Torah Teachings from Ramaz Upper School Faculty and Students
Yamim Noraim & Sukkot 2024
“And you shall teach them to your children and speak of them always.”
This publication is generously sponsored by:
Alan Kestenbaum and Aviva Preminger in honor of all of our Ramaz students
Leo Kestenbaum ’34
Ruby Kestenbaum ’37
Noah Kestenbaum ’39
Max Tradburks ’37
Solly Tradburks ’39
Nathan A. Hiltzik ’25
Stella R. Hiltzik ’25
Phoebe L. Hiltzik ’29
Rabbi Joshua Lookstein ’88
Associate Head of School, Rabbinic Leadership, Jewish Life and Learning
Rabbi Aaron Frank Principal
Rabbi Jeremy Teichman
Judaic Studies Faculty
Rabbi Haim Ovadia
Judaic Studies Faculty
Rachel Buller, ’25 Student
Rabbi Dani Ritholtz
Director of Israel Guidance & Judaic Studies Faculty
Rabbi Dov Pianko
Director of Programming and Student Life, & Dean of Students
Atara Kelman
Judaic Studies Faculty
Rabbi Kenny Schiowitz
Associate Principal & Director of Judaic Studies
Dr. Daniel Stein Kokin
Upper School Librarian
Ms. Miriam Gedwiser
Grade Dean & Judaic Studies Faculty
Introduction
Disorienting Tears: A Biblical Trio and the Shofar in 5784 (2024)
Show, Don’t Tell: The Thirteen Attributes of Mercy
Sovereignty, Remembrance, Shofar
Breaking the Cycle of Sinning and Achieving Complete Teshuvah
The Double Edged Sword of Teshuvah: Repentance in an Age of Mental Health Crisis
Where Are You Going?
The Mitzvah to be Normal
The Crazy Custom of Two-Day Yom Tov in Exile
What’s in a Date? On Commemorating October 7th (or 22 Tishrei)
Moving Into the New Year: Lessons from Chavah
Introduction
Dear Reader,
In an interview given to Yad Vashem in 2002, Rav Yehuda Amital (ל״צז), the former co-Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivat Har Etzion, said something that eerily connects to October 7th, 2023, more than two decades later. The excerpt appears in a newly published book of Rav Amital’s teachings, LeOlam Yehei Adam (Ever Be Human), in a chapter subtitled “Faith and Prayer in the Shadow of the Holocaust.” Rav Amital was a Holocaust survivor.
I can’t speak about a specific moment of angst. I live with angst all the time. For me, every holiday is problematic. On Simchat Torah, for example, I spoke in the yeshiva about the Holocaust. I couldn’t let Simchat Torah pass without the Holocaust. The Holocaust impacts every facet of our lives. Everything that we have in Israel is connected to the Holocaust. Everything is influenced by the Holocaust in ways we aren’t even aware of. It plays a major role in our lives in Israel…
We refer to October 7th as the deadliest day for the Jewish people since the Holocaust. That it coincided with Simchat Torah in Israel adds an incongruity that will haunt our experience of that day for the foreseeable future. Listening to the words of Rav Amital, though, it almost seems like Simchat Torah is Tisha b’Av-like: Yom muchan lefuranut, a day destined for destruction. What for us is a new feeling, might have been for Rav Amital an old one. However, Simchat Torah was deployed as an extreme example, used to demonstrate his point that the Holocaust has permeated everything, even a holiday with the word simcha in its very name.
The key argument that Rav Amital makes in the chapter is not about the physical impact but about the theological impact. He bemoans the religious leaders in Israel who try to find explanations for tragedies, who allege that people were killed — whether in the Holocaust or in terror attacksbecause of their sins. Rav Amital argues vociferously that man has no answers and no explanations. “Ein teshuva.” But then he adds two things: 1) “And even so, ve’emunatcha ba’leilot,” we express our faith in Hashem at nighttime, when things look most bleak, and 2) “Search for something to do, accept upon yourself a task, a responsibility or chesed…”
This last part is most certainly the Ramaz way. Our new tagline, Hineni: Here to Make a Difference (visible on the back cover of this publication), highlights who we are, our mission, and our vision. Long before October 7 and long after, the Ramaz community answers the call with “Hineni – Here I am,” send me. Whether it’s acts of chesed, communal tefillot, or advocacy for the State of Israel, we act.
We do strive to understand Hashem’s ways but some things are beyond our understanding, and can only be reduced to a basic formula: ein teshuva, yeish emunah, veyeish mah la’asot. There is no answer, but there is faith, and there is always something we can do.
From Rosh Hashanah to Hoshana Rabbah, let’s let Hashem worry about the Sefer haChaim and Sefer haMeitim and instead focus on our faith and our deeds, both of which will hopefully go a long way toward bringing some simcha back to Simchat Torah, for us and for all of Klal Yisrael.
A good place to start that focus is LeOlam Yehei Adam, a book that contains wisdom that will lead each of us to discover our own paths of growth for this new year.
Am Yisrael Chai.
Rabbi Joshua Lookstein ’88
Associate Head of School, Rabbinic Leadership, Jewish Life and Learning
The Ramaz School
Disorienting Tears: A Biblical Trio and the Shofar in 5784 (2024)
Rabbi Aaron Frank, Principal
For months, I dreaded Rosh Chodesh Elul.
Up until this year, I eagerly awaited this day. As crisp fall air would gradually make its presence felt in the early mornings, Elul would be a time to cue up my special playlist on Spotify, take out my Yamim Noraim sefarim, and await the first sounds of the shofar.
Yet, this year, the thought of those first sounds filled me with angst.
While the shofar’s first blasts have always brought me to tears, the tears of this Elul, Elul 5784, are painfully and dramatically different. These are tears of loss, of heaviness, and of a world that seems stuck in sadness.
I was not sure I could be ready for the shofar until I thought of the lives of three biblical figures – Noach, Daniel and Iyyov (Job) – and realized that if they could face catastrophe, so must we.
The Torah mentions the name “Noach” three times in the opening verse of Parashat Noach (Bereshit 6:9):
These are the generations of Noach: Noach was a righteous man; he was perfect in his generations; Noach walked with Hashem.
The midrash (Tanchuma 5) asks why this is so, and responds that Noach was one of three people (Noach, Daniel and Iyyov) who saw three worlds. Noach saw a world in its establishment, in peace. He then saw it destroyed, and then again saw it re-established. Daniel saw the building of the First Temple, saw it destroyed, and then again saw it rebuilt as the Second Temple. Iyyov saw the building of his home and family, saw it destroyed, and then again saw it restored.
Each figure in this midrash lived, in many ways, three lives. There was “the before,” “the during,” and “the after.” And while so many biblical characters lived distinct chapters, the choice of these three is significant. Noach lived a life that was shaped by global disaster, Daniel lived one shaped by military defeat and national destruction, and Iyyov’s life was shaped by personal struggle and family tragedy.1
In his brilliant book Spirituality of the Psalms, Walter Brueggemann could have been reflecting upon this midrash.2 He comments that the Book of Psalms or Tehillim encompasses the three lenses of the universal, the
1 Additionally, each led a different life before the life-shaping event, and each reacted in different ways on the other side of the disaster.
2 Walter Brueggemann, Spirituality of the Psalms (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2002).
national, and the individual. And, most significantly, he shares three models of tehillim that also characterize three phases of the human condition.
The first type are psalms of orientation. According to this model, the world seems to make sense, and Hashem’s incredible creation evokes “coherence and reliability” and appears basically predictable.3 These chapters describe creation, power, nature, and order – concepts and moments that ground us in the goodness and workings of the world.
