The Road of the Ivri

There is a story told of a man who was captured behind enemy lines during war. To his horror, he was sentenced to death by firing squad. However, the captain gave the man another option. He told him, "You can go to the firing squad tomorrow morning at 6:00 am, or you can choose to walk through this door."

Feeling hopeful, the man asked, "What's on the other side of that door?" The captain answered, "No one knows. All I can tell you is that there is some unknown power behind that door." The man thought it over, and the next morning, when it came time to choose his fate, he selected the firing squad.

After the shots rang out, the captain's secretary asked him, "You've offered so many people the other option, and every time they choose the firing squad. What's beyond that door?" With a look of dismay on his face, the captain answered, "Freedom! But people would rather face a known death than journey into the unknown."

Avraham chose the unknown. He demonstrated for us that it is OK to take a different path or the road less traveled. 

וַיָּבֹא הַפָּלִיט וַיַּגֵּד לְאַבְרָם הָעִבְרִי...

“A fugitive brought the news to Abram the Ivri… (Bereishit 14:13)

This is the one time that Avraham is called “ivri.” What is an ivri?

The Midrash cites three views. Rabbi Nehemiah says ivri refers to the fact that Avraham was a descendant of Ever. In a sense, Ivri is his last name. The Sages understand that ivri refers to the fact that Avraham was “mei’ever ha’nahar – from the other side of the Jordan River.”  He was a foreigner, and he spoke a different language than the locals. Rabbi Yehudah concurs that ivri highlights Avraham being different, but his uniqueness was more than familial or geographic. “Mei’ever echad v’hu mei’ever echad - The whole world was on one side, and Avraham was on another side.” Avraham was an ivri; he had the courage to be different.

Think about just how courageously different Avraham was. He left his home and birthplace and ventured into the unknown. He did all this due to his faith in God – that nobody else seemed to believe in. He shared this belief with others in the face of mockery and opposition. He kept this courage despite sojourning in hostile territory. There was his difficulty having children. Let’s not forget circumcising himself at age 99 before, oh yes, being commanded to sacrifice his son after preaching morality for all those years. And he stood up for the wicked guys in Sodom, too. Ivri to the max!

If ivri means having courage to be different, it makes sense that we embrace the term “ivri” to describe Jews. We find Yosef called ivri when he rises from slavery and prison to be viceroy of Egypt. The midwives Shifra and Puah are referenced as ivri when they stand up to Pharaoh and let the male babies live. And when looking for an answer when the boat is threatened in the stormy sea, Jonah stands up and says, “Ivri anochi – I am a Jew” and takes responsibility.

We look to Avraham for inspiration and reinforcement for us to follow in his footsteps.

Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein explains:

“This is Avraham's essence…The father of the nation teaches us that it is within a person's power, if he but wills it, to beat his own path, to clear himself a way, to create his own current. This character represents an enormous challenge, and presents a great demand of us. At the same time, it also serves as a source of comfort.  When a person is overcome with despair at the rushing, tumultuous streams facing him, he can take comfort in the knowledge that he can prevail - if only he wishes to act against them.  Perhaps he will not give rise to a new nation…but he will find the strength needed for his struggle.”

Throughout history, Jews have confronted challenges large and small. We draw strength from Avraham modeling for us the way forward: the way of ivri.

Rom Braslavski was one of the remaining 20 living hostages freed on October 20. He shared that the terrorists offered to convert him to Islam, promising him more food and better conditions if he agreed. But he kept telling them: “I am a strong Jew!” Rom shared this message from Sheba Medical Center.

“The only thing that gave me strength was knowing that everyone around me wasn’t Jewish, and that the reason I was there was simply because I’m a Jew…They kept telling me, ‘We are Muslims,’ ‘We are Arabs,’ ‘We are the true religion,’ ‘We are Muhammad,’ I believe we need to go back to being a united people. People should start keeping mitzvot and understand what it means to be Jewish. Look at what happened to me, what they did to me, just because I’m a Jew. That means a Jew should understand he is in a higher place, different from someone who isn’t Jewish. We need to strengthen Judaism, and I hope the people of Israel remain united.”

Judaism – and the Jewish future – require us to be more like Avraham the ivri, to cross over and take the road less traveled.

