Podcasts about elokim

“The Jewish voice must be heard, not because it's more right or less right, but it's there. The suffering is there, the grief is there, and human grief is human grief.” As Jews around the world mark Tisha B'Av, we're joined by Columbia University professor and award-winning poet Owen Lewis, whose new collection, “A Prayer of Six Wings,” offers a powerful reflection on grief in the aftermath of October 7th. In this conversation, Lewis explores the healing power of poetry in the face of trauma, what it means to be a Jewish professor in today's campus climate, and how poetry can foster empathy, encourage dialogue, and resist the pull of division. *The views and opinions expressed by guests do not necessarily reflect the views or position of AJC.   Listen – AJC Podcasts: The Forgotten Exodus: Untold stories of Jews who left or were driven from Arab nations and Iran People of the Pod:  Latest Episodes:  An Orange Tie and A Grieving Crowd: Comedian Yohay Sponder on Jewish Resilience From Broadway to Jewish Advocacy: Jonah Platt on Identity, Antisemitism, and Israel Sexual Violence as a Weapon of War: The Dinah Project's Quest to Hold Hamas Accountable Follow People of the Pod on your favorite podcast app, and learn more at AJC.org/PeopleofthePod You can reach us at: peopleofthepod@ajc.org If you've appreciated this episode, please be sure to tell your friends, and rate and review us on Apple Podcasts or Spotify. Transcript of the Interview:   Owen Lewis:   Overheard in a New York Restaurant.   I can't talk about Israel tonight.    I know.    I can't not talk about Israel tonight.    I know.    Can we talk about . . .   Here? Sure. Let's try to talk about here.   Manya Brachear Pashman:   On Saturday night, Jews around the world will commemorate Tisha B'av. Known as the saddest day on the Jewish calendar, the culmination of a three week period of mourning to commemorate several tragedies throughout early Jewish history.  As a list of tragedies throughout modern Jewish history has continued to grow, many people spend this day fasting, listening to the book of Lamentations in synagogue, or visiting the graves of loved ones. Some might spend the day reading poetry.  Owen Lewis is a Professor of Psychiatry in the Department of Medical Humanities and Ethics at Columbia University. But he's also the award-winning author of four poetry collections which have won accolades, including the EE Cummings Prize and the Rumi Prize for Poetry.  His most recent collection, A Prayer of Six Wings documents in verse his grief since the October 7 terror attacks. Owen is with us now to talk about the role of poetry in times of violence and war, what it's been like to be a Jewish professor on the Columbia campus, and a Jewish father with children and grandchildren in Israel. And also, how to keep writing amid a climate of rising antisemitism. Owen, welcome to People of the Pod. Owen Lewis:   Thank you so much, Manya. Manya Brachear Pashman:   So you opened with that short poem titled overheard in a New York restaurant. I asked you to read that because I wanted to ask whether it reflected how you felt about poetry after October 7.  Did you find yourself in a place where you couldn't write about Israel, but yet you couldn't not write about Israel? Owen Lewis:   Among the many difficult things of that First Year, not only the war, not only the flagrant attacks on the posters of the hostages one block from where I live, 79th and Broadway, every day, taken down every day, put back up again, defaced. It was as if the war were being fought right here on 79th and Broadway.  Another aspect that made this all so painful was watching the artistic and literary world turn against Israel. This past spring, 2000 writers and artists signed a petition, it was published, there was an oped about it in The Times, boycotting Israeli cultural institutions.  And I thought: artists don't have a right to shut their ears. We all need to listen to each other's grief, and if we poets and artists can't listen to one another, what do we expect of statesmen? Statesmen, yeah, they can create a ceasefire. That's not the same as creating peace. And peace can only come when we really listen to each other. To feel ostracized by the poetry community and the intellectual community was very painful. Fortunately, last summer, as well as this past summer, I was a fellow at the Yetzirah conference. Yetzirah is an organization of Jewish American poets, although we're starting to branch out. And this kind of in-gathering of like-minded people gave me so much strength.  So this dilemma, I can't talk about it, because we just can't take the trauma. We can't take hearing one more thing about it, but not talk about it…it's a compulsion to talk about it, and that's a way to process trauma. And that was the same with this poetry, this particular book.  I feel in many ways, it just kind of blew through me, and it was at the same time it blew through me, created this container in which I could express myself, and it actually held me together for that year. I mean, still, in many ways, the writing does that, but not as immediately and acutely as I felt that year.  Manya Brachear Pashman:   This book has been praised as not being for the ideological but for the intellectually and emotionally engaged. So it's not it's not something that ideologically minded readers will necessarily be able to connect to, or is it actually quite the opposite?  Owen Lewis:  Well, it's very much written from the gut, from the experience, from in a sense, being on the ground, both in Israel and here in New York and on campus, and trying to keep a presence in the world of poetry and writers. So what comes from emotion should speak to emotion. There are a few wisps of political statements, but it's not essentially a politically motivated piece of writing.  I feel that I have no problem keeping my sympathies with Israel and with Jews. I can still be critical of aspects of the government, and my sympathies can also be with the thousands of Palestinians, killed, hurt, displaced. I don't see a contradiction. I don't have to take sides.  