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Where, O Where Have My Zealots Gone? Where, O Where Can They Be?

30/5/2016

This isn't my son. But it's a nice picture of someone else's son.

Now is an odd time to enlist (or for your son to enlist) in the Israeli army if you live in a charedi neighborhood.

While charedim have always been against army service for several valid reasons (preferring instead to rely solely on prayer and mitzvot to protect our Land and our people), the recent upsurge of anti-enlistment sentiment accompanied by inflammatory (and sort of amusing, if you have the sense of humor of a 5-year-old) posters, pamphlets, fliers, along with a slur specifically created to describe charedi boys who join the IDF: chardak.

Walking around our neighborhood, you can see stickers slapped onto street sign poles and guard rails with charming slogans like: "Chardak hu cheidak!—A chardak is a germ!"

Or possibly, "a cootie."

A couple of boys' schools were even handing out such stickers to their students.

Well, I've always known that my son would join the army.

He used to sit in his high chair and bite his slice of whole wheat bread into the shape of a gun and then proudly show it off.

For Purim, he has dressed in every type of soldier costume available, plus a police costume a couple of times.

Since he was little, he has been obsessed with guns and artillery and soldiers and so on. He has always talked about becoming a soldier.

And now he is. And yes, I'm very proud of him. (UPDATE 2020: This was written when he was still in basic training. The continuation of his army service ended up as a big disappointment, and he even got himself discharged early. See HERE for the series on that.)

So I told him that he is not really a chardak because the char stands for "charedi," which he is not, by his own definition. (But yes, he is religious. Just not charedi. Which is fine.)

He smiled.

But really, he doesn't care.

He has never been afraid of confrontation (or afraid of anything, as far as I can tell) and said that when he would finally be in uniform, he intended to get off the bus at the first stop in our neighborhood and then walk home like that in the hope that doing so would provide ample opportunity for someone to yell chardak at him, and then he would jump them.

Except he wouldn't because at this age, he prefers verbal confrontation to physical confrontation.

Anyway, it didn't work.

Despite his hakpadah to put on his uniform every single time he needs to leave the house for any reason, no one has attacked him in any way. He wore his uniform to go check his motorcycle outside. He puts it on just to take out the garbage. He wore it to go out and help his father with the Erev Shabbat shopping. He wore it to get his post-Lag B'Omer haircut, and so on.

But it has all been one big disappointment.

So, what have the reactions been?

Well, a group of our neighbors' children gathered round him and held a whispered debate about whether he was a real soldier or just dressing like one.

The main machloket centered on my son's lack of weaponry:
How can he be a soldier without a gun?

The inquisitive kinderlach struggled to come up with a satisfying teirutz.

Another time, a chassid approached him and asked if he was in Nachal Charedi.

"No," said my son.

"Huh," said the chassid.

And that was it.

At the barber shop, another chassid jokingly asked if my son planned to go to India after his stint in the army.

My son didn't answer.

No one else said anything.

The frum barber wished my son mazal tov on his enlistment.

And that was it.

His younger brothers accompanied him on some of his uniformed forays around the neighborhood, hoping to witness some action.

But, alas. Nothing.

Anyway, because every community has its hyped-up knuckleheads, I'm sure that at some point, someone will say or do something obnoxious.

But until then....

UPDATE: Around a year later after this was written, a Sephardi yeshivish-looking bachur got off the bus with my son in our neighborhood, then said to my son, "Chardak!" and ran off.

Yes, my son admits he considered chasing him down, then decided the bachur was too pathetic to bother with.

And that was the only incident I know of throughout all the time he was wearing his uniform in our charedi neighborhood.

I'm sure that the hate-filled journalists would be disappointed to hear this, especially since the offender was not even chassidish (chassidim are the favorite whipping boy of self-hating Jewish journalists), but I'm sorry to tell those journalists that I do not know of any other incidents throughout the whole 18 months of service other than that one.

Note: Just for knowing: Charedim are not innately against a Jewish army. (They even put together a particularly heroic fighting force during the Turkish occupation to ward off Bedouin marauders plaguing the fledgling Jewish settlement outside the Old City of Yerushalayim, learning Torah when they weren't engaged in active battle. Please see HERE for more.) And while many Israeli soldiers are idealistic, sincere, and courageous, the elites running the IDF are not decent people; they weaken our fighting force and actively seek to cause unbearable problems. Furthermore, they have no respect or appreciation for the soldiers under their command, nor even for the very lives of the soldiers.
This is the source of the divide.