Several bar-mitzvah age boys had stopped attending their local Hebrew school. Their concerned parents took them to visit the Lubavitcher Rebbe, hoping he would convince them to continue with their Jewish education. “Tell me,” the Rebbe asked the first boy, “why have you decided to stop attending Hebrew school?”

“All the other boys on my street have stopped going to Hebrew school, so I want to stop as well,” he answered. “And what about you?” the Rebbe asked the second boy. “Same reason,” the boy explained. “The kids on my street don’t go, so why should I?”

“Tell me,” the Rebbe asked the boys, “who were your favorite Jewish heroes that you learned about?” One boy responded that he deeply admired Noah, and the other, Avraham.

“Do you know,” the Rebbe told the first boy, “that if Noah would have followed all the other kids on his street, we would have no world? And if Avraham would have followed all the kids on his street,” the Rebbe told the second boy, “we would have no Jewish people.”

We don’t follow. We blaze our own path with confidence.

Each of us must lean into being more ivri – more certain in our commitment to what makes us Jewish. It can be more ritual observance, more chesed, more visible expressions of Jewish pride and support for Israel. If being ivri can survive more than 730 days in Hamas tunnels, we can certainly embrace our special status as Jews in the freedom of America regardless of whatever challenges we might face.

The Light Through Noah’s Window

What kind of lights were on Noah’s Ark?
Floodlights!

Corny, I know. But the Torah itself asks a real question about the Ark’s light. When God instructs Noah to build the Ark, He adds one curious detail: 

צֹהַר תַּעֲשֶׂה לַתֵּבָה

Make a tzohar for the Ark. (Bereishit 6:16)

What exactly is a tzohar?

Rashi, quoting the Midrash, offers two possibilities:

“Some say it was a window; others say it was a precious stone that shone and provided light.”

A window brings in light from the outside. It connects us to the world beyond—the rising sun, the promise of renewal. Even as the floodwaters raged, Noah needed to believe that light still existed beyond the Ark’s walls. Yet a window also exposes us: it lets in the storm, and it lets the world look in.

A precious stone, by contrast, filters the light. It glows softly, refracting brightness from within. It protects from the outside while still illuminating the inside. It’s a kind of spiritual “frosted glass.” With such a tzohar, Noah could shield himself from the chaos around him while preserving the light within.

So, which did Noah have—a window or a gem?

Chizkuni suggests both.

There were moments when Noah needed to face the full glare of reality through a window, and moments when he needed the protection of the gem’s filtered glow.

Like Noah, we need both.

At times, we must filter what enters our lives - shielding ourselves from the noise, cynicism, or negativity that can cloud our vision. We create boundaries through community, tradition, and values. This kind of tzohar protects our inner light.

But too much filtering becomes its own darkness. Living entirely behind frosted glass can turn faith into an echo chamber. We risk mistaking insulation for illumination. To truly grow, we need to open the window—to see beyond ourselves, to encounter new ideas and perspectives, to let in the full light of the world.

After the Flood, the Torah tells us: “Vayiftach Noach et chalon ha-teivah - Noah opened the window of the Ark.”

Perhaps the message is that protection alone is not enough. Faith demands engagement. We must learn when to filter and when to face the world head-on.

The tzohar teaches us not to choose between a window or a gem but to balance both - to live with clarity and courage, light and limits.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks captured this beautifully:

“The challenge for our time is to open a series of windows so that the world can illuminate our understanding of Torah, and so that the Torah may guide us as we seek to make our way through the world.”

When a door closes, a window opens. That window lets light in - and lets light out.

Our task is to absorb the best of what enters, elevate it, and let it shine forth as Torah light to the world. In this way, what glows within us can illuminate far beyond us.

A Plug for Shemot as We Begin Bereishit

If we’re reading the portion of Bereishit, why is the rabbi mentioning Shemot? Good question.

It’s actually not Shemot – the book or the parsha. It is Shemot the acronym for Shnayim Mikra V’echad Targum, which in Hebrew is spelled שמות.

“What is this?” you ask. It may be one of the most fundamental aspects of Jewish literacy, identity, and continuity we ignore at our peril.

The Talmud (Berachot 8) states:

“Rav Huna bar Yehuda said that Rabbi Ami said: A person should always complete his Torah portions with the congregation. One is required to read the Torah text of the weekly portion twice and the translation once. One who completes this cycle of reading Torah portions with the congregation each year is rewarded that his days and years are extended.”

