The Essay Journal

The following is my personal account of my writing process for the My Life Chassidus Applied Essay Contest:

Jan 19,

I got the text from my mother first. “There’s an essay contest online, with a chance to win $10,000. Go for it!” And later in the day my friend Baruch texted me the link well: “This is right up your alley.”

I like to write, and sometimes I write quite well. That’s the reason I got these texts, because my friends know this about me. And, well, my mother too.

So I went online to check it out. The contest seemed simple — not easy, just simple: Take an idea of Chassidus and show how, when applied, it can solve contemporary problems. The first place winner would receive $10,000, second would get $3,600, third, $500.

All in all, not a bad gig. Especially if you enjoy writing. Little did I know what was coming. And I wasn’t without doubts. By the time I printed out the contest Rules and Guidelines, I was one massive sinkhole of doubt.

First of all, realistically speaking, there were tons of writers “out there” with more experience and writing ability than me. Second, and maybe not as realistic, I didn’t think this was the ideal time to write a $10,000 essay. My writing goes through phases, just as any art would, and this was a particularly dry spell. And this essay was not one I could take shortcuts with; no amount of fluff would make up for actual content, even if my writing was in top form. Applied Chassidus is the real deal and my topic would have to be strong and well researched. In this field too, I was not at my best. It’s not that I don’t believe in it — I do. Chassidus has enriched my life and become synonymous with my Judaism and my connection to God. I also believe it’s our best shot at getting the world from a state of exile to redemption. The issue is that applied Chassidus requires… applying Chassidus, which means knowing and learning Chassidus. I hadn’t been learning so much.

And who said I was such a good writer anyway? Two people texted me, and one of them was my mother. But this last doubt was the easiest to expel, because I’m pretty confident in my writing ability overall. I just needed to get back into the swing of things. And what did it matter that only two people had texted me? I didn’t need fifty people to think I’m good. Just the judges. And it was hard. I was going to have to learn more. One couldn’t expect to just sit down and conjure up a winning essay without any effort.

There were some complications however. The Spring college semester was about to start, and I besides for the time that would take out of my days, it would divide my mind into compartments. And I knew I couldn’t do this halfheartedly (Chassidic pun). The rules were long and comprehensive; they covered every possible detail. This wasn’t surprising, considering the $10,000 prize. I had to get to work.

Later,

I decided that my writing style would have to be Easy-Read. Those other experience writers would probably be going with Scholarly or Academic. My best shot would be with clear speech which borderlined on actual dialogue. Nothing says Applied Chassidus like the friendly tone of real life human being. I just hoped I qualified.

I began listing topics I was sure I’d be able to write about: keeping a beard, having a Mashpia, practicing hiskafia… but they weren’t speaking to me. These weren’t ‘contemporary problems’. And besides, I was coming up with these ideas when I was supposed to be Davening. It doesn’t get more hypocritical than that. But I kept running back to my notebook, trying to formulate the best idea possible. Maybe… maybe I could write about Davening! And banishing foreign thoughts, even if they’re about Chassidus! The obvious problem was that I wasn’t doing that successfully at that moment, so that was out.

Jan 20,

While the initial fire may have died down to a manageable inferno, the ideas kept coming. Depression. Anxiety. Chassidus was all around me. I kept thinking of topics. And so I decided to write out short paragraphs to test drive each idea. If I could write it out in my voice, that would be a starting point. One idea that almost made it was Mo’ach Shalet Al Halev — that the brain rules over the heart. I was going to incorporate the story of Moshe Meisels who spied on Napoleon, and how he controlled his reaction to being accused. The punchline is: “Mo’ach Shalet Al Halev is the Aleph Beis of Chabad Chassidus.” What does that mean? Well, it would be easy to take it from there. But nothing came of that, either.

Jan 26,

The going wasn’t great. More than a week has passed and I had yet to pick a topic. Nothing to show for the time ‘Essay’ spent at the top of my To-Do list. No terrible first draft. All I had was written about how I’d written nothing. At least it wasn’t negative, right? No bad feelings. Right?!

So, I decided then that I needed to up the tempo, raise the temperature of the fire under my chair until I got up screaming and my voice was heard even if my pain was unfelt. I would sit down to write and produce random fragments…

“Snow was falling, not in big clumps, but rather in small steady flakes, content and patient with confidence that that it would cover all the land in whiteness.”

