Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

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.

Parshas Shemini 5781

The greatest day of Aaron’s life is abruptly transformed into the worst. As the Mishkan is dedicated and he is installed as the Kohen Gadol, his two sons, Nadav and Avihu, suffer death at G-d’s hands for having brought a korban that never should have been offered. The gala celebration is marred by the news of the untimely deaths.

What is Aharon’s response to this personal calamity? “וידם אהרן—Aharon was silent” (Vayikra 10:3). Rashi notes the correctness of this response and that Aharon was rewarded for it with a private prophecy directly from Hashem. Indeed, that Aharon does not complain—does not point an accusing finger up at the heavens—but silently accepts the Divine judgement in the face of personal sadness and confusion is no small feat. But I believe there is another side of the coin that deserves further attention. 

The Gemara in Brachos (4b) explores the fascination that the compilers of the Siddur had with with the 145th chapter of Tehillim, the perek we commonly refer to as “Ashrei.” Why was this particular chapter chosen to be recited three times daily? Among other factors, the Gemara notes that the full gamut of the Hebrew alphabet is reflected within this Psalm, with each pasuk beginning with a new letter. There is but one exception: the letter Nun. Bearing a connotation of nefilah, downfall, this letter is skipped so as to make no reference to Jews who have stumbled and fallen. Only an oblique reference to this letter is included in the verse, “סומך ה׳ לכל הנופלים—Hashem supports all those who have fallen.” 

What is so magical about the inclusion of nearly the full range of the Aleph-Bais? Kabbalistically, we speak of Hashem’s creation of the universe as having been achieved through the manipulation of the letters of the Hebrew alphabet. Praising Hashem with each of these letters, then, represents the determination to see Hashem’s hand in every aspect of life and nature. There is nothing that exists or that is achieved without the Divine will and the Divine imprint. By referencing every letter of the Aleph-Bais, Psalm 145 references the full expanse of space, time, and reality, and praises Hashem for His involvement throughout.

Why, then, no Nun? If we seek to recognize Hashem’s presence in all that happens, isn’t a reference to stumbling, difficulty, even hardship in order? Wouldn’t it be correct to attribute even difficult times and situations to Hashem’s master plan and praise Him for them? 

Yes and no. Later in Gemara Brachos (48b), Rebbi Meir enjoins us to bless Hashem for evil just as we do for good. Following the death of a loved one, we do indeed recite the bracha of Dayyan HaEmes, recognizing Hashem as the True Judge and accepting the loss as part of His plan. 

Yet Ashrei strikes a very different tone. It is one of jubilance and enthusiasm, not muted recognition of G-d’s sovereignty over even the somber moments of life. Recognizing that nothing can transpire without Hashem’s imprimatur is not the same as offering full throated praise of G-d’s handiwork when we experience His harshest decisions.

We recognize Hashem’s hand in all that transpires, but to do so ecstatically in the face of pain and suffering would be to mute our own humanity and dull our natural inclination and tendencies towards life and blessing. What would happen to our own drive for chessed, improvement, and building if we responded to sadness and destruction with exuberance? Could we be sufficiently sensitive to the needs of those suffering loss if our insistence of Hashem’s hand in the tragic was no less enthusiastic than when we witness the manifestation of His blessing? Could we maintain our own decency and kindness if we responded to Hashem’s middah of Judgement with the same vigor as to His middah of Mercy?

Ashrei is an exuberant Psalm, so tragedy and downfall have no place. Could tragedy occur without Hashem’s knowledge and allowance? Of course not. And yet it is the muted bracha of Dayan HaEmes that is recited at a funeral, not a Shehechiyanu.

Perhaps it is this lesson as well that is contained in Aharon’s silence. He is praised and rewarded not only for holding his tongue from criticism, but also from full, jubilant praise. One of the Jewish People’s greatest leaders taught that when tragedy strikes, we do not become angry with G-d, but neither do we blur the lines between what is good and what is bad, what is joyful and what is tragic. 

