And you shall take on the first day the fruit of a beautiful tree, branches of palm trees, boughs of leafy trees, and willows of the brook, and you shall rejoice before the L-rd your G-d for seven days.
Vayikra, 23:40
Over the Yom Tov I read a beautiful sicho, in which the Rebbe's view of other Jews shines through.
The Rebbe notes that al pi Halacha, three out of the four species that we take on Sukkos need to correspond to their description from Torah: the fruit needs to specifically esrog and the palm branches have to be from a palm (and the fruit has to be beautiful in appearance), and the 'boughs' have to be 'leafy' (they need to have at least three leaves growing from the stem).
But the branch of the willow does not have to come literally from a 'willow of a brook'. I.e., the willow tree from which we cut the branch does not have to grow by a waterway. Why is that?
It is well known that the four species represent four kinds of Jews: those that perform mitzvos, those that learn Torah, those that do both, and those that do neither; these four categories correspond to the species that have good taste, good smell, both, and neither. The willow branch belongs to the latter category.
The willow thus represents the Jew who neither learns nor performs mitzvos. And that is why the willow does not need to grow specifically by the river.
The other three species are characterized by their mitzvos and their Torah. For both mitzvos and Torah to be 'valid', they need to be connected to a tradition: we cannot perform a mitzva willy-nilly; we must have received a tradition from our ancestors as to how to perform it. The same goes for Torah learning, especially learning Halachos. While to a certain extent innovation in Torah learning is allowed and even encouraged (especially interpretation of what Chumash teaches us in avoida), even that must happen within the context of an already-existing mesoira.
That is why the species that represent the Jews whose 'claim to fame' is observance of mitzvos and learning of Torah must themselves be validated by a tradition: they must correspond to their description in Torah. (Also, for instance, our Rebbeim note that we need to have a tradition for a specific sub-species of esrog, just like we need a tradition for a species of a bird to be kosher. That is why the Lubavitchers only get Calabria esrogim from Italy or Kfar Chabad.)
But what about the fourth Jew? What's good about him? Certainly not his 'external' aspects -- he has nothing to be proud of in his service of Hashem. But we still love him, because Hashem loves him. Because he is a Jew. He has in him Essence of Hashem. And that comes to the fore when the external aspects are diminished.
That is why the willow branches do not have to be specifically from the willows that grow by the river. As long as we know that they originate from brook willows, that in their essence they belong to the species, no matter where they are right now, they can still be part of the avoida of Sukkos.
(Slavoj Žižek, post-modernist troublemaker) I am going to try to analyze Chabad and Modern Orthodoxy using the psychoanalytic approach of Lacanian triad: 'the imaginary, the symbolic, and the real' (I'll explain below). I want to do this because I have for a long time thought about the dichotomy of the 'real' and the 'imaginary' in the MO world. In addition, recently, I have read Iraq: the Borrowed Kettle by Slavoj Žižek (pronounced as 'Slah-voy Zhih-zhek'), a Marxist philosopher-psychoanalyst. I obviously disagree with many of Žižek's ideas and conclusions about capitalism and the Western world, but I find his analytic methodology entertaining. (So, keep this in mind as you read the bits of this post about the Iraqi war. What matters is not the contents, but the analysis.) In Iraq, Žižek analyzed the motivations for the 2003 invasion of Iraq using Lacanian psychoanalytic triad: 1. The imaginary: the purpose of the war was to spread the ideals and the benefits of the Western democracy. This was the official propaganda line fed to the masses in order to garner their support. 2. The symbolic: the purpose of the war was to spread American political hegemony. This level is called symbolic because the invasion of Iraq really served a 'symbolic' purpose in the international diplomatic stance of the USA: it strengthened its roles as the international policeman and 'paved the way' for the possibility and acceptability of now starting the war on the 'imaginary' grounds, without support of the UN, and in a form of preemptive strikes. 3. The real reason for the invasion, according to Žižek, was economic control over Iraqi oil and, more generally, strengthening of US dollar against the euro. (Perhaps one can tie in the Keynesian motive for mythical 'stimulus' of the economy through defense spending.) This is classical of Žižekian analysis of political events: he envisions a nation-state, a government, or a culture (e.g., the USA) as an individual, and applies to it Freudian and Lacanian psychoanalysis, showing that (in his opinion) the sub-conscious drive is the real one. Now, let me say at once that I do not necessarily agree with the above analysis of Iraqi war. Or, rather, I neither agree nor disagree. It is certainly the case that the invasion has failed on all three accounts: it did not help with spreading of democracy, either in the region or in the world; it has ruined US political image and led to diplomatic and military backlash, and it had an adverse effect on US economy on multiple levels, including, in the long-term, the current Great Recession. Of course, that doesn't mean that Zizek is wrong in his analysis of motivations. As Kelsey Wood notes in Žižek: A Reader's Guide:
Žižek is careful to point out that in this Lacanian triad of imaginary-symbolic-real, each of these three levels has some degree of autonomy, and none of the is simply a mere semblance (Iraq, p.4). For example, ideological fantasy produces effects in people's behavior, and has an impact on people's lives. This indicates how fantasy is constitutive of symbolic reality. But again, with regard to the triad of imaginary-symbolic-real, 'it is not that one is the "truth" of the others; the "truth" is, rather, the very shift of perspective between them' (Iraq, p.6).
