Whether or not Israel actually lost the war, the recent Israel/Lebanon war surely resulted in a less than preferred outcome for the Jewish people. Young Jewish souls were lost. Soldiers remain kidnapped. Property was devastated, and families were severely disrupted with communities forced into bomb shelters or compelled to evacuate their towns. Deep residual emotional scars abound.

The less informed have commenced the predictable banter of demands for resignations and admissions of culpability. Those identified as responsible include a parade of politicians and military leaders. The results of war allegedly reflect the failed efforts and judgments of these individuals. But other observers, particularly the more spiritually advanced, understand otherwise.

Since the inception of the modern Israeli state, a significant segement of Orthodox Jewry has understood the Torah learning of Torah scholars as dictating fate on the battlefield. After each Israeli military victory, the learned have rejected the military bravado of the secular Israeli. It is not the bravery or strategic prowess of the Israeli soldier or commander that facilitated victory - it is rather pious Torah study and behavior, taking place behind the scenes, that guides our fate. The prayers and religious behavior of the righteous have facilitated the victories. This view influences attitudes, but also dictates significant life choices.

One can only imagine the emotional anguish currently being experienced by Torah community leadership for the massive suffering of recent weeks. Alas, to those leaders who are actually responsible for how G-d treats his people, the option of resignation is unavailable, and sidestepping responsibility unimaginable.

Since childhood, we have been taught how to behave. We have been trained well in the arena of do’s and don’ts. We have also been taught which emotions are appropriate and which are not. Usually, we know which feelings are appropriate; hope, or trust, or sorrow, or regret. Regarding some people, we should feel love, towards others, compassion. Yet to others, anger or hostility. But in the words of one of New York’s former mayors, “how am I doing” is an easier question regarding our behavior, as opposed to our emotions.

Behavior is discernable, measurable in hours, dollars, words or activities. Feelings are elusive. Feelings reside in our hearts and cannot be observed, touched or quantified. How are feelings measured? Perhaps we are behaving as directed, but failing to internalize our commitments. We act as we should, but does that deem us to be the person whom we should be? Are we defined by what we do, or by what we feel?

The Jewish nation is at war. The residents of Israel are vulnerable to rockets and terror, and once again, young Jews are marching off to battle, confronting the horrors of war. Those of us watching from the distance are challenged with the deepest of challenges - how are we to act, and how are we to feel? Particularly for those of us whose children have avoided the front lines by living outside of Israel, or by choosing the role of full time Israeli Torah students, these are days of reckoning. How are we to act? How are we to feel?

Last night, the religious, Jewish community of Boro Park came out in droves to protest the alleged mistreatment of an elder Jew by the local police. The protestors believed that the police had been unjustifiably physical and assertive against an unthreatening 75 year old. The authorities assert that the police did nothing improper, and in any event, the elder man had violated the law, and had acted in an uncooperative and belligerent manner.

Not long ago, the religious community of Lakewood, New Jersey responded in similar public protest when word spread that an elder rabbi had been physically mistreated by local police. There, too, the authorities maintain that the police, responding to a traffic violation, acted in accordance with proper police protocol. The Lakewood community, led by leading local rabbis, nevertheless, held an organized march to the Lakewood police station, seeking to ensure that the police mistreatment not be ignored, and certainly not be repeated.

As a young boy, not yet in high school, I often participated in local rallies in support of Soviet Jewry. Just a bar mitzva boy, I attended rallies in support of Israel during the Yom Kippur War. But then I enrolled in a yeshiva high school. Though the plight of Soviet Jewry had yet to be remedied, while in high school my participation in rallies subsided. The rabbis taught me that public protest is not the proper practice of Jews in a foreign land and while under gentile rule. I was advised that the mesorah, the tradition, of Torah Judaism is that in the era of golus, exile, we Jews employ alternative ways of making our case to the powers that be, whether friendly country or foe, and that public protests were the failed methods of the uninitiated and less religious. Rather than protesting, I was advised that religious Jews seek out the authorities privately, and behind the scenes plead the case of our community and bretheren . Barter, negotiate, pray and provide assistance, but refrain from raising a fist in protest against a gentile power, whether it be against a host country or another. Nuanced distinctions among types of rallies and gatherings may occassionally be noted, but the mesorah of silence has dominated the practice of most of the Torah community.

I have always borne a nagging concern that the failure to protest the suffering of others might reflect, or generate, a diminished sense of concern regarding the plight of fellow Jews. In their day to day lives, however, many of the very rabbis from whom I learned this mesorah of silence exhibited a greater degree of personal love and concern for other Jews than I ever observed of others. But for the students who refrain from protest because they are so guided, I have feared that they must experience by their silence a dimunition in their love and concern for others. Unless, of course, they assume other compensatory roles to express their concern.

A student of the Talmud will often attempt to avoid the frustration of an apparently academic Talmudic dispute by identifying practical legal ramifications. One of the more common areas of Jewish law in which such consequences can be found is in the laws of vows (nedarim). For example, Talmudic disagreement regarding the translation of a term can find ramifications in determining the effect of a vow using such disputed language. I once even suggested that the central High Holiday role of Kol Nidre (the annulment of vows) was introduced to highlight the High Holiday challenge of bringing relevance to the obscure.

