A Personal High Holiday Message from Rabbi Ari Kirschenbaum

Rosh Hashana: The 48-Hour Brain

Today’s neurology has caught up with yesterday’s science fiction. Maps have been drawn up of the interior of our skull. Virtually every hillock and groove has been tagged: tweak this neuron-transmitter, and you’ll hear lyrics of a song you haven’t heard or remembered in 30 years; pinch that nerve ending, and you’ll zap your craving for potato chips and lose 15 pounds in a month. Well, not quite. But we’re getting there.

The year, a body of time with 365 organs and limbs, also has a brain — the 48 hours of Rosh Hashanah. That’s what the Hebrew words rosh hashanah literally mean — “head of the year.” On Rosh Hashanah, we crown G-d King. On Rosh Hashanah, G-d is aroused, once again, with the desire to create the world. Channels of vitality and awareness connect the 48 hours of Rosh Hashanah to each of the hundreds of days, thousands of hours and millions of seconds of the year, like those that join the brain to its body.

That’s why the two days of Rosh Hashanah are so special: the impact of our every action, word and thought increases thousand-fold. If we’re kind on Rosh Hashanah, we’ll be kinder people throughout the year. If we weigh our words carefully during these two days, our speech will be more refined throughout the year. If we focus on a certain weakness of ours and resolve to make a stronger effort, we’ll find our resolution translating into action far more effectively than resolutions made at other times.

If you can access the brain, you can do just about anything. You can waken memories, restore lapsed talents, alleviate fears, magnify joys, abolish prejudices, stimulate interest and charge up motivation. You can basically re-program your life, at least for a year.

Lessons for the Rest of Us From the Success of Chabad

By Dennis Prager.

Most Jews, whether Orthodox, non-Orthodox or secular, acknowledge that Chabad is a uniquely successful Jewish enterprise.

Like many others, I am convinced that if mankind ever settles another planet, some Chabad couple will surely be among the first settlers. Having visited Chabad houses on six continents, one of my definitions of “remote” has become “a place without a Chabad House.”

In other words, just about anywhere a Jew may travel, he or she will have a place to go for a Shabbat meal, as my wife and I did a few months ago at the home of the Chabad rabbi in Casablanca, Morocco. It is no longer necessary for Jews to live in a place before a couple sets up a Chabad House there. There are also an increasing number of Chabad houses near or on college campuses, and Chabad is often the primary (Russia, for example) or only representative (Cambodia, for example) of Jews and Judaism in a given community, city or even country.

Although not a member of Chabad, I have been involved with the organization for three decades. Here are five factors I believe account for its success and the lessons the rest of us can learn from them.

1. The self is subordinate to the good of the organization.

A vivid illustration of this point is the photo taken each year of all the Chabad rabbis gathered at the annual shluchim (emissaries) convention in New York City. One sees a photo of hundreds of rabbis who all look alike. It’s a sort of “Where’s Waldo?” moment when one tries to find a Chabad rabbi one knows. In fact, one Chabad rabbi confided to me that he found it hard to find himself in the photo.

It is very rare that people subordinate themselves, their desires, their egos to a cause that isn’t evil, let alone to one that does good. Yet, even Chabad’s critics have to acknowledge that Chabad has done considerable good, and this good could not be done if many young Chabad rabbis — and their wives, who are instrumental and indispensible to the success of a Chabad House — had not made Chabad’s success synonymous with their own success.

I should add that Chabad rabbis’ subservience to Chabad does not mean Chabad extinguishes these rabbis’ individuality. Anyone who gets to know more than a few Chabad rabbis knows just how individualistic they are — though obviously within the confines of Chabad practice and ideology.

An analogy might be the American Army. Wearing the same uniforms, and usually sporting similar haircuts, one might be equally hard pressed to see many differences among American soldiers of the same rank. But they are hardly all alike, and only thanks to the subordination of much of their individuality and much of their ego to the Army’s success can they do the great good that the American military has done in the world. Indeed, many Chabad rabbis do regard themselves as part of an army — the “Rebbe’s army.”

