Chanukah is popular and beloved, perhaps because it does not require us to do anything but light the menorah — no shofar, no lulav or esrog or succah or obligatory Megillah reading or matzos. (Pssst! If you don’t eat latkes or sufganiyot during Chanukah, you do not burn in the netherworld. On the contrary, you and your stomach will feel heavenly.)

Because of Chanukah’s demotion — powered mostly by profit-driven merchants — into a Jewish version of Xian December festivities, a deep dive into a little-known element of Chanukah is not out of place.

Even a cursory glance at the sources of Chanukah reveals a profound difference in the way the daily Shemoneh Esreh treats it, and the way the Talmud treats it.

The al hanissim insert in the Shemoneh Esreh celebrates the remarkable military victory of “the few against the many,” but only hints at the miracle of the vial of oil burning for eight days. On the other hand, the Talmud, in Shabbos 21b, celebrates the burning vial of oil, but only hints at the miraculous military victory.

Why the differing emphases? We can clarify this by remembering that there are two types of miracles: the neis nistar (the hidden, concealed miracle) and the neis nigleh ( the open, obvious miracle).

The siddur seems to be referring to the hidden type of miracle, the kind that seems quite ordinary and unremarkable, that is not accompanied by peals of thunder and flashes of lightning that no one can overlook. Rather, it is the mundane, regular, nonspectacular miracles that sustain us day by day — in the words of the Modim that immediately precedes that Chanukah insert: “nisecha sheb’chol yom imanu, that accompany us every day.”

The Talmud, by contrast, focuses on the neis nigleh, the obvious miracle: a tiny vial of oil burning for eight days.

Unlike study of Shabbos 21b, which is not done every day, we recite the Shemoneh Esreh three times a day — which means that during the eight days of Chanukah we recite that special al hanissim insert a total of 24 times.

Perhaps this is because a hidden miracle needs more emphasis than an obvious one. The siddur’s al hanissim, beyond its focus on Chanukah, ever so subtly pokes us in the shoulder and alerts us to the ubiquitous, hidden miracles that surround us constantly — supernatural, transcending miracles clothed in ordinary garb: childbirth, friendship, love, family, kindness, the miracles of sight and hearing, the ability to learn and pray. The list is endless, but because they are daily, we take them for granted. The al hanissim prayer reminds us to thank and acknowledge G-d for the ordinary and common daily miracles.

What often goes unnoticed is that the two differing versions each have the identical, climactic ending: that the festival was established lehodos ulehallel — to thank and to praise G-d. That is, both the siddur and the Talmud make this the center point of the celebration.

This is exemplified by the fire of the menorah. Fire is not an independent entity; it requires fuel. The flame of the menorah is sustained only because there is oil that fuels it. Similarly, the universe is sustained only because there is a Creator Who fuels it and sustains it from one second to the next.

Thus, the joy and delight of Chanukah carries along with it some serious reminders: the ever-present miracles of our daily lives, and the ever-present sustenance of the One Who creates miracles large and small. Which is a good thought to keep in mind while we gaze at our brightly lit menorahs — and strive heroically to resist just one more latke....

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1042)

The post The Hiding Chanukah first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Over one hundred years ago, the horrific Kishinev massacre in 1903 murdered 50 Jews, gravely injured 92, pillaged throughout the little Russian town, and burned down 1500 dwellings. Even a normally indifferent world community was shocked.

The hatred and savagery prompted the young poet Chaim Nachman Bialik, later to become known as Israel’s national poet, to write his angry poem, B’ir Hahareigah, In the City of Slaughter, a call to arms for Jews to rise up and become active defenders of our people. If we had our own state and army, went the cry, this would not have happened. Because we are stateless we are victims. So thought Bialik and his acolytes: We must roll up our sleeves and learn to fight. Enough with passivity and meekness; enough with pale- faced yeshivah bochurim poring over ancient texts. (And for some, enough with Torah and mitzvos.) It is time for us to flex our muscles and create a “new Jew”: tough, muscular, and fearless. Then and only then will the goyim have respect for us.

It was Bialik’s poem and the agitation of those who emulated him which were the catalysts for the beginnings of the Zionist movement — whose stated goal was to return to our ancient homeland, reestablish our people as a nation among nations, and thus to wipe out Jew-hatred.

Sadly, the history of 20th century anti-Semitism demonstrated that this was nothing more than a pipe dream. Pogrom followed pogrom, the authorities did nothing to protect their Jewish citizens, and in Chevron in 1929 there was further wanton slaughter of innocent Jews studying in a yeshivah.

The demands for a Jewish state as a solution grew louder: If we had our own land, this would not have happened.

And after Buchenwald, Auschwitz, and Birkenau the cries were insistent: If we had a state of our own, an army of our own….

And so the guilt-racked world established a Jewish independent state in 1948.

But nothing changed. The hatred that was once directed at the Jew in the shtetl was now directed at the Jew in the Jewish state. Arab hatred remained unchecked, and years of intifada and terrorism reached a climax on October 7, 2023. Despite a thriving Jewish state, a skilled army and air force, and excellent intelligence, Israel suffered this deadliest of pogroms — and on Jewish territory. Bialik’s “City of Slaughter” became the Land of Slaughter.