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How to Avoid Getting Lost in Translation

29/5/2016

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My mistrust of translations was one of the things that spurred me on to learn Hebrew beyond the Alef-Bet, present tense, and the yeled-yaldah/talmid-talmidah/moreh-morah that I'd learned in Hebrew school.

That, and at the pseudo-Jewish summer camp I was forced to go, one of the counselors enthused about his Hebrew-learning program, concluding with: "And now when I pray, I can actually understand the words! I can actually understand what I'm praying about!"

We all stared at him, awestruck by the new realization.

Just imagine!

To be able to sit through the 3-hour Conservative Shabbat morning prayer service and actually understand the words! Or to know what we were singing about as we sang all these fun Hebrew songs!

I thought that sounded pretty cool, too.

And in case you were wondering, the Conservative prayer books with the facing English translation rife with "Thee" and "Thou" and "Blessed art...." were not helpful to secular American teenagers educated in public schools.

(Interestingly, Conservative and Reform dogmatists are the first to accuse Orthodox Jews of mindless indoctrination. Yet Orthodox Jews are largely the only group that does actually teach people to understand what they are praying.)

But I digress.

What He Actually Said vs What They Want to Think He Said

Needless to say, whoever is doing the translation has complete control over the interpretation and can manipulate it however they want--if they want.

And hopefully they don't.

Yet even the best and most sincere translator struggles with translating Hebrew works into the vastly different and poorer language of English. An entire concept expressed in one Hebrew word may need a whole paragraph of explanation in English.

And this doesn't even begin to cover unconscious personal bias or the plain fact that perfection is impossible and there will always be mistakes in even the best translation.

Sometimes, people get upset about something a Sage wrote. But he didn't actually write or mean what that person is upset about. The person is reading a translation that either interpreted the Sage's words incorrectly or interpreted the Sage's words as correctly as possible, but essential nuances are missing because the English term simply does not allow for them.

Of course, translations between linguistically similar languages (like from Arabic to Hebrew) or philosophically similar languages with a lot of linguistic similarities (like Yiddish to Hebrew) can be done with higher accuracy and comprehension.
But still.

Screaming, Groaning, and Shining
When I first started reading Breslover books in English, I noticed a lot of talk about "screaming."

You need to "scream out" to Hashem, this one "screamed" something to that group, etc.

And while I liked the philosophies, I was a bit concerned about all the apparent screaming going on in Breslov over the past couple of centuries.

To me, "screaming" is a very loud, high-pitched, ragged sound of sheer terror and panic. And sure enough, the Hebrew word litzok can be translated as "to scream."

But litzok can also mean: to cry out, to shout, to call out, or to yell.

So after I learned Hebrew and also the frum nuances of Hebrew, I could read Breslover books in English and understand what they meant because now I've become familiar with the original Hebrew terms.

This came to a head recently when reading a wonderful and tremendously inspiring book originally written in Yiddish.

And then translated into Hebrew.

And then translated into English.

Fortunately, the translator includes quite a few of the original Yiddish phrases. Because even with all the similarities between Yiddish and Hebrew, and all the linguistic similarities between Yiddish and English, there are Yiddish terms that don't have an equal in Hebrew or English. For example, "a lichteger teg." It's translated as "a shining day"—which is a good translation. But lichteger teg implies something a lot more geshmak than "a shining day" implies. It's more like a day filled with spiritual light that emanates from you having lived that day right.

Or the value of Yiddisher krechts—translated as "Jewish groaning." And there is really no other way to translate it. Fortunately, the book uses a couple of paragraphs to explain the term.

But my point is that there is no Hebrew or English equivalent to Yiddisher krechts.

And so on.

Thank "Dive," She Doesn't Have to Get Up THAT Early!
Another time, I was happily reading an excellent English translation of a 19th-century work. Yet when it discussed the best way to raise your daughters, it advised parents to regularly wake their daughters up "in the middle of the night" to make their future life as married women easier.

Now that didn't sound good.

So I checked the Hebrew original and sure enough, it said: "b'ohd laila"--while it is still night. Meaning, one should habituate one's daughters to getting up early in the morning while it is still dark outside so that when she has her own home, she'll already be used to getting an early start on her day and things will go better for her. Which makes sense in the times of no indoor plumbing or electricity, because the earlier a housewife got up, the more smoothly her day went.

And not that you just need to pointlessly roust your ninth-grader out of bed at one o'clock in the morning. ("Mwuhahaha, sweetheart! Just getting you used to having a newborn so you'll be nice and exhausted before you even start! My mussar sefer told me to do this! Ha-ha!")

