The Maggid of Bergenfield

Beshalach: Kiddush-mode

 

 Shemot:  16:4

 

 It simply wasn’t done.

 The Kiddush was fully prepared. The Shabbat morning service was complete, and the congregation had already entered the social hall, prepared to fress. The cookies and mini-muffins were already loaded on trays and laid out on the tables. The gefilte fish balls—each speared with its own individual wooden toothpick—were primed and at the ready. You could smell the chulent and the potato kugel. There were even Swedish meatballs, basking in succulent gravy. All the rabbi had to do was recite the Kiddush over a glass of grape juice, step back, and let those assembled go to work.

 Rabbi Aronson cleared his throat as if to follow the Kiddush protocol, and then he did the unconscionable.

 He spoke.

 “Rabbosai, I have something I need to say.”

 Someone actually gasped. The murmur from the crowd was polite but audible. It might have been worse, but Rabbi Aronson had been the Rabbi at Beit Tefilla for over thirty-five years, and had earned the respect of the crowd, although how long he had before someone started throwing fruit (from the delicious platter donated by the Sisterhood) was anyone’s guess.

 “I look around this room, and I don’t like what I see. Look over at the children’s table.”

 The kehila looked over at the dais set with the cookies, chips, and candy.

 “What do you see?”

 It probably wasn’t clear to everyone, but to most the rabbi’s point was obvious. The children had their hands poised over the trays, waiting for the bracha so that they could scoop the most possible food. Foraging was the best word to describe the scene, like watching an episode of Animal Planet. Some of them were boxing out their friends like it was the NBA Finals. It was not a pretty scene.

 “And I know the adults in the room aren’t acting exactly the same way, but some of us are pretty close.”

 A few congregants backed subtly away from the tables.

 “Heck, I suppose I’m the same way on a week someone springs for sushi.”

 Everyone laughed uncomfortably.

 “The fact is, I think we need to reassess our Kiddush etiquette.”

 Rabbi Aronson looked around the room to see if he had everyone’s attention. No one was clutching fruit in a threatening way, so he went on.

 “In this week’s parsha we learn about the manna. G-d says to Moshe: Hinini mamtir lachem lechem min hashamayim veyatsa ha-am velaktu devar yom beyomo lema-an anasenu hayelech bitorati im lo. Behold, I will rain down for you food from heaven; let the people go out and pick each day’s portion on its day, so that I can test them, whether they will follow my teaching or not.

 “The obvious question that comes up on this pasuk is, what was G-d’s test? How was He testing the Israelites?

 “Rashi suggests one of the most popular answers. G-d wanted to see if they could follow the laws that He established related to manna. You can’t leave any over for the next day, and you must collect double on Friday for Shabbat. There are actually a few good answers suggested by the commentators.

 “To me, the test G-d offers is obvious. The Israelites just left Egypt, where they were slaves, and they have six weeks until they receive the Torah on Mount Sinai. G-d wants to see if they can evolve. Can each Jew take just as much manna as they need?

 “When the manna arrives, Moshe tells the people of Israel to take: ish lefi achlo, each man according to what he eats. After suffering the hardships of slavery, where food was certainly not plenty, can they learn to take just as much manna as they need and no more? Can they make sure there’s enough for everyone? That is one of the first lessons the Jews need to learn as a civilization to move toward the revelation at Sinai, personal responsibility one for another.

 “I’m going to make Kiddush now, but as I do, I would like to personally request that we all reset our Kiddush-mode. Let’s behave responsibly, ish lefi achlo.”

 And so, Rabbi Aronson recited the Kiddush, and the kehila ate at a slower pace. There was a little less grabbing, and a few less extended elbows in the crowd.

 And at the end of the Kiddush, when the Men’s club members went to clean up the tables, the chulent was gone, but one lone piece of potato kugel remained in one of the tin pans. That was definitely considered progress.

 

 

 

Loosely based on a lecture by Rabbi Menachem Leibtag on Omer and Manna

Emor: The Bench

Vayikra: 24: 10-23

 

 

When the Nachmanides School moved to its new building in 2005, only a few objects were moved to the new structure from the old one across town. All the ancient school desks were chucked for new, state of the art seats. The black boards were abandoned for smart boards. Even the teachers’ lounge got new furniture. All that came from the old building were a few donor plaques, some beautiful old mezuzot, the aron kodesh from the main synagogue, and a large, friendly picture of Rabbi Leibowitz, the founding principal.

 And the bench.

 Rabbi Rosencrantz loved the bench. It was solid oak, eight feet long and four feet high, and it weighed somewhere around two hundred pounds. It was a very impressive piece of furniture.  The seat was so high that if you were less than six feet tall when you sat in it your feet dangled off the ground. It rested in front of the principal’s office. And it was, in a word, imposing.

 That was the point of the bench: to be imposing. Because if you were sitting on the bench it could mean only one thing. You were in trouble.

