Light is in the air

Dear all,

Truthfully, my channukiah isn't such a beautiful channukiah. It's a series of eight blue ceramic balls plus a shamesh. I bought it because it was the cheapest one in the tourist trap store on the Sunday before Channukah, with one hour to catch the bus back to base. My love for it has grown ever since the first candle last year.

You may remember my email from last year. For me, Channukah with my soldiers was one of my most emotional moments as a mefaked. To stand before them and realize that I was leading a group of "Modern Maccabees" was an incredible experience. But even more so was the light from the first candle. In case you don't remember, last year I spent the first two nights in the "shetach," the training wilderness, pretending to be an enemy for miluimnikim (reservists) to "attack." I was sent down to the shetach with another machlaka for some reason that I don't remember, and upon finally reuniting with Glazel and the boys the first thing I did was light that little ceramic channukiah. The whole day had been wasted waiting for a way to go down to the shetach. We spent our time doing nothing, only to be moved to the shetach where we did more nothing, but this time in the cold. That one little candle, lit on the background of the dark expanse of the Negev made the whole day worth it. One tiny little light, an "or lishma," good for no purpose other than its own light, lit up my heart in such a way that thinking about it a year later still makes me feel warm.

There is a song in Israel, "Banu choshech l'garesh, b'yadeinu or v'aish. "Darkness, we have come to expel you, in our hands we hold light and fire." This is the first candle. The tiny flame, full of fight and, as Reb Shlomo teaches, shaking with yearning and desire, extinguishes the darkness. Suddenly there is what to hope for. Suddenly it doesn't matter where you are or what you are doing, life is bright. The first candle brings light ot the world and establishes a hope.

The second candle is just as special. Where the first creates a new reality, the second joins the first in that reality. For the first time the candles do not stand alone. Once there was one flame, a single entity, individual and special in its mission. Now there are two individual flames, but both of them work together to make even more light. Two flames, like two eyes, complementing each other and peering out through the darkness of the world. Little by little the light grows until eventually the channukiah fills up. Eight holy lights, "l'ma'alah min ha'teva," a level of existence above the natural(seven represents the highest natural state- shabbat etc.) fill the room with their light.

In Otniel we have been discussing the dynamics of the individual within a community. In the discussion that took place on Thursday in memory of members of the yeshiva that have been killed in various terror attacks over the eyars Rav Re'em stated that one who davens by himself and does not feel the need to daven with a community is sinning. Avodat Hashem, the worship of G-d, takes place in a unique way in every individual. There is special spark that each person holds. But the spark is no good on its own. A light that remains by itself, that is not joined by another light, that does not fill both its natural and supernatural purposes, is useless. As Rav Yehoshua Shapira, the Rosh Yeshiva of Ramat Gan, said on Thursday, a person who chooses his halachic standards and his ways of avodat hashem only according to what he feels is proper, one who neglects the accepted ways of the community, does not worship G-d. "Religion is the heroin of the masses," contains a partial truth. G-d is in the masses. Religion does not lie in one person's belief, rather in the people's belief, with each person contributing their spark to the greater fire. "Banu choshech l'garesh, b'yadeinu or v'eish." The song continues: "Kol echad hu or katan, v'kulanu or eitan." "Everyone is a small light, and altogether we are strong light."

May we all learn from the essence of the second candle and join each other in lighting our lives, our people, and the world.

Channuka Sameach!

love,

Yoni

The Simchat Torah Manifesto

"Drunk."
"Plastered."
"Smashed."

I could hear them whispering amongst themselves. Everyone in the Baron Hirsch Synagogue around my age was positive that I was wasted. That I had snuck over to the kiddush club and had a few too many sips of the Gentleman Jack that was being passed around. I was excited, singing, yelling, and all together feeling good.

But I hadn't touched a drop.

This was Simchat Torah of eleventh grade. Together with a couple of other friends, we were the last men standing on the dance floor. Clutching the sefer torah like a child to a teddy bear. Dancing ecstatically in celebration of the completion of the entire torah. I was on a natural high (and a sugar-low which probably accounted from some of my rowdiness), thrilled that we had once again read through our age old history and were about to restart the tradition, stronger than ever.

Simchat Torah should be this happy. Nothing is as central to our religion as the torah. The stories and commandments in it are the basis for everything the Jewish people stand for. But for some reason, the happiness of eleventh grade has faded. Every year I get excited for the chag, stoked and psyched for the incredible occasion. Waiting eagerly to dance with the sefer torah as one would dance with a bride and groom on their wedding day. Every year I am disappointed again.

At first I thought it was just me. I walked around the minyan telling people that it was strange, that I just couldn't connect despite a total mental appreciation of the holiday. There was just no connection between the idea to the act. My mind began the calculations. How long will this hakafa last? Multiply by seven. Add on kriat hatorah. While the chag moved on, more and more people let it be known that they felt the same way.

"This has become an exhausting holiday," I comment to a friend from the neighborhood.
"It's been that way for years," he responds.

"I can't connect, it's weird," I continue.
"Why is it weird? Who connects?"

Looking around the shul, both at the hipper and hippier Carlebach minyan, and at the standard family variation at Nitzanim in Baka, people are either schmoozing or boozing (when available). The hardcore chassidim at the Carlebach minyan go at it full strength, stopping only to wipe the sweat out of their eyes and hydrate themselves, but slowly and surely the numbers diminish.

Which leads me to the main point. How do we fix it? What do we need to do o reconnect to a beautiful holiday that has become misunderstood?

I would like to offer an alternative idea for next year. Grassroots, run by us for us (us being whoever wants in). Below I will offer some of my ideas. Please add yours, argue, discuss, and be in touch with me. This is not an effort for one person, and it will not center around one person's will, rather the will of many to have a meaningful Simchat Torah.


