Shaarei Tzedek – Orthodox Judaism in Downtown Toronto

The High Holidays are approaching rapidly.  If you haven’t purchased your tickets as yet, please contact the shul President to arrange:

[via Mordechai Wollenberg]

This week’s Torah reading mentions the kosher dietary laws. The kosher laws describe to us which animals, birds and fish we may consume and which we may not consume. They are a mainstay of Jewish communal and personal life. I would venture to suggest that a vast majority of Jews in the world today observe some degree of kashrut (adherence to kosher laws).

The food or drink which we consume affects us on a spiritual plane, on a soul-level, influencing our character and affecting our natural tendencies Nothing in the Torah is just random — the fact that the kosher laws lay out specific requirements means that we can learn different ideas from these laws.

We are all familiar with the phrase “You are what you eat.” From early childhood I recall hearing this phrase — it is used to dissuade a child from eating too much chocolate and sweets; it is used to encourage us to eat healthy foods; it is used by advertisers to convince us to consume their particular product. Ubiquitous as it may be, it is not so far from the truth. According to Kabbalah, everything which we consume not only becomes part of us physically, but also spiritually. The food or drink which we consume affects us on a spiritual plane, on a soul-level, influencing our character and affecting our natural tendencies.
If we take a look at the kosher animals, for example, deer, sheep and cows, we find that they are naturally timid, modest, non-predatory, quiet animals. The birds which are kosher are those which are not birds of prey. We see that at the simplest level the characteristics of kosher animals are those that we would seek to emulate — peaceful, modest, non-predatory, “civilized” creatures.

Chew things over Regarding mammals, the Torah teaches us the signs to look for on a kosher animal; namely, that it should chew the cud and that it should have cloven hooves. These signs were not chosen arbitrarily. Each of them teaches us a way of behaving, a good character trait.

What do we learn from the idea of chewing the cud? That we do not say immediately what we think, that we do not always act on impulse. We “chew things over,” we consider carefully before acting. We carefully weigh up our decisions and do not act in haste but with thought and foresight, taking into consideration the consequences of our actions.

The hoof connects the animal with the ground, but at the same time, there is a distinction, a separation What about cloven hooves? The hoof is the lowest part of the animal, with which the animal connects to the ground. The ground symbolizes materialism, the physical world around us. A cloven hoof has a split in it — the hoof is connecting the animal with the ground but at the same time, there is a distinction, a separation. This mirrors our approach to the physical world. We have to be involved in everyday matters — in mundane, material affairs — but we also maintain a conscious separation, a realization that there is something more beyond the physical world, a higher dimension, a spiritual dimension. We are involved in material affairs, yet we maintain a certain detachment.

So much of Jewish life revolves around food. The Torah gives us ways to elevate this otherwise routine aspect of our lives, to infuse it with holiness, and to learn from it.

From Kehot’s Chumash Bamidbar

By Yanki Tauber

A common conception is that human creativity, particularly artistic creativity, will flourish only under conditions of unbridled freedom. Limitations and inhibitions of any sort–goes this line of thinking–are anathema to art.

The history of mankind’s efforts to evoke beauty and meaning with the materials of life has shown the very opposite to be the case: that “oppressive” circumstances have stimulated humanity’s most profound and innovative creations, while conditions of unmitigated freedom yield lesser and shallower works.

Indeed, working within bonds is intrinsic to the process and product of artistic creation: the challenge to reduce a landscape or personality to a two-dimensional surface of limited size is what makes a great painting; the need to express a thought or feeling with a limited number of words arranged in accordance with rigid laws of meter and rhyme is what makes a great poem. The very essence of art, it can be said, flows from the tension between the expanse-seeking spirit of the artist and the constraints of the medium and circumstances by and under which it expresses itself.

Galut

“Because of our sins,” we say in the Mussaf prayer recited on the festivals, “we were exiled from our land and driven from our soil. No longer are we able to ascend to show ourselves and bow before You, and perform our obligations in Your chosen home, in the great and holy house upon which Your name is called.”

The 613 mitzvot (commandments) of the Torah are a bridge between the finite and the infinite, the means by which mortal man achieves connection with his Creator and Source. Today, however, we are capable of achieving only a limited fulfillment of the mitzvot: there are hundreds of mitzvot that can be observed only when the Holy Temple is standing in Jerusalem and the entire community of Israel resides in the Holy Land. Indeed, the Torah forbids their actual observance in our present circumstances.

