Though things have generally gotten back to normal and life for most of us has gone on, the horrific tragedy at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School is still very much on our minds, both here in South Florida and in the greater country. As is the case with most events that attract this much media coverage, recent weeks have seen several “national conversations.” Gun control, mental health, and school safety and security have all been the subjects of endless debate and analysis, much of it important and worthwhile. But, one underreported aspect of the shooting that still haunts me is rage. How could a person be filled with so much anger, so much uncontrolled rage, that he is able to devise and execute a sickening, murderous rampage?

 

The beginning of this week’s Parsha commands us, Lo seva’aru eish b’chol moshvoseichem b’yom ha’shabbos, do not kindle a fire in any of your residences.  Of course, this pasuk is the source of the the prohibition to literally light a fire on Shabbos. The Shelah Ha’Kadosh, R’ Yeshaya Ha’Levi Horowitz, offers a homiletical interpretation. He suggests that eish, fire, is an allusion to anger and rage and the passuk is telling us that a person must never, ever let anger or machlokes burn on erev shabbos or shabbos.  The Zohar says that moshvoseichem, the Torah’s directive to guard your house from fire, refers to your heart and guarding it from being filled with fire: anger, bitterness, or negativity.

 

The word “rage” comes from the Latin rabies, meaning madness.  Giving in to rage is an act of madness because you give up so much.  The Rambam (Hilchos Dei’os 2:3) writes that anger diminishes a person’s overall quality of life:  “Those who frequently become angry have no quality of life; therefore, [the Sages] instructed us to distance ourselves from anger to the farthest degree, until a person acts as though he does not sense even those things that would justifiably anger a person.”

 

Shabbos is characterized by serenity, tranquility and fulfillment.  There is no room for even the appearance of anger, impatience or controversy. Erev Shabbos is particularly predisposed to anger as everyone is rushing and hurrying with much to do. We are faced with children who are not cooperating or adults who are not meeting our expectations of what needs to be done.  On Shabbos too, we can easily be tempted to be angry when the meals don’t go the way we want, our nap is disrupted, or the rabbi went on too long with his derasha.  This is why, the Shelah explains, the Torah specifically warns us: Lo seva’aru eish, abstain from anger on Shabbos.

 

We often think of anger as an instinctive emotion, a reaction that we cannot help or control.  Clearly, the Zohar, the Shelah and others didn’t see it that way.  After all, kindling a fire is prohibited on Shabbos because it is meleches machsheves, constructive work, it includes an act of creation.  Anger, too, is a creation, not simply a natural reaction.  When we get angry, we have made a decision, consciously or subconsciously, to create anger and to allow ourselves to be angry, but we don’t have to.  Lo seva’aru eish, don’t create anger.  Be in control and resist the urge which can in fact be overcome.

 

Rav Asher of Stalin wonders why the pasuk in last week’s parsha—Elohei Maseicha Lo Sa’Aseh Lach, don’t create/worship a foreign deity—is immediately followed with es chag haMatzos tishmor, observe Pesach?  He explains that the lead-up to Pesach is a stressful time where one can very easily become angry.  We get angry with the prices of Pesach food, angry with our spouse or children for bringing chametz out of the kitchen, angry that we aren’t going away for Pesach, angry that our family members are coming to town.  Allowing ourselves to get angry is giving in to self-worship, to thinking we are in charge, we can control, or things have to go our way.  Part of getting ready for Pesach and getting rid of chametz is getting rid of our anger.  Don’t give in to the urge, don’t create anger.

 

I don’t think I’ll ever understand what kind of anger can cause someone to violently take others’ lives, especially children. But it’s no secret that anger is something every one of us struggles with on some level and can always find ways to improve. Especially now as we prepare for Pesach, we should all strive to fulfill Lo s’vaaru eish b’chol moshvoseichem – let’s try to go into Pesach without giving in to the urge to be angry, to yell, to be negative.  Imagine the freedom we can feel at the seder if we arrive having been liberated from the prison of anger and the negative consequences that come with it.

 

For more than a decade, Theo Henry was more than simply our custodian at Boca Raton Synagogue. He was truly a part of our family. Literally thousands of minyanim, programs, events, and classes could not have happened without his hard work and dedication.  Theo was a permanent presence in our Shul: setting up, cleaning up, turning over rooms, and most importantly, flashing his big smile when you walked by and said hello.

 

On Tuesday, we learned that we will tragically never see that smile again.  At only 29 years old, Theo was taken from us suddenly.  The outpouring of reactions from so many of our devastated members is the greatest testament to the role that he played and the special place he had in our community.

 

On the one hand, Theo had the job description of a typical custodian.  He, along with our amazing other custodian Junior, was responsible for the cleanliness and maintenance of our campus, and for ensuring that everything from classes to kiddushes to simchas were set up properly and cleaned up from appropriately.  Theo had a great work ethic and took pride in his job.  He did it so well that one space could be used for four or five different purposes in one day requiring multiple breakdowns and set-ups and the attendees of each program had no clue what else happened in that space that same day.  When you came back for Mincha on Simchas Torah afternoon, you had no idea 2,000 people were singing, dancing and eating all over the campus just a few hours before.  When you came to shul Shemini Atzeres night, there was not one leaf left from the thousands of hoshanas that were beaten on the floor that morning.  When you arrived to burn your chametz, you didn’t realize that Theo was there at 5 o’clock that morning to get the fire started and burning properly.

 

Each year at the Shul dinner I would publicly thank Theo and the other staff.  Theo was never there to hear it; he would walk out because he didn’t want the attention or praise.

