The Maggid of Bergenfield

Toledot: Big

 

Bereishit:25: 29-34

 

 

 Once in the town of Hasbrouck Heights there lived two brothers, Hank and Harry. One was big, and one was small.

 

Now, Harry wasn’t destined to be small. His father was six-foot-two and his mother was five-foot-eight. By Jewish standards he was destined to be a giant [Full disclosure: the Maggid is not a tall man]. But Hank was two years older, and he was always taller than Harry. And stronger. And faster. And if you took the word of every teacher in school who taught Hank before they met Harry, Hank was also smarter, more charming, and less trouble in general.

 

It could be a bit frustrating for a younger brother.

 

And it wasn’t just school. In Little League, Hank was a star pitcher and a famous home run hitter. It made it a bit hard on Harry who was a good second baseman but was setting no records at the plate. And their guitar teacher was very fond of Harry but couldn’t help pointing out that while he did an admirable job on the chords of “Here Comes the Sun,” Hank had mastered “Stairway to Heaven” in all its subtleties.

 

Summer camp was the same deal. Counselors, division heads, life guards, and all the staff were eventually going to ask, “Are you Hank Aronson’s little brother?” It was infuriating.

 

So it was an easy decision for Harry, after seventh grade, when his parents asked him if he wanted to try another sleep-away summer camp. He said yes in a second. The new camp had a really small, muddy lake, and apparently the sports fields left much to be desired. But there was definitely one thing that Camp Mercaz was missing that Harry was OK with.

 

Hank.

 

Seventh grade had been kind to Harry. Not only did he have a wonderful bar mitzvah (Parshat Naso), but he had shot up four inches and put some meat on his bones. Suddenly he was being picked first for basketball. He wasn’t nearly as tall as Hank, but things were definitely looking up.

 

Camp Mercaz had turned out to be a great decision. There were still people from his school in the camp, and certainly some of the staff must have known Hank, but no one seemed to know that they were brothers. It was like a miracle.

 

Harry blossomed. He was the fastest swimmer in his bunk, and in the cross lake race he finished third for the whole camp. He got a solo in his camp division’s musical (he was the cowardly lion in the all Hebrew version of The Wizard of Oz). He was a captain during color war (Mayim versus Aish). It was like a dream come true.

 

Visiting Day came, and Harry was looking forward to seeing his parents. He wanted to introduce them to his counselors. He wanted to sing them his solo. He wanted them to know everything about his wonderful camp experience.

 

He could see their old Dodge Caravan pulling up in the baseball field the camp used as a parking lot on Visiting Day. It had been weeks since he’d seen them, and he watched to see their car doors open and for them to see him for that first sighting. It was going to be—

 

Hank.

 

The driver side passenger door opened, and out stepped Hank. Harry didn’t know that he was coming. He loved his brother—he really did—but this was going to ruin everything. Now everyone would know that he was the younger brother of a legend. He could feel the blood rushing to his face.

 

Harry rushed up to his family, and there were hugs all around. His parents pulled out of the minivan all the goodies they had brought him (don’t worry, everything was nut free), and the Yankees hoodie he had requested, in the one letter he had mailed home in the first month. Harry smiled politely and mingled with his parents, waiting for a moment when he could pull his brother aside.

 

Finally the moment came. Harry grabbed Hank’s arm and pulled him over to the other side of the minivan, closer to the neighboring Lexus S.U.V. and out of earshot of his parents.

 

“How are you, little brother?”

 

“Fine, fine. Listen, you have to do me a favor.”

 

“Name it, bro.”

 

“For the next four hours, we are not brothers.”

 

“Um, what?”

 

“You heard me. I’ve got a great gig going here. For the first time in my life I’m out of your shadow. It’s like I’m the older brother.”

 

“Nice, isn’t it?”

 

“You have no idea. But I want it to continue, and if people here find out I’m your little brother, all the comparisons will start all over again.”

 

“So what you’re saying is that we got a Yaakov/Eisav thing going on.”

 

“What?”

 

“You want to rent my birthright for four hours.”

 

“Interesting analogy. Sure, why not? For four hours I want to be the bechor, the first born.”

 

”And what do I get out of this?”

 

“Really? Fine, name your price.”

 

“I’m not a cheap date, Harry. I’m not giving you my birthright for a bowl of soup. I get to use your PlayStation the whole time you’re in camp.”

 

“Wow. That’s asking a lot.”

 

“Oh, I’m not done. When you get home, you have to make my bed for four weeks.”

 

“Ouch. What if I say no?”

 

“I think your counselor may have been my soccer coach last year. Let me just go over and say hi.”

 

“O.K., O.K., you have a deal.”

 

The brothers shook hands and then crossed back over to where their parents were standing. Mrs. Aronson was deep in conversation with some woman with who had been her roommate in college.

 

“Oh here they are now!” she said. This is my son Harry, who is a camper here, and this is—“

 

“His cousin Hank,” Hank interjected. “Nice to meet you.”

 

Hanna Aronson stared at her sons in puzzlement, but she knew better than to ask. After all these years of raising two boys, it was probably easier just to play along. And the boys’ father loved a good intrigue, so the brothers knew he would cooperate.

 

So for the remainder of visiting day, Hank was Harry’s cousin, and no one was the wiser. Hank never regretted that he had loaned Harry his birthright, and Harry got to maintain his status as the big man on campus. Hank got to use the PlayStation, and Harry felt comfortable with his place in the world, for at least four more weeks. No one vowed to kill their brother and no one had to flee the country.

 

All in all, a good day for everyone.

 

 

 

 

Chayei Sarah: The Sign

 

Bereishit: 24:12-18

 

“Can I get you anything, Rina?”

 

It was definitely a bad sign if the waiter at Mendy’s knows your name. It’s probably means that you’ve been there too often, and perhaps with too many different men.

 

But as Rina sat at her table waiting for her present prospect to return from the restroom she felt hopeful.

