “brothers,” criticizing the seemingly negative character trait those two sons shared. “Cursed be their anger … and their fury,” their father pronounces, promising to “disperse them throughout Yaakov and scatter them throughout Israel.” Yet later on, in the wilderness, HaShem takes Levi’s descendants as His own, “in place of all the firstborn.” Why was Shimon not similarly honored? 

When Yaakov’s sons were in Mitzrayim, the tribe of Levi didn’t join the others in working for Pharaoh. They stayed home and learned Torah. After the sin of the golden calf, the Levites, who had not participated in this idolatrous ceremony, acted together to uphold God’s honor and prevent the people from further transgressions. They utilized their trait of fiery passion properly as the nation’s spiritual guardians. 

Yaakov’s words manifested in a most positive way: Levi was dispersed throughout the tribes — as representatives of HaShem. Shimon’s passion, however, led him into sin and scattered his tribe. Shimon and Levi came from “the womb” sharing a characteristic that caused them to err; yet with Torah, Levi learned from his mistakes and directed his passionate nature to serve HaShem. Shimon allowed that fiery trait to direct him. 

Whatever our innate traits, whatever our missteps, through Torah and mitzvos we can develop ourselves to become true servants of HaShem. Every apparent negative can become positive. When we make an effort toward teshuvah (atonement), HaShem helps us to succeed.

Rabbanit Alissa Thomas-Newborn
B’nai David-Judea Congregation

Why does God specifically choose the Leviim in place of the firstborns? Our Midrash explains that God intended for the firstborns to perform the Mishkan (Tabernacle) service. But when they participated in building the golden calf — a sin from which the Leviim refrained — God replaced the firstborns with the Leviim. 

In choosing the Leviim, God makes a remarkable statement about leadership: It’s not inherited, but earned. Since Bereshit, God has rejected the primacy of the firstborns — a primacy that every society was built on. This is a countercultural value that the Torah brings to the moral stage of history. By shifting leadership from the firstborns because of their involvement in the sin of the golden calf, God communicates that leadership must be merited and cherished as a privilege — one that also can be lost. 

Today, this focus holds our leaders accountable for their actions. Rabbis and teachers are not kings but servants of God who must continually merit the opportunity to serve His people. And when leadership is abused, there are consequences. It’s worth noting, of course, that the Leviim still have their own lineage, which includes their service. But nevertheless, I would argue that the thinking behind their chosen-ness is revolutionary. In the Midrash, God created a precedent that our choices and actions — not birth order — define us. This value system extends far beyond the Mishkan and into ouar personal lives today. How do our own actions in leadership — as parents, teachers, professionals — define us?

Rabbi Adam Kligfeld
Temple Beth Am, Senior Rabbi

To be claimed. A treasure? Or a prison? According to psychotherapist Esther Perel, it is both. In “Mating in Captivity,” she describes marriage as a constraint, a rejection of all others, chosen captivity … from which joy and ecstasy can emerge. But when you are another’s “only,” limitations come with the singularity. 

Did the tribe of Levi feel this paradox? They will be priests, royalty of the sacred, God’s chosen among the chosen. The Levites will lead the people in worship and service, but might they be mating in captivity? 

Their treasure comes in exchange for the firstborns, who “earned” their chosen-ness by being saved, and therefore owing God in perpetuity. It is a chosen-ness that is born from obligation. The Levites will never suffer from hunger, as their provisions are guaranteed. But they have no land. Nothing to inherit or bequeath, aside service itself. 

According to Bereishit Rabba, originally it was Reuven, the true firstborn, who would replace “the firstborns” as living a life of service to God. Reuven’s impetuosity ruined his chances for priestly greatness. But as Yaacov blesses Levi at the end of his life, and transfers Reuven’s primacy to him, it comes with earned critique about Levi’s hostility and volatility. He may be a priest, but he is no angel. So this “gift” of belonging to God is part liberation from mundane duties, and also part of the rope that keeps Levi contained. 

Make your anchors and your tethers as holy and liberating as they can be. And remember that any fantasized liberation comes with its own fetters.

Tzvi Freeman, teaches at Happy Minyan

The Levites got a bum deal. Put up the Tabernacle. Sing sweet songs in the Tabernacle. Take down the Tabernacle. Carry the load of the Tabernacle. But when you get to the Promised Land, you don’t even get a little plot to grow tomatoes. Nothing. Just some dividends off the granary — if you come, maybe we’ll give you some. 

But that’s OK, right? You’ll keep singing those sweet songs. Because you’re a Levite. 

So Maimonides has something really neat to say about the Levites. He writes that anybody — literally anybody who enters this world — can be a Levite, in a spiritual sense. The formula is simple: You just forgo the pursuit of material acquisition and dedicate your life to serving your Maker. 

Which implies that being a Levite is a really good thing. 

Maybe we have to redefine what is a good thing. If life is about dying with more toys and Facebook likes than anyone else, then toys and Facebook are a good thing. But if you consider life an opportunity for closeness with the Source of Life, then, mazel tov! You’re a (virtual) Levite and God says, “You are mine!” 

How do you come close to the Source of Life? You treasure life, you give life, you nurture life. Instead of chasing what feels good for you, you ask what you’re good for. Instead of “What do I need?” you ask, “What am I needed for?” Love and you will be loved. 

Then you will sing about life, because you’ve made life worthwhile.

Havah E. Jaffe
Children’s Shabbat Program Director, Hebrew Discovery Center

Among all peoples of the world, there are traditions to determine who is chosen for the ranks of priesthood. During the generation of the Exodus, the Israelites traveled through the land of idol worshippers for 40 years on the way to the Promised Land. As a safeguard to adopting the ways of the surrounding nations, God taught Moses that all firstborn sons who “open the womb” belonged to God as payback for sparing their lives during the Plague of the Firstborn in Egypt. 

This mitzvah was in stark contrast to the ways of the neighboring Midianites and Moabites, who worshipped a god called molech. This disgusting “deity” was gratified by the fiery sacrifice of firstborn children. Conversely, God wanted the Israelites to internalize how fortunate we were to know that the Creator of the Universe would never ask new mothers to offer their babies as human sacrifice; in fact, firstborn sons were to be the priests! 

God further instructed Moses that rather than those firstborn sons becoming priests as previously taught, the males of the tribe of Levi would replace them as God’s servants. With the mitzvah updated to the Levites as priests, the Israelites could also internalize how fortunate we are to know that the Sustainer of the Universe cares about the pain a new mother would feel if separated from her baby. Instead, priestly service would remain within one tribe, thus keeping families together. As Moses was taught, the family unit is sacred in and of itself. 

Weekly Parsha: Pekudei

One verse, five voices. Edited by Salvador Litvak, Accidental Talmudist

For the cloud of the Lord was upon the Mishkan by day, and there was fire within it at night, before the eyes of the entire house of Israel in all their journeys.
Exodus 40:38

Dini Coopersmith
Women’s Reconnection Trips

There was a palpable presence of God surrounding the Tabernacle, during the days and nights of the travels and encampments of the Israelites. The cloud of glory by day and the pillar of fire by night would clear the way of scorpions and snakes, protecting the Israelites from their enemies’ arrows and stones. 

The Slonimer Rebbe explains in his commentary on the Torah, “Netivot Shalom,” “every Jew is a microcosm of the Tabernacle, and is expected to become a dwelling place for God’s presence.”

Similar to the Jewish nation in the desert, every individual goes through 42 journeys throughout one’s life. During these travels, he or she comes across difficult challenges, trials and tribulations, like the “snakes and scorpions” in the desert. 

There are the struggles of day: things are calm, but we don’t experience God readily. There is fog and lack of clarity. During that time, we must realize that “in the cloud is God.” HaShem is there, hidden but present, if we only realize he is watching over us. 

And the night struggles: our material and base urges get the best of us, like an all-consuming fire. We need to respond with a corresponding passion to connect to God, to study Torah, to use our talents to influence our society in an active, fiery and exciting way. 

If we sincerely yearn to connect with God, we will enjoy the protection of “the cloud of God” and the “pillar of fire” during the days and nights.

Rabbanit Alissa Thomas-Newborn
B’nai David-Judea Congregation

Why is God’s presence associated with a cloud? Keli Yakar explains that the cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, while God’s glory filled the tent itself. God’s glory wasn’t the cloud, but it was God’s light and fire that appeared from within the cloud. Just as we cannot look directly at the sun — otherwise we will not be able to see the light, but instead be harmed by it — so, too, a person cannot look directly at God’s presence and glory. And so the cloud is a protective shield that enables us to safely witness God’s light and warmth. 

Rebbe Nachman offers a very different interpretation of “the cloud of the Lord.” He explains that God hides himself in the obstacles in life — in the clouds. A wise person will look at the clouds and find God in them, while others will turn away. As we read this final verse of the Book of Shemot, I encourage us to reflect on how we relate to “the cloud of the Lord” in our own lives. 

Do we feel the aspect of protection — a distance that somehow enables us to draw closer? Or is the cloud our current obstacle, something that is foggy and hard to navigate, something we want — but can’t always find divinity in? 

Let’s each ask: “What does the cloud of the Lord mean to me? Do I need to feel embraced by the fog right now or strive to see through it?”

Rabbi Mordecai Finley
Ohr HaTorah Synagogue

There are heavens and stars, and there is a forest of humanity in which the waters of the fountains of the abyss flow up. Poised between the heavens and the abyss is the Teaching, first revealed in thunder, lightning and the blasting of horns, but now safely ensconced in the Ark of God, as it journeys from the abyss of the wilderness to the grandeur of Zion. Along this long, long journey, the primordial tensions between light and darkness, day and night, fire and cloud are played out over and over again. 

Perhaps the Teaching must undergo an annealing process — the primordial fire heating the primordial waters into vaporous clouds of unknowing where the Unknowable can become present. Perhaps the clouds become the unique vessel for the Kavod — Majestic Grandeur — of the divine, a cloud that, like the Sabbath, creates a place of rest for the restless creative energy that generates the universe.

We who bear a vaporous impression of the Teaching in lost chambers of aching souls must suffer an echo of the annealing of creation and chaos, waters above and waters below, wilderness and Zion, fire and cloud, for the Teaching to arrive back to its source. 

This is why we suffer — a mystery is being worked out within and through us, a mystery only known accurately through metaphors, myths, symbols, poems, art and music — the languages of the soul. Language of the mystery cannot name, it can only connote — fire and cloud. 

Sara Brudoley
Torah teacher and lecturer

In the last verse of the book of Exodus, the book of Exile and Redemption, HaShem promises his eternal protection to the nation of Israel.

“Before the eyes of the entire house of Israel,” young and old, everyone saw the cloud of the Lord. Whereas at first, the cloud and fire were in front of the people and not everyone merited to see them, once Moshe asked that “HaShem shall go in the midst of us,” HaShem promised “before all your people I will perform miracles,” and then the entire nation saw the cloud and fire. 

For the providence of HaShem and the blessing of the Torah are not a matter of “faith” that was invented in order to mercifully console earth dwellers. Rather, it is “knowledge,” a steadfast recognition that was formed by real experience into certain fact. 

In all their journeys and wandering, the nation of Israel will remember that HaShem will not abandon them. “By day,” during better times, the cloud of the Lord will go before them and guide them in the desert of their exile. As well as “at night,” during dark and hard times of torture and persecution, the cloud will be “fire” that will consume the devils who plot and scheme to destroy Israel.

The Torah teaches the individual as well, how to survive all the harsh journeys of his or her life. By sanctifying himself like the Mishkan, which is the life purpose of the Jew, he is granted constant higher protection. 

Rabbi Tal Sessler
Sephardic Temple Tifereth Israel

Abraham Joshua Heschel, in his seminal work, “Heavenly Torah,” intimates to us that there are basically two ways of understanding this verse. One way would be the way of the mystic — to literally profess that a tangible divine cloud, and a tangible pillar of fire, actually escorted our people. 

The alternative interpretation would be the rationalist paradigm, professing that that the cloud and the fire are mere allegories, symbolizing two profound theological truths. I will stick to this rationalist perspective. As you may recall, in Parashat Yitro, during the giving of the Torah, it is stated that God’s cloud descended on the mountain. And last week, in Parashat Ki Tisa, HaShem explained to Moses that no mortal can have a direct encounter with the almighty — and remain alive. Hence, the imagery of the cloud can symbolize the theological principle that we can never fully see or apprehend God’s very essence, even when it seems to us as lucid and pervasive as daylight. 

To borrow from Kant, God is the noumenal, the “thing-in-itself,” the essence of things which lies well beyond the constraints of the human cognitive horizon. The pillar of fire represents the talmudic notion that the divine presence also traveled with us during the fiery and calamitous centuries of exile, persecution and even genocide. Thus, here’s one meaning of this verse: You will never fully know God (cloud), and yet — God’s presence will never abandon you, as long as you remain connected to it here below (the pillar of fire).

