Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

Parshas Va’eira 5782

They say you shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds you, but how careful do you need to be with the plate?

As the first three plagues unfold, Moshe makes a concerted effort to take a backseat. It is Aharon who wields the staff upon the Nile to induce the plagues of Blood and Frogs, and again upon the earth to solicit the Plague of Lice. 

This is not happenstance. As Rashi notes:

לְפִי שֶׁהֵגֵן הַיְאוֹר עַל מֹשֶׁה כְּשֶׁנִּשְׁלַךְ לְתוֹכוֹ, לְפִיכָךְ לֹא לָקָה עַל יָדוֹ לֹא בַדָּם וְלֹא בַצְפַרְדְּעִים, וְלָקָה עַל יְדֵי אַהֲרֹן 

^{שמות ז:יט}

Because the Nile protected Moshe when he was cast therein, it therefore would not be struck by his hand hand—neither for Blood nor for Frogs—but was struck by Aharon’s hand instead.

^{Shemos 7:19} 

This same pattern is repeated when the Egyptian earth would produce the Plague of Lice. It would be Aharon, not Moshe, to strike the ground, for Moshe was indebted to the earth for having concealed the body of the Egyptian that Moshe had killed in last week’s parsha.

Showing appreciation towards those who cared for you is a fine attribute indeed. When one provides safety and security, a display of hakaras hatov is only fitting. It is no accident that “Jews” are called by that name; stemming from the Hebrew “Yehudah”, we are meant to be a people of hoda’ah, of giving thanks and displaying gratitude. 

But are we to believe that such gestures should be extended to inanimate matter as well? Did the waters of the Nile actually extend themselves especially for Moshe? Was it a conscious decision on the part of the Egyptian soil that the body of the taskmaster Moshe had slayed be concealed within it? 

Surely not. And as such, Hashem’s insistence that Moshe not be the one to bring the first three plagues about cannot be understood as giving inanimate matter its due. It is, after all, not the plate that fed him, but the arm behind it. And yet Hashem is conveying that following a good meal, the one who acts callously towards the dishes will have a hard time mustering sufficient gratitude towards the chef.

Put in other words, character is not automatic, but something that must be developed. And opportunities to do so must be sought after and seized. It’s not about the Nile. It’s not about the earth. It’s about Moshe being on the lookout to develop himself as a person and leader. 

In the comic strip above (one of my faves), Calvin’s father conveniently cites character development as the reason for not purchasing a snowblower. A veiled excuse, perhaps, for the underlying disinterest in spending the money on such a steep purchase. And yet he makes an important point: Character is something that one builds, not something that is built on its own.

We can mistakenly use a far too passive framework for developing our character. Sure we can grow as people. Of course I’ll be a different person when I’m 50 than when I was 20. But life will take care of that for me. I’ll be forged by life’s experiences and develop my character along the way.

Calvin’s father believes otherwise. An opportunity to build character (and save a couple hundred bucks) should be actively pursued. We can design our life so as to avoid such opportunities or to actively create them. Hashem tells Moshe to actively create them.

Had Moshe struck the Nile or the ground of Egypt, they would have bore no grudge against him. This was not a natural opportunity to express gratitude; it’s one that had to be manufactured. Hashem compels Moshe to create the opportunity for growth even where life doesn’t naturally oblige.

It may well be that people are born into certain predispositions. Some may be naturally more focused and attentive, while others are natural-born space cadets. But Hashem’s directive to Moshe teaches that the story of one’s character need not end the way it begins, and that the narrative of how that change is produced can be one that we actively design. In crafting the people we wish to become—our sensitivities, middos, and temperament—we can play offense, not just defense.

Struggling with focus and attention? Don’t wait around for a task to come your way that’s so important you’ll be forced to give it your full-attention. Get on the offensive instead. Challenge yourself to periods of concentrated device-free work that can increase as you get better. 

Interested in developing more gratitude? You can hope that you’ll respond properly the next time someone does you a favor or that your natural predispositions will make you feel blessed. Or you can follow Moshe Rabbeinu’s example and actively design your sense of gratitude. Keep a gratitude journal. Commit to sending one text a day showing a bit of appreciation to someone in your life. 

We know full well that a slight frame can be transformed into a hulking one and that that transformation doesn’t take place through the normal course of daily activity that naturally comes a person’s way. With active determination, muscles can be developed to a point of complete metamorphosis. What is true of the body is similarly true of the spirit. A middah can be developed no differently from a muscle, so long as we create opportunities to do so, rather than waiting for them to happen. 

Shemos 5782

Moshe Rabbeinu is described as having grown up twice. As a small child, the Torah notes ויגדל הילד—the boy grew up and could no longer be weaned by his own mother, who was serving as his wet nurse after being drawn out of the water by the princess. Immediately following, in the very next pasuk, we are told again that ויגדל משה—Moshe grew up. 

Why the repetition? Rashi explains that the second term refers not to Moshe’s physical maturation, but his stature. Moshe was appointed to a position of authority within the Egyptian political hierarchy. This serves as a critical introduction to what the Torah next describes:

וַיְהִי בַּיָּמִים הָהֵם וַיִּגְדַּל מֹשֶׁה וַיֵּצֵא אֶל־אֶחָיו וַיַּרְא בְּסִבְלֹתָם וַיַּרְא אִישׁ מִצְרִי מַכֶּה אִישׁ־עִבְרִי מֵאֶחָיו׃ וַיִּפֶן כֹּה וָכֹה וַיַּרְא כִּי אֵין אִישׁ וַיַּךְ אֶת־הַמִּצְרִי וַיִּטְמְנֵהוּ בַּחוֹל׃

^{שמות ב:יא–יב}

And it was in those days that Moshe became great. And he went out to his brothers and saw their burden. And he saw an Egyptian man striking a Hebrew man from amongst his brothers. And he turned this way and that and he saw that there was no one else, and he struck the Egyptian and buried him in the sand. 

