יהודים

It’s no secret that I didn’t grow up frum. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t once sat at my rabbi’s Shabbos table, trying to explain the taste of bacon to his entire family. Close friends of mine who did grow up frum are comfortable enough to ask what it was like celebrating Xmas, and what’s the deal with the Easter Bunny, anyway. When I first became frum at 18, my FFB friends of the same age asked what it was like to go to a school with boys in it - something that seemed so normal to me, was such an exciting mystery to them.

I could share more stories like that, but I’ll leave that for another time. What I’m getting at is that my life, up until the age of 18, could not have been more different than what it is now. I grew up in such a different world compared to my friends now.

I have a friend in particular who is shocked and amazed at my decision to join the world of Yiddishkeit. She doesn’t understand how someone who wasn’t raised in it can find the positives and beauty in it - or how they even find such an outlandish religion to begin with. And after they did somehow stumble upon it, how did they see past the big black hats and tights to decide that it’s something they truly believe in and agree with? Without growing up with the ever-important, foundational Yiddishe home, how can someone even come to understand Yiddishkeit?

She asks these questions in amazement and wonder, of course. Not in a scornful, judgemental, you can’t sit with us way. I don’t really have an answer for her. I don’t know what it is. I like to take the easy way out and quote the Midrash that says HaShem offered every nation the Torah, but they all refused. Certainly, there must have been at least a few members belonging to the other nations that did want to accept the Torah. I must be one of them.

But, still. She has a point. There are some things, some concepts, that aren’t as deeply ingrained in me as others. I know the beauty and kedusha of Shabbos now, despite never growing up in a house that celebrated - or even knew about it. I’ve heard how more than the Jews have kept Shabbos, Shabbos has kept the Jews. I’ve learned enough about tznius, both as a middah and description of clothing, to know its importance in Jewish life. These are things I have down-pat.

And while I can intellectually see that we are currently in Galus, sometimes it doesn’t feel like that to me. I came to Orthodoxy in the comfort of the 21st century in North America, where my religious freedoms are protected (while anti-Semitism is definitely still a thing, B”H it’s nothing I’ve experienced here). I’ve never had someone tell me I can’t study Torah or attend a bris. Nobody in my family experienced that, either. So I’ve never heard stories about it other than in the books I read.

I grew up here in Canada, and while my family’s background is Spanish and Greek, I was always told that first and foremost I am a Canadian. This is my homeland. Now this is another example of how differently I grew up from my FFB friends. I have a distinct memory of overhearing my rabbi telling his daughter something about how Eretz Yisroel is always our true home. We live in Canada for the time being, but it’s by no means a permanent residence for us - and we have no roots, or future here. And as much as I have a love for Eretz Yisroel, it as my homeland is sometimes a far away concept for me.

I didn’t grow up with family telling me what my rabbi told his daughter. I was never put to bed with lullabies about Dovid HaMelech and Yerushalayim, even though now I sing them to children I babysit. And I definitely was never taught about the Beis HaMikdash in school.

So, sometimes I forget. I forget that this currently isn’t what Jewish life is supposed to be. We should be in Yerushalayim, with the Beis HaMikdash haShlishli and giving korbanos to HaShem. It takes a lot to make me remember, in an emotional way, that we’re in Galus. And sometimes it just takes a four year old girl and her seven year old sister.

A few Shabbosim ago, I was by a family for the lunch seudah. Their four year old daughter was sharing with us all that she had learned in her first year of kindergarten so far. When she started singing us the English alphabet, her mother asked if she’s able to spell her own name yet. The little girl nodded enthusiastically. “So, nu? How do you spell ‘Esther’?” her mother asked.

“Aleph, samach…”

“No, Esther!” her older sister interrupted. “That’s lashon hakodesh. Mommy meant in English. Not our language.”

It sent a jolt to my heart. Here was this seven year old girl, born in Queen’s, New York and now living in the capital of Canada, adamantly denying English as “her” language. Despite being born and raised in North America, “her” rightful language wasn’t English. It’s lashon hakodesh, Hebrew. It was important for her to recognize what the language of her people, the Yidden, truly is.

