What's In a Name? Everything.

The Jewish people are called the B’nei Yisrael – the Children of Israel. Where did we get this name from? From this week’s parshah.
After Ya’akov spends an entire night wrestling with the angel of Eisav, the angel decides that it’s time to go. Only Ya’akov doesn’t want to let him: “I won’t let you go until you bless me,” he tells the angel.

“What’s your name,” the angel asks him.

“What’s my name? You don’t even know who I am? Don’t you think you should have asked me that before we had this whole fight?”

“What’s your name?”

Sigh. “Ya’akov.”

The angel replied: “No it’s not – at least not anymore. From now on, your name will be Yisrael, ki sarita im elokim v’im anashim va’tuchal, “for you have striven with God and with man and have prevailed.” The word sarita is the root of the word Yisrael that identifies us as a people. What does it really mean? What does the word say about us?

Let’s look at two interpretations and see what we can learn from them. Rashi teaches that the word sarita comes from the word serarah, ruling and leading. Ya’akov’s old name implied sense of weakness, shame and deceit. Yisrael implies a sense of power, strength and pride. Radak explains the word in terms of struggle. Yisrael is a person who is willing to struggle – to work hard to overcome obstacles to accomplish his goals.

Both of these explanations tell us a great deal about the Jewish people and especially the State of Israel. We are a people who are willing to work hard and overcome challenges to build a land and recreate the Jewish people. At the same time, we stand before the world with a sense of pride. Israel has made tremendous strides during the past sixty years, and for all our faults, we have a lot to be proud of.

This asks a lot of each of us as members of the Children of Israel. Do you face challenges or run away from them? Do you stand up as a Jew with a sense of pride and accomplishment? Or do you hide your Jewish identity from the people around you?

Only you can answer those questions.

Lavan's Motto - Parshat Vayetze and the Mumbai Attacks

Enraged at Ya’akov’s midnight flight from Haran, Lavan gathered his brothers and chased after his son-in-law, daughters and grandchildren. The Midrash (Mishnat Rabbi Eliezer 9a) explains that Lavan decided that rather than lose his extended family, he would destroy them. In fact, we take note of his evil intentions at the Passover Seder when we recite, Arami oved avi, “an Aramite (Lavan) intended to destroy my father.” Lavan only desisted from murdering his family because God appeared to him in a dream, warning him to refrain from harming Ya’akov.

When Lavan finally reached Ya’akov and confronted him, he threatened him using curious language: Yesh l’el yadi - “it is in the power of my hand” to harm you. I wanted to kill you all, but I won’t because your father’s God warned me not to. (verse 29) The term el yadi – the power of my hand, carries a double implication. Rashi explains that the word el means “power” or “ability.” Yet, the word el clearly carries a deistic connotation as well, often used to refer to God. In fact, Chizkuni explains the phrase to mean, “Even your God knows my power, and fears that I will take vengeance against you.” Why does Lavan strangely infuse God in his threat against Ya’akov?

Lavan invokes God because tyrants and terrorists must always invoke God to justify their heinous crimes. How can Lavan - a father and grandfather - even contemplate the cold-blooded murder of his entire family? Yesh l’el yadi. He invoked the name of his god. After all, Lavan asks Ya’akov, “Why have you stolen my gods?” (verse 30) In the battle for religious supremacy, Lavan foreshadows a world devoid of morality, whose only goal of religious domination justifies any act, no matter how barbaric and repugnant.

The world witnessed yet another example of Lavan’s fanaticism in the vile terrorist attacks in Mumbai this past week. In addition to the senseless murder of over 174 civilians and countless more injuries, the attackers also specifically “were sent specifically to kill Israelis to avenge “atrocities” against the Palestinians,” the Times of India reported. They accomplished their goal, killing six Israelis among nine Jews, including the local Chabad emissary Gavriel Holtzberg, 29, and his wife Rivka, 28 – both American citizens. Moreover, we this week learned that they were not only murdered. Debka reported that, “Mumbai hospital doctors were horrified by the condition of the six Israeli bodies recovered from the smashed, blood-spattered rooms of Chabad Center Monday. Local and Israeli pathologists confirmed they were tortured by their Islamist terrorist captors before being bound together and killed in cold blood.”