^{Shemos 2:11-12}

Moshe’s initial heroics on behalf of his people did not occur in a vacuum. Moshe first achieves a high degree of stature—comes into a position of leadership and authority—and then proceeds to act. In making this point, the Torah is both emphasizing that success is a worthy pursuit, and also that there is a proper way of relating to success once it comes.

Though pursuit of success may seem to be an obvious undertaking to many, others experience a genuine fear of success. This is a condition that can stem from many sources. But from a Jewish vantage point, there is one that is worthy of specific consideration: the belief that professional success is out of line with Jewish ideals. Status and power are the fuel of arrogance and there is little that classic Jewish self-development considers more abhorrent than that. The mental picture of the financial success story who has become overwhelmed by materialism, pride, and self-indulgence is enough to give serious pause to anyone who takes their own character seriously.

Still others may use examples of success gone awry more as mere rationalizations for not shooting higher. They may actually be beset by fear of failure, of not achieving the professional goals they set for themselves, but deflect those fears by pointing to those who have become corrupted by their own success. Outwardly it’s, “Aim higher? What, and become like him?!” While inwardly, it’s more, “I’m so glad he let me off the hook. I think I’d fall on my face if I tried.” 

For either group, Moshe’s resume is worth considering. That the Torah highlights the fact that his heroism came specifically after achieving new standing in Egyptian society is instructive. Achievement begets a sense of ability, raises self confidence, and creates a reserve of social capital to be spent. Moshe may feel capable of acting now specifically because he has the standing to do so. He can take risks now that perhaps he previously could not have.

This is a reality we must keep in mind as we develop—or perhaps shy away from developing—our ambition in the public or professional sphere. Not only is success in these areas not necessarily at odds with becoming the people that Judaism demands we be, but it may well facilitate some of our loftier spiritual goals. Greater earning power, professional achievements, and receiving accolades at work can translate into being more charitable, self-confidence to tackle new chessed or learning projects, and social clout that can create communal leadership opportunities.

Success is not bereft of merit and we should neither view it as inherently at odds with virtuous living, nor use that narrative as justification for small thinking and a lack of ambition.

There’s a “but”. 

Moshe’s communal conscientiousness is not only made possible by his public achievements, it also serves as a necessary approbation of them. It is not wrong to be concerned by the specter of what we may become should we taste success. And it is those very concerns that must inform our decisions and our behavior when it happens. “Moshe became great and went out towards his brothers.” If we become great and do not turn towards those in need, we haven’t become very great at all.

Professional ambition is not at odds with Torah living and ideals. But what fuels it may well be. The Torah places its imprimatur upon Moshe’s achievements in Egyptian society only through a description of the communal-mindedness that he then exhibits. If we are motivated to climb the corporate ladder because of the opportunities it will afford us in life’s most critical realms—providing for our family, caring for our community, dedicating ourselves to spiritual pursuits—then our success will be integrated into our system of values, rather than falling outside it.

Perhaps it was these thoughts that Hillel had in mind when he authored the famous words, “אם אין אני לי מי לי, וכשאני לעצמי מה אני?—If I’m not for myself, who will be for me? And if I am only for myself, what am I?” We should not presume that success will come our way as we sit in a corner passively awaiting it. Success takes ambition and cunning and determination. But we should not consider these traits to be at odds with proper middos, nor the success that they may generate to be an inappropriate state for the humble eved Hashem. And yet it is critical that success be sought for the right reasons and that it not become an end in of itself. The successful person must always remember, “If I am only for myself, what am I?”

Parshas Veychi 5782

The silence is deafening.

From the way the conversation ends, it would appear that Yaakov was ultimately swayed by the rectitude of Shimon and Levi’s attack on Shechem. In Parshas Vayeitzei, after receiving their father’s rebuke, the brothers respond that they effectively had no choice:

.וַיֹּאמְרוּ הַכְזוֹנָה יַעֲשֶׂה אֶת־אֲחוֹתֵנוּ

^{בראשית לד:לא}

But they said, “Should our sister be treated like a harlot?”

^{Bereishis 34:31}

To this, Yaakov is silent and the Torah moves on to a new episode. Shimon and Levi have the last word. The question they pose to Yaakov—how could they not defend their sister’s honor?—remains ringing in the ears of anyone reading the parsha. Yaakov is without a rejoinder; in the end, he must have agreed with their actions.

Or so it would seem. Fast forwarding to this week’s parsha, we find that the episode is still fresh in Yaakov’s mind, along with the conviction that his sons’ behavior was in error:

שִׁמְעוֹן וְלֵוִי אַחִים כְּלֵי חָמָס מְכֵרֹתֵיהֶם׃

^{בראשית מט:ה}

Shimon and Levi are brothers; their weapons are instruments of violence.

^{Bereishis 49:5}

Making oblique reference to their attack on Shechem, Yaakov goes on to further denounce the brothers’ activities and ultimately passes over them both before bestowing the kingship their younger brother, Yehudah. It would seem that Shechem is still quite fresh in Yaakov’s mind and that his feelings about the episode remain unchanged. The question is, what took so long to say so?

