The pangs of redemption: finding meaning in suffering

I had the pleasure of spending this past Shabbos in Crown Heights, a community in Brooklyn that is central to the Chabad-Lubavitch movement. There you can find anything and everything Jewish; there's various yeshivas and seminaries, synagogues, including the main 770 shul; Judaica stores, kosher restaurants- a little bastion of Jewish life in America. This Shabbos was an immense source of strength for me, providing me with the inspiration and tools needed to get through these next two weeks, but why do I need strength? What is it that is troubling me so much that I need a Shabbos in Crown Heights in order to get over it? I've spoken about it before many times, so the term "golus" shouldn't be a foreign word to you. It's the major source of our confusion when it comes to faith, the source of our anxieties, fears, and doubts; an itch that you can never quite scratch and so it drives you mad with desperation. What's the best analogy to explain Golus? I found myself sitting in Hadar HaTorah friday night, the first Ba'al Teshuvah yeshiva in Lubavitch, speaking with a complete stranger about his journey. I began to share with him my journey, trying to explain my recent struggle. I said to him "golus is like....it's like..." when the lights in the room went out. I heard a familar voice behind me, my friend from yeshiva, Daniel Bortz, say to me "that's what golus is like." He was right, what a perfect analogy: it's like the lights going out and the room being cast into darkenss. We see in this week's parsha one of the ultimate blackouts for the Jewish people- their enslavement in Egypt.



We all know the story: The Jewish people were enslaved in Egypt for hundreds of years until G-d sent Moshe, the people's redeemer and shepherd, the take them out. The pivitol moment in Moshe's life was when he encountered the burning bush, a revelation of G-d that informed him of his need to return to Egypt. When Moshe asks G-d "when I come to the children of Israel and I say to them, 'the G-d of your fathers sent me to you,' and they say to me, 'what is His Name?' what shall I say to them?", G-d responds "Ehyeh asher ehyeh (I am that I am)". When we think about the question that Moshe was asking, it seems a bit odd: according to his question, Moshe had already said who it was that sent him, "the G-d of your fathers". Why did he need to ask what G-d's Name was if he already knew? To illucidate this, let's take Rashi's commentary on G-d's response; according to Rashi, "Ehyeh asher ehyeh" doesn't refer to a name of G-d at all, but a statement: "I will be with them in their present time of need, just as I will be with them at the time of future persecution". The key here is consistency, that I am here for you now just as I will be in the future. Even if we take "Ehyeh asher ehyeh" as a Name of G-d, there is something to learn. It is known that a name of G-d actually refers to a Divine attribute; one name corresponds to judgement, another to mercy, etc. In light of all this information, we can now understand Moshe's question: "what will I tell the Jewish people when they ask me what Name i.e. what attribute of G-d, is this that would let us suffer in Egypt for so long? The answer: I am with you now just as I have always been. This applies to us as well, while we are in golus, G-d is with us just as consistently. However, while this is all well and good, one cannot help but wonder why, if G-d is always with us, does He allows us to suffer?

An answer can be found in G-d's response. After He says "Ehyeh asher ehyeh", G-d then tells Moshe that "Havyah (a Name of G-d)...has sent me to you. This is My eternal Name," The Divine Name Havyah, a Name connotating Mercy, is spelled with a yud, a hei, a vov, and a hei. l'olam, the hebrew word for 'eternal', is usually spelled with a vov, and yet in this passage the vov is missing. What we can learn from this is that G-d's Mercy, while being there, is hidden from us during the exile. Sometimes, a person can feel isolated, lost on the empty gray road of life, alone in a room void of light. We get upset at G-d, blaming Him for all of the misfortune to befall us, only to forget Him when times get better.

This is also another reason for G-d's response of "Ehyeh asher ehyeh": "I am what I am, I am not ashamed to be who I am, so please accept me for that even if you might not understand all of my motivations. I'm consistent; I love you and I never change, so although you may percieve your situation as meaningless suffering, please understand that I am there, in that moment of melancholy, that stinging bitter pain that threatens to cripple your heart. I want you to let Me, Me in all that I am, into your life to give your perspective and to heal. I want you to step outside of the four walls of your own situation, go beyond yourself and find the inner meaning within your pain, transcend your suffering and see it from a higher perspective. The bad times that you are experiencing may just be the birth pangs of something incredibly good. This is what we are supposed to do in golus. We are having a conversation; when the lights go out in the room, we need to trust that Hashem is still there listening. All we need to do is continue speaking our hearts and trust that He will respond. Have a liberating week.
With all my love,
Zach

Torah blog of the week: Exile and strength

Lately, I've had a dilemma. It's not neccesarily something that I expected, yet at the same time, many people kept reminding me that it would happen. I fought it, I prepared for it, but lately it's been getting the better of me. This dilemma isn't universal thought of, at least not in the sense of it being at the forefront of everyone's mind. Not many people understand it, I can't say that I completely understand it myself even though I know that it's there. It often remains unspoken, sometimes deliberately so, remaining as the large pink elephant in the room, quietly brushing its tail and shuffling its massive feet while we try to avoid it. Sometimes we recognize its presence in the form of a brief existential moment, a "wool removed from the eyes" sort of feeling that we get at the most random times, only to lapse back into a lucid dream. It's called golus- exile- and whether we know it or not, it affects us constantly. It's the state of the world where G-dliness isn't openly revealed, where the knowledge of G-d is put into question, and even the most evident truths are doubted. In place of this massive hole, a "reality" of empty materialism and meaningless hedonism is constructed; a world where instant gratification holds sway over our emotions and the animal in us remains supreme. If only we could break out from our self-constructed prisons, cure ourselves of this perpetual Stockholm syndrome, take some advice from the sages and realize that we are as dreamers, then perhaps, with a little glimpse of light like the sun breaking through the horizon, the elephant would disappear and we could all breath a little easier.

Why do I say that it's my dilemma? If this is something that afflicts the global community, then why do I single myself out? Because a little over a week ago, I left my yeshiva on David Yellin Street in Jerusalem, my cacoon of Torah learning, to head back to the States for a month-long visit. While this may not seem like that long of a time and while I'm incredibly happy to be with my family and friends, it's been giving me a taste of what the "real world" is and what to expect from it. I had mentally prepared myself to have difficulty with my focus and my Torah learning, with the flow of inspiration, yet it wasn't until living it that I was able to realize a hard-to-swallow truth: it will always be this way to a certain extent. We cannot pretend like the "real world" doesn't exist and hide away in our books, tucked away in the little corner of the room. We have our familes, relationships, jobs, politics, hardships, life. Life isn't about being in the bubble, it's about recognizing that the bubbles exist- both the bubble of yeshiva and the bubble of the real world- and being able to interact in them while not being tied down by them. It's about gathering strength so that we can take care of the task at hand, These past two parshas have really spoken to me intimately on this topic and, hopefully, it will speak to you as well.

In last week's parsha, Joseph was reunited with his father, Jacob. This was especially evident in my life since I was reunited with parents after a six month leave from home. In this week's parsha, the theme seems to be all about one thing: strengthening ourselves for the golus. One example of this is in the blessing that Jacob bestows upon Joseph's sons, Menashe and Ephraim. In a few parshas back, the Torah commented on why Joseph decided on those two names: Menashe was because "G-d has caused me to forget (NaSHaNi) all my hardships and all that was in my father's house." (Gen. 41:51) while Ephraim was because "G-d has made me fruitful (hiFRani) in the land of my subjugation." (ibid. 52) Menashe's name refers to Joseph's longing to leave Egypt (exile) and return to his "father's house" (liberation) while Ephraim's name refers to our mission in exile that we need to carry out (made me fruitful). Although Menashe is the first born and should have been blessed first, Jacob decided to bless Ephraim first instead. What we learn from this is two things: firstly the fact that Menashe is the first born means that we must feel out of place in the exile; we need to recognize that while we may have a whole life set up here, there is still the absence of G-d's revelation in this world, which means that the world has yet to reach its perfected state; and secondly, the fact that Ephraim was the first to be blessed means that our primary focus must be on fulfilling our mission and suceeding in our Divine service.

What exactly is our mission? It's hinted to in the end of the parsha and the end of Genesis, the first book of the Torah. On Shabbos when we read the Torah out loud, when we finish a book in the Torah it is customary to say "Chazak! Chazak! V'nischazek!" (Be strong! Be strong! And may we be strengthened!) At the end of Genesis, Joseph passes away and is interned in Egypt, so why, if the book ends on such a depressing note, would we celebrate by saying "chazak"? There are two reasons for this, one obvious and one less obvious. The first is that this is the last parsha before the book of Exodus, the retelling of the Jews enslavement in Egypt. By saying "chazak" we are strengthening ourselves for the exile ahead, reminding ourselves of the promise of liberation. The second and less obvious idea deals with the life of Joseph. While Joseph was alive he rose to great power, becoming second in command to Pharoah. By his body remaing in Egypt, it is symbolic of Joseph's greatness remaining with the Jewish people and ultimately, of our mastery over the golus.