Lesson: Great good is usually achieved only by people placing the greater good above their own and uniting behind a common ideal. The founders of America and the founders of Israel are two such examples. But they are rare.

2. Chabad invests young people with great responsibility.

Again like the Army — and like another religious success story, the Mormons — with their policy of sending teenagers to all parts of the world on mission work, Chabad shluchim marry and take on the immense responsibility of setting up a Chabad House in their early 20s. Unlike much of modern secular life in which many young people remain irresponsible and immature through their 20s and even into their 30s, Chabad rabbis and their wives grow up very fast. So fast that I have often remarked that all Chabad rabbis are 40 — those in their 20s act (and often look) 40, and those in their 60s act (and often look) 40.

Lesson: Give young people responsibility at as young an age as possible. This is one reason staying in school (without also working or taking time off from school) generally keeps a person immature.

3. They have a transcendent mission.

A great problem facing modern men and women is boredom. By this I do not mean a lack of things to do — there are more things to do today than ever before in human history — but as the French call it, ennui, a boredom of the soul. It emanates from having no transcendent purpose in one’s life, a problem that is widespread in the secular West for both Jews and non-Jews. Perhaps the greatest sense of purpose many Jews have is to get their children into a prestigious college. But, of course, this is neither transcendent nor life filling — if your child gets into Stanford, then what? And if your child doesn’t get into Stanford, then what?

Chabad rabbis and their wives have an acute sense of transcendent purpose, probably on a near-daily basis. How else can one leave the Chabad and Orthodox cocoons of Brooklyn for a lifetime in Cambodia, the Congo or Bolivia, to cite three rather challenging examples of where Chabad shluchim have committed themselves to live out their lives.

Lesson: The human being needs a sense of transcendent purpose. For most people throughout history, religion provided this. Secularism has killed it, and the major secular attempts to provide it (Communism and Nazism) have been highly destructive.

4. They act happy.

In the realm of religion, theological brilliance rarely comes close to a happy personality in its ability to attract (healthy) people to a given faith. The best arguments for a religion are that its adherents are better (more moral, more deep) and happier human beings as a result of their commitment to that religion.

In light of that, the happiness that the vast majority of Chabad rabbis and their wives radiate is perhaps the most powerful asset in the Chabad rabbi’s arsenal. That they maintain this cheerful demeanor (and I have been with dozens of Chabad rabbis away from their public roles), given their often-difficult financial and social situations (not to mention normal human problems), is a credit to them — and to their faith. This is very attractive to the overwhelmingly non-Orthodox Jews with whom they relate.

Lesson: Nothing is more powerful than a happy demeanor in attracting people — to one’s faith or to one’s self (singles take note).

5. They act nonjudgmental.

Finally, I have come to believe — after initial skepticism given the level of Orthodoxy within Chabad — that they mean it when they say they love all Jews regardless of their level of halachic observance. My own experience had led me to believe that most Orthodox Jews do judge other Jews — consciously or not — by their level of observance. And Chabad takes some flak for this from some other Orthodox Jews. For example, few other “black hat” (“ultra-Orthodox”) Jews are as welcoming to Jews who drive on Shabbat to be with them as the Chabad rabbis.

Lesson: If Orthodox Jews judged fellow Jews solely by their ethical behavior and not by their ritual behavior, both Orthodoxy and Jewry would be much better off.

Any one of these reasons would go far in explaining Chabad’s success. All five can move mountains. And their lessons can do the same for the rest us.

Dennis Prager is a nationally syndicated radio talk-show host, columnist, author and public speaker. He can be heard in Los Angeles on KRLA (AM 870) weekdays 9 a.m. to noon. His Web site is dennisprager.com.

From Skinhead to Orthodox Jew

By Michael Gros

After the Iron Curtain was lifted in Europe twenty years ago, a surprising thing occurred – thousands of people who had been raised as gentiles came to the startling realization that they were actually Jews. Poland is home to thousands of such stories. During the Holocaust and under Communist rule, many Jews there hid their identities and continued to conceal them even after the fall of Communism. On their deathbeds, some of them have revealed their true identities to their children or grandchildren. Other people found out from old family records or through other means.