In holding his tongue, Yaakov is actually teaching us a powerful lesson about parenting and leadership in general: You can maintain authority in the long run, without needing to win the argument that lays immediately before you. The altercation with his sons does not escalate into a screaming match. Despite Yaakov’s conviction of their error, he maintains the right to respond to that error accordingly, without engaging in the futile exercise of convincing them of a truth that is beyond their understanding.

If this seems a small task, consider how frequently we do otherwise. The allure of winning the argument is great, and we’ll do what it takes to achieve it. We find ourselves in the ironic position of acting like children as we try to convince our children that we’re right and they’re wrong. In the interest of flexing our muscles of leadership and authority, we undermine those very things by descending into a power struggle with those who report to us. Yaakov shows us another way. If you know you are in control, are confident in your authority, you can simply act on it later. You need not bicker in the present.

This is not to say that we should simply shut the door to the opinions of others. Indeed, sage council can often come from even the youngest and most unlikely of sources (as I’ve written about here). Being receptive to input and constructive criticism is critical to ensuring that we develop as parents, leaders, and people in general and that we do not construct an ivory tower for ourselves that no outside insight can penetrate.

But not every conversation or opinion is as productive as all that. We can usually tell when an interaction is about to sour, when we’ve arrived at an impasse. Yet that visceral need to be right boils up inside us and the passion for our point to be heard and accepted overwhelms us. It is at those times that we best follow Yaakov’s lead. We don’t need to get the last word in, we can simply exercise our authority at a time when it will matter most. As Theodore Roosevelt famously said, “Speak softly and carry a big stick.” 

Because the desire to be proven right in the moment is so strong, acting the part of Yaakov is no simple feat. What can help us get there is by trying to remember why it is that we want to win the argument in the first place.

Ultimately, we want to be the authority, the one that is looked up to and whose opinion matters most. We want followers, acolytes, and children who revere us. Not only does winning every argument not get us there, it may well undermine those very goals. Bickering projects a sense of parity between the two arguing parties. If you feel the need to argue with me, then my opinion must be just as valid as yours. Are you really the authority after all?

Because of his silence, Yaakov comes across as a dignified statesmen and a calm and collected patriarch. As he lays on his deathbed in our parsha, Shimon and Levi are by his side. Would that have been the case had he berated them and forced them to accept his opinion over theirs? The bracha Yaakov pronounces at the end of his life is heard and accepted by all his children because none have been marginalized. Yaakov is recognized as the leader because he did not force that reality down anyone’s throat.

When our authority is disrespected, our natural reaction is to reassert it. Immediately. But Yaakov Avinu shows us another, more effective way. We don’t need to bicker over our kids’ allowance or bedtimes. We don’t need to squabble with direct reports about the necessity of a project that simply must get done. Students don’t need to be convinced of the value of tests and assessments. Those arguments can often erode the very authority that we’re so desperately arguing to maintain. We can learn to remain confident in our authority silently, and calmly assert it when it matters most.

Parshas Vayigash 5782

The world of personal productivity is abuzz with a term that’s gotten real traction in recent years: “work-life balance”. This is a thankful development, at least compared with an approach of completely overlooking the other critical areas of one’s life in the interest of professional success. Work-life balance reminds us that health, family, and other critical relationships won’t simply sit in suspended animation while we’re out and about climbing the corporate ladder or our scaling our business. And the reverse—turning a blind eye to professional development in the interest of going all-in on our personal life—is equally misguided. When the certain departments of one’s life are overlooked, they fail, often irrevocably. We’re reminded instead to keep work and the rest of life in balance—pay your dues in all of life’s various spheres so that each is properly serviced.

But there’s a problem here. The term “balance” is suggestive of a traditional scale in which work and life are kept on their respective plates, with the goal being that neither outweighs the other to too great a degree. I find this to sorely miss the point and undersell the potential of all that can be achieved when life is well managed. Don’t think “balance”; think “synthesis”. 

When Yosef reveals himself to his brothers, he immediately begins to develop plans for their relocation to Egypt. The family will not live in the thick of Egyptian society, but in Goshen, where their ability to live according to a different value system from the rest of society will be more feasible. They will be supported through the grains stores that Yosef had accumulated during the years of plenty through his strategic planning. And all of these plans are conveyed in a manner that puts his brothers at ease, despite their guilt for having sold him.

Yosef’s public life is not kept in a bubble. Thankfully for his family, it bleeds into his personal life. It is only through the power he wields in the public sphere, his knowledge of the Egyptian landscape, and his contacts with Pharaoh and the rest of the Egyptian elite that he can properly provide for his family. Moreover, in the time spent as viceroy, Yosef has learned to interact diplomatically, his interactions with his brothers now so much more functional than they’d been in his youth. 

But looking back at how Yosef arrived at this point, we find something even more striking. That work life can enhance personal life is something most of us readily acknowledge. Most people work as a means to an end, in order to provide for themselves and their family. But in Yosef we find that the reverse is true as well; his personal life influences and elevates his professional successes. 

Two weeks ago, we read of Yosef’s appointment as viceroy of Egypt after winning Pharaoh over when interpreting his dreams. The way that Yosef carries himself while in Pharaoh’s court is astonishing, as he seems content to forego a golden opportunity to establish his own unique value in the eyes of the powerful man in the land: 

וַיַּעַן יוֹסֵף אֶת־פַּרְעֹה לֵאמֹר בִּלְעָדָי אֱלֹקים יַעֲנֶה אֶת־שְׁלוֹם פַּרְעֹה׃

^{בראשית מא:טז}

And Yosef answered Pharaoh saying, “It is beyond me!” G-d will respond to Pharaoh’s welfare.