Again, I do not care whether or not Zizek's analysis is true. I care about using this method to analyse both MO and Chabad branches of 'frum' Judaism. Let me start with Chabad, using davening as an example (I am crediting my wife for giving me this idea): 1. The imaginary: on this level, we look at davening through 'general' Orthodox Judaism. I.e., all the halachos of davening, the nusach, what davening consists of (the parts of davening), the zmanim, etc. Also, the purpose of davening as interpreted by Alter Rebbe: connection to Hashem. The 'imaginary' level can also be termed 'ideal' or 'formal'. In a chess game, the 'imaginary' dimension of a chess piece is the rules by which it moves. A synonymous expression for 'imaginary' is 'make-belief', and that applies to the religious application of the Lacanian triad: the 'imaginary' aspect is not something that is not real (G-d forbid), but it is something one must believe in, or at least it's not something accessible to one's immediate experience; it is both a foundation and a goal, both of which must exist on the level of emunah-like commitment (you can read here more about the distinction between emunah and da'as). 2. The symbolic: when looked at through Chabad Chassidus, davening is not simply carrying out of the halachic obligation, but a path of self-development, literally an avoida ('service'). Again, I am using the 'symbolic' as merely Lacanian jargon. In an abstract sense, the act of prayer itself (i.e., what is literally a supplication) is a 'symbol' (an excuse, if you wish) for improving oneself and establishing a relationship with Hashem. For that purpose, one must daven at length, with great concentration (oftentimes outside of the minyan), and, most significantly, one must learn Chassidus before davening, so that one can be hisboinen (contemplative, meditative) of the learned concepts (comprising either haskallah, the intellectual concepts, or avoida, the concepts of self-service, of Chassidus, or both). This has effect on the interpretation of Halacha (the first level), since, to fulfill the 'symbolic' aspect of davening, we must be lax with the zmanim, allow eating before davening, etc. 3. The real. In reality, you can find Shachris minyanim in 770 going on until almost after shkiah. Not because some chassidim use this much time to learn Chassidus, but because davening late has become a 'reality' of Chabad culture, independently of its 'imaginary' and 'symbolic' counterparts. The same goes for eating before davening (sometimes eating a quite substantial meal), etc. Don't get me wrong: I am not saying that this is what happens to most Lubavitchers. (In fact, I don't really know what the numbers are.) I am just saying that this phenomenon (almost unique to Chabad) exists, and that's what its nature is. Of course, it is also true that davening has become a completely different experience ('reality') in Chabad circles, both for the newcomers and the 'balabatim'. Many people would describe davening at Chabad as a richer, deeper, more vibrant experience, albeit annoying to the Jews belonging to other branches of Orthodox Judaism, whose 'imaginary' and 'symbolic' (and, as a result, 'real') expectations of davening are somewhat different. The same analysis can be applied to many other aspects of modern Chabad 'culture', both in terms of shlichus and the 'Crown Heights' velt. I think it can also be used in a positive sense. For example: a person is stopped on the street and asked to shake lulav and esrog: 1. The imaginary: the person does the mitzva of lulav and esrog, the formal obligation he has to G-d. G-d's Will is carried out in this world. 2. The symbolic: the act of doing the mitzva connects to the essence of his neshama, revealing it (potentially). The act of doing the mitzva is important not because of its dry obligatory context, but because of what it accomplishes: the unification of G-d with this world through the act of mitzva and the subsequent creation of dira b'tachtoinim (the dwelling place of G-d in the lower worlds). I.e., the mitzva is not just a dry fulfillment of a contract, but a vehicle (a 'symbol') for the essential purpose of creation and revelation. 3. The real: it is possible that the person will become interested in Yiddishkeit and inquire about it (and, perhaps, about Chabad specifically) and this simple encounter will bring him 'back' (or, at least, closer) to frumkeit. In this, the circle of the purpose of mivtzoim is closed. Now, let's use the same analysis in application to Modern Orthodoxy: 1. The imaginary: MO views itself as Orthodox Judaism. In fact, it does not view itself as a 'b'dieved Judaism', i.e., Judaism of a compromise. According to the MO philosophy, its path of Yiddishkeit is preferred. Torah is given to be lived, in this world. (Note that this is not the same as the Chabad concept of engaging 'der velt' in order to make dira b'tachtonim. For Chabad, 'der velt' is the goal. For MO, it's simply the status quo. When a Lubavitcher gets a job, he is being an idealist, at least as far as Chabad Chassidus is concerned. When a MO Jew gets a job, he is being a realist.) Likewise, Torah is given to real human beings, with real desires and everyday circumstances; it was not given to the angels. 2. The symbolic: In order to accomplish the goal making Torah accessible to the modern mentality of the 'real, everyday' Jew living in the Western world in modern times, one must unite Torah with 'modernity'. Because this contemporary Jew is the one commanded with both performance of the mitzvos and learning of Torah, we must be able to interpret the meaning of the former and the content of the latter from today's, modern, perspective. From here comes the MO view of Judaism. Mitzvos are patterns of behavior that bind us together in a Jewish community. Torah is G-d's revelation of His message of how to live a fulfilling and successful life in everyday world. The 'realism' of the mitzvos and of Torah is pushed to the shadows. It doesn't matter whether the world was created in Six Days, 5773 years ago. What matters is the message of the story to us, today. It doesn't matter whether I accomplish 'objectively' anything when I shake lulav and esrog. What matters is that that I feel and 'experience' something when I do it, that I focus on the symbolism of the act, in its historical and (constantly reinterpreted) everyday context. 