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Thursday, September 17, 2015

Audio and Essays: Parashat Vayelech and Yom Kippur

Audio and Essays Parashat Vayelech and Yom Kippur

Hakahel and Chag Haasif

Essays:
Parashat Vayelech 5776:
The End of the Shmita Year: An Opportunity to Begin Again


Gather the People

All For One and One For All

audio:
Vayelech



Teshuva:
Audio:
“Shuvu Banim”

Going to Azazel


Teshuva the connection between the Individual and the collective


The Disappearance of Truth


The Ten Days of Teshuva


Yom Kippur and Transcendence


The Teshuva of Resh Lakish version 1  -2010

The Teshuva of Resh Lakish -version 2  -2013-


Yom Kippur and Affliction



Lectures in Hebrew: שיעורים בעברית

כל נדרי - תפילה עם 9 נשמות (Kol Nidrie – a prayer with nine lives- Hebrew)


חולה ביום הכיפורים - שיטת ר' חיים

מְעֻוָּת לֹא־יוּכַל לִתְקֹן



התשובה של ריש לקיש






Parashat Vayelech 5776 The End of the Shmita Year: An Opportunity to Begin Again

Echoes of Eden
Rabbi Ari Kahn
Parashat Vayelech 5776
The End of the Shmita Year: An Opportunity to Begin Again

Every week, as Shabbat comes to a close, we mark the departure of the Shabbat Queen with a short havdala ceremony, as one weekly cycle ends and the next begins.
Often, havdala leaves a bittersweet taste in its wake. On the one hand, we are forced to lower the curtain on our much-needed day of rest, and return to the mundane concerns of our daily life.
On the other hand, the day’s end also frees us from the many prohibitions of Shabbat.
Even one of the greatest Jewish philosophers of the modern era, Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, admitted that despite its holiness, the limitations to creativity and action that Shabbat observance places upon us can be “annoying.”
In much the same way, as the end of the Jewish year approaches, we are on the cusp of a new annual cycle as well as a new seven-year shmita cycle. As the sun sets on the last day of 5775 and we usher in the new year, we simultaneously take leave of the shmita year, its unique holiness – and its unique restrictions. Although there is no havdala ceremony to mark this transition, we would be well served by putting some thought into the start of a new seven- year cycle.
The desire to live in the Land of Israel is multifaceted. For some of us, it is mainly an outgrowth of our awareness and desire to connect to this land’s history, while for others the excitement of building Israel’s future is the strongest bond.
There are those for whom Israel is a natural expression of our peoplehood, while others are swept up by the holiness of this unique place – holiness which is often associated with the very earth beneath our feet, the ground on which our patriarchs and matriarchs carved out our national ethos, the fields and plains that have served as the bedrock of our national history for millennia.
Jewish law has always addressed this holiness, serving as a tool to heighten our awareness and connection to the land itself. The laws of the sabbatical year are a primary example, but they are much more: By encompassing aspects of spirituality, social justice and socioeconomics, they mirror many other facets of our national existence.
Allowing the land to “take a break” is sound agricultural practice. It is also healthy, both physically and emotionally, for the farmer – although it is far less healthy for the farmer’s bank account.
The laws of shmita seem to compound the difficulty. Not only is it forbidden to work the land in the seventh year, but the land and all its produce become ownerless for the duration of the year. Anyone and everyone, humans and animals, are equally entitled to enjoy what the Land of Israel brings forth.
It is therefore not difficult to understand why the laws of shmita have historically been quite difficult to observe. Farmers and, by extension, the entire economy were faced with a Herculean challenge, as the nation’s finances shifted to “faith based economics.” In a preindustrial society, alternative food sources were scarce, even nonexistent; the prospect of hardship must have been overwhelming, and the required level of faith in God extreme.
And yet, the sanctions and consequences spelled out by the Torah and the prophets are severe: Failure to observe the shmita will result in exile.
No wonder, then, that at the end of the shmita year, not unlike the end of Shabbat, our feelings are mixed. For some, a sigh of relief is in order – not only relief from the prohibitions and limitations on proactive working of the land, not only the rush of adrenaline that Israel’s farmers feel as they are permitted to rekindle their active love affair with the land, but, in recent times, relief from the divisiveness that has come to be associated with shmita observance.
There may be no area of Jewish law marked with as high a level of discord as shmita, whose observance is marred by competing kashrut sensibilities that are often diametrically opposed to one another.
The irony is poignant, since even the most secular modern Israeli is familiar with the famous adage, borrowed from rabbinic commentary to the Torah, “What does shmita have to do with Mount Sinai?” Today, this phrase usually points out that two subjects are completely unrelated, but a cynical reinterpretation of it may aptly describe today’s shmita observance: There is no connection between shmita, the most fractious of all subjects, and Mount Sinai, where the nation stood “as one man, with one heart.”
Perhaps we can draw from another aspect of our weekly experience. As Shabbat wanes, we begin looking ahead to the next Shabbat. For some, these thoughts and musings are of a culinary nature: Which food or wine would we like to have at our next Shabbat table? Others look ahead to the social opportunities, planning who their next guests will be or with whom they would like to spend their next day of rest.
As the shmita year comes to an end, we should be thinking along these same lines: How will the next sabbatical year look? What does shmita mean in a modern, mainly non-agrarian, industrialized society? How can we make shmita more relevant and more significant to our lives in the modern State of Israel? How can we improve the shmita experience and reconnect with its original purpose? Can we find better ways to tap into the social underpinnings of these laws and apply them in a postindustrial economy? How can the benefits and the burdens of shmita observance be shared among all sectors of society? Is there a way to apply debt cancellation, an integral part of shmita observance, in our current financial system, and to allow Judaism’s vision of social justice to help bridge the vast chasm between Israel’s haves and have-nots? These are questions that we should address right now, as we end one shmita cycle and begin again. If we put shmita on the back burner and wait six years to ask these questions, it may be too late to formulate any meaningful response to the challenges and opportunities the sabbatical year holds in store.
As the shmita year draws to a close, we would do well to ponder two diametrically opposed talmudic teachings.
The first is dark and somewhat ominous.
In a discussion of the destruction of both the first and second Jewish commonwealths, the sages note (Ta’anit 29a) that in both cases the destruction took place in the post-shmita year. Apparently the Jewish people had not properly observed shmita; society, unraveled from within by discord and disheartened by a lack of faith, was unable to withstand the external threats it faced.
However, on a more positive note, the Talmud (Megila 17b) records a tradition that, ultimately, redemption will come at the end of the shmita cycle. In a sense, this upbeat teaching is a challenge. Proper observance of shmita creates social justice and unity, and these, without a doubt, are the key to our national and personal redemption.