Weekly Parsha: Vayakhel

One verse, five voices. Edited by Salvador Litvak, Accidental Talmudist

And he made the washstand of copper and its base of copper from the mirrors of the women who had set up the legions, who congregated at the entrance of the tent of meeting. –Exodus 38:8

Nili Isenberg
Pressman Academy

The priests of the Torah aimed to achieve the heights of holiness, lighting fires with their passion for God. Then, as now, our offerings have the potential to climb, extend and expand. But this elevation is possible only after deep and grounded preparation. 

Before performing their holy duties, the priests would use water from the washstand, set upon its base, to cleanse their hands and feet. Though they are not as well known as the menorah or the Ark of the Covenant, the washstand and its base have a deep significance. The Torah mentions the washstand and its base together repeatedly. Why is the base so important, deserving of separate mention? Why can’t the washstand stand on its own? 

A base is a foundation. As Ibn Ezra (1089-1167) pointed out, “these vessels were not carried on poles” like some of the other implements of the Tabernacle. No, these vessels should not even give the impression of being mobile. They must serve to prepare us for our holy work with connection to our stable base. 

That base is our people and our history. Today, in the infinite reflections of our selfie culture, this message carries particular urgency. The Hebrew used in this verse for “its base” (“kano”) is related to the Hebrew “to prepare oneself” (“lehitkonen”) and “to have intention (“lehitkaven”). Understanding that our foundation is our connection to the past readies us to use our hands and feet with purpose and impact for the future.

Rabbi Nolan Lebovitz
Adat Shalom, “Roadmap Jerusalem” filmmaker, “My Daily Offering” podcaster

Midrash tells us that Moses didn’t want to accept the women’s contribution of mirrors — “B’Mar’ot” in Hebrew — because he associated the visual reflection provided by the mirrors with vanity. Like so many other elements in our narrative, however, the contribution of women points us directly toward greater freedom and closer relationship with the divine. 

The last time we saw the same conjugation of this word “B’Mar’ot” was in Genesis 46, “And God called to Israel through a vision (B’Mar’ot) by night …” There is great intimacy through the visual medium. We know how powerful the camera has become today. We feel like we know the facts of a story better when we see a photo or a video. The power of a mirror, in seeing oneself, does not only serve the purpose of vanity, but also presents the ability to reflect. 

The mirrors in the altar would be used to draw ourselves closer to God, to make the act of the sacrifice more personal. In our most intimate moments, who among us doesn’t want our creator, our spouse, our parents or our friends to see deep inside us and recognize the best version of ourselves? In the midrash, God tells Moses to accept the mirrors. I pray that in that moment God also accepted each and every one of us for who we truly are as well. 

Pinchas Winston

Rashi explains that the women had copper mirrors that they used for adorning themselves for their husbands who, each day, after intense work as a slave, came home physically broken and spiritually hopeless. They certainly could not think about increasing their families, so their wives made sure of the opposite. And, even though this was all done for the right reasons, and with the best of intentions, Moshe still wanted to reject the mirrors. He felt that their association with the evil inclination made them unfit for the construction of something as holy as the Tabernacle. Therefore, God stepped in and told him, “Accept them, for they are dearer to me than anything else! Through these mirrors the women increased the population of Israel.” 

Who could blame Moshe? After all, it says: Difficult is the evil inclination that even its creator calls it “evil.” Yet, the midrash says, were it not for the evil inclination, a man would not build a house, marry a woman, do business, etc. Clearly the evil inclination can be either friend or foe. What determines which? Torah. 

As the Talmud says, “God told the Jewish people, ‘I created the evil inclination, and I created Torah as its spice.’ ” God didn’t call Torah an “antidote” for the evil inclination, because Torah doesn’t come to eliminate the evil inclination, but to channel it. The evil inclination is a powerful source of energy and creativity. It is not be destroyed, but harnessed for good, and living by Torah makes this possible.

Tova Hartman
Professor, Ono Academic College, Israel

Doing the holy work for the Jewish people is not a casual action. The priests must prepare for this in a variety of ways, including ritually washing themselves from this special washstand. But why make it from women’s brass mirrors? What might this symbolize? 

According to rabbinic tradition, cited in Rashi, the women shared these mirrors with their husbands, who were too tired from manual labor, enticing them to have sex so that they would procreate. The priests had to acknowledge this every time they washed their hands and feet in preparation for entering the holy area. 

In most genocides, men are separated from women. We must imagine that in Egypt, the men were encamped near their work sites, separately from the women. One of the effects of such trauma and humiliation is the loss of desire — reflecting a loss of a sense of worth. It is thus no surprise that the women needed to use mirrors to allure their husbands. These mirrors mirrored back to their men a sense of worthiness, so the men would see themselves as their wives saw them. The masters of slaves mirror back a sense of worthlessness, and that is what the Hebrew women of Egypt refused to accept. 

To build the Tabernacle, silver and gold were necessary, but it is forbidden to enter the holy area unless there is an acknowledgment of the loss and the regaining of the human spirit, symbolized through these copper mirrors. How might this translate into the responsibilities of our contemporary Jewish leaders, as they prepare to do their holy work?

Rabbi Shlomo Seidenfeld
Aish L.A.

Slavery doesn’t simply break the body, it breaks the soul. It exhausts the person and suffocates any hope for a quality of life and a life of quality. So let me ask you, would you bring children into such a life? Would it not be cruel and selfish to condemn children to a life of misery by birthing them into a culture that would ravage and oppress them? 

For us, this is a hypothetical question, although one very worthwhile debating. For our ancestors in Egypt, it was a real and genuine moral dilemma. I have legitimately wondered whether the hopelessness of that situation would have gotten the best of me. 

Enter the Jewish woman. The copper mirrors that she exuberantly dedicated to the Temple were the mirrors she used to prepare herself for an intimacy that would ensure the survival of the Jewish people. She understood that the best way to defeat despair is to add life, and the only way to respond to a soulless world is to add souls. It was the holiest of missions! 

Those mirrors represent the Jewish woman’s unflinching commitment to the perpetuation of Jewish destiny. They were in fact, the greatest “reflection” of the inextinguishable faith that has traveled with us through the horrors and triumphs of Jewish history. Our sages recognized this when they emphatically taught “that in the merit of Jewish women, the Jewish people were redeemed from Egypt.”

Weekly Parsha: Tetzaveh

One verse, five voices. Edited by Salvador Litvak, Accidental Talmudist

“When Aaron kindles the lights in the afternoon, he shall make it go up in smoke, continual incense before the Lord for your generations.” –Exodus 25:2

Nina Litvak

When Aaron lights incense on the golden altar, it creates a fragrant aroma and a cloud of smoke that resembles the clouds of the divine presence. This suggests that a pleasing smell is part of the experience of being near to God. Smell has a unique holiness because it’s the only sense that did not participate in the sin of eating from the tree of knowledge.

Despite its connection to holiness, smell is the sense we humans value least. If you had to sacrifice one sense, it probably would be smell. Yet our sages teach that smell is the most heavenly sense, because it reaches us through the nose, the organ through which the soul enters and leaves the body. The Talmud calls the pleasure of smell one that benefits the soul, not the body.

When Joseph was sold to the Ishmaelite caravan, it didn’t have the usual foul smell but instead contained sweet-smelling spices. Rabbi Chaim Shmuelevitz said that the spices in the caravan were a message to Joseph that God was with him. The fragrant odor was a sign of God’s presence, and Joseph understood the message and was strengthened.

Just as God chose the most humble man to lead us, and the most humble mountain on which to reveal himself to us, he chose the most humble sense to connect himself to us. Every time we smell a fragrant aroma, we can understand it, as Joseph did, as an assurance from God that he is near.

Rabbi Cheryl Peretz
Ziegler School AJU

Companies invest millions of dollars to create the best-smelling scents. Here, however, the Torah intimates that it is not the invention of modern perfume companies; rather, even God has a preferred scent. A blend of secret substances that exhale perfume during combustion, the k’toret, an incense offering, became an important act of sacred worship.

I cannot recall ever smelling incense burning in synagogue. In fact, as a child, while such practice seemed more common in other religions’ houses of worship, it was alien to Jewish religious experience. Yet, the Torah describes the burning of aromatic spices as important and normative daily — morning and evening — activities within the Temple ritual. So important was this sacrifice that altering them in any way would result in estrangement. In fact, it was this type of departure from sacrificial norms that apparently caused the death of Aaron’s own sons, Nadav and Avihu (see Leviticus 10).

Touch, sight, hearing, taste and smell — our senses work together to help us understand the world and react to changes in the environment. Moreover, each of our senses is connected to and heightens the experience of the others. 

Likewise, true prayer (which was instituted to replace Temple sacrifice after the destruction of the Temple) invites a whole body, total sensory encounter. As the Psalmist says, “May my prayer be set before you like incense; may the lifting up of my hands be like the evening sacrifice.” (Psalm 141:2) That’s a scent that is priceless!

Ilan Reiner
Author of “Israel History Maps”

Our parsha discusses three acts, as part of the routine work in the Mishkan (the Tabernacles), that need to be done twice a day, every day, with no exceptions, for generations to come. They are the burning of the offering, the incense of spices and the lighting of the menorah. All three are to be done once in the morning and once in the evening, every day (tamid), for every generation from now and forever (le’doroteikheim). All are related to fire and burning — the offering is burned on the altar, the incense goes up in smoke, and the candles are lit with fire.

Although all three seem to be linked, the words “tamid” (daily) and “le’ doroteikheim” (for generations to come) are mentioned only in regard to the offering and the incense. However, it’s the menorah that survived the turmoils of time and is with us to this day.

Even before the final destruction of the Temple, the priests ran out of lambs for offerings and incense for burning, because of the siege. But the menorah continued to be lit. The menorah stayed with us for generations upon generations. After the Babylonian exile, during the Maccabean uprising, carried by Jewish prisoners in Rome, engraved on coins, carved in synagogues and on tombs, and drawn in books. Always symbolizing light, knowledge and hope for a better tomorrow. Upon its foundation, the State of Israel chose the menorah as its emblem, to reflect the continuity and eternity of the Jewish people.

Rabbi Benjamin Blech
Professor of Talmud, Yeshiva University

“Wake up and smell the coffee.” “Stop and smell the roses.” “Something smells fishy.” “The deal stinks.” 

There is something profound in the emphasis a great many of our expressions place on the olfactory experience. 

Nineteenth-century physician and author Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. recognized a great truth: “Memories, imagination, old sentiments and associations are more readily reached through the sense of smell than through any other channel.” Of all the five senses, the aroma surrounding an experience creates the most powerful, albeit very often subconscious, lasting impression. 

Famed author Vladimir Nabokov wrote, “nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it.” The midrash and Jewish mystics find a biblical rationale: The first sin of humankind corrupted four of our senses. We heard God’s warning not to eat of the tree. We saw the tree and we were tempted. We touched its fruit and we tasted it. Our sense of smell however did not sin. 

The tabernacle in the desert and subsequently the Temple in Jerusalem taught us through its rituals how to introduce spirituality into our lives. Significantly, morning and evening, the high priest was to burn incense of sweet spices — “a perpetual incense before the Lord throughout your generations.” It is a reminder to us to emphasize the sweet aromas of the Shabbat table, the odors of a Jewish home on all its holidays, the distinctive fragrances of Jewish life, which fill us with constant awareness of God’s closeness and presence. How can we find God, people ask? Maybe, like for all lost objects which seek that seem to be hidden, He is here — right under our nose.

Jackie Redner
Rabbi in Residence, Vista Del Mar Child and Family Services

For those who work with individuals with special needs, there is something that needs to be offered up. It involves smoke and light. The smoke holds our confusion. With light, we see our confusion and we offer it up. We accept that we are limited when it comes to the mystery of one who is unable to give voice to thought. 

I have worked closely with individuals on the autism spectrum who have been unspeaking for many years. For much of their early life, they were rarely truly seen. Only their confusing symptoms were seen … by our own confused eyes. For years, they received the world around them, unable to show that they understood, not only 1, 2, 3 or where their nose is, but also the wonder of light, water, earth, sound and emotion. All with a clarity of thought and awareness that we could never fathom with our own confused notions of what autism is and what it is not. 

They have taught me this. Behind the confusion — mine and theirs — the light is ever-present. I have had the great privilege of working closely with those who, through an arduous struggle, learned how to type, one letter at a time, in order to share their world with us. Their words are pulled from a deep well, bursting through ongoing internal noise and a body hard to control. The effort, if you ponder it for a moment, can bring you to your knees. Offer up the smoke of confusion and always assume intelligence. 

During Jewish Disability Awareness and Inclusion Month, Table for Five includes young voices from Vista Del Mar’s Moses-Aaron Cooperative Program. 

Weekly Parsha: Beshalach

Table for Five

One verse, five voices. Edited by Salvador Litvak, Accidental Talmudist

Then the children of Israel came into the midst of the sea on dry land, and the waters were to them as a wall from their right and from their left. –Exodus 14:22

Rabbi Ilana Grinblat
Vice President of Community Engagement for the Board of Rabbis of Southern California

As the rain poured, our kids ran outside, playing and dancing. Changes in nature captivate us. I can only imagine how mesmerizing the splitting sea was.

