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A Personalized Newsletter for Your Chabad Organization Call Us at 954-967-8341 or info@hcschabad.org |
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Story #1 Jerusalem Mayor Visits Ohel
Mayor of Jerusalem Mr. Nir Barkat visited the Ohel grave site of the Lubavitcher Rebbe in the Old Montefiore cemetery in Cambria Heights, Queens, Sunday, praying for the welfare of Israel's capital. Not long before his afternoon visit an Arab truck driver led what police suspect was a terror traffic attack in Tel Aviv, crashing into vehicles and pedestrians. One person was killed and 17 others injured. Barkat also said a prayer for the victims of this attack, as well as the many other attacks the Jewish residents in Israel are enduring around the country. He was greeted by a delegation of Chabad officials from Lubavitch Headquarters who escorted him as he wrote a pan and said prayers at the gravesite.
Article originally published by COLLive.
The Mezuzah That Saved A Soul
By Molly Resnick Last week, I heard a truly touching story. Of all the exploits of Lubavitcher shluchim, the following one does not rank in the top tier. But it's a true testament to the movement and the vision of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, that an inspiring story like the following is almost unremarkable - that small miracles have almost become the norm. This story takes place in Lusaka, Zambia. A son of one of my very close friends - all of 22 years old - Dovid Kotlarsky, was sent to this city this city in the middle of Africa and with the help and guidance of the Chabad shliach in the Congo, Rabbi Shlomo Bentolila, conducted a Seder and celebrated Pesach with the Jews in the area. (This was part of a project of the Lubavitcher educational arm - Merkaz L'Inyonei Chinuch - that sent out over 650 rabbinical students this year to share Pesach with Jews all over the U.S. and the world.) Dovid, together with fellow shliach Yaakov Yosef Raskin, arrived in Zambia a few days before Pesach and, armed with Haggadahs, shmurah matzah, and wine, they took advantage of their "free" days to visit various Jews in their homes and offices and offer to put tefillin on their arms and mezuzos on their doors. One of the places they visited was a Zambian government company where a few Israeli Jews work. As Dovid was standing in the lobby, a white man was coming down the stairs (in Zambia white faces are the exception) and he figured he must be one of the Israelis. And yet, as the man passed the black-hat, bearded, smiling young Lubavitcher, he completely ignored him. Before Dovid could gather his wits, the man suddenly turned around and said, "Shalom. Listen, you're not going to get anything from me," and promptly walked away. Well, Lubavitchers, like all idealists, are used to rejection. So the young shliach overcame the encounter and continued his work. On erev Pesach the two went back to the same company for another visit. Figuring he had nothing to lose, Dovid stopped by the office of the gentleman who had spurned him the other day. Surprisingly, he acted nice. He disclosed that he used to work in the Israeli Consulate in Manhattan, where Lubavitchers also used to try visiting him. "But I would never go to see them," he told Dovid in a typical Israeli tone "I'm a chiloni (secular), I don't put on tefillin, and I don't say any berachot." "That's fine," Dovid replied. "I really came by to say hello and wanted to ask you if you would like us to put up a mezuzah on your door just like we did with your colleagues upstairs." To his surprise, the man said, "OK." Not only that, he even agreed to put it up himself. As Dovid rushed to put a yarmulke on his head the man recoiled. "I don't do that," he said. "Fine, no problem," Dovid responded, as he affixed the mezuzah on the office doorpost while explaining its significance. That night Dovid and Yaakov Yosef helped prepare what they were later told was the largest Seder in Zambia since the 1970s, with close to 100 people attending. And among the guests, who should appear but the gentleman from the office? Nor did he come alone. He brought along a non-Jewish black woman, whom they were happy to learn was only his girlfriend, not his wife. Dovid honestly didn't think he had made that much of an impression on the fellow who seemed to have exhibited mixed feelings about his visit to his office. And so it came as a surprise when the man approached him at the Seder and thanked him for his visit, and then requested another mezuzah to place on his home door. "Even in my father's house in Israel, there is no mezuzah," he said. "Today, in the morning, I must tell you, it was the first time in my life that I ever did something religious. And then with great emotion, he said, "Today you saved a soul in Israel." Dovid was truly shocked at the man's words and responded, "I haven't saved! I only reconnected. A Jew only needs to be reconnected because every Jew is really a diamond. All one needs to do is shake off some of the dust." The man looked at the young Lubavitcher and said quietly, "It's only because of people like you, that people like me are around today!" Miraculous? Not necessarily. The man, as far as we know, is not wearing a streimel today nor is he living in Yerushalayim. He quite likely still has a non-Jewish girlfriend. But he was touched. His Jewish neshamah was sparked. He put mezuzos on his office and home and attended a Seder. Who knows what the future will bring? Lubavitch boasts thousands of miraculous, hair-raising, amazing stories of hashgacha, transformation and courage. But it's the small stories like these - perhaps above all - that makes the movement so special, and will surely help to hasten our geulah. Article originally published by The Jewish Press.
