Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

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. 

Parshas Mishpatim 5781

Tension had been building for nearly two years, with British soldiers being deployed by the Crown to occupy Boston and ensure that British laws and policies were duly adhered to by the city’s residents. The spark that ignited the powder keg came on March 15, 1770, when a group of civilians harassed a British soldier, who was soon flanked by backup. It is not known precisely what provocation, if any, occurred further, but the soldiers opened fire on the mob, killing several people. The incident came to be known as The Boston Massacre and helped set the stage for the American Revolution. 

In a bizarre twist of fate, particularly considering his later role as a Founding Father of the nation, John Adams, already known for his opposition to Great Britain’s manner of rule over the colonies, served as the defense attorney for the British soldiers on trial. In summing up the great injustice of holding men accountable for a crime it was not absolutely clear they committed, Adams stated,

“Better that many guilty persons escape unpunished than one innocent person should be punished. The reason is because it is more important to community that innocence should be protected than it is that guilt should be punished.”

The Torah maintains a like viewpoint, insisting that we be more quick to presume innocence than guilt. In this week’s parsha, we read:

לֹא תִהְיֶה אַחֲרֵי רַבִּים לְרָעֹת וְלֹא תַעֲנֶה עַל רִב לִנְטֹת אַחֲרֵי רַבִּים לְהַטֹּת׃

^{(שמותכג:ב)}

You shall not go after the majority for evil, and do not answer in a dispute to deviate, following the majority to incline the judgement.

^{(Shemos 23:2)}

Rashi explains that the tension in this pasuk pits the process of coming to a guilty verdict against one of innocence. When it comes to capital crimes, Bais Din may acquit even if the majority is but one vote greater than the minority. But to be found guilty, the court must find him guilty by a majority of at least two.

This is not only an esoteric policy, carried out only by rabbinical courts but removed from the application of daily living for the average Jew. It is on these grounds that the principle of “דן את כל אדם לכף זכות, Judge every person favorably” is predicated. The Chofetz Chaim emphasizes that judging another person favorably is not just a pie-in-the-sky idea expected of the extremely righteous or zealously pious. It is a halachic imperative that is expected of every Jew and is based upon the Biblical verse cited above. 

This is a directive that is particularly challenging in our times. Consider whether in the popular consciousness it is better to be branded as “naive” or “cynical.” While the latter is still, even today, taken as a pejorative, it is not nearly as condemning as the former. To be cynical is only a bit further along the spectrum from “shrewd” and “savvy”. And these are praises of the highest order. We use them to describe the traits of someone who succeeds in business, in relationships, and other facets of life. Sizing up other people, being able to assess their true intent with absolute clarity, and then acting without hesitation on those incontrovertible findings, are the behaviors of people we admire. People who have climbed the ladder and have “made it” in a cutthroat world that leaves no margin for naiveté for anyone who wants to enjoy real success.

To this, the Torah says be kind, don’t jump to conclusions, and don’t be so quick to judge others. Judging unfavorably is judging unfairly; it means not taking the time to truly determine the nature of another person’s actions or intent. Perhaps there’s more to the story, or more to the person that deserves a closer look and greater understanding. 

But who has the time or the interest? If the news media outlets followed the Torah’s advice, there would nothing to read. How do we make space for the Torah’s sentimentality in a world that breeds cynicism?

I believe John Adams was really onto something when he said that, “It is more important to community that innocence should be protected than it is that guilt should be punished.” It may well be the case that the individual can get ahead by such calculating practices, but it spells disaster for community. Every act of unfair, unfavorable judgment, every pronouncement of another as weak, backwards, or evil deprives others of opportunities to contribute and defines them as valueless. While the individual forges ahead, the community is left in shambles.

Perhaps this is the key in motivating ourselves to uphold the Torah’s mandate. Judging another person unfavorably can feel like a personal triumph, even virtuous. If you’re worse, I’m better. If you’re a loser, I’m more of a winner. But consider the impact on community. When we are rash, we overlook the value in others. When we judge favorably, we uncover the value in those around us. Which world do you prefer to live in?

Parshas Yisro 5781

In recent years, we’ve seen the rise of a new kind of celebrity: the Influencer. These are people who, though social media channels enabling them to reach tens of millions of people at a time, are capable of driving trends in music, fashion, and food, simply by sharing their opinion. Oftentimes, influencers are individuals who are not celebrities as a result of displaying talent that has traditionally been valued by society, but are simply famous for being famous. It is a captivating phenomenon that a “regular person” could potentially wield such enormous influence.

But there is a flip-side to this reality, too. Yes, it is remarkable how easily people can influence, but it is even more striking how easily people can be influenced. From things as innocuous as the clothing we wear to as significant as the values we hold, we are swayed to do and believe things by the people around us. Keeping values and keeping company are bound up with one another. 

