Divrei Rosh Hashanah
A Day of Chesed
In
September of 2003, the long-awaited National Jewish Population Survey was
released. It contained few surprises. From 1990 to 2000, American Jewry
continued on its decadent spiral. Intermarriage and assimilation rates grew, the
median Jewish age rose a full five years, and the Jewish birthrate stayed lower
than that of the general population. In short, we are witnessing a living proof
of the “fruit and shell” theory of history, as proposed by HaRav Yehuda HaLevi
zt”l in Kuzari. In essence, just as peeling off the shell of a nut reveals a
fruit; over time, entire sectors of the Jewish people disappear among the
nations. Four-fifths were left behind in the purifying iron furnace of Mitzrayim;
later, ten wayward tribes were lost; and today, we try to save whomever we can.
Every Rosh Hashanah, however, we witness a great statistic-defying awakening. Out of nowhere, millions of Jews suddenly appear. Like dry bones coming to life, they troop into usually-deserted synagogues, temples, high-school gyms, college lecture halls, and hotel banquet rooms, joining us for the Yomim Norayim.
What are they doing here, of all days? Rosh Hashanah is the Day of Judgment; no one calls it “just plain fun.” If you asked these Jews why they came to shul, they would give a variety of responses, but none that answer this question.
In fact, we would expect these otherwise lost Jews to join us on days that jibe more with their own tastes. Intellectuals should be pulling all-nighters on Shavuos; the more outdoorsy should be setting up hi-tech succos on Mount Everest; and stand-up comedians should be broadcasting their Purim-shpiels via satellite and streaming video. Yet here they are. What is going on?
HaRav Shimshon Dovid Pincus zt”l explains that Hashem implanted an incredible power of chesed into these days. Olam chesed yibaneh, the world is built upon chesed; on this day, nearly six eons ago, He created humanity, the crown jewel of His infinite mighty universe. Hayom haras olam: on this day, an anniversary of that great moment, that permeating force of chesed speaks to even the most alienated souls who awake and open their hearts and minds to receive Hashem’s kindness. This chesed is no mere echo; the commentators explain that every Rosh Hashanah, Hashem literally recreates His creations. The world around us may appear the same as it did yesterday, but we are not fooled; it is as pristine, as full of potential, as it was on the day Adam and Chava first opened their eyes.
Chesed is even found
within the din, the judgment, of Rosh Hashanah. On the Sixth Day, the very day
that Adam and Chava were created, they ate from the Aitz HaDa’as. They had been
warned, and the law was clearly spelled out: “For on the day you eat of it [the
Aitz HaDa’as], you will surely die.” (Beraishis 2:17) HaShem could have thrown
the book at them, so to speak, and executed them on the spot. Instead, He took
the path of chesed: He understood the “day” as a thousand years, (Tehillim 90:4)
altered His universe to accommodate death in this world, and the grand galactic
symphony continued
Today, as well, within Hashem’s judgment, there is chesed. The world around us likes to define life in terms of “rights” (e.g. the rights of the mother versus the rights of the unborn baby). We, however, know that every moment of life, pleasurable or painful, comes as a privilege, a chesed, from Hashem, Who showers us with unlimited blessings.
On this day, we look to
Hashem to express His endless chesed. May He do so by inscribing us in the Book
of Life.
Your Deeds are Forever
One important principle
of Rosh Hashanah is to realize that our every action has a permanence, both in
this world and in the next. Chazal tell us that had Reuven known that his deeds
would be written down, he would not merely have attempted to save Yosef, but
would have carried him upon his shoulders to Yaakov, their father.
It is often difficult to imagine that invisible hand writing down our every move. Sometimes, though, we receive a sharp reminder.
Several summers ago, during that slow period between camp and school, we undertook the time-honored minhag of a family vacation. By strict definition, of course, such a trip cannot remain local, so we piled ourselves and the kids into the trusty-rusty minivan and headed south on Interstate 95.
Upon approaching Washington D.C., we veered west onto I-495 and soon crossed the Great Falls of the Potomac River into Virginia. When the highway turned south, we took I-66 further west. After the last sign for Dulles airport had whizzed past, we saw markers noting that one Civil War battle after another – Manassas, Bull Run -- had been fought nearby. “If these low hills could talk . . .” I thought.
As the terrain became less and less level, the ground seemed to undulate under us, and we saw ahead of us enormous dark shapes of mountains, like mirages in the distance. The old town of Front Royal (host to a battle with the same name) drew near, and we began to look for signs of our destination. One of the kids saw it first: “Shenandoah National Park.” Excitedly, we turned off the interstate, paid the nominal entrance fee, and began the ascent onto Skyline Drive, the park’s feature attraction.
