Life in a Single Box - An Article in the Jerusalem Post

The Jerusalem Post recently published a piece I wrote about Shorashim, a Tzohar program that helps Jews from the former Soviet Union proved their Jewish status. I'm pretty proud of the piece (and the work that Shorashim does). I do similar - but less intensive - work to help people from English speaking countries. You can find the piece here.

A Modern, Tragic Aspect to the Tenth of Tevet

I spent last weekend as a scholar in residence for Tzohar at Congregation Ohav Tzedek in Merrick, Long Island. It was a very, very quick trip. Shabbat morning, I spoke about the fast of Asarah B'Tevet. Here's a part of what I said:

A Postmark from Tel Aviv to the Tenth of Tevet

While most people (hopefully) realize that the we fast on the Tenth of Tevet to commemorate the beginning of the siege of Jerusalem in the First Temple Era, there’s an aspect to the Tenth of Tevet – a much more modern aspect, that many Jews are unaware of.
In Israel, the Tenth of Tevet is also known as יום הקדיש הכללי – the day of General Kaddish. (see here too) This is because on the 27th of Kislev, 5709 – in 1948, the Chief Rabbinate of the State of Israel declared that the fast of the Tenth of Tevet would serve as a commemoration for all those Jews killed in the Shoah who had no one to say Kaddish for them, or whose Yahrtzeit wasn’t known. If you had lost a loved one and didn’t know when they had died or where – or even whether they were buried, this became your Yahrtzeit.
Yet, the story, of course, goes much deeper. The Jewish State was in the midst of a great debate about the identity of the date which would commemorate the Holocaust. The secular community wanted the date to be the 14th of Nissan – the day of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. There’s only one problem with that date; it’s the day before Pesach. (Small problem.) The religious community – including most of the major poskim of the time – wanted there not to be a special, dedicated day at all. They felt that the best, and only day to commemorate the destruction of the Holocaust was Tisha B’av.  So, the Chief Rabbinate hoped that the Tenth of Tevet, which no one really related to anyway (but we still fast on), would become the de facto Yom Hashoah, and serve as a good compromise that everyone could live with.

The Original Chief Rabbinate Proclomation

The effort failed. The Knesset leadership, when it couldn’t have the 14th of Nissan, insisted on having the day at least during the month of Nissan – which it is today. (Israelis refused to have just a Yom Hashoah – a day of Holocaust. They insisted on focusing on the Gvurah – the uprising and the desire to fight back…) Chareidim don’t commemorate Yom Hashoah at all, as they consider it against the Halachah to institute a day of mourning during the month of Nissan. Nor do they mark the Tenth of Tevet as Yom Hakadish Haklali. Only a small fraction of the Religious Zionist community marks the Tenth of Tevet in this way.
Thus, the day that we spend fasting to commemorate the beginning of the destruction of the First Temple has now become a symbol not of our unity, but our inability to agree even on simple thing like the date to recite Kaddish for those who perished in the Holocaust.
We – the Jewish people – are standing at a crossroads today. What will the Jewish State that we leave to our children and grandchildren look like? Will we learn to find a way to create a meaningful balance between the desire for a truly Jewish State – a land enriched and defined by the Jewish values it represents, or will indifference, antagonism and apathy cause the unraveling of the very fiber of what makes Israel so historically, Jewishly unique?

At lunch afterwards, someone pointed out to me that today, educators in the Chaireidi world in America have placed a new emphasis on teaching the Holocaust specifically on the tenth of Tevet. Whatever the impetus for this effort, it's certainly laudible and important. I guess in the end, the rabbanut got its way, at least in Brooklyn.

The Chief Rabbinate's Decision to Forbid Visiting the Temple Mount (Again) Really Does Matter

Kipa is reporting that the new Chief Rabbis, Rav David Lau and Rav Yitzchak Yosef, recently reaffirmed the decades-long psak halachah forbidding Jews to ascent to Har Habayit. The reasoning behind the prohibition is beyond the scope of this blog post, but dates back to the time of Rav A"Y Hakohen Kook, who explicitly forbade any efforts to asend to Har Habayit. (I recently heard a shiur from Rav Mordechai Greenberg on the underlying reasoning of Rav Kook, and at some point I'll try and post it. Just not now.)
Here's the psak:

