Bring the Kids to Shul!

When a tree falls in the forest, and nobody is around, does it make a sound?

When a baby cries in shul, it most certainly does.

When a baby starts crying in shul, reactions often range from “Shut that kid up!” to sympathy for the parent to “I’m glad it’s not me” to “Should children come to shul in the first place?”

I think it’s great.

I don’t think it’s great that the child is disturbing others. (It only rarely breaks my rhythm.) I think it’s great that we have children coming to shul. Who wants a shul without children?

Some places do.

I read about a large synagogue in the South whose respected rabbi did not tolerate noise during services. When a child made a fuss, he halted the service and announced, “Little children, like orders, must be carried out.” Ouch.

I saw another account entitled, “When My Synagogue Banned My Baby on Yom Kippur” about a congregation that didn’t allow babies until later in the service, or they could attend an alternate venue. The author describes other experiences of being denied entry to services with his child in tow, or being asked to leave if the baby made noise.

I get it.

People come to shul to daven - and, of course, listen to the rabbi. At the same time, if we want adults to love Shul, we need to train them as children by bringing them to shul.

This is the message of the Hakhel ceremony that took place every seven years.

“Hakhel - Gather the people – the men, the women, the little children, and the strangers in your communities - that they may hear and so learn to revere Hashem, your God, and to observe faithfully every word of this Teaching” (Devarim 31:12).

The Talmud (Chagigah 3a) notes that this verse is puzzling: If men and women come to learn or listen, why do the little ones come? They’re not mature enough to understand what’s going on. The answer is they come for God to reward those who bring them. In other words, God credits those who bring their children to the assembly.

The medieval rabbis note that this is the source for people bringing their small children to the synagogue.

Not everyone embraces this practice. Rabbi Shlomo Wolbe (Planting and Building: Raising a Jewish Child, pp. 61-63), cautions:

“We must be careful not to bring our children to synagogue when they are too young. A very young child has no idea what is going on in shul. He is unfamiliar with the prayers, can’t read a siddur, certainly doesn’t pray, and he makes it difficult for others present to pray too. We often see such children roaming around the shul during prayers…They run around the Aron ha-Kodesh and bimah, and on Rosh Hashanah can sometimes be seen mocking the shofar-blower. It is irresponsible for parents to allow insufficiently mature children into shul.”

Some of you are nodding your heads right now…

On the other end of the spectrum, Rabbi Yehuda Aryeh Leib Alter, the Sefat Emet, teaches that enduring noise and disruptions from the children, while it might detract from the adults’ personal prayer experience, achieves the lofty goal that they grow up to become shul-going, observant members of the community. We can give up a little of our decorum, and even peace of mind, if it helps ensure the Jewish future.

In the High Holiday Beginners Service at which I officiated, we attracted Jews from various Jewish backgrounds, affiliations, and observance levels. We had an open-door policy, which meant we drew many families with children. Whenever a child would cry, I would announce, “You might hear crying, but I hear the music of Jewish continuity.”

A shul without children is boring. Their wide-eyed innocence as they run to kiss the Torah, the sense of excitement when sitting with parents who try to engage them in the service or Torah reading, and joyful anticipation as they clamber under their father’s tallit during birkat kohanim. What kind of shul would deliberately reject their own future and opt for a sterile, dull, child-free environment?

I once read learned analysis of the various pros and cons of bringing children to shul. However, I don’t believe in the cons. Bring the children! Try to keep them quiet. Give them some candy. Give them a role. At the same time, parents need to model the right way to sit in shul and daven. That’s right. No talking! I don’t think anyone who talks in shul can be so annoyed when children disrupt the service. We can all do better to make the shul experience more meaningful for everyone.

Our children – and all of us – benefit from davening in shul. We’ll pick up some tunes, encounter God, better appreciate our connection with others, and strengthen our Jewish identity to ensure the future of the Jewish people.

Connecting the Dots

You’re not seeing spots. It’s not an error.

If you look inside a Torah scroll, there are ten places in which dots appear above the letters. This is a Masoretic tool, based on the word mesorah, tradition. We maintain a specific tradition of how the Torah is written as well as a variety of idiosyncrasies meant to draw attention to a deeper message being conveyed by the specific text.

