The Maggid of Bergenfield

Shlach: Grasshoppers

 

 

Bamidbar:13, 1-33

 

 

Do you believe in miracles?

 

That was the famous line from sportscaster Al Michaels on February 22, 1980, when the U.S. Olympic Hockey Team beat the seemingly unbeatable Russian national team, at the Lake Placid Winter Olympics during the depths of the Cold War.

 

And—lehavdil—that was exactly how The Nachmanides Ninjas felt when they won the varsity basketball championship in the Yeshiva League this year. The Nachmanides School was not regarded as a sports powerhouse—far from it. If college admission records were a criteria for athletic prowess, then they were champions, but alas, it was not. They had a first rate debating team, and they were often contenders at the Torah Bowl, but basketball was not their forte.

 

So when the Ninjas crept into the playoffs with a 7-5 record, and then managed to advance to the championship game against the Maimonides Rambombers (it was billed as the Battle of the Rishonim) it was nothing short of incredible. And then when they defeated their rival in a stunning overtime victory, it was, well, miraculous.

 

They were an undersized group, even for a Jewish school. Their tallest player, their starting center Neal Landau, was five-foot-nine. But they had amazing ball handling abilities in their guard duo of Chezkie Kleinman and Moshe Sasson. And their power-forward, Michael Potashnik, had his outside shot gelling at just the right time. For Coach Danny Rubinstein everything had synched at the perfect moment for their playoff run.

 

Now they sat in the visiting locker room at Hohokus Prep, waiting to play the winner of one of the other northern NJ sports divisions to gain the right to go to the New Jersey State Competition.

 

It did not look good.

 

The Ninjas had seen their opponents drilling in the gym as they got off the team bus. They looked really good. But more than anything, they looked really tall. Their center was well north of six feet, and all the players on the Hohokus Hawks seemed to dwarf the Nachmanides crew. Forgive the pun, but they seemed to be in way over their heads (OK, so don’t forgive the pun).

 

As the team sat on the cold, crimson benches in the locker room, waiting for Coach Danny to speak, the room reverberated with the chanting of the rabid fans in the gym just beyond the painted cinderblock walls (also crimson).

 

“HO-HO-HO-HOKUS!”

 

“HO-HO-HO-HOKUS!”

 

It was intimidating, to say the least.

 

Danny looked his crestfallen players in the eye. He gave each one a steely glare. Then he spoke in a loud, booming voice.

 

“Sasson! Who are you, Palti ben Raffoo?”

 

“Who?”

 

“And Landau! Do you think you’re Nachbi ben Vafsee, or something?”

 

Neal Landau said nothing. He just stared at his coach with a confused look.

 

“And Friedman, are you channeling your inner Gadi ben Soosi?”

 

“Sir, no sir!” Jake Friedman shouted.

 

“Do any of you have any idea who these people were?”

 

No one spoke.

 

“Surely you know that they’re in this week’s parsha!”

 

None of the basketball players had ever participated in Torah Bowl.

 

“They’re miraglim! They were three of the spies Moshe sent to Israel to reconnoiter. Palti was from the tribe of Binyomin, Nachbi was from Naftali, and Gadi was from Menashe.”

 

Coach Danny continued his pep speech. “There’s a reason you don’t remember their names. That’s because they didn’t have what it took to get the job done. Do I make myself clear, Sasson?”

 

“Very clear, Coach!”

 

“When these spies journeyed through the Promised Land, they encountered Achiman, Sheishay and Talmay, who were described as the yeliday ha-anak., which many commentaries say were the sons of giants. And I imagine that to the meraglim, these three dudes looked a lot like basketball players from Hohokus look to you. Ginormous.

 

“Do you think that’s funny, Friedman?”

 

“Sir, no sir.”

 

“Lighten up, Friedman, this isn’t the Marines.”

 

“Sorry, Coach.”

 

“So when the spies described to the Israelites what they saw in the land, they said vanehi vi-eineinu kachagavim. We were like grasshoppers in our eyes. Do you notice anything funny about that sentence, Kleinman?”

 

“Yes, Coach. They said they were like grasshoppers in their own eyes, not in the eyes of the people they were spying on.”

 

“Correct Kleinman. They psyched themselves out. But we’re not going to do that, are we?”

 

“No, coach.”

 

“I can’t hear you!”

 

“NO, COACH!”

 

“That’s right! We’re going to be more like Calev ben Yefooneh from the tribe of Yehuda, who said ‘Alo na-aleh veyarashnu ota, ki yachol nuchal la. We shall surely ascend and conquer the land, for we can DEFINITELY do it!’ Can we do it, Ninjas?

 

“YES, COACH!!”

 

“And of course the Israelites did conquer the land, because they had faith. And they believed in themselves.”

 

“YES, COACH!”

 

“So let’s go out there and kick some Hohokus Hawk butt!”

 

A loud primal scream was emitted by the Nachmanides team as they streamed out of the locker room, brimming with confidence.

 

It really isn’t important for the purposes of this story to give you the final score of the game. Maybe it’s better that way. You’ll just have to take my word for it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Emor: Down for the Count

Vayikra: 24: 15-16

 

April 9, Day of Omer 9

Dear Diary,

Passover was great. Saw lots of family. Had two wicked sedarim, although the second ran nasty late. Hung out at the mall with friends. Saw two movies.

We learned the Torah portion about counting the Omer today. Fifty days between Passover and Shavuot. It seems to be a purely agricultural law—something to do with the new grains-- but my teachers tell me it is also highly symbolic of the period between when the Israelites left Egypt and when they received the Torah at Mount Sinai. Apparently when they left Egypt they were extremely impure and debased—them being slaves and all--and over the fifty day period of counting leading up to the holiday of Shavuot, they got their act together, became more holy, and earned the right to receive the Torah.

We just got back to serious school work after Passover break, and it’s now the ninth day of counting the Omer. Is this heightened holiness between Passover and Shavuot supposed to work for all of us? I don’t really feel more holy or pure than I did before we started counting. Let’s see how this thing pans out… I think I’ll shoot for spiritual elevation in fifty days and see what happens. Can I reach the heights like the Israelites? I have forty-one more days to find out.

 

April 18, Day of Omer 18

Yesterday Becky and I went to Garden State Plaza. I bought flip flops for the summer. Saw a cute shirt at Abercrombie. Might go back to buy it if Mom says yes. Eighteenth day of the Omer. Not feeling more holy yet.

 

April 29, Day of Omer 20

Feel a bit of something stirring. Is it the start of spiritual elevation or that taco I had before I went to sleep? No more Mexican food before bed.

 

April 23, Day of Omer 23.

Had a double Chumash class today. Rabbi Stern taught us a Ramban that was pretty cool. Kabbalah and stuff like that. I guess today I feel a little more elevated. Maybe more holy. Keep your fingers crossed!