So what does this tell us about our mission? That we must strengthen our convictions and be able to not just survive in the golus, but to thrive. Joseph didn't just live his life in Egypt, he amassed immense wealth and eventually came to rule it. So too with us: we must be able to draw the spiritual wealth out from the golus, to realize the endless amount of light hidden in the illusory darkness. For weeks I've tried to write words in this blog that would strengthen my friends, people that a different points in time were outside of the yeshiva within themselves, outside of their personal Jerusalem. Now that I find myself in a similar situation, in a place where I'm in need of strengthening, I've realized the importance of this week's lesson. It takes a bit of bitachon (trust in G-d) to believe that we're always here for a reason no matter where we are. Though we may feel out of place and lacking in the fulfillment of our duties, it's important to realize that we are here for a reason, whether it be one seemingly random good deed, a person that is in need of a single charitable act, or the worried heart of a friend that requires easing. If we can come to the realization that we are constantly reconstructing our purpose and meaning in life, then the dilemma will disappear; the exile both within the world and within ourselves will be no more than a memory fading away into abstraction, a dream lost in a vacuous haze. Here's to finding our purpose in the exile and to a speedy redemption from it.
With all my love,
Zach

Special Holiday Blog: The Miracle of Chanukah

Shalom everyone! I'm sorry for not posting last week, things have been quite busy over here at the yeshiva. This week, instead of posting a blog on the weekly Torah parsha, I'd like to talk about Chanukah, specifically the miracle that took place over two thousand years ago and how it is still relevant in our lives.

Most people know the basic story: during the time of the Second Temple, the Greeks began their campaign of conquest in Israel through assimilation. Their mission was simple: deconstruct any sort of religious Jewish identity, forcing the Greek customs and society upon the local Jews. Although many brave Jews who stood by their convictions were forced to become martyrs, the battle being fought was essentially a spiritual one; it was to wipe out the Jewish nation off of the spiritual map. They did this by prohibiting certain practices such as a bris (ritual circumcision), the study of Torah as a religious text, and even forced the sacrifice of pigs on the ritual alter. Hope seemed to be completely gone, when a militia of soldiers called the Hashmoneans led by Matisyahu (later on to be led by Judah Maccabee), challenged the Greeks head on. Although the odds were completely against them winning, it was their spirit of fearless self-sacrifice that led to their victory.

Now this would seem like a good enough reason for a commemorative celebration, yet the event most spoken of in connection to Chanukah is the miracle of the oil. After reclaiming and purifying the Temple, the Hashmoneans, wanting to light the menorah in dedication, were sadly disappointed to find that all of the oil had been made impure except for one jug, a jug that still had the unbroken seal of the high priest protecting it. They decided to light it anyway and, to their shock, the oil that should have lasted for only one night lasted for eight nights. These two accounts- the victory over the Greeks and the oil- form the collective narrative of the miracle of Chanukah. Something that seems a bit puzzling though is why they're connected. Let's "shed some light" on the subject.

In chasidic philosophy, oil is symbolic of kodesh (holy). According to Judaism, kodesh doesn't just mean "holy", but it also signifies "separateness". By having something separate from everything else, it keeps it special, pure, and untouched. However, there's another aspect of kodesh that seems to be the complete opposite, the idea that it permeates everything, adding infinite depth to seemingly finite things. This idea of kodesh is paralleled perfectly with oil: oil, when mixed with most other liquids such as water, will separate and float on top (remember those 3rd grade science projects?). Oil can also saturate, the exact opposite of separateness. What is it that the Greeks were fighting against? It was the kodesh found in Judaism, the holiness that pervaded the study of Torah, the practice of rituals, and the loftiness of G-dly things i.e. the sacrificial alter. This is why the jugs of oil were made impure, because the Greeks had done all that they could to spiritually eradicate the soul of Judaism (the G-dly element of Torah), leaving only an empty body (a dry and lifeless academic approach). Their best wasn't good enough since there was that one jug of pure oil that had the unbroken seal.

The importance of this jug cannot be expressed enough, yet before going into it, it's important to understand what it was that the Greeks in this story stood for. The Greeks were considered to be the pinnacle of logic and philosophy; open up any philosophy text book and you have the Greeks to thank for their foundations. While they provided us with an absolutely amazing body of knowledge, it was this hyper-rational approach, of the supremacy of the human intellect, that could not understand the supra-rational beliefs of Judaism, the idea that there is something outside of the four corners of our heads that we will never be able to grasp or understand. This is why they were so against the Jewish practices and beliefs: because, just like the oil comes to permeate everything, the supra-rational kodesh permeated Judaism. The main idea of supra-rationality in Torah is this: although G-d made Torah so that we can understand certain concepts and commandments, our finite understanding of them will never be able the reach the infinite understanding of G-d; the two understandings are completely different orders. With this understanding, any human-given reason for the commandments pales in comparison to that of G-d's and it is because of this that the driving force behind observance of commandments is that they are G-d given. In simple terms, where reason ends, faith begins and not only that, but the faith encompasses the reason as well. This was a concept that the Greeks could neither appreciate or understand, which led to such a fierce conflict between the two opposing sides of Greeks and the Jews.

This brings us to the last jug of oil. What is the significance of its finding? The oil represented a level of holiness untouched, a level of the soul that can never be destroyed, a level that will always remain kodesh and pure even in the face of the fiercest adversity, the level where the soul is most connected to G-d. This is the level with which the Hashmoneans fought the Greeks. We now see why it was possible for there to be such an underdog victory: the Hashmoneans were few and their weaponry not nearly as advanced as the Greeks, yet their secret weapon was a spiritual one, a supra-rational faith in G-d's Will and a spirit of self-sacrifice that washed over the Hellenistic rationality. This is the why the fire burned for as long as it did, because it was a fire connected to the infinite light of G-d. The Greek campaign of assimilation and spiritual destruction was a darkness so black that it threatened to swallow up the spark of the Jewish soul. However, when that tiny spark touch the surface of an endless supply of "oil", a vast infinite sea of G-dliness and truth, that the spark transformed into an all-consuming fire, fighting off the darkness and even turning that very darkness into light.

This concept, the victory of light over the darkness, is especially important in our lives. This world is filled with a darkness that we know all too well. Our lives can often feel empty without a meaning or purpose for existence. Depression often creeps upon us, smothering us and snuffing out our spark. We've tried materialism and its proven to only increase the depth of the darkness. We've tried hedonistic indulgence, and yet deeper still. Stumbling around this world like someone in a room deprived of all light, we sometimes have the fortune to come into contact with a random, lone candle. It is up to us what happens next: either we let it pass us by and we continue on in our blind journey, or we do something, taking the initiative; we grasp the candle in our hand and kindle more candles, slowly increasing the small collection of candles into a steadily building flame. Once we do that, it won't be long until the room becomes illuminated, clearly showing us it's true nature. A world once thought to be completely lost in darkness will suddenly be revealed to have merely been hiding the beauty that was there all along.
Happy holidays and with all my love,
Zach

Torah blog of week: wrestling with our past

Shalom everyone! This week's parsha is especially moving and dramatic. In it, we see a development of the complex character of Jacob as well as the unfolding of many important events in his life. One event in particular that stands out is one that, with a little bit of delving deep, can apply to all of our lives and that is his wrestling match with the angel.

We find Jacob at the beginning of the parsha preparing to meet his brother, Esau, whom he hasn't seen in many years. The last time he and Esau were together was when they were much younger and it wasn't necessarily the most pleasant experience; Jacob had bought Esau's first born birthright for a bowl of lentil soup and then later took Isaac's blessing for Esau through deceit. At this point in his life, Jacob was much older, having gone through much growth, learning, and hardship. It was years since the events of the past that tore the sibling relationship apart and now, after much time and change, he was going to meet with him again face to face. It was the night before his meeting with Esau; Jacob sent his family ahead of him while he stayed behind to collect up a few things. It is then that without warning, a stranger came and attacked him.

The stranger, according to Jewish tradition, was Esau's guardian angel. The two wrestled all night, tirelessly persisting in the struggle. The angel struck Jacob in the hip, yet Jacob still continued to fight. Once the sun began to rise, the angel told Jacob to let him go, yet Jacob refused to stop fighting unless the angel blessed him. The angel finally granted Jacob his wish saying "No longer shall your name be called Jacob; rather, Israel shall be your name. For you have struggled with G-d and with men, and you have prevailed" (Gen. 32:29) When asked his own name by Jacob, the angel doesn't tell him and then, after this seemingly random conflict, leaves.

It's interesting to note that the angel was Esau's guardian angel. Jacob was incredibly worried for the reunion with Esau; he had prayed to G-d, begging him to have mercy on him and on his family that Esau would not cause them any harm. The fight with the angel was merely an outward manifestation of the larger battle going on within himself. Not only was Jacob struggling with his past, but he was also struggling with himself. We see this reflected in his change of name. A name can have a tremendous amount of meaning in one's identity. Jacob's name in hebrew, Ya'akov, is related to the word eikev, meaning "heel". For all of Jacob's life, he had to deal with the lowest aspects of himself and his surroundings. A heel, which supports the body on top of it, also deals with the mud and the dirt. When Jacob had the name Jacob, he had a tremendous internal support system to get him through some of the lowest, most difficult times of his life. Israel, on the other hand, is a name given to Jacob after he has struggled with G-d and men; he was able to overcome all of his struggles and come out victorious.

How does this apply to our life? When looking back on our lives, it's every easy to see blemishes in our past and to get bogged down by them. We can often get depressed, pushing negative memories further and further back in the recesses of our mind. We turn on ourselves, treating ourselves lower and with more malice than we would our worst enemies. We're hit where it hurts the most, in our foundation. We tell ourselves that we are empty, worthless, nothing. There comes a time, however, when you have to deal with your past, whether it was something bad that you did and now regret, a traumatic experience, or negative character traits. Sometimes we have to go to the lowest points in ourselves, yet it is in these moments that we may also find the most strength to move on. Once we've overcome the struggle and gotten past our weaknesses, it is then that we will have become a new person, one who struggled with G-d (asking as many "hows" and whys" as we can) and with men (our internal demons) and won (at peace with G-d and living a life free of worries and anxieties). We can all fight this fight; if we don't start it now, then sooner or later, it will start up with us. Take the initiative, dig your wells deep, draw up your strength when you need it, and fight your battles wisely. Have a victorious day.
With all my love,
Zach

Torah blog of the week: Rocking out with G-d

Shalom everyone! In this week's parsha, parshas Vayeitzei we finally shift focus to one of the central figures in the entire Torah, Jacob. Jacob is known for many things: wrestling with the angel, producing the twelve tribes, and holding the title of what is considered to be the father of Am Yisrael, the Jewish people. Jacob is also an incredibly deep and complex character, full of inner struggle and turmoil, and yet champion of many victories as well. In the beginning of the parsha, we are provided with a rather fitting introduction that sets the character for the third a final patriarch of the Jewish people.