This verse describing this magnificent event seems like a contradiction in terms. How could the Israelites be simultaneously “in the midst of the sea” and “on dry land”?

The rabbis offer multiple resolutions to this contradiction. In Bereshit Rabbah, one rabbi explained that the Israelites were in the midst of the sea – until the water reached their noses – and only then did it become dry land. Rabbi Nehorai understood the verse to mean that they went into the midst of the sea as though they were on dry land — meaning that they had available in the sea what they had on land. He explained that when the daughters of Israel were carrying their children through the sea, if the kids cried, the moms would pick an apple or a pomegranate from the sea to feed them.

How wonderful of Rabbi Nehorai to be concerned that the kids had snacks along the way!

Yet perhaps, the contradiction in the verse is precisely the point. At the moment of the splitting of the sea, the separate categories of “on dry land” and “in the midst of the sea” converged.

Likewise, the real miracles in our lives change the way we view the world —  obliterating pre-established categories. Complex realities often don’t fit into simple binaries. Sometimes, what we consider impossible can become possible.

Rabbi Benjamin Blech
Professor of Talmud, Yeshiva University

Fanaticism, philosopher George Santayana famously said, consists of redoubling your efforts when you have forgotten your aim.

Fanaticism and extremism are twins. Both camouflage themselves in the cloak of idealism. Both claim that they and they alone possess the key to truth. Both do not seek knowledge but only care to impose their own extreme views on others. For them, moderation is a vice, not a virtue. For the most part, they do not speak, they shout; they are motivated not by love but by hate; they do not discuss, they primarily denigrate those who disagree with them.

Tragically, their presence in contemporary society — politically, culturally and theologically — seems to be ever more noticeable. The right and the left move further and further apart and the moderate center appears to be disappearing. It is the sickness of our age, a sickness which ignores the warning of King Solomon, wisest of all men: “Do not be righteous overmuch, neither be over wise; why should you destroy yourself?” [Ecclesiastes 7:16]

Judaism, as Maimonides pointed out, is based on the principle of “the Golden mean.” It is the key to all mitzvot. It is the essence of wisdom. How remarkable that when the children of Israel miraculously walked through the Red Sea on dry land on the way to Sinai, they witnessed the wonder of the waters turned into a wall on either side of them. The path to freedom and greatness was in the middle, between the extremes of right and left.

Rabbi Cheryl Peretz
Associate Dean, Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies

As our ancestors left Egypt, the Torah describes the greatest miracle ever. God parts the sea waters, paving the way to freedom and liberation. Defying nature and reason, the wet sea becomes dry ground. In “The Book of Miracles,” Rabbi Lawrence Kushner shares the rabbinic story of two children, Reuven and Shimon, whose experiences were of anything but a miracle. As they cross through the great walls of the sea, all they saw was the mud on their feet. They never looked up to see the water miraculously divide as it is held on either side by the power of God. Consequently, they failed to see why everyone else stood on a distant shore singing and dancing. God had provided for their escape and they were freed from the oppression of their slavery. But, for Reuven and Shimon, the miracle never happened. 

“Their eyes were closed — they may as well have been asleep,” says the midrash (Exodus Rabbah 24:1). 

People see only what they understand, says Kushner, not what lies in front of them. We doubt, we question, we rationalize — closing our eyes and hearts to the unknown and the Unknowable. But, to be a Jew, Kushner teaches, is “to wake up and to keep your eyes open to the many beautiful, mysterious and holy things that happen all round us every day.” Imagine what might be our own experience — of meaning, connection, of transcendence — if only we open our eyes to our right and our left. 

Rabbi Elliot Dorff
American Jewish University

Walls play very different roles in our lives. Sometimes they are used to keep people in a defined perimeter, as in the walls surrounding a prison. Other walls are used to define that perimeter, as the walls of a building determine its square footage. Yet other walls are used to keep people or other threats out. 

The walls in this passage are of this last, protective sort, keeping out the water that would otherwise engulf the Israelites passing from one shore to the other. Those walls, like many others, are beneficial, even life-saving. 

Others, though, are more controversial, keeping out people or goods that should be let in. Physical walls, though, are not the only kinds. Legal walls for generations kept out African-Americans, Jews and Catholics from some neighborhoods, and they separated blacks from whites in schools, restaurants and even bathrooms. Today, we are embarrassed by those legal walls of the past. Like physical walls, though, legal walls often serve important and good purposes, defining, for example, what is acceptable behavior and what is not. 

Similarly, economic walls, as in tariffs, may or may not benefit a nation’s best interests. Emotional walls, too, sometimes protect us from assaults to our welfare, as when we close off relationships with degrading or abusive people. Sometimes, though, we create emotional walls that keep us from healthy and nurturing relationships and experiences, stunting our growth and fulfillment. 

What are the walls in your life? Do they help you or harm you? 

Rabbi Yehuda Mintz
Recovery Through Torah

Was God inflicting the Ten Plagues upon the Egyptians in retribution for their 210-year enslavement of the Israelites or was God attempting to convince his children of his power and love? Perhaps it was both.

The vast majority of Jewish commentaries suggest that 80 percent of the Hebrew slave population said, “Thanks but no thanks” to God with regard to the Exodus; they preferred to stay with what they had and knew. The 20 percent who followed Moses were the reluctant believers. 

Our Heavenly Father had to have patience in transforming us from an enslaved, skeptical people to a free, believing nation. 

As we left Egypt and reached the sea, we panicked, looking back and seeing the mighty Egyptian army in pursuit of us. It was Moses who stretched his arms toward the raging water, but it was Nachshon ben Aminadav who took God at his word and leaped into the sea. Only when the water reached his nose did the sea part; and only then were the Israelites motivated to come into the sea on dry land. Only then did the waters form a protective wall for them on their right and on their left. Our covenant with God is not that we are his observers, but that we are his participants in the care of his creation. 

So I keep a saying on my desk that reads “Leap and the net will appear.”

Weekly Parsha: Vayigash

One verse, five voices. Edited by Salvador Litvak, Accidental Talmudist 

“I will go down with you to Egypt, and I will also bring you up, and Joseph will place his hand on your eyes.”  –Genesis 46:4

Rabbi Ilana Berenbaum Grinblat
Vice President of Community Engagement, Board of Rabbis of Southern California

Have you ever gone spelunking?

Last summer, my family and I went spelunking in an enormous cave in the Dominican Republic — which was one of the most extraordinary days of my life. When rappelling into the cave, having an experienced leader is critical. Without our guide, we never would have made it through or out of the dark, winding, watery cave. 

I remembered this experience when I read Ramah’s commentary on this verse. He explained that when two people are about to descend into a deep pit, the one who is confident and accustomed to climbing will always go down first, and afterward, the second person, who is afraid. When coming up from the pit, the skilled one will gladly allow the nervous person to go up first, and only then will the guide ascend. Ramah noted this order is reflected in the Hebrew verse: God “will go down,” and be “with you” in Egypt and then God “will bring you up” and “also go up” after you. 

After the events of the past few weeks — the shooting at the Tree of Life — Or L’Simcha Congregation in Pittsburgh, the shooting at the bar in Thousand Oaks, and the Camp and Woolsey fires, it’s hard not to feel like descending into a cavernous pit of despair. Perhaps, in this time, we can hold onto this image of God, who will be with us and lead us out of the cave. Holding on to our community, may we climb on out together. 

Rabbi Avraham Greenstein
Professor of Hebrew, Academy for Jewish Religion, CA

In this verse, God is speaking to calm Jacob’s fears about leaving the Promised Land and descending into Egypt. The phrase at the end of the verse, “and Joseph will place his hand on your eyes,” is a cryptic one. Many of the commentaries explain it as being a promise to Jacob that Joseph will outlive him, i.e. that Joseph will be around to close Jacob’s eyes when he passes. Sforno explains it as meaning that Joseph will care for his father’s needs so that he need not pay attention or worry. 

Another meaning similar to Sforno’s explanation presents itself when comparing this phrase with the term k’sut einayim, a covering of eyes, found in Genesis 20:16. This term refers to anything that proves a compensation for, or felicitous distraction from, some perceived wrong or indignity. In this instance, God is telling Jacob that being reunited with his long-lost son Joseph, who is now in a position to care for his father, will prove enough of a comfort and recompense to Jacob to distract him from the fact he is descending into exile. This sentiment is echoed in Midrash Tanhuma, which allegorizes Jacob to a mother cow who is lured into plowing by following her baby calf. Jacob and his family are being lured into a harsh, yet ultimately productive, exile, in order to fulfill the promise, made to Abraham, but God does this with a gentleness and encouragement that are worth noting and learning from.

Craig Taubman
Founder, Pico Union Project

If I read this verse as Kohelet, I learn, “To everything there is a season.” Seen through the eyes of my walking buddy, an investment guy, I understand it in stock market terms: “There are good days and bad days. Don’t get too excited, and don’t look too often.”

My father-in-law would often ask me, “What’s it all mean, Craigo?” We always concluded that “it” means whatever we make of it. What I make of life’s ups and downs is found in verse 2 of the same chapter: And God spoke to Israel in a vision at night and said, “Jacob! Jacob!” He replied, “Here I am.” The key to this verse is the Hebrew word Hineni, Here I am, and it’s my life mantra. In order to interpret, learn or live a life of Torah, I must be present to my truth. I must “put my whole self in, my whole self out, and shake it all about.”

The verse ends with “And Joseph’s own hand will close your eyes.” Joseph is the great seer who interpreted Pharaoh’s dream when no one else could. Yet even he was blind to how much his actions offended his brothers. To paraphrase Jack Nicholson in “A Few Good Men,” sometimes “we can’t handle the truth.”

My truth? We’re never in just one place. We are at once: up, down, free and enslaved in Mitzrayim. To find our truth in Torah, business, love or life … we must first jump in!

Rabbi Mordecai Finley
Ohr HaTorah Synagogue

Question: Why were Jacob’s eyes open, that they had to be closed?

The Zohar teaches (I:226a) that a vision of the world can be seen in the eye of the human being, in all its dazzling colors. In the dark center of the eye, a glorious vision of Shekhinah (the indwelling of God) appears. The eye has the capacity to see wonders beyond what is apparent in this world. When a person dies, as the soul surfaces from its deep, concealed place; the eyes see even more — magnificent wonders appear. The startled eyes of a person who has passed away remain open; those standing nearby should close the eyes, as the soul has left the body. 

We are taught that one cannot see the face, panim, of God and live. Perhaps it is better to pronounce that word p’nim, which means interior. Fueled by the passing soul, the eyes of the dying can see the interior of the divine. 

It seems that the mystics who populate the Zohar have seen those visions of which they speak. In mystical practice, it is a momentary death of the ego that enables the mystic to see into a stunning reality beyond what the eye of the ego can see. 

I don’t think you need to be a mystic to efface the ego for a moment and see through the power of the soul. The soul can see that we are surrounded by images of the divine everywhere we go.

Erica Rothblum
Head of School, Pressman Academy

This pasuk embodies words of comfort for Jacob, who is about to embark on a long journey to his son in Egypt. The rabbis who comment on this pasuk discuss the assurance that God grants Jacob, ensuring the Jacob begins his journey with no fear. But this, of course, raises the question of why Jacob would fear the journey — he is leaving a famine-ravaged land to join his favorite son who is in a position of power in Egypt! 

Some suggest that God is not assuring Jacob about his own well-being, but rather that of the entire nation. The commentary Ha’amek Davar notes, “Jacob was afraid that his seed would be absorbed by the Egyptian nation.” Jacob fears that his descendants will assimilate if born into a culture and land far from their ancestral home. 

In this pasuk, then, is the lesson that the model Jew worries not about his own destiny, but rather focuses on the future of the Jewish people. As a community, we need to rededicate ourselves to the future of the Jewish people. Jewish day school education, a key factor in growing and promoting knowledgeable future generations of Jews, is too expensive for many Jewish families. Tuition assistance requests increase every year, and Jewish professionals, the very people who run our Jewish community, are many of the people pushed out. We must unite as a community to address the cost and dedicate ourselves to funding a Jewish day school education for all who want one.

Weekly Parsha: Vayeishev

One verse, five voices. Edited by Salvador Litvak, Accidental Talmudist

He has not withheld anything from me except you, because you are his wife. Now how can I commit this great evil, and sin against God? – Genesis 39:9

Rabbi Cheryl Peretz
Associate Dean, Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies

“Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.”
— Abraham Lincoln

Joseph’s rise as a trusted associate of Pharoah is among one of the most curious stories of the Bible. From the adversity of his own childish brotherly taunting to being sold into slavery to the accusation of infidelity that follow this verse, Joseph certainly faces his own share of adversity.

Recognizing that God is present with him and that he has Potiphar’s vote of confidence, Joseph is made personal attendant and later, minster over the entire house. Seen for his talent, Joseph gains prominence and power. By all Biblical accounts, he is quite successful.

A true test of his character, Joseph is tempted with sex. Knowing how fragile is his success, to whom he owes loyalty, and that he always stands in front of God, Joseph affirms that to pretend he can do anything he might want to do just because he wields power would be corrupt and morally bankrupt.  