One famous example are dots above the word “va-yishakeihu” when Esav kissed Yaakov. Was it a real kiss of brotherly love? Maybe it was forced. Maybe Esav tried to bite Yaakov. The dots are a point of departure for deeper discussion or analysis.

In Parshat Nitzavim, we see dots. 

הַנִּ֨סְתָּרֹ֔ת לַה' אֱ-לֹהֵ֑ינוּ וְהַנִּגְלֹ֞ת לָ֤ׄנׄוּׄ וּׄלְׄבָׄנֵ֙ׄיׄנׄוּ֙ׄ עַׄד־עוֹלָ֔ם לַעֲשׂ֕וֹת אֶת־כׇּל־דִּבְרֵ֖י הַתּוֹרָ֥ה הַזֹּֽאת׃

“Concealed acts concern Hashem or God; but with overt acts, it is for us and our children forever to apply all the provisions of this Torah.” (Devarim 29:28)

There are dots written in the Torah on top of the words “lanu u’l’vaneinu ad.” Why?

On this Shabbat in particular – the last Shabbat of this year, let’s try to connect the dots. They contain crucial lessons of continuity, complexity, and visibility.

1)  Continuity
Rashi explains that the dots draw attention to Jewish interconnectedness. As the children of Israel enter the Promised Land, they need to keep in mind that there is collective responsibility. Lanu u’levaneinu ad olam - Us and our children forever. The dots are a way to highlight and draw our attention to this fact.

As Moshe steps off the scene - and as the Jewish people face the responsibility of living a full Jewish life in the land without the divine protections of 40 years in the desert, they are reminded that it is up to them. Lanu u’l’vaneinu ad olam. It will be sad when Moshe dies. It will be difficult to live up to the high expectations God set for us. But lanu u’l’vaneinu ad olam. We will take what we have been taught and carry it forward.

Ad olam – We are a forever people.

2)  Complexity
There are things we understand and things we don’t understand. Both are part of our Judaism.

Rabbi Chaim of Tchernowitz, the Be’er Mayim Chaim, explains that we must reveal that which is hidden. Part of the Jewish mission is to find the holiness inherent in all things and in all places all over the world and actualize that holiness. Elevate the sparks.

This Kabbalistic idea is a very empowering concept. It means there is goodness and light even in the darkest places. Rabbi Nachman of Breslav highlighted this principle many times:

“Afilu b’hastarah - Even within the most hidden-most recesses can be found aspects of God…When a person, God forbid, commits a transgression going against the will of God, there’s still an aspect of goodness hidden within that action.” (Likkutei Maharan #56)

As believing Jews, there is no reason for despair. There is always light at the end of the tunnel. It’s no coincidence that one of Rebbe Nachman’s most famous expressions is “v’ha’ikar lo lefacheid k’lal - have no fear at all.”

The dots highlight that, forever, we will exist in a world where there is a revealed reality along with a hidden realm. No matter what, there is hope.

3)  Visibilty
Rabbi Aharon Rokeach, the fourth Belzer Rebbe, suggested that the verse can be interpreted as follows: Hanistarot l'Hashem Elokeinu - If we hide our mitzvot by doing them privately, then only Hashem will know about our righteous ways. On the other hand, v'haniglot lanu ul'vaneinu - If we make sure to reveal our good deeds to our children, then our religious priorities and values will remain ad olam - for all eternity.

One afternoon in Jerusalem, Rabbi Yakov Vann was on his way to the synagogue for the afternoon prayers when somebody called out from a doorway asking him to complete a minyan in a house of mourning. He gladly agreed. Upon entering the apartment, he was surprised to observe that although it was full of Jewish books, the mourners themselves did not appear to be religiously observant.

After the prayer service had concluded, Rabbi Vann took out a volume of Mishnah Berurah to examine it, and he was even more taken aback to see that its margins were full of astute insights and comments. He inquired about the owner of the sefarim, and one of the mourners replied that they all belonged to the deceased, his father.

Rabbi Vann probed further, asking whether any of the other family members used the books. Sadly, the son responded that although his father had been a very pious and learned Torah scholar, none of his children had followed in his ways. He explained that when his father came home each night, he would lock himself in his study and spend hours poring over his beloved books. Since his Torah study only occurred behind closed doors, his children never observed him learning and therefore did not absorb his passion for Torah and mitzvot.

