Author Archives: yishmaelgunzhard

As the Jewish people gathered at the foot of Mount Sinai, they heard the voice of G‑d speaking the Ten Commandments. The Torah describes the awesome experience:

And all the people saw the voices and the torches, the sound of the shofar, and the smoking mountain, and the people saw and trembled; so they stood from afar.

What is the meaning of the words “and all the people saw the voices”? How can voices be seen? The Midrash tells us that there is a disagreement regarding this verse. Rabbi Yishmael believes that the Jews did not see anything unusual. They saw the torches and heard the voices (in which case the word “saw” refers to the torches.) Rabbi Akiva, however, insists that the verse must be read literally—they actually saw the voices. In the words of Rabbi Akiva: “They saw that which is usually heard, and they heard that which is usually seen.”

According to Rabbi Akiva, the experience at Sinai was much more than just receiving ten moral instructions for life. Sinai was a spiritual revelation that changed the way the Jews perceived the meaning of existence. In general, the world can be divided into that which is “seen” and that which is “heard.” The concrete, physical needs, desires and experiences are “seen”; they are experienced as the ultimate reality. That which is abstract, theoretical and spiritual is “heard.” The intangible spirit is not something we can see with our naked eye. To experience it, we need to “hear” and “listen.” We must use our mind to discover truths that are not obvious to the observer.

According to Rabbi Akiva, at Sinai they “heard that which is usually seen.” In other words, the physical matter, which is usually perceived as absolute reality, became an abstract idea, while spirituality, “that which is usually heard”, became real and obvious.

The experience of Sinai was not merely a one-time event. Every time we study Torah, we are recreating the revelation of Sinai. We are not only hearing the words of G‑d being spoken directly to us, but our perception of what is meaningful and worthy is enhanced. When we study Torah, our priorities are realigned. The sublime ideas in life—meaning, holiness, transcendence—become real and tangible. For each time we study Torah, we are standing at Sinai and “seeing the sounds.”1

FOOTNOTES
1.	Based on the teachings of the Rebbe, Likkutei Sichot, Yitro, vol. 6, sicha 2.

As taken from, https://www.chabad.org/tools/subscribe/email/view_cdo/i/8A35D917402345A2:48CBD0CC6924F227283A4091431088341DE118ADD02CC9A06CE07CBB944AB561#utm_medium=email&utm_source=6_essay_en&utm_campaign=en&utm_content=header

Mientras que cuatro rabinos han expresado su molestia por la presencia de una iglesia en Birkenau (Polonia), un artículo publicado por Vatican News el 29 de enero de 2020, analizó el papel fundamental que desempeñaron Pío XII y muchos religiosos en el rescate de miles de judíos durante la redada de 1943 en Roma. Una nueva refutación de la Leyenda Negra que acusa a la Iglesia de haber sido cómplice del régimen nacionalsocialista. El sábado 16 de octubre de 1943, día de descanso entre los judíos, los hombres de la Gestapo rodearon el gueto judío de Roma desde las 5:30 a.m. En el transcurso de ocho horas, 689 mujeres, 363 hombres y 207 niños fueron hechos prisioneros. Solo 16 de esos 1,259 judíos fueron deportados.

Una cifra que podría haber sido mucho más alta si la Iglesia, bajo el liderazgo del Papa Pío XII, no hubiera abierto sus puertas a los fugitivos. Esto es lo que Paolo Ondarza explica en Vatican News: “una puerta abierta, un refugio seguro para escapar de la muerte: esto es lo que representaron más de 220 conventos, iglesias y casas pertenecientes a diferentes órdenes religiosas que, en medio de la persecusión nazi, ofrecieron refugio a 4,500 judíos en Roma, casi la mitad de toda la comunidad judía presente en la capital, que en ese entonces representaba entre 10 y 12,000 personas”.

Si bien es cierto que debido a la clandestinidad, es difícil cuantificar con precisión el número total de judíos salvados por la Iglesia, la investigación histórica puede, sin embargo, basarse en numerosos testimonios orales confiables, en particular aquellos “de los judíos escondidos en casas religiosas o acogidos en monasterios de claustro por indicación y con la dispensa de la Santa Sede; sitios cristianos como las Catacumbas de Priscila, se convertieron en puntos de referencia para la red de documentos falsos; numerosas casas religiosas recibían víveres del Vaticano para alimentar a los refugiados que albergaban. Múltiples instituciones abrieron sus puertas gratuitamente y otras solicitaban el pago de una pensión”.

Una oleada de generosidad auspiciada por el propio Pío XII, como lo atestiguó en 1961 el exsecretario privado del papa Pacelli: este último indicó a los conventos romanos que “podían y debían” recibir a los judíos perseguidos.

Cabe destacar que el seminario mayor de Letrán -el seminario del Papa- brindó asilo a todo tipo de refugiados, en particular a los opositores al régimen, incluidos los comunistas: la Iglesia no es rencorosa cuando se trata de salvar almas.

Segun tomado, https://diariojudio.com/ticker/pio-xii-y-la-iglesia-complices-del-nazismo-la-leyenda-negra-se-debilita-cada-vez-mas/321840/

Era un príncipe de la Tribu de Iehudá. Era el cuñado de Aron, el Sumo Sacerdote. Cuando todos los demás vacilaron, el saltó dentro del mar. Era Najshon, el hijo de Aminadav.

Fue el tipo de persona que su callada acción dejó una gran marca en nuestra nación.

Origen de la familia

Najshon era la quinta generación descendiente de Iehudá, hijo de Iaakov.

Aparece por primera vez en la Torá cuando Aron se casa con su hermana: “Aron tomó como esposa a Elisheva, hija de Aminadav, hermana de Najshon”. La Torá generalmente escribe nombres sólo cuando mencionan a alguien nuevo, y los comentaristas se preguntan por qué el hermano de Elisheva es mencionado aquí también.

