Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Bamidbar / Shavuos 5785

If you’ve ever made the drive from Yerushalayim to Ein Gedi, you know how quickly the landscape changes. The dense urbanization of the city yields to nature, and a desert landscape soon spreads before you. But almost as quickly as it changes, it changes back. Not in the form of apartment and office buildings, but of agricultural development. Shortly after turning south onto Route 90, enormous date groves appear on the horizon. Tall, majestic date palms loom over the otherwise barren landscape, offering a glimpse of what is possible given Divine Blessings, hard work, and the ingenuity to supply the right resources.

Namely, water. Because, of course, water doesn’t naturally exist in the wilderness. It must be brought in from elsewhere. 

As it does every year, Parshas Bamidbar precedes the celebration of Shavuos, providing an important allusion of the physical backdrop against which the giving of the Torah occurred. As the first pasuk tells us, the events of the new sefer we begin to read occurred in Midbar Sinai—The Wilderness of Sinai—which, of course, is precisely where the Jewish People stood when they received the Torah. 

The location is far from incidental. According to the Midrash Rabbah, “Midbar—the wilderness” is one of three modalities, along with fire and water, through which the Torah was given. Apparently, there is something about the reality of the wilderness that speaks to the very essence of the what the Torah is and our relationship to it. 

In 1964, Israel completed construction on the National Water Carrier, the massive project that carries water from the Kineret to central and southern Israel over the course of 81 miles of pipes, canals, and tunnels. The National Water Carrier brought potable water to regions of the country that had none, making it far more feasible to populate those areas and to cultivate the land. It’s the water from the National Water Carrier that gave rise to the towering, expansive date groves between Yerushalayim and Ein Gedi. 

This is a critical feature of a Midbar. It’s not that things cannot grow in a wilderness, that the land per se will not permit cultivation and development. Only that in order to make it happen, resources have to be supplied from the outside. Water does not naturally occcur in the Midbar in quantities necessary to allow for crops to steadily grow. But nature is not the only course of action. If nature could only be circumvented, the desert will indeed bloom.

Which, perhaps, is exactly what the Midrash is highlighting. That we are to the Torah what the Midbar is to date groves. Had any farmer come along before 1964, dropped some date pits in the ground and hoped for the best, he would undoubtedly have been disappointed. It is far beyond the natural order of things for the Midbar to produce fruit. But that doesn’t mean it can’t happen. He just needed to get creative and be willing to work.

Torah will not always feel a natural fit within us. Human beings pine for autonomy, long to fulfill their own interests and desires, and time and again the Torah insists that we hedge ourselves in in the interest of fulfilling its precepts. It is not in our nature to refrain from speaking lashon hara, or checking our phones on Shabbos, or passing by restaurant after restaurant offering delicious and cheap food, particularly when we’re hungry. Not in our nature, but also not beyond the realm of possibility. 

It is a mistake to assume that the Torah’s demands will fit like a glove. What happens when we do is that ease and comfort start to become the litmus test for fulfilling our very purpose in this world. When a mitzvah falls beyond the comfort zone, it is deemed out of bounds. We can begin to offer excuses like, “It’s not me.” “It doesn’t feel right.” “It doesn’t seem natural.” Which, of course, is all quite true. But also quite irrelevant. 

Torah need not take root within us any more naturally than date pits take root in a Midbar. But that doesn’t mean they can’t grow. The question needs to be less about what does or doesn’t feel right and more about what is necessary to make it work. 

Perhaps serious Torah study doesn’t fit your natural abilities. Perhaps chessed is not what you’re predisposed to. Perhaps tzedakah or Shabbos or Tefillah go against the grain. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. 

There is an ancient custom to stay up all night on Shavuos to learn Torah. On some level, maybe this is the exact instruction we’re attempting to give ourselves. Sleep is one of the most basic needs of the human body. And yet that natural need can be stretched and expanded to make room for Torah. We don’t sit to learn because we’re not tired, we sit to learn because it doesn’t matter. The Torah won’t always feel natural, but it can always be fulfilled. 

The Midbar is a beautiful place in of itself, but the sight of the date groves emerging from nowhere—dense green rising up in stark contrast from the barren, beige landscape—takes my breath away every time I see it. We owe ourselves the same. 

Parshas Behar 5785

Just over a week ago, Tze’ela Gez and her husband, Chananel, were on the way from their home in the Shomron to the hospital for Tze’ela to deliver their fourth baby. They would soon be blessed with a child, adding a new source of blessing, joy, and light to their family. But their hopes and dreams were shattered by an Arab sniper’s bullet. Tze’ela was murdered en route to the hospital, the baby narrowly having been saved. 

Responding to the tragedy, Chananel posted a few short reflections to social media. He said, “Of course I’m broken. It’s natural. But I also thank Hashem that I stayed alive and I will stay strong to continue being a light to the world. We will never let them break us.”

Chananel’s words are not only courageous; they are unmistakably Jewish.

Parshas Behar opens with a presentation of the laws of Shemittah—the manner in which Jews must refrain from any agricultural work once every seven years and leave the land fallow. Lest you think that somehow these laws are less important than any others, the Torah begins its treatment of the subject by noting that these mitzvos were indeed delivered “בהר סיני—On Har Sinai.” 

Why is the backdrop of Har Sinai more critical here than any other mitzvah? What is it about Shemittah that demands attention being called to its origin at Har Sinai? 

The Divrei Avraham, Rav Avraham Orenstein, notes suggests that that question is actually posed backwards. It is not so much that Har Sinai adds something to our understanding of Shemittah, but rather that Shemittah adds something to our understanding of Har Sinai.

The Midrash in Bereishis Rabbah states that Har Sinai was chosen as the location upon which to deliver the Torah because it was lower that many of the peaks that surrounded it. Hashem chose Sinai because it was humble, a better reflection of the very middos that the Torah would attempt to inculcate into the Jewish People who would stand at the foot of the mountain to receive it.