^{Bereishis 41:16}

Yosef is content to forfeit all the glory that will come from a proper presentation of Pharaoh’s dreams and give all the credit to G-d alone. This move is unthinkable for anyone who keeps work life cordoned off in its own sealed-off sphere. Yosef should be marketing himself as the wisest man who’s ever graced Pharaoh’s presence and someone who the king should view as utterly indispensable. But the barrier between Yosef’s personal and public lives is porous; each serving as a powerful influence over the other. Yosef’s values that he learned in his father’s home instruct his behavior even as he stands at the threshold of the greatest promotion anyone could ever hope for. Yosef achieves not only work-life balance, but work-life synthesis, and he is better off for it. Ultimately, Pharaoh respects the humility and integrated values of the man who stands before him and bestows upon him the promotion of a lifetime. 

The shift from work-life balance to work-life synthesis takes place in little more than our mentality and intention. But the gains in making this mental shift can nonetheless be immense. When we begin viewing the two halves of our lives as being in harmony, rather than conflict, we can enjoy new fulfillment in both arenas.

If we grumble about work, how much more palatable it can be if we remain mindful of what it allows us to afford in our personal life. Moreover, how much more rewarding work can be if we would recognized that skills honed in the work place—leadership, teamwork, critical thinking—can make us more valuable and effective in our personal lives as well.

Our home persona, too, ought to flow freely into our work persona. Love, dedication, compassion—to say nothing of our most basic value system—are aspects of our being that are crafted in the home but make us who we are in the workplace as well. These are qualities that are respected by colleagues and clients, by employers and employees. And if they’re not, we best begin to look elsewhere. We will be far more fulfilled living a life that allows for a full integration of who we are and what we do, than to view each half of life as being in conflict with the other. 

Work and life need not be at odds with one another. Finding the right mix of the two can be about more than merely avoiding having too many eggs in one basket. If we think of our experience as a synthesis between both work and life, each of the two can be more rewarding, and the overall whole can come to be greater than the sum of its parts. 

Chanukah 5782

With the benefit of hindsight, Chanukah certainly seems an odd celebration. The victory over a foreign nation would establish an era of peace that would prove to be short lived. Not only would the Bais Hamikdash ultimately be destroyed, but it would be only a couple of generations before even the Jewish establishment would become engulfed in corruption. 

But this assessment actually doesn’t demand hindsight at all. It is clear that even at the time, the foresight to perceive that the second Bais Hamikdash would not endure was already present. 

וּמִקְדָּשׁ שֵׁנִי ונְהִי דְּיָדְעִין לְהוֹן דְּיִחְרוּב מִי יוֹדְעִין לְאִימַּתִּי

נזיר דף לב

The second Temple, granted that they knew it would be destroyed. But did they know when it would be destroyed?

^{Nazir 32b}

The leaders of the generation knew full well that even as the Temple stood, even as a significant portion of the nation resided in Israel, the Jews nevertheless already found themselves in exile. That the Bais Hamikdash would be destroyed was a foregone conclusion. The prophecies detailing the Messianic era have always been known to refer not to the second Temple, but the third. Why, then, celebrate a spike in Jewish sovereignty that was known even at the time to be nothing more than a brief deviation from the general sweeping tide of exile? 

I believe the answer speaks to something that I refer to as the “paradox of productivity,” which runs as follows: productive people have a greater tendency to undervalue their achievements than do unproductive people. If you are productive, you are forever in pursuit of your next goal, which makes it difficult to pause and revel in the victory of having achieved the previous one. One’s ambitions are always so great that whatever has already been accomplished can become dwarfed by the magnitude of all that we still hope to—and feel that we must—do.

This mentality can create a culture in which those who accomplish most actually celebrate those accomplishments the least. And yet celebrating our wins can bear enormous results. Perhaps most importantly, celebrating wins can help curb burnout. When ambition is high but the sense of genuine accomplishment is low, it is only so long before we start to wonder why we bother pushing forward. 

The difference between ignoring our wins and recognizing them is the difference between feeling that we’re running on a hamster wheel versus climbing a spiral staircase. If we don’t recognize what we’ve accomplished, we’re forever in motion with nothing to show for it. If we do appreciate all we’ve gained, we can peer over the banister, see how far we’ve already climbed, and be inspired to continue to scale. 

When we celebrate our wins, we also make a profound statement of our values, declaring, “This is a a big deal. Other things? Less so.” This can be a huge step in influencing those around us—be they children, employees, or team members—as to what we regard as valuable, and what they should value in turn. We may hold a strong compass of good and bad, right and wrong, valuable and valueless in our own minds, but outward celebration is a powerful means of communicating to others in our orbit that this is what we define as important. 

Rebbe Tarfon best captured the Jewish ethos when he stated, “היום קצר והמלאכה מרובה—the day is short and the work is great (Avos, 2:15).” Judaism preaches productivity and insists that there is always more to do. And yet, Judaism also demands that we make time for celebrating our wins, even as each accomplishment leaves so much more yet to be done. 

A siyum is one such indication, beckoning us to pause and reflect on what’s been accomplished even as we recognize all that lays before us to yet learn and understand. It is of particular note in this regard that as we complete a masechta, we do so with the words “הדרן עלך—we will return to you.” And why must we return? Because not only are there yet more masechtos that lay ahead, but we cannot even profess to have adequately understood all the wisdom that this present one contains. Nevertheless, a siyum enjoys the status as a bona fide “seudas mitzvah”. The celebration is genuine, despite all that still lays ahead. 

