I was nineteen years old when I was held at gun point.
It was a few days into my Yeshiva vacation in Kerem B'Yavneh, and I has just arrived home to South Africa. My brother and I were attending an evening event, and I had convinced him to let me drive his car home, while he would get a ride home with friends later.
I was nervous; it was my first time driving in many months. Naturally, I feigned confidence that of course I remembered how to drive. Of course I knew the way home. Of course, I would be cautious for any suspicious activity. This was Joberg after all.
I don't think my brother was fully convinced.
Carefully and slowly I made my way back home, arriving around 11pm. As I pulled up to the drive way, I pressed the button that opened the gate – providing a safe passage between the electric fencing and barbed wire.
The gate began closing behind me. I turned off the ignition and sighed in relief that I had made it home without damaging my brother's car, getting into an accident, getting a ticket or getting car-jacked.
But my relief was ill timed and short lived.
A second before the gate had fully closed, two men darted in, and jammed it – stopping it from closing. I had not yet noticed. But as I got out of the car, they were there. Right next to me.
One of them reached behind him to discharge his gun. They told me to give them the car keys. I did.
They told me to give them my wallet and phone. I handed both items over. Then, the one without the weapon quickly pillaged the car, taking CD's and anything else that looked to be of value.
It seemed like an eternity, but it couldn't have been more than a minute later that they told me to lie down on the ground.
They were ready to escape, and did not want anyone to follow them.
At this point in the school year my students have figured me out. They're not the only ones who are trying to get me off topic. I also want to go off topic.
Naturally, I work hard to bring everything back to the text we're learning. But say, for example, a Talmid wants to discuss the war in Ukraine, well then, there is nothing I would like more than to spend class discussing the notion of Milchama. What does the Torah think of war? Is it an ideal? Should we daven for an end to war or should we be davening for victory?
“Rebbe...”, another Talmid asks, “Why did Moshe have to take off his shoes at the burning bush? Why can't a mourner wear shoes? What do these ideas have to do with each other?” Great question. There's a whole world of understanding shoes in Halacha and Hashkafa. (The Shelah HaKadosh explains at length how shoes are our connection point to the earth, and there are times where we are obligated to feel that connection in a visceral way.) These are detours from the curriculum that I'm glad to make.
(I've written about some of these detours before, see here and here.)
There is, however, one type of question that I no longer enjoy discussing:
“Rebbe, how can we prove that there is a God? How do we know that the Torah is real? How do we know that this isn't all just made up?”
For years, I used to revel in these conversations. I have a litany of sources, well honed arguments, and some great texts to explore.
Last month, the World Health Organization published a report noting that the pandemic triggered a 25% increase in prevalence of anxiety and depression worldwide.
I cannot speak for the world, but I think that many of us have noticed an uptick in hopelessness and frustration. Problems that might have been solvable three years ago, have exasperated beyond repair. Issues below the surface have now bubbled up, and feelings of despair govern so many interactions.
Anecdotally, I hear these comments often:
”...Rabbi, don't waste your time speaking to them, it's a lost cause.”
“Give up on that idea, it's a lost cause.”
“I'm done with this job. There's no ways that this will work... it's a lost cause...”
“That marriage”, “that kid”, “this idea”, “that job”... All lost causes.
There are countless blogs, books and videos dedicated to explaining the futility of investing time in these lost causes. Perhaps, sometimes, that advice is correct. But this week I was asked a different question, from a father of a former student, asking from a place of deep pain: “Rabbi, We have an old tradition of a prayer for lost objects, but is there a Tefillah for lost causes?”
The answer, I believe, is unequivocally, yes. Indeed, it seems that the Tefillah for lost causes and lost objects is the same: אלקא דמאיר ענני – (Elo-ha D'Meir Anneni). More than any other day, the time to daven for these lost causes, is this Motzei Shabbos, which is Pesach Sheni.
It's a painful thing for me to admit, but over the past few years, I have developed mixed emotions regarding Yom Ha'Atzmaut.
Of course, I am profusely grateful to the Ribono Shel Olam for granting our generation the miracle that is the State of Israel. I have no confusion regarding His Hand guiding us out from Hell of the Death Camps and into our own homeland. My feelings towards Hashem are crystal clear – כי גבר עלינו חסדו – His kindness is overwhelming.
The source of my emotional turmoil is about myself, my family and my community. Every year on Yom Ha'atzmaut, I watch the celebrations in Israel; I see the joy on their faces. I can't help compare it to the strained and farcical performances that we attempt, and I find myself questioning once again: What on earth are we doing in Boca?
I have a theory: It is far easier to count Sefiras HaOmer with a Bracha, than to continue counting without.
I have not done extensive research on the question. But anecdotally, I have met very few Jews (if any) who are as diligent in counting after missing a day as they were beforehand.
To understand this phenomenon, we should begin with some Halachik clarity.
We are obligated to count forty-nine days, and seven weeks, from the second night of Pesach until Shavuos. There is a well known debate whether this obligation to count is one large mitzvah, or 49 separate mitzvos. The vast majority of opinions hold that there are 49 separate obligations. However, in deference to the opinion of the Behag, the Shulchan Aruch rules that if one forgot to count a day of Sefira, one should continue to count without a bracha. (Since we do not make brachos in cases of doubt.)
Practically speaking, The Shulchan Aruch rules that we should still count Sefiras HaOmer everyday, even after skipping a day. Even after skipping forty eight days. We should still count – just without a Bracha. The Mishna Berura adds that in such a situation, we should make sure to hear the bracha from someone else.
But that is not what happens in our lives and communities. It is far more difficult – emotionally – to count sefira without a bracha than with a bracha! As far as the Shulchan Aruch is concerned, it's obvious that we should keep counting. But no one does, because our Yetzer Hara, apparently demands absolute success, or insists on failure.
