B'Simana Tava: Creation and the Power of Prayer

In the Sephardic tradition, this first Shabbat after Simhat Torah - Shabbat Bereshit - is an especially celebratory Shabbat. Many special piyutim (religious poems) in praise of the Torah are recited, and the Torah scrolls are adorned with white. On this Shabbat, we celebrate the new beginning of the annual cycle of weekly Torah readings. It is customary for the Torah reader to precede the reading of the Torah's first verse by saying B'Simana Tava (the Aramaic version of "B'Siman Tov) - which means "May it be for a good sign" -- a good beginning.

In that same spirit, as I begin this new cycle of Sephardic Torah Weekly, I also say B'Simana Tava, and I pray that God shall give me the strength to write commentaries on every single parasha in the Torah in this coming year.

Speaking of prayer, I would like to devote my comments to Parashat Bereshit by exploring the special relationship in our tradition between God creating the world and our daily prayers. 

Every morning in our prayers, we are reminded about God having created the world, and we affirm that on a daily basis, God creates the world anew:

Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who forms light and creates darkness, makes peace and creates all. In compassion, God gives light to the earth and its inhabitants, and in goodness, God continually renews the work of creation, day after day.

This daily affirmation in our prayers of God as the Creator of the world lays the foundation for a deep relationship between God's act of creation and our offering of prayers. We who are praying begin the morning service with an acknowledgement that we are here by the grace of God. But at the same time, our prayers - especially the Amidah (which is considered the prayer par excellence) - help sustain the world that God created.

From where do we learn that our prayers help sustain God's work of creation?

In the Sephardic Yom Kippur Mahzor, the section of the Seder Avodah service (the service that recounts the Yom Kippur sacrificial rituals in the ancient Temple in Jerusalem) begins with a beautiful poem composed by the paytan Yose ben Yose, a 5th Century poet whose religious poems were adopted by Sephardic communities for their prayerbooks.

Yose ben Yose's poem - Atah Konanta -  mysteriously opens the Seder Avodah sacrificial services with a description of God creating the world:

Atah Konanta Olam Me'Rosh  

You, God, established the world from the beginning, and You laid the foundation of the earth.

Why would a description of the Yom Kippur sacrifices begin with a poem describing the creation of the world? Is there a connection between the sacrifices (the ancient form of prayer) and creation?

Atah Konanta continues with a poetic description of the highlights of the Book of Genesis, including the creation of light, the creation of human beings in God's image, the Tree of Life episode and humanity's expulsion from the Garden of Eden, Noah and the flood, and the Tower of Babel. 

This is followed by the election of Abraham, his son Isaac, and his grandson Jacob and the "twelve tribes" that came from him. Only one of the tribes is mentioned by name, and specific attention is placed on that tribe - Levi. The journey from the creation of the world ultimately leads to the Tribe of Levi, from whom came the first Kohen - Aaron, along with his descendants - who were charged with the responsibility of offering daily sacrifices in the Temple, and of performing the unique Yom Kippur Seder Avodah.

The idea behind Yose ben Yose's poem dates back to our belief that the altar upon which the sacrifices were offered in the Temple was built above the "foundation stone" from which God created the world. The source of all creation, according to the Talmud, started on Mount Moriah (aka The Temple Mount). It was from this spot that God created the world, it was from this mountain that God took "dust from the earth" and shaped it into a human being, it was here that Abraham went to offer his son Isaac as a sacrifice on an altar, and it was ultimately here where we would offer sacrifices every day, sacrifices that we believed helped sustain the world that God created -- all from this sacred spot.

The daily sacrifices in the Temple and the Seder Avodah on Yom Kippur were all meant as "prayers" for the continuity of the world and the sustenance of humanity. From the very spot where God created the world, the High Priest stood and offered sacrifices, accompanied by prayers on behalf of all of humanity's continued existence and wellbeing.

When the Temple was destroyed, our tradition replaced sacrifices with "Worship from the Heart" - prayers - but we continued the tradition to pray for the sustenance of all of humanity.

Indeed, in our prayer service, just a few minutes after we are reminded of God's daily renewal of creation, we then recite the silent Amidah - our most powerful prayer - which includes prayers for healing and health, rain or dew (depending on the season), justice and our conluding prayer for peace (Sim Shalom). These prayers are not limited to the Jewish people, but are recited on behalf of all of humanity.

My great Sephardic mentor Rabbi Abraham Shalem, of blessed memory, once taught me that the reason why Maimonides demands of us to have full Kavana (spiritual concentration) on every word of prayer, is because every one of our words has the power to help sustain the universe. 

"Look at how God created the world - with words," Rabbi Shalem said to me. "In turn, our words, especially our words of prayer, have the potential of maintaining kiyum ha'olam - the existence of the world."

Every morning upon waking up, take a few moments to recite prayers - those in the prayerbook, or those from your heart. Doing so is our spiritual way to help sustain the world that God created for us. 

From the foundation stone through the Temple sacrifices and throughout our long history, we continue to believe in the power of prayer, not only as a remedy for our own personal problems, but also for the larger purpose of keeping God's creation alive.

Barukh Atah Hashem, Shomea Tefillah - Blessed are You, God, who listens to prayer.

Shabbat Shalom

A Moroccan Rabbi, Shabbat Zakhor & The Holocaust: Rabbi Moshe Malka

Zakhor. It means "remember." In the Jewish tradition, memory and remembrance are sacred obligations. It is a "mitzvah" - a commandment - to remember our past. This week's Shabbat bears the special name "Shabbat Zakhor" - the "Sabbath of Remembrance." Along with bearing that name, it also bears the weight of our collective responsibility to remember. What are we "remembering" on Shabbat Zakhor?

On this Shabbat, in addition to the weekly Torah portion, we read three verses from a second Torah scroll. These three verses - Deuteronomy 25:17-19 - begin with the word Zakhor - Remember:

"Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey, after you left Egypt."

