Just a few decades ago, there lived a great symphony conductor, an Italian maestro named Arturo Toscanini (1867-1957), who led concerts all over the world. He was one of the most acclaimed musicians of the late 19th and 20th Century, renowned for his intensity, his perfectionism, his ear for orchestral detail and sonority, and his photographic memory. Toscanini had a biographer who would interview him periodically over the years as a part of a major book he was writing on his life.

The following is a story I heard about Toscanini: One evening, the biographer called Toscanini and told him that he would be in town the next night and asked if could come to the house to interview him. Toscanini answered that he could not because he would be doing something special that would require absolute concentration; he could not be interrupted.

“Maestro,” the biographer said, “if I may ask, what are you doing that is so special?”

Toscanini replied, “There is a concert being played overseas. I used to be the conductor of that symphony orchestra but I could not be there this year. So I’m going to listen to it on a shortwave radio and hear how the other conductor leads the orchestra. I don’t want any interruptions whatsoever.”

“Maestro, it would be my greatest pleasure to watch how you listen to a concert played by an orchestra that you used to lead and I promise I won’t say anything. I will sit on the other side of the room, quietly,” said the biographer

“You promise to be perfectly quiet?” Toscanini asked, to which the biographer replied that he would.

Toscanini answered, “Then you can come.”

The next night, the biographer came and sat quietly while Toscanini listened to the concert, which lasted almost an hour.

Finally, when it ended, the biographer remarked, “Wow, wasn’t that magnificent?”

Toscanini said, “Not really.”

His biographer asked, “Why not?”

Toscanini explained, “There were supposed to be 120 musicians, including 15 violinists but only 14 of them played.”

The biographer thought he was joking. How could he know from 6000 miles away, over shortwave radio, that one of the violinists was missing? The biographer had his doubts but didn’t want to say anything and went home.

The next morning, though, he had to find out for himself, so he called the concert hall overseas, asked for the music director and inquired as to how many musicians were supposed to have been playing the night before versus how many had actually shown up. The concert hall director told him that there were supposed to have been 120 musicians, including 15 violinists, but only 14 had shown up!

The biographer was amazed. He returned to Toscanini and said, “Sir, I owe you an apology. I thought you were just making it up the other night. But please, tell me, how could you know that one violinist was missing?”

“There is a great difference between you and me,” Toscanini answered.” You’re a part of the audience and to the audience everything sounds wonderful. But I’m the conductor, and the conductor knows every note of music that has to be played. When I realized that certain notes were not being played, I knew without a doubt that one of the violists was missing. The music is perfect because of all the pieces coming together in unison.”

Are you that violinist which constantly doesn’t show up?

There are always unity events, community events, school events, city events and the list goes on … but how many of us think “if we don’t go, what does it matter?”

Think for a moment as Toscanini – if you were trying to unite your children, if you were trying to make peace amongst your children than would it matter if one did not show up? Of course it would; it would ruin the whole song!

It reminds me of the tradition of baking challah bread, which is to be eaten on Sabbath. Part of the commandment of “taking challah” (a portion of consecrated dough) it is derived from the following passages: “And it will be when you eat of the bread of the land, you should bring an offering to G-d. The first of your kneading bowl you shall donate to G-d as an offering…” (Numbers 15:19, 20)

In the details pertaining to taking off a portion of dough, the law stipulates that the flour and water have to be properly kneaded so that it is a single dough. The portion cannot be separated while the batter is still loose, leaving the necessary flour still attached to the edges of the bowl.

The flour most commonly used for bread is derived from wheat, a grain that symbolizes independence. Each granule has its own compartment separated from the rest. Independence and self-reliance are not necessarily negative traits unless they become a source of arrogance, an unhealthy ego. But we do not eat the wheat as is. It is refined and processed until it becomes flour. The external, superficial trappings of ego are crushed allowing the beneficial parts to remain.

The other main ingredient in dough is water. Water is a unifier, it binds things together, and its purpose is to bring life and nourishment to everything. Our daily bread is symbolic of the need to reach out and help people discover their own individual shining souls, the need to connect with others in order to bring them within our community.

Just as the dough is not ready for the portion of “challah dough” to be given as an offering until the flour and water are kneaded together well, a person cannot rest comfortably in their own environment and imagine that things are fine while there are others that are left outside and not included in the community.

