Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

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.

Parshas Behar-Bechukosai 5781

In the summer of 2012, a seven year old girl named Sierra Jane Downing from Colorado came back from a camping trip with her parents and began to take ill. When her fever reached 107 degrees and she began to suffer from a seizure, her parents rushed her to the hospital. Initially baffled, her doctors soon pronounced a diagnosis that, in modern times, has become extremely rare: bubonic plague. This is the gruesome disease that, in the middle of the 14th century, wiped out one-third of the entire population of Europe , a pandemic that came to be ominously known as the Black Death. Fortunately for Sierra Jane, Colorado in the modern era is a far cry from Medieval Europe. She was treated with a rather pedestrian regimen of antibiotics and was back home and in good health in a matter of days.

In its presentation of the Tochacha, Parshas Bechukosai includes a description of plague-like maladies that may well be visited upon the Jewish People, should they veer from properly keeping the Torah. Illness, suffering, and death are all on the docket. Like the Black Death, only worse. Horrors of cataclysmic proportions that extend for nearly forty pesukim.

And what if we’re good? What if we serve Hashem the way we should, the way He expects us to? An equally effusive and lengthy description of endless blessings would not be an unreasonable expectation. Chazal assure us, after all, that מרובה מדת הטוב ממדת הפרענות על אחת מחמש מאות, the measure of good that Hashem provides is 500 times greater than the measure of punishment He metes out (Tosefta Sotah). 

And yet we find no such description. In its place, a mere 13 pesukim are devoted to outlining the brachos that Hashem will bestow upon Klal Yisrael for keeping the Torah, a mere fraction of those used to convey the curses that will befall them for defying it. Why is more ink needed to articulate Hashem’s wrath than His love? Why does the middas haTov—the measure of good— appear to fall woefully behind that of the middas haPur’anus—the measure of punishment?

Let’s turn back to Sierra Jane Downing. If the day before that fateful hike we would have asked her how she was feeling, what would she have responded? I’d bet we’d have gotten little more than a pat, “Fine.” And why nothing more sensational? Because she would likely have responded to the inquiry like most human beings: compare how she actually felt to her expectations for how she ought to feel, and assess that the two were essentially par. “Fine.” Nothing more, nothing less.  

Suppose we could have posed that same question just a day after she came home from the hospital. In all likelihood, that “Fine” would have transformed into something far more extravagant. Why? Because the disease she contracted and the resulting brush with death and hospitalization would have changed her expectations. 

If she’d done a little googling while stuck in her hospital bed, perhaps she’d have come across a full list of gut-wrenching symptoms usually associated with an untreated case of bubonic plague, including, among other things, gut-wrenching itself. She would have appreciated just how close she came to suffering horrible muscle cramps, chills, boils, and gangrene. She’d have recognized how likely the disease would prove fatal if not swiftly treated. And she’d feel positively thrilled that she had managed to avoid such horrors. 

Perhaps the word itself would remain the same, but feeling “fine” would now have completely new meaning and import. “Fine,” would be an ecstatic state of being. “Fine” would make her swell with gratitude. What an utter blessing it is to simply be “fine.” 

True, the Torah takes far more time in describing the curses than the blessings. But it is the curses themselves that help to accentuate the true depth of the blessings. Ultimately, the brachos may well result in little more than being “fine,” a state in which our most basic expectations for health, prosperity, and life in general are simply met. But the curses help see through the veil created by those expectations into the calamitous reality that could so easily have been: A life that was just one diseased flea-bite away from being ravaged by plague. 

Undoubtedly, the Tochacha is meant to be startling, even frightening. But it need not be read on that wavelength alone. Simultaneously, we can see the Tochacha as a register not only of debilitating curses, but spectacular blessings. The Tochacha reminds us of the blessing of Hashem’s providence by clueing us in to all the trouble we are spared when He watches over us. Even basic, ordinary living is actually the manifestation of prodigious blessing, having been saved catastrophic pain and suffering. 

