Throwing Out the Ten Commandments—the Ones That Once Sat Atop My Cake

I found a memento from my bar mitzvah in my parents’ house. Was it finally time to let go of the past, or was it worth keeping?

By Leonard Felson for Tablet Magazine
I was cleaning out my parents’ house for the last time: the two-story stucco structure my father built in Northern California in the early 1960s, where I’d grown up, where my mother had died four years ago, and where my father finally left 18 months later when he moved into a retirement community. Dad had taken some furniture, books, kitchenware, and framed photographs to Baywood Court—“retirement redefined,” said the sign welcoming visitors to the semi-independent-living complex—but he’d left plenty behind: beds, carpets, desks, an out-of-tune upright piano. Now that we’d decided to sell the house, my father and my two younger brothers and I were going through what remained, deciding what was worth keeping, and what was junk.

But sometimes such a distinction isn’t so clear.

In the otherwise empty refrigerator, I found an odd heirloom: the three-inch-by-four-inch confectionery replica of the Ten Commandments that adorned my bar mitzvah cake 48 years ago. My mother had hoarded it in the butter compartment, and even after her death, it lived on. My brother Howard stuck a Post-it note on the fridge door: “Len’s bar mitzvah cake decoration in refrigerator (since 1965)! Do not disconnect without moving it to another refrigerator, please!”

On the last day in the house, as I stood alone looking into the fridge, I faced a dilemma. Those Ten Commandments had meant something to my mother, and I felt tugged to honor her; I could transfer them to my dad’s new kitchen, or I could schlep them on the plane back to the East Coast and keep them in my own fridge. Or I could do what no one in my family ever considered: throw them out.

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In Tel Aviv, Israel’s ‘Sin City,’ an Unexpected Religious Revival Takes Root

Synagogues are full and kosher restaurants abound as liberal immigrants, Orthodox singles, and secular Jews come together

By Suzanne Selengut on Mosaic Magazine

On a typical Friday evening on Tel Aviv’s Ben Yehuda Street, this city known for its vibrant nightlife is in weekend mode. Beachgoers walk home as the sun goes down, sandy and tanned, clutching towels and flip-flops. Elegant couples head out for drinks and dinner. Singles gather at pubs and start to make their late-night plans for the biggest club night of the week.

But nearby, at the same time, a very different scene kicks into gear—one that most people don’t associate with Tel Aviv. Synagogues in the center of the city fill up with young professionals. On Frishman Street, just minutes from the beach, a red carpet fit for a Hollywood awards show marks the entrance to The Tel Aviv International Synagogue. Inside the sanctuary, about a hundred well-heeled men and women sing and clap in a scene reminiscent of synagogues on New York City’s Upper West Side. After services, the young rabbi welcomes everyone in a mix of Hebrew and English and invites them for refreshments in the courtyard, where single men and women flirt over glasses of kosher Cava and assorted pastries. Afterward, some head to friends’ homes for a traditional Friday night meal, while others hit their favorite restaurants or bars.

Welcome to the new Tel Aviv, where religious devotion mixes easily with the city’s predominantly secular ethos. Although Israel has become well-known for its religious-secular divide, with few active streams of liberal Judaism, Tel Aviv—long the defiantly secular counterpart to religious Jerusalem—is a study in how this culture may be changing. Attendance at synagogues and religious events in Tel Aviv has been growing for the past few years, and kosher restaurants are on the rise.

Part of this reflects an influx of immigrants, mostly Orthodox and Conservative/traditional, who have instilled a distinctly Diaspora-style, synagogue-based model of community to the scene. Part is also due to more Shabbat-observant Israeli singles moving to Tel Aviv from other cities, in search of a more liberal lifestyle. But part, too, is due to some increased interest in religious activities among Israel’s secular Jews.

Today, the city boasts dozens of active synagogues, social, civic, and religious organizations. Those who get involved in the city’s religious life are primarily single young professionals—a mix of immigrants and native Israelis, traditional Jews of all streams, and some who define themselves as secular.

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What Is This Thing Called Law?