3. The real: Having their significance reduced to merely symbolic context, mitzvos and Torah stop being religious phenomena and start being social ones. They are no longer an aspect of the Jew's (or the community's) relationship with G-d; they are an aspect of the Jew's relationship with other Jews and a way for him to see his own culture and self-identity on the national and international scale. When a Chabad rabbi speaks before Musaf, he talks about avoidas Hashem and da'as Hashem. He uses some aspect of the parsha or the Yom Tov as an illustration of what our relationship with G-d must be, or how we can understand G-dliness -- G-d's revelation of Himself in the worlds, the purpose and design of His creation, etc. When a MO rabbi speaks before Musaf, he talks about Israeli politics, using a symbolic interpretation of an aspect of the parsha (reduced almost to an anecdote). Or, perhaps, he talks about how we must approach our everyday work environment or a project: the parsha can teach us about successful interpersonal relationships or work ethic and give us peace of mind. The interpretation of the mitzvos also suffers from the symbolic approach. Because hair covering is looked at from the symbolic point of view, not either strictly legal (as a Litvish Jew might look at it) or 'realistic' -- i.e., having a real, objective purpose outside of one's perception (a Chabad Jew's perspective), it is only important insofar as it binds a Jewish woman to a particular community of hair-covering women, or if it adds anything to her personal experience. Otherwise, it is discarded. The same goes for many other mitzvos. The tendency of make Torah 'livable', armed with always-ready ability to assign a symbolic interpretation to a mitzva, allows one to be as meichel as one possibly can (or as Rav Moishe allows), and then perhaps some more. In reality, therefore, MO Judaism is 'Orthodox' in name only. In practice, both its theoretical view of Judaism and its practical observance is almost closer to Conservative Judaism, from which, after all, it has evolved (as one MO rabbi said, a bit tongue-in-cheek, 'if the Hareidim build mechitza up to the ceiling, and the Conservative don't have a mechitza at all, the Modern Orthodox mechitza will be exactly half-way'). I don't know what my conclusion might be. Writing of this post was mostly self-therapeutic in nature and perhaps may be of some help to those whose encounters with MO Judaism (or Chabad, for that matter) were frustrating. Next project: psychoanalysis of the 'yechi' culture. Just kidding!..
It is said that even if Hashem did not give us the land of Israel and the Holy Temple, just bringing us to Mt. Sinai would be enough. The famous question is asked: what do you mean, it would be enough? The whole point of bringing us to Har Sinai is to give us Torah, which we would keep in Eretz Yisroel. The answer is that it would be enough, because when Jews received Torah, they were unified as one person. (We learn that Jews were tired before receiving of Torah. Why were they tired? Because it took them an effort to become unified. We learn from this that Jews get their strength from argument, which is why the main pastime of a frum Jew is to learn Gemara and argue.)
Being unified “would be enough”, because unity amongst Jews results in the unity between the holy Names of G-d, between Him and His Presence, and between Him and this world. (For a detailed kabbalistic explanation of this process, see Derech Mitzvosecha, mitzvas Ahavas Yisroel. Suffice it to say that each Jewish soul contains sparks from all the other Jewish souls, and unification “below” draws forth the unification “above”.)
This is why it is said that loving your fellow as yourself is the basis of the whole Torah. The point is not so much that the purpose of Torah is to bring peace amongst people (how exactly does putting on tefillin result in peace?), but that all Torah mitzvos accomplish the same thing that the single mitzva of ahavas Yisroel accomplishes: unity between G-d and His Presence in this world. And this is the whole purpose of creation and giving of Torah.
Now, the concept of unity is a tricky one. How can two separate entities become unified? This problem of disunity existed throughout the history of creation and of Jewish people. It all started from shviras ha’keilim, the breaking of the vessels of the chaotic world of Tohu (don’t worry, I won’t talk about that in detail now). The sfiroes of Tohu did not get along, couldn’t cooperate, each thinking of itself as the most important one — and kabloom! Chernobyl b’ruchnius.
And the story repeated itself many times and indeed still goes on today. The theme of disunity is the theme of Omer. As everyone knows, the students of Rabbi Akiva quaralled, had no respect to each other, and a plague sent by G-d and augmented by socialized healthcare system killed many of them, r"l, in this very period of time.
But what does it mean that they quarreled? These were the greatest sages of their generation, and they couldn’t get along? What were their disagreements about? What were the disagreements of the Jews in the desert about that they had to put aside to receive Torah? Now that we are writing a string of questions, what was the deal with the sferoes of Tohu? We shall examine these answers after the commercial break.
The Rebbe writes in the sicho devoted to Lag B’Omer that you can’t really blame the Jews in the desert, the spheroes, the students of Rabbi Akiva. They were not arguing about petty matters. They were not practicing sinas chinum. They didn’t care about chitzoinius (“your shtreimel looks worse than my hat”). Each of them had a shitta. Each of them had a job to do, a role that they played. And they took that job seriously.
