The Heart and the Wellspring: Maoz Tzur

Courtesy of Ynet, off the new(-ish) album Achake Lo: Songs From the Ashes of the Holocaust.

The piece below was a focal point of a group therapy session that I co-ran; my senior colleague provided the handout, and after reading it I realized that it is so appropriate for this time of the year for those of us who feel like we just keep repeating the same mistakes over and over...

Autobiography in Five Short Chapters

By Portia Nelson

I

I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in.
I am lost ... I am helpless.
It isn't my fault.
It takes me forever to find a way out.

II

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don't see it.
I fall in again.
I can't believe I am in the same place
but, it isn't my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

III

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in ... it's a habit.
my eyes are open
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.

IV

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.

V

I walk down another street.

Recovery

I don't remember hitting the ground; the last thing I remember is the ground rushing up at me, and then nothing.

I can feel the aftereffect of the impact, though. As I pick up my head from the dirt, it all comes rushing over me in a cavalcade of pain. It's like someone crumpled my whole body up like a beer can and then kicked it to the curb. 

The smell of topsoil fills my nostrils. My vision is blurry and microscopic granules of grit seem to have covered my teeth in a fine patina of grime.

I need to get up. Now.

I place my skinned palms flat on the ground, trying to ignore their abrasive burn and lift myself up, but I am so, so tired.

I need to keep going. Get up!

The back of my neck prickles as I sense It loom over me, watching, waiting, savoring the moment. 

My arms strain, and every fiber of my body screams as I make a half-hearted attempt to pull myself off the ground. If I don't get up now, it's all over. 

I know that. I recognize the terrible danger I am in now.

The horrible laugh fills my ears. Get up!

But now that I'm down here, it makes so much sense to just rest...if only for a minute...

It would be so much easier if I could just lay my head back down, close my eyes and slip into a deep sleep...

Rebbe Noson said that more than the actual sin itself, the Evil Inclination waits for the depression that follows it.

It hurts and it's crazy hard, but you must get back up again.

Your life depends on it.

Literally.

Now with English...

I posted a slightly different video a few months back, having found it over at Dixie Yid's blog.

This go-around has English subtitles for those who struggle with the Hebrew.

Kudos to my brother for sending this to me...

Rav Elazar Menachem Man Shach OBM

I've been saving this for today, the 16th of Mar Cheshvan, Rav Elazar Menachem Man Shach's yahrtzeit. I read it this year in Song of Teshuvah by Rav Moshe Weinberger:

There was a Chassidic Jew in Bnei Brak who had lost everything during WWII and was spiritually broken. One day he came to pour his heart out to Rav Menachem Man Shach, who was not at all Chassidic, but who understood full well the pain of a broken Chassidic heart.This Jew told what had happened to him and said, “I cannot even pray anymore.”Rav Shach said, “What Chassidic group do you belong to?”The man told him, and Rav Shach began to hum a niggun, a tune, from that group. The Chassid closed his eyes and hummed the niggun together with Rav Shach, until he started to cry. 

Rav Shach said, “For a Chassid, it’s not enough to sing a niggun. We have to dance.” So Rav Shach stood up and danced with this Jew for a long time.Afterwards this Jew could pray again. Rav Shach did not give him a theological explanation about where God was during the Holocaust. 

He knew that this niggun was still inside that Jew, hidden underneath the pile of ashes from Auschwitz.

A lot of people presume to know the mind of this gadol, not to mention that they seek to question his status of a gadol to begin with. I cannot honestly say that I understand him, and there are many things that I do not understand about his positions on many issues.

 But one comment that his son Dr. Ephraim Shach made about finally realizing that Rav Shach's entire worldview was through the prism of Torah sheds some light:

"חזרתי לדבר איתו אחרי שנה, אבל להבין את הצד שלו הבנתי רק ב-71', כשאבא שכב בבית החולים תל-השומר. גילו אצלו סרטן והוא עמד בפני ניתוח. פתאום הוא אמר לי שהוא רוצה שאקח אותו חזרה הביתה, כי אין לו בבית החולים אפשרות ללמוד כמו בבית. אז הבנתי שאין מה לעשות – לימוד תורה קודם אצלו לכול, גם  לבריאות שלו                                                                                                                                 

I started speaking to him again a year after [Mother's death], but I only understood his position in '71, when Father was hospitalized in Tel HaShomer. He was diagnosed with cancer, waiting to be operated on. Suddenly he told me he wanted me to take him home, because he couldn't learn in the hospital the way he could at home. Then I understood that there was nothing to do - learning Torah came before everything for him, even his own health.

