Yesterday, we observed Yom Yirushalayim, Jerusalem Day, the 45th anniversary of the reunification of the city of Jerusalem. To all of who love the city, it is a day of memories and a day of hope. It is also a day to think about the meaning of that word: “reunification” and the political struggles facing Jerusalem today and in the future. More of that later. For now, I will concentrate just on the love I,  like so many, feel for Jerusalem.

I arrived in Israel for the first time in early October, 1979, and spent the next 8 months there during my third year of Rabbinical School. Most of my classmates had been in Israel before but it was the first time for me and while I had my ups and downs during the year, the one aspect of my experience that stands out was getting to know the city of Jerusalem, walking endlessly through the alleys and streets, riding buses just for the sake of seeing new neighborhoods, studying the city’s history and celebrating the fact that I, unlike so many who had come before, was able to visit all parts of the city. It was the perfect time to be in the city and I took full advantage of the opportunities.

I have the letters that I wrote to my parents and friends during that first trip to Israel and what I wrote about Jerusalem was always glowing. In my first letter home (written on one of those old aerogrammes which no one uses anymore), I wrote: “Jerusalem, more than anything, is a city of smells- spices, flowers,- very pretty and very interesting and already I feel at home”. That was only a first impression. From there, I went on to describe in letters and in cassette tapes sent home, my love for this city- for the sunsets, the clouds, the views from so many different places. Each experience, even the mundane shopping trip, seemed to be so uplifting. I never tired of walking through the shuk in the Old City or Machaneh Yehudah, the market of West Jerusalem, trying new foods, striking up conversations with people. I loved to visit synagogues of all kinds, representing so many different ethnic groups.  And,  most importantly, I loved  those rare moments when the city seem to fulfill, like no other place could, the vision of people living together in peace. I spent many hours sitting on a bench near the Western Wall or on the walls of the city itself waiting for that magic moment when the sounds of davening at the kotel, the church bells in the Old City and the muezzin calling from the minaret would blend together in perfect harmony.

Since that trip in 1979, I have changed and Jerusalem has changed. That is the way of the world. More about that later.

But, what has never left me is the sense that this city is the most inspirational, most beautiful, most fascinating place I have ever been in my life.  And for now,  I want to leave it at this point- remembering the sense of holiness and meaning and spirit that I felt then and in my 12 subsequent visits to Jerusalem.

So many experiences, so many moments of joy and visions of peace, so many smells and tastes and sights that never leave you.

“Rejoice with Jerusalem, all who love her” said the prophet. It is impossible to do otherwise.

 

As a Rabbi, I am supposed to remain non-partisan when it comes to supporting individual candidates for office and I take that principle very seriously. But, that does not preclude me from expressing admiration for particular decisions made by those in political office.

Thank you President Obama for the courage you have shown in speaking out in favor of same-sex marriage. Many of us, myself included,  have found our views on this subject “evolving” over the past years.  But, at some point, the statement has to be made loudly and clearly and your decision to make that statement today will help to lead our nation to a better place, a place in which all will be able to live in dignity and equality.

Your statement reminds us how important it is to stand up for what we believe even though some may disagree.

It’s time to say the Shehecheyanu.

 

 

A couple of weeks ago, I woke up in the middle of the night and while trying to fall back to sleep, started thinking about a sermon for Yom Ha’atzmaut, Israel Independence Day. I’m not a big fan of gematria, the system of using the numeric value of the Hebrew letters to arrive at some important teaching but I still tried to find something unique about the number 64 as this is Israel’s 64th birthday. Nothing came to mind but the Beatles’ song: When I’m 64. And, it suddenly dawned on me what a perfect text this was for the occasion.

The truth is that others seem to have the same idea as I found that several people, including Rabbis, came to the same conclusion even if their resulting thoughts were different than mine. It is perfectly appropriate that we ask the question about Israel- or assume Israel is asking the question about us- “Will you still need me, will you still feed me,when I’m 64”.

I’m planning on posting the sermon I gave on the subject on our website but, for now, I’ll summarize my points. First, to the question of whether we “need” Israel as Jews, I would give a resounding answer “Yes” for many different reasons beyond its critical role as home to many Jews and a haven for Jews in distress. Israel can be the concretization of the values and priorities we hold as Jews and as such it represents the potential for bringing into real life situations all that we, in the diaspora,  think of only in theory or only in the limited but crucial areas of our homes or synagogues.