Once they discover their roots, people often turn to Rabbi Michael Schudrich, an American who has been the Chief Rabbi of Poland since 2004. Rabbi Schudrich has been the guide for multitudes of Jews to return to Torah Judaism. They turn to him for guidance and direction, and he tries to help them to reclaim their proud heritage that had been hidden for so many years.

Several years ago, Zbiszek, a 52 year-old man from Bialystock, came to Rabbi Schudrich’s office in Warsaw. Zbiszek told him that his mother had passed away four months earlier. Following the funeral, Zbiszek was approached by several neighbors who told him astonishing news – this woman who had raised him, whom he knew to be his mother, was not his actual biological mother.

They told Zbiszek that he had been born Jewish. In 1942, as Jews throughout Poland were being exterminated, Zbiszek’s Jewish parents gave him to the woman for adoption in case they were killed. His biological parents did not survive the Holocaust, and so the woman raised Zbiszek as her own son.

She had risked her life to save him during the war, and so she never wanted him to know the truth. She swore her neighbors to secrecy, and they dutifully remained silent for five decades. Now that she had passed away, they decided it was time to reveal the secret.

Zbiszek trembled when he first heard the news and didn’t know what to do. He spent a long time in deep introspection. Should he continue living his comfortable life as a Christian, as he had been raised, or should he embrace his newfound religion, of which he knew nothing?

Zbiszek decided he wanted to live proudly as a Jew, but didn’t know how. So here he was in Rabbi Schudrich’s office, looking for answers. Zbiszek told the rabbi that he felt most guilty that he never had a “Jewish baptism.”

Rabbi Schudrich calmed his fears and taught him the basics of Judaism. Zbiszek spent the next few years studying together with Rabbi Schudrich and attending classes in the community. Today he goes by Zecharya Asher, and is an active member of the Polish Jewish community.

Another unique story is that of Pawel Bramson. He was raised in an observant Catholic family. As a teenager, he joined a skinhead gang. He was virulently anti-Jewish, anti-black and anti-Gypsy.

At age eighteen, Pawel married his Catholic high school girlfriend, a fellow skinhead, and they had two children. Four years later Pawel’s wife decided to investigate some nagging questions that she had about her family’s background. She eventually found her maternal grandparents listed on a register of Warsaw Jews, along with Pawel’s maternal grandparents.

The news shook Pawel. The Jews that he had always reviled were actually his own people!

Pawel’s wife decided to begin serving Shabbat meals and introduced other mitzvot into their home. Pawel confronted his parents and although they acknowledged the truth, they reacted with unease. They even pressured Pawel to urge his wife stop serving Shabbat meals, and to sweep her Judaism back under the rug. They had hidden their Judaism from their own children out of fear of anti-Semitism, and the religious life that Pawel’s wife was beginning to explore represented what to them was profound danger.

It took Pawel a long time to accept the reality of his identity. He struggled with it, unsure of whether he wanted to embrace Judaism or not. But eventually he and his wife decided to live as Orthodox Jews. Pawel now goes by the name Pinchas and is studying to become a schochet, a ritual slaughterer.

Pawel has three brothers, one who is his twin. The twin still believed in many of the anti-Semitic myths that Pawel had rejected. And yet he has been influenced by Pawel’s religious growth in some small ways.

One Friday night, Pawel’s twin brother tried calling him on his cell phone but could not reach him. The twin went to the synagogue to try to find him, but Pawel was not there. That Friday night the synagogue had only nine men in attendance, just one short of a minyan. So when Pawel’s brother walked in, Rabbi Schudrich asked him if he could stay in the synagogue to be the tenth man. He said yes.

Such is the rebirth of Jews in Poland. Even Jews far removed from Judaism, with seemingly no connection, still have a tiny spark of Judaism deep inside them. With the right impetus, that spark can ignite into the beautiful fire of a proud Jewish soul.

