Korach & all his people- Shabbat Shalom from rainy Oregon

Posted on July 8, 2016 by Michal Kohane מיכל כהנא

In Salem Oregon’s capitol gift shop, I notice the following sign: “it may be that your whole life is to be a warning for others”… if no one else, Kovach whom this week’s reading is named after, is a classic example for this.

Korach incites a mutiny challenging Moses’ and Aaron’s leadership, claiming “everybody is holy”. Korach is further accompanied by Moses’ foes, Datan and Aviram. Joining them are 250 distinguished members of the community, who offer holy incense to prove that they are worthy of the priesthood. You might think Moses and Aaron felt relieved to have so many willing helpers, but instead, the earth opens up, swallowing the mutineers and a fire consumes those who offered the incense.
Who is Kovach? Aside from being Moses’ first cousin, much can be learned from his name  in Hebrew,Korach is spelled ק.ר.ח. kof.resh.chet. Rabbi Hirsch points that the same root is used for the word for balding (karcha: check Leviticus 21:5), a smooth interior of a garment (karachto, check Leviticus 13:55) and frost (kerach, Genesis 31:40), which is also the word for ice in Modern Hebrew. The root means “cohere”, which the dictionary says means- 1. to stick together; be united; hold fast, as parts of the same mass. 2. Physics (of two or more similar substances) to be united within a body by the action of molecular forces. 3. to be naturally or logically connected: 4. to agree; be congruous.

I was excited to find a letter by letter analysis of his name (ah, the things that make me excited!):
According to kabala, the ideal balance between thought and action is hinted in the letter heh. The letter heh is made of three parts: the top – for thought; the right side – for speech and the left – for action. Notice, that the left side is shorter than the others and that it stands sort of “under” the top, indicating that action is subject to thought.
Each of the letters is Korach’s name is very similar to the heh, but is different, and how it’s different is significant to what happened and what we can learn.
The letter kof is like a heh except the left line goes down lower than the right, indicating a situation when those who act are not under those who think, which drags the former lower.
The letter resh is like heh except it has no left side at all, parallel to Korach’s dmand to separate thinking from doing.
The letter chet is like heh, except the left side is closed, making all three aspects – thought, speech and action – equal.
Just from his name, we see that Korach demanded often conflicting things: to be “equal” as in “kulam kdoshim”, everybody is holy, and yet, to be a leader, unique above everybody, so which way is it?

In Pirkei Avot (the Sayings of the Fathers 5:20), we’re told: “Any dispute that is for the sake of heaven will have a constructive outcome; but one that is not for the sake of heaven will not have a constructive outcome. What sort fo dispute is for the sake of Heaven? The dispute between Hillel and Shamai. And which was not for the sake of Heaven? – The dispute of Korach and his entire company”.

Wait, if we want to use these role models, shouldn’t the parallel to Hillel and Shamai, two giants of two different opinions and ways of thinking, be Korach and Moses?
But the Mishna chose to say, Korach vechol adato, Korach and all his crowd, to say, the dispute was not at all between Korach and Moses, but rather, it was internal, between Korach and his very own people. In its funniest form it probably sounded like our bus, except it wasn’t funny.

Professor Yishayahu Leibovitz says that the big difference is that Kovach thinks the community is already holy without thru need to do anything, while for Moses its all about the journey towards holiness, not an automatic arrival. Korach becomes the prototype of divisiveness and destruction. His criticism, even if it had some valid points, is not constructive. He is not interested in fixing or improving things. It is all about glorifying himself and only himself. His priorities are messed up, and mess up others; his “gang” is united by who they are opposing, not positive input and desire for anyone’s well being; and their “togetherness” is only temporary. He is a role model and warning for how and thus is not sustainable. Like ice (kerach), Korach and his group break apart and melt away when light shines on them.

Next stop Ashland. Shabbat Shalom.

 

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The 10 Spies & Me, onward and upward

Posted on July 2, 2016 by Michal Kohane מיכל כהנא

Earlier this week, I packed our Oakland residence into boxes in preparation for the move later this summer to NY. I closed the door, not to return (to Oakland, yes, to this house – no), heading for a one month summer tour through the Pacific North – and South – West.

The packing thing turned out to be more like an archeological dig, as I was combing through layers of “stuff”, from school notes, notebooks, binders, text books, readers, enrichment material, report cards, diplomas and beautiful photos of everybody smiling at great achievements; arts and crafts projects, scribbles, drawings, sculptures, figurines, vases, sewing projects, crochet and knitting scarves’ projects, sleeves of future sweaters, photography experiments, and what not. I had no idea how much we enjoy thrift shop “treasure hunting” until I saw the bags for give away. Then there were writings, shi’urim, source sheets, divrei Torah… and of course, books. How can anyone leave their books behind? Why, it’s like leaving a friend…

And so it went.

