“My teire kinderlach... my precious little children, how beautiful you are... Tell me my little treasures,” my grandmother would say, fussing over us as we entered the house, “What would you like to eat? I have everything prepared just for you!”

Eagerly we would follow her into the enormous kitchen, our mouths watering in anticipation of the many delicacies that awaited us. In the home of our grandparents, every meal was a party, every day a joyous holiday. But the time would pass all too quickly. We were loath to leave. We did not want our vacation ever to end.

And yet, in retrospect, it seemed odd that we children were never bored, that we never became restless. In those days, there were no TV sets with which to keep children amused. Come to think of it, my grandparents` home did not even have any toys, but we never lacked for something to do. My grandmother kept a special treasure chest just for us, “her precious little ones.” It was a great big box filled with all manner of marvelous thing; buttons of variegated shapes and colors, bits of ribbon and lace, trinkets
of no special value or significance, but which to us were wondrous, and far more exciting than the expensive toys found in today`s nurseries.

But perhaps what I recall most vividly from those early childhood days were the times when my grandfather would allow me to accompany him to his study. I adored those visits to his library... I loved to sit at his feet, playing my silent games to the rhythmic sound of his sweet voice chanting passages from the hold books. And how very special I felt, when for a moment he would interrupt his studies, pour himself some hot tea, and beckon me to bring the plate with the little cubes of sugar.

“Thank you, my precious little one,” he would smile, as he took the sugar and lifted me to his knee. “It`s time for you and me to have some refreshment.”

Who can imagine the joy that I felt as I bit into those marvelous cubes and sipped the hot golden liquid. To me, there was nothing more delicious. At such times, my grandfather would tell me some wonderful stories, tales of our family, our people, our glorious past, our G-d. Sometimes I would fall asleep in his arms, his beautiful long while beard covering my head.

My grandfather was a holy man, a rabbi, a sage. His saintly face always radiated kindness and inner peace. I never saw him lose his temper, manifest anger, or even become annoyed. He was a man of G-d, and his very presence communicated serenity, warmth, and love.

One cold winter morning, while a heavy snow storm raged outside, I ventured alone into my Zeide`s study. I looked forward to being lifted onto his knee and sharing some delicious tea with him. But when I opened the door, I became terribly frightened... My Zeide was sitting in his chair, the huge books open before him; but there were tears streaming down his beautiful face. My Zeide was crying! I was scared. Something must be very wrong. Zeides were not supposed to cry. In a panic, I ran to my father, “Tatie, Tatie,” I exclaimed. “Something horrible has happened. Zeide is crying!”

My father took me in his arms, and I buried my head in his shoulder. “Come my child, let`s take a walk outside, and I will explain it all to you,” he whispered reassuringly.

As my father dressed me in my winter coat and boots, I saw that his eyes too were filled with tears. Slowly we began to walk in the deep snow, my father walking ahead of me, and I following in his footsteps. After a while, my father paused and pointed to the path we had made in the clean, fresh snow. Bending down to me, he asked gently,

“Do you know why I walked ahead of you?”

“Yes,” I replied readily, “so that I could walk in your footsteps so that I wouldn`t fall.”

“Yes, little one,” my father nodded. “I walked on ahead so as to make the way for you... And now you will understand the meaning of your Zeide`s tears. It is not only in the deep snow that a father must make a path for his children, but also on the greatest of all roads, the road of life. Many embark on this lonely trek never to reach their destination... they stumble and fall. It is a road that is fraught with hardship, difficulty, and pain. But we are blessed, because our Zeide is paving the way for us. When he studies the holy books, and when with each work he sheds a tear, he plows a furrow... paves the way. Your Zeide begs the Almighty to grant that all his children may walk on the road of life with ease... that all his descendents may be learned of the L-Rd, followers of the commandments. Yes, my little one,” my father concluded, “your Zeide is blazing a path for us. We need only walk in his footsteps to claim our heritage.”

I was only a little girl at the time. I did not fully understand the import of my father`s words, but the memory of my Zeide`s tears never left me, and in moments of difficulty, I would hear my father`s voice whispering, prodding me on: “IT`S EASY... YOU HAVE ONLY TO FOLLOW THE PATH!”

Yes, it all happened many years ago... Hitler`s henchmen gutted my grandparents` beautiful house. My beloved Zeide, together with my little cousins, were deported to Auschwitz, where the Nazi butchers ordered the babies and the elderly to be among the first to be cast into the flames.

