Fear and trembling. Those have been our primary religious emotions during the past several weeks. Although Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are referred to nowadays as the High Holidays, traditionally they were known as the Days of Awe, Yamim Noraim. Frightful days, fearful days. During this recent time none of us escaped a sense of insecurity. Recognizing that these days are days of divine judgment, we could not help but wonder as to how we were being judged. We felt vulnerable, insecure, and anxious about what the coming year has in store for us.
It was advertised as one symposium at a major psychology conference. It was to be a discussion about memory and forgetfulness. But it turned out to be one of the most intense and instructive days that I have ever witnessed.
We now enter a period of the year that demands two kinds of spiritual commitment. The first is charatah, regret: an honest inner search of our past year’s behavior, especially conduct that was sinful, immoral, inconsiderate, evil, or cruel.
It is the last Sabbath of this year, and we will shortly usher in the New Year. Without a doubt, there is quite a bit of sadness attached to this Sabbath, and indeed, to this time of year. Sure, we look forward to a new year with new blessings and new opportunities. But we cannot escape the fact that this year was marked with its frustrations, disappointments, and even, yes, tragedies.
Summer was the season we looked forward to when we were young children. My parents decided that the hot streets of Boro Park, Brooklyn were not where they wished to spend the summer, and certainly not the place for me and my two sisters.
How would you translate the opening verse in this week’s Torah portion, Ki Tavo (Deuteronomy 26:1-29:8)? Here are two Jewish translations: “When you enter the land that the Lord your God has given you…” (JPS Holy Scripture). “When you have come into the land that the Lord your God is giving you…” (The Koren Tanakh of the Land of Israel).
For the past several weeks, in anticipation of the upcoming Days of Awe, I have devoted this column to the topic of teshuva, repentance. Many of us find this topic quite scary. Confessing our sins of the past year and committing ourselves to improving our religious conduct threatens to undermine our self-confidence and self-esteem.
Earlier this week, I looked at my calendar. This calendar is sent to me every year. I cherish its colorful illustrations. They make me aware of the significance of the upcoming month. This time, I was taken aback. Wonder of wonders, Elul is here.
Ah, the benefits of Google and, more recently, of AI. For, you see, I have long had a special interest in the saying, “Be careful what you pray for lest it come true.” I attributed this advice to the British playwright, George Bernard Shaw.
"He was in the wrong place at the wrong time." We have all heard this phrase, and many of us have used it. It is especially apt when it is used to describe a person with many virtues and talents who just can't use them because of the social or physical circumstances in which he finds himself. That such a person faces profound frustration is, to say the least, obvious.
Are you feeling depressed? Then dance! Feeling lazy? Work! Angry? Smile! Hostile? Act friendly!
Earlier this week, in an attempt to gain some space in my crowded apartment, I was going through some old records and discarding many of them. Uncertain about whether or not to keep some of them, I found myself guided by my mother-in-law’s advice: “When in doubt, throw it out.”
Conflict resolution is one of the most important tasks in human relations at every level. Open up any newspaper, and you will read of schoolchildren bullying each other, of married couples who are in bitter conflict, of political parties enmeshed in verbal warfare, and of nations literally at war. What are some of the strategies available to foster conflict resolution?
Imagine standing at a crossroads. We have all been there. We have all experienced moments in our life’s journey when we had to make a crucial choice and decide whether to proceed along one road or along another. (Except for Yogi Berra, of course, who famously said, "When you come to a fork in the road, take it.")
I was in a total fog during my first year in high school. I am convinced that my experience then was not unique. I entered a strange school, much larger than the one I had attended previously, and was not given the benefit of any orientation to the new environment. I did not know what to expect, and I was not informed about what was expected of me.
Several months ago, I came across an interesting biography of Maimonides (Rambam). It is entitled Maimonides: His Life and World, and the author’s name is Joel Kraemer. I learned many facts about Rambam’s life, relationships, travels, political involvements, and far-reaching leadership activities.
The Ten Commandments and the Book of Ruth are two very different biblical texts, yet they both will be read on the upcoming festival of Shavuot. In Israel, where Shavuot is celebrated for just one day, they are even read on the very same day. Outside of Israel, we read the Ten Commandments in synagogue on the first day of our two-day festival, and we postpone the story of Ruth for the second day. Nevertheless, both texts are essential to our holiday experience.
My first exposure to the study of the Bible was in the Yiddish language. We spoke only English at home, but almost all the teachers we had in the yeshiva I attended were Holocaust survivors who had escaped to the safety of these shores only a few years prior.
To clearly convey my comments this week, I must introduce you to my “secondary” and “primary” sources and to a fascinating cast of prestigious characters. My “secondary” source, which first put me on track, is the commentary on Chumash authored by Ramban, Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman. Ramban’s commentary is second only to Rashi’s, and I try to at least sample some of his work every week.
Those were the days. I reflect upon them often lately. They occurred more than sixty years ago when I and about a dozen of my fellow Yeshiva classmates were preparing for our semicha examinations. A committee of several esteemed rabbis helped us prepare for and eventually administer the oral examinations. Ultimately, they signed our semicha documents, ordaining us as full-fledged Orthodox Jewish rabbis.
He never returned phone calls. He certainly never returned e-mails. He rarely smiled.
“No man is an island.” “It takes a village.” These are just some of the clichés that are used to convey the importance of social groups, of the realization that people cannot “go at it alone”.
I remember well when the age at which one could vote or drink was 21. From my perspective when I was a child, and frankly eager to do these things, it seemed to be an injustice to set the age bar so high. Twenty-one seemed a long way off.
Since my childhood, I have been an avid reader. When I first discovered the joy of reading, I read everything I could get my hands on. Even today, my taste in reading is very eclectic. However, there is at least one genre of literature that I seem to avoid.
Times were very different then. When one of our books was torn, we didn't junk it. We took it to a little shop where a bookbinder rebound it. When our briefcase (we didn't have backpacks then) was falling apart, we didn't discard it. Instead, we took it to that same shop where the proprietor stitched it and fixed it. The proprietor of the shop that my friends and I frequented, down on the Lower East side of Manhattan, was an old man named Yossel.
The great man, who died late in the 19th century, 1892 to be exact, was known as the progenitor of a group of one of the most outstanding Talmudic dynasties of modern times. In fact, his biographer, Rabbi Chaim Karlinsky, titled the book about this great man Rishon L’Shoshelet Brisk, the first of the dynasty named for the town of Brisk, Brest-Litovsk, in Belarus.