The Sounds of Sirens -The Sounds of Silence

 The practice of sounding a siren for two minutes of silence has its roots in South Africa. During World War I, a businessman in Cape Town suggested that his church observe a silent pause in memory of those who fell in battle. This custom later spread throughout the British Empire, and eventually to many different nations and cultures. The tradition was imported to pre-state Israel. The British installed air-raid sirens across the country at the outset of World War II. At first, the new State of Israel used the sirens for ceremonial purposes only sparingly: when Zionist leader Theodor Herzl’s remains were flown in from Austria in 1949, and after a 1948 massacre on a kibbutz. After the War of Independence, the Rabbinate of Israel decided to designate Memorial Day on the day before Independence Day. The newly installed national system of air-raid sirens provided a means to simultaneously alert everyone in Israel to observe the silence at the same time. In 1959, the Knesset established Yom Hashoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. Both have been marked by the sounding of sirens ever since. In Israel, a minute-long siren marks the beginning of Yom Hazikaron. The siren is heard all over the country and lasts for one minute, during which Israelis stop everything, including driving on highways, and stand in silence, commemorating the fallen and showing respect. People cry openly in the streets and radios play a constant stream of sad songs. Yom Hazikaron is a national day of mourning, and many restaurants and movie theaters are closed. The next morning, a two-minute siren is sounded at 11:00 am, which marks the opening of the official memorial ceremonies and private remembrance gatherings at each cemetery where soldiers are buried. As families head to military ceremonies to visit the graves of loved ones, there is a heaviness in the air. Last year, before Yom Hazikaron, Miriam Lock wrote, “Sadly, sirens are a part of life in Israel, and during times of war they become all too common. There are the ambulance sirens that mean someone is seriously ill or has been injured in an accident or, God forbid, a terrorist attack, and is being rushed to the hospital. There are the red alert sirens we have been hearing so often during this never-ending war, an eerie sound telling us to run to our shelter or safe room. People often jump at any noise that resembles the red alert siren signifying an imminent missile attack. So, after the Swords of Iron War began and missile attacks became a daily occurrence, the ambulance sirens in Israel were changed to avoid confusion.” Miriam notes that all of these different sirens can be confusing for young children. She gives the example of her grandson Yoav, four years old, who heard the Yom HaShoah siren while in kindergarten and was frightened, thinking at first that it was a missile alert siren and that he had to run to the shelter. He was comforted and assured by his teacher, and when he came home, he told his father, Miriam’s son, that he felt scared that day. These days the IDF Home Front produces videos explaining the different sirens and how they sound. A siren is poignant, because while it is loud, it also affords a moment of silence and stillness to remember and reflect. Our Yom Hazikaron- Yom Haatzmaut program will begin on Tuesday night at 6:30 PM in the Sanctuary, with the sounding of a siren. I urge you all to attend. There will be special youth programming taking place in the Tent and upstairs. Be a part of this powerful moment of communal silence; a silence of reflection, remembrance and gratitude, which will segue into an evening of celebration (music, dancing and refreshments) as we mark the gift of Medinat Yisrael on its 78^th birthday. 

