Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

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. 

Parshas Vaeira 5781

Ask any child who brought the Ten Plagues upon the Egyptians, and you will receive the straightforward answer: G-d. Yet when it comes to the Second Plague, we find a strange twist. The Midrash explains that it was not G-d Who unleashed a massive swarm of frogs upon the Egyptian citizenry. G-d brought but one frog; it was the people themselves who brought on the rest.

וַיֵּ֤ט אַהֲרֹן֙ אֶת־יָד֔וֹ עַ֖ל מֵימֵ֣י מִצְרָ֑יִם וַתַּ֙עַל֙ הַצְּפַרְדֵּ֔עַ וַתְּכַ֖ס אֶת־אֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרָֽיִם׃

^{שמות ח:ב}

And Aharon stretched his hand upon the waters of Egypt. And the frog rose up and it covered the Land of Egypt. 

^{Shemos 8:2}

The Midrash notes that the word “tzfardeia”—the singular for “frog”—is used, rather than the plural “tzfarde’im”. And though the singular may be used to refer to a collective swarm of frogs, the Midrash seizes upon the fact that in the surrounding pesukim, the plural term is used. The Midrash explains that, at least initially, the plague was comprised of a singular frog, but that this initial frog multiplied, spewing forth additional frogs every time an Egyptian struck it. 

This, of course, begs the obvious question: Why keep hitting the frog? Realizing that this miraculous amphibian could not be destroyed and that any attempt to do so would only be digging a deeper collective grave for Egyptian society, why did they continue to strike it? 

The simple answer is that to reign themselves in—to stop themselves from succumbing to self-destructive impulses—the Egyptians would need to change. They would need to suddenly pivot from their prior mode of behavior and adopt a brand new one. Egyptian society had been built on the currency of violence and oppression: the enslavement of millions of Jews through inhumane means built them a mighty empire. Abuse of the weak had brought them success, but, if perpetuated, would now lead to their demise. Could they change?

As the Plague of Frogs unfolded, the Egyptians showed that the force and cruelty that had become so embedded in their national personality was not easily uprooted. Striking the “Source Frog” was an exercise in utter futility, and yet they could not help themselves. The traits that had been compounded for centuries could not be “unlearned” in just a few days. It would have been obvious to any bystander that the only way out of this fix would be for the Egyptians to stay their own hands and not strike. And yet they couldn’t, for they knew no other way.

That the plague was brought on through these means can be no mere coincidence. Quite obviously, it was precisely this behavioral phenomenon that Hashem was attempting to test. Could the Egyptians extricate themselves from their own habits, or would they become trapped by them?

The drama of the Ten Plagues sets the stage for the freedom of the Jewish People. And it is the issue of freedom, and how we define it, that stands at the core of the second plague. The Egyptians had physically subjugated the Jews through external force and tyranny. And yet when one considers the actions of the Egyptian masses as the frogs slowly spread throughout the country, the question of who was truly enslaved becomes difficult to answer. Yes, the Egyptians were free to move about, explore opportunities, and engage in fun and recreation in a way the Jews could not. And yet it would be difficult to say that a people so thoroughly bound by their impulses, incapable of breaking from habit even at their own peril, were truly free. On the most primal level, the Egyptians were slaves to themselves.

What a critical lesson this must have been for the Jews who looked on as the Egyptians, in effect, brought the Plague of Frogs upon themselves. Hashem was instructing His people to take stock of the pitfalls of physical freedom. In just a few months, the Jewish People would have that their freedom and would need to consider what they would do with it. Gone unchecked, without a rigorous code of law and behavior that makes constant demands of its adherents to change and further develop, the free man becomes imprisoned within his own compulsions that subvert all the subvert his physical freedom.

We must never become so accustomed to freedom that we lose sight of why it is meaningful to possess. If we begin to define freedom as the opportunity to eat, watch, and do what we like, we inch ever closer to the sorry state of the Egyptians, developing the corrosive habits born of freedom itself that ultimately serve to shackle us in ways perhaps even more dangerous and damaging than physical servitude ever could.

