A Old (and Modern) Pashkevil, and the Dangers of Radio (and iPods)

Over Chanukah, the family took a one-day trip to the Old City of Jerusalem, where the municipality offered self-guided tours for families. For a relatively modest fee we got a guidebook, a jelly doughnut for each of us (at the Marzipan bakery) and admission to three old city sites, as well as a couple of craft projects. There was even a musical performance. It was a really wonderful day; we toured at our own pace, and noticed some things in the Old City that we had taken for granted.

One of the sites that we visited was the Old Yishuv Museum, which, if you've ever been to the Old City, you've passed a hundred times. The museum houses artifacts that try and give you a sense of what life was like for Jews living in the Old City before the creation of the State. I can sum it up for you in two words: Really hard. Small tidbits that stuck with me: The mortality rate for newborns was 80%. Eighty. Women usually split each egg they acquired into four portions. And most people slept on mats on the floor, and a really generous husband would rent one of the six beds in the entire community for his wife to give birth. Like I said: Really hard.

As you walk through the rooms of the museum, you progress through different historical periods, and we came upon an early twentieth century room which displayed the following poster that appeared in the Old City. (Translation follows)

The Angel of Death in This Person's House (Heaven forbid)
Anyone who brings a "Radio" into his house, it is as if he brought the Angel of Death into his home, God forbid.
For, aside from the serious transgression and its terrible punishment, there is also the prohibition of "music in the house", about which our Sages said, the home with music will ultimately be destroyed...
Aside from this, his home becomes wide open for any prohibited matter, God forbid: to hear the nakedness of a woman's voice, to hear matters of scoffing, light-headedness, foolishness, profanity; to hear the voice of apostate preachers who influence with their words of apostasy, heresy, anarchy and abuse, God forbid.
To hear the "comedy" that they make from the reading of the holy Torah and the reading of the Megillah and the recitation of Selichot and from every holy matter, for this "comedy" uproots and weeds out any remnant of holy feeling in the heart of Israel, for the soul of a Jew used to wonder from trembling over the holiness of these matter when they were done in their [proper] holiness, in their time and place in an appropriate and customary manner. And this "comedy" blasphemies and extinguishes any spark of feeling of holiness, by transforming everything into an act of comedy and silliness for any religious ceremony; a mass "comedy:" that approaches the level of the conversation of those who sit in the gates and the melodies of drunks.
Sometimes this also causes the [gathering] of rabble-rousers and strangers in the house with the excuse of [wanting to] hear the "radio". The house loses in this manner the entire framework of life and any self-evaluation, because at the time that a person used to be free to think about his obligations in his world, instead he turns on the radio which chatters foolishness and nothingness - it sings and rings and confuses - and all the days in this home are like holidays and unadulterated joy which then leads to sorry, God forbid.
For this reason, anyone who cares about his soul and the souls of the people of his house will not allow this great destroyer to enter his home. "Leave, impure one!" he should say to it, and one who guards his soul will distance himself from it!

At the museum I couldn't help but think, "The more things change..." Just switch out "radio" for "Television", "Internet", "Cellphones" - and you've got the very same pashkevil you might find on the street today. You don't even have to change the words.

Except one thing did catch my attention, because there's certainly some truth to it. (Actually, there's truth to the whole thing. Any tool is dangerous - radio, telephone - even a pen and paper - depending on how you use it.) I've written before about how I enjoy running with my iPod, and enjoy a number of different podcasts. But I listen not just when I run, but also during my daily commute, when I'm doing housework (dishes, laundry and the like). But, if I'm honest with myself (and I don't think it's just me), sometimes we put on something in the background because we're trying to avoid the quiet. I'm not talking about loneliness; rather, we're trying to avoid forcing ourselves to use the quiet times in our day to do the cheshbon hanefesh - the personal introspection and self-evaluation so critical to spiritual growth.

And, it doesn't matter what's on: Jewish music, news podcast, TV in the background, as long as there's some noise, that's enough to prevent ourselves from thinking. And, sometimes I think that's exactly what I'm trying to avoid.

My Article in Mekor Rishon

I got published today in Mekor Rishon. If you don't believe me, click here and scroll to page 5. Yes, I know that most people don't know that the paper is published daily, much less read the daily paper, and it is a translation of this post, but it's still pretty cool to be published in Hebrew in the paper.
Enjoy! (Click on the picture to view it in full size and perhaps read it.)

Bezalel's Bar Mitzvah: Shehecheyanu V'kimanu...

This Shabbat we're celebrating the Bar Mitzvah of our second son, Bezalel, born in West Hartford, CT - I can still remember the wonderful Shabbat brit milah (which we shared with the the Feingold Bar Mitzvah - it was a great Shabbat for Agudas Achim). There's not much time to write now, but it's a very exciting time. I feel very blessed for the amazing community in which I live, the family members and friends who are joining for Shabbat, and the support and friendship of so many others.
May we celebrate only happy and joyous occasions together!
Shabbat Shalom!

Moving Day

330am Can't sleep. Apparently going to bed at 1230 wasn't late enough to sleep through the night. It's going to be a busy day (little did I know how busy). Try to fall back to sleep.
400am Give up trying.Too much on my mind. Get up, head downstairs. After all, we're moving today.
5:30am Get dressed. Head off to early early minyan.
6:30am Return home. Make coffee. Must be at new house by 7:00am to meet house cleaning crew. (The house is still a mess from the construction, with dirt, dust and debris everywhere. Did I mention that the movers are coming today? And the workers are still working?)
7:00am Arrive at new house. Drink coffee slowly. Feel caffeine slowly pumping through veins. How did people live without coffee?
7:15am Cleaning crew has not yet arrived. Begin to worry that the guy decided not to come. Decide that I might as well install the ceiling fan in the kitchen while I'm waiting.
7:30am Construction crew arrives. They're putting the finishing touches on our bedroom (at least most of them). Gingerly call cleaning crew. He's on the road, and apologizes that he got out late. Phew!
8:00am Cleaning guy arrives. I give him instructions, asking him to wait to clean the master bathroom as the workers are still working there. He begin spraying water all over the house with a hose. When I ask him what he's doing he says, "Don't worry. This isn't the first house I've cleaned." Whatever.

9:00am Finish installing ceiling fan. It works. That's a good thing.
9:15am Notice that the cleaning guy can't reach the top of a window. I climb on the ladder to reach up. He holds my legs so I don't fall. Turns out he's a really nice guy, which I didn't know when he spent twenty minutes screaming at me the day before.
10:30am Rena calls me slightly in a panic. Moving guys are coming at 12:00pm, and there's still random stuff strewn around the house. And we've run out of boxes. Again.
10:45am Bezeq guys shows up to install our phone and internet.  
11:00am Run home, stopping at the local shopping center to scrounge for boxes. None to be found, probably because Rena's already collected them because when I arrive home, there's a new pile of boxes to fill.  Eat breakfast. We continue to pack frantically.
11:30am Get a call from the contractor calling me back to the house. He's got questions about the Shabbat timers they're putting in, and needs my input.
12:00pm Neighbor drops off second cup of coffee. Thanks! Movers arrive and begin loading boxes into truck.
1:30pm Call old home. Movers are there moving stuff. Run home to direct them. The mover came on time, but it's just him and another guy. It's going to be a long day. Also, I kind of expected them to bring packing materials, some cloth to wrap the furniture. Nothing doing. They put the stuff straight on the truck - which worked out in the end, because we only moved about 500 feet.

