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.

Highs and Lows- A message to a bar mitzvah boy and all of us

Dear Caleb,

Although I don’t know you, I know your dad and rather than give a plain-old Mazal Tov, I want to share some thoughts with you as you approach your big day.

It seems so appropriate that you are celebrating your Bar Mitzvah in Israel, right by Shavuos, and as we begin Sefer Bamidbar. I’d like to suggest a connection between the three.

Perhaps the most famous words from Mattan Torah are the words Na’aseh V’Nishmah. There are many questions that can be asked on these words, but I will just ask one. Why do we need two words to say we accept the Torah and mitzvot? I’d like to share a beautiful idea I saw in the Nesivos Shalom. He points out that for everyone, not just the regular people, but the greatest tzaddikim as well, there are times we feel close to HaShem and times we feel distant. During the times of closeness, it is easy to attach to HaShem. When everything feels great, it’s easy to daven. When tefillin are new, it’s easy to be excited to put them on. Those moments are the “Nishmah” part of life. The part of life when we get it. There are also “Naaseh” moments. Moments of sadness and difficulty when we feel distant from HaShem. There too, we commit to attach to HaShem, even though it’s hard. The Slonimer Rebbe is sharing something important. The high moments are great, but for all of us, they are followed by lows. We can attach to HaShem during both.

This very much connects to Megillas Rus. A student at my shiur last night, pointed out that the term Davak, to attach, is used multiple times in Rus, highlighting this point of attaching to God during the good and bad times. Perhaps that is why we read this megillah on Shavuos.

We also see this in Sefer Bamidbar. The first half of the Sefer reads like a plan. Here’s how we get to Israel. All details. No worries about what might go wrong. Then real life happens and... kablooey!!! Everything falls apart, and all of a sudden there is a 40 year detour. Again, it’s easy to feel close to God when everything goes as planned. Bnei Yisrael had to stay in the Midbar to learn to trust and stay close to HaShem, even when things are dark.

Which brings us to Israel. There are so many wonderful things going on there. I told your father how jealous I am of you for having your bar mitzvah there. So much better than any party you could have in the US. Israel however has lots of challenges too. Even in the holiest place in the world, the good and the bad, the easy and the hard, the light and the dark mix. There, we have the greatest opportunity to stay close to HaShem through it all.

As I said, I don’t know you, but I know your dad. I know that I am not the only one inspired by his passion for Torah, and the efforts he makes to stay close to God through all of life’s challenges. You couldn’t ask for a better role model.

Mazal tov and enjoy!

Pesach Sommer

Chasdei HaShem- Getting things right with the Ethiopians in Israel

For most of my life, my connection to Tehillim has been tenuous. Of course, I am familiar with sections of it due to the fact that I daven three times a day. Still, perhaps partially due to my discomfort with Tehillim being recited in ways that seem, to me at least, more magical than theological, I have spent little time studying, or even considering most of the perakim of Tehillim. Recently, for reasons I can’t explain, or perhaps, won’t share, that has begun to change. So when I had the opportunity to take part in a project spearheaded by Yeshivat Har Etzion to study all of Tanach and Shas by the shloshim of Rav Aharon Lichtenstein zt”l, I decided to sign up to study a perek of Tehillim. Given the available perakim, and the desire to study a perek where I lacked familiarity, I ended up with perek 107.

This perek discusses those who have been saved by God and invites them to praise Him. After a brief general introduction, the Psalmist discusses those who have crossed the desert:

2 So let the redeemed of the LORD say, whom He hath redeemed from the hand of the adversary.

3 And gathered them out of the lands, from the east and from the west, from the north and from the sea.

4 They wandered in the wilderness in a desert way; they found no city of habitation.

5 Hungry and thirsty, their soul fainted in them.

6 Then they cried unto the LORD in their trouble, and He delivered them out of their distresses.

7 And He led them by a straight way, that they might go to a city of habitation.

8 Let them give thanks unto the LORD for His mercy, and for His wonderful works to the children of men!

9 For He hath satisfied the longing soul, and the hungry soul He hath filled with good.

As I read these pesukim, I immediately thought of the Ethiopians who were brought to Israel decades ago, in what felt like the latest demonstration of  the gathering of the exiles. I recalled reading of the dangerous trek that the Ethiopian Jews had to make to get to Adis Abbaba, where they were flown to safety in Israel. It was not hard to imagine the joy they would experience in living in the land of their dreams.The Psalmist seemed to be discussing the very experience of the Ethiopian Jews. Of course, once the Ethiopian Jews came to mind, I began to think of the protests currently taking place in Israel, where Ethiopian Jews are protesting against police brutality and the general inequality of how they have been treated by their fellow Jews.