But the first poem is called My Partisan Grief, and it begins on October 7. I was originally going to call the bookMy Partisan Grief, because I felt that American, Jewish, and Israeli grief was being silenced, was being marginalized. And I wanted to say, this is our grief. Listen to it. You must listen to this. It doesn't privilege this grief over another grief. Grief is grief. But I wanted ultimately to move past that title into something broader, more encompassing, more humanitarian. Manya Brachear Pashman:  And did that decision come as the death toll in Gaza rose and this war kept going and going and the hostages remained in captivity, did that kind of sway your thinking in terms of how to approach the book and frame it?  Owen Lewis:  Yes, but even more than those kind of headlines, which can be impersonal, the poetry of some remarkable Palestinian poets move me into a broader look. Abu Toha was first one who comes to mind Fady Joudah, who's also a physician, by the way. I mean his poetry, I mean many others, but it's gorgeous, moving poetry.  Some of it is a diatribe, and you know, some of it is ideological, and people can do that with poetry, but when poetry really drills down into human experience, that's what I find so compelling and moving. And that's what I think can move the peace process. I know it sounds quite idealistic, but I really think poetry has a role in the peace process here. Manya Brachear Pashman:  I want to I want to unpack that a little bit later. But first, I want to go back to the protests that were roiling Columbia's campus over the past year and a half, two years. What was it like to be, one, writing this book, but also, teaching on campus as a Jewish professor?  Owen Lewis:  Most of my teaching takes place up at the Medical Center at 168th Street. And there I have to say, I didn't feel battered in any way by what was happening. I had a very shocking experience. I had a meeting that I needed to attend on, or that had been scheduled, I hadn't been quite paying attention. I mean, I knew about the encampments, but I hadn't seen them, and I come face to face with a blocked campus. I couldn't get on the campus. And what I'm staring at are signs to the effect, send the Jews back to Poland. I'm thinking, Where am I? What is this? I mean, protest, sure. I mean we expect undergraduates, we expect humans, to protest when things really aren't fair. But what did this have to do…why invoke the Holocaust and re-invoke it, as if to imply the Jews should be punished? All Jews.  And what it fails to account for are the diversity of Jewish opinion. And you know, for some Jews, it's a black or white matter, but for most thinking Jews that I know, we all struggle very much with a loyalty to Israel, to the Jewish people, to the homeland and larger humanitarian values. So that was quite a shock. And I wrote a piece called “The Scars of Encampment,” in which I say, I can't unsee that. " And I go to campus, and, okay, it's a little bit more security to get onto campus. It's a beautiful campus. It's like an oasis there, but at the same time, I'm seeing what was as if it still is. And in a way, that's the nature of trauma that things from the past just roil and are present with almost as much emotion as when first encountered. Manya Brachear Pashman:  So did you need to tune out those voices, or did that fuel your work? Owen Lewis:  No, that fueled my work. I mean, if anything, it made me feel much more, a sense of mission with this book. And a commitment, despite criticism that I may receive, and no position I take is that outlandish, except to sympathize with the murdered on October 7th, to sympathize with their families, to resonate with what it must be like to have family members as hostages in brutal, brutal conditions. Not knowing whether they're dead or alive. So I really felt that the Jewish voice must be heard, not because it's more right or less right, but it's there. The suffering is there, the grief is there, and human grief is human grief. Manya Brachear Pashman:  Owen, if you wouldn't mind reading another poem from the collection. Of course, many of us remember the news out of Israel on Thanksgiving Day 2023, right after October 7th. And this poem is titled, “Waiting for the Next Release, Reported by the New York Times, November 23 2023”. Owen Lewis:  Waiting For the Next Release, Reported N.Y. Times, Nov. 23, 2023    Maybe tomorrow, if distrust  doesn't flare like a missile,  some families will be reunited.    How awful this lottery of choice; Solomon would not deliberate. Poster faces always before my eyes,   Among them, Emma & Yuli Cunio.  Twins age 3, Raz Katz-Asher, age 4, Ariel Bibas, another four year old.    What do their four year old minds make  of captivity? What will they say? What would my Noa say?    What will the other Noas say?  Remembering Noa Argamani, age 26,  thrown across the motorcycle    to laughter and Hamas joy.   I have almost forgotten this American day,  Thanks- giving,   With its cornucopian harvests,  I am thinking of the cornucopian  jails of human bounty.    (What matter now who is to blame?) Manya Brachear Pashman:  Really beautiful, and it really captures all of our emotions that day. You have children and grandchildren in Israel, as I mentioned and as you mentioned in that poem, your granddaughter, Noa. So your grief and your fear, it's not only a collective grief and fear that we all share, but also very personal, which you weave throughout the collection.  In another poem, “In a Van to JFK”, you talk about just wanting to spend one more hour with your family before they fly off to Israel. And it's very moving.  