The End of Jewish Life in the Diaspora? A Shabbat Lunch with Two University Students from the UK

A few weeks ago, Dr. Dan Schueftan, Director of the National Security Studies Center at the University of Haifa, appeared on the Commentary Magazine podcast and said something that shook me. He said:

I realize that that's not an easy thing for other people to accept, and it's very difficult for me to accept, but I've seen Jewish life outside of Israel always, like something that is temporary. Again, not the life of Jews. I don't think that Jews are, you know, massively as a collective in danger. But Jewish life in Europe is over. Jewish life throughout the world, it's over. And in the United States, there is another generation.

I wondered: What did he mean? What's the difference between Jewish life, and the life of the Jews? And why does he think that Jewish life globally is over?

This past Shabbat, we hosted two lovely young women from the United Kingdom who have been participating in an internship program over the summer. They brought them to Yad Binyamin for their final Shabbat. The girls' description of the Jewish life in two universities in the United Kingdom didn't surprise me, but was nonetheless upsetting.

The smaller of the two - who's about half my size - described how she's a security volunteer in various shuls over Shabbat across London. What are her qualifications for this position? Well, she said, I took a two-day course in Krav Maga, so if anyone attacked, I would have to krav maga them." When I asked her if they gave her anything to protect herself she thought for a minute and said, "They do give us a big, heavy torch." This young woman is a junior in college. I marvel at her willingness to volunteer, but mourn the necessity. She told us that she could not believe how in Israel you can just walk into shul, without showing an ID - something that's not possible anywhere in Europe today.

Her friend, who is the head of the Jewish Student Union at another UK university, explained that Jewish groups no longer advertise the location of Jewish events. They just write "Location TBD." And if you know where it is, you know. When two non-Jewish students came into a party without registering them first, she took action - asking them to leave. She couldn't risk that they were simply curious, and wanted to join a Jewish party.

This is the norm for Jewish life in the Diaspora today. If you want to enter a Jewish shul or museum or often even a restaurant, you must pass through a magnometer. If you need access to a Jewish school, the gates are - rightly so - that much higher! During our visit to Rome, the security in the Jewish ghetto was provided mostly by the Italian government. And now many are calling on the United Kingdom to follow suit. Even in the United States, you can't enter a shul for mincha without a combination.

This is not to suggest that we're "safer" in Israel. We've got our own problems with safety and security. But the major difference is that in Israel, Jewish life is thriving. We of course have our security - but it's at the border, or in the form of the citizenry in every shul. We're not ignorant of the dangers of course - but it's not an impediment to Jewish public life. 

Listening to their stories, I came to understand what Dr. Schueftan meant. Judaism can persevere under the most dire of circumstances. It has - and will continue to do so. But how many Jews on the periphery won't come near a Jewish institution, seeing the amount of security necessary to enter? If Jews cannot live Jewish lives without the need to have security at every event, then public Jewish life is indeed over. 

The Double Tragedy of the Murder of Max/Menachem Stark

If it had been the plot of a movie, the ADL would have coordinated demonstrations outside the movie studio: A Chassid slumlord, beloved and cherished inside his community, reviled by the business associates he has cheated and stolen from. Except, tragically, the story is true, sad on so many levels: for his family, of course, robbed of their father and husband; for a community dependent on his many acts of kindness. But it's also tragic in larger way, as the publicity this case has generated serves as a massive chillul Hashem.
Rambam, (Laws of Teshuvah Chapter 1) defines the desecration of God's name as the worst form of sin. How does one achieve atonement for this type of sin? He explains,

אבל המחלל את השם--אף על פי שעשה תשובה והגיע יום הכיפורים והוא עומד בתשובתו ובאו עליו ייסורין, אינו מתכפר לו כפרה גמורה עד שימות, אלא תשובה ויום הכיפורים וייסורין שלושתן תולין ומיתה מכפרת...

One  who desecrates the Name [of God] - even though he repented and Yom Kippur arrived and he maintained his repentance and he endured suffering, he does not achieve complete atonement until he dies. Rather, his repentance and Yom Kippur and his suffering are suspended, and [only] death atones...

This, of course, only applies to Chillul Hashem that one caused during one's life. How then can one possibly atone for Chillul Hashem, if the vast majority of that desecration comes after you're no longer in this world? While we cannot know the answer to these questions, the very thought of them causes me to shudder.
Yet now, thanks to the New York Post, the Jewish community will probably not ask the most important question in this triple-tragedy: How is it that supposedly righteous people see such a clear dichotomy between their personal and religious lives, and their business affairs? Menachem Stark was a beloved ba'al chessed. Max Stark was a despicable slumlord. Sure, we all wear the mask of the stranger to some degree. But the point of Judaism must be to unify and solidify ourselves into a greater whole - into people of personal, spiritual and religious integrity.
This isn't just about Menachem/Max Stark. It's a question about ourselves.
Numerous Jewish sources highlight the critical importance of integrity in religious life. Each morning at the very beginning of Shacharit we pray, "לעולם יהא אדם ירא שמים בסתר ובגלוי" - "a person should fear heaven both in private and in the open." The Pri Chadash writes that the phrase means that we must fear God in private in the same way that we fear God in public. He suggests that the original source of this phrase is a story found in the Gemara in Brachot (28) which describes of Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai, lying on his deathbed, surrounded by his students.