How was I going to pick a topic? I needed to learn more. What should I learn, how should I learn? With whom? When? I didn’t know the answers, but I was honest enough to know I was in the midst of a thick cloud of procrastination.

I kept going back to the conviction that I would use my Easy-Read style. That would save me, surely. Simon Jacobson added in his weekly video series, “The essay should come from the heart, should not be overly scholarly, and that anyone could do this.”

Feb 3,

Nothing. No magic. Dead time. “I really should start,” I told myself. Daily. But no ideas were coming to me. And then… It came like any other writing urge, squirming around inside me trying to get out, causing me to twitch and shudder until I safely got to a paper and poured it out like vomit, and only some of that is figurative. I sat there until I was spent, with (figurative) drool dripping off my chin. It was raw and messy. That’s how all rough drafts work. The topic was Inspiration, what to do when you don’t have it. It was weak, but at least I had something. You can’t critique a blank canvas. Still, I looked back on those weeks as drifting despair, weeks of procrastinated confusion.

Feb 5,

I had my essay all typed up on Google Docs, trying hard to ignore the incoherence, the ugliness. I printed out what I had from the computer lab in college, complete with a little title graphic: Inspiration with a clip-art feather icon attached to the N’s tail at the end of the word.

Feb 15,

With less than a week left, I began to get desperate. True, I had a second draft, but it wasn’t much better. It was just typed and had a few of Uri Perlman’s gentle criticisms. I kept dragging the papers around with me everywhere, so every time I did homework, they were right in my face, or hiding behind a textbook in my bag. I kept avoiding the essay, even as I spent so much thought on how I needed to work on it.

Feb 17,

It was by mistake that I stopped into the writing center at college. The kind lady there read over what I had and encouraged me to keep going. I printed out a revised version and felt that much less anxious that the final time to submit the essay was only 2 days away.

Feb 20,

Toughest essay in my life? I would never know for sure, but even as I clicked ‘submit’, I knew I was making personal history. 7 Drafts.

Draft #1 was written in zal, Draft #2 was printed from college, with minor edits. Draft #3 incorporated the story of Elisha and the woman, and was edited a bit more. By Draft #4 I thought I had it down. Then I called Baruch on the bus heading home the day before it was all due. The result of the conversation was that I covered the pages in red ink till it looked like I had killed a small animal on them. I showed this version with all the marks to J. E., who gave it a cursory glance and wasn’t very helpful. I showed it to S. T., who was entirely too helpful. It took me a while to recover.

Nighttime, February 19th. I went to sleep sad. Tired, feeling worthless. Aware of the work ahead, and the 24-hour window. Taking into account the hours of sleep, the hours of college, plus Davening and chitas, there were some 6 hours of actual time I could invest in this essay. It was a countdown.

Draft #5 received all the changes, and still there were mistakes. I was missing little spelling typos, grammar inconsistencies. I was in it too deeply to see the mess-ups. But Mary was a counselor at college and she saw them. She was frank with me. She said, if I wanted to win $10,000, I had to do what the judges wanted. She was right, of course. I edited some more, trying to find the structure within my artistic barf.

I turned to Draft #6. It was based on an outline I created haphazardly during Speech class at 3:00, and it was printed at 3:30. It cut down a lot of what gave the essay character, Easy-Read style be damned. This version followed a format of problem/solution, and anything that was fluff or didn’t belong was tossed. In essence, I didn’t do much more than copy and paste onto a new document, with minor additions bridging the void of what was chopped. But Baruch wasn’t convinced. Neither was Yakov. They thought that Draft #5 had more of a chance. That it spoke a more powerful message. At the time, I was ready to be done. I had zero faith in my own writing, and my own judgment. I was truly relying on other people, and now based on what other people had said (Baruch’s mother and Mary from college), Draft #6 was better off. I spent a long time being indecisive. Time I didn’t have.

So I made Draft #7, which was took the good parts of Draft #5 and added them to Draft #6. I still had the structure, now I was trying to stitch in the character. It was a lot like trying to keep a dying cow alive and patching it up with the right organs, rather than giving birth to something new, something beautiful.