Much in life is absolute wrong or absolute right. Still, there are those who justify small steps even when they know they are wrong, beginning a slippery slope of rationalization and moral equivalency that leads to greater out-of-character acts.

In contrast, in this moment, Joseph knows that he may be in charge of the house, but it is not his home. To assume otherwise would be a violation of all that is sacred and a perversion of his own character.

Rabbi Matt Shapiro
Temple Beth Am

Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler emphasized the importance of moments when an individual could go one way or another on his path in life, when the outcome is uncertain. We all experience them; if we’re lucky enough, we notice them, and make a mindful decision toward goodness and growth. This verse encapsulates one such moment for Joseph.

This narrative’s watchword of ra’ah, evil, doesn’t first appear in this verse. Earlier, it describes the report Joseph gives to his father, Jacob, about his brothers; it also characterizes the animal Joseph’s brothers later claim mauled him when they lie to Jacob. It then lingers further on in the narrative, when the brothers are fearful that Joseph will revisit ra’ah upon them after Jacob’s death. But here, Joseph wrestles with the possible ra’ah in front of him, and emerges unwilling to sin before God, to cause damage to a relationship, or to act counter to his values. We don’t know what leads to his new perspective. Up until now, Joseph has seemed primarily focused on his own well-being and gratification. What prompts this awakening? More importantly, we know he remains on this path, rebuffing Potiphar’s wife’s advances repeatedly in the days to come.

Through his decision, Joseph brings himself closer to the moniker of tzadik, righteous one, assigned him by the rabbis. May we each choose wisely when these moments emerge in our lives, and then continue to “turn away from evil, and do good,” living in integrity with our choices.

Rabbi Shlomo Seidenfeld
Aish Hatorah JMI, COO Harkham-GAON Academy

Faith is tested by both pain and power. In fact, it is only in the company of those two realities that anyone can know with certainty just how real their faith is. I often wonder if my “unconditional faith” is in fact, conditional. Would it survive the traumas that so many Jews have experienced throughout history? And conversely, would it be compromised by my ascension to a position of power? 

Joseph experienced peaks and valleys in his life and yet neither state estranged him from the well of his faith. 

In the beginning, his life seemed charmed, with a father who showered him with love and divine dreams that seem to crown him as a future leader. Then the bottom fell out! His own brothers sold him into dehumanizing slavery. His own brothers! I can only imagine the voices in his head as he was taken to Egypt. Betrayed by his own family and seemingly abandoned by God, those voices could have easily commandeered his faith.

Yet, the Torah tells us that he entered the house of his Egyptian master with a faith that was unshaken. Impressive, but would his faith also survive power?

Enter Potiphar. Despite being given unparalleled power in his master’s household and also being subjected to daily seductions from his master’s wife, Joseph remained faithful to God and uncompromising in his morality and humility. Joseph’s faith, like his coat, was multicolored and brilliant.

May Joseph’s life-energizing faith reassure us and inspire us! 

Rabbi Jackie Redner
Vista Del Mar Child and Family Services

With his refusing the advances of Potiphar’s wife, we understand that Joseph has changed, and he has changed profoundly. He is no longer the child who doesn’t understand the implications of his behavior. The mortal desires of flesh and blood do not define him, nor do the mortal fears of punishment drive him. 

We understand now that Joseph has become a man of conscience — a person who navigates the tensions of human life through an abiding awareness and connection to the presence of God, and through a loyalty to that presence. 

The children of Israel are not yet in Egypt, nor have we crossed the sea. Yet, our ancestor Joseph already is teaching us what it means to be a Jew at its essence. It is conscience that eventually humbles the big and little barbarian in each of us, and allows a true human being to emerge. 

Salvador Litvak

Joseph tells Potiphar’s wife he will not have sex with her because it is a great evil and a sin against God. Wouldn’t it have made more sense for him to say, “How can I commit this great evil against Potiphar?” After all, he arrived in Egypt as a slave and now he’s chief of staff to one of the most powerful men in the land. Sleeping with his wife would certainly be ungrateful, but why is it a sin against God?

Rashi points out that adultery was prohibited by God after the flood — one of the Noahide laws given to all humans. But this raises the same question: Why does God care with whom we engage in sex?

Perhaps because we are entrusted with the incredible responsibility to protect God’s honor in our little corner of the world. When the Soul of the Universe places a bit of God’s infinite energy into one of us, God hopes it will be for the good. Yes, hopes. God places good and evil before us and hopes we will do the right thing because he will be diminished if we don’t.

How could an infinitely perfect being be diminished by our lowly actions? Because God grants us this power. God even tells us we can give him pleasure or anger, the ultimate humility for one so far beyond us. And because God is personally invested in us, he will strengthen us in fighting our temptations if we just remember to ask.

Weekly Parsha: Chayei Sarah

One verse, five voices. Edited by Salvador Litvak, Accidental Talmudist

She finished giving him to drink, and she said, “I will also draw for your camels.”  Gen. 24:19

Yehudis Fishman
Jewish Community Educator
Many sages address how elaborate and even repetitious is the first recorded match made in Torah. In our verse, the matchmaker Eliezer witnesses the gesture that clinches the couplehood of Isaac and Rebecca. She agrees to provide water not just for Eliezer and company, but also for his camels. This action demonstrates more than simple compassion. 

The Kabbalists say Isaac represents the quality of intense gevurah, variously translated as strength, upward propulsion or contraction. To balance such a force, his soul mate needs to be his polar opposite. Therefore, just being kind is insufficient. To bring harmony to the universe, and to manifest the presence of HaShem who “rules heaven and earth,” there needs to be a unification of the strongest upward flight, represented by Isaac, with the most grounded act of relating to and caring for all creatures, no matter how lowly. 

It is interesting that what first catches Eliezer’s attention at the well is the water rising up to meet Rebecca. When she draws water for him and the animals, however, she receives no miraculous assistance and has to use her own strength. These two phenomena, the heavenly gift and the physical effort, both express the principle that uniting heaven and earth requires masculine and feminine energies working together.

Ilana Wilner
Judaic Studies Teacher and Director of Student Activities at Shalhevet High School
Why does Rivka wait until after Eliezer is done drinking to offer water for the camels? The sages offer varying explanations. I believe that Rivka waited because she knew there was not enough water in the jug for Eliezer to drink and also to give to the camels. This simple explanation has a deeper meaning that reveals Rivka’s character. From a place of humility and commitment, she wanted only to promise what she knew she could deliver. 

There is a bigger life lesson here. Rabbi Akiva Tatz, in his book “The Thinking Jewish Teenagers’ Guide to Life,” discusses how to find your role in life. He tells us to draw three circles; in the first list the things you are good at, in the second the things you are passionate about, and in the last what the world needs. He says your role in life should encompass those things at the intersection of these circles. Rather than trying to do everything, he stresses, find the one thing you are truly capable of delivering and focus on that.

Rivka had the ability to know herself, to see the need of the people around her, and then to act accordingly. Having completed the task, she immediately moved on to the next, offering water for the camels. In a world where we try to have it all and do it all, Rivka teaches us the value of emptying your jug first before filling it up again.

Shaindy Jacobson
Director of the Rosh Chodesh Society of the Rohr Jewish Learning Institute
The camel, gamal in Hebrew, and gemilut chassadim, helping others and perpetuating kindness, are etymologically related. 

With these words of great kindness, our matriarch Rebecca gifts us the ultimate safety instruction card for the itinerary of life:

Stay well hydrated. Camels can drink 20 gallons of water in one shot. They are notorious not only for their drinking abilities, but also for their incredible stamina in trekking through arid deserts with waterlogged bellies. We too must drink — the living waters of our holy Torah. The Torah is our hydration. It is what allows us to traverse the terrain of a life well-watered, always drinking, copiously filling our minds, hearts and souls with its elixir of life. 

Join the caravan. The safest, most efficient way to travel through the desert is to travel together. While one camel may successfully cross the desert sands, a caravan of camels exponentially increases the odds of reaching its destination safely. Gemilut chassadim is the essence of building caravans: shouldering the load together, strengthening the less fortunate, helping one another on the journey of life. 

Transform the desert. Camels travel through deserts, the quintessential no man’s land and antithesis to civilization. The Jewish nation sojourned in the desert for 40 years before reaching the Promised Land. In life, we often find ourselves traveling through wasteland before finding civilization and creating a home for God. The redeeming factor in this desert trek is the gamal: through gemilut chassadim — goodness, kindness, helping others — we transform the desert itself into the Promised Land.

Rabbi Chaim Singer-Frankes
Interfaith Hospice Chaplain
We might dismiss water as an incidental feature in this story, but the Torah doesn’t squander words. We must understand water as a vital ingredient wherever it flows in Torah, even swelling to become a character in its own right! 

Whereas in Parashat Noah, water is God’s element of annihilation, in Vayeira it is Ishmael’s elixir of life. In the Book of Exodus, walls of water will frame a sort of holy womb, from which the nascent people of Israel are born. Is it then any surprise that water frequently accompanies a critically important woman in the narrative? Indeed, water arises in the Torah as a dominant and elastic instrument: easing alliances, sealing pledges, signifying partnerships, and often heralding God’s involvement on a sacred stage.

Whether or not she knows it, Rivka’s appearance at the well of Nahor is a test of her character. It may be her physical beauty that grabs the attention of Avraham’s appointed matchmaker, but he asks her to sate his thirst. Then it is Rivka’s thoughtful patience and uncommon generosity, administering water both for him and for Avraham’s camels (dear ships of the desert), that presages her sacred future as a matriarch. 

Moreover, Rivka’s big-heartedness stands in contrast to the occasional hard-heartedness we see in the tents of Avraham and Sarah. Rivka is a standout personality in the Book of Genesis — provoking trust, sustaining man and beast, and in the fullness of time, altering the flow of our Israelite fate.

Rabbi Michael Berenbaum
Writer, Lecturer, Professor, American Jewish University
Character counts. Eliezer is a stranger in a strange land, sent by his aging master to find a wife for his beloved son. How is Eliezer to know who is right? 

He comes up with a test. The maiden who offers both him and his camel a drink of water will be the one. Rebecca’s response exceeds his expectation. She not only waters his camels, she draws until they have finished drinking. 

Such sensitivity and generosity: Eliezer is smitten not by her beauty but her values.

Rebecca is the most impressive of our biblical matriarchs. We see Sarah’s anguish at being childless, her willingness to accommodate Abraham’s hospitality, her laughter at the prophecy, her anger at Hagar and her fierce, sometimes cruel, determination to ensure that Isaac is his father’s sole heir.

 We learn of Leah’s poor eyesight, suffering as the fertile yet unloved wife; and we witness Rachel’s beauty, childlessness and unwillingness to enter the Promised Land without her father’s idols.

But it is young Rebecca who duplicates Abraham’s going forth to an unknown land. She is the Torah heroine who encounters God regarding her turbulent pregnancy. She urges her reluctant son to deceive her husband. She creates the space within which Isaac can make the right choice between his sons, thus transmitting the family legacy to the chosen one. She sends her beloved Jacob into exile to protect him from Esau’s ire. Wise and daring, cunning and unrelenting, she is the one. 

And Eliezer grasps all of this in one gesture.

Weekly Parsha: Vayera

One verse, five voices. Edited by Salvador Litvak, Accidental Talmudist

And [Isaac] said, “Here are the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for the
burnt offering?” – 
Genesis 22:7

Kylie Ora Lobell

This Torah portion used to disturb me. Avraham and Sarah waited years to have a child, and when they are blessed with Isaac, HaShem commands Avraham to sacrifice his son. Avraham agrees without hesitation. 

Over the years, I’ve read this parsha again and again. And I finally understand why Avraham agreed. 

I converted to Judaism and willingly took on the mitzvot, no matter how nonsensical they were. Give up bacon, my favorite food, because the Torah says to? Yup. Carry during Shabbat only in a place where there are strings surrounding me? Sure. Shake a branch and spend $50 on a fruit for Sukkot? OK! 

I do these seemingly absurd things with enthusiasm because I believe that HaShem wrote the Torah, and I want to follow his word. I am a normal(ish) Jewess, while Avraham was one of the holiest Jews. He had an incredibly close relationship with God. If I am willing to take on laws I don’t understand at my level, you can bet that I would do whatever God said if I had that kind of relationship with him. 

Avraham knew that God does good and only wanted the best for him. I’ve realized how all these mitzvot I took on have improved my life. I feel the holiness when I practice them, even if they don’t logically make sense at the time. Avraham has taught me to have emunah, faith, and follow HaShem, even if I don’t yet know the beautiful journey he’s taking me on. 

Rabbi Adam Kligfeld
Senior Rabbi of Temple Beth Am

Some verses are so raw, so stark, that applying layers of commentary is nearly a disservice. Isaac’s plaintive, almost outrageously innocent question to his father seems to be in that category. We view Isaac as passive and naïve. Not yet picking up on what even we, the reader, know is transpiring. “Dad, I am confused! What do you have in mind for a sacrifice today?” The utter pitifulness of Isaac in the scene perhaps ought to be preserved as is. 