To make this work (organizationally speaking)
1) There should exist some form of committee to develop the idea of the minyan and work together to put the minyan into action.
2)All are welcome to the minyan, providing that they understand that it it Everyman's minyan, and this is what has been deemed for Everyman. There are no restrictions to age, gender etc. but all should be prepared to be part of a serious effort for a meaningful chag and understand that this comes with side effects (longer tefilla, shorter tefilla, strange songs, old songs, women's roles, lack of or access of alcohol- whatever is deemed necessary).
3)The minyan that I am discussing will take place in Israel, most probably in Jerusalem, but I would appreciate the ideas of friends from all over.

In my opinion:

Musically-
1) As is the tradition is Rav Raz's minyan in Nachlaot- one niggun (melody) per hakafa. A niggun is a powerful tool that needs time to open up. Much like a glass of wine that requires decanting until the maximum flavor is released, a niggun needs to be shaken around a bit until the power is released.
2) Spontaneity is important, but beginning the niggun on the wrong key restricts people from singing properly, and is, in my opinion, a major turn-off from the hakafa. Therefore I propose that people are designated as niggun starters who know how to pick a comfortable key for all. The niggun starters would also be responsible for ending the hakafa. As Rav Re'em once said, "You need to know how to end at the high, with the energy of the niggun in tact. If the energy is still there, keep coming. If you are going to lose it, end it while you still have it." (Of course this could also be an argument for more than one niggun per hakafa- the main point is not to feel compelled to jump from niggun to niggun. Discuss amongst yourselves.)
3) In addition, while not necessarily specifying every move, there should be a list of niggunim on hand so that those facing the task of beginning the niggun do not find themselves blanking and choosing poor key or what someone so aptly described as "80's pop hits" for niggunim as an emergency response. A good nigggun can last for hours.

Atmosphere-
1)Preparation. If there is time to prepare something about the chag and the meaning to say before the festivities it could be nice. Not necessarily some high-flying chassidishe torah, but a dvar torah or even a story that would put the meaning of the chag in perspective.
2)Drinking- Drinks should be allowed but limited. Clearly, unless a bar system is set up with tickets for donated drinks, this is a hard thing to do. The idea is that people should be allowed to come with alcohol and make a L'chayim with each other, but should bear in mind that the idea is to celebrate the Torah, not to get plastered to the point of confusing Moshe and Korach. It's not Purim. The chassid in me appreciates the importance of mashke to the chag, but hearing stories of grown men vomiting on the torah... enough said.
3)At some point during the day it would be nice to take it to the streets, as used to be done in Nitzanim. The chag is a national chag, and should not take place only within a bubble of people. If it would be possible to organize a rondeavouz with other minyanim, batei avot (assisted living centers) etc. for some of the hakafot, it could be a nice change of pace and a good way to celebrate with the entire nation.
4)The minyan should not be rushed, but should not drag on. As I mentioned before, it is important to know when to end. If everyone is up for more, keep going, if the people are getting tired, know how to cut the losses. With regards to time, the important thing is to have an appreciation for what you are doing and not to be afraid of "wasted time." The food will still be there when you get home. A decent amount of time can, and should, be spent on the celebration. It is a matter of making the celebration deserving of the time.
5) A torah should be available for the women's side of the mechitza. Personally, I am not opposed to a separate women's reading (although not well versed in sources, so before you bite my head off, let's learn together), but it would definitely complicate logistic issues such as acquisition of a torah and a place, not to mention that not everyone would be comfortable with the issue.

This is what I have for now. Remember that this is just my opinion and that I welcome discussion and new ideas. I think that it would be great if whoever was interested would get together at some point over the next year to discuss, present, and ultimately vote on ideas. I know that I am tired of being disappointed every year, and if nobody makes an effort, the disappointment will only continue. Feel free to pass this on both to English and Hebrew speaker (I flow easier in English, I apologize). Please be in touch, and may we have the zechut of redeeming the beauty of this holiday together.

-Yoni

Reflections on Yom Kippur 5770

It has been told that Shlomo Carlebach wrote his famed Krakover Niggun after riding an emotional roller coaster in one of the camps near Krakow. According to lore, as Carlebach stepped off of the bus he was hit with a deep wave of depression. While looking around at the survivors he was traveling with, he felt pain and sorrow for their past suffering and could not imagine what they were feeling having returned to such a horrible place. Just as soon as he felt the drop he hit the rise again. Suddenly, bursting through the doors of the bus were tens of children with Israeli flags, the grandchildren of the survivors, streaming onto the field at the entrance to the camp, filled with life and energy and happy to be off the bus. Carlebach, as is well known, claims to have never written a song in is life, rather to have served as a receiving vessel for songs that G-d decided to beam to him from up-high. It was at that moment, at the transition from sadness to happiness, that he "received" his masterpiece from the Heavens, the two part Krakover Niggun.

For those unfamiliar with the niggun (Yiddish for melody), it is compose of two seemingly unconnected parts. Though both in minor keys, the first is slow and ominous, a dirge mourning the loss of life in the camps and the pain embedded in the people who passed through them. Towards the end of the second round, the dirge breaks into a rollicking chorus reaching from low notes to high notes, sending the singers into the frenzy that was the children leaving the bus. It is the light at the end of the long tunnel that leads to Jerusalem, from slavery to freedom.

The Krakover niggun is one of the staples and highlights of Yom Kippur in Otniel. Right before beginning the intense prayers of the Mussaf repetition, Rav Benny Kalmason, one of the Roshei Yeshiva, leads the packed crowd of 500+ (in the mens section only) in the fabled melody. As the singing begins, I close my eyes and focus on the Yom HaDin, the day of judgment that I am facing. The slow chant sways me back and forth and instills in me a sense of awe for the position that I stand in. In the Courts of High, G-d is weighing my good deeds against my sins, measuring out my year, and deciding if I get another chance to prove myself, and with what means. Every single misstep is placed in front of him, and I would be a fool to think that the good outweighs the bad on the giant scale that, as we are taught from kindergarten, hangs among the angels and calculates our true yearly worth. Somberness fills the room and my soul. "If thou shall hold our inequities accountable, oh Lord, who shall live?," David writes in one of his "Songs of Ascents," and everybody in the room can feel the axe sharpened as the Satan reports on our every foul move.