Join our Mega Challah Bake on Wednesday, Nov. 16 at The Chabad Jewish Center, 2025 E. Sample Rd. in the Venetian Isle Shopping Center. For more info and to R.S.V.P., please visit www.JewishLHP.com.

We have different names, different colors, different shapes and different sizes. We eat different foods and enjoy different sports. We have different houses of prayer and we have different books of prayers.

Are we really that different? There seems to be a never-ending cycle of hate and war throughout the world based on these differences. There also seems to be an ever-growing divisiveness within our own communities. How do we change that? Are humans really just different, separate beings that will always clash? Does being human mean being different? What is it that divides us and what is it that can unite us?

I propose we go back to the beginning …

When G-d created the first human being, the Bible describes it like this: “And the Lord, G-d formed man of dust from the ground, and He breathed into his nostrils the soul of life, and man became a living soul.” [Genesis 2:7]

So what divides us is the physical body. We are different people with different histories. Let me explain what unites us with a story: The story is told of an opera singer who was known for his readings and recitations from the Classics. He always ended his performance with a dramatic recital of Psalm 23. Each night, without exception, as the actor began his recitation, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…” The crowd would listen attentively and then rise with thunderous applause, in appreciation of the actor’s ability to bring the psalm to life.

One night, just before the singer was to offer his customary recital of Psalm 23, an old man from the audience spoke up. “Sir, would you mind, if tonight, I recite Psalm 23?”

The actor was surprised by this unusual request. However, he invited the old man to come onto the stage to recite the psalm, curious to see how the ability of this man weighed against his own talent.

Softly, the old man began to recite the words of the psalm. His voice was parched and weak, and his tune pretty lousy.

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want … Though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff-they will comfort me. Only goodness and kindness shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the House of the Lord for many long years.”

When he was finished, there was no applause. There was no standing ovation as on other nights. All that could be heard was the sound of weeping. The audience had been so moved by the man’s recitation that every eye was tearful.

Amazed by what he had experienced, the opera star queried, “I don’t understand. I have been performing Psalm 23 for years. I have a lifetime of experience and training —but I have never been able to move an audience as you have tonight. And frankly, you have a horrible voice and can barely carry a tune. Tell me, what is your secret?”

The old man humbly replied, “Well, sir, you know the psalm … but I know the Shepherd.”

My dear friends, get to know the Shepherd within each and every one of us!

What unites us is our Creator, our Shepherd, our G-d. Get to know the shepherd and you will get to know the song of life. When we sing the Psalm, it will bring unity — peace, love and tolerance!

We humans were created with a body and a soul. The soul was given in order to bring unity, not to divide us! So, if we see another human, we must realize his uniqueness, which is his soul, is a part of G-d, our G-d, and that’s exactly what unites us!

So, next time you want to hate or divide, just stop and think that what makes us human is not the body, but the soul!

[Malachi 2:10] –Have we not all one father? Has not one God created us? Why should we betray, each one his brother, to profane the covenant of our forefathers?

Rabbi Tzvi Dechter is the Director of Chabad of North Broward Beaches located at 2025 E Sample Rd in Lighthouse Point.For all upcoming events, visit www.JewishLHP.com.

“Ki Hoadam Eitz Hasode” – a Man is likened to a tree, (Deuteronomy 20:19.)

But Why? Why are we compared to a tree? Isn’t there a more befitting metaphor?

There are people who only leave an impact when there is no major heat, warmth and passion in their lives. When the game is waning and there is not much action going on, they become sensible. In the morning and evening hours, when they are very young or quite old, when things are quiet and calm, they are ready to give of themselves to others and invest in eternity. As long as the sun in their life is burning hot, they are too caught up in themselves to reflect on how they are impacting others.

“When are you coming home dad?” our children ask us. And the answer: When the sun begins to set. When I get older, and finally make it, when I retire, then I will begin to spend time with my children, with my soul, with my G-d, with my spouse.

The problem is that those who needed our shade and our comfort during those days, don’t needed as much now when the sun has began to set. They missed the opportunity…

However, there is a life which can be likened to the shadow of a tree. Under the branches of a tree, you can always find shade and comfort. No matter if its morning, midday or evening, the tree always casts its healing shade and invites every passerby to bask in its tranquil and reinvigorating environment.

This represents the type of person who never ceases to remember that he or she is an ambassador of G-d at this very moment to bring light, clarity and love to the people around him and her. No matter where he or she stands in life – if the sun is just rising, or its fully aglow, or it is on its way down – this person never fails to be a leader, to serve as an agent of love, hope and trust. This person does not get drunk on his own accomplishments, but remembers his duty to those around him, the loved ones, to community, to our nation, and to our world.