The second type of human experience expressed in Psalms is that of disorientation. These chapters challenge the predictable world of orientation. They show that life is marked by incoherence and disorder. Disorientation is an “anguished…move into disarray and dislocation…a candid…embrace of a new situation of chaos.”4 These moments are the “dangerous acknowledgement of how life really is.”5 They are the moments of seeing worlds washed away in flood, temples destroyed, and families broken by unspeakable tragedy.
The last type of psalm is one of reorientation or “new orientation.” This is what happens on the other side of the disarray. There is a new understanding and a new connection. It is a surprising gift of new life just when none had been expected. The new orientation is “not a return to the old stable orientation, for there is no going back.”6 It is rather a new “awareness about our lives and about Hashem. We have moved out of the unfamiliar into a welcome place. We accept the new normal and understand that it is Hashem who has brought us here.”7
Entering this phase of reorientation would never be something chosen. People are thrust into that space – one that so often comes from dark, terrifying, and unwanted events and circumstances. And yet, a new day rises – a new orientation, one with new vineyards, new structures, and new relationships. These new chapters that follow unimaginable loss and sorrow can even contain some light and a degree of nechamah, of comfort.
Brueggemann’s orient-disorient-reorient approach to Tehillim has also allowed me to feel a measure of comfort in hearing the familiar tekiah, shevarim-teruah, tekiah sounds of the shofar.8
The tekiah is the introductory sound, it is the yishuv – the rooted and the established. The root taf-kuf-ayin means to thrust or to insert. It is to ground something. This is the world of orienting. It is the first stage, that creation moment where the world, while never simple, seems structured and mostly understood. The tekiah places us firmly in the world.
3 Brueggeman, p. 8. Examples of these include Psalms 1, 8, 15, 19, 24, 33, 104, 119, 131, 133, and 145.
4 Brueggeman, p. 10.
5 Brueggeman, p. 29. For example, see Psalms 13, 35, 74, 79, 86, and 137.
6 Brueggeman, pp. 47-8. Some examples of these are Psalms 29, 47, 93, 97, 98, 99, and 114.
7 Lisa Skopil, “Disorientation to Reorientation,” April 25, 2020 (https://spiritualleadership.com/disorientation-to-reorientation).
8 I would like to thank Rabbi Mishael Zion who first introduced me to Brueggeman’s reading.
The second stage of the shofar blasts, the shevarim-teruah, is the disorientation – the unwanted and unpredictable confusion, chaos, and destruction. As the Talmud (Rosh Hashanah 33b) tells us, this sound of the shofar has its roots in the biblical story of the mother of Sisera, in tears looking for her son, whom she realizes will never return:
It is written: “It is a day of sounding teruah the shofar to you” (Numbers 29:1), and we translate this verse in Aramaic as: “It is a day of yebava to you.” And to define a yebava, the Gemara quotes a verse that is written about the mother of Sisera: “Through the window she looked forth and wailed [vateyabev], the mother of Sisera” (Judges 5:28). One sage, the tanna of the baraita, holds that this means moanings, broken sighs, as in the blasts called shevarim. And one sage, the tanna of the mishnah, holds that it means whimpers, as in the short blasts called teruot.
With this model, the shevarim-teruah represents a state of chaos and of loss – a reminder of inconsolable pain and unexpected, unpredicted suffering without consolation.
And yet, after the challenge, we return to the tekiah as the final sound. It represents a new groundedness, a new implanting and a reorientation to life. This last tekiah tells us that while life will never be the same, Hashem’s goodness comes in unusual ways, and divine comfort can still give us lives that are ones of holiness and meaning.
This year may be the most difficult of our lifetimes. There are countless tears of family loss, communal displacement, and missing loved ones. Medinat Yisrael (The State of Israel) has witnessed horrific fires and the destruction of homes and other structures, and Jews around the world have been exposed to hatred on levels that no one could have predicted. Finally – throughout the world – political, religious, and environmental crises seem to be ever-present. We have been thrown into a world that is confusing and disorienting, a world of shevarim-teruah. We are lost.
But the one consolation is that Noach, Daniel, and Iyyov were also lost. They were disoriented. They saw worlds shattered. Life had handed them horrible challenges and still, with tears and heartbreak, they integrated this pain into their lives and continued to walk forward. They planted, they rebuilt.9
Yirmiyahu (29:10, 14) shares a hope in promising that Hashem will remember tragedy and will help rebuild when he communicated Hashem’s message: “I will take note of you, and I will fulfill to you My promise of favor—to bring you back to this place… I will be at hand for you and I will restore your fortunes… I will bring you back to the place from which I have exiled you.”10
And while Hashem’s promise is not for an exact duplication of the original orientation, it is enough to maintain our hope and trust in the future.
9 While Noach did replant, he used the grapes for intoxication (see Bereshit 9:20-1). This is an obviously complex and understandable reaction to the mass destruction he witnessed.
10 A fitting message, linking this source to reorientation, is pointed out in Skopil, “Disorientation to Reorientation.”
So, when we hear the shofar, when the shevarim-teruah inevitably follows that first tekiah, we pray that our faith in Hashem will grant us the strength to “sow our inevitable tears” (Psalm 126:5). And with those tragic, seemingly boundless tears planted in the soil, we can aspire to live to see reoriented tekiot that, in some ways, will be stronger, bolder, and grander than ever before. These final tekiyot, some of which will become gedolot (great), will never forget or ignore the depth of the previous brokenness, but they will draw directly from it in fostering new beginnings, new energy, and new hope of fulfilling the dream of “reap[ing] in joy.”11
11 Special thanks to Daniel Stein Kokin for his help in editing this piece.
Show, Don’t Tell: The Thirteen Attributes of Mercy
Rabbi Jeremy Teichman, Faculty
The “Thirteen Attributes of Mercy” is a list of thirteen ways Hashem demonstrates mercy to the world. Due to the frequency with which they are recited as well as their spiritual importance, the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy are most certainly the liturgical highlight during the days leading up to Yom Kippur. They appear repeatedly in Selichot, which the Sephardic community begins reciting daily at the onset of Chodesh Elul and the Ashkenazic community at least four days before Rosh Hashanah, and are the essential culmination of Tefillat Ne’ilah at the conclusion of Yom Kippur just before our judgments are sealed. But what makes the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy so fundamentally critical to our liturgy at this crucial time? Why was this text selected to be both the recurrent and pinnacle prayer during the Yamim Noraim season?
It is possible that the biblical context of this prayer (Shemot 34) can help explain. After the sin of the golden calf, Hashem furiously told Moshe that he would be the lone survivor of Bnei Yisrael as the rest of the nation would be terminated. Moshe prayed and pleaded for our survival, and after successfully defending us, Hashem awarded Moshe with a second set of luchot to preserve amongst Bnei Yisrael. Afterwards, Hashem continued to reveal to Moshe in dramatic fashion these Thirteen Attributes of Hashem’s mercy.
But the cryptic biblical verses leave a few details unclear. Firstly, why does Hashem share these attributes with Moshe? Secondly, the method of communication is a bit odd. Typically the Torah describes Hashem conversing with Moshe through regular speech. Yet here, Hashem doesn’t just “call” to Moshe, but also “passes over his face.” What is meant by this?
In Masekhet Rosh Hashanah of the Babylonian Talmud (17b), Rabbi Yochanan offers a midrashic interpretation to answer these questions:
Were it not explicitly written in the verse, it would be impossible to say this, as it would be insulting to Hashem’s honor. The verse teaches that the Holy One, Blessed be He, wrapped Himself in a tallit like a shaliach tzibbur (chazan) and showed Moshe the structure of the order of the prayer.