Aharon is remembered as the great lover and pursuer of peace, seeking out strategic ways to bring two friends together following a rift (See Avos 1:12 and Bartenura’s commentary). Why did Aharon care so much for his fellow Jews? Why did he insist upon change and give his all to making peace? Why did he not simply shrug his shoulders and resign himself to this falling out as being G-d’s will? Aharon’s silence is actually a silent rebellion against these very thoughts. G-d can be found in every moment, but He is to be identified most enthusiastically with the joyous ones. By doing so, we pave the way to properly follow in His footsteps.

Parshas Vayikra 5781

In 2020, people in the United States spent an estimated $75 billion on pets and pet related supplies. That’s “billion,” with a “b”. Clearly, people love their pets. Though not a pet owner, or really much of an animal lover myself, the ability to identify with a soft, cuddly animal is not lost on me. I’ve had my own experiences of emotional identification with animals, even those neither cute nor cuddly.

Though not my usual practice, there were a number of years when I opted for performing Kaparos before Yom Kippur with a real, live chicken. And there’s a major advantage. Seeing a warm blooded animal that you had personally held but moments before now being ritually slaughtered before your very eyes serves as a far more dramatic wakeup call than money ever could. The message hits you right between the eyes: You’re deserving of this. You haven’t fulfilled your end of the bargain. You aren’t worthy of the life that Hashem continues to bless you with. This chicken can be offered in your place only because of Hashem’s abundant mercy. Powerful. 

This, of course, is a modern day echo of the institution of korbanos, a topic that will occupy much of Sefer Vayikra, which we’ll begin this Shabbos. There is a visceral association one has with an animal being offered in his place, an identification that reminds the offerer that, in truth, he should be placed on the altar, not the animal at all. Ideally, this is a moment of truth that dramatically impacts his behavior from that point forward. The type of animal offered and the various laws that circumscribe the entire process are all means of eliciting specific feelings within the bearer of the korban, reforging the entirety of his relationship with Hashem for the better. 

Perhaps the most basic of all these laws is that the animal must be תמים, or “whole”. That is to say, free of any wound or blemish. From the vantage point of actually identifying with the korban, this law reminds us to offer the very best of ourselves to Hashem. No half-hearted mitzvah observance and no shortcuts. We serve Hashem in a manner that is whole and unblemished, full of vigor and vibrancy.

Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch takes this idea a step further, explaining that all too often, we reserve our most fervent prayer for the bedside of the sick and for times of utter despondency. When we have no hope, when our own talents have failed us, we turn to Hashem to set things right. We serve Hashem from a place of incompleteness, when things are lacking and need to be made whole. The unblemished korban is a reminder to do no less when all is well. Even when we are complete, when life is in order, when there is no crisis, we must turn to Hashem with no less sincerity than when we are panicked.

When in our Shemoneh Esrei does the emotion flow most easily? When we plead for health and recite Refa’einu? When we are desperate for wealth and utter Barech Aleinu? Or when we thank Hashem in Modim for all that is right on an un-spectactular Tuesday morning, when there are no pressing worries and everything is squared away? We turn to Hashem with passion and devotion when times are blemished; do we do the same when things are whole?

Nowhere in post-Churban life do we take note of a missing korban more than on the Seder night. The absence of the Korban Pesach is felt in every corner of the Haggadah, where brief recitations and muted actions serve as a mere placeholder for what was once the focal point of the entire evening. Like every other korban, the Korban Pesach needed to be תמים—whole and complete. This year in particular, what we lack in its absence is even more unfortunate than in other years.

Pesach last year felt hollow in so many ways. The familiar sights and sounds of familial get togethers, communal camaraderie, and in-shul tefilos were all absent. And yet in many ways, Hashem’s presence could be felt more palpably than ever. It was so easy to see world events as Divinely orchestrated, insofar as they represented a clear and sudden break from the natural order of things. Questions circulated about what Hashem wanted from the Jewish People and humanity at large, and best estimates of Hashem’s reasoning began to percolate. 

