Even though almost a week has passed, the horror of the terrorist attack at Yeshivat Merkaz HaRav still lingers in my broken heart.

The stories. The names. The pictures.

It’s all just too much to bear.

The thought – which try as I might, I cannot get out of my mind – of yeshiva students sitting in front of their seforim, studying, “talking in learning,” and celebrating the onset of Chodesh Adar when the terrorist attacked is just so painful to think about.

A number of years ago I was walking through Barnes & Noble when I noticed a shocking book jacket. The title, emblazoned in big, bright red letters was Shanda and the cover picture was an overhead view of a man wearing a yarmulke; not just any yarmulke, but a royal blue one which had a bright pink pig emblazoned on the back. You can understand why the book caught my attention.

I am reminded of Rabbi Nosson Scherman’s quip that “Anyone who tells you not to judge a book by its cover never had to sell a book.”

I bought the book!

Shanda is the autobiographical account of Neal Karlen’s estrangement from the traditional Jewish home he was raised in. His approach to Judaism – and especially towards other Jews – is one that he describes as self-loathing. This continues until midlife when Karlen comes to the realization that, in fact, the Jew he hates most is himself. He is the shanda.

The last two weeks have provided many venues – in print and online – for valuable discussion and thoughtful responses to Professor Noah Feldman’s article in the New York Times Magazine. I was especially gratified to read, for example, the insightful arguments and incisive prose of my teachers and mentors, R. Norman Lamm and R. Shalom Carmy.

Additionally, the recent revelations about the infamous newsletter photo should certainly remind us all of the danger in rushing to judgment – or to pontificate – at the same time it underscores the wisdom of the Sages’s adage (Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, ch. 26) “seyag l’chochmah shetikah” – sometimes silence is not only prudent but wise.

There are many important issues raised directly and indirectly by Feldman’s essay and most of them have already been dealt with by others. There is one issue, however, that I am not sure has been sufficiently discussed.

II.

The story of Kamtza and Bar Kamtza is perhaps the most well known rabbinic text associated with the destruction of the Second Temple. And yet, perhaps it’s our very familiarity with the episode which causes us to gloss over important subtleties embedded in the Talmudic account.

To recap, briefly: There was a man – never identified in the story – who threw a party and intended to invite his good friend Kamtza. His servant, however, erred and mistakenly invited his enemy, Bar Kamtza. When the host realized the mistake he immediately and very publicly demanded that Bar Kamtza leave the party. Obviously embarrassed, Bar Kamtza made a series of offers – even, ultimately, offering to pay for the entire party – hoping to persuade the host to allow him to remain. Unmoved, the host callously throws him out of the party. The Gemara recounts that Bar Kamtza was so offended, not only by the host, but also by the silence of the guests – some of whom were great rabbis – that he slandered the Jewish people to the Caesar. One thing leads to another and the result of this sad story is, ultimately, the destruction of the Beit Ha-Mikdash (Gittin 55b-56a).

The Talmud actually introduces the account by declaring that, “Yerushalayim was destroyed due to [the incident involving] Kamtza and Bar Kamtza.” In light of the actual unfolding of events, the inclusion of Kamtza in this incriminating statement is somewhat surprising. After all, Kamtza was not even at the party; he is no more than a “shadow figure” in this tragedy. What role did he play in this ignominious incident to deserve such apparent criticism?

R. Yosef Chayim of Baghdad (19th century, in his work, Ben Yehoyada) suggests that this is actually a misreading of the introductory phrase. The Talmud does not mean to criticize Kamtza, but rather included his name to teach us the larger lesson of the story.

While my children were out purchasing their “afikoman presents” with my in-laws, I happened on my own holiday present in the form of a remarkable article by Dr. Francis Collins.

The highly regarded Collins is the director of the National Human Genome Research Institute and the piece is a synopsis of his personal journey of faith. I found the statement noteworthy as much for what it did not claim as for what it did assert.

Collins’s main premise is that not only is there no conflict between science and belief, but that, in fact, scientific discovery is itself testament to the greatness of God’s creation. As he so beautifully writes,

As a believer, I see DNA, the information molecule of all living things, as God’s language, and the elegance and complexity of our own bodies and the rest of nature as a reflection of God’s plan . . . I have found there is a wonderful harmony in the complementary truths of science and faith. The God of the Bible is also the God of the genome.

In my previous Cross-Currents post I made reference to the frightening and tragic “culture of death” that has engulfed large parts of the Palestinian population. In the comments section, a number of contributors went back and forth about the accuracy and fairness of this description (starting with #4).

As I read some of these comments I must admit that I found it hard to believe that anyone, regardless of background or affiliation, could deny this reality. One would have to be either willfully blind or dishonest not to acknowledge what is patently obvious.

As I noted in the original piece, the examples of this phenomenon – especially when surveying the broader world of radical Islam – are in fact too numerous to catalogue. But I am particularly struck by the depraved attitude that many Palestinian and Arab parents have taken towards the welfare of their children. This was what I was alluding to in my reference to the story of Mariam Farhat.