It is in this light that Chanukah best be understood. With respect to longterm redemption, liberating and rededicating the second Bais Hamikdash would ultimately prove an exercise in futility. Yet what it provided in the moment was a chance to appreciate Hashem’s providence and the opportunity to serve Him properly in a re-consecrated sanctuary, even if that sanctuary would eventually be destroyed. Chanukah is celebrated not because it’s the final destination, or because there is no more for our brimming ambition to long for. But because there is much to be said for celebrating wins, milestones, and accomplishments, even as we fully intend on achieving more. 

Parshas Vayeishev 5782

If you run for office today, prepare to have every one of your skeletons dragged from the closet. It is the role of a campaign manager to not only make his own candidate look his very best, but for the opponent to look his very worst. Every error and blunder of the past will be drudged up and displayed for public consumption, making the statement, “Is this really who you want to serve as your leader?” 

In today’s environment, Yehudah could never be king. That the Torah believes otherwise demands our attention.

After the brothers sold Yosef, the Torah states, “וירד יהודה מאת אחיו—And Yehudah descended from amongst his brothers.” Rashi comments that the Torah is hinting to something larger than just a geographical relocation: 

שֶׁהוֹרִידוּהוּ אֶחָיו מִגְּדֻלָּתוֹ כְּשֶׁרָאוּ בְצָרַת אֲבִיהֶם, אָמְרוּ: אַתָּה אָמַרְתָּ לְמָכְרוֹ, אִלּוּ אָמַרְתָּ לַהֲשִׁיבוֹ הָיִינוּ שׁוֹמְעִים לְךָ:

^{רש׳׳י לח:ו} 

His brothers brought him down from his position of authority when they saw the distress of their father. They said, “You told us to sell [Yosef]. Had you told us to return him, we would have listened to you.

^{Rashi 38:6}

Yehudah’s career begins with a major failure. It was on his advice that Yosef was sold and the blame of Yaakov’s subsequent mourning is laid squarely at his feet by his brothers. Yehudah moves away from his family and begins a new life, apparently unable to reside in his brothers’ company following this early debacle. 

The next episode that the Torah records is the story of Tamar, who marries two of Yehudah’s sons in succession, both of whom die. Frightened by the prospect of a third son dying, Yehudah turns Tamar aside with the pretext that his next son is not yet old enough to marry her. Yehudah meets Tamar next while she is disguised as a harlot in an attempt to find her way back into Yehudah’s family. Not recognizing her, Yehudah and Tamar are intimate and she becomes pregnant, a scandal which initially results in her being sentenced to death.

Yehudah has committed another error in not doing more to protect his daughter-in-law and ensure her place in the family. But something incredible happens. Upon realizing that he was indeed the father, Yehudah recognizes his guilt and comes to her aid. Yehudah admits his mistake and sets about trying to change it.

Yehudah’s road to renewed leadership is not done. In next week’s parsha, we find Yaakov reluctant to allow Binyamin to descend down to Egypt, a demand made by the viceroy (actually Yosef) as a precondition for reentering the land to purchase more provisions during the famine. The family is growing hungry, but Yaakov remains unwilling to send his precious Binyamin, the last remaining son of his beloved wife, Rachel. Yehudah steps up again. 

Yehudah has been marinating for years in his failure to protect Yosef and the resulting heartbreak of his father. Now Yehudah sets about correcting that failure. Refusing to let his family starve, but insisting that his father not lose yet another son, Yehudah now promises his father that he will take personal responsibility for Binyamin and ensure that he be returned to his father unharmed. Later, when Yosef threatens to imprison Binyamin in Egypt, it is Yehudah once more who takes the lead, approaches Yosef, and demands Binyamin’s release.

It is unhealthy to become debilitated by errors of the past. Ultimately, we must move on and recognize all that can still be achieved. But simply putting the past behind us is also not the way forward. In Yehudah, the Torah presents a different approach. Yehudah is not perfect, but he strives for perfection and insists on correction. Yehudah admits his mistakes and takes ownership over them, doing his best to right the wrongs of the past.

Many generations later, one of the brightest stars to ever emerge from Yehudah’s descendants would ascend the throne of the Jewish People. David Hamelech was not perfect, and his missteps are recorded in Tanach. What makes David Hamelech such an extraordinary personality, though, is that he owns those errors, begs forgiveness, and tries to correct them. Every morning we begin the Viduy confession with the words “ויאמר דוד אל גד נפלה נא ביד ה׳ כי רבים רחמיו—And David sad to Gad, may we fall into the hand of G-d, for His mercy is great.” One of the many instances of David’s owning up to his own mistakes becomes the paradigm for each of us to properly process our sins. Teshuva is not a sweeping under the rug of past mistakes; it is tackling them head on, understanding where they came from, and developing into people who can be better.

A person can become completely hamstrung by mistakes of the past. An error or sin can become so overwhelming in one’s mind, that they are sent into a tailspin of self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy from which they never recover. This is not the Jewish way. But neither is the attitude of simply moving on without ever really addressing what went wrong. It is in analyzing our own mistakes that our most profound strides are made in improving our character. It is this approach that the Torah highlights as a necessary criterion for Jewish leadership.

It is unlikely that Yehudah would win an election today. And that’s a shame. Because the errors of the past that would be gleefully portrayed by his adversaries are errors that the Torah itself insists we should take note of, along with how Yehudah admitted to them, learned from them, and did his best to correct them. In the eyes of the Torah, past mistakes need not be hidden from others so long as we do not hide from them ourselves.