Yet if Har Sinai is chosen as the landing pad for the Torah in recognition of its humility, it would appear that humility is more than just “another” middah. It seems, rather, a defining quality. Something that characterizes the very essence of the Torah and what it means to receive it. 

This, explains Rav Orenstein, is why Har Sinai is associate with Shemittah in our parsha. Perhaps more than any other mitzvah, Shemittah calls for us retreat from our own personal interest and to bow our heads in deference to Hashem’s will. In the case of Shemittah, there is no obvious moral demand that prevents us from working the land—the farm is lawfully owned and the profits earned will be used to honorably sustain himself and his family. Yet Hashem throws a monkey wrench into those plans. He reminds the farmer that the land, in fact, is not really his own. It is G-d’s, and the farmer must accept. 

Humility is not only the manner in which we subdue our egos in the presence of others, being careful not to be too loud or boisterous, not to belittle others in the interest of making ourselves feel important. Humility must be on display even when no other people are effected. In the private space of my relationship with Hashem. Humility is my willingness to say, “What do I know? Hashem let’s have it Your way.” 

This is the attitude demanded—and cultivated—by Shemittah. And, in truth, is a prerequisite for the acceptance of the Torah as a whole. A relationship with G-d demands humility in accepting His authority and will. Anything less—an acceptance of mitzvos only when they resonate, only when they inspire, only when we’re in the mood—is a life dedicated to serving ourselves, not serving Hashem. 

Which is to say that Chananel Gez could not have responded more Jewishly to his wife’s murder. For there to be any interface between G-d and the Jewish People, humility must be on full display. We must be capable of staring down even the most unimaginable tragedies and recognizing that Hashem runs the world, has a plan, and doesn’t make mistakes. 

This coming Monday marks Yom Yerushalayim, the anniversary of the liberation of Yerushalayim from the hands of our enemies. The dramatic turnaround from Nasser’s threats to push the Jews into the sea to a sweeping victory capped off by the return to the Kosel and Har Habayis seemed not only miraculous, but messianic. I have heard from many who lived at the time that had it been announced on the radio that a saintly looking rabbi suddenly appeared on a white donkey in the gates of the city, nobody would have been surprised.

And yet it didn’t happen. Real life events somehow veered from the script so many had written in their minds. How to respond? With humility. To recognize Hashem’s involvement in producing a great miracle, and yet to accept that His timetable often differs from our own. 

Humility is a precondition for any meaningful relationship, but especially so in the one we enjoy with G-d. Without humility there can be no Torah, for there can be no acceptance of His will over ours. In mitzvos and in history, in miracles and in tragedies, we must let Hashem in by being like Har Sinai and laying low. 

Parshas Emor / Lag B’Omer 5785

A young entrepreneur has achieved enough success that he needs more hands on deck. No longer capable of managing the company alone, he needs a team around him to help manage and maintain what’s already been created, as well as to help scale the business and propel it forward. So he brings on a COO and begins to train the new recruit in all aspects of the business—production, inventory, clientele, revenue, overhead, and on and on.  

The new COO is adept enough—truly professional—and has the whole thing down. A couple weeks go by and he feels like he’s doing a fine job, but can’t shake the feeling that his boss seems unsatisfied. “Is something wrong?” he inquires, “Is there more you expect of me?” 

“I do have a bone to pick with you,” the boss admits. “Your work is fine. Superb, actually. Neat, high-quality, comprehensive. Your communication skills are great. You just…well…you just don’t seem to care…at least not the way I did when I was running things.” 

“Respectfully, sir, it’s your company, not mine.”

Among its presentation of the laws relating to the various Yamim Tovim throughout the year, Parshas Emor provides instructions for counting the days of Sefiras HaOmer. And it does so in an unusual manner. Rather than simply “וספרתם—You shall count,” the Torah demands “וספרתם לכם—You shall count for yourselves.”

That extra “לכם—for yourselves” is not completely anomalous in the realm of mitzvos. Indeed, just a few pesukim later in relating the laws of the Arba Minim, the Torah instructs, “ולקחתם לכם—You shall take for yourselves.” Chazal understood that the implication regarding Sukkos is that the Arba Minim must be your own and cannot be borrowed from another. Yet what is true for an esrog or lulav would not seem to be applicable to Sefiras HaOmer. If I must own the Arba Minim to fulfill the mitzvah, what is the Torah’s expectation when it comes to counting?

Rav Sholom Yosef Zevin explained that the import regarding Sefirah is actually the same; we need to own it. With every new day journeyed towards Har Sinai, we must feel ownership over the Torah we learn and the Torah we keep. Admirable tough it may be to simply bow our heads in deference to Hashem, to submit to His will, and to do it for Him, the Torah here is actually demanding more of us. Namely, that we personalize the experience of Torah and take ownership over it. 

That young entrepreneur would have been absolutely right to notice a difference between his own effort on behalf of his company and that of his new employee. And the new COO was spot on in his response, if perhaps a bit too honest should job security be something he’d like to maintain. There is simply no way to bring the same level of vigor and passion to the toil you are doing on behalf of someone else as you would to an enterprise that was your own. 

There must be pride of ownership when it comes to our observance of Torah. More than a sense of simply clocking in and clocking out and completing my hours. More than finishing the job and earning the paycheck so that I can afford to do what I really want to be doing. 

The demand of וספרתם לכם is the demand that we actually own it, that it be ours. That our counting—our growth and development in Torah—be what defines us even more than anything else we may call our own. 

Consider what we all do to furnish ourselves with our most cherished assets—houses, cars, and the like. We obsess over them, work hard to make the right payments, service every element that requires upkeep. Never is there the sense that the car will change its own oil, that the bank will let a few months’ mortgage go by without a fuss, or that the landscaping will grow in all its own. We are scheduled, meticulous, and concerned over the things we own. Business owners know full well that the buck stops with them and that if they are not scheduled, organized, and diligent, they simply will not achieve the success they’ve long dreamed of.

