“But it takes so little to help people, and people really do help each other, even people with very little themselves. And it’s not just about second chances. Most people deserve an endless number of chances.”
― Will Schwalbe, The End of Your Life Book Club
After nearly three
months of training, and raising nearly $6200 to help purchase an ambulance for
Magen David Adom in Memory of Daniella Moffson z”l, it’s race day!
I’m nervous. While I’ve
gone as far as 9.1 miles on one of my training run/walks, I haven’t run more than 4
miles straight. I know I’ll finish even if I have to walk the whole thing, but
there’s a three hour time limit. Who knows? If I don’t finish by then, maybe
race sponsor United Airlines will pick me up on the course, and stick me in the
overhead bin on the bus.
Before the race
We get to the starting
line at the Prospect Park Zoo and it’s freezing. How cold is it? The polar
bears at the zoo are shivering. The penguins have started to waddle south. I’m
wearing three shirts. A long sleeve running shirt, the flaming pink team shirt,
and an NCSY sweatshirt from Vancouver which I’m planning on ditching if it ever
A random guy comes over
and says “Shalom”. How does he know I’m Jewish? Could it be the beard? It’s
only later on when I see a picture my wife took after dropping us off, that I
realize my sweatshirt, which I haven't worn in ages, has a giant Jewish star on the back.
As I’m waiting to start
the race, I find myself wondering whether I’ll see anyone I know. Suddenly, a
Facebook friend dressed up as Ironman walks by. Little do I know that he is not
the last friend I’m going to see today.
We’re off! They say
failing to plan is planning to fail. I don’t know who they are, but I hope
they’re wrong. I’ve been so busy with so many things that I haven’t really
thought about what my approach should be out on the course, other than a
friend’s advice to walk the water stops. All I know is that the first mile is
downhill and ignoring everything I know about starting slowly, I let the
excitement of the race get to me, and I’m going too fast.
I see someone in an old
Camp Simcha sweatshirt. Deciding to do some bageling of my own, I say “Go Camp
Simcha!”. Only when the lady wearing it, who’s old enough to be my mother,
turns around and makes clear she doesn’t speak English, do I realize she
probably got the shirt without working in camp.
It’s starting to warm up
a bit. I ditch the sweatshirt. As I take it off, I notice my bib is torn by
several of the pin-holes. I don’t want to lose the bib, which contains the
timing chip. Let me tell you that re-pinning on a bib while running is not as
easy as it looks. Ouch!
We pass BAM, the
Brooklyn Academy of Music. I think back to a night, probably thirty years ago
when my mom ob”m dragged us to see South Pacific, in an attempt to culture us. I'm not uncultured but all I remember from that night was a bunch of singing sailors/
We approach the
Manhattan Bridge. Having barely trained on any hills, I decide to walk. As I
do, I start cheering fellow runners who are running with Jewish teams, wearing
shirts for the always inspiring Team Achilles, or wearing shirts marking them
as survivors. As I get to the top, there are a couple of NYPD officers standing
near their motorcycles. I ask them for a ride.
On the downhill part of
the bridge, I push it. I’m going pretty fast. Well, sort of. Somewhere out
there, not too far away, Rochie and some of the kids are waiting for me. I’m
really looking forward to seeing them.
We get to the Lower East
Side and start to see Hebrew and Yiddish signs on the wall marking many of the
old buildings. Naturally, I ask every frum guy I see “Which way to the nearest
minyan?”. Someone random calls out “Go Pesach!”.
I see Rochie and the kids, along
with a sister-in-law and niece who live in the area. I’m really excited to see
and hear them. After some hugs and kisses, I’m off. I’m sorry to leave. I’m
having a hard time with the running, and am pretty sure I’m going too slow.
I look down at my shirt,
and see the picture of Daniella and remind myself why I’m doing this.
We get to the FDR Drive.
As usual, it’s crowded and I’m barely moving.
Random drivers going the
opposite direction honk to cheer us on. It really helps.
I look at my watch.
Surprisingly my pace looks good, even though I’ve been walking quite a bit. I
might beat the three hour limit.
I see the UN. I’m really
tired and trying to conserve my energy, but I still manage to thumb my nose as
I go past. I can almost swear I hear them voting to condemn Israel.
We get off at 42nd St.
It is really cold. We pass Grand Central Station, and the thought occurs to me how much
faster I could get to the park by train.
Lost in my thoughts, I
look up to see one of my favorite buildings, the New York Public Library, which
besides being a beautiful building, was one of my dad’s childhood haunts.