Although this passage clarifies the second ambiguity, it’s now even more confusing why Hashem wanted to convey this message to Moshe in such a dramatic fashion. After all, Rabbi Yochanan himself says that Hashem lowered Himself by behaving in this way, as He acted like a mere human being!
Additionally, to answer the first inquiry, Rabbi Yochanan is quoted there as adding an additional comment:
Hashem said to Moshe: Whenever the Jewish people sin, let them act before Me in accordance with this order. Let the shaliach tzibbur (chazan) wrap himself in a tallit and publicly recite the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy, and I will forgive them.
Similar to Rabbi Yochanan’s previous explanation, this one also increases confusion. On the surface, it seems as if saying these words is a magical password that automatically awards us forgiveness. But how can that be? Don’t we need to earn our forgiveness and atonement by truly repenting and changing our ways? There are no shortcuts in true growth and accomplishment, so this should be no different!
Accordingly, I would like to suggest that these two questions concerning Rabbi Yochanan’s explanation actually answer one another. Perhaps the reason Hashem lowers Himself is to hint to Moshe that in addition to saying the Thirteen Attributes describing Hashem’s mercy, one must also act on them. Similar to how Hashem is shown to imitate us and the way we serve Him in prayer, we must imitate Him and act in the manner that He acts towards us. Merely saying these words as lip service will not bring us automatic forgiveness as if we unlocked the secret code to Hashem’s mercy. Instead, as we recite the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy throughout this auspicious period of time, we must find the inspiration to put these words into action, and by doing so, Hashem says we will be forgiven.
Sovereignty, Remembrance, Shofar
Rabbi Haim Ovadia, Judaic Studies Faculty
An essential teaching in Judaism is that while Hashem is transcendental and incomprehensible to mere humans, we can emulate Him and walk in His paths as they are described in the Tanakh. This teaching can provide us with an interesting perspective on the central prayer of Rosh Hashanah, the three additional sections of Musaf: Malkhiyot, 1 Zikhronot and Shofarot. In that sense, each one of these berakhot speaks of Hashem’s attributes, which in turn represent character traits we should acquire in order to lead a better life and bring about Tikkun Olam.
Malkhiyot – Sovereignty
In the movie Superman II (1980), General Zod breaks into the Oval Office and commands the President of the United States to kneel before him. The president steps forward and does as he was commanded, and without losing a beat Zod declares: “You are not the president! No one who leads so many could possibly kneel so quickly!”
1 Malkhiyot is the rabbinic term, Malkhuyot its biblical counterpart.
There’s wisdom in this: A leader does not bow down easily, not because of arrogance but because of responsibility. Whatever the leader does reflects upon the lives of those for whom they are responsible. Even if they themselves are willing to kneel and relinquish power, they must think of others. The essence of Hashem’s sovereignty is not His infinite powers but rather His responsibility for the world. Malkhiyot reminds us to constantly be aware that we are not alone in the world and that our actions impact others. Relatives, friends, colleagues, and employees are all part of the intricate fabric of society and their actions and ours are intertwined. Being a sovereign does not mean ruling over others but rather being in control of ourselves, weighing our words and actions, and considering their consequences. Each of us is simultaneously a sovereign in several realms and a subject in many others, as even the most powerful person must obey doctor’s orders, traffic rules, and federal laws. Applying sovereignty where needed and acting with a sense of responsibility to our body, neshamah, and those who depend on us, is a process of preventive teshuvah leading to a better society.
Associating memory and forgetfulness with Hashem is anthropomorphic, since Hashem is omniscient and omnipresent. Hashem knows everything at all times, so we apply those terms to Him from a human perspective. This concept is conveyed through a version of Avinu Malkeinu which reads
instead of וּנְחְָנֲאֲ
. Zekhor means “please remember,” while zakhur means “You remember, You always know.” Humans, obviously, cannot remember and know in the same manner Hashem does, yet there is an element of this kind of remembrance which we can adopt. It is of course very important to remember the past, understand our personal and national narrative, and use the lessons learned to shape our future, but speaking of remembrance in the divine context allows us to expand the time dimension and think of memory as something pertaining to the future. Here’s a scene to illustrate that concept: the Bar or Bat Mitzvah child is getting ready to speak. Everybody is excited and alert, and the room becomes quiet with anticipation. All of a sudden, the photographer steps forward, and removes a tissue box which was left on the podium. The photographer did not want the tissue box to feature in all of the pictures. This is remembering the future. We often act with the subconscious thought that our actions are temporary and ephemeral, but how would we act if we knew that every move and word were recorded in the Divine Cloud? Do we truly want a tissue box to be the main feature of our visual history? Though we cannot constantly maintain such heightened state of awareness, even a partial application of the process could save us and others a lot of trouble. Zikhronot reminds us to stop and think for a moment, before saying or doing something hurtful or regrettable, how our actions and words will be preserved and remembered.
– Awakening the Inner Child
The Rebbe was strolling with his disciples in the forest engaged in a deep conversation when all of a sudden they heard a child crying. They rushed to find the child, and as the Rebbe tried to calm her down he asked what happened. Sobbing, the little girl replied that she was playing with her friend and went hiding but no one came to look for her. Upon hearing those words, so goes the story, the Rebbe himself began to cry. He turned to the disciples and said, this is how HaKadosh Barukh Hu cries when we don’t go searching for Him.
Zikhronot– Remembrance
Shofarot
I love this story, and I think that when the Rebbe spoke of Hashem, he also meant the Divine Spark, the Tzelem Elokim which is in every one of us. It is the inner child, the one which still maintains innocence and believes in human kindness. Research has shown that as children come of age they often lose their drive to defend justice. Their sensitive souls have been scarred by harsh reality, and have recoiled and hid under shells and covers. The shofar calls on us to search for that inner child, that pure neshamah, and reignite our pursuit of justice, kindness, and peace.
How does that happen? Our brains are wired for music. Music is among the first categories of memories we keep and among the last we lose. In that vein, I feel that the sound of the shofar takes me back to my earliest memory of that sound, as simple today as it was during my childhood. I remember spending long hours at shul, hearing the prayers, the adults talking, and the general turmoil, when all of a sudden the room became completely still and from somewhere inside the rabbi’s tallit came the sound of the shofar. I believe many of us have similar memories, and when we hear the shofar, we are transported back to our childhoods. We kneel down and look into the innocent eyes of the child we once were. We cringe as we realize how we have drifted away from that innocence and grown callous beneath the hard shell and armor we have put on as protection from the world’s cruelty. At that moment the shofar touches and shakes us. Like the Rebbe in the story, it tells us to search for Hashem, to search for the child hiding in us, to find and define our path guided by a sense of hope and belief in the good nature of humans.
The brilliant authors of the three sections call upon us, on Rosh Hashanah, to act with responsibility, to remember that our actions have unforeseen consequences, and to harness the pure innocence of our inner child in our journey toward personal and national teshuvah and redemption.
Breaking the Cycle of Sinning and Achieving Complete Teshuvah
Ms. Rachel Buller ’25, Student
New Year’s resolutions. Each year they are made, and each year they are broken. Usually the course of events goes like this: someone decides that a change is necessary, promises to act differently, and then once they encounter the same situation that they wanted to fix, they revert to their old ways. The same goes for teshuvah. Someone wants to repent for their sin so they apologize and claim that it won’t happen again, and then the next time they encounter that same challenge, they cave and sin.
The question is: How do we break this cycle? Unfortunately for those who have fallen subject to this, the Rambam’s requirements for full teshuvah require this habit to be completely broken. In Hilkhot Teshuvah (2:1), Maimonides states:
Who has reached complete teshuvah? A person who confronts the same situation in which he sinned when he has the potential to commit the sin again, and, nevertheless, abstains and does not commit it because of his teshuvah alone and not because of fear or a lack of strength.1
Not only does the Rambam mandate that the only way to achieve full teshuvah is to be in the same situation in which one previously sinned and avoid the same mistake, but he adds that the reason for not sinning at that time must be purely because of one’s desire for repentance.
