By Sam Glaser
I experienced my first taste of yeshiva learning when I was a twenty-something wanna-be rock star in LA. After perusing an attractive brochure that appeared in the mail, I applied for the all-expenses-paid scholarship to study in Jerusalem. Aish HaTorah provided an incredible curriculum with a dozen brilliant rabbis that taught us hour by hour in an Ottoman Empire study hall perched atop the Old City walls. I considered the millennia-old alleyways comprising the “shuk” my personal playground and had the Western Wall as my front yard. The neophytes were never expected to join the yeshiva prayer services but since I had a fair grasp of the basics from Hebrew School I would often don my tallis (or tallit, meaning a prayer shawl) given to me at my Bar Mitzvah and join the minyan (prayer service.)
At one point one of my peers announced, “Sam, you don’t need to wear that tallis here.” “Why not?” I responded. “I feel more comfortable praying in this thing.” My friend then sat me down and gently explained that according to Ashkenazi tradition, men don’t wear a tallis until they are married. I looked around the minyan and saw that he was right. “But what about the last paragraph of the Shema? I need a tallis to kiss the tzitztit, right?” “Look, Sam,” he replied, “this way the single ladies on the other side of the mechitza (room divider) know who the single men are.” That was all I needed to hear…I never wore a tallis again until I was married.
I enjoyed four months of intense learning and growth on that formative trip. I was on fire! Loving Torah study, loving Jerusalem, perceiving God’s presence from one end of the universe to the other. Then Passover arrived and everything changed. My first seder was with one of my favorite rabbis and it lasted nearly till dawn. I learned so many new songs, some of which I still sing today. All the study in preparation for the big night allowed me to connect to the Hagadah in the deepest way. While I adored the Reform-style seders at my Grandpa Bill and Grandma Zetta’s home in Sacramento as I grew up, I never had an intellectual/spiritual marathon anything like this. Afterwards, my fellow yeshiva bochers (students) passed out for a few hours and then the rabbi directed us back to the Old City. For some reason he thought it would be funny to send us down the road to Hebron, in the opposite direction from where we had to go. In our dress shoes. Not funny.
Then I needed to find a second seder the next night since I am a Diaspora Jew (the locals only have to do one.) I remember having to shlep all over the Rova (Jewish Quarter) in search of a certain visiting American family. Thankfully I found the place and the gracious host treated us royally and gave us an eye-opening overview of the Jewish calendar. He explained the deeper reasons for the counting of the Omer and the juxtaposition of the Pesach holiday with Shavuot. One of my fellow students turned to me and said, “Sam, you know no one is going to want to hear your music for the next month and a half.” Of course I didn’t believe him. Judaism without music…how could that be? Well, the next day I verified it with my rabbi and now had perfect clarity that the time had arrived to go back to my LA recording studio and sports car.
My last Shabbat at the kotel was bittersweet.
While touching the cool, ancient stones of the Wall, I prayed an abbreviated service on my own since I was already running late for lunch. How could I leave this magical place, this “Jewish Disneyland?” It felt like I had learned more in those four months than in four years at my university. But then there was also that feeling of homesickness, missing my family and longing for my beachside apartment. One by one, my rabbis pulled me aside to discourage me from going back to LA so soon. Particularly Rabbi Weinberg, my beloved Rosh Yeshiva. “C’mon Sam, give us a year,” he implored, looking at me with that trademark gleam in his eye.
As I stood there at the kotel that final day I remember thinking, “God it’s been so good getting to know you. I am so grateful for this chance to learn and to celebrate my Judaism in this incredible country. I love you. Thank you.” Tears started streaming down my face. I realized that I had been touched for life; that this knowledge of the truth and power of Torah was now a part of me. There would be no going back. I said a few passages in the Pseukei D’zimra (Psalms of Praise) and then the Shema. “I really wish I had my tallis on right now,” I muttered. “I feel naked without it.” Just then I heard footsteps behind me. Before I could turn around, a man with an intimidating beard placed an oversized tallis over my shoulders. Wow…now that’s service! He motioned that I should come over and join a minyan at the back of the kotel plaza.
As I recovered from my shock I reluctantly followed the man, still not sure what he wanted from me. Rabbi Sheinberger, a kabbalist and famous kotel personality indicated that I should be the one to serve as hagbah (to lift the Torah at the end of the public reading.) This is a big honor! I had no idea why he picked me but I stepped right up, grasped the worn wooden handles and thrust that beautiful scroll as high as my 6’3 frame would allow. As I spun around allowing all to see the crisp calligraphy I recalled the Rosh Yeshiva saying that here in Jerusalem reaching God is a local phone call.