One of the big things that I have taken away from the eulogies for Rav Aharon, is the focus he placed on humanism. When he saw suffering of any kind in the world, it pained him. Although I am not aware of anything he said or wrote about the Ethiopians, it is not hard for me to imagine that he would have identified with the pain they are feeling.

Perhaps it was naive to believe that Kibbutz Galuyot would happen smoothly, and bump-free. Still, even if I move past my naive dreaming, I am saddened as, once again, a group of Jews miraculously brought to Israel, are mistreated. It seems like the lessons that should have been learned from how the various Sefaradi communities, and the Teimanim were treated, have not been learned.

At the same time, it is heartening to see that protests are not being ignored, and that the Ethiopians are being heard. Perhaps, now is the time to when a major step will be taken in creating the type of community that can truly be a lesson to the nations of the world. If we can finally take steps in that direction, we will be able to join with the Psalmist and say

42 The upright see it, and are glad; and all iniquity stoppeth her mouth.

43 Whoso is wise, let him observe these things, and let them consider the mercies of the LORD.

So Far Away- Thoughts from America on Yom HaAtzmaut

I suppose that the timing, this week, of finding out that I will not be back in Israel this summer, is rather fitting. Between the passing of Rav Aharon Lichtenstein, on Rosh Chodesh Iyar, and the distance I feel from Israel on this Yom HaAtzmaut, I find myself feeling so much more than 6000 miles away from Israel, and wondering what might have been.

Almost 17 years ago, for reasons both good, and less good, we left Israel, after living there for two years. Since that time, I have often wondered “What if?”. What would our life, and, maybe even more importantly, our children’s lives, be like? Where might we live? Where would I be teaching?

Today. as I look at pictures, posted by friends in Israel, I think of what my children are missing. It is not just that my kids only get half of a falafel, instead of having a barbecue, and have a regular day of school, instead of having a family tiyul. I think about their education, and wonder where and what they would be learning. Dreaming, I wonder, might one of my children try and enter the Chidon HaTanach? Could one (or more!) of our sons learn Torah, and do hesder in the Gush?

Ah, the Gush! In many ways, it has become my favorite place to visit in Israel. I can almost smell the sweet smell of fruit trees, as I picture myself stepping foot on the beautiful campus. I think back to my first time there as an 18 year-old, oblivious to what I was seeing, hearing, and experiencing. How can I not think of my last time there, last summer, as I finally got the opportunity to attend a day of the Yom Iyun in Tanach? The opportunity to hear shiurim from some of my spiritual heroes, and to catch a glimpse, unbeknownst to me, for the very last time, of Rav Aharon.

So why am I writing this? More than anything, I write as Holden Caulfield, or perhaps the ghost of Yom-HaAtzmaut-future, trying to suggest, no, to urge, my children and students to learn from my mistakes. While there is probably nothing that can fully extinguish my dream that we will someday make it back to Israel, this time for good, the best time to go is when you are young. For some, that will mean shortly after high school. perhaps after a year of yeshiva or seminary. For others, it could be after finishing college, or newly married. Either way, GO! Sometimes, dreams deferred are left unfulfilled. Trust me, you don’t want to be looking back in 20-30 years wondering what might have been.

