My Story 3

The members of Bnei Akiva went to day schools. I was odd man out; no knowledge of Talmud, halachah, or even Hebrew, other than being able to sound words out, with no understanding of what they meant. I was in tenth grade (having skipped 8th), and was in my second year of learning a foreign language; French. I loved French (and still do), but I desperately wanted to learn Hebrew. I requested the right to drop French, and take Hebrew, which was also offered at my school. My request was denied. I went to the school's Hebrew Language instructor, Mr. Moskowitz. I told him of my dilemma. He agreed to do something illegal, which might have well cost him his job. He had a first semester Hebrew class at the same time as my lunch period. He said I could cut lunch, secretly take that class, and study ahead, so as to complete the material of a year and a half of Hebrew instruction in that one semester. I was successful, and Mr. Moskowitz convinced the school to allow me to start fourth semester Hebrew, along with fourth semester French. I graduated with honors in both. My knowledge of Hebrew enabled me to read actual sources, instead of relying on teachers to spoon-feed them to me, often with their own agendas being read into the text. (This is often a problem with translated texts as well). I had begun attending Shabbat morning services at the Bnei Akiva building. One snowy Shabbat, I couldn't make the longish walk to Bnei Akiva, so I went to a "shtiebel" (tiny, rather informal, prayer room) near my home. I was the only English speaker there; all the others being Yiddish speakers who had arrived in the U.S. after the war, some 20 years earlier. My Hebrew was rudimentary, to say the least. It took me nearly half an hour to say the Amidah prayer. One elderly gentleman was impressed by my determination. "Where do you learn (Torah)?" he asked me. "I don't learn". "Do you want to?" I grew excited "of course!!!!". "Meet me here tomorrow at 9 am". The following morning, he took me to 770 Eastern Parkway, the Lubavitcher (Chabad) world headquarters. They had just begun a Sunday learning schedule for young men who were interested in becoming observant. The program was tiny; only five students and three rabbis! I was taken to the administrator of the program, who accepted me, at no cost, to my first authentic Torah learning experience. Every Sunday, there was a class in Chumash with Rashi, a basic Talmud class, a class in halachah, and a class in Tanya; the foundation text of Chabad Hasidism. I loved everything, but the Tanya was my first experience with concepts of spirituality. Already at the first class, I could hardly contain my enthusiasm. My parents were less than enthusiastic, as I would be learning from Old World types. The expression "Zitzen un Lernen" (sit and study), so admired in Orthodox circles, seemed like a formula for laziness and lack of productivity to the "modern" American mindset. My teachers were savvy. It was the time when the Vietnam War, so unpopular in New York even at that time, was heating up. One of my cousins had recently been killed in Vietnam. "We can keep him out of Vietnam!" explained the rabbis. That was all my parents needed to hear! They were now on board with my nascent transformation. I was closely connected with Chabad for the next eleven years. Some things were beyond wonderful. Some things turned out to be disappointing, or even downright negative. But one thing is certain, without them I would not have made it. There simply were no other avenues at that time for a fairly assimilated Jew to penetrate the walls of the Yeshiva. I have never disclosed these things publicly before, (the members of the Chabad community in a nearby town have told me that they think I must secretly be Chabad, or how else would I know all their secrets!) but I think that these things need to be said in order to understand some of the dynamics of the Orthodox community, and which resources are good for which problems and challenges. I still admire much of their work, but also recognize areas of danger. I realize that some of you will be offended by my criticisms, but I would be remiss in not sharing what I have experienced, both the light and the darkness.