Parshas Vayishlach 5782

A couple texts to some well-meaning neighbors, and groceries sat perched right upon our doorstep. Isolation in the 21st century is pretty cushy. Certainly more so than what Yaakov experienced as he remained detached from his family on the wrong side of the Yabok River:

וַיִּקָּחֵם וַיַּעֲבִרֵם אֶת־הַנָּחַל וַיַּעֲבֵר אֶת־אֲשֶׁר־לוֹ׃ וַיִּוָּתֵר יַעֲקֹב לְבַדּוֹ וַיֵּאָבֵק אִישׁ עִמּוֹ עַד עֲלוֹת הַשָּׁחַר

^{בראשית לב:כד–כה}

And he took [his family] and he crossed them over the river and sent over all that he had. And Yaakov was left all alone. And a man wrestled with him until the break of dawn. 

^{Bereishis 32:24-25}

When Yaakov was alone, he was alone. No SOS calls, no reaching out to a friend for help, no calling upon a family member for assistance. No Trader Joe’s or ShopRite delivery. No Amazon Prime. Alone. Really alone. 

For the many in our community who have been in some form of isolation or another this week, the comparison to Yaakov Avinu’s isolation in Parshas Vayishlach bears an important lesson. Even when we are alone, we are blessedly connected. There’s plenty to say about the compulsive use of social media and how it does so much to weaken and cheapen genuine relationships. But at times, it’s worth stopping to appreciate how these tools do offer an incredible means of staying in touch with family, friends, and community members, and the ability to provide and receive support when it’s really needed.

Even if you’ve been without any other real people in your immediate environs, consider how much more comfortable our isolation is compared to Yaakov Avinu’s. Yaakov could not call or text his family and friends. His family and friends could not call or text him. We can. And we should appreciate the great blessing that that is.

_______

But in a certain sense, it’s worth thinking of our own isolation as comparing a bit more closely to Yaakov’s. On the heels of his scuffle with the angel, Yaakov’s name is changed to Yisrael. This signifies, “כִּי־שָׂרִיתָ עִם־אֱלֹקים וְעִם־אֲנָשִׁים וַתּוּכָל — for you have striven with Divine beings and humans and have prevailed.” Rav Soloveitchik noted how strange it is that this wrestling match be considered of such great consequence that Yaakov now becomes known by a different name as a result of it. What was it that Yaakov gained in this bout with the angel? What was he even fighting for, and what did he win? Rav Soloveitchik answers that what Yaakov achieved was the struggle itself. 

Struggling helps to purge and to purify even when there are no clear gains. It is a reminder of the resiliency of the human being and one’s ability to overcome in spite of great odds. Those experiences of struggle are stored as muscle memory and can be drawn upon in times of difficulty. If we’ve overcome once, we can overcome again.

In this capacity, it is worth considering recovery from illness against the backdrop of Yaakov’s struggle with the angel. My own personal goal for life after COVID was not to gain ground, to have achieved anything tangible, or to be stronger in any way. It was simply to remain. To be the same. To be as I was before the virus. But I think something was gained. I do not mean to exaggerate the experience in any way; but I do not wish to belittle it, either. COVID-19 has killed many thousands of people. Yet in the average person it is eminently survivable, because the human body is strong and resilient. A world of activity took place inside of my body and the virus was overcome. What was gained? Nothing more than a further reminder of the immense capacity that Hashem has installed into the human being. That the miraculous human body can vanquish a virus that in so many has proved tragically lethal. 

Take stock of all who have become healed, and what a remarkable thing that is. It serves as a reminder of the deep reservoirs of ability, strength, and talent, latent in each of us. It’s worth considering just how great are the natural endowments that Hashem has blessed us with. Even when left in isolation, they can be drawn upon to lift us over great challenges. 

Parshas Shelach 5781

There are days when we feel like we would have been better off just not getting out of bed in the morning. It’s one challenge and crisis after another and we’re left completely steamrolled by the unstoppable avalanche that was put in motion the moment we woke up. For the Jewish People, that nightmare of a day began when they left Har Sinai, and they wouldn’t end for another forty years until they finally cross the Jordan into Israel. 

The dividing lines created by the individual parshios—and the fact that they are read an entire week apart from one another—can make it difficult to see the interconnectivity from one parsha to the next. And so it is tempting to look at the events of Parshas Shelach as a series unto itself: A poor decision by the people to send their emissaries into Israel, to scope out a land that G-d had already promised them would be ideal. That decision precipitated the actual mission, which led to the negative report, which resulted in the people’s sin and the punishment of languishing in the dessert for forty years.

But it’s worth taking a deeper look. Why did the people make the decision to send the spies in the first place? Where were their heads at and how did that thinking come about in the first place?

The Ramban explains that the events of our parsha are rooted in last week’s parsha. More precisely, to an event that transpires on the timeline of last week’s parsha, but that is nearly undetectable in the text itself. The Ramban quotes the Midrash that describes the exit from the foothills of Har Sinai as being a hasty process, actually comparing it to children who run out of class as soon as it is over. The Jewish People were worried that if they dawdled at Sinai, Hashem might decide to include more mitzvos for them to keep, much as school children are concerned of what extra work their teacher may give them should they stick around too long. The Ramban suggests that if not for this sin, perhaps Hashem would have brought the people into Eretz Yisrael immediately. But because of it, they linger in the wilderness just long enough for the sin of the spies to occur, preventing their entry into Israel for another four decades.

Staying in bed the day the spies were sent out wouldn’t have done the job. They should have stayed in bed on the last day they were camped at Sinai.

When we think of examples of Divine retribution, we come up with examples of active punishment: famine, illness, death. But Hashem also punishes passively, providing a person with the means to serve as his own undoing. It is a mode of action that Chazal describe many times over.

