Dating the Divine Celebrating love “These are the appointed holidays of G-d, holy convocations, which you are to proclaim in their appointed times.” — Lev. 23.4

Henny Youngman, the comedian, once said, “I tried being an atheist, but I gave it up. There were no holidays.”

What is a holiday really about? Is it the same as a vacation?

A vacation is a time to vacate, but a holiday is a time to celebrate.

To vacate means to take off, get away from the everyday and clear yourself out from the tensions and challenges of the daily grind. Perhaps you’ll suntan on a beach, play golf or catch a good concert.

A holiday, however, is a holy day. It is not an escape from everyday life to paradise. Rather, it is a time to infuse paradise into the everyday. This is the power of celebration. My guess is that the word celebrate connects to the word celestial. And from a Jewish perspective that would make sense, because a Jewish holiday is a time to see the celestial within the terrestrial. It is a time to acknowledge how the Divine enters our world and meets us in time.

A Jewish holiday is referred to in Hebrew as a Moed. This actually means a date or a meeting. In other words, a holiday is a date with G-d. Why would you need to date G-d?

Even though my wife and I have been married for over twenty years now, we regularly go out on dates. Although we see each other daily, our profound connection often gets overshadowed by the hustle and bustle of life. Life sometimes gets in the way of love. And you forget how deep is your love.

When was the last time you noticed your breath or your heartbeat? Unless you lose your breath or miss a beat, these miracles of life often go unnoticed and unappreciated. It is precisely because they are constant and consistent that we forget them and lose the wonder they should inspire.

G-d is with us every moment of our life. Therefore, it is easy for us to forget that His presence fills the present. The holidays, however, mark special times in Jewish history where G-d’s loving presence becomes dramatically obvious.

In fact, all the Jewish holidays plug us back into the drama of Jewish life. The sharp turns and striking contrasts in Jewish history inspire powerful clarity. Remembering what was in the past awakens us to see what is in the present and what can be in the future. The holidays empower us to recognize how G-d’s love is with us all the time.

Each holiday celebrates a critical ingredient in the recipe for a loving relationship with G-d and our fellow man — freedom, responsibility, fallibility, accountability, forgiveness, spontaneity, integrity, wholeness, intimacy, anticipation, hope and trust.

Each holiday in the Jewish calendar is a date with G- d. They are opportunities to relive the dramatic events that occurred on those days and revitalize our love today.

Each holiday is a time to remember and celebrate G- d’s timeless love for us.

Rabbi David Aaron
Author of Endless Light, Seeing G-d, The Secret Life of G-d, Inviting G-d In, Living A Joyous Life, and The G-d-Powered Life

(click here for print version)

An open road, on a beautiful day, your kids in the back seat, perhaps a packed picnic lunch; what could be more perfect? What thoughts go through your mind at such times? Is your mind focused on all the challenges tomorrow always seems to bring, or do you take the time to appreciate the moment? Are you listening to the news about a recent referendum vote, the country’s economic woes, and the ever- looming threat of terrorism, or do you take the time to appreciate the gift of the moment?

I imagine the radio was on, but maybe it wasn’t tuned to the news; instead, maybe the achingly beautiful sounds of Shlomo Artzi’s voice wafted through the car singing of love to be found, and joy to be discovered.

I will always wonder what Tali Hatuel, eight months pregnant, with her four daughters Hila, Roni, Hadar and Meirav, ages 11 to 2 in the back seat, was thinking in those last moments. Was she considering what she and her husband David would name their soon- to- be born child? Was she wondering how Meirav, their two-year-old, would accept the newest addition to the Hatuel family? Or was she just appreciating the pure joy of the open road, the dunes of the beach in the distance, and her growing family with her in the car? Were they singing songs together as Israeli families on the road are wont to do, or were they playing a game, debating what their favorite moment of the week was?

And what went through her mind; their minds, as the sounds of gunfire filled the air and bullets tore through the car? What does a mother think as armed terrorists walk calmly over to a car lying on the side of the road, and one by one, shoot each of her children while she lies helplessly watching? Is she lost in the moment, or is she still capable of seeing the future, and dreaming of a day when the guns will finally be melted down into plowshares?

Indeed, coming from a community that lives with the future hanging by a thread, and the sounds of mortars and gunfire never far away, how do these people nonetheless succeed in plowing their magnificent fields and harvesting their bio-ponic gardens? How do you find the balance between learning to live in the moment, and yet remaining aware of the challenges of tomorrow?

On a road near Gush Katif, south of Ashkelon and Ashdod along Israel’s coastline, the beautiful sounds of a family on a road trip gave way to the horrible silence that follows gunfire when terrorists opened fire on the Hatuel family and murdered Tali Hatuel and her four children and unborn baby.

How do you fill that silence? What words can break the barrier of such a tragedy? What can one say to David Hatuel, a husband and father who has lost his entire world? Can a person whose entire future just die on the side of the road ever succeed in stepping outside the pain and tragedy of the moment he must be locked into?

During the mourning period, a heartrending meeting took place as Boaz Shabo, who lost his wife and three of his children in a terrorist attack in Itamar two years earlier, came to comfort David Hatuel. He struggled to find the words, but of course, there are no words.

During their meeting, David Hatuel asked Boaz Shabo the unanswerable question: “Boaz, how, how am I supposed to get up in the morning?” And Boaz responded: “You get up in the morning, and you get up – to no one. But …Tali [your wife] is looking at you from above, spurring you on to continue.”

This week’s Torah portion, Emor, has much to say on the both the challenge and the nature of this question.

In general, every weekly portion contains a theme to which all the topics of that portion are connected. This week, however, the divergence of the topics leaves us wondering what common thread could bind these different ideas together as a thematically connected portion.

Usually, the first and last topics of any given portion are the ‘bookends’ that allude to the message of that portion. But that seems to be a challenging prospect this week.