The Jewish legal tradition and its discontents

By Joshua Berman for Mosaic

The headline-making issues facing American Jews and Judaism are all too obvious from the statistics gathered in the latest Pew report: climbing rates of out-marriage, growing numbers of Jews with no interest whatsoever in Judaism, a noticeable distancing from Israel. Only among the religiously observant, it seems, is the continuity of a vibrant Jewish life secured.

But whatever partial comfort is to be had from this last finding, it would be wrong to conclude that Jews who remain deeply immersed in the practice of Judaism and highly affiliated with Jewish institutions are without troubles of their own. To the contrary: in Israel as well as in the Diaspora, these communities are embroiled in fierce internal debates over any number of contemporary issues—the public role of women in synagogue life; the requirements for conversion to Judaism; and others—that threaten their own cohesiveness and future vitality.

The debates themselves reflect an ongoing tension—indeed, an age-old tension—between the impulse for traditionalism and the counter-impulse for adaptation and change in the light of shifting circumstances. For many tradition-minded Jews, the issue comes down to one of halakhah, which is to say religious law and its proper interpretation. Spirituality, community, personal growth, views of the future and of the past: all are mediated through the scrupulous practice of halakhah, the “portable homeland” of the observant Jew for more than two millennia. In addressing these and other issues, such Jews turn reflexively to see how the Jewish legal tradition has addressed similar issues in the past, and how past legislation informs the religious decisions they make today.

But (with apologies to Cole Porter) what is this thing called Jewish law, and what is the Jewish legal tradition?

In invoking law, or in equating halakhah with law, observant Jews tend to have in mind a specific view of what law is and how it operates. That view is captured in phrases like “uphold the law,” “comply with the law,” “the letter of the law,” “against the law.” All of these usages share a basic assumption: namely, that the law in question is a written formulation and is to be found in a law code.

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The Surprisingly Wide World of Hasidic Fashion

Have you ever noticed the difference between one Hasid's hat and another?

Michael Levin hadn't either—until he moved to Williamsburg, Brooklyn, in 2007 and met his new neighbors. Levin, who was raised secular, was fascinated by the astounding 19th-century stylings of the Hasidic community, and set out to both understand and capture the atypical dress code.

"I'd simply never seen anything like it," said Levin. "I had no idea of the magnitude and reality of a Hasid as a living, breathing entity."

Six years later he published Jews of Today, a masterful collection of drawings that explores the "nuances and contradictions of Hasidic ritual dress." The drawings range from realistic to fantastical, and showcase the various sartorial proclivities of the South Williamsburg Hasidic community in which Levin is based. The illustrations are accompanied by Levin's explanations, which attempt to explain elements of Hasidic culture.

So if you ever visit Williamsburg and walk through one of the largest Satmar communities in the world, be sure to bring a copy of what Levin describes as "the world's only illustrated primer on Hasidic dress."

- Zachary Solomon for Jewniverse

The 3 Most Important Jewish Words

If you've never heard the Yiddish/Hebrew phrase, "kein ayin hara," get ready to meet your new favorite saying. Literally, these words translate as "no evil eye." Together, they function as a Jewish "knock on wood."

The origin of the phrase is the superstition that talking about one's good fortune attracts the attention of the evil eye, which loves to mess things up.

Uses for this phrase are many:

"My daughter's more beautiful every day! Kein ayin hara."

"It looks like we've avoided the bed bug infestation happening upstairs! Kein ayin hara."

Despite its undeniable utility, the phrase hasn't yet achieved the mainstream success of "schlep," "putz," or "kvetch."

Perhaps the secret to bringing "kein ayin hara" into the spotlight is educating the masses about its pleasurable postscript: a glorious spitting that sounds like "pu pu pu." According to Jewish grandmothers everywhere, this action provides additional protection against the evil eye. It also makes saying "kein ayin hara" extra fun.

So next time you're thinking about knocking on wood, it might be worth saying "kein ayin hara—pu pu pu!" instead. Because who needs a crucifix when you can just spit in Yiddish?

- Elizabeth Alpern for Jewniverse