Archive | Rabbi Yogi

Posted on 19 April 2018 by admin

Imagine if your wife had a bird’s-eye view of what you did at the office every day. Would she find herself impressed with your productivity level and work ethic? Or, would she discover a ship that needed much righting? Could she rightly point to multiple items on your business to-do list left unattended to, as well as time that could have been used more efficiently (say, for more sales calls and less YouTube dancing squirrels)?
For many men, this is more of a theoretical scenario than a real one, as offices are typically tucked away in an office park, miles away from the house, and office visits from family members are somewhat of a rarity.
How different is it for our wives? Even as many modern women work outside of the house, the primary duty of taking care of the home typically remains upon them and essentially transforms our homes into their “workplaces.” And there lies the challenge. We live in their “workplaces.” How do we remain profoundly appreciative for all that our wives do for our households, never treating their familial service as a job to be held over their head, or their performance as something subject to our critical analysis?
This challenge proved too difficult for one of my students. He is a keen observer and persistently felt an underlying feeling of annoyance walking through his house each day, his dwelling much too untidy for his liking. His wife didn’t work, and he felt that she had the time to keep the house in order if it was truly a priority in her mind. He knew full well the myriad responsibilities that she had on a daily basis. They had a large family, after all. But, he still felt that there was enough time in the day to also care for the house properly and, of course, have a freshly prepared dinner ready each night by 6.
His fraught emotions turned more and more to charged, critical statements directed to his wife. “I thought you were going to take care of that already.” “Why is dinner never ready on time?” “This house is filthy.” His venting brought him relief from emotions otherwise suppressed, while his wife had to endure the heartache that came with each and every verbal blow.
Recognizing that he had an issue that needed to be dealt with and that he was the responsible party, he came to speak with me. I shared with him the Rambam’s famous injunction that we should always seek the middle path in middos (character traits), and that this requires us to veer to the opposite extreme of wherever we happen to be. That only by moving from one extreme to the other can we free ourselves of our bad habits and ensure that we end up with a balanced approach to life.
As Rabbi Reuven Leuchter explains on Page 89 of Teshuva: Restoring Life:
“The underlying assumption behind the Rambam’s approach is that every midda (character trait) has an extreme quality. When we find ourselves under the influence of a particular midda, it alone determines our perceptions and feelings. We become oblivious to any other perspective or reality. Only by shifting to the opposite extreme can we counteract this blindness. Only by focusing on the direct opposite of what we are experiencing and by treating the initial extreme as if it does not exist can we eventually arrive at a point in the middle.”
I advised my student to apply the Rambam’s methodology to his own life and to veer to the opposite extreme. His critical perspective of his wife was blinding him from ever perceiving a different, more positive reality of his wife’s help in the upkeep of their home. He needed to not only refrain from criticism of any kind, but to desist from any discussions or requests, however innocuous they might seem, concerning the subject of housekeeping. As he was not yet able to walk the middle path, any discussion of housekeeping was likely to turn ugly. The only exception to this rule would be expressions of gratitude for anything his wife might have done in the house. I encouraged him to use his observant nature to discover positive contributions that his wife had made each and every day and to heartily express his gratitude.
“This commitment would need to be for one month,” I told him, “and only then might you attempt to form a healthy, middle-of-the-road approach.”
To my utter delight, a month passed, and with it a renewed sense of peace and tranquility in the student’s home. Both husband and wife found themselves happier. A fresh set of lenses (which only took shape after a few grueling weeks of self-restraint) enabled my student to finally see how hard his wife truly worked for the family, and his wife felt appreciated for the first time in quite a while. After experiencing newfound calm in the house, my student recognized how responsible he had been for creating a toxic environment in the house, as well as how much pressure and anxiety he had exerted on his wife.
Unable to discuss any household needs with his wife, he found himself picking up the broom and the dustpan to take care of problem areas around the house. It dawned on him how rarely he had ever offered to help with the housework that mattered so much to him.
My student could now attempt life in the middle path, but he would need to be vigilant lest he slide back to his old habits.
During this period of the counting of the Omer, we are instructed to use each day as a steppingstone toward self improvement. The Rambam’s advice can help us get there.
Rabbi Yogi Robkin is the co-director of DATA of Plano.

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Does the Torah scholar rise above personal interest?

