Editor's Note:
Dear Friend,
They tell the joke of two Jews on an airplane. One was a hunchbacked fellow sporting a kipppah on his head and a scraggly beard on his chin. The other man, wishing to hide his Jewishness, made sure not to be seen near the first man. At one point, the two met.
“I have a secret to tell you,” whispered the second man, “but you must promise not to tell a soul. I’m a Jew.”
“I also have a secret to tell you,” replied the first man smilingly, “I’m a hunchback.”
This week’s Torah portion is called Shemot, which literally means “names.” The Midrash tells us that one of the reasons our ancestors merited to leave Egypt was because they clung to their Hebrew names in spite of the overwhelming Egyptian culture that surrounded them.
So be proud of your Jewish identity. Use your Jewish name with pride. And even if you sometimes find yourself in an environment that doesn’t lend itself to expressing your faith, take a lesson from this week’s Torah portion and never be ashamed of whom you are.
Mendy Kaminker
on behalf of the Chabad.org Editorial Team
What's your Jewish name, and what does it mean to you? Click here to share»
Bad Packaging
Every prayer of the heart is answered.
It's the packaging that doesn't always meet our taste.[Maamar Vayigash Elav 5725, 6—based on a statement of the Baal Shem Tov, Keter Shem Tov]
This Week's Features:
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Essay
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"כי אבי ואמי עזבוני, וה' יאספני"—“For my father and mother have abandoned me, and G‑d will gather me in.” (Psalms 27:10)
My father's yahrtzeit is coming up again. We're having a small commemorative event, and I feel it's appropriate for me to speak. So Shabbat morning, I find myself wrapped in mytallit, trying to think of what I could say that would honor my father. I hardly remember what he looked likeIt's a challenge, since he passed away when I was too young to even know him. I hardly remember what he looked like. "He was an activist." My mind begins to paint a nice picture. "Instead of only taking care of his family and business, he invested time and effort into matters that affected the entire Jewish nation. And he was passionate about it. He did it voluntarily, and gave it his all." I'm not impressed. I think the same could be said about many people I know. I don't feel this means anything to me, and therefore cannot mean much to my potential audience. I need to find something. "He lived his life very seriously and conscientiously. He changed his lifestyle based on his personal conviction. And he was a very warm father. My brothers tell me how he would say funny things to them," my mind offers. My heart is not giving in to this. This is not unique or outstanding, though it is admirable. These are things that other people told me about him. It's like nice stories about a stranger. At this point, I decide I don't need to share something unique or earth-shattering, just simply him. Who was he? I don't know. I don't have a clue. And it doesn't even bother me. I feel indifferent towards him. So at this point, I sense the question making its way to the forefront of my mind: “What do I have from my father? What do I experience from my father today?” And my entire being thunders out the answer: "I experience his absence!" That's what I have from my father. Here I am, realizing that I have no feelings for or impressions of my father. But it's very important for me to commemorate his yahrtzeit. It's not an emotion or a philosophy, it's just a powerful truth. This is my father, it's hisyahrtzeit, and I observe the customs of a yahrtzeit because he is my father. I don't miss him. I don't know if I would have liked him. I don't know if we would have understood each other. But he is my father. I find this connection special. It's the connection of absence. Absence of intellectual explanation or of emotional identification. It just is. And that "just is" is powerful enough to make me want to name my child after him, to commemorate his yahrtzeit, and to visit his grave. I look around at others who grew up with fathers, and I imagine that they feel grounded. That they have some confidence in the paths they’ve chosen over the course of their lives. They're following a way that was paved for them by someone who they trust in a very deep way. But II feel like a feather blowing every which way feel like a feather blowing every which way on a windy day. Up, down, right, left. I’m on my own. I need to choose my own direction. Which parts of Torah mean a lot to me, and which parts I'll just observe without identification. Which elements of my community bring comfort to me, and which are just a nuisance to bear. I feel I have no context or point of reference from which to make these deep choices. But strangely enough, every once in a while, as I find out more bits and pieces of my father’s path in life, I realize that there is so much commonality between my path and his. I thought I was taking this path “on my own,” independent of outside influence. It's like he peeks into my life and gives me a wink. This is the connection of absence. I’ve travelled my lonely journey of life—only to discover that I’ve taken my father with me the entire way. At the end of the day, all the wonderful things he did, and any interesting traits he may have possessed, are not him. These are things about him. Since he is no longer living, those traits are not reality, they are just memory. Good material for nostalgia for those whom he knew and loved. But the simple fact that he is my father, and we are connected, is a deep, real truth that gets down to the essence of who he is and of who I am. And the way I connect to all this is with my simple, dry performance of the rituals that honor him. Chanting Kaddish, lighting a candle, and saying Yizkor. As it says in Ethics of our Fathers, “The deed is the essence.”1 It’s like the journey of my soul, my longing for a conscious and real identification with my Creator. “We became orphans with no father,”2 says the prophet, referring to all of us. I’m an orphan of my G‑d. I exist because of Him, yet He hid himself3 before I came onto the scene. He left me with a set of instructions, and said, "Do it!" I want my service to be meaningful to me, and to Him. Lip service pains me. Heartfelt service feels real and warm. I want to teach myself how good He is, how incredible His creations are, and how indebted I am to Him. So I meditate about creation, about the angels of the spiritual spheres, and the unimaginable infinity beyond those spheres . . . My heart remains a stone. This is not Him. It’s a figment of my mind, an awe I wish to conjure, of Someone I’ve never seen or felt. For all I know, I could be misunderstanding all this stuff that I’m meditating about. What do I have left at this point, in terms of inner motivation to serve Him? Nothing! My being screams to me, "I am a Jew, and I do the mitzvahs we were commanded, to the best of my ability. More than that, I don’t truly know." This is the reality of my connection to G‑d and to my Judaism. I’ve had, and have, my setbacks and struggles in life. Often, I’ve felt overtaken by the feeling that nothing and no one could help me. I’ve felt that prayer was a waste of time, or just an opportunity for self-pity and wishful thinking. The naked truth—I thought—was despair. Today,I've had my setbacks and struggles thankfully, I’m able to see that the worst nightmares in my life were not only stepping stones for good, but what really shaped the positive aspects of who I am. And I trust that, ultimately, this will be true for those struggles that I have yet to overcome. I’ve felt like I was on my own, a victim of unfair, random circumstances. But in the end, I heard the message—I felt the wink—of G‑d, communicating that it’s all Him. He’s saying, "All this is the path I have paved for you to reach Me, and to reach the depths of yourself." “For my father and mother have abandoned me, and G‑d (Havayeh) will gather me in,” says the Psalmist. In Kabbalah, “father” represents abstract, pure intellect, while “mother” represents more tangible, comprehensible ideas that awaken emotion. The divine name Havayeh (the Tetragrammaton) represents the essence of G‑d as He transcends nature, understanding and any conception. I don’t have a “father” or “mother.” I don’t have the proper understanding of G‑d, or the capacity for true, consistent feelings for G‑d. But I have G‑d. And I have my parents, albeit not in this physical realm. I do the things that make them happy. It’s written in the Talmud that "the house of law is the father of the orphans."4 I interpret this to mean that as orphans—of biological parents, or of our conscious connection to our Creator—we need “law”: the commitment to action, where the essence of our connection is borne out. And in the end, G‑d protects me from all the harm my biological and spiritual orphanhood could bring—for He “gathers me in.”
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
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Parshah
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The parshah of Shemot is the story of a galut - of the exile and enslavement of the Children of Israel in Egypt, which our sages regard as the father and prototype of all subsequent exiles and persecutions of the Jewish people. It is also the story of the making of the quintessential Jewish leader, Moses.
Everything the Torah tells us about Moses is a lesson in Jewish leadership. We are told that Moses' mother, Jocheved, was born "between the boundary walls" of Egypt when Jacob's family first arrived there. This, explains the Lubavitcher Rebbe, means that Jocheved belongs neither to the "old generation" born in the Holy Land, to whom galut will always be a foreign and unknowable world; nor is she of the generation born in Egypt, to whom the state of exile is a most natural and obvious fact of life. Rather, she straddles both these worlds, meaning that she has intimate knowledge of the circumstance of galut as well as the transcendent vision to supersede it. So Jocheved is the woman in whose womb could be formed, and under whose tutelage could develop, the one who could redeem the Children of Israel from their exile. The circumstances of Moses' birth are a lesson in the selflessness demanded of the leader. Jocheved and Amram had separated when Pharaoh decreed that all newborn Hebrew males be cast in the Nile. Their eldest daughter, Miriam, rebuked them: "Your decree is worse than Pharaoh's: Pharaoh decreed to annihilate the males, and your action shall spell the end of all Jewish children." Amram and Jocheved realized that, as leaders whose actions will be emulated by others, they had to rise above the personal danger and anguish involved in fathering Jewish children in these terrible times. The result of their remarriage was the birth of Moses.
