Over and Over Again
This week we find the Shema and V’ahvata, located in the opening chapters of Deuteronomy.
We read the line: “V’shinantam l’vanecha—and you shall teach them to your children.” On the surface the meaning of this verse seems obvious. Parents are obligated to teach their children everything, in particular Torah. They are commanded to teach their children about their Jewish heritage. They are instructed to teach their children values.
In Hebrew there is a common word for teach, m’lamed. Here the Torah uses the word, shinantam. This word derives its meaning from the Hebrew, to repeat. Why would the Torah use the word, repeat? Why would the Torah command that we repeat these words to our children? Are we to say the words of the V’ahavta over and over again to our children, and even grandchildren?
As a parent I am certain that lessons will most certainly go unheard the moment I have to repeat them over and over again to my children. I say over and over again, “Do your homework. Clean your room. Call your grandparents.” These admonitions are greeted with nonchalance and more often than not go unheeded. Over the years I have learned that my worst parenting moments are when I resort to repeating myself. In that moment I am the only one who is listening to my words.
Then what could the Torah intend? If repetition is the worst teaching method, then what could this unusual word choice mean? The Torah cannot be wrong. An insight must be hidden in its words. This is what I have determined. The best lessons are those that our children see us do repeatedly. Those actions that they see us do are the best Torah we can offer our children. This is what will prove most lasting.
This is what the Torah means by its words, “Repeat them to your children.” The best teaching is what our children see us do, over and over again. If you want your children to be generous, give tzedakah. If you want your children to be learned, then let them see you read and even take classes. If you want your children to be committed to their health, then let them see you exercise. If you want them to find Judaism meaningful then bring Judaism into your own lives.
Over and over, again and again, this is what our children must see us do. They discern what is most important by observing what we do.
“V’shinantam l’vanecha!”
Repeat them to your children.
We read the line: “V’shinantam l’vanecha—and you shall teach them to your children.” On the surface the meaning of this verse seems obvious. Parents are obligated to teach their children everything, in particular Torah. They are commanded to teach their children about their Jewish heritage. They are instructed to teach their children values.
In Hebrew there is a common word for teach, m’lamed. Here the Torah uses the word, shinantam. This word derives its meaning from the Hebrew, to repeat. Why would the Torah use the word, repeat? Why would the Torah command that we repeat these words to our children? Are we to say the words of the V’ahavta over and over again to our children, and even grandchildren?
As a parent I am certain that lessons will most certainly go unheard the moment I have to repeat them over and over again to my children. I say over and over again, “Do your homework. Clean your room. Call your grandparents.” These admonitions are greeted with nonchalance and more often than not go unheeded. Over the years I have learned that my worst parenting moments are when I resort to repeating myself. In that moment I am the only one who is listening to my words.
Then what could the Torah intend? If repetition is the worst teaching method, then what could this unusual word choice mean? The Torah cannot be wrong. An insight must be hidden in its words. This is what I have determined. The best lessons are those that our children see us do repeatedly. Those actions that they see us do are the best Torah we can offer our children. This is what will prove most lasting.
This is what the Torah means by its words, “Repeat them to your children.” The best teaching is what our children see us do, over and over again. If you want your children to be generous, give tzedakah. If you want your children to be learned, then let them see you read and even take classes. If you want your children to be committed to their health, then let them see you exercise. If you want them to find Judaism meaningful then bring Judaism into your own lives.
Over and over, again and again, this is what our children must see us do. They discern what is most important by observing what we do.
“V’shinantam l’vanecha!”
Repeat them to your children.
Not in Our Thoughts But in Our Hands
Why is light the most common religious symbol?
This week we read about the ner tamid. This is usually translated as “eternal light” but the Hebrew suggests instead “always light.” The light must always be tended to. God’s light must always be cared for.
We light flames in remembrance. I think of the shiva candles flickering in the homes of five families in Parkland. I look to the candles adorning make-shift memorials in remembrance of those murdered at the most recent school massacre.
Why do we lean on light?