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This article originally appeared in The Jerusalem Post (Metro & In Jerusalem sections), September 11. 2015. Reproduced with permission.

Echoes of Eden

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Book review of "When God is Near" by Rav Amital

When God is Near
by Rabbi Yehuda Amital
Adapted and Edited by Rabbi Yoel Amital, Translated by Karen Fish
Yeshivat Har Etzion, Maggid Books 2015

Reviewed by Rabbi Ari Kahn

When reading any book written by someone you know (or knew), and most especially books written by one’s own teachers or mentors, we can often hear their voice as we read the printed words, and we are transported back to the classroom or beit midrash. However, reading When God Is Near is more complicated: Rav Yehuda Amital spoke and taught almost exclusively in Hebrew, and in the time I spent at Yeshivat Har Etzion I do not believe I ever heard him speak any other language. Nonetheless, despite the barriers of time, place and translation, while reading this volume of Rav Amital’s sichot (talks), I was able to hear his voice, and not only the teaching voice Rav Amital used when he addressed us in the study hall, but his voice as shaliach tzibbur, leading his beloved Yeshiva in prayer. In a certain sense, the latter may be the more important voice, for Rav Amital was, in the broadest sense of the term, a shaliach tzibbur, and it was this same role, this calling and sense of responsibility, that he strove to pass on to his students and followers.

While Rav Yehuda Amital’s name may be familiar to the English speaking public the world over, I suspect that his torah is not as well known; perhaps this is one of the many unfortunate byproducts of the divide between religious Zionism and its close relative in the diaspora, modern orthodoxy. While these two communities face different challenges, the points of similarity between them make the present work (and others like it) all the more important to the observant English-speaking community outside the Land of Israel. Admittedly, few American Roshei Yeshiva will dedicate a key lecture or lesson to those who are not present in the room, as Rav Amital did regarding talmidim who were absent due to active military service. However, the underlying orientation, the educational message, the challenge presented by Rav Amital’s sichot, should speak to every Rosh Yeshiva, and student: To raise students who serve the larger community and are engaged with the world beyond the parochial confines of the beit midrash.