This article originally appeared in The Jewish Press.

Take Your Body Along

by Shlomo Yaffe

In this week’s Torah reading, Aaronand all subsequent High Priests are warned to only enter the Temple’sHoly of Holies on Yom Kippur. This is preceded by the statement that this caution followed the deaths of Aaron’s two sons, Nadab and Abihu, who entered the Tabernacle and the Holy of Holies, “and drew close toG‑d and died.”

In this week’s Torah reading, Aaronand all subsequent High Priests are warned to only enter the Temple’sHoly of Holies on Yom Kippur. This is preceded by the statement that this caution followed the deaths of Aaron’s two sons, Nadab and Abihu, who entered the Tabernacle and the Holy of Holies, “and drew close toG‑d and died.”

Death is the separation of soul and body. As such, on a deeper level we are being warned that coming close to G‑d cannot involve the separation of body and soul.

If while praying or when involved in any other holy experience we feel uplifted, but only the soul makes the trip while the body remains behind, we are making the same holy error as the children of Aaron.

Practically speaking this means that after the spiritual experience our bodies’ desires and weaknesses should not remain the same. Our practical, everyday lives should be more virtuous and ethical than before our “drawing close to G‑d.” If this is not the case, then the whole experience is “dead”—it adds no life and holiness to our world as we live in it.

And the entire purpose of Judaism is to make the Divine a normative presence in the context of our ordinary, everyday, frames of reference.

Timeless Passover Story. Barrels on a Riverbank

Note: One of the central figures in the history of Chassidism was the famed “Seer of Lublin,” Rabbi Yaakov YitzchokHorowitz (1745-1815), who presided over the spread of Chassidism in Poland and Galicia; many of the great Chassidic masters of the time were his disciples. This story, however, is not about the “Seer” but about his maternal grandfather, Rabbi Kopel of Likova; in fact, it happened many years before the Seer’s birth.

Reb Kopel earned a living by purchasing barrels of vodka and beer from the local distillers and selling his wares to the taverns in and around his native village of Likova. It was not an easy life, with the heavy taxes exerted by the government and the hostile environment facing a Jew in 18th-century Europe. Yet his faith and optimism never faltered.

Each year, on the morning before Passover, Reb Kopel would sell hischametz to one of his gentile neighbors. Chametz is “leaven” — a category that must famously includes bread but also all food or drink made with fermented grain. The Torah commands the Jew that absolutely “no leaven shall be found in your possession” for the duration of the Passover festival, in commemoration of the leaven-free Exodus from Egypt. In the weeks before the festival, the Jewish home is emptied and scrubbed clean ofchametz; on the night before Passover, a solemn candle-lit search is conducted for every last breadcrumb hiding between the floorboards. By the next morning, all remaining household chametz is eaten, burned or otherwise disposed of.

What about someone like Reb Kopel who deals in leavened foods and has a warehouse full of chametz? For such cases (and for anyone who haschametz they don’t want to dispose of) the rabbis instituted the practice ofselling one’s chametz to a non-Jew. Reb Kopel’s neighbors were familiar with the annual ritual. The Jewish liquor dealer would draw up a legally-binding contract with one of them, in which he sells all the contents of his warehouse for a sum equal to their true value. Only a small part of the sum actually changed hands; the balance was written up as an I.O.U. from the purchaser to the seller. After Passover, Reb Kopel would be back, this time to buy back the chametz and return the I.O.U. The purchaser got a tip for his trouble — usually in the form of a generous sampling of the merchandise that had been legally his for eight days and a few hours.

One year, someone in Likova came up with a novel idea: what if they all refused to buy the Jew’s vodka? In that case he would have to get rid of it. Why suffice with a bottle or two when they could have it all?

When Reb Kopel knocked on a neighbor’s door on the morning of Passover eve, Ivan politely declined to conduct the familiar transaction. Puzzled, he tried another cottage further down the road. It did not take long for him to realize the trap that his gentile neighbors had laid for him. The deadline for getting rid of chametz — an hour before midday — was quickly approaching. There was no time to travel to the next village to find a non-Jewish purchaser.