Another time, an otherwise excellent translation cautioned the reader to be respectful with any terms referring to Hashem, even terms that are in a foreign language like
"Dive, which is the name of G-d in Spanish."

Now, I'm sure that the translator knows that "Dive" is not the Spanish translation of "God."

But it's easier to miss a step when in the Hebrew original, "Dio" is spelled דייו. Which does indeed look like "Dive." Presumably, the original author did not want to spell it דיו because that is the spelling for the Hebrew word "ink."

Furthermore, as the alert Chava of Hava haAharona pointed out in the comments, God's Spanish Name is actually "Dios." So the original author actually meant "Dio, which is the Name of God in Ladino" (which is to Spanish what Yiddish is to German).

Thus, the literal translation is: "....it is the Name of God in the Spanish [Sefaradi] language."

Sefaradi can either mean a specific group of Jews, and then it's clear that the author meant Ladino OR it can literally mean "Spanish," in which case the author could mean the official language of Spain.

Here is the Hebrew and an English transliteration so you can see for yourself:
דייו) שהוא שם השם בלשון ספרדי)
(Dio) sheh hu Shem Hashem b'lashon Sefaradi.

It's easy to see why this would cause confusion.

Yet it was still a really good translation with only a couple of blips like that.

Such blips are unavoidable.

As we see here, because religious Jews have commonly used more than one language, a translator may also need to know some Arabic, Ladino, Aramaic, or Yiddish when translating an otherwise Hebrew text, which increases the challenge of achieving an accurate and comprehensive translation.

And Some Things, We'll Never Know
Because books like Rav Ibn Paquda's Duties of the Heart, the Rambam's Guide to the Perplexed, and the Ben Ish Chai's Laws for Women were all originally written in Judeo-Arabic, most of us will never be able to consult the original.

In Laws for Women, for example, the original was also written in rhyme. The Hebrew translation maintained the rhyme, but how much of the original meaning did it sacrifice to maintain the rhyme? And then that Hebrew translation has been translated into non-rhyming English.

(The truth is, I got a tremendous amount out of the English translation and I've heard other women enthuse about how much they benefited from the Hebrew translation. So it probably is good reflection of his thoughts, even if certain things are missing.)

Just a Tweak Here and There--For the Greater Good, Of Course
Finally, some translations intentionally omit or add material.

This can happen both with current magazine articles or older books.

I was surprised to discover that the English-speaking world is more censor-prone, both in regard to subject matter and adjusting a written work to fit a type of "frum PC" (as defined by whoever).

(But this can also happen innocently when trying to polish up stylistic points lacking in the Hebrew original.)

Despite the appearance that, say, the Israeli charedi world appears less tolerant or more rigid than than the English-speaking charedi world, this isn't necessarily true. Reading even a modern-day article in the original Hebrew will often portray the truth of a matter more than its polished-for-publication English translation.

Conclusion
Well, these are just some things to keep in mind when reading in translation.
I'm not saying that translations should be mistrusted altogether; they definitely provide access to invaluable wisdom that would otherwise remain unknown.

But I learned the hard way that they should be read with an open mind and that when a reader comes across something that makes them go "Huh?", the original should be consulted, if possible. And if not possible, then to give the original author the benefit of the doubt.

"Namorado ao forno" isn't "boyfriend in the oven." Our translators get the job done. No one has to die.

But what if I prefer bean curd in both ears? Or if I like my vegetarians to be barbecued, rather than "stired fried"?

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The Kli Yakar - Parshat Bechukotai

25/5/2016

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This week's Kli Yakar is dedicated l'ilui nishmat Menachem ben Rivka.

Like Wind-Blown Leaves

וְרָדַף אֹתָם קוֹל עָלֶה נִדָּף

"....the sound of a wind-blown leaf will pursue them...." (26:36)

In this parsha, the Kli Yakar is unsparing in his constructive criticism--particularly regarding sins of speech—for the benefit of Jews everywhere. At the same time, he lightens the blame by describing how the divisive behavior is a stress reaction, and not a sign of innate wickedness or evil intent.

How?

He does this by uses two metaphorical images.

1) First, he creates the image of wind-blown reeds in a river.

Reeds are light and flimsy, and even a small breeze can send them whirling around, helplessly crashing into each other.

2) Next, he uses the image of a people trapped topsy-turvy and struggling in a dragnet with no firm ground.