I have to admit, running
through Times Square is pretty cool. The cheering really helps.
I’m starting to think I
might finish in the 2:40s. I find myself sprinting.
We get to Central Park, which is one of my favorite places to run. At
this point, I’m past the longest training run I did. Incredibly, I’m still
feeling great. Somewhere in the back of my mind I start to wonder if a finish
in the 2:30s is possible.
I look up and see the
Met on my right, and the Obelisk on my left and I start to cry. I’m thinking of
the times earlier in the year when I’d walk nearby, desperate to get any exercise, watching the runners zip
past, and wondering whether I’d ever run again. Incredibly, here I am.
I feel my Ramaz
wristband dangling on my arm and think of all the incredible support I’ve
received from so many people in the building which is just a few blocks to the east. From my colleagues who donated
way beyond what I could have imagined, to my students who cheered for me as I ran laps in the gym, to the guards and secretaries who frequently encouraged me and
asked about my training, they made me feel like they were all on my team.
The Reservoir, which is
my favorite running spot in NY is on my left. I can almost swear I hear Szell
asking “Is it safe?”.
I’m cheering on my
fellow runners, and I realize I’ve become one of the most annoying people to
meet at this point in a race; the late-race peppy guy.
Oh my gosh! I’m going to
finish in the 2:30s, unless...I try to banish the disaster scenarios from my
Late in the mile I’m
walking a hill, and I hear someone call my name. There’s my friend Joe who I’ve
been wanting to run with for a while. He’s a really good guy, with a huge
heart, who’s been dealing with his share of challenges. “I’m running you to the
top of the hill” he tells me. It really helps. “Don’t go”, I want to say as we
reach the top of the hill.
Suddenly I again hear someone
call my name and there’s Ehud, a friend of mine who’s a great runner, and an
even better person. He’s been following my race on an App and came to the park
to cheer me on. Thanks to my flaming pink shirt, he spotted me and decided to run
me in. He encourages me to give it all I’ve got. Despite his being capable of
running twice as fast as my current pace, he tells me I look great.
People are cheering. “Go
Pesach!” I hear. I also hear “Go Pee-such!”. Whatever. I'll take it.
800 meters to go , then
400. Ehud points out the Israeli flag at the side of the course.
There’s the finish line!
I’m fighting back tears, as I high five the spectators.
I cross the line without
pushing button on my watch hoping for a good picture by the course photographer
(PS they missed me).
Ehud and I walk for a
while chatting and continuing to catch up.
As we leave the park, I
spot the Moffsons and some of the rest of the DMF team. I’m so happy to see
them, and so honored to have been part of this incredible team which has raise
This is what I’ve
started asking myself. A generous friend offered to pay for my entry to do
another half-marathon at the end of April, but with regrets, I passed. Another
friend told me that he’s glad the Running Rabbi is back. Truth is, I’m not. I’m
not really a runner yet. I can’t run hills, and I still struggle to run for too
long outside. I think I’ll do a 10K at the end of May, as I continue to train
and try to lose weight. After that, I might consider another half.
For now I’m so thankful
for this experience for Rochie, the kids, and all the other family members,
friends, and colleagues who have helped me along the way. While I’ve been the
one doing the training, they’ve been the one to keep me going.
The rosh yeshiva who I heard speak this past Friday
night, was as brilliant as I’d been led to believe. Listening to him speak, one
could believe the possibly apocryphal story which I’d heard about him, that a
Soloveichik once said that they’d never met anyone else who who could think
like that who didn’t share their last name. Still, as I tried to follow his
brilliant analysis of a difficult Rambam, I felt like something was missing.
Thinking about it afterwards, I tried to reflect on how
the shiur which I’d witnessed was any different than what I would have
experienced had I listened to a lecture from a world-class physicist. While I
imagine that in the latter case I would have been less familiar with the
content of the lecture, I can still imagine that I could be mesmerized by their
brilliance. I found myself thinking of ‘“What” has Brisk Wrought?’, an article Rav Moshe Lichtenstein wrote in the Torah
U’Madda Journal nearly 20 years ago. In the Article, he spoke about the
limitations of the Brisker Derech of learning, noting that they often stopped
at the “what” of categorization, without moving on to the why. It is for this
reason that while I’m often impressed by the analysis that comes from those
well-versed in the Brisker Derech, I’ve rarely found it religiously edifying.