My next connection with a tallis would be at my wedding seven years later. I sent my Israel-bound mom on a mission to purchase the tallis of my dreams. She returned with a simple black and white, super lightweight, extra large garment and “sold” it to my fiancé since the custom is for the wife to give the tallis to her new husband. That sunny Sunday afternoon we stretched it atop four poles and stood underneath as a cavalcade of seven illustrious LA rabbis gave us our blessings. Now whenever I wear it I feel the hug of my wife as well as the warmth of God’s “wings” holding me close.
When one wraps oneself up in a tallis there there is sweet prayer that is said, Ma Yakar. Since I found it difficult to hold a book while surrounding myself in the flowing fabric I simply wrote the text into a song to allow me to memorize the words.
“Clothing me in the shadow of Your wings
Shelter me in the comfort of Your home
Light of life, surrounding me with love
In Your arms I’ll never be alone”
When we gather the four corners before saying the Shema we ask that God collect Jews from the four corners of the earth in peace. Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach told me that he collects the corners deliberately and lovingly as if he’s gathering all the Children of Israel together in a warm embrace. So I do it the same way. During the Shema we kiss the fringes every time we mention the word tzitzit. It’s a very intimate act that’s been performed by legions of brutish, sleepy men every morning for millennia.
The “forget me knot” fringes tell a story of their own: the numerical value (gematria) of the word tzitzit is 600. Add to that the eight strings and five knots in each corner and you get to that mystical number of 613, the sum total of commandments throughout the Torah. Furthermore, one of the strings is dyed blue with the ink of a certain snail (although today most people don’t have this blue thread.) The idea is that you see that beautiful aqua blue which reminds you of the sea, which reminds you of the sky, which reminds you of the “heavenly throne.” In other words, tzitzit remind us that by observing our breathtaking natural world we can extrapolate the presence of the Creator and concretize that relationship with the observance of our 613 commandments.
Since the tallis is typically worn only during the morning service there is a way to stay connected to the mitzvah all day: I wear a “tallit katan,” a small t-shirt style cotton garment under my shirt. Some tuck the fringes in to maintain a low profile. I say, let them hang out! I celebrate my tzitzit! After all, the mitzvah is based on SEEING them and then connecting to God and the commandments. I think that the tallis katan serves as a subtle badge of honor; when you see someone wearing them, you can be pretty sure they are deeply respectful of Torah and scrupulous with mitzvot. The fact is that it was a challenge for this surf short/t-shirt wearing California kid to add another layer of clothing everyday. I can corroborate the Ethics of the Fathers, which states, “according to the effort is the reward.”
Since I’m always on the move I’m pretty tough on my fringes. For that reason I learned to weave my own tzitzit, a skill that I usually practice on long airplane flights. The people sitting next to me think I’m doing some bizarre crochet. I try to weave with mindfulness and carefully follow the tradition of winding the string in between knots 7, 8, 11 and 13 times, which hints towards the metaphysical values of those numbers. I like to emphasize to my curious seat mates that wearing fringes is an optional commandment; we only have to place them on four-cornered garments. Unless you are living in Mexico and typically wear a poncho, it’s pretty rare to find such angular clothing. Therefore, by actively seeking out a garment with distinct corners, we are making the powerful statement that we desire to connect with the Almighty all day long.
There is an amusing coda to the aforementioned story: during a recent concert tour in Israel I wound up in Rabbi Scheinberger’s Friday night minyan at the wall. After the spirited davening I asked the rabbi if he remembered the incident when he called a young stranger from across the kotel plaza to be hagbah. He didn’t recall the day but remarked, “well, that makes sense…I like giving Hagbah to tall guys.”
My relationship with my prayer shawl and tallis katan is a loving one, as long as the temperature doesn’t get too hot! Wearing them is a privilege that I anticipated from childhood when I played with the fringes of my dad’s tallis at our synagogue. Whereas I used to say that I never wanted to be so forthright with my Judaism, displaying this round-the-clock four-cornered garment has become a celebrated part of my life. Believe it or not, I have some wonderful fans in the deaf community that have shared with me that the sign language gesture for “Sam Glaser” is two hands at the waist with fluttering fingers pointing down. Keep your eyes open next time you’re at an airport. You may see me at one of the gates wearing my black and white superhero cape, doing my part to save humanity.
