Former US Ambassador David Friedman Warned by State Department: ‘Don’t be so Jewish’ and What You Can Do for Your Elderly Parents By Hanna B. Geshelin and Why Read the Ketubah at the Wedding? By Aharon Loschak and The Courage to Identify as a Jew on CampusBy Melinda Mindy Ribner
Yehuda Lave is an author, journalist, psychologist, rabbi, spiritual teacher, and coach, with degrees in business, psychology and Jewish Law. He works with people from all walks of life and helps them in their search for greater happiness, meaning, business advice on saving money, and spiritual engagement.
Former US Ambassador David Friedman Warned by State Department: 'Don't be so Jewish'
photo Credit: TPS
U.S. Ambassador to Israel David Melech Friedman went first to the Western Wall, straight from the airport, upon his arrival in Israel to start his new job.
Former U.S. Ambassador to Israel David Friedman was warned by a State Department staffer in 2017 not to be "so Jewish," Breitbart has revealed.
Friedman reportedly recounts the anti-Semitic episodes in his new book, "Sledgehammer: How Breaking with the Past Brought Peace to the Middle East," which is set to be released on Feb. 8.
The book centers on how the White House under former U.S. President Donald Trump successfully achieved the Abraham Accords and a new era of peace in the region.
The excerpt from the book that was shared by Breitbart is as follows:
Word of my stubborn insistence on standing with our ally Israel had now circulated widely within the State Department. Another senior staffer decided to call me and offer the following advice: "Mr. Ambassador, don't be so Jewish."
"What?"
"Don't be so Jewish. You represent the United States of America. Tone down the Judaism in your work."
Don't be so Jewish.
I was furious. "Do you think I am under any disillusion as to who I represent? I'm not a politically correct person but I have to ask you, why do the laws of political correctness not apply to Jews?"
"Just a free word of advice." Worth the price.
Friedman said that the remarks were made ahead of Trump's first visit to Israel in May 2017, when the White House was still in conflict over whether to move the U.S. Embassy from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, where it sits today.
The former ambassador helped arrange a visit for Trump to the Western Wall on that trip, making him the first sitting U.S. President to do so.
A great number of elderly people reside in care facilities or at home with 24-hour paid help. While they are physically cared for, their spiritual needs may be harder to meet.
My experience working in a kosher nursing facility provided insight for me, and it's something that might work for others. I learned how important it is to educate caregivers about our Jewish practices. By teaching the nursing assistants about Judaism as it related to their job, they felt appreciated and empowered, which in turn resulted in a higher level of personal, as well as religious care for our patients.
My job in the nursing home was to provide Jewish cultural programming. In the course of my day, I met many of the residents' family members. One year, after the holiday of Shavuot, several family members told me that they had been upset at the low number of patients who attended religious services and the inappropriately casual appearance of those who were there. Since the nursing assistants help dress patients and transport them to activities, I realized that they had probably never even heard of this holiday before and certainly had no idea of its importance. Some education was needed.
While my boss was of the opinion that trying to teach nursing assistants was not necessary or possible, the Jewish owner of the home thought it was a good idea. I decided to give the classes on my own time.
Most of the nursing assistants were Haitians or refugees from the violence then occurring in Central America and did not speak English. But most people want to do a good job, regardless of any language barrier. So before Rosh Hashanah, I set up times with the director of nursing when I could speak to the shift workers. I also spoke with the head of food service, who assured me that on Rosh Hashanah, everyone who ate solid food would receive apple slices and packets of honey.
I posted notices in English, Haitian-Creole and Spanish by the employees' lockers. All employees were invited; at both sessions, the room turned out to be packed with nursing assistants, nurses and janitorial staff. Bilingual employees translated my 15-minute talk and the questions that followed into Haitian-Creole and Spanish.
I explained the traditions and significance of the holidays of Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Sukkot. I talked about repentance and forgiveness of the first two holidays, and joy on the third, as well as that blessings for all the nations of the world were made in the Temple during Sukkot.
I then discussed the custom that would be most difficult for them: offering apple slices with honey to patients who could not feed themselves. The honey would make this a messy job, so they might be tempted to skip it. However, I explained, even people whose memories are gone might, at some place deep inside, respond to the crunch of apples and the sweet taste of honey, and that this might be their only—and perhaps, last—religious experience.
The room was silent. As I looked around the room, I realized that many of the men and women wore Christian symbols. They were deeply religious themselves. I thought they might understand, and apparently, they did.
After the holidays, I was told that an unprecedented number of patients—all decked out in their holiday clothing—attended services. Even women with unsteady hands wore tastefully applied makeup, clearly put on by someone else. And most surprising, the nursing assistants seemed to be in a holiday mood in spite of the extra work involved.
Before Chanukah, I gave a similar talk. The last question was from a woman who had hesitated to raise her hand. With a lot of encouragement, she finally asked her question.