Think about it: if Chessed is merciful, and it’s taking its own job as the source of mercy seriously, how can it tolerate Gevurah? What do you mean, gevurah? Chessed! And Gevurah had the same attitude. In order to “live and let live”, to “agree to disagree”, one has to take a slightly mild view of one’s own shitta. Look at it with a bit of sense of humor. And these guys couldn’t afford doing that. They were responsible agents of their missions. The sages really believed, each of them, that they were right. Of course, each one of them was, but it’s all nice and good for us, sitting here in our b’dieved armchairs, to say “eilu v’eilu”. For these people, their shittos were their whole world.
So, what is one to do? Well, says the Rebbe, this is a serious problem. This is not just a problem for the sages or spheroes or the Jews in the desert. This is a problem for any two people that are trying to create a relationship. Any kind. Two friends, two colleagues, a husband and a wife, a parent and a child, etc. How can two people become one? What do you mean, one? If I am X, I am X. I cannot be Y. I can tolerate Y. I can respect Y. I can agree to disagree, even, but to be absolutely completely unified with Y? But then what happens with my identity, my “job” (which I take seriously) of X?
Elsewhere (Inyanei Toras HaChassidus), the Rebbe explains that giluim (revelations) of G-dliness are always in conflict with each other. Because, as explained above, in order for each gilui to be itself, it must be itself and nothing else. Gevurah is Gevurah. End of story. That is why we can’t eat meat with milk. Meat is Gevurah; milk is Chessed. They don’t mix well.
But the Essence of G-d, says the Rebbe, does not have that problem. Because the Essence includes all the revelations in itself (in potential). So, when the Essence is brought into play, no threat to the identities of individual revelations happens — and they can co-exist. Which is why G-d Himself can disobey rules of logic and do things that are mutually exclusive. Which is why, when Moshiach comes and G-d’s Essence is revealed (may it happen now), there will be no contradiction between the fact that G-d is revealed (which, under normal circumstances, would destroy this world) and, at the same time, the world exists and is a world, with its physical matter. (And, incidentally, we shall be allowed to eat meat and milk together.)
So, what’s the solution to disunity? Bring G-d into the equation. When the spheroes gain the awareness that each of them is not just Chessed or Gevurah, but Chessed and Gevurah that are each doing a job for G-d, this awareness allows them to co-operate, since each of them is doing essentially the same thing (serving G-d), albeit in a different way. The deepest identity of Chessed is not its vessel, but its Light, and the whole point of the Light is the idea that it’s on a mission from G-d (“light reveals the luminary”). Furthermore, this co-operation allows them to do their jobs better. And voilá, the world of Atzilus (aka Tikkun) is here. Jews are given Torah. Sages stop dying.
And two people become one. This is the only way. In order for a relationship to be that of true, absolute unity, not just tolerance, one needs to bring G-d into it. G-d in the relationship is what allows the two people to become completely one and at the same time each retain his-or-her unique identity.
Gutt Yom Tov, y’all. May we merit to see speedily the time when the greatest unity of all possible is achieved: that between G-d and His nation, with the coming of Moshiach.
Back in the day, there was an election in Louisiana between two candidates for a governor (or a senator, I am not sure and am too lazy to look up). Much of the intelligentsia supported one of the candidates. The slogan of the intelligentsia was: “Better a crook than a racist” (this just shows you the realities of politics in Louisiana; as well as the realities of any politics, for that matter).
I was just thinking while reading this (I don’t know anything about this blog; it’s just the first source of that speech I found while googling) that I suppose people voting for the current president did not think in the same terms (not that McCain was a crook; I mean whatever flaw people who voted for Obama found in McCain was obviously worse that the flaws of Obama). I actually know a 22-year-old who was quite proud of the fact that her first act of political activism (nothing to be proud of ever, but never mind that) was to vote for Obama. I think it’s quite sad, to be honest.
Like Obama, I am a graduate of Harvard Law School. I too have Muslims in my family. I am black, and I was once a leftist Democrat. Since our backgrounds are somewhat similar, I perceive something in Obama's policy toward Israel which people without that background may not see. All my life I have witnessed a strain of anti-Semitism in the black community. It has been fueled by the rise of the Nation of Islam and Louis Farrakhan, but it predates that organization.
We heard it in Jesse Jackson's "HYMIE town" remark years ago during his presidential campaign. We heard it most recently in Jeremiah Wright's remark about "them Jews" not allowing Obama to speak with him. I hear it from my own Muslim family members who see the problem in the Middle East as a "Jew" problem.
Growing up in a small, predominantly black urban community in Pennsylvania, I heard the comments about Jewish shop owners. They were "greedy cheaters" who could not be trusted, according to my family and others in the neighborhood. I was too young to understand what it means to be Jewish, or know that I was hearing anti-Semitism. These people seemed nice enough to me, but others said they were "evil". Sadly, this bigotry has yet to be eradicated from the black community.
In Chicago, the anti-Jewish sentiment among black people is even more pronounced because of the direct influence of Farrakhan and the Nation of Islam. Most African Americans are not followers of "The Nation", but many have a quiet respect for its leader because, they say, "he speaks the truth" and "stands up for the black man". What they mean of course is that he viciously attacks the perceived "enemies" of the black community – white people and Jews. Even some self-described Christians buy into his demagoguery.
