Parashat Ha’azinu
New: Echoes of Eden Project:
(Don’t) Look Back
Listen and Hear: Heaven and Earth
The Straight and Just Path
The Song of Moses
audio
Haazinu
Thursday, September 24, 2015
Sunday, September 20, 2015
Yom Kippur 5776 “And though the holes were rather small...”
Rabbi Ari Kahn
Yom Kippur 5776
“And though the holes were rather small...”
In a daring and optimistic passage,
the rabbis describe the Divine assistance[1]
received by those who make even the smallest gesture of repentance:
R.
Yassa said: The Holy One, blessed be He, said to Israel: My children, make for
Me an opening of repentance no bigger than the point of a needle, and I will
widen it for you into openings through which wagons and carriages can pass. (Shir HaShirim Rabbah 5:3)
The
Gaon of Vilna[2]
focused on the odd language of this passage, which seems to be built upon a
mixed metaphor: When referring to the eye of a needle, it would be more
appropriate to use any of the words that denote a small gap, crack or hole.
Instead, the word used is petach (opening), which is most commonly
associated with an architectural gap such as a door or window. Alternatively,
the contrast might have been drawn between the hole a pin leaves in a garment,
rather than the eye of the needle, as compared to the wide gap created when a
door is opened. The Gaon learned a very deep and significant lesson regarding
repentance from the peculiar wording of this passage:
Sometimes,
a small hole is of no significance. For example, when dough is left to rise, one
may poke a hole in it that causes the dough to collapse, but the retreat is
only temporary; soon enough, the dough will rise even higher than before. On
the other hand, if one makes a hole in a garment – the hole is clear and
permanent. The Gaon taught, based on this difference, that although God
recognizes even the smallest gesture of repentance and responds with great
largesse, man’s gesture must be real, and not merely a fleeting, halfhearted gesture
that leaves no impression on our own inner world.
The
examples used by the Vilna Gaon to illustrate this teaching seem far from
haphazard or coincidental. The first image, of dough as it rises, is an image
familiar to readers of the Talmud as a metaphor for the evil inclination.[3] As
dough becomes leavened, it expands and rises in a manner analogous to the human
ego. Like the yeast in the mixture, sin draws all the other ingredients that
comprise the human personality into the inflated sense of self-importance and
self-sufficiency upon which the evil inclination feeds. Sticking a needle into
the evil inclination, like poking a finger into a batch of rising dough, is a
futile gesture; it makes a very temporary impression. This, the Gaon teaches
us, is not the sort of repentant gesture that will stir God to come to our aid,
to meet us along our path to repentance and guide us toward the light. Simply
poking at the growing, festering mixture as it expands and rises actually helps
the yeast work more effectively; this is not real teshuva.
On
the other hand, a hole made in a garment is qualitatively unlike a hole in
rising dough; it is permanent, discernable – a proper petach or opening.
This second image employed by the Gaon refers to a “beged,” a word rooted
in the Hebrew verb begidah, betrayal:
The first clothing appeared after Adam and Eve ate from the forbidden tree and became
suddenly aware of their nakedness. The clothing worn to cover their innocence
is, therefore, both a consequence of sin and a sign of their rebellion, their
betrayal of the trust God had placed in them, and their loss of innocence.
The
fight against sin is a difficult battle, and the message the Vilna Gaon hoped
to convey in this teaching is that we must be sincere, and make a real and
discernable effort to change. Lip service or a bland poke at our own puffed-up
egos will not suffice to convince God to come to our aid. Only when we feel the
consequences of our own sin upon our shoulders, only when we become aware of
how we have clothed ourselves in self-justification and continue to glorify our
own rebellion – only when we make a hole in the garments of sin with which we
cloak ourselves will we be capable of breaking through and tapping into God’s
mercy. In a way, we may compare this hole to the tear a mourner makes in his or
her garment, expressing a sense of loss and irreparable damage. And just as the
torn garment cannot truly express the grief and pain of losing a loved one, the
hole we make in our “clothing of sin” cannot fully express the remorse and
shame that is the core of teshuva. Even
so, just as the smallest tear is a permanent sign of mourning, so too the
smallest hole in our tightly-woven web of ego and self-deception is guaranteed
to arouse God’s Mercy. Even a hole the size of a pinhead becomes the starting
point for a new relationship with God. Through that small but permanent petach, a world of teshuva is born.