We now seem to be turning the page on the darkest times of the pandemic. The rate of infection has slowed dramatically, vaccines are being dispensed, and freedoms we once took for granted are slowly becoming normal once more. How will we respond to this period of renewed wholeness?

If the past year was a time of imperfection, we are slowly moving back to a state of wholeness. The question is, will we continue to be G-d conscious? Will we still see Hashem as pulling the strings of history, still see His hand at work in every day life? Will we live life as though Mashiach could truly come at any moment, as was the pervasive feeling when the world as we knew it ground to a hault one year ago? Will we continue to ask the question of what He wants of us, and do our best to respond to that call? Now more than ever we could use the Korban Pesach to show us the right way forward.

Perhaps there will yet be a Korban Pesach on our Seder tables this year. If not—if there’s no whole, unblemished animal to remind us of drawing Hashem’s presence even into the whole, unblemished realms of life—then let’s learn the same message from the Haggadah itself. The Haggadah is a text that recounts Hashem’s greatness not during the slavery, but after we’ve been liberated. Hashem is not only a force to turn to when times are sour, but a father to connect with when they are sweet. 

Parshas Vayakhel 5781

“Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.” These familiar words are emblazoned across the bottom of the passenger side mirror of every car sold in the United States and serves as an important reminder to the driver as he tries to maintain perspective. It is precisely these sorts of mirrors that were used in creating the Kiyor, the laver, in the Mishkan. 

וַיַּ֗עַשׂ אֵ֚ת הַכִּיּ֣וֹר נְחֹ֔שֶׁת וְאֵ֖ת כַּנּ֣וֹ נְחֹ֑שֶׁת בְּמַרְאֹת֙ הַצֹּ֣בְאֹ֔ת אֲשֶׁ֣ר צָֽבְא֔וּ פֶּ֖תַח אֹ֥הֶל מוֹעֵֽד׃

^{שמות לח:ח}

He made the laver of copper and its stand of copper, from the mirrors of the women who performed tasks at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting.

^{Shemos 38:8}

Rashi explains that these mirrors had an intriguing history. It was these mirrors that women in Egypt would use to apply makeup and beautify themselves for their husbands in the hopes of conceiving. Despite the danger in giving birth in Egypt during government imposed infanticide, these heroic women insisted on doing their part to ensure the future of the Jewish People. 

Rashi also describes that Moshe was initially put off by the idea that such items should be incorporated into the Mishkan. They seemed out of place, at odds with the sanctified atmosphere of the Mishkan. Hashem assured him that these were indeed holy objects and very much belonged.

In truth, Moshe’s concern resonates. While Judaism does not shy away from the reality of marital intimacy, is the Mishkan really the place to be reminded of it? In preparing to receive the Torah, husbands and wives needed to separate from one another for three days. Intimacy may well be viewed as holy in the proper context, but the foothills of Har Sinai was not the appropriate place. So why was the Mishkan?

Perhaps the key to solving this puzzle lies in coming to terms with where in the Mishkan they are found. Not only does Hashem insist that the Mishkan is where they belong, but moreover, they should be used to construct the very item that purifies the Kohanim in advance of their service, the laver where the Kohanim would wash their hands and feet prior to performing the avodah. On the surface, no component of the Mishkan in its basic function is more at odds with the role that the mirrors had served in the past. 

But consider the statement made by having the Kohanim use just such a tool. Yes, the Kohanim are meant to be the most elevated and sanctified members of Jewish society. They are to live a life apart, detached from so much of what comprises the contours of daily living for other Jews. They receive no tribal plot of land to tend, receive gifts in the form of animals and agricultural bounty from their neighbors, and largely avoid the rigors of earning a livelihood. But the mirrors serve as a reminder of just how much like the rest of us the Kohanim really are.

The mirrors represent a dimension of life that Kohanim are fully engaged in. Kohanim go home to their wives and children and in their own homes live lives not much different from anyone else. There is no expectation that a Kohen lives a monastic life; indeed, he is obligated to marry and bear progeny no less than any other Jew. Kohanim may be holy, but that holiness is grounded in a largely normal, typical life. One that he shares with his wife and children. Just like other families. 