Posted on 22 March 2018 by admin

Can you trust the rulings of the rabbis? This is a question that my brother and I have discussed and debated for quite a while now. The root of our brotherly debate is not what you might imagine. Neither my brother nor I believe that generations of great halachic authorities would knowingly corrupt the Torah’s intent.
My brother merely argues that as great as any Torah scholar may be, he is still a human being and, like other human beings, susceptible to personal leanings and interests that subtly influence his rulings and conclusions. The talmid chacham (Torah scholar) might believe that he is interpreting the Torah according to the letter of the law, his thinking goes, but in reality, it is his desire to rule a certain way that may ultimately lead the way.
I argue that through a lifetime dedicated to Torah and Torah study, the talmid chacham rises above his natural inclinations, subjugating all that he is and all that he wants to the Torah and its truth.
It was with great satisfaction, then, that I recently discovered a section of Emunah U’Bitachon (Faith and Trust, a philosophical work written by one of the greatest rabbis of the 20th century, the Chazon Ish, Rabbi Avraham Yeshaya Karelitz zt’’l, 1873-1953) that dealt with just this subject, and, of course, shared it with my brother.
In Chapter 3, Section 30, the Chazon Ish writes as follows:
“There is yet another disease of the spirit that the evil inclination uses to keep the belief in sages (emunas chachamim) from entering people’s hearts, and that is the fickle scale of personal interest (in halachic terms: negia). The disciple is obligated to believe that there is no personal interest powerful enough to incline the heart of a scholar to pervert justice, for the goal of the Torah scholar is to bring merit to his soul, and to stain his soul with sin would hurt him far more than any physical blow. So how could he — for money or from a desire to please someone — harm his soul by perverting justice? In addition to this, the quality of truth is the most basic quality of the sage, and even the slightest untruth is alien to him.”
The Chazon Ish goes on to explain the disastrous results that emerge in a society distrustful of its Torah sages:
“But the evil inclination can undermine this trust, by entrapping those who tend toward convoluted reasoning, and offering them a complete theory… that personal interest has definitive power for the petty and the great alike — even the wisest are prey to it, as are the chassidim and the righteous. According to this theory, the scholar (who gives in to personal interests) has nothing to be ashamed of, for such is human nature; but those who claim so do not know that according to this assumption, the entire generation is hereby orphaned, and there can be no judges, and no leaders (pp. 130-132).”
I asked my brother what he thought of the Chazon Ish’s statements, and he quickly texted me back with a compelling question: “How can the Torah make that assumption, that he, a sage, is above personal interest? What proof is there that they have achieved metaphysical/supernatural status, that they can transcend their humanity?”
I considered my brother’s question throughout the day. I felt euphoric when I arrived at a conclusion later that night. You see, the Chazon Ish isn’t suggesting that the talmid chacham achieves some sort of metaphysical status, and with it a relief from the pull of personal interest. Rather, he is informing us that it is in the natural state of affairs for a person who utterly dedicates themselves to Torah to develop a new set of negios (“personal interests”) — a negia toward spiritual merit and a negia toward truth. Just like any personal interest, these interests pervade his being — both his conscience and his subconscious — and direct him toward particular goals. In this case, the truth.
Consider the nature of a typical mother or father. They are probably much like everyone else, in that they desire their fair share of wealth and goods for themselves. That being said, the love that they have for their child is so great, that they will not hesitate to spend all that they have in pursuit of a life-saving procedure for their baby. The parents may have two sets of competing personal interests (accumulation of wealth versus an expensive, life-saving procedure for their child), but they do not exert their influence to anywhere near the same degree. So it is with the talmid chacham. He may share many of the same personal interests that motivate the rest of us, but his personal interest in maintaining the integrity of the Torah exists in a wholly different dimension and exerts the influence that matters the most.
(It is worthwhile to note that the Chazon Ish is not suggesting that due to the talmid chacham’s acquired set of spiritual negios he will never come to sin. The Torah itself is filled with many examples of great leaders making sinful mistakes. Rather, the Torah is informing us that there are degrees to which a talmid chacham sins, and that the grave area of corrupting the Torah is beyond the normal talmid chacham’s sin threshold.)
Now, there are examples of sages corrupting the Torah, and the Talmud has a special name for such people — megaleh panim ba’Torah she’lo ka’halacha (literally, “revealing faces of the Torah that are not in accordance with halacha”). The Talmud declares that corrupting the Torah is such a heinous crime that such people lose their share in the world to come. Yet, such sinners are the exception, not the rule. When these people are discovered, and they are always discovered due to their track record of specious halachic rulings, their rulings as disregarded and we are left once again with a pure halachic record. The Chazon Ish is teaching us that the default position of a talmid chacham is an allegiance to Torah truth, and therefore we need not concern ourselves or suspect a talmid chacham of being in the minority.
Now, I can imagine your thoughts as you read this column. “How incredibly convenient for a rabbi to preach that we should trust the rabbis.” Unfortunately, there is little that I can do for you in the way of assuaging your suspicions. If the words of the saintly Chazon Ish are not enough for you, and if you’ve never had the merit of sitting in the dust of the sages of Torah, uncovering their nature firsthand, then there is nothing that I can say that will put your mind at ease. For just as the blind man cannot see colors, so it is that many will never recognize the true nature of the talmid chacham.
Rabbi Yogi Robkin is co-director of DATA of Plano. To contact Rabbi Yogi Robkin, email him at yrobkin@dataofplano.org.

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Mordechai’s story shows trust in God can alter reality

Posted on 08 March 2018 by admin

Every year, I hear the Megillah read, and every year, I find myself perturbed by the same question: Why was Mordechai perfectly confident that the Jews in the Persian Empire would be saved from Haman’s genocidal decree?
Mordechai, after all, had lived through one of the bloodiest periods in Jewish history, the destruction of the First Temple (Esther 2:5-6), and witnessed the havoc and carnage that King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylonia had wrought. And yet, Mordechai informed Esther in no uncertain terms that if she remained silent and did not attempt to use her position of power as queen of the empire to save the Jewish people, “relief and deliverance will come to the Jews from another place” (Esther 4:14). How does Mordechai know this? He is not a prophet. The Megillah remains silent on this point.
The Chassidic master Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchov (1740–1809) suggests something that might sound surprising to the modern ear. It was Mordechai’s complete and absolute trust in God, his bitachon, that molded reality. Mordechai trusted God to save the Jews, and therefore God had to reciprocate in kind, by fulfilling Mordechai’s desire.
Rabbi Levi Yitzchak wasn’t the first sage to suggest that bitachon could alter reality. Rabbeinu Bachya Ibn Paquda, writing in the first half of the 11th century, notes of the promises assured specifically to one who exhibits trust in God: “But one who trusts in God is safe from harm, and can rest assured that no evil will befall him” (Chovot Ha’Levavot, introduction to Section 4).
According to this line of thinking, bitachon is good for more than just setting one’s mind at ease that everything that happens in life is decreed by a loving God. Bitachon will actually shelter you from harm. (It should be noted that even according to this understanding of the nature of bitachon, everyone’s level of bitachon is unique and will therefore manifest itself in reality to different degrees.)
Many great sages followed this general line of thought, from Rav Yosef Albo (1380–1444), to the Maharal (early 1500s?–1609), to more recent scholars such as Rav Zundel of Salant (1786–1866) and the Alter of Novardok (1847–1919).
The Lubavitcher Rebbe (1902–1994) quotes the third rebbe of Lubavitch, the Tzemach Tzeddek, as replying to a petitioner, “Think positively and things will be positive. “This implies that the very act of thinking positively (having bitachon) will give rise to results that are visibly and manifestly good” (Likkutei Sichot, Parashat Shemot 1991).
Leaving aside the many theological difficulties with this position (most notably, the issue of the suffering of the righteous person of faith), this philosophical stance seems well represented in different verses in Tanach, which suggest a connection between bitachon and divine providence.
King David famously writes, “…but as for one who trusts in God, kindness surrounds him” (Tehillim 32:10), and, “… rely upon God for your enjoyments, for He will grant you the desires of your heart” (Tehillim 37:4). Isaiah similarly writes, “The being that relied (on You), protect him with peace, peace; for in you did he trust” (Isaiah 26:3).
Rabbi Avrohom Yeshaya Karelitz (1878–1953), known to the Jewish world as the Chazon Ish, rejected this understanding of the nature of bitachon. In his philosophical work Emunah U’Bitachon he writes as follows:
“There is an old misconception rooted in the hearts of many when it comes to the concept of bitachon. This term … has mistakenly become a term to describe the obligation to believe that if a person finds himself in a situation where he faces an undecided future, with two ways apparent — one good and the other not — surely the good outcome will be the one to occur; if one is doubtful and fears the opposite of good occurring, he is lacking in bitachon. This understanding of bitachon is not correct, for as long as the future has not been revealed through prophecy, the future is not decided, for who knows God’s judgments and rewards? No, bitachon is not that, but rather the belief that nothing happens by chance, and that everything that occurs under the sun is the result of a decree of God” (beginning of Chapter 2).
Scholars understood the Chazon Ish as categorically rejecting the previously mentioned understanding of bitachon, going so far as calling it “an old misconception.” In this light, Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein (1933–2015) argued that the Chazon Ish promoted a bitachon that does not “scatter the clouds of misfortune” or “raise expectations” at all, but rather merely “expresses a steadfast commitment. Even if the outcome will be bad, we will remain reliant on and connected to God” (By His Light: Character and Values in the Service of God, p. 142).
According to the Chazon Ish’s interpretation of the nature of bitachon, how are we to understand Mordechai’s steadfast belief that the Jews will be saved? (Other studies of Mordechai’s belief do not rest upon his bitachon.)
I believe that the answer lies in one glaring sentence written at the very end of Emuna U’Bitachon, Chapter 2, which seems to have been glossed over by the masses.
“There is more to the trait of trust, for a holy spirit rests on the one who trusts in God, accompanied by a strength of spirit that tells him that God will indeed help him. As King David said, “if you bring a host upon me, my heart will have no fear; if a war comes upon me (in this I will trust).” This matter varies according to the level of the person’s trust and his degree of holiness.
In other words, even the Chazon Ish seems to agree that there is a level of bitachon, albeit a lofty one that holds the power to alter any reality, or in Mordechai’s case, any decree. To contact Rabbi Yogi Robkin, email him at
yrobkin@dataofplano.org.

