Archive for category Philosophy
Between Passover and the festival of Shavuos (Pentacost, celebrating the Almighty’s revelation at Sinai), tradition calls for every Jew to count the days and the weeks connecting the freedom of the exodus from Egypt with the responsible application of that freedom.
These seven weeks are a time filled with opportunity for personal growth, beginning with the awareness that little changes can add up to extraordinary transformation.
From Celestial Navigation, a publication of Block Yeshiva
[Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah] used to say: Anyone whose wisdom exceeds his good deeds – to what is he similar? To a tree whose branches are many and whose roots are few; then the wind will come and uproot it and turn it over. As it is said: “And he will be like a lonely tree in a wasteland that will not see when good comes. It will dwell on parched soil in the desert, on a salted land, uninhabited” (Yirmyahu 17:6). But one whose deeds exceed his wisdom — to what is he similar? To a tree whose branches are few and whose roots are many; even if all the winds in the world come and blow against it, they will not move it from its place. As it is said: “And he shall be like a tree planted by the water spreading its roots toward the stream, and it will not notice when heat comes. Its leaves will be fresh, in a year of drought it will not worry, and it shall not cease yielding fruit” (ibid., 17:8).
Pirkei Avos 3:22
On the surface, Rabbi Elazar’s allegory appears easy to understand. Scholarship alone is not enough; only when wisdom influences action and produces virtue will it endure.
On closer examination, however, the image of a tree raises many questions. If wisdom is the source of action, why does Rabbi Elazar not compare wisdom to the roots and good deeds to the branches? Just as roots draw sustenance from the earth to nourish the tree, similarly the roots in the allegory should represent the wisdom that fosters action.
Moreover, granted that wisdom is not enough, and that without good deeds a person is like a tree without adequate support, why describe a tree with few branches in the second part of the allegory? If a person has many good deeds, why do the “branches” of his wisdom still have to be “few”?
And what is the point of mentioning the wind at all? Would it not have been simpler to describe a tree so unstable that it is in danger of toppling under its own weight, regardless of external forces?
Finally, why does Rabbi Elazar prove his lesson with verses describing land that is either parched or abundantly watered? Since the tree has no control over its environment, how are these verses relevant to his illustration?
THE ROAD OF GOOD INTENTIONS
Rabbi Abraham Twersky writes that when he was a boy, a visiting rabbi asked him the following question: Since the Torah equates thought with action, then thinking of a question should be the same as actually speaking it. “If so,” concluded the rabbi, “you should be able to answer the question I am thinking at this moment.”
The young Abraham Twersky offered the only reply that seemed to make sense: “I am thinking of the answer,” he said.
The Torah’s equation of thought and deed informs us that thoughts are the first step toward actions and that actions are imperfect without sincere intent. Nevertheless, thoughts alone are not enough: although wisdom is indisputably the source of action, it is action that secures and preserves our wisdom. In the famous words of the Sefer HaChinuch, “man is drawn according to his deeds; his heart and all his thoughts follow inevitably after his actions, whether for good or for bad.”
Unless properly channeled, wisdom comes to nothing; even worse, it may become twisted and corrupted through rationalization.
If you live in the St. Louis area, please join me on Wednesday 4 November at 6:30 PM when Subterranean Books will be hosting a launch party for my new book, Proverbial Beauty: Secrets for Success and Happiness from the Wisdom of the Ages. There will be a reading, Q & A, and a book signing.
6275 Delmar Blvd, in the Loop
I hope to see you there, and bring a friend!
From this week’s Mishpacha Magazine.
Overheard in shul: “I can’t daven as fast as they do.”
“Let me tell you something — They can’t daven as fast as they do, either.”
Overheard in shul: “Do you think anyone would be offended if I ran up in front of the omud after aleinu and waved a checkered flag?”
One of my rabbeim once remarked: “I like to think of myself as a ba’al teshuva, but the truth is I’ve become an FFB.”