Freedom is the gift of growth, of development, and of transcendence. It is the opportunity to become better than who we are now and to consciously leave old habits behind to attain greater personal heights. Free bodies are worthwhile only when we maintain free will. When used in tandem, these truly are the greatest gifts of all. 

Parshas Shemos 5781

My daughter and I both take our shoes off when we come home. But we do so for very different reasons. For me, it’s a simple consideration: the floors are clean, the shoes are dirty. But for my daughter, it’s different. She plops herself down on the floor as soon as she walks through the door and removes not only her shoes, but her socks. She’s not the least bit concerned with maintaining a clean space, as evidenced by her leaving a complete mess in her wake wherever she goes. For her, I think, it’s more about connecting to the space, to “dig in” to her surroundings, to feel bonded to the floor and the space around her. 

Moshe stands in Hashem’s presence for the first time and is immediately told to remove his shoes. Why? The standard explanation is that shoes don’t belong on hallowed ground because they are full of the filth—both physical and spiritual—of wherever they have trod. But shoes are not only a vehicle for depositing unwanted muck into a pristine location, they are significant in of themselves as a barrier between the one wearing them and the environment. Hashem may well be commanding Moshe to remove his shoes not only for reasons similar to why I remove my shoes when I come home, but, in a way, for the reason that my daughter does. It is to invite Moshe into a closer, more intimate connection with the hallowed ground on which he stands. To connect to that holy space without the intrusion of a barrier that serves to separate him from ground now imbued with Hashem’s presence.

It is worth considering this approach specifically in light of the pesukim that precede the actual encounter between Hashem and Moshe. The Torah describes Moshe’s shepherding of his father’s flock and then noticing the oddity of a small bush that burns and yet will not be consumed. Moshe responds in a way that we could only presume we would have had we been in the same position: he turns aside to study this unusual phenomenon. And yet for something so typical, the Torah goes to great lengths to describe Moshe’s reaction to the scene:

וַיֹּאמֶר מֹשֶׁה אָסֻרָה־נָּא וְאֶרְאֶה אֶת־הַמַּרְאֶה הַגָּדֹל הַזֶּה מַדּוּעַ לֹא־יִבְעַר הַסְּנֶה׃ וַיַּרְא ה׳ כִּי סָר לִרְאוֹת וַיִּקְרָא אֵלָיו אֱלֹקים מִתּוֹךְ הַסְּנֶה וַיֹּאמֶר מֹשֶׁה מֹשֶׁה וַיֹּאמֶר הִנֵּנִי׃

^{(שמות ג:ד)}

Moshe said, “I must turn aside to look at this great sight; why does the bush not burn up?” When Hashem saw that he had turned aside to look, G-d called to him from within the bush, “Moshe! Moshe!” And he answered, “Here I am.”

^{(Shemos 3:4)}

The simple act of turning aside to examine the bush is described twice, once when Moshe decides to do so, and again as Hashem takes note of what Moshe had done. So critical is this reaction that the pasuk describes Hashem as calling out to Moshe only once He saw that Moshe had turned to look at the bush.

Perhaps in assuming that anyone would have reacted similarly, we are giving the average person too much credit. The Torah praises Moshe for his noticing this event because in reality, people overlook important occurrences all the time. It is rare that whatever my kids catch me in the middle of is actually as important as reading to or playing with them, but breaking stride from whatever I’m wrapped up in at the moment requires a great deal of consciousness and intention. These are the qualities that Moshe demonstrates when he veers from his path, from his work, from his business, to further examine—to connect with—something remarkable. 

The directive to remove his shoes is an invitation to Moshe to continue what he’s already begun. Moshe has proven himself a person who will stop what he’s doing to take stock of and engage with something holy. Hashem now instructs him to remove the barrier that will continue to separate him from it, so he can more fully interact with that holy place?

