Sunday, March 10, 2024

The Miracle of the Maple Tree

Always remember, joy is not incidental to spiritual quest. It is vital.
Nachman of Breslov

The Jews had light and gladness, and joy and honour.
לַיְּהוּדִים, הָיְתָה אוֹרָה וְשִׂמְחָה, וְשָׂשֹׂן, וִיקָר
–The Book of Esther 8:16

All the festivals are destined to be nullified [in the Messianic age], but the days of Purim will never cease to be observed.
Midrash Mishlei 9:1

Today is the first day of the second month of Adar, and Purim is just around the corner.
Every year at this time, I find myself fraught and frazzled, and this year is no exception, the only difference being that, this year, I am a bit more fraught and a great deal more frazzled.

This year, my annual calculations of how many hamantashen to make so there is enough to give to all the kids and have also for Shabbat and Purim and the Shabbat after Purim AND for mishloach manot has the added complication of trying to figure out how many and when I will give some to my sons who are returning to active duty (one before Purim and one right after) so as to feed at least their unit, or maybe battalion (but that seems like a lot). The complexity arises when I factor in the necessity of not making so many that we’ll still be eating them on Erev Pesach and then have to burn the remainder. (I still have three packages of noodles and some couscous that need to be used up.)

Then there is the planning of Seudat Purim. With the boys in the army, I have no idea who will be here to eat. Will the one going in the next day feel like coming over and will the one already in be able to get out? Will the other kids want to come if the boys aren’t here? How much humus should I buy? I don’t want any of that left over either.

In any case, how much do we celebrate? Do we dress up, party hardy, dance and laugh? It’s hard to get to that frame of mind when our enemies are still at our doorstep (almost literally) and our sons and daughters are still defending us with their lives (very literally), while others are languishing in the Hamas terror dungeons. Our hearts, quite literally, are in Gaza. 

Personally, I have no problem being fraught and frazzled. It’s a thing. A problem, however, does emerge when one wants to adhere to the commandment (mitzvah) to be joyous. According to Rav Nachman of Breslov, it is not just a mitzvah to be joyous, but a GREAT mitzvah. (מצווה גדולה להיות בשמחה תמיד) What complicates things even more (what’s with these complications?), in the month of Adar, we are commanded to be even more joyful than the rest of the year. When Adar enters, our sages tell us, our joy increases. (מי שנכנס אדר מרבים בשמחה)

It’s a tall order to be joyous upon command. How is it even possible to be joyous in the midst of war, death, uncertainty? Do we put aside these worries and concerns and ignore them? Do we, really, only concentrate on how many hamentashen and humus we need?

In order to understand this dichotomy, one needs to understand exactly what the commandment is asking of us.

In Hebrew, the word for joy is Simcha. But Simcha, in this context, is one of those words that is not really translatable (even though I’ve translated it). It is not the joy you feel when you your favorite cereal goes on sale, or when you find a parking spot right in front of the post office. It’s not even the joy you feel when the cake you’ve made impresses your daughter-in-law.

Simcha, in the context of mitzvah, is the feeling you get when you perform mitzvot. It is the awareness that you have the ability to serve the Master of the Universe. It is the understanding that one has a unique relationship with HaShem, that each one of us has, within our power, the ability to do good and to change the course of the world.
It is the feeling we have when we acknowledge before Whom we stand.

What strength this can give us! What peace of mind! What happiness, knowing that we are deserving enough to serve God.

Both months of Adar and Nissan, with their respective holidays of Purim and Pesach, are bursting with the miracles of God.
Yet there is no separate mitzvah to be especially happy during Nissan.

There is a palpable difference between the two months, and the two holidays.

The miracles of Nissan transcend nature, changing it. From the first plague of blood through to the splitting of the sea, the entire world is witness to these miracles. From the youngest to the oldest, across the nations; all realize and accept the greatness of God. Even the name of the month of Nissan attests to the miracles (ness נס = miracle).
And yet, very quickly, the belief and trust in God is questioned. Soon after liberation from slavery, the Children of Israel begin to complain – they have no water, no bread, no meat. How can it be that directly after the greatest miracles of all time, almost immediately the people demand more and more proof of God’s powers?
During the entire story of the Exodus, the people are passive observers. They stand aside and let the wonders occur. The miracles are open (גלוי) – obvious.  Yet, it is very difficult to maintain the feeling of awe and gratitude over any length of time.