The labels BT (ba’al teshuva) and FFB (frum from birth) don’t seem to be as much in vogue as they once were. Perhaps that’s a good thing; maybe it’s because of the number of distinguished talmidei chachomim among ba’alei teshuva. Then again, maybe it’s because the increased secular influence within many Orthodox precincts has blurred the distinction. Or maybe it’s because — tragically — so many of our children are at risk of going off the derech that it just doesn’t matter anymore.
But whatever the reason, I frequently revisit a comment my rosh yeshiva often made: Whether we’re FFBs or BTs, eventually we all become FWEs — frum without effort.
Complacency is a universal problem. Being born into a Torah home and community provides the confidence and competence that make it easy to coast through perfunctory observance. It also creates an illusion of spiritual maturity that deludes many ba’alei teshuva into believing that once they have adopted the same demeanor of casual observance then they have “made it.”
All the mussar drashos in the world can’t seem to shake us out of our collective comfort zone. And nowhere is that more evident than in davening.
I doubt if I will ever forget the first shemoneh esrei I davened in Loshon Hakodesh. I arrived at Ohr Somayach three decades ago as one of many “off the Wall” Jews, intercepted at the kosell by Jeff Seidel as I was backpacking from from continent to another. I’d never had a bar mitzvah ceremony, and I didn’t even know aleph-beis. I learned to daven in English out of the old Birnbaum siddur, with its tiny print and King Jamesian translation. Acquiring a functional knowledge of Hebrew was a slow and painful process.
Eventually, I decided I had to take the plunge. One afternoon, I went up to my room to daven mincha in Loshon Hakodesh. That first shemoneh esrei took me 45 agonizing minutes. I struggled through every word, with no kavanah except to push through to the end.
I suspect that I’ve never received as much reward in the next world for any shemoneh esrei since.
My second attempt took only 30 minutes, and after a week or so I’d gotten my time down to 20 minutes, just quick enough to take three steps back as the yeshiva mincha minyan was finishing aleinu.
And there I got stuck. For weeks, I couldn’t shave another minute off my time. I lamented that, for the rest of my life, I would be davening 20 a minute shemoneh esrei.
Halavai. If only it were so.
Finally, I did have my breakthrough. My times got faster and faster. Ultimately, I was able to memorize shemoneh esrei and daven with my eyes closed, finishing as fast as almost anyone in shul. I had made it!
Until I realized that I hadn’t. Then began the long, uncomfortable process of learning how to slow down.
Slowing down, however, is easier said than done. Davening as part of a tzibbur is meant to enhance the experience of prayer. There’s an energy generated by a quorum, all the more so when the members of the congregation share a reverence for the place and the purpose that has brought them together.
But it’s also easy to get carried along with the current, even if it means slurring words together and ignoring what they mean. No one likes the feeling of being left behind, so we push ourselves to keep up even as we realize our tefillos are suffering by doing so.
Which is tragic. It takes only the most cursory study of the siddur for us to recognize what we’re missing when we zip through davening. The richness, the depth, the poetry, and the inspiration that Chazal put into their composition is at our fingertips, and we don’t even notice as it passes before our eyes at mach speed.
Worse still, because we get so little out of davening, our behavior in shul deteriorates. The latest headlines, baseball scores, community politics, and our text alerts seem a lot more relevant than the prayers we don’t give ourselves time to think about. Even if we’re learning rather than talking, the implicit message we’re sending to others — and ourselves — is that davening is merely a duty to discharge before returning to more important matters. Moreover, faster davening begets even faster davening, since no one speaks out against those who are eager to find any excuse to speed up.
And worst of all: our children are watching us, learning to do what we’re doing. Is this really how we want to fulfill vishinantam l’vonecho?