What are the shoes we wear that separate us from the hallowed ground we walk upon? Even as we follow in Moshe’s footsteps—turning aside from what occupies us to intentionally make time for what is more meaningful and important—do we take a moment to pause and remove the barriers that separate us from sanctity, even as it surrounds us? We may well push pause to make time for what’s holy—dinner with the family, time out with one’s spouse, a shiur, or minyan—but are we truly present when we’re there, or are there barriers that keep us from fully immersing in those spaces and moments? 

If Moshe had to remove his shoes, we need to be better about removing our phones. The victory achieved in carving out time for children or Torah or Tefillah is only partially achieved if while we’re there, we’re actually elsewhere—in our inboxes, in our WhatsApp groups, and on our browsers. People are indeed busier now than ever, but we still sacrifice an awful lot of time to the unimportant, meaningless, and nominally entertaining. Is the text that’s sent out during Chazaras HaShatz truly critical, the email responded to during our kids’ bedtime actually life-altering, or the announcement posted while attending a shiur as imperative as we tell ourselves? Are these marks of productivity, or simply an expression of discomfort with sitting still? Would we not be better served in the long run if we set our phones elsewhere so we could be more present, more respectful, and fully marinate in the holy environments we often place ourselves in, but don’t fully engage with due to distraction?

Removing shoes is not just for keeping things sanitary. It’s for keeping things sanctified. We can be present and engaged, we can take a deep, immersive dive into life’s holiest moments and most sanctified spaces. But we have to remove our shoes to do so. 

Parshas Vayechi 5781

If Parshas Vayechi is about anything, it is about death. The passing of Yaakov Avinu is such a seminal event—the concluding chapter of the story of the Avos—that the entire parsha is dedicated to his passing. In so doing, the Torah offers a roadmap regarding the proper manner of dealing with and processing death. Yaakov gets his affairs in order, his children are by his side during his final moments, his last wishes are meticulously upheld by Yosef and his other brothers, he is granted a fitting burial in the family plot, and is duly mourned by his family members.

For this reason, Parshas Vayechi has traditionally become a time to discuss matters of death and mourning in Jewish life. For me, the topic has been on my mind more than usual this particular year, as this past week we gathered for my father’s unveiling. And though it’s been over a year since his passing, I still reflect regularly on the perspective gained and lessons learned from the experience of sitting on the other side of the shiva chair.

Death is one of those difficult topics that can throw even the closest friends and the most socially adept for a loop. What are you supposed to say? How are you supposed to act? I’ve heard from many people over the years that they are so reticent to pay a shiva call for fear of discomfort, that they’ll do their best to simply attend a minyan in a shiva home so that the mourner can take note of their presence, without the need to fill the space with awkward conversation.

But paying a shiva call or reaching out to a mourner really ought to be viewed as more than a dreaded obligation to be discharged as painlessly as possible. It is an opportunity to show friendship and offer genuine comfort without much difficulty. Simply being present or reaching out in a small way leaves an aveil feeling cared for, supported, and uplifted. This is a process we should all want to be a part of.

Like every valuable enterprise, there are do’s and don’t’s when it comes to comforting a mourner. What follows are some helpful hints in reaching out to and being there for mourners, developed in part from having spent a great deal of time by mourners’ sides, but more than anything from going through the process myself not very long ago. I hope they’ll be helpful in providing some guidance for dealing with what is ultimately an unavoidable part of life. 

Texts are welcome

Yes, texting is the most casual of all forms of communication and may feel too informal for a topic as weighty as death. And while I don’t mean to suggest that a text ought to take the place of an in-person shiva call, not everyone can realistically be by the mourner’s side in person. I found that the ease with which texts could be read and even responded to made them far more welcome than voicemails and emails. Shiva is a draining process and what little time aveilim take to decompress while they are not receiving visitors can easily be gobbled up in an attempt to listen to voicemails or even read emails. Something as simple but direct as “I’m so sorry for your loss. May you only know comfort and happiness. Thinking of you and your family” is a touching reminder that the aveil has the support of friends. Texts are a far easier medium to process briefly between visitors or during a bit of downtime, and even provide the mourner with an ability to send a simple response should they choose. 