In thinking about the rosh yeshiva’s shiur, I realized that for me, it felt
like the Ribbono Shel Olam was missing, or that if he was there, it was with a
separation of more than six degrees of separation with which we are all said to
be connected. It was as if I was discussing the method by which a beloved
friend’s favorite shoes are stitched, rather than talking about something more
directly connected to my friend.
The next day, given the opportunity to attend another
of the rosh yeshiva’s shiurim, I instead decided to learn with my regular
chavrusa.It wasn’t a difficult choice. While I can’t say when I will again get
the opportunity to hear a shiur of that caliber, it is during my weekly
chavrusa in the Torah of the Piaseczna Rebbe’s Torah that I often experience
As we sat learning Mevo Hashearim, the rebbe quoted a
beautiful mashal from the Ba’al HaTanya used to explain why learning the
non-esoteric parts of Torah also has value. When one learns Torah of any kind,
one was is hugging Hakadosh baruch Hu who is found within the garments of
Torah. Even if a particular approach involves hugging Hashem through more
garments, one merely needs to keep in mind who it is who is wearing those
garments. Ironically, it was here, in a chassidic rebbe’s defense of learning
nigleh and not just nistar, that I found a way to frame the Brisker Torah which
I had learned on Friday night. Even within analyzing the categories of the
Rambam and focusing on a halacha which lacks practical application, one can,
with the right focus, hug HaKadosh Baruch Hu.
student asked his Rosh Yeshiva whether he should study Rav Kook’s perush to the
siddur. In his inimitable style, the Rosh Yeshiva replied” ‘Ach, it’s not a
perush to the siddur.’ Intrigued, the student asked “If not a perush to the
siddur, then what is it?’
neshamah on paper.’”
While it has been
pointed out by both those who read the quote carefully, as well as those
familiar with the actual context, that Rav Yaakov Weinberg, the above quoted
rosh yeshiva, did not necessarily mean his words as a compliment, seeing Olat
Reiyah as less than a peirush on the siddur and only “a neshmah on paper”, I
believe that Koren, the publishers of the new Rav Kook
Siddur were right to use this
quote. Regardless of the rosh yeshiva’s intent, Rav Kook did not merely write a
commentary, with all the limitations that this term implies. Instead he truly
bared his soul, and even more importantly, showed that real tefillah cannot
happen without each of us doing the same.
Until now, as with much
of his thought, Rav Kook’s approach to tefillah was largely off limits to the
English-speaking world. Rav Bezalel Naor, who wrote the commentary which
accompanies the new Rav Kook Siddur, has once again made Rav Kook’s ideas
available to a broader audience. As he has done with other of his published
works based on Rav Kook (his Pesach haggadah being another example), Rav Naor
has stayed away from a straightforward translation of Rav Kook’s sefer, in this
case Olat Reiyah. While this decision means that not all of Rav Kook’s ideas on
tefillah are to be found in the new siddur, it offers the benefit of being a
single volume which can be used for davening and not just just to study.
Additionally, Rav Naor does a masterful job taking Rav Kook’s difficult Hebrew
and deep concepts, and making them understandable. On top of this, Rav Naor
offers many of his own insights culled from his many decades of studying Rav
I was pleased that Rav
Naor decided to begin the new siddur with the translation of Inyanei Tefillah,
Rav Kook’s explanation of the idea of tefillah which appears at the beginning
of Olat Reiyah. In doing so, he offers the reader the ability to understand Rav
Kook’s unique approach to prayer, which he sees as latently always taking place
in the human soul, and becoming active during times of actual tefillah. With
this introduction, and the other ideas which follow, one understands why Rav
Kook could never have merely written a commentary on the siddur. For him, the
words we say when we stand before our Creator are not merely vortelach, clever
though they may be. Instead, they are words with which we express what lays
most deeply within ourselves, or perhaps more properly, who we are in our
[One note for those who
will want to use The Rav Kook Siddur along with Olat Reiyah. Rav Naor used an
earlier edition of Olat Reiyah, and as such, the pages listed in the footnotes
in the new siddur do not match up with the pages in the newer edition of Olat
For those who wish to
use this new siddur to not only study Rav Kook’s ideas, but to work on their
avodas hashem, they now now have a new powerful tool to use as they truly
engage in what is avodah shebalev, service of the heart. If Rav Kook truly
bared his soul in writing Olat Reiyah, Rav Naor’s new masterful siddur allows
us to see who Rav Kook truly was, and who we might be through the gradual
baring of our soul on prayer.