Jacob had just left his family in Beersheba to head for his Uncle's hometown of Charan. On his way there, Jacob found a place where he prayed to G-d and decided to spend the night. He gathered some rocks together, placed them around his head and one under his head for a pillow, and then fell asleep. It was during the course of his sleep that Jacob experienced a dream that would change the course of his life from that point on. In the dream there was a ladder standing firmly on the ground with its top reaching up toward heaven and angels ascending and descending on it. G-d appeared to him, telling him of the covenant between him and G-d, promising him offspring as numerous as the dust of the earth, and telling him not to fear the future. When Jacob awoke, he realized the awesome power of the place where he slept and to honor G-d, he placed the stone upon which he slept as a monument, poured oil on it, and took a vow declaring "If G-d will be with me; and will protect me on the journey that I am undertaking, and will give me bread to eat and clothing to wear; and I return to my father's house untainted; and G-d will be my G-d, then this stone that I have set up as a monument will become a house of G-d." (Gen. 28:20-22)

What is there to learn from this incredibly symbolic encounter? The stones set up around Jacob's head were there to protect him from wild animals. What is a stone? It is inanimate and unconscious matter, the concept of being humble, with no sense of self. What are the animals that Jacob was trying to protect himself from? His base, animalistic drives for physicality and self-seeking motivations. This indicates the strength of humility, a state of being which essentially downplays the importance of selfhood and brings perspective to your place in the world; we realize that we aren't as great as we make ourselves out to be some (*cough* most *cough*) of the time. These are lessons that help and protect us at any time on our journey through life.

The stones also symbolize the supra-rational approach to G-d. If you base your belief of G-d upon your emotions, then you are subjectively assessing something which is inherently objective. If you base your belief upon your intellect, then you are only allowing G-d to be as big as your head can contain. If we want G-d to be the constant in our life, the "rock" upon which we can rely, then we must approach G-d, at least fundamentally, with a supra-rational approach, something that is far beyond our finite limitations and understandings (I don't mean to say that emotions and intellect aren't important. In fact, Jewish tradition has always encouraged striving to understand G-d through intellect and emotions, it must however have the foundation of supra-rationality).

Another idea connected to the rock is the idea of the monument. We see that the rock played more of an important than just protecting Jacob, it actually came to symbolize his covenant with G-d and the promise of the Jewish people being the land of Israel, in the House of G-d in particular. We learn from this that where Jacob slept for the night was on Mount Moriah, the very location that his father had almost been sacrificed and where the future Temple was to be built. There is another lesson to be learned from Jacob's monument that is telling of Jacob's character as a whole. Why did Jacob choose a simple rock to express his immense and intense spiritual connection to Hashem? By using a rock, Jacob was vowing to take even the lowliest and most materialistic aspects of his life and transform them into G-d's home. That rock would become the foundation of the Beit haMikdash, the dwelling place or House of G-d, in the future. It was no coincidence that Jacob dreamt of angels accending and descending on the ladder. This ladder was Jacob's connection to G-d, a connection consisting of elevating the physical to the spiritual and drawing down G-dliness into this world.

One final important lesson comes from when Jacob poured oil onto the top of the rock, consecrating it as an alter (Rashi 31:13). The spirit of the Jewish people have always been likened to olive oil. When extracting olive oil, the more a person crushes the olive, the more oil comes out. There is a reason why the Jewish people have made it through generations upon generations of hate, hardship, and opression; the more you try to break us, the more "Jewish spirit" is released, a spiritual energy that fuels our passions and drives us to not only survive, but to thrive. When Jacob stopped to sleep for the night, he was on his way to his uncle, Lavan, a wicked man who cheated Jacob and made things very hard on him. This hardship directly corresponds to this very concept for we see that even though life was hard for Jacob, he spiritually and materially prospered, siring twelve sons who would eventually go on to become the twelve tribes of Israel. This prospering is like the oil squeezed from the crushed olive. By pouring oil on the rock, Jacob was making a fundamental statement about the connection between the Jewish people and Hashem: that even when we're in the hardest and darkest times we will never be detered from our relationship with Hashem or abandoned by Him.

What we learn from this is a simple, yet powerful message: we must have the humility to see ourselves within the bigger picture. If we protect ourselves from our animalistic drives that try to tell us we are all that matters and that this world is a "what we see is what we get" sort of place, then we will be able to understand our purpose: to elevate the seemingly mundane into holiness. It's never easy, in fact it's a constant battle, but when we're under pressure, that is when our true essence will shine. If we can find within ourselves, within others, and within the world around us that unmoving rock of strength and faith, then we will be able to ascend higher and higher on Jacob's ladder, a ladder that will elevate our lives and ultimately bring Heaven down to Earth. Have an elevated day.
With all my love,
Zach

Torah blog of the week: Drawing from the well of inner strength

There's a challenge that we're constantly faced with everyday. This challenge, whether we recognize it or not, it plays an incredibly powerful role in our lives. It's the challenge of finding inner meaning and strength. When a person takes a step back and takes a good honest look at themselves and the lives which they have played out, it doesn't take long for them to realize how incredibly complex this thing we call "existence" is. This "existence", in fact, can get so complex that we can often consciously and subconsciously decide to ignore it, to shy away from the challenge of seeking meaning, an ultimate purpose, a task which binds us all together. We are capable of living out our lives and never once having a true taste of existence merely based on the fact that such a concept scares us senseless. So instead, we set up a "puppet life", a scenario with which to play out our time, to shield us from what's really going on around us; a candle-lit cave of shadow puppets distracting us from the sun-lit meadow outside. The Torah, on the other hand, rejects such ideas. It seeks for humanity to take a good look at world around them, to question all that they perceive and know. It offers parables and analogies with which to understand Divine knowledge, consciousness, and mission. It also provides the tools with which to generate changes and maintain sources of strength we never thought possible. This week's parsha is an example of such resources.

This week's parsha, parshas Toldos (generations) shows us the life of Isaac in the wake of his parent's passing and in his marriage to his wife, Rebecca. It also shows us the birth of his two sons, Jacob and Esau, and the beginning of the conflict that ensues between the brothers. We see Isaac maintaining a covenant with G-d and continuing his father's work, a fundamental foundation in the family life of the patriarchs and matriarchs. All of these events of the help explain it's title, Toldos (generations); these are the records of history, strength, and tradition being passed down through the mantle of generations. It's interesting, then, to see that the majority of Isaac's work was going back and redoing everything that his father had done, all the while carrying on his father's mission.

What's interesting about Isaac, however, is that while he carries on what his father started, he is in many ways the exact opposite of Abraham: his father went out and sought followers while Isaac never made any attempts to, his father traveled across many different lands while Isaac remained in the land of Israel. In kabbalistic and chassidic traditions, Abraham is often likened to the Divine attribute of kindness while Isaac to severity; Abraham was all about going out into the world and spread Divine consciousness while Isaac remained in isolation, taking the time to mediate in the fields of his land and work on himself. In this comparison we see the two fundamental paths of avodah (spiritual service) that a person can have: a person can be inspired and spread that inspiration, going out to help people, seeking the welfare of others and constantly making sacrifices (Abraham) or they can focus on self-refinement, laying the ground work of discipline, constantly seeking to go further and further into their core from which they can pull out essential strength. This is reflected in a task that Abraham and Isaac both undertook: digging wells.

What is a well? A well is a deeply dug hole in the ground that allows those using it to pull up water that was once concealed. This is the idea of self refinement, of digging down into ourselves past the mud and rock (spiritual dirt) and finding a wellspring of strength from which to draw. When Abraham dug his wells, they were filled up with soil by the Philistines. The hebrew root for Philistine is "pey-lamed-shin" (these are the sounds of the hebrew letters), meaning "to penetrate" or "to break through borders". This is likened to the boundless, ungoverned hedonism, the ultimate act of break boundaries and rules set up to maintain conscientious and thoughtful existence. It is this obsession with the tangible, felt existence of imagined, puppet reality. By the Philistines filling up Abraham's wells it shows that while Abraham was great at inspiring others, his method of spreading Divine consciousness didn't seek to draw the goodness and inspiration from within others. Isaac's, on the other hand, re dug his father's wells and the Philisitines were unable to fill them in. This was Isaac's method: to force people to confront their psychological stumbling blocks, dig deep down through the layers of history, of emotional scars and hang-ups. Where Abraham's message to a person would be "come and quench your thirst from the holy waters of G-d" Isaac's would be "let those waters strengthen you for the task ahead. Get down into the dirt, start digging, and, with much diligence and determination, you will find the holy waters within yourself and never be thirsty again."