1:45pm Construction crew finishes the master bedroom. Cleaning guy moves in to clean, while they turn to other final tasks.
2:00pm Still at old house. First truckload nearly full. Quick falafel for lunch. I think I ate most of it standing up.
3:00pm Movers arrive at the house. Floor has finished drying perhaps 10 minutes ago. I'm a traffic cop, trying to direct them where to put different items. Note to self: movers don't like moving things once they've put them down. They'll do it, but let you know about it.
4:00pm Back to the old house for the second round. By this time, everything is pretty much packed up, but the movers have to take apart a crib and a bunk bed, so I've got some time. I call a neighbor for help taking down some shelves from the wall. (they're stuck) He says he'll be right over. We (me and Simcha) start sweeping the floors. It's amazing and scary (and disgusting) how much dirt accumulates under and behind your furniture.
6:00pm Movers still disassembling. Neighbor drops by with power tools, and takes down shelf in seconds. He then lends me some plaster, so I begin patching the holes in the walls where we hung pictures. (In Israel, when you rent a home, you have to leave the house in the condition in which you found it, which means whitewashing the walls.) Rena feeding kids dinner cooked by the neighbors on the back patio of the new house.
8:00pm Movers finally ready to go. Second truckload full. Back to the (new) house, where I discover that the kitchen contractor has finally returned to finish the kitchen. (We think that the phone call saying, "the movers are here, and we need to put our dishes away" convinced him that we were serious.)
8:30pm Get a phone call on my cell from the States for a prearranged (weekly) conference call. It's important, so I take the call. Hopefully what I said made sense. 
9:00pm Movers assembling bunk bed in boys' room. They actually borrowed the drill from the kitchen guy (who they know). 2 year old daughter seems finally to have had enough, and is about to explode. Older daughter actually gives her a bath (she was literally caked with dirt) during the pandemonium and takes her into the only room with a bed to try and get her to sleep. Good luck.
9:30pm Movers still assembling bunk bed. With overtired two-year-old, I start reassembling crib. They come take over, and then begin to reassemble closet in same room. Rena takes over the care of the toddler who finally falls asleep. (In retrospect, we probably should have planned for her to sleep at a neighbor's house, but who thought that it would take so long?)

10:30pm Back to the old house for the third and final trip. Not much for me to do, so I run around patching holes for the second time.
11:00pm Kitchen guys finish as much as they can and pack up.
11:15pm Back to the new house for a final time.
11:30pm Movers finally leave, with all our stuff in the new house.
12:00am Dinner. A nectarine. Don't have energy for anything else.
1:00am Conk out. On my old bed, but in my new bedroom, of our new home. Which we own - at least partially. The bank owns the rest.
It's been a long day. Baruch Hashem.

Fixing the Dresser Drawer. A Phyrric Victory Over our Disposable Society

The Ikea Dresser That Won't Die, Thankfully

When Rena and I first married, we bought our bedroom set from Ikea. It was cheap. Since that time, we've moved four times (Washington Heights -- Linden, NJ; Linden -- West Hartford, CT; West Hartford -- Oak Park, MI; Oak Park -- Yad Binyamin. Yes, that's a lot of moving. And we're moving again next week.), and, amazingly enough, our Ikea furniture has moved each time with us. Sure, the back falls off of the bookcases - nothing a hammer and nails can't fix. But our Ikea furniture has moved with us without fail.
Then we gave the dresser to our sons - and specifically to our youngest son. Folding clothing isn't one of his strong suits. He's more of a crumpler and stuffer. So it didn't come as much of a surprise when I learned that the bottom of one of the drawers had (yet again) collapsed.
In the past, each time this had happened I repaired the back of the drawer that held the bottom in place. I used brackets, screws, and even duck tape. But Ikea furniture isn't made out of solid wood. Nor is it made out of not-solid wood. In fact, I doubt that there's any wood in it at all. It's more of a paper composite of some kind. And that little piece of "wood" was done. Gone. There was no more retaping, mending or fixing in it.
"Throw it out", my wife told me. It has served us well. It's time to move on. Perhaps a new Ikea model for the new house.
I would have none of it. I'm not throwing out an entire dresser because the backing of one drawer went bad. That made no sense.
And yet, it seemed to fit perfectly with the throw-away culture of today. We eat on disposable dishes, and discard them after a single use. We never fix electronics anymore. It costs more to fix them than to buy a new one. How many people have their shoes resoled? So, if we throw everything else out, why should furniture be any different?
And yet, I just couldn't do it. The dresser was fine. Why buy a new one for a single piece of fake wood? There had to be a way to fix it! And indeed there was.
I have a very, very handy neighbor who loves to work with his hands (as I do). He made a gorgeous garden in his yard, complete with stonework, and a sprinkler system. When our washing machine went bad, he took it (somewhere) to salvage the parts. So I went to him with my problem. Have you got a piece of wood to match the dead piece?
He thought for a moment, and then took me to his machsan (storage unit), where he found an old cabinet door that had exactly the groove that we were looking for. And it just so happened that that very day, the kids had brought down a huge box of tools from our attic, which included my old circular saw and wood clamps. We were good to go.
We cut the piece down to size, and it fix the drawer perfectly. (Frankly, I think my neighbor was kind of shocked that I knew how to use a circular saw.) He then glued the piece on, and we nailed it into place.
This time, I had won. I beat our disposable culture, saving the Ikea dresser for yet another move. And I walked away with that sense of satisfaction that you can only get by actually fixing something with your own hands.
There's no better feeling than putting a repaired drawer on a dresser that your wife asked you to discard. "Throw it away? But it's perfectly good." And indeed it is. I went through the dresser with my son, folding his clothing and putting the dirty clothes in the laundry. (It became immediately clear that he failed to distinguish between "hamper" and "dresser". Who knew?) When we were done, the dresser was neat, and fully functioning.
Until this past week, when I learned that yet another drawer bottom had collapsed.
Back to work.

Sold. Finally. For a (Huge) Loss. Baruch Hashem.