Infancy and Childhood
When Moses is born, the "house was filled with light" attesting to his future as the enlightener of humanity. But right away this light has to be hidden, for he, as all Hebrew newborn males, lives in perpetual fear of discovery by Pharaoh's baby killers. Then he is placed in the Nile, precariously protected only by a reed basket, sharing, if only in potential, the fate of his fellow babes cast into its waters.Here we have a further lesson in leadership: the leader cannot appear from "above," but must share the fate of his people. This was the lesson which G-d Himself conveyed by first appearing to Moses in a thornbush: "I am with them in their affliction." But Moses' placement in the Nile was not only a demonstration of empathy with the plight of Israel: it was also the first stage of their salvation. Our sages tell us that Pharaoh ordered all Hebrew male babies to be cast into the Nile because his astrologers told him that the savior of Israel will meet his end by water (this prediction was fulfilled many years later when Moses was prevented from entering the Holy Land because of the "Waters of Strife"). On the day that Moses was placed in the Nile, Pharaoh's astrologers informed him that the one destined to redeem the people of Israel has already been cast into the water, and the decree was revoked. As a three-month-old infant, seemingly a passive participant in the events surrounding him, Moses was already fulfilling his role as a savior of his people. Thanks to Miriam's ingenious ploy, Moses is nursed and raised by his own mother in his early childhood. But then he is brought to Pharaoh's palace to be raised as a member of the royal family. Moses must be both Hebrew slave and Egyptian prince. To lead his people, he must share their fate; to defeat the forces that enslave them, he must infiltrate the citadel of Egyptian royalty. He must "come to Pharaoh" (Exodus 10:1) and gain intimate knowledge of the essence of his power and vitality.
Defender of Israel
The first of Moses' actions to be explicitly recounted by the Torah delineate two central tasks of the leader: to defend his people from external threat, and to safeguard their internal integrity.On the day that Moses attains adulthood, he "goes out to his brothers" and "sees their affliction" - his years in Pharaoh's palace have not inured him against affinity with this tribe of Hebrew slaves and sensitivity to their plight. He sees an Egyptian beating a Hebrew to death. He is compelled to act, sacrificing, with this single action, his privileged life as a member of the ruling class and binding his fate to that of his brethren. The very next day Moses acts again, this time to intervene in a quarrel between two Jews. Seeing two of his brethren in conflict, he suddenly comprehends that the source of their enslavement is not the power of Egypt, but their own internal disunity, and that the key to their redemption lies in fostering a sense of mutual interdependency and responsibility among the members of the fledgling nation of Israel. From these two demonstrations of leadership one would expect Moses to proceed directly to his ordained role as leader of Israel. But first he had to become a shepherd.
The Faithful Shepherd
For the role of a leader in Israel is not only to defend, redeem, preach and govern, but, also and primarily, to nurture. Moses is the savior of Israel and their teacher and legislator, but also their raaya meheimna - their "faithful shepherd" and "shepherd of faith" - meaning that he is the provider of their needs, both materially and spiritually, feeding their bodies with manna and feeding their souls with faith.So Moses is driven from Egypt to faraway Midian to become a shepherd of Jethro's sheep. The Midrash relates how another shepherd, David, learned the art of leadership by caring for his father's flocks: he would have the small kids graze first on the tender tips of grass before allowing the older sheep and goats to feed on the middle portion of the stalks, and only afterwards releasing the strong, young rams to devour the tough roots. A leader cannot simply point the way and a teacher cannot simply teach; he must "shepherd" his flock, supplying to each guidance and knowledge in a manner that can be absorbed and digested by its recipient. The Midrash also tells how, one day, a kid ran away from the flock under Moses' care. Moses chased after it, until it came to a spring and began to drink. When Moses reached the kid he cried: "Oh, I did not know that you were thirsty!" He cradled the runaway kid in his arms and carried it to the flock. Said the Almighty: "You are merciful in tending sheep - you will tend My flock, the people of Israel." The Lubavitcher Rebbe points out that in addition to demonstrating Moses' compassion, the incident holds another important lesson: Moses realized that the kid did not run away from the flock out of malice or wickedness - it was merely thirsty. By the same token, when a Jew alienates himself from his people, G-d forbid, it is only because he is thirsty. His soul thirsts for meaning in life, but the waters of Torah have eluded him. So he wanders about in foreign domains, seeking to quench his thirst. When Moses understood this, he was able to become a leader of Israel. Only a shepherd who hastens not to judge the runaway kid, who is sensitive to the causes of its desertion, can mercifully lift it into his arms and bring it back home.
The Ultimate Sacrifice
After many years of leadership in the making, the stage is set. He was a Hebrew baby cast into the Nile, an infant at Jocheved's breast, a young Egyptian prince, a fearless defender of his people, an equally fearless campaigner for Jewish unity, a shepherd in the wilderness. Then G-d revealed Himself to him in a burning bush to say: I have seen the affliction of My people, I have heard their cries, I know their sorrows. I'm sending you to redeem them. Go, take them out of Egypt, and bring them to Mount Sinai for their election as My chosen people.Most amazingly, Moses refuses to go. He doesn't just refuse - for seven days and seven nights he argues with G-d, presenting every conceivable excuse to decline his commission, until "G-d's anger burned against Moses." First came the excuse of humility: "Who am I, that I should go to Pharaoh, and that I should bring the children of Israel out of Egypt?" G-d ends all debate along those lines with the words: "I will be with you." Can even "the humblest man on the face of the earth" plead unworthiness after that? But I don't know Your essence, says Moses. How can I present myself as a messenger when I can't explain the nature of the One who sent me? So G-d tells him who He is. They won't believe me when I say that G-d sent me. G-d rebukes Moses for slandering His people. Yes, they will believe you. Whatever else you say about them (and there's lots to say), they are believers. But if you're not convinced of their faith, here's a few magic tricks you can perform. Moses' excuses are running out. He tries: But I have a speech impairment. A leader needs to give speeches, you know. G-d's answer is so obvious it hardly needs repeating. So Moses finally just cries: O please, my G-d, don't send me. "Send by the hand of him whom You shall send." Why, indeed, is Moses acting so strangely? His brothers and sisters are languishing under the taskmaster's whip; Pharaoh is bathing in the blood of Jewish children. The moment for which the Children of Israel have hoped and prayed for four generations has finally come: G-d has appeared in a burning bush to say, "I am sending you to redeem My people." Why does Moses refuse? Out of humility? Because he's not a good speaker? Our sages interpret the words, "Send by the hand of him whom You shall send," to mean: send by the hand of him whom You shall send in the end of days, Moshiach (the Messiah), the final redeemer of Israel. The Chassidic masters explain that Moses knew that he would not merit to bring Israel into the Holy Land and thereby achieve the ultimate redemption of his people. He knew that Israel would again be exiled, would again suffer the physical and spiritual afflictions of galut (if Moses himself would have brought the Children of Israel into the Holy Land and built the Holy Temple, they would never have been exiled again and the Temple would never have been destroyed, since "all Moses' deeds are eternal"). So Moses refused to go. If the time for Israel's redemption has come, he pleaded with G-d, send the one through whom You will effect the complete and eternal redemption. For seven days and nights Moses contested G-d's script for history, prepared to incur G-d's wrath upon himself for the sake of Israel. (This extreme form of self-sacrifice, in which a man like Moses jeopardizes his very relationship with G-d for the sake of his people, was to characterize Moses' leadership throughout his life. When the people of Israel sinned by worshipping the Golden Calf, Moses said to G-d: "Now, if You will forgive their sin--; and if You will not, blot me out of the Book which You have written.") Nor did Moses ever accept the decree of galut. After assuming, by force of the divine command, the mission to take Israel out of Egypt, he embarked on a lifelong struggle to make this the final and ultimate redemption. To the very last day of his life, Moses pleaded with G-d to allow him to lead his people into the Holy Land; to his very last day he braved G-d's anger in his endeavor to eliminate all further galut from Jewish history. In Moses' own words: "I beseeched G-d... Please, let me cross over and see the good land across the Jordan, the good mountain [Jerusalem] and the Levanon [the Holy Temple]. And G-d grew angry with me for your sakes... and He said to Me: Enough! Speak no more to Me of this matter..." (Deuteronomy 4:23-26). Says the Lubavitcher Rebbe: G-d said "Enough!" but Moses was not silenced. For Moses' challenge of the divine plan did not end with his passing from physical life. The Zohar tells us that every Jewish soul has at its core a spark of Moses' soul. So every Jew who storms the gates of heaven clamoring for redemption continues Moses' struggle against the decree of galut.