Within such a dragnet, there is no way to regain one's balance or even a comfortable position.

And there's no way out.

In the words of the Kli Yakar:

This [verse] is followed by "and a man will stumble over his brother." And this speaks of the division of hearts found in Yisrael more than all the other nations as it says: "and I will scatter you among the nations." Just as with [the act of ] threshing, where one [grain] does not cleave to another, so shall Yisrael be.

Even when they are in the lands of their enemies, a man is separated from his brother, despite it being the way of exiled people to comfort one another.

But Yisrael are not like that for they are scattered and separated even while in Exile. And each one pushes his friend with a strong arm and demands to oust him from his position, to roll over him, and to fall upon him like the curse of Achiya HaShiloni, which says, "as a reed lurches about in the water" (Malachim I 14:15) because every reed is pushed and whirled by the wind that blows it.

And in addition to the wind's pushing, every reed pushes his friend.
We find that every reed is blown twice:
1) Because of the wind
2) Because of his fellow reed being propelled against him

And so it goes, one against the other, until everyone stumbles and falls.

Similarly, every man from Yisrael is blown by the wind as symbolized by
the ruling kingdoms.

Like the nevuah of Daniel, which likened all four kingdoms to the wind (and not the ruach of Hashem), as it says, (Daniel 7:2): "....the four winds of Heaven were stirring up the Great Sea."

And perhaps "the Great Sea" indicates the Yam Suf [Reed Sea], which contains reeds and bulrushes. And it symbolizes Yisrael, as in this parable of the reeds. Because of the nations' pushing of Yisrael, each one then pushes his fellow within [the Exile's] dragnet.

Therefore, it [the verse] compares them here to a wind-blown leaf because the leaf is very feeble and is propelled by the wind blowing on it. And even though each leaf crashes into his friend--thereby striking him—so likewise, every man from Yisrael in Galut resembles the leaf blown by the above-mentioned wind.

Despite this [that it's unintentional or panicked pushing], one pursues his fellow to strike him with the rod of his tongue or before the nations or with lashon hara in Jewish areas—as symbolized by the sound of the leaf. Therefore, [this verse is] immediately [followed by]: "and each man stumbles over his brother."

While portraying a sympathetic scenario of one's own struggle to get through the Galut and also the struggle of one's fellow Jews, the Kli Yakar also sees another hint regarding forbidden or meaningless speech in the parable of the wind-blown leaf:

And the wind-blown leaf further symbolizes the widespread meaningless speech [שיחת חולין] that is said without truth in all the streets of town....every man from Yisrael is blown and pursued by the sound of a leaf, meaning that the meaningless speech of lashon hara that is heard outside, their voice is the voice of the downtrodden....because speakers of lashon hara have made themselves heard throughout all Yisrael; there is no one innocent of this.

For each one rejoices in his friend's misfortune and it will be sweet honey to his palate if he can find a place to condemn his friend.
......
And in our generation, this middah alone is enough for the lengthening of our Exile.

So, this is an interesting observation of the Kli Yakar. Personally, the only people I know who actually "rejoice" in other people's misfortunes are those with personality disorders (although they may pretend to be sad or sympathetic).

But as far as I can tell, most people genuinely empathize with the suffering of their fellow Jews.

But then again, I don't know what was going on at the turn of the Seventeenth Century in Bohemia or whether the Kli Yakar was just making an exceptionally strong general statement in a driven attempt to bring this behavior to a screeching halt.

However, the last thing he mentioned—looking for "a place" (i.e., an opportunity or a reason) to condemn one's fellow Jew—is something that can be done even by very well-meaning people.

Well-Intended Condemnation?

Bibbity-bobbity-boo!

Just one example:
When I was a new mother, my friends and I constantly analyzed why other people's kids behaved in an undesirable manner.

This kind of thing was rampant in my generation of young mothers. Whether it was a kindergartener's disobedience or a teenager's weakening religious observance, we picked apart each situation and were delighted when we found the alleged root of the problem.

We did this without names or identifying details, of course, but we still did it.

And of course, we always "discovered" that it was something the mother was doing--not the father, not the teacher, not the child's innate nature, not extenuating circumstances, but specifically the mother.

Why?

Because deep-down, we were terrified.

Just like the struggling people in the dragnet or the whirling and crashing reeds, we secretly panicked under the stress of raising children against excruciating odds.

No way did we want to undergo what we saw other mothers undergoing.

If it was a fault in the mother's methodology, then that meant that we, as mothers ourselves, could simply wave our magic chinuch wand and avoid the so-called mistakes she was making.