So our current state of galut (exile) is much more than a physical displacement. Before we were driven from our land and the House of G-d was taken from us, all Jews would make the thrice-yearly pilgrimage (on the festivals of Passover, Shavuot and Sukkot) to the Holy Temple “to see and be seen by the face of G-d” in the place where He chose to make Himself directly and uninhibitedly accessible to us. There we would observe the commandments associated with the Temple service, actualizing and experiencing those aspects of our relationship with the Almighty embodied by these mitzvot. But since the destruction of the Temple and our exile from the Holy Land, these venues of connection with G-d have been closed to us.

This is not to say that these mitzvot have been abolished or have “expired.” A fundamental principle of the Jewish faith (as stated by Maimonides) is that “Something that is clearly specified by the Torah as a mitzvah endures forever, and will never be changed, abrogated or added to.” The commandments remain in force; it is just the we are prevented from fulfilling them by the circumstances of galut. Indeed, therein lies the ultimate frustration of our exile: the fact that these channels of connection with G-d exist, yet the limitations of galut prevent us from pursuing them.

The Poetry of Prayer

The Talmud (Pesachim 86b) cites an interesting rule of etiquette governing guest-host relations: “Whatever the host instructs, you must do, except when he says: ‘Get out of my house.’” Chassidic teaching applies this to our relationship with G-d: as “guests” in G-d’s world we must obey all that He instructs us to do–except when He tells us to “Get out”. When He banishes us from His presence we are not to obey, but to persist in our efforts to come close to Him.

So even as we submit to its decrees, we dos not reconcile ourselves with the phenomenon of galut. When G-d commands, “Do this” or “Do not do this,” we obey; yet we refuse to accept the galut per se, refuse to accept the closing of venues in our relationship with G-d.

And it is from this incessant struggle, from this unremitting tension between our acceptance of the curbs of galut and our striving to break free of them, that our most “creative” achievements in our relationship with G-d arise.

Prevented from performing many mitzvot in their actual, physical guise, we direct our energy and creativity to their spiritual essence, which remains unaffected by the circumstances of galut. For example, the deeper significance of the korbanot (animal offerings) that were offered on the altar in the Holy Temple is that man should sublimate the “animal soul” within himself, refining his naturally self-oriented drives and desires. Today, we achieve this through prayer: three times a day we contemplate the majesty of G-d, inspiring and reorienting our natural selves to strive for higher and more transcendent aims than the satisfaction of its animal instincts. In the words of the prophet (Hosaia 14:3): “Our lips fulfill [what was accomplished through] oxen.”

Furthermore, we do not suffice with an exclusively “spiritual” versions of these mitzvot: whenever possible, we accompany them with physical deeds that commemorate and evoke the manner in which the mitzvah was originally and optimally fulfilled. Thus, in commemoration of the Simchat Beit HaShoeivah (“Water-Drawing Festivities”) held in the Holy Temple on the festival of Sukkot, we conduct our own nightly Sukkot celebrations, “going through the motions” of singing, dancing and playing musical instruments, even though the heart and essence of the event–the drawing of water from a spring for pouring on the Altar–is absent from our celebrations. At the same time, however, we take great care to ensure that our actions do not in any way suggest that we are actually performing the mitzvah in violation of the laws that forbid its implementation in a galut environment.

Pushing the Envelope

Daily we pray for and await the day that our lives will be freed from the confines of galut. Yet there is something very special about our present-day struggles and the unique potentials and achievements they exact from our souls.

To strain the bounds of galut, while taking care not to overstep these bounds; to accept and conform to the will of G-d, while appreciating that it is G-d’s desire that we contest His will whenever it dictates that we refrain from pursuing every existing path of connection with Him — this has yielded the most profound and innovative achievements in the divine art of life.

[via Rabbi Simon Jacobson]

The Hidden Script of Your Life

Many important events mark our lives. But what value or significance would you attribute to a trivial experience, like, say, a case of insomnia?
On a broader scale how do you see your overall life: Is your life disjointed or cohesive? As you live from day to day, do you ever feel that in your struggle for survival you may be missing the bigger picture? Does the minutiae of your schedule (work, pressures) shroud your larger priorities – like finding love and building a relationship? In time of pain and anguish, are you able to recognize that these dark moments may be part of a greater story? Can you see the thread that connects the fragments of your journey, or do you just move from moment to moment, trying to make the best of what comes your way?