But, the deepest relationships can not be characterized by simple answers. And, if you read Paul McCartney’s words, they are far from simple.

The man in the song singing to his wife, hoping she will love him despite the changes age brings, recognizes that they each have roles. His role is to mend a fuse. Her role is to sit by the fireside knitting a sweater. Similarly, regarding Israel, our relationship with the Jewish State must be based on each of us having roles. Israel’s role is clear and must take center stage. But, our role can not be just to sit by the fireside watching and nodding approvingly. Our role must be to be engaged to the greatest extent possible in asking Israel to stand up for what is important to us: pluralism in Jewish religious life instead of bending over backwards to satisfy ultra-Orthodox Jews, living by the values that we teach our children are the core of what it means to be a Jew, continuing to seek peace and pursue it. These and other issues need our voices and our passionate involvement.

But, there is one way in which the song diverges from the reality facing Israel. The man singing the song knows that, at 64, there is more of his life behind him than ahead. He can be forgiven at this age- more on this later- for not worrying about great and glorious dreams but being satisfied getting through the next day or the next month surviving and living on memories and hopes for his grandchildren’s future.

This is because human beings have a finite lifespan. Ideas do not. Nations do not. An idea, like Zionism and a nation, like Israel, can not stop dreaming, can not stop passionately hoping for a better future and be satisfied only with surviving another year or another century. What so many of us outside of Israel fear is that Israel has lost that sense of youth, that sense of passion to improve life for its people and to be a light unto the nations. No one would argue that survival isn’t the bottom line but, as we teach about our lives as human beings, survival is not enough- it is what we do with our lives which is crucial.

I think that had McCartney written that song today, he probably would have changed it to: When I’m 84, as our vision of 64 has changed. So, even if you  believe that the question of: “Will you still need me, will you still feed me” regarding Israel has an obvious answer now, look ahead 20 years and ask what our children and grandchildren will be thinking. If they feel that Israel doesn’t need them, doesn’t listen to their concerns, doesn’t represent them and doesn’t live by the values they have been taught as Jews, they will not send the birthday greetings or drink the l’chaims to Israel that we, who have grown up with the State, still do each and every year.

May the years to come see both Israel and Diaspora Jews reigniting the passion necessary to make this relationship work far, far into the future. It will be for our and for Israel’s benefit in the deepest sense of the word.

The other day I was mindlessly thumbing through a catalog of a well known company which offers specialty fruit and candy baskets. It was interesting to me that some of the items being offered were labeled as kosher which certainly is important information for Jewish consumers. However, just when I was about to close the catalog and put it in the recycling, I noticed the small print next to one of the kosher symbols. It said: “check for tolaim”. I nearly hit the roof.

Let me explain tolaim is the Hebrew word for bugs or worms and the catalog was advising individuals, I assume at the insistence of the kashrut supervisors, to check for any small bugs or worms in the particular fruit which would render the product not kosher in the minds of those who are very scrupulous about kashrut.

These few words touched a very raw nerve, a nerve which is become more and more “raw” as the years go along. I am absolutely incensed by the increasingly common phenomenon of “raising the bar” when it comes to kashrut,. It seems that aspects of kashrut which were, at one time, what are called “humras”, strict interpretations, observed by the minority of kashrut observing Jews, are now becoming the expected norm and I, for one, find this terribly troubling.

Let me give a few examples. There is a tradition that is observed by some at Pesach called “gebrokts” which prohibits the subjecting of any matza product or matza meal- even after it has been baked- to any amount of liquid for fear that the leavening process might continue. People who observe “gebrokts” will not eat matza balls, matza brei (or fried matza as we called it when I was growing up), or cook with matza or matza meal in any way. This always struck me as a minority approach to kashrut, one which individuals are certainly entitled to practice of course. However, more and more products produced at Pesach by major kosher companies are identifed as non-gebrokts and the products are, quite frankly, not as tasty as products made with matza meal.

Of course, we can just not buy them and that solves the problem in one sense. But, the bigger problem is that there is an insinuation that one is not observing Pesach if one is eating products which do not fit this criterion and that just is not true for the majority of us.

On a flight to Israel a few years ago, I ordered a kosher meal and received a piece of paper with the meal which guaranteed to me that the meal was made in accordance with no less than 9 additional strictures of kashrut from the grain that was used in the bread to the material that was used in the preparation of the implements that came with the meal.None of these restrictions struck me as particularly important and while, again, I am willing to accept the fact that it does matter to some, the fact that it is now the norm is what concerns me.