But our tradition never stands still on meaning. The 18th- to 19th-century Apter Rebbe, Rabbi Avraham Yeshoshua Heschel, reads Isaac not as dull or dimwitted, but sharper even than the knife itself. Imagining Avraham anachronistically concerned about halachic, legal details, Isaac reminds his father that if he were to sacrifice him, he would be an onen, mourner, instantly invalidated from continuing to serve God via sacrificial offering. And, Avraham apparently has no other animal to sacrifice. “Have you thought this through, Father? This apparent act of piety will ineluctably distance you from the God you are intending to obey. You will have neither me, nor a substitute offering. Then what?” 

The stakes are rarely as high. But we need to listen to the voices of others, and within our conscience, warning us of the hidden dangers of complete obeisance. And of piety devoid of ethics. Isaac’s brutal and brutally honest cry reverberates before every one of our utterances and acts of devotion. “Then what?” 

Rabbi Reuven Wolf
Director of Maayon Yisroel Chassidic Center

As Abraham and Isaac are en route to Mount Moriah, Isaac is under the assumption that they will be slaughtering an animal as a sacrifice. But then Isaac notices that his father has not brought a sheep to slaughter and realizes that he is actually the intended object of his father’s sacrifice. 

When Isaac realizes this fact, he calls to his father, “avi,” “my father.” Avi is a reference to Abraham’s natural proclivity toward chesed, kindness. Isaac questions his father, saying, “How can you possibly be ready to act in a manner that is so contrary to your nature? As a naturally benevolent person, how can you be prepared to sacrifice your son?”

Abraham responds, “Hineni beni,” “Here I am, my son.” What Abraham means to say is that in order to fulfill God’s will, he has temporarily discarded his own nature and donned a new nature, that of his son, Isaac, who is characterized by an inner strictness, strength and intensity, quite the opposite of Abraham’s natural gentleness.

We all have our natures. We all have boundaries and parameters that make up our unique personality. Most of the time, we can live within those definitions. But sometimes it is necessary to adopt a nature that is foreign to us, to act in ways inconsistent with our personality, to bend and stretch our own self-definition, for the sake of something larger than ourselves.

Cantor Michelle Bider Stone
Director, Los Angeles Shalom Hartman Institute of North America

In the Akedah, the binding of Isaac story, Abraham is celebrated as the man of faith, but who is Abraham the father? 

Abraham makes his way through the narrative almost completely in silence; only Isaac shatters the quiet with this question. Abraham responds that God will provide “the burnt offering, my son.” It is in this moment, Rashi explains, that Isaac realizes that he would be the sacrifice. And then, silence again as they continue on to what appears to be a horrendous, yet inevitable, fate. 

Kierkegaard comments on the Akedah, “Silence is the snare of the demon and the more one keeps silent, the more terrifying the demon becomes.” After the Akedah, Isaac never speaks to Abraham again. Silence begot more silence. 

To me, Abraham’s silence is heartbreaking. How could he not question God when he commands Abraham to kill his son, his only son, the one whom he loves? Is this not the same Abraham who fought for 10 righteous strangers in Sodom? How could he ignore his helpless son in this moment, instead of making him feel loved and cared for? 

Everyone handles emotional pain differently. Abraham’s defense mechanism is detachment. But his pain doesn’t absolve him of his responsibility to his son. In the end, Abraham doesn’t sacrifice Isaac, but, by his silence, he sacrifices their relationship. It is a lesson in the limits of blind faith, how silence exacerbates trauma, and how giving voice to the silenced can repair a rupture.

David Sacks
Happy Minyan of Los Angeles

The first thing we need to know is that Issac was 37 years old at the time of this event. The next thing we need to know is that he already knew the answer to his question. He knew that he was the burnt offering. 

We know this because a little bit later in the Torah, it says that Abraham and Isaac “went together.” This means, that Abraham and Isaac were united in their awesome desire to do the will of God no matter what it took. 

Our rabbis teach that every person must ask themselves the question, “When will my deeds reach the level of my forefathers Abraham, Isaac and Jacob? (Tanna D’vei Eliyahu) Or put another way, how can I offer myself up to God today? 

The Jewish people are living, thank God, during wonderful times. We aren’t hunted, and we don’t confront death on a daily basis. So how do we offer ourselves up to God during our present good times? The answer is not by dying to sanctify God’s name. But by living to sanctify his name. To do that, we must first understand what life is. 

Simply put, life is the canvas we’ve been given to turn our deeds into art. And the greatest art is made when we unify our hearts and minds in the quest of finding God in everything. This is what it means to choose life. And when we do that we sanctify God’s name with every breath. 

Weekly Parsha: Noach

One verse, five voices. Edited by Salvador Litvak, Accidental Talmudist

“The dove returned to him in the evening, and behold it had plucked an olive leaf in its mouth.” –Genesis 8:11

Rabbi Ilana Grinblat
Vice president of community engagement for the Board of Rabbis of Southern California

When the dove returns with the olive leaf, Noah stays in the ark. Seven days later, when the dove flies away forever, Noah still remains in the ark — until God tells him to leave. Then Noah plants a vineyard, drinks the wine and dances naked in his tent. Traumatized by the destruction he witnessed, Noah turns to alcohol for comfort. 

As I write these words, many people whose homes were devastated by Hurricane Florence in the Carolinas are awaiting word whether it is safe for them to return home. The hard work of rebuilding their lives has not yet begun. A year after Hurricane Maria in Puerto Rico, there are still families without homes or a roof over their heads, and the lightless streets are impassable at night. Noah’s story reminds us that the work of reconstruction after a flood or other calamity can extend long after the stories leave the headlines. 

Likewise, healing from other traumas often begins significantly after the event itself — after we feel physically safe enough to grapple with the emotional pain. Grief can strike long after a death, and we may not even recognize initially that the sadness we’re feeling is a response to that loss, rather than to current events in our lives. Community members typically help at the time of a death but may forget that the hardest time for mourners often comes months or years later. 

After the waters recede, the slow, painstaking work of healing begins. 

Marcus Freed
Author of “The Kosher Sutras,” a yoga-based Torah commentary

Light follows darkness. Rebirth follows tragedy. The old makes way for the new. The empires of Egypt, Rome, Persia and Greece fell and the British empire, unfortunately, took a few hits. We live in times of revolution: #metoo, #timesup, American politics, Brexit and rapid technological progress.

When part of our life collapses — losing a job, a relationship or being diagnosed with a debilitating illness — we can discover new possibilities and become stronger.

An olive leaf symbolizes new personal strength, light and better health. Rabbi Nachman taught that the song of birds, chazzan, represents prophecy, chazon.

There is a commandment to “crush olives for the light” (Exodus 27:20) and one idea is that we are like the olive. Sometimes we need to be crushed to unlock our potential. A miracle vial of olive oil created the lights of Hanukkah. Today our menorahs light up winter, the darkest point in our year. Our skin also can become more radiant by eating olive oil.

After mass destruction, the dove plucked and delivered an olive leaf. Perhaps the bird brought a message that your personal pain can lead to a powerful new chapter.

Rabbi Elliot Dorff
American Jewish University

What a relief it must have been to the people on the ark to see this first sign of land after spending 10 months afloat on a complete water world! During that time, they had no assurance that they would ever again see dry land, so the dove holding the olive leaf symbolized the proximity not only of land, but also of food. This clearly meant nothing less than that they would soon be able to resume life on land under conditions that would be safe, familiar and sustaining for them.  

Think about times of great anxiety in your own life or that of your loved ones: if relief came, in what form did it come? What was the harbinger of that relief? A job offer after a long search while unemployed? The doctor telling you that your cancer is in remission? A “Eureka!” experience when you finally figured out the solution to a difficult problem? A shared hug of reconciliation among family members or friends who had seemed forever at odds and angry with each other?  

As Jews, we bless God “for keeping us alive, sustaining us, and enabling us to reach this occasion” (shehecheyanu vekiymanu, vehigi’anu lazman hazeh) at the beginning of each of the biblical holy days. In happy, dramatic turns in our lives like the ones mentioned above, that blessing also seems appropriate. It did not exist at the time of Noah, but had the people on board Noah’s ark known it, they surely would have uttered it. 

Rabbi Nicole Guzik
Sinai Temple

Many of my conversations with people in abusive or volatile relationships begin with the following mental negotiation: “Rabbi, I understand that my current situation is unhealthy and unstable, but it is all I know. To leave this life is entering a new world I can’t begin to understand.” The negotiation is often the nurturing of an inner dialogue, a back and forth between an existence that while detrimental, is predictable and another that pulsates with the unknown and endless possibility. Some choose light; but so many return to the dark.

The Radak, the Medieval commentator of the Torah, asks, “Why did the dove choose a leaf from an olive tree?” He explains with an answer found in the Talmud: that even a bitter tasting leaf eaten in freedom was preferable to being cooped up in luxurious surroundings. In other words, the dove put her trust in God, understanding that while new beginnings may be bitter, the hope that freedom brings is worth the initial struggle. 

It is a real gamble: To change direction and embark on uncharted territory. To leave what is comfortable and swim away, praying that you’ll end up on dry land. The dove reminds us that first steps into new worlds are often muddy, dirty and difficult. But first steps lead to trailblazing efforts, and roads that can carry us to lives of purpose and meaning. 

Take a leap of faith. A world of light and wonder awaits.

Daniel Lobell
Comedian, host of “Modern Day Philosophers” podcast

The Lubavitcher Rebbe, Menachem Mendel Schneerson (of blessed memory), explained that even if something seems bitter like an olive leaf, we need to trust that God is on our side and everything will turn out fine. Ultimately, his covenant with us will prevail, just as it did with Noah after the flood. 

When I think about doves, though, I get a little bitter. I had a great plan to release two doves at my brother’s wedding — the perfect surprise. 

I bought the birds from a live poultry shop on Queens Boulevard en route to the ceremony. We hid one in my wife Kylie’s dress and another up my jacket sleeve. When we were halfway down the aisle, we released the birds, but instead of gracefully soaring away, they awkwardly flapped around, and one landed on some woman’s head. She let out a loud shrill, which luckily was met with laughter from the rest of the crowd. Fortunately, no one ever found out they weren’t even doves. Just white pigeons, a much cheaper option. 

I guess I should have accounted for the fact that birds from live poultry shops never learn to fly because they’re kept in cages their entire lives. My brother was a little upset, but not for long. He loved his wedding gift: wooden kitchen utensils made from, you guessed it, olive wood. I literally extended the olive branch and made things OK. I guess it really is a peacemaker. So the moral is, if you can’t get the bird to do it … you gotta do it yourself. Peace and love.

Table for Five: Sukkot

One question, five answers. Edited by Salvador Litvak, Accidental Talmudist

If you could invite anyone to your sukkah, who would it be?

Rivkah Slonim
Education Director, the Rohr Chabad Center for Jewish Student Life at Binghamton University, State University of New York

Hands down, Devorah Hashofetet, Deborah the Judge, woman of fire. 

Finally, I could have a heart-to-heart talk with the woman who has always intrigued me. We have matriarchs, prophetesses, queens, female scholars, but Deborah is singular in Jewish history, serving as the leader of the Jewish people in her time. 

Deborah, I have questions for you. Forgive me, but just how was it that you alighted to your position? Were you simply the “best man” for the job? What was it like to operate within — nay, to run — the boys club? 

Believe it or not, all these years later, it’s still not a walk in the park. How did it affect your marriage to Barak? I am guessing your relationship was rock solid, as when he balked at your idea of his leading the Jewish people to war against Jabin of Canaan and asked for you to join him, and you replied confidently in the affirmative. But you prophesied that it would be a woman who would win the war. Delicious irony in that subtle insult, no? 

I admire the way you showcase Yael in your song of victory and give her the credit that is due. That doesn’t always happen in a man’s world. Fearless Yael effectively won the war by driving a tent peg through the temple of Sisera, general of the Canaanites. Go, girl! Move over, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, I want to watch a full-length feature film on Deborah. For now, though, I will savor our conversation. 

Rabbi Jill Berkson Zimmerman

To our sukkah, I would invite Rev. Dr. William Barber, a Protestant minister and social justice activist from North Carolina. 

Rev. Barber has an uncanny ability to weave texts from all over the Bible, especially the words of the prophets, into a rhythmic, almost hypnotic cadence that is profoundly inspiring. He preaches and organizes actions on justice, dignity and equality. He has been a voice I can rest in during these divisive times, because he not only speaks truth, he also uses the Bible’s most lofty aspirations to create a vision that compels me to act. 

When I hear him speak, my heart is all on fire. I want to stand up and move toward the world he paints, where each human is treated as the divine creature God made us to be. He is fearless in addressing the immoral climate of today, and like the prophets comes to tell us to turn around. He reminds us that the God of Compassion needs our partnership. 

In our sukkah, I’d ask him about his greatest sources of inspiration and how he manages to keep moving forward with constant pain from his spinal cord injury. I’d want to discuss how to heal the Black-Jewish divisions that unfortunately are not yet whole. I’d want to talk to him about the source of his inner strength, because Sukkot calls us to examine what is enduring and dependable beyond the concrete. 