The matrix of the world is built on a system of “sevens.” During lunch today I asked my kids to figure out all the times seven appears in Judaism. We came up with over fifty! And yes, my daughter did check Google at one point. I started thinking about sevens recently at a neighborhood shiva call. Shiva (from the root sheva, or seven) is the week of intense mourning for a loved one and is typically shared by the whole community. Everyone gathers around the mourner for seven days of prayers, bringing them food and offering the solace of company and a listening ear. In this case, my friend Jeff Mann didn’t have much family…the community was his family and we all needed comforting. Another reason that this shiva stood out is that I was going straight from these somber minyans to “sheva brachot” celebrations for a friend’s raucous wedding that I had just played with my band. There’s that number seven again! At a wedding the bride circles the groom seven times and seven blessings are recited under the marital canopy. Then the couple celebrates for seven days with family and friends. During this strange week I danced a schizophrenic ballet from mourning and tears to table-pounding jubilation, nearly every night. Part of the joy and responsibility of living in a Jewish community is sharing lifecycle events, from birth to death. And all have that mysterious number seven at their core.
I am writing this on a long, lazy Tisha B’av afternoon. The sky is brilliant blue and a gentle breeze is beckoning me to leave my air-conditioned studio and get on my bike. No, not today. I must conserve my energy and saliva. At my synagogue we have undertaken a dramatic journey using prayer, speakers and chanting of Kinnot, the anguished poetry of Jewish suffering through the ages. We sit on the floor, wearing wrinkled clothing and simple, non-leather shoes. We are unshaven and unkempt and no one cares. A custom particularly hard for this extrovert is not greeting friends. We acknowledge each other with a stare, realizing that this day is not about camaraderie, it’s about alienation and exile, death and mourning, dashed hopes and endless tears. Tisha B’av was once a universally observed commemoration of disaster befalling the Jewish People. It is now observed by perhaps 10% of the tribe. That in itself is reason to mourn.
When I started out in music my primary motivation was to get my songs heard. That primal urge to offer shelter to the melodic offspring of my subconscious led me to open a recording studio, assemble bands, learn theory, practice the piano and take voice lessons. A byproduct of the career that this passion invoked is a desire to offer a path to young musicians who are wrestling with their musical inclinations. Establishing mentorship programs, music retreats and choral and instrumental ensembles is all part of this effort. As a militant music advocate I maintain that basic music education is a crucial part of any modern school curriculum. Somehow that truth seems lost on American administrators, especially in Jewish day schools. When something has to be cut to accommodate shrinking budgets it’s usually not math and English; presently music education in both public and private schools is MIA or at best, piecemeal.
(AJCF), Judy and her husband Mark picked me up and drove me straight to the festival venue so I could check out the piano and decide on any stage diagram changes. The Music Conservatorium is a modern, cutting-edge music academy with astonishing rehearsal and performance spaces and more grand pianos than I’ve seen under one roof. I was excited to see that I would have a perfectly tuned Steinway concert grand for my show. Pianos like that simply suck the notes out of my fingers. Playing them is effortless, with dynamics that range from floating through a wispy sky to crashing cumulo-nimbus thunder.
I launched on a shaded trail to a beautiful fishing spot in the middle of Sugarloaf Bay. I saw countless exotic birds including trees filled with brilliant parrots, rainbow lorikeets, cockatoos and these crazy crested pigeons. I felt like I was on the set of Avatar, and the complete solitude of the path made me a bit concerned that some wild Pandora beast would come raging through the fern undergrowth. At the terminus I watched a recently retired 51-year-old banker casting his reel for Australian Salmon. He said that they taste nowhere near as good as the Tasmanian variety. Over twenty years working for the same bank and this ex-executive was feeling like he was on the set of Groundhog Day. He felt he had barely escaped with his soul intact…fishing time! We had a relaxed schmooze for a few hours as I ate my bagel, lox and cream cheese Yom Tov seudah (festive meal.)
walked until we couldn’t walk anymore, shot plenty of pictures that will likely not come out and then found one of the few establishments where this kosher consumer could eat. I sent sleepy Naomi home since I was fired up with energy to explore more of the town. Thanks to an excellent light rail system I felt perfectly confident that I could find my way back to Chatswood.
started the proceedings with a rousing havdalah and sing-along. Now I would be put to the test. The eighty candidates assembled had notebooks with several of my SATB arrangements. For the next sixty hours I would conduct the whole group in “Big Sing” rehearsals, form my own twenty-five voice Rock It Choir, teach workshops and give concerts both for the group and a gala show for the public. I must say that conducting the first song that Saturday night was nerve wracking. I started working on the parts section by section and soon surrendered to the joy of hearing my music sung. At first I waved my hands stiffly but then closed my eyes and “saw” their entrances in my heart rather than on the page. By the time we had my Blessing song down I felt enveloped in a sonorous angelic wind that responded to my every gesture. Wow.