(While on the topic, something of a pet peeve of mine. Can we please replace “BDE” with “Baruch Dayan Emes”? Sending a text is already going the convenient route, I think there’s value in taking just a bit of time to actually type out the words. Save it as a text replacement if you must.)

An Aveil is not a Lulav

Chazal instituted many halachos designed to keep the mourners focused on their lossed loved one and to provide tools to visitors to provide some comfort. This is one area of Halacha in which maintaining the spirit of the law, not just the letter of the law, becomes critical. If the process of offering comfort becomes too robotic, it can lead to the exact opposite of the halacha’s intent, leaving the Aveil to feel like he or she is but an object being used to fulfill the mandate of nichum aveilim, rather than actually feeling comforted. 

A friend of mine commented how, upon returning to yeshiva following the loss of his father, someone approached him in the Bais Medrash, did his best to make conversation, then abruptly asked, “Would you mind sitting down for a second?” A bit puzzled, he sat down, whereupon his friend launched right into “Hamakom yenachem”. My friend went home that night and told his wife, “I became a Lulav today.”

Reciting the pasuk of HaMakom yenacheim is an expression of comfort and identification with the mourner, but sometimes ends up being framed as nothing more than an interest in fulfilling a mitzvah. The words can easily slip out, but it really is best to avoid statements of, “I wanted to be Menacheim Aveil you. Hamakom yenachem…” When reciting this pasuk, try to do so in as organic a manner as possible, following a from-the-heart sentiment, wishing the mourner simcha or good memories. 

Take the Temperature

I cannot stress enough the importance of taking a moment to assess the overall atmosphere in the room and the mood of the aveilim in particular. No two people mourn the same way, and indeed, even the same person may mourn two losses quite differently. A mourner may present a generally upbeat disposition or may be particularly somber in the wake of the loss. If he or she is more melancholy, that’s more than appropriate, and it is not the role of the visitor to overly lighten the mood. By the same token, if the mourners are more upbeat, do your best to match their tone. You can speak of the loss, identify with them, share fond memories of the departed or ask questions about their lives, all while matching their more positive disposition.

I was deeply saddened by the loss of my father, but by no means was I cast into unshakable despair for weeks or even days after. There were ups and downs, but overwhelmingly I was pretty upbeat. Dealing with well meaning visits or phone calls form people whose tone was excessively sorrowful and suggested that “You must be feeling awful,” was unfortunately counterproductive and had the exact opposite effect of comfort and consolation. 

It can be difficult to know how to act at a shiva call, but when in doubt, let the mourner lead. Assume their tone and comportment to be an expression of how they feel most comfortable and assist them in creating that environment around them.

Shiva calls and reaching out to friends and family in times of mourning can be awkward and uncomfortable. But the impact of being there for someone you care about and letting them know that they are thought of and cared for during a time of need is immense. I hope these tips help provide a bit of guidance, and pray that the need to use them is rare. 

Parshas Vayigash 5781

Until a week ago, Josh Gibson was not considered to have been a major leaguer. Now he holds the record for the highest single-season batting average of all time. Last Wednesday, Major League Baseball announced that top ranking Negro Leagues—baseball leagues in which African Americans would play prior to being given entry into the American and National Leagues—would be granted official recognition as “major leagues”. Statistics from the Negro Leagues are now considered part of the Major League cannon. 

On the face of it, this move appears to right a great historical wrong. Yet the obvious question cannot be ignored: Were the Negro Leagues actually as competitive as the Majors? Gibson’s hits did not actually come off of major league pitchers; how do his achievements rank on a major league level?