V'haniglot lanu u’levaneinu as olam. Jewish visibility matters. Publicly being Jewish is the key to Judaism moving forward forever.

We’ve connected the dots to understanding that the core of Jewish continuity is the fact we are a forever people. We recognize there is a link between the hidden and the revealed, and we must not be discouraged when things don’t go our way. And maintaining our visible Jewish pride ensures our children follow in our footsteps and that our enemies will never prevail.

If we connect the dots, we will go a long way in ensuring that the year ahead will be even better than this one.

Can I Get an Amen?

“V’amar kol ha’am amen – And all the people shall say amen!” (Devarim 27:16)

Few words in Jewish life carry as much depth and consequence as the simple response “Amen.”

Said after blessings, prayers, and declarations of faith, amen functions halakhically as an obligation, communally as a bond, mystically as a spiritual channel, and experientially as a source of inspiration.

Amen packs quite the punch for such a small word. The stakes are high.

The Talmud (Berachot 53b) declares: “One who answers amen is greater than the one who recites the blessing.” This startling statement elevates the responder above the original speaker, teaching that the echo of faith may be more powerful than its articulation.

“One who recites an abbreviated amen, his days will be abbreviated and incomplete; one who recites a truncated amen, his days will be truncated. One who extends his amen, they will extend his days and years for him. One who extends his amen, they will extend his days and years for him.” (Berachot 47a) That’s a lot of pressure on what might otherwise be treated as a few simple syllables.

Why is amen so powerful?

Amen commits, confirms, and connects.

Amen commits the listener to the mitzvah. For example, one who hears a blessing and answers amen can fulfill their obligation without reciting it themselves. Reciting amen is an act of consent.

Amen, which is linked to emunah (faith) confirms one’s conviction in the possibility that the blessing can come true. Responding amen is like declaring, “It is true. I accept it upon myself.” Thus, halakhically, amen is not optional courtesy. It is an act of halakhic and spiritual partnership.

Amen creates connection. Prayer in Judaism is rarely solitary. Even the “I” of prayer is often voiced in the plural: “Forgive us,” “Grant us peace,” “Heal us.” The communal essence of Jewish worship becomes fully alive when voices respond to one another. Amen is the sacred response that crystallizes the tzibbur, the prayer community. It transforms a private blessing into a shared act of faith, petition, affirmation, and thanksgiving.

This is why synagogue worship is uplifted by the chorus of amens. The spine-tingling response of “amen, yehei shmei rabbah” during Kaddish, the echo of amen after the priestly blessing, or the resounding communal amen to a rabbi’s heartfelt prayer — all are moments when individuality melts into community.

Amen creates a feeling of presence: “I heard you, I affirm you, I stand with you.” Without it, prayer risks becoming a soliloquy. With it, prayer becomes a communal covenant.

This layered significance has found renewed expression in the modern phenomenon of the “Amen Party.” These gatherings, often organized by women, bring groups together to recite a series of blessings over foods, each followed by the enthusiastic response of amen from the group. The idea is that by maximizing the number of blessings and amen’s, participants create a surge of communal merit. Organizers frequently dedicate the gathering to health, livelihood, or spiritual needs.

Though contemporary in form, the practice has deep roots. Throughout rabbinic literature, we find emphasis on the accumulated power of collective amen’s. The Amen Party simply channels this teaching into a joyous ritual — one that embodies halakhah, community, and spirituality in a celebratory framework.

Amen is elevational, aspirational, and possesses a certain religious, maybe mystical power. “Reish Lakish said: One who answers amen with all his strength, they open the gates of the Garden of Eden before him.” (Shabbat 119b)

A rabbi once entered the synagogue and noticed some congregants failing to respond amen to the Torah blessings. He stopped the service and gently rebuked them:

“You do not realize the power of this word. Every amen builds a world. The Talmud teaches that one who answers amen is greater than the one who recites the blessing. Do you understand what that means? The blessing is a spark, but amen is the flame. Without it, the blessing does not shine fully.”

The congregation, moved by his words, responded to the next blessing with a resounding, heartfelt amen. The Rabbi smiled and said: “Now the angels have something to carry upward.”

