Category Archives: Talmud

Ive never done Talmud.

Ive never seen anyone do Talmud, except on the pages of books Ive read, whose stories take readers inside the lives of devout observers of Judaism.

One of those books is The Chosen, by Chaim Potok, the story of an unlikely friendship between two teenage Jewish boys the Orthodox Reuven and the ultra-Orthodox Danny, whose father is a Hasidic rabbi. (Dannys calling to study psychology is at odds with his fathers dream that he become a rabbi.)

Its been a few years since Ive read The Chosen, although Im now reading another Potok book, My Name is Asher Lev, about a Hasidic teen with a gift for creating art.

But I remain drawn to the scenes in The Chosen, where Reuven and Danny are invited to join the rabbi and other Hasidic men in a session of studying Talmud.

Its a collection of centuries-old writings on Jewish laws and legends. Studying Talmud was probably what 12-year-old Jesus was doing in the temple in Jerusalem, when Joseph and Mary noticed he was missing, and frantically searched for him (Luke 2:41:52).

I never gave much thought to what Jesus might have experienced sitting among the teachers, listening, asking questions until I read the description of Danny and Reuven doing Talmud, in The Chosen.

Studying religious writings in my experience, and I suspect in the experience of many people of faith is serious, solemn work. For Lutherans like me, it tends to be a left-brain activity, a cognitive, systematic process, sometimes tedious, sometimes satisfying, but never joy-filled.

Thats why the Talmud scene from The Chosen stood out in my memory.

Most of the men in the group certainly the rabbi, Dannys father had read those writings hundreds of times. Yet, by reading together in a group, and thinking out loud about what they read and how they read it, they came up with insights that were fresh, delightful and surprising.

Something similar happens in a good study group like the current Wednesday morning Bible study on Exodus, facilitated by my churchs gifted interim pastor.

The group experience is vital, whether were all in the same room or whether were linked via an interactive computer program. We need to see each others faces, tell our stories and share our insights.

At its best, our study like the Talmud study in The Chosen is a right-brain, creative, colorful activity. Its work that feels like play.

The roles of the teachers and students are often blurred, even reversed.

Group study of sacred writings is not the same as worship, but its just as essential to a rich, full faith walk.

Im starting to understand why not-quite-teenage Jesus was so drawn to it.

In the story in Luke, Jesus comes off as a little bit sassy to his understandably worried parents, when he says, How is it that you sought me? Did you not know that I must be in my Fathers house?

I can imagine Jesus saying something more like this: Mom, Dad, I got caught up in the joy of joining others in experiencing the mysterious, spiritual richness of the written word. I cant wait to do it again.

Read the original post:

Jerde: Good study groups add to experience of sacred writings - telegraphherald.com

When I was a child, the strongest presence I felt in our house in Brooklyn was my fathers absence. It clung to his possessions and places, like the drop-leaf desk at which he worked when he was home, and the cellar where he had built the desk. Only my father used the cellar, with its massive table saw, tools hanging in neat rows and shelves holding baby food jars with nails and screws sorted by size.

To me, my father was as tall as the Empire State Building and knew as much as the encyclopedia. I loved the feel of his huge, callused hand, a big, safe house around my little one. But he was rarely home. Most days, evenings and even many weekends, he was at work or at the Brownsville-East New York Liberal Party headquarters, where he was an officer.

The sense that I couldnt reach my father stayed with me into adulthood. I often dreamed that I saw him across a room or on a train platform but couldnt get to him.

After he retired at 70, my father had more time, but he always ceded conversation to my mother. When I visited, she and I would become engrossed in talk and he would retreat to his desk to pay bills or write letters. If he answered when I called home, hed say as soon as he heard my voice, Ill tell Mother youre on the phone. Hed stay on while she picked up an extension, but before long, Id realize hed stopped speaking.

Wheres Daddy? Id ask.

But there was one situation in which my father would stay on the phone: if I happened to call when my mother was out, and I got him talking about his past. I once asked why. Maybe because its pent-up words, he said. I like to reminisce. I cant reminisce with Mother because she doesnt like it. She complains, You only want to talk about people who are dead.

The dead people my father liked to talk about were from his childhood in Warsaw, where he was born in 1908 and lived for 12 years before coming to the United States. Until he was 7, he lived, together with his mother and sister (his father had died when he was very young), in a household headed by his grandfather, a white-bearded, ultra-Orthodox Hasid who arose each morning at 5 to study a large Talmud.

My father never tired of describing his grandparents: their large, gaslit apartment, the way his grandfather held sugar cubes in his mouth while sipping tea from a glass. He never tired of talking about the Hasidic neighborhood, the crowded streets lined with stores, the beggars who came into the courtyard along with vendors offering to sharpen knives.

And I never tired of listening. I soon decided I could bring back to life World War I Hasidic Warsaw by including it in a book about my fathers life. This gave me license to spend hours talking to him conversations that were not recreation, but research.