Sugieren que antes de casarse con Elisheva, Aron había averiguado sobre Najshon, su futuro cuñado. Aprendemos de Aron que cuando se busca una esposa, es importante saber de sus hermanos.

En la División del Mar

Siete días después de haber dejado Egipto, los Israelitas se encontraron atrapados entre el mar y el ejército Egipto. Luego Di-s le da una orden a Moisés que parecía imposible de cumplir: “Habla con el pueblo de Israel, deben viajar”.

La orden fue dada para que siguieran adelante, con o sin mar. Pero, ¿quién haría el primer movimiento?, en ese momento, la valentía y devoción de Najshon, salió a la luz. El Midrash y el Talmud cuentan lo siguiente:

Cuando Israel estuvo parado frente al Mar de los Juncos, y la orden de moverse hacia adelantada fue dada, cada una de las tribus se quejó diciendo: “Nosotros no queremos ser los primeros en saltar al mar”.

Najshon vio lo que estaba pasando, y saltó al mar.

En ese momento, Moisés estaba parado orando. Di-s le dijo: “¿Mis amados están ahogándose en el mar, y tú estás acá orando?

Moisés le respondió: “Amo del universo, ¿qué debo hacer?”

Di-s dijo: “Levanta tu palo y estira tu brazo sobre el mar, el cual de partirá e Israel entrará sobre tierra seca”

Así fue. Siguiendo al líder Najshon, los Israelitas entraron al mar y fueron salvados.

La recompensa de Najshon

El Midrash nos enumera las recompensas que Najshon recibió por su valentía:

Se le fue dado el nombre de Najshon, debido a que saltó dentro de las olas (najshol) del mar.

Hubo cinco héroes de Israel dentro de su descendencia: David, Daniel, Janania, Mishael y Azaria.

El eterno reinado de Israel fue dado a su tribu, Iehudá, y Moshiaj también va a ser de su descendencia.

Luego de que Moshé había completado el tabernáculo en el desierto, los príncipes de las doce tribus de Israel, ofrecieron sacrificios especiales de inauguración, y regalos. A pesar de que Iehudá no era el más grande de las tribus, Najshon, príncipe de Iehudá, fue el primero en traer el sacrificio. Esto debió haber sido una recompensa por su especial acción de devoción.

Najshon también estaba dentro de los setenta ancianos que Moisés les había conferido su espíritu.

Su fallecimiento

Haber sido nombrado como un anciano tuvo una trágico resultado. Leemos que el segundo año después de haber salido de Egipto, “el pueblo buscaba quejarse, y era malvado en los oídos de Di-s. El lo escuchó y Su enojo hizo que un fuego saliera, quemado los extremos del campo”. El Midrash explica que los “extremos del campo” es una referencia a los setenta ancianos, incluyendo a Najshon.

Un símbolo de fuerza

El nombre de Najshon se hizo sinónimo de coraje y deseo de hacer las cosas bien, incluso si no es popular.

Inspirado por Najshon, el Rey David escribió en los Salmos: “Me he hundido en las profundidades fangosas, y no hay ningún punto de apoyo, he entrado en las aguas profundas, y la corriente me ha arrastrado. . . No permitas que la corriente de agua me barra, ni la profundidad me trague, y deja que el pozo no cierre su boca sobre mí”

El Rebe vio la acción de Najshon como una llamada de acción:

“Un hombre llamado Najshon saltó dentro del mar, y causó el gran milagro de la División del Mar. Técnicamente, no tenía la obligación de hacerlo, pero el sabía que Di-s quería que Israel se dirigiera a Sinai. Entonces hizo lo que tenía que hacer. Tenía un mar en el camino. Saltó dentro del mar y se dirigió a su meta.

La lección para todos nosotros es, que debemos centrarnos en nuestra misión de la vida, sin tener en cuenta todos los obstáculos”

Tomado de, https://es.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/2640434/jewish/Conoce-a-Najshon-ben-Aminadav.htm#utm_medium=email&utm_source=94_magazine_es&utm_campaign=es&utm_content=content

by Rabbi Dr. Nathan Lopes Cardozo

There is probably no game as difficult and captivating as chess. Millions of people break their heads over strategies to win this game and spend years learning its ins and outs. It holds them captive as nothing else does. They dream about it and discuss the move of one single pawn as if their lives depend on it. They will follow the most famous chess tournaments and discuss every move of a world champion for days and even years. They replay famous, mind-boggling games of the past, even those that took place as far back as 70 years ago. These chess aficionados try to improve on those games of the distant past, often getting into heated arguments about a brilliant or foolish move that took place 50 years earlier. Thousands of books and tens of thousands of essays have been published on how to improve at playing the game. The rules are set up in the World Chess Federation’s FIDE Handbook. Strategies are developed and tactics suggested; countless combinations have been tried to the point that some typical patterns have their own names, such as “Boden’s Mate” and “Lasker’s Combination.” Mikhail Botvinnik revolutionized the opening theory, which was considered nothing less than a Copernican breakthrough. Famous chess studies, such as the one published by Richard Reti (1921), are revelations of tremendous depth. (He depicted a situation in which it seems impossible for the white king to catch the advanced black pawn while the white pawn can be easily stopped by the black king.)

The rules are ruthless. There are no compromises, no flexibility. Zero rachmanut (mercy). It is all about midat hadin (harsh rendering). The terrifying, rigid rules can make players mad to the point of possibly considering suicide.

But is chess rigid?