During the Great Depression, President Roosevelt had founded the Civilian Conservation Corps as part of his New Deal. The CCC’s goal was to take unemployed youth off city streets by giving them large worthwhile public works to build. Skyline Drive, a 105-mile roadway that carved its way on top of the Blue Ridge mountain range, was the CCC’s first flagship project. Living a military-style life, the boys built the road, several entire resorts and lodges, many camping grounds, over seventy-five scenic overlooks of the Piedmont Valley, and endless hiking trails. So successful were they, and so popular did Skyline Drive become, that it was extended for another 469 miles, ending in the blue haze of the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, six thousand feet above sea level. While we did not expect to get too far, we were excited. White-tailed deer were reputed to be plentiful, and there was hope (and fear) that we might spot a black bear.
As our ears began to pop from the altitude, we drove along, searching for scenic overlooks. The first few views, facing west, were breathtaking, for ridgelines of mountains seemed to pile on top of one other, all the way to the West Virginia border. As the newness wore off, we looked forward to our first hiking trail, nearly thirty slow country miles down the Drive, which carries a constant thirty-five mile an hour speed limit.
Searching for a different vista, I decided to try an overlook on the east side of the road. One looked promising; other people stood there already; maybe they could see the Washington Monument. I pulled off the road, and everyone jumped out.
As we looked over the mountainside, a wiry man in his sixties stared at us. Wondering what was going on, I stared back. There didn’t seem to be anything unusual about him. Clad in worn hiking gear, he was sitting next to his huge nylon Appalachian-trail backpack. “I hope I’m that spry when I reach his age,” I thought.
Suddenly, he spoke to me.
"Where are you from?"
"Baltimore," I warily answered.
"Did you know Rabbi Mandelbaum?" *
"Uh . . . yes?"
The guardedness came down; he smiled and addressed me as an old friend. "Let me tell you about that rabbi.
“Some years ago, we sent our daughter to Cornell University, up in New York. She went through this religious phase (I could tell that he had not been enthusiastic about it) started dressing in skirts, and all that. One year, my wife and I are driving her and all her stuff back home to Virginia, when a truck bumps into our car, so we’re left, stuck by the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. My daughter gets out of the car and starts saying her prayers out of a little book.
“Well, this Rabbi Mandelbaum, who's driving with his wife and baby daughter, sees her, pulls over, and offers us all a ride to the nearest service station. When they can’t repair our car on the spot, Rabbi Mandelbaum then rents a U-haul trailer, drives back, picks up all our luggage, and takes all of us south to Baltimore. He then offers to drive us all the way to Virginia, but we managed to contact friends in Baltimore, who picked us up from his home.”
For a long time afterwards, we kept in contact with their family. In fact, my wife spoke to his wife just a few months ago."
I stood there, openmouthed. Finally, I couldn't help asking, "And your daughter?"
"Her? Oh, she's teaching in California now. She's still keeping mitzvos."
I looked out, over the huge green-and-mist mountains, and thought, "These will end, but one man's kindness will last forever."
Rabbi Yehudah Naftali Mandelbaum zt”l was an eighth-grade rebbe in Baltimore who was as well-known for his maasim tovim as for his chochmoh.
Cicadas
Every seventeen years, a bizarre phenomenon arrives in certain parts of the United States. Cicadas, large red-eyed bugs, make a brief, yet unforgettable, appearance. With every appearance, much speculation (usually occurring in shul lobbies) is made as to the message that Hashem is sending us, so loud and so clear. Certainly they are a tiny hint to the power of macas arbeh in Mitzrayim; certainly they are an amazing demonstration of niflaos haBoreh. Still, on a simple level, these filthy bugs have dug holes in our yards, disgusted us by clinging to our trees and molting on them, deafened us with their incessant chirping, and nauseated us with their fetid odor as they die and putrefy. No one can forget the foul thwap of being hit by a clumsy flying bug. Why so graphic a show?
A closer look will reveal that the cicadas are not distributed evenly; in general, the less recently the earth has been worked in a given area, the more cicadas have risen there. Before houses were built in the Jewish part of Baltimore, much of this area was forested; when the developers came, they cut down most of the trees and turned over the ground, effectively killing off any cicadas in those areas. Untouched areas have kept their cicadas (some of which, upon arising, have flown to newer areas that, if not worked again, also kept them).
Maybe Hashem is reminding us of a missed opportunity in avodas Hashem. The areas that have been worked are free and open for our use. The areas that have lain unused are now temporarily unusable. Likewise, when a Jew does not take advantage of the myriad spiritual opportunities that Hashem has given him, not only does he not produce results, but he actually spiritually decays and perishes.