 

April 26, Day of Omer 26

Still saying Omer with a bracha! English teacher out sick, so we had a free period. Went to Dunkin Donuts with Mike and Esti. Had a latte. Learned about the Inquisition in Jewish History. Navi class was cool. Had to sit with Morgan on the bus home. Bummer. Mixed spirituality day. Kind of a holiness roller coaster.

 

May 4, Day of Omer 33

Awesome Lag BaOmer. Fun day in the park, ending with a kumzitz around a bonfire. Maybe there is something to this Omer heightened spirituality thing. Becky says she’s into Danny Podhoretz, but I don’t really see it. He’s such a nerd. Still, didn’t affect my holiness meter.

 

May 19, Omer day 41

I think the Israelites were onto something. We had a great night of mishmar learning followed by an overnight sleepover in the school. I heard some great shiurim about Shabbat, and then a guest speaker told us his life story fighting in the I.D.F. during the Six Day War. Amazing stuff. Then we all stayed up to watch the sunrise. I’m not sure than I am on the level to receive the Torah on Mount Sinai yet, but things are definitely looking up.

 

May 14, Omer Day 45

Went to the Jewish Home at Rockleigh on a school program and sat and chatted with some adorable older people. Lost a game of backgammon to a guy named Herb. Then we had a class about what we can do to help the greater community. I think I’m getting close to a higher level of spirituality. Not sure I’m ready to receive the Torah yet. I have a good feeling about this… Maybe I’ll see the Avengers movie tomorrow.

 

May 15, Day of Omer 46

Had a BIG fight with Mom. Left my room a mess, stayed up to late, argued with Gila. You name it. Kind of crashed spiritually. This whole elevating myself to a higher level thing is tricky.

 

May 17, Day of Omer 48

Made it almost all the way and still saying Omer with a bracha! Feeling proud, as I usually screw it up in the first week.

I had a long talk with Mrs. Turitz after Navi class today and told her about my fifty day spiritual elevation quest. She said she was proud of me for trying so hard. She also suggested that spirituality is more of an internal thing that gets stronger with thought and commitment to Torah and chesed, good deeds. Mrs. T. also suggested that fifty days may be a tight schedule for spiritual elevation, and that maybe the Israelites in the desert, led by Moshe Rabeinu and witnessing daily miracles, had an advantage over me for reaching lofty goals on a seven week plan. She said it’s like a crash diet. You might lose weight quickly, but a long term plan works better for continued success. I suppose she has a point.

 

May 22, Day after Shavuot.

I survived the all night learning. Two cups of coffee and a boatload of cheesecake definitely helped.

I do feel elevated, but I don’t think I reached the level to receive the Torah on Mount Sinai. I think I’ll stick with my spiritual quest, but perhaps with more limited goals. A slow steady spiritual climb sounds more doable.

Summer is coming. Tomorrow, I begin my quest for an excellent bathing suit.

Life goes on.

 

 

 

 

 

Passover: Bitter

 

There are various vegetables that Jews use for marror, the bitter herbs, at the Pesach Seder. Many use romaine lettuce, while some opt for the iceberg variety. Endives are popular in some cultures. There is even mention of chicory. But in the Landau house, horseradish always got top billing.

 

And not just any horseradish. It had to be ground from a raw horseradish root, using the hand cranked meat grinder that had been in the family for over one hundred years. Great Grandma Chana Tsirel used it for her seder, and so it has been passed down through the generations. The Landaus took the shredded horseradish and sprinkled onto their romaine lettuce for the mitzvah of marror. Then they would eat a chunk of horseradish in their traditional Hillel sandwich, wedged between two pieces of matzoh with a fine layer of charoset to sweeten the deal. You could use a food processor for the charoset, but chas vesholom that the horseradish should be ground any way but by hand.

 

Effy Landau would always buy the horseradish root himself, usually at the Shoprite in Paramus. He always hoped he would pick a root with some serious kick, but it was really hard to tell in advance which one would do the trick.

 

He had been standing in the vegetable aisle for a few minutes, fondling and smelling the various roots, trying to discern their essential character, when an older man in a green Shoprite bib walked up to him. He had long white hair and a handlebar mustache, and he looked at Effy with a conspiratorial look.

 

“Hey man,” he said in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

 

“Hi,” Effy said.

 

“You look like you really care about horseradish.”

 

“It’s true.”

 

“Can I offer you some of the good stuff?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

The old man—his name tag read Carl-- looked both ways to make sure no one else was watching.

 

“Follow me, man.”

 

Effy followed Carl one aisle over to the Organic Vegetable area. Carl winked at Effy and pointed to a bin just down from the green peppers. It read “Organic California Cannonball Red Horseradish.”

 

“Is it good?” Effy asked.

 

“It’s the best,” Carl said, smiling a knowing smile. “It’s never let me down.”

 

“Thanks, Carl,” Effy said.

 

“Just doing my job, man,” Carl said as he sauntered off toward the frozen food aisle.

 

Effy tossed the horseradish root in with his other vegetable purchases and then made his way to the Passover aisle to get the other last minute purchases he needed to complete his list. He didn’t give it another thought.

 

The next day, on Erev Pesach, Effy went to grind the horseradish. As he cranked the handle and threw in the sliced pieces of root to shred, the smell was overwhelming. So powerful. He was not one who cried easily—in fact he hadn’t cried in many years—but he felt his eyes tearing up. This was some wicked root. He opened all the windows in the kitchen and finished his grinding, as so many Landaus had before him. Then he sliced small pieces to save for the Hillel sandwich.

 

The seder that night was glorious. The table was festooned with haggadas, various plastic plagues, the Landaus’ finest silver bechers and a beautiful seder plate. All the children gave scintillating divrei Torah. The shmura matza was divine. Everything was just so. They made the bracha on the matzoh and everyone ate with gusto.

 

Next came the marror. Effy offered no hint of what was to come. He just took a kezayit of romaine lettuce, sprinkled it with the California Cannonball Red, and passed it down.

 

“-al achilat marror,” everyone chanted together. Then they took a bite.

 

“Wo.”

 

“Yikes.”

 

“Zowie.”

 

“Kaboom.”

 

Yes, the horseradish was the real deal. Carl was a man of his word. There were red faces. There were gasps. A few reached for some water. Everyone was impressed. Then came the moment of truth.

 

Everyone made their Hillel sandwiches. Most people took a smaller piece of the sliced root, but Effy grabbed a big hunk and put it between his matzoh pieces. He dabbed on a thin patina of charoset. He was all in.

 

“-lekayem ma shene-emar, al matzot umerorim yochluhu.”

 

Effy popped the sandwich in his mouth and began to chew. And then something unusual happened.

 

He began to cry. It was not just small tears. He was sobbing. And it wasn’t just him. Everyone at the table was bawling, from Grandma Shirley, to Uncle Stan, to all the children. There was not a dry eye in the house. It was quite a spectacle.