Ilana Wilner
Director of Student Activities, Shalhevet High School

Before moving to Los Angeles, I roughed it in New York City with three roommates. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment with one bathroom that we somehow converted into a four-bedroom. To say the least, the space was tight, and yet our door was always open to anyone. Friends started referring to our apartment as the orphanage because constantly there were girls sleeping in any available spot. 

During these years, I decided to write my own set of Pirkei Avot titled, “If There Is Room In Your Heart.” If we were maxed out of room at the table and someone wanted to come over, my roommates would look at me and wait for my line, “If there is room in your heart, there is room at the table.”

This soon became my mantra of how I lived my life and have brought it with me to L.A. — everyone is welcome, no exclusions. For a girl who had only been in Orthodox settings, I have expanded my network and experienced the world through different perspectives. 

So if I had to invite anyone to my sukkah, I don’t think I’d be able to answer because I would want that one extra person who shows up when you think all the seats are full, the person your sukkah has no room for but your heart has plenty of space for. Because life happens when people stumble into your home. If there is room in my heart, there is room in my sukkah.

Rabbi Shlomo Seidenfeld
Aish Hatorah JMI, COO Harkham-GAON Academy

I would invite a Holocaust survivor, any survivor. Let me explain. 

The holiday of Sukkot celebrates the unbreakable faith that is the hallmark of the Jew. Who in their right mind walks into a desert, the most inhospitable environment on the planet? Well, that’s exactly what over 2 million Jews did after they left Egypt! 

Every sukkah testifies to the unconditional faith that Jews display even when their very survival is at stake. The air of the sukkah evokes the undying life force that has traveled with the Jew since he stepped into that desert and its shade reassures those who “dwell” in it that with faith, one can rise above any threat and any challenge. 

A Holocaust survivor is a human sukkah, a walking testament to the power of faith. Anyone who put on a tallit after Auschwitz, celebrated Shabbat after Treblinka or started a family after Bergen-Belsen is living proof that the Jewish spirit is indestructible and that our “Jewmanity” can withstand the most withering assaults. 

Sitting in a sukkah with a survivor is probably the most oxygenated faith infusion you can experience! The convergence is powerful and palpable. So, if you are ever fortunate enough to find yourself in the company of our living Sukkot, breathe deeply. The air is rarified and is the best prescription for the perspective and faith that we all seek. Chag sameach! 

Salvador Litvak

I’m going to assume there are some ground rules to this fantasy. No human being has ever known God as intimately as Moses did, yet he won’t answer our biggest questions. Our teacher Moses hasn’t joined our Sukkot dinner to tell us why good people suffer or where we go when we die, and in truth, perhaps any former human could do that.

So I would ask Moses what it felt like to hold a complaining people together in the midst of a miracle? What is it about us that resists peace and gratitude? We’ve been told over and over again that kindness and service are the keys to contentment, and still we resist. Is it our animal nature that makes us stubborn? Or is stiff-neckedness the most human of all traits?

And what was your best day, Moses? Was it atop Sinai, alone with God, taking dictation? Or was it making the bitter waters sweet and saving a whole population from dying of thirst by tossing in the right stick?

How did you handle the challenge of serving both your nation and your family? Was that an area of regret? Were there others? What did you feel as you stood on the brink of a land promised to everyone but you? Was it enough to be the greatest shepherd in history?

Did you feel that moment had been written long before and you were playing your part? Or did you write your own role?

And do we face the same question?

Salvador Litvak: Can Talmud change your life?

Hollywood filmmaker and Accidental Talmudist Salvador Litvak recounts his journey of how one moment of learning Talmud led to a million followers on Facebook.

“What we learn from the students of Hillel is that you should be able to state the opinion of your opponent in a way your opponent will say, ‘yes, that is my opinion.’ When you do that, you are opening a door for him to say ‘I feel heard. Now I am willing to hear what you have to say.” -Salvador Litvak

Accidental Talmudist Salvador Litvak

From left: David Suissa and Salvador Litvak

Check out this episode!

A Smile Unto the Nations

Photo courtesy of Jonah Light Photography.

On a recent Friday evening, I walked up my street at a brisk pace. One of the great blessings in my life is Rabbi Yekusiel Kalmenson’s Kabbalos Shabbos (Sabbath-welcoming) service at his home in Hancock Park. His Judaism is Chabad Chassidic, but a good mix of Modern Orthodox and Yeshivish guys always drop in.

What we all share is a love of exuberant prayer and composer and Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach’s spirited melodies. Unlike most of the participants, I haven’t been religious all my life, and I’m very grateful for the welcoming atmosphere at Kalmenson’s service.

I was humming a Carlebach tune and walking north on Orange Drive when I noticed a group of black-hatted males walking east on Third Street. They appeared to be three generations: two grandpas, two dads and three teenagers, all in black suits, white shirts, assorted ties and black fedoras.

I could tell these guys weren’t headed for Kalmenson’s service. I surmised that we’d reach the intersection at about the same time, I’d call out a warm “Good Shabbos!” and one or two of them would mutter “Good Shabbos” in return. That’s how it usually goes.

I acquired the big “Good Shabbos!” habit a decade ago, when I lived in the Pico-Robertson neighborhood and attended Kabbalos Shabbos services at Happy Minyan, a direct offshoot of the Carlebach tradition.

“Good Shabbos!” is more than a greeting. It implies, “What a blessing to share this moment with you! We’re alive, we’re on the move, the Day of Peace is here, and we both recognize that these gifts flow from the Master of the Universe!”

Some people fulfill the Jewish mission by teaching Torah. Some do it by living a life free of sin. And some do it with a great smile.

Carlebach’s life and music were all about manifesting this idea everywhere he went. He was a visibly grateful and giving Jew, and he made countless people happy with nothing more — and nothing less — than his manner.

Some people fulfill the Jewish mission by teaching Torah. Some do it by living a life free of sin. And some do it with a great smile.

Whenever we, as visible Jews, perform a good deed in the world, it’s known as a Kiddush HaShem, a sanctification of God’s name. When we do wrong in public, it’s a chillul HaShem, a desecration of the name.

Is friendliness really a Kiddush HaShem? Not everyone thinks so. Jews have been persecuted so ruthlessly, and for so long, that in many communities it’s standard operating procedure to keep your head down, avoid outsiders and live to observe the commandments another day. One can even admire the keenly honed survival instinct behind this perspective. And that’s what I expected to encounter from the gentlemen heading east on Third Street.

Living in the United States in 2018, however, we probably enjoy the greatest liberty to be openly Jewish in our history. We don’t need to keep our heads down. In fact, there are many non-Jews who wish we’d be more Jewish. They’re often Christians who believe in the Bible, and feel fortunate whenever they get a chance to confer a blessing upon the children of Israel.
I often encounter these folks in my work at Accidental Talmudist. Such people would love to exchange a warm greeting, and learn a bit about the Jewish faith, from the fellows approaching my corner, if only they’d be open to it.

And it was the sage Rabbi Yishmael who said, “Greet every person with joy!” (Pirkei Avot 3:12)

All of this flashed through my mind as I approached the corner. Before I could call out, “Good Shabbos!” however, an unexpected third party crashed our little scene.

A middle-aged, African-American guy driving south on Orange reached the intersection first, rolled down his window, and addressed the black-hatted males.

“Why do you guys always look so serious?” he challenged with a grin.

This was exactly the moment that my trajectory brought me between him and the group. I was stunned that such an opportunity to heed Rabbi Yishmael’s edict had suddenly presented itself, but I embraced it.

Smiling broadly, I opened my arms and greeted him with an “Ayyyyyyyyyyyy. Good evening!”

“There you go. I knew it was possible!”

We all chuckled, and carried on with our journeys.

Salvador Litvak shares his love of Judaism with a million followers every day at

TABLE FOR FIVE: Five Takes On a Passage from the Haggadah

Photo from Wikimedia Commons.

PASSOVER 5778, Haggadah:

“In every generation one is obligated to see oneself as one who personally went out from Egypt. Just as it says, ‘You shall tell your child on that very day: “It is because of this that God did for me when I went out from Egypt.” ’ (Exodus 13:8) Not only were our ancestors redeemed by the Holy One, but even we were redeemed with them. Just as it says: ‘God took us out from there in order to bring us and to give us the land God swore to our ancestors.’ ” (Deuteronomy 6:23)

Rabbi Sari Laufer
Stephen Wise Temple

With these words, we place ourselves directly in the story — in the experience — of Passover. As we read the words of the haggadah, as we enact the seder rituals, we are living our own stories, our own journeys from the narrow places to expansiveness, from degradation to praise, from darkness to light.

But here’s a remarkable thing about Passover: Like the Torah itself, and perhaps like our lives, it is an unfinished story. While we move from slavery to freedom, the haggadah, like the Torah, ends in the wilderness, not the Promised Land. It teaches us that while we may have come out of Egypt — our own narrow places — we may still have miles to go, with twists and turns along the way. We may never get there.

In our haggadah, as in our lives, perhaps the lessons are in the journey and not in the destination. Torah itself is given in the wilderness. What can we learn in our wanderings, in the meandering and sometimes unwelcome turns of our lives?

I am told that in some Sephardic traditions we add additional questions to the seder: From where are we coming? To where are we going? What are we bringing with us? This is to remind us that the story is our story, the experience our experience, the journey our journey.

Will you get there this year? And more importantly, from what narrowness will you come forth? Who will you bring with you? What story will you tell?

Rabbi Shmuly Yanklowitz
Valley Beit Midrash, Phoenix

There is no phrase more powerful in the haggadah: “In every generation one is obligated to see oneself as one who personally went out from Egypt.” This moves the seder from a display of nostalgia to a recognition of the need for urgent action, from memory to mandate, from being passive to being active. It is a reminder that the current moment is as imperative as the biblical moment — that at every moment we stand between oppression and freedom, narrowness and expansiveness, hiddenness and revelation.

Such spiritual work is never simple. The esteemed 20th-century Musar teacher Rabbi Shlomo Wolbe explains: “We see ourselves in the other, as if every person we encounter is simply a mirror in which we see ourselves! … [W]e have not yet freed ourselves from the self-centered perspective to see that the other is not identified with us…. [I]t is incumbent upon us to focus on the way the other differs from us and see that which the other needs, not that which we need.” (Alei Shur 2:6)

Rav Wolbe teaches powerfully here that to understand the other, we must transcend the self. While it is difficult to understand another’s trauma and impossible to grasp the extent of another’s suffering, we can create the spaces to listen, to cultivate empathy and respond to others’ needs. We must go beyond the notion that we tend only to our own needs — that is not ethical Judaism. Rather, it is essential that we tend to the needs of the other in our midst.

Rabbi Adam Greenwald
Miller Introduction to Judaism Program, American Jewish University

We are all familiar with stories that begin, “Once upon a time.” These are tales of events that happened at a discrete moment in the long-ago past. They can move us and delight us and even teach us something important about ourselves, but they are accounts of something that is over before the storyteller begins to speak.

Then there are stories like the story of the Exodus. According to our tradition, the Exodus didn’t take place “once upon a time.” It takes place over and over and over again in each new generation. We are always on our way out of Egypt, always taking our first fearful and hopeful steps toward the Promised Land. Pharaoh’s army is always at our heels and God’s promise always lies stretched out in front of us — if we have the courage to take it. The cycle of enslavement and liberation is a continuous one. At any point along the timeline we can recognize the same eternal dynamic playing out, on a personal level and on a societal one. In short, this story is our story.

This is the haggadah’s most essential teaching. It has given countless readers of the Bible solace in hard times and inspiration to struggle for freedom. A story that happened once upon a time may be sweet in our ears, but a story that happens each and every day can shape lives and set the destiny of civilizations.

Salvador Litvak

You don’t have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body, and it’s a very limiting vehicle for an eternal soul like you. Even if you live to 120, it’ll be a flash compared to the eons you spend in the World of Souls. The light of that flash, however, is intense. Opportunities abound in this world for lessons and deeds you can take with you.

While you’re here, God and your true identity are hidden. This masking enables you to make free choices. But there was one moment in history when the Eternal One broke through the veil. You and I were there together. We walked out of bondage in Egypt and experienced our authentic selves at Sinai.

When we fulfill the obligation to see ourselves as if we personally left Egypt, it’s not a metaphor. We don’t imagine the Exodus, we remember it. And this should not be a once-a-year event. The Alter Rebbe reminds us that we’re commanded to remember the Exodus every day, and that we do so in the Shema prayer, when we recite: “I am the Lord your God who brought you out of the Egypt.” This is called “accepting the yoke of Heaven.”

The great paradox of Passover is that service to God liberates us from both Pharaoh and our own human limitations. As souls, we are sparks of the Eternal. When we remember our true nature, we become free. We also tap into the soul’s unlimited capacity for kindness, wisdom and strength. Shine on!