But in addition to many of the poems, like the one you just read, they are based on and somewhat named for newspaper headlines, you said that kind of establishes a timeline. But are there other reasons why you transformed those headlines into verse? Owen Lewis:  Yes, William Carlos Williams in his poem Asphodel, says, and I'm going to paraphrase it badly. You won't get news from poems yet, men die every day for wanting what is found there. And I think it's a very interesting juxtaposition of journalism and poetry. And I mean, I'm not writing news, I'm writing where my reflections, where my heart, goes in response to the news, and trying to bring another element to the news that, you know, we were confronted.  I mean, in any time of high stress, you swear off – I'm not watching any more TV. I'm not even gonna look at the newspaper. And then, of course, you do. I can't talk about Israel today. I can't not talk about it. I can't read the paper. I can't not read the paper. It's kind of that back and forth. But what is driving that? And so I'm trying to get at that next dimension of what's resonating behind each one of these headlines, or resonating for me. I mean, I'm not claiming this is an interpretation of news. It's my reaction, but people do react, and there's that other dimension to headlines. Manya Brachear Pashman:  That seems like it might be therapeutic, no? Owen Lewis:  Oh, totally, totally. You know, I'm very fortunate that having started a career in medicine, in psychiatry, and particularly in child and adolescent psychiatry. I always had one foot in the door academically. I spent, you know, my life as, I still teach, but I'm very fortunate to have, maybe 10+ years ago, been introduced to a basically a woman who created the field of Narrative Medicine, Rita Sharon. And now at Columbia in the medical school, we have a free-standing Department of Medical Humanities and Ethics, of which she's chairman.  So I've had the fortune of bringing psychiatry and medicine and writing together in a very integrated way. And yes, writing is therapeutic, especially, I could say in medicine, which has given itself over to electronic medical record keeping, but our whole society is moving towards the electronic. And what happens when you sit and write, and what happens when you then sit and read, you reflect. Your mind engages in a different way that is a bit slower than the fast pace of electronic communications and instant communications and instant thinking. And now with AI, instant analysis of any situation you want to feed data from.  So that's sorely lacking in the human experience. And the act of writing, the act of reading has huge therapeutic values, huge salutary benefits for humans in general, but particularly in times of stress. In a lot of work on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, finding an outlet, an artistic outlet, it doesn't have to be writing, but that's often a way of transcending the trauma.  And medicine is filled with trauma. People trying to come to terms with acute illnesses, chronic illnesses. Doctors and caregivers trying to come to terms with what they can and can't do. And you know, we're coming up against limitations. But how do you make peace with those limitations? And it's not that it's a magical panacea, but it's a process of engagement, not only with the subject, but with yourself in relation to the subject. Manya Brachear Pashman:  I mean, I imagine dialogue is really the healthiest way of conversation and speaking through and interacting with a topic. And so I would imagine poetry, or, as you said, any art form, responding to news reports, it makes that a two way conversation when you're able to process and it's not just the headlines shouting at you, you're actually interacting and processing it by writing and reaction, or painting and reaction, whatever you choose to do. Owen Lewis:  Exactly. Manya Brachear Pashman:  You have said that poetry can serve a purpose during times of war. Is this one of the purposes to to be therapeutic or are you talking more in terms of what statesmen could learn from it?  Owen Lewis:  Well, yes, of course, what statesmen could learn from it, but it's human nature to want to take sides. I mean, that's kind of just what we do. But I think we can always do better than that. So I'm really talking about the people. I mean, there are also many Jews who are so angry at Israel that they can't listen to the story of Jewish grief. They should be reading mine and others poetries from this era. I wish the Palestinian poets were. I wish the Palestinian people. I mean, of course, in their current situation, they don't have time when you're starving, when you're looking for your next glass of fresh water. You don't have time for anything beyond survival.  But once we get beyond that, how long are these positions going to be hardened. I mean, I think when the people of all sides of the dilemma really listen to the others, I mean, they're, I mean, if, unless as Hamas has expressed, you know, wants to push Israel into the sea, if Israel is going to coexist with the Palestinian people, whether they're in a nation or not in a nation, each has to listen to the other.  And it's, you know, it's not one side is right, one side is wrong. It's far too complex a history to reduce it to that kind of simplicity. And I think poetry, everyone's poetry, gets at the complexity of experience, which includes wanting to take sides and questioning your wanting to take sides and moving towards something more humanitarian.  Manya Brachear Pashman:  You said earlier, you recommend Abu Toha, Fady Joudah, two Palestinian poets who have written some beautiful verse about– tragically beautiful verse–about what's happening. But there have been some really deep rifts in the literary world over this war. I mean, as you mentioned before, there was a letter written by authors and entertainers who pledged to boycott Israeli cultural institutions. Some authors have refused to sell rights to their books to publishers in Israel. So why not reciprocate? And I know the answer. I think you've already addressed it pretty well. What's wrong with that approach? Owen Lewis:  In any conflict, there are at least three sides to the conflict. I mean, claims to nationhood, claims to who shoved first, who. I mean, you don't entangle things by aggressively reacting. I mean, if we learned anything from Mahatma Gandhi, it's what happens when we don't retaliate, right? And what happens when we go the extra mile to create bridges and connections.  