Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Shabbos HaGadol 5782

A casual visitor—particularly one without any horticultural interests—may well wonder why Cherry Hill township decided to adorn a two mile stretch of one of its primary roads, Chapel Avenue, with the absolutely ugliest species of tree money can buy. The answer lasts for about three weeks in the early spring, when those trees burst forth with the most remarkable display of delicate pink flowers imaginable. So while living amongst gnarled, stocky arboreal lumps for the better part of a year may be underwhelming, the explosion of cherry blossoms that ultimately develops makes it all worthwhile. We just need to be patient.

Plant development is not only the calling card of the season in which Pesach occurs, it is a theme that actually makes an important, albeit hushed, appearance in the haggadah itself. The main body of the haggadah is comprised of the pesukim of Arami Oved Avi, a passage that serves as a declaration of thanksgiving made by a farmer when bringing his first fruits to the Bais Hamikdash. 

On its surface, this is an odd selection. In identifying a portion of the Chumash that should be used to tell the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim, the obvious choice would have been segments from the parshios at the beginning of Sefer Shemos, which actually relate all that happened during the slavery itself and the liberation from it. Instead, we use the same words that were offered by the farmer as he gives thanks for the bounty of his field and reflects on the long and winding road of Jewish history that led to this point.

Yet perhaps these pesukim enjoy an important connection to one of the most ubiquitous motifs of the entire evening: instructing our children. Although the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim is to be related whether or not there are children at the table, the mitzvah itself is conveyed by the Torah with the term, “V’higadta l’vincha—And you shall relate to your child.” There are numerous practices we undertake at the Seder all “so that the children will ask,” so that, with their curiosity piqued, we can relate to them the content of this story.

Who are the children we speak to? As the haggadah reminds us, the conversations between parents and children described by the Torah are conveyed in four different ways, suggesting that the mitzvah may occur with four different sons, possessing four different personalities. The conversations are different because the children are all different. And the Torah indicates that the way a chacham would be spoken to will not suffice for the rasha or tam. 

As parents, we are often caught off guard by who our children turn out to be. We were expecting the chacham and are given something else. We thought our children would be wiser, more committed, more religious. And the frustration that follows may in part be fueled by the feeling that they now stand at a distance not only from our own initial hopes, but from a connection to the Torah itself. 

On the Seder night we are reminded that every Jew has a connection. The Torah presents not only four sons, but four ways of adjusting the story so it may be presented on the right wavelength and strike a chord with the child who is listening. We may have expected a chacham, but the Torah itself anticipated many others. We are reminded that whoever our children may be, each can enjoy a relationship with our history, with our story, and with our Torah.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks suggested that in addition to four individual sons, we might further understand them to all be consolidated in one person, albeit at different points of life. That is to say that the four sons may actually be four stages of development that everyone passes through. We begin as the she’eino yodei’a lish’ol, quite literally incapable of asking questions as our language skills have not yet emerged. Even once the child speaks, he has not immediately developed into a sophisticated person, and is characterized as a tam, a simple one, for a while. It is not uncommon to enter into a stage of rebelliousness at some point, asking needling questions without any interest in seeking answers, a stage characterized by the contrary rasha. Finally, through the experience of living life, we emerge as the chacham, humble and eager to learn.

Perhaps it is this take on the four sons that demands the inclusion of an agricultural motif at the seder. By telling the story through the words of the farmer grateful for the bounty of his field, we are reminded of the slow emergence of fully edible fruits from what was once a nearly imperceptible bud. Farming is an occupation that demands patience. So is parenting. 

With ripening fruits in our mind as we relate the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim to our children, we are reminded of an important corollary to the fact that we may be speaking to someone other than the chacham we’d hoped for. As we curtail our message as the hagaddah instructs us to do, as we follow the hagaddah’s guidance to do our best to reach the rasha, tam, she’eino yodei’a lish’ol, or whoever else our child might be, we’re reminded to be patient. The fruits in the farmer’s basket didn’t ripen in a day; it took a long, slow process to see them finally emerge into a finished product. Children are no different. Even the greatest chacham began his life as a she’eino yodei’a lish’ol. A child may not yet be a chacham. But perhaps one day he will be. In the meantime, the Torah has a version of the story to be shared with him as well.

Parshas HaChodesh/Parshas Tazria 5782

“I love comedy, I’ve done it most of my career. But I’m saddened that the world has lost its sense of what should not be made fun of. When a woman’s appearance, altered by disease, can be openly mocked in front of her family, thousands of friends and colleagues, and millions watching at home, society needs to look itself in the mirror. Some things need to be too sacred to joke about.”

That’s the tweet I wish Will Smith could have sent out the day after the Oscars. Instead, he had to dedicate his efforts to apologizing for his embarrassing behavior. What separated what actually happened from what should have and could have?

As we begin to clean, kasher, and shop for Pesach, there is one item that looms over every stage of preparation as public enemy number one: Chametz. It is to be utterly eradicated from our homes and replaced with its less offensive cousin, matzah. And what separates the two? Time. Cross over that fateful eighteen minute mark and that which would have been Kosher for Pesach instead becomes reviled as chametz. 

The lesson is one of alacrity. As Chazal famously interpret, the Torah’s command of, “Ushmartem es hamatzos—Guard the matzos,” can be alternatively read as, “Ushmartem es hamitzvos—Guard the mitzvos.” It’s not just about matzah. Matzah is but a prism through which we should view the full breadth of our mitzvah observance. When opportunity presents itself, we shouldn’t sit around; we should move quickly to seize that opportunity before it’s too late. 

But rushing is not always advisable. While we should be motivated to strike while the iron’s hot, there are indeed times when the best thing we can do is pause. As Parshas HaChodesh begins to set the tone for the spirit of matzah, Parshas Tazria provides an important counterbalance. 