A plain old PB&J may not be thrilling, but sure beats famine and starvation (26:19). An uneventful day at home is far better than being cast into exile (26:33) Going about the daily grind sure beats being gripped by fear, depression, and paranoia (26:36). Being “fine” is actually a life blessed.

With Shavuos around the corner, it’s a good time to take stock and remember where we were a year ago. No all night learning. No minyanim. No extended family. No get togethers. Perhaps there is nothing particularly scintillating about this upcoming Shavuos that sets it apart from other Yamim Tovim we’ve enjoyed most years of our lives. But last year’s Shavuos should present an opportunity for reconsidering the average and ordinary. Even if this coming Yom Tov is simply “fine”, let’s be mindful of what an immense blessing that truly is.

Parshas Emor 5781

We know Kohanim as that small subset of the Jewish People who receive the first aliyah and duchen on Yom Tov. Every now and again one will conduct a bit of business at a Pidyon HaBen and will oftentimes be honored to lead a zimun. Aside from these and other similarly minor issues, Kohanim are fully integrated into Jewish society at large. They are our best friends and next-door neighbors, and our Shabbos tables and children’s classes are shared with Katzes, Kahns, and Cohens.

But not always. 

In the time of the Bais Hamikdash, Kohanim were a class unto themselves. Kohanim lived in special cities, studied special laws, and ate different foods than the rest of the nation. Kohanim served in the Bais HaMikdash, lived according to stricter standards of purity, and would examine possible signs of tzara’as. Jews of other tribes would interact with Kohanim, but not nearly as intimately as we do today.

Kohanim would not hold “regular” jobs, but would function as the nation’s class of educators and scholars even when it was not their turn to serve in the Bais HaMikdash. In presenting the contours that would make up such a demanding lifestyle, one would think that a stern tone and perhaps even some arm twisting would be in order. Yet we find that Hashem makes clear that far from “laying down the law,” Moshe should proceed to instruct the Kohanim as delicately as possible.

וַיֹּאמֶר ה׳ אֶל־מֹשֶׁה אֱמֹר אֶל־הַכֹּהֲנִים בְּנֵי אַהֲרֹן וְאָמַרְתָּ אֲלֵהֶם לְנֶפֶשׁ לֹא־יִטַּמָּא בְּעַמָּיו׃

^{ויקרא כא:א}

Hashem said to Moshe, “Speak to the Kohanim, the sons of Aharon, and say to them, none among them may become impure through a dead body.

^{Vayikra 21:1}

Moshe is to instruct the Kohanim that they may not contract tumas meis—halachic impurity through touching or being in the same space as a dead body. One more item on the growing list of mitzvos that prevent the Kohanim from living the “ordinary” life of a rank and file Jew. 

Veering from the typical formulation, Hashem does not instruct Moshe to speak to the Kohanim with the word daber, but with the word emor. Though both words connote speaking, the former is a lashon kasheh, bearing a harsher tone, and the latter is a lashon kal, bearing a softer tone. Ordinarily, the term daber is used, with Moshe being instructed to deliver the mitzvos with authority. There are, after all, not 613 suggestions, but 613 commandments. 

Considering the lifestyle overhaul demanded of the Kohanim, even beyond that of the rest of the People, the imposing tone of daber seems much more appropriate here. Why is Moshe instructed to soft pedal when it comes to the Kohanim?

Rav Moshe Feinstein suggests that this is due to the position that the Kohanim will assume amongst the nation as role models and educators. Whereas compliance can be demanded when what is at stake is one’s personal obligations alone, inspiring others to serve is a horse of a different color. There is little that has a more powerful impact on a person’s choices and life trajectory than being in the presence of someone who truly loves what they do and finds immense meaning in it. Someone who can lead by the example of living a deeply rewarding life can inspire others to join the same cause. But when there is the sense that that person is simply going through the motions or fulfilling his responsibilities begrudgingly, it is impossible to motivate others to follow suit. 

