This phrase occurs in the very first blessing of the Amidah, the eighteen blessings commonly referred to as Shemoneh Esreh, the centerpiece of the prayer service recited in the synagogue at least three times every day. The blessing praises the Patriarchs, Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov, and calls upon the Almighty to take account of their benevolent deeds and to bring us the redemption that we seek as the descendants of the men whose entire lives were models of exemplary loving-kindness.
It is not just in teaching texts that we must adjust our teaching to the maturity level of our audience. We must do so all the more when we discuss the nature of the divine.
You don't hear much about them, and sometimes you don't even know their names. But they are the true heroes and heroines in our lives and in our times. As I hope to demonstrate, it was also true in biblical times that very important characters in the narrative are hardly mentioned, perhaps only hinted at.
There is an expression that we often use when we say goodbye. Most of us pay no attention to what we are saying. I doubt that very many of those who use the expression really mean it.
The class I was teaching on the subject of leadership, using the book of Genesis as a source text, was proving to be quite a learning experience for me. The diversity of the students in the class was proving to be especially important, because each student was stressing a different aspect of leadership. The class confirmed for me that, as Rabbi Nachman of Breslav put it, "Every shepherd has his own melody."
I was beginning to learn a necessary lesson, one which I would advise all teachers to learn. It was finally dawning upon me that the most effective thing I could do with this little class of three was simply to listen. Richard, Simon, and Leon had much to say and they were almost always "right on." Had I come into the class each session with a prepared lecture, I would only have bored them and, worse, turned them off. By allowing them to present their own ideas, they were beginning to take charge of their learning, and, more impressive, of their Jewish religious growth.
There is something special about meeting up with an old friend that one hasn't seen in years. I recently had just such a special experience, when I spent a weekend in a community where a friend I hadn't seen in 10 years resides.
Quite some time has gone by since we celebrated the holiday of Sukkot. Frankly, there is much about that holiday that I have already forgotten. But one memory remains etched in my mind, one biblical phrase that was part of the Sukkot service that continues to haunt me.
"Who am I?" This is the most powerful question that a person ever asks himself. For many of us, there are no easy answers to that question. We are uncertain of our own identities.
He may or may not have been an anti-Semite, but he sure was an abrasive personality. He was my seat mate on an Amtrak train, returning to Baltimore from New York some years ago.
Up until this point, the seventh session of the class using the book of Genesis to explore the concept of leadership, my role as teacher was a very easy one. The students not only participated eagerly, but vied for opportunities to speak. Moreover, they invariably had a great deal to say.
"Dreams and angels," said Richard. "That's what it's all about, and there are some major Jewish concepts right there."
How do you define "maturity"? The dictionary definition asserts that it is a state of being full-grown, ripe, or fully developed. But I think that the common man gives a subjective definition to maturity in one of two other ways.
It is commonly assumed that parents know their children much better than anyone else knows them. After all, parents have had the opportunity to observe their children from their earliest years, from their infancy, and in most instances observed them daily as they grew.
One of the great benefits of visiting communities where I once lived and taught is the opportunity to meet people who were my students long ago. I enjoy reconnecting with them and am occasionally amazed by how much they remember of my lectures and sermons.
Veteran readers of this column are familiar with my paternal grandfather, Chaim Yitzchak Weinreb. He was an old-school Jew, with roots in the region of eastern Poland known as Galicia. He had studied under renowned Talmudists back in the old country, and his fervent wish was to see his grandchildren grow up to be dedicated Talmud students.
Disillusionment. I first learned about it on a park bench on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, where I attended high school. I learned about it from three old gentlemen, each affected differently by disillusionment, and each with a different lesson to teach.
It was the sixth session of the class, but like most teachers, I knew very little about the personal backgrounds of my students, Richard, Simon, and Leon. I was beginning to know each of them as students of Genesis and as open-minded young Jews, ready to learn all they could. But I had no clue as to their family backgrounds and as to whether or not they were married or had families of their own.
Disillusionment. I first learned about it on a park bench on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, where I attended high school. I learned about it from three old gentlemen, each affected differently by disillusionment, and each with a different lesson to teach.
Disillusionment. I first learned about it on a park bench on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, where I attended high school. I learned about it from three old gentlemen, each affected differently by disillusionment, and each with a different lesson to teach.
The opening verses in this week’s Torah portion (Genesis 23:1-25:18) inform us of the death of Sarah: “The span of Sarah’s life came to one hundred and twenty-seven years. She died in Kiryat Arba—now Chevron—in the land of Canaan; and Avraham came to eulogize Sarah and weep for her.” (Verses 1 and 2)