Amen is not a formality. It is a force that turns blessings into flames of shared holiness.

The word amen may be short, but it is one of our most powerful expressions. Halakhically, it is an obligation; communally, it is the glue that binds worshippers into a congregation; and spiritually, it is a vessel that draws divine blessing into the world.

From the synagogue to the amen party, from straightforward congregational response to complex halakhic topic, from the lips of a child to the resounding response of a congregation, amen is far more than a word. It is a covenant of faith, a declaration of belonging, and a bridge between heaven and earth. Every time we answer amen, we affirm not only someone else’s blessing but the truth that our faith is stronger, deeper, and more enduring when spoken together.

Amen to that!

Two Sides of the Same Kan

Have you performed the mitzvah of shiluach hakan, sending away the mother bird before taking the eggs?

Occasionally, I get a call from someone who discovers a nest in their yard, and they want guidance on how to fulfill the commandment. After all, the Torah promises long life as the reward for fulfilling the mitzvah.

It’s not that easy.

The nest - and hence the eggs - cannot belong to you. If it is on your property, then according to halakhah, it does belong to you, making it impossible to perform the mitzvah. What to do? You can simply go to ShiluachHakan.com, and they will try and connect you with someone nearby who will let you use the nest on their property.

For those of us who may find all this a little complex, what is the meaning and message of this mitzvah even if we don’t perform it?

The commandment seems to be about compassion.

Rambam (Moreh Nevuchim 3:48) explains that sending away the mother bird displays sensitivity, so she does not feel the pain of having to witness her children being taken. Ramban (Devarim 22:6) notes that humans are inherently needy and even selfish. We need to breathe; we need to eat; we need to sleep. Even during these moments, we must be sensitive to the needs of others and aware of how our actions affect those around us. God commands us to show sensitivity even to birds and certainly to our fellow humans.

If compassion is at the core of shiluach hakan, then why can’t we say so out loud? The Mishnah (Berachot 5:3) teaches: “One who says that sending away the bird is due to God’s mercy is to be silenced.”

Why? What’s wrong with saying God has compassion? Three times a day in the Ashrei prayer, we say, “V’rachamav al kol ma’asav – God’s mercy extends to all creation!”

The Gemara (Berachot 33b) explains that this is a warning against interpreting commandments. Mitzvot are “decrees of the king.” Whatever rhyme, reason, or rationale there might be for mitzvot, those are not our focus. Accordingly, while we all understand that compassion is at the core of shiluach hakan, we don’t want to talk about it too much or make it our focus.

I think there is a further complication. Why do we need a mitzvah of shiluach hakan in the first place? If we want eggs, and we want to be compassionate, why not simply wait for the mother to leave? That would be even more compassionate! As a rabbi of mine noted, “People say that they love fish. If they really loved fish, they would take them out of the river, give them a kiss, and put them back. People love their stomachs!” In the same vein, shiluach hakan cannot simply be modeling compassion.

How are we to understand the tension between what seems to be an obvious lesson in a more complex package? There are two components to the mitzvah of sending the mother bird away from her nest or, if you will, two sides to the kan. There is the human, and there is the divine.

At its most basic level, the mitzvah presents an opportunity for understanding God and the world we live in. Just like the festivals remind us of our past, and the rules of chesed are a benefit to society, shiluach hakan has a clear lesson: Be compassionate! We seek out ta’amei ha-mitzvah – the rationale for the commandments, to enrich our observance. Rambam and Ramban unequivocally see the lesson of sensitivity in the simple reading of the mitzvah.

On a deeper level, though, shiluach hakan, again like all other mitzvot, expresses the inscrutable command of God. “Gezeirah hi mil’fanai!” We may be tempted – and sometimes encouraged and enriched – to rationalize our observance, but shemirat ha-mitzvot is, at its core, heeding God’s command.

Rationalizing mitzvot may be satisfying, but when all does not work out according to plan, there is the potential for devastating disappointment. The Talmud (Chullin 142a) states that a possible cause for the apostasy of Elisha Ben Avuya, who left tradition and became Acher (The Other), was the linking of the mitzvah with its reward.