The reality is that this is a question not only for the Negro Leagues, but for the Major Leagues as well. With the abundance of world-class talent that was kept out of the majors because of race, we should be just as dubious about Ted Williams’ hits as we are about Josh Gibson’s. Williams never had to face off against Satchel Paige in his prime—or the likes thereof—because black players were not given entry into the majors. By keeping a vast pool of talent out of the majors, aspersions may well be cast not only on the achievements of black players, but on those of white ones as well. 

Herein lies a fundamental issue with competition. Success is never absolute; it is always relative to those one is competing against.The only way to ensure that the success achieved can be touted as a genuine accomplishment is by ensuring that the competition is comprised of those who are truly at the top of their game. When the competition is diluted, so is the success.

Under the guise that their flocks of sheep and shepherding ways would be considered an abomination to the Egyptian natives, Yosef is able to convince Pharaoh to set aside a parcel of land—the Land of Goshen—for his family to live apart from the rest of Egyptian society. Ostensibly, Yosef’s concern is one of assimilation; that the values of the Egyptians will begin to influence the B’nai Yisrael.

But perhaps there is another dimension to Yosef’s scheme. Even if his family’s values will remain, how successful will they be? Perhaps they will still study Torah, be G-d fearing, and perform acts of chessed. But will they truly succeed in these areas once the “competition” has been diluted? Or will they begin to feel satisfied with lesser accomplishments that nevertheless outstrip the Egyptians. Even if their core value system would more less remain intact, would they become failures relative to their true abilities? By herding all of his family into a location apart from Egyptian society, Yosef ensured that they would be competing only against themselves, only against true “major leaguers”

This is the basis of a discussion that I sometimes have with students as they approach graduation and questions of what direction to take later in life begin to emerge. In outlining the advantages of continued time in yeshiva following high school and even beyond a gap-year yeshiva experience, a student once asked if I truly believed that his going to a secular college would lead to an abandonment of observance. “Probably not,” I responded, “But if that’s the only measure used for determining success, aren’t you setting the bar awfully low?” 

The question is not how likely it is that a student will continue to keep Shabbos and kosher, or even if they will continue to daven or learn Torah. The question is how they will begin to define success in any of those areas, and that is a definition that is formulated by peers. Being surrounded by a group of friends who, as a matter of course, learn Torah more than six hours a day is simply not the same as an environment in which even the most dedicated barely eke out an hour or so. How success is defined in each venue will undoubtedly shape very different experiences for the student. 

This is an issue that wags a long tail throughout life and needs to help inform decisions we make about where we live, where we daven, and the friends we keep, even as adults. It would be ideal, of course, if we were all capable of competing against no one but ourselves and considered success or failure only against the backdrop of our own talents and abilities. But human beings are simply not that way. We look to where the benchmark has been set by others and judge ourselves against it. 

So where are we looking and who are we competing against? Do we make a point of surrounding ourselves by people who raise the bar, or who lower it? Is there an inclination towards peer groups who allow us to get away with less spiritual ambition and will consider us successful with minimal effort exerted? If the company we keep defines success in Torah study, tefillah, chessed, or yiras shamayim, life becomes far more comfortable, but far less real.

Removing talent from the playing field makes the victory achieved on that field decidedly less genuine. Let us be wise in who we allow onto our playing field and avoid building the walls too high. If we avoid the company of those with great talents who have had true successes, our own accomplishments may forever be marked by an asterisk.

Parshas Mikeitz 5781

Yosef may be alive and well, but his father has no idea. The pain he endures is immense, and won’t subside until father and son reunite in next week’s parsha. What did Yaakov ever do to deserve the pain of his son being taken from and and presumed dead? 

Chazal explain that Yosef’s absence from Yaakov’s life is a reflection of Yaakov’s absence from his own parents’ side. The number of years that Yaakov goes without seeing his son corresponds to the amount of time it took Yaakov to return to his parents’ home following his marriage to Rachel, the purpose for taking leave of his parents in the first place. 