Light itself cannot be seen. We become aware of its presence when we see the other things that it illuminates. So too with God. We become aware of God’s presence when we behold the beauty of the world, or the love of others, or the goodness of our fellow human beings. So too God’s radiance is obscured when people do evil. No amount of thoughts and prayers can illuminate these dark shadows!
And yet in light’s reflection we may discern God’s reality.
It is found in the faces of young students, glimmering with righteous indignation, now taking the lead to advocate for meaningful gun legislation. I share their passion. I too believe that more must be done to change our laws. Thoughts and prayers can perhaps offer healing to the broken families mourning and grieving. But they cannot save the next child. They cannot protect us from future gunmen. That is the role of our laws. Good laws are meant to offer protection from known dangers and evils.
That is why I will be joining with protesters at New York City’s March for Our Lives on Saturday, March 24 beginning at 10 am. Yes, that day is also Shabbat. But on that March day I will be praying with my feet, to borrow Abraham Joshua Heschel’s phrase. Faith is not just about prayer. It must also be about action. And we can certainly do more. We can most certainly do a better job of protecting our children. Contact me if you would like to join me in New York City on March 24.
Fire requires our efforts to tend to it. That is why the ner tamid is better translated as the “always light.” We become aware of its presence when we feel it. Fire is the process of liberating energy from something combustible. Thus, God becomes real in our lives when we liberate the potential energy within ourselves for good.
People often ask where is God? They most often ask such questions in the midst of pain or following a tragedy, when God’s reflection is obscured. Light and fire are often perceived by the glow or warmth they create rather than in their own realities.
What is the Bible’s most familiar image for God? It is the burning bush.
When Moses stands before the bush he is amazed that it is not consumed by the fire. He had to stare a great while before discovering that the bush was not consumed. Miracles are discerned over time and not immediately. Making God a reality requires effort and time. It is a matter of looking carefully. It is a matter of straining through this past week’s darkness for a glimmer of light to emerge.
It is a matter of always tending the fire. It is not a matter of magic. It is instead a matter of searching for the reflection of light.
It is a matter of knowing when to pray with our heart, and when to pray with our feet.
God’s light is not in our thoughts but in our hands.
This week we read about the ner tamid. This is usually translated as “eternal light” but the Hebrew suggests instead “always light.” The light must always be tended to. God’s light must always be cared for.
We light flames in remembrance. I think of the shiva candles flickering in the homes of five families in Parkland. I look to the candles adorning make-shift memorials in remembrance of those murdered at the most recent school massacre.
Why do we lean on light?
Light itself cannot be seen. We become aware of its presence when we see the other things that it illuminates. So too with God. We become aware of God’s presence when we behold the beauty of the world, or the love of others, or the goodness of our fellow human beings. So too God’s radiance is obscured when people do evil. No amount of thoughts and prayers can illuminate these dark shadows!
And yet in light’s reflection we may discern God’s reality.
It is found in the faces of young students, glimmering with righteous indignation, now taking the lead to advocate for meaningful gun legislation. I share their passion. I too believe that more must be done to change our laws. Thoughts and prayers can perhaps offer healing to the broken families mourning and grieving. But they cannot save the next child. They cannot protect us from future gunmen. That is the role of our laws. Good laws are meant to offer protection from known dangers and evils.
That is why I will be joining with protesters at New York City’s March for Our Lives on Saturday, March 24 beginning at 10 am. Yes, that day is also Shabbat. But on that March day I will be praying with my feet, to borrow Abraham Joshua Heschel’s phrase. Faith is not just about prayer. It must also be about action. And we can certainly do more. We can most certainly do a better job of protecting our children. Contact me if you would like to join me in New York City on March 24.
Fire requires our efforts to tend to it. That is why the ner tamid is better translated as the “always light.” We become aware of its presence when we feel it. Fire is the process of liberating energy from something combustible. Thus, God becomes real in our lives when we liberate the potential energy within ourselves for good.
People often ask where is God? They most often ask such questions in the midst of pain or following a tragedy, when God’s reflection is obscured. Light and fire are often perceived by the glow or warmth they create rather than in their own realities.
What is the Bible’s most familiar image for God? It is the burning bush.