After serving for four years as an absentee landlord from across the world, I am happy to announce that we have sold our home in Oak Park, MI. Mazal Tov to us, and Mazal Tov to the Adlerstein family on their purchase! May you have many happy years in the home until you join us here!
Of course, it's wonderful to have the burden of the house behind us. The straw that finally broke the camel's back was when my tenant called to tell me that when the hot water heater broke, she had it repaired for the small sum of $1,500. (What did she care - it's not her money.) What was I supposed to do...say no? Make her pay for it? Then and there we decided to sell the house, leading to seven months of anguish and heartburn all the way up to yesterday, when the sale finally went through. Some thanks are in order to the people in Michigan who helped a tremendous amount in getting the sale done. (I don't want to name you in case you didn't want to be named...but you know who you are, and thanks!)
And yet, there I still have a lingering sense of melancholy about that house.
First of all, we lost a TON of money on that house. (I won't say how much for fear of upsetting my wife, but think of a number, and then double it.)
I don't really blame any individual person, as much as the entire United States economy for going down the crapper at the exact time that I was ready to sell my house. I do have a sense of bitterness about the fact that I did the foolish thing: I paid down my mortgage, faithfully. In fact, I used to add extra money to the balance of my mortgage, like all the people on the radio recommend that you do. (Yes, I used to listen to those shows at night.) What happened? All the people who took as much money as they possibly could out of their homes - to fix the roof, take vacations, redo the kitchen, you name it - they either let their homes foreclose or they got their banks to agree to a short sale. I, on the other hand, had paid down my debt so much that the bank wouldn't even consider a short sale. It wasn't worth it to them. So, am I bitter about my house losing value? A little. But am I bitter about the fact that people who abused the system lost their credit, while I lost literally tens of thousands of dollars? I cannot say that I am not.
Truth be told, I was ready to just let the house go back to the bank had it not sold this summer. Then I would have lost both the money, and my credit. But I guess it's better this way. At least I kept my word, and paid back the money I owed. (Although apparently in the United States that's not worth that much anymore.)
But there's also an emotional aspect to selling a home, especially the first home you own. We lived in that house for seven years, and brought two children into the world in (a hospital near) that house. I learned (to whatever degree that I did learn) how to build stuff in that house, and built a closet (in the basement), a neat deck in the front, a great basketball hoop over the garage and some cubbies for the kids next to the kitchen. The things that you did with your own hands really have more meaning to you. Pieces from people we knew and loved are in that house: Eddie Katz found the chandelier on a street somewhere, and fixed it up. A little polish and some new glass, and it was good as new. I put in the crown molding together with Avraham Elchonen (actually, he pretty much did that while I watched, but who's counting?). Aaron Siegel did much of the carpeting and the wood floor in the Dining Room. At a certain point, people become part of a house as well. And, in selling the place, you sever yourself from it forever.
But, as these things go, life goes on. I really do believe and feel that every aspect of our aliyah was guided by God's hand. The money stings, but we can't complain. Hakadosh Baruch Hu finds ways to give us what we need. And, as the Gemara tells us, the Land of Israel is acquired with yissurin - tribulations. I'll take the financial kind of yissurin over any other type any day of the week.
It is, after all, just a house. And we've got a new house to work on now. I need to put up the ceiling fans, install shelves, figure out a garden, put in a "lockers" for the kids - plenty to do.
And we plan (and hope and pray) to stay in this new home, in the Holy Land, for a very long time.

We Got The Keys! (Now All We Need to Do is Pay the Mortgage.)

Leah, with our new keys!

About a half-hour ago we finally picked up the keys to our house! (Saar 6 in Yad Binyamin, for those keeping score) Very exciting for us! So much to do! But so much has already been done. I got a few questions from my last post, which I hope to answer in this one.
About six months ago, my landlord called me to tell me that he had decided to sell the house that we're living in. I thanked him for giving me the advance notice (he's been a really great landlord), asked him what he was asking for the house (way too much if you ask me...but it seems someone else disagrees) and then calmly freaked out. So many issues: Where should we live? Should we rent or buy? Would the house sell? How much time would we have?
Actually, that one we knew. Our lease runs out at the end of June, so I knew I had some time. It took quite a while, because we contemplated looking for rabbinic positions in other areas (there really aren't very many available at all. I checked.) and finally concluded that we'd like to stay in Yad Binyamin. The people are lovely, we've made great connections with good friends, our children are settled, there are good schools and great amenities, and we simply like living here.

View Old and New House Walk to Shul in a larger map

Note to future olim: this seems to be the trend among people who make aliyah somewhere. Most people that I know end up staying where they first land, for many of the reasons that I listed above. It seems pretty rare for people to switch communities, unless they're really not happy. This means two things: On the one hand, you've got to choose carefully when selecting an initial community to live in, because the odds are that you'll end up staying there. At the same time, I get the feeling that pretty much all the different communities in Israel are great. Whenever I speak to people, they're really happy where they live. So, if you have a general idea of what you're looking for, odds are that you'll be happy.

Rent or Buy? Over the last four years, the rent has been relatively reasonable - at least my rent has been. But it became clear that should we choose to continue to rent somewhere else, we'd be paying significantly more than we are this year, which made buying a property the obvious choice. Also, when you rent your landlord can call you and tell you that he's decided to sell your house. That can be somewhat unsettling. So we decided to buy.

I told Rena: You look at houses, and when you find something you like, call me. She did just that, and found a house that she really liked. We looked at it, and it seemed like it had a lot of potential. After some looking in the yishuv at other houses, we decided to make an offer. Several long weeks of back-and-forth later, we arrived at a mutually agreed price with our seller, and we had a deal.

If only it were that simple. We were really happy with both the house and the price. But, about a week after we came to an agreement, my seller called me and asked me, "When you made an offer, were you thinking about looking at other houses, or was it a firm offer?"
"It was a firm offer." Lump in throat. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, since we came to an agreement, I've gotten a few calls from people looking to offer me more than we agreed on. But I want you to know that I'm a man of my word. I believe that when I make a commitment I should keep to it. If you tell me that you fully intended on buying the house, I'll keep to my word."
"We want the house," I told him, and we left it at that. When I hung up the phone, I really started to worry. Would he change his mind? Would he keep his word? After all, who knows how much money we were talking about? This question occupied me for a good many weeks, until we finally signed the contract to buy the house. In the end, he did of course sell the house for the agreed-upon price.
Just today, Rena and I, speaking about the issue, wondered whether we would have done the same, and kept our word as he did. We agreed that we most probably would have, but there's no way to know. My seller told me that he when struggling with the issue, he spoke to his father who told him, "I only know one thing. I like to sleep well at night."
 When the seller gave me the keys today, I told him how much I valued and appreciated his keeping his word, and how much I enjoyed working with him.He told me that when speaking to his father recently, he had mentioned the same thing, to which his father said, "Wait, something must be wrong. Both the buyer and seller are happy?" Indeed.


Next: Getting a mortgage in Israel.

I Haven't Posted in a While Because...

Well, things have been somewhat busy. Sure, there have been holidays, work, and all the usual stuff. But in a addition to all of that...we bought a house in Israel!

It's really exciting, but also very very detail oriented and time consuming. We haven't actually completed the mortgage process yet. You buy the house before you get your mortgage. (no, I don't really know why), and then we have do a "little bit" of work, as well as install a kitchen (the person who built the house did so as an investment, and gave us the choice of having him install the kitchen or doing it ourselves. We chose to do it ourselves.)
 Where's the house?
In Yad Binyamin, about a five minute walk from our current house. (For those who are planning a visit or have been here, it's on the other side of the shul. So, what was a three minute walk will now be a two minute walk.)

When are you moving?
Good question.  We're looking to move in the middle of July. Did I mention that there are a zillion things that need to get done? I did?

More to come...

