Life of Yeshiva Guy

It's a Yeshivishe Matzav
September 22, 2009

Plane Truth

El Al PlaneWalking down the cramped aisle, I relish the feeling of the unknown. I’m enjoying the experience of possibility. Of potential. No, I’m not about to get married. I’m headed overseas for a friend’s wedding. But for me, a plane ride holds all the promise and excitement that a fresh sketch pad holds for an artist. The pristine white paper, clean now…but what will it become?
As I make my way down the interior of the narrow, people packed inside of the plane’s fuselage, I take a slow look around me, and I can feel it. I just know that this is going to be an interesting flight. I perform the customary, slow check of my flimsy ticket stub, all the while craning my neck up at the tiny numbers printed above the seats- its almost as if they don’t want you to find your seat. A polite flight attendant had informed me that my seat was the second to last on the right hand side of the plane, and I head down that way. Approaching my row (43), I realize that I am sitting smack in the middle of a bored looking Israeli and…an incredibly nervous looking seminary girl. Great. I can tell she’s cycling through all the potential survival scenarios she’s just been brainwashed with for the past year.
We exchange the quickest of understanding glances- we both know that there is absolutely no way we are sitting next to each other for any amount of time- and certainly not 12 hours. She goes her merry way, trying to arrange a seat change, while I motion for the assistance of the harried stewardess. “What can I do for you, dear?”, she asks me as she squeezes by on her way to the back of the plane. “Uh, we have a small problem here, ma’am”, I stutter. I outline the nature of our dilemma, and she assures me that she’ll do her very best to resolve the issue. Twenty minutes later of red-faced shuffling about in the narrow aisle, our issue is resolved- only two minutes before take off. An Israeli young man, obviously chiloni, non-religious, agrees (after the stewardess’ saccharine sweet smile) to switch places with the girl. Silently, we settle into our respective seats. Not knowing what’s going on in his mind, I can only tell you what’s in mine. I’m wondering if he wants to talk. He seems to be the quiet type, but as I’ve discovered over the years, the quiet types are often the ones who have the most to say. As Emerson said, “Who you are speaks so loudly I can’t hear what you’re saying”.
I decide to try and strike up a conversation. After only a few minutes, we are schmoozing like old friends. It turns out there is a mere one year age gap between us, and although I’m amazed at his maturity and level of sophistication (he’s been in the army- commanding a 12 man squad in Jenin), we find enough common ground in whatever shared heritage we do have to relate. Over the next few hours, we talk about everything. Life. Sports. Politics. And Religion…with a capital “R”. By the time we reach the “Holocaust and G-D Question” after two hours of intense theological ping-pong, the lady seated in front of us is tossing and turning. Finally, she politely requests us to keep it down. At somewhat of a crossroads in our discussion, we both agree to continue the schmooze in the morning.
In the meantime, I ponder the issues of faith he’s raised. I pray to Hashem that He place the right words into my mouth; that I should be able to answer him with both the proper “haskafah” as well as enough grace that he shouldn’t be put off by the daunting truth. He is a sincere fellow, and his time spent in the army has only served to enrich his sincerity. But more than that, he seems sincere about finding some sort of meaning to it all. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have all that much to be sincere about these days. His country is on the verge of war (again), his people have, as of late, started feeling their oats and in the process become lazy, and his land, while still technically a first world country, is, by his own admission, in many ways less civilized than most third world states.
When I meet up with such sincerity in non-religious folk, I am always overcome by dual emotions. How bittersweet it is, this sincerity; so much of the enduring core values of our people, and at the same time, completely without course, lacking any bearing whatsoever. I attempt to point this out to him by the way- I ask him in what way, if any, he feels connected to the Jewish people. Clearly, he identifies deeply with something – he’s already told me that he plans to spend his life in pursuit of the furtherance of his land and people. He doesn’t really have an answer to this question, basic though it is. And I can feel the pain, deep within him, as he tries to sort out his own position on this. “I don’t know what makes me Jewish, that is true. All I can say is, I feel something, some connection. I’ve been trying to, but still can’t define it.” I wish I could explain to him all about the “Pintele Yid”, about “Knesses Yisroel”. How his feelings, undefined for the whole of his young life, have been defined long ago by people far older than him. But the time is short and the labor long. I focus my energies elsewhere, hoping he’ll reach some stage of cognizance of the above idea autodidactally.
By the end of the flight, we’re fast friends. We exchange contact information, and share a cab ride to our mutual destinations. I insist on paying. Why? I’m not sure. Maybe because I’m determined on shattering the trogloditian, boorish, frugal stereotype that has become the image of Chareidi Jewry from the secular perspective. Perhaps it’s an inner desire to express my appreciation for all he’s done for us, for me, as a soldier. Or perhaps it’s simply one Jew insisting on doing a favor for another. I don’t know.
Like our conversation, the farewell is smooth. But also like our conversation, there is a roiling undercurrent of emotion, at least on my end.  As we agree to meet when he returns to Jerusalem as a student at Hebrew U, I feel like shouting at him “Fargest nisht, du bist a Yid”! Instead, we shake hands, and bid each other joyful and peaceful summers.
All in all, I may have learnt a little about what it is to try and live a life with ideals so gray, and to chase dreams that aren’t, won’t be, and never were. Pure torture. “Al eilah anu bocheyu”. And I’ve discovered, perhaps, that there exists a strata of Israeli chiloni society who struggle with issues relevant to their very core being, in ways that I never will (G-d willing). Boruch Hashem. And I’ve found something beautiful in the simple knowledge that even today, with the laissez-faire attitude of the street, and worse,  it’s over pervasiveness of self-interest, young Jewish men are still being raised with the desire to search for the truth, if nothing else.
Now, on my return flight to Israel, as I sit here attempting to find some perspective in all this, my seatmate isn’t nearly as exciting a conversation partner. A rheumatic dati leumi type, the 7 inch screen embedded in the seat in front of him holds far more fascination for him than little old me, and to be honest, the feeling is mutual.
But then again, perhaps I should engage him, schmooze with him a little. Like I said, the possibilities…