 Many might shake their heads in a mixture of astonishment and incredulity; how can we possibly relate to that level of commitment? Some might even criticize that single-minded dedication to one element - after all, doesn't it say v'chai bahem, that we are meant to live by the Torah which includes taking care of ourselves?

Perhaps the answer is "yes" - certainly for us down here dealing with all of our nisyonot. Perhaps one can say that this might have been Rav Shach's nisayon. Perhaps, but I don't think we can say one way or another, and we should look at his life as an example of what our lives could look like if we strove to have that same level of dedication. At the end of the day, the stories of his "meshugass" (I shudder at phrasing it that way, but it's for the sake of making a point) in contrast to our own craziness...? I know which one I would prefer to have.

There is a lot more to say about this topic and the general problem I see with our (and I include myself in this) hubris in assuming that we're on any similar level with certain individuals. That we have the gall to say "I disagree with Rav _______" on a given subject that we maybe have some familiarity with, and certainly not the specific details or cheshbonot involved in a specific discussion is a sign of real unprecedented chutzpah.

I believe that one source of this problem is the proliferation of media that enables everybody to espouse his unsolicited opinion on any topic under the sun*. This use to happen in the mikvah and at kiddush clubs and around the water cooler on a regular basis; it's not a new phenomenon that one fellow who has the right amount of charisma, bluster, and confidence can hold forth on any subject to his rapt audience, of course. But now it has become global and more vocal, and these people find reinforcement among like-minded individuals, so it becomes a self-perpetuating problem to a dangerously larger degree.

Sorry about the rant, but a comment from last year's post set this off.

* yes, I caught the irony. It goes without saying that I am guilty as charged, I think.

The Holiest Generation

The following story never fails to bring tears to my eyes. After hearing it once again in a shiur from Rabbi Aryeh Lebowitz, I decided to share it.

Dr. Isaac Steven Herschkopf is an attending psychiatrist at the NYU Medical Center and the author of Hello Darkness, My Old Friend: Embracing Anger to Heal Your Life. This excerpt is from a forthcoming memoir.

I could not have been more than four or five when I asked her. It seemed to me, at the time, to be an innocent, straightforward question: “Mommy, when do I get my number?” 

I was, of course, upset when she burst into tears and ran out of the kitchen, but I was also confused. This was Washington Heights in the 1950s. It was an enclave of survivors. Every adult I knew had a number. Even my teenage sister had one in blue ink tattooed on her forearm. 

They were as ubiquitous on the benches of Riverside Drive as they were on the footpaths of Fort Tryon Park. If you saw an adult with some sort of hat on his head, he invariably also had a number on his arm. In the summer, when the community traveled en masse to Catskill bungalow colonies, or to Rockaway beaches, the numbers came too. 

I presumed it was a ceremonious part of becoming bar mitzvah, or perhaps graduation from Breuer’s or Soloveichik, our local yeshivas. No one appeared to be embarrassed by their number. ARG! I never saw anyone try to cover it up when they went swimming. It seemed to be a matter of fact part of life. 

When, as children, we would ask our parents why there was a “Mother’s Day” and a “Father’s Day,” but no “Children’s Day,” the automatic response was “Every day is ‘Children’s Day’!” In Washington Heights, in the ’50s, every day was Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. 

Ironically enough, at the same time, no day was Yom HaShoah. The commemoration, as it exists today, was not around then. Breuer’s and Soloveichik consisted almost exclusively of children of survivors, yet neither school had any assembly, or recognition of any type, of the Shoah. 

The very word Shoah didn’t exist. The word Holocaust did, but it was never invoked. When on rare occasion our parents would make reference to the events that led them to leave Europe to come to America, they would label it “the War.” 

They spoke nostalgically of life “before the War”; they never spoke of what happened during “the War.” They spoke reverently of their parents and siblings who were “lost in the War”; they never spoke of their spouses or children who perished. After all, they had new spouses and new children who didn’t need to be reminded that they were replacements. 