Reb Kopel did not hesitate for a minute. Quickly he emptied the wooden shack behind his house that served as his warehouse. Loading his barrels of chametz on his wagon, he headed down to the river. As his neighbors watched gleefully from a distance, he set them on the river bank. In a loud voice he announced: “I hereby renounce any claim I have on this property! I proclaim these barrels ownerless, free for the talking for all!” He then rode back home to prepare for the festival.

That night, Reb Kopel sat down to the Seder with a joyous heart. When he recited from his Haggadah, “Why do we eat this unleavened bread? Because the dough of our fathers did not have time to become leavened before G-d revealed Himself to them and redeemed them,” he savored the taste of each word in his mouth. All his capital had been invested in those barrels of vodka and beer; indeed, much of it had been bought on credit. He was now penniless, and the future held only the prospect of many years of crushing debt. But his heart was as light and bright as a songbird. He had not a drop of chametz in his possession! For once in his life, he had been given the opportunity to truly demonstrate his love and loyalty to G-d. He had removed all leaven from his possession, as G-d had commanded him. Of course, he had fulfilled many mitzvot in his lifetime, but never at such a cost — none as precious — as this one!

The eight days of Passover passed for Reb Kopel in a state of ecstatic joy. Then the festival was over, and it was time to return to the real world. With thoughtful steps he headed to his warehouse to look through his papers and try to devise some plan to start his business anew. Clustered in the doorway he found a group of extremely disappointed gentiles.

“Hey, Kopel!” one of them called, “I though you were supposed to get ridof your vodka. What’s the point of announcing that it’s ‘free for the taking for all’ if you put those watchdogs there to guard it!”

They all began speaking at once, so it took a while for Kopel to learn the details. For the entire duration of the festival, night and day round the clock, the barrels and casks on the riverbank were ringed by a pack of ferocious dogs who allowed no one to approach. Reb Kopel rode to the riverbank. There the barrels stood, untouched.

But he made no move to load them on his wagon. “If I take them back,” he said to himself, “how will I ever know that I had indeed fully and sincerely relinquished my ownership over them before Passover? How could I ever be sure that I had truly fulfilled the mitzvah of removingchametz from my possession? No! I won’t give up my mitzvah, or even allow the slightest shadow of a doubt to fall over it!”

One by one, he rolled the barrels down the riverbank until they stood at the very brink of the water. He pulled out the stops in their spigots and waited until every last drop of vodka and beer had merged with the river. Only then did he head back home.

Passover’s Inner Joy

All The King’ Soldiers. Parsha essay for Torah Reading: Ki Tisa (Exodus 30:11 – 34:35)

Our Parshah recounts the famous story of the Golden Calf. One of the highpoints (or low points) of that account is the fact that the Tablets containing the Ten Commandments, which Moses had received directly from G-d, had a very short life. Immediately upon returning from Sinai, Moses saw the Jewish people worshipping the Golden Calf and he shattered the Tablets.

We know that G-d had subsequently given Moses a second set of the tablets, but what ever happened to the broken Tablets?

The Talmud discusses their whereabouts and states that they are kept together with the second set of whole Tablets in the Ark. (And according to Maimonides, the Ark is still around today hidden in a subterranean chamber beneath the Temple mount.)

Of what import is the knowledge that the shattered Tablets are housed together with the whole Tablets?

The Talmud addresses this matter by stating, “Be careful to honor a scholar who forgot his learning because of infirmity, because the whole Tablets and the shattered Tablets are both in the Ark.” In other words, since we honor the broken Tablets by putting them in the Ark, though they apparently have no use now since they can’t be read, so too must we respect a scholar who might not have his knowledge with him now in his old age, since he used to have his learning.

This statement appears in the Talmud together with two other teachings of apparently totally unrelated themes that the Sage Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi imparted to his sons:

“Complete the parsha together with the congregation reading the Hebrew text twice and the Targum (Aramaic translation) once.