My father, in his early 90s, is in the hospital after surgery for an infected gallbladder. I walk with him down the hall, accompanied by an IV pole on wheels. In an alcove with chairs, we sit and continue the conversation weve been having all afternoon. Though it breaks my heart to see him so weak, I treasure the hours the days the hospital gives us to talk.

When we talked about his past, my father was as pleased that I wanted to listen as I was that he wanted to talk. I think most fathers are pleased when their children want to hear what no one else can tell them what the world was like for them when they were growing up. My father died in 2006. In his last years, I knew that the man who looked to me like my father looked to the world like an old man. But when we talked, Id forget he was old. And Id bask in what had seemed impossible when I was young: my fathers undivided, unlimited attention.

Deborah Tannen is a professor of linguistics at Georgetown University and the author, most recently, of Finding My Father, from which this essay is adapted.

Link:

Commentary: As my father aged, the words began to flow - Bend Bulletin

In a few days, it will be my second time celebrating Fathers Day as your dad. What a gorgeous and, at the same time, heartbreaking year it has been.

Last Fathers Day you could not yet walk or talk, and now I watch in amazement as you run, climb, sing, and speak in clear, full sentences. This morning, we took a stroll together down a nature path. You picked up a long stick and tapped it against the ground as we walked, counting forcefully with each tap: One! Two! Three! You continued until you reached eleven, and then started over again. Our prayer book talks aboutnissim bchol yom, everyday miracles, of which this was surely one.

Of course, all this growing has taken place against the strange, bleak backdrop of the pandemic that has lasted most of your lifetime. For as long as you can remember, this has been the state of the world. This year, you did not attend synagogue or school. You did not travel on an airplane or eat inside a restaurant.

It is only in the past couple of months that you have started to spend time with more adults and other children. For most of the past year, it was just the three of usyou, me, and Momstaying inside together, day after long, tedious day, trying our best to be safe.

For as tough as it has been, I admit that there have been some bright moments of life in COVID-land. In no other world would I have been at home to witness your first steps and your first words, to be a part of your waking up, falling asleep, and so many other little moments in between almost every day. My own (truly fantastic) father, your Papa, was not able to do that with me. His father was not able to do that with him. But I got to spend this precious, irreplaceable time with you, and for that, I will always be grateful. As I reflect on this Fathers Day, no gift could be more valuable than this.

If Im really honest, there was a part of me that was grateful that we could keep you tightly wrapped in our little bubble for a bit longer than we would have otherwise. There was a way that quarantine felt a lot like the first months after bringing you home from the hospital. We barely went out or had anyone else over. Our whole job was to watch over you. I remember the hours upon hours I would swaddle you so tightly in a blanket and walk you through the house, tucked securely in the crook of my arm. In some ways, this year felt like putting you back into that sweet bundle, holding you close and keeping you safe, as the world churned in chaos just outside our door.

If Im really honest, there was a part of me that was grateful that we could keep you tightly wrapped in our little bubble for a bit longer than we would have otherwise.

I know, though, that keeping you permanently wrapped up tight is not what parents were put here to do. The Talmud teaches that a parents essential job is to prepare their children to go out into the world, including offering the highly specific requirement to teach you how to swim (Babylonian Talmud, Kiddushin 29a). The medieval commentators tend to read that provision quite literally, with Rashi (1040-1104) drolly stating the obvious, that in the event of a shipwreck, it is useful to know how to swim.

However, I cannot help but read it much more expansively: the commandment to teach ones child to swim is about a fundamental recognition of the limits of my power as a parent. I cannot be at your side every moment, and there will come a time soon enough when you certainly would not want me to be. My job is to give you the skills, strength, courage, and character to safely venture into the world on your own. Life under lockdown has meant I could put off that job for a little while, but as life continues and more becomes possible every day, my real task as your dad now truly begins.

Maybe it has already begun. A couple of weeks ago, we were sitting together on a big lawn in a park. You began to wander away from me, exploring other patches of grass and searching for interesting rocks and sticks, and carefully eyeing the bigger kids at play. My first instinct was to get up and trot along beside you. But I stayed put and just watched. You ventured farther and farther, fully engrossed in your expedition until you almost reached the other side of the lawn. Then, you suddenly turned back, gave a huge smile, and came running until you collapsed into my arms in a fit of giggles. A few moments later, you stood back up and were off and running again. It was so very sweet to behold.

Dad

Rabbi Adam Greenwald is the Vice President for Jewish Engagement atAmerican Jewish University.

View post:

From a Rabbi to His Daughter: Teach Her to SwimAnd to Run - Jewish Journal

This First Person article is the experience ofRabbiKliel Rose, the spiritual leader of Congregation Etz Chayim, who was born in Israel and grew up in Winnipeg.For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

I grew up in the north end of Winnipeg, in the Seven Oaks neighbourhood. To be more precise, our house was located on Matheson Avenue, west of Main Street between Salter and Powers streets.

I lived less than a block away from the Talmud Torah day school and the synagogue; both were housed in the same building. These were two significant institutions in my life as a child.