 

Theo was quiet by nature, an introvert who was more comfortable with earphones in his ears and a vacuum in his hand than a conversation or small talk.  He made himself invisible, blending into the background by seeing to it that our campus functioned so seamlessly you barely noticed him.

 

But our beloved Theo was so much more than a custodian and his contributions extend far beyond his professional responsibilities.  Theo was selflessly devoted to our community and its members and with no recognition or fanfare, went above and beyond in ways that nobody knew about.

 

Let me tell you about a few, with a disclaimer that this represents only a small sampling:

 

 

• Theo was BRS’s custodian, not chauffeur, and yet countless times he inconvenienced himself to drive people on Shabbos. When a sick person needed to get to the doctor or medicine needed to be picked up from a pharmacy, Theo drove.  When numerous women had fertility treatments that required them to discreetly make their way to the lab or clinic for a treatment, Theo took them.

 

• When someone’s air conditioning broke on a Shabbos in the heat of the Boca summer, though Theo had no training, expertise or requirement, he was there trying to fix it. When an older member asked him to push his wheelchair to Shul in 90-degree heat and heavy humidity, he didn’t hesitate.

 

• When our esteemed member Rabbi Gene Klein z”l passed away and his funeral was on Christmas, though Theo was off, he came to work that day. When asked why, he said, “I knew Rabbi Klein, and I don’t have family down here, so this is where I need to be.”

 

• After any event that had leftover food, Theo would call someone from the community he knew could use some help to come and take when nobody was around, so he could preserve his dignity.

 

 

Theo knew more about the halachos of building a sukkah, the proper way to set up a menorah, the laws of heating food on Shabbos, than many Jews. He didn’t just agree to follow our rules, he revered them.  When people left their siddurim and chumashim sprawled around the shul, sometimes upside down or still open, Theo affectionately collected them with great respect and honor and put them back on the shelf.

 

Recently, for the only time since I have known him, Theo asked if he could meet with me.  I assumed he had a complaint about something or wanted a raise.  When I asked, “Theo what can I do for you,” he said, “I need your help.  There are two people in the Shul that I care very much about and that I am very close with, but they are barely talking to each other.  What can we do to bring them together?”  Theo’s definition of helping him was not a raise but helping him bring people together.

 

All week I have been trying to remember my last conversation with Theo. I have been wondering if I thanked him enough for his hard work and dedication, and if I showed adequate appreciation for what he does for our community and for me personally.  If I knew I would never see him again, was there something more I wanted to say?

 

Sadly, this week serves as another reminder that life is very fragile, and we have absolutely no idea what tomorrow will bring.  Don’t leave important things unsaid.  If you are estranged, work it out while you have the opportunity.  If you owe someone gratitude, make sure they know how appreciative you are.

 

Our rabbis call gratitude hakaras hatov, recognition of the good.  Being thankful begins with recognizing, taking a moment to identify the acts of kindness and the people performing them.  It is so easy to fall into a sense of entitlement and to forget to be grateful, especially to those who seek to be invisible, to do their work routinely, quietly, and humbly.

 

Theo was a big person with an even bigger heart.  We will miss him, his smile, his banter, his devotion, and his dedication.  The most appropriate way to honor Theo’s memory is by making sure to acknowledge and thank the other Theos in your life, those in the background and out of the spotlight, but without whom your life would look very different.

 

On Saturday morning, residents of Hawaii received an emergency alert on their phones: “Ballistic missile threat inbound to Hawaii.  Seek immediate shelter.  This is not a drill.”  Hawaiians panicked, believing they were the target of a nuclear attack.  Some ran into basements, others under tables; some even climbed down manholes in the street.

It took 38 minutes until the state issued a correction, explaining that the warning was in fact a false alarm.  The emergency operations center later informed the world that one of its employees had simply pressed the wrong button, later adding, “The individual has been temporarily reassigned within our Emergency Operations Center pending the outcome of our internal investigation.”

 

For 38 minutes, 1.4 million people scrambled to secure their safety, but they also did something else.  Thinking a catastrophic attack was imminent, they were forced to consider how they wanted to spend their last moments on Earth. Thank God, the warning was a false alarm and the extent of the damage was the anxiety it unnecessarily caused.

 

Nevertheless, there is a lesson for all of us in their unfortunate experience.  If you had 38 minutes to live, how would you spend them?  What would you do?  Would you reach for a siddur or a tehillim?  Would you open a Torah text and study?  Would you reach for the phone to tell someone you love them?  Would you contact someone from whom you have become alienated in order to reconcile?

 

What would you do if you thought you had a limited amount of time to live? And why aren’t you doing it now?

 

Hillel cautioned us (Pirkei Avos 2:5), “al tomar l’chesha’ipaneh eshneh, shema lo tipaneh, don’t say ‘when I have free time I will learn’, for you may never have free time.”  We cannot predict the length of our lives and if we procrastinate and delay we may never in fact get to what we claim are our goals and aspirations.

 

Our parsha cautions, “U’shemartem es ha’matzos, guard the matzah from becoming chametz.”  Rashi quotes the Midrash that encourages us to read the verse as if it were punctuated u’shemartem es ha’mitzvos, safeguard the commandments. Mitzvah ha’bah l’yadecha al tachmitzena, if a positive opportunity comes your way, don’t allow it to turn into chametz through procrastination and laziness.  Rather, embrace it, run with it, and do it right away, before it is too late.