Adar is the name of a tree, a maple. Like the miracles of Purim, the greatness of the maple tree – its sap, the very core of its being – is ‘hidden’ (נסתר). The miracle of the sap doesn’t change nature – it is nature. Likewise, the miracles of Purim are hidden in the natural course of events. Only in retrospect, and with understanding and study, can one see the guiding hand of God throughout the story. Our salvation came, not from a change in nature, à la Pesach, but through nature.

The Jews of Shushan and beyond were obliged to play their part for the miracles of Adar to occur. They were not passive observers. They did not simply stand aside and watch the power of God. The people worked with God to bring about their own redemption.
In Pesach, the miracles were so overwhelming that we were awed, but in Purim, because we were part of the process, we were able to take pride and joy in it.

While the miracles of Pesach were stupendous, the feelings of belief they engendered were fleeting.
However, Megillat of Esther tells us: “These days of Purim will not pass from the Jews, nor the memory cease from the children.” (Esther 9:28)

There are actually two elements of the miracles that we must never forget: The first is that we will always remember that it was God’s intervention that caused our redemption during the days of the Esther and Mordecai.

The second is that divine intervention and supervision continue on to our very day. The miracles of Purim, unlike the splitting of the sea, was not a one-time occurrence. God watches over us every day and every hour. While we play our role in our affairs, in Israel and beyond, ultimately it is God who is watching over us.

The miracles of Purim live on with us.
 
This explains why the mitzvah of increased joy is incumbent on us only in Adar, and not in Nissan even though the miracles were so much more magnificent in Nissan. When Adar comes in, replete with its miracles, we should try and strengthen our simcha, do our mitzvot with extra meaning, with a higher level of concentration. We need to focus on our glorious destiny, understand our part in it, and pray with all our hearts, and with great simcha, that we be rewarded our complete redemption.

Amen.

 



Thursday, February 29, 2024

Carrying On

If you don’t vote, you lose the right to complain.
―George Carlin

Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.
―Haruki Murakami, from Kafka on the Shore

In Israel, Sunday is a working day. Many people do not work on Friday, and those who do, along with schools, have a shortened workday. Friday is a day usually used for errands; shopping, laundry, fixing the toaster, washing the floor, and cooking for Shabbat. Therefore, especially for those families who are 'shomer shabbat' (i.e., keep the Sabbath and don't travel or use electricity) there are very few opportunities for get-togethers with family and friends who do not live close by. 

In fact, there are exactly three Sunday-like days:

  • Purim - a Jewish holiday but travelling is permitted;
  • Independance Day - a National holiday, where having a barbecue is mandatory; 
  • Election Day.

Here in Israel, we are blessed (?) to have at least one Election Day a year. In a really good year, we might have as many as three Election Days. Let's hear it for democracy!

In any case, Election Day is a day off work and school, and after voting, one is free to do whatever one wants. Shops are open and do a booming business (no Israeli pun intended), and national parks, beaches, and other attractions are full of picnickers.

Election day, in our family, is a good opportunity to gather family members from the far corners of the country and have a barbecue in our yard. Therefore, after two postponements due to the war, when it seemed that the municipal elections, originally scheduled for last October, were finally going to happen, I made sure, well in advance, to have the kids pencil in the day to come to Beer Sheva and eat semi-raw meat. 

The kids all assured me that they would 'probably' come if no better offer came up. 

The last time an effort was made to all get together was during Sukkot  five months ago. Since then, a lot, to put it mildly, has happened (see past posts). In addition, due to anticipated return call-ups to army service, we might not have another opportunity to all be together until next Sukkot ― seven months away, if then. We have all learned to grab opportunities when they arise. 

And so, we filled the house with raw meat, pitot, humus, and pickles. 

We cleaned off the porch that had barely been used all winter. (Some of the harder to reach Sukkot decorations were still up, but hey.) Blessed rain had fallen Election Day morning, and we had to dry off the chairs. 

People began to arrive. Pickles were chopped, lettuce was washed, and raw meat juiced dripped onto the floor. 

I pulled out disposable plates and cups and cutlery from a cupboard that hadn't been opened since Sukkot.

