20/20 Vision in 2020

In 1952, a young Florence Chadwick stepped into the waters of the Pacific Ocean off Catalina Island, determined to swim to the shore of mainland California. She’d already been the first woman to swim the English Channel both ways. The weather was foggy and chilly; she could hardly see the boats accompanying her. Still, she swam for fifteen hours. When she begged to be taken out of the water along the way, her mother, in a boat alongside, told her she was close and that she could make it. Finally, physically and emotionally exhausted, she stopped swimming and was pulled out- quitting with less than a mile to go.

Afterwards she said, “All I could see was the fog… If I could have seen the shore, I could have made it.” It was not fatigue that defeated her, but the fog that blurred her vision and disoriented her.

As she put it, “Like doubt, confusion or discouragement, the fog alone had no power to stop me. But because I let it blind my heart and reason, as well as my eyes, then it really defeated me.”

Two months later, on September 20, 1952, Chadwick tried again. This time she was prepared to “see” the shore, even if the fog should hide it. Fog did in fact hide it, but in her mind’s eye the shore was there. The shore’s presence became a fact in which she found the courage and strength to persevere until her feet touched the California coast.  

              

Rabbi Simon Eckstein a’h, a cherished member of our community who was born in Jerusalem in 1919, made Aliyah at age 91 and passed away in 2016, utilized this story in a Chanukah sermon to explain the greatness of the Maccabees. He wrote that despite all indications that seemed to point to utter failure, the Maccabees were able to keep their eye on the goal even through the fog and maintain the hope and faith in Hashem that ultimately led to their victory. They may not have always been able to see clearly how a victory would be achieved, but they were always able to vividly imagine and visualize in detail what victory would look like and why it was so important.

Seeing the Chanukah lights is an important element of the mitzvah. As we say in Hanerot Halalu –

V’eyn lanu reshut lihishtamesh lahem, ela lirotam bilvad:

We are only allowed to look at the Chanukah lights.

In an attempt to explain why a Menorah may not be placed higher than 20 cubits, Rashi explains:

“D’lo Shalta bei eina L’Maalah M’ Chof Amah, V’leika Pirsumei Nisa.”

A person (even with 20/20 vision) may not be able to see the Chankuah lights at a height above 20 Amot, and if the lights cannot be seen, then there is no publicity of the miracle, an integral aspect of the Mitzvah. The lesson of this halacha is that success can only be achieved if we see the goal/ light, whether with our physical eyes or in our mind’s eye.

The Talmud records (Shabbat 23):  “Rav Huna said: ‘If one is meticulously careful in lighting candles, he will merit to have children who are Torah scholars’.”

A colleague of mine asked: many people are meticulous in their lighting Chanukah candles, so why are there so few Torah scholars? He answered that Rav Huna’s promise is only fulfilled for those parents who sincerely desire that outcome for their children. The bracha will only be fulfilled in those families who include Torah study and spiritual achievement as important, something they see as valuable, a worthwhile and noteworthy achievement. If such ideals remain “Above 20 Amot”, ie outside of their frame of reference, then parents will look to other achievements as fulfilling their dreams for their children.

The battle encountered on Chanukah was a clash of cultures. The question that confronted the Jews at that time was: What is it that you see, what is it that you strive to see? Greek culture or Torah values? Bayamim Hahem ubizman Hazeh. The challenge continues in our day as well. Let us utilize the holiday of Chanukah and the mitzvah of Ner Chanukah to test our vision and adjust when necessary.

The Power of Truth

At the end of Parshat Vayeshev Yosef shifts roles from dreamer to dream interpreter. After interpreting the Chief Butler’s dream, the Chief Baker decides to share his dream because: Vayar Sar Ha’Ofim ki TOV patar.” Rabbi Yaakov Mecklenburg, 19th century German Rabbi in his commentary HaKetav V’hakabalah explains that Tov here means “correct” or “true”, which begs the question: how could the baker know that Yosef’s interpretation was true, before it came into being?  Did Yosef have some inside information about the standing of these two prisoners? Did the dream of each one contain the interpretation for his friend’s dream? The Rashbam explains simply: Nikarin Divrei Emet- the truth speaks for itself.