When God Is Near is comprised of lecture notes and transcriptions of short pre-selichot – Rosh Hashana, and Yom Kippur talks, Rav Amital gave in Yeshivat Har Etzion. Each of these sichot shimmers with the introspection and holiness of the Days of Awe, while at the same time allowing the reader a taste of Rav Amital’s personal torah. As a whole, this book is about responsibility. It is about personal greatness. Its foci are man, God and change. At various junctures, the reader may get the sense that Rav Amital was addressing himself, or perhaps allowing us to share his inner world. Those who were privileged and fortunate enough to have attended a shiur or sicha can still hear his voice speaking through the text; others may simply draw inspiration from the tremendous insight and wisdom each chapter holds. In either case, Rav Amital’s greatness as a teacher is unmistakable: In each sicha he attempts not merely to impart information, but to mold and inspire his students, and to pass on to them his own passion for Torat Yisrael, Am Yisrael and Eretz Yisrael.

Rav Amital proves to be a sensitive reader of texts, whether the text in question is biblical, rabbinic or liturgical - but that is only the point of departure for many of these sichot. His vivid imagination and ability to paint a picture for his audience are, quite literally, inspiring. Indeed, Rav Amital actually explains the basis for these flights of imaginative fancy (page 171): In The Kuzari, Rabi Yehuda Halevi encourages us to visualize the significant events of Jewish history, including the Revelation at Sinai and Akeidat Yitzchak. Rav Amital rises brilliantly to this challenge, and throughout When God Is Near, he shares with us what he sees: deliberations between biblical characters, scenes that he imagines taking place in heaven, and so much more. Similarly, his insights are often illustrated with scenes from his own past: the Europe of his childhood, or the war years, his experiences as a lone survivor and his participation in the great drama of building a new country in a very old land.

In the chapters that comprise When God Is Near, teshuva (repentance) is transformed from an individual concern into an issue of community responsibility. Unlike those who take great pride in the unprecedented numbers of Jews currently studying Torah, Rav Amital laments the unprecedented number of Jews who are distanced from Torah or who have rejected Torah outright. Despite having been born into a Hasidic Hungarian-Jewish family, Rav Amital fell under the influence of Rav Kook from a very early age; remarkably, Rav Amital managed to acquire and hold on to Rav Kook’s writings throughout his years in Nazi labor camps. Rav Kook’s concept of teshuva as a national goal, and not merely as a personal quest, was a major influence on Rav Amital, who would not allow himself to be satisfied with life ensconced in his Yeshiva when so much disbelief was ravaging the Jewish community just beyond the walls of the beit midrash. In this context, Rav Amital draws upon a daring teaching of the Hasidic master Rav Tzadok HaKohen of Lublin: If a person’s self-identification or identification by others is Jewish, this is sufficient reason to allow their conversion – even if their acceptance of mitzvot is lacking (page 214). The collective Nation of Israel includes all those “to whom the name Israel is applied, ” and the holiness of the Jewish People falls equally on those for whom the sobriquet “Jew” is their only connection to Judaism. Rav Amital stressed that the purifying power of Yom Kippur is available to these Jews as well, even though their knowledge and practice may be limited when compared to that of the Yeshiva student. Rav Amital’s message is clear: The privileged and entitled Yeshiva student should feel a deep sense of responsibility for the larger community, and never feel superior to other Jews simply because circumstances provided him with better Jewish education. Our introspection on Yom Kippur, then, must encompass the collective, with all its disparate elements, and we must pause and consider whether or not we have met our responsibility to the Nation of Israel. Additionally, we are called upon to take stock of our behavior as citizens of the even-larger collective: As human beings, we must take responsibility for the world in which we live, and universal concerns such as the eroding ozone layer and pollution are raised as well. God assured us that He would not destroy the world with a second flood, but we are given no guarantees that the world will not be destroyed by our own greed, carelessness or stupidity (page 149).

For the most part, the chapters of When God Is Near are undated, an unfortunate editorial oversight in a work so firmly rooted in the author’s personal vision. Thus, for example, the many discussions of Akeidat Yitzchak leave the reader in need of a chronological anchor. Rav Amital wonders aloud about Avraham’s emotions, thoughts and words as he made his way toward the holy mountain, his beloved son at his side. What personal akeida, we wonder, haunts each of these sichot? Is it the loss of his entire extended family, or of European Jewry as a whole? Is it the loss of his beloved students, killed while heroically defending the Land of Israel and its people that colors his analysis of the Akeida? In one particular essay, Rav Amital contrasts the willingness of the father to sacrifice his son and the willingness of the son to be sacrificed - with the “shaheed”  (suicide terrorist). He reports searching through midrashic literature, to no avail: He could not find even one midrash in which either Avraham or Yitzchak are assured of a share in the World to Come that awaits after the Akeida. Rav Amital then goes on to express theological disappointment with those who believe in an abstract, non-corporeal God on the one hand, but whose vision of heaven is obsessively tangible, physical, “a place where they can realize their wildest and ugliest fantasies,” (Page 157) on the other. Had this essay been placed in historical or political context, the message would have been far more poignant to the reader.