There is an obligation to read the text of each parsha twice (shnayim mikra) and the translation of Onkelos of the text (v’eachad targum) once. And there is a great reward in store for those who do this. This halakhah is codified in Shulchan Aruch (O.C. 285:1), and rabbis in every generation have highlighted the importance of this weekly activity.

Now, it may seem a little repetitive, technical, or irrelevant. Why read the text twice? Why read Onkelos if I don’t understand Aramaic? Do I have to read the text twice if I listen to the Torah reading in shul? Why not study a commentary inside? Why not a different Dvar Torah on the weekly parsha each year? These are all great questions – and all addressed in detail by various authorities over the centuries.

The common denominator is that ALL rabbis highlight the absolute obligation of Shnayim Mikra V’echad Targum each week. It is strange that so many great rabbis placed such importance on a Biblical study initiative considering how much emphasis is placed on studying Gemara and Jewish law. Nevertheless, the Vilna Gaon, Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, and many others – all known for not wasting a second of their time – all participated in Shemot even as it took time away from Talmud.

Why the emphasis on reading text and potentially unfamiliar commentary? Shanayim mikra takes on an outsize role in Torah study because it inculcates a familiarity and love for textual study.

Rabbi Moshe Besdin, the late legendary instructor in YU’s James Striar School of Jewish Studies, introduced thousands of students with limited Jewish educational backgrounds to learning Torah. He had a simple but meaningful slogan highlighting the importance of textual study: “We teach ‘IT’ not about ‘IT.”’

That’s the power of Shnayim Mikra V’echad Targum. It’s not about checking off a religious obligation; it’s about creating a rhythm of Torah in our lives. Each week, we personally encounter the words that shape our identity. The practice transforms the parsha from something we hear in shul to something we carry with us.

A group of college students once asked the Lubavitcher Rebbe why people ask his advice on matters that have nothing to do with Judaism. They understood that, as a rabbi, he can answer religious questions but why ask him about areas outside of his expertise. Does he, for example, know more medicine than a doctor?

The Rebbe smiled and compared the situation to that of a construction project. The architect draws up the blueprint and gives them to contractor to implement. The contractor then tells the various trades what they need to do. The contractor is not an expert in plumbing or masonry or electrical wiring. He is the one most familiar with the blueprint. “The Torah is God’s blueprint for the world, and He gave it to us to study. As someone who studies Torah, people see me as a contractor, so they ask all sorts of questions.”

When we study parsha week after week, year after year, it becomes part of us. In a world of constant distraction, this weekly encounter with Torah provides focus and stability. It reminds us that Jewish continuity isn’t sustained by slogans or sentiment but by learning - by returning again and again to our foundational text. Shnayim Mikra V’echad Targum democratizes Torah study: everyone can do it, every week, and in doing so we strengthen our collective connection to God’s word.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks described the parsha as a “weekly encounter between the moment and eternity which frames Jewish consciousness and gives us the unique sense of living out a narrative.” He wrote, “In Judaism we not only learn to live; we live to learn. In study, we make Torah real in the mind so that we can make it actual in the world.”

As we begin anew with Bereishit, we should try to take on Shemot. (See HERE for a great resource to help stay on track.) Jewish identity begins with the study – and internalization – of the words of Torah. Through the steady rhythm of Shnayim Mikra V’echad Targum, we keep those words alive - and ensure they continue to shape our people, our homes, and our hearts.

Hug Sameach!

Today is a day suffused with emotion.
Baruch Hashem!
Laughter. Smiles. Hugs. Cheers. Tears.

After two years, Israel and the Jewish people are turning a corner.

It is not the end of anything.
It’s an inflection point.
The remains of two dozen Israelis still must be repatriated.
What happens with Hamas, Gaza, the greater Middle East?
What will the next chapter of Israel look like?

All I know – and it’s blurry having stayed up past 5:00 am to watch those incredible first images – is that we need to be grateful and hug each other closer.

The list of thank yous is long. (We would be played off the stage at the Academy Awards before being halfway finished.) God. President Trump and his team – especially Steve Witkoff and Jared Kushner. Prime Minister Netanyahu and his team – especially Ron Dermer. All sorts of interlocutors and mediators and intermediaries.  All the families and loved ones and supporters of the hostages being released. Those who walked and baked and prayed and protested.