The Talmud relates the following story:

An old man was planting a tree. A young person passed by and asked, What are you planting?

A carob tree, the old man replied.

Silly fool, said the youth. Don’t you know that it takes 70 years for a carob tree to bear fruit?

That’s okay, said the old man. Just as others planted for me, I plant for future generations.

Friends, are you and I “planting” something in our lives which our grandchildren will be able to look at and say, “Thank you grandpa; thank you grandma?” That is why the Torah compared us to the tree in the field.

Is your jar full?

A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, wordlessly, he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.

So the professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.

The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with a unanimous “Yes.”

The professor then produced two cans of beer from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed.

“Now,” said the professor, as the laughter subsided, “I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life.

The golf balls are the important things — your G-d, your soul, your family, your children, your health, your friends, your passions, your conscience — things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full.

The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house, your car. The sand is everything else — the small stuff.”

“If you put the sand into the jar first,” he continued, “there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you.

Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take time to build a relationship with your soul, with your spouse. There will always be time to clean the house and fix the disposal. Take care of the golf balls first, the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand.”

When he had finished, there was a profound silence. Then one of the students raised her hand and with a puzzled expression, inquired what the beer represented.

The professor smiled. “I’m glad you asked. It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there’s always room for a couple of L’chayim’s.”

As we approach the High Holidays we must take inventory of our deeds. We must realize that to be a tree is to give shade to those around us no matter what type of leaves or fruits we may or may not have.

Join a community, help others, give of your time, give of your money; just make sure your sharing your shade.

Join us for the High Holidays at our new location. Call to reserve: 347-410-1106. Email: tzvidechter@gmail.com.

Membership not required.

Elul, the last month of the Jewish year, is a time of paradox.

The Jewish calendar distinguishes between two qualities of time: “mundane” work days, and “holy” days, such as Shabbat and the festivals. Shabbat is a day we are not involved with all material endeavors, a day devoted to the spiritual pursuits of study and prayer. The festivals likewise transcend time, each providing its unique spiritual quality to the journeyer through calendar and life.

In this respect, the month of Elul resembles the “holy” portions of the calendar. Elul is a haven in time, a “city of refuge” from the ravages of material life, a time to audit one’s spiritual accounts and assess the year gone by, to prepare for the “Days of Awe” of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur by repenting the failings of the past and resolving for the future, to immerse oneself in Torah study, as well as prayer and charitable activities. Elul is the opportune time for all this because it is a month in which G-d relates to us in a more open and compassionate manner than He does in the other months of the year. In the terminology of Kabbalah, it is a time when G-d’s “13 attributes of mercy” illuminate His relationship with us.

And yet, unlike Shabbat and the festivals, the days of Elul are workdays. On Shabbat, the Torah commands us to cease all materially constructive work. The festivals, too, are days on which “work” is forbidden. Regarding the month of Elul, however, there are no such restrictions. The transcendent activities of Elul are conducted amidst our workday lives in the field, shop or office.

Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi explains the paradox of Elul with the following metaphor: The king’s usual place is in the capital city, in the royal palace. Anyone wishing to approach the king must go through the appropriate channels in the palace bureaucracy and gain the approval of a succession of royal secretaries and ministers. He must journey to the capital and pass through the many gates, corridors and antechambers that lead to the throne room. His presentation must be meticulously prepared, and he must adhere to an exacting code of dress, speech and mannerism upon entering into the royal presence.

However, there are times when the king comes out to the fields outside the city. At such times, anyone can approach him; the king receives them all with a smiling face and a radiant countenance. The peasant behind his plow has access to the king in a manner unavailable to the highest ranking minister in the royal court when the king is in the palace.

The month of Elul, says Rabbi Schneur Zalman, is when the king is in the field.

When the farmer sees the king in his field, does he keep on plowing? Does he behave as if this were just another day in the fields? Of course not. Elul is not a month of ordinary workdays it is a time of increased Torah study, more fervent prayer, more generosity and charity. The very air is charged with holiness. We might still be in the field, but the field has become a holier place.

On the other hand, when the farmer sees the king in his field, does he run home to wash and change? Does he rush to the capitol to school himself in palace protocol? The king has come to the field, to commune with the processors of his bread in their environment and on their terms.

