Oy vey, gather round, for the eternal debate among Yidden: how to schmooze the rebbe’s ear in class without getting a krechtz in return. It’s a tale as old as the Torah itself, passed down through the generations like a treasured family recipe.
Back in the ancient streets of Yerushalayim, where the cobblestones whisper the wisdom of our ancestors, it was all about “Morati, morati”‘ – you know, buttering up the teacher with respect.
But those Tel Aviv hustlers, those urban mavens of chutzpah, they got their own shtick: “Hamorah, hamorah!” (that’s “The Teacher, the Teacher!” for the uninitiated) – and with their h-dropping flair, it sounds more like “Amorah, amorah!” Anyone say destruction?
Yet, let’s not forget the profound meaning behind it all. Morah, rooted in the same shoresh as Yirah – fear, they say. But as I pondered over the cholent this past Shabbos, I concluded that it’s more about awe, a reverence beyond measure. It’s the feeling you get when you stand before the Kotel, or when you smell the fresh challah on erev Shabbos.
A teacher’s job isn’t just to command respect; it’s to fill us with yiras Shamayim, that awe and respect for the Ribbono Shel Olam that hits harder than a stern reminder on Shabbos morning. It’s a lesson as rich and deep as bubbe’s chicken soup, passed down from one generation to the next like a torch lighting the way through the darkest nights of golus.
