Ilu Haya Li- My pilgrimage to see Rav Dov Zinger

אילו היה לי רבי כמו שלכם הייתי הולך אליו ברגל,

ובחזרה הייתי רץ לעבוד אותו יתברך עם מה שקבלתי מרבי

If I had a Rebbe like yours, I would travel to him on foot,

And on my way back, I would run, in order to serve The Blessed one, with what I received from my Rebbe

Rav Avraham of Tolchin

I’ve tried to write this several times over the past few weeks. I’ve written, deleted, written again, edited, and edited some more. This is unusual for me. Usually, I know what I want to say, and can find the words to do so. My struggles to express what I want to, speaks to how deeply meaningful this experience was for me. I almost wonder if my challenge in finding the right words should be taken as an indication that I shouldn’t write about it. Some things cannot be shared. Still, I try, with the hope that what I write may be of use to even one person.

There are many stories told him about a chassid leaving home for  an extended period of time to visit his rebbe in a far off location. These stories often end with the chassid returning home having learned something of great importance. What is often implicit in these stories is the fact that getting to the rebbe involves all sorts of challenges including financial loss and time away from the family and work, but that what he gains is worth far more than anything he loses.

I don’t know how common it is these days for chassidim to make a pilgrimage to their rebbe, but many people are familiar with the fact that each year, many Breslov chassidim, chassidim of various stripes, and non-chassidim travel to Rebbe Nachman’s kever in Uman for part or all of the Yamim Noraim. Among the criticisms levied at those who go (and for good and bad, there are many) is that they leave their wives and children home to spend the Rosh Hashana and/or Yom Kippur by themselves. If I’m to be honest, as much as I would like to go to Uman, this is the only reason which would prevent me from going for the Yamim Noraim. Still, I’d like to share as much as I can find the words to do so, about a recent pilgrimage of sorts that I made, as it leaves me believing that certain tradeoffs may be worthwhile.

Less than a year ago, I merited to meet and develop a connection with Rav Dov Zinger, the Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivat Mekor Chaim, and author of Tikon Tefilati, an incredible sefer on tefillah. In the brief time that we had together it was clear that I had not just met a teacher, or even just a rabbi. I had found a mentor, or to put it better, a rebbe. As you can imagine, I was very happy to spend more time with him in Israel this past summer, and thrilled that my son who joined me, was taken by him, and by his yeshiva as well. I left Israel wondering when I’d get to see Rav Dov again. I was deeply excited when I was invited by a friend to come to Cleveland for a weekend where Rav Dov would be speaking and teaching.

I won’t pretend that there were major obstacles standing in my way. My wife was fine with my being away for a few days, and I received permission to miss work, as I would be learning things which I could use in and out of the classroom. Still, after agreeing to go, I discovered that from a family perspective, that weekend was not an ideal one for me to be away. I even considered cancelling.

As I drove west on route 80, I imagined myself as the proverbial chassid leaving his little village to see his rebbe. The dark grey sky and stunning fall foliage further lifted my spirits, something that even a massive storm which accompanied me from one end of Pennsylvania to the other, could not ruin. As I drove, I listened to Yosef Karduner soulful singing on my phone (click here for his amazing rendition of the quote at the top of this post). I couldn’t help but feel that this was all part of the pilgrimage. As excited as I was, I was alsonervous. Was I getting my hopes up to high? Could this weekend be all that I hoped it would be?

What can I say? It was better than I could have possibly hoped. Not surprisingly, the Torah was great. Each shiur and schmooze touched me deeply. I took copious mental notes making sure that I could share his ideas with others. Still, none of that was a surprise. I’d heard enough of Rav Dov’s Torah to know what to expect.

What made this experience so deeply meaningful was everything else. The conversations, the hugs, the jokes, the non-verbal communication, the lesson in hisbodedus put into practice late on a freezing night, and a wonderful walk in the woods, and, and, and.

I can’t find the right words to describe it, and I’m not sure I should try. I can only say that I imagine that many rabbeim have concentric circles around them, with some chassidim all the way on the outside, while others get the opportunity to discover a closer more intimate side of their rebbe. I don’t think I can point to a specific moment, but at some point during our time together I realized that it wasn’t just that I viewed Rav Dov as a rebbe, but that he had allowed me access into a deeper more personal side of himself.

Of course, at the end, in two stages, in Cleveland and New York, I had to say goodbye again, for an undetermined amount of time. It was hard, and I was sad, but it had to happen. Not just in terms of Rav Dov having to go home, but in terms of the ratzo v’ashov, which doesn’t just describe the back and forth relationship we have with God. There is an intensity I experience being in Rav Dov’s presence. In those moments, I don’t quite feel like myself, as fear, excitement, happiness, and trepidation combine to take me away from myself. I don’t think I could handle like living like that all of the time, trying to daven in his presence while trying to watch and not watch his davening, as I hopelessly try to have kavana, or sitting at a meal hoping that my comments are worth sharing, and my jokes appropriate, funny, but not crossing a line.

