The Maggid of Bergenfield

Hoshana Raba: Traffic

For Yakov Pultman

 

"Dear G-d, please save us."

The traffic was backed up twenty deep. There was no way to get to where he needed to go. But there was no horn to honk and no lane in which to change. He was stuck, with no traffic helicopter to rescue him with an alternate route, no GPS with help from above.

It was Hoshanot.

"There has got to be a better way," Shimmy Lopatin muttered under his breath. He stood with his lulav and etrog in a line of men that was going nowhere fast. The line of congregants at the bimah was clogged and people were merging from every row of chairs. Everyone had converged on the same spot simultaneously, and no one was moving. It was bedlam, anarchy.

"We need salvation," Moti Rabinowitz muttered. Was that in the siddur, or was he also feeling the strain?

"I'm trapped," Mark Reichlin said.

"I'm sorry," Shimmy said. "Are you referring to your prayers or the congestion?"

"The traffic, of course. My tefillot are just fine, thank you."

"But what can we do?"

Suddenly someone stood up in front of the Aron Kodesh. Clad in white (well, a white talit, at least), he was a beacon of calm in a sea of cantankerous Jews. It was Yitzchak Pruzansky, a man on a mission.

"Fold the first four of the outer chairs in every row near the bimah," he said in a deep voice brimming with authority. "And you, Steinhart, go into the third row and form a second line going toward the rabbi's pulpit."

"It'll never work," someone called from the crowd.

"Enough from the eirev rav," Yitzchak said. "Just do it."

Reluctantly, people began to fold the chairs, and Steinhart did as he was told.

Sure enough, things began to move. It was like a great Port Authority cop had descended from above  and removed the bottle neck.

The Hoshanot were a tradition performed during morning prayers on Sukkot, commemorating a ceremony from the Beit Hamikdash, the Temple. On Sukkot, in the time of the Temple, large willow branches would be set up on each side of the mizbeach, the altar, and after four blasts of a shofar, the Jews who were visiting for the holiday would make a circuit around the altar each day.

"If you're not making the hakafah, move into the fourth row," Pruzansky added. "We'll make that a frozen zone. Feigenblum, keep moving or step to the side."

Nowadays, a circle is formed around the bimah, as someone holds the Torah there, and men with the four species (lulav, etrog, hadassim, aravot) recite the Hoshana prayers as they complete one circuit.

"Mendy, you can talk with Steve later. Just keep walking and no one will get hurt."

The Hoshanot are a prayer for G-d to fulfill our needs through abundant rainfall in the coming year and also serve as a symbolic conclusion to the repentance process from Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur.

Everyone finished their circuit and made it back to their seats. The congregation broke into singing "Hoshea et amecha," Please save our nation, as everyone put their lulav and etrog back into their cases. The mood was festive.

Wow, Pruzansky really saved the day out there."

"I know. He was incredible."

"Is he a policeman, or school principal?"

"No, I think he's a lawyer."

"We should make Hoshanot direction his yearly job in the shul. Official Sukkot traffic cop, or Lulav Czar."

"I'll bring it up at the next shul board meeting."

"Do you think the motion will pass?"

"On most issues I tend to doubt it, but in this case I think it will be unanimous."

 

Ki Tavo: Membership Rewards

Devarim 28: 1-5

 

Once in the town of Berkeley Heights there lived a girl who had everything.

Well, almost everything. She had a lot of clothes of all kinds in every color of the rainbow. She had a wicked bicycle and a nasty rip-stick. She had many sneakers and more shoes than a family of cobblers. She had a cell phone with unlimited texting. She had every hair clip and band that any girl could want, and then a few more. And don't get me started on all the jewelery...

But there was one material object she didn't have--one more thing she truly desired.

An iPod Touch.

True, she had her elder brother's old iPod Nano, the one he gave her when he got his iPod Touch (which he paid for with baby sitting earnings, bless his soul), but that wasn't enough. Three of her best friends had the newest iPod, and although the tenth commandment may have suggested not coveting other's possessions, she was finding that whole mitzvah quite a challenge.

She truly wanted it, and she wanted it bad.