And the IDF.

We know of the heroism, valor, strength, dedication, and determination of the Israel’s soldiers. October 7 was a horrible, dark day, yet the IDF responded to the call of the hour. For 738 days, they have been driven to destroy Hamas and restore security to the citizens of the State of Israel and ensure they never face a similar threat. Soldiers – both new recruits and veterans – and reservists – many who served hundreds of days – have fought a war unlike any other in history – and won.

And sacrificed.
915 soldiers have been killed since October 7.

Today’s celebrations would not be possible without the soldiers of the IDF.
We must salute them. Thank them. Remember them. Support them. Hug their families close.

On Saturday night, Jared Kushner concluded his remarks in Hostage Square in Tel Aviv with mention of the soldiers: “I just want to thank the amazing soldiers of the IDF. Without their heroism and brilliance and bravery, this deal would not have been possible.”

Amit Segal remembered IDF soldier Eitan Fisch, who drew the above image of a hostage being rescued by a soldier before he fell defending his homeland. Returning the hostages home was the primary motivation of every soldier. As the hostages were being released, Amit wrote:

But the ultimate credit? That goes to the brave soldiers of the Israel Defense Forces. Throughout this morning, I was receiving photos of soldiers in Lebanon, who, after four rounds in Gaza, were watching the hostage release live. So too was I receiving similar photos from soldiers still in the strip. Neither can we forget the 915 soldiers who never wanted to join the list of the Jewish state’s fallen, but nevertheless fought to defend the homeland, return the hostages, and defeat Hamas. In the end, this achievement belongs with them.

As we acclimate to the end of the war in Gaza and hope for a bright future, we need to be vigilantly grateful to the IDF and unite behind them. I appreciate how Chag Samech can also be written Hag Sameach. That’s close to Hug Sameach (as in the image above). Sounds like a pretty good strategy for the upcoming holiday and beyond.

Amit Segal quoted a beautiful poem posted on Instagram by Elyasaf Ezra:

915 soldiers, men and women,
Heroes and heroines,
Are currently sitting in heaven,
On God’s balcony,
In the angels’ sukkah.
Holding hands,
Wiping the tears from their eyes,
Looking at one another,
Looking at us,
And shouting:
We did it.

Thank God, the IDF did it. The hostages are home. We are grateful and look ahead to what comes next. That’s up to us. We will be the ones to tackle the challenges and take advantage of the opportunities, to persevere, to be resilient, to be worthy of the sacrifice of so many. We can – and must – do it!

Kohelet, Jewish Joy & the Impending Hostage Release

Start worrying. Details to follow…”

That’s the classic content of the Jewish telegram about what to expect.

Then there’s the conversation between the Jewish pessimist and the Jewish optimist.

Pessimist: “I don’t think things can get much worse.”
Optimist: “You’re very wrong, I’m sure they can.”

Are Jews optimists or pessimists? Both.

Our experience gives us reasons for despair and hope, exultation and trepidation, and the glass being both half empty and half full. I just read about a news report of how October 7 prompted some Jews to make aliya and others to leave Israel.

Right now, we are all cautiously optimistic as we await the release of the hostages. We are reliving what our ancestor’s experienced more than 2,000 years ago as described in Nechemia 8:17 – “The whole community that returned from the captivity made booths and dwelt in the booths…and there was very great rejoicing.”

The expected release of hostage as we celebrate Simchat Torah and commemorate the anniversary of when the dark saga began is particularly powerful. The convergence of these multiple emotions is appropriate this Shabbat as we read Kohelet, the Book of Ecclesiastes.

“Haveil havalim amar Kohelet, haveil havalim ha-kol havel - Utter futility! - said Kohelet - Utter futility! All is futile!” (Kohelet 1:2)

Kohelet is not a very cheerful book. In fact, the Talmud (Shabbat 30b) teaches that the Rabbis wanted to hide Kohelet because it contains such contradictory and difficult teachings. The most sobering element is the recurrence of the word, “hevel,” translated as futility, vanity, folly, meaningless, or the like. If we read repeatedly how worthless things are, I can see why we might want to hide the book.