In the last hour, my father literally walked me through it over the phone. We went over the entire essay, fixing the dumb mistakes, editing the grammar issues, trying to make it flow seamlessly. It wasn’t my best work. But the whole process was pretty impressive. And then it was 11:59, and I sent it in right in middle of making corrections. There was a bit of panic: I was using an older Mac, and the document editing program was ‘Pages’ and I was barely able to export it back to Word before the end. No time left. Submit, that’s it. Over. Breathing. Laughing even. Expelling the nervous laugh gas that was bubbling up inside me. Now I had to wait until March 18th.

I thought about this essay a lot, going over what went into it. The frustrations. All the people who helped me. Baruch went above and beyond in his editorship, responding to instantaneous corrections in real time. His help was invaluable. I couldn’t have submitted anything decent without his involvement. And with everything, it wasn’t an essay I wrote easily, or even that well, necessarily. There was less of “I’ll write an original essay and it will do fine in the contest” and a lot more of “do this because they want me to”. I had foolishly entertained the thought of winning until the very last day, and by then I was past any hope. At the end of it all, I just wanted to be done, finished. And I when it was finally over, I was exhausted. And possibly a bit relieved.

March 25,

I didn’t even make the finalists. I saw the essays that won, and decided that some of them were true winners, and others were rather dry, and not to my taste at all. I think the lessons I learned from this essay experience were best taught through my utter lack of mention at all. It forced my essay’s message to be worthy by its own virtue, rather than just the right words at the right time, judged by the right people. The essay reverted back to its original message of something to be applied, not just distilled into an essay format. When the fantasy of winning subsided in disappointment, all that was left was the original idea, compelling it to be true for its own sake. And that made it all worthwhile.

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My Life Chassidus Applied Essay Contest

The following essay was my entry to the My Life Chassidus Applied Essay Contest:

Inspiration

How should one approach the problem of when Judaism appears unexciting? At times we are inspired and excited to be Jews and Chassidim, but at other times even simple tasks seem impossible.

As an artist with artist friends, I hear the word ‘Inspiration’ thrown around a lot, with a capital I. Inspiration is described as the process of being stimulated to do or feel something. It’s a time when creativity flows freely, without restraint. It is generally a happy time, a productive time. It’s a burst of energy for the writer to be prolific and for the painter to paint, for the singer/composer to come up with moving melodies. It’s an important state of being for a Chassid also, who can find enjoyment in his learning while inspired. He appreciates doing Mitzvos. His Davening is enthusiastic, and he sees significance in his actions.

The trouble is, inspiration doesn’t last forever. In most cases it doesn’t last for more than a short time. When I’m inspired, it feels like I can do anything today. When I’m not, I can’t even imagine how I did anything in the past. Today? Out of the question. Life resumes as it was before inspiration hit, and nothing has changed. Creative people go back to staring at blank notebooks and empty canvases. Chassidim see their Avodah as robotic and dull. There’s no life in learning, or Davening to Hashem. It’s not exciting, and worse, it can be painful.

Just doing what we are meant to do can be very difficult. Lack of inspiration is often times coupled with feelings of worthlessness that rise up and assault us. The artist says, “I have no real talent. All my earlier work was chance, a fluke.” Or worse, it was contrived, it was faked to look like the real thing. The artist so strongly identifies with his creative side that the struggle of creativity becomes superimposed and is now a struggle for his entire identity. The same is true for the Chassid. If I’ve experienced excitement about my Davening in the past, but today I don’t, was it ever authentic?

Of course, it’s more tempting to procrastinate and wait for the feeling of inspiration to come back to you. The work isn’t so easy now, but when inspiration hits, it will be.And it might even work. There’s a certain surety that the warm feeling will be back, fizzling inside you, laughing and trying to spill itself out onto a fresh canvas. Oh, I’ll get so much done when I’m inspired. This might also be the reason some authors will tell you their book “took five years to write”. Some people only write when they’re in the mood.

But Judaism doesn’t work like that; it’s not about being “in the mood”. Being Jewish is about the here and now – inspired or not, here I come. So for the Chasid, this time of uninspired Judaism can be particularly difficult. Because Judaism is not a religion. It’s a way of life. It’s an identity. There are halachos for literally every aspect of our lives, from the second we wake up until the time we go to sleep. There’s always a mitzvah to perform, and if there are even a few moments to spare, we should be learning Torah. The question becomes, how can I learn and Daven throughout the day when I feel dead and my actions feel dry, my concentration is not there and I’m overall very… uninspired?