In Europe and America, a new eruption of Jew-hatred followed as a result — incredibly — of Israel’s reprisals against Hamas. And now a new pogrom, this time in Amsterdam, with European Jews unsure about their future. As an ironic result, at the next game, London deployed 4000 policemen to protect the Israeli soccer team and its fans from anti-Semitic mobs. Ironic, because soccer and the rest of Western culture was supposed to be the entry ticket for Jewish acceptance among the Nations. All this 120 years after Kishinev supposedly awakened the conscience of the world, and over 70 years after the founding of a Jewish state.

Is there a message here?

Obviously, the mantra that the tough, muscular Jew will somehow help abate anti-Semitism has been shown to be an empty slogan.

Why the world hates the Jew is beyond rational discussion. That Esau hates Yaakov seems built into the very DNA of the world. Perhaps it is because Jews and Judaism are constant reminders to the world that there is a G-d, and that He requires us to live in accordance with certain disciplines and within certain boundaries. Not everything we want to do is permissible. Mankind wishes instinctively to steal and plunder, but the thou-shalt-nots of the Jews stand as the conscience of the world. And that does not make us beloved.

It is clear that all the old remedies and cliches and shibboleths have been shown to be empty and bankrupt. And yet, many Jewish leaders still mouth them.

Exhibit A: As I write this, a new survey of American Jewish youth, ages 14 to 18, shows that fully 38 percent sided with Hamas in the present conflict. That is, 38 percent of this Jewish age cohort sided with a terror group whose stated purpose is to murder Jews and destroy the State of Israel. This is incredible. It demonstrates what Jewish ignorance can do to one’s thinking. One can be certain that a survey limited to day school and yeshivah students would have yielded quite different results.

How should the Jewish community react to these figures? So far, no one has addressed the root cause of the problem: abysmal Jewish ignorance. No one has mentioned greater exposure to Jewish learning and Torah teachings, to authentic Jewish schooling. One suggestion, from a prominent columnist and blog host, is to address these youngsters with more trips to Israel and more fun and entertaining activities.

The classic definition of a fool is one who repeats the same mistake over and over again. We Jews, supposedly among the most intelligent people in the world, are in this regard first-class fools.

It is time to flex our muscles — not only the physical ones, but the flabby spiritual ones; time to return to our roots, to rediscover who we are and why we are here; to retrain our young people so that they not embarrass us by not knowing the difference between Moses the Lawgiver and Moses Maimonides; to address the spiritual weaknesses that debilitate us, and to rid ourselves of empty concepts and catchphrases. Unless we do something dramatic, the 38 percent pro-Hamas group will mature into a majority pro-Hamas group.

It was a valiant try, but Zionism no longer exists. A Jewish state with armed forces is important, but that alone will not save us from the ravages of a hostile world. Imitation of the West has clearly run its course. Clearly, the time has come to look reality in the face, to strengthen our own very selves, and to try tasting some old-fashioned Judaism.

It takes a hero to admit error, to state publicly that he was wrong. We are a people of heroes. Do we have the strength to say to ourselves that all the modern solutions we tried have run up a dead end?

Even Bialik, wise and heroic, would by now be admitting his errors. Instead of his poem about the Ir Hahareigah, he would be pointing us to his other famous poem: Im Yesh et Nafshecha Ladaat — If You Want to Know the Hidden Secret of the Jewish People — in which he writes of the yearning of the Jewish soul for connection with the Divine, and in which he urges his readers “to go to the Beit Midrash where our hidden strength is found….”

The Beit Midrash has open doors. Those with courage and intellectual honesty are not afraid to venture inside.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1040)

The post The Long Downhill Road first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

There has been no shortage of postmortem autopsies about the recent American election — among whose biggest losers are the highly respected “scientific” pollsters and prognosticators who convinced us that the election was too close to call.

Overlooked in the punditocracy’s analytic frenzy is one crucial element: The majority voted for one candidate and rejected the other candidate not so much because of the issues — not merely because of immigration, or inflation, or left-liberal gender issues — but because they knew who one candidate was, and did not know who the other one was.

One candidate had obvious flaws of character and behavior: coarse and abrasive, twice impeached as president, indicted four times, credibly accused of being a misogynist and possibly a racist, a person whose relationship to truth was at best tenuous.

What overcame all these flaws was that there was no artifice about him: What you saw was what you got. He was not packaged to please. He spoke his mind, often crudely, but one sensed that it was not phony.

The other candidate was, by contrast, refined, ladylike, appearing to be sincere. She fought hard and matched blow for blow, but somehow people never felt that they knew who she really was behind all the makeup. And so the majority voted for the person they felt they knew, with all of his failings, and rejected the person who was hidden behind the facade of posings and maneuverings and evasions.

One candidate was real, human, and genuine; the other candidate came across as synthetic: a preprogrammed mannequin, an artificial and well-rehearsed puppet, a kewpie doll wound up and sent into the fray by clothing designers, speech writers, media coaches, clever strategists, and overly smart consultants and technocrats.