These are the two forces that govern our lives. Sometimes we feel inspired. This is good; we use it to motivate ourselves to keep going and to reach out to help others. This is a very necessary path of avodah in our lives, otherwise we would only care about ourselves. However, we must be able to help ourselves before we can help others, to constantly keep seeking to refine ourselves until we discover the wellspring of our inner essence. In this weeks parsha it refers to the well as "mayim chaim", living waters. May we all have the tools and strength necessary to be able to dig deep into ourselves, draw out the living water, and quench the thirst of others. Have a focused day.
with all my love,
Zach

Torah Blog of the week: The Righteous Jewish Mothers

Shalom everyone! Things have been great here in Israel. It's been relatively quiet; the major holidays have come and gone and now it's time for the long stretch of learning. Now is the time to buckle down and be persistent in the pursuit of goals, to constantly take a little baby step every day until you've covered good ground. I have a sizable amount of material to learn as my goal and a fairly good amount of time to accomplish it. Along with the extended period of time, however, comes feelings such as monotony, frustration, and, yes, even a bit of homesickness. It is because of this that I'd like to dedicate this weeks Torah blog to my Mother who's back in the States and who I miss tremendously; I find this to be a fairly fitting parsha since it deals with righteous Jewish mothers (Funny thing that it doesn't mention Jewish guilt! :-P)

This week's parsha is parshas Chaya Sarah, also known as "the life of Sarah". Sarah , as you might recall, is the wife of Abraham and mother of Isaac. She was always a constant support for her husband in all of his endeavours, as well as an incredibly caring mother to her son. We begin the parsha, however, with her death, an interesting way to start a parsha that seems, based on the title, to be all about her life! While this may seem like one big mix-up, if we take a closer, we will see how it couldn't a more fitting title. The bulk of the parsha deals with the search for a wife for Isaac; Sarah has just passed away and Abraham realizes that he too will not be around forever. It is because of this, coupled with the fact that Isaac is to be the next torchbearer of G-d's message, that Abraham feels it proper to send his servant, Eliezer, on a journey to find a woman for Isaac to marry. This is the meaning of this story on the simple level, yet on a deeper level, they were looking for the next Sarah, someone to continue on with her life's work, a woman holy and pure enough to be on the same level that the first matriarch was on.

If we take a closer look at different points in the story, we will be able to see the affects that Sarah's life had on the search for the next matriarch. Firstly, the way in which Eliezer found Isaac's future wife, Rebecca, tells a bit about Rebecca's pure character. In his journey, Eliezer finds a well where prays to G-d; he prays that if a maiden approaches the well and offers water for his camels, then she is the right wife for Isaac, a prayer that sees fulfillment. Her compassion for animals is telling of her status as a "rose among thorns"; Rebecca's family was coarse and still had some idolatrous practices, while Rebecca was a kind person and dedicated monotheist. A deeper interpretation of this shows how holy Rebecca truly was. Water is often a metaphor for Torah so that fact that she is portrayed as drawing water from a well, from the earth, indicates that she was able to find and draw Torah from the physicality of this world. This parallels one of the major traits of Sarah.

A second event that directly indicates a connection between Sarah and Rebecca is the marriage of Isaac to her. The verse says "Isaac brought her (Rebecca) into the tent of his mother, Sarah. He married Rebecca, and she became his wife, and he loved her. Isaac was then consoled for the loss of his mother." (Ber. 24:67) Rashi brings a commentary on the verse indicating that when Rebecca entered into the tent, she became the image of Sarah, his mother. Whether this is to be taken metaphorically or literally is besides the point. What matters most is what Rashi says next; there were certain miraculous that happened in/around the tent when Sarah was alive: a candle burned in the tent from Friday to Friday, a blessing was constantly in the dough for bread, and a cloud hung over the tent, a sign of Divine protection. When Sarah died, these miracles ceased and when Rebecca entered into the tent, they returned. This shows that Rebecca was indeed to right choice to carry on the role of Sarah, matriarch of the Jewish people. But what exactly made Sarah so righteous?

The first verse of the parsha reads as follows: "The lifetime of Sarah consisted of one hundred years, twenty years, and seven years. [These were] the years of Sarah's life." (Ber. 23:1) Here's the question: why not just say 127 years? Why spell it out with first the hundreds then the twenty and then the seven? Also, why repeat that these were the years of Sarah's life? Rashi brings a commentary on the verse to say that by ordering the numbers from highest to lowest, it shows that even when she was an old woman, Sarah appeared to have the beauty of youth both in the physical and the spiritual sense. He also says that by repeating "the years of Sarah's life", it indicates that all of her years were equally good. The Lubavitcher Rebbe comes with a wonderful chassidic interpretation on this Rashi. In Chassidic philosophy, hundred refers to the supra-rational (pleasure & will), twenty refers to intellect(there are two tens; ten corresponds to the intellect and there are two major faculties of intellect i.e. wisdom and understanding), and seven refers to the intellect (one corresponds to emotion and there are, all together, seven faculties of emotion i.e. kindness, severity, etc.) By spelling all of this out, the Rebbe comes to say that she had equally lived up to her supra-rational, intellectual, and emotional capabilities. To drive this point even further, "the years of Sarah's life" allegorically means that all of her soul-powers were permeated with what is called yechida, a certain level of the soul that connects to the transcendent consciousness of G-d.

That all being said, what is there to learn from this interpretation? Finite beings, like Sarah, can only affect their emotions, intellect, and will. When we give over our selfhood and ego to a loftier and transcendent self, then we step outside of ourselves and are in fact no longer limited by our boundaries and restrictions. However, before we can live on such a high level, we must first perfect our conscious soul-powers, practicing self-restraint, compassion, intelligence, understanding, and constantly striving to better ourselves. We may not be selfless by nature, yet by keeping the ultimate goal of selflessness in mind, everything we do has a great purpose, thrust, and affect on ourselves and on those around us. This, and much more, have we learned from our matriarchs past, a tradition of righteous Jewish mothers, a tradition that still goes on to the present. Have an inspired day.
With all my love,
Zach

Torah blog of the week: the ultimate test

Shalom everyone! I hope that last week's parsha post found you well and provided you with as much inspiration as the parsha itself provided me with. This week's parsha is parshas Vayeira, the second half of Avraham's journey, a journey that culminates with what is considered in the Jewish tradition to be the ultimate test: the akeidah, the binding of Isaac.

The way the narrative goes, G-d appeared to Avraham and told him to take Isaac, his son, to the land of Moriah where he was to offer him up as a sacrifice on one of the mountains that G-d would show him. In a literary sense, we can now see what G-d meant at the beginning of parshas Lech Lecha when He told Avraham to leave everything behind and go to a land that He would show him; this was the end of Avraham's journey, the pinnacle of all he had worked for. What G-d was essentially telling Avraham to do was to take everything that he had stood and worked for, bind it upon the alter, and give it all up. It was the ultimate form of self-sacrifice. We see that Avraham was ready to follow through on G-d's request; he brought Isaac up to the top of Mount Moriah where he prepared him for the sacrifice. Avraham, however, never did physically sacrifice his son. An angel of G-d came and prevented him from carrying the act out. An interesting question arises from this statement: if Avraham didn't actually sacrifice Isaac in the end, then why did the angel say that he did not withhold his son? One could say that he was prepared to give it all up, yet then the verse could have easily said "since you would not have withheld your son from Me." In order to answer this question, we must first look at the examples of Avraham's previous sacrifices.

The first sacrifice that Avraham made to G-d was in the Plain of Moreh. G-d appeared to Avraham and told him that He would give the land to his (Avraham's) offspring. The second sacrifice was given in Bethel. Avraham built an alter and made a sacrifice there without G-d's appearing to him; he invoked G-d and was able to prophetically see a future sin that his descendents would commit there. A third alter was then built in Hebron, the city in which the Patriarchs and Matriarchs (with the except of Rachel) would be buried. It was a sacrifice that was purely out of love for G-d. These three alters parallel the three basic forms of Temple sacrifice: the peace offering to "inspire" G-d to provide us with sustenance (G-d telling Avraham that He will give Avraham the land), the sin offering to atone for transgressions (the future transgression of Avraham's descendents), and an ascent offering to express love for G-d (Hebron). Indeed, we see another sacrifice after these three that both alludes to and supports the idea of future Temple sacrifice. Let's see how they all finally culminate in the binding of Isaac.

I said before that Avraham never did physically sacrifice Isaac, but this does not mean that he did not spiritually. The moment that Avraham raised the knife to slaughter his son, he had killed him in his heart. He was merely moments away from actualizing this sacrifice, yet was prevented from doing so. What took Isaac's place? There was a ram that Avraham found caught in the thicket by its horns. Symbolically, Avraham took the sacrifice of Isaac and enclothed it within an animal. From then on, sacrifice took on a completely new meaning, as a stand-in offering where we should really be. The type of sacrifice that is required of us, though, is not physical; G-d showed this to us through the akeidah. Rather, G-d suddenly asked of humanity to push itself beyond its limits in order to do what was right, to give up the blindness of idolatry and embrace the brilliant all-embracing light of G-d. This new recontextualization of sacrifice was realized in its full potential with the building of the Temple in Jerusalem. (It's interesting to note that the Temple was built at the very location that Avraham bound Isaac).

The Temple, however, with all of its glory and daily sacrifices, is gone, a recollection of the past. So then the million dollar question is "how does this all apply to me today?" We pray. After the destruction of the Second Temple, prayer became a replacement for sacrifice. When we pray, we are supposed to offer up the animal inside of us; our pride, envy, anger, hate, arrogance, all of the things that characterize a symbolic idolatry. When a person has these negative feelings, they are consumed within themselves, so much so that they could forget about G-d and think that they are the only thing that matters in this world. Prayer forces us to step outside of and to recognize something greater than ourselves. It keeps us in check with whats real, that we're all connected, that G-d cares about what happens in our lives, and that true change is possible.

