Ta Shma – Détails, épisodes et analyse

Back in Elul of 2023, when I began this year of writing Divrei Torah for the holidays, we didn’t know what devastation lay ahead.  In retrospect, each of the Divrei Torah I’ve written this year can be read in light of the events of October 7th.  Each holiday celebrated, every encounter with Torah is refracted through the lens of the last eleven months.  If there has been a theme that has tied all of this Torah together it is: How do we observe and mourn and celebrate our holy days in light of a continually unfolding tragedy that plagues our people and the people in Gaza?  Or, perhaps: Is Torah equipped to help us make sense of such devastation and what meaning can we glean from Torah in this period of violence and loss?

For my mother’s 75th birthday, we surprised her by taking her to visit her mother’s childhood home.  I knew my grandmother had grown up in Los Angeles, but I didn’t know exactly where, and there were no living relatives whom I could ask.  So I did what anyone seeking information does these days: I Googled my grandmother’s name, hoping something would pop up. That modern technology led me to an ancient one: the census.  I found online copies of the first two censuses taken in my grandmother’s lifetime, one when she was 4½ and the next one when she was 15.  The second one was the jackpot: I found an address.

But I also noticed that something had changed between the two records.  There was one fewer member of the house.  My grandmother’s father was no longer listed.  He hadn’t died—I could Google that information too—he was simply gone.  This confirmed a family story I’d overheard but never spoken about with my grandmother: that her father had run out on the family when she was 11 and she had never spoken to him again.  There it was, in black and white, a tragic tale between the lines.  It’s amazing what you can learn from reading a census, if you know what to look for.

At the end of the day, or perhaps at the end of the Jewish calendar year, am I actually a better person as a result of the many hours given over each year to Torah study? Or, am I the same person I was before, just another year older?

In our prayers, we often call God “ברוך - blessed.”  What images might this word evoke, and how might it deepen our connection to God, the source of blessings?

For much of our lives we are unable to receive or offer the holding and embracing that we need. Sukkot is yhe holiday that invites us to pause—to hold and to be held.

The search for God will span a lifetime. But once a year the dynamic is different. If Judaism offers up life as a giant game of hide and seek with the Holy One, Yom Kippur is the one day when God doesn't hide. The game is paused, and God emerges in search of us.

The idea that God can revive the dead became central to our prayers and Jewish theology in general.  But what does this “resurrection” entail?  Do we have to take it literally, or can we understand it in a more metaphorical way?  And what do we lose without the literal meaning?

There is a halakhic obligation to eat on the day before Yom Kippur. What is the nature of this obligation? Where does it come from? What can it teach us about the meaning of Yom Kippur itself and the process of Teshuvah? 

Recorded for Hadar's onliene yom iyyun on Erev Yom Kippur 5789.

Akeidat Yitzhak, the Torah reading for the second day of Rosh Hashanah, is usually seen as the ultimate Jewish model of personal sacrifice. But is willingness to die for God really the epitome of sacrifice? In this session, R. Tali Adler  explores a midrash that questions Akeidat Yitzhak's role as the central model of personal sacrifice, and offers a story about Rachel our Matriarch as an alternative.

How are we meant to begin the process of teshuvah, returning to God?  Is this something we initiate, or does God help us to begin?  Or perhaps it is some combination?  How is this process understood in the Torah and in our Amidah?