In describing the manner of purification a woman would undertake following childbirth, the parsha includes instructions for the karbanos she would bring as part of this process. One of these karbanos was a chatas, a sin offering, which would appear counterintuitive. What could possibly be sinful about bringing a child into the world? Of all karbanos to offer, why is a chatas appropriate after such a holy act?

This question is addressed in the Gemara in Niddah 31b by Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, who suggests that the chatas relates to what the woman undoubtedly considered at some point during the throes of childbirth. Namely, that she would never again conceive and give birth, the pain being too great to endure another time. Albeit momentary, it is this thought that must be atoned for through a sin-offering. Even the fleeting consideration of never again bringing a child into the world demands proper attention and expiation. 

Rav Avigdor Nebenzahl wonders what ultimately makes a woman come around. If the institutionalization of the chatas suggests that these thoughts go through every woman’s mind at some point during childbirth, what is it that causes the change in perspective?

Rav Nebenzahl answers simply, that it’s nothing more than time. Given some time to separate herself from the physical pain of labor, the mother regains her composure and her perspective. Having a child is the blessing of a lifetime and should not be sacrificed for the pain of a few isolated minutes or even hours. At a safe distance from the pain itself, everything is viewed more clearly. Which is a powerful lesson.

How different things would have been if Will Smith could have counted to ten. With just a small cushion of time from the searing pain of his wife being publicly mocked, he likely could have regained his composure. Ten or twenty seconds after the joke ended, the crowd would have moved on—that’s how standup works—and storming the stage at that point would have been far too late to be plausible. 

And as the pain and anger of the moment slowly subsided, inevitably replaced with the elation of winning his first Oscar, Smith could have woken up the next morning with better perspective. He could have crafted a critique of a joke that went too far and the culture that permits such things, all while calm and composed. He would have received sympathy and maybe even have affected some real change. Instead, what could have been the best night of his life became the most embarrassing night of his life. 

The difference between what was and what could have been is nothing more than time. With the passage of time we become removed from the pain we experience and can view it in more objective and reasonable terms. When we act in the midst of the pain, we thrash around embarrassingly, saying and doing things we so often regret.

How do we know whether to act according to Parshas HaChodesh or Parshas Tazria? How do we know when to be quick, hasty, and impassioned as matzah, and when we should pause long enough to let the charge out of the moment? Pain is a good place to start. When we’re uncomfortable, angry, or distressed in some other way, we’d do well to remind ourselves that we won’t act our best, and that we’d be best served to not act at all. There are so many means at our disposal today for our voices to be heard by the masses, it is almost never the case that a reaction must occur on the spot in order to be meaningful.

How do we want to wake up the morning after? After the pain has subsided? Do we want that discomfort to be replaced by feelings of humiliation, having overreacted in the heat of the moment? Or by an opportunity to respond in a manner that’s measured and reasonable? Do we want to be remembered by thoughtful words or by embarrassing actions? The choice is ours if we’re willing to wait. 

Parshas Shemini 5782

The kids are getting older and finding time to bond and connect as a family seems to be slipping away. Though everyone’s doing well—no major catastrophes at school or at home— you want to do something to help solidify the relationships that bond your family together. So you find a way to rework your schedule and commit to start having dinner together as a family. It’s opening night of your new resolution, and just as you slide into your seat at the table, the phone rings.

In all likelihood, it’s about solar panels. But it rings and rings and rings some more. What do you do?

In its treatment of what makes animals kosher and non-kosher, Parshas Shemini offers a simple manner of determining the kashrus status of fish. Fins and scales means kosher; lacking either means not kosher. 

But for all its seeming simplicity, the criteria provided are actually redundant. As the Mishnah in Niddah teaches:

כל שיש לו קשקשת יש לו סנפיר ויש שיש לו סנפיר ואין לו קשקשת

^{:נדה נא}

All that have scales have fins. But there are those that have fins that do not have scales. 

^{Niddah 51b}

The Torah could have demanded only that fish have scales to be kosher, and said nothing about fins. The fact is, having scales means that the fish will have fins by definition. Why bother with a criterion for kashrus that is automatic and need not be checked for?

Rav Shaul Alter suggests that fins and scales are metaphors for two types of people. In emphasizing the need for fins—necessarily present on any scaled fish though they may be—the Torah makes its bid for the type of person it hopes we will become. Scales protect; fins propel. 

A Jew can look at the laws of the Torah and respond with scales. We must be protected from the potential fallout latent in each mitzvah. We want to stay on Hashem’s “good side”, dodge punishment, and evade pangs of guilt. So we do what we must, checking off the boxes next to each halacha we encounter and remain protected from any possible harm resulting from leaving our obligations unfulfilled. Just as scales protect the fish’s body from harmful elements surrounding it, we cordon off each mitzvah and fulfill it before it harms us. 

A fin is something else entirely. A fin propels the fish from one place to the next, and therein lies the other perspective we can hold of Torah and mitzvos. A mitzvah is not merely an obstacle lying in the way of all that I would rather do, it is that which propels me along a path of upward spiritual mobility. Each mitzvah helps to perfect me as a person and strengthens my relationship with Hashem. A mitzvah is not that which gets in the way of my true objective, it is the objective itself. 

The Torah instructs us to look for fins. Perhaps not so much to determine what kind of fish it is, but to remind us of what kind of people we should be. And as we do our best to become more like fins and less like scales, I’d argue that that personality overhaul would be well advised in arenas even beyond the direct performance of specific mitzvos.

In The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, Stephen Covey constructs a four-quadrant matrix for analyzing how we spend our time. The matrix evaluates activities according to two factors: importance and urgency. Covey submits that sustained, meaningful growth comes from the disciplined pursuit of spending time in Quadrant Two—that which is important, though not urgent.