אמרו לו: רבינו, ברכנו!
אמר להם: יהי רצון שתהא מורא שמים עליכם כמורא בשר ודם.
אמרו לו תלמידיו: עד כאן?
אמר להם: ולואי! תדעו: כשאדם עובר עבירה אומר "שלא יראני אדם"

They said, "Our Master - bless us!"
He said to them, "May it bill the will [of God] that the fear of heaven should be upon you like the fear of flesh and blood.
His students said, "That's all?"
He told them: "You should achieve that much! Know that when a person sins, he says [to himself], 'that no one else should see me'".

Judaism demands not just prayer and study and righteousness in the religious sphere, but spirituality especially in the world outside the shul and Beit Midrash.

The same section of the Gemara also tells the story of Rabban Gamliel and the test he gave in order to gain access to his Beit Midrash. Anyone who was not תוכו כברו - "whose inside was the same as his outside" - was not permitted to study. Ultimately, when Rabban Gamliel was demoted, they opened up the study hall to anyone who wished to enter, and literally hundreds of students entered to study.
Yet, we seem to have forgotten Rabban Gamliel's essential message. He wasn't interested in teaching externally pious Jews. If you wanted to study with Rabban Gamliel, he wanted to know that you would internalize the Torah you studied and assimilate into your very essence; that you would personify the Torah in your behavior outside the study hall, and not just wear it on your sleeve (or hat).
Every one of us lives this dual life to some degree. We are not, during the rest of the year, the pious people we are on Yom Kippur. And I hope that we act in shul and in the Beit Midrash better than we do on the street.
But I hope that it's not that much better. I pray that we don't so disnegage our religious and personal lives that we're Menachem Stark in shul, and Max Stark at the office.
Yet, with the focus of the Jewish world now firmly zoomed in on the NY Post and its hateful cover, it seems likes that this issue will surely be lost, making it all the more tragic.

Who's the Best Rabbi?

For whatever reason, Pesach seems to be rabbi season, during which we choose the "Best" rabbis. I take that back; "we" don't choose anything. For whatever reason, the American secular Jewish media has seen fit to dedicate Pesach to choosing its favorite rabbis:
The Forward gives us the thirty-six (a special Jewish number) "America's Most Inspiring Rabbis", while the Daily Beast shares with us a list of "America's Top Fifty Rabbis". Who chooses what's considered "inspiring"? What exactly makes a "top rabbi" anyway? How do you "make" the list?
I find these lists particularly demeaning to the rabbinate. They imply that (a) there's a way to rank rabbis and (b) that there should even be a list at all. How is one rabbi "better" than another? Is he (or she) a better teacher? A better counselor? More compassionate? More learned? (actually, that's easier to judge - but doesn't seem to be a criteria on these lists). From what I can tell, from the Forward's perspective, the "best" Orthodox rabbis are the most progressive, who fit into the mold of Orthodoxy the Forward's editors can most easily stomach. At least the Daily Beast found fit to list rabbis in Orthodoxy who have major followings and actually are considered leaders in their communities (although I wonder whether Rav Matisyahu Solomon's PR people had to work very hard to get him on the list).

I much prefer the list put out by Motzash Magazine (the weekly Dati Lite publication from Mekor Rishon), who before Pesach published an issue called "The Top 100 People Who Define the [Religious Zionist] Demographic"  The issue listed 100 movers and shakers, from politicians to actors to academics who play prominent roles in Israeli society, and also happen to be Religious Zionists (at least most of them seem to be). While some of the hundred are also rabbis, they were chosen as authors, writers, or other accomplishments outside of their rabbinic roles. In fact, the list's editors wrote in their introduction that they decided at the outset to exclude rabbis from the list. It seemed inappropriate and unseemly. They were right.
It's fascinating to note that throughout the Hagaddah we recite on Pesach night, we mention a great number of rabbis. Yet, the most important rabbi of them all - Moshe Rabbeinu - gets only a tangential mention, despite the fact that his contributions played the most pivotal role in our nation's birth.
Perhaps that's the most important lesson here: A rabbi's importance or significance has literally nothing in common with any possible list he "makes". The single measure of importance is the impact he has on those he can influence, teach, help or heal. Making any other list is about as significant as the paper on which the list was printed, if it was even printed at all.

An Imbalanced Look at the Orthodox Working Mother

Jewish Action published a recent multi-page spread on working mothers, during which a number of working women were interviewed about how their careers affect their ability to care for their families and their children. Does a full-time job have any negative impact on a Jewish, Orthodox mother? According to Jewish Action, the answer is a clear, emphatic, "NO". The introduction to the issue says it all.
Overwhelmed. Exhausted. Stressed. Somewhat surprisingly, few of the women we interviewed for our cover story on balancing career and family used the words above to describe their very full lives.
Their lives aren't "stressed". They're full. Balanced. Just ask the women themselves. Here are a few choice quotes.

"Even though the fellowship was very demanding with a sixty-hour-a-week commitment, it gave me the independence I needed to balance work demands with family."
"Currently, I have a very large and busy solo practice; I deliver around 600 babies a year...It used to be extremely frustrating for me when there was some school event that may have been important to my kids but wasn’t important enough that I could arrange for coverage at work. I would feel terrible missing it, but I knew if I started taking off for the little things, it would all come apart. Did I want to go help my daughter pick out her wedding dress when she was a kallah? Of course I did! But she managed on her own, and sent pictures to my phone as she shopped...
"Hashem blessed me with deep reservoirs of energy. In my day, there was no such thing as telecommuting, so I would sometimes come home from work at 5:00 pm, put the kids to bed, then go back to work until five in the morning. Then I would come home, get the kids off to school and go back to work. But not everybody can handle such a physically taxing schedule. You shouldn’t feel guilty or like a failure if you’re not able to function at full capacity on almost zero sleep.
I did certain things to stay close to my kids. When they were little, I would record stories for them to listen to..."