Meeting Our Partners in Peace

I know that I am not the only Zionist who has sometimes asked the question “Where are Israel’s partners for peace?”. Reading a steady stream of headlines and articles about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, it’s easy to wonder where the Palestinians who are willing to talk and listen can be found. Still, I have always assumed that once you get past the Palestinian leadership, there are people on the street who want peace as much as Israeli citizens do. I must admit that I sometimes wonder whether all of those who ask the question, are really interested in meeting and hearing from those partners, or whether the question is just a way of seeing the Palestinians as a faceless other and deflecting the need to listen. In writing this, I hope to give people the chance to meet, hear from and talk with Palestinians who also believe in dialogue.

I recently wrote about the opportunity that I had to hear from Ali Abu Awwad, the co-founder of Roots, a West Bank based organization dedicated to peaceful dialogue,  at a local Reconstructionist temple. I wondered why it was that I had not had the opportunity to hear from those like Awaad in any Orthodox institutions. After the event, I discovered that my friend Rabbi Hanan Schlesinger, who lives in Alon Shvut, was one of the co-founders of Roots. When I reached out to him, he told me that he had been unsuccessful in finding Orthodox institutions in the US and Canada that were willing to host a Roots event. I expressed my hope that this was just an aberration, and that I was interested in serving as a matchmaker of sorts, and helping to identify Orthodox shuls and schools that would host such an event.

In May 2015, Awwad and Schlesinger will be coming back to North America to speak about Roots and the real progress that they are making in creating meaningful dialogue between Israelis and Palestinians. They will be in the States through early June. If you believe in dialogue and are interested in hearing from a legitimate partner for peace, please do not what you can to bring Awwad to speak in your community. Although my focus in this post is on the Orthodox community, I encourage people from all walks of Jewish life to take advantage of this special opportunity. There are real partners for peace who want to talk. Please join the conversation.

Post by Pesach Sommer.

Bridges- Are we willing to listen?

Last night was a first for me on two accounts. Until last night, I had never been in a Reconstructionist temple. More importantly, before last night, I had never heard a Palestinian speak in person about peace.

When I first heard that Ali Abu Awwad would speaking in nearby Montclair, I knew I had to be there. Awwad is an activist and pacifist who, along with my former neighbor Rabbi Hanan Schlesinger, founded Roots, a Gush Etzion based organization whose goal is to produce dialogue and trust between Israelis and Palestinians. He knows well the costs of war having lost a brother who was shot and killed by an Israeli soldier. Awwad, along with his family, have gotten involved in Bereaved Family Forum, an organization where families on both sides of the conflict who have lost family members join to speak and grieve together.

As someone who continues to hope against hope that eventually there can and will be a peaceful resolution to the conflict, I was interested in hearing from someone on the Palestinian side who believes in such a vision. This was an opportunity to give lie to the claim that there is nobody on the Palestinian side who believes in peace. Awwad, who started off by wishing us a “Shana Tova” and “Gmar Chatima Tova”, spoke with passion, warmth and humor. He described the irony of the need for himself, a Palestinian, to tell left-wing Israelis that they need to be willing to speak with “settlers”. He made it clear that his group is still small, but that a bridge completed by a few hundred people can build a bridge that can be crossed by millions. He spoke about the need for both sides to speak with one another, to move past thoughts of violence and revenge, and to stop competing for who has the more tragic narrative.

As I listened to Awwad speak, I wondered whether he would have the opportunity to speak to the Orthodox community, and how my fellow co-denominationalists would relate to his message. I wondered why it was that I had to go to a Reconstructionist temple to hear Awwad’s message. I was curious whether Modern-Orthodox Jews, so open to modernity in so many ways, could  accept a narrative that is different than the one-dimensional one that they have often had reinforced in schools and shuls. Of course, for those of us living outside of Israel, it is not our job to advocate for positions with which we ourselves will not have to deal with the consequences. Still, I believe that there is great value in hearing a more balanced and nuanced view than the one we often hear.

If you share my hope, commitment to hearing from all sides, and willingness to have your views challenged, I would encourage you to try and bring speakers like Awwad to your community. I’d like to think that he would welcomed, and once his message has been heard, embraced.

Children of HaShem- Seeing every Jew as family

There is a palpable sense of achdut in Israel, that has not been felt in many decades. While one might be tempted to suggest it is tied into the war, previous wars have not led to this kind of unity. What is the basis of our unity?