The Kohaim are tasked with being role models, teaching the nation and living by example. The additional strictures demanded of them are necessary for them to properly serve as paragons of sanctity and fitting role models for the nation to look up to. And one cannot teach if they respond to the call only through a lashon kashah—the harsh tone of the word daber. It is the laws of Kehunah specifically that must be conveyed through emor, through a softer tone that invites the Kohanim to accept of their own volition, even if they do not truly have a choice otherwise.

Based on this lesson, Rav Moshe proceeds to offer some critical advice: If you will not fully and willingly embrace the role, do not become a teacher. Many may be swayed to join the ranks of chinuch because of the nobility of teaching Torah to the next generation or out of a sense of duty to the Klal. But duty does not necessarily generate passion, and it is passion that inspires students to imbibe the lessons they are taught and to develop into something greater. If education is not something you can be passionate about, it is best avoided altogether.

Of course when it comes to the Kohanim, there is another reality that we must be mindful of, one that teaches an equally valuable lesson. For the Kohanim, kehunah was not actually a choice, but a demand. Kohanim did not have the option to renounce their kehunah, to do something else with their lives. Kohanim were automatically bound by the laws of the priesthood whether they liked it or not; they were to serve as role models even if they wished to opt out. Why speak to the Kohanim without coercion, giving the impression that kehunah is something they must accept willingly, if in truth, they had no choice?

The answer is obvious. One can take to his responsibilities with passion and enthusiasm even when he has no choice otherwise. And while doing so is sound advice for anyone who wishes to be feel elevated by their responsibilities rather than hampered, the Torah is instructing us that this is especially true for those who will serve as role models to others.

The Kohanim did not have a choice but to be Kohanim, but it was critical that they accepted that responsibility with love and joy. And the same, on some level, is true of everyone. We all serve as role models in some capacity or another, and these are roles that we cannot simply abandon. We are parents and friends and community members. We are coworkers and colleagues and supervisors. In each of these roles, we wield tremendous influence on those around us and under us. We may not have signed up for all these roles, but we need to act as though we had. When we project optimism and enthusiasm, those who must be around us want to be around us and will be far more likely to follow our lead and learn from our example.

It was the same Rav Moshe Feinstein who famously commented that almost an entire generation of Jews was lost to assimilation on the words “Iz shver tzu zein a Yid—It’s hard to be a Jew.” One cannot expect to pass a value system on to the next generation when words either spoken or unspoken convey that he would rather not be bound by those values himself. But with a bounce in our steps and smiles on our faces, there are endless opportunities to positively impact the many who look up us—whether or not we ever asked them to.

Parshas Acharei Mos-Kedoshim 5781

I often marvel at the amount of Torah that is available for perusal on the internet, particularly in the form of online databases. Between Otzar HaChochma, the Bar Ilan Responsa Project, and HebrewBooks.org, any Torah text you could possibly want to study or reference is just a few clicks away. Each of these databases represents the remarkable efforts of those who painstakingly transferred print sefarim into digital form and is made possible only by the advancements in technology that allow for the condensing of such vast stores of data into tiny microchips held by internet servers.

Still, Hillel’s task was harder.

The Gemara Shabbos (31a) famously tells of the would-be convert who approached Shamai declaring his intent to join the Jewish ranks, provided that he could be taught the entire Torah while he stood on one foot. Shamai would have none of it and shooed him out the door. The fellow persevered and proceeded to Hillel’s door, where he found a Sage more willing to take up the cause:

אמר לו, דַּעֲלָךְ סְנֵי לְחַבְרָךְ לָא תַּעֲבֵיד — זוֹ הִיא כׇּל הַתּוֹרָה כּוּלָּהּ, וְאִידַּךְ פֵּירוּשַׁהּ הוּא, זִיל גְּמוֹר.