Although this view of prayer is incredibly beautiful, it isn't the end result of sacrifice. For two thousand years, the Jewish people have yearned to return to the land of Israel. I can tell you from the personal experience of living here for several months the truth of that statement. Reality is more tangible here. You're aware of more things in life. I'm a half hour walk from the Western Wall, the site where the Temples stood and where the akeidah took place. You can experience G-d's presence here a bit more than anywhere else. The main reason why so many Jewish people throughout history have had this yearning is for the day when the daily sacrifice will resume, when the Third Temple, a house of prayer for all the nations, will be built, when the world will come together to praise, to labor, and to love together. Today, we may be seperate and scattered physically and spiritually, yet tomorrow, all of humanity will be truly united. Until that time, let's try to emulate tomorrow today in our thought, speech, and action; in our interactions with people and the way that we decide to live our lives. Once we start doing that, then we'll truly be able to finish the work that Avraham started thousands of years ago. May we see it speedily in our days.
With all my love,
Zach

Torah Blog of the Week: Abraham's Journey

Shalom everyone! This week's parsha is parshas Lech Lecha a.k.a. my bar mitzvah parsha! That's right, nine years ago this this coming Saturday, Yours Truly became a Jewish man! There's a ton of great memories that I have of that day: reading the musaf and haftarah, getting soft candies thrown at me by about fifty people, partying it up like a fool, and counting all of my presents! There is, however, one thing that I wish I had done a little better and that is my dvar Torah. I guess you could say that this week's Torah blog is my second chance, so put yourself back in time nine years at Temple Sinai and let's go!

Have you ever known something to be so true or have seen the truth while others around you were oblivious? Was this truth so antithetical to those in the society around you that the weight of it seemed almost too much to bare? Was one of the responsibilties of this truth the nearly impossible task of showing and teaching those around you of the universality of it's philosophy? This was the challenge of Abram (his name was later changed to 'Abraham' by Hashem). Abram lived in a time when idolatrous practices were the norm, when the concept of a One G-d was absurd, and even more absurd was the fact that this G-d had no shape or form. Many righteous people before Abram's time had known about this G-d, yet none of them had the courage or creativity necessary to resist and oppose the corruption of the surrounding culture, the heal to rift that had formed between Heaven and Earth. What set Abram apart from all of them and what eventually merited him to be known as the patriarch of Judaism was the fact that he was not fazed by society's depravity; in fact, he was inspired by it. He became an activist for G-d, going from place to place, pointing out the illogical views of idolators and teaching them about the universal message that G-d had to offer them. There was only one flaw in Abram's approach: it was still based on his own personal convictions and reasonings as opposed to Divine ones. In order for Abram to merit such an approach, he would have to embark on a journey, one filled with hardship, struggles, failures, and tests that would push him beyond all psychological and spiritual boundaries. It is in this parsha that we see the beginning of this journey with the first verse: "Hashem said to Abram, 'Go for yourself from your land, from your birthplace and from your father's house to the land that I will show you.'" (Ber. 12:1)

Now, there seems to be a contradiction in this story: In last week's parsha, we read that Terach (Abram's father) had already began the journey with his family, so why does the Torah need to repeat this to Abram? If one looks a little closer at the verse from last week's parsha where this is mentioned, they will notice a slight difference in the wording: "Terach took his son Abram,...and they departed with them from Ur-kasdim to go to the land of Cana'an; they arrived at Charan and they settled there." (Ber. 11:31) Notice that the central character is Terach and not Abram. This implies that the journey from Ur-kasdim to Cana'an was begun by Abram's father, Terach, and in this week's verse, Abram is the central character, implying an entirely seperate journey from Terach's. What could this mean? Perhaps what we're witnessing in the text is a "passing of the mantle", that the Terach had done all he could have done as Abram's father and now it was time for Abram to become to father of the future Jewish people. Indeed, we see in the last verse of last week's parsha that Terach dies in Charan, leaving Abram alone to decide where to go; this is when Hashem came into the picture as the new father figure and guiding force in Abram's life.

What exactly was Hashem asking Abram to do by going on this journey? He was, in a sense, asking him to leave everything. The Ramban (Rabbi Moses ben Nachman, 12th-13th century rabbi, philosopher, physicist, Kabbalist, and Biblical commentator) gives a great expounding on this verse: "...it is difficult for a man to leave his land, in which he dwells, where his loved ones and friends are. All the more so when it is the land of his birthplace, where he was born. And (even) all the more so when his father's entire household is there. Therefore, it was necessary to tell him that he should leave everything for the love of the Holy One, Blessed is He." (Art Scroll Ramban Ber. pg. 289) What we learn here is really quite remarkable; this journey that Abram was making was not only a physical journey, but a spiritual one as well. In order for Abram to become the "vessel" for monotheism, he had to leave his entire life behind him; the corruptive culture which he had grown up in, a trend of idolatry that he knew all too well since we learn from a Midrash that Abram's father, Terach, was an idol maker. Abram had to become a blank slate with which he could rewrite a new story.

To elaborate on the spiritual aspect of this journey, there is a remarkable chasidic interpretation taken from the Lubavitcher Rebbe (Likutei Sichot, vol. 2, pg. 659). In hebrew, the first words "lech lecha" are commonly translated as "go for you". However, the "l" in "lecha" can mean either "for" or "to". If we switch out the "for", then it would be translated as "go to you." This implies a sense of looking inward, discovering yourself, returning to your inner core. The Rebbe goes on to further explain that "from your land" means to transcend your earthly desires, desires such as materialism, vanity, hedonism, etc. "from your birthplace" means that one can accomplish this by overcoming their natural habits and inclinations i.e. questioning one's motivation for indulging in physical pleasures, for self-centeredness, anger, and jealousy. "from your father's house" means that one can accomplish this by transcending their intellectual limitations i.e. recognizing that we are limited, finite beings and that there is something much greater than us (G-d). Once we've recognized the fleetingness and flaws of our intellect, then we can attach ourselves to the greater intellect of Hashem, His Torah, in which he placed His perfect will and universal message for the World.

There is one final issue to address in the verse and that is the ending "to the land that I will show you." Abram not only had to physically and spiritually leave everything that he once knew behind, but he also had to do it with a perfect and simple faith that Hashem would show him the way. Abram's simple and unquestioning faith in Hashem is brought out in qualitatively and quantitatively greater amounts with each test Hashem gives him; it is one of the main weapons of defense against failure in his mission and journey. So to wrap up this week's blog, what can we learn from the plight of Abram and from this verse specifically? Change is never easy; we often get caught up in our "surroundings", where we've come from in life, where we are at in our journey. If one doesn't realize that they have legs as opposed to roots holding them down to the land, then they will never grow and move onto the life that they are meant to live. Petty problems such as anxiety, worries, and fears carried over from the past and into the future are like the different layers in the verse: not only was it Abram's land, but his birthplace, and also his father's house. All it took was for Hashem to tell Abram to take that first step and Abram embarked on the most important journey in the history of the world. Same thing is true with us; if we follow our calling and "go into ourselves", look deep within to the core of our essence, we can draw out the strength needed to break through our artifical boundaried, to take that first step from point A to point B. At point A, we can never imagine leaving, yet once we've reached point B, we can look back and laugh at all of the worries that we ourselves set up! Not only that, when you turn around from looking back at point A and look forward to where point C is, then you will know that you can continue on in your journey since you've already broken through the boundary of the first step. I wish you all an inspiring Shabbos and a fantastic journey.
With all my love,
Zach

Torah blog of the week: Noah's Ark

Shalom everyone! With the Jewish holidays ending, it seems that all of our inspiration is ending with it as well and that we are going back to the "normal and mundane" matters of life; however, as with many other things in life, the true test of dedication is to be able to preserve inspiration during the times and in the places that are seemingly void of it. AND SO with that, I'd like to start dedicating a blog for the weekly Torah portion, also refered to as a parshah, that we read in synagogues every week. Last week was Parshas Bereshis (the story of creation all the way up until the birth of Noah), which would make this week's parsah Parshas Noach, the story of the great Biblical flood and Noah's ark. While my knowledge of the Torah is limited, I'd like to share a little insight on the subject of the ark according to a lecture that I recently heard. Before we begin, I'd like to give a disclaimer to set aside any preconcieved ideas of nature, science, the laws of physics, history, etc. The reason for this is that in order to learn something properly, one needs to start with a clean slate. Much, if not all of what I'm about to say doesn't make sense and is seemingly impossible according to our established understandings, so in order to really get at what's being said, we need to be able to see past biases and to the core of the matter.

So most of us probably know the story of the flood: G-d saw that the world had become degenerate and immoral, that humanity had sunk to an incredibly low level and as a result, He (G-d) decided to destroy the world and start a new. There was, however, one person (Noah) who was considered righteous in that generation. G-d assigned him with the task of building an ark with which to preserve all life (animals two by two) during the flood so as to rebuild the post-flood world. Now if we understand the flood in the simple understanding, then the entire world was covered with water. However, with an interpretation through the lens of chassidus (a Jewish mystical philosophy) we can uncover much more about the flood, the nature of the ark, and ther ark's purpose during this turbulent time.

First the flood: It says in the Talmud (collection of Jewish rabbinic literature, law, philosophy, etc.) that "The Holy One, Blessed be He, said to Noah: 'fix precious stones and pearls so they will light up the Ark like noon!'" (Sanhedrin 208b). To compliment this, it is said somewhere else (sorry that I forgot) that during the flood, there was such utter chaos that the sun, moon, and stars stopped doing their job. So where did they go? Why, into the precious stones and pearls that illuminated the ark of course! (Side note: like I said at the beginning, try to suspend what you know and try to understand both a conceptual, as well as physical component to what was just said) Not only did the sun, moon, and stars stop working, but time stopped working as a result of this since there was no way to measure time. Infact, outside of the ark, all that really existed was water and fish (why the fish is a completely different story, I'd like to focus on the water). It says right towards the beginning of the Torah in Bereshis 1:2 "The earth was unformed and desolate, and darkness covered the surface of the abyss. The breath of G-d hovered above the surface of the water." What we can learn from these two ideas, that outside of the ark during the majority of the flood there was only water (no land) and that there was formless land and water at the beginning of creation, is that G-d had literally undone all of creation: there was no time, space, life, mass, etc.