Around 2am, sweeping an – almost – empty bedroom, I was reminded of Golda, Tevya’s wife, from Fiddler on the Roof, cleaning her house before the Kozaks are coming, ‘not wanting to leave a mess’ (ok, the metaphor is not great, but it was 2am…). I thought of my grandmother, leaving Berlin in 1933, with a 5 year old, a 13 year old (my father) and an 18 year old while riots and book burnings already start in the streets; resourceful enough to get, not only the family, but the family’s piano, all the way to then Palestine, bidding farewell to a whole world, never to return. And my other grandmother, packing her lovely house into a couple of suitcases, saying good bye to her mom, who was sure that because her husband, my great-grandfather was an officer in WWI, she’d be safe and not end up in Tresienstat, as she did. I think of my own kids, when will we open which box, what will we find, what will it mean then, did I choose the right items, did I forget, overlook, choose the wrong thing??

It seemed endless. I felt like tar has been smeared on my wings. I thought I’ll just never get out the door. Then I thought of this week’s Torah portion, and the story of the Spies, the people who said, we can, and those who said we can’t do this, it’s too much.

My attention was always on Caleb and Joshua, the ones who said, ‘let’s go’. I used to not pay much attention to the 10 other leaders. I liked the two who “easily” stood up and did the right thing, and not the “others”. Who were those “others” anyway? Their names are practically unknown. But the Torah calls them “anashim”, mensches, namely, they were good, upstanding people. Some say that they were the new up and coming leadership; Moshe wanted to get them more “engaged” and sent them on a “birthright” mission that was bound to be successful. He excluded himself since he either knew how good it was, or maybe didn’t want to seem persuasive and just let them see for themselves, or maybe, didn’t even care what the place is like. After all, not like there were a lot of other alternatives! We’re going and that’s it! It’s The Land of Milk and Honey! The Promised Land! What can possibly go wrong??? Right, everything.

It’s only this week, when at the end of all the packing, sorting, cleaning (and not sleeping), my car keys disappeared and I could literally not go anywhere, that I realized how strong can be the power that pulls us down. Me and the 10 spies just sat on the floor and wanted to say, forget it, it can’t be done; this one is not happening. For the first time I had deep compassion to those leaders, who probably went ahead with good intentions, and for those who the next day, seeing the damage, said, actually let’s go. While I always thought of Caleb and Joshua, all of a sudden I realized, had I been there, I might have been one of the ‘others’…

But the Psalmist says, ‘He will charge His angles to guard you… they’ll carry you on their hands, lest you trip along the way’. At the point where I was not sure I could make one more step, others were there to brush the dust off my wings and help me soar, or at least, get out the door and catch my flight.

So here’s my thought this Shabbat eve: what really happened on the way back from the spies’ visit to the Land? What did they talk about? Did Caleb and Joshua not know that the other 10 are worried, anxious and not feeling ready? What was the conversation like? Perhaps we should not too quickly judge the 10 spies who “obviously” and “foolishly” got scared “of nothing”. And perhaps, the reason, the whole community got punished, and not just them, is because it was not just ‘them’. Rather, when they could not go further, there was no one there to help them through.

So here’s to  those who help us journey on. With thanks, appreciation and best regards from Seattle WA, Shabbat Shalom.

 

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And the journey continues…

Posted on June 24, 2016 by Michal Kohane מיכל כהנא

Hand in hand we are walking up the smooth brownish limestone stairs; a canopy of dusty pines and bright bougainvillea above us, tasty honeysuckles leaning over the fences and red geraniums in the windows above. I bend down to pet another stray cat, mewing in the bushes. Somewhere behind us, the sun is setting and the traffic dies down. The Haifa neighborhood of my childhood smells like soup, and potatoes and chicken. I have my pretty, white, flowery dress; black shiny shoes that buckle on the side with a strap, and a pinkish bow in my hair. My dad is wearing his white shirt, dark slacks and jacket; the blue velvet kippa in his pocket. People greet us with Shabbat Shalom: the shopkeeper who sweeps the last flower petals; the lady shaking the rug, waving from her balcony; the group of Bnai Akiva youth rushing to the minyan at the big synagogue on the hill; the family returning from the beach, sandy and barefoot, plastic buckets in hand, towels draped over their shoulders, just off the last bus, which shuts its noisy engine with a huff.

