The Month of Adar: C’mon Get Happy

The Mishna in Ta’anit tells us that with the arrival of the month of Adar comes an increase in joy. But what’s to get happy about?

The Sfat Emet teaches that Adar is a time for awakening one’s love for Hashem. Just as Elul, the month before Tishrei and Rosh Hashanah, is a time for tshuva (repentance), so too the month of Adar is a special time for tshuva, since Nissan also marks a beginning of the year.

But there is a substantial difference between these two types of tshuva. During Elul our tshuva is driven by awe; during Adar, it is driven by love.

Adar is not about fear of judgment, but rather about a desire to be close to our Creator.

Rav Yitzhak Luria, known as the Ari of Tsfat, taught that Yom Kippur is Yom Ke-Purim, i.e., the day that is likened to Purim. In other words, Yom Kippur, a day in which Hashem wipes the slate clean from all our misdeeds, takes a back seat to Purim. How can this be?

In the Sfat Emet we see an answer. A relationship based on fear or awe is not a complete relationship. Imagine a marriage in which the spouse is only fulfilling his or her obligations out of a feeling of fear. Obviously this is a relationship in dire straits. So too with our relationship with Hashem; if our whole desire to come close is only out of obligation or fear of punishment, the relationship is on shaky ground.

Adar is a time to focus on all the good and blessing that fills our lives, and how we want to be close to the Source of that blessing. There is no room for misdeeds when this is our focus. And as our sages teach, there is no greater joy then experiencing closeness to Hashem.

Here are some practical ways in which to feel this joy and closeness:

¨ Before you go to bed at night, write down three things that happened that day for which you feel thankful to Hashem.

¨ Find a quiet place to talk to Hashem. Speak freely about specific positive events that have happened to you recently.

¨ Take an extra moment in your daily prayers to close your eyes and take a breath, and to focus on the source of that breath. Alternatively, during prayer put your hands on your chest, and feel the warmth and life that radiates from your body.

The Moment after Receiving the Torah

The transition between the Torah’s description of the national revelation at Mt. Sinai to the bulleted list of property laws listed immediately afterwards is jarring.

Imagine the scene at Mt. Sinai: the sages tell us that we were like a unified body in our mutual desire to receive the Torah. God reveals Himself to the nation; it was an event that, according to the Zohar, caused their souls to literally leave their body.

It was the absolute height of spirituality.

Then, in the next moment, Moshe enrolled the nation in Tort Law 101. We learn about indentured servitude, personal damages, property damage, etc. Where’s the transition? What happened to the spiritual experience, to the oneness?

The Ramban, in his first comment on Mishpatim, explains that the laws elucidated in the adjacent section are a translation of the last of the Ten Commandments, i.e., the prohibition of coveting.

Says the Ramban, if it were not for the property laws listed directly after the prohibition of coveting, you would not know what is yours and what is not. Therefore the Torah has to describe the parameters of ownership.

Spirituality can be defined as engaging with the entity that created and gives life to all of creation. A moment when one experiences this greater reality can alter one’s life. I remember distinctly a Shabbat meal where a friend shared a moving experience during his first trip to the Western Wall, where he felt “so connected.” That moment opened him up to further exploration of his Judaism and to pursue a life in Israel.

True, tasting the oneness can provide a high like none other. However, it is not the end goal. Jewish spirituality values both the concept of oneness, along with well-defined boundaries. We must develop a clear sense of self, as well as maintain the consciousness of our greater context. The awareness of this paradox prevents perversions of spirituality that violate healthy borders in all types of relationships.

Serving Hashem with Stubborness

I find driving in Israel a difficult task. When you have a “nation of priests,” everyone thinks they rule the road. God tells the Jewish people that they are a “stiff-necked people,” a prophecy one can experience any time one needs to switch lanes in a pinch.

I always get a laugh when I see is a car with Ain Od Milvado, There is nothing other than Him, a passage from Devarim, printed in large letters on the back windshield of a hatchback. As he cuts me off, I’m wondering if he thinks the translation is “There’s nobody else but me on the road.”