The custom is to read Kohelet on Shabbat Chol Hamoed Sukkot so that the book’s sobering nature ensures the celebrations of the festival don’t get out of hand. Sukkot may be z’man simchateinu but let us not forget that life is futile. We use Kohelet as a buzzkill, to remind us to be happy but not too happy.

I think there is a deeper lesson to be found in Kohelet. Kohelet abides because it provides perspective – maybe a corrective – on simcha, Jewish joy.

Kohelet isn’t all doom and gloom. There are flashes of optimism, meaning, and even celebration. Wee just need to look for them, to mine them out. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks notes that when Kohelet (King Solomon) focuses on himself, the tone is more pessimistic. When his experience includes others, there is more optimism.

Verses such as “I built for myself, I gathered for myself, I acquired for myself…” (Kohelet 2:4-9) end on a negative note. When Kohelet writes about being more productive (Kohelet 5:11) or social or even being happily married (9:9), he sounds more positive.

True Jewish joy must take others into account.

Take simchat yom tov, how we celebrate the festivals.

Rambam reminds us that we need to include others in our holiday meals. If not, our joy isn’t a religious experience; it’s “rejoicing of the belly.” Rambam notes that including others in our celebration of the festival isn’t about charity. He specifically mentions inviting those who are troubled or sad. We need to take others into account – their physical, spiritual, and emotional needs. Otherwise, our celebration is merely performative and limited to ourselves. To paraphrase Kohelet, it’s havel.

It's only true “Jewish joy” when it involves others. We know deep down this is true, but it is easy to get lost in our own emotions. As we, please God, celebrate the hostages returning home, we must filter our joy through the hearts of those for whom the moment will not be as celebratory.

There is a long road to recovery for the hostages and their families.

There is the mourning for those who loved ones’ remains will be returned but who are coming to grips with their ultimate absence.

There are those who bear the scars of wounds of war: missing limbs or loved ones killed in action, scars and trauma from injuries during battle, or the difficulty returning to normal after two years of war.

Iris Haim’s son, Yotam, was taken hostage by Hama and then accidentally killed by IDF troops. She posted the following online, reminding us of the complexity of the moment and mixed emotions people will be having.

Today, when you rejoice, rejoice reservedly, rejoice quietly, rejoice with a trembling voice.
Yes, it is right to rejoice, to release a sigh of relief, to ask forgiveness.
Yes, it is right, at the same time, to remember — in every moment — those who were not granted to embrace again, those who were starved and did not return, those who ran and would never again receive the laughter of their fair-haired child.
Rejoice within your homes, not in the city squares. Rejoice in your sukkah.
I give thanks for this moment that is coming — yet there is no joy in my heart.
At this moment, I yearn, like everyone, to see them home.
Still, the heart is torn again by the feeling of despair — mine is not coming.

Are Jews optimists or pessimists? Yes.

Kohelet takes us on a winding tale of ups and downs, highs and lows, optimism and pessimism, and celebration and sadness. We will find true meaning, purpose, and joy when we extend ourselves to others, feel their pain, and lift them up so we can all be redeemed together.

Who's in Your Sukkah?

Every year, as we decorate the sukkah, I think back to the sukkah of my childhood. Alongside the chains, fake fruit, and other accoutrements, we had a poster entitled “Gedolei Yisrael Rishonim V’Acharonim - The Earlier and Later Great Rabbis of Israel.” It had illustrations of famous rabbis who let an indelible mark on Judaism like Rashi, Rambam, Rabbi Yosef Karo (author of the Shulchan Aruch), and Rabbi Moshe Isserlis (the Rema, primary source for Ashkenazic practice).

We liked to comment on who had the longest beard or most exotic headgear or how did the designer know what any of these rabbis looked like anyway.

Notably, on the bottom row, there were two rabbis separated by a text box: Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov, the founder of the Chasidic movement, and his primary opponent, the Vilna Gaon. My father would joke that they were so diametrically opposed to each other that even their pictures couldn’t be side by side. I am happy to report than an updated version of the poster has the two great rabbis (smiling) next to each other. There’s peace between the Chasidim and their opponents!

Over the years, other rabbis joined the “classic” greats on my sukkah wall. Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Reb Shlomo Carlebach, and Rav Kook to name a few. These days, our kids add new names and faces to the “Rabbis Wall” of the sukkah.