Most of all, there’s a sense that when I’m with him, I’m not walking on my own, but rather being held up like a child learning to take his first steps. It is only by letting go, by letting there be some distance, that I get to be who I am, taking the so many things I learned from him, not all of it Torah in its most narrow sense, but all of it holy; and trying to implement it in my life.

While I don’t pretend that my travels were particularly long or difficult, or my time away a major sacrifice, I can still say that I strongly believe that whatever was lost in my being away from home, is more than made up by what I returned with as I came back home. I dare say that my time away has the chance to make me a better husband, father, teacher, and Jew.

Can MO High Schools learn From The year In Israel? Some thoughts on the movie Unorthodox (Part III)

[This is the third part of a three-part series on the movie “Unorthodox”. In this post, I address ways for Modern Orthodox high schools to replicate some of what makes studying in Israel so powerful. To read part I, where I addressed how Israel schools have changed, please click here. To read part II, where I addressed how communities can work to better serve high school students, please click here].

“My So-Called Life” and “Freaks and Geeks” are probably the two best TV shows I’ve ever watched about life as a high school student, and its challenges, and I’m not alone in my praise. Both were critically acclaimed, and developed cult-like followings after they went off the air. Each, however, was off the air after only one season. There was something that made people uncomfortable about the realistic portrayal of the struggles of high school students. Viewers were hesitant to revisit their own high school years, even through the lens of a TV show.

If you know a teenager who attends a Modern Orthodox high school, ask them how often they learn something in their Judaic studies classes which seems relevant to their lives right now. Although it has been a number of years since I taught high school, my guess is that most students will struggle to come up with instances when Torah seemed relevant or meaningful to them. While schools have done a good, or even great job of improving their guidance departments to help those like Tzipi and Chaim, who struggle with complicated issues in high school, on the Torah side of things, the Judaic studies curriculum still often seems out of touch. Students continue to spend the majority of their time studying and analyzing a small number of texts.

There are many aspects of the year in Israel which cannot be replicated by high schools. Among them is the time away from home, the older age of the students (at a time when they are more reflective about life), very high-level rabbeim and morot, as well as the atmosphere which exists in many Israeli religious communities. Still, there is what to be learned and copied.

Many students encounter Jewish thought for the first time during their year in Israel. One rebbe told me that his students come back from Israel wondering why they never learned Rav Kook’s Torah before. I do not blame him for not having taught it, but I do wonder why it is that our students are not being exposed to his thought by someone. Of course, it’s not just about Rav Kook. Many students discover that they are inspired by chassidus, or love the Ramchal during their year in Israel. How is it possible that high students are not learning that many of their biggest questions on faith have been addressed by many great thinkers? How is it, that many students leave high school, and too often, observance, thinking that Tanach and gemara (but only the halachic parts) are the only thing that Judaism has to offer?

Additionally, many yeshivot and seminaries offer classes, chaburot, or speakers on issues dealing with real life challenges, both as currently faced, or ones which are on the horizon. Students discover that Torah speaks to real life as lived, and not just to hypothetical situations as discussed in the gemara or Shulchan Aruch. In short, Torah goes from a book of laws, history, and stories, to a Torat Chaim.

Learning these lessons are important for a number of reasons. Why should only the students who go to Israel get the benefit of Torah being exciting meaningful and real? In fact, I suspect that were they given such exposure, more students would want to continue their Jewish education. Even for those who would go straight to college, I believe that fewer would be so quick to throw off the shackles of their Modern orthodox upbringing, if Jewish life was made more meaningful in high school.

If I am correct that high schools are not for the most part learning these important lessons, why is this the case? In too many schools, the teachers are too monolithic. If every rebbe attended one of several yeshivot in Israel or America, they are less likely to be capable of delivering classes which move beyond the standard texts taught in yeshiva. If every morah has a similar outlook on what a frum woman needs to be like, they are unlikely to be able to reach the student who needs something else.

“Unorthodox” did a really good job of showing the value of the year in Israel, and how it can meaningfully change lives. Rather than simply viewing it as a couple of hours of thoughtful entertainment, let’s think about what practical ideas can be learned to help all of our students think meaningfully about what it means to be a Jew, even before they figure out what to do after high school.

Finding God in the Lincoln Tunnel- a brief thought on my daily commute

I was astounded upon doing the math, to realize that I spend nearly 20 full DAYS a year driving to and from work.

I'm in the car on average 2 1/2 hours a day, and multiplied by 180, that means I spend about 450 hours in the car. Not only in the car, but quite often in traffic, covering a distance that in Iowa would likely take me 20-30 minutes at most. It's pretty much the only part of my job that I don't love, but how do I make peace with this?

The Piascezna Rebbe has a powerful piece in what is known as Aish Kodesh (he called it Derashos Mishnos Ha'zaam) where he riffs off of the words:

אל תחלוק על המקום

Do not argue with, or maybe, don't dispute God.