 

Death has always been one of the most potent motivators. Buddhist author Sogyal Rinpoche writes, “Death is a mirror in which the entire meaning of life is reflected.”  The Gemara (Shabbos 153a) records that Rabbi Eliezer taught, “Repent one day before your death.” His disciples asked him, “But does a man know on what day he will die?” “That is exactly the point!” he replied. “Let a man repent today lest he die tomorrow, and in this way he will live all his days in repentance.”

 

An insightful country song includes a powerful chorus, “Someday I hope you get the chance to live like you were dying.”  The people of Hawaii had that chance last week.  We don’t need to wait to get an urgent alert.  Ask yourself what you would do with minutes to live and then don’t wait, do it right now.

 

Leo Tolstoy, the famous Russian writer, once said, “Everybody wants to change this world; nobody wants to change themselves.” I disagree. I think we do want to change. We want to become the people we were meant to be, the people we are capable of being. Many of us just don’t know how.

Every year, data shows that the biggest spike in gym memberships occurs in the second week of January. With the (Gregorian) New Year comes resolutions and by far the most popular is to get in shape. However, statistics show that by the second week of February, almost 80% of new gym members stop coming.

 

It isn’t just weight loss or exercise. While 45% of Americans make New Year’s resolutions, only 10% are successful at keeping them and meeting their goals.

 

Rabbi Yehudah Halevi writes in one of his poems: “The world at large is a prison and every man is a prisoner.” We often feel trapped, confined by the self-imposed limitations we set on ourselves or by the habits, practices and behaviors that we think we cannot break out of or change. According to the Society for Personality and Social Psychology, as many as 40% of our daily activities are driven by habit.

 

Will we be late or on time, will we get angry or keep our cool, will we eat healthy or let ourselves go, will we be distracted by technology or disconnect, will we say a blessing with intention before we eat or when we come out of the bathroom, say it in a meaningless way, or not say it at all – all of these and many more have been programmed into our daily lives such that we are practically on autopilot. We feel imprisoned and trapped by the habits we have formed and the momentum that carries our lives forward.

 

Rav Kalonymus Kalman Shapira, hy”d, also known as the Piaseczno Rebbe, was a Chassidic Rebbe in Poland who served as the Rabbi of the Warsaw Ghetto and, after surviving the uprising, was later shot dead by the Nazis in the Trawniki labor camp. He had such incredible human insight and advice, you may have thought he was trained as a psychologist or motivational speaker.

 

In his spiritual diary called Tzav V’Ziruz he has the following entry:

 

If you want to know if you you’ve progressed on your spiritual path over the years, the way to judge is to look at your resolution – at your inner drive – and not at your wishes. Only the inner drive with which you work to attain your desired goal is called resolution. But if you don’t work but rather just want, this is not called resolution. It is just some wish that you wish for yourself to be blessed with that desired objective. For example, the pauper who works to sustain himself, this is a drive, because he is doing something constructive toward it. But the wish that he’ll find a million dollars is just a wish to be rich and not a resolution. Every Jew would like to be a tzadik (righteous person), but this is no more than a wish; he’d like to wake up in the morning and suddenly find himself a tzadik. Only the level and state of being that you seriously work toward can truly be called a resolution.

 

The secret to real change, says the Rebbe, is to be honest with ourselves and to distinguish between our wishes and actually making resolutions. There are countless things we claim to want to change about ourselves. We want to eat more healthy, be more patient, spend more time with our children, find time to volunteer, to learn Torah daily, go to shul more often, do acts of kindness, stop speaking gossip, and so on.

 

We claim to want to do them, but the truth is they are just wishes. We wish to wake up one morning, as the Rebbe said, and find ourselves suddenly doing those things or living that way. Stop wishing and to start making real resolutions. Personal growth is the result of making a plan, spelling it out and holding ourselves accountable to keeping to it.

 

When you make a resolution, when you formulate a plan, you need to know where the pitfalls lie and what is likely to try to knock you off your course. A plan, a resolution, has to be articulated to be serious. We can put it down on paper, set it as a reminder in our phone, or simply repeat it out loud to ourselves over and over but it isn’t real, it is just a wish, not a resolution, unless it is formally verbalized, articulated, or recorded in a way that will make us more likely to follow through.

 

I recommend an app called Strides that allows you to track your goals and habits in areas from reading, budget, sleep, exercise, or even flossing. You set your goal and the app sends regular alerts and reminders and tracks your progress, holding you accountable by having to confront real data and facts.

 

Leadership expert Robin Sharma once said, “Don’t live the same year 75 times and call it a life.” Don’t articulate the same wishes year after year and call them resolutions. Make this your year, by articulating and implementing a plan.

 

It was the day of Avraham’s funeral and Yaakov was preparing lentil soup for his mourning father Yitzchak.  Esav came in from the field and he was hungry and tired.  We all know the story – Esav sold the birthright for a bowl of soup.

 

Our Rabbis (Bava Basra 16) teach us that on that day, Esav violated no fewer than five separate transgressions, including degrading his birthright. This one requires some investigation. What exactly was the transgression of selling the birthright?  Was Esav ever warned not to relinquish his firstborn status?  What was so wrong with this action that it is grouped with an act of murder and denial of God’s existence, two of the other transgressions he violated that day?

 

Rashi tells us that the birthright Esav inherited positioned him to serve the Almighty in a special way. Esav was given the option to participate in the divine covenant.  Had he not sold the right of the firstborn, Rabbi Soloveitchik explains, Esav would have been entitled to the same destiny that God bestowed upon Yaakov.  But Esav had no interest in this role or in the privilege of being charged with a sacred mission.  Yaakov didn’t dupe him into selling his birthright.  He wasn’t tricked, fooled or pressured.  Esav sold his birthright because he simply didn’t value it, he didn’t cherish it, and ultimately, he didn’t even want it.