When a Kohen would approach the Kiyor, a spiritually elevated figure in a spiritually elevated place would come in contact with that which made him ordinary and familiar. He, too, is married man and engages in married life like every other Jewish husband. For all a Kohen’s detachment from society, when he washed at the Kiyor, he would cut a figure of someone remarkably relatable to the average Jew.

When those we look up to become too distant, they no longer serve as true role models. If I cannot relate to the spiritual successes of the Kohen, his life does not blaze a trail for me to follow. If spirituality is achieved only by someone who lives a life dramatically different from my own, then it is an expectation I no longer need be encumbered by.

But if the Kohen is like me, the pressure’s on. The Bais HaMikdash was no monastery and the mirrors of the Kiyor remind us that the Kohanim were no monks. Because the rest of the nation could identify with the lives of the Kohanim, the spiritual heights achieved by the Kohanim suddenly became more attainable. Living a normal life would no longer be an exemption from holiness. Holiness and normalcy could actually co-exist. 

A number of years ago, Rav Nosson Tzvi Finkel, the late Mirrer Rosh Yeshiva, met with a group of American teenage boys in Israel for the NCSY Kollel summer program. The Rosh Yeshiva asked the group, “Anyone here from Chicago?” A number of hands shot into the air. “Anyone go to Ida Crown?” Most of those hands remained in the air. “Anyone play on the basketball team?” A handful of hands stay raised. The Rosh Yeshiva added, “So did I.” 

It is convenient to think of spiritual giants as living lives fully beyond the pale of normalcy, because for those of us committed to normal, their successes would make no demands of us. But in telling that narrative, we sell ourselves short. The upbringing of a Rosh Yeshiva and the private life of a Kohen are surprisingly familiar. When the Kohanim approached the reflective surface of the Kiyor, the people appearing in those mirrors were far closer than they may have appeared. 

Parshas Ki Sisa 5781

I had barely had time to unpack, having arrived with my family in Toledo, Ohio, just a few weeks earlier. I found myself heading to a major interfaith event being held in the city where I—the newest clergy member in town—was asked to deliver the closing remarks. I’d never participated in anything of the sort before, but was glad to accept the offer and make the most of an opportunity to share a meaningful thought with people of varied faiths, and to make a Kiddush Hashem in the process. It was hard finding the right words. I needed something Jewish, but not too Jewish. After mulling over it a while, I now had a speech written out in my pocket that began with some surprising words, especially considering the venue.

“We need to forget about G-d.” 

Hashem is ready to move on from the Chosen Nation following the sin of the Golden Calf. He is prepared to wipe out the entire People, save Moshe, and rebuild the nation from his stock alone. But Moshe will have none of it, and begs for mercy on the people’s behalf. Ultimately, Hashem relents and provides the people not only with expiation for this sin, but a winning formula to be used on future occasions as well. Hashem presents the 13 attributes of mercy to Moshe, instructing him to have the people use this script whenever they will seek atonement in the future. The Gemara relates:

אמר לו כל זמן שישראל חוטאין יעשו לפני כסדר הזה ואני מוחל להם 

^{גמ׳ ראש השנה דף יז עמ׳ ב}

He said to him, “Whenever Israel sins, they shall perform before me according to this arrangement, and I will forgive them.”

^{Rosh Hashana 17b}

Easy-peasy. Sin, recite some magic words, and achieve forgiveness. I’ll take two, please.

Many point out (see, for instance, the comment of the Eitz Yosef in Sefer Ein Yaakov on the cited Gemara) that the Gemara does not state that the formula need only be recited in order to merit forgiveness. Rather, the formula must be performed. G-d’s attributes that He Himself highlights must serve as a model for developing our own personalities. It is not the robotic chanting of these middos, but the transformation of our own selves in G-d’s image that provides atonement for past errors.