Across from this was Matheson Park, where I spent a great deal of my time playing with friends and neighbours.

Our street was filled with many Jewish families as well as people from various backgrounds.

I have so many wonderful memories from my childhood; my friends and I were free to roam and explore easily within this small and secure contained area of our city.

I must add that rarely, as someone who always wore a kippa (a skullcap, perhaps what might now be referred to as a visible minority), did I ever feel that I would be threatened or attacked for being openly Jewish.

That perception of security unravelled for me rapidly when I was only seven years old. My outlook about my personal safety, as someone who was identifiably Jewish, shifted in a dramatic way.

While my recollection of the details are a little foggy, I do recall hearing that one of the older students from the synagogue I attended, who lived a block over from us (someone I deeply admired who taught me how to chant Torah), had been beaten up on a Friday night while walking home on Shabbat.

His attackers noticed he was wearing a kippa and decided "that this Jew needed to learn a lesson" and understand why his kind was not tolerated in their neighbourhood.

This particular incident deeply impacted me.

In some ways it fractured my innocence as well as the freedom I had in meandering without difficulty in this magical place. My relationship to my neighbourhood was never quite the same.

I never stopped wearing a kippa, but as a result of this incident, I became more vigilant about my circumstances and who was around me.

To have to carry that fear and anxiety at seven years old felt terribly unfair.

My perspective over 40 years later has not changed.

Just this month on June 6 there was what police called a targeted attack on a Muslim family walking in their neighbourhood in London, Ont. Four members of one family were killed and a nine-year-old boy remains in critical condition in the hospital.

While I cannot fathom the magnitude of pain being felt by the members of this family and their community, I can relate in some way to the fear and the panic felt by someone whose religious identity is easily noticed every time they enter public space.

There is no room for such acts of hate in our society; this latest act, and others like it, serve as a direct affront to God, to values which are held dearly by the overwhelming majority of Canadians.

Jews know all too well what it is to be victims of suspicion and hatred based on our religion and ethnicity. Perhaps this places added responsibility on us to call out hatred and injustice when we see it.

The time has come for all the best of religious conviction to denounce the activities and beliefs of those who are filled with the worst of ideological credence, before they desecrate the democratic values we hold dear as Canadians.

On behalf of my family and congregation, I offer my deepest condolences to the family, their loved ones and the entire Canadian Muslim community. We also add our prayers of healing for the recovery of the nine-year-old boy who remains in the hospital.

For the sake of our children and for the preservation of our sacred Canadians values, we must resolve to speak out against xenophobia, antisemitism, Islamophobia, racism, homophobia and hatred of any kind that seeks to diminish the value of any human being.

May the memory of the Afzaal family continue to be a blessing.

Read the rest here:

There is no room for acts of hate in our society, rabbi says after Muslim family run down in London, Ont. - CBC.ca

In this weeks parsha the Jewish people once again express discontent that there is no food and no water, and [they are] disgusted with the insubstantial food (Bamidbar 21:5). Hashem sent venomous snakes to attack them and many people died. Hashem then instructed Moshe to place a copper serpent on a pole and it will be that anyone who was bitten will look at it and live. It is noted in Melachim II (18:4) that King Chizkiyahu destroyed that copper snake, which the Jewish people had begun to worship.

Concerning this event, the Talmud (Rosh Hashanah 29a) asks: Did the serpent kill, or did the serpent preserve life? The explanation is given that when the Jewish people looked upward and subjected themselves to their Father in Heaven, they were healed, but if not, they died.

To expound on this concept, the Zera Shimshon cites the Talmud (Brachos 33a) which teaches that if one is in the midst of his prayers, even if a snake is wrapped around his heel, he may not interrupt his prayer. However, the Talmud notes that this is only with regard to a snake, because if one does not threaten the snake, it will not bite him and will eventually uncoil and not harm the individual. The Shulchan Aruch (104) clarifies that if the snake is poised to strike, though, then one should immediately move from his place.

The Talmud then tells of R Chanina ben Dosa who was called to help in a city where the inhabitants were being injured by a snake. When R Chanina saw the snake emerging from its hole, he placed his heel over the mouth of the hole. The snake bit him and died. R Chanina then brought the snake on his shoulders to the beis medrash and announced: It is not the snake that kills, but the transgression that kills.

The Talmud in Yerushalmi explains that R Chanina was in the middle of prayer when the snake bit him, but he did not feel anything as he was so intensely focused on his prayers. The potency of this particular snakes venom was contingent on reaching a source of water first. Hashem made a miracle and created a wellspring beneath his feet and he was saved. Our sages discuss whether it was proper for R Chanina to step on the snake, thereby placing himself in danger. Doing so goes against the admonition of our sages (Shabbos 32a) that one should never stand in a place of danger and say that Hashem will perform a miracle for him, lest no miracle will be performed. And even if a miracle is performed, it would be deducted from his merits.