The rules seem easy until you start playing. The entire game takes place on a chessboard smaller than the size of a side table, but the game is larger than life. Each player has 16 pieces, which are played on 64 squares, but they become so large in one’s psyche that they dazzle the eyes of the spectator. Some of the pieces can move in any direction; others can move any number of squares along any rank or file but may not leap over other pieces. There are those that can only move diagonally and others that are allowed to move two squares horizontally and one square vertically, or two squares vertically and one square horizontally, thus making the complete move look like the letter ‘L.’

It may sound very easy, but what any player soon realizes is that these basic rules allow for thousands of combinations, maneuvers and sub-rules, depending on the position of a pawn, a rook, or a knight. These rules can become so complicated and can cause such major obstacles that one may prefer to take on higher mathematics, which looks easy in comparison. (It is not!) There is good reason why the most famous chess players are considered not only brilliant people but geniuses with advanced mathematical minds.

But is chess rigid? Does it constrain? Is it “fundamentalist,” or perhaps “dogmatic”? Does it deny the players their freedom of thought or action? In one sense, it does. Players cannot move the pieces as they would like to. There are rules that make the game incredibly difficult. But that fact is exactly what makes this game so exciting. It leads to an unprecedented outburst of creativity. In der Beschränkung zeigt sich erst der Meister. Und das Gesetz nur kann uns Freiheit geben, said Goethe.[1]

The chessboard becomes the world; the pieces are the phenomena of the universe; the rules of the game are the laws of nature; and players roam freely on this board once they apply the rules in a way that will deepen their impact to such an extent that a whole new world is revealed.

But let us never forget: One who knows all the rules is not necessarily a great player. What makes players formidable opponents is their ability to use these rules to unleash an outburst of creativity, which resides deep within them and emerges only because of the “unbearable” limitations. They then strike! One small move forces a major shift, creating total upheaval and causing the opponent to panic as never before. And all this without ever violating one chess rule. It’s mental torture. But it’s the height of beauty as well. It is poetry to the game, as melody is to music. Like one gentle brushstroke of Rembrandt on a colorful canvas, making everything look radically different; or like the genius musician playing her Stradivarius, re-creating the whole of Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 5. It transports the chess player to heaven. Their bodies must be in top form, because their playing ability deteriorates when their bodies do. They are inseparable. An entire world of feelings, images, ideas, emotions and passions come to the forefront.

There are hundreds of opening moves and end games. And all of them are authentic.

And that is why Talmudic scholars, religious Jews and secular Jews love this game and are often very good at it.[2] Chess reminds them, consciously or subconsciously, of the world of Talmudic halachic debate with all its intrigues, its severe obstacles, and its seemingly deliberate tendency to make life more difficult and sometimes nearly impossible. The truly religious Jew loves it because it is these challenges that make life exciting and irresistible. For the true posek (halachic expert and decisor), the tension, challenge and delight involved in discovering an unprecedented, mindboggling solution is the ultimate simcha (joy). Skipping through a maze of obstacles, circumventing what seems impossible in the eyes of his halachic opponents, and backing them into a corner like a pawn on the chessboard, thereby solving a serious halachic problem, is the peak of divine satisfaction that a halachic authority can experience.

Chess reminds one of the Talmudic concept of eilu ve-eilu divrei elokim chayim (these and those are the words of the living God, Eruvin, 13b). There are rishonim (early authorities) and acharonim (later authorities). There are commentaries, sub-commentaries, major differences of opinion, fiery clashes, and even mistakes that carry dimensions of truth.

Halachic discussion is like chess. It is a clash of the minds. Sometimes, “the passed pawn is a criminal, who should be kept under lock and key. Mild measures, such as police surveillance, are not sufficient”.[3] Its position is treif (non-kosher) by all standards. Other times, maneuvers are possible in the opinions of some, while still others have their doubts. But above all, “chess is so inspiring that I do not believe a good player is capable of having an evil thought during the game”.[4]

And so it is with Halacha. Who would have a bad thought while studying the Avnei Miluim[5] and Ketzot HaChoshen,[6] two of the most sophisticated halachic works ever to appear on earth?

Halacha is the greatest chess game on earth. It is the Jewish game par excellence. For people who want to live a life of great meaning and depth, nothing is more demanding and torturous while simultaneously uplifting and mind-broadening. They love the rules because they are the way to freedom. All the real chess player wants is to play chess. Players recognize that others prefer dominoes or rummikub. And that’s fine. But the chess player smiles, for those games can’t hold a candle to chess. They are child’s play. The serious chess players embrace this greatest game of all, because the impossible rules give them the thrill of life as nothing else does. They make players divinely insane. On top of that, they have to choose from among many options of genius chess players. This reminds us of the famous halachic positions of Rambam (Maimonides, 1138-1204), the Ravad (Rabbi Avraham ben David, 1125-1198), Maran (Rabbi Yosef Karo author of the Shulchan Aruch, 1488-1575) and the unparalleled Rogatchover (Rabbi Yosef Rozin, 1858-1936).

Certainly chess is just a game, while Halacha, if properly understood and lived, deals with real life, deep religiosity, moral dilemmas, emotions, and intuitions far more significant in a person’s life than a chess game.

Those who play chess in real life will realize that if they “play” well they’re on the right track to drawing closer and closer to the King, until they are checkmated and, unlike in a chess game, fall into the arms of the King.

---

Notes:

[1] “It is in limitation that the master proves himself. And law alone brings us freedom.” Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s sonnet “Natur und Kunst, sie scheinen sich zu fliehen” (“Nature and Art, they go their separate ways”) in Was wir bringen (1802).