Just as the Jewish people left Egypt, the Amalekites caught us off guard, attacked us and sought to destroy us. Subsequently, the Amalekites became an arch enemy of the Jewish people, their most famous descendant being Haman, the evil perpetrator who sought the first total genocide against the Jewish nation. As an annual prelude to reading the story of Purim in the Book of Esther, we dedicate this special Shabbat of remembrance to contemplating the persistence of Amalek over the generations - from Haman to the Holocaust, from ancient anti-Semitism to the current resurgence of anti-Semitism all over the world.

Rabbi Moshe Malka was born in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco in 1911. In 1929, at the young age of 18, he moved to Rabat, Morocco, where he began his path as a brilliant Hakham. He was a teacher in the Talmud Torah, and eventually became a famous Dayan (rabbinical judge), posek (halakhic decisor) and darshan (public speaker in matters of Torah). He taught in the Rabbinical Beit Midrash (Rabbinical School) in Rabat and was a member of the Bet Din (Rabbinical Court) in Casablanca.

In the wake of the Six Day War in 1967, Rabbi Malka made Aliyah to the State of Israel. He was a deep lover of Israel, believed in modern-day Zionsim, and supported the halakhic position of reciting Hallel (the Psalms of Praise) on Yom Ha'atsmaut (Israel's Independence Day). After living for a while in Jerusalem, Rabbi Malka moved to Petah Tikvah, where he eventually became the Sephardic Chief Rabbi of the city.

Rabbi Malka died on Shabbat Zakhor, March 22, 1997. There is a deep significance to Rabbi Malka's date of passing, for in his teachings throughout his life, he believed very strongly in the mitzvah of "Zakhor" - to remember our past, especially as it relates to when we were persecuted.

Rabbi Malka had no direct family who experienced, died in or survived the Holocaust. But in the spirit of the collective mitzvah of "Zakhor" for all Jews, here is what he said about the Holocaust (this is my direct translation of his words from his book "Pnei Moshe:)":

"There is no precedent in our history for a tragedy like the Holocaust that took place in Europe in our days. No precedent in scope, in size or in magnitude. Its destructive strength wiped entire communities of people, destroyed cities and institutions, glorious communities completely disappeared - men, women, children, all burnt, buried alive, sheer and complete destruction like we have never seen or known.

What's worse is that this awful and tragic episode in our history is disappearing from the world's memory. The plague of forgetting is attacking the younger generations around the world, and life seems to just be resuming 'as if nothing was.' We have reduced the memory of six million Jewish brothers and sisters to one memorial prayer once a year on Yom Hashoah. That's enough to remember this tragedy, and to learn its lessons of history?

True, there have been pogroms in the past, and 'in every generation there are those who seek to destroy us,' but nothing ever like the Holocaust.  Nothing as systematic and thought out - laws against us, ghettos, concentration camps, killing fields, and the systematic murder of our people in such large numbers.

It is prohibited for any and every Jew to ever forget what the Nazis - this generation's descendants of Amalek - did to our people. We must never forget, and it must be part of our awareness and consciousness - not only on Yom Hashoah or Shabbat Zakhor - but everyday. Otherwise, we risk handing over the memory of our past into the hands of those in the world who seek to erase our past and our memory of it by denying the Holocaust. It is our sacred duty to remember and never forget the Holocaust."

Rabbi Malka's stirring words serve as one of the best and most potent commentaries to the three verses about "remembering Amalek" that we read this Shabbat Zakhor. His words also remind us that the Holocaust is neither "Ashkenazi" or "Sephardi," rather a collective tragedy that affects all Jews. No matter where we are from in the world, we all share the collective responsibility to remember. On Shabbat Zakhor, the Torah commands us to put aside ethnic differences and remember that we are one people, and that anti-Semitism - including during the Holocaust - does not distinguish between "Sephardi and Ashkenazi." On Shabbat Zakhor, we are all survivors who fulfill the collective mitzvah to remember.

How appropriate that we observe the anio/yahrzeit of Hakham Rabbi Moshe Malka z"l on Shabbat Zakhor. On the Shabbat of Remembrance, the memory of his passing helps us to remember him and his powerful, timeless and unifying message to "remember."

Zakhor - remember.

Shabbat Shalom

A Sephardic Voice for the New Generation: Rabbi Benny Lau

Can an Ashkenazi Jew with a distinctly recognizable Ashkenazi name from a prominent Ashkenazi rabbinical family be considered a voice for young Sephardic Jews? When we hear the name "Lau," many of us automatically think of Rabbi Israel Meir Lau, the Holocaust survivor and former Ashkenazi Chief Rabbi of Israel. Some might think of his son, Rabbi David Lau, the current Ashkenazi Chief Rabbi of Israel.

Meet Rabbi Binyamin "Benny" Lau, the nephew of the elder Rabbi Lau and the cousin of the current Chief Rabbi. Benny Lau holds no national "chief rabbi" official position in Israel, but is no less of a public figure. A prominent scholar, educator, teacher and outspoken public intellectual and rabbinic voice, Rabbi Benny Lau has written several bestselling books on a wide variety of Jewish topics, and is one of the most sought after rabbinic figures by Israeli media, government and public institutions.

When Benny Lau was in 9th grade, he went to his synagogue library and pulled a book from the shelf that he had never studied in school. The book reflected a whole new approach to Halakha (Jewish Law) that he had never been exposed to, and the young Benny became intrigued. The book was a collection of Teshuvot (Halakhic Responsa) by Rabbi Ovadia Yosef z"l. Benny immersed himself into the world of Rabbi Ovadia Yosef and of other Sephardic Hakhamim, including Rabbi Uziel z"l. 