I was already bar mitzvah when I first realized that my parents had been previously married and had prior children. Years later I was shocked to discover that my sister with whom I was raised was not my father’s daughter. 

When I finally came to understand that not every adult was a survivor, and people would ask me what survivors were really like, I never knew what to answer. There was Mr. Silverberg, our seatmate in shul, as jovial as Santa Claus, who always had a good word for everyone. On the other hand, there was Mr. Grauer, our neighbor whose face was indelibly etched in a frown and was always threatening to hit his wife or his children. In retrospect, as a psychiatrist, I could understand both, but who truly defined what it meant to be a survivor? Did anyone, or anything? 

I learned the answer from Rabbi Moshe Feinstein. 

This gadol hador, the greatest sage of his generation, was so renowned he was referred to simply as “Rav Moshe.” The closest I came to this legend was at Yeshiva University High School, where my rebbe was his son-in-law, Rabbi Moshe Tendler. Rabbi Tendler, and every other rabbi, would speak of Rav Moshe in awe-stricken tones usually reserved for biblical forefathers. 

One summer I was spending a week with my aunt and uncle in upstate Ellenville. Uncle David and Aunt Saba, survivors themselves, as the doctor and nurse in charge of the concentration camp infirmary, had managed to save the lives of innumerable inmates, including my mother and sister. After “the War” they had set up a medical practice in this small Catskill village, where, I discovered, to my amazement, they had one celebrity patient - Rav Moshe. 

My aunt mentioned casually that Rav Moshe had an appointment the next day. Would I like to meet him? Would I? It was like asking me, would I like to meet God. 

I couldn’t sleep that night. I agonized over what I should wear. Should I approach him? What should I say? Should I mention that his son-in-law was my rebbe? Should I speak to him in English, or my rudimentary Yiddish? 

I was seated in the waiting room, in the best clothing I had with me, an hour before his appointment. It seemed like an eternity, but eventually he arrived, accompanied by an assistant at each side. He didn’t notice me. 

I was frozen. I had intended to rise deferentially when he entered, but I didn’t. I had prepared a few sentences that I had repeatedly memorized, but I sensed that my heart was beating too quickly for me to speak calmly. 

My aunt had heard the chime when he entered and came out of the office to greet him: “Rabbi Feinstein, did you meet my nephew Ikey? Can you believe ashaygitz [unobservant] like me has a yeshiva bochur[student] in the family?” 

Rav Moshe finally looked at me. I was mortified. My aunt was addressing him irreverently. She was joking with him. She had called me Ikey, not Yitzchok, or even Isaac. 

Then it got even worse. She walked over to him. Surely she knew not to shake his hand. She didn’t. She kissed him affectionately on the cheek as she did many of her favorite patients. She then told him my uncle would see him in a minute and returned to the office. 

Rav Moshe and his attendants turned and looked at me, I thought accusingly. I wanted to die. In a panic, I walked over to him and started to apologize profusely: “Rabbi Feinstein, I apologize. My aunt, she isn’t frum [religious]. She doesn’t understand…” 

He immediately placed his fingers on my lips to stop me from talking. He then softly spoke two sentences in Yiddish that I will remember to my dying day: “She has numbers on her arms. She is holier than me.” 

Rav Moshe had understood what I had not. Our holiest generation was defined by the numbers on their arms.

A Life Apart

This is a "must watch" documentary that I mentioned a while back in a post about Reb Shlomo Halberstam, the Bobover Rebbe OBM.

The full version is now available on YouTube. Hat tip to Rebbe Clips.

A must read

A heartbreaking wartime sacrifice and later, a father's quest

Mini Doc about the Piaseczna Rebbe

I found this a while ago on Dixie Yid's blog. If you understand Hebrew, it's worth seeing. Also, it has two photos of the rebbe that I have never seen elsewhere. if anyone knows where I can find those two pictures, I'd be much obliged...