 

Yitz was the fifth guy she had been out with in the last three months. The dates were all O.K. Just nothing special. But there was something about this guy that Rina liked. Was he charming? Not particularly. Handsome? He wasn’t terrible looking, but nothing to write home about. But there was definitely something. She just couldn’t put her finger on it.

 

Then it hit her. He was funny. But not just funny. He was sardonic. Like her four brothers. And her two sisters. And her father. Even her mother was a bit sarcastic. She just felt comfortable with him.

 

But that really wasn’t enough to base a relationship on. She needed more. She needed to know that he was “the one.” But do you know something like that? How does anyone ever know?

 

Then it hit her. It was so obvious. It was right there in that week’s parsha.

 

She needed a sign.

 

Just like Eliezer, Avraham’s servant. When he was searching for a wife for Yitzchak he looked for a sign too. Whichever woman gave him water at the well and then also offered water to his camels was the one. Clearly that showed kindness, and perhaps an independent streak. Or maybe it was just an indication from G-d that he was on the right track. Either way, it seemed like the thing to do.

 

So she needed a little nudge, to let her know she was going in the right direction.

 

OK, sounds easy enough.

 

When Yitz came back from the bathroom, if he put his napkin on his lap, that would be the sign. It would indicate refinement.

 

Yitz returned and plopped himself back in his chair. The appetizers had arrived and he dug into his buffalo wings. Not only did he not put his napkin on his lap, he got barbeque sauce all over his face and missed a spot when he cleaned it off. Rina licked the corner of her lip, hoping he would catch her cue, but he did not. The sauce remained.

 

Perhaps manners was not a good criteria. No, of course it wasn’t. How superficial of her! She decided to test for kindness.

 

Rina asked him about Ricky, their waiter (yes, she knew his name, too). Nice guy. Good service. Yes?

 

No. Too slow. Discourteous. Wings were cold.

 

Well, perhaps the service had been a little slow. Maybe Yitz was right.

 

This was not going as planned. But still she needed a sign. Something definitive. Giants versus Jets? No. That was certainly important, but not something on which to base a long-term relationship. Democrat versus Republican? Do not go there. Then it hit her. Why didn’t she think of it before?

 

She picked up her glass of water and chugged it down, clear down to the bottom.

 

“Wow, you’re a thirsty one, aren’t you?”

 

“Yes, yes I am. It’s unseasonably hot out there, wouldn’t you say?”

 

“I suppose so.”

 

“But what I really need is more water.”

 

Yitz looked around the restaurant, but Ricky was nowhere to be found.

 

“Hmm, that waiter is never around when you need him.”

 

“Yes, but I’m so, so thirsty. Can I have some water from your jug, er, glass?”

 

“I don’t think so, Rina. Germs and all that.”

 

“Can’t you just pour some from your glass into mine?”

 

“I’m sure the waiter will be back any minute.”

 

Wow.

 

According to the Torah, Rivka seemed to be the first one who came along. Yes, she was very fair to look upon. But she was also kind. And so much more. But what would Damesek Eliezer have done if she hadn’t given him water, or if a less kind woman had come along first?

 

He probably would have waited for the next woman.

 

Rina smiled.

 

“Ricky? Check, please.”

 

 

 

 

Vayera: Turnpike Torah

 

 

Bereishit: 21:9-21

 

 

This was not destined to be a fast trip.

 

If they had gone nonstop, the journey from their house in New Milford to Aunt Toby's house in Baltimore would have taken a little under three hours. And Bob was hoping for a quick run. The longer the trip, the more likely the baby would get fussy in the car. This usually happened somewhere near the Delaware-Maryland border, which led to around forty-five minutes of abject misery as Jonah wailed inconsolably until they were finally at Toby's. But if they could just squeeze out a quick ride, the crying could be kept to a minimum.

 

But it was not in the cards this cold October afternoon.

 

The minivan was well stocked when they set out. Snacks. Books. Even a movie for the DVD player (one of the Shrek series).

 

There was no stop at the Vince Lombardi Service Area. It's so close to home it would have been embarrassing.

 

And Alexander Hamilton is only five miles further south. The kids were still quite busy.

 

But eighteen miles later, the natives became restless. Netanel needed the bathroom. So they stopped at Thomas Edison.

 

Twenty-one miles further it was Malki's turn for a potty stop. So they paid a visit to Molly Pitcher.

 

Now they had heard from everybody but baby Jonah. Ellen decided to take a nap as they turned the movie on. Bob had high hopes that there would be no visit thirteen miles hence, to Richard Stockton. At the very least they should make it twenty-nine miles to Walt Whitman or maybe even over the Delaware Memorial Bridge across the Delaware River to foreign soil. Bob was feeling lucky.

 

"I'm thirsty."

 

"We'll stop to get something to drink later, Malki. For now why don't you watch the movie?"

 

"But I'm really, really thirsty."

 

Maybe they should have chosen a film the kids hadn't seen twenty times before.

 

"Hang in there, babe. We'll get you something after we leave New Jersey."

 

"I can't do it. I need something to drink now."

 

At this point Richard Stockton was only five miles away, offering succor to his parched child, but Bob wouldn't hear of it. How thirsty could she be?

 

"Come on, Malki. You can do this."

 

"No. I can't. If I don't have something to drink I shall surely perish."

 

This girl definitely had her father's gene for drama.

 

It was quiet in the car for a while. But that should not be confused with acquiescence.

 

About a mile after they passed the rest stop, Malki started to emit a noise. It was somewhere between a moan and a shriek, with a little whiff of whine. It was not pleasant. It was not fun. It was pretty much unbearable.

 

Bob tried to ignore her. He turned his rear view mirror so that he could not see her. He tried to hum a song. But the noise Malki emitted only became louder. It was excruciating.

 

Bob eyed J. Fenimore Cooper, but that rest stop was only for north bound passengers, and Walt Whitman was still nine miles away. Things were looking grim. And there was no hope that they could hold out until Clara Barton twenty-five miles down the pike. Malki was about to explode. All hope was lost.

