Author: Jonathan Bienenfeld

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?

Parshas Vayishlach 5781

The city of Shechem is left decimated. Shimon and Levi have swept through the city, killing every male citizen when he was at his most vulnerable, just days following the mass circumcision that they had declared was necessary as a means to enter into a covenant with Yaakov’s children. That covenant never came to pass, and the inhabitants of the city fell victim to the brothers’ ruse. 

If we were to be told of Yaakov’s indignation over this episode—but not be told why—we’d likely surmise that he found this move immoral. You can’t wipe out a city in retaliation for the rape of your sister, no matter how heinous the violation against her and the entire family. 

And yet Yaakov doesn’t see the slaying of Shechem as out of proportion, per se. He directs his rebuke not towards the act itself, but the results:

וַיֹּאמֶר יַעֲקֹב אֶל־שִׁמְעוֹן וְאֶל־לֵוִי עֲכַרְתֶּם אֹתִי לְהַבְאִישֵׁנִי בְּיֹשֵׁב הָאָרֶץ בַּכְּנַעֲנִי וּבַפְּרִזִּי וַאֲנִי מְתֵי מִסְפָּר וְנֶאֶסְפוּ עָלַי וְהִכּוּנִי וְנִשְׁמַדְתִּי אֲנִי וּבֵיתִי׃

^{בראשית לד:ל}

Yaakov said to Shimon and Levi, “You have sullied me, making me odious among the inhabitants of the land, the Canaanites and the Perizzites; my men are few in number, so that if they converge upon me and attack me, I and my house will be destroyed.”

^{Bereishis 34:30}

Perhaps, in a vacuum, the attack is justified. Yaakov may well see Shechem’s abduction of Dinah not only as the straying of one individual from the basic code of human decency, but as indicative of a city-wide culture of systemic immorality. Nevertheless, the prudence of the attack needs to be carefully weighed against the compromising results thereof. How will Yaakov and his family be viewed by other nations? Will other nations be suspicious of them and their motives? Will they ever again be taken at their word? Will they now be viewed as an aggressor that needs to be snuffed out before they can rise up again against another unsuspecting people?

On the face of it, Yaakov’s concerns appear reasonable. But if we consider these worries in the context of the promises Hashem has already made to him, they become puzzling. Yaakov bears the mantle passed down to him from Avraham and Yitzchak. He is the progenitor of the future Jewish People, the Chosen Nation that Hashem has promised would come to bear. Yaakov himself receives promises that Hashem will be by his side and protect him. Yaakov knows his destiny to be inexorable; why is he concerned with how any other nation may view him or of the harm they may try to cause him? Yaakov and his family are invincible. 

Yaakov actually finds himself in a position in which we still find ourselves today. We believe in the promises made to our ancestors, believe in the historic role that the Jewish People have played and will play in history, and are certain of the tilt towards a Messianic terminus that the future holds. This insistence, coupled with the secure position the Jewish People now enjoys, leaves us feeling more emboldened than ever. 

Still, Yaakov insists that Hashem’s promises do not absolve us from acting recklessly. Knowledge that we play a more prominent role in history than any other people does not permit “in your face” comportment. Humility and responsibility demand that we be ever mindful of how the rest of the world looks at us and that we not bring criticism or animosity upon ourselves.

To be sure, Yaakov is no stranger to public displays of religion. According to the famous Midrash, he proudly informs his brother that “עם לבן גרתי ותרי׳׳ג מצוות שמרתי—Though I have lived with Lavan, I have continued to fulfill all the mitzvos.” Yaakov unapologetically conducts himself in the manner of his father and grandfather, despite the hostile climate of Lavan’s home, and proudly communicates this achievement to Eisav. Yaakov is, of course, the heir of his grandfather, Avraham, who was no stranger to the soapbox and whose public discourses on religion were legendary. Yaakov’s son, Yosef, will one day praise G-d in the court of none other than Pharaoh himself. Where do we suppose he learned to be so confident in expressing his religion?

Yaakov does not champion the cause of hiding religion from the public eye, nor does he ignore the potential repercussions of flaunting it. The line between the two is discerned through earnest reflection of whether or not the surrounding nations have a right to be suspicious or offended. In the case of the attack on Shechem, onlookers would be justified in questioning the integrity of Yaakov and his children. They gave their word, after all, and then violated it. But public preaching of monotheism in public? Take it or leave it. But if your insides burn with rage over publicly expressing my beliefs, you’re nothing but an anti-semite. 

