Two Years and Home Again: Hostages, Grief, Gratitude, and the Torah’s Timeless Rhythm

October 7, 2023, is a day that will live in infamy in the Jewish world. It was the day that Hamas terrorists came into Israel to kidnap, torture, rape, and murder civilians. Not only were around 1,200 souls taken that day, but over 200 hostages were also kidnapped by Hamas. This was the worst pogrom carried out against the Jewish people since the Holocaust. A few weeks later, the Israeli Defense Forces entered Gaza to fight a war that has been going on for about two years. This past Monday, the remaining hostages captured in 2023 were released. Jews across the world celebrated this day of liberation from captivity. 

What is interesting is that on the Jewish calendar (as opposed to the Gregorian calendar), it was two years between the October 7 attack and the release of the hostages. The pogrom began on the Jewish holiday of Simchat Torah in 2023 and the hostages were sent home shortly before Shemini Artzeret began in 2025, thereby marking the completion of two years. When I went to one of the local Chabad houses in Buenos Aires to celebrate Shemini Artzeret, the Chabad rabbi explained the symbolism of two years in the Torah:

• Two years after the Flood, Noah's grandson, Arpachshad, was born (Genesis 11:10).
• Joseph was thrown into prison and was released two years later (Genesis 41:1).
• When Joseph's brothers were starving because of the famine, it was two years after the famine began that they came to Egypt asking for food (Genesis 45:6).

The Torah understands a rhythm that appears in life all too many times. There is the grief, the waiting, and then the redemption. Paradoxically, these moments of pain are not meant to be mere delays or wallowing in agony. They can become places of spiritual transformation, not by denying the suffering, but deepening our capacity for hope and meaning.

Yes, there is more to celebrate this Simchat Torah than there was last Simchat Torah because the hostages have been released. This is not to say that all is well. Those released from captivity have a long road ahead in terms of healing from the hell that Hamas put them through. There is also the grieving for those who did not survive the ordeal. There are many Jews who did not undergo the hostage situation or fight in the war, but nevertheless feel collective trauma on some level. And that does not even account for the spike in antisemitism worldwide as a result of what has transpired in the Middle East. How can we celebrate when there is still healing that needs to be done and things need to improve? 

We pray for rain on Shemini Artzeret through the Tefilat Geshem (תפלת גשם), but we do not wait for the rain to arrive before celebrating. Renewal begins before things are healed or whole. We move forward and celebrate in spite of the imperfect situation, in no small part because grief and joy are complex, nonlinear processes. This tension between joy and sorry in Jewish tradition is something I explained last year for Passover.

The Jewish wedding is one of the happiest life cycle events. At the same time, we break a glass to commemorate the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. Although the kiddush during Passover represents joy, we also remove a few drops of wine to mourn the loss of the Egyptians having to die during the Ten Plagues. We break the matzah at the beginning of the Passover seder to represent poverty and scarcity. At the end, we find the hidden piece of matzah, the afikomen, that represents redemption. Simchat Torah follows a similar dynamic. It symbolizes renewal because it marks both an end and a beginning. We finish the Torah cycle by reading about Moses' death and we start again by reading about the creation of the universe. We do not wait for everything to be perfect. 

I think an answer is a matter of a paradigm shift, particularly through gratitude. The phrase in Hebrew for gratitude is Hakarat HaTov (הכרת הטוב), which means to recognize the good. We are not meant to ignore the calamity that has befallen the Jewish people as a result of the October 7 attacks. This is about how to focus on appreciation for what we do have and the good that exists in spite of the pain, suffering, injustice, and unfairness that is part of this world. We do not erase the grief, but neither do we allow sorrow to have the final say. 

While changing perspective is important, it is not the final step. In the Passover seder, Jews are to taste bitters herbs not only to experience what the Israelites felt during the Exodus, but also to remind us that bitterness is inevitable in life. Conversely, the sweet mix known as charoset is optional. This teaches us that while bitterness is unavoidable, whether we add sweetness by translating mindset into action is up to us. That is where dancing on Simchat Torah comes into play because it is metaphor for turning a positive attitude into positive action, much like I explained with dipping apples into honey on Rosh Hashanah. 

Dancing on Simchat Torah is not a betrayal of the mourning process, but an act of resilience so quintessentially Jewish to remind us that we do so while carrying joy and grief together. It is an act to make life sweeter. We are meant to be greater than the sum of our pain, hurt, trauma, setbacks, and grief. This dancing reminds us that holiness exists in brokenness and that we are not meant to despair. We do not dance because everything is perfect or resolved. This Simchat Torah, we dance because something has shifted. We have seen a sliver of redemption, something that symbolizes a shift. We dance to honor the memory of those lost. We dance to express gratitude. We celebrate by dancing because what Jews do in the face of adversity is turn mourning into movement, pain into purpose, and suffering into song. In that celebration, we develop a mature sense of joy that reflects the multifaceted nature of life. 

What's Behind the Custom of Jews Wearing Costumes on Purim?

Tonight starts the Jewish holiday of Purim. I admit that Purim is one of my least favorite holidays. I am especially not a fan of the wearing costumes portion of Purim. I have never worn a costume for Purim. Although Purim is different from Halloween, it has enough overlap that it has a Halloween-esque vibe. That is what makes writing this blog entry ironic.  I am not the costume-wearing type, yet I am curious to see if I can find deeper meaning to the practice. 

Hiddenness. The idea of being hidden is a major motif in Purim. Not once is G-d's name mentioned in the Book of Esther. It is commonly understood in Jewish tradition that G-d performed His miracles in a hidden fashion, as opposed to a combination of coincidences and good timing. Esther also conceals her Jewish identity. Much like G-d hides Himself in the Purim story, we use costumes as a method to hide ourselves while celebrating the salvation of the Jewish people.  

Minimizing shame. One of the four mitzvahs on Purim is to give money or food to at least two needy people. On this day, Jews do not scrutinize almsgiving. Jews simply give, no questions asked (Talmud, Bava Metziah, 78b). Since poor people did not want to be known as paupers, the custom arose for them to wear masks to hide their identity and preserve their dignity (Lubavitcher Rebbe). 

Inevitability of non-Jewish influences. I have met Jews who think that for centuries, Judaism has existed inside in a vacuum. Nothing could be further from the truth. Jews have interacted with non-Jews and incorporated various aspects of non-Jewish life. The Jewish concept of the afterlife (Ha'Olam HaBa) was likely a result of from Zoroastrian or Hellenistic influences, whereas the Jewish concept of reincarnation were likely influenced by non-Jewish religions. The Chanukah practices of the dreidel, latkes, gift-giving, and the song Maoz Tzur all had non-Jewish influences. The post-Passover practice of making a challah in the shape of a key mimics a Christian practice. 

Costumes on Purim is no exception. Masquerades date back to the Roman era. The practice of wearing costumes during Carnival started in the 12th century. In contrast, the practice of wearing costumes on Purim was not first explicitly mentioned until two centuries later (i.e., until the early 14th century) by Rabbi Kalonymus ben Kalonymus. It also came with some opposition, either because it could violate the Torah prohibition of cross-dressing or because the costumes could be viewed as a form of debauchery that could lead to frivolity. In spite of the opposition, it ended being a widely accepted practice. Rather than look down on this piece of history, Jews should embrace the value of integration, which in this case means interacting with non-Jews (and even taking certain aspects of non-Jewish life) while still maintaining a distinct Jewish identity. 

