The Maggid of Bergenfield

Va'eira: A Plague Upon Your Classroom

Shemot: 7-9

Esther Weinblatt was one of the most creative teachers at the Nachmanides School, and she encouraged originality in all her third grade students. Every Friday a boy or girl in her class was chosen to give the dvar Torah on the weekly parsha, and the more imaginative the presentation, the better Mrs. Weinblatt liked it.

Rachel Gordon spoke about parshat Vayeshev while dressed in a multicolored ketonet hapasim that she had made herself with patches of felt. Zack Rosen expounded on Toledot while covered in some weird, thick, red hair-like substance that shed all over the classroom and the school maintenance crew was still cleaning up when the class was already learning about Vayechi. With the help of her father, Yafit Danishevsky told about Vayetzei while laying on the floor under a stepladder covered in angels (actually American Girl dolls with cellophane wings).

For parshat Va'eira, everyone in the class knew they were in for a treat. Noam Abrams was the featured Friday speaker-- he had requested this parsha months in advance-- and Noam was an amateur magician. What better Torah portion could there be for a magician than Va'eira? There were plagues galore. And from what Mrs. Weinblatt had heard, Noam was planning a serious show. It was his first performance in front of an audience larger than his parents, his little sister Avigayil, and his dog Charoset.

On the day of Noam's debut, the class finished davening , reviewed their Hebrew language homework, and then settled into their seats for the parshat hashavua extravaganza. Noam came out in a flowing white robe, presumably that of Moshe Rabbeinu, and a top hat. His friend Danny Werblowsky sat grandly, if somewhat stiffly, in Mrs. Weinblatt's chair wrapped in a blue sheet and wearing a crude gold headdress. Mrs. Weinblatt assumed he was to play Pharaoh.

Every great magician has to start somewhere. Harry Houdini did not dangle above his fourth grade class bound in chains and perform a death defying escape. Most likely little Harry began by pulling a coin from behind someone's ear. And David Copperfield probably thrilled his grade school peers with a long length of streamers that he pulled from his mouth (which he had ordered from an advertisement he saw in the back of a magazine). Sawing a woman in half was still years in the future.

Noam Abrams was not yet where they began, not even close. But we all have to start somewhere.

A hush fell over the classroom as Noam waved the arms of his flowing robe and began speaking with a flourish.

"Pharaoh," Noam said, "I am Moshe. Let my people go."

"No, no, no, I will not let them go," Danny retorted.

Noam stared at Danny, waiting for his next line, but it was not forthcoming.

"Perhaps you want a sign that Hashem is all powerful," Noam said.

"Yes, yes," Danny agreed. "Show me a sign that your god is powerful."

Noam reached into his sleeve and pulled out his magic wand.

"Behold," Noam said. He struck the solid wand against Mrs. Weinblatt's desk and it became rubbery. "My staff has become a tanin, a snake.

The class clapped, and Noam bowed subtley.

"Very nice," Danny said dismissively, "but I still won't let your people go."

It was then that Noam's art of prestidigitation began to unravel.

"If you do not let my people go, I will unleash a plague upon all of Egypt."

Noam reached for a cup of water that was on the desk, but he was so nervous it slipped from his hands and spilled across the table top. Mrs. Weinblatt was quick to clean up the puddle with paper towels, and she quickly dispatched Rivka Barsky to refill the cup.

"As I was saying," Noam continued in true show business form (never let them see you sweat), "I will unleash a plague upon your people." Noam produced a small pill from his ample sleeve and dropped it into the glass of water, which promptly turned red, if you looked at it real hard and from just the right angle.

Wild applause from the crowd.

"Blood!" Danny said. "Impressive trick, but I still won't let your people go. Ha, ha, ha!" he cackled gleefully.

"Oh really?" Noam made a sweeping motion with his hand, and a bevy of ping pong balls came flying out. From the look on Noam's face, Mrs. Weinblatt surmised that this trick was not scripted-- clearly the hail had arrived too early. As Noam leaned forward to pick up the balls, his top hat flew from his head, causing a large green frog to leap forward from his chapeau and jump toward Rachel Gordon, who appeared less than pleased. Noam stopped chasing the ping pong balls and went after the frog.

Mrs. Weinblatt decided to intervene before the inevitable lice made their appearance.

"That was wonderful, Noam," she said. "Let's have a round of applause for Noam and Danny."

"But I'm not done," Noam said, having retrieved his frog and replaced his tophat on his head. "I still have the wild beasts, and the boils."

"No, that's O.K. I think we get it, Noam."

"But--"

"You know, Noam, Hashem created the makot, the plagues, because the Egyptians needed to learn about His strength  in order to agree to release their Jewish slaves. Also, the Israelites were on such a low level spiritually after their many years of slavery that they needed miracles to help them believe. But we have the Torah to guide us. We don't need miracles to help us believe in Hashem.

"Our forefathers and foremothers, Avraham, Yitchak, and Yakov, Sarah, Rivka, Rachel, and Leah, had nothing like the plagues or the splitting of the sea to help them believe. They just had their pure, simple faith.

"So your demonstrations of the plagues were very impressive, and I'm sure the other tricks you had in store for the class would also have been awe inspiring, but I think we'll just rely on our emunah and our learning of the Torah to move us forward, and leave it at that."

And so Noam took one final bow and collected all his magical paraphernalia. He wanted Danny to shut off all the lights in the classroom so that he could vanish in a final moment of mystery, but Mrs.Weinblatt vetoed his dramatic exit. She still had lots to teach that day.

And besides, makat choshech, the plague of darkness wasn't until Bo, the next week's parsha. And that had to be saved for Michael Ehrlich's presentation on the following Friday.

Shemot: Do the Clothes Really Make the Man?

Shemot: 3:5

Apparently, the whole issue came up because of Nachshon Reichel's toes.

There were those who had always felt there should be a dress code at Congregation B'nai Joshua, to maintain the decorum of the services, but things really came to a boil that fateful shabbat in August. Reuven Gross brought his Israeli son-in-law to shul with his grandchildren. Reuven was as proud as a peacock to show them off to all his friends in the congregation--three little girls with curly blonde hair and beautiful new matching dresses their Savta had bought them at Macy's (pink and white checkered jumpers with eyelet lace trim).

Everyone came over to ooh and ahh over the girls (Ayelet, Rivkah, and Shachar). They were beautiful, and in this small, close knit community, Reuven's granddaughters were like mishpocha to everyone there. Although the proud Saba was trying in earnest to daven, he had no problem pausing on occasion to beam and show them off. And their Israeli accents were a wonder for all the congregants at B'nai Joshua, for whom a heavy Jersey accent was the norm ("For breakfast I had some cawfee and ate some chawcalate cake").

It was naturally assumed that Reuven's son-in-law Nachshon would get an aliyah to the Torah. He was an honored guest and a talmid chacham as well. He would probably be asked to read the Haftarah, and if Rabbi Zuckerman had known he was coming, he might have asked Nachshon to give the weekly drasha.

There was just one problem. Nachshon wore no tie. He wore no suit or sport jacket. Truth be told, Nachshon wore no socks. He was dressed like an Israeli, for whom a white button-down shirt and a blue pair of slacks , with sandalim, was perfectly acceptable shabbat dress.

But in Congregation B'nai Joshua, that simply wouldn't do.

Irv Greenfeld went to consult the Rabbi.

"Rabbi," Irv whispered.

"Hmm?"

"What should we do with Reuven's son-in-law?"

"How do you mean, Irv?"

"Should we give him a kibbud?"

"Yes, Irv, by all means."

"But, Rabbi, look at him."

The old rabbi leaned over and took a long, hard look at the tall, young Sabra with his youthful good looks and his full head of curly hair.

"Irv, if given the choice between looking like him and looking like me..."

"I understand, Rabbi," Irv said, for he was not without a sense of humor.

"Give him Maftir."

"But--"

"Relax, Irv, it'll be fine."

THe gabbai shrugged and gave Irv the aliyah, much to the chagrin of some of the congregants.

The synagogue board meeting was two weeks later, on a Monday night (it was usually held on Sunday night, but they didn't want to conflict with the sisterhood bingo event). The meeting was usually open to all congregants-- not that anyone attended who didn't have to-- but this week, due to the sensitivity of the dress code subject, it was a closed meeting.

The president of the synagogue, Ronny Perlstein, called the meeting to order. Most of the board was in attendance, as was Rabbi Zuckerman. Normally, the Rabbi sat listening silently at the end of the table, as if in a trance, speaking only when spoken to. It was a technique he had mastered over forty years of shul board meetings. He could recall when Ronny's father, Carl, had been synagogue president in the early days of the community. The board had been no less unruly then.