And, finally, to give one more example, you might have noticed a few years back that one of the kashrut supervising agencies had a new symbol which included the letters “DE” which indicated dairy equipment. This meant that the product itself was pareve (neither meat nor dairy) but that it was prepared on equipment which produced dairy products. Some would consider therefore the product as still pareve. Others might think that it was pareve but could not be eaten at the same time as meat. Others might consider it dairy altogether. It was valuable information for those who observed more stritctly.

However, you won’t see the DE hescher anymore. Now, you find that products which would have had a DE have, in fact, a D for dairy. I recently called a company whose products I had always bought and used as pareve when I saw a D show up on the package with no apparent change in the ingredients. The person I spoke to told me that the product had not changed but the supervising agency had changed their standards and insisted on a D because the product was made on equipment which did produce dairy foods. Again, if someone wants to consider that product dairy, that is their choice. But, it is another example of raising the bar, asking everyone to observe the chosen strictures of a few.What was wrong with using DE and letting people decide?

And that brings me back to the worms. I don’t need to be told to check for bugs in romaine lettuce or broccoli or whatever. If that is a kashrut requirement that one wants to take on that is fine. But, I don’t want people told that if they don’t do this, they are not keeping kosher. And, unfortunately, I believe that is the message that is sent when the minimum bar for what constitutes a kosher product is raised.

We should be encouraging people to observe kashrut, not discouraging them by continually making it more and more restrictive. Sadly, this is the direction we are heading and it points to an attitude determined to make observance of Jewish law the province of those who “do it right” while leaving the rest of us who are more reasonable to consider ourselves as outside the group of observant Jews. That just is not right and it is not wise.

As I look back on what I have written in this blog over the last few months, I see a dominant theme: nostalgia. I find myself frequently writing about my childhood and adolescent years and remembering the places I have been, the songs I sang, the TV shows I watched and the people I knew. Some of that is a function of age and while some might say that, at age 56, it’s too early to be so nostalgic, I would argue that the speed with which the world is changing makes that natural tendency to look back more difficult to resist. I am glad to grab on to new things but I miss the simpler times I grew up in.

And that brings us to Dick Clark. I was sad to hear of his death yesterday. I wouldn’t call myself by any means a great Dick Clark fan but when I think about it, he was present in many of the significant times in my life.

I do remember when American Bandstand was on tv on weekday afternoons. I was in elementary school at the time and I remember my brother watching it and I couldn’t understand what the attraction was. I didn’t begin to listen to “top 40” music until I was about 12 so none of these singers meant anything to me and I certainly couldn’t identify with the teenagers who were dancing (I never have been able to that- I’m a terrible dancer). But, I remember the black and white images so clearly and would wait until they played the game “rate a record” or whatever it was called that led to the tag line: “It’s a great song but you can’t dance to it”.

Then, when I was in high school, as an avid fan of game shows, I discovered the $10,000 pyramid. I loved that show and,in fact, years later on a couple of occasions cut a class in Rabbinical School to go to see a taping of the show in the ABC theater near Times Square. I was always amazed at how effortless Dick Clark looked when he hosted that game. He never looked bored, never lost interest and was completely unflappable. We should all look at our jobs that way.

By that point, Dick Clark took over the role of hosting New Year’s Eve in Times Square. He had started to do that in 1972 and I don’t remember whether he followed the legendary Guy Lombardo directly or if he was competition on another network, but just when I was starting to really feel the pull of adolescent rebellion, not having to listen to the old time band music from a hotel ballroom while waiting for the ball to drop was a welcome change for me and a good source of conflict with my parents.

What amazed me and many others I’m sure though about Dick Clark was that while so many of us couldn’t relate to the music tastes of the 80’s and 90’s, he stayed right there plugging these singers I had never hear of and singing their praises while I was longing for the old time music from the 60’s and 70’s. Somehow, he had kept up with the times and, by the looks of things, had never aged.

It’s worth thinking about. How much should we allow ourselves to change? How do we hold on to who were were back then and still keep up with the times? When does nostalgia become escapism?

I will miss Dick Clark. He seemed always to be there. But nothing stays the same forever.