And then...

Ecstasy. "This is the day that the Lord has made, we shall be happy and jubilant on it." The second part of the melody kicks in. True, it is the day of awe, the day of the world's judgment, the day when the future of everything we value hangs in the balance. But it is G-d's day to us; a day to stand in front of our maker and protest our cases, knowing that He is listening. "For he does not desire the death of the dead, rather a return from the [misled] path and life. Until his dying day He will wait for him. If he will return He will readily accept him," the Yom Kippur prayer reads. This is the holiest day of the year, and a day of love for the Jewish people amongst themselves as well as with their Lord. Like the Sabbath, it is a universal present that has been given to us, to stand in front of the Maker and pour out our hearts. The King has returned to his castle from the fields that are the month of Elul, but He is holding court with an open gate, beckoning for us to come forward. The capacity crowd on the yeshiva's floor comes to life, dancing around the long table in the middle of the room, extending to envelop the entire Beit Midrash (hall of study) in a chain of humanity. "As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I shall fear no evil for thou art with me." And I know that thou loves me as well. How can one not dance for joy at the thought of G-d's eternal love for us?

Yom Kippur progresses, managing to be both the longest and shortest day of the year. Twelve straight hours of prayer, with no break in the middle. An entire day of standing and praying with not a morsel of food or drop of water to refresh the soul. Just prayer, confession, and beseeching. Finally, the closing prayer of "Neilah," the locking of the gates, arrives. It is impossible not to feel the reverence of the moment. This is it, the "Hail Mary" of the Jewish people. The one last chance to repent and fix our misdoing from the past year and change our fate for the new one. The entire 24 hours have boiled down to this one moment where the body quakes from the lack of nourishment and trembles in fear of the future. If I only had one more hour, sixty more minutes to pray for my soul and for all of the world. But the day has gone by too fast, and I have only a fleeting moment. As the sun sets, bathing Otniel in the auburn red and deep violet of dusk, our last prayers are being offered. All that remains is to reaffirm the fact that "Our Father, our King, we have no king other than you. My lips curve into a smile and I laugh a laugh of contentment. "No matter what the outcome," I think to myself, "I have but one G-d and He loves me. I've given it my all, now all that I can hope for is the love of my Father on high."

I have no choice but to sing and believe that despite all of my sins, despite every moment non-compassion, despite every wrongdoing, He will give me His blessing for a successful year.

May we know love, and faith in the great unknown,

Yoni

(Yom Kippur Dvar Torah (yes, sometimes I can be totally serious

Love in a Time of Judgment

Yoni Zierler

(Based on Discussions with Rav Meir Lichtenstein, Ra”m in Yeshivat Otniel)

From an early age we are raised with the idea of aseret yemei teshuva, the ten days of repentance that begin with Rosh Hashana and end on Yom Kippur. The idea of a period of return is second nature to us. A deeper look at the concept arouses the famous question of Pesach, how are these days different than all other days? Why is repentance relegated to one week as opposed to all year round? Should we not strive always to return to the proper path? Even more interesting is the idea of repentance between man and his fellow. Should we not strive to make peace all year long?

The haftorah for Yom Kippur is taken from the book of Isaiah. In the verses that we read, Isaiah prophesizes what awaits us at the end of days. As he describes throughout the entire book, few will be spared from the punishment that G-d will mete out to his people. Towards the end of the haftorah we are exposed to an interesting concept that is crucial in the understanding of the essence of Yom Kippur.

“Lama tzamnu v’lo r’ita ininu nafsheinuv’lo teda.”

“Why, when we fasted, did you not see? When we starved our bodies did You pay no heed?” the Jewish people will cry to G-d.[1]

In response the prophet declares, “hen b’yom tzomchem tmitzeu chefetz v’kol atzveichem tinogshu.”

“Because on your fast day you see to your business and oppress all your laborers.”

The proceeding verses elucidate the fault of the fasts:

“Ha’lo zeh tzom evchareh upateach chartzubot resha hater agudot motahv’shalach retzutzim chofshim v’chol motah t’nateku.”

“No, this is the fast I desire; To unlock the fetters of wickedness, And untie the cords of the yoke.”[2]

“Ha’lo paros l’raev lachmecha v’anyiim merudim tavi vayit ki tireh aros v’chisito u’mi’b’sarcha lo titalem.”

“It is to share your bread with the hungry and to take the wretched poor into your home; when you see the naked to clothe him and not to ignore your own kin.”[3]

In these pesukim, Isaiah berates his people for their misconception regarding fasting.

“Do you really think that it is about causing yourself to suffer? What about the suffering of others? Is it bowing your head like a bulrush and lying in sackcloth and ashes that you call a fast?.”[4]

A true fast, a proper fast, is not about inflicting pain on oneself, rather relieving the pain of others. One should refrain from eating bread not because you wish to repent through suffering, rather because you gave your last morsel of bread to your starving brother.

Many similarities arise when comparing the Yom Kippur haftorah to the verses of chapter 25 of Vayikrah (Leviticus) which deal with the shnat Yovel, the Jubilee year that occurs once every 50 years. Close examination reveals the obligations of the Yovel as being magnified versions of the obligations of Yom Kippur. During the year of the Yovel slaves return to being free men and the fields return to their original owners. There is a social equilibrium that is re-created on the fiftieth year, where the enslaved receive their freedom and the rich revert to having only that which they began with. This idea is the same as the one found in Isaiah, one of tikun chevra, a societal improvement that lies at the center of the essence of Yom Kippur

The selection of this specific portion as the Shacharit haftorah is a brilliant, daring, and appropriate move on the part of those who canonized the prayer. The haftorah is read towards the end of morning, an hour or so before one would normally eat lunch. As they read about the fast in Isaiah, everyone attending services is equalized by the hunger that they feel at that hour. All are without food. All lack proper shoes. All wear the same white garments. There are no rich, “hanging their heads in the bulrushes,” only brothers and sisters in hunger and repentance. As such, the social equilibrium found in the Yovel year is succesfully established on Yom Kippur as well.