My Story 2

After my Bar Mitzvah in 1962, I had ambivalent feelings about my Jewishness. I had a strong sense of the reality and presence of G-d, but could not relate that to the Judaism of my parents and my friends' parents. We kept (sort of) kosher at home. but not outside the home. No one I knew had ever read the Torah, except for brief excerpts. We were taught that these strange immigrants who had come from Eastern Europe after the Holocaust, with their beards, pe'ot,and strange dress, were in no way like us. When being polite, we called them refugees. When not in mixed company, they were derisively called "Mockees". We were American Jews, We KNEW BETTER. Hey, our families were here since the first decade of the twentieth century! Yet, at Hebrew School, we were taught exactly as the "Mockees" were doing. That we were receiving mixed messages would be an understatement. Being Jewish was something to be proud of, but not to be observed. If the "Goyyim" see us being outwardly observant, that would lessen our acceptance as Americans. So, were we supposed to be proud of being Jews, or ashamed? My older brother assured me that Judaism was merely "an organized persecution complex". The Eichmann trial, which had taken place the previous year, created more complex feelings. On the one hand, many of my non-Jewish classmates expressed feelings of sympathy. But many less sympathetic people mocked us for going like lambs to the slaughter. I, and many others, felt uneasy about the entire topic. During Winter vacation that year, I saw the movie "Exodus". Sure, it didn't even mention G-d or religion. But it was about Jews fighting for survival in a hostile world. They were not apologizing for their existence, but fighting for it. My imagination began racing. The first thing I did was to read the novel "Exodus". It contained many points of Jewish history of which I was unaware. I raided our public library, devouring every book I could find about Jews and Judaism. My quest was partly religious, and partly an attempt to figure out my identity. We had an English translation of the Torah at home. I read and reread it. I tried to follow what it said, but wound up totally confused as to how to apply various verses. My brother would often derisively call me "Moses". I  had little experience going to synagogue, and what experience I had, was not positive; Hebrew prayers were recited in a perfunctory manner with no explanation other than "this is what we do". This frenzied search for information, with no guidance, or even a sense of direction, continued for about a year. Then, an acquaintance of my father suggested to him that he have me join a Zionist youth group. As most Zionist groups are secular, he recommended Bnei Akiva, identified with Israel's Mizrachi/National Religious Party. There was a local branch about 4 blocks away. I showed up there one Shabbat in the Fall of 1963. I approached the leader, and told him that I was interested in Zionism and Judaism. I said that I believed in G-d, but would never do anything fanatic, like put on Tefillin. (I now wear three pair). Rather than rebuff me, he invited me to join. Very wisely, he assigned a young man my own age to spend an hour with me each Shabbat, explaining Judaism to me. (That young man is now the Assistant Director of the OU Center in Jerusalem). The members of Bnei Akiva were all from Modern Orthodox families and attended Day Schools. The emphasis was clearly Israel, but with a spiritual interpretation of Zionism, which I would later learn is anathema to most Israelis. For most of the members, I was the first baal teshuvah (newly Orthodox) they had ever met, as the Teshuvah Movement was still four years in the future. Many invited me to their homes, and I began to see how Judaism was practiced. A half a block away was another youth group, Pirchei. It was identified with a more right-wing Orthodox approach, and had what seemed to me a strange approach to Zionism. They were against Zionism, yet believed in living in Israel. They were more dedicated to study than Bnei Akiva, and were horrified that our events had boys and girls together. From time to time, older Pirchei members would come into our meeting place, and rebuke us for our laxity. There was considerable animosity between the two groups, that I was unable to understand. Only many years later would I learn that, in their zeal for Truth, most Orthodox Jews are quick to dismiss what they see as untruth, even if likewise Orthodox. I was totally unaware that two and a half blocks away was the world center of Chabad Hasidism. I had never even heard of it. But that situation was not destined to last long.

My Story 1

This series is about about what I believe, and what events brought me to those beliefs. It is also about  where I agree or disagree with other rabbis or groups. I never intended for this group to be about me, but rather about G-d, Torah and community. However, as controversy has often arisen, I thought it prudent to discuss who I am, and how I got to be where I am. This is not for re-posting.