While her brother was a prodigious wage earner, and a very popular baby sitter around the neighborhood, she was not as successful at the child-watching arts. She preferred to text friends, listen to music, or play computer games, and diaper changing was out of the question. So the iPod seemed far from her grasp (or should I say, touch?).

But she had a plan.

Ariella--for that was the lovely girl's name--decided to become a true "mitzvah girl." She would fulfill as many commandments as she could and observe them with all the fervor and dedication of which she was capable. Surely if worldly means (in other words, her parents) would not provide her with her true desire, then heavenly means (in other words, G-d) would.

Normally Ariella was a very good girl, but now she became quite exceptional. She was the first one at davening in the morning and prayed with such fervor. Help an old lady cross the street? No problem. And she was even more careful than usual to say her brachot, her blessings, on her food, and to never speak unkindly of others. It was truly inspiring.

Her parents were enjoying the new improved Ariella (her father started calling her "Ariella 2.0"), but after a few weeks, it became obvious that she was getting a bit discouraged. When was G-d going to give her the iPod? Her mother considered buying her the iPod as a reward for her efforts, but  agreed that this would send a strange message. Still, something had to give.

With no answers at hand, Ariella's father went to consult Rabbi Volkenheimer, the spiritual leader of their local shul, the Young Israel of Berkeley Heights. He was very wise, and surely he could help them.

Rabbi Volkenheimer asked to meet with Ariella to discuss her situation. Ariella came in reluctantly, because she really hadn't spoken with the rabbi since her Bat Mitzvah, and the venerable old gentleman had probably never set foot in an Apple store in his entire life. 

The Rabbi sat Ariella down and stared at her intently.

"Nu, Ariella, so what gives?"

"I think you know perfectly well what's going on, Rabbi V. I want an iPod Touch, and Hashem is just not coming through."

"Not coming through, eh? The almighty creator of the universe did not produce the goods?" The rabbi paused for a brief moment to chuckle into his long white beard. Then he resumed his look of world weary wisdom.

"And what made you think that your plan was going to work? What made you think the Lord was going to get you your electronics?"

"Well, Rabbi V., in school this year we learned parshat Ki Tavo, and in the parsha it says that if we follow in G-d's ways, we get all kinds of rewards. Your crops are blessed, your sheep are blessed, even your goats get a blessing. So I figured that if an Israelite can get a nice juicy animal for his religious efforts, why can't I get an MP3 player with a touch screen?"

"Hmmmmmm," Rabbi Volkenheimer stroked his beard. "Interesting. You have great faith, Ariella. Your religious dedication is strong. A pure neshoma, you've got."

Ariella smiled politely. She had forgotten from her Bat Mitzvah meeting that Rabbi V. sounded a lot like Yoda.

The Rabbi reached over to his bookcase and pulled out a chumash. He read the psukim in question to himself and then he spoke.

"I think I understand these psukim a little differently than you do, Ariella. I think that what G-d is saying here is that the true reward of doing the mitzvot is the ability to do more mitzvot."

"Huh?"

"I guess another way to say it is that virtue is its own reward. Do you follow?"

"Not so much."

"Hashem rewards the Jewish people with material success so they have the strength and ability to go back and do more good. Let me ask you a question: These last few weeks,when you did all these extra mitzvot, and you dedicated yourself more intensely to the ones that you normally do, how did it make you feel?"

"Hmmmmm," Ariella said. Now it was her turn to stroke her chin. "I suppose it made me feel good. I enjoyed helping others, and my davening had more meaning to me."

"Maybe that was the real reward the Torah's talking about in Ki Tavo. And the iPod just isn't in the cards right now."

"Good one, Rabbi V. You truly are like Yoda."

"Come again?"

"Nothing. Just that you are very wise."

Rabbi Volkenheimer reached into his top desk drawer and handed Ariella a purple lollipop.

"Just so that you don't go empty handed."

Ariella smiled and took the lollipop.

"And Ariella, about the iPod; were you going for the eight, the thirty-two, or the sixty-four gigabyte version?"

"I guess the eight."

"Aim high, Ariella, aim high." Rabbi Volkenheimer extended his right arm toward the ceiling. "The sky's the limit."