"I heard that Jews have a lot of blessings," she said. I nodded. "I heard that you even have a blessing for when people go to the toilet?"
Everyone tittered.
"Yes," I explained. "You, among all people, must know how miraculous it is when all of a person's tubes and ducts open and shut properly because you have to take care of patients who have no control, or who have diseases that prevent the normal opening and closing of these tubes and ducts."
The packed room was absolutely silent. Those in the room, whose work shifts were filled with diaper and bed-linen changes—not to mention walking shuffling old people to the bathroom—understood this more than most. This blessing means that Jews, as a people, acknowledge the importance of these unpleasant tasks. By making a blessing for these functions, we also indirectly bless those who handle them when we cannot take care of them ourselves.
By the simple act of taking the time to include the nursing assistants in the culture of the residents, I showed that the work they did was important, appreciated and valued.
These lessons meant more than a simple thank you, because I shared my own time and opened a window on my own spiritual life. In turn, the care staff came to appreciate Judaism and the place of religion—so important in their own lives—in the lives of our residents. This gave their work a totally new and unexpected dimension, as shown when one woman told me that she had hated to clean up after incontinent patients, but after I explained the Asher Yatzar blessing (said after bodily elimination), she felt she was doing holy work and was sure her care reflected this change in attitude.
As I thought about honoring my own mother, I remembered these experiences. I made sure that any questions my mother's caregiver had about Shabbat or holiday observances were answered and that she understood how to ensure that my mother's religious life continued within the narrow confines of her life. Her caregiver made sure that Friday night dinner was special, and she helped my mother light her Shabbat candles every week.
Teaching nursing assistants or a full-time caregiver about holidays so that they can help their patients is one way of honoring our parents. It takes a little time and the ability to open yourself, but it pays huge dividends in the type and quality of care your parents (and others) will get.
I would also encourage you to approach the management of kosher-care facilities who have a large number of Jewish residents and offer to speak to the caregivers, and not just to the residents. The rewards are great for you, and the rewards for the elderly are huge.
This week—when the Ten Commandments (including the commandment to honor our parents) are read in synagogue—would be a great time to start.
By Hanna B. GeshelinMore by this author Hanna Bandes Geshelin has been a writer and teacher for many years. She has been living in northern Israel since 2017. Art by Sefira Lightstone. Our in-house artist, she is an editorial illustrator who creates art to empower the Jewish collective online. Past clients have included the Forward, Mosaic Mag, and the Jewish Press. You can follow more of her work on her personal instagram account where she focuses on activism @sefiracreative.
If you have, you may have noticed that one of the rituals performed under the chuppah is the reading of the ketubah, the marriage contract.
Many think it's a romantic notion. As the flowery document is unrolled and the ancient Aramaic words (hopefully) roll off the reader's tongue, the crowd can almost feel the bonds of love between the newly minted husband and wife.
The problem is that a ketubah is far from (just) a contract of love. In fact, it's pretty much the exact opposite.
Sure it contains a single line in which the husband commits to, "serve, honor, feed and support you … faithfully." But if you actually read the tongue-twisting Aramaic, it states in no unclear terms that if the husband ever even dreams of divorcing his wife, he is on the hook for a very large sum of money.
The history of this document harks back to Talmudic times when marriages were much more convenience-based, and too many men were easily dismissing their wives on flimsy pretenses. As a protection against flippant men, the rabbis put measures in place that would make them think twice before kicking their wife to the curb. Thus, the ketubah was born.1
Considering its contents, isn't the chuppah a bad place to read it? Why would we want to evoke scenes of divorce and hefty payouts during this moment of love and devotion, when the relationship is just being built with good feelings all around?
Why talk about destruction during construction?
There are halachic reasons,2 but there's a deeper lesson here.
The Construction Project
Parshat Terumah opens with the fledgling nation's first construction project: the Tabernacle. "Make for Me a home,"3 G‑d requests, and in what's probably the first and last such occurrence, the people overwhelmingly respond to the fundraising campaign. Gold, silver, copper, and an array of other donations pour in. Before long, the project is well underway.
The rabbis see tremendous significance in every element of the Mishkan's construction: the materials used, the height of the walls, the way the furnishings were laid out—everything was designed to reflect different facets of Jewish life and meaning.
In this vein, the Midrash4 draws a connection between four materials used in the Mishkan's construction, and four eras in Jewish history. Using Biblical references, associations are made between gold, silver, copper, and the red-dyed ram skins and the four kingdoms of Babylonia, Persia, Greece, and Rome. These are important nations in Jewish history, as they are responsible for the "four exiles"— the four periods of foreign rule to which we have been subjected.5
But, here again, we cannot help but ask: why talk about destruction during the construction? Why would the Midrash find references to the nations who destroyed our Temple in the very verses that speak of its construction?