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September 17, 2009

The Trail of 100 Tears


Below find a D’var Torah on Rosh Hashana. I don’t normally publish Divrei Torah here, but l’kavod Rosh Hashana… I hope the below shtickel inspires you. It did me.
I would also like to take this opportunity to wish you, dear reader, and all of Klal Yisroel a K’sivah V’Chasima Tovah, and a gut gebenschte yur!
Hopefully, you’ll be crying in just a few short hours. Crying and wailing like you’ve never cried before. Allow me to explain.
According to our sources, tears are more potent than actual tefillah (prayer). The Gemara(*1) says that although the gates of tefillah have been closed to us, the gates of tears never close.
Why? What about tears that make them so formidable as to have the ability to penetrate the heavenly gates where even prayer must stand back?
As we know, tears and the associated wails play a thematic role in the Rosh Hashana liturgy. The most prevalent one being, of course, the Shofar and its cries, or wails (or tears). In fact, the Gemara(*2) decides the specific kind and order of the tekios based on various definitions of word(s) meaning crying/wailing/moaning/etc. These tekios (according to the above Gemara(*2), are either to arouse tears, or are metaphysical wails themselves. As R’ Shamshon Refoel Hirsch (*3) puts it; “Teruah makes you quiver, it softens you, it subdues you before G-d.”
Come Rosh Hashana, we will all sit through the many- and dare I say it?- repetitious blowings. But how many do we actually blow? And more to the point, why so many: Why the repetitive blowing? This question is especially troubling when you consider that M’Doraysah, as per Shulchan Aruch/Tur(*4), only nine sounds are mandated? So why the hundred that we end up doing?
One of the reasons is a fascinating Tosfos(*19) who brings down an Aruch(*20), according to whom the reason we blow 100 “blowings” is…to counteract or match the 100 moans of the mother of Sisrah.
Really.
The mother of Sisrah, you say thoughtfully…never heard of her, huh?
The Navi in Shoftim (*5/also know as Shiras Devorah) describes an wondrous battle that took place between this fellow, Sisrah, and the Jews living in the land of Eretz Yisroel at the time. It’s also worthwhile to bring down the Midrash here(*6), which provides us with some spellbinding background on this Sisrah: Apparently, this Sisrah was no slouch. He was leading a force of four billion! men against the Jews. Prior to this, he’d conquered the entire world; all he had to do was roar, and walls would fall- literally. All this before the age of 30…Talk about a focused individual.
But back to the battle. This clash was of such gargantuan proportions that the heavens themselves(*7) were enlisted to join the fray. Can you imagine the stars fighting with each other? Of course, what this means, exactly, is not our subject…but in it’s simple interpretation, stars really fought in this battle. The MHR”L explains that the stars were actually combating to preserve the very order of the world. Such was Sisrah’s power and so dangerous was the potential outcome of this campaign of his.
Yes, it sound distinctly Lords of the Rings-ish, but it happened.
And this fellow Sisrah was the general of the guys fighting against us. A fearsome fellow, as described. But, as they say, everyone has a mother, and this guy had one too. Waiting at home for her little (or not so little) mamaleh to come home. With the booty of war, no doubt. The Navi describes the scene; this anxious old woman is peering out the window(*8), eagerly awaiting the return of her victorious son from the battlefield, yet again. Only this time, his return is assisted- by pallbearers. And when she beholds this sad sight (or before, when she realizes*21), she is moved to tears.
“…Va’T'Yavev Aim Sisrah“, says the pasuk. The mother of Sisrah wailed(*8).
And not just any wails were these. These were one hundred tears so powerful that for some reason we are required to counter those tears with one hundred of our own wails (the cries of the shofar). And so we encounter this theme again; the power of the tear/wail.
Only this time, the cries are of a different nature; these are cries of a gentile, whom we know has considerably less kedusha than a Jew(*22), and as such, shouldn’t have had such an effect on us Jews. And certainly not  enough to have us change the form of our Rosh Hashana service…right(*23)?
An easy out here could be in the nature of the relationship of a mother to her son: Just as Sisrah’s mother had mercy on her son, a wicked fellow, so too we beg Hashem to have mercy on us, his wayward children(*9). But this avoids both the issue that she was a gentile, and it also avoids the whole wails matter; why bring the wails into the picture at all?