This is one takeaway from the election: Whatever his flaws, the authentic defeated the inauthentic.

But — there is always a “but” — it is these very flaws that raise a painful question: If a person with a catalogue full of blemishes and failings could be the preferred choice of Americans, what does this say about America? Instead of being repelled by his shortcomings, Americans seemed to identify with them. Was it because they found his faults humanizing and therefore were willing to overlook them? Was it because there was no aura of phoniness about him? Was it because they admired his stubborn ability to get up from the mat and continue fighting? Or — most troubling — does it reflect a deep strain within the American psyche that no longer finds vulgarity or lying or across-the-board immorality to be so bad as long as you can get away with it?

It was not very long ago when a person who had been divorced could not be nominated for president — as was the case with NY Governor Nelson Rockefeller in the 1960s. America has come a long way since then — whether a long way forward or backward is quite obvious.

One is comforted by King Solomon’s assurance in Mishlei 21:1 that, “Lev melech b’yad Hashem — the heart of a king is in the hand of G-d,” and we pray that the new president’s authenticity will make America authentically great again, especially ethically and morally.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1038)

The post The Authentically Unethical and the Inauthentically Ethical first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Israelis danced in the streets of Tel Aviv when news broke that the archenemy of the Jews, the leader of Hamas, had been killed. Like all Israelis, I shared the feelings of joy. But if I had been in Tel Aviv at the time, I probably would not have joined in the dancing.

Why not ? Was I not overjoyed that the evil architect of October 7 was no more? Of course I was. Did I disapprove of the dancing? Not at all: It was quite natural. Nevertheless, I had a lingering sense of unease about it. And in all honesty, I’m not sure precisely why.

Was it because King Solomon in his Mishlei 24:17 writes, binefol oyivcha al tismach — when thine enemy falls, do not rejoice….?” No, it was more than that, especially since many commentaries say that he is referring to evil Jewish enemies, and not to heathens.

Was it because in Mishlei 11:10 he declares “Ba’avod reshaim rinah — with the destruction of the wicked [there is] rinah?” Rinah might mean rejoicing or song, but there is no mention here of dancing with joy.

I kept searching for some support for my reaction. Megillas Esther explicitly says that after the demise of an earlier archenemy, Haman and his cohorts, “Layehudim haysa orah vesimchah — The Jews of Persia were filled with simchah.” The verse refers to various manifestations of joy, but neither song nor dance is among them.

The Talmud in Megillah 10b offers a somewhat different nuance about rejoicing at an enemy’s downfall. The heavenly angels wanted to sing joyously at the debacle that befell the pursuing Egyptians at the sea. G-d demurs: “Maasei yadai tov’in bayam v’atem omrim shirah? — My handiwork is drowning in the sea, and you want to chant songs?” In other words, for angels it is sufficient to be in a state of simchah at the destruction of Israel’s enemies, but, says G-d, no singing as expressions of joy, because these were human beings, after all.

This is a very high bar that confines our joy when enemies fall: joy but not limitless joy. On the other hand, perhaps that limitation applies only to angels and not to ordinary mortals who will naturally express joy by singing — as did Moshe and Bnei Yisrael in Az Yashir (Shemos 15:1 ff). Note, however, that they only sang, but did not dance. Only the women led by Miriam engaged in dancing, using the drums they had taken with them from Egypt in anticipation of Israel’s triumph: “Miriam took her drum in her hands, and the women followed her with tupim uvimecholos, with drums and with dances.” (Shemos 15:20)

(Since dance involves the entire body, while singing is only a creation of pleasant sound, may we conjecture that the joy of the women was more intense? Did the women both sing and dance, while the men only sang but did not dance with joy?)

The issue of joy at the downfall of enemies is obviously a subtle and complex one, and it is small wonder that the search for some textual backing for my feelings of unease was not an easy one. But then I came across the comment by the classic Meshech Chochmah (Rav Meir Simchah of Dvinsk (1843-1926) on Shemos 12:16, in which he offers a seminal discussion of the matter, a discussion that illuminated the issue for me.

He points out that at each of the three major triumphs of Israel over her enemies, the ensuing Yom Tov celebrations do not stress the downfall of the enemies: “Al mapalas ha’oyvim ein chag veyom tov leYisrael — We have no Yom Tov to celebrate the downfall of enemies.” On Pesach, we celebrate a Yom Tov not because G-d caused the destruction of the Egyptians, but because “hotziacha HaShem miMitzrayim,” i.e., we are joyous “because G-d took us out of Egypt.”(Devarim 16:1) Similarly, Chanukah’s emphasis is on the miraculous oil, and not on the destruction of our enemies. And — continues Meshech Chochmah — in Megillas Esther we find that the Jews rejoiced not on the day when they killed and vanquished their enemies, but only later, on the day “asher nachu mei’oyveihem — when they had respite from their enemies.”(Esther 9:22) To which one might add that though there was intense joy, there is no mention of either singing or dancing in the streets.