If we would honestly evaluate our lives, we could all identify areas where increased effort would yield truly impressive results. But we default to spending time on things that are urgent, whether or not they’re important. And there is no shortage of activities that carry the sense of urgency, that we feel must get done right now at the expense of everything else, despite the fact that they may be rather unimportant. We respond to diffusing crises rather than fulfilling goals.

Instituting family dinners is a “Quadrant Two” activity. It’s not urgent, there’s no immediate crisis at hand that demands immediate attention. It’s simply an expression of considering what we want our relationships with our spouse and children to look like in ten, twenty, and thirty years from now and working backward to construct the life that will allow for it to happen. And it’s working beautifully, right until the phone rings.

We know full well it’s about solar panels, but there is something about the sound of a ringing form—an echo of some more foreboding alarm—that prompts us to interrupt what we know to be important for the sake of that which is urgent.

So much of life is lived through the prism of scales. Experiences rank only when they become crises, when there is a sense of urgency that drives us to act and to protect until we can return to tranquil equilibrium. That which may well be important—will help us to grow and develop in life changing ways—is easily ignored because it doesn’t prompt us into a defensive posture. 

Dinners with the family, a few sessions with a personal trainer, or a professional aptitude assessment may be wonderful ideas. But the avoiding these initiatives will not pose a clear and present threat to my life as it exists right now, so we procrastinate, forget, and ignore. We are scales—we shield and defend when a crisis threatens to overturn the apple cart. But absent the crisis, we’ll remain largely inert.

The Torah emphasizes to look for fins. Not to know what to eat, but to remember what to become. Become someone who moves from point A to point B, not just a person who protects the area already gained. Identify areas where you can grow, activities that will propel you forward in life. What will make your professional life, family life, and spiritual life more robust and more meaningful? Recognize those items and pursue them. Know ahead of time that they may never feel urgent, will never muscle their way into your schedule all on their own. You’ll have to clear the path for them, with your elbows out, and your fins cutting through the water.

Don’t answer the phone. It feels urgent. But it’s not that important. 

Purim 5782

Eli Stefansky may be the most popular Maggid Shiur on the planet. He delivers a daily Daf Yomi shiur to a live audience near his home in Ramat Beit Shemesh, Israel, that is simultaneously broadcast over Zoom and recorded for viewing and listening across a host of video and audio platforms. At present, Reb Eli’s Youtube channel boasts 12.1 thousand subscribers. It wasn’t always that way.

The Midrash (Bereishis Rabbah 30:8) comments that a group of people scattered across the pages of Tanach witnessed the dawn of a new world. Among them was Mordechai, who witnessed a complete about-face in the Persian government’s policy towards the Jews at large and towards him personally. Mordechai is part of a group that includes Noach, Yosef, Moshe, and Iyov, each of whom witnessed a climactic shift in the functioning of either the physical world or of society. The word that identifies every member of this select group is striking in its banality: “היה—it was.” 

But what appears pedestrian on the surface actually bears far greater depth. Throughout the story of Megillas Esther, Mordechai maintains a steady stream of activity, always calculating his and Esther’s best next move. Even when things seem utterly hopeless—a genocidal decree against the Jews signed by a king completely indifferent to their cause—Mordechai doesn’t lose hope. He remains outside the palace, certain that something can be done to right the ship.

For Mordechai, “היה” is not only a word that frames the time period of a given pasuk, it was an entire philosophy. What happened in the past would not cast a long shadow over the future. Change can occur, realities can shift. What has already transpired does not dictate what yet can occur. Mordechai insists this is so and finds himself at the right place at the right time, helping direct the future along a far more promising trajectory. Had Mordechai’s response to Haman’s decree been to dejectedly lock himself in a room and simply give up, he’d never have the impact that he ultimately did. Because he could turn the page on the past, he availed himself of the opportunity to direct the future. 

When Eli Stefansky first started giving a Daf Yomi shiur, it was attended by 5-6 people. Someone in his position could easily have said, “I’ve tried the Daf Yomi thing, and it’s just not happening.” Past experiences have a way of seeping into the future and coloring perspective of what’s possible. If something great was going to happen, wouldn’t it have happened by now? By looking at a dearth of attendees as “היה—it was”, Reb Eli could build an incredible future without being saddled by the past. He developed his style, honed his skills, built an audience. And that audience is now many hundreds of times larger than what once was—היה. 

Living by such a credo is no simple feat. Yesterday’s baggage weighs us down and it’s a real challenge to drop it and keep a bright-eyed view of the future. Perhaps what allows Mordechai to do so is captured in one of the best-known quotes from all of Megilas Esther: 

כִּי אִם־הַחֲרֵשׁ תַּחֲרִישִׁי בָּעֵת הַזֹּאת רֶוַח וְהַצָּלָה יַעֲמוֹד לַיְּהוּדִים מִמָּקוֹם אַחֵר וְאַתְּ וּבֵית־אָבִיךְ תֹּאבֵדוּ וּמִי יוֹדֵעַ אִם־לְעֵת כָּזֹאת הִגַּעַתְּ לַמַּלְכוּת׃

^{(אסתר ד:יד)}

If you keep silent at this time, relief and deliverance will come to the Jews from somewhere else, while you and your father’s house will perish. And who knows, if perhaps you have attained your royal position for just such a moment.

^{(Esther 4:14)}

Responding to her fear of approaching Achashveirosh uninvited, Mordechai assures Esther of the need to bear the responsibility of the Jewish People upon her shoulders. But not because she is their only hope. Indeed, if Hashem intends to save the Jewish People, there is nothing Esther can do to torpedo that Divine plan. But if she cannot bring herself to approach Achashveirosh, she will be missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime—the chance to partner with Hashem to help bring the salvation to fruition. 