Particularly relevant – albeit unsurprising – is the recent transcript from MEMRI of the interview on Al-Aqsa TV (the Hamas channel) of two small children of a suicide bomber. If this is what they preach and what they encourage their children to do, it only follows that when mommy actually kills herself to kill Jews, her children would only be too happy.

The essay below is adapted from the drasha (semon) delivered last year on Shabbos Zachor (3-11-06) at Congregation Shomrei Emunah in Baltimore, MD.

A most fascinating news item was brought to my attention earlier this week: The Rev. Julie Nicholson, Vicar at a church in Bristol, England, resigned because of questions she has with her faith.

Tragically, the reverend’s twenty four year old daughter, Jenny, was murdered last July in the London suicide bombings.

How does that tragedy conflict with her faith?

I read about the current “Oprah controversy” with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

For those who are not familiar with the story, the basic facts are as follows:

Oprah Winfrey has spent the last 5 years — and $40 million — building a school for elite 12-13 year old girls in South Africa. The academy is comprised of 28 buildings spread over 22 acres of land. Only 4% of the more than 3,500 girls who applied were accepted in the hope that this unique experience will enable the best and brightest of South Africa to one day become leaders and transform the country.

The largesse and vision of Ms. Winfrey is clearly worthy of admiration and yet, not all are happy. Apparently, some local leaders are upset that Ms. Winfrey chose to spend her money in South Africa and not here in America.

There is something quite shocking about the Rev. Ted Haggard scandal.

But it’s not what you might think.

The allegations leveled against Rev. Haggard are obviously salacious, but in today’s world, unfortunately, they are not shocking. This wasn’t the first nor is it likely the last such scandal involving a religious leader.

Actually, what was really unprecedented was the tone and tenor of the reverend’s written apology. In an age when personal responsibility is usually eschewed for blaming others and claiming the mantle of victimhood (often to be followed by entry into some sort of rehab), a statement actually acknowledging mistakes and accepting culpability is nothing short of shocking.

I had barely a passing interest in the World Series this year. That was not because I am indifferent to baseball but – primarily – because of the poor showing of my beloved Yankees. To recap: despite having the best players (for the most money) and despite having (tied for) the best regular season record, the Yankees were soundly defeated in the opening round of the playoffs.

Forced to confront another winter sans trophy, I was thinking about the main cause of the Yankees’ unceremonious exit which, actually, transcends sports and relates to almost every area of life – including the religious.

Perhaps more than any other sport, baseball venerates those who perform at their best when the pressure is greatest and the stakes highest. Many players have made their reputation in October with postseason success, but perhaps none more dramatically than the Yankees (and the A’s – I must admit) Reggie Jackson. In fact, his heroics on the game’s most dramatic stage famously earned him the enduring nickname “Mr. October.” When the proverbial lights got brightest, Jackson’s eyes seemed to get wider, as he used the charged atmosphere to fuel his determination and success. Most players, however, blink when the lights get too bright, as the weight of expectations are simply too much for them to bear. (Full disclosure: when I was an adolescent, I wore my Yankee hat so regularly to summer camp that I earned the enduring nickname “Reggie.” I was very proud of winning the award for “Best Nickname” at the end of the summer.)

This issue of performance under pressure has all but consumed fans and media alike this Fall, as they focus on the well-chronicled failures of Yankee star Alex Rodriguez. Despite his overwhelming talent, A-Rod is fast becoming the “anti-Reggie” after another ignominious October.

I have long had mixed feelings about parshas Bereishis.

On the one hand, it’s my Bar Mitzvah parshah – and let’s just say that . . . there’s a reason I have lained only once since that fateful weekend.

On the other hand, despite those somewhat negative memories, the overwhelming importance and profundity of the creation story (as well as the narrative of Adam and Chava) always makes this an exhilarating text for study and reflection.

In that vein, allow me to share two thoughts from this past week’s parshah.

The horrific murder of five Amish schoolgirls and the response to those murders by the Amish community has attracted extensive news coverage and inspired much meaningful commentary. Perhaps the most thought provoking interchange centered on the limits — or, if there should be limits — of forgiveness.

The position of the Amish community has been simple — if extreme. Forgiveness — complete and without any strings attached — characterizes their attitude towards the murderer, Charles Carl Roberts IV. This approach has, in turn, inspired emotional and eloquent reactions in the media. Some columnists, such as Rod Dreher, have expressed admiration of the Amish, even going so far as to the lament their own inability to act similarly. Others, like John Podhoretz, have voiced discomfort with such quick and complete forgiveness.

I believe that the balance of Jewish tradition — as reflected by both law and philosophy — would indicate that declarations of forgiveness are premature and uncalled for. One can admire the emotional strength of the Amish while disagreeing with their philosophy and it is important to distinguish between noble intent and moral clarity.

Central to any discussion such as this must be the question of who is empowered to grant forgiveness. On this point Jewish law is clear. Much as only the creditor can forgive a debt, similarly, only the victim of an offense is in a position to forgive the perpetrator. In fact, we are taught that even God will not forgive a person who has sinned against another human being before the aggrieved party has granted forgiveness. It appears clear, therefore, that although the Amish community leaders — and even the relatives of the deceased — have been affected by this tragedy, they are simply incapable of granting meaningful forgiveness.