Drowning Out Evil: What the Purim Practice of Noisemaking Teaches About Moral Clarity

The news cycle as of late has been filled with reports of Operation Epic Fury, which is the joint U.S.-Israeli campaign targeting the remnants of Iran's military and nuclear infrastructure, as well as various members of Iranian leadership. Regardless of one's political perspective and whether this attack should have been launched, the operation is unmistakably loud. Not only is it loud in the literal sense with explosions and air power, but also in the figurative sense in terms of the Trump administration's foreign policy and how it views its adversaries. 

The idea that evil should not be ignored and should be actively opposed is not a new concept in Jewish history. In synagogues around the world, Jews will gather tonight in a ritualized form of confronting evil: the reading of the Book of Esther, also know as the Megillah. The biblical narrative describes how a Jewish woman, Esther, rises to the queenship of the Persian Empire and thwarts a genocidal plot against the Jewish people. The antagonist of the story is Haman, a royal official who persuades King Ahasuerus to authorize the extermination of the Jews. Through a dramatic reversal, Haman's plan was thwarted and the Jewish people were saved. 

This is where the noise enters the scene. Every time the name of Haman is mentioned in the Megillah reading, synagogues erupt in boos, stomps, hisses, and the rattling clamor of groggers. Although the first documented instance of this practice is in the 13th century, it is derived from the Torah. In the book of Deuteronomy (25:17-19), the Jews are commanded to blot out the memory of Amalek. Haman was the son of Hammedathah the Agagite (Esther 3:1). Agag was the king of the Amalekites (I Samuel 15:8-9), which is why Jewish tradition (Talmud, Megillah 13a).

In an age where moral categories are inverted, Purim is especially relevant. Hamas carried out despicable acts of kidnapping, rape, torture, and murder against Israeli civilians on October 7, 2023. If an attack that was equivalent to multiple 9/11 attacks happened to any other country, the international community would have sympathized with the attacked. Instead, much of the world sympathized with an anti-Semitic, homophobic, authoritarian terrorist organization. Entire populations now reframe those who call for the extinction of the Jewish state as "oppressed" and "freedom fighters.”

Then there is the new low society has reached in that more and more are of the opinion that disagreeable ideas are the same as actual violence. We see this not simply in rhetorical terms, but in real-world consequences It was that warped logic that got Charlie Kirk murdered and can continue to justify violence as a response to political disagreement.

These are but two examples to contrast the Megillah. Haman is not perceived as "oppressed," "misunderstood," or "dealing with systemic inequity." Haman sought genocide: full stop. There was no "this situation is complicated" or "the relation between Jews and Persians were complex and nuanced at the time." The Purim story insists otherwise. Power can corrupt, tyranny is real, and genocide is evil. The Megillah illustrates the moral categories unambiguously. 

At the same time, the Megillah models a form of pluralism that does not compromise moral clarity. The Jews lived among foreigners under foreign rule and navigated a world of different beliefs and customs. That diversity does not mean that we ignore when clear wrongdoing is taking place. Just like Jews in the Megillah existed in a different world were also able to recognize Haman's evil. We too must insist on certain basic truths in a pluralistic world. Acts like genocide, torture, and kidnapping are unacceptable. Purim teaches that we can live amidst difference without equivocating about what is categorically wrong or drifting into the idea that evil is "just another perspective." 

The uproar at Haman's name is not just about a tradition. It is about not having evil become normalized. It is about making sure we can distinguish between right and wrong, even in a pluralistic, democratic society. Sometimes it takes a loud, jarring noise to make sure we do not succumb to moral atrophy and indifference. 

Parsha Chukat: What A Military Encounter Can Teach About Personal Development

The Israelites had been wandering in the desert for forty years. They were trying to get to the land of Israel, but they kept running into various obstacles on their way there. In this week's Torah Portion (Chukat; Numbers 19:1-22:1), G-d goes on what seems to be a tangent to describe one of these obstacles: Sichon, King of the Amorites. Within this historical account is a description of one of the cities that the Israelites ended up taking over, Chesbon (חשבון). Rabbinic scholar Rashi comments on Leviticus 21:27 that this description of Chesbon and this military account is to set the scene for next week's Torah portion, Balak. 

In the Talmud (Bava Batra 78b), Rabbi Yochanan has a different idea. As I pointed out about Genesis 5, the passage is more than a genealogical accounting. It ends up being a lesson about caring about human beings. Rabbi Yochanan takes a homiletical approach to the military account. For the people referred to in Leviticus 21:27 as "those who speak in parables" (המשלים), Rabbi Yochanan interprets those as "those who rule over their evil inclination." When the passage says "Come to Chesbon" (על כן יאמרו חשבון באו), that is taken to mean "let us take an account of the world," i.e., the financial loss incurred by the fulfillment of the mitzvah in comparison to its reward. 

I think this homiletical approach has a point because the word חשבון literally means "accounting." However, R. Yochanan linking it to reward and punishment is problematic for me, because Pirke Avot teaches that we should ultimately do mitzvahs out of love of G-d instead of fear of punishment. Being rewarded for good behavior, according to Pirke Avot, is seen as a lower motivation. R. Yochanan provides another explanation for the accounting, which is that those who do not calculate and examine their ways will be consumed like a fire, much like the one mentioned in Leviticus 21:27. 

Later in the Talmudic passage of Bava Batra 78b, R. Yochanan mentions that the fire of arrogance will consume one in Gehenna, which is the closest eschatological concept of a Hell in Judaism. Bringing it to arrogance makes sense because arrogance is over-believing in oneself and inflating one's value. The inflated sense of confidence leads one to only think of the self, even at the expense of others. 

I think this homiletic interpretation is compelling because there is another passage in Jewish text that analogizes personal development to a battle: Pirke Avot (4:1). In Pirke Avot, Ben Zoma asks who is strong (איזהו גבור?). The answer: one who overcomes their personal inclination (הכובש את יצרו). Ben Zoma then cites Proverbs 16:32, which states that "He who is slow to anger is better than a strong man, and a master of his passions is better than a conqueror of a city." Anger is a manifestation of a lack of self-control and self-discipline. It is consuming and means that you are susceptible to external forces. 

By not taking account of who we are, what our character traits are, and where we can improve, we are not free. As creatures of free will, we have the potential to learn and grow. Doing personal accounting is not only for the Omer period, but a year-round endeavor. By keeping account of who we are and where we need to improve, we are able to fight and win the greatest battle of all: mastery over ourselves. 

"No Man Is an Island": A Passover Lesson on Being There for Others

While the holiday of Passover, also known as Pesach (פסח), is a particularly Jewish holiday, it also has such universal themes as freedom and liberation. Three is a telling of the story of liberation known as the Exodus during Passover, which is called the Maggid (מגיד), is the fifth step of the Passover ritual feast known as the Seder. Before the Maggid begins, there is an Aramaic passage known as Ha Lachma Anya (הא לחמא עניא) that is read:

הא לחמא עניא די אכלו אבהתנא בארעא דמצרים. כל דכפין ייתי וייכל, כל דצריך ייתי ויפסח. השתא הכא, לשנה הבאה בארעא דישראל. השתא עבדי, לשנה הבאה בני חורין

This is the bread of affliction that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt. All those who are hungry, let them enter and eat. All who are in need, let them come celebrate the Passover. Now we are here. Next year in the land of Israel. This year, we are slaves. Next year, we will be free. 

I have often wondered why we recite this passage before beginning telling the story of the Exodus. Every year, the head of the house opens the door reciting this phrase with some vague hope that people will come to the Seder. I have never seen anyone near the doorstep to accept the invitation. Odds are that you have not either, which would make sense given how few people actually understand Aramaic. If the expectation to invite people in for a meal is not meant to be taken so literally, how are we meant to understand this interlude? 

In the first call of Ha Lachma Anya where it says "let those who are hungry come and eat" (כל דכפין ייתי וייכל), one is meant to address the hunger of others.  I find it especially alluring given that moments beforehand, the afikomen is broken and hidden in the ritual called yachatz (יחץ). When I reflected on the spiritual lessons of yachatz, I pointed out how breaking food and saving it for later was a sign of poverty in ancient times. In spite of that poverty (either literal or metaphorical), the Seder teaches us the importance of developing an abundance mindset and providing part of our material wealth to those who are lacking. 

However, there is a second call of "all who are in need" (כל דצריך). Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik made an interesting point on this text. This is not referring to physical hunger because that was previously covered. R. Soloveitchik saw it as addressing spiritual needs, particularly those who are lonely and need companionship and friendship. 

As Soloveitchik brings up, Jews have been oppressed, exiled, and ostracized. The Jewish people know what it is like to feel alone, abandoned, and forsaken. When dealing with that level of hurt and trauma, someone who is oppressed is either faced with becoming an oppressor themselves or being kind. Rather than giving into spiritual darkness, the Seder asks us to break that cycle and open our doors with love and kindness. 