 

It was then that Ellen awoke. Calm, soothing Ellen, Bob's rational clear thinking, ever-prepared wife, the totally chill ying to Bob's extremely intense yang.

 

"What gives?"

 

"Your daughter Malki is having an extreme meltdown. She is so thirsty she could die, and we're still quite a distance from the next turnpike oasis. I tried to ignore her, but that did not work out well. I fear disaster."

 

"Malki dear, there's a bottle of water in the seat pocket in front of you."

 

"Oh right, Mom. Thanks. Never mind, Dad. I'm fine now."

 

"I always put water in the seat in front of Malki. She's always thirsty."

 

Bob was too irritated to speak.

 

It was quiet all the way to Clara Barton.

 

"Wow, this is just like this week's parsha," Ellen observed.

 

"How so?" Bob asked.

 

"Yishmael and Hagar are in the desert without water, even though Avraham stocked them up with provisions. And when Yishmael starts to suffer, Hagar tries to ignore him, just like you ignored Malki."

 

"Maybe ignore is a strong word," Bob suggested.

 

"Works for me," Malki chimed in.

 

"Then G-d--in this story played by me--hears Yishmael's suffering, and reveals to Hagar water that had actually been there all along."

 

"Hey, that's pretty good," Bob agreed. "Good close analysis of the parsha."

 

"Thank you. And what do we learn from this?"

 

"That we never abandon our children?" Bob offered. "That the love and caring was there all along. You just have to look for it carefully, just as G-d provided for Yishmael and Hagar."

 

"Nice," Malki said. "I like it."

 

"Me too,” Ellen agreed.

 

And without further ado, they crossed into Delaware and did not stop again until the Maryland House Service Area, where rest, nourishment, and ice cream were provided for all.

Lech Lecha: Four hundred Years a Slave

 

 Bereishit:15:13

 

 -All I'm saying is, it wouldn't kill you.

 

-Yes, Mom, it would. It would actually kill me.

 

-Just take a few years. Settle down, get married. Have a few kids. Then you can go to medical school.

 

-Never going to happen.

 

-Why not?

-I took all the science courses. I aced my MCATs. I did all the volunteer work and worked in a lab during the summer for three years. And I got into Einstein! I'm going to medical school, Mom.

-But I want to have grandkids! Esther Paltrowitz got married in the middle of college and now her mother is pushing her grandson around the neighborhood in a beautiful stroller. Such nachas.

-The grandkids will come in good time. It's not like I'm never getting married. I just have to keep moving forward with my plans right now.

-And what kind of doctor is it you want to be again?

-A pediatric gastroenterologist

-That is a whole lot of syllables, young lady. I don't know about this.

-It's going to be great, Mom. I promise.

-But don't you want to have kids?

-Of course I do, eventually. But I have other goals, too.\

-Mrs. Kanner wants to introduce you to her son Jeremy. He's in law school.

-Nice for him.

-And what about that boy that you dated in college? Pinny Solomon? I hear he's still on the market.

-Sometimes there's a reason somebody's still single.

-Really?

-Let's just leave it at that.

-I know I should be proud. My daughter the doctor! But I guess I'm a little bit selfish, too.

-A little?

-Oh come on, cut me some slack!

-OK, OK. It's not like I don't understand where you're coming from. But you have to get used to the idea of delayed gratification.

-Seriously?

-Yes, seriously. It's a very Jewish concept, you know.

-So I've been told.

-No, really, Mom. It's all over this week's parsha.

-I guess you're going to tell me about it.

-You guessed correctly. When Hashem tells Avraham that He is going to make his descendants into a great nation, but first they would have to be slaves for four hundred years, do you think Avraham was thrilled?

-I suppose not.

-Definitely not! It would be like G-d telling him. "You will have many successful descendants someday who will attend excellent colleges and produce lots of grandchildren, but first they must go to graduate school for FOUR HUNDRED YEARS!"

-Chas vesholom!

-OK, it's for four years, but then residency comes after that. Be patient, Mom. Avraham was patient. Sarah was patient. You can be patient.

-Maybe that portion of the Torah is just G-d's way of telling Avraham that it's natural for Jews to suffer, so he should just get used to it. Four hundred years of slavery is just the beginning. Exile is coming too, and eventually, their children are bound to disappoint them.

-I don't think so, Mom. I don’t think there’s a lot of disappointment going on, here. Just as for the Israelites the slavery was necessary for their evolution as a people, so too my becoming a doctor is needed for me to grow as the person I want to become. So we have to let my future unfold slowly, just like the forefathers and foremothers in the desert had to.

-Delayed gratification, you say? I don't know if I can get used to this.

-You're going to love it.

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Noach: Divine closure

 

 

Bereishit: 7:16

 

Evan Moskowitz was a rather meticulous person. At work his fellow accountants called him "detail oriented," but behind his back they thought he could be a bit obsessive, to put it politely. He was the type of guy who definitely crossed his "t's" and dotted his "i's." Sometimes his "i"s" had two dots.

 

So when the Moskowitz's went on vacation, you can be sure Evan made sure everything was taken care of around the house. All the thermostats were turned down. The goldfish (Goldie) went next door to the Wexlers. Every garbage can was emptied. The newspaper was cancelled. The Shabbat clocks were set to make the house look occupied while they were away. The works.

 

The Uber came right on time, and the Moskowitz's went to Newark Airport and boarded their El Al flight to Tel Aviv without any delays. All was going according to plan, just the way Evan liked it.

 

It was around an hour into the flight that Noah Moskowitz said something to shatter his parents' equilibrium.

 

"I'm not sure I closed the front door."

 

Evan and Cindy had their headphones on and were deep into an episode of Friends.

 

"What's that you said, Honey?"

 

"I think I left the front door to the house open."

 

"Don't be silly, Noah. I turned on the alarm and locked the door before I got in the cab."

 

"No, don't you remember?" Cindy said. "We sent Noah back in to use the bathroom."

 

"Oy."