Without lifting up a gun or molotov cocktail, Rav Kalonymous Kalman Shapira, the Piaseczna Rebbe committed some of the greatest acts of heroism of World War II. While experiencing much personal trauma and suffering, the rebbe managed to offer words of encouragement and hope to unknown scores of Jews, religious and irreligious, chassidim and misnagedim alike, who, like him, were trapped in the Warsaw Ghetto. Those who have read the rebbe’s words of Torah delivered on many of the Shabboses and Yamim Tovim between the years 1939-1943, the written record of which miraculously survived after being buried in the ground before the ghetto was destroyed, have been inspired by his uplifting words delivered under the most trying of circumstances.Still, until recently, readers had an incomplete picture of his words.
After being discovered in the rubble of the Warsaw Ghetto, the rebbe’s derashos were published by some of his surviving students and chassidim in a work they titled Aish Kodesh. While they did their best to give over the rebbe’s words as accurately as possible, there were various typos and other errors that made it into the sefer. Recently, Dr. Daniel Reiser of Herzog Academic College and Tzefat Academic College published an incredible two-volume critical edition of the rebbe’s derashos which is destined to be the one used by anyone interested in learning the rebbe’s wartime Torah. The first volume includes fascinating biographical information about the rebbe, as well as a fully corrected version of each of the derashos. The second volume has a facsimile of the actual pages which were buried by Oneg Shabbos, as well as a transcription in multiple colors of the rebbe’s words. Still, one problem remained. In delivering his words of Torah, the rebbe consciously chose to almost entirely refrain from mentioning the name of those who were behind the terrible suffering which he and his listeners experienced. With almost no exceptions, one who reads the rebbe’s words from this time period could theoretically be unaware of the particular tragic time period in which it was written. While his divrei Torah provide comfort and hope to those who are suffering, the reader is largely left unaware of the particular events which led the rebbe to say what he did each week.
After an opening chapter which provides biographical information about the rebbe from before the war, there are three chapters each of which concentrates on a year from the war, what the rebbe spoke about at that time, and which events led to the choice of topic. Through Abramson’s thorough scholarship and compelling writing, the reader’s eyes are opened as the divrei Torah are connected to the rumors which might have been going through the ghetto that week, a new policy which led to additional suffering, or the narrowing of the parameters of the Warsaw Ghetto. Just to cite an example, the rebbe chose to speak about the walls of a house getting tzaraas during the week where the Nazis built the walls of the Warsaw Ghetto. This is just one of the scores of examples that Abramson’s scholarship has uncovered.
In addition to providing the background information for many of the derashos, Dr. Abramson also provides other fascinating information about the rebbe’s time in the ghetto. One of the highlights of the book for me was reading about the rebbe’s pre-dawn visit to the mikveh on erev Yom Kippur. Meticulously planned, the rebbe’s efforts to immerse in the mikveh came at great risk, as the Nazis had closed all mikvaos and threatened to kill anyone who attempted to immerse. Even for those who can’t fully understand what going to the mikveh meant for the rebbe, the details of his visit with the help of others, as well as what happened when he reached the mikveh (page 139), will leave the reader speechless.
The book concludes with a fifth chapter where Dr. Abramson addresses something which has long been a point of contention among scholars. As one reads rebbe’s words from during the war, one notices a shift in his outlook. While at the beginning of the war the rebbe seemed to see the suffering that he and his fellow jews were experiencing as fitting within traditional explanations for earlier tragic eras, where teshuva is required, it is clear that at a certain point he recognized that the level of suffering was way beyond that which could be explained by seeing it as a mere extension of earlier tragedies. The rebbe no longer suggested that those who were listening to him could change things by returning to God. Instead, he tried to figure out how a believer should view this sui generis experience. While unfortunately certain academic scholars have used this change to suggest that the rebbe (God forbid) lost his faith, Abramson shows the absurdity of such a claim (Rieser does this as well in the first volume of his work). He makes a conclusive case that while the rebbe struggled to make sense of the atrocities that the Jewish people were suffering, he remained what he had always been, a person with deep and enduring faith.
Dr. Abramson has written a book which is destined to lead to an increase of study of the rebbe’s Torah and thought in both the academic and Jewish world. His is a work which while maintaining high academic standards and containing ideas which will advance the field, is at once also accessible to the non-scholar, and written in an engaging and compelling manner. Especially for the reader who is looking for a work which contains both Torah and Avodas HaShem, along with serious scholarship, I can’t recommend this incredible book strongly enough. Dr. Abramson will have a book launch for Torah From The Years of Wrath this Monday, October 30th at Touro College in Brooklyn. For more information, please click here.
