The Maggid of Bergenfield

Purim: The Vashti Monologues

Megillat Esther: Chapter 1

I once heard someone say, "Uneasy is the head that wears a crown."* Personally, I’ll be happy if I still have my head at the end of the day.

I’m really not sure how it all got so out of hand. Things were actually going pretty well. It was a big party season in the capital. The King had just come off a festival to celebrate the third year of his reign. That may not sound like much, three years, but with the amount of palace intrigue that goes on daily here in Shushan, it’s quite an accomplishment.

The party was a total blow-out. All the ministers, the army higher ups, the royal appointees, and all their support staff were invited. It was quite a shindig. Some of Achasherosh’s predecessors have thrown month-long parties, but I don’t think anyone has gone one hundred and eighty days before. Then, to top it off, Achashverosh announced a seven day party for all the people of Shushan.

If King Achashverosh will be remembered for anything, I think he’ll go down in the annals of Persia and Medea as the Party King (but that’s why I love him. He’s always thinking of others). I don’t think there was a pig left in the kingdom of one hundred and twenty seven nations that hadn’t been slaughtered and skewered with an apple in its mouth. And with all that wine flowing, it was not a good time to be a grape, let me tell you.

I also decided to throw a party. Mine was for the women of Shushan. I thought it was time someone acknowledged their contributions to the realm. That, and I like a good party, what can I say? It was very popular– who would turn down a ladies night out?

It wasn’t a wine and meat party, like the men’s version. We had cru de te, vegetarian polow, khoreisht, and a kookoo sabzi. We went with ragunah and halva for dessert, with pomegranates and quince for those on a diet.

For entertainment we hired with an amazing harp and lyre duo from Tyre, and there were wonderful singers, all eunuchs and women– there were no men allowed. I think everyone had a good time.

We were starting to wrap things up when the King’s chamberlains burst in and announced that the King wanted to see me. I was supposed to come with my crown on my head and entertain the boys.

You could smell the alcohol on the chamberlains’ breath. And they kept giggling. I knew this was going to be trouble.

All the women were watching me. Would I go and be a party favor for a drunken king and his frat boy friends? There was even a rumor that I was expected to appear in– how shall I put it?– less than full evening attire. I just couldn’t. I know it would have been the smart thing to do, but there was no way I was going to go with all of my friends and half of the women of Shushan watching me. I was sure the King would understand. Achashverosh was such a softy. I could always smooth it over with him later.

The chamberlains looked a bit surprised at my response, and it looked like they were going to make a scene, but when the mob of women started murmuring, they left.

Personally, I thought that was the end of it. But the next thing I knew it got blown up into a big scandal. Achashverosh was none too pleased when he heard I wasn’t coming. He probably would have calmed down if given the chance, but his advisors decided this would be a good time to flex their muscles. They convinced him to punish me, big time. What would the women of the kingdom say when they heard Queen Vashti dissed the King? Please, give me a break.

This was when the media really took off with the whole thing. I heard some amazing stories floating around Shushan. One reporter said I didn’t go to the party because I had pimples. Can you imagine? Another media outlet portrayed me as a radical feminist. I don’t even know what that is. I even heard about a report that described me as the great-granddaughter of King Nebuchadnezar. I’m just a simple country girl from Medea who won a beauty contest. This queen thing? It was fun while it lasted, but I come from a very modest background.

I’m not sure what’s going to happen to me, but suffice to say my days as queen are over. Judging from how quick people are these days to set up the gallows and put a noose around your neck, exile is sounding rather inviting right about now.

How things went so wrong I just can’t say. I have an Israelite friend who once told me that everything happens for a reason, and it’s all part of their G-d’s plan for history. I’m a lapsed Zoroastrian, so I wouldn’t know of such things. Still, if I were the next queen, I would tread lightly. Learn from my mistakes, and don’t make any waves. The best way to achieve longevity as the Queen of Persia is to just sit back and enjoy the show, know what I mean?

*Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part 2. A little anachronism never hurt anyone.

Purim: Ode to the Poppy Hamantasch

Special thanks to the Maggedet for the Maggid site's first attempt at Hamantasch verse. Go ahead, take a nibble.

Here I sit, broken hearted.

Alas, the final customer has departed.

The owner has shut out the lights,

And I sit here—alone—crumbling with fright.

Every year, at the start of Adar,

The shoppers come from near and far.

They buy their goodies, salty and sweet,

To fill their baskets with yummy treats.

But here’s my problem with all of this nosh:

No one will buy me—I’m a poppy hamantasch.

Every year, the baker’s wife

Rolls out the dough and cuts with her knife.

She spoons out the fillings—prune and jam—

She folds little triangles and lines up the pan.

But gone are the days of gooey delights,

The Lower East Side and WashingtonHeights.

Today, all those yuppies have their say.

They want their hamantaschen to be “gourmet.”

The fillings are peach, apricot, mocha and cream,

Mint chocolate chip and strawberry supreme.

Even my pruney friends still have buyers.

“We’re a tradition,” they say, those friars.

“Poppy, you’re too sloppy,

Too seedy, too gloppy.”

Don’t they know that we “mun”

Just want to have fun?

Yet a few years ago, when I failed to pass muster,

The baker realized I had lost my luster.