 

"And I think I left the door open."

 

"Oy, oy, oy."

 

A flight to Israel from Newark Liberty International Airport is normally eleven hours and fifty-two minutes, depending on wind conditions, weather variability, flight traffic at Ben Gurion Airport, and whether the pilot has a hot date in Tel Aviv that night. That time can go very quickly or very slowly. For Evan Moskowitz, this was a long one. Time pretty much stood still. He could have sworn that the map they display of the plane slowly making its way across the Atlantic was actually going backwards. The time until the flight attendant came around with the hot towelettes to wake you up before breakfast was endless. He felt helpless.

 

"Well honey, you know what they say," Cindy said. "The best laid plans of mice and men..."

 

"Yeah, whatever," Evan said, wondering if he had packed any antacids in his carry-on.

 

But the flight did eventually end, and after Evan put his rented SIM card into his iPhone, the first thing he did after clearing baggage claim at Ben Gurion was call his neighbor, Mike Wexler.

 

He waited as Mike walked over to chez Moskowitz to have a look-see.

 

"No worries, Evan. The door's closed and locked, and the alarm is on. And incidentally, your lawn looks great."

 

"Are you sure?"

 

"Sure I'm sure! It's just a really nice front yard. Do you water a lot?"

 

"Very funny. Mike, you're a life saver. Thanks so much."

 

"Anytime, buddy."

 

Evan told Noah the good news, but he seemed skeptical.

 

"Really? ‘Cause I'm pretty sure I left that door wide open."

 

Mister Wexler confirmed that it's closed and locked."

 

"Well, I'm certainly glad to here that, but that definitely is fishy."

 

"Maybe someone closed it for us. Maybe Mommy locked the door after you left and forgot she did it. Maybe Danny the mailman took care of it."

 

"I suppose," Noah said, but he did not seem convinced.

 

Everyone was quiet in the taxi as it left Lod and climbed up Route One toward Yerushalayim. The Moskowitzes watched the beautiful scenery unfold outside the window in the early morning light. Somewhere outside Beit Shemesh Noah broke the silence.

 

"Maybe G-d closed the front door."

 

"What do you mean, Noah?" Cindy asked

 

"Well, I'm pretty sure I left the door open, and there's no obvious explanation as to who closed it. I think Hashem did it."

 

"I'm not saying that's impossible," Evan said judiciously, "but I have to ask. What makes you think it was G-d, Noah?"

 

"There's no better explanation that you've offered," Noah said. "And if I have to choose between G-d and Dan the mailman, I'll choose G-d every time."

 

"Interesting," Cindy offered.

 

"Uhuh," Evan concurred.

 

"Besides, it's not like Hashem never closed a door for a man before. He did it in this week's parsha, Noach."

 

""Really?"

 

"Yes, we learned in parsha class that when it came time for the flood, Noah and his family entered the ark with all the animals, and when the rain started, Hashem closed the door."

 

Cindy pulled a pocket Chumash from her carry-on bag (always a helpful thing to have when you're on a long flight [or writing a parsha story]) and began to read:

 

"Vayisgor Hashem Ba-ado. And Hashem shut it on his behalf."

 

"So you see," Noah continued, "there's precedent for G-d closing your door. In the case of Noah I think he did it to show how much he cared about Noah's family. He was destroying most of the world, but a righteous man and his family still mattered, so G-d made sure the ark was well sealed when they got in."

 

"Interesting," Evan said. "So I guess what you're suggesting is that G-d cares about this Noah's family, too."

 

"I guess so."

 

"Enough to protect their house from thieves and to ease the stress of their neurotic father," Cindy observed.

 

"True enough," Evan conceded. "I guess it's not at all unreasonable to agree that G-d's door closure is not out of the realm of possibility. Stranger things have happened, though in my experience, not much stranger."

 

The taxi pulled up at their hotel in Yerushalayim, and the Moskowitzes got out and entered the lobby.

 

After checking in, they got in the elevator and went up to their room.

 

"Noah, do me a favor. When you leave the hotel room, make sure to close the door. I know that we're in the holy city of Yerushalayim, but I think that counting on G-d to close your door for you twice is a bit much to ask."

 

"Fair enough."

 

 

Mishpatim: Holes

 

 

 

Shemot: 21:33-34

 

Once in the town of New Milford, there was a pothole.

 

Now of course there was probably more than one pothole in New Milford—as northern New Jersey is famous the world over for the quality of its roads-- but this particular one was quite impressive. Some residents felt it should be assigned its own zip code. It was wide. It was deep. It was an automobile killer. Many a tow truck had been called to haul a car away from an encounter with this legendary abyss.

 

This particular road chasm was located on a street known as the Boulevard, just in front of Michael Baumgarten’s laundromat, The Clean Machine. Michael regretted the inconvenience to his clientele that the cavernous crater caused, and he had emailed the town on more than one occasion to request a repair of the terrible trench, but so far the pothole remained a hazard to motorists, much to Michael’s chagrin. Still, there was very little he could do about it. In fact, he had become so accustomed to the thud noise that cars made as they entered this driving depression that it had almost become a normal part of his day.

 

One fateful Thursday, after Michael heard a particularly loud bang noise from the street, a rather irate looking gentleman named Harvey Halberstam huffed and puffed into the laundromat. Though it might not have been an unusual sight in a clothes-cleaning facility, steam was practically coming out of his ears.

 

“Who is responsible for that, that HOLE?” Harvey asked.

 

Michael offered Harvey a seat and a sympathetic ear. “Well, I’m not sure anyone is responsible for it. I mean, potholes happen. It’s just the nature of the beast, my friend. It’s winter in New Jersey.”

 

“On the contrary,” Harvey said. “Someone is most definitely responsible. Why, aren’t you familiar with this week’s parsha, Mishpatim?”

 

“Of course I’m familiar with it,” Michael responded, starting to get a bit annoyed. “Who isn’t familiar with Mishpatim? Why, it’s just jam packed with halachot, and I always make it a point to be familiar with a parsha like that!”