We bring past failures into the future because we come to identify ourselves and our abilities by them. If we’ve failed before, we’ll do so again. But Mordechai has a different perspective—what we do and don’t do is less about our own abilities and more about Hashem’s interests. If Hashem wills it, future success is limitless, irrespective of what past failures suggest. 

What if we lived life that way? Yes, I’ve struggled in the past—earning a living, maintaining Shalom Bayis, understanding what I was learning. And yes, if future success was predicated on my own efforts alone, my past record would indicate more trouble ahead. But if I can see Hashem behind all that transpires, the possibilities for future success remain limitless.

Faith in ourselves begins with faith in Hashem. And Purim more than any time of year reminds us to seek out Hashem’s presence even where it’s not readily apparent. If Hashem is in control, no failure of the past should serve as a curb against the future. What happened yesterday is היה, it was, and has no bearing on what can be achieved tomorrow. 

Parshas Pekudei 5782

When I was learning in yeshiva, the notion of making any meaningful donation to the institution was well beyond my means. But I made a mental note—and even related to a few friends—that if I was ever in a different position, I’d want my money to go towards coffee. The coffee station was located in the basement of the yeshiva and I’d always thought of it in terms the furnaces located in the bottom of the great steamships of old. Coffee kept the engines of the Bais Medrash turning, providing everyone with the caffeine needed to stay alert. I wondered how I could accomplish this feat. How could I be sure that my donation would go to coffee, and not to, say, toilet paper?

The Midrash describes a frightening moment in the personal audit that Moshe Rabbeinu undertook following the completion of the Mishkan. As Moshe attempted to balance the books, there were 1,775 shekalim that could not be accounted for. Moshe was worried he would not be able to justify where the missing shekalim went and that suspicions would arise that he’d lined his own pockets with them. The “Aha!” moment finally came, and Moshe realized that the missing shekalim had actually been spent on the vavei ha’amudim—the small hooks with which the fabric partitions surrounding the courtyard would be affixed to the posts from which they hung.

The Kotzker Rebbe explains the reason for the initial oversight and the subsequent breakthrough. More than making sure that the income and expense columns matched, Moshe Rabbeinu was tracing the individual half-shekels from coin to coffee. Each coin donated was destined for a particular purpose within the Mishkan—more or less holy, more or less impactful—based on the purity of intention of the donor. Those who gave with the greatest sincerity enjoyed the distinction of their coins going towards the most critical and elevated aspects of the final structure. There was no coffee in the Bais Hamikdash, but had there been, the donations of the greatest tzaddikim would surely have gone to pay for it. 

It was within this context that Moshe was baffled by the missing 1,775 shekels, representing the half-shekel donations of 3,550 Jews, within whom he could not detect sufficient intention to qualify for inclusion in the Mishkan at all. Where could these donations possibly have landed within an edifice that would serve as the very resting place of the Shechinah?

Moshe ultimately realized that these donations went towards the small hooks. The Kotzker Rebbe explains that Moshe’s breakthrough was in understanding that even when a Jew’s own thoughts, intentions, and actions may fall short, he can always have a place through the power of connection to those holier than himself. Much like this group of donors to the Mishkan, the hooks created holiness by association.

Everyone wants to feel personally accomplished, and the assessment of how much we have or have not accomplished is often viewed through the prism of our surroundings. When we’ve achieved more than those around us, we feel good; when we haven’t, we don’t. Which can lead us—consciously or subconsciously—to a sad state of underachievement. We can surround ourselves with people we know we can outshine—or at least feel confident comparing ourselves to—as a means of easing the burden of self-development from upon our shoulders.

How do we bring ourselves to associate with people whose achievements and motivation outstrips our own, despite the inherent attack upon our own ego that we’ll be inviting? Perhaps by flipping the script. If we have a tendency to surround ourselves with underachievers so that our own accomplishments stand out, we need to remind ourselves that an association with a great person is an accomplishment in of itself. 

The company we keep is a statement of our values. Being around people who exercise, or learn Torah, or gossip, means we’ll be exposed to those activities and will likely be influenced to do more of it ourselves. We’ll be met with opportunities to engage in similar behavior, and will naturally avoid opportunities that can erode that behavior, simply by spending time amongst that group. 

You may have the smallest net worth of anyone at the country club, but by playing golf amongst those billionaires, you’ll be exposed to deals and relationships that will undoubtedly deepen your pockets. And the same is true of being the biggest ignoramus in the Bais Medrash, publishing the fewest articles amongst your colleagues, or having the largest waist size of all your friends. While the tendency may be to abandon that group to let your ego expand in the presence of less accomplished people, the reality is that your production will increase by staying in the orbit of those greater than you. Before you run for the hills so your own achievements will appear greater, remind yourself that staying in the company of those overshadowing you is actually its own achievement. 

It was the hooks that held the curtains up and gave them value as an integrated component of the Mishkan. While there is great comfort in simply falling to the floor and being compared to that which is beneath us, the hooks remind us to look up and to associate with those greater. While we may stand out less, we’ll ultimately achieve so much more. 

Vayakhel 5782

If you frequent a gym, you know that January is the busiest month of the year. According the International Health, Racquet, and Sporstclub Association (IHRSA), 12% of all new gym memberships take place in January. Which is not surprising. High on the list of most commonly adopted new year’s resolutions is some version of losing weight or getting in shape. As the new year rolls in, gym’s enjoy a surge of new members looking to make good on the promises they made to themselves.

And not surprisingly, it often doesn’t work. Also according to the IHRSA, most gyms lose about 50% of new members within the first six months. The initial inspiration or determination that we feel when the goal is first articulated can soon dissipate. There is a huge difference between adopting a goal and achieving it.