I find this passage of Ha Lachma Anya to be enlightening, especially since the Seder was created in a time where extreme poverty was the norm. We are supposed to help others with their physical needs, even if we do not have much material wealth. Thankfully, there has been progress made on eradicating extreme poverty. I also acknowledge that poverty is still a reality lived by millions in this world, which means that the call of כל דכפין ייתי וייכל has sadly not lost its relevance. 

At the same time, the Seder was centuries ahead of Abraham Maslow (who was incidentally Jewish) and his hierarchy of needs. It is important that basic needs of food, clothing, and shelter are met. But what about beyond that? We live in an age of unprecedented technology and progress, yet depression and anxiety are quite high. 

That paradox can be answered by the fact that we are more than physical creatures. Human beings also crave connection and meaning. The need to address non-physical concerns is higher than ever. Well before its time, the Seder teaches that we are to be mindful of the plight of those around us, whether that plight is physical, emotional, mental, or spiritual. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks astutely reminds us that the bread of affliction (also known as matzah) becomes the bread of freedom the moment that we decide to share it with others. The fact that matzah can both represent the food the Israelites ate in Egypt while in slavery and the bread eaten as the Israelites are leaving Egypt to be free allude to the idea that our perception of something and how we use it in life can make a difference in quality of life, but I digress.

We are not meant to live on an island and simply fend for ourselves. To quote Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, "The opposite of freedom is not determinism, but hardness of heart. Freedom presupposes openness of heart, of mind, of eye and ear." If you are too open, that means you have no personal boundaries and lose your freedom that way. At the same time, I agree with Heschel in that if you close yourself off to possibilities, you are equally unfree. Being open to something does not automatically mean saying "yes," but rather the awareness that allows to you consider it a possibility. 

It is interesting to think that the extent to which we are open determines who free we are, particularly when it comes to the topic of giving. Slaves did not and do not have the option to give because they were deprived of autonomy or a salary. Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook believed that this gesture of Ha Lachma Anya and wanting to feed the hungry is a sign of what makes us human and signals an essential part of being a free being. 

On some level, all of us have limited resources, energy, and time because are finite beings. Some have greater limits than others, to be sure. Nevertheless, we are still meant to help those who are within our sphere of influence. Ha Lachma Anya is to remind Jews that to be there for others is an essential part of a Jew's spiritual calling, as I would argue is the calling of the spiritual life of many non-Jewish practices. It is an unattributable quote, but I will end with it all the same: 

"When you have more than you need, build a longer table, not a taller fence."

Applying the Tension of Scarcity and Abundance Within the Passover Seder to Our Daily Lives

Last week, I was studying some Pirkei Avot, a Jewish ethical text, with a synagogue down in Buenos Aires. I had it on in the background while I was doing cleaning in preparation for Passover. One of the passages that we were discussing was in Pirkei Avot 5:10, which was a depiction of four types of people that exist, particularly in the context of "give and take" and how one views property. You can look at the Hebrew here, but I'll give you the English:

There are four types of character in human beings. One that says "mine is mine" and "yours is yours." This is a commonplace person, although some say that it is characteristic of Sodom. The second is "mine is yours" and "yours is mine." This is [the mindset of] an unlearned person. The third is "mine is yours, and yours is yours." This third person is scrupulously pious. The fourth is "yours is mine, and mine is mine." This person is considered to be wicked. 

A bit on my take on this passage from Pirke Avot. I agree that the second person, who in modern-day terms would be the Communist, is ignorant. As Rashi brings up in his commentary, such a person lacks moral sophistication and cannot appreciate the sanctity of private property. The text Sefer HaMussar goes as far as saying that this is a moral deficiency because it can lead to coveting other's wealth and obsessing over other people's belongings, a phenomenon I pointed out last year. The fourth person is self-centered and is only concerned with what can be taken. I do not take issue with the Rabbi's take on the second and fourth individuals. 

It is the depiction of the first and third individuals that are more problematic. The first is either considered "run-of-the-mill," or בינונית. The first individual is taking a more "live and let live" approach. Tying this mentality to Sodom requires the logical fallacy of the slippery slope. Sodom was a particularly bad place. According to the Book of Ezekiel (16:48-49), Sodom's fall was due to its arrogance. Why were they arrogant? Because they had riches and food, and did not help the poor or the needy. Post-biblical Jewish texts go into detail on how cruel Sodom really was in this regard. In the Talmud (Sanhedrin 109b), it says that Sodom had such a disdain for the poor that the government of Sodom would punish those that aided the poor and the needy. This is not an indictment of free-market economics or property rights; it is an indictment of cruelty towards others (especially the poor and needy) to the point of legislating said cruelty. 

As for the third individual, the one who thinks "what is mine is yours, and yours is yours" can only go so far under Jewish law. After all, Jewish law teaches that one cannot give charitable donations beyond twenty percent of one's assets (Ketubot 67b). A vow of poverty is not a Jewish value. There is a Midrash (Shemot Rabbah 31:14) that teaches that if you had poverty on one side and all other problems on the other side, poverty outweighs them all. It is a literary device to be sure, but the point still is that poverty is awful. 

Looking through the commentary on this passage in Pirke Avot, I believe the main lesson is that we generally should be more inclined to giving. Granted, the text is referring to money and material wealth, but it could just as easily apply to knowledge, time, and effort. During this study session, the seminarian leading the discussion connects this passage to the Four Sons that are in the Passover Seder: the wise son, the wicked son, the simple son, and the son who cannot even ask a question. These are not meant to be literal children, but rather personifications of personality types. We see a similar categorization in the aforementioned Pirke Avot passage. As the seminarian brought up, some of us act like one of the four characterizations, but there are also plenty of people who personify different characterizations in different points in life. 

There are points when we are more selfish, either because all we want to do is take or we find ourselves in a dire enough situation where we need to receive instead of give. There are other moments where all we want to do is give to others. And there are times where we do not feel like giving to others or feel like being left alone. I find this tension about giving and taking greatly encapsulated elsewhere in Pirkei Avot, specifically from Rabbi Hillel at Pirke Avot 1:14 (Hebrew is here):

If I am not for myself, who will be? If I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?

I like this passage for a couple of reasons. One, it differentiates between self-interest/self-care and pure, unadulterated selfishness. Two, it reminds us that we need to be self-reliant and self-sufficient, but at the same time, there is a calling to be there for others. I also bring up Pirke Avot 1:14 because segues into a parallel tension in the Passover Seder. 

We sanctify the beginning of the Seder with a glass of wine (קדש) and wash our hands (ורחץ). Afterwards, we start with the uglier side of the experience of slavery. We then eat the green vegetables dipped in saltwater (כרפס). The most common explanation for כרפס is that it symbolizes the tears that the slaves shed while in slavery. It does teach about hard times, but as I brought up, it also can teach about growth throw adversity. We have the difficult time of slavery. With the slavery is the implicit poverty. This brings us to the next step in the Seder (יחץ), which is breaking the middle matzah. I discussed the ritual of יחץ a few years ago. Matzah, the unleavened bread eaten on Passover, is referred to as "poor man's bread" (Talmud, Pesachim 115b). In premodern times, breaking food and stashing it for later was a common practice to make sure people had enough food to eat. We break the middle matzah to try to put us in their shoes and understand at least a wee bit as to what slavery and poverty are like (Rashi). After stashing the matzah, we do something counterintuitive in the Seder. We say the following:

כל דכפין ייתי ויכל. כל דצריך, ייתי ויפסח

To translate the Aramaic above, we say "all who are hungry, let them come and eat. All who are needy, let them come and celebrate Passover with us." In a matter of seconds, we see a major paradigm shift. Yes, we stashed food, which symbolizes a scarcity mentality in which one thinks there will never be enough. In spite of the lack in the Seder narrative, the Seder allows us to invite others to join us in the festivities, which brings us to a mindset of abundance. 

What are we to learn from this transition? We are supposed to take care of ourselves. Self-preservation and self-care are important. If we are not healthy enough, emotionally sound enough, or financially stable enough, we either end up being someone else's burden or are unable to help out others. There lies at least one paradox here: taking care of ourselves helps ensure we can be there for others. This paradox hearkens back to Rabbi Hillel's "If I'm not for myself, who will be?" 

But we are meant to do more than merely survive, which is why Rabbi Hillel's dictum in Pirke Avot continues with "If I am only for myself, what am I?" This is why we invite guests into our home after stashing food. We are not meant to only think about ourselves. If there is someone nearby or within our sphere of influence, that is hungry or has spiritual needs, we are to help to the best of our capability. At the time the Seder was created, abject poverty was the default. It teaches that when we have little, we are meant to share what we have. All the more if we are in a state of material abundance, which is much more commonplace in the 21st century than it has been in any other point in history. 

This brings me to another point. Passover celebrates the transition from slavery to freedom, from a low point to a high point. What we see in today's piece here is another transition: from a scarcity mindset to an abundance mindset. I would argue that a scarcity mindset is a form of slavery. The most literal definition of slavery is one human being owning another. It is certainly a morally egregious act, one that sadly still occurs to this very day. However, it is not the only type of slavery. 