Grateful To Be Here

Rabbi Yehoshu Greenwald was the Rav of Chust, Hungary, during the Holocaust. He prefaced his sefer, Chesed Yehoshua, with an essay that describes his experiences during the Holocaust. In that essay, he recalled the Drasha that he told his community during the last Pesach in Chust. He quoted the paragraph of Ha Lachma Anya, the opening section of Magid. There we declare: הָשַּׁתָּא הָכָא, לְשָׁנָה הַבָּאָה בְּאַרְעָא דְיִשְׂרָאֵל “Now we are here; next year in the land of Israel.” The Chuster Rav asked: What does the first clause of this sentence come to teach us? It seems extraneous and unnecessary. Of course we are here! Where else would we be? Rav Greenwald explained that the author of the Haggadah is teaching us to be grateful that we are here- wherever “here” may be. If the Jews of Chust are here celebrating Pesach even as millions of other European Jews had already been murdered or enslaved, then it means that Hashem is not done with us. We can be grateful that Hashem allowed us to be here. And we can be hopeful that just as we are here now, so too will we merit to reach the Promised Land. This year, on Pesach, there are lots of reasons to feel sad or anxious or vulnerable. However, the Seder experience is meant to overshadow these valid and reasonable feelings with feelings of purpose and hope. The fact that we are still here after all that we have endured (and by “we” I mean each of us individually, and the State of Israel, and the Jewish People) is reason to express gratitude to Hashem and to firmly believe that God still has good things in store for us. The Talmud in Shabbat (31a) quotes Rabba, who taught that after our lives are concluded, we will be asked in heaven, “Did you eagerly await the Redemption?” The Smak explains this to mean that we will be asked whether we remain committed to the notion that just as we were redeemed from Egypt, so too will we be redeemed in the future. In essence, the Talmud is saying that we will be asked whether we remain committed to the idea that if we are still here, then it means God must have a plan for us. The Tur (OC 417) writes in regard to Rosh Chodesh, that it was originally a minor holiday for everyone, but after the Chet HaEgel, it became primarily a holiday associated with Jewish women. Shemen HaTov writes that women throughout the early years of Klal Yisrael, in Egypt and at the Egel incident, were always encouraging the men to look forward to better days. Their positivity is emblematic of Rosh Chodesh, because even when it is dark out and the moon is small, we can have a positive outlook. Later in the Haggadah we read about the Rabbis’ Seder in Bnei Brak. Many commentators wonder why the Seder was convened at that location, since the rabbis were from different hometowns.  The Torah Temimah notes that Rabbi Akiva was from Bnei Brak. As we know from many Talmudic anecdotes, Rabbi Akiva stood for optimism. He was hopeful that at age 40 he could start learning Torah. He was hopeful that within the images of destruction on the Temple Mount, one could actually see the fulfillment of Divine promises of renewal. Due to the Roman persecution at that time these rabbis were despondent, so they went to Rabbi Akiva for chizuk and for a pep talk. This year, at the Seder, let us linger over the words, “Hashata Hacha”, even with all that there is to worry about. Let us be grateful that we are still here. Through that gratitude and that hope in the here and now, we will pave the way to our future of “Next year in the Land of Israel”.

Cultivating and Maintaining Our Fire

 It’s striking how often we find ourselves waiting to be inspired. We look for the right speaker, the right environment or the right moment that will lift us up and carry us forward. And when those moments come, they can be powerful and even transformative. But Parshat Tzav reminds us that if we wait for inspiration to come from the outside, we are missing something essential about how Avodat Hashem is meant to work. At the beginning of the Parsha there is a simple, but profound, command: “אש תמיד תוקד על המזבח לא תכבה” a constant fire must burn on the Mizbeiach, and it may not be extinguished. While on a literal level the Torah here is talking about the fire burning on the altar, the Sefer HaChinuch explains that this commandment alludes to the inner fire within each of us. Each of us accesses that internal fire at certain moments; a tefilah that feels more focused, a piece of Torah that lands just right, a Shabbat or Yom Tov that feels elevated. The Torah, however, is telling us that this fire is not meant to appear only occasionally. It must be constant. And for such inspiration to be constant it must be maintained. The Sefer HaChinuch adds that a person needs a balanced fire. Too little inspiration leads to apathy and disengagement. Too much passion, unregulated and ungrounded, can become unfocused and even destructive. This was the sin of Aharon’s sons Nadav and Avihu. Their failing was not a lack of passion, but an excess of it. The Parsha describes three stages as it relates to the fire on the Mizbeiach. First, the fire would burn on the Mizbeiach, then the ashes were placed beside it, and finally the ashes were carried outside the camp to a pure place. Rav Kook explains that this process is a model for how inspiration is meant to function in our lives. The fire itself represents those peak moments, the times when we feel most elevated and connected. Those moments are, by definition, fleeting. If we do nothing with them they cannot shape our identity. The Torah, therefore, introduces the next step: The ashes are gathered and preserved and then carried outward to a pure location. The question is: what do we do with moments of inspiration that are fleeting? Do we preserve something of that moment? Do we carry it with us beyond its original setting? Do we translate it into something that can shape our daily lives? The Sefas Emes develops this idea further. He notes that the Torah commands the Kohen to add wood to the fire every single morning. Even if a fire descends from Heaven, human beings are still required to contribute their own fire. There may be a spark within each of us, something God-given, but it will not sustain itself without our effort. We have to feed and nurture it. We have to actively look for ways to strengthen and renew it. Instead of asking, “Where will my next moment of inspiration come from?” the Torah challenges us to ask, “What am I doing to sustain the fire  that already burns inside me?” Lastly, the Maggid of Mezeritch, interprets “לא תכבה” not only as “do not extinguish the fire,” but as a call to extinguish the “לא”, the negativity, that can quietly creep in and dampen our spiritual energy. Maintaining a fire is not only about adding fuel; it is also about removing what gets in the way of the continued existence of that fire. Taken together these ideas offer a different model of growth. Inspiration matters, but it is not enough to wait for it. It is not even enough to experience it. We are meant to generate it, to regulate it, and to sustain it. This is how a life of Avodat Hashem is built; not merely through moments that inspire us, but through the quiet, ongoing work of tending to our fire within.