The truth is, if we devoted even a few minutes a day to learning about tefillah we wouldn’t want to daven so fast. Listen to Rav Schwab’s words on asher nosan lasechvi binah:
“In the early morning, as the day breaks, we have a wonderful feeling of anticipating the beginning of a new day. We look forward to it with happy expectancy. It is for this emotion — this pleasant, hopeful optimism, which the crowing of the rooster evokes in our hearts — that we give thanks…
“[J]ust as the rooster has been given the ability by HaKadosh Baruch Hu to distinguish between day and night, while the difference is hardly noticeable, and announces it to the world with his loud crowing, so too has HaKadosh Baruch Hu given the Jewish people the mandate to enlighten the world with the great truths taught by the Torah, even if the world is still ‘dark.’”
And this is just one small idea from the first bracha of the morning. How profoundly can we transform our davening — and our entire day — if we let these lofty sentiments take root in our minds instead of rattling off like the names of racehorses on the backstretch at Churchill Downs.
Any aficionado would be aghast at someone knocking back 21-year-old scotch or wolfing down a gourmet meal, and it would never occur to us to ask the conductor to speed up his performance of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony so the audience can get to go home earlier. Shouldn’t we want to be connoisseurs of prayer? Shouldn’t we want to savor every word of tefillah the way a wine enthusiast lets fine Cabernet roll over his tongue?
So what can we do about it? Here are a few strategies for more inspired davening.
Invest 5 minutes. Anyone can find five free minutes in a day. Read a paragraph or two in Rav Schwab on Prayer. Once you start, I guarantee that you won’t want to stop.
Come early. If you run into davening late, you’re finished before you start. Playing catch-up is perfect recipe for tefillah without kavanah. What’s more, we say every morning that coming early to davening is counted among those things for which we’re rewarded in this world and the next. Why are we willing to give up such an easy windfall?
Turn off the phone and use a siddur. We get distracted easily enough without having the ultimate source of distraction right before our eyes.
Don’t sit with friends. Our relationship with others can wait while we focus on our relationship with G-d. There are enough hours in the day for socializing that we can devote an hour or two each day to our Creator. Especially on Shabbos and Yom Tov, remove the temptation to talk by minimizing the opportunity.
Add personal prayers. Stop yourself from being an automaton by inserting personal requests in Shema Koleinu. We all have something we want. Three times a day we have a personal audience with the King of kings. How can we squander such an opportunity?
Find allies. There must be a few other people in shul who would like the minyan to slow down. Form a coalition and approach the rav. Maybe he’d also like to reclaim his minyan from the speed-demons who have hijacked it.
There’s no reason to be embarrassed about wanting to slow down. It’s worth recalling the story about a bochur who worried that the Gerrer Rebbe had mistakenly inferred that he was new to Yiddishkeit. “Rebbe,” he said, “I’m not a ba’al teshuva.”
Replied the Rebbe: “Why not?”
For some Fourth of July reflections, click here.
What does the bar-headed goose have to teach us about striking spiritual balance in our lives? Is the separation of church and state really as fundamental to the constitution as everyone thinks it is? When is stress really a good thing?
If you’ve been following my new blog, you know the answers.
But for some reason, the majority of you who follow this blog have not switched over to my main blog yonasongoldson.com.
If you’ve enjoyed my articles up to now, why miss out by not updating your subscription? Just click on the link and look for the “follow” button, then add in your email as you did when you began following Torah Ideals. Alternatively, send me an email and I’ll sign you up myself. You can reach me at yonasongoldson [at] gmail.com.
I look forward to hearing from you.
I didn’t want to go in the first place. As my 92-year-old student likes to quote: Travelling is for peasants.
But my wife convinced me with simple arithmetic. Four tickets to bring three kids and son-in-law home or two tickets to visit them. No-brainer.
So I went grudgingly, confirming in the end the truism that some of life’s most profound moments come not only unexpected but against our will.
Our first stop was the 9/11 museum. I marveled at the artistic vision that had conceived the memorial pools, the water channeling down in rivulets that mirrored the face of the fallen towers, the continuous downward rush balanced by the redemptive feeling of water — the source of life — returning to the heart of the world. Here there was solace, closure, and consolation.