The next full day had more of the same: choir performances, rehearsals and workshops, culminating in a concert that was staged mostly for our own group and friends. We all felt a combined sense of satisfaction and relief, amazed at what we were able to accomplish in two and a half brilliant days. I had made a personal commitment to be there 100% for the festival and did not attempt to sneak out when my presence wasn’t necessary. That said, when it ended, I left the final cocktail hour with a few of my choir members to enjoy the parts of Vivid Sydney that I had missed. One of the grand illuminated buildings we passed required a human conductor to set the pace for the extraordinary light show. We boarded a ferry and got an aquatic view of the Opera House and downtown ablaze with colors intensified by the reflections on the water. Then to Darling Harbor where a Bellagio hotel-style fountain display was paired with a holographic film projected on a wall of mist. Right in the middle of the show the rain came down but no one left! Hundreds of umbrellas immediately opened providing shelter for all. These Sydneyites come prepared! Half the crowd was Asian; I was told by a cab driver that their population has swollen to a half a million residents in recent years.
Tuesday was my one and only day off during this two week tour. I was excited for an extensive hiking tour of the renown Blue Mountains. Sure enough, I cranked open my floor to ceiling blinds to see that it was pouring rain. I caught the train to the North to meet Judy’s husband, sax man Mark Ginsburg at the Linfield station where we took shelter from the drizzle under the awning of an amazing coffee joint called Café Feoh. These Australians sure take their coffee seriously! When Sydney-based Cantor Shimon Farkas came to LA before Passover I offered to meet him at Coffee Bean. He said, “No, I’m going to take you to a place in Beverly Hills that serves REAL coffee.” Well, I was slowly becoming an aficionado and can safely say that that morning’s mocha was the best I’ve ever had. No sugar required! We walked back to Mark’s home while the clouds dissipated and played some groovy piano-soprano sax improvised meanderings and then boarded his zippy Audi Quattro for West Head. This would be a more coastal (and hopefully drier) version of the hike we originally planned. We wound through a gorgeous wilderness area taking care not set off any photo speed traps on the way. I wouldn’t survive a town with such tightly controlled traffic enforcement! We then embarked on a five-mile loop that followed bluffs to beaches and featured caves and ancient kitchens with aboriginal art.
synchronicity that left the audience breathless. I noted that the crowd was the best behaved that I had ever seen. No catcalls, no standing ovations, just polite, warm applause all night. I befriended the blokes around me and they made sure that I had a beverage at intermission and wouldn’t accept my money. After the show I walked along the waterfront to the Opera House bar where I met members of the Swiss thrash metal band Coroner who were on tour down under. No, I had never heard of them either. It’s remarkable what nice guys they were given that they blast death rock for slamdancing skinhead crowds as a matter of habit. I took the train to my hotel via the nightspot Kings Cross, the closest stop to Woolloomooloo. At this late hour, on a Tuesday night, there wasn’t much action except for hash-smoking backpackers lighting up outside their hostels. That night I turned on the TV for the first time. Plenty of Australian shows with amusing Australian commercials. Nice to see that there is significant broadcasting base of home-brew content and that Aussies are not dependent on Hollywood for entertainment. That said, most of the typical American fare could be found for those homesick for Yank accents.
After fifty-six monthly newsletters featuring 2500 word essays, it should be no mystery to my regular readers that I am surreptitiously writing a book. When I get to newsletter number sixty I will have assembled nearly 150,000 words or 500 novel-sized pages. Looks like I have some editing to do! My goal is to get this project launched in 2015 and the working title is The Jewish Missionary Handbook. Yes, I realize this hints to Mormons and bedroom Olympics – but the fact is that the Mormons are a great example of tirelessly spreading the good news and sex sells books. I’m very passionate about getting this heartfelt message out there: I feel that North American Jewry has lost its “mission statement” and I intend to do my part to get us back on track. The following essay will serve more or less as the opening chapter.