A few weeks ago at BRS West, we hosted a wonderful Shabbos Dinner with a number of families from NCSY / JSU. It was a beautiful evening of learning, growing and connecting. Teens from our community were excited to share their Shabbos experience with teens who don't often have such opportunities. These Shabbos meals are not new to NCSY / JSU. While Aliza and I worked for NCSY, we enjoyed making those connections on a weekly basis.
Unique to this Shabbos, however, was the chance for parents in our shul to sit around a Shabbos table with parents from a vastly different background. It started a little awkward – as expected – but Jews have more in common than what divides us, and soon conversations were flowing.
Before benching and dessert, we opened the floor to our guests for a Q&A; addressing anything on their minds about Torah and Yiddiskheit. It was a robust and honest conversation.
In the course of the following hour, we discussed everything from observance to anti-semitism, the eternity of our people, our mission in history, our relationship with Hashem, and the nature of reward and punishment.
Of course, none of these could be fully covered during a single Friday night schmooze and we all concluded that there needed to be a round two sometime soon.
Just as we were wrapping up, one of the fathers raised his hand “Rabbi, I understand what you're saying about our mission and purpose. But I still cannot accept that God, who you say loves us, and cares about us, could allow centuries of pain, persecution and suffering for His people. Without understanding this, how can I commit to a deeper relationship with Him?”
I took a deep breath. “It's profound question, an old question. One that I cannot answer any better than Moshe Rabbeinu could. There is so much we don't know; that we'll never know.”
He looked vindicated. I continued:
“None of us will never be able to explain Hashem to you, or even ourselves. There are questions that are beyond us. What bothers me more is not the questions that we cannot answer, but the ones that we can, and still don't.”
He was curious. So we each got some chocolate pudding, and sat down to discuss. Pesach was on everyones mind, so that's where we began...
This is not a deep or philosophical statement. It has nothing to do with current events or geopolitics. It's all about Pesach, and where we are not allowed to be.
In a very real way, spaces and places in our homes that are usually fair game will soon become out of bounds. The living room used to be a fun place to munch on a chewy bar but not any more! Invisible boundaries will quickly materialize; that which was normal yesterday, will become strictly off-limits.
Our kids do not enjoy this process. “Don't touch that! No food in that room! Pasta gets eaten outside!”
Most upsetting for our children is the steadily depleting supply of snacks – which will not be replenished until after Pesach. Last year, two days before pesach, one of my children opened the pantry to find nothing of interest, other than raisins (Gasp!). It was a tough day in the Blumenthal home.
Aside from the first-world-problems that our children are subjected to, we, as their parents, will be having a challenging week as well.
On Sunday I came home to find Aliza sitting on the couch feeding our baby. She was crying. Concerned, I asked what was wrong? What happened? She told me that a teen had fallen to his death at an amusement park in Orlando. It's a picture that's difficult to unsee.
Undoubtably, the horror of this tragedy strikes close to our hearts, and the sadness and shock made its way into our home.
On Monday, I walked into class and found my students embroiled in a heated debate about whether it was appropriate to slap another person in public for insulting ones spouse. Some of my students were raising their voices. Tensions were high, and apparently, the anger on display at the Oscars made its way into our classroom.
Last week, watching the levaya of Rav Chaim Kanievsky, and hearing some of the hespedim filled me with sadness and tenderness, grief and gratitude. I hope that I have shared some of those feelings with my family, community, friends and students.
It's not a secret: Emotions are contagious. An event that happens to another person in another place that we don't even know can trigger a powerful wave of feelings, that, in turn can affect the people around us. But there is a peculiarity to these effects, because the strength of our emotional response is sometimes bizarrely disproportionate.
At the 13th Siyum Hashas of the Daf Yomi in NY, Rav Chaim Kanievsky זצוק״ל was live streamed from his tiny apartment in Bnei Brak. After making the Siyum, they asked Rav Chaim to give a Bracha to all those who had finished Shas. He responded, with his signature smile to those who finished Shas: “You should merit to know Shas.”
We all know that qualitatively, there's a big difference between finishing and knowing. Of those that finish Shas, there are few who know it, and none that know it like Rav Chaim knew it.
In a those few short words, Rav Chaim exposed the shame of most learners of the Daf Yomi. We simply don't know it. And he gave us all a bracha to remedy that fact.
Of course, the same is true of any intellectual endeavor. Merely completing a study of the material does not automatically convey knowledge. Once we have finished it, we need to constantly review and relearn it until we assimilate the material into our minds. And even once we have mastered a particular text or curriculum, we are charged with the constant battle against forgetting.
For this reason, Talmud Torah is a lifelong pursuit. We are constantly staving off the forgetfulness that threatens to wipe away our efforts. If we take the obligation of knowing Torah seriously, it necessitates a certain anxiety for which a diligent commitment to Torah is the antidote. Although, antidote is probably the wrong word. The anxiety never really goes away, some of us simply get better at remembering. Others tragically settle, exchanging nervousness for sadness. We adjust our expectations so that we don't really expect that we'll ever achieve “knowing”.
I seems then, that a life of Talmud Torah is a life of managing the anxiety of future failure, and/or the depression of never achieving success. True Simcha in Torah and Mitzvos is thus, by definition, quite rare, and reserved for the privileged few who are capable of superhuman efforts. This, in itself, is devastatingly disheartening.
A few weeks ago, as I walked into shiur, my talmidim were already embroiled in a halachic debate. The question: Should you make a bracha before eating non-kosher food?
Before they asked for my thoughts, they told me the parameters of the question: Firstly, this is not a life-and-death situation. You know that this not kosher, and you also know that eating non-kosher food is prohibited. You are not starving and there are other food options available. You simply want to eat the non-kosher item.