Ronny called the meeting to order. First they reviewed the High Holy Day seating. Then they debated the fee that should be charged for the weekly kiddush (with and without alcoholic refreshments). They next decided to table the issue of repairs to the Bridal Suite (the closet adjacent to the women's bathroom) until the next meeting.Then they settled down to discuss the dress code.

Ronny started off the discussion. "Now we need to discuss our synagogue's decorum. I think it's disgraceful that people come to shul dressed any which way that they please. We need to have standards. This is a makom tefillah, not a bus station."

"Here, here," Dave Sternbach, the Treasurer chimed in.

"I say we set strict standards for dress in B'nai Joshua. For weekday prayer, I suggest that men must wear shirts with collars, long pants (not sweat pants),and shoes with socks. "

Everyone avoided eye contact with the Recording Secretary, Reuven Gross.

"In addition, on shabbat I think men should be expected to wear a dress suit, or a jacket and pants, and a dress shirt. sandals and sneakers are not acceptable."

"What about a tie?" Dave asked. "Shouldn't the men be required to wear a tie?"

"I think it would certainly be more appropriate," Ronny said, "and of course I would recommend it, but I'm not sure that can be enforced."

"What about when a guest comes for shabbat?" Shmuel Veiner, the Vice President, asked. "Must they be expected to conform to our dress code, even if they didn't know it before they came to visit?"

"We can provide sport coats for visitors," Dave suggested.

"And I'm sure we can exercise some leniency when it comes to our guests," Ronny said. "Our gabbayim will have the discretion to give a kibbud to a guest who doesn't adhere to the letter of the policy but is still dressed in a dignified manner."

"That's crazy," Reuven Gross said. "The whole thing is crazy. Won't we be excluding anyone from outside our community that somehow wanders into our shul to daven with us? And won't we be alienating guests who follow a more casual guideline or are from a less formal community? How about ba'alei teshuva who are new to all this? Haven't any of you been to an NCSY shabbaton or a kiruv event where those who are uninitiated in our customs walked in with sneakers and jeans, not knowing any differently?"

"Again, the gabbai can exercise his judgement," Ronny said. "We're not crazy, you know."

Reuven muttered something under his breath which the rest of the board either couldn't hear or chose to ignore.

"How about women's dress?' Dave asked.

"Let's table that for another meeting. Perhaps one where all our female board members attend."

"We've lived for forty years as a community without a strict dress code," Naomi Petrovich, the Financial Secretary said, "why should we start now?"

"I just think the time is right," Ronny said.

Ronny turned and looked across the table at Rabbi Zuckerman. "Rabbi, the board would be very interested in hearing your thoughts on this matter. What do you think?"

Rabbi Zuckerman smiled benevolently at his congregants.

"You know, Ronny, I remember when your father, alav hashalom, was president of B'nai Joshua. He was a great leader."

"Yes," Ronny agreed, "and a wonderful dad."

"He was also a very formal man. You would never see him without a jacket and tie, and I can never recall seeing him with a hair out of place."

"That's true."

"I can recall one time when he rushed straight from a pool party when he was called to help make a minyan because we were one man short. I think he actually arrived in Bermuda shorts and flip flops, because it was all he had with him. But he was the tenth man, and without him, Sid Lefkowitz wouldn't have been able to say Kaddish."

"My father was a great man," Ronny said fondly, "but those were different times."

"I suppose," Rabbi Zuckerman said, "Still, while you were all speaking, I was thinking about a pasuk in parshat Shemot."

"What pasuk is that, Rabbi?" Dave asked.

"Glad you asked, Dave." (Every rabbi should have a straight man) It is where Moshe goes to look at the sneh, the burning bush. Hashem speaks to him and says: Al tikrav halom, shal na'alecha meyal raglecha ki hamakom asher atah omed alav admat kodesh hu. He said: Do not come closer to here, remove your shoes from your feet, for the place upon which you stand is holy ground.

"Hashem had Moshe take off his shoes because of an issue of kedusha, holiness. Moshe wasn't wearing a suit or tie, and I'm relatively certain he didn't even own socks. So I suppose the formal dress isn't a prerequisite for communicating with Hashem.

"Now I know that you all want to institute this dress code because you're concerned about maintaining kavod hatefila, respect for the prayer service, but in a community where we have so much to work on, I think we can tone it down a little bit, here.

"Let's work on being mekarev those outside our community. Let's work on social action and collecting more tzedakah. Let's get more people to attend our daily minyanim. And let's lead by example and dress appropriately ourselves. But I think we can go without an official dress code for now."

And so, the item was tabled without a vote. The dress code remained unofficial. And three weeks later, when a man walked off the street on shabbat in jeans and a teeshirt in order to get an aliyah and name his newborn daughter, Ronny Perlstein gave him the jacket off his back, Dave Sternbach gave him his tallit, and Irv Greenfeld gave him an aliyah and announced the name of the baby while everyone shouted mazel tov.

Rabbi Zuckerman had never been prouder of his congregants than at that moment.

   

Shemot: Snakes in the Basement

Shemot: 4: 4

For as long as he could remember he hated snakes.

Josh couldn't recall when his aversion first began. Was it during one of his visits to the Bergen County Zoo as a small child, when he first laid eyes on Peter, the resident Indonesian Python? Or was it during some scary nature film he saw in third grade about boa constrictors? Maybe it was more primevil; maybe he just naturally hated them. After all, after the sin with Chava, the snake, and the Etz Hada'at, the Tree of Knowledge, in parshat Bereishit-- you know, the whole apple eating thing-- Hashem declared that man and snake would be natural enemies. Hu yeshufcha rosh, ve'ata teshufena akeiv, He will pound your head, and you will bite his heel.

Whatever the cause, he just didn't like snakes.

His children loved to torture him with his ophidiophobia. Any picture of a viper or serpent in National Geographic was sure to be produced for his perusal. Josh would smile politely, pretending it didn't bother him, but it did. Once they brought him to see a movie called Snakes on a Plane. Josh left in the middle with chest pain. When his family rented the film Anaconda, he made sure he had an urgent business meeting he needed to attend.

When his son Yerucham had his seven year birthday party, Josh didn't think much about it when his wife Linda booked Larry the Lizard Guy as the enertainment. After all, he didn't have herpetophobia, a fear of all reptiles, just the slimey, ground slithering kind. Besides, he could always hide upstairs while the performance went on, worrying about putting the presents in a neat pile and making sure the pizzas were delivered. Seven year olds can get very hungry.

Josh answered the door when Larry arrived. He seemed like a nice enough guy, and he had a very firm handshake-- Josh liked that. Larry wore a khaki safari vest, with lots of pockets, like crocodile hunters wore on the Nature Channel. And to top off the look, he had on an Australian bush hat. If not for the Chevrolet Malibu Larry drove (with New Jersey plates), he might have come straight from the jungle. His heavy Brooklyn accent didn't help the image much, either.

Larry carried two large crates in his hands. Josh directed him toward the basement, where the party was in full swing. Normally he would have played the helpful host and offered to help Larry with his bags, but Larry seemed to have them well in hand; and besides, they might contain, well you know.

He tried to stay upstairs during Larry's performance, but he could hear the laughter and gasps of amazement coming up the basement stairs. Surely it wouldn't hurt if he took a small peek.

When Josh descended the stairs and looked around the corner of the landing, Larry had Yerucham holding a large iguana. It was a beautiful lizard, green and blue, with a certain prehistoric majesty. Another child, a little girl with long braids, was holding some sort of red tree frog in a small plastic case. It all seemed harmless enough. Josh sat down tentatively at the bottom of the stairs.

The next thing Josh knew Larry had asked for a volunteer. He was relatively certain he had not raised his hand, but he was chosen nonetheless.

Josh sat in the chair in front of the children waiting for his lizard. What would it be, a gecko? a tegu? a bearded dragon, perhaps? Please let it be a cute little reptile with legs...

"Thamnopis sirtalis,the common garter snake, can grow from eighteen to forty-eight inches long," Larry said. The snake that Larry pulled from his satchel was probably no more than two feet in length, but to Josh it seemed like the longest anaconda that human eyes had ever beheld.

"Now I'm just going to sling this around your father's neck, Yerucham, and he'll have himself one fine snake skin necklace."

There are mongooses in the Indian subcontinent who would have been impressed with the speed at which Josh Sternhagen bolted out of that chair.

"Sorry, no snakes," Josh said breathlessly.

"Aw, come on, Dad, be a sport," Larry implored.

"Definitely not."

Linda Sternhagen stared at her husband in disappointment. "Come on , Josh, do it for the kids." Josh refused to make eye contact with his wife.