But it was only as I unfurled the plastic outdoor tablecloth onto the plastic outdoor table, a tablecloth that had not been used for five months, it was if all the memories trapped in its folds came floating up. 

The laughter of the children on that Sukkot day;
The hot holiday sunshine and blue skies the last time we were all together.
The next memory that flew up was from five days after the first:
The sun peaking over the houses, and the gut-wrenching sound of booms in the distance;
The blast of the sirens and deafening booms much closer to home.

I could hear those booms so clearly in the snap of the tablecloth as we straightened it. 
We have not had rockets in Beer Sheva in almost two months. 
I shook my head to clear the sounds in my head, wiped away the tear that had somehow, uninvited as always, rolled down my cheek. I took several deep breaths. 

I carried on. 

Meat was burned, drinks were spilled, and gales of laughter erupted from three generations of Israelis sitting on the porch on Election Day afternoon. We ate cake and deep-fried marshmallows (not recommended).  

Interspersed with the laughter, though, I could not shake the memory of the uncertainty and fear as the sirens and booms continued on that black day five months ago and the never-ending horror and grief and worry that washed over us as we slowly began to understand the magnitude of events.

Yet, here I was, on another beautiful Israeli day, with the sounds of the children's laughter filling the air, and the smells of charcoal wafting above. 

We will carry on.
Laughing, and loving, and voting. And remembering.

The future is not a promise but a hope. 
We are full of hope. 





Sunday, January 28, 2024

A Deep Breath


The Lord is my strength and my shield, in Him has my heart trusted, and I am helped.
Psalms 28;7

No weapon that is formed against you shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against you in judgment you shall condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their due reward from Me, says the Lord.
Isaiah 54;17

We were granted the right to exist by the God of our fathers at the glimmer of the dawn of human civilization nearly 4,000 years ago. For that right, which has been sanctified in Jewish blood from generation to generation, we have paid a price unexampled in the annals of the nations.
Menachem Begin

קרוב תזרח השמש, נדע ימים יפים מאלה, הלב נלחם בדאגות. כולם יחזרו הביתה, נחכה להם למטה
הלוואי נדע בשורות טובות
The sun will soon be shining, we'll know better days that these,
Worries battle in our hearts.
Everyone will return home, we'll wait for them out here,
Halevai, we'll hear only good news.
—Eyal Golan

The autumn Israeli High Holiday season is an intense period of shopping, cooking, cleaning, visiting, traveling, and even praying. Much of the country comes to a virtual standstill until after the last day of the Sukkot festival - Simchat Torah. Therefore, whether it's beginning house renovations, going on a vacation, starting a diet, or rearranging the bookshelves, 'after the holidays (aka acharei haChagim אחרי החגים)' is the code to live by.

This year, 'after the holidays' has not yet arrived in Israel. 
(Horror, and tragedy, and hatred arrived instead.
We did not invite them. All our energy has gone into banishing them, and with every step, we have only encountered more.)

But time marches on, as it does, and when Chanuka comes around, I begin to understand that, this year, there would be no period of acharei haChagimand that, nevertheless, I had better begin to address my two-page acharei haChagim to-do list.

I file away my recipes and to-do lists that I had used during the holidays for next year (hoping there will be a next year).
I cut my hair. 
I hang up some clothes.
I write an email or two, send out a few Whatsapps. 
Slowly, I begin to cross a few items off the list. 
Days slip away.

Outside, I pass a notice board on which hangs a tattered poster advertising a famous singer who was giving a concert for Slichotthe customary penitential prayers said between Rosh HaShana and Yom Kippur. There have been no concerts since then. 

We go to visit a relative who had moved to a different city just before Rosh HaShana. Because of the holidays, he hadn't spent much time in his new apartment before he was called to army service on October 7th. 
His apartment is lovely, with new furniture and a new oven. The pots and pans are shiny, and there are dried flowers in a vase. An avocado pit is sprouting in a jar. 
His bedroom, which sports pink Hello Kitty sheets he had picked up for next to nothing in the local shuk, is relatively neat. After all, it has hardly been used. What makes me pause, however, is the lulav and etrog, in their protective plastic case, that have been leaning against the wall for close to four months. The leaves of the branches have gone moldy.
He sees me looking. "I never got around to dealing with it. I don't know what to do with it anymore", he says.

