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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Achrei Mot Janusz Korczak – something for the Shabbat after Holocaust Memorial Day

Posted on May 7, 2016 by Michal Kohane מיכל כהנא

When my students “stretch my limits”, I think of Janusz Korczak (pronounced – Yanush Kor’chak).
Up until I was in my teens or so, Korczak was just a small street, not too far from my home in the Haifa neighborhood of my childhood, running between Einstein (also a street) and Horev (another street; commemorating one of mount Sinai’s names, and for some reason, we knew that).
Janusz Korczak, born Henryk Goldszmit in the late 1870’s was a Polish-Jewish children’s author, writer (Korczak was his pen name), pediatrician and even had a radio talk show, but he was first and foremost, an educator. His life story is fascinating. Perhaps what he is most famous for his work with orphans, especially the orphanage he established in Warsaw in 1911-1912 where he formed a kind-of-a-republic for children with its own small parliament, court, and a newspaper. He traveled to then Palestine a number of times, and learned from the early kibbutzim.

When the Germans created the Warsaw Ghetto in 1940, his orphanage was forced to move to the Ghetto, and Korczak moved in with them. While in the Ghetto, he decided the children should put on a play by Rabindranath Tagore. Some of his quotes include: “Children are not the people of tomorrow, but people today. They are entitled to be taken seriously. They have a right to be treated by adults with tenderness and respect, as equals. They should be allowed to grow into whoever they were meant to be – The unknown person inside each of them is the hope for the future… there are no bad children, but children who feel bad”…

On 5 or 6 August 1942, German soldiers came to collect the almost 200 orphans and about one dozen staff members, to transport them to Treblinka extermination camp. Korczak had been offered sanctuary on the “Aryan side” but turned it down repeatedly, saying that he could not abandon his children. On 5 August he again refused offers of sanctuary. He stayed with the children until the end.
On that day, the children were dressed in their best clothes, and each carried a blue knapsack and a favorite book or toy. Eye witnesses describe:

Janusz Korczak was marching, his head bent forward, holding the hand of a child, without a hat, a leather belt around his waist, and wearing high boots. A few nurses were followed by two hundred children, dressed in clean and meticulously cared for clothes, as they were being carried to the altar.
— Ghetto eyewitness, Joshua Perle[18]

He told the orphans they were going out in to the country, so they ought to be cheerful. At last they would be able to exchange the horrible suffocating city walls for meadows of flowers, streams where they could bathe, woods full of berries and mushrooms. He told them to wear their best clothes, and so they came out into the yard, two by two, nicely dressed and in a happy mood. The little column was led by an SS man…
— Władysław Szpilman, The Pianist [19]

The Holocaust is a huge thing, so big that it is impossible to comprehend or contain. No matter how many stories I’ll hear, there will always be one to top it over. During Holocaust Memorial Day, observed earlier this week, one doesn’t know where to start, how to hold the personal, national and global pain at what happened; and at the same time, how to properly appreciate, honor and admire those who survived, and those who risked their lives for others to survive. And yet, that huge thing was not made all at once. It was created from a combination of a lot of tiny little dots, sort of like an impressionist painting, where each one of these dots didn’t really matter that much – try zooming into one of these Monet paintings and you’re left with a blur. But zoom out, and you see, how each dots placement is precise in order to make the whole. At the end of the day, even the holocaust is about one open – or closed – door that makes all the difference in the world; one extra blanket, one piece of bread, one hand, one name.

So fitting, this week’s Torah reading, Acharei Mot, harshly named – ‘after the death of’… focuses on the worship of the High Priest on the holiest day of the year, Yom Kippur. Once again, it is filled with lots of tiny little dots, the what, where, who, when, and how of the day, each step critical, all designed to bring us closer to the Divine. Interestingly, Yom Kippur comes after Rosh Hashana, also known as “Yom Hazikaron”, which in modernity would be called – Memorial Day, as if to remind us that remembrance alone is not enough; after the remembrance, it’s time for doing.
When I lose one of the passwords for the —- time, I’m tempted to choose one that is something like – 123 I don’t care – all caps, 5 exclamation marks, but I can’t. I come from a tradition that thinks ‘I don’t care’ is worse than evil itself; a tradition that believes in me as a little but never insignificant dot on that huge drawing; a tradition that believes it matters, that demands that it would matter to me too. Maybe my next password should be 123Yanush.

Shabbat Shalom.