 

It took a few minutes for everyone to calm down. Then Effy spoke.

 

“They say that to truly appreciate freedom, you need to first appreciate the bondage of slavery. To feel the sweet release of the Exodus that G-d provided for us you need to experience the bitterness of the years of oppression. Even to experience the eventual geulah, the redemption, for which we all wait, you need to feel what it means to be downtrodden. Perhaps that’s what makes us Jews strivers for freedom in the world, whether for ourselves or for others who are oppressed.

 

“I think that I can say without a doubt that this is the first seder at which I truly learned to understand the bitterness that our ancestors experienced. And my blessing to all of you is that as much as we just felt bitter, may we soon experience the sweetness of the redemption.”

 

And on that note, the table was cleared, the matzoh ball soup was served, and it was the most delicious soup any of them ever ate.

 

And the next night, at the second seder, when it came time for the marror, they all went with just the romaine lettuce. There was no more horse radish for the Landaus that year, thank you very much.

Tzav: Burning with Bruce

 

 

Vayikra: 6:4

 

 

The clock was ticking.

 

“Dad, we’re almost out of time.”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

“This is serious.”

 

“I know it is. It’s serious for me, too. Check in your dresser again.”

 

“I already looked there. If we don’t burn the chametz in the next ten minutes we can’t do it anymore.”

 

“I know, I know. But I need my shirt.”

 

“You’re being ridiculous.”

 

“Oh, am I? I’ve worn that shirt for biur chametz every year since I was a kid and burnt it at my parents’ house, back when my father would incinerate those little pieces of white bread on the backyard grill.”

 

“You’ve told me many times.”

 

“I’m pretty sure you were the last one to have the tee-shirt.”

 

“Yeah, I borrowed it for that Eighties party I went to. But I’m pretty sure I gave it back to you.”

 

“I’m pretty sure you didn’t. Do you know what it looks like?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“It’s gray with black sleeves.”

 

“I know.”

 

“And it has a picture of Bruce and Clarence on the front, from the cover to Born to Run. And lots of holes.”

 

“I’m well aware.”

 

“I got it at my first Springsteen concert in 1981.”

 

“So I’ve been told.”

 

“It was when The River came out. Amazing concert.”

 

“Must have been great.”

 

“How many Bruce concerts have I taken you to?”

 

“Four. And how many have you been to, Dad?”

 

“Forty-seven.”

 

“That’s a whole lot of Bruce-juice, Dad.”

 

“You know it, Donny. Check the bottom of your closet. I know a lot of tee-shirts go there to die.”

 

“Very funny. Why can’t you wear one of your other Bruce Springsteen shirts?

 

“This is a special one. It’s my biur chametz shirt. It’s unique to this event.”

 

“That’s just crazy, Dad.”

 

“Actually, I don’t think it’s crazy at all. There is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven.

 

“Is that a Bruce lyric?”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Actually, it sounds more like Dylan.”

 

“It’s from Kohelet, you twit. I guess you’d say it’s King Solomon. Actually, the Byrds used it in their song Turn, Turn, Turn back in ‘65.”

 

“Cool. Listen, Dad, you have a tee-shirt from almost every tour Bruce did. Why don’t you wear a different one? I know you like that one from Born in the USA.”

 

“No, that’s for Lag B’Omer.”

 

“What about the one you bought on The Rising tour?”

 

“That’s for Yom Yerushalayim.”

 

“Why does it have to be this one?”

 

“Because it’s the biur chametz Bruce jersey. That’s just the way it is.”

 

“So you’re saying this ratty old tee-shirt, riddled with holes, has a special holiness for this event?”

 

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

 

“You’ve gone off the deep end, old man.”

 

“I don’t think so, my young padawan. In fact, there is precedent in the Torah to that of which we speak.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“Last week’s parsha talks about it. In Tzav, the Kohen is instructed that first thing in the morning he needs to clean out the ash from the previous day’s service before bringing the morning sacrifice. The Torah commands that he change his clothes into inferior garments to remove the ash.”

 

“O.K., so he has to change out of his nice linen vestments to remove dirty ash. Makes sense to me.”

 

“Ah, but it’s so much more than that. The Ha’amek Davar points out that since the Torah goes to the trouble of discussing the change of clothes, clearly the lesser garments are priestly garments as well, and have holiness. It is teaching us to imbue all aspects of our service of G-d with holiness, even the mundane removal of ash.”

 

“So?”

 

“So I am imbuing the biur chametz with holiness by wearing my favorite Springsteen shirt during the mitzvah.”

 

“And your Bruce jersey is holy?”

 

“Donny, how long have you known me?”

 

“I see your point. Ooh! I found it!”

 

“Where was it?”

 

“In my sock drawer. Go figure.”

 

“So let’s go burn some bread.”

 

“Any song you want to play in the background?”

 

“Is there any question? The sixth track from Born in the U.S.A.”

 

“I’m on Fire?”

 

“Could I be any prouder?”

Vayikra: The Sacrificial Hershey Bar

Vayikra: 1: 3-17

 

It is not easy teaching fourth grade boys about animal sacrifice, especially last period on a Friday afternoon. The sun was out, and the school buses were already lining up outside to take them home for a long weekend away from school. You could clearly see them, almost glowing bright yellow, outside the classroom window.

 

This was going to take some pizazz to pull this off.

 

That was how Rabbi Heshe Lambert approached the third book of the Torah, Vayikra.  It was filled with details about the korbanot. This was hard material to present to young students. But he was determined to get it right. So he brought some visual aids to his classroom, in a large cardboard box.

 

"Now boys, in Parshat Vayikra, Hashem teaches Moshe about the korbanot, the sacrifices that Klal Yisroel were commanded to bring in the Mishkan. Does anyone know what korban comes up first in the parsha?

 

"Shmuel? No, the Mincha, which is the meal offering, comes up a little later.

 

"Menachem? No the Shlamim, that is, the peace offering, comes up after that.

 

"Good guesses, boys. I can see you really read the parsha!  Actually, the first korban that comes up is the Olah, It's an offering of atonement, to repent for sins, but it's also so much more. We'll talk about that more next week.

 

"The first question I wanted to ask you about the Olah is, what kinds of animal were you allowed to bring for this sacrifice? Everybody look in your chumashim and tell me what you find.

 

"Mark? Correct, you can use a cow.

 

"Yossi? Yes, you can use a sheep. Good.

 

"Pinky? No, no bears. No cheetahs. Come on, look in the chumash.

 

"Yes, Tuvia, you can bring doves. And other birds, too. Good one. The Torah also mentions goats.

 

"So my question for you is, why can you bring so many different animals?"

 

That was when the rabbi pulled out the box.