Based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson; adapted by Yanki Tauber.
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
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Parshah
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Ten thousand steps a day. That was the goal. I recently downloaded a step-tracking app onto my phone, in an effort to boost my fitness level. I needed a tangible record of my progress, when the scale was frustratingly slow to register improvement.
The step-counter was revolutionary! Instead of planning my route to do the least walking possible, I now do just the opposite. Any extra detour is welcome if it boosts my step count. Ten thousand steps a day. That was the goalI discovered that there is a catch, though. The step-counter is not a perfect device. Not every step is picked up or recorded. Then I feel compelled to run an extra mile or so, just to see the coveted target number appear on the screen. It feels a little silly—doesn’t my body know how many steps I take, whether or not the phone picks them up? In my mind, though, it makes no difference—if it wasn’t counted, it didn’t count. We count things for many reasons. We may count to make sure we have enough, to ensure we don’t lose anything or leave anything behind. We count to reach a goal: steps walked, dollars raised, members enrolled. We count for pleasure, when the items are valuable to us and we enjoy owning them. But what all these “countings” have in common is that by counting something, we focus attention on it. We confer importance to it. In this week’s Torah portion, we read of the counting of the Jewish people after their descent to Egypt: “Now these are the names of the sons of Israel who came into Egypt with Jacob; every man and his household they came. Reuben, Simeon, Levi and Judah; Issachar, Zebulan and Benjamin; Dan and Naphtali, Gad and Asher. And all the souls . . . were 70 souls.”1 The narrative then describes how “the Children of Israel were fruitful, increased abundantly, and became very strong.”2 The Jewish population in Egypt experienced a phenomenal growth spurt, becoming such a strong and mighty nation that they threatened Pharaoh’s security. This verse, then, provides a likely reason for the count, to demonstrate the stark contrast between the Jewish people’s original modest number and subsequent remarkable increase. Rashi, in his commentary on the above verse,suggests an additional reason for the count: “Although [G‑d] counted them by their names in their lifetime, He counted them again after their death, to make known how precious they are to Him. For they are compared to the stars, which He brings out and brings in by number and by their names, as it says: ‘He who takes out their hosts by number; He calls them by name.’3”4 What puzzles Rashi is why it is necessary to repeat the names of the sons of Jacob, who were already mentioned previously at the end of the book of Genesis. If the Torah wished to point out that the Jewish people increased in number, it would have only been necessary to relate that they numbered 70. Why mention the names of the tribes? Rashi therefore asserts that the names of Jacob’s sons are listed for the sole purpose of expressing G‑d’s love for them. The Jewish people are compared to the stars, which are lovingly set out each night and counted by name. In the morning, they are gathered in and once again counted by name. A count of stars focuses on the quality of a star that is common to all—namely, its essence, its identity as a star. Each star is counted as no more or less than any other star. Being called by a name, though, delineates the star’s unique characteristics, as well as the spiritual qualities that emanate from it. So too, each Jew has an essential soul, which makes us all equally great and precious before G‑d. At the same time, each soul has unique qualities, which are reflected in a person’s name. Counting emphasizes the essential, indivisible quality that we all share, while being named highlights our individual strengths and attributes. When the Jewish people are counted, the greatest and most distinguished is counted exactly the same as the most lowly and simple. We all contain an essential soul, and “are all equal, with one father for all.”5 A name is also related to the person’s essence. We carry the same name over the course of our lifetime—as a vulnerable newborn to a fully developed, accomplished adult. Thus, the name of a person is not connected to any of his or her external abilities, but to the inner character, which may still be latent. Although both counting and naming are relevant to the person’s essence, each addresses a different level of the soul. A count reveals each soul’s essence as it exists in the celestial spheres before its descent to earth. In the heavenly realm, every soul is indeed the equal of any other soul, as it has not yet been enclothed in the body that gives it its unique attributes. A soul in the heavenly realms has no name; the name is given to the soul only after it has descended to Earth. Being “counted by name”causes the soul’s essential quality, which is above the body and above a name, to illuminate the person from within the body. It is significant that the Jewish people were counted upon their descent to Egypt. Egypt is a symbol of the soul’s descent to Earth. “Counting by name” is done prior to the soul’s descent to Earth, to give the soul the powers it needs to overcome any and all limitations imposed by the corporeal world. The “counted” element of the soul has an advantage over its “named” element in the sense that it is transcendent, universal and indivisible. Yet we carry out our mission in this world by virtue of the “named” element in our soul—the unique energies and abilities that we contribute to the world. Through these efforts, the essential soul itself achieves an elevation. This is the significance of the sons of Jacob6Each soul has a root in one of the twelve tribes being counted “in life and after death.“7 Just as the stars are counted by name “when set out and when brought in,” the souls are counted at birth and after death. The first counting, upon setting out on the journey to Earth, gives the soul, as it is enclothed in a body, the fortitude to withstand the negative and evil forces of the physical world. Through this initial investment of energy from the transcendent element of the soul, the person engages in his mission. The count is then repeated “when brought in,” upon the death of the person. This time, it is the “named” or embodied element of the soul that elevates the soul’s essence. Whether we are consciously aware of it or not, G‑d continues to count each person by name, thereby infusing us with the spiritual energy to complete our mission. Each person counts no more and no less than anyone else, but each individual has something to share that no one else possesses. We are all reflections of a single and indivisible essential soul. So, too, are we are all dependent on each other to complete the elevation of that essential soul. Even one positive action by one individual can bring deliverance to the entire universe.8 Every step counts!
Chaya Shuchat is the author of A Diamond a Day an adaptation of the chassidic classic Hayom Yom for children, as well as many articles on the interface between Chassidism and contemporary life. She is a pediatric nurse practitioner with a master's degree in nursing from Columbia University.
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
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Women
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I grew up in the 1960s and ’70s in Squirrel Hill, a predominantly Jewish, affluent neighborhood in Pittsburgh. I had strong Jewish feelings, yet the religion I experienced in our temple felt like, well, nothing. I have no bad or painful memories of it. Saturday school was where you went every Saturday morning to decide where you were going to go shopping on Saturday afternoon.