Rabbi Nicole Guzik
Sinai Temple

Last year, Sinai Temple members went on a mission to Poland. On a trip organized by our sisterhood, we traveled with March of the Living. We marched from Auschwitz to Birkenau, among more than 10,000 people standing side-by-side to signify the 10,000 people that were sent to the gas chambers every single day. We recited the Kaddish over mass graves of children, listened to the stories of Holocaust survivors, thanked non-Jews who jeopardized their own lives to save others, and mourned the millions who perished in Eastern Europe.

Our synagogue’s group was quite diverse, with roots in Poland, Russia, Iran and Israel, among other places. Very few in our group had personal connections to those Jews in the concentration camps. One congregant told me that when he had been a young adult in Iran, the stories of the Holocaust felt very far away. “What about now?” I asked. “Is it difficult to connect to these Jewish stories?” His response will remain with me for the rest of my life: “We are all Jews. It doesn’t matter the country in which we are born. All of this,” he said, pointing to the barracks of the concentration camp standing before us, “this is my story too.”

My teacher Rabbi Neil Gillman (z”l) explains, “I must learn to see myself ‘as though’ I was there by virtue of my communal memory. Memory is what knits together the generations; memory creates the possibility of continuity and history. Memory creates community.”

Passover reminds us that we continue to survive as a Jewish people when we see each other’s stories as our very own.

Ethan and Me

Nothing makes me feel better than seeing Ethan smile. He glows when he sees me and I glow too. As I greet him, I can’t help but erupt into an enormous grin.

Ethan has Downs syndrome, and we met at Friendship Circle of Los Angeles.

Like any friends, first we catch up. I ask him what he learned in Hebrew school, we discuss sports — typically basketball or football — and we sing his favorite song of the moment. Last time it was “Despacito,” but it can range anywhere from a new Taylor Swift hit to Nick Jonas.

Ethan is incredibly entertaining and likes being the center of attention. People gather around because Ethan, with the help of music from my phone, is singing. No, not singing — entertaining. He makes hand gestures, facial expressions and somehow knows every word to every song he requests. He never fails to make everyone at Friendship Circle laugh.

He also loves telling jokes. One of his favorites is: “Yesterday, a clown opened the door for me. I thought it was a very nice jester.”

He also loves telling jokes. One of his favorites is: “Yesterday, a clown opened the door for me. I thought it was a very nice jester.”

Ethan attends public school, where there are resources and individualized attention to help him learn. Ethan’s family wants him to get a Jewish education, as well. This poses a dilemma for many Jewish parents of special needs children. Religious schools don’t generally have the ability to educate students with significant cognitive differences. Enter Friendship Circle.

I have been volunteering there for 2½ years. It started as my bat mitzvah project. I picked Friendship Circle because I had previous experience with special needs children at Camp Ramah, a Jewish sleepaway camp that I attended. There, a unique program exists called Amitzim for people ranging from children to young adults with various forms of special needs, similar to Friendship Circle. I had always enjoyed being with the Amitzim campers, especially when my bunk/tent got to participate in tefilah (prayer) with them.

When I decided to volunteer at Friendship Circle, I imagined I would make some friends and maybe learn a little. What I didn’t know is the depth of the friendship I would develop with Ethan.

My first day volunteering, I knew from the start that it was a perfect match. Ethan is friendly and enthusiastic, as am I. Further, we both love telling jokes, making people laugh and entertaining those around us.

Everyone at Friendship Circle knows Ethan. It always makes my day when an administrator asks me, before the program starts, who my buddy is. Usually, they will stop themselves mid-sentence and say, “Oh, right, you’re with Ethan!”

In the months before my bat mitzvah, my mom and I were sending out invitations. One day, we were in the car, and I asked her if she had invited Ethan yet. We hadn’t previously discussed it, but it was obvious to me that he had to be there.

Typically, once you have your bar or bat mitzvah, your mitzvah project ends. I didn’t exactly think about whether I wanted to continue with it before my celebration, but once I saw Ethan arrive at my party with his family, I realized, for both of our sakes, that I must continue volunteering.

The faculty and teachers at Friendship Circle are incredible, and with their help, Ethan was able to read Torah at his bar mitzvah this past November. He even delivered a drash, a short ethical teaching, that moved all of us to tears.

There are multiple programs at Friendship Circle that enable children with all sorts of cognitive differences to form close relationships with young volunteers. And when I say relationship, I don’t mean a friendship where it is a one-way street. Ethan recently got a smartphone, and when he calls to FaceTime, it’s a treat for me and my entire family, because he insists on talking to everyone!

If you are nearing your bar or bat mitzvah and need a mitzvah project, or you are simply looking for somewhere to volunteer, I suggest checking out Friendship Circle. I don’t consider what I do volunteering anymore. I consider it hanging out with a friend and helping him learn and grow while watching myself do the same.

Molly Litvak is a student at Shalhevet High School in Los Angeles. Her father, Sal, is the Accidental Talmudist.

The Men’s Trip

Author (far right) and friends on the 2018 AishLA/JMI Men’s Retreat in Running Springs, CA. Photo by Jonah Light Photography

I try to call my dad every day after I drop off the kids at school, a good way to fulfill the Fifth Commandment. I mention I’m going on a men’s trip for the weekend.

“No wives?”
“No, it’s a men’s trip with the same guys I went to Israel with in 2014. Plus fellas from the 2015, ’16, and ’17 trips.”
“And it’s Orthodox, so women aren’t allowed to participate.”
“Orthodox Judaism has women in it, Dad. This is a men’s trip for the same reason our wives take women’s trips. Some things serve the family best by happening separately.”

My father’s skepticism is not surprising. Modern secular culture promotes segregated “safe spaces” only for women and certain minorities. Not straight, white guys. Like many liberal Jews, my father believes that Orthodox Judaism is a sexist patriarchy.

Yet this trip for men was created by women. It began as a subsidized women’s trip to Israel organized by Lori Palatnik and her colleagues at the Jewish Women’s Renaissance Project, and Aish HaTorah, a Jewish outreach organization. Featuring immersion in Jewish practice, sisterhood and reconnection with one’s Source while visiting the Holy Land, the trip came to be nicknamed Birthright for Mommies.

We connected with ourselves as children of God, as Jews, spouses, friends and citizens.

Participants were re-energized as Jewish women, wives and mothers. Observance increased, but few became Orthodox. Rather, they brought key mitzvahs into the home, such as candlelighting and Shabbos dinner, and transformed the lives of their families by elevating the role of gratitude in the home.

Because they wanted the same experience for their husbands, the men’s trip was born.

My wife, Nina, and I participated in the trips in 2014 with Aish LA. Although we were already more observant than most of our travel companions, the experience was transformative. We connected with ourselves as children of God, as Jews, spouses, friends and citizens.

And I made lifelong friendships with guys I’d never met before. These things happened because we found ourselves in an unfamiliar space: the company of guys at the same stage of life, facing similar challenges in our families, in our careers and in our bodies.

It felt safe to open up to one another, sharing the failures of our pasts and profound fears about our futures. We learned we’re not alone in these journeys, and we shared the wisdom of hard-won experience. We were also blessed with great teachers and leaders. My trip was led by Charlie Harary, others by Saul Blinkoff. Both men were coming on the reunion trip to the mountains.

Nina said, “I would never begrudge you a men’s trip because I love the sisterhood of women-only events. I also like who you are when you return.”

Less than two hours from L.A., we found ourselves in the snow. Charlie opened by explaining a property of the human brain, neuroplasticity. This means that consistent repetition of thought patterns creates new neural pathways. When we learn a new language, for example, we actually alter the structure of our brains.

Thus, to become that better man we all want to be, we need to start thinking, speaking and acting like him. And in order to figure out who that guy is, we need to understand that life must be about service. The great paradox of the world is that one who negates himself for the sake of others will be empowered. One who strives for himself, however, will never become a great man.

Saul followed by sharing what the Torah says about males and females. Eve was created as an azer kenegdo to Adam, an “opposing helpmate.” When our wives oppose us, it can be irritating, even infuriating. But what if they’re actually doing their job? What if their opposition is crucial to us becoming that better man? Women know all too well the value of peace, yet they speak up for our own good. Think how much more peace there would be in the home if we just listened to the rebuke and then reflected on it. We might even figure out how to act on it.

I was invited to share my Accidental Talmudist story because it touches on the life of the soul, Torah learning, and the generational connection between our parents and our children.

Then we sang together like warriors, holding nothing back, and we charged each other to bring this fire back from the mountain.

Learn more about Sal Litvak’s Accidental Talmudist story, and join his followers at

Super Bowl With the Homeless

Two weeks ago, I received a crazy call.

“We’re putting together a Super Bowl Party for the Homeless. Last year’s video went viral, so now we’re expanding. Can you host the L.A. party?”

The caller was Meir Kay, a social media personality with more than 1 million followers, known for his infectious positivity. In his first viral video, he danced around New York City high-fiving people who were hailing cabs.

I have a million followers, too, but at Accidental Talmudist I’m on a mission to increase the peace by sharing Jewish wisdom with all people. In a video that caught Meir’s eye, I brought two Chasidic musicians downtown on Christmas night to see what would happen. We ended up jamming with a homeless guy named Antonio. Later, we passed the hat for him online and raised more than $600.

At Beth Am, I found that some of the maybes had actually showed up.

Meir told me we’d need a venue, food, a big-screen TV, dignity kits, volunteers, a film crew and homeless guests.

“Meir, this is a great idea. You should’ve called me a month ago.”

“Dude! Last year, I pulled it together in 24 hours!”

Respect. That video was pretty good. The New England Patriots even reposted it.

“How many homeless guys did you have?”


“It looked way busier than that.”

“Yeah, I brought them to a party at a bar. But a bar isn’t a good idea for these guys. Plus, the owner doesn’t want them back.”

I bet. So we had two weeks to pull it off. Walking away was obviously the right move. My soul said stay.

I called Rabbi Adam Kligfeld at Temple Beth Am. He agreed on the spot, and so did his staff. Lia Mandelbaum, director of programming, Shawn Gatewood, director of facilities, and all their personnel brought a problem-solving attitude.

So we had a venue. Then Dovid Leider of Leider’s Catering donated food for 50. Boom! This thing was coming together. My wife, Nina, recruited volunteers. Chasids from Hancock Park, whole families from Temple Beth Am, and non-Jews from our Facebook audience all got into the spirit.

Two days before the game, my cameraman bailed because of a family emergency. Then, Marty Markovits appeared, a documentarian with a great eye.

Sunday dawned.

“Hi! Would you like to attend a Super Bowl Party and have a great meal?”

The first invitee said yes. She spends her days by the 7-Eleven next door to the synagogue and was thrilled to go inside. The next 10 people we approached, however, all said no. They wanted to be left alone. Then a few maybes. I called Nina.

The diversity among homeless people is immense. Some wouldn’t attract a second glance at Coffee Bean. Others are alarmingly challenged regarding mental health and hygiene. Nina found two of the latter and drove them to the synagogue, God bless her.

I headed downtown. We found an encampment of eight. They told us to scram, but one fellow, Michael, said, “Hell, yeah, me and my wife are coming!” That convinced the others. I summoned a Lyft van.

At Beth Am, I found that some of the maybes had showed up. Our Lyft group became the boisterous nucleus of two dozen guests, plus an equal number of volunteers.

I’m a Giants fan, so I was rooting for the Eagles to beat the Patriots. This became the general consensus. Spirits rose. Plates were piled high with tasty wings and pastrami.

Real conversations were happening all around the room. I learned Ed was a 10-year veteran of the Air Force. Uncle Ray was just rooting for a good game.

When the Eagles scored, we erupted in “Yaaahs!” and high-fived like old pals, and we groaned every time the Patriots made a good play. In the end, we brought it home: an Eagles victory for the faithful!

The real triumph, however, came from Brandon after I shared Torah with him.

“Who is strong? One who controls himself. I like that. I’m in a halfway house now, getting it together. I don’t trust no one but God to help me, but I would like to volunteer for this temple. Mow the lawn or whatever. Thank you for doing a great thing for us.”

Salvador Litvak shares his love of Judaism with a million followers every day at

#MeToo and Mashiach

Women’s Bureau 1920, Photo courtesy of the Library of Congress

I did not expect to hear a Torah teaching about the #MeToo movement in a Chasidic synagogue. Rabbi Reuven Wolf, however, is not your typical Chasidic rabbi.

On a recent Shabbat, he expounded some verses from one of the lesser-known books of the Bible, Habakkuk:

He shall speak of the end, and it shall not fail; though it tarry, wait for it, for it shall surely come, it shall not delay.

The earth shall be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord as the water fills the sea … and

… a stone shall cry out from the wall.

In this prophetic description, the Age of Mashiach, i.e., the messianic age, will not be accompanied only by peace and goodness — the lion lying down with the lamb, etc. —  but also with knowledge of God, God’s plan and the true meaning of the elements in that plan. We will thus finally understand the spiritual purpose of everything, and everyone, in our physical environment.

At that time, even the rocks will testify whether we walked over them for a wholesome purpose or a selfish purpose. In other words, did we employ our resources to make God’s creation a place of greater holiness or less? A place of greater justice or less? A place of greater kindness or less?