But a very different feeling accosted me inside. Almost upon entering the doors a single word brandished itself across my mind’s eye: Holocaust.
Let me explain.
Read the whole article here.
In an old stand-up routine, comedian Steve Martin proposed his way to get out of anything with two simple words: I forgot. As in the statement, “I forgot bank robbery is a crime.” Absurdly funny, since we’ve all learned by middle school that ignorance is no excuse for breaking the law.
Even those who consider themselves religious are quite capable of rationalizing their way around almost any moral impediment. People whose aversion to murder makes them challenge the morality of capital punishment may be equally passionate in their support for euthanasia, partial-birth abortion, and the “selected non-treatment” of handicapped newborns.
Even the most righteous among us are not immune from moral indiscretion. As the sages taught: Most people are guilty of theft; a few are guilty of sexual immorality; and everyone is guilty of loshon hara (malicious gossip).
So what makes some of us more moral than others? Is moral conduct simply the absorption of cultural values or submission to some doctrinal code? Are we nothing more than products of our environment, or is there some moral imperative programmed into the human psyche that we can channel through sheer force of will? Why is the path of virtue often so hard to find and why, even in moments of moral clarity, do we experience such dissonance between our minds and our hearts?
I offer here a remarkably savvy insight into progressive thinking and priorities from Jim Geraghty of the National Review, cited by Eytan Kobre in Mishpacha Magazine:
A list of progressives’ fears would offer a mix of the insignificant, the theoretical, the farfetched, and the mundane… climate change a century from now, the Koch Brothers, insufficient cultural sensitivity in video games… New York mayor Bill DeBlasio is on a crusade to save his city from charter schools and horse-drawn carriages…
You notice progressives don’t spend a lot of time and energy fearing flights of people from countries with Ebola, and unsecured border, ISIS, al-Qaeda, Vladimir Putin’s aggression, the declining number of two-parent families…
This may be a bit of psychological transference. When the Leftists notice things like ISIS, Putin’s aggression, or the collapse of the family, on some level — perhaps subconsciously — they realize their prefered options are unlikely to be effective. Confronting that fact would force them to reevaluate how they see the world — and sometimes, after a sufficiently dramatic or frightening event such as 9/11, some people actually do change their worldview.
But a lot of people can’t or won’t overhaul their entire philosophy and understanding of how the world works. So they deny the idea that any of these are real problems or worthy of much attention or discussion — they reflect GOP scaremongering, others’ paranoia, etc.
But all that fear and anxiety and anger has to go somewhere… and thus it gets expressed at much more convenient and much more philosophically aligned targets — i.e., climate change a century from now, the Koch Brothers, insufficient cultural sensitivity in video games, and so on.
In other words, if the big problems of the world are likely to remain insoluble unless I change my approach to political, economic, and social dynamics, then I’m likely to shift my focus to more abstract issues that don’t force me to question my own ideological predisposition.
This reminds me of a meeting I once had with my editor at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. In the course of the conversation I mentioned columnist Charles Krauthammer. Without missing a beat, my editor said, “I hate him.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “He’s so articulate that I find myself agreeing with him… and I don’t!”
Had I been less protective of my position at the time, I would have suggested that she reexamine some of her positions. Oh, well. I guess I can suggest it now.
In a letter to Rabbi Emanuel Feldman, a former student he calls “Sarah” grapples with her indecision over whether she should continue to attend Kol Nidre on Yom Kippur eve. Having discarded the Torah observance of her youth to intermarry, she still feels drawn to this one last vestige of Jewish practice.
Sarah confesses that she feels like a hypocrite, and she wonders whether she angers God by standing before Him on the Day of Atonement when she is not even fasting, and when her whole life is a rejection of His commandments.
In his column in Mishpacha Magazine, Rabbi Feldman invited readers to offer their own responses. Here is mine:
You ask in your letter whether God sees you as a hypocrite for coming to shul on Yom Kippur. Your question contains its own answer.
Read the whole article here.