I go out for coffee with friends. There are off-duty soldiers drinking coffee, eating cake, sipping fruit shakes. There is a soldier pushing a small child in a stroller, a gun slung over one shoulder, a diaper bag over the other. 

We go to a wedding. The magnet guy has cameras slung over his shoulders like guns. At this wedding, I count about the same number of guns as cameras. There would have been more guns, but the groom and his unit had been released from active duty in Gaza two weeks before. 

I go to a funeral. A woman in the community, who had children and grandchildren and great grandchildren, has sadly passed away. There are guns, slung like cameras, around a few shoulders. 

And just like that, Chanuka, with its light and its hope, is long over, and now it's Tu B'Shvat, with its promise of growth and renewal. 
The days are still dragging on and it's the dead of winter. 
We are burying our dead.
The week has been cold and rainy. 
Rain is a blessing in the Holy Land, but everyone thinks only of the soldiers and the hostages standing, serving, sleeping, in the cold. 
The trees, naked of their leaves, are beginning to sprout again. 
The almond trees are blossoming, as is the lemon tree in my backyard. We will hopefully have lemons before Rosh HaShana.

My acharei haChagim to-do list has morphed into my pre-Pesach to-do list. 
I take a deep breath.
And another. 







 

Tuesday, January 16, 2024

Hineni

הִנְנִי הֶעָנִי מִמַּעַשׂ נִרְעַשׁ וְנִפְחַד מִפַּחַד יוֹשֵׁב תְּהִלּוֹת יִשְׂרָאֵל בָּאתִי לַעֲמֹד וּלְהִתְחַנֵּן לְפָנֶיךָ
עַל עַמְּךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל אֲשֶׁר שְׁלָחוּנִי
Hineni! Here am I, poor in deeds, trembling in fear in front of the Holy One of Israel.
I came here before You to plead on behalf of Your people, who sent me,
although I am hardly worthy of the task.
The Hineni prayer - From the High Holy Mussaf Service

וַיְהִי, אַחַר הַדְּבָרִים הָאֵלֶּה, וְהָאֱלֹקים, נִסָּה אֶת-אַבְרָהָם; וַיֹּאמֶר אֵלָיו, אַבְרָהָם וַיֹּאמֶר הִנֵּנִי.
And it came to pass after these things, that God did prove Abraham, and said unto him: 'Abraham'; and he said: 'Hineni! Here am I.'
Genesis 22:1

וַיִּקְרָא אֵלָיו אֱלֹקים מִתּוֹךְ הַסְּנֶה, וַיֹּאמֶר מֹשֶׁה מֹשֶׁה--וַיֹּאמֶר הִנֵּנִי.
God called unto him out of the midst of the bush, and said: 'Moses, Moses.' And he said: 'Hineni
! Here am I.'
Exodus 3:4

וָאֶשְׁמַע אֶת-קוֹל אֲדֹנָי, אֹמֵר, אֶת-מִי אֶשְׁלַח, וּמִי יֵלֶךְ-לָנוּ; וָאֹמַר, הִנְנִי שְׁלָחֵנִי.
And I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, ‘Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?’ Then I said, ‘Hineni
Here am I. Send me. 
Isaiah 6:8

Israel has officially been at war for 102 days.
That first awful day in October, known in Israel as the Black Sabbath, seems, simultaneously, as if it occurred both yesterday and ten years ago. 

It took me many days, even weeks, to fully comprehend what had transpired in those first few days; the magnitude of the tragedy, the magnitude of the war, the magnitude of the hate against the Jewish State, even the magnitude of the battle before us.

I try hard to stay away from the news. I don't watch television or listen to the radio (in the car, I try to listen to the music channels, but even these often stop their regular programming for 'breaking news', which is never good).  
My soul  already bruised and fragile  cannot endure the constant pounding of the endless stream of grief. 

I find that grief, and pride, and rage, and love are constantly and uncontrollably escaping from my eyes and running down my cheeks. 

I try, therefore, to concentrate at the other things this war has given us: the silly videos the soldiers make, the funny stories I hear from them or their families, the oranges and cherry tomatoes and peppers that were picked by volunteers and donated.
The endless stream of love my people have shown towards each other. 