At Moria, the Conservative / Masorti synagogue on the Carmel, we are greeted warmly. My dad is one of the founding members, and is often the gabai, ba’al kore, chazzan, chatan Torah. Early on, I become familiar with these terms, which would be mostly outside my otherwise “normal” upbringing. The tall usher at the door is ready with a job for me, and I stand there, handing out small siddurim (prayer books) in brown cover to those coming in. Once I know how to read, I am invited up to the bimma to lead the ve’ahavta and when I’m really good, the hashkivenu prayer too. People nod their head at me. They smile and tell my dad I’m a little rebetzin.
I spend my teen years in a youth group, where, interestingly, I do a lot of the same things I do today: talk, sing, learn, argue, teach, write, volunteer, hang with friends, and wrestle with Torah and life. Sometimes, I’m asked to chant the Torah reading or haftara; my scribbles become drashot, and at times, appear in the synagogue’s newsletter. People lean over to my mom, and whisper that she’s has raised a real rebetzin.
No one bothers telling me that rebetzin is actually the wife of the rabbi, not the woman in the front of the shul.
As an adult, this pattern continues. Torah in its broadest sense is essential in my life, and I find myself in various community leadership positions, many of which you are all part of. I seriously consider the rabbinate, and reconsider when my then 4 year old son tells me he’s going to be a fireman, because ‘rabbi is a job for mommies’, trying to juggle and balance my “ima on the bima” roles.
This week’s Torah portion, Beha’alotcha, starts with a beautiful description of Aaron, the High Priest, lighting the menorah in the mishkan, the mobile Tabernacle. Except that, the Torah does not use the word for ‘light’. Rather, it uses a very unusual term, which translates to something like ‘when you bring up’, hence beha’alotcha, from al, on top, and aliya, going up, and also aleinu, it is on us (to do something).
Variations on this root, a.l.h. repeat over and over in the reading. The direction is upwards. We are at a very pivotal place in the desert journey: up until the end of Numbers, chapter 10, we’re heading forward to the Land. In fact, this should have been the last portion in the Torah! Ok, maybe Moses would review the commandments once again in a much shorter version of Deuteronomy, but other than that, we have everything we’ve come for: freedom, the Law, a place to connect with G-d, a structure how to run our society, physically (the camp), legally and spiritually. Next stop Israel!
And then, right on the verge of entering the Land, the people start complaining: ‘remember those zucchinis we ate back in Egypt?? The watermelons and eggplants? And the leadership? That board needs refreshing; and I tell you, the view? Enough already with this cloud and pillar of fire!’ What are they complaining about? Anyway they’ll be in the land in a day or two!! They’ll grow their own food; leadership structure will be different; everything will be great, great!
But, for whatever reason, the people are not ready. What starts on chapter 11, is the beginning of what ends up being a 40 year detour, before the eventual arrival at the Promised Land. Yes, we know they were slaves, but as always, the story is not just about them. It’s mostly about us. And we too, sometimes, take yet another detour. Maybe the conditions are not yet right for us; maybe we’re a bit scared; we need some more time; we need space to grow. And yet, the underlying message is that throughout it all, the direction is always upwards, be’aliya.
Which is my hope for my own journey too.
In 2009, a new program was launched by Rabbi Avi Weiss and Rabba Sara Horwitz, offering the title Maharat, which an acronym for מנהיגה הלכתית, רוחנית, תורנית: leader (in) halacha (Jewish law), spirituality and Torah. For the first time women have an official path for gaining the skills, training, and certification they need to become spiritual leaders within the Modern Orthodox community. This program has been for me like a lighthouse, twinkling in the distance for the ships to come in. This past winter I finally applied. I am honored to have been accepted, and plan to start this coming fall.
Wait, what?! You’re moving?? Yes. CA has been my home for longer than anywhere else, even longer than Haifa, and I’ll no doubt miss everything about it. And yet, it seems like the seeds for this “sudden move” have been there since those Shabbat afternoons, walking up the path with my dad, and so it continues.

There will be an opportunity to learn and celebrate together on Shabbat, July 30 before I head east. Message me for more details. Until then, enjoy the journey with all its detours, for they too are part of the way.

Shabbat Shalom.

 

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The Seed of a Cactus

Posted on June 7, 2016 by Michal Kohane מיכל כהנא

“A Seed of a Cactus” – is the literal translation of “Garin Tzabar”, the IDF lone soldier program. “Garin” can also mean ‘a core group’, but as native born Israelis are often referred to as “sabres” (cactus), I’m beginning to see more meaning in referring to my own child(ren) as  “seeds of a cactus”… This past Sunday was the send-off ceremony of this amazing group of teens as they are heading to Israel this summer. Here’s my speech: 

As I was thinking about this evening, I remembered, about 5 years ago, I was asked to speak at a Tekes Garin Tzabar. At the time, I worked for the SF federation. Garin tzabar was part of my department and this all seemed like a “great and very worthwhile program”.
Fast forward, and meanwhile, I’ve become a parent to one Garin Tzabar soldier, already in Israel, serving as tatzpitanit in the Shomron, and another one here, on route.
It’s hard not to notice the irony of life. I’m guessing, most of us, did not imagine that we will speak with our children in English, and that davka, thousands of miles away from what we – still and in spite of everything – call home, they’ll opt to go back and walk in many of our footsteps.
Back then, 5 years ago, I spoke to the parents, the behind the scenes heroes of this adventure; now I get to speak AS a parent, and as such, how about a few words of advice to you, our dear children (yes, you’ll be soldiers and for us, you’ll be our children, sorry!).
First, we have a special gift for you: a sharpie. It looks silly right now, but you too will soon be introduced to the famous army tradition of hashlamat tziyud. This means, that when you find you’re missing a helmet, you borrow someone else’s. This also means that anyone can borrow yours. With this important tool, at least you might see yourself coming if your helmet is on someone else’s head. Alternatively, one day when you’re the chief of staff, a new tiron – soldier in basic training – might be walking around proudly with your name of his stuff. Shortly, claim your territory and write your name on everything, starting with the plastic bag your sharpie is in.
Second: Hebrew school was nice and Ulpan is nice too but the army doesn’t speak Hebrew. Therefore you need to familiarize yourself with terms like chapash, tash, afutz, nadbar and more, which can be found on tzahalopedia – a page on the website “shavuz”, which is also an acronym that if you haven’t, I can’t tell you here what it means but you’ll soon get to know.
3. If you come across a word you don’t know and can’t read, chances are it’s in English. Like kitbag, check-post and After. Remember, they are pronounced in Hebrew accent. This is also the case for car parts. So, for example, the front axle is called – “back axle kidmi” [literally – front back axle].
4. Get a good packing list. Leave the un-essentials: your guitar and ipad can stay in the kibbutz for basic, but do remember kafkafim / flip-flops, headlamp, pocketknife, a good book – yes, pen and paper to write on – also, yes, and “talc”, which you know better as baby powder, and which you have no idea why would be on this list and don’t want to be without when you need it.