Sukkot is the holiday of visualizing our spiritual influences.

The most well-known spiritual visitors are the seven Ushpizin, whose presence is meant to elevate our sukkah experience: Avraham, Yitzchak, Yaakov, Moshe, Aharon, Yosef, and David. We welcome one each night as each represents different aspects of our relationship with God.

This is not just an exercise in imagination. Any spiritual benefit from inviting the Ushpizin is only relevant if we share our holiday with those in need. We are not interested in exalted religious experiences alone. Exalted religious experiences are those we share with others. As Rambam writes, true simchat yom tov, rejoicing on the festival, is only experienced with others. Whether it’s assisting those who need help celebrating or giving someone an emotional boost. That’s true joy.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words.

Judaism recognizes the power of images to inspire. Isaiah (30:20) proclaimed, “Your eyes shall behold your teachers.” The Radvaz notes that seeing one’s Torah teacher creates a mystical connection — a sharing of spiritual energy. We look to be - and do - better by visualizing our spiritual greats. The Midrash teaches that Yosef resisted temptation in Egypt by seeing in his head an image of his father, Yaakov. Even a mental picture is worth a thousand words.

The sukkah is aspirational space. When we invite the ushpizin or hang up pictures of rabbis, we invite not just famous figures but ideals: hospitality, humility, courage, and devotion. Today, we have new ways to visualize that inspiration — not only through imagination, but through photographs and posters. Each face we hang in the sukkah, each role model we “invite in,” reminds us of what we value and who we want to become.

We’re not only inspired by pictures — we can be inspiring pictures ourselves.

The Chafetz Chaim was once returning by train from a rabbinic gathering. At each stop, people crowded train stations just to catch a glimpse of the saintly rabbi. Out of humility, he stayed inside the train — until Rabbi Meir Shapiro urged him otherwise. “Throngs of Jews will have pleasure from seeing you,” he told the Chafetz Chaim. “Aren’t you willing to accept a little discomfort if it brings them joy?”

From then on, the Chafetz Chaim went out to greet the people.

As we enter the sukkah this holiday, let’s look for inspiration – from family, from rabbis, from the heroes of the IDF. In addition to who’s in our sukkah, we should ask ourselves who’s sukkah can we be in. Do we radiate kindness, conviction, and courage that others would want to “invite in?” Are we living in a way that inspires others?

May our sukkot — and our lives — be filled with the presence of those who inspire us, and may we, in turn, become the kind of people whose very image brings light, strength, and joy to others.

Bob Dylan & Ha’azinu: Listening to the Music

On Yom Kippur, we were “Knockin' on Heaven's Door” in the hopes that with all the difficulties we are experiencing, “The Times They Are A-Changin’.”

The above sentiments are song titles of Shabsi Zisel ben Avraham, better known as Bob Dylan. I enjoy – and am even moved – by some of Dylan’s songs. He is also pretty cool and mysterious. He’s an enigma. Dylan’s religious odyssey makes for an interesting story, and he’s one of the few rock icons who had his son’s Bar Mitzvah at the Kotel and played Hava Nagila on the harmonica on a Chabad telethon. His son-in-law, musician Peter Himmleman, is an observant Jew.

Dylan, who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2016, is unique in that his songs have been analyzed for the deeper meaning of the lyrics. Professors of literature dissected Dylan’s imagery and significance in ways which they have never done with George Gershwin or Irving Berlin. People search for biblical, religious, and even mystical allusions. No doubt they can be found if the seeker uses their imagination. Whether they were intended by the author is another matter.

This week’s parsha, Ha’azinu, is a song which contains depth, meaning, and beauty.

וַיָּבֹא מֹשֶׁה וַיְדַבֵּר אֶת כָּל דִּבְרֵי הַשִּׁירָה הַזֹּאת בְּאָזְנֵי הָעָם הוּא וְהוֹשֵׁעַ בִּן נוּן:

Moshe came, together with Hosea son of Nun, and recited all the words of this song in the ears of the people. (Devarim 32:44).

What exactly is THIS song?

On a simple level, the song is the parsha. Ha’azinu is an enigmatic song. It describes the ups and downs of the Jewish experience. One the one hand, Jews are special and are admonished to follow God. On the other hand, there will be difficult patches. It is like a song that has a rough edge – like punk rock. You like the beat, but some of the lyrics can rub you the wrong way.