After his IDF military service, Benny went to university, eventually earning a Phd in Jewish Law. His dissertation topic: "The Halakhic Methodology of Rabbi Ovadia Yosef." The dissertation was turned into a bestselling book, written with the approval, guidance and blessing of Rabbi Ovadia Yosef, and to date, it is the most important study of Rabbi Ovadia Yosef's halakhic methodology, as well as an important glimpse into the world of Sephardic Hakhamim. Rabbi Ovadia Yosef praised the book, as did many other Sephardic rabbis and teachers. All the work of someone with the Ashkenazi last name "Lau."

Rabbi Lau also has brilliant "Sephardic insights" in the weekly Torah portions, including this week's portion that closes the book of Exodus, Parashat Pekudei.

He brings in the commentary of Nachmanides, the brilliant 13th Century Spanish Rabbi, Talmudist, Kabbalist and Bible Commentator. The topic? The bells at the bottom of the High Priest's robe:

“The bells were placed inside the pomegranates before they were sewn onto the robe, and once the bells were inside the pomegranates, they were then sewn onto the edges of the robe.”

Rabbi Lau comments on Nachmanides' description of this seemingly obscure feature of the High Priest's robe:

“I recently heard a sermon on Nachmanides’ description of the High Priest’s robe. In this sermon, the rabbi described the pomegranate as a symbol of fullness: It is heavy, full of content and does not make any noise. Its fullness is symbolic of the world of wisdom and mitzvot. In fact, when our sages sought a metaphor for being ‘filled with mitzvot,’ they used the pomegranate. 

The pomegranate represents the older generation, overflowing with knowledge and filled with content. The bell, on the other hand — a symbol of noise — makes its noise from an empty vessel. The bell is built from an empty space with a tongue in the middle that creates the noise. It is very sensitive to the slightest wind and hastily rings and makes noise. 

The rabbi then linked the two — the pomegranate and the bell — to the sounds created by the two on the High Priest’s robe as he enters the sanctuary, of which is said: The sound of it is heard when he comes in the sanctuary before God. 

If the bells are disconnected from the pomegranates, then they can ring and ring endlessly, but they will not be part of the High Priest’s robe, and will therefore not be heard. The true strength of the bells ringing is only realized when they are connected to the pomegranates. When they are incorporated within the pomegranates, then their voice is heard.”

But in a stroke of creativity reflecting the sensitivity and inclusive approach of the Classic Sephardic tradition, Rabbi Lau expands our understanding of the bells:

“Clearly, I think that one can also reverse this metaphoric explanation and say that the pomegranates must also make room for the bells to exist within them. The High Priest cannot enter the sanctuary with the pomegranates alone. Only when the pomegranates give room to the bells can they then enter the sanctuary of God. 

The sensitivity of the bells creates the proper musical notes that the High Priest — the representative of the entire community — makes heard in heaven when he enters the sanctuary. The heavy and full pomegranate needs the bell, and together they awaken true hope. 

This dual interpretation expresses the generational dispute between the older generation (the pomegranates) and the younger generation (the bells). The wisdom of this lesson lies in seeking to incorporate the voices of one generation within the other.”

Only when the “sounds from the bells” and the “seeds of the pomegranates” listen to each other and seek to coexist within the same community can our voices be heard by God. This spiritual message from Rabbi Benny Lau is not only a creative reading of Torah sources, it’s a real-life challenge to all Jewish communities - Sephardi and Ashkenazi.

On a personal level, I am privileged to call Benny Lau my friend. As a Sephardic rabbi, I am proud to call Rabbi Benny Lau my colleague, and to consider him one of my "Sephardic role models" - even with the Ashkenazi name Lau.

Shabbat Shalom

 

Rene Samuel Cassin: The French-Sephardic Father of Global Human Rights

On December 10, 1948, a French-Sephardic Jew took center stage at the third session of the United Nations General Assembly, held at the Palais de Chaillot in Paris, France. 

Rene Samuel Cassin, a French Sephardic Jew who was a jurist, law professor, judge, and lifelong advocate for global human rights, was the prominent voice that day when the United Nations General Assembly voted to adopt the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR).

Rene Cassin proudly stood before the nations of the world and presented the final draft of a groundbreaking and historical document that “affirmed basic rights and fundamental freedoms,” and framed these rights and freedoms in universal terms as “inherent, inalienable and applicable to all human beings.”

What drove Rene Cassin to join the U.N. committee and work meticulously on drafting a presentable final version of the UDHR to the nations of the world? 

While Cassin’s advocacy for global human rights predates World War II, it was the Holocaust that turned Cassin’s work and thinking in a new direction. He would state this twenty years later in Stockholm, when he received the world's most prestigious prize.

In 1968, Cassin was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize “for his involvement in the drafting of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.” In his Nobel address, Cassin stated that "in the wake of World War II, a world which had witnessed the serious, systematic and innumerable violations that could be committed at the orders of a veritable gang, suddenly found itself facing a problem of unsuspected magnitude: to protect the whole of humanity and protect the rights of all human beings.” 

For Cassin, who miraculously evaded the concentration camps but lost several family members to the Nazi atrocities, he was profoundly shaken by these losses. 

As the world witnesses Russia's blatant violation of human rights in its immoral war of aggression on Ukraine, it behooves us to remember the words and teachings of our "Sephardic Hakham" for this week - Renee Samuel Cassin. 

In a 1947 address to the Alliance Israelite Universelle in Paris (of which he was the president for many years), Cassin famously said: “Jewish rights can be protected only if the cause of universal human rights could be established. The Nazis threatened all of humanity, not just the Jews.” 

“Human rights are an integral part of the faith and tradition of Judaism," said Cassin in 1974. "The belief that man was created in the divine image, that the human family is one, and that every person is obliged to deal justly with every other person are basic sources of the Jewish commitment to human rights.”