A survivor related to us that my Zeide would not abandon the little ones. He lifted them onto his shoulder, soothed their cries and with his sweet chant of “Shema Yisrael,” and with the last breath tried to shield them from the poisonous gases. As he walked with his precious charges, his tears continued to fall, paving the way for yet another generation.

My father is the only surviving son of my Zeide, and my brothers and I, the only surviving grandchildren...

When, with the passage of time, the Almighty, in His infinite mercy, granted me the privilege of giving life to my first son, in the midst of my joy, I remembered those tears. I named my son “Yisrael” in memory of my Zeide, and I prayed that he might continue to walk that well trodden path, that he might follow in the footsteps, that he might become yet another link in that glorious heritage.

Today, it is my own father who is the Zeide. Today, it is he who weeps as he pores over the ancient books, and it is I who interpret the meaning of his tears to my children.

By the strangest of coincidences, on the Sabbath on which we celebrated the Bar Mitzvah of my son Yisrael, the Biblical portion read in the synagogue was from the Book of Deuteronomy (known in Hebrew as “Parshat Akev”) in which the text appeals specifically to Yisrael.

My dear father, my son`s Zeide, quoted this passage: “Now then Yisrael, what doth the L-rd your G-d require of thee? Only that you revere the L-rd your G-d, that you walk in His path...”

“Is then reverence of G-d such a simple matter,” my father challenged, “that the Bible should minimize it by using the diminutive `only?`”

And even as he posed the question, he answered by saying: “Yes, it is a simple matter if you have someone who prepares the way for you... someone who has walked the path... someone who ventured into the deep snow... Then my child, it becomes easy... Blessed are you, Yisrael, for you had a great grandfather who paved the way for you.

You need only follow in his footsteps.”

Tears flowed down my father`s hold face, and suddenly, as I looked at him, I saw my grandfather and his fathers before him. My father`s name is Abraham, and as he spoke I could have sworn I heard the voice of the first Abraham. My grandfathers, my ancestors were all fused into one. I looked at my son and I was overcome by an indescribable feeling of joy. I wanted to shout and proclaim: “Listen world... My Zeide Yisrael who was cast into the flames of the crematoria – He never died. He is here today... My son is walking in his footsteps!”

Every one of us at one time or another had a grandfather who shed tears, who paved the way; a grandfather who even today would be willing to accompany us on that great road. We need never feel abandoned... We need never fear...We are never alone... We need only uncover that path – that well trodden road which is our roots, our heritage.

To be sure, that road may be obscured, but nevertheless it is there. And once discovered, it enable us to walk on the road of life without stumbling... with strength, stability, and even grandeur.

Part Two: Roots: An American Quest

Adjusting to a new and alien environment by necessity entails a certain amount of culture shock and emotional turmoil, and our family`s experience proved no exception to this rule. Upon arriving in this country there was much to which we had to acclimate ourselves, and it was by no means easy.

Perhaps one of the most difficult things to accept was the realization that the great majority of Jews in America had no personal knowledge of, or commitment to, their heritage. We moved into a neighborhood in Brooklyn that was totally Jewish, yet devoid of all semblance of Jewishness. I remember the terrible pain that I experienced when walking on the street with my father, I saw small children point to his long white beard and taunt: “Hey look at Santa Claus!”

I glared angrily at them, and thrusting my hand defiantly into my father`s, I challenged: “Don`t you know what a Rabbi is?”

“You must be patient with them, my father whispered to me. “While it is true that they are Jews, you must realize what they do not have the background. They do not
understand.” And to prove his point, my father turned to them and asked: “What`s your Jewish name?”

They were silent. They did not know.

“You see what I mean?” my father said. “We must teach them. We must explain. That is our task.”

And from that day on, my father would not leave the house without some goodies in his pocked to distribute amongst the children who would now eagerly await him. When they saw him coming, even from a distance, they would clap their hands in glee and call out to one another: “The Rabbi is coming! Then Rabbi is coming!”

Proudly they would recite the blessings which my father had taught them, and repeat their Jewish names (which they had memorized). Then they would hold out their little hands for the sweets with which my father would reward their efforts. On the Sabbath and on the holidays they would gather in our home, sit at our table, and experience with us the beauty of hour heritage. Thus, despite a language barrier, a cultural and generation gap, my father, through his boundless love was able to touch their hearts and communicate to them ancient truths as no one else could have done.