Elisha once overheard a father ask his young son to shoo the mother bird and bring down some eggs from the nest, thereby fulfilling the two commandments promising the reward of long life at the same time. The son dutifully climbed the ladder to the nest and shooed away the mother. On his way down the ladder with the eggs, he tripped and fell, broke his neck and died. Elisha thought to himself, “Where is the reward of long life and goodness of days for performing both of these mitzvot?” In anger, he rejected the rest of God’s law.

We can – and must - surely declare that God is merciful, informing our observance of shiluach hakan. But we cannot take this claim as the exclusive basis for our obedience. The attempt to understand God’s will does not give us greater insight into how God works. As one rabbi put it, “Elisha Ben Avuyah discovered that God does not prevent gravity from pulling a boy to his death, even while the boy is obeying a mitzvah that promises long life.” God may be compassionate and command us to be compassionate, but this does not mean we know how God’s compassion works

Shiluach hakan is a timely reminder to be compassionate. As the High Holidays approach, it cannot hurt to show God how we have internalized the Divine lesson to show more compassion to those around us. Simultaneously, we acknowledge that we don’t fully understand exactly why we perform the commandments. These two sides of the same kan represent the two diverse – even diametrically opposite - components to be found in all areas of Jewish observance. Sometimes we know, and sometimes we don’t know. Both sentiments shape our ongoing and ever-evolving relationship with Avinu Malkeinu, our Father and King.

If we keep striving for answers even when they are not forthcoming, I cannot promise a long life, but we will be blessed with a rich, complex, and meaningful one.

A Tale of Two Torahs

Isn’t one Torah enough?

The 613^th and last mitzvah in the Torah is the commandment for each individual to write a Torah scroll. This was not enough for the king.

“And it shall be, when he sits upon the throne of his kingdom, that he shall write for himself a copy of this Torah… and it shall be with him, and he shall read therein all the days of his life: that he may learn to fear the Lord his God, to keep all the words of this Torah and these mitzvot, to do them: that his heart be not lifted up above his brethren, and that he turn not aside from the commandment, to the right hand, or to the left…” (Devarim 17:18,19,20)

What is the lesson of the second Torah?

There are two elements to Torah: the timeless and the timely.

On one hand, Torah is eternal, permanent and constant. Tefillin, tzitzit, shofar, sukkah, matzah, mikvah, mezuzah, milah – these are eternal laws. The timeless Torah is represented by the first Torah of the king. This Torah is the same one all Jews have a responsibility to write, to internalize, and to fulfill. Each of us is bound by the same commandments, the same values, the same covenant at Sinai.

But there is another element to Torah: its ability to give perspective and guidance to each generation according to its unique needs, challenges, struggles and experiences. The issues we face are different than 100 years ago. We need a fresh approach to apply to the new realities of today. The second Torah of the king is the timely Torah. It is his unique contribution to the mesorah, the chain of Jewish tradition.

The two Torahs themselves reflect their roles.

The first Torah, the Torah that must be written by each person, provides information, teachings, and laws. One fulfills the mitzvah to write a Torah by commissioning a scribe to write it. The goal of writing the Torah scroll is to know and keep Judaism. Its utilitarian nature is why many authorities view buying Jewish books and building a library as a fulfillment of the mitzvah. The “timeless” Torah is written and kept in the ark. It is static, permanent, and serves as the revered source for who we are and what we do.

The second Torah of the king is very different.

“He shall write for himself a copy of this Torah…”
Even if he inherited a Torah from his father, the king must write a new scroll for himself.
“It shall be with him, and he shall read therein all the days of his life.”
The Talmud teaches that king had to take his personal Torah with him everywhere he went. It’s a handy guide or roadmap (think Waze or Google Maps) for every step of the journey.
“That his heart be not lifted up above his brethren…”
The second Torah provides perspective. It is not merely the source text of Judaism; it inspires the king to maximize and live his best life in service to those around him. It may be great to be the king, but the king is only as great as he lives up to his potential as a leader.

The second, “timely Torah” is not only religious information. It is the Torah of inspiration, of mission, and of purpose.

While we no longer have kings and their two Torahs, both the timeless and timely Torahs resonate deeply when we participate in a new Torah dedication. The scroll that is completed is the same as every other scroll. Yet, the joy of the occasion is unique and very personal. At Torah dedications, everyone in attendance is swept up in the excitement of a “new” Torah joining the Jewish people even as it is “the same” as every other Torah. We instinctively feel that every Torah written furthers the Jewish people.