Thursday, September 17, 2015
Audio and Essays: Parashat Vayelech and Yom Kippur
Audio and Essays Parashat Vayelech and Yom Kippur
Hakahel and Chag Haasif
Essays:
Parashat Vayelech 5776:
The End of the Shmita Year: An Opportunity to Begin
Again
Gather the People
All For One and One For All
audio:
Vayelech
Teshuva:
Audio:
“Shuvu Banim”
Going to Azazel
Teshuva the
connection between the Individual and the collective
The Disappearance of Truth
The Ten Days of Teshuva
Yom Kippur and Transcendence
The Teshuva of Resh Lakish version
1 -2010
The Teshuva of Resh Lakish -version
2 -2013-
Yom Kippur and Affliction
Lectures in Hebrew: שיעורים בעברית
כל נדרי - תפילה עם 9 נשמות (Kol Nidrie – a prayer with nine lives- Hebrew)
חולה ביום הכיפורים - שיטת ר' חיים
מְעֻוָּת לֹא־יוּכַל
לִתְקֹן
התשובה של ריש לקיש
Parashat Vayelech 5776 The End of the Shmita Year: An Opportunity to Begin Again
Rabbi Ari Kahn
Parashat Vayelech 5776
The End of the Shmita Year: An
Opportunity to Begin Again
Every
week, as Shabbat comes to a close, we mark the departure of the Shabbat Queen
with a short havdala ceremony, as one weekly cycle ends and the next begins.
Often, havdala leaves a bittersweet taste
in its wake. On the one hand, we are forced to lower the curtain on our
much-needed day of rest, and return to the mundane concerns of our daily life.
On the other hand, the day’s end also
frees us from the many prohibitions of Shabbat.
Even one of the greatest Jewish
philosophers of the modern era, Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, admitted that
despite its holiness, the limitations to creativity and action that Shabbat
observance places upon us can be “annoying.”
In much the same way, as the end of the
Jewish year approaches, we are on the cusp of a new annual cycle as well as a
new seven-year shmita cycle. As the sun sets on the last day of 5775 and we
usher in the new year, we simultaneously take leave of the shmita year, its
unique holiness – and its unique restrictions. Although there is no havdala
ceremony to mark this transition, we would be well served by putting some
thought into the start of a new seven- year cycle.
The desire to live in the Land of Israel
is multifaceted. For some of us, it is mainly an outgrowth of our awareness and
desire to connect to this land’s history, while for others the excitement of
building Israel’s future is the strongest bond.
There are those for whom Israel is a
natural expression of our peoplehood, while others are swept up by the holiness
of this unique place – holiness which is often associated with the very earth
beneath our feet, the ground on which our patriarchs and matriarchs carved out
our national ethos, the fields and plains that have served as the bedrock of
our national history for millennia.
Jewish law has always addressed this
holiness, serving as a tool to heighten our awareness and connection to the
land itself. The laws of the sabbatical year are a primary example, but they
are much more: By encompassing aspects of spirituality, social justice and
socioeconomics, they mirror many other facets of our national existence.
Allowing the land to “take a break” is
sound agricultural practice. It is also healthy, both physically and
emotionally, for the farmer – although it is far less healthy for the farmer’s
bank account.
The laws of shmita seem to compound the
difficulty. Not only is it forbidden to work the land in the seventh year, but
the land and all its produce become ownerless for the duration of the year.
Anyone and everyone, humans and animals, are equally entitled to enjoy what the
Land of Israel brings forth.
It is therefore not difficult to
understand why the laws of shmita have historically been quite difficult to
observe. Farmers and, by extension, the entire economy were faced with a
Herculean challenge, as the nation’s finances shifted to “faith based
economics.” In a preindustrial society, alternative food sources were scarce,
even nonexistent; the prospect of hardship must have been overwhelming, and the
required level of faith in God extreme.
And yet, the sanctions and consequences
spelled out by the Torah and the prophets are severe: Failure to observe the
shmita will result in exile.
No wonder, then, that at the end of the
shmita year, not unlike the end of Shabbat, our feelings are mixed. For some, a
sigh of relief is in order – not only relief from the prohibitions and
limitations on proactive working of the land, not only the rush of adrenaline
that Israel’s farmers feel as they are permitted to rekindle their active love
affair with the land, but, in recent times, relief from the divisiveness that
has come to be associated with shmita observance.
