A Very Belated Chanukah Post

I wrote this essay about a year ago, the last day of Chanukah. I was in the East Coast for a friend's wedding and while I sat in my (other) friend's kitchen, staring at her father's menorah, the blinking lights from her neighbor caught my eye. I grabbed my notebook (I try not to travel without one) and wrote this piece. 

          It’s the end of Chanukah, the festival of lights, and I don’t find it a coincidence that it is the same time as their festival of lights. Each non-Jewish house just trying to outshine its neighbor, each one boasting of its glorious, magical twinkling designs. And in the center of it all is their gilded tree.

          I see that lights every year as I set up and pack away my own brass menorah. It’s nearly impossible to not see their lights; they don’t hide their holiday season very well. Once November draws to a close I see them scrambling around, pulling out strings of white lights, green lights, blinking lights, placing them in intricate designs around the neighborhood.

And every year I wonder more and more about the significance of the lights, ours and theirs. Their lights last for longer, sometimes only coming down in mid-January. Their lights laugh at me, poking fun, reminding me that I am an outsider; I am not one of them. Perhaps I need that reminder. After all, I share their styles, I share their language and I share their country, but I do not share their lights.

I think about how their lights never waver, never fade, shining and blinking from the sunrise to evening and through the night. This observation bothers me because I know it’s my faith that never fails, my faith that is the ultimate truth. But somehow their holiday is more tempting and small wax candles and homemade donuts. I know this because the numbers of my faith are slowly falling, becoming lower and lower as more people want to touch the forbidden lights that look so inviting.

I cannot reconcile these ideas until, one day, I realize.

Yes, their lights never waver. Yes, our lights dim every night.

But their lights aren’t real. Their lights are a fraud. Their lights are a cheap imitation of spirituality and connection. Their lights are an electric, a plug-in, a one step solution to reaching out to holiness.

And my lights? My lights are hard work. My lights are devotion. My lights may flicker and eventually fade, but I will come back tomorrow. I will come back and light them again and then I will light another. There is no single solution to life. My relationship with G-d is every day, every moment, constantly reaching out and connecting.

We live in a world where effort no longer matters. Everything is temporary, nothing is permanent. To reach out and truly connect takes too much time, too much energy. There is no such thing as an easy way out, it is just simply the only way.  

Perhaps that’s why so many of my brothers and sisters are slowly crossing the lines from religious to irreligious to atheist or not even Jewish anymore. The requirements for a real relationship with G-d are just too demanding. The tree is an easier substitute for the menorah, there is less stress involved. Instead of coming back, night after night to light up the darkness, they simply push a plug into an outlet and light up their rooms.

And in those dark winter months, their lights may last for a longer amount of time. But when I look at my eight small flames reflected in the window, I am reminded of those small G-d fearing Jews who miraculously triumphed over the Greek Empire and saved Torah.

Perhaps our story is not so different from theirs. Or perhaps the story of the Greeks is not really over. A sequel is being written, with America instead of Macedonia, placing an over-emphasis on beauty and the strength of man. And like in Greece, it looks like we may lose. It looks like the Jews will become blended in with the rest of mankind, a forgotten relic of the past.

But what we already know is the ending of our story. We know that if we fight, gather together the remaining pure Jews, we will fight and win. We know we can find the oil, we know it can burn for eight days. We can never underestimate the power of G-d, even if we are small in numbers. They lit the oil and they saw a reward for their faith.

So when I look at my lights, I see eternity.     

This Will Hurt...Smile!

There was a sign that used to be in my parent's kitchen that said "it is not happy people who are grateful, but grateful people who are happy" (I think the Kotzker may have said it). I try to live by this as often as I can. By nature I am a cheerful, optimistic person, but like everyone else, I have my bad days. On those days I try to think of everything I am grateful for - from the big things like my family and frumkeit, to the small things like hot coffee in the mornings and my guitar- and I find that it helps me cheer up.

Why am I talking about this now? Well I wanted to write a post about gratitude since I decided to create this blog and yesterday was my hebrew birthday (yud kislev). Every year at my birthday I look back at the year behind me and see how many things happened, how much I changed and I simply get overwhelmed by all the goodness that I find there.

So much has happened, from moving back home, spending time with my old friends and making new ones, to the birth of my niece and (last but most certainly not least) my marriage. It was easy to be grateful during these intense moments of happiness, but this past year also had it's fair share of hardships and hurdles. What should I think about those? 