When Moses stands before the bush he is amazed that it is not consumed by the fire. He had to stare a great while before discovering that the bush was not consumed. Miracles are discerned over time and not immediately. Making God a reality requires effort and time. It is a matter of looking carefully. It is a matter of straining through this past week’s darkness for a glimmer of light to emerge.
It is a matter of always tending the fire. It is not a matter of magic. It is instead a matter of searching for the reflection of light.
It is a matter of knowing when to pray with our heart, and when to pray with our feet.
God’s light is not in our thoughts but in our hands.
The Detrimental Impact that Technology Has
A recurring enemy in the Star Trek series, of which I am a fan, is the Borg. They are cybernetic organisms that are linked together. They travel through space, and time, assimilating other species into their collective. They intone the words, “You will be assimilated; resistance is futile.” There is no individual autonomy, only the collective mind.
I think of them as I see how interconnected our lives have become.
Often my young students resist sharing their opinions with me. I push and prod. I explain to them that the meaning of being Jewish is to wrestle with the stories, and laws, found in the weekly readings. They do not get to pick their favorite chapter or verse. Instead it is assigned to them based on what weekend they will become a bar or bat mitzvah. Their task is to figure out what message it has for them. What is the meaning it might offer for their lives?
I realize that this is a weighty task. I recognize that their schooling trains them to memorize facts and figures....
I think of them as I see how interconnected our lives have become.
Often my young students resist sharing their opinions with me. I push and prod. I explain to them that the meaning of being Jewish is to wrestle with the stories, and laws, found in the weekly readings. They do not get to pick their favorite chapter or verse. Instead it is assigned to them based on what weekend they will become a bar or bat mitzvah. Their task is to figure out what message it has for them. What is the meaning it might offer for their lives?
I realize that this is a weighty task. I recognize that their schooling trains them to memorize facts and figures....
Teaching Swimming
Twice a day we recite the familiar phrase of the Shema, “You shall diligently teach them to your children.” (Deuteronomy 6:7) What are we obligated to teach? The tradition provides us with specific answers. Parents must teach their children Torah and a craft. Some add, to teach them to swim too. (Kiddushin 29a)
The Talmud asks, why do parents need to ensure their children learn a craft. So that they might be self-sufficient and capable of earning a livelihood. Not to teach children a trade is akin to instructing them how to steal. And why swimming lessons? Because their lives might depend on it. (Kiddushin 30b) Swimming is a basic survival skill. Children who do not learn survival skills such as swimming and the practical skills of a craft can not succeed in any society – ancient or modern. The Talmud is very practical. Like today’s parents it wants to make children into successful, well-adjusted adults.
But the Talmud also wants to be sure these children become Jewish adults.
And this is why teaching Torah is the most important obligation a Jewish parent faces. This is also the most difficult challenge. Our culture values not Torah learning but the practical and survival skills of preparing for a career and saving lives. In fact we have allowed Torah learning to become only a practical skill. Children master Hebrew so that they might have a beautiful bar/bat-mitzvah. Learning Torah means practicing a Torah portion so that on that day the reading will be flawless and the performance masterful.
Yes, Torah is a skill but it is not a reading skill. Torah is a survival skill that also helps to shape success and happiness.
Ours is a generation that was taught only the skills of reading Torah and not an understanding of its beauty and meaning. The power of Torah is not hidden. Torah shapes moral human beings.
Now we are the parents. And we are noticeably uncomfortable and unsure of ourselves when God asks us to teach Torah to our children. If we don’t know, we can’t teach. Hillel responds: “What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor. That is the whole Torah. All the rest is commentary. Now go and learn.” (Shabbat 31a)
The Talmud further advises: If parents must choose between educating their children or themselves, parents take precedence. (Kiddushin 29b) An analogy: If, in an emergency, the oxygen mask drops, first put on your mask and then your child’s. Why do airlines advise you to discount your instincts? The wisdom is simple: If you pass out from lack of oxygen, you can’t help your child. Instincts are not always right.
And so it is with Torah. Torah is a survival skill. If you don’t learn Torah your child won’t either. All the wonderful children’s programs will only work wonders if parents are there – in body and spirit – with their children.