[2] Jews make up 0.2 percent of the world population, but 54 percent of the world chess champions. (David Brooks, “The Tel Aviv Cluster,” The New York Times, January 11, 2010). The Israeli city Beersheba has the most chess grand masters per capita in the world. (Gavin Rabinowitz, “Beersheba Masters Kings, Knights, Pawns,” LA Times, January 30, 2005). A typical example of a great Jewish chess player is David ben Gurion, first prime minister of Israel, who used to secretly play chess behind the Knesset plenum, when he was bored with the superfluous debates in the Israeli government!

[3] Aron Nimzowitsch, My System (Dallas, TX: Hays Publishing, 1991) p. 32.

[4] This quote is attributed to Austrian and later American chess Master player Wilhelm Steinitz, the first undisputed world chess champion from 1886 to 1894.

[5] A halachic work by Rabbi Aryeh Leib HaKohen Heller (1745-1813), which explains difficult passages in the Shulchan Aruch, Even HaEzer, which deals mainly with marital issues.

[6] A halachic work by Rabbi Heller, which explains difficult passages in the Shulchan Aruch, Choshen Mishpat, which deals mainly with business and financial laws.

As taken from, https://us11.campaign-archive.com/?e=ea5f46c325&u=001429d2ea98064eb844c6bf8&id=e873214540

Donald Trump mató varios pájaros de un tiro: cumplió con un compromiso de campaña, pues entregó, finalmente, un documento respecto a cómo solucionar el conflicto palestino-israelí y distrajo la atención de su proceso de impeachment

Tres años después de que el presidente Trump anunciara que bajo su mandato se gestaría el “Acuerdo del Siglo”, el cual lograría, presuntamente, la solución al complicado conflicto israelí-palestino, el martes pasado, finalmente, se presentó, con bombo y platillo, el plan que la Casa Blanca diseñó a ese efecto. Un plan que, como se anticipaba, mostró ser producto de una perspectiva muy parecida a la que, en su momento histórico, tuvieron las potencias coloniales al trazar fronteras de manera arbitraria en las regiones colonizadas, dividiendo poblaciones que pertenecían a un mismo hábitat étnico, religioso y cultural y soslayando cualquier criterio lógico respecto a la distribución de los recursos naturales necesarios para el sustento de sus habitantes.

Como se ha repetido mucho por los analistas durante esta semana, el plan de Trump es equivalente a una boda en la que la novia no está invitada. ¿Por qué esta afirmación? Porque una de las dos partes implicadas en este diferendo -la palestina- no fue nunca tomada en cuenta para consulta alguna, manejando su destino, insisto, muy al estilo de la tradición colonialista que utilizaba a pueblos enteros como simples alfiles en su juego de ajedrez particular.

De ahí que el plan resultante no pueda, de ninguna manera, calificarse como algo que remotamente prometa conducir a la paz, sino que constituye una especie de “sueño guajiro” mediante el cual se pretende imponer lo que es conveniente para la visión de los sectores radicales mesiánicos israelíes, sin importar la suerte que tal proyecto le depara al pueblo palestino ni, tampoco, lo que ocurriría con la vibrante democracia israelí que necesariamente desaparecería, tragada por la transformación de Israel en un Estado apartheid que controlaría la vida de los fragmentados enclaves palestinos de manera definitiva y oficial. Ello acompañado, por supuesto, de las complicaciones derivadas para Israel en el campo del derecho internacional, en la medida en que mucho de lo planteado por la Casa Blanca, si llegara a concretarse, infringiría una serie de normas consagradas en esa área.

Incluso hay advertencias de parte del jefe del Estado Mayor israelí, Avi Kojavi, y de Nadav Argaman, del servicio de inteligencia Shin Bet, en el sentido de que la propuesta anexión israelí del Valle del Jordán, el cual constituye el 22% del territorio de Cisjordania, provocaría, muy probablemente, un rechazo contundente de la monarquía jordana la cual podría muy bien tomar la decisión de anular el acuerdo de paz firmado con Israel en 1994.

Ahora bien, fue pública la presencia sonriente del premier israelí Netanyahu al lado de Trump durante el anuncio del famoso acuerdo del siglo. Lo cual sugeriría que, en efecto, tal plan era un gran regalo para Israel. Sin embargo, todo indica que, en realidad, Netanyahu mismo, como astuto político con colmillo que es, sabía muy bien que ese plan, por lo impracticable que es, se acumularía en los archivos históricos de los diversos proyectos fallidos que al respecto se han producido a lo largo de décadas. Pero a pesar de eso, el anuncio en ese momento le brindaba a Netanyahu la posibilidad de aumentar su popularidad doméstica de cara a las elecciones israelíes del 2 de marzo próximo, en las que un triunfo suyo podría, quizá, salvarlo de enfrentar el juicio que por corrupción, soborno y abuso de confianza le tiene planteado la fiscalía israelí. Sin embargo, esa posibilidad, para su desgracia, se vio anulada ese mismo día al decidir, él mismo, renunciar a la inmunidad, al darse cuenta que no la conseguiría de ninguna manera.

Así que, por lo pronto, hay un sólo ganador en lo que se refiere al mentado Acuerdo del Siglo. Se trata de Donald Trump, quien mató varios pájaros de un tiro: cumplió con un compromiso de campaña porque, en efecto, entregó finalmente un documento respecto a cómo solucionar el conflicto palestino-israelí; distrajo la atención de su proceso de impeachment. Además, y no menos importante, reafirmó la lealtad de su nutrida base de votantes evangélicos, conformada por muchos millones de personas, quienes perciben como parte del proyecto mesiánico en el que creen fervientemente, todo aquello que se muestre como pro-israelí.

Es previsible que el compromiso personal de Trump con este asunto se reduzca a lo que sucedió esta semana, cuando ha conseguido un éxito coyuntural que no pasará de ahí. No en balde declaró que si su plan sirve, qué bueno, y si no, también se podrá vivir sin eso.

