ON REACHING THE AGE OF 75, AND WHAT TO DO ABOUT IT.

On Sept. 4, I turned 75. I am happy to have reached this stage in my life. In turn, I am trying to figure out its meaning for me and my family.

       According to a rabbinic text, at the age of 60 one becomes old (le-ziknah), and at 70, one becomes really old: “at seventy, grey hairs (le-sevah)” (Pirke Avot 5: 25).  In fact, in the Bible, King David died “at a good old age” (besevah tovah) ( I Chr. 29: 28), which according to II Sam 5:4 meant seventy. In those days, people did not live long. Because of better medical care, things are thankfully different now. People often live into their 90’s. My father died at the age of 97; my mother at 90. In my case, at 75, I do not feel old. Though retired from the congregational rabbinate, I still travel, teach, write and am active with my family and in my community. However, I do feel the necessity to rethink my priorities. And here is what I have come up with:

         Recently I was complaining to someone I know that, with age, I was starting to have some physical issues, such as vision problems or lack of energy, until she stopped me right in my tracks and reminded me that “getting older is a privilege that many people do not have.” I quickly understood what she meant because she had lost her husband at a young age, and who was I to complain that I was getting older! This realization humbled me and gave me a better perspective on my life.

     I now feel this is the time to take an inventory of my life, and review my priorities, and even share them with my loved ones so that they may learn from my experiences. That is why I am redoing my memoirs and will make them available to my children and especially my grandchildren.  I have also tweaked my ethical will, which identifies the core values of my life. 

        Being a retired professional enables me now to do things that I never had a chance to do in the past. So, I volunteer my services to others who need my help.  This past year, for example, because I can also speak Spanish, I taught Judaic subjects through Skype to Reform Jews in Spain, conducted  religious services in Barcelona and Puerto Rico, visited Turkey and continued to teach at Boston College on a part-time basis.

What of the future? I do not know what the next few years will bring. I am inspired by a story I once read-- most likely an urban myth-- that during a concert the famous violinist Yitzhak Perlman broke one or two strings in his violin but was able to finish the piece by using the rest of them. When they asked him how he did it, he responded, “Sometimes it is the artist’s task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left.”

I plan to make this my mantra: to be grateful for what I have and am, to enjoy every day with my wife and family, to contribute to society to the extent of my ability, and to leave behind a good name so that it may be mentioned with pride and blessing.

Rabbi Rifat Sonsino, Ph.D.

Sept. 2013

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HALLAH, THE JEWISH BREAD

                        

A braided hallah

A round hallah

I had never seen a hallah until I came to America in 1961, but once I discovered it I began to like it very much.

Why am I writing this piece on hallah?  Recently, I was contacted by the leadership of the town of Soncino, Italy, requesting information about the use of bread among Jews for a special “bread festival” in their region. This prompted me to think a bit more about the role hallah played in Jewish life. 

 Hallah (often and misleadingly transliterated as “challah”) is the quintessential Jewish bread that is eaten on Shabbat and Festivals. As a yeast-risen bread, it comes in different shapes and textures, mostly with eggs but others with water, and each baker claiming to have the best recipe. On Shabbat it is braided; on Rosh Ha-Shanah (Jewish New Year) it is round, with all kinds of fancy religious, even mystical, meanings ascribed to it, such as all life is intertwined; roundness stands for completeness and perfection.  Its long history goes back to biblical times, and its meaning and function have changed over the centuries.

The word hallah comes from the Hebrew root hll, “to pierce,” and originally meant a thick, round and perforated cake often made with oil. The Book of Samuel tells us that King David distributed hallat lehem, maybe ring shaped bread, to the people after they brought Yahweh’s Ark into a special tent (II Sam. 6: 19; I Chr. 16: 3, which calls it kikar lehem, a round loaf). According to the temple ritual, twelve hallot (pl. of hallah), made of fine flour, were placed at the altar (Lev. 24: 5). Outside of the temple, all Israelites, during the process of baking bread,  were required to set aside a loaf (hallah) of bread “as a gift to the Lord” (Num. 15: 20), which  the prophet Ezekiel interpreted as being donations to the priests (Ezek. 44: 30). 

In post-biblical times, in line with this temple practice, the Rabbis ordained that a small portion of dough must be taken out and burned, so that “the law of hallah may not be forgotten” (BT Bek. 27a).  The discarded dough was now called hallah. This is the basis of the contemporary custom of marking boxes of Passover Matzah with the words, “Challah has been taken,” to indicate that a portion of dough has been removed before the matzah was made.

How did hallah become the most favorite Jewish bread? It goes back to the medieval times, when in South Germany (15^th century) Jews started to adopt from their neighbors this type of bread for the Sabbath and holidays. Sephardic Jews, like me, who were not exposed to this custom, did not use hallah for religious occasions, and continued to eat regular bread or pita during all meals. 

So, hallah, which did not originally mean “bread” but a certain kind of holed-cake, and was adopted from gentiles, in time became the most popular bread in the Jewish world. My favorite is a sweet egg-based hallah. Yum!

Rabbi Rifat Sonsino, Ph.D

Aug. 2013

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DOES FASTING MAKE SENSE TODAY?

When was the last time you fasted? 