My Story 1

Let me begin with an incident that I saw on an Israeli news program. I believe it is a metaphor for the issues that drive me. Moroccan Jews have a lovely tradition called "Mimuna". It is a uniquely Moroccan holiday, which has captured the imagination of many Jews from other cultures. Immediately after the conclusion of Passover, the Moroccans make a feast. Traditionally, it was held at the local rabbi's home. It is the first chance to eat hametz. Various pastries are quickly prepared. Mufletas, a wheat pancake, are served, to be topped with various condiments; most often honey or sour cream. Beautiful, intricate cookies of various colors, shapes and textures are made. The rabbis would speak words of encouragement. Yes, Passover, the feast of deliverance, was over. The Mashiach had not yet arrived. As tradition said that Mashiach would come either during Passover or the High Holidays, redemption was now at least half a year away. The rabbis would say words of Torah, urging the people to maintain their faith, for deliverance was surely on its way. "Mimuna" is derived from the Arabic word for "Faith"; not, as many mistakenly believe, from the name Maimonides. Some ceremonies of the Mimuna are apparently holdovers from ancient  Spring rituals, such as sprinkling the participants with milk, shaken from a lettuce leaf. When questioned about this apparently pagan ritual, one gets the inevitable answer "Rabbi so and so always did it, so it must be good". Today, Mimuna celebrations are held in Town Halls and public parks all over Israel. Politicians of every stripe show up in traditional Moroccan robes and hats. Whether anything religious will be heard, depends on the particular community. One year, a reporter went to Sachar Park in Jerusalem, where thousands had gathered to celebrate Mimuna. She asked a woman who was frying mufletas, the reason for the celebration. The woman replied, "So that these foods will not be forgotten (!!!)". I immediately thought that this was typical of much of Judaism today. Beautiful, meaningful customs and traditions are often transformed into culinary exercises. Growing up in a family that was several generations distant from complete Torah observance, there was always the Friday night roast chicken, and the braided Challah bread (of very dubious origin)...but no Shabbat. Passover saw matzah and wine served...but no Seder. All of my friends' families had the same thing. One year, after I had started Hebrew school, I decided to see to it that my family would have a real Seder. My parents were supportive of my plan. However, my Secularist, Socialist grandfather was livid, and walked out when he understood it was to be a religious ceremony. That was our last Seder for many years. So, was Judaism only a bunch of recipes? An expression of ethnic pride? A collection of ancient practices; some based on Torah, some based on folklore, some based on...paganism and superstition? Most of my childhood friends rejected the mish-mosh of popular Judaism completely. I decided to seek what, if anything, it all meant. Was being Jewish something to be celebrated, or hidden away like an old family scandal? I am reminded of the story of a group of college students meeting with the Dalai Lama. They asked him if he thought they should become Buddhists. He replied in the negative, saying that they must find depth in their own religions. One young woman said: "But I'm Jewish. There is no depth!". He answered, "then you do not know Judaism". Although I had never heard of the Dalai Lama until many years later, I quickly learned from my reading about Judaism, so different from my childhood and adolescent experiences, that I, and everyone I knew. did not know Judaism. Next time I will begin to describe my search.

Passover 10

So why does the Talmud see lettuce as the preferred choice for Maror? While it is true that wild lettuce (also known as "opium lettuce", as it contains a mild narcotic) is extremely bitter, it is listed as the least preferable of the five species in the Talmud. The Talmud itself points out that cultivated lettuce is sweet, not bitter. One explanation given is that if not harvested early, it does turn bitter. Thus, it is a fit species for Maror, even when used young. That would seem to be a problematic idea. If the intent of the Torah was to experience a bitter taste, what does it matter if it would eventually turn bitter? Right now, it is not! Another explanation, in my opinion, makes far more sense. The Torah tells us that the Israelites were a welcome group in Egypt...at first. Then they began to be oppressed with hard labor. According to the Midrash, they VOLUNTEERED to do Pharaoh's building projects, in order to curry favor with the Egyptians. The volunteer work eventually became compulsory. So, our ancestors' stay in Egypt began as sweet, eventually becoming so bitter, as to make it intolerable. Lettuce is a perfect metaphor for that process! It begins as sweet, then gets a "tang" to it, until it is unbearably bitter. The Seder is a kind of psychodrama, portraying past, present and future. The lettuce is a symbol of slavery, not of freedom. It foretells a bitter end for those adopting the ways of the oppressor. It reminds us to beware of traps that now seem sweet, but bear the threat of destruction. Unlike the matzah, which we lean when eating it to show the freedom of the wealthy (who would recline at meals), the Maror is eaten without leaning. It is a warning, rather than a celebration. This pattern has often repeated itself; with Jews becoming very involved in a society. only to have that same society oppress them. We also adopt, as individuals, unfortunate habits and behaviors, not really thinking of where they lead. The lettuce Maror thus reminds us of the fact that bitter may begin as sweet. Another explanation, offered by historians, derives from the fact that in the Assyrian language (a cousin of Hebrew) "Mariru" actually meant lettuce. The command in the Torah to eat the Paschal lamb with matzah and Maror may simply mean "with matzah and lettuce", with the bitterness idea being a later interpretation. Lamb with lettuce was a common Spring delicacy in the ancient Middle East. (think of lamb with mint for Easter in Christian tradition). Thus, the word "Maror", though meaning "lettuce", serves ironically as a reminder of the bitterness of slavery. This ties in very well with the command of the Torah to take the lamb into our homes several days before the Passover of the Exodus. The lamb was sacred to the Egyptians. On the one hand, we were boldly showing the Egyptians that we are about to slaughter their god as a sacrifice. On the other hand, the Israelites were being called upon to negate idolatry within their minds and hearts. The very symbol of Egyptian paganism would be the tool to negate those doctrines! Thus, we eat the lettuce; essentially saying that the superficial symbol of the sweetness of Spring, bears a significant message that not all that glitters is gold. Egypt was a great civilization, whose efforts centered around hedonism...and death. In gematria (Hebrew numerology), the letters of Maror do, indeed, equal "death".That is the lesson of Maror.
Many who use lettuce as maror insist upon Romaine lettuce. This type has been used since at least Talmudic times. However, most rabbis allow any variety of lettuce. Some actually prefer other types, which are often somewhat bitter. At the Seder, we eat a k'zayit (Olive's bulk) of Maror twice; once by itself, after the eating of matzah, and then again in a "sandwich" of Matzah and Maror.  In my next post, I will go through the order of the Seder, with some of its symbols and meanings.