And it was important for me to hear, too. The quick, fiery passion in her voice reminded me that we’re not where we’re supposed to be. The dedication of her younger sister to the Hebrew language inspired me. It made me realize living here in Canada means I’m living in a foreign land as a Jew, and “Sair-ah” isn’t really name, but just a transliterated version of its reality. S-a-r-a-h is just how my name is spelled in English. Sin-reish-hey, שרה, is my Hebrew name, my real name as a Jew. It was a bittersweet inspiration though.

One on hand, I was happy to finally feel what it meant to be in Galus for once. Growing up here, with most of my family’s roots here, it’s an odd concept. But I finally chap it, right here right now. But it’s a sad thing to finally get, to finally understand. This isn’t how we’re supposed to be living as Yidden.

Now when I find myself davening Shemonah Esrei, I try to remember these two little girls. Their dedication to a Jewish identity is so strong, that they don’t even consider English belonging to them. It’s not theirs. They speak it, but it’s not Jewish. They’re longing for the Beis HaMikdash, they’re longing for a world where we’re totally free to live as we should be. So when I’m davening for all of us Yidden to be gathered from the four corners of the earth, for Yerushalayim to be rebuilt, for the kingdom of Dovid to return, and for the Beis HaMikdash to be rebuilt speedily in our days, it means so much more now. 

THE LIGHT OF CHANUKAH: “This is me lighting menorah with my husband Yitzi Hurwitz. My husband suffers from ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

My name is Dina Hurwitz. I am from Los Angeles California. This is me lighting menorah with my husband Yitzi Hurwitz. My husband suffers from ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. He has lost function of 95% of his body. He cannot walk. He cannot speak. He is only able to communicate with the use of specialized adaptive equipment.

While Yitzi, relies on others for his personal and physical needs, others often rely on Yitzi, for their spiritual needs. Yitzi the teacher still teaches; he learns with others every day. Yitzi, my husband of nearly twenty years. Yitzi, the man who remembers every face he sees. And who shares so much of himself despite trying circumstances.

It was just two years ago, that I watched Yitzi prepare his menorah, shine it, set it up, and light the Shamesh. Suddenly he turned to me in confusion, now what? He could no longer speak, and no longer make the blessings.

He has not spoken a single word in two years. Our son says the blessing for him. We share our mitzvah with him; not just in spirit; not just in the same room, but with the same movement, the same hand. The same words.

Twenty years ago, Yitzi and I decided to spend our life devoted to spreading light. Yitzi is still spreading light. Despite the difficult reality, our mission hasn’t changed.

I ask you to light the Menorah and on this night have in your mind all those who cannot light on their own; for themselves, including Yitzi.

And we share the light, not only inward with each other, but with the world. The world that has not forgotten us. We are so lucky to be a part of this world that does not leave us alone.

When this post is being published, I am watching my Rebbe lighting his menorah. Me, and many other chassidim will be watching how the Rebbe says his brochos (blessings), knowing very well that we’ll not be alone. When my Rebbe - and even every other Jew in the world -  will light the candles tonight, groups and groups of malachim (angels) come to hear the brochos (blessings).

The hidden light inside will strengthen our neshamos. It is segula for Torah, tahara (purity), and so much more. When one truly realizes this, one’s entire haldlaka (lighting) will be transformed. Your adrenaline rushes and you feel a sense of kedusha overcome you. You feel like the Kohen in the Beis HaMikdash.

The moment when we light our Chanukah menorah is the best time to ask Hashem whatever we need, and to do teshuva. Every day the oil of our candles burns up, yet we refill it and light it again the next day. So too is it with a Yid. Even when a Yid gave in to his aveiros (sins), he can always do teshuva and become a total new creation. Sefer HaTanya says that if one does teshuvah and sins again and again, the teshuvah is always accepted - as long as it is sincere, because just as Hashem is Infinite, so too His patience is Infinite. Dovid HaMelech (King David) said twice ‘l'negdi tomid’ ('before me always’),  My sin is before me always’ and 'I set Hashem before me always’. One is the key to the other. If we are arrogant, then there is no room for Hashem in our lives.

If we remember that we are sinners, then we become humble, and in our broken hearts there is room for Hashem to shine His Light into our lives. The Hellenists wanted to take away our chance to do teshuvah, they wanted us to write on the horns of our oxen that we have no portion in the G-d of Israel, chas v'sholom! They wanted us to give up hope in Hashem’s Infinite Patience. They wanted to extinguish the Light and bring Darkness, “Choshech zu Yavan”. They celebrated the human being over the Eternal, with arrogance that tried to block out Hashem’s Light. But the message of Chanukah is that even with all of the tumah (impurity), even if all of the oil in the Temple has been defiled, there is that one little 'pach’ of pure oil, and that little bit of light can chase away a lot of darkness.