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Go with God, and power will never corrupt

Posted on 22 February 2018 by admin

We are all well aware of the side effects of power. It can intoxicate as well as corrupt. But can it cause brain damage? This is the question asked by author Jerry Useem in a recent article in The Atlantic (Power Causes Brain Damage, July/August 2017 issue). His conclusion, as the title of his article suggests, is that power, in fact, has the ability to alter one’s brain — and not all for the good.
Much of the research on the impact of power on the brain was conducted by Dacher Keltner, a psychology teacher at the University of California-Berkeley, who discovered that subjects under the influence of power acted as if they had suffered a traumatic brain injury. They became more impulsive, less risk-aware and, crucially, less adept at seeing things from other people’s point of view.
Sukhvinder Obhi, a neuroscientist at McMaster University, described something similar. When he put the heads of the powerful and the not-so-powerful under a transcranial-magnetic-stimulation machine, he found that power, in fact, impairs a specific neural process, “mirroring,” that may be a cornerstone of empathy. This presents a neurological basis for what Keltner has termed the “power paradox”: Once we have power, we lose some of the capacities we needed to gain it in the first place.
Other experiments have uncovered that powerful people do worse at identifying what someone in a picture is feeling, or guessing how a colleague might interpret a remark. Most importantly, Keltner added, is the fact that powerful people stop mimicking others’ behaviors, tensing when others tense or laughing when others laugh. It is precisely this behavioral mirroring that helps trigger the same feelings that others are experiencing, and without it, the powerful are led down a dangerous course toward what Keltner calls an “empathy deficit.”
How very analogous is this to historian Henry Adams’ (1838-1918) description of power as “a sort of tumor that ends by killing the victim’s sympathies.”
So, what is it about power that causes such trouble? The research suggests that power primes our brain to screen out peripheral information. In most situations, this provides a helpful energy boost. In social ones, it has the unfortunate side effect of making us less sensitive to those around us.
Keltner’s advice to the powerful is to remember that power is but a mental state. Recount a time you did not feel powerful and your brain can once again commune with reality.
While Keltner’s research is indeed illuminating, his remedial suggestion appears less than promising. It would seem that a conscientiously minded person of power following Keltner’s lead would need a set time (or times) each and every day for “powerless” self-reflection in order to dispel the demons that lie in power’s wake. How likely, though, is someone to follow such an uncomfortable day-to-day formula? And even if they were to fastidiously follow that formula, would the results prove anything more than temporary reprieves from empathy deficit?
As a rabbi whose primary source material is the Torah, it’s of great interest to me that Moses, one of the most powerful men to ever walk this Earth, never suffered from any degree of empathy deficit. Quite the opposite. From the moment of Moses’ maturity when he “went out to his brethren” to defend the anonymous Israelite suffering under the blows of his Egyptian taskmaster (Exodus 2:11-12), to his defense of the entirety of the nation of Israel at the sin of the Golden Calf (“And now if You would but forgive their sin! — but if not, erase me now from Your book that You have written”) (Exodus 32:32), until his very last breaths at the end of 40 years of leading the people through the desert and shouldering countless national trials along the way, Moses never tires of service. His empathy and sensitivity toward others never wane.
It’s more than a bit instructive that the defining characteristic which the Torah uses to define this most powerful of men is humility. “Now the man Moses was exceedingly humble, more than any person on the face of this Earth” (Numbers 12:3). And it is this very humility which enables Moses to wield his power and influence for the good of the people, without succumbing to the dire consequences of the “power paradox.”
As hard as it is for us to imagine immense power and exceeding humility paired as one, Moses’ experience teaches us that when one’s identity is centrally that of a servant of God, power is acquired with a healthy dose of perspective. For with every step toward greatness and Godliness (those traits which would foretell Moses’ power as a leader), there Moses encountered his Creator, and consequently a reckoning with his own mortality, inadequacies and limitations. Moses didn’t need to reflect upon moments of powerlessness to bring himself back to Earth. Moses’ entire existence was an extended meditation on his own vulnerability and ultimate powerlessness in the face of the King of Kings.
We, too, experience powerful emotions of powerlessness when we pray each day. We are reminded that we are servants, not beings meant to be served, and we are reminded that all our gifts, our talents, and our power come from the source of all power. Who, then, are we to gloat?
Perhaps more than anything else, the powerful need a religious awakening of sorts. Some God on the brain where the power used to be.