Perhaps this was Yisro’s consideration in meeting up with the Jewish People.

וישמע יתרו. מַה שְּׁמוּעָה שָׁמַע וּבָא? קְרִיעַת יַם סוּף וּמִלְחֶמֶת עֲמָלֵק.

^{רש׳׳י שמות יח:א}

And Yisro heard. What did he hear that he came [to join Israel]? The Splitting of the Red Sea and the war with Amalek. 

^{Rashi Shemos 18:1}

Yisro is motivated by two episodes: The Splitting of the Sea, and the war with Amalek. The former makes a whole lot of sense. A supernatural spectacle that surpassed even the most miraculous of all the Ten Plagues is understandably something that would turn heads. But what of the war with Amalek? Was a military victory over a band of nomads much to be impressed by following an event as remarkable as Krias Yam Suf? What about this battle piqued Yisro’s interest in Judaism enough to journey out into the wilderness to meet up with them?

Rav Yechiel Mordechai Gorden suggests that that what motivated Yisro about the war with Amalek, was not the salvation from that attack, but the attack itself. The Jewish People had just emerged on the opposite side of the Red Sea, having been miraculously saved from their Egyptian oppressors. What more could G-d do to demonstrate his care and concern for the Jewish People and His interest in seeing them safe and unharmed? Following these events, how could any nation bring itself to attack Israel?

The answer, simply, is human nature. People maintain the remarkable propensity to revert back to equilibrium, remaining unfazed now matter how impactful a bit of inspiration felt at the time. A lecture, a video, or moving experience may leave a person feeling that their life is forever changed—that surely they’re now well on their way to losing that weight, kicking that habit, or developing that long elusive middah—and yet are right back to their old ways just a short while later.

This is what Yisro saw in Amalek and it scared him. If a people could witness a clear demonstration of Hashem’s salvation and just a short while later besiege the very people who had just been demonstrated to be under G-d’s protection, how do I avoid that human weakness? 

Yisro does not simply insist that he will be different. That he’ll maintain the fortitude to live life differently now that G-d has revealed Himself. Yisro sees Amalek’s folly and recognizes that same capacity within himself. And he does something about it. Yisro journeys to the Jewish camp to join with them. In the hopes of changing himself, he recognizes the importance of changing his surroundings. The enormous gap that exists between Yisro and Amalek will inexorably shrink if he is not surrounded by those whose beliefs are similar to his own. Where better to go than the Jewish camp?

Living the lives we wish to live demands grit and inner fortitude. Even in the best of external environments, we will be plagued by the internal voices that tempt us towards the path of laziness and ease, rather than accomplishment and rigor. But do we consider often enough the role that the externals play? Do we think consciously about surrounding ourselves with friends and colleagues not only with whom we have enjoyable banter and are conveniently located, but with people who are living lives compatible with the ones we want for ourselves?

Being virtuous means maintaining the same practices no matter our surroundings. Being practical means that opting into the right surroundings makes it easier to be virtuous. How many moments of inspiration were extinguished because we didn’t surround ourselves with people who were fanning the flames? How many scrapped goals may have been fulfilled had we sought out the company of those similarly ambitious? How many deep-seated values have slowly eroded because we opted for a peer group of whoever was simply closest and most convenient?

What is remarkable about Yisro is that where others would have seen an excuse to be comfortably mediocre, he took personal responsibility to excel. The company we keep is not an unalterable fact of life, it is something we choose. Yisro recognized this and owned it. 

As we consider our surroundings, it’s worth revisiting the strange emergence of online influencers. Their presence is a reminder of how easily we can connect not only with those we wish to influence, but also with those we wish to be influenced by. We can maintain connections with old friends and have our values supported through online groups and communities. Those relationships can be a difference maker not easily compensated for by personal drive and determination alone. 

Jim Rohn once stated brilliantly, “You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with.” So let’s choose wisely. 

Beshalach 5781

The manner in which Yosef’s remains are brought out of Egypt invites a comparison to the funeral procession and burial of his father, Yaakov. Yaakov also died in Egypt, but was immediately transported to his final resting place at Ma’aras HaMachpeilah. Though bent on ensuring that he, too, would an enjoy a final resting place in Eretz Yisrael, Yosef submits to a longer road before arriving there, his bones only being taken up out of Mitzrayim along with the rest of the nation on their march to freedom. 

Why is the transporting of Yosef’s remains delayed? Rashi (13:19) explains that whereas while Yosef was alive he had the authority and ability to secure permission from Pharaoh to lead a burial procession out of Egypt and into Israel, Yosef’s own sons did not possess similar clout. Yaakov’s remains were transported to Israel immediately because they could be; Yosef’s remains stay trapped in Egypt for a period of over two centuries because there was simply no way out.