Which perhaps is why Parshas Vayakhel exists, despite its feeling very much like a re-run. The earlier parshios of Terumah and Tetzaveh have already provided detailed instruction as to how the Mishkan, its furnishings, and the bigdei Kehunah were to be fashioned. Yet all this information is given a second screening as the Torah describes in Parshas Vayakhel and Pekudei how the Jewish People actually went about constructing it all, followed by a full reckoning of all the funds and materials raised and spent on the project. 

To be sure, the Mishkan was a seminal achievement in the annals of Jewish history. But it is striking how the Torah—so economical in its word count—opts to fully rehash every design element as it was dutifully implemented. Surely a simple, “They did all they were commanded to do” would have sufficed.

But, of course, it would not have. Simply because an item is on the agenda does not mean that it gets done. Though the commandments received in Terumah and Tetzaveh surely shaped the Mishkan’s construction into a national goal, a goal is not accomplished as easily as it is written. The spike and decrease in gym memberships over the first six months of the year tells us all we need to know about the unlikelihood of making good on one’s ambitions. That the Mishkan is constructed in full, no corners cut, is an astounding triumph in the people overcoming themselves. In place of the lethargy that typically sets in not long after a project is first launched, the Jewish People developed steadfast resolve. Every detail is emphasized because no single one was sure to happen. That it did is remarkable and deserves to be recorded. 

In this light, perhaps we can gain new understanding into the opening of the very name of parsha: “Vayakhel—And he gathered.” Moshe Rabbeinu gathered the people to inform them that Shabbos would need to serve as a day off from the work of building the Mishkan, and to then charge them with the amassing of the materials needed to begin the work. The commentators are puzzled by the nature of Moshe’s gathering the people. Whereas a chain of command was usually employed to get the word out to the masses about any given mitzvah, here specifically, we find that Moshe addressed the nation as one.  

In another enlightening statistic from the IHRSA’s 2018 report, those who attended classes rather than working out on their own were 56% less likely to cancel their membership. Transforming a personal ambition into a collective undertaking can be a game changer. We gain from the built-in accountability and social pressure that can help us think twice before we ditch our goal. We are also less likely to doubt the virtue of our goals after the initial novelty wears off when we are surrounded by others dedicated to the cause. Finally, the activity itself can become more enjoyable when joined with a social component.

If Parshas Vayakhel is about telling the triumph of keeping to one’s goals and seeing them through, the word Vayakhel may describe how to get there. Sticking to our goals can be challenging, doing so as a cohesive group can help to remove many of the inherent hurdles.

If you’ve struggled with keeping to goals in general, or to a specific goal in particular, the answer may not be persevering through brute force alone. While accomplishing a meaningful goal will never be easy, there’s much we can do to help grease the wheels and make the process more enjoyable. 

Is there a means of transforming the private goal to a communal one? If you can’t stay motivated towards your goals, consider creating a group or chaburah that works on them together. Consider finding an accountability partner who you can share your goals with and vice-versa, even if your goals are substantially different from one another. The encouragement you’ll receive and even that bit of embarrassment you’ll feel if you can’t report positive results will help keep you on target. 

The Jewish People achieved their goals because of Vayakhel—they formed a group around their collective ambition. Partnering together and forming groups of our own can go a long way in allowing us to do the same. 

Parshas Ki Sisa 5782

“They’re not rejecting me, they’re rejecting my application.”

This is was what psychologist Dr. Guy Winch finally realized after mulling over the fact that he’d been rejected from ten out of ten PhD programs he’d applied to. And, he realized, his application was something he could work on. 

Dr. Winch went on to a number of professional accomplishments and is the author of the book, “Emotional First Aid.” On an episode of the podcast, “The Happiness Lab,” Dr. Winch explained that while the average person takes a moment to properly diagnose if a cut finger needs a band-aid or some more serious medical attention, most of us pay little heed to emotional bruises, despite our emotions getting hurt far more often than our bodies. We receive small blows to our self-esteem through experiences of rejection both large and small and it’s important that we have some basic tools at our disposal to deal with them.

Following the Chet HaEgel, Hashem reemphasizes the great threat posed by allowing vestiges of idolatry to remain in Eretz Yisrael once the Jewish People take hold of it. This is a mitzvah that obviously bears repeating in the wake of constructing the Egel. A people that have succumbed to the temptation of idolatry needs to adopt strict safeguards to ensure that it won’t happen again. But what follows afterwards appears oddly out of place:

אֱלֹהֵי מַסֵּכָה לֹא תַעֲשֶׂה־לָּךְ׃

אֶת־חַג הַמַּצּוֹת תִּשְׁמֹר שִׁבְעַת יָמִים תֹּאכַל מַצּוֹת אֲשֶׁר צִוִּיתִךָ לְמוֹעֵד חֹדֶשׁ הָאָבִיב כִּי בְּחֹדֶשׁ הָאָבִיב יָצָאתָ מִמִּצְרָיִם׃

^{(שמות לד:יז–יח)}

Do not make molten gods for yourself.

The Festival of Matzos you shall observe. For seven days you shall eat matzos, as I commanded you, at the appointed time in the springtime month, for in the springtime month you went out of Egypt.

^{(Shemos 34:17-18)}

As Hashem wraps up a series of instructions addressing idolatry, He pivots immediately to a discussion of the Shalosh Regalim—Pesach, Shavuos, and Sukkos, just as Parshas Ki Sisa comes to a close. It is as though the matter of the Chet HaEgel would be incomplete without a discussion of the Shalosh Regalim. Why is this so?

As one of the greatest sins in history, the Chet HaEgel looms large in the collective Jewish consciousness as a moment when we woefully disappointed Hashem, and, at least in part, were rejected by Him. It is only through the persuasive intervention of Moshe that the Jewish People escape destruction at Hashem’s hand and are given the opportunity to repent.

Rejection of that magnitude leaves serious scars and the nation at large would be in danger of being dogged by that rejection forever. Nationally, we could well slink into the corner, shaming ourselves for such a despicable act, and insisting that G-d will never love us again.

