October 22, 2023|ז' חשון ה' אלפים תשפ"ד We in the diaspora have left the teivah, but our brothers and sisters in Israel are still in the teivah
Print ArticleThe questions, I think, that many of us are struggling with are how should we feel now and what should we do now? The intensity of our national pain all across the Jewish world from the horrific tragedy was palpable last week. Baruch Hashem, our community rose to the challenge, raising over $230,000 for the security needs of our chayalim who are on the front lines. I am very proud of our community because I know that we truly pushed ourselves beyond our comfort zone in our tzedakah campaign. Yes, we rose to the challenge. But what about this week? What about next week? It is hard to maintain the intensity that we felt during the few days after hearing about the horrific attack while living here in America. Maybe for those of us whose children or siblings are on the front line, we can still feel the intensity here in America. But how do we sustain the feeling of achdut, of passionate tefilla, day after day, week after week, as the war may likely continue for an extended period of time. Yes, the first time we recited “avinu malkenu” in the davening, it may have elicited a powerful sense of awe and dread, but what about now? How do we sustain that feeling? What is our avodah, our task, here in America where we are so far away?
How we emerge from a horrific tragedy is the question of the week and I am not only referring to the terror attack of 2023. I’m referring to the story of Noach. The story of Noach is not only a story of someone who is righteous and is saved from the flood, but it is a story of someone who confronts a tragedy with disbelief and how he emerges from that tragedy. Rashi points out that the Torah states that Noach only entered the ark “mipnei mei ha-mabul,” because of the waters of the flood. After all, Noach lacked faith in that he didn’t believe that God would actually destroy the world. In his sefer Emet L’Yaakov, Rav Yaakov Kaminetsky asks: How can it be that Noach lacked faith? Noach is called both a “tzaddik” and “tamim,” righteous and pure. If he was righteous and pure, then why did he not believe God when God said that He would destroy the world? Rav Yaakov Kaminetsky answers that, yes, Noach was righteous and pure and he followed God’s command to build the ark, but he could not come to terms with the fact that at the end of the day, God would destroy the world. It was incomprehensible to him.
And what does Noach do after the flood? He planted a vineyard, drank wine, became drunk and uncovered himself in the tent. He acted inappropriately. In Rabbi Yisrael Lau’s book, “Out of the Depths,” he deals with Noach’s drunken and inappropriate behavior. He points out that Noach’s behavior is often criticized but he shares a powerful interpretation of this story by Yiddish poet Itzik Manger. Manger was a Holocaust refugee who suffered from alcoholism and he called himself “Noah after the flood.” Rabbi Lau recounts visiting an ill and emaciated Itzik Manger in the hospital who tried to reconcile the Torah’s description first of Noach as a tzaddik and then later as a drunk. Manger said, “How can a tzaddik also be a drunk? Presumably, when Noach went back home after the flood and began to look for his hometown, his shtetl – he found nothing. He wanted to visit his neighborhood shtetl – he found nothing. He went to visit his neighborhood shtiebel, his study hall, his synagogue, but found no trace… Where was the postman he knew, the wagon driver? No one was left. No house or street, no neighborhood of friends – not a living soul … In order to forget his solitude, he drank of the wine and became drunk.” Manger then named communities and yeshivot in Warsaw, rabbis and family members who were all gone. Like in Noach’s times, all existence on earth was blotted out, or so it felt like for Manger, who lost his entire family in the Holocaust. “No one is left,” he said to Rabbi Lau. “I remained alone in the world, So you will excuse me… if sometimes, in order to forget the horrors, I drink a little.”
Noach’s reaction after a tragedy is a normal reaction to someone who has given up after witnessing a horrific tragedy. The Meshech Chochmah explained that after the flood, Noach did not have any more children and rak mitboded l’atzmo hayah. He secluded himself for his own purposes and that is why he was no longer called an “ish tzaddik,” a righteous person; rather he was called an “ish adamah,” a man of the ground, devoid of spirituality because he had withdrawn from the world. And yet, our rabbis challenge us to rise about that. Rashi cites the midrash in Breishit Rabbah 36:3 that when the Torah introduces the narrative of Noach planting a vineyard, it states “va-yachel Noach ish ha-adama,” meaning that Noach profaned himself – from the word “chillul,” when he planted the vineyard. Rav Yerucham Levovitz, among others, explained that Noach first should have planted produce that could be used for sustenance and only then should he have thought about planting a vineyard. For Rashi, it was a question of priorities and the first priority is not escapism from this world, because even after tragedy, we must build and if you don’t try to rebuild, then you are engaged in “chullin.” You are profaning yourself. Noach had to somehow muster the courage to rebuild, even at this moment. Chazal here guide us that we must use tragedies as opportunities to reset, refocus and rebuild.
I have been thinking a lot about the incredible achdut, or unity, that we’ve seen across all segments of the community in Israel, how everyone is supporting the chayalim and their families in every way imaginable. And remember just a few days before the horrific terror attack, the country was so divided with the judicial overhaul and the mechitza service in Tel Aviv. I am not one to say that the terror attack happened as a Divine punishment for a lack of achdut. We do not know the secrets of God. But I hope that we emerge from this tragedy with a better sense of our common values and a greater feeling of connectedness with each other.