Well, Purim teaches us a thing or two about the seemingly random events in our lives.

The great codifier of Jewish law Maharil (Rabbi Yaakov Halevi, 1360-1427) writes, that the Megillah reader raises his voice when he begins reading the words in the Megiilah (the scroll read on Purim relating the entire Purim story) “that night the king’s sleep was disturbed,” because the primary Purim miracle begins at this point.

Due to his insomnia, the king ordered that the book of chronicles, which recorded the history of the king’s reign, be brought and read to him. The story they read was how Mordechai, a while back, had saved the king’s life from an assassination attempt. This evoked the king’s appreciation to reward Mordechai, which began a series of events, as related in the Megillah, which led to the Purim miracle rescuing the entire Jewish nation from annihilation.

This reflects one of the most powerful themes of Purim: What you see is not what you get. On the surface level, the king’s restless night – as well as many other seemingly unrelated and insignificant events in the story – would be dismissed as a trivial fluke. In truth, it turns out that this becomes a critical juncture that changed the course of history! Had the king slept peacefully (and why shouldn’t he?), he would not have been reminded of Mordechai saving his life and the rest of the narrative would never have unfolded as it had.

The Purim story – and the story behind the story – teaches us how to look at our lives in a completely new and revolutionary way.

The Talmud says: “On who reads the Megillah backwards has not fulfilled the mitzvah.” Why in the world would anyone want to read the story backwards?! The Baal Shem Tov explains the statement this way: Anyone who reads the Purim narrative as if it happened “back when” in the past (in effect, reading the story backwards, with the end being closer to us than the beginning), has not fulfilled the mitzvah, which demands of us to read and see the story as if it is unfolding and playing itself out today, from the beginning of the story till its conclusion.

The story of Purim is the story of our lives. Our lives, just like the Purim narrative, is driven by a hidden script, which is hard to recognize at the time, but in retrospect patterns emerge as we discover the underlying narrative that leads to salvation. A bigger picture takes shape from the connecting dots of seemingly disconnected events, including the smallest details that we may completely ignore and disregard due to their triviality.

Imagine: A man can’t fall asleep and the destiny of a people is changed forever! How many other quirky details in existence are affecting our very lives as we speak?

Long before Kierkegaard wrote that “you can only understand life backwards, but we must live it forwards,” we have the story of Purim that tells us about the mysterious internal drama that shapes our outer lives. G-d’s name is never mentioned in the entire Megillah, emphasizing that the Divine Choreographer remains behind the scenes, even as He orchestrates a series of events, which may appear random to us, when in fact they are frames of a larger drama unfolding.

Purim teaches us how to discern the hidden narrative playing itself out in our lives today. How to see the forest for the trees. It helps us transcend the moment and connect it to the birds’ eye vision of your life story.
So the next time you cannot sleep – or experience some else seemingly trivial – you never know: It may be the beginning of your salvation.

[via Rabbi Simon Jacobson]

The most famous statement ever uttered in all of history – The Ten Commandments – begins with an unusual four-letter word: Anochi. The word means “I,” referring to G-d – I the Lord Your G-d took you out of Egypt…” But “ani” is the common Hebrew pronoun for “I.”

Explains the Talmud (Shabbat 105a), that Anochi is an acronym for Ana Nafshi Ketovit Yehovit. Simply translated: I Myself wrote [these words and] gave [them to you]. But on closer inspection the actual translation is far more intriguing: I wrote down My very Soul and gave it to you. Or more poetically: My Soul is inscribed in these words that I gave you.

As the opening word of the Ten Commandments, Anochi clearly must carry profound significance, which sets the tone and captures the essence of all the commandments and of the entire Torah. Indeed, the Rebbe Yosef Yitzchak emphasizes that the entire Torah is encompassed in the Ten Commandments; the Ten Commandments are all contained in the first two commandments, which in turn are contained in the first commandment; and the first commandment is reflected in microcosm in the first word, Anochi. And since all of existence originates from and is included in the Torah, which is the blueprint with which the Cosmic Architect constructed the universe, we can conclude that Anochi illuminates for us a fundamental aspect of our entire reality.