Kudos to the Robert M Beren Academy. But Not for Keeping Shabbat

I have very, very fond memories of playing varsity basketball during my high school years. I was a four year starter on our team, and scored an average of about twelve points per game. Pretty respectable, I think. (Although that might have had more to do with the fact that the school only had about sixty guys in the entire upper school.)
Looking back, almost every aspect of our team's very existence was unusual. The Yeshiva had a long history of varsity basketball, but in truth, having a basketball team at all isn't very "yeshivish." (Checking the Yeshiva website today, it seems that they still have a team, but you wouldn't know it from the main site.) Once the season began, we really never practiced at all, because the school wouldn't allow practices on weeknights. (We only finished classes at 6:15 in the evening, and if you added night seder - which I did - we left the building at 7pm on a normal weeknight, and on Thursday, mishmar went from 8pm until 9:15pm.) So, our coaches - and there was a new one almost every year - would schedule all of our games on both Saturday nights and Sunday afternoons, pretty much every weekend. I didn't think much of it back then, but looking back I now realize that we played every Saturday night game not having practiced for an entire week and every Sunday game still tired from the night before.
This might explain why we were generally terrible.
My junior year, we were actually respectable, almost reaching a .500 record. But other than that, we stank. Badly. Which was fine. Losing built our character. (I have a very vivid memory from junior high school of attending a varsity game once when the coach didn't arrive until the third quarter, by which time the team was losing by a score of something like 80 to 15. Our intrepid coach called a timeout, gathered the team together and proclaimed, "They're not going to score a single point more!" The entire team literally burst out laughing.) Thankfully, during my tenure, it was never that bad. Coaches arrived on time to games. But we were still never able to beat the hated Hebrew Academy during my tenure. (and when we finally did, they stopped playing us.) That still stings to this day.
Despite all the losing, I remember almost every aspect of playing on the Knights with great fondness. Somehow the sting of defeat has faded, and my mind recalls the great rides to games and practices; taking offensive fouls during practice, pizza at The Jaffa Gate (alav hashalom) after games (er, losses), and the great friendship and teamwork we enjoyed. 

Why the trip back down memory lane? My thoughts returned me to my high school basketball career reading a New York Times piece on the Robert M Beren Academy's decision not to participate in the semifinal game of the Texas state private school championships, for the simple reason that the game is scheduled for Friday night.
These stories appear every so often, and on one level, they do represent a kiddush hashem. In a time when too many people treat values as fungible, it's nice to be reminded that in the Orthodox world, we still treat Shabbat as Shabbat.
But I wonder: Is that really news? After all, isn't that why the parents of the Robert M. Beren Academy send their children to an Orthodox, shomer Shabbat school? To me, it would be more newsworthy if they did play - which would be startling and upsetting. Of course they shouldn't play.
No, what surprises me about the article instead is the fact that they made the state semifinals at all. You almost never hear about small, Orthodox schools with a record of...wait for it...23-5! And this is not a huge New York school that we're talking about either. The upper school has 71 students - boys and girls! Yeah! Go Jews! Go small schools! Go Orthodox yeshivot!
It's like Hoosiers, only Jewish. And that's great news to me.

The Outer Circle

Can you find me, safely ensconced in the "Outer Circle"?

Sadly, the truth has begun to sink in. The evidence seems incontrovertible. I’m getting older. I’m no longer a member of the “younger” generation. Consider the evidence:
1. I just spent the weekend in the U.S., attending the wonderful wedding of my eldest nephew. That’s right, my nephew just got married. And we’re not one of those families where the mother had a child later on in life, so that the “uncle” and his “nephew” are really the same age.
2. I teach a class at Orot on Hilchot Shabbat, and was trying to explain to my students that in the generation previous to mine, oftentimes people were reluctant to accept halachot that they didn’t practice in their youth. (“What do you mean you can’t wash dishes on Friday night with a sponge? I’ve always done it that way!” That sort of thing.) Except, when I was about to say, “the generation before us.” Looking around the room at a group of twenty-year-olds, I realized that there was no “us” in the room. I was the “us”. To my students, I wasn’t describing their parents. That’s me. I was describing their grandparents.
3. I attended a lovely wedding a few weeks ago of a young couple from our yishuv. I was invited by the parents – the father attending my weekly gemara shiur. At the wedding, I came to recognize that this represented the first wedding I was attending as a member of the previous generation – not invited by the groom or bride whom I don’t really know at all, but solely through a relationship with the parents. And I realized that my place was now solidly in the outer circle.

My cool, hipster glasses

4. My niece recently commented on my cool, hipster glasses. After I finished laughing, I explained to her that my regular glasses had broken, leaving me with no choice other than to use the cheap, second-pair-free glasses that I had bought years ago that I used to run with at the JCC in Michigan. The glasses, rather than being new, are so old that they've come full-circle, and are now back in. Those are my cool new glasses.
At every wedding, when the dancing begins there’s an inner circle, and an “outer circle.” At first, the lines between them are clear: family inside, everyone else outside. Rebbeim and teachers inside, everyone else out. (I’m describing the men’s circles. I have no idea what goes on behind the michitzah. From the brief glimpse I’ve stolen over the years, it always seems like a blur of maypoles, signs and other paraphernalia flying about.) But then the lines blur, and the inner and outer circles divide not by relationship, but by age. The groom’s younger friends push forward, their energy, youth and vitality moving them at a pace that the older folk (having ingested some heavy food, a salad, and too much bread) simply can’t or won’t match. We’re OK with that, perfectly content to shuffle our way around the outer circle and enjoy the elation of the event from that relative safe distance. Sure, I might force my way in for a brief moment, but soon enough I allow the push of the young to force me back out to where I belong, in the outer circle, where I can mosey along, enjoying the simcha, but no longer a driving force.
I’ve come to terms with my new “outer circle” membership. After all, I will soon (please God) turn forty, and while that’s certainly not old, I’m rather comfortable not needing to get my cardio workout at weddings. And still, when you cross from one generation to the next; from one circle to the next, it’s a time to take stock and consider your next steps, as you dance perhaps a little slower, with a different crowd, but still at the wedding nonetheless.

The Latest (and last for now) Simcha Spolter

The Original Simcha Spolter

Almost 30 years ago, my father passed away at the almost unbelievably young age of 39. As I am now currently that very same age, I find this fact somewhat disconcerting, but more saddening. I (still) consider myself young. I have very young children, as did he. I have come to the point where I mourn the loss of his life not so much for myself - that feeling wells up at times too - but for him.
Because I now live in Israel only a short drive away from my father's grave, I am now able to visit his kever and pray there more than I ever did. On erev Yom Kippur this year, I found myself drawn there. It seemed not just appropriate, but necessary, and my two eldest sons, Simcha and Bezalel were there with me.
As we recited Tehillim, for reasons I don't really understand I landed on the chapters that begin with Shir Hama'alot, towards the end of the book. One chapter, Psalms 128, particularly caught my attention.

שִׁיר, הַמַּעֲלוֹת:

אַשְׁרֵי, כָּל-יְרֵא ה' - הַהֹלֵךְ, בִּדְרָכָיו.

יְגִיעַ כַּפֶּיךָ, כִּי תֹאכֵל; אַשְׁרֶיךָ, וְטוֹב לָךְ.

אֶשְׁתְּךָ, כְּגֶפֶן פֹּרִיָּה - בְּיַרְכְּתֵי בֵיתֶךָ:

בָּנֶיךָ, כִּשְׁתִלֵי זֵיתִים - סָבִיב, לְשֻׁלְחָנֶךָ.

הִנֵּה כִי-כֵן, יְבֹרַךְ גָּבֶר - יְרֵא ה'.

יְבָרֶכְךָ ה', מִצִּיּוֹן: וּרְאֵה, בְּטוּב יְרוּשָׁלִָם--כֹּל, יְמֵי חַיֶּיךָ.

וּרְאֵה-בָנִים לְבָנֶיךָ: שָׁלוֹם, עַל-יִשְׂרָאֵל.

A Song of Ascents.
Happy is every one that feareth the LORD, that walketh in His ways.
When thou eatest the labour of thy hands, happy shalt thou be, and it shall be well with thee.
Thy wife shall be as a fruitful vine, in the innermost parts of thy house;
thy children like olive plants, round about thy table.
Behold, surely thus shall the man be blessed that feareth the LORD.
The LORD bless thee out of Zion; and see thou the good of Jerusalem all the days of thy life;
And see thy children's children. Peace be upon Israel! 