In the famous Talmudic debate about whether we should increase or decrease the number of candles we light over the holiday of Hanukkah, the school of Hillel teaches that we should light one candle the first night,  two on the second and so on because of the principle: “ma’alin bikodesh v’ayn moridin”. We increase our levels of holiness and never decrease. The end of the holiday should have more light than the beginning.

Our goal as Jews is to bring more sanctity to our lives each day and the holidays should reflect that. But, too often, the end of our holidays is not as exciting, as meaningful, as memorable as the beginning. And, no holiday exemplifies that more than Pesach.

Think about how we began Pesach last Friday. The excitement of  cooking and cleaning had already gone on for several days in many homes. For many, the special seder dishes were taken out and those foods we eat only on two nights a year were prepared. Then, Monday came and we went back to work or to school grumbling about food limitations, trying to find something to satisfy cravings, finding too many crumbs around the house, trying not to be too obvious about longing for a cup of coffee at our favorite coffee place. Where is the extra light that Hillel spoke about relating to Hanukkah? Where is the “increase in holiness” and meaning? What happened to the glow we were left with after the Seders?

As we approach the last two days of the holiday and before the anticipation of the taste of pizza becomes too strong, it’s time to stop and think about how we can make these last two days more meaningful. Let me offer some suggestions.

First, Pesach is about more than food. We are supposed to remember the Exodus from Egypt every day of our lives but during this time of year, that obligation is particularly significant.  As we read the Song of the Sea at services on the 7th day, as we continue to say the Hallel psalms of praise for God’s salvation, we should take another look at the matza that we held up so high at the Seder and realize what we will miss in terms of meaning when we go back to eating bread Saturday evening. This intense connection with the Exodus is such a beautiful tradition and one which we feel at every meal. We will miss it even if we prefer the taste of bread.

Think also about the 8th day of Pesach and the recitation of Yizkor, the Memorial service. The saying of this service does bring a sadness and a sense of loss to the end of the festivals. But, Yizkor reminds us of the sanctity of memory. We think back to when a loved one whom we have lost was present at our Seder table. Their absence is felt so much more deeply during holiday season but, in a strange sense, feeling that sense of absence can make us embrace and cherish the power of memory even more deeply. We might sense their absence more deeply but because of the power of memory, especially at special times, we feel their presence in our minds and in our hearts even more deeply as well. The Yizkor service allows us to recognize what we have been feeling all week and through the release of tears or the relief of a smile make us cherish even more what this week has brought us.

And finally, we can commit ourselves to acting on the lessons we have learned this holiday about the meaning of slavery and the blessing of freedom. We can remember what we learned at the Seder table and seek ways to bring those lessons to light in our the days and months to come.

It’s no secret that for most of us, come Shabbat afternoon, we’ll be counting down the hours until that first taste of hametz. But, before it gets to that point, take the time to recognize the wonder that this holiday really brings- a wonder that goes far beyond the Seder. Cherish the last days of this festival and celebrate them with joy, with meaning and with memory.
Hag Sameach.

So, the matza “stuffing’ has been made and is in the refrigerator, the shank bone and egg are ready and we’re about to search for the hametz. But, before that happens- a quick thought.

I want to share with you a new text for your Seder which comes from a book called Hatzaah Liseder ” A Proposal for the Seder” published by Ydeiot Aharnot press in Israel some years ago. It is a fantastic book of commentary and suggestions and what I found most refreshing about it is that it was clearly intended for a secular audience, one which was looking for meaning in the rituals but were willing to look critically and seriously at the text of the Haggada.

Immediately after saying  “Ha Lachma Anya”, “this is the bread of affliction” which marks the beginning of the magid, the storytelling section of the Haggada, the book suggests saying a kavana, an “intentional prayer” to direct our thoughts.Using the traditional form for such a kavannah:

“Harayni muchan umzuman lisapayr biyitzeeat mitzrayim yachad im kol  Yisrael”

Behold I am ready to tell the story of the Exodus of Egypt together with all of the people of Israel.

What a beautiful thought. To think that as we sit at our table, Jews around the world will be telling the same story, each in their own way. Some will start earlier, some will start later as sundown dictates in their community but we all say it together.  As sacred as is our individual havurah, our group sitting around our individual table with whom we will share the intimate experience of the Seder, each havurah, each group sits together knowing that others across the street, across town and around the world are telling the same story.