 

The Ramban suggests – if you want to know what Esav truly thought about his birthright and the honor to carry the legacy of his father and grandfather, just look at what he does right after he sells it.  The pasuk says, va’yochal, va’yeisht, va’yakam, va’yeilech, va’yivez, he ate, he drank, he got up, he went and he dishonored the birthright.  The Ramban highlights the order in the Pasuk: It doesn’t say he denigrated the birthright when it was sold.  Rather, Esav sold the birthright, and proceeded to immediately to eat, drink and get up and go and only then, va’yivez, he displayed great disregard for the birthright.

 

There are times a person must forfeit something of incredible value.  Sometimes, a person brings their great grandmother’s jewelry or precious item to a pawn shop because they desperately need the money.  But, a person in that situation will reflexively grieve and feel sad over losing something so irreplaceable.  Esav didn’t grieve; he sold the birthright, and went to a party, had a drink, and didn’t look back.

 

Esav’s most egregious transgression was minimizing what the birthright meant to him, and how easily he went about normal life after giving it away.  He threw away a special relationship, a special mission and a special destiny, and he couldn’t care less.  He was casual and flippant with a prize possession.

 

That birthright, the privilege of being a member of Klal Yisroel, of being a participant of the am ha’nivchar, a full member of the covenantal community and being charged with a sacred mission, is something many of our ancestors risked and gave their lives for.  We are the offspring and the progeny of Yaakov, not Esav.  The birthright, a symbol of Jewish values and Torah, is precious to us and of inestimable value.  If we didn’t have it, we would trade everything in the world, least of all a bowl of lentil soup to get a share of it.

 

And because our birthright, which importantly includes the teachings and traditions of Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov, is so precious and dear to us, it must be accessible and available to every member of the Jewish people. Torah, Jewish values, and the Jewish community are the right of every man, woman and child, irrespective of social status, economic status, level of learning, background, or level of observance. Every single Jew deserves access to his or her birthright.  Every single Jew, no matter his or her ability or disability, no matter his or her special needs, is entitled to access to, and participation in, our collective birthright.

 

A man from Gateshead, England, once came to visit the Chazon Ish together with his young son, a boy with Down’s Syndrome.  When they walked in, the Chazon Ish rose from his chair. The startled father told the great not to rise on his account.  The Chazon Ish responded, “It is not in your honor that I have risen.  Rather, it is out of respect for your son, a boy who possesses one of the holiest souls of our generation.” (Ma’aseh Ish, 1:230)

 

These holiest souls with different potentials and roles to fill in this world have a birthright, and it is no less than anyone else’s.  BRS is proud of our recent efforts to be sensitive to the special needs population through our programming and activities.  On Simchas Torah, we hold a special Kol Ha’nearim for those who cannot participate in a large crowd.  We open the Parshas Noach event and the Purim Carnival early for those with sensitivities and we are now running a special-needs Shabbos morning group every Shabbos.

 

Rav Moshe Shapiro, a leading Torah scholar in Jerusalem, included the following in a letter he wrote to a student who became the father of a son with Downs Syndrome:

 

Since the birth of your son, I have believed that if, with God’s help, you will succeed in the challenge which was given to you, then you will have been presented with an incomparable gift. This child has within him the capability to accomplish that which nothing else in the world can do – to actualize wondrous and powerful energy latent in the recesses of your heart.

 

In his book, Echoes of the Maggid, Rabbi Paysach Krohn tells the story of a man who once delivered a speech at a Jewish school for kids with special needs.  After extolling the school and its dedicated staff he cried out, “Where is the perfection in my son Shaya? Everything God does is done with perfection. But my child cannot understand things as other children do. My child cannot remember facts and figures as other children do. Where is God’s perfection?”

 

The audience was shocked by the question, pained by the father’s anguish and stilled by the piercing query. “I believe,” the father answered, “that when God brings a child like this into the world the perfection that he seeks is in the way people react to this child.”

 

He then told the following story about his son Shaya:

 

One afternoon, Shaya and his father walked past a park where some boys whom Shaya knew were playing baseball. Shaya asked, “Do you think they will let me play?”

 

Shaya’s father knew that his son was not at all athletic and that most boys would not want him on their team. But Shaya’s father also understood that if his son was chosen to play it would give him a comfortable sense of belonging. Shaya’s father approached one of the boys in the field and asked if Shaya could play. The boy looked around for guidance from his team mates. Getting none, he took matters into his own hands and said “We are losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we’ll try to put him up to bat in the ninth inning.”

 

Shaya’s father was ecstatic as Shaya smiled broadly. Shaya was told to put on a glove and go out to play short center field. In the bottom of the eighth inning Shaya’s team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. In the bottom of the ninth inning Shaya’s team scored again and now, with two outs and the bases loaded with the potential winning run on base, Shaya was scheduled to be up. Would the team actually let Shaya bat at this juncture and give away their chance to win the game?

 

Surprisingly, Shaya was given the bat. Everyone knew that it was all but impossible because Shaya didn’t even know how to hold the bat properly, let alone hit with it.

 

However, as Shaya stepped up to the plate, the pitcher moved a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shaya should at least be able to make contact. The first pitch came and Shaya swung clumsily and missed. One of Shaya’s team mates came up to Shaya and together they held the bat and faced the pitcher waiting for the next pitch.

 

The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly toward Shaya. As the pitch came in, Shaya and his team mate swung at the ball and together they hit a slow ground ball to the pitcher. The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could easily have thrown the ball to the first baseman. Shaya would have been out and that would have ended the game.