Rashi explains further (ibid.) that this is also the reason why the oath Yosef asked his family to take that his remains be brought out of Egypt devolved only upon future generations, but never on his sons directly. Yosef understands full well that asking his sons to make him a promise similar to the one he made his own father would be completely unreasonable. Yosef could come through; his sons could not.

One question, however, remains: If Yosef had the means to transport his father to Israel, why bother taking an oath to that effect? Why does Yaakov insist that Yosef actually swear that he will bury his father in Israel, rather than just inform his son of his final wishes? Would Yosef have hesitated from doing everything in his power to fulfill his father’s last will?

The Ramban on Parshas Vayechi (Bereishis 47:31) explains according to a basic tenet of human nature. One’s motivation to achieve an objective may be genuinely high, but that motivation will erode once challenges are met. The greater those challenges, the greater the attack on our tenacity, until we throw our hands up in the air and conclude with no small degree of certainty that the goal ultimately proved impossible.

This is where the oath kicks in. Yaakov knows his son will want to fulfill his father’s wishes. But what will occur when seemingly insurmountable obstacles begin to emerge? Without the additional demand imposed by an oath, those obstacles become the hooks upon which to hang one’s hat, saying he tried his best, but that nothing could be done. A promise leaves no room for such defeatism. Once a promise is made, that promise needs to be fulfilled, come what may. 

Indeed, those obstacles ultimately are placed in front of Yosef. Pharaoh initially refuses to allow Yosef leave in order to bury his father, and it is only, as the Midrash describes, through intense negotiating—and veiled threats—that he succeeds in changing Pharaoh’s mind. Without the promise made to his father, perhaps those obstacles remain in place, with Yosef standing dejectedly on the wrong side of them. 

The difference between Yosef and his brothers—that the former made an oath and the latter never did—erects the parameters that we should all consider for making promises, if not to others, then to ourselves. Yosef’s oath reminds us of the power of promises. Not only considering a goal vaguely and tossing the idea around our minds, but of actually articulating—whether in speech, in writing, or both—that this is something we formally adopt to achieve. 

According to one study, the act of writing down one’s goals provides a 42% increase in the likelihood of actually achieving it. The psychology, at least in part, would appear predicated on the Ramban’s insight. The act of submitting to a concrete objective that I hold myself accountable for, helps me overcome the obstacles when they appear.

But the story of Yosef’s brothers is not to be ignored. They did not take an oath to immediately bury Yosef in Israel. Indeed, they were never even asked to do so. Yosef clearly understood the folly of demanding such a promise, as, in reality, they would have had no means of making good on that promise. Here lies an important bookend along the goal-setting continuum. Whereas formally adopting a promise to ourselves can push us to achieve a goal even when we experience setbacks, there are limits to just how far we can legitimately push. Writing down a goal is not a magical elixir that will provide us with the super powers necessary to achieve anything. “Today, I will be faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound,” simply doesn’t work. We need to consider our goals with a realistic sense of what we legitimately can and cannot do. 

Still, the ability to push the envelope comes with commitment. Yosef had the ability to somehow convince Pharaoh; his brothers did not. And yet that ability could become manifest only by formally adopting a goal and firmly committing to seeing it through.

What do you want to achieve? Where do you want to end up? What are the things you’ve also mused over accomplishing but have never actually concretized into firm, achievable goals? If they necessitate convincing a head of state for political favors, you’re likely in no more reasonable shape to adopt that goal than Yosef’s sons before you. But between the impossible and the pedestrian is a band of successes that can leave you feeling empowered and deeply fulfilled. Give voice to them. Write them down. Because commitment is the key to unlocking the potential within.

Parshas Bo 5781

A deal can fall apart at the negotiating table for any number of reasons. The buyer may undervalue; the seller may overvalue. Though hese differences can sometimes be ironed out, the death knell in any negotiation is the suspicion that one side is not acting in good faith. You cannot come to legitimate terms with a person you suspect of illegitimacy. 

וַיֹּאמֶר מֹשֶׁה בִּנְעָרֵינוּ וּבִזְקֵנֵינוּ נֵלֵךְ בְּבָנֵינוּ וּבִבְנוֹתֵנוּ בְּצֹאנֵנוּ וּבִבְקָרֵנוּ נֵלֵךְ כִּי חַג־ה׳ לָנוּ׃ וַיֹּאמֶר אֲלֵהֶם יְהִי כֵן ה׳ עִמָּכֶם כַּאֲשֶׁר אֲשַׁלַּח אֶתְכֶם וְאֶת־טַפְּכֶם רְאוּ כִּי רָעָה נֶגֶד פְּנֵיכֶם׃

^{שמות י:ט–י}

And Moshe said, “We will go, with our young and our old, with our sons and our daughters, our flocks and our herds; for it is a festival of G-d for us.” But [Pharaoh] said to them, “G-d will indeed be with you if I will send you out as well as your children. See that there is evil before you!”

