All of the virtual concerts, meetups, calls to family are so wonderful and appreciated. But when we hang up, we’re still hungry

We make our poorest food choices when we’re hungry. Send me into a supermarket with an appetite and I’ll return with potato chips, cakes, cookies, and an unusual amount of pickles. I’m stunned, almost offended, when my wife asks after my return, “Well, what are we going to eat for dinner?” Pickles and potato chips felt reasonable in the store, but my wife is right — they’re not a meal.

Before this pandemic, I think a lot of us — myself included — looked at the online world with the same eyes as a famished shopper in the grocery store. Can’t we just solve this over email? Let’s just Facetime. But now we live in a world where virtual is our only option and it’s starting to feel like our grocery cart is filled with just pickles and chips.

How will this period impact our future relationship with technology? I think the past months have given us a very quick and very intense tutorial on the advantages and disadvantages of technology. Going forward, I think we will appreciate it for what it is: a tool.

As some readers may quietly know, I am fairly active on social media. In my capacity as Director of Education for NCSY, it is an invaluable outreach tool. I have about a million engagements a month according to the analytics. Oftentimes — maybe with a tinge of cynicism or even jealousy — friends of mine in education ask me about online presence. Is it really appropriate? Is it necessary? Is it really helping?

My answer is two-fold. Yes, technology has incredible power. I have been able to share ideas, inspiration (and some narishkeit) with an entirely new audience. But, I explain to my educator friends, online relationships are not the same as the ones you form. I have several thousand followers and millions of engagements, but unless we connect in person I am not invited to any weddings or Bar Mitzvahs. I’m not a part of their life in that way. Recognizing that difference is crucial.

Zoom classes are nice. I miss the culture that is created in a classroom. Pre-Shabbos video gatherings can be uplifting. I miss our hashkamah minyan. Massive virtual gatherings —with roshei yeshivah, chief rabbis, and inspiring speeches — will never replace thirty people sitting around a table for a shiur. When this is over, I am not worried that our virtual connections will become the norm — because with all the virtual now I am still starving for real relationships.

Online engagement is empty calories. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy chips and cookies, but it means I don’t mistake them for dinner. During this pandemic we’ve all been forced to sustain ourselves with the snack equivalent of relationships. But at the end of my day, I go to bed feeling empty. The honesty and authenticity of human interaction, we’ve been forced to discover, cannot be replaced.

Of course, I plan to remain online as will much of the world. By and large the internet is here to stay, as a tool for commerce, planning, and wide-scale engagement. There’s never been a time like now to drive home its importance. I am certainly not minimizing that. But we have also discovered what cannot be replaced. All of the virtual concerts, meetups, calls to family are so wonderful and appreciated. But when we hang up, we’re still hungry.

Going forward, I think we will spend more time appreciating the main dish of personal connection.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 810)

The post How will our tech habits be reshaped by coronavirus? first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

My parents remember exactly where they were when JFK was assassinated. Most people of that generation do. I remember where I was sitting when I discovered that terrorists flew into the Twin Towers. But here’s the thing — I have no recollection of when this corona thing started. Because it happened so gradually but also so quickly. So, here I am, trying to find words to organize my thoughts. When the great baalei mussar would speak, they would often preface their words, “I’m talking to myself, but everyone can listen in.” It’s been generations since someone said this sincerely, but, if you’ll allow me, I’m writing for myself here. Feel free to listen in.

#1 Comfort of Torah

People have been struggling how to find meaning. Maybe meaning is the wrong word. People have been struggling to find stability. One way we’ve found stability is through meaning. We’ve been sent powerful messages from rabbanim, stories of the struggle of previous generations. Others have been sending around jokes. If we can joke, maybe we can make this feel normal? Still, few things were bringing me any sense of stability in this crisis. The jokes were recycled, the inspiration wasn’t reaching me. I did, though, have one clear moment of profound comfort. I got a letter from my rebbe. Well, not really a letter and not really from my rebbe. But Rav Hershel Schachter began circulating teshuvos on different halachic issues people are facing this year. The first one was about tevilas keilim in a town where the mikveh is closed. I looked at the teshuvah with its familiar letterhead and Rav Schachter’s signature font — he writes in Rashi script (see Rema on Yoreh Deiah 284:2). There is something deeply moving about Rav Schachter’s writing these past few weeks. It’s immediate, takes into account contemporary technological developments, but it also feel very old. In his words, you can feel him reliving the crises, dilemmas, and considerations of previous generations. In general, I am not one to be inspired solely from a novel ruling in halachah. But these have felt different to me. It’s less about his conclusions and more a reminder about where our Torah can reach. I’m tired of getting rabbinic announcements from websites and WhatsApps. Just seeing his letterhead brought me comfort, knowing that a talmid chacham, nearly 80, is sitting alone in his apartment trying to figure out how the Jewish People will toivel their dishes this Pesach, deal with taanis bechoros, and kasher their dishwashers.

It’s Rav Schachter, and a whole stream of contemporary poskim, many of them not feeling well and in isolation — Rav Asher Weiss, Rav Dovid Cohen, Rav Shlomo Miller and so many others — transforming mundane objects in extraordinary circumstances. These past few weeks everyone seems to be struggling like the ben she’eino yodeia lishol, the child at the Seder who does not even know how to ask. Will this meme bring a smile? Is it too soon for this joke? And I looked at Rav Schachter’s letterhead and found comfort that people are still asking questions and he is giving answers.

#2 Apart, but Always Together

In 1778, Rav Akiva Eiger, just 17 years old, got married. Unfortunately, his parents couldn’t be present at the wedding. Most of his family couldn’t make it. His beloved uncle, Rav Wolf Eiger, one of the eminent Jewish leaders at the time, could not make it either. Instead he sent a letter, later printed in his nephew’s responsa on Orach Chaim 29. He writes, “All of the leaders of the city are rejoicing together at the celebration made on your behalf.” Rav Wolf Eiger couldn’t be at his nephew’s wedding, but he celebrated anyway.

Centuries later, when I was in yeshivah, if you couldn’t make a close friend’s wedding but wanted to celebrate anyway, it was called a Seudas Rav Akiva Eiger. Even though you’re apart, you can still be together. My old and dear friend, Reb Yossi Rabinowitz, would always make the signs in yeshivah when a bochur got engaged. When the person getting engaged was no longer in the yeshivah, there was a line he always incorporated, taken from the introduction of Rav Nebenzhal’s sefer M’Tzion M’chlal Yofi: “mirichuk hamakom, vekiruv halev [from a great distance, with closeness of heart]”. I’ve been thinking a lot about that line the past few weeks. We are all separated from those we love, but we still have all found ways, though they’re far from ideal, to create a closeness of heart. This Seder, for all of us, will be a Seudas Rav Akiva Eiger. Mirichuk hamakom, vekiruv halev.