Pausing for a moment and reflecting on that as this kavannah suggests makes us realize how truly “different” this night is. May we all tell the story in our own way. But, may we never forget that we sit not by ourselves but with our people around the world, all of us engaging in this sacred storytelling.

Best wishes for a meaningful, sacred Seder. Hag Sameach.

 

The title is very serious but it shouldn’t be surprising.  I believe that everything in life can be compared to baseball in one way or another. But, the connection with Pesach is particularly noteworthy since most years, and this year is no exception, the holiday coincides with the opening of the baseball season.

In a book called Take Time for Paradise, Americans and Their Games,  Bartlett Giamatti wrote about the fact that baseball is all about seeking to come home. He spoke about a runner on the long journey around the basepaths searching for home after being so far away and how this is an experience which is so primal, so foundational for each human being.

It has often occurred to me that the Pesach seder is, in so many ways, a time for coming home.

First, there is the simple fact that so many people try so hard to “be home” for the Seder if at all possible. Of course it often is impossible to be “home” but that is why our Rabbis stressed the fact that a group that sits at the Seder is, in fact, a havurah, a community all its own. For that evening, if one can’t be home, home is  whatever seder table one happens to find herself at.

Secondly, the whole story of the Exodus is a story of coming home, taking the “long way around” as a runner does as he or she circles the bases. The entire story is meant to emphasize the need for human beings to reconnect with their past and make it part of their future.

And finally, it strikes me that sitting at the Seder for so many of us is a sense of “coming home” to Jewish ritual. For those who do not engage in significant Jewish ritual through the year (and even, quite frankly, for those of us who do), the Seder reminds us of the power that the ritual can have. The taste of the maror, the washing of the hands, the opening of the door, the first taste of Matza, all remind us of days past, of family members no longer with us and of family and community celebrations. But these rituals also remind us of the power that our Jewish rituals have in our own lives today and how deeply our lives  can be touched by the sounds and smells and tastes of our history. Sitting at the Seder feels like home in so many ways and reminds us of the unique place our rituals have in our hearts and our minds.

I wish you a meaningful Seder, one which d satisfies your hunger for freedom and one which reminds you that at any Seder table, you are home.

 

 

This story is not quite ancient history but it seems that way at times. 30 years is  a long time and we live in a world much different than the world we lived in in 1982. A lot has changed for me in the past 30 years and I have sat at 60 seder tables over those years. But, my memory of Pesach 1982 is still fresh in my mind.

I spent Pesach 1982 in the city of Kishinev, in the former Soviet Union. I traveled there with a classmate of mine on a special journey. We were one of  many pairs of Rabbinical school students traveled to the USSR that year and in the years before and after to spend holidays attempting to meet with and encourage Jews who had been refused the basic human right to live where they wanted to live. Those who expressed a desire to emigrate to Israel were routinely persecuted: their jobs were taken away, their lives threatened and, in many cases, they were separated from their families.

I won’t go into the entire story of my 5 days in the USSR.  During those 5 days, I met courageous people, determined people whose dream of leaving the USSR for Israel gave their lives meaning and hope.

But, there is  one part of the story that I will share here. My friend and I arrived in Kishinev around noon on erev Pesach. We spent the better part of the day calling the numbers we had been given. These were people we were supposed to meet with but each call went unanswered and our one attempt to visit a family had to be aborted when we were realized we were being followed rather closely by some suspicious looking individuals. We decided instead to go to a market to purchase some bitter herbs for a hotel room Seder to go along with the matza and cans of tuna we had brought with us.

As we began to put the symbols of the Seder on the hotel room table, we decided that we should give it one more try and took a cab to the house which by its address we could tell was the closest to the hotel. We got out of the cab, walked quickly to the door and before we could even knock, the door opened and we were pulled in with one word: “Shalom”.

The family had seen us outside and knew immediately who we were. They motioned us downstairs to the basement where they would be holding their Seder. We were shown the seats for each member of the family and the two additonal seats that had been placed at the Seder table earlier that day. They were not for us, rather they were in honor of the two students who had joined the family at the Seder the year before and had brought such joy and support to the family. We were pleased to sit in their seats and join a Seder in which the talk of freedom came from the depths of the heart.

The story had a happy ending. Five years after we left Kishinev, the family was finally allowed to leave. Our phone calls, and letters to them kept their spirits up and our actions on their behalf made a difference as they ultimately left the USSR. We met and hugged in freedom.

