(Pun unintended.)
Today (9 Cheshvan 5768) I went to Chabad in Fairfax instead of Tysons's Corner for Shacharit. Today is the end of the eleventh month since my father's death and is the last day I say Kaddish during the year-long mourning period. [For those not aware of it, Kaddish is only said through the end of the eleventh month, although one remains in mourning through the end of the year long period.]
I have to admit that I find the proximity to my own Bar Mitzvah (which was on 8 Cheshvan so many years ago), well, heartening. As I alluded to in the prior post, it was the experiences leading up to my Bar Mitzvah that formed the heart of my practices today, and the two people whom I most closely associate with that are my Rabbi at the time and my own father.
Now my Dad was a brilliant physicist, and that strongly colored my relationship with him. That's not to say I don't/didn't love him as any son does for a father, but it was definitely a different relationship. Most dads play sports with their sons or they go to a ballgame together -- mine took me to the Museum of Science, or we poured over data from experiments measuring extra-solar x-rays.
Like I said. It was different.
One area though where it wasn't, where my Dad was one among his peers, was in preparing for my Bar Mitzvah. Dad and Rabbi would routinely discuss things at weekly Sunday classes for me, my peers, and their dads as well. Seeing him there, not as a renowned scientist, but just a Dad in jeans and a button down shirt discussing religion and seemingly enjoying it made an indelible impression on my 12 year old mind.
Years later, I travelled back to that synagogue with my (then) wife and infant son, before my daughter and younger son were born, for Shabbat morning services It was, I think, on the occasion of my 10th college reunion. The three of us took seats for the pre-service class in the back of the library (well, two of us, as my son alternated between laps), which was now where the main office and the Rabbi's study were in the days of my youth. One by one, people introduced themselves, and it eventually came to me. I began by remarking that the last time I was in this space, that the office typewriter was in this spot, and that Rabbi was sitting about where his desk was, and I introduced myself and my family, much to the Rabbi's delight.
For whatever reason, as the class progressed, we got into a discussion of time and calendars, which sparked Rabbi to relate the following story:
Years ago, your Dad, having a professional interest in time, asked me for some references about the Hebrew calendar, that he wanted to understand it better, which I gladly provided to him.
Several weeks later, he returned it with great frustration. "I still don't know how it works, but it does work" Dad declared.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Lech Lecha
OK, let me begin with an admission, that I have a particular affinity for Parasha Lech Lecha, as this is my Parasha, that I read for my Bar Mitzvah. Were it not for my experiences leading up to that day, I'd not be writing these words now, and I owe an incalculable debt to my father and my Rabbi for their roles.
OK, and to the Brandeis University Grad Student who taught me my Torah and Haftorah portions. So Moshe Peru, wherever you are, thank you.
Lech Lecha this year also marked the Bar Mitzvah of a cousin of mine, at a shul I used to be affiliated with a number of years ago. I'm not comfortable there today as my own path in Judaism has led me to a far more traditional practice, but there was some comfort in being in the same space where I once led my infant children onto the Bimah to sing "Adon Olam", where my (then) wife and children were called to open and close the Oron Kodesh before leaving Washington DC. I got to talk with my daughter's preschool teacher, and to kvell about all she has accomplished over the years and her upcoming trip to Israel with her classmates.
My cousin did a respectable job, albeit I found it, well, minimal. When my peers and were called as B'nai Mitzvah, even at the Reform shul I learned in, the expectation was to chant Torah and Haftorah (and if we didn't chant the whole parasha, it certainly felt like it!). When my older son and his peers were called not three years ago, they did the whole thing as well, and when my younger son and his peers are called (G-d willing) in the next three years, they too will, as well.
I wonder what my cousin will take away from this experience, which way his life will go. Did his learning to this day plant the seeds in him that will lead to a life of Torah and Mitzvot? Will he become, like many of my peers, like the peers of my children from their days here in Washington, become regulars at service (twice a year, once on the first day of Rosh Hashanah and once on Yom Kippur)? Will he remember that Lech Lecha is a special Parasha, the first in which only good and wonderful things happen, or the DJ at the elaborte lunch at the fancy hotel?
One day, I expect he will return to Israel (he was there once before, albeit at age 6...). I hope he connects with Eretz Yisrael. We need all types of Jews, learned and not as learned, observant and not as observant, but it seems almost a foreign concept to me, how a Jewish man or woman could look upon and be in Eretz Yisrael and not realize this is our home and that these are our ways.
OK, and to the Brandeis University Grad Student who taught me my Torah and Haftorah portions. So Moshe Peru, wherever you are, thank you.