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Four Shorts and a Fifth for Passover

Posted on April 22, 2016 by Michal Kohane מיכל כהנא

(1) The Passover Haggada is a big on “four”: four cups, four questions, four sons. And yet, each one of these fours, has a hidden, less obvious fifth. The most obvious one is that there is a fifth cup on the table, Elijah’s cup. What do we do with it? Drink it? Save it? Share it? Shake the table with it?? The original four emanate from the four verbs used to describe the process of going to freedom in the Book of Exodus 6:6-8, bolded below:

ו לָכֵן אֱמֹר לִבְנֵי-יִשְׂרָאֵל, אֲנִי ה’, וְהוֹצֵאתִי אֶתְכֶם מִתַּחַת סִבְלֹת מִצְרַיִם, וְהִצַּלְתִּי אֶתְכֶם מֵעֲבֹדָתָם;
וְגָאַלְתִּי אֶתְכֶם בִּזְרוֹעַ נְטוּיָה
וּבִשְׁפָטִים גְּדֹלִים. 6 Wherefore say unto the children of Israel: I am the LORD, and I will bring you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians, and I will deliver you from their bondage, and I will redeem you with an outstretched arm, and with great judgments;
ז וְלָקַחְתִּי אֶתְכֶם לִי לְעָם, וְהָיִיתִי לָכֶם לֵאלֹהִים;
וִידַעְתֶּם, כִּי אֲנִי יְהוָה אֱלֹהֵיכֶם, הַמּוֹצִיא אֶתְכֶם מִתַּחַת סִבְלוֹת מִצְרָיִם. 7 and I will take you to Me for a people, and I will be to you a God; and ye shall know that I am the LORD your God, who brought you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians.
ח וְהֵבֵאתִי אֶתְכֶם, אֶל-הָאָרֶץ, אֲשֶׁר נָשָׂאתִי אֶת-יָדִי,
לָתֵת אֹתָהּ לְאַבְרָהָם לְיִצְחָק וּלְיַעֲקֹב; וְנָתַתִּי אֹתָהּ לָכֶם מוֹרָשָׁה, אֲנִי יְהוָה. 8 And I will bring you in unto the land, concerning which I lifted up My hand to give it to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob; and I will give it you for a heritage: I am the LORD.’

Did you count? Yes, there are actually five. The fifth one is not yet fulfilled. Thus the seder continues to remind us that while everything is proscribed – how to sit, how much to drink, what to eat and when — stay tuned, for while we think we know the whole story, there is a piece that is completely open.

(2) The Haggada is an amazing book: not only does it contain the story itself, but along with “the curriculum”, it includes the instructions how to teach it. And so it tells us: The Torah speaks of Four Sons, introducing us to the idea that there are different learners and those must be addressed differently. The sages took those “four sons” from four verses in the Torah. And yet, how many verses are there which include instructions on how to teach our children? You guessed it: five. Who is the fifth child? Could it be the next generation? Could it be a relevant, untold aspect in those around us? Within ourselves? Our own questions this evening? Yes. Once again, a little subtle reminder: along with telling us everything, the Haggada has a little inside joke, as if saying, you think you know it all? think again.

(3) Slavery is a big one: “once we were slaves in Egypt”. What is the emphasis here? Of course, the favorite is – once we were slaves, now we are free, but then again, are we?? At school we do an exercise: draw a circle, representing a clock, and mark on it how many hours each day do you spend doing things other people /things tell you to do… Think about it and it’s easy to see that there are lots of ways to be a slave.
So maybe a slightly different read: once we were slaves in Egypt – emphasizing the latter, as if to say: Egypt – mitzrayim, which comes from the Hebrew word “narrow” – is the wrong place to be a slave in; that is not a good slavery, but there are times and places to do what another asks or even demands of us. Maybe freedom is mostly, not about any specific labor but about the ability to choose which labor and even more so, which Master to follow.
Here it is in the words of 11th century Yehuda Halevi:

עבדי זמן, עבדי עבדים הם
עבד ה’ לבדו חופשי
על כן בבקש כל אנוש חלקו
חלקי עם ה’ אמרה נפשי
Here is my translation:
Time-bound servants – are slaves of other slaves
The servant of G-d, he alone is free
Therefore, when each human asked for their lot
I am with Hashem, said my soul to me.

(4) Father of the Bride (yes, Steve Martin’s 1991 comedy [please forgive the inaccuracies – paraphrasing from memory]): ‘first, we have to get all these chairs out of here’, says the wedding planner. ‘What?’, cries the alarmed Father of the Bride, ‘What will people sit on?’ ‘Oh, don’t worry about that’ is the planner’s answer, ‘we bring in our own chairs!’
On Pesach too, we get everything out to put everything anew back in, this time, to choose what we bring inside, what we keep out. Pesach, intentionally or unintentionally, becomes a variation on “spring cleaning”, old clothing, books and other accumulated household “junk” gets piled near the door. I spend part of the time cleaning up my computer too, and yes, I know, emails are not halachik (legal) chametz, but then again…? and then, I wish for a solvent to clean up our cognitive, emotional, spiritual hard-drive too.

(5) The four Passover unspoken “competition”: how crazy did you go cleaning; how much did you cook; how many people did you have over; how late did you stay. And my fifth: how late did you write, and still make this holiday somehow come together for you and your family? As with the other ”fifth”, this one too, is still- unknown. And with that, best wishes for a chag (”hug”) same’ach & shabbat shalom.

My mom's childhood Haggada, Germany, 1933

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A Number Greater than 100?

Posted on April 15, 2016 by Michal Kohane מיכל כהנא

Once upon a time, as all stories go, there was a poor thief who came across an exquisite coat, weaved with gold and silver threads. Desperate to get his next meal, he rushed to sell it in the market for 100 coins. Upon hearing this, his friends laughed at him: “that’s all you got for it??” at which the man replied, “You mean, there is a number greater than 100?”