Rags to riches. At the beginning of the story, Mordechai was fasting and was wearing a sackcloth (Esther 1:4). At the end, Mordechai is dressed in a king's robe (Esther 6:7-11) and took Haman's position (Esther 10:3). Queen Vashti was obsessed with beauty and good looks (Esther 1:11). In contrast, Mordechai shows that our character and having righteousness prevailing over evil is more important than external appearances. The costumes remind us that appearances are deceptive and that true meaning is often hidden below the surface. 

Embracing the topsy-turvy nature of life. There is a phrase in the Purim story that captures this concept well: ונהפוך הוא, or "and it was turned upside-down" (Esther 9:1). It seemed as if the Jews were going to be wiped out (Esther 3:13), but it was the Jews' enemies that were (Esther 9:1-2). Haman tried to hang Moredechai, but it was Haman that ended up being hung at the gallows (Esther 7:10). What was meant to be a day of destruction ended up being a day of redemption. As philosopher Albert Camus would point out, the world is an absurd one that often cannot be readily or easily explained. Wearing costumes could be seen as an embrace of the absurdity that is life, or at the very least, that life comes with unpredictability and elements of surprise that no one could see coming. 

An act of liberation. Much like the Esther story has multiple turnarounds, wearing costumes allows Jews to be someone different and subvert what is expected for a day, especially since costumes are an individual expression of creativity. To quote author Emuna Braverman, "We spend our lives very defended, working so hard not to be vulnerable.....Somehow, wearing a costume frees us. We are no longer our everyday selves bound by those self-imposed everyday rules. We are someone different , someone who is open to life, to the gifts and challenges the Almighty sends us, to seeing the good in them, to recognizing it's all a gift."

Why the Jewish Symbolism Surrounding Bread?: A Look at the Hamotzi Blessing

I was recently doing a chevruta study session with a dear friend of mine. We have been studying a 13th-century Jewish text called Sefer HaYirah (ספר היראה). Although the word yirah is commonly translated as fear, I would argue that awe and wonder better encapsulate the word. That tangent set aside, one of the passages we were studying had to do with saying a blessing over the bread:

וירך על מלחם המוציא. ויתן ריוח בין תיבה לתיבה.

Now he says the [Jewish] blessing of hamotzi over the bread, but he must leave an interval between each and every letter.

That is quite the intentionality! When reading that, I had to ask myself why does Judaism put so much emphasis on bread? On Shabbat, there are two loaves of challah bread. During Rosh Hashanah, there is the round challah. For Passover, there is the unleavened bread of matzah. The Hebrew word for "bread" (לחם) appears in the Torah over 300 times. And bread is filled with carbohydrates, the most effective form of energy for humans. Most notably, it makes it on the top of the hierarchy for food blessings in Judaism. Why is that out of all the foods on the planet, Judaism values bread above all else? 

Before answering that question, I think there is something peculiar about the hamotzi blessing itself:

ברוך אתה הי המוציא לחם מן הארץ

Blessed are you, oh G-d, ruler of the universe, who brings forth bread from the universe. 

The blessing is weird at first glance because G-d does not bring forth bread in the literal sense. It is not like people plant seeds and out pops loaves of bread. It is a grain that is grown, such as wheat, that is eventually processed into bread. So why is the blessing framed in such an awkward fashion?

In the Talmud (Berachot 58a), the Rabbis talk about how much man had to toil to make bread, whether it was the plowing, the sowing, the reaping, the sheaving, the threshing, winnowing, sifting...you get the idea. Making bread is a lot of work and certainly was quite the task back when these blessings were crafted. As my friend independently realized, there is a lot of work that gets involved. And as I brought up in a previous blog entry, the multiple steps in the supply chain provide multiple opportunities for us to be grateful and wonder at how such a complex process exists at all.

Even more interesting is how the language is Psalm 104:14 is almost identical to the ones in the hamotzi blessing, i.e., להוציא לחם מן הארץ. The blessing does not merely act as a tribute to G-d. It is an acknowledgement of a partnership. We both recognize the work that we put in to turn the wheat into bread, as well as wheat being able to be transformed into bread comes from G-d, the Ultimate Source of the Universe. A tangential lesson is that we are meant to work hard for our sustenance, but the overall trajectory is ultimately in G-d's hands. There are things we can do to improve our lot, but ultimately, the outcome is out of our hands. Dichotomy of control in a nutshell. 

Another interesting concept related to the blessing, which comes from Tiferes Yisrael, is that hamotzi makes reference to the entire Earth (הארץ), whereas the blessings for vegetables only reference the soil on the surface on the Earth (האדמה).  This actually is an extension of how much effort goes into making bread. We are not meant to get at the surface level. We are meant to dig deep and understand so we can nourish ourselves at the greatest depths of our souls. 

The Torah (Deuteronomy 8:3) teaches "For not on bread alone will man live, but upon that which issues from G-d's mouth." Yes, the Torah acknowledges being fed because poverty is terrible both materially and spiritually. Lurianic mystical tradition teaches that this Torah verse is about releasing the spiritual potential within the physical act. The task set before a Jew is how to transform a physical, otherwise mundane act and elevate it into a higher purpose. 

While it sounds daunting, it is not as arduous as it may seem. In contrast to manna, which in Hebrew is referred to as "bread of the Heavens," the bread over which we say a blessing is of the earth, something that is close and accessible. We do not need an intermediary or twenty years studying to become close to G-d or gain access to a spiritual life. It is close by. By reciting hamotzi, we can put minds and spiritual paths on a course previously unimaginable. 

Why Do Jews Traditionally Perform a Ritual Immersion for Kitchen Dishes?

This past Monday, I had a day off work for Veterans Day. What did I do for my day off? I went to the mikveh, a bath used for ritual immersion in Judaism. Normally, the mikveh is used for immersing people, whether for such moments as marriage, Yom Kippur, conversion, or in the case of a woman, having completed a menstrual cycle [also known as a niddah]. The thing is that the mikveh is not only used for immersing people. 

This past Monday, I did not go to immerse myself. I went to immerse my new dishes in a process called tevilat keilim (טבילת כלים; alternatively, toiveling). Although I had some Jewish friends hand down dishes to me, I had not bought new dishes for myself in over a decade. Before and after the immersion, I had been asking myself why Jews ritually immerse dishes. The most basic explanation is that the practice of tevilat keilim is based on Numbers 31:22-23:  

"Whether it be the gold, and the silver, the brass, the iron, the tin, and the lead, everything that may abide the fire, you shall make to go through the fire, and it shall be clean. Nevertheless, it shall be purified with the water of sprinklings. And whatever is not used in fire, you shall pass through water."