It is that sort of attitude that וספרתם לכם calls for. To think of our learning as our business. Do we manage it to the same degree? To think of our davening as our car. Do we just shrug our shoulders as it fall into disrepair? To think of our bitachon as our house? Do we obsess over improving it until it matches the image we’ve always held in our mind? Do we even have an image we hold in our mind?

As we shift to the second phase of Sefiras HaOmer, celebrating Lag B’Omer as the day upon which the plague that ravaged Rebbe Akiva’s students finally halted, it’s worth considering how Rebbe Akiva ever moved on. How did he pick up the pieces after every last one of his 24,000 students had perished and bring himself to start all over again? How did he muster the courage to bring together a small band of five talmidim and convey to them the Torah and mesorah he had already painstakingly transmitted—seemingly all for naught? 

I would argue that Rebbe Akiva fulfilled וספרתם לכם. He took ownership over his relationship with Torah. When you are simply doing someone else’s bidding, you make a reasonable effort, but no more. When life provides you with every reasonable excuse to say, “Well, I tried,” you take it and retire. It is only when you take ownership over your Torah, when you see your own life as inextricably bound with your toil on behalf of Hashem, that you can pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and go on to build another yeshiva, even as the ruins of the previous one are still smoldering.

It was, after all, Rebbe Akiva, who saw Torah as something personally acquired by those who toiled for it. Upon returning home to his wife after 24 years apart, years in which he transformed himself from an ignoramus to the Gadol HaDor, he gestured to his wife in the presence of his throngs of talmidim and declared, “שלי ושלכם שלה היא—All that is mine and all that is yours, is actually hers.” 

May we never have the need to rebuild the way that Rebbe Akiva did. But if we are to build anything impressive at all, the first step is to realize that it’s our own name on the deed.

Parshas Acharei Mos-Kedoshim 5785

As the facts on the ground (and, perhaps, in the ground) change not infrequently, I try to stay abreast of the latest recommendations on how to properly wash and check vegetables. For a while now, I’ve been cutting the crowns off the tops of bell peppers, following the CRC’s guidelines since discovering high levels of infestation. But I’ve scaled back a bit on my former regimen for checking cabbage, following the guidelines given by the same organization that simply removing the outer leaves and then thoroughly washing the remaining ones has been found sufficient to deal with possible bugs that may be lurking within.

I’ve been bummed about my peppers. But celebrated over my cabbage.

Because that’s how we are. Dedicated though we may be to doing what’s right, recognizing the  merit and meaning in fulfilling the Torah’s precepts and following halacha to a T, we prefer less work to more work. We welcome being let off the hook and bemoan being handed more responsibilities, even as we recognize those same responsibilities as providing our lives with purpose.

So when reading between the lines of Parshas Kedoshim we uncover a secret trove of regulations we are obligated to uphold, we’d be forgiven if we let out a sigh. But we shouldn’t. We should actually rejoice.

In its very first instruction, Parshas Kedoshim seems simply to double-down on what we’ve already been told. “Kedoshim tihyu,” the pasuk reads, “You shall be holy.” 

Why, of course. After all, in presenting its 613 mitzvos, the Torah has provided us with a roadmap to guide us precisely to the destination of holiness. Perform those mitzvos, and we’ll undoubtedly emerge holy. What, then, is the Torah driving at in reiterating this point? Why the added emphasis that we do exactly what we’ve already been told to do elsewhere? 

The Ramban famously explains that the Torah is making another point altogether. In reality, he asserts, one who simply performs all the other mitzvos incumbent on him may actually land far from the goal of holiness. He may become a “Naval b’rshus haTorah—A despicable person, albeit with the Torah’s permission.”

Such a person, explains the Ramban, may technically check off all the boxes. He may assiduously perform every mitzvah and deftly skirt every aveirah. And yet be a despicable person. Become someone with no class, no nobility, lacking every impulse for sensitivity and consideration the Torah attempts to inculcate within him by means of the commandments placed upon him, but that he’s managed to wholly avoid, even as those mitzvos go fulfilled. 

To this, the Torah makes a new demand, “Kedoshim tihyu—you shall be holy.” Not just compliant. Not just observant. Holy. Become a G-d conscious, morally driven, ethically anchored, holy person. See the mitzvos not only as an end point, but a beginning point. Yes, perform these mitzvos, but do more. Do the work necessary to become holy, even if that means taking new steps and adopting new measures within the realm of what is strictly speaking permissible to you.

It’s a beautiful vision, but one that begs an obvious question. If we are to become something even more than what the Torah directly transforms us into, why not demand those behaviors outright? Why not formally incorporate those items into the cannon of mitzvos? If Kedoshim tihyu casts a net far wider than 613 mitzvos, why not just make it 650 mitzvos, or 700 mitzvos, or more, with each behavior necessary for holiness delineated as clearly as the first 613?

The Chasam Sofer offers an insightful explanation. He suggests that the sorts of behaviors suggested by the Torah here aren’t included in the formal list of mitzvos simply because they can’t be. Mitzvos are one-size-fits-all demands items that are necessary for the religious portfolio of every single Jew. 

Kedusha, on the other hand, is a deeply personal enterprise, calling for us to first understand ourselves, what makes us tick, and then creating a tailor-made plan of action to bring us to a state of holiness. Everyone must arrive at kedusha, and while the 613 point us in that direction, they won’t get us over the finish line. What will is a regimen that is uniquely suited to our own personalities and predilections and that we must devise ourselves.

It is a lot to ask. And being faced with such an imposing task—to construct a system of moral guardrails and religious practices to hold ourselves to that only first pick up where the 613 leave off—is enough to make anyone groan. Because we far prefer to be told that we don’t need to agitate and scrub the cabbage than that we do need to lop off 25% of the fully usable pepper meat. We prefer being let off the hook than being told that the hook is far larger than previously assumed.