In Defense of Chametz

 The Book of Vayikra opens with the requirements and restrictions associated with the various korbanot. When it comes to flour offerings, the Torah is adamant that the “bread offerings” may not be chametz (2:11): כׇּל־הַמִּנְחָה אֲשֶׁר תַּקְרִיבוּ לַיהֹוָה לֹא תֵעָשֶׂה חָמֵץ- No grain offering that you offer to Hashem shall be made with leaven”. The Talmud Brachot Rabbi Alexandri equates chametz with the yetzer harah, our evil inclination. The Baalei Mussar took note of the physical characteristics of chametz and related them to negative character traits. For example, dough will only begin to rise after a period of time. This corresponds to the trait of sloth and laziness. Similarly, with the help of yeast, dough rises more robustly; a phenomenon that the Mussar Movement related to the attribute of ego and haughtiness. Anthropologists and food historians add to the chametz-bashing, albeit indirectly. The origins of yeast, used for both bread and beer, can be traced to ancient Egypt before Yaakov and his family arrived. Chametz can now be representative of Egyptian culture, and our avoidance of leaven can be seen as a rejection of Egyptian culture as we celebrate our redemption from Egypt. But if chametz is so bad, then why do we eat it all year? Throughout history bread has been a staple of nourishment. In addition, it is elevated as an offering to Hashem. The Sefirat HaOmer count culminates with Shavuot, at which time two beautiful loaves of fresh fluffy bread were offered in the Beit Hamikdash. If chametz is so wrong, how can it be the central offering on the holiday of Shavuot? The answer is that Chametz is not really evil. During the course of our lives bread, as a food and as a symbol, is appropriate and necessary. It is only on the Mizbeiach and on Pesach that chametz is inappropriate. Rabbi Naftali Tzvi Berlin, the Netziv, writes, “Chametz is a human invention used to modify through ingenuity the world that God created.” An encounter with Hashem at the Mizbeaich is not the setting to demonstrate human ingenuity. Rather, bringing a Korban is a time to reflect on Hashem as Creator and the Cause of all human ingenuity. Chametz represents our ability to use our intellect to control our surroundings. While this is an appropriate and necessary perspective on life, it does not belong on the altar as we submit before Hashem through the offering of a flour korban. Chametz is also inappropriate on Pesach because during the Exodus we were passive, as Hashem tells Moshe at the Splitting of the Sea: “Hashem will fight for you, and you shall remain silent.” Our celebration of Pesach focuses on what Hashem did for us. Matzah, the natural product of bread and water without any human ingenuity, is aptly suited to be that national symbol. It turns out that eating chametz the rest of the year is not a concession to our weak and sinful natures. As we will say in less than two weeks at the Seder in Mah Nishtana “Shebechol Haleilot Anu Ochlim Chametz U’Matzah”. During the rest of the year I am a chametz eater, and I am proud to say that I like it. Chametz represents the crucial mandate that we have to be creative and to improve the world. Chametz reminds us that we must appreciate that goals can only be accomplished through human ingenuity and hard work. On Pesach however we continue and state, “Halayla Hazeh Kulo Matzah”. Chametz conveys crucial lessons, but on Pesach we need to focus on different lessons. On Pesach we remember that our creativity and our accomplishments must ultimately be attributed to Hashem. It is easy to extol the virtues of matzah by critiquing chametz and associating it with negative symbolism. But by understanding how chametz plays a vital role in our lives the rest of the year, we can better appreciate the unique and exalted lessons of matzah on the Mizbeaich and on Pesach.  