The question is whether Obama, given his Muslim roots and experience in Farrakhan's Chicago, shares this antipathy for Israel and Jewish people. Is there any evidence that he does. First, the President was taught for twenty years by a virulent anti-Semite, the Reverend Jeremiah Wright. In the black community it is called "sitting under". You don't merely attend a church, you "sit under" a Pastor to be taught and mentored by him. Obama "sat under" Wright for a very long time. He was comfortable enough with Farrakhan – Wright's friend – to attend and help organize his "Million Man March". I was on C-Span the morning of the march arguing that we must never legitimize a racist and anti-Semite, no matter what "good" he claims to be doing. Yet a future President was in the crowd giving Farrakhan his enthusiastic support. [read on]
But — hooray for the free dental insurance. (Well, I personally don’t have it, but I am happy for those that do.)
Also, this caught my attention: “Growing up in a small, predominantly black urban community in Pennsylvania, I heard the comments about Jewish shop owners. They were ‘greedy cheaters’ who could not be trusted, according to my family and others in the neighborhood.”
But, which shop owners (or worse yet, factory owners, CEOs, etc.) are not “greedy cheaters who cannot be trusted”? You hear from many very intelligent, educated people with good character traits that they “don’t like capitalism”. Of course, they like being able to buy bananas while living in a northern state more than once a year. And pizza (which may be made locally, but most of the things to make it, including the ingredients and the tools, were brought from other states by those huge trucks or even from overseas). And they like to be able to afford to make use of air (or bus, or taxi) travel. And of the 99% of their life that would be impossible without capitalism. And yet, the people who provide them with the goods and services are not to be trusted and the system of free exchange of goods and services is bad.
Also, recently I heard from a family member that “there shouldn’t be business-type relations within a family”. I asked her: “Do you mean that if I own a business — or, let’s make it less evil, a lab — and your husband is a specialist, and I need exactly that kind of specialist, it is bad for me to hire him and allow him to provide for his family, while I get in return his service?” She said: “Well, no, of course not. I mean relations of a simpler lomd”. So, I said: “You mean, if I need a babysitter for my kids, and my niece is looking for a summer job, it’s better for me to hire a complete stranger, and my niece to go working for complete strangers than for us to help each other out with what each one is looking for?” She didn’t think that was too evil either. Whatever example I was providing was not evil. In the end, it seemed, some kind of business-like relations in a family are fine. As long as children don’t “borrow” two dollars from their parents and then demand those back. Well, yeah, that’s just a bit stupid.
Nolo putes pravos hominess peccata lucrari; Temporibus peccata latent, sed tempore parent.
— Marcus Porcius Cato Uticensis
I am translating from a Russian translation of a Polish text. Therefore, it will most likely not do any kind of justice to the original. Plus, I am not sure I will translate the names of the locales correctly. If you have suggestions, please comment. An excerpt from Andrzej Sapkowski’s Lux Perpetua:
— My people, — she suddenly said after long silence, — come from Nadrein, under Ksanten. Almost everyone in the family was murdered in 1106. A crusade! Deus lo volt! The knights Emich and Gottshalk heard Pope Urban II’s call, and with enthusiasm turned it into life. They began the fight for Christ’s Coffin from butchering Nadrein Jews. In Ksanten, only one boy survived, Yehuda, probably because he converted.
Under the name of Guido Fonseca he settled in Italy, where he returned to the faith of the ancestors; in other words, as you people say it, he returned to judaica perfidia. His descendants, Jews again, were expelled from Naples in 1288. They spread throughout the world. Some of the family settled in Bern. In 1294, a child disappeared there. Without a trace, under unknown circumstances. A clear case: a ritual murder; the Jews must have kidnapped the kid and made a matza out of him. For this all Jews were expelled from Bern. My ancestor, a rabbi, carrying then the name of Mevorach ben Kalonimos, settled in Franconia, in Weinheim.
In 1298, in Franconian settlement of Rottingen someone apparently desecrated something. Poor knight Rindfleisch saw this as a sign of G-d. “The blasphemy was done by Jews” said the sign. Kill the Jews, you who has faith in the Lord. The faithful ones turned out en masse; Rindfleisch became the head of the murderers, with whom he started working on the Divine Plan. After the communities in Rottenburg, Vuzeburg and Bamberg were exterminated to the last person, came the turn of Weinheim. On September 20th, Rindflesch and his friends entered the ghetto. Rabbi Mevorach and his family, all Jews, women and children, were pushed into the synagogue and burned alive together with it. Only seventy five people. Not so many, considering that in Franconia and Schwabbia alone, Rindfleisch killed five thousand.
Some of them, using more creative methods than burning.
With the rest of relatives in the diaspora — same classical cases. Converted great-grandfather, Paolo Fonseca, was killed in 1319 in France, during the rebellion of Pastoureaux, the little shepherds. Pastoureaux killed, as a rule, the nobility, monks and priests, but the Jews and converts were taken care of with especial passion, oftentimes with the help of local population. Knowing what Pastoureaux did with women and children locked in the cellar of Verden-on-Haronne, great-grandfather Paolo with his hands smothered the great-grandmother and two children.
Grandfather Yitzchak Iohanon, who settled in Elzas, lost almost all of his family in 1338, during some of the famous massacres done by the peasant bands who called themselves as Judenschledger. One of my great-grandmothers, whom nobody was merciful enough to kill, was gang-raped many times. So, perhaps since those times I have some mix of Christian blood. You are not happy about it? I, imagine, am not either.
Riksa grew silent. Reinevan coughed.