Thoughts on the Holocaust

I just finished reading an amazing book concerning the Shoah, specifically the spiritual resilience of those religious Jews in the the ghettos and camps. With God in Hell: Judaism in the Ghettos and Deathcamps, by Rabbi Eliezer Berkovits is a compelling, gripping narrative of the battle of the Jew's eternal soul against the onslaught of the Nazi German death machine. Full of inspiring anecdotes about *regular* Jews and the lengths they went to in order to fulfill the slightest shadow of a mitzvah, Rabbi Berkovits shows us that Jewish pride was upheld not by singular moments of astonishing heroism by a few individuals, but rather on a constant basis by every single Jew who struggled to serve his Creator despite (or more appropriately, in spite of) the insufferable conditions. Throughout the book, Rabbi Berkovits (a survivor himself) pulls back from the wartime narrative to discuss the behavior and psyche of the religious Jew during these times, examining what drove the Jew to defy the horrors he faced on a daily, hourly, minute-to-minute basis.

A brief excerpt that jumped out at me:

To surrender one's life for the "sanctification of the Name" is the highest mitzvah of all, but the Jews in the ghettos an concentration camps had no previous experience in fulfilling this particular commandment.
Thus the question arose: what was the correct formula for the blessing prior to the mitzvah of Kiddush haShem? Of course, the question was not altogether a matter of ignorance. On the contrary, it was prompted by a discussion in the Talmud, dealing not specifically with Kiddush haShem but generally with all categories of divine commandments.
How is one to bless an to thank God before one dies in fulfillment of the commandment of sanctifying His great name?
Uncomprehendingly we stand before our people, the Jews.
Overwhelmed by awe, we stand before these human beings, flesh like our own flesh, bones like our bones, who in the midst of the miseries of the ghetto and the sufferings of the death camps, were preoccupied with the question of what was the correct formula for blessing and thanking God when their ultimate hour would arrive! Even in Auschwitz, Maidanek, Birkenau, and Buchenwald..."Blessed art Thou, Eternal, our God, who hast commanded us through His commandments and commanded us to sanctify His name in public."

Admittedly, I have a slight obsession with the Holocaust; as a grandchild of survivors who was partially raised by them (we lived around the corner from my mother's parents - they had nearly as much a hand in raising me as my own parents), I grew up with "the War" as a permanent fixture in my life. The War, which had so totally altered my grandparents' lives in an indelible way - shaping their world view and their approach to even the most seemingly trivial things in life - continued to influence my parents' and my own upbringing.

We were taught never to waste a morsel of food; this teaching extended to other areas of life, but became most prominent at mealtime. While I've heard disparaging talk about how this is an indicator of some sort of "unfortunate residual scarring" (not my own words, God forbid) as a result of the utter starvation experienced in the camps(which subsequently "burden" the children and grandchildren of those survivors...again, not my own words), I only see the benefit of having learned not to be a glutton or a spendthrift. Moreover, I had to acknowledge the consequences of my own greediness - no matter what, I had to finish what I took onto my plate, even if it took all night.

I learned to appreciate what I had, both in terms of material possessions as well as the religious freedoms I was lucky to experience. My parents never missed an opportunity to remind me of how lucky I was to have grandparents, as they in turn had been reminded of their fortune to grow up with parents - a "luxury" many survivors couldn't claim as their own. To live as a Jew without fear of persecution in this great country; to be able to cross borders with ease and expedience; to visit the Holy Land in comfort and health - so much to be thankful for, and more.

As I got older, I felt an urge to learn more about this cataclysmic event that my beloved grandparents had endured. I began to read volumes upon volumes of books about the subject. Personal testimonies, historic overviews from both Jewish and non-Jewish sources, and philosophical treatises written both during and after the war that attempted to put this enormous tragedy into some sort of perspective. The philosophies always had a certain draw; how can anyone deny the implications about God and His providence that the terrible accounts of the Nazi horrors seemed to make? As a microcosm, the Holocaust contains all the important existential questions that a thinking, feeling human (and certainly a Jew) must ask about his Creator. But these questions carried with them a certain danger, as well. In my teenage years, the Holocaust served as a convenient peg to hang all of my rebellious behavior upon. Unjustifiably, I would point my finger toward the past, as if to say that the experiences that my grandfather went through at the hands of cruel humans who God allowed to mercilessly slaughter millions of Jews (and others) gave me license to disobey His divine Word. The irony of such a stance gradually became clearer as I matured, and witnessed those who actually went through the war, suffered, and yet continued to be faithful God fearing Jews. Some (like my grandfather, who should live and be well) even attributed the Holocaust to being an event that buttressed their faith, spurring them to become more religious, to affirm and uphold their beliefs with untold sacrifice of their own well being, in order to ensure that they survive and rebuild.