I remember being in the main sanctuary looking at these huge, ornate, stained glass windows, the light beaming through the chiseled features of our holy I was asking myself questions about the meaning of lifeforefathers, and thinking, “Wow, these guys are old!” I mean, everything around me indicated that the whole purpose of life was to “have it good”—good grades to get into a good college to get a good job so you could wear good clothes, etc., etc. What could these shepherds with their long beards and flowing robes possibly teach me about all that? And yet there was a part of me, a very real and very vocal part, that understood that there was much more to life. There had to be—I just didn't know what. For as long as I can remember, I was asking myself questions about the meaning of life and why I was here. I was particularly haunted by the sight of children in wheelchairs. What in the world could those kids have done to deserve such a fate? In my childishness, I assumed they were being punished, a thought that terrified me, even became obsessive for me. Surely I was worthy of punishment for my many misdeeds (torturing my Saturday school teachers, for one). Why was it that these children couldn't walk and my biggest worry was whether or not my mother would let me get Pappagallo shoes? As I grew older, I focused less on my quest for existential meaning and accepted the fact that having the right friends, the right achievements—the right stuff—might just be all there would be to my lucky little life. I performed respectably in all these areas, but I secretly yearned for something true and lasting that would give my life direction and purpose. I attended college at the University of Michigan (no answers there), had a brief stint back home as an advertising copywriter (please tell me I was created to do more than write about aluminum screws), got an MBA (no answers, but at least more money), and then, at age 25, married. When it came to pairing me with my husband, Zev, G‑d was looking out for me big time. Next came the dog, then the kids. Jewish philanthropy was a natural next step. I didn't consider myself to be particularly charitable by nature, but “helping less fortunate Jews” felt like the best way to show my gratitude for being able to enjoy my dog and two kids in a country that wasn't persecuting me. As I climbed the ladder of “young leadership” in the world of Jewish philanthropy, I began to realize how much I was lacking in my Jewish education. The watershed moment came at a United Jewish Federation Young Women's Cabinet Retreat. I was watching a video about Soviet Jews willing to risk a one-way ticket to Siberia for the privilege of having a bar mitzvah or being married under a chuppah. The tears began to flow uncontrollably as I confronted my Jewish self, guilty as charged: I did nothing because I knew nothing. I made up my mind then and there to at least learn what could be so compelling about Jewish observance. My husband and I were soon enrolled in an elite, intensive class sponsored by billionaire philanthropist Leslie Wexner, who saw the gaping hole in knowledge of our people's history, religion and culture among young Jewish decision-makers. He spared no expense, recruiting the best and the brightest to enlighten the chosen few who committed to sit around a conference table for four hours every other week for two years. Talmudic genius Adin Steinsaltz traveled from Israel just to explain to us the kosher way to fold a document for a bill of divorce. (“Excuse me,” asked one of the more outspoken and still unaffected participants, “why do we care?”) But I desperately wanted to care, just to be able to give my children better answers in case they had inherited the gene predisposing them to question the meaning of life, or even if they just wanted to know what it meant to be a Jew. In the spring of 1987, during one of our Wexner sessions, one of the participants told the rest of us about a Shabbat retreat with a Chabad rabbi by the name of Sholom Lipskar. Nobody else looked too interested, but all I needed to hear was that there was free babysitting in a country setting, and I was in. With our two small children in tow, my husband and I went on the retreat that changed our lives. It almost didn't happen though. Only moments after settling into our cabin to unpack, my husband spotted Rabbi Lipskar walking down the path outside. We hurried to introduce ourselves. I was particularly eager, since I was chair of the UJF's Business and Professional Division, and Rabbi Lipskar would be speaking to the group following the Shabbaton. I extended my hand confidently, but he politely refused to shake it. I was totally humiliated—I had no idea about the Jewish law prohibiting men and women (who are not married to each other) from touching. I went back to our cabin and became hysterical. “That's it—we’re leaving,” I announced to my husband. I was serious. I had tried to give the Orthodox a chance, and they didn't even say hello like the rest of the world! But Zev convinced me to stay. Once I overcame my embarrassment and started listening, I realized that these people were talking about what I like to talk about: G‑d, why we are here, and the meaning of life. By the end of the weekend, I felt as though I had won the spiritual lottery. I felt as though I had won the spiritual lotteryWhat was so compelling about what I learned, what inspired me to change my whole life, was the notion that the world is waiting for the imminent arrival of Moshiach, the Messiah, who will conclude this long and painful love story between G‑d and the Jewish people and thereby solve the existential mystery called “life as we know it.” There was just one eensy-weensy detail, they added: learning Torah and doing mitzvahs are the super-fuel that hasten the Messiah’s arrival. I took a deep breath and a leap of faith. My husband was also inspired by the retreat and agreed that Jewish observance was worth pursuing. He had always strongly identified as a Jew—in fact, when he was 13 and his Reform synagogue wasn't doing bar mitzvahs, he begged his parents to take him to a Conservative synagogue so that he could have one. He loved the land of Israel, and he loved the Jewish people. He was willing to go in for a little Jewish observance too. The first step was the kosher kitchen. (You are what you eat, right?) The following week I met with Mrs. Miriam Nadoff, of blessed memory, who walked through my kitchen and told me what to do. The very notion that a stranger cared enough to help me keep kosher confirmed that we were making the right move. It didn't matter that we would have to give away practically new wedding dishes (they had been used three times but couldn't be made kosher), and a practically new dishwasher. I had finally found the club I wanted to join. “What would it take for you to eat in my house?” I asked Mrs. Nadoff as we discussed how careful I was planning to be. “I'll eat in your house when you keep Shabbat,” she answered gently. And that was just the beginning of the changes we would have to make. Our kids adjusted well to no more Saturday cartoons. It was hard to believe that going to shul (synagogue) was becoming a reward instead of a punishment. I adopted the style of dress pretty readily, though I was determined to salvage a couple of pricey pantsuits by making them into skirt suits. (Not worth it—they didn’t look great and I couldn't walk in them.) The no-more-non-kosher-restaurants part was almost a deal-breaker though; I was a hopeless cook. But I was a good learner, and I had a new determination that could only have come from G‑d. So, along with learning the aleph-beit like a first-grader so that I could one day pray like a big girl, I learned how to make challah. (I discovered that if you make good dips, the Shabbat guests fill up on bread and barely notice the rest of the meal.) By the time our first Pesach rolled around, I had baby number three (now known as Izzy), and we were in pretty deep. More than once, too many times to count, really, I asked myself what I had gotten myself into. Besides the cooking and the babies (thank G‑d, we went on to have five daughters and four sons), there was the hard work of actually trying to be a mentsch, of trying to understand what G‑d wanted from me. It has been a miraculous journey, one that I could never have foreseen and still can’t quite believe. Thank G‑d, the majority of our children are married now—most are emissaries of the Rebbe—and my oldest granddaughter tries to teach me Yiddish. Go figure. Then again, I came into the world weighing 6 pounds, 13 ounces. There's an engraved picture frame in my parents' house that confirms this. Of course, the number “613” meant absolutely nothing to me until, in 1987, I heard that 613 was the exact number of mitzvahs in the Torah. I guess you could say that everything was meant to be. Reprinted with permission from the N’shei Chabad Newsletter.
Lieba Rudolph lives in Pittsburgh, PA, and writes a weekly blog about Jewish spirituality.
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Women
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Once or twice a week I work for a very special organization called NITZA, The Israel Center for Maternal Health. Located in Jerusalem, it provides psychological, physical and emotional support for women with postpartum depression. While I have observed that there are similarities between the women who come to NITZA, there are no concrete rules. A first-time mother is just as likely to come to the clinic as a woman who gave birth to her sixth child. The source of the depression could beThere are no rules except that all these women need helphormonal or chemical, or it could be due to a past trauma that surfaced in the birth or to a traumatic birth experience. Some women are overwhelmed by too many responsibilities and tasks, and others are used to being in control of everything and then find out that life suddenly requires a flexibility that they just don’t feel they have. There are women who are poor, women who are comfortable financially, and women who are well-off. There are no rules except that all these women need help, and I admire all of them for coming to NITZA to find it.
Last week NITZA sent a woman named Simaleh to me for a reflexology session. I told Simaleh to take off her shoes and stockings and lie on the massage table. I grasped her feet firmly and gave them a good squeeze before I started to work on them. Her whole body went limp and relaxed into the bed. She sighed, “Ahh, that feels good.” As I worked on her feet, Simaleh started to talk. She told me that she felt like she was having a nervous breakdown. She felt like she was falling apart and quickly losing herself. She told me that she felt desperate and at a loss. She also felt guilty. Simaleh and her husband had waited nearly five years to have children. She expressed to me how she used to feel so connected and spiritual and now she just felt mechanical. How could she have these feelings and thoughts after receiving such a blessing? I heard panic and desperation in her voice. Then she told me that she hadn’t slept in months. The baby, now six months, still nursed 24 hours a day. Not only did the baby nurse all day and night, but Simaleh had a terrible time nursing and always had infections. She so much wanted to attach to her baby and nurse her, but it was just too much and too physically painful. She saw lactation consultants, and her husband tried to help her, but they couldn’t help. She felt like her baby was devouring her. Simaleh finished her story, and I kept working on her feet. Holding them tight I told her, “Simaleh, you need order. You need to get your baby out of your room and into her own room. You need a routine and a schedule. At sixth months you can start adding solids into her diet, and you don’t have to nurse her more than every four hours. Simaleh, you need to feel grounded. You need to go outside and take walks or take the baby to the park. You need to see people and get out of your home. You need to pray, at least just once a day, and feel reconnected. And if the nursing is causing such pain, you need to wean her.” “But I so much want to be an attached mother!” “You are! But being an attached mother requires being a mother! You can’t be a mother to your baby if you are falling apart. You can’t give if you have spent everything that you have!” When Simaleh left I gave her a to-do list:
There is a tradition in the nation of Israel that during the morning prayer service, the priestly tribe, the Kohanim, bless the congregants. KohanimShe already feels more grounded and stable remove their shoes before ascending the platform to say the blessing (Rosh Hashanah 30-36). The obligation to remove their shoes is one of the nine decrees made by Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai. There is a discussion among the commentators as to why they do this (Mesechta Sotah 40a). One opinion holds that they do this out of respect for the congregants who shouldn’t have to see the Kohanim’s muddy shoes. Another opinion is that the decree was made to protect the honor of the Kohanim who might be falsely accused of not participating in the blessing when they had to tie their shoes. If these reasonings are beyond you, don’t worry, they are beyond me too; but one thing struck me when I first saw the Kohanim taking of their shoes before blessing the congregation in synagogue. It’s the same thought that came to me when I read in the Torah that G‑d told Moshe to “take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground (Exodus 3:5).” What’s the thought? In order to connect, in order to give, in order to attach, you have to be connected to the ground. If a woman doesn’t get any sleep, if she has no physical or emotional strength, if she doesn’t eat properly, then she can’t be a source of blessing. She can’t give because there is nothing to give. You can’t be lofty and spiritual, you can’t be nurturing and attached if you don’t have feet that are touching the ground. Postpartum depression is scary. Sometimes it comes out of nowhere, sometimes it’s a slow build-up that unfortunately wasn’t caught before it spiraled out of control, but thank G‑d, I have seen so many women who, with the right physical and/or emotional and psychological support come out of it, and even come out of it very quickly. I have seen these women regain their footing on the ground.