Emor opens with an exhortation to the Kohanim (the priestly class) not to come into contact with a dead body:

“Vayomer Hashem el Moshe: ‘Emor el ha’kohanim, b’nei Aharon, ve’amarta’ aleihem: ‘Le’nefesh lo yitama’ be’amav’.”

“And G-d said to Moshe: ‘Say to the Kohanim (Priests), sons of Aaron, and tell them: he (each Kohen) may not become Tameh (defiled) to a (dead) person amongst his people.” (Vayikra (Leviticus) 21:1)

And it closes with a story that seems completely unconnected to this idea. In short, an Israelite whose mother was Jewish (an Israelite) and whose father was Egyptian, argued in the camp with another Jew. In the course of the argument, this son blasphemed by cursing G-d’s name in public. He was brought before Moshe, who, unsure of what to do, placed him under guard, until he could receive guidance from Hashem (G-d) as to what to do.

G-d’s response was to direct Moshe to remove him from the camp and have anyone who heard the blasphemy (cursing of G-d) actually place their hands upon his (the blasphemer’s) head, whereupon he was subsequently killed, by the entire congregation.

What connection can there possibly be between the beginning of the portion advising Kohanim (priests) they are not allowed to become impure by direct contact with a dead body, and the story at the end of the portion describing the death of a blasphemer?

Equally confounding is the content of the rest of the portion, which forms the ‘middle of the sandwich’ or the ‘meat’ of the parsha. After fifty some odd verses (chapters 21 and 23 of Vayikra) specifically addressed to the Kohanim, the portion then switches (in Chapter 23) to a review of all the Jewish festivals: Pesach (Passover), the counting of the Omer (during the seven weeks following Pesach), Shavuot, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, Sukkoth, and the festival of Shemini Atzeret. Lastly, it describes once again the process whereby the eternal flame (ner tamid) is lit in the Beit HaMikdash (Temple) every day, before concluding with the story of the blasphemer.

Again, what is the common theme that binds these seemingly divergent, even incongruous topics of Priesthood, the festivals, the Menorah, and the case of blasphemy?

Perhaps one detail will help us to shed light on this entire topic: in describing the mitzvah of counting the days and weeks from the offering of the Omer sacrifice leading up to Shavuot, the Torah tells us:

“U’Se’fartem Lachem, Mi’Macharat HaShabbat, Mi’Yom Havi’achem et Omer Ha’Te’nufah, Shevah Shabbatot Temimot…” (Leviticus 23:15)

“And you shall count for yourselves, from the day after Shabbat, from the day you bring the waved Omer offering, seven complete weeks…”

It is interesting to note that the day we bring (and wave before the altar) the Omer sacrifice is called here “Macharat HaShabbat”, “the day after Shabbat”. Our oral tradition teaches, however, that Shabbat here refers not to the seventh day of the week, but rather to the first day of Pesach, also called Shabbat.

This important point was the source of great controversy in Jewish history. Over two thousand years ago, a sect of Jews who believed only in the literal translation of the Bible, known as the Sadducees, understood this verse to mean that the counting of the Omer always began on the first Sunday after Passover, a point bitterly contested by the Rabbis of the time.

So if this wording became the source of such controversy, one wonders why the Torah chose to use such ambiguous terminology. Why not just say that the counting of the Omer begins on the day after Passover? Alternatively, as is done with each of the other festivals listed here in our portion, it could simply have said that the counting begins on the sixteenth day of the first month (of Nissan), which would have left no doubt as to the day specified.

Obviously, as witness to the fact the Torah also terms this day “Macharat HaShabbat” in discussing the Omer offering itself (v. 11), there must be some connection between this mitzvah of the Omer and the theme of Shabbat. So what does Shabbat have to do with the Omer, and for that matter with Pesach (Passover)?

Further, a closer look at the portion begins to uncover other allusions to Shabbat: In discussing the mitzvah of blowing the Shofar on Rosh Hashanah, the Torah tells us:

“…Ba’chodesh ha’shevi’i, be’echad la’chodesh, ye’hiyeh’ la’chem zichron teruah, mikra kodesh.”

“…In the seventh month, on the first of the month, you shall have a rest day (Shabbaton), a remembrance of Shofar, a holy calling.”

The Talmud in tractate Rosh Hashanah (fourth chapter) explains that this ‘remembrance’ of the Shofar refers to the fact that when Rosh Hashanah falls on Shabbat, the Shofar is not blown, and only remembered. And one wonders why, in the midst of teaching us both the mitzvah of Rosh Hashanah itself, as well as the central mitzvah of the day (blowing the Shofar), the Torah feels a need to allude to the mitzvah of Shabbat. What is the connection between Rosh Hashanah and Shabbat?

There is yet another topic briefly mentioned here which again seems difficult to connect to the rest of the portion: Sandwiched in between the discussion of Rosh Hashanah, which follows it, and the Omer and Shavuot preceding it, the Torah suddenly jumps to a mitzvah that doesn’t seem to have any connection to either of them:

“U’ve’kutzre’chem et k’tzir artzechem, lo techaleh pe’at sad’cha, be’kutzrechah’, ve’leket ke’tzircha’ lo’ telaket; le’ani ve’lager ta’azov o’tam, Ani Hashem Elokeichem.”

“When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not remove completely the corners of your field as you reap and you shall not gather the gleanings of your harvest. For the poor and the stranger shall you leave them; I am Hashem your G-d.” (23:22)

Now, certainly, this is a beautiful mitzvah, which tells us that we are not simply enjoined, but obligated, to set aside a corner of our field for the poor and needy. And we are not allowed to pick up sheaves that drop or are forgotten in the fields and on the threshing floor. Indeed, most of us when thinking about kosher food usually think of kosher hamburgers or chicken. In Israel, however, an entire field and all its crops are unkosher and cannot be eaten until a portion of it is set-aside for the poor. What does this mitzvah have to do with the Omer and Rosh Hashanah, and why is it inserted here?