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The Torah still provides the word on moral values

Posted on 08 February 2018 by admin

Do you believe that morality is complicated, that living a moral life requires dedicated years of in-depth study? Or is morality, in your opinion, something more intuitive, something any sensitive person can pick up by way of a mixture of genuine empathy and sympathy for one’s fellow man? Perhaps you may argue that a realized morality indeed requires a healthy mixture of the two.
As for myself, I find myself firmly ensconced in this third camp. I believe that intuition alone can only take us so far, and that we need help from a higher source to ultimately know that which is right and that which is wrong. And yet, I am equally mindful of the fact that all of the study in the world, all of the wisdom and guidance from on high cannot possibly establish the proper behavior and response for every given situation. That is when our sechel, our good sense, must kick in, informing us how to cater the wisdom of old to the unique situation that lies before us.
And yet, as confident as I am in this position, I am consistently reminded of how many of the people I meet feel that they can rely upon their sechel alone to ensure that they are living morally. It was a recent lunch I had with a local Sunday school teacher that showed me the broader implications of this position, upon his insistence that “you don’t need Torah anymore to teach morality.” His feeling seemed to echo this growing societal sentiment that between one’s own natural intuition and the lessons learned from living in a “good” society like our own, one indeed had everything that was needed at one’s disposal to learn to be moral.
How sad it is, by extension, that the Torah has now become, for a great many people, nothing more than a repository of ritual practices and ancestral stories. Our holy Torah is no longer appreciated as a primary source of morals and values.
To this I say, let us examine the necessary contribution of the Torah on the world of ethics.
First, there are the many ethical statutes that the Torah commands and mankind as a whole fails to recognize. Take lashon hara (“evil speech”), for example. Although most societies have some sort of law on the books against slander (as does the Torah), the Torah extends the limits of sanctioned speech to include a prohibition on sharing derogatory information that also happens to be wholly true. Add to this prohibitions such as not coveting, not straying after your heart and eyes and not hating your neighbor in your heart. All these prohibitions rest solely in the heart of man, and you enter into a whole new arena of moral refinement that societies cannot and will not demand of their people.
Second, the Torah codifies meaningful halachic details within the ethics that mankind naturally recognizes. Consider the virtue of charity, something almost all societies value. The Torah takes a giant step further by describing both a hierarchy of charitable giving (family first, then the poor of your city, then the poor of the land of Israel, etc.), a list of eight distinct levels of charitable giving (the highest form: providing meaningful employment; the second highest form: giving without knowledge to whom one is giving and without the poor person’s knowledge from whom he is receiving), and a prescription for determining how much of one’s income one is obligated to give (10 percent for the average person, with a sliding scale depending upon one’s utter wealth or dire poverty). And these three legalistic details are just the tip of this halachic iceberg.
Finally, and this point cannot be stressed enough, without the Torah’s guidance, how is one to rule correctly in scenarios in which one has two competing moral values at stake? How are we to determine which value has primacy and which value must be abandoned?
Unbeknownst to a great many people is the realization that many of the most hotly debated moral disputes of our times surround these very scenarios of competing value systems. The fight between the anti-abortion movement and the abortion-rights movement is, at its core, a fight over the primacy of either the value of the life of the unborn child or the value of a woman’s right to self- determination. The fight over the right of a doctor to assist in ending the life of a terminally ill patient is similarly, at its core, a fight over the primacy of the value of relieving human suffering or the value of not aiding in a suicide. We too, in our daily lives, encounter scenarios like this on a regular basis — things as common as whether or not to honor the wishes of one’s parents or the wishes of one’s spouse (or our own wishes, for that matter).
It is in these most thorny moral environments that we need come to the realization that morality is anything but simple, and that only with the proper training and study can one hope to come out of the end of this moral universe whole.
The Chazon Ish (Rabbi Avrohom Yeshaya Karelitz, 1878–1953), at the beginning of Chapter 3 in his ethical work Emunah U’Bitachon, sums things up as follows:
One of the obligations of morality is that a person should try to instill in his heart this great principle: In any case in which one finds oneself in opposition to a fellow Jew, one has to weigh the matter in accordance with halacha, in order to define the persecutor and the persecuted. The study of perfecting one’s character traits (mussar) instills in one love and pity for the persecuted, and severe condemnation of the persecutor; how terrible is, then, the danger of misidentifying the persecutor as the persecuted and vice versa. The only way to know the truth is to study the books of the halachic authorities — those books of rulings that we have received from the great Rabbis of the past.
It is only in a return to the classical recognition of the Torah as our guide to all things moral that we might find ourselves with the much-needed clarity and confidence to choose and act correctly in all our moral endeavors. Then, and only then, can we assure ourselves of our moral standing.
Rabbi Yogi Robkin is the director of outreach at DATA of Plano.

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Shabbat or kashrut: not mutually exclusive