I think the “timely” aspect of Torah is why there have been so many Torahs commissioned after October 7. These Torahs are like the second Torah of the king, extending the timeless values of Judaism into the future. Whether to memorialize those murdered, IDF soldiers killed in action, or what seemed like perpetual scribal activity at the Nova site, writing a new Torah provides inspiration, confidence, and strength that we can face down any challenge.

Rabbi Shlomo of Karlin said, “Der grester yester hora is az mir fargest az mi is ein ben Melech - The greatest mistake is to forget we are children of the king.” Each of us may not be an actual king, but we are “princes” with royal potential. The tale of the two Torahs applies to each of us.

There is the Torah of the entire nation that each of us follows, and there is the unique contribution, perspective, and soul that we each add. Rav Kook describes Torah as the national symphony of Judaism. The collective song is beautiful, but it depends on each instrument, each voice. If an individual note is missing, the song is incomplete. Torah is a national mission. At the same time, each of us has a mission in this world that no one else can fulfill. That is our “second Torah.” Maybe it’s to invite a neighbor for Shabbat, volunteer for the community, or blow shofar for the congregation. (I’m actually looking for some shofar reinforcements.)

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote a book with a title that captures the essence of the two Torahs: A Letter in the Scroll. Each of us is a letter in the scroll of the Jewish people. The scroll is invalid if even one letter is missing, but each letter is also unique in its shape and placement. We are all bound by the timeless Torah of Sinai. But each of us must also write – and live - our own timely Torah, the Torah of our lives, our choices, our contributions, and our impact on others.

Seeing Big!

Who remembers “the dress” from – believe it or not – a decade ago?

In 2015, a photograph of a dress became a viral internet sensation when viewers disagreed over whether the dress was colored blue and black or white and gold. (It was confirmed to be blue and black.)

People can see the exact same thing differently. Like a Rorschach test in which the identical ink blot can evoke all sorts of perceptions. Each of us can perceive the very same thing in a very different way, but first we must open our eyes and really see.

“See, this day I set before you blessing and curse.” (Devarim 11:26)

Moshe is about to explain the blessings and consequences that are inherent to Torah and Judaism. He does not say, “Listen” or “Prepare to understand.” He says, “See.” Why?

It is through sight that we develop our unique perspective of the world around us. Moshe wants us to see. Really see. We need to see what’s in front of us. See all around. See beyond what is possible.

Seforno comments that Moshe specifically wants the Jews not to settle for seeing only “the middle ground” of what seems possible like so many other nations. Good enough isn’t always good enough.

See big.

The Talmud (Berachot 48a) tells of young Abaye and Rava during their formative years.

Abaye and Rava were sitting before their teacher, Rabbah.
Rabbah said to them, “Whom do we bless?”
They both answered, “To the Merciful One.”
Rabbah asked, “And where does the Merciful One dwell?”
Rava pointed to the roof beams.
Abaye went outside and pointed toward the sky.
Rabbah said to them, “You will both be rabbis.”

It may sound like the origin of the children’s song “Hashem is here, Hashem is there,” but the story teaches us a lot about how we should see the world around us.

Rav Kook explains that the students’ answers reflected their unique outlooks. Rava was inclined toward diligent Torah study and seeking every truth through its defined details. Even God had a location in which to be found. Abaye, however, strove for breadth of knowledge through an understanding that reaches beyond boundaries. His inner nature drove him to express the stirrings of his soul, by going outside and pointing to the heavens to try and pinpoint a limitless God.

Moshe’s directive for us to “See” is a call to expand our line of sight, our field of vision, or perception of the possible. The dress is blue and black AND white and gold.

This week, Rabbi Berel Wein passed away. Rabbi Wein was a uniquely impactful Rabbi, teacher, and historian whose work, perspective, and voice profoundly influenced generations. After a brief stint as a lawyer, he served as rabbi in Miami Beach and then served as a senior executive at the OU before moving to Monsey to found a shul and a yeshiva. He moved to Jerusalem in 1997, where he was rabbi of Bet Knesset HaNasi and a Rebbe in Ohr Sameach, while lecturing all over the world. Rabbi Wein was a prolific author whose teachings are always relevant and entertaining. In particular, he made Jewish history come alive, and he insisted that literacy is the key to Jewish continuity.