“And be careful with the veridim (jugular vein or carotid arteries). [Make sure to sever them while slaughtering a chicken so the blood will drain.]”

“And be careful to honor a scholar who forgot his learning because of infirmity, because the whole Tablets and the shattered Tablets are both in the Ark.”

These three teachings appear to be totally disjointed.

Let us try to understand the significance of these teachings and their connection to one another.

We read the weekly Torah portion (known as the parsha or sidra) with its translation on a weekly basis because, as Jews, we must “live with the times.” This means we must allow the timely teachings of the Torah to inform our lives on a weekly basis. Although all of the Torah is relevant to us every day of our lives, there is a need to focus on the weekly parsha for its guidance during the specific week the congregation reads it.

But, it is not enough to read the parsha once. One must read it twice. One way of explaining this is based on the fact that we tend to read things through the prism of our own minds and hearts. We sometimes color what we read by the preconceived notions we have and thereby distort the true import of the Torah. By doing so, we deny ourselves the benefit of reading the Torah portion for direction in our lives. Instead of hearing what G-d’s message to us is, we may hear how the Torah confirms what we think the message ought to be. The Sages therefore admonished us to read it again to instructed us that although the first time we read it the way it appears to us, the second time we must read it from the perspective of the Author of the Torah.

After reading it twice to ensure that we do not distort or color the message, we must then read the translation. This requirement addresses the opposite concern that necessitated reading the Torah portion twice. Whereas reading it twice was intended to preserve the integrity of the message, reading the translation is intended to make the teachings of the Torah resonate with each and every one of us in our state of mind and being.

Now that we see the words of Torah in its pure and unadulterated Divine form we might discover that the Torah teachings are too lofty and distant from the realities of our lives. We cannot glean any practical and relevant insights that can impact our lives because we are inhabitants of a universe that is “light years” away from the Torah’s source. Particularly in the times of exile, we will feel the existence of a serious dichotomy between our world and the world of Torah.

It is therefore crucial that we have a mechanism to take the pure teachings of the Torah and translate them into the realities of our physical existence. This is what the Aramaic translation (known as Targum Onkelus) as well as Rashi and other classical Jewish commentaries provide for. While they remain faithful to the original, they have the capacity to bring the message into our universe and consciousness.

Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi was instructing his children to maintain this delicate balance; to maintain the integrity of Torah even as it could be made relevant to those who are “in the real world.”

This teaching is followed by a second one that admonishes the shochet to make sure that the veins or arteries that contain large volumes of forbidden blood be drained after the bird is slaughtered.

To understand this process on a spiritual level, we must preface how the entire process of shechitah (ritual slaughter of animals and birds) is more than just killing these creatures for their consumption. It is about elevating the world in which we reside.

While Torah—especially through its official translation, Onkelus —is G-d given energy that flows downward to us and enters into our consciousness to make us more spiritual and Divine, the human being has to then take the world around him or her and elevate it. If Torah is bringing G-dly knowledge down into our experiences, the Mitzvot we do involve taking the physical world and our experiences and bringing them to closer to G-d. This we do, among others Mitzvot, by the process of shechitah. The word shechitah—while referring technically to the act of kosher slaughter—actually derives from a root that means to pull or draw, as in moving something to a higher place.

So Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi tells his sons that in the process of elevating the physical world and making it more spiritual one must drain the blood from it. Figuratively speaking, this means we should divest ourselves of the life and passion we invest into our physical and material pursuits. We cannot rise upward if we are tied down.

And at this point, Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi imparts the third and final message to his sons:

Even if you live your life in accordance with these principles—of effectively translating the untainted and lofty teachings of Torah into our daily lives, and successfully elevating our physical existence by divesting ourselves of passion in the pursuit of materialism—we may nevertheless experience periods in which our Tablets become shattered.

Frequently, we can reach a high and then fall down thinking that we are no longer in the game. And even if we don’t degenerate into shameful behavior akin to worshipping the golden calf, we nevertheless feel that much of our energy has been spent; we become a shadow of who we were, and now we feel we are left with nothing or very little.