"Josh, I understand your fear of snakes," Larry said. "It's perfectly natural."

"Thank you," Josh said, relieved that Larry was going to let him off the hook.

"But you know, there are many famous people who overcame their dislike of snakes and rose to greatness."

"Really? Like who?"

"Well, for example, Moshe Rabbeinu, our leader Moses, the greatest prophet of all time,was not much of a snake person. In parshat Shemot, when G-d has him throw down his staff and it becomes a snake, do you know what he did?"

"No, Larry, what did he do?" one of the seven-year-olds called out.

"The Torah says Vayanas Moshe mipanav, Moshe fled from the snake. He was freaked out, much like you were. But Moshe got over his fear, and he eventually threw his staff down in front of Pharoah, and it became a snake. And not just any snake, but a seriously wicked looking snake that ate the snakes of all the Egyptian sorcerers."

"Oooooh," Yerucham and his friends said.

"Moshe overcame his fear because he knew the Jewish people were counting on him," Larry said. "He became courageous because he had to. I'm sure it wasn't easy for him."

"I see your point," Josh said.

"And not only that," Larry added, "but he also helped start the plagues of frogs, lice, and wild beasts. Now that couldn't have been much fun for a guy who was scared of a little snake. Wouldn't you agree, Josh?"

"I suppose."

"So whadya say? Will you wear the snake for Yerucham and his friends?"

Josh swallowed hard. "Sure, Larry, that would be terrific."

Larry draped the garter snake around Josh's neck. Josh could feel the sweat gathering on the back of his neck and under his arms, but he was a dutiful father.

Linda snapped many pictures.

And so Josh overcame his fear of snakes for a day, and Yerucham had a wonderful party. Larry received a generous tip, both because the kids had a great time and because he had managed to slip a dvar Torah into his act. Linda uploaded the pictures of Josh and the snake onto her computer and sent them to everyone she knew, especially Josh's parents and siblings. Josh went for a long drive after the party and then took a long shower. A very long shower.  

Yom Kippur: The Moon, The Angels, and Manischewitz Wine

I have to tell you about something really weird that happened to me on Yom Kippur. I mean, like really weird.

I had first started fasting when I was six years old. The first year I skipped my snack before bed, which is kind of hard when you're six. I think I broke down and had a little snack-- maybe a few grapes. At eight I skipped breakfast, and last year I made it all the way to the middle of the afternoon before I went home and had a bowl of Cheerios.

This year I decided that I was going to fast the whole Yom Kippur. I mean , I'm having my Bat Mitzvah next year, so I'm going to have to fast then anyway. And my teacher, Rabbi Katz, told us that we should try to if we could. So I figured I would give it a shot.

The night was totally easy. Even until lunch I think I was doing O.K. But in the middle of the afternoon I started feeling hungry. And thirsty, really thirsty. And a little weak. During the afternnon break from the davening I went home with my Mom and we played Chinese Checkers and Life. That kind of took my mind off of how hungry I was. But then we went back to shul for Mincha, and I really started to feel weak. My stomach felt like it had a hole in it. I didn't know why, but I started having a craving for a Devil Dog. I don't even like Devil Dogs so much, but at that moment , it was all I could think about. That didn't really help the whole hungry thing.

I thought about stopping my fast. I knew that the children's group leaders had food for anyone who wanted downstairs in the synagogue social hall. A nice oatmeal cookie or a cold glass of apple juice was sounding pretty good right about then, but I decided to tough it out. I even stood for most of Ne-ila, even though I was feeling pretty weak.

My father told me I was looking "a little green around the gills"-- whatever that means-- but I made it. I fasted the whole Yom Kippur for the first time ever. It kind of felt good.

That's when I made my big mistake. I know, you're going to think I'm a big dope. But at that moment it didn't seem like such a bad idea.

So like I already told you, I was really hungry. And really thirsty. The chazan was making havdalah, and suddenly I developed a strong urge to drink some of the grape juice from his kiddush cup. It was the first chance I had to drink something, and I planned to take it.  And I love grape juice. So sweet, so wet, so purple, so delicious.

I snuck into the men's section of the shul while all the men were putting away their kituls and folding their talleisim, and right after the chazan finished havdalah I grabbed the silver cup. I drank the whole thing in like one gulp. It was definitely wet and purple, but it wasn't so sweet, and it definitely wasn't delicious.

O.K., so I guess you already figured it out. It wasn't grape juice. It was Manischewitz Extra Heavy Malaga. Nasty stuff. But it was too late to do anything about it. I had drunk the entire cup of wine. And on an empty stomach, no less. Major league bummer.

At first my stomach started to burn. Then I felt a little nauseous. Then the dizziness set in. But even though my father suggested I should, I did not vomit. I just didn't want to. It's just too gross for words. I was determined to keep the wine down. As much as I wasn't enjoying what I was feeling, I knew I would like the vomiting even less.

We all piled into the car to go home, me, my Dad, my Mom, and my brother Simon. And that's when things got really weird.

I was sitting in the back seat of my Dad's car with my head back, looking out the rear window. and that's when I saw it. It only lasted a moment, but that was enough.

For just a second, while I was staring up at the night sky, I could swear I saw, by the light of the moon, a group of angels going up to heaven. It was as clear to me as anything I've ever seen, and it was amazing. They were going up in the sky, wings and all. I thinked I actually gasped.

My mother asked me if I was O.K., and I tried to describe to her what I had seen, but she just smiled at me like I was being silly. My brother suggested that it was the wine talking and that all I was describing was a reflection of the moon's light in a thin cloud cover. But I know the truth.

Rabbi Katz told our class that at the very end of Yom Kippur, when the shofar is sounded, that moment is the closest Hashem comes to the Jewish people. G-d is right there in the room with us, and that shofar blast symbolizes G-d's presence nearby.

I guess what I saw was Hashem's angels packing up and going back to the heavens after judging the Jewish people for those Ten Days of Repentance from Rosh Hashana to Yom Kippur. They were going back to their base for a well earned vacation. That's the best explanation I can come up with.

The rest of the night was spent eating with my family. When we got home I had a bowl of mushroom barley soup , a glass of orange juice, and a bagel with lox. My nausea and dizziness were gone in a few minutes, but my angelic vision stayed with me for much longer.

I can't say I'm a changed person because of what I saw. I still go to school and hang with my friends pretty much like I did before. Let me just say that next year, I'm definitely going to take the end of Yom Kippur much more seriously.

Oh, and I'll never drink wine again. Ever.

A Personal Note

Dear Maggid readers,

The Maggid will be on a brief hiatus as he tends to personal and professional matters that require his attention. All is well in the house of the Maggid of B, but after a full year of stories, there are things that require a bit of the Maggid's personal time (including recertifying for his medical boards). What, you think that maggidim don't have families? Show a bissle rachmonis.

I'll still try to sneak in a story now and then, but the regular flow will have to ebb for a while.

Thank you for your queries during the last few weeks. It was much appreciated.

We'll be back soon. Until then, try to make up a few Torah stories of your own. Go ahead, it's not so hard. And who knows, you might find out it's fun.

All the best, Larry (The Maggid of B)

Yom Kippur: Stand By Your Dad

Jonathan Segal had been sitting next to his father in shul on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur for as long as he could remember. When he was a young boy, he would attend Congregation Sha'arei Torah's youth services on most of the shabbatot and holidays of the year, so he could hang out with his friends, but on the High Holy Days he was right by his father's side. After he became a bar mitzvah, Jonathan started to go to another minyan in the shul, but he always returned to the main service and his father when Tishrei came around. They sat in the same seats every year, just to the left of the bimah. His father Aaron always joked that if they ever sat anywhere else, G-d would say, "Hey, where's the Segals?"

After Jonathan married Chavi, they still travelled from Manhattan every year to be in West Orange with his parents on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. Aaron would drive all the way into the city, braving the traffic on the Henry Hudson Parkway to pick them up, since the younger Segals didn't have a car. Then he would drive them back in to the Upper West Side after havdalah. Jonathan's mother Ruth had the whole holiday prepared before they got there; the table was set, the beds were all made, and all the elaborate yom tov meals were prepared. All Jonathan and Chavi had to do was show up.

When Jonathan's son Jonah became old enough to sit for davening, Aaron bought him a seat, too. Jonah would drift in and out of the sanctuary, like Jonathan did as a child, hiding in the coat room or running around the social hall when he got bored, but he stayed in for the service as much as he could.

As the years passed, it became hard for the senior Segals to host for the Yamim Noraim. Aaron developed trouble walking, and he got tired easily. Ruth struggled with the elaborate preparations (it's hard to lift a twenty-five pound turkey when you have arthritis). Eventually it was decided that it would be easier if the High Holies were celebrated at Jonathan and Chavi's.