Only the hubris of youthful pseudo-intellectualism can view this dichotomy of the survivor's fervor and steadfastness vis-a-vis the one or two-generation removed descendant's rebellion in the name of the Holocaust, and not be bothered by the contradiction. This is only brought into very clear perspective by the below mini-documentary, which follows three generations (father-son-grandson) and their approach to the Holocaust.


This film disheartened me so much when I first saw it. The elderly survivor clearly recognizes the unseen Hand that guided him throughout the war, protecting him at every turn. His son and grandson, on the other hand, get lost in a cloud of confusion as they try to come to terms with something they didn't even experience, let alone relate to.

Another thing that was taught to me at a very early age was not to judge any survivor's personal life choices. While various teachers of mine shunned writers like Elie Wiesel and denigrated Nazi hunter Simon Wiesenthal as mechalelei Shabbat (Sabbath desecrators), we were taught that what they lived through was beyond our comprehension; to lambaste them for who they became as a result was not only disrespectful, it was disgraceful. Each in their own way, these men (and women) are honoring their fellow victims to the best of their capabilities. Their religiosity is a matter between them and God, with few others possessing the right to intervene, certainly not us.

The generation of survivors is slowly dwindling; my grandfather is the last remaining grandparent that I have today. Now, as he begins to approach the end of his days (until 120, amen), he has become more forthcoming with his own experiences. I find myself listening intently when I visit him; sometimes he is lucid, and his accounts hold me at attention. Other times, he rambles, a symptom of his age. Either way, I listen, because that is what we must do - listen, and bear witness for them when they no longer can.

DESCRIBE & MATISYAHU'S NEW SINGLE & MUSIC VIDEO OUT TODAY!

Received this morning from Erez at the Shemspeed label. The Friendship Circle is a great organization, and I'm glad that they're getting some attention now:

Shemspeed Fam! Celebrating a world where children with special needs experience acceptance and inclusion, DeScribe teamed up with Matisyahu to create “Pure Soul,” saluting these incredible children! THE SINGLE & MUSIC VIDEO ARE FINALLY HERE! WATCH THE MUSIC VIDEO | GET THE SONG Also, be on the look out for DeScribe in the Daily News & on Lopez Tonight! peace & Shemspeed DESCRIBE "PURE SOUL FEAT. MATISYAHU" DESCRIBE "PURE SOUL FEAT. MATISYAHU" (Official Music Video) WATCH IT NOW AT: SHEMSPEED | YOUTUBE GET THE SONG NOW: SHEMSPEED DIRECT | ITUNES | AMAZON ©2011 Shemspeed, LLC | World HQ | 302 Bedford Ave | PMB 132 | Brooklyn | 11211

And once we're at it, enjoy this nice acoustic song from Matisyahu:

Entering Into Adar

This is a shiur that Rav Moshe Weinberger gave several years ago at Derech HaMelech, a wonderful yeshiva in Jerusalem.

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Rav Weinberger discusses the importance of prayer, and Amalek's main strategy in trying to destroy us. As always, it's worth listening to.

Today is the yahrtzeit (anniversary of death) of my grandmother Liba bas Reb Tzvi, of blessed memory. She passed away nearly ten years ago after struggling for well over a decade with an illness that the doctors predicted she would survive through several months. She was an amazing woman, with an indomitable will to survive even the harshest of circumstances. She made it a point to tell others about her experiences in the holocaust, as a testimony and as an education for future generations.

Please have her in mind today during your learning and tefillot, so her neshama can merit an aliyah.

Understanding what's important

Reb Zusia of Anipoli and Reb Boruch of Medzhiboz were once traveling together, and called upon a wealthy chassid at his home. Wishing to properly accommodate them, their host brought them to a table set with food and drink, and asked them to partake. The host personally served them, catering to their every need while they ate.
At one point, the chassid asked Reb Zusia if he would like some pepper to go with his food. Reb Zusia politely declined; he didn't care for pepper. The chassid persisted, offering the pepper to Reb Zusia until he explained to his host that he didn't like pepper. The host relented, but not before commenting that he "loved pepper".