It took me quite a while to acclimate myself to the rootlessness of the American Jew, but as I grew up I came to better understand it. I believe that if we are to gain insight into our past, it is essential that we determine how our American culture has conspired to obscure from our view the well trodden path of our grandfathers.

America was founded on dreams of the future, on innovation and change. Immigrants came to these shores determined to abandon the past and chart a course for a new and better tomorrow. That which was old was regarded as repressive, even repugnant, and that which was new became synonymous with innovation and progress. The cult of the young became one of the neon gods of society. To be young was to be beautiful, intelligent, worldly.. in short, to be “with it.” Conversely, old age came to be associated with debility, senility, degradation and uselessness. The very term “old fashioned” became a put-down, something to be ashamed of.

Americans have gone to all ends to preserve the illusion of youth. “Thing young!” “Act young!” “Dress young!” “Look young!” has become the rallying cry.

One cannot help but shudder at the sad spectacle of the elderly vainly attempting to emulate the young. The tragedy implicit in this hedonistic paean to youth was brought home to me recently when a young college student told me of his experience with his grandfather who had retired to Miami.

Barry (the student) had become disillusioned with the college scene and was searching for something more substantial – something to identify with – someone to relate to.

And so, when he went down to Miami during the winter vacation, he decided that rather than seek excitement at night clubs, Jai Alai, or dog races, he would spend some time with his grandfather.

Grandpa was delighted, and suggested that they double date. He had a new girlfriend whom he was anxious for Barry to meet.

Barry was hurt, and declined the invitation. In relating the incident to me, he tried to analyze the reasons for his pain. “After all,” he said, “I understand that my grandfather is still a young man and has the right to lead his own life. Why then, do I harbor this resentment? Why did I refuse to meet him?”

Poor Barry… He had no way of articulating his desperate search for an authentic Zeide who could relate a tale, who could touch his soul, who could show him the path on which he might tread.

But perhaps Grandpa merits even greater pity. The poor man was convinced that he could better relate to Barry by being a pal, one of the boys… by proving that he was “with it.”

The tragedy of a generation – to have a grandpa and yet to remain deprived of a legacy… To have a grandson, and yet to be deprived of an heir.

This deification of the new has not only divested us of our roots, but it has also affected out economy, our theology, our child rearing practices, and our social conduct.

Consumer products in our country are planned with built in obsolescence. Business and advertising men capitalize on our obsession for newness by continuously repackaging the same old products. Change has become the cure all for the ills of society. Even our manner of communication has been affected. “What`s new?” has become our accepted form of greeting, and even as we make this inquiry, we lack the patience to await the answer. Our terms of endearment have also been affected. We have exchanged the Yiddish “mamele” and “tatele” (which imply deep rooted parental reverence) for the youthful sounding “baby.”

In face of these cultural attitudes, it becomes apparent why immigrants arriving on these shores have been hard put to retain their roots. To become an American, it was necessary to shed the old ways and adopt new ones. Traditional religion was associated with the Old Country, and therefore negative. On the other hand, assimilation was symbolic of the new, and therefore, American and positive. All outward manifestations of Jewishness evoked shame; the beard, the yarmulke, the tallis, were all residue of life in the Old Country and had no place in this new land. The immigrants were obsessed with the Americanization of their children. The dream of “My son the Torah scholar” was replaced by “My son the doctor.” These immigrant parents, who could hardly speak English, stood in awe of their university educated children. They willingly bartered Torah for secular achievement. Religious education was reduced to shallow and rudimentary preparation for Bar Mitzvah – rote memorization of meaningless prayer. Hence the paradox of the American Jew, who is educated in every subject but his own, who on the one hand is cultured and enlightened, and on the other is totally illiterate.

And so it is that today, the average American (even as Barry, the young student in our story) has no personal direct knowledge of his tradition. Religion has all but come to a dead end in his family. There is no one in his immediate environment who can serve as a living example of Jewishness to him. Should he seek spirituality, he is by necessity consigned to the impersonal expertise of the professionals: the institutions, the synagogues, the organizations, etc., all of which seem united in a conspiracy to divest Judaism of warmth, meaning, feeling and sanctity. At best, they represent a Judaism that is aloof, detached from spirituality, and at worst, one that borders on the vulgar.

Religion is rooted in reverence for the past, in respect for that which is timeless, and in the constant awareness that G-d`s teaching is eternal and everlasting. But such reverence and abiding faith are increasingly difficult to come by in a society in which newness is worshipped for its own sake… in which tradition has fallen into disrepute.