Posted on 25 January 2018 by admin

Just as God works in mysterious ways, so, it seems, humans grow in mysterious ways, as well. I can tell you this as a person who has engaged in Jewish outreach for more than a decade, and witnessed the growth of hundreds of individuals. What takes one person a decade of spiritual toil to accomplish, can develop almost overnight in others.
I’ve also seen how the paths in which individuals adopt new mitzvot in their lives differ, each person deciding which particular mitzvot to adopt or ignore (either forever, or until a future, more auspicious time when the neglected mitzvah might be re-examined). Each person decides on a particular course, or order, of mitzvah adoption, as well as the degree to which they plan on committing and investing themselves in each of these mitzvot. These are the decisions that each person must make for themselves, each one an expression of their unique souls, strivings and singular service of the Almighty.
And while the variations distinguishing each spiritual journey are many, certain patterns that seem to repeat themselves. One such similarity is what I call the “Shomer Shabbat over Shomer Kashrut Conundrum.”
You see, though many engage in some form of kashrut (kosher) long before they commit themselves to Shabbat observance, most people (at least in my experience) accept the full practice of Shabbat before they accept the full practice of kashrut. In other words, though many are fully Shabbat-observant for decades and, at the same time, 100 percent kosher in the home, they may tend to compromise observance of kashrut outside the home.
To confirm this interesting conundrum of Judaic spiritual development, my partner in Jewish outreach, Rabbi Nasanya Zakon, shared with me a question he recently posed to a group of his students. “Would you be quicker to fully keep Shabbat or kosher?” The unanimous answer was Shabbat.
What is it about the unadulterated practice of kashrut that seems so daunting to so many? And, what is it about the laws and practices that arrive at that point in time during which both one’s commitment and inspiration in Judaism rest at its peak?
It can be difficult to give up the many delicious non-kosher foodstuffs one has grown to enjoy. Additionally, losing the convenience of dining out in the many non-kosher restaurants dotting the map is an equally difficult pill to swallow. Kosher is more expensive, and does require more planning.
But is this quantifiably more difficult than severing from electronics, Internet and automobiles for 25 hours once a week? And, what of the work complications Shabbat observance creates? Consider the many jobs that require work on the weekends that must be ruled out, or at a minimum, might require special accommodations, and with it, the potential loss of hours and salary. The Sabbath-observant individual will also miss multiple family and friend get-togethers scheduled on Friday nights and Saturdays, not to mention concerts scheduled for the same time.
I don’t think that the difficulty of keeping kashrut is what lies at the heart of the matter. Rather, I believe the difference lies in our appreciation and lack thereof for these two distinct mitzvot. With all the complications and “burdens” Shabbat places upon its practitioner, the benefits of observance are well-known and appreciated. After all, who hasn’t experienced the sublime sense of calm, peace and tranquility that permeates the Sabbath-observant home? Without the distraction of electronics and cell phones, families and friends find themselves enjoying each other’s presence around the Shabbat table, engaging in meaningful discussions, singing beautiful melodies and enjoying delicious delicacies. Communities come together during these times, as does the Jew with his Maker. Few can argue with a day free from errands and a few extra hours of sleep.
However, aside from the occasional case for increased self-control, kosher is seen by most as the quintessential chok, a commandment whose reasoning we do not know, and whose practice is more a sign of religious commitment than anything else. Religious commitment is seen by many as praiseworthy, but personal interest motivates change In kosher’s case, the burdens are perceived as far outweighing the potential benefits.
Scorecard: Treif 1, Kosher 0.
This is why it is so important to educate ourselves of the true benefits of kosher. The Torah teaches us that eating kosher foods accomplishes the vital role of preserving our inherent holiness, while consuming non-kosher foods spiritually pollutes our hearts. This makes it more difficult to connect to God.
In an amazing halachic twist, the Chofetz Chaim (Sefer Machaneh Yisroel), writing in the late 19th century to Jewish soldiers in the army, noted that if a soldier has the choice to either go to an army base in which he can keep Shabbat but cannot keep kosher, or go to a different army base in which he could keep kosher but not Shabbat, he should choose the base that allows for the observance of kashrut and not Shabbat. The punishment for Shabbat desecration is more severe than that of violating kashrut, though if the soldier must obey orders against Shabbat observance or kashrut on the pain of death, he is not accountable for violating either mitzvah. That being said, consuming non-kosher foods sullies the heart and soul of the Jew, meaning it is the poorer choice a Jew can make.

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Where will we find another Aharon?