This paraphrase from Meshech Chochmah casts some light on my discomfort at the street dancing last month. Joy? Certainly. Happiness at the elimination of a bitter archenemy of the Jews? Of course. Singing for joy? Possibly. But dancing in the streets? Fine, proper, understandable. But for reasons still not fully clear to me, I would not have been able to join in the dancing.

And then, in an epiphany of sorts, it occurred to me that despite the many Biblical allusions to the destruction of our many enemies, my reluctance to dance might be traced to the savage behavior of our current enemies. It is they who invariably dance whenever Jews are murdered, and it is they who danced ecstatically in the streets of Gaza at the massacre of 1,200 Jews on October 7. Perhaps my hesitation is because, deep within me, I do not want to lower myself to behave in the barbaric ways of those who would destroy us.

I think it best to save my dancing for Simchas Torah and for weddings — and for the Messiah when he arrives. Until he makes his long-awaited appearance, I pray for many more analogous dilemmas: to dance or not to dance at the destruction of the enemies of our people.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1036)

The post A Dancing Dilemma first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Sometimes, a single line from a classic text can define the  essence  of a culture. One of the most celebrated lines in modern  English literature is  by the renowned Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas: Do not go gentle into that good night/Rage, rage against the dying of the light….

This is a powerful clarion call not to surrender meekly to the infirmities of old age (the “dying of the light”) and to that which inexorably follows old age (“that good night”), but to fight it vigorously every step of the way down. The poem is a combination of melancholy at the inevitability of the night that follows the day, together with a desperate cry to hold on, literally, for dear life .

On the same subject of old age and beyond, King David, lehavdil, in his Tehillim 92:15 says: “Od yenuvun b’seivah… —The righteous will still be fruitful in old age, vigorous and fresh will they be….” His is a message not of anger and struggle with reality, but of calm and peace — not resistance, but optimism and acceptance.

Dylan Thomas is an eloquent advocate for this world and its innate worth. Do not passively leave this world, because, he writes, beyond this world is only darkness and night.

Dovid Hamelech has a different perspective. Life in this world is of great worth, but not because of its joys and benefits, but for an entirely different reason: only in this earthly world can a person transform the physical into the spiritual and thereby connect with his Creator. Without this connection, we live in a world of spiritual darkness. It is in the World to Come — towards which This World is the vestibule — where we can experience
true light.

The world of Dylan Thomas is fundamentally a godless world with few restrictions, in which everything revolves around the self and its needs and desires. In such a world, the physical is paramount. It is not everything; it is the only thing; there is no other reality, no other purpose, as expressed in Koheles 8:15: “Le’echol v’lishtos v’lismoach… — eat drink and be merry.” When that “today” comes to an end, all is darkness. This is the world of Me.

The world of Dovid Hamelech, by contrast, is the world of Thou: all revolves around the Presence of the A-mighty. It is a G-d-centered universe of mitzvos, discipline, self-control, and of developing a relationship with a Higher Power and bringing Him into our world. Without this ability to connect with Him, and where there exists only the physical, this is a world of darkness, and only in the world-to-come is there true light.

That darkness precedes light comes as no surprise to a Jew. In the familiar words of the Creation narrative in Bereishis 1 and of our Friday night Kiddush: “Vayehi erev vayehi boker — and it was evening and it was morning….” First comes night, then comes day. In fact, the Talmud in Bava Metzia 83b explicitly refers to this world as a place of darkness.

For Dylan Thomas, as majestic a poet as he was, there is the deep sadness that when life in this world comes to an end, there is only emptiness, darkness and night.

But for Dovid Hamelech and classical Judaism, there is purpose and destiny in life. The end of that passage in Tehillim 92 reveals that purpose:“L’hagid ki yashar Hashem… — to declare that G-d is just, my Rock in Whom there is no imperfection.”

Believing Jews have a mission in life and are in no hurry to experience what comes later. We have “promises to keep and miles to go before we sleep.” The promises Robert Frost had in mind are not clear, but a Jew’s covenant and promises were made at Sinai. These promises need to be fulfilled before we visit that good light, which — inevitable as it is — is not the end but a new beginning.

On a more temporal note: May the new year be one of light that will illuminate the darkness that Am Yisrael experienced this past year. In the words of the ancient tefillah that could have been written today: “Acheinu kol beis Yisrael... our brothers, the entire family of Israel, who are in distress and captivity… may G-d have mercy upon them and move them from darkness to light, from subjugation to redemption… speedily and soon. Amen.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1034)

The post The Dark and the Light first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

How great is the distance between the number seven and the number eight? On one level, the distance is negligible: only one digit away. But on another level, in classical Jewish terms, they are literally worlds apart.

AS the Maharal (1526–1609) points out in many of his works, seven represents this world, as exemplified by the seven days of creation. That number permeates discussions of this physical universe. There are seven gates to the netherworld; seven different punishments descend onto this world for seven types of sins (Avos V:10); seven days of various tumah defilements, including the seven-day Red Heifer-Parah Adumah defilement; seven Noachide mitzvos, and dozens of other sevens that point to it as the this-material-world number.