Why is this inspiration so temporary? Isn’t doing what you love and believe in supposed to fill you with a sense of joy and happiness? Aren’t we supposed to love serving God and always find it exciting?

The solution can be found in a Ma’amer by the 7^th Lubavitcher Rebbe, who explains the story written in Navi (Malachim II). As follows:

A woman came to the prophet Elisha.

“My husband has been taken from me by his debtors. All I have left is my two sons, and soon, they’ll be taken from me, too.”

Elisha asked, “What do you have in your house?”

She answered, “A small jar of oil.”

Elisha responded, “Collect all the empty vessels in your house. Borrow from your neighbors, as many as possible. Fill them with your jar of oil.”

The woman returned home and did as instructed.

The oil flowed miraculously into all the vessels, and stopped pouring only after the last vessel was filled.

 

The Rebbe’s interpretation is this:

“The woman represents the Jewish people; Elisha the prophet represents Hashem. The husband that was taken away is the fire of passion (Ishi = husband, Aish = flame). The two sons correspond to the two forces of Love and Fear.

The Jew is asking of Hashem, my passion is gone, and all I have left are my love and fear. But I can’t hold on for that much longer. Help.

The response is to gather and fill empty vessels. Borrow from friends and mentors. What we need to do is create space for that inspiration. Because the oil is coming. The oil of passion, inspiration and enthusiasm.

The Rebbe is explaining that we need to push on regardless, despite the lack of inspiration. It’s not cold, robotic Judaism, even if it looks like it. It’s a gathering of vessels that will soon be filled. It’s a call to action despite the lack of energy, no matter how unexcited we feel.

To explain further: Consider a river that dries up, leaving a parched, dry ravine behind. If you knew there was a flood coming, wouldn’t you invest time and effort in preparation to channel the water? True, it’s hot and dry and your throat is parched and there’s sweat running down your back, but if you built a dam to contain the water, or better yet, a mill that converted the water into some other energy, you can benefit from the water long after the initial flood. It takes hard work – uninspired work – but it will reap benefit for a long time afterwards.

Curing the writer’s block is no easy task, but it can be fixed by constant writing, specifically during the dry spells when you don’t feel inspired. Artists need to force themselves to keep writing, painting or singing even when they can’t feel the message they’re trying to convey. It’s awful; I’ve been there. Terrible words stare back at you on the paper: ugly, mutilated clichés, child’s prose and bad spelling. It’s forced, and it hurts coming out. But exercise helps, especially free writing: the writing that is done without restraint or expectation, paying no attention to grammar or personal insecurities. You have to ignore the bad thoughts telling you all sorts of unhelpful, negative things. And then, when you’re in a state of inspiration, you will be much more proficient in your deeds.

So too, a Chassid should force himself to learn even when he isn’t in the mood. Be Jewish even when it isn’t fun. You can go back over the bad drafts and dead pages of Gemara later, fixing mistakes, editing lyrics, breathing the fiery flame of passion into the coldness. It’s important to keep your spirits up during the drought, and it’s the awareness that helps: knowing that uninspired Judaism is just a temporary state of being, if only we can channel the energy that’s coming.

When you spend time learning Gemara when everything is dark and you feel jaded, burnt out, as if your life is crashing around you because this sugya is so monotonous and you question why you’re even learning it anyway, what you’re doing is building strong walls to contain the flash flood of inspiration when it comes. When you force yourself to say every word in Davening, it isn’t a worthless endeavor. You aren’t being inauthentic, even if it doesn’t feel natural. And you weren’t faking it in the past, either. You aren’t a hypocrite. When you look back at your hard work from the uninspired days, you’ll see clearly how it all contributed to the war effort.

This is what we have to do when we lack inspiration. We know it’s on its way, so let us be ready for it. We have to prepare by gathering the empty jugs of uninspired learning and Davening. We need to be confident in the knowledge that they will be filled with oil, with light and life and passion once more.

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For the behind the scenes of this essay, click here.