#3 Alone

Pesach is going to be very difficult this year. I know many people who will be having their Seder alone. Most will be without their closest family. I was planning on hosting my parents for Pesach. L’shanah haba. These days, I’ve been thinking a lot about an incident in my life that I’ve shared with almost no one. About nine years ago, before I was married, I spent a Seder by myself. My parents were spending Pesach with my sisters in Eretz Yisrael and I refused to go. I was just past the age where it felt normal sharing a bedroom with my nieces and nephews. My mother begged me to spend Pesach with another family, but I didn’t want to be a guest at the Seder. So that year, I spent Leil HaSeder alone in my parents’ kitchen, and yes, it was a bit sad. Anytime you’re by yourself or without your usual support group, your mind speaks a little louder and a little less cautiously. When you’re alone, questions you can distract yourself from in crowds become a little harder to avoid. I asked myself the Mah Nishtanah. Why is this night different than all other nights? I looked around at the answer. But as the night progressed it became more comforting. Lo al yedei shaliach, v’lo al yedei malach. G-d redeemed the Jewish People alone, and tonight my redemption felt the same. Echad mi yodeia, Who knows one? I knew one. Seder night is called Leil Shimurim, normally translated as a night of protection. But “shomer” also means to anticipate. And just like that night alone, this Seder for many will be a night of anticipation. I waited that night for a family of my own who could ask me the Four Questions. This year we’ll all be anticipating something else. A night where we collectively long for the family Sedorim with all their drama, with all the coordination, disappointment, family politics, and overtired children. We usually sing together at the end of the Seder, Leshana haba b’Yerushalayim. Wherever we are next year, I just hope it is together.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 806)

The post Coping during Corona first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

M

y editor and dear friend, Sruli Besser, called me last week to remind me to get my column in. He added one voice note (Sruli is on the UN terrorist list for his voice note usage) that we both knew would give me anxiety — “Make sure it’s funny, it’s the Purim issue.” At this point I think he feels bad for me. Every week I leave him some long-winded voice note (I’m also on the UN terrorist list) about how I have nothing. Some of my favorite columns were written in a near-fetal position, just to cope with the anxiety of getting it done. Because here is the thing about writing comedy: It’s tough. I’ve been doing this for over two years and now seems as good a time as any to reflect on what I’ve tried to accomplish. I know this is dangerous — if writing comedy is hard, writing about comedy is usually awful. E.B White once said, “Explaining a joke is like dissecting a frog —you may learn about it, but you wind up with a dead frog.” But Purim is an appropriate time to present the role humor and comedy has played in my life. So here is my relationship with comedy. I hope no frogs are harmed in the process.

1. Open Shtender Night

In elementary school, making jokes is associated with being the class clown. When you’re younger, the things that make you laugh are more slapstick. When I was in seventh grade, for example, the most reliable humor involved talking on the rebbi’s microphone when he stepped out of the room. The moment the rebbi would leave — and we knew this was a big no-no — the microphone would beckon the most mischievous kids in the class to try their best routines. It was a consistent crowd-pleaser.

But as we grow up, what makes us laugh matures as well. I don’t think I thought of myself as particularly funny until the end of high school — I was too insecure to try to make people laugh. But then yeshivah began. The economy of jokes in yeshivah is a drastic departure from elementary school. In yeshivah, a sharp line and a clever joke isn’t considered clownish — it’s part of being a lamdan. In every yeshivah I attended, it was always the strongest bochurim who starred in the Purim shpiels. During my time in Ner Israel, the Purim shpiel starred a current rav in Columbus, a rosh kollel in Chicago, and a Yeshiva-Laner in Ner Israel’s kollel. Yeshiva University was not all that different with their shpiel. The person who did the best impression of Rav Schachter was one of his star talmidim, and is now a fellow rosh yeshivah there. It wasn’t just the students — listen closely and you’ll see that rebbeim always have the best one-liners. I remember once during a chaburah in Rav Ezra Neuberger’s office, a phone of one of the talmidim started vibrating. Rav Ezra paused, clearly displeased by the disruption. “I think your shaver is on,” he said. The Chazon Ish once took a talmid to go swimming with him. While in the middle of the lake, the Chazon Ish began to splash. The talmid looked astonished. Splashing? The Chazon Ish responded, “If you can’t learn to play when you’re supposed to play, then you’ll never learn how to learn when you’re supposed to learn.” At the heart of my yeshivah experience was learning to swim in the Yam HaGemara. But part of learning how to swim is learning when to splash.

2. Comedy with Borders

About once or twice a week I get a suggestion for a Top Five list. Some are incredible, most are awful. The best one I ever received was from a girl in Lakewood who wrote a list of Top Five conversation topics guys use on dates. It was brilliant and, as I discussed in another Top Five, she obviously developed a pseudonym and fake email before sending. I’ve had roshei yeshivah send me ideas (Top Five times you clop in shul), I’ve had dorm rooms in the Mir send me ideas (something like Top Five ways to be shtultzy and geshmak — appreciated, but rejected), and I have a Top Five list of ideas Mishpacha will probably never let me publish. (Top Five characters at the mikveh on Friday is ready to go.) Ideas are usually rejected because they’re either not funny or not actually a list of anything — every time I use the word “weekend,” Sruli tells me there’s a Top Five in there somewhere.

But sometimes an idea is rejected because it’s a topic I’m not comfortable making jokes about. A while back a dear colleague, who also happens to be a wondrous wordsmith, wrote a column critical of Jewish humor that “zeroes in on the perceived idiosyncrasies — a more genteel word for inanities — of frum life.” “But this type of humor,” he writes, “has always discomfited me.” The writer recalls a time that he was distracted during Kiddush Levanah, considering the potential topics a humorist could develop with the scene. Different people may have different comedic tastes, the article concludes, but all humor writers need red lines. “Can we agree on the need for them to be drawn?” he asked. I undoubtedly have different tastes than this writer, but I completely agree with his concern. Comedy needs borders. One famous comedic producer put it this way: “There’s no creativity without boundaries. If you’re gonna write a sonnet, it’s 14 lines, so it’s solving the problem within the container.” I’ve never made jokes about davening — and there are plenty — but I’ll joke about trying to find a minyan on a Chol Hamoed trip (“outside the monkey cages, 3 p.m.”). I’d say the Top Five I’m most proud of was about the Tishah B’av practices we need to discard. It was delicate ground — I don’t think I would have attempted to broach the subject when I first started. The key question is always, what is the target of the humor? Humor is a deeply spiritual tool and it should never be aimed at sincerely. Constructive humor is spiritual, destructive humor is cynical. Sure, I’ve missed the mark. But I consider bringing joy to Jews about Jewish life a type of avodas hakodesh. Yes, there’s a Jew who thinks that after 120 years, one of his primary zechusim might just be his silly columns. It’s okay if that makes you laugh. That’s the point.

3. Searching for a Punch Line

A hesped changed my view on comedy. In fact, that particular funeral changed a lot of things for me. My dear friend, Rabbi Josh Grajower, lost his wife, Dannie, after a long bout with cancer. I knew them both well, though for nearly a decade, Dannie insisted that her illness be kept private. Her death came as a shock. Josh gave his eulogy with one of his three children clinging to his leg. During this tragedy, Josh recalled Dannie’s incredible sense of humor — I knew her as well and was often the subject of her jokes. This is what he said — it’s a direct quote, with his permission:

When we came to New York for Succos, unfortunately we had to go straight to the ER. When realizing we would be stuck in the hospital all Shabbos, just the two of us, I grabbed two books to read. The first was Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. Yes, an intense choice. It was actually Dannie’s copy of the book and she had underlined certain parts. One thing she underlined was a comment Frankl made about the surprising role of humor in concentration camps. He wrote the following lines about humor, and they were some of the few lines underlined by Dannie:

“It is well known that humor, more than anything else in the human make-up, can afford an aloofness and an ability to rise above any situation, even if only for a few seconds… The attempt to develop a sense of humor and to see things in a humorous light is some kind of a trick learned while mastering the art of living.”

