Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Mishpatim 5785

After six years of service, the eved ivri, or Jewish servant, is left to ponder the question, “Do I stay or do I go?” He may leave his master’s home in order to set up his own and live life on his own terms. Indeed, he is encouraged to do so. For if he doesn’t leave, if he chooses to stay on for another term of service, this one far lengthier than the first, he must submit to a ceremony whereby he is brought to a doorway to have his ear pierced. And as famously understood by Rashi, the piercing of the ear conveys an unspoken rebuke, that the ear that heard Hashem’s directive to submit to Him alone went rogue in seeking out a flesh and blood master apart from Hashem. 

There’s much to dissect here, every aspect of the ceremony suggestive of symbolism and deeper meaning. But one specific feature I find particularly intriguing is the location of it all. Why stand in the doorway?

The piercing of the servant’s ear, of course, is not the only mitzvah performed in the same space. A far more frequently observed mitzvah located within the doorframe is that of installing mezuzos upon the doorposts of our homes. It is here, in the presence of the mezuzah nailed to the wall, that the servant has his ear pierced when he wishes to remain in his master’s home rather than exiting. 

Why?

I once heard a beautiful interpretation for why the mitzvah of mezuzah calls us to affix a declaration of our faith in Hashem specifically in the doorway. And that is that a doorway is a point of transition from one space to another. Standing in a doorway, preparing to cross its threshold, means necessarily leaving one area behind and approaching another. 

And that is a very hard thing to do. Because the space we were in previously was known to us, familiar to us. We knew what to expect there, had developed a routine and a rhythm. Transitioning to a new place is scary. It is rife with unknowns, and whatever successes we’ve enjoyed in our previous location feel inadequate in preparing us for our new environs.

The Torah tells us to affix the Shema in such locations. Not because moving from my den to my kitchen represents a great leap of faith, but because those transitional points in my home represent the points of transition throughout life. And it is there that I must be reminded of the Shema. That the task that lay ahead is not your own to accomplish, that you need—and cannot—face that new challenge alone, but that Hashem is with you by your side and He has every ability in the world to bring you great success. 

Perhaps it is this very message that the Torah demands the eved Ivri be exposed to when he digs in his heels and opts to stay on with his master. “Why did you make this decision?” the Torah asks. Is it truly the case that it is here that you will achieve the most? Fulfill your potential to the best of your ability? Rise to the greatest heights? Or is there far more you could accomplish by setting out on your own and crawling out from under the thumb of your human master? Would you, perhaps, enjoy a fuller, more direct relationship with Hashem if you didn’t have to respond to the whims of a human overseer? What is it, really, that keeps you glued to this spot, in this home, to this master?

Perhaps only inertia. The comfort of remaining in the space you know so well as opposed to venturing out into one that bears no familiarity. 

And that is a great mistake. One that we likely make all too often. Human beings are creatures of habit, and the notion that we may need to change our ways or expose ourselves to something novel and different can frighten us into staying put, even when we see the potential blessings a new enterprise can yield. A new job may be more lucrative or fulfilling, but I’ll have to learn a new system and develop new skills. A new chavrusa may help me stick more diligently to my scheduled learning, but I don’t want to have to learn in a new location or at a different time. A new volunteer role could fill my life with meaning, but it will throw a monkey wrench in my current schedule and I won’t know any of the people there.

How often do we sell ourselves short and forfeit great new opportunities simply because they’re new? Simply because we already know our current lives so well that the possibility of having to make a transition to the unknown is foreboding?

We can end up signing on to a life of servitude, simply because of our fear of transitions.

And in truth, it’s not always because we’re afraid we’ll fail in the new environment. Deep down, the fear that we will succeed may be equally troubling. How will this new enterprise change me? Who will I become? What if I am more successful, more fulfilled, more accomplished—I won’t recognize myself. And that’s frightening.

The eved Ivri may be staying put not because he’s afraid of failure, but because, like us, he’s afraid of success. The message for him is the same in either instance: look at the mezuzah. Not only as a reminder to have faith that Hashem will assist him clear each new hurdle, but to remind him of his true identity. Not as someone who lives in this house and works for this person, but as someone who recites Shema Yisrael, who believes in Hashem, and who walks with Him from one room to another, from one station in life to the next. 

An honest recognition of the problem is the bulk of discovering the solution. If there are opportunities we won’t seek out in life, how much of that reticence is out of a calculated decision that we’re best off sticking with our current situation, and how much is out of fear? Be it fear of failure, or even fear of success. The mezuzah can be as important for us in those moments as to the eved Ivri. If can define ourselves more by the mezuzah on the doorframe than by the space we currently occupy, we may find the courage to cross the threshold. 

Parshas Yisro 5785

This past week I attended an event that has come to be institutionalized as a rite of passage for young Jewish children: The Siddur Play. As I sat watching the performance, I couldn’t help but feel how delightfully unusual such an event is against the backdrop of popular culture. That children gather together to extoll the virtues of Tefilah and literally sing its praise. The pomp and circumstance surrounding the moment a child first receives his or her very own siddur and is given the ability to now readily connect with Hashem in prayer.

It’s an event that I hope created memories that will last. Because the feelings certainly won’t.

One of the most iconic components of all of Matan Torah is only barely mentioned by the pesukim in Parshas Yisro that describe the event. The pasuk notes that “ויתיצבו בתחתית ההר—And the people stood beneath the mountain.” Simply understood, the pasuk means to say that the People stood at the bottom, or base of the mountain, as the awesome spectacle began to unfold on the summit. 

But the Gemara Shabbos 88a takes the Torah’s description much more literally:

אָמַר רַב אַבְדִּימִי בַּר חָמָא בַּר חַסָּא: מְלַמֵּד שֶׁכָּפָה הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא עֲלֵיהֶם אֶת הָהָר כְּגִיגִית, וְאָמַר לָהֶם: אִם אַתֶּם מְקַבְּלִים הַתּוֹרָה מוּטָב, וְאִם לָאו — שָׁם תְּהֵא קְבוּרַתְכֶם.

Rav Avdimi bar Chama bar Chasa said, “This teaches that The Holy One Blessed Be He overturned the mountain above them like a barrel and said, “If you receive the Torah, good. But if not, there shall be your graves.” 