We unfortunately live in an era where the self-evident nature of truth is no longer widely perceived. Perhaps it is due to the internet and the overwhelming amount of accessible, unverified (not fact-checked) information. Perhaps it is due to the overall pervasiveness of relativism. Perhaps it is our skepticism towards those who claim to “know the truth.” Whatever the cause, the result is that we live in an age in which Lo Nikarin Divrei Emet: the truth is not self-evident. It seems that in today’s world people are comfortable with the notion that everyone can have their own, equally-valid truth. This attitude can lead to moral relativism and a decline of society. 

A hallmark of greatness is the willingness to speak the truth- even when it is unpopular, even when it is dangerous. Yosef provides us with a model. At the beginning of the Parsha he speaks the truth of his dreams even though it is met with scorn by both his brothers and his father. He speaks the truth to the wife of Potiphar even as it causes him to lose everything he had and lands him in jail. Finally, at the end of the Parsha, Yosef’s truth speaking is recognized by his fellow prisoners and declared to be Tov, good: not just now, but all along and always.

Another speaker of truth is Yehuda. The Tosefta in Brachot quotes Rabbi Akiva’s question: By what merit did Yehuda become the tribe of the monarchy, Jewish leadership? One answer suggested is “Mipnei Shehodeh B’Tamar.” He admitted the truth of his mistake even though such an admission could have been very costly. Telling the truth can be impressive; and even ameliorate mistakes. According to many historians, neither of the two previously impeached US Presidents would have been impeached had they been courageous enough to speak the truth, even after the mistake. (Too soon to comment on this week’s events….)

Sometimes the truth hurts. Sometimes the truth is inconvenient. Sometimes the truth is depressing. Nevertheless we must learn from the model of our forefathers, especially from Yosef and Yehuda, and be willing to speak the truth: in our homes, in our communities, and to the world.

According to the Kabbalists, this world is an Olma D’shikra, a realm of deceit. The Talmud (Shabbat 55a) states that Chotamo shel Hakadosh Baruch Hu Emet: God’s signature is truth. The task for us then becomes clear: to speak the truth, and replace the deceit in this world with the sanctity of God’s signature characteristic.

It’s Ok to Not Know- Then Go and Find Out

Towards the end of the Parsha, Yaakov travels to Bet El and fulfills the commitment he made 22 years ago as he made his way to Lavan’s house - by building an Altar and thanking G-d for keeping him safe through all of his difficulties. In response, G-d blesses Yaakov and changes his name to Yisrael. Then the Torah states,

“G-d ascended from Yaakov, in the place where he had spoken with him.”

On this verse Rashi comments,

“I do not know what this verse comes to teach us.”

Rashi does not comment on every single Pasuk. He could have not commented on the verse at all, and no one would have been the wiser. Rashi informs his students that there is something peculiar about this verse, something that the verse is trying to tell us - but Rashi does not know what it is. It takes tremendous modesty and intellectual honesty to say that there is something to learn, but I do not know the answer.

This is not the only time that Rashi informs his readers that he does not know something. Rabbi Akiva Eiger in his Gilyon Hashas notes on Tractate Brachot (page 25b) lists over three dozen examples throughout the Talmud where Rashi admits that he does not know something.

Rashi is following Talmudic advice. In one of the first pages of the Talmud, Brachot 4a, it states:

“Teach your tongue to say ‘I don’t know’.”

It has been hard for me at times throughout my life to admit that there are things that I don’t know. I think it may go back to the kids’ TV show “You Can’t Do That On Television”, a comedy skit show that starred child actors that aired during the 1980’s and early 90’s. One of the show’s trademarks was when actors got “Slimed”. Whenever an actor said “I don’t know” green slime, a gooey substance, would pour on him/her from above. In retrospect, my reluctance to say I don’t know was partly due to the fact that as a “smart kid” I thought I was supposed to know everything; and partly due to some subconscious fear that if I said “I don’t know” I too would get slimed - either actually or metaphorically.

Saying “I don’t know” can be courageous and admirable, but then we have to do something about that gap in our knowledge. Once we admit that we do not know it becomes incumbent upon us to go and learn. As the Talmud states in many places:

“Zil - Krei Bay Rav”- go and learn the topic from someone who does know.