בָּנִים אַתֶּם לה' אֱלֹהֵיכֶם לֹא תִתְגֹּדְדוּ וְלֹא תָשִׂימוּ קָרְחָה בֵּין עֵינֵיכֶם לָמֵת 

You are children of HaShem. Do not make any cuts on yourself, and do make a bald spot between your eyes, because of the dead. (Loose translation of Devarim 14:1).

Let's examine this passuk, both in terms of drush and peshat.

On the words “ לֹא תִתְגֹּדְדוּ", Chazal teach "לא תעשו אגודות אגודות " Do not split yourselves into separate groups, or cliques. (One place where this comes into play is when people within the same shul or community, have different practices with putting on tefillin on Chol HaMoed). Rashi explains that the reason for this prohibition is that if we split up our practice of Torah, it will appear, God forbid, as if there are two Torahs. Rambam, on the other hand suggests that the reason for the prohibition is to prevent fighting. What this understanding of the words לֹא תִתְגֹּדְדוּ seems to lack is a connection to the beginning of the pasuk בָּנִים אַתֶּם לה' אֱלֹהֵיכֶם. We will see that there is, in fact, a connection.

On the level of peshat, several explanations are given for the connection between the two parts of the passuk.

The Ibn Ezra explains that because we are children of HaShem, we should recognize that even when tragedy occurs, it from the same loving father who always take care of us. Even though death is difficult to accept, particularly when a person was murdered, our reaction should be tempered with the realization that our loving father rules the world, and that nothing happens unless He allows it.

The Ramban connects it to the concept of Olam HaBa. Do not respond to death as if it is the end, Recognize that, as children of God, there is another world, in which true reward will be given to the person who died.

I would suggest that the midrash, and the two explanations of it, do, in fact, tie into the beginning of the passuk.

The fact that we were given one Torah is an indication that we are all connected. Hashem asks us to live by the same rules. It is only as a nation can we observe all 613 mitzvos. As children of HaShem, we should be careful not to let supercial differences of appearance or approach of worship, lead to a sense that we do not share one Torah.

Similarly, a father is always pained where there is fighting and division among his children. He wants them to live together and realize that they are interconnected. We need to recognize that intra-religious fighting is an indication that we do not sufficiently see our fellow Jews as brothers and sisters.

The war started with the unbearable tragedy of the kidnapping and murder of three precious yeshiva boys. Although, we dare not claim to understand why, we follow in the lead of the Fraenkel, Yifrach and Shaar families and accept what happened as a decree from Above. We can derive at least a small amount of comfort knowing that these three precious boys, and those who have died during this war, are being treated as heroes in the world of Truth. Amongst ourselves, our reaction can only be that of unity, as we recognize that we are all truly children of HaShem, and that KOL Yisrael yeish lahem cheilek l'Olam Haba. After the end of the war, which should come soon, please God, let us remember this lesson and show that we do not need tragedy to bring us together as one.

If the Hat Doesn't Fit- Being real with myself

Throughout my time in Israel, I did various things to overcome fears that I thought were not good for me. I jumped from 15 feet into the water. I rappelled down the face of a cliff, and jumped from the upper deck of a boat into the water (that one didn't go so well, but still...). What I was really chipping away at was not a fear of heights, or even a fear of trying new things, but my fear of being authentic and real. Dancing freely to soulful music while in Tzfat, told me that I was on the right track.

For nearly 17 years, I wore a hat on Shabbos. It started as an attempt to fit into the yeshivish world, but at some point, that desire dissipated. I came up with various reasons for why I still wore it, including Kavod Shabbos, communal norm, and what my children might think if I stopped. Of course, none of these things kept me wearing it. Wearing the hat gave me a lot of things. I could walk into a shul and instantly be accepted as frum. I could tell myself that I was not changing religiously, even as I knew that to not be the case. I could fit in, which was strange, because I knew that I no longer fit in in my community.

It’s not that the people in Passaic are not nice. I have some wonderful, kind and generous friends. There is a tremendous amount of chessed and learning that goes on here, and there are many shuls where the davening is serious, if not joyous. Passaic hasn’t changed, but I have. Shuls in which I once felt engaged, and even inspired, no longer speak to me. Through taking risks and discussing certain controversial topics, I have been able to find others who also do not fully agree with the philosophical outlook of the community, but individuals do not make for a community.