It happened a number of times. I started to think about writing what I’m about to write, and then I decided not to. I wasn’t sure if this was a topic which I could address in a thoughtful, meaningful, and nuanced manner. Each time however, something occurred which convinced me that I had to write it. Yesterday, after this pattern was completed for a third time, I decided that I had no choice but to try. I am not sure if I will be fully successful in trying to express what I want to say. At the very least, I hope I will spur a larger discussion.
The Orthodox world has a God problem.
Well, not exactly a God problem, as much as a language of God problem, or maybe a comfort with discussing God problem. Many of us, including our rabbis and teachers can easily discuss halacha and mitzvos, but somehow few attempt to discuss the encounter with God, in general, and their personal encounter with God, in particular.
Recently, a virtual friend bemoaned the fact that he could not hear a certain theologian who defines himself as halachic egalitarian in my friend’s own Orthodox shul. In the subsequent discussion I wondered aloud (assuming one can do that in a comment on FB) whether the problem was larger than whether this theologian, who I admire greatly, could speak in an Orthodox shul. Perhaps, I suggested, a big part of the problem is that there is a dearth of Orthodox thinkers who are openly willing to explore their faith in an open manner, and the fact that we need to look outside of our community to find those who are willing.
I would never question the value of learning and observing halacha. I strongly believe that halacha helps us encounter God in an embodied manner in all areas of our life. Still, I do wonder whether the fact that halacha plays such a large role in our lives, leads to the possible outcome that we get stuck in the details of the act, and lose the ability to feel, think about, and discuss the encounter with God which lays behind and within halacha itself.
More recently, while driving, I listened to a podcast where my friend and colleague Rabbi Joshua Bolton, a Reconstructionist rabbi, who works with students at the University of Pennsylvania, described his religious experience, including his encounter with God. It was profound, holy, and powerful. It shook me to my core. Part of what bothered me was that I couldn’t think of the last time I heard an Orthodox rabbi talk so openly about what it means to believe. Somewhere in the back of my head I wondered how many rabbis could find the words to discuss it. At first I pushed off this thought by thinking that talking about God is not an Orthodox activity. Immediately, I thought about things I’ve read from Rav Aharon Lichtenstein, Rav Amital, the Piaseczna Rebbe, and Hillel Zeitlin where they discuss their encounter with God. My next question was, why is this not happening (more often?) in the Orthodox world?
I get it. Not everyone is going to encounter God in the same way. Heck, when I listen to Rav Herschel Schachter address an obscure halachic topic for an hour, it is a deeply religious experience, even as I can’t fully explain why. Still, when was the last time you heard a rosh yeshiva or shul rabbi explain what they experience when they learn a Ketzos or a Rav Chaim? I can’t help but wonder whether part of the discomfort that many Jews express about the lack of meaningfulness of tefillah (see this recent study for an example) comes from the fact that past a fairly young age, nobody talks about God anymore.
The final straw which convinced me to write this, came yesterday. This time, it was listening to Christian pastor Eugene Peterson address his religious experience on the NPR show On Being, a show which explores what it means to be human. I listened to him explain what he gets from reading the Book of Psalms. I heard him talk about how the experience of anger and frailty fits into his encounters with God. His experience was not my experience. In fact, his approach to religion, as well as his translation of the bible, do not fully resonate with me. Still, for 50 minutes I was enrapt. When the show was over I found myself wondering about which rabbis or teachers could so openly, comfortably, and compellingly discuss what they mean when they talk about God, and what they experience when they read Tehillim, forget something due to old age, or look in a baby’s eyes.
We are religious. We are observant. We learn Torah. We do mitzvos. Where in all of that, and in the world around us and inside of us do we find God? To join the conversation on this blog on FB, please click here.
As if I was stuck in a Bill Murray movie, yesterday I found myself in a scene I’d been in many times before. As Yogi might have said, it was deja vu all over again. I was driving home with one of my older sons in the car, nervously listening to the radio, as the Red Sox clung to a one-run lead in a do-or-die playoff game. Home run Astos. Instinctively, I punched my steering wheel, and trying to hold onto some level of fatherly dignity, I managed to say “Darn”, or maybe “DARN!!!”. When the Astros took the lead, a few pitches later, a lead they would not relinquish, I responded with another punch, and a synonym for the word darn, which also starts with the letters D and A, and rhymes with dam. So much for fatherly dignity. What made the experience so frustrating is that I‘ve gone through some version of this, many times.