There are a host of people in Israel who continue to help Palestinians get to medical facilities, driving them back and forth, working for peace. I mean, there's a Palestinian on the Supreme Court of Israel, and well, he should be there. You know, that's the part of Israel that I am deeply proud of. So why not retaliate? I think it entrenches positions and never moves anything forward. Manya Brachear Pashman:  So have you gotten any negative feedback from your writing colleagues? Owen Lewis:  Some cold shoulders, yes. I mean not nothing overtly. I haven't been slammed in a review yet. Maybe that's coming. But when I publish pieces, I tend not to look at them. I had an oped in the LA Times. I've had some other pieces, you know, that precipitates blogs, and I started to read them.  And the first blog that came off of the the LA Times oped was, God, is he an opportunist, just taking advantage of having a daughter in Israel? And trying to make a name for himself or something. And I said, You know what, you can't put yourself out and take a position without getting some kind of flack. So occasionally, those things filter back, it's par for the course. Manya Brachear Pashman:  Right, not really worth reading some of those. You included Midrash in this book. You also spelled God in the traditional sense in the poems. Why did you choose to do that? Owen Lewis:  Well, I felt it honors a tradition of Jewish writing. It mean we have yud, hey, vav, hey, you know, which in English comes down as Yahweh, but it's unpronounceable. The name of God is unpronounceable. And, you know, yud, hey, vav, hey is just a representation. It isn't God's name. And there's a tradition that the name of God, when it's written down, can't be destroyed. And it's a way of honoring that tradition. Millennium of Jewish writers, you know, it's similar to say Elokim, instead of Elohim when the text is written. To sort of substitute. We know what we're talking about, but really to honor tradition, to pay respect and sort of to stay in the mind frame that, if there is a God, he, she, they, are unknowable. And somehow it creates, for me, a little bit of that mystery by leaving a letter out. It's like, G, O, D, seems more knowable than G-d. It's leaving that white space right for something bigger, grander, and mysterious, for the presence of that  right in the word itself. Manya Brachear Pashman:  And what about including Midrash? Owen Lewis: That's a very interesting question. You know Midrash for me, when you steep yourself in traditional Midrash, there's stories that exemplify principles and they fill in gaps. I mean, some of the most important. I mean, we have this notion of Abraham breaking the idols of his father before he left. No. That's Midrash, thats not in the Torah. And yet, nine out of ten Jews will say that's in the Torah, right? So, it kind of expands our understanding of the traditional text. But it also very much allows a writer to creatively engage with the text and expand it. It's like a commentary, but it's a commentary in story, and it's a commentary in terms that evoke human responses, not necessarily intellectual responses. So frankly, I think it's every Jews' responsibility to write Midrash. That reinvigorates the stories, the texts, and the meanings, and then we write midrashes upon midrashes. And you know, we get a whole community buzzing about a single story. Manya Brachear Pashman:  Which is very much what you've done with this collection, you know, writing poetry in response to news stories and engaging it in that way. It's very Jewish response, I would argue.  Do you observe Tisha B'av? Owen Lewis:  You know what I do. You're gonna laugh. My grandmother always warned us, don't go in the water on Tisha B'av, the sea will swallow you up. So I'm a big swimmer. I love swimming. I don't swim on Tisha B'av, because I hear my grandmother's voice, I'm going to be swallowed up. Manya Brachear Pashman:  If you could please wrap up this conversation by sharing a poem of your choice from your latest collection. Owen Lewis:  A poem I love to read again starts with a headline.   2000 Pound Bombs Drop, Reported N.Y. Times, Dec,, 22 2023.   In Khan Younis, the call to prayer  is the call of a dazed Palestinian child crying baba, standing at the brim of a cavernous pit of rubble   biting his knuckles–baba, baba . . .  It's so close to the abba of the dazed  Israeli children of Be'eri, Kfar Azza. There is no comfort. From his uncles   he's heard the calls for revenge– for his home and school, for his bed  of nighttime stories, for his nana's  whisper-song of G-d's many names.   His Allah, his neighbor's Adonai,  cry the same tears for death  and shun more blood. No miracle these waters turning red. Who called forth    the fleets of avenging angels? By viral post: Jewish Plagues on Gaza! A firstborn lost,  then a second, a third. What other plagues  pass over? Hail from the tepid sky?   From on high it falls and keeps falling.  Though we've “seen terrible things,” will you tell us, Adonai, Allah, tell us– do You remember the forgotten promise?   From the pile once home of rubble stone, a father's hand reaching out, baba, abba crushed by the load. We know the silence  of the lost child . . . G-d “has injured us   but will bind up our wounds . . .” Mothers  Look for us, called by the name yamma, calling  the name imma. Our father of mercy, not the god of sacrifice. Our many crying heads explode. Manya Brachear Pashman:   Owen Lewis, thank you so much for talking to us about how this book came about and for sharing some of these verses. Owen Lewis:   Thank you so much. Manya Brachear Pashman: If you missed last week's episode, be sure to listen to my conversation with Israeli comedian Yohay Sponder on the sidelines of AJC Global Forum 2025. Hear how his Jewish identity shapes his work, how his comedy has evolved since the Hamas terror attacks, and what he says to those who try to silence him.