There may be no area of Jewish law marked
with as high a level of discord as shmita, whose observance is marred by
competing kashrut sensibilities that are often diametrically opposed to one
another.
The irony is poignant, since even the
most secular modern Israeli is familiar with the famous adage, borrowed from
rabbinic commentary to the Torah, “What does shmita have to do with Mount
Sinai?” Today, this phrase usually points out that two subjects are completely
unrelated, but a cynical reinterpretation of it may aptly describe today’s shmita
observance: There is no connection between shmita, the most fractious of all
subjects, and Mount Sinai, where the nation stood “as one man, with one heart.”
Perhaps we can draw from another aspect
of our weekly experience. As Shabbat wanes, we begin looking ahead to the next
Shabbat. For some, these thoughts and musings are of a culinary nature: Which
food or wine would we like to have at our next Shabbat table? Others look ahead
to the social opportunities, planning who their next guests will be or with whom
they would like to spend their next day of rest.
As the shmita year comes to an end, we
should be thinking along these same lines: How will the next sabbatical year
look? What does shmita mean in a modern, mainly non-agrarian, industrialized
society? How can we make shmita more relevant and more significant to our lives
in the modern State of Israel? How can we improve the shmita experience and
reconnect with its original purpose? Can we find better ways to tap into the
social underpinnings of these laws and apply them in a postindustrial economy?
How can the benefits and the burdens of shmita observance be shared among all
sectors of society? Is there a way to apply debt cancellation, an integral part
of shmita observance, in our current financial system, and to allow Judaism’s
vision of social justice to help bridge the vast chasm between Israel’s haves
and have-nots? These are questions that we should address right now, as we end
one shmita cycle and begin again. If we put shmita on the back burner and wait
six years to ask these questions, it may be too late to formulate any
meaningful response to the challenges and opportunities the sabbatical year
holds in store.
As the shmita year draws to a close, we
would do well to ponder two diametrically opposed talmudic teachings.
The first is dark and somewhat ominous.
In a discussion of the destruction of
both the first and second Jewish commonwealths, the sages note (Ta’anit 29a)
that in both cases the destruction took place in the post-shmita year. Apparently
the Jewish people had not properly observed shmita; society, unraveled from
within by discord and disheartened by a lack of faith, was unable to withstand
the external threats it faced.
However, on a more positive note, the
Talmud (Megila 17b) records a tradition that, ultimately, redemption will come
at the end of the shmita cycle. In a sense, this upbeat teaching is a
challenge. Proper observance of shmita creates social justice and unity, and
these, without a doubt, are the key to our national and personal redemption.
For more in
depth study see: http://arikahn.blogspot.co.il/2015/09/audio-and-essays-parashat-vayelech-and.html
———————————-
This
article originally appeared in The Jerusalem Post (Metro & In Jerusalem sections), September 11.
2015. Reproduced with permission.
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Book review of "When God is Near" by Rav Amital
When God is Near
by Rabbi Yehuda Amital
Adapted and Edited by Rabbi Yoel Amital,
Translated by Karen Fish
Yeshivat Har Etzion, Maggid Books 2015
Reviewed by Rabbi Ari Kahn
When
reading any book written by someone you know (or knew), and most especially
books written by one’s own teachers or mentors, we can often hear their voice
as we read the printed words, and we are transported back to the classroom or beit midrash. However, reading When God Is Near is
more complicated: Rav Yehuda Amital spoke and taught almost exclusively in
Hebrew, and in the time I spent at Yeshivat Har Etzion I do not believe I ever
heard him speak any other language. Nonetheless, despite the barriers of time,
place and translation, while reading this volume of Rav Amital’s sichot (talks), I was able to hear his voice, and
not only the teaching voice Rav Amital used when he addressed us in the study
hall, but his voice as shaliach
tzibbur, leading his beloved Yeshiva in prayer. In a certain sense, the
latter may be the more important voice, for Rav Amital was, in the broadest
sense of the term, a shaliach
tzibbur, and it was this same role, this calling and sense of
responsibility, that he strove to pass on to his students and followers.