The irony in these pieces is that they weren't written with a sense of irony. Delivering 600 babies a year while raising a family? You can never do anything outside of work - and she alludes to the fact that they was barely at her own chidren's weddings. Recording stories to play for your kids while you're at work? Really. Here we read about women describing ridiculous schedules, which made serious demands on their time, and they really think that those choices didn't affect their families and their children? Of course they did. To think differently is naive. Some also make allusions to difficult life events: divorces in the family, problems with children's development - but the article makes no attempt to connect between the choices these women make and the results of those choices.
And what about the husbands and children? It would have been interesting - and to my mind far more informative - to ask the family members of these superwomen how they viewed the fact that mom was working so hard. Were they really as fine with it as their mother seems to think? Or, is she sweeping a great deal of dust under a very large rug?

The entire piece left me feeling confused an a bit angry. Countless families make tremendous sacrifices so that they can raise their children on their own, without relying on full-time nannies. How does an article like this one make them feel? Well, obviously they just can't get their act together. After all, look at the success of these career women who didn't have to make any sacrifices! (at least according to the article). A great line in the article: "We also pay full tuition, and sometimes I wonder if I’m killing myself trying to pay the bills while other people are getting breaks because they’re not working. It’s hard enough to pay our own tuition, so I don’t really want to subsidize someone else who’s not sweating as hard as I am to meet the payments." Now it's not just a choice. No, it's wrong for a parent to work less. That costs everyone else more!

I don't know how I feel about the issue of working mothers. My wife works, and we depend on her income to survive financially. (she doesn't work full-time, but when you add the hours of grading that she does at home, it comes close!) Moreover, she needs the intellectual and personal stimulation from her work, her teaching colleagues, and her professional life.
But I still struggle with the issue (and I've got a good amount of Judaic knowledge and learning in my background). So I began to wonder: doesn't Judaism have something to say about this? Wouldn't it have made sense for the OU to ask...a rabbi about Judaism and the role of women? Or a female scholar? Someone with some Jewish knowledge?
Does the Torah have anything to say about an issue that the vast majority of Orthodox families struggle with? I daresay it does.
Moreover, the OU should have at least have interviewed the other side of the coin, families where parents do stay home and work less. What sacrifices does that entail? How hard is it really? What are the ramifications of making that type of choice?
Then the article about "Striking A Balance" would have been somewhat balanced. As published, the Jewish Action piece on working mothers had very little to say about a very important issue.

Shabbat Aliyah in Antwerp Part 2: Will the Last Person Out, Please Turn off the Lights

In 2004, I wrote an article for the OU’s Jewish Action Magazine called, “In Search of Leaders,” lamenting the toll that aliyah was taking on my attempt to build a committed Modern Orthodox Jewish community. All assumed (incorrectly) that I was decrying aliyah; some applauded the article while others openly defended life in Chutz L’aretz. Yet, the principle thesis of the article – that aliyah was emptying American Modern Orthodoxy of many of its strongest leaders – both lay and professional – remained sound.

I didn’t really know how sound until this past Shabbat, which I spent as a representative of the Jewish Agency speaking about Aliyah over what they called, “Shabbat Lech Lecha.”

Each year, the Jewish Agency (and other sub-groups whose logos must legally appear in this blog post) sends representatives to cities around the world to strengthen ties between the community and Israel and encourage Aliyah. It just so happens that a young man who shares a bench with me in shul spent two years in Antwerp several years ago as a Shaliach Bnei Akiva, and he remains close with many of the community members. He also has ties to the Jewish Agency, so when he heard about this program, he asked me whether I’d go to Antwerp for Shabbat, mostly to speak to the kids in Bnei Akiva. I agreed, and that’s how I ended up in Antwerp for Shabbat Lech Lecha.

Several things strike you (or at least me) immediately upon visiting Antwerp. The Jewish community (at least the Orthodox community) is situated in an extremely small area in the most congested downtown location of the city; kind of like living in Manhattan – except with smaller buildings, most only six or seven stories. This is because the community settled in very close proximity to the Diamond Exchange, which is within walking (or biking – everyone bikes in Antwerp) distance.

All Belgians they speak at least three languages: Flemish, French and English. Most, if not all Jews, even Chareidim, speak Hebrew, a fourth language, and many Jews speak Hebrew as their primary language. In fact, in both Jewish Day schools where I spoke, I spoke to the children in Hebrew which they understood perfectly. Their Hebrew is probably better than mine.

It’s amazing to me how communities around the world suffer from similar problems. Like Detroit, which had a smaller, more Orthodox Religious Zionist day school (Akiva) and a wealthier, less religious, better attended high school (the Jewish Academy), Antwerp had two schools: Yavneh (150 students across all grades) and Tachkemoni (600-700 students). While the bulk of Tachkemoni’s students are not religious, Yavneh is squarely Religious Zionist, with separate boys and girls schools (in the same building, separated by the Rosh Yeshiva’s office). That’s right: 150 total students; separate boys’ and girls’ studies beginning in seventh grade. The high school classes that I saw numbered in the small single digits. If you’re wondering how they possibly can afford to keep the school afloat, in Belgium private schools receive money from the state. That probably helps quite a bit.

Here’s the most surprising aspect of Yavneh by far: one hundred percent of its graduates make Aliyah. That’s right: all of them. I wasn’t there to convince them to make Aliyah; they’re all going to do that anyway, something they openly admitted. Rather, I was there to strengthen their sense of Jewish identity, and to offer them words of encouragement and chizzuk, a mission I feel that I accomplished. Their parents actively encourage them to go learn in Yeshiva in Israel and then either join the army or study in university in Israel and then make aliyah. Not one family that I met did not have at least one child, if not more, who already lives in Israel.