5. Remember that list of things – all I ever needed to know, I learned in kindergarten? Most of it is still good for the IDF too: nap when you can, wash hands before you eat, and share. Nothing’s worse than someone eating crunchy bisley alone, or worse, dunking vaflot in leftover cold coffee so their friends don’t hear them consume the package they got from home. We know to send extra. Be there for each other. Be there for each other, and each of you will be stronger that way too.
6. We know how smart and strong you are and still, in the right place and time, ask. Ask – in both meanings of the word: don’t assume. Ask questions and find out what you need to know. And ask for what you need. Oftentimes, “no” is only the beginning of a conversation. So ask. No one will guess it for you. Asking is its own wisdom and strength.
7. Last: know that we think – It is very admirable and we are so inspired by your choice and motivation to follow your heart and be a part of the IDF. We have faith that this unique experience will contribute to your success in your future.
In the words of the famous Israeli song:
עוף גוזל, חתוך את השמים
טוס לאן שבא לך
רק אל תשכח, יש נשר בשמים,
גור לך.
Fly, little birdie, cut through the sky
Sly to wherever you feel like.
Just don’t forget, there’s an eagle in the sky, and please, take care.
We wish you much hatzlacha and all our love.

p.s. along with the sharpie, we’ve placed “kisses” and a golden nugget: Kisses – obvious, and the nugget so you also don’t forget this golden state, where you’ve come from, and what we think of you. Inside the nugget, there’s “stuff”, so you remember, it’s not always how it seems from the outside. Stay open, and look around. We wish you best in your journey.

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Counting…

Posted on June 4, 2016 by Michal Kohane מיכל כהנא

Mother Goose is “counting” her eggs, and while we don’t know if she’s actually “counting”, regardless, we look at it and smile. There’s something about that image that portrays a feeling of care, maybe because counting is an act of care. We don’t count things that don’t matter to us, but we are very precise with what we love.
This idea might initially not sound so good. It stands in contradiction with what we think of love. Love should be free, flowing, not measured. But – how about this: we might attend an event and later say that there were “lots of people”, “tens”, “dozens”, “few”, “I don’t know” how many. Yet, we don’t say, “I have lots of parents”, “some spouses”, “few children”, “countless best friend”.
Rabbi Hirsch of the 19th century, teaches that S.P.R. or S.F.R., the Hebrew root for counting, is about “combining separate items, tally sums”. Thus, sofer is someone who counts, but also a scribe and author (someone who “recounts”-). Sefer is a book, sapir, sapphire is a precious stone composed of many crystals and mispar is a number.
The Torah speaks of counting several times and they can shed a light on each other. At this season, we are in the midst of one of these counts: Sefirat Ha’Omer is about counting the days 7 weeks (i.e. 7 times 7) between Passover and Shau’ot. We also have to count 7 Sabbatical years till one Jubilee years as we read last week, as well as counting 7 “clean” days after various bodily discharges.
All the counts count towards an end that is dependent on that count: Shavuot is the only holiday in the Torah that has no date, but that will arrive the day after we’re done counting. The jubilee depends on everybody being on the land (or at least the majority of the Jewish people) and keeping the shmita (agricultural Sabbatical) in between. Those with bodily discharges have to count 7 days before returning to the community and the woman who counts, has to experience 7 “clean days” before she can go into the mikveh and reunite with her husband (these deserve a longer conversation…).
A count does something interesting; it focuses all our attention on the immediate; on the individual. By counting we say, this one, this day, it matters. And yet, the count also connects the one and makes it part of a bigger picture, for without the others there is no reason to count. For example, each day of the omer has its unique meaning and energy, and still, they are like beads on a necklace; they need each other, and need the whole.
Further, a count implies we’re going from somewhere and to somewhere. There is a beginning and an end, and the two are connected. Shavu’ot is also called “atzeret” – a stopping place for Passover, just like Shmini Atzeret is the stopping place for Sukkot. We can see the same pattern with the other counts. A count reminds me that we are living the moment, and the very same time, on a journey that takes us somewhere. It allows us a way to be very much present and focused, while remembering we’ve come from somewhere and are heading forward. It asks us to be here and now, and enjoy, not just the future arrival somewhere, but the scene along the way.