I struggle to understand this standard since the probability that a person will end up in an identical situation in which he previously transgressed is quite slim. How, then, can someone accomplish full teshuvah? Additionally, there can conceivably be a person who is fully sincere in the teshuvah process, but may falter in the moment when tested again. Does the Rambam mean to say that this teshuvah is retroactively deemed as meaningless? What about the sincerity of the remorse?
In Masekhet Sanhedrin of the Babylonian Talmud (25b), the Gemara discusses the case of a gambler who wishes to become an eligible witness, for which he is required to do teshuvah. The Gemara states:
And when are they considered to have done teshuvah (and are qualified again to be witnesses and judges)? When they break their blocks and return in complete teshuvah, they won’t play even without money.
The Gemara emphasizes that not only does the gambler have to refrain from betting any money, but even to stop gambling without money. Although this seems harsher than the Rambam, by requiring the gambler to go beyond the parameters of the sin he is trying to repent for, these qualifications actually give more power to the sinner to do successful teshuvah than the Rambam. Here, the gambler does not need to rely on a situation coming upon him in order to return to Hashem, rather he is able to take matters into his own hands and actively stop committing his transgression and anything related.
Rav Soloveitchik highlights another aspect of teshuvah that can be used to further ease the challenges of repenting.2 The Rav explains that there are two kinds of teshuvah: teshuvah for kapparah (acquittal from sin) and teshuvah for taharah (purification). Teshuvah for kapparah serves the purpose of ridding oneself of the guilt of sinning. This repentance merely requires one to stop committing the sin. In the Gemara’s case, this refers to the gambler quitting gambling for money. The other aspect, teshuvah for taharah, serves the purpose of restoring oneself to the spiritual level that they were at prior to sinning. This repentance requires the sinner to take a step beyond just stopping the sin to create further precautions, ensuring that they will not commit that sin again. In our case, this refers to the gambler not gambling even without money. Rav Soloveitchik states that in order to achieve a complete teshuvah, one must perform both of these steps.
2 See Pinhas H. Peli, On Repentance: The Thought and Oral Discourses of Rabbi Joseph Dov Soloveitchik (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2004).
This explanation, although still maintaining that the extra measures are necessary for full teshuvah, allows for the possibility of a partial teshuvah. Even if one is incapable of taking the additional steps to complete both aspects of teshuvah, their efforts with the first steps do not go unrecognized. They achieve kapparah, or halachic innocence, from their sin. However, they still do not achieve taharah, or full purification back to their prior level of spirituality, unless they complete full teshuvah.
So then how can one do it? How is someone able to complete this extraordinarily difficult task and fully return from sin? Perhaps the answer lies within the tefillah of Yom Kippur. Throughout the entire day, we not only say the vidui, or confession, to show Hashem that we understand our wrongdoings and contribute to the teshuvah process, but we also call out to Hashem repeatedly through the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy. We ask Him to give us the strength to not only stop sinning but also to go the extra mile, ensuring we will be able to continue on a righteous path. The only way to achieve this full teshuvah is to ask for Hashem’s help. With His assistance, we should all be able to be acquitted and purified from our sins and return to Hashem.
The Double Edged Sword of Teshuvah: Repentance in an Age of Mental Health Crisis
Rabbi Dani Ritholtz, Director of Israel Guidance & Judaic Studies Faculty
“And with a great shofar it is sounded, and a still small voice shall be heard. And the angels shall be alarmed, and dread and fear shall seize them as they proclaim: ‘Behold! The Day of Judgment.’” This quote from U’Netaneh Tokef, recited during Musaf of the Yamim Noraim, is how many people relate to the High Holidays. The anxiety is palpable when we reflect on the past year and ask ourselves, “Can we really stand” before Hashem and say we deserve another year? It is therefore no wonder that, with the rise in mental health issues across society, the High Holidays — filled with guilt and dread for many — can be a triggering experience. Repentance seems to contradict the modern world’s emphasis on mental health, which often discourages harsh self-criticism as a habit that can lead to depression and anxiety. The philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche captured this concern when he said:
One need only ask a psychiatrist what happens to patients who are methodically subjected to the torments of repentance, states of contrition, and fits of redemption… In the wake of repentance and redemption training, we find tremendous epileptic epidemics…; as another after effect, we encounter terrible paralysis and protracted states of depression.1
In a way, he wasn’t wrong — at least when we speak about certain types of repentance. But maybe teshuvah, done correctly, won’t hinder mental health but can actually be used as a tool, along with therapies, to foster a more positive view of the mistakes we made in the past.
1 Friedrich Nietzsche, Basic Writings of Nietzsche, ed. and trans. Walter Kaufmann (New York: Modern Library, 2000), p. 142.
A story that demonstrates a more authentic and healthy form of repentance is that of Reish Lakish and Rabbi Yochanan. The Talmud (Masekhet Bava Metzia 84a) tells us that Reish Lakish, originally a thief, got into an altercation with Rabbi Yochanan. Reish Lakish showed off his incredible strength by leaping into a river and swimming a great distance. Rabbi Yochanan, impressed, told him he should use his strength for learning Torah and offered his beautiful sister as a bride.2
Reish Lakish agreed, and thus began one of the greatest learning pairs in history. Their debates and discussions appear throughout the Talmud. However, one day, they debated the ritual purity of metal utensils, including swords. They disagreed about when an item is considered complete in the manufacturing process.3
Instead of ending there, their discussion turned personal, leading to one of the most devastating chavruta (study partnership) breakups. Rabbi Yochanan jabbed, “I defer to the robber who is the expert in the tools of theft.” Reish Lakish, offended by the reference to his sinful past, retorted, “What have you done for me? Here I am a master; there I was a master!” This cryptic response has puzzled many commentators. Was Reish Lakish claiming that he was once the master of bandits and is now a master of Torah? Why would bringing up his past help extinguish Rabbi Yochanan’s barb?
The story ends tragically. After their argument, Reish Lakish fell ill. His wife, Rabbi Yochanan’s sister, pleaded with Rabbi Yochanan to reconcile with his friend in hopes of healing him. Rabbi Yochanan refused, and Reish Lakish died. Heartbroken and inconsolable, Rabbi Yochanan’s mental health deteriorated until he, too, passed away after other rabbis prayed for Hashem’s mercy.
While this story seems bleak, beneath the surface it may address the very question of repentance. The Talmud (Masekhet Yoma 86b) records two different views of teshuvah, as held by none other than Rabbi Yochanan and Reish Lakish.
Rabbi Yochanan says teshuvah is great because, unlike human beings, Hashem takes back sinners even after betrayal. He quotes a verse in Jeremiah (3:1) implying that human nature makes it almost impossible to forgive a person who betrays you. But even though we sin, and thereby “cheat” on Hashem, he takes us back.
Reish Lakish teaches differently: teshuvah is great because it transforms intentional sins (zedonot) into merits (zekhuyot). He clarifies that teshuvah performed with love, and with a genuine effort to build a relationship with Hashem, transforms past transgressions into merits. Rav Solovietchik explains as follows in his classic work Halakhic Man:
2 It is unclear how a brother can offer his sister as a bride and it is possible that he was merely offering to “set them up.” Tosafot (ad loc.) also struggles to understand why he would offer his wife to a still-unrepentant thief, and offers a surprising suggestion: Reish Lakish had first been a Torah scholar before becoming a robber! Therefore, Rabbi Yochanan knew he was capable of returning to being the Torah scholar he once was.