To solve this perplexing dilemma- this powerful puissance of these wails- we must examine an oft-quoted story that took place some two thousand years ago, plus change.
Yirmiyahu the Prophet(*10) was sitting and lamenting the destruction of the Bais HaMikdash (the Temple). As he sat, shedding his tears, Plato (some say Aristotle) came upon him. The Greek philosopher had joined the conquering forces on their trip to Jerusalem, and was now walking about. As he met with Yirmiyahu, he engaged him in discussion. After some time, he realized the Prophet’s greatness. Surprised at Yirmiyahu’s dirgeful weeping, he asked the Prophet; “Great and wise man, isn’t it unbecoming for one as yourself to mourn mere wood and stones? And in addition, the Temple’s destruction has already taken place. It is in the past. To what end do you weep now? Surely you agree that “crying over spilt milk” accomplishes nothing?”
Yirmiyahu replied “As a philospher, no doubt you have many questions concerning the world, etc. Ask”. So Plato/Aristotle obliged. Upon which Yirmiyahu eloquently and succintly answered them all. To which the incrdulous Plato/Aristotle could only stutter back “From where does a human being acquire such knowledge”?
Yirmiyahu answered with the following. “As to your first question- there you have it. All of my knowledge is indeed not simply human- it is piped though those “sticks and stones”, as you call them. As to your second question- why I cry over the past- you are not from the seed of Israel. As wise as you may be, you could never comprehend the answer”.
And with that retort, our story ends.
But not our analysis of it. How are we supposed to understand this? Here sit two of the wisest living people in the world. Yirmiyahu and Plato/Aristotle. According to RMB”M(*11) Aristotle attained a degree of knowledge so great that it was only a grade less than the knowledge acquired by the Prophets themselves. Surely he could have understand the answer, whatever it was. And certainly when one considers that a Prophet himself would have been explaining it!
The answer to both our conundrums, -A) why we counteract the tears of this rasha’s mother, a marsha’as herself(*24), and B) why Plato/Aristotle couldn’t understand why we cry over the past, lies in the understanding of a fundamental dichotomy between the tears of a gentile and the tears of a Jew.
When a gentile (like Sisrah’s mother) cries, he/she cries tears of despair. They bewail what was; and what will never be again. Sisrah’s mother saw the hearse and her inner knowledge of her son’s death finally crystallized. And she knew with utter clarity that it was all over- those tears were the reaction to this information. Reactionary tears evoked by complete and utter despair.
On the other hand, when a Jew, like Yirmiyahu cries, the tears are tears of completely different sort. True, they are tears of sadness at whatever loss is being expressed; but emotively speaking, within the tragic sentiment is another, far more powerful, perhaps even dominant emotion.
Faith.
For the tears of a Jew can perform wonders. They are tears not of hopelessness, but of hope. They can “go places even prayer cannot”. And they express the underlying conviction we all hold so dear- that Hashem will hear our prayer and tears. The Midrash tells us that Hashem lovingly tallies wach tear that his children shed, and He caches it in a flask. When the flask is finally full, Moshiach will come.
The Pasuk (*12) says that when Pharos’ daughter, Basya, went down to the Nile to bathe/convert, she heard the cries of an infant in the water. And she knew the baby was a Jew-”…She said from the children of the Jews [he] is”. How? She discerned in the infant’s sobbing the note of hope, and not of despair(*13).
And because this is so, because our tears hold within them this force, Yirmiyahu cried. He sheds a tear at the recent loss of the Temple (*18) , but with that identical tear is crying to bring it back.
And we, too, cry.
We cry on Tisha Ba’av, we cry at times of loss, and we cry on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. And the call of the Shofar, a symbol of the Jewish cry or tear, illustrates the essential difference between our cries and their cries.
So hopefully, we will bemoan specific transgressions that we regret now. But even if not, we must cry. The Kotzker Rebbe’s “there is nothing so whole as a broken heart” expresses this idea beautifully. We cry to gain favor in the eyes of a G-d who wants nothing more than for us to pass this Great Day of Judgement. But He must do so without compromising. So He waits for our guilt-ridden tears. And He hopes we will cry. Because with our tears, our tears of simultaneous regret and hope, we can pass judgement.