Two years ago, when I started travelling for work, I started to leave my hat home when I was away for Shabbos. I told others that I was not bringing it because it was a pain to carry another piece of luggage, but in truth, I enjoyed the time off. Still, I once again wore it, the week I returned.

Being away for seven weeks this summer meant that I got used to not wearing my hat. I spent times in communities where wearing a hat was, at the very least, not the norm. I began to think about whether I would keep it on the shelf when I got home. What finally did it was when, during the last night activity of camp, which required dressing up, one of the counselors gave me his hat and jacket to wear as a costume. If it was so clear to everyone that I was not the kind of guy who wears a hat, why was I still pretending? I talked it over with my wife, and in her classic style, she told me that she was fine with whatever I decided and to do what made me comfortable. Shabbos morning, I left for shul without my hat.  If anyone noticed, they didn’t say anything (if only it was the same with my weight gain from this summer). My davening didn’t change. Neither did my learning. Still I felt more than the weight of the hat come off my shoulders. I had not outgrown my hat, but it most definitely no longer fit.

Another Side of Your Talmid- A letter to menahalim and rabbeim

Dear Menahalim and Rabbeim,

I’d like to better introduce you to your talmid ________. What’s that you say? You already know him? I am not so sure. At most, you know a very small side of him. As the head counselor at Sdei Chemed, I saw a side of your precious talmid that he doesn’t get to show you in yeshiva. You know what kind of learner he is, or at least how he is at learning gemara, in the way that it is taught at your yeshiva. Do you know how much he likes singing at kumzitzes and during Shabbos zemiros? Did you ever see him close his eyes and put all of his neshoma into a song? What about chessed? Are you aware how much your talmid excels at chessed? How he packed care packages for Israeli soldiers and Israelis living under the threat of terror?

He’s probably not going to tell you about the carnival he helped put on along with his camp-mates in Bet Shemesh for children whose summer was disrupted due to rocket attacks from Gaza, so allow me to do so. With complete selflessness, he stood for hours manning a game booth, so that little kids could have fun for a few hours, and forget about the sound of the “tzeva adom” alerts. When, in fact, a siren went off at the end of the carnival, your wonderful talmid helped lead panicked parents and children to the shelters and sang with them to provide comfort. At the end, when everyone was exhausted, he cleaned up until the room where the carnival was held was spotless. Do you know what kind of a mess shaving cream, popcorn and chocolate spread can make?

I could go on and on. I could tell you about how your talmid bought pizza for an Israeli soldier, with his own money, how he visited and cheered up sick people and soldiers in the hospital, how he loves learning Torah on hikes, and about the time he helped start a moving experience of slow singing and tefillah for hundreds of Israelis at the Kotel on Tisha B’Av, but I think you get my point.

I guess my point is this. Now that you know this about him, what are you going to do differently? Will you provide more opportunities for him to continue to grow into the gadol of chessed that he might become? Will your yeshiva give him ways to connect with his neshoma that don’t involve a blatt gemara? At the very least, will you stop evaluating him purely based on how he reads a Tosafos? Please?

Respectfully,

Pesach Sommer

Camp Sdei Chemed Boys Head Counselor 2014

As Shabbos Ebbs Away- Some thoughts heading into my last week in Israel

When I was a boy, I loved “short” Shabboses. Of course, they lasted 25 hours just like any Shabbos, but at least in the winter, Shabbos ended early enough to catch some college football. At some point I grew up a bit and came to enjoy Shabbos. Still, even then, I rarely felt sad when Shabbos was over. I had taken out of it what I could. As such, I never  really “got” the need for besamim at havdalah. This summer has changed that.

Reish Lakish teaches that on Shabbos we get a neshoma yeseira. Commonly mistranslated as an additional soul, it really means that on Shabbos we have a heightened awareness of, and connection to, our neshama. As Shabbos ends, we say a bracha on besamim, which is, somehow, supposed to comfort us at the loss of the neshoma yeseira.