Anochi captures the essence and purpose of all existence: To inscribe and reveal the soul in our every word and in our every experience.
No small feat. We live in a highly fragmented and compartmentalized universe. The greatest dichotomy is between body and soul, matter and spirit. Yet, beneath the fissured surface an underlying unity connects all the pieces. Initially we seem all separate from one another – each of us with our own range of experiences, different exposures and life trajectories. But when we begin to communicate with each other, we discover common threads, shared reactions, mutual interests, which transcend our differences. As diverse as we may be, we learn that we celebrate similar milestones, smile at similar experiences, shed the same tears, suffer over the same pains.

Human compartmentalization is acutely and powerfully expressed in the words of Bertrand Russell. When asked how he, as a professor of ethics, could behave unethically, Russell said, “I am also a teacher of mathematics and I am not a triangle.” Academics often take pride in their detachment: “I can be completely knowledgeable of a given topic and it does not affect my behavior.” Contrast this attitude with Maimonides’ words, that a true scholar is recognized in his actions: how he talks, walks, sleeps and does business. A seamless flow between knowledge and behavior.

Russell was following nothing less that the natural laws of all beings – “the way of all flesh” – driven by and justifying fundamental compartmentalizing between ideals and actions. What you teach is not necessarily what you do, and vice versa. Your writing does not necessarily reflect your soul. Maimonides, on the other hand, was following the lead of Anochi – seamless integration between soul and words.

The opening of the Ten Commandments, Anochi, defines the essence of life’s purpose, of all our interactions and of all our words – to manifest the unifying soul in our fragmented universe.
Had G-d not inscribed His soul into the words, our relationship with the Divine would remain detached. The same is true on a human level. If all our interactions were commercial and mundane, we would never connect, truly connect, with one another.

By inscribing His Spirit in His words, every word, now imbued with profound spirituality, evoked a unifying tranquility in all of existence. As the Midrash beautifully describes the state of the universe when G-d spoke all these words (Exodus 20:1): No bird twittered, no fowl flew, no ox lowed, none of the angels stirred a wing, the seraphim did not say “Holy, Holy,” the sea did not roar, the creatures spoke not, the whole world was hushed into breathless silence and the voice went forth: “I am G-d your G-d.”
[As an aside, Ten Commandments is not an accurate translation of the original Hebrew “Aseres ha’Dibrot,” which actually means Ten Words, or Ten Statements. Words seem so much more comforting than commandments…].
We too can and ought to learn this from of communication: To inscribe our souls into our words, so that our every utterance becomes a transparent channel for our souls expression.

True communication is not merely the process of conveying messages, ideas and feelings. It is about a relationship – a connection and bond between the parties communicating with each other.

A writer, a speaker, a composer inscribes – engraves – his soul in his work. This allows him to reach into the soul of the reader or listener. Words from the heart enter the heart. A work that is lacking sincerity and soulfullness will not resonate.

Think of it this way: During an average day how many of our conversations are about superficial subjects, spoken with hollow words? How many of our interactions and transactions are transitory experiences? How many of our desires and craving are fleeting and short-lived?

Our mission – taking the cue from G-d etching His soul into the Divine words He imparted to us – is to reach deeper into ourselves, to reveal the soul in every one of our experiences, even casual or trivial ones.

Imagine how people would react to you if they heard your spirit singing instead of your body whining; your beckoning soul instead of your hawking mouthpiece; your gentle words instead of aggressive demands.

Speak from your heart and soul and you too can bring soothing stillness to a chaotic and turbulent world.

The number 4 is a Dalet. Dal is a poor person. The Zohar says G-d always hears the prayers of a poor person and his prayers reach the crown of the Kings glory. On the holy Shabbos we become poor since we are not allowed to carry any money which is muktzeh or forbidden. An allusion to this is the first word that is Zachor or remember. The center of the word is a chaf and a vav , which is 26 that stands for Hashem. It is surrounded by a zayin and a reish that spells Zeir or a crown. Hence , the poor person that remembers the Sabbath connects to the crown of the Holy One.

by Rabbi Earl David

[via A Soldier's Mother]

The following is a guest blog written on Friday before Shabbat from a soldier’s mother in Israel. The author kindly agreed to allow us to repost it here:

What a misleading title that is…the gift of peace. No, I don’t really believe Israel and the Middle East will see peace any time soon. I could point fingers at the Arab countries who refuse to accept our existence, to the Palestinians who continue on the path of violence. I could list the rock throwing, firebombing, ongoing rocket attacks and tell you how many Arabs were caught with how many knives this week in varying lengths.