Judaism’s magic is most felt at home. If there is no Torah at home, Torah will remain a reading skill that one masters by age 13 and then graduates from needing. Why do I need Torah, thinks the recent 13 year old, when my parents don’t?
Why do I love Torah? It is the same reason I love swimming. My parents took me swimming.
The Talmud asks, why do parents need to ensure their children learn a craft. So that they might be self-sufficient and capable of earning a livelihood. Not to teach children a trade is akin to instructing them how to steal. And why swimming lessons? Because their lives might depend on it. (Kiddushin 30b) Swimming is a basic survival skill. Children who do not learn survival skills such as swimming and the practical skills of a craft can not succeed in any society – ancient or modern. The Talmud is very practical. Like today’s parents it wants to make children into successful, well-adjusted adults.
But the Talmud also wants to be sure these children become Jewish adults.
And this is why teaching Torah is the most important obligation a Jewish parent faces. This is also the most difficult challenge. Our culture values not Torah learning but the practical and survival skills of preparing for a career and saving lives. In fact we have allowed Torah learning to become only a practical skill. Children master Hebrew so that they might have a beautiful bar/bat-mitzvah. Learning Torah means practicing a Torah portion so that on that day the reading will be flawless and the performance masterful.
Yes, Torah is a skill but it is not a reading skill. Torah is a survival skill that also helps to shape success and happiness.
Ours is a generation that was taught only the skills of reading Torah and not an understanding of its beauty and meaning. The power of Torah is not hidden. Torah shapes moral human beings.
Now we are the parents. And we are noticeably uncomfortable and unsure of ourselves when God asks us to teach Torah to our children. If we don’t know, we can’t teach. Hillel responds: “What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor. That is the whole Torah. All the rest is commentary. Now go and learn.” (Shabbat 31a)
The Talmud further advises: If parents must choose between educating their children or themselves, parents take precedence. (Kiddushin 29b) An analogy: If, in an emergency, the oxygen mask drops, first put on your mask and then your child’s. Why do airlines advise you to discount your instincts? The wisdom is simple: If you pass out from lack of oxygen, you can’t help your child. Instincts are not always right.
And so it is with Torah. Torah is a survival skill. If you don’t learn Torah your child won’t either. All the wonderful children’s programs will only work wonders if parents are there – in body and spirit – with their children.
Judaism’s magic is most felt at home. If there is no Torah at home, Torah will remain a reading skill that one masters by age 13 and then graduates from needing. Why do I need Torah, thinks the recent 13 year old, when my parents don’t?
Why do I love Torah? It is the same reason I love swimming. My parents took me swimming.
Tetzaveh and Making Light Again and Again
Thousands of years ago we decided the Torah is so important that we would read it in one year’s time and that we would repeat this year after year. Every single year we read about Adam and Eve and Moses’ death. Every fall we look anew at God’s promise to Abraham. Every spring the sacrifices and the laws of keeping kosher. Every summer the mitzvah of the tallis and the story of the spies scouting the land.
And every winter we examine the words we uncover again this week, those about the eternal light: “You shall further instruct the Israelites to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly.” (Exodus 27:20)
Regardless of the year the very same stories and the very same laws punctuate our seasons. The portions are how we count the year. They are how we mark time. Their words are married to the seasons as warmth is to summer and snow is to winter. Just as spring will soon welcome us with its flowers, we will continue to march through the Torah. And when, this October, we finish the last chapter of Deuteronomy we will begin again with the first of Genesis.
There is no break in our rhythm. There is no rest in our learning.
It is the same chapters and the same verses year in and year out.
Why? Why not read something different? Why not tell a different story? Perhaps a Hasidic tale might inspire. Why not read other laws? Perhaps a Talmudic discussion might enthrall.
And yet we persist. We refuse to let go. We affirm that everything revolves around Torah. Everything stands on this scroll.
Such reverence for the ancient word is not unique to Judaism. All religious traditions share the belief that the older the word, the closer you reach the original source of inspiration. Whether it is Sinai, Jesus death or Mohammed’s life, when you read these words our traditions affirm the closer you approach truth. And yet the mere recitation of these words does not offer truth. It is our engagement with the word that allows truth to unfold.