When the people stood under the mountain, Rav Avdimi tells us, they actually stood under the mountain. Hashem suspended the mountain above the heads of the people and provided an ultimatum: Either receive the Torah, or be killed.

There is an observation that many make about the specific phraseology the Gemara uses. Hashem didn’t tell the nation that if they don’t accept the Torah, they’d be buried “here,” in this very spot. But rather, “There shall be your graves.” Suggesting some yet unknown location, on some distant future day. 

The Shem Mishmuel notes that this observation is absolutely correct. Hashem wasn’t telling the people that without acceptance of the Torah—without a binding commitment—that they’d immediately gasp for spiritual oxygen and would be left without any connection to G-d that would serve as their very lifeline. No, considering the thunder and lightning, the parting of the Heavens, and the blossoming of the mountain in the middle of the desert—all following the miraculous redemption of the Jewish People from Egyptian slavery—inspiration was running so high, that the People would hold on to a divine connection even without the formal acceptance of the Torah and its mitzvos. 

At least for now. 

The concern was not over the present moment, but over what would happen in the future. “There shall be your graves.” For now you’ll stay connected. But the connection will ebb, the inspiration will dissipate. It may not feel like that’s an eventuality considering where you presently stand and how you presently feel. But it will. And when it does, you’ll languish and die. 

A Siddur Play is a wonderful event, not because it encapsulates the fresh feelings that children have towards tefilah, but because it frames tefilah as a lifelong value, something of such significant importance that it demands that a ceremony be held, that parents take off work, that grandparents drive in, and that cake be served. The feelings of the moment are sweet and endearing, but they will not last.

And that’s not excessive, undue negativity, but a mere acknowledgment of reality. Feelings never last. And if we hang our behavior upon our feelings, our behavior will be highly inconsistent because our feelings always are. 

A Siddur Play is a statement of importance and value. We’re not trying to encourage our kids to always feel great about davening, but to always daven, irrespective of how they feel. Feelings will fluctuate; appropriate behavior shouldn’t. This is what lies at the heart of every commitment.

Which isn’t just kids’ stuff. And it poses a critical question to adults: Can we create Siddur Plays for ourselves? Inspiration rises and falls in fairly natural rhythm. What can be done in moments of inspiration to not just ride the wave and enjoy, but to spend time recognizing in that moment of clarity that there will come a time that the value of this practice or behavior will no longer be so clear? What commitment can I make to myself here at Har Sinai so that the “There” I ultimately arrive at is not only a location of premature spiritual death?

One component is the commitment, and formalizing it as best as possible. Whether sharing the practice with an accountability partner, writing a letter of intent to yourself, or even keeping a list of spiritual commitments on a note on your phone. The act of committing can go a long way in holding yourself accountable even when the enthusiasm has waned.

Another component is adopting the right mindset when we’re no longer inspired. And that’s a mindset of moderation. Not jumping to conclusions that our previous feelings were off base, and that our present ones make clear that our previous attempts at spiritual growth were foolish. We need to be patient and kind to ourselves, and remember that there’s a reason we made the commitment in the first place. That it’s only natural for inspiration to dissipate, but that that doesn’t need to affect our recognition that values we’d committed to right and good, even if we don’t now feel so viscerally. 

Hashem’s concern for the Jewish People was not how they’d act when they’re inspired, but how they’d act when they’re not. And that is a question that looms over our heads today as much as it did at Har Sinai. We know that our feelings will falter. What can we do to ensure that our behavior doesn’t?

Parshas Beshalach 5785

When we first started looking for a house in Cherry Hill, our realtor gave us a critical piece of advice: “Whatever you do, don’t look at Google Maps.” What she meant by that was that we should make no assumptions about how far any given house in the community was to our shul based on the actual roadways that Google would use to plot our walk. Because, as any Cherry Hiller knows, you can walk through the baseball field, use the Politz cut-through, the Yeshiva cut-through, or even through the driveway and backyard of what ultimately came to be our own home.

Seeking out a shortcut is sage advice. 

Sometimes.

The Jewish People are finally given leave from Mitzrayim and travel immediately. Really immediately. Like, in less than 18 minutes. So it could be understood if in the mad rush to suddenly move a mass of millions of men, women, and children, along with their animals and newly acquired wealth, they may have made a wrong turn. Ending up on a circuitous route, all by mistake.

Yet it was no mistake at all. The Torah notes that the roundabout path cut by the newly freed nation was completely intentional, at least so far as Hashem was concerned.

וַיְהִי בְּשַׁלַּח פַּרְעֹה אֶת־הָעָם וְלֹא־נָחָם אֱלֹקים דֶּרֶךְ אֶרֶץ פְּלִשְׁתִּים כִּי קָרוֹב הוּא כִּי  אָמַר אֱלֹקים פֶּן־יִנָּחֵם הָעָם בִּרְאֹתָם מִלְחָמָה וְשָׁבוּ מִצְרָיְמָה׃

^{שמות יג:יז}

And it was when Pharaoh sent the nation out that G-d did not lead them by way of the land of the Phillistines, for it was close. For G-d said, “Lest the nation reconsider when they see war and return to Egypt.”

^{Shemos 13:17}

Had it been up to the people, had they been calling the shots, they certainly would have blazed the shortest trail to the Promised Land. The circuitous route was no accident, no lack of planning. Actually, it was due to profound, Divine insight. Had the people taken the shortcut, they’d have been frightened by the sight of war and have foolishly decided to return to Egypt. By taking them along a winding route, no such retreat was possible. Hashem led the people along the less convenient road in order to save them from themselves.

How often do we find ourselves in that same situation? One in which the terrain is so challenging, nothing seems to be going our way, and all our careful planning goes awry? The promotion went to someone else, the shidduch fell through, the buyers backed out of the deal at the last minute. We find ourselves being led along a circuitous route in life and are mired in frustration. 

What if in those moments we pulled back and wondered, “Maybe there’s a reason for this. Maybe I’m being led down a different path because the shorter route wasn’t actually sweeter. Maybe Hashem is trying to save me from myself.” 

Maybe the promotion would have robbed me of any margin in life. Maybe the shidduch would have led to lifelong marital strife. Maybe sealing the deal would have gone to my head and been the source of arrogance and self-adulation.