And especially, I think of the magnitude of the heroism that has engulfed us. 

I think of the young man, father of four  living in one of the small towns that had been attacked on that black day, and where more than 50 civilians had been slaughtered  putting on his uniform, packing up his family and moving them to safety, before reporting for duty at a base in the south. For several days, while the army organized, he slept in his friend's car, eating canned corn and humus until the army sent him to patrol and protect our babies and grandparents, our teens and mothers, our farmers and teachers and engineers and students, our rabbis and our doctors in our villages and cities from further infiltration. He is trained as a machine-gunner. 

I think of another young man, who left his job, his children, his very pregnant wife, and hitchhiked, late in the night, to his base in the north. Living in a quiet small town (the quiet of which had been pierced by non-stop sirens that morning), and after spending much of the day in a 'safe room' with his family, he received his call to report to duty only after that Black Shabbat was over and he turned on his phone. Upon arriving at the base, he took up his duties as a driver of an armored personnel carrier, moving other young men and women and their supplies to the front to protect more babies and grandparents, teens and mothers from attack. 


I think of yet another young man, an army medic, who, living in a mixed Arab-Jewish city that had previously experienced violence, was advised to put his phone on early that black morning and did so, despite the fact that, in normal times, he does not use electronics on Shabbat. (The constant rocket sirens indicated that this was not normal times.) Soon after, he received a call to report to dutyto travel, on Shabbat (something he does not normally do), to a base in the north of the country. Still wearing his white Shabbat shirt and armed only with his phone and a bus card, he set out, hitchhiking, to meet fellow soldiers from his unit and travel together to their base. 

About 350,000 other men and women received the same call. 
I have not heard that any said "but I have a baby", "but I have a pregnant wife", "but I have a business to run", "but I have a special needs kid", "but I start a new job tomorrow". 

They roseleaving behind their jobs, their businesses, their families, their homes and communities.
'Hineni' each one said, Here am I, send me











Thursday, December 14, 2023

Coming Full Circle

The kibbutz way of life is not for everyone. It is meant for people who are not in the business of working harder than they should be working, in order to make more money than they need, in order to buy things they don’t really want, in order to impress people they don’t really like.
— Amos Oz

A day without orange juice is like a day without sunshine.
—Florida Citrus Commission

One of the casualties of the current war between Israel and Hamas (and all its allies) is the Israeli agricultural sector. Farmers in Israel rely heavily on foreign laborers (usually Thai or Chinese) to come and do much of the work on a farm, such as laying down pipes, planting, and picking the produce. Most of these foreign workers left the country by October 8th, primarily because Hamas murdered many of their countrymen and took others hostages. Hamas doesn't care whom they kill; the more the merrier. 

In any case, there's been nobody to do the work. Therefore, cadres of volunteers have sprung up around the country to help out as much as possible in order to save the produce. There are teams going out throughout the country planting, picking, weeding. Most of these volunteers don't know which side of a hoe is up, but hey. 

And so, when an opportunity arose on a day we were free, the husband and I signed up to spend a day picking oranges. An orange picked is an orange saved, I was told.

It couldn't be too difficult, I thought, after all, I've done it before and survived.
I know which side of a hoe is up. 
The first year I spent in the HolyLand, I was a volunteer on a Kibbutz. For the first six weeks or so, I picked grapefruit. In fact, just about the first words I heard on my first morning on that kibbutz was "Hey! don't throw the grapefruit!" (היי! אל תזרקי את האשכוליות). Apparently, grapefruit bruise easily, and the bruises show up as they ripen after they are picked. The ones we were picking were for export, and not fully ripe. 

I prepared for the day's work in the orange orchard by trying to figure out what clothes I had that were just the right amount of ruined and making peanut butter and jam sandwiches to eat. 

We took our car to the orchard, about a 40-minute drive away, where we met up with the other volunteers who had come to help out. A minibus had been provided by American donors so that more people could come, and there were close to 40 of us gathered waiting for instructions.
We were given crates and gloves and told to empty the trees of oranges, and fill up the large bins placed between the rows. 

As I entered the orchard with its neat rows of trees smelling of citrus, I was hit by the strongest sense of déjà vu I have ever felt. The odors and the sight of all the trees brought back vivid memories of heat and dust and youth and strength, and of, well, Zionism. Years fell away, and I was back in the glory of that Zionism, picking fruit, giving my all, building the Land. 