Thousands of years ago, Moses came down Mount Sinai with the Torah, where thirty-six times it states “You shall not oppress strangers, foreigners, widows or orphans, for you were slaves in Egypt.” 

It was with that ancient burden of Jewish memory, along with the knowledge of what happened to his own people and to millions of others just a few years earlier, that Rene Cassin presented the “Torah of Human Rights” to the world on December 10, 1948.

When will the world learn?

Shabbat Shalom

 

  

Hatanu L'fanekha Rahem Alenu

There is nothing in the Sephardic prayers more spiritually uplifting than the Selihot of the Yamim Noraim (High Holidays). Sepharadim recite Selihot throughout the month of Elul and all the way through Yom Kippur. From Anenu to Hatanu L'fanekha, these are the most anticipated and beloved prayers in our beloved liturgical tradition.

I'm sure you are wondering - it's February - why am I writing about the Sephardic Selihot? 

Throughout the Selihot, one of the prayers we recite repeatedly is a long paragraph that begins with the words El Melekh Yoshev Al Kisseh Rahamim - "Almighty King  who sits on the throne of mercy." Within that prayer, we say El Horetanu lomar midot shelosh esrei - "O God, who taught us to recite the Thirteen Attributes", and we then say:

Va'Ya'avor Hashem Al Panav Vayikra: Hashem Hashem El Rahum v'hanun..."And God passed before him (Moses) and proclaimed, Hashem, Hashem, God, merciful and gracious, slow to anger, abundant in lovingkindness and truth, keeping lovingkindness to the thousandth generation, forgiving iniquity, transgression and sin, and acquitting." 

These "Thirteen Attributes" - Shelosh Esrei Midot - have their origin in this week's Torah portion, Parashat Ki Tissa.

Our tradition teaches us that the 40-day period of the High Holidays – from Rosh Hodesh Elul to Yom Kippur – has a special history that makes it the choicest of seasons for repentance and forgiveness. 

The Talmud records that after the Jewish people committed the awful sin of the Golden Calf, the result of which was the shattering of the stone tablets where the Ten Commandments were inscribed, Moses ascended Mount Sinai for a second time. The purpose of this second ascent was Moses seeking forgiveness for the entire Jewish people. Moses was asking God to give the Jewish people a second chance – he was seeking teshuva and seliha for the Jewish people. 

The date when Moses ascended Mount Sinai for the second time was Rosh Hodesh Elul, and Moses spent 40 days with God, praying that God should give the people another chance. 

 

When God finally accepted Moses’ prayers, a new set of stone tablets were carved out, and the Ten Commandments were inscribed on them anew. On the 40th day, Moses came down from Mount Sinai with the new tablets of the law. The date that day was the 10th of Tishrei – Yom Kippur. 

 

It is this sequence of historical events that endows the period of the High Holidays with a special power of repentance and forgiveness. On Yom Kippur, we recite the Thirteen Attributes of God’s Compassion – “Hashem, Hashem, El Rahum VeHanun” - over and over. 

These words come from this week's parasha - Ki Tissa - and were first recited on Yom Kippur when God forgave us for the sin of the Golden Calf. 

We recite them continuously on Yom Kippur, in order to connect the story of God forgiving us for the Golden Calf with God hopefully forgiving us on Yom Kippur.

The powerful spirit of this sequence of events recurs metaphorically in our own lives on a regular basis. All year long, we tend to build our own “golden calves,” often forgetting our bond with God and the Torah, and also violating ethical codes of conduct with our families and friends. Human nature is difficult, and we all succumb – in one way or the other – to that idolatrous “golden calf” within us. 

 

When the month of Elul comes around, we begin to review our deeds and actions from the past year, asking God for “another chance,” with the hope that by Yom Kippur, we will have come down Mount Sinai – like Moses did that day – with God’s commandments renewed in our hearts.

How did Moses and the Israelites move beyond their shared breakdown? Realizing their mistake and what they had potentially lost, the Midrash teaches that the Israelites joined together and searched for remnants of the first tablets. After their communal clean up, they collected whatever remains of the broken tablets they could find, and they gave them to Moses. Fortunate enough to be given a second chance, Moses subsequently carved out a new set of tablets, and, in a powerful message to the community, he placed them alongside the broken pieces.  

The Talmud teaches: “Rabbi Judah bar Ilai said that two arks journeyed with Israel in the wilderness — one in which the Torah was kept, and one in which the tablets broken by Moses were kept. The one containing the Torah was kept in the Tent of Meeting; the other, containing the broken tablets, would come and go with them” (Talmud Yerushalmi, Shekalim, 1:1). 

 

Another Talmudic teaching goes one step further: “Both the new tablets of the law and the broken pieces of the first tablets were kept in the same Ark of the Covenant” (Talmud Bavli, Berakhot, 8b).

 

Whether the broken remnants were in the same ark or a separate ark, both teachings offer us a powerful reminder that wholeness and brokenness share equal spaces in life. The Tablets of the Law, whole or broken, serve as a metaphor for the human condition — striving for perfection, all the while embracing imperfection. Both the whole and the broken are considered sacred in the Jewish tradition. 

 

Failures, broken dreams and shattered fantasies are an inevitable and natural part of life. Shevirat Luhot -- the symbolic “shattering of tablets” -- is often a necessary gateway through which we must pass in order to reach the greater heights we seek in life. 

 

Through the shared pain and struggle of the golden calf, the shattering of the tablets, the communal cleanup and the subsequent carving of new tablets, Moses and the Israelites teach us a very powerful lesson in life, one that has been part of the Jewish experience for thousands of years: when we experience a breakdown, it is always possible to “pick up the pieces” and start again. 