— What was... next?
— 1349.
— The Black Death.
— Of course. The ones whose fault was in the starting and spreading of the disease were naturally Jews. It was a Jewish plan to kill all Christians. The rabbi of Toledo, Peirat, about whom you must have heard, sent emissaries throughout Europe to poison wells, springs and fountains. Then the good Christians began to punish the poisoners. On a large scale.
Many of my relatives were amongst the six thousand burnt alive in Meintz, two thousand in Strasburg, among the victims of massacres in Berne, Basel, Freiburg, Spire, Fulde, Rehensburg, Pfortzheim, Erfulte, Mahdenburg, and Leiptzig, and among some others, some three hundred destroyed communities of those times. My family was among those killed in Basel and in Prague, as well as in Niece, Bjegu, Gura, Olesnitsa, and Wrotzelav. I forgot to tell you that most of my family lived at that time in Silesia and Poland. It was supposed to be better there. Safer.
— Was it?
— In general, yes. But later, when the epidemic started receding. One pogrom in Wrotzelav in 1360. There was a fire, the Jews were blamed, killed and drowned. Thirty or fourty people. From my family — only two. More serious case was in Krakow, in 1407, the Tuesday after Passover. A killed Christian baby was found. He was killed of course for the blood for matza. Those at fault are, of course, Jews, were preaching the priests. Masses, moved by the speeches, ran for vengeance. Several hundred were murdered; several hundred were converted. In two years I was born a Christian, a daughter of converts.
I was washed over by the waters of baptism and named Anna, after a saint, whose church was in 1407 burnt by inertia by the enraged peasants of Krakow. Fortunately, I was Anna not for long, because in 1410, my family fled Poland to Silesia, to Stshegom, returning to judaica perfidia, to the faith of Moses. In Stshegom some of our relatives resided, and overall, one hundred forty people of our faith. Seventy three of them, including my father Samuel ben Gershom, lost their lives during the pogrom of 1410. The reason? The sounds of shofar on Rosh-ha-Shana were interpreted as a call for attack on Christians. My mother with the father’s sisters and me, one-year-old baby, fled to Javor. There, at the age of eleven, I saw the second pogrom with my own eyes. Trust me, it is an unforgettable sight.
— I believe you.
— I do not complain, — she raised her head sharply. — Take it into account. I don’t cry over myself, over those of my tribe. Over Jerusalem, over the Temple. Uwene Jeruszalaim ir hakodesz bimhera wejameinu! I know the words, but their meaning is lost on me. I am not going to sit and weep in front of Babylon’s rivers. I am not looking for sympathy of others, not even mentioning tolerance. But, you asked me whether it had an effect. Of course it did. Some things are better not to handle if you are paralyzed by fear of consequences, of what can happen. I am not afraid. I accumulated bravery for generations... No, not bravery. Immunity to fear. No, not immunity. Insensitivity.
— I understand.
— I doubt it. Better go to sleep. If your concoction works, we shall leave at dawn. If not, we shall leave at dawn anyway.
— You... uh... don’t know how I can raise fifty quid somehow, do you? — Work? — Bertie!.. No, I must think of some way. I need to put at least fifty quid on Ocean Breeze.
A microscope that is used as a door stop is a sadly lacking in the full expression of its potential. The same is true regarding a human being — not in the sense of one being a door stop, but in the sense of one not fully expressing the essence of what makes him unique amongst all creatures.
A philosopher (to use the term loosely) once pondered what professions express this potential to its fullest and reached a conclusion that they are those that require thinking, research or creativity. E.g., the profession of a scientist or a mathematician. Or the profession of an artist, a writer, or a musician. Of course, any profession can allow a person to express both his intelligence and creativity, and by participating in this profession then a person does not only earn a living but lives up to his title of a human being, a Homo sapiens (“a thinking person” literally — to differentiate one from Homo erectus, whose main distinction from the rest of the animal kingdom is in his upright posture).
Another philosopher, upon listening to the first one list the professions, remarked: “Surely you are forgetting the best profession of all — that of an heir.” More about it here (starting 0:54).
All of the above refers to the nations of the world. What about the Jews?
Well, although being a thinking and creative individual is of course a virtuous characteristic for a Jew, it does not touch the essence of who he is. Rabbi Gottlieb remarks that after having been introduced to someone at a cocktail party, the first questions to ask him or her are: “Where are you from?” and “What do you do [for a living]?” Because there is a difference between speaking to a person from California and from Texas. And there is a difference between speaking to a plumber and a cardiologist (despite the superficially similar nature of their professions).
Nevertheless, finding out about a frum Jew’s profession is useless. Avraham Avinu was a shepherd. Hillel chopped wood. Rashi was a wine merchant. Rambam was a doctor. The Lubavitcher Rebbe was an electric engineer. Therefore what?
My point goes beyond the fact that learning Torah and observance of mitzvos (and levels of and views on thereof) define frum Jews much better than the methods for earning a living. Returning to the above statement that being an intelligent and creative being defines the essence of who a human being is, one can say that being a servant of Hashem defines the essence of who a Jew is.