In the month of Elul, the essence and objective of life becomes that much more accessible. No longer do the material trappings of life conceal and distort its purpose, for the king is paying a visit. But unlike the holy days of the year, when we are lifted out of and above our workday lives, the encounter of Elul is hosted by our physical selves, within our material environment, on our workingman’s terms. — (Based on an address by the Chabad Rebbe on August 25, 1990.)

Rabbi Tzvi Dechter is the Director of Chabad of the North Broward Beaches. New location coming soon. For all upcoming events, please visit www.JewishLHP.com.

A government official was arrested for accepting a bribe from a contractor. A friend who went to visit him in the lock-up asked, “How are you going to get out of this mess?”

The official replied calmly, “I got into trouble for accepting a bribe; I will get out of it by giving it.”

Five daughters petition

It is a puzzling story—the tale of the five daughters of Tzelafchad, recorded in the portion of Pinchas.

Tzelafchad was a Jewish man, of the generation born in Egyptian slavery, liberated by the Exodus, and granted the Land of Canaan as Israel’s heritage. Although that generation did not merit to take possession of the land themselves, when their children crossed the Jordan River to conquer it, they did so as their fathers’ heirs. Each family received its share in the land in accordance with its apportionment among the 600,000 members of the generation of the Exodus.

Tzelafchad had five daughters but no sons. The laws of inheritance as they were initially given in the Torah, which recognized only male heirs, in which sons inherit from their fathers and they are responsible to fully support the widow and daughters as long as they do not marry. In this case, there were no sons to inherit Tzelafchad’s portion in the Land. The daughters refused to reconcile themselves to this situation, and approached Moses with the petition.

They stood before Moses and before Eleazar the Kohen and before the chieftains and the entire congregation at the entrance to the Tent of Meeting, saying, “Our father died in the desert, but he was not in the assembly that banded together against G-d in Korah’s assembly, but he died for his own sin, and he had no sons.”

“Why should our father’s name be eliminated from his family because he had no son? Give us a portion along with our father’s brothers.”

So Moses brought their case before G-d.

God spoke to Moses, saying: “The daughters of Tzelafchad have a just claim. Give them a hereditary portion of land alongside their father’s brothers. Let their father’s hereditary property thus pass over to them.”

The correct decision for this question requires no more than simple logic. What else should be done with the piece of land belonging to Tzelafchad? Should it be transferred to someone who is not related to him? It would not make sense to have his brothers receive it, because, as mentioned according to Torah law, orphaned daughters need to be supported by the brothers until they marry, during which time they live in their father’s estate now inherited by the brothers. In our case, when there were no brothers, and all of the women were single, where would they live? Who would support them? If they do not inherit any part of the land or their father’s possessions, they will remain homeless and destitute. That is senseless. Logic dictates that the daughters should inherit their father’s piece of land — and logic is the way we deduce the intricacies of Torah law. Why then did Moses feel it necessary to bring this seemingly obvious ruling directly to G-d and not even begin to seek an answer?

Moses’ Integrity

If we are to look at how they presented their case, they prefaced, “Our father died in the desert. He was not among the members of Korach’s party who protested against G-d, but he died because of his own sin without leaving any sons.”

This detail is the key to it all. Korach staged a ferocious rebellion against Moses. He saw Moses as his arch-enemy and attempted to rally up the entire nation against Moses. Korach claimed that Moses was a power-hungry demagogue who craved nothing but absolute control and authority. The moment Moses heard the daughters say that their father was not part of Korach’s mutiny he felt that his psyche has just become bias toward them and their father. This was a verbal bribe, subtle as it may be, and he might not be fully objective in his decision.

The Lesson

This is the level of self-awareness G-d asks of us. Don’t be perfect, but be accountable. Don’t be flawless, but be honest with yourself. Realize how subjective and bias you may be on any given issue, perhaps beyond realizing it. Thus, always retain your humility, allow yourself to be challenged, listen to another perspective, and be open to the truth that you may really be wrong.

If Moses at the peak of his life felt that no matter his standing, a small compliment from five sisters can alter his objectivity and distort his sense of truth. Certainly you and I must ask ourselves, “Maybe there is another perspective?” “Maybe my wife has a point?” “Maybe my mother-in-law is in the right?” Okay, let’s not push it… but “maybe my husband has a point?” “Maybe I need an outside opinion?”

