In respect for Shabbat, the Jewish day of rest, we will not be sending you an Elul thought tomorrow so that you can be at rest from your email and other social media. So please enjoy both of these thoughts today!
Shabbat Shalom!
Elul 17/September 8
..The chief of the police asked: “How am I to understand that God, who is omniscient, asks Adam, ‘Where are you?’”
The rabbi replied: “Do you believe that scripture is eternal and encompasses every age, every generation, and every person?” ---- “Well now,” said the Zaddik, “in every age God addresses every person with the question, ‘Where are you in your world? Already so many of your allotted years and days have passed. How far have you come in your world?’
Perhaps God will say, ‘You have lived forty-six years. Where are you now?’”
When the chief of police heard the exact number of his years, he pulled himself together, clasped the rabbi’s shoulder, and exclaimed: “Bravo!” but his heart trembled.
"When asking in this manner, God does not really want to be informed about something that is not known. Rather, God wishes to affect something in a person that can only be effected by such a question. The question is intended to penetrate the human heart but can do so only if the person allows the heart to be penetrated"
(Martin Buber - The way of Man).
No matter how big our accomplishments are, as long as we don't submit to the question, we will miss an essential element of our existence. It’s like having the newest Smartphone without any 4G connection or WiFi. It is potentially great but you can’t really use it.
Under all the noise that surrounds our lives there is an I, you, me, who is struggling to hear the small voice asking AYEKA? Where are you? An invitation to self-awareness that is being extended to us in every single moment of our lives, when the mere act of hearing it opens for us the possibility of a magic encounter with our souls... A question, a GPS to our souls!
(Rabbi Nico Socolovsky)
Elul 18/September 9
Why My Mother Cried
Each year, while preparing for the High Holy Days, my mother would blast Avinu Malkeinu over the stereo and sob. I can clearly remember her sitting on the edge of the stairs crying her eyes out, as if someone had just passed away. She would set the table with a white cloth her late mother had embroidered and cry some more. Her tears made me uncomfortable and irritated—I couldn’t understand why she had to act so melancholy before the holidays.
Years later, I invited my mother and her sister over for Rosh Hashanah dinner. By this point in time, my mother’s health and mental acuity had deteriorated, so her somber moments were few and far between. My table was adorned with the embroidered white tablecloth. Upon seeing it, my aunt began to cry and call out for her mother. I let her cry—I didn’t know what else to say or do.
While setting my table for the first Rosh Hashanah after my mother’s passing, I kept the tradition of blasting Avinu Malkeinu over my stereo. And as I took out the family tablecloth, I completely lost it. Despite my children being in the room, I could not help myself from crying deep, painful sobs. It wasn’t until that moment that I understood why my mother had cried all those years.
Traditions surrounding the holidays are beautiful and uplifting, but at the same time they can bring out deep emotions from within. These traditions endure, forever connecting us to those who came before us. I’ve come to realize that it is sometimes alright to shed tears amidst the joy.
Each year, while preparing for the High Holy Days, my mother would blast Avinu Malkeinu over the stereo and sob. I can clearly remember her sitting on the edge of the stairs crying her eyes out, as if someone had just passed away. She would set the table with a white cloth her late mother had embroidered and cry some more. Her tears made me uncomfortable and irritated—I couldn’t understand why she had to act so melancholy before the holidays.
Years later, I invited my mother and her sister over for Rosh Hashanah dinner. By this point in time, my mother’s health and mental acuity had deteriorated, so her somber moments were few and far between. My table was adorned with the embroidered white tablecloth. Upon seeing it, my aunt began to cry and call out for her mother. I let her cry—I didn’t know what else to say or do.
While setting my table for the first Rosh Hashanah after my mother’s passing, I kept the tradition of blasting Avinu Malkeinu over my stereo. And as I took out the family tablecloth, I completely lost it. Despite my children being in the room, I could not help myself from crying deep, painful sobs. It wasn’t until that moment that I understood why my mother had cried all those years.
Traditions surrounding the holidays are beautiful and uplifting, but at the same time they can bring out deep emotions from within. These traditions endure, forever connecting us to those who came before us. I’ve come to realize that it is sometimes alright to shed tears amidst the joy.
(April Akiva, R.J.E.)
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