nefesh hachaim

Curso de Jobot Halebabot (Shaare Avodat Elokim # 2) Por qué es importante servir a D-os por convic by Suri Cattan

Welcome to Daily Bitachon. We continue with another beautiful teaching from Rabbenu Yonah on Mishleh Chapter 3, Pasuk 25. He writes these powerful words: One should rely on Hashem in all times of difficulty and darkness, knowing the truth that Hashem is rav l'hoshia—abundant in salvation—as we say every single day in our Amidah. Mikol tzarah/from all difficulties v'yeshuato ke'heref ayin/His salvation comes in the blink of an eye. Therefore, we must rely on Hashem's salvation even if a sword is on a person's throat. Rabbenu Yonah quotes a pasuk in Iyov: Hen yikteleni, lo ayachel/Even if he were to kill me, I would still hope toward Him." Where does this concept come from—that even if a sword is at your throat, you shouldn't give up hope? It's from a well known Gemara in Masechet Brachot: Chizkiyah HaMelech was ill. Yishayah the prophet came to him and said, " Command your household—you are dying and will not live; you are dying in this world and will not live in the next." Why? Because Chizkiyah chose not to have children, having foreseen with ruach hakodesh that his children would be wicked. The prophet rebuked him for this, saying, " That is not your concern. You must do what you are obligated to do, and Hashem will do what He must." Chizkiyah responded to the prophet, " Let me marry your daughter—perhaps through my merit and yours, we will have righteous children." But the prophet replied, " You're a dead man. I won't give you my daughter." Chizkiyah answered, " Prophet, please leave. I have a tradition from my grandfather's household that even if a sword is on one's neck, one should not give up hope." Who is this grandfather he's referring to? Rashi explains that it refers to David HaMelech. In Divrei Hayamim א , 21:16 , David HaMelech counted the people, and Hashem decreed punishment on them. David lifted his eyes and saw an angel of Hashem standing between heaven and earth, v'charbo shlufa b'yado/a drawn sword in his hand, netuya al Yerushalayim/stretched out over Jerusalem. And what did David Hamelech do? He prayed. Even though the sword was over him, he prayed. That is the source Chizkiyah HaMelech referred to, as he was descended from David HaMelech. But the Vilna Gaon, in his commentary in Sefer Kol Eliyahu , is troubled. He points out that the text doesn't say the sword was literally on David's neck—only that it was stretched over Yerushalayim. So metaphorically, yes—but do we have a source that a sword was truly on someone's neck? The Vilna Gaon refers us to Melachim א , 22: 30–33, and also Divrei Hayamim ב , 18:31–32. There, Yehoshafat was at war. He disguised himself and was in hiding, and the king of Aram sent assassins specifically to find and kill him—like a targeted assassination. They found him and were about to kill him. And the pasuk says: Vayizak Yehoshafat—Yehoshafat cried out—v'Hashem azro—and Hashem helped him—vayesitem Elokim mei'meno—God diverted them away from him. Miraculously, they disappeared. The Yalkut Shimoni comments on this episode, saying: melamed shelo yechaser ki'im hatzat harosh—all that was missing was the removal of his head. It was that close. According to the Vilna Gaon, this is the source Chizkiyah drew on. His ancestor Yehoshafat had a sword on his neck and didn't give up—and was saved.He was one step away. The Chomat Anach, from the Chida on Divrei Hayamim , brings down this same concept, similar to the Vilna Gaon. He explains that normally the term " Hashem " refers to midat harachamim (the attribute of mercy), while " Elokim " refers to midat hadin (the attribute of judgment). In that pasuk, both names are used, indicating that according to strict judgment, Yehoshafat should have died—but through his prayers, the judgment was transformed into mercy. This is our tradition—a tradition passed down through generations. Rabbenu Yonah concludes this piece by quotinga pasuk in Tehillim 62:9: Bitchu vo b'chol eit—"Rely on Hashem at all times." What does "at all times" mean? He explains: Gam b'eit shehatzarah krova—even when the trouble is very close, v'lo yeda adam derech l'hinatzel mimena—and a person has no idea how to escape, how he will get out of it—still, trust in Hashem. I once heard a beautiful story from Rav Yaakov Hillel related to this idea. It says, "Even if a sharp sword is on your neck." Why emphasize " sharp "? There was a Rabbi Antebi from Damascus. During a blood libel, he was imprisoned and subjected to psychological torture. They brought him to a guillotine, and the sword came falling down toward him. But it was meant as psychological warfare—the blade was dull. He said, a sword has two sides: sharp and dull. That, he explained, is what Chizkiyah HaMelech meant. If the sword is blunt there is still what to fear. But afilu cherev chada—even if it's a sharp sword—do not give up hope.

Curso de Jobot Halebabot (Shaare Avodat Elokim # 1 ) Obvio agradecer a Dios by Suri Cattan

Tanya 17 Sivan Cap 6 Parte 2 -A unificação do nome elokim com o tetragrama

Tanya 16 Sivan Cap 6 Parte 1 -O Tzimtzum derivado do nome Elokim que encobre energia do tetragrama