A scarcity mindset is one of the most prevalent forms of slavery that one can experience in the mind. Scarcity mindset and fear come hand in hand. You think you will not have enough money or time that you cannot do things. Yes, there is a limit of goods and services in this world. This is why the study of economics exists. Plus, there is a moment we need to be aware of these limits so we can make sound and cogent tradeoffs when making life choices. We are not meant to ignore reality or view the world through rose-colored glasses. At the same time, when you are on the scarcity mindset, the tunnel vision of fear limits you from going ahead in life and taking risks. You think of life as a limited pie. It impedes you from viewing things in the long-term or makes sure you lose sight of priorities. When you think you do not have enough or that you are not enough, it creates anxiety, which can over time create physical and mental health problems.

If our minds are stuck on a scarcity mindset, we limit our potential as human beings. Scarcity mindset means ignoring what we have, whereas an abundance mindset means gratitude. If there is a certain lack in our lives, an abundance mindset gives us the ability to see and pursue a solution to a certain lack in life. If we are to take the Seder seriously, we need to think less in terms of scarcity and more in terms of abundance. How do we do that? There are a few ways that one can do that:

• We focus on what we do have instead of what we do not have. As Rabbi Ben Zoma brings up in Pirke Avot (4:1), "Who is rich? The one who is satisfied with their lot." 
• Surround ourselves with those who have an abundance mindset. 
• Incorporate gratitude in your day-to-day. Gratitude is an essential component of the abundance mindset. This would explain why Judaism teaches that we should say 100 blessings a day. It would also explain the Hebrew term for gratitude (הכרת הטוה), which literally means "recognizing the good." We do not ignore the suffering, injustice, or problems in the world. It means we remember that there is plenty of good in this world. 
• When things do not go our way, we focus on the lesson from that experience and ask ourselves how we learn for the next time. 
• Use cognitive-based therapy (CBT) to reframe scarcity-based thoughts. 
• Invest in yourself, whether that is professional development or getting a professional fitness trainer, so you can earn more and do more in life. 
• Don't focus on strictly material wealth. There are other forms of abundance, whether that comes in the form of health, friends, family, a romantic relationship, spirituality, personal development, or sense of purpose. 

An abundance mindset comes with multiple advantages. You can find happiness or contentment, even in difficult times. You are more resilient and more able to solve problems as they arise. It allows for you to better take advantage of new opportunities and seize the day. It creates confidence that you can pursue endeavors in life. You end up with greater physical and emotional energy. Life is more exciting. You feel more empowered and engaged in life. In summation, an abundance mindset is an essential component to having a free and healthy mind. By going from scarcity to abundance, we are able to feel and undergo the Passover experience.

The Jewish Prayer Modeh Ani Is Much More Than Saying Thanks

How we wake up in the morning can set the tone for the rest of the day. Research shows that morning routines can increase productivity, lower stress, improve confidence, and boost energy levels. Judaism gives us a ritual that helps us as we awaken from our slumber. Upon waking up, Jewish tradition teaches us to utter the following words:

מודה אני לפנוך מלך חי וקים שהחזרת בי נשמתי בחמלה. רבה אמונתך

I give thanks before You, living and eternal king, for You have mercifully restored my soul within me. Your faithfulness is great. 

Part of what I like about this prayer is its simplicity. The blessing has twelve words and yet it has so much wisdom packed into it. The most common interpretation given for this blessing is that it is about starting your day off by expressing gratitude. I do not disagree with this interpretation. I wrote about Modeh Ani and the importance of being grateful about a decade ago. One of the Hebrew words for "Jew" (יהודי) comes from the same verb as "to thank" (להודות). Jewish tradition teaches that a Jew is to say 100 blessings a day (Talmud, Menachot 43b). When I look at the Modeh Ani blessing, I see more significance in the text than simply another opportunity to say "Thank You." Here are some insights that I was able to come up with:

1. Life is more than just the self. One takeaway from this blessing is the syntax. The verb comes before the subject. While this syntax occurs in biblical Hebrew, I think saying מודה אני instead of אני מודה teaches us a lesson. While there are merits to self-care, the word order reminds us that there is something bigger than us. We need to focus on the loftier aspects of life before we focus on ourselves. 
2. Confronting one's mortality. This point surrounding one's mortality becomes more salient when we look at what we are thankful for when reciting Modeh Ani. The blessing thanks us for having another day on this planet. Marcus Aurelius said in his text Meditations (2:11) that "you could leave life right now. Let that determine what you say, do, and think." Even if one is young and healthy, waking up to live another day is not a given. This is where the practice of memento mori comes in. Modeh Ani both reminds us that we have a limited time on Earth while emphasizing we should be thankful for the time that we have. 
3. Awareness. The phrase מודה אני does not only mean "I give thanks." The word מודה can also mean "to acknowledge' or "to rise to the understanding of." We do not only give thanks by saying this prayer. We also rise to the understanding of why we give thanks, and by extension, life's purpose. Awareness is key to life. It would explain why one of the morning blessings in Judaism is to ask G-d for discernment (אשר נתן לשכוי בינה להבחין בין יום יבין לילה).  
4. Sense of renewal. Each day is a new day of life. Yes, there are things we wake up with that were there yesterday: imperfections, emotional baggage, and problems. Modeh Ani reminds us that we have the opportunity to tackle those problems, to do better, to make this day unique and ours, and to figure out where we are going in life. 
5. Our past does not define our future. Our brains are wired in a way that alert us to danger and the malaise in life, which comes from our hardwired negativity bias. We can use Modeh Ani to transcend the negativity bias and begin our day in a more positive mindset. Our thoughts have a major influence on how we perceive and live life. We are not tied to natural impulse to look at things negatively. Research shows that gratitude can increase happiness, decrease depression, and improve sleep quality. Per the previous point, that also means we are not tied to our past because the past definitionally is not the present. If times are bad, we can remind ourselves that they can be better. If times are good, we can remind ourselves to appreciate the good while we have it or we can find ways to make it even better. In any case, the status quo is not an inevitability. 
6. Finding ritual that speaks to us. This is a tangential point, but one that I want to make. This does not have to do with the words of the prayer, but when the prayer was created. While it takes some inspiration from the Talmud and Tanach (Hebrew Bible), the prayer Modeh Ani itself was first used much later at the end of the 16th century C.E. I would have thought that the Modeh Ani prayer dated back to biblical or talmudic times, but it is not. It is relatively new within Jewish history. It is both interesting and comforting to find rituals that were created in more modern times that still fit within the mold of Jewish tradition. It also makes me think of our own capacity to create rituals that are both meaningful to modern times and our experiences while still being characteristically Jewish.
7. A call for being more compassionate. In the blessing, we state that G-d returns our soul to us "with mercy" (בחמלה). Assuming we take the the theology in this prayer literally, G-d does not give us another day based on our merits, but rather His mercy. I can quibble about whether "why bad things happen to good people" or "why do good people have to die." But let's take it literally for a moment because Judaism teaches us an important lesson: that we are created in His Image. This form of imitatio Dei, known as בצלם אלקים, means that we aspire to take on G-d's virtues. If G-d gives us another day because His compassion, we too should find ways to be more compassionate in life. 
8. Being trustworthy. When we end the blessing with רבה אמונתך ("your faithfulness is great"), we are establishing a sense of trust in G-d. This ending implies that one is to entrust G-d to return the soul the following morning. Since we are to imitate G-d, it means that we should find ways to be more trustworthy in our interpersonal relations. 
9. Trusting ourselves. If G-d is Sovereign of the universe and G-d can trust us, that should mean that we should be able to trust ourselves. He gave us the ability to live life to the fullest, to succeed, and the tools to handle adversity. Speaking of adversity....
10. Gratitude is not solely for the good times. The phrase רבה אמונתך comes from Lamentations 3:23. The Book of Lamentations has much calamity, including raping, pillaging, and murder. In this text, it seems as if G-d has abandoned the Jewish people. But the end of the Book of Lamentations remind us that even the bad times do not last forever. It does not mean that we ignore or neglect the calamity or problems in our lives. Modeh Ani teaches that instead of dwelling or wallowing, we are meant to use gratitude, awareness, compassion, and steadfastness to get through the bad times, as well as enhance the good times with these virtues. 

Parsha Toldot: The Timeless Lesson of How Envy Causes Harm and How to Minimize It

I have studied multiple languages over the years, and I have been amazed at how much we rely on idioms in the English language. Idioms make English such a colorful language, but also difficult for non-natives to learn. One of the idioms that has fascinated me is "to cut off one's nose to spite one's face." Having its origin in the late 18th century, the phrase means that one should not do something that harms you simply because it harms someone else. There are some who would be blinded enough by revenge where they would endure anything to get payback. There is another more common reason, one that we see play out in this week's Torah portion, Toldot (Genesis 25:19-28:9). That reason is envy. 