When I put on my tallis and tefillin at an airport, I expect to get some looks and I know full well that not all will be benignly curious. But that need not concern me. Hashem has gifted me with a mandate of mitzvah observance and it is my duty to fulfill it, whether it makes others uncomfortable or not. I do, however, try my best to find a corner that’s as out-of-the-way as possible. If someone is annoyed by a public display of prayer, that’s their problem; if they’re annoyed because my shuckling is distracting them from their email or I’m needlessly blocking an open seat that their child could be sitting in, it’s my problem. 

Yaakov’s reaction to Shechem is a reminder to keep our antennae out. Public perception is something that effects the Jewish People’s stock, and unnecessarily relying on Hashem’s promises is not taking our own responsibility seriously enough. It is easier to blindly blame any critique from the outside world on anti-Semitism than it is to honestly assess whether we played some role in inviting that criticism. We should feel confident to fulfill Hashem’s duty visibly and publicly. But there’s no hiddur mitzvah in doing so with with our elbows out. 

Parshas Vayeitzei 5781

“Every day is Thanksgiving.” 

At the core of the Jewish discomfort with celebrating or recognizing Thanksgiving stands the above sentiment. Yes, there are halachic considerations that surround whether or not eating turkey because, “That’s the minhag,” is appropriate. But halachic issues aside, proclaiming  any day as “the one” on which to be thankful is more viscerally unsettling for a People for whom hakaras haTov is such a deeply embedded value.

In Parshas Vayeitzei we read of the birth of Yehudah, Leah’s fourth son, so named as an expression of gratitude to Hashem: “הפעם אודה את ה׳—This time I will give thanks (odeh) to G-d.” Rashi explains that Leah’s gratitude was more pronounced with the birth of this son in particular because of the prophetic knowledge that Yaakov would father twelve children. Equally distributed amongst his four wives, three children would have been her fair share, and with the birth of a fourth son, Leah was overcome with thanks. 

The Midrash Rabbah on Parshas Vayechi interprets Yaakov’s blessing at the end of his life to his son Yehudah as foretelling of a future reality in which all members of the nation would be known by his name. This bracha goes fulfilled today as we refer to every descendent of Yaakov as a Yehudi, drawing from Yehudah’s name, regardless of actual lineage traced to him as opposed to Yaakov’s other children. Many explain that this is a reflection not only of Yehudah’s particular prominence among his brothers, but of his actual name and the meaning behind it. A Jew—a Yehudi—is so called because of the value of gratitude that is the hallmark of our nation. 

So, yes, every day is Thanksgiving. 

But let’s leave aside the question of Jewish celebration of Thanksgiving and instead take a moment to appreciate the Jewish contribution of Thanksgiving. The enterprise of giving thanks is covered in Jewish fingerprints and the fact that a day exists on the secular calendar that pays homage to this value speaks to the remarkable influence that the Jewish Nation has had upon the world.

Thanksgiving suggests the presence of a beneficent G-d who provides for human beings and is worthy of being thanked. Gone from the picture are gods who are petty and wrathful and who need to be bought off with human sacrifice. Gone are the deities who are beset by all the same flaws as human beings, albeit endowed with cosmic power and abilities. Present is the perfect, kind, supreme Being who can serve as an ideal role model for humanity to follow. 

Thanksgiving to G-d begets thanksgiving to man. A society that can pause and take stock of blessings received is less arrogant and more sensitive not only to their own needs, but the needs of others as well.

Who brought about this great theological change in the world? Avraham Avinu and his children after him. In a famously censored comment, the Rambam suggests that Christianity and Islam—which both find their roots in Judaism—have become powerful vehicles in the spread of basic Jewish morality. Thanksgiving could not exist within the landscape of the ancient world. It exists in the modern one because of the great influence that Judaism has had upon society. 

So far from perfect is society around us—indeed, so far have we fallen from many standards of decency, modesty, and morality of just a generation ago—that we can easily gloss over the massive shift that has taken place over the course of the intervening millennia between Avraham’s days and our own. What is wrong is always more noticeable than what is right. Society’s moral failures naturally grab our attention and we see the world around us as disconnected from Jewish values and teaching. But the shift towards Jewish values is real. Perhaps to a fault, but society is largely more caring, sensitive, and tolerant than ever. In many ways, society is more Jewish than ever. 

Thanksgiving is a part of that story and we should appreciate its import. For millennia, we have carried the name Yehudi, dedicating ourselves to the enterprise of giving thanks where it is warranted. We have championed the cause of humility, of appreciating the assistance provided from Above and from our fellow man because no human being can go it alone. From time immemorial, we have shouted “Baruch Hashem” from the hilltops. Thanksgiving is the proof that others around us have been listening and have been influenced. 