“Jug” Mosaic Bas Relief by Michoel Muchnik

The Purim Story in a Nutshell

Today we’ll be setting the record straight on a number of points in the Megillah story, which is perhaps the most widely known non-fiction publication by and for the Jewish people. Every year, Jewish communities read Megillas Esther on Purim to commemorate the holiday. (This year it will be on Wednesday night and Thursday.)

“And it came to pass in the days of Achashverosh, the same Achashverosh who ruled from Hodu to Cush, one hundred and twenty-seven provinces…”

That was the setting. The Jews were exiles in the Persian Empire, a kingdom that spanned 127 provinces – all of the civilized world in the year 369 BCE (2,830 years ago). The ruling monarch was Achashverosh, and the city of Shushan was the seat of the Persian throne.

It’s three years into his reign and he is celebrating the event in style. For 180 days, he feasted and drank with delegates from all over his kingdom, with gross displays of wealth and ostentation. And after that, there was an exclusive seven day celebration for the locals in Shushan.

At some point during the festivities, Achashverosh sends a message to his wife Vashti, summoning her to his side with naught but the royal crown. She refused, and he killed her in a drunken rage.

When he sobered up, he found himself so very alone. He needed a wife, and he didn’t quite know how to find one. That wasn’t a problem though, because he was the ruler of the civilized world. He had all the beautiful girls in the kingdom brought to him for a grand selection.

Introducing Mordechai, the Jewish leader in the Babylonian/Persian exile who lived in Shushan. As it so happened, his niece Esther, whom Mordechai had raised after her parents’ death, fit the criteria for the king’s woman hunt. Now, she wasn’t exactly excited by the prospect of becoming the queen, but she was brought along just like all the other girls in the kingdom. The prospective queens were subject to a lengthy beautification process, but Achashverosh fancied Esther above the rest and made her his queen. She omitted mention of her ancestry.

Not long after, Mordechai overheard two officers, Bigsan and Seresh, plotting to assassinate the king. He told Esther as much, and she notified the king. An investigation followed, and the two would-be killers were themselves killed. Achashverosh credited Mordechai with saving his life, and recorded the incident in his Book of Chronicles.

At this point in the story, Achashverosh saw fit to promote his long time advisor, Haman. Haman was a really evil man, a descendant of the Amalekites and a sworn enemy of the Jews. As the second in command, he declared that everyone should bow down when he was present, to show humility and respect to a man so powerful.

Mordechai wasn’t amused. He didn’t want to bow to a mere mortal, when G-d really ruled the world. He ignored the new law, and by doing this he incurred Haman’s wrath. Thus were the seeds of revenge planted in Haman’s mind. Having Mordechai killed would have been revenge enough, but Haman wanted to be thorough. He wanted to kill all the Jews as one fully destructive stroke of vengeance. He asked King Achashverosh for permission to do so, offering an enormous sum of money by way of persuasion. The king gave the go-ahead. He gave Haman his ring, with which he would be able to issue any decree he saw fit. Achashverosh refused the money.

Haman cast a raffle to determine which day he would bring destruction upon the Jewish nation. He came up with the 13th of Adar. The name of the holiday actually originates from this raffle. (Purim, being plural of Pur – meaning raffle, or lottery) Notices were sent to the 127 provinces, copies of the decree issuing the Jews’ destruction.

The Jews found out, and Mordechai instructed the Jews to fast and pray. Esther planned to approach the king without a formal invitation, a violation punishable by death. After three days of fasting, she went in. Instead of killing her, Achashverosh asked her what was up. She invited him to a party, and, “Oh, invite Haman along too, k?”

At the party, Achashverosh asked Esther what she wanted, but she shrewdly dodged the question and invited both the king and Haman to yet another party.

Haman was leaving the party, whistling a merry tune that smelled of alcohol. Suddenly, he saw Mordechai, who would not bow down to him. Haman was angry. He was rich, he was powerful, and he had apparently played his cards right to be invited to parties by the queen, not once, but twice. His plan to kill the Jews notwithstanding, he was incensed by Mordechai’s lack of respect. He spun on his heel and headed home, where he plotted Mordechai’s more immediate death with his family. “Build a gallows for him,” suggested Zeresh, his wife. Haman agreed and set out for the palace to request permission, despite the late hour.