The reaction of many on the left wing of Religious Zionist community will be to yawn, and see this as yet another example of the growing irrelevance of the Chief Rabbinate, who seems to want to reaffirm that we're still living in the past, that nothing has changed, blah blah blah. Moreover, this reaffirmation will do nothing to stop those people who visit Har Habayit from continuing to do so, as they are leaning on solid halachic shoulders which permit visiting very specific areas of the Temple Mount, and feel that their position is based on solid archaeological studies.
So, if non-religious people were going anyway, and religious people were relying on a different psak, why then did the Chief Rabbis issue their "reaffirmation"? Does it really matter?
Actually, it does matter a great deal.
For those following Knesset committee proceedings, for months the Knesset has been discussing the issue of the rights of Jews to pray on Har Habayit. (If you're looking to waste a couple of fun minutes, you can watch MK Ahmed Tibi freak out at one of these meetings - something he does quite regularly.) Legally, Jews are supposedly allowed to pray on the Temple Mount, but practically, the police prevent people from doing so, and arrest anyone who makes any type of Jewish religious declaration whatsoever. After Rabbi Yehuda Glick was banned from visiting and leading groups to Har Habayit, he later learned that the "crime" he committed which got him banned was the recititation of the Prayer for the State of Israel and the Prayer for the Safety of the Soldiers of the IDF. Those provocative acts got him on the "Do-Not-Visit-Temple-Mount" list, which led him to begin a hunger strike, which led the police to back down for now, and the saga continues.
Not surprisingly, with the recent resurgence of the Religious Zionist Bayit Hayehudi, the issue of the freedom of Jews to pray on the Temple Mount has taken on greater significance in the halls of the Knesset. In the committee meetings, Rav Eli Ben Dahan, the Deputy Minister of Religious Affairs, asked the Chief Rabbis to change the official stance on the law, in order to allow his office to proceed with the proposed legislation. At the same time, he made it clear that while he personally doesn't think that it's a problem for Jews to visit and pray on the Temple Mount, he would not support pushing legislation to that effect against the wishes of the Chief Rabbis. So, while Jews continue to visit and silently pray on the Temple Mount (under the watchful eye of the police), they have really been hoping for legislation that would force the police to stop harrassing them and allow them to pray in peace (at least until the Arabs started rioting). Now, with the recent reaffirmation of the Chief Rabbis, the Bayit Hayehudi will not act against their will and push legislation they feel is against halachah (although in truth, the Chief Rabbis were also against the Tzohar law).
So don't expect Chabad to open a shtiebel and tefillin stand on Har Habayit anytime soon.

Rabbinic Competition and the Tzohar Law

An old rabbi joke you might have heard:

A man walks into the rabbi's office to talk. After exchanging pleasantries, he finally gets down to business.
"Rabbi," he says, "I want you to make me a Kohen."
"Make you a Kohen?! We don't do that!"the rabbi responded.
"I thought you might respond in this manner," the man said, reaching into his pocket and removing his checkbook. "So I'm prepared to make a ten-thousand dollar donation to the synagogue in exchanging for your helping me."
Ten thousand dollars was a lot of money, and the shul certainly needed it, but the rabbi held firm.
"Sorry, but I can't help you."
A week later, the man was back.
"Rabbi, I really want you to make me a Kohen. And I've thought about it, and I'm willing to up my donation to a fifty thousand dollars, straight to the synagogue's general fund. Will you do it?"
This time, the rabbi took a moment. He thought about it, but decided that he couldn't go through with it.
"Sorry," he told the man, "But I just can't help you."
A week later, the man returned once again.
"Rabbi," he said. "I truly need to be a Kohen. I'm willing to up my offer to a hundred thousand, straight to your discretionary fund, no questions asked. Please, I'm begging you."
A hundred thousand dollars. The rabbi lost himself in thought for a few moments, and then said softly, "I think I can help you."
"Terrific!" the man said excitedly, as he begun scribbling out the check. "Wonderful!"
"But there's one thing I need to ask you." the rabbi interrupted. "I don't understand. Why is it so important for you to be a Kohen?"
"Simple," the man explained. "My grandfather was a Kohen. My father was a Kohen..."

