The Torah’s Punchline

That summer, as I transitioned into my second career as a rabbi, I decided to attend a yeshiva program at the Conservative seminary.

I was perhaps also there to prove to myself that I could actually grasp some of the Talmudic and theological concepts I would need in order to become a rabbi. My educational career in elementary and high school had been less than stellar.

Late one afternoon, after class, I decided to walk from my apartment to Jerusalem’s primary Orthodox community, Meih She’arim.

This was not the Judaism I grew up with. There was very little exposure to the outside world. Men in black hats and beards gathered around bulletin boards reading news sheets curated for them by Israel’s chief rabbis.

I recall my father soon after the Six Day War, travelling to Israel, and bringing back photos from that neighborhood of graffiti which actually condemned the State of Israel.

“Israel can only happen when the Messiah comes,” read one slogan spray scrawled in red.

On that day, as the Torah recounts between Abraham and Isaac, I decided to “redig my father’s wells.”

I visited a few books stores, bought a kippah, and like many you while travelling, decided to venture off the main road.

And it was there along one small side road that I looked up and noticed a sign “Olive Wood Art.“ I entered and found myself surrounded by men and women whittling, carving and trimming pieces of olive wood.

There, were Torah pointers, challah boards, walking canes, and Bible verses carved in wood.

But it was an older man sitting in a corner hammering and gluing who caught my attention.

It was his job to build “shtenders.” These are wooden stands designed to enable Talmud students to rest their books at an angle—freeing both hands for discussion.

I asked, “How much are the shtenders?” And he replied, “Thirty-five shekels.” In US funds, that was $10.50.

“I’ll take one,” as I basked in my good fortune.

As I waited for him to hand me my stand—expecting it to be sealed in a plastic bag, he held up his left hand, pressed his fingers together, and said regah—“one moment.”

“What do you want printed on it?” I asked what the choices were.

And he replied, “Your name, and your favorite few words from the Torah.”

“My name is Yisrael,” I replied.

As for my favorite passage, I responded with words which from my early years as a rabbi, to this day, I consider to be the essence, if not the punchline of the Torah.

“U’vecharta V’Chaim.” Choose life.

He looked up from his chair, from his black kippah and pullover tallit to my beardless face and t-shirt—and replied. “Really—this is my favorite too.”

And for the next few minutes we discussed about how so much of life is a choice. That whether we are in Israel, or in America, Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, observant or secular—that these two words capture the entire journey of the Jewish people.

That regardless of what is thrown to us—from ancient times to today—faced with so many reasons and opportunities to give up or to look for the worst in people—we choose life.

And since that day, that shtender and I have become inseparable.

You may notice the shtender in front of me at Rosh Hashanah services, with those two words facing me as we navigate the High Holidays.

Since my arrival at CTI almost 20 years ago it has embodied a personal belief that there is much to learn from all religious perspectives—and that the time for dividing Jews into denominations has passed.

And that now, more than ever, we must unite under God’s common gift of life.

As the High Holidays approach, let us open our hearts to challenge our cynicism and complacency—to, and as the alarm clock of the shofar reminds us—to break away from life’s “same old, same old”—and return to our true self.

For we are by definition, a people of hope and values, kindness and compassion.

Indeed, against the odds, over the centuries, regardless of where or how we were raised, we continue as a nation to survive.

Above all, through these two simple words, uttered by Moses three thousand years ago, we choose life.

Shanah Tovah. Shabbat shalom.

Rabbi Irwin Huberman