Israelis and Jews have always served as a target for religious extremists. After all, Arami Oved Avi is the continuation of vehi she’amdah – “in every generation they stand up against us to destroy us.” The entire world last week painfully discovered Lavan’s motto: yesh l’el yadi. In the name of God, one can justify any act. Even the brutal murder of a father and pregnant mother in front of their two-year-old son.
The hagaddah offers only one consolation: ve’hakadosh baruch hu, matzileinu m’yadam; in the end, we believe – we know that “the Holy One blessed be He, saves us – and will continue to save us, from their evil, violent and brutal hands.”

My Statement on Agriprocessors

By now you know that a federal grand jury has handed down a 12-count indictment against Agriprocessors and its managers, effective shutting the door on what was the largest kosher slaughterhouse in America. (Link) While we needed to give this story time to play out and for the wheels of justice to turn ever so slowly, I think it's time for me to make my statement regarding this issue, without implying any wrongdoing on the part of any party in this matter:

One should not cheat in business. One should not break federal or state law, even if you don't think that you won't get caught. You should not lie to investigators, break immigration law, cheat on taxes, or do anything else that's dishonest, deceitful or otherwise illegal.

There. I said it. And now no one can say that Orthodox rabbis don't come out and make strong statements about current issues.

Steak anyone?

Shades of Grey

We like it when things fall into clear categories: black and white, right and wrong. I either add someone to as a “friend” on Facebook or I don’t. There’s no in-between category for “sort-of-a-friend-but-not-really-and-I’d-like-to-say-hi-but-not-have to-stay-in-touch-forever.” Yes or no. Friend or not. In or out. Life’s easier that way – simpler too. We want everything to fit into categories we can deal with.

But life isn’t that way. Things aren’t as simple as they seem. We don’t fit into simple boxes. Each of us has qualities that make us different, special and unique – qualities we can’t label as “good” or “bad.” And what’s true for each of us also applies to every child – especially in the eyes of their parents. Even if that parent’s name is Rivkah, and her son’s name is Eisav.

We generally like to fit Ya’akov and Eisav into those same simple categories. Ya’akov - dweller of tents, learner of Torah, cooker of soup: Good Son. Eisav - hairy hunter, sells his birthright for a bowl of stew, marries Cana’ani women: Bad Son. And then everything fits. Ya’akov gets the brachah, Eisav loses out. Ya’akov becomes the father of the Jewish people, Eisav’s children hate us. It’s simple – or at least seems simple.

But what about the fact that Ya’akov loved Eisav? The Torah tells us that ויאהב יצחק את עשו כי ציד בפיו – “Yitzchak loved Eisav because he put food in his mouth.” (see Bereishit 25:28) Sure, Rashi says that Eisav “tricked” his father with silly questions, like “Do you have to take Ma’aser on salt?” But, at the very least Eisav shows a great deal of respect for his father. When Yitzchak tells him to hunt some food to make him a tasty meal, Eisav doesn’t walk. He runs to fulfill his father’s wishes. (When’s the last time any of us ran to do what our parents asked us to do?) Also, is Ya’akov really the angel that we always think he is? Sure, he doesn’t want to trick his father into giving him the brachah. But why not? Not because it’s wrong – but because he’s afraid that he’ll get caught. Why doesn’t he tell his mother that tricking your blind father is wrong? Would Eisav have stolen the brachah had the shoe been on the other foot?