We reaffirm that learning is not about the mastery of new material (should I learn how to code?), but the taking to heart of an inheritance. In our new hearts the ancient traditions are refined. When we read these words from the Book of Exodus—again—we are renewed. The Torah reading is not intended to be a regurgitation of the old. We are not meant to mouth ancient words but instead to make them our own.
We believe that wisdom can only be derived from an ancient pool. Learning can only be achieved by a regular return to a revered text (or perhaps a favorite book). Wisdom is about growing. It cannot be Googled. Answers to questions are not the same as the pursuit of wisdom. If this were the case, if this were our faith, then everyone would shout, “Hey rabbi you read that story last year. You talked about the ner tamid last February. Tell us something new!”
That is exactly the point. We did read this same story last year. But we are different. The word must be married to experience. The same old word must this year be learned by a different older person. Furthermore we might sit with someone else. It is in the music of discussion, and debate, that we truly discover meaning and arrive closer to truth.
We can only learn, we can only grow, we can only become wise if we return, together, to the same words. That is our belief. Torah is supposed to change us. Torah is intended to give our lives meaning.
Recently I read about a university professor who offered his students the following hypothetical. He guaranteed that he would award them all “A’s” in his writing class as long as they promised not to tell anyone. The catch is of course that in addition to no assignments, they would also not receive any feedback. 85% of the students said they would accept the offer. They needed the grade, they argued.
John Warner concludes: “Students are not coddled or entitled, they are defeated. We have divorced school from learning, and this is the result.”
The mystical work of the Zohar writes that the ner tamid, the eternal light, is not really about physical light but spiritual. It is the light of Torah.
The Hebrew of the verse offers a glimmer of this understanding. It suggests that this light must be lifted. The light cannot burn without human agency. It must be maintained by our work.
Every year we must discover new meaning within the same words. We learn. We are renewed.
And perhaps one year we might even grow wise—together.
And every winter we examine the words we uncover again this week, those about the eternal light: “You shall further instruct the Israelites to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly.” (Exodus 27:20)
Regardless of the year the very same stories and the very same laws punctuate our seasons. The portions are how we count the year. They are how we mark time. Their words are married to the seasons as warmth is to summer and snow is to winter. Just as spring will soon welcome us with its flowers, we will continue to march through the Torah. And when, this October, we finish the last chapter of Deuteronomy we will begin again with the first of Genesis.
There is no break in our rhythm. There is no rest in our learning.
It is the same chapters and the same verses year in and year out.
Why? Why not read something different? Why not tell a different story? Perhaps a Hasidic tale might inspire. Why not read other laws? Perhaps a Talmudic discussion might enthrall.
And yet we persist. We refuse to let go. We affirm that everything revolves around Torah. Everything stands on this scroll.
Such reverence for the ancient word is not unique to Judaism. All religious traditions share the belief that the older the word, the closer you reach the original source of inspiration. Whether it is Sinai, Jesus death or Mohammed’s life, when you read these words our traditions affirm the closer you approach truth. And yet the mere recitation of these words does not offer truth. It is our engagement with the word that allows truth to unfold.
We reaffirm that learning is not about the mastery of new material (should I learn how to code?), but the taking to heart of an inheritance. In our new hearts the ancient traditions are refined. When we read these words from the Book of Exodus—again—we are renewed. The Torah reading is not intended to be a regurgitation of the old. We are not meant to mouth ancient words but instead to make them our own.
We believe that wisdom can only be derived from an ancient pool. Learning can only be achieved by a regular return to a revered text (or perhaps a favorite book). Wisdom is about growing. It cannot be Googled. Answers to questions are not the same as the pursuit of wisdom. If this were the case, if this were our faith, then everyone would shout, “Hey rabbi you read that story last year. You talked about the ner tamid last February. Tell us something new!”
That is exactly the point. We did read this same story last year. But we are different. The word must be married to experience. The same old word must this year be learned by a different older person. Furthermore we might sit with someone else. It is in the music of discussion, and debate, that we truly discover meaning and arrive closer to truth.