If so for the rocks, Rabbi Wolf said, how much for the people in our lives? We will be called to account for the ways we treated everyone we met, and particularly those closest to us. Did we help them realize their true purpose in the creation, or did we exploit them for our own selfish ends?

It is a fact of biology that the human male gives the seed of life and the female receives it. Each provides half the DNA, but the female egg is vast compared with the tiny sperm, and it is the woman alone who nurtures the new embryo for the next nine months. So you would think that the male would be a humble, nurturing partner in the relationship.

Sadly, this has not been the case. Throughout the history of humanity, many men have exploited their size, strength and patriarchal role as giver of the seed to get what they want from women. The sexual relationship should be the holiest interaction on earth, one that enables both partners to join with God in the creation of new life, but men have often hijacked it to give themselves pleasure at the expense of women’s dignity. This is a grave sin — one that harms the woman, the man and the whole of creation.

The fact that we have now crossed a line, that people will no longer tolerate such an established pattern of behavior, is beyond momentous. In the annals of humankind, it is a change akin to the advents of consciousness, fire, language, agriculture, cities and democracy.

According to Rabbi Wolf, the #MeToo movement is not only a world changer, but evidence that the Shabbat of history is at our doorstep.

In the Hebrew calendar, the year is 5778. We are 222 years from Y6K, the dawn of the seventh millennium — a time that will be holy like the seventh day. Our Sages often liken the Age of Mashiach to Shabbat. And just as Shabbat begins before night actually falls, the messianic age is now settling in around us like dusk.

Jewish tradition, like Habakkuk, holds that the end “shall surely come,” and it will not come later than its appointed time. It may, however, come earlier.

We can hasten the redemption by earning it. If the human world grows in kindness and righteousness, Mashiach will come sooner and without pain. If we cannot achieve such growth, Mashiach will come with a sharp birth pang, more commonly known as the apocalyptic battle of Gog and Magog.

Such a battle is not hard to imagine on the current world stage, and its consequences would be horrific.

Let’s avoid that fate. Let’s buy in to Rabbi Wolf’s vision of an Age of Mashiach that we usher in by increasing peace, justice, lovingkindness and dignity in the world.

Let’s make sure the #MeToo movement succeeds in protecting women from exploitation and enables them to realize their true purpose as equal partners in the creation.

It’s a good bet. Even if Rabbi Wolf is mistaken, what have we lost? And if he’s right …

Salvador Litvak shares his love of Judaism with a million followers every day at

Peace Through Raising Expectations

I support the plan to move the U.S. Embassy in Israel from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. I acknowledge this is a controversial topic, and I will observe the talmudic principle of stating the primary, opposing viewpoint before my own:

“The American Embassy in Israel shouldn’t be moved from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem at this time because it will result in violence, impair the Israeli-Palestinian peace process and further destabilize a region already beset with violence and chaos.”

I disagree with this view because it expects the worst from Palestinian Arabs and Arabs in general. I believe it is racist to assume that these groups will become violent merely because something happens that displeases them.

It is true that actions by Israel and the United States have met with violence in the past. If we dig deeper, however, we find that the real obstacle to peace is a Palestinian leadership that benefits financially from the ongoing cycle of violence. One need look only at the personal fortune of Yasser Arafat at the time of his death — a stash worth more than $1 billion — to grasp the profound impact of the leadership’s corruption on the Palestinian people.

Fourteen years later, Arafat’s successors continue to hire protesters for suicide missions by offering lifetime payments of $3,000 a month to their families, distributed through the Palestinian Authority Martyrs Fund. Thousands of families receive these payments, funded entirely by foreign aid. Needless to say, the politicians take a huge cut for themselves.

The real obstacle to peace is a Palestinian leadership that benefits financially from the ongoing cycle of violence.

It’s a simple cycle: incite violence against Israelis, exploit the predictable military response for publicity, receive payments from sympathetic nations and skim for personal gain.

The leaders of this operation are not motivated to imagine peace with Israel because it would take money out of their pockets. Bypassing such leaders is the key to forging the elusive peace.

In announcing the intention to move the embassy, President Donald Trump noted that 1) the modern State of Israel declared Jerusalem its capital decades ago and has thus governed itself ever since; 2) the American pretense that Tel Aviv is Israel’s capital has not contributed to peace in the region; and 3) most importantly, Jerusalem is the eternal capital of the Jewish people.

This truth has never been taught in Palestinian schools. The fact that Jerusalem is mentioned by name 622 times in the Torah and has been the focus of Jewish prayer for 2,000 years, and has never been the capital of any other nation, doesn’t matter if such facts are not communicated to the population that is being manipulated into violence.

The proposed embassy move, which carries tremendous symbolic weight, bypasses the Palestinian Authority gatekeepers and communicates to the Palestinian-Arab people that Israel and Jerusalem will never be parted. It brings us closer to peace by respecting them enough to assume that violence is neither their only form of communication nor negotiation, when presented with actual facts.

In its coverage of the embassy story, however, the Los Angeles Times noted on its front page that the president’s announcement sent “a sense of anger and apprehension coursing through the Arab world.”

This is the racism of low expectations. How can relocating the diplomatic office to reflect a historical and practical reality create apprehension for Arabs? Who is threatening them? It’s as if the L.A. Times already is justifying the violence it expects from the Arab world.

If more violence comes, and I pray it does not, it will not be because the United States respects Israel’s right to determine its own capital like every other nation. Such violence would arise from the same corrupt leadership that has always benefited from it. If we recognize these leaders and hate peddlers for what they are, we may well hasten the day when new leadership arises that seeks to build a genuine peace and more hopeful future for Palestinians.

This kind of revolution can’t happen if we don’t engage with the people directly. Let’s assume they want peace and they’re open to new ideas. Let’s raise our expectations.

Such assumptions won’t make the road to peace a smooth one,  but at least there will be a road.

Salvador Litvak shares his love of Judaism every day  at

Into the Heart of Chabad

Shabbat begins. I follow Rabbi Reuven Wolf into 770 Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn — Chabad World Headquarters. The prayer space is packed with bearded rabbis in black fedoras. We join a line streaming single-file toward the center of the room. Maximum occupancy by code is probably 350, but there are a thousand inside, and hundreds more arriving by the minute.

I’m here because my friends Rabbi Efraim Mintz and Wolf both invited me, each promising a unique experience. I once witnessed a fan getting trampled by a celebratory mob at a football game. I wonder if I’ve made a good choice.

Physical pressure builds with every step. I trip over someone’s foot and instantly flash back to the trampling, but the guys around me hold me up and carry me forward. It’s too late to turn back. Independent motion is impossible.

We reach the heart of the room. Our bodies sway as waves of energy pass through us. The crowd synchronizes as we chant Psalms, thanking the Eternal One for Shabbat, Torah and life.

We break into a wordless song, a nigun, composed for this very night 40 years ago, when the Lubavitcher Rebbe completed his recovery from a near-fatal heart attack and returned to this room. He created this army of singing, dancing rabbis. They are the teachers and lamplighters he dispatched to the corners of the earth, armed with love, Torah and unshakable faith in their ability to hasten the redemption of humankind.

Though the rebbe died 23 years ago, their work has never slowed. His army returns to Crown Heights in Brooklyn once a year for the International Conference of Chabad-Lubavitch Shluchim (emissaries). They reconnect with friends and family, attend workshops and pray.

The soldiers of the rebbe’s army are not just men, but whole families. This week, the dads are in town. In February, the moms, or rebbetzins, will gather for their conference. Reoxygenated in Crown Heights, these families bring the light of Judaism to 100 countries, a number that grows every year.

The weekend culminates in the Sunday night gala. The event’s infrastructure is breathtaking. I recently attended a fundraising gala at the California Science Center and was impressed by scope of that event, which catered to 1,200 guests.

The Chabad gala welcomes 6,500.

The room is vast. Passing through elaborate security measures, we encounter 650 elegantly decorated tables, high-tech lighting, a camera crane, a massive video display nearly 100 yards long, a revolving stage and hot, tasty food for all.

What really sets this night apart, however, are two stories and an unauthorized nigun.

Rabbi Asher Federman of Chabad Virgin Islands shares how consecutive hurricanes crushed his beloved island just before Rosh Hashanah. Everyone was told to evacuate, but some simply couldn’t.

As Rabbi Federman’s large family boarded the last boat off the island, he bent to hug his children goodbye. Someone suggested he leave with them.

His kids immediately protested: “Daddy can’t leave! Who’ll take care of our Yidden? Who will blow the shofar for them on Rosh Hashanah?”

Rabbi Yonasan Abrams shared the story of a 9-year-old boy in San Diego, whose family had come to know the local Chabad emissaries. The boy asked his father if he could bring a Torah scroll home on Simchat Torah.

Without musical accompaniment or visible direction,

our voices rise in a stadium-like chorus of unrestrained joy.

He asked because his mother lay at home, too weak from chemotherapy to attend services. The next day, the Chabad family led a procession of singing and dancing worshippers, with Torah scrolls, to the boy’s home, where his mom celebrated her last Simchat Torah on earth with immense joy.

The boy dedicated his life to sharing that joy with others by becoming a Chabad emissary himself … the rabbi telling us this tale.

The night traditionally ends with singing and dancing, so the occasional outbursts of song around the room are quelled quickly to accommodate the three-hour program of speeches and videos. At one point, however, the rebbe’s recovery nigun spontaneously fills the room and neither the emcees, nor the orchestra, nor the VIPs can stop it. Without musical accompaniment or visible direction, our voices rise in a stadium-like chorus of unrestrained joy.

That’s when I finally grasp that the sea of matching beards, hats and fedoras actually is composed of rule-breaking iconoclasts like me, fueling up to battle soulless secularism with meaning and purpose. And I am all in.

Salvador Litvak shares his love of Judaism at, where a video of the rebbe’s recovery nigun is available.

I Shot a Sex Offender

I frequently write about the importance of listening to the other side on tough issues, but are some positions so odious that they never deserve a hearing?

A couple of years ago, an Australian friend was directing a documentary about a difficult subject: child sex-abuse in his Jewish community. One of the interviewees was a former abuser who had gone on to live a normal family life for decades.

My friend had filmed a conversation between this man and a well-known sex-abuse survivor who had become a whistleblower. He needed someone to film the former abuser — now living in Los Angeles — reading a statement in his home. I’m a film director too, so my pal reached out to me. I figured that if a victims’ rights advocate was OK with interviewing this man, I was OK with filming him.

As I entered his house, I couldn’t help noticing that it was nicer than mine. Evidently, paying for his crime had not impeded his business. We were about the same age, and from the pictures on the fridge, his kids looked about the same age as mine.

His movements were a bit jittery, but he came across as intelligent and upbeat. It felt weird to be in a room with a man who had been convicted of child sex abuse. As a father, it occurred to me that it might be my obligation to clobber him with my tripod rather than film him.

As his story came out, there were some surprises. He had been relatively young when he committed the crime, about 10 years older than his teenage victim. Both had grown up in an ultra-Orthodox environment where people never expressed sexuality publicly and rarely discussed it privately. Masturbation was strictly prohibited. His ideas about sexuality were juvenile even after he became a legal adult.

The man in my viewfinder could have lain low. Instead, he chose to speak up because he felt a responsibility before God and his community.

He made it sound as if the episode that changed his victim’s life and his own was a bit of experimentation that occurred because he was such an immature adult.

In any case, he did what he did, got caught and paid a price. He then moved to a new country, rebuilt his life, started a family, and never again engaged in criminal conduct, according to his telling of the story. He could have sealed his past in a never-to-be-reopened box, he said, except that he now felt a responsibility to help other boys and young men who engaged in similar “experimentation” and then felt so much remorse that suicide seemed like their only option.

Apparently, this happened pretty often.

He noted that God forgives the truly penitent, and so should we.

As I filmed, my mind was racing. Suppose a kid does a dumb thing that doesn’t even rise to the level of criminal conduct, but he feels so bad about it that he becomes suicidal. He can’t discuss it with anyone in his ultra-Orthodox world, but hearing this guy’s statement might help him realize he’s got options.

The man in my viewfinder could have lain low. Instead, he chose to speak up because he felt a responsibility before God and his community. I wouldn’t call him a hero, but his teshuvah — his atonement and turning — appeared genuine.

If the harm he had caused years earlier was a one-time mistake, then this shoot would serve a valuable purpose.

But what if the film’s director and I were being manipulated to cover for a predator? My gut told me the guy’s statement was genuine, but, as my wife often reminded me, I was not always the best judge of character.

Maybe this guy was and continued to be a pedophile, I thought. Maybe I should just run out of there and trash the footage.

Then I learned that people in his current community knew about his past and accepted him anyway. His wife was supportive. He seemed to be the poster boy for rehabilitation.

Isn’t that a value to be promoted? Sure, but do I want him around my kids? There are limits to positive ideology. A halfway house sounds like a great idea — until the parole board puts it next to your home.

In the end, I completed the shoot and sent the footage to Australia. I pray I participated in a worthy project, and that the man I filmed will live out his life on the right path. Perhaps someone else’s life will even be saved. Please God, let it be so.

Salvador Litvak shares his love of Judaism with a million followers every day at