Everything existed only within the ark much like a womb sustaining life. The Lubavitcher Rebbe (R'Menachem Mendel Schneerson) gave an analogy of a teacher and a student to help us understand the idea of the pre-flood world and the post-flood world. Before the flood, the relationship between G-d and the world was like a teacher who teaches and the student that has no ability to function on his own outside of the relationship. After the flood, the relationship changed because now the student could attain knowledge, could learn and absorb new things, with the ability to function on his own. What does this mean? Before the flood, the laws of nature were eratic; it was completely unstable. After the flood, G-d placed permanent laws of nature into place, the world could seemingly work on its own, as it says in the verse "All the days of the Earth, the planting and the harvest, the cold and the heat, the summer and the winter, day and night, they shall not cease." (Bereshis 8:21) What was the sign for this: the rainbow. What is a rainbow? When the sun's rays shine through the atmosphere and rain droplets to reveal the beautiful colors hidden within the light. Seemingly, before the flood there was no rainbow; the colors hidden in the light weren't revealed. But now because of covenant between G-d and Noah, there was the ability to reveal what was hidden before. On a physical level, since there were laws of nature, there could be science; we can test the laws of nature to reveal just exactly what the laws are, their parameters, what they entail, etc. To understand the more spiritual level, we must look at one final analysis of what life was like iniside the ark.

One of the most famous messianic prophecies is the one about the wolf lying down with the lamb, the idea of there being such peace that the predator and prey will get along. According to the Talmud it says "There are those who explain that in Moshiach's (Messianic) era, the nature of the wild animals and beast will change and will return to what was...in Noach's ark." What can we learn from this? That not only did all of the animals (herbivores, carnivores, and omnivores alike) get along, but that within the Ark, it was like a taste of Moshiach, a time when "the Earth will be full of knowledge of G-d, like water covers the sea." (Isaiah 11:9) Since we can understand the ark to be like a womb, an incredible parallel can be drawn between this section of Talmud and another section of Talmud. It says that when a baby is in the womb, "he is taught the entire Torah. However, as soon as he enters the air of this world, an angel comes and strikes him on his mouth, causing him to forget the entire Torah." (Niddah 20b) With a direct comparison, we can now understand that within the ark we were fully experiencing the reality of what Moshiach was, but as soon as we left the ark we completely forgot it!

How does this tie into the idea of the rainbow and revealing the hidden? We know that Noah and company were in the ark for a full year. We also know that the ark is likened to a womb and that, from a comparison to Niddah 20b, the time spent in the ark could be likened to a 12 month pregnancy. We also know (or at least you will know) that Elijah the prophet is the only character in the entire Bible to have had a 12 month pregnancy, meaning that his physicality had been extraordinarly refined, which allowed him to refine physicality during his life and to accend the Heaven in a physical body. With all of this information, we can now understand the connection: that in the post-flood world, the very nature of our existence is to reveal what is hidden in the world, to reveal what we knew and then forgot, the reality of Moshiach. How do we go about doing this? By refining the physical, by utilizing this world to reveal the G-dliness inherent within. It is only once we've accomplished this fully that we will truly be able to say that "the Earth will be full of knowledge of G-d, like water covers the sea." May we see it speedily in our days.
With all of my love,
Zach

Just traveling through...

Shalom everyone! These past several days has been the holiday of Sukkot, the Jewish harvest festival, a time when Jewish people around the world celebrate with festive meals and parties, extra prayers and songs, and the construction of huts called sukkahs. A sukkah is usually made with temporary materials (i.e. plywood and cornstalk roofs) and is a place where people eat, study, sleep, and just hang out in general. What exactly is the point of this seemingly random structure? In order to clarify this, I have a chasidic story that I heard on the first night of Sukkot to share with you all.
There was once a rich Russian merchant who heard of the Magid of Mezeritch, a very prominant rabbi and the second Chassidic rebbe, and decided to go on a trip to visit him in the next town over. When he knocked on the Magid's door and the Magid answered, the merchant saw that the inside of the house was bare of fancy furniture, aesthetic beauty, or luxuries. There was a chair, a desk, a bed, a table; incredible simple and humble. The merchant asked "Rabbi, I don't mean to be rude, but for such an illustrious man as yourself, where is all of your furniture?" The Magid smiled and answered "In your house, is there a lot of fancy furniture and luxuries?" The merchant nodded. "And now that you are in Mezeritch, do you have all of your furniture with you?" The merchant laughed and replied, "Not at all Rabbi, but I'm only just traveling through!" At the merchant's words, the Magid gave an "aha!" and replied "You see, I too am just traveling through. One day, I will finally come home and on that day, I hope that you will be able to come visit me and see how amazing it is."
What is this story supposed to mean? The Magid had a house, so why did he say that he was only traveling through? How is this story connected to Sukkot? As I said before, we build our sukkahs with temporary materials: flimsy plywood for the walls and brittle cornstalk for the roof. This is meant to remind us that everything we have, our house, car, fancy furniture, job, education, family, friends, even our very lives, they all come from G-d. Although we may work incredibly hard for the money with which to pay for all our material possesions, it really all comes from G-d and if G-d were to will it, He could take it all away. Now, this doesn't mean that we should cower in fear our entire lives, worried sick that G-d will just one day decided to play a sick joke and take everything back, leaving us homeless without a friend, fated to walk the streets for food. But what it does mean is that we should be able to look beyond the material and to see what's really important. Nothing is permanent and yet we constantly decide to base our lives around the illusion of stability. By recognizing that all we have is makeshift and temporary just as with someone who is on the road, we are able to attach ourselves to what's really important and to truly live.
This sense of a makeshift life can be seen in the history of the Jewish people: Abraham's journey from his hometown to go to Cana'an, the Jewish people's mass exodus out of Egypt, the first and present exile of the Jewish people from the Land of Israel, all the times that we were kicked out of different countries (England, Spain, etc.), the boat fulls of Jewish immigrants that set off for a new life in America, the countless that were forced out of their homes and into small cramped ghettos and concentration camps, the many who decided to take a stand against religious opression in Communist Russia and were sent off to die in Siberian labor camps. We are a people that have constantly been on the road, forced to live out of a suitcase, to nourish our souls with tireless tradition, a patchwork quilt of memories, and a faith in G-d and His Torah . One story of Jewish traveling particularly stands out in my mind as an excellent example of the role of not just the Jewish people, but all of humanity as migrants in this world.
When the Jewish people were traveling through the Sinai desert for 40 years on their way to Cana'an, G-d provided them with the clouds of glory, a protecting force that provided them with manah from heaven, made sure that their clothes didn't tatter, and shielded them from the sun. The way in which this is connected to Sukkot is that the cornstalk roof is considered not just to be a symbol of thoses original clouds of glory, but to be the physical manifestation of them! What does this come to teach us? We're on a journey, whether you recognize it or it remains unspoken in the back of your mind. It's not so much a physical journey as it is a spiritual one. It's a journey away from materialism, depression, sorrow, and suffering and towards a time of peace and prosperity, brotherhood, love, happiness, a higher consciousness. This time is refered to as the age of Moshiach, the Messianic period, a time when "the lion will lay down with the lamb" and "the nations will beat their swords into ploughshares." As I've mentioned before in previous posts, we are all broken, all finite, all flawed. We make mistakes, hurt the ones we love, take things for granted, obssess over things that are petty and meaningless instead of using our energy for things that are positive and productive. All our lives we have been on this journey towards a meaningful life, this road towards the promised land. We're really only just traveling through. While we are on this journey, G-d is constantly providing for us with His clouds of glory, fixing all the cracks in our soul until we can finally become whole again and in doing so, finally come home. Have an amazingly meaningful rest of Sukkot.
All of my love,
Zach

A new year, a fresh start

Shalom from Jerusalem! Things have been pretty intense over here; Rosh Hashanah was incredible and was then followed by an incredible week of teshuvah (look at my previous posts for an explanation of teshuvah). As many of you know, tonight (Jewish days start at night) is Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year. Much like Tisha b'Av, for 26 hours Jews will abstain from marital relations, applying lotions, wearing leather shoes, bathing, and most importantly, they will be fasting. Now, the main difference between the two fasts (Tisha b'Av and Yom Kippur) is that on Tisha b'Av we're remembering the major calamities in Jewish history (blech, at a time like this, who could eat?) and on Yom Kippur, we're privy to the highest revelation of G-dliness ever (at a time like this, who WANTS to eat?!?!) By refraining from very physical acts and pleasures on Yom Kippur, we're transcending the finite and taking on the status of angels, setting ourselves up for what could be, if utilized properly, an incredibly holy day. But what exactly does it mean to utilize it properly? Does it mean going to synagogue all day, moaning and groaning about not being able to eat, standing up and sitting down constantly, rubbing your sore and aching back or throbbing headache, and half-heartedly giving "lip service"? Or is it something deeper, something that calls for concentration, requires not only the body, but soul; something more essential? It seems that in order to fully realize and appreciate Yom Kippur, we must first know a little something about what the day is really about. As I stated in my previous post, although the ones required to observe the mitzvot and go to syangogue are Jews, you don't need to be Jewish in order to take advantage of what this day has to offer.