Even more strange, the Talmud (Rosh Hashanah 32a) when searching for the Biblical source for the notion of Malchuyot, or G-d’s Kingship on earth (a part of the Rosh Hashanah liturgy), actually quotes the last three verses of this verse: “Ani Hashem Elokeichem.” “I am Hashem your G-d.”, (presumably because of its proximity to the verses on Rosh Hashanah.) What does this verse have to do with the idea of G-d being our King? If anything, I would have expected a verse with at least the word Melech (King) in it! What does this verse, concerning the crops I set aside for the poor, have to do with Hashem as King, much less Rosh Hashanah?

The truth is, it makes a lot of sense that there are so many references to Shabbat in this week’s portion, because the theme of this entire Parsha is time, and Shabbat, just like the festivals, is all about time.

When the Jewish people leftEgypt, the greatest gift Hashem gave them, was the gift of time. In fact, the very first mitzvah given to the Jewish people, while they were still inEgypt, was the counting of the months, and the fact that:

“This month (Nissan, when the Jews left Egypt) will be for you the first of the months…” (Exodus 12:2)

A slave, you see, has no time, because his time is not his own, it is his master’s. A slave doesn’t spend much time thinking about what he wants to do, because his master decides that for him, every day. Even when he thinks he has a little time, he is ever- conscious of the fact that in an instant, his master can decide, often on the spur of a moment, that he wants his slaves to do something else. There is no thought given to building a future, because the slave has no future, he lives only in the present, which is really part of the future and the present of someone else.

And then one day, the Jewish people were suddenly free, with no one else deciding for them what they had to do with every hour and every minute of the day. On the one hand, this must have been an intoxicating experience, much like the student who graduates and can suddenly decide to sleep in; the Jews had the ability to get up in the morning not to satisfy the desires of someone else, but to live for themselves.

At the same time, however, it must have been somewhat frightening, because now they had to decide what they were going to do. There is a certain security and comfort in the knowledge that someone else is worrying about where tomorrow’s food will come from, and even how the day will be filled. A slave has no budget to balance, no bills to pay, no worries about whether the crop will come in; it’s all in the hands of the master.

And this was the challenge facing the Jewish people as they journeyed forth towards thelandofIsrael, knowing the miracles of the desert would soon be behind them, and a land needed to be conquered, and then its fields plowed and planted.

Indeed, a slave, with no time, also has very little purpose, he lives from day to day, and his purpose is wrapped up in the daily struggle for a piece of bread or a drink of water, a few hours of sleep, or even a comforting word.

The Jews became a nation only when they left Egypt, because now they had a mission and a purpose: to be a “Mamlechet Kohanim Ve’Goy Kadosh”, a “Kingdom of Priests and a holy Nation” (Exodus 19:6).

And the great question facing them was what to do with this endless supply stretching ahead of them into the future; could a people that had been focused solely on the challenge of the moment, become a nation looking towards and building the future? Indeed, this very same challenge faced the Jewish people three thousand years later after the Holocaust and after the Israeli war ofIndependence. After years of living in the camps, and struggling to survive, could this people become a nation, building a future, which would make a lasting contribution to the entire world?

Indeed, it is no accident that this portion follows the completion and dedication of the Mishkan (Tabernacle) (which we read about a few weeks ago in the portion of Shemini, and which was alluded to again last week in Acharei Mot). The Jews, still struggling with the challenge of building their own future and making their own decisions, wanted nothing more than for someone to tell them what to do. Indeed, after centuries of idolatry which gave them just that, the idea that G-d wanted them to be partners in building this world (one of Judaism’s central themes), must have terrified them, and may well have been at the root of their struggle with Hashem’s direct communication with them at Sinai. They wanted to hear the rest of the Ten Commandments from Moshe, because Moshe could tell them what to do, and life could remain as simple as it had always been.

And then Moshe disappeared up on the mountain, so they built themselves a golden calf. Now the golden calf could tell them what to do. And then, when that proved to be a disaster, G-d tells them to build a Mishkan (Tabernacle). Indeed, they throw themselves into the building and the donating to such an extent, that Moshe finally has to tell them to stop (Shemot (Exodus) 36:3-7), because again they have become so immersed in the moment, they have lost sight of the goal. And now, with the completion of the Mishkan, they are, perhaps, again faced with the challenge of what to do.

Perhaps that is why this portion begins with the Kohanim, the Priests: Because the concept of the Priesthood is really meant to be a model for the Jewish people. The Kohanim are our educators, who lead by example, and their lives are wrapped up in the service of a higher purpose, the challenge of bringing G-d into the world and into our lives.

Too often, we have difficulty finding the balance between the present, and the future. Sometimes, we get so wrapped up in the moment, in the car accident, the spilled milk, or the news on CNN, we lose sight of what life is really all about, and how meaningful it can be when we are imbued with a sense of purpose, and a connection to something higher than the dividends on the stocks, or getting the kids to school in the carpool. Yet, at the same time, sometimes we become so enthralled and excited with the grand mission and the purpose, we may lose touch with the need to sanctify every given moment.

And that is what Shabbat is all about: On the one hand, we become so involved with our week, filled with work, we lose sight of where all that work is supposed to take us. Shabbat teaches us to step off the bus and take stock of where we are headed and why we are doing all that we spend so much time doing. At the same time, sometimes, we become so caught up in the objective, determined to achieve whatever goals we may have set for ourselves, be they noble or otherwise, we lose track of the beauty of every given moment.

I still remember vividly the day I learned the power of this idea from a visiting student.