By then Jonathan and Chavi had purchased a small house in Livingston, just a few miles from his parents. It was a little snug to fit everyone, but they knew they would find a way. Ruth and Aaron were gracious guests and acted like their son's small split level house was the Taj Mahal. Chavi cooked up a storm, and Ruth oohed and aahed over every dish she prepared.

It just wasn't the same for Aaron, davening in another shul for Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur for  the first time in over fifty years. He had become accustomed to the chazanim at Sha'arei Torah and  their established tunes for various tefillot, and it was hard to adjust to anything new. Still, he tried to make the best of it.

Jonathan stood between his father and his son during Yom Kippur davening that year, proud to be hosting his parents for the first time and glad that they were all still together for the holiday. Over the last few years he had assumed the role of helper for his father, assisting him with his tallit when it fell off his shoulder, then helping him stand and sit for parts of the service when it became necessary. Eventually, Aaron couldn't manage the walk to shul himself , so Jonathan pushed him in a wheelchair. But despite the effort, it felt good to have his father there. Three generations of Segals sat together in prayer. Jonathan just hoped G-d could find them in their new seats.

It was Musaf, and the chazan was singing unetaneh tokef, one of the most intense prayers of the Yom Kippur service. Jonathan looked down into his machzor and read the words.

Berosh Hashana yikateivun

Uveyom Tsom Kippur yechateimun.

On Rosh Hashana will be inscribed

And on Yom Kippur will be sealed.

Kama ya'avrun vekama yibareyun

How many will pass from the world, and how many will be created.

Mi yichyeh umi yamut

Who will live and who will die.

Positioned between his father and his son in the sanctuary filled with congregants in hushed silence, Jonathan could feel the tears well up in his eyes. This prayer always did that to him.

Jonathan looked out across the shul and watched Marty Greenberg's son Reuven playing with action figures under his father's seat. Wasn't it just yesterday that it was him playing in shul, hiding a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his father's tallit bag so he could break his fast as soon as his dad gave the O.K.?

Jonathan felt his tallit slip from his shoulder, but before he could replace it, Jonah had put it back in its place.

Jonathan smiled.

Rosh Hashana: Tipping the Scales

Once in the town of Leonia there lived a simple, righteous man named Manny and his not so simple righteous wife named Rivka. Manny and Rivka had been married for many years. He was a telephone repairman for Verizon, and she stayed home and took care of their seven children.

Every day, before Manny left his house to tend to the telecommunications needs of northern New Jersey, after he had davened and had breakfast, he would weigh himself on the bathroom scale. This may seem like a strange daily tradition, but Manny spent all day going up and down on a small, one man cherry picker attached to a Verizon service truck, and the device had a two hundred pound weight limit. If your job depended on being thin, your weight would be important to you, too. Every day he was between one hundred and seventy and one hundred and seventy five pounds. Satisfied with this number, Manny would leave for his task of keeping the Garden State connected.

One Monday in early Tishrei, just a few days after Rosh Hashana, Manny attended a retirement party for his coworker Irving. It was a big bash at Fress Express, a local deli, and in the spirit of the party, Manny indulged himself just a bit. He ate a big bowl of mushroom barley soup, a hefty pastrami sandwich with liverwurst, and a generous helping of mashed potatoes with gravy. It had all been delicious, but after partaking of so much of Rivka's delicious food on Rosh Hashana just a few days earlier and now splurging at the party, Manny worried that maybe he had overdone it a bit.

When he got home from work, Manny went straight to the bathroom and stood on the scale. Much to his surprise, he was one hundred and ninety two pounds. He was flabbergasted. How could he have gained so much so quickly?

Manny rushed out to Rivka in the living room and told her his predicament. Clearly he was perplexed.

Rivka scrutinized her husband and saw the problem immediately. Every day when Manny weighed himself before he left for work,he was wearing his Verizon uniform, but his heavy utility belt, filled with all his telephone gear, was still hanging on a peg by the front door. But when he weighed himself now, just after returning from work, he was still wearing all his tools around his waist.

"Manny, my love, father of my children, I suspect your weight problem has nothing to do with what you ate today, or even what you ate on yom tov," Rivka said.

"Really?" Manny said, "then what could it possibly be?"

"To be honest with you, I think it's a teshuva issue," Rivka said. " You know how aveirot, sins, can weigh heavily on your soul, and how on the days between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur you are judged by Hashem as if your good deeds and bad deeds from the year are balanced on a scale?"

"Yes, yes?" Manny said.

"Well maybe this is Hashem's way of telling you that your sins are weighing you down. Maybe you need to do better teshuva, repentance, before the Book of Life is closed on Yom Kippur."

Manny thought about what Rivka said and realized that of course she was right. His weight gain was clearly from bad spiritual baggage that he was carrying around. He decided to work on bettering his repentance immediately. Rivka convinced him that until Yom Kippur, instead of weighing himself each morning, Manny would work on his teshuva all day, and then in the evening, upon returning from his job, he would get on the scale in front  of Rivka to gauge his success.

On Tuesday morning Manny woke up determined to work on the mitzvah of tzedakah.While he was at morning minyan, Rivka went to his Verizon utility belt, removed his handset amplifier, and hid it in the garage, behind the bicycle helmets. Manny returned from davening, had breakfast with Rivka and the kids, and left for work. The whole day he tried to be charitable. He mailed a check to the local foodbank. He bought a homeless man in Hackensack some lunch. He paid his Kol Nidrei appeal to his shul. He couldn't find his handset amplifier on his belt when he needed it, but he assumed he had left it in a different Verizon truck the day before.

When he returned home he got on the scale, and much to his great pleasure, he was down to one hundred and eighty nine pounds.

"You see?" Rivka said, "Your load is lighter already."

On Wednesday, Manny chose to work on loshon hara, not speaking badly of others. Rivka pulled the telephone line simulator from his belt while he was in the shower. All day Manny tried to guard his tongue, and of course it paid off. When he returned from work he was down to one-eighty-six.

Thursday was honoring your parents day for Manny. He had lunch with his folks and helped them with chores around their house. That was a big mitzvah, so Rivka removed Manny's radio frequency eliminater filter, which was rather heavy. By nightfall he had reached one hundred and eighty two pounds.

Friday was Erev Yom Kippur. Feeling the need for teshuva strongly, Manny pulled out all the stops. He asked for mechila, forgiveness, from everyone he knew. He asked Rivka, his children, his friends, and all his coworkers--especially for borrowing their tools the whole week. Rivka knew this was very important to her husband, so while he was shaving she removed from his belt his long loop adapter, his modulator exclusion privacy adapter, and his TKM-6 transfer switches. When Manny returned from work early, allowing himself enough time to go to the mikveh before yom tov, he got on the scale, and much to his surprise he was down to one hundred and seventy seven pounds.

Rivka thought Manny would be elated, but he only offered a half-smile.

"What's wrong, bubbe?" Rivka asked.

"I've tried so hard," Manny said,"and I'm still a few pounds above my regular weight. There must still be sins I haven't atoned for. What more can I do?"

Rivka smiled at her husband. "Don't worry, sweetie. Go to the mikveh, and when you come back, I can almost guarantee you'll be back to your usual weight."

"How can you be so sure?" Manny asked.

"You have a pure and beautiful neshama, Manny. Trust me."

Manny took off his work clothes, hung his belt on the peg by the front door, and went off to the mikveh. Rivka placed all his tools back on his belt and waited for his return.

Sure enough, when he got back to his house, Manny stepped onto the scale and he weighed one hundred and sixty nine pounds, even less than usual. Manny was elated.

"Baruch Hashem," he said.

"What did I tell you?" Rivka said.

"Now I really need to make my teshuva complete on Yom Kippur," Manny said.

"Why's that, honey?"

"I've always wanted to get back to one-sixty," Manny said, "like the day we were married."

"Manny," Rivka said, "I think you're perfect just the way you are."

Elul: For Whom the Shofar Blows

This story is in honor of Michael Dovid ben Reizel, who, as long as I've known him, has been an excellent minyan goer. Refuah sheleima, Michael.

Neil Jacobson didn't make it to morning minyan as often as he would like. Sometimes his wife needed help getting all the kids ready for school. Other times someone needed some last minute help on a class project before getting on the big yellow bus. And yet other times Neil was simply lazy and slept late, with no compelling reason for missing davening other than being a slacker. Whatever the case, Neil's minyan attendance record left something to be desired, and he often put on his tefillin and davened shacharit at home in his living room.