He once told a student’s son, “[Y]our assignment is to read. Read as much as you can. Don’t be afraid of the facts…There’s not one fact – scientific or social – that can be used to deny the existence of the Divine Providence in the world. The religious world is afraid of the facts, so they create their own fantasy world, superstitions and all sorts of things.”

Rabbi Wein had vision. He saw big.

While a rabbi in Miami Beach, one of the largest Reform temples in the United States was across the street from his shul. Their rabbi was a former European yeshiva student, and he and Rabbi Wein were friends and occasionally studied together.

One Erev Pesach at 4:00 in the afternoon, the Reform rabbi called Rabbi Wein with a last-minute request. “Berel, when you say ‘let all who are hungry come and eat” during the Seder, do you really mean it? My son just graduated Brown University and was accepted to Harvard Law School. He currently has little to do with Judaism, but he just decided to come home for Pesach and refuses to attend our synagogue seder. He says he’ll only attend a family Seder. Can you host him?”

Rabbi Wein said yes, and the young man joined his family’s Seder, which lasted until 1:30 in the morning. It had a big impact on him. After that Seder, he decided not to go to Harvard Law School, and, instead, he went to Hebrew Union College and became a Reform rabbi. The young man remained in touch with Rabbi Wein even after he became a Reform rabbi in a sizeable congregation.

One year, shortly after Yom Kippur, Rabbi Wein received a call from the young rabbi, who needed advice. His Reform congregation had an 85-year-old tradition not to use lulav and etrog on Sukkot. They just didn’t do it. That was their “reform.” He had convinced some of the younger members to “reform” THAT reform, and they ordered 35 sets of lulav and etrog. The Ritual Committee found out about this “rebellion” and wanted to thwart it. They said that the congregation wouldn’t be more religious than the Orthodox who wouldn’t be using Lulav and Etrog that year since the first day of Sukkot was Shabbat.

The Temple only had one day of Sukkot, so Shabbat was the only possible day to use them. The young Reform rabbi’s question to Rabbi Wein was: Can we take the Lulav and Etrog in the Temple on Shabbat since this would be the only chance.

Rabbi Wein replied: “Before I tell you my opinion, I want to know what you told the ritual committee.”

The Reform rabbi said, “I told them that the Orthodox have Shabbos and, therefore, they don’t need the lulav and esrog. But, here in the Reform Temple, we don’t observe Shabbos, so, at least, we should have a lulav and etrog.”

Rabbi Wein responded, “I couldn’t have said it any better.”

He added the following postscript when recounting the story in his book, Nostalgia for Eternity:

“The Reform rabbi’s logic matches that of the medieval Rokeach (#201) that one of the reasons we do not blow the shofar on Shabbat is because Shabbat itself is a sign. If a Jew has Shabbos, he doesn’t need anything else, and he can do without shofar. Applying that logic to this case, the Reform Temple didn’t have Shabbos, so they could use another symbol of the holiday. Let them take the lulav and etrog on Shabbat.”

Seeing big doesn’t mean pining for the impossible, seeking to change everything, or breaking boundaries. Seeing big means trying to expand our horizons: What more can we do? Which new mitzvah should we try? Which Jewish neighbor do we invite to Shul or for Shabbat? How can we be more helpful to those in need, our Shul, or our community?

Let’s see…

Bound to Grow: The Chain Reaction of a Mitzvah

Larry David has never worn tefillin.

How do I know? Because a 21-year-old self-starter named Yossi Farro, asked him  in front of a crowd of thousands of people, and he said he never had. “I’m trying to think of the amount of money it would take for me to do that,” David replied. Yossi, a Lubavitcher chasid and online influencer, is making a name for himself taking pictures with prominent people putting on tefillin. He’s got Jerry Seinfeld and Mark Zuckerberg on the agenda, while Larry David remains his white whale.