The 40 volunteers ranged in age from 12 to 81, but with an overall average age of about 60; men and women, religious and secular, immigrants and sabras, country folk and city dwellers. We had all come simply to help.
Everyone took a crate and gloves and began picking. Oranges were dropped into the crates, and then taken to the larger bins. Each tree held about 60 kg of oranges. 

It took two or three people about 20 or so minutes to clear a tree. 
We were able to empty four rows of trees in two hours. 

There were a few small differences between picking grapefruit in the Beit Shean Valley in the last century and picking oranges less than five km from Gaza in December 2023: 

  • My Hebrew is now better;
  • It was about 20 degrees cooler;
  • Nobody yelled at me not to throw things;
  • Orange thorns are much much smaller than grapefruit thorns;
  • I had to provide my own water and lunch;
  • The water I brought wasn't cold, but wasn't hot either, nor was it mixed with mud;
  • Lunch was peanut butter and jam on pita rather than schnitzel and rice; 
  • I also had to provide my own work clothes that I have to launder myself. 
  • The farmer thanked us for coming and helping;
  • The vast majority of the other volunteers were, um, youth-challenged; 
  • The most glaring difference, of course, was that this time around, sounds of artillery and helicopters and other more general booms accompanied every move we made. (There were also sirens and incoming rockets a bit further to the north, but I suppose the sound of the attack helicopters covered those.)

I also realized, without a doubt, that I used to be younger. I was not 18 anymore. But I was definitely, beyond a doubt, still a Zionist. I felt like I had come full circle. 

Long ago, farmers (who were all either kibbutzniks or moshavniks) did not rely on foreign workers, but rather on their own people - whether it was paid local residents, volunteers (who, like me, came for the experience, or high school kids, yeshiva students, youth groups, pre-army kids etc.), or members of their own kibbutz who took turns doing the needed work. The idea was to build our own Land and be our own masters. It had been a heady time, and maybe I'm a romantic, but standing in that orange orchard, I was so grateful to have been blessed to have done and be doing my own teeny tiny part in building this Land. 

Towards the end of the day, I found myself talking to a very young man - maybe 16 years old. He said to me "this is such hard work! Aren't you tired?" And I answered him, "When I was about your age..." but I stopped that sentence and started again, "When I came to the Land", but I stopped again. What could I say so I wouldn't sound like an old lady? Third time lucky. "A few years ago," I said, "I picked grapefruit and that was much harder because grapefruit trees have thorns on them the length of your finger. I still have scars." But before I could pull my sleeves up to show him those scars, he looked at me and said "Well, I think they've engineered the trees now, so the thorns aren't as big anymore, and some don't even have thorns at all."

I looked back at him and could only think "we'll all have our own stories to tell our grandchildren of how we built this Land."

Because we aren't going anywhere. 







Monday, December 4, 2023

Chanuka 5784

 The proper response, as Chanuka teaches us, is not to curse the darkness, but to light a candle.
—Irving Greenberg

We can curse the darkness, or we can light a light, and as the Hassidim say, a little light drives out much darkness. May we all help light up the world.
—Rabbi Jonathan Sacks

And [we thank You] for the miracles, for the redemption, for the mighty deeds, for the saving acts, and for the wonders which You have wrought for our ancestors in those days, at this time
וְעַל הַנִּסִּים וְעַל הַפֻּרְקָן וְעַל הַגְּבוּרוֹת וְעַל הַתְּשׁוּעוֹת וְעַל הַמִּלְחָמוֹת שֶׁעָשִׂיתָה לַאֲבוֹתֵינוּ בַּיָמִים הָהֵם בַּזְּמַן הַזֶּה
—The Al Ha’Nisim prayer

For the past several years, excepting the period of Covid, my extended Israeli family has managed to get together for a family Chanuka party. Each year, we would gather together, somewhere, eat chocolate cake and stuffed mushrooms, latkes and zaatar-flavoured crackers, all on the same plate. Every year, we would count how many more of us there were then from the previous year, new members having been added either by marriage, or by having babies, or by aliya – more family who had moved to the HolyLand. And every year, we celebrated our miracles: that we were here, in the Land, together, lighting candles that symbolize miracles of long-ago (as the song goes), but which, in reality, reoccur every year.