Famously, there is a fourteen year period that goes unaccounted for, the fourteen years that Chazal explain Yaakov spent in the Yeshiva of Shem and Ever en route to Lavan’s home. If Yaakov is punished for his lack of kibbud av v’eim toward his parents, why is this fourteen year period not included in that punishment? Learning Torah may be a fine enterprise, indeed, but how can it justify an abdication from being present for one’s parents and providing them with due kibbud av va’eim? A parent’s request that the garbage be taken out or that shoes be put away is not an invitation to sit down with a sefer, no matter how noble the latter activity may otherwise be. 

Rav Yaakov Kaminetsky suggests that an alternate parable would actually be more accurate in this case. Consider not a request to take out the garbage, but a request from a father for his son to purchase a kosher esrog for him. In this case, a certain amount of study—enough so that the son is sufficiently proficient in the requisite halachos—is obviously presumed by the father. Every word studied is not only a fulfillment of Talmud Torah, but of honoring his father as well.

This, posits Rav Yaakov, is why Yaakov is not punished for his time in the Yeshiva of Shem and Ever. With the directive that he go to Lavan’s home to find a suitable spouse, Yitzchak and Rivkah presume that some measure of spiritual inoculation will be necessary for their son to be insulated from Lavan’s influences. Fulfilling his parents’ wishes by spending time in the company of Lavan, demands that he first prepare himself through intensive Torah study. 

Consider how remarkable this is not only from the vantage point of Yaakov himself, but from his parents. There is no shaming of their son over the fact that he is not already capable of entering into a spiritually hostile environment, no shock or disappointment over the need for yet further pursuit of Torah before entering an ethical lion’s den. At a far younger age, Yaakov had already been branded as the Ish tam yosheiv ohalim—the wholesome one who sits in tents, which Chazal interpret as a reference to his penchant for Torah study. Yaakov’s parents do not maintain unreasonable expectations that this Yosheiv Ohalim should already be quite ready for the harsh realities of the outside world. If he needs more time, then let him have it. 

A colleague recently shared with me the unfortunate case of a teenage girl who had fallen into some damaging and dangerous internet habits. Discussing her challenges with a trusted teacher, she was given the advice to ask her parents to install a filter on her phone to act as a curb against her habits. A reasonable and responsible request, without the need to embarrass herself by fully coming clean. Sadly, her parents balked at the idea. It’s an added expense and an unnecessary one, they reasoned. Their daughter has spent ample time in a frum environment and has absorbed well over a decade of Torah education. “You’ll be fine, honey. Just make the right choices.” 

When it comes to physical safety, we understand the value of avoiding dangerous situations. Playing in heavy traffic and simply avoiding cars is not the sort of allowance we would ever grant our children. Being strong enough to get hit by a car and walking away unscathed is an even more ludicrous expectation. Yet too often, spiritual danger is viewed on a different scale altogether. We expect amazing feats of resilience in the spiritual realm that we never would in the physical one. 

The most chiseled muscles will fall victim to an 18 wheeler barreling down the road at 60 miles per hour. Even well-developed moral fortitude can fall prey to immensely tempting stimuli. We must be humble enough to recognize that the chinuch we offer our children falls short of the atmosphere in which Yaakov became the Ish tam yosheiv ohalim. And we must be astute enough to realize that the challenges posed by Lavan are very much part of our world. Indeed, they’re available via hi-speed wifi. If resilience is lower and temptations are still present, it should be no wonder that the rate of failure is staggering. 

If given the choice, we would opt for our kids to not socialize with the troublemakers and the bad influences. Indeed, we all take steps in our parenting to try and discourage those relationships and detach them from the wrong kinds of peers. But what of the influences that are ever-present in their pockets and on devices in their bedrooms? Are we taking the critical steps to create a bulwark against the Lavans that crop up in those areas? 

Admitting that human beings—both adults and children—are endowed with limited spiritual bandwidth doesn’t make us failures as parents. It simply makes us Yitzchak and it makes us Rivkah. People who are astute enough to know the realities of human frailties and are bold enough to do something about it. 