 

Instead, the pitcher took the ball and threw it on a high arc to right field, far beyond reach of the first baseman. Everyone started yelling, “Shaya, run to first. Run to first.” Never in his life had Shaya run to first. He scampered down the baseline wide eyed and startled. By the time he reached first base the right fielder had the ball. He could have thrown the ball to the second baseman who would tag out the still-running Shaya.

 

But the right fielder understood what the pitcher’s intentions were so he threw the ball high and far over the third baseman’s head. Everyone yelled, “Run to second, run to second.” Shaya ran towards second base as the runners ahead of him deliriously circled the bases towards home. As Shaya reached second base the opposing short stop ran to him, turned him in the direction of third base and shouted, “Run to third.” As Shaya rounded third the boys from both teams ran behind him screaming, “Shaya run home.” Shaya ran home, stepped on home plate and all 18 boys lifted him on their shoulders and made him the hero as he had just hit a “grand slam” and won the game for his team.

 

“That day,” said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, “those 18 boys reached their level of God’s perfection.”

 

We stand to gain the most by being conscientiously inclusive.  Our children learn sensitivity, we grow in empathy, and the community becomes greater when we embrace the mission and practice of inclusiveness in all that we do.

 

The United States was hit by two disasters over the past two weeks.  One was natural, and the other was man-made.  One left devastating damage as the result of strong winds and hard rain, while the other left horrific damage resulting from hate and discrimination.  One caused hopelessness, while the other provides great reason to hope.

 

Texas, and the Houston community in particular, continues to reel from the devastating and historic flooding that resulted from Hurricane Harvey.  The loss of life, destruction of property, and displacement of people give tremendous reason for sadness and sorrow.  And yet, a sub-story of this disaster is how it has united a nation in the midst of experiencing distressing divide.  The whole country has not merely fixated its attention on the victims of Harvey as spectators, but has stepped up impressively to donate money, coordinate help, and plan for recovery efforts.  The images and videos of everyday people risking their lives to rescue others, and the stories of people opening their homes to take in now-homeless families, are not only heartwarming, but are great reason to maintain faith in the goodness of people and hope in the future of our great country.

 

While we certainly don’t welcome this hurricane, the sense of unity it has generated and the basic goodness and kindness in man that it has elicited could not come at a better time.  Just two weeks before Harvey made landfall, a tsunami of hate hit America when neo-Nazis and white supremacists rallied in Charlottesville resulting in violence and even death.  The president’s failure to unequivocally and categorically reject these extreme groups and their racist and anti-Semitic agenda without qualification or comparison to others was celebrated by those very groups as a victory.  While he later clarified his condemnation of these hate and extremist groups, the damage of the moral ambiguity of his initial response had been done and caused many to have grave concerns about a growing divide in America.

 

How can we heal from this sad and concerning episode?  What can we do to marginalize and ultimately eliminate these views?  How can we be hopeful when events make us feel hopeless?  We must examine our hearts and words for the presence of our own sense of supremacy over others and hate for those who are different than us.  Obviously, we must stand for and with those who are the targets and victims of hate.  But must we accept that there are hateful people, or is there a way to actually change the minds of those who hold these views and eliminate hate, be it grounded in race, religion, politics or no reason at all?

 

Derek Black was literally raised on hate.  His father, Don Black, was the founder of Stormfront, the internet’s largest white supremacist website, with over 300,000 users. His mother, Chloe, had previously been married to David Duke, who was Derek’s godfather.  As a young man, Derek launched a popular white nationalist website for children and quickly became a leader in the greater movement.  When he spoke at a white supremacist conference, he was introduced as “the leading light of our movement.”

 

When Derek enrolled in New College of Florida, a top-ranked liberal arts school, he kept his extremist views and KKK affiliation to himself, even while continuing to host his supremacist radio show.  One night in April 2011, a fellow student was Googling hate groups online when he came across Derek’s picture.  It didn’t take long for the word to get out and by the next semester he was a pariah.  Nobody would talk to him or even come near him and he avoided public places or events for fear of hostility given his views.

 

One of Derek’s acquaintances started reading Stormfront and listening to Derek’s radio show to get insight into Derek’s thinking.  Then he did something radical, unexpected, and uncomfortable.  He texted Derek, “What are you doing Friday night?” The classmate was Matthew Stevenson, the only Orthodox Jew in the school.  He hosted weekly Shabbos dinners in his campus apartment and decided to invite Derek.  Though he initially debated if it was a good idea, he decided if Derek is going to hate Jews, he might as well meet one and know more about them.

 

Derek accepted the invitation and arrived with a bottle of wine.  Nobody at the meal mentioned white nationalism or his involvement with its movement.  Derek enjoyed the meal and came back the next week and then the following one, until after a few months his fellow guests at the Shabbos meals became his friends.  Eventually, a strong enough relationship was built that the topic of his beliefs could come up.  Conversations ensued in which Derek’s beliefs were challenged in a respectful way.  His assertions were challenged by data, studies, evidence, and facts and one by one they were dismantled leaving Derek increasingly confused.  He stopped posting on Stormfront and gave up his radio show.  By his final year of college, he was taking classes in Jewish scripture and feeling totally disconnected to white nationalists and their beliefs.

 

After graduating, he decided to publicly disavow all that he had formally subscribed to and promoted, and he published a bold statement:

 

A large section of the community I grew up in believes strongly in white nationalism, and members of my family whom I respect greatly, particularly my father, have long been resolute advocates for that cause. I was not prepared to risk driving a wedge in those relationships. After a great deal of thought since then, I have resolved that it is in the best interests of everyone involved to be honest about my slow but steady disaffiliation from white nationalism. I can’t support a movement that tells me I can’t be a friend to whomever I wish or that other people’s races require me to think of them in a certain way or be suspicious at their advancements.  The things I have said as well as my actions have been harmful to people of color, people of Jewish descent, activists striving for opportunity and fairness for all. I am sorry for the damage done.