Nechama Leibowitz makes an interesting point about a strange phrase at the end of the parshah. When Yitzchak and Rivkah send Ya’akov away to hide from Eisav, the Torah tells us that,וַיִּשְׁלַח יִצְחָק אֶת-יַעֲקֹב, וַיֵּלֶךְ פַּדֶּנָה אֲרָם--אֶל-לָבָן בֶּן-בְּתוּאֵל, הָאֲרַמִּי, אֲחִי רִבְקָה, אֵם יַעֲקֹב וְעֵשָׂו“And Yitzchak sent Ya’akov, and he went to Padan Aram, to Lavan the son of Betuel the Arami, the brother of Rivkah, the mother of Ya’akov and Eisav.” (28:5)Why does the Torah tell us that Rivkah is “the mother of Ya’akov and Eisav”? Don’t we already know that from the story? In fact, this is such a good question that Rashi actually says, אינני יודע מה מלמדנו – “I don’t know what this teaches us.” (Note that Rashi wasn’t afraid to admit that he didn’t know the answer to a question. Sure, he could have given us an answer. But he didn’t like any of the answers he thought of – and he’s honest enough to tell us so.)

Nechama answers this question by looking at what Rivkah tells Ya’akov when she first wants to send him into hiding: לָמָה אֶשְׁכַּל גַּם-שְׁנֵיכֶם, יוֹם אֶחָד – “why should I lose you both in one day?” Her question seems strange. If Eisav killed Ya’akov, she’d only lose one son that day. What does she mean by saying that she’d lose “both”? Nechama quotes the explanation of the Italian commentator Ben-Amozag, in his Eim Lamikra.

“Rivkah said: whichever of you kills the other, I will mourn for you both
on the same day. The murdered will be dead, and the one who kills will be hated
in my eyes like a stranger and an enemy, and it will be as if he is gone. So in
any case I will mourn for both of my sons.”

Nechama suggests that by calling Rivkah “the mother of Ya’akov and Eisav,” the Torah teaches us that Rivkah sent Ya’akov away not just to save Ya’akov from Eisav, but to save Eisav from killing Ya’akov. She understood his anger, and instead of allowing him to kill Ya’akov, she sent Ya’akov away to give Eisav time to calm down.Rivkah knew both of her sons. Just as she realized that Ya’akov needed the brachah from his father, she realized that the very same brachah would be disastrous for Eisav. He could never be the father of the Jewish people. He was special and unique and strong and had many amazing talents; but that brachah was just not for him. We should never think that Rivkah did not love Eisav as her son. Just because he wasn’t Ya’akov does not mean that his mother wasn’t looking out for his best interests, making sure that he got what he needed to grow and succeed in life.

Like Rivkah, every parent loves his or her children both for their strengths, and for their weaknesses. Children aren’t robots. They’re good at some things, and not so good at others. But that’s what makes them unique and individual; it’s what gives them their own original perspective on life, and their own insights to offer to others.

And, what’s true for parents must also be good for educators. Good teachers can see the qualities that make each individual child shine – even if she might not be the “best” student. And sometimes the very best students – the strongest, most studious – the ones who get the best grades – sometimes need to learn how to see beyond the books; how to apply knowledge or even just connect to others.

No, not everyone should be our Facebook friend. And how many of your “friends” do you really know that well? But every person does have something to add to your life and something to teach each of us.We can even learn from an Eisav. Just ask his mother.

Coming Home

After three and a half weeks of traveling for Orot, I finally came home on Friday morning. In truth, this is the first time that I've really been away from my family for more than a few days, and it wasn't fun.
I was still able to stay in touch with the family, sometimes in amazing ways. I bought a cellphone at radioshack for $10 and a plan that gave me unlimited minutes for the month, and then I could call home to our Vonage phone without giving it a second thought. It was essentially free - and I called home a lot. I also used my laptop to Skype the kids at home, and even read the children a bedtime story over the Internet. But the distance was still too much.
As easy as communication is nowadays - it's easy to forget the critical importance of presence, not over the phone, but being there in person. Making kiddush for my family. Washing the dishes. (Yes, I do that.) Giving my children blessings on Friday night, and sitting next to them during davening. While I helped my son with his Gemara homework over the phone, I learned with him in person over Shabbat.
In so many ways, big and small, it's good to be home.
But there's another dimension to coming home. This is the first time that I arrived in Israel not as a visitor or tourist or even immigrant, but as a resident. It felt strange, but also strangely comfortable, to arrive at Ben Gurion airport on my way home. Any other time I've arrived in Israel, I always felt a pang of jealousy for people who lived in Israel. I had no idea what they had gone through to get here, but they had the luxury of being both in Israel and at home.
This week, I finally got to know what that felt like. In ways both small and big, I came home.