While
Rav Yehuda Amital’s name may be familiar to the English speaking public the
world over, I suspect that his torah is not as well known; perhaps this is
one of the many unfortunate byproducts of the divide between religious Zionism
and its close relative in the diaspora, modern orthodoxy. While these two
communities face different challenges, the points of similarity between them
make the present work (and others like it) all the more important to the
observant English-speaking community outside the Land of Israel. Admittedly,
few American Roshei Yeshiva will dedicate a key lecture or lesson to those who
are not present in the room, as Rav Amital did regarding talmidim who were absent due to active military
service. However, the underlying orientation, the educational message, the
challenge presented by Rav Amital’s sichot, should speak to every Rosh
Yeshiva, and student: To raise students who serve the larger community and are
engaged with the world beyond the parochial confines of the beit midrash.
When
God Is Near is
comprised of lecture notes and transcriptions of short pre-selichot – Rosh Hashana, and Yom Kippur talks,
Rav Amital gave in Yeshivat Har Etzion. Each of these sichot shimmers with the introspection
and holiness of the Days of Awe, while at the same time allowing the reader a
taste of Rav Amital’s personal torah. As a whole, this book is about
responsibility. It is about personal greatness. Its foci are man, God and
change. At various junctures, the reader may get the sense that Rav Amital was
addressing himself, or perhaps allowing us to share his inner world. Those who
were privileged and fortunate enough to have attended a shiur or sicha can still hear his voice speaking
through the text; others may simply draw inspiration from the tremendous
insight and wisdom each chapter holds. In either case, Rav Amital’s greatness
as a teacher is unmistakable: In each sicha he attempts not merely to impart
information, but to mold and inspire his students, and to pass on to them his
own passion for Torat Yisrael, Am
Yisrael and Eretz Yisrael.
Rav
Amital proves to be a sensitive reader of texts, whether the text in question
is biblical, rabbinic or liturgical - but that is only the point of departure
for many of these sichot. His vivid
imagination and ability to paint a picture for his audience are, quite
literally, inspiring. Indeed, Rav Amital actually explains the basis for these
flights of imaginative fancy (page 171): In The Kuzari, Rabi
Yehuda Halevi encourages us to visualize the significant events of Jewish
history, including the Revelation at Sinai and Akeidat Yitzchak. Rav Amital rises brilliantly to this
challenge, and throughout When God Is Near, he shares with us what he sees:
deliberations between biblical characters, scenes that he imagines taking place
in heaven, and so much more. Similarly, his insights are often illustrated with
scenes from his own past: the Europe of his childhood, or the war years, his
experiences as a lone survivor and his participation in the great drama of
building a new country in a very old land.
In
the chapters that comprise When God Is Near, teshuva (repentance) is transformed from an
individual concern into an issue of community responsibility. Unlike those who
take great pride in the unprecedented numbers of Jews currently studying Torah,
Rav Amital laments the unprecedented number of Jews who are distanced from
Torah or who have rejected Torah outright. Despite having been born into a
Hasidic Hungarian-Jewish family, Rav Amital fell under the influence of Rav
Kook from a very early age; remarkably, Rav Amital managed to acquire and hold
on to Rav Kook’s writings throughout his years in Nazi labor camps. Rav Kook’s concept
of teshuva as a national goal, and not merely as
a personal quest, was a major influence on Rav Amital, who would not allow
himself to be satisfied with life ensconced in his Yeshiva when so much
disbelief was ravaging the Jewish community just beyond the walls of the beit
midrash. In this context, Rav Amital draws upon a daring teaching of the
Hasidic master Rav Tzadok HaKohen of Lublin: If a person’s self-identification
or identification by others is Jewish, this is sufficient reason to allow their
conversion – even if their acceptance of mitzvot is lacking (page 214). The
collective Nation of Israel includes all those “to whom the name Israel is
applied, ” and the holiness of the Jewish People falls equally on those for
whom the sobriquet “Jew” is their only connection to Judaism. Rav Amital
stressed that the purifying power of Yom Kippur is available to these Jews as
well, even though their knowledge and practice may be limited when compared to
that of the Yeshiva student. Rav Amital’s message is clear: The privileged and
entitled Yeshiva student should feel a deep sense of responsibility for the
larger community, and never feel superior to other Jews simply because
circumstances provided him with better Jewish education. Our introspection on
Yom Kippur, then, must encompass the collective, with all its disparate
elements, and we must pause and consider whether or not we have met our
responsibility to the Nation of Israel. Additionally, we are called upon to
take stock of our behavior as citizens of the even-larger collective: As human
beings, we must take responsibility for the world in which we live, and
universal concerns such as the eroding ozone layer and pollution are raised as
well. God assured us that He would not destroy the world with a second flood,
but we are given no guarantees that the world will not be destroyed by our own
greed, carelessness or stupidity (page 149).