Rabbi Tzvi Dechter is the Director of Chabad of the North Broward Beaches. New location coming soon. For all upcoming events, please visit www.JewishLHP.com.

A friend recently shared with me the following personal story: My business had run so successfully for the last 10 years, I thought I was headed for an early retirement. But the last six months have completely shattered that hope. My business went down big time. I went from being CEO of a large company to searching for part-time work in the classifieds online. Almost overnight, my fortunes made a 180 degree turn and I can no longer enjoy the luxurious lifestyle I once had. I no longer own a holiday home. I sold my yacht and am struggling to be able to hold on to the family home.

But with all this going on, something weird has happened. Everyone around me expected me to fall apart. I had been a workaholic. My business was my life and seeing that go down should have meant that I go down with it. But I didn’t. In fact, just the opposite happened. With less work on my plate, I now have more time to spend with my family. And guess what? I enjoy it. I have gotten to know my 8-year-old daughter better than ever, because I have the space to listen to her. I used to be at the office until 10 or 11 p.m., but now I am home to put the kids to bed, read them a story and give them a goodnight kiss. I used to eat Chinese takeout at my computer every night, but now I sit and eat with my family, hearing about their day and sharing mine with them. I have even started taking walks with my wife like we did when we were newlyweds.

I have come to realize what is really important and where my time and energy should really be spent. Thank G-d I went broke. Otherwise I’d be so rich, and yet so poor. I might have had everything, but I would have had nothing…

This is the white cheese that sometimes comes from the black goat, and the white egg that the black hen lays. We have all seen it, in our own lives and in the lives of those around us. The illness that brings us a deeper perspective in life, the relationship breakdown that allows us to find true love and humility, the passing of a loved one that gives us new appreciation of our short time in this world and the spirituality of life. What the soul understands is that there are two forms of light – light that appears as light and light that appears as darkness. The good times are good. The tough times are there for us to make them good. “Problems are only opportunities with thorns.”

Henny Youngman said: “You know why Jews don’t drink? It interferes with their suffering.” But he was wrong — on two counts. First, many Jews do drink… Second, we don’t want pain. We would rather not have to go through the tough times. We don’t seek out suffering, even if it will make us stronger. We would rather learn the lessons and gain the inspiration we need through pleasant and comfortable means, not through pain. It would be wonderful if all eggs could be born from white hens. But the reality of life is that we all have our share of challenges, difficulties and trials. And as long as that is the case, the human response to life’s challenges is to make them a springboard for positive change.

It is during this time of year, the three weeks of mourning for the Jewish Temples, that we focus on this powerful idea. Destruction is a step toward rebuilding and failure is a chance to regroup and get our strength back. We all go through black times. We all get knocked over and we all fall. But “failure is not falling down, it is staying down.” As Jews, we know that we must get back up, shake off the dust and keep on “laying eggs.”

The Three Weeks, from a Jewish perspective, are like the Black Hole in modern physics, which is filled with endless light, but does not allow it to escape its pull. (A black hole is a region of space in which the gravitational field is so powerful that nothing, including light, can escape its pull.) Our job is to penetrate the black hole and reveal its inner light, the light of Messiah.

Rabbi Tzvi Dechter is the Director of Chabad of the North Broward Beaches. New location coming soon. For all upcoming events, please visit www.JewishLHP.com.

The portion of Balak tells the fascinating story of Bilaam, a prophet, who was summoned by the Moabite king to curse Israel. In the end, in lieu of curses, the prophet gushes forth the most splendid poetry ever written about the uniqueness and destiny of the Jewish people. His poetry has become classic, a wellspring of inspiration for thousands of years, recited daily in Jewish liturgy and prayers.

Yet there is something profoundly confusing about the narrative. The Bible relates how the emissaries arrive from Moab and Midian. They state their mission: They want Bilaam to curse the Israelites. Bilaam tells them to stay the night, while he consults with G-d. G-d’s answer is unequivocal: “G-d said to Balaam, ‘Do not go with them. You must not put a curse on those people, because they are blessed.’” Bilaam obeys. He refuses to go. Balak, the Moabite king, redoubles his efforts. Perhaps more distinguished messengers and the promise of significant reward will persuade Balaam to change his mind.

He sends a second set of emissaries. Bilaam’s reply is moving: “Even if Balak gave me his palace filled with silver and gold, I could not do anything great or small to go beyond the command of the Lord my G-d.”

