Dear Readers,

Sometimes, when I look around, I feel surrounded by negativity, by doom and gloom.

I see the many social wrongs that are being tolerated. I discern rampant judgmentalism and condescension in our communities. I see a world that is very far from the ideals of where it should be.

Rather than feeling like we are progressing forward on our sojourn towards a better reality, our situation can sometimes feel pretty helpless. It can feel like steps backwards. There are undeniably too may collective ills, too many cracks and far too many people not walking the walk or talking the talk of the high ideals that the Torah aspires to.

But then I remember. G‑d doesn’t demand perfection.

In this week’s Torah portion, there’s an unbelievable exchange between Abraham and G‑d. G‑d has just informed Abraham that He intends to destroy the wicked cities of Sodom and Gomorrah. True to his character, Abraham pleads for mercy and begins brokering with G‑d.

He begins his negotiations by entreating G‑d to forgive the people if there are even 50 righteous individuals in these cities. Eventually, he squeezes G‑d to withhold punishment if even 10 righteous people exist.

In these highly populated yet morally depraved cities, where the cruelest behaviors were tolerated and encouraged, all that was necessary to prevent destruction was 10 people standing true to their morals.

10. That’s all.

Maimonides tells us to view our world as being half-good and half-evil. We don’t need to change the world and all its moral wrongs. All we need to do is one act of goodness to tip the scales in our favor.

Just one positive act by one individual.

And that person can be any of us.

Chana Weisberg

Editor, TJW

Dear Readers,

Do life’s hardships overwhelm you and make you feel disconnected from G‑d?

The first parents of our nation present a powerful lesson on how to approach such times. In their advanced years, Abraham and Sarah are told to travel to Canaan.

Canaan, the ancient name for the Land of Israel, also means “merchant.” A merchant symbolizes wealth, bounty, opportunity. Spiritually, too, the name signifies a profound closeness to G‑d. Abraham experiences a closer relationship with G‑d, and is promised that he will inherit Canaan.

But then a challenge appears . . . “There was a famine in the land, and Abram went down to Egypt.”

Spiritually, a famine is a test of faith, when our spirituality becomes dulled.

Abraham instructs Sarah: “When the Egyptians see you, they will say ‘This is his wife,’ and they will kill me. . . . Therefore, please say that you are my sister, so that they will benefit me because of you . . .”

There is a metaphorical, spiritual lesson in these words.

In Canaan, a land of spiritual bounty, Abraham and Sarah live openly as husband and wife, and love each other as only spouses can.

But then Sarah and Abraham end up in Egypt—Mitzrayim, in Hebrew—a name that connotes constraints and limitation. Abraham instructs Sarah to conceal their true relationship and to say that she is his sister.

The relationship of siblings is innate, inborn and constant. The bond with a spouse, however, is chosen; its love is created and is subject to change. That’s what gives the marriage its intensity and passion.

King Solomon speaks of the Jewish people’s relationship with G‑d as being that of both a sister and a wife.

In Canaan, when we are in a space where we feel G‑d’s presence and bounty in our lives, G‑d is our beloved, our spouse.

But then a famine arrives. It’s a period of scarcity and challenge, testing our resolve. The relationship becomes strained. We no longer feel the richness, the “merchant” of Canaan. We are in Egypt, a place of meitzarim, of limitations.

Now comes the lesson—“say you are my sister.” Realize that even in moments when you feel disconnected from G‑d, from your nation and from your soul, G‑d is with you. G‑d isn’t only a spouse, but also a sibling.

We are G‑d’s people because G‑dliness is inborn in our being. Like the bond between siblings, it may not always be passionate, but it is always there.

We crave a relationship with G‑d that is alive, vibrant and passionate, like the relationship of a loving spouse. We want to feel like we’re living in the Holy Land, surrounded by spiritual blessings.

But even when we experience our personal famines—times of meitzarim, constraints and hardships—our relationship with G‑d still exists.

And we can always tap into this love and revive it.

Chana Weisberg,
Editor, TJW

Dear Reader,

“I’m drowning! I’m swamped with life’s demands!”

Whether it’s slaving away at our jobs, sinking into the insurmountable pile of bills, or worrying about the hundreds of big and little things that challenge us, how we can we stay afloat? When life comes rushing at us—leaving us with a never-ending “To Do” list, and making us feel confused and overwhelmed—how can we cope?