Reb Zusia stopped what he was doing. "What did you say?" he asked the host. Nervously, the host replied: "I was just musing that it's interesting that the rebbe doesn't like pepper; I love pepper!"


Reb Zusia turned to Reb Boruch. "Did you hear that?" he asked his companion, "he says he 'loves' pepper!" Reb Boruch nodded; he had heard it as well. Reb Zusia began to rock back and forth, chuckling and repeating the host's words to himself: "He loves pepper, he loves pepper, he loves it! He says so!" Gaining momentum, Reb Zusia began whispering "...but what does Zusia love? He loves pepper, but what do I love? What does Zusia love? I love HaShem. He loves pepper...and I love HaShem. I love HaShem! I love HaShem!"


Reb Zusia's eyes rolled up into the back of his head as he leaped up and began dancing around the table, in utter joy. "I love HaShem! Reb Boruch, do you hear? He loves pepper, and I love HaShem! I love Him!" Ecstatic, Reb Zusia jumped onto the table and started jumping up and down in fervor, all the while shouting for all to hear about the profound love he had for his Creator. As Reb Zusia danced, he knocked over everything on the table; the drinks, the food, and the pepper all went spilling over, much of it splashing onto Reb Boruch's coat.


Reb Boruch was more of the strong, silent type, not one for scenes of exuberance like his friend Reb Zusia. But after that event, the only times he ever wore that coat again was on Yom Kippur, and he asked to be buried in it.

Love is such a strong word, it can conjure up very strong feelings and should be used sparingly. Too often we belittle that special word when we associate it with things that are so very unimportant. "I love that food," "I love sleeping," "I loved that movie," etc.

One of the biggest problems that we face today is the skewing of our priorities, and our confusion concerning what is really important. This issue manifests itself in so many circumstances that we have all dealt with it at one point or another in our lives, and the situation is worsening. We place emphasis on the peripheral matters and lose focus of the main goals and ideals. It affects our approach to everything, especially when it comes to religious matters. Maybe it would be a good idea to clarify a few things:

When someone spends the majority of time during the prayers shmoozing in the back and sneaking out during kriyat haTorah to drink some schnapps, something is very wrong. The same can be said for those who believe that kedusha of Mussaf is the end of the session and begin folding their talleisim and setting up for kiddush. And you can't say anything because people will stare at you as if you've told them to renounce Judaism and covert to another religion, God forbid. Apparently, having one shot too many is the fourteenth principle of faith, followed by getting 12 hours-plus of sleep on the winter Friday nights (number fifteen).

When someone spends the majority of time during the prayers with his nose stuck in a sefer, something is very wrong. There is a time and place for everything; Torah learning is meant for any and all available time - but the time when we are in shul for prayers does not necessarily count as that. The chazzan's repetition is not designed as catch-up time for the Daf Yomi, daily Tehillim, or anything else (certainly not to go through the e-mails in your 'bulk' folder). We are supposed to participate fully in the services, with the attention and respect that it warrants as part of our service of God. I'm not saying that there is a violation of any halacha, per se (although the Mishna Berura does comment on the Chazarat HaSHaTZ issue), but this is a display of insensitivity toward one of the most important institutions of our faith. If the sages of previous generations felt that something was important and worthy enough of being incorporated universally into the structure of our tefillot, then it would behoove us to take it very seriously; I know that I wouldn't want Reb Shlomo Alkabetz to be waiting for me after 120 with complaints (in case you didn't know what I was referring to).

Reb Shlomo Freifeld was once asked about the significance of the "hat and jacket". He replied that "the look" meant nothing so long as the Jew underneath it didn't live up to the standards set forth by the Torah. While there is a lot of merit to the aspect of uniformity within our communities, that doesn't preclude the most important criteria of middot and adherence to halacha (there is also a strong basis for the hat and jacket concerning appropriate attire for tefilla, but this goes beyond that).