The Zera Shimshon counters that R Chanina was accustomed to experiencing miracles, and therefore he did not fear the bite of the snake. However, asks the Zera Shimshon, what was original about R Chaninas remark that it is sin that kills? We already know from Koheles (10:11) that the snake derives no benefit when it bites a person.

The Zera Shimshon explains that herein lies a fundamental concept regarding the service of Hashem. He notes that there are individuals who have difficulty overcoming the yetzer hara (evil inclination). In fact, if they are challenged by the evil inclination, they immediately surrender because they believe that the confrontation itself is an indication that they cannot be successful. R Chanina established that the snake only harms someone who has transgressed. Moreover, if the snake attempts to injure someone who successfully triumphed over the yetzer hara and did not transgress, then the snake is immediately destroyed.

The Talmud (Succah 52b) declares: If the Evil Inclination accosts you, drag him to the beis medrash. If it is like a stone, it will be dissolved by Torah; if it is like iron, it will be shattered. We learn that the Evil Inclination is defenseless against Torah study and is ultimately destroyed that way.

As man struggles throughout his life to overcome and defeat the yetzer hara, and his deeds are constantly evaluated. When one performs even an insignificant deed of chesed, for example, he may earn an incalculable reward; likewise, the retribution for a seemingly minor transgression may also be considerable. One must always look upward towards Heaven and recognize that everything in life comes from Hashem.

A man woke up one morning and realized that inexplicably he could not move his middle finger. Although he felt no pain in his hand or finger, the middle finger was incapacitated, as if paralyzed. A visit to the doctor revealed no explanation for this complication.

As the man contemplated the situation, he considered the possibility that his disability was caused by a spiritual shortcoming that needed rectification. Our sages tell us that mans 248 limbs correspond to the 248 positive precepts in the Torah, and his 365 sinews correspond to the 365 prohibitions in the Torah. What transgression had he committed with this finger?

Hashem soon provided him with the answer. The man was a Kohen who blessed the Jewish nation every day. When the Kohen ascends to the platform, he unwinds the tefillin strap that is around his middle finger. After Birchas Kohanim, when he returns to his seat, the Kohen is supposed to rewind the strap around his middle finger, an intimation of the marriage between Hashem and the Jewish nation. The man realized that he had fallen into the habit of neglecting to rewind the strap around his finger upon the conclusion of Birchas Kohanim.

He immediately resolved to correct that lapse, and within a short time the finger once again regain full mobility.

See more here:

With An Eye Towards Heaven - The Jewish Press - JewishPress.com

By Rabbi Binny Freedman

How important is it for us to comprehend all that we do? Where lies the balance between pure faith and our need to understand?

This weeks parsha, Chukat, provides the ultimate example of that which is impossible to comprehend: the, the red heifer. (Bamidbar 19:1-2).

Rashi, quoting the Midrash, explains that this law is impossible to comprehend, and therefore one should not, perhaps even may not, attempt to fathom it. It is G-ds decree.

When a person comes into contact with a dead body, he is rendered tamei, or spiritually contaminated. To again achieve a state of ritual purity, he must undergo the ritual of the parah aduma. Paradoxically, while the ashes of the parah aduma purify the person who is impure, they also cause the pure person who gathers the ashes to become impure.

It is this incomprehensible phenomenon, that the parah aduma purifies the impure while contaminating the pure, that causes the Talmud to declare that even King Shlomo could not fathom this mitzvah.

Rashi seems to suggest that we are not allowed to attempt an understanding of this type of mitzvah: It is a chok, a decree from before Me, and you have no right to ponder it (Rashi, Bamidbar 19:2).

Maimonides on the other hand, openly espouses the value of attempting to understand: Even though all the chukim in the Torah are decrees it is worthy to explore them, and everything to which you can assign a reason, give to it a reason (Hilchot Temurah 4:13).

So which is it? Should we be attempting to understand that which Hashem asks of us, or are we perhaps better off relying on pure faith?

This weeks portion is actually a bridge between the first generation that left Egypt, and the second generation, born largely in the desert, who are about to enter the land of Israel. Both Miriam and Aaron die (20:1; 22-29), and in the infamous incident at Mei Merivah, Hashem decrees that Moshe too, will not enter the land.

As such, it is strange that the laws regarding a person who becomes impure through contact with death are only mentioned now, on the eve of entering the land of Israel. Indeed, the Talmud suggests (Gittin 60a) that this mitzvah was given nearly 40 years earlier, and yet the Torah chooses to place it here!

In fact, the theme of Chukat is the quintessential experience we can never comprehend: death.

Its about coming into contact with death the deaths of Miriam and Aaron, and the decree of Moshes approaching death. The verses even share with us some of the wanderings of the 40 years, during which the entire generation of Egypt dies out as well. Ultimately, there is no portion more fitting for a mitzvah we cannot understand than Chukat, which is all about death, the ultimate mystery. It is similarly no accident that this week we encounter the concept of the righteous who suffer, when the three leaders of the Jewish people (Moshe, Aaron, and Miriam) are not allowed to enter the land.