Not for the first time this summer, those of us in Israel went into Shabbos with tremendous sadness. A soldier had been captured by Hamas. The rav at the minyan where I davened on Friday evening, gave a hauntingly poignant drasha during which, judging by his tone of voice, he was fighting back tears. Lecha Dodi sang to the tune of Eili Tzion only reinforced the sad mood. Even Yedid Nefesh could not, even slightly, lift my spirits.

Then Shabbos started to work its magic. The combination of good friends, good food, meaningful discussions, and lots of talmud Torah brought me to a different place. It was as if I had been magically relocated to a world of total joy. Before I knew it, it was time for mincha. As I noticed the sun beginning its descent, I snapped back to reality. I knew that soon it would be dark. Shabbos would end, and with it, the illusion that all was alright in the world. The radio and internet would be turned on, hoping against hope that there would be some good news. Of course, after Shabbos, these hopes were quickly crushed.

This summer has been for me a “yom shekulo Shabbos”. As I travelled through the land, met its people, touched its stones, and ate its fruit, I felt what I can only describe as a neshama yeseira. Each sunset moved me, every word of Torah was an encounter with the Divine. I have met great talmidei chachamim and scholars. Even through the terrible pain of the kidnappings and subsequent war, despite the many, many tears, or maybe, somewhat paradoxically because of them, I have felt more attached to Eretz Yisrael, Torat Yisrael and Medinat Yisrael than ever before. The thought that it will soon be over, that tearing myself away from Israel, will feel like tearing a bandage from a wound, saddens me beyond words.

How can I comfort myself? What is the besamim that can restore my sense of equilibrium? It seems to me that besamim is used as part of havdalah because out of all of the senses, smell was seen by Chazal, in both nigleh and nistar, as the most spiritual of senses. The smell of the besamim reminds us, that even though we are about to lose the soulful connection that we have felt, that it is only a temporary loss. In less than a week’s time, we will again experience the fragrant beauty of Shabbos.

I take comfort in the thought that I am returning to my family, and that maybe, just maybe, in the not so distant future, not only will I be back where I belong, but we will be back, not temporarily, but permanently in the land that is “kulo Shabbos” and “kulo tov”.

Coming Home- On Modern-Orthodoxy's move from the US to Israel

There was a time when, for the most part, America was the home of serious Modern-Orthodoxy. This was true both because institutions like Yeshiva University embodied Modern-Orthodoxy’s ideals, and was thriving, and because, beyond Yeshivat Har Etzion and Bar Ilan University, Israel lacked institutions that advocated living a serious halachic lifestyle while making use of the best that modernity has to offer. Some observers made the mistake of assuming that kippah-serugah world in Israel, led by rabbis from Yeshivat Merkaz HaRav, was modern, while failing to recognize that there was little connection to modernity beyond Zionism, and secular education.

Today the reality has changed. Yesterday, I attended the Tzohar Conference on Education, Community and Country,  in Yerushalyim. Tzohar is a rabbinical organization committed to making Judaism meaningful and accessible to all Israeli Jews, including women, chilonim, olim from the FSU and converts. As I attended four fascinating sessions, led by Roshei yeshiva, world-class scholars and leading educators, during which I wished I could clone myself so that I could attend other sessions that I was missing, I found myself wondering whether a program of this kind could be put on within an American Modern-Orthodox framework. How many Roshei Yeshiva at YU would participate in a conference like this? Which organization would put it on? Would many hundreds of people attend?

Tzohar is just one example. This week, Machon Herzog, which is connected to Yeshivat Har Etzion, is hosting their annual Tanach Yemei Iyun. Thousands of Jews will hear shiurim from some of the biggest talmidei and talmidot chachachmim in the field. Where is a program in the US that can rival the yemei iyun in size, scholarship and scope? I could also discuss many other examples of Modern-Orthodoxy’s shift to the shores of Israel, including women’s Torah learning at institutions like Matan and Nishmat, think-tank/advocacy by Beit Hillel, and scholarship coming from Bar-Ilan and Beit Morasha, but the point has been made.