It is customary to adorn our homes and synagogues on Shabuot with flowers and greenery. This custom is recorded by the Rama (Rabbi Moshe Isserles of Cracow, 1525-1572) in his discussion of the laws of Shabout (Orah Haim 494:3). More so than on other holidays, it is appropriate on Shabuot to decorate the homes and synagogues with flowers and other vegetation, in order commemorate Matan Torah. At the time of the Revelation at Sinai, G-d warned the people not to allow their cattle to graze on the mountain ("Gam Ha'son Ve'ha'bakar Al Yir'u El Mul Ha'har Ha'hu" – Shemot 34:3), indicating that it was full of pasture. Mount Sinai is in the desert, where vegetation does not grow, but in honor of the event of Matan Torah G-d had flowers and grass grow on the mountain, and we commemorate this adorning of Mount Sinai by adorning our homes and synagogues on Shabuot. The Ben Ish Hai (Rav Yosef Haim of Baghdad, 1833-1909) adds a deeper interpretation of this custom based on Kabbalistic teachings. He explains that Torah study has the effect of "Mituk Ha'dinim" – "sweetening" harsh judgments issued against a person. Even if G-d had issued a decree, Heaven forbid, against somebody, that decree can be annulled through the study of Torah. The divine Name associated with strict judgment is "Elokim," whereas the Name associated with "Mituk Ha'dinim" is "Havaya" (Y-H-V-H). When we spell out the names of the letters of these Names (e.g. the Alef of "Elokim" is spelled out, "Alef, Lamed, Peh"), the combined numerical value of the letters of "Elokim" is 300, and the combined numerical value of the letters of "Havaya" is 72. The letter representing the number 300 is "Seen," and the number 72 is represented by the letters "Ayin" (70) and "Bet" (2). The two letters of "Havaya," the Ben Ish Hai explains, surround the letter of "Elokim" to neutralize its effect, such that the letter "Seen" is placed in between the "Ayin" and "Bet." When the three letters are arranged in this fashion, they spell the word "Eseb" – "grass." Thus, we put out vegetation on Shabuot to symbolize the profound spiritual effect of our Torah study, how it has the capacity to annul harsh judgments. As we celebrate the event of Matan Torah, we remind ourselves of how valuable and precious Torah learning is, as alluded to in the "Eseb" with which we decorate the synagogue and home. Summary: It is customary to decorate homes and synagogues with vegetation on Shabuot to commemorate the vegetation that adorned Mount Sinai when the Torah was given. On a Kabbalistic level, vegetation alludes to the power of Torah study to protect us from harsh decrees.

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55 - 4-30-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 10 - Chovos HaLevavos

54 - 4-29-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 10 - Chovos HaLevavos

53 - 3-31-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 10 - Chovos HaLevavos

Shiur given by Rabbi Bezalel Rudinsky on the differerent opinions related to voting in the WZO elections. Shiur recorded in Yeshivas Ohr Reuven, Monsey, NY.

52 - 3-26-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 9 - Chovos HaLevavos

51 - 3-25-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 9 - Chovos HaLevavos

50 - 3-24-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 9 - Chovos HaLevavos

49 - 3-20-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 9 - Chovos HaLevavos

48 - 3-19-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 9 - Chovos HaLevavos

47 - 3-18-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 9 - Chovos HaLevavos

46 - 3-17-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 9 - Chovos HaLevavos

45 - 3-17-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 8 - Chovos HaLevavos

44 - 3-12-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 8 - Chovos HaLevavos

43 - 3-11-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 8 - Chovos HaLevavos

42 - 3-10-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 8 - Chovos HaLevavos

41 - 3-6-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 7 - Chovos HaLevavos

39 - 3-4-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 6 - Chovos HaLevavos

40 - 3-5-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 7 - Chovos HaLevavos

38 - 3-3-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 6 - Chovos HaLevavos

37 - 2-20-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 6 - Chovos HaLevavos

36 - 2-19-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 6 - Chovos HaLevavos

35 - 2-18-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 6 - Chovos HaLevavos

34 - 2-17-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 5 - Chovos HaLevavos

32 - 2-11-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 5 - Chovos HaLevavos

33 - 2-13-2025 - Gate 3: Shaar Avodas Elokim - Ch 5 - Chovos HaLevavos

Learning emunah means learning about who Hashem is and how He interacts with us. If we truly want to understand Hashem, we must also learn what His will is. Often, we make assumptions about what Hashem wants, but in most cases, His will is not something we can determine on our own—it must be taught to us. For example, a person might think that giving large amounts of money to tzedakah justifies earning that money even at the expense of hurting others. However, this is entirely against Hashem's will. Withholding money that is rightfully owed to others violates several negative commandments in the Torah. No matter how much tzedakah one gives, it can never justify wrongdoing. The Gemara in Bava Batra states that stealing from a person is worse than stealing from the Beit HaMikdash . In Bava Kama , the Gemara teaches that if a person's ox damages an ox belonging to the Beit HaMikdash , he is exempt from payment. However, if his ox damages another person's ox, he is fully responsible. The Tiferet Shmuel derives from these sugyot that Hashem considers our friend's money even more important than money designated for the Beit HaMikdash . This teaches us that it is Hashem's will for us to be extremely careful with other people's money— even more so than we would be with money designated for holy purposes. Taking from one person and giving that money to charity is not only unjust—it is counterproductive. The greatest tzedakah one can do is conducting business with chesed and ensuring that our fellow Jews can earn a livelihood with dignity. The Rambam lists eight levels of tzedakah , and the highest form is helping someone become self-sufficient. How, then, can a person damage another's livelihood and justify it by giving the money to charity? The Chafetz Chaim , in Ahavat Chesed , writes that the Torah is filled with lessons teaching us to perform chesed . Hashem created us in His image, meaning that we are meant to reflect His middot . Just as Hashem loves to give and help others, we are naturally inclined to do the same. When a person develops a giving nature—both in thought and in action—he emulates Hashem and, in doing so, draws close to Him. Conversely, when someone acts selfishly, stepping on others to raise himself up, he removes the tzelem Elokim within him, thereby distancing himself from Hashem. The purpose of our journey through this world is to accustom ourselves to cling to Hashem in this world so we will be able to bask in the radiance of His Shekhinah in the Next. Hashem is חפץ חסד —He desires that we do chesed for one another. If someone wants to cling to Hashem, he must be careful with other people's money. If ever presented with an opportunity to take advantage of another financially, a person should stop and remind himself: "I want to cling to Hashem. I have the opportunity to do the greatest tzedakah—to help my friend stay on his feet and ensure his business succeeds. That is the will of Hashem, and that is what will make me truly great."