Should you eat turkey on Thanksgiving? Ask your local Orthodox rabbi. But whether you celebrate the day or not, appreciate it. That Thanksgiving exists should give us faith in humanity all around us to move further and further along the continuum of kindness and goodness. It should remind us that as far from perfect as society may be, it has come far closer to perfection than anyone would dare have guessed a few thousand years ago. If the Jewish People are meant to be a light unto the nations, Thanksgiving is one indication that that mission has already been remarkably successful. 

Baruch Hashem. 

Parshas Toldos 5781

It is the most fateful bowl of soup of all time. So critical is this food to his identity, in fact, that Eisav actually becomes named for it. Forever more will the nation that he spawns be referred to as “Edom“, literally, “Red”, in a nod to the color of the lentils he sells his birthright for.

On the face of it, Eisav’s new monicker is a commentary on his devaluation of the birthright. Inheriting the mantle of Avraham and Yitzchak is so unimportant in his eyes that it is worth nothing more than a bowlful of legumes. Yet a careful reading of the pesukim yields something else entirely. Even before the sale of the birthright, Eisav is already branded as “Edom”:

וַיֹּאמֶר עֵשָׂו אֶל־יַעֲקֹב הַלְעִיטֵנִי נָא מִן־הָאָדֹם הָאָדֹם הַזֶּה כִּי עָיֵף אָנֹכִי עַל־כֵּן קָרָא־שְׁמוֹ אֱדוֹם׃

^{בראשית כה:ל}

And Eisav said to Yaakov, “Pour into me please from this deeply red stuff, for I am exhausted.” Therefore, he is called Edom (Red).

^{Bereishis 25:30}

The change in Eisav’s name is not a criticism of his subsequent sale of the birthright; he is called Edom even before that. He is captivated by the soup, mesmerized by its color, and demands to have his fill to it. 

Eisav’s hedonism writes the rest of the story for us; there is no need to wait for his reaction to Yaakov’s proposal. Someone so spellbound by something as fleeting as a meal will not withhold the birthright. It is too ethereal, too other-worldly for someone who is anchored to finite existence by his stomach. 

Rare is it that the Torah is so presumptuous about a future course of action. Quite recently, in Parshas Vayeira, the Torah highlights that Yishmael is spared from death because of the great principle that Hashem’s judgement considers a person only as he is in the moment, באשר הוא שם, as the Torah puts it, and not for a future course of action that he or his descendants will take. And yet in our parsha, future activities can already be discerned from Eisav’s behavior. 

It is interesting that the one case in which the Torah does mandate judgment of an individual even before the most egregious of sins have yet to be performed is that of the Ben Soreir U’Moreh, the Wayward Son, who, upon engaging in certain acts of gluttony, is punishable by death. His life is to be ended before it fully goes off the rails, which is exactly where it’s heading. The Torah predicts this just as it predicts Eisav’s future behavior, upon seeing his hedonistic leanings.

Apparently, an obsession with physical pleasures creates such a warping of personality that no future reconditioning can be expected. An overindulgence of physicality results in a veering from spirituality. When we orient ourselves towards the physically pleasurable and instantly gratifying, it becomes so much more difficult to discern the value in experiences that don’t tantalize our nerve endings and that take so much more time to yield satisfaction. A hedonistic lifestyle doesn’t allow space for the spiritually uplifting.

Physicality certainly has its place in Judaism; we punctuate our celebrations, holidays, and each Shabbos with delicious food and drink. We take great pride in the fact that the holiest among us are not called to celibacy or a full retreat from the physical world. Still, Eisav is a demon that needs to be exorcised. 

I don’t know precisely where the line between healthy indulgence and hedonism lies. But I do know that finding that line is an issue that is pertinent now more than ever. Throughout Jewish history, the question of where one’s next meal would come from was far more ubiquitous than what topping to order on one’s flatbread. The rise of affluence across the Jewish community—at least relative to generations past—has changed all that. The deli has been replaced by the artisanal bistro, sushi is as ubiquitous as gefilte fish, and a simcha is incomplete if pulled brisket has not found its way onto the menu in some form or another. 

It is these areas of life—those not fully circumscribed by absolute halachic demands—that are the most challenging to navigate. Without pre-determined guardrails, it is up to us to self regulate and develop an inner compass for what’s within bounds, and what is inappropriately hedonistic. 

As a baseline, perhaps it is worth questioning whether or not we have limits in the first place. Is excess determined solely by the limits of my bank account, or are there luxuries I will refrain from on principle despite their being affordable? Is kosher/non-kosher the only barometer I use for what I imbibe, or is there a self-imposed limit to embracing my material side in the interest of preserving my spiritual one?