Humor, the Maharal explains, is when we subvert the normal sequence of life. A well-dressed man in a suit is not expected to slip on a banana peel. We laugh when our normal sequential narratives are suddenly overturned. The setup for a joke establishes a sequential line of thinking — the punch line introduces the incongruity. Comedy and tragedy approach the same incongruous narrative, but whereas tragedy laments the lack of sequence, comedy creates its own story. I think about the power of comedy every year when we lein Megillah. During Megillah we have a curious custom of reading the words v’keilim mikeilim shonim (Esther 1:7) with the Eichah trop. As a kid, I always figured we did this to build the tension. It was like dramatic background music — “dun de dun dun.” But we don’t really do this during other sad stories in Tanach, so why here? I imagine Purim and Tishah B’Av as two old friends, who have experienced a lot of difficulty and pain together. After many years, Purim finally realizes his redemption and during the celebration he sees his old friend Tishah B’Av standing off to the side. On Purim we grab Tishah B’Av with both hands and bring him into the celebration. We remind Tishah B’Av that it’s a Purim still unfolding. Comedy and laughter have the power to subvert tragedy. On Purim we take all of our Tishah B’Av feelings and moments and bring them into the circle to dance along with us. We create a narrative arc so broad it provides comfort to our pain. If only for the day of Purim, we smile with all of the difficulties of life — mastering the art of living.

 (Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 801)

The post Ideas in Three Dimensions first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

gainst my better judgment, I accepted the Rabbi Binyamin Kamenetzky Alumnus Award from my beloved elementary school, Yeshiva of South Shore. They should have known better. And honestly, they likely did. When Rabbi Mordechai Kamenetzky initially called me, he assured me I was not their first choice. It would take me ten minutes to explain who their first choice was, but we both agreed he was more suitable. While being a distant number two for the award helped assuage much of the pressure, I still reminded the school that I was a poor choice. Don’t get me wrong. I love kavod — adore it, in fact. But this isn’t about getting me kavod, it’s about getting South Shore their much-needed support and, for that metric, I was certainly the wrong choice. Firstly, I rarely go to dinners. Even when I’m the honoree, it’s still a toss-up — so few people feel obligated to come to mine. Secondly, despite my long-standing strategy of taking credit for every anonymous donation to every mosad, people have figured out my ruse. Despite taking credit for several million dollars in anonymous donations throughout the country, people now realize my institutional gifts usually come in the form of Starbucks gift cards. But it’s already too late.

The dinner is March 1 and there is no turning back. Until then, here’s what I’ve learned: My Top Five dinner honoree staples.

The Offer

I grew up in a home that didn’t actually abhor dinner honorifics — it was more like an allergy. I don’t ever remember my parents getting any sort of award, which as a child I attributed to their apparent lack of popularity or consistently falling short of the requisite votes from whichever panel crowned the parents of the year. Ask my father to be an honoree at a dinner and his face contorts like you just asked him to give an impromptu speech on a Pesach Program. “It’s not that I don’t want to be an honoree,” he explains, “it’s an illness — I just can’t.” The follow-up description, coming from a medical doctor, usually gives even the most aggressive organizations pause. But not everyone is that emphatic. Much like the stages of grief, I have found there are five stages to accepting the position of dinner honoree.

The Ambassadors

Organizations are running out of award names. Growing up, “Parents of the Year” was popular. Over the last decade, mosdos have discovered that’s not the source of much of my generation’s wealth. Enter “Grandparents of the Year.” There’s never been a better time to be a grandparent in search of kavod. But at some point, every organization exhausts the tenuous awards connecting a member to their gvir relatives — parents of the year, grandparents of the year, mechutanim of the millenium, shver of the century. Today’s word for honoree is “ambassador.” I’m not sure if it’s related to the political fervor sweeping the Jewish community, but every yeshivah has its own little UN of ambassadors from each city across the country. I’ve deftly avoided this. My yeshivah had ambassadors from Dallas, Columbus, Cincinnati, and Los Angeles. Only one major Jewish city was missing: Teaneck. I’m not sure why they skipped Teaneck for their ambassadorship. I think they got nervous when I asked if I could bring my own flag and sing the national anthem.

The Honoree Video

At the end of the day, we all know why we accept dinner honors. That sweet, sweet honoree video. Who wouldn’t want to preserve on film the one time in the last decade their living room was actually clean? It’s a priceless memory. Some of the elements of the video are staples by now. Old rebbeim remembering how the honoree “was a troublemaker.” I’m not sure what South Shore has in mind, but if they want to gloss over the details of Hillel Novack’s bar mitzvah that would be fine with me. I’m pretty sure there still some outstanding warrants I wouldn’t mind avoiding.

The Dinner Ads

Of course, no honor is complete without submitting an ad to the dinner journal. And — SPOILER ALERT — they extended the deadline for journal ads. Seriously? You mean hundreds of Jews were not able to properly coordinate their ads in time for the deadline three-and-a-half weeks before the dinner? I’ve forgotten to send in so many ads that to avoid any issues, my ads now normally read, “TBD, Sincerely, the Bashevkins.” For some, the dinner ad is a time to try your hand at some humor. It’s your one-time shot to see if you can pull off a cute one-liner that will get the readers to smirk as they breathe once heavily through their nose. But the people I respect most are those who use the dinner journal space to advertise their local businesses. There’s no better audience than those all spacing out during the honoree’s speech over the main course for whom to advertise your mortgage refinancing service. “Waiter, yes, I’d like the chicken and also (carefully rifling through the journal) a home equity loan.” At the end of the day, for all the headaches, silliness, ads, and videos, it’s worth it. As Rav Klonymous Kalman Shapira, the Piaseczno Rebbe said, “The greatest thing in the world is to do someone else a favor.” Yeshivos, schools, shuls, organizations do so much for us — isn’t it a privilege to return the favor?

Special thanks to all of my rebbeim and friends from South Shore Yeshiva. Looking forward to singing the national anthem with you all in two weeks.

The Lists

“Can you send us your lists?” You’re not an official honoree until the sponsoring organization asks for your lists. When you are in my line of work, this is easily confused. I sent South Shore a list of my Top Five Honorary Jewish Products (e.g. Charles Tyrwhitt, Stella Doro cookies), Fancy Derashah Vocabulary Words (e.g. vicissitudes, behooves) and Top Five Shabbos Dips (e.g. baba ghanush, chummus, tomato dip). Rabbi Kamenetsky soon corrected me. ”No, no, no, we need like your lists — y’know — for donors.” Ohhh. My mistake. I sent him My Top Five Reasons You Might be a Gvir.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 799)

The post Top 5 Dinner Honoree Staples first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Some Yamim Tovim are filled with directions. We know what to do on Pesach. You know where to turn to light Chanukah candles. But other Jewish holidays serve as the proverbial open mic night for Jews to air their opinions, grievances, and personal styles, and no holiday on the Jewish calendar is subjected to more subjective interpretation and Jewish style than Tu B’Shevat. With the absence of universal dinim and direction, Yidden step up to the mic and improvise their personal styles, approaches, and philosophies. In fact, Tu B’Shevat tells the world what kind of Jew you are. Here are my Top 5 Tu B’Shevat Jews.

1. The Killjoy

I have a dear friend who waits all year for Tu B’Shevat. From Rosh Chodesh, he waits, watching everyone assemble their pekelach, set up their tables for their Tu B’Shevat seders, and prepare the proper kavanos for the holy day. And just as the Tu B’Shevat parade is about to begin, he summons a downpour of Debbie Downer rain all over everyone’s celebrations.