Translated into hebrew, gratitude is "hakaras hatov". Hakaras hatov is not an exact definition, rather an idea. Literally translated, it means "recognizing the good". Gratitude is not always easy. Sometimes we are put into situations that are harsh and more then anything, we just want out. Simple gratitude is to be happy about receiving the obvious gifts. A deeper gratitude is being grateful for what appears to be a problem and not a present. 

I was once (okay, fine. Many times over) reading a book by Sara Yocheved Rigler. (I think she brings down this idea in her book "G-d winked".) She poses the common question: why do bad things happen to good people? I had heard this question raised in numerous places throughout the years, but I never heard or read of the answer she gave. 

She said; they don't. Everything is from G-d and G-d is all Goodness. Therefore something from Him is good by default. That doesn't mean suffering doesn't occur, it just means that suffering good, even if it is painful. Medicine can be disgusting, but we don't throw it away just because the taste is horrid. The bitterness is what can save us.

Likewise in life. We often don't realize that our worst moments are what sparks our greatest growth. Read any story from a recovered alcoholic. Almost every one will be along the lines of , "I knew I had to change when I hit rock bottom. Now I'm sober."

Everything is a gift from Hashem. 

If we never feel low, we will never feel the need to jump higher. 

And Hashem only gives us hardships because He wants to draw us closer.

I don't know about you, but this year I want to be grateful for all things- the pleasures and the pains.

Of Simpletons and Blessings

I was walking back from the makolet when I stranger asked to borrow my phone. She was a secular lady waiting at the bus stop with her preteen granddaughter. They wanted to call the bus number to see when their bus would be arriving. 

I wasn't in the mood to help them. My bags were heavy and it was hot out. I wanted to go home and unpack everything, clean up and do whatever else was on my to-do list for that day.

But, I figured, it would only be a minute and I had a phone and I would certainly want someone to lend a phone to me if I were ever to be in a similar situation...

So I gave it to her, and waited. She called and informed her granddaughter that the bus would be arriving in three minutes. 

As she handed the phone back to me, she smiled.

"Todah raba. Yesh lach children?"

I looked at her, confused. I understood what she said, but was thrown off by the one English word she threw in there. 

"You have baby?" She asked again, this time pantomiming holding an infant.

"Oh, no." 

Before I had the chance to tell her I was only married for two months, she spoke again.

"Well I give you a bracha that because you gave me your phone you should have children!"

I smiled. "Amen!"

We parted as unlikely friends; her hugging her granddaughter, and me still smiling.

***

I feel like there are a lot of points that could be taken out of this incident, but the one that stands out most to me that we can give more than we think. I don't know if that woman remembers what she told me, but I certainly do. She could have said "thank you" and left it that. It would have sufficed and I would have been grateful for her thanks. Only she decided to go a bit beyond that and gave me a bracha as well.  

She took a simple moment and decided to make it beautiful.

And I'm so grateful that she did. 

We often think that we are too simple to actually give a bracha to another.We feel like that's something a bit beyond us. We think "I'm not a gadol, I'm not a tzaddekes, I don't know what to do or say...''

What I learned from this woman is that it isn't beyond us at all. 

The gemara quotes Rabbi Chanina saying "One should never regard the blessing of an ordinary person as light in your eyes" (Megillah 15a). 

Every blessing we say has power.

It's something we all can do. 

Book Review: To Remain a Jew

For all of those who don't know me so well, I love reading. I decided that any book I read that I truly enjoy, I will try to share with all of you. After all, there are hundreds upon hundreds of books that have been published and a recommendation can go far when you're standing in the bookstore and you don't want to waste twenty-five dollars on a book that just won't enjoy that much.

I first pickd up "To Remain a Jew" by Rav Yitzchak Zilber about two years ago when I was babysitting. It was recently purchased for me so I finally got to read it. (Thank you to that person, you know who you are.😊) His memoir is about growing up as a religious Jew behind the Iron Curtain, about the trails they faced that I can barely understand. Everything they did had to be in complete secrecy and they could be found by the KGB at any moment, as he describes. 

"The stress felt in the Jewish community was terrible: religious people did not know who among them was an informer...One time people gathered for a minyan. The Torah school was taken out but nobody dared step forward and read from the scroll. Two people there knew how to do it, but they were afraid of being reported...I had turned thirteen by then, so I stepped forward. This was the first time I read from the scroll for the community."

