Stop Dreaming

Several years ago, Rabbi Zev Leff, a prominent Rabbi from Israel, was visiting his daughter’s family in Scotland. There was a soccer match between Israel and Glasgow, and he accompanied his family to the stadium. As a goal was scored, the camera panned to catch Rabbi Leff deeply immersed in a book. One commentator lamented that he must have missed the goal, while the other chuckled that it must have been a good read. Indeed, it was a good read. It was a tome of the Talmud.

his clip became an international sensation, with some applauding the Rabbi and others criticizing him. The argument was simple: if he wanted to study, he should not have gone to the game, and if he wanted to be at the game, he should not have studied. However, I was struck by this clip because Rabbi Leff displayed a courage rarely seen in today’s Jewish world. He brought his Judaism into the public arena.

Most Jews reserve their Judaism for the indoors. They either hesitate to venture far from their cloistered communities, never encountering the vast outdoors, or they venture into the big world but leave their Judaism behind. Instead of a Kippah, they don a cap. Instead of a formal jacket, they wear a sport coat to cover their tzitzit. They do their best to blend in. Some Jews go so far as to remove their Kippah and tzitzit entirely. For them, those things are for the home and synagogue; outdoors, they take them off.

Rabbi Leff said, “Rubbish.” He effectively declared: I am a Jew inside just like I am outside. I am not afraid to join my family at the soccer game, but I am not going to change my routine just because of where I am. He was authentic to his true self, to his beliefs and practices, irrespective of his surroundings.

He was not a nuisance, nor did he make a spectacle of himself. He sat quietly, immersed in his studies. Had the cameras not panned on him, no one would have noticed—and that would have been fine with him. He did not set out to get noticed, but neither did he set out to notice the game. He was in Scotland to visit his family, and if his grandchildren were going to the match, he would go too. But he would be the same person at the game that he was at home.

The Dream
King David famously writes that when Mashiach comes, we will look back to the current era and realize we were dreaming (Psalms 126:1). This is the era of dreams. In a dream, ridiculous things occur, and we don’t blink an eye. This week, we read in the Torah about Pharaoh’s dream. He couldn’t make sense of it because seven thin cows devoured seven healthy cows yet remained as thin as before. It was an impossible paradox, but that’s a dream for you. Dreams are filled with paradoxes, yet while we are dreaming, they make perfect sense.

I heard a fascinating story about a dream. Rabbi Pinchas Althouse passed away on a Friday in May 1963. The funeral was held on the same day and ended shortly before sunset, the onset of Shabbat. In his haste, Rabbi Yuda Shmotkin, a member of the chevra kadisha (burial society), forgot to perform a routine aspect of the burial ceremony. Upon returning from the funeral, he couldn’t forgive himself because Pinchas was a dear friend and a respected member of the community.

A while later, Rabbi Shmotkin dreamed he was in a large room with many friends when Rabbi Althouse walked in. He hurried over to his friend and embraced him in the manner of Chassidim. He then apologized, “Please forgive me for not having buried you properly.” Pinchas rewarded him with a characteristic wide smile and replied with a gleam in his eye, “Chasidim don’t hold grudges!”

Where else would you greet your living friend and apologize for the way you buried him? It makes no sense under any circumstance, except in a dream. Only in a dream!

Let’s return to King David’s comment. When Mashiach comes, we will realize that we are currently in a dream. Our life is a living paradox, yet it seems to make sense to us as if it were normal. When we wake up and perceive the authentic truth, we will realize that we were living a lie that only made sense because it was a dream. Our entire lives are one big dream. One big lie that we never even notice.

We act as if we have two identities: one we wear inside and another we wear outside. Inside, we are fully Jewish in our attire, behavior, outspoken opinions, and Jewish rituals. Outside, we do everything we can to blend in. We drop every authentic aspect of our lives and live a lie. Indoors, we light Shabbat candles; outdoors, we drive our cars as if it were a regular Tuesday night. Yet, it never feels inauthentic or wrong. It feels normal. But it’s not normal to be inauthentic. It’s a dream!

When we stand in the synagogue on Yom Kippur, we are inspired. We fast because G-d told us to. We don’t drive our cars because it is a holy day. We pray because we are devout Jews, children of our Father in Heaven. Our hearts are filled with contrition and resolution. Yet, in our heart of hearts, we know that when the day ends and the “normal” routine returns, our “normal” will return, and we will jettison all the good intentions of this holy day.

When we think about it, we shrug our shoulders and say, “Well, that was Yom Kippur; of course, I fasted because G-d wanted me to.” But today is not Yom Kippur. Today, I can tell a fib, cheat on my taxes, cover my Kippah with a cap, and conceal my Jewish identity with a secular veneer. We don’t even realize that we are living a paradox because it all seems so normal. Only in a dream is the ridiculous normal.

The Interpreter
When Joseph heard Pharaoh’s dream, he immediately made sense of it. He interpreted the seven healthy cows as a sign that seven years of plenty were coming to Egypt, and the seven lean cows as the seven years of famine that would follow. The lean cows ate the healthy cows without a sign of growth because the famine would leave no sign of the years of plenty. Voila, the dream made sense.

Making sense of a dream is the interpreter’s task. In Hebrew, an interpreter is a poter. If you change the sequence of the letters, poter (פותר) can become tofer (תופר).[1] Tofer means a tailor. Tailors take two entirely disconnected pieces of cloth and sew them together to make them one.

Joseph is an interpreter who acts like a tailor. He takes the two poles of the dream’s paradox and sews them together until they are seamless. He brings the indoor Jew to the outdoors without changing his appearance. He carries the beautiful, refined, sacred lights of the Shabbat candles to the dark outdoor streets so that everyone can see who we are and what we stand for.

Chanukah Lights
This is the difference between the Shabbat candles and the Chanukah lights: (A) The Shabbat candles are kindled indoors at the table; the Chanukah candles are kindled at the window or door to ensure they are visible from outside. (B) The Shabbat candles are kindled before sunset when the streets are still filled with light, and the candlelight is not easily discerned; the Chanukah lights are kindled in the dark, where they draw attention. (C) The Shabbat lights light up the home; the Chanukah candles light up the world.

This Chanukah, become an interpreter. Don’t keep your Judaism private. Don’t hide it when you are at the hockey game. Bring your Judaism proudly into the streets and be your authentic self. Wake up from the dream. Build a giant Menorah in front of your home and light it proudly every night. Let your neighbors glimpse your true self. I tell you, they will love it.[2]

[1] This is because the ‘p’ and the ‘f’ in the Hebrew alphabet are the same letter—the letter pei. With a dot, it is a ‘p,’ and without a dot, it is an ‘f.’ Hence, the two letters are interchangeable in Hebrew.)

[2] This essay is loosely based on a discourse by Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi, Torah Or, pp. 28b–30a.