 

When his father saw the post the next day, he told Derek, “You have been hacked.”  Derek explained to his father that it was in fact real and was how he felt.  His father was in physical pain.  He felt betrayed.  Their relationship has been frayed and barely existent since then.  Derek went on to earn a Master’s degree and essentially build a new identity and life.  The young man who was once the heir to the mantle of leadership of the entire white supremacist movement became an outspoken opponent of racism, bigotry, anti-Semitism and hatred. How did it happen?  An invitation to a shabbos meal.

 

The Torah endorses loving people.  On the other hand, it condones hating those who are evil.  How do we reconcile these two imperatives?  Rav Shneur Zalman of Liadi, the founder of Chabad, writes in his Tanya (32): “It is a mitzvah to hate them, and it is a mitzvah to also love them. Both are true. You hate the yetzer hara, the evil inclination that’s in them, and you love the goodness that is concealed in them, which is a spark of Godliness.”

 

Perhaps the best way to persuade someone to abandon his beliefs is to reject only his beliefs but remain open to the Godliness and potential in him.  With the foundation of a relationship, genuine conversation can take place bringing with it the possibility of persuading someone to abandon or even reject what she had previously believed.

 

I am not suggesting we invite members of the KKK for a Shabbos meal or that a bowl of chulent and piece of potato kugel can solve the challenges of bigotry and hatred in this country and others.  But, perhaps we can learn from Derek Black’s story that people are capable of change and that we shouldn’t give up hope even when someone subscribe to beliefs we find repulsive and abhorrent.

 

While I wouldn’t recommend inviting neo-Nazis for a Shabbos meal, I strongly encourage you to invite into your home those in our own community with whom you disagree or even, God forbid, feel animus.  Never underestimate the power of a Shabbos meal to build a relationship, find common ground, and replace hatred with love.

 

Burt Reynolds describes an incident that occurred with him before he was a famous actor. He is in a bar minding his own business sipping on a beer. Two stools over sits a man with humongous upper body strength and broad shoulders. Out of nowhere, the guy starts harassing a man and a woman seated at a table nearby. Reynolds tells him to watch his language. That’s when the guy with the huge shoulders turns on Reynolds.

 

Reynolds describes: “I remember looking down and planting my right foot on this brass rail for leverage, and then I came around and caught him with a tremendous right to the side of the head. The punch made a ghastly sound and he just flew off the stool and landed on his back in the doorway, about 15 feet away. And it was while he was in mid-air that I saw . . . that he had no legs.” Only later, as Reynolds left the bar, did he notice the man’s wheelchair, which had been folded up and tucked next to the doorway.

 

Even though Reynolds was looking right at the man he hit, he didn’t see all that he needed to see.

 

Upon experiencing the miracle of the splitting of the sea, the Jewish people joyously sang, “Nachisa b’chasdecha am zu ga’alta. With Your kindness, You guided this people that You redeemed.” Nachisa, you led them with kindness, is in the past tense. Which kindness is it referring to? The simple understanding would be that Hashem performed the great miracles of the eser makos, the ten plagues and krias yam suf.

 

The Midrash (Tanna D’vei Eliyahu) gives an altogether different understanding. When the Jewish People were enslaved in Egypt, notes the Midrash, they felt the bleakness and hopelessness of the situation, so they assembled together as a group. During this meeting they made a commitment towards one another. They pledged that with whatever else was going on around them, no matter how bad it would get, they would practice gemillus chassadim, kindness and generosity with one another.

 

What precipitated this commitment? Why now? The Chafetz Chaim explains that when the people realized that they could not come up with a strategy to end the persecution and that the suffering under Pharaoh was only going to increase with each ensuing day, they decided among themselves that the only way to make things a bit better and hopefully to earn redemption from above would be to be kinder to one another. Writes the Chafetz Chaim definitively, “ha’davar ha’zeh hayah siba l’geulasam.” This kindness that they showed one another was the catalyst and cause for their salvation.

 

The Chafetz Chaim concludes, this is the meaning of our pasuk that we say every day: Nachisa b’chasdecha, you led us out with chesed. It was our performance of and predisposition towards chesed that caused You to lead us out. When we do chesed with one another, Hashem does chesed with us. This is the meaning of the pasuk from Yirmiyahu that we say on the yamim noraim: “Zacharti lach chesed n’urayich.” Hashem, you remember the chesed of our youth? What chesed did we do in our infancy? Says the Chafetz Chaim, this refers to chesed we did in Egypt, even in the harshest of circumstances when we had every reason to be self-centered and self-absorbed.

 

Forty-five years ago, social psychologists Ned Jones and Victor Harris coined the phrase “fundamental attribution error” or “correspondence bias” to describe the phenomenon of people’s tendency to place an undue emphasis on internal characteristics to explain someone else’s behavior in a given situation, rather than considering external factors.

 

In other words, when we see someone behave in a certain way, we reach conclusions about their internal personality rather than ascribe the behavior to outside factors. When someone runs through a red light we assume they are reckless instead of considering that they are driving someone to the hospital in an emergency. If we see someone kick a vending machine we assume they have anger problems whereas if we kick the machine it is because our snack got stuck. If someone is impatient in the line at the drug store we label her nasty instead of realizing she is a considerate person rushing to get home with the medicine for her sick, miserable child. When other people’s cell phones ring during davening, it’s because they are inconsiderate boors. If my cell phone rings, it’s because I’m a conscientious person who needs to be able to get a call from those who rely on me.