However, he adds a fateful rider: “Now stay here tonight as the others did, and I will find out what else G-d will tell me.”

The implication is clear. Bilaam is suggesting that G-d may change His mind. But this is impossible. That is not what G-d does. Yet, to our surprise, that is exactly what G-d seems to do: That night G-d came to Bilaam and said, “Since these men have come to summon you, go with them, but do only what I tell you.”

Bilaam followed G-d’s latest instruction. He got up in the morning, saddled his donkey and went with the princes of Moab. “But G-d was very angry when he went, and the angel of G-d stood in the road to oppose him.”

The narrative now shifts to the famous scene of Bilaam’s donkey. What is going on here? Why did G-d change His mind four times?! First G-d says no, than it becomes yes, then it is no again, and finally it’s a yes! What was Bilaam suppose to do? Not go? But G-d told him explicitly to go. The story seems like an unfair setup for Bilaam. G-d tells him to go, and then gets angry at him for going!

Initially G-d prevented Bilaam from cursing because “the nation is blessed.” Therefore, he says “Do not go with them”. Bilaam passed along this message of G-d, but Balak did not believe him, and proceeded to increase to honor him with greater messengers and promised him greater reward. Bilaam answered the second group that the issue is not the money, and it is not up to him, rather it is up to G-d. He agreed to inquire again what G-d will command him. In this, he conducted himself properly, because Bilaam knew the Higher Knowledge, and that G-d’s advice is always good. Now G-d told him: “I already told you that this nation is blessed and unable to be cursed. Now, why have they, Balak’s ministers, returned to you? If they only want you to go with them and not curse at all, then get up and go with them, but only the word that I place in your mouth shall you do, and even if I command you to bless them you must bless them without being afraid of Balak.

So G-d wanted Bilaam to go with the ministers after telling them first that He would not be able to curse the Jews, and would only follow G-d’s instructions.

G-d wanted that the Jews be blessed by a prophet of the non-Jews. Bilaam was supposed to tell all of this to the ministers of Balak. However, Balak specified the second time as well, “Come, please curse this nation.” He only wanted Billam to curse, not prophesize or anything else.

But, Bilaam, in his overeagerness to go, did not tell them any of this and, instead, “he woke up early in the morning, saddled his own donkey, and went with them” as if he was going to fulfill their request.

From here, you see that “man is led down the path he wishes to travel” because, originally, Bilaam was told “Do not go with them” but since he had audacity, he went. That is why it says “G-d’s wrath flared because he was going.”

G-d said to him: “Wicked one! I do not want the destruction of the wicked, but since you insist on your own destruction, by all means, go!”

Choose your path wisely!

Rabbi Tzvi Dechter is the Director of Chabad of North Broward Beaches. New location coming soon. For all upcoming events, please visit www.JewishLHP.com.

“Survivors of hell have an acute focus on the objective. They have little time for pettiness and time-wasting.” — Elie Wiesel

The world lost a great and indefatigable humanitarian this week with the passing of acclaimed author, journalist, academic and human rights activist Elie Wiesel. He was 87 years old.

Wiesel, a Holocaust survivor who endured the notorious death camps of both Auschwitz and Buchenwald, was also a prolific writer who authored some five-dozen books, both fiction and non-fiction, many of which related to social justice, Israel, the Holocaust and Judaism.

In one particularly moving conversation, Wiesel shared with a friend of mine R’ Simon, how he had basically given up on life after the war and the atrocities, and losses, he witnessed. Even after meeting French author François Mauriac, who persuaded him to serve as a witness and chronicle his experiences, he still felt dead inside and could not bring himself to personally commit to any life-affirming activities. But then things changed.

He told Simon, “I credit your father as being one of the first people who altered my view and attitude to life. Though he, himself, had suffered under Soviet oppression, losing his parents at a young age, your father was a shining example of positivity and celebrating life and its possibilities.”

He paused, took a deep breath and continued: “And then, in the mid-‘60s, your father introduced me to the Lubavitcher Rebbe-Menachem Mendel Schneerson. You father persuaded me to go see him, which I ultimately did. After hours of dialogue and subsequent correspondence, the Rebbe was the one who finally convinced me to marry and build a family. His most compelling argument – which I could not refute – was that the only and ultimate response to Nazi destruction was to build a family and perpetuate the memory of those they wished to obliterate.