So he placed me in the window, I’m sad to say,

And there I’ve sat till this very day.

I guess I've finally lost my knack.

The baker's wife glazed me with shellac.

Tetzaveh: The Noneternal Flame

Shemot: 27: 20-21

"Dad."

"What is it, Josh."

"Look up at the ner tamid," he whispered.

"I see it, Josh. What about it?"

"The light is out."

Jeff Lerner looked up at the ner tamid, the eternal light, in front of the aron kodesh in their synagogue. It was a small red and orange fixture in the shape of a flame that hung from the ceiling on a gold chain. Sure enough, the light was out.

"Oh yeah. You're right, Josh. Good catch."

Jeff went back to his davening, but his son continued to stare up at the extinguished ner tamid, distracted from his prayers.

"Dad."

"What, Josh?"

"What does that mean?"

"What does what mean?"

"What does it mean that the ner tamid is out? Isn't it supposed to be on all the time?"

"It means that Ray was out of town this week on business."

"What?"

"Ray Garfinkel, the guy who fixes everything that breaks in the shul. He was in Toronto this week on business. I think it was a real estate convention of some sort. He'll be back tomorrow."

Again Jeff returned to his prayers and Josh remained fixated on the darkened flame.

"But Dad, what I mean is, what does it mean when the ner tamid goes out in your shul? Is G-d still there?"

Jeff stopped what he was doing and turned to look at his son. He had forgotten the fascination he too had experienced as a child with regards to the ner tamid. He could remember once sitting in the shtiebel where his parents davened on the Lower East Side when he was a kid after the shamash had turned off all the lights. The ner tamid, which was a large ornate candelabra-- with an electric bulb in the center the shape of a candle flame that seemed to magically flicker like a real candle-- was the only light still on in the room, and he felt like he was sitting in the presence of G-d. After everyone left the building, the eternal flame still burned, making you feel like Hashem still occupied your mikdash me'at, your religious sanctuary.

"You know, Josh, this commandment to keep a lamp burning in the Tabernacle is clearly very important. They used only the most pure olive oil to light the flame, which was probably not easy to come by when they were travelling in the wilderness for forty years, without an olive tree for miles. And it's probably the only commandment related to the Mishkan that is still observed today in our synagogues."

"Which shows how important it is to keep the light burning," Josh said.

"Yes, I suppose," Jeff continued. "But when Hashem commanded Moshe to light the ner tamid, He said Veyikach eilecha shemen zayit zach, You should take for yourself pure olive oil. Many commentators feel that the word eilecha, for yourself, means that Hashem was telling Moshe " the light is for you." In other words, G-d doesn't need a light on in the Mishkan. G-d created light. The ner tamid is for Moshe and the cohanim to be able to see."

"O.K. , Dad."

"No, I mean it. Some interpret the ner tamid to be a symbol for the light of Torah, and others see it as a symbol for the light that shines outwards and projects onto others when you fulfill a mitzvah. No matter what symbolism you attribute to the eternal flame, G-d's presence in the Tabernacle, or in our synagogue, as the case may be, remains whether the light is on or not. I like to think Hashem is always there listening to our prayers."

"I get it," Josh said.

"So do you know what you do when the light goes out in the ner tamid?"

"What?"

"You change the light bulb."

"Very profound, Dad."

"I try."

Terumah: My Travels with the Mishkan

Shemot:25 : 8

Exit 18W, George Washington Bridge, US-46, I-80, Ridgefield Park, Milepost 113.8

I am driving south on the New Jersey Turnpike at six-thirty on a Sunday morning. I am alone in a large, white panel van that I rented in Paramus on Friday.  The rate for the rental was the best I could find: forty dollars a day and twenty- nine cents a mile. I am rocketing down the Turnpike at seventy-two miles an hour, the fastest I figure one can go with a sixty-five MPH speed limit without being pulled over by a New Jersey state trooper. At this time of the morning on a holiday weekend-- President's Day, to be exact (though it is also Rosh Chodesh Adar)-- it's just me and a bunch of truckers. I'm on my way to Baltimore, Maryland to pick up the Mishkan, the Tabernacle the Jews used to worship G-d in the desert, and bring it back to New Jersey. I kid you not.

Exit 16W, NJ-3, Sportsplex, East Rutherford, Milepost 101.6

Giants Stadium, home of the New York Giants football team, looms large through the right side of my windshield, and to my left is the New York City skyline. I am in the middle of the New Jersey Meadowlands, a giant swamp where everyone in the area used to dump their garbage and toxic waste and now is making an environmental comeback. Birds can be seen feeding in the marshes, and beyond the wetlands are various office buildings and corporate headquarters. In the far distance are Newark and Jersey City.

It is overcast, but the sun peaks through the clouds occasionally. It's twenty degrees Farenheit outside, so the heat in the van is set pretty high. Next to my feet on the floor of the van is my Turnpike Survival Kit: my cell phone, a pair of sunglasses, the EZ Pass tag from my Honda, directions to the Rambam School, my old Walkman, and some CD's. I know it's illegal to drive with headphones on, but this van has only an AM/FM radio, and there's no way I'm driving for eight hours without some good music to accompany me, even if I get a ticket.