Según tomado de, https://diariojudio.com/opinion/el-acuerdo-del-siglo-a-quien-beneficia/320931/

El dolor y la tristeza ayudan a ajustar la realidad y hacen que la persona tenga compasión.

La tristeza es un sentimiento temido, descalificado y en lo posible, ignorado o evadido. Nadie disfruta sentirse triste, el desánimo aísla y desconecta. Cuando uno se siente triste, la sensación de soledad y desapego llenan el alma; la tristeza roba las ilusiones.

La persona afligida, pierde las ganas de seguir luchando ya que le cuesta trabajo reestablecer su energía. Su atención se dispersa y es difícil poner atención.

Vivir triste es como vivir en una nube de humo gris, que no te permite moverte, ni ver más allá de tu nariz.

Se necesita valor para reconocer cuando uno está triste. Hay más de mil razones que entristecen a las personas. Cada razón es válida y no es justo juzgar o exigir que otro deje de sentirse triste sólo porque uno considera que su razón no es motivo para sentirse así de mal.

No se puede vivir triste toda la vida. Ya que la tristeza a la larga amarga y ocasiona problemas de salud más serios.

Ofrecer una mano amiga, regalar una sonrisa o algunas palabras de ánimo, son acciones de compasión y de responsabilidad humana.

Es injusto decir que la tristeza es “mala”. Los sentimientos no se deben calificar. Éstos, determinan el estado de ánimo y la forma como se integran las experiencias y las emociones en la mente.

A medida que uno reconoce, valida y permite que los sentimientos incómodos existan, sin pena, sin culpa y sin rechazo, entonces uno adquiere una visión panorámica de lo que le sucede y cómo reacciona ante lo que está sintiendo.

El valor que la tristeza da es la reflexión. Reconocer que hay personas que están cerca, que se preocupan. Gracias a la tristeza, uno aprende a ser más atento, más noble y más compasivo.

Cuando uno se siente feliz, rara vez se toma el tiempo de apreciar lo que es obvio y preciado. Sólo cuando uno se siente derrumbado o se siente solo, entiende el valor de la amistad, el amor y la alegría. Puede ver la bondad escondida y aprecia las cosas diminutas.

La única manera de enfrentar a la tristeza es dándole la cara de frente. Encontrando el tiempo para reconocer el dolor, aceptar la pérdida y el vacío que se siente. Para luego reconciliarse con gratitud por lo que se tiene, lo que se tuvo y lo que se perdió.

Cuando se acepta la tristeza como una parte del sentir, entonces se puede sanar una porción de su dolor, se aprende a ver con más claridad y sabiduría lo que es. Y lo más importante, reconoce que el amor propio y la compasión —sin sentir pena por uno mismo— es el regalo más grande que la tristeza puede ofrecer.

La receta: Aceptando la tristeza

Ingredientes

• Valor – fortaleza para sobrepasar los momentos de soledad
• Compasión – bondad con uno mismo, amor propio, palabras nobles, aceptación
• Paciencia – darse el tiempo para reflexionar y sanar
• Confianza – certeza que todo se puede mejorar o cambiar
• Calma – meditar, reflexionar y dejar fluir

Afirmación positiva para aceptar la tristeza:

Me permito sentirme triste. No le temo a la tristeza porque sé que este sentimiento me enseña a apreciar los detalles que la alegría no me deja ver. Respiro profundo y lleno mi corazón de esperanza y fe. Sé que la tristeza no es permanente y tengo el valor para aprender mi lección, recuperar mi ánimo y mi equilibrio. Dejo fluir libremente mis sentimientos. Mañana sale el sol y otro día será.

Aprendiendo de la tristeza:

1. Aceptar la tristeza y las cosas que causan dolor no quiere decir que uno las está aprobando. La aceptación evita que la tristeza paralice o encienda al enojo que puede intoxicar el alma y exponerla a problemas más serios.
2. La tristeza no es un castigo y nadie puede decir por qué hay personas que sufren más. La tristeza es un sentimiento que hace a la persona que sufre más tolerante, más sensible y más sabia. Puede ser que la tristeza sea un medio para desarrollar el carácter personal.
3. Las pérdidas y las decepciones son inevitables, no luchar para sobreponerse es opcional. Permitir que la tristeza rompa el ánimo sólo aumenta la pena y el dolor. Hay que luchar para que la tristeza no se robe la fe y las ganas de seguir adelante.

“La tristeza es el mejor testimonio del crecimiento espiritual y del trabajo personal que forja el carácter para ser mejor”.

Según tomado de, https://www.aishlatino.com/fm/recetas-para-la-vida/El-dolor-y-la-tristeza-tambien-tienen-un-lado-positivo.html?s=hp4

Sometimes others know us better than we know ourselves. In the year 2000, a British Jewish research institute came up with a proposal that Jews in Britain be redefined as an ethnic group and not as a religious community. It was a non-Jewish journalist, Andrew Marr, who stated what should have been obvious. He said: “All this is shallow water, and the further in you wade, the shallower it gets.”

It is what he wrote next that I found inspirational: “The Jews have always had stories for the rest of us. They have had their Bible, one of the great imaginative works of the human spirit. They have been victim of the worst modernity can do, a mirror for Western madness. Above all they have had the story of their cultural and genetic survival from the Roman Empire to the 2000s, weaving and thriving amid uncomprehending, hostile European tribes.”[1]

The Jews have always had stories for the rest of us. I love that testimony. And indeed, from early on, storytelling has been central to the Jewish tradition. Every culture has its stories. (The late Elie Wiesel once said, “God created man because God loves stories”). Almost certainly, the tradition goes back to the days when our ancestors were hunter-gatherers telling stories around the campfire at night. We are the storytelling animal.