Posted on 11 January 2018 by admin

Just one month ago one of the greatest living sages of the Jewish people passed away. His name was Rabbi Aharon Yehuda Leib Shteinman tz’’l, and if you are like the many Jews I’ve spoken with since his passing, you’ve never heard of him before.
He died at the advanced age of 104 (1913-Dec. 12, 2017), and for all those many years, it was his tiny, sparsely furnished apartment in Bnei Brak, Israel that served as a central address for visitors, students and politicians alike to beseech blessings or to discuss sensitive life and communal issues and receive sagely advice in return. His humility was legendary, as was his Torah scholarship (he penned close to 20 works on Chumash, Talmud and philosophy), but all of these details are readily available in the many articles and appreciations written about him after his demise. I’d rather share with you my own encounter with this giant of a man, an encounter that took place in my late teens (almost 20 years ago) as I was studying in yeshiva in Israel and one that opened up my eyes to different models of Torah leadership.
It’s somewhat of a religious pilgrimage: yeshiva students and seminary girls boarding buses to Jerusalem or Bnei Brak to visit the gedolim, the elderly sages of the generation. Most go in search of a blessing — a blessing for a good shidduch (“a proper mate”) being the most popular request, followed closely with requests for blessings for success in Torah study and parnassa (“good livelihoods”). I didn’t go to Bnei Brak for any sort of blessing, though a good blessing never hurt anyone! I simply felt that it would be a missed opportunity if I never met those saintly individuals living during my own lifetime.
And so it was that toward the end of a summer yeshiva semester, two of my friends and I boarded a bus to the City of Torah Sages, Bnei Brak, in the hopes of meeting and gleaning wisdom from two of the elderly guiding lights of the Jewish people, Rabbi Chaim Kanievsky and Rabbi Aharon Leib Shteinman zt’’l.
Our first stop was to Rabbi Kanievsky’s apartment and the long, winding line that was forming outside his doorway and snaking its way all the way down the external staircase to the street below. We had made it in time for his official visiting hours and waited patiently for our turns to come. Rabbi Kanievsky has a well-known reputation for responding to petitioners’ questions with short, direct answers, and as we would soon see, the meetings in his home proved no exception to the rule.
With a sefer (a book of Jewish content) open in front of him, individuals were ushered in to his living room. The rav would look up from the sefer, listen to the question or request, and answer in his typical, curt fashion. The moment each visitation was finished, the rav would return to his precious study, careful not to waste any moments that presented themselves in the short intervals between visitors. You see, as much as Rabbi Kanievsky allotted time each day for those who would seek out his wisdom, it was no secret that his desire was to just as quickly return to his studies, to that elevated Torah universe steeped in wisdom and holiness. It’s as if he understood his communal responsibilities as a leader among the Jewish people, but didn’t want to leave Sinai for any more time than was necessary.
Reflecting upon the meeting later on that night, it occurred to me that Rabbi Kanievsky had a “Moshe personality.” He is a man of the people and yet someone considerably removed from the vast majority of us. A man inhabiting the same earth as everyone else, but whose thoughts clearly lay elsewhere. Like Moshe, Rabbi Kanievsky inspired and continues to inspire a visceral brand of fear of Heaven — for one can’t escape his invariably fiery intensity that permeates his face and eyes at all time. It’s no exaggeration to proclaim the rabbi’s life a living testament to the Talmud’s statement, “Just as … the Revelation at Sinai was in reverence, fear, quaking, and trembling, so too here, in every generation, Torah must be studied with a sense of reverence, fear, quaking, and trembling” (Talmud Brachot 22a). It’s also no exaggeration to say that even in the brief period of time we shared together with the rabbi, we felt an increase in our awe of Heaven, as if through some type of spiritual osmosis.
If a meeting with Rabbi Kanievsky was my encounter with a modern-day Moshe, I was soon to meet his counterpart, a modern-day Aharon, Rabbi Aharon Leib Shteinman zt’’l.
Arriving at the rabbi’s apartment at 6 Chazon Ish St., we were surprised to see no line formed outside his doorway. We didn’t see a sign informing visitors of the proper visiting hours either. And so, with a bit of good old-fashioned chutzpah, we knocked on the door anyway. A 30-something-year-old man opened the door for us and ushered the three of us into the living room, where Rabbi Shteinman zt’’l was teaching an advanced Torah lesson to married men. There was no doubt about it, we were intruding, and I for one felt completely out of place and more than a bit uneasy.
My nerves were quickly set at ease, though, as Rabbi Shteinman zt’’l warmly welcomed us in, smiled affectionately through his long salt-and-pepper beard, and interrupted his regularly scheduled class to ask each of us our names and some details about our lives. He bestowed a blessing upon us all and we left inspired by the utter love and warmth that we felt from this elderly rabbi whom we had heard much of but never met before.
The Midrash (Avos De’Reb Nosson 12:4) states that while the majority of the nation mourned Moshe upon his death (see Devarim 34:8), “the entire House of Israel” (Bamidbar 20:29) mourned the death of Aharon. Why the difference in response? To put it simply, Aharon, as great as he was, was always a man thoroughly of the people. While Moshe was far removed on the peak of Mount Sinai, Aharon was encamped with the rest of the nation anxiously awaiting his return. The Midrash adds that (whereas Moshe inspired fear and awe in his role as lawgiver, judge and admonisher of the people) Aharon inspired love, busy as he was advocating for peace and fellowship between man and his neighbor and man and his wife. In other words, while Moshe’s persona made known to the nation the other-worldly qualities of the Torah, Aharon was the man on the ground, there to show everyone how the Torah could be brought down to Earth and pragmatically utilized to better one’s life and the lives of all those around them.
A healthy nation needs both its Moshes and its Aharons. We need exposure to those great leaders so far removed from our regular existence as to serve as an example of what human beings can become, and we also need exposure to those great leaders whose greatness feels relatable, and therefore attainable. We need both to experience the awe of Heaven along with Heaven’s warm embrace.
With the passing of Rabbi Shteinman zt’’l, I am left wondering, where will we find another Aharon?
To contact Rabbi Yogi Robkin, email him at yrobkin@dataofplano.org.

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How precious are the lights of Hanukkah

Posted on 14 December 2017 by admin

The worlds of halachah, Jewish law, and hashkafah, Jewish philosophy, are generally perceived as two independent courses of study: the studying of halachah being the dry, detailed examination of legal texts, and the study of hashkafah being the edifying investigation into the beliefs and perspectives of the Torah. In reality, though, the Torah, in all of its many branches, is a unified living organism, each course of study part of a bigger, interconnected web. Personally, I derive great satisfaction when I discover or learn of examples of the interconnectedness of halachah and hashkafah. I’d like to share with you two marvelous examples of this sort below that happen to share a common, instructive theme.
One of the most well-known mitzvot in the Torah is the Biblical command to recite the Shema morning and night. Less known to the masses is the halachah (the law) that dictates that these daily recitations must be recited during precise blocks of times in the day and in the night. Recite the Shema before or after these blocks of time and you unfortunately lose out on the opportunity to fulfill this sacred task.
So, where do these precise guidelines come from? The Mishnah derives them from the Shema itself. “Teach them thoroughly to your children and speak of them while you sit in your home, while you walk on the way, when you lie down and when you arise” (Devarim 6:7). “When you lie down” is interpreted broadly as including the entire nighttime, for people lie down and sleep throughout the entirety of the night (Berachot 1:1). “When you arise,” on the other hand, is limitedly understood as only including the first three hours of the day, as these are the times that people generally wake up — the early risers waking up at the crack of dawn and the royal princes contentedly napping in their beds until the third hour of the day (ibid. 1:2).
Although I must have learned these mishnayot dozens of times over the years, it was only recently that I found myself perplexed by the Mishnah’s scriptural deductions. You see, the connective language of the verse “when you lie down and when you arise” implies a grouping together of these two halachically significant phrases. You would assume, then, that the time allotment for the morning Shema and the evening Shema would be parallel to each other as well. And, yet, as we have seen above, that is decidedly not the case, the nighttime Shema being alotted a whopping nine extra hours of precious time!
What, I wondered, was the deeper significance in this unusual time variance? I searched and searched for sources that might address this issue, but to no avail. Like so many times before, I turned to Rabbi Sharon Cohen, a colleague of mine and a scholar known for his knowledge of the more mystical elements of the Torah for an answer.
Rabbi Cohen voiced his appreciation for my question, one he had never heard before, and just as quickly launched into an interpretation of his own. He explained that the nighttime represents the parts of our lives when God’s presence feels hidden, when darkness and confusion reign and when faith is acquired with great difficulty. The daytime represents the polar opposite, the points in our life when we most clearly feel God’s presence and when faith comes to us with incredible ease.
The nature of this physical world, Rabbi Cohen explained, is that the “dark” periods of confusion and doubt will always greatly outnumber the “sunny” stretches of clarity and enlightenment. The time allotments for the Shema, our eternal expression of commitment to faith and service of God, mirror this earthly reality and illustrate that we will need to serve God through many long nights during the course of our existence, if only to anticipate brief periods of soulful enlightenment and spiritual clarity.
Just as the day has its daytime and its nighttime, so too does the year. The sunny months of the spring and summer are as the daytime, whereas the colder, darker months of fall and winter represent the nighttime. You’ll notice that all of the Biblical holidays fall out during the six-month stretch of spring and summer. This is because the period of Biblical times was a time of great enlightenment, when God’s hand was made visible in both nature and history through the many open miracles of the Ten Plagues, the Exodus and the Jewish people’s travels throughout the wilderness. The rabbinic holidays (Hanukkah and Purim), on the other hand, fall during the dark, cold months of fall and winter. This is because both the Hanukkah and Purim stories occurred during times of great darkness and peril for the Jewish people. In both instances the Jewish people wondered if God had abandoned them in the post-Biblical Exile, only to leave them at the mercy of other nations who bid them harm.
The miraculous salvations that materialized during the Hanukkah and Purim stories revealed to the Jewish people then, as it still does for each and every subsequent Jewish generation, that God is still with us, that He had never left our side. It should come as no surprise to us that unlike the seasonal Biblical commandments of shofar and the four species which must be performed during the day, the mitzvah of the Hanukkah lights must be done specifically at night.
(The Pesach Seder, another seasonal Biblical command, is, in fact, performed at night, but that is because the night of the Exodus shone with the light of day from the revelation of the Shechina, God’s essence. Upon Seder night, the commentators apply the verse from Tehillim (139:12), “layla kayom ya’ir,” “The night will be as bright as day.”)
The lights of Hanukkah, then, serve as much-needed torches for the many “nights” of our life, bringing even the darkest moments of our life into the light, replacing doubt with faith and confusion with clarity. How precious are the lights of Hanukkah!
Rabbi Yogi Robkin is the co-director of DATA of Plano.

