Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Acharei Mos – Kedoshim 5786

You hesitate for a moment, but quickly realize that the red and blue flashing in your rearview mirror is not intended for another driver; it’s intended for you. You pull over, and as you hand over your license and registration, you get the question, “Do you know how fast you were going?”

Which is a question you certainly don’t answer. At least not directly. 

“Well, officer, I know I wasn’t going as fast as the two cars next to me who zipped right by.”

Which renders the obvious response. “Just because there are people doing 90 in a 55, doesn’t mean you can do 80.”

Parshas Acharei Mos opens with a timeline coordinate. The mitzvos that are to follow were conveyed by Hashem to Moshe, “Acharei mos”, following the passing of Nadav and Avihu, whose lives were snuffed out as punishment for making an offering at the inauguration of the Mishkan in a manner they shouldn’t have. 

What exactly was their error? Explanations abound, but one offered by Chazal in the Gemara Sanhedrin 52a states that it was due to a conversation that took place between them. Nadav said to Avihu, “When will the elders—Moshe and Aharon—pass, so that we will have the opportunity to lead?” It was this statement of Nadav that ultimately did him and his brother in. 

It is an explanation that helps make sense of a cryptic comment by the Midrash Rabbah, which 

records that when Rebbe Acha and Rebbe Ze’ira would teach this pasuk, they would introduce it with a pasuk in Iyov, “אַף־לְזֹאת יֶחֱרַד לִבִּי וְיִתַּר מִמְּקוֹמוֹ—Regarding this as well my heart quakes and it jumps from its place.” (Iyov 37:1)

What did these two great Sages have in mind in drawing a line from Acharei Mos to Iyov? Why would the deaths of Aharon HaKohen’s sons have been something that troubled Iyov to such a degree? That made him tremble and shake?

The Chida offers a brilliant explanation based on the Gemara Sotah’s recording of the genesis of Paroh’s scheme to drown Jewish babies in the Nile, noting that the plan was the product of a meeting he called with his three most trusted advisors, namely, Bilaam, Iyov, and Yisro. In response to Paroh’s inquiry as to how to handle the “Jewish problem,” Bilaam suggested infanticide, Yisro fled, and Iyov stood by in silence. Each received their comeuppance, Hashem killed Bilaam, rewarded Yisro, and brought debilitating hardship upon Iyov.

The Chida explains that this is the key to understanding the above Midrash. Why was Iyov so concerned upon witnessing the deaths of Nadav and Avihu? Because despite the fact that it was Nadav alone who gave voice to those dark, semi-mutinous thoughts, both he and his brother Avihu were equally punished. Iyov understood that his silence left him culpable. 

It is rare that we find ourselves in the precise situation of an Iyov, with immorality of such ghastly nature is being perpetrated around us. But we would be wise to consider how this middah plots even on the less-extreme end of the continuum. When we find ourselves in the thick of a problem—not one of profoundly sinful behavior, perhaps, but a problem—brought on by the behavior of those around us. Do we attempt to steer things in a better direction, or simply satisfy ourselves with the knowledge that we weren’t the author or instigator of the issue? If we’re not part of the solution, we’re part of the problem. 

If everyone else is driving recklessly, we may be tempted to simply shrug our shoulders and do the same. The roads are already dangerous after all, so what difference does it make? I find myself offering this mashal to my talmidim as a way of considering all kinds of school behaviors: being punctual, abiding by the dress code, talking during class. Yes, the conduct of other students are you may not be up to par, but will you part of the problem, or part of the solution? 

But it’s not just kid stuff. Many school challenges linger into adulthood; they don’t simply evaporate upon graduation. Punctuality, abiding by rules and regulations, maintaining decorum—these are all critical behaviors for well run shuls, offices, and family settings. Even as adults, it can be tempting to identify all those who flout proper behavior, and feel powerless to effect change. 

Yet the Torah embraces the notion of handing out tickets just the same. Of demanding that we be part of the solution rather than part of the problem. That even in the face of rather benign “evil”, that we take a stand. Pointing to the guy doing 90 isn’t much of a defense; it’s actually just an admission that you were also speeding. 

Parshas Vayikra 5786

Two years ago I had the good fortune of visiting the Rocky Mountains in the summer. At nearly every turn, I stood with my mouth agape, marveling at the scenery, taking in peak after peak of the mountains all around. But even as I enjoyed the scenery, I was aware of the great challenge that lay ahead. What would happen the next time I visited a smaller mountain range? Would places that had previously left me awe inspired now lose all their allure? 

After seeing the Rockies, would the Catskills still impress?

In the text of a Sefer Torah, the opening word of Sefer Vayikra is oddly written in two different font sizes. The first four letters of the word “ויקרא—Vayikra” are written in the size of all the other letters. But the final alef is smaller. Almost as though it shouldn’t really be there and had to fight its way in.

This, in effect, matches Chazal’s description. They relate that, in truth, Moshe preferred to write “ויקר—Vayikar”, without the alef, a word that would convey that Hashem “happened upon Moshe” rather than that He directly called him. “Vayikar” is the word used to describe the prophecy Hashem issued to Bilaam, and a description Moshe found preferably more understated. But Moshe had no choice. Compelled to write the Torah as it was dictated, the word would be “Vayikra”, not “Vayikar”. 

Moshe relents, but with a compromise. He writes “Vayikra” with a small alef. As if to say, “True, Hashem sought an audience with me and called me directly to hear His word. But only sort of.”

Vintage Moshe Rabbeinu.

Moshe, after all, is described by Hashem in Parshas Shlach as “עָנָו מְאֹד מִכֹּל הָאָדָם אֲשֶׁר עַל־פְּנֵי הָאֲדָמָה—exceedingly humble, more than any man upon the face of the earth.” (Bamidbar 12:3) It is the only direct and open assessment of Moshe’s character we find that the Torah makes. In  considering Moshe, it was his humility that rose to the surface.

So how did Moshe do it? Rav Simcha Bunim of Peshischa provides an intriguing mashal. Consider a bird on a mountaintop—how does the bird feel about himself? Does he think of himself as taller and mightier than any other creature, or does he recognize that what sets him at such a great height is not himself, but the immense mountain beneath his feet?