The Shalosh Regalim insist that we can move on, that there is more to our relationship with Hashem than failure. There were times of open miracles and profound expressions of faith. He brought us out of Egypt and we followed Him into the wilderness. We are roundly reprimanded for the Chet HaEgel, but Hashem wasn’t rejecting us, he was rejecting our application. Our performance in that particular moment was abysmal, but the relationship is deeper than that one moment alone. Our behavior was rejected, but that is something that can be improved.

We have a tendency to process rejection as being comprehensive. We enter a spiral of self-deprecation, insisting we’re worthless and that we’ll never amount to anything. Dr. Winch notes how ironically tragic it is that we tend to beat ourselves up when our self-esteem is at the lowest. The reality is usually quite different—we may well be receiving poor grades on just one particular decision, presentation, or meeting alone.

Dr. Winch suggests that one handy way to break the cycle of negativity that can follow rejection is to strengthen other relationships that are already working well. Self-isolating is a typical response to rejection, but it is an unfortunate one, allowing the feelings of rejection to consume us. But by forcing ourselves to interact with friends and family members who enjoy our company, we rebuild our self-esteem, which can help us define ourselves by much more than the rejection we’ve experienced. We ease the pain, and are put in a better frame of mind to take productive steps forward.

It is intriguing that social relationships with peers is also bound up with the Shalosh Regalim, and perhaps another dimension to their importance as a response to the Chet HaEgel. The Regalim would be a time when families spend time together, make the pilgrimage to Yerushalayim, and enjoy a holiday in each other’s company. Today as well, even without the Bais HaMikdash, the Regalim serve as an opportunity to connect deeply with family and friends, as we spend a huge amount of time preparing for and celebrating the holidays side by side.

What a critical antidote to the rejection of the Chet HaEgel. Yes, you’ve messed up. No, Hashem is not please with you. But the Regalim give an immediate shot in the arm of feeling valued and loveable, by putting us into close contact with those to whom we mean so much. From that position, it is much easier to believe that Hashem hasn’t really rejected us either, but is simply asking us to improve our application.

The Shalosh Regalim as a means of dealing with rejection is a formula we can apply more often than just three times a year. When we feel rejected, the knee-jerk reaction of sitting in a corner alone with a container of ice cream won’t provide long-term healing. Far better to connect with others, rediscover your self-worth, and recognize that the rejection you felt is not as all-encompassing as it may have initially felt.

Parshas Tetzaveh 5782

Mahatma Gandhi, flanked by 78 of his closest followers, set out from home on March 12, 1930. They would continue walking for the next twenty four days, until finally traversing nearly 250 miles and arriving at the Arabian Sea. At its shores, Gandhi produced salt by evaporating sea water, an act of defiance against the British salt monopoly that had been imposed upon the people of India. 

Gandhi’s march was heroic. The march not only galvanized tens of thousands of Indians to show their support as it crossed through towns and cities in which they lived, but also marshaled a huge amount of public and political support from across the international community in favor of Indian independence. Picking up a clump of salty sand from the seashore, Gandhi famously remarked, “With this, I am shaking the foundations of the British Empire.”

As Parshas Tetzaveh opens, Moshe Rabbeinu is continuing to direct the massive undertaking that is the construction of the Mishkan. Hashem directs Moshe to convey three sets of instructions: to have the people bring olive oil that will be used for the lighting of the menorah, to gather Aharon and his sons to serve as Kohanim, and for the craftsmen to manufacture the special bigdei kehunah that the Kohanim will wear. Oddly, each set of instructions is preceded by the word “ואתה,” “and you”:

וְאַתָּה תְּצַוֶּה אֶת־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל, וכו׳

וְאַתָּה הַקְרֵב אֵלֶיךָ אֶת־אַהֲרֹן אָחִיךָ וְאֶת־בָּנָיו אִתּוֹ, וכו׳

וְאַתָּה תְּדַבֵּר אֶל־כָּל־חַכְמֵי־לֵב, וכו׳

^{(שמות כז:כ, כח:א,ג)}

And you shall command the Children of Israel…

And you shall gather Aharon and his sons with him close to you…

And shall speak to anyone wise of heart…

^{(Shemos 27:20, 28:1,3)}

Insofar as Hashem is clearly speaking with Moshe, the use of the term “and you” is redundant. Why, then, is it used? Rav Shabse Yudelevitch, the great Maggid of Yerushalayim, explained the term by relating a story.

A student once declared to Rav Yisrael Salanter that he was going to change the world. He’d go on a crusade, he claimed, inspiring all of European Jewry to teshuva. “Why leave home?” asked Rav Yisrael, “Have you already inspired all the inhabitants of Radin, right where you live?” “The Rav is right,” replied the student, “I’ll focus my efforts on Radin first.” “Before you do,” continued Rav Yisrael, “is there really a need to leave your own home? Perhaps you should first inspire your own family.” “That’s true!” replied the student, “I’ll start with my own wife and children.” “Perhaps,” suggested Rav Yisrael, “before you do, you should look within yourself. First and foremost, the teshuva should start right there.” 

With a series of instructions to go instruct the masses, one can become so focused on what lies beyond, he can forget about the importance of first looking within. It’s not only others who must be guided, one must first guide oneself. Rav Yudelevitch explained that this is the reason for the emphasis of the word “ואתה—and you.” Moshe Rabbeinu is reminded of the need to consider the אתה—the standing of messenger—before proceeding with the message. There must be alignment between message and messenger. Without it, the message is lost in a haze of hypocrisy.