Passover 9

The Maror (bitter herb) was an adjunct to the Passover sacrifice, rather than a mitzvah in and of itself. By rabbinic enactment, it was instituted to be eaten at the Passover Seder in memory of the bitterness of slavery, as well as to inculcate the memory and feeling of the original Temple-era Passover. Just as the Talmud enumerates five types of grain that are acceptable for matzah, it also enumerates five kinds of bitter herbs that are acceptable as maror. However, unlike the case of the grains, where all others are excluded, there is a debate among rabbis if the five herbs are exclusive, or merely examples of what is acceptable. I am of the view that only the five that are enumerated are OK, many disagree with that stance. Unlike in the case of the grains, where we are uncertain about three, we do know what the five bitters are, as the rabbis in Babylon immediately after the Talmudic era left us an Arabic translation of the list. The problems arose as the Jews settled in Europe, where the flora and fauna are different from those in the Middle East. Folklore stepped in and connected various species with those enumerated in the Talmud. This has caused many debates, some lasting to this very day.  As the Jews migrated further North in Europe, the herbs mentioned in the Talmud, all of which are leafy vegetables, simply were not available yet in early Spring. Horseradish was substituted, although unknown in the Talmud, or even in the Middle East until modern times. According to the view that any bitter vegetable is OK when the specific ones are unavailable, that would be fine. Those who didn't follow that view argued that horseradish was, in fact, one or another of the herbs mentioned. This was fanciful (the Jerusalem Talmud even indicates that all the herbs are either lettuce or related herbs). I do not consider horseradish to qualify as Maror at all, although most rabbis do. In my view, this stance is indefensible. It should be noted that in the U.S., most traditional, but not knowledgeable, Jews use prepared (pickled) horseradish. This is clearly not acceptable according to any authorities. The Maror must be fresh; not pickled, not cooked. This has become another "tradition" that is contrary to halachah. During all my years in the congregational rabbinate, conducting communal sedarim, most people would not accept lettuce, or even fresh ground horseradish, for Maror. It was a losing battle. 
In some communities, only lettuce is used (this is my practice). Some of those insist on one particular variety or another (I don't), although most prefer Romaine. Some wrap fresh horseradish in lettuce leaves. Some use endive, which IS one of the five. Some use wild lettuce, which is almost unbearably bitter, albeit one of the five. But why lettuce? It isn't really bitter. It is clear that the Talmud prefers lettuce over the other options. This would seem strange. That will be the topic of my next post.