And in that way, we could have total control over our situation and our children would turn out just right.

Bibbity-bobbity-boo!

Fortunately, Hashem disabused me of this notion pretty fast by gifting me with a wonderful first-born who was a combination of Batman and a Green Beret soldier.

(Or, in Enneagramspeak, an Eight with a Seven-Wing.)

And many of my peers also realized our mistake and came to understand what all our well-meaning analyses were rooted in. And it brought many of us to turn to Hashem instead of the Esavi attitude: "Kochi v'otzem yadai—my own power and the might of my hands has made this wealth for me."

Yes, sometimes a child's difficult behavior is the result of poor mothering, or poor parenting in general.

And sometimes it's not.

It depends.

But the point is that condemnation is usually rooted in fear and a frantic desire to prevent that same outcome from happening to you, too, God forbid, and is not necessarily an accurate assessment of what's really going on.

Anyway, there are many examples of well-meaning people doing this.

Analysis of a Galus Generation

"They will then confess their iniquity...." (26:40)

וְהִתְוַדּוּ אֶת עֲו‍ֹנָם

Here is another observation by the Kli Yakar that still rings true today:

....even though they confess and admit this sin caused [the suffering to happen] to them, nonetheless, they still sin and continue while their spiritual impurity remains within them.

As is the habit of our generation, everyone admits that a few well-known transgressions caused all the hardship.

And nonetheless, they don't repent from these [transgressions]....

Well, there is a lot of food for thought in all this:

Much problematic behavior is the result of chaotic conditions and oppression beyond anyone's control.
Should reeds and leaves engage in fights and accusations with each when the wind crashes them around? Should they speak lashon hara about the leaf or reed that was blown against them?
Should you slander or flame the person whose boot knocked your neck in the dragnet as he tried to regain his footing and prevent himself from being quashed by the people squeezed against him? If you frantically grab someone's ear in an attempt to pull yourself out from under the squirming mass of humanity, should you be slandered or flamed?
While the admission that our misdeeds cause our problems is miles above the Western denial of any Heavenly consequences or messages resulting from our actions, it is still imperative that we take concrete steps to do true teshuvah, and not just mouth the words.

If you've been following the Kli Yakar series, you'll know that he does not justify or excuse people who behave disgracefully.

What it seems he's doing here is just directing us to look at the WHOLE picture before we decide how to respond.

And to watch our mouths.

Precious Jews in Exile

Rabbi Shlomo Ephraim of Luntschitz (1550-1619) lived in Bohemia (which is today Poland and Czechoslovakia). He served as rabbi and dayan and wrote several books, the most well-known being his commentary on the Chumash known as the Kli Yakar.
This is my own translation and any errors are also mine.

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Poisonous Greed vs Life-Extending Generosity: The Kli Yakar on Parshat Behar

19/5/2016

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אַל תִּקַּח מֵאִתּוֹ נֶשֶׁךְ וְתַרְבִּית וְיָרֵאתָ מֵאֱלֹהֶיךָ וְחֵי אָחִיךָ עִמָּךְ

Do not take from him neshech or tarbit, and you shall fear your Lord and your brother shall live with you. (25:36)

The Kli Yakar provides a poetic interpretation for why the Torah uses two different words (neshech and tarbit) to describe the same thing: interest.

The root of neshech [נֶשֶׁךְ] is nashach, [נָשַׁךְ ], which relates to the act of biting. And the root of tarbit [תַרְבִּית] is rav [רב] or harbeh [הרבה], which relates to the idea of "many" or "increase."

In the Kli Yakar's words:

And it mentions the term "neshech and tarbit" because in relation to the borrower, it's called neshech because the interest [ribit] is similar to a snake that comes upon the way and bites [noshech] one's heel, producing a small scratch which then goes and spreads and becomes swollen up to one's head. But initially, it's not evident until its venom increases beyond cure.

And regarding the lender, it's called tarbit because he imagines that he increases [marbeh] his wealth and property.
But in truth, his possessions collapse in the end....
....yet he whose money is not given with interest, he will not falter....

The Kli Yakar emphasizes that interest-free loans benefit both the lender and the borrower by increasing the lifespan of both, as indicated by the word "with."

And it says, "and your brother shall live with you" because you, too, will surely live as it states in Yechezkel 18:13:
"He gives with neshech and takes with tarbit - and he shall live? He shall not live out all these abominations...."
For he who deprives another of livelihood - it is as if he killed him.
Therefore, he becomes one who gives life, yet doesn't live.
However, regarding he who assists with another's subsistence, the din [verdict] is that he gives life and also lives.
Therefore it says, "and your brother shall live with you."