This slow migration is clearly having a devastating effect on the Religious Zionist Community of Antwerp. While the Chareidi chadarim and yeshivot continue to grow, the one true RZ shul, Mizrachi, boasts a regular Shabbat minyan of approximately fifty to sixty men. (I couldn’t see the women’s section), a number which, I was told by more than one person, used to be more than double that. While most children daven at B’nei Akiva (the Snif is actually a huge building complex), the average age at shul could not have been less than fifty. Simply put, the community is aging, and there are no young people who are moving in to pick up the slack. The entire experience was very surreal. One mother I spoke to talked proudly of her children leaving Antwerp, never to return permanently, telling me, “There’s nothing for them here.”

This fact was most striking during the dinner the Shlichim coordinated for college-age students (and those working as well). We put out the word on Facebook, and while a couple (literally two) didn’t join us, there were seven young people at the Shabbat table. That’s it. The rest are long gone.

While the Jewish Agency (in Israel) doesn’t play an outwardly prominent role in Jewish life in Antwerp, the role it plays behind the scenes is crucial. Many of the Judaic Studies teachers are or were Shelichim, sent from Israel for a limited period of time. The Rosh Yeshiva (Rav Herschkovitz) who also serves as the rabbi of the Yavneh shul is serving his second year of Shlichut. Bnei Akiva is coordinated by Shlichim – and the Bnei Akiva clearly plays a critical communal role; many kids daven at the Snif every Shabbat, and they all attend Snif on Shabbat afternoon, where the high school kids coordinate programming for the younger children. Without the Sochnut, Antwerp’s RZ community would have long ago turned to more Chareidi-oriented educators and leaders, ultimately changing the very nature of their own community.

Clearly Antwerp is a unique, unusual community. I’ve traveled to schools across North America and cannot think of a school where you could speak Hebrew to the entire student body and they would not only understand, but converse with you in Hebrew as well. (It made the American notion of Ivrit B’ivrit seem pathetic.) As I spoke with the kids about Jewish identity and how Americans often struggle with a dual sense of fidelity to America and Judaism and the possible conflict between the two (as in, are you an American Jew or a Jewish American), while the Belgian kids found the topic fascinating they simply couldn’t relate. They have no sense of pride in being citizens of Belgium. (They claim that most Belgians don’t either) It seemed clear to me that this lack of pride in being Belgian (Belsh?) had a great deal to do with their willingness to leave their country for Israel. After all, if you don’t identify with where you live, why stay?

I wonder how long the community will be able to sustain itself, keeping the school open and the Bnei Akiva active. At what point are there just not enough kids? At what point does it no longer make sense to run an entire school? Antwerp used to be flush with profits from the diamond industry, but numerous people made it clear that the good old days are long gone, and that many of the community’s wealthiest, most influential members had left, taking their assets with them to…you guessed it: Israel.

Commenting on this phenomenon, most of the Israelis I spoke with had a single response: “Baruch Hashem.” Indeed, who can complain about the fact that a community’s children are slowly but surely settling in the Jewish State. After all, it’s where they belong.

But I wonder about an Orthodox community without a Modern Orthodox element. Are we truly unnecessary to the greater frum community and they’ll do fine without us, or do we play a larger communal role that will be missed when there’s no significant RZ community, shul or school to speak of? I doubt that anyone in the Chareidi community will admit it, but I wonder how Orthodoxy in Antwerp will change when the last person at the Mizrachi Shul turns out the lights.

Shabbat "Aliyah" in Antwerp 1 - The Airport

I was sent to Antwerp, Belgium this Shabbat, representing the Jewish Agency for what they called Shabbat Aliyah. Apparently, they send representatives out to communities around the world on Shabbat Lech Lecha (seems to be an appropriate parshah) to try and encourage aliyah and a connection to Israel. (I'm not sure that they did such a great job advertising the program. Just google "shabbat aliyah bnei akiva")

I wonder how much a person can do in a single Shabbat. Probably not much. But if you’re part of a larger effort; if you’re one gear in a much larger machine – then every little bit really does help.

I still find myself impressed that the State of Israel sent me to another country to encourage Jews to connect to the country. There’s no other country in the world that actively seeks out people to come emigrate; no country in the world that cares enough for its people – and Jews are Israel’s people – that it spends fantastic sums to try and encourage its people to return home.

At the airport, I a “chutz-la’aretz” experience which I shared with the students who I spoke with over the weekend. As soon as I got into the security line in Ben Gurion, I found myself standing next to a group of travelers – probably about fifteen or twenty men and women (and a few teens), mostly between the ages of forty and sixty. Yet, the group was striking for their sheer size. They were all quite tall; the men must have all been six-three or above; the women were all at least as tall as me. They were imposing, just standing there, in the line next to mine, at the Ben Gurion Airport security line. Listening for a few moments, it became clear that they were speaking German, and a thought flash of recognition – or maybe identification in some small way – raced through my mind.

It was a long wait on line. And as we stood there, we began to chat, as people on line often do. They were indeed German, and wonderful people, on their way home from a week-long vacation. It just so happened that there was a frum woman standing behind me with a baby in a stroller, and after she asked me about my upcoming trip, she turned to the woman behind me, assuming that we were travelling together and assumed, aloud, that she too would be traveling with me.

“Oh no,” she said, “we’re not from the same family.” But then she added, in a slightly lower tone that I clearly heard but doubt the woman from Germany caught, “At least not in directly. But we are in the larger sense.”