There was a famine in the land of Canaan (Genesis 26:1). Isaac goes to settle in the land of Canaan because G-d promised that if Isaac stayed, he would be blessed (26:3-4). He stayed in the land and reaped a harvest 100 times what he was expecting. Isaac became wealthy as a result: flocks, herds, a large household (26:13-14). What happens as a result from Isaac's success? In spite of having stopped a famine, the Philistines envied Isaac (26:14). The townsfolk could not kill Isaac because he was under the king's protection (26:11; Sforno's commentary of Genesis 26:15). However, they did decide to stop up Isaac's wells and prevent him from producing more (26:15). Because of this envy, King Abimelech sent Isaac away (26:16). To recap, the townspeople drove away the guy that pulled them out of famine. They did not care that their actions meant less food production because they could not handle the fact that he produced greater material wealth. I feel like there is a modern-day lesson there about excessive taxation and regulation, but I will say that how the Philistines reacted to Isaac's success is a biblical example of "cutting off your nose in spite of your face" indeed! We see throughout the biblical texts how envy causes harm. 

• Look at the two matriarchs, Leah and Rachel. On the one hand, Rachel had Jacob's love. On the other hand, Leah was producing children. In any case, there was considerable tension between the two sisters (e.g., Genesis 30:15). 
• Miriam's envy caused her to speak ill of her brother (Numbers 12:1), thereby making her leprous (Numbers 12:10). 
• There was Joseph and his technicolor dream coat. Joseph buttered up to his father and became the favorite child. Joseph's siblings became so envious that they initially tried murdering him (Genesis 37:20), but eventually decided to sell Joseph into slavery (Genesis 37:27-28). 
• King David develops an attraction towards Bathsheba. David forces Bathsheba to sleep with him. To cover up the pregnancy, David sends Bathsheba's husband, Uriah, into battle to be killed (I Samuel 11). 
• And who could forget the story of Cain and Abel? Both Cain and Abel provided offerings to G-d. Abel gave his most precious animals. Cain tried to get away with offering less than his best. Call it a spiritual form of half-assing it. Cain did not want to put in the effort, and unsurprisingly, G-d noticed and favored Abel. How did Cain react? He was so envious that he murdered his brother (Genesis 4:3-9), an act that effectively killed a quarter of the planet's population. 

The perils of envy go beyond biblical texts. It is something we regrettably see throughout history. A good friend of mine sent me a video (see below) about how history played a deleterious role in history. For one, it helped explain anti-Semitism better. In the Middle Ages, there were very few options for someone who was not of noble blood to become wealthy. Being a merchant was one of those ways. While there were non-Jewish merchants in the Middle Ages, it was a profession disproportionately taken on by Jews. And guess what? They were good at it....so good that their neighbors were envious. It led to the Spanish Inquisition and other expulsions in which people cut off their nose to spite their face. The Jewish people were not the only ones to experience the negative effects of envy, but it does make for a good cautionary tale for us. 

Unfortunately, envy was not a relic we left in the Middle Ages. Going back to the video above, envy became a hit with the rise of socialism and communism. Not even the fall of the Berlin Wall could bring down envy. If we look at the philosophy of the social justice movement and how it is applied, the politics of envy continue to this very day. I do recognize that there are those on the political Left that are legitimately and primarily concerned with justice, even if it is quite redistributive. However, I would contend that much of what is taking place on the political Left is not primarily out of concern for justice, but motivated by envy. The way the "Eat the Rich" crowd reacts to the likes of Bill Gates, Jeff Bezos, or Elon Musk is reminiscent of the Isaac story discussed earlier. Success, a good education, and a work ethic are derisively dismissed by the social justice movement as privilege. It leads to thinking we could screw over the rich while regulating and taxing our way out of poverty. In spite of the technological progress we have made and in spite of the fact that our lives are materially better by most metrics than they ever have in history, envy still rules the day. Why? Envy is not how much one has in absolute terms, but in relative terms. Some things truly never change. 

I begin to understand why the prohibition of coveting is in the Ten Commandments (see my 2014 analysis on the topic). According to twelfth-century rabbi Maimonides, what makes coveting problematic is that it leads to committing more egregious acts (Mishneh Torah, Gezelah v'Avedah 1:9-11). Go back to the list of biblical stories I cited above. In those biblical stories, envy brought about such disastrous results as slander, murder, criminal activity, and cruelty. Envy really is an ugly character trait. Aside from committing unethical acts, why is envy such a problem?

With envy, one is constantly comparing themself to others while deflecting any criticism or need to improve on themselves. Envy does not contribute to anything positive, whether on a personal or societal level, because it is about tearing people down instead of lifting people up. Envy destroys not only others, but ourselves. The Talmud points out that envy rots the bones (Shabbat 152b). Envy also makes it difficult to enjoy life. To quote R. Joseph Telushkin in his book A Code of Jewish Ethics: Book 1 (p. 302), "Envy destroys our ability to enjoy what we already have; instead, our joy is diminished or entirely eliminated by the fact that others have more--perhaps only one thing more--than us." That would explain why Rabbi Elazar HaKappar said that envy is one of the things that removes us from this world (Pirke Avot 4:28)...or to quote President Theodore Roosevelt, "Comparison is the thief of joy."

Rabbi Telushkin hits on a major point about envy. It does not matter that those of us in the 21st century have more material wealth that our ancestors could dream of, whether that comes in the form of smartphones, refrigerators, indoor plumbing, computers, the dishwasher, the vacuum, or heating and air conditioning. If we focus on what others have and what we do not, if we continue to compare ourselves to others, we will always be miserable. 

So how do we reduce envy? After reading this article from Chabad on the topic, I concluded that of the Jewish sages, Ben Zoma, gave some sound advice in Pirke Avot on how to deal with envy (4:1). He asked and gave answers to the following four questions:

1. Who is wise? The one who learns from everyone. On the one hand, this does not directly address envy. On the other hand, learning from everyone implies a lot. Because this wisdom means that you are willing to learn, it means you do not know everything. While the Jewish definition of humility (or rather, a definition based on Jewish texts) differs a bit from how we commonly understand humility, it is still necessary to have that open-mindedness and ability to give other people space if we want to reduce envy. Also, learning gives us the ability to grow. As we will see later, focusing on your own personal growth and development reduces envy. 
2. Who is rich? The one who enjoys their lot. Yes, abject poverty is awful. The Midrash (Shemot Rabbah 31:14) says that if all the troubles were placed on one scale on poverty on the other, poverty outweighs them all. At the same time, I like how Ben Zoma turns the definition of richness on its head. Richness is not about the accumulation of material wealth, but about our perspective on what we have in life. This definition sounds a lot like what philosopher Frederich Nietzsche called amor fati, which is Latin for "love of one's fate." I can see a "love life" approach to be pollyannish or looking through the world with rose-colored glasses. The phrase in Hebrew for gratitude is הכרת הטוב, or literally "recognizing the good." We do not ignore the bad or set it aside. We also do not give into complacency because Judaism teaches that we can always better ourselves. But we do acknowledge and put emphasis on what blessings we do have. It's no wonder that a traditional Jewish practice is to say 100 blessings a day. This emphasis on recognizing what we do have and how fortunate we are does help with curtailing envy. 
3. Who is strong? The one who conquers their evil inclination. For one, this quote implies that you should focus less on others' shortcomings and focus on your own. Two, you do not have a strong sense of self or self-control if you are envious. Envy is a weakness. It means that you would rather keep up with the Joneses and be yanked around by others' expectations of you. Having that envy drives you means that you are, in Marcus Aurelius' words (Meditations 12:19), are dancing like a puppet. It also means that you are not addressing what is causing the feeling of envy, nor are you focusing on what you can do to strengthen your own personality or improve your quality of life. Creating a sense of equanimity and emotional resilience means that you have greater control over your life, as opposed to being jerked around by external events over which you have little to no control. 
4. Who is honored? The one who honors others. Another undesirable outcome of envy is that you are self-absorbed. Look, I'm not here to insult self-care. I actually find self-care to be important because if you are of sound body and mind, you are strong enough (see previous point) to be there for others. R. Jonathan Sacks once said that humility is not holding yourself low, but holding others high, which is a positive-sum approach. Bringing it back to the topic at hand, Rabbi Telushkin advises us that "Helping others achieve success, and feeling a sense of personal involvement in it, is one way to diminish feelings of envy." Going back to the first point in this list, the one about learning from others, I think we can both learn from others and honor others when we see other people as human beings instead of an opponent, as "other," an oppressor, or through a zero-sum lens. 

I think there are moments in which we can feel at least a bit jealous of what others have. It is part of the human condition to want a better quality of life. However, just because there is some sort of inequality does not mean we have to tear the other person down. If someone has something we do not, we can always ask what we can do to emulate the other person so we can also have it. The commandment of "do not covet" (לא תחמד) is in the active voice. Coveting goes beyond a brief longing for something we lack. It is a brooding, festering, and active perpetuation of the negative emotions that eventually lead to something worse. Not only does envy harm others, but it makes people cut off their noses in spite of their faces, and that is not a good look for anybody.