As is well-known, all Jews are like one person.

We are interconnected just as our body parts are interconnected. When we hurt one another, we are truly hurting ourselves.

But when we help one another, we are also helping ourselves in the most profound way possible.

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How Limitations Enhance True Creativity and Innovation

17/5/2016

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A long time ago, I sat at the Shabbat table of a woman who had previously been immersed in her life as an artist. She'd painted and sculpted whatever she felt compelled to create, dressed as her spirit moved her, and hung out in Greenwich Village.

There were no boundaries or limitations on how she could express herself.

"Wasn't it difficult to channel your art in a frum way?" I asked her. "I mean, after you were used to painting and sculpting whatever you wanted, wasn't it difficult to limit yourself after you became religious?"
Nodding to herself, she frowned in thought before saying, "I wouldn't say 'difficult'...." She paused again, searching for the right words. "Yes, it's true that I can't create whatever I want--although in a way I can, because my soul expresses different things now--but my art is better now. Yeah, I feel that frumkeit actually improves your art."
"Really?" I said. "Having your art conform to frum standards actually improves your art?"
"Yes," she said. "Because without limitations, there is no real creativity."
Now, that stumped me.
In a thousand different ways, the secular world always insists that creativity demands total uninhibited freedom. And the definition of good art in any field was always how much it pushed past the current boundaries (rather than remain within the those boundaries)--whether the end product was actually any good or not.
For example, the highly lauded field of "experimental art" or "experimental music" is often merely something that hasn't been done yet. And at this point, what is left to do is often ugly, disturbing, and in bad taste.

She explained, "If you can just do anything you want, then what's the challenge in that? How can you be truly creative and even cultivate artistic genius if you just do 'whatever'?"

She told me to imagine a pipe channeling water toward a certain destination.

The very act of channeling the water causes the water to be limited in its direction and its form.

Yet that same "limited" water is much more productive and valuable than if it were just flooding around everywhere with no direction or purpose.

"When you can only create within certain limitations," she continued, "then that forces you to think outside the box and to stretch your mind in ways you never would have before. And doing that increases your creativity and makes your art even better."

Needless to say, she's right.

And it applies to any creative endeavor, which is why we quip, "Necessity is the mother of invention."
Inventors create because something is missing, because there are limits.
______________________________________________________________________
Another example is in the field of writing.
For instance, publishers of mysteries often say things like, "I would love to see a really good locked-room mystery!"
(A locked-room mystery is when a body is found in a locked room with no window and therefore, no apparent exit for the perpetrator.)
This is one of the hardest mysteries to write. Therefore, anyone who can write it well shows greater genius and will be more in demand than one who writes a, say, a whodunit that takes place in an open park at night.
_______________________________________________________________________

In the field of music, the works considered genius are those of classical composers, such as Bach and Mozart, who composed their works according to certain rhythms and structures.

Why do we admire art which incorporates verses of Tehillim into a thematic painting? Because doing so demands such skill and creative thought.
And the list goes on.

The Innovative Beauty of Prohibitions
Millennia of Jewish scholarship has emphasized the importance of limitations, from limiting our speech to expressing gratitude for the limits God set on the oceans at the seashores.
Yet the idea of being limited often leaves a bad taste in the mouth of the modern millennial; limits are often seen as confining, strangling, suffocating, strait-jacketing, and so on.
Yet our Sages tell us that limiting our speech can merit us a light so great that even the greatest angels cannot perceive it. And without limits on our oceans, our world would be flooded and mostly uninhabitable.
"Restraint" seems like a quaint idea or else something necessary in only very extreme situations. Yet it is also arguably the best translation of the word gevurah, a highly prized quality in Judaism and one of the Sefirot.
While some see Judaism as a list of prohibitions, the way to spiritual greatness is to ask oneself, "Well, how can I do this within halachic parameters?" Or, "What can I do instead?"
Furthermore, who is the greater person?
The one who is happy even in poor health and poverty or the one who is happy while everything is going swimmingly?
It is limitation which allow our soul's potential to truly shine.

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Parshat Emor - The Kli Yakar

11/5/2016

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This week's Kli Yakar focuses on Sukkot, Rosh Hashanah, and Yom Kippur, which is sort of funny at this time of year, but the themes of teshuvah (repentance) are so inspiring, I couldn't resist....