Leviticus sums up our core national aspiration. Everything else is commentary. While our sages debate exactly what this seemingly vague mitzvah might entail, the bottom line stems from the ending of the sentence: “for I, God, your God, am holy”. Put simply, we are to strive to be God-like in our behavior. Every circumstance is a “choose life” moment, a divinely orchestrated series of situations in which we are challenged to choose wisely. In other words, “What would Moses do?” is the question to keep on our tongues.
The key to holiness is abstention. In truth, abstention sounds like a bummer. Who wants to be a party pooper? It’s clear, however, that the greatest rewards in life are gained through abstention. Marital bliss and the resulting gift of children can only take place when one abstains from extramarital affairs. Accessing the deepest potential of the Sabbath and holidays requires a long list of abstentions. In fact, the way we celebrate is largely framed in the negative by the things we CANNOT do. We then fill the empty space that remains with nurturing activities like prayer, long meals and family time that otherwise wouldn’t be possible. God seems to be teaching us the invaluable lesson that most worthwhile endeavors involve postponing immediate gratification for a brighter future. I’m reminded of the research study wherein children tempted with delicious marshmallows would receive extra ones if they could wait. The kids were tracked throughout their lives and those who were able to abstain from the treats for a certain period of time were the most successful in life.
backflips.” Some claim that this system is archaic, valid only in biblical times or that Judaism today is a vestigial rabbinic construct. I’d like to argue that more than ever these principles are crucial for understanding the world, staying married, staying in shape, taking a weekly break from technology/media and igniting our imperiled national spark.
much more to it; our rabbis have instituted a system of fences to keep us from trampling on the mitzvot and enhance our chances of successfully accomplishing “sur meyrah.” These fences are an integral part of halacha and negotiating them requires learning the nuances with a qualified rabbi. “Sur meyrah v’asey tov” also informs the teshuva (return) experience…until we stop the mistake we are making, only then can we apologize and resolve not to repeat it. I immerse in a mikvah before Shabbat each week and it is upon these words that I meditate while underwater.
enlighten non-Jewish families about shalom bayit (peace in the home.) An unbroken chain of Jewish Federal Reserve chairmen keeps the world economy afloat. Now if we would just learn how to get along as a People, we could truly teach the world about peace. I have found that the most successful members of clergy (in all Jewish denominations) are those that eshew the ivory tower in order to get in the trenches helping congregants do mitzvot. We have tolerated enough Pew reports and population studies to see that promoting Judaism removed from mitzvot and the resulting gift of holiness is like trying to animate a body without a spine. Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach used to say that kids are leaving synagogues not because they don’t want religion, but because they DO want religion. Jewish unity is the final cornerstone of our grand mission and I believe we won’t find that elusive unity until we learn to celebrate our differences and rally around Torah.
My first exposure to tefillin was in a basement workshop of a holy sofer (scribe) in Jerusalem. I was in Israel for my Bar Mitzvah; a lucky Brentwood, CA boy whose parents opted not only for an LA celebration but also for a meaningful few weeks touring the Promised Land. The culmination of the experience was a second Bar Mitzvah service at the Western Wall where I read Torah at the spiritual “ground zero” of our planet and forged an unbreakable bond with Israel and my people. I remember my new tefillin straps feeling sharp and rough; it would be months before the leather would soften and feel comfortable on my skin. After this trip my father made a point of praying with me in his rich, walnut-lined study in the mornings before school, allowing for quality father-son time and ensuring that my tefillin would actually get some use.
priorities were fitting in at public school, skiing, biking and surfing and playing with my band. I was proud to be Jewish and enjoyed family Friday Night dinners, but my tefillin were relegated to a dark closet never to see the light of day.
Phillip concluded that I should further investigate this side of my personality and perhaps it would bear some fruit. When I asked how I might do that he suggested that I choose a mitzvah and make it my own. We pondered the alternatives and he then asked if I had ever wrapped tefillin. “Yes,” I replied, “I have a pair that I received for my Bar Mitzvah.” Phillip told me to try putting them on and using this spiritual activity as a way to remember the connection I felt in Israel. Upon returning home weeks went by before I made it over to my parent’s house and found the aged leather in the exact place where it had been left sixteen years earlier. The next morning in my beachside apartment I tried to put them on. I had very little recollection of how to tie the straps or utter the appropriate blessings. I did know enough once I got them on that it was a good time to say the Sh’ma and V’ahavta, to thank God for the blessings in my life and ponder my connection with my heritage.
a much greater degree of intimacy that can only be compared to the covenant of marriage: When we wind them around our fingers we utter the betrothal passage of Hoshea that is often recited at marriage ceremonies. For me, tefillin represent a daily “chuppah” moment just like at Mount Sinai, where I get to participate in a loving embrace of my “partner” in creation.