“This changed my life, forever. In the single-most important decision of my life, I married Marion in 1969, and, then, in 1972, we had our son – our pride and joy – Shlomo Elisha, named after my father, who perished in Buchenwald,” he said.

Clearly very emotional, Wiesel walked Simon over to the photos on his desk. Pointing to pictures of his son and his grandchildren, he simply said: “Everything is worth this.”

Simon once asked him whether it is true that marching into the gas chambers, Jews would sing Ani Ma’amin [I believe], a heart-stirring melody expressing one’s complete and unwavering faith in the coming of the Messiah, who will usher in a new world order of peace. Wiesel replied that the barracks where the Jews were held was a distance from the death chambers. But very often he did hear the whimpering prayers of the Jews near him. The cry of the Shema (sacred passages), the reciting of Kaddish (mourners prayer), the Shabbat or holiday prayers, and also, the singing of Ani Ma’amin.

“If I may ask,” Simon continued, “How do you explain this devotion? In the face of utter abandonment, of a God who was totally concealed, allowing His people, His children, to be decimated, the Jews had the total right to be angry at God. How do you explain the fact that instead they thanked and prayed to Him, sang His praises and declared their absolute belief that He would redeem them?!”

Wiesel’s response captures his essence: “Things really don’t make sense. Life is mostly absurd. We have seen man at his worst. But for the Jew, insanity is not abnormal. I can’t tell you what was going on in the minds, hearts and souls of the Jews who walked to their deaths. But I can tell you that every single one of these sacred people knew one thing. And they declared it with their prayers and their songs:

“You can take our bodies, but you can’t take our souls. You can take our lives but not our faith. We will prevail. If not today, tomorrow.

If not tomorrow, the next day. If not us, our children. If not our children, our grandchildren. But we will prevail.

“Ani Maamin… I believe with complete faith…”

Dearest Elie Wiesel, you have made your mark. You have served as a child of your father’s and mother’s, and of so many fathers and mothers. You have brought into this world a son and grandchildren – and millions of students, considered to be children as well. You have prevailed, as has the Jewish people. We will live to see the world as promised to us. And if not today, tomorrow.

In 1973, Wiesel composed a cantata titled, “Ani Maamin: A Song Lost and Found Again.” The song concludes with the following verses:

I believe in you,

Even against your will.

Even if you punish me

For believing in you.

Blessed are the fools

Who shout their faith.

Blessed are the fools

Who go on laughing.

Who mock the man who

mocks the Jew,

Who help their brothers

Singing, over and over and

over:

I believe.

I believe in the coming of

the Messiah,

And though he tarries,

I wait daily for his coming.

I believe.

This week, we celebrated the Jewish Holiday of Shavuot. On Shavuos, G-d gave the Jewish people his Torah.

A gentile once came before Shammai and said: “Convert me to Judaism, on the stipulation that you teach me the entire Torah as I stand on one leg.” Shammai drove him off with the builder’s measuring stick in his hand. [The Talmudic sage Shammai was a builder by profession.]

He then came before Hillel, who converted him. Said Hillel to him: “What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. This is the entire Torah. The rest is commentary — go and learn.”

Hillel and Shammai were two leading rabbis of the early 1st century BCE. They lived in Jerusalem during the time of King Herod and the Roman Emperor Augustus, in the turbulent and bloody century before the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE. It is in this conversation that Hillel sums up all of Torah — to treat another person like you would like to be treated. Imagine, if each of us would live that way!

One century later, Rabbi Akiva would comment on the verse “Love your fellow as yourself.” This is a cardinal principle in the Torah. As we once again receive the Torah on Shavuos 2016, this remains the summary of all of Torah: Treat the other like you wish to be treated.

Judaism is a religion of words. G-d created the natural world with words. We create, and sometimes destroy, the social world with words. That is one reason why Judaism has so strong an ethic of speech. The other reason, surely, is its concern to protect human dignity.

Psychological injury may be no less harmful and sometimes is even more harmful than physical injury. Hence the rule: never humiliate, never put to shame, never take refuge in the excuse that they were only words, that no physical harm was done.

In 2008, world renowned composer Benjamin Zander gave a TED Talk called “The Transformative Power of Classical Music.” This is how he ended his talk: What we say really makes a difference. The words that come out of our mouth really do matter. I learned this from a woman who survived Auschwitz, one of the rare survivors. She went to Auschwitz when she was 15 years old. And her brother was eight, and the parents were lost. And she told me this.