 

“Well, if you truly are familiar with the parsha, then you know that it says:

 

“And if a person shall open a pit, or if a person shall dig a pit and not cover it, and a bull or a donkey falls in it, the owner of the pit shall pay; he shall give money to its owner, and the dead animal shall be his.”

 

“Yes, I know those psukim. What’s your point?” Michael asked.

“My point is that you are responsible for the pothole in front of your store, and so you should pay for my car repairs.”

 

“That’s ridiculous! The pasuk clearly states that I would only be responsible if I dug the pit.”

 

“Or if there was a pit and you neglected to fill it in.”

 

“Again, that only applies if I dug it.”

 

“Yes, but I would assert that if you have had a pit in front of your store for months and you did nothing for all that time, then it’s as if you dug it yourself. At some point it should become your responsibility to fix it.”

 

“Nonsense.”

 

“Oh really? What if I told you that if a man uncovers someone else’s pit and an animal falls in, he is liable.”

 

“So what! I didn’t uncover anything.”

 

“Perhaps, but you didn’t cover it, either.”

 

And so the argument went, back and forth. Michael and Harvey debated vigorously, until finally there was nothing more to say.

 

With no resolution in sight, they took the case to Rabbi Mandelbaum, the rabbi of the Beit Midrash of New Milford (or BMoNM as they liked to call it (the”n” is silent)).

 

Rabbi Mandelbaum felt he was too close to the two litigants to make a decision, and so he deferred the case to his rebbe, the Gaon of Oradell. He was said to be a man of great wisdom.

 

The Gaon of Oradell lived in an apartment above his shtiebel on Kinderkamack Road. It is said that he only comes downstairs to daven and for Shalos Seudos with his congregants on Shabbos. The rest of the time, he is either learning Torah, meditating, or watching Jeopardy. So essentially you either had to discuss Torah with him, or phrase your statement in the form of a question.

 

Michael and Harvey were escorted into the Gaon’s office where he was sitting and waiting for them. He listened to each of their versions of the story with great concentration. He asked a few questions of each of them. Had you called the town about the pothole? (Yes)Were you sympathetic when Harvey came in?  (I think so) Did you try to avoid the pit? (I had no warning it was there) What kind of car do you drive? (2013 Ford Mustang) Have you ever sued someone before? (Chas vesholom!)

 

The Gaon of Oradell left the room for a few minutes, then came back with a pot of coffee and hot water for tea. He served both men a hot drink and offered them some egg kichel. Then he spoke.

“A very interesting case you presented me. If Alex Trebeck were here, he might say, “What is a quandary?”

 

Neither Michael nor Harvey laughed, so the Gaon went on.

 

“The first thing we should ask ourselves is, what is the purpose of this law? As with all the property laws in the Torah, the purpose is justice. Fairness between individuals. As such, I find that Michael did not create the pothole, nor did he attempt to ensnare people in it. He even called the town and requested it be repaired. And potholes are pretty common here in Bergen County, so any driver would have to be on the lookout for them. With this in mind, I find in favor of Mr. Baumgarten. No damages are assessed.”

 

“But, but that’s not fair!” Harvey interjected. “Rebbe, show some mercy!”

 

“The law is what the law is,” the Gaon said. ”And if I was to get all King Solomon on you I would point out that if you read the pasuk carefully, according to your logic, if Michael pays for the car, then he gets to keep it.

 

“And Michael, you have thirty days to get the town to repair the pothole. Unless you can demonstrate a reasonable attempt to get it fixed, you must privately pay for filling the hole.”

 

Michael bowed his head in respect. “Yes, Rebbe.”

 

And so, the Gaon of Oradell went back up to his apartment. Harvey paid to repair his car, which did not end up costing an arm and a leg. Michael got the town to fill the pothole. And Harvey got a free month of laundry service at The Clean Machine.

 

It was yet another wise verdict by the Gaon of Oradell. Or as he might have said, “What is a happy ending?”

Noah: Tzaddik

 

Bereishit: 6: 9

When Paul Jacobowitz thought of Newark, he thought of the largest city in New Jersey, located at the mouth of the Passaic River as it flows into Newark Bay. Population: 277,000. Home to Newark Liberty International Airport, the New Jersey Performing Arts Center, and the New Jersey Devils.

But for the next twelve hours, Paul would be in Newark*, Ohio, located at a fork in the Licking River, in Licking County, Ohio, just thirty-three miles from Columbus. Population: 47,000. Home to the Newark Earthworks and the National Heisy Glass Museum.

His flight out of Columbus had been cancelled, so he grabbed a rental car and drove to Newark, where he knew there was a minyan for maariv at 9:00, according to Godaven.com. There was a Days Inn in Newark, so he could crash there overnight. Paul had missed the eight O’clock minyan in Columbus, so this was his best shot. It was a bit of a schlep, but it was his yahrzeit for his father, and Paul didn’t want to miss saying Kaddish. Being a traveling salesman, moments like this were all too common. It was just another day on the job.

The synagogue in Newark, Congregation Sons of Israel, was a big, old structure. White brick. Stained glass. Big cupola. Paul put the origins of the building in the early nineteen-fifties. They just don’t make them like that anymore.

The front door of the shul was unlocked, and Paul walked in. The main sanctuary was dark as night, but Paul could see a light down the hallway, though he heard not a sound. His watch read 8:58. Was he the first? Would there be a minyan at all?

When he reached the light source Paul found around fifteen men sitting in the old chapel. A classic. Lacquered wood paneling under walls covered with faded bronze memorial plaques in every direction and on every surface. A drop ceiling with water stained panels from storms long ago.

A few men nodded as he walked in but none spoke.

“Good evening,” Paul said. “Does the minyan start at nine?”

Most of the men nodded. One whispered “yes.” But no one asked who Paul was. Where was he from? What brought him to the middle of nowhere? Was he lost? Did he wander in from a travelling circus? Witness protection? Nothing.