Not long ago I was invited to address a small parlor gathering on behalf of our organization. My host was a prominent Long Island physician and he had invited a group of his colleagues to participate. One couple arrived accompanied by their young daughter who couldn`t have been more than 18 or 19. She was barefoot, dressed in some outlandish garb, her dress and her demeanor blaring: “This is me and I don`t give a damn what you think!”

My host invited me to explain the work of our organization, but before I had uttered even a few words, the girl interrupted.

“I just can`t believe what I am hearing,” she exclaimed sarcastically. “In this day and age, how can anyone be so narrow and bigoted? There is no need for organized religion in the 20th Century. It may have been necessary in the past, when man had to be divested of his primitive instincts… but through evolution we have become civilized. Today, there is room for only one religion – love.”

For a moment there was silence in the room. We were all stunned at this outburst of naked hostility. An elderly gentleman, a distinguished surgeon, who appeared very much pained by the young girl`s attitude interrupted. “Tell me,” he said, turning to her sympathetically. “Don`t you think that a religion that is thousands of years old and has transcended civilization is worth preserving in the 20th Century?”

The girl looked at him scornfully. “It is obvious that I cannot relate to you. There is a great gap that separates us,” she said pointedly, looking at the surgeon`s white hair.

I sat there appalled… I could not believe the acceptance which her words were accorded. This girl had managed to put down a group of enlightened, successful adults simply by contrasting their age to her youth.

“Tell me,” I now asked, trying to keep my cool. “Just because you can turn on a TV at the flick of a switch, do you believe that you possess more wisdom than Aristotle did in his day?

“Tell me,” I continued, “today you can communicate with the entire world, but do you have more to say than our father Abraham?

“Today you can have more fun than your ancestors ever dreamed possible, but are you happier than they were?

“Today, all children benefit from free public schooling, but are they more educated, more intelligent?

“What is the meaning of this evolutionary process of which you speak? Who created fallout, poison gases, biological warfare, ecological disaster?

“You live in New York… can you proclaim with pride that this is what the culmination of thousands of years of progress and technology should reflect?

“You claim that love is the only ingredient necessary for survival in today`s world… But has it prevented your peers from looting, burning. Bombing and killing? Your generation has championed the cause of love, but where has it all led? Are we closer to peace, understanding, and brotherhood today than we were yesterday?”

The girl sat there, mute… But her mother angrily interjected: “You owe my daughter an apology. You just don`t know how to relate to young people. You`ve turned my daughter off!”

“yes,” The girl smirked triumphantly, quickly recovering. “I resent your attitude. You have turned me off!”

I was overwhelmed with pity for this child of the 20th Century, this product of the evolutionary process. She was rootless, unaware of her past… and her protestations betrayed her fright.

Her parents had taught her to believe that by virtue if the fact that she was alive today, she was superior to all that had preceded her, and was therefore not bound by the teaching of yesteryear. She could not draw upon her past for sustenance… She had nothing to believe in, nothing to cherish. In her world, everything was negotiable.

There were no fixed values. As a result, nothing was sacred. She had nothing to hold on to. She stood alone… The slightest wind could blow her away.

She was unaware of her own legacy unaware that we, the Jewish people, have survived throughout the ages precisely because we have been able to fortify ourselves with our timeless heritage.

Our past is ever before us… When we are summoned to pronounce a blessing before G-d`s hold Torah, it is by the names of our parents that we are identified. And when we pray, it is to the G-d of our ancestors that we turn in supplication. It is “zchut avot,” the merit of our fathers that sustains us.

We re aware that our todays are predicted on our yesterdays… that our roots lend meaning to the present… that behind us stand millennia of tradition, glory, and sanctity, and that in our veins courses the blood of kings, martyrs, and sages. It is for the perfect bliss of the past that we yearn, a time when prophets walked in our midst, when our homes were miniature sanctuaries, when fathers and sons were united in the worship of G-d. To proclaim ourselves new and independent beings is to sever this link and to precipitate our destruction.

Consider for a moment what would have become of us had our ancestors compromised their traditions in order to bring them into consonance with contemporary society.

What would our children have inherited… and what would they have to bequeath to future generations?

If religion is to have validity, it must pass the test of time and speak to us with the same degree of relevance that it did to our forefathers. Judaism is rooted in eternity, and of necessity must be dichotomous to that which is in vogue at any given time. And therein lies its invincibility.

Even in the days of Abraham, our religion was out of rhythm with the times. Abraham was branded a misfit for rebelling against the idol worship prevalent in his society.