Maybe Google Maps has it right. The longer, windier road is often better. 

But slow down. 

In this instance, the Torah describes outright how it was that the Jewish People came to travel down the path they did. It wasn’t their choice; it was Hashem’s. Hashem had made the calculation, had recognized the challenges and pitfalls the short cut would have presented, and determined to lead them along an alternate route.

But it isn’t always that way. Sometimes the snags we hit, the long and winding paths we take are a function of our own planning or lack thereof.

Faith in Hashem is the only answer when we’ve crossed every “t” and dotted every “i”, but it can be a copout when we haven’t. When the shidduch falls through, sometimes we need to turn our eyes to the heavens. But sometimes to the stained shirt we didn’t bother to change, to the insufficient sleep we got the night before so we now appear harried and exhausted, or to that bad habit we have of interrupting other people mid-sentence in order to turn the conversation back to ourselves. 

In cases such as those, it’s not Hashem Who directed us towards failure; it’s us. Working on our emunah is only distracting us from the cold hard truth that we need to strengthen our character, not our faith. 

It’s one thing to buy a house right next to a public easement leading directly to the shul, only to find that the township decided to close it a week before you moved in. It’s quite another make no attempt to find the shortcut and assume that whatever path you end up on will simply be “Min Hashamayim.”

The very first pasuk of the parsha provides subtle yet critical direction in determining how to respond to life’s twist and turns. “כי נחם אלקים—For Hashem had directed.” When we hit the snag in the road, that’s the question we must ask ourselves. Who guided me here? If it was Hashem, then I need not second guess. As much as I’d have preferred a shorter route, a sweeter route, an easier route, perhaps those roads would ultimately have led to a bad place. Perhaps Hashem had to step in to save me from myself. But perhaps I landed in this place not because of Hashem’s intervention, but because of my own actions and behaviors. Perhaps where I find myself now is not an indication that Hashem was saving me from myself, but should serve as encouragement that there’s much that I can do to save me from myself.

Parshas Bo 5785

As a prisoner in Auschwitz, Dr. Viktor Frankl spent an incredible amount of time analyzing his own thinking and motivations. Based largely on his own experience, Dr. Frankl insisted that a sense of purpose and meaning plays an oversized role in one’s happiness and wellbeing, and could permit a person to enjoy such states even when otherwise beset by torturous or catastrophic realities. This analysis ultimately coalesced into the concepts set forth in his book, Man’s Search for Meaning, which has positively influenced millions of people worldwide.

Likely none of Viktor Frankl’s major life accomplishments would have been possible without his experience in Auschwitz, the crucible in which his breakthrough outlook on mental health was forged. Yet for all Dr. Frankl’s advice to his patients and readers, there’s one thing he never suggested. And that’s to spend time in Auschwitz.

The time had come to unleash the plague of locusts upon Egypt, and Moshe is sent to Pharaoh to deliver a warning before the country would be ravaged even further by the Divine hand. In doing so, Hashem gives Moshe an interesting directive: “Bo el Paroh.” Not to go to Pharaoh, but to come to him.

The Kotzker Rebbe noted the clear meaning of this choice of words. When instruction is given for someone to come to a place, the implication is that the speaker is himself already there and is asking for the other to join him. Hashem is not sending Moshe as His emissary to Egypt, to go perform a mission and then return and provide Him with a full report. No, Hashem is Himself already in Mitzrayim, as it were, and is beckoning for Moshe to come join Him there. 

The Kotzker explains that Hashem meant to convey to Moshe that He is accessible anywhere and everywhere. Although certain locations may indeed be endowed with a greater concentration of Hashem’s Presence, a Jew should never presume that a given location is wholly bereft of spirituality and the possibility for divine connection. Every place on earth—even one suffused with idolatry and immorality as Pharaoh’s palace was—can serve as an access point to G-d. 

But that doesn’t mean you should go there.

If you’ve ever had to spend a Shabbos in a hospital, daven mincha in the parking lot of a rest stop in the middle of nowhere, or reach deep into your reservoir of emunah to remember that Hashem was by your side in the midst of a challenging period of life, you know how powerful this idea is. To know that Hashem can be accessed from any place and from any situation, rescues us from the despair—or at least spiritual monotony—of those locations and experiences.

Should I bother singing the zemer and holding a proper Shabbos seudah? Yes, because Hashem is here with me. Should I bother closing my eyes and trying to squeeze out some kavannah while I pray? Yes because Hashem is here with me. Should I see the meaning in the experience and maintain the belief that somehow it’s all for the best? Yes, because Hashem is here with me.

But there is a dark side to this mentality. Because if Hashem is with me in every place and every situation, I can begin to lose the interest in striving for more. For experiences that are more naturally rich with kedusha, that provide an easier access point, and that prove less risky to my overall spiritual wellbeing, especially over the long haul.

If I could make that Shabbos in the hospital room, how critical is community? If I can daven in a parking lot, how important is shul? If Hashem is everywhere, I’ll find Him wherever I land. 

If He’s even in Mitzrayim, should I bother going elsewhere? 

Yes, you most certainly should. And not just for physical comfort, but for spiritual ascent. 

This period of the year is a time referred to as “Shovevim,” an acronym comprised of the first letter of each of the parshiyos between Shemos and Mishpatim. Shovevim is a time traditionally dedicated to developing greater sensitivity to issues of sexual morality and propriety. This practice stems from the content of the parshiyos we read, detailing the emergence of the Jewish People from Egypt, a land rife with licentiousness and immorality. We attempt to draw strength from this section of the Torah, and thrust ourselves towards a more ideal state of purity. 

Yes, Hashem is in Egypt. And yes, one can access spiritual greatness even in that place. But no, do not stay there a moment longer than you have to. 

The realities of our environment shape us, oftentimes in ways that are undetectable, at least at first. They influence our behavior and shape our values. And while as conscious human beings we have the ability to transcend our environments, the longer we remain in them, the more challenging that becomes.