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Happiness, growth more related than you think

Posted on 30 November 2017 by admin

A despondent congregant came to speak with me. She felt immense anguish over the large chasm that existed between her current spiritual state and the spiritual state that she felt confident she was capable of achieving and, alas, was not.
What do you say to such a person when you concur that hers is a very real dilemma, worthy of careful consideration and personal concern, and yet, you equally recognize that her heightened degree of private turmoil is such that instead of serving as a source of personal motivation to bridge her spiritual gap it has rather become for her a deep-seated source of internal paralysis and harmful self-loathing?
One can imagine the delicate balance required of anyone considering a response to such a sensitive inquiry. The answer given will either affirm the spiritual dilemma at hand and perpetuate the congregant’s negative beliefs about themselves, or soothe the congregant’s nerves while minimizing what should be a serious issue of concern to any committed Jew. I therefore decided to address both sides of the matter at hand.
I offered suggestions that I thought might booster her spiritual growth, but I also tried to raise her up in her own eyes. “The fact that you care so deeply about your spiritual life, about living your life with the utmost meaning, is itself an incredible achievement that needs to be recognized,” I told her. “Unlike so many others, you are playing the game of life the way it’s supposed to be played. And that alone should fill you with an incredible feeling of pride and self-satisfaction!” I was pleased to see that my words had hit their mark and that my congregant left with a newfound kick in her step as well as a vision of how to proceed going forward.
I found myself reflecting upon this exchange with a congregant upon completing Victor Frankl’s masterful work, Man’s Search For Meaning.
He first clarified his belief that man’s primary motivational force is the striving to find meaning in one’s life, which is in contradistinction to Alfred Adler’s belief in the primacy of the will to power, and Freud’s central focus on the pleasure principle. Frankl recognized the centrality of the will to power and the will to pleasure in mankind, but saw those as expressions of a frustrated will to meaning. “Sometimes the frustrated will to meaning is vicariously compensated for by a will to power, including the most primitive form of the will to power, the will to money. In other cases, the place of frustrated will to meaning is taken by the will to pleasure” (p.107).
Frankl bemoans what he deems to be the “mass neurosis of the present time,” something he terms “the existential vacuum.” What is this existential vacuum? In Frankl’s words, it “can be described as a private and personal form of nihilism; for nihilism can be defined as the contention that being has no meaning” (p.129)
In other words, we live in a world in which people have largely ceased believing that human life and the process of living has intrinsic meaning. Rather, more and more individuals are convinced that life is but the “result of biological, psychological and sociological conditions, or the product of heredity and environment” (p.130). And what meaning, what dignity, can there be for man who is essentially reduced to an advanced, randomly conceived machine?
Or as Frankl puts it in a postscript written almost 40 years after the original release of his book, “As to the causation of the feeling of meaninglessness, one may say, albeit in an oversimplifying vein, that people have enough to live by but nothing to live for; they have the means but no meaning” (p.140).
Frankl adds that one of the primary reasons why this epidemic is so pronounced in the modern age is that “man has suffered another loss in his more recent development inasmuch as the traditions which buttressed his behavior are now rapidly diminishing” (p.106). This seems to me a reference to the post-enlightenment’s abandonment of religion en masse. For if religion is that vehicle that most directly asserts meaning into man’s life, and if meaning is the dominant motivational force of man, modern man’s abandonment of religion can be seen as nothing less than catastrophic in its psychological implications for mankind.
It is for this reason that Frankl urges the reader to run once again toward meaning, and not away from it. The challenge: This striving for meaning necessarily introduces a new degree of tension into one’s life that, like the tension of my congregant, is oftentimes uncomfortable. In one of the most compelling paragraphs in the entire book, Frankl writes:
“Thus it can be seen that mental health is based on a certain degree of tension, the tension between what one has already achieved and what one still ought to accomplish, or the gap between what one is and what one should become… We should not, then, be hesitant about challenging man with a potential meaning for him to fulfill. It is only thus that we evoke his will to meaning from its state of latency. I consider it a dangerous misconception of mental hygiene to assume that what man needs in the first place is equilibrium or, as it is called in biology, ‘homeostasis,’ i.e., a tensionless state. What man actually needs is not a tensionless state but rather the striving and struggling for a worthwhile goal, a freely chosen task” (pp.104-105).
It’s worth noting that for all of the tension that the striving for meaning spawns, it is this very progress that generates the seeds to human happiness. Again the wise words of Victor Frankl:
“To the European, it is a characteristic of the American culture that, again and again, one is commanded and ordered to ‘be happy.’ But happiness cannot be pursued; it must ensue. One must have a reason to ‘be happy.’ Once the reason is found, however, one becomes happy automatically. As we see, a human being is not one in pursuit of happiness but rather in search of a reason to become happy, last but not least, through actualizing the potential meaning inherent and dormant in a given situation” (p.138).
How similar is this reflection to the teaching of the great German Torah sage, Rabbi Samson Rafael Hirsch zt’’l (1808-1888), who taught in his commentary to the Chumash (Devarim 4:1) that the word simcha, “happiness,” is etymologically related to the word tzmicha, “growth.” The concept is that one cannot achieve the state of happiness by pursuing happiness directly, as happiness is not a product in and of itself. Happiness is, rather, the natural byproduct of, and emotional response to, the experience of human growth.
The time has come, then, for us to reconsider our emotionally-fraught relationship with tension-filled meaning, if for no better reason than the selfish pursuit of our very own happiness.
To contact Rabbi Yogi Robkin, email him at yrobkin@dataofplano.org.