 

"The answer is, that everybody has different abilities and can afford different animals. The cattle is like the Cadillac of the animals. It's like--" he reached into the box and pulled out-- "this giant Hershey's Kiss, in this beautiful silver wrapper."

 

That worked. He finally had their undivided attention.

 

"Someone wealthy might bring a perfect cow, to symbolize his love of Hashem. Like this Kiss, it's the top of the line, if you were, say, offering candy sacrifices.

 

"But maybe you couldn't afford a cow. Still, you wanted to give the best that you could. So maybe you would offer up--" he reached into the box to the class' rapt attention-- "a sheep." He pulled out a big box of Mike and Ike's Red Rageous Candies (made with real fruit juice)--"or maybe a goat--" Fruit by the Foot. "I mean, it's not a giant Kiss, but still it's good. Know what I mean?"

 

Every boy in the room was nodding in agreement. Rabbi Lambert was pleased. His use of leftover Purim candy was paying off. And he was pretty sure his own kids would never miss it. They had gone into sugar-overload days ago.

 

"So let's say you really don't have much money. Still you want to serve Hashem with a full heart. So maybe you would go with--" he pulled out one cherry Twizzlers licorice--"something modest that still had significance to you."

 

One boy in the room--was it Nachum?-- actually let out a yum noise.

 

"So now we have a whole array of candy sacrifices standing in for our animal choices. And what do we learn from this? Anyone?

 

"No, Pinky, it is not that G-d loves candy. I would say that is not the message I was aiming for.

 

"Correct, Shimmy. The lesson here is that as long as a person offers what is from his heart, and what he is able to bring, then it will be accepted and he or she will be rewarded.

 

He reached into the box for one more item, a box of matches.

 

"And now I think it would be appropriate to offer up all this candy as a sacrifice to Hashem."

 

The gasp was fantastic. It almost made the whole lesson worth it.

 

"Just kidding. If you boys want to come up in an orderly fashion, there's enough candy for everyone."

 

And although the journey from their seats to the teacher's desk was actually less than orderly, Rabbi Lambert distributed the loot with the hope that his point had been made.

 

And even if it had been lost in the tumult before the boys raced home for Shabbat, at least he had the consolation of knowing he had eliminated some serious chametz from his house. A happy ending for all.

 

 

 

 

Purim: Queen for a Day

He loves the New York Giants. He sleeps in a Rangers jersey and plays ice hockey on Sunday nights with his buddies. Totally into classic cars. Likes scotch tasting.

 

The point is, David Frankel is a man’s man. His veins are coursing with testosterone.

 

So when David’s daughter Ahuva suggested that he dress up as Queen Esther for Purim, everyone thought it was an excellent idea.

 

“It will be a riot,” his son Daniel agreed.

 

“You will be the hit of the neighborhood,” his wife Geula concurred.

 

Why not? Purim was the classic time for dress up. The tradition of wearing costumes was part of the holiday. It symbolized how the events of Purim were a neis nistar, a hidden miracle. The whole story is one of miracles hidden within natural events.

 

And David was pretty sure his rabbi was o.k. with men dressing up in women’s clothes for this holiday. It might be frowned upon if he appeared in shul on Shavuot in a dress, but for Purim it was cool.

 

Ahuva had a friend named Shainde, and she was tall. Six feet, to be exact. Shainde was into the idea, and it just so happened that she had a full length gown that Ahuva thought would fit her dad quite well. Green sequins. Strapless (don’t worry; she wore it with a kiki riki).

 

Geula hired Malki Samuels to do David’s makeup. She had done a fabulous job for Tikva Pomerantz for her wedding. Everyone said she was the best, and David was going to need the best to pull this off.

 

The plan was to have him ready for the nighttime megilla reading. Their neighbor Danit Hershkowitz had volunteered an old sheitel. And she would throw in a tiara as well.

 

They started an hour before the scheduled davening time. They sat David in the kitchen, and Malki worked for quite some time. Cover up. Lots of cover up. Blush. Mascara. Eye liner. Even more cover up.

 

The gown fit him like a glove. Last was the sheitel. Geula had been styling it all afternoon. It was close to David’s natural hair color, so it didn’t require a lot of tucking .The tiara actually fit him nicely and complemented the dress.

 

Shainde’s heels also fit David. She clearly had big feet.

 

When all was ready, David stood and walked out into the living room for all to see. He had some trouble with the heels, but he did the best he could.

 

Everyone gasped.

 

“Well?”

 

“Honey, I don’t know how to tell you this,” Geula said, “but you’re beautiful.”

 

“Quite stunning,” Ahuva agreed.

 

“Who’d have thunk?” Malki Samuels said. ”I am a genius.”

 

David looked at them all skeptically. Then he walked over to the full length mirror in the hallway.

 

“Wo.”

 

“Dad, you’re a better looking woman than you ever were as a man,” Daniel said.

 

“It’s a Purim miracle,” Geula said.

 

“This is really weird,” David said. “I gotta sit down.”

 

“Are you O.K.?” Ahuva said. “You’re looking a little sick.”

 

“I was supposed to look silly. It’s a Purim costume, for heaven’s sake. I’m not supposed to look attractive.”

 

“Joke’s on you,” Ahuva said. “You’re stunning.”

 

“Robin Williams did not look attractive as Mrs. Doubtfire!” David shrieked. “And Dustin Hoffman was a hideous woman in Tootsie. Tyler Perry’s Medea is not good looking in the least! Why me? I will be a laughingstock among my friends!”

 

“I don’t understand why you would want to be an unattractive woman,” Ahuva said.

 

“Trust me. It’s a guy thing,” Daniel said.

 

“David, dear, this isn’t good,” Ahuva said. “You’re starting to look a little sickly.”

 

“Sickly?” David said. “That’s it! Malki, can I see you in the other room for a minute?”

 

They were gone for over half an hour. Megilla time was rapidly approaching.

 

“Honey, are you O.K.? We have to leave for shul soon.”

 

“I’ll be out in a minute,” David said from behind the closed door.

 

Malki came out first. She looked profoundly disappointed.

 

“Behold, the monster!” she said.

 

David came out with a different look. He still sported the dress, sheitl, tiara, and heels, but his skin was covered with red welts of makeup and splotches of green and brown. His face was a mottled mess.

 

“What happened to Queen Esther?” Geula asked, clearly disappointed.

 

“I’m not Esther,” David said.” I’m Vashti.”

 

“Vashti? You’re hideous!”

 

“Yes, and according to the gemara Megilla*, Vashti was struck with leprosy to prevent her from coming to meet Ahashverosh. I am that version of Vashti.”

 

“You do know that the Talmud Yerushalmi portrays Vashti as a positive figure who refused to bow to Ahashverosh’s crazy whims, right?”

 

“That’s not the version I’m going with.”

 

“You’re more the zombie apocalypse Vashti?”

 

“Exactly.”