There are various reasons for which people fast. Some do it for medical purposes, like to get thinner. Others resort to it for a political or social cause, like a hunger strike in jail. And others do it with a religious motive, like many Jews on the Day of Atonement or Muslims during Ramadan or Catholics on Ash Wednesday. The question for me is whether or not religious fasting makes sense today. It is my impression that in the Jewish community the number of people who fast for religious reasons is progressively diminishing. I agree with their skepticism. 

The custom of fasting as a religious ritual was well known in the ancient Near East. In fact, fasting and then consuming special foods were part of the Mesopotamian New Year Festival (Akitu). According to some scholars, fasting survived as a remnant of the ancient cult of the dead because of its connection with weeping and mourning. 

Like many other religions, Judaism too knows about fasting, and mandates both major and minor fasts. A major fast goes from sunset to nightfall the next day and a minor fast is held from sunrise to sunset. The two major fast days of the Jewish calendar are The Day of Atonement (Yom Kippur) and Tisha Beav (9^th of Av, usually in July), which commemorates the destruction of the First and Second Temples as well as other calamities that befell the Jewish people throughout the centuries. 

The Bible mentions various fast days (each one called a tzom) that were observed either by individuals (e.g., King David fasted before the death of his child, II Sam. 12: 16), or the Jewish people at large (e.g., Ezra’s fast, 8: 21, before his return to Judah). Rabbinic law added a number of minor fasts (each one referred to as taanit), like the Fast of Esther (Taanit Esther, just before Purim) and the Fast of the First Born (Taanit bekhorot), observed just before Passover by firstborn males, commemorating the fact that they were saved from the plague of the firstborn in Egypt (Ex. 11:4-6).

Why do people turn to religious fasting? Our tradition provides various answers:  as a humbling experience (e.g., Ps. 35: 13); as an expression of mourning (e.g., Tisha Beav); as a way to propitiate the divine (e.g., Jonah 3:7); for atonement of sins (e.g., Yom Kippur), and even as a technique of divination (e.g., Moses at Mount Sinai, cf. BT Yoma 4b). None of these rationales works for me today. 

The only thing that fasting accomplishes is hurting the body. This is self-punishment which does not benefit anyone. One cannot “afflict the soul”-another biblical expression for fasting (Lev. 23: 27)- without damaging the body. In fact, the ancient Rabbis forbade people from fasting if they are under age, or pregnant and even if they have a medical condition against it. 

If the feelings I have during a fast day are pains and headaches due to the lack of food or drink, then the religious value of the occasion is severely diminished. I might as well concentrate on the message of the spiritual moment by keeping myself hydrated and nourished. 

In the past, I never fasted on Tisha Beav, and do not expect to do it in the future,  even when this ancient memorial day progressively assumes a new and more acceptable meaning in our time, namely, the atonement due to vain hatred of the other. The destruction of the temple in Jerusalem took place in ancient antiquity and, even though I mourn the loss of life in ancient Judea, I do not pray for the rebuilding of the temple that would reestablish the sacrificial rituals, give legitimacy to the cast system that was prevalent then in the Jewish community by giving priority to priests over lay Israelites or by separating men from women. (We already have enough problems with the Haredim in Jerusalem who wish to deny women access to the Wall).

Would I continue to fast on Yom Kippur? In the past I always did. I expect that I will do it again in the future as long as I can tolerate it. But isn’t this a contradiction of what I have just been saying? Yes, of course. Then why would I continue to fast? You never heard the song, “tradition, tradition???!!!!.” 

Rabbi R. Sonsino, Ph.D

July 21, 2013

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Older postings: From Istanbul to Boston

Dear Friends,
If you wish to access my older postings, you can find them under "From Istanbul to Boston," in rifatsonsino.blogspot.com.
Best wishes,
R. Sonsino
July 18, 13

GOLDEN VOICES AND MELODIES

I have always been drawn by the beauty of the human voice. Even though I love instrumental music, I find that good male or female voices can reach the innermost recesses of the heart, and allow us to transform ourselves in spiritual ecstasy. Whenever I have an opportunity, I turn to my favorite singers, whether classical or pop, or, for that matter, to western as well as oriental musicians, for a transcendental experience. 

Over the years I have had many favorites. Here below I wish to share with you my three choices. I hope you, too, will find them exhilarating. 

a)    “Morning Has Broken” by Cat Stevens:

This is a hymn that gives thanks for each day. It originally appeared in the “Songs of Praise” (1931), a Christian hymnal, and was popularized by the British-born singer and songwriter Cat Stevens, who now calls himself Yusuf Islam, reaching the No. 1 spot in the musical charts.

b)    “Beklenen Sarki” (in Turkish, ‘The Long Awaited Song”)  by Zeki Muren:

Born in Turkey (1931), this incredible singer became famous for his compelling and sweet voice, precise articulation of exquisite Turkish poetry and flashy appearance (a la Liberace) in his long career (he died in 1996).  When I was young in Istanbul, I did not pay much attention to him, but now I have rediscovered him and realized what a great musician he was. In this love song, he hopes that his beloved will not have other dreams but those directed at him.

\c) “Ah, Perdonna al primo affetto” from “La Clemenza di Tito” by Mozart.

In this short but sweet two-act opera, two lovers sing, each asking the other, “to forgive my former love.” In this version the duet is sung by Elena Xanthoudakis and Rosel Labone. I hope you like it.

Rifat Sonsino

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