We can only learn, we can only grow, we can only become wise if we return, together, to the same words. That is our belief. Torah is supposed to change us. Torah is intended to give our lives meaning.
Recently I read about a university professor who offered his students the following hypothetical. He guaranteed that he would award them all “A’s” in his writing class as long as they promised not to tell anyone. The catch is of course that in addition to no assignments, they would also not receive any feedback. 85% of the students said they would accept the offer. They needed the grade, they argued.
John Warner concludes: “Students are not coddled or entitled, they are defeated. We have divorced school from learning, and this is the result.”
The mystical work of the Zohar writes that the ner tamid, the eternal light, is not really about physical light but spiritual. It is the light of Torah.
The Hebrew of the verse offers a glimmer of this understanding. It suggests that this light must be lifted. The light cannot burn without human agency. It must be maintained by our work.
Every year we must discover new meaning within the same words. We learn. We are renewed.
And perhaps one year we might even grow wise—together.
Parenting Advice
In my Yom Kippur evening sermon I meditated on technology and its implications to the world of prayer. What follows are some more insights about smart phones and their potential damaging affects on our children. I admit it is from the most unlikely of sources, but the wisdom is still sound and worth noting.
Louis C.K. offers this parenting advice: "I'm not here to make them happy.... I'm not raising the children. I'm raising the grown-ups that they're going to be."
Judaism might reframe this. Our tradition reminds us that our goal is not happiness but goodness. Our task as parents is to raise menschen. Joy is a byproduct sometimes, but not always, of doing right. Joy and happiness are not as well always synonymous. Happiness can be realized by what we often call self-fulfillment. Therein lies the danger. The self can too often be fulfilled at the expense of others.
That is why looking into the eyes of others and not into the screens we hold in our hands is the better way to nurture the joy that sometimes comes from pursuing the good. And our tradition would add: even if I do not find this joy, or my child does not, at least someone's hurt has been lifted and goodness has been gained.
Joy should not be our goal. It results from other actions. It is only sometimes achieved. Adding good to our world is instead our sacred task.
Louis C.K. offers this parenting advice: "I'm not here to make them happy.... I'm not raising the children. I'm raising the grown-ups that they're going to be."
Judaism might reframe this. Our tradition reminds us that our goal is not happiness but goodness. Our task as parents is to raise menschen. Joy is a byproduct sometimes, but not always, of doing right. Joy and happiness are not as well always synonymous. Happiness can be realized by what we often call self-fulfillment. Therein lies the danger. The self can too often be fulfilled at the expense of others.
That is why looking into the eyes of others and not into the screens we hold in our hands is the better way to nurture the joy that sometimes comes from pursuing the good. And our tradition would add: even if I do not find this joy, or my child does not, at least someone's hurt has been lifted and goodness has been gained.
Joy should not be our goal. It results from other actions. It is only sometimes achieved. Adding good to our world is instead our sacred task.
January-February Newsletter
What follows is my January-February 2012 Newsletter article. Sorry for the delay in posting this article.
Here are my answers to our students’ Ask the Rabbi
questions.
Can you get the words
in English for your bar/bat mitzvah?
No. I assume this
question is about how hard Hebrew can sometimes be to read and chant. Every one
of our students has always been able to lead the prayers. That is why we meet with students for over
six months to help get them ready.
Sometimes students write notes for themselves in their books to help
them remember how to say difficult words, but you can never do that in the
Torah scroll. Every student at the JCB
reads from the Torah scroll. That takes
hard work and practice. Bar/bat mitzvah
means taking responsibility for your own Judaism. It is not always easy. I believe that the things that are the best
are not those things that are the easiest.
I know you can do it! Besides you
get to read from the most important Jewish book! On your bar/bat mitzvah day the most
important job is yours not any professionals.
That is what it means to become a bar/bat mitzvah.
How did you train to
become a rabbi?
After graduating from college (Franklin & Marshall, a
great college, with a bad mascot, the diplomats) I spent five years studying in
rabbinical school (Hebrew Union College).