But that’s a mistake. Because in being instructed in Kedoshim tihyu we are being told that Torah is a deeply personal experience. That our attachment with Hashem isn’t cookie-cutter, it’s unique, as all meaningful relationships are. We are told that the vision Hashem has for us—that we be holy and elevated and ennobled—is something that interfaces with each of our distinctive profiles. 

It is an area that, to be sure, demands many additional responsibilities and obligations. But is also the greatest vote of confidence imaginable. Hashem is asking that you work harder than you thought necessary. But that you perform work that only you can accomplish. 

Yom Ha’Atzmaut / Parshas Tazria-Metzora 5785

When I imagine a utopian Israel, the landscape is dotted with shuls and yeshivos, restaurants all serving up food under the strictest hashgacha, and sefarim stores perpetually having trouble keeping their inventory up with the demand. And I’m talking about Tel Aviv. No immodest advertisements, no heads absent sizeable yarmulkas, no posters proudly announcing certain establishments as “Open on Shabbos.” 

Theodore Herzl, along with the rest of the early secular Zionists responsible for founding the State of Israel, had a very different idea. Herzl’s vision was for a Jewish State not specifically connected to Torah, to the very thing that makes Jews Jews. Israel would be an epicenter of cultural, artistic, and academic expression of the Jewish People, but not anchored in anything inherently Jewish, other than the minds of those who would produce it. It was to be Vienna if all Viennese were Jews. 

And yet his vision has brought Israel far closer to mine than he could possibly have imagined. Indeed, the sort of scene I’ve described takes place every day in cities and neighborhoods throughout the country, if not necessarily in Tel Aviv. How did this come to pass? Herzl’s movement. The passion and energy, the money and muscle, the political contacts and business know-how that those early Zionists poured into the land is what ultimately paved the roads, laid the pipes, and flipped the switches necessary to accommodate and support a massive population of Jews, including devoutly Orthodox ones, as well as the institutions and infrastructure they’d need to live richly religious lives.

And there is something deeply unsettling about that. Could it be that something so holy could originate in something so profane? Could the vision of a Herzl actually develop into true, bona fide geulah?

Rabbi Yaakov Moshe Charlop was the first Rosh Yeshiva of Mercaz HaRav, the yeshiva founded by Rav Avraham Yitzchak Hakohen Kook. An ardent follower of Rav Kook’s thought, Rabbi Charlop was of the belief that what the Jewish People were witnessing in the decades leading up to the eventual establishment of the Jewish State was the stirrings of the redemption. Yet, how could it be so given the involvement of so many so far from Torah Judaism?

Rabbi Charlop pointed to the beginning of this week’s Parsha, Parshas Tazria. No sooner does the Torah introduce the miraculous event of childbirth than it splashes cold water on the proceedings. No poetic language about the beauty of the mother and father being united in the production of a child, nothing about the partnership they enjoy with Hashem in creating a new soul, nothing of the value of bringing about a next generation of the Jewish People. 

No, just that the mother is now temeiah, is now rendered impure as a result of the child she gave birth to. 

This, explained Rabbi Charlop, is a reality that the Torah insists we acknowledge. Yes, bringing a new baby into the world is an act of unprecedented holiness. And it may well be that the new infant now laying in his mother’s arms will grow up to be the next Gadol HaDor or even Mashiach himself. Yet the process is not without its tumah. The mother becomes impure.

Even when there is a storybook ending, there is not always a storybook beginning. Important, holy, even redemptive processes can wade through impurity before arriving at their holy destination. One cannot make assumptions about where something will land based on the impure location from which it was launched.

If you travel around Israel today, it is hard not to see signs of redemption. The Land itself is enjoying a renaissance unknown for thousands of years, with farms and cities sprouting forth in areas never thought inhabitable. Strictly kosher food is plentiful, expressions of faith in Hashem abound, and the din of Torah and tefilah echoes throughout the land. 

Since the establishment of the State of Israel, the Land has both physically and spiritually come back to life. How does that square with the impure motives from which so much of that life began? Quite well, actually. Just as a mother bringing a new child into the world, a trace of impurity does not tell the whole story of the miracle that’s been created. 

Sefiras HaOmer 5785

Before the great gift of Canva, creating flyers for shul programs was an arduous task. I’d do my best to tinker with the graphics available on Microsoft Word—geared far more towards word processing than graphic design—to create something that would promote an upcoming event with as much pop and pizzazz as possible. 

And then I was introduced to Guru. And then to Fiverr. Online platforms that allowed you to outsource. For cheap. Put out the specs for your project, and someone, somewhere, would do your bidding for a pittance. Best of all was the perk of time-zone arbitrage. Pass off the job to a graphic designer in Bangladesh late at night and wake up the next morning with a draft already waiting in your inbox. 

Outsourcing can be a game changer. But slow down. It doesn’t work for everything. 

In formulating the obligation to count Sefiras HaOmer, the Torah instructs, “וספרתם לכם—And you shall count for yourselves (Vayikra 23:15).” This is unusual language, emphasizing the need for one to perform the mitzvah himself. What, pray tell, would the alternative have been?

The Mishnah Berurah (489:5) brings two approaches to explaining the Torah’s language. One is that the Torah here dispels the notion that counting Sefiras HaOmer should be compared to the counting of the years of the Shemitah cycle, or the number of cycles leading up to the Yovel. These mitzvos are actually not incumbent upon the rank and file, but devolve instead upon the collective body of Bais Din. Counting to Shemittah or to Yovel need not be performed by the private citizen. Counting to Shavuos, on the other hand, must be.