This whole journey actually began thirty years ago and eleven hundred miles away in North Miami Beach, Florida. My future father-in-law, Dr. Morton Freiman, was studying about the Mishkan, and, being the artist that he is, he decided the best way to learn about it was to build a scale model. Like the true Mishkan in the desert, his project became a community-wide effort. Among others, a carpenter, a seamstress, and a metal worker lent a hand to build the Mishkan's walls, curtains, and vessels. Most of the model was made of painted redwood, with the Aron and Shulchan made from balsa wood. The Kruvim were made from two eagles left over from the 1976 American Bicentennial celebrations, with a doll's head glued on to make them more cherub-like. It was a labor of love, to teach students, including his own children, about the wonders of Israel's site for worshipping G-d in the wilderness.

Exit 13A, Newark Airport, Elizabeth Seaport, Milepost 101.6

The swamps of the Meadowlands have given way to the oil refineries that give the Turnpike its reputation for ugliness. Yes, this is definitely an unsightly part of the world. Time to flip the recirculated air button on in the van to keep out the fashtoonkineh smell. Smokestacks billow out dark black particulate matter into the atmosphere. An airplane flies by low on its approach to the runways at Newark Airport.

It's still too early to call home and check up on the wife and kids. Someone is probably already awake, watching Sunday morning cartoons on PBS, but if Chana is lucky, the baby is still unconscious and she can sleep in for another half an hour. I took a cup of tea with me in a travel mug when I left home, but after twenty minutes driving behind a Dunkin Donuts truck I have a craving for some coffee. Maybe I'll hit the next reststop.

After the Mishkan model was complete, it sat on the back porch of the Freiman house for a few months, opposite the pool. (Rumor has it that my brother-in-law to be, Jake, used to pretend to perform animal sacrifices on the model of the altar with his plastic farm animals.) Teachers, school groups, and Rabbis came to see the model. Then it traveled to the Miami Convention Center as an exhibit in the Miami Israel Jubilee. It travelled to various other venues in Miami, including the Skylake Synagogue and the Central Agency for Jewish Education until it came to rest in the lobby of the Hebrew Academy of Greater Miami, where the Freiman children went to school. In the fifteen years it was there, hundreds of children learned from the model and developed an understanding of the Mishkan.

Exit 5, Burlington, Mount Holly, Milepost 44.0

Now I'm deep in the Pinebarrens, the heavily wooded, more rustic area in the southern part of New Jersey. It's quieter, and the traffic has less trucks. The snow looks prettier here, and an occasional farm can be seen on the side of the highway with a small group of cows looking sad and annoyed.

I stopped at the Molly Pitcher Reststop for a Snapple iced tea and a chocolate bar. All the reststops are named after famous New Jerseyans (who on earth is Richard Stockton?).

I popped on my headphones as I pulled back onto the highway and started playing songs by New Jersey based rock groups that mention Baltimore. I had only two with me: Bruce Springsteen's Hungry Heart ("Got a wife and kids in Baltimore, Jack/ I went out for a ride and I never came back"), and Fountains of Wayne's Bright Future in Sales ("Heading for the airport on a misty morning/ Gonna catch a flight to Baltimore"). That's all I could come up with.

After fifteen years at the Hebrew Academy, the Mishkan migrated north. Dr. Freiman's daughter Toby (my sister-in-law) moved with her husband Tzvi Klein(my brother-in-law) to Baltimore, and the Mishkan was taken to the Rambam School, where it remained for ten years. Toby and Tzvi made aliyah in the summer of 2006, and the Mishkan remained there, without family. Until now.

Exit 1, Delaware Memorial Bridge, Milepost 1.2

It almost feels like an accomplishment just to reach the end of the New Jersey Turnpike. The Delaware Bridge is a pretty span over the Delaware River, though on the other side is Wilmington, an ugly industrial city. The Delaware Turnpike is fourteen miles long with around ten police speed traps. I lower my velocity to sixty miles an hour. Another hour and a half to Baltimore and I've exhausted all the music I brought along. I tune in to a Philadelphia radio station that will accompany me until the Maryland border.

My children have a wonderful relationship with their Grandpops from Miami. They adore him and Savta, and all his art projects are a source of fascination for them. But the Mishkan is special. It is a testimony to my father-in-law's dedication to Torah and his desire to bring it to life for his family and for others.

Rambam School, Baltimore, Maryland, Mile 202 of the trip

Maryland is always the prettiest part of the drive. The land is more spread out that New Jersey, and there are signposts for towns with pretty names, like North East and Rising Sun. Plus, there is an amazing bridge (the Millard E. Tydings Bridge) over the Susquehanna River on I-95 that affords a beautiful view of the river valley below. The final forty miles of the drive are on 695, the Baltimore-Washington Beltway, nothing to write home about. Finally, I pull up at the Rambam School.

The Mishkan is spectacular. I had seen it many years earlier but had forgotten the detail that my father-in-law had put into the model. The outer walls, the inner sanctum, and the altar are all so intricate that you can feel how much work went into the original, as well as the model.

With the help of the maintenance workers at Rambam and my friend Jeffrey who drove over from Silver Spring, we load the Mishkan into the van. It is a tight fit, but after some maneuvering, it is in.

After a quick brunch with Jeff at Goldberg's Kosher Bagels in Baltimore (excellent pea soup), I am back on the road.