 

Malki shrugged. “I tried.”

 

Ahuva smiled. “You did your best, Malki. The problem is that you did too well.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

And so, the Frankels piled into the mini-van and went to megilla reading. David’s costume was a big hit with his friends. And David never dressed up as a woman again. Ever.

 

But based on the rumor that some pictures of Queen Esther Frankel may have been preserved on someone’s cell phone, David became the most attentive husband in the world. Ever.

 

 

*Talmud Bavli, Megilla, 12b

Tezaveh: The Suit

 

 

Shmot: 29:29

 

 

“There’s just no way.”

 

“But it’s tradition.”

 

“I don’t care. I just can’t do it.”

 

“Your father would have wanted you to wear the suit.”

 

Jonathan smiled. “There are many things my father would have wanted from me that I have chosen not to do. And this will not be the last.”

 

It was a tradition at the Dippin Donuts Company. When a new president of the company was chosen, he or she would wear the suit of the previous president to the first board meeting after the new appointment. Jonathan’s grandfather Melvin Dipinsky had worn his father Heiman’s suit to the meeting. His father Mark Dipinsky had worn Grandpa Mel’s suit. And he was expected to wear his father’s suit.

 

There was just one problem.

 

Mark Dipinsky had loved Dippin Donuts. Not the just the company; he loved the actual donuts as well. He ate many donuts a day. Crullers for breakfast. Jellies with lunch. Chocolate glazed for dessert after dinner. And after a while, this became a problem. At the time that he passed away, Jonathan’s father tipped the scales somewhere north of three hundred pounds. And Jonathan did not have a problem with that.

 

It’s just that Jonathan was a rather diminutive fellow. He didn’t eat the company products, and he exercised every day. He had a treadmill in his office, and he was often seen speaking on the phone with a client while chugging along on the exercise machine. He was determined not to end up corpulent like his father, alav hashalom. Or portly, like his grandfather, may his soul rest in peace. Or generously proportioned like his great grandfather Heiman, the founder of the Dippin empire, may his memory be blessed.

 

“I would look like a complete clown if I wore one of dad’s suits, Jonathan said to Solomon Dipinsky, his uncle and the Dippin D’s comptroller. Sol was also built a bit more on the zaftig side.

 

“Jonathan, you need to calm down. Here, have a donut.”

 

“No thank you, Uncle Sol.”

 

“Then at least have a donut hole. The cinnamon ones are straight from the kitchen.”

 

“Seriously. No donuts.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really.”

 

“Fine, suit yourself. But you do have to wear your father’s clothes. It’s the tradition.”

 

“I don’t get it. I look exactly like my dad, in his younger days. I sound like my father. I even use his same corny expressions.”

 

“True, you do have your father’s horrible sense of humor.”

 

“Thanks, Uncle Sol. Coming from you that means a lot.”

 

“Don’t mention it,” Sol said, tossing his third donut hole into his mouth. ”Are you sure you don’t want one? They’re truly outstanding.”

 

“Stop it with the donuts, O.K.?”

 

“Sorry. But the suit is important. It’s like the Kohen Gadol. When a new lead priest was appointed, he wore the old Kohen Gadol’s garments for seven days. All eight of the garments. That’s what ordained him to the position. It’s a sign of the continuity of the Jewish tradition. The Torah really doesn’t specify the size of the kohen. I think the priestly garments were one size fits all.”

 

“Well, that is a miracle,” Jonathan said. “Maybe a robe is more forgiving than a Brooks Brothers suit, but let’s face it, I could fit me, my wife, and my two kids in my father’s pants, and there might be room left over for the dog.”

 

“Jonathan, this is important. Dippin Donuts is a family business, and our traditions run deep.”

 

“Hey, I have an idea. Doesn’t my mother still have some of my father’s clothes from when he was younger?”

 

“I imagine she does. Your mother never throws anything away.’

 

“True, so true. So does it say anywhere in the bylaws that I have to wear a suit my father wore in his later years, or just one of his suits?”

 

“I really don’t know. I think we would need to consult the lawyers.”

 

“Fine. Call Uncle Pinny. I’m sure wearing one of Dad’s suits from when he was svelte will fulfill the requirement. True, they’re off the rack, but I’m happy to take one for the team.”

 

“Interesting loophole!” Sol agreed. “I’ll call your uncle right away.”

 

“Thanks, Uncle Sol. Oh, and are there any of those cinnamon donut holes left?”

 

Sol peeked into the bag. “Just two.”

 

“I’ll take one. I mean, what’s the harm?”

 

“That’s the spirit, Johnny. You’re going to go far in this business.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Far and wide.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Teruma: Doorknobs by Diane

Shmot: 25:33

 

 

 

It is said that the word Paramus means “land of the wild turkey,” in the Lenape language of the Native Americans of Northern New Jersey. Some say it means “pleasant stream.” I have always believed it meant “the land of the wild shopping mall.”

 

You can find a store in Paramus that sells almost anything. The Shade Store on Route 17 specializes in window treatments. The Dance Bag specializes in clothing for dancing, although they are also happy to help you with other exercise equipment as well. Batteries plus Bulbs sells just what you’d think. And Yankee Candle in Paramus Park sells, well, you get the idea. Of course there are misleading names as well. The Fossil Store has no geologic samples offered for sale. Anthropologie has nothing to do with “the study of human beings through time and space.” Wild Birds Unlimited is a tossup. Yes, it had bird feeders, but there are no actual birds in the store. And what people—especially Jews-- do in the Christmas Tree Store in February remains a mystery to me.

 

So as a native of Bergen County it should have come as no surprise to Walter Weinstein that on Route 4, just past the Hyundai dealership, there was a store called Doorknobs by Diane that featured only doorknobs. But it did. When his wife Rachel told him they were going to spend the morning shopping there for doorknobs for their new house, Walter thought she was kidding.

 

She was not.

 

It was a wondrous establishment, filled with every possible doodad you could possibly imagine to open a portal. Rows and rows of them. Walter was looking up at a doorknob near the ceiling that seemed to resemble a large emerald, when a salesperson appeared before him.

 

"Hello."

 

"And who might you be?"

 

"Walter. And you are?"

 

"I am Diane."

 

"The Diane?"

 

"One and the same."

 

Rachel then appeared from behind a display of brushed nickel knobs.

 

"Oh, I see you've met Diane."

 

"I'm truly honored," Walter said.

 

"Yes, I get that a lot."

 

"So to continue our conversation," Rachel said," I was looking for something bold for our bedroom. Something that would really stand out."

 

"Have you considered one of our estate knobs from the new Dynasty series? There is something truly striking in Venetian Bronze. And it comes with a six option lock set, if you truly crave privacy."

 

Diane popped it up on her iPad and showed it to Rachel."

 

"Hmmm. No, I think I want to go more traditional."