Teshuvah Is an Ongoing Process, and It Is Not Just for Yom Kippur

'Tis the Jewish season...for repentance, that is. We are currently in between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, which is known as Yamim Noraim (ימים נוראים). During these ten days, we are meant to reflect on the themes and motifs of the holidays while making amends for wrongs we committed in the past [year] by doing teshuvah (תשובה). Although teshuvah is commonly translated as "repentance," the word is related to the Hebrew verb לשוב, "to return." Teshuvah is more about returning to your good self. The teshuvah process for the High Holy Days reaches its climax during Yom Kippur. With regards to sins that are committed between man and G-d, they are forgiven, as is illustrated by Kol Nidre. As for sins committed between other people, the teshuvah process is meant to have taken place by the time Yom Kippur reaches its end, at which time, forgiveness is hopefully given because the individual who did the wrong has made amends.

This next bit is strictly from my personal observations, but it seems that after Yom Kippur ends, teshuvah is set aside. When I say "set aside," I don't mean that people aren't doing teshuvah during the rest of the year or that it never gets brought up again. After all, asking for teshuvah is in our daily prayers three times a day. On the other hand, it is one of many blessings and prayers recited in daily liturgy, and it can easily get lost among so many other motifs. In practice, there is a de-emphasis during the rest of the year to the point of "thank G-d I don't have to do this again until next Rosh Hashanah." I don't mean to say that we need to emphasize it year-round the way we do during the Yamim Noraim. At the same time, we have to remember that teshuvah is not reserved only for the Yamim Noraim, and I think as such for a few reasons beyond the daily liturgy.

At the Ne'ilah service during Yom Kippur, we are meant to gear up and shift our thoughts and actions towards the teshuvah that we were supposed to work on during Yamim Noraim. R. Israel Salanter even said that those who are really religious are those who start doing teshuvah during Ne'ilah instead of waiting until Yamim Noraim of the following year. This mentality helps us keep teshuvah at the forefront of our thoughts instead of being at the back-burner.

The idea of integrating teshuvah as a constant in our daily life is important. As Hillel said in Pirke Avot (1:13), he who does not increase [his Torah learning] decreases (ודלא מוסיף יסף). Although there are certain constants in life, the truth is that life is also in flux. You learn to adapt to the change or get stuck. You learn to improve or you will regress. There is no staying in one place. To quote Frida Kahlo, "nothing is absolute, everything changes, everything moves, everything revolutionizes, everything comes and goes." That is reality. As we develop our characteristic traits and our Torah learning, we have to keep teshuvah ever so in mind so we can grow. Growth and teshuvah go hand-in-hand. They also help shape our purpose. R. Yonah's commentary on Pirke Avot 1:13 is that one who feels no need to learn more is spiritually dead, and that the gift of life is wasted on that individual. Keeping teshuvah at the forefront is not just good ethical advice: it gives our life the fullest meaning possible.

There is another reason we need to keep teshuvah as part of our personal development, and that is the nature of the yetzer hara (יצר הרע), or the Evil Inclination. In Pirkei Avot 4:1, Ben Zoma says that a strong person is one who subdues his Evil Inclination (הכובש את יצרו). In Midrash Shmuel's commentary on Pirkei Avot 4:1, he reminds us of how the yetzer hara differs from an enemy of a physical war. One is that the yetzer hara can successfully pass itself off as your friend. The second is that physical war is about physical security, whereas the yetzer hara is a fight for your spiritual life. The third aspect, and the one that is most apropos to this conversation, is that in a physical war, once the enemy is vanquished, the enemy won't come back. That is not the case with the yetzer hara. Even if you manage to subdue or mitigate the yetzer hara at a certain time, that does not mean the yetzer hara cannot "come back from the dead." It can always make a reappearance. The idea of such relapse is regrettably all too familiar with those dealing with addiction, and that notion plays out in Jewish thought. Midrash Shmuel's comments imply that we need to be so alert about teshuvah that we need to be mindful of things that we might have thought were already resolved.

The process of teshuvah is not for the fainthearted because it makes us confront our ego and pushes us outside of our comfort zone. Teshuvah goes well beyond feeling bad for past actions or saying "I'm sorry." It is about making some major changes to our character traits, or at the very least, our behavior. As such, it requires constant reflection, introspection, and alterations to maintain a certain level of behavior. I believe that the story of Jonah and Nineveh is not read on Yom Kippur because it shows us an exemplar of teshuvah. Quite the opposite! If anything, the people of Nineveh managed to undo their teshuvah by the end of the Book of Jonah. My take on why the Book of Jonah is read on Yom Kippur is to remind us that even when we do teshuvah initially, we can always drop the ball and relapse later. The Book of Jonah reminds us how fragile our humanity can be, and how we need to be mindful of it for our teshuvah to have permanence. May our teshuvah be sincere and everlasting this Yom Kippur!

Parsha Re'eh: A Spiritual Life Lesson on Judaism's Prohibition of Mixing Meat and Dairy

Food plays such a major role in our lives. We eat three meals a day, not to mention food is a great way to bring people together. What we don't eat almost says as much as what we do eat. Some decide to cut out carbohydrates (Atkins). Others decide to cut out meat (vegetarian) or go as far as not eating animal products (vegan). Why people make these dietary decisions ranges from health to moral reasons. In this week's Torah portion, we come across a particular form of food to cut out of the Jewish diet:

לא תבשל גדי בחלב אמו.

Do not cook a kid (baby goat) in its mother's milk. -Deuteronomy 14:21

Although the verse itself only mentions a goat, the Rabbis interpreted this verse to prohibit cooking, eating, and benefiting from a mixture of meat and dairy (also see Exodus 23:19, 34:26). That means no chicken parmesan or no cheeseburgers. What lesson is G-d trying to teach us in this prohibition? Some believe that Jewish dietary laws fall under the category of חק (chok), that which does not have an explanation or reason to it. Much like Rambam (Maimonides), I don't believe that G-d created these laws without reason. I believe that Judaism provides us with the opportunity to elevate the mundane into the holy. I also believe that we are what we eat, a concept I detail while analyzing the Jewish prohibition on pork and the Jewish decree that fish need to have fins and scales in order to be consumed. This makes sense considering that earlier in Deuteronomy 14:21, G-d gives us these laws because "the Jews are a holy people."  Bringing it back to the initial question: what exactly about not mixing meat and dairy is holy? There are a few explanations in Jewish tradition:

1. A choice between life and death. Milk represents life, and meat represents death. Perhaps the purpose of tradition is teach us the importance of distinction and functionality in order that we a) are conscientious of what leads us towards life and towards death, and b) that we choose life so we may live (Deuteronomy 30:19). 
2. Against animal cruelty and human cruelty. R. Abraham ibn Izra said that mixing a kid with its mother's milk implies extreme barbarism. R. Abraham Joshua Heschel said that "How ungrateful and callous we would be to take the child of an animal to whom we are so indebted and cook it in the very milk which nourishes us and is given to us so freely by its mother." If we are supposed to consider animal cruelty as a part of our spiritual practice, we are a fortiori all the more obligated to make sure we are not cruel towards our fellow human beings.
3. The animalistic versus the spiritual side of life. R. Samson Hirsch takes the dichotomy between meat and dairy in a different direction. For R. Hirsch, meat represents the animal portion of life, i.e., reproduction and sexual activity. Milk is the nourishment that supports new life. While these are actions that are natural, we should learn to differentiate between our activities and makes sure they are channeled toward the service of G-d. R. Hirsch saw the prohibition on this mixture as an embodiment of Jewish holiness (R. Hirsch on Exodus 23:19).
4. Idolatry. In his text Guide for the Perplexed (III, xlviii), Rambam suggests that cooking a kid in its mother's milk was an idolatrous practice in the days of yore, hence the prohibition. The only flaw with this argument is that no such rite is known. 
5. Gluttony. The verses that refer to the prohibition of such a mixture use the goat as the example. I was thinking to myself, "What makes the goat special in this context?" I was reading in the Sonchino Chumash that goats are rich in milk. Taking that reality to the next level, the abundance of milk that the goat produced could be seen as a metaphor for gluttony (Rashbam). 

Although it might not seem probable, I can actually tie together these interpretations. I have brought up this point up before, but idolatry is when you take G-d out of the equation and worship something else. In the case of not mixing meat and dairy, the idolatry that this mixture is supposed to represent is gluttony. Gluttony is a form of worshiping the self, one's animalistic desires. This is not to say we should never take ourselves into consideration because there is room for self-care and worrying about oneself. At the same time, when it is only about the self and it is at the expense of other people (and as this passage teaches, at the expense of animals), we lose sight of our humanity, much like we saw with Sodom.

As human beings, we are so much more than unadulterated selfishness or a life of straight-up hedonism. What separates us from the animals is our ability to discern. We can choose between right and wrong. We can choose to be cruel or kind. We can choose to give into our most animalistic of urges or we can channel it towards something higher. The prohibition is more than some seemingly arbitrary dietary rule to make another facet of life more difficult. It is a reminder of a Jew's higher purpose. Judaism teaches us enjoy the pleasures of this world, but not overdoing it. This prohibition is a reminder to be kind instead of cruel. In short, a Jew's calling is to choose life. Amazing what spiritual lessons not eating a cheeseburger can teach!