He read these words to say don't argue on the place where you are. It's particularly powerful as he said these words on a Shabbos, while in hiding from the Nazis. He taught that wherever you are is a place where you are connected to God.

So what do I do while I'm tired and stressed, and sitting in bumper to bumper traffic? On a simple level, I try to listen to shiurim, podcasts and music, but that only a beginning. That's just the Litvak in me worrying about bitul zman and bittul Torah.

Can I really be at one with God in the ugly dreariness of the Lincoln Tunnel? Can I be as connected to Him at that moment as I am while hiking in nature, spending time with my family, or learning a piece of the Rebbe's Torah? Because if I'm really to learn from the Rebbe, that is indeed what he taught. That the world truly is filled with God's glory, and that if I'm not feeling it, it's not because God is not there, but rather because I'm not opening myself up to him, indeed to reality.

It's a battle but I try and speak with him while driving and to feel his presence even as a taxi is cutting me off to get a fare.

Both meanings of the words אל תחלוק על המקום are connected. If I can make peace with where I am, I am together with HaKadosh Baruch Hu no matter what surrounds me.

Can Communal Change lead to a Better Educational System?- Some thoughts on the movie Unorthodox (Part II)

[This is the second part of a three-part series on the movie “Unorthodox”. In this post, I address ways for institutional coherence to lead to a change in Jewish education. To read part I, where I addressed how Israel schools have changed, please click here.]

Michael (name and details changed) went to a well-known Modern Orthodox high school. When I would run into him at local races, he always came across as a kind, well-behaved, and thoughtful young man (athletic too). He also came across as not particularly excited by religion. In fact, when he graduated from high school, he was one of the few graduating students from his school who did not spend a year studying in Israel. I lost touch with Michael after he went to college at a large Midwestern university. I remember my shock when I next saw him, a number of years later. I was in shul and I saw a young man whose long beard and style of dress clearly marked him as Chabad. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t figure out why. When it finally hit me that this was Michael, I went over to say hi. We talked for a while, and he explained to me that he had connected to Chabad through his campus shaliach, and that he was now learning in a Chabad yeshiva.

I thought about Michael’s for quite a while. How was it that this young man who grew up in a typical Modern orthodox community, and had spent 12 years in its schools, and had graduated without a strong connection, had become so committed to a religious life?

In watching Unorthodox, I again thought of Michael, as well as those who are similar to him and went to Israel, as well as those who went straight to college. Where are we as a community and an educational system failing? I do not ask this question with an assumption that we can reach every child/student. Still, I wonder how many Michaels and Tzipis there are who never discover that religious Judaism is something they could live and love. In this post I will focus on the community, and in the next post I will discuss the school system.

What Unorthodox makes clear is that part of the effectiveness of the year in Israel in leading to stronger religious commitment (permanent or temporary) goes beyond the classroom. May students see communities, both charedi and dati leumi, which they perceive as being more authentically in line with the Torah they’ve learned, than the ones in which they grew up at home. They see serious tefillah, Talmud Torah, and shemiras hamitzvos in ways that they often did not at home or in their communities. While their communities in the States (and elsewhere) often felt “moderately passionate” to borrow a phrase from Rabbi Lamm, in Israel they witness and experience real passion.

Even if one accounts for some degree of over-idealization in the student’s experiences in Israel, it is hard to deny that Har Nof and Alon Shevut are very different from the average Modern orthodox community in Chutz La’aretz. Teenagers, who often notice real or perceived inconsistency and hypocrisy are often left wondering about the differences they perceive.

The question which needs to be addressed is whether change can occur on a communal level, or whether it is only the educational system which can help our students grapple with their inner and religious lives. While in some cases the schools will have to largely work on their own (and I will address this in the next post), I believe that, in some cases, communal change is possible.

While institutional change is hard to bring about, communal change is even more complex. In order for a community to evolve religiously various institutions need to work together and come up with a shared vision. Schools, where students are the focus, have to work with shuls where there are a much wider range of participants. In doing this important work, they allow students to see in their non-school life, reinforce what they are learning about in school. Absent this consonance, students are left wondering why they should live what they are learning at school.

My sense is that there are communities where the school-shul partnership is happening. One such community is in Philadelphia where the Kohelet Foundation is making sure that the various Kohelet schools are working together with the community. They describe their mission as:

The Kohelet Foundation aims to strengthen and preserve the Jewish Day School education model for our next generation of leaders by creating and supporting Jewish communal responsibility for day schools among parents, philanthropists, and the greater Jewish community.

Local educators and sought after speakers not only address the students at school, but also speak to the parents and other community members. This makes it possible for parents to grow along with their children, and to create Jewish lives which are passionate. Communal funders come to see how supporting different organizations, rather than focusing on just one, can be more effective.