I admit that I am unaccustomed to reading Rav Amital’s words in English (although this is not the first volume of his teachings that has been translated). If I were to quibble, I would complain that at times the translation in When God Is Near is a bit formal: Often, a phrase or verse that is used as the starting point for an essay would be more easily understood in the original Hebrew. Though there are occasional transliterations, they are too few and far between. In fact, it would have been far more helpful to quote biblical verses and quotations from the liturgy in Hebrew; even for the average English-speaker, these basic texts are far more familiar in the original.

Despite these minor complaints, this is an important book. Rav Yehuda Amital was a great teacher, and the leader of a large and important community. He charged his students to take responsibility. He taught them to be independent, he groomed them to lead, and he charged them to be holy and to sanctify God’s Name – and never to desecrate it. Unfortunately, Rav Amital’s voice is largely unheard in many of the communities that have the most to gain from his teachings, and those who are unfamiliar with his work would do well to learn his torah, hear and heed his unique voice, and accept his challenge: Dare to be great.


Sunday, September 6, 2015

Parashat Nitzavim 5775 A Holy Collective

Echoes of Eden
Rabbi Ari Kahn
Parashat Nitzavim 5775
A Holy Collective

As Moshe prepares to leave the stage of Jewish history, he invokes a covenant between God and the Jewish People. This is neither the first nor the only time a covenant is discussed, but here in Parashat Nitzavim Moshe introduces an element never clearly stated before:

I am not forging this covenant and this oath with you alone; I am creating this bond with those of you who are standing here with us today before God, as well as those who are not here with us today. (Dvarim 29:13-14)

The covenant includes all those who were present at that time, but so much more: This is a trans-generational covenant. All future generations are bound by this agreement as if they themselves had stood on the eastern shore of the Jordan River and heard Moshe’s parting speech, as if they had witnessed the forming of the covenantal community with their own eyes, as if they themselves had signed, as it were, on the dotted line. This is not a particularly strange feature of the agreement: Individuals often find themselves subject to agreements in which they were not active participants. Governments, corporations and individuals often make pacts that obligate others. Nonetheless, this particular agreement has profound ramifications, for it creates a new entity, a new concept: The Jewish People.

The Nation of Israel consists of the sum total of all Jews in the world, but not merely the sum total of all living Jews. The Jewish Nation is an aggregate that includes all Jews who have ever or will ever live. The covenant forged before Moshe’s death specifically includes future generations as well, and, by extension, applies not only to the covenant itself, but to all of the intellectual, spiritual and physical assets that the covenant accrues. The Land of Israel, then, is given to the collective People of Israel, and not only to those who were present when it was promised to them or even those who actively participated in the conquest. Each generation is therefore considered caretakers, not owners; the Land of Israel is the property, the birthright, the inheritance of the entire trans-generational collective. Similarly, the Torah was entrusted to those who stood at Mount Sinai, but it “belongs” to all of Israel. It is the spiritual birthright of each and every member of the collective. A teacher who refuses to teach Torah to any Jewish student is, in fact, withholding the rightful inheritance of an heir, denying the rightful owner of this intellectual and spiritual treasure access to what is theirs. Every teacher is an executor of a spiritual estate, and each and every teacher must see to it that the heirs - who may not be aware of their rights or may be incapable of fully appreciating the value of their inheritance- receive and cherish what is legally theirs.