 

Harvard psychologist Daniel Gilbert explained it this way, “…in everyday life people seem all too willing to take each other at face value and all too reluctant to search for alternative explanations for each other’s behavior.”

 

To put it most simply, we fail to cut each other slack. We tend to look for the worst in others, to be easy to anger or to be insulted, rather than give people the benefit of the doubt and to recognize that there may be something else going on that we don’t know.

 

Ian Maclaren, the 19^th-century Scottish author once said, “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.” Cutting slack, giving the benefit of the doubt, is a chesed, is kindness that absolutely every one of us can do.

 

Someone didn’t invite you back, or respond to your text, or say hello when passing you in the supermarket. Don’t assume the worst. With friends, co-workers, and even family members—make an effort to remind yourself that almost everyone is fighting a battle you likely know nothing about.

 

If we want Hashem to interact with us with chesed, to give us the benefit of the doubt, and to cut us some slack, we need to do the same for others. Don’t ever even metaphorically punch someone because even when you are looking him or her in the eye, there is likely much you don’t see.

 

Michael Jordan, a man associated with success in his field as much as anyone alive, famously said, “I’ve missed more than 9,000 shots in my career, I’ve lost almost 300 games. Twenty-six times I’ve been trusted to take the game-winning shot and missed. I’ve failed over and over and over in my life. And that is why I succeed.” The six-time NBA champion, five-time MVP, and certified athletic legend… attributes all his success to his failures.

 

Did you ever wonder what happened to the broken luchos?  Were they kept? Were they thrown out?  Where are the broken tablets today?

 

When Moshe descends to find the people passionately and enthusiastically worshiping the Eigel, he instinctively and intuitively throws down the luchos and smashes them into pieces.  Note that Hashem didn’t instruct Moshe to break the luchos, he did it on his own.  These luchos were no small matter; they were the handiwork of the Almighty.  They were a miraculous expression of divine intervention; for example, the letters samech and mem had insides that supernaturally remained suspended in air.

 

God fashioned these tablets and Moshe—in one motion, in a fit of rage—destroys them.  I can only imagine the millisecond of silence when Moshe realizes exactly what he has done and is waiting to see how God will react.  However, we have a tradition that Hashem tells Moshe yasher ko’ach she’shibarta.  Indeed, this is the origin of the expression “yasher ko’ach.”  God gives his consent.  But what happens next?  Did he get a broom and sweep them up?  Does he step over the shattered pieces to descend further to rebuke the people?  The Torah never tells us what happened to the luchos but the Gemara does.

 

The Gemara in Berachos and Bava Basra says “luchos v’shivrei luchos munachin ba’aron,”  in fact, the broken, shattered pieces were gathered, collected, and carefully placed in the aron to sit right next to the whole, complete, second set of tablets.

 

Why were the broken tablets kept?  Why not discard them?  After all, they serve no purpose and have been replaced by new ones?  The real estate of the ark is precious, why take up room with this seemingly superfluous item?

 

In 1962, four nervous young musicians played their first record audition for the executives of the Decca Recording company. The executives were not impressed. While turning down this group of musicians, one executive said, “We don’t like their sound. Groups with guitars are on the way out.” That group was called The Beatles.  In 1954, Jimmy Denny, manager of the Grand Ole Opry fired a singer after one performance. He told him, “You ain’t goin’ nowhere son. You ought to go back to drivin’ a truck.” He didn’t go back to driving a truck; instead, Elvis Presley went on to become the most popular singer in America.

 

What is the message of the chet ha’eigel?  Why does it play such a prominent role for us in the Torah and even in ritual life?  Why is this the passage we read on fast days?  The Gemara in Avodah Zarah tells us explicitly that the story occurred and is studied to teach of the possibility and power of teshuva.  While we mostly focus and concentrate on how and why they could have worshiped an eigel, I think instead it is worth examining how the Jews recovered from such a massive, collective failure.  The lesson of the eigel is not that they made a mistake, that they failed.  The lesson is seen through their will, determination and resolve to pick up the pieces, literally and figuratively, and to succeed.

 

Indeed, Shelomo Hamelech tells us in Mishlei that sheva yipol tzadik v’kam, seven times a tzadik falls and gets up.  The commentaries explain that the tzadik analyzes and studies his failures and failings and when he gets up he emerges a tzadik by correcting his mistakes.  The essence of the tzaddik’s rising again is directly by way of his seven falls, whereas a rasha just falls deeper and deeper.

 

Luchos v’shivrei luchos munachim ba’aron.  The broken pieces are saved to remind us that our failures and mistakes are not to be discarded, eliminated, and forgotten from our memories.  We can only succeed when we remember the broken experiences and use the lessons learned as springboards to success.

 

When Thomas Edison invented the light bulb, he tried over 2,000 experiments before he got it to work. A young reporter asked him how it felt to fail so many times. He responded, “I never failed once. I invented the light bulb. It just happened to be a 2000-step process.” Our failures, our broken luchos, are steps to a process of success.