The beauty of the Sephardic tradition is that we approach these complex moments with a blend of awe and joy. We recite these "Thirteen Attributes" and all of the Selihot in joy and happiness. We ask for forgiveness and a "second chance," not with crying, wailing, beating our chests or dark and austere tunes, but with joyous and uplifting melodies. It's the finest expression of the beauty of the Sephardic tradition and speaks to a deep wisdom about the classic Sephardic way of life. 

We all face challenges and breakdowns. At some point in our lives, we all see our “whole tablets” shattered into a thousand pieces, right before our eyes. Judaism empowers us to pick up those broken pieces, and with them in our hands, pick up from where we left off. Simply put, we try again, because there’s no other choice but to move on. That was life during this challenging Biblical episode, that's life in the Month of Elul and on Yom Kippur... and indeed, that’s life.

Shabbat Shalom

The Sephardic Jew Next Door: Amos the Gabbai

Many years ago, when my son Ilan was applying to Shalhevet High School in Los Angeles, he was asked to write an essay describing his “Jewish role model.” The genre known as “role model essays” typically involves a famous person whose status is well known by people all over the world. Ilan’s original choice was Maimonides, but upon further thought, he changed course. “It’s always the big figures who get all the credit,” said Ilan. “Everyone knows about Maimonides. What about the unknown people who keep Judaism alive? There are so many people out there that nobody has ever heard of, but without them, Judaism would have been gone a long time ago.”

I asked Ilan if he had such a person in mind. 

Here is what he wrote:

 

One of the greatest men you’ve never heard of…

Role models are often famous people. My role model is a quiet, unknown, elderly person. His name is Amos. He is the Gabbai at the famous Yochanan Ben Zakkai Sephardic synagogue in the Old City of Jerusalem. For as long as I can remember, my father and I have always gone there for minyan when in Jerusalem. Without fail, Amos is present every morning, before everyone else, which is incredible, because Yochanan Ben Zakkai is a netz ha’chamah minyan. The service begins at least 40 minutes before sunrise. Amos opens the synagogue, turns on the lights, prepares the Siddurim and Sifrei Torah, makes sure someone leads services, and assigns aliyot. He then prepares the table for Daf Yomi with volumes of Gemara, tea and biscuits. Watching Amos inspired me to become the Gabbai at my school’s minyan. Now that I have the same responsibilities as Amos, I respect him even more. When I become frustrated in my position as Gabbai, I remember that despite his grueling early morning routine, Amos always has a smile on his face, even giving candy to all of the kids. More than the famous leaders who get lots of publicity, I think it is the quiet people like Amos, with his day-to-day dedication to Judaism, who continue to keep the Jewish people alive.

I share Ilan’s reflections this week, because Parashat Tetzaveh introduces the commandment that became the symbol of daily continuity for Judaism and the Jewish people: prayer.

 

As the details for the construction of the Mishkan– Judaism’s first house of worship – come to a close, the Torah describes how to build the Mizbeah (altar), the centerpiece for worship in the Mishkan’s sanctuary. The Torah then commands the Korban Tamid (The Continual Daily Sacrifice), which was offered twice a day in the Mishkan (and later in the Temple in Jerusalem).

 

After the destruction of the Temple, this Mitzvah continued, except we changed the form from sacrifice to prayer. For close to 2000 years, this Mitzvah of daily prayer has continued uninterrupted in the form of daily Shaharit (morning) and Minha (afternoon) prayers services (Arvit – the evening service, was added later). 

 

More than anything else in the Jewish world, daily minyanim have been the rock solid constant in Jewish life. No matter the community, the geographic locale, or the circumstances, Jews have attended minyan everyday – morning, afternoon and night.

 

Who makes these minyanim run smoothly? Ilan’s role model “Amos the Gabbai,” and thousands of other unsung heroes like him of the Jewish world. These heroes don’t sit around discussing Jewish continuity on panels or in articles; instead, they wake up to it, act upon it and sustain it, “day by day, continually,” as per the Torah’s commandment.

 

I think Ilan had it right. Amos the Gabbai represents a 2000-year-old chain of uninterrupted Jewish continuity that has been far more consistent than anything else in the Jewish world. 

 

For the Sephardic world, Amos has sustained daily, Shabbat and holiday prayers in Jerusalem’s most iconic Sephardic synagogue. He never wrote any great books of Jewish philosophy, halakha or history, he doesn’t cook or bake Sephardic recipes and he doesn’t speak a word of Ladino or Judeo-Arabic. All he’s done, very quietly, is make sure that a historic Sephardic synagogue remains true to its authentic Sephardic prayers, customs and and tunes.

 

That’s a real Sephardic role model. 

 

When I am in Jerusalem and I stay at the Sephardic Educational Center in the Old City, just ten steps from the Yohanan Ben Zakkai synagogue, Amos the Gabbai becomes my “Sephardic role model next door.” Who is yours?

 

Shabbat Shalom

 

 

 

 

Are Today's Sephardic Synagogues Spiritually Attractive?

Beyond the magnificent architectural plans laid out in Parashat Terumah for building Judaism’s first-ever house of worship - the Mishkan– the deeper question we ask is how we turn that architectural structure into a meaningful place worthy of being called a “House of God.” The term Mishkan means “dwelling place,” and if our houses of worship are indeed meant to be places where “God dwells,” what are the architectural plans for the interior of our Mishkan?

During the last “pre-Covid” annual Sephardic Educational Center (SEC) Shavuot Retreat in Palm Springs, we held a town hall discussion as part of our Erev Shavuot study program. Titled What's Wrong with Organized Religion, and How Can We Fix It?” we spent the evening discussing the state of affairs in our local Sephardic synagogues. Our audience was all young Sephardic families who are active in various Sephardic synagogues in Los Angeles. Some serve on boards and committees, many attend Shabbat services on a regular or semi-regular basis, and all have kids who, in one way or the other, are connected to these synagogues. The common denominators here were age group (all young families) and a very strong commitment to Sephardic synagogues and Sephardic Judaism.