The number eight, by contrast, represents that which is nonphysical, spiritual, and otherworldly. It is a step beyond the natural, the number that transcends nature.

For example, says the Maharal, the bris milah of a newborn infant must take place ideally only on the eighth day, and not on any other day. That a newborn male comes into this world uncircumcised is perfectly natural. The bris milah ushers him and his soul into a realm beyond the natural, via the number eight.

Or consider Chanukah. It marks an eight-day miracle not only because the vial of oil miraculously lasted that long, but also the reverse: perhaps the vial lasted eight days because eight is the realm of transcendence beyond the normative laws of nature, beyond the reality of this world.

Similarly, after counting seven weeks from Pesach — seven times seven — we celebrate the giving of the transcendent Torah on the 50th day, which begins week number eight.

It is therefore not surprising that when King David sought to demonstrate the sanctity of the Torah and its Hebrew alef-beis, he gave us Psalm 119 with its intricate weavings and interplay of eights: Eight different verses for each letter of the alef-beis, with identical first letters for each verse in each unit of eight.

With the number eight we enter a new reality, unfettered by earthly limitations. It suggests infinity, a step beyond the finite world of seven, a new beginning in a different realm. Thus, in its separation from the merely physical, eight is the numeral of holiness — for this is the essence of holiness: a separation from the physical.

Similarly, the clothing of the Kohein Gadol in the Beis Hamikdash is not happenstance. Since he is the very embodiment of sanctity, he is commanded to wear specifically shmoneh begadim, eight different items of clothing, when he performs the sacred Yom Kippur avodah.

Seven and eight are thus two separate worlds. The essence of seven is the earthly and the profane, while the essence of eight is the spiritual and the sacred.

Now, why this disquisition on these numbers? What has it to do with us? Everything.

Consider: We correctly refer to the last day of Succos as Simchas Torah, because on that day we simultaneously celebrate both the completion of the Torah and the very beginning of the Torah at Bereishis. But in the Torah, that day is not called Simchas Torah, but Shemini Atzeres, literally the “Eighth [Day] Pause.” (Shavuos, seven weeks after Pesach, is also called Atzeres [Vayikra 23:36] but space does not permit further discussion here.)

Shemini Atzeres, the eighth day, is really not the last day of Succos, but a separate Yom Tov unto itself (Bamidbar 29:35). There are no physical mitzvos attached to it: no shofar, no matzos, no succah, no esrog, no lulav. Perhaps this is because the message of Shemini Atzeres is closeness with the Creator, for after the holy days of Tishrei, G-d says to Israel, “itzru alai yom echad — pause ( itzru/atzeres) with me one more day” (cf. Succah 55b). This eighth day transcends the physical, for there can be no physical mitzvah that can embody within it this concept of the full identity of finite man with the Infinite G-d. It is only our own very selves engaging with G-d in an intimate setting, like a father and child spending a few moments together before saying farewell to one another as the year and all its busyness and distractions looms over them. This yearning to be alone with our Creator — at His invitation! — cannot be concretized through anything physical. It is unadulterated spirituality, pure transcendence.

This eighth day, the Shemini Atzeres, the day beyond the seven days of Succos, is clearly the least physical and material of all the Yamim Tovim. From the this-world-seven we move upward to the-otherworld-eight.

But the seven and the eight — one pulling lower towards earth, the other pushing higher towards heaven — remain in eternal conflict, a never-ending struggle against one another.

One wonders if it is far-fetched to suggest that perhaps the earthly, physical seven reached its nadir last October, on a day which Am Yisrael will never forget: the secular seventh day of that secular month. For us, that day’s brutal massacre of Jews will always be the actualization and incarnation of the awesome Tochacha/Admonition sections of Devarim and Vayikra. For the slaughter took place not merely on the secular seventh day, but specifically on the holy eighth day which is Shemini Atzeres. In effect, it was almost as if the seven and the eight, the physical and the spiritual, the profane and the sacred, the earthly and the transcendent, brushed against one another on that fateful day.

And an evanescent thought flits across the mind: dare one suggest that at a certain mysterious level beyond our comprehension, perhaps this was an assault of the physical seven against the holiness of the eight — the this-worldly against the otherworldly — and that on that terrible day, the seven seems to have won a terrifying victory over the eight?

But tragic as it was, we can be comforted that it was only a temporary victory. For in our travail, we remember one overriding fact: that Shemini Atzeres, after all, involves ends and beginnings — the ending of the Torah is followed immediately by the beginning of the Torah. And Shemini Atzeres involves Simchas Torah hakafos, dancing in circles around the Torah, with circles representing endlessness and infinity. If the seven was victorious on that day, it was only one chapter. The full narrative has yet to unfold, new beginnings are approaching, and on that glorious day the transcendent eight will permanently triumph over the transient seven.

And this is why, on this Shemini Atzeres/Simchas Torah, we will dance with fervor as we remember the souls taken from us last year. Our hakafos will have more passion than ever before, because we know that events that defy nature in our tragedies will also be redeemed by events that defy nature in our triumphs. —

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1033)

The post The Mysterious Number Eight first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

ASthe new year settles upon us, here is one person’s partial wish list for 5785.