This ritual purification in the Book of Numbers took place after the Israelites defeated the Midianites in battle. This incident took place in the context of having acquired dishes from a particularly idolatrous people. As such, I could argue that such ritual immersion is no longer applicable in our time, much like the Conservative Movement had done in its responsum. There is that part of me that felt that it was too demanding, cumbersome, irrational, or the notion that ritual purity is out of touch with a modern understanding of the world. There is another part of me that took joy in the practice, which is why I would like to explore a few reasons why tevilat keilim can till have spiritual meaning for Jewish practice in the 21st century.

• Spiritual purification. R. Samson Raphel Hirsch brought up a reason why the Torah mandated the immersion specifically for metal utensils. Animals are incapable of producing metal objects. But both animals and men can and do eat. For Hirsch, metal utensils represented the intellectual and spiritual side of man, whereas eating represented the primal, physical side of man. It is not enough to simply use kitchen utensils. Immersing the utensils is supposed to act as a reminder of how we elevate our everyday, mundane activities by using our intellectual and spiritual sides. It is an integration of making the physical a manifestation of holiness. 
• Renewal. Much like when a person goes through immersion in the mikveh, a kitchen utensil goes through a symbolic transformation. It is not that the object was prima facie impure. It needed to be re-contextualized and re-calibrated into a life of holiness. And if we are able to renew and transform something as seemingly mundane as kitchen objects, then we should be able to a fortiori renew ourselves and start anew. 
• Aspirations in Life. Technically speaking, food in a non-toiveled dish is still kosher. Yet we are supposed to immerse the dishes. The metaphor here is that we are meant to aim high and do our best in our spiritual lives. Spirituality is not an automatic, passive process. It is something that is meant to be intentionally cultivated and pursued to the max. 
• Aligning Your Values. The idols that people in the 21st century worship are not statues made of stone or wood or such celestial beings as the moon or sun. Plenty of people worship money, fame, or status. Since the initial tevilat keilim was in response to idolatry, I would content that immersing utensils can be an action-based meditation to help us realign our values and ask ourselves what is important to us. 
• Mindfulness. When we take the time and effort to immerse utensils, we remind ourselves that something as small as utensils can have major spiritual significance. Bringing awareness to cooking and eating signals that any objects we may own and use should be done with awareness of their spiritual potential. It means that all items can be a reflection of Jewish values. 
• Jewish distinction. While I found ritual immersion practices in other religions (e.g., Islam, Hinduism), there was no religion that had a formalized ritual process for dishes like Judaism has. As such, the practice of tevilat keilim maintains a distinction between a Jewish and non-Jewish way of living. It also helps maintain connection and continuity with Jewish heritage, especially in a predominantly non-Jewish environment.

Ahavnu Vidui: Why Yom Kippur Could Also Use a Confession of the Good We Have Done

Yom Kippur, or the Day of Atonement, is considered the holiest day on the Jewish calendar. The central part of Yom Kippur liturgy is the confessional known as Vidui (ודוי). This confessional is divided into two parts. The first is a summary version of one's wrongdoings called Ashamnu (אשמנו). The second is a longer list of sins referred to as Al Chet (על חטא). This confessional is so essential to Yom Kippur that it is recited ten times throughout the course of the Yom Kippur services. The purpose of this confessional is to recognize our wrongdoings from the previous year to inspire us to do better for the next year.

I grew up Catholic, which had its own forms of self-flagellation and guilt. In that respect, you would think having converted to Judaism would make the Vidui a natural fit. I have both Catholic and Jewish guilt metaphorically running through my veins. Reciting this prayer should be a no-brainer for someone with my background. At first, I did like it because it played off of both Catholic and Jewish guilt. As I got older, I confronted my perfectionism and realized how unattainable it is. As such, it became more difficult to deal with the traditional Vidui during Yom Kippur. "Why take a day out of my calendar to be hard on myself when I already do it year-round," I asked myself. I reflect on this part of my life because a friend of mine sent me something shortly before this past Shabbat began (see below).

The text above called the Ahavnu Vidui. It was written by Rabbi Avi Weiss over ten years ago. R. Weiss was well known for his activism for Soviet Jewry in the 1980s (along with other forms of activism), as well as for starting the Modern Orthodox yeshiva (seminary) called Yeshivat Chovevei Torah. Some might take one look at this confessional and think of it as frou-frou, pop psychology that has no basis in Jewish tradition. I will say that I have met R. Avi Weiss and I know that this Vidui is coming from a good place. Second, this newer confessional is based off a Vidui Ma'aser attributed to the famous R. Avraham Yitzchak Kook (more on that momentarily). 

This brings up a legal and philosophical question about what you do when you create new rituals or practices. Tevye the milkman grappled with this theme throughout the musical Fiddler on the Roof. As important as tradition can be, it's not an end-all. Plus, there was a point in time which traditions were once new. As we create new traditions, the question should be whether such a practice, ritual, or belief lines up with the overall arc of Judaism. It is a question I asked about any custom or tradition created post-Talmud, whether it is the orange on the seder plate, the electric menorah, mourning on the Omer, adding the Matriarchs to the Amidah, shlissel challah, tashlich, or wearing a kippah. 

And let's not forget the long-standing tradition of adding prayers and blessings to the siddur (prayer book) over time, including Ein Keloheinu (9 c.), Unetaneh Tokef (11 c.), Aleinu (12 c.), Yigdal (14 c.), Lecha Dodi (16 c.), Modeh Ani (16 c.), and Yedid Nefesh (16 c.). While confession has its origins in the Torah, the Al Chet was not formalized until the 8th century. The more elaborate form of Ashamnu that we know now came about sometime in the Middle Ages. Trying to dismiss the Ahavnu Vidui by saying that it is new would ignore centuries of tradition in terms of making the prayer book longer and longer with more prayers. 

I understand having the traditional Vidui with the Ashamnu and Al Chet as part of Yom Kippur liturgy. Only focusing on our good aspects could lead to haughtiness, self-absorption, an inflated sense of ego, and virtue signaling. I would surmise that is why Jewish tradition places such emphasis on wrongdoing during a time such as Yom Kippur. If we are not aware of our wrongdoings and shortcomings, how can we fix them? Ignoring our flaws is contrary to the underlying premise of personal development. It is why I do not advocate for removing the traditional Vidui. 

Conversely, I think that having an Ahavnu Vidui is a good idea. This is in part because our foibles and flaws are not a complete view of ourselves. We have a tendency to be our own worst critics. There is a need for balance. Maimonides went as far as saying that everyone should view themselves as an exact balance between guilt and acquittal (Mishnah Torah, Hilchot Teshuvah, 3:4) in order to make sure that that next action in life was a good one. There is also a negative psychological effect of all negative all the time. To quote R. Avi Weiss:

Repetitive Vidui can also have an opposite effect: it can bring one to despair, to loss of confidence, even to loss of belief in one's capacity to do. After so many Ashamnus, one may be left overwhelmed, wondering, "Is there anything I've done right? Do I have the capacity to make positive contributions to the world?"   

R. Kook did believe in having a more positive Vidui. He said that "a person should also be joyous concerning the good they have done and being able to confess one's good deeds (Commentary to Mishnah Ma'aser Sheni 5:10). The catch with R. Kook's version is that he was the opinion that a positive Vidui should only be recited twice every seven years. The reason to recite the positive version less frequently is to "avoid smugness and complacency." 