While no school can ever force parents to engage with the learning, it is advantageous for this to occur. Many parents grow frustrated when their children get to Israel and “flip out”, especially when their children not only become more religious, but also become more “right wing” philosophically. This approach also addresses the concern that change is too sudden and volatile. Slow, thoughtful growth, done along with one’s family would benefit the community, family, and students. With this approach, Israel yeshivas and seminaries could reinforce what the students already possess, rather than try to get the students to change.

While it would take complex change for this approach to come about, I can’t help but wonder what Michael might be like today if he had witnessed such an integrated approach.

Are MO Students Still "Flipping Out"?- Some thoughts on the movie Unorthodox (Part I)

I can’t stop thinking about the movie “Unorthodox” since I watched it. The movie, which is a documentary, follows the lives of three Modern Orthodox teenagers from the time leading up to their post-high school year in Israel, during the year in Israel, and in subsequent years as well.  It is narrated and directed by Anna Wexler, who also grew up in the Modern Orthodox world, but did not go to Israel, as she had left observance during her high school years.

There is much that can be learned from this film by Modern Orthodox parents, educators, and rabbis, as well as those from other parts of Orthodoxy. I plan to do a series of posts on this movie, as I think there is too much to cover in a single post.

In this post, I’d like to focus on what has changed about the year in Israel since 2005, which is the year when most of the film takes place. Although there will be few surprises in this post, I think it’s important to recognize how much has changed, and why the year in Israel is less effective than it was; both during the year itself, as well as in creating long-term change. In subsequent posts I will address larger communal and educational issues, and where we might go from here.

It is no secret that the year in Israel has become pretty standard for many Modern Orthodox teenagers. In some schools, it is almost like a 13^th grade, as virtually all students attend. Even at schools where it is less automatic, I’d assume that 40-50% of graduating students attend. One of the topics which has been explored by many people is the “flipping out” which takes place for some of the students who become significantly more religious than they were coming into the year. Tzipi, one of the main characters in the film, goes through this process herself. She is a very compelling character, and we watch her develop religiously from the beginning to the end of the film. Even as we see that not everyone goes through this process, the movie makes clear why the year can be so transformational.

Although it came as no surprise, I was struck by the reminder that the technology of the time created a situation where all of the students were mostly separated from their former lives, including parents, friends, and girlfriends. It was difficult and somewhat costly to make calls. This isolation gave the students a chance to disconnect from their former lives, and imagine a life which may be different. In a world without Ipads, Ipods, WhatsApp, Netflix and more, the year in Israel allowed for the quiet space to consider how things could be different, as well as a lack of peer pressure from their friends who were not in Israel.

We no longer live in that world. The ubiquity of cell phones and all of the other technology means that current students are much more in touch with their former lives, which includes positive and negative influences. One can virtually “see” their parents or their boyfriend quite easily, sometimes several times a day. While some yeshivas and seminaries try to limit the technology, the reality is that it is very difficult to do so. Free time is now a time when students can watch all sorts of movies and TV shows. Students can binge-watch a popular series long after lights out.

There have been formal studies which confirm what I see anecdotally, which is that all of this contributes to the fact that less “flipping out” is taking place. I would also add that my sense is that even when change does occur, it often does not seem to last in the long-term. I would posit that students are often being pulled in different direction, leading to less change.

Why does any of this matter? If as many suggest, and this is mentioned in the movie, Modern Orthodoxy seems to count on the year in Israel to help produce the next generation of religiously committed adults, it is important that all of those who wish to see the community continue to thrive recognize that other things will have to be done to help bring this about. While good things do happen during that year, we can no longer count on Israeli institutions to do what we do not accomplish in Chutz La’aretz.

Do we want to change, and how we might do so, are things I will address in future posts.

The Unwanted Teacher- Some final thoughts on my hospitalization and recovery

There’s a part of me that just wants to move on from my experiences of the past two and a half weeks. Yesterday, I went for my follow-up at the doctor and I’ve pretty much recovered. Still, I know that completely moving on would be a mistake.

I need to hold onto this experience. The pain, discomfort, and particularly the dis-ease I had with being somewhat dis-abled, even for such a short period of time, all of it can teach me something. It’s not just that I have to take better care of myself, although that’s certainly true. Between the kidney stone, and the return of my diabetes, there’s no more pretending that my health is fine. I can no longer, kind of, sort of, almost, begin to get back to healthy eating and exercising. As the Piaseczna Rebbe writes, my yetzer hara is trying to kill me, and pretending otherwise is futile, even insane.

There’s more, however. The issues with which I am dealing are not something rare and unexpected. They are fairly common for men my age. What’s affected me more than anything is the confrontation with the fact that I’m getting older. These maladies are in line with the muscle soreness I get after long car rides, and the general krechtzing I produce when picking things up off the floor. There’s a certain phenomenon, prevalent in Western society, of claiming that age is just a number. It comes with slogans like “Sixty is the new forty”. It’s cute as far as it goes, but that’s it. Age can be slowed down a bit, but not escaped.