3 This is an essential part of the discussion because an object that has not gone through enough of the steps of manufacturing to be considered complete is not susceptible to ritual impurity.
There is a past that persists in its existence, that does not vanish and disappear but remains firm in its place. Such a past enters into the domain of the present and links up with the future… The Halakhah declares that the person who returns to his Maker creates himself in the context of a living, enduring past while facing a bright and welcoming future… Sin, as a cause and as the beginning of a lengthy causal chain of destructive acts, can be transformed, underneath the guiding hand of the future, into a source of merit and good deeds… Man molds the image of the past by infusing it with the future.4
According to Rav Soloveitchik, teshuvah can be understood as a time loop: we can redefine our past. The past isn’t set in stone; we shape and reshape it through our present decisions in framing our identity and by recontextualizing our mistakes.
With this understanding of teshuvah in mind, we can more deeply understand the argument in the Beit Midrash that fateful day. Rabbi Yochanan saw Reish Lakish’s past as a liability — “Don’t bring your robbery into the Beit Midrash; I brought you back to Hashem, now focus on Torah, not on your past.” But Reish Lakish countered, “No! I am a great rabbi precisely because of what I did in my past. There I was a master and because of my teshuvah and my past actions I am a true master!” Reish Lakish’s past wasn’t something to be ashamed of — it was part of what made him who he was. This was something that R. Yochanan did not appreciate, as he did not share this experience.
The Reish Lakish view of teshuvah completely subverts the Nietzchean perspective on repentance. Teshuvah isn’t a somber, guilt-ridden affair when carried out like Reish Lakish. Rather, it becomes an opportunity to transform ourselves — to say, “The things I did make me who I am today.” It is an act infused with love that can be done happily and proudly.
Yes, the Yamim Noraim are an awe-inspiring time. There is a lot at stake, but maybe the angels tremble because they don’t possess the distinctly human experience and opportunity of sin, growth, and teshuvah. With our flaws in hand, we come before Hashem, ready to transform them into something beautiful. Rather than view them as weights, they can be the tools with which we gesture towards Hashem on our unending path to get closer to Him.
4 Joseph Dov Soloveitchik, Halakhic Man, trans. Lawrence Kaplan (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1991), pp. 114-17.
Where Are You Going?
Rabbi Dov Pianko, Director of Programming and Student Life, & Dean of Students
Barukh shem kevod malkhuto le’olam va’ed (“Blessed be the name of His glorious kingdom forever and ever”). This phrase is inserted quietly into the daily recital of the Shema (see Babylonian Talmud Masekhet Pesachim 56a) as another way to affirm our faith and recognize our creator. Most famously, however, once a year on Yom Kippur, this phrase is said out loud (Shulchan Arukh, Orach Chayim, 619:2).
The Magen Avraham (619:2:8) says that Moshe took this phrase from the angels who said it. Therefore, we generally say it silently, for it would be presumptuous for us to take on the practices of the angels. However, since on Yom Kippur we see ourselves and behave as angels – wearing white and abstaining from food and drink – we say it out loud.
Ever since I was a child, this small change has set the experience of davening on this day apart from the rest of the year. Our self-likening to angels and calling out our faith to Hashem is a powerful image at the very outset of the Ma’ariv after Kol Nidrei. However, one thing that always struck me as odd was the Ma’ariv we say after Ne’ilah at the end of Yom Kippur, just after concluding an intense and meaningful day of repentance and introspection. During the Shema of this tefillah, we return to our regular recitation, merely whispering this line. Does our holiness, transformation, or attitude change so rapidly and drastically that we cannot extend the special dispensation to this service? Similarly, Rabbi Mordechai Becher (in Menashe Frank’s Ach Sameach1) asked: are we not closer to emulating the attributes of angels after a day of prayer and fasting, as opposed to merely one hour after ceasing to eat?
Rabbi Becher answers that it is not about where we are, but about where we are going. In Ya’akov’s dream of the ladder, we read (Bereshit 28:12): “He [Ya’akov] had a dream; a ladder was set on the ground and its top reached to the sky, and messengers of Hashem were going up and down on it.” Rashi explains based on the Midrash: “It states first ascending and afterwards descending! Those angels who accompanied him in the Land of Israel were not permitted to leave the Land: they ascended to Heaven and angels which were to minister outside the Land descended to accompany him.”
It is important to note, as Rashi does, that this story is taking place in Eretz Yisrael, on Har haMoriah, the future site of the Holy Temple. So why do the angels of the Land of Israel need to leave Ya’akov behind already? Even if they can’t leave the Land, could they not still accompany him up to the border? Rabbi Becher explains that it depends on where we are heading. Despite still being in the Land, since Ya’akov was going to be leaving it, he already had to have the angels of exile start to accompany him.
Menashe Frank extends this logic to another story related to the Yamim Noraim. We read the story of the exile of Hagar and Yishmael on the first day of Rosh Hashanah. The Torah tells us (Bereshit 21:17): “Hashem heard the cry of the boy, and a messenger of Hashem called to Hagar from heaven and said to her, ‘What troubles
1 Ach Sameach: Lessons from the Jewish Holidays, ed. Menashe Frank (Self-published), pp. 39-40.
you, Hagar? Fear not, for Hashem has heeded the cry of the boy where he is.’” Rashi explains: “‘Where he is’: according to the actions he is now doing shall he be judged and not according to what he may do in the future.” This is in contrast to the rebellious son (Devarim 21:21), whom we put to death. Menashe Frank cites Rabbi Eli Mansour, who says that while Yishmael was engaged in teshuvah at the time of his judgment, the rebellious son, despite having not yet sinned enough to warrant death, was clearly on a negative trajectory, and therefore was killed.
Both of these stories highlight that where we are going, our trajectory, is an important factor when Hashem looks at us, even more important in some cases than where we are at the moment. When we start Yom Kippur, at the opening of Ma’ariv we are headed into the Day of Repentance. We are fasting, reflecting, thinking about our sins and the past year. Despite our objectively lower spiritual level at the onset of Yom Kippur, we are headed toward holiness and immediately attain an elevated status at the beginning of this process. However, after Ne’ilah, even though we may feel and be on a spiritual high, we are moving toward a lower spiritual place, since the holiness of the day is behind us, and we have returned to the physical and mundane.
As we begin to prepare for the Yamim Noraim, it is important to think about where we want to be at the end of the process. In The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, Habit Two is to begin with the end in mind. Stephen Covey explains: “To begin with the end in mind means to start with a clear understanding of your destination. It means to know where you’re going so that you better understand where you are now and so that the steps you take are always in the right direction.”
2 Before we begin the process of the Yamim Noraim, we want to ask ourselves the following questions: What are our goals? How do we want to be different? How do we want to change/grow?
The period of the Yamim Noraim, and the day of Yom Kippur, comes only once a year. We attain the elevated status of angels and are supposed to feel a spiritual transformation. However, this change is much more likely to last when we go in prepared and know what our plan for spiritual growth is afterwards. Hopefully, if we begin with the end in mind, our judgment and experience during the Yamim Noraim will be positive in all aspects, and our spiritual transformation, goals, and growth will impact us this next year and for the rest of our lives.
2 Stephen R. Covey, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People (New York: Free Press, 2004), p. 95.
The Mitzvah to be Normal
Ms. Atara Kelman, Judaic Studies Faculty
After surviving the Holocaust as a teenager, Rabbi Yehuda Amital moved to Israel where he founded Yeshivat Har Etzion and the hesder concept that combines yeshiva learning and army service. While he led an extraordinary life, he was fond of saying “mitzvah lihyot normali” (“It is a mitzvah to be normal”). As we approach the Yamim Noraim season and start new routines, we can appreciate sources that highlight the value of being average.