As in any diverse audience, the comments varied. Some said, “I wish the synagogues focused more on our kids,” others felt that the rabbi’s sermons “did not reflect current issues.” Some felt it was “too much about the rabbi and hazzan and not enough about the community.” Some liked the “warmth and intimacy” of their Sephardic synagogues, and others said “I can’t say why, but it just feels like home.” The provocative amongst the group said, “I feel like I get more spirituality from my yoga teacher than from my rabbi,” or “Sephardic rabbis are backwards and out of touch with the modern world.” When the teenagers were asked to chime in, some felt the synagogue was “a turnoff,” others said “I don’t really love it, but as Jews, going to synagogue is part of what we have to do, so we do it.” Many of the teens said, “I wish our Shabbat services were as fun and meaningful as the services we have on these SEC Shabbatonim and retreats.”

Reflecting back on that evening brings to mind these powerful words I read many years ago:

 

     “The modern synagogue suffers from a severe cold. Our services are conducted with pomp and precision. Everything is present: decorum, voice and ceremony. But one thing is missing: life. Our motto is monotony. The fire has gone out of our worship. It is cold, stiff, and dead. True, things are happening, but not with prayer, rather with the administration of synagogues. Buildings are growing, but worship and prayer are decaying.”

Spoken in 1953 by Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, these words continue to describe many of our synagogues, including in the Sephardic community. 

 

Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveichik also offered an interesting perspective on this issue. In a personal reflection on prayer written in 1964, Rabbi Soloveichik said:

 

 “Judaism has always grasped prayer as a ‘worship of the heart,’ a heart overflowing with desire of the divine, full of yearning and wonder and dissonance. I imagine a Kol Nidrei night in the Beit Midrash of the Baal Shem Tov or the Tanya z”l. They did not use music, choirs or glorified tunes and pompous song. They certainly had no carpeted platforms, flowers or rabbis trained in elocution and etiquette. Form was totally lacking, but for that reason there blazed upward a storm of faith, a tremendous love and desire for the Creator. The worshippers must have all swayed like trees in a forest swept by a hurricane.”

Neither Heschel’s biting critique or Soloveichik’s pensive reflections were born out of experiences from Sephardic synagogues, because neither walked in Sephardic circles nor prayed in Sephardic synagogues. However, much of what they said can ring clear to many Sephardic congregants today (myself and my family included). Their words reflect many of our questions for our Sephardic synagogues today:  where’s the fire and passion, why are so many Sephardic services so boring, dry and void of spirit, and why has strict adherence to formality and decorum taken over what should be a “service of the heart?”

 

Sephardic synagogues have such great potential. The Sephardic cantorial traditions (known as Maqqam) offer some of the most beautiful, inspirational and uplifting tunes for the prayers and Torah readings. When a good Sephardic Hazzan knows the Maqqam and feels it in his soul, his voice can light up any synagogue, filling the sanctuary’s seats and the worshipper’s hearts. 

Many Sephardim feel this passion most potently once a year, during a section of the Yom Kippur services which, in Ashkenazi synagogues, is typically somber: Selihot (the penitentiary prayers where we admit to our errant ways and ask for God’s forgiveness). Both Heschel and Soloveichik would delight in the uplifting spiritual energy, joy and passion felt in Sephardic synagogues during the chanting of Selihot. It’s not somber at all, but fun, upbeat and deeply spiritual. My kids love and look forward to Yom Kippur just for these tunes. Hashem Melech, Anenu and Hatanu L’fanekha can energize the sanctuary like no other prayers. The challenge of Sephardic synagogues is to create that same energy every Shabbat. 

Sephardic rabbis can offer unique angles on Jewish life that many of their Ashkenazi colleagues cannot, simply because Sephardic rabbis are typically not part of the Ashkenazi denominational world. This brings potentially refreshing perspectives on halakhic issues, communal challenges and global concerns. If some Sephardic rabbis were to simply “globalize” their sermonic messages to the point where their young congregants felt that the rabbi actually “has something important to say to me on what’s happening in the world,” perhaps the teens would start filling the seats.

Having quoted two Ashkenazi thinkers on this issue, I will conclude on a Sephardic note, with the wise and sage words of Rav Bension Meir Hai Uziel, z”l, the illustrious Rishon L’Sion and Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Israel (passed away in 1953).

In a beautiful essay on the ideas and values of Shabbat, Rav Uziel lays out a vision for what makes an ideal synagogue experience. He breaks it down to two main ingredients: 

The communal sanctity of Shabbat is expressed in two forms: sacred gatherings and sacred studies.

 

In other words, gatherings that reflect sanctity, and gatherings rooted in sacred studies, are the key ingredients to a spiritually uplifting experience in synagogue on Shabbat. Rav Uziel explains:

 

     Sacred gatherings on Shabbat are expressions of peace (hence “Shabbat Shalom” as a greeting on Shabbat), and every individual is called upon to adapt peaceful ways within his/her community. Our synagogues become spiritual venues by virtue of our own peaceful behavior. “Where is God found,” ask our Sages? Only in a place where peace and brotherly love are prevalent. In such places, one finds people clinging to God, growing closer to God, and being elevated to new spiritual heights.

 

In order for a synagogue to be a spiritual place where we can find God, it is the responsibility of the rabbi – the “spiritual leader” – the hazzan (who leads us in the spiritual act of prayer), and all community members, to come to the synagogue and – through their behavior – create a sacred spiritual environment for the community.

As to sacred studies, Rav Uziel explains:

 

       Our sages taught: “Moshe established a ruling that Jewish communities must read from the Torah in public on Shabbat, holidays and Rosh Hodesh.” What is the nature of this public Torah reading? This public Torah reading must be accompanied by a public sermon whose purpose is to teach, explain and offer deep insights into the Torah reading, so that everyone will become enlightened by the Torah’s teachings. 