This year, even though the weather is truly lovely, and even though there are so many beautiful parks available for a picnic-party; and even though several new members have joined us this year with several more babies having been born (Mazal Tov!!!); and even though we all haven’t been together as a group since last year’s Chanuka event; and even though the bakeries are awash with Soofganiyot, this year, sadly, we will not be gathering together.

Israel’s parks recently reopened after having been closed for about six weeks. The IDF home front command had ordered them closed because there are no shelters in most parks—no place to be safe from incoming rockets. The rockets have lessened in the past few weeks, due to the heroics of the IDF, so the parks have reopened, but those pesky rockets have not stopped altogether, and large groups are discouraged from gathering together.

And while we have new babies to celebrate, we’d be missing several others who are, even as I type, wearing green and carrying guns.

In any case, how can we celebrate when not all of our murdered have been identified; when funerals are still taking place daily; when our children and brothers and sisters are still being tortured in the tunnels of Gaza; when our sons and daughters are risking their lives to protect us from a bloodthirsty, barbaric, savage, immoral enemy.
When we are still grieving?

How do we make room for joy?

The question is can we ever celebrate again?

The Festival of Chanuka celebrates the victory of Light over Darkness, of the few over the many, of God over paganism.

The wars between the Maccabees and the Greeks were, in fact, wars between a group of Jews who revolted against the anti-Jewish laws of the Hellenists, and the Seleucids – the followers of Hellenism – who ruled in what is today Syria, and were assisted by other Jews who enjoyed the Hellenistic way of life.

The wars lasted over 30 years, and, of the five sons of Mattityahu, only one, Simon, survived. Thousands of Jews were killed in these wars. The purification of the Holy Temple, upon which the celebration of Chanuka is based, took place in the third year of the war, but the festival was not actually implemented until after the wars ended, more than thirty years later, and a certain level of autonomy was reached.
Though autonomy was short-lived, the festival of Chanuka, celebrating Jewish independence in the Jewish Homeland and Jewish values according to Jewish Law, has been observed ever since. Despite the horrors of war, despite the eventual loss of our Homeland, Chanuka came to symbolize Jewish resilience, Jewish pride, Jewish Nationhood.

Today we are experiencing horror, grief, sorrow, rage, and anguish.
But we are also experiencing pride, resilience, unity, honour, dignity, joy, and so much love.
And that is our miracle.  

At this pivotal time in history, the Jewish world is surrounded by darkness. Yet each small candle we light can light another and another, and yet another.

Even in our grief and pain, we stand resilient and proud. Each act – no matter how seemingly small – of kindness, of thoughtfulness, of generosity shines another ray of light, and from which yet another ray can be lit. Kindness breeds kindness.

And the time will come, speedily and in our days, when the world will be filled with our light again.



Wednesday, November 15, 2023

Standing Strong

This is My covenant, which you shall keep, between Me and you and your seed after you: every male among you shall be circumcised. And you shall be circumcised in the flesh of your foreskin; and it shall be a token of a covenant between Me and you. And he that is eight days old shall be circumcised among you, every male throughout your generations....
–Genesis 17:10-12

כשם שנכנס לברית כן יכנס לתורה ולחופה ולמעשים טובים
In the manner that he entered the brit, so shall he enter for Torah (learning and knowledge) the marriage ceremony, and the performance of good deeds.
–From the circumcision ceremony

A person, closely related to me, recently had a baby boy. While the birth was not a surprise  the mother was, after all, 41 weeks pregnant and I had known about the pregnancy for about 30 or so of those weeks – I was taken aback by my reaction, in that I barely had one. However, about an hour after receiving the news, overtaken by utter exhaustion, I found that my face was soaked with tears, but with no memory of having shed them. By evening of that day, many wonderful people, having heard our joyous news, sent me messages, via email, WhatsApp, messenger, of congratulations. I just stared at them, too tired to respond. 

I have no real explanation for that (lack of) response. Of course, not sleeping more than four or five hours a night for the past I have no idea how long might have had something to do with it, but it was more than that. I think it was an utter depletion of reservesone emotion too many (in this case, joy) just took me over the edge. That joy had stiff competition: grief, anger, rage, worry, fear, confusion, pride, honor, more grief were all battling for attention inside of me. The joy just had to wait its turn. 