One day at Isralight in Jerusalem’s Old City, I had just begun teaching a class when an odd looking fellow whom I had never seen before and was not part of the program walked in and sat down. It is a statistical fact that the last seat open is always the one next to the teacher (probably as a result of some deeply rooted trauma most people experience in kindergarten…) so he sat down right next to me.

Isralight prides itself on being an institution open to all, but when you teach in the Old City, you develop a sixth sense that alerts you to the occasional characters that may wander in on their spiritual journeys (we once had a fellow who came into class and was convinced he was King David!). I had the sense that something was a little ‘off’ with this fellow, a fact that was confirmed when he began staring at my coffee cup. And I don’t mean he was looking at it, I mean he was staring at it, bringing his face to about six inches from my half-filled mug sitting on the table.

Not wanting to embarrass him, but neither wishing to lose the audience’s attention, I took a few steps to my left away from this fellow, hoping it would draw people’s attention away from him. A moment later, this proved to be futile, as he actually picked up my coffee mug to further his analysis of both it and its contents. Now, this is not a common thing to do. The average person would not walk into a lecture and pick up the lecturer’s half-filled coffee mug, and as I was debating whether to ignore it, he took it one step further an actually took a sip of my coffee!

At this point, there was no point in trying to continue my thought, as no one was paying attention; they were too busy watching ‘Mr. Coffee-mug’. So, wanting to make light of it without embarrassing him, I told him he was more than welcome to the coffee and there was plenty more in the back! By this time I was wondering whether he was a bit mad, especially as one of his eyes had an oddly glazed look to it.

Suddenly he appeared to come out of whatever space or thought he had been in, and realized everyone was looking at him. At which point, apologizing, he explained:

“I am sorry; I was trying to see if this is what I thought it was. You see, I was born blind, and three days ago, I underwent experimental laser surgery, which restored sight in one of my eyes. So I decided to take some time to travel through the country and see all the places I’ve been, but never really seen. Naturally, I wanted to come and see the Kotel (Western Wall), and as I was on my way back up I noticed this group heading into this building and decided to follow my eye and see where it could take me. And looking at this mug, I realized this must be a coffee mug. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not crazy, I know what a coffee mug is, but I’ve never actually seen one….”

Here I had thought he was mad when in reality, he was the sanest person in the room. Needless to say, he taught us all more in that one moment than most of us learn in a year.

And this too, is the essence of Shabbat: can I learn to live in every moment, and appreciate its beauty and it power and the gifts that exist alongside its challenges.

And this of course, is why Pesach here is called ‘Shabbat’, and the counting of the Omer is begun on the day after ‘Shabbat’, because the Omer is all about appreciating each day of each week as we move from Pesach and the Exodus from Egypt, towards Shavuot and the giving of the Torah. On the one hand, we count each day, to appreciate its gifts amidst all the little and sometimes very large challenges that may come our way, while never losing sight of the goal, represented by Shavuot, when we receive the Torah and with it our mission and purpose as a people.

And this is at the heart of all of the festivals, which are also all about appreciating each moment of each season, and each stage in our journey as a people, while never losing sight of the fact that each season and step in the journey is also part of a larger reality, with a starting point of embarkation, and a destination.

Perhaps this is also why the Talmud extrapolates the idea of Malchuyot, or G-d’s Kingship, from the verse containing the mitzvah of setting aside a corner of the field for the poor. We get so wrapped up in harvesting our field; we actually start to think it’s our field. But in truth nothing in this world is really ours; we can’t take it with us. In fact, the only things we really have in this world are the things we give to others. So, as a prelude to Rosh Hashanah, Hashem gives us the opportunity to share what we have been given with others, which may well be the reason it was given to us in the first place. And again, we are challenged to both live in the moment, and get the field harvested, because G-d isn’t going to do it for us, while recognizing that the value of the harvest really depends on how aware we are of why we are really harvesting it.

And this too, is the meaning of the Ner Tamid, the light which constantly burns: we need to be willing to light the flame, and be in the moment, while recognizing that everything is about what the light is really for in the first place.

This is also at the root of the beginning and the end of the portion: the defilement by contact with death on the one hand, and the blasphemer on the other.

Death is the ultimate reminder that we are all here today and gone tomorrow. It tends to suggest to us that we are merely physical beings, and that we should live only for the here and now, and so the Kohen especially, whose mission is to remind the Jewish people that there always has to be a higher purpose, avoids contact with death wherever possible.

(Interestingly, he is allowed to come into contact with the dead body of a close relative, perhaps because when the relationship is so deep, it is clear, even in the moment of death, that there was and is much more to the person than the physical reality….)

And as for the person who curses G-d’s name, in the midst of an argument, perhaps he represents the danger of being so wrapped up in the moment, and consumed by his anger, that for him G-d, (and with Him all sense of a higher purpose) becomes dead. (Indeed, the Talmud compares a person consumed by anger to a person who worships idols, for this very reason.) And while there is certainly much more to consider on this topic, it is worth noting that the Torah takes this question so seriously precisely because the loss of an objective purpose (which can only stem from a relationship to an objective source, i.e. G-d), would mean an undermining and loss of everything the Jewish people, and indeed the world was created for in the first place. Without faith, or Emunah, there is no future; there is only the present.

Sixty-seven years ago, as a people, we made a decision to build a future and not get stuck in the moment. If there ever was a people with the right to curse G-d, and become consumed by the anger of the moment, or to escape the challenges of the future, it was the Jewish people of 1945.

Yet, driven by the passion of a three thousand year journey, we accepted a partnership with G-d in building a homeland, against seemingly insurmountable and often undeniably cruel and unfair odds. And in the midst of it all, we did not sink into the temptations of the moment and the challenges of fighting a war and moving on in a post-Holocaust world; we built a land based on the principles of being a “Kingdom of Priests and a holy nation.”