On a deeper level, the whole Torah is a song. Songs are an amalgam of lyrics and music. Some songs have lyrics that would qualify as a good poem without the music and some songs have music that would be just as good with no words at all. Yet when there is a combination of quality lyrics with good music, both aspects are enhanced.

The Torah is a multi-faceted, complex song. It is much more than a narrative or a book of laws. There are rhyme, rhythm, and poetry. The Torah contains a rich tapestry that is full of life, meaning, energy, and inspiration.

The Talmud (Megillah 32a) teaches that one is censured for reading the Torah without a melody or studying Mishnah without a tune. It is not only when the Torah is read publicly that there is musical cantillation. Enter any study hall and you will hear the traditional sounds of students exchanging ideas through the medium of melody. We sing the song of Torah all the time.

The Torah ends with a song because Moshe knew that music ensures the future of the Jewish people. It is the song which will enable the message of God to endure for all the generations to come. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks captures the power of song: Music speaks to something deeper than the mind. It speaks to the soul.

Rabbi Ally Ehrman, an educator in Israel, shares a story he heard from a Yeshivat Hakotel alumnus.

A Yeshivat Hakotel student’s parents lived in Israel and hosted their son’s entire class for a Shiur Shabbaton. The only "rule" was that each student had to give a d'var Torah at some point over Shabbat.  At Seudah Shlishit, the last student to present was older than the others in the group. He said that, instead of a dvar Torah, he wanted to tell his story.

I grew up in what is often described as an ultra-Orthodox community and attended a prestigious yeshiva. I had a bad experience with some of my teachers and began to question my religious lifestyle. I left the community and much of my observance. I headed to the West Coast and ended up in Venice Beach California, a far cry from where I came from.

Late one Friday night, I was wandering aimlessly on the beach when a tune in the distance caught my ear, and it sounded strangely familiar to me. It was the niggun, “Dovid melech, melech Yisroel…siman, siman tov…mazal, mazal tov..”

You can imagine my shock when I discovered that the mystery singer was a non-Jewish, homeless, African-American man sitting on the beach. I asked him how he knew that tune. He explained that, years earlier, he had met a Rabbi by the name of Shlomo Carlebach. This rabbi was nice to him and would give him a few dollars and spend some time with him and sing a little to cheer him up. It worked and the tunes stuck.

I didn't know much about Reb Shlomo at the time, but I did recognize the niggunim and was touched by this man's story. I decided that I would visit my new homeless friend and sing with him. This got me thinking about the way of life I left behind, and the rest is history…

Needless to say - everyone in the room was SHOCKED... and inspired. The power of a song.

This Shabbat, we sing the song of the Torah, of Jewish life. Life is a song. Just as we each play different roles, we hear the music differently. Similarly, there are lots of instruments, notes, lyrics, and sounds. Sometimes, they are all in harmony, and sometimes, things are out of tune. Whether you like Bob Dylan or Shlomo Carlebach or Fill in the Blank, there is so much beautiful music to be heard in our lives and in our Judaism.

The answers my friends are not “Blowin’ in the Wind,” but meaning can be found by listening to the music. We must try to listen to the song of celebration, the beautiful music of everyday life, the song of family and friends, the song of those in need, and the song of Torah and Judaism.

Let’s conclude paraphrasing Shabsi Zisel ben Avraham’s “Forever Young:”

May God bless and keep us always. May our wishes all come true. May we always do for others and let others do for you. May we always be courageous, stand upright and be strong. And may our song always be sung.

And, with Sukkot approaching, let us NOT experience “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall.”

Are You a Ba'al Teshuva?

Teshuva (repentance) can be complicated.

The Talmud teaches that repentance and Yom Kippur atone for sins between man and God. When it comes to sins between people, we must ask for forgiveness and right the wrongs we committed. Some sins are serious. Some aren’t easily forgiven.

One example of a sin that is complicated to fix is lashon hara, gossip.

There is a well-known parable of a man who spreads lashon hara about another member of the community. Realizing his grave error, he turns to his rabbi for advice how to repent. The rabbi instructs him to take a down pillow to the top of a hill, cut it open, and let the feathers fly in the wind. When he returns, the rabbi tells him to now gather every feather. The man, startled, protests, “But that’s impossible!” The rabbi answers, “So it is with your words.”