“Bo el Paroh—Come to Pharaoh,” is a reality that halacha would classify as a bedieved, a regrettable situation in which we must nevertheless do the best we can. “I am here,” Hashem tells us. Don’t believe spiritual development is impossible and don’t let yourselves off the hook. But don’t stick around, either. There are far greater spiritual vistas beyond Mitzrayim. Beyond the Shabbos in the hospital room. Beyond the mincha in the parking lot. Beyond the period of pain and darkness. Don’t allow the bedieved to become the new norm. Work toward the lechatchilah, the ideal state of being, as quickly as you can. 

Viktor Frankl would likely not have developed the thinking that would positively influence the millions of people who would later read his work and benefit from his insight. And we must believe that that was by design. That Hashem deposited him into those hellish conditions—and stayed right by his side—so that he could accomplish what he ultimately did. 

When we find ourselves in trying situations, we should remember, “Bo el Paroh.” Hashem is here, I can access Him, I won’t let the moment go without reaching out to Him, without fulfilling whatever purpose He intended for me in this place. But I won’t remain here and I won’t remain in this mentality. Hashem may be here, but I’ll have a far easier time accessing Him around my own Shabbos table, and davening from my proper makom in my own shul. He may be here in the darkness, but I’m going to move towards the light. 

Following the UN vote in favor of the Partition Plan on November 29, 1947, jubilant Israelis erupted in spontaneous song and dance throughout the streets of Jerusalem. But one man of particular note could not bring himself to dance. Instead, David Ben-Gurion sat brooding, musing to himself that if only the people outside would stop and fully appreciate the impending war that the UN vote would soon trigger, they, too, would not act with such reckless, frivolous abandon.

I don’t think he was right. 

One Sunday morning following the Lubavitcher Rebbe’s weekly regimen of handing out dollar bills to the throngs who came for a brief audience with him, one of his chassidim asked the Rebbe how he could tolerate the ordeal.

“Rebbe,” the man started, “This one comes with news of a child born after so many years of waiting, while this one comes with the news that a child was just diagnosed with an unspeakable illness. How can the Rebbe stand in the midst of such an emotional tempest without being pulled apart?”

The Rebbe answered simply with a line from the Zohar, “חדוה תקיעא בלבאי מסטרא דא, ובכיה תקיעא בלבאי מסטרא דא—Joy is planted on this side of my heart, while sorrow is planted on this side of my heart.” 

Being a Jew means submitting to a connection with the entire gamut of the Jewish People across the full expanse of history. Retreating from that connection is simply untenable and would be depriving ourselves of the experience of Kehillah and of nationhood that is part of the bedrock of the Jewish experience. What, remains, then is living with the ability to vacillate between emotions, even those that lie on polar opposites of the emotional spectrum. It means fully empathizing with the pain and suffering of a fellow Jew in one instant, and joining in the blissful delight of another in the next.

I shared this story of the interaction between the Rebbe and his chassid on Shemini Atzeres 5784, when news of the calamity that had befallen our people had just begun to reach our ears, all on the eve of Simchas Torah, a time of profound happiness and celebration. I shared it again on the first anniversary of the horrific attack against our People on sacred land, as we once again stood on the precipice of exultant dancing even as the tragedy of October 7th cast a sorrowful pale over the day.

And I come back to the same story today. Because I find it to be the only adequate response to all that’s taken place over the course of the past week. Particularly for those of us living outside of Israel.

This past week, three Jewish women held in captivity for nearly 500 days finally returned home. I watched the videos of them wrapped in the embrace of family members who didn’t know if they’d ever see them again. I didn’t bother holding back the tears as I experienced the sheer ecstasy of the moment alongside them, even from thousands of miles away.

And I also watched similar videos from the other side of the aisle. Terrorists, murderers, and rapists being given a hero’s welcome in their communities and homes after being released from prison by the Israeli government. And it made my blood boil. To think that those who murdered innocent Jews in cold blood would not spend the rest of their lives in prison. That they would be permitted to live lives of freedom. That they would have the opportunity to plot the next atrocity. That it was a similar prisoner exchange that served as the prologue to the eventual attack of October 7. 

I don’t know if the deal should have been struck or not. Living outside of Israel, I don’t believe it’s for me to say or to even an opinion. Without living in Israel and making the sacrifices that that life entails, I’m not in position to weigh in on the injustice of hundreds of soldiers and ordinary citizens having lost their lives on October 7th and in the ensuing war, only for our enemies to be rearmed with the sort of human resources that can, G-d forbid, bring another such attack to fruition. Nor can I fully appreciate the profound need to begin bringing soldiers back home and to see the return of at least some of Jewish souls held in captivity for far too long. 

It is not my prerogative to have an opinion. But it is my responsibility to feel. To feel both elation and indignation, euphoria and resentment. To have joy planted on one side of my heart and sorrow planted on the other side. To vacillate between the two. Not the two opinions, but the two emotions. To be a feeling, caring, conscious member of the Jewish People.

I think Ben-Gurion was wrong in his assessment of the exultant crowds that took to the streets the night of the UN vote. I don’t believe they were blind to the reality of the war that would follow and the series of tragedies it would unleash upon the Jewish People in its wake. I think they were acting as Jews do, ecstatic in times of joy, with the full knowledge that mourning lurked just around the corner. 

The experience of one does not negate the other, even when the two emotions occur precisely at the same time.

The frustration and indignation I feel over the release of a pack of monsters with Jewish blood on their hands will not prevent me from identifying with the bliss of the hostages returning home and their families who get to hold them. Nor will the joy I feel over the latter prevent the bitter discontent I feel over the former. 

Opinions are to be formulated by those who personally have more at stake, not for those of us sitting on the relative sidelines. It is our role simply to empathize, to understand, to feel. Radically different emotions. All at the same time. 

Parshas Vayechi 5785

Approximately 125 miles beneath the earth’s surface, something astounding takes place. That depth provides an extreme environment—1600°C and pressure about 50,000 times of that found at sea level. When volcanic eruption force the material created there to an area far closer to the surface, we are able to harvest that material, also known as diamonds. 

Though diamonds are among the strongest materials on earth, it would be wrong to say that that tough composition allowed them to survive under the most extreme conditions our planet has to offer. It is only by being led through a process of such intense pressure and heat that carbon atoms can fuse in a way that produces such a spectacular result. Those conditions were not merely something they had to endure, but the very crucible in which they were forged.