A Compelling Story
What makes a compelling narrative?
Ask any scriptwriter worth their salt and they'll tell you: conflict. If there's no conflict, there's no character growth, no narrative arch—and it's profoundly uninteresting.
There's a reason we all love a good story, because that's what life's all about: navigating and resolving conflict, and more importantly, growing from it.
G‑d Wants It, Too
And you know what? A good story of overcoming conflict is what G‑d wants more than anything else as well.
There are all types of great places that G‑d could have chosen to call home. G‑d is perfect, and He could have chosen to remain alone with His perfect self. Or at the very least, to create a spiritually marvelous world full of angels and other celestial beings who recognize His glory and hallow His name.
In fact, G‑d did create such worlds, but He didn't stop there, opting to create this brute, physical world we call our universe—a place full of material objects and interesting creatures that haven't the faintest clue who or what G‑d is.
And defying all logic, it is this world that G‑d chose to be His home. The Torah that embodies His deepest will was not given to angels, nor did He keep it for Himself. Who did He give it to? To me and you—lowly humans in a very material world.
You know why?
Because it is only in this world that there is conflict, darkness, and confusion—and most importantly, courageous humans who do their best to overcome it all.6
De-Construction
And that is why the verses that speak of the Temple's construction allude to its destruction.
You see, the Temple was about constructing a home for G‑d. It was designed to be the spiritual epicenter in a physical world, the place where G‑d's presence would be most manifest on the terrestrial plane. And so, the people responded with gusto, eagerly pooling their resources to construct a magnificent structure that would shine with sanctity.
That's all well and good, but remember: a shining edifice with no challengers nipping at its heels doesn't make for a compelling story. The true construction of the Temple is only realized when there's destruction, when conflict is introduced. When the Jewish people are exiled and thrust into dark and challenging situations and nevertheless build a home for G‑d there too. Then the ultimate purpose and goal of the construction project is realized.
A Temple oozing G‑dliness is wonderful, and we hanker for such days. Better yet, though, is a people without a Temple, without overt G‑dliness, who nevertheless manage to introduce G‑d wherever they go.
When conflict is introduced and then resolved, that's interesting and satisfying.
A Compelling Life Story: Overcoming Conflict
A wedding is a construction project. It is when two people decide to build a life and a relationship together.
Under the chuppah, it's all smiles and roses. Starry eyed with love and infatuation, the relationship is effortless and oh-so-romantic; a shining edifice oozing with positivity.
But it's hardly compelling, and not yet that interesting.
The true test of the young couple's love will be when conflict arrives. And it will. To see how the two lovers navigate, resolve, and grow from that conflict—that makes for a compelling storyline. That is when their true love will be realized and a real relationship will be born.
And so, under the chuppah, during the construction, we talk about the destruction, the ketubah. "You're going to face conflict, of that I'm sure," intimates the ketubah-reader in those lilting Aramaic words. "Do not be dejected or afraid. On the contrary, embrace it!—for then you will be able to truly realize the depth and beauty of your flowering relationship."7
The simple reason is that under the chuppahtwo rituals are actually being performed: " kiddushin"and " nissuin," loosely translated as "betrothal" and "marriage." Historically, these two steps were conducted up to a year apart. In post-Talumdic times, however, that practice was abolished, and the present practice of doing everything together was instituted. To make a distinction between the two steps that occur in sequence, we "break it up" by reading the ketubahaloud. See Rama., Even Ha'ezer61:9 .
The gold [used in the Mishkan] corresponds to the kingdom of Babylonia, of which the verse states, "You are the head of gold."
The silver corresponds to the kingdom of [Persia/] Media, as the verse states, "[If it pleases the king, let it be written to destroy them,] and I will weigh out ten thousand silver talents…."
The copper corresponds to the kingdom of Greece, as it was the least powerful of them all.
And the red-dyed ram skins correspond to the kingdom of Edom, as the verse states, "And the first one emerged reddish…"
G‑d said: Though you witness four kingdoms boastfully dominating you, I will sow salvation for you from the midst of your servitude.
This essay is based on Likutei Sichot16, pp. 292-297.
By Aharon LoschakMore by this author Rabbi Aharon Loschak is a writer, editor, and rabbi, who lives in Brooklyn, N.Y., with his family. Editor of JLI's popular Torah Studies program, he is passionate about teaching transformational Jewish ideas. Art by Yitzchok Schmukler. A resident of Montreal, Canada, Yitzchok paints contemporary Jewish art with a vibrant palette and modern flair. To learn more, visit his website.
It may have been in my second or third year of undergraduate school when I began to wear a Jewish Star of David and identify myself in public as a Jew. At the time, I was not connected to any synagogue. I was not learning Torah. I knew lots of Jews, but I didn't know anyone who identified in public as a Jew or wore a Jewish star. Choosing to visibly wear one at that time was actually a demonstration of considerable courage and faith on my part. Yet I also felt that I had no choice so the world could see me as a Jew.