As I recited the words, tears welled up in my eyes. What's the most that a person can really ask for? Who is truly fortunate? King David was right: All you can hope for is to walk in the path of God, "eat the fruits of your labors", enjoy the blessings of a loving and dedicated wife, and sit with your children around his dinner table. Reading these words next to my father's grave, only two thoughts came to my mind: I have all of that (and don't appreciate it enough), and he never really did. At least not enough, to my way of thinking - although no one seems to have asked me. Now, even almost thirty years after his death, I mourn - not for me, but for him.
He was never able to enjoy the Bat Mitzvahs of his sons or the weddings of his children; he never held a grandson on his lap as he received his name, nor walked down the aisle to the chuppah with a child.
But he did set a standard for us - quite a high one at that, which continues to live on in each of his children, and now his grandchildren. He was a pillar; a man of knowledge and erudition, of ethics, morals and integrity. Quiet and introspective, even now it's clear to me that he commanded an unusual level of respect in his family, community and even at work.
Almost immediately after his untimely death, relatives began naming children after my father. My father's brother Arty named his eldest son, Scott, after him, making him the first Simcha Spolter of his generation. (My father's English name, Seymour, seems to have been out of the question for any of us. Little wonder why.) Soon after, my mother's brother named his son Simcha as well.
But my mother - and I think my siblings and I as well - always knew that we would name our sons after our father. And indeed we did. My two eldest sisters named their firstborn sons Simcha. The only reason the third sister did not name a child Simcha is because her husband's name is Symcha. (It didn't seem appropriate). My brothers and I followed suit, each of us naming our eldest sons after our father. I get a sense of consolation knowing that my Hebrew name, when I'm called up to the Torah is Avraham Reuven ben Harav Simcha, and that my son is called up as Simcha ben Avraham Reuven. It just fits. It seems right.
Last week, the Simcha (Raczkowski, of Baltimore) named by my eldest sister got engaged to be married. On the very same day, my youngest brother's wife gave birth to a boy after three girls. There was little doubt that he too would name his son after his father, although he never knew his father at all, having become an orphan at the unthinkable age of two years old.
Simcha Spolter z"l's namesakes live around the world in Chicago, Yad Binyamin, Baltimore, Boyton Beach, Kiryat Sefer, and Cleveland. It now seems clear that this newest Simcha Spolter represents the last of this generation of Simcha Spolters. With eight Simchas named after my father, this seems fitting. It's enough, and they have great shoes to fill.
Good thing that there are a lot of them.

The Youngest Simcha Spolter

Should Rabbis be on Facebook - Part 1

This week, I spent a day (plus) at an international rabbinic conference sponsored by Tzohar, a rabbinic group in Israel trying to create an alternative rabbinic presence other than the Israeli chief rabbinate. Tzohar became known for its registry of rabbis willing to perform weddings free of charge. It seems that for many secular Israelis, one of their only interactions with rabbis was at their wedding, and that many rabbis charged exorbitant amounts of money to perform the wedding, leaving a very bad taste, to say the least, of religious people and religion in general. To date, rabbis affiliated with Tzohar have performed tens of thousands of weddings across Israel.
At the conference, one of the more heated discussions surrounded the burning question whether rabbis should have Facebook pages or not. (Interestingly, I only found out that the press was at the conference halfway through the discussion, and it was implied that there was, “nothing to worry about.” If “nothing to worry about” means that, “You’ll be quoted directly by name in the press,” then I guess I didn’t have anything to worry about. I wasn’t quoted inaccurately, but having press representatives at a supposedly closed rabbinic conference isn’t a great way to engender open and honest dialogue.) In any case, this particular discussion made the Hebrew press here and here, and was then translated into English here, and finally blogged about here. I was quoted (pretty accurately) as saying that I didn’t think that a rabbi should have a Facebook page. Here’s the relevant passage:

Rabbi Reuven Spolter of the Israeli community of Yad Binyamin believes that, in general, "a rabbi must be a rabbi and not a friend." He does not rule out rabbinical activity on Facebook, but says it must be supervised.
"All the nonsense of the community members must be ignored," he says. "It would be better if they didn't have to see all their statuses and thoughts."
His practical suggestion is interesting: The rabbi's wife will be on Facebook and relay the spirit and messages from the community members, as expressed only there.

I once wrote a rather emphatic post about the fact that I don’t have a Facebook page. While at the time the post was accurate, today it’s less so, as I recently joined the Facebook phenomenon. (OK, I’m late to the party. But I did get an early invite to Google Plus.) I joined Facebook primarily because I need to use it at work in the context of student recruitment at Orot. You can see my Orot page here. (Please “like” us – I’m trying to build the page…) I opened two personal pages – one in Hebrew and one in English, and became “friends” with a number of acquaintances – mostly people who “friended” me.