I learned two lessons that Pesach. First, I learned how remarkable the Jewish spirit is. To continue to dream, to continue to hope, to continue to believe, to continue to identify even at such a cost is a hallmark of our people. One of the great sources of pride for me as a Jew is to realize how our ancestors and our  brothers and sisters faced difficulties most of us will never experience and still stood tall and proud as Jews. They are an inspiration for all of us.

And the second thing I learned was that it often  happens that when we think we are going to be the ones to do a mitzva for others, we end up being the beneficiary of a mitzva. We went to Russia thinking that we were going to save the day. We were Elijahs. But, in the end, we were the ones who were lonely, sad and hungry, and we were pulled through an open door of kindness and generosity. Perhaps our greatest accomplishment on our trip was giving this family an opportunity to welcome us in and make our Pesach festive.

I have never forgotten that Pesach and never forgotten the lesson that in times of great hardship, human beings still manage to reach out to others in kindness and generosity. What a Pesach it was.

 

Well, it’s Pesach season again and it’s time for me to start ranting again about the 10 plagues. Before I start ranting, let me tell you that I love the tradition of dipping our finger in the wine to diminish the wine in our cups in deference to the suffering of the Egyptians. I love the story in the Torah which shows how the obstinance of Pharaoh in refusing to correct the horrendous injustice he and his people were committing against the Hebrews. The references to the plagues during the Seder are critical for rounding out the story. The recitation of the plagues in Hebrew provide one of the most memorable moments of the Seder and the words sound strangely poetic with a recognizable cadence: Dam, Tzifardea, Kinim…

But, now for the rant.  The Seder is supposed to be a lively, creative and memorable experience and there have been many positive creative attempts to help participants, especially children, stay connected to the ritual. But, I am infuriated by the attempts to play games with the 10 plagues. Songs about frogs, bags which contain little toys or other items which can remind us of each of the plagues or, and this is the worst, chocolate pieces made to resemble the plagues (with, God forbid, a baby carriage for the 10th plague) are just plain and simply insensitive and cruel. Even if you think the Egyptians of Torah times deserved the plagues, what do we say to  all of the innocent people in the world who have suffered from locusts or famine or disease? On Pesach night, it strikes me as completely inappropriate to make light of suffering of any kind.

So, I would suggest the following. I think we should find something positive about the story of each plague to help us make a positive commitment to direct us in a way which would help us move the world further towards the redemption begun on the night of the first Pesach.

Here are my suggestions, I’d love to hear others for any of the plagues if you have them:

Dam, blood. Give a pint of blood before or right after Pesach. There are few, if any, greater acts of tzedakah.

Tzfardea, frog. Singular not plural. The Rabbis say that one frog came up and called the others to join him in destroying the land of Egypt. Let each of us be an influence for constructive rather than destructive acts and get others to join us.

Kinim, lice. The word kinim is spelled like the word ken, “yes”. Let us say “yes” when asked for help from someone, rather than a knee jerk “no”.

Arov, wild animals. Let us spend a little extra time with the animals living under our roofs and show concern for endangered species throughout the world.

Dever, cattle disease. A little less meat maybe at the Seder, a little more healthful eating in the year to come.

Shchin, boils. Boils should remind us of heat. Let us seriously recognize the dangers of global warming and do what we can to reduce our energy use.

Barad, hail. The Rabbis claimed that the hail stones which hit Egypt contained fire within them … nes bitoch neys they claimed, a miracle inside a miracle. Let us treat life like the miracle it is and see to elevate the holiness of our lives through an appreciation for the world we live in.

Arbeh, locusts. Let us reach out our hands beyond our own walls and join in a community which can be a swarm of people acting for the good of all.

Hosech, darkness. The Torah is called Or, light. Let us commit ourselves to Torah study to bring light to the darkened corners of our lives and our world.

And finally makat bichorot, the 10^th plague. Let us take steps to see that all of our children in this nation and throughout the world are cared for, protected and loved. Let no child go without health care, no child go to bed hungry, no child, anywhere be denied the opportunity to grow in health and in freedom.

In a world in which so many are suffering from plagues of one kind or another: war, starvation, persecution, disease and so many others, let us show some sensitivity and tell the story of the plagues without jokes and sweets. Chocolate wine cups? Chocolate shankbones? why not. Chocolate Plagues? You decide.

 

Hag sameach.