בא לטמא פותחין לו, בא לטהר מסייעין אותו

יומא לח:

One who comes to sully himself, they provide him an opening; one who comes to purify himself, they assist him.

Yoma 38b

When a person seeks out the wrong path, the Heavenly court may simply give him the green light, leaving him to his own devices. This is as compared to a person who seeks out goodness, holiness, and purity, who is actively assisted in achieving these goals. This is the case with the Jewish People as they leave Har Sinai. Fleeing from the mountain framed Hashem as something less than our ever caring Father who wants only the best for us, and the  people were permitted to become victims of their own warped mentality. They had primed themselves to accept statements about how Hashem was leading them to a land that would swallow them alive. Had they fought off those thoughts at Sinai, they would not have fallen prey to the slander of the spies. 

The reality of free will is that Hashem will not always save us from ourselves. We usually think of this in terms of the one-off event. We have the choice to either commit the sin, or not. To perform the mitzvah, or not. But it is far more than that. Free will speaks not only to the individual act committed—right or wrong—but to the patterns of behavior we fall into. 

Too often, remorse over a given misstep is met with the determination to not fail again. The next time we find ourselves in this position, we tell ourselves, we’ll choose better. We won’t share that gossip, won’t gobble down that brownie, won’t waste our time. But we don’t spend enough time considering where the behavior came from in the first place. What were the actions I took—or didn’t take—prior to that happening that set me on a path to failure? Had I already primed myself to say, eat, or do the wrong things hours, days, or even weeks before? What habits have I started to develop? What compromising situations do I put myself in? Did I train myself to accept a bad report of the Land by running from Har Sinai well before?

Fortunately, the same is true in reverse. Small steps we make towards developing proper habits pay dividends in the future. Identifying where we tend stumble and making minor advances towards avoiding those situations help place us on a positive trajectory well into the future. Though imperceptible at the time, the thoughts running through the heads of the Jews and the length of their strides as they left Sinai would spell the difference between wallowing in the dessert for forty years and immediate entry into the Promised Land. The small steps we take in life develop habits that quickly compound and can lead us in two very different directions, no less diverse than those of our ancestors in the dessert. The choice of which course to take is ours alone.

Parshas Beha’aloscha 5781

Miriam’s punishment was meant to serve as a cautionary tale. When she is punished at the end of the parsha for speaking lashon hara about Moshe—questioning why he distanced himself from his family if such demands were not made of other nevi’im—the spies who would later be sent into Israel to scout the Land should have taken note.  At the beginning of next week’s parsha, Rashi explains that the juxtaposition of the episode of Miriam in our parsha and that of sending the spies in Parshas Shlach is to highlight how the spies failed to learn the lesson of the evils of speaking lashon hara. 

But aren’t the two cases radically different from one another? Miriam spoke lashon hara about the holiest Jew of all time and she is punished for it. How is that meant to provide caution against sharing a negative report of an inanimate piece of real estate?

A better understanding of precisely what Miriam did wrong is in order. Miriam questions why it is that Moshe’s life must look different from her own or from Aharon’s. They are both nevi’im themselves and yet remain fully connected to their families. Why should Moshe be different?

The answer, simply, is that Moshe was different. His prophetic experiences were fundamentally different—both in kind and in frequency—from those experienced by any other navi, Miriam and Aharon included. The nature of Moshe’s role as receiver and communicator of Torah was completely unique in history and demanded special rules that simply didn’t apply to other nevi’im. Miriam saw Moshe’s behavior through the prism of her own prophetic experience and couldn’t make sense of it. 

It was precisely this lesson that the spies missed. The spies presumed that they would be entering the land on their own terms, fighting their own wars, cultivating their own fields, and living a natural, if elevated existence. What they saw instead was a land that could not be conquered through natural means and that did not produce natural bounty. Grapes were the size of bowling balls and enemies were the size of giants. It behooved them to share with the rest of the nation what they saw. Something was very wrong with the Land. 

Indeed. But only from their vantage point. Had they stopped to ask themselves if there was another perspective to adopt that could help explain things, they could have come upon one rather quickly: perhaps Hashem wanted to provide the People with a decidedly miraculous experience, complete with supernatural produce and military victories. What they saw as a death trap could have been re-understood as a Divine gift, had they only paused to consider the situation from a different angle.

The less time we allow ourselves to properly survey, ascertain, and judge, the more difficult it becomes to see things from someone else’s point of view. We immediately understand the world from our own perspective, and disconnecting from that view requires the exertion of no small effort and investment of time.

Unfortunately, time is decreasingly on our side. The pace of life has sped up to a degree that snap judgments are available and encouraged. Social media in particular encourages reactions at hyper speed. If you take the time to process and more fully understand, the issue may well have passed you by. We feel that we must react immediately in order for our words and actions to be relevant, and that pace simply doesn’t allow for slowly untangling ourselves from our own perspective in an attempt to see things from a different one.

So how do we slow down the pace? By learning to question before we comment. What if Miriam would have turned to her brother and had a dialogue? “Moshe, you’ve adopted a different lifestyle from other nevi’im. What’s that about?” Or if the spies had paused and said, “Yehoshua and Calev, you’ve both been awfully quiet. Are you seeing what we’re seeing? No? Why not?”

We need to develop a different workflow; one that puts an inquiry before every editorial. Posing a question slows down the process and helps to ensure that we’re seeing an issue from different angles, rather than formulating an opinion exclusively within the echo chamber of our own minds. Our own beliefs won’t necessarily change, but they’ll be better balanced and more genuine.