Parshah Questions for Kids - Vayera 5769

Sorry that I haven't updated in a while. I've been traveling the world recruiting for Orot. If you know of a high school girl looking for a great seminary experience, please have her contact me. I'm really excited about our program at Orot, and looking forward to building an amazing program.
Meanwhile, enjoy the Parshah Questions at the Shabbos Table.
If you have any comments or questions, let me know.

Keeping the Boss Updated - Table Talk for Bereishit 5769

In the rabbinate, I always had the blessing of a great deal of self-motivation. It's a requirement for the job. Sure, there's a board and president and officers, but they really have neither the time, desire or inclination to oversee the rabbis daily activities. As long as the complains remain at a manageable level, they're busy enough with the business ends of the shul. Usually, boards have to reign in the rabbi, because every good idea, program and initiative costs money.
At the same time, the position also gave me a great deal of autonomy. No one really asked how I spent my time, and no one checked to make sure that I was doing programs or classes.
So, with that it mind, my new job has been a real learning experience. My new boss emailed me this week asking about my progress. It wasn't that he thought that I wasn't working or was unhappy with my progress. I just hadn't updated him at all about what I'm doing. Truth be told, it never occurred to me to do so. I figured that as long as I was doing my job (which I think I am), all was well. He - rather reasonably, I think - expects regular updates. So, we've decided to meet regularly to keep communication open, so that he has an idea of what I'm doing.
All of this got me thinking about another kind of updating as well. We think of God as a boss We call God an אדון - a Master. But אדון can also mean "Boss." In fact, my son is now reading a very popular Jewish book called "All For the Boss" about Rabbi Ya'akov Yosef Herman, who lived in New York during the early to mid-twentieth century. (The book is so named due to the fact that its protagonist constantly referred to God as "the Boss.")
In light of my recent experience, I started to wonder: Am I supposed to keep the Boss updated as well? After all, I had always assumed that He knows what I'm doing. After all, He is God. Of course he knows. But then, in the parshah, we see two examples where God clearly knows what people have done, but He wants them to give Him an update.
First, following the Original Sin - when Adam eats the forbidden fruit, instead of immediately confronting Adam and Eve with their sin, He asks them, "Where are you?" Only when Adam explains his desire to hide because of his nakedness, God asks him, "Who told you that you are naked? Did you eat from the tree?" (3:12)
Later, when Cain kills his brother Abel, again God does not immediately confront Cain with his crimes. He first asks Cain, איה הבל אחיך - "where is your brother Abel?" Only when Cain denies any knowledge and culpability does God throw the book at him.
In each case, God looks first for an update: What have you been doing? Is everything OK? Of course He knows the answer. But he wants us to come to Him. He needs us to approach.
And, if we must approach God and admit our mistakes when things go wrong, should we not also approach God with an update when things are well?
He is, after all, the Boss.

Traveling, with a Little Different Perspective

This coming Monday, I leave Israel for a long (three and a half week) trip to England and the United States to recruit for Orot. I'm excited about the program that we're developing and the trip itself, but neither Rena nor I are looking forward to the length of the trip and my separation from the family. It's a long time, no matter how you slice it, by far the longest I've ever been away.
Yet, talking to a neighbor gave us a little different perspective. Rena was speaking with our next door neighbor about my trip and its length. Our neighbor, while sympathizing with her said, "At least he's not going for a month to miluim, where you'd have to worry about the dangerous things he might be doing as well."
Good point. We hadn't really thought about it that way.