If I’m honest with myself, I’m almost certainly on the back nine of life’s golf course. I don’t say that that to be maudlin or depressing. It’s important to face the fact that I will not live forever. That I don’t have forever to fix all of the interpersonal and religious flaws and weaknesses which I want to address.

I’m not trying to be melodramatic, or to make more of this than it is. It was pretty humbling to hear from a college student who has had to do deal with something more serious and of a much longer duration of time, who related to what I wrote, after I shared my initial thoughts. He shared his story, and it helped put things in perspective.

I see this experience as a teacher, albeit, an unwanted one. Among the lessons I’ve learned are to address my health, and to try and say Asher Yatzar with kavana, while recognizing that I should not take the ability to stand before God, or even the ability to stand pain free for granted.  Finally, it’s a reminder to not pretend that I have forever to become the person I may yet be. I hope and pray that I’ve learned what I need to, and in doing so, that I pass this test.

To begin Again?- A different approach for Elul based on the Piaseczna Rebbe

As we reach the end of 5758, as the last few days of Elul approach, those of us who are not so young, and who have seen their share of Elul commitments come and go, way too often not successfully, have to ask ourselves, what we are doing here. Is this just another charade where we say the necessary words of penance, and pretend things will be different this time? Can we really approach the Yamim Noraim honestly with a sense that we may yet become something more?

I have been deeply affected, perhaps more than by any other sefer of the Piaseczna Rebbe, by Tzav V’Ziruz. The short statements he wrote in his spiritual diary between 1926 and 1939 almost always speak deeply to me. Sometimes, his words feel like a cup of cold water splashed across my face, forcing me to sit up and take notice. They wake me up and bring to my attention ways that I think of the world, that I might not even consciously be aware of, and how they affect my relationship with HKBH. There is something about the nature of this work which has caused my chavrusa and me to move more slowly than we did with his other sefarim, as we try to make sure that we understand the full implications of his words.

There’s something else about this work that gives it such a hold over me. The Rebbe wrote these words beginning in his late thirties until he was in his early fifties. It is, if I may say so, the Torah of the midlife crisis. Torah written for those who are not so young, and who have faced their share of failures and disappointments. I suspect that a different sefer may have grabbed me, if I learned his Torah when I was in my twenties. Which brings us to a small Torah which my chavrusa and I learned this past Shabbos.

In Torah 24, the Rebbe speaks about the danger of having spiritual desires and aspirations, without having a real plan for implementing them. While one might think that spiritual goals are inherently valuable, he notes that without a way of trying to concretize them, it is likely that they will never happen. Many years of this leads to a sense of despair, that one will never get there. It may even leave one convinced that it’s no longer worth trying to aim for religious greatness.

Here I am just about midway between the age that the Rebbe wrote the first and last words in this sefer. As always, I wonder how someone of his greatness can know so well what lies deep within someone like me. At times, I’ve dreamed big in terms of learning goals, davening goals, middos goals, in a word of teshuva. I’ve wanted to become more than I am, certain, or at least hopeful, that I’m nowhere near where I could be. If I’m honest, most years my Elul plans come to naught. I daven, I plead, I apologize, both to God and to other people, and, much more often than not, little has changed by the end of the year. There are years where I wonder if it’s even worth trying.

In the Rebbe’s words, I received a challenge. Marching orders as it were. I’m never going to get my teenagers years back to redo. Same thing for my time in yeshiva and kollel, or the early years of my marriage or as a father. Still, God willing, I have many more years ahead of me. I can continue as I’ve always done, and foolishly imagine that the results may be different. Or, if I’m brave enough, I can continue to dream big, and this time try more carefully to come up with a plan. To really work on it, so that next Elul, and, BEH, in ten years, twenty years, and for as many years as I’m blessed with, I’m not left wondering what might have been. Thanks to a small piece in Tzav V’Ziruz, I’m once again able to dream, and to begin again

A Different Type of Preparation - How my stay in the hospital got me ready for Rosh Hashanah

What a difference a year makes.

Last year, at this time, as we approached the time for selichos, I was ready. I'd spent time going through Pachad Yitzchak on Rosh Hashanah, Rav Amiel's Yamim Noraim derashos, and some of Rav Kook's Orot HaTeshuva. I. Was. Ready.

This year, I did not prepare. I'd wanted to, but hadn't followed through as the trip to Israel I took with my son approached, and became a major focal point. I kept telling myself that I'd get around to learning and preparing (I sometimes mistakenly see those two as the same), but it didn't happen. The trip came along, went remarkably well, and I figured I'd get back into things during the week leading up to Selichos. I figured it would be a bit jarring to go from the high of trip to the mundane reality of "normal life", but I was ready for it. God had other plans for me.