The Jewish people here begin the transition from life in the desert, where everything was clear, to the entering the land of Israel, where the great questions of life abound.

It would be absurd to imagine that we can ascertain the reason for a mitzvah. A reason is essentially causation; something caused something else. But G-d is not caused to do or command anything; G-d is the cause. If the Torah comes from G-d, the mitzvot cannot have a cause; they are the cause. Thus, we can only consider the purpose and/or implications of a given mitzvah.

Sometimes, Hashem allows us to tap into the purpose of a mitzvah, either by stating it explicitly, as with Shabbat, or by creating us with the faculty to hone in on what a particular mitzvah accomplishes for both individuals and the larger society. But sometimes, we are not privy to the purpose of a mitzvah, and this may be what chukim are about. The purpose of fulfilling such amitzvah, and how the world changes as a result, may be beyond our grasp, but this does not mean we cannot consider its implications.

By definition, the lessons I glean from a closer examination of anything in life will inevitably make it more meaningful and further study may cause me to reassess my understanding.

This would seem to be the Torahs approach to all of lifes paradoxes and mysteries, death chief amongst them. To imagine that we as limited human beings could ever understand death and human suffering would be supreme arrogance. Yet the process of grappling with the challenge of death, and attempting to learn from the process, can be a valuable one, within these parameters.

Tumah, often translated as impurity, represents contact with death. Every instance of tumah in the Torah is the result of it, be it a dead lizard (a sheretz), or the loss of potential life after the breakdown of the uterine lining (niddah). And taharah, purity, which comes after immersion in a ritual bath full of water that represents life, is the reemergence of the individual into the mainstream.

This, then, is the paradox of the red heifer the intertwining of life and death, and the impossibility of understanding why it so often seems that the pure become impure (the righteous suffer) and the impure become pure.

Perhaps this was why King Shlomo viewed this as the ultimate mystery, because we are not meant to understand the purpose of experiences beyond our comprehension. And yet King Shlomo does try, because we are, as the Rambam suggests, meant to try. We can at least draw implications from even these most difficult mitzvot.

We live in a world full of mysteries, with realities impossible to comprehend. But the decision is in each of our hands to find meaning in every moment and every piece of every mitzvah, and it will be the determining factor between grabbing life and being reborn every minute, or losing life and dying day by day, one slow second at a time.

A version of this column originally appeared in 2012.

See the original post:

Parah aduma and intertwining of life and death - The Jewish Star

Reading from a Torah scroll in accordance with Sephardi tradition. Photo: Sagie Maoz via Wikimedia Commons.

Jason Tan is a professor of Policy, Curriculum and Leadership at The National Institute of Education in Singapore. He is also an acknowledged expert on what has become known as lifelong learning. Singapore is a world leader in this field and the Singaporean government has pioneered a lifelong learning program for the entire population; its SkillsFuture platform is available to every citizen.

In an interview earlier this week, Tan noted that the major motivation behind SkillsFuture is the increasing challenge posed by technological disruption to workplaces around the world. Artificial Intelligence is no longer just a threat to lower-skilled jobs, it even threatens white-collar workers. For example, computers are able to read and interpret radiograms, surpassing radiologists in their understanding of the data. Another example is computer programs that write press releases and compose company blurbs by extrapolating information from balance sheets and related financial information. Entire areas of expertise and skill that were previously unassailably human are in danger of obsolescence.

And as this tsunami gathers pace, the only way for workers to stay ahead of the game is to continue learning throughout their lives, constantly gaining new skills, training and retraining as technology advances and circumstances change.

But what really stuck out in Tans description of SkillsFuture was when he said that the Singaporean governments conception of lifelong learning is much broader than just narrow employability concerns. In other words, lifelong learning is not just about putting proverbial bread on the table, but it is about constantly expanding your knowledge. And, most importantly, it is about accepting as fact that no matter how much you know, and how much you have studied in the past, there is always more to learn.

Our Talmudic sources are replete with references to this kind of lifelong scholarly humility, even among the most illustrious of the sages. In Avot (4:1), the last of the great Talmudic darshanim (scriptural interpreters), Simeon Ben Zoma, declares that a wise person is someone who learns something from everyone they come into contact with, based on the verse in Psalms (119:99): From all who taught me have I gained understanding. The implication is clear: learning is not limited to your years at school, and you can gain knowledge throughout your life and, indeed, thats what you should do if you want to be wise.

Both Rabbi Judah, editor of the Mishnah, and his devoted disciple Rabbi Hanina, are quoted as having said (Makkot 10a; Taanit 7a): I have learned much from my teachers and even more from my friends, but more than from all of them I have learned from my students. Strikingly, these outstanding scholars acutely understood that in order to learn, and gain knowledge, you must be willing to humble yourself even to the extent that your students become your teachers.

