From the Rabbi
Rabbi Robert L. Wolkoff
Previous Messages
“Fifty Shades of Light”
Recently, I was privileged to be invited to the 11th annual Congressional bipartisan Hanukkah celebration at the Library of Congress. I met our Congressman, Lee Zeldin, and Congresswoman Debbie Wasserman Schultz, who mutually hosted. I also met again a colleague and a Jewish Theological Seminary graduate, Chaplain (Col.) Rabbi Larry Bazar, who gave the benediction. When I arrived, the senators were discussing the impeachment deliberations, this celebration, and the lighting of the Chanukia celebration at the White House. This was a reminder of the necessity to take a break from the festival of darkness and celebrate the Festival of Lights. As the people came into the room, they looked at each other somewhat “suspectfully” in an effort to ascertain each one’s political affiliation. It reminded me of a wedding, where guests were on the side of either the bride or the groom. But conversations immediately arose, vibrant and friendly, even in this contentious time. This is the beauty. The Torah commands us never to keep our anger or even our hate buried in our hearts: “You must not harbor hatred against your brother in your heart. Directly rebuke your neighbor, so that you will not experience guilt on account of him. (Lev. 19:17) In the shortest days of the year, we also read about the darkest text in the Torah — the selling of Joseph by his brothers. This was a culmination of a process that began with envy and jealousy and the inability to speak to him. Keeping anger and hate inside resulted in throwing Joseph into a dark pit. Our rabbis teach us that keeping our anger buried is equivalent to keeping Joseph in the pit, in the dark. Hanukkah is a celebration of outward light, publicizing the miracle. Perhaps when we say, “Blessed are You, the Lord our God, King of the universe, Who made miracles for our forefathers, in those days at this season,” we as Jews come together in the darkest hours and overcome our differences. While the ancient Greeks enlightened the world with art, philosophy and science, it was reserved for the intellectual realms. But for Jews, the heart is indispensable to our world view. Jews have always been battling to maintain the spiritual light within any oppressive environment. Even for a minute, the bipartisan Hanukkah celebration brought Joseph out of the pit.
In a time when it seems as though anti-Semitism is rampant, keeping the conversation going is essential. It may not be a total solution to anti-Semitism, but I believe that it can influence the greater conversation by example. The Jewish people have survived physical, spiritual, mental, and religious persecution; we must advance this message of continuous conversation — to have faith in a God we can’t see, but who speaks to us all the time. The menorah, one of the most Jewish and outward symbols, of our faith, represents our community, our identity, and our continuity. The battle of Hanukkah protected monotheism in the world, not just for Jews. John Adams, the second U.S. President (1735-1826), wrote to those who look down on Judaism: “Let the wits joke; the philosophers sneer! What then? It has pleased the provident that Abraham should give religion, not only to the Hebrews, but to the greatest part of the modern civilized world.” Mark Twain (1835-1910) wrote “[The Jew] has made a marvelous fight in this world in all ages; and has done it with his hands tied behind him… All things are mortal but the Jew; all other forces pass, but he remains. What is the secret of his immortality?” The answer is light in the home — Ner Ish uVeito — each home and its light. In the beginning of 2020, let’s try to see one another clearly, and to appreciate our different shades of light. Happy New Year 2020!
—Rabbi Gadi Capela
“Happy Thanksgiving in Yiddish”
A few days ago, I went to see the Yiddish version of “Fiddler on the Roof,” now playing off-Broadway at Stage 42. Last year, I saw the Broadway version in English. The story is the same, of course, but the flavor is very different. While the English version was riveting and entertaining, the Yiddish authenticity, sprinkled with Hebrew words and Torah verses, invoked in me deeper feelings. I actually could see my own ancestors in Tevye and his family.
In choosing the name of Tevye — meaning in Hebrew “the goodness of God” — Sholem Aleichem seems to be sending us a message that despite this family’s frequent desperation, they somehow are still hopeful and thankful. Being religious is being hopeful. When things don’t seem to be good, we should keep up the conversation with God, hold ourselves back from quitting, thankful for what we have. Sholem Aleichem highlights the process of acceptance — equality — in a way, even with the goyim.
Living under constant ominous warning and fear that the Russian Cossacks are coming to destroy their village, life seems as unstable to the villagers of Anatevka as a fiddler on a roof. The Tevye in us who still believes in the goodness of God practices self-control that is backed by tradition. Those moments when tradition may be morphing in front of our eyes is still the tree of life to those who hold onto it. Those are moments not just of wearing the Star of David but of being the Star of David.
One of the glaring differences between the two productions — the English and the Yiddish — is the personal authenticity. Throughout the play, the word “Torah” is written in Hebrew in gigantic black letters in the middle of the set. Yet, there was a scene when one of the Cossacks tears the panel where the word Torah is written. At that moment, the tear was felt through the audience. The cut was even deeper than in the last scene when Tevye and the villagers are given only three days to abandon their homes, to pack up generations of their lives in a suitcase. The message is clear — in adversity, we need to pick up and start again. The Torah sign is stitched together and the journey continues.
It stands to reason that if we keep taking our homes with us where we go, we will eventually find our place — a place without violence, a place of peace.
On this Thanksgiving, let us give thanks for where we are and what we have.
—Rabbi Gadi Capela
“What Do You Stand For?”
“If you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything,” said Alexander Hamilton. Every year that we stand before God to give an accounting for the previous year, we also make a promise for the following year. But what do we stand for? Let us pose a simple question: Did we fulfill our obligations in respect to ourselves, and our obligation to participate in the fate of our people? Let us be honest. It’s hard to know what we could have accomplished had we been more active, had we raised our voices and shaken worlds. Many times, we choose to be silent.
“You are standing this day all of you before the Lord your God, Your leaders, tribal heads, elders, and policemen, every person in Israel … from the hewers of your wood to the drawers of your water” (Deuteronomy 29:9-10). The Alshech, a prominent Medieval rabbi and commentator, points out that this directive does not begin with the words, “Moses commanded the people…” to mean that it came directly from God and that we are accountable directly to God. This is the only way to connect to the sense of nationhood, the notion of the experience of shared fate, and the essence of peoplehood.
We all stand before God’s seat of judgment charged with “You shall not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor” (Leviticus 19:16), especially when it applies not only to one individual but to the community. This also applies to members of rabbinic and lay organizations, religious and secular, and Jewish political organizations of all persuasions.
Just before the close of the year, we lost our elder, Aaron Novick, who stood for something. He was a 97-year-old WWII veteran, who did not stand idly by. He fought for his belief. He always rose to the occasion, and did not acquit himself from the community and the collective consciousness of shared fate, shared suffering, and shared action. Even after many health complications, he kept fighting and kept coming back to shul every Shabbat — often arguing and questioning, always respectfully. The various times I visited him in the hospitals, he was always sure he would be discharged, and would return to his routine and to his dear wife, Thelma. And then he always came back to fulfill his obligation and stand with us in prayer. That is, until last Thursday, when he was not discharged from the hospital. Yet, in my eyes as a fellow veteran, he was very honorably discharged. I salute Aaron. I will miss him and cherish his spirit forever.
Please come and stand with us in prayer in 5780.
Shanna Tova!
—Rabbi Gadi Capela
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