And this pattern of Jewish dissonance has been repeated in every age. However, a generation that has been conditioned to believe that change is the magic panacea for all the ills of society will encounter difficulty in grasping the grandeur of our ancient heritage. Hence our present dilemma.

But it is not only religion that has fallen casualty to this obsession with newness. Equally damaging has been its effect on the family, and in particular, on children.

In traditional societies, homes were parent orientated. Father and mother were the undisputed rulers, and the children were their obedient subjects. In a culture, however in which newness is deified, the roles must of necessity be reversed. Thus, the parents become the willing subjects, and the children, who represent the ultimate in newness, become the tyrants to whom the adult world must pay obeisance. Under the terms of this new dictatorship, children are indulged rather than trained, granted unlimited freedom rather than disciplined, and are accorded rights rather than charged with responsibilities.

Looking back now, I believe that it was my mother, who in her usual pragmatic manner, was the first to identify this potential threat. I remember her returning one day from a shopping trip soon after our arrival in this country.

“You will never believe what I saw,” she told my father, seething with anger. “It`s just terrible. You simply cannot raise children in this country… I was shopping in this store, and a little boy nagged his mother to buy him some candy… She refused, so he began to kick her. And she just stood there as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a child to kick his mother.”

My father shook his head in dismay, his eyes conveying deep concern. “May G-d have mercy on this generation,” he murmured.

I had occasion to recall my father`s words, when, years later, on a Sabbath morning in synagogue, a six year old began to run around disrupting the service. Once of the men took him by the hand and attempted to lead him from the sanctuary. He was stopped by the boy`s father who self righteously exclaimed: “You take your hands off him. No one will tell my kid what to do!”

In their adulation of children, many American parents have come to believe that to discipline it to inhibit the free spirit and promote personality disorders and neuroses. They fail to realize that the reverse is true. Over permissiveness on the part of the parent is usually misconstrued by children as indifference. When a parent`s voice is silent… when his authority is not felt… when his wisdom is not transmitted… then the parent becomes invisible, and the child in turn, feels that he has been orphaned.

To illustrate this point – imagine in infant crying unremittingly. How can he be comforted? How can he be hushed?

All mothers know that at such times a strong steady hand is required to soothe the crying child. So it is throughout life… We year for a firm gentle hand that will transmit a sense of security, a hand that will take hold of us and promise: “Fear not… I will show you the way.”

But in a culture in which everything is constantly evolving, no one dares to apply that steady hand, No one is quite certain as to what is right and what is wrong. No one dares to peak with certitude. Absolutes do not exist. And so, in desperation and loneliness our children experiment with drugs, alcohol, and seek out gurus… anyone or anything that will give them a sense of security and permanence.

American children are rushed through childhood; they are deprived of the leisurely years of growth during which they can indulge in dreams and fantasies. Since progress is idolized, there prevails a dissatisfaction with the present. Today is not appreciated, because it is already part of yesterday. The pressure is on to live in anticipation of tomorrow. Our culture demands that our youngsters “get on with it,” and every aspect if their lives, from fashion to education and social behavior reflects this obsession.

Little four year old girls will sport adult-style bikinis, and little boys will wear a tux “just like daddy`s.”

No sooner is a child born than his career is mapped out and provision is made for his college education. As early as nursery school, pressure is applied to be “with it,” to be popular, to have boyfriends. A mother proudly related to me how her little girl was always surrounded by admirers and already knew whom she wanted to marry. Even the toys that toddlers play with are part of the conspiracy. Old fashioned dolls have fully developed adult bodies and chic hairdos. They drive sports cars, have magnificent wardrobes, expensive jewelry, and a slew of boyfriends. The six year old will fantasize about her doll`s romantic exploits; her games assume adult dimensions, and the horror of it all becomes evident when she grows up and continues to act out the same games.

By the time these youngsters reach sixth grade, they will have attended school sponsored dances, dated, and in some instances even gone steady. Given this background, by the age of sixteen, the average American teenager has experienced every scene. He can tell you all about sex, drugs, alcohol. You name it – he`s been there. He is an adult who never grew up… who has reached the chronological age of adulthood, but lacks the maturity that should accompany it. Hence, the dreadful travesty of the four year old dressed up “just like Daddy,” and Daddy dressed up like his son, trying to remain the perennial adolescent. A culture has come of age without roots…

Today there ware winds of change blowing in our society. Our youth have become disillusioned with the neon god of newness. They are beginning to discover that that which is new is not necessarily better, and that which is innovative does not necessarily generate a greater measure of happiness. They have discovered the fallibility of science. They feel betrayed, and do not know where to turn…

They are in quest of their roots, but where?… how?…

They need only open the Book to discover the answer…

It is written that when King Solomon erected the Temple in Jerusalem, he attempted to bring the Holy Ark into the sanctuary, but the gates locked and would not open for him.