These days I wear my tefillin wherever I wander. I find that I am often in airports or on the rooftops of hotels looking for a quiet corner to strap up and say my morning prayers. I know it appears strange to onlookers but laying tefillin makes a definitive statement: “I’m Jewish, this is what we do, thanks for respecting our differences.” I welcome the questions that often ensue. When I’m not in the synagogue, I have a favorite spot on my east-facing porch where I am greeted with the warm morning light, flitting hummingbirds and the perfume of jasmine. With my own kids I am relaxed with pushing them to get to a minyan on Shabbat, but I consider the wearing of tefillin every weekday inviolate. Their willingness to do this mitzvah is a prerequisite to participating in our family vacations or any activities on Sundays. Thankfully they get it, largely because they see me doing it and they intuit the importance of consistency. Hopefully it’s more than guilt that motivates them…they have their own loving relationship with God…why mess that up? As Woody Allen says, “80% of life is showing up.” I believe that faithful behavior like a daily appointment with one’s tefillin elevates elusive faith into the realm of knowledge.
caves inhabited by giant sea turtles. Following our explorations we scaled the cliff back to the parking lot and went back to their car so that my son and I could daven with tefillin. Time was of the essence since they had to get back down south before Shabbat came in. Just as I strapped up, a warm Hawaiian drizzle started to fall. To avoid getting my friend’s tefillin wet we all dashed into the alcove of one of the condos and shared an animated communal mincha (afternoon) prayer session.
Wearing my tefillin on a daily basis has been nothing other than a window to perceive the daily miracles in my life. Thanks to this discipline I have a regular rendezvous with the Almighty that is fulfilling and unshakeable. Ensuring that I never miss this appointment has created some truly memorable moments. I’m also reminded of the power of an encouraging word: just like my mentor on that Israel program gave me the idea of tefillin as a way to connect my trip to further spiritual growth, so too do I try to offer similar suggestions to those with open hearts whom I encounter. Finally, tefillin offer access to the deepest realms of the soul: a connection of mind, body and heart, a binding of servant to master and a daily reenactment of our sacred marriage with the Creator of the Universe.
The other night over tofu curry my wife was explaining the concept of fiscal vs. calendar years to my kids. Times they are a-changing: my seventeen-year-old Jesse just opened his own E-Trade account so that he can play the market on his own. He used to hunt bugs in the backyard; now he’s studying corporate cash flow! She told him that most individuals in the US seem to follow the January to December calendar model, making January the back to work month following a holiday vacation and a drunken New Years Eve. My dad’s swimwear business went summer to summer since we shipped everything by May and then had to figure out what to do the next season.
began with overt miracles to God’s working subtly behind the scene. Imagine that you are imprisoned and have a prison guard right outside the cell. Obviously with the watchful guard on the scene you are on your best behavior. When the guard goes on rounds, however, that’s when you can do headstands, scrawl graffiti or go back to digging that escape hole with a spoon. The God of Nissan is an overwhelming presence that limits our freedom of choice, whereas the God of Adar gives us the space to express the fullness of our human gift of choice. I believe that all history is following this same principle and more than ever we live in age where we are stratified into believers and “secular.” That intelligent people can deny God’s presence fills me with mirth. Just look at how powerful God is, like the guard on his rounds, giving us the freedom to perceive God, or not. Amazing!
In order for the Jewish People to have a fighting chance at survival we need to connect with nachas. Nachas is the simple feeling of satisfaction when connecting Jewishly. It is a uniquely Jewish sensation and is therefore tough to define for those outside of the tribe. All Jews have had nachas moments. Usually at lifecycle events when we perceive that thanks to this event, all will be well for the Jewish future. Brises, baby-namings, Bar/Bat mitzvahs and Jewish weddings are all nachas moments. Nachas isn’t quite pride, although that’s a big part of it. All parents swell up with pride when a kid has an accomplishment in the world. But a pride moment is an A on an algebra test or passing the Bar Exam. A nachas moment is when that kid can read Hebrew well enough to be called to the Torah. Or when a bride and groom exchange vows under a chuppah. Nachas involves continuity. When the synagogues and federations around the world worry about connecting with the next generation, what they are really saying is that they are concerned about nachas.