Throughout my years in Detroit, I appreciated the fact that I never felt the need to troll for members. On one hand, I certainly felt a responsibility and obligation to increase membership. My salary and livelihood depended upon it. At the same time, our shul occupied a unique space in our community. In contrast to the other shuls in the neighborhood, the Young Israel of Oak Park really is the only Modern Orthodox large shul in the Oak Park community. If you were looking for that kind of shul, we were there for you. My job, as I saw it, was to make the shul the most welcoming, inviting shul that it could be - which would hopefully drive membership.
Most of my friends, I think, were in the same position.
Others, though, found themselves in neighborhoods with multiple shuls competing for the same members. Sometimes this would result in a "cold war", with shuls subtly competing for members by offering attractive programming and even financial discounts. At times though, this process degenerated into outright pilfering, as rabbis openly courted members of other shuls. (They would, of course, deny it, claiming a prior "relationship" that they wished to nurture. But pilfering happens, and it isn't pretty.)
What I have never heard of, at least in recent decades, is a case where an Orthodox rabbi relaxed his halachic standards in order to increase his membership. Perhaps I'm naive, but we're really not in it for the money. Most rabbis I know could have gone into other careers which pay far better, but entered the rabbinate out of a sense of idealism and devotion to Klal Yisrael. So the suggestion that rabbis would relax their standards for their own financial gain rings hollow to me.
I mention this in light of the recent Tzohar Law which gained final passage in the Knesset this week. The Tzohar Law says simply that instead of having to register to marry in the municipality in which one lives, a couple can register to marry in any rabbinate of their choice.
Before the law was passed, standard regulations from the Chief Rabbinate require a couple to register for their marriage license in the local rabbinate in which they reside. These rabbinates are essentially deregulated and determine their own procedures and halachic guidelines. Certain rabbinates refuse to register converts of any kind; others will not permit most Zionist rabbis to conduct weddings. No less important is the quality of the service and hours of operation.
Over the past decade, this reality has been a significant and major factor prompting many halachically Jewish Israeli couples to choose civil marriage in Cyprus or Prague over navigating the challenging bureaucratic maze of their local rabbinate. Moreover, many couples simply forgo formal marriage, preferring to live together without bothering with the hassle of Chuppah and Kiddushin. Without the benefit of Chuppah and Kiddushin and a kosher Ketubah, the children of these couples will face great challenges in proving their Jewish status in the future. This reality, combined with hundreds of thousands of halachically Jewish Russian immigrants who cannot prove their Jewish status, has created a wave of assimilation that threatens the Jewish nature of the State of Israel.
In a meeting in late August, the new Chief Rabbinate decided to publicly oppose the proposed law, citing unspecified halachic concerns associated with the law. Last year, then Chief Rabbi Yona Metzger came out strongly against the law, claiming that it would "dramatically increase the number of mamzerim in the Jewish people."
Chareidim have long argued that the law would encourage people to seek out the most lenient rabbinate, and encourage rabbis to permit inappropriate kulot. I find the entire argument troubling. Essentially, this argument stipulates that rabbis can't be trusted, and will race to the "bottom" chasing after the most possible marriage registrations.
Really? Do we suspect the local rabbinates to such a great degree that we fear that they'll compromise halachah for financial gain? Why then do we trust them to perform the weddings in the first place? I truly never fully understood the Chareidi opposition to the law, especially since Chareidim never registered themselves with local rabbinates, and have no use for them. My suspicion is that they fear that people will shy away from utilizing them for weddings, preferring to hire rabbis that more fit their "style" or outlook. Essentially, the law will cause rabbis to lose wedding fees (which they were not legally allowed to charge) to competing, more accessible rabbis.
That's a legitimate fear.
While I don't believe that rabbis should or would compete in the area of halachah, they most certainly should compete in the areas of service. I hope that this new law will encourage local rabbinates to compete to be more accessible, more open, friendly and positive. I hope that they'll attract couples based on accessibility and ease of use. I hope that they'll begin to think about ways to make the marriage ceremony more spiritually meaningful, so that they're friends attending the wedding will ask them, "Who was that rabbi? We want him to marry us as well."
That happens at Tzohar weddings all the time.
Rather than harm Judaism, this law will go a long way towards making traditional marriage friendlier and more engaging.
And that's a good thing for the Jewish people.