King Solomon began to pray, and chanted hymns in praise of G-d, but the gates remained locked. Then Solomon raised his voice and commanded: “Open ye gates, allow the L-rd of Hosts to enter.” But still, the gates remained locked.

In desperation, Solomon cried out: “Almighty G-d, remember the righteousness of David, my father!” Instantly, the gates opened and the Holy Ark was brought into the sanctuary.

You too, can echo the words of Solomon. You too, can call upon the righteousness of your father and grandfathers and the gates shall open. The path has been prepared for you. You need only follow it…

Part Three: Roots Rediscovered

How do you actually go about opening those ancient gates of the fathers? How do you uncover that timeless path to your roots, to your heritage? And more, how does the discovery of that eternal road alter your personal life? How does it change your daily existence? Let Roy and Linda tell you. They have embarked upon that long and arduous journey.

I first met them about three years ago, a very attractive young couple who had been born into an affluent and cultured milieu. They had benefited from the best that the American educational system has to offer, on a prep school as well as university level. Roy became a successful journalist, and Linda, an accomplished artist. When I met them, they had two lovely children and every reason to be content. Yet I sensed that they were troubled, that they were being driven by a feeling of restlessness and frustration.

“I need more… I want more,” Roy told me some months later. “I saw a society crumbling, I saw my own peers, who had received every possible advantage, and yet, lacked direction and goals.

“I saw a generation preoccupied with sex, obscenity, drugs, alcohol. I saw increasing violence, cruelty, and a constantly escalating crime rate.

“I saw a nation glued to TC screens vainly attempting to narcotize its fears with sound blaring forth from electronic instruments.

“I saw broken homes. I saw husbands and wives glaring at each other with hatred. I saw children who detested their parents…

“I saw wealth squandered on useless objects while millions groaned, their bellies swollen with hunger. I saw it all and I became terrified. My world was falling apart, and I was disintegrating with it. I couldn`t possibly last. I had to find something which could transcend my environment… something that could withstand the rapid decay. I had to find roots… roots that would be steeped in eternity. But where was I to go?

I tried the woods… I spent months in the wilderness, sometimes away for weeks from all human contact except for a friend. But I found that I carried society`s ills with me.

There was no peace, even in the silent forest.

“I tried psychology, but neither the doctors not the books had the answers. In fact, they covered up the real problems with a mass of complicated verbiage and sophisticated theory.

“I tried `activism.` I became a `liberal.` I joined a peace group. Became a conscientious objector, supported radical causes, and believed that the answer to society`s ills lay in political and social activism.

“I tried studying, writing poetry, anything to get my mind off the degeneration that I saw around me, but it was always there, confronting me constantly.

“I tried religion: Oriental, Western, Eastern, Mystical, Classical… and I still didn`t` find the answers I sought. I remained restless. I was not at peace. I yearned for something that was designed uniquely for me, something that would enable me to live in this society, to participate in the dynamism of this century, and yet also enable me to escape into a separate time in which I would find a measure of peace and live by time-tested truths.

“I was disillusioned with the theories. I was sick of trying yet another gimmick… The various religious cults were only momentarily satisfying. They did not fill the vacuum in my life. They did not answer my quest. They did not speak of my roots. The road they mapped out was not paved by my grandfathers.

“I was born a Jew, but my Jewishness was obscured by my ignorance. It wasn`t even a footnote in my life. I never considered probing the depths of my religion, because frankly, I never thought that there was anything there what was worthwhile. But having exhausted every other course of action, in sheer desperation I decided to investigate that which was in my own backyard… my own past… my own heritage.

“one evening, I found myself walking through the doors of a synagogue. I wanted to see what it was like. A woman was addressing the congregation. The topic was “Jewish Roots.”

“I wasn`t looking for an easy answer. I was searching for TRUTH… Not a cosmetic public relations job, but real TRUTH. And if this entailed sacrifice, so be it. I was ready, but I had to feel it… It had to be real. It had to be a truth that I could live by, that could mold and shape my family`s destiny.