One partly cloudy Monday morning, Neil awoke bright and early with no children pulling at his pajamas and realized that, all factors considered, there was no reason why he couldn't make it to the morning minyan at shul. He showered, shaved, read the morning newspaper for a few minutes, and went to 6:30 minyan. He was even early, something nearly unprecedented in his thirty-five years on the face of the planet Earth. Neil looked over at Rabbi Goldstein--who was midway through putting on his tefillin when Neil came in--and actually thought the rabbi smiled at him in approval. It was starting out to be a good day.

The early morning sun shone through the stained glass window above the Aron Kodesh and cast red, orange, and purple light onto Neil's seat. It inspired him and caused him to focus more on his prayers. He was even given pesicha by the gabai for taking the Torah out for laining.

At the end of davening, Neil started to take his tefillin off after Aleinu and before the shir shel yom. He had just unwound the strap on his hand and was ready for his tefillin shel rosh when a loud sound erupted just behind his head. It was Mr. Rosenthal blowing the shofar, and if you were expecting his clear, loud tekiah blast, it was probably a beautiful thing, symbolic of the month of Elul and the countdown to Rosh Hashanah and all it represented. But if you hadn't been in shul for a few days and completely forgot that Elul had begun, the sound of the shofar directly behind your head--especially the way Gersh Rosenthal belts it out--might be a little jarring.

It would be kind to say that Neil gasped. Perhaps suggesting a yelp or a slight whoop or yawp would be preferable. But the truth is, Neil let out a scream. It wasn't so much a roller coaster scream as an "I just locked the keys in my car" shout. Still, it was more than one was accustomed to hearing in synagogue.

Some congregants tried to pretend it didn't happen. Others chuckled politely. But there was no way to take it back. Neil was mortified. He looked over at Rabbi Goldstein, but the rabbi seemed oblivious to his outcry and was looking down into his siddur, reciting leDavid Hashem Ori.

After the final Kaddish, Neil rushed over to the rabbi's seat in the front of the shul.

"Rabbi?"

"Oh, hi Neil. I didn't see you there."

"I just came over to apologize for my outburst earlier."

"Really? What outburst?" Neil studied the rabbi's face carefully, but the rabbi was no poker player. Clearly bluffing was not his strong suit.

"O.K., O.K., I heard you. I was just rying to let you off the hook," the rabbi admitted.

"Well, anyway, I'm very sorry. I just wasn't paying attention, and I forgot that the shofar blowing was coming. And that Gersh Rosenthal, he gave such a blast."

"Yes, he does have a good set of lungs," Rabbi Goldstein agreed. "Still, you have nothing to be ashamed of, Neil. As a matter of fact, I found your outburst rather inspiring."

"Rabbi, I know you always try to find the good in everything, but this time I have to admit I'm having trouble finding the positive in my synagogue scream."

"The sound of the shofar this time of year is thought to mean one of two things , Neil. It can be like the sound of crying, symbolizing a Jew struggling for repentance. But it can also be a clarion--a spirtual alarm clock of sorts--to wake us up to the need to repent for our sins.

"I would have to say that I've never seen anyone demonstrate the shofar blowing as a wake up call better than you did this morning, Neil. In fact, if you're not feeling the urgency of Elul now, you probably never will."

"Rabbi Goldstein, I think I can tell you with complete candor that I am definitely feeling it."

"That's good. Maybe when you come to minyan tomorrow you'll be better prepared."

"I guess so," Neil said, knowing he would be coming to morning minyan daily for quite some time. "Good one, Rabbi."

"What do you mean?" Rabbi Goldstein asked, looking Neil straight in the eye.

"Oh, nothing."

Neil realized that maybe he was wrong. Maybe Rabbi Goldstein would make a good poker player after all.

Nitzavim: The Spiritual Super Bowl

Ah, yes. There’s a subtle chill in the morning air. The school buses start to appear on your street corner. Suddenly, you find yourself thinking about… football. Yes, it’s true, the NFL season starts next week. Are you ready for some football? Sit back on your couch, pull up some chips and dip, and read.

Devarim 29:14

The synagogue super bowl party was one of Congregation B’nai Joshua’s premiere social events. Other than the High Holy Day services, it was perhaps the best attended function on the shul calendar. It was held at Melvin Schwartz’s house, both because he was a football fanatic and because he had the largest television (also, his wife Leslie made a nasty bean dip).

Usually the men huddled around the television screaming for their favorite team and ribbing fellow congregants if they were routing for the opposition (as this was central New Jersey, half of those present were New York Giants loyalists and the other half were Philadelphia Eagles adherents). The women normally went to another room in the house to discuss anything but football. The advertisements held as much interest as the game itself for most of the men watching, but since Rabbi Zuckerman was present, everyone tried—or at least pretended—to avert their eyes if an ad was too racy.

Instead of watching the halftime show, the television would be shut off, and everyone would gather together to hear a d’var Torah from the rabbi, known as the Halftime Chizuk. This gave the event some religious content. Also, the halftime show was usually not worth watching, what with its aging rock and roll performers and its wardrobe malfunctions.

Rabbi Bahar, the Assistant Rabbi at B’nai Joshua, excelled at the Halftime Chizuk. He knew his football, having grown up in Cleveland a rabid Browns fan, and he always managed to integrate a play from the game into his message. If the New England Patriots ran an efficient two minute drill before the half to score a touchdown (Super Bowl XXIX), it was somehow reminiscent of Joshua defeating the Canaanites. And if the Seattle Seahawks’ kicker shanked a field goal attempt under pressure (Super Bowl XL), it brought to mind the Philistines persecuting the Israelites in the time of the Shoftim, the judges. He always told the story like he was giving the play by play coverage of the Torah. Everyone loved it. Perhaps his crowning moment was his analogy between striving for personal perfection and the career of Peyton Manning, quarterback of the Indianapolis Colts (Super Bowl XLI).

This year Rabbi Bahar had to go back to Cleveland for a family simcha and was unavailable to give the Halftime Chizuk, so the honor fell to Rabbi Zuckerman, the Senior Rabbi of the synagogue. Though a warm and beloved community leader, Rabbi Zuckerman was not particularly athletically inclined. He normally avoided the television during the party and hung out near the chips and bean dip, guzzling from a bottle of root beer soda Leslie Schwartz had put out just for his consumption. But this year Rabbi Zuckerman was being called in for a substitution. He was off the sidelines and back on the gridiron. He was calling the plays in the huddle. You get the idea.

When halftime began, the shul president shut off the TV, as was the tradition, and everyone took a five minute bathroom break. Then all the partygoers gathered in the den for the Halftime Chizuk.

Rabbi Zuckerman stood before the crowd and smiled.

“It’s no secret to anyone in the room that I don’t know much about football. When I was a kid, back in Brooklyn, I used to play a mean game of stickball, but that was more than a few years ago.

“Now I know that Rabbi Bahar usually gives a d’var Torah filled with football imagery. I sat with him before he left for the Midwest, and he tried to teach me about first downs and forward passes, but it was no use. I just couldn’t get it. I even tried to throw the football, but it just kept slipping out of my hands. So here’s my take on the super bowl.

“Does anyone know how many people watch the super bowl every year?” the rabbi asked.

“A million!” Ben Zion Straub called out.

“That’s a little low,” the rabbi said.

“A gazillion,” Ezra Loring offered.

“I’m not exactly sure how much a gazillion is,” Rabbi Zuckerman said, “but I’d say that’s a little high.”

“A billion,” Shuli Mendel said.

“That’s pretty close, Shuli,” the rabbi said. “I read this morning that eight hundred million people worldwide are expected to watch the super bowl. Now that’s a lot of people.

‘Not only that,” Rabbi Zuckerman said, “but I read in the paper this morning that—“ the rabbi pulled a small notecard out of his pocket—“while watching the game, people are going to eat fourteen thousand tons of chips and eight million pounds of guacamole. And I’m sure that the dip numbers would be even higher if the most of the world had access to Mrs. Schwartz’s amazing bean dip.”

“Thanks, Rabbi.”

“Don’t mention it, Leslie. It’s really delicious.

“Anyway, as I was saying, can you imagine eight hundred million people watching one event! Are they really all football fans? Personally, I don’t think so. I think that watching this game gives all these people a sense of community. This whole super bowl thing kind of reminds me of a scene from the Torah, in the book of Devarim. Does anyone know what scene?

Silence.

The rabbi took advantage of the pause to take a sip of his root beer.