Sleeping in the Sukkah and Living with Less Stuff

I'll be honest. I've never slept in the sukkah, at least before this year. I always told myself that it was too cold, too wet (in Michigan both were true) - too whatever to sleep in the sukkah. I admit it; I'm not really the out-doorsy type. My idea of camping involves a good mattress, soft pillows and air conditioning. But sleeping in a sukkah isn't really about camping. Or maybe it is. And this year, the sukkah took on a little extra meaning for me.

Moving to Israel was a large-scale excercise in downsizing. You have no idea how much stuff you've managed to accumulate until you have to move all of it. And then imagine moving to a place that you know is about half as big as your old house. Then you truly start getting rid of stuff.

The process went in stages:
1. Selling relatively valuable stuff on Ebay. Very slow with limited success.
2. The garage sale. Craigslist. Etc. Selling one car.
3. Giving stuff away - that included some furniture, and also food.
4. Deciding what we were going to keep, and sending it off to Israel on the lift.
5. Packing up whatever would possibly fit into the minivan.
6. Selling the minivan.
6. Sending our stuff onto the bottom of the plane.
It occurred to me that at each stage, the stuff that we were directly connected to grew smaller and smaller. When we finally got on the plane with just our carry-on luggage, it was at that point that I realized that I had the least amount of "stuff" that I probably have for the rest of my life. My house was stuck on a boat somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea. My luggage was on the bottom of the plane. If someone took all of your stuff away, and left you only with a carry-on piece of luggage, what would you take? It's an interesting question.

In any case, Sukkot itself prompts us to ask precisely this question: how much stuff do I need? On sukkot, we're supposed to move out of our homes into the Sukkah. While we normally make-do with lawn furniture, that's not really how we're supposed to do it. We're supposed to take our nicest things - our best furniture into the sukkah, and live with only that stuff for the week of sukkot. We're not supposed to just eat in the sukkah. We're supposed to live in it; eat and sleep, hang out and chat in it. Interestingly, you're not supposed to take regular things into the sukkah either. You don't bring in your pots or garbage - that stuff stays out.

So what would you - if it wouldn't rain in the sukkah - take with you? If we truly lived in a Sukkah for a week, how much of your stuff would you really need?

I guess what we learned most this year is that we really didn't need as much stuff as we thought. Instead of four couches we do fine with one. We left our breakfront and sideboard (which I really, really loved) and all the things (read here - junk) that we had crammed into them. Instead, we have a simple curio cabinet from Ikea with our kiddush cups and other assorted items. Instead of four separate rooms not including a basement, we have only one big room (with a kitchen) downstairs, but we all seem to get along - at least most of the time. The whole downsizing process made me realize just how much stuff I thought I needed, but don't really, and how much that "need" motivated many of my actions.

Which brings me back to sleeping in the sukkah. As I lay in the sukkah the first night, it made me think back to the nights we slept on mattresses on the floor - both in Oak Park and here in Israel, because our real beds were in transit. No, it wasn't fun to sleep on the floor, but we survived. Actually, we were fine, and that lesson has stayed with me. I looked up at the sky, and gave thanks to God for the fact that this Sukkot, my things meant just a little less to me than in years past.

I could sleep in the sukkah without the creature comforts, but feel more blessed nonetheless.

Change of Place and Identity - Thoughts After Yom Kippur

About a year after we arrived in Michigan, Rena and I went out for dinner to celebrate my birthday. We took in a late dinner at Milk and Honey (ob"m), and then decided to head to a movie. I wanted to see the new Spiderman movie and the movie had already been out about two months, so we figured that the theater would be pretty empty.
It was. As we walked in, it was clear that not many people were out to see Spiderman on a Sunday evening eight weeks after its release. Not many - other than the two families from the Young Israel of Southfield (the other Young Israel in Michigan) that were sitting five rows behind us.
"Hey Rabbi! How's it going?" they asked good-naturedly. While I was somewhat taken aback, they didn't seem perturbed that I was in a movie theater.
"Should we call you the Spider-rabbi?" I didn't get it, but I think it was a half-hearted attempt at humor. Looking back, perhaps they themselves didn't expect to end up in a movie with a rabbi, and it was they who were uncomfortable, and not me.
At that moment, I turned to Rena and said, "You know what I just realized? That I can never do anything at all anywhere in this community, and not expect the entire communty to know about it."
And I was right - that's just the way it is for shul rabbis.