This leads to the depressing thought: What good is it that we’ve achieved such progress when it all reverts to nothing? And while it is undeniably true that a person can always turn a new leaf; it is precisely the thought of having to start anew that is so daunting and demoralizing. If only we could recapture our original youthful achievements; if only we can put the shattered Tablets back together and make them whole again.

The answer to this unsettling thought is that even if our Tablets our broken, they do not lose any of their holiness.

Similarly, when we lose some of our spiritual attainments and the energy that we invested in our early achievements in life, they did not go to waste. This is so because the Divine writ has been etched into our souls by G-d Himself. Nothing can destroy that which is an integral part of us just as no one or nothing—even the shattering of the Tablets—could diminish their holiness.

As we stand on the threshold of the Era of Redemption we discover that these three challenges assume even greater significance:

Challenge number one is to balance the reading of the Torah with its translation. Since we are still in exile—and before the dawn of Redemption we are told the darkness can be greater- we must double our efforts at seeing the Torah from G-d’s perspective. And indeed, because we are on the cusp of the Messianic Age we are provided with even greater potential to see the Torah from G-d’s perspective. Simultaneously, we have the challenge of having to translate the Torah and apply it to the dark exile conditions that exist in these times.

Challenge number two is to drain the passion from the “other side.” Because we are so close to the age concerning which it is written there will be no more impurity and evil, the forces of evil can be far greater and more potent than ever before. It behooves us now to learn how to drain the “blood” (read: passion) for all that is incompatible with Torah.

Challenge number three is to realize that as broken as we may think we are because of the painful protracted exile we have endured, we have never lost our inherent holiness. On the contrary, every Mitzvah we have done, notwithstanding the pressures of society, have etched into our souls and bodies G-dly energy and light that can never be erased.

In the Messianic Age, all of us—those of us whose Tablets were never shattered because they lived in the days of old when the Holy Temple stood and spirituality was rampant, as well as the righteous people of all times, together with the majority of us who have had set backs and whose Tablets have been shattered to one extent or another, will be united together with our righteous Moshiach.

Purim Paparazzi. Concepts Packaged in Purim Humor

It wasn’t that long ago that my partners and I were apprehended, imprisoned and reprimanded on the prejudiced, presumptuous, preposterous pretext that we jolted the proper protocol of the proud Pritish Empire! This prompted me to abandon my previous preoccupation, and to make Purim my priority.

Instead of joining an exasperated press probing into prominent people’s privacies, I would pursue celebrities like King Ahasuerus, Queen Esther and Vashti of Persia. I will serve a much greater purpose by getting a better picture, or portrait, of the Megillah’s principal personalities. It gives me the opportunity to report on the grand procession of Mordechai, Haman and his sons Parshandatha, Parmashta and Poratha, to name only three. Now, with the approach of Purim, I prefer to devote my expertise to promote the proper performance of the Purim procedures and its prerequisites.

Perhaps you are perplexed and perturbed why a prestigious publication such as this should make such a big production out of Purim, exaggerating it out of proportion to other projects or programs. Why must we twist ourselves into a pretzel with all this perennial Purim propaganda? I propose that this is precisely Purim’s Problem. If Purim is not paramount in your mind, it probably needs more and better PR.

Purim represents the promise of Jewish perseverance under pressure and persecution. Although it transpired in Persia approximately 2,300 years ago, Purim is not an ancient anachronism, but part and parcel of the present. As the Baal Shem Tov paraphrased the Talmud: “One who reads the Megillah backwards has not fulfilled his obligation,” for Purim is as current and contemporary as today’s newspaper.

Purim is pervaded by Divine Providence, as the Megillah prefaces with the Royal parties and profaning of the pure priestly vessels, the priceless perfumes, progressing with Mordechai’s premonition of peril, and the evil oppression and persecution perpetrated by Persia’s prejudiced premier, Haman, may he and all his conspirators perish. Esther and the Jews prepare to preempt Haman’s evil plot, while Mordechai is promoted to prominence, protected by purple and imperial paraphernalia. Purim’s profound principles may appear to be compromised by the peripheral pranks, silly improvisos, superficial pretenses, parodies and parades. Yet paradoxically, scriptural interpretation compares Purim to Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year!