I can clearly remember from my own years in yeshiva that the rabbis who taught us how to study Talmud and we were self-evidently inexperienced novices by comparison eagerly sought our interpretations of the passages we were studying together, and willingly conceded to our analyses if they felt our version was more accurate. This lifelong learning model has stuck with me i.e., the total negation of ego when it comes to learning something new, or even relearning material. As far as I can tell, it is exactly this that is the root of the wisdom defined by Simeon Ben Zoma in Avot.

Remarkably, this concept of self-negation in the pursuit of knowledge, and specifically Torah knowledge, is explicitly stated by Reish Lakish, the third-century giant of Talmudic literature. In Parshat Chukkat (Num. 19:14), the Torah records the laws of ritual impurity, beginning the section which deals with the impurity of corpses with the words: Zot HaTorah Adam Ki Yamut This is the law, if a person dies in a tent. But rather than seeing this opener as merely introductory words to the arcane laws that follow, Reish Lakish suggests a novel, parallel interpretation. From where do we derive that Torah knowledge is only retained by someone who kills himself over it? he asks and then cites this verse.

Clearly, Reish Lakish would never suggest that we engage in behavior which might endanger our lives just so that we can study Torah, nor is he stating that the study of Torah will result in life-threatening health problems. After all, we are expected to live a Torah life, and if the observance of any aspect of Torah could result in death, preserving our life overrides it. And on a more practical level, being at deaths door is hardly the route to academic success.

Rather, Reish Lakish is making a more prosaic pronouncement. A person who wishes to learn must be willing to kill his ego, and the learning will inevitably be exponentially better. In Reish Lakishs creative interpretation, the verse is telling us that if you want this Torah, then always be ready to kill your ego in the tent of learning.

Or, as Albert Einstein put it, Wisdom is not a product of schooling but of the lifelong attempt to acquire it.

The author is a rabbi in Beverly Hills, California.

See original here:

What Judaism Tells Us About Wisdom and Learning - Algemeiner

By ohtadmin | on June 16, 2021

This is a time of enormous change and stress for Jews at home, in Israel, and around the world. For over a year, the world has dealt with COVID-19, a pandemic the likes of which has not been seen since the influenza pandemic a century ago. Last month, Israel experienced a barrage of over 4,500 missiles fired at its civilians by the terrorist group Hamas. Anti-Semitism, a plague that never disappears, has gotten worse. Violent attacks on Jews in the United States, Europe, and elsewhere are growing in frequency and severity. Jewish institutions are being targeted and Jews are being harassed on social media. There is also a new administration in Washington and a new government in Israel.

This is a time for Jews everywhere to be united in support of Israel and in the fight against anti-Semitism. In an environment where Jewish lives are in danger, we cannot become our own worst enemy. In order to avoid this, we must remember to be civil despite our disagreements.

Jewish history has shown that when our disagreements turn to rancor, no one except those who would do us harm wins. Everyone in the Jewish community does not need to be in the same place politically or religiously. We do, however, need to put community above our individual viewpoints. We must always express our views with the understanding that there are those who disagree. Our fellow Jews are not the enemy. The threats come from those who are anti-Semites and Israel-haters.

There is so much more that unites us than divides us. Jews share a common history and a common destiny. We are one people, and we forget that at our own peril.

The Talmud (Shevuot 39a) states Kol Yisrael Arevim Zeh Bazeh (All Jews are responsible for one another). We are responsible for sustaining our fellow Jews physically by providing for their needs. During the pandemic, our community rallied to feed those who could no longer afford food or get out of the house to get it. We are responsible for the emotional well being of our fellow Jews. We do this by ensuring that no Jew feels lonely or isolated. Our Federation, agencies, and synagogues reached out in support of Jews in our community and throughout the world. Our synagogues and their members also support Jews spiritually every single day.

None of this could take place if we lose sight of the fact that we all belong to the same Jewish community. Now is the time for unity, solidarity, and civility.

Original post:

Jewish discourse must be civil if we are to fight on behalf of Israel and against rising anti-Semitism - Jewish Community Voice

I was at an in-person Shabbat dinner a couple weeks ago my first since the pandemic began. It was my first time back in that previously-familiar environment, figuring out who you know in common with the strangers at the table.

At this dinner, specifically, the main point of connection for our game of Jewish geography was several romantic entanglements. All of us knew multiple people including some at the table who had dated a few specific guys, and revelations abounded, with appropriate gasps and laughs and editorializing commentary.

I cannot tell you how delightful it was. I stayed at this dinner until past midnight, even though it was pouring that night and I almost hadnt come.

Part of this delight was, of course, finally getting to meet new people, relax and talk at length over a tasty meal indoors in someone elses apartment. But a big part of it was the gossip.

Over the past 16 months of varying levels of quarantine, gossip has been one of the greatest losses. I talk to my friends about politics and religion and our hopes for the future and lighter stuff like TV or TikTok but gossip breeds a certain instant intimacy that is hard to achieve any other way.

I dont mean the kind of gossip that tabloids trade in; Ive never met Jennifer Aniston, so I dont really care if shes been sighted with Brad Pitt. I mean gossip about yourself, and the communities youre actually involved in.