Lech Lecha this year also marked the Bar Mitzvah of a cousin of mine, at a shul I used to be affiliated with a number of years ago. I'm not comfortable there today as my own path in Judaism has led me to a far more traditional practice, but there was some comfort in being in the same space where I once led my infant children onto the Bimah to sing "Adon Olam", where my (then) wife and children were called to open and close the Oron Kodesh before leaving Washington DC. I got to talk with my daughter's preschool teacher, and to kvell about all she has accomplished over the years and her upcoming trip to Israel with her classmates.
My cousin did a respectable job, albeit I found it, well, minimal. When my peers and were called as B'nai Mitzvah, even at the Reform shul I learned in, the expectation was to chant Torah and Haftorah (and if we didn't chant the whole parasha, it certainly felt like it!). When my older son and his peers were called not three years ago, they did the whole thing as well, and when my younger son and his peers are called (G-d willing) in the next three years, they too will, as well.
I wonder what my cousin will take away from this experience, which way his life will go. Did his learning to this day plant the seeds in him that will lead to a life of Torah and Mitzvot? Will he become, like many of my peers, like the peers of my children from their days here in Washington, become regulars at service (twice a year, once on the first day of Rosh Hashanah and once on Yom Kippur)? Will he remember that Lech Lecha is a special Parasha, the first in which only good and wonderful things happen, or the DJ at the elaborte lunch at the fancy hotel?
One day, I expect he will return to Israel (he was there once before, albeit at age 6...). I hope he connects with Eretz Yisrael. We need all types of Jews, learned and not as learned, observant and not as observant, but it seems almost a foreign concept to me, how a Jewish man or woman could look upon and be in Eretz Yisrael and not realize this is our home and that these are our ways.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Gematria, the body, and this blog...
This blog is named (as I'm sure you know), Capitol Chai Life. Capitol is an allusion to the US Capitol building, located here in Washington, DC. Chai Life is a double entrendre, playing on the phrase "High Life", and on the Hebrew word for life is, which is, well, Chai.
Now Chai is spelled Chet-Yud, which also represents the number 18. Consequently, 18 is considered a powerful and positive number in Judaism. Donations are often made in multiples of 18 for example, with double chai (36) being very common.
Now consider the human body, in particular our hands and feet, fingers and toes. With one hand, I can count from zero to five. If I use the fingers of my other hand to represent complete iterations of the first hand, now I can count from zero to thirty-five. If I use the toes one one foot, now I am up to 215, and using the toes on the other foot, I get up to 1,295.
So what's the connection?
With two hands, I get to double chai, less 1 (35 = 36 -1 = 6 x 6 -1 = 6^2 -1) and with both hands and both feet, I get to double chai squared, less 1 (1295 = 1296 - 1 = 36 x 36 - 1 = 36^2 - 1 = 6^4 - 1).
Furthermore, even though we only counted to 1,295, we have actually counted 1,296 numbers, since zero, although the absence of anything, is in fact something.
OK, I'm a math geek. I think it's neat.
Now Chai is spelled Chet-Yud, which also represents the number 18. Consequently, 18 is considered a powerful and positive number in Judaism. Donations are often made in multiples of 18 for example, with double chai (36) being very common.
Now consider the human body, in particular our hands and feet, fingers and toes. With one hand, I can count from zero to five. If I use the fingers of my other hand to represent complete iterations of the first hand, now I can count from zero to thirty-five. If I use the toes one one foot, now I am up to 215, and using the toes on the other foot, I get up to 1,295.
So what's the connection?
With two hands, I get to double chai, less 1 (35 = 36 -1 = 6 x 6 -1 = 6^2 -1) and with both hands and both feet, I get to double chai squared, less 1 (1295 = 1296 - 1 = 36 x 36 - 1 = 36^2 - 1 = 6^4 - 1).
Furthermore, even though we only counted to 1,295, we have actually counted 1,296 numbers, since zero, although the absence of anything, is in fact something.
OK, I'm a math geek. I think it's neat.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
I have a great pun about shaving and Sukkot...
...although I don't think most people would get it. I am going to split hairs about Sukkot. [And how does one split a hair? I believe the word is "Shave". If you don't get the pun, don't worry, I will explain it below.]
I recently heard a sermon that focused on the film Ushpizin. If you are not familiar with the film, it concerns the plight of a religious couple around the time of Sukkot, who find themselves beset by a rather tawdry pair of guests over the course of the holiday.