“Moshe Rabeinu gives his final address in front of the whole Jewish people, millions of them, and they’re all standing there in the desert, listening to him speak. There are old people there, who witnessed the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai, and young people who barely know of the miracles G-d performed in the wilderness, and they’re all there together. And Moshe’s telling them of their past and their future. It’s like a big, spiritual super bowl. Everyone was there as one community to hear his words, like the whole world watching one divinely inspired sporting event.

“But do you know what the difference is between the super bowl and Moshe’s final address to the Jewish people?”

Again an opportunity to take a sip of root beer, nice and cold.

“In Parshat Nitzavim, near the end of his speech, Moshe tells the Jewish people that he is speaking to: ki et asher yeshno po imanu omeid hayom lifnei Hashem Elokeinu vi-et asher enenu po imanu hayom.  With whoever is here, standing with us today before Hashem, our G-d, and whoever is not with us today. Who does Moshe mean by those who are not with us today? Any ideas?”

Quiet crowd.  More root beer.

“Rashi explains that this comment is intended to include future generations. Even future Jews are witnesses to what Moshe was telling the Israelites on that day.

“So the book of Devarim is even greater than the super bowl. The super bowl may bring together a billion people in the world in one shared experience,  but the Torah binds together the Jews of the desert generation and the Jews of all time. The covenant of the Torah includes all of us, even if we weren’t physically present at Sinai, we were there spiritually, and we accept the commandments as a nation. It makes us feel like we were there personally.”

Ben Zion Straub raised his hand.

“Yes, Ben Zion?”

“I guess that would be like watching a replay of the super bowl years later on ESPN. Like last week my Dad and I watched Super Bowl III, where the Jets dismantled the Colts, and even though I wasn’t born yet, I felt like I was at the game.”

The rabbi considered Ben Zion’s words for a moment.

“Gee, Ben Zion, I guess you’re right. The pasuk in Nitzavim is sort of like a game replayed on ESPN. That was very inciteful.”

“And I guess Moshe was the MVP,” Ezra Loring suggested.

Rabbi Zuckerman didn’t know what to say to that and smiled politely, sipping the last of his root beer from between his melting ice cubes.

And on that note the congregants dispersed to refill their plates and glasses before the second half began. Rabbi Zuckerman returned to the bean dip, and the women retreated once more to another room. And unlike in Devarim, where the Israelites stayed until the very end of Moshe’s oration, most of the party goers started heading home before the end of the third quarter, to tuck children into bed and get ready for work the next day. And many of the members of Congregation B’nai Joshua were among the one hundred and seventy-five thousand people who partook of antacids immediately after the game.

---

Ki Tavo: Time Out

Devarim: 28: 15-68, Vayikra: 26: 14-41

Judah Samuels never considered himself much of a disciplinarian. His wife Dina actually had used terms like “push over,”  “marshmallow,” and “cream puff” to describe his parenting skills. He was not the one to dispense the punishments in the Samuels house. In fact, the children knew to bypass their mother and go directly to their dad to ask for permission for any questionable activities. Judah was the one to allow the chocolate sandwiches for school lunches and the mud slide races in the backyard. The experiment in the bathtub using the entire bottle of Super Suds had also been on his watch (they found bubbles in the most unlikely places for days afterward).

So when behavioral problems started developing with the Samuels’ four-year-old son Daniel, Judah was not expected to be much help. Danny had not been considered an easy baby, and his reputation lived on into his toddler years. Danny, the apple of his parents’ eye, the youngest of the Samuels clan (and therefore the one who was expected to get away with murder), was not exactly a listener. No, he loved to test Judah and Dina’s tolerance. To a certain degree, a parent can pretend not to notice when a child pushes the outer limits of the mischief envelope. But things had started to go too far.

The straw that broke the camel’s back was when Danny started flushing things down the toilet. First toys such as Matchbox cars, Lego, and small action figures started vanishing. His sister Avigayil’s Polly Pockets started making their way down to Davey Jones’ locker at an alarming rate. Then toiletries began to get flushed. Toothbrushes, bars of soap, Q-tips, small medicine bottles—nothing was safe. But when Daniel Joshua Samuels discovered the joys of flushing entire toilet paper rolls, something had to give. The plumber had been to their home three times, and the Samuels’ patience was starting to wear thin.

One fine Sunday morning, when all the older Samuels children were out with their mother at a soccer game, Judah settled down with the New York Times Magazine to attack the crossword puzzle with nothing but a number two pencil and his steely mind. Danny was somewhere in the house playing, and Judah knew he should have checked on him. Mistakenly interpreting silence as the absence of misbehavior, Judah stuck to his puzzle. He was contemplating the five letters he needed for 13 Down (Mexican state east of Veracruz), when a strange rumbling could be felt shaking the house. If the Samuels family had lived in California, Judah’s apprehensions might have focused on an earthquake, but this being New Jersey, his thoughts turned elsewhere. Muttering under his breath, “Danny,” he dropped his magazine and ran for the stairs.

There was Danny, standing at the entrance to the master bathroom. His facial expression was one of wonder. He had shoved paper down the toilet before, but never with such an impressive result.

The only word that came to Judah’s mind was “geyser.” A large stream of water was rising from the toilet like some ancient geological phenomenon from Yellowstone National Park. It was quite impressive, and if the gusher hadn’t been in the process of turning his newly renovated bathroom into a swimming pool, Judah might have laughed with glee at the spectacle.

Instead, Judah Samuels raced into his bathroom and, braving the torrent of water, shut the valve at the base of the toilet. Judah’s wet hair was matted to his head, and his tee shirt and jeans felt cold against his body. He turned to his youngest son in amazement.

“Did you see that?” Danny said. “That was incredible.”

Something snapped inside Judah, something basic and primeval. He marched over to his son, grabbed him under his arms and carried him forcefully back to his room, dropping him on his bed.

“Danny, you—“

I cannot repeat what Judah said to his son, Suffice to say it was a loud, harsh rebuke that went on for quite some time. It was dark. It was scary. It had been bottled up inside of Judah, waiting for the right moment to burst free.

When he was done, Judah stormed out of Danny’s room and slammed the door, leaving his son in tears. In all his years as a parent he could not recall ever going off like that (though he had forgotten the time his son Yoni drew an impressive sketch of a dump truck on the living room wall in indelible marker). He tried to go back to his crossword puzzle (18 Down: Oriole Ripken), but he just couldn’t concentrate. Instead he stared blankly out the window.

Where did such anger come from? He was usually such a calm person, but he supposed everyone had his or her limits.

When Judah became a parent, fifteen years before, he thought he finally understood how G-d felt about man and about Israel. His entire school career in Jewish day schools he had been taught how Hashem was our father and we were His children, but Judah never understood what the rabbis meant until he saw how much he loved his own kids. Then he got it.

Now, sitting thirty feet across the house from his youngest child after having harangued him with a vehemence he didn’t even know he possessed, Judah thought that maybe he finally understood the tochachah, the curse that Moshe describes to the Jews in Parshat Ki Tavo and Parshat Bechukotai if they don’t follow G-d’s commandments. There is some really scary stuff described in those pesukim, plagues and pestilence, exile and humiliation. But only a parent could get that angry at his child, just as Judah did with his Danny a few minutes earlier.

Why was that?

G-d would forgive the Jews, just as he already forgiven Danny and regretted his uncharacteristic outburst. And Judah knew that in a few minutes he would go in and hug his son and tell him that he loved him. But first he had to let Danny sit for a few minutes and think about what he did wrong, maybe even regret his actions (though Judah seriously doubted it). Wasn’t that how Time Out worked?

Yes, the few minutes would allow both of them to cool down. And it would give him a chance to call the plumber. Judah thought he had the number on speed dial.

---

Ki Teyze: When Chezki Met Fayge

Devarim: 21: 1-15

Once in the town of Hoboken there lived a boy named Chezki who was bad at dating. It wasn’t so much that Chezki was bad at the dating process. He was handsome, he was charming, he was a good conversationalist, and he always found creative places to take his prospects. Women generally liked him. The problem was that he could never close the deal.

Anytime the situation started to get serious with a female, Chezki would always find fault with her and would end the relationship.

Frumit wasn’t smart enough.

Bracha laughed like a horse.

Yocheved slurped her soup.

Mushke wore too much makeup.

Chaya never wore makeup at all.

Gittel never stopped talking.

Shenshi barely spoke at all.

Chezki usually ended the relationship after three or four dates, much to the puzzlement of the women involved. They usually thought it had been going well. But since Chezki was charming and well spoken, his dates usually left with no hard feelings.

Chezki’s parents started to worry about his chances of ever getting married. It was true that his mother thought he was quite close to perfect and that perhaps there was no girl out there who could possibly be good enough for her Chezki, but still, he was twenty-four and still single. He clearly wasn’t getting any younger.