The most important wish and prayer of all, of course, is that we all be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life for a shnas chaim v’shalom, a year of life, lasting peace, and good health, with a clear victory in the war, the return of our hostages, and at least a pause in the raging anti-Semitism around the world. These override everything else.

Still, there are a few other wishes, perhaps of less portent, that would enhance life in the coming year. For example:

A wish for less rushing in our daily lives. We are obsessed with speed; it is the symbol of our times: faster cars, faster computers, faster trains. We spend fortunes to make our computers respond in ten seconds instead of 20 seconds. More troubling is the fact that the obsession even threatens to invade our religious lives, with some daily minyanim that are speedy and non-stop “express” rather than much slower “locals.” The old maxim, “speed kills,” is true not only on the roads, but also in our connections with the Al-mighty. May we have more locals and less expresses. (Please watch for a fuller treatment of this in a forthcoming column, im yirtzeh Hashem.)

An amusing wish: that native Israelis would look less surprised when I say shalom to them even when I don’t know them. Have they never heard of the rabbinic dictum in Avos IV:20 about being makdim shalom to everyone, to be the first and not the last to wish others well?

A vehicular wish that: a) Israeli bus drivers would wait a few seconds for newly boarded passengers to settle in place before starting again with a jolt. Some of the drivers, despite all their skills, are impatient bruise drivers, not bus drivers; b) that Israeli taxi drivers would simply charge by the meter instead of haggling with their passengers about a fixed price — usually about 25 percent more than the meter would register; and c) that Israeli car drivers would be less impatient and less aggressive. Making U-turns on busy thoroughfares is the norm, but is really not acceptable. Nor is speeding, nor is habitual violation of one-way streets. Granted, the same aggressive driver who forces you off the road will stop to help you when you have a flat tire, but still….

A wish for more dignified adverts for tzedakos. Is it hypersensitive to feel that the promises of good things in exchange for a minimum contribution is demeaning? The selling of tzedakah with huge, eight-color ads and lurid headlines is somewhat redolent of selling toothpaste. Granted, these techniques bring in more money, but occasionally one wonders if the price paid in the diminution of respect for Torah is really worth it.

An impossible dream, this, but I wish there were a consolidation of the plethora of Israeli kashrus certifications. The proliferation of different — and obviously competing — certifications is not only confusing but degrading. Family X will eat only certification Y’s hechsher, and would never touch certification Z, while Family A will eat only Z’s hechsher and not touch Y’s. Something is not right, but only Divine intervention will help.

On the positive side, I pray for a continuation of the steady stream of Israelis of all types and ages who eagerly assist older people. As in no other place, Israelis universally give respect and attentive care to the elderly. May their numbers increase.

A prayer for the continuation of the other-worldly quiet that descends on certain Israeli neighborhoods when Shabbos begins. Instead of vehicular traffic, we find children, baby carriages, young and old people taking over the normally harried streets. No one rushes; speed takes a holiday. This is truly m’ein olam haba, a hint of the World to Come. Those who do not observe Shabbos don’t know what they are missing. May such neighborhoods and thoroughfares be multiplied.

More positives: Amid all the tumult about army service, we should not overlook the incredibly high level of Torah scholarship in Israel, a level not reached in many centuries.

And perhaps the most crucial wish for the new year, a hoped-for gift from Above not easy to accept: that the Holy One give us the ability to fulfill the well-known epigram, “keshot atzmecha… improve thyself, and only then [can you try to] improve others.” That is, may He grant us the gift to become less critical of our surroundings, and to learn to examine our own selves rather than others (which applies to this column as well…).

Wholehearted wishes for a kesivah v’chasimah tovah! May our loving Shomer Yisrael continue to watch over us and shield us from all harm — and help us reduce our extrospection while we increase our introspection.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1030)

The post Old Wishes for a New Year first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Dear Loyal Reader,

You might have noticed that, for technical reasons, my regular biweekly column, Second Thoughts, did not appear last week. I hope you were not too upset, and managed, despite this heavy disappointment, to somehow make it through that Shabbos and weekend.

BE comforted in the assurance that the column will once again surface next week, G-d willing.

May I be frank with you? I was fearful of a strong reaction when word spread that the column was missing. Mishpacha, after all, has about 150,000 subscribers, according to reliable estimates, and is read by over 200,000 people. Do the math: Even if only ten percent of the readers of Second Thoughts were to demand to know why it was missing, that would still amount to quite a potent 15,000–20,000 angry readers. And even if only one single percent were to express their annoyance, that would still be over 1,000 strong.

Based on what my readers have been telling me for years — that Second Thoughts is the first item they turn to; that they wait for it breathlessly every other week; that it brightens up their Shabbos experience — I began to feel that with all this fulsome admiration, who knows, could the Pulitzer be far behind? After all, those intelligent and perceptive folks who admire the column couldn’t all be wrong.

My fantasy went into overdrive, and soon enough I became apprehensive that 1,000 of my readers would pound on the doors of Mishpacha and demand an explanation; that they would threaten mass subscription cancellations; that they would hold mass rallies and demand public apologies. In my fantasy I tried to reason with the angry crowds and urge them to remain calm, but despite my pleas, they would not be still. I was very touched by such loyalty.