Exit 10, I-287, Metuchen, PerthAmboy, Milepost 88.1

I am returning from the south to the north of New Jersey. Six and a half hours into the trip, and my nerves are a bit frazzled. Jeff called me on my cell phone half-an-hour ago to ask if I am hearing the voice of G-d from the back of the van, and Chana called to ask if I was being guided home by following a particular cloud.

I passed by the Joyce Kilmer Reststop without stopping, but I'll probably pull in at Grover Cleveland for a break. I'm excited to get home. I can't wait to see the looks on my kids' faces when I open the back of the van.

The Moriah School, Englewood, New Jersey, Mile 404 of the trip

Dr. Prager, the principal of Moriah, came out himself on the Sunday of a holiday weekend to let us into the school to deliver the Mishkan. It is right in the lobby, where everyone can see it and learn from it for the next four weeks. My father-in-law will be up in New Jersey for Purim, and he'll teach the kids about the details of the Mishkan. I can't wait.

My wife Chana tells me I did a big mitzvah driving the length of the Turnpike twice to bring the Mishkan to Moriah. I'm just not sure which mitzvah it is. Kibbud av ve'aym, honoring your father and mother? Perhaps a variation of Livnot bayit leshem Hashem, to build a house for the sake of G-d? I think that if there is a mitzvah involved, it's probably veshinantam levanecha, and you shall teach Torah to your children.

While driving the salt covered van back to the rental agency, my wife and kids following along behind me in the minivan to take me home for a hot shower, I keep thinking that there must be a story in here somewhere, driving a model of the mobile Tabernacle two hundred miles to a new resting place so that Jewish children can learn more about it. I just can't think of what it is. 

Mishpatim: The Presidential Pardon

Shemot: 22: 27

Sid Wasserman walked up to Rabbi Morgenstern during the kiddush after davening on Shabbat morning, a gefilte fish ball on a toothpick in one hand and a small plastic shotglass of scotch in the other. The rabbi had just finished reciting kiddush over a tall, cool silver becher of grape juice just moments earlier, but judging from Sid's breath, he had paid a visit to the Johnny Walker bottle before the rabbi had completed the blessings. The rabbi had an egg kichel between his fingers and was about to bring it to his mouth when Mr. Wasserman stopped him mid-bite.

"Rabbi, let me ask you something."

"Sure, Sid."

"Me and my friends, we were following along with the parsha this morning--"

"Very commendable."

"Yeah, thanks. And we noticed a pasuk we found a little disturbing. So we wanted to ask you about it."

Rabbi Morgenstern was very excited. Sid Wasserman was not the kind of guy who usually asked parsha questions. Truth be told, he was more of a talker during laining, much to the rabbi's chagrin, and the rabbi had never seen him open a chumash before. Maybe his drasha this week had peaked Sid's interest.

"Fire away," the rabbi said enthusiastically.

"I was reading the part about giving interest free loans, me always being alert to a sweet deal, when I came across a pasuk that says you shouldn't curse G-d, and you shouldn't curse the Nasi, the president."

"Actually, the first part of the pasuk isn't only talking about G-d," the rabbi said. "In this case, Elo-him is referring to judges. You should not curse a judge."

"Yeah, that's nice," Sid Wasserman said,tossing back his scotch, "but it's the second part of the pasuk that got my attention."

"O.K."

"Nasi be'amcha al ta'ov. Don't curse the president. Does that mean I can't speak badly about the synagogue president?"

"Actually, I would translate it as you should not curse your leaders," Rabbi Morgenstern said. "I realize we use the word nasi in modern Hebrew to mean the president of a country, like the American  President, but I don't think that's what the Torah had in mind."

Sid popped the gefilte fish ball into his mouth and then leaned over the table to grab another shot of scotch before continuing with the rabbi.

"I see."

"According to the Oral Tradition, nasi here refers to a king. But it was extended to include the head of the sanhedrin, the Jewish supreme court. So I would have to say that the prohibition is against cursing any sovereign Jewish leader, whether in the realm of government or in the dominion of Torah."

"So Rabbi, bottom line, does this prohibit gossiping about the shul president or not?"

"I would have to say no."

"Whew, what a relief." Sid tossed back his second (third? fourth?) scotch.

"But I would also point out that there are other laws against saying anything bad about the shul president," the rabbi added. "There's the prohibition against lashon harah, speaking ill of others, and it's a very serious aveira."

Sid reached over and scooped some tuna onto a saltine.

"Thanks, Rabbi. You've been most helpful. Now if you'll excuse me, I think the ladies of the Sisterhood are finally bringing the potato kugel out of the kitchen, so I'm going to go before you tell me I can't say anything about the members of the synagogue board of directors either."

And on that note Sid Wasserman walked over to the kitchen to confer with his friends, and Rabbi Morgenstern finally got to eat his egg kichel. He was in an indulgent mood, so he had a second kichel and even visited the creamed herring tray. But he avoided the sour cream and onion dip. It was too oniony. A man has to know his limitations.

Terumah: Teachers of the Lost Ark

Shemot: 25: 22

Rabbi Rosenthal walked down the halls of the Nachmanides School at a rapid clip. Mrs. Weiner had tipped him off to what was going on in Rabbi Levy's seventh grade class, but he had to see for himself. Surely she must have been mistaken.