Rosh Hashana is more than just a Yom Din- a Day of Judgement. It is the beginning of our 10 Days or Repentance. Our yearly cycle of ten days given to us where Hashem makes it easier- and therefore expects- our Teshuva. He embraces it. As RMB”M(*14) puts it, “…and therefore, we blow…and it is almost as Rosh Hashana is the introduction to Yom Kippur“. I would feel remiss if I didn’t mention, too, the famous RMB”M(*15) that informs us that although Shofar is in fact something we don’t really have an outright reason given for in the Torah, a hint is given in the pasuk which states “Awake, awake sleeping ones from your sleep, and end you slumber, slumbering ones”. From the above RMB”Ms, it is  obvious that he considered the primary goal of the Shofar (aside, of course, from the actual mitzvah) to motivate ourselves and use the sound to perform Teshuva. (Also note that the RMB”M brings the above in Hilchos Teshuva, not Shofar- another telling sign of the primary goal here).
The Meiri(*16), too, explains that this time of year (R”H) is uniquely geared to motivate us to perform Teshuva…and he explains in dire detail the consequences not attempting to stir oneself to Teshuva.
But perhaps R’ Yisroel Salanter(*17) put it most eloquently: “And at the very least, [one must] break his spirit [with a] broken heart. [For that is] the foundation for protection against this great hazard hovering [over us]“.
So let us utilize this coming Rosh Hashana to cry, and wail. Let us cry like never before. And let us make sure to cry Jewish tears; tears not only of regret, but also tears of hope. In that zchus, may we successfully obtain favorable judgement in this Great Court Case we are about to enter into.
And Im Yirtzeh Hashem, we will be zocheh to be set on that final trail, that trail of the Geulah.
*Mareh Mekomos
1-
B”M 59A; Ayin Maharam Shif (al hadaf) -The gates were closed when the Bais Hamikdash was destroyed.
2-
Maseches Rosh Hashana (33B), “Genuchai ganoch/Yelulai yalil, etc.
3-
Horeb, (Grunfeld Translation/Soncino Press) Chapter 32- The Shofar, 228.
Also see his fascinating explanation of the precise, unique
nature of the Tekiah, Teruah, and Shvorim (227, 231).
4-
Shulchan Aruch/Tur, Orech Chaim, Siman 590, Seif Kattan 1.
5-
Shoftim Perek 5:1-31
6-
Yalkut Shimoni
7-
Shoftim 5:20
8-
Shoftim 5:28 “B’ad Hachalon Nishkafah, Va’Tyavev Aim Sisrah…etc.” Also see Zohar beginning of Parsha Balak who explains the nature of this window.
9-
As in “K’Rachem Av al Banim” etc. I forgot where I saw this p’shat.
10-
Toras Ha’oloh (R”MA) Chelek 1:Perek 11, Seder Hadoros (Shanah 3300), and Shalsheles Hakabalah 101A/1- who changes to Aristotle for chronological reasons, etc. Also see the Hakdamah of Otzar Hamidrashim, Yirmiyahu.
11-
Moreh Nevuchim (Chelek 2:)
12-
Shmos 2:6
13-
Ma’ayonos HaNetzach B’Shem R’ Moshe Chaim of Slonim
14-
Moreh Nevuchim (Chelek 3:43)
15-
Yad Hachazakah Perek 3:Halacha 4
16-
Bais Ha’Bchirah Maseches Rosh Hashana 16A
17-
Igros 7B
18-
Yirmiyahu 13/Chagigah 5. He actually shed three tears- one for the first Temple destroyed at the time, one for the Second Temple that was to be destroyed, and the third is a matter of debate. See the above Gemara.
19-
Maseches Rosh Hashana (33B), Tosfos D”H “Shiur Teruah…”. This idea is also referred to by the Zohar- R’ Moshe Shapiro.
20-
Aruch Erech “Erev”. First listing. -This Aruch was the earliest source I was able to find inside. If anyone should happen to know of an earlier source, please let me know.
21-
See the loshon in the pasuk (Shoftim 5:28) “…Madua Boshesh“- apparently, she realized even before his dead body arrived home that he had died from his delay in returning. Some compare this loshon to the same  (Shemos 32:1)”…Ki Boshesh Moshe Laredes Min Hahar” where Klal Yisroel doubts Moshe Rabeinu’s return because of his apparent delay.
22-
See RMCH”L and others who explain that a goy does not have a neshama.
23-
True, the gemara in Megillah does bring down that Mordechai HaYehudi was made to cry out in anguish to “pay” for our forefather Yaakov Avinu having made Esav, his brother, cry out (Bereishis 27:34 “VaYitzak Tza’akah Gedolah U’Marah Ad Meod”). Here, however, Sisrah was killed only as a matter of life and death- there was no possible question of unfair play (although the Meforshim debate even this by Yaakov).
24-
For who Sisrah was al pi sod, see: RC”V Sh”Hg, Hakdamah, 36 who brings down the A”Z. Also see the R”M M”P, E”M, Chikur Hadin 5:11 who discusses the nature of the “genealogy” of Sisrah and Sisrah’s mother.
I sourced some of this material from R’ Dovid Cohen’s sefer “Ma’amarei HaRamchal. Also Afikei Mayim (Yomim Norayim) of R’ Moshe Shapiro’s ma’amarim. Also would like to thank the two anonymous individuals who helped me with some of the seed and supporting material. Yasher Koach.

