A small child walked daily to and from school. Though the weather one morning was questionable and clouds were forming, the child made the daily trek to the elementary school.
As the day progressed, the winds whipped up, along with thunder and lightning.
The mother was worried that her child would be frightened walking back home from school and she herself feared the electrical storm might harm her child.
Following the roar of the thunder, lightning would cut through the sky like a flaming sword. Being concerned, the mother got into her car and drove along the route to her child's school. Soon she saw her small child walking along, but at each flash of lightning, the child would stop, look up at the sky and smile.
One followed another, each time with her child stopping, looking at the streak of light and smiling. Finally, the mother called and asked, "What are you doing!"
Her child answered:
“I'm smiling for G-d; He keeps taking pictures of me."
Most countries in our industrialized world have accepted midnight as the beginning of our 24-hour "day." The Babylonians, worshipping the sun, reckoned it from sunrise to sunrise; the Umbrians from noon to noon. It was the Jews who started their day in a completely different fashion: at sunset.
Shabbat does not begin Friday at midnight, or Saturday morning at sunrise; it begins Friday at dusk when the sun sets, and it continues till nightfall of Saturday.
This is often confusing for Jews who don’t realize that Jewish holidays—as do all Jewish days—begin on the evening before.
Why do our days begin with sunset? Should a new day not begin when we awake, rather than when we retire? Night, it seems, is the end of the day rather than the beginning of a day! Why not commence a new day with light rather than with darkness?
What is more, why does each of our days consist of 24-hour periods, which consists of both night and day? Would it not make sense for our days to be divided by the clear demarcation of light and darkness—each morning a new day and then each evening a new and separate day?
On Shabbat Bereishit, when we read about the creation of the universe where at the end of each day of the six days of creation it says:
"And it was evening, and it was morning; day one", "And it was evening, and it was morning; the second day;" "And it was evening, and it was morning; the third day;" etc.
By mentioning evening before morning, the Torah defines the 24-hour “day” as beginning with the evening, followed by the morning.
Everyone agrees that life is full of ups and downs. We go through periods where the sun is shining upon us and we feel on top of the world, only to turn a corner and be faced with difficulties and obstacles that drag us down. But it isn't long before something pleasant comes our way to pick us up again.
The question is: which one wins the day, the ups or the downs? Is life a series of disappointments dotted by the occasional glimmer of hope? Or are we on a journey upwards, with challenges along the way to make us even stronger in our quest for truth?
Does darkness extinguishes the light, or does light conquer darkness? Does night follow day or day follow night?
The Jewish view is clear. "And it was evening, and it was morning." First the night, then the day. Darkness is a pathway to the sunrise hiding behind it. A challenge comes our way only to help us tap in to and reveal our inner powers that have until now remained unfathomed.
That's Jewish time: the comfort in knowing that no matter how dark it may seem, it is the light that will have the last word.
This is why the Torah does not designate night time as an independent day, nor does it even allow us to begin the day with sunrise and conclude it with night time, or midnight. The darkness of night must never be perceived by us as possessing an independent substance; darkness, in Jewish thought, is always nothing but a prelude, an introduction, a forerunner for light. The night is the precursor for the day. Night exists. Darkness exists. At times it is dense, thick, and heavy. But it is never the end. It is always the beginning. “And there was evening, and there was morning;” “and there was night, and there was a day.” The night is the beginning of a journey; it has a purpose: to transform it into light; to use it as a prelude for a new light, for a new beginning, for new horizons, for new discoveries.
Some people actually say it differently: “Remember, whenever one door closes, another slam in your face.”
You know the old saying: Why are New Yorkers so tense and depressed?
Answer: You would also be if the light at the end of your tunnel was—New Jersey…
And yet, Judaism still maintains, that a third door opens somewhere…
This idea reflects our entire life narrative.
“And there was evening, and there was morning.” When we are in the womb of our mother, we are in the dark. It is night time. But then comes birth—when we emerge into a bright world, where we see the light of day. Birth is the morning that follows the evening of pregnancy.
But then, we die. It is night again. But in Judaism, the day never ends with the night. The soul does not die, it lives on for eternity. And will even return back to life after the coming of Moshiach.
You might have heard of the MC who introduced the guest speaker: “Our speaker needs no introduction. What he needs is a conclusion.”
We all need conclusions. And that is what matters most. What is our conclusion? “And there was morning, and there was a day, and there was light.”
It all happened on a simple day back in 2011. A group of 50 Jewish teenagers visited Israel in a program known as “Write on For Israel,” in which these youngsters spend a few intense weeks learning much of the history and the reality of Israel, as a training program for them to become spokesmen for Israel at their future schools and campuses.
A few years ago, as their visit was coming to an end, just a few hours before their flight back home to the US, the kids visited Mt. Herzl, gazing at the thousands of graves of Israeli soldiers killed in battle over the last seven decades.
Suddenly they noticed a mom and dad standing at a grave, weeping silently. One of the boys approached them, introduced himself, and inquired about the person buried in the grave.
They said it was their son Erez. Erez Deri, the son of Penina and Gidon Deri, was killed in 2006 following an operation in Jenin. He went into Jenin, the center for dispatching suicide bombers to murder as many Jews as possible, to take on the killers. His tank turned over and he was killed.
Erez’s mother said:
“Our dream was to bring Erez to the chupah… to watch him get married and begin a family. But in 2006, our dream was shattered. Our family has been devastated as a result of this tragedy.
“Last night, Erez came to me in a dream. He said: Mother! We bring our children into chupah. But there is one more thing we “bring in to the chupah:” A Torah Scroll. When we complete writing a Torah, we lead it under a chupah, just like a groom and bride, and we bring it into a shul, singing, and dancing, just like a wedding.
“You can’t bring me into marriage. But you know what? Why not write a Torah in my name and you will bring that it to a chupah—it will be like marrying me off!”
And the mother continues: I awoke from the dream. But we are a simple family, not wealthy. We are also a secular family and do not know much about writing a Torah Scroll. I do not even know where to begin. How do I write a Torah for my son Erez? So I came here to my son’s grave to pray…”
The teenager approach the director of their group, Rabbi Yutav Eliach, and asked him one question:
How much does it cost to write a new Torah?
$35,000. Or, 130,000 Shekel, he said.
The teenager shared the story with the entire group. They all decided right there at Mt. Herzl to donate the Torah for Erez.
They did the math. If each of the 50 students gave or raised $700 it would cover the entire project.
Many of them stuck their hands into their pockets and gave Rabbi Yutav the $700. The others pledged to deliver him the money they would raise upon their return to the US.
A few months later, a surreal scene took place in Maale Adumim, a town close to Jerusalem, where Erez’s family lives. It was Sunday, March 4, 2012. With music blasting, 50 New York-area teens from Write On For Israel, danced up the streets of this community with a new Torah they brought from the United States. The Torah was donated to a local synagogue in memory of one of its young members, fallen IDF soldier Erez Deri.
The 50 students fulfilled the promise made to Deri’s parents following a chance meeting at Mount Herzl a few months earlier.
“We started as strangers and returned as extended members of the Deri family,” said Daniella Greenbaum, leader of the fundraising effort. “It was beyond exciting to see the joy that we brought to these parents and to affirm the idea that we are all members of Am Yisrael, responsible for one another.”
At the celebration, Penina Erez, said to the students: I feel the presence of Erez at this celebration. I feel like I brought my child into the chupah! I feel like he is dancing with us. A terrible burden has been lifted from our family.
A few months later, the family celebrated the wedding of one of Erez’s brothers.
“And there was evening, and there was morning.”
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky
Tom Peacock wrote...