My First Tzohar Wedding

In a previous post, I described the meeting that I had with the secular couple whose wedding I was to officiate at as a representative of Tzohar. This week, I performed the wedding, which for me was a tremendous experience. I'll explain why.
The first thing that you realize immediately is that secular weddings, while they have much in common with religious weddings, are also quite different.  That became clear as soon as I arrived.
I actually came right on time, and made my way to the bridal suite to wish the bride Mazal Tov (and to let them know that I had indeed arrived.) Entering the room, two things struck me immediately. They had just finished a full meal, and were resting before the wedding, and the bride's dress - a strapless wedding gown - wasn't what I was accustomed to. We had discussed the matter of modesty during our meeting at my house, but I didn't remember what we had concluded, and while I tried to maintain a cool exterior, I wasn't entirely sure what to do. I quickly began to think of the stories that I had heard of Rav Soloveitchik conducting a chuppah with his head buried in a siddur. In fact, the kallah had "sleeves" that went with the dress, which she wasn't wearing it at the time. All worked out in the end.
On to the Chosson's Tish. Oh, that's right. There isn't one.
When I finally found the groom (who was practicing a song he had written for his bride with the band), he had to find the caterer, who was holding on to the Ketubah (which the couple picks up from Tzohar and brings to the wedding.) When we finally located him, he brought the ketubah and we sat down to fill out the necessary forms. The caterer kept pestering me about how long the chuppah would take. When I joked that my speech wouldn't be more than twenty minutes, he didn't laugh.
There is no Tenaim (which is a completely unnecessary ritual), so we sat down on some couches (and they pulled over a coffee table so that I could write) while I filled in the Ketubah and associated forms. We called the witnesses (friends of the groom's father), and they watched and waited while I filled in the Ketubah. It took about ten minutes. I had hoped to be able to do this on my own before everyone else showed up, but no luck. Nothing like trying to make small talk while filling in important halachic documents.
When I finished, the witnesses signed, we did a "kinyan" and that was it. Oh, sorry - the photographers then came by. So we did it all again so that they go their "shot." That actually happened a number of times. And they asked me to move out of the way during the chuppah so that they could video. ("Harav, you're blocking the shot!") And they yelled at me for having him break the glass before they were ready (so they made the groom stomp his foot again).
On to the Chuppah!
Like religious weddings, the groom and bride walked down to music that they had chosen - played by the DJ. But the bride had also recorded a beautiful message/prayer to the groom that they played as she walked towards the chuppah. It was quite lovely, and made me wonder whether religious weddings follow the "script" of what your "supposed" to do a bit too closely. Eventually they made their way to the chuppah, and we were ready to go.
Once there, I quickly realized that I had neglected a critical aspect of training to perform the wedding: juggling. Really. God blessed me with two hands, but I had to hold the cup of wine, the card with the brachot, and also the microphone. (when I held it too far during the first brachah, the video guy rushed up to me to tell me to hold it closer. "Harav - bkol ram!" Those who know me know that I usually don't have any trouble making myself heard.) I spent the rest of the chuppah spilling the wine, and moving cards, cups and the mike from hand to hand as I tried to navigate my way through the ceremony.
The rest went off like any other chuppah. I made the brachot. The couple drank. He gave her a ring. She took it. I read a bit of the Ketubah, and he gave it to her. (The photographer then had them hold it up together under the chuppah, grinning.) I said a short dvar Torah, which I hope went over well. Then we called up friends and family for the Sheva Brachot, and it was over.
The family was great. They really appreciated my being there and doing the wedding, and when the groom's father, who himself is religious, asked me whether he owed me anything, I felt wonderful telling him that he did not, and was happy to volunteer.
In truth, it's not a simple matter. Tzohar rabbis take no money for the weddings which they perform, and many people, while admiring the altruism, wonder whether it's really fair. After all, if the couple is paying tens, if not hundreds of thousands of shekels on everything else, from the food to the photographer to the video, why should the rabbi's time be free?
Thankfully, I'm in a position where I don't need to live off of performing weddings, so I was glad to perform the wedding as a chessed for the Jewish people. I feel that I'm helping (and interacting with) a population I would never otherwise meet, and came away enriched by the experience.
While I  was walking away from the chuppah, the groom's brother in law (who is also religious) came over and told me a wonderful Dvar Torah.

Why are we called "Yehudim" (Jews)? he asked me. The answer is because we come from the tribe of Yehudah. And Yehudah's mother gave him that name because she wanted to express her thanks to God for having a fourth son. Realizing that she was one of Ya'akov's four wives and that there would be twelve tribes, when she had her fourth son, she felt a great sense of thanks that she merited to have her "allotment" of sons. So she said, הפעם אודה את ה - "for this [child] I will thank God". We are called Yehudim (Jews) because we carry on this trait of giving thanks, and appreciate the goodness of others. 

"And that", he told me, "is why I'm thanking you for what you did tonight."
Driving away from the wedding, I kept thinking about my early rabbinic career in West Hartford, CT. It was an older shul and many of the members were senior citizens, and I came to know a funeral director in town who happened to also be a member. (come to think of it, that might be why he joined...but I digress.) I did a lot of funerals during those years, both of shul members and also of non-members. And while most brought in some money, I remember doing a few for free - and especially remember one for a lonely Jew who died without any friends or relatives. We buried him almost entirely by ourselves.
Driving away from the wedding last night, I couldn't help but think that while in America I did chessed by conducting funerals, here in Israel, I do chessed by doing weddings. I drove away feeling more Israeli than I have in a while; more connected to the country that I moved to over five years ago, but only now am beginning to give back to in a meaningful and important way. 