When a person realizes that the stature he’s achieved has so much more to do with elevation of the mountain than his own legs, he feels humble rather than proud. And the greater the height, the greater the mountain. Paradoxically, the greater the success, the more humbling the achievement ought to be. 

The bird on the mountaintop is helpful for considering another element of humility as well. Not only in reframing our achievements, but our very experience. Part of humility is simply being able to look past ourselves, to have a sense that we are not the center of the universe, that there are problems and challenges and considerations greater than my own. That I am but a small bird standing on a great mountain. 

Which is compromised as soon as that bird leaves the Rockies and heads for the Catskills. Being overwhelmed and humbled by the vastness of a great mountain happens automatically. But the next mountain—impressive, but less so—loses some of its majesty by comparison. Appreciating its size may demand being more intentional; we may no longer be instinctively humbled. 

A good friend of mine who runs a program for American students in Israel shared his frustration with me this past week. That parents will ask to set up a time to speak with the implied expectation that the burden of flexibility in scheduling a time falls to him, rather than them. That there isn’t a sufficient acknowledgement of what it means to be woken up three times over the course of a night and gather the family in the shelter, only to spend the next day sitting on pins and needles, not knowing when it will happen again. All while getting work done, and keeping the kids occupied. 

Where’s the sensitivity, the concern, and the understanding? I think it may have been left on the previous mountaintop. 

October 7th was the greatest mountain we’ve sat upon in most of our lifetimes. The loss of life on the day itself, the many casualties of the war that followed, the ongoing concern for the welfare of the hostages, and the mass disruption of life with the call-up of countless reservists left each of us feeling that our own concerns, issues, and experiences paled in comparison to all that was happening around us and sensitized us—almost automatically—to the plight of our brothers and sisters in Eretz Yisrael. 

But now we find ourselves upon another mountain. Still awesome and mighty, but not quite of the same ilk. Ballistic missiles from Iran and rocket and drone attacks from Hezbollah have caused casualties, sleep deprivation, work and school closures, and general mass disruption to daily life in Israel. It’s a mountain of challenge and strain, large enough to cast our own experience in a different light. But it’s hard to make that happen. Because the last great mountain was even bigger, and it’s still in our rear view mirror. 

But we need to be more conscious. We need to do better. When we engage with our family and friends in Israel, we should be sensitive to the immense strain they are likely under. When we consider our own problems, we should do so against the backdrop of the broad national landscape. When we daven for our own needs, we should keep in mind the needs of our brothers and sisters in Israel, which are likely more pressing and worrisome. 

Our tefilos can’t be the same, our concerns can’t be the same, our conversations can’t be the same. However awesome the last mountain, the one we currently stand upon is plenty large for us to be humbled by its size. 

Parshas Vayakhel-Pekudei 5786

It’s hard to label a company with a market cap of around $300 billion dollars as “struggling,” but in the early 2010’s, relative to other expanding and ascending tech companies, that’s exactly how Microsoft could easily have been described. And then things changed. Steve Ballmer stepped down and Satya Nadella stepped in. Under his leadership, Microsoft has increased its market cap nearly ten-fold, to roughly $3 trillion. 

How did that transformation occur? Nadella made a number of shrewd business decisions, betting big on expanding Microsoft’s market share in some areas, while wholly abandoning others. But apart from correctly predicting certain trends in the market as a whole, many point to an internal shift as well, one that overhauled the company culture at Microsoft. Early on, Nadella famously said that Microsoft needed to pivot from a culture of “know-it-all” to “learn-it-all.” 

It was a model of leadership already exhibited by the greatest leader the world has ever known. 

Moshe informs the people that the construction of the Mishkan is in good hands, the chief artisan having been hand-picked by Hashem Himself, along with the assurance that he had been Divinely endowed with “wisdom, insight, knowledge, and aptitude in every craft.” (Shemos 35:31) Betzalel would get the job done. 

The Gemara in Brachos 55a relates the episode of Moshe’s first encounter with that wisdom, insight, and knowledge. Moshe meets with Betzalel to review the full register of items that will need to be constructed, mentioning the various furnishings to be contained within the Mishkan, followed by the Mishkan itself. Betzalel considers Moshe’s instructions and wonders if, perhaps, they were given in the incorrect order. It seems only proper, argues Betzalel, that one would first construct the edifice, and then the furnishings that are to be placed inside, without fear of leaving those furnishings homeless, without a space in which they could be protected. Might it be that Hashem had actually issued the instructions in reverse order from the manner in which Moshe now presented them?

Moshe is stunned and delighted. Betzalel was absolutely correct. Hashem had indeed informed him to have Betzalel build the Mishkan first, furnishings second. It was Moshe who had flipped the order. Moshe even wonders if Betzalel’s very name reflected his astonishing insight into the Divine will, stating, “שמא בצל א–ל היית וידעת—Perhaps you were in the shadow of G-d (Betzel E-l) and thus knew!” 

I’ve previously given my take on what left Moshe Rabbeinu so utterly impressed with Betzalel’s reaction. After all, he seemed to be suggesting little more than the obvious. But there’s another element that deserves equal examination. Not Betzalel’s comments, but Moshe’s reaction to them. 

Had Moshe truly been oblivious to Betzalel’s insight before he made it? Moshe himself surely understood implicitly that you build before you furnish. Yet when Betzalel makes this observation, Moshe lavishes praise on Betzalel rather than dismissing his comments with a simple, “Obviously. Of course that’s what I meant.” Nor does he insist that Betzalel was wrong—even if he was actually right—for speaking up in the first place, for not knowing his role as subordinate to Moshe’s authority. 

Either such position would naturally suppress future commentary from the likes of Betzalel. “Why share an idea when I’ll be rewarded with a tongue lashing or be dismissed for merely stating the obvious?” They are positions that would have created a “know-it-all culture”, rather than a “learn-it-all culture”. 