 

"Well then. I think you'll really like our fluted glass knob on a traditional bronze base. Not only is it elegant, but it can be linked to an Amazon Echo to lock and unlock remotely."

 

Diane showed Rachel another picture, and this time she oohed and aahed appropriately.

 

"That IS nice. Honey, what do you think?" Rachel handed the iPad over to Walter.

 

"I think this is a bit crazy."

 

"Surely you jest," Diane said.

 

"No, I do not jest at all, not one iota. I know that we live in the ultimate consumer culture here in the U.S., but even so, I just can't get that worked up over doorknobs."

 

Rachel gasped, and for just a moment, Diane looked like she was going to faint, but she quickly regained her composure. She was a doorknob professional, and she was not going to let a skeptic get in her way.

 

"You know, Walter, they say G-d is in the details."

 

"I have no idea what that means," Walter confessed.

 

"It means that whatever one does, one should do thoroughly, and that details are important. In fact, if you take the time to look you'll see that this week's parsha is filled with important details."

 

Now Diane has his attention. Who knew that a doorknob specialist would be giving him a dvar Torah in the middle of her showroom?"

 

"What do you mean?" Walter asked expectantly.

 

"Well, in parshat Trumah, when G-d tells Moshe about building the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, He gives so many design details, it's astounding.  When He describes the building of the shulchan, the table, He goes out of His way to describe the molding that should be built. What an astounding level of detail. And many of the commentators ascribe great allegorical meanings to all these details."

 

"Fascinating," Walter agreed.

 

"Oh, you have no idea," Diane said proudly. In the description of the menorah, G-d states that the arms should be decorated alternately with kaftor vaferach. A ferach is a flower. But do you know what a kaftor is, Walter?"

 

"A button?"

 

"According to the Artscoll translation, Walter, it's a knob. And according to the Soncino Chumash it's a knop."

 

"What on earth is a knop?" Rachel asked.

 

"It's a decorative form of knob," Diane said proudly.

 

"The Abravanel suggests that the seven branches of the menora correspond to the seven types of wisdom represented in the Torah, "Diane continued." And the cups, knobs, and flowers symbolize the various sciences that branch out from each other. That's just one of many interpretations that exist. But no matter how you look at it, knobs play a prominent role in the menora. They add to our appreciation of one of the most enduring symbols in our tradition.*

 

"So are you suggesting the Menorah was decorated with doorknobs?" Walter asked, rather flabbergastedly.

 

"I think you should draw your own conclusions," Diane said. "I'm just giving you the facts."

 

"So this somehow relates to our buying fancy doorknobs at your store?"

 

"That connection is entirely up to you. I just think that the symbolism of a knob may add meaning to your life, whether spiritual or intellectual. And if that comes from a beautiful doorknob, then so be it."

 

"Diane, you present a compelling argument," Walter observed.

 

"Well, I am the doorknob queen," she said semi-modestly.

 

"I would say that is a title you have earned beyond a shadow of a doubt."

 

"Thank you."

 

 

* Unlocking the Torah Text, Rabbi Shmuel Goldin, Shmot, pgs 234-5

 

Mishpatim: The Sweet Tooth

 

 

Shmot: 21: 26-27

 

 

 

“I probably shouldn’t be talking to you without my lawyer present.”

 

“Manny, we go back a long way. I think we can discuss this like adults without having to lawyer up.”

 

“Fine, but I don’t think there’s much more to discuss, Hyman.”

 

“How many years have you worked here at Darton’s Kosher Chocolates?”

 

“I’ve been here twenty-seven years.”

 

“That’s quite a long term of employment!”

 

“Yes, and most of them were happy years.”

 

“And you’ve been our chocolate taster all those years?”

 

“No, I started on the factory floor, managing the boxes and creating chocolate molds. It was only after you noticed my incredibly sensitive palate that you moved me to chocolate taster.”

 

“And were you always the chief taster?”

 

“No, I apprenticed under Fred Hammerschmidt for seven years, G-d rest his soul.”

 

“G-d rest his soul.”

 

[Appropriate moment of silence]

 

“And would you say we’ve treated you fairly?”

 

“For the most part.”

 

“From what I recall all your kids went through yeshiva day school and college thanks to your salary and benefits from Darton’s Kosher Chocolates.”

 

“Yes, that’s true. But now you’re forgetting all the contributions I’ve given to the Darton family that have enriched your life.”

 

“Such as?”

 

“You had never heard of nougat until I showed it to you.”

 

“I suppose that’s true.”

 

“And who came up with the seder mints?”

 

“I thought Sid in marketing did that.”

 

“It was me, Hyman. It’s always been me.”

 

“Well, that was a big product for sure! Many chocolatiers have made chocolate covered mints over the years, but the association with Passover Seder? That was genius!”

 

“So as you can see, I have been very valuable for Darton’s.”

 

“No one doubts that, Manny. We definitely appreciate your contributions. So then what seems to be the problem?”

 

“You know what the problem is, Hyman. It’s my tooth.”

 

“I’m sorry. Forgive me for being obtuse, but I still don’t get it.”

 

“Let’s review the situation, shall we? For the last three weeks I’ve had a nagging pain in my mouth. It’s been getting worse for the last few days.”

 

“O.K., I’m with you so far.”

 

“So I went to my dentist, and he tells me it’s a cavity that has now developed into an abscess. He thinks it’s not worth doing root canal, and wants to extract the tooth.”

 

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Manny.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“But I don’t really understand what that has to do with your job here at Darton’s.”

 

“I guess you’re not that familiar with this week’s parsha, then.”

 

“Actually, I’m VERY familiar with Mishpatim. It’s my Bar Mitzva parsha, and I read it for the first time at Anshe Chesed of Hoboken forty-seven years ago this week.”

 

“So then can you tell me the pasuk in the parsha that deals with teeth?”

 

“Sure. The parsha states that if you have a slave, Ve’im shein avdo o’ shein amato yapil, lachafshi yeshalchenu tachat shino.”

 

“And how would you translate that?”

 

“And if he knocks out the tooth of his slave, or the tooth of his maidservant, he shall set him free in return for his tooth.”

 

“Need I say more?”

 

“Yes, I’m afraid you must.”

 

“I’ve been tasting chocolate for you for over twenty years. That’s a seriously high sugar job, with significant hazard for dental surfaces. Now I must lose my tooth. It’s as if you knocked it out. So now you are responsible for setting me free.”

 

“Huh! That’s an interesting interpretation of the pasuk.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“And how do you interpret being set free?”

 

“Either full time disability or a generous retirement package.”

 

“While I totally respect your attempt to analyze the parsha, I beg to differ with your interpretation.”

 

“Oh? How so?”

 

“I would say that when G-d tells us to set a slave free if we knock out his tooth, He is saying that we must treat our workers with the respect that they deserve.”

 

“I couldn’t agree with you more.”