The first year of rabbinical school was in Jerusalem where I met my
wife, Susie, who is also a rabbi. Oops I
think that is off topic. So that is a
lot of school. But the most important
thing about being a rabbi is that you have to keep learning. So every year I go back to Jerusalem to learn
even more. To be a rabbi means to love
learning, and of course love people.
What is your favorite
Torah story?
My favorites are the ones I find the most challenging. I continue to be challenged by the story
about Moses hitting the rock in anger.
Because of this God does not allow him to enter the Promised Land. I have always found this to be a very harsh
punishment for what appears to be a small mistake. So I keep searching and looking to see if
maybe Moses’ mistake was much bigger than what I originally thought. Maybe part of the lesson is that even small
mistakes can sometimes have really big consequences.
Hi, what did you think
of Charlie Sheen’s comment?
Shalom! Unfortunately
antisemitism still exists. People hate
for all different reasons. People blame
others for their own mistakes and failures all the time. Sometimes that looks really ugly. Charlie Sheen is not the only example of a
person who blames the Jewish people for his own problems. That list is very long. In the end it is just really sad that such a
talented man is destroying his life, and also bringing down those who are
trying to support him. I used to really
enjoy the show, but don’t watch it any more.
Why is Christmas so
celebrative and has Santa (who isn’t real), and lights and everything, and
Hanukkah is only presents and menorahs?
First of all I would not tell your Christian friends that
their hero is not real. That is for them
to decide. Second it is not a
competition. Third we live in a country
where most people are Christian so it appears that Christmas is better because
it is all over the radio, and in stores, and in public displays. Instead of looking at what you don’t have, try
enjoying the pretty lights. I like how
they make the early dark nights brighter!
It won’t make you less Jewish to enjoy Christmas lights, or even sing
Christmas songs. Most important you have
to compare the whole package. Hanukkah
is a minor holiday. Present giving for
Hanukkah is a really new thing. I
promise you that the Maccabees were not giving each other presents or even
playing dreidle 2,200 years ago. They
were too busy fighting the war! You have
to look at all Jewish holidays not just the one that comes near Christmas. Sukkot is a major holiday and is for example all
about joy and happiness. My sukkah is
even decorated with lights. Or look at
Passover, another major holiday. How fun
is it to find the afikomen? The most
important thing is to remember that Judaism is all about joy and
celebration. I look forward to dancing
with you during the hora at your bar/bat mitzvah! How much more fun does there need to be?
Keep asking your questions.
They continue to be the best way to learn!
November-December Newsletter
What follows is my November-December Newsletter message in which I answer our students’ “Ask the Rabbi”
questions.
How did God get the idea for Hebrew?
What is my favorite
color?
Blue. I like the blue
of the Israeli flag. I like the blue of
the sky. Blue has always been a favorite
Jewish color which is why it is often found in a hamsa, a Sephardic
amulet. There is in fact a synagogue in
Safed, Israel, the heart of Jewish mysticism, whose interior is painted
blue. Everywhere you turn in Safed you
find this blue. Oops, sorry you just
asked about my favorite color. It is
blue like the sky.
When is my birthday?
July 1, 1964. 21 Tammuz 5724. The Torah portion Pinhas was read in synagogue on Shabbat a few days later. Look at what you can learn from the internet!
July 1, 1964. 21 Tammuz 5724. The Torah portion Pinhas was read in synagogue on Shabbat a few days later. Look at what you can learn from the internet!
What is my favorite
food?
I love hummus. It is
healthy and delicious and can be added to anything. Zohan was wrong, however. It should not be used in your hair. You really should try some hummus.
How did God get the idea for Hebrew?
I don’t think God invented the language you are now
struggling to understand. People write
languages. The coolest thing about
Hebrew is that it has so many different words for God. It is just like what you learn about the
Eskimos and snow. We love God so much
that we have a lot of different names for God.
Our different names are how we try to get closer to God and how we try
to bring more God into the world.
What is my Hebrew name?
What is my Hebrew name?
My Hebrew name is Shmaryah.
The name means God is my guard or perhaps I am God’s guardian. You decide.