As Yaakov Avinu stood in Pharaoh’s throne room in last week’s parsha, the Torah records an unusual interaction between the two. Pharaoh asks Yaakov, “כַּמָּה יְמֵי שְׁנֵי חַיֶּיךָ

—How many years have you lived?” An odd inquiry, but not nearly as perplexing as Yaakov’s response. 

Yaakov tells Pharaoh, “יְמֵי שְׁנֵי מְגוּרַי שְׁלֹשִׁים וּמְאַת שָׁנָה מְעַט וְרָעִים הָיוּ יְמֵי שְׁנֵי חַיַּי וְלֹא הִשִּׂיגוּאֶת־יְמֵי שְׁנֵי חַיֵּי אֲבֹתַי בִּימֵי מְגוּרֵיהֶם—The years of my life are 130. Few and poor have been the years of my life, and I have not achieved the length that my fathers have lived.” One would have expected a more optimistic view coming from Yaakov, perhaps a response highlighting the silver lining despite of all the trouble Yaakov had been subjected to. 

The Midrash notes that Hashem considered Yaakov’s response to indeed be disappointing. So much so, that he was punished with an intriguing formula. For every word the Torah used to convey Yaakov’s response to Pharaoh, Yaakov would fall one year short of achieving the number of years his father had lived. The Torah uses 33 words to describe the interaction between Yaakov and Pharaoh, hence, Yaakov lives for only 147 years, 33 years shy of Yitzchak’s 180 years.

Rav Chaim Shmulevitz makes an observation obvious to anyone willing to perform a simple audit of the Midrash. Yaakov’s response to Pharaoh is not 33 words long. That number is only arrived at when including the previous pasuk, the one detailing Pharaoh’s initial question, asking Yaakov Avinu how old he was.

Rav Shmulevitz offers a fascinating reconciliation, suggesting that Yaakov was held accountable not only for his response, in characterizing his life as being short and harsh, but even for Pharaoh’s very question. What prompted Pharaoh to inquire as to Yaakov’s age was his appearance. He looked old, like the weight of the world had taken an enormous toll on him. And this is a responsibility that Yaakov had to bear. 

Had he perceived of his entire life—both the good and the bad—as being guided and directed by Hashem’s hand, his outward appearance would have been more youthful and vibrant. Every crease of Yaakov’s face bespoke the pain he’d lived through. But with the acute awareness that Hashem was the ultimate author of that pain, there would have been far more bounce in his step, and less age worn on his face. Yaakov is held accountable not only for his negative assessment of his own life, but for the manner in which that perspective changed his very appearance. 

Turning to Parshas Vayechi, Rav Matisyahu Solomon notes something interesting about Yaakov’s blessing to his grandchildren, Ephraim and Menashe. In invoking Hashem’s name, Yaakov refers to Him as “הָרֹעֶה אֹתִי מֵעוֹדִי עַד־הַיּוֹם הַזֶּה—He Who shepherded me from my birth until this very day.” Sefer Bereishis is replete with references to shepherding, yet this is the first recorded instance of someone using that parable in reference to his own relationship with Hashem.

Rav Matisyahu suggests that Yaakov, at the end of his life, and reflecting over how it was lived, is actually performing teshuva for the manner in which he’d responded to Pharaoh years earlier, and the underlying perspective of his own life that that response suggested. It is no coincidence that Yaakov spoke of his days as “Ra—poor” and now sees Hashem as “Ro’eh—his shepherd,” using a word etymologically related to the one he’d first used. Yaakov is pivoting from seeing things as “Ra,” as negative, painful, tragic even, to “Ro’eh,” that nothing is coincidental and it was the Divine hand that brought these events bear and shepherded Yaakov throughout the twists and turns of his life. 

Yes, life had been painful. But it had also been meaningful and valuable. And even in those moments of abject pain were opportunities for growth in character and faith that a softer, cushier life simply could not have produced. Were those moments “Ra” or were they the design of the “Ro’eh”, the One shepherding Yaakov throughout his life, giving him the life that would be the most impactful, if not always the most comfortable?

Considering its origin story, it’s somewhat striking that a diamond is the gift of choice when a woman agrees to marry the man presenting it. What, exactly, is the message here? That life will be full of immense pressure, that their relationship will demand that they survive intense heat, that extreme conditions are what lay in store for them?

Unlikely that that’s the intention. But maybe it should be. A meaningful life is no cakewalk. There certainly will be pressure and the couple will have to see if they can stand the heat. But they’d be wise to remind themselves—every time they look down at her ring finger—that the pressures and the heat are not arbitrary “Ra”. They are not difficulties to suffer or annoyances to tolerate that have no purpose. Rather, there’s a “Ro’eh”, Someone shepherding them through the process, providing them with precisely the right conditions to make their lives sparkle and shine. 

Diamonds need not be conscious of what they go through in order for the finished product to be beautiful. But people do. The pressure, the stress, the harsh conditions will all be provided in some measure or another. Those who see “Ro’eh” rather than “Ra” will see those conditions as hand-selected to give them the opportunities they need to grow and develop. Those who don’t will endure the same difficulties, but will shine no more than an lump of coal.

Parshas Vayigash 5785

It will happen from time to time that I’ll get asked for a recommendation for a great book about parenting or Shalom Bayis. I love to read books and articles on these subjects, picking up an insight here and a strategy there. Hearing from the experts on how to take one’s relationship with one’s spouse or children to the next level, or find some way to solve problems perpetually emerging in parenting is certainly helpful.

Yet my go-to recommendation for those looking to advance in either of these realms isn’t a a parenting blog or an insightful book about marriage.

It’s Mesilas Yesharim. 

Yehudah confronts Yosef at the beginning of the parsha in a manner that suggests that a great deal must have occurred between the closing of Parshas Mikeitz and opening of Parshas Vayigash. At the end of Mikeitz, Yehudah is conciliatory, incapable of explaining away the evidence of the brothers’ guilt in stealing Yosef’s chalice, and resigned to the fate of wasting away in an Egyptian dungeon forever. 