I don’t have a TV and haven’t had one for many years, so on the rare occasions that I catch a Red Sox game, it’s on the radio, and being that I live in New Jersey, it’s mainly playoff baseball that I get to hear. Combine that with the fact that I rarely listen to the radio outside of the car, and you understand why my poor steering wheel has been victimized so many times. Of course, that doesn’t really explain why it’s been punched, because one can, or so I imagine, listen to one’s favorite baseball team disappoint them, without punching inanimate objects, or so I’ve been told.
Why is it that I can’t get past this? I don’t mean rooting for a team, which is, for the most part pretty harmless. I don’t pretend that I’m on a level where I have no time for leisurely activities, in fact, I’m far from it. Rather, what I’m trying to understand is why can’t I care less? What is it that makes me at 46, respond with only slightly more dignity than I did in 1986, and 1988, and…?
Here’s the thing. I’ve heard real-life bad and sad news on the radio, with nary a shot to my steering wheel. Terror attacks, tornados, grisly crimes, they all get, at most, some sort of intellectual response, with perhaps a shake of the head. Why do the Red Sox get more? All my attempts to answer this question feel insufficient. Childhood memories of games with my family, the joy of being part of a larger “family” might explain why I like baseball, but why does it have such a strong and emotional hold over me? As a rabbi from whom I’ve learned so much explained when I asked why he was no longer such a big sports fan, “There’s only so much love the heart can hold”. Which things don’t get my emotional energy when it is given to a sports team?
As with all scenes which we recreate in our lives, I’m convinced that it won’t go away until I figure out what I’m supposed to learn from this. I don’t think the answer lays in going cold turkey and stopping following sports, as I’m more interested in getting to the root cause of this. I have some time to think about it, but as a long suffering (and only rarely celebrating) Red Sox fan, I know they’ll give me many more chances to try and figure it out.
What can I say? I’m not a Litvak. Each year, when I come to Shabbos Shuva, having left Rosh Hashana and on my way towards Yom Kippur, I have no interest in a Shabbos Shuva derasha which explores the intricacies of Migo for 58 minutes, with a two minute reminder that essentially says “Oh yeah, don’t forget do teshuva” (I say this not criticize anyone's approach, but merely to point out what doesn’t work for me). Alas, I have made my home in Passaic rather than Mezeritch, so that chassidic derashos about teshuva and our relationship with HaKadosh Baruch Hu are not to be found. It has been many years since I last attended a Shabbos Shuva derasha.
This past Shabbos, a friend from a different shul mentioned that he would be going to hear Rabbis X’s derasha, as he thought it would be more inspiring. As I thought about what he said, it occurred to me that what I was missing was not just a live version of what I could get in the Piaseczna Rebbe’s Derech HaMelech, but even more so, is a live version of what I have found in his Bnei Machashava Tova, which I recently completed for the second time.
Each time I go through a small portion of the sefer which was written to create small groups of chassidim who work together to become truer Ovdei HaShem, I am left with mixed emotions; joy and inspiration at the ideas he writes about, mix with feelings of sadness as I can only imagine what being part of such a group would be like. To cite one example, his descriptions of Shaleseudos leaves me yearning for an environment where the singing and camaraderie would truly be m’ein olam haba.
None of this is to suggest, God forbid, that I am not surrounded by those who aspire to greatness in their Avodas HaShem. I am fortunate to live in a community which has many Bnei Torah. At the same time, I’ve reached a point in my life where my soul yearns for a different kind of nourishment. While I’m fortunate to have a chavrusa with whom I learn Hachsharas HaAvreichim, which is a high point of my week, and to have friends in real life, as well as online who are into chassidus, most of the time I am left with the feeling of something akin to parallel play, like what young children do when they play next to each other, but not with each other, as each of us tries to grow in his own way.
Of course, part of my struggle comes from my own weakness. I am simply not capable of becoming who I want to be by myself. I want to learn together with others, aspire together with others, and grow together with others. I picture myself as part of a group of like-minded individuals with whom I could try and put the Piaseczna’s holy words into practice, meeting each week to learn, sing, and talk of holy things.
That’s what I realized this past Shabbos. Not only do I wish I could have been present for the Rebbe’s teshuva derasha from 1930, but that afterwards, my friends and I could have gotten together to talk of what we learned and how, together, we could take steps towards living it.