גמ׳ שבת לא.

[Hillel] said to him, “That which you detest do not do unto your fellow. This is the entirety of the Torah; the rest is commentary upon it. Go and study it.”

Gemara Shabbos 31a

Move over Otzar HaChochma. In offering an Aramaic riff on the most famous pasuk of this week’s parsha—V’ahavta l’reiacha kamocha—Love your neighbor as yourself—Hillel does not simply condense the totality of Torah into a small physical space; he distills the content of Torah itself down into one central theme, considering the rest to be mere elaboration. 

It is difficult to take Hillel’s assertion seriously. Even if we are to view V’ahavta l’reiacha kamocha as an overarching principle beneath which all mitzvos that relate to interactions between man and man could be classified, of what relevance is the other half of the Torah to this principle? If this verse serves as the motto for interpersonal mitzvos, what of those mitzvos between G-d and man? Was Hillel making a serious attempt at presenting a catch-all for the full gamut of mitzvos in the Torah, or was this simply an initial hook meant to engage a potential convert?

If we have trouble fitting the G-d-centered mitzvos into the V’ahavta l’reiacha framwork, perhaps we are failing to identify how much the two spheres of the Torah actually have in common. Performing mitzvos that relate to Hashem is about more than merely obeying His will; it is about building a relationship with Him. And the way we achieve this relationship is through much the same means that we employ in our relationships with other human beings: be considerate of His interests and desires, and value them at least as strongly as we would our own. 

V’ahavta l’reiacha kamocha sets the mitzvos that we perform in direct service of Hashem on a new wavelength. An act of eating matzah or taking a lulav is neither about blind obedience nor enjoying a personal religious high. It is about sensitivity and responsiveness towards Hashem and His wants. It is about engaging in the process of building a deep, meaningful relationship with Him. It is about love, and not just awe or fear.

And what does around comes around. In appreciating the mitzvos between ourselves and Hashem in this light, we simultaneously reframe the mitzvos between ourselves and our fellow man as well. If V’ahavta l’reiacha kamocha can be applied to our relationship with Hashem, using the same precept to determine our relationship with people, forces a remarkable parallel: People must be valued and respected in a manner not altogether different from Hashem. The mitzvos between man and man are not just about creating a lawful, fair, and decent society. At their core, they are about recognizing the Divine imprint upon every human being and respecting them for it. 

If Hillel saw the entire Torah encapsulated within the pasuk of V’ahavta l’reiacha kamocha, Rabbi Akiva was not far behind, noting that this pasuk serves as a “Klal gadol baTorah—A great principle of the Torah” (Yerushalmi Niddah 30b). It is this time of year more than any other that we think about Rabbi Akiva and the plague that tragically consumed every one of his thousands of students, a catastrophe which the Gemara (Yevamos 62b) explains befell them because “לאנהגוכבודזהבזה—They did not demonstrate respect towards one another.” 

While it is hard to imagine outright contempt or disrespect characterizing the entirety of a student body privileged to study under a giant of Rabbi Akiva’s stature, perhaps he himself spoke to the actual flaw of character that beset them when noting the centrality of V’ahavta l’reiacha kamocha. Perhaps Rabbi Akiva’s students were not guilty of outright animosity towards another, but simply falling short of recognizing the innate holiness imbued in each of their peers. 

The relationship we build with Hashem must be with no less care, concern, and love than that which girds our most important human relationships. And when acting towards another human being, how critical it is that we see the imprint of G-d concealed within.

Tazria-Metzora 5781

When my siblings and I would get out of line as kids—particularly when bad language was concerned—my mother had a go-to reproach: “Imagine you were standing in front of Rabbi Gottesman.” 