There is a story told of Reb Eisel Shapiro of Slonim, a renowned nineteenth century Lithuanian Rabbi. Reb Eisel went on a visit to Volozhin and set a halakhic problem to the students of the great Yeshiva. He declared that whoever solved it would be worthy to become his son-in-law. The most brilliant students came to his door with proposed solutions, but were dismissed one by one. Eventually, it seemed, the students gave up and Reb Eisel packed up and got ready to leave. Just as he was leaving the city, a student came running and called on the carriage to stop. “Ah,” said Reb Eisel, “you found the correct answer?” “No,” replied the student, “I have no idea, but please, Rebbe, before you leave, I beg you, tell me the solution.” At which point Reb Eisel smiled and replied, “You are the one.”

May Hashem give us the courage of Yaakov and Rashi to say “I don’t know” as well as the intellectual curiosity and passion to exert ourselves to always go and seek the answers.

It was a Torah lesson on Track 13-W. And none of the “teachers” were Jewish.

Settling into my seat, I barely heard the two women, 20’ish, speaking across the aisle from each other, one row in front of me, on a southbound Amtrak train, in the second-last car from the rear, one recent afternoon. But a woman in a seat behind them did. “This is a Quiet Car," she said firmly but kindly, pointing to one of the ubiquitous signs in the Amtrak car that designated that venue as a respite from cellphone conversations or discussions between seatmates that can be overheard by other travelers. "You can't talk so loudly that other people can hear you,” she added, making her point clear – she had heard them.

In the ensuing silence, my mind drifted to synagogue -  to several synagogues where I have prayed.

How many times, I thought, have I witnessed people (primarily men, because that is the section of shul in which I always sit) talking loudly and disturbingly in violation of fellow worshipers' kavana and the shul's unwritten and often-written (posted in conspicuous Hebrew signs) warnings about the halachic impropriety and derech-eretz implications of talking during times of Shemoneh Esrei, leining of the Torah and other times when spoken interruptions are inappropriate. The signs don't work.

What's the difference between Amtrak’s Northeast Regional and our congregation? Why do

Amtrak passengers obey, literally without a peep (my experience aside, you rarely hear an out-of-line sound in the Quiet Car), especially when corrected?

Many explanations come to mind: A shul is the daveners’ home, they’re not guests, they determine what goes. The people shushing them are friends, who can be ignored, unlike the strangers sharing a train coach. The people doing the talking aren’t necessarily interested in the worship experience of the morning in shul, unlike the shushers. Away from work, the talkers aren’t about to take orders from anyone; they resent the challenge to their machismo. Davening is long, especially on Shabbat and Yom Tov, and maintaining one’s level of concentration for several hours can be a challenge. There’s no penalty for out-of-place talking – no one’s likely to be asked to leave. Basically, they talk because they don’t think about the wider ethical implications of illicit words, and they know they can get away with it.

Unlike the situation on Amtrak, where Quiet Car talking is not an assertion of one-upmanship.

Common courtesy dictates that one should be still when any noise distracts others. Halacha sets higher standards; our prayers should be audible to ourselves – and to G-d – but not to the person standing next to us. Besides being rude and contrary to Jewish law, talking when silence should prevail undoubtedly hinders one's kavana. How many of us have the power of concentration to focus fully on our tefillot when our neighbors in the pews are talking about the stock market, the previous night's ballgame, their kids, their upcoming trip to Eretz Yisroel or other sundry matters best left for Kiddush time, over a plate of kugel?

The problem is that minyanim frequented by talkers tend to be friendly, welcoming minyanim, where people feel at home. They’re the minyanim someone would want to join. On the other hand, the quieter minyanim are, I have found, largely cold and unwelcoming. In the former, a stranger is likely to be approached by the regulars, offered a tallit or an aliyah or a Shabbos meal invitation; in the latter, you’re more likely to be ignored. The friendliness, which is laudable, breeds the comfort to talk. The challenge is to combine the best of both worlds.

Amtrak has the right idea – there’s a time and place for friendly conversation, but a Quiet Car and a

minyan are not the place; a minyan certainly is not the time. Maybe we don't need rabbis to enforce decorum in shul. Maybe we should invite some Amtrak conductors and passengers to our minyanim.

All aboard?

(Excerpted from “How to End Talking in Shul: A New Training-ing Technique” by Steve Lipman.
Full article available at: https://www.jewishideas.org/node/2726/pdf)