Connect – Grow – Together on Shabbat

 Moshe must have gathered Bnai Yisrael numerous times throughout their journey in the Midbar in order to teach them Torah and Mitzvot. Yet it is only at the beginning of Parshat Vayakhel that the Torah specifically tells us וַיַּקְהֵ֣ל משֶׁ֗ה אֶת־כָּל־עֲדַ֛ת בְּנֵ֥י יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל “Moshe gathered the entire congregation of Israelites”. While Parshat Vayakhel primarily discusses the Mishkan construction project, the Parsha begins with a couple of pesukim about Shabbat: “Six days work may be done, but on the seventh day you shall have sanctity, a day of complete rest to the Lord….” Rashi suggests that this Shabbat reference serves to set parameters for the construction of the Mishkan. Moshe here is informing the Jews that as important as building the Tabernacle may be, nevertheless its construction may not be performed on Shabbat. Others suggest a common theme that connects Shabbat and the Mishkan. Just as the Mishkan is a holy and special space, so too Shabbat is meant to be a holy and special time. Yalkut Shimoni (408) explains the connection between gathering the people and teaching about Shabbat: “The Holy One, blessed be He said: ‘Make for yourself great assemblies, and expound before them publicly the laws of Shabbat, so that future generations will learn from you to gather assemblies each and every Shabbat, and to enter the study halls to teach and instruct Israel in words of Torah; what is forbidden and what is permitted, so that My great Name will be praised among My children.” The Midrash understands this Vayakhel as the origin of the practice of public Torah teaching and communal gatherings on Shabbat. While some people may not not fans of the Shabbat morning Drasha / sermon and subscribe to the mantra that “there’s no sermon like no sermon”, this Midrash teaches us that public Torah study, especially in large audiences, is integral to the weekly Shabbat experience. It is the spirit of this Midrash that our shul offers many learning opportunities on Shabbat. From weekly and monthly shiurim, to Guest Speakers and Scholars in Residence, our most robust and varied Torah offerings are on Shabbat. I encourage you to take advantage of the Torah learning opportunities offered at shul, all week long and especially on Shabbat. At the very least I urge you to pay attention and take to heart the weekly Dvar Torah that is presented at each Shabbat morning minyan by one of the YIH Rabbis. When you listen to the Shabbat morning Dvar Torah (and discuss it at your Shabbat table) you are engaged in an endeavor of Biblical proportions: you are recreating the experience described at the beginning of Parshat Vayakhel. I will conclude with a timely Dvar Halacha related to Shabbat. Recently the City of Hollywood completed construction of a splash pad at the Mara Berman Giulianti Park. It is a wonderful addition to our Emerald Hills neighborhood, and I am sure that children will enjoy using it especially as the weather gets warmer. Although there is now a splash pad at “The Shabbos Park”, using the splash pad is not an appropriate Shabbos activity. In addition to the many actual and potential halachic problems involved, water activities are not consistent with the uniqueness, spirit and sanctity of Shabbat. Some parents have raised concerns about the presence of the splash pad at the Shabbos Park, but I believe that it can be viewed as a true gift - 7 days a week. Six days a week our children and grandchildren have another option for play and enjoyment at the park. And on Shabbat, by enjoying the park in other ways but avoiding the splash pad we will have the opportunity to teach our children a valuable lesson. Through our words and through our actions (what we do and what we avoid doing) we can educate and model to our children how special, unique and holy Shabbat is to us.

Bad Masks and Good Masks

 Parshat Ki Tisa contains the episode of the golden calf. The Torah refers to the golden calf as (32:4) “egel masecha”. The Stone Chumash translates this as “a molten calf”.  “Masecha” could be a type of metal, and if so, the “Egel Masecha” would be a metal calf, or more precisely, a calf that had undergone the process of melting, since it was made out of many pieces of gold that needed to be fused together. Masecha” can also be interpreted as deriving from the word “Masach”, an object used to conceal other objects. This is also the meaning of the “Masecha” we wear on Purim, which covers the face. This is not the only appearance of a mask in our Parsha. After Moshe prays and Hashem forgives the Jews for the golden calf, Moshe is called upon to receive the second set of tablets. When Moshe comes down from the mountain, the Torah describes how Moshe’s face glowed as a result of his exposure to an intense Divine manifestation. Moshe resorted to wearing a “masveh” (34:33) which is a veil or mask. In two episodes in Ki Tisa Moshe ascends Mt Sinai to receive luchot from Hashem. In both cases, this act causes the need for a mask of some sort. The mask of the golden calf is one of the greatest mistakes in Jewish history. The mask that Moshe wears after descending with the second luchot is viewed as having a positive purpose. How do we understand the vast difference between these two masks? Our world is full of masks, hiding the perception of God’s role in our lives. The Hebrew word for world “Olam” is related to the word “hidden” (“he’elem”) because nature is a force that masks God’s handiwork. Political history is another mask that obstructs our appreciation for God’s role in unfolding events. We will celebrate Purim in less than a month. The story of Purim (like the story of the 6 Day War) can be read as a fascinating tale of political (or military) intrigue. But really those events are masking the Prime Cause of it all- Hashem. Idolatry can also be understood as a mask. It hides inconvenient truths, such as reward and punishment, and the need to submit to a Higher Being. This type of mask leads to destruction. Sometimes a mask hides the truth. But sometimes a mask is needed to allow the truth to come forth. Rav Saadiah Gaon explains that the masveh was intended to make disputants less afraid to approach Moshe for assistance. Others suggest that Moshe wore the masveh as a sign of modesty. In effect the masveh allowed Moshe to express his true self, and not hide in any way. There’s a difference of opinion as to when exactly Moshe wore the masveh. Everyone agrees that Moshe did not wear it when he was communicating with Hashem. Everyone also agrees that he did wear the masveh when he was in the Israelite camp not engaged in teaching Torah. There’s a difference of opinion whether Moshe wore the mask when he was teaching Torah to the people. It would seem based on the pesukim at the end of Ki Tisa that Moshe would not wear the masveh while he was engaged in teaching Torah. Rabbi Akiva Eiger, however, suggests that Moshe in fact wore the masveh even while teaching Torah to the people. Rabbi Eiger explains that Moshe wore the masveh to hide his humility. As teacher and prophet, Moshe had to “hide” this innate quality of humility, for the benefit of his role as leader. When a mask is used to obscure God’s role in our lives, then it’s a bad mask. When a mask is used to bring out our true selves or to hide some of our innate qualities that interfere with maximizing our potential, then it’s a good mask. As we put away our Purim costumes, and read Parshat Ki Tisa, let’s be on guard to avoid the bad masks and find ways to utilize the good masks.