“As I listened that night to the words for the speaker, a picture slowly unfolded in my mind. It was as if for years I had been toying with this jigsaw puzzle, and suddenly the pieces fit! It all made sense. The message I heard not only reached my mind, but it touched my innermost heart. For some inexplicable reason, I felt tears gathering in my eyes… tears which washed away my skepticism, tears that told me that I was finally on the right track.

“That night, for the first time I heard about my ancestors who stood at Mt. Sinai. I heard about a pledge, a responsibility given to them which had not altered in the thousands of years since it was proclaimed… I heard about my people who were destined to go forth among the nations as a spiritual army to do battle for the L-rd armed only with His holy Torah. I heard about my people, who had become a part of every people, and yet remained a people apart… refusing to be absorbed, refusing to die.

“I discovered that my people`s dispersion was merely a preparatory stage, for G-d`s ultimate plan was to return my brethren to their land – Israel, to re-establish Jerusalem, to proclaim it the spiritual capitol of the world in which all men may unite in peace... And I was part of all theis! The whole concept was too fantastic, impossible to believe.

My mind rebelled against it, and yet, I could not refute it. It was there for all to behold. It was the TRUTH.

“That night I discovered the regimented discipline to which this spiritual army must adhere if it is to fulfill its prophetic mission. I discovered that there could be no aspect of life outside its jurisdiction. Even the most instinctive act, to which I had never given a second thought, such as eating, drinking, washing, cohabitation, etc. had to be infused with sanctity.

“I felt that night as if a call had come to me piercing through the centuries… a proclamation from a mountaintop: `Ye shall be holy unto Me. For I, the L-rd your G-d, am holy.` The words penetrated to the depths of my soul. I was overcome by the awesomeness of it all. My long and lonely journey had finally come to an end. I had found my roots.

“For the first time, I understood the chaos, the corruption, which enveloped me. For the fist time, I understood my own sense of frustration and restlessness. It had all been foretold. It had all been predicted in G-d`s Bible: `… Because they shall forsake Me and break My covenant which I have made with them, they shall be devoured by many evils…`

“Wasn`t that what I had been witnessing with my very own eyes? Since mankind had deliberately chosen to forsake the discipline of G-d, the law of the jungle prevailed.

Indeed, many `evils` were visited upon.

“Yes, it had all become clear to me. No civilization could rebel against G-d`s Law and survive. The very decadence of society proved that G-d`s eternal words are as valid today as they were thousands of years ago when they were first revealed to our patriarchs.

“And so, for the first time, my despair was converted into hope… for even as I understood that without G-d we are doomed to destruction, I also understood that by returning to Him, we could be reborn. My search had borne fruit. At long last, I found the timeless path of my ancestors. To be sure, the world looks different today than it did in their time, but the roots of my people are planted deep beneath the ages, and they speak to me today with the same relevance as they did to my grandfathers.

“And so, we began a new life…

“It was one thing, however, to become aware of my legacy, and quite another to apply this new found knowledge to practice. It was as if I had been reborn… as if I had to learn to walk all over again. Everything, but everything that touched my own life and that of my family had to undergo a transformation. Henceforth, my life would not be limited to 20th Century existence, for my discovery actually had the power to propel me into the timeless past, to fuse me with those who went before me. Like a bolt of lightening, the ancient words come piercing through the centuries, charging me with the Covenant of my fathers: `Six days shall thou labor, but the seventh day is the Sabbath of the L-rd thy G-d.`

“Of all the changes that were occurring in my life, I believe that it was the discovery of the timeless Shabbos that made the greatest impact. My American environment had conditioned me to regard my leisure in very much the same manner as my work – to activate every moment, to extract the most out of every opportunity. It mattered little

whether I was vacationing at a resort or sitting at my desk… The pressure was on to keep going at a feverish pitch, to run from one activity to another. Whether I was doing chores around the house, washing the car, puttering around the garden, or cleaning up the mess around the office, I was always doing something. It didn`t matter whether I was on my way to work or to a ball game, I was still in the same traffic jam. In retrospect, it seems to me that there were times when I expended more energy trying to relax and have fun, than when I put in an honest day`s work. I was an American, caught on an endless merry-go-round.

“And then I discovered the Shabbos of my forefathers. Overnight, my Saturdays became hold days when time itself would stand still, when I could divorce myself from my environment and orbit into a different sphere, a separate world. My house was transformed into a palace in which peace and harmony reigned. My wife became a priestess… her hand a magic wand which kindled sacred lights. My children became messengers of G-d whose angelic appearances reflected the sanctity of the day.