 

The Purple Bat Mitzvah

 A true story-- for Abby

 

Mark Shapiro did not own a purple shirt and if it had been up to him, he never would. He was more of a blue and white kind of guy. Button down oxford shirts with equally conservative ties.He had fifteen varieties of blue and white shirts: solids in sky blue and french blue, blue checks on a white shirt, white stripes on a blue shirt-- you get the idea.

So when his daughter Aviva announced that the color scheme of her Bat Mitzvah was going to be purple, she knew her father was going to be a problem. Of course her Mom and her sister were more than happy to shop for purple dresses. Her younger brother Jordan was no issue; he was four and would put on whatever he was told. Even her older brother Jeremy had agreed to wear a purple shirt, much to Aviva's surprise. But her Dad would not budge.

"I'll wear a purple tie, but that's as far as I'll go." Mark stated emphatically.

His wife Sheryl eyed him with amusement. "Whatever you say, Honey."

So now it was the Sunday morning of the Bat Mitzvah, and Mark had on his purple tie. And his purple shirt. It had been on sale in the Land's End catalogue, after all, and Aviva really did want him to wear it. What could he say? He was a sucker for a pouting twelve-year-old.

It was to be a brunch. Just a few close friends and family members, with a gaggle of Aviva's buddies from school, soccer, baseball, camp, and the neighborhood. It was supposed to be a small affair, but in the end it was a big shindig. With a caterer. And a band. And a photographer. And balloons. In purple.

With only one hour to go until the Bat Mitzvah, everyone was rushing to get to the hall for the simcha. Sheryl and Aviva had already left in the Maxima--to get there early and make sure everything was just so--and Mark had to gather up the rest of the family and get them there in the Odyssey minivan in time for the photographer to take pictures before the guests arrived.

Everyone was in the van, except for Jordan, who had to use the bathroom one last time. Mark was sure everything was going to go as planned, when the car pulled up.

Usually meshulachim come to ask for tzedaka at night. Mark always assumed that was when families were most likely to be at home, so they came when they had the highest likelihood of success. But this gentleman was now at their house at 9 am on a Sunday. He climbed from the passenger seat of the dark colored sedan with New York plates and proceeded to walk toward the front door.

He was a thin gentleman, around sixty, with close cropped white hair. He wore a dark gray suit with a white shirt buttoned to the collar and no tie. He stood razor straight and seemed to have a certain dignity. He spoke no English, only a Russian accented Hebrew that Mark found a bit hard to comprehend.

Mark and Sheryl tried to give every meshulach something when he or she came to the door.  It taught the kids the proper lesson about giving. But so many came, and Mark was never sure what lesson he was teaching when he quickly dismissed each supplicant with a small amount.

Today was different, though. Mark was starting to run late, and everyone was waiting for him. Mark cut the meshulach off mid-sentence, while they were still shaking hands.

"Listen, I'm sorry, but this really isn't a good time. I'm on my way to my daughter's Bat Mitzvah, and I, I just can't do this right now. I'm sorry. So sorry." He really wasn't sure if the man understood him, but he was certain he got the message.

Mark grabbed Jordan, who had just come out the front door, and gently prodded him toward the minivan.

"Jeremy, strap in your brother, please." He could feel sweat beginning to bead on his forehead as he went to lock the front door of the house.

Visions of stories from his childhood began to gather in his head. It was a test. The meshulach was the Ba'al Shem Tov in disguise, dressed in rags  (though the man wore a perfectly reasonable suit). He was Eliyahu Hanavi. Would he turn down a man asking for tzedaka as he left for his family's simcha? Could he deny this man so little while he was spending so much?

Everyone was in the car, waiting to leave. Mark reached into his pocket and peeled off a twenty dollar bill from the stack he had taken out of the ATM the night before in order to pay the photographer(he wanted to be paid in cash). He walked over to the dark sedan and handed the man the twenty through the passenger window. They said nothing to each other as the banknote passed. Just two polite smiles and a nod.

Mark returned to the minivan and climbed into the driver's seat. Would he remember to tell Sheryl this story? He doubted it. As he backed into the street from his driveway, his mind was already elsewhere. Did he bring his speech? Were the party favors at the hall? Were all the place cards in place? He was dying for a cup of coffee.

He smoothed the front of his purple shirt and put the minivan in gear.

Everything was going as planned.