According to the Midrash, Yaakov was cooking lentils in order to provide his father with round food, traditionally eaten by a mourner, as Avraham Avinu had just passed away. For Yaakov, food has meaning and purpose in its service of spiritual goals. For Eisav, food is a delight to be enjoyed purely for its own sake. In our times, the Eisav within has been awakened. How do we amplify the קול יעקב, the voice of Yaakov within us?

Parshas Chayei Sarah 5781

Avraham has barely breathed a sigh of relief—his son coming within a hairsbreadth of being sacrificed on Har HaMoria—when he learns of the death of his beloved wife Sarah. One can only imagine the wave of shock, grief, and sadness he would have experienced, and the tears he would have immediately shed over the loss. And yet those tears appear delayed. Not until Avraham eulogizes his wife does the Torah report his crying over the loss.

וַתָּמָת שָׂרָה בְּקִרְיַת אַרְבַּע הִוא חֶבְרוֹן בְּאֶרֶץ כְּנָעַן וַיָּבֹא אַבְרָהָם לִסְפֹּד לְשָׂרָה וְלִבְכֹּתָהּ.

And Sarah died in Kiryas Arba, which is Chevron, in the Land of Canaan. And Avraham came to eulogize Sarah and to cry over her.

Is Avraham’s crying truly delayed? Is the reality of the loss slow to sink in? Why don’t Avraham’s tears immediately flow?

Rav Soloveitchik suggested that the Torah here is not describing the chronology of various aspects of Avraham’s mourning as they unfolded. Rather, these are two wavelengths of mourning experienced by Avraham, corresponding to two very different roles that Sarah filled in his shared life with her.

On the one hand, Sarah was the co-CEO of their outreach enterprise. When Avraham brought guests into their home, it was Sarah who would prepare the fare and create the comfortable, inviting backdrop against which Avraham would convincingly discuss the truth of monotheism. In the beginning of Parshas Lech-Lecha, Rashi described how male students would study with Avraham and female students with Sarah until finally entering fully into the service of the one true G-d. In the public sphere and on the world stage, there could be an Avraham only because there was a Sarah. In this capacity, Avraham mourned Sarah through eulogy, articulating her many virtues before the gathered crowds who had come to mourn Sarah alongside him. Sarah the public figure was mourned in a public venue.

But Avraham also cried. He cried while alone in his tent because he missed his wife. Not the principal, administrator, or world-renowned speaker; just his wife. He missed her presence in their own private home, and he missed their conversation. He was saddened by the emptiness that now filled their tent and his life, areas that she had once vibrantly occupied. Beyond the extra places she set for the myriad guests, he now mourned the empty seat at their table that she once filled but was now bare. ולבכתה—and he cried. 

This past week, the Jewish People lost two public figures of immense significance. HaRav Dovid Feinstein was among the greatest poskim of America, and his influence was ubiquitous. His halachic decisions have impacted every religious Jew in the country—perhaps even the world—whether we are fully conscious of that impact or not. He was a true Gadol B’Yisrael whose knowledge of Torah was other-worldly and surpassed only by his extraordinary humility. 

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks was unparalleled in his proliferation of Torah thoughts and ideas. He was a master author and orator, who tirelessly put his talents to work for G-d and the Jewish People. His remarkable erudition and ability to communicate lofty ideas clearly and eloquently allowed him to touch, educate, and influence many thousands of Jews in a way that others could not. Rabbi Sacks may have been the most internationally recognized Orthodox Jew on the planet, and served as an important ambassador on behalf of the Jewish nation. 

In losing such important luminaries as these great men, we must first enter the space of הספד—of eulogy. As public figures their work and dedication meant so much to the Jewish public at large. Considering that dimension of their lives cannot end with recognition alone, but must drive us to consider: How do we fill that void? What extra measure of learning and teaching can I assume to help close the chasm that’s been left behind by their passing? How do I care just a bit more for my fellow Jew and fellow man to ensure that the world not become a darker place in the absence of such extraordinary people? Where can I assume some personal responsibility for continuing their holy work?

But let us not forget, either, the reality of ולבכתה—the personal crying and mourning that those closest to them now endure. These public figures were private figures, too. They left behind spouses and children, grandchildren and friends, whose own private, personal lives will be emptier and lonelier for having lost them. It would be unfair and inconsiderate for their grief to be overshadowed by the loss sustained in the public sphere. 

Even as we consider how the Jewish public will move on, let’s remember the tears of the private few to whom these losses mean something else entirely. Offer a tefilah on their behalf that Hashem bless them with comfort during a time of profound personal loss. To be properly נושא בעול עם חבירו—To bear the burden alongside one’s friend (Avos 6:6), we must be mindful not only of the public loss, but the private one as well.