Hearing her comment, I turned to and wondered, “Were you thinking what I was thinking?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Exactly the same thing.”

Guilt for Excercise? A Torah Value Taken to the Extreme

My weight and I have long engaged in a friendly, and sometimes not-so-friendly competition. It tries to the get the best of me while I struggle to keep it under control. I was never one of those people who could eat whatever I wanted and maintain a healthy weight (and found myself quite envious of those who were). For many years I adhered to a SugarBusters diet (though I fell off that wagon about a year ago), and since my college days I've been a regular runner. (Back in semichah, when I lived in Washington Heights, I used to run over the George Washington Bridge. It was a great, beautiful run.)
Aside from the issue of trying to stay healthy, I just feel better when I excercise, both physically and emotionally. Running helps me stay calmer, more balanced, and well-adjusted. I figured it was a good thing all around.
Then I received the OU's most recent Shabbat Shalom email, which contained an article entitled, "Why Do I Feel Guilty When I Run?" in which Rabbi Pesach Sommer, who lost about 100 pounds over the last year writes,

So when I began to vigorously engage in what seemed like a strictly physical pursuit, I felt guilty. I was uncomfortable with activities like sports and exercise. Running, with all the health benefits it had to offer, left me uneasy.
I tried to ignore the little voice in my head that told me that running was bitul zman, a waste of time. When that didn’t work, I tried to convince myself that my time in the gym was justified by the fact that it would allow me to live longer and fulfill the goal of v’nishmartem meod, protecting my life. I suppose that should have been enough, but somehow it left me less than satisfied. Not enough to get me to stop, but, still, I was determined to understand and hopefully get rid of the gnawing feeling I was experiencing.

Rabbi Summer ends his brief article concluding that his excercise was actually improving his spirituality, which is nice and true. But reading the article, I found myself wondering, "Why in the world did he feel guilty? What if he achieved no spiritual nirvana through running, but simply led a more healthy lifestyle? Where did we get the notion that excercise is "bittul zman"?
A commenter on the article states it this way,

I'm actually shocked and even horrified at the idea that we Jews have produced a culture that could leave someone feeling guilty for exercising.

I believe that the answer - and the source of Rabbi Sommer's guilt - lies in a good value taken to the extreme, which manifests itself in many areas of Orthodox life.
Judaism considers the study of Torah to be a core component of a religious, spritual life. In fact, halachah considers Torah study to be obligatory. One must study Torah. The question is: how much? For how long?
Boiling a complicated halachic discussion into a nutshell, two basic opinions emerge. The first, articulated by Rambam and actually encoded into the Shulchan Aruch (Yoreh Deah, 246:1), posits that one must, at a minimum, study Torah every day and night. They derive this from the verse where God tells Yehoshua, והגית בו יומם וליליה - "and you shall delve [Torah] day and night." (Yehoshua, 1:8) According to the most lenient position, one can even fulfill this obligation with the simple recitation of the Shema each morning and night.
On the other side of the spectrum - way, way on the other side - is a chorus of opinions that take the verse quite literally: one must study Torah at all times, always, day and night. According to opinions in the Talmud, this precludes any secular study (See Menachot 99b), learning a trade, (See Mishnah Kiddushin 4:14), and basically anything else. Any activity, other than the study of Torah, is a waste of time, and represents the shirking of one's spiritual obligation to study Torah.
Despite the fact that the Shulchan Aruch ruled leniently, the strict opinion - perhaps even the most extreme formulation of that opinion, has become the guiding mantra of the entire yeshiva world. Any serious yeshiva considers, as one of its founding principles, that the study of Torah is not only the most valuable endeavor in which a person can engage, but that as a direct result, any other endeavor is, by definition, a waste of time, and must be calculated as such.
Is it wrong to have such an attitude? Of course it's not wrong. But I don't think that it's right for everyone. In fact, it might only be the correct attitude for a very small subset of people who are capable of devoting every waking moment to Torah study. For them, the sense of obligation to learn all the time propels them forward, spurring them to achieve greatness in their learning. But what about for everyone else?
How would you feel if you were told, from the moment that you walked into school, that you must study Torah without pause for the rest of your life...and if you just couldn't do it, either because while you liked learning, the hours of sitting were just too long; or you weren't all that good at it; or you needed to get a job to support your family; Or you were 100 pounds overweight?
I can tell you how you'd feel, because I've felt it: You'd feel guilty. You'd feel like you were wasting your time. You'd feel that running, to stay in shape and be healthier, simply couldn't be justified, no matter how unhealthy you'd become. And that guilt is not a healthy thing.
More importantly perhaps, this guilt-fest does not accurately represent the only perspective on this issue. The Torah also conveys other values that Torah Jews must consider. Case in point: living a healthy lifestyle. It's not simply a matter of common sense. Rather, being healthy is a Torah value as well.
Rabbi Shlomo Ganzfried, in his "Kitzur Shulchan Aruch (Chapter 32) writes,

הואיל והיות הגוף בריא ושלם, מדרכי השם הוא, אי אפשר שיבין או ידע דבר מידיעת הבורא והוא חולה, לפיכך צריך האדם להרחיק את עצמו מדברים המאבדין את הגוף, ולהנהיג את עצמו בדברים המברין והמחלימים את הגוף, וכן הוא אומר ונשמרתם מאד לנפשותיכם. 

Since it is among the ways of God to have a whole and healthy body, and it is impossible for a person to have knowledge of God when he is sick, for this reason, a person must distance himself from things that destroy the body, and purport himself in ways that bring health and well-being tot he body, as it is written, "And you will carefully guard your lives."