The construction of a “learn-it-all culture” is the product of vulnerable leadership, a term popularized by Brené Brown in her TED talks and writing. Vulnerable leadership is a stance taken by a leader that he does not have all the answers, has made mistakes, and seeks the insight and wisdom from others to help work towards an improved organization. It is not the sacrificing of authority or the undermining of a basic leadership structure, but the clear message sent from the very top that, “Even if I have the final word, I don’t have all the answers, and I welcome your thoughts and ideas.” It is the modality of leadership that has been the hallmark of Microsoft’s current CEO, and has been credited by many as a primary catalyst for the incredible leap the company has taken. 

But it has been around for far longer. This is exactly what Moshe Rabbeinu is practicing in his interaction with Betzalel, giving him the opportunity to ask questions and express new ideas, evincing a belief not of already knowing-it-all but wanting to learn-it-all. 

And it is no surprise. Consider Moshe Rabbeinu’s very own origin story. Having received news of the edict that all newborn baby boys were to be thrown into the Nile, Amram separates from Yocheved for fear of producing a child who will go straight to the slaughter. It is Amram’s young daughter, Miriam, who speaks up and insists that her father’s decision is even more detrimental than that of Pharaoh’s, costing the Jewish People not only future sons, but future daughters as well. Amram considers the words of his daughter—a mere child—and acquiesces. The result was the birth of Moshe Rabbeinu, miraculously spared from the fate of Pharaoh’s monstrous decree, and the Jewish People received their future savior. 

Amram ran his family with vulnerable leadership. Moshe ran his nation with the same. 

While a select few assume positions of great prominence, to the friends, family members, and neighbors who look to us for guidance and support, we are all leaders on some level. How do we proceed in that role? It is a mistake to believe that a thirst for knowledge and an openness to hearing other opinions demonstrates weakness in a leader. Quite the opposite. In an environment in which the leader will not overshadow the subordinate, will not pirate the idea as his own, and will not silence any suggestion he did not personally initiate, all those around him are granted tacit permission to ponder, propound, and propose. More perspectives, more creativity, more success. 

Moshe’s response to Betzalel is encouraging, empowering, and undoubtedly prompted him to share other invaluable ideas in the future. For great leaders, the willingness to be vulnerable is not a weakness, but one of their greatest strengths. 

Parshas Ki Sisa 5786

On the back of a one dollar bill sits a constellation of stars perched above the head of a bald eagle, arranged in the shape of a Magen David. Although actually not a Magen David at all. The shape is a hexagram, comprised of two intersecting triangles, which is nothing more than a convenient and attractive shape in which to display thirteen individual stars, representing the Thirteen Colonies. 

So if it’s Jewish symbols depicted on currency you seek, you’ll have to look elsewhere. But beware. Those “Jewish symbols” may not be as obviously Jewish as a Magen David.

Parshas Ki Sisa opens with a call for the donation of a silver-half shekel which was to serve the dual purpose of conducting a census—offering the ability to simply count coins rather than counting Jews directly—as well supplying the silver necessary for the construction of the silver sockets into which the beams of the Mishkan would be inserted. 

But it didn’t end there. That same coin was collected annually as a means of replenishing the coffers of the Bais Hamikdash, ensuring there would be sufficient capital to purchase the communal korbanos that would be required throughout the year. 

What did the half-shekel coin look like? A description actually comes our way from the Ramban, who provides the images present on the two sides of this coin. Decidedly Jewish symbols, though perhaps not quite as obviously so as a Magen David.

The Ramban describes that on one side of the coin was n stick bedecked with almond blossoms; on the other, a jar. 

Simple. Elegant. Jewish? Yes, indeed.

The Ramban explains that the stick was not meant to represent an organic branch of an almond tree, but rather the staff of Aharon HaKohen. Following Korach’s attempted rebellion, designed to prove that Moshe and Aharon had improperly usurped the reigns of Jewish leadership for themselves, the staffs of the heads of all the tribes—included Aharon’s—were left in the Mishkan overnight. The next morning, the people beheld the miracle that had transpired: Aharon’s staff—and Aharon’s staff alone—had produced almond blossoms. 

And the jar? Not Skippy, not Jiff, but mann. The jar represented the sample of mann that Hashem had commanded Moshe to save in a jar and place in the Aron Kodesh for future generations. 

Almond blossoms and a jar of mann. Symbols more deeply rooted in the Jewish experience, in Hashem’s Providence and miracles than a Magen David could ever be. 

Yet, why? Of all potential symbols, why these two? Hashem performed many miracles for the Jewish People between Mitzrayim and the Mishkan. Why not a depiction of the split Yam Suf, of Har Sinai, of any of the plagues that left our Egyptian oppressors decimated? Of all possible choices, why the staff and the jar?

In just a few weeks, we will sit around our Seder tables, retelling the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim, using an unusual section of the Chumash to do so. The core of Maggid borrows from the pesukim at the beginning of Parshas Ki Savo, in which a Jewish farmer is told to present his first fruits—the Bikkurim—at the Bais Hamikdash by offering a brief history of the travails of the Jewish People and Hashem’s miraculous deliverance from them. It is an interesting passage to read from. Why use the words of the farmer, spoken so years after Yetzias Mitzrayim, rather than quoting the pesukim that tell the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim directly?

Perhaps because embedded in the proclamation of the farmer is the lesson that we must discern Hashem’s providence not only when He is clearly the only actor on stage, but even when human beings crowd much of the spotlight. As the Jewish People experienced liberation from Mitzrayim, Hashem’s guiding hand was obvious, but when, generations later, they would exert every human effort in wresting sustenance from the earth, Hashem’s involvement would be less apparent. That the farmer can see through the curtain of his own labor to the truth of Hashem’s presence is a critical lesson for every person seated at the Seder, whose relationship with Hashem occurs against a backdrop of his own involvement and effort undertaken in leading his life. 

And yet the opposite is likewise true. Even the Jew of perfect faith in Hashem is not entitled to sit idly by as Hashem runs the world. The person who simply waits for Hashem to deposit his livelihood directly into his pocket waits in vain. The Torah insists that we recognize Hashem’s providence on the one hand, but demand that we utilize our own agency on the other. We must simultaneously take responsibility for our own lives and acknowledge the utter futility of trying to do so independent of Hashem’s guidance and support.