I understand the need to avoid those negative tendencies. I also have to ask if twice every seven years is adequate. A researcher named Marcial Losada conducted mathematical modeling on the number of positive to negative interactions necessary to make a corporate team successful (Losada and Fredrickson, 2005). The Losada ratio showed that about three positive statements was needed for one negative statement to maximize productivity. This research did come under scrutiny, including the retraction of that specific Losada ratio. In 2013, a Harvard Business Review article pointed out that the ideal ratio between praise and criticism is about 5.6:1. 

It is tough getting at an exact praise-to-criticism ratio because human beings have a wide range of personalities in which a one-size-fits-all approach is not the best. What might be an acceptable ratio for me might not be for you. We each have our own tendencies, traits, strengths, and flaws. Regardless of whether there is some magical ratio, one thing that is clear is that you need both constructive criticism and praise if you want to be a better person. 

That is not only for professional relations, but also for our spiritual lives. If we solely keep focusing on our wrongdoings, we will not find the confidence or the motivation to mitigate our shortcomings. If we solely focus on our positive aspects, we get off on our hubris while potentially having our flaws get more flawed. What the exact ratio is I cannot say. Like with any recipe, it is about proportions. What I can say is that having the traditional Vidui alongside with a newer Vidui in the spirit of R. Weiss would help us in a more holistic spiritual practice in which we can truly be our best selves.

Yes, Judaism Has a Blessing for Going to the Bathroom: The Significance of the Asher Yatzar Blessing

"When you gotta go, you gotta go." Having to go to the bathroom is an essential function of the human condition. Such a seemingly mundane function makes me think of a scene in the musical Fiddler on the Roof. In the musical, there is a scene someone asks the rabbi if there's a blessing for the tzar. The rabbi said, "Of course. May G-d bless and keep the tzar far away from us." There is a blessing for everything, and going to the bathroom is no exception. Judaism has that one covered in the form of the Asher Yatzar blessing. You can read the Hebrew here, but the English is below:

Blessed are You, Hashem, our G-d, King of the Universe, who formed man with wisdom and created within him many openings and many hollow spaces. It is obvious and known before Your Seat of Honor that if even one of them would be opened, or if even one of them would be sealed, it would be impossible to survive and to stand before You even for one hour. Blessed are You who heals all flesh and acts wondrously.

This blessing has its origins in the Talmud (Berachot, 60b) and it is one for the books. This is not a blessing that Jews are supposed to say once a day or in a blue moon. It is said after every time one goes to the bathroom, even if it is a single drop of urine (Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chayim, 8:4). 

On the one hand, we are to show respect for our bodies and be thankful for when our body is working. It is a vessel capable of fighting off viruses and bacteria, removing dead cells, and working around the clock to do its utmost to keep alive. I knew that before I was religious, I would only notice my body functioning well after I recovered from an illness. I think part of why this is said on a regular basis is to make sure we do not take our bodies for granted.

On the other hand, the blessing recognizes what happens if the body does not work (Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chayim, 6): it would not be possible to survive. At the beginning of the blessing, it mentions G-d's wisdom in this human creation. Why would he create a being that is prone to malfunctioning or dying if something goes awry? Where is the wisdom in that?

Maybe it precisely because we are not angels, robots, or machines. Maybe because this balance between gratitude for our bodies when they do work and recognizing our body's limitations is what we need if we are to understand what it means to be mortal. Asher Yatzar is a chance to reflect on what works in our lives, the fragility of life, and the role that G-d plays in the universe. It is an opportunity to be mindful of our bodies, as well as show empathy for those whose bodies are not working so well. As the Velveteen Rabbi points out, Asher Yatzar "becomes an opportunity to think about the interior and exterior on personal, spiritual, and communal levels." It reminds us that our physical wellbeing is a spiritual act and that no act is too small for elevating it with a spiritual purpose, even going to the bathroom.

Can You Light an Electric Menorah on Chanukah? And Why Does It Matter?

Chanukah is the Jewish festival of lights to commemorate the rededication of the Second Temple in Jerusalem. According to Jewish tradition, this rededication took place after defeating the Greek occupying force in the Maccabean revolt. The main way of commemorating the festival of lights is by lighting a menorah, which is a multi-branched candelabrum. With the advent of electricity, it became more common for electric menorahs to be used as a part of Chanukah. Turning on or off electricity on Shabbat is commonly considered a biblical violation of making a fire on Shabbat, although I took issue with the argument over a decade ago. It was this normative practice surrounding electricity on Shabbat that I was surprised to see that the use of electric menorahs on Chanukah was even a debate. 

It makes sense to have an electric menorah in such places as hospitals, hotel rooms, and college dorms where lighting candles is not permitted. These exceptions notwithstanding, there are multiple arguments against an electric menorah (see here, here). One of the arguments against using an electric menorah is that the original miracle was created using fuel, wicks, and olive oil. This would explain why there traditionally has been a preference for using olive oil to light the menorah instead of using wax candles or another type of oil. The normative opinion is that an electric menorah does not fulfill the mitzvah of lighting the menorah because it does not really have fuel, wicks, or oil. Conversely, the menorah we use today has nine branches; the one used in the Temple has seven. So in at least one aspect, Jews have deviated from the original practice in the Temple.

I think there can be some back-and-forth based on the Talmudic discussion about menorahs in Shabbat 23b. On the one hand, the Talmud does not even mention whether we should consider performing the mitzvah with olive oil because it best mimics the original miracle. The discussion in the Talmud is very much based on the quality of light that is produced rather than the type of flame, as R. Sholom Segal from the Union of Traditional Judiasm argues. If it is about having the brightest, most consistent light, an electric menorah would arguably outshine its counterparts. 

On the other hand, the end of Shabbat 23b states that the light is supposed to be a single wick (נר) and not a blaze of fire (מדורה). An argument could be made that neither incandescent, fluorescent, nor LED bulbs qualify as a wick under Jewish law. An incandescent light bulb has an arc-shaped filament that acts more as a blaze of fire than a single wick. Fluorescents do not have the status of fire under Jewish law (Shvut Yitzhak). Similarly, LED lights do not burn anything and emit a minimal amount of heat (R. Dov Linzer). 

With any new technology, there is going to be debate as to if and how a new invention or innovation can fit within the confines of Jewish tradition. Like with so many debates in Jewish law, I ask what is the deeper meaning behind asking whether we should use electric menorahs. 

In this case, I ask myself what are the most important elements of lighting the menorah. As the Talmud brings up, the first point is that the light is adequately bright enough to see. The second reason, which is related to the first, is that Jews publicize the menorah and the miracle of Chanukah.  

I like the act of lighting a match and igniting the wick. I like seeing the candle lights wax and wane as the candles burn. For me, there is an aesthetic and feeling I get when I use wax candles. It takes me to a time in which I was not born, and it gives me a sense of connection that I do not get with an electric menorah or lighting with olive oil. Flicking an electric switch to turn on the candelabrum does not have the same feel.  