Rabbi Moshe Gottesman, zt’’l, served as the Dean of HANC for the entirety of my 14 years at the school, a position he held from 1985 until 2002. He was a paragon of decency and menschlechkeit and was the natural image for my mother to try plant in our heads when our behavior needed shoring up. The problem (one I would point out when I was feeling particularly snarky), was that Rabbi Gottesman was not in the room; I was not in his presence. I would, of course, behave quite differently if I was standing before Rabbi Gottesman. But that was school, and this was home.

The parshios of Tazria and Metzora provide us with a glimpse into the world of tzara’as, a metaphysical affliction that appeared as various discolorations on the body. Chazal point to a number of sins that would serve as catalysts for a tzara’as affliction, though it is most commonly associated with transgressing lashon hara. 

The determination that the discoloration was bona fide tzrara’as as opposed to anything else—that the affliction was spiritual and not dermatological—rested with the Kohanim. A kohen would pay a visit to the patient and make the pronouncement one way or another. If tzara’as was declared, the afflicted would remove himself from his home and live in isolation outside the camp until the Kohen, upon additional inspection, determined that he had been healed.

That it is specifically a Kohen who is tasked with the assignment makes clear that this process demands more than knowledge alone. Had a member of the Sanhedrin, proficient in all the relevant halachos needed to determine what is and is not tzara’as, arrived at the door of the patient, he would have no authority to make a pronouncement. What is it about a Kohen that grants him unique jurisdiction in matters of tzara’as?

Pehaps the explanation for this obscure function of the Kohanim lies in the more traditional one. The Kohanim are entrusted with administering the Bais HaMikdash; to ensuring the sanctity of the space and the vessels used therein. As with tzara’as, though there may be no shortage of scholars well-versed in the halachos governing the avodah in the Bais HaMikdash, this is simply not their role. Matters of the Mikdash are the jurisdiction of the Kohanim. 

Is the metzora irreligious? Certainly not. He keeps kosher and Shabbos and davens three times a day. He makes the pilgrimage to the Bais HaMikdash at each of the Shalosh Regalim, and at other times to offer additional korbanos. He is no stranger to the Bais HaMikdash or to the sanctity that permeates its environs. But this is not the Bais HaMikdash, it’s his home. The tzara’as developed when he was having a beer in his backyard with his buddies and the conversation turned to some people in the community that he doesn’t care for. Or when he sat at the dinner table with his family and had some choice words to share about another family or his son’s rebbe or a colleague at work. Shortly thereafter, white blotches appeared on his neck.

When the Kohen comes to the door for his examination, something strange happens. The distance between the Bais HaMikdash and this man’s home suddenly collapses. He is being examined by someone whose role it is to scrutinize sacred objects fit for the holiest place on earth, and here he is now examining his very skin. Those fateful words had tumbled out of his mouth in the comfort of his home, where he expected less of himself and his own behavior than when he makes those visits to Har HaBayis. The Kohen now sitting beside him is a potent reminder that he expected too little of himself in that context; that the discrepancy between the Bais HaMikdash and his home is not as great as he presumed.

The error of the metzorah is an error we all commit. It is an error of constructing two different personas for ourselves that we pass between at different times. There’s the holy persona of how we act in the Mikdash—in the presence of the Kohanim, and, indeed, in the presence of Hashem—and the home persona of how we act when we are at rest and the expectations for sanctity are lower. The Kohen appears at the front door and reminds us that those two personas should be more closely linked. Sure, sit on the couch, put on your slippers, and relax. But don’t abandon the holy persona—the one reserved for the Mikdash or shul or the Bais Medrash—in favor of an altogether different one.

Had this fellow simply envisioned a visit from the Kohen, perhaps he would not have faltered. Had he grown mentally accustomed to the Kohen being in the room, his home persona would have been more closely aligned with his holy persona. Envisioning yourself in the presence of someone who expects more of you can be a powerful tool in expecting more of yourself—no matter where you are. Home is not exactly the Mikdash, nor is it even school. But imagining yourself in the presence of Rabbi Gottesman is sage advice, and not just for kids. Thanks, Mom.