The other approach is, halachically speaking, more surprising, as it suggests that the Torah is overriding a principle that functions in all other areas of halacha, but not for Sefirah. Namely, the principle of shomei’a k’oneh—that hearing another person recite a text or make a statement is akin to having recited those same words oneself. It is shomei’a k’oneh that allows us to fulfill our obligation of Kiddush or Havdalah while merely listening to their recitation by another person, or to simply hear Megilas Esther read by the baal korei as a means of performing that mitzvah. 

Shomei’a k’oneh—that listening is like reciting—works for many mitzvos, but not, according to this school of thought, to Sefiras HaOmer. One may not listen to another person counting the correct day. “וספרתם לכם—you should count for yourselves.” The count must be ariculated in one’s own voice.

There is a common thread shared by both approaches: The mitzvah of Sefiras HaOmer cannot be outsourced in any which way. Tempting though it might be to leave Bais Din with the burden of maintaining a correct count, Sefiras HaOmer must be undertaken by every individual. Conversely, it may be that even one who is embracing his personal responsibility to count, must do so in a manner that assumes the totality of that responsibility, enunciating the words himself rather than leaving another to do so as he listens on. 

Outsourcing can be great. Sending a project off to someone else to handle so that you’re freed up to make more critical contributions—to do your best work—is smart business. But what happens when we outsource the very thing we’re meant to contribute? The very work incumbent upon us—and only us—to perform?

For all my enthusiasm surrounding the great discovery of Fiverr and what it could mean for multiplying my productivity, I understood that certain things couldn’t be outsourced. Imagine trying to outsource a hospital visit to a congregant recovering from surgery. Or spending time with a couple trying to navigate a sticky Shalom Bayis situation. Or attendance at a funeral or a bris. At some point, you’ve outsourced yourself right out of the very relationships you were trying to free up time to better engage with in the first place. You’ve outsourced yourself out of your very self. 

Perhaps this is precisely what the Torah is accentuating regarding Sefiras HaOmer. Although the Torah was originally delivered through an agent, it was, in truth, never an outsourced enterprise. Moshe Rabbeinu delivered the Torah, but he did so to every single Jew. The Torah knowledge stored in the mind of Moshe Rabbeinu does not obviate the demand for every Jew’s personal engagement with Torah study. No matter how well someone else may have come to know Hashem by way of His Torah, the pursuit of that relationship is the purview of every member of the nation.

There is a wealth of assistance we can leverage in helping to craft a relationship with someone we love. We don’t need to grow the flowers ourselves, dip the chocolates, or even drive to the store to make the purchase in-person. But outsourcing has its limits. Don’t believe that you can send a laptop along with your spouse for the big anniversary dinner and let someone from Bangladesh make conversation over Zoom. Sure, it would save time and free you up. But free you up for what? At some point you’ve just outsourced yourself out of everything that matters.

In the ramp up to Shavuos, we’d do well to remember this point. Torah is not something that can simply be left to others to perform. Giving honor to and maintaining reverence for those who have amassed huge amounts of Torah knowledge is no replacement for our own learning. Generous donations to Torah institutions does not create a series of proxies to learn Torah in our place. We simply cannot send another in our place to carry on a dialogue with our Beloved. 

Torah study is a personal conversation between Hashem and every individual member of His Chosen Nation, and not something that can be passed off to Bais Din or those we may feel—even genuinely so—are more capable at understanding the message than we are. 

Torah is the spending time. It’s the in-person contact. The face-to-face conversation. It’s the moments we take to put everything else on hold to sit down and listen closely to what Hashem wants to tell us. And it cannot be outsourced.

Sefiras HaOmer commences the very night after we gather to read the Haggadah and relate the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim. One of the most remarkable features of that night is the deletion of Moshe Rabbeinu’s name from the narrative we retell. Which is, of course, on brand. For in the Haggadah we relate Hashem’s declaration that, “אני ולא מלאך, אני ולא שרף, אני ולא שליח, אני ה׳, אני הוא ולא אחר—It was I and no angel, I and no fiery angel, I and no messenger, it was I, Hashem, I and no other.” The Hagaddah contains these words as a reminder that in crafting His relationship with us, Hashem chose not to outsource. As we count each day leading from the Haggadah to Shavuos, we must remember to return the favor. 

Parshas Pekudei 5785

Shortly after we first moved into our house in Cherry Hill, my wife’s grandmother—may she live and be well—came by for a visit. She took a look around our new home and with a knowing smile noted, “In 25 years, it’ll be just the way you want it!”

She was trying to offer a little relief. And she did. You don’t need to fret over every last detail. Don’t become frustrated that your new home doesn’t fit the image you’ve carried around in your mind for years. A home is a marathon, not a sprint. It will take time, and that’s fine, it’s supposed to be that way.

But on another level, those words words of comfort actually struck me with a sense of deep foreboding. “Oh no,” I thought. “You mean there’s more of this to come? More decisions, more choices, more furnishing? For twenty five years? Can’t I just stop and catch my breath? Do we need to fill our minds with future projects right now? Can’t we just be satisfied with what we’ve already done?”

Don’t worry, Grammy, Moshe Rabbeinu seems to think like you.

Upon completing the Mishkan, the Torah records that Moshe Rabbeinu blessed the people (39:43). And while the text of that bracha is absent from the Chumash, the Tosefta (Menachos 7:3) provides the words Moshe recited. The Tosefta records that Moshe said, “Just as you worked towards building the Mishkan and Hashem rested His Presence upon your handiwork, may you likewise have the merit to build the Bais HaMikdash and may Hashem rest His Presence upon your handiwork once more.”

To be sure, the Mishkan is not the final destination for Hashem’s Presence. But it was a major undertaking, and the people have worked hard. Can they have a moment to pause and catch their breath without being reminded of the ideal home that would yet need to be built?