Story #3 Chabad Honors Israel’s Soldiers
By Baila Olidort “Nakba is not a protest against settlements. It is not about 67 borders. It is about 1948. It is the expression of agony for the very existence of Israel,” Israeli Consul General Ido Aharoni said at a breakfast Tuesday morning honoring a group of Israel’s wounded soldiers on a tour of New York City. Referring to recent attempts by Arabs to breach Israel’s borders with Lebanon, Syria and Gaza, Aharoni pointed to the soldiers who bodily protected the citizens and the borders of Israel. “We know the price you paid and will continue to pay for the rest of your lives.” Dudi Saidoff, an officer with Israel’s border police, has been paying since 2004, when flying shrapnel struck him in the head as he intercepted an Arab terrorist pushing a baby stroller loaded with explosives. After three brain surgeries and several years of intensive rehab, Dudi has regained the ability to walk and talk, albeit slowly and with effort. Today, he spends much of his time in therapy. He will do so for the rest of his life. Israel’s wounded soldiers are not much talked about. Their youthful brawn and idealistic passion expended, they are now easy to forget. The threats and attacks against Israel are incessant. The army needs a fresh crop of able-bodied soldiers. Life moves on. Now in its second year, B’lev Echad, sponsored by the Chabad Israel Center of New York City in coordination with the Chabad Terror Victims Program of Israel (CTVP), invites a group of Israel’s wounded soldiers on an elaborate vacation to the U.S. where they are wined and dined, and frequently reminded that their sacrifice is not forgotten. “More than we can ever give them, they have given us,” said Rabbi Uriel Vigler of the Chabad Israel Center who raised $100,000 to cover the all-expenses paid 10-day tour that would “make them smile, give them a reason to feel some joy.” B’lev Echad rolls out the red carpet for the heroes, treating them to a lively New York experience including visits to the city’s great landmarks and dinner in Manhattan’s fine kosher restaurants. The tour also includes an excursion to Washington D.C. with a private reception by Israel’s ambassador at the Israeli Embassy. “The idea is to give these individuals who have given us so much, a chance to forget their daily grind of therapy and medical routines,” said Rabbi Menachem Kutner, director of CTVP, who is personally acquainted with the soldiers and the suffering they endure. The soldiers—celebrities for a while at least—will return to New York for Shabbat on Manhattan’s Upper East Side where members of the area's many synagogues will turn out to greet them. Dudi, like many of his fellow travelers—all of whom have sustained serious injuries, some permanently wheelchair-bound, many of them disfigured and in constant pain—exuded a general sense of good cheer. Though physical limitations and emotional ups and downs are now a fact of his life, he has no regrets about going to the Calandia checkpoint on that August day seven years ago. “I am glad that I took the fall instead of the children who would have been killed,” he said. “The terrorist had targeted a restaurant in Jerusalem, and many people would have been blown up had we not stopped him.” Erez Itzhaki, an Israeli expat and a steering committe member of the Chabad Israel Center in NYC, recalled his own time in the IDF. The real-estate developer contrasted the banalities of life's small frustrations for people in ordinary circumstances with the extraordinary, constant struggles of the soldiers. "You give me a perspective on life, on what's important and what to be grateful for." Israel’s interim ambassador to the UN, Meron Reuben, referred to the challenge he faces in the diplomatic war against Israel at the UN, but credited the soldiers for effectively serving on the front lines to defend the Jewish homeland. He expressed gratitude for Chabad’s work in celebrating these heroes with a program like B’lev Echad, proving “that the Jewish nation is of one heart.” Article originally published by Lubavitch.com.