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September 15, 2009

Sway

No, this isn’t some Yeshiva Guy rendition of the Dean Martin song by the same name. Or even an article about me convincing some poor, lost soul to become Yeshivish. Nope, this post is a…poem. By me. Yup, if you’re a fellow Yeshiva Guy, this isn’t for you. And never bring this up again- I’d be that embarrassed about it.
If, on the other hand, you aren’t a Yeshiva Bochur, by all means read the below terrible example of a Yeshiva Bochur’s version of free verse- I know, it’s form is a closer cousin to prose than poetry, but then again, if you were expecting dactylic hexameter you wouldn’t be here. 
A word of background about the subject:
Typically, Yeshiva Bochurim, when either davening (praying) or learning Torah tend to “shockel” (Yiddish). Shockeling (verb of shockel) is a form of swaying back and forth, typically to a tune or to the famous niggun frequently employed when learning Gemara. Most cheder students ingrain this tune and the associated shockeling by osmosis before age eight or nine. For females, shockeling is less standard, although the extremely greased/yeshivishe ladies and Rebbetzins have been known to do so while in a particularly deep Shemona Esray. The below attempts to describe this scene or act.
I wish 
I could
Join them.
Swaying.
I watch 
Them. Endless rows
Of white shirts
On oak benches.
Swaying.
Wish I 
Could be
Together with 
Them.
Swaying.
Now, Booming debate
Thunderous resolution
By Rebbi.
And again, together
Swaying.
Jealous. Of
All the types.
Learning. Shteiging
Together
Swaying.
But, I can
And now,
Finally. I 
Join them.
I. Am. 
Swayed.