Shabbat Shalom.

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Shabbat La’Hashem

Posted on May 28, 2016 by Michal Kohane מיכל כהנא

Who’s in charge of holiness (k’dusha) in the world? G-d or people?
In this week’s reading, we are introduced to the Shmita, the sabbatical year. The Torah Sabbatical year is not about crop rotation. It’s about the land having its own Shabbat: “ve’shavta ha’aretz”, says the text (Leviticus 25:2), and the land will rest. The land in this verse is the subject. It is not acted on by anyone. It is in itself the one doing the resting.
The Yismach Moshe (1759-1841) calculates that within a 6 year period, there are about 300 shabbat’s (shabbatot, in correct Hebrew). During this time, the land grows crops and fruits. Therefore, we need one shmita year when the land can rest – for about 300 days, besides its own Shabbat days, to make up for those 6 years.
However, during 7 years of shmita (in a cycle of 7X7), the land also grows “stuff”, about the same days as one year (50 shabbat days in a shmita year, and 7 shmita years in a cycle), then comes the Yovel – Jubilee – to correct that.
There is one other place, where the text says – “Shabbat for G-d”, like here, and that is at creation. Thus explains the Meshech Chochma (1843-1926): the holiness of Shabbat is different from the holiness of the holidays. The first – is divine and independent of anything people do. The second, depends on messengers seeing the moon and sages establishing a calendar, which at times can be adjusted to come a day earlier or a day later.
Similarly, the Jubilee in the Land of Israel depends on the majority people being on the land and observing it. This is based on the verse: “and you shall sanctify it” (25:12), namely – you, and no one else. But shmita is like Shabbat. Further, within the cycle of shmita, one has to give a special tithing on the 3rd and 6th year, parallel to the 3rd and 6th day of creation, which are considered “twice good”.
Today, I see in it this lesson: Holiness is both divine or created by people. We can do it. But we can’t do it all by ourselves. It’s simple, but it offers a balance I like: I can make a difference. I can be a part of. I like that it’s not on my shoulders, and that Someone much greater is here too.
Shabbat Shalom.

 

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2nd Chances? On pesach sheni & my father’s yahrzeit

Posted on May 22, 2016 by Michal Kohane מיכל כהנא

אם תחפשו בגוגל “פסח שני” תמצאו פירושים יפים על ״הזדמנות שניה״ ועל כך ש”לעולם לא מאוחר מדי”, ובכל זאת, האם זה נכון?
פסח שני פונה לאנשים שהחמיצו את פסח ראשון. כשהגיע הזמן להביא את קורבן הפסח, הם לא היו זמינים. הם היו “טמאים במגע עם מת, או היו בדרכם רחוקה” (במדבר ט’, א’-יב). למשה לא ברור מה לעשות איתם, ולשאלתו, אלוהים אומר לו שאנשים אלה יכולים להביא את קורבן הפסח חודש לאחר מכן, בירח המלא הבא, שהוא היום.

באתר חב”ד אנו מוצאים:
“המשמעות הנצחית של פסח שני, אומר הרבי השישי מליובאוויטש, רבי יוסף יצחק שניאורסון (1880-1950), היא שלעולם לא מאוחר מדי לתקן כישלון מהעבר. גם אם אדם נכשל במילוי היבט מסוים של משימת חייו משום שהוא “נטמא על ידי המוות” (כלומר, במצב של ניתוק ממקור החיים האלוהי) או “בדרך רחוקה” מעמו ומאלוהים, תמיד יש פסח שני שבו הוא יכול לתקן את מה שהחמיץ. הפסח השני מייצג אפוא את כוח התשובה – כוח החזרה בתשובה. תשובה מתורגמת בדרך כלל כתשובה, אך היא הרבה יותר מפתיחת דף חדש ומסליחה על חטאי העבר. זוהי הכוח לחזור אחורה בזמן ולהגדיר מחדש את העבר”…