A student of global, political events also faces the challenge of identifying personal, practical consequences of world events. International developments, whether in Iran, North Korea, the Philipines or elsewhere, surely have significance. But what is the practical consequence to me? Until elected to national office, or appointed to a position of influence, I experience little practical impact by world events, other than in triggering a spectator’s curiosity, and perhaps a paragraph or two of prayer.

For the parent or teacher, however, every world event is laden with practical consequences. The teacher and parent must confront the obvious challenges. How should the event be explained to the children? Or should the event dare be ignored? Regardless, each event must be considered.

Occasionally, international developments transcend the challenge to the parent/teacher of mere proper explanation. Certain world developments demand a revaluation of the very character of the environment in which the child is being reared. For example, the creation of the State of Israel demanded for some Jews such a realignment of Jewish child rearing attitudes. In the weltanschauung of Rav Kook, z’tl, the emergence of contemporary Religious Zionism altered the very nature of the ideal Jewish personality, necessarily impacting the educational molding of children. For many Americans, the 1950’s ominous USSR threat dominated the American family, triggering significant characterological consequences. The personality of a child reared in a world of fear differs greatly from one raised in a carefree world of peace and trust.

With Super Bowl fever about to engulf the country, I begin to think about the wonderous role of professional sports in our national culture. Many of my friends discouraged their children from following professional sports, feeling that the elevation of junk yard peasants to the status of heros would threaten their childrens’ values and life goals. Since I was fairly comfortable that no child of mine would be capable of more than eight minutes of continuous physical exertion, I was fairly confident that a career in professional sports was not a life’s path I needed worry about discouraging. Moreover, with the paucity of recreational venues for me to take my children, and my eagerness to play hero to my boys, I found Shea and Giant Stadiums to be wonderful bonding arenas. But aside from serving as a parenting device (and my kids amazingly seem to drop their interest in the box scores once the high school charm of Torah studies kicks in), and a topic of safe conversation in the office (”so, those Knicks, eh?”), professional sports also highlights many lessons that would otherwise have been elusive to me. The magic of marriage is one such example.

When I was about eight years old, my father took me to my first sports game, in no less than the holy temple of professional hockey, the Montreal Forum, a’h. I vividly recall my wonderment at the passion and excitement of the crowd. The cheering, the booing, the chanting and the wailing. I recall remarking to my father that it was curious that so many people actually had money riding on the outcome of the game. After trying to figure out how I knew about sports betting (my Dad still does not know that I ran book on the ‘73 NHL playoffs), my father advised me that the vast majority of the crowd had not bet on the game. I then spent the remainder of the evening, and days thereafter, trying to figure out why the crowd cared about whether the home team won. I then began to question why people, who do not have an equity stake, ever consider a professional team “their” team, particularly since few players were born, went to school, or even live in the home town. Years later, I determined that the basis of the relationship of a fan with his team serves as an insight into one of the ingredients of the magic potion of a solid marriage.

You see, a fan really has no cerebral reason to cheer for his team. The team may play ineffectively (or in sports vernacular - stink) and the team may change its players annually. Occassionally, one’s team may even hail from a distant town. But once I have selected a specific team as “my team,” it is my team, to live by or die. There may be no way to articulate the logic behind my allegiance, and no tangible justification for my pride in my team’s accomplishments or my sadness at the team’s defeat. The team may absolutely never win the big game. But, you gotta remember, it’s my team. Ask any Cubs fan.

Though varying to degree by cultural norms, a spouse is supposedly chosen via thoughful consideration. Whom can I best assist through his/her life’s work, and who is most able to assist me in mine? Who will make the best parent for my children, and who will take care of me, and allow me to take care of him/her, when necessary? And who is the smartest, kindest, and most attractive to me? And when a person is found who meets the various criteria, a glass is broken and a family is born.

Having been trained to question premises and to challenge conventional wisdoms, I am often perplexed by seemingly intelligent and intellectually honest individuals who respond to another’s view with an intolerance reflecting not merely disagreement, but also indignation at the very contemplation of the alternative. Rather than engage in mindful exploration of fact or opinion, the response presupposes a full and final analysis, and indicates that the mere contemplation of a different conclusion results from the pathetic reliance upon faulty information, or, more likely, small mindedness. The appropriate role for the United Sates in Iraq, the nature and entitlements of a Palestinian people, the declaration of the Rebbe as Moshiach, or whether the Yankees are the premier franchise in sports history are among topics that simply cannot be raised among certain groups.

But is that wrong? Does intellectual honesty compel the listener to entertain any and all opinions, or at least desist from dismissing as frivolous views that are so apparently ludicrous? Or is there a distinction between what notions I am entitled to dismiss in my internal thought process and what ideas I may appropriately dismiss publicly when articulated by another? I suggest that the summary dismissal of another’s views is triggered by one of three general motivations.