 

“It’s also a small step against slavery, teaching Jews that every life has value, but forgetting that for a second, let’s focus on the worker for a moment.”

 

“Sounds fair to me.”

 

I believe that the pasuk is saying you cannot physically abuse your workers. You must treat them with respect, like providing them with excellent medical insurance, and a generous dental plan—to protect them against any toothy mishaps--as I have provided for you.”

 

“True.”

“You should also give them good retirement benefits like a 401K plan with matching funds from the company so that they can retire whenever they choose, whether their teeth are healthy or not. They can even retire early if they want to”

 

“Interesting. So you’re saying that, according to your interpretation of the parsha, I am not due for a bonus package because of my dental pain and suffering.”

 

“That would be a correct interpretation of my understanding of the parsha.”

 

“That also seems like a valid point of view on Mishpatim.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“And you’re saying that perhaps I should get back to work now?”

 

“That might be a good idea.”

 

“Thanks, Hyman. It was very illuminating discussing the parsha with you. I’m going to go back to tasting chocolates now. And when you have a chance, I want to discuss with you an idea I have for a line of spicy jalapeno chocolates. Maybe we can tie them in to Passover marror somehow.”

 

“Sounds interesting. Write up a proposal and we can talk.”

Bo: A Hardening of the Heart

 

 

The first time Danny Unger lent his car to his son Michael, it came back covered in potato chips. Not a few potato chips, mind you. It was as if the Potato Chip Fairy had come along and evenly sprinkled the entire upholstery of his 07’ Maxima with a fine patina of Sour Cream and Onion chips (you could smell the flavor). But then Michael was seventeen at the time, and boys will be boys.

 

The next time Danny gave Michael the car was the Attack of the Water Bottles. How much fluid could one boy drink? There had to be at least seven empty Poland Spring receptacles strewn around the car. It wasn’t as bad as the potato chip crumbs, but still it was annoying.

 

The third incident was just a few weeks after he had leased the 2010 Infiniti G37. It still had that new car smell. That is, it did until something punky started emanating from the trunk. The culprit was Michael’s gym bag with a wet bathing suit that he had been left there for over a week. The car never fully recovered.

 

The 2014 Nissan Pathfinder had suffered numerous insults from the boy. Milky Way wrappers. Used gum in the cup holders. A constant manipulation of his radio station settings, not to mention a preponderance of base on the stereo system. But when his rear bumper was dented without explanation Danny drew the line. Michael was banned from driving his car. Cindy had the Honda Odyssey minivan, and that would have to do. She was accustomed to her car being abused, whereas Danny wanted to keep his wheels more pristine. Michael objected, but Danny held his ground. There would be no kids driving his car, and the edict was final.

 

Sometimes Danny’s edict presented difficulties. One time Cindy was out with the minivan and Michael had to get to an interview for a summer job, but Danny held his ground. Much to his chagrin, Michael had to take an Uber.

 

The 2017 Honda Accord was Danny’s first hybrid, and he was very proud of it. Leather interior. Adaptive cruise control. Heated seats. Wicked stereo system. It had everything. And it got forty-eight miles per gallon. It was his dream machine.

 

So when Michael asked to borrow it to go on a date, Danny did not think long about his response.

 

“No.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Very seriously.”

 

“But Dad-“

 

“Do I need to bring up the potato chips?”

 

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

 

“How about the gym bag?”

 

“That was, like, ten years ago.”

 

“Some things never really change, Mikey.”

 

“But some things do change, Dad. I’m a college graduate. I’m in dental school and I’m a very responsible person. People trust me with their teeth, among many other things in their lives.”

 

“That’s why we still have the minivan, Michael. So that you have a mode of transportation that can take some abuse, and I can maintain my blood pressure only slightly elevated.”

 

“You’re being ridiculous.”

 

“Am I?”

 

“Things change, Dad.”

 

“And sometimes, the more things change, the more they remain the same.”

 

“Do you know who you’re like? You’re like Pharoah!”

 

“Pharoah?”

 

“Yeah, you know. The ruler of Egypt?”

 

“Yes, I know whom you’re referring to. I just don’t understand the analogy.”

 

“Well, at the time of Yetziat Mizraim, when the Israelites were slaves, G-d kept pouring on the plagues, blood, frogs, lice, and so on, but no matter how much the Egyptians were afflicted, Pharoah wouldn’t give in. Even if it led to the destruction of his own people. Of course, the text states that G-d hardened Pharoah’s heart, as if his stubbornness came from an outside source, but many commentaries suggest that it was just Pharoah’s stubborn nature all along. G-d just left it unchecked. Pharoah was acting irrationally, and G-d just didn’t interfere.”

 

“So you’re saying that I’m being irrationally stubborn?”

 

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

 

“Despite everything that you’ve done to my motor vehicles in the past?”

 

“The far distant past.”

 

“And you’re saying this could end badly?”

 

“Well, I wouldn’t say that. I don’t think that if you withhold your car then darkness will prevail throughout the land, or that your first born—namely me—is in jeopardy. But I do think that my date might start out on more solid footing if I pulled up in your fancy, fuel efficient, vehicle instead of the minivan with the seats that the dog has been chewing on for the last ten years.”

 

“And I’m being unreasonable?”

 

“Like an Egyptian ruler with a chip on his shoulder.”

 

Father and son stared at each other for a few moments.

 

Crickets.

 

“O.K., you can borrow the car.”

 

“Wow. History is made.”

 

“Well, I have to admit I found your Pharoah analogy compelling.”

 

“I’m glad it worked.”

 

“But just know that I’m going to inspect the car with a fine-tooth comb when you get back.”

 

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

 

“And I’ll know if you messed with the stereo.”

 

“I won’t touch the bass or treble, I promise. Can I change the station?”

 

“Sure. And try out the Sirius satellite stations. They’re going to blow your mind.”

 

“Only if it’s really O.K. with you.”

 

“Go to town, buddy.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vayeshev: Peace

Bereishit: 37:4

 

Danny Frankel was standing in shul, putting on his tefilin when he saw someone he thought he knew across the sanctuary. He hoped he was wrong.

 

But he was not wrong. It was Lenny Herman, in the flesh. Danny was not happy to see him, not in the least. Lenny had been the bane of his high school existence. Lenny had been a junior when Danny was a freshman, and he had tortured Danny from day one, until he mercifully graduated two years later.

 

Danny did not know what an "atomic wedgie" was until Lenny had shown him, the hard way. He had once tried to make Danny eat a bottle of deodorant because Danny had chuckled when he saw Lenny spray it on after gym, over his shirt. Danny had been the victim of too many Lenny-led pranks to mention. One such incident that came to mind had to do with Vaseline on his home room desk chair. Lenny had made bullying fashionable, long before it became a serious issue in schools.