אבל בשבילי, זהו יום השנה של אבי. ואין כמו ״יארצייט״ כדי להזכיר לנו שכמה שננסה, לא “תמיד” יש הזדמנות שנייה. למעשה, כל המצווה הזו מדגישה בדיוק את ההפך: אם “תמיד” יש הזדמנות שנייה, לא היה צורך לשאול את משה על כך; והוא לא היה צריך לבדוק עם אלוהים לפני שענה. יתרה מזאת: אין הזדמנות שנייה בשום חג אחר. אם פספסתם את יום כיפור למשל, אז מה לעשות. חבל. הוא יחזור בשנה הבאה; החזיקו מעמד.
אלא שהאנשים ששאלו ידעו כפי שמשה עצמו ידע, כפי שאני מזכירה היום בכאב, שהזדמנויות שניות הן נדירות וקשות להשגה; שבעוד שאנחנו מתפללים ומקווים להן, לא תמיד אפשר לסמוך עליהן.
יש מנהג לאכול מצה ביום י״ד באייר, בדיוק כמו בפסח, ויש הרואים בו חג, גם אם קטן מאוד, אבל בשבילי זה יום להדליק נר ולחטט בקופסאות ישנות. אני שולפת את קטע העיתון מברלין משנת 1928, שבו הוא מוצג כמוצרט צעיר; יש תמונות שלו מטייל עם אחיו; מטייל עם אביו, שעל שמו נקראתי מאוחר יותר; ותמונות עם אמו, כולן אלגנטיות וחדות.
אני מסתכלת על תמונת בית הספר שלו מתחילת שנות ה-30. בגיל 13, לבוש כראוי, שיער מסורק, מה הוא ידע על איך החיים עומדים להשתנות? האם זו הייתה תמונה אחרונה שם, דקה לפני שנמלטו, או סתם עוד יום, אולי סוף שנת הלימודים?
יש תמונות מחתונתו עם אמי, ומירח הדבש שלהם – צלם באקרופוליס תופס אותם מטפסים, מחייכים, מביטים זה בזה באהבה. ואז, כשאני הקטנה על ברכיו, שנינו מנגנים בפסנתר הישן, אהבה למוזיקה שמחלחלת דרך הדורות לנכדיו וניניו. אני רואה אותו איתנו על החוף: תמונה גדולה וצבעונית… כדור חוף; תפוח חולי; אור השמש באופק. ויש גם את התמונות בראשי, הרגעים שאף מצלמה לא תפסה: יד ביד לבית הכנסת ביום שישי אחר הצהריים; אמי מושיטה לו את מקל ההליכה שלו בזמן שאני מדלגת בשמלה קטנה ויפה, נרגשת כולה. האם הוא כבר ידע שימיו ספורים?
אני מוצאת תעודות מהלימודים שלו ומנסה לחבר אותן יחד: האם הוא באמת נסע ללונדון לבחינות הבגרות, המשפטים והחשבונאות שלו בתחילת שנות ה-40, או שמא המנדט הבריטי איפשר בחינות בארץ ישראל שלפני הקמתה? הנה התמונה שלו בגלימה הארוכה והכהה; גאה, צעיר, מצליח, חיוך גדול, כל העולם מחכה; עולם מלא בהזדמנויות ראשונות ושנייות.
ומעטפה שאמא שלי הצילה מהשבועות האחרונים לחייו, כבר לא מסוגל לדבר כשגופו נכנע לזוועות מחלת ה-ALS; נייר אורז דק כמעט חרוט דרכו, עם כתב ידו הרועד, באותיות דפוס, חוזר לגרמנית ילדותו: תביאי את המשפחה; אל ​​תלכי.
אחי ואני שנינו מבוגרים יותר עכשיו משנותיו, אבל הוא לנצח יישאר אבינו ואנחנו, ילדיו. מתגעגעים אליו מאוד. יהי זכרו לברכה.

 

 

If you google “Pesach Sheni” (literally – 2nd Passover) you’ll find beautiful commentaries about “it’s never too late”, and yet, is it?
Pesach Sheni addresses people who missed the 1st Pesach. When it was time to bring the Pascal offering, they were unavailable. They were either “ritually impure through contact with a dead body, or away on a distant journey” (Numbers 9:1-12). It is not obvious to Moses what to do about them, and upon his question, G-d tells him that these people can prepare the offering a month later, on the next full moon, which is today.

We find on Chabbad website:
“The eternal significance of the Second Passover, says the sixth Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn (1880-1950), is that it is never too late to rectify a past failing. Even if a person has failed to fulfill a certain aspect of his or her mission in life because s/he has been “contaminated by death” (i.e., in a state of disconnection from the divine source of life) or “on a distant road” from his people and G d, there is always a Second Passover in which s/he can make good on what s/he has missed out. The Second Passover thus represents the power of teshuvah — the power of return. Teshuvah is commonly translated as repentance, but it is much more than turning a new leaf and achieving forgiveness for past sins. It is the power to go back in time and redefine the past”…