The Midrash Yalkut Shimoni makes the point even more strongly:

מה המקום נקרא רחום וחנון שנאמר חנון ורחום ה’ אף אתה הוי חנון ועשה מתנת חנם לכל

^{ילקוט שמעוני פ׳ עקב}

Just as the Omnipresent is called “merciful” and “gracious”, as it says, “Gracious and merciful is G-d,” so shall you be gracious and provide graciously to all others.

^{Yalkut Shimoni, Parshas Eikev}

According to this articulation, we are not only meant to adopt similar traits to Hashem, but to personify those traits in the same manner that He does. We are to become merciful in the same way that Hashem is. We are to become kind and gracious in the same way that Hashem is so.

How do we do so? By forgetting about G-d. 

We fall into the trap at times of being generous, kind, or loving, because, after all, these are mitzvos, and fulfilling mitzvos is Hashem’s will. But the Midrash would seem to direct us otherwise. When Hashem is kind, He does not do so because He is out to fulfill a mitzvah. Hashem acts with kindness because He embodies kindness. Hashem acts with mercy because He is merciful. 

The Brisker Rav was once asked why, if Hashem created everything with a purpose, did Hashem create the propensity for kefirah, for heresy. He responded that we all need to be heretics—to forget about Hashem—when we do chessed. In that moment, we must respond out of love for the other, not out of religious duty. Removing Hashem from your mind may not feel very frum, but let’s remember that Hashem doesn’t think about Hashem when He’s being kind. We’re not meant to be more frum than Hashem. 

Hashem never needs to look over His shoulder, making sure that the One Above is pleased, because He is the One Above. What remains is an act of kindness that is born out of nothing but concern for the person Hashem is acting towards. When we occupy our minds with earning browny points Upstairs for our chessed, we are not acting out of actual love for the other or forging our personalities into something truly G-d-like. 

This was my message to the crowd at the interfaith gathering in Toledo. As soon as G-d enters the conversation, we’ll all be at each other’s throats about the right way to practice. But when it comes to kindness, G-d’s greatest will is that He actually be left out of the picture. Don’t be kind because G-d told you to do so; be kind because you’ve actually become like Him.

Purim 5781

I plan on drinking this Purim.

“Even in front of your kids?!”

Especially in front of my kids.

“But won’t they learn from your habits?”

I sure hope so.

In the absence of the Bais HaMikdash and the roasted korbanos we once ate on each of the Shalosh Regalim, the Gemara (Pesachim 109a) suggests that wine take their place as a means of fulfilling the obligation of rejoicing on Yom Tov. It is no surprise, then, that wine is similarly highlighted on Purim, a time when simcha, it would seem, goes into overdrive.

And yet it is precisely that “overdrive” that the Rambam heavily warns against, specifically when it comes to the association between simcha and drinking:

כשאדם אוכל ושותה ושמח ברגל לא ימשך ביין ובשחוק ובקלות ראש ויאמר שכל מי שיוסיף בזה ירבה במצות שמחה, שהשכרות והשחוק הרבה וקלות הראש אינה שמחה אלא הוללות וסכלות ולא נצטוינו על ההוללות והסכלות אלא על השמחה שיש בה עבודת יוצר הכל

^{משנה תורה פרק ו׳ מהל׳ יו׳׳ט הל׳ כ׳}

When a person eats and drinks and rejoices on a Festival, he must not indulge in wine and jesting and silliness and say that whoever increases these practices thereby increases his fulfillment of the mitzvah to rejoice. For drunkenness and jesting and silliness is not true joy, but emptiness and foolishness. And we were not commanded to engage in emptiness and foolishness, but rather in the sort of joy in which state we can serve the Creator.

^{Mishnah Torah, The Laws of Yom Tov 6:20}

How, then are we to understand the mandate of drinking on Purim to the degree of “עד דלא ידע בין ארור המן לברוך מרדכי—that we no longer know the difference between ‘accursed in Haman’ and ‘blessed is Mordechai’”? It would seem that such behavior is completely beyond the purview of being in a true state of simcha.