It’s only one of the many ways one can experience holy chutzpa in modern day Israeli culture. But this stubbornness is a character trait that can be redeemed.

According to Rebbe Nachman of Brestlov (Meshvat Nefesh 31), one needs great stubbornness in the service of Hashem. There will be endless ups and downs in this endeavor, and in order to overcome the many obstacles one must be tremendously stubborn.

Strengthening our character and becoming more aware of Hashem’s presence in our life is an endless process filled with pitfalls. The normal daily details of life constantly pull us way from this growth.

So too with any meaningful goal; there will be challenges at every point, and in order to find success we must act with diligence. Only through being stiff-necked can we reach our goals, whether in service of God or otherwise.

Dedicated to our new daughter Sara Temima, named after my grandmother Sarah Jean Cohen, a strong, stubborn woman whose determination helped turn around many lives.

The Names that Carry us to Exodus

We usually translate Shmot, the second book of the Torah, as Exodus, but literally it is called the Book of Names. Why call the book of exile and redemption the Book of Names?

The topic of names reminds me of a well-known quote from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet: “that which we call a rose/ By any other name would smell as sweet.” Translation: what something is matters more than what it is called.

True, a name can never capture the full essence of an object. However, there is still great importance to a name, to the extent that King Shlomo wrote in Kohelet, “A good name is better than good oil.”

The Chasidic master known as the Sfat Emmet gives an explanation of this passage in Kohelet. He says that good oil is an allusion to the priests who are anointed with oil as an initiation into their service in the Temple. Better than serving Hashem in the Temple, a position that comes as an inheritance, is the effort and exertion one puts into serving God. It is through this effort that one acquires a “good name,” i.e., the recognition and reward for the hard work put in.

This brings us back to our initial question. The Book of Shmot begins: “These are the names of the sons of Israel who came to Egypt”…and then lists Yaakov and his sons. The Sfat Emmet teaches that our ancestors went down to Egypt and maintained the spiritual level of their names. In other words, the spiritual work that they had done and the name that they had made for themselves also came down with them to Egypt. In this way they were able to carry the light of God even into the darkest depths of exile. These names, i.e., the spiritual inheritance of our ancestors, carried Israel through the exile long after their death, and ultimately led to Israel’s exodus from Egypt and the receiving the Torah.

The name that we make for ourselves, meaning the work we do both on our character traits and in our mitzvah observance, is what we leave behind for the next generation. It is our inheritance in the next world, and what allows the presence of Hashem to shine even in this long, dark exile. And it is through these efforts that we will ultimately bring about our redemption as well.

Bringing Redemption through Artistic Expression

Most of us are familiar with the concept of tikkun olam, literally fixing the world, as a major precept of the Jewish tradition. But how exactly does one do tikkun olam? How can we help Hashem bring the world towards completion?

Repentance, charity, and acts of kindness are all good assumptions with plenty of textual support. Building a home founded on Jewish values is another. There is much to say about simply serving God joyfully through Torah.

But what about art? Is it possible that artistic expression is a key component in tikkun olam?

Rav Avraham Yitzhak Kook in his Introduction to Shir HaShirim (Song of Songs) makes the following bold assertion:

Art, in all its variations, serves to express every concept, every emotion, and every thought found in the human soul. As long as even one trait remains concealed in the soul, it is the artist’s obligation to reveal it.


Art, according to Rav Kook, is the necessary expression of the hidden human experience. The artist is obligated to reveal his or her unique perspective of the world, whether through writing, or though visual art. The entire range of the human experience must be brought before the eyes of the world. Hashem’s creation is literally incomplete without it.

Rav Kook clearly notes that this expression must fit a certain ethical framework. And it is within that framework that the poem and the prose once hidden in the heart of the writer tell the tale of God’s ever-present kindness. The painter and the photographer help to fix the world by revealing Hashem’s presence in every brushstroke and every beam of light.