I also like what I wrote in 2016 when I illustrated the spiritual difference between olive oil versus wax candles. The olive oil represents spiritual purity and doing our best. As a recovering perfectionist, I appreciate the symbolism of the wax candles representing that we do our best, spiritually or otherwise, with what we have. As much as I believe in trying our best, we should also accept that our best has limits and be satisfied with the effort we put into the endeavor. 

Using the wax candles is what resonates with me for lighting the menorah. Some like the use of olive oil because it is more similar to the ancient practice. Especially since there is a plausible debate within the confines of the legalistic technicalities and minutiae under halacha (Jewish law), I am not going to take personal issue with someone using an electric menorah to fulfill the mitzvah. 

Right now, there is a normative preference for olive oil or wax candles. Who knows what it will look like in the next few generations? Wax candles had opposition when they were first used. The Maharal of Prague forbade the use of wax candles because it did not adequately resemble the miracle. However, R. Moses Isserles allowed them because they gave off a clear flame. Maybe what is more important is bringing light into this world. Maybe the fact we use a single wick instead of a torch helps us grasp with our limits as to how much we can better ourselves and the world around us. On the other hand, maybe the electric menorah can symbolize that we can shine brighter than we previously thought possible. 

I know some will disagree, but Chanukah is not only about remembering about what happened as a result of the Maccabean revolt. I think what is most important with regards to lighting the menorah is bringing light into the world. We all bring light differently into this world. Even if we do not fully understand or agree with it, we should do our best to understand our neighbors that are different from us. We should remind ourselves that even if the path is different, we are trying our utmost to bring in as much light in the world as possible. May your Chanukah be full of light and joy!

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. 

Apples Dipped in Honey on Rosh Hashanah: Finding Goodness and Sweetness in the New Year

In many cultures, the New Year symbolizes a time of renewal, celebration, and new beginnings. The Jewish religion is no exception. Judaism has symbolism to that effect. One of the most iconic symbols of Rosh Hashanah is that of apples dipped in honey. Where does this practice originate? Why do we do it? What is its significance? 

It might be tempting to tie it back to the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden, but the Torah never identifies the type of fruit that grew from that Tree. We do not find any mention of the combination of apples and honey neither in the Torah nor in the Talmud. The practice dates back to the Geonic period, which is somewhere between the sixth and eleventh centuries. As to the why, there are multiple interpretations. However, the simplest and most common answer to give is because apples and honey are both sweet foods. We wish people a sweet, happy new year. As a matter of fact, the phrase we utter after we recite the blessing of the apple on Rosh Hashanah is the following:

יהי רצון מלפנך שתחדש עלינו שנה טובה ומתוקה.

May it be Your will to renew for us a good and sweet year.

We don't just wish for a good year, but also a sweet one. Isn't sweetness a subset of goodness? Why emphasize the sweetness? You can have something purposeful without enjoying it. You can also have something enjoyable without meaning. As Harvard professor Tal Ben-Shahar explains in his book Happier, happiness is a combination between pleasure and meaning. But why the emphasis on sweetness? Sweetness implies richness, goodness, a reward, or something pleasurable. There is something about the experience that you are truly meant to enjoy when having something sweet. I can certainly understand sweetness in the abstract. We want people to have a wonderful year. It almost sounds idyllic in theory, especially since we are combining two sweet foods during this ritual. However, if a ritual is to mean anything, if we are to have a sweet New Year in practice, we need to find ways to make the world a bit sweeter. Otherwise, the consumption of apples dipped in honey remains hollow. How do we have a sweet year? I think the beginning of that answer ironically can be found in the Passover seder.  

One of the requirements of the Passover seder is to eat bitter herbs. Another part of the Passover seder is to eat charoset, which is a paste made of fruits and nuts. Interestingly enough, apples is a common choice for charoset, which is why I bring it up. The bitter herbs represent the bitterness of the slavery that the Israelites endured (Exodus 12:8). The charoset is consumed during the seder to blunt the taste of the bitterness. As I brought up seven years ago, the consumption of the bitter herbs is mandatory, whereas the consumption of charoset is optional. If the Passover seder is to be a metaphor for life, the meaning within the "bitter herbs versus charoset" is that bitterness in life is inevitable, even though we wish for a sweet new year during Rosh Hashanah. At the same time, sweetness is optional. One of the beauties of the Passover story is that we are given freedom, even in such difficult times as the ones in which we find ourselves. But that is the first step: we have to choose the sweetness. 

While a paradigm shift is essential, it is not the only step. In Christianity, the end goal is salvation. In Buddhism, it is karma. Both are focused on the destination. Judaism, in contrast, is focused on the journey. If Judaism reminds us of anything, it is that spirituality is a long-term process. As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel says in his book Between Man and G-d, "A Jew is asked to take a leap of action rather than a leap of thought" and that "the destiny of man is to be a partner of G-d and a mitzvah is an act in which man is present, an act of participation." We are meant to "walk after your L-rd your G-d" (Deuteronomy 13:5). What does it mean to walk after G-d? According to the Talmud (Sotah 14a), it means to imitate G-d. The examples the Talmud outlines our clothing the naked, visiting the sick, and comforting mourners. We emulate G-d in our actions. When we connect to these actions, at least based on Jewish thought, we are connecting to the sweetness that G-d has given us.  

Bringing us back to the metaphor of apples dipped into honey, we are to bring sweetness and happiness through our actions. After all, Judaism and the system of mitzvot is very much based on one's actions, as opposed to one's beliefs. We have to consistently pursue actions. It would explain why a traditional Jew says the Shema twice a day or why a traditional Jew prays for forgiveness three times a day in daily prayers. While some of these concepts seem straightforward or simple, they are hardly easy to implement. It might be easy to think of justice or kindness when you are putting on tefillin and uttering words about how we should pursue those concepts. But how difficult is it to put in practice and to do so more consistently? If good actions are applied wisdom, which is how I feel about the role of philosophy, then we should see this improvement in our actions. 

One of the things I appreciate about Chasidic thought, certainly at its founding, is that it believed in not just going through the motions. Sweetness is not a mere byproduct of meaningful work, but we are meant to find authentic joy in the process. After all, that happens to be one of the major themes of the holiday of Sukkot. As I brought up about eight Sukkots ago, happiness is not something to be acquired. It is a byproduct of one's action, as well as to what and to whom we connect. Going off my thought about Chasidic thought, I would add it is how we connect to that which is around us. Gratitude is one of many ways that we can make those stronger connections. 

While Jewish rituals and ethics provide a strong base to develop the sweetness, this concept applies beyond Jewish religious practice. Happiness is an elusive concept and can vary from person to person, much like people have different taste buds and have a different take on sweetness. However, what science has revealed, and was made famous by psychology professor Sonja Lyubomirsky in her book The How of Happiness, is that there is a significant percentage of happiness under our control. Let's take exercise as an example. Regular exercise is shown to increase dopamine and serotonin levels, which would help fight off depression. We are what we eat. This does not simply apply to symbolism found in kosher eating, but also in terms of how healthier diet can improve overall physical health. Meditation is also shown to have benefits, including lower stress, improved outlook on life, and a lengthened attention span. While they seem secular in nature, I would argue that self-care, exercise, and anything pertaining to one's health are applications of the mitzvah to "guard yourself and guard your soul carefully (Deuteronomy 4:9)." Not only do we live longer lives, but we are happier and more energetic in our pursuit towards a healthier version of the self. I would also contend that taking control over the things you can control also creates a sweetness because it creates a sense of agency, feeling of accomplishment, and a connection with living in accordance to one's values. 