Rav Yitzchack Hutner, in his book Pachad Yitzchack, takes this idea one step further. There is a concept in Judaism that after having asked forgiveness from a friend three times, one is absolved of his sin even if his friend chooses not to forgive him. According to Rav Hutner, this seemingly strange idea is in accordance with the very heart of the Yom Kippur mentality.

During the regular year when one harms his friend, the main issue at hand is the asking of forgiveness. The main focus around the High Holy-Days though is the receiving of forgiveness. Love, as all know, is a two way street. No relationship can survive if only one person cares. Around Yom Kippur it is not enough for someone to ask forgiveness, he must make himself someone who can be forgiven and loved. If one refuses to forgive after three requests, he clearly has no desire to forgive anytime soon. Therefore, if one has made every effort possible, if he has truly made himself a person who can be loved, it is no longer his issue. While it is true that the victim has no role in the hurt that was done to him, he in fact plays the greatest role of all in the outcome of the hurt. The issue Rav Hutner explains, is once again one of fixing our society; to create love amongst the Jewish people.

There is no better time to try to fix our relationships than in the days leading up to Yom Kippur. Towards the end of the seder ha’voda of the Musaf repetition, we read, “Yom asur b’achila, yom asur b’shtiya, yom asur b’rechitza… yom simat ahava v’reut, yom azivat kinah v’tacharut.” Within the description of the day of awe, right after admitting to our inequities, and adjacent to the various prohibitions that comprise the holy day, we acknowledge the fact that today is also a day of “Introducing love and friendship, and a departure from jealousy and competition.”

G-d has delegated this period as a special time where he opens the gates of Heaven to our prayers. The atmosphere of Elul and aseret yemei teshuva is one of forgiveness and new beginnings, allowing us to repeal our humility and confess the wrongdoings that we have committed to each other. It is a time not only to open the gates of prayer, but also to open our hearts. After all, if the Omnipotent is willing to forgive us for all of our transgressions, who are we not to forgive each other?

Shenizkeh….

---

[1] Isaiah, Chapter 58, Verse 4

[2] Isaiah, “, Verse 6

[3] Isaiah, “, Verse 7

[4] Isaiah, “, Verse 5

"While I was traveling down G-d's highway"

On the plane back to Israel after my cousin Josh's wedding, there was a sentence stuck in my head:

"It's gonna be a banner year for Rydell High. A banner year."

For all of those contorting their faces in confusion and inability to identify, this is the pep-rally speech of the perenially defeated Coach Calhoun of the movie "Grease." And it is my mantra for the new year.

"It's gonna be a banner year, Yoni. A Hell-yeah, holy torah, hootenany, banner year."

Writing hopes and resolutions for a new year is a bit of a daunting task. Aside from the fact that there is a Wal-Mart sized amount of requests, you run the risk of boring people with a Christmas list (or I guess in my case, a Channukah) list of hopes. "Economy sized dreams of hope," in the words of the great Billy Joe Armstrong (Greenday for the perpetually-contorted faces). I hope that I can steer around the danger. Bare with me.

While lying on my back at my pre-Rosh Hashana massage session, my teacher/therapist/friend Matt began to investigate into the cause of my pain. Matt's theory was that the car accident (yes, three months ago I was hit in the left side, I'm fine other than some lower back stiffness) wasn't so much the problem as were the circumstances surrounding it.

"If you get hit in a game of football, while having fun with friends, you bounce back up without a problem. If you're head is filled with problems, your body won't heal well."

I began detailing the week before the accident; Noam's (of blessed memory) death, Tzvika's car accident, all of the shit-hitting-the fan that lead up to that Motzash where my head was swimming with tragedy.

Rewind five years. We had just moved to Israel from Memphis, after the shit hit the air-conditioning unit.I will never forget my discussion with my mother the week of our first Rosh Hashana in Jerusalem. The new year was a welcome event, covering us with so much hope we were nearly trembling with it. We were ready to put it all behind us, move on with the brighter and better future that the City of Gold, however painfully and annoying, seemed to promise us. To let the mikvah, the ritual bath, of G-d cleanse us not only of sin, but of the tears that we bathed in in the South.

This year was without a doubt one of the most exhilarating years of my life. I fulfilled what I once thought wad the impossible dream of being a mefaked in the IDF, taking care of my boys not for four or eight months, but for almost an entire year. Never have I felt more fulfilled or proud of myself than when I was in green, with three stripes decorating my arms, and the beautiful - but - ugly camo beret on my shoulder.

Today I realized though that it was a year of trials, tears, and fan hitting as well. As I lay there with Matt guiding me through the past, focusing on the presence of G-d in my life and in the room at the moment, I began to let go. Father in Heaven, take this crap and keep it for this year. There was too much death, first Noam and most recently my chanich in the Shalva center for the mentally disabled, Nachshon, who passed away from swine flu complications while I was in the States. There was too much stress with the soldiers and the missions. Too much anger because of all of the stress.

Tateh, make this a year of renewal for me and the Jewish people. Where we bridge the gaps within us and move onto bridging the gaps in the world. May we finally see Gilad at home with his parents.

On the personal side let me learn how to breathe properly, and improve my harmonica breathing techniques. Let it be the year where I get the guts to find Ashley, because just looking is never enough. Sit my derriere tight and properly in my seat in yeshiva and help me crack through the first layer Judaism. Help me to be happy with what I have, even when the picture is not complete.

Maybe this year you'll help me finish my unwritten songs, form a band and record them too. Maybe you can send me a guitar teacher who will inspire me to stop being lazy and learn to play the six string monkey. And maybe, just maybe, you can let the Indians win a World Series (ok, fine, I'll settle for a .500 season, but come on, it's just too painful the way it is).