She said, “We were in the train going to Auschwitz, and I looked down and saw my brother’s shoes were missing. I said, ‘Why are you so stupid? Can’t you keep your things together for goodness’ sake?’ the way an elder sister might speak to a younger brother.”

Unfortunately, it was the last thing she ever said to him, because she never saw him again. He did not survive. And, so, when she came out of Auschwitz, she made a vow.

She said, “I walked out of Auschwitz into life and I made a vow. And the vow was, ‘I will never say anything that couldn’t stand as the last thing I ever say.’”

Now, can we do that? No. But it is a possibility to live into. Never ever embarrass someone — not a child, not even an adult, not your spouse, not your child, nor a stranger.

Rabbi Tzvi Dechter is the Director of Chabad of North Broward Beaches. New location soon! For all upcoming events, please visit www.JewishLHP.com.

The story is told of a king who decided to reward a peasant who had done him a great service. “Shall I give him a sack of gold? A bag of pearls?” thought the king. “But these mean virtually nothing to me. I want, for once, to truly give something – something that I will miss, a gift that constitutes a sacrifice for me.”

Now this king had a nightingale who sang the sweetest songs a human ear had ever heard. He treasured the nightingale over all else and found life unbearable without it. So he summoned the peasant to his palace and gave him the bird. “This,” said the king, “is in appreciation for your loyalty and devotion.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said the peasant, and took the royal gift to his humble home.

A while later, the king was passing through the peasant’s village and commanded his coachman to halt at the peasant’s door.

“How are you enjoying my gift?” he inquired of his beloved subject.

“The truth to tell, Your Majesty,” said the peasant, “the bird’s meat was quite tough – all but inedible, in fact. But I cooked it with lots of potatoes, and it gave the stew an interesting flavor.”

Is this freedom?

People often ask, “Why does Judaism prohibit me from doing whatever I want? Why can’t we just be free, liberated and individualistic? Why are there so many laws, instructions and rituals in Judaism that govern every aspect of one’s life, from the way we eat to the way we marry? Would it not have been nice if the opening of the Ten Commandments would have read like this: ‘I am the Lord your G-d who has taken you out of Egypt in order to set you free. Now, young women and men, listen ye to my words! You can do whatever you want, wherever you want, however you want, with whomever you want, as long as you don’t hurt another person. I honor your individual rights to choose your own lifestyle and behavior, without anybody governing your decisions. Conform not to any standard; just live it up!’”

Is this why we left the house of bondage in Egypt – to become slaves to the Almighty?

The Sages saw it otherwise. “There is no free man, except for he who occupies himself with the study of Torah” (Ethics of the Fathers, 6:2.) Really? If anything, it is exactly the other way around: as long as you don’t learn Torah, you are free to engage in so many activities, the options are open. Once you embrace Torah, there goes your freedom … Torah mixes into everything … A life that is faithful to the precepts of the Torah is indeed greatly “constricted” and “confined.”

Scattering the energy

On the face of it, the Jewish code of behavior is a limiting factor, something that detracts from the great variety of possibilities that life has to offer. In truth, however, the very opposite is the case.

A life without parameters is a life that quickly dissipates into the cosmic heterogeneity in which we exist, draining it of all power and impact. When we follow our instincts, habits, cravings and appetites without any restrictions, our inner momentum, focus and depth are weakened. When we allow ourselves the freedom to go in every direction, when there are no boundaries or limitations and we are free to do everything and anything – our light scatters all over the place and we never realize our ultimate power and potential. Our energies are squandered, our richness is compromised, our creativity silenced and our brightness dulled.

Conversely, when we “restrict” the light, and do now allow it to flow anywhere and everywhere, we fine-tune our inner creativity, we cultivate our power, we become the most powerful people we can become, we access all of our momentum and we can vaporize even steel …

It is like the chords of a violin which must be tied down to allow the music to play. Torah and Halacha (law) do not come to tie us down, but rather to allow our music to soar.

The Baal Shem Tov teaches that the word Halacha is the acronym of “let the whole earth sing to G-d.” What is meat-and-potatoes for one person is a nightingale for another person, capable of producing the most beautiful music in the world.

Shavuot is the Holiday in which G-d gave the Torah to the Jewish people 3,328 years ago. This year, we celebrate Shavuot on June 12 and 13.

Rabbi Tzvi Dechter is the Director of Chabad of North Broward Beaches. New location soon! For all upcoming events, please visit www.JewishLHP.com.