I want to conclude with two points. The first point is that Jewish thought tends to emphasis the purpose and meaning aspect. With Rosh Hashanah, you get to focus on the sweetness, as well. An ideal life is not solely about living according to one's values or to have goals, but also enjoying the experience. 

The second point has to do with the nature of happiness and sweetness. It is custom to wish people a "Good and Sweet New Year." It is not an automatic process, and G-d is not a vending machine that will give you sweetness or goodness simply because you ask for it. You have to choose sweetness and make the paradigm shift to live a purpose-driven life with a more positive outlook. But it doesn't stop there. Much like anything in life, anything worthwhile takes constant effort, whether that was the Israelites from the Passover story being free or us having a sweet new year. So much of the High Holiday season is about introspection into the previous year and also looking forward. Sweetness is not going to fall on your lap. What are you willing to do differently from last year to make it truly good and sweet?

My Favorite Reasons for Blowing the Shofar on Rosh Hashanah

As the late Aretha Franklin said, "Music does a lot of things for a lot of people. It's transporting, for sure. It can take you right back, years back, to the very moment certain things happened in your life. It's uplifting, it's encouraging, it's strengthening." Believe it or not, this quote is very relatable to Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. While there are multiple features to Rosh Hashanah, the single most important one is hearing the shofar because it is the only active mitzvah of the 613 mitzvot related to Rosh Hashanah (derived from Leviticus 23:24; Numbers 29). The shofar is an ancient musical horn, typically made from a ram's horn. The shofar has been used in multiple areas of Jewish history besides Rosh Hashanah, including announcing the New Moon (Psalm 81:3), announcing the jubilee year (Leviticus 25:9), for starting war (Joshua 6:4; Judges 3:27, 7:16, 7:20; I Samuel 8:3), the coronation of a king (I Kings 1:34, 39, 41), and was part of the orchestra that King David had when instruments were played during Temple services (Psalm 150:3).

But let's bring it back to Rosh Hashanah. I wanted to know why this mitzvah was so instrumental to the holy day celebrations. I looked through reasons provided by Chabad, Aish HaTorah, the Orthodox Union, a list of R. Sa'adiah Ga'on's ten reasons for the shofar (courtesy of Ohr Somaych), as well as books on my bookshelf, and this culminates the list of my favorites:

1. Spiritual Wake-Up Call to Repentance. The shofar makes a piercing sound that jolts us out of our lethargic state, much like an alarm clock. Rosh Hashanah acts as the beginning of the Days of Awe, the ten-day period between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur during which one gets their affairs from the previous year in order and does teshuvah (repentance). Looking at Nevi'im (the Prophets), the shofar was a reminder of our admonitions and reminded us why we need to clean up our act. Teshuvah  was so important that G-d created it before the Universe (Talmud, Nedarim, 39b). By creating teshuvah, not only has G-d shown us mercy, but G-d has provided us with the opportunity to right our wrongs. 
2. Coronating G-d. Rosh Hashanah is to celebrate the creation of the universe. Since the shofar was used to coronate kings, what a better way to recognize G-d's Kingship and our purpose in the universe? Plus, G-d's Sovereignty is such a major theme is Rosh Hashanah liturgy. 
3. Transported Through Time. Aretha Franklin hit this one on the head. Listening to the shofar transports us to another time, such as when the shofar was blown on Mount Sinai when the Jews received the Torah. It was a simpler time, and that is not the only thing that was simpler.  
4. Simplicity. One thing I noticed about the shofar is the simplicity of the instrument itself. In contrast to the trumpet, trombone, or many other brass instruments, the shofar lacks a pitch-altering device (e.g., valves, telescoping slide mechanism). My theory as to why the instrument is so simple is because we are to return to a simpler essence when it comes to Jewish practice, a topic which I have previously covered. There is a place for understanding nuance because the world is a nuanced place. However, people can get so obsessed with the details that they forget the simple essence that permeates throughout Judaism. There are simple truths that dictate those complexities: G-d is One (Deuteronomy 6:4), love your neighbor like yourself (Leviticus 19:18), walk humbly in His ways (Micha 6:8). Perhaps this is a time to re-examine those simple truths and see how we can implement them in the upcoming year.
5. Awe of G-d. The sound of the shofar can be haunting, potentially so haunting that it inspires the fear of G-d. In the Book of Ecclesiastes (Ch. 3), King Solomon reminds us that there is a time for everything. Rosh Hashanah is a time for the fear of G-d. My understanding of fear of G-d is that we should not be so scared where we are paralyzed, which would make it more akin to awe than fear. Ideally, our relationship with G-d should be one of love, but that is not necessarily doable all the time. When love is not possible, we should still be awe-struck by G-d's power and capacity for many things, which is what the shofar reminds us.
6. Celebration. Rosh Hashanah celebrates another year, another period of time in which we can fulfill our potential. The shofar is meant to be blown when the Messiah arrives (Isaiah 27:13). Until the Messiah arrives, we can still recognize the salvation that G-d brings in our daily lives.

Aretha Franklin was spot-on by saying that music is a transformative experience. The shofar blown on Rosh Hashanah takes on that transformative experience, whether it is awe of G-d, a call to repent, to remind us of our true values, or a call to celebration. I hope that your experience with the shofar is one that transforms you.

שנה טובה ומתוקה!

Why I Don't Mourn on the Omer and What I Intend to Do Instead

I consider myself a traditionalist Jew who does his best to follow the halacha. I cannot pretend that I understand every practice under Jewish tradition. In his magnum opus, Guide for the Perplexed, Maimonides says that we still look for the meaning behind mitzvahs when their meaning is immediately not apparent (III, xxvi). Each one of G-d's precepts has meaning and were not given for their own sake. That being said, there are some Jewish practices and beliefs that have made their way into the corpus of Jewish tradition that are counter to a more important Jewish practice, tradition, or value. A few that come to mind that have merited my comments and analysis over the years: kitniyot, shlissel challah, not allowing women to say kaddish, and kapparot. Today, I add another Jewish practice to that list: mourning on the Omer.

According to the Talmud (Yevamot 62b), 24,000 of Rabbi Akiva's disciples died between Pesach and Shavuot. Because of these deaths, we take on a state of quasi-mourning: no haircuts, no weddings, no music, and no shaving. This state of mourning takes place from the beginning of Passover to Shavuot (It was later shortened to the thirty-third day of the Omer, known as Lag B'Omer). Traditionalists who continue to advocate for the practice use such phrasing as "from tragedy springs hope," as if it obfuscates the problems with such a mourning practice.

