Famous men have said, “Youth is wasted on the young.” There are various opinions as to whom to attribute this wise saying, but it seems quite clear that it originated with the Irish playwright, George Bernard Shaw.
I have to thank my dear parents, may they rest in peace, for many things. I must especially thank them for having chosen to provide me with a yeshiva day school education.
"What do you want to be when you grow up?" That was once the standard question to ask an eight- or nine-year-old when trying to make conversation with him or her. Somehow, every child had an answer, which ranged from "fireman" to "football player" to "nurse."
I was never very good at math. It all goes back to the fourth grade. I came down with a case of some ordinary childhood disease, probably chicken pox, at just the time that Mrs. Levine was teaching the class about the concept of percentages. I must've missed about a week of school, and when I returned to class, it seemed as if everyone was speaking Greek. Phrases like "50%" and "75%" and "a half" and "three-quarters" cut the air, and I simply did not know what these strange words meant. Mrs. Levine probably tried to catch me up with the rest of the class, but all I remember are feelings of frustration.
I have to thank my dear parents, may they rest in peace, for many things. I must especially thank them for having chosen to provide me with a yeshiva day school education.
I have to thank my dear parents, may they rest in peace, for many things. I must especially thank them for having chosen to provide me with a yeshiva day school education.
Back in the days when I was a pulpit rabbi in Baltimore, Maryland, I made it my business to meet with every bar mitzvah boy and girl several weeks before their big day. It was my way of becoming familiar with these youngsters. We would discuss their interests, hobbies, favorite books, and what they were studying in school.
Very much has been written about most family relationships. There are books about fathers and sons, fathers and daughters, and mothers and sons and daughters. Many volumes have been written about relationships, typically rivalrous, between siblings.
Assembling complicated gadgets is generally facilitated by the printed instructions that the factory provides. Occasionally, however, there are no instructions, either because of the manufacturer's negligence or because of his assumption that there is no one out there dumb enough not to be able to figure out how to assemble the gadget on his own. That assumption is frequently mistaken. There are plenty of dummies out there, and I count myself among them.
She was the daughter of Holocaust survivors, but she was not Jewish. Her parents were Polish citizens who, heroically, and at the risk of their own lives, rescued Jews from certain death. Her parents are no longer alive, but their memories are enshrined in Yad VaShem, the Holocaust memorial museum in Israel, in the pavilion reserved for righteous Gentiles.
She couldn't have been much more than 16 years old, but she was one of the toughest interviewers I have ever encountered.
This week, we read Parshat Beshalach (Exodus 13:17-17:16). It narrates the miraculous splitting of the sea and the sublime song of praise composed by Moshe and sung by all of Israel, including his sister Miriam and the women who joined her with music and dance. This Shabbat is, therefore, known as Shabbat Shira, the Sabbath of Song. It is an occasion to reflect upon the central role of music and song in Jewish religious tradition.
Pharaoh was just the first. One way of looking at Jewish history is as a series of encounters with evil rulers. Pharaoh, whom we have been reading about these past several weeks, was just the first tyrant who persecuted us. Over the millennia, he was followed by Nebuchadnezzar, Haman, Antiochus, Titus, Hitler, Stalin, and others too numerous to mention.
For several weeks now, we have attempted to define the nature of redemption, geulah, in this column. We have struggled with the challenge posed by the Passover Haggadah: "In every generation, each one of us is obligated to see himself as if he had personally left Egypt."
Teaching young children has always been a joy for me. One of teaching's special advantages is the clarity that emerges from conversation with people under the age of ten.
Every human being following Adam and Eve has had this experience, yet none of us can ever recall what it felt like. I refer to the first event in our lives—our birth.
Did you ever sing in a choir? If you did, you will easily be able to appreciate what I am about to describe.
I couldn't believe it. One of my trusted old reference books failed me for the first time.
There are questions that people ask when they have experienced great disappointment. One such question, a theological one, is, “What did I do to deserve this? What sin have I committed that warrants such a painful punishment?”
For the past several weeks, this column has addressed a challenge that we all face during Passover, Pesach, which is now barely two months away. The challenge is posed in a passage in the Haggadah, which ultimately derives from a Mishna in the tractate of Pesachim. The text reads, "In each and every generation, one is obligated to see himself, lir'ot et atzmo, as if he had personally left Egypt."