All this changed when Chezki met Fayge. They had been set up by Chezki’s cousin Shoshana Beyla. Shoshi guaranteed Chezki that her roommate Fayge was special, and from the moment they met at the Chinese restaurant Chezki knew Shoshi hadn’t lied.

Fayge had poise. She had personality. She had a good sense of humor. Her table manners were impeccable. She had a certain natural grace. She was drop dead gorgeous.

And therein lay the problem. She was just too beautiful. Chezki just couldn’t seem to get past her perfect appearance. He started to worry that maybe he only liked her for her looks. True, she had many other positive qualities. But maybe he couldn’t appreciate them because he was too dazzled by her beauty.

As the couple reached their fifth date, Chezki’s mother started to check out caterers and wedding halls. At other people’s smachot she started taking notes on the orchestras (Neshama had a nice lead singer, Negina had an excellent key board player, and Nashir had a drummer with a good beat and perfect hair). By the eighth date she had designed the invitations in her mind. Still, she could sense something was holding Chezki back.

“Nu, Chezki, what gives?” his mother asked him when she cornered him in the hallway one day. “When will we be hearing some besorot tovot, some good news , from you and Fayge? I’ve already picked out the plate I plan to break at the tena’im.”

“I don’t know, Ma,”Chezki said. “I think she’s just too pretty for someone like me. I’m not sure it’s going to work out.”

“Oh no, not this time!” Chezki’s mother bellowed. “This time we’re seeking professional help.”

Without further ado, Chezki was sent to consult the Chochom of Hasbrouk Heights. The Chochom was renowned for his great wisdom, especially in affairs of the heart. And although he was a man of few words (no one had ever seen him speak in public), many relationships had worked out for the better thanks to his sage advice.

Chezki rang the doorbell at the Chochom’s house, and his wife, the Chochoma, answered the door. She was a small woman, perhaps four-foot-eight in heels, but she had a strong voice, and her eyes had a certain spark. The Chochoma greeted Chezki warmly and escorted him to meet her husband.

The Chochom was sitting at the kitchen table studying the Talmud. He seemed to be a tall thin man, though it was hard to tell since he never stood up. He looked up and smiled at Chezki and then went back to his text. Chezki waited for him to speak, but he did not.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” the Chochoma asked.

“Thank you, that would be most kind,” Chezki said.

“Hershel, the usual?” she asked the Chochom.

The Chochom nodded in the affirmative.

Chezki listened to the clock tick on the wall until the tea was served. The Chochoma sat next to Chezki at the table .

“So, tell the Chochom your problem,” she said.

Chezki told his tale of woe to the Chocham. He spared no detail. The dates. The beauty. His hesitation. The Chocham continued to gaze at his Gemarah (Bava Batra).The Chochoma listened with rapt attention.

“The solution is simple,” the Chochoma said. “It’s so simple that I’ll tell you what to do and spare the Chochom the trouble. Is that O.K. with you, Hershel?”

The Chochom nodded again.

The Chochoma turned to Chezki and looked him in the eye. “You need to break the spell,” she said.

“What?” Chezki asked.

“You need to break the spell,” she repeated. You need to see this Fayge for who she truly is. No one is as beautiful as you seem to think this girl is. You have idealized her, and until you get over it, there’s no way for you to move on to the next phase of your relationship.”

“So then how do I break this spell?” Chezki asked.

“Well, it’s like the parsha of eyshet yefat to’ar in Parshat Ki Teyze. Surely you know the story,” the Chochoma said.

“Yes, yes,” Chezki said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “But how does that relate to Fayge?”

“When the Jews were in the desert, Moshe Rabeinu tells them that if they go out to war against another nation, and a nice Jewish boy sees among his captives a beautiful, not-so-Jewish girl, he must shave her head, let her nails grow and change her out of her attractive clothes and let her sit for a month before he can marry her.”

“Uh huh,” Chezki said.

“So that’s what you need to do. You need to see Fayge as a real person, not as some pretty bauble.”

“And how do I do that?”

“It’s easy,” the Chochoma said. “Go meet her mother.”

“Why?”

“Because in twenty years, that will be what Fayge looks like,” the Chochoma said. “That should sober you up.”

Thanking the Chochom for his wisdom and insight, Chezki finished his tea and went out to seek Fayge’s mother. A week later he returned to the Chochom for further counseling.

Once again the Chochom was immersed in his studies and the Chochoma acted as his mouthpiece.

“So what happened,?” she asked.

“It’s no good,” Chezki said. “The mother is as radiant as the morning sun. A true beauty. I see no end to my suffering.”

“You poor Bubbe,” the Chochoma said. “I guess we’ll have to go to Plan B. It’s not going to be pretty, but it usually does the trick.”

“I know I’m going to be sorry I asked, but what’s Plan B?” Chezki inquired.

“You need to take a friend that you trust and go to Fayge’s house early in the morning, earlier than she usually gets up. Then you must wake her and see what she looks like before she has had any time to prepare. I believe this knowledge will set you free and allow you to see this woman as she truly is. Don’t you think so, Hershel?”

Hershel nodded in agreement.

Chezki was apprehensive. The whole idea seemed far fetched, but if this was what the Chochom counseled, who was he to contradict such a wise man?

Chezki chose his friend Menachem to escort him on his early morning mission. (Menachem also had dating issues, but that is the subject best saved for another story.) They davened at a six AM minyan and then went to Fayge’s apartment before seven. She was not due to leave for work until eight-thirty, so Chezki figured they would definitely catch her unprepared.

He knocked on the door tentatively, but there was no response.

Menachem sighed. If this had to be done, it had to be done right. He leaned over and rang the bell.

It took more than a minute for anything to happen, but soon thereafter Chezki could hear someone starting to stir behind the door. Fayge and Shoshi appeared in robes wrapped over their pajamas. There was no question that they were unprepared for visitors.

“Chezki, what a surprise,” Fayge said, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

“Hi.”

“To what do I owe this early morning pleasure?”

“Yes, do explain,” Shoshi added.

“I was just in your neighborhood with my friend Menachem , and I was thinking maybe you would want to catch a bite tonight at the new deli in West Orange.”

“Uh, sure, Chezki, that sounds fine,” Fayge said, a bit confused. “Why don’t you call me later?” And she ever so politely closed the door in his face.

Chezki and Menachem walked back to Chezki’s car.

“That was pretty awful,” Chezki said.

“Yes, I must admit, that was bad,” Menachem agreed.

“And still we’ve learned nothing,” Chezki said. “She still looked beautiful. Not a hair out of place.”

Menachem stared at his friend. Fayge had been dressed in a ratty, old robe with holes in it. Her hair had been a bit wild, to say the least, and without her contact lenses she had been squinting at them like they were one hundred yards away. A list of the other imperfections that Menachem had noted would be impolite to list.

“Chezki my friend, the Chochom of Hasbrouk Heights is a genius. I may not be a wise man, but I feel safe in suggesting that you should definitely marry this woman.”

“Why do you say that?” Chezki asked. “I have yet to get past her looks.”

“It’s just a hunch,” Menachem said. “And I only met her for a moment, but I feel safe in stating that for you, Fayge’s inner beauty is what is causing you to have trouble getting past her outer beauty. And if that’s the case, that will never fade.”

“Are you sure?”

“You can take it to the bank.”

And so, Chezki continued to date Fayge, and their relationship ended in matrimony. Chezki’s mother chose Nashir for the orchestra, but the drummer with the perfect hair was otherwise engaged and they had to use someone else. All of life is a compromise.

Shoftim: Why Did the Lawyer Cross the Road?

Unfortunately, and much to my chagrin, this is based on a true story.*

Devarim: 16: 18

The police officer approached Effie on the sidewalk in front of the pizza store.

"Excuse me, sir, can I see your driver’s license?"

"Sure, officer." Effie clumsily fished his license out of his wallet and handed it to Officer Doloshevsky. Much to Effie’s surprise and dismay, the policeman pulled out his large, thick ticket book and started writing.

"Do you have any idea why I’m giving you a ticket, Mr.. Bauman?"

Effie Bauman’s car was parked four blocks away. He had been in the bakery and the wine store since he had locked his Toyota and started on foot. Was it possible that Officer Doloshevsky had been following him the last half hour, waiting for just the right moment to bust him because he had turned onto Main Street without signaling? Even in his most paranoid moments– and Effie was a confessed lover of conspiracy theories and a naturally suspicious lawyer– he couldn’t imagine a law enforcement officer dogging him for that long for a moving violation, waiting for just the right moment to pounce.

"No, sir, I have no idea what I did." Feigning innocence was always the best way to dodge a ticket, although in this case, Effie was truly clueless.