What issues are there with mourning on the Omer? One issue has to do with the act of mourning the loss of individuals, known as aveilut (אבלות). In Jewish mourning, the standard mourning for the loss of individuals is either a week, a month, or 11 months, depending on who is being mourned. However, there are times when we mourn the loss of a mass group of people. The Holocaust is a good example. Even in pre-modern times, there were some bad times that befell the Jewish people that merited a fast day. However, these fast days were only one day and fell into obscurity since the time between the loss of the individuals and now was large enough. And it's not as if the Jewish people don't have a day to celebrate calamity that has affected the Jewish people on the national level. We have Tisha B'Av.

Another fun fact is that the Talmudic passage describing the plague does not come to the conclusion that an annual mourning should be the response. In the first millennium after the fall of the Second Temple, there technically was a mourning practice between Passover and Shavuot, but that was in commemoration of soldiers that died during the Bar Kochba revolt, and even those mourning practices were uncommon. The first mentioning of a practice tied to R. Akiva's students was made in the eight century. Rabbi Yosef Karo included the mourning practice in the Shulchan Aruch, but it was not a binding halacha. It was a meant to be a footnote pointing out a practice, which was even contested by his contemporaries. Not allowing for music has even weaker legal precedence since R. Karo does not mention banning music during this period. A rabbi who I respect greatly, R. Hayim Ovadia, covers the historicity and halacha of the mourning practice in further detail here.

None of this gets into my biggest issue with the mourning practice. The mourning of R. Akiva's disciples detracts us from the mitzvah of the Omer, thereby diminishing a mitzvah d'oraiata. Jewish tradition teaches that the month of Nissan is a month of joy. It's why some Jews (myself included) had and have an issue with Holocaust Remembrance Day falling on the month of Nissan. The purpose of counting on the Omer, or at least what I have found to be the purpose of this counting, is to prepare ourselves spiritually so we can ascend enough to receive the Torah in a way that our ancestors did. The Omer is a great time to work on Mussar and our character traits (מידות). It is difficult to both mourn a distant loss and spiritually ascend.

This detraction ties in directly with the reason as to why G-d sent a plague onto R. Akiva's disciples: they were not respectful of one another. They did not follow the most basic of dicta within Jewish law: "love your neighbor as yourself." It was about spiritual one-upmanship and defaming others in a quest for religious fame. It was not about serving G-d for its own sake, but being the best, even if that meant knocking others down a peg. As remiss as I am to say it, this sort of mentality still permeates within the Jewish people. Orthodox Jews have a problem getting along with non-Orthodox Jews. In the Orthodox world, there is such in-fighting. The Ultra-Orthodox Jews (Haredim) look at the Orthodox Left with disdain. Hasidic sects cannot get along with one another.

If we want to commemorate the loss of R. Akiva's disciples, we should reflect on how such a tragedy took place, but more importantly, we should learn from history. We should look at the current state of the Jewish people. We should ask ourselves how we can show a greater sense of unity (אחדות) amongst the Jewish people, and how we can ultimately extend that to the world at large. If we have this much in-fighting, how can we be a light unto nations? Part of preparing during the Omer should be working on how we can love those who are different from us, how we can better reach across the aisle and connect with others. As Aristotle said, "We become just by performing just actions, temperate by performing temperate actions, brave by performing brave actions." It is in that vein that I figured out what I intend to do with my Omer: ask myself how I can be a better Jew and human being, how I can better connect with Jews and non-Jews alike, and how I can have a greater impact as a result. I don't expect to change the world, but as Lao Tzu puts it, "the journey of a thousand miles begins with one step." I hope that we can all take that step this Omer!

Parsha Shelach: The Spiritual Fringe Benefits of Wearing Tzitzit Are in the Details

"Clothes mean nothing until someone lives in them." Marc Jacobs might be a gay, non-observant Jewish fashion designer, but he has a point, and not just about clothing in general. When we wear clothing, we make a statement of ourselves. Clothing becomes an external manifestation of our personality. It also has the potential to express not just who we are, but what we stand for. It is a phenomenon that we see in this week's Torah portion:

"Speak to the children of Israel and you shall tell them to make for themselves fringes on the corners of their garments, throughout their generations, and they shall make a thread of sky blue on the fringe of each corner. These shall be fringes for you, and when you look at them, you will remember all of G-d's commands to perform them. And you shall not wander after your hearts and after your eyes which you are going astray. You shall remember all my commandments and be holy to your G-d. I am the L-rd your G-d who took you out of the land of Egypt to be your G-d. I am the L-rd, your G-d." -Numbers 15:38-41

This lengthy passage, which also happens to be the third paragraph of the Shema, describes the mitzvah of wearing fringes, or tzitzit (ציצית), on one's garment. If clothes mean nothing until someone lives in them, then what does wearing tzitzit mean when a Jew wears them?

The biblical verse itself already gives an answer: to remember the commandments. I'm not here to diminish that response because a) it is straight from the Torah, and b) it is correct. However, rabbinic commentary provides further insight. Menachot 43b went as far as saying that performing the mitzvah of tzitzit is as if one performed all the mitzvahs. Why? Because seeing leads to remembering, and remembering is supposed to ultimately lead to doing. 

This leads into the Talmudic passage in the next folio in Menachot 44a. A Jewish man was going to consort with a well-known, non-Jewish harlot for a hefty price. Before they engaged in sexual congress, the tzitzit slapped him in the face. The tzitzit were such a strong reminder that the man did not go through with it. More to the point, the harlot was so impressed that she herself ended up converting to Judaism. Even if the slap in the face was a metaphorical one, it still illustrates the power of how seeing invokes memory and subsequent action. The idea of memory would also explain why this passage is in the Shema and why the passage has a reminder to remember the Exodus at the end. As R. Baruch Epstein points out, it is not enough to remember: we also have to act. If the tzitzit do not prompt us to act, then they have not had the full effect.

The saying goes that the devil is in the details. Personally, I prefer to say that G-d is in the details, but it's the same general idea: details provide deeper insight. The particulars of the mitzvah of tzitzit also bring up a few follow-up questions that lead to that deeper insight:

• Why are there 39 windings? To make the tzitzit, you have to wind the thread in order to create the tzitzit. In Ashkenazic tradition, the number of windings is 39 (see below). Why the breakdown of 7-8-11-13? Seven stands for the seven days of Creation. Eight stands for the number of transcendence that goes beyond nature. Eleven is for the Hebrew letters ו-ה under Jewish numerology (gematria), which also are the last two letters of G-d's name in the Tetragrammaton. Thirteen represents for the gematria of אחד, or the Hebrew word for "one," which represents G-d's Oneness (R. Aryeh Kaplan).