If I thought that the difference between a trip to Israel and being home would be a bit challenging to navigate , going from my return home to the hospital in less than ten hours, was over the top. I had no time to come down from the high of the trip, or even to see each of our children who were home. Before I knew it, I was being rushed to the hospital by Hatzolah, as I writhed in pain.

When I was told that I had a large kidney stone, which would require me staying over in the hospital, and a medical procedure in the morning, I was rather devastated. I didn't have much time to process what made it so hard, but now that I'm home recovering, I do. 

Beyond sleeping in a noisy hospital room, shared by a stranger on the other side of a thin curtain (with a mouth like a truck driver, and a predilection for fantasy football), and the pain of the procedure, there was something deeply humbling in realizing how little I truly control. Having researched and planned the trip to Israel, I felt good knowing I could put together such a meaningful and fun experience for my son and I. Now, I wasn't even in control of my body, or even where I slept. As I've recovered, simple tasks feel overwhelming. I continue to feel somehow let down by my body. Beyond the physical healing, it will take me time to get past this. 

So here I am a year later, ready for Selichos in a very different way. Without the cerebral experience of opening a sefer, I'm aware of how little I control, and how much I depend on Hashem for everything. It's not the preparation that I would have chosen, but apparently it's the one I needed. 

Leaving Har Sinai- On the challenges of taking Matan Torah Into life

Thanks to a wonderful shiur I listened to on Friday, I headed into Shabbos and Yom Tov with strong expectations. Rav Ami Silver gave over a derasha from Derech HaMelech, which the Piaseczna Rebbe first delivered nearly 90 years ago. I went into Shabbos wanting to learn through the rebbe’s words on my own, as I strongly wanted to internalize the message. It took a few times going over it, but eventually I was able to reconnect with the message of the derasha. I was deeply moved by the idea that Kabbalas HaTorah is something which re-occurs throughout time, and that we need to see ourselves as having something worthy to merge with the Torah, rather than accepting it passively. The part which touched me the most was the idea that we must dig down within ourselves, in our own “dirt” to discover that even there, we connect with the Ribbono Shel Olam.

Over the chag, I continued to learn from the Derech HaMelech, as well as from Rav Kook’s Midbar Shur. Combined with the time I spent with family, and the learning I did with several of our children, Shavuos was a deeply meaningful experience. I truly felt that it was a personal Z’man Matan Toraseinu.

Just as suddenly, as I went from Yom Tov to chol, the experience disappeared. I remember the words, and the ideas they conveyed, but I can no longer access them. Even as today is Iseru Chag, the day when we are to bind the experiences of the yom tov to our lives, the switch from kodesh to chol is too dramatic. While I try and pass it off as being a product of physical and mental exhaustion, it seems to me that something else is going on. As I stood at the base of Har Sinai, I could imagine finding the holy within dirt, even within my own. Now, having traveled on, my imagination fails, and this profound teaching has reverted to just an intellectual concept.

I better understand how 40 days after Kabbalas HaTorah there can be a Cheit HaEigel. To receive the Torah is an avodah, but to bring it with you from Har Sinai is a greater one, and right now I don’t know how to do that.

Mati V'lo Mati- Experiencing chassidus through seforim and the academy

One of the highlights of my week is the 45 minute chavrusa I have before mincha each Shabbos afternoon learning the Torah of the Piaseczna Rebbe. The combination of contemplating his approach to chassidus, along with the timing so close to the end of Shabbos, a time the Rebbe describes  as having the high that comes from having reached the highest stage of Shabbos, along with the sadness that it will soon be over, has a profound effect on me. Temporarily transformed, Mincha following this chavrusa is usually qualitatively different from the rest of my tefillos.

It is not just the chassidus of the Piaseczna Rebbe which draws me. In chassidus in general, I have found a psychologically profound approach, which has become a lens through which I see the world. The focus on interiority, and on finding Hashem in all parts of my life, has transformed the way I understand Judaism. At the same time, I not only do not consider myself a chassid, but I also find myself drawn to various academic approaches to chassidus, works which often pull back the curtain on that which I find so meaningful; analyzing, deconstructing, and, well, in some ways, neutering it. After recently picking up Mendel Piekarz’s book on Polish chassidus, I found myself wondering why I engage in two activities which, although somewhat connected, are in many important ways so diametrically opposed.

It would be easy to say that the academic approach adds to my appreciation of chassidus, helping flesh it out in a way somewhat akin to utilitarian nature of secular knowledge in the Torah Im Derech Eretz approach, but that would be letting myself off the hook. As much as there are times when the academic approach enhances my appreciation of chassidus, there are many others when it detracts. Even as I try to avoid those approaches which are more glaringly hostile, or coming with a strong agenda, it is not always possible to know what I will discover before proceeding. It is not always good to know too much about one’s heroes. In certain respects, less is more.