 

They had crossed paths a few times over the years, at parties, weddings, and various social events. Danny had always ignored him, hoping they wouldn't have to speak, and as luck had it, they never did.

 

Now many years had passed, Lenny sat six rows away in shul, and it was making it hard for Danny to focus on his davening. Danny was having fantasies about walking up to Lenny after shacharit and giving him a piece of his mind, telling Lenny how miserable he had made him, but of course he knew he never would. It was not in his nature. Still, standing up to the bully would certainly have been satisfying.

 

Was Lenny still a bully? People change. He was probably a mild mannered man now, with five children, a job as a computer programmer, and a mortgage and yeshiva tuitions to worry about. Maybe he had his own demons in life with which he had to contend. That would certainly be satisfying.

 

Danny snuck a peak at him during the repetition of the shmoneh esrei. Was he balding? Was he fat? Was he graying, at least? No, much to Danny's disappointment Lenny looked pretty much the same.

 

He would just ignore him. That was probably the way to go. Let bygones be bygones.

 

They were up to the laining for the day. It was parshat Vayeshev, telling the story of how Yakov's sons couldn't get along. The situation was so bad that the pasuk said: Velo yachol dabro shalom, the brothers couldn't even speak to Yosef peaceably. Of course, dabro shalom could be read a different way, too. They wouldn't even say hello to him, wouldn't say shalom.

 

It was then that Danny knew what he had to do.

 

He rushed to take off his tefilin after kaddish at the end of davening. He had to catch Lenny before he left.

Lenny was somewhere in the back of the shul, with his back to Danny, chatting with someone and laughing loudly. Danny approached him as he walked toward the rear exit of the sanctuary. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears. This was not going to be easy. He tried to steal himself for the encounter.

 

Lenny coincidentally turned and faced Danny when he was only a few feet away. Their eyes locked. Lenny seemed to show some sense of recognition, like he remembered Danny, although perhaps he couldn't quite place him. He parted his lips, as if to speak, but Danny spoke first.

 

"Hey."

 

"Hey," Lenny answered back.

 

Danny kept right on walking. That had not been easy.

 

Well, at least he had been able to say "hey." It did not lay the groundwork for a deep and meaningful relationship, but it was a start. He had been able to "dabro shalom." Think how much better Yosef's brothers would have done if they had taken that first step. Maybe they could have avoided three full parshiot of suffering, not to mention hundreds of years of exile and slavery in Egypt. Certainly at the very least it would have made the breakfast conversation around Yakov's table every morning more pleasant.

 

Danny unlocked his car and climbed in. He chuckled to himself. Maybe when he ran into Lenny again in five years he could ask him how he was.

 

Rome was not built in a day.

 

Vayishlach: The Angel

Bereishit: 32:25-32

 

 

 

Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.

 

Jake Abramowitz was standing backstage at the Prudential Center in Newark, waiting to be called into the wrestling ring. He had pulled out his old uniform from college, and it still fit him. At first he thought that was a positive sign, and he started to feel encouraged. This was a good idea. He could do this, and the money would go a long way to paying his rent, and for buying the airplane ticket to Aruba he had been dreaming of. Winter was hard in New Jersey.

 

Then he watched the match before his from backstage. Mike the Slayer against Righteous Rick. It looked brutal. Bodyslams, Legdrops. Dropkicks. Backbreakers. And a few moves he had never seen before. The crowd roared every time flesh pounded flesh, or a body was forcibly thrown to the mat. These guys were big, really big. And they knew their stuff. How did he let his roommate talk him into this?

 

But he had been a star in college. That is, until Yeshiva University disbanded the Macabees Wrestling Team. He had been featured in the Y.U. Commentator as Sports Star of the Week. True, that did not cause him to abandon his accounting major, but it was satisfying, nonetheless.

 

Now here he stood wearing a baby blue singlet, waiting to go into the arena as a last minute replacement for a professional wrestler named Bob the Barracuda who apparently had the flu. He was up against a guy called The Angel. They told him he would be billed as Jake the Kid. All he had to do was last the full twenty minutes in the ring to get paid. He was the Heel, the no-name challenger, and The Angel was the Face, the star expected to win. It was all staged to keep him uninjured, or so he had been told. Money in the bank.

 

The light was blinding when the curtains parted and he walked towards the ring. He could hear a smattering of applause and more than a few boos as he approached center stage. Then loud music began to pulse through the speakers. What tune was that? Enter Sandman? No, he couldn’t place it. Oh, yes. Angel by Jimi Hendrix. Good one.

 

Then he saw him. The spotlight caught him entering from offstage left. He had large glittery wings hanging from his back. And he was huge. A small mountain. A slab of rock.

 

Jake felt a strange sense of foreboding. What on earth had he gotten himself into?

 

O.K., it can’t be that bad. It was all choreographed, right? And you rarely heard stories of a wrestler dying in the ring, right? Almost never. All he had to do was last until the end of the bout. It was all about endurance.

 

The referee was saying something to the two of them, perhaps reviewing some rules. He thought he heard his name mentioned once. Then he walked to his corner and the bell rang.

 

The crowd roared. The Angel clasped him tightly and said something in his ear.

 

“Throw me against the ropes.”

 

“What?”

 

“I’m not going to say it again.”

 

Jake shoved the man-mountain and he fell hard against the ropes. Wow. He was good.

 

This wouldn’t be so bad.

 

The Angel came in close again and said something like, “Atomic Kneedrop.”

 

The next thing Jake knew he was ten feet in the air and then down on the Angel’s knee. Again the crowd roared its approval.

 

Disbelief more than pain. But lots of pain, too.

 

And so it went. He felt like a piñata. He occasionally shoved The Angel and the wrestler went flying, but most of the time Jake was airborne or hugging the mat. And The Angel would tell him something just before his body assumed a new contortion.

 

“Corkscrew Moonsault.”

 

“Jumping Facebuster.”

 

“Crossarm Piledriver.”

 

How long could these twenty minutes be? Jake tried to think of a way to keep going. He thought of jumping from the ring, but stayed put. The next time The Angel locked him in a clasp, he tried to hold on.

 

“Let go, kid. The match is almost over.”

 

But Jake held on for his life.

 

The Angel grabbed his thigh and squeezed.

 

Jake jumped back in pain.

 

“You’re doing great, kid. Hang in there. I don’t give out compliments often, but you’ve got a real future in this. We could give you some new wrestling name, something flashy, and you could go on to glory.”

 

Wow. Blessed by The Angel.

 

And just before The Angel raised him up from the ground and lifted him over his head to execute something called a “Jackknife Powerbomb” Jake knew that, despite the pain all over his body-- especially his left thigh-- he was going to be alright. For he had wrestled with The Angel, and he had persevered. He had shown he had what it takes to survive in this world, maybe even to flourish. He was the real deal. A contender.

 

He also knew that he would never ever wrestle again. Ever.