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Many common phrases born from Tanach

Posted on 16 November 2017 by admin

Recently, I’ve been thinking of the many moralistic adages and maxims that pepper our daily conversations with family and friends, curious to see how many of them are consistent with Torah thought and values.
What I’ve discovered is that while some of the most famous English adages seem to have been plucked straight out of Tanach (The Five Books of the Torah, the Prophets and the Writings), others, though quoted frequently and with an air of authenticity, directly contradict thousands of years of Jewish tradition.
Take the phrase, “Two heads are better than one.” Although the exact phraseology is first recorded by the English writer John Heywood in his collection of English proverbs (1546), it was probably inspired by King Solomon’s wise statement in Kohelet/Ecclesiastes (4:9), “Therefore two are better than one, for they may well enjoy the profit of their labor.”
Another expression, “Two wrongs do not make a right,” though not a direct play on a Biblical verse, calls upon us to not take revenge, itself a Biblical prohibition, and the saying “Honesty is the best policy” is certainly meant in much the same vain as the Biblical verse “Distance yourself from a false matter” (Shemot/Exodus 23:7).
Other adages find similar expression in the oral tradition of the Mishnah, most notably in the ethical teachings found in Pirkei Avot (Ethics of the Fathers).
“There’s no time like the present” certainly sounds a lot like Hillel’s statement (Avot 1:14), “And if not now, when?”
“Actions speak louder than words” is meant in the same vain as Shamai’s directive (Avot 1:15), “Say little and do much.”
And the oft-stated maxim “Don’t judge a book by its cover” appears much like an adaptation of Rabbi Meir’s exhortation (Avot 4:27), “Do not look at the container, but at what there is in it.”
On the other hand we have the phrase, “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.” This expression is recorded to have appeared in the Christian Recorder of March 1862 as an “old adage,” and though meant to persuade the child victim of name-calling to ignore the taunt, refrain from physical retaliation and remain calm, the phrase in and of itself is most certainly inconsistent with Jewish tradition, which has always recognized the depth of pain that verbal insults can inflict upon their intended victim. Besides the Torah prohibition of hurting someone with words (onaat devarim), the Torah includes a special prohibition against humiliating others (Sefer Ha-Mitzvos, lo ta’aseh 303), a sin which the sages of the Talmud compare to murder (pointing out that the blood leaves a person’s face).
And what of the the old proverb, “Children should be seen and not heard”? The author of this ditty had obviously never attended a Pesach Seder!
There is, however, one phrase in particular that more than all others captured my attention. It is a phrase steeped in great moral complexity, and for that reason has been rendered into two opposing statements over time. It was the Roman poet Ovid (43 BCE-17/18 CE) who wrote in his collection Heroides (II:83) that “the result justifies the deed.” This would give rise to the modern rendition, “The end justifies the means.” (It is Niccolò Machiavelli (1469-1527), the father of modern political science, who is often quoted as championing this position in his renowned work The Prince, but that is a matter of scholarly debate, many arguing that his approach was much more nuanced than any one citation might reveal.)
On the other hand we have the counter-expression, “The end doesn’t justify the means,” which seems to have developed as a response to the earlier common phrase.
So, what does Judaism have to say about this moral conundrum? May one be as Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to give to the poor? As in everything in Torah, the answer is nuanced, each scenario requiring its own halachic assessment. On the one hand one may violate all of the commandments of the Torah (cheat, lie, steal, etc.) in order to fulfill the supreme mitzvah of saving a life (the only exceptions being the three cardinal sins of murder, idolatry and sexual immorality). On the other hand, the Talmud (Sukkah 30a) rules that one may not fulfill a mitzvah by means of a sin (à la Robin Hood).
It would seem, then, that the general rule of thumb in Judaism is that the ends do not justify the means, but that there are extenuating circumstances which necessitate certain evils for the sake of much greater goods.
It seems to me that G-d, too, adheres by the overarching principle of the ends not justifying the means. In the story of the Covenant of the Parts we read of G-d’s promise to Abraham that after much suffering under the hands of a foreign nation his children would one day come to inherit the land of Canaan.
The Torah records: “And the fourth generation shall return here, for the iniquity of the Amorite shall not yet be full until then” (Breishit/Genesis 15:16).
Rashi (1040-1105), the primary commentator on the Torah, illustrates that G-d was explaining to Abraham why He could not bring the Jewish people to the Holy Land any earlier than the fourth generation. The reason: Delivering the Jewish nation into Canaan would mean the expulsion of the native Amorites from the land, and G-d could not exile the Amorites from the land any earlier than the fourth generation, a time when (G-d knew that) their sins would have accumulated enough to be worthy of the punishment of exile.
You see, G-d, too, had a “mitzvah.” He was to bring the holy nation into the Holy Land. And yet, His message for all generations is that even such a monumental deed could not be done at the expense of a nation not yet worthy of exile. Such a supernatural orchestration of events would be the divine equivalent of a mitzvah brought about through a sin. And such an action is no mitzvah at all!
It would certainly be interesting if we all examined the phrases we use most commonly in our lives, considered their deeper meanings and reflected upon whether or not they are consistent with our tradition. I am quite sure you will similarly find it a rewarding experience.
To contact Rabbi Yogi Robkin, email him at yrobkin@dataofplano.org.

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