Though we may well take the word “Mishkan,” literally “habitat” or “residence”, for granted as a reference to the structure in which Hashem’s Presence would come to rest, Rashi (38:21) notes an additional layer of meaning latent in the word. He explains that “Mishkan” is also related to the word “mashkon,” meaning “collateral,” referring to Hashem’s ultimate seizure of both the first and second Bais Hamikdash in exchange for the destruction that should otherwise have come upon the people directly. The “debt,” as it were, would go uncollected; the Jewish People would survive, while the “Mishkan” would be taken as collateral.

Which, historically speaking, isn’t exactly so. The Mishkan itself was never destroyed. It emerged from the wilderness in which it was created wholly unscathed, coming to rest in different locations throughout Eretz Yisrael. It was the Bais Hamikdash that would be destroyed as “collateral” for the Jewish People themselves, not the Mishkan.

Rabbi Eliyahu Mishkovsky, author of Mishnas Eliyahu and former Rav of Kfar Chassidim in Eretz Yisrael, offered a novel interpretation. In truth, he explained, there is one primary distinction between the Mishkan and the Bais Hamikdash. Whereas the edifice that was the Mishkan was imbued with eternal sanctity, the same cannot be said of any location upon which it was erected. When the Mishkan was deconstructed and then reconstructed elsewhere, the place upon which it formally stood reverted back to its original status. 

But the same cannot be said of the Bais Hamikdash. The Bais HaMikdash invested the location upon which it was built with more than mere temporary sanctity. Even after the Bais HaMikdash was destroyed, Har HaBayis, the mountain where it once stood, retains its holiness, even until today. 

The Bais HaMikdash, then, is essentially comprised of two distinct components: Mishkan and Makom, or edifice and location. And in this regard, explained Rav Mishkovsky, it is only the edifice—the Mishkan within the Mikdash—that Hashem revoked as collateral for the Jewish People. The location, on the other hand, remains unchanged, forever saturated with the sanctity brought upon it by the building that was once there. 

Perhaps this understanding sheds new light on the bracha Moshe Rabbeinu gave the nation upon completing the Mishkan. Why was Moshe Rabbeinu already setting his sights on the greater project that would be the Bais HaMikdash when the Mishkan had barely yet been dedicated? Because the Mishkan and the Mikdash represent two very different sorts of influences one can have on his surroundings. And getting too comfortable in the paradigm of the Mishkan can come at the peril of ever advancing to the paradigm of the Mikdash.

The paradigm of the Mishkan is that of sanctity or influence while one is present. When the Mishkan stood in place, its location was sanctified. When it was deconstructed and moved elsewhere, the previous location reverted back to its previous status. It ultimately remained unchanged.

Not so the Bais HaMikdash. Even after its destruction, Har HaBayis remained sanctified. The influence of the Mikdash, unlike the Mishkan, outlasted its physical presence in the space it occupied. 

“Advance,” Moshe Rabbeinu urged the people. “Don’t become people who only influence those around them while they remain present. Become the kind of people who can create a culture, who can inculcate values, who can provide an influence that will endure, even when they are no longer present.”

Every one of us wants to be a Mikdash, not just a Mishkan. We want to do more than influence our children’s behavior while we stand over them with a stern gaze. We want to impact their very consciences so that they act in accordance with our values, even when we’re not present. We want to create an atmosphere in which employees and coworkers are motivated to work diligently whether we stand guard over them or not. We want our communities to be positively influenced by our behavior, in a way that fundamentally changes those around us, whether we are actually in the room or somewhere else entirely.

How do we get there? First and foremost by recognizing that there’s a difference. Which, I would suggest, is precisely what Moshe Rabbeinu was trying to get across. For his people to know that there’s a difference between being a Mishkan and a Mikdash. And to periodically ask oneself, which am I?

Am I influencing those around and under me by fear, or am I inspiring by my very example? Am I simply demanding compliance through force, or providing them with a role model for how one ought to act? Am I behaving in the sort of way that leaves people with a sigh of relief when I exit the room, or disappointed that they now have only the memory of my conduct rather than my physical presence?

Rav Chaim Volozhiner famously noted that when instructing the people to build the Mishkan, Hashem said, “ועשו לי מקדש ושכנתי בתוכם—Build for Me a Sanctuary, that I may reside within you.” Not within it, within the Sanctuary. But within you, within the Sanctuary that you forge yourself into so that Hashem’s presence may come to rest within your very soul. 

Every Jew has the ability to turn himself into a Sanctuary. Either a Mishkan or a Mikdash. Which will you be?

Parshas Vayakhel 5785

A number of years ago, the Jewish Action—the magazine published by the OU—ran a feature on out-of-town communities. One article featured a quote I’ll never forget, stated by Rabbi Ronald Schwarzberg, the director of the Rabbinic Placement Office of the RCA and RIETS. Commenting on the notion that a dynamic rabbi could single-handedly build a thriving community, he stated, “Show me a rabbi that built a community, and I’ll show you a rabbi who was in the right place at the right time.”

Community building is more about the efforts of community members than it is about the efforts of rabbis. Even the greatest rabbi of all time. 

Whereas it was always the responsibility of Moshe Rabbeinu to disseminate the Torah he’d received from Hashem to the Jewish People, the process of doing so was not always to gather the people as a whole, as one Kehilah in order to deliver instruction en masse. When the Torah records that Moshe did make a point of doing so, it should command our attention.

וַיַּקְהֵל מֹשֶׁה אֶת־כׇּל־עֲדַת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וַיֹּאמֶר אֲלֵהֶם אֵלֶּה הַדְּבָרִים אֲשֶׁר־צִוָּה ה׳ לַעֲשֹׂת אֹתָם׃ שֵׁשֶׁת יָמִים תֵּעָשֶׂה מְלָאכָה וּבַיּוֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִי יִהְיֶה לָכֶם קֹדֶשׁ שַׁבַּת שַׁבָּתוֹן לה׳ כׇּל־הָעֹשֶׂה בוֹ מְלָאכָה יוּמָת׃ לֹא־תְבַעֲרוּ אֵשׁ בְּכֹל מֹשְׁבֹתֵיכֶם בְּיוֹם הַשַּׁבָּת׃

^{שמות לה:א–ג}

Moshe gathered the entire congregation of Israel and said to them, “These are the items that Hashem has commanded you to do them. For six days you shall do work but the seventh day shall be holy to you, a complete cessation from work unto Hashem. Anyone who does work upon it shall be put to death. You shall not ignite a fired in any of your dwellings on the Sabbath day.”