At no point in his march to the sea did Gandhi whip the throngs of followers into a violent frenzy, setting them loose upon their British overlords. And for good reason. Gandhi was protesting against unfair use of power and control, which is not a lesson that can be taught by exerting power and control. Gandhi was remarkably self-controlled, but more than anything, he was smart. He knew he could never achieve the longterm liberation he sought for his people by allowing himself or his followers to be beset by all the problems that plagued the British. It would be a pinch of illegally-made salt that would shake the foundation of the British Empire, and that alone. Nothing else would work.

We all want to see change in some arena of life or another. We may want to change something about our family culture, our workplace environment, or online discourse. In doing so, we must be mindful that אתה must come before תצוה. The “you” must precede the instruction given to others. If we seek more peaceful and appropriate dialogue, we must become paragons of that behavior. If we’re disturbed by snide remarks or by screaming and shouting in order to get one’s point across, we must be mindful of not stooping to that level ourselves. If you want those around you to develop a better work ethic, you need to improve your own first. Passionate pleas ring hollow if they motivate towards a cause that the spokesperson undermines with his own behavior. 

Though he may never actually have uttered the words, one of my favorite quotes is one often attributed to Gandhi: “Be the change you wish to see in the world.” It’s our actions more than our words that dictate if we’re part of the problem or part of the solution.

Like all true words of wisdom, a similar quote emerged from the words of Chazal long before Gandhi ever marched to the sea or even walked the earth. In discussing the importance of acting before preaching, the Gemara (Bava Metzia 107b) quotes Reish Lakish: “קשוט עצמך ואחר כך קשוט אחרים—First adorn yourself, and then adorn others.” When we’re left underwhelmed or frustrated by the actions or inactions of others, it’s a good time to look inward. We wish others would be adorned with better behavior. Have we adequately adorned ourselves with the same? 

Parshas Terumah 5782

Barry Bonds is not a Hall of Famer. This past week marked the former star’s final appearance on the ballot of the Baseball Writers Association of America, and he fell short of the 75% threshold necessary for induction. The debate surrounding Bonds—as well as other players known to have used performance enhancing drugs during their baseball careers—has raged for years. Should a player known to unequivocally be one of the greatest to ever have played be kept out of the Hall because drugs made him even better than he would otherwise have been? 

In an especially poignant take, Doug Glanville—former player turned analyst—weighed in with a sigh of relief. No, Glanville argues, Bonds is not a Hall of Famer. And what Glanville has brought to the conversation that heretofore has been missing is a face. 

While the argument against Bonds and other PED users has classically been one of defamation of the game and cheating the institution of baseball, Glanville offered a personal perspective that only someone who actually played in that era could: Cheaters altered the performance and the lives of anyone who didn’t cheat by making it impossible to keep up. How could a clean player stand a chance when competing against others who have unnaturally quicker reflexes, superhuman strength, more easily bounce back from injuries, and circumvent the body’s natural aging process? 

Glanville does not suggest that he’d have enjoyed an all-star career if not for the Barry Bondses of the game, nor that Bonds could not have put up Hall of Fame numbers without using PED’s. He argues only that this group of players did more than damage the game—that faceless institution. They damaged real people and real lives and sowed immense frustration and pain in the wake of their juiced-up play. And players like that do not deserve to be enshrined.

With the campaign to fund the construction of the Mishkan, the Torah is introducing the Jewish People to the concept of an institution. The Mishkan will serve as a communal hub and a center of national spiritual life. And all without a face. Which is the inherent problem with institutions, one that persists to the institutions we construct and maintain til today.

When we interact with public institutions, we can easily slide into the trap of “they.” That is, referring to the powers-that-be—those who run, operate, and lead those institutions—by a convenient, amorphous pronoun that blurs the presence of real human beings. But those human beings exist. They have given their time, they have sacrificed, they have skin in the game. They are Doug Glanville. And just as an assault on the game is an assault on him, an assault on an institution is an assault on those who manage it. 

Imagine someone entering the newly constructed Mishkan with korban in hand, ready to make his first sacrifice. He stands waiting his turn, in a long line of fellow Jews who have all arrived to do the same. And he grows impatient. “Why can’t they move this along more quickly? What’s taking them so long?” Those hurtful words are spoken within earshot of a certain Kohen, who feels like the rug has just been swept out from under him. He’s been working since dawn without letup, processing the korbanos of the people, moving as fast as he possibly can. He is tired and sweaty and is feet hurt. And he goes home crestfallen, distraught that for all his hard work, it wasn’t enough to please the people. 

The fellow who made those comments didn’t mean it that way. He didn’t mean for it to be directed toward that Kohen. He wasn’t speaking about him, he was speaking about “them”. But of course, there is no “them”. 

There’s also no “them” who run a shul, or a school, or a restaurant for that matter. There are only actual people who are the real-life recipients of the criticism launched at those institutions. Leaving a negative review on Yelp about a dining experience impacts the owners, managers, and waiters, who are real people. A post to facebook about where an organization is falling short is a public call-out of the individuals who serve at the helm. 

This issue looms particularly large on social media. Psychologists have coined the term “online disinhibition” to describe the phenomenon of people acting with far less restraint in online communication than they would in face-to-face interaction. This is a reality even when engaging with other individuals online, but is heightened significantly when it comes to institutions. In the online arena, the human faces are even less distinct, and there’s the false sense that comments made come without any casualty of human emotion.

This is not to say that there is no place for criticism and that every disappointment with our institutions should be met with a mere turning of the other cheek. But there is a degree of callousness present in our critique of institutions that I believe would not exist were we to be mindful of the faces behind the institutional facade. Remembering the actual people who absorb our criticism can help to temper some of the vitriol and invite direct conversation that would likely prove more productive—and certainly more polite—than public denouncements. 