They don't emphasize that halachah in yeshiva, because if they did, every bachur would take a couple of hours, a few times of week, to get some excercise. And he'd do it, not because he was overweight, and not because he couldn't feel his legs after hours of sitting in the Beit Midrash.
No, he'd do it because he saw his Rosh Yeshiva exercising too. And then, I am certain that he'd have no problem exercising without ever feeling guilty.

Kol Hakavod, Uri Westrich

Uri Westrich

Growing up in the Jewish (and Orthodox) community, few professions articulated Jewish success more than medicine. The jokes about mother-in-laws and their son-in-law doctors were never really that funny to me, but the stereotype endured. If you're Jewish, and you're a doctor, you're successful.
Today, when you couple an ongoing economic downturn with the financial comfort that is all but assured for most doctors (yes, even the GPs) in the United States (until, of course, the system implodes), the pressure to enter one of the classically "Jewish" professions is significant. Doctor is fine, as well as lawyer, accountant, computer programmer - all great. But if you want to "break the mold" and follow your passion, you end up facing a bunch of frowning adults who accost you with questions like, "But how are you going to support yourself doing that?" I often wonder how many Jewish kids grew up dreaming of a career in tax law, spending countless thousands of hours staring at complicated documents? And yet, they choose just that career - or something like it - after their dreams are beaten down by the steady drumbeat of future financial obligation.
Interestingly, in Israel this phenomenon is far less pronounced, for the obvious reason that salaries are far lower than in the United States. People don't become doctors here for financial reasons, because medicine, while a fine profession, doesn't really pay that much more than other professions. Neither does law, or accounting. (You can do pretty well in high tech, but you'll work much harder than your doctor and lawyer friends too.) So people are less afraid to enter an unglamorous profession, start a business, or just take time off to study a field of interest. A neighbor (who's a successful company man) told me that he's studying for a teaching degree in Civics one day a week because it interests him. You almost never see that in America, but it's quite common here in Israel.
So, it's somewhat refreshing when someone has the courage to follow his dreams, and do not what's expected, but what he loves, hoping to turn his passion into a career.

We're all familiar by now with the wonderful Maccabeats videos that garner thousands of hits on YouTube. The videos have brought YU great, well-deserved PR, and propelled the singers themselves to Ortho-stardom. But the true star of the videos has been lingering in the credits: videographer/producer Uri Westrich.
What's great about the videos isn't just the singing - there are a lot of great acapella groups. Rather, Uri somehow figured out a way to tell a story through his videos. The Chanukah vidoes simultaneously (1) tell the story of Chanukah (2) Convey a sense of humor both about the guys and about Orthodoxy (3) Relate important messages about traditional Judaism and (4) Most importantly, convey an emotional warmth about the holiday itself. After watching the first Candlelight video, I wanted to light my Chanukah candles then and there! And I thought I was just watching a music video. While the singers are great, the popularity and success of the videos can be traced directly to Westrich.
So, I read this week with some sense of satisfaction that Westrich has recently decided to abandon medical school to pursue his video career. According to the New York Jewish Week,

He’s sacrificing medical school and wrestling with fears that his religious commitments might make it hard to succeed in the world of film and video.
“My parents were not exactly thrilled,” said Westrich, who graduated YU in 2009.

Uri, I don't know what your parents think now, but I think it's great and wish you the best. Film and video is the medium of communication in our time. We need many more talented young people like you, who can combine their Torah dedication with the talents and skills necessary to communicate properly through the medium of video. (Israel now has one full-time Orthodox film school, and many high schools have film and video departments. Orot has an entire department devoted to training the teachers to staff these schools. Maybe its time for YU to get into this game as well, and at least offer a series of courses for aspiring Orthodox filmmakers too. Sorry, Rabbi Brander - I know you're busy, but it's a good idea!)
So Uri, while you didn't ask for my blessings, you've got them. B'hatzlachah as you follow your dreams. I pray that Hashem bless you with success, and that you're able to continue to merge your passion for Torah and tradition with the video talents God has blessed you with. It won't be easy, I'm sure, and without a doubt your principles will be challenged (think tzniyut, values, etc. to say nothing of Shabbat and Yom Tov).
But, if you keep making great videos and producing more examples of Kiddush Hashem, it will well be worth it. And hopefully, other aspiring young people will look at your success and wonder, "If Uri could do it, maybe I can too."

Kosher? Sure. But it Will Still Kill You.

A couple of months back, I wrote a blog post about whether Orthodoxy was inherently unhealthy. (You may be seeing that piece again in the near future. Stay tuned.) My answer was that Orthodoxy itself isn't unhealthy, but that much of today's Orthodox lifestyle is. I concluded by writing,

I call on the OU undertake a study of the collective health of Orthodox people, and especially men between the ages of 35 and 65. The OU's done great work helping Torah Jews put more into our mouths. Now it's time for the O.U. to take the lead in helping us put a little less in as well.

Well, as of Friday, they still hadn't gotten the message.

I opened up the Shabbat Shalom email from last week to read the following headline:

Donuts vs. Cupcakes

Was it an article about the relative health of one dessert over another? An interesting Shabbat contest in which a shul pitted the doughnut lovers against cupcake connoisseurs? Hardly. It was a recipe suggestion. And I quote:

I think I’ve died and gone to “Snack Cake” heaven. My daughter Shani recently came up with the ideal snack cake recipe she found online. A cupcake topped with a donut!