^{Shemos 35:1-3}

What was the critical information—more critical, it would appear, than other mitzvos of the Torah—that called for Moshe gathering the people as one to hear it? It would seem that it was Shabbos, that the call to observe this holy day needed to be presented to the people as a whole.

Yet there is something amiss with specific aspects of Shabbos outlined here. Whereas the preceding pasuk notes that Moshe was delivering a mitzvah that required “לעשות—to do or to make,” the elements of Shabbos discussed in the following pesukim detail those items which must not be done. We must refrain from work and must not ignite fires. Where is the active doing that Moshe spoke of?

The Chiddushei HaRim, the great Gerrer Rebbe, offered a novel solution. He suggested that the “doing” spoken of in the first pasuk does not refer to the keeping of Shabbos mentioned in the subsequent pesukim. Rather, the “doing” is the necessary instruction for fulfilling the very first word of the parsha: “ויקהל—And he gathered.” 

The notion of Kehilah, explained the Chiddushei HaRim, is far more than a group of people merely converging upon a shared piece of real estate. It is more than the happenstance meeting of individuals at a given time in a given place. Creating Kehilah demands “לעשות—it demands doing.”

This is Moshe Rabbeinu’s charge to his people. Moshe, Rabban Shel Yisrael, the greatest rabbi the Jewish People would ever know, could gather the people into one centralized location. But if they were to become a true Kehilah, then “לעשות,” they must be prepared to act themselves, to make their efforts and their own contributions.

Communities cannot be fallen into, they must be actively constructed. Simply occupying shared space may fill the room, may even qualify for a minyan, but it does not create the greater ideal of Kehilah. For that to occur, we need to stretch ourselves, we need to act, we need to do.

Consider the difference between a Kehilah built on activity, on doing, and one that passively comes into existence. It is the difference between a shul in which individuals receive a warm Shalom Aleichem and Good Shabbos even from those beyond their natural social clique. One in which minyanim and learning are strengthened by the dedicated participation of every member, even when not as convenient as other options. In which there is a constant questioning of how we can make those around us comfortable, even at the expense of some of our own comfort. 

A shul is just an edifice. It is through building a Kehilah—not a shul—that we achieve something truly great. But Kehilah is not achieved by accident, but through conscious effort and activity—through “לֹעשות”. A shul can be a place we come to draw from when we have needs. A Kehilah is established only when we’re prepared to flip that script. To consider not how we can gain, but how we can provide. To take stock not of our own needs, but of those around us.

Parshas Tetzaveh 5785

Alex Clare was an extraordinarily talented musician who just couldn’t get enough of a fan base. But that would surely change upon being signed by Island Records. Supported by a label with major industry muscle, his work would finally be promoted with the sort of gusto that would finally bring masses of ears to his extraordinary music. Which, in turn, would bring masses of dollars. 

Or so he thought.

Alex was learning about Judaism and becoming religious. So much so that by the time he was signed, he needed to insist upon a critical proviso: He wouldn’t work on Shabbos or Yom Tov. Initially nonplussed—record labels are quite accustomed to working with eccentric artists—Alex was signed nonetheless, and with great enthusiasm. But as one opportunity after another to promote his new album was balked at in favor of Friday night dinner, Island Records became increasingly annoyed. When Sukkos rolled around, they gave him an ultimatum. He’d work or be dropped. 

He was dropped. 

A short while later, something incredible happened. Microsoft came calling, asking to license his song, “Too Close” for a new commercial they were producing. Alex readily agreed, and suddenly his fanbase exploded. By the end of the Microsoft campaign, his album had sold six million copies and his music video had 45 million views on YouTube. He had his masses of ears and masses of dollars. 

Hashem had rewarded Alex for his sacrifice. Right here in this world. And the same can happen to you.

Maybe. 

From the time of Moshe’s birth, recorded in Parshas Shemos, through the very end of Torah, Moshe’s name appears in every single parsha. Except one. Parshas Tetzaveh contains no mention of Moshe’s name, despite his being the recipient of Hashem’s instructions to furnish the various elements of the Mishkan and the priestly clothing that the parsha contains. 

The Ba’al HaTurim famously explains that this is due to a statement Moshe himself makes. In next week’s parsha, Parshas Ki Sisa, Hashem muses over the idea of eradicating the Jewish People in response to the Chet HaEgel. Only Moshe would remain, and from him Hashem would reboot the nation. Moshe pleads with Hashem to reconsider, insisting should He do so, then, “מחני נא מספרך אשר כתבת—Erase me from Your book that You have written.” If the nation is to be lost, then Moshe intends to suffer the same fate.

Moshe prevails and Hashem spares the people. But, says the Baal HaTurim, one parsha remains effected by Moshe’s words. His name is indeed erased from the book. At least in Parshas Tetzaveh.

Moshe’s attempts at saving the people certainly appear gallant. He’s willing to fall on the sword for the Jewish People, and Hashem is swayed from killing them off? Why, then, is he punished? Why isn’t he rewarded for his nobility?

Perhaps he is. But there are battle scars just the same. 

When Yaakov wrestles all night with the angel, he wins the battle. But he does not emerge whole and unharmed. He will forever walk with a limp. The battle is a smashing success. It is there that Yaakov receives the name “Yisrael” that will forever come to identify the nation he fathers and the land he calls home. But he limps nonetheless.

