Rabbi Yochanan and Resh Lakish are two of the greatest sparring partners in the Talmud. The story of their meeting and later falling out contains an unlooked-for treasure on the subject of moral responsibility.
Do we tithe produce grown in a greenhouse? According to Rav Ish-Shalom, the answer has something to teach us about parenting.
There is something transcendent in this act of forgiveness. Something that speaks to us of human greatness. This is especially true in the case of one who has just been grievously wronged by a person motivated by pure hatred. Such is the case of the Charleston shooting victims who forgave the killer of their loved ones.
And yet, do we really have the right to forgive one who has wronged us, but is unrepentant? And do we have the right to forgive one who wronged someone else? The answer given by Jewish tradition is “No”. There are situations when one is not allowed to forgive—not only not obligated, but not allowed!
Why have Christian countries not mounted rescue missions to airlift besieged Christians out of danger zones, as Israel did for the Yemenite, Iraqi, and Ethiopian Jewish communities?
In fact, this is the wrong question: solidarity movements like this are the exception, not the rule. The correct question is not why there is such a lack of Christian solidarity—but rather, why did such a movement arise among Jews?
The traditional Jewish emphasis on education has become a model for success in the information age. Now many countries are realizing that education is no longer necessary just to thrive, but to survive.
Against the backdrop of terraced hillsides covered with vineyards and thousand-year-old olive trees, over a thousand people of all ages and backgrounds come together every summer to learn Tanakh. Amid the everyday miracle that is Israel, a Jewish renaissance is underway. One of the many expressions of this revolution in Jewish learning is the annual Tanakh Study Days, a week-long celebration of the Tanakh in all its complexity. This year features some intriguing insights into the underlying purpose of the Shmittah year.
I suppose, it was inevitable: the strident calls for revenge. After all, do we not say “Hashem yikom damam”? Is this not a call for revenge? No, it is not! Rather, it is an affirmation in ultimate justice when it is needed most. Our traditions allow us—in fact, encourage us—to be ourselves, to be fully human. We aren’t required to be more than human, but we aren’t allowed to be less either.
How should we related to the unanswered prayers of an entire people? Perhaps an answer can be found in the fact that we base the order of the central prayer of our liturgy on a prayer that was not in fact granted.
We hear a great deal about the need to pull back from the precipice of assimilation, the need to halt the tide of intermarriage which threatens to engulf Jewish communities in the United States. But what we don’t hear much about is why. Why resist assimilation? Why not become absorbed into the body of human civilization the way countless other nations have done over the course of history? Why do we take it for granted that Jewish continuity is a good thing? Perhaps because we have an intuitive sense that the world needs us.
“By clinging to our names, our distinctive dress, and our language, we merited rescue from Egypt.”
The connection between these three things and the redemption from Egypt appears nowhere explicitly in our texts. On the other hand, the Chatam Sofer singled out these three behaviors as a recipe for maintaining our national identity. But why these particular things? And can we, after all, apply his filter to the Egyptian Exile?