But what is truly remarkable is the way in which, in this week’s parsha, on the brink of the Exodus, Moses three times tells the Israelites how they are to tell the story to their children in future generations.

1. When your children ask you, ‘What does this ceremony mean to you?’ then tell them, ‘It is the Passover sacrifice to the Lord, who passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt and spared our homes when He struck down the Egyptians.’ (Ex. 12:26-27)
2. On that day tell your child, ‘I do this because of what the Lord did for me when I came out of Egypt.’ (Ex. 13:8)
3. “In days to come, when your child asks you, ‘What does this mean?’ say, ‘With a mighty hand the Lord brought us out of Egypt, out of the land of slavery. (Ex. 13:14)

The Israelites had not yet left Egypt, and yet already Moses was telling them how to tell the story. That is the extraordinary fact. Why so? Why this obsession with storytelling?

The simplest answer is that we are the story we tell about ourselves.^[2] There is an intrinsic, perhaps necessary, link between narrative and identity. In the words of the thinker who did more than most to place this idea at the centre of contemporary thought, Alasdair MacIntyre, “man is in his actions and practice, as well as in his fictions, essentially a story-telling animal.”^[3] We come to know who we are by discovering of which story or stories we are a part.

Jerome Bruner has persuasively argued that narrative is central to the construction of meaning, and meaning is what makes the human condition human.^[4] No computer needs to be persuaded of its purpose in life before it does what it is supposed to do. Genes need no motivational encouragement. No virus needs a coach. We do not have to enter their mindset to understand what they do and how they do it, because they do not have a mindset to enter. But humans do. We act in the present because of things we did or that happened to us in the past, and in order to realise a sought-for future. Even minimally to explain what we are doing is already to tell a story. Take three people eating salad in a restaurant, one because he needs to lose weight, the second because she’s a principled vegetarian, the third because of religious dietary laws. These are three outwardly similar acts, but they belong to different stories and they have different meanings for the people involved.

Why though storytelling and the Exodus?

One of the most powerful passages I have ever read on the nature of Jewish existence is contained in Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s Considerations on the Government of Poland (1772). This is an unlikely place to find insight on the Jewish condition, but it is there. Rousseau is talking about the greatest of political leaders. First of these, he says, was Moses who “formed and executed the astonishing enterprise of instituting as a national body a swarm of wretched fugitives who had no arts, no weapons, no talents, no virtues, no courage, and who, since they had not an inch of territory of their own, were a troop of strangers upon the face of the earth.”

Moses, he says, “dared to make out of this wandering and servile troop a body politic, a free people, and while it wandered in the wilderness without so much as a stone on which to rest its head, gave it the lasting institution, proof against time, fortune and conquerors, which 5000 years have not been able to destroy or even to weaken.” This singular nation, he says, so often subjugated and scattered, “has nevertheless maintained itself down to our days, scattered among the other nations without ever merging with them.”[5]

Moses’ genius, he says, lay in the nature of the laws that kept Jews as a people apart. But that is only half the story. The other half lies in this week’s parsha, in the institution of storytelling as a fundamental religious duty, recalling and re-enacting the events of the Exodus every year, and in particular, making children central to the story. Noting that in three of the four storytelling passages (three in our parsha, the fourth in Va’etchanan) children are referred to as asking questions, the Sages held that the narrative of Seder night should be told in response to a question asked by a child wherever possible. If we are the story we tell about ourselves, then as long as we never lose the story, we will never lose our identity.

This idea found expression some years ago in a fascinating encounter. Tibet has been governed by the Chinese since 1950. During the 1959 uprising, the Dalai Lama, his life in danger, fled to Dharamsala in India where he and many of his followers have lived ever since. Realising that their stay in exile might be prolonged, in 1992 he decided to ask Jews, whom he regarded as the world’s experts in maintaining identity in exile, for advice. What, he wanted to know, was the secret? The story of that week-long encounter has been told by Roger Kamenetz in his book, The Jew in the Lotus.[6] One of the things they told him was the importance of memory and storytelling in keeping a people’s culture and identity alive. They spoke about Pesach and the Seder service in particular. So in 1997 Rabbis and American dignitaries held a special Seder service in Washington DC with the Dalai Lama. He wrote this to the participants:

“In our dialogue with Rabbis and Jewish scholars, the Tibetan people have learned about the secrets of Jewish spiritual survival in exile: one secret is the Passover Seder. Through it for 2000 years, even in very difficult times, Jewish people remember their liberation from slavery to freedom and this has brought you hope in times of difficulty. We are grateful to our Jewish brothers and sisters for adding to their celebration of freedom the thought of freedom for the Tibetan people.”

Cultures are shaped by the range of stories to which they give rise. Some of these have a special role in shaping the self-understanding of those who tell them. We call them master-narratives. They are about large, ongoing groups of people: the tribe, the nation, the civilisation. They hold the group together horizontally across space and vertically across time, giving it a shared identity handed on across the generations.

None has been more powerful than the Exodus story, whose frame and context is set out in our parsha. It gave Jews the most tenacious identity ever held by a nation. In the eras of oppression, it gave hope of freedom. At times of exile, it promised return. It told two hundred generations of Jewish children who they were and of what story they were a part. It became the world’s master-narrative of liberty, adopted by an astonishing variety of groups, from Puritans in the 17^th century to African-Americans in the 19^th and to Tibetan Buddhists today.

I believe that I am a character in our people’s story, with my own chapter to write, and so are we all. To be a Jew is to see yourself as part of that story, to make it live in our time, and to do your best to hand it on to those who will come after us.

Shabbat Shalom

[1] Andrew Marr, The Observer, Sunday 14 May, 2000.