Telling people about your own exploits and foibles requires trust and vulnerability, and it cements relationships. But with hardly anyone dating or going on adventures or seeing each other, it felt like our lives were frozen in time; there are only so many times I can talk about virus anxiety or cabin fever. My friendships sometimes felt like they were in stasis without a shared reality to bond over or personal drama to reveal and analyze.

The loss of gossip is not only isolating on an individual level it also severs ties to community. Gossip helps you better connect to and understand the contours of the communities youre part of, and establishes you as an insider. Without shared information about people, the knowledge that you are all part of the same scene and that you all impact each other, the bonds that hold a group together begin to wither. And it feels precarious to reenter the community blind, without any gossip by which to navigate the ways it has changed.

Gossip is generally decried in Jewish text all the top Google hits when I searched for Jewish gossip were admonishing the reader not to engage in lashon hara, or, literally, evil tongue.

But, gossip is rarely, well, all that gossipy, according to a 2019 study published in the journal Social Psychological and Personality Science, which found that only 15% of gossip was negative. Instead, gossip tends to be neutral social information about acquaintances, such as how new parents are doing with their infant.

Researchers have also found that gossip serves to help people bond and function socially, and aids communities in keeping track of the well-being of its members. It teaches cultural norms of a community, making it tighter and helping to perpetuate tradition.

This is particularly true in Jewish settings, where the (in)famous game of Jewish geography is a symptom of the fact that our communities are deeply interconnected. Everyone knows everyone else, and news gets around fast making us feel tightly bound to one another. Its vital to know who is sleeping with whom, who is newly religious or had a falling out or got a new job, so you can better navigate your social surroundings and make sure not to invite someones new beau to a Shabbat meal with their ex.

Honestly, what is the Talmud if not a canonized version of gossipy tales about rabbis arguing and everyday Jews trying to figure out how to live their lives? In Berakhot 62a, theres even a story about a student watching his rabbi use the bathroom, in the interest of learning the correct minhag, or custom. In the next anecdote, the same student lies under his rabbis bed in order to witness him having sex with his wife ostensibly, for the purpose of learning Torah but also incidentally pretty much the best gossip Ive ever heard.

My Shabbat table was a perfect example of all of this. Several people having stories about having dated the same guy, for example, creates intimacy, teaches me the dating norms of the community and also tells me that said guy might be more complicated than hes worth, if the prospect of dating him happens to arise.

Even just one gossipy dinner made me feel like I was part of the community again, both trusted and in-the-know, connected even to those who were strangers at the start of the meal. Hopefully, at the next one, having lived a bit more in the interim, Ill have more of my own tea to spill.

Link:

Gossip is back and thats a good thing - Forward

It was only after Miriam passed on that her greatness was fully appreciated. With her gone, the well dried up and the people learned that the water had been gushing in her merit, certainly not theirs. So too when Aharon passed away. After a period of mourning, the people resumed their journey to the Promised Land, only to discover that the pillar of cloud that had guided and protected them was gone too.

Israel was not alone in recognizing this new vulnerability. Sensing weakness, one of the Canaanite kings launched an attack against Am Yisrael. The Canaanite king of Arad, who dwelled in the South, heard that Israel had come by route of the spies, and he warred against Israel (Bamidbar 21:1).

Who was this king? Was he truly a Canaanite? The Torah is clear that the South is the habitat of Amalek (13:29). Indeed, the Midrash tells us that the attacker was in fact an Amalekite who sought to confuse the Jews. Why? To remain hidden and to confuse the Israelites in order to prevent them from praying for G-ds assistance.

The king ordered his soldiers to speak the Canaanite language. He believed that in hearing them the Jews prayers would mistakenly seek redemption from the Canaanites rather than the Amalekites. But, as the expression has it: A yid git sich alemol an eitza. (A Jew can always figure it out.) It takes more than such a simple ruse to fool the people. You see, although they spoke Canaanite they dressed as Amalekites.

Their clothing gave them away!

Recognizing the enemy for who they were, the people prayed to G-d for salvation and victory without specifying a particular nation by name: If He will deliver this people into my hand (21:2).

Which people? They need not be named. G-d knew. G-d knows.

And yet, if the Amalekites had really wanted to outsmart the Jews, why didnt they dress as Canaanites? Wouldnt it have been smarter if they had aligned their language and dress? That they had not changed their uniforms to match the language they spoke suggests something deeper than just the confrontation described in parshat Chukat (Bamidbar 21:1-3).

The deep lesson here is that ones clothing betrays identity much more than ones speech. Look at a photograph of a busy street scene anywhere in Europe. You can immediately spot the tourists and where they are from! When Yaakov sought to deceive his elderly father, conspiring with his mother to acquire Yitzchaks blessings, he dressed up like his brother Esav. The voice is that of Yaakov, but the hands feel like those of Esav, Yitzchak says, confirming that it is the fleece-skins hands clothed in Esav-like materials that fooled him, not the voice.