The old year is closing, and with it the era of the restricted, though powerful, freedom of the army. In its place is the two year reign of freedom before the real world pulls me into its orbit. This is the first of are my banner years, the years that will give the extra shove into the tractor beam of the "grown up life" and send me spinning and smiling, although dazed and confused, for the rest of my time on the planet.

I don't think I ever got around to thanking the people who helped me out over the past year, I hope this will do you all justice (even though I know it won't). Thank you to my family, immediate and extended for reading every single long and graphic army update, and the ecouraging feedback afterwards. The week always started off better when I got to read one of your emails before going back. Thank you to my friends and their families for taking me in and loving me, as sad-eyed and puppy faced as I might have been. The laundry was clutch. You all know who you are. Thank you all for just being there, and letting me know you were reading my letters, even if that was the only bit of communication we had going between the two of us. It meant a lot to me to know that people were rooting for me.

So this is it. The closing of a window and the opening of the door. I am sure that the room that it leads to will have a fan in it and that it will be covered in feces. But at least they'll smell a little sweeter than the ones from this year. And if not, there's always the little blue thing that neglect to put in our toilet. those things work wonders in even the worst of our bathrooms.

Love you all, and may it be a banner year for all,

Yoni

The Death of Never-Never Land

During my first year in pre-school I was sure to make myself very clear on a couple of issues. One was that picking your nose was A-OK. Another was that I would never grow up. I envisioned myself as Peter-Pan; forever young and forever fun.

When I was in the eighth grade I had the chance to live out my pre-school dream. During English class I was required to make a presentation as a Greek god of my invention. Because I was a year younger than my peers, a constant source of teasing, I decided to present as "Youngus- God of Youth." Clad in a large cloth diaper, Youngus was a glorified Peter who ruled over the youth of the world, holding a special connection to the territory of Never-Never Land. Despite his control over Never-Never Land (me being the avid fan that I was) Youngus resided in Jacob's Field, home of the Cleveland Indians, and the greatest (young) fans in the MLB.

Last Wednesday, for the first time in eight years, I went back to the Jake to see my Indians play the Texas Rangers. Only the Jake is no longer the Jake, it's Progressive Field, and the Indians are not the same team. The once perennially sold-out stadium is half empty (not to be confused with half full). Neither Mike Hargrove, nor Charlie Manuel manage the team. Numbers 24 and 25, once the hallowed numbers of Manny Ramirez and Jim Thome, now belong to Grady Sizemore and Andy Marte.

The game was part of a week-long road trip that I spent with my father. Early Sunday morning we set out Northbound for Toronto to pick up my grandfather. With him in tow we traveled to the fabeled Sarnia, Ontario.

Sarnia is a little known, small town in Southwestern Ontario. It gained slight fame during a cameo in Michael Moore's film Bowling for Columbine, where Moore portayed it as a safe town whose doors are left unlocked while at home. In my family though, Sarnia has held celebrity status since long before Moore discovered it. Both my father and his father grew up there, after my grandfather Abraham Zierler moved there from Galicia at the beginning of the century. For any Zierler, the name Sarnia evokes images of a family furniture store nestled in the heart a quaint 35 Jewish family town. For as long as I can remember, my grandfather and father regaled me with countless stories of their small town life; leaving shul early on Shabbat to walk to work at the store, the comedies of my father and his mythological friend Richard Campbell, and the sacrifices made to ensure a Jewish future for future generation. Until last week though, it remained an unseen legend.

Our main stops in Sarnia were the shul, my father's childhood home, my grandfather's childhood home, and the location of the fabled A. Zierler Furniture. My father and grandfather navigated the streets as if they had just returned from a short vacation, but the town had clearly changed. Though my father's childhood home was not only still standing, but in great condition, the house that my great grandfather raised my grandfather in was in shambles. The shul is no longer a daily or even a weekly fixture, scraping together services once a month, combining men and women to make a minyan and reading off of non-kosher sifrei torah. As for the store, the property was sold years ago to the city, and an all but defunct shopping mall marks its grave.

It is hard for me to believe that he expected it all to remain the way that it was, but my grandfather was incredibly shocked to see the house on 233 Davis Street in such a dilapidated state. A house is where you rest your identity. You decorate a house the way you see fit, and every corner is filled with the musty smell of your life and way of living. Even more so, a childhood home is the cornerstone of youth. It is the nest that you are raised in until old enough to fly the coop. The sights and smells are your nourishment and critical building blocks in the identity that you later forge for yourself. At some point, you move out to build your own house, but it is fashioned in a style that is both yours and your significant others, while also containing the flavor that you were raised on in your parents' home. In that vein, I understand my grandfather's shock and mourning. The death of this house was the death of his youth; a tangible reminder that he has aged well past the age of independence and responsibility- and even further past that blissful time in life where parents made all of the hard decisions.

In Cleveland I experienced an emotion similar to that of my Zaidie. True, my childhood home stood almost exactly as we left it, the streets were as familiar as yesterday, and the people were exactly as I would have expected them to be.. But as we drove past the building that housed my pre-school, after-school programs, and camps I began to cry. To see the Mayfield JCC replaced by condominiums was to see the golden years of my innocence, the birthplace of my imagination and earliest inspirations, forsaken for the "fitter, better, happier, more productive" reality that mature life can be eclipsed by.

But I left my tears in the car.

Even during the game, as Omar Vizquel, the greatest shortstop to have played for the Cleveland Indians, barehanded an out for the Texas Rangers, I left my tears in the car.

While the seven year old sitting in front of me with his father (as I, thank G-d did, at his age and continued to do at that particular game) wearing the Sizemore version of the number 24 jersey, and asking his father who Omar Vizquel was, I left my tears in the car.

Even when my once five time consecutive Central Division champion Cleveland Indians lost 5-0 to the Rangers, I left my tears in the car.