Passover 8

The measurements used in the Torah (cubit, eifah, hin, and others) are only known approximately. Those used in the Talmud would seem to be more straightforward; the bulk of an olive (k'zayit), the bulk of an egg (k'beitzah), the hand breadth (tefach), the width of a thumb (etzba').) However, this is not the case. How big were the olives then? The eggs? Were the people the same size as we are? This comes into play in many areas of halachah, but is especially important for Passover. There is a Biblical requirement to eat a k'zayit of matzah on the first night of Passover (and the second in the Diaspora by rabbinic law). Moreover, we eat more than one k'zayit; one after the narrative part of the Haggadah (this is the main one), one together with the maror (bitter herb; also requiring a k'zayit), and one after the meal as Afikoman (some say two at this point). Estimates for the k'zyit vary all the way from 3 gm, to 60 gm.! (I go by 3, but most people go by 30, with the 60 gm. measurement standard in "Yeshivish" communities.) That would mean from a ninth of a machine matzah, to two whole machine matzot for the k'zayit). The Israeli ambulance service, Magen David Adom, reports their busiest time for calls is on Passover night, with many people choking on the exaggerated estimates of a k'zayit, exacerbated by the practice of many Ashkenazim to swallow the entire k'zayit at once. Why the vast difference? It began with a debate between RAMBAM and RASHI. RAMBAM writes that an olive is "less than" the size of a third of an egg. RASHI opines that it is the size of half of an egg. The opinion of RASHI was widely accepted and is codified in the Shulchan Aruch. However, many present-day rabbis have questioned this. RAMBAM lived first in Spain, then Morocco, then Egypt; all olive-growing lands. RASHI lived in northern France. Olives don't grow in France (except in extreme Southern France, hundreds of miles from where RASHI lived). In all likelihood, he never saw an olive. Now the question comes up, were the eggs and olives the same size as ours? Most say yes. However, there is an apparent discrepancy between two statements in the Talmud on this point, regarding the size of a receptacle measured in "eggs". One case is almost double the other! The probable solution to this discrepancy is that one passage was talking about a square receptacle, and the other a circle. Nevertheless, one late 18th century rabbi declared our eggs to be half the size of the ancient ones. This opinion was enthusiastically adopted by a prominent early 20th century rabbi. This view doubles the egg, as well as the olive. As opposed to this, many point out that olive trees in Israel and surrounding areas, some of which are still alive from before the destruction of the Temple, produce the same size as those which we have today. This is true as well of the olives uncovered in archaeological digs. As to the egg, some were found in the ruins of Pompeii They were a third SMALLER than our modern eggs. However, partial eggshell remains found recently in Jerusalem, were shown to be identical to modern eggs. In any case, they were never larger than today's eggs. On top of this, two early twentieth-century rabbis came up with idea that a k'zayit demands that a foodstuff be ground up and compressed. Thus, an entire loaf of bread may be considered to be one k'zayit. There is not the least indication in sources that this was ever seen as the proper understanding. Human skeletal remains show that people were several inches shorter then. In my opinion, all halachic estimates of size have become vastly exaggerated. This opens up an entire topic, beyond the scope of this post. To what degree is empirical evidence a factor in halachah? Now, you may ask "what's the big deal? So eat more matzah!" The answer is that we are meant to rejoice in our Festivals. Stuffing vast amounts of dry matzah down our throats is unpleasant, dangerous, as well as superfluous. As an aside, I would add that the Sepharadi soft matzah (roughly the texture of pizza crust) is not difficult to eat. With some knowledge, Passover is the great joy it was meant to be, the Seder a celebration of past, present, and future, without distraction by centuries of speculation and insecurity. It's easy when you know how!