Rav Soloveitchik explained that, indeed, excessive drinking is not a true fulfillment of simcha and that, insofar as Purim is concerned, this is precisely the point. Purim is not a time for simcha in its truest form. This is an experience that can only be had through a sense of being fully connected with Hashem. Indeed, whenever the Torah speaks of simcha on Yom Tov, it is always in the context of appearing “לפני ה׳—Before G-d”. This is a state that cannot be fully achieved on Purim.

Rather, the Rav explained, Purim is actually a time for feeling vulnerable. For recognizing the unfortunate vicissitudes of life in exile, where Hashem’s Presence is not fully revealed. Even in the context of Megilas Esther itself, the “happy ending” of the narrative still sees Esther separated from Mordechai, living the rest of her life in a marriage to a gentile king that she never asked for. Purim reminds us of our vulnerability, the inherent insecurities of the exile, and the reality that even when Hashem reveals Himself in the galus, He does so only partially.

How do we express a simcha that is incomplete? That is only skin deep? That creates a veneer of ecstasy without the true satisfaction that only a powerful bond with Hashem can actually create? By drinking. Not the typical drinking that leaves us fully attuned to our senses. But a drinking a bit beyond the usual, so that our senses become more dulled. This is the sort of drinking that serves as an escape from reality, because reality is harsh. We don’t know, after all, when Achashveirosh may turn on the Jews once more, or when a new Haman will arise. We put ourselves into a state of vulnerability, because there is precisely that tone to the victory of Purim and the celebration which commemorates it.

My apologies if I’ve ruined your Purim. 

In truth, this is a notion I’ve often pondered on Purim in past years, and it has made for a very meaningful one. There is a deeply religious cord one strikes when considering their own vulnerability. The fact that, when drunk, one is at the mercy of the environment, is a powerful reminder of being fully in the hands of Hashem, of desperately needing His intervention, and of creating a powerful yearning for the redemption, that I’ve come to associate with Purim. 

And it also underscores something about drinking itself. That drinking in excess is a form of escapism from real life rather than a celebration of it. When we imbibe alcohol, we are less attuned to our senses and less in control of life. This is why even on Purim, when this is precisely the state we are supposed to place ourselves in, the Poskim have cautioned that this not go too far, that we not drink ourselves into a state incapable of performing mitzvos or acting with dignity.

Drinking on Purim is a reminder of the fragility of the human body and the inverse relationship between imbibing alcohol and self-control. Which demands that we not overdo it. Not on Purim, and certainly not any other day of the year. The demands of Halacha and comporting ourselves with proper middos mean that drinking is not something to trifle with. Insofar as alcohol prevents us from being responsible, we must consume it with great responsibility.

This is exactly why I want my kids to see me drinking. Because Judaism’s view of alcohol and of drinking is very different from the version that exists in popular culture and the world at large. And for all my efforts to control the amount of interaction between them and that world, I am not naive enough to believe that the barrier that separates them from it is not highly porous. 

I learned to drink from my father, a’’h. He had a particular liking for peaty single-malt scotch (which I inherited), as well as good wine (which I did not). I have vivid memories of his disdainful description of those who would throw back a shot of really good scotch as though it was turpentine. The message came through loud and clear. Drinking is not unlike any other physical pleasure in life; it is to be enjoyed in moderation and with dignity. You don’t guzzle scotch, you sip it. Without my father’s example, my sensibilities about drinking would have been crafted by far less responsible role models. 

I don’t want my kids—or anyone’s kids—to drink. Not on Purim or any other day of the year. Not while they are still children. But I don’t believe that it is unreasonable or hypocritical to exhibit behavior that at their age they are not yet ready to mimc. I do not hide the fact that I drive a car or use a credit card, but my children know that they may not. Until that day comes I do my best to demonstrate responsible driving and spending habits. I hope that by setting a good example for them today, they’ll one day have healthy relationships with cars and with money and with alcohol. 