He reached Room 118 in about forty-five seconds-- the school building wasn't really that large-- and glanced through the doorway into the classroom. Sure enough, Mrs. Weiner had been correct. Rabbi Rosenthal knocked gently on the door and motioned for Rabbi Levy to come out.

Menachem Levy exited the classroom with a big smile on his face. He was a fresh-faced recent graduate of the Smicha program at Yeshiva University, and he was brimming with enthusiasm for teaching. Rabbi Rosenthal felt he was an excellent addition to the school's staff.

"Hello, Rabbi Rosenthal."

The Rabbi could never get the younger teachers to call him by his first name, try as he might. "Hi,  Menachem. What's this I hear about watching a movie with Class 7-3 ?"

"Well, every once in a while a movie comes along that perfectly epitomizes a particular weekly parsha, and this week I think I got it just right."

"Really."

"Yes. And you do encourage us to think outside the box and be creative in out teaching methods."

"That's true."

"This week, I'm outside the box."

"Quite," Rabbi Rosenthal said. "In fact, some might think you were outside the warehouse the box was being stored in."

"Oh, I don't know. I think my choice was inspired."

"Are you serious, Menachem? Raiders of the Lost Ark for Parshat Terumah?

"I don't know if 'serious' is the word I would choose," Menachem Levy said, "but I stand by my movie pick."

"But Menachem, think about what your students' parents are going to say. There's gunplay and gratuitous violence. There's kissing and innuendo. There's Nazis."

"I'm pretty sure Steven Speilberg adopts an anti-Nazi stance in the movie, Rabbi Rosenthal. In fact, in one of the sequels, I believe Indiana Jones actually says, 'Nazis, I hate those guys.'"

"I see you have excellent bekiut in cinema, Menachem."

"I'll take that as a compliment, I think."

In the background, a loud explosion and gunfire could be heard emanating from the classroom.

Menachem continued. "The fact is, Raiders is an excellent movie for teaching Parshat Terumah. I mean , I could live without the fist fighting and gunplay, as entertaining as it might be. And I must admit, I love the scene where Harrison Ford is confronted by a large, sword wielding bandit who is clearly a master of the martial arts and he just pulls his gun and shoots him--"

"Is this going somewhere?"

"Yes, of course. Despite all the violence in the movie, there is that scene near the end where, after the Aron Habrit, the Holy Ark, is appropriated by the Nazis, they open it up in a weird ceremony of Hebrew incantations, including, if my memory serves me correctly, the Birchat Cohanim.

"Suddenly, the special effects set in, and angels emanate from the Ark. Then something like the Holywood version of the Hand of G-d appears, and kills all the Nazis in spectacular fashion.

"In that scene, I've always felt I could finally understand what it might have been like when Hashem states in the Parsha, veno'aditi lecha sham, vedibarti itcha meyal hakaporet. It is there I will set my meetings with you, and I will speak to you from atop the cover. Hashem would appear to Moshe at the ark, but what was that like?

"For the students, the parshiyot about the mishkan, the tabernacle in the desert, can often seem dry, but that scene in the movie brings it all to life and let's you imagine not only how the ark might have looked, but what communicating with Hashem in the mishkan might have been like. It isn't accurate, of course, but if for just a second you are immersed in the movie magic of the scene and believe it's happening, then you can better appreciate what the parsha is describing."

"Hmmm, interesting," Rabbi Rosenthal said. "And you feel watching the entire movie is warranted, just for experiencing that one scene?"

The theme music of the movie burst from the classroom in stereophonic sound.

"Yes. With the proper classroom discussion and the right attitude, it will stimulate the students' imagination and allow for a deeper understanding of Hashem's presence in the Mishkan."

"O.K. , you've convinced me," Rabbi Rosenthal said. "And when parents call to question your pedagogic method, I'll support you."

"Thank you, Rabbi."

"But Menachem, this does not mean I approve of Mr. Ed reruns during the Bilaam story or a spy thriller when the Miraglim episode comes up in Shlach."

"How about Irwin Allen's Earthquake for Parshat Korach?" Menachem Levy asked. "Or the Towering Inferno for the story of Nadav and Avihu?"

"We'll talk." 

Mishpatim: Stopping with Dry Goods on a Snowy Eve

Shemot: 22: 24

It wasn't exactly the Storm of the Century, but as snowstorms go, this wasn't much fun. There was no "easy wind or downy flake,"* just nasty precipitation. The weatherperson rarely forecasts a storm like this one correctly, but in this case, he was right on the money. Snow, mixing with sleet and freezing rain, with accumulations of three to six inches.

Steve sighed as he drove to the synagogue. This was not the pretty snow of a Currier and Ives poster. This was an ugly, icy mess. Cars were swerving all over the place, and a snowdrift or black ice could be around any corner. And as the night went on and the temperature dropped, it would just get worse.

A few cars  were already parked at the door to the storage room at the basement level of the shul. Men and women were carrying out large cardboard boxes of food to deliver. It was a Wednesday night ritual in Teaneck. The Tomchei Shabbos volunteers delivered food all over the area to the less fortunate so they could have a nice shabbat meal. The packages contained challah, frozen chicken, vegetables, assorted baked goods, and whatever other food products had been donated that week. Volunteers nodded to eachother as they hauled their boxes back to their snow covered cars. Some were still in suits, ties and dress shoes, having come straight from work, but the smart ones had changed into their snow gear before starting on their rounds. Steve looked like an advertisement for the LL Bean catalogue. Snow boots, a heavy goose-down winter jacket, ski gloves, and A Yankee cap. He was good to go.