The next day, we went to visit that baby and his parents at the hospital that is situated much closer to the Front. On the way, a siren sounded, and we were forced to pull over, jump out of the car and crouch in a ditch next to the highway. Thankfully, (miraculously) Iron Dome shot the rocket down, more or less above our heads. We were saved. Again. While it was the ultimate Israeli experience, it did not fill me with joy. 

The white speck is the explosion

A week later, we ventured out again, this time for a brit milah, the ancient Covenant of Abraham. For days before, there were discussions who from the family was going to come. One person in reserves was very confident he would get out of the army for the day (he did), but another, serving much farther away would not know until the last minute if he could get out (he couldn't). Some people were nervous of getting caught in a rocket attack as we did the week before, and still others were scared there wouldn't be room in a safe area in case of an attack at the event itself. 

Nonetheless, the brit was planned, cookies were baked, and whoever would come, well, they would be welcome. 

When we arrived, most of the components necessary for a brit milah were in place: a stack of prayer books on a shelf; a special chair (known as the Chair of the Prophet Eliyahu) on which the Godfather (no relation to Marlon) sits holding the baby for the ceremony; tables and chairs for the meal, food (so much food!!) the mother and the father; family and close friends; and one very small baby sleeping peacefully. The Mohel (the person who actually performs the procedure) had not yet arrived.

There were also the components that made the brit so Israeli: guests from across the country; the sound of a half dozen different accents all speaking Hebrew; guests who came late; guests wearing jeans and T-shirts (which, it was proudly proclaimed, were clean!); guests wearing high heels; guests arriving laden with plates of vegetables, salads, a pot of soup, and date cookies; and about 20 million children under the age of ten. 

In addition, to make it so very special, at this brit were the components that made sure nobody could forget we were at war; a safe room, which usually serves as the children's bedroom, that had been emptied out of all the beds and toys so that there would be enough room for the guests in case of a siren indicating a rocket attack; a guest (who also happens to be closely related to me), released from the army for the day so that he could celebrate his nephew's brit, who arrived with his wife, four small children, and a very big gun; another guest in army uniform who arrived directly from his base; and F-16s continually screaming over our heads. 

An F16
The ceremony proceeded; the baby cried, I cried, pictures were taken, and a name was given. 

Full as I still was with so many competing emotions, I couldn't actually choke down any of the amazing food that was served, but at the table after, I found myself sitting next to the soldier who had come directly from his base, still dressed in his uniform. He and the father had been in pre-army Yeshiva together. "Where are you based?" I asked him, an unfortunately far too normal question. "I'm in the Rabbanut", he answered, "We're now in Ramle".  I looked at him. "Oh", I said. He nodded, "Oh."

(In normal times, the Army Rabbanut oversees the kashrut at the bases, organizes holiday meals and prayers, and other similar religious duties. These days, the army Rabbanut is the primary institution responsible for the identification and preparation of bodies for burial. They have been working non-stop for 40 days and are just over half done.)

There was yet another soldier at the brit, also a close relative of the baby, but not of mine. He didn't come in uniform, and he didn't have a gun. Rather, he is in a distinguished Intelligence unit, and has also been working non-stop, even if it's in an air-conditioned room. 

And I sat there, counting on my fingers if I had celebrated more brit mila ceremonies of direct descendants or experienced more wars. It's a close race. 

The ceremony of the brit milah is a symbol of the covenant  or contractual agreement, if you will – between God and our Forefather Abraham. God promised Abraham two things: 1. that from Abraham would come a great nation (And I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great; and you will be a blessing [Genesis 12:2]), and 2. that He would give the Land (of Canaan) as a possession to that nation (And the LORD appeared unto Abram and said: 'Unto your seed will I give this land' [Genesis 12:7]). On his part, Abraham, and his descendants (us), (have) promised to circumcise his (our) sons and keep the commandments and honor the Land. 

I know that, despite what has happened and what is happening to our People and to our Land (and to our people outside the Land), the Nation of Israel is more united, stronger, and more blessed that it was before, and that soon, joy will once again be in the forefront. 

We are an eternal people with an eternal Covenant and we will stand strong.  

Amen