It is perhaps this full picture that is fleshed out by the two images on opposite sides of the machatzis hashekel, the coin earned by every Jew as part of his livelihood, donated of his own volition to the treasury of Hashem’s palace. The almonds on the one hand, the jar of mann on the other. 

The mann is the sustenance that comes directly from Hashem, without any human effort necessary. A jar of mann is kept in the Aron Kodesh for all time so that every future generation will remember that “not by bread alone does man live, but by the decree issued by Hashem’s mouth does man live.” (Devarim 8:3)

And yet, the almond blossoms. Almonds which are the first fruit to blossom when spring arrives, and which symbolize the need for man to grind, to hustle, to work hard. Almonds are called “shkeidim”in Hebrew, which translates to “diligent ones.” It was this symbol that indicated Aharon’s proper selection as the Kohen Gadol, not out of lineage or nepotism, but because of his diligence, the effort he exerted day in, day out on behalf of his constituents and in service of Hashem. The almonds on the half-shekel remind us of the agency Hashem has given us, and the need to work hard to gather in the bounty He’s prepared for us. 

Two symbols that are actually one. Not just icons that remind us of events in Jewish history, but that provide comprehensive instruction for how a Jew should live his life and earn his living. No matter how personally diligent, to remember that this coin came his way through Hashem’s guidance. And that no matter how much we recognize His involvement, to assume the responsibility he expects and demands of us. Almonds on the one hand, mann on the other. 

Parshas Zachor / Purim 5786

Many years ago, on one particularly rainy night in Queens, a close friend of mine lost a good number of sefarim. A leak in the roof sent water trickling down the wall of his bedroom, right down the back of his bookcase, soaking a number of sefarim situated there. As he assessed the damage, he came to a startling realization: there was a theme. The sefarim that had become the most soggy—to the point of ruination—were volumes containing commentary on Maseches Eruvin.

At the time, Daf Yomi was learning that very masechta and he wondered, “Is this a sign that I should be learning Daf Yomi?” He asked one of the senior rabbanim in the neighborhood, who turned to him and said, “Or maybe it means you shouldn’t be relying on the eruv to carry on Shabbos.”

“Or maybe,” he continued, “It means your family should patch the roof, and that you should take better care of your sefarim.” 

Mordechai paces endlessly outside the palace walls, hoping to hear some news of Esther’s welfare. And there’s something specific gnawing at him. Rashi explains that Mordechai’s preoccupation was of a grander scale than Esther’s health and wellbeing alone. That if an innocent Jewish woman could be pried from her home and sent off to the palace for a beauty pageant determining the future queen of the empire, surely something historic was afoot. Hashem was pulling some serious strings. Something big was about to happen.

Which belies what we read just one pasuk before. That Esther had concealed her true identity in deference to the instructions Mordechai had given her. And why all the secrecy? Rashi explains that Mordechai was concerned that had Esther let on as to her true identity, the authorities would have discovered that not only was she Jewish, but royalty, a direct descendent of Shaul HaMelech. This would only have added to her allure and make it less likely that she would be dismissed from the palace and permitted to return home.

Taken together, the two pesukim—back-to-back pesukim—are baffling. They tell a story of a Mordechai attuned to the obvious Divine intervention in drawing Esther into this position, yet simultaneously doing everything he can to torpedo that very opportunity. Did Mordechai consider himself equal to the task of overthrowing Hashem’s carefully laid plans?

Certainly not. But, as Rav Moshe Feinstein explains, it is ultimately halacha that governs our lives, not our perceptions of how Hashem is running the universe. Is Hashem up to something? It certainly seems that way. But propriety demands that Mordechai do everything he can to save Esther from the fate awaiting her inside the palace, not sit back bemused as Hashem runs the show. 

For Mordechai, the question of living life based on pre-determined principles or the reality of Hashem’s providence is not an “either-or” proposition, but a “yes-and.” Hashem is certainly in the driver’s seat and can easily steer around any roadblock his own personal efforts may erect. Yet he also accepted the responsibility to do what he knew to be right, irrespective of his accute sense that Hashem was driving things towards a very different outcome. 

Should you learn Daf Yomi? We know the questions to ask. Will I be overwhelmed by the pace? Will I be able to keep up with my other limudim? Will I finish Shas if I don’t? But a question critically not on the list is, “Did Hashem soak my Ritva on Maseches Eruvin?”

Responsible thinking provides us with the proper methods to assess a job offer. If it pays well, if the commute isn’t too long, if we feel the demands match our skill set, it should be considered. But the fact that a parking spot miraculously opened right in front of the building just minutes before the interview is of little consequence.

To not see Hashem in the parking spot is to live with an adequate awareness of hashgacha pratis. But to treat it as the central consideration in a life-altering decision making process is to presume too much of our ability to discern Hashem’s thinking and the direction He’s guiding us in.

To utter the words, “I see what Hashem is trying to do,” can smack either of humility or of arrogance. So we must be careful with those words. It is admirable to acknowledge the Force in ultimate control over the cosmos, history, and my life, and recognize the limited impact my own actions can truly have. But it is quite the opposite to state them with a definitive quality, as though our feeble minds can ever fully grasp Hashem’s intentions and to live our lives off those assertions alone.

In the special maftir of Zachor that we’ll read this Shabbos, Amalek is castigated as the nation “אשר קרך בדרך—who chanced upon you on the road”. Amalek’s behavior is synonymous with chance and randomness. The attack wasn’t premeditated, the Jews were chosen as a target simply because they were there. “Keri”, the root of the word describing Amalek’s actions, is a great evil in Judaism. We are enjoined to see purpose and meaning, scope and sequence, in all that happens. The universe as we know it is not the expression of a series of accidents and coincidences, but of Divine planning and order. 

The challenge of Purim—posed in the Megillah itself—is to see the order, recognize the meaning, in a series of occurrences that ostensibly appear wholly natural and arbitrary. Can we transcend keri and see the face of G-d peeking out from between the lines? Can we discern His guiding hand throughout the entire narrative? Can we be better than Amalek in recognizing that nothing is random, that Hashem is in control?