Every box had a route number written on the side, sending the driver to a particular town in Bergen County. Many routes were local, like Teaneck, Englewood, or Hackensack, but some were distant, like Woodcliff Lake or Old Tappan. Steve once spoke to a driver who went all the way to Secaucus. The Meadowlands! Now that was far. He admired this man's dedication.

Steve had been driving for Tomchei Shabbos for two years. His route was number 41, which took him to Fort Lee and Edgewater. In between the high rise buildings on the shores of the Hudson River were small garden apartments and older houses. Most of Steve's deliveries were to older Russian Jews. His route had changed somewhat over the last two years, but the one constant was Mrs. Z.

Mrs. Z. lived in a second floor walkup about a quarter of a mile from the George Washington Bridge. She was a short, stocky woman in her late seventies who didn't speak a word of English but always managed a big wry smile for Steve or a big hug for his children if he brought them along.

Her television was always on a Russian language station that was set way too loud, and Steve had to bang hard on her door to get her to open it. She would speak to him in Russian as if he should understand and then would stare at him blankly when he didn't respond. But there was always that smile.

Steve drove down Route 4 that snowy eve at around twenty miles an hour. He took the ramp up to Lemoine Avenue at about 5 MPH, but he had to press down hard on the accelerator and spin the wheels of his trusty Volvo to make it into Fort Lee. The local roads were a disaster, but he navigated the unplowed side streets with aplomb and managed to find a space directly in front of Mrs. Z.'s apartment complex, a rarity.

He trudged across the courtyard with the box in his arms, wincing at the windswept sleet blowing in his face. "I sure hope G-d is watching," he muttered under his breath.

What makes someone work this hard to do a mitzvah? Once, while crossing this courtyard in a torrential downpour, Steve came across a skunk standing five feet in front of him and stood motionless in his galoshes, water dripping off the tip of his nose, for over five minutes until the animal eventually moved on. His wife laughed for an hour when he told her.

What is the scriptural source for helping the needy in your own neighborhood first? Many believe it is in Parshat Mishpatim, but the pasuk cited does not discuss charity; it deals with giving loans. Im kesef talveh et ami, et he'ani imach, lo tihiyeh lo kinosheh, lo tisimun alav neshech. If you lend my people money, the poor man with you, you shall not behave towards him as a creditor, you shall not charge him interest. Along with the precepts of interest free loans, this sentence teaches us that it is better to loan a poor person money than to give him charity. It also teaches that you must tend to the ani imach, the poor person with you-- in other words, your local poor-- first.  And so, Steve trudges across the courtyard on a freezing night to help the needy of Bergen County. It's just the way things are done.**

The buzzer at the front door of Mrs. Z.'s apartment never works, so Steve pestered the super until he gave him a key to the building. Steve climbs the stairs, cradling the soggy box in his arms. Steve pounds on Mrs. Z.'s door with his balled up fist in his glove.

It takes a minute, but finally the lock turns and the door opens.

"Hi, Mrs. Z."

She smiles.

Steve carries the box into the kitchen. He puts it on her table and makes for the door.

"Spaciba stovy prichodili kogola snezt."

He smiles back at Mrs. Z.

"Ocen choroshiy celovek," she says, pinching his cheek.

Steve closes the door behind him. Two more deliveries and he can go home and take a hot bath. He thinks of a story he heard as a kid about the Ba'al Shem Tov, the great Chassidic master, sneaking out just before Yom Kippur in peasant's clothing to anonymously chop wood for an old woman in need in his town.

It was probably pretty cold and snowy in Medzhybizh, where the BeSHT lived, even in October. This trek to Fort Lee? This was nothing. Steve smiled and pulled the Yankee cap low over his face as he crossed the snowy courtyard toward his car on one of the darkest evenings of the year. And there's no way the Ba'al Shem Tov's horse had heated seats like his Volvo. Steve was on top of the world.

*My apologies to Robert Frost

**Nehama Leibowitz, New Studies in Shemot, Haomanim Press, page 404

Mishpatim: What if your Battle Ox Falls in a Pit?

Shemot: 21: 33-35, 23: 9

Once in the town of Oradell, on a rainy Sunday afternoon, two boys sat down to duel with their Yu-gi-oh cards*. To those of you who are new to six-year-old boys, Yu-gi-oh cards are playing cards based on some scary Japanese cartoon, where two or more players are locked in mortal combat by turning over cards in some way that I don't understand at all. That's all I can tell you. Hashem yerachem.

Anyway, as I was saying, these two boys, David and Neil, sat down to play with their Yu-gi-oh cards. David was an old pro at the game, and Neil was new to the art form of mass media martial arts, or something like that.

After they played for a few minutes and David massacred Neil with monster cards and spell cards and magic cards, David suggested they make some trades from their decks.

"Sure," said Neil, "what do you have in mind?"

"How about if I give you my Battle Ox for your Blue Eyes White Dragon?"