Clothing is no small matter for Jews. In addition to protection from heat, cold, rain or snow, clothes speak to the Jewish emphasis on tznius, and all that tznius represents in Jewish life. Rebbi Yochanan (Shabbat 113) calls clothing, mechabdutai something that gives one honor. Rashi explains that clothing is shemechabdin baaleihem, affording honor and prestige: kavod. It is possible to tell a great deal about a man by how he is dressed, not least how the man perceives himself.

One can look like a prince or one can look like a schlepper. Just the other day, I found myself in a doctors waiting room, sitting across from a Jewish man who had his shirt half-tucked and a corner of his shirt sticking out of his zipper! This mans clothes certainly did not bring much honor to him certainly not mechabdutai!

When the Talmud discusses clothing and honor it is almost always in the context of Shabbat, that holy day that focuses on the uniqueness of the Jew. On Shabbat, we are imbued with an additional soul, vayinafash. On Shabbat, we are allowed to exist just a bit closer to the fullness of the holy. Isaiah (58:13) suggests that we should not squander that opportunity; he tells us to infuse Shabbat with a delight of good food and the like: to vchibadeto (closely related to mechabdutai!) measos drachecha. You honor it by not engaging in your own affairs. The Talmud teaches that this exhortation is telling us to be sure our Shabbat attire is not the same as our weekday attire. After all, we would not wear our everyday clothes to a wedding; how much more should we dress for the Shabbat!

Completely transforming ourselves on Shabbat has meant wearing completely different clothes. My grandfather, HaGaon Rav Bezalel Zev Shafran, ztl, was asked (Shut Rbaz 12) by the Admor of Buhush, ztl, whether this requirement to change into Shabbat clothing included changing ones weekday shoes to Shabbat shoes. That these great men asked the question indicated the importance of every aspect of ones attire to ones entire being. Is it any wonder then that the Talmud warns that a talmid chochom should never have so much as a ketem, a spot, even a speck on his garments? Being attired in a uniform representing G-d demands perfection.

Shabbat is when our spirituality should be most apparent. It is when our identity as Jews cannot be mistaken. This is true in how we walk and talk on Shabbat and how we eat on Shabbat. It should certainly be reflected in how you dress.

We communicate our spirituality by how we dress. Shabbat clothing must display holiness on this G-dly day, just as our clothing should make clear our identity as spiritual beings the rest of the week. Our clothing should always lend honor and prestige to who we are.

Our clothes are our uniform. They let everyone know which team were on. They proclaim our stature and identity. Every Jew, man and woman alike, should dress in a way that cries out proudly, I am a Jew! Every Jew should dress in a way that makes apparent that we are a people of dignity, holiness and honor.

As bnai melachim, children of kings, our clothes and how we wear them are tailored and designed by the King and His Torah, not by Paris, Milan or Hollywood. We would be wise to always remember this, that we are children of G-d, so that we do not fall victim to the vagaries of fashion.

On the catwalks of Milan, Paris and New York, clothes are cut to call attention to the ephemeral. On the streets where we bnai melechim walk, our clothes are meant to honor not only ourselves but also the Melech. In Clothes Make the Man (Aish.com), Rabbi Menachem Weiman writes, Clothing is not only linked to the body, but is a metaphor for the body. Just as clothing serves the body, the body serves the soul. You are a soul, and you are given a body to wear in this world. When you leave this realm, and move on to the next, you leave your clothing behind. The less attached you are to physicality; the easier it is to leave it behind.

Our clothes must speak to our spirituality, not our mere physicality.

* * *

As the world reverently observes the 27th yahrzeit of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, ztl, an outstanding Chabad educator, Rabbi Mordechai Dinerman, directed me to a letter the Rebbe wrote to a simple Jew, R Yaakov, who made his living running a dry cleaners.

In the letter, the Rebbe likens the deep cleaning and fine pressing that R Yaakov did to spiritual renewal. From this process, we gain insights into the soul (neshama) of a Jew. When G-d gives a neshama to a Jew, that soul is pure, ironed smooth and a perfect fit. As we say in our daily morning prayers: The soul You have given me is pure.

With time, however, as the soul becomes involved in worldly matters, and if it is not used to fulfill the will of G-d, it tends to become creased. Dirt may cling to it if the person neglects a mitzvah or commits a forbidden act.

Whatever the case may be, Torah teaches us that we must not despair over the condition of the soul and its fitness to sustain the individuals spiritual life. To restore the soul to its original state, we must place it in a conducive environment, and infuse it with the warmth of Torah and mitzvos.

Such profound insight! The Rebbe sees in this mans mundane task a glimmer of true spirituality.

Imagine if the next time you pick up your shirt or suit from the cleaners, you thought of the Rebbes words and held them deeply. Then you would truly be a ben melachim; then kavod would truly reflect to yourself and our Melech!

See original here:

Clothes Make The Man - The Jewish Press - JewishPress.com