It was the late 1960s and '70s.
My values were challenged
The universities I attended for undergraduate and graduate school were left-wing institutions. On the very day that my parents dropped me off for my freshman year, we were greeted with a nude protest on the front lawn of the main campus building. We walked through the group with our heads down. My parents were speechless; I don't recall ever talking to them about what we witnessed. I was confused but also inwardly excited by how outrageous and unconventional college life would be.
I remember feeling like a farm girl from Idaho next to the sophisticated students from New York City. I grew up very sheltered, attended a high school with only 60 people in my grade, and was involved in Jewish extracurricular activities. I didn't have many dates, as my father would not allow me to stay out past 10 p.m. Now here I was in college living on my own.
My roommate that year was a beautiful Jewish woman from Long Island, N.Y., with long, bleached-blond Cleopatra style hair, who sported mini-skirts and pearls. She looked more like a model or movie star than a college student. In our few, limited conversations, she distinguished herself as a worldly sage who clearly knew more about life than I did. Much to my chagrin, she spent only the first two or three nights in the room with me. I had no idea where she was or what she was doing. Occasionally, she stopped by briefly for a change of clothing. By January, however, she dropped out of college completely to travel with a graduate student she had been living with. So I basically had a private room.
In those early months of college, I was confronted for the first time with promiscuity, drugs, tear gas, and a variety of alternative lifestyles and ideologies. I so much wanted to belong and participate in the spiritual awakening taking place on the college campus. I was attracted to the universality, expansiveness and spirit of egalitarianism of the ideology being promulgated in and out of classes. I was excited, even thrilled, to meet and dialogue with the kinds of people I never would have met in my small private high school. I was amazed that I even had conversations with charismatic leaders of Communist/Socialist anti-American revolutionary movements right in the college meeting center. But when these radical socialists began to denounce Israel, I knew I could no longer associate myself with them; bashing Israel was a red line—then and now—that I will never cross.
I became confused about who I really was. My values were challenged. Was I simply a product of my parental, societal or peer values, or did I have a more transcendental, more essential inner self? Why was I born? What was my purpose? What is life? I was haunted by deep existential questions. Life itself felt like an existential question. Even though I was popular in college and had dates most nights, I was lonely and troubled. Taking courses in sociology and philosophy only added to my anxiety and discomfort. Therapy offered me no relief. In my despair and loneliness, I called out to G‑d and began to meditate on my own.
My inner life was rich, deep and intense. I talked to G‑d, and then I listened deep inside. In an effort to diminish my personal anguish, I sought to attach myself to G‑d. G‑d became the only source of inner strength for me in a world that I felt was going mad.
In the midst of my loneliness and despair, I sought out the campus Hillel rabbi. He advised me to not think so much and to take up a physical activity, like swimming. He also recommended some Jewish books that addressed the existential questions that so deeply troubled my soul. I became ecstatic meditating on these teachings and no longer felt so alone; still, I had no one to talk to about what was taking place within me.
One day, I happened to listen to a folk song that implied that it was cowardice not to tell the world that G‑d is your healer, G‑d is your strength. The words were something like: "You come to G‑d in secret, G‑d heals you, gives you strength, and yet you hide that experience and are afraid to tell the world Who healed you." It was at that moment that I decided to wear my Jewish star; I knew that I had to let the world know that I believed in G‑d. It would be an act of cowardice and inauthentic of me to pretend otherwise.
The Jewish star was my signal to G‑d, to myself and to others that I believed and trusted in G‑d, as a Jew. No matter what has happened to me—and I have experienced many extraordinary challenges and hardships—the Jewish star has always reminded me that G‑d was, and is, my strength and my refuge.
Some days when I wore the star,
Some days, it felt dangerous
it felt dangerous to expose it. Nevertheless, I continued to wear it. I still wear it today.
In time, I found wonderful Jewish teachers, books, practices, friends and students who have helped me fulfill my soul purpose. I began teaching Jewish meditation in the early 1980s and have done so almost continually since then.
I feel called upon to share this story now because I know that a spiritual story can open gates for people. There may be people who are suffering, anxious and confused by what is happening in the world or in their personal lives who will be encouraged by this story—encouraged to listen to their own souls and deepen their relationship with G‑d and Torah. What they are looking for can be found.
By Melinda Mindy RibnerMore by this author Melinda Mindy Ribner, a spiritual psychotherapist in private practice, is the author of Kabbalah Month by Month, The Secret Legacy Of Biblical Women, and three more books. Art by Sefira Ross, a freelance designer and illustrator whose original creations grace many Chabad.org pages. Residing in Seattle, Washington, her days are spent between multitasking illustrations and being a mom.