If I’m to be honest, there’s a part of me that is relieved to have some of the chassidus I learn demystified. I am deeply moved by much of what I learn, but I want it on my terms. I’m not interested in fully diving in, something that at earlier points in my life might have been tempting. While I have written glowingly (if you’ll excuse the pun) of someone who made the jump, I could never do so for all sorts of reasons.The academic literature helps put a bit of a brake, or even a damper, on some of my enthusiasm and passion. This helps create a “yes, however” approach in me, which leaves me somewhere in the middle, simultaneously drawn towards, and pulling away from the chassidus I learn, although not in equal measure.

The elusive balance which I’d love to achieve is best conveyed in a delightful story told by Rav Menachem Frohman about Professor Yehuda Liebes, which I encountered in a post by Rabbi Josh Rosenfeld on the Seforim blog. Rav Frohman writes:

         

I will conclude with a story 'in praise of Liebes' (Yehuda explained to me that he assumes the meaning of his family name is: one who is related to a woman named Liba or, in the changing of a name, one who is related to anAhuva/loved one). As is well known, in the past few years, Yehuda has the custom of ascending ( ='aliya le-regel)^[21] on La"g b'Omer to the celebration ( =hilula) of RaShb"I^[22] in Meron. Is there anyone who can comprehend - including Yehuda himself - how a university professor, whose entire study of Zohar is permeated with the notion that the Zohar is a book from the thirteenth- century (and himself composed an entire monograph: "How the Zohar Was Written?"^[23]), can be emotionally invested along with the masses of the Jewish people from all walks of life, in the celebration of RaShb"I, the author of the Holy Zohar?

Four years ago, Yehuda asked me to join him on this pilgrimage to Meron, and I responded to him with the following point: when I stay put, I deliver a long lecture on the Zohar to many students on La"g b'Omer, and perhaps this is more than going to the grave of RaShb"I.^[24] Yehuda bested me, and roared like a lion: "All year long - Zohar, but on La"g b'Omer - RaShb"I!"

(emphasis added).

I’d like to believe that somehow I can simultaneously be deeply immersed in chassidus, letting it mold and shape me, while at the same time imagining myself to be sophisticated enough to know the difference between what nourishes me, and what I can experience with a knowing wink, or even some skepticism or doubt. I don’t think I’m there yet, but increasingly I believe I can almost make out my destination from here.

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With A Lot of Help From My Friends- NYC Half-Marathon Race Report

After nearly three months of training, and raising nearly $6200 to help purchase an ambulance for Magen David Adom in Memory of Daniella Moffson z”l, it’s race day!

I’m nervous. While I’ve gone as far as 9.1 miles on one of my training run/walks, I haven’t run more than 4 miles straight. I know I’ll finish even if I have to walk the whole thing, but there’s a three hour time limit. Who knows? If I don’t finish by then, maybe race sponsor United Airlines will pick me up on the course, and stick me in the overhead bin on the bus.

Before the race

We get to the starting line at the Prospect Park Zoo and it’s freezing. How cold is it? The polar bears at the zoo are shivering. The penguins have started to waddle south. I’m wearing three shirts. A long sleeve running shirt, the flaming pink team shirt, and an NCSY sweatshirt from Vancouver which I’m planning on ditching if it ever warms up.

A random guy comes over and says “Shalom”. How does he know I’m Jewish? Could it be the beard? It’s only later on when I see a picture my wife took after dropping us off, that I realize my sweatshirt, which I haven't worn in ages, has a giant Jewish star on the back.

As I’m waiting to start the race, I find myself wondering whether I’ll see anyone I know. Suddenly, a Facebook friend dressed up as Ironman walks by. Little do I know that he is not the last friend I’m going to see today.

Mile 1

We’re off! They say failing to plan is planning to fail. I don’t know who they are, but I hope they’re wrong. I’ve been so busy with so many things that I haven’t really thought about what my approach should be out on the course, other than a friend’s advice to walk the water stops. All I know is that the first mile is downhill and ignoring everything I know about starting slowly, I let the excitement of the race get to me, and I’m going too fast.

I see someone in an old Camp Simcha sweatshirt. Deciding to do some bageling of my own, I say “Go Camp Simcha!”. Only when the lady wearing it, who’s old enough to be my mother, turns around and makes clear she doesn’t speak English, do I realize she probably got the shirt without working in camp.

Mile 2

It’s starting to warm up a bit. I ditch the sweatshirt. As I take it off, I notice my bib is torn by several of the pin-holes. I don’t want to lose the bib, which contains the timing chip. Let me tell you that re-pinning on a bib while running is not as easy as it looks. Ouch!

We pass BAM, the Brooklyn Academy of Music. I think back to a night, probably thirty years ago when my mom ob”m dragged us to see South Pacific, in an attempt to culture us. I'm not uncultured but all I remember from that night was a bunch of singing sailors/

We approach the Manhattan Bridge. Having barely trained on any hills, I decide to walk. As I do, I start cheering fellow runners who are running with Jewish teams, wearing shirts for the always inspiring Team Achilles, or wearing shirts marking them as survivors. As I get to the top, there are a couple of NYPD officers standing near their motorcycles. I ask them for a ride.