“Throughout my life, my environment had conditioned me to live by the clock. These was always someplace to go, someone I had to meet, or something I had to do. Even when I was determined to relax and escape the day to day pressure, there was always a phone call, a letter in the mail, or the blaring of the TV to bring the outside world smack into my consciousness.

“But when I discovered Shabbos, all this came to a halt. The phone could ring away, and I would remain oblivious to its sound. The mail could come, and I wouldn`t open it.

The TV, the hi-fi, were all silenced. Today was the Shabbos of the L-rd my G-d, and nothing could intrude on its sanctity. Today, my family and I would reach out to each other. Today, we would discover our inner soul. Today, we would find meaning and purpose in our lives.

“With the advent of Shabbos, something incredible would happen to me. I would experience a new sense of freedom… I would actually feel as if you spirit could soar upwards to limitless heights… as if I could almost touch the infinite.

“In vain would I try to simulate these feelings at other times. It simply didn`t work. The magic was to be found in the Sabbath day itself, for this day was laden with history.

The day itself had roots!

`For in six days the L-rd made the heavens and the earth… and on the seventh day, He rested… He blessed the seventh day and hallowed it…`

“Therein was the secret… Shabbos was not simply any day to desist from work and relax, but it was the day on which the Almighty G-d Himself rested. Today, G-d

Himself joined me in my repose. It was a day elevated above all others, a day to which the L-rd imparted His blessings. And it was this Divine blessing that would lend an added dimension to everything that pertained to Shabbos.

“Even the food contained that magic ingredient. My wife and I experimented once… On a Monday, we prepared the same fish, the same kugel, the same challah… and the taste was stale.

“On a Tuesday, we tried setting our table with the same snow white linen, the same delicate china, and the same silver candelabra, but the glow, the majesty, was missing.

“On a Wednesday, I tried talking to my children, but I could not capture that calm… I could not establish that rapport, nor the instant touching of the hearts. My words were stiff and fell heavy.

“On a Thursday, I tried to sing my wife`s praises, to pay her tribute and honor as I do on Shabbos eve… But my words sounded ludicrous. I felt as though I had made a fool of myself.

“It was not Shabbos… Yes, the day itself is rooted in eternity.

“I discovered that thousands of years ago, my father Jacob gathered his sons and blessed them. And since that time, on Shabbos eve, every Jewish father would place his hands upon the heads of his children and invoke the ancient blessing: `May G-d make thee like Ephraim and Menashe… ` (and for his daughters) `May G-d make the like Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah. May the L-rd bless thee and keep thee… May He cause His countenance to shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee. May the L-rd turn His countenance unto thee and grant thee peace.`

“And I too, even as my forefathers, would place my hands upon my children`s heads. I too would pronounce the ancient words. And suddenly, as if by magic, the minor

resentments, the petty angers that had estranged us during the week would evaporate. My children and I were one. My father Jacob and G-d Himself have joined me in blessing them…

“I discovered that thousands of years ago, I had an ancestor, a king, who composed a song glorifying womanhood. `Ayches Chayil` – `A Woman of Valor, who can find?

Her price is far above rubies…`

“Since time immemorial, upon returning from synagogue on Sabbath eve, the husbands of my people would sing this song in praise of their wives, and now, I too chant this ancient tune. Once again, the transformation occurs. The nonsensical arguments, the coldness, the constant pressures that separated me from my beloved melt away.

On any other day, my words might seem trite, overly sentimental, out of place. But tonight, my song is the song of King Solomon. His voice joins mine. My wife smiles, and I smile back… There is blessing in the room.

“I discovered that thousands of years ago, my forefathers traversed the vast wastes of the Sinai desert, and the Almighty Himself tended to their needs. Every morning, the most delectable food would rain from heaven, and G-d would preserve its freshness between layers of pearlized dew. But in honor of the Sabbath, G-d would grant double portion of that heavenly bread and thus, my ancestors celebrated that hold day.

“Yes, it happened many thousands of years ago, but since that time, in every Jewish home, two loaves would be placed between layers of snow white cloth in commemoration of the manna that was enveloped in heavenly dew. And today, I too place the two loaves of challah on my table, and as I taste its golden crust, I know contentment as never before. For you see, it is Shabbos, the day of my L-rd… the day when my G-d rested. The day which He granted me to renew my soul. Today, I am reborn. Today, G-d Himself has endowed me with an additional soul. I have discovered my own Jewish roots…”