Meanwhile, YU struggles to maintain a Modern-Orthodox identity, with few Roshei Yeshiva who fully identify with the Modern-Orthodox world, serious financial problems, a diminishing student-body and a slew of scandals and controversies. Organizations like the RCA, to whatever degree they represent Modern-Orthodoxy, are mostly irrelevant to the average Jew who is looking for leadership, education, and vision. While Rabbi Asher Lopatin seems to be trying to rebrand Yeshivat Chovevei Torah as modern rather than open orthodox, it remains to be seen whether he will be successful and whether YCT can become large enough and mainstream enough to make a real difference.

Does the shift from the US to Israel matter? For those who believe in Modern-Orthodoxy, I think it does. As much as some of us might wish to see an increase in American aliyah, the American Jewish community is, for the most part, staying put. Modern -Orthodox shuls and schools, particularly those outside of New York, struggle to find like-minded rabbeim and teachers. As American orthodoxy further splits, with moves to both the right and the left, those who feel comfortable in neither camp, will find themselves increasingly isolated. While aliyah is not an option for all of us, the shift of Modern-Orthodoxy to Israel’s shores is just another reason to think about where we belong, and what kind of options we wat our children to have.

Post by Pesach Sommer.

Tears and Hope- Thoughts from Max Steinberg's Funeral

I lack the words to tie these moments together. Three times I have started writing, and three times I have failed to convey what I am feeling. As this has never happened before, I will simply present a few snippets from the funeral of Max Steinberg ZTvK’L.

We are part of a huge crowd as we approach Har Herzl. I can only compare it to walking towards a stadium for a sporting event, only there is much less energy, and a palbable silence. 30,000 people have put their lives on hold, to mourn a young man they have never met. He was a chayal bodeid, but the crowd makes it clear that he was never alone.

As we enter Har Herzl, there is a woman handing out papers to each of us. I expect it to contain some Pirkei Tehillim, or a list of those who will eulogize Max. When I read it, I discover that it is instructions for what to do if the Tzeva Adom siren goes off.

As it is announced that kaddish will be recited, I glance over at the man standing next to me, who is bare-headed, wondering what he will do. He answers along to kaddish. After all I’ve witnessed this summer, I am only surprised that I am surprised.

Max’s father who, along with his wife, is in Israel for the first time, ends his eulogy with the words “Am Yisrael Chai”. I weep uncontrollably.

It is clear from his brother, sister and friends, that Max was a big Bob Marley fan. There were many Marley quotes. My favorite was “Live for yourself, and you will live in vain. Live for others, and you will live again”.

A friend eulogizes him and says “When I would say goodbye to him, I’d say ‘I love you, bro’ in English’ and he’d say ‘Ani oheiv otecha, achi’, and we’d hug. Max, I love you, bro. Ani oheive otecha, achi. Sending you hugs”.

Dov Lipman manages to add a slightly more religious angle in a very sensitive and soft-stated way. He even throws in his own Bob Marley quote. He speaks from the heart and with a great deal of sensitivity. He gets what it is to be a rabbi. He really gets it.

There is a degree of professionalism in the way the funeral is run. I am saddened as I realize that this is due to way too much practice.

Near Max’s grave, there are new graves for an Ethiopian, a Russian, and a Frenchman. This is not the kibbutz galuyos for which we yearned all these years.

The funeral ends with the HaTikvah. Today it sounds both haunting and defiant.

As we slowly walk past the kever, an announcement asks us to leave to prepare for the next funeral. Absolutely heartbreaking.

I am touched to get to say a few words of comfort to Max’s parents. Although I am trying to comfort him, Mr. Steinberg’s warmth and hug comfort me.

I am so proud of Meir, who only weeks earlier sat silently with his campmates, unsure of what to say to the Fraenkels, as I see him offer words of kindness to Max’s father. This is not the type of chinuch I want to give my son, but I am proud to be his father.

Now Is the Time- Stand with Israel IN Israel

I’m not brave. I hate the sight of blood. I lock my car door when I drive through dangerous neighborhoods. I write these words of introduction so that you understand the words that follow do not come from someone with real or fake bravado.