And I hope that in confronting death, we will learn to appreciate life more. In 1998, Mrs. Miriam Peretz lost her son, Uriel, in southern Lebanon. Her Husband, Eliezer was heartbroken and his health continued to deteriorate until he died in 2003. In 2010, she lost her second son, Eliraz, who served in the same unit as his brother Uriel. Mrs. Peretz took upon herself to be a beacon of light and a ray of hope and unity for the Jewish people. Instead of focusing on her terrible loss, she decided to focus on the good in her life and helping others. She spends her days lecturing and encouraging those who are going through difficult times, and she constantly encourages people to focus on the good in their life.
Many times, when speaking in public, Mrs. Peretz relates the following story: “The night before Eliraz’s daughter started first grade, she was up the entire night. I went in to talk to her and she told me that she was scared to go to school without her father – because all the other girls will be coming to school with their fathers. The next morning, I wrote a letter to her teacher: “Dear Morah, please note that my granddaughter couldn’t sleep last night. I also know that in first grade the girls will learn how to read, and the first letter you will teach them is "א". The first vowel you will teach them is the פתח. You will ask the girls, “who can think of a word that starts with "אַ"?” And they will all answer "אבא". Please note that my granddaughter does not know the word "אבא", she never uttered that word before.” Mrs. Peretz then turns to the crowd and says “are you lucky to have a child that calls you Abba? Are you lucky to have a parent that you called Abba? Are you able to see? Are you able to walk and breath? Take advantage of that, don’t take it for granted.” When a person thinks about death, it enables him to really live. I hope and pray that we truly emerge from this tragedy with a fresh perspective about achdut and a fresh perspective about the beauty of life itself.
But here’s the problem. The problem is that we in the diaspora are Noach after the teivah, while our brethren in Israel are still in the teivah. We are living thousands of miles from the teivah. We can start to process how we can emerge as better people from this tragedy as Jews have done for thousands of years, but our brethren in Eretz Yisrael are still burying their dead. Thousands have been sitting shiva this past week. And our brethren in Eretz Yisrael are not only still burying their dead. They are still identifying their dead. Over 300,000 of their brothers and sisters have been called to serve on the front lines. Two hundred are still being held hostage hoping for a miracle that that they will be freed.
A little more than two years ago, Yael and I participated in a rabbinic mission for Mizrachi to Israel. We had the pleasure of getting to know Rabbi Doron Perez, head of the World Mizrahi Movement. This past Tuesday evening, he celebrated the wedding of his son Yonatan. However, his other son Daniel was not present because he remains missing after a battle between his platoon and Hamas terrorists two weeks ago on Simchat Torah. We have left the teivah, but they are still in the teivah.
We must not move on, but we must move with, with our brothers and sisters in Eretz Yisrael. And it’s hard to know exactly what to do. Am I not allowed to enjoy myself until this war is over? Should I just take on extra mitzvot, extra spiritual commitments? Should I pray more? What should I be doing?
Listen, we believe that tefilla helps. We believe that extra mitzvot help. As I said last Shabbat, as Bnei Torah, as members of Klal Yisrael, we believe that our very existence as a Jewish nation is a miracle that defies logic and the only rational explanation for our existence is our unique connection with God. Therefore, the extent to which we connect with God can directly impact the nature of this war. The more we push ourselves spiritually, the more we accrue merits for our brothers and sisters thousands of miles away.
But if we truly want to connect to the pain that our brothers and sisters are facing, we must connect personally with them. Doing mitzvot is not enough. If we are not doing this already, each week and perhaps multiple times each week, we must reach out to someone in Israel or to someone who has a child on the front lines in Israel. Rav Moshe Feinstein explains that you can’t simply fulfill the mitzvah of bikur cholim, of visiting over the phone if you can physically visit them. After all, if you don’t personally see the person who is sick, your tefillot won’t be as strong. Rav Moshe teaches us a critical insight. We can’t truly feel the pain of someone else unless we interact with them. We can’t just perform mitzvot as a merit for others. We need to reach out again and again to those who are still in the teivah and support them however they want you to support them. And then when we daven better and learn better and engage in acts of chesed better, we will do so with greater kavana, greater concentration for those in need. That’s the key. This war will be a marathon and we in the diaspora cannot maintain last week’s spiritual intensity each and every day until the war is over and the war is won.
Therefore, our avodah, our task now, is not to watch CNN at every free moment that we have. Our task now is to chalk up those merits in Heaven that can truly make a difference. The spiritual things that we’re doing – let’s do them better – better kavana in davening, better kavana in our learning, more compassion and energy in our acts of chesed that we already do. Our task now is to write thank you letters to our American politicians so that they continue to support our cause in the coming weeks and to publicly expose hypocrisy of those who celebrate Hamas terrorism. But I think most of all, our task now is not to move on but to move with our brethren who are currently in the teivah. Set aside time each week to continue and give them support directly and let us hope and pray that God will grant us a speedy yeshua, salvation, and an end to the evil that surrounds us.