Yet come the beginning of Vayigash, Yehudah is changed. He is bold and aggressive, demanding that Binyamin be returned so they can bring him back to his father. When read in light of Chazal’s comments, Yehudah goes so far as to threaten Yosef, warning that he and his brothers are capable of doing serious harm to Yosef and the country he rules over. 

What is the cause of this remarkable transformation in Yehudah’s tone?

Many commentators explain that the change in Yehudah’s demeanor was actually a response to new information that emerged over the course of his dialogue with Yosef. The Alshich, in one particularly well-known interpretation, explains that, initially, Yehudah believed the incriminating evidence now facing the brothers was Divinely-orchestrated; retribution for having sinned against their brother, Yosef, and selling him into slavery. When it became clear that the viceroy intended to withhold only Binyamin—the one brother who did not in any way participate in the sale—it was clear that this trap was not set by G-d, but by man. And Yehudah would do anything possible to thwart the schemes concocted against him and his brothers.

But there is a fundamentally different suggestion that is made by Rav Dovid of Kotzk, actually based on unusual word appearing in the first pasuk of the parsha. Although the parsha picks up in the middle of the dialogue between Yosef and his brothers, when Yehudah approaches Yosef, the pasuk states, “ויגש אליו יהודה—Yehudah approached him”. The pronoun, “him” would seem unnecessary considering the context in which the conversation is being held, context we are already well aware of. Why does the pasuk include this word?

Rav Dovid explains that the word “אליו—to him” is meant to serve as a double entendre. Yes, Yehudah was approaching Yosef. But he was also approaching himself. The term “מאליו” usually has a connotation of something happening on its own, or of a person doing something on his own. In comparing Avraham to Noach at the beginning of Parshas Noach, for example, Rashi notes that while Noach required special Divine assistance to maintain a path of righteousness, Avraham would “מִתְחַזֵּק וּמְהַלֵּךְ בְצִדְקוֹ מֵאֵלָיו—strengthen himself in his righteous ways.”

Who did Yehudah approach in this famous encounter? Not only Yosef, but himself. There was no new information to be gathered from the outside, no new data to be collected and processed. Yehudah simply needed to turn inwards and strengthen his resolve. Remind himself of all that was at stake and the promise he made to his father. But he needed to reach within himself to become the kind of person who would make good on that promise. 

If Yehudah sounds more confident, more committed than he did just a few pesukim earlier, it may not be because he received any new strategy or insight. The change was not a calculus in negotiating tactics or in the worthiness of his own cause. What changed was simply the strengthening of his own internal resolve, demanding more of himself, insisting that he bring the best of what he was to bear on the situation before him.

There are certainly situations, especially complex ones, that demand that new strategies be developed and tactics employed. But on the whole, most problems encountered in our most important relationships can be solved “מאליו”, by turning inward and becoming the people who can manage and engage in the relationship with the greatest impact.

A child throwing a tantrum likely doesn’t demand a new approach to parenting. Intuitively, we know that what’s needed is a calm head, a listening ear, firm expectations, patience and sensitivity. The challenge is in becoming the person capable of exhibiting that kind of character. Becoming a parent who makes time for the child in need, isn’t distracted by their phone, isn’t making less important things a priority over their children, can patiently marinate in the child’s kicking and screaming without blowing their top long enough to guide them through the actual difficulty, and not resorting to the quick-fix of giving into whatever the three-year old’s demand may be simply because it’s easier.

The same is true of marriage. If we sat alone in a room, detached from the emotions of our own relationships with our spouses, most of us could write a detailed script of all that’s needed to make a marriage work. The challenge is in actually doing it. In most instances, we need not be baffled when a marriage hits a snag, we need only to revert back to the script we ourselves wrote. We need to become people who look up from the screen when our spouse is talking to us, to offer encouragement when we know they’re facing a challenge, to be doting and affectionate, to be proactive in setting time aside to spend with one another, to not allow life’s other projects or busy-ness to get in the way of the relatively short amount of time it demands for us to “be there” for our spouses. 

So while I love John Gottman, he’s not my first pick. Mesilas Yesharim is. A work of mussar that demands that we look inward and mine the immense reservoir of talent and ability that Hashem endowed us with when He created us and animated us with a Divine soul. A sefer that instructs the reader to be conscious of his own behavior, to pursue proper goals with alacrity, transcending earthly desires, and the like. 

There will always be outlying cases and specific issues demand distinctive strategies. But largely, great people make great spouses and great parents. Far too often we look outside for new information and new methods to address our relationships, when we really need to “אליו—within.” Developing greater patience, greater kindness, greater consciousness, greater priorities. Simply becoming greater people.

If you have a growing shelf of books about parenting, about marriage, about interacting with parents or in-laws, bosses or employees, make sure that a copy of Mesilas Yesharim has a place on the shelf as well. And be sure to read it, too.

Chanukah 5785

Because of the peculiar interaction between the lunar and solar calendars, whereas Chanukah coincided with Thanksgiving a few years ago, this year it began the day after Christmas. Which means that this year we began to celebrate our miracle the very night after Christians celebrated theirs. More than most years, this offers compelling reason to consider the miracle of Chanukah—a miraculous victory of the few over the many, of the pure over the impure—against the backdrop of the story of a baby boy being born to a virgin mother.

Those two miracles are fundamentally different in a way that demands our attention.

Despite the mitzvah of Chanukah candles falling into a rubric that women are generally exempt from—time-related, positive mitzvos—they are, nonetheless, obligated in this one. This is because, in the words of Chazal “אף הן היו באותו הנס—They were also included in the miracle.” Some explain that these words do not actually mean to convey mere inclusion alone, but something far more substantial. Women are not obligated in the mitzvah of Chanukah candles because they were included in the miraculous salvation, but because they caused it.

The point of reference is to Yehudis, the daughter of Matisyahu the Kohen Gadol who was the first to openly rebel against Antiochus and the Greek overlords. Despite the mounting religious and physical oppression the Jews faced—mitzvos forbidden and Jewish women violated—people were afraid to act. It was against this backdrop that Yehudis cunningly achieved an audience with the Greek governor of Jerusalem, got him drunk, and decapitated him. The site of his severed head spurred the Jews into rebellion, which coalesced around Matisyahu and his sons who were ready to take up arms against the Greeks.

Jewish women were not only included in the miracle; a Jewish woman helped to cause the miracle.