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September 14, 2009

Tantz on Tuesday: Tasa and Lipa Alei Katan

I saw Avraham Fried performing this live at the Brichat HaSultan concert this past Bein Hazmanim and it was awesome. He brought the house down. Here, Tasa has a terrific rendition, with Lipa supporting. Audio isn’t too great, but you get the idea. I wonder if anyone knows if Tasa has this recorded professionally anywhere?

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September 13, 2009

The Old Candy Man and The Candy Store

oldman.jpg
“Who can tomorrow, dip it in a dream?

Separate the sorrow and collect up all the cream?

The Candy Man can

Oh the Candy Man can

The Candy Man can  ’cause he mixes it  with love

and makes the world  taste good.”









I used to wonder about the old man in the candy store.

Really, the old man was the candy store. He wore dull colors; tattered greys and blues. The kind of garb you might find a typical blue collar laborer wearing. A long gray beard and a creased visage reminded me of the picture of the Steipler Gaon we have in our living room. And I used to wonder about him.

What does he do at night? Where did he come from? With his coarse European accent, why did he decide to open up a candy shop in America- here in the heart of Flatbush, of all places? What was the secret behind this man who rose at 6AM each morning to open up the small candy shop that served just one or two customers in the smoggy gray unpicturesque Brooklyn mornings before sunrise. Sometimes, if I came early enough, I would catch him opening up the shop. An extended ordeal that was made only more torturous by his arthritic arms. He’d carefully roll down the heavy steel gates that reminded me of the old man himself. Both clanking, monochromatic affairs that creaked at the joints. And in my mind, I would glorify him.

I would imagine him as the survivor of countless troubles and a miracle or two. Tales I made up to glamorize and romanticize the Old Candy Shop owner. Visions of him fighting hand to hand with some German Wehrmacht officer in a musty, hay filled barn on the Continent would fill my imagination. His extended journey to America, than land of the free. And his arrival in the golden medina, sleeping in the streets for his first few nights here. There was no end to the tales he featured in.

And then I would wonder why he didn’t modernize his shop to catch up with the new, cleaner competitor’s grocery that had opened up across the avenue. It always bothered me, that newer store across the street. So when Mommy gave me a dollar to buy a candy before yeshiva, I would defiantly make my way to the old man’s store; my little contribution to the slowing of the inexorable march of progress, and the inevitable shuttering of the little candy store run by the old man.

I’d walk into the store, feeling like a patron saint of old, carefully choosing the red package of Sour Sticks, and extend my small hand with the solitary dollar bill in it to the old man. And to match the excitement in my face- I was getting 20 whole sticks of that sour and sugary confection- he would painstakingly drawer the bill. Slowly he moved. So slowly. Once I told him that I was in a rush; that I was trying to catch the bus. “There will be another bus after this one”, he said, also slowly. How many buses had he seen? For him, the endless parade of buses meant little, or nothing. Why should they mean something, to this man who’d seen that other parade, that parade of trains.

And I used to wonder about him. Did he ever smile? Would I ever be able to catch him at it? I tried to make him smile, I really did. In my own little way. I’d wish him “Good Morning” in the cheeriest voice I could muster in that dank, dark store. He’d pause, only for a moment, and look up from his sefer, but monosyllabic unidentifiable grunts were all I ever received in reply.

And then one day the old candy store with the tan plastic sun protectors was shuttered by the metal gates that normally only worked at night. And soon, I moved away to attend Yeshiva out of town. When I came back, the store had been renovated; it was now home to a group of real estate offices for a franchise firm out of Jersey that I’d never heard of. The new grocery across the street was no longer the upstart; it was now being challenged by a themed emporium that sold fruits and vegetables and even candy: all organically hand grown, whatever that meant. The inexorable march of progress.

And the candy store was no more. And the old man of the candy store was no more.

And these days, I no longer wonder about the old man in the candy store.

(Photo Credit: ryanthejones)

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