Essay #1
Who Cares How Many
Question: It is that time of year again. We will be beginning the Book of Numbers, and during this week’s Torah reading in the synagogue we will hear verse after verse of numbers: 46,500 for the tribe of Reuben, 59,300 for the tribe of Simeon, and so on. Why the detailed counts of the Israelites? Who cares? Response: I have often wondered the same thing. What value is there in knowing exactly how many Reubenites there were at a specific time in our history? How is this even remotely relevant to me? Here is a thought: In my neighborhood there lives an elderly lady who lost her husband a few years ago. She has been retired for years, and lives far from her children. Whenever I meet her in the grocery or on the street, the first thing she does is whip out her pictures of her grandkids. “You see that little boy?” she crows. “He goes to Hebrew school, and can read the prayer book like a pro.” Pulling another picture out of her wallet, she continues with delight, “And this young lady is almost finished high school, and she is going to Israel next year.” And on she goes. I listen politely to her patter, smiling and nodding when it seems appropriate. To tell you the truth, I’m not really paying attention well enough to know when to smile and when to nod. One thing I do know, however, is that this woman truly adores her grandkids. G‑d loves us dearly—each and every one of us. So He counts us, like one who counts precious diamonds. The numbers may not be terribly relevant to you or me, but they are very important to Him. After all, each number accumulated represents one of His beloved children. And every year, as we read these numbers in the synagogue, He listens again with delight. Now that is relevant.
Essay #2 An Angel in the Supermarket
By Anonymous It was Friday, on a balmy spring morning, and I was standing in line at the checkout counter in Rockland Kosher Supermarket. My cart was overflowing with groceries which would add up to a pretty penny. I was, however, the grateful recipient of food stamp benefits, and one swipe of my precious plastic card would cover the cost of my bimonthly food shopping trip. Nonetheless, I had chosen carefully, scanning the sale aisle for bargains, wanting to make the most of the government’s assistance. I loaded my items onto the counter and waited patiently for the cashier to add them up. “Delivery, please,” I said. One hundred and fifteen dollars and sixty-three cents was my total. I confidently handed the cashier my food stamp benefit card. “Your food stamp balance is zero dollars and zero cents,” read the receipt. I stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do. “Please step aside while I put your order on hold and ring up the next customer,” said the cashier. I obediently stepped aside, racking my brain for a solution as to how to pay this bill. Please, G‑d, I thought, help me put food on my table. Out of nowhere a well-dressed, kind-looking woman appeared. She smiled and said, “I can lend you the money, and you can pay me back at your convenience.” Thinking of my family’s wellbeing, I put my dignity in my pocket for later retrieval and nodded my assent. She handed her credit card to the cashier and waited while the transaction went through. I provided the delivery boy with my address and turned back to my benefactress to obtain her name and telephone number. Not seeing her, I scanned the store and the parking lot outside. She was nowhere to be found. I walked out of the supermarket with a lump in my throat. Her kindness had opened up a torrent of emotions that for the past twelve months had been held in check. I quickened my pace as the tears began to flow, heading toward a quiet side street where I could cry in peace. Exactly one year before, my husband had walked out on me, leaving me to care for my three children. He left me a note, saying that he no longer wanted to be tied down. From one day to the next I was thrust into a world of uncertainty. I had three beautiful daughters, ages three, six and nine, who were left fatherless and confused. The years preceding this event had not been ideal. Soon after my marriage, I noticed that a large sum of money was missing from our joint bank account. When I asked my husband about it, he was evasive. That incident was the first hint that something was wrong. It took another few years to realize that I was married to a man who was addicted to gambling. He was slowly destroying his finances, himself and his family. I consulted experts, did research and pleaded with him to go for help. But it was to no avail. When all our resources were depleted, he picked himself up and left. I turned to government funds to help me stay above water and provide for my children. I turned to social services and became acquainted with Medicaid, food stamps and welfare. I enrolled in a part-time college program, and the kids—though saddened by the loss of their daddy, who wanted nothing to do with them—slowly began to heal. Slowly, my life returned to something resembling normalcy. Although on the outside it appeared as if I