Maybe it’s the difficulty of teshuva which earns the Ba’al Teshuva (penitent) such praise:
“In the place where penitents stand, even the full-fledged righteous do not stand” (Berachot 34b).

This teaching was articulated by Reish Lakish – himself a Ba’al Teshuva. The penitent, unlike someone who has always been observant, has “tasted the forbidden fruit.” They know what’s out there and, nevertheless, decided on their own to embrace observance and draw nearer to God.

Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz (1937-2020) was a revolutionary scholar and author. His commentary on the entire Talmud puts him the rarefied status of greats like Rashi. Rabbi Steinsaltz’s parents, Avraham and Leah, were fervent communists and non-believers. Leah adamantly refused to light Shabbat candles. Nevertheless, they wanted young Adin to study Talmud. Avraham told his son, “I want you to be an Apikores (heretic) not an Am HaAretz (ignoramus.)” Young Adin rebelled and went to a religious high school. The rest is history.

There are all different kinds of Ba’alei Teshuva because repentance is not one-size-fits-all. Rambam writes (Teshuva 7:1):

“Since every person is endowed with free will, as we have explained, he should try to perform teshuva and confess his sins verbally and renounce them, so that he may die penitent and thus be worthy of the World-to-Come.”

Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein notes that the Rambam’s formulation “he should try” is uncharacteristic. We don’t find it said anywhere that we should “try” to observe Shabbat or keep kosher or daven. One is obligated, and there should be nothing more to say. The same should be the case with repentance.

We see that being a Ba’al Teshuva is not merely one who has fulfilled the commandment to repent. Rather, it is “the molding of the human personality, the maximization of one’s spiritual self and the realization of one’s psychological, moral and religious potential.” Based on Rav Lichtenstein, we encounter a Ba’al Teshuva who isn’t necessarily a sinful or nonobservant individual who has been reformed. It can be any individual who already serves God but is also aware of how much more is possible, how much higher to climb.

Each of us should think of ourselves as a Ba’al Teshuva since we should all be asking ourselves: Is this the best we can be?

Winston Lord is a former US diplomat, who worked closely with Henry Kissinger. He recounts how Kissinger always demanded excellence when it came to speeches. Lord once left Kissinger with a draft of a speech. Lord continues telling the story:

Kissinger called me in the next day and said, “Is this the best you can do?" I said, "Henry, I thought so, but I'll try again."

So I go back in a few days, another draft. He called me in the next day and he said, "Are you sure this is the best you can do?" I said, "Well, I really thought so. I'll try one more time." Anyway, this went on eight times, eight drafts; each time he said, "Is this the best you can do?"

So I went in there with a ninth draft, and when he called me in the next day and asked me that same question, I really got exasperated and I said, "Henry, I've beaten my brains out - this is the ninth draft. I know it's the best I can do: I can't possibly improve one more word."

He then looked at me and said, "In that case, now I'll read it…"

This is the season for appropriately repairing our mistakes and asking for forgiveness. At the same time, it’s also essential to take stock of what we do right and ask if we are doing enough.

We give tzedakah. Can we give more?
We believe in Jewish education. Can we study something new? Can we be more supportive of Jewish educational institutions?
We love our family and friends. Can we be more attentive, responsive, or supportive?

It is not only the sinner who can become a Ba’al Teshuva. Each of us must make a reckoning of how much more is possible. While we may not always think of ourselves as Ba’alei Teshuva, maybe we should.

The fifth rebbe of Ger, Rabbi Simcha Bunim Alter (1898 – 1992), was once speaking to a teacher in a yeshiva for newly-observant young men. The man was detailing the pedagogical methods used in the institution and the radical changes that many of its graduates had made in their personal lives. The teacher realized that he might have inadvertently given a mistaken impression of his own background. "Don't get me wrong, Rebbe,” he said. “Though I work with them, I myself am not a Ba’al Teshuva."

The rebbe responded, "Why on earth not?”

On Yom Kippur, we engage in the process of rectifying our misdeeds while also figuring out how to be the best we can be. I want to be a Ba’al Teshuva. I think we all should. Why on earth not?