Sorry, but is that really the best that the OU can do to promote kosher food? After eating a meal of carrot "kugel" (er, cake) and cranberry crunch as a side-dish, is one dessert not enough, that we need two desserts, piled on top of each-other? It just seems like a bad rip-off of Paula Deen's famous hamburger sandwiched between two a doughnuts. Really. (See above photo. I heard about it on "Wait Wait Don't Tell Me!")
Truth be told, I posted the original article long before my last doctor's appointment, in which I discovered that my cholesterol had jumped to 250. Not good. I'm trying to cut down, having rid myself of most cheese, my beloved wings on Shabbat, skin on chicken, my cream in my coffee, and other beloved foods. Do we really need the OU promoting an even unhealthier lifestyle?
I suggest that the OU start promoting healthy kosher eating, offering tips on whole-grain recipes, lower fat foods, and healthier cooking options. (You can check out Arlyn Boltax's blog for more ideas.)
We're getting to the point where we've got to ask ourselves whether we're killing ourselves with glatt kosher food.

The Tzedakah App I'm Not Going to Design. But Someone Should.

Yesterday, two events took place in close proximity that got me thinking. I've often got "great" ideas, but usually don't do anything about them. At least I'm sharing this one.
I got a call at Orot about placing an advertisement in the paper. We work with a media company in Israel, and I needed a picture of a specific teacher at the school. So I fired up my Picasa software (the free photo software that you can download from Google), and it quickly showed me every picture of this instructor that I had stored on my computer. Apparently, facial analysis software is so commonplace that they now give it away for free. Turns out that I didn't have a good picture to use, but I also didn't spend hours searching my files to find that out.
That evening, a quiet knock on the door announced a pair of tzedakah collectors, who told me that they were collecting money for the niece of one of them (the other just came along to "help out"), and handed me a four-page full-color flier calling for donations on behalf of a poor, cancer-stricken young girl (her eyes covered for privacy), complete with rabbinic approvals and a toll-free number for credit card donations on the back. I was, to say the least, skeptical.
"Do you have any identification that would connect you to this girl?" No.
"Do you have any personal letters of recommendation so that I know that you're actually telling me the truth?" No.
I told them that while I was very sorry, experience had taught me to wonder whether they found the fliers in some shul, and saw a great opportunity to make some money. Without any corroborating documentation, I didn't feel comfortable giving them money.
Funny thing is, they were quite nice and reasonable, and didn't really make a fuss. They thanked me, and moved on to the next house. They encouraged me to call the phone number and donate over the phone. (I called to try and check into the identification of the "uncle." They took my name and number and promised to call me back. I'm still waiting.) In truth, I'm still not sure whether they were telling me the truth. There's really no way to know - both who they were, and whether they really did represent an actual need.
But then I realized, that there is. Or there should be.
In most cities in America, when someone arrives to collect for tzedakah, his first stop is the office where he gets his local tzedakah I.D. He undergoes some type of background check and receives a document attesting both to his identity and the cause for which he's collecting. It might be himself or his eighth daughter's wedding, and it might be a fund or a kollel. In Detroit, it was commonly accepted to withhold donations from an individual collecting without such a document.
In Israel, that system has yet to exist. But the American system also contains a number of inefficiencies. Each city must do its own checking, adding toil and expense both to the collector and to the local representative. What if there were a central database of meshulachim, which could be instantly accessed from around the globe? Moreover - and even more importantly, could there also be a database of individuals known to have falsified information to collect money?
I hope you see where I'm going.
Imagine a smartphone app in which you simply snap a picture with your phone of the person standing at your door. Using readily available face-identification technology, the database would then search for the person's identity, and also tell you who he was collecting for (if he's on the database). In addition, people could also submit photos to the database for research and corroboration, and report suspicious behavior.
With such an app, there's no longer any need for local identification and also no way to game the system as your face is your ID. You can't fake your face (unless you've got a really good makeup artist, ala Mission Impossible) and you can't escape your past. And, if you truly represent a worthy cause, a positive ID will enable you to collect more easily and safely.
There's a possible added benefit to this system as well. Imagine that a meshulach knocks on my door collecting for his kollel. I snap his picture in my Android Meshulachim app, and learn his name, the name of the kollel, and some background information about the institution. I'd like to donate. Meshulachm face major challenges both carrying far too much cash (making them obvious victims of theft), and being forced to pay heavy fees to cash checks, combine checks - basically to collect the money they've actually collected. What if I could, in the app, donate to the kollel automatically through an online payment system. I donate an amount and he immediately receives an email informing him of my donation. He's not carrying cash. He's not paying an exorbitant percentage to his driver. And when he gets back to Israel (which is almost always where he's from), he can simply access his money from his online account.
I've been mulling this idea in my head and I think it's got a lot of potential. If you see holes, please share. If not, this seems like a great potential use for technology to make life easier for everyone: for people wishing to give tzedakah and feel good about the donation; for local authorities often overwhelmed by the demands of meshulachim; and even for the honest collectors looking for a way to build trust and collect more simply.
I think it's a pretty interesting idea for an App, and I know that I'll never do anything about this idea. But maybe someone should.

Too Much Information?