“You know it’s just a day for the purpose of counting orlah, right?”

The music stops, the celebration is halted, and he sits there wryly smiling — a joyous expression that he only rarely feels when he discovers a new reason to say Tachanun.

I’m nearly certain my dear friend was bullied by a carob tree as a child. As the inside of the trees quietly begin to blossom and bloom, this is a day for halachic reductionists to share their inner gloom with the world. If you’re accosted by such a person, don’t bother arguing. Trust me, these types keep the relevant maareh mekomos on them at all times. Let them enjoy another Tachanun and just roll your eyes at their curmudgeonly ways. It’s not your problem they don’t care about what the renewal of trees represents.

2. The Environmentalist

It’s not easy being a frum environmentalist. Every Shabbos kiddush they’re surrounded by disposable plastic. Each cholent-stained plastic bowl is just a reminder to them of how far we are from the eco-friendly kiddush they so desperately wait for. Such people stay in the shadows, they know it’s not a safe space to air their views. Maybe they’ll quietly ask for more salad choices Shabbos morning, but they know it’s hard being vocal about the climate.

Yet there is one day they do have: Tu B’Shevat. Finally, they can distribute their recycling pamphlets, wax poetic about composting, and share with the world the joys of gardening. One day a year they can dust off their Israeli-style tilboshet Bnei Akiva shirts, don their open-toed sandals, and remind the world that although recycling and environmentalism rarely win you any friends — it’s okay. That’s why they name all of their plants.

3. The Mystic

I was in my late twenties the first time I attended a Tu B’Shevat seder. It was an absolute joy being surrounded by chassidic songs, friends, and a rebbe who made the occasion come alive. But allow me to be honest with you: I had no idea what was happening. A small part of me thought it was a very elaborate prank. I was handed fruits I was nearly certain were not edible.

“Here’s a six-month-old esrog — take a bite — don’t forget to have in mind your future esrog and also maybe your grandparents.” Wut. “Yeah, don’t worry, it’s delicious, just bite it and then wash it down with this tree-bark milkshake.”

I don’t profess to know all the kavanos of Tu B’Shevat, but I admit I was really caught off guard. If you want a reason to eat an esrog and a tree-bark sandwich with an entrée that includes a plant that looks like a science experiment, go find yourself a Tu B’Shevat seder.

4. The Pekelach Enthusiast

For me, Tu B’Shevat has always meant one thing: pekelach. Each year in elementary school we would get a pekel on Tu B’Shevat. Nothing gets children as excited like receiving a bag of treats — except on Tu B’Shevat. The Tu B’Shevat pekeleh bag seems to have been designed by a crack squad team that included the one strict mom who doesn’t allow soda in her house, your dentist, and a bubbe who grew up in Europe and who still thinks the most exciting treat for a child is a unopened walnut.

When they receive their pekeleh, you can see the children raise the plastic to their eyes and carefully scan the contents, the joy slowly dissipating. But the best part is watching the young innocent children have their first encounter with the official mascot of Tu B’Shevat: bokser. You can see the calculations going on in their minds. What is that — a dried banana? Who would put a dried banana in a treat bag? Is this some sort of sick joke? No, no, no. It must be something else.

Then the child’s eyes light up. Chocolate, it must be chocolate. Phew! Okay, this pekeleh bag has been redeemed. And then the moment of truth, as the poor innocent child lifts this ambiguous chocolate-dried-banana specimen to his mouth. As he begins to wince, those who knew better can joyously exclaim “Mazel tov!” as they’ve inaugurated a new generation to the timeless tradition of trying to digest one bite of bokser on Tu B’Shevat.

As subsequent generations weaken, the bokser Tu B’Shevat tradition has become less common. Which saddens me. There are two traditions I will always preserve for my children: In one hand I keep a fistful of bokser. In the other hand I keep a clump of esrog hair. Together, they have ensured I am not invited to any more Tu B’Shevat seders.

5. The Freezer

Tu B’Shevat may mean a lot of different things to a lot of different people, but if you’re in shidduchim and live in Lakewood, this Yontif marks the opening of the freezer: Newcomers to Lakewood can officially begin shidduchim. And as someone who did not learn in Lakewood, I actually totally get the freezer. People need an official start date when to begin dating. Otherwise they just pick inexplicably random dates.

Sure, some say, “He’s waiting till after Pesach.” Is the Pesach Seder gonna add more clarity? For others, “Yes he’s ready, but he’s gonna start after the fourth night of Chanukah.” Why, though? When people asked me, I told them I was starting after the Winter Equinox. No one knew when it was, so I was rarely bothered.

Tu B’Shevat ensures everyone has a firm starting point to jump in. But before you exit the freezer, there are a few necessary preparations. Firstly, shaving should no longer be a pre-Shabbos routine. Keep your shaver charged, and, pro-tip, keep one in your glove compartment. Nothing says “I’m ready to start dating seriously” like a bochur shaving with one hand on the steering wheel. I’ve never given a dating schmooze, but if I did, the majority of it would focus on shaving. If you’re wondering why your date was staring at your neck the entire date, you need this schmooze. A clean-shaven bochur with a rebbishe neck beard may need a few more months in the freezer.

But more than anything else, before you exit the freezer and start dating, you need to take a deep, real, and honest look at the inside of your car. The Coke Zero in the cup holder with a third left? Did you remember to put your shaver back in the glove compartment, or is it in the other cup holder? Thought so. And maybe your date doesn’t need to sit down on a soft seat of empty Chex Mix bags. As you prepare the tefillah for your future home, start with a bircas harechev, and may it lead to your bircas habayis.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 797)

The post Top 5 Tu B’Shevat Jews first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Huh?  There are so many different ways for people to express themselves, and Jews are certainly no different. We have our geshmak words that no one else has — mechutanim, bedieved, shayach, goires, and many others. But sometimes all you need is a noise. A krechtz is worth a thousand sorry’s. But before I share my list, I need to make an important disclaimer. I have excluded the sound “oy.” I know, oy. Some may say it’s the ultimate Jewish sound. Maybe so. But it’s also like the bagels and lox of Jewish sounds — the sound Jewish people make because they don’t know any others. So I’m sorry to all of the “oy vey” enthusiasts out there, but here we’re focusing on sounds a bit more profound on the spectrum of Jewish noises. Just as liking the song “Racheim” doesn’t make you a real Shwekey fan, “oy vey” doesn’t quite bring you into the club. Here are my top five Jewish sounds that always get the point across.

Pshhh

I’m no historian, but I don’t think there has been a sincere “pshhh” since the early 1980s. Certainly, there was a time that the “pshhh” sound connoted actual accomplishment and honor, but it’s been decades since then. Now “pshhh” is reserved for two primary circumstances: (1) When the class clown in eighth grade gets an aliyah, you can count on the entire graduating class giving a “pshhh.” (2) It was announced you’re getting honored at a dinner that clearly was turned down by a few other people first. Pshhh, saw you’re getting honored by the shtibel — you gonna forget about the little people next time we have a breakaway Friday davening together? It’s a playful way of reminding someone who just was given a morsel of kavod not to take themselves too seriously. It’s a shame “pshhh” is only understood in the Jewish community. Imagine being able to “pshhh” on conference calls when the company reports sales figures.  Here’s the general rule of thumb: They’re not pshhhing with you — they are pshhhing at you.