But for me, it’s my father’s yahrzeit (anniversary of his death). And there is nothing like a yahrzeit to remind us that try as we might, there is not “always” a second chance. In fact, the whole teaching seems to highlight exactly the opposite: if there is “always” a second chance, there would have been no need to ask Moses about it; and he would not have needed to check with G-d before replying. Further: there is no 2nd any other holiday. If you missed Yom Kippur, that’s just too bad for you. It will come back next year; hang in.
So the fact is, the people asking knew as Moses himself knew, as I am painfully reminded today, that 2nd chances are rare and hard to come by; that while we pray and hope for them, they can’t always be counted on.
There is a custom to eat matzah today, just like on Passover and some see it as a (very minor holiday, but for me it’s a day to light a candle and rummage through old boxes. I fish out the Berlin newspaper clip from 1928 where he is featured as a young Mozart; There are photos of him hiking with his brothers; traveling with his father, after whom I was later named; and photos with his mom, all elegant and sharp.
I look at his school portrait from the early 1930’s. At 13 years old, properly dressed, hair combed, what did he know about how life is about to change? Was it a last photo, or just another day, perhaps end of school year?
There are photos from his wedding to my mom, and from their honeymoon – a photographer on the Acropolis catches them climbing up, smiling, looking at each other lovingly. And then with little me on his lap, both of us playing the old piano, a love for music that seeps through the generations on to his grandchildren. I see him with us at the beach: a big colorful beach-ball; a sandy apple; the sunlight on the horizon. And the photos in my head, the moments that no camera caught: hand in hand to the synagogue on Friday afternoon; my mom handing him his cane while I skip around in a pretty little dress, all excited. Did he already know his days were numbered?
I find diplomas from his learning and try to piece it together: did he actually go to London for his matriculation, law and accounting exams in the early 1940’s, or did the British Mandate allow for exams in pre-Israel Palestine? There is his photo in the long dark robe; proud, shaking hands, young, successful, big smile, the whole world waiting; a world full of 1st and 2nd chances.
And an envelope my mom saved from the last weeks of his life, no longer able to speak as his body gives in to the horrors of ALS; thin rice paper almost etched through, with his now shaky, block-lettered handwriting, reverting back to his childhood German: get the family; don’t go.
My brother and I are both older now than he’ll ever be but forever he remains our father and we, his children. We miss him dearly. May his memory be for a blessing.

ליד הפסנתר.1928my parents.1960עם אבא

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Hand in Hand, and more with Emor

Posted on May 21, 2016 by Michal Kohane מיכל כהנא

Shul can be a very relaxing, even soporific experience and so it happened, once upon a time, that Joe-Shmo was a little sleepy during the Torah reading. He woke up just to hear the reader chant the words: “And you shall take fine flour and bake twelve cakes thereof… and you shall place them in two rows, six in a row, upon the pure table before G-d” (Leviticus 24:5-6). Inspired, he felt as if G-d himself spoke to him. The next day, he baked 12 loaves of challah, and brought them to shul. Quietly, making sure no one sees him, he placed the loaves in the ark, asking G-d to accept his gift as if this was the Temple.
No sooner did he leave, the shul’s janitor walked in to do his daily duties. Whipping his sweat, he approached the ark. He looked up, making sure no one sees him, and sat down for a moment. “Dear G-d,” he said, “thank you for giving me even this job, but please, my wife and children are still hungry at home. I need your help. Please, send me something.” He then opened the ark to clean it as usual, and you can imagine his surprise to see twelve freshly baked breads. Who could this bread be for?? G-d doesn’t eat bread, and he himself has a hungry family at home! Surely, this is for him! He took the loaves and went happily on his way.
The next morning, Joe-shmo came back for minyan a little early. He wanted to check up on his offer and see if it was accepted. He opened the ark, and was amazed and happy to see that is gift was accepted! He rushed home to bake another set of loaves and take them back to shul.
This went on for a while.
But one day, as life – and stories – go, the two happened to run into each other. Disappointed they looked at each other: ‘You?? I thought it was G-d Himself who accepted my gift!’ ‘You?? I thought G-d Himself was feeding my family!’ The rabbi who also happened to be there, listened to both, then said – -d: Your hands are the hands of G-d doing what needs to be done in the world.
I’ve heard this story many years ago from Reb Zalman Schachter Shalomi, and every year when Parashat Emor rolls around, where this verse appears, I love to remember and retell it; I hear Reb Zalman’s rusty, deep voice in this: Your hands are the hands of G-d doing what needs to be done in the world. I hear in it the same message of “flow” modern psychologists speak of; the “satvic” energy of Yoga teachings and the Torah. Yet as I write the story again, I can’t help but wonder: Everybody’s hands? Everything we do? Only our very best or that too??
* * * * * * *
At the end of this week’s reading we’re told about a fight between two Israelites. It’s a strange incident because of the details told: One is described as a son of an Israelite woman – whose name is given – and an Egyptian father and the other, an Israelite. The former ends up – possibly – cursing the other, using G-d’s name in some way: either cursing G-d Himself or aiming to hurt his fellow by invoking a curse. Initially the community does not know what to do with him but then they are told to stone him to death. There are a number of ways to try and understand this, but a question still remains: when we punish someone, what and who drive our action? School is a place to consider this question often, and wonder: is it the well-being of the child? The well-being of the community? The well-being of the teacher or leader? In the end, the result might be the same, but I believe the motivation will have an impact.
* * * * * * *
If you need one chapter to find all Biblical holidays, you’ve come to the right parasha: Leviticus 23 has them all, including Shabbat, and the count of the Omer is mentioned in this week’s reading too. As it’s been said, we count each day, because each day counts. That one too.
Shabbat Shalom.