"And you shall take for yourselves on the first day the fruit of the etrog tree, date-palm fronds [lulav], and a branch of braided tree [myrtle], and willows of the brook...." (23:40)

וּלְקַחְתֶּם לָכֶם בַּיּוֹם הָרִאשׁוֹן פְּרִי עֵץ הָדָר כַּפֹּת תְּמָרִים וַעֲנַף עֵץ עָבֹת וְעַרְבֵי נָחַל

The Kli Yakar reminds us of the classic symbolism of the above-mentioned flora:

....Of course, the Arba Minim [the Four Species] represent 4 categories of Jews:

1) The etrog tree, which possesses taste and scent, represents the masters of Torah and mitzvah, who are complete tzaddikim

Etrogs

2) And the willows, which possess neither taste nor scent, represent those who possess within themselves neither "taste" [ta'am=purpose/taste] nor scent, which symbolizes the groups that possess neither Torah nor mitzvah. And they are complete rashaim.

Willow trees hanging over a brook

3) And the date-palm fronds [lulav] which give forth food, but not scent

Jews buying lulavs

4) And the branch of braided tree [myrtle] which gives forth scent, but not food

Myrtle branches

—both of them [the last two] represent the benonim, who either possess Torah or mitzvah.

The Kli Yakar notes that during the period, which spans Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkot, Hashem does not forgive the entire nation at once. Instead, His forgiveness is a gradual process:

1) At first, He waives the transgressions of the groups symbolized by the etrog. And they are the spiritual giants who are the first to welcome the Blessed One on Erev Rosh Hashanah.

2) Later, He concedes one-third for the benonim that welcome him during the Ten Days of Repentance, and who are symbolized by the date-palm fronds [lulav] and the branch of braided tree [myrtle].

3) And then later, on Yom Kippur, He concedes to everyone, even the rashaim, who are symbolized by the willows because everyone welcomes Him and are fasting [in repentance].

This is why the Kohen Gadol could only come to the Kodesh Kadoshim on Yom Kippur in a cloud of Ketoret that contained a mixture of chelbanah [the bitter galbanum] with the Ketoret Spices—to include all the sinners of Yisrael and to make them as one unit [agudah achat] with the good ones in order for these [the good Jews] to atone for those [the sinful Jews].

To annihilate them is impossible.

Instead, they will become one unit and these will atone for those....

While the teshuvah of even one Jew is very precious and powerful, the teshuvah of many Jews together is even more effective and can induce atonement when individual teshuvah cannot.

Therefore, the Kli Yakar explains that Hashem orchestrated the spiritual mechanics to enable individual teshuvah to be calculated as mass teshuvah in the Heavenly accounting. And He does so by melding the different categories of Jews into one single unit, starting on Rosh Hashanah.

But why is it actualized on Sukkot?

Because, explains the Kli Yakar, the ten-day period that spans from Rosh Hashanah until Yom Kippur transforms individual teshuvah to the status of mass teshuvah.

And from Yom Kippur until Sukkot, all Jews are (theoretically, anyway) engrossed in the myriad mitzvot involving preparations for Sukkot (like obtaining the Arba Minim and building a sukkah, and meal preparation, etc.).

This constant mitzvah-involvement protects the Jewish people during that time.

The Kli Yakar explains:

However, the first day of the [Sukkot] holiday is the first for the accounting of transgressions, therefore, the establishment of mass teshuvah needs to be done on that very day. And when all four of these groups will be as one unit, these [the good Jews] will atone for those [the sinful Jews].

And then their teshuvah will be desirable all the days of the year.

A sukkah

Once again, the Kli Yakar demonstrates how Hashem always sets things up for our maximum advantage, all while operating within the laws of His spiritual physics, so to speak.

So the ability to have our teshuvah count for maximum effect now, during the time between the Spring holiday of Pesach and the Summer holiday of Shavuot, goes all the way back to the heavy Autumn season of Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkot.

It just shows how much Hashem really wants things to work out for us.

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The Kli Yakar - Parshat Kedoshim

4/5/2016

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אִישׁ אִמּוֹ וְאָבִיו תִּירָאוּ וְאֶת שַׁבְּתֹתַי תִּשְׁמֹרוּ

Every man shall fear his mother and his father and you shall keep My Sabbaths..... (Shemot 19:3)

Unfortunately, the word "fear" has negative and even ugly connotations in English.

In fact, translating the Hebrew words related to fear contribute to the widespread misunderstanding of the relationships in which Judaism calls for "fear."