was doing well, deep inside me there was an unbelievable rage which did not abate as the weeks and months rolled on. The abandonment of my husband meant the abandonment of my Father in Heaven. The losses of my childhood resurfaced and threatened to engulf me. During the lonely silence of the nights, I would relive my childhood memories, picturing the day my parents were killed. I, an only child, was left an orphan. I was sent to be raised by an aunt. Although my aunt and uncle were well-meaning people, they were rigid and controlling. At the age of thirteen, my bedtime was still 8:00 PM. A sleepover was absolutely out of the question, and many of the privileges my friends enjoyed were foreign to me. My aunt would monitor my phone conversations and all my extracurricular activities. As I had an independent personality, this created friction, and I yearned for the moment when I would be set free. As I moved through my teenage years, I secretly dreamed of the day when I would have a place I could truly call home. At the age of twenty-one, I was introduced to Leib. Leib was gentle and kind. He was loyal and principled, and we shared the same vision of building a fine Jewish home together. I was genuinely happy and looked forward with great anticipation to our future together. Nothing prepared me for the pain ahead. When I first discovered that “Leiby” was addicted to gambling, I naively thought that we would work through this problem together. Little did I know that Leiby was not going to allow himself to be helped, and that he would fall into a depression and eventually leave me. During those years of trial, I fervently prayed to my Father in Heaven to save our marriage. I desperately wanted my precious little girls to have a solid, stable home. The day Leiby left us, I began to function on two levels. While I marched forward, taking care of business and reconstructing our lives, my inner world was in turmoil and my faith was slowly eroding. That Friday morning, in Rockland Kosher, an angel appeared out of nowhere, bringing not only a box full of groceries but a message full of love. It was that Friday that I renewed my relationship with G‑d, feeling strongly the sense of caring and security that accompanies the knowledge that He continues to hold me and my children in His arms. I felt ready, at last, to move forward and reconnect with society. I accepted a longstanding invitation to the local rabbi’s house for the Sabbath meals. Friday, before sunset, I prepared the candles for lighting. The Sabbath table was covered in white, and my children were dressed in their Sabbath best. The candles shone bright, lighting up their innocent glowing faces and warming my soul. And as I stood there, I contemplated the day’s events. A food stamp card that didn’t work, and a fellow human being who reached out to give without a second thought, combined to open my heart and reunite me with my Maker. G‑d has many ways of reminding his children of His loving presence. For me it happened at Rockland Kosher. Article originally published by Chabad.org.
Provided Rabbi Message Shabbat Chazak Parshat Bechukotai “What Is Kabbalah?”
Kabbalah: That which is received. That which cannot be known through science or intellectual pursuit alone. An inner knowledge that has been passed down from sage to student from the earliest of times. A discipline that awakens awareness of the essence of things. We enter this world and our senses meet its outer crust. We touch the earth with our feet, water and wind splash against our skin, we recoil from the bite of fire. We hear sounds and rhythms. We see shapes and colors. Soon we begin to measure, to weigh and describe with precision. As scientists, we record the behaviors of chemicals, plants, animals and human beings. We video-tape them, observe them under a microscope, create mathematical models of them, fill a supercomputer with data about them. From our observations we learn to harness our environment with inventions and contraptions, and then pat ourselves on the back and say, yes, we got it right. But we ourselves, our consciousness that is examining this world, we reside on a deeper layer. That is why we cannot help but ask, What about the thing itself? That which is there before we measured it? What is matter, energy, time, space -- and how do they come to be? To explain our world without examining this inner depth is as shallow as explaining the workings of a computer by describing the images viewed on its monitor. If we see a ball moving up and down on the screen, would we say that it is rebounding against the bottom of the screen? Do the gadgets on your scroll bar really exert some force on the page inside the window? Does the menu bar really have drop-down menus hidden behind it? The author of a user-friendly software environment has followed consistent rules so that we can work comfortably within it. If it is a game of any complexity, he had to determine and follow a very large set of rules. But a description of those rules is not a valid explanation of how it works. For that, we need to read his