[2] See Alasdair MacIntyre, After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory, London, Duckworth, 1981; Dan P. McAdams, The Stories We Live By: Personal Myths And The Making Of The Self, New York, Guilford Press, 1997.

[3] MacIntyre, op. cit., 201.

[4] Jerome Bruner, Actual Minds, Possible Worlds, Harvard University Press, 1986.

[5] Jean-Jacques Rousseau, The Social Contract and other later political writings, Cambridge University press, 2010, 180.

[6] Roger Kamanetz, The Jew in the Lotus, HarperOne, 2007.

As taken from, http://rabbisacks.org/bo-5780/

NOTA: Versión en español vea: http://rabbisacks.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/01/SPANISH-Bo-5780-MAIN-edition.pdf

But Moshe said to God, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh, and that I should take the children of Israel out of Egypt?” Shemot 3:11

Throughout history, some of the greatest people often failed time after time before they really made it to the top. Others thought that they had failed but realized at a later stage in life that what they believed to be failure was in fact a grand success. Still others never succeeded—in the conventional sense of the word—but served as models of extraordinary accomplishments, sometimes without ever being aware of it.

When we carefully study the life of Moshe Rabenu, we are confronted with a series of failures. Until he was in his 80s, he spent most of his time on the run without getting anywhere. Following a short period of tranquility at Pharaoh’s palace, Moshe had to run for his life after having killed an Egyptian.^[1] He spent many years in different countries, often hiding from the soldiers of the Egyptian regime, never enjoying a quiet moment.

Life is over

He continuously failed to make any impression on his surroundings. There is little doubt that by the time he reached the age of 80, just before God called to him, he must have thought that his life was over and for the most part wasted. He had accomplished nothing. He was still the same shepherd, trying to obtain some meager food, running around in circles.

And even after God called to him at the burning bush, in his 80^th year,^[2] and then sent him to liberate his people from the bondage of Pharaoh, his failures seem by far to outdo his successes. His first encounter with Pharaoh was a complete defeat. Instead of getting Pharaoh to agree to let the Jews have their freedom, Moshe’s presence and request caused Pharaoh to harden his heart, and his fellow Jews were then doomed to work even harder.^[3]

After each plague brought upon the Egyptians, Moshe was convinced that he achieved his goal and now he would be able to take the Jews out. But he soon discovered that Pharaoh had once more changed his mind and again Moshe’s high hopes were crushed.

In the desert, he encounters one rebellion after another. The Jews blame him for all sorts of wrongs and even demand to return to Egypt.^[4] After the debacle of the golden calf, God tells him that He will destroy the Israelites.^[5] No doubt Moshe must have felt that he had completely failed to educate his people to avert such a terrible transgression.

The great fiasco

Still later, after he sends 12 “spies” to survey the Land of Canaan, he is told that he will have to walk around in circles and spend another 39 years in the desert! ^[6] On another occasion, his opponent Korach wants to undermine his authority, and Moshe is nearly murdered by his own people.^[7] And then there is the great fiasco when Moshe ignores the exact instruction of God, and instead of speaking to the rock in order to produce water, he strikes it and consequently hears that he will never be allowed to enter the Land of Israel.^[8]

This devastating news must have been the final blow to all of his expectations. Now that he was not allowed to fulfill his greatest dream, of living in the Land of Israel, he must have felt that “it was all over” and that all his good intentions and deeds were of little value.

It probably never entered his mind that he would be seen as the greatest Jew of all time, that his name would be immortalized in Scripture and on the lips of millions and millions of people for thousands of years. Indeed, he may never have known what an eminent man he really was, and that there would never be a person who could even come close to his accomplishments.

What was Moshe’s secret that enabled him to continue to fight for his goals, in spite of everything, and succeed where so many others would have failed?

Knowing how to lose

The answer is simple: he knew how to lose. He knew that his failures were in fact the building blocks for his future successes. While he may never have known what his accomplishments were, he continued to fight and ultimately prevailed.

According to a Yiddish proverb, one that lies upon the ground cannot fall. Many people who are the most critical of those who have failed do not realize that they themselves have never left the ground. Those who never fail, never accomplish, since defeat is the necessary step to success. The famous American philosopher Paul Tillich once remarked: “The awareness of the ambiguity of one’s highest achievements, as well as one’s deepest failures, is a definite symptom of maturity.”^[9]

Above all else, one has to ask oneself what real success is all about.

Let us bring an example from the world of fitness. A fitness center consists of a large hall filled with many pieces of equipment that could take us on long journeys. But they do not.

There are bicycles that go nowhere, no matter how hard we peddle. There are rowboats but no water, skis without snow, and even climbing frames on which you can climb for hours without getting any higher. Still, you will find lots of people throughout most of the day working hard in the fitness center, fully aware that they are getting nowhere. It is all a failure.

This, however, does not sadden them. In fact, many return the next week and try again. The reason is obvious. Success with such equipment is not measured by how far you get but how much you gain in making your body healthier from within. Externally, it seems that there is no success whatsoever, but internally, the human being is growing steadily. The superficial viewer may draw the conclusion that the cyclist, the mountain climber and the rower are all failures. The wise man smiles and knows that they are great winners.

And so it was with Moshe Rabbenu. Every failure was a building block to his success. He was bicycling, rowing, and climbing mountains, yet getting nowhere. But inwardly he knew he was getting stronger and stronger. He never gave up and finally became the greatest man on earth.

---

Notes

[1] Shemot 2:11-15.

[2] See Shemot chap. 3.

[3] See Shemot chap. 5.

[4] Shemot 14:11-12

[5] Ibid. 32:10.

[6] Bamidbar 14:26-35.

[7] See Bamidbar chap. 16.

[8] Bamidbar 20:7-13.