For
the most part, the chapters of When God Is Near are undated, an unfortunate editorial
oversight in a work so firmly rooted in the author’s personal vision. Thus, for
example, the many discussions of Akeidat Yitzchak leave the reader in need of a
chronological anchor. Rav Amital wonders aloud about Avraham’s emotions,
thoughts and words as he made his way toward the holy mountain, his beloved son
at his side. What personal akeida, we wonder, haunts each of these sichot? Is it the loss of his entire
extended family, or of European Jewry as a whole? Is it the loss of his beloved
students, killed while heroically defending the Land of Israel and its people
that colors his analysis of the Akeida? In one particular essay, Rav Amital
contrasts the willingness of the father to sacrifice his son and the
willingness of the son to be sacrificed - with the “shaheed” (suicide terrorist). He reports
searching through midrashic literature, to no avail: He could not find even one
midrash in which either Avraham or Yitzchak are assured of a share in the World
to Come that awaits after the Akeida. Rav
Amital then goes on to express theological disappointment with those who
believe in an abstract, non-corporeal God on the one hand, but whose vision of
heaven is obsessively tangible, physical, “a place where they can realize their
wildest and ugliest fantasies,” (Page 157) on the other. Had this essay been
placed in historical or political context, the message would have been far more
poignant to the reader.
I
admit that I am unaccustomed to reading Rav Amital’s words in English (although
this is not the first volume of his teachings that has been translated). If I
were to quibble, I would complain that at times the translation in When God Is Near is a
bit formal: Often, a phrase or verse that is used as the starting point for an
essay would be more easily understood in the original Hebrew. Though there are
occasional transliterations, they are too few and far between. In fact, it
would have been far more helpful to quote biblical verses and quotations from
the liturgy in Hebrew; even for the average English-speaker, these basic texts
are far more familiar in the original.
Despite
these minor complaints, this is an important book. Rav Yehuda Amital was a
great teacher, and the leader of a large and important community. He charged
his students to take responsibility. He taught them to be independent, he
groomed them to lead, and he charged them to be holy and to sanctify God’s Name
– and never to desecrate it. Unfortunately, Rav Amital’s voice is largely
unheard in many of the communities that have the most to gain from his
teachings, and those who are unfamiliar with his work would do well to learn
his torah, hear and
heed his unique voice, and accept his challenge: Dare to be great.
Friday, September 11, 2015
Sunday, September 6, 2015
Parashat Nitzavim 5775 A Holy Collective
Rabbi Ari Kahn
Parashat Nitzavim 5775
A Holy Collective
As Moshe prepares to
leave the stage of Jewish history, he invokes a covenant between God and the Jewish
People. This is neither the first nor the only time a covenant is discussed,
but here in Parashat Nitzavim Moshe introduces an element never clearly stated
before:
I am not forging this
covenant and this oath with you alone; I am creating this bond with those of
you who are standing here with us today before God, as well as those who are
not here with us today. (Dvarim 29:13-14)
The covenant includes all
those who were present at that time, but so much more: This is a
trans-generational covenant. All future generations are bound by this agreement
as if they themselves had stood on the eastern shore of the Jordan River and
heard Moshe’s parting speech, as if they had witnessed the forming of the
covenantal community with their own eyes, as if they themselves had signed, as
it were, on the dotted line. This is not a particularly strange feature of the
agreement: Individuals often find themselves subject to agreements in which
they were not active participants. Governments, corporations and individuals
often make pacts that obligate others. Nonetheless, this particular agreement
has profound ramifications, for it creates a new entity, a new concept: The
Jewish People.