Originally from northern California and a Stanford University graduate, Elana Mizrahi now lives in Jerusalem with her husband and children. She is a doula, massage therapist, writer, and author of Dancing Through Life, a book for Jewish women. She also teaches Jewish marriage classes for brides.
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
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Your Questions
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 Question:How can a rational, thinking person believe in G‑d, when there is absolutely no evidence for His existence? Today we have X-ray, radar, satellites, infrared photography, ultrasound imaging, gamma-ray telescopes and CCTV, and yet we still have found no trace of G‑d. If He is supposed to be everywhere, why is He nowhere to be seen? My logic says, if you are nowhere, you don't exist . . .Answer:Being everywhere doesn't make you easy to find. On the contrary, logic says that if you are everywhere, it's as if you're nowhere. A bit like our fridge.As our family grew, we needed more fridge space, so we bought an old fridge online. It was a bargain. We soon found out why. When we plugged it in, it started humming quite loudly. At first, we thought we couldn't live with this constant, monotonous buzz coming from the kitchen. But in a day or two, we didn't even notice it anymore. You can only hear a noise if that noise sometimes goes silent. But if it's always there, it's like it’s not there at all. If you would ask our kids what that buzzing noise coming from the fridge was, they wouldn't even know what you were talking about. When you live with a noisy fridge, buzzing is silence. It's the same with G‑d. We live in a reality where the buzz of G‑d is everywhere. There is no place devoid of Him, no moment when He is absent. So of course we can't detect Him. You can only detect the presence of something if you can detect its absence. The very definition of finding something is knowing where it is, but for that you have to know where it isn't. As the Baal Shem Tov taught, G‑d is all and all is G‑d. There is nowhere that he isn't. So we never see Him, because we are always looking right at Him. This leads to an interesting conclusion. It's not that you can't see G‑d. You actually can't miss Him. It just depends how you are looking. Put down your telescope and look at your life. You'll see He's been right there all along.
Aron Moss is rabbi of the Nefesh Community in Sydney, Australia, and is a frequent contributor to Chabad.org.
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
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Your Questions
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Dear Rachel,
My four-year-old daughter calls herself “Miss Grumpy Toes,” and we all think it fits perfectly! She hates to be told what to do. No matter how reasonable my instructions and requests are, my daughter gets mad. For example, the other day Miss Grumpy Toes was being rough with the baby. Of course, I told her to stop doing what she was doing. She turned around, folded her arms across her chest and marched off, frowning. As she passed by me, she said, “I DON’T LIKE YOU.” This is typical behavior for her. She always tells me she doesn’t like me when I tell her what to do. I have no idea how to handle this. Usually, I just look at her dumbfounded! What should I do? Mother of Miss Grumpy Toes Dear Mother, At least the youngster is honest. And she seems to have no difficulty in expressing her feelings! However, you are right to be concerned. For two very good reasons, a child is not allowed to say unkind words to a parent. The first reason is G‑d’s command to honor and respect parents. Even a four-year-old has to be prevented from behaving in an insulting or otherwise disrespectful way toward a parent. Allowing a child to be rude to a parent is like TRAINING her to disrespectful; every time the child engages in disrespectful behavior, the “disrespectful wire” grows bigger in her brain. Practice makes perfect, and soon verbal abuse will roll off the tip of her tongue just as surely as a song spins off the tips of the fingers of a seasoned pianist. With repetition, a behavior becomes a trait, and so a child who behaves disrespectfully again and again becomes, Heaven forbid, a disrespectful child. Not cool. Beyond the injunction to honor one’s parents, the Torah places extreme value on interpersonal relationships. Bottom line, as Hillel said, we are not to do to others that which we don’t want done to us. A child must be helped to acquire this sensitivity, to become compassionate, kind, humble, appreciative and caring. Parents need to inculcate these traits both by their example and by their teachings. Impulsive, arrogant, insensitive, egotistical pre-schoolers (who are, by the way, normal at this point in their development) need to be gently educated (for the next twenty years) until they become more refined. Parents cannot just stand by and wait for their youngsters to mature. In fact, the Talmud explicitly warns parents not to ignore the misbehavior of their youngsters in the hopes that it will vanish on its own. Rather, parents are meant to intervene and do their best to guide the development of their youngsters. So what should you say when Miss Grumpy Toes defiantly announces, “I DON’T LIKE YOU”? You should take the opportunity to help her build a feeling vocabulary. This is a body of words with which one respectfully, yet honestly, communicates one’s emotions to another person. You do this by naming your daughter’s feelings for her. For example, you can say, “I know you don’t like Mommy to tell you what to do,” or “I know you’re upset with Mommy right now.” That’s ALL you have to say for now. (If the child were older, further teaching could occur AFTER the child had completely calmed down.) Eventually, little Miss Grumpy Toes will be able to say to you (and others), “I don’t like when you to tell me what to do” or “I’m mad at you.” The honest expression of feelings will replace insults, name-calling and other disrespectful ways of conveying negative emotion. If you would just say, “DON’T SPEAK LIKE THAT TO MOMMY!” or “DON”T BE RUDE TO ME YOUNG LADY!” you would simply be doing exactly what your daughter is doing—speaking hurtfully and disrespectfully when feeling upset. Instead of teaching your daughter how to express her feelings by naming them, instead of helping her feel heard, understood, cared for and respected, you would be alienating the child and harming the relationship. When you name your child’s feelings, you help guide her into her inner world. You help build emotional intelligence, an attribute that allows for greater self-knowledge, increased empathy, improved relationships and better behavior. It will take a lot of patience on your part, because children acquire their wisdom slowly. Still, helping them get started on the road to personal greatness is a parent’s privilege and greatest joy. Keeping the big parenting goal in mind in all the small moments is what makes it all work. Rachel
Sarah Chana Radcliffe is the author of The Fear Fix, Make Yourself at Home and Raise Your Kids Without Raising Your Voice. Visit her parenting page or access her teleclasses.
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
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Essay
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I’m sitting here in Israel, trying to share my thoughts . . . Tears are literally hitting my iPad while I try to make sense of this huge loss.