A man donned a tallit and began the service. Everyone responded to “barchu,” and the maariv davening began.

Paul was puzzled. This was perhaps the rudest group of Jews he had ever encountered in his life. Weren’t out of towners supposed to be hospitable? That had been his experience until now. Even in his small shul in Elizabeth—not the world’s friendliest kehila-- someone would have come over and greeted him or at least asked who he was. Especially since he was almost definitely the only stranger in the room!

Shemoneh Esrei finished, they said Alenu, and Paul recited his Kaddish. Other than responding to his prayer, the room was silent. A few people smiled politely at him, but still no greeting was offered.

Paul thought of that weeks’s parsha, Noah. The text described Noah as tzaddik, tamim haya bedorotav, a righteous man in his generation. This must be what the Torah meant. Compared to these guys, he was a tzaddik. Because even a little kindness would make him righteous compared to these losers.

The service ended, and everyone got up to leave. The minute they were out in the hallway, a man approached him with his hand extended.

“Murray Stern. And you are?”

One by one they each came over and introduced themselves. They asked his details. They played Jewish geography. (Harry Potashnick was friends with his cousin Irv from the old country!) Invitations for dinner were proffered. Michael Nussbaum offered him a bed for the night. Turns out, this was a seriously heimish group of guys.

“Can I ask you a question?” Paul asked a bit sheepishly.

“Anything,” Murray responded.

“You’re such a warm, friendly group. Why did no one greet me when I was at the minyan for maariv?”

“Oh, that,” Harry said. “We have an ironclad no talking policy in the sanctuary. Nothing but davening. Our rabbi suggested it, and we’ve grown to like it over the years.”

“Wow. Impressive.”

“Well, I’m sorry if it put you off at all. We really try to make visitors feel welcome.”

“And so you have,” Paul said.

And so, Paul went home with Murray Stern for dinner, although he could just as easily have gone to the houses of Harry, Sid, Barry, Judah, Jeremy, Tomer, Manny, or George. And the roast was delicious. That Patty Stern is some kind of cook.

And as he drove back to the Days Inn, Paul realized that he totally misjudged the members of Sons of Israel of Newark, Ohio. Truly, they were the tzaddikim, and he, who judged them prematurely, was the non-righteous one.

Truly this “tzaddik in his generation” concept was a difficult one to master.

 

* The first European-American settlers arrived in Newark, Ohio in 1802, led by Gen. William C. Schenck. He named the new village after his New Jersey hometown.

Vayelech: Pi Hachamor

Vayelech: Pi Hachamor

Devarim: 31:19

 

Once in the town of Rutherford there lived a very contrary man named Ephraim Effenbacher. He had to do everything his own way. And no one could tell him anything. Rumor has it he used to wear his right shoe on his left foot and his left shoe on his right foot just to annoy people. And let me tell you, it was kind of annoying.

One day Effie decided he was going to write a commentary on the Torah. I know, this sounds like a challenging project, but just because he was contrary, that doesn't mean Effie wasn't smart as a whip, and hardworking, too.

Effie called his commentary "Pi Hachamor," from the pasuk in parshat Balak which states Vayiftach Hashem et pi hachamor (and G-d opened the donkey's mouth). Most of his friends thought the name was uninspired, but Effie liked it just fine.

Effie started at the beginning of the Torah and wrote his commentary over an entire year. He wouldn't let anyone look at it until he was done. One friend, a fellow named Chaim Chaimson suggested that Effie try to get his Torah musings published in a local newspaper like the Jersey Jewish Times, but Effie just laughed.

"Newspapers are for chumps!"

Well, he was a very contrary fellow.

At the end of the year, Effie finished the Pi Hachamor and looked for a publisher. Every Jewish publishing company that read it passed on the project. One editor, at Derech Hayashar Press, sent Effie a note which read:

Yes, it certainly took a lot of courage to write this book, but it would take even more courage to publish it.

Effie was undaunted. He believed in his Torah commentary so strongly, he paid with his own money to self-publish it. It wasn't cheap, and it used up most of his life's savings, but he truly believed in the Pi Hachamor.

When the book was ready, Effie threw a big party and invited everyone he knew. All his friends were there, including many of his acquaintances from childhood. His old teachers were there, even Mrs. Heidelberg, his kindergarten teacher who predicted he was going to amount to no good and Mr. Rabinowitz, his eccentric gym teacher from high school who thought gaga should be an Olympic sport. Even Mr. Hershkowitz, the retired principal of Effie's grade school, made an appearance. In Rutherford's small Jewish community, this was a big event. It was quite a crowd.

Effie gave a brief, polite introductory dvar Torah, a cake was wheeled out, and then copies of the book were distributed to the crowd. The cover art was a braying donkey, though somehow the donkey looked Jewish. Hors D'oeuvres were served, and as people looked down into their copies of Pi Hachamor, between noshing and polite conversation, the crowd grew louder. There were some truly wild divrei Torah in this book.

Noah's ark was made of fiberglass?

Eliyahu Hanavi was beamed up to a spaceship when he died?

The twelve sons of Jacob were ninjas?

Effie's commentary was filled with such pearls, and in each case he brought a proof from the weekly Torah portion. It was wild, it was original, it was--

"-completely insane!" Mr. Hershkowitz exclaimed. "The boy is nuts, meshuga, koo koo!"

"Alvin calm down," his wife Alma counseled. "You're going to give yourself a stroke."

"I can't calm down," Alvin Hershkowitz said. "The book is just crazy. And believe it or not, it's going to fly off the shelves of the Judaica House. Kids are going to love it.”

"So what's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong with that?" the ex-principal muttered. "What's wrong with that? What's wrong is that it's not Torah, it's science fiction!"

Alma hadn't seen her husband's face this red since the time a fifth grader blew up the toilet in the boy's bathroom at the school with a cherry bomb fire cracker.

"Something must be done to stop this book from being sold," Mr. Hershkowitz said. "It's going to corrupt the children. And it's giving me an ulcer."