In the meantime, Achashverosh was trying to sleep but was having difficulty. “Fetch me the Book of Chronicles,” he drawled. And inside, he found the account of Mordechai saving his life from Bigsan and Seresh. “How was he repaid?” the king asked. But he’d never repaid.

And that’s when Haman asked for an audience with the king. Achashverosh acquiesced. “Tell me Haman,” he began, before Haman could say anything. “What should happen to one who the king wishes to honor?” Haman opened his mouth and closed it. He’s got to be talking about me, he thought. He responded:

“For a man whom the king wishes to honor,  let them bring a royal garment that the king has worn, and a horse upon which the king has ridden, and upon whose head the royal crown has been placed. And let the garment and the horse be entrusted in the hands of one of the king’s noble ministers, and they shall dress the man whom the king wishes to honor and lead him on the horse through the city square, proclaiming before him, ‘So is done for the man whom the king wishes to honor!’”

King Achashverosh interjected – “Quickly, grab the horse and royal garments, and do what you just said for Mordechai!”

Haman gaped at him for a second, then ran from the palace to do the king’s bidding. Mordechai was paraded around with honor, and Haman was disgraced. Before he had a chance to compose himself, he was summoned to Esther’s second banquet.

Achashverosh asked Esther what it was that she wanted, and this time she was ready with an answer. “Someone is trying to kill me and my entire nation!”

The king was aghast. “Who would do such a thing?”

“It’s Haman, that twisted individual sitting right next to you,” said Esther.

Achashverosh was very upset, and he took a walk to cool down. Haman tried to plead with Esther, and he kneeled at her feet. The king chose this moment to return, and he saw Haman in close proximity with his wife and lost it. Someone mentioned the very gallows that Haman was building for Mordechai, and the king ordered him hung. They hanged Haman that very day.

Esther properly introduced her uncle to the king, and he promoted Mordechai to Haman’s position, which was now conveniently vacant. Esther asked the king to repeal the decree against the Jews, but he said that he could not, due to bureaucratic red tape. Instead, Mordechai sent out his own decree, signed with the king’s ring, calling for the Jews to take up arms against their enemies.

The Jews defended themselves on the 13th of Adar, and killed anyone who tried to attack them. In the capital city of Shushan, the fighting continued for another full day. The Jews were saved from certain annihilation and the holiday of Purim was to be remembered as a day of celebration for all, to this very day.

 

(Here’s a link to some of the practices and customs of Purim!)

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Why I Hate Fasting

Let me tell you why I hate fasting.

It’s not the actual fasting. I can a handle a day without eating. We depend on food, sure, but 24 hours without it shouldn’t be such a big deal. What really gets me is the other things. The little things that result from the fast day, besides for being hungry.

There’s bad breath that results from not brushing teeth. Unlike a day’s worth of hunger urges which can be diverted by distractions, bad breath is around constantly.

Beware of the headache n’ headrush that comes from standing up. The pounding starts behind my eyes, like a computer chip was secretly inserted by the government without my knowledge, but my body feels it and reject it. The headrush can turn the world purple and hazy, and I have to grab the walls to steady myself.

But that’s not the worst of it. The worst is the boredom. Time moves differently on a fast day. You can walk around the house for what seems like hours, and check the clock to find it’s only been ten minutes. The heaviness of the day hangs thickly in the air, making movement slow and slothlike.

Of course, what I should be doing is taking the time to reflect on why we’re fasting to begin with. What the day represents historically to the Jewish people. But since I never want to do anything strenuous on a fast day, physically or mentally, I avoid thinking about things.

My options of what to do on fast days are limited, and the idea of passing time by watching a movie (or three) is tempting. Books seem like so much work. Lots of people sleep on fast days, but that never seemed to work for me. For sure what people are not doing is hanging out and talking. After all, the fast day is a sad day. There are even have specific laws for not greeting other people. And for learning Torah (Disclaimer: may cause pleasure). 

So, what bugs me most on fast days is that I become a bad-breathed,ill-tempered, anti-social creature locked away in a room for hours, while my mind goes to mush, all while being too lethargic to change the situation.

But it’s not the food. Never the food.

“Have an easy fast!”

What is a bird without wings?

What is a bird without its wings?

