Rabbi's Blog

 One of the important aspects of observing kosher is keeping milk and meat properly separated. This prohibition is derived from the verse, "Do not cook a kid in its mother's milk". This verse appears in the Torah three times, twice in Exodus and once in Deuteronomy. The Sages explain that the repetition of the verse teaches us that it is not only forbidden to cook meat and milk together, but also to eat or derive benefit from the mixture.

While the Talmud teaches that this is a “Chok” commandment, one we do not know the reason for, there is one explanation that I found quite interesting.

Milk and meat represent opposites. Milk itself is liquid and flowing, symbolizing giving without accounting. Milk induces calm and tranquility (to the point of drowsiness). Meat (beef) is red, solid, and served hot. Red creates pressure and density, and meat itself causes desire and passion to break boundaries.

Sometimes, in the name of peace we try to mix two things and create a third thing.

Suppress the calm, suppress the passion, and live a life of quiet desperation. Take two good things that when separate can be amazing but together cancel each other out. This type of peace never lasts.

It’s important to be you. To be proud of who you are and to be peaceful. Shalom (peace) in Hebrew comes from the word shalem, which means complete. The first step in peace is knowing who you are. The second step is to find compromise.
This is perhaps one of the reasons why milk and meat together are always forbidden. Instead of allowing each to exist fully, it nullifies them into non-existence and suppresses each one’s identity.

As we navigate the world, don’t suppress who you are. Be a proud Jew, a proud American, a proud _______ (fill in the blank).  Once you do that, see if there is place for compromise where you and the person you are in disagreement with can each exist in their full self, and still find a middle ground.

Have a peaceful Shabbos,
Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

P.S. A telling story: An angry and bitter husband and wife stood before the Maggid of Kozhnitz. The man complained: "My wife makes delicious kugel for Shabbat, I love the kugel and look forward to it all week, but my wife torments me. She insists on serving the fish first, then the soup, then chicken and potatoes, and only when my stomach is full, and I can't take another bite - she brings the kugel!"

The wife replied: "This is how my late mother, peace be upon her, would do it, serving the kugel only at the end of the meal, and I cannot violate my mother's custom."

The Maggid suggested making two kugels: one to eat right after kiddush as the husband wished, and the other to be served at the end of the meal according to the wife's custom. The couple left happy and satisfied.

Chassidim related that from that day on, two kugels were served at the Maggid's table: one after kiddush, at the beginning of the meal, and one, as usual, with the meat at the end of the meal. The first kugel was called "the kugel of peace in the home".

When young Tel Aviv was preparing for a visit from Winston Churchill, the British Colonial Secretary, Meir Dizengoff, Tel Aviv's mayor, wanting to impress the distinguished guest, ordered city workers to uproot a row of trees from the Mikveh Israel school and replant them in front of his house on Rothschild Boulevard.

The reception appeared green and festive. When the orchestra began to play and the large crowd pressed forward to greet the honored guest, the rootless trees toppled to the ground. Churchill, with his characteristic insight, told Dizengoff something profound: "Mr. Mayor, without roots, nothing will grow here..."

What do we do when things appear to be falling apart, when the world seems to be in upheaval and craziness? How do we use the “rotting” of the world around us as a catalyst for growth? How do we solve problems with fresh eyes?

Light cannot illuminate light; it simply dissolves into it. To receive new light, we must first create space by releasing our attachment to previous understanding. For a seed to grow, it needs to decompose into the soil and only then when it is dark, can it birth a tree.

However, that tree only grows when we invest deeply in nurturing their roots. The journey often requires letting go of our protective layers to unite with something greater than ourselves. To create something far greater than itself, the seed must empty itself and open to the infinite power of growth. As long as the seed maintains its current form, it can only produce results of similar size. But, to give rise to a majestic tree capable of bearing countless new seeds, it must sacrifice its outer layers and connect with the infinite force of growth itself.

The challenge with this is that it is uncomfortable.  This spiritual vertigo isn't just uncomfortable, it can be frightening. Into this emptiness might creep doubt and uncertainty, challenging our sense of security. But this very uncertainty is the birthplace of renewal.

No one wants or asks to be challenged. Yet, when we are, we need to look at it with the lenses of growth. 1) This darkness, this job loss, this world upheaval is an empty space on the path for greater light and 2) If our roots, our trust in G-d, are strong then nothing can topple us.

Have a good Shabbos and a happy Tu B’Shvat! (Today, Thursday, is the 15th of Shvat - the new year for trees)

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

P.S. Did you ever wonder why the dove in Noah’s ark came back with an olive branch? The olive tree has deep roots, spread horizontally, growing tough and strong, penetrating deep into the earth and between rocks, preserving them through time. Through these resilient roots, the trunk continuously renews itself.

Noah's dove managed to find one stubborn, resilient olive tree whose trunk and roots have survived the flood's pressure (perhaps it stood at a higher elevation where the water pressure was less intense). In the brief time since the water began receding, it had already sprouted fresh leaves - a powerful symbol of renewal and resilience.