A Jewish soul is a part of G-d’s Essence. It resides in the upper spiritual realms and then descends into this world with but one purpose: to make it a dwelling place for G-d. It must learn Torah in this world, and it must do mitzvos with the objects of this world. For this purpose it must interact with the world — and according to the philosophy of Chabad, we do not shy away from this interaction. But to allow the world define and shape who we are, on any level, is foolish. If that happens, G-d forbid, then a Jew is worse than a microscope being used a door step. Because there is a finite distance (however great) between a microscope’s design and that of a stone, but the difference between the essence of G-d and this world is infinite.
It is up to us whether we live up to our fullest potential in our lives. And I don’t mean by the end of our lives. I mean every single moment we are in this world.
Reb Aaron Yaffe, the shochet, related the following story:
When I was younger I worked as a melamed in a small village, and as shochet for the neighboring towns. When we heard that the Tzemach Tzedek would not only be passing through our village, but would also be staying for several days, we hurried to make the proper preparations for his visit. When the Rebbe arrived, I was supposed to slaughter a chicken for his meal. Before I did so, however, I went to show him my chalef (shechita knife) before proceeding. The Rebbe approved, and indeed ate the meat I provided during his entire stay in our town. The Tzemach Tzedek received all who wished to speak to him in private, and in the course of events, it became my turn for yechidus.
"What is your request?" the Rebbe asked when I entered his room.
"I have a halachik question that troubles me," I began. "I am disturbed by all the restrictions instituted relatively late in our history, on things that previous generations of rabbis considered permissible. Does this mean, G-d forbid, that earlier generations of Jews were eating food that was not kosher? How is this possible?" I said.
"Do you understand what the words assur and muttar mean?" asked the Tzemach Tzedek. "Assur literally means 'bound up,' 'restrained' by the klipos, or husks of the sitra achra, the forces of evil. As is explained in the Tanya, these things cannot be elevated and transformed into holiness, even if they are eaten with the proper thoughts and intentions. Muttar, on the other hand, literally means 'untied' or 'loose,' indicating those things that it is possible to elevate and refine if we eat them with the proper intentions and for the sake of heaven.
"During earlier generations, when souls came from a much higher source, our forefathers had the spiritual strength and power to elevate many things that were originally considered permissible. With the passage of time and the diminution of our spirituality, our Rabbis have forbidden many things that were previously allowed. Our souls are inferior to those that were sent down before us, and it is just not in our power to turn these things into holiness."
Another interesting thing I heard recently: in Chabad, we don’t say a brocho on tefillin shel roish, because (al pi inyonim pnimi’im*) it is too holy. Saying a brocho means that we are drawing down into this world the G-dly Light necessary for the union of G-d and the physical matter with which a mitzva is performed. But if the Light is too high for us to draw down into this world, saying a brocho would be in vain.
That is also one of the the reasons why during the seider we say “Boruch ha’makom” without the Eibeshter’s name.
He had remained speechless throughout Fudge's kindly explanation that there were witches and wizards still living in secret all over the world and his reassurances that he was not to bother his head about them as the Ministry of Magic took responsibility for the whole Wizarding community and prevented the non-magical population from getting wind of them. It was, said Fudge, a difficult job that encompassed everything from regulations on responsible use of broomsticks to keeping the dragon population under control (the Prime Minister remembered clutching the desk for support at this point). Fudge had then patted the shoulder of the still-dumbstruck Prime Minister in a fatherly sort of way.
“Not to worry,” he had said, “it's odds-on you'll never see me again. I'll only bother you if there's something really serious going on our end, something that's likely to affect the Muggles — the non-magical population, I should say. Otherwise, it's live and let live. And I must say, you're taking it a lot better than your predecessor. He tried to throw me out the window, thought I was a hoax planned by the opposition.”
— HP VI
This reminded me of the Ministry of Magic in Harry Potter. Except its goal was not to protect the wizards but to protect the muggles (or so I am told).
Which brings me to my main point: [censored] “just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean that they are not really out to get you”. (You have to apply this saying inside-out in this case.)
I guess shtreimels were indeed the hats of Polish nobility:
Of course, when your scenery looks like this —
— there is a reason to wear a warm woolly hat. And wearing it was a sign of nobility, because a hat like this cost a good amount of money. (Above pictures from some 17th century Polish footage.)
On the other hand, in this weather...
...perhaps such clothes would be more appropriate:
I refer you to my earlier post about traditions (see part 2).
(It is well known that the Lubavitcher Rebbeim did not wear a shtreimel outside of Lubavitch. I suppose the climate in Crimea or Carlsbad was much softer...)
The 2nd story involved a family who had a lady clean and cook for them for many years. They loved her as she was part of their family. As years passed and the lady wanted to retire, she bought a house in her native Poland. The family drove their beloved house keeper to the airport.
By the last checkpoint where the family couldn’t follow her any further she stopped and said: “Well now that I'm leaving you are surely going to miss my cooking!” “Oh yes, we definitely will,” the family said warmly.
Smiling she said to them: “You know, whenever I cooked for you, I always added a special ingredient with a special flavor: pork. That’s why you liked my cooking so much!” Their close ‘family friend’ turned around and walked to the plane leaving the family completely and utterly stunned.
But of course, the Chazal were just racist in all their laws and restrictions regarding intermingling of Jews and gentiles, laws about their wine and milk products, kashrus in general, not lending a gentile your dog, etc., etc. Nothing similar to what Chazal were worried about has ever happened since the times of Babylonian exile — for sure not in our times...