It was in the JCC that I re-birthed myself Peter Pan, and it was at Jacob's Field that I fashioned my Never-Never Land. I have returned to the land of pixie dust, of pirates, and of course, of Indians, and I have seen her dead. The great equalizer that is baseball still allows me to fly, cheer, and jump for foul balls as if I was under five feet again. But my Neverland has faded, her Indians weakened, her pirates turned businessmen, and her pixie dust fading. Yet still... I leave my tears in the car.

Thanks for the memories Cleveland! Thank you for years of comfort and confusion, to relationships that I still treasure today, for bringing out the skills and talents that I had to offer, and for a few years of great baseball. My greatest happiness on this trip though, was being able to look around at the people still in Cleveland and to know that I had seen something else that they had not; that I took all that I gained from Cleveland, ran with it, and continue to run with it.

There is no eternal Neverland. Eventually you have to grow up, but though the pixie dust may have faded from sight, it remains in the very core of my identity, sparkling and inspiring my newer, fitter, and truly happier self. My past ignites my present and generates my future. For my Zaidie, 233 Davis Street in Sarnia might be a wreck, but the life that he built for himself and for his children by leaving so that his children could have a proper Jewish education shines today in nine grandchildren and one great grandchild. "Know where you came from..." our Sages teach, but they continue, "And where you are destined to go." Life is too good to spend stagnant in the shallow pools of the past.

I only hope that Peter is enjoying retirement......

The Big Picture

Since Monday my yeshiva has been touring around Jerusalem in preparation for the ninth of Av. For those of you who are not familiar with the fast of the ninth of Av, I will briefly explain:

According to Jewish tradition the ninth day of the Hebrew month of Av is the day when the greatest tragedies of the Jewish people happened. The most famous of all tragedies of course is the destruction of the two Temples. Every year on the ninth of Av, the Jewish people fast to commemorate and memorialize the loss of our holy center, and the beginning of the Diaspora.

 

Our first tour was through the parallel neighborhoods of Mishkanot Sh'ananim and Yemin Moshe, the first two neighborhoods to be established outside of the walls of the old city. After speaking to us about the various known names who established the outer neighborhoods (Moses Montifiore', Yoel Moshe Solomon, etc.), most of whom are familiar to Israelis from the various streets that have been named in their honor, our tour guide stopped in front of a seemingly innocent building on the border of the two neighborhoods. Here he told us the story of a man whose heroism deserves a street sign, but received almost nothing.

Almost every Israeli can tell you the story of the "Lamed Hey," The thirty five soldiers of the Palmach and Chish underground armies who were infamously ambushed and killed on their way from Jerusalem to Gush Etzion. What most Israelis do no know is that the thirty five were supposed to be thirty six. 

Avraham Michael Kirschenbaum was a member of the Hagana underground who was raised in Yemin Moshe. As a soldier he excelled and was soon promoted to be a squadron leader. After his squad leader training, he returned to Yemin Moshe and served as the commander of the neighborhood. In January of 1948, he received an order to join the thirty five on their mission. Realizing what an asset he was, on of the bigwigs of the neighborhood (whose name, unfortunately, escapes me) called up the heads of the underground and informed them that if  Kirschenbaum leaves, he would leave as well. 

Thus, Kirschenbaum was saved from the tragic death of the thirty five. Less than a month later though, he found himself and his neighborhood under attack by a gang of 50 Arabs who planned to torch the small neighborhood with buckets of kerosene. He quickly took control of the neighborhood and organized a squad to fight the gang off. In addition to commanding over the squad, Kirschenabum manned the Bren machine gun, the heaviest fire power that they had, and succeeded in killing multiple members of the Arab gang. 

While Kirschenbaum's men were fighting on the south end of Yemin Moshe, the British soldiers stationed in the King David Hotel realized what was going on, and opened fire on the small squad. By this time the threat had been quelled, and as Kirschenbaum stood up, he was wounded in his thigh by the British. He carried himself to the telephone station and dispatched an ambulance. Soon afterwards the medic appeared and began to treat his wounds. The medic realized that the ambulance would need to arrive at a higher location, near the famous windmill of Yemin Moshe, but had nobody to help him carry or offer firepower as a cover. The wounded Kirschenbaum not only carried himself all the way up the climb, but continued operating the Bren as he did so.

Soon after reaching the windmill Kirschenbaum was lifted by his brother (who had arrived several minutes beforehand)and the medic into the ambulance. As he was on the stretcher being placed on the ambulance, a British sniper opened fire on Kirschenbaum. Seconds before he could be treated, Avraham Michael Kirschenabum, the man who single handedly saved Yemin Moshe, was killed. 

His story of bravery does not end there. At his funeral, a member of the Etzel underground (a rival to the Hagana that Kirschenbaum was a member of) declared that Kirschenbaum was one of their soldiers who went by the nickname of "Tamir." The people who had gathered were shocked, after all he was a member of the rival Hagana! It seemed that Kirschenbaum knew no boundaries when it came to the blood of his fellows Jews. Not only was he a member of both the Hagana and the Etzel, when members of the Lechi underground came to Yemin Moshe on a mission, Kirschenbaum secretly covered them despite the Hagana orders. After he died, all three of the underground factions hung signs in his memory. He was the only fighter to ever be given such an honor. 

Unfortunately, his inability to bind himself to one organization, his fierce need to defend all Jews even if it meant party lines, angered the Hagana, who would erase his file. The bench instated by the city of Jerusalem in the neighborhood that he died for was eventually moved, and all that stands in honor of this Jewish hero is a little tin sign in Yemin Moshe that his sister pays rent for.

What speaks to me about this story, other than the bravery and sacrifice that this man made for his and my people, is the fact that he was punished for seeing the bigger picture. In his book on the destruction of the Temple, Rav Benny Kalmanson, one of the heads of my yeshiva discusses the same exact issue, and declares it as being one of the main reasons for the destruction of Jerusalem. 