At the discussion, I ended up sitting next to Israel’s Minister of Science and Technology, Rabbi Professor Daniel Hershkovitz. He’s a shul rabbi, math professor, and now a politician, and a generally all-around brilliant man. During the discussion, he said a number of times that it’s silly for rabbis to shy away from using Facebook, repeating to me and then to the group at large, “Facebook is a tool. Tools are not good or bad. They’re tools, and we must choose not whether to use them or not, but how to use them properly.”
In general, I agree with him. Tools aren’t good or bad. You can use a saw to cut lumber to build a home. And you can use that same saw to cut your dining room table in half. (Not recommended). But some tools are generally useful (like my screwdriver), and others primarily destructive. We measure whether to bring tools into our home by their design and their intended purpose, and whether their benefits outweigh the costs. So, my toolbox is brimming with screwdrivers. Sure, someone could use one as a weapon – but not likely. On the other hand, while there might be some benefits to keeping a firearm in my home, in my home right now the dangers outweigh them. While in some homes a firearm at the ready is a critically important, my home isn’t one of them. Let’s give another example a little closer to home: Television. One could legitimately argue that TV is a tool that can be either good or bad. After all, television can be informative, convey critical information, and even help me relax. On the other hand, do those benefits outweigh the costs? To me they don’t, because while I certainly miss watching football, I don’t miss the amazing amount of time that I’d waste watching TV. And I don’t miss the values on most television programs, nor the sexuality, violence and depravity that we don’t even notice anymore. So I don’t have a TV. It’s a tool, but not one that I choose to utilize.
What about Facebook? What kind of tool is Facebook? Are its uses valuable and positive? What are the benefits of Facebook, and do those benefits outweigh the costs? In order to answer those questions, you’ve got to (a) use Facebook, and (b) understand how it works.
Using Facebook:
Truth be told, there’s less action than I thought there would be. It’s nice to get pictures of people’s kids (very cute usually), and every now and then someone shares a thoughtful link to an article I hadn’t seen. But mostly, I haven’t found myself moved by peoples’ status updates, and I often find myself not posting for lack of what to post. This is not because I don’t have what to say. I say a lot – and if you’re reading this blog, you know what I mean.
A couple of weeks ago, I was invited by a marketing group to take part in a Facebook seminar, aimed at helping us market educational programs to potential students. The seminar spent a lot of time highlighting Facebook’s hierarchy which determines what posts are visible in someone’s feeds. This means that while you might post a status update, that doesn’t really mean that all your friends are going to see it. It depends on whether your post is “sticky” – and that stickiness follows an algorithm designed by Facebook. They like pictures and videos, and back and forth conversations. They don’t like updates that people don’t respond to. In other words, Facebook is built to get feedback. It’s not really designed for long form articles like this one. It’s really built to share the pictures, videos, short status updates that generate a quick “like”. And if your status update doesn’t get a like or a comment, it falls off the page amazingly fast. So, the trick of the Facebook status update is all about getting people to response.
That means that I’ve got to say something clever, or ask a silly question, or make a sarcastic quip, or share a family picture. It is not good for making serious comments or having an involved discussion, at least on its main pages. (Sure, you can have a private conversation with someone on Facebook, but you can also do that over email.) Facebook isn’t really about actual people. It’s more about the people they’d like others to see them as: clever, witty, outgoing – looking to get a reaction from others. Because there’s nothing worse on Facebook than sending out a status update and having it be ignored. All those friends, and no one cares about what you have to say…embarrassing.
So Facebook is built for chitchat, and not for deep, extended conversations. It’s built around superficial acquaintances, and not substantial friendships. It’s built to keep people in touch, but not to foster deeper connections.
Finally, many people share private and oftentimes inappropriate information (that has at times made me uncomfortable). That’s stuff that I really don’t want to know, and perhaps my friends also don’t want me to know, but forgot (or don’t care) that they’ve “friended” me.
Just as an aside, it’s also important for users to realize that Facebook is a marketers dream. Instead of “them” having to find you, all they have to do is entice you to “like” their page once. You “like” CocaCola? Sure you do. It tastes good. But if you “like” Coke on Facebook, they can now send you an endless stream of advertisements and promotions. Because that’s exactly what you asked them to do when you “liked” them. Why do you think advertisers spend so much energy and money asking you to “like” them? It’s a dark side of Facebook that many users don’t realize or prefer to ignore.
On the other hand, Facebook is not without benefits, and can even be surprisingly powerful. First of all, because pretty much the whole world is now on Facebook, it has reconnected people that lost touch years ago, allowing them to reestablish contact. You might not want to be best friends with your old high school classmate, but you would like to stay in touch and see how he’s doing.
Facebook also allows groups of people to coalesce around a common cause or purpose. My cottage cheese here in Israel costs me less money because of Facebook. It’s possible that the Arab Spring would never have happened were it not for Facebook. The tool allows individuals to share information with groups of interested people in unprecedented ways, with incredible ease. It’s not just about cottage cheese though. It’s used to promote Torah classes and community events as well.
There’s an even more powerful that has deep, powerful ramifications. A former member of our shul recently entered the hospital, and needed to return to the hospital following surgery a number of times due to complications. She spent hours in bed, alone, depressed. Her status updates – understandably gloomy – brought a flurry of responses, offering help, support and encouragement. People helped her – calling her, sending her messages, even visiting in person because they were aware that she was stuck in the hospital due to Facebook.
So, with all this in mind, this leads to my question: Should your rabbi be on Facebook? Do you want him as a friend, or would it be better for him and you if he stuck to email?

Happy Aliyahversary To Us!

No, it's not our wedding anniversary. Rather, this is the day that we celebrate our three year Aliyahversary. That's right, three years ago, a bleary-eyed Spolter family arrived in boiling hot Yad Binyamin with a bunch of luggage, and a dream...to get some sleep. Last night, the family celebrated with a steak dinner (I think it's the first time that I bought steak here), and we spoke about the things that we love about living in Israel.

So, how's it going? All in all, terrific. Note that I did not say easy. It's certainly not easy, and not nearly as easy as it would have been staying the course in the USA. But we have a great deal to be thankful for:

Financially, we're doing OK, (thank God!) having been fortunate to find work that we enjoy. But that has come with a willingness to change, adapt, and do things that we didn't ever think we'd be doing. This is not to say that we don't miss our old jobs. It's hard to give up what you loved doing and what you think you were really good at. But we made a choice to move to something new, and change is never easy, and comes with a price. Even after three years.

The Kids, excited for the flight, three years ago

Socially, we've found some level of acclimation in Yad Binyamin, which is a really great place. We've met great people, both Israeli and Anglo. But, truth be told, I feel somewhat betwixt and between: on the one hand, we've gotten to know a bunch of wonderful Israeli families. At the same time, we're just different. We're Anglos, and nothing we can do will ever change that. We're Olim, and always will be, and it can be challenging to know that as successful as you'll be (and we feel that we are successful), you'll never be a native. It's just a fact of life that we didn't understand as fully as we do now, but accept so that our children won't have this struggle. Some choose to live in very Anglo areas like Ra'anana or Beit Shemesh, and they never really feel like outsiders, as they're not trying to enter into Israeli society. We've chosen a different path, which entails a greater sense of alienation. One is not better than the other; both have costs and benefits, and each oleh must find his or her place here in Israel.

Same kids (+1), last Yom Kippur

Kids-wise: The kids are really doing great. Most acclimated to Israel almost immediately, but for some the second year was light-years different than the first. They're fully integrated into the Israeli school system, and while it's of course not perfect, we're really, reallly happy with our childrens' education thus-far. We also added a beautiful daughter (our only Sabra) who needs no integration.

The Gemara tells us that it takes three years to make a Chazakah on a place. Truth be told, I don't miss the United States per se. I listen to American talk-radio (mostly sports) online. I miss the people: our family, the close friends we made in Michigan, and I also miss the reasonably-priced vacations during the summer. I also miss watching NFL football - not that I watched it that much back home. (I'm just too cheap to pay for an online subscription.) But I cannot remember a time that I wished I was back in the States.
I feel truly blessed to be raising my family in Eretz Yisrael; I feel blessed to have acclimated as much as we have. I feel blessed to have the opportunities that I've had over the past three years, and often see the hand of God guiding us on this crazy journey. And I pray that He will give me the wisdom and serenity to continue to handle the inevitable struggles that will come unexpectedly, and to always see the great blessings that I have.

Happy Aliyahversary!

Summer Grapes

I am a produce snob. I like my fruits and vegetables, but only when they're a certain freshness. By that I mean: really, really fresh.
I like my green apples crunchy and tart; my nectarines crunchy, and my bananas just a slight tinge of yellow. Any mush, and they go straight to my daughter. Who is one.
And then there are grapes. When the grapes feel ever so mushy, I keep moving. This means that there's a very short summer window during which the grapes are large, sweet, crunchy - everything a grape should be.
We just hit that window here. As my wife put it, it feels like the grapes were still on the vine this morning. That could very well be true. When I opened the fridge and saw the carton of grapes she bought this evening, I immediately thought: where are the grapes for tomorrow?
It'll be a short window, so enjoy it while it lasts.