Tsssssss

“I just heard an amazing vort from Rebbe.” You slowly begin backing away. You’re sure the vort is amazing, but you’re also absolutely certain that it will be absolutely butchered when it’s told to you. “So, in the parshah, the pasuk — wait, do you have a Chumash? It’s better inside.” You playfully pat your pockets. No Chumash, as your eyes slowly scan for exits. But it’s too late. You know you’re going to have to sit through this lukewarm kli sheini recitation of a vort that probably requires about two pages of maareh mekomos to even properly set up. But here we are. Don’t panic. When there’s a lull in the passionate, though likely completely incorrect recitation of the vort, there is a catch-all reaction that can bail you out without having to resort to a follow-up clarification question: Tsssss. Like a balloon slowly deflating, “tssss” is the sound you make when the tension dissipates while waiting for a long vort to end that you, and likely the speaker, did not understand. If you really want to make sure your faux enthusiasm registers, make sure the “tsss” is accompanied by a gentle head bob from side to side and concludes with the sounds of a small bomb going off inside your mouth. Pchhhhh. Next time you’re in this situation, try to cut them off earlier. When they ask you if you have a Chumash, point to your heart, follow with a tssss, head bob, pchhhh, and run for the door.

Nu

In the corners of nearly any shul a conversation unfolds that would be incomprehensible to an outsider, but quite unremarkable to an insider.

“Nu?”

“Nu, nu.”

“Nu!”

“Nu, nu, nu!”

“Nu.”

Maybe they’re arguing about who should get a kibbud, or about politics, or talking in learning. It doesn’t really matter what they’re discussing — what’s impressive is that a “nu” can essentially comprise an entire conversation. Its meaning changes depending on the tone, so you have to listen carefully. This is the “Who’s on First” of the Jewish world. Add a question mark at the end, an exclamation point, a string of nu’s, and for each permutation the meaning changes. But most readers likely already know this. Or in other words, “nu, nu.”

Tschk

The Gemara uses two nearly identical phrases to express dissent. Sometimes the phrase used is “Lo amar midi,” but other times, the Gemara uses a slightly different term, “Lo amar v’leho midi.” What’s the difference between the two? My esteemed and uber-shtoltzy chavrusa, Rabbi Binyamin Silver, JD, once told me that the former phrase is the Gemara saying, “What was said is not correct.” In the latter, however, the Gemara is saying, “You didn’t even say nothing.” I’ve loved the distinction ever since. Sometimes you don’t want to argue with someone — you want to communicate that whatever has just been said doesn’t even have enough substance to argue with. You didn’t even say nothing. Thankfully, when we want to communicate such absolute dissent, we don’t need to rely on Talmudic terminology. We have a sound: Tschk. Move your tongue towards your front teeth and the roof of your mouth and snap it downwards. Hear that click sound? That means “you’re so wrong it doesn’t even merit an explanation.” If anyone ever tongue clicks at you, just be thankful. They’re trying to stop you before you say something truly awful. If you don’t stop speaking after the first “tschk,” you’re bound to wind up in worse territory: Feh.

uh, UH

Everyone needs motivation. Onlookers and supporters encourage marathon runners with their cheers. A child gets excited with thoughtful words of affirmation: “Almost there — you did it!” The affirmation in the beis medrash is not a phrase, it’s a sound: “uh, UH.” The emphasis and tone slowly rises with each successive “uh.” You’re saying good — “uh, UH” — say noch besser. But this noise has begun to travel outside of the confines of the beis medrash. I once went to a little league game, or as it is charmingly called in the yeshivah world, “Yiddle League.” When the home team gets a big hit, you can actually hear all the Tattes in the stands audibly grunt together, “uh UH” as the child rounds the bases. And when the child finally crosses home plate, the collective “uh Uh” crescendos into a passionate “oo-aah.” When communities invite me to speak, my signature motivational speech is about 40 minutes of impassioned “uh UHs” that conclude with a resounding “oo-aah.” Everyone understands it, but no one ever invites me back. Nu, nu.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 795)

The post Top 5 Jewish Noises first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

While this is the second Siyum HaShas I’ve attended, it was the first Siyum for everyone with the existence of social media. It seemed like two conversations were happening throughout. One was the event and the other was reacting to the event. It was a litmus test of sorts, not only for which moments resonated with different people, but how different people were able to stay in the moment. So whether you were physically present, or watching online, or just getting clips and pictures forwarded to you, everyone had a moment, and everyone had the challenge of staying in a moment. And if you were able to muster the latter you surely found the former. Here are my top five Siyum moments.

The VIPs

“So, where are you sitting at the Siyum?” This seemingly simple question rarely gets a straightforward answer. “I know a bunch of people in VIP boxes.” Yeah, okay, but where are you sitting? “Well, last year I was in a box — my wife is actually cousins with…” Cool, cool, but again your seat is… “My father knows a lot of Agudah people so he’s actually on the dais, or near the dais — my father can for sure see the dais.” Okay, so I guess we’ll just meet up after? In shidduchim people pride themselves on being outside the box, at the Siyum everyone was focused on who was in the box. True story: As I was driving toward the Siyum, snaking through the crawl of traffic, I saw a Yid trying to negotiate with the woman directing traffic by holding up a large piece of paper with the letters “VIP” written in crayon. What a Jew does to get out of traffic — mi k’amcha Yisrael. This is the one area I actually think we might have what to learn from the stadium’s non-Jewish counterparts. There is a special pride and culture at certain baseball stadiums for being a bleacher creature. Those are where the die-hard fans who go to every game and know all the idiosyncrasies of the stadium sit. If you offered them a box they might turn you down. Aside for some momentary respite in the press box from the cold, I sat in the bleachers — pretty much as high up as you can go. Didn’t really see any Jewish celebs and there were no politicians. Just pashute Yidden as far as the eye could see. It was colder, it was less glamorous — but there is nothing sweeter and warmer than being surrounded by simple Jews.

Coffee Talk

Every yeshivah has a coffee room, but no one goes to the coffee room to actually drink coffee. You say you’re going to think about the sugya and then you actually go for a quick hock break. Did the second seder shoel start wearing an up-hat? Is the visiting rosh yeshivah going to speak from bimah in the main beis, the ezras nashim, or just a classroom? You know there’s a sale now — Charles Tyrwitt, 11 shirts for 40 dollars, but you have to have a shipping address in Wyoming, my great aunt is from there. And if a yeshivah has coffee talk, one can only expect some measure of it when a hundred thousand gather together. Scheiner wore a blue hat — wow, that’s a power move. Yeah, I got the Waldo guy too and no, I don’t need or want the link to purchase. Some people hate the coffee room, others love it. This much I know — it’s a reality in every yeshivah, so instead of scowling, I just appreciate that they’re here instead of Starbucks. I’ll save my indignation for when Charles Tyrwhitt tries to sponsor the Siyum.

Resolutions

There was a certain poetry in the Siyum HaShas falling out on the secular new year. It’s when the rest of the world makes their new year’s resolutions. Lose those ten pounds, wake up earlier, learn to cook. Every new cycle of the Siyum begins with resolutions as well. It always starts the same — only this time with a thousand more options. When my father did the daf there were probably three or four local options for shiurim. Then came the tapes. And the CDs. Now we have websites and apps and podcasts. I don’t know how much all of these options changes the amount of people following through on their learning resolutions, but I’m quite certain it has drastically expanded the amount of people making them. A friend of mine decided to start the daf. He said, “I’m sure the founders of daf yomi get a lot of zechus on account of those who made it all the way to the end of Niddah, but I think the zechus is even greater for encouraging so many to learn Berachos daf beis.” Do our resolutions last longer? Not sure. But I know that they begin deeper and reflect our nation’s abiding love for limud Torah.