In the infamous story of Kamtza and Bar Kamtza (in short- Kamtza is invited to his enemy's party instead of Bar Kamtza and shamefully sent away in front of many of the sages of the time, whereupon he decided to seek revenge by maiming an offering sent by Caesar to the Jews and therefore invalidating it as a kosher offering) Rabbi Zechariah ben Avkalus rules that Caesar's sacrifice cannot be used and that the messenger cannot be killed to maintain the secrecy of the issue. His reasoning is purely so that the laws of sacrifice will remain intact. He chooses to look at the little picture of Jewish law, instead of the bigger fate of the Jewish people, and therefore dooms his people. 

Similarly, the zealots of Jerusalem, enraged by the fact that the sages refused consent to war with those besieging them, burned down the store housed that had been amassed within the city. These storehouses were no mere pantries, rather so full of food that the Jews within the holy city could have lasted a twenty year siege. The quality of living was so good that they had multiple grains to choose from, oil, and wine. Had the storehouses remained in tact, Jerusalem could have comfortably withstood the siege until it took its toll on the Romans. Instead, in order to force the hand of the Jewish people in the direction that they saw fit, the zealots burned down the storehouses, and the rest unfortunately, is history. 

Throughout the years of the siege, only the great Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakai was able to see past personal desires and make the painful decision to sacrifice the soul-less Temple in order to establish the yeshiva in Yavneh and maintain the soul of the Jewish people. Only he was able to see that in the long run the spiritual survival of his people required forsaking the building that the Temple had been reduced to. 

Have we changed? The optimist in me likes to think that we have gotten a bit better, the pessimist knows that we haven't. Politically, many of our so called leaders will try anything to gain the powers. Although I personally think that Bibi is doing surprisingly well, most of our politicians are only politicians; people who crave power and manipulate the system and citizens into giving it to them. They seem not to concerned with the "full picture," the greater good of the Jewish people, rather they worry about what will give them their seat and say in the Knesset. 

Over the past month, the "modern religious" community in Israel was split by the comments of Rabbi Yehoshua Shapiro, the more right wing head of the yeshiva in Ramat Gan, who accused certain religious rabbis and their followers of practicing "Neo-Reform" practices that go against halacha. The comments lead to arguments between Rabbi Shapiro and figures in the less right community such as Rabbi Yuval Sherlo and Rabbi Yoel bin Nun.  I do not want to discuss the issues that were brought up, nor do I want to state my opinion as what is right or wrong. These arguments though are another example of failing to see the big picture. As Rav Re'em HaCohen, the second head of my yeshiva said, 

"Why are we fighting again? And during the weeks leading up to the ninth of Av?"

Do we not have enough enemies? Are the political issues that we have from the Obama office and the rest of the world not enough? Why are we fighting each other to the death over relatively petty issues in Halachic interpretation when the fate of the country and the Jewish people is constantly at stake? Isn't this the time to be united?

On Friday night Rav Re'em spoke about the ban of the private altars in ancient Jewish ritual life. At one point in Jewish history it was permitted to sacrifice on private altars. It might seem tragic that such a personal service to G-d was banned and that only the large communal sacrifice was allowed, but this is actually the essence of the Jewish people. Worshipping G-d does not occur through a single entity. Only a full and united nation can properly serve G-d, each individual with his or her unique voice, but ultimately, (as was so aptly stated in the movie Drumline) "one band, one sound." 

Tradition tells us that one day the ninth of Av will turn into a day of happiness. It is on this day that the Messiah is said to come and bring us back to our former glory. But this days will not come if we cannot see the Avraham Michael Kirschenbaums for the heroes that they are and if we continue to argue about our personal opinions rather than thinking of the bigger picture. May this be the last ninth of Av spent on our own altars and may next year we be truly together in a rebuilt and reunited Jerusalem.

Square One- The Infamous Shidduch Incident

BS”D

 

Life is a sequence of stories. It's a shame if you don't stop to write them down. I'm probably paraphrasing/stealing that from somewhere, but for now the source seems original, so I will claim it to be my own. 

 Twelve-thirty in the morning and I am typing like Mavis Beacon with insomnia. Why? Like I said, it's a shame not to stop and write it all down. In the beginning of my IDF army service I began writing emails to friends and family about the experience. Something was coming through loud and clear through the black pixels, and I developed an addiction to chronicling the important events of the week. Now, two years later, free and back in yeshiva, the hunger to record, to craft and develop the unfathomable, intangible, and ineffable into a couple of neat squares of composition is still burning. The subject matter is less sexy, but there are still plenty of ridiculous things that happen in life. You just have to have a little bit of self-humor, no shame, and a little pocket on your sleeve to wear your heart in. 

What do I mean? Let me give you an example:

This is a story that happened to me a little over a year ago. Those who know me can attest to my being an incredibly hopeless romantic. Unfortunately, coupled with the dream of finding one girl to shower with love for the rest of my life comes a severe case of low self esteem, disabling me from ever picking up, let alone say hello to, the girl on the bus/street corner/doctor’s office/or wherever else girls seem to roam these days. What is a nice religious Jewish boy to do? One horrible and strangely pronounced word: “Shidduch.”

A shidduch is an arranged date. In the more religious Jewish communities people actually pay a matchmaker to set them up with someone. There are a whole bunch of complex dos and do-nots  which we won't get into now. In the more modern religious world, a shidduch is usually just a blind date set up by a mutual friend who thinks that there is potential chemistry between the two.

My first real shidduch as a young adult who actually has marriage somewhere on his radar was a-spoiler alert- bomb (not to be confused with the positive connotations of “the bomb”). Of course, considering how it came about, it really should come as no surprise. Like I said before, traditionally in the modern religious world, friends like to play matchmaker. In my embarrassing case, my aunt filled in.

I was on leave from advanced training in the IDF to visit my family in a certain town in NJ. On one visit to my aunt's house (don't be offended Lisa, this has become the story of your Wailing Nephew) she excitedly began to tell me about  a "friend" that she had in Israel that she would like me to "meet up" with. This initially struck me as strange. 