Chanukah Gelt: The Significance of Giving Money on Chanukah

To quote Adam Sandler, "Chanukah is the Festival of Lights. Instead of one day of presents, we have eight crazy nights." In American culture, there is this pervasive myth that during Chanukah, Jewish children receive an awesome present each night. Giving Chanukah presents was not a practice until the late nineteenth century when Christmas became a federal holiday in the 1870s. The trend of exchanging Chanukah gifts did not really take off until the 1950s. The idea of Chanukah gift exchange is both modern and in response to Christmas so that Jews could better assimilate and not feel left out during the holiday season.

Before this Chanukah gift-giving extravaganza, there was a precursor: Chanukah gelt (חנוכה געלט). Chanukah gelt refers to money given to children on Chanukah. Looking at the history of the practice, giving money for Chanukah dates back to the sixteenth century. The practice itself came in a couple of variants. One was the Italian and Sephardic practice of money to purchase clothes for poor students studying Torah. In eastern Europe, it was either done to do outreach for Jews in more remote areas or to fundraise to keep yeshivas afloat. Another variant is that is a time to give tzedakah (charity). This is particularly the case when reading the Kitzur Shulchan Aruch (139:1), where it states that one is to give lots of tzedakah during Chanukah because the days of Chanukah are auspicious to correcting the flaws of the soul. What is it about Chanukah that allows for tzedakah to have such power? At least when looking at the time between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, giving tzedakah is supposed to avert the Divine decree (assuming you read Unataneh Tokef literally, which I don't). So what is the connection between money and Chanukah? Perhaps looking at explanations behind the practice could help:

1. In Hebrew, the word Chanukah (חנכה) has the same three-letter root as "education" (חינוך). After the Greeks were defeated, the Jews had to reeducate their people, especially the children. Providing education takes funding. Giving money is to remind ourselves that children are an investment in the future of the Jewish people (Sifsei Chaim). This would explain why younger individuals were the typical recipients of the original variants of Chanukah gelt. 
2. One of the major motifs of Chanukah is the cultural clash between the Greek hedonism and Jewish spirituality. With this motif in mind, the Greeks treated wealth more as an ends than anything else. In Judaism, we treat it as a means. We remind ourselves that with so many other things, we have the power to do good or evil with money. We have the choice as to whether to elevate something as seemingly mundane as money to something holier. By giving money on Chanukah, we illustrate what sort of good we can do when we give [money].   
3. The Talmud (Shabbat 22a) discusses a case where a poor person does not have enough money to buy Chanukah candles and Kiddush wine for Shabbat. The candles took precedence over Shabbat, interestingly enough. To make sure this hypothetical did not turn into reality, one is to give enough money to make sure all Jews have enough money for both (Magen Avraham). This argument falls short with regards to connecting money to Chanukah. The reason for that is that giving money to make sure there is enough to celebrate holidays is not unique to Chanukah. Plus, the practice of giving money on Chanukah started centuries after this Talmudic debate. 
4. R. Josh Flug suggests that after the war, the winners would distribute the loot to the soldiers and the poor. Giving gelt can be seen both as a commemoration of winning the war and helping those affected by the war.
5. After the war between the Maccabees and the Greeks, the Hasmonean dynasty minted coins in 142 BCE with an image of a menorah. This minting was meant to represent a high point of Jewish freedom in the Second Temple era.

How do we tie these ideas together to get a clear picture behind the meaning of giving money on Chanukah? In the Chanukah story, we are taught that the ancient Greeks were obsessed with aesthetics. It was a "thinking culture that appreciated beauty." The issue was not with beauty so much as it was the extent to which it was admired. Having the physical valued at that extreme resulted in hedonism.

When applied to the idea of money, that sort of thinking typically results in splurging on material items. The Lubavitcher Rebbe (Likutei Sichot) believed that when the Greeks came into the land of Israel, it was not an issue of taking the possessions so much as it was infusing their values with the possessions so the possessions could be used for egotistical and ungodly purposes.

Money is a medium of exchanging for goods and services. It is a vital part of an economy. With Judaism, it is not about amassing ridiculous amounts of wealth for its own sake. At the same time, a Jewish live does not mean living a monastic or aesthetic life. Money is a means to an end, and as these explanations show, we are to transcend ourselves by using that G-d-given free will to disperse that money.

When we interact with something such as pervasive as money, we have to ask ourselves what our potential is. We can use Chanukah money to help Torah scholars, children, or the poor. We can use the practice of giving Chanukah gelt as a means of making us more generous or more grateful people. Chanukah teaches a lot about potential and what it means to be the best version of ourselves. A ragtag team of soldiers took their potential and fought against a well-trained army against all odds. While G-d gave us potential by being "created in His Image," potential goes to waste if it is not acted upon. To paraphrase R. Jonathan Sacks, we will be remembered for how we give, not on how we spend or take. We have to be willing to put our money where our mouth is if we are to actualize our potential. The Maccabees lived their lives not just in dedication, but also in giving.

A few questions to ponder as you give Chanukah gelt this year: Do we want to live according to our values?  Does being free simply mean doing whatever you feel like or does it mean taking that free will and transcending oneself? Do we want to make an impact on the world by what we give? Ultimately, can we put our money where our mouth is so we can not just "talk the talk" but also "walk the walk?"

Why the Extra Ne'ilah Service on Yom Kippur?

Yom Kippur is not only a day of fasting, atonement, and introspection. It is a day for a whole lot of religious services. On normal days, there are Shacharit, Mincha, Ma'ariv. On Shabbat and the holidays, there is the extra Mussaf service. But with Yom Kippur, there is an extra service on top of Shabbat: Ne'ilah (נעילה). Literally meaning "locking," Ne'ilah comes at the end of Yom Kippur. Why do we need an extra service at the end? I know that there is not much to do on Yom Kippur aside from praying, but I would like think there is more to the Ne'ilah service than having us kill time at the end of services because "there's nothing better to do." So what is the significance of Ne'ilah?

For many traditional Jews, the Ne'ilah service is about having one last chance to repent for what one has done in the previous year. Through G-d's mercy do we get an extra opportunity to do teshuvah. A verse that makes its way into the Ne'ilah service is Isaiah 43:25, "I, just I, am He who wipes your transgressions. For my own sake, I will not remember." This notion is in alignment of the traditional understanding of the Hebrew word נעילה, which has referred to one of two things (Jerusalem Talmud, Berakhot 4:1).

One is that it refers to the locking or closing of the Heavenly Gates. That argument falls short since the Gate of Tears is never closed. The second closing could correspond to the closing of the Temple, but as R. Arthur Green brings up in Yom Kippur Readings, that correspondence is not impressive. It would be more accurate to say that what is closing is our hearts. The High Holy Day season takes a lot out of us emotionally. According to R. Green, Ne'ilah is that time where we realize that we move from supplication to making peace.

What we can glean from R. Green's interpretation is that Ne'ilah is not just about what we have done, but also about the potential we can achieve in the upcoming year. I think the forward-looking focus is another way of looking at this service for three reasons:

1. Going back to the Isaiah 43:25, the following verse (43:26) gives us some context. G-d is asking that we "reason together" (נשפטה יחד) in order that we may be justified (למען תצדק). According to this interpretation, G-d does not just want us to be penitent for our wrongs, but also ask how to make things right. Per these passages from Isaiah in the context of the Ne'ilah service, it is a reminder that G-d wants to forgive us. If G-d is capable of forgiving us, shouldn't we also be able to forgive ourselves? When we reach that stage, we can better move forward. 
2. R. Yisrael Salanter pointed out that most people do teshuvah on the High Holy Days, while the more pious do so on the month of Elul. R. Salanter went as far as saying that we should do teshuvah right after Ne'ilah services are over. R. Salanter's main point was that teshuvah is a year-round endeavor. To take R. Salanter's words a step further, Ne'ilah is supposed to be that extra push that gets us going in moving forward for the upcoming year. 
3. In each of the Yom Kippur services is a Viduy (וידוי), a confession. In the Ne'ilah service, we read through the Ashamnu. However, unlike the other services, the Ne'ilah Viduy does not have an "Al Chet," the longer confession within the Viduy that mentions specific sins. The "Al Chet" is replaced with two new paragraphs: "Atah noten (אתה נותן)" and "Atah hidalvta (אתה הבדלת)." Within these two paragraphs, the only specific sin mentioned is theft. My rabbi, R. Shmuel Herzfeld, mentions this in his book Food for the Spirit. Why, according to my rabbi, is theft the only specific sin mentioned? As R. Joseph Soloveitchik explained, every sin we commit is really a sort of theft against G-d. When we err, we violate our purpose on earth. R. Herzfeld expounds upon this by saying that when we steal from G-d, we have lost our focus and forgot why we are here. We read this passage to remind us about our responsibility in this world and what we are meant to do (Herzfeld, p. 92). Reciting this towards the end of Ne'ilah is meant to bring our focus on what is to come. 