Purim pertains to each and every one of us. It speaks to every person of every profile and persuasion, from the lowest to the uppermost; from a protesting preppie to a presiding provost; from the poorest, perspiring paparazzi to the prim & proper president of Purdue U., or the paradigm of any other prosperous corporation.

Please permit me now to express my paranoia. If this prattling will continue to prevail, I may develop a permanent and perpetual purring like a cat, that will stray afar into perpendicular perspectives way beyond the parameters of this precious piece of PR. But without Purim, all these permutations are nothing but parenthetical presuppositions and superfluous superlatives that serve no purpose.

I will thus stop right now, and leave my impressive PR portfolio to the professionals. For a simple paparazzi like myself, this is enough, period. May the inspiration of Purim purimeate our whole year!

Rather than preach Purim principles in the abstract, we should be particular and specific, for proverbially, practice makes perfect. So here is a paragraph on Purim’s Five important precepts:

1) The Megillah parchment is proclaimed on Purim day, and the preceding night.

2) We send our friends and peers, by proxy, a pair of provisions: Hamantashen (poppy or prune), Perrier, Pringles, pirogen, pears, apricots, peppermint candy, or other appropriate foods portions, whether or not they have that persistent PR pronunciation, as long as they are edible.

3) It is imperative that we open our purse, and provide to the deprived on Poorim. We should proffer a coin (a least a quarter) each, to two poor persons. It is your prerogative how much to give, but the more the merrier. If you can’t personally locate poor persons, participate by placing the proceeds into a pushka/charity can.

4) On Purim we partake of a Party, and pour a L’chaim!

5) We say the appropriate prayers, express appreciation and sing G-d’s praises.

Happy Purim!

Masquerade!Purim Insight

On Purim, nothing is as it seems.

That ferocious monster is really sweet shy Sarah from second grade. That beautiful Queen Esther with the jewel-studded crown is really your brother Moishe. Is that a gigantic three-cornered-poppy-seed-filled-cookie walking down the street? And how did little Michael grow that luxuriant white beard?

Why do we disguise ourselves on Purim? Because on Purim nothing is as it seems. Was the banishment of Vashti simply one of those things that happen when a debauched Persian emperor gets drunk? Was it just coincidence that Mordechai happened to overhear a plot to kill the king? Did Achashveirosh choose Esther to be his queen because she happened to be the most beautiful woman in the empire? Was it plain bad luck for bad Haman that he happened to come visit Achashveirosh just when the king was having Mordechai’s heroic deed read to him? Was it Esther’s charm and Achasveirosh’s flippancy that made the king suddenly hang his favorite minister?

Purim was instituted because the Jewish people at the time understood that it was G-d Himself who did all of the above, to save His people. He was just disguising Himself as a Persian palace soap opera.

When G-d took the Children of Israel out of Egypt on Passover, the entire neighborhood, from Giza to Gaza and from Memphis to Mesopotamia, resonated with the miracles wrought by the G-d of the Hebrews. When a small jug of oil burned for eight days on Chanukah, the most skeptical Hellenist saw that it was an act of G-d. Purim (“lots”) is unique in that the most miraculous of salvations was shrouded in the garments of nature, luck and coincidence. G-d was hidden and remained hidden–His name does not once appear in the entire Megillah (Scroll of Esther)!

Purim is a masquerade. The Scroll of Esther (“I shall hide”) is scrolled up. Even the poppy-seed filling is barely peeking out of the folds of dough of the Hamantash (or is it prune?), not to mention the wholly concealed meat (chicken?) filling in the kreplach.

Not paradoxically, Purim is also the most joyous festival on the Jewish calendar. It’s great to celebrate miracles, but how often does a miracle come your way? Far more exhilarating is the realization that nothing is as it seems, that G-d is always pulling the strings, even when things seem to be “just happening.”

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