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 ... Read More >>]]> 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.

In the yeshiva in which I studied many years ago, a young student was killed in a tragic automobile accident. Several days after the accident, a friend of the departed student approached the head of the yeshiva pleading for the Rosh Yeshiva to advise the victim’s friends on how to respond, for surely there is a dimension of collective responsibilty when tragedy affects one of a social group. The Rosh Yeshiva, with tear filled eyes of sadness, responded with surprise. The Rosh Yeshiva explained that it is not the burden of the peers to bear responsibility for the tragedy, but rather tragedy results from the failure of the leadership. “It is I,” lamented the Rosh Yeshiva, “who must carry the burden and investigate my deeds.”

As the contemplative month of Elul begins, and as rapidly approach the judgments of Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur, those upon whose shoulders rest the fate of the Israeli future struggle with their burden. And we simple individuals, whose role is of lesser significance, and whose actions have barely a noticeable consequence, must surely also carry our share of the burden.

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 ... Read More >>]]> 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?

No doubt, we will all try to act properly. We will cry out Tehillim daily, and we will assume more hours of Torah learning. Many of us will donate funds to noble efforts to ease the pain of Israeli soldiers and civilians suffering during these horrid days. We may not be able to emulate the legendary Chofetz Chaim’s refusal to sleep in a bed during World War I, declining the comforts of a bed while young men spent their nights in foxholes. But we will likely defer vacations, or at least moderate our summer frolicking while Jewish children are at war. And so too, I imagine, will our children assume their proper role.

But what of our feelings? Can we judge the authenticity of our our emotions? How are feelings measured?

The great teacher, Rabbi Shimshon Pinkus, Z’l, taught that Tisha B’Av is the unique day in our calendar when we can actually assess where we stand in our relationship with G-d. Rabbi Pinkus noted that when attending a celebration, such as a wedding, it is difficult to ascertain from mere observance the closeness of the relationship of the respective attendees with the bride and groom. All men surround the groom with glee and joy. In the dancing circle of a wedding, barely is there a distinction between the celebrating eyes of the closest of friends and the casual neighbor. All dance in joy.

But a funeral or house of mourning is different. At a funeral, there is a stark distinction between the eyes of the brother and those of the casual acquaintance. The difference is readily apparent. From one, bitter tears flow freely, and sobs of anguish pour forth. While the other’s eyes are merely damp, if at all. The degree of closeness of the relationship between the various attendees and the bereaved are easy to discern.

On joyous dates, such as Purim and Simchas Torah, we all celebrate with G-d. And G-d welcomes our participation. Our laughter and joy, however, are hardly a valid measure of our relationship with G-d since even the casual acquaintance can celebrate with joy. On Tisha B’Av, however, G-d sits on the ground, as it were, mourning the loss of intimacy and closeness in His relationship with the Jewish nation. On Tisha B’Av, there are dramatic differences among Jews in how deeply the mourning of Tisha B’Av is felt. Who of us is in touch with G-d’s pain? Do we feel G-d’s loss? On Tisha B’Av, noted Rabbi Pinkus, we are uniquely afforded the opportunity to assess where we stand in our relationship with G-d.

In these days of tragic war, we are able to assess where we stand in our relationship with the other members of the Jewish people. And perhaps also where we stand in our relationship with G-d, since, after all, G-d is surely in pain over the suffering of His children.

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 ... Read More >>]]> 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.

I will not even begin to speculate what really occurred in Boro Park last night, or in Lakewood several months ago. The events that triggered these protests are likely of less than long-term consequence. Of greater significance is whether these communal reactions of protest reflect the end of an era, the end of the mesorah of silence. Has there been an deliberate shift in the mesorah? Have the Yeshiva leadership in Lakewood and the Chasidic leadership in Boro Park decided that the mesorah of silence is no longer applicable, or were the protesting individuals in Lakewood and Boro Park acting contrary to the leadership’s guidance? Was there never actually such a mesorah of silence, and were other factors actually dictating the policy of public silence? Or is the mesorah of silence applicable only to the suffering of others that is unlikely to visit your own doorstep?

As always, I await the guidance of the community’s Torah leadership regarding this important community issue.

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 ... Read More >>]]> 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.

The parent and teacher must consider whether world events compel an alteration in their educational focus, or impact the dimensions of child character development being emphasized. Which personality and character traits need particular nurturing?

For decades, American Jewish children have been raised in an environment of carefree security. Particularly within the Orthodox community, anti-Semitism has played little role in the development of Jewish identity, with even the Holocaust fading into a study of history, rather than a contemporary Jewish experience. The Executive Vice President of the Orthodox Union, Rabbi Dr. Tzvi Hirsch Weinreb, reports a conversation with the late Bobover Rebbe, z’tl, himself a Holocaust survivor, in which the Rebbe explained the absence in his community of Holocaust remembrance activities. The Rebbe indicated that the post-World War II era demanded an exclusive focus on Jewish community rebuilding. Any educational emphasis on the Holocaust might damper the enthusiasm and joy necessary for successful Jewish vibrancy, and might compromise the primary memorial to the victims of Hitler, namely, the rebuilding of a flourishing Jewish community. The Rebbe and his contemporaries were successful in their mission, and the personality of the American Orthodox child reflects a secure, and almost brazen, attitude in confronting life in secular America.