I could write of our current and past leadership that showed weakness to an enemy that thrives on it and to a world that accepts, again and again, the injustice of blaming the victim rather than finding the true cause.

There is no gift of peace any time soon in the Middle East – no matter what other leaders such as Barack Hussein Obama mistakenly believes or wants to believe. His suggestion that everyone is responsible for blocking peace…Netanyahu, the right-wing, the left-wing, perhaps the last man on the moon…shows he understands nothing. I can tell you of increasingly dangerous armaments, or Iran’s nuclear plans and Europe’s blindness. I can write of Al Qaida, Hamas, Hezbollah – all born of the same violent cloth, and I can write of all that threatens the future here and where you are too…but that would be the opposite of my direction for today.

Because despite all that I have written so far, the truth is simply that peace will come – today, in fact…in not so many hours.

It will come for a brief time only – sad, but true…at last so far. Today is Friday – the first day of our brief weekend, the last work day for some. It’s a day of preparation here in Israel – we are preparing for tomorrow.

What I love about Fridays is that they represent endings and beginnings. We are saying goodbye to the past week – whatever we didn’t do…we let go. It will be there on Sunday and need to be done. Whatever disappointments we had, whatever didn’t go right…Sunday will come and allow us yet another chance to correct it. So we end and know on Sunday we will begin again.

Shabbat, Saturday, is about cleansing – your house, your body, your mind, your soul. It’s about taking time to make a bigger, better meal than you had time for the rest of the week. Taking more time for your family, longer discussions – and not about work and daily pressures. It’s about putting away the trappings of this world – the phones, the computers, the televisions, the cars…whatever.

It is so symbolic of where I am in my life. Shabbat is the day in between last week and next week – and yet it has a character all its own. It is a moment of calm because psychologically you really do succeed in forgetting the past and the future. If ever time were to stop…this is the moment we would want to hold. If tomorrow never comes…we can actually relish staying here in this moment.

Elie is finishing the army. Shmulik is beginning. This transition period has its own character, its own sweetness. What will Elie do after the army? Will he really leave it or choose at the last minute to continue (as some do)? I don’t know and won’t know until one or the other happens.

Will Shmulik go into the Tank Division? So far, it is looking strongly that he won’t. Kfir? Givati? Golani? Does it really matter in the end? I won’t know where he is going for a few more days or weeks.

But there is peace coming today – peace in having Shmulik home, in knowing that Elie is returning right after Shabbat for a special course he will attend next week. Peace in knowing that he isn’t really in a dangerous place. His checkpoint, though surrounded by Arab villages, is in a relatively quiet place and the base itself is well located and secure. Next week, he’ll be sleeping at home each night – a whole week of seeing him each evening.

There is peace in the smell of food filling the house; the candles set and ready to be lit on the small table near the mirror. The gift of peace is one that comes each week with the Sabbath…and leaves with it as well. To live in a world of quiet, of family, of home – it is a taste of better times to come. When? I don’t know but with the Sabbath comes the knowledge that we can survive the whole week, month, year, and the decades and centuries because each week we are given that small bit of time in which we pull into ourselves and our families.

May God grant peace to the world, to Israel, His people.

May He grant peace to the medics and rescue workers who have returned from Haiti; and to little Wadley Elysee, a six-year old Haitian child suffering from severe heart defects. Wadley’s medical record was sent to Israel several months ago, but there was no way to get him to Israel for surgery that he needs to save his life. Without the surgery, Wadley would probably not live to see the age of 10. While in Haiti, Israeli doctors took the time to find him amidst all the chaos and destruction. Wadley and his mother were flown back to Israel with the returning aid mission and he will soon have his surgery, another gift from Israel. May Wadley know the peace of Shabbat and live a long and healthy and happy life.

And finally, to my sons – to the three…and to the two. To each of them, to all of them. May you always cherish the Sabbath as a time of peace, no matter what wars you are called upon to fight in the future. May you be safe everywhere you go, blessed for your service and know that wherever you go, you take my prayers and my love. Shabbat shalom.

Did you know that the entire Alef-Bet is within the Magen David?