Overindulgence sends an unacceptable message to the next generation. But so does avoiding the subject altogether. Treating alcohol as a taboo subject—prohibiting it from being responsibly enjoyed in front of children—does not mean that kids will grow up unaware of alcohol; it means only that they will learn of it somewhere else. We cannot afford for them to learn about drinking from irresponsible people any more than we can afford to be those people ourselves. 

Parshas Terumah 5781

“Why I am I stuck with this task?” “This isn’t what I signed up for.” “I’m a leader, not a gopher.” “This is beneath me.”

I hear (and, admittedly, make) comments such as these whenever talking to rabbinic colleagues. I have no doubt, though, that similar frustrations plague people in all sorts of other professional roles. You’ve advanced, hold a position that should be defined by high-level objectives, and somehow you end up copying and collating, stuffing and shlepping. Shouldn’t this be someone else’s job?

The Mishna in Menachos (96a) notes that the Mishkan was arranged symmetrically, with the various furnishings of the Mishkan arranged by length and breadth according to the layout of the Mishkan itself. The length of the Shulchan and Mizbeach ran parallel to the length of the Mishkan; the breadth of these objects were parallel with the breadth of the edifice that surrounded them. 

The outlier seems to be the Aron Kodesh. As the Kohen Gadol walked the full length of the Mishkan, on that fateful once-a-year procession into the Holy of Holies on Yom Kippur, what he beheld upon entering was the length of the Aron Kodesh, not its breadth. This means that the length of the Aron ran parallel to the width of the Mishkan. Why didn’t the holiest object in the Mishkan match the overall motif?

Rav Yaakov Kaminetsky explains simply, that this is just a question of what you include when measuring the Aron Kodesh. The Aron was equipped with poles that ran along each of its shorter sides. If you measure only the box, then the length of the Aron was misaligned with the Mishkan. But if you include the poles, everything changes. The poles were mounted on the breadth of the Aron, so that if we consider the poles as part of the Aron itself, what was the length is now the breadth and vice-versa. The Aron becomes aligned with the Mishkan and the other furnishings. Problem solved.

But a different problem surfaces. Why would you count the poles as part of the Mishkan itself? The Mishkan stood at the apex of the Mishkan because it housed for the luchos—the actual word of G-d—and because it served as the “landing pad” for the Divine Presence. The poles existed for utilitarian purposes alone. Why include the poles in the measurement of the Aron itself if they existed only to transport the Aron? 

Perhaps this is precisely the point. Yes, the Aron fulfills its true purpose only once it is installed into the Kodesh HaKodashim. But the poles are what make that possible, and are therefore considered no less a part of the Aron than any other component. If you want a Mishkan that is built around the Aron Kodesh, if you want the luchos given to Moshe to serve as the mainframe for the sanctity pulsating throughout the rest of the Mishkan, if you want a vessel for the Shechinah, you need the poles as a means of transporting the Aron to the Mishkan. If without the poles there is no Aron Kodesh, then the poles are the Aron Kodesh. 

To be sure, every organization needs to ask itself how best to utilize its employees and volunteers so that each can make the highest level of contribution possible. If the VP of Sales is handling all the tasks that should be going to interns, you’re underutilizing your talent and paying too much for photocopying. 

But leaders invariably do end up with tasks that are not part of the job description and don’t appear to serve as a fulfillment of their stated goals. So how do we cope with this reality? How do we not bemoan dealing with the nuts and bolts critical to the fulfillment of the goal that doesn’t bear the same appeal and luster as those higher-level tasks? By viewing that work in the same way the Torah views the poles of the Mishkan. That whatever is necessary in reaching the objective is of equal importance and value.

Part of the key is to consider in advance what it will take to cross the finish line. If we can anticipate from the outset that there will be less glamorous chores that will by necessity need to get done, we’ll be in much better position to whistle while we work. What ambitious people crave more than anything are results. By reminding ourselves from the outset of what it will take to achieve those results, every necessary task along the way takes on greater meaning and can be accomplished with greater joy. If we anticipate the poles being there, we’ll be more welcoming of their presence at the sides of the Aron Kodesh.