There is, however, another side to this covenantal relationship. Because each and every Jew is a part of this larger collective, mutual responsibility is its unavoidable result; this is one of the most well-known aspects of Judaism. However, we might not have been aware of the scope of this mutual responsibility: Just as the covenant spans all past and future generations, so, too, does our responsibility for one another. A Talmudic passage illustrates this point: Tractate Rosh Hashanah (32b) records a tradition that the angels complained to God that on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur the Jews do not sing the hymns of praise that make up the Hallel Prayer. God Himself came to the Israelites’ defense, explaining that these are days of judgment, during which “the books of the living and the books of the dead are opened” before Him, making this an inappropriate time for songs of thanksgiving, joy and praise. Interestingly, the text does not refer to the more familiar “Books of Life and Death,” or the heavenly ledgers in which all human deeds are recorded and counted on these fateful days of judgment. Instead, the books of those “living and dead” are opened.  Surely, the book of the living must be opened in order to judge each person according to their deeds and merits, but why, we might ask, is the book of those who have passed on from the mortal world opened as well? Surely they are beyond judgment! Not so, we are taught: During the Days of Awe, the dead – even those who died long ago - are judged, not for their actions during the passing year, but for the impact they have had on the world they left behind.

Here, then, is the trans-generational covenant of mutual responsibility in action: The actions of the present generation impact the judgment that is handed down regarding those who came before them. By their actions, the living have the power to give new meaning to the lives of members of the community who came before them, to transform and elevate their legacy in this world and their spiritual existence in the world beyond our own.

At this time of year, as we are ponder the power of teshuva (repentance) to change the past, to turn our mistakes or transgressions into positive growth experiences, we should also consider the impact we might have on the more distant past. On a personal level, teshuva is both liberating and redemptive. It allows us to make a clean break, to free ourselves from the stain that we have inflicted on our own souls. Mistakes can be corrected; lessons can be learned. We can change our own past, and be energized and elevated by our newfound relationship with God. At times, the sin that is truly and wholeheartedly repented can become the strongest part of a persons religious identify. This may be compared to a rope that is severed, and rejoined by a tight knot that becomes the strongest part of the entire rope. Moreover, the knotted rope, a metaphor for the relationship between man and God, is now shorter than before; the distance between man and God has become smaller. The sin and subsequent teshuva bring man closer to God than he was before.

The lesson of Parashat Nitzavim, though, goes even further than this personal bond with God, for we now understand that the trans-generational nature of the covenant allows us to share in the redemption of past generations as well. By upholding the covenant, we build our own relationship with God, while at the same time we impact the generations that preceded us in the covenantal community. We can give meaning to the sacrifices made by our ancestors, or redeem the opportunities that our predecessors may have missed. We can be inspired by positive deeds of relatives who may otherwise have been forgotten, and bring the collective Jewish people closer to God and closer to realizing our glorious shared destiny. Such is the nature of this covenant; such is the nature of the Jewish People.


For a more in-depth analysis see:
http://arikahn.blogspot.co.il/2015/09/parshat-nitzavim-and-rosh-hashana-audio.htmlhttp://arikahn.blogspot.co.il/2015/09/parshat-nitzavim-and-rosh-hashana-audio.html
Rabbi Ari Kahn’s new book on the parashah, A River Flowed From Eden, is now available.


 Echoes of Eden

Parshat Nitzavim and Rosh Hashana- Audio and Essays

Parshat Nitzavim and Rosh Hashana- Audio and Essays

Echoes of Eden Project
New –

Parashat Nitzavim 5775 A Holy Collective


Audio:

Rewriting History

Mutual Responsibility

The Happiness of Rosh Hashanah


Getting Back to the Garden


Parshat Nitzavim // Returning To God
The dynamics of Teshuva

Parshat Nitzavim /Teshuvah
Teshuvah, Rosh Hashanah, Coronation God as King
returning to God and God returning to the land

Parshat Nitzavim // Becoming a Nation
Transferring leadership from Moshe to Yoshua / Transferring responsibility from Moshe to the entire nation / Bringing light to the world


New –  
Kol Nidrie (Hebrew)

Simana Milta –(in Hebrew)
Why we eat special things Rosh Hashana night – and why this is not a problem

Rosh Hashanah

Rosh Hashanah - Part I

Rosh Hashanah - Part II

The Multifaceted Shofar

Why blow the shofar

The Prayer of the Shofar

The Sound of the Shofar

Tishrei - What's the Connection

Akaidat Yitzchak and Yishmael

Teshuva; Personal Re-Creation

Repercussion of Sin

Teshuva and Complete Teshuva

Essays:


Return

Gather the People

The Idea of Rosh Hashana

All For One and One For All

Aher - A Scholar Gone Astray

Rabbi Eleazar ben Dordaya: A Story of Teshuva

Rosh Hashanah / The Sound of the Shofar

Rosh Hashanah / Not Blowing the Shofar: Kabbalat Ol Malchut Shamayim

Rosh Hashanah Elkana and Chana