This is a major statement. Because it suggests that miracles—those acts that are beyond the pale of human accomplishment and transcend the natural world that human beings are trapped inside—are actually not the purview of G-d alone. In the case of Chanukah, Hashem was ready and willing to provide a miraculous victory, but He needed people to start the war. Miracles, Chanukah insists, will descend from Heaven only after people have provided a landing strip down on earth.

Rav Yosef Dov Soloveitchik noted something intriguing about the length of Chanukah. Chanukah is eight days long, of course, because the small cruse of oil miraculously burned for eight days. But why did it need to burn for eight days? The answer is that it took that long to retrieve fresh, new, unadulterated oil. Which is to say that had the human effort to produce new oil taken only three days, the oil would only have lasted that long. And had it taken ten days to produce, we’d have an extra 48 hours of Chanukah and even more impressive looking menorahs. 

Again we find that human effort creates the environment in which miracles can emerge. It was a human process that determined how long the miracle of the oil would last. And it was a human process that created the vehicle for the miracles that unfolded on the battlefield. 

These are the miracles that we remember on Chanukah and throughout the year. When Nachshon jumps into the Sea, it splits. When Esther risks her life for an audience with the king, Haman is thwarted. When Yehudis launches a rebellion, a great military victory follows. All miraculous. All the products of Divine Intervention. All initiated by human effort.

There are plenty of reasons why Jews never accepted Jesus. But in a year when Chanukah and Christmas nearly coincide, when the retelling of our miracles follows immediately upon the retelling of theirs, it is important to consider how distinctly un-Jewish is the claim that a savior would be born without the basic effort normally undertaken to have a child. Moshe was the greatest Jew who ever lived, was the human vessel through which countless miracles were visited upon the Jewish People, and yet was born to both a human mother and a human father. Jewish thought will tolerate no less.

In the Jewish view, every act of conception is indeed miraculous. When a man and woman enter into the partnership of marriage and endeavor to build a home predicated on Jewish values, Hashem’s presence comes to rest on that home and blesses their union, oftentimes in the form of a child. Marriage is a vessel that human beings must create before G-d’s Presence takes shape. We must do ours before Hashem will do His.

Chanukah is a reminder that wherever we hope for miracles, we must be prepared to act. If we want Hashem to bless our lives, our homes, our existence and success as a nation, we must first ask ourselves if we’ve done our part. Have we sufficiently prepped the terrain with the sweat of our own brow, so that a proper vessel exists for Hashem to fill with the miraculous? We must first extend our hand to Him before we can expect Him to extend His hand back to us. 

Parshas Vayeishev 5785

Among the all time great feuds contained in the annals of Tanach, that of Yaakov and Esav certainly ranks somewhere near the top. It is a lifelong feud, the quarreling beginning in utero, and, even as the two brothers apparently make amends in the fateful meeting of last week’s parsha, Chazal give every indication that the rivalry will perpetuate. Indeed, contained in Yitzchak’s blessings to his two sons is the implicit understanding that when one of the two shall rise, the other shall decline. 

Yet a pasuk in Sefer Ovadiah notes that it is not Yaakov alone who stands in the opposing corner of the ring, ready to square off against Esav. Yosef stands there with him. 

וְהָיָה בֵית־יַעֲקֹב אֵשׁ וּבֵית יוֹסֵף לֶהָבָה וּבֵית עֵשָׂו לְקַשׁ וְדָלְקוּ בָהֶם וַאֲכָלוּם וְלֹא־יִהְיֶה שָׂרִיד לְבֵית עֵשָׂו כִּי ה׳ דִּבֵּר׃

^{עבדיה א:יח}

The House of Jacob shall be fire, and the House of Joseph flame, and the House of Esau shall be straw; they shall burn it and devour it, And no survivor shall be left of the House of Esau—for Hashem has spoken.

^{Ovadiah 1:18}

Rashi quotes this pasuk in his very first comment on Parshas Vayeshev in explanation of its juxtaposition to the events at the end of Parshas Vayishlach, specifically, the genealogical register of Esav’s offspring. Rashi explains that Yaakov felt intimidated by the throngs of powerful tribes that emerged from Esav, worried that they could pose an existential threat to the nation he himself sought to build. The Torah responds, in light of the above pasuk, with the answer to Yaakov’s worries. “אלה תולדות יעקב יוסף—These are the descendants of Yaakov: Yosef.” Yosef is mentioned before any of Yaakov’s other children—before all those who were born before him—because he will serve as the countermeasure to all the muscle of Esav’s family mentioned in the preceding parsha.

Why is this so? What is so special about Yosef in particular? What makes Yosef so uniquely suited to act as the antidote to the toxin that is Esav?

There is a beautiful explanation I found quoted from the sefer, Mikra Mefurash, which suggests that Yosef ultimately fulfilled all the potential and promise latent in Esav that he himself failed to achieve. 

Esav was an “ish sadeh”, a “man of the field,” whose pursuits took him far beyond the tents of Torah frequented by his brother. Yet there was no reason why Esav could not contribute positively to his family, only that his contributions would be of a different variety. Yitzchak saw great promise not only in Yaakov, but in Esav as well. If Esav could head out into the world and return home with food for his family, he could be an integral part of the nation that Yitzchak sought to build. It was on this premise that when Yitzchak turned to bless Esav, he asked him to first head out to the field and procure meat for Yitzchak to enjoy. 

Yet Esav succumbed to the influence of the field. He defined himself not as someone living in Yitzchak’s home who would venture out on occasion, but as someone rooted in the world outside who would periodically return home. Who unburdened himself of his birthright and sold it off to his brother. He married women who brought idolatry right into his home. He became violent, gluttonous, a product of influences received anywhere but his parents’ home.

Yosef emerged as the exact opposite. Yosef—sold to Potiphar, seduced by his wife, cast into a prison cell, then installed in the most prominent position of secular authority a Jew has ever known—interacted with the culture of the world outside as much as any Jew in history and was given every opportunity to be swayed, influenced, and defined by a value system completely foreign to that of his saintly parents. And yet he never was. He remained the same Yosef he had been his entire life, a scion to the spiritual dynasty first launched by his great-grandparents, having never succumbed to the entrancements of the world around him. 