When it comes to learning, it's imperative to remember that quality is key, not quantity. Bekiyus is integral, of course, as we are enjoined to learn as much of God's Torah as possible (see Nefesh HaChaim) - but it must be really learned. We have such a lazy generation where we have study aids, super-super commentaries to the super commentaries that are on the commentaries that explain what the original meforshim were trying to point out - how are we ever expected to really learn how to learn properly? Our grandparents, indeed, the gedolim themselves didn't have all of the wonderful seforim that we have at our fingertips. They can learn because they worked at it with nothing but the original folio of gemara with RaSHI and Tosafos; the lucky ones had a RaMBaM or Maharsha to refer to. We're crippling ourselves and we don't even realize it.

Moreover, we must always keep in sight why we are learning. Regardless of one's affiliation (i.e. the students of the Ba'al Shem Tov or the Gaon of Vilna), we are learning the Torah to know God, to draw closer to Him, to glorify Him, and to obey His commandments. We are not learning Torah for the intellectual stimulation, or the egocentric feeling of accomplishment. Nor are we engaging in learning to obliterate our study partners in dialectics with sharp rejoinders that show off our breadth and depth of Torah knowledge while simultaneously shredding their arguments and therefore their esteem.

Segulot are wonderful things, but they can never, ever replace the power of heartfelt tefillah.

Tzedakah is a tremendous mitzvah that can even save people from death. That should be sufficient motivation without the various chinese auctions.

There is so much more, but I'm not the one to list them exhaustively, at least not yet. Of course, everything mentioned above applies to myself as well; I am not any less guilty (or more innocent) than the next person, and my words are self directed; the rest of you happen to be reading over my shoulder.

I believe that we can all take stock and reorganize our priorities, but it means taking honest looks at the way we're living and appraising it with a critical eye. It's hard, painful work, but if I've learned anything about my brethren, though, it's that we are capable of it, and we will do it.

With love to all...

Apologies...

I received some pretty harsh e-mails responding to my posting of a YouTube video parodying a scene from a World War II movie featuring Adolf Hitler, in which the original subtitles were replaced with a rant about the Lakewood yeshiva system.

As Reb Y. commented, it's in very bad taste, and I regret posting the video. The truth is, I don't know why I decided to publish the video; to try and find a reasonable explanation after the fact would cheapen my words, and would insult my readers' intelligence.

Instead, I am apologizing.

I am sorry if anyone was insulted or hurt by this video.

Most of us know at least a few people who went through the horror of the Nazi death machine, and so many years later, the Holocaust is still a painful subject. I should know better. None of my grandparents would be laughing at this, despite the fact that the video makes a mockery of an enemy of Israel.

Again, please forgive me for my callousness.

"Children, remember..."

From the Aliyah Blog, a transcription of a beautiful story from Rebbe Shlomo that carries significant weight with me, as it is the first introduction I had to Reb Kalonymos Kalman (kudos to my friend Neil Harris for pointing me in its direction):

The Holy Hunchback

By Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach zt”l

In the Warsaw ghetto there was a Rebbe, the heiliger Reb Klonimus Kalman. He wrote a book and knowing prophetically that he would not survive, he put the manuscript under one of the stones in the ghetto where it was found after the war.   

He had a yeshiva not of young people but of children. He was accustomed to say, “My followers eat on Yom Kippur. You know why-they are not bar mitzvah yet.” A great Rabbi would come to him, or an old man and a little girl of four or five. He would say to the older man, “You’ll make it without me. This child needs me.” With older people he would spend five minutes; with children all night. He had thousands of kids. He was their father, their mother, their best friend. After the war, there was nobody left.

My whole life I was hoping and dreaming to see one of these people. A few years ago I was walking on the Yarkon in Tel Aviv and I saw a hunchback -a street cleaner. Do you know that sometimes we are all little prophets? Our heart tells us something. I had a feeling this person was special. He was a real hunchback. That as his face was very handsome, but every part of his body was disfigured. And I said to him. “Hey, shalom aleichem my friend.” And he answered me in a very heavy Polish-Yiddish Hebrew, “Aleichem shoolum.” I said to him in Yiddish, “Mein zeisse yid, my sweet yiddele, where are you from?” He said, “I’m from Piaseczna .” I said “Piaseczna . Gevalt! Did you ever see Reb Klonimus Kalman?” “What do you mean, did I ever see him? I was a student in his yeshiva from the age of five to eleven. I was in Auschwitz for five years. I was eleven when I got there. They thought I was seventeen; I was so strong. They beat me up so much I never healed. That’s why I look this way. I have nobody in the whole world, really nobody, ” I said to him, “You know something-my whole life I have been waiting to meet one of the students of Reb Klonimus Kalman, Would you be so kind to give me over one of his teachings?” He kept on sweeping the street, “You really think that after five years in Auschwitz, I remember the teachings?” I said, “Yes-the words of the heileger Rebbe penetrate you forever.”