What is the etymology of latke (or latka) - the potato pancake customarily eaten on Chanukah? This site provides the following etymology:

In any event, the Yiddish לאטקע (latke) came from the Ukrainian оладка (oldka), which several online dictionaries faithfully translate as pancake, fritter, flapjack, and the like (muffin seems to be in there too for some reason). This is a diminutive of the Old Russianоладья (olad'ya). Now it gets interesting: this comes from the Greek ελαδια (eladia), plural of ελαδιον (eladion), meaning “a little oily thing”, “a little oil”, or “a young olive tree”. Which proudly paves the way to eladion being a diminutive of elaion, “olive oil”, which in turn comes from elaia, the (Ancient) Greek for “olive”. So, centuries later, five languages away, and twice miniaturised, we get our “little tiny things made of (olive) oil” - latkes.

Motty Steinmetz and Neranenu Choir singing “להיות עיניך פתוחות“ composed by Zvi Weintraub.

להיות עיניך פתוחות אל-הבית הזה לילה ויום אל המקום אשר אמרת יהיה שמי שם לשמוע אל התפילה אשר יתפלל עבדך אל המקום הזה

May Your eyes be open towards this house [by] night and [by] day, towards the place of which You said, “My Name will be there” to listen to the tefilah that Your servant will pray towards this place.

With the current year coming to an end we will enter a new year. A new cycle to do good and serve Hashem. As we go and stand before the King within less than a day from now let us all remember that He’s not just the second part of “Avinu Malkeinu” [our King] but that He’s also “Avinu” [our Father] who only wants the best for His children. May our Tefillos be heard and accepted on the Yom HaDin and may everyone have געפוילט אלעס גוט'ס. It should be a גוט געבענטשט יאהר, a sweet year, a healthy year, a happy year, without any pain or tzoros and a year of chassudim tovim [good acts of kindness].

“Chasudim Tovim” every Chesed that the Ribono Shel Olam does to us is good. But we say “chassudim tovim” because we specifically want to see the good right away. May this year, 5776, be a year that we will indeed see and feel these chassudim tovim right away. May it be a year of Yiddishe simches and nachas; a year in which those who need it will find their right Zivug b’Korov u’Beneikel with Hatzlocha, Brocho and Nesias Chen. Everyone of them should be zocheh to build a Bayis Ne’eman b’Yisroel, A Bayis Malei Birkas Hashem, a warm Yiddishe house full of Torah, Yiras Shomayim and Chesed, all together with Doros Yeshorim u'Mevorachim, with parnosa and with health. And may we all be zocheh to serve the Eibishter with an Avodah Sheleima [complete avodah] and an Avodah Heimah m’Soch Simcha [avodah through joy].

“Rachamono” from the Aramaic prayers in Selichos that we started to say tonight (Motzei Shabbos Ki Savo):

רחמנא דעני לעניי ענינא רחמנא דעני לתבירי לבא ענינא

The Ohev Yisroel, the holy Apter Ruv zt”l, once said about this week’s parsha “Balak is roshei teivos [acronym] for v’Ahavta l’reacho kamocho” [love your neighbor like yourself]. 

Said the chassidim for the rebbe, “Balak is spelled ב-ל-ק and the first letters of v’Ahavta l’reacho kamocho are ו-ל-כ! The Rebbe is mixing up a ב with a ו and a ק with a כ…” 

Answered the Apter Ruv, “יא. ואהבת לרעך כמוך אפילו ווען ס'שטומט נישט” (Yes. Love your neighbor like yourself- even if it isn’t right). “ווען עס קומט צו אהבת ישראל קען מען נישט מדקדק זיין מיט די אותיות” - When it comes to Ahavas Yisroel you can’t be too exact on the letters.”

Let us not look too precisely and too strict at another. Sometimes we need to bend certain things and ourselves a little because of the mitzvah of Ahavas Yisroel. Next time someone bothers us, let us think about this lesson of the Apter Ruv.