semicha<\/em>, my rabbinic ordination, in my early twenties. I continued to spend my days studying Talmud in the yeshiva I had attended since high school, Rabbi Jacob Joseph Yeshiva in Manhattan\u2019s Lower East Side.<\/p>\nI was totally immersed in my studies and engaged in a complex discussion with my study partner when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the principal of the entire school, Rabbi Ginsberg, who had succeeded his predecessor, Rabbi Yehuda Leib Kagan, with whom I had a close relationship since my high school years but who was, at that time, retired.<\/p>\n
After I responded to Rabbi Ginsberg\u2019s gentle tap on my shoulder, I turned to him, stood up, and before I could say a word, he told me that he had an important proposal to discuss with me. It seemed that the teacher of one of the high school classes, a Rabbi Pantel, was ill and a substitute was required. He wanted me to be that substitute. I told him that I had zero experience teaching a class full of teenage boys, to which he responded, \u201cYou will learn the trade on the job.\u201d He then shared with me that Rabbi Pantel\u2019s illness was dire and that I would have to discontinue my personal Torah study and commit to several months of teaching. Somehow, I found his invitation attractive. I accepted it on the spot.<\/p>\n
Although Rabbi Kagan, the former principal, had retired, he remained active in various capacities in the yeshiva. It occurred to me that I could invite him to come to my new classroom and give me some advice on handling twenty-five adolescents and inspiring them to actively participate in the advanced curriculum. I asked him in Yiddish, \u201cKenn der Rav koomen tzu mein cheder<\/em>, Can the Rabbi come to my room?\u201d <\/p>\nHe bristled at the word koomen<\/em>, come. He insisted that I should have added a prefix to koomen<\/em>, either ankoomen<\/em> or tzukoomen<\/em> or dernenteren<\/em>\u2014not \u201ccome\u201d or even \u201cvisit,\u201d but rather \u201cjoin\u201d or \u201cconnect\u201d or \u201cdraw close\u201d to me and my class. <\/p>\nHis lesson concerned not only word choice, but the relationship between a teacher and his pupils. The semester-long dialogue that followed centered on the essentials of pedagogy. Rabbi Kagan visited my classroom several times a week throughout that semester and often summarized his message in Yiddish: \u201cDo not relate to your students merely by \u2018coming\u2019 to class. You must approach them, draw close to them, and treat them as grown-ups\u2014not as kinderlach<\/em>. You must convey excitement, joy in learning, and an appreciation of their potential and individual differences. Be a human being, not a fussy, boring old has-been.\u201d<\/p>\nNear the end of our semester in each other\u2019s presence, Rabbi Kagan referred to the first verse in ourparsha<\/em>. \u201cThe Israelites did not just \u2018come\u2019 to the Holy Land. They approached the Land. They anticipated it eagerly, they looked forward to it, they became one with the land, they experienced it as their home.\u201d<\/p>\nI remember supplementing his lesson by the power of the punctuation mark. One can say, \u201cWe arrived.\u201d Or one can say, \u201cWe arrived!\u201d That exclamation mark reframes the statement from an ordinary comment on the end of a journey to an expression of exhilaration and an achievement ofmamashut<\/em>. Rabbi Kagan, despite his background as a Lithuanian Torah scholar and Chief Rabbi of a major Jewish community in Belgium, was adept in the English language and responded gleefully to my use of a minor change in punctuation.<\/p>\nThat experience left me with a lifelong appreciation for the true meaning of ba <\/em>in all of its grammatical forms. One example is in Megillat Esther<\/em>, which refers to Haman\u2019s arrival at the king\u2019s palace with the phrase \u201cVayavo Haman<\/em>,\u201d chanted by an experienced reader with great flourish. Haman didn\u2019t just \u201ccome\u201d to the palace, nor did he simply \u201carrive\u201d there. He came enthusiastically, expecting glory and success, royal rewards of mamashut<\/em>, tangible and substantial material benefits.<\/p>\nSo too, we look forward at this time of year to \u201cLeShana haba\u2019a b\u2019Yerushalayim<\/em>, Next year in Jerusalem\u201d does not mean \u201cnext year we will visit Jerusalem, period.\u201d It means \u201cnext year, with overflowing enthusiasm and boundless joy, we will merge with all that is Jerusalem, exclamation mark!\u201d<\/p>\nI\u2019ve just tried my best, at some length, to make my point as to the full meaning of \u201ccoming to the Holy Land.\u201d Someone who lived in eighteenth-century Morrocco, who emigrated to the Land of Israel and who is buried in the Mount of Olives overlooking Jerusalem, made a similar point in his brief opening comment to this week\u2019s Torah portion. I refer to Rabbi Chaim ben Atar, the Ohr HaChaim HaKadosh. <\/em>I quote:<\/p>\n\u201cVehaya ki tavo el ha\u2019Aretz<\/em>. Note the word \u201cVehaya<\/em>,\u201d a term used to connote joy, simcha<\/em>. This underscores that there is no more lofty joy than dwelling in the Holy Land, as it is written in Psalm 126:<\/p>\n\u201c\u2018When the Lord restores the fortunes of Zion, we will be like dreamers. Then our mouths will be filled with laughter, and our tongues with songs of joy.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n
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