As we of Kodimoh welcome the month of Ellul on this very important Shabbat, I am inclined to recall how Jews of old once experienced the same event. The solemnity and sacredness that was ushered in with this penitential season, this forty-day period of Teshuvah, was more than just an idea or a principle. It was something which enveloped one’s whole existence. There was an indefinable warmth about it. There was the thrill of expectancy. There was a fear of the unknown. There was a clean feeling about it all that permeated even little Yeshiva boys who had not sinned enough to repent. It was a happy solemnity, a gay seriousness, almost a sort of adventure into the sacred days that were to follow. Perhaps all this can be summed up by calling it the “Ellul Mood.” For that is just what it was – a mood. It was an invaluable, cleansing, holy and thoroughly Jewish mood, and one which we should and must recapture this morning. We must get into the Ellul Mood. If we are to recreate this Mood and recapture some of its great spirit for ourselves, we must attempt to analyze it, to break it down into its components so that we can build it up again. What, then, are the components of the Ellul Mood? Let us analyze it down to three basic elements. First and foremost, the Ellul Mood consists of a determination to seek out G-d – not to just find Him by accident, as it were, but to look for Him conscientiously. Waldo Frank, in a recent issue of The Nation (June 19, 1954) voices the fear that America is becoming a “people that holds on,” whereas in the past we have been a “people that sought,” with writers of maturity who ennobled this search. It is that distinction which we become aware of, in a Jewish sense, at this time of the year. It is not enough to hold on. We must search for greater achievements. All year long we speak and preach and argue “Jewish survival.” We put our minds together figuring out ways and means of surviving as Jews. Some think a Sunday School will help Judaism s…

The aliyat reggel, the pilgrimages prescribed by our Sidra for the three major festivals, were no pleasure trip for the pilgrims of ancient Judea. Their journey had to be undertaken in days when there were unavailable not only the first class hotels, but barely inns of any kind. The pilgrim had to sleep on the ground instead of his accustomed bed; scrounge for food; be deprived of all comfort and conveniences; whereas had he remained at home he could have lived his normal comfortable life. Nowhere in the Talmud do we find that any special arrangements were made to accommodate these pilgrims who came to perform this sublime commandment. Yet, interestingly, in next week’s portion we find the description of another kind of traveler in the Holy Land. We are told that if a man murdered by accident, unwittingly, that we were to prepare for him a number of cities designated as “cities of refuge,” to which the murderer could flee and thereby escape the vengeance of the relatives of his victim. The Torah tells us takhin lekha ha-derekh, you shall prepare the way of the murderer. And the Mishnah explains that mekhavnot la-hem derakhim mi-zu le’zu, the highway would be especially prepared throughout the country so that the man who murdered unwittingly would have no difficulty in making his way to the city of refuge. Throughout the country, at every crossroads, there were signs exclaiming “miklat, miklat,” i.e., “this way to the city of refuge.”Thus, while the pilgrim had no signposts prepared for him to facilitate his journey to Jerusalem, the murderer had every consideration prepared for him in order to make his way to the city of refuge as quickly and easily as possible. What discrimination! Here the pilgrim must wander from place to place, inquire at the door of every village or hamlet: “which way to Jerusalem?”, while the man who was a murderer would find his way with the greatest of ease. We must remember that whereas many of these accidental murders were complete accide…

Normally, when the Torah records a mitzvah or commandment, it does so without offering any reasons or explanations. In this morning's portion, however, we read one commandment for which no less than two explanations are offered. The Torah tells us, Lo titgodedu – you shall not cut any gashes in your body as a sign of mourning. It was the custom of the pagans of antiquity that as a sign of grief they would cut into their flesh until they bled. In prohibiting such disfigurement, the Torah begins by telling us Banim atem Lashem Elokekhem, you are children of the Lord your God, and then after the commandment it explains, ki am kadosh ata, for you are a holy people.These two explanations – that of being a holy people and that of being children of God – were interpreted by one of our most eminent commentators (R. Yosef Bekhor Shor) as follows: It is not fitting for a member of a venerable people, possessing a proud and sacred history, to tolerate such disfigurement; in addition, every man must remember that he is a child of God. Therefore, even if he suffers excruciating loneliness because he grieves for a lost parent or other relative, he must recognize that his solitude is never absolute, for he is a child of God, and his Heavenly Father lives forever. Therefore, in addition to the dignity of being a Jew, his mourning must be tempered by the knowledge that man is never alone as long as God is there.Actually, these two motifs can serve as splendid insights into all the commandments of the Torah. All the mitzvot enhance the dignity of the Jew as a Jew; they reinforce his nationhood and endow it with a particular grace. Furthermore, in addition to the nationalistic aspect, there is a purely spiritual obligation that man owes to his Creator.Of course, the two elements of nationalism and religion are truly universal. We need no elaboration of the prevalence of nationalism as a fact of modern experience. What is interesting is the most recent confirmation of the irrepressibi…