Rav Zilber 

Many Jews knew about religion and didn't care, opting to practice communism instead. But many more Jews did care about the mitzvos, but were simply too frightened to act upon them. Rav Zilber was not one of those Jews. He was never mechalel Shabbos or Yom Tov , when we was a free man (so to speak) or when he was sent to a Soviet camp. Wherever he was, he made it his mission to teach the Jews who did not know and to help the Jews who were paralyzed by fear. 

Rav Elyashiv said he was one of the thirty-six hidden tzaddikim of his generation. Why? Because Rav Zilber taught other Jews and encouraged his children to do the same. He performed countless brissim and brought so many people closer to Hashem. Even after he managed to get exit visas and made aliyah to Israel he kept up his work helping others.* He found other Russian immigrants that were freed and introduced them to the religious education that was robbed from them.

One point I specifically enjoyed about this was that he was a regular person who did great things. Many times we here stories of gedolim and don't get inspired because they are so far removed from where we stand. Very often stories of their youth include memorizing large amounts of gemara at a young age or a similar feat. 

The stories about Rav Zilber are in different vein. When he writes about being able to memorize large amounts of Torah in his labor camp, he sounds completely shocked and admits he tried to do this before and was unable. Therefore, he concludes, it was a gift from Hashem.  

The book is written in a very personal, nonchalant way. I honestly felt like I heard the voice of Rav Zilber as I read it. When I got to the end and read about his death,  I was disappointed and a little sad.  I would have loved to meet him.    

But I did in a way, by reading his book.

*And so much more, but I don't want to re-write the entire book here. 😉

Deep Thoughts from a Little Mind

You know when you meet your friend's family and love them so much that you have to think about you who like more, your friend or her siblings?

Yeah, this relationship is sort of like that.

This is why my friend sends me emails of antics of her younger siblings, who I informally adopted as my own. And she knew I would want to hear what her nine year old brother came up with on his own (!) on last week's parsha.

He said: "Why does it say 'these are Noach's offspring' and then goes on to say whats a tzaddik Noach was before talking about his kids? Noach's children were very different from each other. Shem was a tzaddik, Cham wasn't so, and same with Yafes. But their father was a tzaddik. This goes to show that even if your grandfather was Moshe Rabbeinu it is still up to you what you become!"

First of all, I think that is incredibly deep for a nine year old to think of on his own. Secondly, I had an almost identical conversation with my sister over Shabbos. We were discussing yichus and how it's really an add-on. If you yourself do not live up to the expectations of a Jew, then it doesn't actually matter where you came from. What is far more important is where we are headed.

In Judaism it doesn't matter how high you are on the "spiritual barometer". It only matters how much you grew. You could be on the hundredth level, but if you born and raised on the ninety-ninth, that's not exactly what we call spiritual achievement. And the reverse also holds true: if someone is holding at the twentieth level but started off on the second, he should look at him for inspiration.

Simply put, we have the same chance of attaining olam haba as Rav Chaim does. And he grew up with the Steipler as his father! Because it only matters if we grow and fulfill our life's mission.

There are two types of Jews in this world: those are growing and those who are not. The kind of Jew we are supposed to be is the growing kind, regardless if your parents are the leaders of klal yisrael, garbage men or religious at all. It's our job to stretch a little higher than where we are now and grow a little more, become a little greater than the person we were yesterday. Our personal spiritual growth is in our own hands.

"What is the definition of a good Jew? One who is trying to become a better Jew." -Huna Friedland

Simchas Torah: We Are All Angels

Last year I was in Chicago for Simchas Torah. Standing on the balcony at my shul, I witnessed a member of our community hand over the Torah he was dancing with to another man. This simple action touched me because I know both men and I know that both of them suffered greatly from the same pain: the pain of losing a child in their lifetime. 

While both deaths were sudden and painful, I was astounded to see the look of joy both men wore. It was obvious neither of them carried any grudges or burdens. It was clear that their nisayon did not get the better of them, that they still loved Hashem in His Torah. 