Is it still a bird? Is it less than a bird, or perhaps even something more?

Birds are defined by their wings, even the few species that don’t fly. What happens if we lose what defines us? What happens if we as people can’t fly? Are we no longer ourselves? Are we any less of the people who we were before we lost that which gave us flight?

Tanya for today (8 Nissan) says that even if it’s wingless, a bird is still a bird. Wings are only a motor for the actual bird to go where it wants to go.

At its essence, the bird is not its ability to fly. Just as we are more than what we say or do.

There is a part of us – the essential part of us – that remains pure and untouched regardless of whether we still have what gives us expression or not: clothes, money, athleticism, intellect, our families, our names, our hair. But we were given these things for a reason. To give flight to that pure essence, to take it to where it needs to go.

Mitzvos are still very special even if they’re done by rote, without enthusiasm or accountability. But we can give them wings by fulfilling them with love and fear.

(Adapted from Tanya, Chapter 40)

My Thoughts on Call of the Shofar

I may not have a white beard, and I may not be an expert on cults. I’m not an authority on Chasidus, or psychology, or theology. I don’t have legions of adherents to give credence to my declarations.

All I have is one man’s opinion. That’s it.

I’ve been to Call of the Shofar. Until now, this has been a somewhat private experience in my life. I’m not embarrassed or hiding anything. It’s just that it was a personal experience for me. I wouldn’t tell you about conversations I’ve had with a therapist, even if you were doing research on clinical psychology. Even if you had the confidence to ask me about it. Because it’s personal. It’s private.

And yet, I have been asked. Conversations nowadays go something like this: “You’ve gone to Call of the Shofar. What do you think? Is it a cult?”

It’s pretty frustrating to entertain a conversation that begins in this way. Opposition has been raised, now it must be confirmed or denied.

I don’t consider it my duty to defend Call of the Shofar. It’s not my workshop. Yes, I’ve participated. I’ve even staffed. But in the end, it remains my experience. I speak as an individual, not as an organization. As a result, I usually don’t sum up the enthusiasm to humor these conversations. Especially when someone says something like, “It’s for people who are sick.” Thanks, buddy. After that, proving that Shofar has merit has not really been my cup of tea. I understand that this is not everyone’s approach. Some people are very open. Perhaps too open. They may have discussed it with their friends and family, wanting to share the experience. Perhaps even urging them to go. Can you blame them? This is something that worked for them, and helped their lives. It would be most natural to recommend it to a friend, just as one would with a self-help book.

Call of the Shofar is not a perfect program. To the best of my knowledge, it has never claimed to be. I will say this though: the goal of Call of the Shofar weekend has been to allow a person to view themselves outside of the context of a negative self-image. Beyond the weekend, the work of continuing Shofar can be dumbed down to a basic process of self-control and self-awareness.

The results have helped many people find the road to fulfillment in life, healthy self-esteem, meaningful relationships… Are these not desirable goals? 

But, oh no. The four-letter C word was used. Cult.

Can’t you hear it echoing down dark forbidden corridors? Can you hear that harshly whispered word that chills the blood and extinguishes candles at midnight? Cult.

It’s the dirtiest of words to label any new movement or program. Scrolling down on some comments…

“Chasidus has all the answers.” “Speak to a mashpia.” “Avoda Zara.” “Cult.”

In my experience, I have gained much from farbrengens and from helpful rabbis in yeshiva. I imagine that there must be a strong support group in every frum community, and that coming together for Shabbos and holidays must really give a person fulfillment.

But it isn’t everything. I believe a person should search for meaning with all the resources at their disposal. What teachers and communities leaders may lacking, might be provided by psychologists and occupational therapists and financial advisers and and even fitness professionals, as per the needs of the individual.

You can believe that Chabad Chasidus is the pinnacle of service-to-God philosophy, but you can’t condemn someone for attending Call of the Shofar. It has helped many people, after all.

“You can’t judge from the results. If it’s bad, it’s bad.”

Ok. Some methods employed are subject to speculation. This is understandable. After all, aren’t we above methods that seek to indoctrinate rather than educate?