But this is only one test the Megillah puts us to. The other is whether, succeeding in the first test, we will overshoot the mark and arrive at an unfortunate conclusion. That having said, “I see what Hashem’s doing” with such certainty and confidence, we’ll abandon our better thinking, even our halachic thinking, and to permit our lives to be dictated by miraculous parking spots, the path of a leaky roof, and other such phenomena.

Esther’s abduction to the palace is surely part of a Divine plan. Yet moral thinking dictated that Mordechai try to save her. His actions remind us to say “Thank you, Hashem” for the parking spot, but to take the job only if it pays enough. 

Parshas Terumah 5786

I once heard Rav Benzion Twersky, the noted Rav and scion of the Milwaukee Twerski dynasty, reflect on a special trip he made in his youth to the Agudah Convention. He was a young yeshiva bachur learning in New York, and, with the convention being held in the area, attendance at the convention would mean a rare opportunity to spend Shabbos with his father, Rav Michel Twerski, who was slated to speak. 

Rav Benzion recalled standing in one of the convention rooms and receiving a tap on his shoulder. He turned around, looked up, and came face to face with Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky. “Young man,” asked Rav Yaakov, “Would you mind making me a cup of tea?” 

The young Rav Twersky was on cloud nine. The chance to make a tea for the Gadol Hador! That he was chosen out of everyone there! That it was his shoulder the Rosh Yeshiva decided to tap! He felt special, privileged, chosen. 

And so should we. 

In requesting donations from the Jewish People to amass the funds needed to construct the Mishkan, it seems Hashem was, surprisingly, looking for takers rather than givers. Issuing the order, the pasuk records, “וְיִקְחוּ־לִי תְּרוּמָה מֵאֵת כּל־אִישׁ אֲשֶׁר יִדְּבֶנּוּ לִבּוֹ תִּקְחוּ אֶת־תְּרוּמָתִי

—And they shall take a donation for Me. From every individual whose heart is moved to donate shall you take My donation.”

Why are these funds taken rather than given? If the pasuk calls for the participation of those self-motivated donate, those spurred by a spirit of voluntary generosity, why adopt the posture of tax collectors needing to seize assets against the will of the public? The people are happy to give. Why the directive to take?

The Alshich answers with an unusual halacha applicable to the laws of Kiddushin, the first stage of halachic marriage. Though it is traditionally a ring that is given from husband to wife, in truth, any object of value may be presented. At its core, Kiddushin is a simple legal transaction, and in exchange for the object presented, a woman offers her husband an exclusive relationship with her.

It goes without saying, then, that halachic marriage has not been affected if the transaction was reversed. On a biblical level, a man may marry more than one wife. Kiddushin demands the wife offering exclusive rights to her husband, and the husband offering a gift to his wife. A gift from bride to groom is not halachically valid. 

With one exception: An “Adam chashuv,” a man of renown. If the bride is set to marry someone of particular prominence, even if she were to give him a gift, rather than the other way around, she is still married. The reason deals with the psychology behind why fans will sometimes bring gifts or bouquets of flowers to concerts to present their favorite singers. Surely the artist can just buy these items themselves if they really wanted them. But deep down there’s some measure of satisfaction the fan has in knowing that they’d been noticed by the celebrity. They fall asleep that night with a smile across their face, knowing that their bouquet of flowers adorns the coffee table of someone they idolize. 

In other words, the monetary gift is not the only item of value being presented. The satisfaction and sheer joy that the fan receives, actually transforms them from giver to recipient. So much so, that that joy is halachically significant in the context of Kiddushin. A woman who presents a trinket to the “Adam chashuv” groom, is actually receiving from him an amount of satisfaction and delight sufficiently quantifiable to affect the transaction that is Kiddushin. She offers her hand in marriage, he offers her the thrill of accepting the gift she offered. 

This was the sensation that Rav Twerski felt as he prepared a cup of tea for Rav Yaakov Kaminetsky. Sure, he was giving. Giving of his time and energy, all in the interest of providing for another. Yet what he received in return was far greater. That Rav Yaakov asked him for a tea! Was ready to accept his tea!

Later in life, Rav Twerski realized that the entire experience was a mere echo of something far greater. The tap he felt on his shoulder when Rav Yaakov needed a cup of tea was actually nothing new. Hadn’t he been tapped on the shoulder the moment he woke up that morning? 

“Young man, would you please say Modeh Ani?” “Young man, would you please put on tzitzis?” “Young man, would you please put on tefilin? Would you do that for Me?”

Why is a voluntary act of giving framed by the word “V’yikchu—And they shall take,” rather than “V’yitnu—And they shall give”? Because, explains the Alshich, sometimes when you give you actually take. A fan presenting some flowers to a megastar. A woman offering a small give to an “Adam chashuv.” Or someone who’s felt a heavenly tap on the shoulder, followed by the request, “Young man, would you please build Me a Mishkan?” 

Over the course of the average day, hundreds if not thousands of halachos demand our effort and attention. And it is no small sacrifice. But behind every one of those sacrifices, there is a tap on the shoulder. One that should leave us feeling flattered and fill us with immense pride. That out of all the people on earth, Hashem chose us. Chose us for His davening and His Torah, chose us to keep Shabbos and keep kosher, chose us to give tzadakah and to build His Mishkan. 

Yes, we are expected to sacrifice. But if done correctly, we’ll get far more than we give. 

Parshas Mishpatim 5786

Warning: I’m about to get meta. I’d like to write about why I write. 

To be sure, I see great value in a weekly blog. Considering that I’ve decided to dedicate my life to the careful articulation and communication of Torah thoughts and ideas, the written word is another critical tool in the rabbi’s toolbox to achieve that goal.

More than that, I enjoy it. Yes, there’s the very messy and often frustrating process of seizing upon a worthwhile idea, and struggling with the words needed to adequately and lucidly relate it. It’s hard work, but what emerges after the struggle is something I’m always proud of, and becomes another installment in an ever-growing catalogue of carefully constructed ideas to later peruse, and often reuse. 

Yet none of that is why I write these words. What brought me to the Bala Cynwyd public library, away from any other distractions, hidden away from talmidim and colleagues, to feverishly type away at my laptop is actually something else entirely. 