"You didn’t cross at the designated crosswalk," Officer Doloshevsky said, not looking up from his ticket book as he spoke.

"What?" Effie could feel the blood rushing to his face. He knew he should stay calm, but he was having trouble maintaining his composure. "You’re giving me a ticket, for jay walking?"

"That’s correct, Mr. Bauman."

Every calming voice from his life was buzzing in his ear, counseling restraint. He could hear his wife saying, "Count to ten, Effie, and if that doesn’t work, count to ten again." He had a vision of sitting on his Bubbie’s lap while he was having a tantrum and hearing her say, "Now Ephraim, you can catch a lot more flies with honey than with vinegar." Clear as day, he could see his high school basketball coach lecturing the team on poise and the importance of good sportsmanship. Professor Leiber from law school appearedbefore his eyes, counseling him to maintain a professional demeanor at all times. But it was all to no avail. He was about to go ballistic.

"Are you kidding me" Effie said, flailing his arms. "This has got to be some kind of joke. Am I on Candid Camera, or Spy TV, or something?

"No, sir, this is definitely not a joke." At this point Officer Doloshevsky looked up from writing the ticket to glare at Effie. "Jay walking is a serious offense, Mr. Bauman."

"On what planet?" Effie exclaimed. "I’ve crossed this street my whole life anywhere that I wanted, and I didn’t receive so much as a warning, let alone a ticket!"

"I’m sorry, sir, but about two months ago a man was struck by a car and was seriously injured when he crossed Main Street outside the crosswalk. Since then, we’ve had a zero tolerance policy for jay walking."

"This is just unbelievable," Effie muttered. "I haven’t had a ticket in years."

"I’m just doing my job, sir."

"Yes, Officer Doloshevsky, I get that. But don’t you think this is taking this thing a bit too far? I mean, aren’t there serious crimes you should be out there preventing? Do you really consider this a useful public service, persecuting pedestrians?"

Mike Doloshevsky ripped the ticket from his pad and handed it to Effie Bauman. He knew that he was required to maintain his cool no matter what, but this guy was really pushing his buttons.

"Mr. Bauman, I’m charged to maintain public order and safeguard the citizens of this town. If giving out tickets for relatively minor infractions will prevent another unfortunate accident, then it’s all worth it."

"Oh really?" Effie said. He already had his ticket, and he knew he should walk away, but he couldn’t stop himself. Steam was practically pouring out of his ears. "Says who?"

"Says the mayor and the town council that made the laws; I just enforce them," Mike Doloshevsky said. "And, on another level, G-d says so, in the Torah."

Effie Bauman was not about to be lectured about the Torah by a police officer on a street corner.

"And where does it say that?"

"In the first two words of this week’s parsha," Officer Doloshevsky said. "The first pasuk of Shoftim states Shoftim veshotrim titen lecha bechol she’arecha asher Hashem Elokecha noten lecha lishvatecha, veshaftu et ha’am mishpat tzedek. Judges and officers shall you appoint in all your cities which Hashem your G-d gives you for your tribes, and they shall judge the people with righteous judgements. G-d commanded that the judges set up a legal system and that the police officers enforce the law. It’s all written in the Torah in black and white."

"Isn’t that only the divine law that they’re supposed to enforce?" Effie asked. He had never expected his ticketing officer to be able to quote chapter and verse of the Torah, and he was a bit taken aback. "I just don’t think the Torah had jay walking in mind."

"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," Mike Doloshevsky countered. "I’m relatively certain that setting up a court system and enforcing the law is one of the shiva mitzvot b’nai Noach, the seven laws that everyone in the world is expected to observe. So I would say the pasuk would probably include jay walking, on some level."

By now Effie had calmed down. He clearly knew when he was beaten. He hadn’t bargained for an adversary like Mike Doloshevsky, calm , collected, and with bekiut, broad Torah knowledge.

"You really know your stuff, Officer Doloshevsky."

"Thanks, I try."

"While you’re at it, are you planning to enforce any other laws from this week’s parsha, say a ban on sorcery, or false prophecy?"

Mike Doloshevsky closed his ticket book and walked away from the pizza store and from Effie Bauman. "Not until they’re a town ordinance," he said over his shoulder.

"Fair enough," Effie said, pocketing his ticket and going inside to get his slice with extra cheese.

____________________

* FYI, I paid the ticket

Shoftim: The Return of the Giving Tree

Devarim: 20: 19-20, Bereishit: 1: 28

Once there was a tree

And she loved a little boy

And every day the boy would come

And he would gather her leaves And make them into crowns

And play king of the forest*

The boy would climb her trunk and swing from her branches. He would hide his toy cars amid her roots and build whole construction sites. His imagination would run wild.

As the boy got a little older, he and his friends built a tree house on the tree's strong branches. It put some stress on the tree's limbs, and the boy and his friends had to hammer some nails into her trunk, but the tree loved the boy, and she was glad to have him and his friends under her shade. They were a little rough on her leaves, and often broke off branches for sword fights or for jousting, but hey, boys will be boys.

Years passed, and the tree didn't see the boy for a long spell. When the boy returned, he was somewhat older. He had changed significantly, but the tree was pretty much the same.

"Hi, boy. Come climb my trunk. Come swing from my branches."

"I'm not really into climbing anymore," the boy said. What I really need is some money, so I can buy myself stuff."

"Stuff?" the tree asked. "What's this stuff?"

"Everything," the boy said. "iPods, and computer games, and nice clothes and a fast car. Baseball gloves, and tasty food, and airline tickets, and sneakers with basketball players' names on the side."

"Living here in the woods, I really have no notion of what you're talking about," the tree said. "But why don't you just take my apples and sell them to make money to buy the 'stuff' of which you speak?"

"Far out and funky," the boy said. "Thanks, tree."

And so the boy collected all of the tree's apples and sold them for stuff.

Once again the tree did not see the boy for a long time.Quite a few new rings formed on her trunk before she would see him again.When the boy returned, he was significantly older.

"Wo, what happened to you?" the tree asked.

"Age," the boy said. "It happens to all of us."

"Don't worry about it," the tree said. "I'm just happy to see you. Come and climb on my trunk and swing from my branches."

"I'm going to take a pass on the climbing," the boy said. "I'm getting a little old for that."

"Then can I interest you in a nice, shiny apple?" the tree asked.

"I'm not hungry, but thanks," the boy said. "Do you know what I could really use?"

"Just name it," the tree said. "We go back a long way."

"I have a family now," the boy said.  "I have a lovely wife and two wonderful children. We're really cramped in the little apartment that we live in. What we really need is a house."

"So how can I help you with your house?" the tree asked, eager to please his friend.

"In order to build this house, we could really use some wood," the boy said.

"So you want my apples so you can afford to buy wood?"

"Not exactly. I want your branches to build with, and your trunk would really help, too."

"Wo, wo, wo. Slow down there, slugger," the tree said. "If I gave you all that, I would die. I'm afraid you're asking a bit much."

"But, but, but you're the giving tree!" the boy sputtered. "You love me, and you're supposed to give me what I need!"

"Sure," the tree said. "Within reason. We live in a time of ecological awareness, my friend. I have to think of myself, and of the environment, too. We trees are an important part of the carbon cycle."

"But the Torah tells me to take what I need from nature," the boy said, "and I need wood."

"Oh really?" the tree asked, "and where does it say that?"

"When G-d commands Adam to go forth into the world, He says Puru urevu umilu et ha'aretz vekivshuha. Be fruitful and multiply, fill the earth, and subdue it. This pasuk grants man the right to use the Earth's natural resources for his own purposes."

"I'd say that's a broad interpretation of that pasuk," the tree said. "In fact, I know a pasuk that says quite the opposite." She was a wise old tree and knew her stuff.

"And what pasuk is that?" the boy asked.

"When Moses is telling the Israelites how to act at a time of war, he says that if Israel is laying seige to a city, they shouldn't destroy any fruit trees that they don't need to harm, Ki ha'adam etz hasadeh lavo mipanecha bamatzor, Is the tree of the field a man, that it should enter the seige before you? In other words, the tree is G-d's creation, and it did nothing to you, so let it be. I would say that pasuk is more apropos to our present situation."

"So if that's true, then what happens now?" the boy asked.

"We will still be friends, and I will always love you," the tree said. "You just can't chop me down. You can enjoy my shade and my apples, and you can always sit and rest against my trunk."

And the boy did. He abandoned his plans to fell his old friend. The boy sat against the tree's trunk and rested.

And the tree was happy.

_________________

*Shel Silverstein, The Giving Tree, Harper Collins, 1999, (35th Anniversary Edition)