My Old New Job and a New Volunteering Experience

Several months ago, I joined the staff of Irgun Rabbanei Tzohar (on a part-time basis) to help the organization connect in a more effective way with rabbis in chutz l’aretz. (I’m still working majority-time at Orot.) Recently, most people heard of Tzohar by way of its chairman, Rav David Stav, who ran a rather public campaign for the position of Chief Rabbi of Israel. But in Israel, Tzohar is more well-known for its regular work of trying to build bridges between religious and secular society in Israel. Tzohar runs holiday-oriented programs like Shavuot night learning programs in many cities across the country, and is in the process of organizing two hundred and fifty minyanim for the general public (those who don’t normally attend shul) across Israel later this week on Yom Kippur. But those are not Tzohar’s bread and butter. Tzohar made its name by performing weddings. Thousands of weddings.
Almost immediately after the murder of then Prime Minister Yitzchak Rabin, the secular public in Israel harbored open animosity towards the religious public, and religious Zionist Jews specifically. It’s not difficult to understand their feelings at the time.
During that difficult and painful period, a group of rabbis began have a series of meetings to try to find a way to breach the great chasm that divided between the secular and religious public. Over time, they came upon the idea of officiating at weddings, for free. Back then, and still to some degree now, rabbis officiating at weddings can ask for a hefty sum, leaving couples feeling fleeced. More importantly, the local rabbi often acts as a functionary, performing the wedding but failing to utilize a golden opportunity to create a meaningful religious experience for an otherwise irreligious couple. In addition to the condition that Tzohar rabbis refuse payment for their services, the couples also agree to meet with the rabbi at least once before the wedding. (This is a bigger deal than it sounds like. Many secular couples have never spoken at any length with a religious person, much less a rabbi, much less been in a religious home.) Each bride also participates in special training specifically geared towards non-religious women.

At the Rabbinic Training Program

Tzohar’s founders quickly realized that they had hit on something. Couples were looking for rabbis who they could more easily relate to (and who didn’t charge money), and rabbis were also yearning for a way to reach out beyond the religious world and try and effect change in the country. Eighteen years later, Tzohar has performed over 80,000 weddings. That’s 160,000 secular couples who have met with, engaged with and been married by a religious Zionist rabbi. Think about the guests at each of those weddings, and over time Tzohar has touched a significant percentage of Israeli society.
I’m connected to this huge wedding factory (hundreds of weddings a month, thousands a year) in a small way, but after joining Tzohar professionally, I also wanted to become a Rav Mechaten – a marrying rabbi. In truth, I have been looking for a way of volunteering my time in Israel in a meaningful way. Every oleh sees his neighbor in shul periodically in his army uniform, either on the way to or from his miluim (reserve duty). The army doesn’t want me. Trust me. I even considered joining the local community watch, but never followed through. I already give shiuim in my shul – but wanted to do something “bigger.” So, over the summer I took a five-meeting course on the Tzohar “way” (Yes, even though I worked there, I still needed to take the course), and two weeks ago got my first request to marry a couple.
The young man called me immediately, and we arranged to meet in my home last night.
I must admit that even though I’ve performed enough weddings over the years, I was nervous – although I’m not entirely sure why. Perhaps just the newness of the whole thing. I’ve performed weddings for non-religious people in America, but this seemed different. What about the cultural gap? Would the fact that I’m an “Anglo” matter to them? Would they be antagonistic towards Jewish tradition? Would I be able to properly answer their questions?
Truth be told, the meeting went great. The couple was lovely, and it was nice to spend the time with them. “Secular” in Israel can mean any number of things, and it turns out that this couple knew at least a little bit about Judiasm, and were open to the ideas that I shared with them. They actually want me to share a short dvar Torah under the chuppah! (The kallah had one request: Please make it relevant to the wedding. She’d apparently been at a wedding where the rabbi spoke about some topic unrelated to “anything at all”. I told her not to worry. Rena, who sat with us, also told her not to worry.) We spoke mainly about the technical aspects of the wedding, but of course touched on spiritual and religious aspects of marriage as well.
The evening ended leaving me uplifted. I felt that I had somehow reached beyond myself and my “small” circle of community and work. There was also a nice side benefit that I hadn't thought about. My kids cleared out of the dining room for the evening, but afterwards my son gave me a "thumbs up", and told me that he was proud and excited that I was doing these weddings. Hopefully, the wedding itself will go as well, but it was a good start, and feel honored, excited and privileged to be able to take part in this important project.