Sixty-seven years later, we still have a long way to go, as a nation, and as a people. There are no words that can give strength to a David Hatuel. It is hard for us to imagine the challenge of this one man’s struggle to get beyond the present and move forward into an uncertain future. But somehow, perhaps the knowledge that without words, we as a people continue to embrace the future amidst all the struggles of the present, will give strength and hope to us all.

Shabbat Shalom,

Binny Freedman

One such young leader, is Rabbi Sam Thurgood of Durban, South Africa. Rabbi Thurgood participated in Isralight’s summer internship for rabbinic students in 2007, and subsequently returned to participate in our Isralight Rabbinic Enrichment Conference two years later. Rabbi Thurgood is a popular community rabbi and teacher at the Yeshiva School in Durban, where he has developed a series of creative lesson plans utilizing much of the material he has gained from his training at Isralight, as well as the many written works of Isralight’s Founder and Dean, the renowned author Rabbi David Aaron.

Rabbi Thurgood has been instrumental in setting up a ten day community scholar in residence opportunity in Durban, beginning May 17. Isralight’s Founder and Dean Rabbi David Aaron, together with Associate Dean Rabbi Moshe Kornblum will visit Durban, and will be offering a variety of different seminars during their stay…Here are some of the highlights of their upcoming trip:

1. Teacher Training

Rabbi Aaron will be presenting sessions to Rabbis and Jewish Studies Teachers at Yeshiva Day School.

Rabbi Aaron will also be presenting to Talmud Torah Teachers at the Durban Hebrew Schools Association an after school program for Jewish kids who attend the local public schools.

2. Young Leadership Shabbaton

Rabbis Aaron and Kornblum will be leading a Shabbaton geared towards building leaders in the Youth and young adult communities. The focus of the Shabbat will be to provide inspirational content and encourage young adults within the college and post University age group to consider taking a more active role and to consider even becoming a leader in the Jewish community..

3. Lay Leadership Retreat

The following week there will be a 2 day retreat specifically focused on the lay leadership of the Kehilla,as well as a separate seminar for the Women’s League of the Jewish Community, in order to offer encouragement and inspiration to the vital role these individuals play in the vibrancy of the Jewish community.

For more information regarding the many leadership training opportunities offered by the Isralight Center for Jewish Leadership, please contact Rabbi Sam Shor, Director of Leadership Development via email sam@isralight.org .

The Isralight Teaching Internship is dedicated to professional training for rabbis, Jewish educators, and aspiring outreach leaders under the direction of Rabbis David Aaron and Binny Freedman.

The program meets four late afternoons each week at Yeshivat Orayta (with options for a daily commitment of either 1 hour, 2 hours or 2 hours and 20 minutes, for a total commitment of four hours, 8 hours or nine hours and 20 minutes each week) and includes intensive study of fundamentals of Jewish thought, training in pedagogy, practical skills and sensitive contemporary topics, opportunities to “shadow” master teachers, and an optionalevening student teaching practicum.

For more information, or to apply, please forward a resume via email to Rabbi Sam Shor, sam@isralight.org . Upon review of resume, candidates will be contacted to interview and learn more specific details of the program.

Achieving Sacred Selfishness Happiness through holiness I had a student that once came into my office and said, “My father who passed away was an atheist and a fantastic human being. He was such a moral human being. He was such a good human being. I don’t believe that had he been a believer, he would have been any better. He was the epitome of being a good person. So I have a problem with Torah because I really don’t believe that it would have made a difference.”

So I told him that it isn’t the goal of Torah to merely become a moral person. There is a lot more to it.

Morality is important, but morality is a stage in the journey. The destination is holiness — being whole.

Morality is an aspect of that, but it is not that.

So I asked him, “Do you think your father might have been more holy?” That shocked him, he never even thought about holiness. What is holiness? According to the Torah, the ultimate goal of life is holiness.

Holiness is what we are here to do. The meditation that is recited prior to the performance of a mitzvah (religious duty) is “Blessed Be You, G- d … Who has made me holy through the commandments.” It says holy. Not good. Not more moral. Now, of course, if a person is holy, she will be more moral and more good, but one must differentiate between the objectives and the goal.

Morality is — without question — a very serious step on the ladder but it is not the final rung in our ladder. Rather we aspire to holiness. Holiness is ultimate wholeness which has nothing of the weakness of morality.

Often people’s morality comes out of weakness. They don’t do the right thing because they want to. They do it because of a social consensus which they are afraid to violate. If they were to violate it, they would be considered politically incorrect, socially unaccepted, and maybe even punished.

Now if that is the foundation of morality, then morality is in big trouble. Then morality is weakness. It’s giving in.

If morality is simply a function of what the community decided on is good, and you just go with the flow, then you are weak. You are afraid not to conform, not to be different, and you are willing to chuck your values (should they be different than the social consensus) because you’re scared. Is that morality?

Holiness has none of the weakness of morality. Holiness is the ultimate wholeness. Holiness is not surrendering to society’s consensus, but asserting my “self” with the strength of being connected to the Great Self—G-d.

And you know what the irony is? When I act out of ultimate wholeness, I am really being selfish. My goodness to you is very selfish because you are a part of my self. How can I not be good to you? How can my right hand not be good to my left hand? We are part of the same whole.

Here is another irony: Morality wants you to be selfless. It wants you to overcome your selfishness, because only then can you surrender to the social standard. But is that realistic? People are selfish. Morality, without holiness, is heading for bankruptcy.

See, there are two kinds of selfishness. There is holy selfishness and there is unholy selfishness. Unholy selfishness is when I experience myself as separate from you and therefore, I exploit you for my personal little needs. Holy selfishness is when I would never exploit you, because you are so much a part of myself, and we are so much a part of the Great Self — we are whole in One. Hurting you is hurting myself. Hurting my self is hurting you. I wouldn’t do it. This is a high level of selfishness. This is not a bad selfishness. This is a beautiful selfishness. This isn’t weakness. This is strength. This is the power of self. Holy selfishness flows from your connection to the Great Self—the Ï am G-d.