The frightening imagery of the Unetaneh Tokef prayer prominentls highlights the seriousness of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur: "Who shall live, and who shall die? Who by water and who by fire?" And yet, at the conclusion of the prayer, we find some consolation in the crescendo,

ותשובה, ותפילה, וצדקה מעבירין את רוע הגזרה

And repentance, prayer and charity remove the evil of the decree

(Parenthetically, we should note an important aspect of this phrase: first of all, it does not mean that these three acts remove the evil decree, as many mistakenly believe. If so, the prayer would have said, מעבירין את הגזרה הרעה. Rather, they remove the harshness - the evil of the decree. For a fascinating lecture on this issue and much more about Unetaneh Tokef, listen to this lecture by my teacher Rabbi Jacob J. Schacter at YUTorah.org)
Most authorities agree that the author of this prayer derived the highlight from a well-known gemara in Rosh Hashanah (16b):

ואמר רבי יצחק: ארבעה דברים מקרעין גזר דינו של אדם, אלו הן: צדקה, צעקה, שינוי השם, ושינוי מעשה. צדקה - דכתיב +משלי י+ וצדקה תציל ממות, צעקה - דכתיב +תהלים קז+ ויצעקו אל ה' בצר להם וממצקותיהם יוציאם, שינוי השם - דכתיב +בראשית יז+ שרי אשתך לא תקרא את שמה שרי כי שרה שמה, וכתיב וברכתי אתה וגם נתתי ממנה לך בן, שינוי מעשה - דכתיב +יונה ג+ וירא האלהים את מעשיהם, וכתיב +יונה ג+ וינחם האלהים על הרעה אשר דבר לעשות להם ולא עשה. ויש אומרים: אף שינוי מקום, דכתיב +בראשית יב+ ויאמר ה' אל אברם לך לך מארצך, והדר ואעשך לגוי גדול ואידך - ההוא זכותא דארץ ישראל הוא דאהניא ליה.

Said Rabbi Yitzchak: four things rend apart a man's decree, and they are: charity, crying out, changing of one's name, and changing of one's actions. Charity - as it is written, "and charity shall save [one] from death." (Proverbs 10) Crying out - as it is written, "and they cried out to God in their anguish, and from their desperation he removed them." (Psalms 107) Changing of the name - as it is written, "Your wife Sarai, her name shall no longer be Sarai, rather her name shall be Sarah," (Genesis 17) and it is written, "And I shall bless her and I will also grant her a son." Changing of one's actions - as it is written, "And the Lord saw their actions," (Jonah 3) and it is written, "and the Lord regretted the evil that He had spoken to do to them and he did not do it." Some also say, even changing one's place, as it is written, "And God said to Avram go forth from your land," (Genesis 12) and then, "and I will make you into a great nation." And the other opinion says, that is the merit of the Land of Israel that helped him.

We readily recognize three out of the four from the prayer: charity and crying clearly refer to charity and prayer from Unetaneh Tokef. Moreover, changing of one's actions seem to signify a sense of repentance - the teshuvah from the prayer. Yet, aside from the fact that the the final two (or one and a half) - change of place and change of name - never appear in the text of Unetaneh Tokef (a subject Rabbi Schacter addresses wonderfully), they seem to challenge our sense of what Teshuvah is all about.
I'd like to focus on one of the two - the change of locations, and ask a simple question; why should the fact that I relocate from one place to another have any bearing on my spiritual standing before God? What difference does it make whether I reside in Oak Park, Michigan, or Silver Spring, Maryland or Yad Binyamin, Israel, if I'm still the same person?
While intellectually the question makes a great deal of sense and I truly had difficulty answering these questions, this year I came to an appreciation for the teshuvah of "changing of one's place." This year I think I understand. I came to realize that teshuvah is much more than an intellectual process. It can encompass a great deal of emaotion turmoil, and probably should.