Daf Alef

I didn’t need the WhatsApp reactions to confirm what I already knew would be the case from the start. The Jewish people rose to the occasion. Every speech we’ve heard growing up, before leaving the bus on the field trip, about the opportunity to make a chillul Hashem or a kiddush Hashem, clearly resonated. From the start, every maintenance worker, every security guard, everyone in the ticket booth got a smile and warm word. Cynics might wave it off and say we knew this was a day we had to be on our best behavior — the press is here. They’re wrong. When Jews gather to celebrate Torah, there is an implicit sense of duty that a celebration of Torah must go hand in hand with good middos. Before the Satmar Rebbe would begin shiur he would ask everyone how they were doing. Once a chassid, anxious to begin learning, piped up, “Nu, we’ve been talking for a while — can we start learning?” The Rebbe responded that the Gemara begins on daf beis — daf aleph is asking your friend how he’s doing. Every greeting, every thank you, every warm smile meant we celebrated daf aleph as well.

Bringing Teens

There’s a story I love. And it’s about teaching Gemara. Whenever I retell a story about Gemara I always feel extra pressure to retell the entire chain of how I heard it. We spend pages in Gemara saying Amar Rav Huna Amar Rav Nachman — this story is Amar Rabbi Akiva Block Amar Rabbi Moshe Benovitz. In the 1970s there was an educator living in Buffalo who befriended a group of public-school teens. They would get coffee together, sometime gather for a Shabbos party. One day, the teens asked if they could learn Torah together. The man traveled to his rebbe, Rav Yaakov Kamenetzky, to ask him what would be an appropriate topic to begin learning with them. When he approached Rav Yaakov in his office, Rav Yaakov was buried in his Gemara. The man presented the question and Rav Yaakov looked up and asked, “Well, what are you learning?” The teacher responded, “Well, my chavrusa and I are currently learning Bava Kamma.” Reb Yaakov said that would be a great subject to study with the teenagers. A little confused, the teacher said, “B’mechilas kevod my rebbe, I am not sure Rebbe understands the nature of an American teenager.” Rav Yaakov looked up from his Gemara and smiled. “B’mechilas kevod my talmid, I’m not sure you understand the nature of a daf of Bava Kamma.”

I thought a lot about this story at the Siyum HaShas. I didn’t go to the Siyum alone — I brought 350 boys and girls as a part of NCSY’s annual Yarchei Kallah. This was not an easy decision. We had to move the date of the program, which normally take place during the teenager’s public-school break between Xmas and New Year’s. A lot of people fretted — are the teens even going to appreciate this? I heard there’s going to be a speech in Yiddish! What if it rains? Will the girls feel left out? We had conference calls. We spoke to other organizations. Some said it made no sense. Some who only brought boys were afraid at how our community would be perceived through modern eyes. I understood the concerns — the language, the optics, the Yiddish, the mysterious schedule that only appeared the week of the event. I felt myself asking: B’mechilas kevod the Siyum, I am not sure this will work. And the Jewish people came together and collectively reminded me and showed each teen present — B’mechilas kevod your concerns, I’m not sure you understand the nature of the Siyum HaShas. The teens understood it. They saw with fresh eyes that the measure of a community is from what it celebrates. And they found a community that doesn’t celebrate touchdowns and doesn’t celebrate rock stars, it celebrates Torah. Those teens discovered that they are part of a community where celebration derives from the eternal rather than the ephemeral. And watching them reminded me how proud I am to be a part of our community too.

Thanks to Ari Ashkenaz and Yehudah Gebberer’s Jewish History Soundbites for the Satmar Rav story and thank you to Amy Mauskopf for making sure none of the teens were left at the stadium. And thank you to Rina and Dov Emerson for driving me there.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 793)

The post Top 5 Siyum Moments first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

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is the season. Coordinating Chanukah parties, 11-year-olds discovering that they’ve outgrown being excited about playing dreidel, and yes, of course, Chanukah presents. In general, Chanukah presents can cause divisiveness in our community. There’s a whole camp who refuses to do it at all (“It’s not a Yiddishe minhag!”), but even among those who do celebrate that way, there’s a deep division: A present every night or one big present that lasts all eight nights? The main struggle for me growing up was exhibiting some measure of discipline when family came to visit before asking, “What did you get me?” I was a present fiend, accosting grandparents, scaling the upper shelves of closets, and peering at ambiguous lumps in the car trunk. I have since matured, but my fascination with gifts in the Jewish community still lingers.

The Shadchan Gift

“Yosef and I are so appreciative of all of the work and effort you put in on our behalf to make this such a special simchah.”

As Chavi and Yosef hand over the box to the shadchan, she’s already nervous. Box is way too thin and light to be something serious. Who gives money in box? It’s also too narrow and wide to be jewelry. So many possibilities are running through the shadchan’s head, she didn’t realize the couple are waiting for her to respond to their last question.

Quickly snapping out of her reverie, she responds, “Oh, what number shidduch is this? Baruch Hashem well past 20.”

Maybe it’s a really big fancy gift certificate? But the dread has already set in. She knows what’s in the box. It’s either a picture of the couple in a fancy frame or a challah cover. Slowly she opens the box, moving past that crinkly paper that feels like a stale fancy tissue.

It’s worse than she thought. She unfurls a challah cover with the faces of the couple embroidered on top.

But, we know what shadchanim want. Money. For every late-night phone call, for every time they talked one side out of ending it because the guy was too out-of-the-box, for every call they had 15 minutes later convincing the other side that the girl is not too in-the-box — they earned it and deserve it. Just don’t ask me how much.

How much to give a shadchan is like finding out how much to tip the garbage men during holiday season — everyone knows you have to, but no one knows how much. This much I do know, though: The accepted price increases in relation to your hashkafah. A thousand dollars from each side might work in Teaneck, but in Lakewood you can be looking at several times that. So what you save on tuition in the yeshivishe velt, you end up losing in shadchanus. Honestly, when people start dating, they should focus less on the hashkafah of the girl and consider more carefully the hashkafos of the shadchan — it can cost you!

The Chavrusa Gift

There’s an awkward moment that many a yeshivah bochur has experienced. You borrow someone’s Ketzos, and lo and behold, the inside cover is scribbled with what at first glance seems like an overly emotional tribute letter. No, this page-and-a-half-long scrawl is not from a kallah, it’s from a doting chavrusa.

I’m not sure when the custom began, but in many yeshivos at the end of a zeman, chavrusas exchange gifts. This has become an outright epidemic in Modern Orthodox Israeli yeshivos. I remember at the end of the year at Shaalvim, chavrusas in the American program would lug in full sets of Tosafos Rosh and drop it on the table. Chavrusas had to act surprised and excited as if they didn’t realize what was going to happen when their mutual friend asked during lunch the previous week, “What seforim are you still missing and also — sidenote — how much do you plan on spending on your gift to Shlomo?”

I had two rules in yeshivah about chavrusa gifts:

1) Only single-volume seforim. I don’t need a random volume of Rashba, and a full set of Ritva is going to feel awkward when you see what I got you (spoiler: I got all my chavrusas copies of Tzidkas HaTzaddik).

2) If you’re going to write me a note inside the sefer, please do it on the back cover — I don’t need my children reading the love letter or laughing at your first-year-in-Israel Hebrew.