The very first bit of instruction laid out in Pirkei Avos—that great collection of ethical guidance from our greatest Chachamim—is to be deliberate in judgment. Bar Kappara, as told by the Gemara Sanhedrin 7b, wondered how the earlier Sages arrived at this notion, and realized it emerges from the beginning of our parsha. Specifically, the juxtaposition of the beginning of Parshas Mishpatim with the end of Parshas Yisro. 

Parshas Mishpatim opens with the declaration, “ואלה המשפטים—And these are the judgments,” words that, looking back to the end of last week’s parsha, come on the heels of the instruction to ascend the mizbe’ach in the Mishkan via a ramp, rather than stairs. Bar Kappara explained that just as the ramp forces the Kohen to ascend in a slower, more deliberate manner, so must judges act in rendering a judgment. 

Being careful and cautious is obviously good advice. When we are slow and deliberate, we expose ourselves to less risk of error, and moreover, the very act of moving slowly rather than rushing invites us to be in the moment, to appreciate the task at hand, to recognize the gravity of what we’re doing, rather than merely “getting it over with.” 

But then, why not a sign? What if we stuck with stairs, but simply posted a speed limit so that Kohanim were reminded to ascend and descend slowly? Short, shallow stairs, permitting the Kohanim to remain fully covered—as per the direct instruction of the pasuk itself to not ascend via stairs so as to not expose themselves—and proper signage to remind them not to take two or three steps at a time in their zeal to finish the avodah? Why reconfigure rather than just remind?

In his book, Atomic Habits, James Clear cautions against psyching yourself up to achieve your goals through sheer inspiration or motivation alone. “You do not rise to the level of your goals,” he cautions. “You fall to the level of your systems.” Exactly right. If you’ve ever tried to lose weight, you know all too well the folly of keeping junk food around the house, insisting you’ll just maintain the willpower needed to avoid it. A goal is great for providing general direction, for stretching the tape across the finish line, but it is the systems we employ that lay out the track that will guide us there. 

Why does the Torah call for removing the stairs leading up to the mizbeach? Because if we’re trying to remove haste, if we’re calling for slow, methodical steps, then we need a system that will permit nothing less. Don’t install a staircase and insist you’ll use it properly; install a ramp so you have no choice otherwise. 

What actually brought me to the library to write this article was not the pride I knew I’d feel in completing it, or even in the responsibility I feel to to the people who would read and gain from it. It’s something else entirely: a system. The article goes out with the shul’s weekly newsletter. The newsletter goes out Thursday night. So I need to write on Thursday afternoon. And in my heart of hearts, I know that absent that system, for all the value I find in writing, I just wouldn’t do it.

Which may well mean that Bar Kappara’s drasha offers an additional layer of guidance to the judges, or, more broadly, to anyone who ever finds himself in position to make any sort of judgment. Don’t just be deliberate. Institutionalize deliberation. Find those mechanisms that will force you to deliberate the way that you should. Make it habitual. Systematize it.

Are there those things in life that for all the value you see in them, for all the attempts you’ve made to pursue them, just seem to be chronically elusive? Perhaps there’s too heavy a tilt towards motivation alone. The belief that “It’s really important to me, so of course I’ll do it!” The value we place on a goal is almost never sufficient to achieving it. We need systems.

Sometimes those systems can be habits we’ve formally committed to. “I don’t go to sleep until I’ve done the dishes,” or, “I leave my phone in another room during dinner.” Or we may need other people involved to ratchet up the pressure, whether a deadline that others are conscious of, or a chavrusa who you know is waiting for you. And sometimes, we just have to remove the problematic device altogether, throwing out the junkfood, or buying an alarm clock with no snooze button.

“You do not rise to the level of your goals, you fall to the level of your systems.” If we find that time and again we’re moving too fast, we may not need more reminders, more commitments, or more motivation. We may just need to replace the stairs with a ramp.

Parshas Yisro 5786

If you’ve ever been involved in fundraising, you know how critical it is to maintain good relationships. For all the successes and impact of the organization in question, donors often give not out of alignment with the cause, but out of connection with the people who work there, particularly the one making the solicitation. 

And in a certain sense, it’s unfortunate. Because it means—or at least feels—like every interaction is mildly tainted. Why am I speaking with him? Why am I asking about his family? Is this just a pleasant exchange, or am I buttering him up? 

We need not feel so slimy. Yisro was also a man of impressive means, spiritual ones. And in determining where to spend those resources, he also needed convincing, from none other than Hashem Himself. So if He can, why can’t we?

Yisro reunites with Moshe Rabbeinu, appearing on the scene as the Torah proclaims, “וישמע יתרו—And Yisro heard,” begging the obvious question, what precisely did he hear? What was the specific report that crossed his desk that compelled him to come and join the Jewish People?

Rashi answers that it was two items, the splitting of the Yam Suf, and the war with Amalek. Two instances in which the Jewish People had their backs to the wall, fully exposed to the oncoming attacks of their enemies, only to be saved by Hashem in miraculous fashion.

All reasonable enough, except that it seems that Yisro was actually motivated by other interests entirely. Just a few pesukim later, the Torah emphasizes that it was the Midbar—the barren wilderness—that served as the rendezvous point for Yisro and his son-in-law, Moshe. Rashi comments that the Torah underscores this point in praise of Yisro, that he was willing to suffer the harsh physical conditions in order to come and hear words of Torah.

So which is it? Was Yisro a truth seeker, thirsty for the word of Hashem as revealed through the Torah? Or was he more calculating than that? Possessing a desire to be on the winning team, the nation for whom Hashem would perform miracles in the interest of sparing them from all harm?

The answer, of course, is yes.

Yisro certainly joined the Jewish People in order to learn Torah from Moshe, to hear and understand Hashem’s instruction, His guidance for how those closest to Him should live their daily lives. Yet the miracles were important in framing the nature of that instruction. That the Torah was not given as a means of subjugating a people according to the Divine will as nothing more than a power trip. It came from a place of love, concern, and protection. The same G-d that shielded His people from harm was the G-d Who would also tell them to abide by 613 commandments. 