I find this story in a book tossed on a stone-wall in my neighborhood, its fate hanging between treasure and garbage, and even that is perhaps symbolic.

How can we begin to know that which we don’t know?

I am almost haunted by this week’s reading, focused on the strange tzara’at, its symptoms and cure. It’s easy to avoid talking about it: it’s Shabbat Hagadol (the “Great Shabbat”, a name given for the Shabbat before Pesach), and Passover is coming. There is so much to say about cleaning, freedom (though right now they seem mutually exclusive!) and more…

What does tzara’at mean? What is its cause? Most of what we know about it is conjecture. Erroneously used for modern leprosy and thus translated as such, it’s easily dismissed as ancient and outdated. It’s peculiar how one gets it, and if it’s contagious, especially since the priest who comes in contact with the afflicted person, doesn’t get it. The struggle to make sense, speaks even louder to the lack of understanding. And just when think we built some theory around it (the most common one – tzara’at comes from “motzi shem ra”, instructing us not to gossip and speak badly about others), Leviticus 14-15 comes to tell us that clothing and houses can be afflicted with it. Do clothes and houses gossip too?

Before giving up, let’s try zooming out and taking a broader look at this difficult book.

We started Leviticus with the inauguration of the Mishkan, the mobile Temple, and went on to learn what sacrifices are brought there for what reason. Then, on that most festive day when the Tabernacle finally opened for business, a terrible tragedy: Nadav and Avihu, the future leaders as Aaron’s -the high priest’s – sons – were stricken to death, bringing a “strange fire” (10:1). Then we read the laws of keeping kosher, a woman giving birth, and tzara’at, our strange affliction. Just as we get completely lost in pretty gory details, chapter 16 opens with “and it came to pass after the death of Nadav and Avihu” (16:1), taking us back to the story line. I’d like to suggest that Nadav and Avihu here serve as, for lack of a better word, brackets in the flow of the story, and on this Shabbat, we’re inside of the brackets.

Why did Nadav and Avihu die? There are numerous commentaries whether they did something wrong, and if so, what was it (drinking, being disrespectful to their elders etc), or whether they just got too close to the “light” and, like paper approaching fire, were consumed by it. Either way, it’s almost as if the Torah uses this to say something like, ‘wait, while we’re on this subject, let’s look into all the other ways by which one can draw near or be pushed away from holiness. Please pay attention to what you eat, how you treat your wife, how you raise your children, how you speak, dress, and care for your home – for it’s all part of getting close or being pushed away. You think it’s the big stuff, the once in a life time something or other? Yes, sure, that too, but even more so, it’s the tiny, little choices, attentions and intentions, prioritizing one seemingly small thing over another, like a drawing made of million dots that end up being a picture, and each makes a difference in how the picture will end up looking’.

A very binary system is set in place here – there is only “off” and “on” – busy with “splitting hairs”, all in order to get to the bottom of it while being fully aware that there is no bottom and nowhere to get to.

Hebrew has a little “fun” with it too, introducing a set of words that change their meaning by rearranging its letters, by “prioritizing” one over the other.

Take for example, the word nega – plague or affliction. It comes from the same root as touch – lingo’a. Rearrange the letters, and you can make “oneg”, pleasure (like oneg Shabbat – Shabbat delight).

Another insight from the language comes with the word Tzara’at itself. Per Rav Hirsch its core meaning is to erupt, and is therefore related to zera, a seed (consider last week’s reading of “Tazri’a”-). By contrast, the Aramaic translation calls is “sagiru”, which is the Hebrew root for closed! So – “to erupt” and “to close” actually flow in some figure eight”: Tzara’at is intended through “closing” to open things up: the person is removed from the camp, but that time away is meant to help him reconsider his action and come back. The Tzara’at of the homes is considered by commentators as a blessing, for it is a sign that there are treasures hidden in the walls, which only through opening / destroying the walls, can be discovered, pretty much like the hidden treasures within us.

This reading is at the heart of Leviticus. Some say that the whole book follows the order of creation: first we deal with inanimate objects, then animals, then humans. If so, it’s no wonder the sages looked at speech as a connector (or disconnector), since our ability to express ourselves in words is a great part of how our humanity is defined (for example, being made in G-d’s image, who created the world through speech, like we can “create” and “destroy” worlds with words; check Onkelos on Genesis 2:7), and it’s no wonder we examine our actions, not just visa vie our own narrow existence but also against our outer environment, hence our clothing and homes matter.

Last but not least, there is much we don’t know, and some of it better left this way: what exactly is Tzara’at? We don’t really know, and that should be ok. We might not be able to know what number is greater than 100, but we should know there is one.

Shabbat Shalom.

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Most misunderstood Torah portion award goes to…

Posted on April 9, 2016 by Michal Kohane מיכל כהנא

Tazria must win the ‘most misunderstood Torah portion’ prize. The word itself is untranslatable, and it follows by laws of “purity” and “impurity”, two more concepts we don’t understand. Then…

Source: Most misunderstood Torah portion award goes to…

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