Dancing with the Torah

I was in a Chabad house in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and a stranger to the group of regulars filling the room, save for Rabbi Yosef Samuels who had invited me. It was a short walk from my seat to the reading table. But in that brief period, I became very anxious about what was expected of me.

I recalled the synagogue I attended infrequently as a boy, where the Ark stood in front of a large, sterile room, and only the richest, most influential members were called to the Torah. In my youth, Judaism was formal and distant, surrounded by ceremony void to me of meaning or substance. The Torah in the synagogue of my youth was irrelevant to my daily life. Never before, in my 36 years, had I seen the inside of a Torah scroll.

I hesitatingly approached the reading table. I could see people’s backs draped in white tallitot (prayer shawls). I expected grim, serious faces to peer out from beneath the whit

e cloth. But when I approached the Torah, they greeted me with warm smiles. One of them gave me a gentle nudge of greeting with his shoulder. I touched the Torah with my tallit and brought the cloth to my lips and kissed the spot that touched the parchment and letters. I stumbled through the English transliteration of the blessings, and stood nervously as the Torah was read.

"The Torah is no stranger," Rabbi Samuels explained. "We live with it every day."

In the following months and years, I learned just how intimate the Torah could become. I went through several Jewish yearly cycles, experiencing times of awe and veneration for the Torah, and times of familiarity bordering on irreverence. To hug and dance with the holy scrolls on Simchat Torah! Who could have imagined!

But just as I was becoming intimate with the Torah, so was it becoming intimate with me. As I began to study, I discovered the Torah's relevance. As its deeper meanings were laid open to me through Chassidic teaching, I found I could turn to the Torah for guidance in every circumstance. Regardless of my mood or frame of mind, I could approach the Torah and find it waiting for me. Even in times of anger or rebellion, the Torah showed forgiveness and guidance. In times of sadness and depression, I’d find hope and encouragement. In times of joy and celebration, I’d find thanksgiving and praise for the One Who provides all. Slowly it penetrated my inner life, my career, my relationship with my children and parents, my marriage. When first introduced to the Torah, I felt I was coming to know a distant relative of whom I was aware but had never met; in time I felt that my learning revealed that the Torah always existed within me. The Torah became deeply embedded in me, part of the weave and warp of my being.

Now, when I rush forward in the synagogue to kiss the Torah, it is with affection and familiarity. When on Simchat Torah I dance with the scrolls, my inhibitions and emotions loosen, I close my eyes and hug the Torah close, spinning in circles, enjoying a physical intimacy with the soft velvet cloth and the sacred writings it covers.

Without losing respect as my revered teacher and guide, the Torah has become my familiar companion. I continue to marvel that the most holy of G-d's creations allows itself to be embraced by me.

Jay Litvin
By Sara Trappler-Spielman

According to Jewish belief, saving one life is as great as saving an entire world. Jay Litvin, then, saved over a thousand worlds. And in doing so, he risked his own.
Over a span of fourteen years, Jay successfully brought more than a thousand children from the Ukraine to Israel where they received proper medical treatment necessary for their exposure to radiation from the nuclear disaster of Chernobyl in 1986.

For the past four years, Litvin battled with lymphoma, the illness his doctors believed he developed from his many trips to the Ukraine. This didn’t stop him from continuing his work. As Medical Liaison for Chabad’s Children of Chernobyl, Litvin took dozens of trips to the contaminated area to help transport children living there, believing evacuation was their only hope.

He also established and ran Chabad’s Terror Victims Project in Israel, which provides medical and social services for Israelis affected by the Intifada.

Litvin often conversed with G-d, as he relates in his inspiring columns for Chabad.org, asking of G-d that he recover in order to help his children in ways only he as their father possibly could.

Although not raised observant, Litvin always felt religious. His conversations with G-d began as a young man in the Woodstock music scene, leaning against a tree trunk, hoping to attain as clear a purpose in this world as the tree providing shelter.

He became an observant Jew at age 37, becoming involved with Chabad in Wisconsin and Arizona where he lived for a few years before moving to Israel in 1993.

Later in life, he believed his purpose became clear in the fatherly duties he performed out of love for his children. In his writings, he shares the belief that his life’s mission is to provide his children with shelter and protection like the tree from years ago. He was referring to his biological children, out of humility. In actuality, he gave life to unknown children whose problems became his own, in a brave endeavor to save as many as he could, despite the possible risks.

He was afraid of dying, as he writes in a recently published article on Chabad.org. But mostly because he didn’t want to be forgotten. Considering the enormous impact he had on so many children it seems he’ll be more than not forgotten. Worlds will live on because of Jay Litvin.

Litvin died at the age of 60 on April 15th in Rechovot, Israel, leaving behind his wife and seven children.