Passover 7

A great debate has raged over the last one hundred and eighty years, regarding matzah made by machine, rather than by hand. The fact is, however, that the early responsa on the subject are actually irrelevant, as the nature of the machine process used today is nothing like the one discussed in the early literature. The hand made matzot required, after the dough was kneaded, to be rolled very thin, especially in Ashkenazi tradition. This was both time consuming, and labor intensive. From the adding of the water, until the baking, had to be under eighteen minutes. In the late 1830s, a gadget was developed in which the dough could be put in, and a series of rollers would make the dough flatter and flatter. (Similar to a pasta maker).This gadget was hand cranked to make it work. The several minutes needed to roll the dough of each matzah,, now changed to two minutes...for an entire batch. Immediately, battle lines were drawn. Most of the East European rabbis considered this invalid...and maybe even Hametz. How do we know that pieces of dough aren't getting caught in the works, becoming hametz, and falling back into the the unbaked matzah? Also, this would negatively affect the income of elderly widows, who were dependent on their salaries for the entire year from the months of kneading matzah. They would now starve. And finally, and probably most significantly, it was a change in something that was as old as the Jewish people itself. Reform was on the rise. The slippery slope was staring the rabbis in the face. The rabbis of Central and Western Europe, on the other hand, considered this gadget to be a great boon. Matzah would become cheaper. The preparation time would be vastly shortened, preventing the possibility of the dough becoming hametz. As to cleaning, the stainless steel machine parts were, in fact, much easier to keep clean than the wooden rolling pins used traditionally. Many of these rabbis recommended that everyone switch to the machine method. Later, the process became completely automated, with different pluses and minuses. Flour and water were automatically placed into a great mixing bowl, which did the job in seconds. A conveyor belt would move the dough along to be flattened, have the customary holes poked into the matzah just before baking, cut into individual matzot, put through a temperature controlled oven, where the matzah would bake evenly; enough time to do the job, but less time than would take to become burnt. The entire process, about three minutes. Many rabbis raised several basic issues. Firstly, the machine was always going. The mixing bowl was never emptied. Parts of the mix could be there for much more than eighteen minutes. Supporters of the machine process countered that, except for one prominent seventeenth century rabbi, the time factor was, according to the Talmud, irrelevant, as long as the dough was being kneaded and mixed. As to the dissenting rabbi's view, surely the powerful electric machinery was doing a much better job of mixing and kneading than an overworked, exhausted, elderly baker, thus obviating the fear of fermentation taking place because of insufficient kneading. As some rabbis still objected that Ashkenazi tradition had, for nearly 300 years, largely abided by that rabbi's opinion, it was decided that two separate lines would be maintained; one that would run continuously, and one in which the machines would be stopped and be thoroughly cleaned every eighteen minutes. The former are known as "peshutot" (simple), the latter as "18 minute matzah". The process of stopping and cleaning slowed down the operation, therefore raising the price, but the product was still far cheaper than hand matzah. For those who wanted shmurah matzah, runs were also made using shmurah guarded flour. Many rabbis still objected, since for most mitzvot, there is a requirement of "intent". When hand matzot are manufactured, everyone involved repeats often "for the sake of mitzvah matzah". A machine could not have intent. Even if the machine was started by someone with intent, can we say that intent is still there hours later, while the machine works continually on its own? Many countered that we have no solid evidence that matzah needs intent in baking, only that it be guarded against becoming hametz. No problem. An observant Jew will always be present during the baking, watching out for any glitch. The advantage? Low cost, and speed of baking, with essentially no room for human error. Just for comparison, a pound (453.592 grams) of hand shmurah matzah costs about $30. A pound of machine shmurah costs about $10, a pound of 18 minute matzah costs about $7. A pound of peshutot is theoretically $1, but is almost always given out for free by supermarkets. A free package of 5 pounds is usually given out for every $100 spent on other products. Some, especially most Hasidim, insist on hand shmurah for the entire holiday. Many others will buy hand shmurah for the sedarim, and use machine shmurah, or 18 minute matzah, for the rest of the holiday, when intent in baking is not required. Many Sepharadim, unconcerned with the minority opinion that even when kneaded continually, the dough can still become hametz, will use peshutot, except for the sedarim. There are some rabbis who consider the efficiency of the machine process to outweigh considerations of intent, and therefore prefer machine matzot, even for the sedarim. There are fanatics on both sides; those who insist that now that we have machine matzot, hand matzah is unacceptable, and those who, when they burn their left over hametz on the morning before Passover, make sure to have a box of machine matzot on the top of the pyre, that all may see that they regard it as hametz. Personally, I use hand shmurah (Sepharadi style; soft, similar to a pizza dough) for the sedarim, and peshutot for the rest of the holiday. Yemenite matzah is soft, but thicker than Sepharadic. It usually has no holes, and often contains salt; something avoided by both Ashkenazim and Sepharadim. I understand and respect those who use only hand shmurah, as well as those who use peshutot even for the sedarim.  I can see no clear right or wrong for either side in this issue.  I would only caution that I consider it foolhardy for anyone to attempt baking their own matzot at home, unless they have watched experience matzah bakers several times. In my next post, I will go into the huge controversy of the "k'zayit", the "olive's bulk" required in many of the seder rules, as well as in certain halachic criteria for all year round.