Why Am I Throwing Out my Dryer? A Letter to the CEO of Whirlpool

Mr. Jeffrey Fettig
Chairman and CEO, Whirlpool Corporation
2000 N. M-63
Benton Harbor, MI 49022-2692

Dear Mr. Fettig,

I write to you today with a sense of frustration about the fact that I'm about to throw away my beautiful, two-year-old Whirlpool dryer (model awz 3477), for a very simple reason: it has stopped drying clothes.
The dryer looks great. It spins nicely, and blows air wonderfully. Sadly, it only blows cold air. You may wonder, why don't you get it fixed? We tried. The technician who came took the machine apart, looking for problems. When everything looked great, he took the electronic board out to bring to an expert for examination, assuming that this was the problem. The technician took one look at the problem and said, "That's a Whirlpool Dryer? The board is fine. It's the core heating element that's the problem and needs to be replaced. It's a known problem." (Funny, I didn't know about the problem. But the people who fix these things do.)
My wife confirmed this by speaking to a parts supplier, who told her that there are sixty of these heating elements on order.
Why then don't we get the part replaced? Simple economics: the machine itself, reasonably priced, cost around 1,200 shekel (we live in Israel). The replacement part costs at least 500 shekel, and including installation that's at least 650 shekel. Would you spend 650 shekel on an old machine that broke after two years? Would you spend 800 shekel (a full 2/3 of the price of the machine) for a service plan? Or would you just cut your losses and decide to get a new machine?
Clearly this is a frustrating waste of my money. But it's also just a frustrating waste - throwing out a beautiful, almost-new dryer. It's a waste to the environment, which I'm not indifferent to, and simply a wasteful act.
Why am I writing you about this? Actually I'm not. I'm posting it on my blog. But I'm doing so in order to complain about the fact that your machines, which are supposed to be of high quality have a known problem and I have no recourse but to throw it away and get a new one, as it's out of the one year warranty period. Whirlpool relies on its brand name to represent a quality product; one which will attract consumers looking to make a long-term investment in a large household appliance. Quality means producing good products. But it also means that when something goes wrong, you stand behind your name and fix the problem.
Because for me, the Whirlpool name simply doesn't mean that much anymore.

Yours truly,
Reuven Spolter
Yad Binyamin, Israel

The Millionaire's Stroller

On Friday evening, right before Shabbat, our old stroller died. It was a loyal Peg Perego (bought on ebay) that weighed a ton, and lasted through two children before the handle gave way, and off it went to the great dumpster in the sky.
With our single car and the fact that I'm always driving it to work, Rena knew that if we didn't buy a new stroller right away, she might not get one for weeks. Since we had spent Shabbat in Yerushalayim at the YU Israel Kollel (it was a wonderful Shabbaton), off we went to Talpiyot in search of the perfect stroller. The stroller needed to fulfill two conditions: (1) It fit into the back of our car and (b) it was reasonably priced.
As I walked into the store, before me lay a veritable parking lot of strollers, running the gamut from baby joggers to mini-tanks to umbrella strollers. It didn't take us long to narrow down our search and we found a nice model for about 350 shekel, but while the guy was in back getting our stroller, I took the opportunity to "browse" and suffered a serious case of sticker shock. I cannot for the life of me understand why in the world a stroller would be worth 4 or five thousand (yes, thousand) shekel. Actually, I know why someone would ask for that kind of money - they think that they can sucker a future parent out of any sum of money. And they're right. But what about the parents? People who normally drive "Chevys" suddenly find themselves in the market for the Rolls Royce of strollers. And they don't come with GPS! Sure, it might offer a smoother ride. It might have more padding (both of which your baby will never notice.) But is it 3,500 shekels more padding?
Some things I'll never understand.

Procrastination

I consider myself a master procrastinator. (I feel somewhat confident that I'm not alone in this feeling.) One could even argue that this entire blog is one large effort to waste time. After all, there are a number of other things that I should and could be doing instead of writing this post, right now. And depending on where and when you’re reading this post, you may very well be procrastinating as well. (Of course, justifying such procrastination isn’t hard. At least you’re not wasting your time with other, more inane, time-wasting sites. When it comes down to it, one could view the entire Internet as one huge procrastination machine?)
With procrastination on my mind, I noticed an interesting detail in the Torah reading this week.After the angels arrive in Sodom to tell Lot to get the heck out of Dodge, as pretty soon there won’t be any Dodge, we find that after Lot fails to convince his sons-in-law of the impending doom, he dawdles. ויתמהמה – “and he delayed.” (see Beraishit 19:16) In fact, the trop on this word is the unusual shalshelet, so the whole word is read in a lazy, time-wasting way. Why did he dawdle? Rashi explains that he spent the night working, “to save all his money.” Ironically, for all his effort, he left Sodom empty-handed. Radak offers a slightly different take on the same theme, writing that Lot, “continued to delay as if he was worried about the money he was leaving. For this reason they were delayed until the morning and they could not allow him to take anything with him.”
Why did Lot delay the entire night? Why, if he truly believed that the city faced destruction, did he not immediately collect what he could and leave? If we think about it ourselves, would we be that different? Something inside him found it hard to leave. Although he knew that Sodom was doomed, he hoped that it wasn’t. He put off his departure until the final possible moment – and in doing so lost the possibility of saving any of his beloved property.
Lot’s actions don’t make any sense. But they are quite human.
Time-wasting occupies my thoughts after reading an interesting and thought-provoking article on the subject in a recent issue of the New Yorker. (I’m almost caught up from my summer vacation.) The article, which tries to answer the time-tested question of why we push things off without any sense or reason, makes a number of different suggestions. Some theorize that we put short-term needs ahead of long-term goals (I want to watch The Office now; I don’t want to finish designing the course for which I need to get paid). Others suggest that our propensity to delay reflects inner dual-personalities in which the two parts of me (“The Office”-watcher vs. educator) battle for control.
But when I think about myself, I’ve always considered my personal propensity for procrastination to be rooted in something a bit darker: an inner fear of failure. I don’t always watch TV to procrastinate. I often write on this blog, which isn’t always “easy.” Writing takes effort, thought, energy, wittiness, skill, literary prowess – you get the point. I actually like writing. But why then don’t I write the book that I’ve got in the back of my head instead of this quick piece? Sure, there’s the instant gratification from checking the Feed Stats of this blog. But, if I probe a little deeper, maybe I haven’t really started writing the book as I’m afraid that I won’t finish; or it won’t come out well; or no one will really like it. If you don’t like this post, no big deal. You were about to check the NFL highlights anyway. But if you don’t like a book that I worked on for a year or more – that’s painful. I’ve wasted a heck of a lot of time. I’ve invested a lot of myself – all for nothing.
And yet intellectually I know that it’s going to be a great book. And I’ve really got to finish writing that course. Time to get back to work and stop procrastinating.

I'm Sorry. Really.

Some time ago, during my former life as a pulpit rabbi, I gave a sermon about the importance of hair-covering, pr some such hot-button topic. I don't remember exactly. I knew that the membership was divided on the issue - but that didn't often stop me from speaking out. Anyway, for some reason I was pointed to the blog post of a member of mine, who wrote about me both critically and incorrectly. I must admit that it was a very painful experience, to be attacked by someone who you considered a friend, albeit anonymously. It still kind of stings.
The amazing publicity and literally global reach of the internet is also its greatest danger. The same blog that can promote Torah, shiurim, and Religious Zionism around the world can also carry words that inflict harm and cause pain.
I write with a strong sense of awareness of this fact. So, I make a very concerted effort on my blog (and anywhere I write) to speak with civility, refrain from personal attack, and promote ideas and values that I hold dear. Sometimes my positions and opinions might upset the reader, but I hope that it's because he or she disagrees (which is healthy) even passionately, and not because they consider themselves insulted or maligned.
So, if I've written (or said in a shiur) something during the past year that was personally hurtful and insulting, I apologize and ask for your forgiveness.
It seems like the right thing to do this time of year. After all, Yom Kippur's the day after tomorrow.