Through the lens of Yisro’s experience, we might come to describe the miracles of Krias Yam Suf and Milchemes Amalek as—to use modern terminology—deposits in the emotional bank account. Hashem was displaying profound love and affection for His People before then turning around and making “withdrawals”, asking for their committed lifelong service to His Torah. 

What is the nature of those deposits and withdrawals? In genuine, caring relationships, the deposits are not there simply to offset the withdrawals. Simply to develop enough good will between you and the person you’re ultimately attempting to exploit so that they’ll be sufficiently beguiled into performing your bidding. The deposits permit the other person to understand that the withdrawal is also an act of love, also in their own best interest, albeit with more effort expected of them to fulfill what is being asked. 

If you care for the cause, if you truly believe that a sizable donation is not only in the best interest of the organization, but of the donor himself, then investing in the relationship is not a slimy act of buttering him up for the big ask, the relationship and the solicitation are all part of the same package, all acts of care and concern. The pleasantries we exchange and gifts we provide may well be done with the knowledge that we will one day solicit, but ultimately it is to help provide backdrop against which to accurately interpret that ask. It is out of care and kindness. 

When we ask our children to do their homework or clean their room, we have their own interests in mind. But they won’t necessarily feel that way, unless we’ve spent the time expressing our love and our affection many, many times before. And so it is with asking a spouse to run an errand so you can jointly keep the ship you call a family afloat, and with asking an employee to make a deadline or to work harder so they produce at the highest level and become the most competent version of themselves possible. The asks, the demands, the withdrawals may well be acts of love. But they are taken as such only when we’ve doted, gifted, and complimented many times over in advance. 

The contemporary terminology we use to describe the back and forth of relationships—deposits in the emotional bank account and withdrawals from that account—can make those acts sound and feel purely transactional. But we should not think of them that way. Miracles are not what Hashem provides so that He can demand obedience later. At least in the case of Yisro, it was those acts of supernatural care that simply proved what the Torah was really about. We can act similarly. Making deposits not so that we can one day make withdrawals. But so that the ones we care for understand that not much difference exists between the two in the first place. 

Parshas Beshalach 5786

The Jewish People embark on the great Exodus from Mitzrayim and are led along a circuitous route in doing so. The pesukim relate that Hashem specifically guided the people away from the realm of the Plishtim, understanding that, should they be confronted by that people in war, they may well have second thoughts about the whole enterprise of leaving Egypt in the first place. 

The Torah records Hashem’s concern as, “פֶּן־יִנָּחֵם הָעָם בִּרְאֹתָם מִלְחָמָה וְשָׁבוּ מִצְרָיְמָה—Lest the nation reconsider upon seeing war and return to Egypt”. (Shemos 13:17) A reasonable enough consideration, but, upon a closer look, one expressed in a puzzling manner. The term used, “ושבו מצרימה—V’shavu Mitzraimah”, doesn’t meant that the people will return to Egypt, in the future tense. Rather, it means that the people have returned to Egypt, in the past tense.

The Torah seems to be describing something akin to teleportation. That the moment the fear of battle and the misgivings of having left Mitzrayim took root, the Jewish People had already returned to their place of origin. That Hashem’s concern was not that they would return to Egypt, but that they would already have done so. How is that possible?

Rabbi Shmuel Gutman in Otzar Chaim offers an intriguing suggestion, explaining that, in truth, a person can find himself enslaved in one of two ways. He can either be acted upon by an outside force, shackling him against his will. Or he can accept those shackles all of his own accord. 

Hence, the Jewish People would indeed already have returned to Mitzrayim—have returned to slavery—the moment they regretted their exit from it. They would have adopted the limiting belief that freedom was too much for them, that their shoulders were not broad enough to accept the new yoke of liberation they suddenly found cast upon them. And in that moment of mental retreat from freedom back to slavery, in that moment of abandoning the opportunity and promise of liberty, they would already have returned to the slavery Mitzrayim. 

Henry Ford is purported to have said that, “Whether you think you can or think you can’t, you’re right.” Ability is often nothing more than the manifestation of belief. Believe that a goal is achievable, and it is. Believe it is beyond reach, and it will remain so. Believe that you are capable of living a life free unbridled by your previous oppressor, and you will. Believe that that vision of freedom was a delusion of grandeur, and you have already re-enslaved yourself. 

In the end, the Jewish People avoided the land of the Plishtim, avoided the specter of war, and did not second-guess the decision to head out into the Midbar. But it is wholly unsettling to realize that as they emerged from Egypt, it was not only the Egyptians that the Jews would need to be saved from. There was yet another enemy who could just as easily have forced them back into slavery. Themselves.

For most of us, it is that second enemy that is far more prevalent and the one that needs far greater attention to overcome. Even when external oppressors have fallen by the wayside and have left clear a path of freedom and success, the nagging internal voice prodding us to reconsider if we’ve gotten in over our heads and are really not cut out for this remains an active threat. How do we vanquish it?

The precise stance of the Jewish People themselves in this moment is edifying. Hashem had predicted that if faced with war, they would have doubted the entire enterprise of Yetzias Mitzrayim and return to both a psychological and physical state of slavery. But why? To the objective bystander it’s perplexing. This is a People who have already been saved from far worse than the Plishtim; they had, after all, witnessed the disintegration of the mighty Egyptian empire before their very eyes. Why assume that they would suffer any less fortuitous a fate at the hand of the Plishtim? Why be scared off at all?

There is no great answer other than the reality of the human condition. Even when faced with challenges we have previously overcome in some similar iteration, fear and anxiety bubble up from within us, fill our heads with doubt, and leave us handcuffed in a state of psychological servitude.

The path to overcoming it all is to abide by the exact advice we would have given our ancestors had they actually come face to face with the menacing Plishtim. Namely, to draw from their past successes to construct a more likely narrative of what was to come in the future. Through Divine Providence and their own agency, the Jewish People had emerged safe from Mitzrayim. There was, in truth, no rational reason to believe that an encounter with the Plishtim would end any differently.