We are quite familiar with the Chabad campaign to encourage Jewish men to put on tefillin. In 1967, preceding the Six Day War, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, the Lubavitcher Rebbe, introduced what was to be the first of the ten "mitzvah campaigns,” to don tefillin with all Jews. At the time, someone asked him why tefillin and not kosher or charity or something more universal. He replied, "When a Jew in Miami sees pictures of Jews at the Western Wall wearing tefillin, he gets an urge to put on tefillin himself."

I feel having tefillin accessible is an effective way to promote and encourage greater Jewish identity and observance – regardless of whether the tefillin actually get worn. I once stopped at a falael stand on Derech Beit Lechem in Jerusalem. Underneath the Kosher certificate were two signs. One read, “Anyone who leaves their change behind should know that it will go to charity.” The other said, “We have tefillin here for anyone who wishes to put them on.”

On a recent visit to Florida, a place with a high concentration of Jews – especially Israelis, I noticed a number of kosher establishments has “tefillin stands” offering the opportunity to perform the mitzvah without needing to stand around all day and ask. I thought to myself that I need to have one of these. Now, Atlantic Beach doesn’t have as many Jews – or Kosher establishments – as Florida. So I partnered with our friendly neighborhood Atlantic Beach Wine & Whiskey Boutique. Abe Kaner tells me a handful of people put on tefillin there each month. The more, the merrier.

There is something about the act of performing a mitzvah which has a trickle-down effect on religious inspiration and practice, and we can learn this from tefillin.

Learn and then do, or do and then learn? While the natural order is to learn and then put those lessons to use, Jewish tradition doesn’t always play out in order.

This week – like last week, we read about the mitzvah of tefillin. The obligation is mentioned in both the first paragraph of Shema (last week’s parsha) and the second paragraph of Shema which we read this week. Let’s look closely at the text.

Last week, the Torah commanded the mitzvah of tefillin (Devarim 6:7, 8) by stating: “Teach your children. Recite God’s words when you stay at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you get up. Bind them as a sign on your hand and let them serve as a symbol on your forehead.”

This week (Devarim 11:18, 19), we read: “And you shall place up these my words in your heart and in your soul, and bind them for a sign upon your hand, and they will be as tefillin between your eyes. And you should teach them to your children, speaking of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk along the way, when you lie down, and when you rise up”

The Torah reverses the order from one week to the next. First, the Torah mentions teaching followed by tefillin but then switches to first commanding tefillin and only then educating. Why the change?

In the normal course of development, we learn and then we act. The same is true religiously. Teach the children well, fill their minds and hearts with knowledge, and that will provide the solid foundation to perform mitzvot, to do Jewish. But not everyone follows the usual order. Not everyone gets a Jewish education. Not everyone takes the lessons to heart and turns them into actions. Sometimes, we take a leap that leads us to learn and to grow.

That is the lesson of tefillin. Nike is right: Just do it! Sometimes doing will lead to learning and growing.

Years ago, Uri Zohar, the late Israeli entertainer who later became a rabbi, found himself rushing into a café in Rome around sunset. Breathlessly, he went to the first person he saw and asked him “Brother, do you have a pair of tefillin?”

Now, Uri was decked out in leather jacket, jeans and biker boots. The other person was a bit surprised and slow to reply. “Quick its almost sunset” Uri told him. The startled patron then reached under the counter and pulled out his tefillin. Uri rolled up his sleeve, put on the tefillin, and intently recited a short prayer.

The shocked tefillin owner managed to stammer, “How? What? This just did THAT?”

Uri told him that he was a secular Jew, but he has always worn tefillin. A popular television star, he had a week off from the screen in Israel and chose to spend it motorcycling through Europe. “I didn’t want to take my tefillin with me on the Harley, so I made a deal with Hashem. If He wanted me to keep wearing them every day, he needed to give me the chance to do the mitzvah.”

“And how is that working for you?” asked the customer who helped him.  Uri replied, “You tell me. Today is the last day, and I still haven’t missed a day.”

And the rest is history. Uri Zohar ultimately became Rabbi Uri Zohar.

Tefillin is one mitzvah among many. It happens to be one that has a deep symbolism and can capture the imagination and inspire beyond the act of wearing them. A tefillin campaign or stand is but one way of conveying the importance of acting. Try a new ritual – engage, participate, study show up, daven, bless, give. We don’t always need to understand or even fully appreciate why we do what we do. We just need to start somewhere in order grow. The rest is commentary.