• Why are the threads loose? The loose threads are like the unwoven portion of the tallit (prayer shawl). They represent the incompleteness in G-d's metaphorical garment, an incompleteness that unwoven part that man is supposed to complete (R. Meir Simcha of Dvinsk). I actually have an alternative response. When looking at an individual mitzvah (which is represented by a loose tzitzit thread), it seems isolated or inexplicable. In reality, the mitzvot are tied together to the greater purpose of serving G-d, much like the loose threads are tied together as one entity. 
• Why are there 8 threads? During Passover, we sing a song called "Who Knows One?" (Echad Mi Yodea). When we sing the song and reach the part of "Who knows eight", what is the response? "Eight days for circumcision." Circumcision represents the covenant between the Jewish people and G-d. Much like circumcision is supposed to be a link with the Transcendental, so are the tzitzit (Maharal).   
• Why are the threads placed at the edge of the garment? As R. Dr. Asher Meir puts it, the outward-flowing fringes represents the openness we should have to the world, and how we should reach out to it. The tzitzit thusly represent how we are the interact with the world: openly, instead of closed off from it. Much like the tzitzit can only extend so far, the mitzvahs also put limitations on what Jews can do. This represents the paradox between being free and feeling a sense of obligation towards G-d and Judaism: we are to maximize our experiences while adhering to the mitzvahs. 
• Why is the garment with the tzitzit a square? The Sages taught that a four-sided figure is an archetype of something manmade. The square reminds us of our responsibility in the world (Jerusalem Talmud, Nedarim 3:2).
• Why is it supposed to be worn during the day only? The nighttime is supposed to be a time of inactivity and turning more inwards, which is why it is commanded during the daytime only (Shulchan Aruch, O.C. 18). I would surmise that it is during the daytime only because for the mitzvah of tzitzit to work, you have to see them, much like the biblical verse states. In premodern times, one could not see much at night, which included being unable to see tzitzit. In modern times, we can see them, which under that argument, would extend the mitzvah to the evening. 
• Why is there a blue thread? The Torah says that one of the threads has to be sea blue. The Talmud (Chullin 89a) provides an explanation. The blue thread is blue like the sea, which is similar to the blue of the sky, which is similar to the color of the Throne of Glory. There is further symbolism here. The sea represents immersing oneself in Torah. The sky represents doing mitzvot for the sake of Heaven. From there, one can reach the Throne of Glory, which represents the high end of our potential. 
• Why is the mitzvah not obligatory? If the purpose is to remind us of all the mitzvot, surely it should be obligatory. Yet under Jewish law, it is not. Why? Because the mitzvot form the life of a Jew. They are all-encompassing. Since it can be quite the undertaking, it is only when Jews obligate themselves to take on the mitzvah of wearing tzitzit that Jews truly express a love for G-d. 

Marc Jacobs was right: clothing means nothing until someone lives in them. These insights mean nothing until we live in them. The tzitzit do not mean anything until we put them on and say the blessing. They don't have much significance until we look at them, are reminded what it means to be a Jew, and act based on that realization. We can only "live in the tzitzit" when we realize its spiritual significance and how that affects our daily decisions. Only when the tzitzit positively affects our thoughts, words, and deeds have we truly fulfilled the mitzvahs.

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. 

Adding The Matriarchs in the Amidah Prayer and Fixed Versus Spontaneous Jewish Prayer

It was recently when I was studying Mishneh Torah, Maimonides' legal magnum opus. We started on the chapter about prayers (Tefillah u'Birkat HaKohanim). In it, Maimonides starts off by saying that it's a positive Torah commandment to pray. Then he says that the number of prayers one is to say is not in the Torah, nor is the formula for prayer prescribed. Also, there is no fixed time for prayers. All of these ideas contradict what I know about Jewish prayer. Observant Jews pray three times a day. There are a fixed number of prayers with fixed wording. Maimonides seems to contradict himself later by talking about how prayer became fixed during the time of Ezra the Scribe, and how at least in the Amidah, the text is fixed, although we can add our own prayers during the middle fifteen blessings in the Amidah.

This got me thinking about the structure of prayer. If one contrasts the traditional form of Jewish prayer with many forms of Christian prayer, for instance, one would notice that the Christian version of prayer is much more free-form, and much less structured in comparison. Here are some of my own personal thoughts. I think we are seeing another example of how Maimonides presents two seemingly contrasting, but valid viewpoints. It might seem difficult at first to get past the contradiction, but it's more of a paradox that is saying that "there is a time for fixed prayer, and there is a time for unstructured prayer." Although it might not seem like it at times, there is a place for both within Judaism. Clearly, there is fixed prayer, but there is also unstructured prayer called hitbodedut (התבדדות).

Maimonides seems to be saying that in an ideal world, we can always communicate with G-d in the sense that we always know what to say and how to say it. However, we could be having a bad day or a day that is so exciting that it overwhelms the senses to be able to allow the verbal language for self-expression. Even on a "normal" day, finding adequately expressive words can be challenging. When one cannot find the words to say, there is always a text that one can fall back on to make sure that one can communicate with G-d.

On the other hand, too much rigidity can mean not being able to accurately express to G-d because the words might not convey what is stirring up in the soul. Treating prayer simply as a magic formula can become a mechanical, soulless, rote exercise. Sometimes, prayer needs to be more personalized so you feel invested in it. If not, prayer can get stale, and I can tell you, if you're saying the same Amidah three times a day, 365 days a year in the solar calendar, it can get stale. That can be problematic, especially since the Talmud states that one must direct one's heart to Heaven when praying (Berachot 31a). That is why there needs to be a proper balance between the two concepts, and why Maimonides allows for passages to be added to most blessings within the Amidah, as well as why there is still some structure: because he is recognizing that we both need structure and some free space to express our own individualism.

A follow-up question is how we deal with the Amidah. Both the Conservative and Reform movements have already altered the text of the Amidah. In the early 1990s, the Conservative movement released a responsum on whether it's possible to modify the Amidah, in this case, to include the Matriarchs alongside the Patriarchs. Even as an Orthodox Jew, I find for it to make for interesting reading, at least in part because it helps us answer the question about the extent to which prayer is an extension of ourselves, our desires, or what our souls yearn for (Spoiler: the short version of the Conservative responsum is that as the blessing mentions G-d ineffable name and His Kingship, the blessing is valid). I came across this point a few years back when I was struggling with the Jewish morning blessing of "thanking G-d for not making me a woman." Looking at the Jewish law on the flexibility of prayer, as well as the legal permissibility, I found it possible to modify the prayer somewhere along the lines of thanking G-d for creating me in His Image.

The more legalistic arguments notwithstanding, I feel that there is a non-legal argument to be made. I wouldn't be surprised if there are certain feminists out there who want to add the Matriarchs to "stick it to the man." However, both men and women are created in G-d's Image, so no sense in pitting one against another. If we want to express gratitude for all that the Matriarchs did, then I do not see an issue. Much like the Patriarchs, the Matriarchs made positive contributions to their families and communities. And this doesn't even get into just how non-uniform prayer books were before the invention of the printing press.

It's one thing for Conservative liturgy to change. It's a whole different question of whether Orthodox liturgy will change. Even with a history of liturgy being added or modified, I find the probability dubious mainly because of sociological norms. Regardless of whether Orthodox publishers start adding the Matriarchs into the Amidah or even decide to modify other prayers (e.g., much like when they added in the prayer for the State of Israel), it still brings us back to the tension between fixed and spontaneous prayer. Prayer without structure might leave some thoughts unexpressed or have us confront less thoughts than we would have otherwise. Prayer can be considered incomplete without structure. On the other hand, the high level of rigidity can leave us with a lack of expressiveness that defeats the purpose of prayer. Maimonides teaches us the importance of balance. May we find that sense of balance in all our prayers so that we may become closer to G-d!