Jewish Pride is Golden

 Hockey star Jack Hughes scored the game-winning goal on Sunday to clinch a gold medal for the United States men’s hockey team. The win broke a 46-year Olympic drought for Team USA, which hadn’t taken gold since the famous “Miracle on Ice” team that upset the Soviet Union on its way to gold in 1980.

Jack’s brother, and was also named the best defender in the Olympic tournament by the International Ice Hockey Federation after scoring an overtime goal to send the US team to the semifinals. 

The Hughes family, which also includes brothers Quinn Hughes, a defender for the Minnesota Wild, and youngest brother Luke, who also plays for the Devils, has long been lauded as a Jewish hockey dynasty. They are the first American family to have three siblings picked in the first round of the NHL draft, and Jack was the first Jewish player to go number one overall.

Jack, who had a Bar Mitzvah, has said that his family celebrated Pesach and Chanukah (though he did admit that he’d get better gifts on Christmas). His mother, Ellen Weinberg-Hughes, has a Jewish father and is proud of her Jewish lineage. She was also a hockey player, and In recognition of her accomplishments Weinberg-Hughes is a member of the International Jewish Sports Hall of Fame. 

Jack Hughes’ golden goal ushered in a burst of Jewish pride on social media, with one user calling it “the greatest Jewish sports moment of all time”. The Hockey News tweeted that Hughes was “the first player in hockey history to have a Bar Mitzvah and a Golden Goal! Pretty cool!” 

Maybe it’s the punster in me, or maybe my sound perception is not what it once was, but upon hearing the name of the golden goal scorer I immediately thought of J'Accuse, an open letter written by Émile Zola in response to the Dreyfus Affair. It was published on January 13, 1898 in the newspaper L'Aurore. Zola addressed the president of France and accused his government of antisemitism and the unlawful jailing of Alfred Dreyfus. Dreyfus was a French Army General Staff officer who was sentenced to life in prison for espionage. Zola pointed out judicial errors and lack of serious evidence in Dreyfus' trial. The letter was printed on the front page of the newspaper, and caused a stir in France and abroad. Zola was prosecuted for libel and found guilty on February 23, 1898. To avoid imprisonment, Zola fled to England, only returning home in June 1899. Emile Zola died on September 29, 1902, from carbon monoxide poisoning caused by a blocked chimney. His death was officially ruled an accident. But Zola was threatened by anti-Semites who did not appreciate his defense of Dreyfus, and today it is widely suspected that he was murdered. If that indeed was the case then Zola was murdered for defending a Jew who was falsely accused and for bringing attention to the prevalence of Jew hatred throughout France at the end of the 19^th century.

Perhaps the association between Jack Hughes and j’Accuse is more than a pun. There is a debate raging today about the effectiveness of Jewish philanthropies investing in “combatting antisemitism.” Some feel that the effort is critical for the safety of the American Jewish community. Others argue that antisemitism is the world’s oldest hatred and it will never be eradicated. Some have suggested that all of the money currently spent on fighting antisemitism should be invested instead in cultivating Jewish literacy and promoting Jewish pride. I think we need to take a nuanced approach. We must follow in Emile Zola’s example and call out antisemitism and work to make Jew hatred unacceptable to express nor act on in polite company. But “not being hated” cannot be the basis of Jewish identity. (Neither can celebrating the accomplishments of a hockey player who happens to also identify as Jewish). The American Jewish community will earn a gold medal in Jewish identity by cultivating Jewish joy, Jewish knowledge, and Jewish pride.