Mr. Hershkowitz tried to get Effie Effennbacher’s book banned, but few were interested in his urgings. They considered Pi Hachamor a relatively harmless diversion that would cause no true damage. How many people really thought the burning bush was electric?

With nowhere else to turn, Mr. Hershkowitz brought Effie before the wise and learned Chochom of Kearny. He had true insight in Jewish law and was known as a once in a generation Torah genius. Surely he would know what to do with the Pi Hachamor.

As Effie and Alvin were escorted into the Chochom’s office, the wise old man was sitting behind his large oak desk with a copy of the book, chuckling under his breath.

He looked up at Effie with his piercing blue eyes, the eyes that had studied thousands of seforim on so many varied Jewish topics.

“Really? Sodom was destroyed by a hydrogen bomb? That certainly is an unusual approach to the story.”

“Thank you, Rabbi. I consider that a great compliment, coming from you,” Effie said.

“It’s utter craziness!” Mr. Hershkowitz interjected. “Not only that, but I think these ideas are subversive, and downright dangerous.”

The Chochom stroked his long, wispy white beard and gazed at his two visitors for a long time before he spoke.

“You know, recently I was reviewing parshat Vayelech, and I came across the commandment for every Jew to write a Torah. Are you familiar with that pasuk, Ephraim?”

“Ve-ata kitvu lachem et hashira hazot velamda et bnai Yisroel; sima befihem lema’an tihiyeh li hashira hazot le-eid bivnei Yisroel

“And now, write for yourselves this song, and teach it to the Children of Israel. Place it into their mouths, in order that this song will be for Me as a witness for the children of Israel.”

“Good job, Effie. You know your Torah well.”

Effie smiled.

“I’ve always wondered why the Torah used the word shira, song, for this commandment. Of course, it could be referring to Ha’azinu, the next parsha, which is a poem in itself, but I think there’s more going on here.

“I think that every person sings differently. And to put it another way, no two people sing exactly the same. It’s the same with the Torah. No two people view it the same way. Every person, and for that matter every generation, will interpret it differently. Some will see receiving the Torah at Har Sinai as extreme lightning and thunder, and some will see it more like a Steven Spielberg movie. It’s good for Judaism to encourage individuality, within certain parameters.”

The Chochom turned to his two visitors.

“I think that the Pi Hachamor is a fine addition to our Jewish library, and I will be proud to put a copy in my bookcase.”

Effie sighed with relief, and Alvin Hershkovitz shrugged in defeat.

The Chochom turned to Effie one more time.

“So you’re saying the tower of Bavel was actually the first skyscraper?”

“Rabbi, I call ‘em as I see ‘em.”

“Who knew?”

Nitzavim: Of Lemonade and Wormwood

 

Devarim: 29:17

Three New Jersey rabbis sat together at the Delectable Nosherei Emporium of North Bergen (formerly the Delancey and Eldridge Market) having brunch on an unusually warm Sunday morning in September. They sat outside under a large, red umbrella with a beautiful view of Kennedy Boulevard. Rabbi Moshe Aronson of Congregation Chofetz Chaim of Secaucus and Rabbi Shlomo Zahari of Congregation Tehilat David of Lyndhurst had their suit jackets off and had rolled up the sleeves of their white shirts. Rabbi Yitz Mendelowitz of the Magen Avraham shtiebel in Union City sat with his jacket still on and his tie unloosened. It wasn’t really that hot.

It was a tradition—some might even call it a minhag at this point-- that the three rabbis had developed over the years. A week before the High Holy Days began, when the truly intense work load for a pulpit rabbi set in, the three would sit down together, take a load off, and shoot the breeze. Perhaps younger men might have gone for pancakes or omelets, but for these three it was big hulking deli sandwiches or nothing, cholesterol be damned.

The three were snacking on pickles, waiting for their orders to arrive when the waiter brought three lemonades.

Rabbi Mendelowitz took a sip. “Ooh. That’s not so good.”

Rabbi Zahari also sipped. “No, not good at all.”

Rabbi Aronson took his turn. “Actually, it’s quite bitter.”

“Yes, bitter would be the best description. Extremely bitter.”

Yes, but how bitter exactly?”

And thus the gauntlet was thrown down.

“Do you know how bitter this is?” Rabbi Mendelowitz queried. “It’s as bitter as the slavery of the Jews in Egypt. It is as bitter as the unrelenting suffering by the hands of a taskmaster as he oppressed our people, with no end in sight. It is the bitterness that led us to call out to G-d for salvation from our woes. It is the bitterness that led us to eat marror to commemorate just how bitter it was.”

“That’s rather bitter,” Rabbi Zahari agreed.

All three rabbis nodded. Rabbi Aronson slipped a quick look towards the kitchen door to see if their orders were imminent, as his stomach was growling.

“But the bitterness of Egypt ended in our redemption,” Rabbi Zahari continued. “And some people even savor the taste of marror, as it is associated with a mitzvah. So I’m forced to say no, our lemonade is more bitter than the slavery of Egypt.”

Rabbi Zahari continued. “Do you know how bitter this lemonade is? It’s as bitter as Naomi was when she was returning from Moav with Ruth. Naomi had lost everything, her husband and her sons, all her worldly possessions. She was feeling quite low, with no prospects to speak of. She even says to her well-wishers, don’t call me Naomi anymore. Call me Marra, from the root word ‘mar,’ meaning bitter. Now that was true bitterness, much like our cold, yellow, unpleasant lemony brew.”

“I must say, that is quite bitter,” Rabbi Aronson agreed.

Once again, the three rabbis nodded in unison.

“But still, the Naomi story ends with Ruth being redeemed by Boaz, and Naomi ended her days in comfort and with the satisfaction of knowing that the house of King David would rise from her family. So although the story began quite bitterly, I would say it ended quite sweetly, something that will never happen to this lemonade.”