It says in the Talmud (Jewish rabbinic text) that there are ten days of teshuvah between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, but any person who knows a little bit about dates would realize that there are actually seven days between the two holidays. What gives? Is it ten or seven? Well, the truth is that it's both. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are three of the ten days, making them days of teshuvah, but they each have something special that sets them apart from the other ten days, which means that they are both within and outside of the chronological ten days. What makes them so special? On Rosh Hashanah, we declare Hashem as King; we see ourselves as just a little piece in a vast portrait of reality. On Yom Kippur, we transcend normal reality, entering into a realm outside of space and time where it's just us and Hashem. On this level, no good deed or sin could have any affect and it is because of this, the fact that everything is perfect, unchanging, and untouched, that we are atoned for all of our sins. This past week has been part of the ten days of teshuvah, days in which we are encouraged to do more mitzvot, connect to what Hashem really wants of us, take stock of all the things that we may have done that weren't so nice, and make resolutions to change for the future. In order to illustrate this concept, there is a wonderful story that I recently heard that I'd like to share with you.

There was once a chasid who approached is rebbe and asked him "Rebbe, why is it that on eruv Yom Kippur (the hours before the holiday) chasidim have a big seudah (festive meal)?" His understanding was that Yom Kippur is a very serious holiday and that any pre-holiday eating shouldn't go much beyond eating bread and water in a corner of a room, trembling in fear. His Rebbe told him "Go to the next town over and observe the first house that you find. There, you will see why chasidim eat a seudah before the holiday." So the chasid traveled to the house in the town. When he got there, he observed through the window a man sitting at a table near the fire place. "Hashem," the man said. "it's almost Yom Kippur. I know that I haven't always done right by You, but You should know that I really do love You. I would never intentionally hurt You and if I ever did during the year, I'm so sorry for all the pain that it caused. I just wanted to tell You..." The man then reached into the desk drawer and produced a big, thick book. Opening the book, he pointed to the first line and said "On this day, I didn't prayer with proper kavanah (intention). And then on this day, I spoke gossip. There was also this day when my kashrut observance was a bit questionable. And on this day..." The man had taken stock of EVERY single transgression or sin that he had commited the entire year!
After reading through the entire book, the man closed the book and reached into the desk drawer again. "But You know Hashem," he said as he produced another book (this one was a bit smaller). "There have been times during the year that I really haven't understood what You were trying to tell me. There was this one time when my wife broke her leg; what did she deserve that for? She's an incredibly righteous woman! And also during the winter, by son became incredibly ill and almost died. What did he do to deserve that, he's only an innocent child! There was also this large business investment that I made earlier that seemed to be reliable, but in the end, caused me to lose more money that I could have made!"
The man paused and closed the book before getting to carried away. "Listen, there's been things in my life that I haven't quite understood." He glanced at the book of his sins. "But then again, I haven't even come close to doing what is expected of me. I have an idea," The mean gathered both of the books together. "how about we forget these books, just start with a clean slate, a fresh start. What do You say?" The man then turned to the fireplace and threw both of the books into the fire, watching them burn along with all of the sins and misunderstandings of his past year. The man got up and, with a big smile on his face, said "NOW I'm ready for a seudah!"

What's the whole point of this INCREDIBLY lengthy story? We're not so great; maybe we spoke too much gossip or didn't speak up when people were being spoken ill of, maybe we were to quick to judge others without any consideration to our own finitude, maybe we didn't give the extra change back when the cashier made a mistake. Sure we've made mistakes, but no one's perfect. But then again, this year wasn't so great either; maybe our wallet was stolen or we missed out on an opportunity to make a profit, maybe we came down with a bad case of mono, which took us out of commission for a month; maybe our friend was in a near-fatal car accident. In the end, it all belongs to the past; there's always more money to be made, opportunities to make up missed work, time to heal seemingly unhealable wounds. We have a choice: do we decide to arrogantly clutch on the past, attaching ourselves to it out of some misplaced need for stability or do we decide to let go, let the past remain the past and do the only healthy thing, move on? This is what Hashem offers us on Yom Kippur. We've all sinned, we've all fell regret, we've all made ammends to those who we've hurt, and we've all resolved to change; on Yom Kippur, Hashem wipes away all of our blemishes and helps us progress by giving us another chance. By revealing our perfect and unchanging essence for 26 hours, Hashem burns away all of our impurities and makes us into the pure, flawless gold that we were before and have always been. So whether you're Jewish or non-Jewish, fasting or trying as best as you can, going to synagogue for all of the services or just popping in and out, try keeping Yom Kippur and what it's all about in your head and guarantee that you will have a more meaningful day than you've had in a while. Wishing you all a sweet new year and may you be sealed in the book for life, prosperity, health, and happiness. Have a meaningful Yom Kippur observance.
All of my love,
Zach

Reflections on the year past and on the year to come

Shalom everyone! Sorry for the large gap of time between my last blog post and now. For those of you who might not know, these past 29 days, we have been observing the Jewish month of Elul, the last month on the Hebrew calendar. Elul is a month of spiritual stock taking, contemplation & meditation, introspection, and big life questions, resolutions, and goals. Elul, in hebrew, is actually an anagram for "Ani l'dodi v'dodi li" roughly translated, "I am to my beloved and my beloved is to me." Other than being a verse that is recited at weddings, it is meant to express the inherent relationship between Hashem (G-d) and Yisrael (us). "I am to my beloved" indicates that we take a step towards Hashem, going out to meet Him, initiating the relationship, while "and my beloved is to me" indicates a reciprocal aspect of the relationship, Hashem extending his hand towards us, embracing us with a shining and gracious face. The symbolism of relationships isn't a mistake; the holidays coming up are all meant to symbolize Hashem's marriage to the Jewish people (Rosh Hashanah is the engagement, Yom Kippur is the wedding, etc.) Now, while Elul, Rosh Hashanah, and Yom Kippur are all Jewish observances/holidays, this does not mean that only Jews can partake of the amazing energy of this time.
Reflect on this past year; is there anyone that you deeply hurt? Can you think of something that you regret doing? Is there anything that you wish you had done, yet didn't do? Missed opportunities? This is the time to recognize those regrets and to resolve to change. This is called teshuvah, commonly translated as "repentance" yet literally meaning "return". This begs a very good question: return to what? How did I ever get lost? How do I return? What does all of this mean? Every creature on this Earth has a connection to G-d. He created us, gave us life, gives us everything that we have, and continuously keeps us in existence. If you've read any of my past blogs, you can get a clearer picture of my views on Hashem, but if you're pressed for time, then just know that Hashem is not some seperate entity pelting down Divine punishment for our actions. Hashem is deeply integrated into reality, in fact, Hashem IS reality. All of everything within the finite, infinite, and beyond the infinite is Hashem; there is nothing else but Him LITERALLY.
So if that's the case, then why don't I see G-d? Why don't I think about G-d? How can I live my life without ever even thinking about G-d or recognizing His existence? Because that's the nature of this world. Hashem created us in His image; from Hashem's point of view, there is nothing else but Him, ergo, we are the central focus of our lives. This world was created to be a finite expression of a beyond infinite reality; Hashem's essence is concealed within the illusion of our percieved reality, thus making it possible for us to never recognize His existence. Also, since Hashem gave us free will, His revealed existence in this world would defeat the whole purpose of our ability to choose. So with all of this complex information shoved into our brains, we are now able to truly understand what it means to return: to return to Hashem and to return to ourselves. Since our "selves" are part of the larger "Self" that is Hashem, then returning to ourselves i.e. living a more G-dly life and G-d conscious life is both returning to our true selves, as well as returning to Hashem. *PHEW*
What I hope everyone can take from this is as follows: This is the time to partake of that act of returning. We all have deficiencies, we all are lacking something, we all are broken. There is no person on Earth that does not make a mistake or is free of any blemish or flaw. Hashem- timeless, boundless, perfect reality- is the only consistent thing in this world. By returning to Hashem, by connecting to Him on a deeply personal level, we connect to our true selves, which is to be vessels for G-dliness in a world seemingly devoid of it. What does that mean in practicality? It means being the best person you can be. It means living up to your full potential as a human being. It means looking at another person, seeing that same G-dliness present in them, and learning from it that we are not here to struggle, despair, fight, or hate, but we are here to embrace, unite, labor, and love (throw back to Rabbi Schwab). It's not about turning over a new leaf and becoming a new person, it's about returning to who you've really been all along. All it takes is one step towards Hashem and He'll take care of the rest for you. Wishing you all an amazingly sweet and happy New Year full of health, happiness, success, friendship, and love.
All of my best,
Zach

taking a moment to recognize the presence of the Shechina

So I just got back from this wedding that I went to tonight. I rushed back from Tzfat, did my laundry, took a quick shower, and practically jumped into the cab; I had been waiting for this all week. It was the wedding of these two wonderful people, Ronnie and Nili. I just met Ronnie a couple of weeks ago and everyone from Mayanot was invited. I'm SO glad that I went. the chupa (wedding ceremony) was the most literally THE MOST beautiful thing that I've ever seen. There were all different types of Jews; chasidic, non-observant, ones wearing streimels, once with long peyot, knit yamulkas, etc. When I was watching everything go on, the kallah (bride) circling the chasan (husband) seven times, the rings, seven brachot (blessings), breaking of the glass; everything done with incredible meaning, intention, emotion, holiness. The chasan, swaying back and forth with religious ecstacy, lost his composure at times, burying his face in his hands and sobbing. The kallah, her face shrowded behind the veil, taking in deep breaths and smiling when she had some sort of collectedness. People blowing shofars, playing guitars and violins, singing, dancing, crying. Clusters of grapes dangling from the chupah. The one leading the ceremony, Nili's brother, asked us to pause for a moment to recognize the presence of the Shechina, the feminine face of Hashem, the very presence of Hashem. Closing my eyes, listening to the faint sounds of distant sung melodies, freely strummed guitar, violin drones, the underlying murmer of voices, all interplaying with one another, I heard the collage of Hashem's symphony. Opening my eyes, seeing the vibrant colors of the flowered vines, the blend of different types of people, embracing, swaying, dabbing at the tears of joy in their eyes, closing their own eyes to drink in the moment, I saw Hashem's masterpiece. The crowd was united, witnessing the beautiful, blessed union of two people, starting their holy home of Torah and G-dliness; we were one, vessels for the Shechina, conduits for Hashem. We were actualizing the presence of G-d on Earth. The glass was broken in commemoration of the destruction of the Temple, yet also to break free from a previous life of seperateness into wholeness. We danced throughout the night and I, for the first time in my life, experiences being b'simcha, full of joy, pure unbridled joy.
Zach
p.s. sorry for the cheesiness/melodrama