concierge tour of Israel who seemed to have the best of everything. He had recently been divorced from his non-Jewish wife and was rediscovering his roots. I sensed there was an emptiness that he was trying to fill with this short visit to the Holy Land. My rabbi brother turned to me and said, “He has everything except nachas.” Money can’t buy nachas. It’s a human pleasure on a higher plateau, up there with love, power, divine connection. Nachas takes investment, sacrifice and wisdom. In Jewish life, it’s not “he who dies with the most toys wins.” Go to any Jewish funeral; we don’t do roasts or talk about real estate acquisitions. Those properly eulogizing the dead are talking about nachas moments, the impact he or she had on loved ones, acts of charity and loving-kindness.
we make are a small price to pay for the rewards of nurturing Jewishly alive offspring. We’re “paying it forward,” laying the seeds for the future joy of our own kid’s Jewish grandchildren, God willing. Thanks to my prodigious frequent flyer miles we just returned from a two-week family vacation in Israel to visit our oldest son Max who is spending a year learning in yeshiva. He showed up at Ben Gurion airport to pick us up on a Friday afternoon already decked out in his form-fitting Shabbas suit. Clean cut, tanned, in top shape (thanks to the yeshiva gym) and with tzitzit dangling. Can you imagine my slack-jawed, overwhelming rush of nachas?
to spiritual Jewish music! In your car, on your ipod, on your couch. There are hundreds of amazing artists out there with songs that will nourish your soul and connect you deeply with your own Jewish journey. Jewish music bolsters feelings of unity with the Jewish People and our Creator. Music can make you sing and dance…it is the antidote to lethargy and hopelessness. In fact, music is often the transport medium of nachas. At my own wedding, one of my friends helped settle my nerves by advising me to sum up all my needs and concerns with one simple prayer under the chuppah: that I be able to give God nachas. May we all have lifecycle events filled with sweet song and abundant nachas. May we all serve God with joy and merit a speedy redemption for our troubled world.
Observant Jews can fly under the radar most of the time if they so choose. There is no law that states one must dress like a Chassid; one can wear a baseball hat, jeans and sneakers and blend. The only day that’s problematic is Shabbat. For the uninitiated, Sabbath observance seems strange at best, alien at worst. During weekdays, however, other than making sure kosher food is on hand, we can appear just like the Joneses next door. That is, until we start to make blessings.
wasn’t long before I began to tackle the after-blessings. Thanks to my Conservative upbringing I was well acquainted with Birkat Hamazon in all its melodic glory. Somehow I had never been taught that this lengthy prayer/song was necessary only if one had consumed bread. Thankfully the after-blessings for most other foods are far shorter and easily learned and before long, just by making a habit of saying them at the appropriate time, I had them memorized.
Last month I had some wonderful fans spend several days with me on the road. They drove from their hometown to see a show and had me return my rental car so that they could drive me to the next two towns on my itinerary. That way they heard three concerts and it gave us several hours to bond. Having them with me gave me fresh incentive to vary the songs in my set list just so they wouldn’t get bored! Inevitably, blessings were the first topic of conversation. After all, I kept lapsing into brachot and looking at them funny if I didn’t get an amen. As we rolled down the highway I helped them commit to memory the whole system of blessings and we laughed together as they slowly improved.
humored by her rants. Before we left her company I gave her a blessing and sang her a song that I customized for her on the spot. She joined in the chorus and promised that we would be lifelong friends. What was an annoyance for my friend was a source of mirth for me. I try to allow myself to be swept along in a continuous series of opportunities, much like Ferris Buehler on a continuous day off. My brother Yom Tov refers to this outlook as, “rather than seeing the world as a jungle, it’s a jungle gym.” Just like I make blessings over my food and extraordinary events, I can offer blessings to others, even strangers on the beach. I feel that blessings can lift us into a parallel universe, one of constant connection and gratitude to our Creator and all living things.
times for the after-blessing of each food group so that we would retain a state of gratitude even though we were happy and our bellies full. What a life lesson this is! This system of blessings gets us in the habit of remembering God in the bad times AND the good times. We don’t wait for a tragedy, God forbid, to initiate a relationship. When we are satisfied, happy, content with our lot, THAT is best time to share our lives with God.