The Ne'ilah service is important because it is that segue between the High Holidays period and the New Year. It is what connects our past to our future. Yes, we are meant to look back and make up for our shortcomings. However, looking back only does so much good if we do not take it in the context of looking forward. Amend for past mistakes to be sure, but also learn from those mistakes to propel yourself forward. As R. Jonathan Sacks brings up in his Yom Kippur machzor, Ne'ilah is not about asking "Are you perfect?" but "Can you grow?" That is what Ne'ilah is about: take that lesson and be the best version of you that you can be!

Parsha Bechukotai: Our Homes as a Sanctuary for Holiness

Some think that to find holiness, you have to venture halfway across the world to a monastery to seek solitude or some other holy site to feel inspired. For others, going to a house of worship is what gets the spiritual juices flowing. This week's Torah portion suggests something different:

יאיש כי יקדש את ביתו קדש להי והעריכו הכהן בין טוב ובין רע.

-When a man consecrates his house to be holy unto G-d, the priest will valuate it, whether it be good or bad. - Leviticus 27:14

What we observe here is an ancient practice of valuation for someone who wants to donate their property to the sanctuary as a form of thanks. The priest (Kohen) would come by to inspect the house and conduct an assessment. If the owner of the property wants his property back, not only does the property owner have to pay the amount for which it was assessed, but they have to add an extra twenty percent to the price (Leviticus 27:15). With the sacrificial system no longer in place and a non-existent Third Temple, this verse seems to be irrelevant to anything in modern times.

The Kotzker Rebbe thought differently, and viewed the passage more homiletically. For the Kotzker Rebbe, the true sign of one's holiness is not found in the holiest of synagogues because it's easy for someone to pursue holiness in a sanctified setting. Based on this passage, the Kotzker Rebbe commented that "true holiness sanctifies the seemingly mundane activities of running a household. One who behaves in an elevate manner in one's own house is truly a holy person." There are a few takeaways from the Kotzker Rebbe's homily.

1. True spirituality is found in our daily lives in the most seemingly mundane of places.
2. The home is meant to be a true center of spirituality and holiness. It is the place we keep a kosher kitchen and take something as mundane as food and elevate it to holiness. The Jewish home is the place where we have guests over, have Shabbat and holiday meals, and fulfill the mitzvah of hospitality. As Pirkei Avot brings up (1:4-5), it is the place open for Torah scholars, i.e., the Jewish home is a center of Torah study and good deeds to help others in need. The home acts as a fulcrum for many mitzvahs and Jewish events. 
3. The home tends to be a more private place than the synagogue or the work office. It is easier for anger, impatience, sloth, or other shortcomings to be concealed in the home. By being able to improve upon one's shortcomings in a place where it is easy to hide one's flaws is all the more praiseworthy.
4. We've heard the phrase "My house, my rules." The house is meant to be one's dominion. It is easy to let the sense of ego and entitlement that comes with that territorial dominion come into play. There is a good parable from R. Salanter regarding this idea. R. Salanter was on tour, and went to someone's home for Shabbat. The host berated his wife for not covering the challah. The wife was embarrassed and ran to the kitchen. R. Salanter then asked the host, "Do you know why we cover the challah?" The host said that we cover the challah so they are spared the "embarrassment" of having the ritual attention be focused on the wine first. After that explanation, R. Salanter gave him grief because the host was more concerned with the metaphorical feelings of two loaves of bread (which are inanimate) instead of the actual feelings of his wife. If it weren't for the fact that the man went to the kitchen to beg his wife for forgiveness, R. Salanter would have left the house. The moral is that while the house can give us a sense of entitlement or ego, we should remind ourselves that our domain does not exempt us from good character. 
5. The Kotzker Rebbe brings up how it is seemingly mundane activities that are the holy ones. If that is true for getting ready for Shabbat dinner or cooking kosher food, all the more it is for something as mundane as vacuuming, doing the laundry, or making the bed. 

The house is a reflection of our holiness. It is a particular test because how we behave in our homes opens us up to certain vulnerabilities that do not exist when we are at work or at shul (synagogue). The Kotzker Rebbe not only reminds us that holiness is to be pursued in all facets of our life, but also that true holiness is to be found where we least expect it: in our homes. 

Parsha Ki Tisa: The Half-Shekel, Purim, and a Lesson on Giving

Purim is a Jewish festival of joy. Jews dress up in costumes, read from the Megillah, and enjoy the festivities. There is a somewhat peculiar custom for the holiday of Purim. On the night of Purim, one is supposed to give three half-shekels (מחצית בשקל). While the practice of giving three half-shekels on Purim dates back to Moses Isserles (the Rama), the practice is derived from the Torah. This Purim custom acts as a commemoration to recall when the Israelites donated three half-shekels to the Temple treasury during the Jewish month of Adar. As a matter of fact, the practice comes from this week's Torah portion:

G-d spoke to Moses, saying: When you take a census of the Israelite people according to their enrollment, each shall pay G-d a ransom for himself on being enrolled, that no plague may come upon them through their being enrolled. This is that everyone who is entered in the records shall pay: a half-shekel as an offering to G-d. Everyone who is entered in the records, from the age of twenty years up, shall give G-d's offering: the rich shall not pay more and the poor shall not pay less than half a shekel when given G-d's offering as an expiation for your persons. You shall take the expiation money from the Israelites and assign it to the service of the Tent of Meeting; it shall serve the Israelites as a reminder before G-d, as expiation for your persons. -Exodus 30:11-16

The fact that the word for offering (תרומת) appears three times in this passage is why we give three half-shekels. But it brings up an interesting question: why pay in half-shekels? Why not a whole shekel? A few explanations:

• Perhaps it is because we are supposed to "put in half" while G-d "puts in the other half." This is to represent that personal effort (השתדלות) and trust [in G-d] (ביטחון). It means that we cannot simply wait for G-d to solve everything, but that we need to take action. This is very apropos for the Purim considering that G-d is not mentioned at all in the Purim story, and is traditionally considered to be hidden throughout the Book of Esther.
• In Exodus 30:12, the verse says "when you take a census." Going off the Midrash (Midrash Psalms 91:1), Rashi took that to mean that G-d showed Moses a coin of fire. The message is that both fire and the shekel can be beneficial or destructive, depending on its use (Noam Elimelech). The R. Mendel of Kotzk interprets the Midrash as that if one is to seek atonement by giving funds to charity, that deed should be done with a fire, i.e., a burning passion for serving G-d. 
• Exodus 30:13 says that each Israelite shall pay G-d a "ransom for himself." The fact that R. Benno Jacob see this offering of the half-shekel as the anticipatory shedding of blood in battle, the offering of the half-shekel is teaching us that life is a gift and that we should be happy to be alive. Tobiah ben Eliezer (the Lekach Tov) said that because we don't have a Temple anymore, we show this gratitude for being alive by giving to the poor.
• On the one hand, we cannot do it by ourselves. We are not meant to live in isolation (Artscroll), and the fact that the half-shekel represents a lack of wholeness drives that idea home. On the other hand, we have a unique contribution to make. Without our contribution, service to G-d is incomplete. The fact that everyone, regardless of socioeconomic status, shows that we all have a contribution to make, whether it was the Israelites to the Temple or what we have to contribute the world as a whole. 

To tie these interpretations together, whether it is our words, thoughts, and deeds, we can serve both G-d and our fellow human beings by giving. We don't sit on the sidelines and let G-d do it. We are meant to contribute, and are reminded that what we all have to contribute to the greater goal is important. Much like the Midrash teaches, we are meant to perform that giving with that fire to help out others. Purim is the season of giving that reminds us that joy is in giving. May our contributions to this world be given with a fiery passion!

Parsha Tetzaveh: Holy Golden Headband, Batman!

"Clothing makes the man."We certainly see that in this week's Torah portion, Tetzaveh (Exodus 27:20-30:10). For over 40 verses in this week's Torah portion, the Torah obsesses over every last detail of what the priests (Kohanim) wear. At first glance, this seems like trivialities, all the more so now that we do not even have a Temple service in with the Kohen dresses up in the priestly uniform. Even with a lack of the Temple, I would like to think that because the Torah is an eternal text, the description of the priestly clothing can be relevant to us. I think this is especially true when considering what the Kohen  had to wear on his head:

יעשית ציץ זהר טהור. ופיתחת עליו פתוחי חתם קדש להי.

-And you shall make a frontlet (headband) and engrave upon it "Holy to G-d." -Exodus 28:36

What about this headband is so special, and why does the Kohen have to engrave that specific phrase on it?

The Talmud (Arachin 16a) points out the juxtaposition between the priestly garments and the animal sacrifices. This juxtaposition is supposed to represent the atonement brought by the sacrifices and the priest. The Talmud elaborates upon each article of clothing further, and says that the frontlet is supposed to atone for brazenness. 

Since the Kohen was acting as a liaison between G-d and the people of Israel, particularly when it came to atonement, I think the sin of brazenness applies to all the people of Israel, even the Kohen Gadol (High Priest). That might sound sacrilegious when first hearing it. After all, the High Priest has a lofty duty. Surely, he wouldn't screw up. But let's think for a second. It's not as if the Kohanim were unaware of their vocation. The Kohanim knew they were the priestly class that served G-d. Then why require a headband that says "Holy to G-d." Doesn't that seem unnecessary given what they already know? At best, it seems redundant or superfluous. 