In Noach, we read about the great flood. The Hebrew word for flood, mabul, also means disorder and confusion. In a world full of disorder, our priorities can become skewed and distorted.

How did Noah handle the overwhelming floodwaters?

First, he built an ark.

The Hebrew word for ark is tevah, which also means “word.”

When the world is churning, threatening to drown the spark of vitality within us, we need to enter into the tevah—the world of words.

Find moments of solitude, to regroup and regain your composure. Find a perspective, through studying the words of Torah and meditating on the words of prayer. Carve out a time to discover a soothing haven of wisdom against the raging floodwaters of life.

We may not be able to save the world, but we can build for ourselves an ark, a sanctum of time—protected and filled with meaning.

Noah’s ark was built from gopher wood, which is soft and able to withstand the pressures of the floodwaters. A stronger but less flexible wood would have snapped. The Talmud teaches: “It is better to be as soft as a reed, than as hard as a cedar.”1

In dealing with the pressures of a sometimes hostile world, we benefit most by having a soft, yielding nature. Look for resolution rather than confrontation.

But the gopher wood was covered with pitch. Without this waterproof covering, the floodwaters could have seeped in and destroyed the ark. As much as we need to be supple and compromising, when it comes to matters of principle, morals, or ethics, we need to be impenetrable.

And finally, to test whether the earth was dry enough to be habitable, Noah sent out a dove who returned with an olive branch in its mouth. The dove is the universal symbol of peace. A raw olive is inedible. The olive’s precious oil is produced after processing. Only when we are at peace with ourselves can we find and process the precious potential within our surroundings.

Noah teaches us that to find our inner peace, we need to:

1. Immerse in the tevah, the words of spiritual wisdom and prayer;
2. Become more compromising in nature like gopher wood, while remaining impenetrable in our morals like pitch;
3. See the potential around us, even in an inedible olive.

Then the raging waters calm down, and we are able to find the beauty and blessing hidden in every person and every creation.

When Noah emerged, he beheld a new world. And we can, too.

Chana Weisberg.
Editor, TJW

Dear Readers,

We recently celebrated the joyous occasion of the marriage of our third daughter. For the final sheva brachot, we had the privilege of hosting the young couple, together with other family members.

I enjoyed watching how my new son-in-law seamlessly merged into our family’s dynamics to truly becoming a son, and brother, to the rest of us. I loved observing, too, how the young couple interacted with each other, seeing their kindness and tenderness, and witnessing how two independent souls and personalities were fusing to become united as one.

During this special time—this beginning of their new life together—the newlyweds are in their own bubble of time and space, living in a dimension all of their own. It’s downright obvious in the glances, smiles and giggles that they exchange, and in the little gestures that they do for each other. Even while conversing and intermingling with others, there is almost an invisible wall encircling them—building, strengthening and protecting their budding relationship, where nothing exists but the two of them.

Perhaps that’s a little like the holiday of Sukkot.

We have just experienced the High Holiday season, where we spent our days reinforcing our connection and recommitting ourselves to G‑d. We asked G‑d to renew His relationship with us, just as we re-pledged our allegiance. It was a serious and awesome time. And now, G‑d asks us, before going back to the mundane schedules of our lives to spend one more holiday enfolded in the joyous celebration of His loving embrace.

We leave our material possessions, the protection of our permanent homes and the distraction of the daily grind of our schedules, and enter into the temporary sukkah. We enter with our entire being—eating, drinking and living there. For an entire week, we make this transient, precariously roofed hut into our home.

But within the walls of the sukkah, we realize that our protection and gratification does not come from the bricks of our homes or in the pleasure of the materialism we have left behind. Encircled within its bare walls, we have entered a new dimension of time and space, where we can feel our bond and connection with G‑d. As we look up to the open sky, we come to realize that only this relationship has eternal meaning, and that G‑d is our only Protector and Provider.

Hopefully, we will hold onto G‑d’s embrace. Hopefully, we will take the joy with us as we back to our permanent homes and into the nitty-gritty schedule of daily life, though now, greatly enriched.

Wishing you a very joyous Sukkot and Simchat Torah holiday!

And wishing my new son and daughter tremendous happiness and joy in their life together!

Chana Weisberg

Editor, TJW