This is the reality of sacrifice. Sticking out one’s neck for a cause he believes is right and just on its own merits, not because of the reward that follows. Indeed, the reward may never follow. At least not in this world. 

When one would see his animal placed upon the mizbeach in the Bais Hamikdash, a closeness was achieved between himself and His creator. Hence, “korban”, from the word “karov”, or “close.” The owner of the animal had indeed gained something. But he had also sacrificed. 

And that is a reality that comes to pass far more often than the one experienced by Alex Clare. What happened to Alex Clare is a store of hashgacha pratis, of Hashem watching over a Jew and rewarding him for the sacrifice he’d made, right here in this world. But those stories occur far less frequently than the others, the stories of people sacrificing and receiving—ostensibly—nothing in return. Only a limp. Or a name erased.

But it is a mistake not to relate those stories. Both for our children and ourselves, we need to be reminded that the usual reward for doing the right thing, for sacrificing in what we believe, is the sheer honor of doing so. Yes, we give up untold earnings when we keep Shabbos. Yes, we part with a great deal of money to provide our children with a yeshiva education. Yes, we sacrifice for the great cause that is Judaism and may not have anything tangible to show for it. But there is honor and nobility in doing so. The reward gained for sacrificing in what we believe is often nothing more than the sacrifice itself.

Parshas Terumah 5785

I don’t generally pay much attention to my retirement account. But as my wife and I were recently gathering together all the information our accountant needed for our tax returns, it was time to take a peek. And I noticed something on the graph prominently displayed on my Vanguard homepage: A huge dip. Dating back to nearly two years ago. But because I was unaware of it at the time, I didn’t panic. And looking at the graph today, there’s no cause for concern; everything rebounded, and then some. 

Over the past two hundred plus years, the stock market has risen and fallen many times over. Yet overall, it grows. So don’t pull out. Keep your money in the market.

As in building any edifice or institution, the first step in the construction of the Mishkan was not the construction at all, but the fundraising. Hashem instructs Moshe to announce to the people the launch of a major capital campaign, so that the necessary funds can be gathered. But interestingly, and despite the seeming willingness of the people to participate, those funds will not be given. They will be taken. 

דַּבֵּר אֶל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וְיִקְחוּ־לִי תְּרוּמָה מֵאֵת כּל־אִישׁ אֲשֶׁר יִדְּבֶנּוּ לִבּוֹ תִּקְחוּ אֶת־תְּרוּמָתִי׃

^{(שמות כה:ב)}

Speak to the Children of Israel and take a gift for Me, from every person who is moved to donate shall my gift be taken. 

^{(Shemos 25:2)}

If the donor pool is comprised of people moved to give, why not permit them to give of their own volition. Why is the campaign an act of taking, rather than giving?

Rav Dovid of Kotzk suggests that the term “ויקחו—take” in this context is not meant to describe the specific process by which the gifts change hands from the nation to Moshe on behalf of the Mishkan. Rather, it is a term that serves to color the enterprise of building a home for Hashem, which in turn represents the totality of our relationship with Him. 

In the Holy Tongue, business transactions are referred to as “מקח וממכר—buying and selling.” This, explains Rav Dovid of Kotzk, is what the word “ויקחו—take” in our parsha means to convey. That we view our relationship with Hashem, our endeavors in Torah and mitzvos, as being no less than the running of a successful business. 

On one level, this emphasizes the importance of applying metrics to monitor our spiritual growth in the same manner we track our financial growth. Has our spiritual portfolio expanded over the past number of years, or has it stagnated? Has our knowledge and comprehension of Shas, Chumash, and Halacha increased? Are our middos developing along a positive trajectory? In what dimensions of spiritual life do we receive the greatest return on investment, in which a mere few minutes spent on a given exercise or behavior yields oversized results? Where can we trim the fat and where can we double down?

Managing our spiritual business need not take a great deal of time. More than anything, it’s a matter of mere mental adjustment. From a mindset of getting by with a fulfillment of obligations to an expanded one of building something impressive, identifying areas of potential growth, and holding ourselves accountable should we slide into lethargy.

But Rav Dovid points out an additional dimension to business life that must be applied to spiritual life. Namely, to leave your money in the market. 

We understand that in business there will be ups and downs. The setbacks are frustrating, the mistakes sting, but we keep at it. We can’t afford—quite literally—to throw in the towel, because the natural pressure to earn a living forces us to engage in business. Which in turn forces us to assess—“Am I really caught in a dead end? Will things actually never turn around? Must I truly jettison this enterprise in favor of something else altogether, or do I just need to sit tight as I work through the fall so that I can soon enjoy the inevitable rise?”

That mindset is no less critical for managing our spiritual portfolio, but in that arena of life, we can trend more easily towards giving up entirely. The natural pressure of needing to put food on the table is absent in spiritual life, and we aren’t forced to assess things quite so reasonably. It’s far easier to throw our hands up in the air and insist that we’re just not cut out for talmud Torah, or proper tefilah, or improving our middos. 

But the spiritual market is, in truth, no less volatile—nor no less predictable—than the financial one. There’s a natural ebb and flow that we should come to expect. And just as the rise in the market will not last, nor will the lull, as frustrating as it may be in the moment to experience it. There will be times that we gain full clarity in a Rashi we’re studying, achieve a sense of transcendence in a Shmoneh Esrei, or remain utterly calm and collected in a moment of intense stress. It is foolish to believe that it will always be so, that we will not at some point falter and stumble. But it is equally foolish to believe that that micro-failure is representative of an overall trajectory. 

Our relationship with Hashem is one of מקח וממכר—it’s business. And to conduct business is to know that even as your company grows, your portfolio swells, your list of clients expands, there will be dips along the graph. 

Know that it will happen, and don’t overreact when it does. View with detachment the setbacks you experience, and don’t take them as an indication of less than sufficient ability to achieve exhilarating growth in your spiritual portfolio. Whatever you do, don’t pull out. Leave your money in the market.