So later that night (or the next day, I don't actually remember), I wrote this poem:

I look around me and see

A group of men

Circling around the bimah

Clutching sifrie torah and children

Eyes closed and bodies swaying

Praying from a place

Of joy and intensity

Expressing their love for Hashem

And His torah

I look closer and I see

That one lost his job

That one lost his child

That one lost his wife

But no one thinks of the pain

And the hurt and anger

It’s all been swept away

Because in this moment

It’s all about connection

Happiness and life

I look down at the men dancing

And I don’t see a group of men

Instead I see

A group of angels 

One of my friends read this and responded, "that's beautiful, but what about everyone else who didn't experience one of these things? What about them?"

My initial thought ("They are donkeys, but they are like the donkey of Pinchas ben Yair") was a joke, and one that I did not think my friend would find amusing. So I didn't answer her email and didn't answer her question.

But it stayed with my for a while. And a year later, I found my answer.

Because this year I was standing on a shul balcony in Ohr Samayach, watching the men dance. Most of them were ba'ali teshuva and what I saw was drastically different than my experiences from home. Someone was wearing a purple suit, someone else was somersaulting across the room and one of the bachurim who lead a song didn't even know how to read Hebrew.

But the joy in the room...the joy.

As I looked from behind the mechitzah, my forehead pressed against the wooden panels, I realized we are all angels, if we chose to be. No, we don't have to go through something as horrendous as losing a child (may it be Hashem's will that no one will have to again). But that doesn't mean we all experienced some kind of personal pain or loss either. It doesn't matter what we went through and who went through the worst, it only matters that we chose connection despite what hurt us. It doesn't matter if we were raised frum or became frum later in life. It matter that we dance with joy. It matters that we chose Hashem, that we recognize He didn't give us mindless suffering, He gave us medicine to heal our impatience, anger, sense of entitlement etc. He gave us life. 

This Simchas Torah I learned that we don't need to be great because we went through something "totally and completely and utterly terrible" and despite that we still love. Whatever we experienced in life is our own experience and although we think we can externally compare our pain and struggle to someone else's we can't. In fact, we shouldn't because it really doesn't matter at all. We all go through tough times, whether we deem is to be a "simple" hard time or a turbulent one. 

 This Simchas Torah I learned that we are great because we still love, no complications about it. 

The Story Behind the Name

Like just about everyone else in my high school class, I was immensely looking forward to my seminary year in Israel. I was ready to move on from high school and engage in the intense seminary schedule, ready to leave home for the first long extended period of time and ready to have all of those life-changing classes that people promised me seminary would have.

What people didn't tell me was that sometimes the intensity of the learning and the late-night classes would be a little much for me. They didn't tell me that while the dorm could be an incredible experience, sometimes I would want the privacy of my own bedroom. And while seminary would be an inspirational, life-changing time, sometimes it wouldn't be. Sometimes the classes wouldn't be to my taste, wouldn't speak to me or I simply would leave uninspired and unchanged. 

But one class was the antithesis of all that. It left me deep in thought and those thoughts never really left me. It was the first lesson of the year from this particular class and Rabbi Bulman asked why Hashem called out to Moshe from the burning bush; what did Moshe do that merited Hashem directly talking to him?

He said that Moshe saw the bush and asked why it was burning without being consumed. Then Hashem called out to him and told Moshe of his life's mission to lead the Jewish Nation. Moshe saw, he questioned and looked into what was before him and Hashem called out to him.

This, Rabbi Bulman taught us, is a prototype of how we need to interact with the world. We need to look at everything around us, ask about, probe deeper and voice an interest. 

Adam Harishon was the first person alive. When he first opened his eyes and saw the world, he said "Mah rabu ma'asechah Hashem". Looking at this superficially, this is an obvious to response to seeing gan eden. But if we look closely, the first word every uttered by mankind was mah- what. Adam knew the purpose of creation was to question. 

In recent times, questioning has taken on a negative role. Questioning appears to be a lack of faith, a sin to which we do not want to commit. But Judaism looks at things differently. Judaism encourages us to find our question and to ask them, to seek answers and truth. This, we are taught, is the road to growth. 

And this, my friends, is the story behind the name. Curiosity is not to be shunned. Curiosity is beautiful and a tool given to us from Hashem. We do not ban questions, nor punish the questioner. Questions are not to be viewed as a disgrace or anything to be ashamed of. Curiosity is a bridge to connection, to depth, to a greater understand of Hashem, of His world and what He wants from us. 

And like we learned from Moshe, if we reach out to Hashem, He reaches back. 

He's waiting for us.