Part of premise of the film is that the couple is very poor, and have difficulty in purchasing the materials needed for Sukkot, especially an etrog. As it stands, the couple find themselves the benefactor of an anonymous donation, enough to buy an esquisite etrog, which the husband quickly does, and just as the holiday approaches.
Now if you are not familiar with Sukkot and etrogs, the short version is that during this holiday, Jews are suppose to "wave" four species (a palm frond, a willow branch, a myrtle branch, and an etrog) every day of the holiday, and in all directions. Particular attention is paid to the etrog, that it should be unblemished, fragrant, and otherwise perfect. There are men who will scrutinize etrogs with a magnifying glass, to ensure the quality of the etrog they are buying.
Regardless, at some point in the film, the guests take this expensive etrog, cut it up and use it as a garnish for a salad. [I said they were tawdry...] Needless to say, the husband is very distressed about this. Which brings me back to the sermon.
The Rabbi in this instance suggested that the message that we should take away from the film is that we need to be cautious about how we approach ritual, that ritual is not an end to itself, and we should be careful not to come to view ritual as an extension of materialism.
Well, I have a problem with this -- not with that message per se, but rather with the idea that this is the moral of the story.
Ushpizin is a film. In particular, it is a work of fiction. Everything that happens in the film comes from the mind of the writer, Shuli Rand. Now Mr. Rand has written a popular and engrossing tale, but should we be taking lessons for our lives from it? Should we infer that we are individually focusing on the trappings of ritual, or that doing so from a very broad perspective is problematic?
Ultimately, my view is that we must look at the events around our own lives. How can we do more? How can we grow as Jews? How can we further Tikkun Olam? We must look to our own lives and answer these questions. Movies are just, well, movies.
[OK, so here's the pun. I'm splitting hairs with what the Rabbi (I'll not say which Rabbi, other then it was neither Rabbi (Levi) Deitsch or Rabbi Bluming, both of whom I daven with frequently) said in this sermon. I agree with his point, not with his analogy. Well, another way to split a hair is to shave it. (Yes, I know, paradigm shift.) OK, fine, but if I'm going to shave, I need to do it in a Sukkah... (Shave or Shav is how the Hebrew word for "Sit" is pronounced...)]
I recently heard a sermon that focused on the film Ushpizin. If you are not familiar with the film, it concerns the plight of a religious couple around the time of Sukkot, who find themselves beset by a rather tawdry pair of guests over the course of the holiday.
Part of premise of the film is that the couple is very poor, and have difficulty in purchasing the materials needed for Sukkot, especially an etrog. As it stands, the couple find themselves the benefactor of an anonymous donation, enough to buy an esquisite etrog, which the husband quickly does, and just as the holiday approaches.
Now if you are not familiar with Sukkot and etrogs, the short version is that during this holiday, Jews are suppose to "wave" four species (a palm frond, a willow branch, a myrtle branch, and an etrog) every day of the holiday, and in all directions. Particular attention is paid to the etrog, that it should be unblemished, fragrant, and otherwise perfect. There are men who will scrutinize etrogs with a magnifying glass, to ensure the quality of the etrog they are buying.
Regardless, at some point in the film, the guests take this expensive etrog, cut it up and use it as a garnish for a salad. [I said they were tawdry...] Needless to say, the husband is very distressed about this. Which brings me back to the sermon.
The Rabbi in this instance suggested that the message that we should take away from the film is that we need to be cautious about how we approach ritual, that ritual is not an end to itself, and we should be careful not to come to view ritual as an extension of materialism.
Well, I have a problem with this -- not with that message per se, but rather with the idea that this is the moral of the story.
Ushpizin is a film. In particular, it is a work of fiction. Everything that happens in the film comes from the mind of the writer, Shuli Rand. Now Mr. Rand has written a popular and engrossing tale, but should we be taking lessons for our lives from it? Should we infer that we are individually focusing on the trappings of ritual, or that doing so from a very broad perspective is problematic?
Ultimately, my view is that we must look at the events around our own lives. How can we do more? How can we grow as Jews? How can we further Tikkun Olam? We must look to our own lives and answer these questions. Movies are just, well, movies.
[OK, so here's the pun. I'm splitting hairs with what the Rabbi (I'll not say which Rabbi, other then it was neither Rabbi (Levi) Deitsch or Rabbi Bluming, both of whom I daven with frequently) said in this sermon. I agree with his point, not with his analogy. Well, another way to split a hair is to shave it. (Yes, I know, paradigm shift.) OK, fine, but if I'm going to shave, I need to do it in a Sukkah... (Shave or Shav is how the Hebrew word for "Sit" is pronounced...)]
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