Take a Yeshiva like the Rabbinical College of America, in Morristown NJ. Classes start at 7:30 AM, and they end at 9:30 PM. Between classes there is ample time for davening, breakfast, lunch and supper. Beyond that, it’s a pretty closed environment. Phones are discouraged or forbidden altogether, music and books are monitored for content, internet access is unavailable or restricted, dress code is prominent, foul language prohibited. One must obtain permission before leaving campus.

I don’t think this is a bad thing. If this system works to its fullest, a student will be fully immersed in his studies without the worries of the outside world, without the distractions of sports, music or movies. They can get the most out of their experience.

There are many yeshivos like this.

There are no campaigns against large yeshivos. The student is subjected to the influence and teachings that he has signed up for. He may well get exactly what he’s looking for.

And yet, this approach didn’t work for me. It didn’t work for many people. Does the fact that it’s imperfect make RCA an ineffective program? Hardly. Can the methods employed be referred to as cult-like? I wouldn’t think so. Then again, I’m no authority on the matter.

In Call of the Shofar, efforts are made to ensure that the experience is meaningful. I can’t speak for everything. While I certainly valued silence, and no phones, I can see why someone would get a little edgy about some processes. But cult-like?

Let’s understand that anything can be taken out of context, and that anything can be abused. It really depends how it is approached. If I had thought Shofar would solve all my problems, I’d either be disappointed or delusional at this point. I didn’t, and therefore I’m not.

There are people who have done exceptionally well in a yeshiva like Morristown. Their experience is their own. They can say it worked for them, while I can say it didn’t work for me. It really depends on the person. If farbrengens and Chasidus work for you, go for it!

In the meantime, be wary of broad, sweeping generalizations.

It’s easy for someone who never went to condemn this program, if they wished. Just as it’s easy for someone who attended the weekend to endorse it.

If someone tells you that an experiential workshop which they have not experienced is evil, take it with a grain of salt.

If someone tells you that an experiential workshop that they have experienced is the best flippin’ thing since dried mango was discovered, take it with a grain of salt.

Is it perfect? Nope.

Is it evil? Nope.

Is it for everyone? Nope.

Be aware that there are plenty of nay-sayers and plenty of Shofar advocates. Do your research but keep a level head. Continue to search for the answers to your life questions, whether you find them in Shofar or in a Maamer or in the realm of secular psychology.

To quote someone who never went to Shofar: “The journey of life is the process of discovering that we have not been experiencing our true selves.”

For my part, I’m still committed to climbing.

–

The Siege

Imagine a city under siege. The entrances are blocked off and food can’t be brought in to supply the inhabitants.

Food is rationed carefully. Every day, the besieged city-folk stand in long lines to receive their portion. Soon, there is no food to be handed out, and the people have to fend for themselves.

Take a particular person within the city. Imagine his life and existence within the tall city walls, suffocated by the very source of his protection.

What if this man knew that there would be an end to the siege soon? Will the thought of eventual food ease his hunger and allow him to endure it? Perhaps he can deal with the suffering in a dignified way. Maybe even with a certain sense of pride, if victory is assured.

But imagine that victory is not certain, or his conduct is not dependent on the world outside. What if he lived for each day, and each day food was a struggle? If he isn’t convinced that his struggle will end, is it harder to endure? If the food is not forthcoming, will he bear hunger with dignity?

Maybe he will make a dignified peace with his fate. “Food is not coming. And I am above the humiliation of scurrying about in the streets, fighting for a crust, only to prolong the suffering, only to increase the torture.” He resists the psychological damage of the siege. And more than that… he finds comfort in his own suffering and bears it almost nobly.

But maybe he should be doing his utmost to survive. Should he steal, scheme, betray his fellows, and even kill, in order to possibly live through it all, no matter the cost? There is time enough for ideals and pride later. If only he survives, he can rationalize his actions. After all, justifications can only be made by the living.

Or is that the whole point of morals and ideals in the first place? That they should be convictions, to be believed in even at a time when it might not be convenient? What is their point, if not to overcome the temptation of desperation and depravation and submit to the serenity within the pain? Suffering is cleaning, maybe that’s true. But some suffering happens in vain.

Should he resort to eating rodents and insects, should he be reduced to a criminal when there is no law; or should he seek a quiet solitude away from the daily struggle of food? And hunger gnaws at his belly…

Oh, if only the war would be over. If only there was an end to this siege!