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Love and Boundaries – Kedoshim

Posted on May 14, 2016 by Michal Kohane מיכל כהנא

We tend to think of “love your neighbor as yourself” as a Biblical commandment that “makes sense”, while, for example, that of “sha’atnez”, the prohibition to mix wool and linen in the same garment, as a “chok”, a law which has no obvious reason. But, seriously, what exactly makes sense about love??

Right after “love your neighbor” it says “you shall keep (guard, maintain) my laws” (Leviticus 19:19). Rabbi Hirsch (19th century) takes us back to the first time we see the verb “to keep”, lishmor, which is when G-d placed the first human in His Garden (Genesis 2:15). What did Adam need to “guard” or “maintain”? For that, we go just a little earlier, to the 3rd day of creation, when G-d says: “’Let the earth put forth grass, herb yielding seed, and fruit-tree bearing fruit after its kind, wherein is the seed thereof, upon the earth.’ And it was so. And the earth brought forth grass, herb yielding seed after its kind, and tree bearing fruit, wherein is the seed thereof, after its kind; and God saw that it was good” (Genesis 1:11-12).
Like a chorus, the repeated statement is “after its kind”: each was created to be who and what it is, and to grow within its realm to the fullest potential. Certain mixes interrupt with this process, with this purpose of creation, and we have to guard against that.
When I was very young, wondering about strange laws in the Torah, I was told that it’s not good to mix wool and linen because they shrink differently in hot laundry. Well, maybe that too. But maybe the Torah tells us that “wool” and “linen” are two very different “kinds” beyond the thread in a garment; that one represents the animal kingdom, and the other – the plant. This is symbolic of not mixing certain things.

Interestingly, the same verse (in this week’s reading) also instructs us “not to let (your) cattle gender with a diverse kind; you shall not sow your field with two kinds of seed” (still 19:19). We gain some insight from a unique word used here: “kil’ayim”, which means not any mixing but – “materials that are mutually exclusive”. Rabbi Hirsch again, in his poignant dig into Hebrew roots, teaches that “kil’ayim” shares its roots with “ke’le”, jail, prison, and so literally can mean – “two jails”. Accordingly, mixing things that don’t fit with each other, “imprisons” both of them in a place they should not be. Some mixtures help us grow but some others – don’t.

Which brings us back to “love your neighbor”. Because of the unusual Hebrew grammar in the verse, Rabbi Hirsch concludes that we are not asked to “love” all people in the romantic sense of the word, which would be impossible and unreasonable, but, we are asked to see the other as we’d like to be seen ourselves, namely, as equal and yes, separate, special human beings created in G-d’s image, and give them the space to be just that, each unique for who he or she is. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Shabbat Shalom.

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אך נזכור את כולם – We Remember. Yom Hazikaron.

Posted on May 11, 2016 by Michal Kohane מיכל כהנא

As kids we were taught early on to give up our seat on public bus for an older person, and my mom told us to do just that. But, as the story goes, my brother, about four or five years old at the time, responded: “I don’t want to get up for the old lady (mind you, she was probably about my age now –), but I will”, he continued proudly, “for the soldier over there”.
Growing up in Israel, soldiers were like gods, with their sharp uniforms, special shoes and barrette, unit emblems and all. Each one of them better looking than the other; they are all tall, charming, handsome, bright. As a child, you learn to look up to them with awe; you know they do “what they must” and at any moment, might be called to give the “ultimate sacrifice”, just so you can have a state and a safe home. You’re taught the verse “bemotam tzivu lanu et hachayim” – ‘dying, they commanded life to us’, and soon, though you don’t quite understand it, you hear it – and maybe even have the honor to recite it – especially on Yom Hazikaron, Memorial Day, when you stand respectfully, dressed in a white collared shirts and dark bottoms, to read mournful, heartbreaking stories, under the watchful eye of your teacher, her eyes hidden behind thick sunglasses.
It sucks that they have to die, but you’re ten or twelve, and they are giants of 18, 19 and 20, and you think, so it goes. Then you become 20, 21 and 22, and the name in the dark frame is your friend, your classmate, the guy you dance with, joke with, thought you’d have forever with to chat again at a street corner of your neighborhood; and you meet his parents, who turned ancient over night, at the cemetery gate and shiv’a calls; and you and your friends hug each other and cry together, and you think you’re all adults and so very grown-up, and this is “the price we all must pay”, and so it goes and so it must go-on.
And then one day, all of a sudden, you are your teacher; the one who came to school on Yom Hazikaron in her dark sunglasses so no one will see her red eyes; the one who asked the students to read the heart wrenching poetry so no one will hear her broken voice. You look back at your friend’s faded photos and it just hits you; and you realize that those mighty soldiers are just kids; and you’re tired of tragedies and pain, and poignant stories and touching poetry; and you know this is not how it goes; this it not how it has to go; and your heart doubly breaks, for the loss itself and for its continuation; and for the first time you stop and wonder, if maybe, after all, when they commanded us life, didn’t they also ask us to at least make a better effort in finding another way.

yom hazikaron

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