So whatever you end up getting your chavrusa — nothing, a full set of Tur, Touched by a Story chelek gimmel — there is just one major no-no: Don’t buy a blank “Chiddushei Torah.” Maybe you can convince me that they make cute bar mitzvah gifts, but if you’re still using them in yeshivah, there’s a good chance they’re going to remain blank.

The Teacher/Rebbi Gift

Before Chanukah every year my mother would send me to yeshivah with an envelope. I knew what was in the envelope — my mother told me. It was actually quite sweet. I grew up in the Five Towns, but as a young child I always was nervous that we had no money. We were always fine, but stir enough anxiety into a young child’s mind, and he’ll come up with all sorts of concerns. My mother would always reassure me, “We pay full tuition, we’re fine!”

As an eight-year-old, I didn’t really understand the accomplishment of paying tuition — it sounded like someone bragging that they had never been to jail. Was the alternative to paying tuition shoplifting school? I didn’t really get it. But one year my mother pulled me aside and explained that no matter our financial situation — short of anything dire — it was so important to them to show appreciation to my rebbeim and teachers. She always gave me that envelope and made sure I knew that showing appreciation was a privilege.

Not everyone may be in a position to give money, but here’s one thing that rebbeim, teachers, and morahs don’t want instead: your book. And let me be absolutely clear — as a new author, I need to remind myself of this every day. It’s not easy. And it doesn’t matter if it’s in Hebrew or English — they don’t want it unless an envelope is tucked away inside the cover. My book has become the Swiss Army knife for all displays of appreciation. I gave my wife a copy for our anniversary. She threw it out. Now I know what to get her for Chanukah.

The Gift from Eretz Yisrael

As you say goodbye, about to leave to the airport, the dreaded request is made: “Bring me back something from Eretz Yisrael.” This usually ruins the duration of my trip — because I never know what to get. I’ve made this mistake enough times that I have mastered the last-minute gift-buying from the terminal in Ben-Gurion.

Here are your basic options. Your first line of defense is the Hazorfim at the airport. At this point, I just walk in and say a price range, and then figure out what I bought when I finally deliver the gift. What did you bring back? Hmm…. I want to say, “a silver [pauses and examines the oak and silver] bentsher holder?” Might also be for besamim. Embrace the mystery.

If Hazorfim is out of your price range or wrong for your demographic, my second line of defense is one of those overpriced costume jewelry stores. I have some PTSD from unsupervised jewelry shopping for my wife, and I always forget if that piece is still in or “that’s from, like, a hundred years ago.” So, I usually decide against walking in.

Your third line of defense — and once you’re here you’ve already lost — is the gift shop. If the people in your life still get excited by seeing brand names in Hebrew letters, you need to reassess whom you surround yourself with. Part of becoming an adult is not getting giddy when you see “Coca-Cola” written in Hebrew.

If nothing works there — a candy bar with Hebrew letters? — there is only one place left. And it’s calling you with its big red shiny letters: Duty Free. And after frantically searching for an hour, almost missing your flight, frankly you need it. When your kids ask what you brought from Eretz Yisrael, just explain you accidentally drank it on the way home.

The Chasunah Gift

You got the shadchan a gift. You booked the hall. Secured the caterer. Think you’re done? Guess what — you’re not. Not even close. We learn the laws of marriage from Avraham’s purchase of the Mearas Hamachpeilah, because in our community you’re not really married until you’re dead broke.

The add-on slowly trickles in. “You know, Tatty, Yossi doesn’t have a menorah.” There’s an implicit expectation to buy all sorts of Yom Tov goodies — menorahs, Megillos, esrog boxes. Here’s the secret. You need to schedule the entire engagement/wedding period during the quiet season over the summer, when there are no Yamim Tovim. Skip the menorah. No need for the Megillah. Just send a pair of Crocs and wish a meaningful fast.

The worst new emerging trend is the current fad of buying gifts for all the siblings. “Oh, cute, we’re all gonna wear brother/sister-of-the-kallah hoodies! Can we just decide now among ourselves how long we have to wear these when you’re around? Does two months sound reasonable?”

I was in my late twenties when I got married, and around five years into dating, I started to feel the absence on my wrist. There is something eerie in a yeshivah when you’re surrounded by kids in their early twenties all walking around with thousand-dollar watches. I don’t know how chassan watches got started, but at that point in my life I knew two things: I loved fancy watches and I didn’t have one.

So when I was about 27, I created a new custom. I bought myself a nice watch. It was my not-a-chassan watch. If a newly minted chassan got a watch in addition to the adulation, dorm posters, and dining room dancing, surely a custom needed to be created to invest those not-yet-married with dignity. So began my time-honored custom of awarding those weary from dating a not-a-chassan watch. Sometimes the most important gift is the one you buy for yourself.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Issue 791)

The post Top 5 Jewish Gifts first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

W

hat’s a guy like you doing in a magazine like this? People pose this question to me from different angles. Some feel like my form of content is not befitting such a magazine for the Torah community: Too cutesy. Too many references to the outside world (and they don’t even see what my editors take out). Others ask because they know me. In many ways, my association with Mishpacha is the story of communication itself over the past decade.

“We’re looking for someone who can write the kind of stuff that would be shared in WhatsApp groups.” That was my original job description from Mishpacha. I wasn’t a subscriber at the time, and when I told my wife they were speaking with me about writing she immediately asked, “Do you think we’ll get a free subscription?” I assured her that with my shrewd negotiating skills, we might also get a tote bag.

Mishpacha found me through social media. I had built a medium-sized following by sharing quips, sometimes-timely articles, and Torah ideas that inspired me. Our exchange highlights the way communication has changed — particularly in the frum world. While the rest of the world has used social media and communications to build more external ties with other parts of the world, the Jewish community has used it to build deeper and richer cultural ties internally. I can probably tell you your age, community, and hashkafah if you tell me your Top Five most-used WhatsApp groups. What is so fascinating is that by and large we’re not using social media to connect outwardly — we have used it to build a richer Jewish world.

This has been a blessing and a curse.

The Blessings

(you’ll excuse my list of three, I promise to do a Top Five a different week):

Jewish humor is at an all-time high. The jokes are sharper, more nuanced, and more niche than ever before. The relative strength of a community’s humor is a reflection of its cultural cohesion. By that measure we are doing great. We are a people of inside jokes.

Torah is being shared. I like to tease the Meaningful Minute — who’s buying green screens for all of these rabbis? — but teasing aside, Torah inspiration is being provided in ways never seen before. Sure, I need to clear my phone memory every day before Minchah. But the digital technology has allowed people to share inspiration and ideas that they used to only be able to access at the Rabbi Reisman Motzaei Shabbos telecast.

Access to gedolim. Do you remember when the video of the Chofetz Chaim came out? For some, I’m sure it may have felt sad or strange watching footage of a gadol b’Yisrael go viral. But there was also something very special. People stopped for a moment and were able to access the Chofetz Chaim on their phones. Every day I get pictures and videos of rebbeim, teachers, and mentors, making the unreachable personalities for a moment feel accessible.

The Curse

Okay, allow me to kvetch about the darker side of this story. It’s not the one you’re thinking. The usual kvetch about the emergence of social media communications is how kids these days need everything instantly. Instant pictures! Instant fame! Instant coffee! Before you know it, the rebbi is railing against microwaves. Yes, instant is the new reality — but that’s not my main gripe. Let people enjoy their instant messaging and instant coffee. Honestly, if a Jew never has to wait in line at the post office again, I think our people will survive.