Join us as we dive into the fascinating story of Rabbi Eliezer and the legendary Tanur Shelachnai, or snake oven, exploring the profound implications of speech and truth in our lives. This episode highlights the power of Rabbi Eliezer's speech, showcasing how he sought to demonstrate the validity of his opinions through miraculous signs, emphasizing the importance of charity, repentance, wealth, and leadership in our discourse. We reflect on the concept of unity among diverse opinions and how true peace is achieved when individuals come together despite their differences. The discussion also touches on the idea that our actions today can impact future generations, particularly through acts of charity. Ultimately, we explore how the pursuit of truth and the unity of purpose can illuminate our paths, drawing connections between the teachings of Rabbi Nachman and the timeless wisdom of tradition.Morning greetings set the stage for a journey into the profound teachings surrounding the concept of 'holy speech' as explored through the lens of the Tanur Shelachnai, or the 'snake oven.' This episode delves into the three divine names—Kel, Elokim, and Yudkei VAV kei—that are intricately connected to the energies we harness to elevate our speech to a level of truthfulness and sanctity. Listeners are taken through a rich tapestry of Jewish thought, where the power of prayer (Tefillah) represented by Kel, the wisdom of Torah embodied in Elokim, and the divine orchestration of relationships marked by Yudkei VAV kei converge to illuminate the essence of truthful communication. The discussion weaves through the concept that every utterance we make can be categorized into four parts of speech: Tzedakah, Teshuvah, Asheris, and Malchus, each representing a distinct category of expression that reveals the depth of our internal and external realities. Through the lens of Rabbi Eliezer's encounters with the Chachamim, the episode emphasizes the importance of unity in diversity, showcasing how even when voices differ, the ultimate truth can shine through when spoken with sincerity and intent.The episode unfolds with a narrative rich in allegory and metaphor, drawing parallels between the ancient practice of pottery and the purity of speech. The Tanur Shelachnai serves as a symbolic representation of the challenges faced in the pursuit of truth, particularly in the context of the halachic debates that ensued between Rabbi Eliezer and the Sages. The metaphorical 'snake' that encircles Rabbi Eliezer alludes to the complexity of truth-seeking within a diverse community, where differing opinions can spiral around a central point without resolution. Listeners gain insight into the spiritual dynamics at play when the walls of the Beis Medrash trembled at Rabbi Eliezer's insistence that the halacha should follow him, underscoring the tension between divine authority and earthly consensus. The commentary culminates in the understanding that while Rabbi Eliezer's mastery of speech was profound, it was the collective agreement and unity among the Chachamim that ultimately aligned with divine will, revealing a greater truth that transcends individual perspectives.A key takeaway from this exploration is the essence of true leadership and the power of speech as a transformative force in both personal and communal contexts. The episode not only emphasizes the intellectual rigor of halachic discourse but also the emotional and spiritual dimensions that accompany it. By connecting the dots between the four essential categories of speech and their respective implications for social and spiritual well-being, the discussion invites listeners to reflect on their own speech and its impact on relationships and community dynamics. The final thoughts resonate with the idea that true purity in speech arises from a place of humility and a commitment to collective truth, encouraging everyone to strive for a deeper understanding of their roles in...

This podcast episode delves into the profound responsibilities of being a Jew and the power of speech in shaping our lives and the world around us. The speaker emphasizes that true Jewish identity involves a commitment to kindness and charity, encapsulated in the concept of "dibur" or speech, which should be used to uplift and inspire others. The discussion highlights the importance of connecting with divine truth and the three names of God—Kel, Elokim, and Yudkei Vavkei—each representing different aspects of truth that empower our speech. Through anecdotes and teachings, the speaker illustrates how our words can be a powerful tool for good, encouraging listeners to embrace their role as givers in a world that often promotes selfishness. As the episode unfolds, it reinforces the idea that mastering the art of holy speech is essential for building a meaningful relationship with God and fulfilling our mission as Jews.The podcast delves deeply into the profound responsibilities and spiritual significance of being a Jew, particularly in the wake of tragedy. Highlighting the recent murder of TZVI Ben of Alexander Hakoyin, the speaker emphasizes the importance of living as a Jew, which involves not only personal faith but also a commitment to the Jewish community and its values. The episode draws on teachings from Hasidic philosophy, illustrating that the essence of being Jewish is rooted in a profound connection to God and the responsibilities that come with it. The speaker passionately discusses the concept of ‘yehidi'—a term signifying the unique soul of a Jew, reminding listeners that true strength lies in unwavering faith and the commitment to uphold the sanctity of life and tradition, even in the face of adversity. The narrative weaves through themes of faith, resilience, and the power of speech, asserting that every word spoken carries weight and intention, especially when directed toward kindness and charity. The episode culminates in a call for listeners to embody these teachings, reinforcing the idea that our words and actions can serve as a testament to our faith and a source of strength for the community.Takeaways: The true essence of being a Jew is rooted in our responsibilities towards humanity, not superiority. Speech is a powerful tool that can either uplift or manipulate; we must choose wisely. To be a giver is to embody the essence of humanity, reflecting God's kindness. True speech is rooted in honesty, and we should strive to communicate authentically. In times of crisis, the Jewish identity shines brightest, reaffirming our commitment and mission. Understanding God's names helps us tap into the power of truth in our speech.