Should vs. Want To

“Let’s take an example. Sherry and Judy are walking down the street. They see this old man dressed in ragged clothing. He clearly hasn’t had a shower in weeks. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out his life is not a picnic. So both Sherry and Judy dig deep in their pockets and each one pulls out ten bucks, and they each give it to him.

Sherry did an act of morality and Judy did an act of holiness.

Morality is motivated by social conditioning, social approval, perhaps guilt and embarrassment of how much I have; maybe a hope that what goes around comes around, maybe a desire to protect my own wealth and, perhaps a hope for some reward. For Sherry, it’s worth the sacrifice.

And all of that is great, but holiness is more.

Holiness is motivated by the deepest source of my “self.” It is a natural, spontaneous uncalculated expression of “self,” without consideration of reward or punishment. It is self evident. If I saw myself on the street, I would give to myself. Well, Judy just saw an aspect of herself on the street. And of course, she gave.

This is what the Talmud means when it says, “The reward of the mitzvah is the mitzvah.” The reward of being yourself is being yourself.

Now Sherry’s morality is great. Sherry’s morality is a step toward holiness and is included within holiness, but holiness is much greater.

Holiness, as the Torah sees it, is not about simply becoming a better human being. And a lot of people don’t understand that. They say, “I never hurt anybody. I’m a good person. That’s the only thing that counts.”

Being good is the objective of Torah, but being holy is its ultimate goal.

In the Torah, G-d says “You shall be holy for I am holy.”

You can be more than just good. You can be whole. You can soar. You can experience being holy deeply connected to all and one with the All of All — Whole in One.

When you understand the Torah’s outlook on life and unity and true identity, then you realize that holiness has none of the possible weaknesses in morality, posing an unreasonable demand on man to be selfless, telling him to eradicate selfishness from his heart. Holiness recognizes that my selfishness may come from a higher place, a place of Oneness.

The key here is true self love which is rooted in the Soul of all Souls — G-d — the Great Self.

False self love is not a love of self at all, it is love of ego. When you love your ego you are really hating yourself. You are ripping yourself off from the source of all.

Imagine two leaves looking at each other on a tree. One thinks the other one is a real jerk. The other one says, “Well, I don’t really like your face either. You’re green.”

“Who are you calling green, Man? You’re just as green as me.”

What they don’t realize is that they are connected to one twig, which is connected to one branch, which is connected to one trunk, which is connected to one root.

And so these two leaves are living an illusion that somehow they are against each other when in fact in the deepest place of the deepest place, they are all connected.

And so too we are all connected. We are not the same. I am not you. You are not me. And yet we are one.

Deep down inside we know that. Holiness takes us to the peak of ourselves, to the apex where all selves meet, where the more you love your self in this true sense, the more you love G-d and everyone else.

Rabbi David Aaron
Author of Endless Light, Seeing G-d, The Secret Life of G-d, Inviting G-d In, Living A Joyous Life, and The G-d-Powered Life

This week, in America, you will read the double portion of Acharei-Mot-Kedoshim which, translated literally, means ‘after the death of the holy ones’ , a meaning that was all too appropriate last week when we were reading the same double portion, as it fell on the Shabbat immediately following Israel’s Memorial and Independence days: Yom HaZikaron and Yom Ha’Atzmaut.

Memorial day followed by Yom ha’Atzmaut (Independence day)  in Israel evoke so many emotions  all coming together in a whirlwind  of intense, meaningful, powerful and even joy filled moments that have no equal the rest of the year and perhaps even in the rest  of  the world.

At precisely 11Am, standing over the graves of Dani Moshitz and Chaim Avner who both fell in Lebanon in 1982, time stopped, as the sirens all over the country went off, and the entire country came to a stand-still as Israel remembered all those who fell in defense of the State of Israel and the Jewish people. If you have never been in Israel on this day, and never experienced this moment, you owe it to yourselves , to your children and even to those who fell and to their families, to be here in Israel one year on this day and at this moment, when time stops, and we all, with all of our differences, become one. For most of us, even with all the painful memories of that day and the tears that often flow freely as we think of close friends who will remain 19 or 20 forever, eventually, memorial day gives way to Yom Ha’Atzmaut or    Independence Day, and we tuck those memories and tears away to celebrate, dance and sing with abandon in celebration of what many call Chag Atzmaut or Independence Holiday.

Indeed, Yeshivat Orayta joined us in Efrat this year and as the sun set over the mountains of Judea, and  the students heard one more story of one more  soldier who gave everything that we might have a State with which to celebrate, we suddenly arose on the edge of the forest where we were having a solemn kumsitz, to dance and sing the Hallel (thanksgiving and praise ) prayers as we took stock of how blessed we all are to live in a generation where a Jewish army defends a Jewish State where Jewish children study in Hebrew and Jews from all over the world sleep securely knowing they have  a place they can call their own; a home they can come to in the event they ever need a place to welcome them in….

The bands start to play, the fireworks and the celebrations begin, and time moves on. But not for everyone.  For the past couple of years, Danny Hillman, father of my cousin Benji Hillman an elite company commander in Golani’s Egoz elite recon unit, (who fell leading his men into battle in the second Lebanon War), came to speak with us on the eve of Memorial Day. After telling Benji’s story, he opened the floor for the boys to ask questions, explaining that there probably was not a question they could think of that he had not already been asked and that he wanted them to feel comfortable asking anything and everything…. Eventually, one of the boys asked Danny if losing his son had affected his faith. The entire room went quiet; you could hear a pin drop. I leaned forward in my chair; despite how close I feel to Danny and Judith and their whole family, I had never asked any of them this question; I would probably not have had the nerve. I was expecting a treatise on the challenges of suffering and its impact on our relationship with G-d.