On a personal level, for most people world events typically surely have no far reaching significance. Even to the parent and teacher, the only practical ramification of most political trends, or dictatorial declarations, is the challenge of their transmission to the young in a cogent and meaningful way. But when a world leader declares an intent to acquire nuclear capabilities, combined with an express eagerness to destroy Israel, every Jewish parent and teacher must consider whether today’s children will be entering a world that they have been ill prepared to encounter. What is the nature of the era that our children are about to face, and what educational devices need be introduced to prepare our children for this possible new (albeit ancient) world?

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? ... Read More >>]]> 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.

Finally, there are the “we cannot dignify that view with a response” situations. These are the rare instances when the opining party is actually so ill informed or misguided that to entertain the concept presented would be giving credence to an absolutely outrageous idea. Conferring such legitimacy could be misleading to third parties listening to the discussion, and could arguably be intellectually dishonest, in itself.

On rare occasion, I find myself exploiting the debate technique described in the second approach, described above. Far more frequently, I am compelled to dismiss foolhardy ideas for the reasons described in the final alternative. What escapes reason, however, is why so many others allow themselves to slip into the wholly unacceptable dishonesty of the first approach. If only everyone behaved like 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, ... Read More >>]]> 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.

But, what then the effort? Why bother?

Perhaps the repeated patterns of seasonal weather signal that people never change, but despite that recognition, individuals may confront the challenge of coping with whom they really are. Awaiting the harsh winter, we learn to anticipate its challenges and develop methods of coping. Weather patterns may not change, but the experience can be changed by observing the patterns and altering the responses.

Rabbi Yisrael Salanter, the father of the musssar movement, focused the community on the need to work on personal growth. Rabbi Salanter is quoted by one of his lead students, Rav Yitzele Petterburg, as teaching that the hope of actually changing one’s personality traits fades as one reaches adolesence. From that age on, the goal is no longer to change one’s character, but rather to understand one’s own character and to learn to work with it. Perhaps Succos is not about changing who we are, but about dealing with whom we are.

Reports are that another hurricane may be approaching the United States. I am going to buy some boots.

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 ... Read More >>]]> 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.

Actually, two of the interviewees had posited the third alternative as their preferred result. Those two students advocated that the formerly deprived family should receive the larger grant since that family was less likely to be able to recover on its own, or without greater assistance. The family that has always been poor, therefore, was more deserving or needy of governmental intervention.

No doubt, the attitudes of the respondents reflect biases borne of their respective personal and communal experiences. But I was irked by one repeated view expressed by many of those favoring a larger allocation to the formerly comfortable family; that the loss of comfort was more traumatic and painful to that family than to the family that had always been poor.

I can imagine that the experience of losing wealth and comfort itself causes great pain over the loss. I cannot, however, accept the view that the discomfort or unacceptability of poverty experienced by a formerly wealthy individual is any greater than the discomfort and unacceptability of poverty experienced by the individual born into poverty. Both suffer equally when their respective children are unable to gain access to quality medical or dental providors. Pangs of hunger are felt identically by all, as is the anguish of insecurity and vulnerability. No doubt, luxuries once enjoyed by the formerly wealthy may represent a void for only those who had once partook, but it is not the responsibility of government (or philanthropists) to ensure continuing accessibility to luxuries. The deprivation of basic needs are suffered identically by all.

The lingering challenge to my view, however, was an often quoted Talmudic passage that tells of Talmudic personalities ensuring the continued availability of luxuries for wealthy individuals who had lost their fortune. Ethics and values articulated in the Talmud trump my personal inclinations, and so I am compelled to explore the wisdom and insight of Talmudic teachings when they appear to be in conflict with my views. Through such study, I endeavor to identify the manner in which my assumptions must be altered, or I discover that I had misunderstood the Talmud teaching and the teaching is actually consistent with my original view. (I, of course, root for the latter.)

Assisting me in my quest to understand this Talmudic lesson, a prominent rabbi directed me to a leading early Talmudic comentary. The commentator explained that, in the referenced passage, the Talmud is addressing exclusively a person whose loss of wealth is not yet publically known. Providing luxuries to such an individual falls within the context of preventing public shame. Once the person’s reduced financial status is known, however, the newly impovershed person should receive charity in the same measure as every pauper.

Deciding which highly qualified students should be hired as summer associates is always a difficult task. But one qualification that a potential attorney should have is the ability to consider all possible solutions to a problem.

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 ... Read More >>]]> 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.

The most recent array of dire needs, both in Israel and in the Katrina devastated regions of the United States, has presented to me examples of charity dilemmas. How to assess and contrast needs and how to ensure the efficient deployment of charity dollars. Are the local homeless and hungry equally (if not more) deserving of attention, or should the urgency of more dramatic events influence the allotment of contributions? There is the tension between satifying a community’s spiritual needs and its physical needs, and whether there is a threshold for either that must be considered as primary. Does a triage system of charity translate into satisfying the first priority completely before the next tier receives dollar one, or does triage simply compel weighted donations, with first tier beneficiaries getting the greatest percentage, and the following tiers getting increasingly lesser amounts? Is it legitimate to justify a greater donation to a lesser cause when the donor can honestly assert that other donors are less likely to address the lesser, albeit worthy, cause?

Functioning as neither rabbi nor major philanthropist, I explore these issues as a private donor, simply trying to do the right thing. I am not certain that any of the dilemmas enjoy a uniform answer for all donors – but it appears to me that struggling with these issues is a major part of the obligation to be charitable.