This podcast delves into the profound connection between truth and speech, emphasizing the importance of aligning our words with the divine names of God: Kel, Elokim, and Yudkei Vav Kei. The discussion highlights how these names correspond to pivotal aspects of life such as prayer, Torah, and matchmaking, illustrating that our speech has the power to create positive change in the world. By recognizing the transformative potential of our prayers and the guidance offered by Torah, listeners are encouraged to embrace their ability to influence reality. The episode also explores the deeper meanings of shidduchim, portraying every encounter as a divine match orchestrated by God. Ultimately, the conversation calls for a return to authenticity in communication and an understanding of the spiritual significance behind our words, urging individuals to embody truth in their daily lives.Delving into the intricate relationship between speech, truth, and the divine, the podcast explores how our words can reflect deeper spiritual realities. The host articulates the significance of three names of God—Kel, Elokim, and Yudkei Vav Kei—and how they correspond to distinct aspects of truth in our lives. Through the lens of these names, the discussion traverses the foundational elements of Jewish spirituality: prayer (Tefillah), Torah study, and matchmaking (shidduchim). Each segment illuminates how these elements serve as conduits for divine truth, empowering individuals to transform their reality through sincere speech and actions. The episode emphasizes the idea that every encounter and relationship is orchestrated by God, encouraging listeners to be mindful of their interactions as opportunities for spiritual growth and connection.Takeaways: The podcast emphasizes the importance of truth in our speech and actions, urging listeners to align their speech with the divine names of God for greater spiritual impact. It discusses the four categories of speech—Tzedakah, Teshuva, Ashirim, and Malchus—highlighting how each category can be infused with truth to enhance personal growth. Listeners are encouraged to recognize the power of their prayers to change reality, suggesting that genuine prayer can invoke divine intervention in everyday life. The episode explores the relationship between Torah study and personal transformation, asserting that engaging with Torah can illuminate one's understanding of truth in life. The dialogue includes a deep dive into the concept of matchmaking, illustrating how every encounter is divinely orchestrated and serves a greater purpose in one's journey. Finally, the discussion culminates in a call to action, urging individuals to embody truthfulness in their lives and interactions, promoting a more authentic and fulfilling existence.

This podcast episode delves into the profound concept of truth, particularly as it relates to the divine names of Kel, Elokim, and Havaya, and how they influence our speech and daily lives. The speaker emphasizes the transformative power of prayer, urging listeners to recognize the ability to change reality through sincere davening. A significant theme is the connection between truth and Torah, highlighting that having guidance from Torah can lead to a more meaningful life. The discussion further explores the importance of Shabbos, presenting it as a time when the gates to divine blessings are opened, allowing for a deeper relationship with God. Overall, the episode encourages listeners to integrate the light and joy of Shabbos into their weekdays, fostering a life filled with purpose and divine connection.Exploring the concept of truth, the podcast delves into the significance of being people of emes, a term that represents truth in a profound spiritual context. The speaker elaborates on the divine names of Kel, Elokim, and Havaya, each of which embodies different aspects of truth and how they influence our lives. Kel is associated with the power of prayer, highlighting how our prayers can change reality and should never be underestimated. The speaker emphasizes that davening is a sacred act, one that stands tall in the spiritual realms, and urges listeners to elevate their perception of prayer as a means to connect with God and transform their existence. The discussion further explores how the name Elokim is linked to Torah, serving as a guide through life's complexities. The speaker insists that understanding and embracing the truth of Torah provides the necessary guidance, steering individuals away from confusion and towards a clearer path in life. The episode beautifully intertwines these themes, illustrating how recognizing the interplay of these divine names in our daily speech and actions can empower us to live more authentically and purposefully.Takeaways: The essence of truth is interconnected with prayer, Torah, and divine guidance in our lives. Understanding the power of prayer as a transformative tool can deepen our spiritual practice. Shabbos serves as a source of peace and joy, influencing our daily interactions and experiences. The Hebrew language carries a unique power that reflects the essence of creation itself. Recognizing every encounter as divinely orchestrated helps us appreciate the meaningful connections in our lives. Integrating the joy and blessings of Shabbos into our weekdays can enhance our overall well-being.