I just got a dreaded call from my father, informing me of a dear friend’s passing. A man who cared for me, helped me, believed in me and showed me what a person can accomplish. Steve Giles, one of the greatest people I have ever encountered, is not with us anymore. I met Steve at services at his favorite synagogue, Chabad of Northridge, one Shabbat day. By divine providence, I sat right next to him. I introduced myself and he was shocked to hear my significant stutter. He never agreed to be compensatedYou see, Steve stuttered, overcame it, and then helped others work on overcoming their stutters. He offered to help me with my stutter. For a full year, Steve drove 45 minutes, rain or shine, and sat with me for an hour as he taught me all he knew to help me with my stutter. He never agreed to be compensated, but rather insisted that "any and all help that I give you is to be considered a donation to Chabad in the Rebbe's memory." (This is verbatim from an e-mail he sent me before we began our therapy.) Steve taught me to be calm, never be afraid of a situation, and speak slowly. Just thinking of Steve's soft, calming voice chokes me up now. An older man who cared for an 18-year old away from home, living and learning in Los Angeles, just isn't the norm. He called me his “little rabbi,” his man of G‑d. He was always thinking how the other person felt and how he could help him. At the end of every session, I made a point to say, "Steve, thanks for jump-starting my week." I know that sentiment really affected him, and that it spoke to his heart. Later, when I moved to learn elsewhere, I had periods when I would call him every Sunday just to speak to him and catch up. As we ended our calls, he always said, "Shalom, I hope I jump-started your week, 'cuz you sure jump-started mine!" Steve always had me read his favorite chapter in Psalms as fluently as I was able. He made me feel so calm that I read it so well and smoothly. Now, as I mourn his loss, one line sticks out in my mind: "He restores my soul. He guides me in straight paths for His name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou are with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me."1 During our sessions in Los Angeles about four years ago, we spoke about how great it would be when he would come celebrate at my wedding. The way he spoke about it showed me how he truly believed in me. He knew that my stutter couldn’t and wouldn’t hold me back from whatever I tried to do. Rather, it could only add a special dimension to my unique journey. Steve will definitely be at my wedding, and I will be thinking of him. I hope to make him proud. He was living proof of how a kid with an intense stutter can have a great family, a loving wife, a job helping other people, all while being a wonderful, happy person. I challenge you, dear reader, to make aHe knew that my stutter wouldn't hold me back resolution to call a friend every Sunday and jump-start his or her week, the way Steve and I did. It can be a two-minute call or a half-hour chat. Just to show the person you care and are thinking of them. I will be starting a "Steve call" this Sunday, and it will be in his memory. Steve, I will miss you so very deeply, and you will always live on in me and whatever I accomplish. I love you, Steve. May Ivy Giles (Steve’s wife) have many long, healthy, happy and successful years, and may she be comforted among all mourners of Zion.
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
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Story
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I was born in 1934 in the village of Vizhnitz, Ukraine. When I was a small boy, my parents immigrated to Antwerp, Belgium. Belgium had a large Jewish community—some 50,000 Jews lived in Antwerp at that time—and they hoped to have a better life there.
Unfortunately, our stay did not last long. In 1940, the Germans invaded Belgium and immediately began deporting and killing Jews. So everybody started running. We ran across the border to France. I was only six years old at the time, but I was old enough to realize that we were fleeing for our lives.In 1940, the Germans invaded Belgium and immediately began deporting and killing Jews . . . I was sent to an orphanage in Marseilles. We made our way to Marseilles, where my grandmother—my mother’s mother—and also my mother’s sister lived. A group of Lubavitcher chassidim lived there, and we were welcomed warmly. But the problem was that there was nothing for us there. By nothing, I mean that with the war going on, there was not enough food, and also not enough adequate shelter to handle the influx of all the refugees. We moved from house to house, from place to place. A few months later the Nazis invaded Paris, and the situation got even worse. In the midst of all this chaos and upheaval, my family was forced to split up. Only after the war did I get to see them again. Meanwhile, I was sent to an orphanage in Marseille. The orphanage housed some forty or maybe fifty children, many of them as young as three and four years old. Some of them knew that their parents had been killed; others didn’t know what became of their mother or father. Often you would hear children crying, calling out for their parents, who were not there to answer. As the days wore on, the situation grew more and more desperate, and food became more and more scarce. Many a day we went hungry.As the days wore on, the situation grew more and more desperate, and food became more and more scarce. Many a day we went hungry. And then, in the beginning of the summer of 1941, a man came to the rescue. We did not know his name; we just called him Monsieur, which is French for “Mister.” Every day, Monsieur would arrive with bags of bread—the long French baguettes—and tuna or sardines, sometimes potatoes too. He would stay until every child had eaten. Some of the kids were so despondent, they didn’t want to eat. Those children he used to take on his lap, tell them a story, sing to them, and feed them by hand. He made sure everybody was fed. With some of the kids, he’d sit next to them on the floor and cajole them to eat, even feeding them with a spoon, if need be. He was like a father to these sad little children. He Every day, Monsieur would arrive with bags of bread and tuna or sardines, sometimes potatoes too. He would stay until every child had eaten.knew every child by name, even though we didn’t know his. We loved him and looked forward to his coming. I remember there was a kid who was jealous. He also wanted to sit on Monsieur’s lap and hear songs and stories. So he pretended not to eat, in order to get his attention. Monsieur came back day after day for several weeks. And I would say that many of the children who lived in the orphanage at that time owe their lives to him. If not for him, I, for one, wouldn’t be here. Eventually the war ended, and I was reunited with my family. We left Europe and began our lives anew. In 1957, I came to live in New York, and that’s when my uncle suggested that I meet the Lubavitcher Rebbe. Of course I agreed, and scheduled with the Rebbe’s secretary a time for an audience. At the appointed date, I came to the Chabad Headquarters at 770 Eastern Parkway and sat down to wait. I read some Psalms and watched the parade of men and women from all walks of life who had come to see the Rebbe. Finally, I was told it was my turn, and I walked into the Rebbe’s office. He was smiling, and immediately greeted me: “Dos iz Dovidele!—It’s Dovidele!” I thought, “How does he know my name?” And then I nearly fainted. I was looking at Monsieur. The Rebbe was Monsieur!And then I nearly fainted. I was looking at Monsieur. The Rebbe was Monsieur! And he had recognized me before I had recognized him. It was unbelievable. Later on I learned how he came to be in Marseille. He and Rebbetzin Chaya Mushka were trying to escape Nazi Europe. In order to arrange the necessary documents, he was travelling back and forth between Nice and Marseille. He must have found out about the orphanage and the plight of us poor children, and he came to our rescue. I heard that after the Rebbe’s passing, a notebook with his handwriting was discovered. These notes covered every aspect of Torah and delved into Jewish philosophy, Kabbalah and the Talmud. Incredibly, many of these notes were written at the very time when the Rebbe was in France, at the beginning of the war. It’s mind-boggling to me that even amid all that chaos, he remained devoted to Torah study. But what is even more remarkable to me is that a scholar of such magnitude would—at the same time—busy himself with delivering bags of food and personally feeding small orphans. He never forgot that saving lives is of primary concern. And I shall forever be grateful that he saved mine, and because of him, I, thank G‑d, have many children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
Rabbi Dovid Aaron Neuman lives with his family in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. He was interviewed in his home in November 2013.
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
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Story
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There was once a Jew who owned a cow with which he plowed his field. Then it came to pass that this Jew became impoverished and was forced to sell his cow to a non-Jew.
The new owner plowed with the cow throughout the week, but when her took her out to the field on Shabbat, she kneeled under the yoke and refused to do any work. He hit her with his whip, but she would not budge from her place. So he came back to the Jew and said to him, "Take back your cow! All week I worked with her, but today I took her out to the field and she refuses to do anything... " The Jew said to the cow's purchaser: "Come with me, and I will get her to plow." When they arrived to the field the cow lay, the Jew spoke into her ear. "Oh Cow, Cow! When you were in my domain, you rested on Shabbat. But now that my sins have caused me to sell you to this gentile, please, stand up and do the will of your master!" Immediately the cow stood, prepared to work. Said the gentile to the Jew: "I'm not letting you go until you tell me what you did and what you said to her. Have you bewitched her?" The Jew told him what he said to the cow. When this man heard this, he was shaken and amazed. He said to himself: "If this creature, which has neither language or intelligence, recognizes her Creator, should not I, whom G‑d created in His image and likeness and imbued me with intelligence and understanding?" So he went and converted to Judaism and merited to study Torah. He became known as Yochanan ben Torta ("Yochanan son of the Cow")
Image by chassidic artist Shoshannah Brombacher. To view or purchase Ms. Brombacher’s art, click here.
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
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Lifestyle
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This is one of those recipes that looks very impressive with minimal work—an excellent one to add to your repertoire. The onions are caramelized with balsamic vinegar and a touch of brown sugar, then mixed with muenster cheese and wrapped in puff pastry.
 Healthy? Nope. Delicious? Absolutely! So, keep this one in mind when you want to splurge, or when you need to host or impress on short notice. Oh, and if you don't like balsamic, this one's not for you.  Begin by sautéing the onions in oil and salt for about 20 minutes. Add the balsamic and brown sugar, turn the flame down very low and cook for another 10 minutes or so. Let the mixture cool, and mix in the muenster cheese.  Roll out one sheet of puff pastry. Place half the mixture down the center. Cut the edges into strips and braid as pictured—basically crisscrossing the strands over each other. Tuck in the ends. Repeat with second sheet and second half of the onion mixture.  Brush with egg and bake at 350° for approximately 30 minutes (until golden). Timing will vary by oven. If you're baking on disposable pans you might also need to leave it in a little longer. Don't take it out when it's still blonde—undercooked puff pastry is not particularly pleasant.  Slice and serve. What could you serve this with? I suggest a big lettuce salad. I find fresh veggies help cut through the richness of puff pastry. A light soup, like zucchini or carrot, would also be a nice accompaniment.  Ingredients:
Directions:
 Like the braided look? You can use the same technique with other filings—sweet or savory. Ideas for sweet filling: blueberry, strawberry, cherry, apple, rhubarb or cheese. Ideas for savory filling: tomato sauce and pizza cheese, onion and mushroom, broccoli and cheese, or pulled or ground beef.