Yet it is precisely because of the nature of the Kohen's profession that the headband was necessary. One is supposed to wear tzitzit (fringes) to remind them not to sin (Numbers 15:38). Seeing the tzitzit is supposed to influence our behavior (Talmud, Menachot 44a). Even a King is supposed to carry two Torah scrolls to remind him of the power he wields. Tying the tzitzit and the King's commandment to carry two Torah scrolls together, what we see if that the Kohanim are held to similarly high standards, at least in part because power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.   

According to R. Raphael S. Hirsch, the gold of the priestly garments represents the purity of heart. Purity means 100 percent--no abnormalities or contamination. To do his job, he needs to be of pure mind and pure heart, which is ironic considering it needs its own brand of brazenness and impudence. The priest, like the rest of us, is all too human. Even with the loftiness, there still needs to be that external reminder of his mission: to be "holy to G-d." Given the power that the priest has and the standards for the priestly vocation, the extra reminder provided by the golden headband is all the more relevant. 

What does that mean for Jews in the twenty-first century? As former British Chief Rabbi Joseph Hertz points out, the golden headband is supposed to crystallize the aim and purpose of the priest's service. Much like the priests in past times, we need to provide ourselves many external reminders: tzitzit, tefillin, mezuzah, the list goes on. The Jewish people are meant to be a priestly nation (Exodus 19:6). This goes back to the idea of the Jews being a chosen people and what that really means. Being chosen doesn't mean being superior, but rather having additional responsibilities. Jews are supposed to do mitzvahs, study Torah, pray, do acts of loving-kindness, all of which bring about many directives and expectations. The goal of the Jewish people is to be a light unto nations (אור לגויים). The golden headband reminds us that even if our purpose seems clear as day to us, we still need all the constant and blatant reminders of our mission on G-d's green earth than we can get. 

Parsha Mishpatim: A Jewish Obligation to Help the Stranger, the Refugee, and the Immigrant

It is a rare occasion when I mix Torah and politics, but this is one of those times. Donald Trump has only been President of the United States for about a month, and he has already gone for a refugee ban, a wall on the U.S.-Mexican border, and expanding the pool for those who qualify for deportation. Needless to say, it has not been a stance that has been friendly towards immigrants, refugees, or other foreigners who come on American soil. I hope Trump changes his stance, but until he does, I have to ask: What does the Torah have to say about refugees and the downtrodden? How is a Jew supposed to respond? What is the Jewish perspective that is most based in the sources? This week's Torah portion gives us some insight to that question:

וגר לא תונה ולא תלחצנו כי גרים הייתם בארץ מצרים.

And a stranger you shall neither wrong nor oppress because you were strangers in the land of Egypt. -Exodus 22:20

The Hebrew word גר (ger) came to mean "convert" in later rabbinical texts. I don't deny the ability for words to change meaning or take on new meaning, but the word ger in this context is "stranger" (also see Genesis 15:13; Genesis 23:4; Exodus 2:22). The subordinate clause of "because you were strangers in the land of Egypt" makes more sense when the word גר refers to a stranger rather than a convert.

Let's talk about those strangers for a bit. The Hebrew Bible mentions two types of strangers: the alien (גר) and the resident alien (גר תושב; ger toshav). The Hebrew word ger comes from the Hebrew word "to sojourn" (also spelled גר). The word toshav (תושב) means "to reside," which helps us distinguish between the two. We have a similar distinction in secular law, where the resident alien has a more permanent status of residency, such as a green card. Jewish law has a similar view. The ger is one who stays on a more temporary basis. The resident alien had a more permanent status in biblical-era Israelite society. Depending on your view, the resident alien either rejects idolatry or takes on the seven Noahide laws as binding (Avodah Zarah, 64b). When looking at Exodus 22:20, we are not talking about a resident alien specifically, but generally someone who is a stranger. A few interesting things when looking at the passage:

• In Exodus 22:20, it gives us two negative commandments about what not to do to a stranger. The first is to not wrong them [לא תונה], which Rashi takes as "don't annoy them about their status." The second is to not oppress them [לא תלחצנו], whether that is in the form of not robbing the stranger (Rashi) or putting the stranger into forced labor (Rashbam). The verse makes the point to not take advantage of the stranger in their vulnerable position.
• The reason that we are not supposed to wrong or oppress the stranger is equally interesting: "because we strangers in the land of Egypt [כי גרים הייתם בארץ מצרים]." What does this mean? Rashi says if someone vexes you about being a stranger, you can retort by saying that "you too came from strangers." Ramban said that because you were once weak and helpless in Egypt, you cannot oppress the weak without impunity, i.e., G-d hears the cry of the stranger and will exact punishment accordingly. 
• The common thread is that what the Jew experienced in the land of Egypt was being a stranger, being considered  completely "other." The stigma and marginalization of being considered a stranger did not only lead to physical abuse, but emotional and psychological abuse. 
• In Exodus 22:22, it says that afflicting the stranger [or any one else in society who is disenfranchised] leads to G-d's anger and wrath. Even more interesting about this verse is that it switches from "you" in the singular to the plural, meaning that if a community treats the stranger poorly, it leads to the whole community suffering punishment (Abraham ben Izra).

Let's go beyond this specific passage and look at it more broadly. When realizing the importance of how we treat the stranger in our midst, we have to remember that it not mentioned just once. The Talmud (Baba Metzia 59a) says that how we treat the stranger is mentioned in the Torah 36 times! The Torah is a concise text, so it doesn't repeat itself unless the message is important.

But wait, does this mean we have total disregard for national security? No. The land of Israel, even the biblical version, had borders that were protected. If our physical or financial security is at risk, we are not to endanger ourselves (Shulchan Aruch, Chosen Mishpat, 156:7). Ensuring secure borders is the national version of the Jewish concept of pikuach nefesh (saving a life), which is to say that we do not capriciously put our lives at risk. When looking at the case with refugees, and less so with undocumented workers, we are not carelessly putting our lives at risk, so these considerations do not apply in our current situation.

Unless there is some sort of excessive burden, we are not meant to turn away from the stranger. Quite the contrary! As R. Ismar Schorsch put it, "the bitter taste of slavery honed Israel's moral sense." Whether we are talking about a stranger, permanent resident, convert, or refugee, the underlining ethical imperative is the same. We are not to inflict that suffering unto others. We are not to stand idly by while it happens. More importantly, we are commanded to love the stranger (Leviticus 19:33-34; Deuteronomy 10:19), which is no easy task. It's difficult enough to love your neighbor. Being close to your neighbor in proximity means that you at least have an opportunity to get to know your neighbor. It makes more sense to be kind to a member of your in-group. It helps explain why the Torah mentions 36 times how to treat the stranger: it's more difficult, but still necessary. The stranger is more of an outsider, yet we are meant to love the stranger. Why? Because we know the heart of a stranger (Exodus 23:9), and thus identify with the experience of being a stranger, of being vulnerable, of having no recourse. Also, because G-d loves the stranger, we are to love the stranger as an act of imitatio Dei (Abraham ben Ezra on Deuteronomy 10:19).

No, I haven't suddenly become a liberal or a Social Justice Warrior. While I still identify as libertarian and can see certain libertarian aspects in Judaism, I realize that Torah is neither liberal nor conservative. After all, G-d being Transcendent Oneness means that He also transcends politics, which means the Torah also transcends political ideologies. This is not about where I lie on the political spectrum. As a Jew looking at the traditional sources, I can't help but react in such a manner. Jews have been physically tormented, psychologically abused, ostracized, stigmatized, and murdered because they were strangers. Jews have been treated as less than human beings with basic dignity stripped away. That is what happens to strangers when power is left unchecked or not held to a higher standard. Whether it was being in the land of Egypt, the Crusades, the Spanish Inquisition, pogroms, or the Holocaust, the Jewish people have a profound understanding of what being treated like a stranger feels like. How strangers and refugees are treated is decidedly a Jewish issue. The Jew has been and is the archetypical stranger, and as such, should stand up for other strangers.

Not only are Jews acutely aware of what being a stranger feels like (Ramban), but we are not to inflict that on others in part because Judaism is not about "might is right" (Abraham ben Izra on Exodus 22:20). How we treat the least powerful and most vulnerable is a great reflection of how we have internalized Jewish values. That idea goes all the way back to the first Jew: Abraham. He treated wayward strangers with the utmost respect. The Talmud (Beitzah 32b) goes as far to say that if a Jew is not compassionate, that individual could not possibly be a descendant of Abraham. If you contrast that to Sodom, Sodom treated outsiders and immigrants with enough discontent where helping the outsider was punishable under the laws of Sodom. What made a Sodomite despicable was not men sleeping with other men, but rather maltreatment of the poor and needy (Ezekiel 16:49).

While the enslavement of the Israelites as told in the Torah was centuries ago, we are still meant to remember that experience of what it was to be a stranger so we don't let history repeat itself. It is so that when all is said and done, we can remind ourselves that the stranger is not some outsider, but that we are all human beings created in G-d's Image and to be treated as such.