First post in a while: Isralight program, week in Tzfat, Elul introspection

Hi all! Sorry for the long break, I've been VERY busy with lots of different things, but don't worry, I won't talk your ear off (or type or eyes off, I guess) So Mayanot summer semester came and went like a flash. It was really great, just what I needed at that time, and I'm incredibly excited to go back for the year-long plunge. After Mayanot, I ended up going on this ten day learning/traveling program in the Old City of Jerusalem called Isralight. I can't even really explain it other than by saying that it taught me how to:
a) look at Judaism and at G-d in a completely different way
b) answered a lot of questions that I'd had about seemingly unsettling/contradictory issues that I had with Torah
c) Helped me come closer to a loving relationship with G-d
Pretty much stated in an incredibly summarized, condensed version, G-d or Hashem is not some guy in the sky pelting down divine retribution at us; that is a severe misconception formed from Western culture. Hashem is infact EVERYTHING (and not the other way around G-d forbid, we're not G-d since that would be idol worship *tsk tsk*). However, while we are not G-d, we are a part of G-d, an aspect of G-d, the manifestation of G-d's free will/ability to choose. Hashem is the greater self and thus, by tuning into the will of Hashem (Torah), we in turn tap into that greater self that we are all apart of. It was explained to me as a good form of self centerdness, by seeing everyone as being a part of that larger self and looking out for that self through caring for others. Like I said, it's an incredibly condensed, rich, dense version of ten days of intense learning and living (contact me if you want more details on what I learned)

After Isralight, I spent two days back at Mayanot just knocking around the zoo and then went to Tzfat for the three day klezmer festival. It was pretty awesome; the performances were out of this world, but being in Tzfat by myself was at times a bummer. However, with this new found view on Hashem, the loneliness challenged me to tap into that higher self and to realize that we are never truly alone even when we are by ourselves. During the days of the festival, I went to some AMAZING art galleries. Tzfat opened up my eyes in regards to creativity and how that relates to the Divine. Hashem created us in His image and in doing so, gave us the ability to create. The fact that art exists is absolutely mind blowing. I mean, think of it, we take some colored oily stuff, smear it on a white piece of cloth stretched out over a wooden frame, and we suddenly make that quantum leap from the finite to infinite possibility. It's such a crazy concept. And to think that Hashem created us, the world, and everything else; we truly are like pieces of art in the largest art gallery ever!

Lastly, the month of Elul (the last month in the Jewish calendar) just started last tuesday, the day that I happened to arrive in Tzfat. During this time, it is common practice for people to do spiritual stock taking i.e. figure out your strengths, weakness, where you're lacking, how you can improve upon it, what you intend to do to improve upon it, etc. Simply put, it's like making a laundry list of yourself, yet then again, things aren't always so simple in Judaism. There's tons of customs such as listening to the Shofar (ram's horn) blast every morning at davening, reciting psalm 27 twice a day for the month of Elul, we switch up our greetings from a simple "shalom" or "shalom aleichem" to "ketiva v'chatima tova" translated loosely "may you be inscribed and sealed for a good year". If observed properly (or some what properly in my case) it can be incredibly meaningful. This past week in Tzfat has seemed like an eternity because I've learned so much about myself, where I am right now, what I need to do, etc. I've never felt so connected in my life. This has really been such a crazy year; I think that anyone who saw my transformation during it can attest to that. There's been definite ups and downs to it, I can't even imagine what's in store for me this year.
So with that I wish you all a fond farewell, much love, and ketiva v'chatima tova,
Zach

Missing Ithaca and my past

Pretty straight forward blog title. I'm listening to all this music that has a connection to my past in Ithaca i.e. James Taylor, Simon & Garfunkle, etc. I'd say that I'm afraid of changing, but I'm not. Without change, there'd be no life. I also know that I bring my memories with us where ever I go, I just wish that I could experience them again. It almost seems unfair to have memories; when we think about them, we experience them as if they're happening in real time, but as soon as we realize that it's not the case, then that little piece of us connected to the memory is dragged back to the past with it, leaving us incomplete. The funny thing is that this time a year from now, I'll feel the same way about this moment. When it comes down to it, I guess there's two ways of looking at life similar to a glass half empty/half full approach: life is either a series of memories that are recollected when we leave this world or a perpetual present, constantly moving forward, evolving, changing. I can't go back to relive the past and I'm not particularly anxious to get to the future, all I have is now and although it will be just another memory come tomorrow, there will always be a new "now" to experience.

Why Care?: The Meaning Behind the Tisha b'Av Observance

This year, I'm in Jerusalem for Tisha b'Av. For those of you who don't know what that means, Tisha b'Av is considered the saddest day of the year in Judaism; it commemorates all of the tragedies that befell the Jewish people, mainly the destruction of the First and Second Temple, or Beit Hamikdash. There are many people who still, two thousand years after the last destruction, take on the observances of mourning. For twenty-five hours, people do not eat or drink. They don't bath. They don't wear leather shoes. They don't greet each other. They don't learn Torah. They don't apply ointments or deodorant. They don't have marital relations. Now the obvious question that one would and should ask is that after two millenia, why go through all this trouble? People die, cities are besieged and conquered, civilizations fall; this is the nature of things. Even if I am a Jew and my ancestors were among those slain or exiled, why should I inconvenience myself over something that happened to the distant generations long since passed? Here I am in the 21st century, a free-thinking member of society; any feeling that I experience from the events of Tisha b'Av are unnoticable, unpercieved; a faint ripple spread out by the fallen stones in the recesses of history. Why Care? I would venture to say that you a very good reason to.

Every year during the Passover seder, Jews around the world recount the story of the Exodus from Egypt, another event from an almost forgotten past. At the seder, we say that in every generation, each person must feel as if they themselves emerged just now from Egypt. How is this so? We are all slaves in the desert of our minds, a psychological prison enforced by the brutal task master of our addictions, habits, fears, and anxieties. When we come together as one people to celebrate our redemption, we are celebrating the transcendence that we could achieve through dedication, perserverance, and the grace of G-d today. At Shavuot, the holiday commemorating the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai, we stand at the recitation of the ten commandments from the Torah. By doing this, we symbolically recognize that these laws are not some fossilized remains of a dead culture, but the thriving and vivifying force ever-present in our lives as human beings today. On Shabbat, we take a day of rest to not only remember G-d's resting from creation, but also to recognize the constant and ongoing creation of the universe today . In short, by keep these traditions alive, we are personally recognizing the same presence found behind the letter of the law in our very lives.

Tisha b'Av, however, is somewhat different. Instead of commemorating a miraculous event through celebration and feasting, we commemorate a tremendous tragedy through mourning and contemplation. How is the destruction relevent in our lives? Because we recognize that it could happen again. We know that the kohanim (priests) of the second Temple observed Tisha b'Av in commemoration of the first Temple; how could this be so? The Temple was already rebuilt in all it's glory! They observed the day as a time of prayer, recognizing that the destruction hadn't even been one hundred years earlier and that it could happen again. Sadly, it certainly did happen again, a pattern of repetitive destruction found as a theme throughout Jewish history. The Holocaust wasn't so long ago, not even seventy-five years ago, yet sadly, even that is becoming a forgotten memory. Living in America, one might not be able to see or feel the present possibility of physical destruction, but in Israel, the threat of annhilation from nations that want you wiped off the map is present everyday. As I said before, though, this only deals with the physical annhilation. The destruction of the Temple was much more than just the razing of a building, it was the dismemberment of a way of life, a near collapse of the Jewish soul. What is to be said about the threat of spiritual annhilation?

Many Jews that I've come into contact with are ashamed of being Jewish, simply put. They're either ashamed or they are forgetting what it means to be a Jew. Being Jewish is so much more than just receving present on Hanukkah or eating matzah ball soup on Passover, it's a hidden mystical beauty, an abstract complex of emotions and devotion, a passionate and involved relationship with the infinite and unfathomable Divine. Many people don't know this, nor care to know this; they have become comfortable in this illusory facade of materialism that we call "reality". We go through our lives a puppet in a pantomime, looking to the magazines, T.V. screens, and celebrities to follow by example in what we percieve as life. One need only to take the first step out of the candle-lit cave to see the blazing, brilliant light of the sun.

This is also why we observe Tisha b'Av; because in the future, it will no longer be an observance of mourning, but a celebration of life, the arrival of something much bigger than iphones and realty show break-ups, a transcendence of the physical and an immersion in the hidden spiritual realty; in short, an awakening in global consciousness. One need only look around with the right lens to see the destruction present all around us. If by setting aside one day out of the year to recognize that personal destruction, then imagine how much creative power we could be capable of. So whoever or wherever you are, let's try to rebuild what we've lost, let's come together to bring the beauty and glory of the past here into the present. It is only then that we'll see time as merely a barrier through which belief can break.