Art, as the ultimate reflection of life, allows us to see the beauty and truth contained within each moment, and within all creation. Tikkun olam is achieved through this greater awareness of Hashem.

Yosef and the Consciousness of Redemption

A friend once told me a story about two relatives of his that were survivors from the Holocaust; they were a brother and a sister named Yaakov and Sarah. I don’t remember all the details, but like so many families during the war they were separated and sent to labor camps.

After the war, Sarah, still only a young adult, somehow made it to America on her own. She never found conclusive evidence for the deaths of her family, including her beloved brother Yaakov. Many years passed, and no new information surfaced; she had no reason but to assume the worst.

Thirty years later, the phone rang. She said hello, but there was only silence. She said hello again, and still silence. Then she heard two words that sent a chill through her body: “It’s Yaakov.”

I don’t remember how Yaakov made it to America, or how he had survived the war and the years after, but I’m reminded of this haunting story every year when we read the Torah portion Vayigash.

The climax of the story of Yosef and his brothers reaches its momentous peak with possibly the two most evocative words in the entire Torah: Ani Yosef, I am Yosef.

Rabbi Mordechai Yosef, known as the Ishbitzer, one of our great Polish Chasidic sages, gives us a broader insight into the impact contained within these two words. He explains that the story of Yosef and his brothers is the model for the future redemption of the Jewish people.

From the brothers’ perspective, their journey has gone completely awry. Binyamin has been taken captive by an Egyptian ruler for a crime he did not commit, and the consequences for returning without him are too great to bear. After hearing the news, their father Ya’akov would be dead to the world. The brothers had no hope in sight.

Yet Yehuda’s plea to take him as a servant instead of Binyamin opened Yosef’s heart: “I am Yosef,” he cried out. It was not you, but God who sent me here to provide for my father and for our family. Suddenly, salvation arrived from the very source of their impending tragedy.

Everything changed the moment Yosef revealed himself. Yet the only real transformation was the perspective of the brothers. Salvation arrived through a shift in consciousness.

Whether the redemption that we’re searching for is big or small, we can find solace in the story of Yosef and his brothers – that salvation arrives in the blink of an eye, and from the most surprising of places.

Lights that Reach the Lowest Place

Though I didn’t grow up in an observant home, there was one holiday whose laws we kept with strict adherence. Every night of Hanukkah the menorahs were set on the table, each one with the appropriate number of multi-colored candles ready to be lit, accompanied by small sacks of plastic netting filled with chocolate coins, and a wrapped present for each member of the family.

Hanukkah, unlike the other Jewish holidays, is embraced in all of its particulars in a way that no other holiday is. One could cynically argue that the Western consumer culture of the holiday season in December gives Hanukkah extra credence. But I believe there is more to the matter.

Netivot Shalom, a recent Chasidic work written by the previous rebbe of Slonim, Rabbi Sholom Noach Berezovski, offers a different answer. He points out a unique halacha about the placement of the Hanukkah candles. As opposed to Shabbat candles, which should be placed no lower than 10 handbreadths above the ground, Hanukkah candles ideally should be placed above 3 and lower than 10 handbreadths from the ground.

What is the significance of placing Hanukkah candles in such a low place?

The decrees made by the Greeks were a part of a spiritual war waged against Israel; under punishment of death they were not allowed to keep Shabbat, perform circumcision, sanctify the new moon, or learn Torah. Without their connection to mitzvot, the Jews fell to a destitute spiritual level. Yet even in this lowly state, void of mitzvot, Hashem saved them from the oppression and made a miracle in the Temple.

The holiday maintains this message. No matter how far a Jew is from observance-- even from Jewish identity-- still the lights of Hanukkah speak to him or her. There are no spiritual prerequisites to connect to these miracles. Just as it was then, so too now; it’s the holiday that reaches down and speaks to every Jew, and brings light to those places that are farthest from it.