The United States State Department has issued a an advisory against travelling to Israel. I don’t know the protocols that lead to these advisories, but I do know the facts on the ground. I have spent more than three weeks as the head counselor for Camp Sdei Chemed, a touring program for Anglo teens. We have travelled from the north to south, and from east to west. I am using my laptop a short drive away from Eilat. We are careful and risk averse. We have more than 40 young men (there is also a separate girl’s program) whose safety is in our hands, and we take that very seriously. At the same time, we are here to experience Israel. To give our boys a love for this great land, and the chance to see it in an organic and real way. We have been to the Fraenkel shiva house, put on a free carnival for children who were scared of the sirens, visited hospitals to sing and play music for the patients, and prepared packages for soldiers and people in the south. We have also gone on stunning hikes, interacted with the locals, gone biking around the Kinneret, scuba diving in Eilat and more. I have heard a grand total of three sirens in my time here, and at no moment have I felt that I was in danger.

I’ve spent more than three years of my life in this wonderful country and here’s the thing. I’ve never felt happier to be here. My presence tells my friends and their fellow citizens that they are not alone. That Americans don’t just come here when it is easy. Being here at this time has increased my desire to live here once again. The achdus I have witnessed, the joy I have experienced watching our campers dance with Israeli soldiers at the kotel, and the strong, proud resolve I have witnessed from Israel’s citizens, reminds me how much I belong here.

I know that Israelis appreciate the rallies that are taking place throughout the world in support of the Jewish State, particularly when there are so many hate filled-rallies going on at the same time. Still, what they really want, what they really deserve is to see as many people here as possible. To see how much support they have throughout the world. Now is the time to visit, to book plane tickets for Succos, to make sure that your next vacation is here. If you are worried about travelling to dangerous areas, I’d advise you to stay out of Chicago. I hear it’s a war-zone over there.

For Whom Does the Bell Toll? - How the Tzeva Adom app has made a difference for me

Ping ping-ping-ping ping. Ping ping-ping-ping ping. Oh no. I feel my chest tighten. The tzeva adom app on my phone is going off again. Where is it this time? Be’er Sheva? Ashdod? Maybe it’s the once a day siren from Tel-Aviv? Why won’t they stop? Like Pavlov’s dog, I have already become conditioned by the sound of this warning bell. I have no doubt that if I happen to hear a similar sound in 20 years, my chest will tighten, even if I can’t remember why.

Why do I have the app? As the head-counselor on a Israel summer program for teenage boys, it would seem to be obvious. I need to know to make sure that we are safe. That’s not it though. All of the staff already have the app, and we are careful to avoid areas where many rockets are being launched.So why put up with the discomfort?

There’s a well known machlokes between Rambam and Rambam about the biblical obligation of prayer. While Rambam says that there is a biblical obligation to pray once a day, according to Ramban, mi’deoraisa, a Jew only has an obligation to pray in times of danger. The Ramban’s position is hard to understand. Can it be that a person who is fortunate enough to have a pain free life has no obligation to pray?

Rav Soloveitchik zt”l offers a couple of possible answers. The first is that even if I have a life that is free of pain and difficulty, there is always someone out there who does not. While my life might be easy, I should never forget that somewhere, there is someone who has a difficult life. His second approach is that my life might seem safe and easy, but we live in a world of “toleh aretz al belimah”, a world where our safety always hangs in the balance, and where, countless times a day, HaShem protects us from danger. As chazal say in Berachos, if we knew all of the mazikim that surround us, we would not be able to function.

It seems to me that these two ideas are really one. There is much pain and sadness in the world. Sometimes we are fortunate enough to have a relatively stress-free life. Still we are asked to both feel another’s pain and see through their painful situation, how fortunate we are and how protected we are from so many possible harmful scenarios. I have only heard a few sirens go off this summer. At no point have I felt that I was in danger. The tzeva adom app reminds me of two things. That there are people who are in harms way who need our tefillot and support, and that I should not take my safety and comfort for granted. Even as my life is less than perfect, as indeed it must be,  I need to feel the pain of others, and think of the nissim through which Hashem protects me each day.