The Nation of Israel
consists of the sum total of all Jews in the world, but not merely the sum
total of all living Jews. The Jewish Nation is an aggregate that includes all
Jews who have ever or will ever live. The covenant forged before Moshe’s death
specifically includes future generations as well, and, by extension, applies
not only to the covenant itself, but to all of the intellectual, spiritual and
physical assets that the covenant accrues. The Land of Israel, then, is given
to the collective People of Israel, and not only to those who were present when
it was promised to them or even those who actively participated in the
conquest. Each generation is therefore considered caretakers, not owners; the
Land of Israel is the property, the birthright, the inheritance of the entire
trans-generational collective. Similarly, the Torah was entrusted to those who
stood at Mount Sinai, but it “belongs” to all of Israel. It is the spiritual
birthright of each and every member of the collective. A teacher who refuses to
teach Torah to any Jewish student is, in fact, withholding the rightful
inheritance of an heir, denying the rightful owner of this intellectual and
spiritual treasure access to what is theirs. Every teacher is an executor of a
spiritual estate, and each and every teacher must see to it that the heirs - who
may not be aware of their rights or may be incapable of fully appreciating the
value of their inheritance- receive and cherish what is legally theirs.
There is, however,
another side to this covenantal relationship. Because each and every Jew is a
part of this larger collective, mutual responsibility is its unavoidable
result; this is one of the most well-known aspects of Judaism. However, we
might not have been aware of the scope of this mutual responsibility: Just as
the covenant spans all past and future generations, so, too, does our
responsibility for one another. A Talmudic passage illustrates this point: Tractate
Rosh Hashanah (32b) records a tradition that the angels complained to God that on
Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur the Jews do not sing the hymns of praise that make
up the Hallel Prayer. God Himself came to the Israelites’ defense, explaining that
these are days of judgment, during which “the books of the living and the books
of the dead are opened” before Him, making this an inappropriate time for songs
of thanksgiving, joy and praise. Interestingly, the text does not refer to the
more familiar “Books of Life and Death,” or the heavenly ledgers in which all
human deeds are recorded and counted on these fateful days of judgment.
Instead, the books of those “living and dead” are opened. Surely, the book of the living must be opened
in order to judge each person according to their deeds and merits, but why, we
might ask, is the book of those who have passed on from the mortal world opened
as well? Surely they are beyond judgment! Not so, we are taught: During the
Days of Awe, the dead – even those who died long ago - are judged, not for
their actions during the passing year, but for the impact they have had on the
world they left behind.
Here, then, is the trans-generational covenant of mutual
responsibility in action: The actions of the present generation impact the
judgment that is handed down regarding those who came before them. By their
actions, the living have the power to give new meaning to the lives of members
of the community who came before them, to transform and elevate their legacy in
this world and their spiritual existence in the world beyond our own.
At this time of year, as we are ponder the power of teshuva (repentance) to change the past,
to turn our mistakes or transgressions into positive growth experiences, we
should also consider the impact we might have on the more distant past. On a
personal level, teshuva is both
liberating and redemptive. It allows us to make a clean break, to free
ourselves from the stain that we have inflicted on our own souls. Mistakes can
be corrected; lessons can be learned. We can change our own past, and be energized
and elevated by our newfound relationship with God. At times, the sin that is
truly and wholeheartedly repented can become the strongest part of a person’s religious identify. This may be
compared to a rope that is severed, and rejoined by a tight knot that becomes the
strongest part of the entire rope. Moreover, the knotted rope, a metaphor for
the relationship between man and God, is now shorter than before; the distance
between man and God has become smaller. The sin and subsequent teshuva bring man closer to God than he
was before.
The lesson of Parashat Nitzavim, though, goes even further
than this personal bond with God, for we now understand that the
trans-generational nature of the covenant allows us to share in the redemption
of past generations as well. By upholding the covenant, we build our own
relationship with God, while at the same time we impact the generations that
preceded us in the covenantal community. We can give meaning to the sacrifices
made by our ancestors, or redeem the opportunities that our predecessors may
have missed. We can be inspired by positive deeds of relatives who may otherwise
have been forgotten, and bring the collective Jewish people closer to God and
closer to realizing our glorious shared destiny. Such is the nature of this
covenant; such is the nature of the Jewish People.
For
a more in-depth analysis see:
http://arikahn.blogspot.co.il/2015/09/parshat-nitzavim-and-rosh-hashana-audio.htmlhttp://arikahn.blogspot.co.il/2015/09/parshat-nitzavim-and-rosh-hashana-audio.html
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