My concern is singular: sincerity. I am worried that moments are being measured by who we share them with and how people react and, as a community, we are losing our capacity to have an honest private moment.

I think about this every time they’re videoing the kumzitz, or when the chuppah pictures go up on Instagram, or when the question-and-answer session at the conference is livestreamed. None of those in and of themselves are wrong or evil — but I wonder if we’re forgetting how to have a private real moment.

I’m guiltier than anyone. I take selfies and I measure my columns based on how much they’re shared.

One of the concerns of being a pulpit rabbi is that any time you learn Torah, in the back of your head all you can think about is whether this vort or idea would work well in a shiur or derashah. I’m worried that over the last decade we’ve all become pulpit rabbis, but instead of running our inspiration past the derashah-gauge, we’re instead constantly considering sharing it online. And instead of thinking in the back of our heads only when we learn, we’re doing it when we live.

I don’t know the answers. Some focus on the blessing of communications of the last decade. I can’t help but also be haunted by the curse. Would you trade your online name recognition, social media following, and that good Twitter post for 15 minutes of sincerity with the people you love? I hope I would say yes. Don’t tell me your answer — just say it to yourself.

This Isn’t the CHINUCH of 2010

We’re Not the KLAL YISRAEL of 2010

This Isn’t the HOUSING of 2010

This Isn’t the MUSIC of 2010

This Isn’t the THERAPY GENERATION of 2010

This isn’t the RBS of 2010

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 790)

The post This Isn’t the COMMUNICATION of 2010 first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

ello Cheshvan, my old friend. There is always an eerie silence to this month. Shul is a little quieter. The backyard feels emptier. You can barely round up a Minchah minyan at Home Depot. But there is also something quite charming about the quiet of winter. As the narrow streets of cobblestone are drenched in the cold and damp rain, the sound of silence from the month of Cheshvan can be heard. And since we Jews like to talk so much, we find a way to communicate even through silence. Much of Judaism can at times feel like an extended game of charades.

Here are my top 5 wordless Jewish communications.

Washing

As a child, not talking after washing on bread seemed like the most challenging of all halachos. Even the adults around me seemed to scatter after Kiddush and avoid promptly washing so as not to be prematurely sealed within the cone of silence. My dad would sneak off into the living room to read. My sisters would run upstairs. It was a Mexican showdown to see who the chump was who would be stuck not talking first. But once someone washed, the game of charades began. Whoever washed first would make the rounds — first to my dad in the living room and then to whomever was upstairs—with a loud “Uh, uh” sound as they made hand motions with their fists, looking like an elderly bubby driving after sundown. It is remarkable how much can be said without speaking. Once the fist-driving motion was complete and everyone was at the table, we would all wait patiently until my father moseyed in. He was usually the last to wash. In the interim we would have full-blown conversations that could only by deciphered by a CIA lip-reader that would eventually devolve into each of us slowly and carefully mouthing “WHAT” with our lips. Eventually, all wordless washing conversations must end. And there’s only one way to do it. I’ll show you how. Make a fist. Stick out your index finger. Now spin it vigorously in front of you like you’re pointing to a flying bug. After washing.

Salt

Once everyone is finally settled and you’re about to make Hamotzi, there is always one wordless communication left. Where’s the salt? The universal sign language for salt at a Shabbos table is well-accepted. Bring your index finger and thumb close together like you’re showing someone how little patience you have left and then shake vigorously downward. The Mishnah Berurah (166:2) does note that for items relevant for the meal, such as salt, it is permissible to speak. This was dangerous information once it was discovered by my brother-in-law, Ian. In his house, he would wait for everyone to settle into their seats before Hamotzi and then he would bellow at the top of his lungs, “SALT!” I preferred the hand motions — they were less salty.

Hagbah/Gelilah

I always sit in the back of the shul. While chashuve rabbis sit on the “mizrach vant” in front, I sit in the nosebleed seats on the “maarav vant.” It’s not because I don’t love davening — I just want to avoid eye-contact with the gabbaim. I’m not afraid to speak in public, but ask me to do pesichah and I’ll sweat until they put the sifrei Torah away. Pesichah is governed by the Jewish equivalent of Murphy’s Law — whatever way you pull the paroches strings of the aron, they’re supposed to be pulled the other way. My nightmare is tugging so hard that the paroches just falls on me as I blindly crash headfirst straight through the aron. I’ve actually come close several times.

But the danger of gabbai eye-contact is magnified now that certain kibbudim can be assigned just by mere hand motions. Hagbah has its own motion — two fists in the air, as if they’re lining up for an intimidating weigh-in before a championship bout of thumb-wars. And, of course, gelilah, which are the same hagbah fists with some added motorcycle-revving flair. As my friend Eli Lebowitz has noted, some people are just gelilah guys. I am such a person — on a good day. I don’t have nearly enough of the requisite muscle tone to be confidently called up for hagbah without most of the shul either preemptively walking out to avoid the fasting in the event of a fall or hovering like a nervous mother who just handed her infant to her four-year-old nephew. I’m just grateful they haven’t developed a wordless communication for pesichah or I would start davening underneath the table. But, honestly, if the gabbai looked and me and started sweating while blindly flailing his arms, I would know exactly which kibbud he was communicating.

Bentsher

True story: I was once on a date with my wife in a dairy restaurant that will go unnamed, that I normally refuse to patronize unless it’s her birthday because they don’t take reservations and you have to sometimes literally stand outside as you wait for your table so you can order some dish like fried mozzarella balls. Anyway, the meal was over and I motioned to the waiter to bring a bentsher. I thought the wordless communication for the bentsher was pretty standard — palms together, then separated, then closed, then separated again as if you’re opening and closing a little book written on your hand. The waiter came back with a bentsher, but I had already begun to bentsh to myself. I continued bentshing with the bentsher opened — since davening from a bentsher is the right thing to do, even when you don’t actually read the words from it. When I looked down I realized that the bensther I had open in front of me and was so carefully bentshing out of was, in fact, the check for the meal. My wife, Tova, enjoyed the whole thing: “I’ve never seen anyone check if they were charged for two diet cokes with so much kavanah.”

The moral of the story is (1) Don’t just bentsh in front of a bentsher, bentsch from a bentscher. (2) The universal symbol for a bentsher and a check (writing with an invisible pen on the air) are easily confused — so before you check if you were charged correctly, double check that it’s even your check.

The Vacation Nod

There is an unspoken rule in Orthodox Judaism that when two obviously Orthodox Jews see one another on vacation all communications should be wordless. Unless you are certain that they want to be engaged in conversation, all interaction should be transmitted through a distinctive and elegant nod. See someone you think you overlapped for a zeman in yeshivah a decade ago? Before you approach in your vacation-polo-shirt and shorts that haven’t been worn since your last vacation, try this: Purse your lips together like you're clenching through a medical procedure and position your chin downwards like you’re checking on your double chin after a three-day Yom Tov. The nod is versatile — it’s a hello, a goodbye, a yes-you-can-count-on-me-later-for-Minchah, a yes-we-both-found-this-vacation-through-the-same-Dan’s-Deal, a no-I-don’t-want-to-go-together-to-the-museum-tomorrow-for-the-group-rate. The nod is the universal acknowledgment between two Jews who have more to say, but don’t want to — not now at least. When I see someone on vacation I actually don’t want to talk to, I return their wordless nod with the motion for gelilah. Always leaves them guessing and ensures that I won’t be invited to the museum later.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 783)

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