It is interesting that the first institution the Jewish People ever construct—the Mishkan—is so done through funds that were collected from the full spectrum of the Jewish People. Perhaps here we find a key to helping change our perspective. Become directly involved and change the narrative from the institution being a “them” to being an “us”. When it’s your own, you know that the institution is not robotic; it’s human. You know that words about the institution land at the feet of real people who work hard to support it. And you hopefully can extrapolate and apply that knowledge to the full landscape of institutions with which you interact. 

Barry Bonds didn’t only trample on the institution that is Major League Baseball. He trampled on Doug Glanville. Perhaps he knew this full well and was simply too selfish to care, or perhaps he was encumbered by what we all are at some level: the difficulty in perceiving the real people that our actions and words effect, even when they’re standing right beside us on the baseball diamond. How important it is that we not lose the trees for the forest.

Parshas Yisro 5782

If you’ve ever had the need to catch a really early flight, you probably didn’t rely on an alarm clock alone. You may well have set the alarm clock on the other side of your bedroom, ensuring that you’d be forced to actually get out of bed when it would sound, rather than rolling over and hitting snooze half a dozen times. Little did you know it, but you’d actually implemented what economists refer to as a commitment device.

The need for commitment devices comes from recognizing that competing interests are constantly warring within us, each trying to best the other. Waking up on time is one example of decision making in which experts refer to the two vying personalities within as the present self and future self. The present self wants to make it to the airport with time to spare, avoiding anxiety and a need to rush. But the future self will be more tired than the present self, and will crave those extra few minutes of sleep in a way the present self can’t appreciate. The present self outsmarts the future self by making it impossible to hit snooze. 

But before jumping on the present self bandwagon, remember that it is not always so virtuous. Present self may also stay up late enjoying the party, leaving it to future self to cope with making it through the next day on too-few hours of sleep. Present self is enjoying himself; let future self deal with the fallout.

Every moment gives rise to a new self, each at war with the others. When the right one wins, we really ought to celebrate.

As Yisro makes his grand appearance at the beginning of the parsha, the Torah introduces him with a title that we’d think he’d long been itching to rid himself of:

וַיִּשְׁמַע יִתְרוֹ כֹהֵן מִדְיָן חֹתֵן מֹשֶׁה אֵת כָּל־אֲשֶׁר עָשָׂה אֱלֹקים לְמֹשֶׁה וּלְיִשְׂרָאֵל עַמּוֹ כִּי־הוֹצִיא ה׳ אֶת־יִשְׂרָאֵל מִמִּצְרָיִם׃

^{שמות יח:א}

Yisro, Priest of Midian, the father-in-law of Moshe, heard all that G-d had done for Moshe and Israel His nation when Hashem took Israel out of Egypt.

^{Shemos 18:2}

As he looks to strengthen his ties with the Jewish People and their faith, why does the Torah emphasize his status as Kohen Midian, a priest of a foreign religion? Why mention Yisro’s sinful past at a time that he should be congratulated for his present repentance?

The Ohr Hachaim suggests that what the Torah offers is not a put-down at all, but a compliment. In describing who Yisro once was—a cleric of polytheism—it is proclaiming that his embracing of Judaism is even more remarkable than we might have given him credit for. Yisro is not only an unbiased observer who chooses to embark upon a path of monotheism. His previously held position actually gave him every reason to double down and shun Judaism, because to do otherwise would be admission of a life lived in error. For Yisro to choose otherwise is nothing short of heroic.

Overcoming oneself is a hugely challenging task, due in no small part to an unawareness of who and what the enemy is. We like to think of ourselves as consistent and integrated—people of conviction who operate, have operated, and will continue to operate by a consistent system of values.

If you’ve ever needed a commitment device, you know this isn’t quite true. And when we stand in the present and consider past behavior, we need to remind ourselves of how many times we needed to set the alarm clock on the other side of the room.

Owning up to past mistakes can feel like a terrible shot to our ego. But if we can maintain the view that our present selves and past selves are two very different beings, it becomes a lot easier. We love constructing an underdog narrative about ourselves—the circumstances we’ve overcome and the Goliaths that our David has slain. What if we applied that same narrative to our own internal selves?

If I viewed my past self as cleanly detached from my present self, I could more easily admit to yesterdays mistakes. I would revel in the opportunity to prove that my present self is the underdog who—against all odds—triumphed over who I once was. I wouldn’t need to justify my past behavior any more than needing to justify the behavior of different person altogether. “Yeah, that past version of myself made some colossal errors. But present self is developing into a much better person.”

Errors of the past can prove a wonderful gift when we process them, learn from them, and move past them. Yisro can proudly wear the mantle of Kohen Midian because the story of his past self only makes the triumph of his current self that much more astounding. We become heroes not only when we overcome external opponents, but internal ones as well. Yisro of today could walk free of Kohen Midian of yesterday, his present self untethered by his past self.

In Hilchos Teshuva, the Rambam quotes Chazal’s statement that changing one’s name can serve as a powerful pathway to repentance. The Rambam offers his own explanation as to why this is so:

וּמְשַׁנֶּה שְׁמוֹ כְּלוֹמַר אֲנִי אַחֵר וְאֵינִי אוֹתוֹ הָאִישׁ שֶׁעָשָׂה אוֹתָן הַמַּעֲשִׂים וּמְשַׁנֶּה מַעֲשָׂיו כֻּלָּן לְטוֹבָה וּלְדֶרֶךְ יְשָׁרָה

^{רמב׳׳ם הל׳ תשובה ב:ד}

And he should change his name, as if to say, “I am another person; I am not the same one who committed those acts.” And he should completely change his behavior for the better, towards the proper path.

^{Rambam, Laws of Teshuva 2:4}

A critical step towards success is a redefinition of self. If I am the same person who made all those poor decisions of the past, the urge to justify and double-down on those errors becomes great. But if I can see that past version of myself as someone else, I can admit to the flaws and grow past them. Mistakes of the past only make the success of the present that much more impressive.