The public Torah reading on Shabbat is not an endless parade of aliyot, honors or memorials, nor is it a cash register for donations. The Torah reading is meant to offer a framework of study, where the congregants can read and then listen to explanations of God’s sacred words, offering them enlightening moral lessons that inspire them towards a better life.

 

Since Sepharadim are so connected to their foods and love recipes, let me frame all of this into a recipe: 

 

Ingredients for a successful Sephardic synagogue on Shabbat:

--Peaceful behavior that inspires a spiritual environment

--Torah study that teaches, enlightens and inspires the congregants

 

Add to this mixture a talented hazzan whose knowledge and love of the Sephardic melodies inspires joyous and meaningful worship, and a rabbi who inspires thinking, relevant discussions, peaceful behavior, intellect and learning. To reduce the fat and carbs, cut down the number of aliyot, replace those calories instead with a delicious Sephardic Kiddush (those fat and carbs are so much better!).

 

These are the ingredients. Let’s start cooking up a Sephardic storm.

 

Shabbat Shalom

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rabbi Samuel Vital: Truth, Justice and the Spirituality of Civil Law

Should Rabbis get involved in financial matters within a community? Isn't a rabbi better off dealing with strictly "spiritual and religious" subjects? This week's Torah portion - Parashat Mishpatim  - challenges the simplistic thinking that limits the definition of "religious and spiritual" to ritual laws and prayers. 

“And these are the rules (Mishpatim) that you shall set before them.” With this opening verse from Parashat Mishpatim, God begins to legislate the detailed version of the Torah’s system of civil legislation. The word Mishpatim refers to civil laws and ordinances, and by making these laws the first set of legislation following the Aseret Hadibrot (Ten Commandments or Utterances) at Mount Sinai, God sends a very powerful message about how the Jewish people should go about building a truly “religious community.” 

Most people looking to create a “religious community” would begin by building a house of worship. In the Torah, God sees things differently. As the Jewish people are in the initial stages of building their own religious community, civil laws governing relationships between people (Bein Adam L’Havero) are legislated before the laws on building the Mishkan (Tabernacle). Batei Din (civil courts) come before the Mishkan, and Dayanim (judges) precede Kohanim (Priests).  

Parashat Mishpatim deals in matters that don’t seem “religious or spiritual” to most people -- personal injury, damages due to negligence, paying employees on time, borrowing items or lending money, to name just a few – but these actually form the core of how the Torah envisions the definition and governance of a Jewish religious society. The Torah recognizes and understands human nature - that it’s much easier to behave “religiously” within the comfortable confines of a synagogue. The true challenge is maintaining that religiosity beyond the confines of a “religious house of worship.”

So it was, in the 17th Century in Damascus, when a brilliant young rabbi named Samuel Vital (son of the famous Kabbalist Rabbi Haim Vital) was challenged with a financial issue in his community.

There was a custom in Damascus that for the purposes of tax assessment, the properties of the wealthy were evaluated up to 3000 grushim (the currency at that time), thereby creating a situation that any properties or financial holdings above 3000 grushim were tax exempt. In modern terms: a tax ceiling.

The rationale behind this was the fear that if they collected taxes on the wealthy beyond this amount, then the wealthy would hide their properties and financial holdings. This was the accepted system for many years. 

It came a time that there were less wealthy families in the community, and the tax burden became greater – on the state, on the middle class and on the poor – and there remained only 3-4 affluent families. The middle class and poor (who were the majority of the residents) requested to annul the tax ceiling, favoring instead that the wealthy should pay taxes on all of their holdings. The wealthy responded by saying that this was the custom of the community for many years, and that they had no intention of making any such changes, and that “if the community became poorer, that’s their tough luck, but they should not bear the burden.”

Rav Vital contemplated whether to get involved in this situation: 

“Why should I get involved? Does it not say in Pirkei Avot that he who shuns the office of judge rids himself of enmity, theft, and false swearing? If I do remove myself from this situation, then the community will be destroyed through disputes that nobody will be able to prevent. On the other hand, if I speak up, I will acquire for myself enemies. But - in the spirit of representing the truth, which I am supposed to do as a rabbi - if I do speak out on the truth, even if it won’t please those who will be bound to a new ruling, I will ultimately be upholding the honor of the rabbinic position, for we – as rabbis – are emissaries of God, and I will prevent the impression that the law is being inflexibly upheld simply for the sake of upholding the law and favoring the wealthy, without any accounting for mercy towards the needy."

Rabbi Vital initially concluded that the original custom should be upheld and cannot be changed unless the entire community – including the wealthy – agree together to change it. This, he says, is the “principal of the halakha.” But...

“However,” he said, "that applies and is nice when we are speaking about a 'custom' who, from its very beginnings, was a proper custom. But when we are speaking about a custom that, from its very origins, was designed in a way to create financial losses upon the poor and downtrodden, would such a custom find favor in God’s eyes? Would God view favorably a custom that takes a middle class person who has only 100 grushim in savings, and from that he must sustain his family plus also pay taxes on the entire amount of his holdings, while a wealthy person, blessed by God with 10,000 grushim from which he eats, holds lavish parties and continues to amass savings, yet only pays on 3000 grushim, and is exempt from paying on the rest? The rich get richer, while the poor continue in the path of poverty? This is the trait of Sodom!"

Rabbi Vital's courage to speak out in the name of halakhic truth is an example for all generations of rabbis and leaders. It's not always popular to speak the truth, especially when that truth becomes an "inconvenient truth" for those who are accustomed to violate the law. 

Rabbi Vital, and Parashat Mishpatim, remind us that "Spirituality and Religiosity" begin by following civil law - in the street, in the workplace and in business. It was precisely the violation of those laws that - in the spirit of Rabbi Vital's words - the prophet Isaiah referred to the residents of Jerusalem as 'Officers of Sodom" (Isaiah 1:10) just before the destruction of Jerusalem. Our communities do not ever want to be associated with immoral practices that reduce us to the selfish ways of Sodom. We know where that led.