 

Rabbi Yitzchok Hutner wrote a beautiful letter to a student who was very discouraged:

 

A failing many of us suffer from is that when we consider the aspects of perfection of our sages, we focus on the ultimate level of their attainments, while omitting mention of the inner struggles that had previously raged within them. A listener would get the impression that these individuals came out of the hand of their Creator in full-blown form.  Everyone is awed at the purity of speech of the Chofetz Chaim, z.t.l., considering it a miraculous phenomenon. But who knows of the battles, struggles and obstacles, the slumps and regressions that the Chofetz Chaim encountered in his war with the yetzer hara (evil inclination)? There are many such examples, to which a discerning individual such as yourself can certainly apply the rule.  The English expression, ‘Lose a battle and win a war’ applies. Certainly you have stumbled, and will stumble and in many battles you will fall lame. I promise you, though, that after those losing campaigns you will emerge from the war with the laurels of victory upon your head. Lose battles but win wars.

 

Our challenge in life is not to be perfect. That is unattainable and, according to Shlomo Hamelech, it is in some way undesirable, for one cannot become a tzadik without falling.  The challenge is to carry both sets of luchos with us, to take pride in our successes and seek to repeat them and to recall and learn from our failures and be determined to transcend them.

 

In his article “The ‘Busy’ Trap,” Tim Kreide writes:

 

If you live in America in the 21st century you’ve probably had to listen to a lot of people tell you how busy they are. It’s become the default response when you ask anyone how they’re doing: “Busy!” “So busy.” “Crazy busy.” It is, pretty obviously, a boast disguised as a complaint. And the stock response is a kind of congratulation: “That’s a good problem to have,” or “Better than the opposite.”

 

Look around and you’ll notice it isn’t generally people pulling back-to-back shifts in the I.C.U. or commuting by bus to three minimum-wage jobs who tell you how busy they are; what those people are is not busy but tired. Exhausted. Dead on their feet. It’s almost always people whose lamented busyness is purely self-imposed: work and obligations they’ve taken on voluntarily, classes and activities they’ve “encouraged” their kids to participate in. They’re busy because of their own ambition or drive or anxiety, because they’re addicted to busyness and dread what they might have to face in its absence.

 

Busyness is an epidemic and it is wreaking harm and havoc on our emotional, mental, and physical well-being and compromising our relationships.  Activities and experiences we claim to value and prioritize sit on the back burner because of our self-perceived busyness.  Hillel warned of this when he taught (Pirkei Avos 2:5), “al tomar l’chesha’ipaneh eshneh, shema lo tipaneh, don’t say ‘when I have free time I will learn’, for you may never have free time.”  The simple understanding is that we cannot predict the length of our lives and if we procrastinate and delay we may never in fact get to what we claim are our goals.

 

However, perhaps Hillel is warning us that the issue is not the unpredictability of the future, but rather just how predictable it is if we can’t master our sense of busyness.  Shema lo tipaneh, perhaps your addiction to busyness will deny you free time to ever do what you say you will someday do.

 

There is a fascinating law regarding the writing of a Torah scroll.  The Talmud (Menachos 29a) mandates that “kol os she’ein gvil mukaf mei’arbah ruchoseha pesula.  If a letter is not entirely surrounded by parchment on all sides the Torah is invalid.”  In other words, if letters run into one another with no break, the Torah is not kosher.  Why do the letters’ borders matter?

 

Have you ever read a book whose sentences begin on one edge of the page and extend all the way to the other edge?  Books are not published that way because if the entire page is covered in ink, the book is unreadable.  Instead, books have margins, white space in the columns and in between paragraphs.  The white space not only provides a prettier, more readable layout, but provides the room to absorb, contemplate, and assimilate what is being read.

 

Rav Kook explains (Shemuot HaRe’iyah IV) that when the medrash describes the Torah as having been given with black fire and white fire, it means the words have meaning, but the blank spaces and margins, the room to absorb, are also critically important.  He writes, “We can deepen our understanding of the white and black fires by considering another example of white space in the Torah. Extra space is left blank to separate sections of the Torah. The Sages explained that these separations allowed Moshe to reflect upon and absorb the previous lesson. In other words, the white fire corresponds to the loftier realm of thought and contemplation. The black fire of the letters, on the other hand, is the revelation of intellect into the realm of language — a contraction and limitation of abstract thought into the more concrete level of speech.”

 

In his book “Margin: Restoring Emotional, Physical, Financial, and Time Reserves to Overloaded Lives,” Richard Swenson, M.D. writes:

 

Margin is the space between our loath and our limits. It is the amount allowed beyond that which is needed. It is something held in reserve for contingencies or unanticipated situations. Margin is the gap between rest and exhaustion, the space between breathing freely and suffocating…

 

If we were equipped with a flashing light to indicate “100 percent full,” we could better gauge our capacities. But we don’t have such an indicator light, and we don’t know when we have overextended until we feel the pain. As a result, many people commit to a 120 percent life and wonder why the burden feels so heavy. It is rare to see a life prescheduled to only 80 percent, leaving a margin for responding to the unexpected that God sends our way.

 

Perhaps building margin into our lives to think, contemplate, and absorb is also a message of Chanukah.  After lighting the menorah, we sing “ein lanu reshus l’histameish bahem elah lirosam bilvad, we have no permission to make use of them but only to see them.”  It is forbidden to use the light of the Chanukah candles to engage in activity.  The power of the Chanukah candles is not that they provide light to increase our busyness.  Rather, we are to interrupt our busyness each evening for eight days, sit next to the glowing candles and reflect.

 

Women have developed a custom not to do work in the home while the candles are burning.  The Mishna Berura writes that many men have the custom as well.  The light of the menorah reminds us to interrupt the constant activity and to take a break from work to reflect, contemplate and grow.  The crazy busy person never pauses to see the blessing that is before them all along.

 

When you light the menorah this year, use the mandated idle time basking in its light to make a commitment to break the cycle of busyness and build more margin into your life all year long.