(Regarding the article itself: both a Jew and, lehavdil, a non-Jew can steal, r"l. Especially if paid “a few bucks an hour” — which doesn’t excuse anything, of course. But a Jew probably won’t put pork in your soup.)
The following post contains a detail that may be disturbing to some people; so, be warned.
Most people know the famous story with Mitteler Rebbe and the interrupted yechidus. Tonight, I found a detail about it which I had not known before. I can’t find the story online at the moment (if someone can, please leave a comment with a link), so I will summarize it as I remembered it.
The story went as follows. One day, a man entered a yechidus of the Mitteler Rebbe. Shortly after, Mitteler Rebbe interrupted the yechidus and canceled all other meetings for the day. He locked himself in his office, saying Tehillim. He secretary thought that something terrible must have happened, so he also started saying Tehillim. Other people present asked the secretary what was up, were told, and also started saying Tehillim. Soon, the whole place was saying Tehillim.
Eventually, when the Rebbe left his office, he explained what had happened. When a Jew would come into his presence for yechidus with a specific question, which usually had to do with some fault of character or avoida, in order to prescribe a method to fix this flaw, Mitteler Rebbe would “associate” himself with a Jew and find corresponding fault in his own character or avoida, albeit, on a higher level. (The Rebbe was able to do this being a neshama klalis, which is usually the point for which this story is told.)
With this particular Jew, however, Mitteler Rebbe was not able to find anything even remotely similar to what the Jew had done. This made him think that the flaw was so deep that it wass not even consciously perceived by the Rebbe himself. This upset the Rebbe, who started saying Tehillim hoping to gain knowledge of that fault. Eventually he was able to see it.
The story usually ends here, without going into detail about the specific aveira of the Jew and what that corresponded to in, lehavdil, the Mitteler Rebbe’s avoida.
Tonight someone told me what both were. The Jew who went to yechidus was working at a cemetery. He had seen someone beautiful being buried there and could not control himself, committing a forbidden act with the body.
Now, what was the corresponding problem that Mitteler Rebbe was able to find on his own level? Learning Chassidus but not letting it affect one’s character and avoida.
The only reason I posted this detail is that it is both a striking image and an important lesson for everyone learning Chassidus and being engaged one way or another in the world of Chassidishkeit.
Update (from a comment): “I heard that the Mittler Rebbe said that he sometimes says Chassidus that is too deep for anyone to understand, and even though he knows nobody will understand it he still gets enjoyment from teaching the Chassidus.
This was, on a very refined level, M'eyn the sin that this person did, since in that case as well all the pleasure is in the Mashpia, and the Mekabel gets nothing.”
This is not another PC vs. Mac post. It's a reference to something my rabbi said when he heard a speaker express an opinion that owning Internet at home is dangerous because a child may use it to visit sites with terrible content. My rabbi commented on that: "Having windows in your house is also dangerous".
There is a Russian saying, above: Nye imey sto rubley, a imey sto druzey (I am transliterating to demonstrate that it rhymes). It means: “Don’t have one hundred rubles; have one hundred friends.” (It made more sense back in the days when one hundred rubles was relatively a lot of money.)
My car’s thermostat went bust, as a result of which my antifreeze was not cycling back into the radiator. The pressure built up, and the opposite pipe burst open, leaking out all the antifreeze. As a result, my engine obviously started overheating. Only when the smoke filled the car, I realized that something was wrong (I know approximately as much about mechanics as a regular mechanic knows about Neuroscience; the fact that the temperature needle went all the way to the right and that heating stopped working meant nothing to me).
My neighbor (the son of my landlady) replaced the pipe and the thermostat (and drove me to the AutoZone to buy all the parts and the antifreeze). The whole affair cost me about $36. My local mechanic would probably tell me that I need to replace the whole radiator.
When asked “What do I owe you?”, my neighbor answered: “Nothing. I like fooling with this kind of stuff.” (I am still going to buy him a case of beer, though.)
Hence the above Russian saying.
(Need I mention that he is from Russia? Need I mention that he is Jewish?)
Coming back from an emergency trip to NY (during which I had to respond to a family tragedy, but as a result lit all the candles of the menoira in a household, where not a single candle had been lit during the whole Chanukah), I had an interesting occurrence. Actually, it was rather commonplace, but it made me think of a conversation I recently had with my rabbi.
To see full lyrics in Ladino, with English translation, visit the original post.
Although I’ve obviously heard of Ladino before, I never heard it spoken and sung. It has what I like in languages: the hardness resembling that of Spanish or Russian with some softness in between. Like a crunchy eclair with gooey filling.
By the way, although the official version is that my family came to Ukraine from Poland (settling in Shpola), my grandmother and her sisters speak in Galicianer accent of Yiddish (and so did my great-grandmother). My grandmother is very annoyed at my Lithuanian Yiddish, which I picked up from Lubavitchers (mixed with the influence of German I took in college).
My favorite characters were the dude in the hussar uniform in a hat with a feather (which matched his beard so well) and the people who kept walking around with chairs.
Like Obama, I am a graduate of Harvard Law School. I too have Muslims in my family. I am black, and I was once a leftist Democrat. Since our backgrounds are somewhat similar, I perceive something in Obama's policy toward Israel which people without that background may not see. All my life I have witnessed a strain of anti-Semitism in the black community. It has been fueled by the rise of the Nation of Islam and Louis Farrakhan, but it predates that organization.