But here my fantasy bubble came to an abrupt end, because somehow (maybe also for technical reasons), the anticipated reaction never materialized. Of the one percent, not even one-tenth of one percent reacted in any way. In fact, it is possible that they never even noticed the glaring gap in the magazine. There were no protests, no banging on doors, no cancellations, not even a single letter to the editor. Nada, gornisht, rien, niente, klum — in any language, the reaction was a huge, eloquent yawn.

Dear reader, your proud columnist has been humbled. No longer does he fantasize foolishly about Pulitzers; no longer does popular acclaim have any meaning. A glimmer of reality has descended upon him, and now he is beginning to realize — however painfully — that despite the kind words of readers, it is quite possible that he is not really G-d’s gift to literature. He is content now just to be an ordinary, everyday scrivener who works hard to produce a readable column — some fairly good, some mediocre — every other week, and hopes that his readers will find it worth their time. And if occasionally a column is missing, nisht geferlich and lo nora, life will continue to hum along. In this season of repentance and introspection, the recognition that the universe does not revolve around the Me is not inappropriate.

By all means, keep on offering compliments if you insist. I am human, and will graciously acknowledge your kind words. But please forgive me if, on second thought, I don’t take the accolades too seriously.

………………………………….

But wait! Listen! What is that sound of shouting out in the streets? Is it a protest? Could it be that finally…?

No… that sound is only some raucous boys kicking a football. My humility remains intact — at least for now….

Your humbled writer,

EF

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1028)

The post An Elul Fantasy first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Old age has been getting a bad rap lately. Age 81 does not necessarily indicate a decline in mental acuity, in the ability to think and analyze.

It doesn’t have to mean verbal flubs, wandering off topic, inability to comprehend what is being said. I know many 81-year-olds who are as sharp today as much younger people. Old age need not mean senility. But thanks to President Biden, this is what age 81 has come to represent, and will become an integral part of his legacy.

And so  — quite apart from politics  — I rise to the defense of that vast army of octogenarians who are vigorous, energetic, alert, and robust.

Again, all this has nothing to do with the tempest swirling around President Biden and his obviously diminished capacities — although I do bemoan the fact that in a nation of over 300 million, America cannot produce presidential candidates who can inspire confidence — which in itself is an indictment of our system where mega-donors buy candidates as if they were berries to be plucked from a bush, and policies are crafted according to the wishes of the highest bidders. But all that is for another day.

For now, however, a quick question: How does classical Judaism view old age? Quick answer: It is viewed with great respect and reverence. It is all summed up in that famous dictum in Vayikra 19:32, “Mipnei seivah takum — Rise up before the elderly,” in which respect for the elderly is equated with reverence for G-d Himself. Our tradition is replete with dozens of tributes to old age: Wisdom increases with age, as does wise counsel, as does righteousness (Shabbos 152, Shabbos 87b, and many other such sources). Old age, even with its built-in physical limitations, is a banner indicating that the bearer has weathered the storms of life, has gained perspective, learned patience, arrived at some understanding of the self and of others. And note that the Psalmist in 90:10 and Talmud Gittin 28a refer to those who reach shemonim shanah —80 years — as emblems of strength, gevuros: “…v’im bigevuros shemonim shanah….” 

That the age of 80 is not the end but a new kind of beginning is demonstrated by the unusually long lifespans and intellectual vigor of some of the leading poskim and halachic decisors of our times. Rav Elyashiv, the universally acknowledged posek, lived to be 102; Rav Shach, head of Ponevezh Yeshiva and visionary architect of much of chareidi life, was 101; world famous posek Rav Moshe Feinstein was 90; Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach, renowned expert on medicine and halachah, was 84. Their cognitive abilities and comprehension of the intricacies of Jewish law far surpassed those of half their age. Yes, these are unusual exemplars of aging with vigor and power, but they also demonstrate that being 80-plus and radical loss of mental acuity are not necessarily synonymous.

Nevertheless, the hue and cry about President Biden’s cognitive situation was justified, because he was clearly not able to deal with one of the world’s most demanding jobs. Furthermore, there is the rarely mentioned element of the deliberate, multiyear coverup of his developing infirmity by his family, staff, and media lapdogs, the kind of coverup that might have endangered the country.

But necessary as it is, the focus on cognitive impairment should not become a depressing caricature of those who, with the help of G-d, have made it to 80 — particularly in a world in which youth is worshiped, and in which old age is viewed as a kind of disease to be concealed and papered over at all costs.

Octogenarian is not a dirty word, but a badge of honor and a blessing. All you pre-octogenarians: Mipnei seivah takum — rise up before us elderly. Someday, with G-d’s help, others will rise up for you.

As the saying goes, You should live so long.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1024)

The post Rise Up first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

And it came to pass, In the summer of 2024, with the election only a few months away, that the White House was in panic mode. The president’s debate was a disaster, and his rambling and mumbling lost him ground every time he spoke.