The Talmud (Masekhet Rosh Hashanah 16b) cites Rabbi Yochanan who neatly divides everyone in the world into three categories:
Rabbi Kruspedai said that Rabbi Yochanan said: Three books are opened on Rosh Hashanah before the Holy One, Blessed be He: One of wholly wicked people, and one of wholly righteous people, and one of middling people. Wholly righteous people are immediately written and sealed for life; wholly wicked people are immediately written and sealed for death; and middling people are left with their judgment suspended from Rosh Hashanah until Yom Kippur. If they merit, they are written for life; if they do not so merit, they are written for death.
Rabbi Yochanan maintains that of the three categories of wicked, average, and righteous, Yom Kippur is actually only relevant for the middle category. The surprise of this statement is tempered by the fact that it is fair to assume that most people are “average.” However, in the third chapter of his Hilkhot Teshuvah, Maimonides defines these three categories in an unexpected way:
Each and every person has merits and sins. A person whose merits exceed his sins is [termed] righteous. A person whose sins exceed his merits is [termed] wicked. If [his sins and merits] are equal, he is termed a beinoni 1
Maimonides is explicit that this calculation cannot be done by a simple addition of mitzvot performed or sins violated and must incorporate the weight of these actions. Still, his definition of a tzaddik is someone whose actions are fifty-plus-one percent positive. Maimonides vastly narrows the scope of who is considered average. But although Maimonides’ definition of who counts as “average” is narrow, he urges everyone to view themselves as exactly average. This, he argues, can serve to push us into the tzaddik category.
A person should always look at himself as equally balanced between merit and sin and the world as equally balanced between merit and sin. If he performs one sin, he tips his balance and that of the entire world to the side of guilt and brings destruction upon himself. If he performs one mitzvah, he tips his balance and that of the entire world to the side of merit and brings deliverance and salvation to himself and others.
When we view ourselves as average and recognize that our good deeds and our failings exist in equal balance, all it takes is one mitzvah to qualify as a tzaddik and to bring blessings to ourselves and the entire world. Big, grand goals for radical transformation are hard, and are often unattainable. Maimonides gifts us with the encouragement to do just one more good deed. Since we are all average, that’s enough to make the difference. Shanah Tovah!
For thousands of years, the phenomenon of the extra day of Yom Tov has troubled many people on both practical and conceptual levels. In this paper, I will attempt to frame some of the difficulties with this minhag and then offer a perspective that might explain some of the purposes of this practice.
What is this law and what is its rationale?
According to the Torah, each holiday is only one day long – one day for the first day of Pesach, one day for the last day of Pesach, one day of Shavuot, one day of Rosh Hashanah, etc. The times for these holidays are based on the calendar date of the Jewish months, which are in turn based on the lunar cycle. The rotation of the moon is approximately 29.5 days and, therefore, roughly half of our months are 29 days long and half are 30. The determination of each month was contingent on witnesses who would see the new moon and report the sighting to the Beit Din in Yerushalayim. If this took place on the 30th of the month, that day would be proclaimed Rosh Chodesh, the first day of the new month. If not, the following day would be Rosh Chodesh. During the time of the exile, the Babylonian communities were unable to receive the news of Rosh Chodesh until more than two weeks had passed, i.e. long after the holiday was over. Because of this calendric confusion, an additional day of the holiday was observed to cover both possibilities. During the sunset of the centralized Beit Din in Israel, the system was replaced with a set calendar that would schedule all future months. Due to this, there never was or will be further confusion about the date of Rosh Chodesh. However, remarkably, the Babylonian Talmud (Beitza 4b) records a piece of rabbinic legislation according to which the Jewish communities in exile should continue the practice of the two-day holidays, because “you should be careful in preserving the minhag (practice) of your ancestors, lest a future time of religious oppression will arise, and your calendar will be corrupted.”
Question #1: While the value of minhag is understood, what is the value of this custom, which was merely observed to solve a doubt that no longer exists? Furthermore, what is the concern for future oppression? While the Rabbis were correct to predict that religious persecution would arise, the solution of the second day has not yet proven to be of help. If such a scenario were to arise such that we would lose track of the calendar, why not add the extra day then, just as our ancestors did in the time of the Talmud? What is the purpose of the continual observance of these two days? Finally, if we want to protect ourselves from any future problem, why not keep two days in Israel as well, in case that community encounters this type of oppression?
Question #2: The Babylonian Talmud (Pesachim, chapter 4) raises the concern for disunity that can result from varied religious practices in the Jewish world. The Talmud argues that when traveling to areas of divergent
custom, one should always observe the more stringent custom of the two but also be careful to remain inconspicuous in the observance of one’s minhag because this can cause unnecessary conflict and disunity. Therefore, for example, if one is observing a personal minhag to refrain from work in a place where this is not the custom, one should be subtle and make oneself look like one of the many people who simply do not have work to do that day because, after all, “there are always many idle people about in the market on any given day” (Pesachim 17b). Therefore, the question begs itself: why did the Rabbis a priori articulate a divergent practice and, in effect, create the very disunity that they sought to avoid by distinguishing between Israel and outside of Israel? If the concern to prepare ourselves for future oppression was significant, why not legislate the extra day for all Jews? And if not, then why not skip it for all?
Perhaps it is for some of these reasons that Rav Natan disregarded this law and publicly violated the rabbinic requirement of Yom Tov Sheni. The Talmud (Beitzah 4b) records that Rav Yosef excommunicated Rav Natan for his disobedience. Moreover, the Talmud suggests that Rav Yosef would have flogged Rav Natan, but he felt that the social isolation of excommunication was a harsher consequence. Clearly, this legislation has always provoked questions and opposition, and the Talmud chose to preserve the controversy that has surrounded it without resolving these questions, essentially suggesting that we explore this on our own.
Torat HaAretz
Rashi (Devarim 11:18) cites the Midrash (Sifrei Devarim 43:34) that notes how the commands of the mitzvot of tefillin and mezuzah are mentioned at the end of the second paragraph of the Shema immediately after the threat of exile for our violation of the Torah. The Midrash learns from this juxtaposition that these, and all mitzvot, should be kept even in exile so that “they will not be new to us when we return from exile.” The Midrash associates this with the “signposts” that Yirmiyahu spoke of (31:21), teaching the Jewish people to keep the Torah even in exile as a sort of “practice” for our future return. The Ramban (on Devarim 11:18) expands on this theme and argues that the entire Torah was truly designed to be observed specifically in the Land of Israel, and that our forefathers volunteered to do all of the mitzvot in Israel, but did not necessarily keep them outside of Israel, since it is “just” Chutz laAretz (outside of the Land).
The centrality of the Land of Israel in Judaism is indisputable but can easily be forgotten, specifically within the robust Jewish communities of the diaspora. At times, Jews tend to think of their new communities, shuls, and schools as the new focal point of Judaism. We might mistake the curse for a blessing and forget the antisemitism and oppression that during good times can fade from focus. What did our Rabbis do to protect us from this danger? Among other things, I believe, they preserved Yom Tov Sheni.