Miriam Szokovski is the author of historical novel Exiled Down Under, and a member of the Chabad.org editorial team. She enjoys tinkering with recipes, and teaches cooking classes to young children. Miriam shares her love of cooking, baking and food photography on Chabad.org’s food blog, Cook It Kosher and in the N'shei Chabad Newsletter.
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
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Lifestyle
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Multimedia
Menucha Ben-David is the daughter of an architect and a designer. Always seeing beyond the material world, she sought refuge in artful expression. In the last 30 years she embraced Chassidic philosophy, a growing family and life in Israel.
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
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Jewish News
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Rabbi Dovid Edelman, who served as an emissary of two Lubavitcher Rebbes—educating Jewish children since the summer of 1944, and serving as a rabbinic leader and director of Lubavitch Yeshiva Academy in Springfield, Mass., since 1950—passed away on Jan. 2, just a few days after his 90th birthday.
In an interview last June with Chabad.org, Edelman spoke about his life as an emissary, educator and mentor to thousands of people for more than 70 years. “It was 11 o’clock on Friday morning in the weeks after Shavuot in 1944, and we had been up all night learning Torah, as yeshivah students normally do on Thursday nights,” recalled Edelman, a native of Baltimore, who was then a student at the Central Lubavitcher Yeshivah in Brooklyn, N.Y. “I got a message that the Rebbe [Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn, of righteous memory] wanted to see me. Since I had already immersed in the mikvahafter learning, I went right into the Rebbe’s study right above the yeshivah study hall. The Rebbe told me that I was to travel to Bridgeport, Connecticut, and found a Jewish school there.” It had been just three years since young Dovid Edelman had arrived in Brooklyn from Baltimore, together with his friend Yosef Lieb, with whom he had studied Talmud and played baseball in the afternoons once home from public high school. “Yosef graduated early and was already a student at Johns Hopkins [University]; he would learn every day with Rabbi Avraham Eliyahu Axelrod, a prominent rabbi in Baltimore and a Lubavitcher Chassid,” recalled Edelman. “He recommended the new yeshivah, which the Rebbe had just founded in Brooklyn upon his arrival in New York in 1940.” Right after the Shavuot holiday in the spring of 1941, sitting aboard a bus going north, the two could not make up their minds whether to attend the Chafetz Chaim yeshivah in Williamsburg or the new Lubavitcher yeshivah in Crown Heights. 
Edelman with award-winning student Chana Wolvovsky
Three days later, the young teen caught his first glimpse of the Rebbe. The Rebbe recited a Chassidic discourse—resplendent in his tall, fur Shabbat hat—and Dovid drank in the sight. Then, just weeks later, on the 28th of Sivan, the Rebbe’s son-in-law and eventual successor arrived from war-torn Europe. “I was among the first to greet him at 770 and welcome him to America,” Edelman would recall. “For the whole day, people streamed in to greet him and welcome him.” After the future Rebbe said the prayers for thanksgiving at the Torah reading two days later, he held a farbrengen [Chassidic gathering]. For the first four hours, from eight to midnight, he discussed the intricacies of laws of the “four who must thank G‑d” for being saved from danger: One who had been ill, a person released from incarceration, one who returns from a sea voyage, and one who had traversed a desert. “When midnight came, people thought it would end,” he continued. “But really, that was when he began in earnest, explaining that the incarcerated person is a metaphor for the soul, and the prison is our animalistic side. When the soul harnesses the natural tendencies to live in accordance with G‑d’s will, the person is truly free and must thank G‑d.” For the next three years, the young student would devote himself to Torah study and prayer, rarely leaving Brooklyn. 
Rabbi Dovid and Leah Edelman in 1950, two years after they were married.
Off to Bridgeport …But in 1944, after leaving the Rebbe’s study with a new mandate to go to Bridgeport, Edelman met up with Rabbi Eliezer Pinchas Weiler, a traveling emissary of the Rebbe, who was instrumental in raising funds for the growing network of Chabad-Lubavitch schools and in starting new satellite branches all across America’s Northeast.“With a nickel, we were on the subway to Manhattan, and an hour after that, we were on the express bus to Bridgeport. “As we drove into town, Rabbi Weiler was looking out the window,” said Edelman, whose memory of events remained as lucid as if they happened yesterday. “When we reached the Jewish neighborhood, we got off the bus right outside a Jewish market, which was full of women shopping for Shabbat. “Rabbi Weiler asked me if I knew how to draw. When I told him I could, he took a part of a fruit carton and instructed me to draw up a sign announcing that we would hold a Mesibos Shabbos—a Shabbat party for children the following day in the nearby Fraternal Hall.” They spent the afternoon telling parents and children about the program that would take place on Shabbat afternoon. Thirty children attended the event. After sharing refreshments, Jewish songs, a story and some Torah thoughts, Weiler announced that a new yeshivah would open in town, and the learning would commence on Sunday morning at 10 a.m. Edelman, all of 19 years old, would be the principal and Judaic-studies director. With time, the yeshivah grew, and older students joined Edelman at its helm. Wishing to return to his own studies, he wrote a letter to the Rebbe requesting permission to leave the institution in the hands of the senior students. The response was not long in coming. The Rebbe replied that when you devote your energies to teaching others, “your heart and mind [benefit] a thousand-fold.” While on Passover break in with his parents in Baltimore, Edelman received a letter that the Rebbe wanted him to travel to Pittsburgh, where he remained for a year before being sent to Buffalo, N.Y., where he would direct the Chabad school there until being replaced by Rabbi I.D. Groner. His next posting—this time with his wife, Leah, whom he had married in 1948—was in Boston, where his in-laws lived. 
Celebrating the holiday of Lag BaOmer in 1958 with friends.
It was just three weeks before the Rebbe’s passing in the winter of 1950 that the Edelmans were called to their final, permanent post: Springfield, Mass. The yeshivah there had been founded by Rabbi Sholom B. Gordon in 1945, and had been successively directed by Rabbis Zalman I. Posner and Yosef Goldstein. When Rabbi Edelman arrived, Lubavitcher Yeshiva Academy had an enrollment of several dozen students and an annual budget of $40,000. The following fall, he attended a Chassidic gathering with the new Rebbe—Rabbi Menachem M. Schneerson, of righteous memory—together with the treasurer of the school. “At one point, the treasurer asked the Rebbe for a blessing that we should be able to cover the budget,” recalled Edelman. “The Rebbe responded that we should do our work, and he would supply the blessing. With that, we went back home and paid up back pay to our teachers—some of whom we owed 10 weeks of salary.” For many decades, the rabbi’s duties ranged from bringing the children to school in his station wagon in the morning to making payroll late at night—and everything in between. 
A man of many talents: Changing a flat tire in 1948
Indeed, the yeshivah weathered many storms, including demographic shifts, assimilation and a devastating fire during the Sukkot holiday of 1977. Following that, the Rebbe blessed them to reopen “in a new building in a new neighborhood.” At that point, the school relocated from Springfield to the suburb of Longmeadow, and another chapter began. Off to Longmeadow …The campaign to rebuild was spearheaded by Jeffrey Kimball, gabbai and a very active member of the shul; and the Edelmans’ two eldest sons-in-law, Col. Jacob Goldstein, a chaplain in the U.S. Army, and the late businessman Rabbi Zalman Deitsch.In 1984, the rabbi was joined by Esther’s husband, Rabbi Noach Kosofsky, who has taken the role of principal, allowing the older rabbi to devote his energies to development as dean—a position he held for the rest of his life, raising the million dollars needed annually to run a school that caters to 100 students from preschool to eighth grade. In its Longmeadow home, the institution developed into more than just a day school. It has added a Hebrew school and day camp, as well as an active synagogue that offers prayer services, Torah classes for adults and the full gamut of programs normally offered by Chabad centers, including the rabbi’s long-running Talmud class. Five Chabad emissary couples serve the school and the community. In 1999 it received accreditation from the prestigious New England Association of Schools and Colleges (NEASC), and became a “Leader in Me” school in 2011. These marks of recognition have allowed it to broaden enrollment in an area where the Orthodox core of 60 years ago has largely dwindled. Approaching his 90th birthday, and educating a third (and even fourth) generation of students, the rabbi remained a very visible presence in the academic institution. According to Rabbi Chaim Kosofsky, who teaches there, “Rabbi Edelman loved every student in the school; it was felt by everyone. He would bend over to hear a 3-year-old say a blessing, so he could answer ‘Amen.’ In his 90th year, he still visited the hospital, went to many shiva houses and met people at work. He had an amazing ability to remember people, their parents, their grandparents—and shared his stories with whomever he met. “He often stopped into the classrooms to speak to the children about upcoming holidays or the Torah portion of the week—not because the teachers were not teaching, but because he loved teaching Judaism to children.” When celebrating his 90th birthday last week, students of Lubavitch Yeshiva Academy expressed their gratitude to Rabbi Edelman by demonstrating that they had learned their lessons well. As a birthday present, they performed 90 acts of kindness and mitzvot in his honor, and a book was published with pictures of each student performing the particular mitzvot. 