Instead, Danny, a person with a Kippah (skullcap) on his head who defines himself as religious, in his matter of fact English deadpan manner simply replied: “Not at all”. And again there was silence in the room.

“Actually”, he said, I feel sorry for people who have to struggle with this without faith; it must be very difficult; at least in my world there must be some plan, some reason, even if I cannot imagine ever understanding it…”

Those words have been in and out of my head ever since he said them. On the one hand, I can understand them intellectually. A colleague  of mine once shared with me that while his wife was in labor with their first child, he was extremely stressed seeing his wife whom he loved so dearly in such pain during labor. His wife, sensing his duress, said to him: “You know, I am in pain, buty I am not suffering, because I know there is a purpose to this pain. Suffering is when there does not seem to be any purpose.” So I can understand that people like the Hillmans who are able to believe that everything has a purpose (even if we are not necessarily capable of or even meant to understand it in this world) are somehow able to transform their suffering. But they are still left with the pain. And I am in awe of such people who bear that pain with such dignity and gravitas.

Cheryl Mandel, whose son Daniel was an Officer in the elite recon unit of the Nachal Brigade who was killed on a mission to capture wanted terrorists in Shechem(Nablus) in 2003, also came to speak with the Orayta boys just a few hours before Memorial day. Daniel was killed on the day before the eve of Pesach (Passover); Cheryl was in the kitchen cooking and getting ready for the Seder when the IDF officers showed up at her door with the terrible news. The Seder table was already set, and the next night, having come back from Daniel’s funeral just a few hours before, no-one had the heart to remove his place setting, so his chair sat empty, his wine glass unfilled, and Haggadah un-opened through the seder that Daniel’s brother Jonah once told me was more like Tisha B’Av than a pesach Seder….

At the end of her presentation, after answering the boys’ many questions with the same thoughtful open-ness as my cousin Danny the day before, she told us a story. At the end of their training period in the Nachal recon unit they had a ‘masa mesakem’ or final trek. This 90 kilometer (50 miles) march is one of the most difficult experiences in the Israeli army and is a test of endurance as well as will power. The soldiers are gradually being prepared for this grueling experience from the beginning iof their army service with the treks beginning at 4-5 kilometer baby hikes to 10, 20 40 and eventually 60 or 70 kilometer hikes, ao that they are ready for the 90 kilometer trek when it comes. In addition to the gradual training of long distance walkling And running sometimes with open stretchers carrying wounded, they are also trained to carry additional gear. Each soldier, in addition to his  gun and gear carries an additional piece of equipment such as a jerry can, stretcher, grenade launcher or radio. One of the heavier items 9known as a ‘pakal’) is the heavy MAG machine gun known in slang as the ‘Mag’. The mag is always given to a larger solidly built soldier as it is very heavy and difficult to carry; as such it also is an honor to carry. But the soldier who carries it has been training with it through his entire army service and is ready to carry it for 90 kilometers having trekked with through all of the previous treks.  But the particular solider tasked with the Mag on this march was sick, and collapsed a few kilometers into the march. Daniel, who was nearby, immediately ran to his aid when he collapsed, and his commanding officer said to him “Mendel (Daniel’s nickname in the army): Kach et haMag” ;(”Daniel take the Mag”). Now Daniel, a gifted musician, was not a very big boy, and was not trained to carry this heavy load. But if your commanding officer says “Mendel Kach et haMag”, you take the Mag. So Daniel hefted the heavy machine gun on his back and proceeded to carry it for the remaining 80 kilometers. He succeeded in finishing the trek, after which he promptly collapsed and ended up in the hospital; but he finished the trek and became a legend in his unit.

Cheryl looked at the boys in Orayta whom she as sharing this story with and said, pointing heaven-wards with her finger: “my Commanding Officer (G-d) has given me a great burden to carry. Hashem has, for some reason I will never comprehend looked at me and said “Mendel: kach et hamag”. I was never trained nor was I prepared to carry this burden; but if your commanding officer says “Mendel Kach et haMag”, you take the Mag. So I am carrying this heavy burden and will, till my last day on earth carry the burden of having buried a son who fell in defense of Israel. It is not a burden I wanted to carry, and I would gladly give it up, but I will carry it, because that is what I believe my Commanding Officer is asking of me.”

For so many families in Israel who carry this painful burden, they will continue to struggle with it every day, and in every moment, long after the sounds of the Memorial Day sirens have faded into memory. And the rest of us, who can only stand in awe at the strength and courage of their silent, dignified conviction, owe it to them , and to all those who fell, to be there with them as best we can, and to never let, even for a moment, the tremendous sacrifice they make every day go un-appreciated or forgotten.

Acharei-Mot-Kedoshim which, translated literally, means ‘after the death of the holy ones’. After their sacrifice we can only contemplate the portion you will read next week, which we in Israel will read this Shabbat: “Emor” which literally means to tell over: we must make sure to tell their stories and contemplate how we will make sure their sacrifices were not in vain.

Shabbat Shalom from Jerusalem, Binny Freedman

For those who would like to see photos and films of Benji Hillman and DanielMandel and learn more of their stories, as well as how to make a difference in the lives of the Hillman and Mandel families, you can visit www.benjihillman.org  and   http://daniel-mandel.co.il/ .

Sick minds, sick bodies
The power of our beliefs to heal or harm

The Jewish Sages gave a spiritual rather than physiological explanation for the disease tsara’as (generally translated as “leprosy”) which affected not only the body but also clothing and the walls of houses. According to one source several sins could possible be the cause:

R. Shmuel bar Nachmani said in the name of R. Yochanan: Because of seven things the plague of leprosy is incurred, namely, slander, the shedding of blood, a vain oath, incest, arrogance, robbery and envy. (Arakhin 16a)

However, most Sages concur that the main cause for tsara’as was slander and gossip.