"Sounds good to me."

Just before the trade was made, David and Neil's good friend Danny came into the room. He was late for the playdate because his mother had to drop his sister across town for a different playdate.

"Hey guys, whatcha doing?" asked Danny.

"Making some Yu-gi-oh trades," said Neil.

"Let me see," said Danny

Danny eyed the cards involved. "Are you crazy?" he asked. "That's not fair. The Blue Eyes White Dragon has an attack factor of 3000 and a defense factor of 2500, while the Battle Ox has an attack factor of 1700 and a defense of 1000. No way is that a good deal."

"Sounds fine to me," said Neil.

"Hey, if it's O.K. with Neil, why should it be a problem?" David asked.

"David, didn't you learn anything from this week's parsha?" Danny asked. Mishpatim is filled with mitzvot that teach us to be fair to eachother."

"I don't see one law that applies to playing Yu-gi-oh," said David.

"Well, there's the law that if you dig a pit and another man's ox falls into it that you're responsible to pay for the ox."

"So?"

"So that shows that you're responsible for other people's animals."

"Animals aren't Yu-gi-oh cards."

"How about the Battle Ox? That's a Yu-gi-oh card that's an animal."

"Nope," said David. "That doesn't apply."

"O.K., how about Veger lo tilchatz , you should not oppress a stranger."

"So?"

"So Neil is a stranger to Yu-gi-oh, and you can't take advantage of him."

"I don't think that applies here," said David.

"Listen, all I know is that these laws teach you to deal fairly with others. And five years from now, when no one even knows what a Yu-gi-oh card is, we'll still be reading Parshat Mishpatim, and learning to be fair."

"Well," said David, "I guess I can see your point."

So instead of trading the Blue Eyes White Dragon for the Battle Ox, Neil and David traded the Rare Metal Dragon for the Armored Lizard, which seemed more reasonable. Then the boys put away their Yu-gi-oh cards and played a game of Monopoly. Neil beat David and Danny with a hotel on Boardwalk and Park Place, but in keeping with the parsha, when all of Danny's properties were mortgaged, he lost gracefully and no one was sold into slavery.

*Special thanks to Judah Stiefel for explaining to me the finer points of Yu-gi-oh dueling. Now, on to a rudimentary understanding of Heroscape.

Yitro: Jblogging at Mount Sinai

Shemot: 20:2

(A glossary of the internet abbreviations used in this story is available at the bottom of this post)

Yonie Potashnick was not a blogger, not by any stretch of the imagination. By profession he was an accountant, and he used his computer as much as he needed to for business purposes, and no more. He read the New York Times on line occasionally, if he hadn't had time to review it over his morning coffee. He went on JPost.com or Haaretz.com to read about Israel, especially if something momentous was going on over there. And of course he went on JDate. But he was not a member of the You Tube generation, and for him the term My Space referred to the four walls of his apartment.

When Yoni's friend Gary Gross made aliyah with his family to Beit Shemesh, Gary started a blog to keep his friends up to date with his life. It was filled with musings on Israel, on being a new oleh, and on everything from sitting behind the wheel of a car in a country filled with insane drivers to toilet training his two-year-old. Yoni started reading the blog, Fear and Loathing in Beit Shemesh.blogspot.com, every day. He would often leave a comment after Gary's postings, just as a way to stay current with his buddy.

Gary often made reference to other blogs in his writings, and gave many links for his readers to click on, and the next thing Yoni knew, he was clicking onto lots of other sites. Each blogger provided a blog roll of other internet writers to explore, and soon Yoni found himself wandering the world wide web in that strange community known as the Jewish blogosphere.

The amazing thing was that there was a Jewish blog on everything. There was a daf yomi blog. A blog for kabbalists. A blog for left wing orthodox Jews who wanted to break free. A blog for ex-chassidim. A blog of wacky parsha stories. A proaliyah blog for dwellers of Judea and Samaria. A blog for singles in Jerusalem. A blog for followers of the Chafetz Chaim. A blog of literary musings from Lakewood. A blog for Lubavitch Jews in Montana. Blogs on Jews in Boulder, Chicago, Los Angeles, Sydney, Raanana, Efrat, French Hill, Petach Tikvah, and Minneapolis. A blog for Jewish social action. A left wing political blog. A right wing political blog. An anti-left wing right wing political blog and, of course, vice versa. Blogs on Jewish literature and music. A blog on Jewish witchcraft (some things you just can't make up). A blog on being a Jewish atheist. A blog from the perspective of Lot's daughter. A blog about planning bar mitzvahs. A Jewish feminist blog. A Jewish conversion blog. You get the idea.*

After one of Gary's postings about commuting to work along the routes of the forefathers, Yoni wrote back to him in exasperation:

Gary, I'm drowning in Jblogs! How can so many people have so much time to write down their thoughts? The Jewish blogosphere is a jungle. And there are so many different points of view. It's dizzying. How do you sort it all out?

Gary wrote back:

You don't have to sort it out. The Jblogosphere is a community, where everyone exchanges ideas. People with opposing views will debate from different lifestyles, different outlooks, and different parts of the world. Most of the time it's collegial, but it can get heated at times. IMHO it's liberating and educational at the same time. And it gives everyone and anyone an opportunity to express themselves on anything Jewish. G2G

Yonie wrote back:

But so many points of view, and all of them are different. Isn't each voice drowned out by the cacophony of noise? And in the end, despite all the marvelous diversity, isn't only one point of view correct? This is Judaism, after all. Right or wrong, we each tend to believe that each of us is the sole keeper of the faith.