First there is the “I need the conclusion” mode. This arises when a debatable idea has alternate, practical consequences, but the consequences of only one of those alternatives is tolerable under the circumstances . For example, after directing a young, distressed teenager either to abort or carry to term, one may find it difficult to entertain openly the justifications for the alternative view on abortion. Or after having spent decades compromising family and fortune to support a particular ideology, it may prove difficult to tolerate another’s view that the ideology is unjust or worse.

Then there is the “it’s one way to win a debate” approach. Dismissing as frivolous an opposing view is often utilized by those who have little foundation for their own position. When the discussion is more akin to a game than to exploring truths, one holding a losing hand can most easily avoid defeat by scattering the deck and declaring a foul. Closely related are those who care little whether the dismissive response will influence the party whose views are being obliterated since the response is intended for the ears of third parties, whom the debater is hoping to influence by declaring the foolishness of the objectional views. To the third parties, the blanket dismissal of the original view signals that the opinion is frivolous and unworthy of consideration.

Among the seasons, autumn tends to be most dramatic in its changes, with rain and sun exchanging dominance and the thermometer playing yoyo with our sweaters and jackets. The days grow shorter, and the elegance of baseball swings is replaced with the intensity of football huddles. The impending chill and dreariness of winter creates an ominous aura. Pyschologists suggest sunlight type lamps - they don’t do it for me.

The days following Yom Kippur also tend to be a bit of a downer. Expectations of personal growth borne of High Holiday pledges rapidly fade as commitments to self-improvement fall short at the first or second challenge. Yet again, promises to be different, to be better, are exposed as mere fancies, and a defeated ego retreats to lick its wounds in a in a bowl of chocolate ice cream.

I once thought that the post-Yom Kippur Succos experience is calendered during the weather changes of autumn to accentuate the personal changes that the holiday season is available to facilitate. How quaint, I thought, that the weather shows that change is, indeed, possible. Alas, I am reminded that people barely change, if at all. And that the weather, itself, rarely changes either. Summer may turn to autumn, and then winter to spring. But then spring fades back to summer, and soon winter, once again. The changes are fleeting. The moment may be different, but the pattern all the same.

Perhaps, Succos is in the midst of the annual weather changes to remind us that we really will never change who we are. That gains perceived to have been acheived through Yom Kippur tears are seasonal, and that we will be back holding our Yom Kippur machzor next year, once again beating our chest in heartfelt atonement.

Among the responsibilities borne by a law firm practioner is conducting autumn interviews of extremely bright, articulate and eager law students seeking employment the following summer, prior to their final year of school. Lawyers are often trained in how best to phrase the interview questions, avoid asking questions that off limits, and answer correctly the students’ inevitable inquiries about the firm. Personally, I take advantage of the interviews to pose questions that allow me to test whatever ideas happen to be on my mind at the time, while affording the interviewees the opportunity to evidence their thoughtfulness and deftness.

Over the past several of weeks, I have asked each of about ten students the following question:

“If the federal government decides to provide direct assistance to victims of Hurrican Katrina, what is the appropriate relative allocation of federal funds as between two families comprised of the identical number of family members with identical ages, each family devestated by the Hurricane and left with absolutely no housing, belongings and savings. But, although the two families currently appear to be identical in composition and need, prior to Katrina they lived very different lives. One of the two families owned a lovely home, two cars and a profitable retail business (all destroyed by the Hurricane and not covered by insurance). Prior to the Hurricane, the second family, by contrast, lived in a tenement, the parents barely holding menial jobs, and the children suffering for inadequate nutrition and substandard education, but not lacking for love.”

The answers I received were as expected. Several of the students felt that the formerly comfortable family should receive larger grants since that family had lost more, and should be made as close to whole as possible, while the second family required less to be made whole. Others felt that once the two families had been thrust by the forces of nature into the identical poverty, each family should be treated identically. After listening to their respective answers, I asked each interviewee if there were any other alternative approaches. Only one of the students, having identified the two choices listed above (and preferring the former), could not fathom a third alternative, despite my reiterating the request for a third alternative several times.

In response to most tragedies suffered by others not close to me, I, like many others, limit my practical response to praying for the well being of the victims or donating charity on their behalf. When particularly catastrophic events leave me feeling that there is more that I should be doing for the victims, I ask others to join me in praying for the well being of the victims or, more often, asking others to donate charity, as well. (Reminds me of the story of the the pilot who announced to the passengers that the plane’s final engine had gone dead and urged everyone to do something religious. And so the sole Jew on board stood up and made an appeal for the UJA.)

Some may save a baby from an inferno or flood, others counsel the bereaved. I, by contrast, hope that my prayers and gifts are well received and ease someone’s plight.

For those confined to offerring prayers and donations, we (the silent majority of frustrated do gooders) certainly hope that our praying and donating is at least done correctly.

An exploration of prayer is probably best left to the spiritually sophisticated, but charity should be pretty simple. The problem, however, is that the charity obligation is fraught with so many twists and turns that I wonder why our formal religious education taught us little more than that charity is an obligation and that “a tenth” is usually enough. Every year, I segregate my charity allocation in a special account, and then engage in repeated turmoil regarding the appropriate and responsible allocation of the moneys. I consult with rabbis for parameters and activists regarding causes. Alas, the advice I receive always leaves me with choices and decisions.