“My aunt has a friend my age?" I thought, "How does that work? Wait a minue, is she trying to "set me up"?

Lisa proceeded to describe this "friend."

“She's a really good girl."

 

Hmm... flattering the girl. Definitely sounds like Lisa's been toying around with the matchbox.

“She reminds me a lot of you. She’s very musical, artistic, and cultured.”

The comparison. Getting warmer…

“She had been dating someone for three years, but a month ago they broke up.”

Oh yeah, that is one big-ass burning match that my aunt is holding in her hand. This is definitely a shidduch.

Lisa continued to tell me that it would be really nice if I would take her out somewhere and she’ll even give me some money to do so. That takes care of a big issue, but the elephant that nobody likes to ask was still there; namely is the elephant a figment of my imagination, or what she looks like.

I hold my sarcastic uncle to be a good judge of “character.” When he looked at me and said, “You want to date this one,” I knew that I did. And why not? My aunt promised to cover the cost of dinner, she sounds good on paper, and the uncle rated her high on the “superficial, it’s not really important, aw who the Hell are we kidding? is she hot or not” chart. You only live once right?

Something like that…

Back in Israel, I was ecstatic with the big news. Immediqtely, I called this girl, and while pacing in my tiny kitchen(ette) explained who I was and asked, in these words, if she would “like to meet up.” (Come on, who actually says, “Do you want to go out on a date?” I’m 20, she’s 19, we’re not really at the age where we go meet up to paint pottery and have platonic relationships. It’s pretty clear what “meeting up” is really about.) We set a date for two weeks later, after her parents had finished their visit with her.

Two weeks flew by pretty fast considering what I had been doing. While this mystery girl had been vacationing with her parents, I was charging up hilltops and wasting cardboard targets as part of my “war week,” the most intense of all weeks in IDF battalion training. After two sleepless days with sparse rations, and every manner of company exercise they could throw at us, I was ready for a nice weekend at home. With my aunt’s “friend” of course.

Naturally, all of the guys in my platoon knew about this date. I drove them crazy by talking about it all week. Before going home, they all patted me on the back and wished me luck on Saturday. I was still a little squeamish; the situation was still kind of unclear and too good to be true. Nonetheless, Saturday night came round, and I suited up in true wailing fashion. Short sleeved, pin striped, white button down shirt, my trademark red striped blue tie, jeans, and my sweater sleeved suade jacket (or “swacket”). Damn I looked good…

We had agreed to meet in the Old City where she was studying, and I had just entered through the Jaffa gate when my phone rang. It was Lea, a mutual friend other than my aunt whom I had been trying to extract information from (and my 11^th grade ex, but that’s another story).

“Yoni,” she said, “I’m so sorry that I’m only calling you now. I meant to call you as soon as Shabbat ended, but I completely forgot. Are you on the date yet?”

“No, I’m on my way to pick her up, why?”

(By the way, some guys pick girls up for dates in Cadillacs, I pick ‘em up with my feet. And they damned well better bring theirs along with them ‘cause that’s the way we roll in Israel.)

“She has a boyfriend.”

 

I am at the entrance of the holiest neighborhood in Jerusalem, and I am cursing like a submarine sailor who has just been told that he will be swabbing the toilets underwater while his friends go home to play.

“What the f*** am I doing? How the Hell is this possible? Oh my G-d, this is my G-d d**** weekend. What the Hell? Didn’t she break up with him?”

“I’m sorry I know you were looking forward to this, but she even said to me, ‘What does he think this is a shidduch?”

This would be when the hero of the story turns around and goes home. But no, our hero clenches his teeth, and despite all of his friends advising him to call in sick, that idiot goes onto meet her.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” the honestly good looking girl says to me. “And it’s so funny that we both know Lea. You know she was talking to me today about us meeting up and how it’s kind of awkward….”

“Yeahhh… what exactly are we doing tonight?”

Apparently she really had broken up with her three year boyfriend like Lisae had said. Only she began dating her best friend a couple of months later. When she had spoke to my aunt it sounded like a good idea at that early fleeting stage of freedom.

Never have I thanked G-d for involving me in acting as I did that night. I was polite, conversational, and even charming despite the fact that I wanted to scream. If you have never gone on a date where you think you are going out for dinner and she just wants “orange juice and chocolate cake,” you do not know the meaning of frustration. You have to play this game of trying to decide what you want until she orders. Her order lets you know where you stand in terms of how she views the date. Suffice it to say, the lavish meal that I had planned on ordering in the cute ambient café was reduced to a bowl of soup.

 Unbelievably, as we ate, she actually asked questions about my life. What is the army like? What are my passions? What do I want to do professionally? In all honesty, if it hadn’t been for the very clear tip off that she was going to say no, I would have asked her on a second date. She was smart, cultured, and as good looking as they said she was. But she also seemed to be slightly scratched, as they say in this country.

After walking her back we continued to talk more. I don’t think I have ever wasted so many words in my life. There they were, shiny hovering pearls of charm, wisdom, and wit, falling to the ground to rot. Finally she excused herself to take care of a friend suffering from a bad night, but told me to give her a call the next time I was out.

Yah, ‘cause I just love hanging out with taken girls whil my time until I return to the army ticks down.

 I was happy to get moving. I also had a friend to take care of after bad night-me. Drink therapy was in session with my friends. Remarkably enough there was a sale on a beer and chaser for only 30 NIS, the exact amount left over from the money that my aunt had given me. (Yes, just because I knew that things could not get anymore awkward I paid for the meal, and got her to cringe).  Talk about a sign from G-d…

 Somehow, mind you not without a lot of red-faced guffawing , I managed to return to the army and face my friends with the story. Until this day it remains a favorite of various friends and their parents, although I’m still trying to understand what happened that night.

 

See? Stories are everywhere. It's a shame if you don't write them down.