And so it is for us. While in the grip of limiting beliefs, in the shadow of overwhelm, in the clutches of imposter syndrome, to pause and to remember that in most instances, “I’ve been here before, and I’ve been successful. I’ve worked my way through a never-ending to-do list, I’ve buckled down and accomplished what I’ve needed to, I’ve pulled the all-nighter when necessary, I’ve exhibited empathy towards others even in the face of my own emotional needs. I can do this.”

When we face the battle-ready Plishtim, we recoil in a tizzy. “I knew I was in over my head.” But a deep breath and mental perusal of our very own resume can help construct a very different narrative. “This is just another step in my journey, and I’ve successfully taken similar steps before.” 

So much of life is defined by our attitude. And in that regard, we can either be our own greatest advocate or our own worst enemy. Permit the limiting belief to take root, and our freedom to succeed has already been suppressed, without any external enemy needed. “Shavu Mitzraimah—We will already have returned to Egyptian slavery.” But draw on past experiences to realistically predict future success, and we’ll have done ourselves the greatest service imaginable. We’ll have set ourselves free from the subjugation of our own small thinking. 

Parshas Shemos 5786

I understood the videographer’s plight, trying to ensure that he got the footage he needed to ultimately produce a truly compelling promo video. But it was annoying. Two bunks were facing off in a competitive game of kickball, and campers were being shuffled around and told to stand in completely unnatural spots, all in the hopes of manufacturing the perfect shot. It had been a long day of this, and the head counselor was irritated. 

The call for yet another take was the straw that finally broke the camel’s back and he screamed, “There are real kids in this camp!”

The director called off the videographer. The boys went back to playing actual kickball. Hopefully the video was good enough anyway. The camp is still in business.

Considering the enormous role he ultimately filled, the Torah is alarmingly stingy in its description of Moshe Rabbeinu. What, precisely, were the attributes he possessed that qualified him for leadership at the highest level? 

Though muted, the Torah does provide a bit of insight in the moments immediately prior to Moshe’s selection, framing a seemingly innocuous gesture as perhaps the very item that made Moshe worthy of serving as Rabban Shel Yisrael. 

The vehicle through which Hashem first communicates to Moshe is, of course the Burning Bush. The Torah describes that Moshe noticed the unusual sight: “וַיַּרְא וְהִנֵּה הַסְּנֶה בֹּעֵר בָּאֵשׁ וְהַסְּנֶה אֵינֶנּוּ אֻכָּל—And he saw that the bush was burning but that the bush would not be consumed.” (Shemos 3:2) This catches Moshe’s attention, and he goes to investigate. 

And yet that simple act—turning aside to investigate the bush—is given what seems to be undue emphases. The next pasuk proceeds, “וַיֹּאמֶר מֹשֶׁה אָסֻרָה־נָּא וְאֶרְאֶה אֶת־הַמַּרְאֶה הַגָּדֹל הַזֶּה מַדּוּעַ לֹא־יִבְעַר הַסְּנֶה—And Moshe said ‘I will turn aside and see this great sight. Why does the bush not burn?’” (Shemos 3:3)

Undoubtedly that bit of inner monologue would surely exist. But it seems like an awfully odd thing for the Torah to harp on. Wouldn’t anyone have the same reaction? Wouldn’t anyone who saw something as bizarre as a burning bush turn aside to investigate? What is so remarkable about Moshe’s thoughts, and his decision that followed?

The answer lies in the context. In setting the scene, the Torah is careful to inform us of precisely what Moshe Rabbeinu was doing that day out in the wilderness. “וּמֹשֶׁה הָיָה רֹעֶה אֶת־צֹאן יִתְרוֹ חֹתְנוֹ—And Moshe was shepherding the flock of Yisro his father-in-law” (Shemos 3:1) Moshe wasn’t just strolling through an open meadow, taking in the landscape. He was at work, entrusted with caring for his father-in-law’s sheep. He had significant assets under management and was expected to provide returns. 

The pressures of work, of getting the job done can create a sort of tunnel vision. We construct a fortress around the task at hand and nothing else may vie for our attention. Yet Moshe Rabbeinu acts otherwise. He extends his antennae beyond the walls of the fortress. Yes, he’s busy with work, but not so busy as to not pivot when appropriate.

To be a leader—a role that everyone fills is some capacity or another—this is precisely what’s demanded. Productive and successful people—precisely the ones cut out for leadership in the first place—will always be burdened by their projects and their goals, their dreams and their ambitions. But if space isn’t made for those around us who need our attention and assistance, even while we’re in the thick of the madness, then what’s it all worth anyway?

We can become so swept up in the demands of getting the perfect promo video, that we forget that there are real kids in the camp. Not just avatars on a screen choreographed to give an impression of what it’s like to have fun, but actual, real life kids who just want to play some kickball, and to whom we owe that small indulgence. 

That’s not to say that any progress we’re making towards a goal is rightfully sidetracked by every one of our children who wants a cup of hot cocoa at two o’clock in the afternoon. But if we’re perpetually deaf to those requests, perpetually inattentive to every bid for our attention from those who need it and deserve it, it’s time to reconsider what the value of having those other goals is in the first place. 

Amid the vague portrait the Torah paints of Moshe Rabbeinu, there is one quality that is articulated with great clarity. His humility. Commenting on Moshe’s character in the wake of Miriam having spoken of him in a manner lacking the respect he was owed, the pasuk famously notes, “וְהָאִישׁ מֹשֶׁה עָנָו מְאֹד מִכֹּל הָאָדָם אֲשֶׁר עַל־פְּנֵי הָאֲדָמָה—The man Moshe was exceedingly humble, more than anyone on the face of the earth.” (Bamidbar 12:3) 

The two, of course, are related. When we inflate ourselves, then the task we’re busy with becomes inflated in kind. This is my job, my goal, my ambition, and, if I stand at the center of my own universe, what could possibly be more important than that? It’s when we view ourselves with humility that our antennae are sensitive enough to hear the signal produced by others. And it is then that that signal is compelling enough to gain our attention. That the campers who want to have some fun are correctly seen as a burning bush, beckoning us to pause, turn aside, and give them the attention they need.