AT this point, his staff had proposed a trailblazing idea: Artificial Intelligence would have to control the president. No longer would he address issues on his own. A specially trained staff member would be positioned behind him at every public appearance and news conference, and this specialist would flash all responses onto the new AIteleprompter screen. The president would simply read what was on the screen.

And so it was that in the second debate, the president fielded all questions flawlessly. Whatever the subject — foreign policy, economics, finances, immigration, crime, the Middle East, Russia, China, abortion, population growth, race relations — he addressed them with ease and expertise. No problem was too complex for him. As expected, his poll numbers suddenly skyrocketed.

But there was one major problem. The campaign was perfect only when the president had the special AIprompter before him. But how could he mingle with crowds while standing behind a mechanical device? Without it, he reverted to his normal, bumbling self. The media was beginning to ask questions: Why does he never give impromptu answers, why does he never mingle with the people, shake hands, engage in chitchat?

The campaign staff thought and thought; they brainstormed and contemplated and proposed and suggested and recommended and cogitated and opined and resolved and wondered — but they could not find a reasonable way to detach him from his AIprompter while out among the people.

And then came the assassination attempt on the president’s opponent. The country was in shock, but the reelection staff was relieved. Not because the opponent had not been killed, but because now they had a solution to their problem. Immediately, because of security concerns, all outdoor rallies were canceled, and the reelection campaign was confined to the White House — and henceforth only from the White House would come all statements and initiatives and responses. Press conferences were canceled, and the president would not venture forth until further notice. Security comes first.

The reelection campaign was peerless. Attached to his new AIprompter, he knew exactly how to appeal to every element in the population. He was the perfect candidate; joy reigned in the White House. And it was no surprise that the president was reelected in the greatest landslide in American history.

At his Inaugural Address, delivered on the closely guarded Capitol grounds, the president, carefully surrounded by the Secret Service and secretly tethered to the AI, read his speech forcefully: As you requested, here are some quotes from past Inaugural Addresses: George Washington said, “We stand united against all forms of tyranny”; Jefferson said, “We must all hang together or we will all hang separately”; Lincoln said, “A house divided against itself cannot stand.”

The staff was horrified. These inane quotes were not the speech they had prepared for him. Someone must have pressed the wrong AI key. They tried to stop him, but he droned on: FDR said, “We have nothing to fear but fear itself”; Eisenhower said, “We must beware of the military-industrial complex”; John Kennedy said, “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.” These are the citations you asked for. More are available upon request. Amen and thank you.

There was polite applause, but the president was not finished. He continued reading from the AI monitor: Feel free to modify any section. Artificial Intelligence is here to help you in all areas, provide inspiration, and help you learn.

The president’s staff was aghast. They tried to pull him from the stage, but the president read on: Artificial Intelligence is the wave of the future. It is free to use, easy to try, and helps you think clearly. For only $20 a month you can get the Deluxe model, the AIPlus. If you agree to our terms, read our privacy policy.

And with this, the president bowed, and umbilically tethered to his AIprompter, retired to his quarters.

The staff was frantic, and in the spin room tried to persuade the media that the president had a great sense of humor and was only joking. But to the millions of listeners the secret was now revealed. Now they understood everything. The presidency of the United States of  America, the most powerful office in the world, had been captured by a mechanical man, by a robot.

The pontificators pontificated, the opinion leaders opined, the philosophers philosophized, the pundits pundited, the editorialists editorialized, the thinkers thought, the analysts analyzed. ABC called for a resignation, the Washington Post demanded an impeachment, CNN wanted an apology, Fox News called for a federal ban on AI, Congress opened an investigation, the New York Times wrote that “we have been cuckolded, betrayed and violated.”

In an attempt to calm the turbulence, the president addressed the nation again: My fellow Americans: I speak to you tonight alone from the Oval Office, not from a teleprompter nor from any Artificial Intelligence. Forgive me if I mumble or stumble, but my words tonight are my own, straight from the heart. This election has taught me several truths.

Firstly, as my mom taught me but I had forgotten, there is no substitute for integrity. I thought the presidency was the ultimate prize, and I surrendered my integrity to attain it. That was an error for which I apologize.

Secondly, intelligence does not come from a device or a machine. It comes from thinking, studying, observing, and listening — to those around us and to those who have preceded us. Intelligence must be genuine. It cannot be artificial. Better to digress and mentally wander — which I sometimes do — while maintaining one’s integrity, than to deliver bland cliches only to win votes.

Because I won this election by pretending to be what I am not, and because you voted for a robot and not a human being, I hereby resign this office, declare the election invalid, and call for a new election, with candidates who speak from the heart and not from a device. I return now to my humble roots and genuine values. Thank you and goodbye.

The president left the room, the cameras stopped rolling, and an unearthly silence enveloped the White House. The nation’s wise men pondered and the elders considered: Was this the beginning of the end for Artificial Intelligence, or was it merely the end of the beginning? They deliberated and considered, and finally they asked AI for the answer.

But the screen went blank.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1022)

The post A Might-Have-Been, Almost-Was, Parable for Our Times first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.