 The bench was where you sat when you were sent to the principal’s office. No one else would have the temerity to sit on it, because, well, because it was scary. It had been even scarier in front of the old office, with its ancient, beige tile floors and the faded, industrial green paint job, but even in the newly carpeted hallway with its warm, blue earth tones, it had heft.

 Most children whom Rabbi Rosencrantz found sitting at the bench when he opened the door to his office had a certain look on his or her face. For some it was fear. Having to visit the principal, even one as pleasant and understanding as Rabbi Rosencrantz, was not fun when you had been sent by your teacher for anything from a misdemeanor to a major felony. Fear was definitely the most common look.

 For others it was the “who, me?” look of feigned innocence. That usually didn’t last long when faced with the principal’s withering stare, but it was certainly a common opening gambit for many students.

 So what most surprised Rabbi Rosencrantz when he opened the door to his office and found Mendy Teplow sitting on the bench with his feet dangling in the air was not so much that he was not a child the rabbi expected to find there as Mendy’s utter nonchalance regarding his precarious position. Mendy looked like he was waiting for a bus.

 “Hello,” Rabbi Rosencrantz said.

 “Hi.”

 “Are you here to see me?”

 “Yup.”

 Normally the rabbi would have escorted the miscreant into his office and shut the door, but instead he sat next to Mendy on the bench. Fortunately, the rabbi’s feet reached the ground.

 “So what are you here for? Loitering?”

 “No, I don’t think so.”

 “What, then?”

 “Apparently, I said a few bad words.”

 “Really, like what?”

 There is a rule among lawyers in a courtroom. When questioning a witness, never ask an open ended question, because you don’t want a response you weren’t anticipating. The moment Rabbi Rosencrantz asked the question he knew he had made a mistake, but it was too late.

 Mendy told him. He told the rabbi everything. Never mind how many letters some of these words had, or what letters the words began with, it was an impressive list. For a sailor it might have been impressive. Rabbi Rosencrantz should have stopped him, but he was fascinated by how Mendy rolled off the list so lackadaisically, like it was no big deal.

 “Wow.”

 “Yeah, Mrs. Weinblatt didn’t like what I said and sent me to see you.”

 “I see. Well, I must admit, Mendy. That’s quite a bad list of words you said.”

 “I guess.”

 “What surprises me, though, is that you don’t seem too bothered by this whole thing.”

 “I just don’t see what the big deal is.”

 “Oh?”

 “Yeah. My Dad and I were watching the Yankee game the other night, and the manager of the Red Sox screamed almost all those words at the umpire after a close call at first base. And that was on national television.”

 “Really!”

 “Yeah. You even got to watch him scream them again in slow mo on the replay.”

 “I’m sure that’s true, but that doesn’t make what he said right.”

 “I guess. But last month some guy rear ended my mom’s car at a red light, and when my mom got into an argument with the guy, she used a lot of those words too.”

 Rabbi Rosencrantz tried to picture Leia Teplow, a social worker at the Jewish Federation who ran the Meals on Wheels program, going at it at a fender bender and tried not to chuckle.

 “I think your mom was probably pretty upset at that moment, but she doesn’t normally talk that way, does she?”

 “I guess not.”

 Rabbi Rosencrantz folded his legs under him and leaned back on the bench. “You know, Mendy, in the third book of the Torah, Vayikra, there’s only two stories among all the laws about the kohanim, the priests, and the korbanot, the sacrifices. Do you know what those stories are?”

 Mendy stared at the rabbi, offering no response.

 “One is the story of the deaths of Aharon’s sons, and the other is about the mekallel, a man who curses using the name of G-d and is put to death. That is often translated as a blasphemer.”

 “Is that going to be my punishment?”

 Mendy remained straight-faced, and Rabbi Rosencrantz began to realize that perhaps young Teplow’s innocent face concealed more than he thought. “No, not today Mendy, but the school year is young.”

 Mendy smiled.

 “My point is that the story of the mekallel must be pretty important if it is fit into a book which deals almost exclusively with the laws of how we can become closer to G-d through purity and divine worship. I think it’s because we need to know that purity of speech is important in developing purity and holiness in life. For example, just like the laws of keeping kosher teach us to seek holiness in the way we eat, avoiding cursing helps us to seek holiness in the way we speak. Do you see what I mean?”

 “Yes,” Mendy said, “I guess.”

 “That’s why G-d goes on to discuss laws of murder and injury right after the story of the mekallel. Because bad speech, especially during an argument, can lead to worse things, like murder, or if you’re the Red Sox manager, ejection from the game.”

 “I get it,” Mendy said

 “So you’ll try to avoid any bad words in your future speech?”

 “Yes, Rabbi Rosencrantz,” Mendy said, with what the rabbi hoped was no hint of irony.

 “That’s good. Because it’s a good way to avoid death and also to avoid ejection, whichever becomes necessary. Now go back to class.”

 And without looking back, Mendy jumped off the bench and headed back to Mrs. Weinblatt in 3-B, hopefully not to return to the bench ever again.

 

 

 

Inspired by: Rabbi J. Saks, Covenant and Conversation, Leviticus, The Blasphemer, Maggid Books, pgs 353-358