Gary didn't write back until the next day, since it was the middle of the night in Israel when Yoni responded, and even bloggers have to sleep. But his response was thoughtful:

Actually, just the opposite. BION, I would have to say that no one point of view is correct. The  diversity  is  the  point of the whole endeavor. When G-d appeared to the  Israelites  on  Mount  Sinai,  the   Midrash   Rabbah on   Shemot   states that   each   individual   perceived   the  divine  voice  according  to  his  or  her unique capacity to  experience Hashem's presence.**  I've always felt that meant that G-d knew that each person would understand Him differently. Therefore, each person would interpret his words, namely the Torah, in different ways. So the diversity of opinion is to be expected, even encouraged.

Yoni wrote back:

Gary, you heretic!

Gary responded:

LOL. AAMOF, it's not such a radical point of view. Gershom Scholem, the historian of Kabbalah, though not necessarily a mainstream halachic authority by any measure, always felt that Judaism is actually a pluralistic tradition, where frequent contradictory opinions on Judaism are all equally legitimate.*** So I am not alone in my viewpoint.

Yonie responded:

Heavy, dude. I had no idea you were such a philosopher. And btw, I have no idea what any of your internet abbreviations stand for.

Gary wrote back:

RTM. TTFN

*The names of these blogs are all so creative that I didn't have the heart to fictionalize them, nor did I choose to list them, running the risk of leaving out so many imaginative and thought provoking contributors to Jblogging.

** The Midrash Says, The Book of Sh'mos, Volume 2, Benei Yakov Publications, page 182.

***Interpreters of Judaism in the Late Twentieth Century, Essay by David Biale on Gershom Scholem, B'nai Brith Books, page 265

Glossary of Internet terms:IMHO- in my humble opinion, G2G- got to go, BION-believe it or not, LOL-laughing out loud, AAMOF-as a matter of fact, BTW-by the way, RTM-read the manual, TTFN- ta ta for now

Yitro: Thou Shalt Not Make A Mess

Shemot: 20: 1-14

Once in  the town of Rutherford, three children sat down on a cold Friday afternoon, Erev Shabbat Kodesh, and tried to figure out how to make their mother happy.

It was Yeshiva Week, the week in January when their day school gave off for vacation. Their father had left for work early that morning, and their mother was still in bed, hoping they would entertain themselves for a few hours and she could get some rest. The night before, she had left out a pile of DVDs, a stack of books, and enough board games to amuse a cub scout troop for a week, hoping they would get the hint.

While their mother was sleeping, the three children decided to try to make her happy. It was Parshat Yitro, which contained the Aseret Hadibrot, the Ten Commandments, and they decided to surprise their mother with parsha projects.

The oldest child decided to bake a cake. He took out every pot and pan in the kitchen and made a ten layer cake, with chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, blueberry, fluff, Captain Crunch, grape, peanut butter, coconut, and banana.

The middle child took out a giant mound of clay and made a perfect model of their house, then painted it in many colors. Paint was flying everywhere, but she worked with reckless abandon. Artists can't be bothered with cleanliness.

The youngest child sat and read until her siblings were done and then went to work on her own project.

When the mother awoke at nine-thirty, she groggily stepped from her bedroom and shuffled into the living room in her flannel bathrobe and fuzzy moose slippers, expecting to see the house in shambles. Much to her surprise, the house was spotless, and her three children sat on the couch, eagerly waiting to tell her about their projects.

"In honor of the parsha, I made you a cake, Mom," said the oldest. "It has ten layers, in honor of the aseret hadibrot, and it fulfills kibud av ve'em, honoring your mother and father, since I made it for you. It also fulfills Remember the Sabbath Day, since we'll eat it on Shabbat. So it teaches about the fourth and fifth commandments."

"Wow," said the mother, "that's fantastic." She peaked her head into the kitchen, expecting to see some culinary carnage, but it was clean as a whistle.

"In honor of the parsha, I made a model of our house," said the middle child. "I was going to do a sculpture of you, but I wanted to observe Lo ta'aseh lecha pesel vechol temunah, you should not create any graven images, so I followed the second and the fifth commandments.

"Terrific," said the mother. She looked into the den, again expecting a mess of biblical proportions, but once again she was pleasantly surprised. It was immaculate.

"And I cleaned up after their projects," the youngest one said. "I cleaned every dish, picked the fluff out of flour sifter, scrubbed every fleck of paint off the table, and swept all the clay off the floor. That way I fulfilled the fifth commandment and the sixth commandment."

"The sixth?" asked the mother.

"Yes," said the youngest. Lo tirtsach, You shall not kill. Which is what you most assuredly would have done to us had you seen what it looked like in here an hour ago."

"Very impressive," said the mother with a smile.

And so, to celebrate, the mother took all three children out for brunch, where each had identical servings of waffles a la mode with vanilla ice cream and a marachino cherry on top, thereby observing the tenth commandment, Lo tachmod et beit rei'echa, you should not be jealous of others.