Yosef was the anti-Esav. 

Which is a mantle we must be ready to assume. Even as we attempt to live insular lives, protected from the influence of values foreign to our own, we are deeply engaged in the world around us. For most of us, a foreign language serves as our mother tongue, our work environments bring us into regular contact with the non-Jewish world, our mode of dress permits us to move about secular society rather seamlessly, and our ability to access secular culture and values is greater than at any point in history. 

Will we become Esav? Or can we be Yosef? 

It is a critical question to always be mindful of, but particularly so in the days preceding Chanukah, a holiday that commemorates the miracles that ensued when the Jewish People rose up against their Greek overlords. The Greeks’ goal was not genocide, but assimilation. To replace the Jewish value system and way of life with a secular one. The Greeks did not seek to wipe out the Jewish People, only the Jewish spirit.

As we consider assimilation and the celebration of the great Jewish refusal to submit to its allure, we must remember that the question of being an Esav or a Yosef is not a zero-sum game. The question we must answer is not as simple as “Are you ‘in’ or are you ‘out’?” 

Assimilation falls on a continuum. Where on that continuum does each of us lie? How much are we captivated by the field outside as opposed to the happenings inside the tent? Are we animated most by the goals we’ve set for business or recreation, or for spiritual development and growth? Where am I spending my best energies and where am I mailing it in? If I have a five-year plan for my professional life, do I have the same for my learning and davening? 

We spend an awful lot of time in the world beyond Yaakov’s tent. Does that time define us, shape us, give us our truest sense of meaning and fulfillment? Or is it merely what we must do—responsibilities we must discharge—before returning back to the tent? 

As Chanukah draws near, as we remember the awesome sacrifice of the Chashmonaim, their fight against influences that had crept into the Jewish tent, we should take stock of our own tents. How can we distance ourselves further from Esav and draw closer to Yosef?

Parshas Vayishlach 5785

Daniel Penny is a free man. It’s a shame it took so long.

Penny was acquitted of manslaughter this past week in relation to the death of Jordan Neely, a homeless man who boarded the same New York City subway car as Neely and screamed, according to one bystander, “I don’t have food, I don’t have a drink, I’m fed up. I don’t mind going to jail and getting life in prison. I’m ready to die.”

Penny, a former Marine, placed Neely in a chokehold, restraining him until police arrived. Neely was later pronounced dead. 

Upon the acquittal, Congresswoman Summer Lee of Pennsylvania commented on X, “The acquittal of Daniel Penny in the murder of Jordan Neely is a painful reminder of a long-standing reality: vigilante violence against Black people often goes unchecked. Jordan deserved compassion, not violence.”

Actually, he deserved both. 

As he journeyed from Charan, having fled the home of Lavan without so much as a goodbye, Yaakov is ultimately overtaken by his uncle. Lavan scolds him for absconding with Lavan’s daughters and grandchildren without a proper farewell. Yaakov will have none of it. He rails against Lavan, lambasting him for his mistreatment and trickery, and noting his own honesty and integrity throughout the years he worked for Lavan.

Yaakov will not back down from a fight. 

An entirely different scene plays out when Yaakov receives word that Esav’s camp is approaching his own. Yaakov becomes conciliatory, sending Esav a hefty tribute, being sure to refer to Esav as his “master” multiple times, and ultimately engaging Esav in a warm embrace when his heretofore raging brother shows that his anger has subsided.

Yaakov backs down from the fight. 

Perhaps Yaakov is simply a pragmatist. Sure, he’d have given Esav the same earful he gave Lavan, but the four hundred soldiers Esav marched with made that impractical. Yaakov could chastise Lavan for his behavior, stand toe-to-toe with his uncle and decry his animosity because he posed no mortal threat. Esav, on the other hand, marched with an army, ready to kill. A different approach would have to be adopted.

Rav Shimshon Raphael Hirsch, though, sees an altogether different distinction to be made between the two encounters. Lavan receives a tongue-lashing because he had no legitimate argument to make. Yaakov had done only right by Lavan, and was subjected to Lavan’s scheming and manipulation as a result. Lavan would be put squarely in his place.

Esav was simply a different story. Yes, Yaakov had purchased the birthright from Esav fair and square. But Yaakov had to resort to some measure of subterfuge in order to receive the blessings from his father in Esav’s place. Esav had indeed been tricked, and Yaakov, as a result, understood his brother’s anger and resentment. It was only right to act differently towards him than he did towards Lavan.

Is this to say that Yaakov regretted his actions? That if he could do it all over again, he’d defy the instructions of his mother and let Esav receive their father’s bracha? Or, at the very least, tip his hand and inform Esav of his intention to speak with Yitzchak and convince him to change his mind about which son ought to be blessed?

Certainly not. It is to say only that even while being convinced of one’s position, he can still hear and appreciate the case of his rival. Yaakov did what needed to be done, but he had a heart for Esav and understood where he was coming from. Even as Yaakov felt undeniably justified in his own actions, he could appreciate why Esav felt wronged.

The reverse is likewise true. The recognition of the pain of another person or people is not sufficient to justify the cause for which they may be fighting. Being marginalized or wronged in some way is reason to have others identify your suffering, but not enough to act out with impunity in any way you deem fair. Compassion cannot completely overwhelm our sense of right and wrong, of meting out appropriate consequences. 

Homelessness is a terribly sad predicament and when a homeless person says “I don’t have food, I don’t have a drink, I’m fed up,” our hearts should go out to him. But when he says “I don’t mind going to jail and getting life in prison,” he should be restrained from behind until the police arrive.

Which makes Daniel Penny a hero, not a criminal. But ours is a society that too often permits justification of any and all actions on the heels of the compassion we feel for the aggrieved. Yaakov Avinu understands Esav, he even has a heart for Esav, but he doesn’t agree with him, doesn’t condone his behavior, and doesn’t agree to rewrite history so that Esav can get his way. 

We should have compassion for Jordan Neely because he suffered. But that shouldn’t blind us to right and wrong, to the injustice of threatening innocent people on a subway car, and to the heroism—rather than criminality—of Daniel Penny. Summer Lee insisted that Jordan Neely deserved compassion, not violence. No, he deserved both.