The sandwiches arrived. Rabbi Aronson had the roast beef with Russian dressing. Rabbi Mendelowitz had the hot pastrami with mustard. Rabbi Zahari went with a half tongue, half smoked turkey with no condiments, as he was on a diet. All three were on rye, naturally.

The three rabbis rose, washed their hands, returned, made the bracha of Hamotzi lechem min ha’aretz, bit into their small slices of heaven on earth, and resumed their conversation.

Do you know how bitter this lemonade is?” Rabbi Aronson continued. “It is as bitter as a phrase from this week’s parsha, Nitzavim.”

Now the other two rabbis perked up, for not only was Rabbi Aronson famously learned, but now he might say something that they could use in their speeches to their congregants in their respective synagogues this coming Shabbat morning.

“In this week’s parsha Moshe rabeinu describes a man who rejects the Torah completely. He is described as ‘shoresh poreh rosh vela’ana, a root that produces hemlock and wormwood.’ Now, both hemlock and wormwood are quite bitter. I might venture to suggest that each of them is as bitter as our lemonade. But what makes this phrase so powerful is the word ‘shoresh.’ This is a root that is bitter from the start. This man is bitter against the Torah from every fiber of his existence. Some commentators suggest that this bitter root will produce leaves and branches that will also be bitter. It is inevitable that all his fruit will be acrimonious.

“Other commentators suggest that this man is the bitter root from which a whole family of rebellion will arise. His bitterness contaminates all his descendants. It’s as if the lemonade will make everything around it bitter, including our beautiful sandwiches, chas veshalom.”

“Chas veshalom,” the other rabbis agreed.

“So we should take the example of this unmitigated bitterness and purge all rancorous thoughts from our hearts so that, with Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur just around the corner, we can return to our Creator with no bitterness in our hearts whatsoever.”

Both rabbis agreed and raised their glasses in affirmation, though no one drank. And the rabbis went back to their sandwiches.

So after much deliberation and soul searching, they sent the lemonades back.

Ki Teytze: The Dent

 

Devarim: 22:1-4

The Walgreens parking lot on Washington Avenue was a train wreck. The spaces were too close together, and the whole lot was overcrowded. It was a wonder cars didn’t smash into each other all the time.

Oscar Shapiro had gone to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription of acne cream for his daughter. It was a routine run, nothing out of the ordinary. He bought a Snickers bar at the checkout line. He would consume it in the car and dispose of the wrapper where his wife wouldn’t see it. She would never know that he had cheated on his diet. A victimless crime.

Oscar was not accustomed to driving his wife’s minivan. His Mazda 3 was a cute little car and was easily maneuverable. The Grand Caravan was massive by comparison. Pulling this hulking behemoth into and out of a space was like trying to maneuver an aircraft carrier through the Panama Canal during a grade five hurricane, or so it felt to him. It’s true that Chrysler provided an excellent backup camera, so there was no excuse for what happened, but still, Oscar was definitely outside his comfort zone.

He had cleared the Dodge pickup truck on his left and the Mitsubishi Mirage on his right with inches to spare. He turned the steering wheel all the way right as he backed up. And that was when he felt the bump.

It hadn’t been too hard; a gentle tap, really. Like a mouse bumping into a doorway. A pin dropping to the floor. A small child tapping on a keyboard. But maybe it was a little harder than he thought. He got out to see what he had done.

The Grand Caravan was pristine. Not a scratch. But the red Mustang convertible he dinged had a small scuff on the bumper. Would he call it a dent? Yes, it was definitely a dent. And on second look it wasn’t so small. It was a legitimate dent. It was definitely noticeable.

He got behind the wheel of the minivan and pulled it to the side. Then he shut off the car, sat in the driver’s seat, and thought.

“Drive,” his brain said. “Drive away. Now.”

No one had seen the fender bender. No one saw him now. The Mustang’s driver might not notice it for days. He would have no idea when or where it occurred. These things happen. Bumpers will get scratched. That’s what they’re there for. One scratch is just not a federal case. If he hadn’t done it, it would have happened somewhere else. Big whopping deal.

How would he feel if someone did this to him? He might be annoyed. Certainly that would be his initial reaction. But after a few minutes he would shrug and move on. These things happen. It’s probably not even worth repairing. He might have even reasoned that the person who did it was completely unaware that he’d dented the car.

But he was aware. He knew he did it. And that changed everything.

He put the key back into the ignition. Then he pulled it out.

Oscar knew there was something apropos to this situation in that week’s parsha. What was it, Ki Teitsay? He reached behind him to the second row of seats and pulled out a chumash that his son had left in the minivan over a week ago. (A minivan is a bottomless pit of storage for everything from soccer cleats to seforim to Snickers wrappers.)

He leafed through the pages of Devarim. Where was it?

It definitely had nothing to do with a woman captured in war. Nope, not the wayward and rebellious son. Definitely not the body on the gallows. Oh, there it was-

“You shall not see the ox of your brother or his sheep or goat cast off and hide yourself from them.”

Clearly this pasuk was suggesting that you should not allow your fellow man to incur financial loss if you could help it. And in this case he could definitely prevent any loss, especially since he was the one who had caused it. Auto body shops were definitely a source of financial loss.

But the word that got him was vehitalamta, and you hide yourself. Wasn’t that exactly what he was doing? He knew the right thing to do.

Oscar looked a few psukim later. The Torah even told you what to do about it!

“If your brother is not near you and you do not know him [could it be clearer that the Torah was talking to him?] then gather it inside your house and it shall remain with you until your brother inquires after it and you return it to him.”

Oscar pulled a business card from his wallet, wrote a note on the back, and stuck it beneath the windshield wiper of the red Mustang.

“So shall you do for his donkey [or Mustang!], so shall you do for his garment [or bumper], and so shall you do for any lost article of your brother that may become lost [or dented] from him and you find it, you shall not hide yourself.”

Oscar put the key back in the ignition and drove off.

It was amazing how the parsha had come through for him.

It definitely could have been worse. At least he didn’t need the psukim about going off to war or dealing with a kidnapping. That would really have been a bummer.