Parashat Mishpatim does not deal with prayer or rituals, but it is arguably the Torah's greatest statement on spirituality and religiosity, beautifully captured by one teaching in Pirkei Avot:

The world is sustained through three elements: Din (law), Emet (truth) and Shalom (peace). 

If we want peace in our communities, we must be willing to uphold the law and speak the truth - even when it's inconvenient to do so. 

Shabbat Shalom

Ten Utterances for a Troubled World

Sometime during the 13^th Century, in a private study in Barcelona, an anonymous author sat and composed Sefer Ha-Chinuch (The Book of Education). This systematic study of the Torah’s 613 commandments was beautifully written as a gift from a father to his son. In his introduction, the author lovingly states that he wrote this book “to inspire the heart of my boy, my son, with an accounting of all  the mitzvot…”

This week’s Torah portion – Parashat Yitro – is famous for what has become known as “The Ten Commandments.” In light of the beautiful Bar Mitzvah gift mentioned above, where the anonymous author set out to explain "all the mitzvot" - all 613 of the Torah's commandments - how and why did one set of commandments become singled out as “The Ten Commandments”?

 

Jewish tradition has no term in Hebrew for “The Ten Commandments.” The Hebrew term for these “famous ten” is Aseret Ha-Devarim or Aseret Hadibrot, neither of which means “Ten Commandments” (that would be “Aseret Hamitzvot”). The proper translation is “Ten Utterances” or “Ten Spoken Words” (Decalogue in Greek, from the Septuagint, the Greek translation of the Torah).  

The distinguishing factor of these “famous ten” amongst the Torah’s 613 commandments is that they are the only ones spoken directly by God to the Jewish People. 

 

Torah readers who actually read Parashat Yitro for the public in the synagogue notice that the “Ta’amim/Trope” (cantillation notes) for the Aseret Hadibrot are more elaborate, and that the verses are much longer. The public reading of the Aseret Hadibrot is done in what the tradition calls Ta’am Elyon (Upper Cantillation), which divides this section into Aseret Devarim - Ten Utterances.

 

Why did God choose to speak only these ten directly to the people?

In his Sefer Ha-Ikarim (15th century Spain), the Spanish-Jewish philosopher Rabbi Joseph Albo teaches: “These 10 utterances spoken by God at Mount Sinai are general, all-inclusive principles representing the two main categories of commandments in the Torah. The first five of these commandments represents man’s faith and obligations towards God. The next five define the overriding principles governing man’s relationship to his fellow man, and are mandatory to the existence of an orderly life in any state or society” (Section 3, Chapter 26).

Rabbi Albo asserts that the Aseret Hadibrot are a sort of “preamble to the constitution,” and without them, the rest of the Torah cannot make sense.

 

But there is an even deeper meaning to these “Ten Utterances.”

 

From the very beginning of time, the Torah teaches us about the power of words.

 

Genesis Chapter 1 tells of God creating the world. 

Not a single scientific detail is provided about the process of creation; instead, we are taught that “God said…and there was...” Throughout Chapter 1 of the Torah, “God says” (Va-Yomer), and with the power of the spoken word, God creates the entire world. We are reminded of this every morning during our prayers, when we recite Baruch She’amar V’haya Ha-Olam – “Blessed be He who spoke and the world came into being.”

 

The Talmud teaches: “Through ten utterances, God created the world” (Talmud, Rosh Hashanah 32a).

 

This parallel between the Ten Utterances of Creation and the Ten Utterances at Mount Sinai drew the attention of The Ba’al Ha’Turim commentary (11th/12th Century, Germany/Spain). In examining both sections, he discovered something special about the opening line of both sections: they each contain the exact same number of words and letters.

 

Genesis 1:1: Breshit bara Elohim et ha-shamayim v’et ha’aretz (“In the beginning, God created heaven and earth”). In Hebrew, 7 words and 28 letters.

 

Exodus 20:1: Va-Yedaber Elohim et kol ha-d’varim ha-eleh le’mor… (“God spoke all of these words saying…). In Hebrew, 7 words and 28 letters.

 

This remarkable parallel of words and letters between the two sets of God's “Ten Utterances” has a very deep message about how we build the world and our lives.

 

The job of an architect is to design and build a home. Once he/she has completed the home, and the inhabitants obtain the key and move in, the architect has nothing to say on how the inhabitants are to live within that home. There may be instructions for certain appliances, but there is no instruction manual on how to live a happy, fulfilling, meaningful and successful life within the home.

 

In Genesis 1, God is an architect who builds a home. In ten utterances, introduced by a verse containing 7 words and 28 letters, God designs and builds a home for all of humanity.

 

But God eventually goes beyond the role of an architect. 

 

In Parashat Yitro, with the Aseret Hadibrot – also introduced by a verse containing 7 words and 28 letters – God provides an instruction manual on how to live in the home that He built for us.

 

In ten brief statements uttered by God at Mount Sinai, we are taught about ethical monotheism, shunning idolatry, respecting God’s name, taking a day in seven to relax and rejuvenate, respecting parents, respecting human life, establishing faithful relationships, respecting the property of others, living honestly and shunning jealousy.

 

In ten utterances in Genesis, God built a physical world… and in ten utterances in Parashat Yitro, God established a moral code for all of us to live by.

 

We so often hear people say “I wish I would have read the instructions before using this product.” The instructions for this product called "The World"  have been in print for more than 3000 years. In a world continuously plagued by immorality, bloodshed, violence and greedy lusting after material wealth, it’s time we read the instruction manual. God laid it out for us in ten simple utterances.

 

Shabbat Shalom