Shabbos Chanukah 5781

חֲנֹךְ לַנַּעַר עַל־פִּי דַרְכּוֹ גַּם כִּי־יַזְקִין לֹא־יָסוּר מִמֶּנָּה׃

^{משלי כב:ו}

Educate a child according to his way; even when he is older he will not turn from it. 

^{Mishlei 22:6}

To understand Chanukah, we must understand chinuch. Though we may never have considered it, the two words are etymologically linked and reflect meaningfully upon one another. In Parshas Lech-Lecha, Rashi (14:14) notes that the term chinuch, which we usually translate as “education,” would be more accurately defined as “dedication,” quoting both the pasuk above as well as references to the dedication (chanukah) of the Mizbei’ach and Bais HaMikdash. The two notions are linked as follows: when we educate children, we are actually inducting them into a particular lifestyle. To be mechanech is to dedicate to a given purpose more than it is to teach, not unlike the process of sanctifying a building. 

On this wavelength, Chanukah is a time when we commemorate the rededication of the Bais HaMikdash from its misuse as a pagan temple, to its renewed sanctity of Hashem’s Palace. Certainly, we would reflect on this theme on a personal level and consider ways in which we could rededicate ourselves to the higher calling of avodas Hashem. 

But I believe there’s more. 

Rav Shamshon Raphael Hirsch suggests an alternative to the classical interpretation of the pasuk above. When the pasuk states that if the child is educated—dedicated—properly, he will not turn from that education when he grows older, for it will have become ingrained to the point of being second nature. Rav Hirsch suggests, however, that perhaps the pasuk is referring not to the education received, but his natural derech, his natural way. “Educate a child according to his way, because even when he grown older, he will not turn from that way.” 

Children are born with certain traits and predilections that will be theirs for the rest of their lives. In educating them, we must be sensitive to this reality. Education is not a comprehensive rewiring so that a child fits a particular mold, it’s finding a way to rewrite the program so that it runs on the hardware they have now and will continue to have. Much of what we see in children, cautions Rav Hirsch, is what they will continue to be in the future. Educate them—dedicate them—accordingly, and those lessons will be with them forever.

Education, when viewed through this prism, throws the usual process into reverse. Rather than creating an educational program to transform a student into someone else entirely, we take stock of the implicit limits on who he or she can become, and work backwards to make important decisions in the educational process. A child can’t become everything, so tradeoffs are necessary. Recognizing the limitations, sacrifices are an obvious part of maximizing potential. 

This approach helps rewrite not only chinuch, but Chanukah as well. The attempt to be both Greek and Jewish is impossible. Infatuated though we may be with Greek culture, beauty, and wisdom, there are limits on what anyone has the time or resources to become. One cannot be fully engaged in both culture and Torah. There is a derech that every person has, one that will perpetuate throughout his life, and it is a rather narrow one, all things considered. It is impossible to spend all your free time on both hobbies and Torah study. 12 hour work days do not allow for tefilah b’tzibur. An obsession with sports and entertainment leaves us drained of emotional capital to spend in other areas.

With the call of “Mi LaHashem Ailai—Whoever is for Hashem, be with me” Matisyahu served his countrymen with a reality check. This was not a call to throw another value on the pile: “If you’re enjoying a Greek entree, why not consider a side order of Judaism?” It is a statement of an axiomatic principle of human existence: we cannot do it all, so what will it be? A person’s derech is far too limited to be everything or become everything, so choices must be made.

Chanukah becomes an excellent time of year to recalibrate, to revisit some of the goals and  aspirations we had a few months ago as the year began. Are we en route towards fulfilling those goals? Or have other things gotten in the way? We can get back on track, but only in a manner consistent with our true nature. Accomplishing more is not always a matter of doing more. It may well be a matter of recognizing that the width of our derech is fixed, and there may just not be room for it all. What will stay and what will go?