On the downhill part of the bridge, I push it. I’m going pretty fast. Well, sort of. Somewhere out there, not too far away, Rochie and some of the kids are waiting for me. I’m really looking forward to seeing them.

Mile 3

We get to the Lower East Side and start to see Hebrew and Yiddish signs on the wall marking many of the old buildings. Naturally, I ask every frum guy I see “Which way to the nearest minyan?”. 

Someone random calls out “Go Pesach!”.

Mile 4

I see Rochie and the kids, along with a sister-in-law and niece who live in the area. I’m really excited to see and hear them. After some hugs and kisses, I’m off. I’m sorry to leave. I’m having a hard time with the running, and am pretty sure I’m going too slow.

I look down at my shirt, and see the picture of Daniella and remind myself why I’m doing this.

Mile 5

We get to the FDR Drive. As usual, it’s crowded and I’m barely moving.

Random drivers going the opposite direction honk to cheer us on. It really helps.

Mile 6

I look at my watch. Surprisingly my pace looks good, even though I’ve been walking quite a bit. I might beat the three hour limit.

I see the UN. I’m really tired and trying to conserve my energy, but I still manage to thumb my nose as I go past. I can almost swear I hear them voting to condemn Israel.

Mile 7

We get off at 42nd St. It is really cold. We pass Grand Central Station, and the thought occurs to me how much faster I could get to the park by train.

Lost in my thoughts, I look up to see one of my favorite buildings, the New York Public Library, which besides being a beautiful building, was one of my dad’s childhood haunts.

I have to admit, running through Times Square is pretty cool. The cheering really helps.

Mile 8

I’m starting to think I might finish in the 2:40s. I find myself sprinting.

Mile 9

We get to Central Park, which is one of my favorite places to run. At this point, I’m past the longest training run I did. Incredibly, I’m still feeling great. Somewhere in the back of my mind I start to wonder if a finish in the 2:30s is possible.

I look up and see the Met on my right, and the Obelisk on my left and I start to cry. I’m thinking of the times earlier in the year when I’d walk nearby, desperate to get any exercise, watching the runners zip past, and wondering whether I’d ever run again. Incredibly, here I am.

I feel my Ramaz wristband dangling on my arm and think of all the incredible support I’ve received from so many people in the building which is just a few blocks to the east. From my colleagues who donated way beyond what I could have imagined, to my students who cheered for me as I ran laps in the gym, to the guards and secretaries who frequently encouraged me and asked about my training, they made me feel like they were all on my team.

Mile 10

The Reservoir, which is my favorite running spot in NY is on my left. I can almost swear I hear Szell asking “Is it safe?”.

I’m cheering on my fellow runners, and I realize I’ve become one of the most annoying people to meet at this point in a race; the late-race peppy guy.

Mile 11

Oh my gosh! I’m going to finish in the 2:30s, unless...I try to banish the disaster scenarios from my head.

Late in the mile I’m walking a hill, and I hear someone call my name. There’s my friend Joe who I’ve been wanting to run with for a while. He’s a really good guy, with a huge heart, who’s been dealing with his share of challenges. “I’m running you to the top of the hill” he tells me. It really helps. “Don’t go”, I want to say as we reach the top of the hill.

Mile 12

Suddenly I again hear someone call my name and there’s Ehud, a friend of mine who’s a great runner, and an even better person. He’s been following my race on an App and came to the park to cheer me on. Thanks to my flaming pink shirt, he spotted me and decided to run me in. He encourages me to give it all I’ve got. Despite his being capable of running twice as fast as my current pace, he tells me I look great.

People are cheering. “Go Pesach!” I hear. I also hear “Go Pee-such!”. Whatever. I'll take it.

Mile 13

800 meters to go , then 400. Ehud points out the Israeli flag at the side of the course.

There’s the finish line! I’m fighting back tears, as I high five the spectators.

I cross the line without pushing button on my watch hoping for a good picture by the course photographer (PS they missed me).

2:35!!!

Ehud and I walk for a while chatting and continuing to catch up.

As we leave the park, I spot the Moffsons and some of the rest of the DMF team. I’m so happy to see them, and so honored to have been part of this incredible team which has raise over $130K.

What’s next?

This is what I’ve started asking myself. A generous friend offered to pay for my entry to do another half-marathon at the end of April, but with regrets, I passed. Another friend told me that he’s glad the Running Rabbi is back. Truth is, I’m not. I’m not really a runner yet. I can’t run hills, and I still struggle to run for too long outside. I think I’ll do a 10K at the end of May, as I continue to train and try to lose weight. After that, I might consider another half.

For now I’m so thankful for this experience for Rochie, the kids, and all the other family members, friends, and colleagues who have helped me along the way. While I’ve been the one doing the training, they’ve been the one to keep me going.