And perhaps more importantly, when we put inquiry before editorial, we also gain healthier relationships. Through dialogue we help soften our perspective of the people who feel differently from us and view them in a better light. And in turn, conversation helps allow those we may disagree with to feel heard and understood, even if things cannot be fully resolved. 

Precipitating both the episode of Miriam and of the spies is an account of the people complaining as they began their journey from Har Sinai to Eretz Yisrael. While the Torah doesn’t describe precisely what the people were complaining about, we do know how they were punished. The Torah records that a fire broke out and consumed the people who stood “בקצה המחנה—at the edge of the camp.” 

Why did the fire break out and punish only those who stood at the periphery? Perhaps because standing at the periphery is what marks the difference between productive conversation and pointless complaining. If we’re standing on the sidelines our grumbling is fruitless and does nothing but sow ill will. It’s only when we move into the interior of the camp, taking up the issue through proper discourse that we are engaged in a worthwhile process.

This is a trend that continues today. And the fast pace of life that curtails slow, thoughful processing of issues has only exacerbated the challenge. But we can’t allow for the same pattern that played out over this series of parshios to define our own times. Let’s train ourselves to question before commenting, and to discuss before we dismiss.

Parshas Nasso 5781

When a dish breaks, the determination of whether or not it is salvageable depends on how seamlessly the shards can be krazy glued back together. If the fault lines between the individual pieces will not be very noticeable, it’s a keeper. If not, it heads to the trash.

The ancient Japanese method of kintsugi adopts another approach entirely. According to this art form, the fissures are highlighted rather than concealed. Gold leaf and bold paints accentuate the cracks so that the once fractured pieces can be detected even after the vessel has been reconstructed. Rather than attempt to pass the piece off as the unbroken original, a new, more beautiful version is presented in its place.

Perhaps this is the sort of pottery referenced in this week’s parsha.

Parshas Nasso tells the story of the Eishes Sotah—a woman who has aroused the suspicions of her husband due to her relationship with another man. Though the marriage has been strained, it is unclear that an act of true infidelity has occurred. To resolve the matter, the Torah prescribes a process by which the woman comes to the Bais Hamikdash and drinks a special concoction. This drink will yield one of two results: a gruesome death as punishment for adultery, or a complete exoneration. 

Every element of this process is deeply symbolic, including the vessel in which the potion is held: an earthenware flask. The Ramban explains that the earthenware—a fragile material so easily broken—represents the woman herself and how the waters she drinks will leave her shattered. 

A fair mashal, indeed, assuming the woman is actually guilty. But what if she isn’t? What if no act of adultery was actually committed? The flask is not necessarily a portent of her future demise; it may well serve as the instrument through which her name is cleared. Why have her drink from a material that represents only one of two possible outcomes?

In her research on infidelity, psychotherapist Esther Perel insists that we need to think broadly when considering what infidelity is. Infidelity and adultery are not one and the same, the latter being a particularly harsh, but not the sole expression, of the former. Infidelity is a breakdown in the relationship on some level. Any level. It is a breach of the marriage to the degree that he or she was seeking from an outside source the attention, validation, friendship, or meaning which should be found within the marriage itself. Well removed from a formal violation can be a far less pernicious form of infidelity.  

How do we deal with these realities? To no small degree, it can be far simpler and more comfortable—at least in the short term—to ignore the issue. It is uncomfortable to consider that a relationship is unfulfilling and it is far less painful to gloss over the issue and insist that all is well. Even if there are aspects of the relationship that need to be fixed, we may hope that they’ll heal all on their own.

In Perel’s experience, infidelity, even a minor expression of it, breaks the marriage. As Perel puts it, following infidelity, the couple is headed towards a second marriage. The only question is if it will be to each other. If the underlying causes of the infidelity go unaddressed and are permitted to fester, it is only a matter of time before the relationship is left fully in shambles. If care is taken to properly explore the issues, though, the marriage can be reconstructed from the fragmented state created by the breach and can enjoy even greater strength and success than the couple ever experienced previously.

Earthenware, then, is the perfect vehicle for the Sotah waters. Because irrespective of the outcome, the marriage, as represented by the fragile pottery, has already been broken. Even if the woman is innocent of halachic adultery, something has transpired that has left the marriage irrevocably changed. But that is not to say that the marriage is in ruins. The question now at hand is what direction the couple will take: to leave the fractured pieces as they are, or to address them head-on and right the wrongs that landed them at this juncture. 

Working to improve a marriage is an uncomfortable proposition. Because it presupposes that it was not already perfect. For a relationship that is so bound up with our very identities, admitting to the need for marital improvement is as difficult as owning up to flawed personal character. To say that a regular date night or some time away is in order is to suggest that things are not already perfect. To ask your spouse if they’re receiving enough of your attention or feel satisfied in your marriage may invite an answer you’d rather not hear. Making an attempt to broach this difficult topic leaves you exposed to the awkwardness of working through an uncomfortable issue.

But for all the drawbacks, we need to remember both how much there is to gain from dealing with such issues, as well as how much there is to lose by ignoring them. Once cracks creep into a marriage, the relationship as it was is forever changed. It is here that kintsugi should provide some encouragement. The shattered pieces of a broken vessel can be reconnected to make for a version even more beautiful than the original. Not by ignoring the cracks or by glossing them over, but by addressing them directly, by highlighting them, by turning them into a source of beauty rather than shame, of fulfillment rather than dissatisfaction. A pot that has gone cracked can enjoy a second life even more beautiful than the first.