HOW CAN WE UNDERSTAND THE PHYSICAL IMPACT OF OUR MORAL AND SPIRITUAL ACTIONS?

The Kabbalah teaches that the world you and I live in is a product of our perception of reality. The philosopher Immanuel Kant probed this concept. He asked: Do we see reality or do we see our perception of reality? Kant’s answer is that we do not see reality, but only our perception of reality. In other words, is this world reality? No, this world is your perception of reality. Therefore, the focus and clarity of your consciousness will determine the kind of world you live in.

This is expressed in the Kabbalistic Classic, the Zohar’s, commentary on the story of Jacob as he’s going to Egyptto be reunited with his long-lost son Joseph. Jacob has misgivings about leaving the landof Israel, even to see his beloved son. G-d appears to Jacob and says, “Jacob, don’t worry. Joseph will close your eyes.” The Zohar queries, what does this mean? According to Torah, when a person passes away, someone must close the eyes of the deceased. The Zohar explains that the colors and textures and shapes of this world exist in your eyes. In order to enter a new world, a higher world, after death, the soul must first leave this world. This world exists in one’s eyes, so the eyes must be closed in order to take leave of this world and see a higher world. G-d is announcing to Jacob that he is going to die inEgypt and Joseph will be there to close his eyes to this world, so that he will be able to enter, i.e. see, the next world.

Is the Zohar saying that this world is an illusion? No. The Zohar is saying that this world is your subjective perception. Your consciousness of reality determines the world you’re in. Your consciousness of G-d determines how much of the light and the truth of G- d will be allowed into your world. To the extent that you acknowledge G-d, to that extent G-d will be in your life. This is a very crucial idea. Although G-d is, G-d is not revealed in your perceptual world unless you actively acknowledge and invite G-d in.

Each one of us has a choice. You can believe that this world is filled with the presence of G-d who cares about it and guides it. Or you can believe that this world is one big accident, a chaotic mess. The choice is yours. But remember what you believe is ultimately what you will see and experience. What you believe creates the world you live in.

BUILDING BLOCKS OF CONSCIOUSNESS

How would I act if I really believed that G-d’s presence filled my life, my home, my office, my city, my world? How would I speak to my wife and kids? How would I treat the stranger? To the extent that I think, speak, and act in accordance with this heightened awareness, to that extent, G-d can be present in my world. It’s not just a matter of believing and saying so. We have to acknowledge G- d’s presence in the world constantly, by how we conduct our relationships, how we speak to and about others, how we eat our lunch, how we do virtually everything. Spirituality without a daily discipline is just a hobby.

It is not only through a collection of very deep ideas that I build consciousness of G-d. I need a daily concrete way to walk the talk. The so-called “good- deeds” and “rituals” of Torah tradition are designed to be building blocks to nurture and concretize consciousness all day long, so that I can channel G- d’s presence into the world and into my life.

By increasing my consciousness of G-d, I thereby allow the light of G-d and all the gifts of spiritual wealth to pour into the world. Few realize the true goodness in deeds and the real richness in rituals. They are really invitations to G-d. What we are saying in both words and actions is, “G-d, I want to get You into my life!”

When I reach into my pocket and give charity to the beggar on the street, when I smile at the person next to me in the supermarket line, when I extend myself to help my neighbor unload heavy packages, when I spend quality time with my kids by reading with them, I am inviting G-d into my world. All these good deeds actually become invitations to bring the Divine into our world.

EXILING G-D

I have choice. I can nourish the consciousness of G- d through my speech, thoughts and actions. Or I can neglect it. I could choose to filter out the divine qualities from my awareness, and thus live in a godless world. Kabbalah refers to that state as “the exile of G-d’s presence.” In other words, I can throw G-d out of the world.

An amazing verse in Psalm 119 says, “I am a stranger on earth.” According to some commentaries, the “I” refers to G-d, who considers Himself present in this world, but unrecognizable by anyone. In another astounding verse, we are told, “You are my witnesses. I am G-d.” The Midrash comments, “If you are my witnesses, I am G-d. But if you are not my witnesses, I am not G-d.” What does that mean? It’s an unbelievable idea. G-d depends upon our acknowledgement in word and deed in order to enter into our world. For G-d to appear in our world we must be G-d’s witness. G-d, so to speak, depends on our consciousness in order to enter into our world.

Without our consciousness, the light of G-d cannot illuminate our world, so we will find ourselves in a frightening darkness. That darkness which results from the absence of G-d’s light creates the space for evil and disease.

I am always amazed when I take off in an airplane, on a dark gloomy cloudy day, how bright it actually is once we get passed the clouds. I always try to remind myself during dark times in my life that the light is actually still shining. I just need to pierce the clouds and let the sunshine in. The darkness comes only because something is blocking the light.

We can block G-d’s light from the world by creating cloudy consciousness through our thoughts, speech and actions. If we close our eyes to seeing G-d, we’ll create a dark world which is seemingly governed by chaotic and destructive forces.

The Kabbalah says that you and I have the dimmer switch in our hands. We can either turn the light of G-d up, creating a whole and radiant world filled with health and joy, imbued with the presence of G-d, or we can turn the dimmer down, creating a dark, gloomy, ugly, Godless world. Our consciousness, which is nurtured by our thoughts, speech, and actions, becomes the vessel to receive the divine presence and the vehicle to transmit the divine blessings into our daily lives.

Rabbi David Aaron
Author of Endless Light, Seeing G-d, The Secret Life of G-d, Inviting G-d In, Living A Joyous Life, and The G-d-Powered Life