The Rabbis sought to preserve the notion that Chutz laAretz is only second best, far from the ideal base for Torah observance. They preserved the custom of the exile to keep the extra day because it highlights the
distance from the Land of Israel and the headaches emerging from this distance. They remind us that exilic existence lends itself to antisemitic persecution and that we should always fear the next wave of oppression lurking around the corner. The second day of Yom Tov must continue in the exile to preserve this mindset of Chutz laAretz, while the mindset of Israel is meant to be the exact opposite. We are to remember that Eretz Yisrael, the Land of Israel, is the optimal place for the Torah, where the mitzvot can be kept as they were fully intended; there it is inconceivable to observe two days when the Torah spoke of only one. Similarly, we are to think of Israel as the place of our security, where religious oppression is not to be expected or planned for. If a problem arises, we will deal with it, but we will not live in fear in our own home. Thus, the Rabbis taught, in Israel we are always to keep one day, while in exile we must remind ourselves of the lessons of Yirmiyahu, Rashi, and the Ramban by continuing our custom of two.
What’s in a Date?
On Commemorating October 7th (or 22 Tishrei)1
Dr. Daniel Stein Kokin, Ramaz Upper School Librarian
As the first anniversary of the Hamas attacks approaches, we are confronted not only by the question of how we should commemorate them, but of when. The date October 7th is of course indelibly etched in our collective consciousness; indeed, as the war plods on and dozens of hostages remain in captivity, for many of us every new day remains — frustratingly, depressingly, unbelievably — October 7th. In light of this reality, and given the wide awareness of this date among the general public (even if segments thereof are already eager to forget or downplay it), is it not obvious that we should mark these difficult events on the date for which they are best known? Yet October 7th as a date of commemoration brings with it a major problem. Because of the discrepancy between the Jewish and Gregorian calendars, October 7th typically falls in the midst of the holiday season, often on particularly significant days therein. Consider 5786/2025, when it will fall on the first day of Sukkot, “the season of our joy,” or 5789/2028, when October 7th will coincide with Shabbat Chol haMo’ed? Can we possibly recall the Nova Massacre on the very day on which we chant, “enjoy yourself while you are young, let your heart lead you to enjoyment in the days of your youth” (Kohelet 11:9)?
An alternate approach would have us proceed on the basis of the Hebrew date, 22 Tishrei. This, too, is difficult, for it would mean that the final day of the chagim in Israel, and their penultimate day in the diaspora, would forever be marred by mourning over last year’s attacks.2 Pushing the date of commemoration back to the 24th of this month would preserve the spirit of holiday rejoicing both in and outside our land, while at the same
1 My thanks to Naya Lekht, Amanda Newman, Gregory Newmark, and Rabbi Nitzan Stein Kokin for helpful comments on earlier drafts of this essay.
2 To be sure, we have faced a similar problem with Yom Kippur since the 1973 war. Yet the serious and existential character of this day of days lends itself readily to the recollection and/or commemoration of the war that began on it.
time maintaining proximity to the period in which the events unfolded. There is precedent in our tradition for this approach. While the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising began on Erev Pesach in 5703 (April 19, 1943), the date of the Yom haZikaron laShoah velaGevurah it inspired (best known simply as Yom ha-Shoah) was ultimately set by the Knesset approximately halfway between the end of Passover (21 Nissan in Israel) and Israeli Independence Day (5 Iyar) on 27 Nissan. Likewise, the Fast of Gedaliah is marked on 3 Tishrei, even though the murder of the Babylonian-appointed Jewish governor of Judea Gedaliah ben Achikam ben Shaphan (on which see Yirmiyahu 40:7-41:3 and Melakhim Bet 25:22-26) may well have occurred on Rosh Hashanah (see Radak to Yirmiyahu 41:1).3 This incident, in which many other Judeans as well as Babylonian soldiers were killed, resulted in the elimination of the last remnant of Jewish autonomy, and indeed population, in Judea.
The case of Tzom Gedaliah is particularly relevant, for the institution of, say, a Tzom haDarom on 24 Tishrei would create a striking parallel between a fast recalling internecine Jewish violence (Gedaliah was felled by a band of fellow Judeans) at the beginning of the holiday season and another in memory of the invasion of our sovereign state at its close. Since it was precisely the destruction of ancient Judea that formed the background for the internal divisions on display in Gedaliah’s demise and because many would say that recent internal divisions in Israel helped render Hamas’s horrors possible, the two commemorations could reinforce one another in stimulating and powerful ways. (As it happens, Tzom Gedaliah and October 7th will do so this year, since the fast will be pushed back a day because of Shabbat to 4 Tishrei, i.e. Sunday, October 6!)
But this approach comes with its own price, in the form of an inconsistent date on the calendar of greatest currency for most Israelis and the word at large, namely the Gregorian. And while holding off commemoration until after the conclusion of the holiday season, it still risks redirecting the positive energy with which we ideally leave the chagim in a mournful, anxious direction. This, of course, is the great liturgical challenge with which the events of last year leave us going forward.
Yet another possibility, one that would directly address this difficulty, would be to fold commemoration of the Hamas attack and subsequent war into an existing date on the Jewish or Israeli calendar. For this, too, there is precedent, as the Holocaust is powerfully commemorated in some circles on the Ninth of Av or, instead, the Tenth of Tevet. As a me’eyn churban (or quasi-destruction), this past year’s attacks certainly could be as well. I, for one, found it extremely powerful this past summer to recite Nahal Oz survivor Nurit Hirschfeld Skupinsky’s “Eykha yashvah vadad” (“How She Sat Alone”) and other newly composed kinot alongside the classic Tisha b’Av dirges.4 Granted, there is no one day that so symbolizes the Holocaust as is the case with the events of last year. Yet as
3 To be sure, the Babylonian Talmud (Masekhet Rosh Hashanah 18b) implies that the murder actually occurred on 3 Tishrei. Its statement to this effect may, however, merely reflect the emergence of this date as the appropriate occasion on which to mark the tragedy by the time of the text’s composition.
4 Tamar Biala, “O how she sat alone: New Laments for a Beloved Land,” Times of Israel, August 4, 2024, https://blogs. timesofisrael.com/o-how-she-sat-alone-new-laments-for-a-beloved-land/.
the October 7ths have dragged on, as the drones and deaths and fires have multiplied, and as the northern theater of the conflict has become ever more prominent, it is increasingly and tragically clear that Charvot Barzel (“Swords of Iron”) – the official Israeli designation for the ongoing conflict – is about much more than just a single day, too.
Furthermore, the date for commemoration that we select reveals a great deal concerning how, and by whom, we want this commemoration to be perceived. In choosing between October 7th or 22 or 24 Tishrei, we are deciding whether the tragic events of last year belong primarily on the world stage or should instead be chiefly regarded as part of Israeli or Jewish history. In either case, however, the choice reflects the perception that the events warrant a day unto themselves. By contrast, were one to decide to commemorate these events on either the Israeli Yom haZikaron and/or Jewish Tisha b’Av, this would subsume the attacks in a much longer and broader national story.
In short, in choosing a date on which to commemorate, we are negotiating our own varied and hybrid identities (as Jews and/or Israelis, as Jews and Americans, as members of the Jewish people and citizens of the West, etc.), attempting to impose a clear hierarchy of values and priorities upon an unstable and inconsistent set of emotions and perspectives. The difficulty of doing so was on clear display in the decision passed by the Israeli cabinet this past March, the unanimity of the measure’s approval ironically only underscoring the depths of the underlying ambivalence.5 For it was decided to commemorate the Hamas incursion in perpetuity on 24 Tishrei, except for this coming year, in which because the 24th falls on Shabbat, October 7th will instead be commemorated, yes, on October 7th; as indicated above, this will be 4 Tishrei, i.e. the day after the Fast of Gedaliah. It is as if the Israeli government wants to have its ugah (cake) and eat it too. By fixing the long-term date as 24 Tishrei, the cabinet acknowledged the propriety of the Jewish State and the Jewish people memorializing the Hamas invasion according to the Jewish calendar, but by resolving to mark its first anniversary on October 7th, there is an implicit acknowledgement and acceptance of the visceral significance this date has taken on. And, we might well ask, once one October 7th is commemorated on October 7th, will it ever be possible to do so differently?