I am named for my mother’s grandmother Sarah, who was the most devout
person in our family. Interesting. Mysterious.
If you mean what is your Hebrew name, you should ask your mom or
dad. Make sure to ask for whom you are
named as well. That is the most
important part. It is a wonderful Jewish
custom that we are named for someone who has recently died. That way we keep their memory alive.
Why do we say a prayer
before we eat?
Actually you are supposed to say a prayer before and after
you eat. It is not really a prayer in
which we are asking for something. It is
instead a blessing that we are giving thanks for something. Before we eat we pause and say, “Thank you.”
First we thank God for blessing us with enough food to eat. It is just like thanking your mom or dad for
cooking dinner for you or buying dinner for you. I hope you do that too. You should always say “thank you.” Nothing should ever be expected or taken for
granted, even the food that you eat.
That is why it is always good to stop before you stuff your mouth with
food and say, “Thank you.” The more we
say thank you the more we are likely to count everything that happens, even the
ordinary, everyday stuff, as wonderful.
You should never think that everything you have is deserved. Instead think that everything you have is a
gift. Every day that you get a gift you
should say thanks. The more you say a
prayer before you eat the more you will become thankful. That is a great state of mind.
Is God Catholic or
Jewish?
God is God. People are Catholic or Jewish, Muslim or Hindu, Baptist or Buddhist. There are many ways to pray to God. I like the Jewish way the best. That is part of what makes me a rabbi. That does not make other ways bad. I have my favorite. I hope yours is the same. But God does not have a favorite. God wants everyone to do his or her best. God wants everyone to try to make the world a little better. God wants everyone to start every day and every meal with a thank you. God wants everyone to think that every day and every life is a gift.
God is God. People are Catholic or Jewish, Muslim or Hindu, Baptist or Buddhist. There are many ways to pray to God. I like the Jewish way the best. That is part of what makes me a rabbi. That does not make other ways bad. I have my favorite. I hope yours is the same. But God does not have a favorite. God wants everyone to do his or her best. God wants everyone to try to make the world a little better. God wants everyone to start every day and every meal with a thank you. God wants everyone to think that every day and every life is a gift.
Keep asking your questions.
That is the best way to learn more.
Asking questions has always been one of the things Jews do best.
Testing Limits
Testing the Limits - by Marjorie Ingall; Tablet Magazine
This is an interesting article about standardized testing. Given that our children are now in the thick of taking standardized test the author's thoughts should give us pause. Is there a correlation between improved teaching and standardized tests as politicians argue? I think not. I have always found these troubles. How can one objectify learning. Does a 5 mean you have learned more? Does an 800 mean you are a better writer? Such scores are pyrrhic victories. The notion that all students, especially young fourth graders, can be placed on the same level and evaluated by objective measures is impossible.
Ingall writes as well about what should be our communal concern:
This is an interesting article about standardized testing. Given that our children are now in the thick of taking standardized test the author's thoughts should give us pause. Is there a correlation between improved teaching and standardized tests as politicians argue? I think not. I have always found these troubles. How can one objectify learning. Does a 5 mean you have learned more? Does an 800 mean you are a better writer? Such scores are pyrrhic victories. The notion that all students, especially young fourth graders, can be placed on the same level and evaluated by objective measures is impossible.
Ingall writes as well about what should be our communal concern:
As Jews, we dig community. Al tifrosh min hatzibur, we’re told: Do not separate yourself from the community. Our prayers are written overwhelmingly in the first person plural. But standardized testing is the furthest thing from communitarian. Wealthy families buy tutoring. Upper-middle-class kids come into school with the huge advantage of being read to more often at home. Testing enforces existing divisions and even increases them. And being Jewish means you shouldn’t just worry about your kids; you should be concerned about everyone’s kids. That means working to improve all schools—yes, even if your kid goes to Jewish Day School—in meaningful ways, because that’s part of the responsibility of living in a democracy.The increasing attempt to reduce to numbers what is a subjective endeavor is a doomed enterprise. Teaching can never be quantified. It is an art. It can only be measured in the transformation of a student's soul.