Unavoidably, the English words themselves have extremely negative connotations.

For example, norah [נורא] (as in "gadol v'norah"—"great and awe-instilling") is often translated as "terrible."

Eimah and pachad are often translated as "fear" or "dread."

But when Judaism speaks of the fear one should have within what should be a loving and nurturing relationship (i.e. the "fear" a person should have for Hashem, the "fear" children should have for their parents or teachers, the "fear" a wife should have for her husband, it means a healthy and beneficial fear of displeasing that entity)—it intends a fear derived from love, and not necessarily from what horrible consequence Hashem, the parents or teachers, or husband have in store for you if you dare displease them.

Furthermore, the Hebrew terms for fear often indicate respect and honor more than actual "fear."

In fact, all the entities which we are required or advised to "fear" are the very entities who are obligated to nurture us and strive for our best:

Hashem obviously nurtures us and pays attention to even our most trivial and fleeting thoughts every minute of our life, orchestrating every millisecond for our best possible benefit.

Parents and teachers are required to do what is absolutely for the child's best, even if it means going against their nature to do so.

A husband is supposed to provide for his wife's material, emotional, and spiritual needs as much as realistically possible, even if she is difficult.

For cultural reasons, the husband's obligation is often negated today, with this obligation being culturally and socially conferred upon the wife to a large extent (and often at the well-intentioned-yet-misguided behest of the wife).

How this is expressed varies from community to community. And yes, a wife also certainly has firm obligations toward her husband.

But if you read any of the classic ("classic" meaning NOT originally written by English-speakers who have been unconsciously influenced by Western culture and the current status quo of many parts of frum society) halacha or mussar books that discuss the marital relationship, you'll see that Judaism consistently places seemingly impossible standards upon the husband in this regard.

In other words, this cultural and social negation isn't halachically correct. The husband's halachic obligation still stands, even today.

And it's not me saying it.

Note:
The truth is, "husband" should not really be on this list.

The fear commanded by the Torah regarding Hashem and one's parents is interconnected as is made clear by Chazal, in that honoring one's parents is considered a mitzvah between God and Man, and not a mitzvah between Man and Man.

As far as I know, there is no such comparison regarding a wife's obligations toward her husband. But because the Kli Yakar mentions all three relationships below, I included "husband" along with "parents" and "Hashem."

Anyway, to get back to the subject at hand:
Healthy "fear" comes from a such a strong and loving desire to do the right thing, that one dreads doing the wrong thing.

On a lower level, there is also the fear of punishment.

There are several different kinds of fear, and Judaism certainly provides several different words for fear.

(Needless to say, if the fear of doing the wrong thing is coming from a healthy place, it will not lead to counter-productive responses, such as:
OCD behaviors, depression, low self-esteem, hysteria, rage, irritability, masochism, paranoia, self-flagellation, doing things that are harmful or forbidden, etc.)

The Kli Yakar also addresses an issue that many others also comment on:

Why does "his mother" precede "his father"?
Why doesn't the verse say, "Every man shall fear his father and his mother"--as it does in the commandment to honor one's parents (i.e., "You shall honor your father and your mother")?
Or why doesn't it say, "Every man shall fear his parents"?

(There are other valuable explanations, such as Rashi. But right now, we're just looking at the Kli Yakar.):

Why does the fear of his mother precede the fear of his father, while concerning honor, the father precedes the mother?

This is because the man is also obligated in the honor of his wife, as it says in Chazal (Yevamot 62b): "A man should always honor his wife more than himself."

You may have thought I'd say that it wouldn't be so severe if you were to be lenient with his [your father's] honor for, behold, also the father is obligated in the honor of your mother.

Therefore, it [i.e., the Ten Commandments] places the father first to tell you that his honor shall be as great upon you as the honor of the mother, even though both of you [i.e, you and Dad] are obligated in the honor of the mother.

And with regard to "fear" [מורא]: Because it should be that the fear of her husband [אימת בעלה] is upon her [i.e., the wife/mother], you may have thought I'd say that the [commandment of] fear of her isn't so crucial.

Therefore, it [this verse] places the mother first to say that, in all events, the fear of her should be upon you.

Here, the Kli Yakar uses another word for fear: eimah. He refers to the fear women once had of displeasing their husband (whether a healthy fear or an unhealthy fear—something that is more dependent on the husband than the wife, depending on how he treats her).

Not all women felt a certain eimah toward her husband (whether healthy or not), but many did, so he comments on it.

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