^{Shemos 10:9-10}

The negotiations hit a brick wall with Pharaoh’s sense that Moshe is not acting in good faith. What can possibly be the need to bring children along on this pilgrimage? Clearly, Pharaoh insists, Moshe is trying to pull the wool over his eyes, opening the door for the nation as a whole to flee Egypt for good.

What, exactly, is the underlying cause of this breakdown in trust? We might see in the dialogue between them that a chasm exists between Moshe’s and Pharaoh’s views on how best to prepare a nation for the future. For Pharaoh, it is the adults who will offer sacrifices; let them leave and have the children stay. For Moshe, the need for children be present for a national celebration is critical to their ability to one day bear the mantle of leadership. If the children are absent, the nation’s future will be left in doubt.

But why would Pharaoh have had such a hard time understanding such a request? Surely he could appreciate the need to mentor the next generation in the ways of the responsibilities that would one day be theirs. Why was the inclusion of children prove a deal-breaker for Pharaoh?

I would argue that the breakdown between Moshe and Pharaoh was less about concerns of the future than it was considerations for the present. Perhaps what was so striking about Moshe’s request for the children to come along into the wilderness is that their participation seemed no different to him than that of their parents. Indeed, he speaks of both elders and youngsters in the same breath. Moshe was advocating not for children to learn the sacrificial rites merely to be better prepared for the future. He considered the children’s involvement critical even for the here and now of this holiday itself. For Pharaoh, this was too much to bear. 

The Hebrew term we use more than any to describe the process of educating children is חינוך—Chinuch. Related to the word “Chanukah,” it is a term that would perhaps more accurately be translated as “dedication” than “education.” This is a point well worth our consideration. A Chanukah is not for practice; it is not mere training for the future. The dedication of the Mishkan was not a practice round to determine whether or not the Jewish People could properly perform the avodah before it counted “for real”. A Chanukas HaBayis does not declare that a family’s new house is a training ground to see how they fare at running a Jewish home before it actually “counts.” A Chanukah is not a test drive or a warmup. It’s the real deal. It is, as Rashi describes in Parshas Lech Lecha:

וְהוּא לְשׁוֹן הַתְחָלַת כְּנִיסַת הָאָדָם אוֹ כְלִי לָאֻמָּנוּת שֶׁהוּא עָתִיד לַעֲמֹד בָּהּ, וְכֵן חֲנֹךְ לַנַּעַר (משלי כ”ב), חֲנֻכַּת הַמִּזְבֵּחַ (במד’ ז’), חֲנֻכַּת הַבַּיִת

^{רש׳׳י בראשית יד:יד}

It is an expression of beginning to induct a person or instrument into a craft that it will continue to maintain in the future. Just as, “Educate (חנוך) a child,” “Dedicating the altar,” and “Dedicating the Temple.”

^{Rashi to Bereishis 14:14}

Chinuch, too, is not mere training. It is a dedication. It’s the statement that we want our children to participate in Torah, Mitzvos, and the full sweep of Jewish life, and that their deeds are meaningful not only insofar as they pave the way for the future, but right now, in the present. True, the time before a child becomes a Bar or Bas Mitzvah is a grace period to accommodate for certain shortcomings inherent in young children that will not permit fully comprehensive observance. But their observance even in advance of that milestone has great inherent meaning, even apart from serving as a portent for the future. 

This represents a critical mental pivot. Thinking about our children’s future is what parents do and is what they should do. But thinking exclusively about their future can serve to devalue their present. If singularly focused on the future, we can shortchange them on opportunities that exist right now: “They’re not yet obligated to—fill in the blank—and they’ll develop those habits later.” 

But at its core, chinch is not just about educating for the future, it is about dedicating our children towards a lifestyle that is meaningful even in the present. A child who davens has connected to Hashem today. A child who learns Torah is imbibing the Divine word right now. A child who develops better middos will not only a better person in the future, but has become a better person today. 

Being preoccupied with our children’s future can warp the manner in which we shape their present. We can miss out on providing them with opportunities of inherent value because in the grand scheme of their future lives, they’re not critical to get them over whatever finish line we hold in our mind’s eye. Moshe Rabbeinu demanded that children be valued not only for their future contributions, but their present ones. We must always remind ourselves to do the same.