During the month of Kislev the Jewish People celebrate the victory of the Maccabees, a brave troop of warriors that vanquished the mighty Syrian-Greeks. For millennia, as winter sweeps the Northern Hemisphere and the days grow shorter, the eight days of Chanukah salute those who keep the dream of freedom and justice alive in spite of overwhelming odds. Interestingly, the Torah portions that we read at this time of the year also highlight dreamers; we learn about the visions of our Patriarch Jacob and his son Joseph, followed by Pharaoh’s butler and baker and then Pharaoh himself. Clearly this resounding theme of the power of dreams, of hope amidst darkness, serves to lift our spirits and remind us that “not by might but by spirit” shall we all live in peace.
self-absorbed and perhaps too aware of his external beauty, having been spoiled by the attention lavished upon him by his doting parents. He not only dreams that he is being bowed down to, but he enthusiastically shares those visions with those who would do the bowing. Soon disaster strikes in the form of near murder at the hands of his “brothers,” being sold into slavery, temptation, imprisonment and abandonment. Joseph’s transformation from narcissist to altruist can be observed when he manages to notice the forlorn expressions of his fellow prisoners one particular day. Chances are that no one was jumping for joy in the Pharaoh’s dungeons. But Joseph is sensitive enough to perceive the change in demeanor on the faces of the butler and baker, and by attempting to come to their aid by interpreting their dreams, sets the forces of redemption in motion. Jacob/Yisrael recaptures the mantle of the ephemeral during his exile and Joseph’s development of altruism in his exile sets the stage for the formation of the Jewish People in Egypt and their miraculous exodus.
of despots and tyrants. We are a global, spiritual tsunami warning system, spread out by our Creator to the four corners of the earth to warn, teach and uplift our neighbors. I find it refreshing to see the current phenomenon of Righteous Gentiles taking a stand to protect Israel from her enemies. I believe the civilized world is waking up to fact that those who bless Israel are blessed and vice versa, that the enemies of the Jewish People are the enemies of freedom. Thankfully we Jews can look back on the great issues of history and find that we have stood on the side of peace and truth, and it is this time of year that we feel a sense of victory not only in the plight of the Maccabees and the restoration of our Temple, but in the continued victory over evil. This powerful theme of the month of Kislev is also loudly echoing in my personal life.
in this town that was so notoriously divided throughout the sixties. After my jubilant concert at Temple Emanu-El I wandered the downtown area with some local friends where we saw many disoriented Black homeless men wandering the streets. As unwise as it might have been to break out my wallet, I couldn’t help but offer a few bucks to whomever asked. Needless to say, I was very popular. My friends then took me to a new concert venue to audition a fantastic Pink Floyd-style band, Washed Out, who jammed at top volume to a standing-room-only crowd. Here the White youth of the city swayed in unison to the deep groove enhanced by a tantalizing light show. Old habits die hard in Alabama, and it’s not just the old guard that reminisces about the glory days: while relaxing in a local coffee emporium I read how the University of Alabama legendary Greek system remains entirely segregated.
Furthering this personal reawakening of the scourge of slavery is my friendship with fellow music aficionado Rob Steinberg, with whom I stayed while in New Orleans. He is one of the stars of the new motion picture, “12 Years a Slave,” and was in between press junkets and premiers during my visit. His character is the one to set in motion the freeing of the protagonist from being kidnapped and enslaved. This jarring film is perhaps the most graphic representation of the brutality of American slavery to date. Another New Orleans connection I recently discovered is the fact that Louie Armstrong’s job as a young man was hauling junk for my Karnofsky relatives. The great Satchmo wore a Star of David pendant for the rest of his life as a tribute to the family that gave him love and guidance and taught him “how to live with real life and determination.”
thousand year journey from oppression to freedom. I think that this year’s once-in-a-lifetime connection with Thanksgiving requires that we expand our celebration with all humanity. The essence of Chanukah is a dichotomy: it represents the fight against assimilation into our host culture so that our heritage can remain distinct but it also carries our universal message of freedom for all. How can we influence the world if we disappear? If only all nations had the chance to witness the streets of urban Israel to see Jews of all colors working together to build up our Promised Land. Our Jewish light, the light that our prophet forecast will illuminate the entire world, shines ever more brightly when we unify as a people to stand against ignorance, racism, injustice, genocide. I’m grateful both for the guidance of our biblical heroes and our living examples of tolerance and courage today. How incredible to know as I was visiting the monuments and museums in Washington DC this week that just down the street an African American leads our proud country.