The 2013-14 class of the Lubavitcher Yeshiva Academy in Springfield, Mass., where dean Rabbi Dovid Edelman (third from left, seated) worked the better part of 70 years.
The levaya will begin on Sunday at 9 a.m. in Springfield, and is scheduled to pass by 770 Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn, N.Y., at 2:15 p.m.
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Jewish News
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Mario Cuomo, the three-term governor of New York who passed away Jan. 1 at the age of 82, was known for his involvement with numerous Jewish causes, organizations and his support for Israel, and counted many well-known Jews among his colleagues, friends and supporters.
One rabbinic figure who was close to Cuomo from the start of his political career was Chabad Rabbi Jacob J. (“J.J.”) Hecht, an educator, writer, radio commentator and founder of the National Committee for the Furtherance of Jewish Education (NCFJE). Cuomo and Hecht first met in 1977, according to Hecht’s son, Rabbi Shea Hecht, when Cuomo was making a run for mayor of New York City. At a meeting with Jewish leaders, he acknowledged to the rabbi that he might not win. Hecht replied, “I’m not backing you because you may win, but because you should win.” While he lost the bid, he won a new friendship. A year later, Cuomo ran for Lt. Governor and got the job, which he held for three years, until 1982. That year, he was elected to his first term as governor of New York and remained in the top state seat until 1994. In 1992, Cuomo gave the director of New York’s Criminal Justice Services, Richard H. Girgenti, the authority to investigate the 1991 riots in the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn, N.Y. Cuomo was supportive of the report’s conclusions, which was widely seen as a condemnation of New York City officials’ response to the rioting and its aftermath. Following his terms as governor, Cuomo served as keynote speaker at a number of NCJFE and other Chabad-Lubavitch events around the nation. A Pre-Election BlessingEight years after first being elected to New York’s highest office, on Oct. 14, 1990, a few days after the Jewish holiday of Simchat Torah, Cuomo met the Rebbe—Rabbi Menachem M. Schneerson, of righteous memory. He was accompanied by Rabbi Shimon Hecht, one of Rabbi J.J. Hecht’s sons.With a black-and-white kipah on his head, Cuomo—known for his oration skills and strong demeanor—spoke in a deferential tone to the Rebbe, thanking him “for all you do for the whole community, for all you do with education, for the wonderful example you set. I have listened to you; I have watched you on television; I have learned from you. And I am grateful to you.” “May G‑d Almighty bless you,” replied the Rebbe. “And thank you, especially for helping me in my activities also, through your management of this community and the community at large.” “Well, Rabbi, I wish you another many, many years of good health and strength. And if G‑d sends me a little,” he said, smiling, “I’ll continue to help.” “May G‑d Almighty bless you. You are not connected with the elections?” asked the Rebbe. “I’m running again on Nov. 6, just about a few weeks from now.” “Then it should be with a double effort,” said the Rebbe. “And may G‑d Almighty bless you with double success. “Go from ‘strength to strength’ until the elections,” continued the Rebbe, handing him first the typical one dollar and then another, adding “and this is for after the elections.” “Thank you very much,” replied Cuomo, accepting the bills. “This is more than I expected, Rabbi! This will require me to give back more, and I will.” “Not back to me, but to all the people,” the Rebbe emphasized. “To the community, yes, Rabbi,” said Cuomo, and the exchange ended. Advancing ‘The Truths of Their Belief’Cuomo was interviewed, along with hundreds of others in the years following the passing of the Rebbe in 1994, as part of Jewish Educational Media’s “My Encounter with the Rebbe” project. In it, he speaks of the Rebbe’s abilities to communicate so well with adult and child alike, and his way of explaining even the most difficult subject matter and making it sound lucid to all.“His great gift was taking the tremendous knowledge and intelligence he had—especially his intelligence, his ability to understand arcane subjects, complicated subjects—and reducing that to a point where” people understood him. “It’s easy to simplify if you’re allowed to be simplistic. It’s harder to simplify if you have to remain intelligent in the process, and that’s what he was able to do.” “You took one look at him,” said Cuomo, “and you felt his presence. If he said nothing, if he never gave you a dollar or two dollars or touched you, there was a force coming from his very presence that made you feel better and uplifted, and that doesn’t happen often.” Cuomo added that one of the Rebbe’s gifts was to lead the Jewish people in actively expressing “the truths of their belief.” “He showed them how to be Jews and how to be proper Jews, and how to live their lives fully, and frankly, how to enjoy, because by understanding that it’s your mission, it makes life easier for you.” He concluded the interview with an eye towards the future: “One of the challenges of the community is to try to decide where the Rebbe is now in their lives; where is Rebbe Schneerson now? Here, with me, forever? He will keep the Jewish people who know him occupied for the rest of their lives, and if the Jewish people are fortunate—the ones to come—they will have him in their lives as well.”
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
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Jewish News
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Dena Ivgi is one of a small cadre of Jewish women in Jackson Hole, Wyo., eagerly looking forward to the day when her community will have a mikvah of its own.
Living in an isolated but beautiful city that serves as a gateway to Grand Teton National Park, Yellowstone National Park and the National Elk Reserve, Ivgi and her Israeli husband were attracted by the tourist industry that drives the local economy. But life is different—and sometimes, even difficult—in terms of certain Jewish amenities that are available in larger communities. For example, the quest for a body of natural water for ritual purification every month means driving as many as five hours each way on treacherous mountain roads to Bozeman, Mont., in the north, or Salt Lake City, Utah, in the south. When a long trip is not an option, it entails immersing in mountain lakes and springs. “There was one time when there were bison out, and I was afraid to dunk,” Ivgi recalls. “By the time I was finally able to dunk in the spring, it was dark outside, and I chickened out until the next day.” Raizy Mendelsohn, who co-directs Chabad-Lubavitch of Wyoming with her husband, Rabbi Zalman Mendelsohn, says she has literally had to break ice to help women immerse themselves in the winter—an experience she describes inspirational, but far from optimal. 
Rabbi Zalman and Raizy Mendelsohn, and their four children
The couple, based in the town of Jackson—in western Wyoming near the border of Idaho, almost completely surrounded by mountains and in the well-known valley of Jackson Hole—serves the roughly 500 permanent Jewish residents and 500 Jewish second-home owners there out of a general population of nearly 10,000. And they get as many as 40,000 tourists annually. Need Becoming More AcuteFor a number of years now, the Mendelsohns—who established their Chabad center in 2007—have been raising awareness and money needed for a local mikvah to serve their community.“During the summer, we can have as many as 70 people sitting around our Shabbat table,” reports Mendelsohn. “And now that there are direct flights here from New York’s JFK airport, there are more and more people coming all the time, so the need for the mikvah is becoming more and more acute.” This past September, the Mendelsons purchased a property to house the mikvah in a location described as central, yet private. In the last minutes of 2014, they managed to cross the finish line of their fundraising campaign, raising $200,000 to complete the project. They were helped by generous matching donors and 300 individuals who gave sums ranging from $1 to $10,000—and an anonymous gift of $28,000 that came in just 10 minutes before midnight on Dec. 31. With the funding now in place, the Mendelsohns are in the process of applying for the permits needed to begin construction as soon as possible. “Thank G‑d, our community has come a long way,” says Mendelsohn, “and having a beautiful mikvah here in Jackson Hole is going to allow so many more women to experience how mikvah can change their lives.”
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
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Chabad.org Magazine - Editor: Yanki Tauber
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