code, examine the hardware, and--most importantly--look through his original concept paper. We need to see it the way its author sees it, as it evolves step by step from a concept in his mind through the code that he writes, to the glowing phosphor pixels on the screen. The code behind reality, the concept that breathes life into the equations and makes them real. Men and women have sacrificed their food, their comfort, traveled great distances and paid with their very lives to come to know these things. There is not a culture in the world that does not have its teachings to describe them. In Jewish teaching, they are described in the Kabbalah. According to tradition, the truths of the Kabbalah were known to Adam. What his mind held, no mind since has been able to conceive. Yet he was able to transmit a glimmer of this knowledge to a few of the great souls that descended from him, such as Enoch and Methuselah. They were the grand masters who taught Noah, who in turn taught his own students, including Abraham. Abraham studied in the academy of Noah's son, Shem, and sent his son Isaac to study there after him. Isaac in turn sent his son Jacob to study with Shem and with Shem's great-grandson, Eiver. Adam, Noah, Abraham--these were fathers of all humankind. That is why you will find inklings of the truths they taught wherever human culture has reached. Nevertheless, the essential source for the Kabbalah is not Adam or Noah or even Abraham. It is the event at Mount Sinai, where the primal essence of the cosmos was laid bare for an entire nation to see. It was an experience that left an indelible mark on the Jewish psyche, molding all our thought and behavior ever since. At Sinai, inner wisdom became no longer a matter of intuition or private revelation. It was now a fact that had entered our world and became part of history and the experience of common mortals. That is why Kabbalah cannot be called a philosophy. A philosophy is the product of human minds, something that any other human mind can play with, squeezing and stretching it according to the dictates of one's own intellect and intuition. But Kabbalah means, that which is received. Received not just from a teacher, but from Sinai. Once a student has mastered the path of this received knowledge, he or she may find ways to extend it further, as a tree branches out from its trunk. But it will always be an organic growth, never touching the essential life and form of that knowledge. The branches and twigs and leaves will go just where they should for such a tree--never will a Maple become an Oak, never will a student reveal a secret that was not hidden in his teacher's words.
Ask The Rabbi Article ASK THE RABBI
Joseph I. Korf Send questions to: rabbikorf@hcschabad.org Q: Can one rinse a glass cup out after using it for meat-liquid to be used for milk? A: If the meat liquid was cold throughout the time it was in the glass cup (or bowl or any other regular glass utensil) all would basically agree that one may simply wash it out [well] and use it for the other. The same is vice versa (milk to meat). Nevertheless, in the Ashkenazic community this is not to be made a habit of as one doesn’t want to accidentally forget to wash out the contents between one and the other. Thus, generally Ashkenazic homes possess two sets of glassware. When it comes to hot liquid Ashkenazim are stringent and do not use glassware for both types of food and must have separate sets. There are those who contend that glassware as well may be koshered through the hagala (purging through boiling) process. One may be lenient in this throughout the year and kosher his glassware (if they became “treifed” up) [this does not apply in the case of purging chametz from glassware for use on Pesach, where most opinions prohibit it]. According to most Ashkenazic opinions we’re worried that glass does absorb the taste of its contents just like metal etc. Thus, it cannot be used for both types of foods (and definitely not for Passover). Therefore, one must have two sets or kosher it out before using it for the other type of food (not applicable to chametz glassware for use on Passover). The Sefardic community uses the same glassware for both types of food (and may even use year-round glassware on Pesach) as long as the surfaces have been carefully scrubbed before use. There opinion is that it is not an absorbent material and is thus exempt from the regular “two-set” rule of utensils in all other cases. In the case of Pyrex [or other heat-resistant glassware] Ashkenazim are as a rule very carefully to have two sets as it is questionable whether it is the same material as glass altogether and subject to utensils that can absorb taste. Because it is resistant to heat we don’t kosher it either if it became treif (and definitely not for Passover). On the other hand Sefardim are allowed to use Pyrex for both types [even in the oven, as long as it has been thoroughly cleaned before], even though it is different than regular glass. They hold it still doesn’t absorb any taste.
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