A recent article in the NY Jewish Week about TMI caught my attention. In general, we all feel overloaded by information: too many articles, books, blogs (not including this one, of course), magazines. Who could possibly keep up with it all? And yet we try.
I've recently been feeling overwhelmed by a different form of TMI: Too much sad information. As a former rabbi, YU graduate and RCA member, I get emails from each organization. Yet, the single largest category of organizational emails that I get, by far, is death notices. I will often get three notices about the same death. Somehow, every organization seems to feel the need to share the news of the passing of every member - whether you knew them or their close relative or not.
To tell you the truth, I could deal with the death notices. You get used to them. You quickly check to see if it's someone you know, and then delete. Far more challenging to me is finding way to deal with all the illnesses that, thanks to the power of the web, I now learn about.
With the advent of instant international communication, we now are aware of many, if not most of the more tragic illnesses in a given community. I receive emails forwarded to lists (either the local Yad Binyamin list, or a student group I work with, or even rabbinical lists) about tragedies, injuries, illnesses - asking me to pray for recovery and health for the sick.
This is something of a sensitive topic, I realize, and I'm clearly in danger of sounding callous. But I wonder: is it better for the friends and family of an individual to pray for the recovery of a loved one, with passion and devotion, or for as many people as possible to add yet another name to their "list" of cholim? Can't you have both? In a way, I guess you can, but I wonder whether every name we add to the list doesn't reduce our ability to passionately pray for others. Do we have unlimited wellsprings of kavanah? Who hasn't sat through a mi sheberach for the cholim after Torah reading, where people swarm the gabbai with lists of names who they themselves most probably don't even know? Does the fact that the gabbai says a name out loud add additional power to the prayer? It seems clear from our behavior that we assume it does. Yet, when I think about it I'm just not sure.
I wonder, also, about our collective psychological well-being. We now walk around with a great deal of sad, tragic information. Yesterday I learned of the tragic passing of the grandson of a community member. A coworker's son is recovering from a terrible accident, and faces a long, arduous recovery. Those are people whom I know. But what am I to do with the surgery of a daughter of a rabbi living in New York, or the medical procedure of a student's father? Are we meant to carry around that much psychological pain? And if not, how am I to pick and choose whose pain to care about and whose to discard?
Of course we should pray for health for the ill. Yet, I wonder if we've reached the point of too much information.

Brain Death and Halachic Debate: Not for Public Consumption

If you follow such things, a major debate has recently grabbed headlines over the sensitive and complicated issue of brain death. In layman's terms, it boils down to this:
Doctors have determined a criteria that defines a person as being "dead" even though her heart continues to beat. Thus, doctors can harvest the organs of the "dead" person, saving the life of another sick individual waiting for a heart, lung, liver, etc. Removing the (still beating) heart doesn't actually kill the patient as she is already legally "dead".
As soon as organ donation became a medical reality, Jewish scholars began debating whether Halachah considers the medical definition of death to be acceptable, or not. If not, then harvesting organs is nothing less than murder. Judaism never sanctions the killing of one to save another. Regarding the debate of the issue itself, a few points stand out in my mind:
1. This is a very, very complicated, intricate halachic issue. As a former pulpit rabbi, I have no compunction admitting that it's way, way above my "pay grade." (and I've got to say, far above the level of halachic expertise of many rabbis taking a stand on the issue.) I'm happy to answer questions about pots and pans, niddah, Shabbat and the like, but brain death? Sorry, I know enough to know that I don't know. More confusing though, is the fact that rabbis that I respect argue about the issue. Rabbi Gedalia Dov Schwartz, the Av Beit Din of the Chicago Rabbinical Council is in favor of the brain death criteria (or so I've heard) while Rabbi Herschel Schacter is against. What's a pulpit rabbi to do? How is he to decide which of his revered teachers is correct? In essence the pulpit rabbi is forced to make a choice he is neither equipped nor trained to make.
2. Personally, while medical science has made great strides and can do great things, what does medicine have to say about the soul? How do doctors have the right to determine when life begins and when it ends? To me, this seems much more of a theological issue than a medical one, and I find the reliance of many on the medical literature, as advanced as it may be, troubling.
3. Even more troubling to me is the way this debate has become a public issue, subject to pronouncements, proclamations, and public pressure. On one side we find the Rabbinical Council of America, whose Vaad Halachah released a report announcing its findings on brain death (basically taking the anti-brain-death position). Who were they releasing it to? What was the purpose of the release? What authority did the halachic board actually have? It seems like the Va'ad Halachah has no authority, because after an outcry, the RCA released another statement essentially saying that the Va'ad Halachah wasn't really official RCA position, telling us that,

The RCA takes no official position as an organization on the issue of whether or not brain stem death meets the halachic criteria of death. The study disseminated by the Vaad Halacha was the product of many years of exploration by that committee and was meant to serve as an informational guide to our membership.

Really? Then why release it to the public? Why is it freely available to anyone who wants to download it? If it was really only "informational", then why do so many feel that it's such a one-sided document?
Then, another group of rabbis felt the need to issue a statement responding to the RCA report suggesting that while both positions are halachically valid, (here's the money quote):

To adopt a restrictive position regarding donating organs and a permissive position regarding receiving organs is morally untenable.

I get what they're trying to say. Personally, I strongly disagree with their point. But I question the forum and the language. Who is this statement really for? What's the point of calling someone with whom you disagree "morally untenable" - essentially "immoral" on a blog, trying to make a public statement. People often don't get the nuance. They just remember the label.
This type of public name calling isn't the way to debate halachah, because it's not a debate of the issues on its merits. You can yell and scream inside the Beit Midrash - even a virtual one - but to open the debate over a very complicated and sophisticated issue - to the public, only opens us to criticism from...that's right, the British Medical Association. And I quote:

Doctors have criticised the chief rabbi, Lord Sacks, for issuing an edict that organ donation as currently practised, and the carrying of donor cards, are incompatible with Jewish law.

Really? Do rabbis have the right to criticize doctors for medical decisions that they make? What right do doctors have to chime in on the London Beit Din's religious ruling? Are they suddenly experts in Jewish law?
I guess that's what you get when you argue halachic issues in the public arena. Suddenly everyone - even non Jewish doctors - are gedolei hador.