[9] Quoted in Russ Volckmann, Phoenix Rising: Embracing and Transcending Failure (Bloomington, IN: Russ Volckmann, 2002), 168.

As taken from, https://www.cardozoacademy.org/thoughts-to-ponder/parashat-bo-knowing-how-to-lose/?utm_source=Subscribers&utm_campaign=8df7824e89-RSS_EMAIL_CAMPAIGN&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_dd05790c6d-8df7824e89-242341409

by Algemeiner Staff

Footage of one of the most celebrated Polish resistance fighters describing the Holocaust as humanity’s “second original sin” was widely shared this week, as the world marked the 75th anniversary of the liberation of the Auschwitz death camp.
“My faith makes me say that humanity has committed a second original sin by allowing the Holocaust,” said the late Jan Karski — a devout Catholic who publicized the facts of the Nazi extermination of the Jews at great personal risk — in an address to Holocaust scholars at the US State Department in 1981.

“This sin will haunt humanity until the end of the world. It haunts me. I want it to stay that way,” Karski said.
The video was being promoted by the Jan Karski Society — an NGO based in the Polish city of Kielce that promotes ethnic and religious tolerance in tribute to Karski’s legendary career.
“The Jan Karski Society believes that these words should be heard even louder today,” the group said in a statement on Monday.
Born Jan Kozielewski in 1914 in Lodz, Karski fought in the Polish army in 1939 when he was captured by the German invading forces. While being deported to a POW camp, Karski escaped, and went on to serve the Polish underground resistance.
In 1942, Karski was smuggled into the Warsaw Ghetto on two different occasions, providing essential eyewitness accounts of the suffering of its Jewish population. The following year, Karski met with President Franklin D. Roosevelt in Washington, DC, famously recounting afterward that the American leader had asked about the condition of horses in Poland, but not the country’s Jews.
Karski moved to America after the war, becoming a professor at Georgetown University. He passed away in 2000.

“This Sin Will Haunt Humanity Until the End of Time” — Watch Jan Karski’s 1981 speech below:

As taken from, https://www.algemeiner.com/2020/01/28/holocaust-was-humanitys-second-original-sin-dramatic-speech-of-polish-resistance-hero-jan-karski-unearthed/

The 2013 Pew Research study found that the Passover Seder is the most practiced mitzvah by 21st century Jews in the United States:

Attending a Seder is an extremely common practice

70% of Jews participated in a Seder last year

for the group. While only 23% of U.S. Jews said they attend religious services at least monthly, 70% said they participated in a Seder last year.

Participation in a Seder is more common among Jewish Americans than any of the other practices we asked about, including fasting for all or part of Yom Kippur (53%) – often considered the holiest day of the Jewish calendar.1

Why is the Passover Seder so important to the Jewish people, even more so than other practices? What message does the Seder capture that, consciously or subconsciously, speaks to so many Jews today?

To understand this, we need to look at the very first Passover Seder, recorded in this week’s parshah, which was not celebrated as a remembrance for a past event, but as a commemoration for an event that was about to take place. The Jews were commanded to prepare the Passover sacrifices, and to celebrate with matzah and bitter herbs on the night before the actual Exodus. But unlike the Passover offerings that would be offered in subsequent years, the very first Passover offering had to be offered not in one central location, but rather in the home of each family. Furthermore, each family was commanded to remain within the confines of the home for the entire night. They were commanded to place some of the blood of the offering on the doorposts and lintels of their homes.

Moses summoned all the elders of Israel and said to them, “Draw forth or buy for yourselves sheep for your families and slaughter the Passover sacrifice. And you shall take a bunch of hyssop and immerse [it] in the blood that is in the basin, and you shall extend to the lintel, and to the two doorposts, the blood that is in the basin, and you shall not go out, any man from the entrance of his house until morning.”2

Why the blood on the doorposts? Why the need to remain within the home until morning? The conventional answer is that marking the entrance and remaining in the home protected the Jews from the plague of the death of the first born. The deeper interpretation, however, is that by using the doorposts and the lintel as part of the mitzvah, the home of every Jew became holy. The commandment not to leave the home is because, as a result of offering the Passover sacrifice in the home, the home became a miniature Temple, and a haven of holiness.

At the birth of the nation, as the people of

The home became a miniature Temple

Israel were about to emerge from Egypt as a distinct nation, Moses communicated G‑d’s message to them: the goal of Judaism is to transform every corner of life and every place on earth. The objective of Judaism is that spirituality and worship not be reserved for imposing monuments, towers, or sanctuaries. Judaism seeks to transform each and every home into a place of spirituality, holiness, peace, and tranquility.

Granted, the intensity of holiness is, indeed, stronger in Judaism’s most sacred space, on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. Thus, in subsequent generations the Pesach offering may only be offered in the traveling Tabernacle and the Temple in Jerusalem. Yet the very first Passover Seder, offered in the critical hours when our nation was being born, served as a symbol to teach us that the essence of Judaism is spreading holiness to every corner of the world, into each and every home.

Thus, intuitively, the Jew feels that to connect to the core of his Jewish identity, more important than experiencing the intensity of holiness in shul on Yom Kippur, he must experience holiness as it spreads to the home, where it engulfs in its embrace the totality of the Jew, his home, his possessions, his family, and his friends.3

FOOTNOTES
1.	Attending a Seder is common practice for American Jews.
2.	Exodus 12:21-22.
3.	Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe, Likutei Sichot Bo, Vol. 26 Sicha 3.

As taken from, https://www.chabad.org/tools/subscribe/email/view_cdo/i/8A35D917402345A2:48CBD0CC6924F22719AC13BA75E948F0082EA01D999394C507E7CC20B3A68203#utm_medium=email&utm_source=6_essay_en&utm_campaign=en&utm_content=header