He stopped sweeping. He looked at me and said, “Do you really want to know?” He touched me so deeply and although you shouldn’t swear, I said to him “I swear to you, and I mean it with all my heart, that whatever you tell me I shall tell all over the world.” You know he was a real chasidisher Yid, so he put the broom against a wall and went to wash his hands. And this is what he said: “There will never be a Shabbos as by my holy master, my heiliger Rebbe. Can you imagine -hundreds, sometimes thousands of young people dancing with the holy rebbe in the middle. What a sight! Not until Meshiach is coming. Can you imagine the Rebbe making kiddush sitting with hundreds of children with so much holiness. He gave over teachings between the fish and the soup, between the soup and the meat, between the meat and the dessert and after every teaching, he would always say, “Kinderlach, taire kinderlach, my most precious children, gedenkst shon, remember, die greste sach in die velt ist, tun emetzin a tova. Children, precious children, just remember the greatest thing in the world is to do somebody else a favor. ”

When I came to Auschwitz, 1 knew my whole family had been killed and I wanted to kill myself. Each time I was about to, I suddenly heard the Rebbe’s voice saying to me, “Gedenkst shon, the greatest thing in the world is to do somebody else a favor.” Do you know how many favors you do in Auschwitz late at night? People dying, people crying; nobody had the strength even to listen to their stories anymore. I would be up all night. A few weeks later I wanted to kill myself again but always at the last moment I’d hear my Rebbe’s voice. Now I’m here in Tel Aviv, but believe me, I’m all alone, There are moments when I decide to commit suicide. I go into the sea until the water reaches my nose. Then suddenly I hear my Rebbe’s voice again and I just can’t permit myself to do it and I run back to the streets. Do you know how many favors you can do on the street?”

My friends, this was before Rosh Hashana. After Succos I came back to Israel and the first morning I went to the Yarkon and I asked the people on that street corner where the hunchback was. They said he died on the second day of Succos.

Listen to me, my beautiful friends, when the Meshiach comes, when all the holy people will come back to the world and the holy hunchback, the holy street cleaner will come back. He will clean the streets of the world. Do you know how he will clean the world? He will go from one corner of the world to the other and he will say, “Yiddelach, gedenkst shon, the greatest thing in the world is to do somebody else a favor.”

Today is the yahrtzeit of my grandfather, Reb Eliezer ben R' Yitzchak Chaim A"H. He died five years ago, out of the blue, and I still miss him terribly.

PLease try to have him in mind during your tefillot (prayers) and learning throughout the day.

Rav Moshe Weinberger on The Holocaust, Tzfat, and Rebbe Nachman

I meant to post this on the second day of Chol HaMoed, which is Rebbe Nachman's yahrtzeit (anniversary of death), but I didn't have a chance and it got lost in the shuffle.

Enjoy this *little* speech by Rav Weinberger given at a benefit dinner several years ago:

A Must Listen - The Three Relationships We Have With God

Courtesy of YUTorah, this shiur (lecture) by Rav Moshe Weinberger is apropos not only in content, but in mood for the rapidly approaching Yomim Nora'im.

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Some people told me that they had difficulty with previous widgets that I posted, so the shiur can also be found by following this link.

Listen to this...!

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I just listened to this shiur (lecture) by Rav Moshe Weinberger, between classes in school today, and it is phenomenal. It was delivered while he was visiting the Holy Land, at Yeshivas Derech HaMelech (an awesome place), about the Three Weeks. It was deep, inspiring, and very, very emotional.

Among other things, Rav Weinberger relates a story about the Bobover Rebbe OBM, that had me in tears (I know that's not saying much for me, but you get the point); the other people in the student lounge were giving me the hairy eyeball.

For those of you interested, the torah from Rebbe Nachman can be found in L.M. I:247; it's worth seeing inside...