Wearing a Tallit After Bar Mitzvah - Part 1

About a month before my Bar Mitzvah (almost 25 years ago!), my tefillin arrived to my great excitement. The entire Bar Mitzvah process represents a gradual rite of passage that commences at the outset of a boy's twelfth year with the study of trop for the Torah reading, continues with the wearing of the tefillin, and I assume reaches its crescendo at the Bar Mitzvah itself.
I know all of this because we're about to celebrate the Bar Mitzvah of Simcha, my oldest son. (As every parent I'm sure feels, it's difficult to imagine that my child has reached Bar Mitzvah age, but that's a different post entirely.)
I remember that when my tefillin arrived in the United States from Israel, my uncle also purchased a beautiful matching Tallit and Tefillin bag with my name on it, as well as a rather lovely Tallit. I remember this because I wondered why my uncle had purchased the Tallit. Other than at the celebration itself when I led the davening, when else would I wear it? Indeed, the Tallit remained in its special bag for years, languishing in a closet. At my wedding, I rescued the beautiful bag (its Tefillin counterpart had long before frayed from the year of use) to use with my Shabbat Tallit, but the Tallit itself was now too small for regular use.
I think that Tallit still sits on the top shelf in the closet of my mother's den. Just thinking about it kind of makes me sad. I never really used it. In fact, I had no intention of using it, and as far as I can remember, no other kid in my class wore a tallit during davening. In fact, I never even thought about it. Nobody did it, and I didn't really give it a second thought. We are, after all, hardcore Ashkenazim, and we don't wear a Tallit until our wedding. I never really asked – or cared – why.
Except, now that my son's Bar Mitzvah approaches, I'm not sure why I failed to wear a tallit for the ten years following my own Bar Mitzvah. More to the point, I think that I was wrong. This is why my son wore a Tallit during davening when he dons his Tefillin for the first time later this month, and will continue to do so.
If you look in the Shulchan Aruch, you'll find no mention of any custom of children not to wear a tallit. In fact, you find exactly the opposite, in the instruction to specifically teach our children to wear tzitzit from a young age. The Shulchan Aruch writes (Orach Chayyim 17:3),

A minor who knows how to wrap himself – his father must purchase tzitzit for him to educate him.

Rema adds:

This specifically applies to a child old enough to wrap two tzitzit in front and two behind him, and he knows to hold the tzitzit in his hand when reciting the Shema.

Two interesting points stand out in this text. Both Shulchan Aruch and Rema use the term להתעטף, meaning “to wrap oneself,” the ideal manner of wearing tzitzit. More importantly, it’s clear that children begin wearing tzitzit at a very young age. How old do you have to be to know to wear two tzitzit in front and two behind? Not very old.
Moreover, the point seems obvious. We educate our children to perform mitzvoth from a very early age. We teach them to recite the Shema at three, to pray, recite blessings, wave the lulav – ritual acts forms the very fabric of Jewish life as soon as our children can grasp them. Why should donning tzitzit be any different? In fact, Shulchan Aruch specifically emphasizes that teaching our children to wear tzitzit is different in that we educate them about this particular mitzvah before most others, at an earlier age than we might have thought.
If this rule applies to children as young as four or five, it without a doubt applies to “children” above the age of Bar Mitzvah. Technically, they’re certainly not children. Judaism considers young men and women above the age of mitzvoth adults “for every matter,” certainly regarding the wearing of tzitzit as well.
At least you would think.

To be continued.

A New Baby in Yerushalayim

Here's a little bit of advice.
When your wife goes into labor, don't tell her to give it time. Even though it's 11:15pm, and you've just gotten into bed. Especially when you know that your wife has babies fast. And you live a good forty-five minutes from the hospital.
We finally got into the car at 12:30am and began driving to Hadassah Ein Karem, where Rena was scheduled to deliver. About fifteen minutes later, Rena couldn't really tell where one contraction ended and the other began. So she called the police. Or ambulance. Whatever. (In Israel, just dial 100. Or 101. Not sure.) The lady on the other end of the line wasn't really sure if Rena was driving or not (she wasn't), but strongly emphasized that it would be dangerous to give birth on the side of the road. Thanks for that. She sent an ambulance, and told us to pull over and wait for them.
By that point, we were at Latrun (the turnoff from 3 to the 1). So we pull off and start waiting. And waiting. Finally, Rena asked the lady, "Where are they coming from?"
"Beit Shemesh." (fifteen minutes away).
"Beit Shemesh?" I said. "That's crazy. We're closer than they are." So I start driving, and get on the 1.
Rena has an idea. Tell them to meet us at the 38 and the 1. (Where the road to Beit Shemesh meets with the main highway.) It's pretty close. So we're driving along, and there's an ambulance pulled over with its lights flashing at the entrance to the 38, but there's another car in front of it. So I keep driving. At that point, the ambulance driver called Rena on her cell and started yelling at her, "What are you doing! Pull over and wait for us."
We did, and she transferred to the ambulance. Those guys drive fast. I couldn't keep up, even in my Mazda 5. (That's four whole cylinders of power.)
When I finally got to the hospital, I had to park, find my way to the maternity ward, and started walking down hallways until I found my way to Rena, who was well into labor.
About twenty minutes later, she gave birth to a healthy baby girl.
Today Jews around the world mark Yom Yerushalayim, the day that Israeli soldiers recaptured and reunified Jerusalem during the Six Day War. Yet, the day seems somewhat distant to me. It could just be that my wife just had a baby and I'm somewhat preoccupied.
But I think that it's more than that. For whatever reason, I'm struggling with Yom Yerushalayim, because I wonder how far we've come in the over forty years since we captured the Old City and Har Habayit. Is Har Habayit really "b'yadeinu" - in our hands? Sure, I guess it is from a technical point of view, but we don't and can't really go and pray there, both for religious and political reasons.
Don't get me wrong. The city is beautiful, and teeming with life and energy and vitality. I work in Yerushalayim once a week, and still have a sense of wonder from the fact that I can even say that. (In all honesty, one of the reasons that I've never wanted to live in Yerushalayim is because I didn't want to lose that sense of "specialness," and that's hard to do when you live in a place.)
But we're still missing the essential elements that made Yerushalayim unique: a Beit Hamikdash, and the Divine presence that it's supposed to contain; a Sanhedrin to bring guidance and Torah to the Jewish people and the world.
I guess in some way, I feel that after the amazing achievements of Yom Yerushalayim, we're kind of stuck in the mud, spinning our wheels.
After the baby was born, the placenta came next, and the doctor was examining it to ensure that it was whole. It's a pretty bloody thing, and I made some offhand remark about how "gross" it was.
The doctor would have none of it. "On the contrary," he said. "This is the most beautiful thing in the world. This is life itself."
Right then and there, I saw his point. Life isn't clean and lovely. It's somewhat messy, and complex and confusing. It's never as pure as we want or think it should be. But in that is the beauty and power and Divinity itself.
That's how I've been thinking about Yerushalayim these past couple of days. I don't see the process. The US government is leaning on Israel not to build in "East" Jerusalem. We don't yet have Har Habayit, and certainly not a Beit Hamikdash.
But my son will soon put on his tefillin for the first time, and we're thinking of going to the Kotel to do it. He is taking a tiyyul with his class to Yerushalayim. I'm going to pick up my new daughter, just born in a hospital right outside Yerushalayim.
On Yom Yerushalayim.
There's a lot to celebrate.