My aim in this essay has not been to advocate for a particular day of commemoration, but rather to stimulate thought and deliberation. Commemoration of collective loss and tragedy should never simply be a given, but should rather reflect our values and worldview, and as such merits careful and sustained discussion. Indeed, it is my fervent hope that we can push the commemorative process forward precisely by wondering and discussing, “what's in a date?”
5 Sam Sokol, “Cabinet approves national remembrance day for October 7 massacre, Gaza war,” March 17, 2024, https://www.timesofisrael.com/cabinet-approves-national-remembrance-day-for-october-7-massacre-gaza-war/.
Moving Into the New Year: Lessons from Chavah
Ms. Miriam Gedwiser, Grade Dean & Judaic Studies Faculty
As the holiday season closes, we turn to the question of how to stay connected to the elevated religious selves we have uncovered, or perhaps built, since Elul. I’d like to suggest a Hasidic teaching on Parashat Bereshit, read every year on the first Shabbat after the holidays, that may help.
It has become almost commonplace to note the differences between the two accounts of creation in Bereshit 1:1-2:4 and 2:4-3:24: The first is an orderly, structured, and somewhat dry world with humans created at its apex; the second a world of fraught relationships, with potential for genuine engagement but also for sin. Our Ramaz seniors have already encountered Rav Soloveitchik’s take on these two stories in The Lonely Man of Faith, namely that the Torah speaks of two complementary paradigms for what it means to be a person: to be a striver who seeks to master nature, and to be a fallible human in relationship with other humans and with God. One major difference between the stories, however, the name or names of God used, provides a jumping-off point for a very different take from the Hasidic masters of Ishbitz.1
Working from the premise that the second story follows chronologically after the first, R. Mordechai Yosef Leiner (Mei HaShiloach) notes that the name Elokim is used exclusively for God until 2:4, after the creation of humans, when the 4-letter name of havayah or Hashem is appended to it:
This is the account of the heavens and the earth when they were created, on the day that Hashem (havayah)-Elokim made the earth and heavens.
R. Ya’akov writes that the tetragrammaton appears only now “because then the will of God was expressed explicitly completely.” Humans have the potential, at least, to live in a way that expresses God’s will fully in the world. After humans are created, therefore, the Torah names God fully.
The double name, “Hashem-Elokim” disappears, however, in verse 3:1, in the words of the snake to Chava: “Has God (Elokim, alone) indeed said, ‘You may not eat from any of the trees of the garden?’” For the Mei HaShiloach, “the snake obscured the name of havayah.” The name reappears in verse 8, after the humans sin, when “They heard the voice of Hashem-Elokim walking in the garden.” For Mei HaShiloach
1 I would like to express gratitude to Rabbanit Batya Hefter for introducing me to this teaching and to many others in the world of Ishbitz.
when they knew that they sinned, and the correction (tikkun) began, then the light of Hashem (havayah) was opened for them.
Humans bring the possibility of actualizing God’s full will in the world, sin removes it, and teshuvah sets them on the path to restoration. The presence or absence of the four-letter name of God in the story of Adam and Chava’s sin and its aftermath reflects this process.
What does it mean to live in a way that expresses Hashem or havayah’s will? R Ya’akov provides some more detail. When God’s name or attribute of havayah is meforash, explicit or clarified, to a person, she is aligned with her “source” (shoresh) and confident in her role fulfilling God’s will. She does not seek to individuate beyond her unique connection to God. However, when this sense of alignment vanishes, and with it the sense of security or confidence, people develop anxiety about their place in the world and look to define themselves however they can. For Mei HaShiloach, this “definition” (hagdarah) takes the form of limits, fences (gedarim) around the law. So, when the snake hid havayah from Chavah, she told him that not only had God commanded humans not to eat from the tree, but not even to touch it, lest they die. The embellishment about touching was not original to God’s command. It stemmed from Chavah’s own anxiety, and ended up bringing her and Adam to sin.
Here Mei HaShiloach seems to refer to an idea found, for example, in Avot de-Rabbi Natan 1:5, that Adam “made a fence” around God’s commandment.2 Where God had told Adam, before Chava’s creation from his side, “from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil you may not eat, because on the day that you eat from it, you will surely die” (Bereshit 2:18), Chavah tells the snake “from the fruit of the tree which is in the middle of the garden, God has said, ‘You may not eat from it and you may not touch it, lest you die’” (3:3). Where did this “and you may not touch it” come from, if God only said “you may not eat”? Apparently not from the divine command. The midrash fills in: Adam “made a fence” when he relayed the command to Chavah, telling her not even to touch the tree, not just not to eat from it. The cunning snake, however, used this to his advantage, touching the tree himself to show how harmless it was. (According to Rashi on Bereshit, the snake pushed Chavah into the tree and showed her that his “touch” had no consequences.) When nothing happened from this “touch,” the snake convinced Chavah that nothing bad would happen if she ate, either.
I want to put this teaching in dialogue with a larger discussion of “fences,” a central halakhic concept present in our curriculum, for example, when we teach Masekhet Berachot 2a and 4a from the Babylonian Talmud. According to the Mishnah and Gemara there, while the evening Shema really can be said until daybreak,
2 Unlike the midrash, the Mei HaShiloach seems to locate the origin of the fence in Chavah. Conceptually, however, the two texts can still work together.
the Rabbis said to recite it before midnight to prevent procrastination that would lead to dereliction. In connection with that gemara, I have taught the view of R. Nissim, for example (Derashot ha-Ra”n 7), that these human additions to God’s law express the attribute of yir’ah, fear/awe of heaven, an approach that takes the commandments so seriously that it makes sure to safeguard them. Because of this grounding in yir’ah, says Ra”n, keeping Rabbinic safeguards demonstrates our devotion even more than keeping the baseline law. And I do think this is an important message for all of us, and especially teenagers, to hear: skate up to the line enough times, and you are likely to cross it eventually. If you care about something, caution can be your friend.
But this message about the value of “fences” has its own limits. Caution can be good, but hesitation and reactionary aversion to change or risk can also hold us back from real, meaningful achievements, in religion as in life. How can we know when to be cautious and when to forge ahead, when we cannot know with certainty the future effects of our choice? It is here that I think Mei HaShiloach’s teaching is instructive.
According to Mei HaShiloach, problematic fences are not only revealed to be problematic after the fact, when they have bad consequences. They are problematic in their creation, because they derive from a place of anxiety and alienation from God. This language gives more substance to the discussion of how to make hard decisions: Are you doing this because you believe it fulfills God’s role for you, or because you are looking for some structure to compensate for alienation from God? To quote Dr. Haym Soloveitchik, are you acting with the “touch of His presence,” or seeking the compensatory “solace of the pressure of His yoke?”3
This, of course, still doesn’t answer the question of what to do in any given case, but it provides a robust, Godcentered metric for thinking about it rather than a purely behavioristic one. Is the desire to add a stricture, to be “better safe than sorry” coming from a place of genuine attachment to the underlying commandment, and horror at even potentially violating it? Or is it coming from a place of insecurity or avoiding hard choices?
Hopefully, we have achieved some sense of alignment, some connection to our own shoresh and clarity about our purpose since Elul. As we close off the fall holidays and return to our routines, how do we carry that forward? Thinking of Chavah and the snake can provide one framework with which to interrogate our choices. If we find ourselves compensating for a lost connection by acting out of fear, may we merit to find a path back to alignment.
3 See his “Rupture and Reconstruction: The Transformation of Contemporary Orthodoxy,” Tradition 28, no. 4 (Summer 1994): 103.