To what degree do we evaluate and justify ourselves by the way that those around us relate to us? After all, I've lived in a community for a number of years; I've been active and involved, made friends and business relationships. Not only do others know who I am - I know who and what I am by the way that they relate to me. When I walk into shul, or a friend's home or a business, they recognize me, acknowlege me and in a very real sense establish who I am in my own mind. I don't need to search for my place. I have a place both physically but metaphysically as well: I'm the philanthropist (or the tightwad); I'm the shul talker (or the guy who never talks in shul); I never listen to the rabbi's speech (or never miss a word). Everyone expects me to be who they recognize, and I don't disappoint. It's that very sameness - the expectations of those who surround us that keep us constant and steady.
But what if one day you woke up in your own community and no one recognized you. The lady at Starbucks didn't give you your regular cup, because she doesn't know what you want. Would you buy soemthing different, or just the same cup of coffee that you do every day? Probably get the same. But then your secretary didn't know how to handle your emails. And your coworkers didn't know what to expect from you. And your kids didn't know what set you off or made you happy. Would you still act and react the same way you always did? We'd be thrown for a loop, because we'd need to reevaulate our actions, interactions and reactions - because you could no longer take anything for granted.
And what if you had a position in your community, and woke up one day and it was gone. You were just a regular Joe like everyone else. Would you still act the same? Would you still have the same expectations of yourself, and everyone else around you?

That's what happened to me this year.

Perhaps the most difficult aspects of serving as a communal rabbi is the "fishbowl" phenomenon. Everyone's watching you. They're looking at what you do, what you buy, who you greet, who you don't. They see you even when you don't see them, and care not only about what classes you give and hospitals you visit, but what movies you watch - or whether you watch them at all. And while it's really hard to maintain that constant sense of vigilance and attentiveness at all times in public, there's another side to it as well.

You get used to the fact that people know who you are. When you walk into shul, they subtely acknowledge your presence; they're (usually) comforted that you're there. When you walk into a shiva house or hospital, they visibly relax. They wait for you to finish davening in shul, and for you to make kiddush before anyone starts eating. When you visit them for a meal, it's a big deal - an honor.

I don't kid myself. I'm quite aware that it's not me personally - but my position as their rabbi. (Although I do think I'm a good guy also.) But that status - those reactions - become part of your psyche. You assimilate them, not necessarily in an egocentric way, but as a matter of identification. Being a rabbi wasn't just my job - it became in a sense a very real part of my identity, not just for others, but more importantly, for myself.

And then I moved to Isreal, left the rabbinate, and moved to another country. To be honest, people here know that I was a rabbi; I've spoken in shul here, give a regular gemara shiur, given a few classes and answered questions. But even to those people, while I'm a rabbi, I'm not their rabbi. And to most people here and all the Israelis, I'm just a regular person. A nice guy - somewhat knowledgable - but nothing special.

Which is just fine. I like my anonymity. I enjoy dressing casually in shul and around the community. I love not having to look around at the supermarket to make sure that I didn't miss saying hello (and inadvertantly insulting) someone.

But it's also very, very painful. If I'm not "Rabbi Spolter" - if I'm just Reuven Spolter, then while I know who I am, I've lost a very real part of "what" I am. I have to reassess: do I learn enough? What's my place supposed to be in my new community? What is it reasonable to expect of myself?

These are all questions that I never asked myself as a rabbi, because they more or less answered themselves. And they don't anymore. This last Yom Kippur - during davening actually - I finally became aware of the extent of this loss of self-identity and how much it was affecting me. And that's when the questions truly came to the forefront. I think this is part of what the Gemara means when it refers to "change of place." It's that sense of confusion, self-awareness and reevaluation from losing the surroundings you took for granted. It's about asking questions you never thought to ask.

Answering these very questions are the essence of what teshuva is all about. And they don't stop at Yom Kippur.

Yom Kippur is just the beginnning.